part I couldn't stand it at all, so I just bolted sheer round and made

three strides to the poop ladder, as dignified as was possible with ever so many plies of red yarn foul of my wrists, and a big red ball hopping after me when I'd vanished, like a fellow running from a hot shot! I daresay they thought on the poop I'd had a stroke of the sun on my brain; but till next day I kept clear of the passengers, and took to swigging off stiff nor'-westers of grog, as long as Westwood would let me.

Next evening, when the cuddy dinner was scarce over, I went up to the poop, where there was no one to be seen; the sun just setting on our starboard-quarter in a golden blaze that stretched overhead, with flakes of it melting, as 'twere, all over the sky to port, and dropping in it like threads of oil in water; the ship with a light breeze aft, and stunsails packed large upon her, running almost due for the Line. The waves to westward were like liquid light, and the eddies round our counter came glittering out, the whole spread of her mizen and main canvass shining like gold cloth against the fore: then 'twas but the royals and skysails brighter than ever, as the big round sun dipped down with a red streak or two, and the red waterline, against his hot old face. Every blue surge between had a clear green edge about its crest, the hollows turning themselves inside out from deep purple into bright blue, and outside in again,--and the whole rim of the sea grew out cool and clear away from the ship's taffrail. A pair of sharp-headed dolphins that had kept alongside for the last few minutes, swimming near the surface, turned tail round, the moment I put my nose over the bulwark, and shot off like two streaks of a rainbow after the flying-fish. I was just wondering where Lota Hyde could be, this time, when on a sudden I observed little Tommy poke his curly head out of the booby-hatch, peeping cautiously round; seeing nobody, however, save the man at the wheel, who was looking over his shoulder at the sun, the small rogue made a bolt out of the companion, and scampered aft under the awning to the Judge's starboard door, with nothing on but his nightshirt. There he commenced kicking and shoving with his bare feet and arms, till the door flew open, and over went Tommy on his nose, singing out in fine style. The next thing I heard was a laugh like the sound of a silver bell; and just as the boy's sister ran up in a fright lest he had gone overboard, Violet Hyde came out leading the little chap wrapped in a long shawl that trailed astern of him, herself with a straw bonnet barely thrown upon her head. "Tommy says you put him to bed too soon, Jane!" said she smiling. "Iss!" said Master Thomas, stoutly, "go 'way, Dzane!" "You hadn't bid me good-night--wasn't that it, Tom? But oh! _what_ a sea!" exclaimed she, catching sight of it under the awning. The little fellow wanted to see it too, so the young lady lifted him up in her arms, no small weight I daresay, and they both looked over the bulwark: the whole sky far out of the awning to westward being spotted with orange scales, turning almost scarlet, faster than the dusk from both ends could close in; the clear greenish tint of it above the openings of the canvass, going up into fathomless blue overhead, the horizon purple, and one or two still, black clouds tipped with vermilion against the far sky--while the Indiaman stole along, scarce plashing under her bends. Every now and then you heard a whizz and a flutter, as the flying-fish broke out of a bigger surge, sometimes just missing the ship's side: at last two or three fell over the mizen chains, and pop came one all of a sudden right into the white breast of Miss Hyde's dress inside her scarf, where only the wings kept it from disappearing. She started, Jane screamed, but the little boy coolly pulled it out, commencing to overhaul it in great delight. "Oh fat a funny ickoo bird!" shouted he, "it's fell down out of 'ese t'ees!" looking aloft. "No, no," said Miss Hyde, laughing, as she drew her shoulders together with a shiver, "birds' noses don't drop water! 'Twill die if you don't put it in again, Tommy--'tis a fish!" "A fish!" said he, opening his eyes wider, and smacking his lips, "yes, Tommy eat it for my beckfust!" However the young lady took it out of his hand and dropped it overboard; on which the small ogre went off rather discontented, and kissed her more as a favour than otherwise. It was almost dark already, the water shining up in the ship's wake, and the stars coming out aloft; so I was left wondering at the impudence of flying-fish, and the blessings of being a fat little imp in a frock and trousers, compared with this puzzle of a "traverse," betwixt _being_ a third lieutenant and hailing for a "griffin."

The night following, after a sultry hot day, the wind had varied a good deal, and the ship was running almost close-hauled on a warm south-easterly breeze, with somewhat of a swell in the water. Early in the first watch there was a heavy shower, after which I went on deck, leaving Westwood at his book. The half-moon was just getting down to leeward, clear of a ragged dark cloud, and a long space of faint white light spread away on the horizon, behind the sheets of the sails hauled aft; so that you just saw a sort of a glimmer under them, on the black heave of the swell between. Every time she rolled to leeward on it, a gleam of the moonshine slipped inside the shadow of her high bulwarks, from one wet carronade to another, and went glistening over the moist decks, and among the boats and booms, that looked like some big brute or other lying stretched out on his paws, till you saw the men's faces on the forecastle as if they were so many mutineers skulking in the dark before they rushed aft: then up she righted again, and all was dark inboard. The awnings were off, and the gruff third mate creaking slowly to and fro in his soaked shoes; the Judge stood talking with the captain before one of the round-house doors; directly after I noticed a young lady's figure in a white dress close by the mizen-rigging, apparently intent on the sea to leeward. "Well, now or never!" thought I, stepping over in the shadow of the main-sheet. I heard her draw a long breath: and then, without turning her head at the sound of my foot, "I wonder if there is anything so strange in India," exclaimed she; "_is_ there now?" "No, by----, no, madam!" said I, starting, and watching as the huge cloud grew darker, with a rusty stain in it, while three or four broad-backed swells, one beyond the other, rose up black against the setting moon, as if they'd plunge right into her. Miss Hyde turned round, with one hand on the bulwark to steady herself, and half looked at me. "I thought--" said she; "where is papa?--I thought my father--" I begged pardon for intruding, but next minute she appeared to have forgotten it, and said, in a musing sort of way, partly to herself, partly to me--"I seem to _remember_ it all--as if I just saw that black wave--and--that monstrous cloud--over again! Oh! really that is the _very_ same top it had _then_--see!" "Yes," said I, leaning forward, with a notion I _had_ seen it before, though heaven knew when. "Did you ever read about Columbus and Vasco da Gama?" asked she, though directly afterwards her features broke into a laughing smile as she caught sight of mine--at the thought, I suppose, of my ridiculous figure the last time she saw me. "No, never," said I; "but look to windward, ma'am; 'tis coming on a squall again. For heaven's sake, Miss Hyde, go in! We're to have another shower, and that pretty thick. I wonder the mate don't stow the royals." "What do you mean?" said she, turning. "Why are you alarmed, sir? I see nothing particular." The sea was coming over, in a smooth, round-backed swell, out of a dirty, thick jumble of a sky, with a pitchblack line behind--what Ford would have called "wild" by daylight; but the young lady's eye naturally saw no more in it than a dark night. Here the Judge came over from the binnacle, giving me a nod, as much as to say he recollected me. "I am afraid, sir," said I, "if you don't make haste, you'll get wet." "How!" said Sir Charles, "'tis an exceedingly pleasant night, I think, after such a deuced hot day. They don't know how to cool rooms here--this perpetual wood retains heat till midnight, sir! That detestable pitch precludes walking--the sea absolutely glares like tin. _Why_ do you suppose so now--eh, young gentleman?" said he again, turning back, all of a sudden, with his daughter on his arm. "Why--why--why, Sir Charles," said I, hesitating betwixt sham innocence and scarce knowing what reason to give; "why, I just think--that is to say, it's my feeling, you see." "Ah, ah, I _do_ see," replied the Judge, good-humouredly; "but you shouldn't ape the sailor, my good fellow, as I fancy you do a little. I don't particularly admire the class, but they always have grounds for what they say in their profession, frequently even acute. At your aunt's, Lady Somers's, now, Violet, who was naturally so surrounded by naval officers, what I had to object to was, not their want of intelligence, but their forwardness. Eh! eh! who--what is _that_?" exclaimed he suddenly, looking straight up into the dark, as five or six large drops fell on his face out of it. All at once you heard a long sigh, as it were, in the canvass aloft, a clap like two or three carronades fired off, as all the sails together went in to the masts--then a hum in the air far and near--and whish! rush! came the rain in sheets and bucketfuls off the edge of a cloud over our very heads, plashing and washing about the deck with coils of rope; ship rolling without a breath of wind in her sails; sails flapping out and in; the rain pouring down ten times faster than the scupper-holes would let it out, and smoking gray in the dark hollow of the swells, that sank under the force of it. The first officer came on deck, roaring in the hubbub to clue up and furl the royals before the wind came again. It got pitch-dark, you couldn't see your hand before you, and we had all lost mark of each other, as the men came shoving in between us. However I knew whereabouts Miss Hyde was, so I felt along the larboard rigging till I found a backstay clasped in her hands, and the soaked sleeve of her muslin dress, while she leant back on a carronade, to keep from being jerked down in the water that washed up over her feet with every roll, full of ropes and a capstan-bar or two. Without saying a word, I took up Lota in my arms, and carried her aft in spite of the roll and confusion, steering for the glimmer of the binnacle, till I got her inside one of their own cabins, where there was a lamp swinging about, and laid her on a sofa. I felt somehow or other, as I went, that the sweet creature hadn't fainted, though all the while as still as death; accordingly I made off again at once to find the Judge, who, no doubt, was calling for his daughter, with a poor chance of being heard. In a minute or two more the rain was over; it was light enough to make out the horizon, as the belt of foam came broadening out of it; the ship gave two or three wild bounds, the wheel jolting and creaking: up swelled the black waves again over one side, the topsails flapped full as the squall rushed roaring into them, and away she rose; then tore into it like a scared horse, shaking her head and throwing the snow-white foam into her forechains. 'Twas as much as three men could do to grind down her wheel, leaning and grinning to it; you saw just the Indiaman herself, scarce so far forward as the booms, and the broad swell mounting with her out of the dark, as she slowly squared yards before it, taking in to'gallant-sails while she did so, with her topsail-yards lowered on the caps. However, the look of it was worse than its force, else the swell wouldn't have risen so fast, as every sailor knew; and by two bells of the mid-watch she was bowling under all, as easy as before, the mate of the watch setting a stunsail.

When I went down, shaking myself like a Newfoundland, Westwood was swinging in his cot with a book turned to the lamp, reading _Don Quixote_ in Spanish. "Bless me, Ned!" said he, "you seem to like it! paying fair and weathering it too!" "Only a little adventure, Westwood!" said I, laughing. "Why, here have I been enjoying better adventures than we seem likely to have," said he, "without stirring a hand, except for the wild swings you gave me from deck. Here's _Don Quixote_--" "Don Quixote be hanged!" said I: "I'd rather wear ship in a gale, myself, than all the humbug that never happened--_out_ of an infernal play-book. What's the use of _thinking_ you see service, when you don't? After all, you couldn't _expect_ much till we've crossed the Line--nothing like the tropics, or the Cape, for thickening a plot, Tom. Then there's the Mozambique, you know!" "Well, we'll see," said Westwood, lazily, and half asleep.

The whole next day would have been weary enough in itself, as not a single glimpse of the fair Lota could I catch; and the weather, between the little puffs of air and squalls we had, was fit to have melted poor Ford to the bone, but for the rain. However, that day was sufficient, by fits and starts, to bring us up to the Line; and, before crossing it, which we did by six o'clock in one of the black squalls, half of the passengers had been pretty well ducked by Neptune and his gang, besides. Rare fun we had of it for three or four hours on end; the cadets and writers showing fight in a body, the Yankee being regularly keelhauled, tarred, and feathered, though I believe he had crossed the Line twice by land; while the Scotch surgeon was found out, in spite of his caution, never to have been lower than the West Indies--so he got double ration. A word to Jacobs took Westwood Scot-free; but, for my own part, wishing of course to blind the officers, I let the men stick the tar-brush in my mouth the first word I spoke, and was shaved like the mischief, not to speak of plumping afterwards behind the studding-sail curtain into three feet of water, where I absolutely saved Ford from drowning, he being as sick as a dog.

Late at night, the breeze held and freshened; and, being Saturday night, the gentlemen in the cuddy kept it uproariously after their troubles, drinking and singing songs, Tom Little's and your sentimental affairs; till, being a bit flushed myself, I was on the point of giving them one of Dibdin's, when I thought better of it, and went on deck instead. The mate was there, however, and his red-whiskered Scotch sub with the twisted snout, leaning on the capstan with their noses together. The night was dark, and the ship made a good noise through the water; so "hang it!" thought I, "somehow or other I'll have out a stave of 'Black-eyed Susan' at the top of my pipe, though overboard I go for it!" There was an old spare topsail-yard slung alongside to larboard, as far as the quarter-boat, and I went up to the poop to get over and sit on it; especially when I found Ford's friend, the fat midshipman, was in the boat itself, "caulking"[9] his watch out, as he did every night in a fresh place. I was no sooner there, again, than I saw a light in the aftermost gallery window, and took it in my head if I sung _there_, why, in place of being afraid there was some one under her casement, that and the wind and water together would put her to sleep, if she was the worse of last night--in fact I may say I was a little "_slewed_"[10] at the time. How to get there, though, was the matter, it being rather nice practice to sling over an Indiaman's quarter-gallery, bulging out from her steep counter: accordingly, first I took the end of a coil round the mizen-shrouds, and made a bowline-knot to creep down the stern-mouldings with, and then swing free by help of a guide-line to boot. Just before letting go of the taffrail, another fancy struck me, to hitch the guide-line to the trigger of the life-buoy that hung ready for use; not that I'd the notion of saving myself if I went overboard, but just because of the good joke of a fellow slipping his own life-buoy, and then cruising away with a light at his masthead back to the Line. 'Twas curious--but when I was "two or three cloths in the wind," far from growing stupid, I used always to get a sort of cunning that would have made me try and cheat a purser; so away I lowered myself till the rope was taut, when I slipped easy enough round the counter, below the window. Every time she rolled, out I swung, and in again, till I steadied with my feet, slacking off the other line from one hand. Then I began to give voice like old Boreas himself, with a sort of a notion, at each shove I got, how I was rocking the Indiaman like a big cradle, as Jacobs did his baby. All at once, I felt the rope was _giving_ off the belaying-pin, till I came down with a jolt under the window below; only singing the louder, as it was half open, and I could just look in. With every wash of the waves, the water, a couple of fathoms under my feet, blazed up like fire, and the wake ran boiling out from the black stern by the rudder, like the iron out of a furnace: now and then there came a sulky flare of dumb lightning to leeward, and showed the black swell out of the dark for miles. I fancied I didn't care for the water, but I began to think 'twas rather uncomfortable the notion of sousing into such an infernally flame-looking stream: I was actually in a fright at being boiled, and not able to swim. So I dropped chorus to haul myself up; when of a sudden, by the lamp inside the state-room, I saw Winterton and Ford come reeling in, one after the other, as drunk as lords. Winterton swayed about quietly on his legs for a minute, and then looked gravely at Ford, as if he'd got a dreadful secret to make known. "Ford!" said he. "Ay," said Ford, feeling to haul off his trousers,--"ay--avast you--blub-lub-lubber!" "I say, Ford!" said the cadet again, in a melancholy way, fit to melt a marlinspike, and then fell to cry--Ford all the time pulling off his trousers, with a cigar in his mouth, till he got on a chest, and contrived to flounder into his cot with his coat on. After that he stretched over to put the lamp out, carefully enough; but he let fall his cigar, and one leg of his nankeen trousers hung out of the cot, just scraping the deck every time he swung. I watched, accordingly, holding on by the sill, till I saw a spark catch in the stuff--and there it was, swinging slowly away in the dark, with a fiery ring creeping round the leg of the trousers, ready to blow into a flame as soon as it had a clear swing. No doubt the fool would come down safe enough himself with his cot; but I knew Winterton kept powder in the cabin sufficient to blow up the deck above, where that sweet girl was sleeping at the moment. "Confound it!" I thought, quite cooled by the sight, "the sooner I get on deck the better!" However, you may fancy my thoughts when I heard men at the taffrail, hauling on the spanker-boom guys, so I held on till they'd go forward again: suddenly the mate's voice sung out to know "what lubber had belayed the slack of a topsail-clueline _here_?" Down I went with the word, as the rope was thrown off, with just time to save myself by a clutch of the portsill at arm's-length--where, heaven knew, I couldn't keep long. The mate looked over and caught sight of my face, by a flicker of the summer lightning, as I was slipping down: I gave him one curse as loud as I could hail, and let go the moulding--"Man overboard!" shouted he, and the men after him: however I wasn't altogether overboard yet, for I felt the other part of the rope bring me up with a jerk and a swing right under the quarter-boat, where I clung like a cat. How to get on deck again, without being seen, was the question, and anxious enough I was at thought of the burning train inside; when out jumped some one over my head: I heard a splash in the water, and saw a fellow's face go sinking into the bright wake astern, while the boat itself was coming down over me from the davits. I still had the guide-line from the life-buoy round my wrist, and one moment's thought was enough to make me give it a furious tug, when away I sprang clear into the eddies. The first thing I saw at coming up was the ships' lighted stern-windows driving to leeward, then the life-buoy flaring and dipping on a swell, and a bare head, with two hands, sinking a few feet off. I made for him at once, and held him up by the hair as I struck out for the buoy. A couple of minutes after, the men in the boat had hold of us and it; the ship came sheering round to the wind, and we were very shortly aboard again. "Confound it, Simm, what took you overboard, man?" asked the mid in the boat at his dripping messmate, the fat reefer. "Oh, bother!" said he, "if you must know--why, I mistook the quarter-boats; I thought 'twas the _other_ I was in, when you kicked up that shindy! Now I remember, though, there was too much _rain_ in it for comfort!" "Well, youngster," said Tom, the man-o'-war'sman, "this here gentleman saved your life, anyhow!" "Why, mate," whispered Bill, "'tis the wery same greenhorn we puckalowed so to-day! Didn't he jump sharp over, too?" "Pull! for your lives, my lads!" said I, looking up at Ford's window; and the moment we got on deck, below I ran into the state-room, and cut Ford down by the heels, with the tinder hanging from him, and one leg of his trousers half gone. As for the poor reefer, a pretty blowing-up he got; the men swore I had jumped overboard after him, and the mate would have it that, instead of sleeping, he wanted to get into the Judge's cabins; especially when next day Sir Charles was in a rage at his daughter being disturbed by some sailor or other singing outside.

[9] Sleeping on deck.

[10] Anglicè--_not_ sober.

FOR THE LAST PAGE OF "OUR ALBUM."

At length our pens must find repose! With verse, or with poetic prose, Filled is each nook; And these poor little rhymes must close Our pleasant book!

Its every page is filled at last! When on these leaves my eyes I cast, Dull thoughts to cheer, How many memories of the past Seem written here!

Those who behold a river run Bright glittering in the noonday sun, See not its source; And few can know whence has begun Its giddy course!

And thus the feelings that gave rise To many a verse that meets their eyes How few can tell! Yet for those feelings gone, I prize And love it well!

Some stanzas were composed to grace An hour of pleasure,--some to chase Sad care away; And some to help on time's slow pace Which would delay!

In some, we trace affection's tone To friends then kind,--now colder grown By force or art: In some, the shade of hopes, now gone, Then, next the heart!

Such fancies with each line I weave, And thus our book I cannot leave Without a sigh! Fond recollections make me grieve To lay it by!

How other hands, perchance, than mine, A fairer wreath for it might twine, 'Twere vain to tell; I can but say, in one brief line, Dear Book, Farewell!

THE INSURRECTION IN BADEN.

(TO THE EDITOR OF BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.)

SIR,--I chanced to be at Heidelberg at the outbreak of the late revolutionary movement, and remained there, or in the neighbourhood, during its entire duration. It occurs to me that a brief narrative of the leading events of that period of confusion and anarchy, from the pen of one who was not only an eyewitness of all that passed, but who, from long residence in this part of Germany, has a pretty intimate acquaintance with the real condition and feelings of the people, may prove suitable to the pages, and not uninteresting to the readers, of _Blackwood's Magazine_.

At a public meeting held at Offenburg, in the duchy of Baden, on the 13th of May 1849, and which was attended by many of the most violent members of the German republican party, it was resolved that the constitution voted by the national assembly at Frankfort should be acknowledged; that Brentano and Peter should be charged with the formation of a new ministry; that Struve, and all other political offenders, should be forthwith set at liberty; that the selection of officers for the army should be left to the choice of the privates; and lastly, that the movement in the Palatinate (Rhenish Bavaria) should be fully supported by the government of Baden.

For the information of those who have not closely followed the late course of events in Germany, it may be necessary to mention, that early in the month of May a revolutionary movement, the avowed object of which was to force the King to acknowledge the constitution drawn up by the parliament at Frankfort, had broken out in Rhenish Bavaria. A provisional government had been formed, the public money seized, forced contributions levied, and the entire Palatinate declared independent of Bavaria. The leaders of the insurrection had been joined by a portion of discontented military; and, in an incredibly short space of time, the whole province, with the exception of the fortresses of Germersheim and Landau, had fallen into their hands.

Although the declared motive of the Offenburg assembly was to support this movement, and thus oblige the reigning princes to bow to the decrees of the central parliament, there is little doubt that a long-formed and widely-extended conspiracy existed, the object of which was to proclaim a republic throughout Germany. The meeting in question was attended by upwards of twenty thousand persons, many of whom were soldiers, seduced by promises of increased pay, and of the future right to elect their officers. Money was plentifully distributed; and towards evening the mob, mad with drink and excitement, returned, howling revolutionary songs, to their homes. At the very time this was going on, a mutiny in the garrison of Rastadt had placed that fortress in the power of about four thousand soldiers, many of them raw recruits. This extraordinary event, apparently the result of a drunken quarrel, was shrewdly suspected to be part of a deep-laid scheme for supporting the movement, which was expected to follow the next day's meeting at Offenburg. If such were the hopes of the leaders, they were not disappointed; the train was laid, and wanted but a spark to fire it. The result of the Offenburg meeting was known at Carlsruhe by six o'clock in the evening of the day of its occurrence; and on the same evening, some riotous soldiers having been placed in confinement, their comrades insisted on their release. In vain did the officers, headed by Prince Frederick, (the Grand-duke's second son,) endeavour to appease them; they were grossly insulted, and the prince received a sabre cut on the head. It is thought by many persons that if, at this time, energetic measures had been taken, the whole movement might have been crushed.

But with citizens timid or lukewarm, and soldiers the greater number of whom were in open mutiny, it is difficult to say where the repressive power was to have been found. Be this as it may, the barracks were demolished, the stores broken open and robbed; and by eleven o'clock that night the ducal family, and as many of the ministers and attendants as could find the means of evasion, were in full flight. With arms supplied by the plunder of the barracks, the mob next attacked the arsenal, which was under the protection of the national guard. A squadron of dragoons who came to assist the latter were fired on by both parties, and the captain, a promising young officer, was killed on the spot. The dragoons, seeing their efforts to support the citizens thus misinterpreted, retired, and left the arsenal to its fate.

Early next morning, a provisional government, headed by Brentano and Fickler, was proclaimed, to which all people were summoned to swear obedience; and, absurdly enough, the very men, soldiers and citizens, who the day before had, with the acquiescence of the duke, taken an oath of allegiance to the empire, now swore to be faithful to the new order of things. The news of the outbreak spread like wildfire. It was received with particular exultation in the towns of Mannheim and Heidelberg; in the latter of which a very republican spirit prevailed, and where, at the first call, the national guard assembled, eager to display their valour--in words. It was not long before their mettle was put to the proof. The Duke, who had taken refuge in the fortress of Germersheim, had been escorted in his flight by about three hundred dragoons, with sixteen pieces of artillery. These brave fellows, who had remained faithful to their sovereign, attempted, after leaving him in safety, to make their way to Frankfort. As every inch of the country they had to traverse was in open revolt, the circumstance was soon known at Heidelberg, where, late in the evening, the tocsin rang, to summon the peasants from the neighbouring villages, and the _générale_ beat through the streets to call the citizens to arms, in order that parties might be sent out to intercept the soldiers. It would be difficult to describe the panic that prevailed in Heidelberg at the first sound of this terrible drum. The most ridiculous and contradictory reports were circulated. That some great danger was at hand, all agreed; and the story generally credited was, that the peasants of the Odenwald were coming down, ten thousand strong, to plunder the town. When the real cause of the disturbance was discovered, it may be doubted whether, to many, the case appeared much mended; for, besides the disinclination a set of peaceable tradesmen might feel to attack a body of dragoons, backed by sixteen pieces of artillery, many of those who were summoned from their beds were secretly opposed to the cause they were called upon to serve. But there was no remedy; and, amidst the tears and shrieks of women, the ringing of bells, and beating of drums, the first detachment marched off. No sooner did they arrive at the supposed scene of action, than, seized with a sudden panic, caused by a row of trees which, in the dark, they mistook for the enemy in battle array, they faced about, and fairly ran for it till they found themselves once more in Heidelberg.

