CHAPTER XV.

The next morning Helen was very ill--so ill that, shortly after rising, she was forced to creep back to bed. Her frame shivered--her eyes were heavy--her hand burned like fire. Fever had set in. Perhaps she might have caught cold on the bridge--perhaps her emotions had proved too much for her frame. Leonard, in great alarm, called on the nearest apothecary. The apothecary looked grave, and said there was danger. And danger soon declared itself--Helen became delirious. For several days she lay in this state, between life and death. Leonard then felt that all the sorrows of earth are light, compared with the fear of losing what we love. How valueless the envied laurel seemed beside the dying rose.

Thanks, perhaps, more to his heed and tending than to medical skill, she recovered sense at last--immediate peril was over. But she was very weak and reduced--her ultimate recovery doubtful--convalescence, at best, likely to be very slow.

But when she learned how long she had been thus ill, she looked anxiously at Leonard's face as he bent over her, and faltered forth--"Give me my work; I am strong enough for that now--it would amuse me."

Leonard burst into tears.

Alas! he had no work himself; all their joint money had melted away; the apothecary was not like good Dr Morgan: the medicines were to be paid for, and the rent. Two days before, Leonard had pawned Riccabocca's watch; and when the last shilling thus raised was gone, how should he support Helen? Nevertheless he conquered his tears, and assured her that he had employment; and that so earnestly that she believed him, and sank into soft sleep. He listened to her breathing, kissed her forehead, and left the room. He turned into his own neigbouring garret, and, leaning his face on his hands, collected all his thoughts.

He must be a beggar at last. He must write to Mr Dale for money--Mr Dale, too, who knew the secret of his birth. He would rather have begged of a stranger--it seemed to add a new dishonour to his mother's memory for the child to beg of one who was acquainted with her shame. Had he himself been the only one to want and to starve, he would have sunk inch by inch into the grave of famine, before he would have so subdued his pride. But Helen, there on that bed--Helen needing, for weeks perhaps, all support, and illness making luxuries themselves like necessaries! Beg he must. And when he so resolved, had you but seen the proud bitter soul he conquered, you would have said--"This which he thinks is degradation--this is heroism. Oh strange human heart!--no epic ever written achieves the Sublime and the Beautiful which are graven, unread by human eye, in thy secret leaves." Of whom else should he beg? His mother had nothing, Riccabocca was poor, and the stately Violante, who had exclaimed, "Would that I were a man!"--he could not endure the thought that she should pity him, and despise. The Avenels! No--thrice No. He drew towards him hastily ink and paper, and wrote rapid lines, that were wrung from him as from the bleeding strings of life.

But the hour for the post had passed--the letter must wait till the next day; and three days at least would elapse before he could receive an answer. He left the letter on the table, and, stifling as for air, went forth. He crossed the bridge--he passed on mechanically--and was borne along by a crowd pressing towards the doors of Parliament. A debate that excited popular interest was fixed for that evening, and many bystanders collected in the street to see the members pass to and fro, or hear what speakers had yet risen to take part in the debate, or try to get orders for the gallery.

He halted amidst these loiterers, with no interest, indeed, in common with them, but looking over their heads abstractedly towards the tall Funeral Abbey--Imperial Golgotha of Poets, and Chiefs, and Kings.

Suddenly his attention was diverted to those around by the sound of a name--displeasingly known to him. "How are you, Randal Leslie? coming to hear the debate?" said a member who was passing through the street.

"Yes; Mr Egerton promised to get me under the gallery. He is to speak himself to-night, and I have never heard him. As you are going into the House, will you remind him?"

"I can't now, for he is speaking already--and well too. I hurried from the Athenæum, where I was dining, on purpose to be in time, as I heard that his speech was making a great effect."

"This is very unlucky," said Randal. "I had no idea he would speak so early."

"M---- brought him up by a direct personal attack. But follow me; perhaps I can get you into the House; and a man like you, Leslie, of whom we expect great things some day, I can tell you, should not miss any such opportunity of knowing what this House of ours is on a field night. Come on!"

The member hurried towards the door; and as Randal followed him, a bystander cried--"That is the young man who wrote the famous pamphlet--Egerton's relation."

"Oh, indeed!" said another. "Clever man, Egerton--I am waiting for him."

"So am I."

"Why, you are not a constituent, as I am."

"No; but he has been very kind to my nephew, and I must thank him. You are a constituent--he is an honour to your town."

"So he is: Enlightened man!"

"And so generous!"

"Brings forward really good measures," quoth the politician.

"And clever young men," said the uncle.

Therewith one or two others joined in the praise of Audley Egerton, and many anecdotes of his liberality were told.

Leonard listened at first listlessly, at last with thoughtful attention. He had heard Burley, too, speak highly of this generous statesman, who, without pretending to genius himself, appreciated it in others. He suddenly remembered, too, that Egerton was half-brother to the Squire. Vague notions of some appeal to this eminent person, not for charity, but employ to his mind, gleamed across him--inexperienced boy that he yet was! And, while thus meditating, the door of the House opened, and out came Audley Egerton himself. A partial cheering, followed by a general murmur, apprised Leonard of the presence of the popular statesman. Egerton was caught hold of by some five or six persons in succession; a shake of the hand, a nod, a brief whispered word or two, sufficed the practised member for graceful escape; and soon, free from the crowd, his tall erect figure passed on, and turned towards the bridge. He paused at the angle and took out his watch, looking at it by the lamp-light.

"Harley will be here soon," he muttered--"he is always punctual; and now that I have spoken, I can give him an hour or so. That is well."

As he replaced his watch in his pocket, and re-buttoned his coat over his firm broad chest, he lifted his eyes, and saw a young man standing before him.

"Do you want me?" asked the statesman, with the direct brevity of his practical character.

"Mr Egerton," said the young man, with a voice that slightly trembled, and yet was manly amidst emotion, "you have a great name, and great power--I stand here in these streets of London without a friend, and without employ. I believe that I have it in me to do some nobler work than that of bodily labour, had I but one friend--one opening for my thoughts. And now I have said this, I scarcely know how, or why, but from despair, and the sudden impulse which that despair took from the praise that follows your success, I have nothing more to add."

Audley Egerton was silent for a moment, struck by the tone and address of the stranger; but the consummate and wary man of the world, accustomed to all manner of strange applications, and all varieties of imposture, quickly recovered from a passing and slight effect.

"Are you a native of ----?" (naming the town he represented as member.)

"No, sir."

"Well, young man, I am very sorry for you; but the good sense you must possess (for I judge of that by the education you have evidently received) must tell you that a public man, whatever be his patronage, has it too fully absorbed by claimants who have a right to demand it, to be able to listen to strangers."

He paused a moment, and, as Leonard stood silent, added, with more kindness than most public men so accosted would have showed--

"You say you are friendless--poor fellow. In early life that happens to many of us, who find friends enough before the close. Be honest, and well-conducted; lean on yourself, not on strangers; work with the body if you can't with the mind; and, believe me, that advice is all I can give you, unless this trifle,"--and the minister held out a crown piece.

Leonard bowed, shook his head sadly, and walked away. Egerton looked after him with a slight pang.

"Pooh!" said he to himself, "there must be thousands in the same state in these streets of London. I cannot redress the necessities of civilisation. Well educated! It is not from ignorance henceforth that society will suffer--it is from over-educating the hungry thousands who, thus unfitted for manual toil, and with no career for mental, will some day or other stand like that boy in our streets, and puzzle wiser ministers than I am."

As Egerton thus mused, and passed on to the bridge, a bugle-horn rang merrily from the box of a gay four-in-hand. A drag-coach with superb blood-horses rattled over the causeway, and in the driver Egerton recognised his nephew--Frank Hazeldean.

The young Guardsman was returning, with a lively party of men, from dining at Greenwich; and the careless laughter of these children of pleasure floated far over the still river.

It vexed the ear of the careworn statesman--sad, perhaps, with all his greatness, lonely amidst all his crowd of friends. It reminded him, perhaps, of his own youth, when such parties and companionships were familiar to him, though through them all he bore an ambitious aspiring soul--"_Le jeu, vaut-il la chandelle?_" said he, shrugging his shoulders.

The coach rolled rapidly past Leonard, as he stood leaning against the corner of the bridge, and the mire of the kennel splashed over him from the hoofs of the fiery horses. The laughter smote on his ear more discordantly than on the minister's, but it begot no envy.

"Life is a dark riddle," said he, smiting his breast.

And he walked slowly on, gained the recess where he had stood several nights before with Helen; and dizzy with want of food, and worn out for want of sleep, he sank down into the dark corner; while the river that rolled under the arch of stone muttered dirge-like in his ear;--as under the social key-stone wails and rolls on for ever the mystery of Human Discontent. Take comfort, O Thinker by the stream! 'Tis the river that founded and gave pomp to the city; and without the discontent, where were progress--what were Man? Take comfort, O THINKER! where ever the stream over which thou bendest, or beside which thou sinkest, weary and desolate, frets the arch that supports thee;--never dream that, by destroying the bridge, thou canst silence the moan of the wave!

DISFRANCHISEMENT OF THE BOROUGHS.

TO WALTER BINKIE, ESQ., PROVOST OF DREEPDAILY.

MY DEAR PROVOST,--In the course of your communings with nature on the uplands of Dreepdaily, you must doubtless have observed that the advent of a storm is usually preceded by the appearance of a flight of seamaws, who, by their discordant screams, give notice of the approaching change of weather. For some time past it has been the opinion of those who are in the habit of watching the political horizon, that we should do well to prepare ourselves for a squall, and already the premonitory symptoms are distinctly audible. The Liberal press, headed by the _Times_, is clamorous for some sweeping change in the method of Parliamentary representation; and Lord John Russell, as you are well aware, proposes in the course of next Session to take up the subject. This is no mere _brutum fulmen_, or dodge to secure a little temporary popularity--it is a distinct party move for a very intelligible purpose; and is fraught, I think, with much danger and injustice to many of the constituencies which are now intrusted with the right of franchise. As you, my dear Provost, are a Liberal both by principle and profession, and moreover chief magistrate of a very old Scottish burgh, your opinion upon this matter must have great weight in determining the judgment of others; and, therefore, you will not, I trust, consider it too great a liberty, if, at this dull season of the year, I call your attention to one or two points which appear well worthy of consideration.

In the first place, I think you will admit that extensive organic changes in the Constitution ought never to be attempted except in cases of strong necessity. The real interests of the country are never promoted by internal political agitation, which unsettles men's minds, is injurious to regular industry, and too often leaves behind it the seeds of jealousy and discord between different classes of the community, ready on some future occasion to burst into noxious existence. You would not, I think, wish to see annually renewed that sort of strife which characterised the era of the Reform Bill. I venture to pass no opinion whatever on the abstract merits of that measure. I accept it as a fact, just as I accept other changes in the Constitution of this country which took place before I was born; and I hope I shall ever comport myself as a loyal and independent elector. But I am sure you have far too lively a recollection of the ferment which that event created, to wish to see it renewed, without at least some urgent cause. You were consistently anxious for the suppression of rotten boroughs, and for the enlargement of the constituency upon a broad and popular basis; and you considered that the advantages to be gained by the adoption of the new system, justified the social risks which were incurred in the endeavour to supersede the old one. I do not say that you were wrong in this. The agitation for Parliamentary Reform had been going on for a great number of years; the voice of the majority of the country was undeniably in your favour, and you finally carried your point. Still, in consequence of that struggle, years elapsed before the heart-burnings and jealousies which were occasioned by it were allayed. Even now it is not uncommon to hear the reminiscences of the Reform Bill appealed to on the hustings by candidates who have little else to say for themselves by way of personal recommendation. A most ludicrous instance of this occurred very lately in the case of a young gentleman, who, being desirous of Parliamentary honours, actually requested the support of the electors on the ground that his father or grandfather--I forget which--had voted for the Reform Bill; a ceremony which he could not very well have performed in his own person, as at that time he had not been released from the bondage of swaddling-clothes! I need hardly add that he was rejected; but the anecdote is curious and instructive.

In a country such as this, changes must be looked for in the course of years. One system dies out, or becomes unpopular, and is replaced by a new one. But I cannot charge my memory with any historical instance where a great change was attempted without some powerful or cogent reason. Still less can I recollect any great change being proposed, unless a large and powerful section of the community had unequivocally declared in its favour. The reason of this is quite obvious. The middle classes of Great Britain, however liberal they may be in their sentiments, have a just horror of revolutions. They know very well that organic changes are never effected without enormous loss and individual deprivation, and they will not move unless they are assured that the value of the object to be gained is commensurate with the extent of the sacrifice. In defence of their liberties, when these are attacked, the British people are ever ready to stand forward; but I mistake them much, if they will at any time allow themselves to be made the tools of a faction. The attempt to get up organic changes for the sole purpose of perpetuating the existence of a particular Ministry, or of maintaining the supremacy of a particular party, is a new feature in our history. It is an experiment which the nation ought not to tolerate for a single moment; and which I am satisfied it will not tolerate, when the schemes of its authors are laid bare.

I believe, Provost, I am right in assuming that there has been no decided movement in favour of a New Parliamentary Reform Bill, either in Dreepdaily or in any of the other burghs with which you are connected. The electors are well satisfied with the operation of the ten-pound clause, which excludes from the franchise no man of decent ability and industry, whilst it secures property from those direct inroads which would be the inevitable result of a system of universal suffrage. Also, I suppose, you are reasonably indifferent on the subjects of Vote by Ballot and Triennial Parliaments, and that you view the idea of annual ones with undisguised reprobation. Difference of opinion undoubtedly may exist on some of these points: an eight-pound qualification may have its advocates, and the right of secret voting may be convenient for members of the clique; but, on the whole, you are satisfied with matters as they are; and, certainly, I do not see that you have any grievance to complain of. If I were a member of the Liberal party, I should be very sorry to see any change of the representation made in Scotland. Just observe how the matter stands. At the commencement of the present year the whole representation of the Scottish burghs was in the hands of the Liberal party. Since then, it is true, Falkirk has changed sides; but you are still remarkably well off; and I think that out of thirty county members, eighteen may be set down as supporters of the Free-trade policy. Remember, I do not guarantee the continuance of these proportions: I wish you simply to observe how you stand at present, under the working of your own Reform Bill; and really it appears to me that nothing could be more satisfactory. The Liberal who wishes to have more men of his own kidney from Scotland must indeed be an unconscionable glutton; and if, in the face of these facts, he asks for a reform in the representation, I cannot set him down as other than a consummate ass. He must needs admit that the system has worked well. Scotland sends to the support of the Whig Ministry, and the maintenance of progressive opinions, a brilliant phalanx of senators; amongst whom we point, with justifiable pride, to the distinguished names of Anderson, Bouverie, Ewart, Hume, Smith, M'Taggart, and M'Gregor. Are these gentlemen not liberal enough for the wants of the present age? Why, unless I am most egregiously mistaken--and not I only, but the whole of the Liberal press in Scotland--they are generally regarded as decidedly ahead even of my Lord John Russell. Why, then, should your representation be reformed, while it bears such admirable fruit? With such a growth of golden pippins on its boughs, would it not be madness to cut down the tree, on the mere chance of another arising from the stump, more especially when you cannot hope to gather from it a more abundant harvest? I am quite sure, Provost, that you agree with me in this. You have nothing to gain, but possibly a good deal to lose, by any alteration which may be made; and therefore it is, I presume, that in this part of the world not the slightest wish has been manifested for a radical change of the system. That very conceited and shallow individual, Sir Joshua Walmsley, made not long ago a kind of agitating tour through Scotland, for the purpose of getting up the steam; but except from a few unhappy Chartists, whose sentiments on the subject of property are identically the same with those professed by the gentlemen who plundered the Glasgow tradesmen's shops in 1848, he met with no manner of encouragement. The electors laughed in the face of this ridiculous caricature of Peter the Hermit, and advised him, instead of exposing his ignorance in the north, to go back to Bolton and occupy himself with his own affairs.

This much I have said touching the necessity or call for a new Reform Bill, which is likely enough to involve us, for a considerable period at least, in unfortunate political strife. I have put it to you as a Liberal, but at the same time as a man of common sense and honesty, whether there are any circumstances, under your knowledge, which can justify such an attempt; and in the absence of these, you cannot but admit that such an experiment is eminently dangerous at the present time, and ought to be strongly discountenanced by all men, whatever may be their kind of political opinions. I speak now without any reference whatever to the details. It may certainly be possible to discover a better system of representation than that which at present exists. I never regarded Lord John Russell as the living incarnation of Minerva, nor can I consider any measure originated by him as conveying an assurance that the highest amount of human wisdom has been exhausted in its preparation. But what I do say is this, that in the absence of anything like general demand, and failing the allegation of any marked grievance to be redressed, no Ministry is entitled to propose an extensive or organic change in the representation of the country; and the men who shall venture upon such a step must render themselves liable to the imputation of being actuated by other motives than regard to the public welfare.

You will, however, be slow to believe that Lord John Russell is moving in this matter without some special reason. In this you are perfectly right. He has a reason, and a very cogent one, but not such a reason as you, if you are truly a Liberal, and not a mere partisan, can accept. I presume it is the wish of the Liberal party--at least it used to be their watchword--that public opinion in this country is not to be slighted or suppressed. With the view of giving full effect to that public opinion, not of securing the supremacy of this or that political alliance, the Reform Act was framed; it being the declared object and intention of its founders that a full, fair, and free representation should be secured to the people of this country. The property qualification was fixed at a low rate; the balance of power as between counties and boroughs was carefully adjusted; and every precaution was taken--at least so we were told at the time--that no one great interest of the State should be allowed unduly to predominate over another. Many, however, were of opinion at the time, and have since seen no reason to alter it, that the adjustment then made, as between counties and boroughs, was by no means equitable, and that an undue share in the representation was given to the latter, more especially in England. That, you will observe, was a Conservative, not a Liberal objection; and it was over-ruled. Well, then, did the Representation, as fixed by the Reform Bill, fulfil its primary condition? You thought so; and so did my Lord John Russell, until some twelve months ago, when a new light dawned upon him. That light has since increased in intensity, and he now sees his way, clearly enough, to a new organic measure. Why is this? Simply, my dear Provost, because the English boroughs will no longer support him in his bungling legislation, or countenance his unnational policy!

Public opinion, as represented through the operation of the Reform Act, is no longer favourable to Lord John Russell. The result of recent elections, in places which were formerly considered as the strongholds of Whiggery, have demonstrated to him that the Free-trade policy, to which he is irretrievably pledged, has become obnoxious to the bulk of the electors, and that they will no longer accord their support to any Ministry which is bent upon depressing British labour and sapping the foundations of national prosperity. So Lord John Russell, finding himself in this position, that he must either get rid of public opinion or resign his place, sets about the concoction of a new Reform Bill, by means of which he hopes to swamp the present electoral body! This is Whig liberty in its pure and original form. It implies, of course, that the Reform Bill did not give a full, fair, and free representation to the country, else there can be no excuse for altering its provisions. If we really have a fair representation; and if, notwithstanding, the majority of the electors are convinced that Free Trade is not for their benefit, it does appear to me a most monstrous thing that they are to be coerced into receiving it by the infusion of a new element into the Constitution, or a forcible change in the distribution of the electoral power, to suit the commercial views which are in favour with the Whig party. It is, in short, a most circuitous method of exercising despotic power; and I, for one, having the interests of the country at heart, would much prefer the institution at once of a pure despotism, and submit to be ruled and taxed henceforward at the sweet will of the scion of the house of Russell.

I do not know what your individual sentiments may be on the subject of Free Trade; but whether you are for it or against it, my argument remains the same. It is essentially a question for the solution of the electoral body; and if the Whigs are right in their averment that its operation hitherto has been attended with marked success, and has even transcended the expectation of its promoters, you may rely upon it that there is no power in the British Empire which can overthrow it. No Protectionist ravings can damage a system which has been productive of real advantage to the great bulk of the people. But if, on the contrary, it is a bad system, is it to be endured that any man or body of men shall attempt to perpetuate it against the will of the majority of the electors, by a change in the representation of the country? I ask you this as a Liberal. Without having any undue diffidence in the soundness of your own judgment, I presume you do not, like his Holiness the Pope, consider yourself infallible, or entitled to coerce others who may differ from you in opinion. Yet this is precisely what Lord John Russell is now attempting to do; and I warn you and others who are similarly situated, to be wise in time, and to take care lest, under the operation of this new Reform Bill, you are not stripped of that political power and those political privileges which at present you enjoy.

