Blackwood 415 - 1850.05

THE MODERN ARGONAUTS.

MY PENINSULAR MEDAL. BY AN OLD PENINSULAR. — PART VI.—CHAPTER XV. — CHAPTER XVI.

Early in the morning I was surprised by a visit from Mr Chesterfield. He had received information, which he wished to communicate. From other British officers, then in the town, he had learned that the state of the country through which we had to pass was far from satisfactory; and one or two had even told him that, in the course of this day’s march, we should certainly be attacked. Mr Chesterfield added that he had attempted, under the circumstances, to obtain an addition to our escort, but without success; there were but few troops in the place, and none could be spared. He wished, therefore, to know what course I thought preferable; whether to wait till fresh parties bound to headquarters came up, or to proceed at once.

I was quite for proceeding. Begged to ask, Did he know what was the character of the road we should have to travel?

Mr Chesterfield had inquired. It was for the most part through an open country. “Any villages?”—If there were, no doubt parties of troops were stationed in them, and their presence would be a check on the population.

These replies confirmed my previous views; and, as my orders were to conform to the written route, not only with regard to places, but with regard to time, I gave my voice decidedly in favour of going on. If plans against us were in process of concoction, delay on our part would both give encouragement, and afford time for the mischief to come to a head. With a convoy like ours, holding out so many temptations to irregular enterprise, it seemed far better to pass quickly on, ere reports could spread, and an attack be organised. Admitting that there was danger if we proceeded, there was also danger if we remained stationary. If we incurred any disaster by remaining, we incurred it by a breach of orders; if by proceeding, we met it in the path of duty.

Fully concurring in these views, and agreeing that we should proceed, Mr Chesterfield then suggested—might it not be proper to adopt some precautions? He thought, as soon as we were out of the town, the men should load.

This I fully concurred in, not only as a defence, but as likely to keep the men steadier, by letting them see that we were preparing for business in earnest. Here were two inexperienced youths, the one raw from college, the other from school, thrown on their own resources, and laying their heads together to meet an emergency, by the most prudent measures their united stock of wisdom could suggest. Suffice it to say, we both spoke with oracular gravity; and gave dignified evidence of our perfect self-possession, by blowing copious puffs of fragrant smoke.

The conference between our two high mightinesses, though, was suddenly interrupted. Enter Corporal Fraser, evidently in a little bit of a flurry. The sight of Mr Chesterfield brought him at once to a halt. He saluted, and seemed to check himself in something that he was going to say. In short, he looked flushed and anxious—not altogether himself—breathed hard between his clenched teeth—stood silent. The visit being to me, Mr Chesterfield gave me a look; so I asked the corporal what he wanted.

“I am sorry, sir,” said he, “to be the bearer of disagreeable intelligence.”

“Well, corporal, out with it.”

“The men, sir, I regret to say, are in a state of beastly intoxication.”

The corporal, it was clear, wishing to shield the men, had come to my billet, intending the information for my ears only. But finding Mr Chesterfield with me, and not being at the time in the absolute possession of his faculties, (for, though quite unconscious of the fact, he was himself partially under the influence of liquor,) he had no resource but to tell out all, though not by any means one of those petty officers “as likes to get poor fellers into trouble.”

Beastly intoxication? What! at this early hour of the day? It was a strange circumstance, and excited ugly apprehensions. How could they have become so? Who made them drunk? Under other circumstances, I should have applied to the corporal for an explanation forthwith; but I saw indications, in the corporal’s eye, that it would not be kind to question him at the moment before an officer—so proposed, instead, that we should go and look for ourselves. We went. The case was much as Fraser had stated it. We reached a large old house with a porte cochère, within which was a court. On entering this court we found the men—happily the infantry only, for the cavalry had quarters just by—all, with one exception, more or less in a state of intoxication. Some were laughing; others were wrangling; one or two were crying—maudlin drunk. Some were making a show of cleaning arms and accoutrements, with profound bows and sagacious nods. All tried, on our arrival, to look as sober as they could. On any morning this would have been a serious state of things, at the hour of mustering to start; but now, when we expected hostility, it was worse than ever. Neither did I like the look of the inhabitants. There was no exact throng, indeed; but parties were standing near in groups, evidently cognisant of our present fix, watching, and making their remarks among themselves. In that old house, guarded by those drunken soldiers, were sixty mule-loads of silver and gold! Things looked still worse, though, when we entered the quarters. Three or four men, who were most overcome, had deliberately laid themselves down again for a snooze. There they were, wrapped up in their blankets, stretched and snoring on the floor; while Corporal Fraser, himself a little “disguised,” flushed in the face, and in a high state of indignation and excitement, was storming and kicking them up; and a fellow, who found it easier to lean against the wainscot than to stand upright, was expostulating—“You haven’t no business to kick a poor soger in that ’ere way.”

To this general boskiness, I have said, there was one exception. It was Jones. In fact, with all his faults, I never, on any one occasion, saw Jones overcome with liquor; which was the more remarkable, because he got more than any other soldier of the detachment. His own ration—all that he could appropriate of mine—occasional contributions from Coosey—all he could get from every quarter, (and he never missed an opportunity,) all went down his throat without visible effect. In short, he seemed brandy-proof. I never saw him affected, nor had he the appearance of a hard drinker. Observing that he looked much as usual, while all around were looking so different, I applied to him for an explanation. “Why, Jones, what’s the cause of this disgraceful scene? How did the men get it?”

“Please, sir, the fellers is very sorry for it, sir. Hadn’t no intentions to get drunk $1, sir.”

“Well, but how did it happen, man?”

“Please, sir, the jeddleham stood treat, sir; treated ’em all, sir.”

“What gentleman?”

“Please, sir, the same as treated me the night before last, sir: give me a tumbler of hot punch what was all a-fire, sir; brought it out into the inn-yard all of a blaze, sir. Told me the French soldiers got that twice a day, sir. Said, if the Hinglish soldiers had their rights, they’d get the same, sir.”

“The night before last? What gentleman treated you the night before last?”

“Please, sir, it was the same jeddleham as aast to speak to you, sir; the jeddleham what you went into the house to speak to him, sir.”

“Oh, that fellow! Why, you might have seen him again yesterday. Didn’t you notice him among the people at the ferry?”

“Please, sir, when we come to the ferry, I was in the rear, sir; halted there, and remained till we turned the hinnimy over the ford, sir. Didn’t git a sight on him, sir. Only wish I had, sir.”

“Well, but how comes it some of the other men didn’t know him again? They must have seen him yesterday, if you didn’t.”

“Please, sir, I s’pose it’s ’cause this morning he was dressed different, sir. Had a large hat pulled over his eyes, sir; and muffled up in a long cloak, sir. Shouldn’t not have knowed him myself, sir, only if it hadn’t not a-been for his nose, sir.”

“Stood treat, though? How?—did he treat the whole party?”

“Please, sir, I won’t tell you no lie, sir. Jest after the fellers turned out in the morning, sir—jest as I was a-washing my face in this ’ere horse trough, sir—there come along a man with a couple of barrils, sir; which the barrils was slung on a-top of a donkey, sir. So he took and stopped the donkey close to that ’ere gateway, sir, which some of the fellers was standing at it, sir. So they knowed at once it was wine, sir—in course they did, by the look on it, sir—so they got a-bargaining with him for a drink, sir. So, jest as they was a-bargaining come along that ’ere Nosey, sir; which, as soon as he see the fellers a-talking to the man what belonged to the donkey, sir, he looked very pleasant, and stopped and spoke to him, sir. Then he spoke to the fellers, sir, and told ’em they might drink as much as they pleased, sir; might drink it all, if they liked, sir; and he’d stand it, sir.”

“Did he speak English, then?”

“Yes, he did, sir; sitch Hinglish as they speaks here, sir; not sitch as you and I speaks, sir. I won’t tell you no lie, sir.”

The case was too clear. Hookey was still on our traces. Disappointed in his two previous attempts to turn us from our route, he meant to keep near us, watch his opportunity, and act accordingly. Making the men drunk just when we were about to start on a dangerous part of the road, was as unquestionably part of some more extensive plot as it was palpably Hookey’s doing. I briefly stated the matter to Mr Chesterfield, adding, “We shall see that fellow again to-day.”

“If he comes once more within the range of a firelock,” said Mr Chesterfield, “we must not let him get off so easily.”

Meanwhile, the immediate question was a practical one: What course was best, under existing circumstances? In spite of the state of the men, I was still for proceeding.

“Very well,” said Mr Chesterfield; “then let the packing commence. We will take all the infantry who are fit to march when the mules are loaded, and go on with them and the cavalry. Such as are too bad must remain behind, and come up afterwards with other parties, as they can.”

Mr Chesterfield then went to see after his own men; the mules arrived, and the muleteers began loading. Jones stepped up to me: he had apparently overheard our conversation.

“Please, sir, none of the fellers won’t not stay behind, sir.”

“How do you know?”

“’Cause, sir, when the mules is ready, they’ll be ready, sir.”

“Ready? How ready, if they ’re beastly drunk?”

“Please, sir, they won’t be beastly by that time, sir.”

“How can you tell that?”

“Please, sir, ’cause I knows they won’t, sir; ’cause it’s only that ’ere wine, sir. Please, sir, that ’ere hasn’t not got no varchy in it, like the sperrits has, sir. ’Cause, please, sir, when a feller gets drunk on sperrits, sir, they makes him rale drunk, sir; but that ’ere wine only jest makes him drunkish-like, sir; ’cause it’s only jest for a time, sir, and then it goes off again, sir; ’cause there’s no good in it, sir, if you drink a butt of it, sir. Hope no offence, sir.”

“Common country wine, was it?”

“Please, sir, it was new wine, sweetish-like, sir. That’s what did it, sir. Sitch new wine gits into a feller’s headpiece at once, sir; makes him silly drunk directly instant, sir; but then he soon gits sober agin, sir. Consickvent, I considers the fellers will all be sober agin in an hour or two, sir; and then they’ll be able to fall in, sir. ’Cause I knowed it was new, sir; ’cause it sparkled like cider do when it’s drawed frish from the barril, sir.”

Jones’s prognosis, though not very clearly expressed, was verified by the result. Ere the loading was completed, all the men had become either sober or nearly so. Even those who had been most affected fell in, and mustered with the rest; and though our rank and file displayed some set and gummy eyes, only two or three of the worst betrayed the disaster by their gait. Hookey had thus outwitted himself. By dosing the men with new wine, (which, as all persons acquainted with the wine countries are well aware, flies at once to the head, even if taken moderately,) he had, indeed, succeeded in making them drunk at once; but not in making them drunk for a continuance. “Let alone it’s new,” said Jones, “it isn’t no wine, sitch as the fellers gits, as would make ’em rale drunk; nayther Spanish wine, nor yit Frinch wine, except it’s the jinny-wine.”

The men having somehow discovered that they were likely to be put on their mettle during the day’s march, were all, in appearance, truly sorry for what had occurred. They became aware, through Jones, of Hookey’s real character; saw through his contrivance to make them all drunk; and, feeling that they had been in a measure his dupes, were savage at the artifice, and burned for an opportunity to retrieve their character in the course of the day. Mr Chesterfield now returned: he glanced at the men, and afterwards took an opportunity of speaking to me.

“That fellow with the nose,” said he, “according to your account of him, must be a dangerous character. Should not steps be taken for his apprehension?”

“If you like, I will go to the Mairie, and make inquiries about him.”

“I fear,” said he, “you will not be very cordially seconded in that quarter, judging, at least, from my own last night’s experience, when I applied for billets. However, it can do no harm.”

“Well, then, the sooner I go the better. I will take with me the Spanish Capataz. As soon as we have gone in, be so kind as to keep an eye on the entrance. If Señor Roque puts his head out, send me three or four dismounted dragoons. We must see if we can’t teach those fellows good manners.”

I took with me Señor Roque, and explained to him, by the way, what I wished him to do. If, after we entered the bureau of the Mairie, I gave him a look, he was to go down to the door, and bring up the dragoons.

We entered; and, as at a previous interview the night before, found three gentlemen busily employed in writing, each at his desk. The interval had wrought no improvement in their manners. When I saluted them, neither of the three took the least notice—all went on writing. I addressed the head man of the party.

“I have the honour of waiting on you, Monsieur, for the purpose of soliciting your co-operation.”—Still he writes. Wait awhile. Try again.

“I must soon be leaving this place, Monsieur, and have duties which will occupy me in the interval. May I claim a moment’s attention?”—Scribble, scribble, scribble.

One or two similar attempts were similarly met. I then gave friend Roque the concerted look; and he, nothing loath, went off to fetch the dragoons. Meanwhile, no seat having been offered me, I took one, and remained quiet. The three official gentlemen, though so dreadfully busy, just before, that they could not notice my application, now began jabbering amongst themselves upon some indifferent topic, as if no one else had been in the room. When a Frenchman really wishes to treat you with insolence, I must say he has a neat, quiet way of doing it, which no other people on earth can equal. An Englishman, I admit, can beat him in vulgarity; but for $1 of execution, there is no intentional rudeness like the rudeness of a Frenchman.

Presently was heard on the stairs a stumping—ha!—a hoof-like tread!—the tramp of heavy feet! With it ascended the clatter of accoutrements! Four scabbards were mounting the stairs, each scabbard marking each step by a bang! The three officials started—exchanged looks—wrote on in silence with redoubled energy, while their faces twitched.

The door opened! Four big fellows entered the bureau, with clattering accoutrements and resounding steps. Señor Roque, his face burnished with exultation—for he hated the French—followed, and closed the door. The bold dragoons ranged themselves in line, with their backs to the wall. Nay, more: their four right hands, probably by a hint from the Capataz, moved simultaneously towards their left sides; four enormous swords leaped from their scabbards, flashed in the air, and slumbered on the bearers’ shoulders. The writing was now intense.

The display of arms in such a place, though, might compromise us with our own authorities. I made a sign, and the swords were sheathed.

Having so often spoken in vain, I was determined that the civic dignities should speak first. I therefore quietly took out a cigar. Quick as lightning, my friend the Capataz whipped out his smoking gear, and went to work with flint, steel, and junk. At the first click, my three polite entertainers almost jumped from their stools. The twinkle of the jolly old Spaniard’s eye, as he handed me a light, was worth a dollar any day. The four dragoons, much to their credit, maintained the most perfect gravity throughout. I lit, and blew a cloud.

The panic of the three writers increased. They were evidently telegraphing. At length the chief turned round on his seat, and, with alarm and courtesy comically mingled in his visage, begged to be informed in what way he could be of service to me.

“I interrupt you, Monsieur. Pray, finish the business you have in hand.”

“Monsieur, I have no business so cherished as to expedite yours.”

I then told my object—that there had been in the place a suspicious sujet, whom I described. Should he again make his appearance, he must be apprehended tout-de-suite, and kept in safe custody, till he was surrendered to the normal authorities. “Messieurs, has he presented himself here?”

Three voices answered simultaneously—“Yes”—“No”—“Yes.”

“Do you know anything of him?”

“He is an Englishman—a courier from Madrid.”—“He bears despatches to the British headquarters.”—“Nothing whatever.”

“He is neither an Englishman nor a courier; consequently, he must be provided with a passport. Has he presented it HERE?”

“Viewing him as attached to the British service, we did not consider it our affair.”

“Where is he now?”

“He is not here.”—“He didn’t state his intended route.”—“He has left this place.”

“By what route?”

“We don’t know.”—“He went, within the last hour, towards St Sever.”

“Is that an ascertained fact?”

“Yes, Monsieur, yes,” they all answered; “he is gone in the direction of St Sever.”

“If, Messieurs, what you have now stated should prove correct, and if I find that you have told me all you know, I trust I shall not feel it necessary to report the matter to our commander-in-chief.”

These gentlemen, I felt, could have told me more, had they chosen; and I, with time at my command, could have extracted more. But in our case it was touch and go. We could not, with such a charge, stop to pursue investigations. So I took my leave, deeming it, at any rate, something to have ascertained that friend Hookey, in accordance with my anticipations, though not in accordance with his own statements, had preceded us by the route which we were so soon to follow.

The civic trio were as courteous at my departure as they were rude at my entry. First stumped out the cavalry—who had really done the business; then followed the old unctuous Capataz; and I, with a horizontal tripartite bow, closed up the rear. Ere I had fairly quitted the room, the three were all at work again, intently scribbling. The “dressing” of a $1, with formal and full details of the whole transaction, was probably their occupation for the rest of the morning. I was sorry that we had compromised ourselves by the exhibition of cold steel. But, under all the circumstances, I felt little apprehension, to borrow an expression from Jones, of their “telling that ’ere to my Lord Valentine.”

The mules were loaded, the men fell in; and, though some of them were still a little the worse for the disaster of the morning, we were quite in a condition to lick any Frenchmen that might come across us, and made a very respectable march of it to the outskirts of the town. There we were again joined by Pledget and Gingham; and shortly after, Fraser, by Mr Chesterfield’s direction, made the infantry load, and saw that each had a supply of cartridges—a process which caused the muleteers to look a little queer. We then proceeded on our march.

Passing through an open country, Mr Pledget and Mr Chesterfield rode on side by side in conversation, at the head of the line; while Gingham and I followed close, in similar guise. Suddenly was heard, in the rear, the crack of a musket! A ball whistled close over our heads, and struck the road, a few yards before us. Mr Chesterfield immediately called a halt of the whole party; and he and I proceeded to the rear. As we were riding back, Corporal Fraser came running forward to meet us, and soon explained. Our Yorkshire lad, it appeared, had been larking with another soldier, one of those whose early sobriety the wine had most disturbed, and had got him into a scrape. The result was, that the musket of the half-tipsy soldier had gone off, and had so nearly done execution amongst us in front. It was evident our infantry were not yet in a state to be trusted with loaded arms; it wouldn’t do. Mr Chesterfield gave directions at once, that they should all draw their charges. And as our route for some distance appeared perfectly level and open, so as to afford no cover for a sudden attack, (it was that sort of country so common in France, cultivated to the road-side, but totally bare of hedges, copse, or trees,) it was settled that they should not load again till circumstances rendered it necessary. The man whose musket had caused the alarm looked stupid and bewildered—could give no explanation, but that “it went off.” I observed, however, that Mr Chesterfield quietly spoke a few words to the Yorkshireman. What they were, I did not hear; but they certainly had the effect of making that worthy a better-behaved, though not a merrier man, during the rest of our march.

Finding no foe to fight withal, we began to suspect that Mr Chesterfield, as a new-comer, had been hoaxed, in our last halting-place, by some military wag; and Gingham and I fell into a long conversation, which he commenced by reminding me of our arrangement to campaign together, entered into a year before, at Falmouth. All obstacles, he said, were removed; he hoped, therefore, the plan would now be carried out. To this I readily consented; the advantages, indeed, were all on my side. Gingham then, in his own way, introduced a discussion respecting his plans and mine. Be it however premised, we had dined together the night before; and I had shown him some methods—more expeditious than those in common use, which were the only ones he knew—of reducing one denomination of coin to another: $1, dollars to pounds sterling, pounds sterling to francs, &c. He expressed, as before, his high gratification; and begged my MS. calculations “in the strictest confidence,” depositing them in the recesses of his writing-desk. He now, as we were riding along, commenced an important, and, on his part, highly diplomatic conference, by a friendly examination as to the nature of my official duties at Lisbon. I described them, as I have described them to the reader a few chapters back.

“Then, in fact,” said Gingham, “your last year has been employed to as good purpose as it could have been in any London counting-house.” (That was Gingham’s standard.) “You have had the keeping of a distinct account, and that in all its parts, from the items to the account current. Of course, it occupied your whole time.”

“Not the whole,” said I. “There was some to spare, for which I had other employment.”

“Indeed!” said Gingham, with interest. “Will you, Mr Y—, as a particular favour, permit me—confidentially of course—to make an inquiry?”

“Make any inquiry you like: I shall feel pleasure in answering it.”

“Would you, then,” said Gingham, “have the kindness to inform me—that is, unless you feel it a violation of official confidence—what were your other duties?”

“No violation whatever. I kept the letter-books; managed the correspondence: not the whole correspondence of the department, but that of the branch I belonged to—the account office.”

“Your duty, then,” said he, “was to arrange and enter all letters received, and to keep copies of all letters sent?”

“Sometimes to copy, sometimes to make the draughts. A man soon gets into the way, you know.”

“One entire account,” said Gingham, speaking to himself, “and one whole branch of correspondence! What an excellent introduction!”

Not understanding in what sense he used the word “introduction,” I made no reply.

“Of course,” he proceeded, “the correspondence was in English?”

“Almost exclusively. I should scarcely feel equal to any other, except perhaps Portuguese.”

“Might I not,” said Gingham, “add Spanish and French?”

“Well, if I get a little polishing, perhaps you might. Italian I hope to be able to add ere long; and, in due time, German.”

Gingham now turned half round in his saddle, and addressed me with great gravity. “Mr Y—, my dear sir, I venture, as a friend, to offer one suggestion. If a person, not older than yourself, applied for an engagement in the corresponding line, I would say to him—that is, in the strictest confidence, speaking as a friend—‘Say only three languages; wouldn’t advise you to say more.’ The principal, however unjustly, might suspect—excuse me, I speak candidly—might suspect a little romancing. In short, if a person under eight-and-twenty or thirty said five languages, it might prevent an engagement.”

Gingham, I should observe, talked just as he always did. There was still the touch of mannerism, the quiet earnestness blended with courtesy. I never viewed any man with more unfeigned respect and esteem; and yet there were moments, in the course of our present conversation, when I could scarcely refrain from laughing in his face. True, I was one year farther removed from boyhood than when our acquaintance commenced; and more than one incident had taught me, in the interval, the necessity of respecting “time, place, and circumstances.” But the trial was great; a gravity that even Liston could not shake, would have been shaken by Gingham. Still there was his comical solemnity. Still there was his politeness, touched off with formality. Still there were his green barnacles, and his two little winky-pinky eyes. Still, still there was his irresistible nose. Stand everything else, I would defy you to stand that. Great, please to observe, was the difference between Gingham’s nose and Hookey’s, though both arrested the beholder. When Hookey and Gingham met on board the packet, each observed of the other that he had a very odd nose. The first meeting of the two noses, and the look exchanged by the two wearers, beat anything in Molière—so much more comical is nature than fancy. Hookey’s, unquestionably the most marked feature of a very marked countenance, did nevertheless so far maintain the unities, that it perfectly harmonised with the rest of his physiognomy. It was an eagle’s beak, and his whole face was aquiline. Gingham’s, on the contrary, was conspicuous by contrast. It had no appearance of belonging to his face. You might fancy him one of the triumphs of Talicotius—a man (on which subject see Lavater) with a false nose. Neither broad nor massive, yet prominent and conspicuous, it was slightly crooked, flattened on one side; as if, when a baby, he had slept too much on his right cheek, and his nose, from its thinness, had got bent towards his left. This nose, I say, from its peculiar expression, or rather want of expression, appeared no part or parcel of the face in which it stood. And, what was unfortunate, its extraneous appearance was most marked when Gingham was most in earnest; so that it provoked you to laugh just at the time when a man is least disposed to be laughed at.

Well, Gingham having thus accomplished his first object, by ascertaining all that he wished to ascertain concerning myself, now went on, in the second place, to develop his own plans.

“You are, I believe,” said he, “to a certain extent aware of the scheme which brought me out from England. By the public prints, and still more by my private correspondence, I am now led to conclude that Napoleon’s day is near its close, and that the war will soon be terminated. In that event, my plan falls to the ground. But should we carry on the war here another twelvemonth, I shall have time to try it; and, if we go on permanently, I mean to carry it out.”

“I have some general idea of your plan, and that is all. You wish to meet the monetary difficulties connected with the operations of our army, by a method which you have concocted; and which you intend to start, for self and friends, as a private speculation. Don’t see how you can make a beginning: where’s the opening?”

“An opening is afforded by the necessity of the case,” replied he; “which necessity my plan will meet.”

“Don’t see how. Look here; the difficulty is just this: Here are certain headquarters transactions, which require ready money; and that ready money must be current coin. Credit will not do; bank notes will not answer the purpose; no, nor yet bills, nor any kind of available security. It must be specie, minted gold and silver, hard cash. For example, the troops have hitherto been usually paid in dollars. When we have got dollars in the military chest, the troops can be paid; when our dollars are gone, they must wait till we get more. And though we had power to draw at will on the British treasury, for three months’ pay to the whole army, not a stiver can the army receive till we have more dollars.”

“That’s just it,” said Gingham; “and I beg to ask, is such a state of things desirable? The efficiency of our army depends, not on the solvency of our Government, but upon the activity of money-dealers in raking up specie in the four quarters of the globe. That is the state of things which my plan proposes to remedy.”

“Do that, and you will effect a great object. The mode, though, is quite beyond me.”

“I mean to do it, sir,” said Gingham, almost sternly, (for the little man, as he sat on his splendid horse, swelled with the grandeur of his conceptions)—“I mean to do it, sir, by a twofold method: not by two independent methods, operating simultaneously; but by the united operation of two systems combined in one.” His eyes looked full in mine; but his nose pointed at Pledget, who was riding before. I didn’t laugh—in face at least I didn’t—though suddenly seized with a dreadful twitching of the intercostal muscles. “I shall effect my object, sir, partly by paper, partly by hard cash. I shall issue notes payable at sight; and I shall get all the dollars I can into my own keeping. You, when you want dollars to pay the troops, come to me. I, on receiving what I deem an equivalent, let you have them. What will be the result? Instead of requiring a fresh supply of dollars from the coast every time you give the soldiers their pay, you will pay them with the same dollars twice over, nay, over and over again.”

“Why, that’s a bank! You will be banker to the British army!”

“Exactly,” said Gingham, subsiding all at once into his ordinary style of speech: “I mean to establish a headquarters bank. Suggest a title.”

“Suppose,” said I, “as of course you will move with the army, you borrow a suggestion from the military hospitals of the French, and call it “The Ambulatory Bank.” No, that title doesn’t go well. Let me see. A good title requires time and consideration.”

“To be candid, sir,” said Gingham, “you need not trouble yourself: the title is already decided. I won’t tell it, I’ll show it you. Have the kindness to draw up by the road-side.”

We halted, the convoy passed, the cart came on in the rear, and was stopped by Gingham. He then dismounted, gave the bridle to Coosey, stepped up into the cart, opened the tarpaulin at its back, raised a lid, and exhibited a green baize frame fitting into the top of a box, which frame contained a large and splendid brass plate.

“It wouldn’t exactly do,” said Gingham, “to borrow this title at home. Here, though, I mean to make free with it.”

In bold, broad letters, excavated in the burnished brass, I read

Really the largeness of Gingham’s plans was too much for my limited capacities. We rode forward again to the head of the column; and I, for a while, rode on in silence, digesting. At length, one idea leading to another, I ventured to say something about “authority—concurrence.”

Gingham, big with his scheme, was now like a gladiator prepared for every thrust. “At home,” said he, “I have all the concurrence, all the authority I need, with many good wishes to boot; and, as to pecuniary support, I can have whatever amount is required. All that I settled before I left Falmouth, or have since arranged by correspondence. Here I ask for countenance only so far as my plan is found, on trial, to aid the public service. Let that once become manifest, and I doubt not we shall find all the favour we want.”

“Only sorry your plan was not thought of before. It might have spared our Commander much anxiety, and our soldiers many privations.”

Swelling with the plenitude of his anticipations, Gingham began to dogmatise. “In London,” said he, “credit is equivalent to cash. Here, at headquarters, the case is different. In London, so long as my banker will honour my cheques, I have cash at command. Here, I may possess unlimited power to draw bills, yet not be able to raise a rap. What makes the difference?”

“Here, your resource is at a distance; there, your banker is close at hand.” I was more disposed, though, to chew upon Gingham’s ideas than to discuss them, and we again rode on in silence. At length I bolted out a difficulty.

“Well, we make an issue in cash—say a hundred thousand dollars, for the pay of the troops. These dollars are distributed, and spent; the whole sum evaporates. How do you get them together again, for a second payment?”

“I don’t expect to get them all,” said Gingham, scornfully. “But suppose I can get a part of them, say half. That, I think, I shall manage; for, observe, ten dollars are quite as many as you can carry about your person without annoyance. Undoubtedly, then, many individuals, receiving a payment in dollars, will be glad enough to lodge them in a bank, when there’s a bank at hand. And when I have issued my paper, payable at demand, many, I make no question, will much rather take it, than burden themselves with a load of specie.”

The reasonableness of Gingham’s expectations was fully borne out, by scenes which I afterwards witnessed, when accompanying the military chest, as it moved from place to place with the headquarters of the British army. A gentleman, say a Frenchman or a Spaniard, has a claim for payment, on account of provisions, forage, or other necessaries, supplied for the service of the troops—the amount, suppose, ten thousand dollars. After long following headquarters from place to place, till he is far distant from his own home, he has at length established his claim: it’s all right, he has got a written order for payment, and enters our office elated, bearing it between his finger and thumb, eager to receive the cash. The cashier takes the bill, points to five deal boxes, each containing two thousand dollars, and tells him, “There’s the money.” I have seen a man, under such circumstances, knocked down in a moment, perfectly dumfounded. He has not brought a horse and cart, and every available conveyance has been impressed by the troops. One of the five boxes is as much as a man can carry; two are a load for a mule. If he has a lodging in the place, he possesses no means even of taken them there; but probably he has none—the whole town is full of soldiers. But to-morrow it will be worse: the army will have swept on; headquarters will be three or four leagues in advance; and the troops will be succeeded by stragglers, camp-followers, marauders, and all the lawless tribe that close up the rear of an advancing host. Poor man! what an alteration in his looks! He sees, in an instant, the full amount of his difficulties. Two minutes ago, he was dying to realise; now, he has got the cash, and doesn’t know what to do with it. I remember an instance when an acquaintance of mine, a Frenchman, came to receive five thousand dollars, which, with the aid of an attendant, he removed from the office. Presently he reappeared at the door, caught my eye, intimated by bows and simpers his request for a private interview. It was easy to guess the subject of his communication, but I followed him out. He had got his five bags in a cowhouse. His home was distant a two days’ journey. How was he to get them there? Could he have gold instead of silver? Would gladly make any sacrifice in the way of $1. Couldn’t I $1 it?—How he managed at last, I never learned—whether he got his dollars to a place of safety, or was robbed and murdered on the road. Sometimes the claimants would come eagerly demanding their money, and, the next moment, would most earnestly entreat permission to leave it in our keeping. If a man so circumstanced, instead of hard dollars, could have had paper securing him cash at demand, at a time more convenient for receiving it—in short, Gingham’s plan just meets a case like this. And Gingham, who knew headquarters well, especially in respect to financial details and the attendant difficulties, had devised his scheme as a practical remedy. The claimant gives his bill to Gingham, and takes Gingham’s bank notes, or, if he prefers it, part notes and part specie. Gingham, at his own convenience, gets the official dollars on the bill. Then comes the other advantage. So much hard cash as has not been paid away to the claimant remains at headquarters, available, by monetary arrangements with the authorities, for the payment of the troops, or for any other headquarters purposes. What an improvement from the state of things when cash was so low, that, the commander-in-chief wishing to communicate with a distant point, it was necessary to raise a private loan for the expenses of the courier!

In short, twenty practical difficulties occurred to my mind, all which Gingham took off, as fast as I started them. “After all,” said he, “the only real difficulty will be this: that whereas now, at headquarters, there sometimes is not a dollar disposable for public purposes, we shall then, especially if the army is on the move, have more dollars than we know what to do with.” His plan, indeed, contemplated a large concern, for the cash transactions of headquarters were immense; but it was clear he had viewed the scheme in every light, and was prepared to carry it out. No question, Gingham would have made a good thing of it, both for himself and for his backers in London. Yet it was a concern which Government could not undertake; and which, if Government had undertaken it, would have infallibly broken down. Private enterprise alone could prosperously conduct the scheme.

Gingham had laid out our conference in three parts, and two were now disposed of. First, he had ascertained the progress of my financial education in the past year; secondly, he had developed his own plans; but there yet remained the third topic of discussion, into which he now led with all his usual elegance, straightforwardness, and good feeling. The long and the short of it was this,—he had two gentlemen in London, ready to come out to Bordeaux whenever he commenced operations; they would arrive, like a letter, by return of post; but there was a question respecting myself. Did I feel so far interested in his plan that I might be willing, on due reflection, to relinquish my actual appointment, and work with him? He asked it “in the strictest confidence,” and begged me to consider all that now passed “as merely conversation.”

“Have the kindness to excuse me for a few moments. I’ll presently tell you just exactly my own prospects and plans, and then we’ll talk the matter over. In the mean time, accept my best thanks for this proof of confidence.”

While listening with the profoundest attention to Gingham, I had, it must be confessed, been taking a look, from time to time, at the country round. Hitherto our route had been across an open level, and we had always seen the road before us. Now, first, we reached a spot were we could not discern what was in front. The table-land, over which we had been marching, terminated in a brow or declivity. The road dipped, and disappeared; where it led us there was no perceiving. The road itself also became hollow—that is, it descended between two high banks, and these were covered with underwood. This was the part of our way on which we were now about to enter.

Just at this moment, while I was debating with myself whether we ought to go on without a little exploration, Jones stepped up to me rather hastily. “Please, sir,” said he, “I’m a-thinking Nanny siz something as we doesn’t see.” I should mention that, in the course of our march, when we approached any eminence that afforded a view of the road and country in front, Nanny would trot off from the party, run to the summit, and make her observations—in short, see all that was to be seen. Goats, if you observe, never, unless compelled, venture on new ground, till they have first halted, and taken a view of it. Even sheep, if not over-driven, will not turn down a lane, till they have stopped and turned their heads, for the purpose of taking a look with $1 eyes. Cows, on the contrary, look and advance at the same time; and your nag, contenting himself with a $1 view, appears to advance without looking at all. Your dog, who has more sense than all the others put together, when you come to a place where the road forks—dear old Burruff!—$1. Well, Nanny, in the present instance, had done as she always did. The ground rose to our left, and the elevation $1 the valley in front. On that elevation Nanny was now standing, and Jones’s observation was evidently correct. She saw something, or somebody, unseen by us. There she stood—not, though, as on previous occasions, quietly taking a survey of the road before us: her tail, the “upward curl” of which was more than perpendicular—$1—from time to time vibrated rapidly. She uttered, at intervals, a sharp, anxious bleat, and ever and anon stamped with a movement so quick, the eye could scarce discern it. “What d’ye think, then, she sees down there?” said I to Jones—“other goats?”

“Please, sir,” said Jones, “I’m a-thinking it’s not goats, sir; ’cause then she wouldn’t stop up there, sir. Please, sir, she’d come back at once, and keep close, sir; ’cause she knows as how I’d protect her varchy, sir; ’cause for fear the Billies should make too free, sir; ’cause, when the Nannies is in milk, sir, they doesn’t not pemit hinnersint libbities, sir.”

Nanny now adopted a new style of attitude—rearing, as when at play, with arched neck and combative front, still, at times, subsiding into the quadruped; now bleating, now stamping, now wagging her tail with intense vivacity; then walking back, stamping again, advancing; gazing all the while on the low ground in front. “If Nanny takes a view, why shouldn’t Sancho?” I cantered up, and speedily cantered down again. “Mr Chesterfield, I think, sir, we had better halt.”

Indeed there was reason. In front was the enemy, drawn up to receive us, in military array. The road, I must explain, led down to a lower level. Just at the bottom, another road crossed it; and, where the two roads cut, they spread out round a large pond. About this pond, but principally in advance of it, appeared a large concourse of the rural population. “Tout Français est soldat.” I never felt the force of the phrase as I did at that moment. They were armed, and stood in line; their number formidable, their aspect decidedly pugnacious. Oh, you plucky villains! won’t we be down upon you presently? I stated to Mr Chesterfield what I had seen, and he immediately halted our whole party. “If you will ride up with me,” said I, “you may see the whole lot of them.”

