Chapter 3

Here's a lesson for the earth-born worm, So deep engraven on the meagre platen Of human frailty, so debased in hue, That he who dares peruse it needs but blush For his own nature. The poor shrivell'd wretch, For whose lean carcass yawns this hideous pit, Had naught that he desired in earth or heaven-- No God, no Saviour, but that sordid pelf, O'er which he starved and gloated. I have seen him On the exchange, or in the market-place When money was in plenteous circulation, Gaze after it with such Satanic looks Of eagerness, that I have wonder'd oft How he from theft and murder could refrain. 'Twas cowardice alone withheld his hands, For they would grasp and grapple at the air, When his grey eye had fixed on heaps of gold, While his clench'd teeth, and grinning, yearning face, Were dreadful to behold. The merchants oft Would mark his eye, then start and look again, As at the eye of basilisk or snake. His eye of greyish green ne'er shed one ray Of kind benignity or holy light On aught beneath the sun. Childhood, youth, beauty, To it had all one hue. Its rays reverted Right inward, back upon the greedy heart On which the gnawing worm of avarice Preyed without ceasing, straining every sense To that excruciable and yearning core. Some thirteen days agone, he comes to me, And after many sore and mean remarks On men's rapacity and sordid greed, He says, "Gabriel, thou art an honest man, As the world goes. How much, then, will you charge And make a grave for me, fifteen feet deep?"-- "We'll talk of that when you require it, sir." "No, no. I want it made, and paid for too; I'll have it settled, else I know there will Be some unconscionable overcharge On my poor friends--a ruinous overcharge."-- "But, sir, were it made now, it would fill up Each winter to the brim, and be to make Twenty or thirty times, if you live long." "There! there it is! Nothing but imposition! Even Time must rear his stern, unyielding front, And holding out his shrivelled skeleton hand, Demands my money. Naught but money! money! Were I coin'd into money I could not Half satisfy that craving greed of money. Well, how much do you charge? I'll pay you now, And take a bond from you that it be made When it is needed. Come, calculate with reason-- Work's very cheap; and two good men will make That grave at two days' work: and I can have Men at a shilling each--_without_ the meat-- That's a great matter! Let them but to meat, 'Tis utter ruin. I'll give none their meat-- That I'll beware of. Men now-a-days are cheap, Cheap, dogcheap, and beggarly fond of work. One shilling each a-day, _without_ the meat. Mind that, and ask in reason; for I wish To have that matter settled to my mind."-- "Sir, there's no man alive will do't so cheap As I shall do it for the ready cash," Says I, to put him from it with a joke. "I'll charge you, then, one-fourth part of a farthing For every cubic foot of work I do, Doubling the charge each foot that I descend." "Doubling as you descend! Why, that of course. A quarter of a farthing each square foot-- No meat, remember! Not an inch of meat, Nor drink, nor dram. You're not to trust to these. Wilt stand that bargain, Gabriel?"--"I accept." He struck it, quite o'erjoy'd. We sought the clerk, Sign'd--seal'd. He drew his purse. The clerk went on Figuring and figuring. "What a fuss you make! 'Tis plain," said he, "the sum is eighteen-pence"-- "'Tis somewhat more, sir," said the civil clerk-- And held out the account. "Two hundred round, And gallant payment over." The Miser's face Assumed the cast of death's worst lineaments. His skinny jaws fell down upon his breast; He tried to speak, but his dried tongue refused Its utterance, and cluck'd upon the gum. His heart-pipes whistled with a crannell'd sound; His knell-knees plaited, and his every bone Seem'd out of joint. He raved--he cursed--he wept-- But payment he refused. I have my bond, Not yet a fortnight old, and shall be paid. It broke the Miser's heart. He ate no more, Nor drank, nor spake, but groan'd until he died; This grave kill'd him, and now yearns for his bones. But worse than all. 'Tis twenty years and more Since he brought home his coffin. On that chest His eye turn'd ever and anon. It minded him, He said, of death. And as be sat by night Beside his beamless hearth, with blanket round His shivering frame, if burst of winter wind Made the door jangle, or the chimney moan, Or crannied window whistle, he would start, And turn his meagre looks upon that chest; Then sit upon't, and watch till break of day. Old wives thought him religious--a good man! A great repentant sinner, who would leave His countless riches to sustain the poor. But mark the issue. Yesterday, at noon, Two men could scarcely move that ponderous chest To the bedside to lay the body in. They broke it sundry, and they found it framed With double bottom! All his worshipp'd gold Hoarded between the boards! O such a worm Sure never writhed beneath the dunghill's base! Fifteen feet under ground! and all his store Snug in beneath him. Such a heaven was his. Now, honest Teddy, think of such a wretch, And learn to shun his vices, one and all. Though richer than a Jew, he was more poor Than is the meanest beggar. At the cost Of other men a glutton. At his own, A starveling. A mere scrub. And such a coward, A cozener and liar--but a coward, And would have been a thief--But was a coward.