Don't suppose that I am speaking rashly or without consideration. All I know touching this new Reform Bill, is derived from the arguments and proposals which have been advanced and made by the Liberal press in consequence of the late indications of public feeling, as manifested by the result of recent elections. It is rather remarkable that we heard few or no proposals for an alteration in the electoral system, until it became apparent that the voice of the boroughs could no longer be depended on for the maintenance of the present commercial policy. You may recollect that the earliest of the victories which were achieved by the Protectionists, with respect to vacant seats in the House of Commons, were treated lightly by their opponents as mere casualties; but when borough after borough deliberately renounced its adherence to the cause of the League, and, not unfrequently under circumstances of very marked significance, declared openly in favour of Protection, the matter became serious. It was _then_, and then only, that we heard the necessity for some new and sweeping change in the representation of this country broadly asserted; and, singularly enough, the advocates of that change do not attempt to disguise their motives. They do not venture to say that the intelligence of the country is not adequately represented at present--what they complain of is, that the intelligence of the country is becoming every day more hostile to their commercial theories. In short, they want to get rid of that intelligence, and must get rid of it speedily, unless their system is to crumble to pieces. Such is their aim and declared object; and if you entertain any doubts on the matter, I beg leave to refer you to the recorded sentiments of the leading Ministerial and Free-trade organ--the _Times_. It is always instructive to notice the hints of the Thunderer. The writers in that journal are fully alive to the nature of the coming crisis. They have been long aware of the reaction which has taken place throughout the country on the subject of Free Trade, and they recognise distinctly the peril in which their favourite principle is placed, if some violent means are not used to counteract the conviction of the electoral body. They see that, in the event of a general election, the constituencies of the Empire are not likely to return a verdict hostile to the domestic interests of the country. They have watched with careful and anxious eyes the turning tide of opinion; and they can devise no means of arresting it, without having recourse to that peculiar mode of manipulation, which is dignified by the name of Burking. Let us hear what they say so late as the 21st of July last.

"With such a prospect before us, with unknown struggles and unprecedented collisions within the bounds of possibility, there is only one resource, and we must say that Her Majesty's present advisers will be answerable for the consequences if they do not adopt it. They must lay the foundation of an appeal to the people with a large and liberal measure of Parliamentary reform. It is high time that this great country should cease to quake and to quail at the decisions of stupid and corrupt little constituencies, of whom, as in the case before us, it would take thirty to make one metropolitan borough. The great question always before the nation in one shape or another is--whether _the people_ are as happy as laws can make them? To what sort of constituencies shall we appeal for the answer to this question? To Harwich with its population of 3370; to St Albans with its population of 6246; to Scarborough with its population of 9953; to Knaresborough with its population of 5382; and to a score other places still more insignificant? Or shall we insist on the appeal being made to much larger bodies? The average population of boroughs and counties is more than 60,000. Is it not high time to require that no single borough shall fall below half or a third of that number?"

The meaning of this is clear enough. It points, if not to the absolute annihilation, most certainly to the concretion of the smaller boroughs throughout England--to an entire remarshalling of the electoral ranks--and, above all, to an enormous increase in the representation of the larger cities. In this way, you see, local interests will be made almost entirely to disappear; and London alone will secure almost as many representatives in Parliament as are at the present time returned for the whole kingdom of Scotland. Now, I confess to you, Provost, that I do not feel greatly exhilarated at the prospect of any such change. I believe that the prosperity of Great Britain depends upon the maintenance of many interests, and I cannot see how that can be secured if we are to deliver over the whole political power to the masses congregated within the towns. Moreover, I would very humbly remark, that past experience is little calculated to increase the measure of our faith in the wisdom or judgment of large constituencies. I may be wrong in my estimate of the talent and abilities of the several honourable members who at present sit for London and the adjacent districts; but, if so, I am only one out of many who labour under a similar delusion. We are told by the _Times_ to look to Marylebone as an example of a large and enlightened constituency. I obey the mandate; and on referring to the Parliamentary Companion, I find that Marylebone is represented by Lord Dudley Stuart and Sir Benjamin Hall. That fact does not, in my humble opinion, furnish a conclusive argument in favour of large constituencies. As I wish to avoid the Jew question, I shall say nothing about Baron Rothschild; but passing over to the Tower Hamlets, I find them in possession of Thomson and Clay; Lambeth rejoicing in d'Eyncourt and Williams; and Southwark in Humphrey and Molesworth. Capable senators though these may be, I should not like to see a Parliament composed entirely of men of their kidney; nor do I think that they afford undoubted materials for the construction of a new Cabinet.

But perhaps I am undervaluing the abilities of these gentlemen; perhaps I am doing injustice to the discretion and wisdom of the metropolitan constituencies. Anxious to avoid any such imputation, I shall again invoke the assistance of the _Times_, whom I now cite as a witness, and a very powerful one, upon my side of the question. Let us hear the Thunderer on the subject of these same metropolitan constituencies, just twelve months ago, before Scarborough and Knaresborough had disgraced themselves by returning Protectionists to Parliament. I quote from a leader in the _Times_ of 8th August 1850, referring to the Lambeth election, when Mr Williams was returned.

"When it was proposed some twenty years ago to extend the franchise to the metropolitan boroughs, the presumption was, that the quality of the representatives would bear something like a proportion to the importance of the constituencies called into play. In other words, if the political axioms from which the principle of an extended representation is deduced have any foundation in reality, it should follow that the most numerous and most intelligent bodies of electors would return to Parliament members of the highest mark for character and capacity. Now, looking at the condition of the metropolitan representation as it stands at present, or as it has stood any time since the passing of the Reform Bill, has this expectation been fulfilled? Lord John Russell, the First Minister of the Crown, sits, indeed, as member for the city of London, and so far it is well. Whatever difference of opinion may exist as to the noble lord's capacity for government, or whatever may be the views of this or that political party, it is beyond all dispute that, in such a case as this, there is dignity and fitness in the relation between the member and the constituency. But, setting aside this one solitary instance, with what metropolitan borough is the name of any very eminent Englishman associated at the present time? It is of course as contrary to our inclination as it would be unnecessary for the purposes of the argument, to quote this or that man's name as an actual illustration of the failure of a system, or of the decadence of a constituency. We would, however, without any invidious or offensive personality, invite attention to the present list of metropolitan members, and ask what name is to be found among them, with the single exception we have named, which is borne by a man with a shadow of a pretension to be reckoned as among the leading Englishmen of the age?"

You see, Provost, I am by no means singular in my estimate of the quality of the metropolitan representatives. The _Times_ is with me, or was with me twelve months ago; and I suppose it will hardly be averred that, since that time, any enormous increase of wisdom or of ability has been manifested by the gentlemen referred to. But there is rather more than this. In the article from which I am quoting, the writer does not confine his strictures simply to the metropolitan boroughs. He goes a great deal further, for he attacks large constituencies in the mass, and points out very well and forcibly the evils which must inevitably follow should these obtain an accession to their power. Read, mark, and perpend the following paragraphs, and then reconcile their tenor--if you can--with the later proposals from the same quarter for the general suppression of small constituencies, and the establishment of larger tribunals of public opinion.

"Lambeth, then, on the occasion of the present election, is likely to become another illustration of the downward tendencies of the metropolitan constituencies. We use the word 'tendency' advisedly, for matters are worse than they have been, and we can perceive no symptom of a turning tide. Let us leave the names of individuals aside, and simply consider the metropolitan members as a body, and what is their main employment in the House of Commons? _Is it not mainly to represent the selfish interests and blind prejudices of the less patriotic or less enlightened portion of their constituents whenever any change is proposed manifestly for the public benefit?_ Looking at their votes, one would suppose a metropolitan member to be rather a Parliamentary agent of the drovers, and sextons, and undertakers, than a representative of one of the most important constituencies in the kingdom. Is this downward progress of the metropolitan representation to remain unchanged? Will it be extended to other constituencies as soon as they shall be brought under conditions analogous to those under which the metropolitan electors exercise the franchise? The question is of no small interest. Whether the fault be with the electors, or with those who should have the nerve to come forward and demand their suffrages, matters not for the purposes of the argument. The fact remains unaltered. Supposing England throughout its area were represented as the various boroughs of the metropolis are represented at the present time, what would be the effect? That is the point for consideration. It may well be that men of higher character, and of more distinguished intellectual qualifications, would readily attract the sympathies and secure the votes of these constituencies; but what does their absence prove? _Simply that the same feeling of unwillingness to face large electoral bodies, which is said to prevail in the United States, is gradually rising up in this country._ On the other side of the Atlantic, we are told by all who know the country best, that the most distinguished citizens shrink from stepping forward on the arena of public life, lest they be made the mark for calumny and abuse. It would require more space than we can devote to the subject to point out the correlative shortcomings of the constituencies and the candidates; but, leaving these aside, _we cannot but arrive at the conclusion that there is something in the constitution of these great electoral masses which renders a peaceful majority little better than a passive instrument in the hands of a turbulent minority_, and affords an explanation of the fact that such a person as Mr Williams should aspire to represent the borough of Lambeth."

What do you think of that, Provost, by way of an argument in favour of large constituencies? I agree with every word of it. I believe, in common with the eloquent writer, that matters are growing worse instead of better, and that there is something radically wrong in the constitution of these great electoral masses. I believe that they do not represent the real intelligence of the electors, and that they are liable to all those objections which are here so well and forcibly urged. It is not necessary to travel quite so far as London for an illustration. Look at Glasgow. Have the twelve thousand and odd electors of that great commercial and manufacturing city covered themselves with undying glory by their choice of their present representatives? Is the intelligence of the first commercial city in Scotland really embodied in the person of Mr M'Gregor? I should be very loth to think so. Far be it from me to impugn the propriety of any particular choice, or to speculate upon coming events; but I cannot help wondering whether, in the event of the suppression of some of the smaller burghs, and the transference of their power to the larger cities, it may come to pass that the city of St Mungo shall be represented by the wisdom of six M'Gregors? I repeat, that I wish to say nothing in disparagement of large urban constituencies, or of their choice in any one particular case--I simply desire to draw your attention to the fact, that we are not indebted to such constituencies for returning the men who, by common consent, are admitted to be the most valuable members, in point of talent, ability, and business habits, in the House of Commons. How far we should improve the character of our legislative assembly, by disfranchising smaller constituencies, and transferring their privileges to the larger ones,--open to such serious objections as have been urged against them by the _Times_, a journal not likely to err on the side of undervaluing popular opinion--appears to me a question decidedly open to discussion; and I hope that it will be discussed, pretty broadly and extensively, before any active steps are taken for suppressing boroughs which are not open to the charge of rank venality and corruption.

The _Times_, you observe, talks in its more recent article, in which totally opposite views are advocated, of "stupid and corrupt little constituencies." This is a clever way of mixing up two distinct and separate matters. We all know what is meant by corruption, and I hope none of us are in favour of it. It means the purchase, either by money or promises, of the suffrages of those who are intrusted with the electoral franchise; and I am quite ready to join with the _Times_ in the most hearty denunciation of such villanous practices, whether used by Jew or Gentile. It may be, and probably is, impossible to prevent bribery altogether, for there are scoundrels in all constituencies; and if a candidate with a long purse is so lax in his morals as to hint at the purchase of votes, he is tolerably certain to find a market in which these commodities are sold. But if, in any case, general corruption can be proved against a borough, it ought to be forthwith disfranchised, and declared unworthy of exercising so important a public privilege. But of the "stupidity" of constituencies, who are to be the judges? Not, I hope, the Areopagites of the _Times_, else we may expect to see every constituency which does not pronounce in favour of Free Trade, placed under the general extinguisher! Scarborough, with some seven or eight hundred electors--a good many more, by the way, than are on the roll for the Dreepdaily burghs--has, in the opinion of the _Times_, stultified itself for ever by returning Mr George F. Young to Parliament, instead of a Whig lordling, who possessed great local influence. Therefore Scarborough is put down in the black list, not because it is "corrupt," but because it is "stupid," in having elected a gentleman of the highest political celebrity, who is at the same time one of the most extensive shipowners of Great Britain! I put it to you, Provost, whether this is not as cool an instance of audacity as you ever heard of. What would you think if it were openly proposed, upon our side, to disfranchise Greenwich, because the tea-and-shrimp population of that virtuous town has committed the stupid act of returning a Jew to Parliament? If stupidity is to go for anything in the way of cancelling privileges, I think I could name to you some half-dozen places on this side of the border which are in evident danger, at least if we are to accept the attainments of the representatives as any test of the mental acquirements of the electors; but perhaps it is better to avoid particulars in a matter so personal and delicate.

I am not in the least degree surprised to find the Free-Traders turning round against the boroughs. Four years ago, you would certainly have laughed in the face of any one who might have prophesied such a result; but since then, times have altered. The grand experiment upon native industry has been made, and allowed to go on without check or impediment. The Free-Traders have had it all their own way; and if there had been one iota of truth in their statements, or if their calculations had been based upon secure and rational data, they must long ago have achieved a complete moral triumph. Pray, remember what they told us. They said that Free Trade in corn and in cattle would not permanently _lower_ the value of agricultural produce in Britain--it would only steady prices, and prevent extreme fluctuations. Then, again, we were assured that large imports from any part of the world could not by possibility be obtained; and those consummate blockheads, the statists, offered to prove by figures, that a deluge of foreign grain was as impossible as an overflow of the Mediterranean. I need not tell you that the results have entirely falsified such predictions, and that the agricultural interest has ever since been suffering under the effects of unexampled depression. No man denies that. The stiffest stickler for the cheap loaf does not venture now to assert that agriculture is a profitable profession in Britain; all he can do is to recommend economy, and to utter a hypocritical prayer, that the prosperity which he assumes to exist in other quarters may, at no distant date, and through some mysterious process which he cannot specify, extend itself to the suffering millions who depend for their subsistence on the produce of the soil of Britain, and who pay by far the largest share of the taxes and burdens of the kingdom.

Now, it is perfectly obvious that agricultural distress, by which I mean the continuance of a range of unremunerative prices, cannot long prevail in any district, without affecting the traffic of the towns. You, who are an extensive retail merchant in Dreepdaily, know well that the business of your own trade depends in a great degree upon the state of the produce markets. So long as the farmer is thriving, he buys from you and your neighbours liberally, and you find him, I have no doubt, your best and steadiest customer. But if you reverse his circumstances, you must look for a corresponding change in his dealings. He cannot afford to purchase silks for his wife and daughters, as formerly; he grows penurious in his own personal expenditure, and denies himself every unnecessary luxury; he does nothing for the good of trade, and is impassable to all the temptations which you endeavour to throw in his way. To post your ledger is now no very difficult task. You find last year's stock remaining steadily on your hands; and when the season for the annual visit of the bagmen comes round, you dismiss them from your premises without gratifying their avidity by an order. This is a faithful picture of what has been going on for two years, at least, in the smaller inland boroughs. No doubt you are getting your bread cheap; but those whose importations have brought about that cheapness, never were, and never can be, customers of yours. Even supposing that they were to take goods in exchange for their imported grain, no profit or custom could accrue to the retail shopkeeper, who must necessarily look to the people around him for the consumption of his wares. In this way trade has been made to stagnate, and profits have of course declined, until the tradesmen, weary of awaiting the advent of a prosperity which never arrives, have come to the conclusion, that they will best consult their interest by giving their support to a policy the reverse of that which has crippled the great body of their customers.

Watering-places, and towns of fashionable resort, have suffered in a like degree. The gentry, whose rents have been most seriously affected by the unnatural diminution of prices, are compelled to curtail their expenditure, and to deny themselves many things which formerly would have been esteemed legitimate indulgences. Economy is the order Of the day: equipages are given up, servants dismissed, and old furniture made to last beyond its appointed time. These things, I most freely admit, are no great hardships to the gentry; nor do I intend to awaken your compassion in behalf of the squire, who, by reason of his contracted rent-roll, has been compelled to part with his carriage and a couple of footmen, and to refuse his wife and daughters the pleasure of a trip to Cheltenham. The hardship lies elsewhere. I pity the footmen, the coach-builder, the upholsterer, the house proprietor in Cheltenham, and all the other people to whom the surplus of the squire's revenue found its way, much more than the old gentleman himself. I daresay he is quite as happy at home--perhaps far happier--than if he were compelled to racket elsewhere; and sure I am that he will not consume his dinner with less appetite because he lacks the attendance of a couple of knaves, with heads like full-blown cauliflowers. But is it consistent with the workings of human nature to expect that the people to whom he formerly gave employment and custom, let us say to the extent of a couple of thousand pounds, can be gratified by the cessation of that expenditure?--or is it possible to suppose that they will remain enamoured of a system which has caused them so heavy a loss? View the subject in this light, and you can have no difficulty in understanding why this formidable reaction has taken place in the English boroughs. It is simply a question of the pocket; and the electors now see, that unless the boroughs are to be left to rapid decay, something must be done to protect and foster that industry upon which they all depend. Such facts, which are open and patent to every man's experience, and tell upon his income and expenditure, are worth whole cargoes of theory. What reason has the trader, whose stock is remaining unsold upon his hands, to plume himself, because he is assured by Mr Porter, or some other similar authority, that some hundred thousand additional yards of flimsy calico have been shipped from the British shores in the course of the last twelve months? So far as the shopkeeper is concerned, the author of the _Progress of the Nation_ might as well have been reporting upon the traffic-tables of Tyre and Sidon. He is not even assured that all this export has been accompanied with a profit to the manufacturer. If he reads the _Economist_, he will find that exhilarating print filled with complaints of general distress and want of demand; he will be startled from time to time by the announcement that in some places, such as Dundee, trade has experienced a most decided check; or that in others, such as Nottingham and Leicester, the operatives are applying by hundreds for admission to the workhouse! Comfortable intelligence this, alongside of increasing exports! But he has been taught, to borrow a phrase from the writings of the late John Galt, to look upon your political arithmetician as "a mystery shrouded by a halo;" and he supposes that, somehow or other, somebody must be the gainer by all these exports, though it seems clearly impossible to specify the fortunate individual. However, this he knows, to his cost any time these three years back, that _he_ has not been the gainer; and, as he opines very justly that charity begins at home, and that the man who neglects the interest of his own family is rather worse than a heathen, he has made up his mind to support such candidates only as will stand by British industry, and protect him by means of protecting others. As for the men of the maritime boroughs--a large and influential class--I need not touch upon their feelings or sentiments with regard to Free Trade. I observe that the Liberal press, with peculiar taste and felicity of expression, designates them by the generic term of "crimps," just as it used to compliment the whole agriculturists of Britain by the comprehensive appellation of "chawbacons." I trust they feel the compliment so delicately conveyed; but, after all, it matters little. Hard words break no bones; and, in the mean time at least, the vote of a "crimp" is quite as good as that of the concocter of a paragraph.

Perhaps now you understand why the Free-Traders are so wroth against the boroughs. They expected to play off the latter against the county constituencies; and, being disappointed in that, they want to swamp them altogether. This, I must own, strikes me as particularly unfair. Let it be granted that a large number of the smaller boroughs did, at the last general election, manifest a decided wish that the Free Trade experiment, then begun, should be allowed a fair trial; are they to be held so pledged to that commercial system, that, however disastrous may have been its results, they are not entitled to alter their minds? Are all the representations, promises, and prophecies of the leading advocates of Free Trade, to be set aside as if these were never uttered or written? Who were the cozeners in this case? Clearly the men who boasted of the enormous advantages which were immediately to arise from their policy--advantages whereof, up to the present moment, not a single glimpse has been vouchsafed. Free Trade, we were distinctly told, was to benefit the boroughs. Free Trade has done nothing of the kind; on the contrary, it has reduced their business and lowered their importance. And now, when this effect has become so plain and undeniable that the very men who subscribed to the funds of the League, and who were foremost in defending the conduct of the late Sir Robert Peel, are sending Protectionists to Parliament, it is calmly proposed to neutralise their conversion by depriving them of political power!