I returned to Nanny’s look-out post, but Mr Chesterfield did not follow. Had I known what he was about to do, I should certainly have remonstrated. He chose to take a nearer look at the enemy, and for that purpose rode forward alone. On the eminence on which I stood, I heard the rattle of his horse’s hoofs in the hollow way; and presently I saw him emerge below, at its further extremity. He then reined in his horse, and sat viewing the foe, who greeted his appearance with shouts and yells. Having quietly made his observations, he turned, and began to come back at a walk. As he withdrew, three or four shots were fired after him from below, but without effect. After he again disappeared in the hollow road, though, on his way to rejoin us, I heard, with great uneasiness, other shots fired—the report much nearer. They were evidently from rascals ambushed in the underwood of the two banks, between which he was passing. I rejoined the convoy just as he rode up. His look was perfectly calm and self-possessed, but pale as ashes. He held the bridle in his right hand, while his left hung helpless at his side. Pledget at once tumbled off his mule, stepped up, and addressed him with a tone and aspect of unfeigned concern—“Not serious, sir, I hope?”

“Oh, nothing,” said he, his manner a little hurried; “a mere graze—nothing. Corporal Fraser, the infantry must load immediately. Let them fix bayonets, though. We must begin by clearing those two banks.”

Scarcely were the words out of his lips, when his face became ghastly like death, his eyes half closed, his mouth half opened. His head drooped; and speechless, almost fainting, he sank down gradually from his saddle into Fraser’s arms. The corporal carried him to the road-side—why, he was but a boy—and seated, or rather laid him upon the bank. Pledget was promptly in attendance, got off the patient’s coat, and examined the wounded arm, amidst the clatter of fixing bayonets and ramming down cartridges. “Oh, ain’t we going at it in yarnest, though?” said Jones.

“The system,” said Pledget, with all his usual deliberation—“the system has received a severe shock; that is the cause of these alarming symptoms—they will not last. So it often happens with gunshot wounds. The wound itself is not dangerous. The ball has gone clean through the arm, and at short distance too, but without fracturing the bone or injuring any important vessel.”

Oh, had you seen that lad languishing on the sod, with the black blood trickling from two holes at once, and joining in a sluggish stream which went rippling down his arm, and dripped into the grass! I don’t know what he thought of; I thought of his mother. Enough: the foe is in front.

But affairs now assumed a new phase. While I was anxiously surveying our wounded commander, Corporal Eraser stepped up to me, saluting in due form, à la militaire! He stood waiting and looking at me, as if he expected to receive directions.

The nature of the position in which I was so unexpectedly placed, broke upon me in a moment. I’ll tell you just everything, exactly as it occurred. Mr Chesterfield was $1. Pledget, in discharge of his professional duty, was wholly occupied in attending upon him. The corporal, and, it was clear, the men also, looked to me for direction in our present fix. Gingham, when the corporal approached me, backed his horse. From many persons such an action might have gone for nothing. But Gingham had a reason for all he did; and, from him, it seemed to say, “Now, Mr Y—, take the management of this little business, and go through with it. Don’t you see, my dear sir? It has devolved upon you.”

“The men are ready, sir,” said Corporal Fraser; “shall we now proceed to clear the banks?”

It was evident I must direct, or nothing could be done. “Wait a minute, Fraser.”

I beckoned to the cavalry sergeant, and desired him to place a few of his men, with swords drawn, in the rear of the convoy, giving them strict directions to suffer no one to fall behind, mule or muleteer. He was then to divide the rest of our mounted force into two equal parties, under his two corporals, who, when the infantry advanced, were to descend along the top of the banks, and halt at its extremity. I then gave the word to Corporal Fraser to move forward at once with the infantry, and clear the underwood, but to halt where the cavalry halted, and by no means to go beyond.

“Then, to prevent that,” said the corporal, “I will go first myself, sir.”

He dashed forward, and the infantry followed, with a shout. Thus we moved down to the extremity of the hollow road. The infantry led the way, gallantly headed by General Fraser, and dislodged some ten or a dozen fellows from the banks, who bolted successively, and cut away, making good their retreat to their own party below. This movement was not effected without some firing on both sides, but nobody was hurt on either. The cavalry, supporting the infantry, walked quietly down the two edges of the cutting: and I put the convoy in motion to follow. Mr Chesterfield now rallied for a few moments, and was eager to remount. But the faintness returned; it was evident he could neither ride nor walk; so he was brought down in Gingham’s cart, with every attention both from Gingham and Pledget.

While we were thus moving down through the hollow, I heard, close behind, an angry shout from our dragoons on the banks above. Then followed three shots in quick succession, one from the underwood, on the side, two from the summit. A bullet whizzed by my head, and spat into the opposite bank. A rustling was then distinguishable among the bushes, and presently a peasant, in a blue gabardine, slid down stiff into the road, and there doubled up. Eluding Fraser and the foot soldiers, he had remained in ambush till we came along, when he had selected me for a passing compliment, as the head of the party, intending no doubt to climb up the bank, if pursued, and escape above. Just as he was taking aim, though, he was seen by the dragoons, who, unheard by him, were quietly moving down at a walk over the ploughed ground. Two of them fired their carbines, and one or both of their shots taking effect, prevented the effect of his.

Too green to know that it was unmilitary, I returned a few paces to take a view of the dying foe. A Frenchman to the last, he must needs find something to say, though life was now ebbing apace. Slowly, and with apparent difficulty, he raised his eyes till they were fixed full on mine; and then, with quivering features, and a strange snapping of the jaw, began to speak. “Ah, Monsieur —— j’ai pensé—vous.”——He was dead!

We now gained the extremity of the hollow way, and stood looking down on the enemy ranged in order of battle at the pond. Fraser had drawn up the infantry across the road, and the cavalry, with the exception of the rearguard, formed on our two flanks. Our first movement was thus effected. All our men were perfectly steady, but burning to fall to, and savage on account of Mr Chesterfield’s casualty.

Gingham now suggested, as the enemy were so numerous—two hundred and fifty at least, if not three hundred—that it might be prudent to wait a while, in the hope that other parties, bound to headquarters, might come up. But I happened to know that none were coming that day; and Gingham, on hearing this, withdrew his motion. What, then, was our course? How were we to deal with these Mounseers? No doubt we could lick them; and, had fighting been our object, nothing would have given our men greater satisfaction. But we had dollars in charge, and our first care must be to get safe through, and deliver them safe at headquarters. My decision, then, was taken. We must advance—we must continue our march—and we mustn’t let those fellows hinder us; but we must, if possible, effect our purpose, without coming to close quarters. A mêlée we must shun; for, though the issue would be glorious—no doubt of that—yet, if once mixed up with our convoy, the enemy, when they took to flight, might persuade some of our mules to go with them. Our object, then, reduced itself to this: we must disperse the foe, without coming to close quarters with them. Gingham quite adopted this view of the subject, and now prepared for further operations by drawing his pistols from the holsters, and examining their priming. He next called to Coosey to get him his sword out of the cart, girded it on, and drew it forth from the scabbard—a formidable Andrea Ferrara, equally available for cut and thrust. He bore it bolt upright, with great gravity, and with an air half military, half civic, which, on his showy Spanish horse, would have rendered him a highly ornamental addition to a Lord Mayor’s procession.

We were now immediately in front of the enemy; and I rode a few yards forward, to take a full view of their position, previous to our advance. They favoured me with a great deal of noise, and, on my turning, with a few shots, which I acknowledged by taking off my hat. Many of them returned the compliment; while others expressed their civility by a courteous gesture, vernacular in most civilised countries.

The enemy, it was clear, had no idea that we marched with a Nanny-goat in company, and had intended that we should walk into them unawares. In that case, we should probably have come off second best. As matters stood, our position was far more favourable: and theirs, less advantageous in the same degree. The worst of it was, though, that to the left of the main road—that is, on the enemy’s right—a wood came down to within two hundred yards of them; which same wood, further on, extended close up to the road we were to proceed by, and seemed to skirt it for some distance. The danger was that, when we attacked the enemy, and drove them before us, some of them, perhaps the greater number, might escape into this wood; in which case we might afterwards find it difficult to get rid of their agreeable company. These considerations, then, indicated the plan of our attack. I desired the sergeant of cavalry to select seven or eight of his steadiest men, and gain at once the skirts of the wood, at the point nearest the enemy. He was to advance at first as if intending to attack their right; but, when he got nearer, was to quicken his pace, and make at once for the wood. Immediately after, when he saw the general attack commence, his party, also, were to advance and fire; but not to advance so far that fugitives, escaping from the enemy’s rear, might be able to enter the wood. The infantry were to advance, firing, down the road; and the remainder of the cavalry was to spread out on our flanks, and act in concert with us: our whole party pressing more on the enemy’s right than left, in order that their retreat might be from the wood, not to it. These matters I explained distinctly. One other point remained.

“Corporal Fraser, step this way. Your duty is the most responsible of any.” I knew it would be a bitter pill for the corporal, so endeavoured to gild it.

“I am ready for any duty you may assign me, sir,” said the corporal, whose blood was up.

“You must take two or three of the infantry to the rear—we shall want all the cavalry—and see that no muleteer loiters behind, or falls out—bring all up.”

“As you please, sir,” said Fraser; “but in action, the rear is not the place to which I have been most accustomed.” The poor fellow looked so dismally blank, I really felt for him.

“Never mind that, corporal. Remember you have had your turn already, and have done well. Depend upon this,” I added, with a consolatory wink, “should there be any real business in front, though I don’t expect it, you, if possible, shall have your share.” The clouds were now dispelled from the corporal’s face, and he retired to his station in the rear.

Our preparations being thus completed, I forthwith sent forward the cavalry sergeant with his party, to gain the wood. The movement was well executed. They advanced steadily down upon the enemy’s right, without answering his fire; then turned suddenly to the left, and trotted off to the trees. Having reached the point assigned them, they pulled up, faced round, and formed in line. Immediately upon this commenced our general movement in advance, Fraser following the train of mules and muleteers, and “keeping them up behind.” Infantry and cavalry marched down to the attack; while both the contending armies maintained a brisk fusillade. As far as I then discovered, none of the enemy’s shots took effect, while some of ours appeared to tell. The foe stood his ground manfully at first; but, as we got closer, some of them began to run from the rear, and all soon joined in the flight. The retreat was as rapid as it was general; and we, as the convoy could not be left, abstained from pursuit. The cavalry advancing from the wood, though, got a little too forward. The consequence was that a few of the fugitives, running down the main road, attempted to escape into the wood. But a few carbine shots soon turned them back on the main body; and the whole mass then made their escape down the road to our right, which was just what I wanted. Long after we had ceased to fire, they continued to run, without stopping to look behind, alarmed probably by the apprehension of a cavalry pursuit. Half a mile off, in remarkably short time for the distance, I saw some of them, like a scattered flock of sheep, scampering up a hill, and disappearing over its summit. What execution was done by our fire, did not immediately appear. Some decamped slower than others; one or two were carried. Some made their escape through the pond; and of these, some fell over in the water, as if they had been hit. One fell, the men said, and didn’t get up again. A few of the enemy halted awhile to take a look, in their run down the cross-road, as if they would like to make an attempt on the extremity of our convoy, which probably appeared to them unprotected. But, receiving the fire of our rearguard, they again took to flight. We assembled at the pond, and there halted in a body, convoy and escort.

Mr Chesterfield had not yet recovered from the first shock of his wound; and was obliged to remain in the cart, unable to sit up. Gingham administered some brandy, with good effect. We had, however, one other wounded man. I noticed several of our fellows, horse and foot, assembled in a group, from which proceeded loud jeers, and shouts of laughter. There was something in the midst of them, the occasion of their mirth, which I could not see. Presently, however, I caught a sight of poor Jones, the picture of woe. He was standing in a posture very far from upright, and leaning with his elbows on the back of a spare mule—his aspect cadaverous. Advancing, I heard the talk.

“Why, Taffy, old feller, how come ye to get hit there?” A roar of laughter drowned Jones’s indignant reply.

“Taffy, my lad, why, I didn’t think you vos the chap as vould turn tail.”

“It’s a lie,” roared Jones, in a voice of extreme agony and exasperation. “I didn’t turn tail; nor I haven’t not never turned tail. Only jest turned round to load, and felt all at wance jest as if somebody had bin and give me a kick——” A universal roar drowned the conclusion of the sentence.

“Mr Pledget,” said I, “there seems to be here another case, soliciting your attention.”

The men made way. Pledget advanced with great seriousness; and the laughter, though less vociferous, became tenfold in intensity, at the rich idea of Pledget’s investigating and doctoring Jones’s wound. Jones, at the sight of the doctor, in his alarm and anguish set up a regular hullabaloo, almost running into a cry. The doctor, regardless of Jones’s fears and lacerated feelings, began gravely to question him—made serious attempts and approaches to ascertain particulars. Two or three of the fellows, positively overcome with the scene, threw themselves down by the road-side in an agony. One, I really thought, would have laughed himself into a fit. He turned red, crimson, purple, almost black in the face; still, in his bursts, casting his eyes, from time to time, towards Jones and the doctor. Jones, leaning on the mule’s back, screwing and twisting first this way then that, evaded and defeated all the doctor’s approaches; while the men, taking a little extra freedom after our glorious victory, renewed their vociferous merriment. Pledget, at length, began to lose his patience. “Come, my good fellow,” said he; “this won’t do, you know.”

He then looked round at the soldiers, and made a sign. Four of them stepped forward, seized Jones by the arms and legs, and bore him off to the road-side—struggling, fighting, kicking, roaring, screeching, his agony increasing as he saw the moment at hand when he must be doctored. Pledget humanely pointed to some bushes close by, and the men carried Jones behind them. There the bullet was extracted at once. But how Pledget proceeded, or what was the precise character of the wound, of course we, who remained in the road, had no opportunity of perceiving. The progress of the operation, however, was marked by occasional shouts and yells from Jones; and in five minutes he hobbled forth with a rueful aspect, but looking “as well as could be expected.” Pledget almost immediately followed, and handed the bullet to Jones. “There, my man,” said he; “put that in your pocket.”

There still was something, though, upon Jones’s mind. He limped down to the edge of the pond with an eager, anxious look; and began prowling about, examining among the reeds and bushes, right and left.

“Jones, hadn’t you better keep yourself quiet? Sit down, man.”

“Please, sir, if you’ve no objections, sir, I’m noways inclined to sit down jest at present, sir, ’cause it would be rayther ill-colvelielt, sir; rayther be excused, sir. Hope no offence, sir.” He continued on the prowl.

“What are you looking for, Jones? Lost any part of your kit?”

“Please, sir, I’m a-looking for that ’ere Nosey, sir.”

“What! the man that stood treat this morning? You don’t expect to find him here.”

“Please, sir, I see him here, sir; and I marked him too, sir. See him drop somewhere hereabouts, sir.”

This intelligence was “important, if true;” and I also began to look.

There was nothing, however, on this part of the field of combat, to indicate that a wounded man had fallen. Jones, though, was positive.

“Sure you were not mistaken, Jones?”

“No, sir; it wasn’t no mistake, I’m sartain, sir. I’m sartain as I see him, and I’m sartain as I marked him, sir. Knowed him by his——Oh, there he is, sir.”

Jones pointed to something in the pond that looked like a package or bundle, half immersed in the water, at the edge of the reeds, a little out from the side.

A soldier stepped in, and examined more closely. “It’s a dead man, sir.”

“Dead! Get him out, that’s a good fellow. Perhaps he’s only wounded, and not past recovery.”

“He’s past that, sir,” said the soldier, as he turned him, face upwards, on the bank.

The face had a mask of mud. The soldier knelt down, felt in the dead man’s pockets, brought out a white handkerchief of French cambric—wiped away the mud. Yes, it was Hookey! The features retained their general expression—harsh by temperament, but composed to blandness. Oh, what a look was that! Hookey shot through the neck! The brow was slightly knit; the lips were parted; the teeth clenched. His perpetual smile had set his face, at last, in a fixed, unmeaning smirk—the dead man’s simper! The two corners of his semicircular mouth, drawn up high on the cheeks, were flanked by two furrows, rigid and profound! It was the sort of look which, seen but for a moment, stamps on the memory an impression that we can recall at will, and that sometimes comes unbidden!

“Just hold up that handkerchief, my man. Spread it out, will you? Oh, there’s the mark—$1.”

“Any papers?” said I to Jones, who was rummaging in the dead man’s pockets.

“Only this here, sir,” said Jones, holding up an envelope, which had been emptied of its contents. It was the cover of my letter, which Hookey had undertaken to deliver at headquarters. The letter itself he had probably sent in a different direction.

Jones, meanwhile, had found a leathern purse, which, without any remarks, he was quietly secreting about his own person. The soldier, though, who had landed the dead man, detected this act of conveyance, and demanded “snacks.” A discussion arose, and a squabble seemed inevitable. “Corporal Fraser,” said I, “just see all fair here.” I then turned Sancho’s head, and withdrew from the scene. Sancho had more than once brought down his nose, slowly and cautiously, into close proximity with the object that lay stretched out before him. He now, ere he obeyed the bridle, pawed, tossed his head, and snorted; as though fain to get rid of the very air that he had just been inhaling, and to blow out of his nostrils the smell of blood!

Mr Chesterfield, now considerably recovered, stood by the cart, with his arm slung in a silk handkerchief. He thought he was able to sit his horse—at any rate, wished to try. Pledget objected—wanted him to come on in the cart. A discussion arose; and it was settled at last, that Pledget should mount the horse, while Mr Chesterfield rode Pledget’s mule. Gingham then gave directions to Coosey and Joaquim, who helped Jones into the cart. Coosey had already been won upon by Jones. But now, when Jones came out fresh from the field, with a memorial of the combat that would follow him to the day of his death, Coosey’s admiration knew no bounds. I saw him pass something to Joaquim, who took an early opportunity of passing it to Jones. “You don’t think,” said I to Gingham, “Coosey will give him more than will do him good?”—“No, no,” said Gingham; “you may depend on Coosey’s discretion.”

It was time to be getting on again. First, however, Mr Chesterfield deemed it advisable to see all right respecting the wood. For this purpose, he sent forward Corporal Fraser with part of the infantry. After they entered the wood, we heard a single shot. In about ten minutes the whole party returned, the Corporal riding a clumsy French cart-horse, with a rope bridle. They had found a horse and cart. The shot was fired to bring up the driver, who had, however, got off. The object of the horse and cart was pretty evident. It no doubt had occurred to Hookey that, in case of his making a successful foray, and securing part of our dollars, such a conveyance might do good service in carrying off the “swag.” There was no convenient way of getting the cart to us out of the wood; it appeared to have been brought from another direction; so Fraser had taken out the horse, which he considered his own lawful prize. All being now arranged, we proceeded on our march.

Jones rode on in the cart. He lay along at full length; not on his back, though, but in the opposite position, which he preferred under existing circumstances. I observed him—like a recumbent bull-terrier, with muzzle protruding from his kennel—keenly watching as we proceeded—now forwards, now right, now left, looking out for the $1, and eager to have another slap at a Frenchman.

With regard to the enemy’s position, it will probably occur to the military reader, that they might have chosen a better. A more skilful opponent, probably, would have concealed himself in the forest, and attacked us in flank; and a bolder one might have ventured to occupy the hollow way with all his forces—a plan which, if detected, would have been attended with greater risk to himself, but, if successful, with greater damage to us. As it was, the ambuscade was too far in front of the main body, and we were able to deal with it before we were further engaged. Still, I think, it must be admitted, on the whole, the arrangements of the enemy were not badly made. Had we not kept a good look-out—or rather, had not our four-legged attendant providentially put us on our guard—we might not have discovered our opponents till it was too late to avoid a conflict at close quarters, the probable consequence of which would have been the loss of some of our mules; while the crossroads afforded facilities for driving them off, with the choice of four directions. And, some of their party being concealed in the two banks between which we had to pass, we might have discovered an enemy at hand only by finding ourselves under fire. On the whole, we had reason to be thankful that our loss was so small.

With regard to our fallen opponent, Hookey or Christophe, in lately turning over Colonel Gurwood’s volumes, I met with something which appears, curiously enough, to identify him. In a letter from our Commander-in-Chief, bearing date 2d January 1814, that is, two or three months before our rencontre, I find that a person, calling himself Christophe, had been arrested and sent to General Freyre, to be forwarded to Madrid; that, in the November previous, this Christophe was at Bilbao; that he had letters from King Ferdinand; that he showed a draft or order on the Biscayan Provinces to pay him seventy thousand dollars; that he was advised to present himself to the Government; and that, as the opinion entertained of him was not very favourable, and he remained at St Jean de Luz, he was at length arrested, and sent off.

Now, I am not prepared to assert that this was the same individual with my Christophe or Hookey; but, supposing it so, we may give some such sketch of his services as the following. In the early part of 1813, the period of my voyage from Falmouth to Lisbon, the French authorities in Spain, civil and military, were not a little perplexed as to our Commander’s plans for the ensuing campaign. This mystery he solved ere long, by breaking forth from the north of Portugal, advancing on the line of the Douro, marching across the north of Spain, winning the battle of Vittoria, investing San Sebastian and Pampeluna, liberating the Peninsula, crowning the Pyrenees, completing the great circle that was closing round Napoleon, and menacing the south of France. Precisely when we may suppose the curiosity of the Gallic leaders to have been most intense, that is, in the early spring of 1813, just previous to Lord Wellington’s advance, Hookey—Christophe, said his cambric handkerchief—came off to us in the Oporto boat, and, under the assumed character of a courier, obtained a passage by the Falmouth packet from Oporto to Lisbon—in other words, from the left to the right of the position then occupied by the British troops. Subsequently, a Christophe makes his appearance at Bilbao, in the November of the same year; and, on account of his suspicious conduct there, and afterwards at headquarters, is arrested, and delivered over to the Spaniards, for transmission to Madrid. The Spaniards, of course, let him escape; and he then returns to his old trade. He cannot, however, appear again at headquarters, therefore hangs about the line of march on the look-out for a job; falls in with a greenhorn in charge of treasure; gets out of him all the information he can; tries to divert him from his route; tampers with his personal attendant; opposes his passage of a river; makes his escort drunk; and musters a rural force, with the aid of which he hopes to realise more by ready cash, than he did by his cheque on the “Biscayan provinces.” Thus he went on, prying, plotting, and meddling, till he found his end.

We proceeded quietly on our march, Gingham and I riding side by side, while Pledget and Mr Chesterfield preceded us.

“Yes,” said Gingham, resuming the thread of our conversation where our rencontre with the enemy had broken it off; “I know that you have formed schemes connected with military service; and those, I presume, are the plans you allude to.”

I really did not understand, at the moment, what Gingham meant; and, fancying he referred to our recent operations in the presence of the foe, answered wide of the mark.

“No, no,” said he; “I was not speaking, sir, with regard to the little affair which has just come off; though, give me leave to say, Mr Y—, you acquitted yourself in a way that does you credit. I allude to what fell from you within the last hour, when you mentioned some plans that you had formed, and which, you were kind enough to say, you would communicate for my information.”

We now resumed the conversation, which the “little affair” had interrupted. I stated my plans, hopes, difficulties, without reserve; and Gingham, in reply, from his own knowledge and observations, drew, with equal force and feeling, a not very agreeable picture of the discouragements, disappointments, toils, hardships, sufferings, privations, wrongs, and snubbings, incidental to the life of a marching officer on actual service. He was still eloquently descanting on these topics, when we reached the termination of our day’s journey.

GERMAN POPULAR PROPHECIES.

LETTER FROM PROFESSOR GREGORY TO THE EDITOR.

Dear Sir,—The following notice of certain popular prophetic traditions, widely current in the country to which they refer, may perhaps prove interesting to your numerous readers.

All widely-spread opinions, however apparently absurd, have, or have had at some time, a foundation in nature or in historical fact; and it cannot be uninteresting, with a view to the history of popular traditions, to place on record those which I have here collected, even although we cannot at present trace them satisfactorily to their origin. The whole subject of trances, and the various phenomena connected with them, including the second sight, is one hitherto very imperfectly studied, and for that reason I have not entered into detail on that part of the question; but I may possibly do so at a future period.—Believe me, very truly yours,

Edinburgh, $1.

It is well known that in all ages, and in most countries, prophetic traditions have been said to exist; and although it may often have happened that such traditions have arisen from spurious prophecies, written after the event, and falsely said to have existed before it, yet it would also appear that genuine prophecies have from time to time appeared, and become traditions before the events took place. Of course, we do not here allude to the Scriptural prophecies, but to such as have no pretensions to a divine origin. There can be little doubt that the Sybilline Books contained prophecies of the future fate of Rome; and although we cannot now ascertain, even if this were the case, whether they were accurate predictions, or merely sagacious guesses, nor whether the event confirmed them, yet the tradition of their existence is in itself curious. We cannot here enter into an enumeration of the various prophecies which are said to have existed, in ancient or modern times, before the events occurred, but on some future occasion we may return to that subject: in the mean time we may allude, as a modern example of popular prophecy in our own country, to the prediction of the extinction of the male line of the house of Seaforth, in the person of a deaf Caberfae—a prediction which Mr Morritt of Rokeby, the friend of Scott, heard quoted in Ross-shire at a time when the last Lord Seaforth, who became quite deaf, had several sons in perfect health. We have no doubt our Highland readers are acquainted with many analogous cases.

Our present object is to direct attention to the fact, that in Germany, more especially on the Rhine and in Westphalia, there exist many remarkable popular prophecies concerning public events, of various dates, and originating in various quarters, but exhibiting a remarkable coincidence in many of the chief points. Many of these have been printed at various times; others exist as traditions among the peasantry; others, again, are said upon good evidence to have been in modern times taken down from the lips of the prophets themselves, all or most of whom are now dead. Yet they generally predict, and often with strange minuteness of detail, events which were to occur about this time,—viz. in 1848, 1849, and 1850. Political and religious convulsions, wars, and finally peace and prosperity, form the burden of them; and we shall see that the events of 1848 and 1849 supply apparently strong confirmation of their truth, their previous existence being admitted.

Having spent some months in Rhenish Prussia during the summer of 1849, we made many inquiries on the subject, and found everywhere, and among all classes, a firm conviction of the $1 of many of the popular prophecies; while it was admitted that they had long been known and believed by the people. As the matter, considered under any point of view, is a curious and interesting one, we procured the latest work on the subject, which in fact appeared while we were in Germany. It is entitled, “Prophetic Voices, with Explanations. A collection as perfect as possible, of all Prophecies, of Ancient and Modern date, concerning the Present and Future Times, with an explanation of the obscure parts,” by Th. Beykirch, licentiate in Theology, and (R.C.) curate in Dortmund. The worthy Curate is often too brief in his accounts of the prophecies themselves, and very diffuse in his explanations, which, for the most part, tend to extract from the predictions the comfortable assurance of the complete reestablishment of the Roman Catholic religion, and the utter discomfiture of Protestantism. He even treats his readers to a disquisition, altogether out of place, on Scriptural prophecies, and an interpretation, by Holzhaüser, of the Apocalypse, in which he applies to Protestantism the same passages which Protestants apply to the Papacy, and does so, apparently, very much to his own satisfaction. We shall not touch on these parts of his work, but use it as a storehouse, from which we may draw the predictions themselves, without regarding them through the theological medium of the reverend author.

The first we shall mention is of an ancient date. It is the vaticination of Brother Herrmann, a monk of the monastery of Lehnin, who flourished circa A.D. 1270, and died in the odour of sanctity. It is written in a hundred leonine hexameters, rhyming in the middle and end of each verse, and was printed in 1723 by Professor Lilienthal, from what was said to be an old MS. His prophecies chiefly concerned the future fate of his own monastery of Lehnin in Brandenburg, and of the monastery of Chorin in the Uckermark, a part of Brandenburg. But as that fate depended on public events, more especially on the history of the princes of that country, his vaticination assumes the form of a brief prophetic history of the house of Hohenzollern, that is, the now royal house of Prussia. Our readers will probably readily dispense with the whole of the original hexameters of the good monk, but we shall give a few specimens: he begins—

1. “Nunc tibi, cum cura, Lehnin! cano fata futura,

2. Quæ mihi monstravit Dominus, qui cuncta creavit,” &c.

“Now, oh Lehnin! I sing with sorrow to thee thy future fates,

Which the Lord, the creator of all, has shown to me.”

He proceeds to describe the prosperity of Lehnin under the race of Otto I., and its decay after the extinction of this family, which took place in the person of Henry III., 1320. These princes were from Anhalt, of the race called the Askanier in German history.

At verses 14 $1, he describes Brandenburg as becoming a den of lions, while the true heir is excluded. After Margrave Henry III., the Dukes of Pomerania, Mecklenburg, Brunswick, Anhalt, Electoral Saxony, and Bohemia attacked the Mark, (Brandenburg,) and committed horrible devastations. The Emperor Louis of Bavaria seized it for himself, excluding the princes of Saxony, the nearest heirs to the former princes.

After various details concerning the fate of Brandenburg, plundered by robber knights and barons, who were to be put down by a strong emperor, as happened under Charles IV. who died in 1378,—he comes to the accession of the Hohenzollerns, and describes the first prince of that family as rising to distinction by holding two castles or Burgen. The Emperor Sigismund sold Brandenburg to Frederick, Burggraf of Nuremberg, of the house of Hohenzollern. He belonged to the lower nobility, but now became more important by the possession of two castles—those of Nuremberg and Brandenburg. These examples are sufficient to give an idea of that part of Brother Herrmann’s prophecy, concerning events which preceded the printing of it in 1723, and in which he describes $1, without giving the names, and very briefly, but in striking language, the fate and character of the successive Margraves, Electors, and Kings, till he comes to Frederick William I., who died in 1740, seventeen years after the prophecy was printed, and whose character and death he describes. Then follows Frederick the Great, whose career, with its vicissitudes, is indicated with tolerable clearness. One line is curious,

84. “Flantibus hinc Austris, vitam vult credere claustris.”

“When the south wind blows, he trusts his life to the cloisters.”

In fact, Frederick, when hard pressed by the Austrians, was once compelled to conceal himself in a monastery.

$1 signifies south wind, but is probably here used for Austria.

After his successor, Frederick William II., whom the good monk truly describes as vicious, sensual, and oppressive, but not warlike, comes this line—

89. “Natus florebit; quod non sperasset habebit.”

“The son shall flourish; he shall possess what he did not hope for.”

The application of this to the late king, Frederick William III., is obvious. Under him, Prussia, after having been reduced to the lowest ebb by Napoleon, became, unexpectedly, far more powerful than it had ever been.

90. “Sed populus tristis flebit temporibus istis.

92. “Et princeps nescit quod nova potentia crescit.”

“But the sad people shall mourn in these times;

“And the King knows not that a new power is arising.”

These lines also apply well to Frederick William III.

93. “Tandem sceptra gerit, qui ultimus stemmatis erit.”

“At length he bears the sceptres, who shall be the last of his race.”

Now this is very remarkable. In line 49, he had said—

49. “Hoc ad undenum durabit stemma venenum.”

“This poison^[2] shall last to the eleventh generation.”

The present king, Frederick William IV., is the eleventh from Joachim III., the first Protestant prince of Brandenburg, in reference to whom the above line is written. But why did the writer (even supposing the prophecy not to have existed earlier than 1723, when it was printed) stop at this point? We shall see that other prophecies coincide with this one in predicting that the present will be the last King of Prussia.

Then comes the remarkable line—

95. “Et pastor gregem recipit, Germania regem.”

“And the shepherd receives his flock, Germany a king.”

The worthy curate of Dortmund explains this as pointing out the submission of Europe to the Pope, and of Germany to one sovereign. Brother Herrmann goes on to predict peaceful times, and the restoration of Chorin and Lehnin to their pristine splendour.

We have omitted many curious lines, but the reader will probably feel satisfied that the brief and obscure vaticinations of Brother Herrmann are worthy of notice, especially that part of them relating to the last hundred and twenty years, bearing in mind that they were printed in 1723.

The next prophet mentioned by our author is Joseph von Görres, who died in January 1848—that is, before the last revolution in France, which shook the thrones of Europe. On his deathbed he lamented the misfortunes about to come on Poland, described Hungary as appearing to him one huge field of carnage, and wept over the approaching downfall of the European monarchies. The events of February and March 1848, the insurrection in Posen, the devastations committed by the Prussians in suppressing it, and the war in Hungary, would appear to be the events to which he referred. But he was a man deeply read in history, and there are some of those prophetic hints which may possibly have occurred to him as reflections on probable events, and have assumed a certain degree of vividness in his mind.

We now come to a peasant prophet, namely Jaspers, a Westphalian shepherd, of Deininghausen, near the ancestral seat of the Lord of Bodelschwing. He was a simple-minded pious man. In 1830, soon after which time he died, he publicly predicted as follows:—

“A great road (said he) will be carried through our country, from west to east, which will pass through the forests of Bodelschwing. On this road, carriages will run $1, and cause a dreadful noise. At the commencement of this work, a great scarcity will here prevail; pigs will become very dear, and a new religion will arise, in which wickedness will be regarded as prudence and politeness. Before this road is quite completed, a frightful war will break out.”

These words, to the astonishment of the natives, have nearly all been fulfilled. The railway from Cologne to Minden has, since his death, been carried through the very district he mentioned in 1830, before the first English railway had been opened, and when the primitive shepherds of Westphalia were little likely to know anything about railways. The scarcity took place at the time specified; and his remark as to a new religion is supposed to apply to a deterioration of manners among the simple natives, consequent on the opening up of their district. A personal friend of Jaspers collected the following sayings, which the author, after minute inquiry on the spot, considers as genuine.

1. “Before the great road is $1, a dreadful war will break out.”

The railway has for a year or two been in operation; but, up to the end of 1849, as we saw by advertisements, the second line of rails was not laid down. It is probably still only in progress. Now in 1848 and 1849, we have seen war in Schleswig-Holstein, Hungary, Italy, Posen, and Baden.

2. “A small northern power will be conqueror.”

Probably the Danish war, and the success of Denmark, is here meant.

3. “After this another war will break out—not a religious war among Christians, but between those who believe in Christ and those who do not believe.”

Here we must remember that the simple and ignorant peasants of Westphalia have strong religious feelings and prejudices, and are apt, like some nearer home, to apply the term Infidel somewhat rashly. Possibly Russia and the Greek church may be here alluded to.

4. “This war comes from the East. I dread the East.

5. “This war will break out very suddenly. In the evening they will cry ‘Peace, peace!’ and yet peace is not; and in the morning the enemy will be at the door. Yet it shall soon pass, and he who knows of a good hiding-place, for a a few days only, is secure.”

The probability of a war, in which Russia shall take an active share, cannot escape any observer of the signs of the times; and, with the aid of railways, which were not known at the date of Jaspers’ death, the sudden outbreak is quite possible, even in Westphalia.

6. “The defeated enemy will have to fly in extreme haste. Let the people cast cart and wheels into the water, otherwise the flying foe will take all carriages with them.

7. “Before this war, a general faithlessness will prevail. Men will give out vice for virtue and honour, deceit for politeness.

8. “In the year in which the great war shall break out, there shall be so fine a spring, that in April the cows will be feeding in the meadows on luxuriant grass. In the same year, wheat may be harvested, (in his district,) but not oats.” (This appears to be likely to apply to 1850.—W. G.)

He seems here to hint that the harvest of oats will be interrupted by the war; if so, the war occurs in autumn.

9. “The great battle will be fought $1, between Unna, Hamm, and Werl. The people of half the world will there be opposed to each other. God will terrify the enemy by a dreadful storm. Of the $1, but few shall return home to tell of their defeat. Jaspers described this battle as terrific.”

