Blackwood 455 - 1853.09

NEW READINGS IN SHAKESPEARE. [3] — NO. II.

If the glory of Shakespeare is a theme for national congratulation, the purity of his text ought to be an object of national concern. It is not enough that the general effect of his writings should impress itself clearly on the hearts and minds of all classes of readers; that the grander and broader features of his genius should commend themselves to the admiration of all mankind. This they can never fail to do. The danger to which Shakespeare is exposed is not such as can ever materially affect the soul and substance of his compositions. Here he stands pre-eminent and secure. But he is exposed to a danger of another kind. As time wears on, his text runs periodically the risk of being extensively tampered with; whether by the introduction of new readings, properly so called, or by the insertion of glosses of a comparatively ancient date. The carelessness with which it is alleged the earlier editions were printed, is pleaded as an apology for these conjectural corrections;—one man’s ingenuity sets to work the wits of another; and thus, unless the cacoethes emendandi be checked betimes, a distant posterity, instead of receiving our great poet’s works in an authentic form, may succeed to a very adulterated inheritance.

This consideration induces us to exert such small power as we may possess to check the growing evil, and in particular to repress that deluge of innovations which Mr Collier has lately let loose upon the gardens of Shakespeare, from the margins of his corrected folio of 1632, and which, if they do not shake the everlasting landmarks, at any rate threaten with destruction many a flower of choicest fragrance and most celestial hue. We believe that when Mr Collier’s volume was first published, the periodical press was generally very loud in its praises. “Here we have the genuine Shakespeare at last,” said the journals, with singular unanimity. But when the new readings have been dispassionately discussed, and when the excitement of their novelty has subsided, we believe that Mr Collier’s “Shakespeare restitutus,” so far from being an acceptable present to the community, will be perceived to be such a book as very few readers would like to live in the same house with.

In order, then, to carry out what we conceive to be a good work—the task, namely, of defending the text of Shakespeare from the impurities with which Mr Collier wishes to inoculate it—we return to the discussion (which must necessarily be of a minute and chiefly verbal character) of the new readings. We shall endeavour to do justice to the old corrector, by bringing forward every alteration which looks like a real emendation. Two or three small matters may perhaps escape us, but the reader may be assured that they are very small matters indeed. It will be seen that the unwise substitutions constitute an overwhelming majority. The play that stands next in order is “King John.”

King John—Act II. Scene 1.—In this play the new readings are of no great importance. A few of them may equal the original text—one or two may excel it—but certainly the larger portion fall considerably below it in point of merit. The best emendation occurs in the lines in which young Arthur expresses his acknowledgments to Austria—

The MS. corrector proposes “unstrained love,” which perhaps is the better word of the two, though the change is by no means necessary. The same commendation cannot be extended to the alteration which is proposed in the lines where Constance is endeavouring to dissuade the French king from engaging precipitately in battle. She says—

“Indirectly” is Shakespeare’s word. The MS. corrector suggests “indiscreetly”—a most unhappy substitution, which we are surprised that the generally judicious Mr Singer should approve of. “Indiscreetly” means imprudently, inconsiderately. “Indirectly” means wrongfully, iniquitously, as may be learnt from these lines in King Henry V., where the French king is denounced as a usurper, and is told that Henry

It was certainly the purpose of Constance to condemn the rash shedding of blood as something worse than indiscreet—as criminal and unjust—and this she did by employing the term “indirectly” in the Shakespearean sense of that word.

In this same Act, Scene 2, a new reading—also approved of by Mr Singer, and pronounced “unquestionably right” by Mr Collier—is proposed in the lines where the citizen says—

For “near” the MS. correction is niece. But the Lady Blanch is repeatedly, throughout the play, spoken of as niece to King John and the Queen-mother. Therefore, if for no other reason than that of varying the expression, we must give our suffrage most decidedly in favour of the original reading. “Near to England” of course means nearly related to England; and it seems much more natural, as well as more poetical, that the citizen should speak in this general way of Lady Blanch, than that he should condescend on her particular degree of relationship, and style her the “niece to England.”