Under the circumstances, I do not know that the Free-Traders could have hit upon a happier scheme. The grand tendency of their system is centralisation. They want to drive everything--paupers alone excepted, if they could by possibility compass that fortunate immunity--into the larger towns, which are the seats of export manufacture, and to leave the rest of the population to take care of themselves. You see how they have succeeded in Ireland, by the reports of the last census. They are doing the same thing in Scotland, as we shall ere long discover to our cost; and, indeed, the process is going on slowly, but surely, throughout the whole of the British islands. I chanced the other day to light upon a passage in a very dreary article in the last number of the _Edinburgh Review_, which seems to me to embody the chief economical doctrines of the gentlemen to whom we are indebted for the present posture of affairs. It is as follows:--

"The common watchword, or cuckoo-note of the advocates of restriction in affairs of trade is, 'Protection to Native Industry.' In the principle fairly involved in this motto we cordially agree. We are as anxious as the most vehement advocate for high import duties on foreign products can be, that the industry of our fellow-countrymen should be protected(!) We only differ as to the means. Their theory of protection is to guard against competition those branches of industry which, without such extraneous help, could never be successfully pursued: ours, is that of enlarging, to the uttermost, those other branches for the prosecution of which our countrymen possess the greatest aptitude, and of thereby securing for their skill and capital the greatest return. This protection is best afforded by governments when they leave, without interference, the productive industry of the country to find its true level; for we may be certain that the interest of individuals will always lead them to prefer those pursuits which they find most gainful. There is, in fact, no mode of interference with entire freedom of action which must not be, in some degree, hurtful; but _the mischief which follows upon legislation in affairs of trade, in any given country, is then most noxious when it tends to foster branches of industry for which other countries have a greater aptitude_."

You will, I think, find some difficulty in discovering the protective principle enunciated by this sagacious scribe, who, like many others of his limited calibre, is fain to take refuge in nonsense when he cannot extricate his meaning. You may also, very reasonably, entertain doubts whether the protective theory, which our friend of the Blue and Yellow puts into the mouth of his opponents, was ever entertained or promulgated by any rational being, at least in the broad sense which he wishes to imply. The true protective theory has reference to the State burdens, which, in so far as they are exacted from the produce of native industry, or, in other words, from labour, we wish to see counterbalanced by a fair import-duty, which shall reduce the foreign and the native producer to an equality in the home market. When the reviewer talks of the non-interference of Government with regard to the productive industry of the country, he altogether omits mention of that most stringent interference which is the direct result of taxation. If the farmer were allowed to till the ground, to sow the seed, and to reap the harvest, without any interference from Government, then I admit at once that a demand for protection would be preposterous. But when Government requires him to pay income-tax, assessed taxes, church and poor-rates, besides other direct burdens, out of the fruit of his industry--when it prevents him from growing on his own land several kinds of crop, in order that the customs revenue may be maintained--when it taxes indirectly his tea, coffee, wines, spirits, tobacco, soap, and spiceries--then I say that Government _does_ interfere, and that most unmercifully, with the productive industry of the country. Just suppose that, by recurring to a primitive method of taxation, the Government should lay claim to one-third of the proceeds of every crop, and instruct its emissaries to remove it from the ground before another acre should be reaped--would _that_ not constitute interference in the eyes of the sapient reviewer? Well, then, since all taxes must ultimately be paid out of produce, what difference does the mere method of levying the burden make with regard to the burden itself? I call your attention to this point, because the Free-Traders invariably, but I fear wilfully, omit all mention of artificial taxation when they talk of artificial restrictions. They want you to believe that we, who maintain the opposite view, seek to establish an entire monopoly in Great Britain of all kinds of possible produce; and they are in the habit of putting asinine queries as to the propriety of raising the duties on foreign wine, so as to encourage the establishment of vineyards in Kent and Sussex, and also as to the proper protective duty which should be levied on pine-apples, in order that a due stimulus may be given to the cultivation of that luscious fruit. But these funny fellows take especial care never to hint to you that protection is and was demanded simply on account of the enormous nature of our imposts, which have the effect of raising the rates of labour. It is in this way, and no other, that agriculture, deprived of protection, but still subjected to taxation, has become an unremunerative branch of industry; and you observe how calmly the disciple of Ricardo condemns it to destruction. "The mischief," quoth he, "which follows upon legislation in affairs of trade, in any given country, is then most noxious when it tends to foster branches of industry for which other countries have a greater aptitude." So, then, having taxed agriculture to that point when it can no longer bear the burden, we are, for the future, to draw our supplies from "other countries which have a greater aptitude" for growing corn; that aptitude consisting in their comparative immunity from taxation, and in the degraded moral and social condition of the serfs who constitute the tillers of the soil! We are to give up cultivation, and apply ourselves to the task "of enlarging to the uttermost those other branches, for the prosecution of which our countrymen possess the greatest aptitude"--by which, I presume, is meant the manufacture of cotton-twist!

Now, then, consider for a moment what is the natural, nay, the inevitable effect of this narrowing of the range of employment. I shall not start the important point whether the concentration of labour does not tend to lower wages--I shall merely assume, what is indeed already abundantly established by facts, that the depression of agriculture in any district leads almost immediately to a large increase in the population of the greater towns. Places like Dreepdaily may remain stationary, but they do not receive any material increment to their population. You have, I believe, no export trade, at least very little, beyond the manufacture of an ingenious description of snuff-box, justly prized by those who are in the habit of stimulating their nostrils. The displaced stream of labour passes through you, but does not tarry with you--it rolls on towards Paisley and Glasgow, where it is absorbed in the living ocean. Year after year the same process is carried on. The older people, probably because it is not worth while at their years to attempt a change, tarry in their little villages and cots, and gradually acquire that appearance of utter apathy, which is perhaps the saddest aspect of humanity. The younger people, finding no employment at home, repair to the towns, marry or do worse, and propagate children for the service of the factories which are dedicated to the export trade. Of education they receive little or nothing; for they must be in attendance on their gaunt iron master during the whole of their waking hours; and religion seeks after them in vain. What wonder, then, if the condition of our operatives should be such as to suggest to thinking minds very serious doubts whether our boasted civilisation can be regarded in the light of a blessing? Certain it is that the bulk of these classes are neither better nor happier than their forefathers. Nay, if there be any truth in evidence--any reality in the appalling accounts which reach us from the heart of the towns, there exists an amount of crime, misery, drunkenness, and profligacy, which is unknown even among savages and heathen nations. Were we to recall from the four ends of the earth all the missionaries who have been despatched from the various churches, they would find more than sufficient work ready for them at home. Well-meaning men project sanitary improvements, as if these could avail to counteract the moral poison. New churches are built; new schools are founded; public baths are subscribed for, and public washing-houses are opened; the old rookeries are pulled down, and light and air admitted to the heart of the cities--but the heart of the people is not changed; and neither air nor water, nor religious warning, has the effect of checking crime, eradicating intemperance, or teaching man the duty which he owes to himself, his brethren, and his God! This is an awful picture, but it is a true one; and it well becomes us to consider why these things should be. There is no lukewarmness on the subject exhibited in any quarter. The evil is universally acknowledged, and every one would be ready to contribute to alleviate it, could a proper remedy be suggested. It is not my province to suggest remedies; but it does appear to me that the original fault is to be found in the system which has caused this unnatural pressure of our population into the towns. I am aware that in saying this, I am impugning the leading doctrines of modern political economy. I am aware that I am uttering what will be considered by many as a rank political heresy; still, not having the fear of fire and fagot before my eyes, I shall use the liberty of speech. It appears to me that the system which has been more or less adopted since the days of Mr Huskisson, of suppressing small trades for the encouragement of foreign importation, and of stimulating export manufactures to the uttermost, has proved very pernicious to the morals and the social condition of the people. The termination of the war found us with a large population, and with an enormous debt. If, on the one hand, it was for the advantage of the country that commerce should progress with rapid strides, and that our foreign trade should be augmented, it was, on the other, no less necessary that due regard should be had for the former occupations of the people, and that no great and violent displacements of labour should be occasioned, by fiscal relaxations which might have the effect of supplanting home industry by foreign produce in the British market. The mistake of the political economists lies in their obstinate determination to enforce a principle, which in the abstract is not only unobjectionable but unchallenged, without any regard whatever to the peculiar and pecuniary circumstances of the country. They will not look at what has gone before, in order to determine their line of conduct in any particular case. They admit of no exceptions. They start with their axiom that trade ought to be free, and they will not listen to any argument founded upon special circumstances in opposition to that doctrine. Now, this is not the way in which men have been, or ever can be, governed. They must be dealt with as rational beings, not regarded as mere senseless machinery, which may be treated as lumber, and cast aside to make way for some new improvement. Look at the case of our own Highlanders. We know very well that, from the commencement of the American war, it was considered by the British Government an important object to maintain the population of the Highlands, as the source from which they drew their hardiest and most serviceable recruits. So long as the manufacture of kelp existed, and the breeding of cattle was profitable, there was little difficulty in doing this; now, under this new commercial system, we are told that the population is infinitely too large for the natural resources of the country; we are shocked by accounts of periodical famine, and of deaths occurring from starvation; and our economists declare that there is no remedy except a general emigration of the inhabitants. This is the extreme case in Great Britain; but extreme cases often furnish us with the best tests of the operation of a particular system. Here you have a population fostered for an especial purpose, and abandoned so soon as that special purpose has been served. Without maintaining that the Gael is the most industrious of mankind, it strikes me forcibly that it would be a better national policy to give every reasonable encouragement to the development of the natural resources of that portion of the British islands, than to pursue the opposite system, and to reduce the Highlands to a wilderness. Not so think the political economists. They can derive their supplies cheaper from elsewhere, at the hands of strangers who contribute no share whatever to the national revenue; and for the sake of that cheapness they are content to reduce thousands of their countrymen to beggary. But emigration cannot, and will not, be carried out to an extent at all equal to the necessity which is engendered by the cessation of employment. The towns become the great centre-points and recipients of the displaced population; and so centralisation goes on, and, as a matter of course, pauperism and crime increase.

To render this system perpetual, without any regard to ultimate consequences, is the leading object of the Free-Traders. Not converted, but on the contrary rendered more inveterate by the failure of their schemes, they are determined to allow no consideration whatever to stand in the way of their purpose; and of this you have a splendid instance in their late denunciation of the boroughs. They think--whether rightfully or wrongfully, it is not now necessary to inquire--that, by altering the proportions of Parliamentary power as established by the Reform Act--by taking away from the smaller boroughs, and by adding to the urban constituencies, they will still be able to command a majority in the House of Commons. In the present temper of the nation, and so long as its voice is expressed as heretofore, they know, feel, and admit that their policy is not secure. And why is it not secure? Simply because it has undergone the test of experience--because it has had a fair trial in the sight of the nation--and because it has not succeeded in realising the expectations of its founders.

I have ventured to throw together these few crude remarks for your consideration during the recess, being quite satisfied that you will not feel indifferent upon any subject which touches the dignity, status, or privileges of the boroughs. Whether Lord John Russell agrees with the _Times_ as to the mode of effecting the threatened Parliamentary change, or whether he has some separate scheme of his own, is a question which I cannot solve. Possibly he has not yet made up his mind as to the course which it may be most advisable to pursue; for, in the absence of anything like general excitement or agitation, it is not easy to predict in what manner the proposal for any sweeping or organic change may be received by the constituencies of the Empire. There is far too much truth in the observations which I have already quoted from the great leading journal, relative to the dangers which must attend an increase of constituencies already too large, or a further extension of their power, to permit of our considering this as a light and unimportant matter. I view it as a very serious one indeed; and I cannot help thinking that Lord John Russell has committed an act of gross and unjustifiable rashness, in pledging himself, at the present time, to undertake a remodelment of the constitution. But whatever he does, I hope, for his own sake, and for the credit of the Liberal party, that he will be able to assign some better and more constitutional reason for the change, than the refusal of the English boroughs to bear arms in the crusade which is directed against the interests of Native Industry.

PARIS IN 1851.--(_Continued._)

THE OPERA.--In the evening I went to the French Opera, which is still one of the lions of Paris. It was once in the Rue Richelieu; but the atrocious assassination of the Duc de Berri, who was stabbed in its porch, threw a kind of horror over the spot: the theatre was closed, and the performance moved to its present site in the Rue Lepelletier, a street diverging from the Boulevard.

Fond as the French are of decoration, the architecture of this building possesses no peculiar beauty, and would answer equally well for a substantial public hospital, a workhouse, or a barrack, if the latter were not the more readily suggested by the gendarmerie loitering about the doors, and the mounted dragoons at either end of the street.

The passages of the interior are of the same character--spacious and substantial; but the door of the _salle_ opens, and the stranger, at a single step, enters from those murky passages into all the magic of a crowded theatre. The French have, within these few years, borrowed from us the art of lighting theatres. I recollect the French theatre lighted only by a few lamps scattered round the house, or a chandelier in the middle, which might have figured in the crypt of a cathedral. This they excused, as giving greater effect to the stage; but it threw the audience into utter gloom. They have now made the audience a part of the picture, and an indispensable part. The opera-house now shows the audience; and if not very dressy, or rather as dowdy, odd, and dishevelled a crowd as I ever recollect to have seen within theatrical walls, yet they are evidently human beings, which is much more picturesque than masses of spectres, seen only by an occasional flash from the stage.

The French architects certainly have not made this national edifice grand; but they have made it a much better thing,--lively, showy, and rich. Neither majestic and monotonous, nor grand and Gothic, they have made it _riant_ and racy, like a place where men and women come to be happy, where beautiful dancers are to be seen, and where sweet songs are to be heard, and where the mind is for three or four hours to forget all its cares, and to carry away pleasant recollections for the time being. From pit to ceiling it is covered with paintings--all sorts of cupids, nymphs, and flower-garlands, and Greek urns--none of them wonders of the pencil, but all exhibiting that showy mediocrity of which every Frenchman is capable, and with which every Frenchman is in raptures. All looks rich, warm, and _operatic_.

One characteristic change has struck me everywhere in Paris--the men dress better, and the women worse. When I was last here, the men dressed half bandit and half Hottentot. The revolutionary mystery was at work, and the hatred of the Bourbons was emblematised in a conical hat, a loose neckcloth, tremendous trousers, and the scowl of a stage conspirator. The Parisian men have since learned the decencies of _dress_.

As I entered the house before the rising of the curtain, I had leisure to look about me, and I found even in the audience a strong contrast to those of London. By that kind of contradiction to everything rational and English which governs the Parisian, the women seem to choose _dishabille_ for the Opera.

As the house was crowded, and the boxes are let high, and the performance of the night was popular, I might presume that some of the _élite_ were present, yet I never saw so many _ill-dressed_ women under one roof. Bonnets, shawls, muffles of all kinds, were the _costume_. How different from the finish, the splendour, and the _fashion_ of the English opera-box. I saw hundreds of women who appeared, by their dress, scarcely above the rank of shopkeepers, yet, who probably were among the Parisian leaders of fashion, if in republican Paris there are _any_ leaders of fashion.

But I came to be interested, to enjoy, to indulge in a feast of music and acting; with no fastidiousness of criticism, and with every inclination to be gratified. In the opera itself I was utterly disappointed. The Opera was _Zerline_, or, _The Basket of Oranges_. The composer was the first living musician of France, Auber; the writer was the most popular dramatist of his day, Scribe; the Prima Donna was Alboni, to whom the manager of the Opera in London had not thought it too much to give £4000 for a single season. I never paid my francs with more willing expectation: and I never saw a performance of which I so soon got weary.

The plot is singularly trifling. Zerline, an orange-girl of Palermo, has had a daughter by Boccanera, a man of rank, who afterwards becomes Viceroy of Sicily. Zerline is captured by pirates, and carried to Algiers. The opera opens with her return to Palermo, after so many years that her daughter is grown up to womanhood; and Boccanera is emerged into public life, and has gradually became an officer of state.

The commencing scene has all the animation of the French picturesque. The Port of Palermo is before the spectator; the location is the Fruit Market. Masses of fruits, with smart peasantry to take care of them, cover the front of the stage. The background is filled up with Lazzaroni lying on the ground, sleeping, or eating macaroni. The Prince Boccanera comes from the palace; the crowd observe 'Son air sombre;' the Prince sings--

"On a most unlucky day, Satan threw her in my way; I the princess took to wife, Now the torture of my life," &c.

After this matrimonial confession, which extends to details, the prime minister tells us of his love still existing for Zerline, whose daughter he has educated under the name of niece, and who is now the Princess Gemma, and about to be married to a court noble.

A ship approaches the harbour; Boccanera disappears; the Lazzaroni hasten to discharge the cargo. Zerline lands from the vessel, and sings a cavatina in praise of Palermo:--

"O Palerme! O Sicile! Beau ciel, plaine fertile!"

Zerline is a dealer in oranges, and she lands her cargo, placing it in the market. The original tenants of the place dispute her right to come among them, and are about to expel her by force, when a marine officer, Rodolf, takes her part, and, drawing his sword, puts the whole crowd to flight. Zerline, moved by this instance of heroism, tells him her story, that she was coming "un beau matin" to the city to sell oranges, when a pitiless corsair captured her, and carried her to Africa, separating her from her child, whom she had not seen for fifteen years; that she escaped to Malta, laid in a stock of oranges there;--and thus the events of the day occurred. Rodolf, this young hero, is costumed in a tie-wig with powder, stiff skirts, and the dress of a century ago. What tempted the author to put not merely his hero, but all his court characters, into the costume of Queen Anne, is not easily conceivable, as there is nothing in the story which limits it in point of time.

Zerline looks after him with sudden sympathy, says that she heard him sigh, that he must be unhappy, and that, if her daughter lives, he is just the _husband_ for her,--Zerline not having been particular as to marriage herself. She then rambles about the streets, singing,

"Achetez mes belles oranges, Des fruits divins, des fruits exquis; Des oranges comme les anges N'en _goutent pas en Paradis_."

After this "hommage aux oranges!" to the discredit of Paradise, on which turns the plot of the play, a succession of maids of honour appear, clad in the same unfortunate livery of fardingales, enormous flat hats, powdered wigs, and stomachers. The Princess follows them, apparently armed by her costume against all the assaults of Cupid. But she, too, has an "affaire du cœur" upon her hands. In fact, from the Orangewoman up to the Throne, Cupid is the Lord of Palermo, with its "beau ciel, plaine fertile." The object of the Princess's love is the Marquis de Buttura, the suitor of her husband's supposed niece. Here is a complication! The enamoured wife receives a billet-doux from the suitor, proposing a meeting on his return from hunting. She tears the billet for the purpose of concealment, and in her emotion drops the fragments on the floor. That billet performs all important part in the end. The enamoured lady buys an orange, and gives a gold piece for it. Zerline, not accustomed to be so well paid for her fruit, begins to suspect this outrageous liberality; and having had experience in these matters, picks up the fragments of the letter, and gets into the whole secret.

The plot proceeds: the daughter of the orangewoman now appears. She is clad in the same preposterous habiliments. As the niece of the minister, she is created a princess, (those things are cheap in Italy,) and she, too, is in love with the officer in the tie-wig. She recognises the song of Zerline, "Achetez mes belles oranges," and sings the half of it. On this, the mother and daughter now recognise each other. It is impossible to go further in such a _denouement_. If Italian operas are proverbially silly, we are to recollect that this is not an Italian, but a French one; and that it is by the most popular comic writer of France.

The marriage of Gemma and Rodolf is forbidden by the pride of the King's sister, the wife of Boccanera, but Zerline interposes, reminds her of the orange _affair_, threatens her with the discovery of the billet-doux, and finally makes her give her consent: and thus the curtain drops. I grew tired of all this insipidity, and left the theatre before the catastrophe. The music seemed to me fitting for the plot--neither better nor worse; and I made my escape with right good-will from the clamour and crash of the orchestra, and from the loves and _faux pas_ of the belles of Palermo.

_The Obelisk._--I strayed into the Place de la Concorde, beyond comparison the finest _space_ in Paris. I cannot call it a square, nor does it equal in animation the Boulevard; but in the _profusion_ of noble architecture it has no rival in Paris, nor in Europe. _Vive la Despotisme!_ every inch of it is owing to Monarchy. Republics build nothing, if we except prisons and workhouses. They are proverbially squalid, bitter, and beggarly. What has America, with all her boasting, ever built, but a warehouse or a conventicle? The Roman Republic, after seven hundred years' existence, remained a collection hovels till an Emperor faced them with marble. If Athens exhibited her universal talents in the splendour of her architecture, we must recollect that Pericles was her _master_ through life--as substantially _despotic_, by the aid of the populace, as an Asiatic king by his guards; and recollect, also, that an action of damages was brought against him for "wasting the public money on the Parthenon," the glory of Athens in every succeeding age. Louis Quatorze, Napoleon, and Louis Philippe--two openly, and the third secretly, as despotic as the Sultan--were the true builders of Paris.