The consequences were more serious to some of the members of a second party, despatched to Ladenburg. In the middle of the night, the sentry posted on the bridge mistook the trotting of some stray donkey for a charge of dragoons, and firing his rifle, without farther deliberation he threw himself over the bridge, breaking a thigh and a couple of ribs in the fall. The others stood their ground; but it is well known that several of the party were laid up next day with _nerven feber_, (a sort of low typhus,) brought on by the fear and agitation they had undergone.

These facts are merely mentioned to show that, had the government, at the commencement of the outbreak, made the slightest show of firmness, they would not have met with the resistance which they afterwards found.

The dragoons, after dodging about for two days and nights, worn out with fatigue and hunger, at length allowed themselves to be captured near the frontiers of Würtemberg. It seems that the soldiers positively refused to make use of their arms after the Duke's flight, which, indeed, is the only way of accounting for three hundred mounted dragoons, with sixteen pieces of artillery fully supplied with ammunition, falling into the hands of as many peasants, who would undoubtedly have fled at the first shot fired.

Whilst these events passed, the reins of government at Carlsruhe had been seized by Brentano, Peter, Fickler, and Goegg--the latter a convicted felon. Struve and Blind, condemned to eight years' imprisonment for their rebellion the year before, were released, and, with their friends, took a prominent part in the formation of the new ministry. The war department was given to a Lieutenant Eichfeld, who, by the way, had some time previously quitted the service, on account of a duel in which he displayed the white feather. His first measure was to order the whole body of soldiers, now entirely deprived of their officers, to select others from the ranks. The choice was just what might have been expected; and instances occurred in which recruits of three weeks' standing passed at once to the rank of captain and major. All discipline was soon at an end. The army, consisting of 17,000 men, was placed under the command of Lieutenant Sigel, a young man of twenty-two, whose sole claims to preferment seem to have been, that he was compromised in Struve's abortive attempt at Friburg, and had since contributed a number of articles, violently abusive of the government, to some low revolutionary newspapers. Headquarters were established at Heidelberg, where Sigel, accompanied by Eichfeld, arrived on the 19th of May.

The pecuniary affairs of the insurgents were in the most flourishing condition. Seven millions of florins (about £560,000) were found in the war-chest, besides two and a half millions of paper-money, and large sums belonging to other departments of the ministry. Their stock of arms consisted of seventy thousand muskets, without reckoning those of the national guard and military. Thus equipped and supplied, they would have been able, with a little drill, and if properly commanded, to make a long stand against the regular forces sent against them. By this time, too, the country was fast filling with political refugees of all shades of opinion. Italians, Swiss, Poles, and French were daily pouring in; and the well-known Metternich, of Mayence celebrity, who had not been heard of since his flight from the barricades at Frankfort, again turned up as commander of a free corps. A sketch of his costume will give a pretty fair idea of that adopted by all those who wished to distinguish themselves as ultra-liberals. He wore a white broad-brimmed felt hat, turned up on one side, with a large red feather; a blue _kittel_ or smock-frock; a long cavalry sabre swung from his belt, in which were stuck a pair of ponderous horse pistols; troopers' boots, reaching to the middle of the thigh, were garnished with enormous spurs, and across his breast flamed a crimson scarf, the badge of the red republican.

In order to extend the revolt, and to place Baden in a state of defence before the governments should recover from their panic, the most energetic measures were taken. A decree was issued for arming the whole male population, from eighteen to thirty years of age; and as in many instances the peasantry proved refractory, a tax of fifty florins per day was laid on all recusants, who, when discovered, were taken by force to join the army. Raveaux, Trutschler, Erbe, and Fröbel, the latter that friend of Robert Blum, who so narrowly escaped the cord when his companion was shot,--made their appearance at Carlsruhe. They issued a violent proclamation against the King of Prussia, and, the better to disguise their real object, called on all Germany to arm in defence of the parliament at Frankfort, and the provisional government of Baden. Every artifice, no matter how disreputable, that could serve the cause, was unscrupulously resorted to. It was officially announced that Würtemberg and Hesse-Darmstadt were only waiting a favourable opportunity to join the movement; and to further this object, a public meeting (which it was hoped would bring forth the same fruits at Darmstadt, as that of Offenburg had produced at Carlsruhe) was called by the radicals of the Odenwald. It took place at Laudenbach, a village situated about three miles within the Hessian frontier, and was attended by upwards of six thousand armed peasants, and by three or four thousand of the Baden free corps. The authorities were, however, on the alert; and after a fruitless summons to the insurgents to quit the territory, the military were called out. Before orders to fire were given, the civil commissary, desirous to avoid effusion of blood, advanced alone towards the crowd, endeavouring to persuade them to retire peaceably. He was barbarously murdered; and the sight of his dead body so incensed the Hessian soldiers, that they rushed forward without waiting for the word of command, and with one volley put the whole mob of insurgents to flight.

The spirit displayed on this occasion probably saved the country from a bloody civil war; for had the revolutionary movement passed the frontiers of Baden, at that moment the flame would doubtless have spread to Würtemberg, and thence not improbably to the whole of Germany, with the exception perhaps of Prussia.

To counteract the very unsatisfactory effect of the meeting at Laudenbach, it was resolved, by a council held at Carlsruhe, that a bold stroke should be struck. The Hessians, hitherto unsupported by other troops, could not command anything like the numerical force of Baden, and Sigel received orders to cross the frontier with all his disposable troops. Four battalions of the line, with about six thousand volunteers, were reviewed at Heidelberg before taking the field. They were indeed a motley crew! The soldiers, who had helped themselves from the stores at Carlsruhe to whatever best suited their fancy, appeared on parade equipped accordingly. Shakos, helmets, caps, greatcoats, frocks, full-dress and undress uniforms, all figured in the same ranks. The so-called officers, in particular, cut a pitiful figure. If the smart uniform and epaulette could have disguised the clownish recruit, who had perhaps figured but a few weeks in the ranks, the license of his conduct would soon have betrayed him; for officers and privates, arm in arm, and excessively drunk, might constantly be seen reeling through the streets. The free corps, unwilling to be outdone by the regulars, indulged in all sorts of theatrical dresses, yellow and red boots being in great favour; whilst one fellow, claiming no lower rank than that of colonel, actually rode about in a blouse and white cotton drawers, with Hessian boots and large gold tassels.

As it was strongly suspected that the soldiers placed little confidence in their new leaders, and the free corps, many of whom were serving against their own wishes, seemed equally unwilling to risk their lives under such commanders as Metternich and Bönin, (a watchmaker from Wiesbaden,) all sorts of artifices were resorted to, to encourage both regulars and irregulars. Their whole force might amount to thirty thousand men; but, by marches and countermarches, similar to those by which, in a theatre, a few dozen of soldiers are made to represent thousands, they so dazzled the eyes of the ignorant, that it was believed their army numbered nearly a hundred thousand men. The cavalry, in particular, which were quartered in Heidelberg, were marched out and in again five times in as many days--at each appearance being hailed as a fresh regiment. Soothsayers and prophets were also consulted, and interpreted divers passages in holy writ as foretelling the defeat of the Prussians, and the success of the "Army of Freedom." But the trick which, no doubt, had the greatest influence on the minds of the poor duped people was a forged declaration, purporting to be one put forth by the Hessian troops, professing their intention of throwing down their arms on the approach of their "German brothers."

On the 28th of May, the insurgents, ten thousand in number, crossed the frontier of Hesse-Darmstadt. The Hessians, with three battalions of infantry, a couple of six-pounders, and a squadron of light cavalry, waited their approach; and having withdrawn their outposts, (a movement interpreted into a flight by the opposite party,) they suddenly opened a severe fire on the advancing columns--driving them back to Weinheim, with a loss of upwards of fifty killed and wounded. The affair commenced at four o'clock in the afternoon, and by ten at night the whole insurgent force arrived pell-mell at Heidelberg. Officers and dragoons led the van, followed by artillery, infantry, baggage-waggons, and free corps, mingled together in the utmost disorder. They had run from Weinheim, a distance of twelve miles, in three hours--driven by their fears only; for the Hessians, too weak to take advantage of their victory, and content with driving them from their own territory, waited for reinforcements before attempting farther hostilities.

This check was a sad damper to the ardour of the insurgents. It was necessary to find some one on whom to fix the blame; and as the dragoons were known to be unfavourable to the new order of things, the official account of the affair stated that the enemy would have been thoroughly beaten, had the cavalry charged when ordered so to do.

This was the only action fought under Sigel's generalship--as a specimen of which it may be mentioned that the _band_ of the Guards was sent into action at the head of the regiment, and lost five men by the first volley fired. Whatever the reason, Sigel was removed from his functions next day, and Eichfeld, disgusted with such an opening to the campaign, changed his place of minister of war for a colonelcy in the Guards; and, pocketing a month's pay, took himself quietly off, and has never been heard of since.

As it was now evident there could be no hopes of the Hessians joining the movement, the tactics were changed, and the most violent abuse was lavished on them by the organs of the provisional government. The vilest calumnies were resorted to, to exasperate the Baden troops against them, such as that they tortured and massacred their prisoners, &c.

Sigel had succeeded Eichfeld as minister of war; and as it was tolerably clear that they possessed no general fit to lead their army to the field, Meiroslawski was invited to take the command. A large sum of money was sent to him in Paris, and, while waiting his arrival, it was determined to act strictly on the defensive. With this object the whole line of the Neckar, from Mannheim to Eberbach and Mosbach, was strongly fortified; and the regular troops were withdrawn from Rastadt, and concentrated on the Hessian frontier.

At length the Polish adventurer, whose arrival had been so impatiently expected, made his appearance at Heidelberg. Meiroslawski, a native of the grand-duchy of Posen, began his career as a cadet in the Prussian service. In the Polish revolution of 1832 he played an active part, and was deeply implicated in the plot concocted at Cracow in 1846, which brought such dreadful calamities on the unfortunate inhabitants of Gallicia. For the second time he took refuge in France, and only returned to his native country to join the outbreak at Posen in 1848. There he contrived to get himself into a Prussian prison, from which, however, he was after a time released. He next led the ranks of the Sicilian insurgents; and on the submission of the island to the Neapolitan troops, had scarcely time to gain his old asylum, France, before he was called on to aid the revolutionists of Baden. He is a man of about forty years of age, of middle height, slightly built, and, so long as he is on foot, of military carriage and appearance; but seen on horseback, riding like a postilion rather than a soldier, the effect is not so good. His eyes are large and expressive, his nose aquiline, and the lower part of his face covered with a large sandy beard, which descends to the middle of his breast. Sixty of the Duke's horses, left in the stables at Carlsruhe, were sent to mount him and his aides-de-camp. Poles, Swiss, desperadoes of every description, received commissions, and were attached to the staff, the members of which, when assembled, were not unlike a group of masqueraders. Accidents, such as stumbling over their own sabres or their comrades' spurs, were of common occurrence. Sometimes a horse and his rider would be seen rolling over together; for, excepting one gentleman, whose rank I could not learn, but who had figured as rider at an equestrian circus that had attended the fair, none of the party looked as if they had ever mounted a horse before.

The first step taken by the government, after Meiroslawski's arrival, was to make a formal treaty of alliance with the provisional government of Rhenish Bavaria, in pursuance of one of whose provisions a plentiful supply of artillery was sent from the fortress of Rastadt, to furnish the army in that part of the country. That the two governments were in constant communication with Ledru Rollin and his friends, is now an authenticated fact, as well as that their chief hopes of success were built on the assistance they expected to receive from Paris. So confidently did they anticipate the overthrow, by the Montagne party, of the present order of things in France, that on the very morning the attempt took place in Paris, placards were posted up in Carlsruhe, Mannheim, and Heidelberg, announcing that the citadel of Strasburg was in the hands of the democrats, who were hastening with a hundred thousand men to the assistance of their friends in Baden.

Until the arrival of Meiroslawski, Brentano had refused to put in execution the rigorous measures urged on him by Struve and his party; but things were now conducted differently. Numbers of persons were cast into prison without any formal accusation. One clergyman in particular, thrown into a miserable dungeon, and kept for weeks in solitary confinement, entirely lost his senses, and, on the arrival of his liberators, the Prussians, had to be taken to a lunatic asylum, where he still remains. The whole country was declared to be under martial law, and notice was given that anybody expressing dissatisfaction with the government would be severely punished. No person whom the malice or ignorance of the mob might choose to consider a spy was safe: many of the principal shops in the towns were closed, the proprietors having sent off or concealed their goods, and fled the country. Persons known to be inimical to the government were punished for their opinions by contributions being levied on their property, or soldiers billeted in their houses. Count Obendorf, who has a chateau in the vicinity of Heidelberg, had no less than seven hundred and twenty men quartered on him at one time. Complaint was unavailing; tyranny and terrorism reigned throughout the land.

In order to give the semblance of legality to their proceedings, the elections for a new chamber commenced. It will readily be imagined that none but the friends of those in power presented themselves as candidates: the deputies were therefore, without exception, the intimates or supporters of Brentano & Co. The first act of the new assembly was to dissolve the _Landes-auschuss_, or provisional government, as being too numerous a body to act with the required vigour; and a dictatorial triumvirate, composed of Brentano, Peter, and Goegg, was appointed in its stead.

By this time serious dissensions had broken out among the leading members of the democratic party. Brentano had quarrelled with Struve, who was resolved on nothing less than the proclamation of the red republic. Finding his friends at Carlsruhe opposed to this attempt, he called a public meeting at Mannheim. Here again his efforts were unsuccessful, the soldiers especially being opposed to his doctrines. As the Würtemberg deputies had always figured among the most violent of the left, or republican party, at Frankfort, and late events had given rise to the idea that the people of that country were disposed to support the movement in Baden, Fickler was sent to Stuttgart, with a considerable sum of money to corrupt the soldiers; and in full expectation of the success of his mission, billets were made out for three thousand men, who, it was stated, were to arrive in the evening at Heidelberg. Disappointment ensued. The Würtembergers, satisfied with having forced from their king a promise to accept the constitution in support of which the Badeners professed to be fighting, were not inclined to bring further trouble and confusion into their country, and Fickler was thrown into prison. This untoward event, had the Baden revolution lasted much longer, was to have produced a terrible war between the two countries. The Würtemberg minister, however, laughed at the insurgent government's absurd and impotent threats, and Fickler still remains in confinement.

The first week after Meiroslawski's arrival was taken up with preparations for opening the campaign on a grand scale. Upwards of fifty thousand men were collected on the Hessian frontiers, from which side it was expected that the enemy would make their attack. At the same time, the Hessians having been reinforced by troops from Mecklenburg, Nassau, Hesse-Cassel, and Prussia, prepared to take the field in earnest. Whilst the first division of the army, under the command of the Prince of Prussia and General Hirschfeld, entered the Palatinate between Kreutznach and Saarbrucken, and advanced to the relief of Germersheim and Landau; Meiroslawski was held in check by continual feints, made along the whole line of the Neckar. On the 15th of June, a battalion of Mecklenburgers, with a squadron of Hessian light cavalry, and a couple of guns, advanced from Weinheim as far as Ladenburg. The village was taken at the point of the bayonet; but, ignorant of the immense force of the insurgents, or perhaps from undervaluing their courage, the troops allowed themselves to be almost surrounded by the enemy. With great difficulty they succeeded in regaining their old position; while the major who commanded the party, and ten privates, were left in the hands of the rebels. The loss on both sides was considerable, but was in some degree compensated to the Imperial troops, by two companies of the Baden Guards passing over to them. This slight success was boasted of by Meiroslawski as a splendid victory, in the following bulletin:--

"HEADQUARTERS, HEIDELBERG, _16th June 1849_.

"Our operations against the advancing enemy have been crowned with success. Yesterday, our brave army was simultaneously attacked on all sides.

"In Rhenish Bavaria the Prussians were driven back with great loss. At Ladenburg, Colonel Sigel engaged the enemy, who had advanced in front; while a column, under the command of the valiant Oborski, attacked them in rear. The enemy was defeated on all points, and driven back in the greatest confusion.

"It is only to be regretted that want of cavalry prevented our following and completely annihilating them.

"Many prisoners were made, and their loss in arms, ammunition, and baggage, all of which fell into our hands, was considerable.

"Inhabitants of Heidelberg, fear nothing for the future. Continue to provide the intrepid army under my command with necessaries for continuing the campaign so gloriously commenced, and I will answer for the result. Strict obedience to my orders is all I require from you, to prevent the enemy from overrunning the country.

"In commemoration of the victory of yesterday, so gloriously obtained, the town of Heidelberg will be illuminated. The lights will be left burning till daybreak, and the beer-houses will remain open the whole night.

"(Signed) LOUIS MEIROSLAWSKI, General-in-Chief of the Army."

This bombastic effusion was followed by several others equally false and ridiculous. The Prussians had advanced as far as Ludwigshafen, opposite Mannheim, without encountering any serious resistance. The insurgent army in the Pfalz, numbering about twelve thousand men, under the command of the Polish General Sznayda, had abandoned their intrenchments almost without striking a blow, and, with the provisional government, fled to Knielingen, from whence they crossed the Rhine into Baden. The only serious impediment encountered by the Prussians was at Ludwigshafen, which suffered immense damage from the heavy and constant bombardment kept up from batteries erected at the opposite town of Mannheim. The railway station was burned to the ground, and the value of property destroyed in the store-houses alone has been calculated at two millions of florins, (£170,000.) On the 17th, Landau and Germersheim were relieved; and the Prince of Prussia, with his whole force concentrated before the latter fortress, prepared to cross the Rhine under the protection of its guns.

Having thus fully accomplished the first part of his arduous undertaking, by re-establishing order in the Pfalz, the Prince of Prussia prepared to effect a junction with the second and third divisions of the army, under the command of General Von Gröben, and Peucker, the former of whom had again advanced to Ladenburg, on the right bank of the Neckar. Meiroslawski, in the mean time, remained totally inactive from the 15th to the 20th inst. Upwards of fifty thousand men had been reviewed by him in Heidelberg and its vicinity; besides this, the twelve thousand Bavarian insurgents, under the command of Sznayda, were in the neighbourhood of Bruchsal; and with such a force, anything like a determined resistance would have compelled the Prussians to purchase victory by a heavy loss. Whatever may be his reputation for talent, Meiroslawski showed but little skill as a general during his short command in Baden. Instead of opposing the crossing of the Rhine by the Prussians, which, with so large a force, and fifty-four pieces of well-served artillery, he might easily have done, the Prince of Prussia, with a division of fifteen thousand men, was allowed to obtain a secure footing in his rear, almost unopposed.

From this moment the position of the insurgents became critical in the extreme. The line of the Neckar was occupied on the right bank by the second and third divisions of the army, comprising upwards of thirty thousand men. Although hitherto held in check by the strong intrenchments that had been thrown up, they might still advance in front; whilst the high road to Rastadt was effectually cut off by the Prince of Prussia, whose headquarters were now at Phillipsburg.

The Rhine had been crossed by the Prussians on the 20th, and on the evening of that day Meiroslawski, for the first time, showed a disposition to move from his comfortable quarters at the Prince Carl hotel in Heidelberg. Collecting all his force, (with the exception of three or four thousand men, who were left in the intrenchments before Ladenburg and on the line of the Neckar,) he left Heidelberg "to drive the Prussians," as he announced, "into the Rhine," and effect a junction with Sznayda's corps in the neighbourhood of Carlsruhe. The plan was a bold one; but Meiroslawski ought to have known better than to attempt its execution with the undisciplined force he commanded. He, however, appears to have entertained no doubt of the result; for the commissariat, baggage, and even the military chest were sent forward, he himself following in a carriage and four.

Early on the morning of the 21st the action commenced, and Meiroslawski found to his cost that six thousand well-disciplined Prussians were more than a match for his whole army. At ten o'clock on the same morning a proclamation was issued at Heidelberg by Struve, stating "that the Prussians were beaten on all points, that their retreat to the Rhine was cut off, and that ten thousand prisoners would be sent to Heidelberg in the evening. The loss on the side of the "Army of Freedom" was eight slightly hurt, and two severely wounded--no killed!"

In spite of the obvious absurdity of this proclamation, most of the townspeople believed it; and it was not till two o'clock in the afternoon that their eyes were opened to the deception practised on them, by the arrival of between thirty and forty cart-loads of wounded insurgents. Before nightfall, upwards of three hundred suffering wretches filled the hospitals. Crowds of fugitives flocked into the town, and every appearance of discipline was at an end. It seems that, on the approach of the enemy, the Prussian advanced guard, composed of one battalion only, retired till they drew the insurgents into the very centre of their line, which lay concealed in the neighbourhood of Wagheusel. This movement was interpreted into a flight by Meiroslawski; a halt was called; and whilst he was refreshing himself at a roadside inn, and his troops were in imagination swallowing dozens of Prussians with every fresh glass of beer, they suddenly found themselves almost surrounded by the royal forces. At the very first volley fired by the Prussians, many of the Baden heroes threw down their arms, and took to their heels; the artillery and baggage waggons, which were most unaccountably in advance, faced about, and drove through the ranks at full speed, overthrowing and crushing whole companies of insurgents. The panic soon became general: dragoons, infantry, baggage-waggons, and artillery, got mingled together in the most inextricable confusion, and those who could, fled to the woods for safety. The approach of night prevented the Prince of Prussia from following up his victory, but he established his headquarters at Langenbruken, within nine miles of the town.

Whilst the hopes of the insurgents received a deathblow in this quarter, General Peucker had pushed with his division through the Odenwald, and, after some insignificant skirmishing at Hirschhorn, crossed the Neckar in the vicinity of Zwingenberg, with the intention of advancing on Sinsheim, and cutting off the retreat of the rebels in that direction. Von Gröben, who, on account of the bridges at Ladenburg, Mannheim, and Heidelberg, being undermined, was unwilling to cross the Neckar, sent a small reconnoitring party over the hills, and, to the great consternation of the inhabitants, the Prussians suddenly made their appearance on the heights above the village of Neuenheim, thus commanding the town of Heidelberg. Four hundred of the foreign legion immediately sallied over the bridge, and, posting themselves in some houses on that side of the river, kept up a desperate firing, though the enemy were too far above their heads for their bullets to take effect. The Prussians for some time looked on with indifference, but, before retiring, they gave the insurgents a taste of what their newly-invented[11] _zund-nadel_ muskets could accomplish. Out of four shots fired, at a distance of full fifteen hundred yards, two took effect; the one killing an insurgent on the bridge, and the other wounding one of the free corps in the town.

[11] The advantages of this new invention (of which the Prussians have now 50,000 in use) are the increased rapidity of loading, extent of range, and precision of aim. A thoroughly drilled soldier can fire from eight to ten rounds in a minute, whilst with a common percussion gun three times is considered good practice. Neither ramrod nor cap is required; the cartridge, which is placed in the gun by opening the breech, contains a fulminating powder, which is pierced by the simple action of pulling the trigger; and the charge of powder being ignited in front, instead of from behind, (as in the common musket,) the entire force of powder is exploded at once. The barrels are rifled, and _spitz_ or pointed bullets are used.