We shall by and by hear more of this birch-tree.

10. “The war will be over in 1850, and in 1852 all will be again in order.

11. “The Poles are at first put down; but they will, along with other nations, fight against their oppressors, and at last obtain a king of their own.

12. “France will be divided internally into three parts.”

It is curious to notice, that at present, although the state of matters in 1830 was very different, there are three parties in France, all of them powerful: namely, the Buonapartists, (with at least a part of the Orleanists,) and the moderate as well as the pro tempore Republicans, headed by Louis Napoleon; the party of the old Bourbons and the priests, led by Falloux and the old nobility, such as Larochejaquelein and Montalembert; and lastly the Red Republicans, Socialists, and Communists. These three parties hold each other in check, and no one of them can at this moment do much.

13. “Spain will not join in the war. But the Spaniards shall come after it is over, and take possession of the churches.

14. “Austria will be fortunate, provided she do not wait too long.

15. “The papal chair will be vacant for a time.

16. “The nobility is much depressed, but in 1852 again rises to some extent.

17. “When asked as to the future of Prussia, he maintained an obstinate silence, saying only that King Frederick William IV. would be the last.”

This agrees with Brother Herrmann, as formerly stated. A man named Pottgiesser, in Dortmund, long since dead, drew up a genealogical tree of the royal house, in which he says of the present king—to whom he gives no successor—“He disappears.”

18. “There will be one religion. On the Rhine stands a church which all people shall aid in building. From thence, after the war, shall proceed the rule of faith. All sects shall be united; only the Jews shall retain their old obstinacy.”

The dome at Cologne is obviously alluded to. We shall see, hereafter, that Cologne is expected to become the seat of ecclesiastical rule by other prophets.

19. “In our district priests shall become so rare, that, after the war, people will have to walk seven leagues in order to attend divine service.

20. “Our country will be so much depopulated, that women will have to cultivate the soil; and seven girls shall fight for a pair of inexpressibles.

21. “The house of Ikern shall be set on fire by shells.

22. “The soldiers shall march to battle (or to war) first, then return, decked with the cherry blossoms. And only after that shall the great war break out.”

In spring 1848, troops marched to Baden, at the time of the first insurrection there, in which war General von Gagern was killed; and they returned home decked with cherry blossoms.

23. “Germany shall have one king, and then shall come happy times.

24. “He spoke also of an approaching religious change, and warned his children, when that time should come, to go to Mengede.”

When jeered on his prophetic powers, Jaspers often said—

“When I have long been in the grave, you will then often remember what I have said.”

There is a prophet in Dortmund, who, among other curious things, said, in 1840, “When the Prussian soldiers shall be dressed like those who crucified our Lord, then war shall break out with great violence.” It is worthy of notice that, since that time, the whole Prussian army, with the exception of the Hussars, have been armed with helmets of Roman form. Their new Waffenrock, or military coat, is also a short plain surtout, buttoned to the throat, and probably not unlike a Roman tunic.

The predictions of Jaspers are curious—first, on account of their minuteness; secondly, because they specify dates yet future. We shall see that they coincide, in many of the chief points, with other popular prophecies.

The next prophet is Spielbähn, a Rhenish peasant. “Spielbähn” signifies, in the dialect of his countrymen, “the fiddler;” and this name was given to him on account of his skill as a rustic performer on the violin. He was employed as messenger and servant in the convents of Siegburg and Heisterbach. His predictions have been published by Schrattenholz, and widely circulated; but, as we could not procure this work, we can only give such extracts as our author has selected.

Spielbähn died in 1783 in Cologne. He is said to have been rather addicted to the wine-flask, and to have occasionally indulged in predictions of doubtful authenticity, possibly from interested motives. But he is thought, in the main, to have uttered what he really believed to be true predictions, and he gave them out as visions. He predicted the imprisonment of the Archbishop of Cologne, which took place a few years ago, with many less interesting local occurrences, which our author passes over. Speaking of the present time, (1848–50,) and of what should follow, he said—

1. “In that time it will be hardly possible to distinguish the peasant from the noble.”

In Rhenish Prussia, where the Code Napoleon prevails, there is hardly a trace of the splendour of the old aristocracy to be found. The nobles of old family who remain have lost all exclusive privileges, and are poor.

2. “Courtly manners and worldly vanity will reach to a height hitherto unequalled. Yea, things will go so far, that men will no longer thank God for their daily bread.

3. “Human intellect will do wonders, (or miracles,) and on this account men will more and more forget God. They will mock at God, thinking themselves omnipotent, because of the carriages, which shall run through the whole world, (or everywhere,) without being drawn by animals.

4. “And because courtly vices, sensuality, and sumptuousness of apparel, are then so great, God will punish the world. A poison shall fall on the fields, and a great famine shall afflict the country.”

In Nos. 3 and 4, railways and the potato blight seem meant.

5. “When a bridge shall be thrown across the Rhine at Mondorf, then it will be advisable to cross, as soon as possible, to the opposite shore. But it will only be necessary to remain there so long as a man will take to consume a 7 lb. loaf of bread; after which (that is, in less than a week,) it will be time to return.”

This coincides with Jaspers’ prediction of the shortness of the last great struggle.

6. “Thousands shall conceal themselves in a meadow among the seven mountains, (opposite Bonn.)

7. “I see the destruction of the heretics, with dreadful punishments; of those who dared to think their puny minds could penetrate the councils of God. But the long-suffering of God is at an end, and a limit is put to their wickedness.”

The worthy curate dwells with peculiar satisfaction on this prediction.

8. “Observe well, thou land of Berg! Thy reigning family, which proceeds from a Margraviate, shall suddenly fall from its high station, and become less than the smallest Margraviate.”

The grand-duchy of Berg, on the Lower Rhine, of which Düsseldorf is the chief town, was given by Napoleon to Murat, and was afterwards part of the kingdom of Westphalia, but, since the peace, has formed part of Prussia, the royal family of which, as we have seen, descends from the Margraves of Brandenburg; but in 1783 all this was as yet in the womb of time. See also Jaspers, No. 17, and Brother Herrmann, verse 93.

9. “The false prophets (heretic clergy?) shall be killed with wife and child.

10. “The holy city of Cologne shall then see a fearful battle. Many, of foreign nations, shall here be killed, and men and women shall fight for their faith. And it will be impossible to avert from Cologne, up to that time spared by war, all the cruel extremities of war. Men will then wade in blood to the ankles.

11. “But at last a foreign king shall arise, and gain the victory for the good cause. The survivors of the defeated enemy fly to the $1; and here shall the last battle be fought for the good cause.”

See Nos. 9 and 33 of Jaspers’ sayings, as to the birch-tree and the German king; also verse 95 of Brother Herrmann.

12. “The foreign armies have brought the ‘black death’ into the land. What the sword spares the pestilence shall devour. Berg shall be depopulated, and the fields without owners; so that one may plough from the river Sieg up to the hills without being (Scoticè) challenged. Those who have hid themselves among the hills shall again cultivate the land.”

See No. 20 of Jaspers’ predictions.

13. “About this time France will be divided internally.”

See Jaspers, No. 12.

14. “The German Empire shall choose a peasant for Emperor. He shall govern Germany a year and a day.”

The Archduke John, late regent of the empire, had long lived, banished from court, as a Styrian peasant, adopting the costume and manners of the peasantry. He also married a peasant girl. His regency lasted little more than a year, and, indeed, after the year had expired, he only returned to Frankfort in order to resign his power to the present commission.

15. “But he who after him shall wear the imperial crown, he will be the man for whom the world has long looked with hope. He shall be called Roman Emperor, and shall give peace to the world. He shall restore Siegburg and Heisterbach, (two convents, above mentioned.)

16. “Then shall there be no more Jews in Germany, and the heretics shall beat their own breasts.

17. “And after that shall be a good happy time. The praise of God shall dwell on earth; and there shall be no war, except beyond the seas. Then shall the fugitive brethren return, and dwell in their homes in peace for ever and ever.

“Men should heed well what I have said, for much evil may be averted by prayer; and although people jeer me, saying I am a simple fiddler, yet the time will come when they shall find my words true.”

See Jaspers’ predictions, Nos. 18 and 23. Brother Herrman, also, in verses 96–100, prophesies happy times, and the restoration of the convents of Chorin and Lehnin.

The next seer is Anton (Anthony), called the Youth of Elsen, a village near Paderborn, in Westphalia. He had the gift of the “second sight”—that is, he saw visions—and has a great reputation in that country as a true seer. His predictions were first collected by Dr Kutscheit, from whose work the author extracts as follows. The date is not given by our curate.

1. “When the convent of Abdinghof is occupied by soldiers, armed with long poles, to which little flags are attached, and when these troops leave the convent, then is the time near.”

At this time (1849) Prussian lancers occupy the convent, which has been converted into a barrack. This was not the case when the prediction was made.

2. “From Neuhaus, houses may be seen on the Bock, (Buck,) and a village is founded between Paderborn and Elsen. Then is the time near.”

The Bock is a wooded eminence near Paderborn, where an inn was built. To obtain a fine view from the inn, the wood was lately cut through, and thus the buildings have become visible from Neuhaus. The village or $1 is a newly-founded country house, or rather farm-house, with its appurtenances—$1, a town.

3. “When people see, in the Roman field, houses with large windows; when a broad road is made through that field, which shall not be finished till the good times come, then shall come heavy times.”

In the Roman field, on the high road to Erwitte, the Thuringian Railway was begun in 1847, and a terminus, the buildings of which have very large windows, has been laid down on the spot. The works have been, from the necessity of the times, suspended for the present. See Jaspers, No. 1, and Spielbähn, No. 3.

4. “When barley is sown on the Bock, then is the time close at hand. Then shall the enemy be in the land, and kill and devastate everything. Men will have to go seven leagues to find an acquaintance. The town of Paderborn shall have eight heavy days, during which the enemy lies there. On the last day, the enemy shall give up the town to plunder. But let every man carry his most valuable property from the ground floor to the garret; for the enemy will not have time, even to untie his shoestrings, so near will succour be.”

In the summer of 1848, the first attempt was made to grow barley on the Bock, a cold, high-lying district.

5. “The enemy will try to bombard the town from the Liboriberg, (a hill close to Paderborn); but only one ball (or shell) shall hit, and set on fire a house in the Kampe. The fire, however, shall soon be extinguished.

6. “The French shall come as friends. French cavalry with shining breastplates (cuirassiers) shall ride in at the Westergate, and tie their horses to the trees in the Cathedral close. At the Giersthor, (another gate) soldiers with gray uniforms, faced with light blue, shall come in. But they will only look into the town, and then immediately withdraw. On the Bock stands a great army, with double insignia, (or marks—possibly the two cockades, Imperial German and Prussian, now worn by the Prussians,) whose muskets are piled in heaps.

7. “The enemy shall fly towards Salzkotten, and towards the heath. In both places a great battle shall be fought, so that people shall wade in blood to the ankles. The pursuers from the town must take care not to cross the Alme bridge; for not one of those who cross it shall return alive.

8. “The victorious prince shall enter, in solemn procession, the castle of Neuhaus, which shall be repaired (for the occasion?) accompanied by many people with green boughs in their hats. On the Johannes Bridge, before Neuhaus, there shall be such a crowd that a child shall be crushed to death. While this goes on a great assembly shall be held in and before the Rathhaus (Town House.) They shall hurry (or drag) a man down from the Rathhaus, and hang him on a lamp-post before it.

9. “When all these things shall have come to pass, then shall there be a good time in the land. The convent (of Abdinghof) shall be restored; and it will be better to be a swineherd here, in our land, than a noble yonder in Prussia (proper).”

Next comes an old traditionary prophecy concerning Münster.

“Woe to thee, Münster! Woe to you, priests, doctors, and lawyers! How shall it be with you in the days of sorrow?

“For three days they shall go up and down thy streets. Three times shall the city be taken and lost.

“Let every man keep in the garret; thus shall he be safe. A dreadful fire shall break out in and destroy Ueberwasser, so that it may be seen from the cathedral place to the castle.

“The enemy shall be beaten, and shall fly through Kinderhaus so fast that they leave their cannon on the street. All this shall happen in the same year in which an illustrious person dies in the castle.

“The conquering prince shall make his entry through the Servatii-Thor, (a gate).”

Part of this prophecy has been spread over the district of Münster for sixty years; part of it comes from the tailor at Kinderhaus, who also prophesied much to Blucher. He was one of the seers, or, as they are called in that country, “Spoikenkikers.” “Spoikenkikers,” in high German, signifies ghost or spirit; “Spoikenkikers” is our Scotch word “Keeker,”—in high German, “Spoikenkikers.”

The next is an old prophecy concerning Osnabrück.

“Osnabrück shall suffer much for fourteen days, and see a bloody contest in her streets.

“Even the service of the Greek Church shall be performed in the churches of Osnabrück.”

This is quite possible, should Russians enter Westphalia. See Jaspers, No. 9.

“A violent contest shall arise between Catholics and Protestants. All the churches shall be again taken possession of by the Catholics.

“A priest, in the act of carrying the most Holy (the Host) into the Lutheran Church, shall be killed by a ball at the church door.”

The three preceding prophecies are very remarkable, from the minute details which they contain, and which seem to indicate that the seers described $1 in visions or in dreams. Of course, most of these visions, referring to events yet future, cannot be at present verified. But the signs given by Anton, to know when the time approaches, have come to pass.

The following traditionary prophecy about Cologne, was found by Magister Heinrich von Judden, pastor of the small church of St Martin, in the convent of the brethren of the Holy Virgin of Carmel, (in Cologne?):—

“O happy Cologne! when thou art well paved, thou shalt perish in thine own blood. O, Cologne! thou shalt perish like Sodom and Gomorrha; thy streets shall flow with blood, and thy relics shall be taken away. Woe to thee, Cologne! because strangers suck thy breasts and the breasts of thy poor,—of thy poor, who therefore languish in poverty and misery.”

Old tradition concerning Coblenz:—

“Woe! woe! Where Rhine and Moselle meet, a battle shall be fought against Turks and Baschkirs, (Russians?) so bloody, that the Rhine shall be dyed red for twenty-five leagues.”

Traditions of battles in Westphalia:—

“A prodigious number of people shall come from the east towards the west.

“The whole west and south shall rise against them.

“The armies shall meet in the middle of Westphalia.

“A dreadful battle shall take place on the Strönheide, (a heath,) near Ahaus.

“At Riesenbeck, a bloody combat shall be fought.

“At Lüdinghausen,” said a seer, “I saw whole hosts of white-clad soldiers. (Austrians?)

“Ottmarsbocholt will have much to suffer.

“On the Lipperheide (a heath) a bloody battle is fought.

“Also in Rittberg, and the whole country round, a battle shall be fought.

“But the chief engagement shall be $1.”

Every one, says the author, who takes the trouble, can hear all this from the mouths of the peasantry. In many places, the seers have even described the positions of the troops, and the direction in which the cannon are pointed.

Prophecy of a Capuchin monk in Düsseldorf, of date 1672:—

“After a dreadful war (Napoleon’s wars?) shall there be peace; yet there shall be no peace, because the contest of the poor against the rich, and of the rich against the poor, shall break out.

“After this peace shall come a heavy time. The people shall have no longer truth nor faith.

“When women know not, from pride and luxuriousness, what clothes they shall wear—sometimes short, sometimes long, sometimes narrow, sometimes wide; when men also change their dress, and wear everywhere the beards of the Capuchins,^[3] then will God chastise the world. A dreadful war shall break out in the south (Hungary?) and spread eastward and northward. The kings shall be killed. Savage hordes shall overflow Germany, and come to the Rhine. They shall take delight in murdering and burning, so that mothers, in despair, seeing death everywhere before their eyes, shall cast themselves and their sucklings into the water. When the need is greatest, a preserver shall come from the south. He shall defeat the hordes of the enemy, and make Germany prosperous. But, in those days, many parts shall be so depopulated, that it will be necessary to climb a tree to look for people afar off.”

An old prophecy concerning the battle of the $1:—

“A time shall come when the world shall be godless. The people will strive to be independent of king or magistrate, subjects will be unfaithful to their princes. Neither truth nor faith prevails more. It will then come to a general insurrection, in which father shall fight against son, and son against father. In that time, men shall try to pervert the articles of faith, and shall introduce new books. The Catholic religion shall be hard pressed, and men will try with cunning to abolish it. Men shall love play and jest, and pleasure of all kinds, at that time. But then it shall not be long before a change occurs. A frightful war shall break out. On one side shall stand Russia, Sweden, and the whole north; on the other, France, Spain, Italy, and the whole south, under a powerful prince. This prince shall come from the south. He wears a white coat, with buttons all the way down. He has a cross on his breast, rides a gray horse, which he mounts from his left side, because he is lame of one foot. He will bring peace. Great is his severity, for he will put down all dance-music and rich attire. He will hear morning mass in the church at Bremen. (According to some traditions, he will read mass.) From Bremen he rides to the Haar, (a height near Werl;) from thence he looks with his spyglass towards the country of the Birch-Tree, and observes the enemy. Next, he rides past Holtum, (a village near Werl.) At Holtum stands a crucifix between two lime-trees; before this, he kneels and prays with outstretched arms, for some time. Then he leads his soldiers, clad in white, into the battle, and, after a bloody contest, he remains victorious.

“The chief slaughter will take place at a brook which runs from west to east. Woe! woe! to Budberg and Söndern in those days! The victorious leader shall assemble the people after the battle, and address to them a speech in the church.”

So runs the above prophecy, according to the concurring testimony of many peasants of that country. It was long ago printed in a small pamphlet, in the convent at Werl. But, at the removal of the convent, all its books were lost or destroyed. The tradition, however, remained among the peasantry, and has even penetrated into France; for when French (troops?) came to Werl, they inquired for the Birch-Tree. In Pomerania also, natives of Westphalia, when quartered there, have been questioned about its position. It stood long between Holtum and Kirch-Hemmerde, villages lying between Unna and Werl. When it withered, a new one was, by royal order, planted on the spot. This proves that the Government knew of the prophecy or tradition, and felt an interest in it. The people believe so firmly in the prophecy, that the peasantry near Werl even opposed the introduction of new hymn-books, under the impression that they were the predicted $1. Bremen, Holtum, Budberg, and Söndern are villages near Werl. A crucifix stands at Holtum between two young lime-trees; and a brook there flows from west to east.

Another old prophecy of the battle of the Birch-Tree. This prophecy was printed at Cologne in 1701, in Latin. The title, translated, is as follows:—

“A prophecy concerning the frightful contest between South and North, and a terrific battle on the borders of the duchy of Westphalia, near Bodberg, (Budberg.) From a book, entitled, A treatise on the heavenly regeneration (or restoration,) by an anonymous author, illuminated (or enlightened,) by visions. With permission of the Officialate at Werl. Cologne, 1701.”

It was translated and printed in German by the monks of Werl, but, as already stated, their library was destroyed or dispersed.

“After these days shall dawn the sad unhappy time, predicted by our Lord. Men, in terror on the earth, shall faint for expectation of the coming events. The father shall be against the son and the brother against the brother. Truth and faith shall no longer be found. After the nations, singly, have long warred against each other, after thrones have crumbled, and kingdoms been overthrown, shall the entire South take arms against the North. (Auster contra Aquilonem.) Then country, language, and faith shall not be contended for, but they shall fight for the rule of the world.”

“They shall meet in the middle of Germany, destroy towns and villages, after the inhabitants have been compelled to fly to the hills and the woods. This dreadful contest shall be decided in Lower Germany. There the armies shall pitch camps, such as the world has not yet seen. This fearful engagement shall begin $1 near Bodberg. Woe! woe! poor Fatherland! They shall fight three whole days. Even when covered with wounds, they shall mangle each other, and wade in blood to the ankles. The bearded people of the seven stars (?) shall finally conquer, and their enemies shall fly; they shall turn at the bank of the river, and again fight with the extremity of despair. But there shall that power be annihilated, and its strength broken, so that hardly a few will be left, to tell of this unheard-of defeat. The inhabitants of the allied places shall mourn, but the Lord shall comfort them, and they shall say, It is the Lord’s doing.”

The two preceding prophecies, both old, and printed long since, have probably a common origin, whatever that may be. The tradition has probably come to the people from the monks of Werl.

Some predictions or visions, connected with the prophecy of Werl:—

A seer, named Rölink, of Steinen, who has been dead some time, prophesied of three processions in Kirch-Hemmerde.

“The first shall be a funeral procession. The names of several men shall be hung up on the church.”

This happened when, in the war of 1813–15, some brave men of this district fell in battle.

“The second procession shall go from the old church to the new one.”

This took place when the Catholics of Kirch-Hemmerde built a new church; and the Host was carried from the Simultankirche into the new edifice.

“The third shall be after a dreadful war. Then shall Catholics and Protestants again go together in procession into the old church, and have one religion.”

He said further,—

“When two towers are built between Söndern and Werl, then shall a frightful war soon break out.”

The towers are now there, having been lately built. One is a chimney for the Salt-Works; the other a Bohrthurm, (a tower over the pit whence the salt spring is pumped up.)

Another seer, named Ludolf, saw the whole order of battle of both armies, and pointed out in a corn-field near Kirch-Hemmerde the spot, near the $1, where he saw in his vision a colonel fall from his horse, struck by a ball. The horse, he said, would run to a sheaf of oats, (therefore late in autumn,) snap at it, and in the same moment fall, also pierced by a shot.

A third seer, Hermann Kappelmann, of Scheidingen, near Werl, prophesied as follows, thirty years ago (1819,) before a whole company.

“The times are yet good, but they shall change much. After many years a frightful war shall break out. The signs shall be: When in Spring the cowslips appear early in the hedges, and disturbances prevail everywhere; in that year the explosion does not take place. But when, after a short winter, the cowslips bloom very early, and all appears quiet, let no man believe in peace.

“When great wisps of straw stand on the Bärenwiese, (Bear’s meadow,) then shall the war break out.”

The Bärenwiese is a large common meadow at Scheidingen. Soon after the French and Polish revolutions of 1830 it was divided, and on that account wisps of straw were set up. The people believed the great war was then at hand. Now there are once more wisps of straw set up, to mark the line of the railway to Cassel, which is in progress.

“When you then hear cannon from the side of Münster, then hasten to cross the Ruhr, and take bread (a loaf) with you sufficient for three days. He who only puts his foot in the water shall be safe from harm. Then you may return, but whether you shall find your posts (or poles) again, I cannot say. (Probably marks of agricultural subdivisions.) After a short contest shall follow peace and quiet. The peace shall be announced at Christmas from all the pulpits.”

Numberless traditions speak of the burning of the town of Unna, round which, and not through it, the armies will march, on account of the conflagration. Others speak of the burning of Dortmund, on the east side. Others, again, describe how the remains of the enemy fly to Erwitte and Salzkotten, and are there totally cut to pieces. All the towns and villages from Paderborn to the Rhine have similar traditions. There is a very old one concerning the Marienheide, (a heath,)—namely, that there the Whites shall drive the Blues before them, and through the Lippe, in which many shall be drowned.

Traditions concerning the years 1846–1850:—

“1846, I would not be a vine.”

“1847, I would not be an apple-tree.”

“1848, I would not be a king.”

“1849, I would not be a hare, a soldier, or a gravedigger.”

“1850, I would not be a priest.”

In 1846, the crop of grapes was too heavy for the vines.

In 1847, the apple-trees broke under the weight of their fruit.

In 1848, as we know, kings were at a discount.

In 1849, the hares suffered from the suspension or abolition of the game laws in Germany; the soldiers had much to suffer; and the gravediggers, in consequence of war and cholera, were overwhelmed with work in many places.

As to the priests in 1850, we heard from several quarters, of an old prophecy that there shall be a fearful massacre of priests, against whom the people shall be much embittered. One seer declares, that such will be the hatred of the peasantry towards the priests, that a peasant, sitting down to dinner with his family, and having just stuck a fork into the fowl, shall, on seeing a priest pass by the house, lay down his fork, rush out, beat out the priest’s brains with his club, and then return to his meal with satisfaction.

Another tradition, of which we heard from several well-informed persons, states that a pope shall come as a fugitive to reside at Cologne, with four cardinals, and there exercise his ecclesiastical functions.

A prophecy, of date 1622, concerning certain months of a year not named.

“The month of May shall earnestly prepare for war. But it is not yet time. June shall also invite to war, but still it is not time. July will prove so cruel, that many must part from wife and child. In August, men shall everywhere hear of war. September and October shall bring great bloodshed. Wonders shall be seen in November. At this time the child is twenty-eight years old, (the powerful monarch) whose wet nurse shall be from the east. He shall do great things.”

Prophecies of the “Powerful Monarch:”—

One prophet says,—“He shall be of an ancient noble house, and descend from the top of the rocks. His mother shall be a twin. He will be Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, (the German Empire.) Holzhaüser says, ‘He shall be born in the bosom of the Catholic Church;’ his name shall be, ‘The Help of God.’”

See the preceding prophecies, $1.

We have now given a sufficient sketch of some of the more curious and definite popular German prophecies. The curate of Dortmund adds a considerable number of others, more vague, mystical, and in some cases theological, which we omit, as not adapted to our present purpose; and others not bearing on Germany, of some interest—especially a long one concerning Italy, by the Franciscan monk, Bartolomeo da Saluzzi—which want of space prevents us from discussing at this time.

Let us now consider the foregoing prophecies in general. We must admit, as it seems to us, that there exist in Germany unfulfilled popular prophecies, the authenticity of which is respectably attested and generally admitted.

We further observe, that, taking the whole of them, as far as known to us, we can trace the following points pervading the entire series, more or less:—

1. A great war after a peace, about this time.

2. It is preceded by political convulsions, and lesser wars.

3. The East and North fight against the South and West.

4. The latter finally prevail, under a powerful prince, who unexpectedly rises up.

5. The great struggle is short, and occurs late in the year.

6. It is decided by the battle of the Birch-Tree, near Werl.

7. After horrible devastations, and murders, and burnings, caused by this war, peace and prosperity return.

8. Priests are massacred and become very rare; but

9. One religion unites all men.

10. All this takes place soon after the introduction of railways into Germany.

11. The present King of Prussia is the last.

12. The “powerful prince” from the South becomes Emperor of Germany.

13. France is, about this time, inwardly divided.

14. The Russians come as enemies to the Rhine, the French enter Germany as friends—without entering into further details.

We see moreover, that, admitting the genuineness of the prophecies, partial fulfilment has in several cases taken place. Here it must be noted, that our curate has chiefly confined himself to the unfulfilled parts, and has avowedly omitted many fulfilled predictions. While we attach considerable importance to the general impression among the people of the truth of these prophecies, which in part depends on their partial fulfilment in past times, our chief object has been to put on record the more remarkable of the unfulfilled predictions, in order that they may be compared with future events.

If we seek to form any idea of the origin of these prophecies, we find that there are three sources, from which the people may have derived the traditions.

1. They may possibly be, in some cases at least, derived from the reflections of sagacious men. Even Napoleon predicted dreadful wars, and that Europe must become either Cossack or Republican. But although some things may thus be explained, we do not see how the minute details, in other cases, can be thus accounted for.

2. Scriptural prophecies may have been applied to modern events, which, indeed, are no doubt foretold in them, in a general way. We cannot avoid observing the tolerably frequent occurrence of Scripture language in the predictions; but this also does not account for all the details.

3. The seers or prophets may have had genuine visions, or dreams, in which they saw what they describe; it has been seen that various prophets use language implying this. And, while the general resemblance of the different visions naturally leads us to suspect that the popular traditions have a common origin; we can at most conclude from this, that the original seer or seers lived long ago, which only increases the difficulty. They were probably, like Brother Herrmann, monks and ascetics, their imaginations exalted by religious fervour: in other words they were nervous and excitable, and predisposed to visions. Supposing their visions known to the people, the feeling of the marvellous, if excited along with religious sentiments, may have led to visions or second sight among the peasantry, and thus visions may have been multiplied and expanded in details.

If we reflect on the many known instances of prophetic dreams, and on the alleged and respectably attested cases of somnambulistic prevision, we shall see reason to hesitate before we deny the possibility of the occurrence, in certain individuals, of prophetic visions. We are far from imagining that, if such have been the case with our German seers, they have enjoyed direct communications from Heaven; on the contrary, were we satisfied of the fact, we should regard it as a phenomenon depending on some obscure physical cause, which may in time be discovered and traced; and which, at all events, exists by Divine permission.

Here we may allude to the remarkable prophecy of Monsieur de Cazotte, who, some years previous to 1787, predicted to a large company of persons of rank, science, and literature, with much detail, the atrocities of the Reign of Terror. He likewise told many of those present, both male and female, that they should perish on the guillotine. To Condorcet he said, that he should die in prison, of the effects of a poison which he should long, with the view of escaping a public execution, have carried about his person—which happened. He also predicted the fate of Louis XVI. and his Queen. This prophecy caused much amazement, and soon became known. Persons are yet alive, both in France and England, who heard it detailed before 1789. We have seen one of them. Now, it might be said, that Cazotte merely exercised a rare sagacity, in judging of the course of events, at a time when all France was enthusiastically looking forward to the blessings of liberty, and while yet no one dreamed of violence or bloodshed. But this would hardly account for the details he gave. On the other hand, he often uttered predictions; and it is very remarkable, although it has been too much overlooked, that those who report his prophecies, including the above one, always state that, when about to predict, he fell into a peculiar state, $1—yet not ordinary sleep. It can hardly be doubted that this was a trance, in which he saw visions. That they were fulfilled to the letter is surely, if only a coincidence, a most wonderful one. If, again, it was merely the result of sagacious reflection, how came it that Cazotte alone, of all the able thinkers then in Paris, made these reflections, and was laughed at for his pains?

The laborious, minute, and conscientious researches of the Baron von Reichenbach have proved, beyond a doubt, that we are far from being acquainted with all the physical influences which surround us; and he has even referred to a physical cause—$1 source of the belief in ghosts—by proving that luminous appearances are visible, to sensitive persons, over recent graves. No one can fail to see the resemblance between the Sensitives of Baron von Reichenbach, who are far from rare, and the Spoikenkiker, or ghost seers, of the curate of Dortmund.

We consider it probable, therefore, that at different periods seers have had visions, more or less distinct and detailed, of what appeared to their minds likely to happen; that these visions have occurred in a state of trance; that among ascetic monks, who may be regarded as liable to such trances, it may often have happened that extensive knowledge of history and of mankind has enabled them to foresee the probable course of events; that their predictions, becoming known to the peasantry, have given a tone to $1 visions, in which the events are generally localised in the immediate vicinity of the seer; and that thus, by degrees, more detailed predictions have arisen. Considering the general ignorance and superstition of the peasantry in all countries, it is not wonderful that such predictions, generally bearing on violent political convulsions, war, and religion, the subjects most interesting to their minds, should acquire a hold over them such as is found to exist in many parts of Germany, in reference to the prophecies above described. It is even probable that the existence of the predictions may have had a considerable influence in preparing the people for such sudden outbreaks as those of 1848, and may thus, in some measure, have contributed to their own fulfilment.

We must admit that these remarks do not much assist in explaining the occurrence of minute details in these predictions, many of which are said, on good authority, to have been fulfilled. But we do not feel ourselves in possession of sufficient evidence to justify us in arguing on the alleged fulfilment as certain; and we have therefore satisfied ourselves with laying before the reader a brief sketch of these predictions, the existence of which, as an article of belief with many thousands of people at this day, is, under whatever point of view it may be considered, very interesting.

THE HISTORY OF A REGIMENT DURING THE RUSSIAN CAMPAIGN. [4]

The Russian Campaign of Napoleon is unquestionably the most wonderful episode in the history of war. We are not only interested, but astounded, by its study. It comprises a series of events gigantic and unparalleled in the annals of human strife. From the note of preparation to the final wail of despair, the reader’s imagination is continually on the stretch to realise and comprehend the prodigious scale of its circumstances. At the word of the great military magician, half-a-million of men, levied from half Europe, mustered in arms for aggression. From France they came, from Italy and Poland: Austria and Prussia dared not refuse their contingents; Illyria and Dalmatia sent forth their infantry; to their astonishment and dismay, Spanish and Portuguese battalions were marched into the dreary north under the banners of the man against whose generals their brothers and fathers were at that moment contending on the mountains of their native peninsula. The West was arrayed against the East. Since the birth of discipline and civilisation, such an army had never been seen. The events of its first and only campaign were in proportion to its unprecedented magnitude. In six months the mighty armament returned, a shattered wreck, having fought the most desperate battle the world ever saw, having witnessed the self-destruction of a vast and wealthy capital—suicide for the country’s salvation—and having endured sufferings which may have been equalled on a smaller scale, but which certainly never before or since fell to the lot of so numerous and powerful a host.

After reading that delightful work of Count Ségur, which combines the fascination of a romance with the value of history, few persons much care to consult any other French account of the great campaign. It was with something of this feeling, and with slender expectation of interest, that we opened General de Fezensac’s recently-published Journal. But its perusal agreeably disappointed us. Narratives of personal adventure have a peculiar charm; and the unadorned tale of a soldier’s hazards will often rivet the attention of those who would not persevere through the more copious and important history of a great war. M. de Fezensac has not attempted the history of the campaign. He confines himself to his own adventures and those of the regiment he commanded. At most does he include in his delineations the exploits of the 3d (Ney’s) corps, (to which his regiment belonged,) at the time when cold, famine, fatigue, and the sword had reduced it to little more than the ordinary strength of a brigade, and, subsequently, to a mere handful of jaded, frost-bitten warriors. By a few lines here and there, he supplies, with true military brevity, that outline of the operations necessary to connect and complete the interest of his journal. He avoids controversy; he is slow to censure acts or impute motives; his style is remarkably free from that fanfarronade into which many French writers unconsciously run when recording the military achievements of their countrymen. He tells only what he himself saw, and he tells it modestly and well, without attempt at rhetorical adornment; rightly believing that the events he witnessed and shared in are sufficiently remarkable to need no factitious colouring.

M. de Fezensac commenced the campaign upon the staff. In the capacity of aide-de-camp to Berthier, he joined the headquarters of the Grand Army at Posen, and marched with them to Wilna. It was in the month of June. Already, although the campaign had been opened but a few days, during which the Russians had everywhere receded before the invaders, certain ominous circumstances contradicted, to observant eyes and reflecting minds, those anticipations of triumphant success so confidently and universally entertained, a few short weeks before, at Dresden. The fervent heat was succeeded by torrents of rain; mortality amongst the horses commenced; the army, living upon the country, suffered from want of food and forage; already the number of stragglers was great, and acts of pillage and violence were frequent. As an instance of these, when the Poles, with Napoleon’s approval, organised a civil government of Lithuania, one of the sub-prefects, repairing to his post, was plundered by the French soldiers, and arrived almost naked in the town he was sent to preside over. The French Emperor’s seventeen days’ halt at Wilna, so severely censured by historians, gave M. de Fezensac opportunity to observe the details and composition of the monstrous staff and retinue that attended Napoleon, of which he furnishes the following curious account:—

“The Emperor had around him the grand marshal, (Duroc,) the master of the horse, (Caulaincourt,) his aides-de-camp, his orderly officers, the aides-de-camp of his aides-de-camp, and several secretaries attached to his cabinet. The major-general (Berthier) had eight or ten aides-de-camp, and the number of clerks necessary for the great amount of work occasioned by such an army; the general staff, composed of a vast number of officers of all grades, was commanded by General Monthion. The administration, directed by Count Dumas, intendant-general, was subdivided into the administrative service properly so called, comprising directors, inspectors of reviews, and commissaries; the service of health, including physicians, surgeons, and apothecaries; the service of provisions in all its branches, and workmen of every kind. When the Prince of Neuchatel passed it in review at Wilna, it looked, from a distance, like a body of troops ranged in order of battle, and, by an unfortunate fatality, notwithstanding the zeal and talents of the intendant-general, this immense administration was almost useless from the very commencement of the campaign, and became noxious at its close. Let the reader now picture to himself the assemblage, at one point, of the whole of this staff; let him fancy the prodigious number of servants, of led horses, of baggage of all kinds that it dragged along with it, and he will have some idea of the spectacle presented by the headquarters of the army. Also, when a movement was made, the Emperor took with him but a very small number of officers; all the rest set out beforehand, or followed behind. At a bivouac, the only tents were for the Emperor and the Prince of Neuchatel; the generals and other officers slept in the open air, like the rest of the army.