At the end of this Act, in the soliloquy of Faulconbridge, a very strange perversion on the part of the MS. corrector comes before us. Faulconbridge is railing against what he calls “commodity”—that is, the morality of self-interest. He then goes on to represent himself as no better than his neighbours, in these words—

The meaning of these lines is certainly sufficiently obvious. Yet Mr Collier’s corrector is not satisfied with them. He reads—

But unless Mr Collier can prove—what will be difficult—that “power” here means inclination, it is evident that this reading directly reverses Shakespeare’s meaning. If “power” means inclination, the sense would be this—I rail on this commodity, not because I have no inclination to clutch my hand on the fair angels that would salute my palm, but because I have not yet been tempted; when temptation comes, I shall doubtless yield like my neighbours. But power never means, and cannot mean inclination; and Mr Collier has not attempted to show that it does; and therefore the new reading must be to this effect—“I rail on this commodity, not because I am unable to close my hand against a bribe,” &c. But Faulconbridge says the very reverse. He says—“I rail on this commodity, not because I have the power to resist temptation, or am able to shut my hand against the fair angels that would salute my palm; for I have no such power: in this respect I am just like other people, and am as easily bribed as they are.” The new reading, therefore, must be dismissed as a wanton reversal of the plain meaning of Shakespeare.

Act III. Scene 3.—We approve of the corrector’s change of the word “race,” the ordinary reading, into ear, in the following line about the midnight bell—

The old copies read on instead of one, which was supplied—rightly, as we think—by Warburton. The MS. corrector makes no change in regard to on.

Act III. Scene 4.—The passionate vehemence of Constance’s speech is much flattened by the corrector’s ill-judged interference. Bewailing the loss of her son, she says—

For “modern” the MS. corrector would read “widow’s”! And Mr Collier, defending the new reading, observes that Johnson remarks, “that it is hard to say what Shakespeare means by modern.” Johnson does make this remark. Nevertheless the meaning of the word “modern” is perfectly plain. It signifies moderate—not sufficiently impassioned; and we are called upon to give up this fine expression for the inanity of a “widow’s invocation”! In the same lines this reckless tamperer with the language of Shakespeare would change

into

Act IV. Scene 2.—In the following lines a difficulty occurs which seems insuperable, and which the MS. corrector has certainly not explained, although Mr Collier says that his reading makes “the meaning apparent.” King John, in reply to some of his lords, who have tried to dissuade him from having a double coronation, says—

This is the common reading; but why the king should give them more and stronger reasons for his double coronation, when his fears were diminished, is not at all apparent. The strength of his fears should rather have led him at once to state his reasons explicitly. The MS. correction is—

But how the communication of his stronger reasons should have the effect of lessening the king’s fear, is a riddle still darker than the other. The possession of these reasons might lessen the usurper’s fears; but surely the mere utterance of them could make no difference. If the MS. corrector had written, “thus lessening your fears,” there would have been some sense in the emendation; and, if a new reading be required, this is the one which we venture to suggest.

Act IV. Scene 3.—We confess that we prefer the MS. corrector’s line,

to the ordinary reading,

But we are not prepared to say that the latter is unintelligible, or that it is not in accordance with the diplomatic phraseology of the time.

The following new reading has something to recommend it; but much also may be said in defence of the old text. Salisbury, indignant with the king, says, as the ordinary copies give it,

The margins propose “sin-bestained,” which is plausible. But there is also a propriety in the use of the word “thin.” The king’s cloak (that is, his authority) was thin, because not lined and strengthened with the power and honours of his nobles. The text ought not to be altered.

We conclude our obiter dicta on this play with the remark, that Pope’s change of “hand” into “head,” which is also proposed by the MS. corrector in the following lines, (Act IV. Scene III.) seems to us to be an improvement, and entitled to admission into the text. Salisbury vows

—that is, the head of young Arthur, whose dead body had just been discovered on the ground.