To return to Meiroslawski's army. After those who had been fortunate enough to reach Heidelberg had taken a few hours' rest and refreshment, the entire mass moved off in the direction of Sinsheim, their only hope of escape being to pass that town before the arrival of General Peucker's division. Thousands had thrown away their arms and fled; and most of the soldiers, anxious to escape another collision with the Prussians, threw off their uniforms and concealed themselves in the woods. One-half of the rebels were disbanded, or had been taken prisoners; and Meiroslawski, with the remnant, made all speed to quit the town. Every horse in the neighbourhood was put into requisition to aid them in their flight, and the whole gang of civil authorities, headed by Struve and his wife in a carriage, (well filled with plunder,) followed the great body of fugitives. The intrenchments at Ladenburg, &c., were abandoned, and by 7 o'clock on the evening of the 22d, the town of Heidelberg was once more left to the peaceable possession of its terrified inhabitants. The foreign legion, composed of Poles, Italians, Swiss, French--in short, the refuse of all nations--were the last to leave; nor did they do so, till they had helped themselves to whatever they could conveniently carry off: indeed, the near vicinity of the Prussians alone prevented the complete plunder of the town. During the night, the better disposed citizens removed the powder that undermined the bridge, and a deputation was sent to inform General von Gröben that he could advance without impediment. At 4 o'clock on the morning of the 23d, to the great joy of every respectable inhabitant of Heidelberg, he made his entry into the town. Mannheim had also been taken possession of without firing a shot, and the communication between the first and second divisions of the royal army was now open.

After leaving Heidelberg, Meiroslawski succeeded in once more uniting about fifteen thousand of the fugitives under his banner. General Peucker's attempt to intercept him at Sinsheim had failed, the insurgent general having reached it two hours before him. Taking to the hills, he got out in rear of the Prince of Prussia's division, and joined his force to that of Sznayda, which was before Carlsruhe. Robbery and plunder marked the entire line of march. Wine and provisions that could not be carried off, were wantonly destroyed, and the inhabitants of the villages traversed by this undisciplined horde, will long have reason to remember the passage of the self-styled "Army of Freedom."

At Upsdal, Durlach, and Bruchsal, the rebels made a more energetic resistance than they had yet done; and it was not without a hard struggle, and great loss on both sides, that the Prince of Prussia, at the head of the three divisions off his army, (now united, and numbering upwards of forty thousand men,) entered Carlsruhe on the 25th of June. On the approach of the Prussians, the provisional government, the members of the chamber, and the civil authorities of every description, having emptied the treasury, and carried off all the public money on which they could lay their hands, made their escape to join the remains of the Rump parliament, who, since they had been kicked out of Würtemberg, had established themselves at Freiburg.

After a rest of two days in the capital of Baden, the Prussian army was again put in motion to attack the insurgents, now strongly intrenched along the valley of the Murg, the narrowest part of the duchy. Owing to the numerous and well-served artillery of the insurgents, it was not without severe fighting, and great sacrifice of life, that they were driven from their positions. Another disorderly flight succeeded; and by the 30th of the month, the Prussians were in quiet possession of Baden-Baden, Oos, Offenburg, and Kebl, besides having completely surrounded Rastadt, and cut off every hope of retreat from that fortress. The remainder of Meiroslawski's force was entirely dispersed, the greater number being captured, or escaping in small parties into France or Switzerland. A few hundreds only remained in Freiburg, under the command of Sigel. Meiroslawski took refuge in Basle, having held the command of the Baden forces exactly three weeks; and Brentano, after having remained just long enough to be abused and threatened by his own party, made his escape with most of the other revolutionary leaders into Switzerland, from which he issued the following justification of his conduct. As the document contains a tolerably faithful sketch of the revolution, with the opinion of one who may certainly be considered as an unprejudiced judge, we give it in full:--

"TO THE PEOPLE OF BADEN.

"Fellow-citizens! Before leaving the town of Freiburg and the duchy of Baden, on the night of the 28th June, I informed the president of the constitutional assembly that it was my intention to justify my conduct towards the people of Baden, but not towards an assembly that had treated me with outrage. If I did not do this at the time I left the country for which I have acted all through with a clear conscience, and from which I was driven by a tyrannical and selfish party, it was because I wished to see what this party would say against the absent. To-day I have seen their accusation, and no longer delay my defence, in order that you may judge whether I have merited the title of traitor; or whether the people's cause--the cause of freedom, for which your sons, your brothers, have bled--can prosper in the hands of men who only seek to hide personal cowardice by barbarity, mental incapacity by lies, and low selfishness by hypocrisy.

"Fellow-citizens! Since the month of February I have strained every nerve in the cause of freedom. Since the month of February, I have sacrificed my own affairs to the defence of persecuted republicans. I have willingly stood up for all who claimed my assistance; and let any say if I have been reimbursed one kreutzer of the hundreds I have expended. Fellow-citizens! I am loath to call to mind the sacrifices I have made; but a handful of men are shameless enough to call me traitor; a handful of men, partly those in whose defence I disinterestedly strained every nerve, would have me brought to 'well-deserved punishment:' these men, whose sole merit consists in tending to bring discredit on freedom's cause, through their incapacity, barbarity, and terrorism; and whose unheard-of extravagance has brought us to the brink of ruin.

"I did not return home after Fickler's trial. The exertion I had used in his defence had injured my health, and I went for medical advice to Baden-Baden. On the 14th of May, I was fetched from my bed; but, in spite of bodily weakness, I was unwilling to remain behind. I wished to see the cause of freedom free from all dirty machinations, I wished to prevent the holy cause from falling into disrepute through disgraceful traffic; I wished to keep order, and to protect life and property. For some time I was enabled to effect this: I endeavoured to prevent injustice of all kinds, and in every place, and whenever I was called on; I strove to protect the innocent against force, and to prove that even the complete overthrow of the government could be accomplished without allowing anarchy to reign in its stead.

"Fellow-citizens! However my conduct as a revolutionist may be judged, I have a clear conscience. Not a deed of injustice can be laid to my door: not a kreutzer of your money have I allowed to be squandered, not a heller has gone into my pocket! But this I must say, you will be astonished, if ever you see the accounts, to find how your money has been wasted, and how few there were who sacrificed anything to the holy cause of the people, and how many took care to be well paid out of the national coffers for every service rendered.

"No sooner had the revolution broken out than hundreds of adventurers swarmed into the land, with boasts of having suffered in freedom's cause: they claimed their reward in hard cash from your coffers. There was no crossing the streets of Carlsruhe for the crowds of uniformed, sabre-carrying clerks; and whilst this herd of idlers revelled on your money, your half-famished sons were exposing their breasts to the bullets of the enemy in freedom's cause. But whoever set himself to oppose this order of things was proclaimed to be a mean and narrow-minded citizen; whoever showed a disinclination to persecute his political adversary _à la Windischgratz_, was a _réactionnaire_ or a traitor.

"At the head of this party was Struve, the man whose part I took before the tribunal at Freiburg--not as a legal adviser, but as a friend; the man whose absurd plan for giving the ministers salaries of six thousand florins; of sending ambassadors to Rome and Venice, and agents to St. Petersburg and Hungary, I overruled; the man whose endeavour to give every situation to which a good salary was attached to foreign adventurers, was effectually opposed by me. This man, despised for his personal cowardice, whose dismissal from the provisional government was demanded by the entire army--this man, instead of supporting and strengthening the government as he promised, tried, because his ambitious views found no encouragement, and with the assistance of foreign adventurers, to overthrow me; and when I showed him the force that was drawn up ready to oppose him, he took refuge in base lies, and had not even sufficient courage to go home, till I, whom he had just tried to overthrow, protected him with my own body to his house.

"The people had chosen between us, for at the elections he had been first thrown out, and he only obtained three thousand votes as a substitute, whilst I had been elected by seven thousand voices.

"I had placed all my hopes in the Constitutional Assembly. I thought that men elected by the free choice of the people would duly support my honest endeavours. I was mistaken. An assembly, the majority of whose members were mere ranters, totally incapable of fulfilling the task imposed on them, and who sought to conceal their ignorance by proposing revolutionary measures--which were carried one day, to be revoked as impracticable the next--was the result of the election. That I should prove a thorn in the sides of such men was clear; and as it was not in their power to get rid of me, they sought to make me a powerless tool, by creating a three-headed dictatorship, with the evident intention of making use of my name, whilst holding me in check by the other two dictators. Although such a situation might be undignified, still, from love of the cause, I determined to accept it. I scarcely ever saw my colleagues in Carlsruhe, as they found it more agreeable to run after the army. No reports from the seat of war ever reached me; and yet the assembly demanded from me, as being the only one present, accounts of what I had received no report of. All responsibility was thrown on my shoulders. If the minister of war neglected to supply the army with arms or ammunition, the fault was mine; if the minister of finance wanted money, I was to blame; and if the army was beaten, my want of energy was the cause of it!

"Thus was I abandoned at Carlsruhe in the last most dangerous days, and left with a set of deputies who, for the most part, had not even sufficient courage to sleep in the capital. My co-dictators found it more convenient to play the easier part of mock heroes with the army. Thousands can bear witness that I shrunk from no work, however trivial; but I can prove to most of these pot-valiant heroes, that they put off the most urgent motions as 'not pressing,' whilst they clung to others that were of no importance, merely because they carried them out of all danger at the national expense.

"In Offenburg we were joined by the newly-elected member Gustavus Struve, who immediately demanded my dismissal from the government. On being told that this was impossible, he next wished me to be taken from the dictatorship, and to be given one of the minister's places. He talked of the want of energy displayed by the government, called it little better than treason, and tried to learn from my friends what plans I intended to adopt. He demanded that the fugitives from the Pfalz should be placed in office, though, God knows, we owed them nothing. Indignant at such conduct, I took no part in the secret council held at Freiburg, although I informed several of the deputies of my intention to resign, unless I received full satisfaction for the machinations of Struve.

"The first public meeting of the assembly took place on the evening of the 28th June, when Struve brought forward the following motion:--

"'That every effort at negotiation with the enemy be considered and punished as high treason.' Considering what had before taken place, I could not do less than oppose the motion, which I did on the grounds that, as such negotiations could only proceed from the government, the motion was tantamount to a vote of want of confidence. In spite of this declaration on my part, the motion was carried by twenty-eight against fifteen votes, and the contest between Struve and Brentano was decided in favour of the former. Although some few of the deputies declared their vote not to imply want of confidence, the assembly did not, in that capacity, express such an opinion. If they did, I call on them to produce the notes of such a resolution having been carried; and if they fail to do so, I brand them with the name of infamous liars. After this, I did what all honourable men would have done--I resigned. Who, I ask, was to prevent my doing so; and why am I to be branded with the name of traitor? I laugh those fools to scorn who imagine they could prevent freedom of action in a man who, having been shamefully ill-used, chose to withdraw from public life.

"I do not fear inquiry, and demand from the national assembly that the result of their investigation be made public, as it can only terminate in victory for me and destruction to my adversaries. Why did this same assembly keep secret the fact that, on the 28th of June, they decided to send me a deputation the next morning, in order to beg I would remain in power--I the traitor, I who was to be brought to 'well-merited punishment!' It was easy to foresee the personal danger I was exposed to if I refused, and I therefore preferred seeking quiet and repose in Switzerland, to enjoying the rags of freedom emitted under Struve's dictatorship in Baden.

"I am to be called to account! My acts are open to the world. No money ever came under my superintendence--this was taken care of by men who had been employed in the department for years. My salary as head of the government was three florins per day, and I have paid all travelling expenses out of my own pocket. But if those are to be called to account who had charge of the public money, and became my enemies because I would not have it squandered, then, people of Baden! you will open your eyes with astonishment; then, brave combatants, you will learn that, whilst you fasted, others feasted!

"The people of Baden will not be thankful for a 'Struve government,' but they will have to support it; and over the grave of freedom, over the graves of their children, will they learn to know those who were their friends and those who only sought for self-aggrandisement and tyranny!

"And when the time comes that the people are in want of me again, my ear will not be deaf to the call! But I will never serve a government of tyrants, who can only keep in power by adopting measures that we have learned to despise, as worthy of a Windischgratz or a Wrangel!

"Fellow-citizens! I have not entered into details. I have only drawn a general sketch, which it will require time to fill up. Accused of treason by the princes, accused of treason by the deputies of Freiburg, I leave you to decide whether I have merited the title.

"_Feuerthalen bei Schaffhausen, 1 July, 1849._

"LOUIS BRENTANO."

At this time of writing, Rastadt still remains in possession of two or three thousand insurgents; but, almost without provisions, and deprived of all hopes of assistance, the fortress may be daily expected to surrender. Such is the termination of an insurrection of seven weeks' duration, which is calculated to have cost the country thirty millions of florins and four thousand lives. There is no denying that, at one time, it assumed a most formidable aspect; and had the people of Würtemberg given it the support its leaders confidently expected from them, it might, aided by the discontent that undoubtedly prevails in many other parts of Germany, long have baffled the efforts of Prussia to put it down. Yet there are few persons, even among those who witnessed the outbreak from its commencement, who can tell what was the object of its promoters, unless plunder and personal aggrandisement be assigned as their incentives. Their professed motive was to support the union of Germany in one empire; but, as the Grand-duke of Baden had already taken the oath to obey and defend the constitution framed at Frankfort, there was not the slightest pretext for upsetting his government. It is certain that the republicans played a most active part in the affair--their intention no doubt being, as soon as they found themselves victorious under the banner of the empire, to hoist a democratic flag of their own. Many who were not inclined to go so far, joined them upon doubts of the fair intentions of the Germanic princes towards their subjects. Some were perhaps glad of any sort of change, other turbulent spirits were anxious for a row, but, from first to last, none seem to have had any clearly defined object, or anything to offer in extenuation of such waste of blood and treasure. The next striking circumstance is the evident incapacity of the chiefs, civil and military. Throughout the affair, we do not see one proof of superior talent, or a single act of daring courage. The only useful reflection it affords is one that is perhaps worthy the attention of the rulers of Germany. Last year, Struve's attempt to revolutionise the country was principally supported by ignorant peasants, mad students, and a few ultra-liberals and republicans, and it was in great measure put down by the soldiers of Baden. This year, a great proportion of the citizens in the principal towns were openly in favour of the movement, and nearly the whole Baden army joined the revolt.

HEIDELBERG, _15th July 1849_.

LAMARTINE'S REVOLUTION OF 1848.

So completely was the ordinary framework of European society broken up in France by the Revolution of 1789, that the leaders of every great political movement, since that time, have sprung from an entirely different class of society from what they were before that event. The old territorial noblesse no longer appear as the leaders in action, or the rulers of thought. The time has gone by when an Admiral de Coligny, or a Henry of Béarn, stood forth as the chiefs of the Reformed movement; a Duc d'Orleans no longer heads the defection of the nobles from the throne, or a Mirabeau rouse a resistance to the mandates of the sovereign. Not only the powers of the sword, not only the political lead of the people, but the direction of their thoughts, has passed from the old nobility. The confiscation of their property has destroyed their consequence, the dispersion of their families ruined their influence. Neither collectively nor individually can they now lead the people. The revolution of 1830, begun by Thiers and the writers in the _National_ newspaper, was carried out by Lafitte the great banker. That of 1848, springing from the columns of the _Réforme_ and the _Démocratie Pacifique_, soon fell under the lead of M. Marrast the journalist, and M. Lamartine the romancer and poet. And now the latter of these authors has come forth, not only as the leader but as the historian of the movement. Like Cæsar, he appears as the annalist of his own exploits: like him, he no doubt flatters himself he can say, "I came, I saw, I conquered."

The reason is, that mankind cannot exist even for a day but under the lead of a few. Self-government is the dream of the enthusiast, the vision of the inexperienced: oligarchy is the history of man. In vain are institutions popularised, nobles destroyed, masses elevated, education diffused, self-government established: all that will not alter the character of man; it will not qualify the multitude for self-direction; it will not obviate that first of necessities to mankind--_the necessity of being governed_. What is the first act of every assembly of men associated together for any purpose, social, political, or charitable? To nominate a committee by whom their common affairs are to be regulated. What is the first act of that committee? To nominate a sub-committee of two or three, in whom the direction of affairs is practically to be vested. Begin, if you please, with universal suffrage: call six millions of electors to the poll, as in France at this time, or four millions, as in America--the sway of two or three, ultimately of one, is not the less inevitable. Not only does the huge mass ultimately fall under the direction of one or two leading characters, but from the very first it is swayed by their impulsion. The millions repeat the thoughts of two or three journals, they elaborate the ideas of two or three men. What is the origin of the whole free-trade principles which have totally altered the policy, and probably shortened the existence, of the British empire? The ideas of Adam Smith, nurtured in the solitude of Kirkaldy. Would you learn what are the opinions generally prevalent in the urban circles in England, in whom political power is practically vested, on Wednesday or Thursday? Read the leading articles of the _Times_ on Monday or Tuesday. The more men are educated, the more that instruction is diffused, the more widely that journals are read, the more vehement the political excitement that prevails, the more is the sway of this oligarchy established, for the greater is the aptitude of the general mind to receive the impulse communicated to it by the leaders of thought. The nation, in such circumstances, becomes a vast electric-machine, which vibrates with the slightest movement of the central battery.

Lamartine, as an author, can never be mentioned without the highest respect. The impress of genius is to be seen in all his works: nature has marked him for one of the leaders of thought. A mind naturally ardent and enthusiastic, has been nurtured by travel, enriched by reflection, chastened by suffering. His descriptive powers are of the very highest order. We have already done justice, and not more than justice, to the extreme beauty of his descriptions of Oriental scenery.[12] They are the finest in the French, second to none in the English language. His mind is essentially poetical. Many of his effusions in verse are touching and beautiful, though they do not possess the exquisite grace and delicate expression of Beranger. But his prose is poetry itself: so deeply is his mind imbued with poetical images--so sensitive is his taste to the grand and the beautiful--so enthusiastic is his admiration of the elevated, whether in nature or art, that he cannot treat even an ordinary subject without tinging it with the colours of romance.

[12] See _Blackwood's Magazine_, vol. lvi., p. 657.

From this peculiar texture of Lamartine's mind arises both the excellences and defects of his historical compositions. He has all the romantic and poetical, but few of the intellectual qualities of an historian. Eminently dramatic in his description of event, powerful in the delineation of character, elevated in feeling, generous in sentiment, lofty in speculation--he is yet destitute of the sober judgment and rational views which are the only solid foundation for either general utility or durable fame in historical composition. He has the conceptions of genius and the fire of poetry in his narrative, but little good sense, and still less of practical acquaintance with mankind. That is his great defect, and it is a defect so serious that it will probably, in the end, deprive his historical works of the place in general estimation to which, from the beauty of their composition and the rich veins of romance with which they abound, they are justly entitled. These imaginative qualities are invaluable additions to the sterling qualities of truth, judgment, and trust-worthiness; but they can never supply their place. They are the colouring of history; they give infinite grace to its composition; they deck it out with all the charms of light and shade: but they can never make up for the want of accurate drawing from nature, and a faithful delineation of objects as they really exist in the world around us. Nay, an undue preponderance of the imaginative qualities in an historian, if not accompanied by a scrupulous regard to truth, tends rather to lessen the weight due to his narrative, by inspiring a constant dread that he is either passing off imaginary scenes for real events, or colouring reality so highly that it is little better than fiction. This is more especially the case with a writer such as Lamartine, whose thoughts are so vivid and style so poetical, that, even when he is describing events in themselves perfectly true, his narrative is so embellished that it assumes the character of romance, and is distrusted from a suspicion that it is a mere creation of the imagination.

In addition to this, there is a capital deficiency in Lamartine's historical works, for which no qualities of style or power of composition, how brilliant soever, can compensate; and which, if not supplied in some future editions, will go far to deprive them of all credit or authority with future times. This is the _entire want of all authorities or references_, either at the bottom, of the page or at the end of the work. In the eight volumes of the _History of the Girondists_, and the four on the _Revolution of 1848_, now before us, we do not recollect ever having met with a single reference or footnote containing a quotation from any state paper, speech, or official document. It is impossible to overestimate the magnitude of this defect; and it is astonishing how so able and well-informed a writer as Lamartine should have fallen into it. Does he suppose that the world are to take everything he says off his hand, without reference or examination; or imagine that the brilliant and attractive graces of his style do not increase the necessity for such authorities, from the constant suspicion they beget that they have been drawn from the store of his imagination, not the archives of history? No brilliancy of description, no richness of colouring, no amount of dramatic power, can make up for a want of the one thing needful--trust in the TRUTH of the narrative. Observe children: every one knows how passionately fond they are of having stories told them, and how much they prefer them to any of the ordinary pastimes suited to their years. How often, however, do you hear them say, _But is it all true?_ It is by making them believe that fiction is the narrative of real event that the principal interest is communicated to the story. Where the annals of event are coloured as Lamartine knows how to colour them, they become more attractive than any romance. The great success of his _History of the Girondists_, and of Macaulay's _History of England_, is a sufficient proof of this. But still the question will recur to men and women, as well as children--"But is it all true?" And truth in his hands wears so much the air of romance, that he would do well, by all possible adjuncts, to convey the impression that it is in every respect founded in reality.

There is no work which has been published in France, of late years, which has met with anything like the success which his _History of the Girondists_ has had. We have heard that fifty thousand copies of it were sold in the first year. Beyond all doubt, it had a material effect in producing the Revolution of 1848, and precipitating Louis Philippe from the throne. It was thus popular, from the same cause which attracts boys to narratives of shipwrecks, or crowds to representations of woe on the theatre--deep interest in tragic events. He represented the heroes of the first great convulsion in such attractive colours, that men, and still more women, were not only fascinated by the narrative and deeply interested in the characters, but inspired by a desire to plunge into similar scenes of excitement themselves--just as boys become sailors from reading terrific tales of shipwreck, or soldiers, from stories of perils in the deadly breach. In his hands, vice equally with virtue, weakness with resolution, became attractive. He communicated the deepest interest to Robespierre himself, who is the real hero of his story, as Satan is of the _Paradise Lost_. He drew no veil over the weakness, the irresolution, the personal ambition of the Girondists, so fatal in their consequences to the cause of freedom in France, and through it to that of liberty over the whole world; but he contrived to make them interesting notwithstanding their faults--nay, in consequence of those very faults. He borrowed from romance, where it has been long understood and successfully practised, especially in France, the dangerous secret of making characters of _imperfect goodness_ the real heroes of his tale. He knew that none of the leading characters at Paris were Sir Charles Grandisons; and he knew that, if they had been so, their adventures would have excited, comparatively speaking, very little interest. But he knew that many of them were political Lovelaces; and he knew well that it is by such characters that in public, equally as private life, the weakness of the world is fascinated, and their feelings enchained. And it is in the deep interest which his genius has communicated to really worthless characters, and the brilliant colours in which he has clothed the most sinister and selfish enterprises, that the real danger of his work consists, and the secret of the terrible consequences with which its publication was followed is to be found.

In truth, however, the real cause of those terrible consequences lies deeper, and a fault of a more fundamental kind than any glossing over the frailties of historical characters has at once rendered his work so popular and its consequences so tremendous. Rely upon it, truth and reason, all-powerful and even victorious in the end, are never a match for sophistry and passion in the outset. When you hear of a philosophical historical work going through half-a-dozen editions in six months, or selling fifty thousand copies in a year, you may be sure that there is a large intermixture of error, misrepresentation, and one-sidedness in its composition. The cause is, that truth and reason are in general distasteful in the outset to the human mind; and it is by slow degrees, and the force of experience alone, that their ascendency is established. What attracts, in the first instance, in thought, independent of the charms of eloquence and the graces of composition--which of course are indispensable to great success--is _coincidence with the tendency and aspirations of general thought_. But so prone to error and delusion is the human mind, from its inherent character and original texture, that it is a hundred to one that general thought at any one time, especially if it is one of considerable excitement or vehement feeling, is founded in error. And thus it often happens, that the works which have the most unbounded success at their first publication, and for a considerable time after, are precisely those which contain the largest portion of error, and are likely, when reduced into practice, to have the most fatal effects upon the best interests of the species. Witness the works of Rousseau and Voltaire in France, to whose influence the first revolution is mainly to be ascribed; those of Lamartine, Victor Hugo, and Eugene Sue, who have been chiefly instrumental in bringing about the still more widespread convulsions of our times.