“There was nothing irksome in our duty as aides-de-camp to the major-general.... In his personal intercourse with us, the Prince of Neuchatel exhibited that mixture of goodness and roughness which composed his character. Often he appeared to pay no attention to us, but, upon occasion, we were sure to find his sympathy; and during the whole of his long military career, he neglected the advancement of none of the officers employed under his orders. The best house in the town, after that taken for the Emperor, was allotted for his accommodation; and as he himself always lodged with the Emperor, the house belonged to his aides-de-camp. One of these was charged with the household details, whose regularity was a pattern; the Prince of Neuchatel himself, in the midst of all his occupations, found time to give his thoughts to these matters; he wished his aides-de-camp to want for nothing, and had often the goodness to inquire whether such was the case.... We saw little of him, having no duty to do under his immediate eye; he passed almost the whole day in his cabinet, dispatching orders agreeably with the Emperor’s instructions. Never was there seen greater exactness, more complete submission, more absolute devotion. It was by writing during the night that he reposed from the fatigues of the day; often he was roused from his sleep to alter all that he had done on the previous day, and sometimes his sole recompense was an unjust, or, at least, a very severe reprimand. But nothing slackened his zeal; no amount of bodily fatigue, or of assiduity in the cabinet, exceeded his powers; no trials wearied his patience. In short, if the Prince of Neuchatel’s position never gave him an opportunity to develop the talents essential to the commander-in-chief of great armies, it is at least impossible to unite, in a higher degree, the physical and moral qualities adapted to the post he filled near such a man as the Emperor.”

The peculiar talents of Berthier, his patience, industry, and wonderful habit of order, have been often admitted, but we do not remember to have seen his character placed in so amiable a light as here by his former aide-de-camp. M. de Fezensac continued upon his staff until after the battle of Borodino, when he was promoted by the Emperor, on Berthier’s recommendation, to the command of the 4th regiment of the line, vacant by its colonel’s death in that murderous fight. He was doubly grateful for this promotion, because it placed him under the orders of Marshal Ney, with whom he had served some years previously. As to the regiment itself, it was in no very flourishing state. Of 2800 men who had crossed the Rhine, 900 remained, so that the four battalions formed but two upon parade. The equipments, and especially the shoes, were in bad repair; supplies of provisions were irregular; and constant change of place was indispensable, for the troops ravaged within twenty-four hours the country they traversed. The majority of the officers were raw youths from the military schools, or old sergeants, whose want of education should have retained them in the ranks, but who had been promoted to sustain emulation, and to fill the enormous gaps occasioned by destructive campaigns. For the 4th was an old regiment, formed in the first years of the Revolution, and had fought through all the German wars, and numbered Joseph Buonaparte amongst its colonels. Its present shattered and unprosperous condition extended to the whole of Ney’s corps, which was reduced to a third of its original numbers. The losses were unparalleled, and so was the depression of the soldiers. Their gaiety had disappeared; a mournful silence replaced the songs and pleasant tales with which they formerly beguiled the fatigues of the march. The officers themselves were uneasy; they served for duty and for honour’s sake, but without ardour or pleasure. After a victory that opened the road to Moscow, this universal discouragement was strangely ominous.

With his regimental command commences the interesting portion of M. de Fezensac’s journal, of which his staff experience occupies but a couple of chapters. Often as it has been described, he yet contrives to give freshness to his details of Moscow’s appearance after the terrible conflagration, at whose flame was sealed the doom of the Grand Army.

“It was both a strange and a horrible spectacle. Some houses appeared to have been razed; of others, fragments of smoke-blackened walls remained; ruins of all kinds encumbered the streets; everywhere was a horrible smell of burning. Here and there a cottage, a church, a palace, stood erect amidst the general destruction. The churches especially, by their many-coloured domes, by the richness and variety of their construction, recalled the former opulence of Moscow. In them had taken refuge most of the inhabitants, driven by our soldiers from the houses the fire had spared. The unhappy wretches, clothed in rags, and wandering like ghosts amid the ruins, had recourse to the saddest expedients to prolong their miserable existence. They sought and devoured the scanty vegetables remaining in the gardens; they tore the flesh from the animals that lay dead in the streets; some even plunged into the river for corn the Russians had thrown there, and which was now in a state of fermentation.... It was with the greatest difficulty we procured black bread and beer; meat began to be very scarce. We had to send strong detachments to seize oxen in the woods where the peasants had taken refuge, and often the detachments returned empty-handed. Such was the pretended abundance procured us by the pillage of the city. We had liquors, sugar, sweatmeats, and we wanted for meat and bread. We covered ourselves with furs, but were almost without clothes and shoes. With great store of diamonds, jewels, and every possible object of luxury, we were on the eve of dying of hunger. A large number of Russian soldiers wandered in the streets of Moscow. I had fifty of them seized; and a general, to whom I reported the capture, told me I might have had them shot, and that on all future occasions he authorised me to do so. I did not abuse the authorisation. It will be easily understood how many mishaps, how much disorder, characterised our stay in Moscow. Not an officer, not a soldier, but could tell strange anecdotes on this head. One of the most striking is that of a Russian whom a French officer found concealed in the ruins of a house; by signs he assured him of protection, and the Russian accompanied him. Soon, being obliged to carry an order, and seeing another officer pass at the head of a detachment, he transferred the individual to his charge, saying hastily—‘I recommend this gentleman to you.’ The second officer, misunderstanding the intention of the words and the tone in which they were pronounced, took the unfortunate Russian for an incendiary, and had him shot.”

The retreat commenced. After the affair of Wiazma, Ney’s corps relieved the 1st corps as rearguard, and the 4th regiment, rearmost of Ney’s corps, had to repel the repeated attacks of the Russian van and of the swarming Cossacks. They were hard pressed; but still the Emperor’s order was to march slowly and preserve the baggage. In vain Ney wrote to him there was no time to lose, and that he risked being anticipated by the Russians at Smolensko or Orcha. At Dorogobuje the marshal formed the design of arresting the progress of the Russians for a whole day; but the attempt was unsuccessful, and the French rearguard was driven onwards. The cold had set in, and the sufferings of the troops were terrible. Famine was superadded to their other miseries. The road resembled a battle-field. Some, with frozen limbs, lay dying on the snow; others fell asleep in the villages, and perished in the flames lighted by their comrades.

“At Dorogobuje I saw a soldier of my regiment, in whom hunger had produced the effect of intoxication. He stood close to us without recognising us, inquiring for his regiment, naming the soldiers of his company, and at the same time speaking to them as to strangers; his gait was tottering, his look wild. He disappeared at the commencement of the affair, and I saw him no more. In two days from Dorogobuje, we reached Slobpnowa, on the bank of the Dnieper. The road was so slippery that the ill-shod horses could hardly keep their legs. At night we bivouacked amidst the snow in the woods. Each regiment in turn formed the extreme rearguard, which the enemy unceasingly followed and harassed. The army continued to march so slowly, that we were on the point of overtaking the 1st corps, which immediately preceded us. The encumbrance on the bridge over the Dnieper was extreme: for a quarter of a league beyond, the road was still covered with abandoned carriages and ammunition-waggons. On the morning of the 10th November, before crossing the river, measures were taken to clear the bridge and burn all these vehicles. In them were found a few bottles of rum, which were of great service. I was on the rearguard, and during the whole morning my regiment defended the road leading to the bridge. The wood through which this road passes was full of wounded whom we were obliged to leave to their fate, and whom the Cossacks massacred almost by our sides. M. Rouchat, sub-lieutenant, having imprudently approached an ammunition-cart that was to be blown up, was shattered to pieces by the explosion. Towards night the troops passed the Dnieper; the bridge was destroyed.”

It was important to delay the enemy’s passage of the river, and Ney prepared to do so.

“That night he walked for a long time in front of my regiment with General Joubert and myself. He pointed out to us the unfortunate results of the failure at Dorogobuje. The enemy had gained a day’s march; had forced us to abandon ammunition, baggage, wounded: all these misfortunes would have been avoided had we held Dorogobuje for twenty-four hours. General Joubert spoke of the weakness of the troops, of their discouragement. The marshal replied quickly, that the worst that could have happened was to be killed, and that a glorious death was too fine a thing to be shunned. For my part, I contented myself with remarking that I had not left the heights of Dorogobuje till I had twice received the order.”

The “bravest of the brave” could see no terrors in death. His own insensibility to it made him slow to sympathise with others. A few days later, M. de Fezensac learned the death of M. Alfred de Noailles, who had been one of his brother aides-de-camp to Berthier.

“He was the first friend I had lost in this campaign, and it caused me very deep sorrow. Marshal Ney, to whom I spoke on the subject, told me, for sole consolation, $1. In similar circumstances he always showed the same insensibility: on another occasion I heard him reply to an unfortunate wounded man, who begged to be carried away—‘$1;’ and he passed on. Most assuredly he was neither cruel nor devoid of feeling; but the frequency of the misfortunes of war had hardened his heart. Penetrated with the idea that the fate of all soldiers is to die upon the field of battle, he thought it quite natural they should fulfil their destiny; and it has been seen in this narrative that he prized not his own life more highly than the lives of others.”

The passage of the river was defended for twenty-four hours. Two days later, those of the weary rearguard who were not prevented by frozen limbs or the cold hand of death from rising from their ice-bound bivouac, joyfully beheld, at half a league’s distance, the towers of Smolensko. Joyfully, because they had long looked for that town as the term of their misery. Repose and food, so greatly needed, were there anticipated. But there, as on every occasion during the retreat where alleviation was hoped for, disappointment ensued. Wittgenstein was pressing southwards from the Dwina, Tchitchagoff northwards to Minsk, the Austrians had retreated behind the Bug, and the French were in imminent danger of being intercepted at the Beresina. A halt at Smolensko was impossible, and orders were given to continue the march. Smolensko contained large stores of provisions; but these availed little to the famished troops, for the general disorganisation had extended to the commissariat, and waste was the result. The Guard, which arrived first with Napoleon, received abundant supplies of all kinds; but then came pouring in stragglers and undisciplined bodies; the warehouses were broken open and plundered, and rations for several months were squandered in a day. When the 3d corps, after defending the approaches to the town, entered in its turn, the work of destruction was at an end, and Colonel de Fezensac could find nothing either for his regiment or himself. But though they had nothing to eat, they were expected to fight; for Ney, the indefatigable, prepared obstinately to defend the town. On the 15th November, a severe combat occurred in the suburb, in which the 4th regiment was alone engaged, and during which its colonel received from Ney the order that daring leader was most rarely known to give—namely, not to advance too far. M. de Fezensac records this order with as much honest pride as he does the warm eulogium which his regiment’s conduct elicited from the marshal. For three days Smolensko was held, and then the 3d corps resumed its march. Meanwhile the Emperor, Eugene, and Davoust, with the Guard, the 4th and 1st corps, were hard pressed at Krasnoi, the two latter, especially, suffering most severely.

“The Emperor, having not a moment to lose to reach the Beresina, saw himself compelled to abandon the 3d corps, and precipitated his march to Orcha. During the three days’ fighting (at and near Krasnoi,) no information was sent to Marshal Ney of the danger about to menace him.... On the morning of the 18th November, we set out from Koritnya, and marched upon Krasnoi: on approaching that town, a few squadrons of Cossacks harassed the 2d division, which headed the column. We attached no importance to this; we were accustomed to the Cossacks, and a few musket-shots sufficed to drive them away. But soon the advanced guard fell in with General Ricard’s division, belonging to the 1st corps, which had remained behind, and had just been routed. The marshal rallied the remains of this division, and under cover of a fog, which favoured our march by concealing the smallness of our numbers, he approached the enemy until their cannon compelled him to pause. The Russian army, drawn up in order of battle, barred our further passage; then only did we learn that we were cut off from the rest of the army, and that our sole chance of salvation was in our despair.”

We know not whence M. de Fezensac derives his statements of numbers, but they frequently require correction. At Borodino, for instance, he gives, as an exact detail of the French loss, 6547 killed, and 21,453 wounded—making a total of about 28,000. Alison and other historians rate it nearly twenty thousand higher; and certainly nothing in the events of the battle argues it as much less than that of the Russians, which M. de Fezensac estimates at about 50,000—figures confirmed by other authorities. In like manner, he states the entire strength of the 3d corps, when it first entered the fire of the Russian batteries at Krasnoi, as barely 6000 combatants, with six guns, and a mere picket of cavalry. This is extraordinarily discrepant with other accounts, which make Ney’s loss, in the immediately ensuing engagement, to be nearly as great as the whole number of bayonets allotted to him by M. de Fezensac. Doubtless it was most difficult to ascertain numbers correctly during that confused retreat, where there can have been little question of muster-rolls and morning-states, and many seeming contradictions may be explained, by some writers estimating only the effective fighting men, and others including the unarmed and stragglers who dragged themselves along with the columns. But we attach no importance to differences of this kind as regards the Journal, which we here notice, not as a work of historical value—a character to which it makes no pretensions—but as the interesting memoir of a brave gentleman and soldier, who has written down, modestly and unaffectedly, his own and his regiment’s share in a most extraordinary campaign.

“Hardly had Marshal Ney withdrawn his advanced guard from under the enemy’s guns, when a flag of truce, sent by General Miloradowitsch, summoned him to lay down his arms. All who ever knew him will understand with what disdain the proposal was received.... For sole reply, the marshal made the messenger prisoner; a few cannon-shot, fired during this species of negotiation, serving as a pretext; and then, without considering the masses of the enemy and the small number of his own followers, he ordered the attack. The 2d division, formed in columns by regiments, marched straight to the enemy. Let me here be allowed to pay homage to the devotedness of those brave soldiers, and to congratulate myself on the honour of having marched at their head. The Russians beheld them, with admiration, marching towards them in the most perfect order, and with a steady step. Every cannon-ball carried away whole files—every step rendered death more inevitable; but the pace was not for an instant slackened. At last we got so near to the enemy’s line, that the first division of my regiment, crushed by the grape-shot, was thrown back upon that which followed, and disordered its array. Then the Russian infantry charged us in its turn, and the cavalry, falling on our flanks, completely routed us. Some sharpshooters, advantageously posted, checked for an instant the enemy’s pursuit; the division of Ledru deployed into line, and six guns replied to the numerous artillery of the Russians. During this time, I rallied the remains of my regiment upon the high road, where the cannon still reached us. Our attack had not lasted a quarter of an hour, but the 2d division no longer existed: my regiment lost several officers, and was reduced to two hundred men; the regiment of Illyria, and the 18th, which lost its eagle, were still worse treated; General Razout was wounded, and General Lenchantain made prisoner. The marshal now made the 2d division retire on Smolensko; at the end of half a league, he turned it to the left, across country, at right angles with the road. The first division, having long exhausted its strength by sustaining the shock of the whole hostile army, followed this movement with the guns and some of the baggage; those of the wounded who could still walk dragged themselves after us. The Russians cantoned themselves in the villages, sending a column of cavalry to observe us.

“The day declined: the 3d corps marched in silence; none knew what was to become of us. But Marshal Ney’s presence sufficed to reassure us. Without knowing what he would or could do, we knew he would do something. His self-confidence equalled his courage. The greater the danger, the more prompt was his determination; and when once he had made up his mind, he never doubted of success. Thus, in that terrible hour, his countenance expressed neither indecision nor uneasiness; all eyes were fixed upon him, but none dared question him. At last, seeing near him an officer of his staff, he said to him in a low voice: $1—$1 replied the officer.—$1—$1—$1—$1—$1—$1, said the officer. This singular dialogue, which I here set down word for word, revealed the marshal’s project of reaching Orcha by the right bank of the river, and so rapidly as still to find there the army, which was making its movement by the left bank. The plan was bold and ably conceived; it will be seen with what vigour it was executed.

“We marched across the fields, without a guide, and the inexactness of the maps contributed to mislead us. Marshal Ney, endowed with that peculiar talent of the great soldier which teaches how to take advantage of the slightest indications, observed some ice in the direction we were following, and had it broken, thinking it must be a rivulet that would lead us to the Dnieper. It really was a rivulet; we followed it, and reached a village, where the Marshal feigned to establish himself for the night. Fires were lighted and pickets thrown out. The enemy left us quiet, expecting to have us cheap the next day. Under cover of this stratagem, the Marshal followed up his plan. A guide was wanted, and the village was deserted; at last the soldiers discovered a lame peasant; they asked him where was the Dnieper, and if frozen. He replied, that at a league off was the village of Sirokowietz, and that the Dnieper must there be frozen. We set out, conducted by this peasant, and soon reached the village. The Dnieper was sufficiently frozen to be traversed on foot. Whilst they sought a place to cross, the houses rapidly filled with officers and soldiers, wounded that morning, who had dragged themselves thus far, and to whose hurts the surgeons could hardly apply the first dressings; those who were not wounded busied themselves in seeking provisions. Marshal Ney, forgetful alike of the day’s and the morrow’s dangers, was buried in a profound sleep.

“Towards the middle of the night we crossed the Dnieper, abandoning to the enemy artillery, baggage, vehicles of every kind, and those wounded who could not walk. M. de Briqueville, (aide-de-camp of the Duke of Placentia,) dangerously wounded the day before, passed the river on his hands and knees; I gave him in charge to two sappers, who succeeded in saving him. The ice was so thin that very few horses could pass; the troops re-formed on the other side of the stream. Thus far success had attended the marshal’s plan; the Dnieper was crossed, but we were still fifteen leagues from Orcha. It was essential to reach it before the French army left; we had to traverse a strange country, and to repel the attacks of the enemy with a handful of exhausted infantry, unsupported by cavalry or artillery. The march began under favourable auspices, with the capture of some Cossacks, surprised asleep in a village. At dawn on the 19th we were following the road to Liubavitschi. We were scarcely delayed for a moment by the passage of a torrent, and by some Cossack detachments which retired on our approach. At noon we reached two villages situated on a height, and whose inhabitants had scarcely time to escape, leaving us their provisions. The soldiers were giving themselves up to the joy occasioned by a moment of abundance, when there was a sudden call to arms. The enemy was advancing, and had already driven in our pickets. We left the villages, formed column, and resumed our march. But we had no longer to deal, as heretofore, with detached parties of Cossacks; here were whole squadrons, manœuvring in regular order, and commanded by General Platow himself. Our skirmishers made head against them; the columns accelerated their march, making their arrangements to receive cavalry. Numerous as these horsemen were, we feared them little, for the Cossacks never ventured to charge home a square of infantry; but soon a battery of several guns opened fire upon us. This artillery followed the movements of the cavalry, upon sledges, wherever it could be of use. Until nightfall, Marshal Ney never ceased to struggle against all these obstacles, skilfully availing himself of the least advantages the nature of the ground afforded. Amidst the balls which fell in our ranks, and in spite of the Cossacks’ yells and feigned attacks, we marched at the same pace. Darkness approached; the enemy redoubled his efforts. We had to quit the road, and to throw ourselves to the left into the woods fringing the Dnieper. But the Cossacks already held these woods; the 4th and 18th regiments, under command of General d’Henin, were directed to drive them thence. Meanwhile the hostile artillery took position on the further brink of a ravine we had to pass. There General Platow reckoned on exterminating us.

“I entered the wood with my regiment. The Cossacks retired; but the wood was deep, and tolerably dense, and we had to face every way to guard against surprise. Night came, we no longer heard anything around us; it was more than probable that Marshal Ney was continuing his advance. I advised General d’Henin to follow his movement; he refused, lest he should incur reproach from the marshal for quitting, without orders, the post assigned to him. At this moment loud shouts, announcing a charge, were heard at some distance in our front; giving us the certainty that the column was continuing its march, and that we were about to be cut off from it. I redoubled my entreaties, assuring General d’Henin that the marshal, with whose way of serving I was well acquainted, would send him no order, because he expected commanding officers, thus detached, to act according to circumstances; besides which, he was too far off to be able to communicate with us, and the 18th regiment had assuredly moved on long ago. The general persisted in his refusal; all I obtained from him was to move us on to the place where the 18th ought to be, and unite the two regiments. The 18th had marched, and in its place we found a squadron of Cossacks. Tardily convinced of the justice of my remarks, General d’Henin determined to rejoin the column; but we had traversed the wood in so many directions, that we no longer knew our way. The officers of my regiment were consulted, and we took the direction the majority thought the right one. I will not undertake to describe all we had to endure during that cruel night. I had but one hundred men left, and we were more than a league in rear of our main body, which we must overtake through a host of enemies. It was necessary to march quick enough to make up for lost time, and in sufficient order to resist the attacks of the Cossacks. The darkness, the uncertainty of our road, the difficulty of making way through the wood, all augmented our embarrassment. The Cossacks called to us to surrender, and fired pointblank into the midst of us: those who were hit remained behind. A sergeant had his leg broken by a carbine ball. He fell at my side, saying coolly to his comrades—$1 They took his havresack, and we moved on in silence. Two wounded officers had the same fate. I observed with uneasiness the impression our position made upon the soldiers, and even upon the officers, of my regiment. Men who had shown themselves heroes in the battle-field, now appeared anxious and troubled; so true is it that the circumstances of danger have often greater terrors than the danger itself. Very few preserved the presence of mind that was then more necessary than ever. I needed all my authority to maintain order and prevent straggling. An officer even ventured to say, that we should perhaps be obliged to surrender. I reprimanded him aloud, and the more severely that he was an officer of merit, which made the lesson more striking. At last, after more than an hour, we emerged from the wood and found the Dnieper on our left. We were in the right track, therefore; and this discovery gave the men a moment’s joy, of which I took advantage to cheer them up, and inculcate coolness, which alone could save us. General d’Henin moved us along the river’s bank to prevent the enemy from turning us. We were far from out of our difficulties; we knew our way, but the plain over which we marched permitted the enemy to fall on us in a large body, and to use their artillery. Fortunately it was dark, and the guns were fired rather at random. From time to time the Cossacks approached with loud cries; we stopped to drive them away with musketry, and then set off again. This march lasted two hours over the most difficult ground, across ravines so abrupt, that it required the utmost efforts to ascend the opposite side, and through half-frozen rivulets, where we had water to our knees. Nothing could shake the constancy of the soldiers; the utmost order was preserved; not a man left his rank. General d’Henin, wounded by a fragment of shell, concealed his hurt in order not to discourage the soldiers, and continued to command with unabated zeal. Doubtless he may be reproached with too obstinate a defence of the wood, but in such difficult circumstances error is pardonable; and what cannot be disputed, is the bravery and intelligence with which he led us during the whole of this perilous march. At last the enemy’s pursuit slackened, and on an eminence in our front fires were seen. It was Marshal Ney’s rearguard, which had halted there, and was now resuming its march: we joined it, and learned that upon the previous evening the marshal had advanced against the Cossack artillery, and forced it to yield him passage.

“Thus did the 4th regiment extricate itself from a position seemingly desperate. The march lasted another hour. The exhausted soldiers required repose, and we halted in a village where we found some provisions. But we were still eight leagues from Orcha, and General Platow would doubtless redouble his efforts for our destruction. The moments were precious; at one in the morning the assembly sounded, and we set out.... We marched unmolested till the dawn. With the first sunrays came the Cossacks, and soon our road led us over a plain. General Platow, desirous of profiting by this advantage, advanced that sledge-artillery which we could neither avoid nor overtake; and when he thought he had disordered our ranks, he commanded a charge. Marshal Ney rapidly formed each of his two divisions into a square; the 2d, under General d’Henin, being the rearmost, was first exposed. We forced all stragglers who still had a musket to join our ranks; severe threats were required to do this. The Cossacks, but feebly restrained by our skirmishers, and driving before them a crowd of unarmed fugitives, strove to reach the square. On their approach, and under fire of the artillery, our soldiers hastened their march. Twenty times I beheld them on the point of disbanding and flying in all directions, leaving us at the mercy of the Cossacks; but the presence of Marshal Ney, the confidence he inspired, his calmness in the moment of such great danger, kept them to their duty. We reached an eminence. The marshal ordered General d’Henin to hold it; adding, that we must know how to die there for the honour of France. Meanwhile, General Ledru marched to Jokubow, a village on the edge of a wood. When he had established himself there, we marched to join him: the two divisions took up a position, mutually flanking each other. It was not yet noon, and Marshal Ney declared he would defend this village till nine at night. General Platow made twenty attempts to take it from us; his attacks were constantly repulsed, and at last, fatigued by such a tenacious resistance, he himself took position opposite to us.

“Early in the morning the marshal had sent off a Polish officer, who reached Orcha and described our condition. The Emperor had left the town the day before: the Viceroy and Marshal Davoust still occupied it. At nine that night we resumed our march in profound silence. The Cossack pickets, distributed along the road, retired at our approach. The march continued with much order. At a league from Orcha, our vanguard fell in with an advanced post, which challenged in French. It was a division of the 4th corps coming to our assistance with the Viceroy. One must have passed three days between life and death to judge of the joy this meeting gave us. The Viceroy received us with lively emotion, and warmly expressed to Marshal Ney his admiration of his conduct. He congratulated the generals and the two remaining colonels. His aides-de-camp surrounded us, and overwhelmed us with questions on the details of this great drama, and the part that each of us had played in it. But time pressed; after a few minutes we again moved on. The Viceroy formed our rearguard: at three in the morning we entered Orcha. Thus terminated this bold march, one of the most curious episodes of the campaign. It covered Marshal Ney with glory, and to him the 3d corps owed its salvation; if, indeed, the term of corps d’ armée may be applied to the 800 or 900 men who reached Orcha, remnant of the 6000 who had fought at Krasnoi.”

For eighteen days, over a distance of sixty leagues, the 3d corps had formed the rearguard. Diminished as its numbers now were, it was no longer available for that dangerous duty, and it joined the main body. Scarcely had it taken three hours’ repose in some wretched houses of the faubourg of Orcha, when the Russians, from the other side of the Dnieper, set fire to the town with shells, which were more particularly aimed at some conspicuous buildings, serving as provision-stores. It was impossible to serve out rations; at the risk of their lives, a few soldiers brought off some brandy and flour; but Davoust, now in command of the rearguard, hurried the troops’ departure, and by eight o’clock the unfortunate 3d corps was on the march to Borisow. A broad, good road facilitated their progress, and Colonel de Fezensac, no longer occupied in repelling the enemy, was able to investigate the state of his regiment. Eighty men remained, out of the 2800 that began the campaign; eighty tattered, famine-stricken, desponding wretches. They lived from hand to mouth, almost by a miracle; sometimes on flour steeped in water; at others, with a morsel of honeycomb or fragment of horseflesh; their sole drink the melted snow. “At some distance from Orcha, I fell in with M. Lanusse, a captain of my regiment, who had lost his sight by a shot, at the taking of Smolensko; a sutler belonging to his company was leading and taking the greatest care of him. He told me that after having been taken and plundered by the Cossacks at Krasnoi, he had contrived to escape, and that he and his guide would do their utmost to keep up with us. Soon afterwards they were found dead and stripped upon the road.”

Bad as the state of things already was, it became worse after the passage of the Beresina; for the cold, abated for a while, resumed all its severity, and heavy snow almost stifled the scanty fires kindled by the unhappy fugitives. “I myself was at the end of my resources. I had but a horse left; my last portmanteau had been lost at the Beresina; I had nothing but what I stood in, and we were still fifty leagues from Wilna, eighty from the Niemen; but, amidst so many misfortunes, I took little account of my personal sufferings and privations. Like us, Marshal Ney had lost everything; his aides-de-camp were dying of hunger, and I gratefully remember that more than once they shared with me the scanty food they managed to procure.” On the 29th November, during a brief halt of the 3d corps, a confused stream of stragglers poured by, all of whom had to tell of a miraculous escape at the Beresina. “I remarked an Italian officer, who scarcely breathed, borne by two soldiers, and accompanied by his wife. Greatly touched by this woman’s grief, and by the care she lavished on her husband, I yielded her my place at a fire the men had lighted. It needed all the illusion of her affection to blind her to the inutility of her care. Her husband had ceased to live, and still she called and spoke to him; until at last, no longer able to doubt her misfortune, she fell fainting upon his corpse.”

“There would be no end to the task,” continues M. de Fezensac, “if one attempted to relate all the horrible, affecting, and often incredible anecdotes that signalised that terrible time. A general, exhausted with fatigue, had fallen upon the road. A passing soldier began to pull off his boots; the general, raising himself with difficulty, begged him to wait till he was dead before stripping him. ‘General,’ replied the soldier, ‘I would willingly do so; but another would take them; I may as well have the benefit.’ And he continued to take off the boots.

“One soldier was being plundered by another; he entreated to be allowed to die in peace. ‘Pardon me, comrade,’ was the reply, ‘I thought you were dead;’ and he passed on. For the consolation of humanity, a few traits of sublime devotion contrasted with the innumerable ones of egotism and insensibility. That of a drummer of the 7th regiment of light infantry has been particularly cited. His wife, sutler to the regiment, fell ill at the beginning of the retreat. The drummer brought her to Smolensko in her cart. At Smolensko the horse died; then the husband harnessed himself to the cart, and dragged his wife to Wilna. At that town she was too ill to go any farther, and her husband remained prisoner with her.

“A sutler of the 33d regiment had been brought to bed in Prussia, before the beginning of the campaign. She followed her regiment to Moscow, with her little daughter, who was six months old when the army left that city. During the retreat this child lived by a miracle: her sole nourishment was black pudding made of horses’ blood: she was wrapped in a fur taken at Moscow, and often her head was bare. Twice she was lost; and they found her again, first in a field, then in a burnt village, lying on a mattress. Her mother crossed the Beresina on horseback, with water to her neck, holding the bridle in one hand, and with the other her child upon her head. Thus, by a succession of marvellous circumstances, this little girl got through the retreat without accident, and did not even take cold.”

For many many leagues before reaching the Niemen, the harassed remnant of the great French army had looked forward to that river as the term of pursuit. The idea that the Russians would not pass the Niemen had taken a strong hold of the imaginations of both officers and soldiers. At Kowno, a stand was made by the rearguard; no very steadfast one, certainly; but then, as ever, Ney proved equal to the emergency. An earthen work, hastily thrown up, seemed to him sufficient to check the foe for a whole day. Here were posted two pieces of cannon, and some Bavarian infantry; and the marshal sought a moment’s repose in his quarters. But the very first discharge of the Russian artillery dismounted a French gun; the infantry took to flight—the gunners were about to follow. Another minute, and the Cossacks might enter the streets unopposed. Just then Ney appeared upon the ramparts, musket in hand. His absence had been nearly fatal; his presence restored the fight. The troops rallied, and the position was held till night, when the retreat recommenced. The bridge was crossed, and each man, as he set foot south of the Niemen, deemed himself safe. Great then was the consternation of all, when, at the foot of a lofty hill, over which winds the road to Königsberg, an alarm was given, and, at the same moment, a cannon-ball plunged into their ranks. The Cossacks had crossed the river on the ice, and had established themselves on the summit of the mountain. This fresh danger, so totally unexpected, completed the demoralisation of the troops. Brave spirits, which, till then, had steadfastly held out, lost their firmness in face of this new calamity. There is something very affecting in the following passage:—

“Generals Marchand and Ledru succeeded in forming a sort of battalion by uniting the stragglers to the 3d corps, (again on rearguard.) But it was in vain to attempt to force a passage; the muskets were unserviceable, and the soldiers dared not advance. There was nothing for it but to remain under fire of the artillery, without daring to take a step backwards, for that would have exposed us to a charge, and our destruction was then certain. This position drove to despair two officers, who had been a pattern to my regiment during the whole retreat, but whose courage at last gave way under long physical exhaustion. They came to me and said, that as they were no longer able either to march or to fight, they should fall into the hands of the Cossacks, who would massacre them, and that, to avoid this, they must return to Kowno and yield themselves prisoners. I made useless efforts to dissuade them, appealing to their feelings of honour, to the courage of which they had given so many proofs, to their attachment to the regiment they now proposed abandoning; and I conjured them, if death was inevitable, at least to die in our company. For sole reply they embraced me with tears, and returned into Kowno. Two other officers had the same fate; one was intoxicated with rum, and could not follow us; the other, whom I particularly loved, disappeared soon afterwards. My heart was torn: I waited for death to come and reunite me to my unhappy comrades, and I should perhaps have wished for it but for all the ties which, at that time, still bound me to life.”

Once more Ney came to the rescue. No accumulation of difficulties could cloud his brow with uneasiness. Once more his promptness and energy saved his shattered corps. A flank march was the means resorted to. On the 20th December, the 3d corps reached Königsberg. It then consisted of about one hundred men on foot, about as many cripples on sledges, and a handful of officers.

“Monsieur le duc,” wrote Marshal Ney to the Duke of Feltre, Minister of War, from Berlin, on the 23d January 1813, “I avail myself of the moment when the campaign is, if not terminated, at least suspended, to express to you all the satisfaction I have received from M. de Fezensac’s manner of serving. That young man has been placed in very critical circumstances, and has always shown himself superior to them. I commend him to you as a true French chevalier, (veritable chevalier Français,) whom you may henceforth consider as a veteran colonel.”

M. de Fezensac almost apologises for subjoining to his journal this extract from a letter now in his possession. He has no need to do so. He may well and honestly exult in such a testimonial from such a man.

THE PENITENT FREE-TRADER.

TENOR OF THE TRADE CIRCULARS.

Sir,—That a period of severe commercial suffering is approaching us, in which the ruinous condition of the agricultural classes will recoil disastrously, not only upon the selfish Free-trade agitators in the manufacturing districts, but also upon the importers of foreign produce, the broker, the factor, the shopkeeper, and the labourers in our towns, has for some months been patent to all who have dispassionately watched the current of events, and been able to draw correct conclusions from what is going on before their eyes. It is not to official tables of exports and imports that such men look as the indices of the nation’s prosperity. They turn rather to $1 of these operations, as disclosed in our commercial circulars; to the degree of confidence displayed by bankers in their dealings with their customers, and by merchants in their transactions with each other; to the movements of produce in our leading markets, and to the amount of activity which characterises the internal trade and the consumption of the country. They are guided, too, very materially, by the general feeling of merchants and traders, expressed in their daily communications with each other, on ‘Change, or in the intercourse of private life. Such a mode I propose to employ, in investigating the real condition of the cotton manufacturing districts of the north of England; and the result of this investigation, which I shall now proceed to lay before your readers, will, I fear, dissipate somewhat rudely the dream of prosperity in which her Majesty’s Ministers, and their supporters in Parliament and throughout the country, are just now indulging.