King Richard II.—Act. II. Scene 1.—Ritson’s emendation, as pointed out by Mr Singer, is unquestionably to be preferred to the MS. corrector’s in these lines—

“Raged,” the common reading, can scarcely be right. Ritson proposed “being reined.” The margins suggest “being urg’d.”

We differ from the MS. corrector, Mr Collier, and Mr Singer, in thinking that there is no good reason for disturbing the received text in the lines where the conspirators, Willoughby, Ross, and Northumberland, are consulting together; but, on the contrary, very good reasons for leaving it alone. Willoughby says to his brother—conspirator, Northumberland,

Ross also presses him to speak:

The change proposed is our for “as.” “Thy words are but our thoughts.” The difference of meaning in the two readings is but slight; but the old text seems to us to have the advantage in depth and fineness. Ross’s argument with Northumberland to speak was not merely because his words were as their thoughts. That was no doubt true; but the point of his persuasion lay in the consideration that Northumberland’s words would be as good as not spoken. “We three are but yourself, and, in these circumstances, your words are but as thoughts—that is, you are as safe in uttering them as if you uttered them not, inasmuch as you will be merely speaking to yourself.” The substitution of “our” for “as” seems to bring out this meaning less clearly.

Act II. Scene 2.—The following lines (part of which, for the sake of perspicuity, we print within a parenthesis, contrary, we believe, to the common arrangement) require no emendation. The queen, labouring under “the involuntary and unaccountable depression of mind which, says Johnson, every one has some time felt,” remarks—

The MS. corrector reads “unthinking” for “in thinking;” but this is by no means necessary. The old text is quite as good, indeed rather better than the new.

Scene 3.—Much dissatisfaction has been expressed with the word despised in the lines in which York severely rates his traitorous nephew Bolingbroke:

“But sure,” says Warburton, “the ostentation of despised arms would not fright any one. We should read ‘disposed arms’—i.e., forces in battle array.” “Despoiling arms” is the reading recommended by the margins. “Displayed arms” is the right expression, according to Mr Singer. But surely no emendation is required. The ostentation of despised arms was quite sufficient to frighten the harmless villagers; and this is all that Shakespeare says it did. And then it is in the highest degree appropriate and consistent that York should give his nephew to understand that his arms or forces were utterly despicable in the estimation of all loyal subjects, of all honourable and right-thinking men. Hence his words,

mean—alarming with war only pale-faced villagers, who never smelt the sulphurous breeze of battle, and making a vain parade of arms which all true soldiers must despise.

Act III. Scene 3.—The substitution of storm for “harm,” in the following lines, is an exceedingly doubtful emendation. York says of Richard—

It is true that, in a previous part of the speech, the king is likened to the setting sun, whose glory “the envious clouds are bent to dim;” and therefore the word storm has some show of reason to recommend it, and “harm” may possibly have been a misprint. But we rather think that it is the right word, and that it is more natural and pathetic than the word storm. Nothing else worthy of note or comment presents itself in the MS. corrections of King Richard II.

The First Part of King Henry IV.—Act I. Scene 1.—“No new light,” says Mr Collier, “is thrown upon the two lines which have produced so many conjectures:

The MS. corrector has in this instance shown his sense by not meddling with these lines; for how any light beyond their own inherent lustre should ever have been thought necessary to render them luminous, it is not easy to understand. As a specimen of the way in which the old commentators occasionally darkened the very simplest matters, their treatment of these two lines may be adduced. The old quartos, and the folio 1623, supply the text as given above. By an error of the press, the folio 1632 reads damb instead of daub. This damb the earlier commentators converted into damp. Warburton changed “damp” into trempe—i.e., moisten. Dr Johnson, although very properly dissatisfied with this Frenchified reading, is as much at fault as the bishop. With the authentic text of the older editions before him, he says, “the old reading helps the editor no better than the new” (in other words, daub is no better than damb, and damp, and trempe); “nor can I satisfactorily reform the passage. I think that ‘thirsty entrance’ must be wrong, yet know not what to offer. We may read, but not very elegantly—