The fundamental principle of Lamartine's political philosophy, and which we regard as his grand error, and the cause at once of his success in the outset and his failure in the end, is the principle of the general innocence and perfectibility of human nature. It is this principle, so directly repugnant to the fundamental doctrines of Christianity, that it may be regarded as literally speaking the "banner-cry of hell," which is at the bottom of the whole revolutionary maxims; and it is so flattering to the hopes, and agreeable to the weakness of human nature, that it can scarcely ever fail, when brought forward with earnestness and enforced by eloquence, to captivate the great majority of mankind. Rousseau proclaimed it in the loudest terms in all his works; it was the great secret of his success. According to him, man was born innocent, and with dispositions only to virtue: all his vices arose from the absurdity of the teachers who tortured his youth, all his sufferings from the tyranny of the rulers who oppressed his manhood. Lamartine, taught by the crimes, persuaded by the sufferings of the first Revolution, has modified this principle without abandoning its main doctrines, and thus succeeded in rendering it more practically dangerous, because less repugnant to the common sense and general experience of mankind. His principle is, that _démagogie_ is always selfish and dangerous; _démocratie_ always safe and elevating. The ascendency of a few ambitious or worthless leaders precipitates the masses, when they first rise against their oppressors, into acts of violence, which throw a stain upon the cause of freedom, and often retard for a season its advance. But that advance is inevitable: it is only suspended for a time by the reaction against bloodshed; and in the progressive elevation of the millions of mankind to general intelligence, and the direction of affairs, he sees the practical development of the doctrines of the gospel, and the only secure foundation for general felicity. He is no friend to the extreme doctrines of the Socialists and Communists, and is a stanch supporter of the rights of property--and the most important of all rights, those of marriage and family. But he sees in the sway of the multitude the only real basis of general happiness, and the only security against the inroads of selfishness; and he regards the advances towards this grand consummation as being certain and irresistible as the advance of the tide upon the sand, or the progress from night to morning. In this way he hopes to reconcile the grand doctrine of human perfectibility with the universal failure of all attempts at its practical establishment; and continues to dream of the irresistible and blessed march of democracy, while recounting alike the weakness of the Girondists, and the crimes of the Jacobins--the woful result of the Revolution of 1789--and the still more rapid and signal failure of that which convulsed the world sixty years afterwards.

The simple answer to all these absurdities and errors, productive of such disastrous consequences when reduced into practice, is this--"The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked."--"There is none that doeth good, no, not one." It is from this _universal_ and inevitable tendency to wickedness, that the practical impossibility of establishing democratic institutions, without utter ruin to the best interests of society, arises. You seek in vain to escape from the consequences of this universal corruption, by committing power to a multitude of individuals, or extinguishing the government of a few in the sway of numbers. The multitude are themselves as bad by nature as the few, and, for the discharge of the political duties with which they are intrusted, incomparably worse; for, in their case, numbers annihilate responsibility without conferring wisdom, and the contagion of common opinions inflames passion without strengthening reason. In the government of a few, capacity is generally looked for, because it is felt to be beneficial by the depositaries of power; but in that of numbers it is as commonly rejected, because it excites general jealousy, without the prospect of individual benefit. Democratic communities are ruined, no one knows how, or by whom. It is impossible to find any one who is responsible for whatever is done. The ostensible leaders are driven forward by an unseen power, which they are incapable alike of regulating or withstanding: the real leaders--the directors of thought--are unseen and irresponsible. If disasters occur, they ascribe them to the incapacity of the statesmen at the head of affairs: they relieve themselves of responsibility, by alleging, with truth, the irresistible influence of an unknown power. No one is trained to the duties of statesmanship, because no one knows who is to be a statesman. Ignorance, presumption, and ambition, generally mount to the head of affairs: the wheel of fortune, or the favour of a multitude incapable of judging of the subject, determines everything. The only effectual security against spoliation by the rulers of men, the dread of being spoliated themselves, is lost when these rulers are men who are not worth spoliating. Durable interest in the fortunes of the community is no longer felt, when durable tenure of power is known to be impossible. The only motive which remains is, that of making the most of a tenure of power which is universally known to be as short-lived as it is precarious; and prolonging it as long as possible, by bending, in every instance, to the passions or fantasies of the multitude, nominally vested with supreme power, really entirely guided by a few insolvent and ambitious demagogues--

"Ces petits souverains qu'il fait pour un année, Voyant d'un temps si court leur puissance bornée, Des plus heureux desseins font avorter le fruit, De peur de le laiser à celui qui le suit; Comme ils ont peu de part aux biens dont ils ordonnent, Dans le champs du public largement ils moissonnent; Assurés que chacun leur pardonne aisément, Espérant à son tour un pareil traitement; Le pire des états, c'est l'état populaire."[13]

[13] CORNEILLE, _Cinna_, Act ii., scene 1.

Lamartine, regarding the march of democracy as universal and inevitable, is noways disconcerted by the uniform failure of all attempts in old communities to establish it, or the dreadful catastrophes to which they have invariably led. These are merely the breaking of the waves of the advancing tide; but the rise of the flood is not the less progressive and inevitable. He would do well to consider, however, whether there is not a limit to human suffering; whether successive generations will consent to immolate themselves and their children for no other motive than that of advancing an abstract principle, or vindicating privileges for the people fatal to their best interests; and whether resisted attempts, and failures at the establishment of republican institutions, will not, in the end, lead to _a lasting_ apathy and despair in the public mind. Certain it is, that this was the fate of popular institutions in Greece, in Rome, and modern Italy: all of which fell under the yoke of servitude, from a settled conviction, founded on experience, that anything was preferable to the tempests of anarchy. Symptoms, and those too of the most unequivocal kind, may be observed of a similar disposition in the great majority, at least of the rural population, both in France and England. The election of Prince Louis Napoleon by four millions out of six millions of electors, in the former country--the quiet despair with which measures of the most ruinous kind to general industry are submitted to in the latter, are so many proofs of this disposition. The bayonets of Changarnier, the devastating measures of free trade and a restricted currency, are submitted to in both countries, because anything is better than shaking the foundations of government.

In treating of the causes which have led to the revolution of 1848, Lamartine imputes a great deal too much, in our estimation, to individual men or shades of opinion, and too little to general causes, and the ruinous effects of the first great convulsion. He ascribes it to the personal unpopularity of M. Guizot, the selfish and corrupt system of government which the king had established, and the discontent at the national risks incurred by France for the interests only of the Orleans dynasty, in the Montpensier alliance. This tendency arises partly from the constitution of Lamartine's mind, which is poetical and dramatic rather than philosophical; and partly from the disinclination felt by all intelligent liberal writers to ascribe the failure of their measures to their natural and inevitable effects, rather than the errors or crimes of individual men. In this respect, doubtless, he is more consistent and intelligible than M. Thiers, who, in his _History of the French Revolution_, ascribes the whole calamities which occurred to the _inevitable march of events_ in such convulsions--forgetting that he could not in any other way so severely condemn his own principles, and that it is little for the interest of men to embrace a cause which, in that view, necessarily and inevitably leads to ruin. Lamartine, in running into the opposite extreme, and ascribing everything to the misconduct and errors of individual men, is more consistent, because he saves the principle. But he is not the less in error. The general discontent to which he ascribes so much, the universal selfishness and corruption which he justly considers as so alarming, were themselves the result of previous events: they were the effects, not the causes, of political change. And without disputing the influence, to a certain extent, of the individual men to whose agency he ascribes everything, it may safely be affirmed that there are four causes of paramount importance which concurred in bringing about the late French revolution; and which will for a very long period, perhaps for ever, prevent the establishment of anything like real freedom in that country.

The first of these is the universal disruption of all the old bonds of society, which took place in the first Revolution, and the general fretting against all restraint, human or divine, which arose from the ruin of religion and confusion of morals which then took place. These evils have only been partially remedied by the re-establishment of the Christian faith over the whole realm, and the sway which it has undoubtedly acquired in the rural districts. The active and energetic inhabitants of the great towns still continue influenced by the Revolutionary passions, the strongest of which is the thirst for present enjoyment, and the impatience of any restraint, whether from the influence of conscience or the authority of law. This distinctly appears from the licentious style of the novels which have now for a quarter of a century issued from the press of Paris, and which is in general such that, though very frequently read in England, it is very seldom, especially by women, that this reading is admitted. The drama, that mirror of the public mind, is another indication of the general prevalence of the same licentious feeling: it is for the most part such, that few even of the least tight-laced English ladies can sit out the representation. The irreligion, or rather _general oblivion of religion_, which commonly prevails in the towns, is a part, though doubtless a most important part, of this universal disposition: Christianity is abjured or forgotten, not because it is disbelieved, but because it is disagreeable. Men do not give themselves the trouble to inquire whether it is true or false; they simply give it the go-by, and pass quietly on the other side, because it imposes a restraint, to them insupportable, on their passions. Dispositions of this sort are the true feeders of revolution, because they generate at once its convulsions in like manner, as passions which require gratification, poverty which demands food, and activity which pines for employment. Foreign war or domestic convulsion are the only alternatives which, in such a state of society, remain to government. Napoleon tried the first, and he brought the Cossacks to Paris; Louis Philippe strove to become the Napoleon of peace, but he succeeded only in being the pioneer of revolution.

The great and durable interests of society, which the indulgence of such passions inevitably ruins, are the barrier which, in ordinary circumstances, is opposed to these disorders; and it is this influence which has so long prevented any serious outbreak of anarchy in Great Britain. But the immense extent of the confiscation of landed property during the first Revolution, and the total ruin of commercial and movable wealth, from the events of the maritime war, and the effects of the enormous issue of assignats, has prevented the construction of this barrier in anything like sufficient strength to withstand the forces which pressed against it. Nine-tenths of the realised wealth of the country was destroyed during the convulsion; what remained was for the most part concentrated in the hands of a few bankers and moneyed men, who aimed at cheapening everything, and depressing industry, in order to augment the value of their metallic riches. The influence of the natural leaders of the producing class, the great proprietors of land, was at an end, for they were almost all destroyed. The six millions of separate landed proprietors, who had come in their place, had scarcely any influence in the state; for the great majority of them were too poor to pay 200 francs a-year (£8) direct taxes--the necessary condition towards an admission into the electoral body--and as individuals they were in too humble circumstances to have any influence in the state. The returns of the "_Impôt foncière_," or land-tax, showed that above four millions of this immense body had properties varying from £2 to £10 a-year each--not more than is enjoyed by an Irish bogtrotter. In these circumstances, not only was the steadying influence of property in general unfelt in the state, but the property which did make itself felt was of a disturbing rather than a pacifying tendency; for it was that of bankers and money-lenders, whose interests, being those of consumers, not producers, went to support measures calculated to depress industry rather than elevate it, and thereby augment rather than diminish the distress which, from these causes, soon came to press so severely upon the urban population.

These causes were the necessary results of the dreadful waste of property, and ruin of industry, which had taken place during the first Revolution. The multitude of little proprietors with which France was overspread, could furnish nothing to the metropolis but an endless succession of robust hands to compete with its industry, and starving mouths to share its resources. What could the six millions of French landowners, the majority of them at the plough, afford to lay aside for the luxuries of Paris? Nothing. You might as well expect the West-End shopkeepers of London to be sustained by the starving western Highlanders of Scotland, or the famished crowds of Irish cottars. The natural flow of the wealth of the land to the capital of the kingdom, which invariably sets in when agricultural property is unequally distributed, and a considerable part of it is vested in the hands of territorial magnates, was at once stopped when it became divided among a multitude of persons, not one of whom could afford to travel ten miles from home, or to buy anything but a rustic dress and a blouse to cover it. At least sixty millions sterling, out of the eighty millions which constitute the net territorial produce of France, was turned aside from Paris, and spent entirely in the purchase of the coarsest manufactures or rude subsistence in the provinces. The metropolis came to depend mainly on the expenditure of foreigners, or of the civil and military employés of government. This woful defalcation in its resources occurred at a time, too, when the influx of needy adventurers from the country was daily increasing, from the impossibility of earning a livelihood, amidst the desperate competition of its squalid landowners, and the decline of agriculture, which necessarily resulted from their inability to adopt any of its improvements. Thus the condition of the working classes in Paris went on getting constantly worse, during the whole reign of Louis Philippe; and it was only in consequence of the vast influx of foreigners, which the maintenance of peace and the attractions of the court occasioned, that they were not reduced many years before to the despair and misery which at once occasioned and followed the last revolution.

Amidst a population excited to discontent by these causes, another circumstance has operated with peculiar force, which we do not recollect to have seen hitherto noticed in disquisitions on this subject--this is the prodigious number of _natural children_ and foundlings at Paris. It is well known that ever since the close of the first Revolution the number of illegitimate births in Paris has borne a very great proportion to the legitimate; they are generally as 10,000 to 18,000 or 19,000. For a long time past, every third child seen in the streets of Paris has been a bastard. Hitherto this important feature of society has been considered with reference to the state of morality in regard to the relation of the sexes which it indicates; but attend to its social and political effects. These bastards do not always remain children; they grow up to be men and women. The foundlings of Paris, already sufficiently numerous, are swelled by a vast concourse of a similar class over all France, who flock, when they have the means of transport, to the capital as the common sewer of the commonwealth. There are at present about 1,050,000 souls in the French metropolis. Suppose that a third of these are natural children, there are then 350,000 persons, most of them foundlings of illegitimate birth, in that capital. Taking a fourth of them as capable of bearing arms, we have 85,000 _bastards constantly ready to fight in Paris_.

Consider only the inevitable results of such a state of things in an old and luxurious metropolis, teeming with indigence, abounding with temptation, overflowing with stimulants to the passions. The _enfant trouvé_ of Paris, when grown up, becomes a _gamin de Paris_, just as naturally and inevitably as a chrysalis becomes a butterfly. He has obtained enough of instruction to enable him to imbibe temptation, and not enough to enable him to combat it. He has in general received the rudiments of education: he can read the novels of Victor Hugo, Eugene Sue, and George Sand; he can study daily the _Réforme_ or _National_, or _Démocratie Pacifique_. He looks upon political strife as a game at hazard, in which the winning party obtain wealth and honour, mistresses, fortunes, and enjoyments. As to religion, he has never heard of it, except as a curious relic of the olden time, sometimes very effective on the opera stage; as to industry, he knows not what it is; as to self-control, he regards it as downright folly where self-indulgence is practicable. The most powerful restraints on the passions of men--parents, children, property--are to him unknown. He knows not to whom he owes his birth; his offspring are as strange to him as his parents, for they, like him, are consigned to the Foundling Hospital: he has nothing in the world he can call his own, except a pair of stout arms to aid in the formation of barricades, and a dauntless heart ready at any moment to accept the hazard of death or pleasure. Hanging midway, as it were, between the past and the future, he has inherited nothing from the former but its vices, he will transmit nothing to the latter but its passions. Whoever considers the inevitable results of eighty or ninety thousand men in the prime of life actuated by these dispositions, associating with an equal number of women of the same class, affected by the same misfortune in their birth, and influenced by the same passions, constantly existing in a state of indigence and destitution in the heart of Paris, will have no difficulty in accounting for the extraordinary difficulty which, for the last half century, has been experienced in governing France, and will probably despair of ever succeeding in it but by force of arms.

We hear nothing of these facts from Lamartine, whose mind is essentially dramatic, and who represents revolutions, as he evidently considers them, as the work of individual men, working upon the inevitable march of society towards extreme republican institutions. He gives us no statistics; he never refers to general causes, except the universal progress towards democracy, which he regards as irresistible. Least of all is he alive to the ruinous effects of the first great disruption of the bonds of society which naturally followed the Revolution of 1789, or disposed to regard the subsequent convulsions, as what they really are--the inevitable result and just punishment of the enormous sins of the Revolution. And--mark-worthy circumstance!--these consequences are the obvious result of the great crimes committed in its course; the confiscation of property which it occasioned, the overthrow of religion and morals with which it was attended. They have fallen with peculiar severity upon Paris, the centre of the revolutionary faction, and the focus from which all its iniquities emanated, and where the blood of its noblest victims was shed. And if revolutions such as we have witnessed or read of in that country are indeed inevitable, and part of the mysterious system of Providence in the regulation of human affairs, we can regard them as nothing but a realisation of that general tendency to evil which is so clearly foretold in prophecy, and indications of the advent of those disastrous times which are to be closed by the second coming of the Messiah.

We have all heard of the mingled treachery and irresolution--treachery in the national guard, irresolution in the royal family--which brought about the revolution which Lamartine has so eloquently described. It is evident, even from his account--which, it may be supposed, is not unduly hostile to the popular side--that it was the bar-sinister in its birth which proved fatal, in the decisive moment, to the Throne of the Barricades; and that the revolution might with ease have been suppressed, if any other power had been called to combat it but that which owed its existence to a similar convulsion.

"The King was lost in thought, while the tocsin was sounding, on the means by which it might yet be possible to calm the people, and restrain the revolution, in which he persisted in seeing nothing but a riot. The abdication of his external-political system, personified in M. Guizot, M. Duchatel, and the majority of the Chambers entirely devoted to his interests, appeared to him to amount to more than the renunciation of his crown; it was the abandonment of his thoughts, of his wisdom, of the prestige of his infallibility in the eyes of Europe, of his family, of his people. To yield a throne to adverse fortune, is little to a great mind. To yield his renown and authority to triumphant adverse opinion and implacable history, is the most painful effort which can be required of a man, for it at once destroys and humbles him. But the King was not one of those hardy characters who enjoy, with _sang-froid_, the destruction of a people for the gratification of their pride. He had read much of history, acted much in troubled times, reflected much. He could not conceal from himself, that a dynasty which should reconquer Paris by means of grape-shot and bombs would be for ever besieged by the horror of the people. His field of battle had always been opinion. It was on it that he wished to act; he hoped to regain it by timely concessions. Only, like a prudent economist, he higgled with opinion like a Jewish pawnbroker, in the hopes of purchasing it at the smallest possible sacrifice of his system and dignity. He flattered himself he had several steps of popularity to descend before quitting the throne."--(Vol. i., p. 102.)

The immediate cause of the overthrow of the throne, it is well known, was the fatal order which the delusion of M. Thiers, when called to the ministry, extorted from the weakness of the King, to stop firing--to cease resistance--to succumb to the assailants. Marshal Bugeaud was perfectly firm; the troops were steady; ample military force was at their command; everything promised decisive success to vigorous operations. Marshal Bugeaud's plan was of the simplest but most efficacious kind.

"Marshal Bugeaud, with his military instinct, matured by experience and the habit of handling troops, knew that _immobility_ is the ruin of the morale of soldiers. He changed in a moment the plan of operations submitted to him. He instantly called around him the officers commanding corps. The one was Tiburie Sebastiani, brother of the marshal of the same name, a calm and faithful officer; the other, General Bedeau, whose name, made illustrious by his exploits in Africa, carried respect with it, to his companions in arms in Paris. He ordered them to form two columns of 3500 men each, and to advance into the centre of Paris--the one by the streets which traverse it from the Boulevards to the Hôtel de Ville, the other by streets which cross it from the quays. Each of the columns had artillery, and their instructions were to carry, in their advance, all the barricades, to destroy these fortresses of the insurrection, to cannonade the masses, and concentrate their columns on the Hôtel de Ville, the decisive point of the day. General Lamoricière was to command a reserve of 9000 men, stationed around the palace."--(Vol. i., pp. 136, 137.)

The despair of the troops when compelled to retire before a tumultuous mob--to confess defeat in their own capital, and in the face of Europe, is thus described:--

"At daybreak the two columns of troops set out on their march; their progress was, every ten minutes, reported by staff-officers in disguise. _They experienced no serious resistance on their way to the Hôtel de Ville_; the crowd opened as they advanced, with cries of '_Vive la Réforme!_' they trampled under foot, without firing a shot, the beginnings of the barricades. Nevertheless, the uncertainty of what was passing in the Tuileries paralysed the arms in the hands of the soldiers. The Marshal, at length constrained by the reiterated orders of the King, sent orders to his lieutenants to make the troops fall back. Marshal Bedeau, upon this, made his battalions retire. Some soldiers threw their muskets on the ground, as a sign of despair or fraternisation. Their return across Paris had the appearance of a defection, or of the advanced guard of the revolution marching on the Tuileries. The troops, already vanquished by these orders, took up their position, _untouched but powerless_, on the Place de la Concorde, in the Champs Elysées, in the Rue de Rivoli. The French troops, when disgraced, are no longer an army. They felt in their hearts the bitterness of that retreat; they feel it still."--(Vol. i., p. 139.)

But it was soon found that these disgraceful concessions to mob violence would avail nothing; that M. Thiers and M. Odillon Barrot were alike unequal to stemming the torrent which they had put in motion; and that the King, as a reward for his humane order to the troops not to fire upon the people, was to be called on to abdicate! In the disgraceful scene of pusillanimity and weakness which ensued, we regret to say the princes of the royal family, and especially the Duke de Montpensier, evinced as much cowardice as the princesses did courage;--exemplifying thus again what Napoleon said of the Bourbons in 1815, that there was only one man in the family, and that man was a woman. The decisive moment is thus described with dramatic power, but, we have no doubt, historic truth, by M. Lamartine:--

"M. Girardin, in a few brief and sad words, which abridged minutes and cut short objections, said to the King with mournful respect, that changes of ministry were no longer in season; that the moment was sweeping away the throne with the councils, and that there was but one word suitable to the urgency of the occasion, and that word was '_abdication_.'

"The King was in one of those moments when truths strike without offending. Nevertheless, he let fall, upon hearing these words, from his hands the pen with which he was arranging the names of the new ministry. He was desirous of discussing the question. M. Girardin, pitiless as evidence, pressing as time, would not even admit of discussion. 'Sire!' said he, 'the abdication of the king, or the abdication of the monarchy--there is the alternative. Circumstances will not admit even of a minute to find a third issue from the straits in which we are placed.' While he thus spoke, M. Girardin placed before the King the draft of a proclamation which he had prepared and he wished to have printed. That proclamation, concise as a fact, consisted only of four lines, calculated to attract the eyes of the people.

The abdication of the King.

The regency of the Duchess of Orleans.

The dissolution of the Chamber of Deputies.

A general amnesty.

"The King hesitated. _The Duke de Montpensier his son_, carried away, doubtless, by the energetic expression in the physiognomy, gesticulations, and words of M. Girardin, pressed his father with more vehemence than rank, age, and misfortunes should have permitted to the respect of a son. _The pen was presented, and the crown torn from the monarch by an impatience which could not wait for his full and free conviction._ The rudeness of fortune towards the King was forgotten _in the precipitance of the council_. On the other hand, blood was beginning to flow, the throne was gliding away. The lives even of the King and his family might be endangered. Everything can be explained by the solicitude and the tenderness of the councillors. History should ever take the version which least humiliates and bruises least the human heart."--(Vol. i., p. 127.)

Observe the poetic justice of this consummation. The member of his family, who at the decisive moment failed in his duty, and compelled his infirm and gray-haired father to abdicate, was the DUC DE MONTPENSIER--the very prince for whose elevation he had perilled the English alliance, violated his plighted word, endangered the peace of Europe! The heir-presumptive of the crown of Spain was the first to shake the crown of France from his father's head! Vanquished by his personal fears, unworthy of his high rank and higher prospects, a disgrace to his country, he evinced, what is rare in France in any station, not merely moral, but physical pusillanimity. To this end have the intrigues of the Orleans family, from Egalité downwards, ultimately tended. They have not only lost the crown, to win which they forgot their allegiance and violated their oaths, but they have lost it with dishonour and disgrace: they are not only exiles, but they are despised exiles. Such have been the fruits of the Orleans intrigues to gain the crown of France.

As a bright contrast to this woful exhibition, we gladly translate M. Lamartine's account of the memorable scene in the chambers, where the Duchess of Orleans nobly contended with an infuriated and bloodthirsty rabble for the crown, now devolved to her son by his grandfather's abdication. Had such spirited devotion been found in her husband's family, they might have transmitted the honours they had won in the Orleans dynasty.

"The great door opposite the tribune, on a level with the most elevated benches in the hall, opened; a woman appeared dressed in mourning: it was the Duchess of Orleans. Her veil, half raised on her hat, allowed her countenance to be seen, bearing the marks of an emotion and sadness which heightened the interest of youth and beauty. Her pale cheeks bore the traces of the tears of the widow, the anxieties of the mother. No man could look on those features without emotion. At their aspect, all resentment against the monarchy fled from the mind. The blue eyes of the princess wandered over the scene, with which she had been a moment dazzled, as if to implore aid by her looks. Her slender but elegant form bowed at the applause which saluted her. A slight colour--the dawn of hope amidst ruin--of joy amidst sorrow--suffused her cheeks. A smile of gratitude beamed through her tears. She felt herself surrounded by friends. With one hand she held the young king, who stumbled on the steps, with the other the young Duke of Chartres: infants to whom the catastrophe which destroyed them was a subject of amusement. They were both clothed in short black dresses. A white shirt-collar was turned over their dresses, as in the portraits by Vandyke of the children of Charles I.