In pursuing such an inquiry, the condition of the port of Liverpool, the great mart of this portion of the kingdom, naturally suggests itself as of prominent interest. In this port, by the result of our vast operations in imported foreign and colonial produce, the actual results of our export trade in manufactures, and the consuming power of the large population which draw their supplies from it, can be tested with considerable fairness. In an article in your last Number, I find a quotation from the monthly circular of Messrs T. and H. Littledale & Co., whom you truly designate as perhaps the greatest brokers in the world. A portion of this I must re-quote, in order to enable your readers the better to appreciate some later observations of these gentlemen. On the 4th of March, Messrs Littledale wrote:—

“$1 The serious falling off in the deliveries of sugar, coffee, tea, and cocoa, for the two months of this year, compared with those of the last, but too truly confirms these complaints, and are perhaps the most alarming features in our present prospects. As given in Prince’s public prices current of the 1st inst., they stand as follows:—

The circular of this house, dated the 4th of April, has since been published, in which they confirm their previous statement; and indeed show that the condition of the country, as tested by its consumption of imported produce, is retrograding. We quote the following as their summary:—

“$1—Another month of dull spiritless trade, as well in our produce markets as in the manufacturing districts of Lancashire. The demand for consumption has somewhat improved from exhaustion of stocks in the hands of dealers; but we regret to find the deficiency in deliveries of the principal articles noticed in our circular of last month (tea excepted) has still further increased, which speaks ill for the internal state of the country; in fact, $1.

“Corn has fallen so low in value, that $1. This falls immediately on the wholesale dealers, from them on the importing merchants, and eventually, if no revival take place, must act with double force on the manufacturers in a diminished home trade and in crippled exports, which latter must ever depend on our power to take the products of other countries as returns for our manufactures. To what class, then, are the present ruinous low prices of grain a blessing? We emphatically say $1; indeed it is quite impossible for so large a portion of the community as that connected with agriculture to be depressed, and the other portions long to continue prosperous; and probably the best impulse we could receive, in the present inactive state of our colonial markets, would be an advance of 5s., to 10s. per qr., in the price of wheat. There is no doubt, also, that the fearful depreciation of railway property, which appears a bottomless abyss of mismanagement and ruin, tells cruelly on the available resources of a very large proportion of the people, and adds seriously to the embarrassment of trade.”

In glancing over this circular in detail, we find opposite nearly every important item the words, “has moved off at easier prices,” “is less inquired for,” “is dull,” or some other phrase significant of commercial depression; yet, during the preceding month, the stocks on hand, owing to the prevalence of easterly winds, which had kept a large number of vessels windbound outside the Channel, had received very little augmentation. It must be borne in mind that the dealings of this firm extend over nearly every description of foreign produce—certainly every large one, timber and iron excepted;—and that the money amount of their annual transactions may be reckoned by many millions sterling. Further inquiries amongst other houses enable me to state confidently that, with the exception of a few trifling articles, the mass of the produce, which is pouring into Liverpool, arrives at an unprofitable market. In cotton alone, amongst the leading imports, a small margin of profit may at present be secured, the abundance of unemployed money in the hands of the banks allowing the speculators, for a short crop, to inflate prices. Such a case, however, tells nothing in favour of a sound state of things. The question of most material import is, whether either the foreign demand, or the home consumption, is so urgently requiring supply, as to enable the manufacturer of cotton goods to concede the advanced rates demanded for the staple, by the American grower, or the speculator at home. Present appearances scarcely warrant such an expectation. The following opinion upon the subject, given by a leading firm in the trade, Messrs George Holt & Co., in their circular of the 12th April, expresses the opinion of all except the most sanguine:—

“We can hardly account for this tendency of prices,”—(they had slightly advanced during the week)—“or lay before our readers any new circumstances affecting the value of the staple. No doubt confidence in the shortness of the American crop remains, and probably is on the increase. We may add also that stocks in spinners’ hands are at a low ebb. Still $1”

“Depression so long in existence!” A great majority of the public, with the speech from the Throne, and the prosperity-speeches of movers and seconders of the Address before them, imagined that the cotton districts, at all events, were flourishing!

A later circular of the produce market, published upon the authority of the entire brokers of the port, exhibits the state of the general produce market in even a worse light than that of Messrs Littledale, quoted above. I append it here:—

“Liverpool Prices Current, Imports, &c. for the week ending $1. Arranged by a Committee of Brokers.—T. M. Myers, $1.

“Sugar.—Holders continuing to offer freely, there has been a fair amount of business, but at rather lower prices; 450 hhds. B. P., of which 300 were new Barbadoes, sold at 34s. 6d. to 41s., 3500 bags Bengal at 34s. to 40s., 1600 bags Khaur at 28s. 6d., and 3500 bags Mauritius at 36s. to 36s. 6d., being a decline of 6d. to 1s. per cwt.—$1—180 hhds. Porto Rico, of the new crop, sold at 40s. per cwt. duty paid; the export demand continues slack, and sales are only 24 cases, 150 bags and brls. Brazil and 100 boxes Havanna.—Molasses.—The new arrivals coming in have induced holders of last year’s crop to take much lower prices than have been hitherto accepted; the sales are 500 puns. Porto Rico at 15s. 6d., 400 Cuba at 15s. 6d. to 16s., and 300 Barbadoes at 15s. per cwt.; the two cargoes of new Porto Rico, just arrived, have been sent to store, the importers not being willing to accept the low price offered by the Trade; the quotations are reduced accordingly.—Coffee.—The recent import of Jamaica has been freely offered, and the slight improvement that existed ten days ago is entirely lost, prices being now as low as ever. 80 tierces have been sold, at 46s. 9d. to 54s. for low to fine ordinary, and 62s. to 100s. for low to fine middling—the latter quotation being 15s. below the rates of January. 100 bags native Ceylon were sold early in the week at 52s. 6d., but that price is not now obtainable, the nominal value being about 48s. per cwt.—A small parcel of Bahia Cocoa sold at 33s. per cwt.—Nothing done in Ginger or Pepper, but a small lot of Pimento brought 6⅛d. per lb., being an extreme price.—Rice.—No sales of Carolina; 13,000 bags East brought 7s. 6d. for broken, and 8s. 6d. to 9s. 9d. for low to good white, being a decline of fully 6d. per cwt.—Rum is difficult of sale, except at lower prices; the business consists of 200 puns. Demerara, 32 to 37 per cent O. P. at 2s. 2d. to 2s. 4½d. per gallon.”

There is a further decline, it will be seen, in every important article; and the most experienced houses, I find, are at a loss to tell at what point it will stop. It is generally admitted that, but for the accommodation which the large holders can command, there must have been a general crash long ere this, which would have overwhelmed half the mercantile community in ruin. This would have reacted fearfully upon the shopkeepers in the interior of the country, whose credits would have been suddenly stopped, whilst their overdue accounts would necessarily have been sternly exacted. In fact the bulk of this class at present stand upon the verge of an abyss, into which a sudden panic may hurry them at any moment.

It will doubtless be urged that this state of the produce market is only temporary; that importations, having become profitless, will be discontinued, and the supply thus become equal to the demand. This would be the natural course of things under a sound system; but no sign of cessation of imports is at present to be seen; and it is much to be questioned whether any such cessation can take place, without throwing a large portion of our manufacturing population into very serious distress, if not into anarchy and outbreak. If importation of produce is restricted, exportation must be restricted in proportion. The manufacturer has thrown himself into almost total dependence upon the foreign buyer of his wares. With a flourishing home market for manufactures, a glut of produce might be got rid of without difficulty. But the same cause—an inability of the masses to consume—which depresses the prices of produce, now exists equally with respect to the home market for manufactured goods; and to stop production and exports, with a view to enhance the value of the stocks of produce already received in remittance from the foreigner, would add another element to the perplexity in which the nation is plunged. This portion of the subject, however, it is not for me to discuss here. I only refer to it in order to express the opinions which are beginning to be mooted in influential commercial circles.

In order to be enabled to state, as much as possible upon my own knowledge, the extent to which the internal markets of the country are depressed, and the consumption of produce is declining, I have instituted inquiries among some of the leading houses in Liverpool, who send travellers into the country, and the reports given are fully as discouraging as those given by Messrs Littledale, as to the difficulty both of making sales and collecting accounts. From a gentleman connected with a leading firm in the tea trade, I learn that in the country over which their travellers prosecute their business, the orders which they receive are for very limited quantities, and are, in fact, demonstrative of what, in mercantile parlance, is styled “a hand to mouth” business. Excessive caution and want of spirit characterise the feelings of the retail trade everywhere.

Some of these parties, he suggests, may have locked up a portion of their capital in railway investments, or perhaps lost it. Still, hand to mouth orders—orders for a week’s instead of a month’s consumption, would tell in the long run, if they served to make up the aggregate of past years. But they do not. The consumption of this necessary article is found to be declining; and the objection of the retail dealer to order as largely as usual is accounted for, in the majority of cases, by the inability of the farming and middle classes to pay their accounts as punctually as heretofore. It must be borne in mind, in treating of the consumption of such an article as tea—and I may include coffee, sugar, &c.—that they frequently form the substitute for the poor man’s meal. When the consumption of tea declines, in times acknowledged to be bad, it is the worst sign of the condition of the community.

Another gentleman connected with an extensive firm in the grocery trade, gives still more discouraging accounts. The travellers of this firm extend their operations over the whole of the Midland Counties and the North of England. Their reports to their employers are most lugubrious. For example, one of them, a few weeks ago, remitted home £120, whereas his accounts due were about £1500. As to sales, these are most difficult to make. Consumption is gradually and rapidly declining. Retail dealers in the country towns complain that the farmers no longer expend the money they have been accustomed to do, when visiting markets; but confine their consumption of food more and more to the products raised upon their own lands. One of the travellers of this firm journeys through the counties of Cumberland and Westmoreland, in which for many years an extensive trade has been carried on in the curing of bacon and hams. This trade he represents as now almost extinct, or rapidly becoming so—the parties engaged in it being unable to compete with the importers of the low-priced hams and bacon of America. Of this class are the farmers of the country which owns Sir James Graham as their feudal lord, and of whom that distinguished statesman asserted, in the debate on the Address, that they must be in a state of plethoric prosperity, inasmuch as he had never had his rents better paid than at his last rent-day. The worthy baronet forgot to say that rent is the last debt that a tenant farmer will omit to pay, the landlord having a power which overrides the claims of all other creditors. If he could have added that his farmers’ tradesmen’s bills had been equally well paid, he would have imparted some information most gratifying to the community. Neither this house, nor any other that I have conversed with, can see any termination to the present declining state of things. It is becoming admitted, amongst the circles with which their travellers mix, that reductions of rent are wholly unequal to meet the emergency of the present crisis.

It is proper that I should refer to one trade in Liverpool which is most prosperous—in fact, the only prosperous one. This is the trade of the merchants engaged in, and others connected with, the emigration of our fellow-countrymen, to seek a home in foreign lands. The following are the statistics of this trade, kindly furnished me by a gentleman officially connected with the shipping of emigrants from Liverpool:—

During the present year the emigration has been—

At the present moment, notwithstanding the large increase in the shipping—principally American—provided for the trade, berths, and these at very high prices, are most difficult to be got, unless detention is submitted to. Moreover, a great change has taken place in the kind of persons emigrating. Last year, the same gentleman informs me, four-fifths of the parties emigrating consisted of substantial small farmers from Ireland and elsewhere, and skilled artisans from this country. This year, a very superior class of English farmers are leaving a land which no longer affords them a living in exchange for their honest industry. The quays of Liverpool daily present a scene, which few thinking men can rejoice in, and which the country will have to regret. The aged as well as the mature, mothers with infants at the breast, and stalwart youths and maidens, going from vessel to vessel, to select that particular one whose departure from our shores will cut for ever their connexion with the country which they have loved, and in which they leave behind the graves of their fathers. It is melancholy to think upon the misery there must be amidst all this activity, with the momentary absence of regret for old scenes, and enjoyment of the new ones, into which these poor people find themselves thrown. Yet we cannot but feel satisfied that they are about to be bettered in condition by the change.

The depression complained of, as existing in Liverpool, is by no means confined to the classes immediately connected with the staple commerce of the port, but pervades all classes of the community without exception. The produce of half a world is stored in the warehouses of Liverpool, or floating in her magnificent docks. The capital of her merchants is embarked in every clime, and her shipping crowds every foreign port; yet her industrious population are plunged in suffering and embarrassment, and a portion of them—her labouring classes, pressed down by the influx of pauper competition from the hordes of immigrants from ruined Ireland—are continually upon the verge of actual starvation. It is distressing to witness the shifts to which tradesmen are compelled to resort, from time to time, in order to meet engagements, and to stave off, by sacrifices of their goods, the day of ruin. “Selling off” announcements, under all kinds of pretexts, meet the eye in every direction, and yet tempt in vain. The whole community appear to be economising; and tardily paid bills, and reduced expenditure in the comforts, and even in some of the necessities of life, is the rule, not the exception. The extent to which this is carried, and the suffering existing amongst the middle classes, may be judged of by the fact that it has already affected the incomes of many of the clergy of the town, by diminishing the numbers of their congregations and the yield of pew-rents. In one instance which has been mentioned to me, the income of a clergyman, universally beloved, has been thus cut down from £600 a-year, to little more than half; and this is far from being a solitary case.

The result of this state of things is already being felt in a strong reaction, amongst those once the loudest in its advocacy, against the system of Free Trade. Doubts are freely hazarded with respect to the soundness of a policy which has produced such fruit; and the question is upon the lips of numbers,—“Where is the prosperity which was promised to us?” If Mr Cobden or Sir Robert Peel were to present themselves in Liverpool at the present moment, they would have to answer this question, not to the uninquiring crowds who would have cheered their fallacies three years ago, but to men who have reflected deeply, and had deep cause for such reflection. The Right Hon. Baronet, in particular, would perhaps have to reply to another question, and to go a little back in the history of his political life. He would be asked not only, Who had benefited by his Free-trade measures?—a difficult one enough to answer—but what class of the community had been aggrandised $1. To this vital subject the minds of the intelligent mercantile community of Liverpool, of all shades of politics, are being rapidly directed. The Free-trader sees, in the operation of our monetary laws, one leading source of the evil brought upon the country by the carrying out of his favourite measure. He is prepared to acknowledge that Free-trade and a Restricted Currency are incompatible things. And the mercantile body of all political parties still remember the disasters of 1847 and 1848; and the insulting manner in which their prayer, in the October of the previous year, for relief from the unexampled money pressure, which was then prostrating the most extensive and solvent firms, was denied by a flippant and shallow Chancellor of the Exchequer, although at that moment the nation was within a few days of bankruptcy. These things are not forgotten; and, from the impressions which I have been able to form, from a close examination of popular opinion, I should not be surprised to see the influential community of Liverpool throwing politics and party to the winds, and uniting their efforts to procure a relief from the monstrous system which at present withers and strangles in its grasp the industry of England—which tempts us one day, by its lavish kindness, to erect vast structures of commercial enterprise and usefulness; and the next day dashes them into wrecks before our eyes, to be scrambled for by greedy extortioners and selfish usurers.

It is the fear of this power which, to a great extent, is at the present moment paralysing the enterprise of the commercial communities, which would otherwise have succeeded in neutralising a portion at least, but certainly only a portion, of the ruinous effects of Free-trade. A few years ago, no community embarked more largely in those railway investments, so strongly recommended to them by the fosterer of the system, Sir Robert Peel, than the mercantile people of Liverpool. The extent to which such investments were encouraged by the lavish offer of banking facilities to merchants and others, may be judged of by the fact, that the Directors of one Liverpool Bank were, a few weeks ago, compelled to acknowledge to their shareholders, that nearly the whole of their subscribed capital was advanced upon railway stock; and that their Rest, amounting to £100,000, had entirely disappeared. This species of security is now, by the caution with which capitalists act, rendered totally unavailable for the purpose of raising money, when required for legitimate commercial purposes. Hence the timid apprehension with which men, thus situated, regard the accumulation of stocks of produce, for which no remunerative market at present offers itself; and the consumption of which is so obviously on the decline. Hence also the pressure to sell, when they see cargo after cargo pouring in to augment those stocks; the unwillingness to part with funds, for which the shopkeeper and the tradesman are eagerly longing, to enable them to sustain their tottering credit; and that total suspension of all internal enterprise and improvement, which is driving so many thousands of our skilled workmen to other countries, and the labourer to that desolate resort for the very poor—the Union Workhouse. To the attempt to carry out a Free-trade, involving the holding of large stocks of produce and extended operations in foreign markets, with a currency artificially restricted by the last Banking Act of Sir Robert Peel, and further restricted by the caution with which bankers are now conducting their business, since the severe warning inflicted upon them in 1847, is attributable not only the commercial depression already noticed, but also that fearful sacrifice of realised capital, which has taken place from the decline in the saleable value of railway shares, and which, in Liverpool alone, has rendered hundreds of once wealthy men comparatively poor ones, and brought many, in the decline of their days, to a condition lower than that even in which they began the world.

Such is the condition generally of the mercantile community of Liverpool—that port of all others in the kingdom which was most largely to be benefited by the advent of the Free-trade system. From the apex to the base of the social fabric all is uncertainty, fear, and suffering, too intense any longer to be concealed from the most superficial observer; and the crisis has not yet been reached. The reaction has still to come from the manufacturing districts, which, up to within the past few months, in the enjoyment of a moderate amount of activity, caused by a temporary revival of the export demand, are only now beginning to feel the results of the system which, in their selfishness, they invented for their own aggrandisement, at the expense of the industry of the whole empire.

The avowed object of the Free-trader was to stimulate the export trade in cotton goods, which it was always boasted was the most valuable to the manufacturer. So far as regards the quantity of the raw material consumed for the export trade, this is an undisputed fact; but that the amount of skill and labour employed in it is equal to that expended upon goods consumed in the home market is not true. In order to arrive at an idea of the relative value of the two trades, it will be necessary for me to bring before the reader a few figures and authorities. In the excellent Commercial Glance, compiled for many years by the late Mr John Burn of Manchester, and now continued by his son, the following statement was given, as the mode in which the cotton spun in 1845 was disposed of. I take that year as being one of great prosperity in the home market, and as showing the state of things antecedent to the introduction of free trade in corn.

I have the most perfect confidence in the correctness of Mr Burn’s calculations, being personally acquainted with that gentleman, and knowing the excellent sources from which he derives his information, and the care which he devotes to the accuracy of all his facts. The result to which the above statement leads is, that the consumption of raw cotton in goods sold in our home markets is 18·36 per cent only, upon the total quantity of yarn spun in England. This, a superficial observer will say, is a very trivial quantity for our boasted home consumption. Let us see, however, in what stage of manufacture, and in what description of goods, the cotton taken off by foreign markets principally consists. In the first place, 131,937,935 lbs., or 28 per cent of the total cotton spun, was exported, as shown in the table above, in the shape of yarn, an article but one remove from the raw material, and the manufacture of which employs machinery principally, and leaves only a small margin of profit to the country. With respect to the description of goods, in the manufacture of which for the foreign market the remainder of the raw material is consumed, little difficulty is felt by persons acquainted practically with the subject. Mr M‘Culloch, in his Dictionary of Commerce, page 456 of the edition of 1847—the latest I have before me—remarks upon the facts as striking, that, notwithstanding the superiority of our machinery, and this branch thus being one in which we most greatly excel our foreign rivals, the proportion of fine to coarse yarns spun has materially decreased; and that, in fact, the actual quantity of fine yarns has decreased, whilst the total consumption of cotton has quadrupled during the last twenty-five years. That the quantity has decreased to this extreme extent may well be doubted, although the cheapening which has taken place in silk and other fabrics during this period has, we know, to a great extent caused the disuse, for home consumption, of many once highly prized articles of the cotton manufacture. We may accept, however, the admission of Mr M‘Culloch, as bearing upon the quality of those goods which are taken off by the foreign trade, and of which the great increase in the manufacture must consist. These are, confessedly, the coarse, heavy fabrics, into the manufacture of which the $1 amount of skill and labour enters. We approach then, from this point, to a view of the comparative value to the country of the home and the export trade in cotton goods. In the same work, Mr M‘Culloch estimates the total annual value of the cotton manufacture of the kingdom at £36,000,000 sterling, of which £10,000,000 is put down for the cost of the raw material, £17,000,000 for wages, and £9,000,000 for profits, wages of superintendence, and cost of machinery, coals, &c. I am a little inclined to believe that this calculation is underdrawn, the leaning of the author being to exaggerate the importance of the export trade, the declared value of which in 1845 was £26,119,231, leaving a little under £10,000,000 as the consumption of the home market, or about two-fifths of the consumption of the foreign. In estimating the value to the country, however, of the home trade, we have a right to take into consideration the fact that the great component material of the goods which we consume at home consists of labour; for, whilst the proportion of the raw material consumed in the home trade was little over one-fifth of that consumed in the foreign, the value of the goods was two-fifths.

Admitting, however, Mr M‘Culloch’s version of the case to be correct, but at the same time bearing in mind the fact of his being a somewhat prejudiced authority, let us apply the figures given to the present condition of the manufacturing interest. The average quantity of cotton taken weekly from Liverpool for consumers’ use, was, from 1st of January to 12th of April 1849, 29,475 bales. It has been this year, up to the same date, 23,176 bales—a falling off of 6299 bales weekly, or a little above a fifth of the preceding year’s importations. Perhaps a portion of this decline in apparent consumption may be accounted for by the fact that the stock in the hands of spinners has, to a considerable extent, been allowed by them to become exhausted, through their unwillingness to pay the advanced prices recently demanded for the raw material. With respect to the prudence of this policy, and its probable effect in still further increasing the embarrassment of affairs, I shall have something to say by and by; at present, the question which presses is—In what market has this decreased consumption occurred? The answer must be—In that market which pays for the greatest amount of labour expended upon the manufacture of cotton goods—in the home market. I have not within my reach the most authentic record of the Cotton Trade, for the period up to which I should desire to extend my inquiries—viz., Burn’s Commercial Glance, which is only made up half yearly. I have, however, before me this gentleman’s Monthly Colonial Circular, dated March the 18th, in which I observe a considerable increase in the exports of plain calicoes, printed and dyed calicoes, and cotton yarn to the following markets, with a few exceptions, for the first two months of the present year:—Calcutta, Bombay (increase in printed and dyed and in yarn, and small decrease in plain only); Madras (considerable increase in plain and printed and dyed, and small decrease in yarn); Singapore and Manilla (small decrease in printed and dyed and in yarn only); Batavia (large increase in all kinds); Hong Kong and Canton (large increase in plain, and small decline in printed); Shanghae (trade removed to other Chinese ports in which there is a large increase): Australian Colonies (increase in all kinds); Mauritius (stationary); Cape of Good Hope (increase in all); Coast of Africa (decline in all); Jamaica (decrease in plain and increase in printed); Honduras (increase); other West Indian ports (decrease); Cuba and St Thomas (both increase); French West Indies (increase in printed and small decline in plain); Brazils (large increase); Chili and Peru (large decrease); Colombia (decrease); River Plata (considerable decrease); Mexico (increase in plain, and decrease in printed); British North America (season for shipments not commenced); and United States (increase in both printed and plain, and a large business done, the shipments for the two months being upwards of half of the entire quantity exported in 1849.) Compared with the average of the same period of the preceding three years, there is an increase to nearly every market. With respect to the shipments to European markets, I cannot speak with precision as to quantities, from the circumstance, which I have named, of the accounts not having been yet made up. From the monthly return from the Board of Trade, however, it appears that a general increase has taken place in the declared value of cotton manufactures to all markets, the amount being in 1850, £3,264,350 for the two months, against £2,837,300 last year. There is a very trifling decline in the export of yarns. From my own observation, I should augur that the increase has extended over March, to the United States and the markets of the Pacific especially—an unusual stimulus having been given to the consumption of these markets by the Californian discoveries. By the bye, I ought to mention, in connexion with the increase in the declared value of our exports this year, the fact that, owing to the advance in the price of the raw material, the value of goods exported will be rated higher than last year. To some extent, however, the severe winter of this year preventing the early opening of the navigation of the rivers of the north of Europe, as compared with the mild season last year, may be a set-off. The Mediterranean trade, and the operations of the Greek houses, have also been limited by our petty quarrel in this part of Europe.

Assuming, however, the actual quantity of cotton consumed by the Export Trade to have been equal to that consumed last year up to this period, and allowing for 40,000 bales, alleged by spinners to have been drawn from their own stocks instead of the Liverpool market, $1. When it is considered that these goods consist of the finer fabrics, in which the greatest amount of labour is employed, and upon which the largest percentage of profit is realised, whilst those consumed in the foreign markets are sold at the lowest margin of profit, and when exported frequently result in heavy losses to the shipper, the extent of the sacrifice made by the manufacturing community, in their mad adoption of a policy which has destroyed the Home market, may readily be seen.

The correctness of these calculations has been borne out by the general character of the Home Trade during the past four months, in which stagnation, and difficulty in accomplishing sales to consumers and retailers throughout the country, early manifested themselves. In the month of January, strong hopes were entertained, by the majority of the houses engaged in this branch of the business, that the worst of the embarrassment which had so long hung over the cotton manufacturing districts had passed over; and that a wholesome and active trade was before them. The circulars of the month of February, and the reports given week by week in the local journals published in the manufacturing districts, resumed their gloomy statements; and the home demand, it became clear, had returned to its previous lethargic state. From communications entered into with some of the country houses, I have derived intelligence respecting the result of their operations, almost precisely similar to those sent home by the representatives of produce houses as given above. The country buyers who come to the market display an entire want of their accustomed spirit, and buy sparingly an inferior class of goods to those which they have been, in former years, in the habit of consuming. The universal complaint of these parties, and of commercial travellers engaged in the Home Trade, is of declining consumption and ill-paid accounts, especially throughout the purely agricultural districts. One circumstance has tended in some measure to prevent the trade becoming absolutely ruinous—viz., the fact that cotton fabrics are now resorted to by many classes from motives of economy. The farmer’s and the tradesman’s wife and daughters make a fashion of necessity, and substitute printed cotton dresses for more expensive articles. A cotton shirt supplies moderately well the place of a linen one. Articles of elegance and luxury, however, even of this material, are complained of as most difficult of sale. In some of the large towns, a few houses are doing a fair business in heavy fabrics, such as fustians, moleskins, and other articles worn by the artisans and other working classes; and in some fancy goods of the same description for the middle classes. This fact, however, is in a great measure an $1 of the declining condition of the country generally, the articles in question being worn, in a majority of cases, as substitutes for the more costly woollen fabrics. Moreover, no profit accrues to the manufacturer from these goods, their production at existing rates of the raw material being, on the contrary, attended with absolute loss.

The retail trade in the manufacturing towns themselves, represented as being in such a satisfactory condition, is anything but good, a considerable portion of the population being employed only two or three days in the week, and the whole having been compelled during the past two or three years to submit to reduction of wages, as the price of their boasted boon of Free-trade. This is particularly the case in the districts of Rochdale, (John Bright’s district,) Heywood, Bury, Middleton, &c. The effect of preceding years’ short-time working is still severely felt, last year having been the only one since 1846—when we had the boasted measure of Sir Robert Peel, and the “heavy blow and great discouragement” was inflicted upon British agriculture and our sugar-growing colonies—that the manufacturing population have been fully employed.

Such being the acknowledged condition of the home market for manufactured goods, the question naturally presents itself—what has been the result, so far as profit is concerned, of the operations generally of the manufacturing community during the past four months? In reply to this question, it will be very easy to prove that thus far, in the present year, they have been the reverse of remunerative. The following extract from the circular of Messrs M‘Nair, Greenhow, and Irving, of Manchester—one of the best published, although putting rather the best face upon things—dated the 31st of December last year, will show the prospects with which manufacturers entered upon the present year:—

“Exactly twelve months ago we represented the transactions of the closing month as having been almost unprecedented in extent, considering the season of the year; and to-day we are happy to have in our power to communicate a pretty similar statement with regard to the present month, repeating what we have often remarked, that $1 in ordinary years is generally marked by dulness and inactivity.

“The position of the market, as indicated in our last (monthly) circular, continued for about ten days afterwards gradually acquiring greater force and depression, and accompanied with a decline in the value of many descriptions of cloth and twist. At that period, from a very prevalent belief that the commencement of the new year would be characterised by improvement, an active and vigorous demand for export and the home trade ensued, which has, notwithstanding the interruption of the holiday season, continued up to the present time, rendering the stocks of all kinds of light goods, as well as of some numbers of mule twist, exceedingly light, and placing many manufacturers and spinners under contract for some time hence.”

Another authority, Messrs Hollinshead, Tetley, & Co., an old-established cotton firm of Liverpool, who are generally in the possession of the best information, remarked upon the prospects of the district in their circular of the first of January as follows:—

“Prospects for the general trade of the country, at least as regards the principal articles of export, more particularly cotton fabrics, were perhaps never more promising; and it is evident that the late disturbing causes, political and social, in Europe and India, with the effects produced upon other countries, reducing the consumption of cotton to 22,230 weekly in 1847, and 27,602 in 1848, (previously upwards of 30,000 bales weekly,) created a vacuum which has not been filled up by the increased consumption of 30,512 bales weekly in the present year; indeed it would seem that this large quantity (and it has been proportionately great in other cotton manufacturing countries) has only been sufficient to supply the increasing wants of the world, as we no longer hear of glutted markets, but the report is of light stocks almost everywhere. And when we take into consideration the low price of all articles of food, corn particularly, (a questionable advantage, perhaps, when unnaturally low, if the home market is to be considered of any value,) the great abundance of money, its low value, not exceeding, perhaps, 2½ per cent per annum in the London market, with a larger amount of gold, &c. (£17,000,000) in the Bank of England than was ever known before, it is evident that a great stimulus may be given to the trade of the country, and that with the disfavour shown to railway property it is most likely the usual effects will follow—viz., extensive speculation and greatly enhanced prices of all articles of import, and of cotton in particular.”

The whole of the trade circulars, indeed, both from Liverpool and Manchester houses, expressed similar views with respect to the prospects of the present year; and seemed to expect an increase in the aggregate manufactures of the country. In reviewing the actual state of things which has taken place, I would direct your attention particularly to the fact of spinners and manufacturers being “under contract” at this period, as stated in the first circular from which I have quoted. Such contracts could only have been entered upon, consistently with prudence at least, in the anticipation of a continuance of the then existing prices of the raw material, or upon the assurance of a stock already in hand. To a considerable extent spinners did hold stock sufficient for the fulfilment, profitably, of a portion of their contracts, as is shown by the circumstance that they have, since the commencement of the year, worked up about 40,000 bales of cotton more than they have drawn from the Liverpool market. That in the majority of cases, however, the stocks held were only sufficient to complete a portion of the contracts entered into is a fact which is quite beyond dispute; and these parties have consequently been driven into the market to purchase the raw material at the ruling prices of the day. In order to ascertain their position, it will be necessary to trace the relative prices of cotton and of goods during the interval between December 1849 and the present time. Up to the commencement of that month, the prices of the raw material had been gradually rising; and the almost universal complaint of spinners and manufacturers had been of the unwillingness of buyers to pay a proportionate advance upon goods. Thus, on the 1st of June last year, the price of fair bowed cotton was 4¼d. per lb., from which it advanced gradually, owing to reports of a short yield of the crop in America, until on the 1st of January this year it stood at 6⅜d., being an advance of 2⅛d. per lb. The price of best seconds water twist, No. 20 was on the 1st of June 6¾d., and on the 1st of January 8¼d. The price of best second mule, No. 40, was at the same dates respectively 8½d. and 10½d. We had therefore—

This was obviously a losing trade; and it is acknowledged that, during the whole of this period business was only profitably carried on by the fortunate few who had laid in stocks at the low prices. On the 1st of February the highest price was attained, fair bowed cotton being quoted at 6⅞d., with No. 20 yarn at 8¾d., and No. 40 at 11¼d.—being an advance of ½ on the raw material, ½d. on the No. 20 yarn, and ¾d. on No. 40. To counteract the upward tendency of the market, a 600resort to the working of short time was resolved upon, principally by the spinners of coarse numbers; and the consumption was thus materially reduced, spinners and manufacturers drawing upon their stocks on hand, and thus keeping out of the markets for the raw material. A gradual decline in the price of cotton was the result—goods, however, sharing in the depression; and on the 1st of April fair bowed was quoted at 6⅛d., or ¾d. per lb. lower than in February. No. 20 yarn, the stocks having been reduced by short-time working, had declined only ½d. per lb.; No. 40, however, had fallen to the same extent as cotton. There was therefore no increase of prosperity brought about thus far by the short-time movement, the price of goods remaining at the same unsatisfactory point as compared with the raw material.

At this date, Messrs Robert Barbour and Brother of Manchester, in their monthly circular, speak as follows with respect to the general trade of the cotton manufacturing districts:—

“We have to report a very dull and unsatisfactory state of business in this district during the month. There has been a gradual decline in prices varying from 2½ to 7½ per cent, so that some kinds of goods can now be bought fully 10 to 12 per cent under the rates which were demanded in January. These reduced quotations have induced some parties to enter the market, but still the demand has been much under the average of what is usually experienced at this season of the year. The working of ‘short time’ is now generally adopted by the producers of coarse yarn and heavy goods, and several large mills continue closed. The drooping tendency of some descriptions of the finer fabrics has been slightly counteracted during the last week by more favourable intelligence from Calcutta and China; still, however, our market is unsteady, and it is more than usually difficult to form any idea of what is likely to be the future course of prices.

“In the goods market a general quietness has prevailed throughout the month, buyers acting with extreme caution, purchasing only in small parcels for the supply of their more pressing wants: prices, consequently, have been irregular, and some considerable sales have been made by needy manufacturers at very low rates.”

The dulness here spoken of is particularly observable in the staple articles consumed by the home trade. Messrs Barbour and Brother state that—

“36-inch shirtings have participated in the general depression, and stocks are beginning to accumulate. 66-reeds, 7¾ lb., have receded in value 6d. to 9d. per piece, having been sold in February at 8s. to 8s. 4½d., whilst now they are worth only 7s. 6d. to 7s. 9d.”

Again:—

“Domestics T cloths and stout long cloths continue neglected, notwithstanding the curtailed production, and can now be bought on easier terms. Average qualities of domestics have been sold at 9d. per lb., which is by no means remunerative to the maker.”

The concluding paragraph of the circular is very decisive as to the comparatively profitless nature of the manufacture:—

“Cotton has now declined about 1d. per lb. during the last three months. It is still, however, much higher than is warranted by the prices which can be obtained for the manufactured article. Indeed, $1.”

Since the date of the circular containing these gloomy accounts, an important change has taken place, and the tide has set in strongly against the manufacturing community. Immediately subsequent to its publication, the arrival of the American mail-steamer brought news confirmatory of the anticipations of a short crop of cotton, and prices immediately advanced, leaving the spinners and manufacturers to recruit their exhausted stocks at a further loss, as compared with the prices of goods. On the 5th of April, the receipts of cotton at the ports of America were shown to be 310,000 bales less than at the same period of the preceding year; whilst the stock computed to be held in Liverpool was 511,000 bales, as compared with 447,300 bales held at the same date in 1849, or only 63,700 bales more than last year, although spinners had decreased their consumption by 6300 bales per week, and taken 40,000 bales from their own stocks. The total crop of the United States, which had been estimated in the beginning of the year at from 2,250,000 to 2,300,000 bales, was only estimated in the advices by the steamer at 2,100,000 bales.

I fear that, to some readers, these statistics may be rather tedious. They are necessary, however, to enable us fully to understand the position in which this important branch of the manufactures of the country, and the large population dependent upon it, have been placed by the intelligence brought by another later mail from the United States, which arrived in the Mersey on the morning of the 16th ult. I have stated that the estimates formed of the probable crop in America, at the beginning of the year, varied from 2,250,000 to 2,300,000 bales. These had been reduced, up to the arrival of the steamer in the first week of April, to 2,100,000 bales. With this progressive decline going on in the amount of the crop, as estimated by competent judges upon the spot, and with the fact of decreased receipts at the American ports before their eyes, the spinners of this country have, with few exceptions, resolutely refused to give credit to the representations made to them, and kept further exhausting their stocks on hand, or buying only to supply their immediate wants. The arrival of the Niagara, however, has put the question at rest, and not only confirmed the statements as to the crop being a short one, but established the fact that it is likely to be much shorter than was by anybody anticipated. The following is the startling disclosure made by Mr T. J. Stewart of New York, one of the best authorities in the United States, upon the subject, in his circular of the 2d ult.:—

“The crop proves to be a short one—and if measured by the ability of the world to consume, the shortest one since ’41–’42. The falling off in the receipts regularly exceeds the progressive estimate I made some time since, and on which I made up my table of 2,100,000 bales. It will close $1. How far below, I cannot at present say, but the interior of the country is exhausted of supplies to so great a degree, that it is evident that such a figure is totally impracticable.”