Truly this reading is by no means elegant; it is nothing less than monstrous. To say nothing of the physical impossibility of the blood penetrating to the “entrails” of the earth, the expression violates the first principles of poetical word-painting. The interior parts of the earth are not seen, and therefore to talk of them as daubed with blood, is to attempt to place before the eye of the mind a picture which cannot be placed before it. In science, or as a matter of fact, this may be admissible; but in poetry, where the imagination is addressed, it is simply an absurdity. Steevens, with some hesitation, proposes—

“Entrants,” that is, “invaders.” “This,” says Steevens, “may be thought very far-fetched.” It is worse than far-fetched—it is ludicrously despicable. Conceive Shakespeare saying that “a parcel of drouthy Frenchmen shall no more daub the lips of England with the blood of her own children”! What renders this reading all the more inexcusable is, that Steevens perceived what the true and obvious meaning was, although he had not the steadiness to stand to it. He adds—“or Shakespeare may mean the thirsty entrance of the soil for the porous surface of the earth through which all moisture enters, and is thirstily drunk or soaked up.” Shakespeare’s words cannot by any possibility mean anything except this. “Porous surface,” as must be obvious to all mankind, is the exact literal prose of the more poetical phrase, “thirsty entrance.” Yet obvious as this interpretation is, Malone remained blind to it, even after Steevens had pointed it out. He prefers Steevens’ first emendation. He says, “Mr Steevens’ conjecture (that is, his suggestion of entrants for entrance) is so likely to be true, that I have no doubt about the propriety of admitting it into the text.” In spite, however, of these vagaries, we believe that the right reading, as given above, has kept its place in the ordinary editions of Shakespeare. This instance may show that our MS. corrector is not the only person whose wits have gone a-woolgathering when attempting to mend the language of Shakespeare.

Before returning to Mr Collier’s corrector, we wish to make another digression, in order to propose a new reading—one, at least, which is new to ourselves, and not to be found in the variorum edition 1785. The king says, in reference to the rising in the north, which has been triumphantly put down—

For “balked” Steevens conjectured either “bathed” or “baked.” Warton says that balk is a ridge, and that therefore “balked in their own blood” means “piled up in a ridge, and in their own blood.” Tollet says, “‘balked in their own blood,’ I believe, means, lay in heaps or hillocks in their own blood.” We propose—

“Barked,” that is, coated with dry and hardened blood, as a tree is coated with bark. This is picturesque. To bark or barken is undoubtedly an old English word; and in Scotland, even at this day, it is not uncommon to hear the country people talk of blood barkening, that is, hardening, upon a wound.

Act I. Scene 3.—The following lines present a difficulty which the commentators—and among them our anonymous scholiast—have not been very successful in clearing up. The king, speaking in reference to the revolted Mortimer and his accomplices, says—

There is no difficulty in regard to the word “indent;” it means, to enter into a compact—to descend, as Johnson says, to a composition. But what is the meaning of “to indent, or enter into a compact, with fears”? Johnson suggests “with peers”—that is, with the noblemen who have lost and forfeited themselves. But this is a very unsatisfactory and improbable reading. The MS. corrector proposes “with foes;” and Mr Collier remarks, “It seems strange that, in the course of two hundred and fifty years, nobody should ever have even guessed at foes for fears.” It is much more strange that Mr Collier should be ignorant that “foes” is the reading of the Oxford editor, Sir Thomas Hanmer—a reading which was long ago condemned. Mr Singer adheres rightly to the received text; but he is wrong in his explanation of the word “fears.” He says that it means “objects of fear.” But surely the king can never have regarded Mortimer and his associates as objects of fear. He had a spirit above that. He had no dread of them. Steevens is very nearly right when he says that the word “fears” here means terrors: he would have been quite right had he said that it signifies cowardice, or rather, by a poetical licence, “cowards”—(fearers, if there were such a word.) The meaning is, shall we buy treason, and enter into a composition with cowardice, when they (the traitors and cowards) have lost and forfeited themselves? Treason and cowardice are undoubtedly the two offences which the king intends to brand with his indignation. “Foes” is quite inadmissible.