_Blackwood's Magazine._

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THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF _NEW WORKS._

PARIS AND ITS HISTORICAL SCENES.

(_Library of Entertaining Knowledge, Part 18._)

We have little inclination to quote more than a few passages from the General View of Paris in this Number; the topographical portion of which, (as far as a four months residence there will serve our judgment) is eminently characteristic.

_Ancient City._

The Archbishop of Narbonne, writing in the reign of Francis I., (about 1520,) calls Paris even then a world rather than a city[3]; yet at that period its population was probably not much more than the fifth part of what it now is; nor did the quantity of ground it covered bear even the same proportion to the immense space over which it has now extended. But in both convenience and elegance, Paris has made still more extraordinary advances since the time of Francis than even in population and extent. It was then, compared to what it now is, but a gloomy and incommodious fortress, without even the security which encompassing fortifications might be supposed to yield. Lighted only by candles placed here and there by the inhabitants themselves in their windows, it was so infested by thieves and assassins that hardly any person ventured out after dark, and the approach of night was the source of constant terror even to those who remained in their houses. The streets thus imperfectly lighted, were worse paved; and most of them were as dirty and narrow as those still to be seen in the more ancient part of the city. The supply of water was so inadequate that the severest miseries were sometimes suffered from the absolute want of that necessary of life, and the greatest inconveniences at all times from its scarcity. Finally, the public edifices were without splendour, and even the best of the private houses unprovided with many of what are now accounted the most indispensable accommodations. Instead of all this, we behold Paris now one of the very central seats of civilization; and although still deficient in many of the accommodations which supply to the necessities of the many instead of the luxuries of the few, in possession of the greater portion of the most important provisions which ingenuity has found out, whether for the comfort or the embellishment of existence. What a contrast between the French capital of 1831, and that Lutetia of the ancient Parisii, which Caesar found nearly nineteen hundred years ago occupying the little island, around which has since extended itself so wide a circle of wealth, industry, intelligence, and the works which these create!

[3] Felibien, Histoire de Paris, tome i.

_Bridges._

Paris, stands, like London, on both banks of a river, and is thus cut into two great divisions, one to the north, and the other to the south, of the water. The Seine, however, is not nearly so broad as the Thames; and the northern and southern halves of Paris are not, therefore, by any means so much separated from each other, either locally, politically, or socially, as are the corresponding portions of the English metropolis. They form, in all respects one city.

The Seine flows in a direction nearly opposite to that of the Thames, namely, from south-east to north-west. It preserves almost a perfectly straight course in passing through Paris, except that it bends considerably to the south immediately before leaving the town. The river, as it flows through the heart of the city, is interrupted by three small islands lying in succession, the two most westerly of which, the Ile de la Cité (otherwise called the Ile du Palais) and the Ile St. Louis, or de Notre Dame, are covered with streets and houses. The third, called the Ile Louvier, is used only as a depôt for fire-wood. The parts of the town on the opposite sides of the river are connected with each other, and with these islands, by nineteen bridges, thirteen of which are constructed of stone, and two of stone and iron: of the others two are chain-bridges, one is built of wood, and two of wood and iron. Several of these structures, especially the Pont des Arts, the Pont Louis XVI., and the Pont de Jena, or de l'Ecole Militaire, all of which are to the west of the Ile du Palais, are distinguished by their majesty or elegance, and add much beauty and picturesque effect to the vista of the river. Excepting at one place where the two branches enclosing the Ile du Palais unite, immediately to the west of that island, the breadth of the Seine at Paris is no where greater than about 550 English feet, and at some points it is not more than half that distance from the one bank to the other. The bridges, therefore, by which the Seine is traversed, are not to be compared in point of magnitude with those of the Thames at London. Even the Pont Neuf, which connects the Ile du Palais with both the northern and the southern divisions of the city, and comprehends in fact two bridges, with an intermediate street, is shorter taken altogether, than Waterloo bridge by more than 200 feet; and the Pont Louis XVI., which next to the Pont Neuf is the longest of the Parisian stone bridges, measures only about 485 feet between the abutments, while Westminster Bridge measures 1223, and Waterloo Bridge 1242 feet. It is in the _number_ of its bridges alone, therefore, that the Seine is superior to the Thames.