The decrease in the stocks arrived at the ports of America is put down by him now at 470,000 bales. Of this very insufficient crop of less than 2,000,000 bales—that of the preceding year, I may remark, was 2,728,000—Mr Stewart reminds us that $1. This, of itself, is a somewhat startling fact, and proves the rapid strides which America is making toward depriving this country of its manufacturing pre-eminence.

It is obvious, from the above circumstances, that the American planters, and the holders of cotton in that country and in Liverpool, have the manufacturer at this moment within their grasp, and will be enabled to extort from his necessities still higher prices than those which have for months past rendered his business a losing one. The stocks of cotton held in the manufacturing districts are unprecedentedly light, and those of goods have been of late considerably reduced. But can an advance be secured on the manufactured article, corresponding with that demanded for the raw material? Few people believe this to be practicable. With the exception of a little temporary activity in the demand of goods for the East Indian market, towards the middle of last month, the gloomy feeling existing in every branch of the trade had deepened, and the demand for nearly every article perceptibly lessened. The accounts received by export houses from foreign markets are not of a character to encourage further operations; and the demand for the home trade remains very limited. In broad terms, $1. With respect to the foreign trade, the worst feature is the falling off in the demand from the United States, to which I showed that, in the first two months of this year, we had shipped goods equal to the one half of last year’s exports. The returns for these shipments may be expected to be very unsatisfactory. On this subject, the last steamer (the Niagara) brought the following report:—

“The spring trade of New York $1. Early in January there was an unusually active demand. High prices were obtained, and large sales were made; since then business had fallen off, and $1. The stock of British and other foreign dry goods was not large, but the demand was small.”

From this market, expectations of the most sanguine character had been previously indulged in, which are thus rudely dashed to the ground.

As yet the manufacturing community, stunned by the conviction which has been forced upon them of their desperate position, have formed no definite resolution as to the course to be pursued. For a week or two longer, it is possible that a portion of them may make further fruitless efforts to keep down the market for the raw material, which will now be held by speculators, aided by the abundant funds in the hands of bankers, with the certainty of ultimately realising higher rates. In the opinion of parties acquainted intimately with the whole circumstances of the trade, the only available course for spinners is to decrease consumption still further, by an extension of the system of working short time, or by closing a considerable portion of the mills altogether. Profitable working, even without an increase in the price of the raw material, is out of the question, with markets in their present depressed condition. But with such an advance as must be paid, if even the present reduced rate of consumption is to go on, the business would be perfectly ruinous.

It is painful to reflect upon the severe suffering which must be entailed upon the operative and middle classes, throughout the manufacturing districts, by a general suspension of operations, or even by an increase of short-time working. These classes, greatly reduced as their wages have been during the past two years, have not, I may repeat, recovered as yet from the effect of the suspension of manufacturing activity to which they were forced in 1847 and 1848; and are consequently in a much worse position to be thrown again upon their own resources. The neatly furnished cottage no longer remains to be dismantled for the purpose of providing food for their families. The little savings’ bank hoards disappeared in those years, and have not since been replaced. A few employers, no doubt, may be disposed to allow to their hands a pittance sufficient to provide against actual deprivation; but it is to be feared that the mass will act with no such humane considerateness. Another result of such a course must be still farther to decrease the consumption, and depress the prices, of our large stocks of imported produce, and thus to inflict heavy losses upon their holders.

It is to me perfectly clear, and the fact is tacitly admitted by a large portion of the community engaged in mercantile and manufacturing pursuits, that a most trying and fearful crisis is at hand; and that the present summer will not end without her Majesty’s Ministers, and the Free Trade party, being compelled to acknowledge that the speech from the Throne, and the representations of prosperity made by them at the opening of Parliament, were, if not deliberate perversions of the truth, at all events most ill-considered and hasty. We had in February last, it is now evident, no such thing as even prosperous manufactures, or a healthy state of commerce. Whilst these representations were being made, and agricultural pursuits alone pointed to as being in a state of temporary depression, the leading manufacture of the country was being carried on without profit, and our merchants and traders were feeling the ground shake beneath their feet. It is of no use, however, to refer to the past. The questions for the nation now to consider are—first, What is it which has brought about this general prostration of the country? and next, Where is the remedy to be applied? It is idle for the Free-traders to point any longer to potato rots, to railway manias, or to high prices of cotton, as the cause of the failure of their predictions of coming general prosperity. The truth is palpably before the world that the foreign trade, stimulate it as we may, will not employ the industry of the country; and that a prosperous home trade is indispensably necessary to render the foreign trade a profitable one. It is equally idle to tell us that the present state of things is only temporary, and that a different result of our recent policy will be attained by and by. In what direction are we to look for the change? Is any new world about to be discovered? Is there a single outlet to be found for our manufactures, which we cannot close up in a month? I confess that I cannot discern a gleam of hope for the future, or a prospect of the restoration of this great nation to its wonted prosperity, except in a total reversal of the legislation of the past few years, by which, and by which alone, has been caused that prostration of its industry and enterprise, which we are now witnessing on every side—in our own once happy land, and throughout the length and breadth of that vast colonial empire, once the pride of Great Britain, and the envy of the world, but now her shame, ruined and robbed as it has been by the legislation of designing or incapable statesmen. With our agricultural population fast sinking into pauperism and insolvency, or taking flight from our shores, as from those of an infected land, to fertilise with their capital and enterprise other soils, which own protective governments and a kindred people; with the landed aristocracy of the kingdom, and squirearchy and the yeomen, stripped of half their possessions—the baronial hall no longer distributing its hospitality to thousands, and pinching poverty and thrift marking the household arrangements, where of old there was plenty, a cup for the needy, and consolation and succour for the afflicted; with the middle classes in our towns forced down in the social scale, and hovering over the gulf of insolvency and ruin, and the labourer turned out, a desperate man, to wrest with the strong hand the food which we deny him the means to purchase, whilst we mock him with its cheapness—the manufacturing body will strive in vain for the consummation of that object which, in their selfishness, they proposed to themselves as the result of the boasted Free-trade policy—viz. the setting up of their houses over those of the time-honoured names of the land. Blindly and madly they have detached the handful of snow from the summit of the mountain; with mocking jeers of hideous and idiotic glee, they have seen its gathering bulk, and watched its progress as it rolled, prostrating the cottage and the farmstead, and spreading devastation over the vineyard and the waving corn; and they stand now shuddering at the mighty avalanche which is thundering above the tall chimney and the smoky town, and will shortly involve themselves in the general calamity and devastation. Yes, the fears of these men are at length beginning to be effectively roused by the contemplation of the work of their own hands. I say $1, because the day of retribution is only now coming upon them, and making itself felt. The philosophers of the loom and spindle talk now “with bated breath” of the efficacy of their universal specific. There are doubting anxious faces on ‘Change, gloomy greetings as they meet in the streets, and idle hands in the once busy salerooms and warehouses. Many, whose voices were lately loud in cheering the flattering tales and sophistries of their Cobdens and Brights—some of those even whose subscriptions enabled the former to buy his Woodland farm, and whose votes and influence hoisted the blustering Quaker into a seat in the Legislature, are now ready to acknowledge, in private, that “there is some mistake;” that they have, perhaps, gone too far; and that, after all, Free Trade is “only an experiment.” Alas! it is one whose fatal effects will have to be deeply deplored, and from which the country will not recover for years to come. A quarter of a century of toil will scarcely replace the capital which has been swept away, up to the present period. More remains to be swept away; but now it will be the capital of the authors of the calamity.

And this portion of these philosophers are busily and eagerly striving to persuade the farmer that he is foolishly nervous under the apprehension of permanent low prices; and that these have now reached the level at which the foreigner can no longer supply us profitably. Unfortunately, whilst they are sagely assuring the world of this fact, grain and flour keeps steadily pouring into our ports, at still further reduced prices; and additional evidence is daily being afforded of the total ignorance of the subject displayed in their statistics and calculations: supplies are reaching us daily from countries which were left altogether out of the catalogue of those from whose growers we were led to anticipate competition. Thus from France, a country which it was always said was not able to grow sufficient for its own consumption, the receipts at the port of Liverpool during two weeks, in which alone the quantity is quoted separately, were as follows:—

And from that country, and the whole of the ports of the North of Europe, distant from us by only a few days’ sail—by a voyage made in less time than the average consumed in those made from port to port on our own coasts—supplies will continue to come, at rates with which the British grower can never hope to compete. In fact, the farmer of the North of Europe may in future be treated as a British subject—enjoying all the immunities of one, without contributing towards his burthens. He is nearer the London or the Liverpool markets than a Norfolk or a Lincolnshire farmer; and that he frequently pays less for the conveyance of his produce than it will be seen from the following table, which contains the rates actually paid in Liverpool by importing houses during the years beginning in 1847 to this year, such farmer pays:—

Yet the freight on wheat was to be a sufficient protection for the farmer!

I must here, sir, leave the subject to your own powerful pen. I have given you the facts as I have collated them from the most authentic sources, and the observations which I have made personally; and they have more than confirmed the impressions with which I entered upon this inquiry.— have the honour to be, &c.

ALISON’S POLITICAL ESSAYS. [5]

The collection of scattered periodical essays, especially such as are of a strictly political character, is an adventure far more perilous to the reputation of an author than the issue of any single work deliberately planned, and laboriously executed in the closet. The historian, dealing solely with the records of the past, reviving or recreating pictures which have long ago appeared upon the ancient canvass, may without difficulty arrange his scattered portraits and groups in such an order, that they shall impress the public mind with a feeling of absolute novelty. A historical paradox, if ingeniously conceived and plausibly conveyed, is sure to command attention. The fickleness of the Athenians was by no means idiosyncratic to that volatile nation. All men weary of hearing the same phrase and the same judgment invariably repeated. They suspect the justice of Aristides, or the perfidy of Crookback Richard, on account of the unanimous verdict, and are by no means displeased when any daring casuist steps forward, armed with a tolerable array of proof, to detract from the rigid virtue of the one, or to palliate the vices of the other. In truth, the materials of all history are so various and conflicting in their character, that an artist of consummate skill, who is withal not over-scrupulous, may easily pass off fictions under the disguise of broad reality. Historical sketches, therefore, which relate to past events, may be viewed in the light either of lively episodes or of profound commentaries; and their republication, after a term of years, can in no way affect the soundness of the author’s judgment.

To republish criticisms, especially such as relate to the works of cotemporaries, is certainly a more delicate task. It is easy to comment upon an author whose works have been long before the public, and frequently and diligently scanned. High criticism may discover beauties or detect faults which have escaped the notice of less keen and scrutinising observers; but, in the aggregate, certainly in the majority of cases, the broad opinion which has been expressed by others is allowed to remain unchallenged. The influence of previous judgment invariably sways the critic. None are rash enough to deny the genius of Shakspeare; at the same time, nothing is more certain than that, were another Shakspeare to arise amongst us at this moment, there would be no kind of unanimity as to his deserts. In all ages and in all countries this has been the rule. Personal spite, unacknowledged and possibly unperceived envy, party difference of opinion, disparity of station, prejudice of education—all these, in their turn, have passed, like so many clouds, between the sun of living genius and the critics who surveyed its orbit. Nor ought we to overlook the fact that, in many instances, meteors have been mistaken for suns, and the eyes of the critic been dazzled by a glare, to which his own willing imagination lent at least one half its brilliancy. Therefore it is that contemporary criticism, when republished in an abiding form, rarely satisfies the expectation of the reader. His own judgment has been formed, apart from the considerations and prejudices which are so apt to beset the critic; and he conceives an unfavourable impression of the literary acuteness of the writer, when he finds a gross discrepancy between the older and the later estimate.

But far more trying to an author is the republication of political essays, composed during the progress of great national events. This branch of composition is peculiar to our own age, in which periodical literature is so marked and eminent a feature. Pamphleteering is of venerable date. Sir Thomas More, Milton, Marvell, Swift, and Defoe, were all notable pamphleteers; but periodical writing, in the highest sense of the term, is the invention of the present century. That great and influential organs of public opinion, ranking among their contributors the men of the highest intellect and the most laborious acquirements, should have been established in our time, marks not only the development of the influence of the press, but the importance of the events which such men are imperatively summoned to discuss. It marks even more, for it has established a power beyond the boundaries of the old constitution, which, as it is used or misused, cannot fail to affect materially the destinies of Great Britain.

Every political treatise referring to events which have engrossed the attention of the day, either as modifications or as changes of our social system, must be valuable in later years. It must necessarily recommend or condemn measures on account of their probable operation in the time to come; it must in some degree be a prophecy, or else it is practically worthless. The politician studies the past merely as his guide for the future. If he is learned, wise, and at all an adept in the science which he professes—than which no other is of so momentous an import—he will consider past history as the barometer which must guide him in predicating the approach either of a tempest or a calm. Temporary clamour or occasional obstruction will not lead him to forsake clear principles of action, or to recommend a grand constitutional remedy in the case of a trifling local disease. He must look forward beyond the sphere of immediate action—resolute in this belief, that one false step, however small, may upset the equilibrium of the State. Expediency, the modern idol, finds little favour in the eyes of the true and sagacious statesman. He tests measures by their intrinsic value, regardless of the “pressure from without;” and he looks upon Parliamentary majorities as of less moment than the maintenance of the real interests of his country.

If we apply these remarks to our later political history, and to the conduct of those men whom circumstances have elevated to the highest stations in Government, we shall at once perceive that the first great principles of practical statesmanship have been abandoned. The welfare and integrity of the Empire has been made a subsidiary object to the triumph of party ambition; and accordingly, CONSISTENCY, that grand test of a politician’s sincerity and soundness, is the very quality which is wanting. To consistency, indeed, neither Lord John Russell nor Sir Robert Peel, for many years the rival chiefs of party, can lay the slightest claim. They have been playing a long, and, doubtless, an interesting game, with the map of Britain and its dependencies before them as a chess-board: they have directed the whole of their energies to giving checkmate to one another; and with this view they have again and again altered the relative positions of king and queen, bishops, knights, castles, and pawns. To counteract the last move of his adversary was the great object of each of these ingenious players. It was a pretty trial of dexterity and finesse; but we trust, for the sake of the chessmen, that the match is finally concluded. Talent of this kind may, indeed, be available when it is necessary to contend with a foreign adversary; but it is worse than mischievous when practised systematically at home.

To have surveyed the political events of the last twenty years with a calm and dispassionate eye—to estimate the consequences of each concession to popular clamour, and each move for party purposes—to form inductions as to the future from the indelible history of the past—to trace the causes of social misery and disquiet to their remote and recondite source—to discern the coming cloud of adversity in the midst of apparent abundance—required more than common thought, learning, sagacity, and prescience; and the man who has done all this, cannot fail to be ranked, in the estimation of those whose judgment is of real value, among the first masters of political and economic science. Many brilliant commentaries upon passing events, which at the first blush were received as absolute oracles of wisdom, have utterly failed in their predictions, and are now consigned to oblivion. They failed—if from no other cause, at least assuredly from this—that they flowed from the pens of partisans, whose whole energies were devoted to the advancement of themselves and their faction. Party spirit, indeed, has of late years almost entirely overshadowed that patriotism which was once our highest boast. Truth may be spoken of an opponent—and very often more than truth; but it is seldom expressed with regard to the political conduct of those whom men are accustomed to regard as their friends. Private motives are allowed to interfere with the more rigorous functions of the censor; the moralist is changed into the apologetic rhetorician; the judge becomes the interested advocate.

Were the present crisis of our political history less momentous than it truly is—were not the great and final struggle for a return to the principles, by means of which our national greatness was achieved, so near at hand—we might, from motives and considerations easily appreciable, have left this volume of Mr Alison’s collected political essays without any special notice. For a long period of years, embracing the most important changes which have been made in the institutions and relations of this country, Mr Alison has been a constant contributor to the Magazine, adopting his own views, enforcing his own opinions, without reference to the distinctions of party or the position of individual statesmen. We believe that, in some respects, the attitude of the Magazine has differed from that assumed by any periodical publication in the country. It has never been the organ of a Party, and never subservient to a Government. Many times we have been compelled to differ from those whose political opinions have been thought most closely to approximate to our own; and never have we hesitated to express that difference in clear and unambiguous terms, knowing that a true and honourable conviction never ought to be concealed, or can be without affecting the integrity of those who entertain it.

The present publication sufficiently discloses the part which Mr Alison has taken in the political discussions which have arisen during that eventful period. They are valuable to the rising generation for two especial reasons. In the first place, they are a faithful record of the impressions which passing events made upon the mind of a highly-gifted, generous, and independent man, the object of whose life was apart from those pursuits which inflame the passions, whilst they warp the judgment, of the mere partisan. In the second place, they will enable the reader to trace, step by step, the innovations which modern Liberalism has made upon the older limits of the constitution; and to estimate the consistency of those who at one time affected to be the opponents of that Liberalism, and at another, whether through weakness, or treachery, or ambition, came forward to assist in its blind and infatuated progress.

Perhaps the most interesting papers in the present volume are those which refer to the memorable and exciting era of the Reform Bill. They are not only interesting, but highly instructive in a constitutional point of view, as showing the utter disregard of the Whig faction to the maintenance of that political framework which, when in power, they affect to worship with almost superstitious veneration. Never, probably, was there a period in our history when the passions of the populace were more dexterously and deliberately excited by men of high station, and by no means contemptible intellect. Treason was then in vogue: sedition openly encouraged. Most of us can recollect the ugly and ominous emblems which were paraded through the streets of the larger towns, and the violence with which every one supposed to be hostile to the popular measure was assailed. Haughty aristocrats, like the late Earl Grey, condescended to treat with Jacobin clubs and political unions; the physical power of the masses was appealed to as an argument of irresistible weight, and Whig officials were privy to the plan of a projected Birmingham insurrection. The voice of reason was entirely stifled amidst the general democratic howl, and all suggestions as to a modification of the grand electoral scheme were treated with fierce hostility. The framers of the measure had no wish that its details should be narrowly sifted, or submitted to the test of principle. There was a deep meaning in the phrase, which at that time passed into a proverb, “The Bill—the whole Bill—and nothing but the Bill!” No other method of reform, however large and comprehensive, would have suited the junta who then deemed themselves secure of an interminable lease of power. And why? Because any other measure which might have embraced the claim of the Colonies to a share in the Imperial representation, would have interfered with their special project of lowering the landed interest, and giving a decided preponderance in Parliament to the votes of the urban population.

We are far from wishing to maintain that the spirit which animated the councils of the Conservative leaders of the day was in all respects the most prudent; or that they did not to a certain extent accelerate the movement by withholding minor concessions, which might have been gracefully and advantageously given. But in justice to them it must be remembered, that they had a great principle to contend for—a principle too little understood then, and perhaps only now becoming generally appreciated on account of the pernicious effects which have resulted from its violation. The older Representative system of Great Britain might appear to the casual eye artificial, unequal, and therefore unjust; but it had this grand and wholesome advantage, which we look for in vain in its successor, that, by means of it, not only were the great classes of the community at home adequately represented, but our fellow-subjects of the Colonies could, and did, exercise a direct influence within the walls of St Stephen’s. To allow this influence to be encroached on, however covertly or plausibly, seemed tantamount to an abandonment of the principle by which the Conservative party had been guided throughout; and subsequent events have shown that no exaggerated estimate was formed of the tendencies of democratic rule. This conviction of the prospective danger of the Reform measure to the integrity of the British Empire was, we know, the main cause of that early, though perhaps injudicious, resistance to the extension of the electoral suffrage, which finally gave way before the impulse added to popular excitement by the example of foreign revolution. As regarded the welfare of our Colonies, the Reform Bill was virtually a death-blow. It laid the foundation for a rapid succession of measures, selfish in their tendency and grossly impolitic, which have already gone far to pervert the loyal feelings of the Colonists, by teaching them that the mother country has decided upon a policy altogether injurious to their interests as subjects of the British Crown. They have had no voice, no direction in the legislative enactments which have since that time so deeply affected their prosperity; they have been governed rather as tributaries than as portions of the Empire; and their complaints have been too often treated with undisguised contumely, or, at best, with haughty indifference. Our opinion as to the importance of the maintenance of our Colonial dominions, and the imminent necessity which exists of securing that maintenance by giving them some effective voice in the legislative councils of Great Britain, has been repeatedly expressed. No other step will suffice to stay the tide of disaffection; and happy will it be for all of us, if the practical refutation of the Free-trade delusion, now becoming every day more obvious and acknowledged, shall lead to such prudent measures, with regard to our dependencies, as may again consolidate into one great and united mass, inspired by the same feelings and actuated by the same interests, the scattered elements of British greatness and renown.

But apart altogether from Colonial considerations, the Reform Bill has been productive of the most serious consequences to the internal economy of this country. Under its benign operation the National Debt, instead of being diminished, is augmented; whilst, at the same time, by a system of ruinous cheapness, induced by the free admission of foreign produce to compete in the home market with our own, incomes have been lowered by nearly a half, and the means of paying the increased taxation have been proportionably curtailed. We do not believe that the Whigs, while straining every energy to carry the Reform Bill, meditated the possibility of any such results. We have their own statements—at least those of Lords Melbourne and John Russell—to the contrary; and even were it otherwise, we are not disposed to attribute to that party so great a share of political prescience, as to assume that they foresaw the consequences of their own deliberate act.

It was, however, foreseen by others. In 1831, Mr Alison, arguing from historical precedents, predicted that the natural effect of the passing of the Reform Bill would be the repeal of the Corn Laws.

“When it is recollected,” wrote he, “that 300 English members of the Reformed house are to be for the boroughs, and only 150 for the counties, it may easily be anticipated that this effect is certain. And in vain will the House of Peers strive to resist such a result: their power must have been so completely extinguished before the Reform Bill is past, that any resistance on their part would be speedily overcome.

“This first and unavoidable consequence of this great change will at once set the manufacturing classes at variance with the agricultural interest; and then will commence that fatal war between the different classes of society, which has hitherto been only repressed by the weight and authority of a stable, and, in a certain degree, hereditary government, composed of an intermixture of the representatives of $1 interests. When it is recollected that wheat can be raised with ease in Poland at prices varying from 17s. to 20s. a quarter, and that it can be laid down on the quay of any harbour in Britain at from 33s. to 40s., it may easily be anticipated what a revolution in prices will, in the $1, be effected by this measure. We say in the $1 instance—for nothing seems clearer than that the $1 effect will be, by throwing a large portion of British land out of cultivation, and in its stead producing a more extensive growth of grain on the shores of the Vistula, to restore the equilibrium between the supply of corn and its consumption, and, by means of destroying a large portion of British agriculture, raise the prices again to their former standard.”

We have lately been favoured, from certain quarters, with ingenious disquisitions touching the probable future price of grain in this country—disquisitions to which we by no means object, as, apart altogether from their truth or their falsity, they manifest a growing uneasiness as to the possibility of maintaining the Free-trade system for many months longer. We may perhaps be allowed to take some credit to ourselves for having effected this change in the tone and sentiments of gentlemen who, not long ago, were clamorous in their praise of cheap food and diminished agricultural prices. In our January Number, by the aid of the most intelligent, skilful, and experienced agriculturists of Scotland, we proved, beyond the power of refutation, that no British farmer could stand his ground against the present influx of foreign corn, and that no possible reduction of rent, short of its annihilation, would enable him to meet the deficiency. We were met, as might naturally be expected, by the double weapons of rancorous abuse and deliberate falsification.^[6] But these having utterly failed in their purpose, our antagonists have since changed their ground altogether, and are now attempting to argue, against the experience of each successive week, that the present fall of prices is merely temporary, and that wheat must again rise to something like its former level. How long they may continue in their endeavours to propagate this fresh delusion we know not. They cannot mislead the farmers, at whose door ruin is at present knocking with an unmistakeable sound. The only men they can mislead are their unhappy dupes, who have been taught to believe that the prosperity of Britain depends solely upon one of the weakest, most unstable, and most precarious of its manufactures.

In the same article from which we have just quoted, Mr Alison wrote as follows:—

“Now, the misery arising from the reduction of the resources of the farmer could not be confined to his own class in society; it would immediately and seriously affect the manufacturing and commercial interests. The great trade of every country, as Adam Smith long ago remarked, is between the town and the country: by far the greatest part of the produce of our looms is consumed by those who, directly or indirectly, are fed by the British plough. Not the haughty aristocrat only, who spends his life in luxurious indolence among his hereditary trees, but the innumerable classes who are maintained by his rents and fed by his expenditure—the numerous creditors who draw large parts of his rents through their mortgages, and live in affluence in distant towns upon the produce of his land—the farmers, who subsist in comparative comfort on the industry which they exert on his estates—the tradesmen and artisans, who are fed by his expenditure or the wants of his tenantry—all would suffer alike by such a change of prices as should seriously affect the industry of the cultivators. Every shopkeeper knows how much he is dependent on the expenditure of those who directly or indirectly are maintained by the land, and what liberal purchasers landlords are, compared to those who subsist by manufactures; and it is probable that the first and greatest sufferers by the repeal of the Corn Laws would be many of those very persons whose blind cry for Reform had rendered it unavoidable.

“Now, the discouragement of British agriculture consequent on a free-trade in corn would be $1, although the benefit to the inhabitants of towns could only be temporary. After the destruction of a large portion of British agriculture had been effected, by the immense inundation of foreign grain, prices would rise again to their former level, because the monopoly would then be vested in the hands of the foreign growers; and the bulky nature of grain renders it $1 impossible to introduce an $1 supply of that article by sea transport. But the condition of British agriculture would not be materially benefited by the change; because prices would rise $1 in consequence of the British grower being, for the most part, driven out of the field; and could be maintained at a high level only by his being $1 from an extensive competition with the foreign cultivator. Should the British farmers, recovering from their consternation, recommence the active agriculture which at present maintains our vast and increasing population, the consequence would be, that prices would immediately fall to such a degree, as speedily to reduce them to their natural and unavoidable state of inferiority to the farmers of the Continent.

“In considering this subject, there are two important circumstances to be kept in view, proved abundantly by experience, but which have not hitherto met with the general attention which they deserve.

“The first of these is, that, in agriculture—differing in this respect from manufactures—the introduction of machinery, or the division of labour, can effect $1 in the price of its produce, or the facility of its production; and perhaps the best mode of cultivation yet known is that which is carried on by the greatest possible application of human labour, in the form of spade cultivation. The proof of this is decisive. Great Britain, with the aid of the steam-engine, can undersell the weavers of Hindostan with muslins manufactured out of cotton grown on the banks of the Ganges; but it is undersold in its own markets by the wheat-grower on the banks of the Vistula, or in the basin of the Mississippi. It is in vain, therefore, for a state like England, burdened with high prices and an excessive taxation—the natural consequence of commercial opulence—to hope that its industry can, in agriculture as in manufactures, withstand the competition of the foreign grower. Machinery, skill, and capital can easily counteract high prices in all other articles of human consumption: in agriculture, they can produce no such effect. This is a law of nature which will subsist to the end of the world.

“The second is, that a comparatively small importation of grain produces a prodigious effect on the prices at which it is sold. The importation of a tenth part of the annual consumption does not, it is calculated, lower prices a tenth, but $1—and so on with the importation of smaller quantities. This has always been observed, and is universally acknowledged by political economists. Although, therefore, the greatest possible importation of foreign grain must always be a part only of that required for the consumption of the whole people, yet still the effect upon the current rate of prices would be most disastrous. The greatest importation ever known was in 1801, when it amounted, in consequence of the scarcity, to an $1 part of the annual consumption; but the free introduction of much less than that quantity would reduce the price of wheat in the first instance, in an ordinary year, to 45s. the quarter.

“The repeal of the Corn Laws, therefore, is calculated to inflict a $1 wound on the agricultural resources of the empire, and permanently injure all the numerous classes who depend on that branch of industry, and confer only a $1 benefit, by the reduction of prices, on the manufacturing labourers. The benefit is temporary, and mixed up, even at first, with a most bitter portion of alloy; the evil lasting, unmitigated by any benefit whatever.”

We are now in the course of enduring that precise phase of suffering, arising from the repeal of the Corn Laws, which was predicted by Mr Alison more than eighteen years ago; and it is solely from the extent of that suffering that we are inclined to form a better augury for the future than we could have ventured to have done in the course of the bygone year. Three months have not passed since, at the opening of Parliament, the Whig Ministry with unparalleled audacity ventured to congratulate the country on its general prosperous condition! Themselves indeed they might congratulate, that, by means of an income and property tax, imposed under false pretences by a former Premier, the public revenue was still sufficient to meet its ordinary engagements; but what other ground of congratulation there was, no host of witnesses could tell. Could they venture to congratulate the country $1 on the state of the manufacturing districts? Has this little interval of three months, at a time of universal peace and unparalleled cheapness, sufficed to change universal prosperity into widespread and acknowledged depression? Not so. The depression had begun long before—it commenced so soon as falling prices warned the agricultural consumers of the fate which was in store for them; and if Ministers did not know this, they are utterly unfit to retain their places longer. The continuance of that depression can be only measured by the existence of the Free-trade system. If that is allowed to go on, and if there be indeed, as is now the common cant of the Liberal journalists, no possibility of retracing our steps, the next move will be one of plunder. No foreign trade can compensate for the tithe of the loss sustained by the depreciation of property at home. That cheapness which means nothing else than curtailment of individual profits, from the highest to the lowest, cannot possibly coexist with expensive government and enormous taxation. The public creditor will be marked for the next blow; and his situation is the more precarious from the peculiar monetary history of the country, and the first important measure—pity also that it had not been the last!—which Sir Robert Peel was instrumental in carrying through the House of Commons.

We are not only hopeful but sanguine as to the power of Great Britain in extricating herself from a difficulty, not transient as before, but settled in its character, because we believe that the downfal of a wretched, presuming, and ignorant faction cannot be much longer delayed. We have been cursed, for many years back, by the predominance of a race of quacks, impostors, sham economists, and political adventurers, who, through favour of the Reform Bill, have forced their way into Parliament, after having failed in the ordinary occupations of trade, and have succeeded in palming their crude and pestilential doctrines upon Ministers too occupied with individual ambition to care much for the public welfare. Does any one believe that such men have any interest in maintaining the public credit, or that they would not, did an opportunity occur, attempt to defraud the creditor, as they have already succeeded in diminishing the means of the debtor? Surely a thoughtful review of the political events which have occurred within the last five years is enough to remove any lingering credulity on this point. We do not ask any one to adopt our views, or to accept our construction. Let him deliberately reflect upon the language of these men in 1845, when the political and commercial fever was at its height—when private individuals were persuaded that they might rear fortunes without the drudgery of industry, and when statesmen were preparing to recommend the same false principle for the general guidance of the nation. How the upstart economists swaggered, strutted, and cackled then! Not a whit less incompetent and treacherous, as guides in their own path, than were the mushroom clerks and pimpled adventurers of the Stock Exchanges in another, they stood forth like so many political John Laws, proclaiming that unbounded wealth, increased demand for labour, and endless influx of capital would be the immediate result of their magnificent free-trading schemes. They had figures and blue-books, returns, calculations and balance-sheets, painfully concocted by plodding theorists, ready at hand to back up their asseverations, and to satisfy the doubts of the most sceptical. This is peculiarly an age in which men are befooled by figures. A century ago, it was enough that a statement should pass from writing into print, and be included in the columns of a journal, in order to secure its currency as a point of popular belief. The increase of journalism has in some respects remedied this, most men being now alive to the fact that typography possesses no peculiar immunity from falsehood. But figures are—or at least were a few years ago—untainted in their reputation. Few people were cautious enough to resist a tempting calculation. It never entered into their heads to suppose that there lay gross error, radical fallacy, and often deliberate fraud, in the imposing array of cyphers which were ostentatiously paraded for their inspection. If half-a-dozen unscrupulous swindlers determined to start a railway, nothing more was required to secure a rush for the scrip, than a summary of phantom traffic, exhibiting a clear return of some fifteen or twenty per cent after deduction of the working expenses. We all know what has been the result of that widespread infatuation. In precisely the same manner did the economists concoct their accounts, when they issued their Free-trade prospectus. Less honest, or perhaps more daringly fraudulent than the railway projectors, they did not propose to grant any compensation for the land at all, but their traffic tables were undoubtedly an arithmetical $1! Two millions per week of clear gain was about the smallest estimate; and to this result various persons, whose previous biography, now that they have emerged as public characters, might be interesting, pledged their valuable reputations!

That they imposed upon the leaders of party, as well as upon a large section of the nation, is no matter of marvel. Statesmen are not exempt from folly, imprudence, or delusion, any more than private persons. One may be cold, selfish, and greedy; another rash, unscrupulous, and obstinate; but, as there are few fish which will not take a bait, so there seem to be few modern statesmen proof against the temptation of altering their policy, if, by doing so, they believe that they can secure possession of an unlimited lease of power. In the present case the bait was dexterously spun between the two rivals, and the anxiety of both to secure it was so great, that neither took the precaution of examining curiously into the nature of its actual texture.

There is hardly a man in the country, from the peer to the artisan, who is not asking himself at this moment, what he has gained by Free-trade. So far as the agricultural interest is concerned, there is no dubiety on the point. The landlord is dunned for reduction of rent, is discontinuing his improvements, reducing his establishment, and setting his house in order for an altered style of living. The tenant is wellnigh ruined, furious that he has been betrayed, economising labour as he best can, or seriously meditating emigration. The labourer finds his wages reduced, his small comforts curtailed or abolished, work scarce, and the workhouse at no great distance. Let them all take comfort. According to our hopeful economists, this is a mere “transition state of suffering.” What the next state is to be, no prophet of them all can foretell. Meantime certain Solons advocate a wholesale emigration—rather a strange panacea for a nation about to be so prosperous!

Go to the towns or the manufacturing districts, and ask how they are prospering. The cotton trade is threatening to shut up. The travellers are returning disconsolate to their employers with the news that orders are every day becoming more scarce, and money payments even scarcer. There is no joy or exultation now in Leeds or Bradford. The journeymen operatives are combining against the slop system. The Morning Chronicle harrows up the feelings of its readers, by tearful tales of the misery and destitution which prevails throughout the large towns of the empire, and no human being can deny the truth of the appalling statements. Scottish philanthropists, on their midnight visits to the wynds of Edinburgh, are struck with amazement at the squalor and vice which they encounter, and not less with the shoals of destitute creatures who are hurrying, with perverse infatuation, from the free open country to the fated atmosphere of a loathsome city garret. They want to check the stream, and drive the current back again. But whither? In the country there is no work for these people. Machinery has forced the hand-loom from the villages; Free Trade is reducing the wages of the spade to nothing. From the Western Highlands, and from Ireland, those who have money enough left to secure a passage on ship-board are emigrating by thousands—it is, we are told by a correspondent, the briskest trade in Liverpool. Those who have no money left are trooping to the towns, with the prospect before them of a fate which might rend the heart of the most callous. Who would wish to be a statesman, if for the consequences of all his deeds he must be held accountable hereafter?