As I stood in the centre of this vast enclosure, I was fully struck with the effect of _scene_. The sun was sinking into a bed of gold and crimson clouds, that threw their hue over the long line of the Champs Elysées. Before me were the two great fountains, and the Obelisk of Luxor. The fountains had ceased to play, from the lateness of the hour, but still looked massive and gigantic; the obelisk looked shapely and superb. The gardens of the Tuilleries were on my left--deep dense masses of foliage, surmounted in the distance by the tall roofs of the old Palace; on my right, the verdure of the Champs Elysées, with the Arc de l'Etoile rising above it, at the end of its long and noble avenue; in my front the Palace of the Legislature, a chaste and elegant structure; and behind me, glowing in the sunbeams, the Madeleine, the noblest church--I think the noblest edifice, in Paris, and perhaps not surpassed in beauty and grandeur, for its size, by any place of worship in Europe. The air cool and sweet from the foliage, the vast _place_ almost solitary, and undisturbed by the cries which are incessant in this babel during the day, yet with that gentle confusion of sounds which makes the murmur and the music of a great city. All was calm, noble, and soothing.

The obelisk of Luxor which stands in the centre of the "Place," is one of two Monoliths, or pillars of a single stone, which, with Cleopatra's Needle, were given by Mehemet Ali to the French, at the time when, by their alliance, he expected to have made himself independent. All the dates of Egyptian antiquities are uncertain--notwithstanding Young and his imitator Champollion--but the date _assigned_ to this pillar is 1550 years before the Christian era. The two obelisks stood in front of the great temple of Thebes, now named Luxor, and the hieroglyphics which cover this one, from top to bottom, are supposed to relate the exploits and incidents of the reign of Sesostris.

It is of red Syenite; but, from time and weather, it is almost the colour of limestone. It has an original flaw up a third of its height, for which the Egyptian masons provided a remedy by wedges, and the summit is slightly broken. The height of the monolith is seventy-two feet three inches, which would look insignificant, fixed as it is in the centre of lofty buildings, but for its being raised on a plinth of granite, and that again raised on a pedestal of immense blocks of granite--the height of the plinth and the pedestal together being twenty-seven feet, making the entire height nearly one hundred. The weight of the monolith is five hundred thousand pounds; the weight of the pedestal is half that amount, and the weight of the blocks probably makes the whole amount to nine hundred thousand, which is the weight of the obelisk at Rome. It was erected in 1836, by drawing it up an inclined plane of masonry, and then raising it by cables and capstans to the perpendicular. The operation was tedious, difficult, and expensive; but it was worth the labour; and the monolith now forms a remarkable monument of the zeal of the king, and of the liberality of his government.

There is, I understand, an obelisk remaining in Egypt, which was given by the Turkish government to the British army, on the expulsion of the French from Egypt, but which has been unclaimed, from the difficulty of carrying it to England.

That difficulty, it must be acknowledged, is considerable. In transporting and erecting the obelisk of Luxor six years were employed. I have not heard the expense, but it must have been large. A vessel was especially constructed at Toulon, for its conveyance down the Nile. A long road was to be made from the Nile to the Temple. Then the obelisk required to be protected from the accidents of carriage, which was done by enclosing it in a wooden case. It was then drawn by manual force to the river--and this employed three months. Then came the trouble of embarking it, for which the vessel had to be nearly sawn through; then came the crossing of the bar at Rosetta--a most difficult operation at the season of the year; then the voyage down the Mediterranean, the vessel being towed by a steamer; then the landing at Cherbourg, in 1833; and, lastly, the passage up the Seine, which occupied nearly four months, reaching Paris in December; thenceforth its finishing and erection, which was completed only in three years after.

This detail may have some interest, as we have a similar project before us. But the whole question is, whether the transport of the obelisk which remains in Egypt for us is worth the expense. We, without hesitation, say that it _is_. The French have shown that it is _practicable_, and it is a matter of _rational_ desire to show that we are not behind the French either in power, in ability, or in zeal, to adorn our cities. The obelisk transported to England would be a proud monument, without being an offensive one, of a great achievement of our armies; it would present to our eyes, and those of our children, a relic of the most civilised kingdom of the early ages; it would sustain the recollections of the scholar by its record, and might kindle the energy of the people by the sight of what had been accomplished by the prowess of Englishmen.

If it be replied that such views are Utopian, may we not ask, what is the use of all antiquity, since we can eat and drink as well without it? But we cannot _feel_ as loftily without it; many a lesson of vigour, liberality, and virtue would be lost to us without it; we should lose the noblest examples of the arts, some of the finest displays of human genius in architecture, a large portion of the teaching of the public mind in all things great, and an equally large portion of the incentives to public virtue in all things self-denying. The labour, it is true, of conveying the obelisk would be serious, the expense considerable, and we might not see it erected before the gate of Buckingham Palace these ten years. But it would be erected at _last_. It would be a trophy--it would be an abiding memorial of the extraordinary country from which civilisation spread to the whole world.

But the two grand fountains ought especially to stimulate our emulation. Those we can have without a voyage from Alexandria to Portsmouth, or a six years' delay.

The fountains of the Place de la Concorde would deserve praise if it were only for their beauty. At a distance sufficient for the picturesque, and with the sun shining on them, they actually look like domes and cataracts of molten silver; and a nearer view does not diminish their right to admiration. They are both lofty, perhaps, fifty feet high, both consisting of three basins, lessening in size in proportion to their height, and all pouring out sheets of water from the trumpets of Tritons, from the mouths of dolphins, and from allegorical figures. One of those fountains is in honour of Maritime Navigation, and the other of the Navigation of Rivers. In the former the figures represent the Ocean and the Mediterranean, with the Genii of the fisheries; and in the upper basin are Commerce, Astronomy, Navigation, &c., all capital bronzes, and all spouting out floods of water. The fountain of River Navigation is not behind its rival in bronze or water. It exhibits the Rhine and the Rhone, with the Genii of fruits and flowers, of the vintage and the harvest, with the usual attendance of Tritons. Why the artist had no room for the Seine and the Garonne, while he introduced the Rhine, which is not a French river in any part of its course, must be left for his explanation; but the whole constitutes a beautiful and magnificent object, and, with the sister fountain, perhaps forms the finest display of the kind in Europe. I did not venture, while looking at those stately monuments of French art, to turn my thoughts to our own unhappy performances in Trafalgar Square--the rival of a soda-water bottle, yet the work of a people of boundless wealth, and the first machinists in the world.

_The Jardin des Plantes._--I found this fine establishment crowded with the lower orders--fathers and mothers, nurses, old women, and soldiers. As it includes the popular attractions of a zoological garden, as well as a botanical, every day sees its visitants, and every holiday its crowds. The plants are for science, and for that I had no time, even had I possessed other qualifications; but the zoological collection were for curiosity, and of that the spectators had abundance. Yet the animals of pasture appeared to be languid, possibly tired of the perpetual bustle round them--for all animals love quiet at certain times, and escape from the eye of man, when escape is in their power. Possibly the heat of the weather, for the day was remarkably sultry, might have contributed to their exhaustion. But if they have memory--and why should they not?--they must have strangely felt the contrast of their free pastures, shady woods, and fresh streams, with the little patch of ground, the parched soil, and the clamour of ten thousand tongues round them. I could imagine the antelope's intelligent eye, as he lay panting before us on his brown patch of soil, comparing it with the ravines of the Cape, or the eternal forests clothing the hills of his native Abyssinia.

But the object of all popular interest was the pit of the bears; there the crowd was incessant and delighted. But the bears, three or four huge brown beasts, by no means _reciprocated_ the popular feeling. They sat quietly on their hind-quarters, gazing grimly at the groups which lined their rails, and tossed cakes and apples to them from above. They had probably been saturated with sweets, for they scarcely noticed anything but by a growl. They were insensible to apples--even oranges could not make them move, and cakes they seemed to treat with scorn. It was difficult to conceive that those heavy and unwieldy-looking animals could be ferocious; but the Alpine hunter knows that they are as fierce as the tiger, and nearly as quick and dangerous in their spring.

The carnivorous beasts were few, and, except in the instance of one lion, of no remarkable size or beauty. As they naturally doze during the day, their languor was no proof of their weariness; but I have never seen an exhibition of this kind without some degree of regret. The plea of the promotion of science is nothing. Even if it were important to science to be acquainted with the habits of the lion and tiger, which it is not, their native habits are not to be learned from the animal shut up in a cage. The chief exertion of their sagacity and their strength in the native state is in the pursuit of prey; yet what of these can be learned from the condition in which the animal dines as regularly as his keeper, and divides his time between feeding and sleep? Half-a-dozen lions let loose in the Bois de Boulogne would let the naturalist into more knowledge of their nature than a menagerie for fifty years.

The present system is merely cruel; and the animals, without exercise, without air, without the common excitement of free motion, which all animals enjoy so highly--perhaps much more highly than the human race--fall into disease and die, no doubt miserably, though they cannot draw up a _rationale_ of their sufferings. I have been told that the lions in confinement die chiefly of consumption--a singularly sentimental disease for this proud ravager of the desert. But the whole purpose of display would be answered as effectually by exhibiting half-a-dozen lions' _skins_ stuffed, in the different attitudes of seizing their prey, or ranging the forest, or feeding. At present nothing is seen but a great beast asleep, or restlessly moving in a space of half-a-dozen square feet, and pining away in his confinement. An eagle on his perch and with a chain on his leg, in a menagerie, always appears to me like a dethroned monarch; and I have never seen him thus cast down from his "high estate" without longing to break his chain, and let him spread his wing, and delight his splendid eye with the full view of his kingdom of the Air.

The Jardin dates its origin as far back as Louis XIII., when the king's physician recommended its foundation for science. The French are fond of gardening, and are good gardeners; and the climate is peculiarly favourable to flowers, as is evident from the market held every morning in summer by the side of the Madeleine, where the greatest abundance of the richest flowers I ever saw is laid out for the luxury of the Parisians.

The Jardin, patronised by kings and nobles, flourished through successive reigns; but the appointment of Buffon, about the middle of the eighteenth century, suddenly raised it to the pinnacle of European celebrity. The most eloquent writer of his time, (in the style which the French call eloquence,) a man of family, and a man of opulence, he made Natural History the _fashion_, and in France that word is magic. It accomplishes everything--it includes everything. All France was frantic with the study of plants, animals, poultry-yards, and projects for driving tigers in cabriolets, and harnessing lions _à la Cybele_.

But Buffon mixed good sense with his inevitable _charlatanrie_--he selected the ablest men whom he could find for his professors; and in France there is an extraordinary quantity of "ordinary" cleverness--they gave amusing lectures, and they won the hearts of the nation.

But the Revolution came, and crushed all institutions alike. Buffon, fortunate in every way, had died in the year before, in 1788, and was thus spared the sight of the general ruin. The Jardin escaped, through some plea of its being national property; but the professors had fled, and were starving, or starved.

The Consulate, and still more the Empire, restored the establishment. Napoleon was ambitious of the character of a man of science, he was a member of the Institute, he knew the French character, and he flattered the national vanity, by indulging it with the prospect of being at the head of human knowledge.

The institution had by this time been so long regarded as a public show that it was beginning to be regarded as nothing else. Gratuitous lectures, which are always good for nothing, and to which all kinds of people crowd with corresponding profit, were gradually reducing the character of the Jardin; when Cuvier, a man of talent, was appointed to one of the departments of the institution, and he instantly revived its popularity; and, what was of more importance, its public use.

Cuvier devoted himself to comparative anatomy and geology. The former was a study within human means, of which he had the materials round him, and which, being intended for the instruction of man, is evidently intended for his investigation. The latter, in attempting to fix the age of the world, to decide on the process of creation, and to contradict Scripture by the ignorance of man, is merely an instance of the presumption of _Sciolism_. Cuvier exhibited remarkable dexterity in discovering the species of the fossil fishes, reptiles, and animals. The science was not new, but he threw it into a new form--he made it interesting, and he made it probable. If a large proportion of his supposed discoveries were merely ingenious guesses, they were at least guesses which there was nobody to refute, and they _were ingenious_--that was enough. Fame followed him, and the lectures of the ingenious theorist were a popular novelty. The "Cabinet of Comparative Anatomy" in the Jardin is the monument of his diligence, and it does honour to the sagacity of his investigation.

One remark, however, must be made. On a former visit to the Cabinet of Comparative Anatomy, among the collection of skeletons, I was surprised and disgusted with the sight of the skeleton of the Arab who killed General Kleber in Egypt. The Arab was impaled, and the iron spike was shown _still sticking in the_ spine! I do not know whether this hideous object is still to be seen, for I have not lately visited the apartment; but, if existing still, it ought to remain no longer in a museum of science. Of course, the assassin deserved death; but, in all probability, the murder which made him guilty, was of the same order as that which made Charlotte Corday famous. How many of his countrymen had died by the soldiery of France! In the eye of Christianity, this is no palliation; though in the eye of Mahometanism it might constitute a patriot and a hero. At all events, so frightful a spectacle ought _not_ to meet the public eye.

_Hôtel des Invalides._--The depository of all that remains of Napoleon, the monument of almost two hundred years of war, and the burial-place of a whole host of celebrated names, is well worth the visit of strangers; and I entered the esplanade of the famous _hôtel_ with due veneration, and some slight curiosity to see the changes of time. I had visited this noble pile immediately after the fall of Napoleon, and while it still retained the honours of an imperial edifice. Its courts now appeared to me comparatively desolate; this, however, may be accounted for by the cessation of those wars which peopled them with military mutilation. The establishment was calculated to provide for five thousand men; and, at that period, probably, it was always full. At present, scarcely more than half the number are under its roof; and, as even the Algerine war is reduced to skirmishes with the mountaineers of the Atlas, that number must be further diminishing from year to year.

The Cupola then shone with gilding. This was the work of Napoleon, who had a stately eye for the ornament of his imperial city. The cupola of the Invalides thus glittered above all the roofs of Paris, and was seen glittering to an immense distance. It might be taken for the dedication of the French capital to the genius of War. This gilding is now worn off practically, as well as metaphorically, and the _prestige_ is lost.

The celebrated Edmund Burke, all whose ideas were grand, is said to have proposed gilding the cupola of St Paul's, which certainly would have been a splendid sight, and would have thrown a look of stateliness over that city to which the ends of the earth turn their eyes. But the civic spirit was not equal to the idea, and it has since gone on lavishing ten times the money on the embellishment of _lanes_.

The Chapel of the Invalides looked gloomy, and even neglected; the great Magician was gone. Some service was performing, as it is in the Romish chapels at most hours of the day: some poor people were kneeling in different parts of the area; and some strangers were, like myself, wandering along the nave, looking at the monuments to the fallen military names of France. On the pillars in the nave are inscriptions to the memory of Jourdan, Lobau, and Oudinot. There is a bronze tablet to the memory of Marshal Mortier, who was killed by Fieschi's infernal machine, beside Louis Philippe; and to Damremont, who fell in Algiers.

But the chapel is destined to exhibit a more superb instance of national recollection--the tomb of Napoleon, which is to be finished in 1852. A large circular crypt, dug in the centre of the second chapel (which is to be united with the first,) is the site of the sarcophagus in which the remains of Napoleon lie. Coryatides, columns, and bas-reliefs, commemorative of his battles, are to surround the sarcophagus. The coryatides are to represent War, Legislation, Art, and Science; and in front is to be raised an altar of black marble. The architect is Visconti, and the best statuaries in Paris are to contribute the decorations. The expense will be enormous. In the time of Louis Philippe it had already amounted to nearly four millions of francs. About three millions more are now demanded for the completion, including an equestrian statue. On the whole, the expense will be not much less than seven millions of francs!

The original folly of the nation, and of Napoleon, in plundering the Continent of statues and pictures, inevitably led to retribution, on the first reverse of fortune. The plunder of money, or of arms, or of anything consumable, would have been exempt from this mortification; but pictures and statues are permanent things, and always capable of being re-demanded. Their plunder was an extension of the law of spoil unknown in European hostilities, or in history, except perhaps in the old Roman ravage of Greece. Napoleon, in adopting the practice of heathenism for his model, and the French nation--in their assumed love of the arts violating the sanctities of art, by removing the noblest works from the edifices for which they were created, and from the lights and positions for which the great artists of Italy designed them--fully deserved the vexation of seeing them thus carried back to their original cities. The moral will, it is to be presumed, be learned from this signal example, that the works of genius are _naturally_ exempt from the sweep of plunder; that even the violences of war must not be extended beyond the necessities of conquest; and that an act of injustice is _sure_ to bring down its punishment in the most painful form of retribution.

_The Artesian Well._--Near the Hôtel des Invalides is the celebrated well which has given the name to all the modern experiments of boring to great depths for water. The name of Artesian is said to be taken from the province of Artois, in which the practice has been long known. The want of water in Paris induced a M. Mulot to commence the work in 1834.

The history of the process is instructive. For six years there was no prospect of success; yet M. Mulot gallantly persevered. All was inexorable chalk; the boring instrument had broken several times, and the difficulty thus occasioned may be imagined from its requiring a length of thirteen hundred feet! even in an early period of the operation. However, early in 1841 the chalk gave signs of change, and a greenish sand was drawn up. On the 26th of February this was followed by a slight effusion of water, and before night the stream burst up to the mouth of the excavation, which was now eighteen hundred feet in depth. Yet the water rapidly rose to a height of one hundred and twelve feet above the mouth of the well by a pipe, which is now supported by scaffolding, giving about six hundred gallons of water a minute.

Even the memorable experiment confutes, so far as it goes, the geological notion of strata laid under each other in their proportions of gravity. The section of the boring shows chalk, sand, gravel, shells, &c., and this order sometimes reversed, in the most casual manner, down to a depth five times the height of the cupola of the Invalides.

The heat of the water was 83° of Fahrenheit. In the theories with which the philosophers of the Continent have to feed their imaginations is that of a _central fire_, which is felt through all the strata, and which warms everything in proportion to its nearness to the centre. Thus, it was proposed to dig an Artesian well of three thousand feet, for the supply of hot water to the Jardin des Plantes and the neighbouring hospitals. It was supposed that, at this depth, the heat would range to upwards of 100° of Fahrenheit. But nothing has been done. Even the Well of Grenelle has rather disappointed the public expectation; of late the supply has been less constant, and the boring is to be renewed to a depth of two thousand feet.

_The Napoleon Column._--This is the grand feature of the Place de Vendôme, once the site of the Hôtel Vendôme, built by the son of Henry IV. and Gabrielle d'Estrées; afterwards pulled down by Louis XIV., afterwards abandoned to the citizens, and afterwards surrounded, as it is at this day, with the formal and heavy architecture of Mansard. The "Place" has, like everything in Paris, changed its name from time to time. It was once the "Place des Conquêtes;" then it changed to "Louis le Grand;" and then it returned to the name of its original proprietor. An old figure of the "Great King," in all the glories of wig and feathers, stood in the centre, till justice and the rabble of the Revolution broke it down, in the first "energies" of Republicanism. But the German campaign of 1805 put all the nation in good humour, and the Napoleon Column was raised on the site of the dilapidated _monarch_.

The design of the column is not original, for it is taken from the Trajan Column at Rome; but it is enlarged, and makes a very handsome object. When I first saw it, its decorations were in peril; for the Austrian soldiery were loud for its demolition, or at least for stripping off its bronze bas-reliefs, they representing their successive defeats in that ignominious campaign which, in three months from Boulogne, finished by the capture of Vienna. The Austrian troops, however, stoutly retrieved their disasters, and, as the proof, were then masters of Paris. It was possibly this effective feeling that prevailed at last to spare the column, which the practice of the French armies would have entitled them to strip without mercy.

In the first instance, a statue of Napoleon, as emperor, stood on the summit of the pillar. This statue had its revolutions too, for it was melted down at the restoration of the Bourbons, to make a part of the equestrian statue of Henry IV. erected on the Pont Neuf. A _fleur-de-lis_ and flagstaff then took its place. The Revolution of 1830, which elevated Louis Philippe to a temporary throne, raised the statue of Napoleon to an elevation perhaps as temporary.

It was the shortsighted policy of the new monarch to mingle royal power with "republican institutions." He thus introduced the tricolor once more, sent for Napoleon's remains to St Helena by permission of England, and erected his statue in the old "chapeau et redingote gris," the characteristics of his soldiership. The statue was inaugurated on one of the "three glorious days," in July 1833, in all the pomp of royalty,--princes, ministers, and troops. So much for the consistency of a brother of the Bourbon. The pageant passed away, and the sacrifice to popularity was made without obtaining the fruits. Louis Philippe disappeared from the scene before the fall of the curtain; and, as if to render his catastrophe more complete, he not merely left a republic behind him, but he lived to see the "prisoner of Ham" the president of that republic.