"The Duke of Nemours walked beside the princess, faithful to the memory of his brother in his nephews; a protector who would ere long stand in need of protection himself. The figure of that prince, ennobled by misfortune, breathed the courageous but modest satisfaction of a duty discharged at the hazard of his life. Some generals in uniform, and officers of the national guard, followed her steps. She bowed with timid grace to the assembly, and sat down motionless at the foot of the tribune, an innocent accused person before a tribunal without appeal, which was about to judge the cause of royalty. At that moment, that cause was gained in the eyes and hearts of all."--(Vol i. p. 177.)

But it was all in vain. The mob on the outside broke into the assembly. The national guard, as usual, failed at the decisive moment, and royalty was lost.

"An unwonted noise was heard at the door on the left of the tribune. Unknown persons, _national guards_ with arms in their hands, common people in their working-dresses, break open the doors, overthrow the officers who surround the tribune, invade the assembly, and, with loud cries, demand the Duke of Nemours. Some deputies rose from their seats to make a rampart with their bodies around the princess. M. Mauguin calmly urged them to retire. General Oudinot addressed them with martial indignation. Finding words unavailing, he hastily traversed the crowd to demand the support of the national guard. He represented to them the inviolability of the assembly, and the respect due to a princess and a woman insulted amidst French bayonets. The national guards heard him, feigned to be indignant, but _slowly took up their arms, and ended by doing nothing_."--(Vol. i. p. 180.)

In justice to Lamartine also, we must give an abstract of his animated and eloquent account of the most honourable event in his life, and one which should cover a multitude of sins--the moment when he singly contended with the maddened rabble who had triumphed over the throne, and, by the mere force of moral courage and eloquent expression, defeated the Red Republicans, who were desirous to hoist the _drapeau rouge_, the well-known signal of bloodshed and devastation:--

"In this moment of popular frenzy, Lamartine succeeded in calming the people by a sort of patriotic hymn on their victory--so sudden, so complete, so unlooked-for even by the most ardent friends of liberty. He called God to witness the admirable humanity and religious moderation which the people had hitherto shown alike in the combat and their triumph. He placed prominently forward that sublime instinct which, the evening before, had thrown them, when still armed, but already disciplined and obedient, into the arms of a few men who had submitted themselves to calumny, exhaustion, and death, for the safety of all. 'That,' said Lamartine, 'was what the sun beheld yesterday, and what would he shine upon to-day? He would behold a people the more furious that there was no longer any enemies to combat; distrusting the men whom but yesterday it had intrusted with the lead,--constraining them in their liberty, insulting them in their dignity, disavowing their authority, substituting a revolution of vengeance and punishment for one of unanimity and fraternity, and commanding the government to hoist, in token of concord, the standard of a combat to the death between the citizens of the same country! That red flag, which was sometimes raised as the standard against our enemies when blood was flowing, should be furled after the combat, in token of reconciliation and peace. I would rather see the black flag which they hoist sometimes in a besieged town as a symbol of death, to designate to the bombs the edifices consecrated to humanity, and which even the balls of the enemy respect. Do you wish, then, that the symbol of your republic should be more menacing and more sinister than the colours of a besieged city?' 'No no!' cried some of the crowd, 'Lamartine is right: let us not keep that standard, the symbol of terror, for our citizens.' 'Yes, yes!' cried others, 'it is ours--it is that of the people--it is that with which we have conquered. Why should we not keep, after the conflict, the colours which we have stained with our blood?'--'Citizens!' said Lamartine, after having exhausted every argument calculated to affect the imagination of the people, 'you may do violence to the government: you may command it to change the colours of the nation and the colours of France. If you are so ill advised and so obstinate in error as to impose on it a republic of party and flag of terror, the government is as decided as myself to die rather than dishonour itself by obeying you: for myself, my hand shall never sign that decree: I will resist even to the death that symbol of blood; and you should repudiate it as well as I; for the red flag which you bring us has never gone beyond the Champ de Mars, dragged red in the blood of the people in '91 and '93; but the tricolor flag has made the tour of the world, with the name, the glory, and the liberty of our country.' At these words, Lamartine, interrupted by the unanimous cries of enthusiasm, fell from the chair which served for his tribune, into the arms stretched out on all sides to receive him. The cause of the new republic was triumphant over the bloody recollections which they wished to substitute for it. The hideous crowd which filled the hall retired, amidst cries of '_Vive Lamartine!--Vive le Drapeau Tricolor!_'

"The danger, however, was not over. The crowd which had been carried away by his words was met by another crowd which had not hitherto been able to penetrate into the hall, and which was more vehement in words and gesticulations. Menacing expressions, ardent vociferations, cries of suffocation, threatening gestures, discharges of firearms on the stair, tatters of a red flag waved by naked arms above the sea of heads, rendered this one of the most frightful scenes of the Revolution. 'Down with Lamartine! Death to Lamartine! no Temporising,--the Decree, the Decree, or the Government of Traitors to the lamp-post!' exclaimed the assailants. These cries neither caused Lamartine to hesitate, to retire, nor to turn pale. At the sight of him the fury of the assailants, instead of being appeased, increased tenfold. Muskets were directed at his head, the nearest brandished bayonets in his face, and a savage group of twenty, with brutal drunken visages, charged forward with their heads down, as if to break through with an enormous battering-ram the circle which surrounded him. The foremost appeared bereft of reason. Naked sabres reached the head of the orator, whose hand was slightly wounded. The critical moment had arrived; nothing was yet decided. Hazard determined which should prevail. Lamartine expected momentarily to be thrown down and trampled under foot. At that instant one of the populace sprang from the crowd, a ball discharged from below grazed his face and stained it with blood; while it still flowed, he stretched out his arms to Lamartine--'Let me see him, let me touch him,' cried he, 'let me kiss his hand! Listen to him, oh, my citizens! follow his councils: you shall strike me before touching him. I will die a thousand times to preserve that good citizen for my country.' With these words he precipitated himself into his arms, and held him convulsively embraced. The people were moved at this scene; and a hundred voices again exclaimed '_Vive le Gouvernement Provisoire!--Vive Lamartine!_'"--(Vol. i. pp. 393, 402.)

We purposely close our account of Lamartine's personal career with this splendid passage in his life. His subsequent conduct, it is well known, has ill accorded with this beginning. His popularity in Paris fell as rapidly as it had risen; and on occasion of the terrible revolt of June 1848, he retired from the government, with all his colleagues, from acknowledged inability to meet the crisis which had arisen. We have heard different accounts of the real causes of his mysterious alliance with his former opponent, and the head of the Red Republicans, M. Ledru Rollin, to which this fall was owing. Some of these stories are little to his credit. We forbear to mention them, lest we should unwittingly disseminate falsehood in regard to a man of undoubted genius and great acquirements. Perhaps, in some future "Confidences," he may be able to explain much which undoubtedly at present stands in need of explanation. We gladly leave this dubious subject, to give a place to his dramatic account of the dreadful conflict in June, in the streets of Paris, which is the more entitled to credit, as he was an eyewitness of several of its most terrible scenes:--

"Assemblages of eight or ten thousand persons were already formed on the Place of the Pantheon to attack the Luxembourg. M. Arago harangued them and persuaded them to disperse; but it was only to meet again in the quarters adjoining the Seine, in the Faubourg St Antoine, and on the Boulevards. At the sight of them the faubourgs turned out--the streets were filled--the _Ateliers Nationaux_ turned out their hordes--the populace, excited by some chief, began to raise barricades. These chiefs were, for the most part, brigadiers of the national workshops, the pillars of sedition and of the clubs, irritated at the disbanding of their corps, the wages of which, passing through their hands, had been applied, it is said, to paying the Revolution. From the barriers of Charenton, Fontainebleau, and Menilmontant, to the heart of Paris, the entire capital was in the hands of a few thousand men. The _rappel_ called to their standards 200,000 National Guards, ten times sufficient to overthrow those assemblages of the seditious, and to destroy their fortifications. But it must be said, to the disgrace of that day, and for the instruction of posterity, that the National Guard at that decisive moment _did not answer in a body to the appeal of the government_. Their tardiness, their disinclination, their inertness, left the streets in some quarters open to sedition. They looked on with calm eyes on the erection of thousands of barricades, which they had afterwards to reconquer with torrents of blood. Soon the government quitted the Luxembourg and took refuge in the National Assembly, where, at the headquarters of General Cavaignac, was established the supreme council of the nation.

"Government had reckoned on the support of the National Guard; but the incessant beating of the _rappel_ failed in bringing it forth to its standards. In several quarters they were imprisoned by the insurgents. In fine, be it tardiness, or be it fatality, the army was far from responding in a body to the imminence and universality of the peril. Its numerical weakness aggravated the danger. General Lamoricière, invincible, though soon besieged by 200,000 men, occupied the whole extent from the Rue du Temple to the Madeleine, from the Rue de Clichy to the Louvre--constantly on horseback, ever foremost in fire, he had two horses shot under him--his countenance black with powder, his forehead running down with sweat, his voice hoarse with giving the word of command, but his eye serene and calm as a soldier in his native element, he restored spirit to his men, confidence to the National Guards. His reports to government breathed the intrepidity of his soul, but he made no concealment of the imminence of the danger, and the insufficiency of the troops at his disposal. He painted the immense multitude of the assailants and the vast network of barricades which stretched between the Bastile and the Chateau d'Eau, between the barriers and the Boulevard. Incessantly he implored reinforcements, which the government as continually summoned to its support by the telegraph, and officers specially despatched. At length the National Guards of the neighbourhood of Paris began to arrive, and, ranging themselves round the Assembly, furnished an example to those of the capital. Then, and not till then, confidence began to be felt in the midst of the chances of the combat."--(Vol. ii., pp. 480-481.)

It was a most fortunate event for the cause of order, and, with it, of real freedom throughout the world, that this great revolt was so completely suppressed, though at the cost of a greater number of lives, particularly in general officers, than fell in many a bloody battle, by the efforts of General Cavaignac and his brave companions in arms. It is said that their measures, at first, were not skilfully taken--that they lost time, and occasioned unnecessary bloodshed at the outset, by neglecting to attack the barricades when they began to be formed; and certainly the easy and bloodless suppression of the late revolt against the government of Prince Louis Napoleon, by General Changarnier, seems to favour this opinion. It must be recollected, however, that the revolt of May 1849 occurred when the memory of the popular overthrow of June 1848 was still fresh in the minds of the people; and it is not easy to overestimate the effect of that decisive defeat in paralysing revolt on the one side, and adding nerve to resistance on the other. It is evident that Louis Napoleon is not a Duc de Montpensier--he will not surrender his authority without a fight. But supposing that there was some tardiness in adopting decisive measures on occasion of the June revolt, that only makes the lesson more complete, by demonstrating the inability of the bravest and most determined populace to contend with a regular military force, when the troops are steady to their duty, and bravely led by their chiefs. The subsequent suppression of the revolts in Prague, Vienna, Madrid, and Rome, have confirmed the same important truth. Henceforth, it is evident, the horrors of revolution may always be averted, when government is firm, and the military are faithful.

And these horrors are in truth such, that it becomes evidently the first of political and social duties for the rulers of men to justify the eminence of their rank by their courage, and the troops to vindicate the trust reposed in them by their fidelity. Passing by the woful _exposé_ of the almost hopeless state of the French finances, with a deficit of above TWELVE MILLIONS sterling, despite an addition of forty-five per cent to the direct taxes, made by Prince Louis Napoleon to the National Assembly, we rest on the following curious and important details taken from the _Times_ of July 12, in regard to the effect of the revolution of 1848 upon the comforts and condition of the labouring classes in France:--

"It appears it is the middle class of tradesmen that are now most suffering from the effects of revolution. The funds on which this class had been living, in the hope that better days would soon arrive, and which amongst some of the small tradesmen formed their capital, have become exhausted. Those who had no money had, at all events, some credit; but both money and credit are now gone. The result is, that even in this period of comparative tranquillity more shops are closed than in the days of turbulence.

"The following statement of the fluctuations of the revenues of the city of Paris, occasioned also by revolution, and which goes back to 1826, is taken from the _Débats_:--

"'The returns of the produce of indirect impost is the unfailing testimony to the progress or decrease of public tranquillity. We proved this truth yesterday in publishing, on the authority of a well-informed journal, the comparative state of the receipts of the Paris _octroi_ for the first six months of the years 1847, 1848, and 1849. It is still further proved by valuable documents which we have at this moment before us. Thus, the produce of the _octroi_ was, in 1847, 34,511,389 francs; and in 1848, only 26,519,627 francs, showing a difference of 7,991,762 francs. This decrease is enormous, in relation to the immense necessities created by the political and social crisis, the works undertaken by the city, and the previous expenses it had to provide for. We could analyse the different chapters of this municipal revenue, which affords life to so many branches of Parisian industry; but it is useless to inquire, for each of these chapters, the particular causes of diminution. With the great event of 1848 before us, all details disappear. One sole cause has produced a decrease in the receipts, and that is the revolution of February; which, at first menacing society itself by the voice of democratic orators and the pens of demagogue writers, frightened away capital and annihilated industry of all kinds. In order to be able to judge of the influence of great political events on the receipts of the Paris _octroi_, it will be sufficient to recur to the years which preceded and followed the revolution of 1830:--

Francs. In 1826 the produce was 31,057,000

In 1827 (the first shock in consequence of the progress of the opposition in the country, and the dissolution of the national guard) 29,215,000

In 1828 (fall of the Villèle ministry--continuation of the political movement notwithstanding the Montignac ministry) 28,927,000

In 1829 (ministry of the 8th August--presentiments of a struggle between the crown and country) 27,695,000

In 1830 (July Revolution) 26,240,000

In 1831 (incessant agitation--repeated outbreaks) 24,035,000

In 1832 (continuation of revolutionary movement--events of the 5th and 6th June) 22,798,000

In 1833 (progressive establishment of tranquillity) 26,667,000

In 1834 (the situation becomes better, with the exception of the events of the 13th and 14th April, which, however, were brief) 27,458,000

From 1835 to 1838 (calm--cabinet of 15th April--the produce in the latter year) 31,518,000

In 1839 (Parliamentary coalition, 12th May) 30,654,000

In 1840 (fears of war--rupture of the English Alliance, &c.) 29,906,000

From 1841 to 1845 (calm--progressive increase in the latter year) 34,165,000

In 1846 (notwithstanding the dearness of food, the receipts were) 33,990,000

In 1847 (commercial crisis, &c.) 33,033,000

In 1848 (revolution of February) 26,519,000

"The following from _La Patrie_ gives a good idea of the effects of an unquiet state of society:--

"'Revolutions cost dear. They, in the first place, augment the public expenses and diminish the general resources. Occasionally they yield something, but before gathering in the profits the bill must be paid. M. Audiganne, _chef de bureau_ at the department of commerce and agriculture, has published a curious work on the industrial crisis brought on by the revolution of February. M. Audiganne has examined all branches of manufactures, and has shown that the crisis affected every one. In the Nord, at Lisle, cotton-spinning, which occupied thirty-four considerable establishments, employing a capital of 7,000,000f. or 8,000,000f.; and tulle making, employing 195 looms, were obliged to reduce their production one-half. At Turcoing and Roubaix, where cloth and carpet manufactories occupied 12,000 workmen, the produce went down two-thirds, and 8000 men were thrown out of work. In the Pas-de-Calais the fabrication of lace and cambrics was obliged to stop before a fall of twenty-five per cent. The linen factory of Capecure, founded in 1836, and which employed 1800 men, was in vain aided by the Municipal Council of Boulogne and the local banks; it at last succumbed to the crisis. In the department of the Somme, 142,000 workmen, who were employed in the woollen, cotton, stocking, and velvet manufactories, were reduced to idleness. In the arrondissement of Abbeville, where the business, known by the name of 'lockwork' of Picardy, yielded an annual produce of 4,000,000f., the orders stopped completely, and the unfortunate workmen were obliged to go and beg their bread in the environs. At Rouen, where the cotton trade gave an annual produce of more than 250,000,000f., there were the same disasters; yet the common goods continued to find purchasers, owing to their low price. At Caen, the lace manufacture, which in 1847 employed upwards of 50,000 persons, or one-eighth of the population of Calvados, was totally paralysed. At St Quentin, tulle embroidery, which gave a living to 1500 women, received just as severe a blow as in March and April, 1848; almost all the workshops were obliged to close. In the east the loss was not less considerable. Rheims was obliged to close its woollen-thread factories during the months of March, April, and May, 1848. The communal workshop absorbed in some weeks an extraordinary loan of 430,000f. Fortunately, an order for 1,500,000f. of merinos, from New York, allowed the interrupted factories to reopen, and spared the town fresh sacrifices. The revolutionary tempest penetrated into Alsace and there swept away two-thirds of the production. Muhlhausen stopped for several months the greater number of its looms, and diminished one-half the length of labour in the workshops, which remained open. Lyons also felt all the horrors of the crisis. In the same way as muslin and lace, silk found its consumption stopped. For several months the unfortunate Lyons' workmen had for sole subsistence the produce of the colours and scarfs ordered by the Provisional Government. At St Etienne and St Chamond, the principal points of our ribbon and velvet manufacture, and where 85,000 workmen were employed, the production went down two-thirds. At Paris M. Audiganne estimates the loss in what is called Paris goods at nine-tenths of the production. The loss on other articles, he considers, on the contrary, to have been only two-thirds on the sale, and a little more than one-half on the amount of the produce. We only touch in these remarks on the most striking points of the calculation; the total loss, according to M. Audiganne, amounts, for the workmen alone, to upwards of 300,000,000f.'"

Such have been the consequences to the people of listening to the voice of their demagogues, who impelled them into the revolution of 1848--to the national guards, of hanging back at the decisive moment, and forgetting their oaths in the intoxication of popular enthusiasm.

And if any one supposes that these effects were only temporary, and that lasting freedom is to be won for France by these sacrifices, we recommend him to consider the present state of France, a year and a half after the revolution of 1848, as painted by one of its ablest supporters, M. Louis Blanc.

PROTEST.

"While Paris is in a state of siege, and when most of the journals which represent our opinions are by violence condemned to silence, we believe it to be a duty owing to our party to convey to it, if possible, the public expression of our sentiments.

"It is with profound astonishment that we see the organs of the counter-revolution triumph over the events of the 13th of June.

"Where there has been no contest, how can there have been a victory?

"What is then proved by the 13th of June?

"That under the pressure of 100,000 soldiers, Paris is not free in her movements? We have known this more than enough.

"Now, as it has always been, the question is, if by crowding Paris with soldiers and with cannon, by stifling with violent hands the liberty of the press, by suppressing individual freedom, by invading private domiciles, by substituting the reign of Terror for that of Reason, by unceasingly repressing furious despair--that which there is wanting a capacity to prevent, the end will be attained of reanimating confidence, or re-establishing credit, of diminishing taxes, of correcting the vices of the administration, of chasing away the spectre of the deficit, of developing industry, of cutting short the disasters attendant upon unlimited competition, of suppressing those revolts which have their source in the deep recesses of human feeling, of tranquillising resentments, of calming all hearts? The state of siege of 1848 has engendered that of 1849. The question is, if the amiable perspective of Paris in a state of siege every eight or ten months will restore to commerce its elastic movements, to the industrious their markets, and to the middle classes their repose."--_L. Blanc._

It is frequently asked what is to be the end of all these changes, and under what form of government are the people of France ultimately to settle? Difficult as it is to predict anything with certainty of a people with whom nothing seems to be fixed but the disposition to change, we have no hesitation in stating our opinion that the future government of France will be what that of imperial Rome was, an ELECTIVE MILITARY DESPOTISM. In fact, with the exception of the fifteen years of the Restoration, when a free constitutional monarchy was imposed on its inhabitants by the bayonets of the Allies, it has ever since the Revolution of 1789 been nothing else. The Orleans dynasty has, to all appearance, expired with a disgrace even greater than that which attended its birth: the Bourbons can scarcely expect, in a country so deeply imbued with the love of change, to re-establish their hereditary throne. Popular passion and national vanity call for that favourite object in democratic societies--a rotation of governors: popular violence and general suffering will never fail to re-establish, after a brief period of anarchy, the empire of the sword. The successive election of military despots seems the only popular compromise between revolutionary passion and the social necessities of mankind; and as a similar compromise took place, after eighty years of bloodshed and confusion, in the Roman commonwealth, so, after a similar period of suffering, it will probably be repeated, from the influence of the same cause, in the French nation.

Dies Boreales.

No. III.

CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS.

SCENE--_Gutta Percha._

TIME--_Early Evening._

NORTH--BULLER--SEWARD--TALBOYS.

* * * * *

NORTH.

Trim--trim--trim--

TALBOYS.

Gentlemen, are you all seated?

NORTH.

Why into such strange vagaries fall as you would dance, Longfellow! Seize his skirts, Seward. Buller, cling to his knees. Billy, the boat-hook--he will be--he is--overboard.

TALBOYS.

Not at all. Gutta Percha is somewhat crank--and I am steadying her, sir.

NORTH.

What is that round your waist?

TALBOYS.

My Air-girdle.

NORTH.

I insist upon you dropping it, Longman. It makes you reckless. I did not think you were such a selfish character.

TALBOYS.

Alas! in this world, how are our noblest intentions misunderstood! I put it on, sir, that, in case of a capsize, I might more buoyantly bear you ashore.

NORTH.

Forgive me, my friend. But--be seated. Our craft is but indifferently well adapted for the gallopade. Be seated, I beseech you! Or, if you will stand, do plant both feet--do not--do not alternate so--and above all, do not, I implore you--show off on one, as if you were composing and reciting verses.--There, down you are--and if there be not a hole in her bottom, Gutta Percha is safe against all the hidden rocks in Loch Awe.

TALBOYS.

Let me take the stroke oar.

NORTH.

For sake of the ancient houses of the Sewards and the Bullers, sit where you are. We are already in four fathom water.

TALBOYS.

The Lines?

BILLY.

Nea, nea--Mister Talboys. Nane shall steer Perch when He's afloat but t' auld commodore.

NORTH.

Shove off, lads.

TALBOYS.

Are we on earth or in heaven?

BILLY.

On t' watter.

NORTH.

Billy--mum.

TALBOYS.

The Heavens are high--and they are deep. Fear would rise up from that Profound, if fear there could be in the perfectly Beautiful!

SEWARD.

Perhaps there is--though it wants a name.

NORTH.

We know there is no danger--and therefore we should feel no fear. But we cannot wholly disencumber ourselves of the emotions that ordinarily great depth inspires--and verily I hold with Seward, while thus we hang over the sky-abyss below with suspended oars.

SEWARD.

The Ideal rests on the Real--Imagination on Memory--and the Visionary, at its utmost, still retains relations with Truth.

BULLER.

Pray you to look at our Encampment. Nothing visionary there--

TALBOYS.

Which Encampment?

BULLER.

On the hill-side--up yonder--at Cladich.

TALBOYS.

You should have said so at first. I thought you meant that other down--

BULLER.

When I speak to you, I mean the _bona fide_ flesh and blood Talboys, sitting by the side of the _bona fide_ flesh and blood Christopher North, in Gutta Percha, and not that somewhat absurd, and, I trust, ideal personage, standing on his head in the water, or it may be the air, some fathoms below her keel--like a pearl-diver.

TALBOYS.

Put up your hands--so--my dear Mr North, and frame the picture.

NORTH.

And Maculloch not here! Why the hills behind Cladich, that people call tame, make a background that no art might meliorate. Cultivation climbs the green slopes, and overlays the green hill-ridges, while higher up all is rough, brown, heathery, rocky--and behind that undulating line, for the first time in my life, I see the peaks of mountains. From afar they are looking at the Tents. And far off as they are, the power of that Sycamore Grove connects them with our Encampment.

TALBOYS.

Are you sure, sir, they are not clouds?

NORTH.

If clouds, so much the better. If mountains, they deserve to be clouds; and if clouds, they deserve to be mountains.

SEWARD.