Ask the master-manufacturers themselves how they are getting on, now that they have succeeded in their darling scheme of securing cheap food, and paralysing the home trade? You may ask if you will, but you will hardly obtain an answer, save through the medium of the trade circulars, all filled with dismal forebodings. Were another Cobden testimonial to be proposed just now, the subscriptions would scarcely purchase many shares in the most depreciated of the lines.

Ask the gentlemen of the railway interest, what cause is in operation to crush down their traffic and annihilate their dividends? They will tell you to a man that it is the universal agricultural depression. Ask the iron-masters how they are thriving? At this moment they are trembling for the stability of their colossal fortunes.

It is utterly impossible that this state of matters can continue much longer. If we do not reverse our mad and desperate policy—and that soon—the pressure of taxation, still retaining its former money-level, whilst the production which contributes to it is depreciated by a half, will become so unendurable, that any remedy, however desperate, will find numerous advocates; and amongst the foremost and most clamorous of these will be the leading sham economists. The stateliest ship, when the water is gaining upon her hold, must perforce part with her guns—the parallel case is being practically exhibited just now, by the efforts of the financial reformers to get rid of our warlike establishments. If we cannot part with our defences, we must do without something else. There is in the mean time a talk of reducing salaries, paring down judicial emoluments, and retrenching diplomatic expenses. Lord John Russell, with no very good grace, has been forced to refer these matters to a committee, for the evident purpose of securing the longest possible period of delay. But the tax-gatherer will not be idle in his function, and still the clamour will increase. Superfluities will go first—but no surrender of superfluities will meet the exigency. Men, when pressed to the last extremity, become reckless of their personal obligations; and we have already heard from various quarters intimations that, if the land is to be permanently depreciated, the creditor who has lent his money on the security of that land must be prepared to share the burden of the loss with the owner. There is a smack of wild justice in this, not at all unpalatable to the taste of a burdened debtor. Sir Robert Peel’s favourite question, “What is a pound?” will be argued afresh, after a fashion little likely to secure the approval of the original propounder of the query. We shall be told, truly enough, that the pound is the mere conventional representation of a certain amount of produce; and a very large body of men will begin to talk of paying off their debts, both private and public, upon a principle which, if once adopted, would destroy the whole credit of the country. Three years ago, Mr Doubleday demonstrated that, if the repeal of the Corn Laws should have the effect of reducing the price of wheat on the average to 4s. or 4s. 6d. per bushel, only two courses are left—either to repeal the taxes down to five-and-twenty millions at most; or to alter the currency law of 1819, and reduce the value of money to half the present value. We have now almost touched the mark.

All this was clearly foreseen and foreshadowed by Mr Alison, in his memorable paper of 1831; and we beg of our readers to peruse with attention the following extract, as of primary importance at the present juncture of affairs:—

“Such a change of prices might be innocuous, if individuals and the public could begin on a new basis, and there were no subsisting $1, which must be provided for at a reduced rate of incomes. But how is such a state of things to go on, when individuals and the State are under so many engagements, which cannot be averted without private or public bankruptcy? This is the question which, in a complicated state of society such as we live in, where industry is so dependent on credit, is the vital one to every interest.

“There is hardly an individual possessed of property in the country who is not immediately or ultimately involved in money engagements. The landlords are notoriously and proverbially drowned in debt, and it is calculated that $1 of the produce of the soil finds its way ultimately into the pocket of the public or the private creditor. Farmers are all more or less involved in engagements either to their landlords or to the banks who have advanced their money; merchants and manufacturers have their bills or cash-accounts standing against them, which must be provided for, whatever ensues with regard to the prices of the articles in which they deal; and private individuals, even of wealthy fortunes, have provisions to their wives, sisters, brothers, or children, which must be made up to a certain money amount, if they would avert the evils of bankruptcy. Now, if the views of the Reformers are well founded, and a great reduction is effected in the price of grain, and consequently in the money-income of every man in the kingdom, through the free trade in corn, how are these undiminished money-obligations to be made good out of the diminished pecuniary resources of the debtors in them? Mr Baring has estimated that the change in the value of money, consequent on the resumption of cash-payments, altered prices about 25 per cent; and everybody knows what widespread, still existing, and irremediable private distress $1 change produced. What, then, may be anticipated from the far greater change which is contemplated as likely to arise from a free-trade in grain?

“But, serious as these evils are, they are nothing in comparison with the dreadful consequences which would result to $1 from the change, and the widespread desolation which must follow a serious blow to the national faith.

“It is well known with what difficulty the payment of the annual charge of the National Debt is provided for, even under the present scale of prices; and how much those difficulties were increased by the change of prices, and the general diminution of incomes, consequent on the resumption of cash-payments. Indeed, such was the effect of that change that, had it not been counterbalanced by a very great increase, both of our agricultural and manufacturing produce at the same time, it would have rendered the maintenance of faith with the public creditor impossible. Now, if such be the present state of the public debt, even under the unexampled general prosperity which has pervaded the empire since the peace, and with all the security to the public faith which arises from the stable, consistent, and uniform rule of the British aristocracy, how is the charge of the debt to be provided for under the diminished national income arising from the much hoped-for change of prices consequent on the Reform Bill and repeal of the Corn Laws, and the increased national impatience, arising from the consciousness of the power to cast off the burden for ever?—Great and reasonable fear may be felt, whether, under any circumstances, the maintenance of the national faith inviolate is practicable for any considerable length of time: no doubt can be entertained that, under a Reform Parliament, and a free trade in grain, it will be impossible.”

We forbear quoting the picture which our author has drawn of the awful consequences which must instantly follow on a crash of the national credit—not because we consider it in any degree overcharged, but because we are now satisfied that the country is alive to its danger. We are too well accustomed to the braggadocio of modern journalism to attach much weight to the expiring vociferations of men who have done their utmost to lead us into the present dilemma; and who now, finding themselves powerless to advise, are vainly attempting to keep up a delusion which the experience of each succeeding week is dissipating with extraordinary rapidity. The most talented of the Free-trading journals virtually confess that the experiment has altogether failed. They are not able to point out one single iota of advantage which has resulted from it, beyond the purely supposititious one that, for a time, it secured the tranquillity of Great Britain. This is at best an ignoble argument in behalf of a bad measure; but we believe it to be utterly without foundation, inasmuch as there probably never was a great question agitated in which less interest was evinced by the masses of the nation than in that of the Corn Laws. But we should be sorry, indeed, to rank the loyalty of the British people so low, or to suppose that the crown of these realms rested upon so weak a foundation, as the adoption of such a view as this must necessarily infer. The journals to which we allude are by no means unconscious of the loss which we have incurred, or of the danger in which we presently stand. The insane boast of Mr Villiers, at the opening of the session, that a depreciation of ninety-one millions had taken place in the annual produce of British labour, found no echo in the columns of our more sharp-sighted contemporaries. They are now attempting to show that this calculation was an utter mistake; that importations are gradually diminishing; and that prices must necessarily rise. Most glad should we be if their views upon this subject were sound; but, unfortunately, stern experience points to a different result. We complain, and that with perfect justice, that they will not face the difficulty, and tell us what is to be done, supposing prices remain as they are. Agricultural quackery has done its utmost, and has been extinguished by the shout of general derision. No man in his senses believes that production can be artificially stimulated, or the earth so manured as to yield double crops to supply the frightful deficiency in the annual balance-sheet of the farmer. Both arms of husbandry are shattered. Cattle-feeding has been made, by Sir Robert Peel’s tariff, as profitless as tillage; and all countries have been invited, and are availing themselves of the invitation, to inundate our markets with their produce. Under such a state of things, what hope is there of recovery—what chance of manufactures reviving, so long as the best customers for manufactures are borne down? Are they not borne down? Let us see. The depreciation of food was stated by Mr Villiers at £91,000,000. The whole land rental of the United Kingdom is, according to a late statistical authority, £58,753,615. Let us suppose that rents are reduced by one-third—a reduction which, considering that mortgages and public burdens still remain undiminished, will cripple the means of most of the proprietors in the kingdom—and the rental will fall to about £39,169,000. Still there will remain a loss of nearly £52,000,000 annually, to be borne by the tenantry; in other words, low prices will have to that extent affected their power of purchase. The real case is even stronger than the hypothetical one, because the farmers, who constitute the larger consuming body, are at present receiving no such remission of rent. Of £178,000,000, the estimated amount of British manufactures, we export £58,000,000, and there remain for home consumption goods to the value of £120,000,000. Upon the sale of these depends not only the prosperity, but the existence of the manufacturers; and yet people are astonished that their wares do not go off as formerly! How, in the name of common sense, can they be expected to go off, when no margin of profit is left, in his own trade, to the great consumer? What these reasonable gentlemen anticipate is this—that the proprietor shall have no surplus from his rent, or the farmer any remuneration from his toil and capital; and yet that they shall continue to purchase all articles of manufacture as before!

We observe that a contemporary journal, which naturally feels rather sore on the subject of the Corn Laws, has twitted Mr Alison with a failure of prophecy, in not having allowed for a sufficient lapse between the passing of the Reform Bill and the notable era when the lion and the lamb coalesced—when Sir Robert Peel finally became a convert to the dazzling discoveries of Mr Cobden. Our respected brother seems to think that Mr Alison must feel disappointed that the march of democracy has been so slow; that the avatar of Free-trade was so long in coming; and that our fields were not, several years ago, abandoned by the disappointed husbandman. For the satisfaction of the kindly critic, we shall quote the following passage, penned in 1832, immediately after the passing of the Reform Bill, and then, perhaps, refresh his memory as to the manner in which the later measure was carried:—

“Dark and disastrous, however, as is the future prospect of the British empire, we do not think its case hopeless, or that, after having gone through the degradation, distraction, and suffering which must follow the destruction of the Constitution, it may not yet witness in the decline of its days some gleams of sunshine and prosperity. The laws of nature have now come to aid the cause of order; its usual suffering will attend the march of revolution; experience will soon dispel the fumes of democracy; the reign of Political Unions, of Jacobin Clubs, and tricolor flags, must ere long come to an end; the suffering, anxiety, and distress consequent on their despotic rule, the suspension of all confidence, and the ruin of all credit, must consign them to the dust, amidst the execrations of their country, if they are not subverted by the ruder shock of civil warfare and military power. The distress, misery, and stagnation, in every branch of industry, already consequent on the Reform Bill, have been so extreme, that they must long ago have led to its overthrow, not only without the resistance, but with the concurrence, of all the Reformers who are not revolutionists, had it not been for the delusion universally spread by the revolutionary journals, that the existing distress was not owing to Reform, but to the resistance which it had experienced, and that the danger of revolution, great in the event of the measure being thrown out, was absolutely nugatory in the event of its being passed. These two sophisms have alone carried the bill through the resistance it experienced from the property, education, and talent of the country, and blinded men’s eyes to the enormous evils which not only threatened to follow its triumph, but attended its progress. But these delusions cannot much longer be maintained. Reform is now victorious: the bill is passed unmutilated and unimpaired; and its whole consequences $1. When it is discovered that all the benefits promised from it are a mere delusion; that stagnation, distress, and misery have signalised its triumph; that trade does not revive with the contracted expenditure of the rich, nor confidence return with the increased audacity of the poor; that the ancient and kindly relations of life have been torn asunder in the struggle, and the vehemence of democracy has provided no substitute in their stead; that interest after interest, class after class, is successively exposed to the attacks of the revolutionists, and the ancient barrier which restrained them is removed: the eyes of the nation must be opened to the gross fraud which has been practised upon it. Then it will be discovered that the aristocratic interest, and the nomination boroughs, which supported their influence in the Lower House, were the real bulwark which protected all the varied interests of the country from the revolutionary tempest, and that every branch of industry is less secure, every species of property is less valuable, every enterprise is more hazardous, every disaster is more irretrievable, when its surges roll unbroken and unresisted into the legislature.

“It is upon this very circumstance, however, that our chief, and indeed our only hope of the country is founded. Hitherto the great body of the middle classes have stood aloof from the contest, or they have openly joined the reforming party. They were carried away by the prospect of the importance which they would acquire under the new Constitution, and did not perceive that it was their own interests which were defended, their own battle which was fought, their own existence which was at stake, in the contest maintained by the Conservative party. Now the case is changed. The old rampart is demolished, and, unless these middle ranks can create a new one, they must be speedily themselves destroyed. From the sole of their feet to the crown of their head, the middle classes of England at present stand exposed to the revolutionary fire; every shot will now carry away flesh and blood. Deeply as we deplore the misery and suffering which the exposure of these unprotected classes to the attacks of revolution must produce, it is in the intensity of that suffering, in the poignancy of that distress, that the only chance of ultimate deliverance is to be found. Periods of suffering are seldom, in the end, lost to nations, any more than to individuals; and it is years of anguish that expiate the sin, and tame the passions, of days of riot and licentiousness.

“The Constitution, indeed, is destroyed, but the men whom the Constitution formed are not destroyed. The institutions which protected all the classes of the state, the permanent interests which coerced the feverish throes of democracy, the conservative weight which steadied all the movements of the people, are at an end; the peril arising from this sudden removal of the pressure which hitherto regulated all the movements of the machine is extreme, but the case is not utterly hopeless. It is impossible at once to change the habits of many hundred years’ growth; it is difficult in a few years to root out the affections and interests which have sprung from centuries of obligation; it is not in a single generation that the virtues and happiness, fostered by ages of prosperity, are to be destroyed. As long as the British character remains unchanged; as long as religion and moral virtue sway the feelings of the majority of the people; as long as tranquil industry forms the employment of her inhabitants, and domestic enjoyments constitute the reward of their exertion,—the cause of order and civilisation is not hopeless. Revolutions, it is true, are always effected by reckless and desperate minorities in opposition to opulent and indolent majorities; but it is the ennobling effect of civil liberty to nourish a spirit of resistance to oppression, which outstrips all the calculations of those who ground their views upon what has occurred in despotic monarchies.”

And so it happened. The reaction throughout the country was complete. The Conservative party rallied; and rallied so effectively, that, with many converts in its ranks, and the rising youth of the new generation to back it, a great majority in the House of Commons was secured, and the leadership intrusted to the hands of one who, in despite of previous lapses, appeared at that time to have earned the distinction by his zeal, and who gained it by the force of his protestations. Had the leader been true to the cause which he then professed, we should have been spared the ungracious duty of commenting upon a solemn treachery, to which history affords no parallel, and the memory of which will live long after the grave has closed above the head of the principal delinquent. How was it possible that such an event could fail again, for a time, to disunite a party, formed out of the ruins of the old one by a rapid and indiscriminate conscription? That dependence and faith which high and chivalrous spirits are so ready to place in one beneath whose colours they have fought—the ready trustingness of youth—the great prestige which surrounds the name of a veteran and successful statesman—the belief in his superior sagacity—the recollection of blandishments and flattery, so prized by the young when proceeding from the lips of honoured age,—all these things combined to break up the Conservative party, and to place the reins of government once more in the hands of the eager Whigs. Perhaps it is better so. There is no risk now of a second betrayal, whatever may be the future fortunes of the Country Party; and on the head of him who caused the social change let the whole consequences rest. England’s political annals have at least gained one character more by the act. The future historian who shall chronicle the transactions of the last five years, whatever be his creed or his politics, will speak with veneration and honour of Lord George Bentinck, for whose early fate more honest tears were shed, than have often been paid as a tribute to the patriot who has fallen in battle, the defender of his country’s cause.

We have not left ourselves much room to glance at the three interesting papers in this volume, on the subject of the two French Revolutions of 1830 and 1848. They will be read with profound attention by thousands who may have passed them over cursorily in their anonymous original form; because Mr Alison’s profound and intimate knowledge of the working of French diplomacy, of the turbulent and dangerous element which lies, like molten lava, beneath the surface of French society, and of the secret causes of those outrages which, from time to time, have shaken that unhappy country, must needs give an additional assurance of their value. It is curious to observe how entirely the speculations of the author, as to the consequences which might arise from the first of those sudden revolutions, are borne out by the marvellous issue of the second. The falsity of the system which made the stability of a government and the existence of a dynasty mainly depend upon the doubtful adherence, and still more doubtful valour, of a civic National Guard, was clearly pointed out and exposed at the time when the Liberal press of England was loud in its approbation of the citizen soldiers who had violated their oaths, and the citizen king, who, more fortunate than his worthless father, had succeeded in supplanting his kinsman and rightful sovereign.

“Of the numerous delusions,” wrote Mr Alison in 1831, “which have overspread the world in such profusion during the last nine months, there is none so extraordinary and so dangerous as the opinion incessantly inculcated by the revolutionary press, that the noblest virtue in regular soldiers is to prove themselves traitors to their oaths; and that a $1 is the only safe and constitutional force to which arms can be intrusted. The troops of the line, whose revolt decided the three days in July in favour of the revolutionary party, have been the subject of the most extravagant eulogium from the Liberal press throughout Europe; and even in this country, the Government journals have not hesitated to condemn, in no measured terms, the Royal Guard, merely because they adhered, amidst a nation’s treason, to their honour and their oaths.

“Hitherto it has been held the first duty of soldiers to adhere, with implicit devotion, to that $1 which is the foundation of military duties. Treason to his colours has been considered as foul a blot on the soldier’s scutcheon as cowardice in the field. Even in the most republican states, this principle of military subordination has been felt to be the vital principle of national strength. It was during the rigorous days of Roman discipline, that their legions conquered the world; and the decline of the empire began at the time that the Prætorian Guards veered with the mutable populace, and sold the empire for a gratuity to themselves. Albeit placed in power by the insurrection of the people, no men knew better than the French Republican leaders that their salvation depended on crushing the military insubordination to which they had owed their elevation. When the Parisian levies began to evince the mutinous spirit in the camp at St Menehould in Champagne, which they had imbibed during the license of the capital, Dumourier drew them up in the centre of his intrenchments, and, showing them a powerful line of cavalry in front, with their sabres drawn, ready to charge, and a stern array of artillery and cannoneers in rear, with their matches in their hands, soon convinced the most licentious that the boasted independence of the soldier must yield to the dangers of actual warfare. ‘The armed force,’ said Carnot, ‘is essentially obedient;’ and in all his commands, that great man incessantly inculcated upon his soldiers the absolute necessity of implicit submission to the power which employed them. When the recreant Constable de Bourbon, at the head of a victorious squadron of Spanish cavalry, approached the spot where the rearguard, under the Chevalier Bayard, was covering the retreat of the French army in the valley of Aosta, he found him seated, mortally wounded, under a tree, with his eyes fixed on the cross which formed the hilt of his sword. Bourbon began to express pity for his fate. ‘Pity not me,’ said the high-minded Chevalier; ‘pity those who fight against their king, their country, and their oath!’

“These generous feelings, common alike to republican antiquity and modern chivalry, have disappeared during the fumes of the French Revolution. The soldier who is now honoured is not he who keeps, but he who violates his oath; the rewards of valour are showered, not upon those who defend, but on those who overturn the government; the incense of popular applause is offered, not at the altar of fidelity, but at that of treason. Honours, rewards, promotion, and adulation, have been lavished on the troops of the line, who overthrew the government of Charles X. in July last; while the Royal Guard, who adhered to the fortune of the fallen monarch with exemplary fidelity, have been reduced to $1 from the bounty of strangers in a foreign land. A subscription has recently been opened in London for the most destitute of these defenders of royalty; but the Government journals have stigmatised, as ‘highly dangerous,’ any indication of sympathy with their fidelity or their misfortunes.

“If these ancient ideas of honour, however, are to be exploded, they have at least gone out of fashion in good company. The National Guard who took up arms to overthrow the throne, have not been long of destroying the altar. During the revolt of February 1831, $1, the emblem of salvation, was taken down from all the steeples in Paris by the citizen soldiers, and the image of our Saviour effaced, by their orders, from every church within its bounds! The two principles stand and fall together. The Chevalier ‘without fear and without reproach’ died in obedience to his oath, with his eyes fixed on the Cross; the National Guard lived in triumph, while their comrades bore down the venerated emblem from the towers of Notre Dame.”

Singular was the retribution which awaited France. The “Ulysses” of Europe, as he has been styled—the old, crafty, insincere, penurious, yet plausible and half-sagacious man, sate in apparent peace upon his throne for wellnigh eighteen years, negotiating alliances, maintaining a fair outward character, pandering to popularity, identifying himself with the $1, and identifying his sons with the army—and all this to fall at last before the worst planned and most poorly contrived insurrection which was ever attempted in the streets of a European capital. Surrounded by his citizens, the citizen king went down. We know now, from the revelations of De la Hodde and others, what was the true nature and commencement of that beggarly conspiracy. We know that a few hundred suspected and ill-organised Socialists, along with a handful of newspaper editors, not two of whom possessed sufficient personal courage to lay hand on a loaded musket, contrived to overawe Paris, to bully the redoubted National Guard, and to send poor old Ulysses again upon his travels, without much chance of finding a second imperial Ithaca. Farce and tragedy are here so closely interwoven that it is wellnigh impossible to separate their texture. The dethronement of such a king may be a grand European disaster, but it militates nothing against the principle or the sanctity of royalty. It was but a simple Presidency gone a-begging. The King of the Bourse or the Railway Monarch had about them nearly as much of that divinity which should surround the royal character as Louis Philippe, the chosen of the shopkeepers, and the veteran dabbler in the funds. No true greatness, no high nobility of soul, elevated him to the throne of France—ignoble beyond all precedent was the manner in which he was compelled to leave it. The retreat of Charles X. was a triumph compared with his panic-stricken and unfollowed flight.

The following are Mr Alison’s remarks upon the last of these Revolutions. The reader will not fail to observe the extreme similarity between the two astounding Revolutions, and the precise nature of the cause which enabled both of them to be successfully carried through by an otherwise contemptible rabble.

“Who is answerable for this calamitous Revolution, which has thus arrested the internal prosperity of France, involved its finances in apparently hopeless embarrassment, thrown back for probably half a century the progress of real freedom in that country, and perhaps consigned it to a series of internal convulsions, and Europe to the horrors of general war for a very long period? We answer without hesitation, that the responsibility rests with two parties, and two parties only—the King and the National Guard.

“The King is most of all to blame, for having engaged in a conflict, and, when victory was within his grasp, allowing it to slip from his hands from want of resolution at the decisive moment. It is too soon after these great and astonishing events to be able to form a decided opinion on the whole details connected with them; but the concurring statements from all parties go to prove that on the $1 day the troops of the line were perfectly steady; and history will record that the heroic firmness of the Municipal Guard has rivalled all that is most honourable in French history. The military force was immense; not less than eighty thousand men, backed by strong forts, and amply provided with all the muniments of war. Their success on the first day was unbroken; they had carried above a hundred barricades, and were in possession of all the military positions of the capital. But at this moment the indecision of the King ruined everything. Age seems to have extinguished the vigour for which he was once so celebrated. He shrank from a contest with the insurgents, paralysed the troops by orders not to fire on the people, and openly receded before the insurgent populace, by abandoning Guizot and the firm policy which he himself had adopted, and striving to conciliate revolution by the mezzo termini of Count Molé, and a more liberal cabinet. It is with retreat in the presence of an insurrection, as in the case of an invading army; the first move towards the rear is a certain step to ruin. The moment it was seen that the King was giving way, all was paralysed, because all foresaw to which side the victory would incline. The soldiers threw away their muskets, the officers broke their swords, and the vast array, equal to the army which fought at Austerlitz, was dissolved like a rope of sand. Louis Philippe fell without either the intrepidity of the royal martyr in 1793, or the dignity of the elder house of Bourbon in 1830; and if it be true, as is generally said, that the Queen urged the King to mount on horseback and die as ‘became a King’ in front of the Tuileries, and he declined, preferring to escape in disguise to this country, history must record, with shame, that royalty perished in France without the virtues it was entitled to expect in the meanest of its supporters.

“The second cause which appears to have occasioned the overthrow of the monarchy in France, is the general, it may be said universal, defection of the National Guard. It had been openly announced that 20,000 of that body were to line the Champs Elysées $1 on occasion of the banquet; it was perfectly known that that banquet was a mere pretext for getting the forces of this Revolution together; and that the intention of the conspirators was to march in a body to the Tuileries after it was over, and compel the King to accede to their demands. When they were called out in the afternoon, they declined to act against the people, and by their treachery occasioned the defection of the troops of the line, and rendered farther resistance hopeless. They expected, by this declaration against the King of their choice, the monarch of the barricades, to secure a larger share in the government for themselves. They went to the Chamber of Deputies, intending to put up the Duchess of Orleans as Regent, and the Count of Paris as King, and to procure a large measure of reform for the constitution. What was the result? Why, that they were speedily supplanted by the rabble who followed in their footsteps, and who, deriding the eloquence of Odillon Barrot, and insensible to the heroism of the Duchess of Orleans, by force and violence expelled the majority of the deputies from their seats, seized on the President’s chair, and, amidst an unparalleled scene of riot and confusion, subverted the Orleans dynasty, proclaimed a Republic, and adjourned to the Hotel de Ville to name a Provisional Government!...

“Here, then, is the whole affair clearly revealed. It was the timidity of Government, and the defection of the National Guard, which ruined everything,—which paralysed the troops of the line, encouraged the insurgents, left the brave Municipal Guards to their fate, and caused the surrender of the Tuileries. And what has been the result of this shameful treachery on the part of the sworn defenders of order—this ‘$1’ prætorian guard of France? Nothing but this, that they have destroyed the monarchy, ruined industry, banished capital, rendered freedom hopeless, and made bankrupt the State! Such are the effects of armed men forgetting the first of social duties, that of fidelity to their oaths.”

Of the other papers contained in this volume, that on the subject of “the British Peerage,” written at a time when certain worthy fellows out of doors seemed to be determined that crown, mitre, and coronet should go together into one blazing bonfire, similar to that which lately received the state chair of Louis Philippe—and when certain peers within testified their respect for the dignity and privileges of their order, by doing their best to have it swamped by new creations—will especially challenge notice as a stately, dignified, and elaborate composition. Other essays, such as those on Crime and Transportation, Ireland, the Navigation Laws, and the Commercial Crisis of 1837, evince the care and attention which Mr Alison has bestowed on the leading topics of economy and government with which modern statesmen are inevitably compelled to grapple. Of their intrinsic merit we shall say nothing. They have often been cited as the ablest expositions of the peculiar views which they advocate, and all of them bear the impress of a mind earnest in its convictions, and thoroughly practical in its tendency. Mr Alison does not, like too many writers of the day, content himself with finding out what is faulty, or defective, or radically vicious in any branch of our social economy—he indulges in no vague and pointless declamation; but while he lays bare the wound, distinctly and emphatically inculcates the proper remedy. Many persons there are, of course, who will not subscribe to his doctrines, but we believe there are very few who will question the sincerity or deny the philanthropy of his views. And when it is considered that the three massive volumes, of which this is the first, were composed at intervals of short respite from the toil of an engrossing profession, and form but a small portion of the literary labours of the author, it may be questionable which is most to be wondered at—the largeness of his information, or the unwearied energy of his mind.

These certainly are not the columns in which this work of Mr Alison can be discussed with absolute impartiality, nor is the writer of this article free from a pardonable bias. Where affection, veneration, and gratitude for many wholesome lessons, conveyed with a kindliness which has made those lessons still more valuable, are warm at the heart, criticism is impossible; and it would be absurd and false to feign that we approach this book with any idea of fulfilling the critical function. Yet thus much may we be allowed to say, that for integrity of purpose, honesty of design, clear and unvarying adherence to principles, laboriously sought for and conscientiously adopted—for the virtue and total absence of selfishness which distinguish the patriot, and for the grace and accomplishment which adorn the scholar and the gentleman, it would be difficult to find within the four seas that encircle Britain a superior to the author of these Essays, and of the famous History of Europe.

OVID’S SPRING-TIME FROM THE TRISTIA.

Dies Boreales.

No. VII.

CHRISTOPHER UNDER CANVASS.

$1

Scene—$1 Time—$1 A.M.

North—Talboys.

Perturbed Spirit! why won’t you rest? What brings thee here?

Seward snores.

Why select Seward?

I do not select him—he selects himself—singles himself out from the whole host; so that you hear his Snore loud over that of the Camp—say rather his Snore alone—like Lablache singing a Solo in a chorus.

It must be Buller.

Buller began it——

List! How harmonious in the hush the blended Snore of Camp and Village! How tuned to unison—as if by pitch-pipe—with the dreamy din of our lapsing friend here, who by and by will awake into a positive Waterfall.

The Snore of either army stilly sounds. At this distance, the Snore disposes to sleep. Seward must have awakened himself—there goes Buller——

Where?

Shriller than Seward—quite a childish treble—liker the Snore of a female—

Females never snore.

How do you know? I won’t answer for some of them. Lionesses do—not perhaps in their wild state—but in Zoological Gardens.

Not quite so loud, Chanticleer—you will disturb my people.

Disturb your people! Why, he has already stirred up the Solar System.

Taking the distance of the Earth from the Sun, in round numbers, at Ninety-Five Millions of Miles, pretty well for a bird probably weighing some six pounds not merely to make himself heard by the God of Day, but by one single crow to startle Dan Phœbus from his sleep, and force him $1 to show his shining morning face at Cladich.

Out of Science, we seldom think of the vastness of the System of the Universe. Our hearts and imaginations diminish it for the delight of love. In our usual moods we are all Children with respect to Nature; and gather up Stars as if they were flowers of the field—to form a coronet for Neæra’s hair.

What ailed poor dear Doctor Beattie at Cocks in general? I never could understand the Curse.

You Poets, in your own persons, are a savage set.

I am not a Poet, sir; nor will I allow any man with impunity to call me so.

But Doctor Beattie was, and a Professor of Moral Philosophy to boot, at Aberdeen or St Andrews, or some other one of our ancient Universities—for every stone-and-lime building in Scotland is ancient; and. goodness me! hear him cursing cocks, and dooming the whole Gallic race to every variety of cruel and ignominious deaths, in revenge for having been disturbed from his morning dreams by a Gentleman with Comb and Wattles crowing on his own Dunghill, in red jacket, speckled waistcoat, and grey breeks, the admiration of Earochs and How-Towdies.

Doctor Beattie was a true Poet—and had an eye and an ear for Nature. Yet now and then he shut both—

I have seen that Stanza quoted many thousand times as exquisite. It is criminal. An owl was never heard, scared or unscared, to “break from the rustling boughs.” Silently as a leaf he leaves his perch; you hear no rustle, for he makes none—any more than a ghost.

Nor are the other lines good—for they present the image of a long rectilinear flight, which that of an owl in no circumstances is; and, in a fright, he would take the first blind shelter.

Poets seldom err so—yet I remember a mistake of Coleridge’s about that commonest of all birds, the Rook.

There is much silliness in the Sibylline Leaves. For Charles read Charlotte. ’Tis more like Love than Friendship—effeminate exceedingly; and, “no sound is dissonant which tells of life,” reminds one of the Sunday Jackasses on Blackheath.

“‘$1’ Some months after I had written this line,” says Coleridge in a note, “it gave me pleasure to find that Bartram had observed the same circumstance of the Savanna Crane. ‘When these birds move their wings in flight, their strokes are slow, moderate, and regular; and even when at a considerable distance, or high above us, we plainly hear the quill-feathers; their shafts and webs, upon one another, creak as $1.’” That a Rook may fly “creaking” when moulting, or otherwise out of feather, I shall not take upon me to deny; but in ordinary condition, he does not fly “creaking.” Coleridge was wont, in his younger days, to mistake exceptions for general rules. In such a case as this, a moment’s reflection would have sufficed to tell him that there could not have been “creaking” without let or hindrance to flight—and that the flight of a rook is easy and equable—“The blackening train o’ craws to their repose.” What creaking must have been there! But Burns never heard it.

One Burns, as an observer of nature, is worth fifty Coleridges.

Not an arithmetical question. Why, even dear Sir Walter himself occasionally makes a slip in this way.

The Field-fare is migratory—and does not build here; in Norway, where it is native, it builds in trees—often high up on lofty trees—and in crowds.

I believe, sir, they have been known to breed in this country—and perhaps here they build on the ground.

Don’t be nonsensical. Our Great Minstrel knew wood-craft well; and hill-craft and river-craft; yet in his fine picture of Coriskin and Coolin,

would you believe it, that he introduces Deer—$1 Deer!

And there the Last Minstrel should have ceased. What follows spoils all—fanciful, fantastic—not imaginative, poetical. The Minstrel is at pains to let us know that

that not

What, then, is the truth? To explain the mystery of flowers distilling tears of balm, we are told that

The Phantom Knight shrieks upon the wild blast—and the Chief, from his misty throne on the mountains, fills the lonely caverns with his groans—while his

Had Sir Walter been speaking in his own person he never would have written thus—nor thus contradicted and extinguished the Passion in the stanzas you so feelingly recited. But he puts the words into the lips of an old Harper improvising at a Feast—on which occasion anything will pass for poetry—even to the mind of the true Poet himself—but, believe me, it is sheer nonsense—and by power of contrast recalls Wordsworth’s profound saying—

Are all these the Cladich Cock and his echoes? No, surely. Farm crows to Farm, from Auchlian to Sonnachan. You might almost believe them bagpipes. And so it is—that is a bagpipe. On which side of the Loch? Why, on neither—beg pardon—on both; forgive me—on the Water;—incredible—in the Camp! No snore can long outlive that—the People are up and doing.

In my mind’s eye I see women slipping easily into petticoats—men laboriously into breeches——

My more Celtic imagination sees chiefly kilts. But pray, may I ask again, Talboys, what brought you here at this untimeous hour of the Morn?

I feel that I ought to apologise for my unwelcome intrusion on your privacy, sir; but on my honour I believed you were in the Van. Yesterday I was so engrossed by you and Shakspeare, that during our colloquy I had not a moment to look at the Wren’s Nest.

Its existence is believed in by few of the natives. I know no such place for a murder. There would be no need to bury the body—here at this Table he might be left sitting for centuries—a dead secret in a Safe.

No need to bury the body! You have no antipathy, I trust, sir, to me?

We are not responsible for our antipathies——

I allow that—but we are for every single murder we commit; and though there may be no need to bury the body, murder will spunk out——

We are willing to run the risk. What infatuation to seek the Lion in his Den—the Wren in his Nest! Sit down, sir, and let us have, in the form of dialogue, your last speech and dying words on Othello.

Hamlet, sir?

Othello.

Romeo and Juliet?

Othello.

Well—Lear let it be.

Mind what you are about, Talboys. There are limits to human forbearance. Swear that after this morning’s breakfast you will never again utter the words Othello—Iago—Cassio—Desdemona——

I swear. Meanwhile, let us recur to the Question of Short and Long Time.

When Shakspeare was inditing the Scenes of the “Decline and Fall”—“The Temptation”—“The Seduction”—or whatsoever else you choose to call it—the Sequence of Cause and Effect—the bringing out into prominence and power the successive Essential Movements of the proceeding transformation were intents possessing his whole spirit. We can easily conceive that they might occupy it absolutely and exclusively—that is to say, excluding the computation and all consideration of actual time. If this be an excessive example, yet I believe that a huddling up of time is a part of the poetical state; that you must, and, what is more, may, crowd into a Theatrical or Epic Day, far more of transaction between parties, and of changes psychological, than a natural day will hold—ay, ten times over. The time on the Stage and in Verse is not literal time. Not it, indeed; and if it be thus with time, which is so palpable, so selfevidencing an entity, what must be the law, and how wide-ranging, for everything else, when we have once got fairly into the Region of Poetry?

The usefulness of the Two Times is palpable from first to last—of the Short Time for maintaining the tension of the passion—of the long for a thousand general needs. Thus Bianca must be used for convincing Othello very potently, positively, unanswerably. But she cannot be used without supposing a protracted intercourse between her and Cassio. Iago’s dialogue with him falls to the ground, if the acquaintance began yesterday. But superincumbent over all is the $1 that Iago begins the Temptation, and that Othello extinguishes the Light of his Life all in one day.