_The Boulevards._

The most remarkable feature in the general appearance of Paris, is the inner inclosure formed by the celebrated road called the _Boulevards._ On the north side of the river, the Boulevards follow a line nearly midway, on an average, between the river and the wall. The space which they comprehend, therefore, is but a small portion of that included within the outer boundary of the city. The length of this part of the road is about 5,200 English yards, or somewhat under three miles. That on the south side of the river is of far greater extent, approaching, as it does, throughout its whole sweep, very much closer to the wall, and in some parts entirely coinciding with it. It measures about 16,000 yards, or above nine miles in length. Each of these lines, although in reality forming an uninterrupted road from its commencement to its termination, is divided into a succession of parts, each having its particular name. The northern Boulevards are twelve in number, the southern seven. We have nothing in England like the Parisian Boulevards. They may be generally described as a road or street, of great breadth, along each side of which are planted double rows of elms. But these shady avenues do not present merely a picture of rural beauty. Rising as they do in the heart of a great city, they partake also of its artificial elegance and splendour, and are associated with all the luxuries of architectural decoration. Considered merely as a range of streets, the Boulevards are hardly rivalled by any other part of Paris. Those to the north of the river are lined on both sides throughout their whole extent, by buildings more uniformly handsome than are those of almost any other street in the city, and by many which may be even described as magnificent. Some of these are private residences; others are shops, cafés, public hotels, and theatres. The crowds by whom so many parts of these Boulevards are frequented chiefly give to the scene its singular liveliness and brilliancy. The southern Boulevards, though equally beautiful, are far from being so much the habitual resort of the citizens; but the walks on this very account, have a charm for some moods of mind which the others want. Another road, planted in a similar manner, has more recently been carried round the outside of the present walls of the city. It is distinguished from the inner Boulevards by the name of the _Boulevards Extérieurs._

_Streets._

To a person accustomed to the appearance of the streets of London, or indeed of any other English town, those of the interior of Paris will present considerable novelty of aspect. The extreme narrowness, in the first place, of those in the more ancient parts of the city, and the great height of the houses, with their windows in many cases fortified by bars of iron, would alone give them an air of gloom and precaution, almost sufficient to impress the Englishman who walks through them with the feeling that he has been transported, not only into another country, but into another age. Even where these indications of the more ancient evils of Paris are not visible, the general aspect of the town shows that it has not grown with the growth of a free people, amongst whom the inequalities of rank have been softened down by respect to the comforts of all classes. Under the ancient régime, which was in full activity half a century ago, there were only two classes in Paris, the _noblesse_, and the _bourgeoisie_; and the latter, being driven into the gutters by the carriage-wheels of their arrogant masters, went by the general name of the _canaille._ Few of the streets even now have any side pavement for foot passengers--that invaluable accommodation which gives such perfect security to the pedestrian even in our most crowded and tumultuous thoroughfare. The causeway itself, on which walkers and drivers are thus mingled together in confusion, is often most uneven and rugged. The stones of which it is formed, about ten inches square, present each a convex surface, usually wet and slippery, so that under the most favourable circumstances, walking in the streets of Paris is anything but an agreeable exercise. Still farther to abridge the level space, the street is made to incline from both sides towards the centre, in order to form there a sort of ditch, in which flows a black and fetid stream. From the want of a proper system of drains, this receptacle of filth is generally sufficiently replenished even in the driest weather, to keep the whole street wet and dirty. Carriages, having usually one wheel in the midst of the kennel, dash about the offensive puddle in all directions. But the principle of a clear middle way, such as our English streets possess, is neglected in all the arrangements connected with those of Paris. Even the lights, instead of being fixed on posts, as ours are, at the sides, are suspended in the middle on ropes swung across, and having their opposite ends fastened to the walls of the houses. It was these ropes which the mob, in the Revolution of 1789, were wont to make use of as halters for their victims; whence their famous cry of _á la lanterne_, as they dragged them along to execution.

The aspect of Paris by night, except in a few of the principal streets where gas has been very partially introduced, is singularly gloomy. The darkness is occasionally relieved by the brilliancy of a café; but in the more quiet parts of the town, particularly in the fashionable quarter of the Faubourg St. Germain, it is almost impossible for the pedestrian to direct his steps aright. It is quite evident that the arrangements of this capital have not been made for a walking people. This evil, however, is fast disappearing. Numerous _passages_ have been constructed, within the last ten years, which are paved with flat stones, and brilliantly lighted; and the active and pleasure-seeking population of Paris crowd to these attractive and convenient places, to the Boulevards, or to the Palais-Royal, and leave the narrow and dirty streets principally to the few who keep their own carriages, or to the many who hire public conveyances. These are of various kinds; and such was the growing importance of the middle classes, that _fiacres_ (so called after the sign of St Fiacre, at the house where they were first established) were in use a century and a half ago.