The long broad shadow of the Grove tames the white of the Tents--tones it--reduces it into harmony with the surrounding colour--into keeping with the brown huts of the villagers, clustering on bank and brae on both sides of the hollow river.

NORTH.

The cozey Inn itself from its position is picturesque.

TALBOYS.

The Swiss Giantess looks imposing--

BULLER.

So does the Van. But Deeside is the Pandemonium--

TALBOYS.

Well translated by Paterson in his Notes on Milton, "All-Devil's-Hall."

NORTH.

Hush. And how lovely the foreground! Sloping upland--with single trees standing one by one, at distances wide enough to allow to each its own little grassy domain--with its circle of bracken or broom--or its own golden gorse grove--divided by the sylvan course of the hidden river itself, visible only when it glimpses into the Loch--Here, friends, we seem to see the united occupations of pastoral, agricultural--and--

BULLER.

Pardon me, sir, I have a proposition to make.

NORTH.

You might have waited a moment till--

BULLER.

Not a moment. We all Four see the background--and the middle-ground and the foreground--and all the ground round and about--and all the islands and their shadows--and all the mountains and theirs--and, towering high above all, that Cruachan of yours, who, I firmly believe, is behind us--though 'twould twist my neck now to get a vizzy of him. No use then in describing all that lies within the visible horizon--there it is--let us enjoy it and be thankful--and let us talk this evening of whatever may happen to come into our respective heads--and I beg leave to add, sir, with all reverence, let's have fair play--let no single man--young or old--take more than his own lawful share--

NORTH.

Sir?

BULLER.

And let the subject of angling be tabooed--and all its endless botheration about baskets and rods, and reels and tackle--salmon, sea-trout, yellow-fin, perch, pike, and the Ferox--and no drivel about Deer and Eagles--

NORTH.

Sir? What's the meaning of all this--Seward, say--tell, Talboys.

BULLER.

And let each man on opening his mouth be _timed_--and let it be two-minute time--and let me be time-keeper--but, in consideration of your years and habits, and presidency, let time to you, sir, be extended to two minutes and thirty seconds--and let us all talk time about--and let no man seek to nullify the law by talking at railway rate--and let no man who waives his right of turn, however often, think to make up for the loss by claiming quarter of an hour afterwards--and that, too, perhaps at the smartest of the soiree--and let there be no contradiction, either round, flat, or angular--and let no man speak about what he understands--that is, has long studied and made himself master of--for that would be giving him an unfair--I had almost said--would be taking a mean advantage--and let no man--

NORTH.

Why, the mutiny at the Nore was nothing to this!

BULLER.

Lord High Admiral though you be, sir, you must obey the laws of the service--

NORTH.

I see how it is.

BULLER.

How is it?

NORTH.

But it will soon wear off--that's the saving virtue of Champagne.

BULLER.

Champagne indeed! Small Beer, smaller than the smallest size. You have not the heart, sir, to give Champagne.

NORTH.

We had better put about, gentlemen, and go ashore.

BULLER.

My ever-honoured, long-revered sir! I have got intoxicated on our Teetotal debauchery. The fumes of the water have gone to my head--and I need but a few drops of brandy to set me all right. Billy--the flask. There--I am as sober as a Judge.

NORTH.

Ay, 'tis thus, Buller, you wise wag, that you would let the "old man garrulous" into the secret of his own tendencies--too often unconscious he of the powers that have set so many asleep. I accept the law--but let it--do let it be three-minute time.

BULLER.

Five--ten--twenty--"with thee conversing I forget all time."

NORTH.

Strike medium--Ten.

BULLER.

My dear sir, for a moment let me have that Spy-glass.

NORTH.

I must lay it down--for a Bevy of Fair Women are on the Mount--and are brought so near that I hear them laughing--especially the Prima Donna, whose Glass is in dangerous proximity with my nose.

BULLER.

Fling her a kiss, sir.

NORTH.

There--and how prettily she returns it!

BULLER.

Happy old man! Go where you will--

TALBOYS.

Ulysses and the Syrens. Had he my air-girdle, he would swim ashore.

NORTH.

"Oh, mihi præteritos referat si Jupiter annos!"

TALBOYS.

The words are regretful--but there is no regret in the voice that syllables them--it is clear as a bell, and as gladsome.

NORTH.

Talking of kissing, I hear one of the most melodious songs that ever flowed from lady's lip--

"The current that with gentle motion glides, Thou knowest, being stopped, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with th' enamelled stones, _Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge_ _He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;_ And so by many winding nooks he strays With willing sport to the wild ocean."

Is it not perfect?

SEWARD.

It is. Music--Painting, and Poetry--

BULLER.

Sculpture and architecture.

NORTH.

Buller, you're a blockhead. Dear Mr Alison, in his charming _Essays on Taste_, finds a little fault in what seems to me a great beauty in this, one of the sweetest passages in Shakspeare.

BULLER.

Sweetest. That's a miss-mollyish word.

NORTH.

Ass. One of the sweetest passages in Shakspeare. He finds fault with the Current kissing the Sedges. "The pleasing personification which we attribute to a brook is founded upon the faint belief of voluntary motion, and is immediately checked when the Poet _descends_ to any minute or particular resemblance."

SEWARD.

Descends!

NORTH.

The word, to my ear, does sound strangely; and though his expression, "faint belief," is a true and a fine one, yet here the doctrine does not apply. Nay, here we have a true notion inconsiderately misapplied. Without doubt Poets of more wit than sensibility do follow on a similitude beyond the suggestion of the contemplated subject. But the rippling of water against a sedge suggests a kiss--is, I believe, a kiss--liquid, soft, loving, _lipped_.

BULLER.

Beautiful.

NORTH.

Buller, you are a fellow of fine taste. Compare the whole catalogue of metaphorical kisses--admitted and claimable--and you will find this one of the most natural of them all. Pilgrimage, in Shakspeare's day, had dropt, in the speech of our Poets, from its early religious propriety, of seeking a holy place under a vow, into a roving of the region. See his "Passionate Pilgrim." If Shakspeare found the word so far generalised, then "wanderer through the woods," or plains, or through anything else, is the suggestion of the beholding. The river is more, indeed; being, like the pilgrim, on his way to a term, and an obliged way--"the wild ocean."

SEWARD.

The "faint belief of voluntary motion"--Mr Alison's fine phrase--is one, and possibly the grounding incentive to impersonating the "current" here; but other elements enter in; liquidity--transparency--which suggest a spiritual nature, and Beauty which moves Love.

NORTH.

Ay, and the Poets of that age, in the fresher alacrity of their fancy, had a justification of comparisons, which do not occur as promptly to us, nor, when presented to us, delight so much as they would, were our fancy as alive as theirs. You might suspect _a priori_ Ovid, Cowley, and Dryden, as likely to be led by indulgence of their ingenuity into passionless similitudes--and you may misdoubt even that Shakspeare was in danger of being so run away with. But let us have clear and unequivocal instances. This one assuredly is not of the number. It is exquisite.

TALBOYS.

Mr Alison, I presume to think, sir, should either have quoted the whole speech, or kept the whole in view, when animadverting on those two lines about the kissing Pilgrim. Julia, a Lady of Verona, beloved by Proteus, is only half-done--and now she comes--to herself.

"Then let me go, and hinder not my course; I'll be as patient as a gentle stream, And make a pastime of each weary step, Till the last step have brought me to my love; And there I'll rest, as, after much turmoil, A blessed soul doth in Elysium."

The language of Shakspeare's Ladies is not the language we hear in real life. I wish it were. Real life would then be delightful indeed. Julia is privileged to be poetical far beyond the usage of the very best circles--far beyond that of any mortal creatures. For the God Shakspeare has made her and all her kin poetical--and if you object to any of the lines, you must object to them all. Eminently beautiful, sir, they are; and their beauty lies in the passionate, imaginative spirit that pervades the whole, and sustains the Similitude throughout, without a moment's flagging of the fancy, without a moment's departure from the truthfulness of the heart.

NORTH.

Talboys, I thank you--you are at the root.

SEWARD.

A wonderful thing--altogether--is Impersonation.

NORTH.

It is indeed. If we would know the magnitude of the dominion which the disposition constraining us to impersonate has exercised over the human mind, we should have to go back unto those ages of the world when it exerted itself, uncontrolled by philosophy, and in obedience to religious impulses--when Impersonations of Natural Objects and Powers, of Moral Powers and of Notions entertained by the Understanding, filled the Temples of the Nations with visible Deities, and were worshipped with altars and incense, hymns and sacrifices.

BULLER.

Was ever before such disquisition begotten by--an imaginary kiss among the Sedges!

NORTH.

Hold your tongue, Buller. But if you would see how hard this dominion is to eradicate, look to the most civilised and enlightened times, when severe Truth has to the utmost cleansed the Understanding of illusion--and observe how tenaciously these imaginary Beings, endowed with imaginary life, hold their place in our Sculpture, Painting, and Poetry, and Eloquence--nay, in our common and quiet speech.

SEWARD.

It is all full of them. The most prosaic of prosers uses poetical language without knowing it--and Poets without knowing to what extent and degree.

NORTH.

Ay, Seward, and were we to expatiate in the walks of the profounder emotions, we should sometimes be startled by the sudden apparitions of boldly impersonated Thoughts, upon occasions that did not seem to promise them--where you might have thought that interests of overwhelming moment would have effectually banished the play of imagination.

TALBOYS.

Shakspeare is justified, then--and the Lady Julia spoke like a Lady in Love with all nature--and with Proteus.

BULLER.

A most beautiful day is this indeed--but it is a Puzzler.

"The Swan on still St Mary's Lake Floats double, Swan and Shadow;"

But here all the islands float double--and all the castles and abbeys--and all the hills and mountains--and all the clouds and boats and men,--double, did I say--triple--quadruple,--we are here, and there, and everywhere, and nowhere, all at the same moment. Inishail, I have you--no--Gutta Percha slides over you, and you have no material existence. Very well.

SEWARD.

Is there no house on Inishail?

NORTH.

Not one--but the house appointed for all living. A Burial-place. I see it--but not one of you--for it is little noticeable, and seldom used--on an average, one funeral in the year. Forty years ago I stepped into a small snuff-shop in the Saltmarket, Glasgow, to replenish my shell--and found my friend was from Lochawe-side. I asked him if he often revisited his native shore, and he answered--seldom, and had not for a long time--but that though his lot did not allow him to live there, he hoped to be buried in Inishail. We struck up a friendship--his snuff was good, and so was his whisky, for it was unexcised. A few years ago, trolling for Feroces, I met a boat with a coffin, and in it the body of the old tobacconist.

SEWARD.

"The Churchyard among the Mountains," in Wordsworth's _Excursion_, is alone sufficient for his immortality on earth.

NORTH.

It is. So for Gray's is his Elegy. But some hundred and forty lines in all--no more--yet how comprehensive--how complete! "In a Country Churchyard!" Every generation there buries the whole hamlet--which is much the same as burying the whole world--or a whole world.

SEWARD.

"The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep!"

All Peasants--diers and mourners! Utmost simplicity of all belonging to life--utmost simplicity of all belonging to death. Therefore, universally affecting.

NORTH.

Then the--Grayishness.

BULLER.

The what, sir?

NORTH.

The Grayishness. The exquisite scholarship, and the high artifice of the words and music--yet all in perfect adaptation to the scene and its essential character. Is there not in that union and communion of the solemn-profound, and the delicate-exquisite, something Cathedral-like? Which has the awe and infinitude of Deity and Eternity, and the prostrations and aspirations of adoration for its basis--expressed in the general structure and forms; and all this meeting and blent into the minute and fine elaboration of the ornaments? Like the odours that steal and creep on the soft, moist, evening air, whilst the dim hush of the Universal Temple dilates and elates. The least and the greatest in one. Why not? Is not that spiritual--angelical--divine! The least is not too exiguous for apprehension--the amplest exceeds not comprehension--and their united power is felt when not understood. I speak, Seward, of that which might be suggested for a primary fault in the Elegy--the contrast of the most artful, scholarly style, and the simple, rude, lowly, homely matter. But you shall see that every fancy seizes, and every memory holds especially those verses and wordings which bring out this contrast--that richest line--

"The breezy call of incense-breathing morn!"

is felt to be soon followed well by that simplest--

"No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed"----

where--I take "lowly" to imply low in earth--humbly turfed or flowered--and of the lowly.

SEWARD.

And so, sir, the pomp of a Cathedral is described, though a village Church alone is in presence. So Milton, Cromwell, and other great powers are set in array--that which these were not, against that which those were.

NORTH.

Yet hear Dr Thomas Brown--an acute metaphysician--but an obtuse critic--and no Poet at all. "The two images in this stanza ('Full many a gem,' &c.,) certainly produce very different degrees of poetical delight. That which is borrowed from the rose blooming in solitude pleases in a very high degree, both as it contains a just and beautiful similitude, and still more as the similitude is one of the most likely to have arisen in such a situation. But the simile in the two first lines of the stanza, though it may perhaps philosophically be as just, has no other charm, and strikes us immediately as not the natural suggestion of such a moment and such a scene. To a person moralising amid a simple Churchyard, there is perhaps no object that would not sooner have occurred than this piece of minute jewellery--'a gem of purest ray serene, in the unfathomed caves of ocean.'"

SEWARD.

A person moralising! He forgot that person was Thomas Gray. And he never knew what you have told us now.

NORTH.

Why, my dear Seward, the Gem is the recognised most intense expression, from the natural world, of worth--inestimable priceless price--dependent on rarity and beauty. The Flower is a like intense expression, from the same world, of the power to call forth love. The first image is _felt_ by every reader to be high, and _exalting_ its object; the second to be tender, and openly _pathetic_. Of course it moves more, and of course it comes last. The Poet has just before spoken of Milton and Cromwell--of bards and kings--and history with all her wealth. Is the transition violent from these objects to Gems? He is moved by, but he is not bound to, the scene and time. His own thoughts emancipate. Brown seems utterly to have forgotten that the Poet himself is the Dramatic person of the Monologue. Shall he be restricted from using the richness and splendour of his own thoughts? That one stanza sums up the two or three preceding--and is perfectly attuned to the reigning mood, temper, or pathos.

BULLER.

Thank you, gentlemen. The Doctor is done brown.

NORTH.

"The paths of glory lead but to the grave!"

Methinks I could read you a homily on that Text.

BULLER.

To-morrow, sir, if you please. To-morrow is Sunday--and you may read it to us as we glide to Divine Service at Dalmally--two of us to the Established, and two of us to the Free Kirk.

NORTH.

Be it so. But you will not be displeased with me for quoting now, from heart-memory, a single sentence on the great line, from Beattie, and from Adam Fergusson. "It presents to the imagination a wide plain, where several roads appear, crowded with glittering multitudes, and issuing from different quarters, but drawing nearer and nearer as they advance, till they terminate in the dark and narrow house, where all their glories enter in succession, and disappear for ever."

SEWARD.

Thank you, sir. That is Beattie?

NORTH.

It is. Fergusson's memorable words are--"If from this we are disposed to collect any inference adverse to the pursuits of glory, it may be asked whither do the paths of ignominy lead? If to the grave also, then our choice of a life remains to be made on the grounds of its intrinsic value, without regard to an end which is common to every station of life we can lead, whether illustrious or obscure."

SEWARD.

Very fine. Who says it? Fergusson--who was he?

NORTH.

The best of you Englishers are intolerably ignorant about Scotland. Do you know the Reverend John Mitford?

SEWARD.

I do--and have for him the greatest respect.

NORTH.

So have I. He is one of our best Editors--as Pickering is one of our best Publishers of the Poets. But I am somewhat doubtful of the truthfulness of his remarks on the opening of the Elegy, in the Appendix to his excellent Life of Gray. "The Curfew 'toll' is not the appropriate word--it was not a slow bell tolling for the dead."

SEWARD.

True enough, not for the dead--but Gray then felt as if it were for the dying--and chose to say so--the parting day. Was it quick and "merry as a marriage-bell?" I can't think it--nor did Milton, "swinging _slow_ with sullen roar." Gray was Il Penseroso. Prospero calls it the "solemn curfew." Toll is right.

NORTH.

But, says my friend Mitford, "there is another error, a confusion of time. The curfew tolls, and the ploughman returns from work. Now the ploughman returns two or three hours before the curfew rings; and 'the glimmering landscape' has 'long ceased to fade' before the curfew. The 'parting day' is also incorrect; the day had long finished. But if the word Curfew is taken simply for 'the Evening Bell,' then also is the time incorrect--and a _knell_ is not tolled for the parting, but for the parted--'and leaves the world to darkness and to me.' 'Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight.' Here the incidents, instead of being progressive, fall back, and make the picture confused and inharmonious; especially as it appears soon after that it was _not_ dark. For 'the moping owl does to the moon complain.'"

SEWARD.

Pardon me, sir, I cannot venture to answer all that--but if Mitford be right, Gray must be very wrong indeed. Let me see--give us it over again--sentence by sentence--

BULLER.

No--no--no. Once is enough--and enough is as good as a feast.

NORTH.

Talboys?

TALBOYS.

Since you have a great respect for Mr Mitford, sir, so have I. But hitherto I have been a stranger to his merits.

SEWARD.

The best of you Scottishers are intolerably ignorant about England.

TALBOYS.

In the first place, Mr North, when does the Curfew toll, or ring?--for hang me if I remember--or rather ever knew. And in the second place, when does the Evening Bell give tongue?--for hang me if I am much better informed as to his motions. Yet I should know something of the family of the Bells. Say--_eight_ o'clock. Well. It is summer-time, I suppose; for you cannot believe that so dainty a person in health and habits, as the Poet Gray, would write an Elegy in a Country churchyard in winter, and well on towards night. True, that is a way of speaking; he did not write it with his crow-quill, in his neat hand, on his neat vellum, on the only horizontal tomb-stone. But in the Churchyard he assumes to sit--probably under a Plane-tree, for sake of the congenial Gloom. Season of the year ascertained--Summer--time of Curfew--eight--then I can find no fault with the Ploughman. He comes in well--either as an image or a man. He must have been an honest, hard-working fellow, and worth the highest wages going between the years 1745 and 1750. At what hour do ploughmen leave the stilts in Cambridgeshire? We must not say at six. Different hours in different counties, Buller.

BULLER.

Go on--all's right, Talboys.

TALBOYS.

It is not too much to believe that Hodge did not grudge, occasionally, a half-hour over, to a good master. Then he had to stable his horses--Star and Smiler--rub them down--bed them--fill rack and manger--water them--make sure their noses were in the oats--lock the stable before the nags were stolen--and then, and not till then,

"The Ploughman homewards plods his weary way."

For he does not sleep on the Farm--he has a wife and small family--that is, a large family of smallish children--in the Hamlet, at least two miles off--and he does not walk for a wager of a flitch of bacon and barrel of beer--but for his accustomed rasher and a jug--and such endearments as will restore his weariness up to the proper pitch for a sound night's sleep. God bless him!

BULLER.

Shorn of your beams, Mr North, eclipsed.

TALBOYS.

The ploughman, then, does not return "two or three hours before the curfew rings." Nor has "the glimmering landscape long ceased to fade before the curfew." Nor is "the parting day incorrect." Nor "has the day long finished." Nor, when it may have finished, or may finish, can any man in the hamlet, during all that gradual subsiding of light and sound, take upon him to give any opinion at all.

NORTH.

My boy, Talboys.

TALBOYS.

"And leave the world to darkness and to me." Ay--into his hut goes the ploughman, and leaves the world and me to darkness--which is coming--but not yet come--the Poet knows it is coming--near at hand its coming glooms; and Darkness shows her divinity as she is preparing to mount her throne.

NORTH.

Nothing can be better.

TALBOYS.

"'Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight.' Here the incident, instead of being progressive, falls back, and makes the picture confused and inharmonious." Confused and inharmonious! By no manner of means. Nothing of the sort. There is no retrogression--the day has been unwilling to die--cannot believe she is dying--and cannot think 'tis for her the curfew is tolling; but the Poet feels it is even so; the glimmering and the fading, beautiful as they are, are sure symptoms--she is dying into Evening, and Evening will soon be the dying into Night; but to the Poet's eye how beautiful the transmutations! Nor knows he that the Moon has arisen, till, at the voice of the nightbird, he looks up the ivied church-tower, and there she is, whether full, waning, or crescent, there are not data for the Astronomer to declare.

NORTH.

My friend Mr Mitford says of the line, "No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed"--That "here the epithet _lowly_, as applied to _bed_, occasions an ambiguity, as to whether the Poet means the bed on which they sleep, or the grave in which they are laid;" and he adds, "there can be no greater fault in composition than a doubtful meaning."

TALBOYS.

There cannot be a more touching beauty. Lowly applies to both. From their lowly bed in their lowly dwellings among the quick, those joyous sounds used to awaken them; from their lowly bed in their lowly dwellings among the dead, those joyous sounds will awaken them never more: but a sound will awaken them when He comes to judge both the quick and the dead; and for them there is Christian hope--from

"Many a holy text around them strewed That teach the rustic moralist to die."

NORTH.

"Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe hath broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!"

This stanza--says Mr Mitford--"is made up of various pieces inlaid. 'Stubborn glebe' is from Gay; 'drive afield' from Milton; 'sturdy stroke' from Spenser. Such is too much the system of Gray's composition, and therefore such the cause of his imperfections. Purity of language, accuracy of thought, and even similarity of rhyme, all give way to the introduction of certain poetical expressions; in fact, the beautiful jewel, when brought, does not fit into the new setting, or socket. Such is the difference between the flower stuck into the ground and those that grow from it." Talboys?

BULLER.

Why not--Buller?

TALBOYS.

I give way to the gentleman.

BULLER.

Not for worlds would I take the word out of any man's mouth.

TALBOYS.

Gray took "stubborn glebe" from Gay. Why from Gay? It has been familiar in men's mouths from the introduction of agriculture into this Island. May not a Saxon gentleman say "drive their teams afield" without charge of theft from Milton, who said "drove afield." Who first said "Gee-ho, Dobbin?" Was Spenser the first--the only man before Milton--who used "sturdy stroke?" and has nobody used it since Gray?

BULLER.

You could give a "sturdy stroke" yourself, Talboys. What's your weight?

TALBOYS.

Gray's style is sometimes too composite--you yourself, sir, would not deny it is so--but Mr Mitford's instances here are absurd, and the charge founded on them false. Gray seldom, if ever--say never, "_sacrifices_ purity of language, and accuracy of thought," for the sake of introducing certain poetical expressions. "All give way" is a gross exaggeration. The beautiful words of the brethren, with which his loving memory was stored, came up in the hour of imagination, and took their place among the words as beautiful of his own congenial inspirations; the flowers he transplanted from poetry "languished not, grew dim, nor died;" for he had taken them up gently by the roots, and with some of the old mould adhering to their tendrils, and, true florist as he was, had prepared for them a richest soil in his own garden, which he held from nature, and which the sun and the dew of nature nourished, and will nourish for ever.

BULLER.

That face is not pleasant, sir. Nothing so disfigures a face as envy. Old Poets at last grow ugly all--but you, sir, are a Philosopher--and on your benign countenance 'twas but a passing cloud. There--you are as beautiful as ever--how comely in critical old age! Any farther fault to find with our friend Mitford?

NORTH.

"On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires, Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Even in our ashes live their wonted fires."

"'Pious drops' is from Ovid--piæ lachrymæ; 'closing eye' is from Pope--'voice of nature' from the Anthologia, and the last line from Chaucer--'Yet on our ashes cold is fire yreken.' _From so many quarries are the stones brought to form this elaborate Mosaic pavement._" I say, for "piæ lachrymæ" all honour to Ovid--for "pious drops" all honour to Gray. "Closing eye" is _not_ from Pope's Elegy; "voice of nature" is _not_ from the Anthologia, but from Nature herself; Chaucer's line may have suggested Gray's, but the reader of Chaucer knows that Gray's has a tender and profound meaning which is not in Chaucer's at all--and he knows, too, that Mr Mitford is not a reader of Chaucer--for were he, he could not have written "ashes" for "ashen." There were _no_ quarries--there is _no_ Mosaic. Mosaic pavement! Worse, if possible--more ostentatiously pedantic--even than stuck in flowers, jewels, settings, and sockets.

TALBOYS.

The Stanza is sacred to sorrow.