How does it happen that an Englishman in France cannot stir a single step, hear a single word, or see a single face, without the conviction that he has landed among a people as far from him in all their feelings, habits, and nature, as if they were engendered in the moon? The feelings with which the Briton looks on the statue of Buonaparte may be mixed enough: he may acknowledge him for a great soldier, as well as a great knave--a great monarch, as well as a little intriguer--a mighty ruler of men, who would have made an adroit waiter at a _table d'hôte_ in the Palais Royal. But he never would have imagined him into a sentimentalist, a shepherd, a Corydon, to be hung round with pastoral garlands; an opera hero, to delight in the sixpenny tribute of bouquets from the galleries.

Yet I found the image of this man of terror and mystery--this ravager of Europe--this stern, fierce, and subtle master of havoc, decorated like a milliner's shop, or the tombs of the citizen shopkeepers in the cemeteries, with garlands of all sizes!--the large to express copious sorrow, the smaller to express diminished anguish, and the smallest, like a visiting card, for simply leaving their compliments; and all this in the face of the people who once feared to look in his face, and followed his car as if it bore the Thunder!

To this spot came the people to offer up their sixpenny homage--to this spot came processions of all kinds, to declare their republican love for the darkest despot of European memory, to sing a stave, to walk heroically round the railing, hang up their garlands, and then, having done their duty in the presence of their own grisettes, in the face of Paris, and to the admiration of Europe, march home, and ponder upon the glories of the day!

As a work of imperial magnificence, the column is worthy of its founder, and of the only redeeming point of his character--his zeal for the ornament of Paris. It is a monument to the military successes of the Empire; a trophy one hundred and thirty-five feet high, covered with the representations of French victory over the Austrians and Russians in the campaign of 1805. The bas-reliefs are in bronze, rising in a continued spiral round the column. Yet this is an unfortunate sacrifice to the imitation of the Roman column. The spiral, a few feet above the head of the spectator, offers nothing to the eye but a roll of rough bronze; the figures are wholly and necessarily undistinguishable. The only portion of those castings which directly meets the eye is unfortunately given up to the mere uniforms, caps, and arms of the combatants. This is the pedestal, and it would make a showy decoration for a tailor's window. It is a clever work of the furnace, but a miserable one of invention.

The bronze is said to have been the captured cannon of the enemy. On the massive bronze door is the inscription in Latin:--"Napoleon, Emperor, Augustus, dedicated to the glory of the Grand Army this memorial of the German War, finished in three months, in the year 1805, under his command."

On the summit stands the statue of Napoleon, to which, and its changes, I have adverted already. But the question has arisen, whether there is not an error in taste in placing the statue of an individual at a height which precludes the view of his _features_. This has been made an objection to the handsome Nelson Pillar in Trafalgar Square. But the obvious answer in both instances is, that the object is not merely the sight of the features, but the perfection of the memorial; that the pillar is the true _monument_, and the statue only an accessory, though the most _suitable_ accessory. But even then the statue is not altogether inexpressive. We can see the figure and the costume of Napoleon nearly as well as they could be seen from the balcony of the Tuilleries, where all Paris assembled in the Carousel to worship him on Sundays, at the parade of "La Garde." In the spirited statue of Nelson we can recognise the figure as well as if we were gazing at him within a hundred yards in any other direction. It is true that pillars are not painters' easels, nor is Trafalgar Square a sculptor's yard; but the real question turns on the effect of the whole. If the pillar makes the monument, we will not quarrel with the sculptor for its not making a _miniature_. It answers its purpose--it is a noble one; it gives a national record of great events, and it realises, invigorates, and consecrates them by the images of the men by whom they were achieved.

_Arc de Triomphe de l'Etoile._--It is no small adventure, in a burning day of a French summer, to walk the length of the Champs Elysées, even to see the arch of the Star, (Napoleon's _Star_,) and climb to its summit. Yet this labour I accomplished with the fervour and the fatigue of a pilgrimage.

Why should the name of Republic be ever heard in the mouth of a Frenchman? All the objects of his glory in the Capital of which he _glories_, everything that he can show to the stranger--everything that he recounts, standing on tip-toe, and looking down on the whole world besides--is the work of monarchy! The grand Republic left nothing behind but the guillotine. The Bourbons and Buonapartes were the creators of all to which he points, with an exaltation that throws earth into the shade from the Alps to the Andes. The Louvre, the Madeleine, the Tuilleries, the Hôtel de Ville, (now magnified and renovated into the most stately of town-houses,) the Hôtel des Invalides, Nôtre Dame, &c. &c. are all the work of Kings. If Napoleon had lived half a century longer, he would have made Paris a second Babylon. If the very clever President, who has hitherto managed France so dexterously, and whose name so curiously combines the monarchy and the despotism,--if Louis _Napoleon_ (a name which an old Roman would have pronounced an omen) should manage it into a Monarchy, we shall probably see Paris crowded with superb public edifices.

The kings of France were peculiarly magnificent in the decoration of the entrances to their city. As no power on earth can prevent the French from crowding into hovels, from living ten families in one house, and from appending to their cities the most miserable, ragged, and forlorn-looking suburbs on the globe, the monarchs wisely let the national habits alone; and resolved, if the suburbs must be abandoned to the popular fondness for the wigwam, to impress strangers with the stateliness of their gates. The _Arc de St Denis_, once conducting from the most dismal of suburbs, is one of the finest portals in Paris, or in any European city; it is worthy of the Boulevard, and that is panegyric at once. Every one knows _that it was_ erected in honour of the short-lived inroad of Louis XIV. into Holland in 1672, and the taking of whole muster-rolls of forts and villages, left at his mercy, ungarrisoned and unprovisioned, by the Republican parsimony of the Dutch, till a princely defender arose, and the young Stadtholder sent back the coxcomb monarch faster than he came. But the Arc is a noble work, and its architecture might well set a redeeming example to the London _improvers_. Why not erect an arch in Southwark? Why not at all the great avenues to the capital? Why not, instead of leaving this task to the caprices, or even to the bad taste of the railway companies, make it a branch of the operations of the Woods and Forests, and ennoble all the entrances of the mightiest capital of earthly empire?

The Arch of St Denis is now shining in all the novelty of reparation, for it was restored so lately as last year. In this quarter, which has been always of a stormy temperature, the insurrection of 1848 raged with especial fury; and if the spirits of the great ever hover about their monuments, Louis XIV. may have seen from its summit a more desperate conflict than ever figured on its bas-reliefs.

On the Arch of the Porte St Martin is a minor monument to minor triumphs, but a handsome one. Louis XIV. is still the hero. The "Grand Monarque" is exhibited as Hercules with his club; but as even a monarch in those days was nothing without his wig, Hercules exhibits a huge mass of curls of the most courtly dimensions--he might pass for the presiding deity of _perruquiers_.

The _Arc de Triomphe du Carousel_, erected in honour of the German campaign in 1805, is a costly performance, yet poor-looking, from its position in the centre of lofty buildings. What effect can an isolated arch, of but five-and-forty feet high, have in the immediate vicinity of masses of building, perhaps a hundred feet high? Its aspect is consequently meagre; and its being placed in the centre of a court makes it look useless, and, of course, ridiculous. On the summit is a figure of War, or Victory, in a chariot, with four bronze horses--the horses modelled from the four Constantinopolitan horses brought by the French from Venice, as part of the plunder of that luckless city, but sent back to Venice by the Allies in 1815. The design of the arch was from that of Severus, in Rome: this secured, at least, elegance in its construction; but the position is fatal to dignity.

The _Arc de l'Etoile_ is the finest work of the kind in Paris. It has the advantage of being built on an elevation, from which it overlooks the whole city, with no building of any magnitude in its vicinity; and is seen from a considerable distance on all the roads leading to the capital. Its cost was excessive for a work of mere ornament, and is said to have amounted to nearly half a million sterling!

As I stood glancing over the groups on the friezes and faces of this great monument, which exhibit war in every form of conflict, havoc, and victory, the homely thought of "_cui bono_?" struck me irresistibly. Who was the better for all this havoc?--Napoleon, whom it sent to a dungeon! or the miserable thousands and tens of thousands whom it crushed in the field?--or the perhaps more unfortunate hundreds of thousands whom it sent to the hospital, to die the slow death of exhaustion and pain, or to live the protracted life of mutilation? I have no affectation of sentiment at the sight of the soldier's grave; he has but taken his share of the common lot, with perhaps the advantage, which so few men possess, of having "done the state some service." But, to see this vast monument covered with the emblems of hostilities, continued through almost a quarter of a century, (for the groups commence with 1792;) to think of the devastation of the fairest countries of Europe, of which these hostilities were the cause; and to know the utter fruitlessness and failure of the result, the short-lived nature of the triumph, and the frightful depth of the defeat---Napoleon in ignominious bondage and hopeless banishment--Napoleon, after having lorded it over Europe, sent to linger out life on a rock in the centre of the ocean--the leader of military millions kept under the eye of a British sentinel, and no more suffered to stray beyond his bounds than a caged tiger--I felt as if the object before me was less a trophy than a tomb, less a monument of glory than of retribution, less the record of national triumph than of national frenzy.

I had full liberty for reflection, for there was scarcely a human being to interrupt me. The bustle of the capital did not reach so far, the promenaders in the Champs Elysées did not venture here; the showy equipages of the Parisian "_nouveaux riches_" remained where the crowd was to be seen; and except a few peasants going on their avocations, and a bench full of soldiers, sleeping or smoking away the weariness of the hour, the _Arc de Triomphe_, which had cost so much treasure, and was the record of so much blood, seemed to be totally forgotten. I question, if there had been a decree of the Legislature to sell the stones, whether it would have occasioned more than a paragraph in the _Journal des Debats_.

The ascent to the summit is by a long succession of dark and winding steps, for which a lamp is lighted by the porter; but the view from the parapet repays the trouble of the ascent. The whole basin in which Paris lies is spread out before the eye. The city is seen in the centre of a valley, surrounded on every side by a circle of low hills, sheeted with dark masses of wood. It was probably once the bed of a lake, in which the site of the city was an island. All the suburb villages came within the view, with the fortifications, which to a more scientific eye might appear formidable, but which to mine appeared mere dots in the vast landscape.

This parapet is unhappily sometimes used for other purposes than the indulgence of the spectacle. A short time since, a determined suicide sprang from it, after making a speech to the soldiery below, assigning his reason for this tremendous act--if reason has anything to do in such a desperate determination to defy common sense. He acted with the quietest appearance of deliberation: let himself down on the coping of the battlement, from this made his speech, as if he had been in the tribune; and, having finished it, flung himself down a height of ninety feet, and was in an instant a crushed and lifeless heap on the pavement below.

It is remarkable that, even in these crimes, there exists the distinction which seems to divide France from England in every better thing. In England, a wretch undone by poverty, broken down by incurable pain, afflicted by the stings of a conscience which she neither knows how to heal nor cares how to cure, woman, helpless, wretched, and desolate, takes her walk under cover of night by the nearest river, and, without a witness, plunges in. But, in France, the last dreadful scene is imperfect without its publicity; the suicide must exhibit before the people. There must be the _valete et plaudite_. The curtain must fall with dramatic effect, and the actor must make his exit with the cries of the audience, in admiration or terror, ringing in the ear.

In other cases, however varied, the passion for publicity is still the same. No man can bear to perish in silence. If the atheist resolves on self-destruction, he writes a treatise for his publisher, or a letter to the journals. If he is a man of science, he takes his laudanum after supper, and, pen in hand, notes the gradual effects of the poison for the benefit of science; or he prepares a fire of charcoal, quietly inhales the vapour, and from his sofa continues to scribble the symptoms of dissolution, until the pen grows unsteady, the brain wanders, and half-a-dozen blots close the scene; the writing, however, being dedicated to posterity, and circulated next day in every journal of Paris, till it finally permeates through the provinces, and from thence through the European world.

The number of suicides in Paris annually, of late years, has been about three hundred,--out of a population of a million, notwithstanding the suppression of the gaming-houses, which unquestionably had a large share in the temptation to this horrible and unatonable crime.

The sculptures on the Arc are in the best style. They form a history of the Consulate and of the Empire. Napoleon, of course, is a prominent figure; but in the fine bas-relief which is peculiarly devoted to himself, in which he stands of colossal size, with Fame flying over his head, History writing the record of his exploits, and Victory crowning him, the artist has left his work liable to the sly sarcasm of a spectator of a similar design for the statue of Louis XIV. Victory was there holding the laurel at a slight distance from his head. An Englishman asked "whether she was putting it on _or taking it off_?" But another of the sculptures is still more unfortunate, for it has the unintentional effect of commemorating the Allied conquest of France in 1814. A young Frenchman is seen defending his family; and a soldier behind him is seen falling from his horse, and the Genius of the _future_ flutters over them all. We know what that future was.

The building of this noble memorial occupied, at intervals, no less than thirty years, beginning in 1806, when Napoleon issued a decree for its erection. The invasion in 1814 put a stop to everything in France, and the building was suspended. The fruitless and foolish campaign of the Duc d'Angoulême, in Spain, was regarded by the Bourbons as a title to national glories, and the building was resumed as a trophy to the renown of the Duc. It was again interrupted by the expulsion of the Bourbons in 1830; but was resumed under Louis Philippe, and finished in 1836. It is altogether a very stately and very handsome tribute to the French armies.

But, without affecting unnecessary severity of remark, may not the wisdom of such a tribute be justly doubted? The Romans, though the principle of their power was conquest, and though their security was almost incompatible with peace, yet are said to have never repaired a triumphal arch. It is true that they built those arches (in the latter period of the Empire) so solidly as to want no repairs. But we have no triumphal monuments of the Republic surviving. Why should it be the constant policy of Continental governments to pamper their people with the food of that most dangerous and diseased of all vanities, the passion for war? And this is not said in the declamatory spirit of the "Peace Congress," which seems to be nothing more than a pretext for a Continental ramble, an expedient for a little vulgar notoriety among foreigners, and an opportunity of getting rid of the greatest quantity of common-place in the shortest time. But, why should not France learn common sense from the experience of England? It is calculated that, of the last five hundred years of French history, two hundred and fifty have been spent in hostilities. In consequence, France has been invaded, trampled, and impoverished by war; while England, during the last three hundred years, has never seen the foot of a foreign invader.

Let the people of France abolish the _Conscription_, and they will have made one advance to liberty. Till cabinets are deprived of that material of _aggressive_ war, they will leave war at the caprice of a weak monarch, an ambitious minister, or a vainglorious people. It is remarkable that, among all the attempts at reforming the constitution of France, her reformers have never touched upon the ulcer of the land, the Conscription, the legacy of a frantic Republic, taking the children of the country from their industry, to plunge them into the vices of idleness or the havoc of war, and at all times to furnish the means, as well as afford the temptation, to aggressive war. There is not at this hour a soldier of England who has been _forced_ into the service! Let the French, let all the Continental nations, abolish the Conscription, thus depriving their governments of the means of making war upon each other; and what an infinite security would not this illustrious abolition give to the whole of Europe!--what an infinite saving in the taxes which are now wrung from nations by the fear of each other!--and what an infinite triumph to the spirit of peace, industry, and mutual good-will!

_The Theatres._--In the evening I wandered along the Boulevard, the great centre of the theatres, and was surprised at the crowds which, in a hot summer night, could venture to be stewed alive, amid the smell of lamps, the effluvia of orange-peel, the glare of lights, and the breathing of hundreds or thousands of human beings. I preferred the fresh air, the lively movement of the Boulevard, the glitter of the Cafés, and the glow, then tempered, of the declining sun--one of the prettiest moving panoramas of Paris.

The French Government take a great interest in the popularity of the theatres, and exert that species of superintendence which is implied in a considerable supply of the theatrical expenditure. The French Opera receives annually from the National Treasury no less than 750,000 francs, besides 130,000 for retiring pensions. To the Théâtre Français, the allowance from the Treasury is 240,000 francs a-year. To the Italian Opera the sum granted was formerly 70,000, but is now 50,000. Allowances are made to the Opera Comique, a most amusing theatre, to the Odeon, and perhaps to some others--the whole demanding of the budget a sum of more than a million of francs.

It is curious that the drama in France began with the clergy. In the time of Charles VI., a company, named "Confrères de la Passion," performed plays founded on the events of Scripture, though grossly disfigured by the traditions of Monachism. The originals were probably the "_Mysteries_," or plays in the Convents, a species of absurd and fantastic representation common in all Popish countries. At length the life of Manners was added to the life of Superstition, and singers and grimacers were added to the "Confrères."

In the sixteenth century an Italian company appeared in Paris, and brought with them their opera, the invention of the Florentines fifty years before. The cessation of the civil wars allowed France for a while to cultivate the arts of peace; and Richelieu, a man who, if it could be said of any statesman that he formed the mind of the nation, impressed his image and superscription upon his country, gave the highest encouragement to the drama by making it the fashion. He even wrote, or assisted in writing, popular dramas. Corneille now began to flourish, and French Tragedy was established.

Mazarin, when minister, and, like Richelieu, master of the nation, invited or admitted the Italian Opera once more into France; and Molière, at the head of a new company, obtained leave to perform before Louis XIV., who thenceforth patronised the great comic writer, and gave his company a theatre. The Tragedy, Comedy, and Opera of France now led the way in Europe.

In France, the Great Revolution, while it multiplied the theatres with the natural extravagance of the time, yet, by a consequence equally inevitable, degraded the taste of the nation. For a long period the legitimate drama was almost extinguished: it was unexciting to a people trained day by day to revolutionary convulsion; the pageants on the stage were tame to the processions in the streets; and the struggles of kings and nobles were ridiculous to the men who had been employed in destroying a dynasty.

Napoleon at once perceived the evil, and adopted the only remedy. He found no less than _thirty_ theatres in Paris. He was not a man to pause where he saw his way clearly before him; he closed twenty-two of those theatres, leaving but eight, and those chiefly of the old establishments, making a species of compensation to the closed houses.

On the return of the Bourbons the civil list, as in the old times, assisted in the support of the theatres. On the accession of Louis Philippe, the popular triumph infused its extravagance even into the system of the drama. The number of the theatres increased, and a succession of writers of the "New School" filled the theatres with abomination. Gallantry became the _spirit_ of the drama--everything before the scene was intrigue; married life was the perpetual burlesque. Wives were the habitual heroines of the intrigue, and husbands the habitual dupes! To keep faith with a husband was a standing jest on the stage, to keep it with a seducer was the height of human character. The former was always described as brutal, gross, dull, and born to be duped; the latter was captivating, generous, and irresistible by any matron alive. In fact, wives and widows were made for nothing else but to give way to the fascinations of this class of professors of the arts of "good society." The captivator was substantially described as a scoundrel, a gambler, and a vagabond of the basest kind, but withal so honourable, so tender, and so susceptible, that his atrocities disappeared, or rather were transmuted into virtues, by the brilliancy of his qualifications for seducing the wife of his friend. Perjury, profligacy, and the betrayal of confidence in the most essential tie of human nature, were supreme in popularity in the Novel and on the Stage.

The direct consequence is, that the crime of adultery is lightly considered in France; even the pure speak of it without the abhorrence which, for every reason, it deserves. Its notoriety is rather thought of as an anecdote of the day, or the gossiping of the soirée; and the most acknowledged licentiousness does not exclude a man of a certain rank from general reception in good society.

One thing may be observed on the most casual intercourse with Frenchmen--that the vices which, in our country, create disgust and offence in grave society, and laughter and levity in the more careless, seldom produce either the one or the other in France. The topic is alluded to with neither a frown nor a smile; it is treated, in general, as a matter of course, either too natural to deserve censure, or too common to excite ridicule. It is seldom peculiarly alluded to, for the general conversation of "Good Society" is decorous; but to denounce it would be unmannered. The result is an extent of illegitimacy enough to corrupt the whole rising population. By the registers of 1848, of 30,000 children born in Paris in that year, there were 10,000 illegitimate, of which but 1700 were acknowledged by their parents!

The theatrical profession forms an important element in the population. The actors and actresses amount to about 5000. In England they are probably not as many hundreds. And though the French population is 35,000,000, while Great Britain has little more than twenty, yet the disproportion is enormous, and forms a characteristic difference of the two countries. The persons occupied in the "working" of the theatrical system amount perhaps to 10,000, and the families dependent on the whole form a very large and very influential class among the general orders of society.

But if the Treasury assists in their general support, it compels them to pay eight per cent of their receipts as a contribution to the hospitals. This sum averages annually a million of francs, or £40,000 sterling.