And observe, Talboys, how this concatenation of the passionate scenes operates. Marvellously! Let the Entrances of Othello be four—A, B, C, D. You feel the close connexion of A with B, of B with C, of C with D. You feel the coherence, the nextness; and all the force of the impetuous Action and Passion resulting. But the logically-consequent near connexion of A with C, and much more with D, as again of B with D, you $1. Why? When you are at C, and feeling the pressure of B upon C, you have lost sight of the pressure of A upon B. At each entrance you go back one step—you do not go back two. The suggested intervals continually keep displacing to distances in your memory the formerly felt connexions. This could not so well happen in real life, where the relations of time are strictly bound upon your memory. Though something of it happens when passion devours memory. But in fiction, the conception being loosely held, and shadowy, the feat becomes easily practicable. Thus the Short Time tells for the support of the Passion, along with the Long Time, by means of virtuous instillations from the hand or wing of Oblivion. From one to two you feel no intermission—from two to three you feel none—from three to four you feel none; but I defy any man to say that from one to four he has felt none. I defy any man to say honestly, that “sitting at the Play” he has kept count from one to four.

If you come to that, nobody keeps watch over the time in listening to Shakspeare. I much doubt if anybody knows at the theatre that Iago’s first suggestion of doubt occurs the day after the landing. I never knew it till you made me look for it—

For which boon I trust you are duly grateful.

’Tis folly to be wise.

Why, Heaven help us! if we did not go to bed, and did not dine, which of us could ever keep count from Monday to Saturday! As it is, we have some of us hard work to know what happened yesterday, and what the day before. On Tuesday I killed that Salmo Ferox?

No—but on Wednesday I did. You forget yourself, my dear sir, just like Shakspeare.

Ay, Willy forgets himself. He is not withheld by the chain of time he is linking, for he has lost sight of the previous links. Put yourself into the transport of composition, and answer. But besides, every past scene—or to speak more suitably to the technical distribution of the Scenes, in our Editions—every past $1, (which different occupation, according to the technicality of the French Stage, of the Italian, of the Attic, of Plautus, of Terence, constitutes a Scene)—every such past marked moment in the progress of the Play has the effect for the Poet, as well as for you, of protracting the time in retrospect—throwing everything that has passed further back. As if, in travelling fifty miles, you passed fifty Castles, fifty Churches, fifty Villages, fifty Towns, fifty Mountains, fifty Valleys, and fifty Cataracts—fifty Camels, fifty Elephants, fifty Caravans, fifty Processions, and fifty Armies—the said fifty miles would seem a good stretch larger to your recollection, and the five hours of travelling a pretty considerable deal longer, than another fifty miles and another five hours in which you had passed only three Old Women.

My persuasion is, sir, that nobody alive knows—of the auditors—that the first suggestion of doubt and the conclusion to kill are in one Scene of the Play. I do, indeed, believe, with you, sir, that the goings-out and re-enterings of Othello have a strangely deluding effect—that they disconnect the time more than you can think—and that all the changes of persons on the stage—all shiftings of scenes and droppings of curtains, break and dislocate and dilate the time to your imagination, till you do not in the least know where you are. In this laxity of your conception, all hints of extended time sink in and spring up, like that fungus which, on an apt soil, in a night grows to a foot diameter.

You have hit it there, Talboys. Shakspeare, we have seen, in his calmer constructions, shows, in a score of ways, weeks, months; that is therefore the true time, or call it the historical time. Hurried himself, and hurrying you on the torrent of passion, he forgets time, and a false show of time, to the utmost contracted, arises. I do not know whether he did not perceive this false exhibition of time, or perceiving, he did not care. But we all must see a reason, and a cogent one, why he should not let in the markings of protraction upon his dialogues of the Seduced and the Seducer. You can conceive nothing better than that the Poet, in the moment of composition, seizes the views which at that moment offer themselves as effective—unconscious or regardless of incompatibility. He is whole to the present; and as all is feigned, he does not remember how the foregone makes the ongoing impracticable. Have you ever before, Talboys, examined time in a Play of Shakspeare? Much more, have you ever examined the treatment of time on the Stage to which Shakspeare came, upon which he lived, and which he left?

A good deal.

Not much, I suspect.

Why, not at all—except t’other day along with you—in Macbeth.

He came to a Stage which certainly had not cultivated the logic of time as a branch of the Dramatic Art. It appears to me that those old people, when they were enwrapt in the transport of their creative power, totally forgot all regard, lost all consciousness of time. Passion does not know the clock or the calendar. Intimations of time, now vague, now positive, will continually occur; but also the Scenes float, like the Cyclades in a Sea of Time, at distances utterly indeterminate—Most near? Most remote? That is a Stage of Power, and not of Rules—Dynamic, not Formal. I say again at last as at first, that the time of Othello, tried by the notions of time in $1, or tried, if you will, by the type of prosaic and literal time, is—Insoluble.

To the first question, therefore, being What is the truth of the matter? the answer stands, I conceive without a shadow of doubt or difficulty, “The time of Othello is—as real time—INSOLUBLE.”

By heavens, he echoes me!

Or, it is proposed incongruously, impossibly. Then arises the question, How stood the time in the mind of Shakspeare?

I answer, I do not know. The question splits itself into two—first, “How did he $1 the time?” Second, “How did he conceive it in the progress of the Play?” My impression is, that he projected extended time. If so, did he or did he not know that in managing the Seduction he departed from that design by contracting into a Day? Did he deliberately entertain a double design? If he did, how did he excuse this to himself? Did he say, “A stage necessity, or a theatrical or dramatic necessity”—namely, that of sustaining at the utmost possible reach of altitude the tragical passion and interest—“requires the precipitation of the passion from the first breathing of suspicion—the ‘Ha! Ha! I like not that,’ of the suggesting Fiend to the consecrated ‘killing myself, to die upon a kiss!’—all in the course of fifteen hours—and this tragical vehemency, this impetuous energy, this torrent of power I will have; at the same time I have many reasons—amongst them the general probability of the action—for a dilated time; and I, being a magician of the first water, will so dazzle, blind, and bewilder my auditors, that they shall accept the double time with a double belief—shall feel the unstayed rushing on of action and passion, from the first suggestion to the cloud of deaths—and yet shall remain with a conviction that Othello was for months Governor of Cyprus—they being on the whole unreflective and uncritical persons?”

And, after all, who willingly criticises his dreams or his pleasures?

And the Audience of the Globe Theatre shall not—for “I hurl my dazzling spells into the spungy air,” and “the spell shall sit when the curtain has fallen.” Shakspeare might, in the consciousness of power, say this. For this is that which he has—knowingly or unknowingly—done. Unknowingly? Perhaps—himself borne on by the successively rising waves of his work. For you see, Talboys, with what prolonged and severe labour we two have arrived at knowing the reality of the case which now lies open to us in broad light. We have needed time and pains, and the slow settling of our understandings, to unwind the threads of delusion in which we were encoiled and entoiled. If a strange and unexplained power could undeniably so beguile us—a possibility of which, previously to this examination, we never have dreamt, how do we warrant that the same dark, nameless, mysterious power shall not equally blind the “Artificer of Fraud?” This is matter of proposed investigation and divination, which let whoever has will, wit, and time, presently undertake.

Why, we are doing it, sir. He will be a bold man who treats of Othello—after Us.

Another question is—What is the Censure of Art on the demonstrated inconsistency in Othello? I propose, but now deal not with it. Observe that we have laid open a new and startling inquiry. We have demonstrated the double time of Othello—the Chronological Fact. That is the first step set in light—the first required piece of the work—$1. Beyond this, we have ploughed a furrow or two, to show and lead further direction of the work in the wide field. We have touched on the gain to the work by means of the duplicity—we have proposed to the self-consciousness of all hearers and readers the psychological fact of their own unconsciousness of the guile used towards them, or of the success of the fallacy; and we have asked the solution of the psychological fact. We have also asked the Criticism of Art on the government of the time in Othello—supposing the Poet in pride and audacity of power to have designed that which he has done. Was it High Art?

Ay—was it High Art?

I dare hardly opine. Effect of high and most defying art it has surely; but you ask again—did he know? I seem to see often that the spirit of the Scene possessed Shakspeare, and that he fairly forgot the logical ties which he had encoiled about him. We know the written Play, and we may, if we are capable, know its power upon ourselves. There $1 the Two Times, the Long and the Short; and each exerts upon you its especial virtue. I can believe that Shakspeare unconsciously did what Necessity claimed—the impetuous motion on, on, on of the Passion—the long time asked by the successive events; the forces that swayed him, each in its turn, its own way.

Unconsciously?

Oh heavens! Yes—yes—no—no. Yes—no. No—yes. What you will.

Consciously or unconsciously?

Talboys, Longfellow, Perpetual Præses of the Seven Feet Club, we want Troy, Priam, Achilles, Hector, to have been. Perhaps they were—perhaps they were not. We must be ready for two states of mind—simple belief, which, is the temper of childhood and youth—recognition of illusion with self-surrender, which is the attained state of criticism wise and childlike. At last we voluntarily take on the faith which was in the goldener age. The child believed; and the man believes. But the child believes $1; and the man who perceives how $1 is a shadow, believes $1 beyond. $1 he believes in play—$1 in earnest. The child mixed the two—the tale of the fairies and the hope of hereafter. Union, my dear Boys, is the faculty of the young, but division of the old. I speak of Shakspeare at five years of age; not of Us, whom, ere we can polysyllable men’s names, dominies instruct how to do old men’s work and to distinguish.

My dear sir, I do so love to hear your talkee talkee; but be just ever so little a little more intelligible to ordinary mortals—

You ask what really happened? The Play bewilders you from answering—accept it as it rushes along through your soul, reading or sitting to hear and see. The main and strange fact is, that these questions of Time, which, reading the Play backwards, force themselves on us, never occur to us reading straight forwards. Two Necessities lie upon your soul.

Two Necessities, sir?

Two Necessities lie upon your soul. You cannot believe that Othello, suspecting his Wife, folds his arms night after night about her disrobed bosom. As little can you believe that in the course of twelve hours the spirit of infinite love has changed into a dagger-armed slayer. The Two Times—marvellous as it is to say—take you into alternate possession. The impetuous motion forwards, in the scenes and in the tenor of action, which belong to the same Day, you feel; and you ask no questions. When Othello and Iago speak together, you lose the knowledge of time. You see power and not form. You feel the aroused Spirit of Jealousy: you see, in the field of belief, a thought sown and sprung—a thought changed into a doubt—a doubt into a dread—a dread into the cloud of death. Evidences press, one after the other—the spirit endures change—you feel succession—as cause and effect must succeed—you do not compute hours, days, weeks, months;—yet confess I must, and confess you must, and confess all the world and his wife must, that the condition is altogether anomalous—that a time which is at once a day of the Calendar and a month of the Calendar, does not happen anywhere out of Cyprus.

It has arisen just as you say, sir—because Two Necessities pressed. The Passion must have its torrent, else $1 will never endure that Othello shall kill Desdemona. Events must have their concatenation, else—but I stop at this the incredible anomaly, that for Othello himself you require the double time! You cannot imagine him embracing his wife, misdoubted false; as little can you his Love measureless, between sunrise and sunset turned into Murder.

Even so.

My dear sir, what really happened?

Oh! Talboys, Talboys. Well then—$1 that Othello killed her upon the first night after the arrival at Cyprus. The Cycle could not have been so run through.

How then in reality did the Weeks pass?

That’s a good one! Why, I was just about to ask you—and ’tis your indisputable duty to tell me and the anxious world—how.

I do not choose to commit myself in such a serious affair.

Suppose the framing of the tale into a Prose Romance. Surely, surely, surely, no human romancer, compounding the unhappy transactions into a prose narrative, could, could, could have put the first sowing of doubt, and the smothering under the pillows, for incidents of one day. He would have made Othello for a time laugh at the doubt, toss it to the winds. Iago would have wormed about him a deal slowlier. The course of the transactions in the Novel would have been much nearer the course of reality.

In Cinthio’s Novel—

Curse Cinthio.

My Lord, I bow to your superior politeness.

Confound Chesterfield. My dear friend, Reality has its own reasons—a Novel its own—and its own a Drama. Every work of art brings its own conditions, which divide you from the literal representation of human experience. Ask Painter, Sculptor, and Architect. Every fine art exercises its own sleights.

In the Novel, I guess or admit that they would have been a month at Cyprus ere Iago had stirred. What hurry? He would have watched his time—ever and anon would have thrown in a hundred suggestions of which we know nothing. Let any man, romancer or other, set himself to conceive the Prose Novel. He cannot, by any possibility, conceive that he should have been led to make but a day of it. Ergo, the Drama proceeds upon its own Laws. No representation in art is the literal transcript of experience.

The question is, what deviations—to what extent—does the particular Art need? And why? The talked Attic Unity of Time instructs us. But Sophocles and Shakspeare must have one view of the Stage, in essence. You must sit out your three or four hours. You must listen and see with expectation $1, like a bow drawn. To which intent Action and Passion must press on.

Compare, sir, the One Day of Othello to the Sixteen Years of Hermione! There, intensest Passion sustained; here, the unrolling of a romantic adventure. Each true to the temper imposed on the hearing spectator.

Good. The Novel is not a Transcript—the Play is not a Transcript. Ask not for a Transcript, for not one of those who could give it you, will. A $1 and demand—and we have it in Othello.

And put up we must with Two Times—one for your sympathy with his tempest of heart—one for the verisimilitude of the transaction.

Think on the facility with which, in the Novel, Iago could have strewn an atom of arsenic a day on Othello’s platter, to use him to the taste; and how, in the Play, this representation is impossible. Then, the original remaining the same, each manner of portraiture $1, and each, after $1.

Did not Shakspeare know as much about the Time which he was himself making $1, as much and more?

I doubt it. I see no necessity for believing it. We judge him as we judge ourselves. He came to his Art as it was, and created—improving it—from that point. An Art grows in all its constituents. The management of the Time is a constituent in the Art of “feigned history,” as Poetry is called by Lord Bacon. But I contend that on our Stage, to which Shakspeare came, the management of Time was in utter neglect—an undreamed entity; and I claim for the first foundation of any Canon respective to this matter, acute sifting of all Plays $1.

Not so very many—

Nor so very few. Shakspeare took up the sprawling, forlorn infant, dramatic Time. He cradled, rocked, and fed it. The bantling throve, and crawled vigorously about on all-fours. But since then, thou Tallometer, imagine the study that $1 have made. Count not our Epic Poems—not our Metrical Romances—not our Tragedies. Count our Comedies, and count above all our Novels. I do not say that you can settle Time in these by the almanac. They are the less poetical when you can do so; but I say that we have with wonderful and immense diligence studied the working out of a Story. Time being here an essential constituent, it cannot be but that, in our more exact and critical layings-out of the chain of occurrences, we have arrived at a tutored and jealous respect of Time—to say nothing of our Aristotelian lessons—totally unlike anything that existed under Eliza and James, as a general proficiency of the Art—as a step gained in the National Criticism.

Ay, it must be difficult in the extreme for us so to divest ourselves of our own intellectual habits and proficiency as to take up, and into our own, the mind of that Age. But, unless we do so, we are unable to judge what might or might not happen to any one mind of that age; and when we affirm that Shakspeare must have known what he was doing in regard to the Time of Othello, we are suffering under the described difficulty or disability—

Why, Talboys, you are coming, day after day, to talk better and better sense—take care you do not get too sensible—

We must never forget, sir, that the management of the Time was on that Stage a slighted and trampled element—that what Willy gives us of it is gratuitous, and what we must be thankful for—and finally, that he did not distinctly scheme out, in his own conception, the Time of Othello—very far from it.

I verily believe that if you or I had shown him the Time, tied up as it is, he would have said, “Let it go hang. They won’t find it out; and, if they do, let them make the best, the worst, and the most of it. The Play is a good Play, and I shall spoil it with mending it.” Why, Talboys, if Queen Elizabeth had required that the Time should be set straight, it could not have been done. One—two—six changes would not have done it. The Time is an entangled skein that can only be disentangled by breaking it. For the fervour of action on the Stage, Iago could not have delayed the beginning beyond the next day. And yet think of the Moral Absurdity—to begin—really as if the day after Marriage, to sow Jealousy! The thing is out of nature the whole diameter of the globe. His project was “after a time t’ abuse Othello’s ear,” which is according to nature, and is $1 the impression made—strange to say—from beginning to end. But the truth is, that the Stage three hours are so soon gone, that you submit yourself to everything to come within compass. Your Imagination is bound to the wheels of the Theatre Clock.

Yet, in our conversation on Macbeth, you called your discovery an “astounding discovery”—and it is so. The Duplicity of Time in Othello is a hundred times more astounding—

And the discovery of it will immortalise my name. I grieve to think that the Pensive Public is sadly deficient in Imagination. I remember or invent that she once resisted me, when I said that “Illusion” is one constituent of Poetry. Illusion, the Pensive Public must be made to know, is WHEN THE SAME THING IS, AND IS NOT. Pa—God bless him!—makes believe to be a Lion. He roars, and springs upon his prey. He at once believes himself to be a Lion, and knows himself to be Pa. Just so with the Shakspeare Club—many millions strong. The two times at Cyprus $1; the reason for the two times—to wit, probability of the Action, storm of the Passion—$1; and if any wiseacre should ask, “How do we manage to stand the $1 together-proceeding of two times?” The wiseacre is answered—“We don’t stand it—for we know nothing about it. We are held in a confusion and a delusion about the time.” We have effect of both—distinct knowledge of neither. We have suggestions to our Understanding of extended time—we have movements of our Will by precipitated time.

We have—we have—we have. Oh! sir! sir! sir!

Does any man by possibility ask for a scheme and an exposition, by which it shall be made luminous to the smallest capacity, $1 we are able distinctly all along to know, and bear in mind, that the preceding transactions are accomplished in a day, and at the same time and therewithal, distinctly all along to know and bear in mind that the same transactions proceeding before our eyes take about three months to accomplish? Then, I am obliged—like the musicians, when they are told that, if they have any music that may not be heard, Othello desires them to play it—to make answer, “Sir, we have none such.” It is to ask that a deception shall be not only seemingly but really a truth! Jedediah Buxton, and Blair the Chronologist, would, “sitting at $1 play,” have broken their hearts. You need not. If you ask me—which judiciously you may—what or how much did the Swan of Avon intend and know of all this astonishing legerdemain, when he sang thus astonishingly? Was he the juggler juggled by aërial spirits—as Puck and Ariel? I put my finger to my lip, and nod on him to do the same; and if I am asked, “Shall a modern artificer of the Drama, having the same pressure from within and from without, adopt this resource of evasion?” I can answer, with great confidence, “He had better look before he leap.” If any spectator, upon the mere persuasion and power of the Representation, ends with believing that the seed sown and the harvest reaped are of one day, I believe that he may yet have the belief of extended time at Cyprus. I should say by $1! Or if you wish this more intelligibly said, that he shall continually $1 the past notices. Once for all, he shall $1 that the $1.

Inquire, sir, what intelligent auditors, who have not gone into the study, have thought; for that, after all, is the only testimony that means anything.

Well, Talboys, suppose that one of them should actually say, “Why, upon my word, if I am to tell the truth, I did take note that Iago began ‘abusing Othello’s ear’ the day after the arrival. I did, in the course of the Play, gather up an impression that some good space of time was passing at Cyprus—and I did, when the murder came, put it down upon the same day with the sowing of the suspicion, and I was not aware of the contradiction. In short, now that you put me upon it, I see that I did that which thousands of us do in thousands of subjects—keep in different corners of the brain two beliefs—of which, if they had come upon the same ground, the one must have annihilated the other. But I did not at the time bring the data together. $1”

Assume, sir, for simplicity’s sake, that Shakspeare knew what he was doing.

Then the Double Time is to be called—an Imposture.

Oh, my dear sir—oh, oh!

A good-natured Juggler, my dear Talboys, has cheated your eyes. You ask him to show you how he did it. He does the trick slowly—and you see. “Now, good Conjuror, $1.” “I can’t. I cheat you by doing it quickly. To be cheated, you must $1 see what I do; but you must $1 that you see.” When we inspect the Play in our closets, the Juggler does his trick slowly. We sit at the Play, and he does it quick. When you see the trick again done the right way—that is quick—you cannot conceive how it is that you no longer see that which you saw when it was done slowly! Again the impression returns of a magical feat.

I doubt, if we saw Othello perfectly acted, whether all our study would preserve us from the returning imposture.

I will defy any one most skilful theatrical connoisseur, even at the tenth, or twentieth, or fiftieth Representation, so to have followed the comings-in and the goings-out, as to satisfy himself to demonstration, that interval into which a month or a week or a day can be dropped—$1.

When do you purpose publishing this your “astounding Discovery?”

Not till after my death.

I shall attend to it.

In comparing Shakspeare and the Attic Three, we seem to ourselves, but really do not, to exhaust the Criticism of the Drama. Is Mr Sheriff Alison right, when he said that the method of Shakspeare is justified only by the genius of Shakspeare? That less genius needs the art of antiquity? Our own art inclines to a method between the two; and we should have to account for the theatrical success, during a century or more, of such Plays as the Fair Penitent, Jane Shore, &c.

Why, sir, does Tragedy displace often from our contemplation, Comedy? Not when we are contemplating Shakspeare. To me his method, in reading him, appears justified by the omnipotent Art, which, despite refractoriness, binds together the most refractory times, things, persons, events $1.

Most true. We feel, in reading, the self-compactness and self-completeness of each Play. Thus in Lear—

In Lear the ethical ground is the Relation of Parent to Child, specifically Father and Daughter. If the treatment of that Relation is full to your satisfaction, that may affect you as a Unity. Full is not exhaustive; but one part of treatment demands another. Thus the violated relation requires for its complement the consecrated relation.

In Hamlet?

The ethical ground in Hamlet, sir, is the relation of Father and Son, very peculiarly determined, or specialtied. Observe, sir, how the $1 relation between Father and Daughter, the $1 between Father and Son occurs in Polonius’s House. Here, too, a slain Father—a part of the specialty. Compare, particularly, the dilatory revenge of Hamlet, and the dispatchful of Laertes. Again, the relation of Gertrude the Mother and Hamlet the Son—so many differences! And the strange discords upon the same relation—my Uncle-Father and Aunt-Mother—the tragic grotesque.

Eh?

Then in Lear the House of Gloster counterparts Lear’s. And compare the ill-disposed Son-in-law Cornwall, and the well-disposed Son-in-law Albany. The very Fool has a sort of $1 relation to Lear—“Nuncle”—and “come on, my Boy.” At least the relation is in the same direction—old to young—protecting to dependent—spontaneous love to grateful, requiting love, and an intimate, fondling familiarity. Compare in Hamlet, Ophelia’s way of taking her father’s death—madness and unconscious suicide—the susceptible girl,—and the brother’s to kill the slayer, “to cut his throat i’ the church”—the energetic youthy man, ferox juvenis—fiery—full of exuberant strength;—all variations of the grounding thought—relation of Parent and Child.

Of Othello?

The moral Unity of Othello can be nothing but the Connubial Relation. How is this dealt with? Othello and Desdemona deserve one another—both are excellent—both impassioned, but very differently—both frank, simple, confiding—both unbounded in love. But they have married against the father’s wish—privily, and—he dies—so here is from another sacred quarter an influence thwarting—a law violated, and of which the violation shall be made good to the uttermost. So somebody remarks that Brabantio involves the fact in the Nemesis, “She has deceived her Father, and may thee.” Then the pretended corrupt love of her and Cassio is a reflection in divers ways of the prevailing relation—for a corrupt union of man and woman images ex opposito the true union—and then it comes as the wounding to the death. Again, Rodrigo’s wicked pursuit of her is an imperfect, false reflection. And then there is the false relation—in Cassio and Bianca—woven in essentially when Iago, talking to Cassio of Bianca, makes Othello believe that they are speaking of Desdemona. Then the married estate of Iago and Emilia is another image—an actual marriage, and so far the same thing, but an inwardly unbound wedlock—between heart and heart no tie—and so far not the same thing—the same with a difference, exactly what Poetry requires. Note that this image is also participant in the Action, essentially, penetratively to the core; since hereby Iago gets the handkerchief, and hereby, too, the knot is resolved by Emilia’s final disclosures and asseverations sealed by her death. Observe that each husband kills, and indeed stabs his wife—motives a little different—as heaven and hell.

The method of Shakspeare makes his Drama the more absolute reflection of our own Life, wherein are to be considered two things——

First—if the innermost grounding feeling of all our other feelings is and must be that of Self—the next, or in close proximity, Sympathy with our life—then by the overpowering similitude of those Plays to our lives—of the method of the Plays to the method of our life—that Sympathy is by Shakspeare seized and possessed as by no other dramatist—the persuasion of reality being immense and stupendous. Elements of the method are, the mixture of comic and tragic—the crossing presentment of different interests—presentment of the same interests from divided places and times—multiplying of agents, that is number and variety—being of all ranks, ages, qualities, offices—coming in contact—immixt in Action and Passion. This frank, liberal, unreserved, spontaneous and natural method of imitation must ravish our sympathy—and we know that the Plays of Shakspeare are to us like another world of our own in its exuberant plenitude—a full second humanity.

Opposed to this is the severe method of the Greek Stage—selecting and simplifying.

Of the modern craftsmen, to my thinking Alfieri has carried the Attic severity to the utmost; and I am obliged to say, sir, that in them all—those Greeks and this Italian—the severity oppresses me—I feel the rule of art—not the free movement of human existence. That I feel overpoweringly, only in Shakspeare.

Ay.

Alfieri says that the constituent Element of Tragedy is Conflict—as of Duty and Passion—as of conscious Election in the breast of Man and Fate.

He does—does he?

There is Conflict—or Contrast—or Antithesis—the Jar of two Opposites—a Discord—a Rending—in Lear; between his misplaced confidence and its requital—between his misplaced displeasure and the true love that is working towards his weal. And, again, between the Desert and the Reward of Cordelia—with more in the same Play.

Schiller says of Tragic Fate,

Welcker has, I believe, written on the Fate of the Greek Tragedy, which I desire to see.

Are Waves breaking against a Rock the true image of Tragedy?

Hardly; any more than a man running his head against a post, or stone wall is. The two antagonistic Forces, Talboys, must each of them have, or seem to have, the possibility of yielding; the Conflict or Strife must have a certain play. Therefore I inquire—Is the Greek Fate the most excellent of Dramatic means? and is the Greek Fate inflexible? And, granting that the Hellenic Fate is thoroughly sublime and fitting to Greek Tragedy, and withal inflexible—does it follow that Modern Tragedy must have a like overhanging tyrannical Necessity?

No.

No. The Greek Tragedy representing a received religious Mythology, we may conceive the poetical, or esthetical $1 of a Fate known for unalterable, to have been tempered by the inherent Awe—the Holiness. There is a certain swallowing-up of human interests, hopes, passions—this turmoiling, struggling life—in a revealed Infinitude. Our Stage is human—built on the Moral Nature of Man, and on his terrestrial Manner of Being. It stands 638$1 the Heavens—$1 the Earth. In Hamlet, the Ghost, with his command of Revenge, represents the Impassive, Inflexible—with a breath freezing the movable human blood into stillness—everything else is in agitation.

Say it again, sir.

Beg my pardon and your own, fully and unconditionally, Talboys, this very instant, for talking slightingly of the Greek Drama.

Not guilty, my Lord. Of all Dramas that ever were dramatised on the Stage of this unintelligible world, the Greek Drama is the most dramatic, saving and excepting Shakspeare’s.

Ay, wonderful, my dear Talboys, to see the holy affections demonstrated mighty on the heathen Proscenium. Antigone! Daughter and Sister. Or in another House, Orestes, Electra.

Macbeth murders a King, who happens to be his kinsman; but Clytemnestra murders her husband, who happens to be a King—the profounder and more interior crime.

We see how grave are the undertakings of Poetry, which engages itself to please, that it may accomplish sublimer aims. By pleasure she wins you to your greater good—to Love and Intelligence. The heathen Legislator, the heathen Philosopher, the heathen Poet, looks upon Man with love and awe. He desires and conceives his welfare—his wellbeing—his Happiness.

And the Poet, you believe, sir, with intenser love—with more solemn awe—with more penetrant intuition.

I do. And he has his way clearer before him.

The Legislator, sir, will alchemise the most refractory of all substances—Man. His materials are in truth the lowest and grossest, and most external relations of Man’s life.

They are.

And these he would, with instrumentality of low, gross, outward means, subjugate or subdue under his own most spiritual intuitions.

A vain task, my dear Talboys, for an impossible. He must lower his intuition—his aim—to his means and materials. The Philosopher walks in a more etherial region. Compared to the Legislator, he is at advantage. But he has his own difficulties. He must $1!

He might as well try, sir, to trace outline, and measure capacity of a mist which varies its form momently, and, without determinate boundary loses itself in the contiguous air. His work is to define the indefinite.

And then he comes from the Schools, which in qualifying disqualify also—from the Schools of the Senses—of the Physical Arts—of Natural Philosophy—of Logical, Metaphysical, Mathematical Science. These have quickened, strengthened, and sharpened his wit; they have lifted him at last from emotions to notions; but—Love is understood by loving—Hate by hating—and only so! Sensations—notions—Emotions! I say, Talboys, that in all these inferior schools you may understand a part by itself, and ascend by items to the Sum, the All. But in the Philosophy of the Will, you must from the centre look along the radii, and with a sweep command the circumference. You must know as it were Nothing, or All.

Ay, indeed, sir; looking at the Doctrines of the Moral Philosophers, you are always dissatisfied—and why?

Because they contradict your self-experience. Sometimes they speak as you feel. Your self-intelligence answers, and from time to time, acknowledges and avouches a strain or two; but then comes discord. The Sage stands on a radius. If he looks along the radius towards the circumference, he sees in the same direction with him who stands at the centre; but in every other direction, inversely or transversely. Every work of a Philosopher gives you the notion of glimpses caught, snatched in the midst of clouds and of rolling darknesses. The truth is, Talboys, that the Moral Philosopher is in the Moral Universe a schoolboy; he is gaining, from time to time, information by which, if he shall persevere and prosper, he shall at last understand. Hitherto he but prepares to understand. If he knows this, good; but if the schoolboy who has mastered his Greek Alphabet, will forthwith proceed to expound Homer and Plato, what sort of an $1 may we not expect? Rather, what expectation can approach the burlesque that is in store!

All are not such.

The Moral Sage may be the Schoolboy in the Magisterial Chair. With only this difference, that he of the beard has been installed in form, and the Doctor’s hat set on his head by the hand of authority. But the ground of confusion is the same. He will from initial glimpses of information expound the world. He will—and the worst of it is that—he must.

A Legislator, a Philosopher, a Poet, all know that the stability and welfare of a man—of a fellowship of men—is Virtue. But see how they deal with it.

Don’t look to me, Talboys; go on of yourself and for yourself—I am a pupil.

The Legislator, sir, can hardly do more than reward Valour in war; and punish overt crime. The Philosopher will have Good either tangible, like an ox, or a tree, or a tower, or a piece of land; or a rigorous and precise rational abstraction, like the quantities of a mathematician. For Good, $1, go to the Poet. For Good—for Virtue—$1, go to the Poet.

The Philosopher separates Virtue from all other motions and states of the human will. The Poet loses or hides Virtue in the other motions and states of the human will. Orestes, obeying the Command of Apollo, avenges his Father, by slaying his Mother, and her murderous and adulterous Paramour. So awfully, solemnly, terribly—with such implication and involution in human affections and passions, works and interests and sufferings, the Poet demonstrates Virtue.

And we go along with Orestes, sir; the Greeks did—if our feebler soul cannot.

Yes, Talboys, we do go along with Orestes. He does that which he $1 do—which he is under a moral obligation to do—under a moral necessity of doing. Necessity! ay, an Αναγκη—stern, strong, adamantine as that which links the Chain of Causes and Events in the natural universe—which compels the equable and unalterable celestial motions beheld by our eyes—such a bounden, irresistible agency sends on the son of the murdered, with hidden sword, against the bosom that has lulled, fed, $1 him!—He must.

Love, hate, horror—the furies of kinned shed blood ready to spring up from the black inscrutable earth wetted by the red drops, and to dog the heels of the new Slayer—of the divinely-appointed Parricide! So a Poet teaches Virtue.

Ay, even so; convulsing your soul—convulsing the worlds, he shows you Law—the archaic, the primal, sprung, ere Time, from the bosom of Jupiter—Law the bond of the worlds, Law the inviolate violated, and avenging her Violation, vindicating her own everlasting stability, purity, divinity.

Divine Law and humble, faithful, acquiescent human Obedience! Obedience self-sacrificing, blind to the consequences, hearing the God, hearing the Ghost, deaf to all other Voices—deaf to fear, deaf to pity!

Now call in the Philosopher, and hear what he has to preach. Something exquisite and unintelligible about the Middle between two Extremes!

Shade of the Stagyrite!

The pure Earth shakes crime from herself, and the pure stars follow their eternal courses. The Mother slays the children of a brother for the father’s repast. And the sun, stopt in the heavens, veils his resplendent face. So a Poet inculcates Law—Law running through all things, and binding all things in Unity and in Sympathy—Law entwined in the primal relations of Man with Man. To reconcile Man with Law—to make him its “willing bondsman”—is the great Moral and Political Problem—the first Social need of the day—the innermost craving need of all time since the Fall. The Poet is its greatest teacher—a wily preceptor, who lessons you, unaware, unsuspecting of the supreme benefit purposed you—done you—by him, the Hierophant of Harmonia.

You ordered me, sir, some few or many hours ago—some Short or Long Time since—to swear that after this Morning’s Breakfast I would never more so much as confidentially whisper into a friend’s ear the words—Othello! Desdemona! And I swore it. I am now eager to swear it over again; but I begin, sir, to entertain the most serious apprehensions that that time will never arrive.

What time?

$1 Breakfast. We have been sitting here, sir, $1 Breakfast for ages, in the Wren’s Nest. During our incubation, what a succession of changes may there not have been in Europe! Revolution on Revolution—blood poured out like water——Hark, the Tocsin!

The Gong.

The $1 Gong! The tremulous thunder meets an answering chord within me. Six o’Clock in the Morning—and no victuals have I gorged since Eleven Yestreen. Good-by to the Wren’s Nest—the very Cave of Famine. This is Turkey-egg—Goose-egg—Swan-egg—Ostrich-egg day. I see Buller eyeing open-mouthed, with premeditating mastication, my pile of muffins. Gormandising sans Grace. Take care you don’t trip, sir, over the precipice—’twould be an ugly fall—into the basin. Now we are out of danger. But don’t skip, sir—don’t skip—till we emerge—on the open ground—then we may dance among the daisies.

LETTER FROM MAJOR-GENERAL SIR WILLIAM NAPIER.

Sir,—The writer of the article headed “The Ministerial Measures,” in your Magazine, has been so complimentary to me that I feel ashamed of pointing out an error.

He says I wrote my History on $1. Had he said $1, I should not have winced, though I really endeavoured to write it on the principles of truth and knowledge of the subject. But for Whig principles! God save the mark!—I never thought of them save to censure; and really my History is throughout, by implication, and in many places directly, condemnatory of the Whigs’ policy, and of their extreme arrogance, and presumptuous, erroneous views of the Peninsular War.

I trust the writer will, therefore, acquit me of any such foolish, factious design as writing a history upon Whig principles.

I remain, Sir, your obedient Servant,

$1

[We gladly give place to the gallant General’s communication. The writer of the article in question meant simply to convey his impression, that the able and eloquent History of Sir William Napier was not constructed on $1 principles; and consequently, that the letter which he embodied in his paper was to be regarded as the testimony of a political opponent.]