NORTH.

"From this Stanza," quoth Mitford, "the style of the composition drops into _a lower key_; the language is plainer, and is not in harmony with the splendid and elaborate diction of the former part." This objection is disposed of by what I said some minutes ago----

BULLER.

Half an hour ago--on _Grayishness_.

NORTH.

And I have only this farther to say, gentlemen, that though the language is plainer--yet it is solemn; nor is it unpoetical--for the hoary-headed swain was moved as he spake; the style, if it drop into a lower key, is accordant with that higher key on which the music was pitched that has not yet left our hearing. An Elegy is not an Ode--the close should be mournful as the opening--with loftier strain between--and it is so; and whatever we might have to say of the Epitaph--its final lines are "awful"--as every man must have felt them to be--whether thought on in our own lonely night-room--in the Churchyard of Grantchester, where it is said Gray mused the Elegy--or by that Burial-ground in Inishail--or here afloat in the joyous sunshine for an hour privileged to be happy in a world of grief.

BULLER.

Let's change the subject, sir. May I ask what author you have in your other hand?

NORTH.

Alison on Taste.

BULLER.

You don't say so! I thought you quoted from memory.

NORTH.

So I did; but I have dog-eared a page or two.

BULLER.

I see no books lying about in the Pavilion--only Newspapers--and Magazines--and Reviews--and trash of that kind----

NORTH.

Without which, you, my good fellow, could not live a week.

BULLER.

The Spirit of the Age! The Age should be ashamed of herself for living from hand to mouth on Periodical Literature. The old Lady should indeed, sir. If the Pensive Public conceits herself to be the Thinking World--

NORTH.

Let us help to make her so. I have a decent little Library of some three hundred select volumes in the Van--my Plate-chest--and a few dozens of choice wines for my friends--of Champagne, which you, Buller, call small beer----

BULLER.

I retracted and apologised. Is that the key of the Van at your watch-chain?

NORTH.

It is. So many hundred people about the Encampment--sometimes among them suspicious strangers in paletots in search of the picturesque, and perhaps the pecuniary--that it is well to intrust the key to my own body-guard. It does not weigh an ounce. And _that_ lock is not to be picked by the ghost of Huffey White.

SEWARD.

But of the volume in hand, sir?

NORTH.

"In that fine passage in the Second Book of the Georgics," says Mr Alison, "in which Virgil celebrates the praises of his native country, after these fine lines--

'Hic ver assiduum, atque alienis mensibus æstas; Bis gravidæ pecudes, bis pomis utilis arbos. At rabidæ tigres absunt, et sæva leonum Semina: nec miseros fallunt aconita legentes: Nec rapit immensos orbes per humum, neque tanto Squameus in spiram tractu se colligit anguis.'

There is no reader whose enthusiasm is not checked by the cold and prosaic line which follows,--

'Adde tot egregias urbes, operumque laborem.'

The tameness and vulgarity of the transition dissipates at once the emotion we had shared with the Poet, and reduces him, in our opinion, to the level of a mere describer."

SEWARD.

Cold and prosaic line! Tameness and vulgarity! I am struck mute.

NORTH.

I have no doubt that Mr Alison distressed himself with "_Adde_." It is a word from a merchant's counting-house, reckoning up his gains. And so much the better. Virgil is making out the balance-sheet of Italy--he is inventorying her wealth. Mr Alison would have every word away from reality. Not so _the_ Poet. Every now and then, they--the Poets--amuse themselves with dipping their pencils into the real, the common, the everyday, the homely. By so doing they arrest belief, which above everything they desire to hold fast. I should not wonder if you might catch Spenser at it, even. Shakspeare is full of it. There is nothing else prosaic in the passage; and if Virgil had had the bad taste to say "Ecce" instead of "Adde," I suppose no fault would have been found.

SEWARD.

But what can Mr Alison mean by the charge of tameness and _vulgarity_?

NORTH.

I have told you, sir.

SEWARD.

You have not, sir.

NORTH.

I have, sir.

SEWARD.

Yes--yes--yes. "Adde" is vulgar! I cannot think so.

NORTH.

The Cities of Italy, and the "operum labor," always have been and are an admiration. The words "Egregias urbes" suggest the general stateliness and wealth--"operumque laborem," the particular buildings--Temples, Basilicas, Theatres, and Great Works of the lower Utility. A summary and most vivid expression of a land possessed by intelligent, civilised, active, spirited, vigorous, tasteful inhabitants--also an eminent adorning of the land.

SEWARD.

Lucretius says, that in spring the Cities are in flower--or on flower--or a flower--with children. And Lucan, at the beginning of the _Pharsalia_, describes the Ancient or Greek Cities desolate. They were fond and proud of their "tot egregiæ urbes" as the Modern Italians are--and with good reason.

NORTH.

How judiciously the Critics stop short of the lines that would overthrow their criterion always! The present case is an extraordinary example. Had Mr Alison looked to the lines immediately following, he would not have objected to that One. For

"Tot congesta manu præruptis oppida saxis, Fluminaque antiquos subter labentia muros"

is very beautiful--brings the whole under the domain of Poetry, by singular Picturesqueness, and by gathering the whole past history of Italy up--fetching it in with a word--_antiquos_.

SEWARD.

I can form no conjecture as to the meaning of Mr Alison's objections. He quotes a few fine lines from the "Praise of Italy," and then one line which he calls prosaic, and would have us to hold up our hands in wonder at the lame and impotent conclusion--at the sudden transformation of Virgil the poet into Virgil the most prosaic of Prosers. You have said enough already, sir, to prove that he is in error even on his own showing;--but how can this fragmentary--this piecemeal mode of quotation--so common among critics of the lower school, and so unworthy of those of the higher--have found favour with Mr Alison, one of the most candid and most enlightened of men? Some accidental prejudice from mere carelessness--but, once formed, retained in spite of the fine and true Taste which, unfettered, would have felt the fallacy, and vindicated his admired Virgil.

NORTH.

The "Laudes"--to which the Poet is brought by the preceding bold, sweeping, winged, and poetical strain about the indigenous vines of Italy--have two-fold root--TREES and the glory of LANDS. Virgil kindles on the double suggestion--the trees of Italy compared to the trees of other regions. They are the trees of primary human service and gladness--Oil and Wine. For see at once the deep, sound natural ground in human wants--the bounty of Nature--of Mother Earth--"whatever Earth, all-bearing Mother, yields"--to her human children. That is the gate of entrance; but not prosaically--but two gate-posts of a most poetical mythus-fed husbandman. For we have Jason's fire-mouthed Bulls _ploughing_, and Cadmus-sown teeth of the dragon springing up in armed men. Then comes, instead, mild, benign, Man-loving Italy--"gravidæ fruges"--the heavy-eared corn--or rather big-teeming--the juice of Bacchus--the Olives, and the "broad herds of Cattle." Note--ye Virgilians--the Corn of Book First--the Oil and Wine of Book Second--and the Cattle of Book Third--for the sustaining Thought--the organic life of his Work moves in his heart.

BULLER.

And the Fourth--Bees--honey--and honey-makers are like Milkers--in a way small Milch-cows.

NORTH.

They are. Once a-foot--or a-wing--he hurries and rushes along, all through the "Laudes." The majestic victim-Bull of the Clitumnus--the incipient Spring--the double Summer--_the absence_ of all envenomed and deadly broods--tigers--lions--aconite--serpents. This is NATURE'S FAVOUR. Then _Man's Works_--cities and forts--(rock-fortresses)--the great lakes of Northern Italy--showing Man again in their vast edifications. Then Nature in veins of metals precious or useful--then Nature in her production of Man--the Marsi--the Sabellian youth--the Ligurian inured to labour--and the Volscian darters--then single mighty shapes and powers of Man--ROMANS--the Decii, the Marii, the Camilli,

"Scipiadas duros bello, et te, maxime Cæsar."

The King of Men--the Lord of the Earth--the pacificator of the distracted Empire--which, to a Roman, is as much as to say the World. Then--hail Saturnian Land! Mother of Corn! Saturnian, because golden Saturn had reigned there--Mother, I suppose the rather because in _his_ time corn sprung unsown--_sine semine_--She gave it from out of her own loving and cherishing bosom. _To Thee_, Italy, sing I my Ascræan or Hesiodic song. The Works and Days--the Greek Georgics are his avowed prototype--rude prototype to magnificence--like the Arab of the Desert transplanted to rear his empire of dazzling and picturesque civilisation in the Pyrenean Peninsula.

BULLER.

Take breath, sir. Virgil said well--

"Adde tot egregias urbes operumque laborem."

SEWARD.

Allow me one other word. Virgil--in the vivid lines quoted with admiration by Mr Alison--lauds his beloved Italy for _the absence_ of wild beasts and serpents--and he magnifies the whole race of serpents by his picture of One--the Serpent King--yet with subjects all equal in size to himself in our imagination. The Serpent is _in_ the Poetry, but he is _not in_ Italy. Is this a false artifice of composition--a vain ornament? Oh, no! He describes the Saturnian Land--the mother of corn and of men--bounteous, benign, golden, maternal Italy. The negation has the plenitude of life, which the fabulous absence of noxious reptiles has for the sacred Island of Ierne.

BULLER.

Erin-go-bragh!

SEWARD.

Suddenly he sees another vision--not of what is absent but present; and then comes the line arraigned and condemned--followed by lines as great--

"Adde tot egregias urbes, operumque laborem, Tot congesta manu præruptis oppida saxis, Fluminaque antiquos subter labentia muros."

The first line grasps in one handful all the mighty, fair, wealthy CITIES of Italy--the second all the rock-cresting _Forts_ of Italy--from the Alpine head to the sea-washed foot of the Peninsula. The collective One Thought of the Human Might and Glory of Italy--as it appears on the countenance of the Land--or visible in its utmost concentration in the girdled Towns and Cities of Men.

BULLER.

"Adde" then is right, Seward. On that North and you are at one.

NORTH.

Yes, it is right, and any other word would be wrong. ADDE! Note the sharpness, Buller, of the significance--the vivacity of the short open sound. Fling it out--ring it out--sing it out. Look at the very repetition of the powerful "TOT"--"_tot_ egregias"--"_tot_ congesta"--witnessing by one of the first and commonest rules in the grammar of rhetoric--whether Virgil speaks in prose or in fire.

BULLER.

In fire.

NORTH.

Mr Alison then goes on to say, "that the effect of the following nervous and beautiful lines, in the conclusion of the same Book, is _nearly destroyed_ by a similar defect. After these lines,

"Hanc olim veteres vitam coluêre Sabini, Hanc Remus et Frater; sic fortis Etruria crevit, Scilicet et rerum facta est pulcherrima Roma;"

We little expect the following _spiritless_ conclusion:--

"_Septemque una sibi muro circumdedit arces._"

SEWARD.

Oh! why does Mr Alison call that line _spiritless_?

NORTH.

He gives no reason--assured by his own dissatisfaction, that he has but to quote it, and leave it in its own naked impotence.

SEWARD.

I hope you do not think it spiritless, sir.

NORTH.

I think it contains the concentrated essence of spirit and of power. Let any one think of Rome, piled up in greatness, and grandeur, and glory--and a Wall round about--and in a moment his imagination is filled. What sort of a Wall? A garden wall to keep out orchard thieves--or a modern wall of a French or Italian town to keep out wine and meat, that they may come in at the gate and pay toll? I trow not. But a Wall against the World armed and assailing! Remember that Virgil saw Rome--and that his hearers did--and that in his eyes and theirs she was Empress of the inhabited Earth. She held and called herself such--it was written in her face and on her forehead. The visible, tangible splendour and magnificence meant this, or they meant nothing. The stone and lime said this--and Virgil's line says it, sedately and in plain, simple phrase, which yet is a Climax.

SEWARD.

As the dreaded Semiramis was flesh and blood--corporeal--made of the four elements--yet her soul and her empiry spake out of her--so spake they from the Face of Rome.

NORTH.

Ay, Seward--put these two things together--the Aspect that speaks Domination of the World, and the Wall that girds her with strength impregnable--and what more could you possibly demand from her Great Poet?

SEWARD.

Arx is a Citadel--we may say an Acropolis. Athens had one Arx--so had Corinth. One Arx is enough to one Queenly City. But this Queen, within her one Wall, has enclosed Seven Arces--as if she were Seven Queens.

NORTH.

Well said, Seward. The Seven Hills appeared--and to this day do--to characterise the Supremacy of Rome. The Seven-Hilled City! You seem to have said everything--the Seven Hills are as a seven-pillared Throne--and all that is in one line--given by Virgil. Delete it--no not for a thousand gold crowns.

BULLER.

Not for the Pigot Diamond--not for the Sea of Light.

NORTH.

Imagine Romulus tracing the circuit on which the walls were to rise of his little Rome--the walls ominously lustrated with a brother's blood. War after war humbles neighbouring town after town, till the seas that bathe, and the mountains that guard Italy, enclose the confederated Republic. It is a step--a beginning. East and West, North and South, flies the Eagle, dipping its beak in the blood of battle-fields. Where it swoops, there fanning away the pride, and fame, and freedom of nations, with the wafture of its wings. Kingdoms and Empires that were, are no more than Provinces; till the haughty Roman, stretching out the fact to the limits of his ambitious desires, can with some plausibility deceive himself, and call the edges of the Earth the boundaries of his unmeasured Dominion.

SEWARD.

"O Italy! Italy! would Thou wert stronger or less beautiful!"--was the mournful apostrophe of an Italian Poet, who saw, in the latter ages, his refined but enervated countrymen trampled under the foot of a more martial people from far beyond the Alps.

NORTH.

Good Manners giving a vital energy and efficacy to good Laws--in these few words, gentlemen, may be comprised the needful constituents of National Happiness and Prosperity--the foremost conditions.

TALBOYS.

Ay--ay--sir. For good Laws without good Manners are an empty breath--whilst good Manners ask the protecting and preserving succour of good Laws. But the good Manners are of the first necessity, for they naturally produce the good Laws.

NORTH.

What does history show, Talboys, but nations risen up to flourish in wealth, power, and greatness, that with corrupted and luxurious manners have again sunk from their pre-eminence; whilst another purer and simpler people has in turn grown mighty, and taken their room in the world's eye--some hardy, simple, frugal race, perhaps, whom the seeming disfavour of nature constrains to assiduous labour, and who maintain in the lap of their mountains their independence and their pure and happy homes.

TALBOYS.

The Luxury--the invading Goth and Hun--the dismembering--and new States uprisen upon the ruins of the World's fallen Empire. There is one line in Collins' _Ode to Freedom_--Mr North--which I doubt if I understand.

NORTH.

Which?

TALBOYS.

"No, Freedom, no--I will not tell How Rome before thy weeping face Pushed by a wild and artless race From off its wide, ambitious base, With heaviest sound a giant-statue fell-- What time the northern Sons of Spoil awoke, And all the blended work of strength and grace, With many a rude repeated stroke, And many a barbarous yell, to thousand fragments broke."

NORTH.

Which?

TALBOYS.

"How Rome before thy _weeping face_."

NORTH.

Freedom wept at Rome's overthrow--though she had long been Freedom's enemy--and though her destroyers were Freedom's children--and "Spoil's Sons"--for how could Freedom look unmoved at the wreck "of all that blended work of strength and grace"--though raised by slaves at the beck of Tyrants? It was not always so.

BULLER.

Let me, Apollo-like, my dear sir, pinch your ear, and admonish you to return to the point from which, in discursive gyrations, you and Seward have been----

NORTH.

Like an Eagle giving an Eaglet lessons how to fly----

BULLER.

You promised solemnly, sir, not to mention Eagles this evening.

NORTH.

I did not, sir.

BULLER.

But, then, Seward is no Eaglet--he is, and long has been, a full-fledged bird, and can fly as well's yourself, sir.

NORTH.

There you're right. But then, making a discursive gyration round a point is not leaving it--and there you're wrong. Silly folk--not you, Buller, for you are a strong-minded, strong-bodied man--say "keep to the point"--knowing that if you quit it one inch, you will from their range of vision disappear--and then they comfort themselves by charging you with having melted among the clouds.

BULLER.

I was afraid, my dear sir, that having got your Eaglet on your back--or your Eaglet having got old Aquila on his--you would sail away with him--or he with you--"to prey in distant isles."

NORTH.

You promised solemnly, sir, not to mention Eagles this evening.

BULLER.

I did not, sir. But don't let us quarrel.

SEWARD.

What does Virgil mean, sir, by "Rerum," in the line which Mr Alison thinks should have concluded the strain--

"Scilicet et rerum facta est pulcherrima Roma."

NORTH.

"Rerum"--what does he mean by "Rerum?" Let me perpend. Why, Seward, the legitimate meaning of Res here is a State--a Commonwealth. "The fairest of Powers--then--of Polities--of States."

SEWARD.

Is that all the word means here?

NORTH.

Why, methinks we must explain. Observe, then, Seward, that Rome is the Town, as England the Island. Thus "England has become the fairest among the Kingdoms of the Earth." This is equivalent, good English; and the only satisfactory and literal translation of the Latin verse. But here, the Physical and the Political are identified,--that is, England. England is the name at once of the Island--of so much earth limited out on the surface of the terraqueous globe--and of what besides? Of the Inhabitants? Yes; but of the Inhabitants (as the King never dies) perpetuated from generation to generation. Moreover, of this immortal inhabitation, further made one by blood and speech, laws, manners, and everything that makes a people. In short, England, properly the name of the land, is intended to be, at the same time, the name of the Nation.

"England, with all thy faults, I love Thee still."

There Cowper speaks to both at once--the faults are of the men only--moral--for he does not mean fogs, and March east winds, and fever and agues. I love thee--is to the green fields and the white cliffs, as well as to all that still survives of the English heart and thought and character. And this absorption, sir, and compenetration of the two ideas--land into people, people into land--the exposition of which might, in good hands, be made beautiful--is a fruitful germ of Patriotism--an infinite blending of the spiritual and the corporeal. To Virgil, Rome the City was also Rome the Romans; and, therefore, sir, those Houses and Palaces, and that Wall, were to him, as those green fields, and hills, and streams, and towns, and those cliffs are to Us. The girdled-in compendium of the Heaven's Favour and the Earth's Glory and Power.

"Scilicet et RERUM facta est pulcherrima ROMA, Septemque una sibi muro circumdedit arces."

Do you all comprehend and adopt my explanation, gentlemen?

TALBOYS.

I do.

BULLER.

I----do.

SEWARD.

I ask myself whether Virgil's "Rerum Pulcherrima" may not mean "Fairest of Things"--of Creatures--of earthly existences? To a young English reader, probably that is the first impression. It was, I think, mine. But fairest of earthly States and Seats of State is so much more idiomatic and to the purpose, that I conceive it--indubitable.

NORTH.

You all remember what Horatio sayeth to the soldiers in Hamlet, on the coming and going of the Ghost.

'In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets; Stars shone with trains of fire, dews of blood fell; Disasters veiled the sun, and the moist star Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands, Was sick almost to Doomsday with eclipse.'

What does Horatio mean by high and palmy state? That Rome was in a flourishing condition?

BULLER.

That, I believe, sir, is the common impression. Hitherto it has been mine.

NORTH.

Let it be erased henceforth and for ever.

BULLER.

It is erased--I erase it.

NORTH.

Read henceforth and for ever high and palmy State. Write henceforth and for ever State with a towering Capital. RES! "Most high and palmy State" is precisely and literally "_Rerum Pulcherrima_."

SEWARD.

At your bidding--you cannot err.

NORTH.

I err not unfrequently--but not now, nor I believe this evening. Horatio, the Scholar, speaks to the two Danish Soldiers. They have brought him to be of their watch because he is a Scholar--and they are none. This relation of distinction is indeed the ground and life of the Scene.

"Therefore I have entreated him, along With us to watch the minutes of the night; That if again this apparition come, He may approve our eyes, and speak to it."

TALBOYS.

"Thou art a Scholar--speak to it, Horatio."

NORTH.

You know, Talboys, that Scholars were actual Conjurors, in the mediæval belief, which has tales enow about Scholars in that capacity. Horatio comes, then, possessed with an especial Power; he knows how to deal with Ghosts--he could lay one, if need were. He is not merely a man of superior and cultivated intellect, whom intellectual inferiors engage to assist them in an emergency above their grasp--but he is the _very_ man for the work.

TALBOYS.

Have not the Commentators said as much, sir?

NORTH.

Perhaps--probably--who? If they have in plenitude, I say it again--because I once did not know it--or think of it--and I suppose that a great many persons die believing that the Two resort in the way of general dependence merely on Horatio.

TALBOYS.

I believed, but I shall not die believing so.

NORTH.

Therefore, the scholarship of Horatio, and the non-scholarship of Bernardo and Marcellus, strikes into the life, soul, essence, ground, foundation, fabric, and organisation of this First Ghost Scene--sustain and build the whole Play.

TALBOYS.

Eh?

NORTH.

Eh? Yes. But to the point in hand. The Ghost has come and gone; and the Scholar addresses his Mates the two Non-Scholars. And show me the living Scholar who could speak as Horatio spake. Touching the matter that is in all their minds oppressively, _he_ will transport _their_ minds a flight suddenly off a thousand years, and a thousand miles or leagues--their untutored minds into the Region of History. He will take them to Rome--"_a little ere_"--and, therefore, before naming Rome, he lifts and he directs their imagination--"In the most high and palmy STATE." There had been Four Great Empires of the World--and he will by these few words evoke in their minds the Image of the last and greatest. And now observe with what decision, as well as with what majesty, the nomination ensues--OF ROME.

TALBOYS.

I feel it, sir.

NORTH.

Try, Talboys, to render "State" by any other word, and you will be put to it. You may analogise. It is for the Republic and City, what Realm or Kingdom is to us--at once Place and indwelling Power. "State"--properly Republic--here specifically and pointedly means Reigning City. The Ghosts walked in the City--not in the Republic.

TALBOYS.

I think I have you, sir--am not sure.

NORTH.

You have me--you are sure. Now suppose that, instead of the solemn, ceremonious, and stately robes in which Horatio attires the Glorious Rome, he had said simply, "in Rome," or "at Rome," where then his @psychagôgia@--his leading of their spirits? Where his own scholar-enthusiasm, and love, and joy, and wonder? All gone! And where, Talboys, are they who, by here understanding "state" for "condition"--which every man alive does--

TALBOYS.

Every man alive?

NORTH.

Yes, you did--confess you did. Where are they, I ask, who thus oblige Horatio to introduce his nomination of Rome--thus nakedly--and prosaically? Every hackneyer of this phrase--_state_--as every man alive hackneys it--is a nine-fold Murderer. He murders the Phrase--he murders the Speech--he murders Horatio--he murders the Ghost--he murders the Scene--he murders the Play--he murders Rome--he murders Shakspeare--and he murders Me.

TALBOYS.

I am innocent.

NORTH.

Why, suppose Horatio to mean--"in the most glorious and victorious _condition_ of Rome, on the Eve of Cæsar's death, the graves stood tenantless"--You ask--WHERE? See where you have got. A story told with two determinations of Time, and none of Place! Is that the way that Shakspeare, the intelligent and intelligible, recites a fact? No. But my explanation shows the Congruity or Parallelism. "In the _most high and palmy_ State,"--that is, City of Rome--ceremonious determination of Place--"a little ere the _mightiest_ Julius fell,"--ceremonious determination of Time.

TALBOYS.

But is not the use of State, sir, for City, bold and singular?

NORTH.

It is. For Verse has her own Speech--though Wordsworth denies it in his Preface--and proves it by his Poetry, like his brethren Shakspeare and Milton. The language of Verse is rapid--abrept and abrupt. Horatio wants the notion of Republic; because properly the Republic is high and palmy, and not the wood, stone, and marble. So he manages an expeditious word that shall include both, and strike you at once. The word of a Poet strikes like a flash of lightning--it penetrates--it does not stay to be scanned--"probed, vexed, and criticised,"--it illuminates and is gone. But you must have eyes--and suffer nobody to shut them. I ask, then--Can any lawful, well-behaved Citizen, having weighed all this, and reviewed all these things, again violate the Poesy of the Avonian Swan, and his own muse-enlightened intelligence, by lending hand or tongue to the convicted and condemned VULGARISM?

TALBOYS.