In England we might learn something from the theatrical regulations of France. The trampling of our crowds at the doors of theatres, the occasional losses of life and limb, and the general inconvenience and confusion of the entrance on crowded nights, might be avoided by the were adoption of French _order_.

But why should not higher objects be held in view? The drama is a public _necessity_; the people will have it, whether good or bad. Why should not Government offer prizes to the best drama, tragic or comic? Why should the most distinguished work of poetic genius find no encouragement from the Government of a nation boasting of its love of letters? Why shall that encouragement be left to the caprice of managers, to the finances of struggling establishments, or to the tastes of theatres, forced by their poverty to pander to the rabble. Why should not the mischievous performances of those theatres be put down, and dramas, founded on the higher principles of our nature, be the instruments of putting them down? Why should not heroism, honour, and patriotism, be taught on the national stage, as well as the triumphs of the highroad, laxity among the higher ranks, and vice among all? The drama has been charged with corruption. Is that corruption essential? It has been charged with being a _nucleus_ of the loose principles, as its places of representation have been haunted by the loose characters, of society. But what are these but excrescences, generated by the carelessness of society, by the indolence of magistracy, and by the general misconception of the real purposes and possible power of the stage? That power is magnificent. It takes human nature in her most _impressible_ form, in the time of the glowing heart and the ready tear, of the senses animated by scenery, melted by music, and spelled by the living realities of representation. Why should not impressions be made in that hour which the man would carry with him through all the contingencies of life, and which would throw a light on every period of his being?

The conditions of recompense to authors in France make _some_ advance to justice. The author of a Drama is entitled to a profit on its performance in every theatre of France during his life, with a continuance for ten years after to his heirs. For a piece of three or five acts, the remuneration is _one twelfth part_ of the gross receipts, and for a piece in one act, one twenty-fourth. A similar compensation has been adopted in the English theatre, but seems to have become completely nugatory, from the managers' purchasing the author's rights--the transaction here being made a private one, and the remuneration being at the mercy of the manager. But in France it is a public matter, an affair of law, and looked to by an agent in Paris, who registers the performance of the piece at all the theatres in the city, and in the provinces.

Still, this is injustice. Why should the labour of the intellect be less permanent than the labour of the hands? Why should not the author be entitled to make his full demand instead of this pittance? If his play is worth acting, why is it not worth paying for?--and why should he be prohibited from having the fruit of his brain as an inheritance to his family, as well as the fruit of any other toll?

If, instead of being a man of genius, delighting and elevating the mind of a nation, he were a blacksmith, he might leave his tools and his trade to his children without any limit; or if, with the produce of his play, he purchased a cow, or a cabin, no man could lay a claim upon either. But he must be taxed for being a man of talent; and men of no talent must be entitled, by an absurd law and a palpable injustice, to tear the fruit of his intellectual supremacy from his children after ten short years of possession.

No man leaves Paris without regret, and without a wish for the liberty and peace of its people.

MR RUSKIN'S WORKS.

_Modern Painters_, vol. i. Second edition.----_Modern Painters_, vol. ii.----_The Seven Lamps of Architecture._----_The Stones of Venice._----_Notes on the Construction of Sheepfolds._ By JOHN RUSKIN, M.A.

On the publication of the first volume of Mr Ruskin's work on Modern Painters, a notice appeared of it in this Magazine. Since that time a second volume has been published of the same work, with two other works on architecture. It is the second volume of his _Modern Painters_ which will at present chiefly engage our attention. His architectural works can only receive a slight and casual notice; on some future occasion they may tempt us into a fuller examination.

Although the second volume of the _Modern Painters_ will be the immediate subject of our review, we must permit ourselves to glance back upon the first, in order to connect together the topics treated by the two, and to prevent our paper from wearing quite the aspect of a metaphysical essay; for it is the nature of the sentiment of the beautiful, and its sources in the human mind, which is the main subject of this second volume. In the first, he had entered at once into the arena of criticism, elevating the modern artists, and one amongst them in particular, at the expense of the old masters, who, with some few exceptions, find themselves very rudely handled.

As we have already intimated, we do not hold Mr Ruskin to be a safe guide in matters of art, and the present volume demonstrates that he is no safe guide in matters of philosophy. He is a man of undoubted power and vigour of mind; he feels strongly, and he thinks independently: but he is hasty and impetuous; can very rarely, on any subject, deliver a calm and temperate judgment; and, when he enters on the discussion of general principles, shows an utter inability to seize on, or to appreciate, the wide generalisations of philosophy. He is not, therefore, one of those men who can ever become an authority to be appealed to by the less instructed in any of the fine arts, or on any topic whatever; and this we say with the utmost confidence, because, although we may be unable in many cases to dispute his judgment--as where he speaks of paintings we have not seen, or technicalities of art we do not affect to understand--yet he so frequently stands forth on the broad arena where general and familiar principles are discussed, that it is utterly impossible _to be mistaken in the man_. On all these occasions he displays a very marked and rather peculiar combination of power and weakness--of power, the result of natural strength of mind; of weakness, the inevitable consequence of a passionate haste, and an overweening confidence. When we hear a person of this intellectual character throwing all but unmitigated abuse upon works which men have long consented to admire, and lavishing upon some other works encomiums which no conceivable perfection of human art could justify, it is utterly impossible to attach any weight to his opinion, on the ground that he has made an especial study of any one branch of art. Such a man we cannot trust out of our sight a moment; we cannot give him one inch of ground more than his reasoning covers, or our own experience would grant to him.

We shall not here revive the controversy on the comparative merits of the ancient and modern landscape-painters, nor on the later productions of Mr Turner, whether they are the eccentricities of genius or its fullest development; we have said enough on these subjects before. It is Mr Ruskin's book, and not the pictures of Claude or Turner, that we have to criticise; it is his style, and his manner of thinking, that we have to pass judgment on.

In all Mr Ruskin's works, and in almost every page of them, whether on painting, or architecture, or philosophy, or ecclesiastical controversy, two characteristics invariably prevail: an extreme dogmatism, and a passion for singularity. Every man who thinks earnestly would convert all the world to his own opinions; but while Mr Ruskin would convert all the world to his own tastes as well as opinions, he manifests the greatest repugnance to think for a moment like any one else. He has a mortal aversion to mingle with a crowd. It is quite enough for an opinion to be commonplace to insure it his contempt: if it has passed out of fashion, he may revive it; but to think with the existing multitude would be impossible. Yet that multitude are to think with him. He is as bent on unity in matters of taste as others are on unity in matters of religion; and he sets the example by diverging, wherever he can, from the tastes of others.

Between these two characteristics there is no real contradiction; or rather the contradiction is quite familiar. The man who most affects singularity is generally the most dogmatic: he is the very man who expresses most surprise that others should differ from him. No one is so impatient of contradiction as he who is perpetually contradicting others; and on the gravest matters of religion those are often found to be most zealous for unity of belief who have some pet heresy of their own, for which they are battling all their lives. The same overweening confidence lies, in fact, at the basis of both these characteristics. In Mr Ruskin they are both seen in great force. No matter what the subject he discusses,--taste or ecclesiastical government--we always find the same combination of singularity, with a dogmatism approaching to intolerance. Thus, the Ionic pillar is universally admired. Mr Ruskin finds that the fluted shaft gives an appearance of weakness. No one ever felt this, so long as the fluted column is manifestly of sufficient diameter to sustain the weight imposed on it. But this objection of apparent insecurity has been very commonly made to the spiral or twisted column. Here, therefore, Mr Ruskin abruptly dismisses the objection. He was at liberty to defend the spiral column: we should say here, also, that if the weight imposed was evidently not too great for even a spiral column to support, _this_ objection has no place; but why cast the same objection, (which perhaps in all cases was a mere after-thought) against the Ionic shaft, when it had never been felt at all? It has been a general remark, that, amongst other results of the railway, it has given a new field to the architect, as well as to the engineer. Therefore Mr Ruskin resolves that our railroad stations ought to have no architecture at all. Of course, if he limited his objections to inappropriate ornament, he would be agreeing with all the world: he decides there should be no architecture whatever; merely buildings more or less spacious, to protect men and goods from the weather. He has never been so unfortunate, we suppose, as to come an hour too soon, or the unlucky five minutes too late, to a railway station, or he would have been glad enough to find himself in something better than the large shed he proposes. On the grave subject of ecclesiastical government he has stepped forward into controversy; and here he shows both his usual propensities in _high relief_. He has some quite peculiar projects of his own; the appointment of some hundreds of bishops--we know not what--and a Church discipline to be carried out by trial by jury. Desirable or not, they are manifestly as impracticable as the revival of chivalry. But let that pass. Let every man think and propose his best. But his dogmatism amounts to a disease, when, turning from his own novelties, he can speak in the flippant intolerant manner that he does of the national and now time-honoured Church of Scotland.

It will be worth while to make, in passing, a single quotation from this pamphlet, _Notes on the Construction of Sheepfolds_. He tells us, in one place, that in the New Testament the ministers of the Church "are called, and call themselves, with absolute indifference, Deacons, Bishops, Elders, Evangelists, according to what they are doing at the time of speaking." With such a writer one might, at all events, have hoped to live in peace. But no. He discovers, nevertheless, that Episcopacy is the Scriptural form of Church government; and, having satisfied his own mind of this, no opposition or diversity of opinion is for a moment to be tolerated.

"But how," he says, "unite the two great sects of paralysed Protestants? By keeping simply to Scripture. _The members of the Scottish Church have not a shadow of excuse for refusing Episcopacy_: it has indeed been abused among them, grievously abused; but it is in the Bible, and that is all they have a right to ask.

"_They have also no shadow of excuse for refusing to employ a written form of prayer._ It may not be to their taste--it may not be the way in which they like to pray; but it is no question, at present, of likes or dislikes, but of duties; and the acceptance of such a form on their part would go half way to reconcile them with their brethren. Let them allege such objections as they can reasonably advance against the English form, and let these be carefully and humbly weighed by the pastors of both Churches: some of them ought to be at once forestalled. For the English Church, on the other hand, _must_," &c.

Into Mr Ruskin's own religious tenets, further than he has chosen to reveal them in his works, we have no wish to pry. But he must cease to be Mr Ruskin if they do not exhibit some salient peculiarity, coupled with a confidence, unusual even amongst zealots, that his peculiar views will speedily triumph. If he can be presumed to belong to any sect, it must be the last and smallest one amongst us--some sect as exclusive as German mysticism, with pretensions as great as those of the Church of Rome.

One word on the style of Mr Ruskin: it will save the trouble of alluding to it on particular occasions. It is very unequal. In both his architectural works he writes generally with great ease, spirit, and clearness. There is a racy vigour in the page. But when he would be very eloquent, as he is disposed to be in the _Modern Painters_, he becomes very verbose, tedious, obscure, extravagant. There is no discipline in his style, no moderation, no repose. Those qualities which he has known how to praise in art he has not aimed at in his own writing. A rank luxuriance of a semi-poetical diction lies about, perfectly unrestrained; metaphorical language comes before us in every species of disorder; and hyperbolical expressions are used till they become commonplace. Verbal criticism, he would probably look upon a very puerile business: he need fear nothing of the kind from us; we should as soon think of criticising or pruning a jungle. To add to the confusion, he appears at times to have proposed to himself the imitation of some of our older writers: pages are written in the rhythm of Jeremy Taylor; sometimes it is the venerable Hooker who seems to be his type; and he has even succeeded in combining whatever is most tedious and prolix in both these great writers. If the reader wishes a specimen of this sort of _modern antique_, he may turn to the fifteenth chapter of the second volume of the _Modern Painters_.

Coupled with this matter of style, and almost inseparable from it, is the violence of his manner on subjects which cannot possibly justify so vehement a zeal. We like a generous enthusiasm on any art--we delight in it; but who can travel in sympathy with a writer who exhausts on so much paint and canvass every term of rapture that the Alps themselves could have called forth? One need not be a utilitarian philosopher--or what Mr Ruskin describes as such--to smile at the lofty position on which he puts the landscape-painter, and the egregious and impossible demands he makes upon the art itself. And the condemnation and opprobrium with which he overwhelms the luckless artist who has offended him is quite as violent. The bough of a tree, "in the left hand upper corner" of a landscape of Poussin's, calls forth this terrible denunciation:--

"This latter is a representation of an ornamental group of elephants' tusks, with feathers tied to the ends of them. Not the wildest imagination could ever conjure up in it the remotest resemblance to the bough of a tree. It might be the claws of a witch--the talons of an eagle--the horns of a fiend; but it is a full assemblage of every conceivable falsehood which can be told respecting foliage--a piece of work so barbarous in every way _that one glance at it ought to prove the complete charlatanism and trickery of the whole system of the old landscape-painters_.... I will say here at once, that such drawing as this is as ugly as it is childish, and as painful as it is false; and that the man who could tolerate, much more, who could deliberately set down such a thing on his canvass, _had neither eye nor feeling for one single attribute or excellence of God's works_. He might have drawn _the other stem_ in excusable ignorance, or under some false impression of being able to improve upon nature, but this is conclusive and unpardonable."--(P. 382.)

The great redeeming quality of Mr Ruskin--and we wish to give it conspicuous and honourable mention--is his love of nature. Here lies the charm of his works; to this may be traced whatever virtue is in them, or whatever utility they may possess. They will send the painter more than ever to the study of nature, and perhaps they will have a still more beneficial effect on the art, by sending the critic of painting to the same school. It would be almost an insult to the landscape-painter to suppose that he needed this lesson; the very love of his art must lead him perpetually, one would think, to his great and delightful study amongst the fields, under the open skies, before the rivers and the hills. But the critic of the picture-gallery is often one who goes from picture to picture, and very little from nature to the painting. Consequently, where an artist succeeds in imitating some effect in nature which had not been before represented on the canvass, such a critic is more likely to be displeased than gratified; and the artist, having to paint for a conventional taste, is in danger of sacrificing to it his own higher aspirations. Now it is most true that no man should pretend to be a critic upon pictures unless he understands the art itself of painting; he ought, we suspect, to have handled the pencil or the brush himself; at all events, he ought in some way to have been initiated into the mysteries of the pallet and the easel. Otherwise, not knowing the difficulties to be overcome, nor the means at hand for encountering them, he cannot possibly estimate the degree of merit due to the artist for the production of this or that effect. He may be loud in applause where nothing has been displayed but the old traditions of the art. But still this is only one-half the knowledge he ought to possess. He ought to have studied nature, and to have loved the study, or he can never estimate, and never feel, that _truth_ of effect which is the great aim of the artist. Mr Ruskin's works will help to shame out of the field all such half-informed and conventional criticism, the mere connoisseurship of the picture gallery. On the other hand, they will train men who have always been delighted spectators of nature to be also attentive observers. Our critics will learn how to admire, and mere admirers will learn how to criticise. Thus a public will be educated; and here, if anywhere, we may confidently assert that the art will prosper in proportion as there is an intelligent public to reward it.

We like that bold enterprise of Mr Ruskin's which distinguishes the first volume, that daring enumeration of the great palpable facts of nature--the sky, the sea, the earth, the foliage--which the painter has to represent. His descriptions are often made indistinct by a multitude of words; but there is light in the haze--there is a genuine love of nature felt through them. This is almost the only point of sympathy we feel with Mr Ruskin; it is the only hold his volumes have had over us whilst perusing them; we may be, therefore, excused if we present here to our readers a specimen or two of his happier descriptions of nature. We will give them _the Cloud_ and _the Torrent_. They will confess that, after reading Mr Ruskin's description of the clouds, their first feeling will be an irresistible impulse to throw open the window, and look upon them again as they roll through the sky. The torrent may not be so near at hand, to make renewed acquaintance with. We must premise that he has been enforcing his favourite precept, the minute, and faithful, and perpetual study of nature. He very justly scouts the absurd idea that trees and rocks and clouds are, under any circumstances, to be _generalised_--so that a tree is not to stand for an oak or a poplar, a birch or an elm, but for a _general tree_. If a tree is at so great a distance that you cannot distinguish what it is, as you cannot paint more than you see, you must paint it indistinctly. But to make a purposed indistinctness where the kind of tree would be very plainly seen is a manifest absurdity. So, too, the forms of clouds should be studied, and as much as possible taken from nature, and not certain _general clouds_ substituted at the artist's pleasure.

"But it is not the outline only which is thus systematically false. The drawing of the solid form is worse still; for it is to be remembered that, although clouds of course arrange themselves more or less into broad masses, with a light side and a dark side, both their light and shade are invariably composed of a series of divided masses, each of which has in its outline as much variety and character as the great outline of the cloud; presenting, therefore, a thousand times repeated, all that I have described as the general form. Nor are these multitudinous divisions a truth of slight importance in the character of sky, for they are dependent on, and illustrative of, a quality which is usually in a great degree overlooked--the enormous retiring spaces of solid clouds. Between the illumined edge of a heaped cloud and that part of its body which turns into shadow, there will generally be a clear distance of several miles--more or less, of course, according to the general size of the cloud; but in such large masses as Poussin and others of the old masters, which occupy the fourth or fifth of the visible sky, the clear illumined breadth of vapour, from the edge to the shadow, involves at least a distance of five or six miles. We are little apt, in watching the changes of a mountainous range of cloud, to reflect that the masses of vapour which compose it are linger and higher than any mountain-range of the earth; and the distances between mass and mass are not yards of air, traversed in an instant by the flying form, but valleys of changing atmosphere leagues over; that the slow motion of ascending curves, which we can scarcely trace, is a boiling energy of exulting vapour rushing into the heaven a thousand feet in a minute; and that the topling angle, whose sharp edge almost escapes notice in the multitudinous forms around it, is a nodding precipice of storms, three thousand feet from base to summit. It is not until we have actually compared the forms of the sky with the hill-ranges of the earth, and seen the soaring alp overtopped and buried in one surge of the sky, that we begin to conceive or appreciate the colossal scale of the phenomena of the latter. But of this there can be no doubt in the mind of any one accustomed to trace the forms of cloud among hill-ranges--as it is there a demonstrable and evident fact--that the space of vapour visibly extended over an ordinarily clouded sky is not less, from the point nearest to the observer to the horizon, than twenty leagues; that the size of every mass of separate form, if it be at all largely divided, is to be expressed in terms of _miles_; and that every boiling heap of illuminated mist in the nearer sky is an enormous mountain, fifteen or twenty thousand feet in height, six or seven miles over in illuminated surface, furrowed by a thousand colossal ravines, torn by local tempests into peaks and promontories, and changing its features with the majestic velocity of a volcano."--(Vol. i. p. 228.)

The forms of clouds, it seems, are worth studying: after reading this, no landscape-painter will be disposed, with hasty slight invention, to sketch in these "_mountains_" of the sky. Here is his description, or part of it, first of falling, then of running water. With the incidental criticism upon painters we are not at present concerned:--

"A little crumbling white or lightly-rubbed paper will soon give the effect of indiscriminate foam; but nature gives more than foam--she shows beneath it, and through it, a peculiar character of exquisitely studied form, bestowed on every wave and line of fall; and it is this variety of definite character which Turner always aims at, rejecting as much as possible everything that conceals or overwhelms it. Thus, in the Upper Fall of the Tees, though the whole basin of the fall is blue, and dim with the rising vapour, yet the attention of the spectator is chiefly directed to the concentric zones and delicate curves of the falling water itself; and it is impossible to express with what exquisite accuracy these are given. They are the characteristic of a powerful stream descending without impediment or break, but from a narrow channel, so as to expand as it falls. They are the constant form which such a stream assumes as it descends; and yet I think it would be difficult to point to another instance of their being rendered in art. You will find nothing in the waterfalls, even of our best painters, but springing lines of parabolic descent, and splashing and shapeless foam; and, in consequence, though they may make you understand the swiftness of the water, they never let you feel the weight of it: the stream, in their hands, looks _active_, not _supine_, as if it leaped, not as if it fell. Now, water will leap a little way--it will leap down a weir or over a stone--but it _tumbles_ over a high fall like this; and it is when we have lost the parabolic line, and arrived at the catenary--when we have lost the spring of the fall, and arrived at the _plunge_ of it--that we begin really to feel its weight and wildness. Where water takes its first leap from the top, it is cool and collected, and uninteresting and mathematical; but it is when it finds that it has got into a scrape, and has farther to go than it thought for, that its character comes out; it is then that it begins to writhe and twist, and sweep out, zone after zone, in wilder stretching as it falls, and to send down the rocket-like, lance-pointed, whizzing shafts at its sides sounding for the bottom. And it is this prostration, the hopeless abandonment of its ponderous power to the air, which is always peculiarly expressed by Turner....