The remainder of the Part is occupied with a sketch of the Revolution of 1789.

* * * * *

REFORM OF EARLY PARLIAMENTS.

Though no language can adequately condemn the base subserviency of Henry's parliament, it may be reasonably doubted whether his reign was, in its ultimate consequences, injurious to public liberty. The immense revolutions of his time in property, in religion, and in the inheritance of the crown, never could have been effected without the concurrence of parliament. Their acquiescence and co-operation in the spoliation of property, and the condemnation of the innocent, tempted him to carry all his purposes into execution, through their means. Those who saw the attainders of queens, the alteration of an established religion, and the frequent disturbance of the regal succession, accomplished by acts of parliament, considered nothing as beyond the jurisdiction of so potent an assembly.[4] If the supremacy was a tremendous power, it accustomed the people to set no bounds to the authority of those who bestowed it on the king. The omnipotence of parliament appeared no longer a mere hyperbole. Let it not be supposed, that to mention the good thus finally educed from such evils, is intended or calculated to palliate crimes, or to lessen our just abhorrence of criminals. Nothing, on the contrary, seems more to exalt the majesty of virtue than to point out the tendency of the moral government of the world, which, as in this instance, turns the worst enemies of all that is good into the laborious slaves of justice. Of all outward benefits, the most conducive to virtue as well as to happiness is, doubtless, popular and representative government. It is the reverse of a degradation of it to observe, that its establishment among us was perhaps partially promoted by the sensuality, rapacity, and cruelty of Henry VIII. The course of affairs is always so dark, the beneficial consequences of public events are so distant and uncertain, that the attempt to do evil in order to produce good is in men a most criminal usurpation.

[4] The observations of Nathaniel Bacon, or rather of Selden from whose MS. notes he is said to have written his book, deserve serious consideration. Bacon on the Laws and Government of England, chap. 27.

Some direct benefits the constitution owes to this reign. The act which established a parliamentary representation in so considerable a territory as Wales may be regarded as the principal reformation in the composition of the House of Commons since its legal maturity in the time of Edward I. That principality had been divided into twelve shires: of which eight were ancient,[5] and four owed their origin to a statute of Henry's reign.[6] Knights, citizens, and burgesses were now directed to be chosen and sent to parliament from the shires, cities, and burghs of Wales.[7] A short time before, the same privileges were granted to the county palatine of Chester, of which the preamble contains a memorable recognition and establishment of the principles which are the basis of the elective part of our constitution.[8] Nearly thirty members were thus added to the House of Commons on the principle of the Chester bill: that is disadvantageous to a province to be unrepresented; that representation is essential to good government; and that those who are bound by the laws ought to have a reasonable share of direct influence on the passing of laws. As the practical disadvantages are only generally alleged, and could scarcely have been proved, they must have been inferred from the nature of a House of Commons. The British constitution was not thought to be enjoyed by a district till a popular representation was bestowed on it. Election by the people was regarded, not as a source of tumult, but as the principle most capable of composing disorder in territories not represented.--_Cabinet Cyclopaedia_, vol. xix. _Sir James Mackintosh's History of England_, vol. ii.

[5] Glamorgan, Carmarthen, Pembroke, Cardigan, Flint, Carnarvon, Anglesea and Merioneth.

[6] Radnor, Brecknock, Montgomery, and Denbigh, 27 Henry 8 c. 26.

[7] 34 and 35 Henry 8. c. 26. s. 50.

[8] 34 and 35 Henry 8. c. 13.--"That the said county have hitherto been excluded from the high court of parliament, to have any knights and burgesses within the said court, by reason whereof the inhabitants have sustained manifold damages in their lands, goods, and bodies, as well as in the good governance of the commonwealth of their said country; and for as much as they have been bound by the acts of the said court, and yet have had no knights and burgesses therein, for lack whereof they have been often touched and grieved by the acts of the said parliament, prejudicial to the commonwealth, quietness, rest, and peace of your highness's bounden subjects, inhabiting within the said county," &c.

* * * * *

THE TOPOGRAPHER.

TRAVELLING NOTES IN SOUTH WALES.

(_Continued from page 312._)

The grounds of Penrice Castle, which stretch to the sea-shore, and on which art has embellished scenery possessing capabilities of a high order--are exceedingly picturesque and extensive. Penrice bears marks of having been a Roman station. Henry de Newburgh, Earl of Warwick, here defeated the Welsh prince, Rhys, which decided the fate of Gower. He was beheaded after the battle, whence the Welsh name, Pen-Rhys. On the field of battle the victor erected Penrice Castle, which is now certainly a striking ruin. On the coast near Penrice is the village and ruins of the Castle of Oxwich, now a barn--_sic transit!_