Now, then, and not till now, we Three know the full power of the lines--

"Scilicet et Rerum facta est pulcherrima Roma, Septemque una sibi muro circumdedit arces."

NORTH.

Another word anent Virgil. Mr Alison says--"There is a still more surprising instance of this fault in one of the most pathetic passages of the whole Poem, in the description of the disease among the cattle, which concludes the Third Georgic. The passage is as follows:--

"Ecce autem duro fumans sub vomere Taurus Concidit, et mixtum spumis vomit ore cruorem Extremosque ciet gemitus; it tristis arator, Moerentem abjungens fraternâ morte juvencum, Atque opere in medio defixa relinquit aratra."

_The unhappy image_ in the second line is less calculated to excite compassion than disgust, and is singularly ill-suited to the tone of tenderness and delicacy which the Poet has everywhere else so successfully maintained, in describing the progress of the loathsome disease." The line here objected to is the life of the description--and instead of offence, it is the clenching of the pathos. First of all, it is that which the Poet always will have and the Critics wont--the _Necessitated_--the Thing itself--the Matter in hand. It shapes--features--characterises that particular Murrain. Leave it out--'the one Ox drops dead in the furrow, and the Ploughman detaches the other.' It's a great pity, and very surprising--but that is NO PLAGUE. Suddenly he falls, and blood and foam gush mixed with his expiring breath. _That is a plague._ It has terror--affright--sensible horror--life vitiated, poisoned in its fountains. _Vomit_--a settled word, and one of the foremost, of the reversed, unnatural vital function. Besides, it is the true and proper word. Besides, it is vivid and picturesque, being the word of the Mouth. _Effundit_ (which they would prefer)--(I do not mean it would stand in the verse) is general--might be from the ears. _Vomit_ in itself says mouth. The poor mouth! whose function is to breathe, and to eat grass, and to caress--the visible organ of life--of vivification--and now of mortification. Taken from the dominion of the holy powers, and given up to the dark and nameless destroyer. "_Vomit ore cruorem!_" The verse moans and groans for him--it may have in it a death-rattle. How much more helpless and hopeless the real picture makes Arator's distress! Now, "_it tristis_" comes with effect.

SEWARD.

Yes, Virgil, as in duty bound to do, faced the Cattle Plague in all its horrors. Had he not, he would have been false to Pales, the Goddess of Shepherds--to Apollo, who fed the herds of Admetus. So did his Master, Lucretius--whom he emulated--equalled, but not surpassed, in execution of the dismal but inevitable work. The whole land groaned under the visitation--nor was it confined to Cattle--it seemed as if the brute creation were about to perish. But his tender heart, near the close, singled out, from the thousands, one yoke of Steers--in two lines and a half told the death of one--in two lines and a half told the sadness of its owner--and in as many lines more told, too, of the survivor sinking, because his brother "was not"--and in as many more a lament for the cruel sufferings of the harmless creature--lines which, Scaliger says, he would rather have written than have been honoured by the Lydian or the Persian king.

BULLER.

Perhaps you have said enough, Seward. It might have been better, perhaps, to have recited the whole passage.

NORTH.

Here is a sentence or two about Homer.

BULLER.

Then you are off. Oh! sir--why not for an hour imitate that Moon and those Stars? How silently they shine! But what care you for the heavenly luminaries? In the majestic beauty of the nocturnal heavens vain man will not hold his peace.

SEWARD.

Is that the murmur of the far-off sea?

NORTH.

It is--the tide, may be, is on its return--is at "Connal's raging Ferry"--from Loch Etive--yet this is not its hour--'tis but the mysterious voice of Night.

BULLER.

Hush!

NORTH.

By moonlight and starlight, and to the voice of Night, I read these words from Mr Alison--"In the speech of Agamemnon to Idomeneus, in the Fourth Book of the Iliad, a circumstance is introduced altogether inconsistent both with the _dignity of the speech, and the Majesty of Epic Poetry_:--

'Divine Idomeneus! what thanks we owe To worth like thine, what praise shall we bestow! To Thee the foremost honours are decreed, First in the fight, and every graceful deed. For this, in banquets, when the generous bowls Restore our blood, and raise the warriors' souls, Though all the rest with stated rules be bound, Unmixed, unmeasured, are thy goblets crowned.'"

SEWARD.

That is Pope. Do you remember Homer himself, sir?

NORTH.

I do.

@Idomenehy, pheri mhen se thiô Danahôn tachyphôlôn, hêmhen henhi ptolhemô hêd' hallohiô hephi hergô, êd' hen dahith', hote pher te gerohysion ahithopa ohinon 'Argehiôn ohi haristoi henhi krêthêrsi kherôntai. ehiper ghar t' halloi ge karêkomhoôntes 'Achaiohi daitrhon phinôsin, shon dhe plehion dhepas ahiehi hestêch', hôsper hemohi, piheein, hote thymhos hanhôgoi. hall' horseu pholemhond', ohios pharos ehycheo ehinai.@

I believe you will find that in general men praise more truly, that is justly, deservedly, than they condemn. They praise from an impulse of love--that is, from a capacity. Nature protects love more than hate. Their condemnation is often mere incapacity--want of insight. Mr Alison had elegance of apprehension--truth of taste--a fine sense of the beautiful--a sense of the sublime. His instances for praise are always well--often newly chosen, from an attraction felt in his own genial and noble breast. The true chord struck then. But he was somewhat too dainty-schooled--school-nursed, and school-born. A judge and critic of Poetry should have been caught wild, and tamed; he should carry about him to the last some relish of the wood and the wilderness, as if he were ever in some danger of breaking away, and relapsing to them. He should know Poetry as a great power of the Universe--a sun--of which the Song--whosesoever--only catches and fixes a few rays. How different in thought was Epos to him and to Homer! Homer paints Manners--archaic, simple manners. Everybody feels--everybody says this--Mr Alison must have known it--and could have said it as well as the best--

SEWARD.

But the best often forget it. They seem to hold to this knowledge better now, Mr North; and they do not make Homer answerable as a Poet, for the facts of which he is the Historian--Why not rather accept than criticise?

NORTH.

I am sorry, Seward, for the Achæan Chiefs who had to drink @daitron@--that is all. I had hoped that they helped themselves.

SEWARD.

Perhaps, sir, the Stint was a custom of only the @oinon gerousion@--a ceremonious Bowl--and if so, undoubtedly with religious institution. The Feast is not honorary--only the Bowl: for anything that appears, Agamemnon, feasting his Princes, might say, "Now, for the Bowl of Honour"--and Idomeneus alone drinks. Or let the whole Feast be honorific, and the Bowl the sealing, and crowning, and characterising solemnity. Now, the distinction of the Stint, and the Full Bowl, selected for a signal of different honouring, has to me no longer anything irksome. It is no longer a grudged and scanted cheer--but lawful Assignment of Place.

TALBOYS.

The moment you take it for Ceremonial, sir, you don't know what profound meaning may, or may not be in it. The phrase is very remarkable.

NORTH.

When the "Best of the Argives" mix in the Bowl "the honorific dark-glowing wine," or the dark-glowing wine of honour--when @hote@--quite a specific and peculiar occasion, and confined to the wine--you would almost think that the Chiefs themselves are the wine-mixers, and not the usual ministrants--which would perhaps express the descent of an antique use from a time and manners of still greater simplicity than those which Homer describes. Or take it merely, that in great solemnities, high persons do the functions proper to Servants. This we do know, that usually a servant, the @Tamieus@, or the @oinochoos@, does mix the Bowl. By the way, Talboys, I think you will be not a little amused with old Chapman's translation of the passage.

TALBOYS.

A fiery old Chap was George.

NORTH.

It runs thus--

"O Idomen, I ever loved thyself past all the Greeks, In war, or any work of peace, at table, everywhere; For when the best of Greeks, besides, mix ever at our cheer My good old ardent wine with small, and our inferior mates Drink ever that mixt wine measured too, thou drink'st without those rates Our old wine _neat_; and ever more thy bowl stands like to mine; To drink still when and what thou wilt; then rouse that heart of thine; And whatsoever heretofore thou hast assumed to be, This day be greater."

TALBOYS.

Well done, Old Buck! This fervour and particularity are admirable. But, methinks, if I caught the words rightly, that George mistakes the meaning of @gerousôn@--honorary; he has @gerôn gerontos@, an _old man_, singing in his ears; but old for wine would be quite a different word.

NORTH.

And he makes Agamemnon commend Idomeneus for drinking generously and honestly, whilst the others are afraid of their cups--as Claudius, King of Denmark, might praise one of his strong-headed courtiers, and laugh at Polonius. Agamemnon does not say that Idomeneus' goblet was _not_ mixed--was _neat_--rather we use to think that wine was always mixed--but whether "with small," as old Chapman says, or with water, I don't know--but I fancied water! But perhaps, Seward, the investigation of a Grecian Feast in heroic time, and in Attic, becomes an exigency. Chapman is at least determined--and wisely--to show that he is not afraid of the matter--that he saw nothing in it "altogether inconsistent with the dignity of the speech and the majesty of Epic Poetry."

SEWARD.

Dignity! Majesty! They stand, sir, in the whole together--in the Manners taken collectively by themselves throughout the entire Iliad--and then taken as a part of the total delineation. Apply our modern notions of dignity and majesty to the Homeric Poetry, and we shall get a shock in every other page.

NORTH.

The Homeric, heroic manners! Heyne has a Treatise or Excursus--as you know--on the @hautarkeia@--I think he calls it--of the Homeric Heroes--their waiting on themselves, or their self-sufficiency--where I think that he collects the picture.

SEWARD.

I am ashamed to say I do not know it.

NORTH.

No matter. You see how this connects with the scheme of the Poem--in which, prevalent or conspicuous by the amplitude of the space which it occupies, is the individual prowess of heroes in field--conspicuous, too, by its moment in action. This is another and loftier mode of the @hautarkeia@. The human bosom is a seat or fountain of power. Power goes forth, emanates in all directions, high and low, right and left. The Man is a terrestrial God. He takes counsel with his own heart, and he acts. "He conversed with his own magnanimous spirit"--or as Milton says of Abdiel meeting Satan--"And thus his own undaunted heart explored."

SEWARD.

Yes, Mr North, the Man is as a terrestrial God; but--with continual recognition by the Poet and his heroes--as under the celestial Gods. And I apprehend, sir, that this two-fold way of representing man, in himself and towards them, is that which first separates the Homeric from and above all other Poetry, is its proper element of grandeur, in which we never bathe without coming out aggrandised.

NORTH.

Seward, you instruct me by----

SEWARD.

Oh, no, sir! You instruct me----

NORTH.

We instruct each other. For this the heroes are all Demigods--that is, the son of a God, or Goddess, or the Descendant at a few Generations. Sarpedon is the Son of Jupiter, and his death by Patroclus is perhaps the passage of the whole Iliad that most specially and energetically, and most profoundly and pathetically, makes the Gods intimate to the life and being of men--presents the conduct of divinity and humanity with condescension there, and for elevation here. I do not mean that there is not more pomp of glorification about Achilles, for whom Jupiter comes from Olympus to Ida, and Vulcan forges arms--whose Mother-Goddess is Messenger to and from Jupiter, and into whose lips, when he is faint with toil and want of nourishment--abstaining in his passion of sorrow and vengeance--Minerva, descending, instils Nectar. But I doubt if there be anything so touching--_under this relation_--and so intimately aggrandising as that other whole place--the hesitation of Jupiter whether he shall VIOLATE FATE, in order to save his own flesh and blood from its decreed stroke--the consolatory device of Juno (in remonstrating and dissuading) that he shall send Apollo to call Death and Sleep--a God-Messenger to God-Ministers--to bear the dead body from the battle-field to his own land and kin for due obsequies. And, lastly, those _drops of blood_ which fall from the sky to the earth, as if the heart-tears of the Sire of all the worlds and their inhabitants.

BULLER.

You are always great, sir, on Homer. But, pray, have you any intention of returning to the @hautarkeia@?

NORTH.

Ha! Buller--do you speak? I have not wandered from it. But since you seem to think I have, think of Patroclus lighting a fire under a tripod with his own hands, to boil meat for Achilles' guests--of Achilles himself helping to lay the ransomed body of Hector on the car that was to take it away. This last is honorific and pathetic. Ministrations of all degrees for themselves, in their own affairs, characterise them all. From the least of these to Achilles fighting the River-God--which is an excess--all holds together--is of one meaning--and here, as everywhere, the least, and the familiar, and most homely, attests, vouches, makes evident, probable, and facile to credence, the highest, most uncouth, remote, and difficult otherwise of acceptation. Pitching the speculation lower, plenitude of the most robust, ardent, vigorous life overflows the Iliad--up from the animal to the divine--from the beautiful tall poplar by the river-side, which the wheelwright or wainwright fells. Eating, drinking, sleeping, thrusting through with spears, and hacking the live flesh off the bone--all go together and help one another--and make the "Majesty and Dignity"--or what not--of the Homeric Epos. But I see, Buller, that you are _timing me_--and I am ashamed to confess that I have exceeded the assigned limit. Gentlemen, I ask all your pardons.

BULLER.

Timing you--my dear sir! Look--'tis only my snuff-box--your own gift--with your own haunted Head on the lid--inspired work of Laurence Macdonald.

NORTH.

Give it me--why there--there--by your own unhappy awkwardness--it has gone--gone--to the bottom of the deepest part of the Loch!

BULLER.

I don't care. It _was_ my chronometer! The Box is safe.

NORTH.

And so is the Chronometer. Here it is--I was laughing at you--in my sleeve.

BULLER.

Another Herman Boaz!--Bless my eyes, there is Kilchurn! It must be--there is no other such huge Castle, surely, at the head of the Loch--and no other such mountains--

NORTH.

You promised solemnly, sir, not to say a single word about Loch Awe or its appurtenance, this Evening--so did every mother's son of us at your order--and t'was well--for we have seen them and felt them all--at times not the less profoundly--as the visionary pomp keeps all the while gliding slowly by--perpetual accompaniment of our discourse, not uninspired, perhaps, by the beauty or the grandeur, as our imagination was among the ideal creations of genius--with the far-off in place and in time--with generations and empires

"When dark oblivion swallows cities up, And mighty States, characterless, are grated To dusty nothing!"

SEWARD.

In the declining light I wonder your eyes can see to read print.

NORTH.

My eyes are at a loss with Small Pica--but veritable Pica I can master, yet, after sunset. Indeed, I am sharpest-sighted by twilight, like a cat or an owl.

BULLER.

Have you any more annotations on Alison?

NORTH.

Many. The flaws are few. I verily believe these are all. To elucidate his Truths--in Taste and in Morals--would require from us Four a far longer Dialogue. Alison's Essays should be reprinted in one Pocket Volume--wisdom and Goodness are in that family hereditary--the editing would be a Work of Love--and in Bohn's Standard Library they would confer benefit on thousands who now know but their name.

SEWARD.

My dear sir, last time we voyaged the Loch, you said a few words--perhaps you may remember it--about those philosophers--Alison--the "Man of Taste," as Thomas Campbell loved to call him--assuredly is not of the number--who have insisted on the natural Beauty of Virtue, and natural Deformity of Vice, and have appeared to place our capacity of distinguishing Right from Wrong chiefly, if not solely, on the sense of this Beauty and of this Deformity--

NORTH.

I remember saying, my dear Seward, that they have drawn their views too much from the consideration of the state of these feelings in men who had been long exercised in the pure speculative contemplation of moral Goodness and Truth, as well as in the calmness and purity of a tranquil, virtuous life. Was it so?

SEWARD.

It was.

NORTH.

In such minds, when all the calm faculties of the soul are wedded in happy union to the image of Virtue, there is, I have no doubt, that habitual feeling for which the term Beauty furnishes a natural and just expression. But I apprehend that this is not the true expression of that serious and solemn feeling which accompanies the understanding of the qualities of Moral Action in the minds of the generality of men. They who in the midst of their own unhappy perversions, are visited with knowledge of those immutable distinctions, and they who in the ordinary struggles and trials incident to our condition, maintain their conduct in unison with their strongly grounded principles and better aspirations, would seldom, I apprehend, employ this language for the description of feelings which can hardly be separated, from the ideas of an awful responsibility involving the happiness and misery of the accountable subjects of a moral order of Government.

SEWARD.

You think, sir, that to assign this perception of Beauty and Deformity, as the groundwork of our Moral Nature, is to rest on too slight a foundation that part of man's constitution which is first in importance to his welfare?

NORTH.

Assuredly, my dear friend, I do. Nay, I do not fear to say that the Emotion, which may properly be termed a Feeling of Beauty in Virtue, takes place at those times when the deepest affection of our souls towards Good and Evil acts less strongly, and when the Emotion we feel is derived more from Imagination--and--

SEWARD.

And may I venture to suggest, sir, that as Imagination, which is so strong a principle in our minds, will take its temper from any prevalent feelings, and even from any fixed and permanent habits of mind, so our Feeling of Beauty and Deformity shall be different to different men, either according to the predominant strength of natural principles, or according to their course of life?

NORTH.

Even so. And therefore this general disposition of Imagination to receive its character will apply, no doubt, where the prevailing feelings and habits are of a Moral cast; and hence in minds engaged in calm intellectual speculation, and maintaining their own moral nature rather in innocence and simplicity of life than in the midst of difficult and trying situations and in conflict with passions, there can be no doubt that the Imagination will give itself up to this general Moral Cast of Mind, and feel Beauty and Deformity vividly and uniformly in the contemplation of the moral quality of actions and moral states of character.

SEWARD.

But your words imply--do they not, sir? that such is the temper of their calmer minds, and not the emotion which is known when, from any great act of Virtue or Crime, which comes suddenly upon them, their Moral Spirit rises up in its native strength, to declare its own Affection and its own Judgment?

NORTH.

Just so. Besides, my excellent friend, if you consider well the feeling which takes possession of us, on contemplating some splendid act of heroic and self-devoting Virtue, we shall find that the sort of enthusiastic transport which may kindle towards him who has performed it, is not properly a moral transport at all; but it is a burst of love and admiration. Take out, then, from any such emotion, what Imagination, and Love, and Sympathy have supplied, and leave only what the Moral Spirit recognises of Moral Will in the act, and you will find that much of that dazzling and splendid Beauty which produced the transport of loving admiration is removed.

SEWARD.

And if so, sir, then must it be very important that we should not deceive ourselves, and rely upon the warmth of emotion we may feel towards generous and heroic actions as evidence of the force of the Moral Principle in our own breasts, which requires to be ascertained by a very different test--

NORTH.

Ay, Seward; and it is important also, that we should learn to acknowledge and to respect, in those who, without the capacity of such vivid feelings, are yet conscientiously faithful to the known Moral Law, the merit and dignity of their Moral Obedience. We must allow to Virtue, my dearest Seward, all that is her due--her countenance beautiful in its sweet serenity--her voice gentle and mild--her demeanour graceful--and a simple majesty in the flowing folds of her stainless raiment. So may we picture her to our imagination, and to our hearts. But we must beware of making such abstractions fantastic and visionary, lest we come at last to think of emotions of Virtue and Taste as one and the same--a fatal error indeed--and that would rob human life of much of its melancholy grandeur. The beauty of Virtue is but the smile on her celestial countenance--and may be admired--loved--by those who hold but little communion with her inner heart--and it may be overlooked by those who pay to her the most devout worship.

TALBOYS.

Methinks, sir, that the moral emotion with which we regard actions greatly right or greatly wrong, is no transport; it is an earnest, solemn feeling of a mind knowing there is no peace for living souls, except in their Moral Obedience, and therefore receiving a deep and grateful assurance of the peace of one soul more, in witnessing its adherence to its virtue; and the pain which is suffered from crime is much more allied to sorrow, in contemplating the wilful departure of a spirit from its only possible Good, than to those feelings of repugnance and hate which characterise the temper of our common human emotion towards crimes offering violence and outrage to humanity.

NORTH.

I believe that, though darkness lies round and about us seeking to solve such questions, a feeling of deep satisfaction in witnessing the adherence to Moral Rectitude, and of deep pain in witnessing the departure from it, are the necessary results of a moral sensibility; but taken in their elementary simplicity, they have, I think, a character distinct from those many other emotions which will necessarily blend with them, in the heart of one human being looking upon the actions of another--"because that we have all one human heart."

TALBOYS.

Who can doubt that Religion infuses power and exaltation into the Arts? The bare History teaches this. In Greece Poetry sang of Gods, and of Heroes, in whose transactions Gods moved. Sculpture moulded Forms which were attempted expressions of Divine Attributes. Architecture constructed Temples. _De facto_ the Grecian Arts rose out of Religion. And were not the same Arts, of revived Italy, religious?

BULLER.

They all require for their foundation and support a great pervading sympathy--some Feeling that holds a whole national breast. This is needed to munificently defraying the Costlier Arts--no base consideration at bottom. For it is _a_ life-bond of this life, that is freely dropped, when men freely and generously contribute their means to the honour of Religion. There is a sentiment in opening your purse.

SEWARD.

Yes, Buller--without that sentiment, no man can love noble Art. The true, deep, grand support of Genius is the confidence of universal sympathy. Homer sings because Greece listens. Phidias pours out his soul over marble, gold, and ivory, because he knows that at Olympia united Greece will wonder and will worship. Think how Poet is dumb and Sculptor lame, who foreknows that what he _would_ sing, what he _would_ carve, will neither be felt nor understood.

BULLER.

The Religion of a people furnishes the sympathy which both _pays and applauds_.

TALBOYS.

And Religion affords to the Artist in Words or Forms the highest Norms of Thought--sublime, beautiful, solemn--withal the sense of Aspiration--possibly of Inspiration.

NORTH.

And it guards Philosophy--and preserves it, by spiritual influence, from degradation worse than death. The mind is first excited into activity through the impressions made by external objects on the senses. The French metaphysicians--pretending to follow Locke--proceeded to discover in the mind a mere compound of Sensations, and of Ideas drawn from Sensations. Sensations, and Ideas that were the Relics of Sensations--nothing more.

TALBOYS.

And thus, sir, by degrees, the Mind appeared to them to be nothing else than a product of the Body--say rather a state of the Body.

NORTH.

A self-degradation, my friend, which to the utmost removes the mind from God. And this Creed was welcome to those to whom the belief in Him was irksome. That which we see and touch became to such Philosophers the whole of Reality. Deity--the Relation of the Creation to the Creator--the hope of a Futurity beyond the grave--vanished from the Belief of Materialists living in, and by, and to--Sensation.

SEWARD.

And with what a horrid sympathy was the creed welcomed!

NORTH.

Ay, Seward, I who lived nearer the time--perhaps better than you can--know the evil. Not in the schools alone, or in the solitude of philosophical thought, the doctrine of an arid speculation circulated, like a thin and unwholesome blood, through the veins of polite literature; not in the schools alone, but in the gorgeous and gay saloons, where the highly-born, the courtly, and the wealthy, winged the lazy hours with light or dissolute pleasures--there the Philosophy which fettered the soul in the pleasing bands of the Senses, which plucked it back from a feared immortality, which opened a gulf of infinite separation between it and its Maker, was cordially entertained--there it pointed the jest and the jibe. Scepticism a study--the zeal of Unbelief! Principles of false thought appeared suddenly and widely as principles of false passion and of false action. Doubts, difficulties, guesses, fine spinnings of the perverse brain, seized upon the temper of the times--became the springs of public and popular movements--engines of political change. The Venerations of Time were changed into Abominations. A Will strong to overthrow--hostile to Order--anarchical--"intended siege and defiance to Heaven." The irreligious Philosophy of the calmer time now bore its fruits. The Century had prepared the explosion that signalised its close--Impiety was the name of the Giant whom these throes of the convulsed earth had borne into the day, and down together went Throne and Altar--But where are we?

BULLER.

At the river mouth.

NORTH.

What! at home.

BULLER.

See the Tent-Lights--hear the Tent-Music.

NORTH.

Your arm, Talboys--till I disembark. Up to the Mount I shall then climb, unassisted but by the Crutch.

_Printed by William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh._

Transcriber's Notes:

Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.

Simple typographical and spelling errors were corrected.

Italics markup is denoted by _underscores_.

Bold markup is denoted by =equals=.

Greek text has been transliterated and is denoted by @at signs@.

Provided anchor for unanchored footnote on pp. 133 and 172.