"When water, not in very great body, runs in a rocky bed much interrupted by hollows, so that it can rest every now and then in a pool as it goes long, it does not acquire a continuous velocity of motion. It pauses after every leap, and curdles about, and rests a little, and then goes on again; and if, in this comparatively tranquil and rational state of mind, it meets with any obstacle, as a rock or stone, it parts on each side of it with a little bubbling foam, and goes round: if it comes to a step in its bed, it leaps it lightly, and then, after a little splashing at the bottom, stops again to take breath. But if its bed be on a continuous slope, not much interrupted by hollows, so that it cannot rest--or if its own mass be so increased by flood that its usual resting-places are not sufficient for it, but that it is perpetually pushed out of them by the following current before it has had time to tranquillise itself--it of course gains velocity with every yard that it runs; the impetus got at one leap is carried to the credit of the next, until the whole stream becomes one mass of unchecked accelerating motion. Now, when water in this state comes to an obstacle, it does not part at it, but clears it like a racehorse; and when it comes to a hollow, it does not fill it up, and run out leisurely at the other side, but it rushes down into it, and comes up again on the other side, as a ship into the hollow of the sea. Hence the whole appearance of the bed of the stream is changed, and all the lines of the water altered in their nature. The quiet stream is a succession of leaps and pools; the leaps are light and springy and parabolic, and make a great deal of splashing when they tumble into the pool; then we have a space of quiet curdling water, and another similar leap below. But the stream, when it has gained an impetus, takes the shape of its bed, never stops, is equally deep and equally swift everywhere, goes down into every hollow, not with a leap, but with a swing--not foaming nor splashing, but in the bending line of a strong sea-wave, and comes up again on the other side, over rock and ridge, with the ease of a bounding leopard. If it meet a rock three or four feet above the level of its bed, it will neither part nor foam, nor express any concern about the matter, but clear it in a smooth dome of water without apparent exertion, coming down again as smoothly on the other side, the whole surface of the surge being drawn into parallel lines by its extreme velocity, but foamless, except in places where the form of the bed opposes itself at some direct angle to such a line of fall, and causes a breaker; so that the whole river has the appearance of a deep and raging sea, with this only difference, that the torrent waves always break backwards, and sea-waves forwards. Thus, then, in the water which has gained an impetus, we have the most exquisite arrangement of curved lines, perpetually changing from convex to concave, following every swell and hollow of the bed with their modulating grace, and all in unison of motion, presenting perhaps the most beautiful series of inorganic forms which nature can possibly produce."--(Vol. i. p. 363.)

It is the object of Mr Ruskin, in his first volume of _Modern Painters_, to show what the artist has to do in his imitation of nature. We have no material controversy to raise with him on this subject; but we cannot help expressing our surprise that he should have thought it necessary to combat, with so much energy, so very primitive a notion that the imitation of the artist partakes of the nature of a _deception_, and that the highest excellence is obtained when the representation of any object is taken for the object itself. We thought this matter had been long ago settled. In a page or two of Quatremère de Quincy's treatise on _Imitation in the Fine Arts_, the reader, if he has still to seek on this subject, will find it very briefly and lucidly treated. The aim of the artist is not to produce such a representation as shall be taken, even for a moment, for a real object. His aim is, by imitating certain qualities or attributes of the object, to reproduce for us those pleasing or elevating impressions which it is the nature of such qualities or attributes to excite. We have stated very briefly the accepted doctrine on this subject--so generally accepted and understood that Mr Ruskin was under no necessity to avoid the use of the word imitation, as he appears to have done, under the apprehension that it was incurably infected with this notion of an attempted deception. Hardly any reader of his book, even without a word of explanation, would have attached any other meaning to it than what he himself expresses by representation of certain "truths" of nature.

With respect to the imitations of the landscape-painter, the notion of a deception cannot occur. His trees and rivers cannot be mistaken, for an instant, for real trees and rivers, and certainly not while they stand there in the gilt frame, and the gilt frame itself against the papered wall. His only chance of deception is to get rid of the frame, convert his picture into a transparency, and place it in the space which a window should occupy. In almost all cases, deception is obtained, not by painting well, but by those artifices which disguise that what we see _is_ a painting. At the same time, we are not satisfied with an expression which several writers, we remark, have lately used, and which Mr Ruskin very explicitly adopts. The imitations of the landscape-painter are not a "language" which he uses; they are not mere "signs," analogous to those which the poet or the orator employs. There is no analogy between them. Let us analyse our impressions as we stand before the artist's landscape, not thinking of the artist, or his dexterity, but simply absorbed in the pleasure which he procures us--we do not find ourselves reverting, in imagination, to _other_ trees or other rivers than those he has depicted. We certainly do not believe them to be real trees, but neither are they mere signs, or a language to recall such objects; but _what there is of tree there_ we enjoy. There is the coolness and the quiet of the shaded avenue, and we feel them; there is the sunlight on that bank, and we feel its cheerfulness; we feel the serenity of his river. He has brought the spirit of the trees around us; the imagination rests in the picture. In other departments of art the effect is the same. If we stand before a head of Rembrandt or Vandyke, we do not think that it lives; but neither do we think of some other head, of which that is the type. But there is majesty, there is thought, there is calm repose, there is some phase of humanity expressed before us, and we are occupied with so much of human life, or human character, as is then and there given us.

Imitate as many qualities of the real object as you please, but always the highest, never sacrificing a truth of the mind, or the heart, for one only of the sense. Truth, as Mr Ruskin most justly says--truth always. When it is said that truth should not be always expressed, the maxim, if properly understood, resolves into this--that the higher truth is not to be sacrificed to the lower. In a landscape, the gradation of light and shade is a more important truth than the exact brilliancy (supposing it to be attainable,) of any individual object. The painter must calculate what means he has at his disposal for representing this gradation of light, and he must pitch his tone accordingly. Say he pitches it far below reality, he is still in search of truth--of contrast and degree.

Sometimes it may happen that, by rendering one detail faithfully, an artist may give a false impression, simply because he cannot render other details or facts by which it is accompanied in nature. Here, too, he would only sacrifice truth _in the cause of truth_. The admirers of Constable will perhaps dispute the aptness of our illustration. Nevertheless his works appear to us to afford a curious example of a scrupulous accuracy or detail producing a false impression. Constable, looking at foliage under the sunlight, and noting that the leaf, especially after a shower, will reflect so much light that the tree will seem more white than green, determined to paint all the white he saw. Constable could paint white leaves. So far so well. But then these leaves in nature are almost always in motion: they are white at one moment and green the next. We never have the impression of a white leaf; for it is seen playing with the light--its mirror, for one instant, and glancing from it the next. Constable could not paint motion. He could not imitate this shower of light in the living tree. He must leave his white paint where he has once put it. Other artists before him had seen the same light, but, knowing that they could not bring the breeze into their canvass, they wisely concluded that less white paint than Constable uses would produce a more truthful impression.

But we must no longer be detained from the more immediate task before us. We must now follow Mr Ruskin to his second volume of _Modern Painters_, where he explains his theory of the beautiful; and although this will not be to readers in general the most attractive portion of his writings, and we ourselves have to practise some sort of self-denial in fixing our attention upon it, yet manifestly it is here that we must look for the basis or fundamental principles of all his criticisms in art. The order in which his works have been published was apparently deranged by a generous zeal, which could brook no delay, to defend Mr Turner from the censures of the undiscerning public. If the natural or systematic order had been preserved, the materials of this second volume would have formed the first preliminary treatise, determining those broad principles of taste, or that philosophical theory of the beautiful, on which the whole of the subsequent works were to be modelled. Perhaps this broken and reversed order of publication has not been unfortunate for the success of the author--perhaps it was dimly foreseen to be not altogether impolitic; for the popular ear was gained by the bold and enthusiastic defence of a great painter; and the ear of the public, once caught, may be detained by matter which, in the first instance, would have appealed to it in vain. Whether the effect of chance or design, we may certainly congratulate Mr Ruskin on the fortunate succession, and the fortunate rapidity with which his publications have struck on the public ear. The popular feeling, won by the zeal and intrepidity of the first volume of _Modern Painters_, was no doubt a little tried by the graver discussions of the second. It was soon, however, to be again caught, and pleased by a bold and agreeable miscellany under the magical name of "The Seven Lamps;" and these Seven Lamps could hardly fail to throw some portion of their pleasant and bewildering light over a certain rudimentary treatise upon building, which was to appear under the title of "The Stones of Venice."

We cannot, however, congratulate Mr Ruskin on the manner in which he has acquitted himself in this arena of philosophical inquiry, nor on the sort of theory of the Beautiful which he has contrived to construct. The least metaphysical of our readers is aware that there is a controversy of long standing upon this subject, between two different schools of philosophy. With the one the beautiful is described as a great "idea" of the reason, or an intellectual intuition, or a simple intuitive perception; different expressions are made use of, but all imply that it is a great primary feeling, or sentiment, or idea of the human mind, and as incapable of further analysis as the idea of space, or the simplest of our sensations. The rival school of theorists maintain, on the contrary, that no sentiment yields more readily to analysis; and that the beautiful, except in those rare cases where the whole charm lies in one sensation, as in that of colour, is a complex sentiment. They describe it as a pleasure resulting from the presence of the visible object, but of which the visible object is only in part the immediate cause. Of a great portion of the pleasure it is merely the vehicle; and they say that blended reminiscences, gathered from every sense, and every human affection, from the softness of touch of an infant's finger to the highest contemplations of a devotional spirit, have contributed, in their turn, to this delightful sentiment.

Mr Ruskin was not bound to belong to either of these schools of philosophy; he was at liberty to construct an eclectic system of his own;--and he has done so. We shall take the precaution, in so delicate a matter, of quoting Mr Ruskin's own words for the exposition of his own theory. Meanwhile, as some clue to the reader, we may venture to say that he agrees with the first of these schools in adopting a primary intuitive sentiment of the beautiful; but then this primary intuition is only of a sensational or "animal" nature--a subordinate species of the beautiful, which is chiefly valuable as the necessary condition of the higher and truly beautiful; and this last he agrees with the opposite school in regarding as a derived sentiment--derived by contemplating the objects of external nature as types of the Divine attributes. This is a brief summary of the theory; for a fuller exposition we shall have recourse to his own words.

The term _Æsthetic_, which has been applied to this branch of philosophy, Mr Ruskin discards; he offers as a substitute _Theoria_, or _The Theoretic Faculty_, the meaning of which he thus explains:--

"I proceed, therefore, first to examine the nature of what I have called the theoretic faculty, and to justify my substitution of the term 'Theoretic' for 'Æsthetic,' which is the one commonly employed with reference to it.

"Now the term 'æsthesis' properly signifies mere sensual perception of the outward qualities and necessary effects of bodies; in which sense only, if we would arrive at any accurate conclusions on this difficult subject, it should always be used. But I wholly deny that the impressions of beauty _are in any way sensual_;--they are neither sensual nor intellectual, _but moral_; and for the faculty receiving them, whose difference from mere perception I shall immediately endeavour to explain, no terms can be more accurate or convenient than that employed by the Greeks, 'Theoretic,' which I pray permission, therefore, always to use, and to call the operation of the faculty itself, Theoria."--(P. 11.)

We are introduced to a new faculty of the human mind; let us see what new or especial sphere of operation is assigned to it. After some remarks on the superiority of the mere sensual pleasures of the eye and the ear, but particularly of the eye, to those derived from other organs of sense, he continues:--

"Herein, then, we find very sufficient ground for the higher estimation of these delights: first, in their being eternal and inexhaustible; and, secondly, in their being evidently no meaner instrument of life, but an object of life. Now, in whatever is an object of life, in whatever may be infinitely and for itself desired, we may be sure there is something of divine: for God will not make anything an object of life to his creatures which does not point to, or partake of himself,"--[a bold assertion.] "And so, though we were to regard the pleasures of sight merely as the highest of sensual pleasures, and though they were of rare occurrence--and, when occurring, isolated and imperfect--there would still be supernatural character about them, owing to their self-sufficiency. But when, instead of being scattered, interrupted, or chance-distributed, they are gathered together and so arranged to enhance each other, as by chance they could not be, there is caused by them, not only a feeling of strong affection towards the object in which they exist, but a perception of purpose and adaptation of it to our desires; a perception, therefore, of the immediate operation of the Intelligence which so formed us and so feeds us.

"Out of what perception arise Joy, Admiration, and Gratitude?

"Now, the mere animal consciousness of the pleasantness I call Æsthesis; but the exulting, reverent, and grateful perception of it I call Theoria. For this, and this only, is the full comprehension and contemplation of the beautiful as a gift of God; a gift not necessary to our being, but adding to and elevating it, and twofold--first, of the desire; and, secondly, of the thing desired."

We find, then, that in the production of the full sentiment of the beautiful _two_ faculties are employed, or two distinct operations denoted. First, there is the "animal pleasantness which we call Æsthesis,"--which sometimes appears confounded with the mere pleasures of sense, but which the whole current of his speculations obliges us to conclude is some separate intuition of a sensational character; and, secondly, there is "the exulting, reverent, and grateful perception of it, which we call Theoria," which alone is the truly beautiful, and which it is the function of the Theoretic Faculty to reveal to us. But this new Theoretic Faculty--what can it be but the old faculty of Human Reason, exercised upon the great subject of Divine beneficence?

Mr Ruskin, as we shall see, discovers that external objects are beautiful because they are types of Divine attributes; but he admits, and is solicitous to impress upon our minds, that the "meaning" of these types is "learnt." When, in a subsequent part of his work, he feels himself pressed by the objection that many celebrated artists, who have shown a vivid appreciation and a great passion for the beautiful, have manifested no peculiar piety, have been rather deficient in spiritual-mindedness, he gives them over to that instinctive sense he has called Æsthesis, and says--"It will be remembered that I have, throughout the examination of typical beauty, asserted our instinctive sense of it; the moral _meaning_ of it being only discoverable by reflection," (p. 127.) Now, there is no other conceivable manner in which the meaning of the type can be learnt than by the usual exercise of the human reason, detecting traces of the Divine power, and wisdom, and benevolence, in the external world, and then associating with the various objects of the external world the ideas we have thus acquired of the Divine wisdom and goodness. The rapid and habitual regard of certain facts or appearances in the visible world, as types of the attributes of God, _can_ be nothing else but one great instance (or class of instances) of that law of association of ideas on which the second school of philosophy we have alluded to so largely insist. And thus, whether Mr Ruskin chooses to acquiesce in it or not, his "Theoria" resolves itself into a portion, or fragment, of that theory of association of ideas, to which he declares, and perhaps believes, himself to be violently opposed.

In a very curious manner, therefore, has Mr Ruskin selected his materials from the two rival schools of metaphysics. His _Æsthesis_ is an intuitive perception, but of a mere sensual or animal nature--sometimes almost confounded with the mere pleasure of sense, at other times advanced into considerable importance, as where he has to explain the fact that men of very little piety have a very acute perception of beauty. His _Theoria_ is, and can be, nothing more than the results of human reason in its highest and noblest exercise, rapidly brought before the mind by a habitual association of ideas. For the lowest element of the beautiful he runs to the school of intuitions;--they will not thank him for the compliment;--for the higher to that analytic school, and that theory of association of ideas, to which throughout he is ostensibly opposed.

This _Theoria_ divides itself into two parts. We shall quote Mr Ruskin's own words and take care to quote from them passages where he seems most solicitous to be accurate and explanatory:--

"The first thing, then, we have to do," he says, "is accurately to discriminate and define those appearances from which we are about to reason as belonging to beauty, properly so called, and to clear the ground of all the confused ideas and erroneous theories with which the misapprehension or metaphorical use of the term has encumbered it.

"By the term Beauty, then, properly are signified two things: first, that external quality of bodies, already so often spoken of, and which, whether it occur in a stone, flower, beast, or in man, is absolutely identical--which, as I have already asserted, may be shown to be in some sort typical of the Divine attributes, and which, therefore, I shall, for distinction's sake, call Typical Beauty; and, secondarily, the appearance of felicitous fulfilment of functions in living things, more especially of the joyful and right exertion of perfect life in man--and this kind of beauty I shall call Vital Beauty."--(P. 26.)

The Vital Beauty, as well as the Typical, partakes essentially, as far as we can understand our author, of a religious character. On turning to that part of the volume where it is treated of at length, we find a universal sympathy and spirit of kindliness very properly insisted on, as one great element of the sentiment of beauty; but we are not permitted to dwell upon this element, or rest upon it a moment, without some reference to our relation to God. Even the animals themselves seem to be turned into types for us of our moral feelings or duties. We are expressly told that we cannot have this sympathy with life and enjoyment in other creatures, unless it takes the form of, or comes accompanied with, a sentiment of piety. In all cases where the beautiful is anything higher than a certain "animal pleasantness," we are to understand that it has a religious character. "In all cases," he says, summing up the functions of the Theoretic Faculty, "_it is something Divine_; either the approving voice of God, the glorious symbol of Him, the evidence of His kind presence, or the obedience to His will by Him induced and supported,"--(p. 126.) Now it is a delicate task, when a man errs by the exaggeration of a great truth or a noble sentiment, to combat his error; and yet as much mischief may ultimately arise from an error of this description as from any other. The thoughts and feelings which Mr Ruskin has described, form the noblest part of our sentiment of the beautiful, as they form the noblest phase of the human reason. But they are not the whole of it. The visible object, to adopt his phraseology, does become a type to the contemplative and pious mind of the attribute of God, and is thus exalted to our apprehension. But it is not beautiful solely or originally on this account. To assert this, is simply to falsify our human nature.

Before, however, we enter into these _types_, or this typical beauty, it will be well to notice how Mr Ruskin deals with previous and opposing theories. It will be well also to remind our readers of the outline of that theory of association of ideas which is here presented to us in so very confused a manner. We shall then be better able to understand the very curious position our author has taken up in this domain of speculative philosophy.

Mr Ruskin gives us the following summary of the "errors" which he thinks it necessary in the first place to clear from his path:--

"Those erring or inconsistent positions which I would at once dismiss are, the first, that the beautiful is the true; the second, that the beautiful is the useful; the third, that it is dependent on custom; and the fourth, that it is dependent on the association of ideas."

The first of these theories, that the beautiful is the true, we leave entirely to the tender mercies of Mr Ruskin; we cannot gather from his refutation to what class of theorists he is alluding. The remaining three are, as we understand the matter, substantially one and the same theory. We believe that no one, in these days, would define beauty as solely resulting either from the apprehension of Utility, (that is, the adjustment of parts to a whole, or the application of the object to an ulterior purpose,) or to Familiarity and the affection which custom engenders; but they would regard both Utility and Familiarity as amongst the sources of those agreeable ideas or impressions, which, by the great law of association, became intimately connected with the visible object. We must listen, however, to Mr Ruskin's refutation of them:--

"That the beautiful is the _useful_ is an assertion evidently based on that limited and false sense of the latter term which I have already deprecated. As it is the most degrading and dangerous supposition which can be advanced on the subject, so, fortunately, it is the most palpably absurd. It is to confound admiration with hunger, love with lust, and life with sensation; it is to assert that the human creature has no ideas and no feelings, except those ultimately referable to its brutal appetites. It has not a single fact, nor appearance of fact, to support it, and needs no combating--at least until its advocates have obtained the consent of the majority of mankind that the most beautiful productions of nature are seeds and roots; and of art, spades and millstones.

"Somewhat more rational grounds appear for the assertion that the sense of the beautiful arises from _familiarity_ with the object, though even this could not long be maintained by a thinking person. For all that can be alleged in defence of such a supposition is, that familiarity deprives some objects which at first appeared ugly of much of their repulsiveness; whence it is as rational to conclude that familiarity is the cause of beauty, as it would be to argue that, because it is possible to acquire a taste for olives, therefore custom is the cause of lusciousness in grapes....

"I pass to the last and most weighty theory, that the agreeableness in objects which we call beauty is the result of the association with them of agreeable or interesting ideas.

"Frequent has been the support and wide the acceptance of this supposition, and yet I suppose that no two consecutive sentences were ever written in defence of it, without involving either a contradiction or a confusion of terms. Thus Alison, 'There are scenes undoubtedly more beautiful than Runnymede, yet, to those who recollect the great event that passed there, there is no scene perhaps which so strongly seizes on the imagination,'--where we are wonder-struck at the bold obtuseness which would prove the power of imagination by its overcoming that very other power (of inherent beauty) whose existence the arguer desires; for the only logical conclusion which can possibly be drawn from the above sentence is, that imagination is _not_ the source of beauty--for, although no scene seizes so strongly on the imagination, yet there are scenes 'more beautiful than Runnymede.' And though instances of self-contradiction as laconic and complete as this are rare, yet, if the arguments on the subject be fairly sifted from the mass of confused language with which they are always encumbered, they will be found invariably to fall into one of these two forms: either association gives pleasure, and beauty gives pleasure, therefore association is beauty; or the power of association is stronger than the power of beauty, therefore the power of association _is_ the power of beauty."

Now this last sentence is sheer nonsense, and only proves that the author had never given himself the trouble to understand the theory he so flippantly discards. No one ever said that "association gives pleasure;" but very many, and Mr Ruskin amongst the rest, have said that associated thought adds its pleasure to an object pleasing in itself, and thus increases the complex sentiment of beauty. That it is a complex sentiment in all its higher forms, Mr Ruskin himself will tell us. As to the manner in which he deals with Alison, it is in the worst possible spirit of controversy. Alison was an elegant, but not a very precise writer; it was the easiest thing in the world to select an unfortunate illustration, and to convict _that_ of absurdity. Yet he might with equal ease have selected many other illustrations from Alison, which would have done justice to the theory he expounds. A hundred such will immediately occur to the reader. If, instead of a historical recollection of this kind, which could hardly make the stream itself of Runnymede look more beautiful, Alison had confined himself to those impressions which the generality of mankind receive from river scenery, he would have had no difficulty in showing (as we believe he has elsewhere done) how, in this case, ideas gathered from different sources flow into one harmonious and apparently simple feeling. That sentiment of beauty which arises as we look upon a river will be acknowledged by most persons to be composed of many associated thoughts, combining with the object before them. Its form and colour, its bright surface and its green banks, are all that the eye immediately gives us; but with these are combined the remembered coolness of the fluent stream, and of the breeze above it, and of the pleasant shade of its banks; and beside all this--as there are few persons who have not escaped with delight from town or village, to wander by the quiet banks of some neighbouring stream, so there are few persons who do not associate with river scenery ideas of peace and serenity. Now many of these thoughts or facts are such as the eye does not take cognisance of, yet they present themselves as instantaneously as the visible form, and so blended as to seem, for the moment, to belong to it.

Why not have selected some such illustration as this, instead of the unfortunate Runnymede, from a work where so many abound as apt as they are elegantly expressed? As to Mr Ruskin's utilitarian philosopher, it is a fabulous creature--no such being exists. Nor need we detain ourselves with the quite departmental subject of Familiarity. But let us endeavour--without desiring to pledge ourselves or our readers to its final adoption--to relieve the theory of association of ideas from the obscurity our author has thrown around it. Our readers will not find that this is altogether a wasted labour.

With Mr Ruskin we are of opinion that, in a discussion of this kind, the term Beauty ought to be limited to the impression derived, mediately or immediately, from the visible object. It would be useless affectation to attempt to restrict the use of the word, in general, to this application. We can have no objection to the term Beautiful being applied to a piece of music, or to an eloquent composition, prose or verse, or even to our moral feelings and heroic actions; the word has received this general application, and there is, at basis, a great deal in common between all these and the sentiment of beauty attendant on the visible object. For music, or sweet sounds, and poetry, and our moral feelings, have much to do (through the law of association) with our sentiment of the Beautiful. It is quite enough if, speaking of the subject of our analysis, we limit it to those impressions, however originated, which attend upon the visible object.

One preliminary word on this association of ideas. It is from its very nature, and the nature of human life, of all degrees of intimacy--from the casual suggestion, or the case where the two ideas are at all times felt to be distinct, to those close combinations where the two ideas have apparently coalesced into one, or require an attentive analysis to separate them. You see a mass of iron; you may be said _to see its weight_, the impression of its weight is so intimately combined with its form. The _light_ of the sun, and the _heat_ of the sun are learnt from different senses, yet we never see the one without thinking of the other, and the reflection of the sunbeam seen upon a bank immediately suggests the idea of _warmth_. But it is not necessary that the combination should be always so perfect as in this instance, in order to produce the effect we speak of under the name of Association of Ideas. It is hardly possible for us to abstract the _glow_ of the sunbeam from its light; but the fertility which follows upon the presence of the sun, though a suggestion which habitually occurs to reflective minds, is an association of a far less intimate nature. It is sufficiently intimate, however, to blend with that feeling of admiration we have when we speak of the beauty of the sun. There is the golden harvest in its summer beams. Again, the contemplative spirit in all ages has formed an association between the sun and the Deity, whether as the fittest symbol of God, or as being His greatest gift to man. Here we have an association still more refined, and of a somewhat less frequent character, but one which will be found to enter, in a very subtle manner, into that impression we receive from the great luminary.

And thus it is that, in different minds, the same materials of thought may be combined in a closer or laxer relationship. This should be borne in mind by the candid inquirer. That in many instances ideas from different sources do coalesce, in the manner we have been describing, he cannot for an instant doubt. He seems _to see_ the coolness of that river; he seems _to see_ the warmth on that sunny bank. In many instances, however, he must make allowance for the different habitudes of life. The same illustration will not always have the same force to all men. Those who have cultivated their minds by different pursuits, or lived amongst scenery of a different character, cannot have formed exactly the same moral association with external nature.

These preliminaries being adjusted, what, we ask, is that first original charm of the _visible object_ which serves as the foundation for this wonderful superstructure of the Beautiful, to which almost every department of feeling and of thought will be found to bring its contribution? What is it so pleasurable that the eye at once receives from the external world, that round _it_ should have gathered all these tributary pleasures? Light--colour--form; but, in reference to our discussion, pre-eminently the exquisite pleasure derived from the sense of light, pure or coloured. Colour, from infancy to old age, is one original, universal, perpetual source of delight, the first and constant element of the Beautiful.

We are far from thinking that the eye does not at once take cognisance of form as well as colour. Some ingenious analysts have supposed that the sensation of colour is, in its origin, a mere mental affection, having no reference to space or external objects, and that it obtains this reference through the contemporaneous acquisition of the sense of touch. But there can be no more reason for supposing that the sense of touch informs us immediately of an external world than that the sense of colour does. If we do not allow to all the senses an intuitive reference to the external world, we shall get it from none of them. Dr Brown, who paid particular attention to this subject, and who was desirous to limit the first intimation of the sense of sight to an abstract sensation of unlocalised colour, failed entirely in his attempt to obtain from any other source the idea of space or _outness_; Kant would have given him certain subjective _forms of the sensitive faculty_, space and time. These he did not like: he saw that, if he denied to the eye an immediate perception of the external world, he must also deny it to the touch; he therefore prayed in aid certain muscular sensations from which the idea of _resistance_ would be obtained. But it seems to us evident that not till _after_ we have acquired a knowledge of the external world can we connect _volition_ with muscular movement, and that, until that connection is made, the muscular sensations stand in the same predicament as other sensations, and could give him no aid in solving his problem. We cannot go further into this matter at present.[6] The mere flash of light which follows the touch upon the optic nerve represents itself as something _without_; nor was colour, we imagine, ever felt, but under some _form_ more or less distinct; although in the human being the eye seems to depend on the touch far more than in other animals, for its further instruction.

[6] It is seldom any action of a limb is performed without the concurrence of several muscles; and, if the action is at all energetic, a number of muscles are brought into play as an equipoise or balance; the infant, therefore, would be sadly puzzled amongst its muscular sensations, supposing that it had them. Besides, it seems clear that those movements we see an infant make with its arms and legs are, in the first instance, as little _voluntary_ as the muscular movements it makes for the purpose of respiration. There is an animal life within us, dependent on its own laws of irritability. Over a portion of this the developed thought or reason gains dominion; over a large portion the will never has any hold; over another portion, as in the organs of respiration, it has an intermittent and divided empire. We learn voluntary movement by doing that instinctively and spontaneously which we afterwards do from forethought. We have moved our arm; we wish to do the like again, (and to our wonder, if we then had intelligence enough to wonder,) we do it.

But although the eye is cognisant of form as well as colour, it is in the sensation of colour that we must seek the primitive pleasure derived from this organ. And probably the first reason why form pleases is this, that the boundaries of form are also the lines of contrast of colour. It is a general law of all sensation that, if it be continued, our susceptibility to it declines. It was necessary that the eye should be always open. Its susceptibility is sustained by the perpetual contrast of colours. Whether the contrast is sudden, or whether one hue shades gradually into another, we see here an original and primary source of pleasure. A constant variety, in some way produced, is essential to the maintenance of the pleasure derived from colour.

It is not incumbent on us to inquire how far the beauty of form may be traceable to the sensation of touch;--a very small portion of it we suspect. In the human countenance, and in sculpture, the beauty of form is almost resolvable into expression; though possibly the soft and rounded outline may in some measure be associated with the sense of smoothness to the touch. All that we are concerned to show is, that there is here in colour, diffused as it is over the whole world, and perpetually varied, a _beauty_ at once showered upon the visible object. We hear it said, if you resolve all into association, where will you begin? You have but a circle of feelings. If moral sentiment, for instance, be not itself the beautiful, why should it become so by association. There must be something else that is _the beautiful_, by association with which it passes for such. We answer, that we do not resolve _all_ into association; that we have in this one gift of colour, shed so bountifully over the whole world, an original beauty, a delight which makes the external object pleasant and beloved; for how can we fail, in some sort, to love what produces so much pleasure?

We are at a loss to understand how any one can speak with disparagement of colour as a source of the beautiful. The sculptor may, perhaps, by his peculiar education, grow comparatively indifferent to it: we know not how this may be; but let any man, of the most refined taste imaginable, think what he owes to this source, when he walks out at evening, and sees the sun set amongst the hills. The same concave sky, the same scene, so far as its form is concerned, was there a few hours before, and saddened him with its gloom; one leaden hue prevailed over all; and now in a clear sky the sun is setting, and the hills are purple, and the clouds are radiant with every colour that can be extracted from the sunbeam. He can hardly believe that it is the same scene, or he the same man. Here the grown-up man and the child stand always on the same level. As to the infant, note how its eye feeds upon a brilliant colour, or the living flame. If it had wings, it would assuredly do as the moth does. And take the most untutored rustic, let him be old, and dull, and stupid, yet, as long as the eye has vitality in it, will he look up with long untiring gaze at this blue vault of the sky, traversed by its glittering clouds, and pierced by the tall green trees around him.

Is it any marvel now that round the _visible object_ should associate tributary feelings of pleasure? How many pleasing and tender sentiments gather round the rose! Yet the rose is beautiful in itself. It was beautiful to the child by its colour, its texture, its softly-shaded leaf, and the contrast between the flower and the foliage. Love, and poetry, and the tender regrets of advanced life, have contributed a second dower of beauty. The rose is more to the youth and to the old man than it was to the child; but still to the last they both feel the pleasure of the child.

The more commonplace the illustration, the more suited it is to our purpose. If any one will reflect on the many ideas that cluster round this beautiful flower, he will not fail to see how numerous and subtle may be the association formed with the visible object. Even an idea painful in itself may, by way of contrast, serve to heighten the pleasure of others with which it is associated. Here the thought of decay and fragility, like a discord amongst harmonies, increases our sentiment of tenderness. We express, we believe, the prevailing taste when we say that there is nothing, in the shape of art, so disagreeable and repulsive as artificial flowers. The waxen flower may be an admirable imitation, but it is a detestable thing. This partly results from the nature of the imitation; a vulgar deception is often practised upon us: what is not a flower is intended to pass for one. But it is owing still more, we think, to the contradiction that is immediately afterwards felt between this preserved and imperishable waxen flower, and the transitory and perishable rose. It is the nature of the rose to bud, and blossom, and decay; it gives its beauty to the breeze and to the shower; it is mortal; it is _ours_; it bears our hopes, our loves, our regrets. This waxen substitute, that cannot change or decay, is a contradiction and a disgust.

Amongst objects of man's contrivance, the sail seen upon the calm waters of a lake or a river is universally felt to be beautiful. The form is graceful, and the movement gentle, and its colour contrasts well either with the shore or the water. But perhaps the chief element of our pleasure is all association with human life, with peaceful enjoyment--

"This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing, To waft me from distraction."

Or take one of the noblest objects in nature--the mountain. There is no object except the sea and the sky that reflects to the sight colours so beautiful, and in such masses. But colour, and form, and magnitude, constitute but a part of the beauty or the sublimity of the mountain. Not only do the clouds encircle or rest upon it, but men have laid on it their grandest thoughts: we have associated with it our moral fortitude, and all we understand of greatness or elevation of mind; our phraseology seems half reflected from the mountain. Still more, we have made it holy ground. Has not God himself descended on the mountain? Are not the hills, once and for ever, "the unwalled temples of our earth?" And still there is another circumstance attendant upon mountain scenery, which adds a solemnity of its own, and is a condition of the enjoyment of other sources of the sublime--solitude. It seems to us that the feeling of solitude almost always associates itself with mountain scenery. Mrs Somerville, in the description which she gives or quotes, in her _Physical Geography_, of the Himalayas, says--

"The loftiest peaks being bare of snow gives great variety of colour and beauty to the scenery, which in these passes is at all times magnificent. During the day, the stupendous size of the mountains, their interminable extent, the variety and the sharpness of their forms, and, above all, the tender clearness of their distant outline melting into the pale blue sky, contrasted with the deep azure above, is described as a scene of wild and wonderful beauty. At midnight, when myriads of stars sparkle in the black sky, and the pure blue of the mountains looks deeper still below the pale white gleam of the earth and snow-light, the effect is of unparalleled sublimity, and no language can describe the splendour of the sunbeams at daybreak, streaming between the high peaks, and throwing their gigantic shadows on the mountains below. There, far above the habitation of man, no living thing exists, no sound is heard; the very echo of the traveller's footsteps startles him in the awful _solitude and silence_ that reigns in those august dwellings of everlasting snow."

No one can fail to recognise the effect of the last circumstance mentioned. Let those mountains be the scene of a gathering of any human multitude, and they would be more desecrated than if their peaks had been levelled to the ground. We have also quoted this description to show how large a share _colour_ takes in beautifying such a scene. Colour, either in large fields of it, or in sharp contrasts, or in gradual shading--the play of light, in short, upon this world--is the first element of beauty.

Here would be the place, were we writing a formal treatise upon this subject, after showing that there is in the sense of sight itself a sufficient elementary beauty, whereto other pleasurable reminiscences may attach themselves, to point out some of these tributaries. Each sense--the touch, the ear, the smell, the taste--blend their several remembered pleasures with the object of vision. Even taste, we say, although Mr Ruskin will scorn the gross alliance. And we would allude to the fact to show the extreme subtilty of these mental processes. The fruit which you think of eating has lost its beauty from that moment--it assumes to you a quite different relation; but the reminiscence that there is sweetness in the peach or the grape, whilst it remains quite subordinate to the pleasure derived from the sense of sight, mingles with and increases that pleasure. Whilst the cluster of ripe grapes is looked at only for its beauty, the idea that they are pleasant to the taste as well steals in unobserved, and adds to the complex sentiment. If this idea grow distinct and prominent, the beauty of the grape is gone--you eat it. Here, too, would be the place to take notice of such sources of pleasure as are derived from adaptation of parts, or the adaptation of the whole to ulterior purposes; but here especially should we insist on human affections, human loves, human sympathies. Here, in the heart of man, his hopes, his regrets, his affections, do we find the great source of the beautiful--tributaries which take their name from the stream they join, but which often form the main current. On that sympathy with which nature has so wonderfully endowed us, which makes the pain and pleasure of all other living things our own pain and pleasure, which binds us not only to our fellow-men, but to every moving creature on the face of the earth, we should have much to say. How much, for instance, does its _life_ add to the beauty of the swan!--how much more its calm and placid life! Here, and on what would follow on the still more exalted mood of pious contemplation--when all nature seems as a hymn or song of praise to the Creator--we should be happy to borrow aid from Mr Ruskin; his essay supplying admirable materials for certain _chapters_ in a treatise on the beautiful which should embrace the whole subject.

No such treatise, however, is it our object to compose. We have said enough to show the true nature of that theory of association, as a branch of which alone is it possible to take any intelligible view of Mr Ruskin's _Theoria_, or "Theoretic Faculty." His flagrant error is, that he will represent a part for the whole, and will distort and confuse everything for the sake of this representation. Viewed in their proper limitation, his remarks are often such as every wise and good man will approve of. Here and there too, there are shrewd intimations which the psychological student may profit by. He has pointed out several instances where the associations insisted upon by writers of the school of Alison have nothing whatever to do with the sentiment of beauty; and neither harmonise with, nor exalt it. Not all that may, in any way, _interest_ us in an object, adds to its beauty. "Thus," as Mr Ruskin we think very justly says, "where we are told that the leaves of a plant are occupied in decomposing carbonic acid, and preparing oxygen for us, we begin to look upon it with some such indifference as upon a gasometer. It has become a machine; some of our sense of its happiness is gone; its emanation of inherent life is no longer pure." The knowledge of the anatomical structure of the limb is very interesting, but it adds nothing to the beauty of its outline. Scientific associations, however, of this kind, will have a different æsthetic effect, according to the degree or the enthusiasm with which the science has been studied.

It is not our business to advocate this theory of association of ideas, but briefly to expound it. But we may remark that those who adopt (as Mr Ruskin has done in one branch of his subject--his _Æsthesis_) the rival theory of an intuitive perception of the beautiful, must find a difficulty where to _insert_ this intuitive perception. The beauty of any one object is generally composed of several qualities and accessories--to which of these are we to connect this intuition? And if to the whole assemblage of them, then, as each of these qualities has been shown by its own virtue to administer to the general effect, we shall be explaining again by this new perception what has been already explained. Select any notorious instance of the beautiful--say the swan. How many qualities and accessories immediately occur to us as intimately blended in our minds with the form and white plumage of the bird! What were its arched neck and mantling wings if it were not _living_? And how the calm and inoffensive, and somewhat majestic life it leads, carries away our sympathies! Added to which, the snow-white form of the swan is imaged in clear waters, and is relieved by green foliage; and if the bird makes the river more beautiful, the river, in return, reflects its serenity and peacefulness upon the bird. Now all this we seem to see as we look upon the swan. To which of these facts separately will you attach this new intuition? And if you wait till all are assembled, the bird is already beautiful.

We are all in the habit of _reasoning_ on the beautiful, of defending our own tastes, and this just in proportion as the beauty in question is of a high order. And why do we do this? Because, just in proportion as the beauty is of an elevated character, does it depend on some moral association. Every argument of this kind will be found to consist of an analysis of the sentiment. Nor is there anything derogatory, as some have supposed, in this analysis of the sentiment; for we learn from it, at every step, that in the same degree as men become more refined, more humane, more kind, equitable, and pious, will the visible world become more richly clad with beauty. We see here an admirable arrangement, whereby the external world grows in beauty, as men grow in goodness.

We must now follow Mr Ruskin a step farther into the development of his _Theoria_. All beauty, he tell us, _is such_, in its high and only true character, because it is a type of one or more of God's attributes. This, as we have shown, is to represent one class of associated thought as absorbing and displacing all the rest. We protest against this egregious exaggeration of a great and sacred source of our emotions. With Mr Ruskin's own piety we can have no quarrel; but we enter a firm and calm protest against a falsification of our human nature, in obedience to one sentiment, however sublime. No good can come of it--no good, we mean, to religion itself. It is substantially the same error, though assuming a very different garb, which the Puritans committed. They disgusted men with religion, by introducing it into every law and custom, and detail of human life. Mr Ruskin would commit the same error in the department of taste, over which he would rule so despotically: he is not content that the highest beauty shall be religious; he will permit nothing to be beautiful, except as it partakes of a religious character. But there is a vast region lying between the "animal pleasantness" of his Æsthesis and the pious contemplation of his Theoria. There is much between the human animal and the saint; there are the domestic affections and the love they spring from, and hopes, and regrets, and aspirations, and the hour of peace and the hour of repose--in short, there is human life. From all human life, as we have seen, come contributions to the sentiment of the beautiful, quite as distinctly traced as the peculiar class on which Mr Ruskin insists.

If any one descanting upon music should affirm, that, in the first place, there was a certain animal pleasantness in harmony or melody, or both, but that the real essence of music, that by which it truly becomes music, was the perception in harmony or melody of types of the Divine attributes, he would reason exactly in the same manner on music as Mr Ruskin does on beauty. Nevertheless, although sacred music is the highest, it is very plain that there is other music than the sacred, and that all songs are not hymns.