In Act II. Scene 1—Gadshill, talking in a lofty vein of his high acquaintances, says, “I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff, six-penny strikers; none of these mad, mustachio, purple-hued maltworms; but with nobility and tranquillity; burgomasters and great oneyers; such as can hold in; such as can strike sooner than speak,” &c. The change of “tranquillity” into sanguinity, as proposed by the MS. corrector, we dismiss at once as unworthy of any consideration. “Oneyers” is the only word about which there is any difficulty; and it has puzzled the bigwigs. Theobald reads “moneyers”—that is, officers of the mint—bankers. Sir T. Hanmer reads “great owners.” Malone reads “onyers,” which, he says, means public accountants. “To settle accounts is still called at the exchequer to ony, and hence Shakespeare seems to have formed the word onyers.” Johnson has hit upon the right explanation, although he advances it with considerable hesitation. “I know not,” says he, “whether any change is necessary; Gadshill tells the chamberlain that he is joined with no mean wretches, but with burgomasters and great ones, or, as he terms them in merriment, by a cant termination, great oneyers, or, great one-eers—as we say privateer, auctioneer, circuiteer. This is, I fancy, the whole of the matter.” That this is the true explanation, or very near it, and that no change in the text is necessary, is proved beyond a doubt by the following extract from the writings of one whose genius, while it elevates the noblest subjects, can also illustrate the most small. “Do they often go where glory waits them, and leave you here?” says Mr Swiveller, alluding to Brass and his charming sister, in Dickens’ Old Curiosity Shop. “‘O, yes, I believe they do,’ returned the marchioness, alias the small servant; ‘Miss Sally’s such a one-er for that.’ ‘Such a what?’ said Dick, as much puzzled as a Shakespearean commentator. ‘Such a one-er,’ returned the marchioness. After a moment’s reflection, Mr Swiveller determined to forego his responsible duty of setting her right—[why should he have wished to set her right? she was right; she was speaking the language and illustrating the meaning of Shakespeare]—and to suffer her to talk on; as it was evident that her tongue was loosened by the purl, and her opportunities for conversation were not so frequent as to render a momentary check of little consequence. ‘They sometimes go to see Mr Quilp,’ said the small servant, with a shrewd look: ‘they go to a many places, bless you.’ ‘Is Mr Brass a wunner?’ said Dick. ‘Not half what Miss Sally is, he isn’t,’ replied the small servant.” Here is the very word we want. Shakespeare’s “oneyer” is Dickens’ one-er or wunner—that is, a one par excellence, a one with an emphasis—a top-sawyer—and the difficulty is resolved. Set a thief to catch a thief; and leave one great intellectual luminary to throw light upon another. After Mr Dickens’ lucid commentary, “oneyer” becomes quite a household word, and we suspect that the MS. corrector’s emendation will scarcely go down. He reads, “burgomasters and great ones,—yes such as can hold in.” “This will never do,” to quote a favourite aphorism, and literary canon of the late Lord Jeffrey, when speaking of the Lake School of poetry.

Act II. Scene 4.—The complacency with which Mr Collier sets the authority of his MS. corrector above that of the other commentators on Shakespeare, is one of the most curious features in his literary character. The following is an instance of his marginolatry. “Rowe,” says Mr Collier, “seems to have been right (indeed, the emendation hardly admits of doubt) in reading tristful for ‘trustful’ in Falstaff’s speech, as we learn from the alteration introduced in the folio 1632. ‘For Heaven’s sake, lords, convey my tristful queen.’” As if the authority of Rowe, or of any other person, was not, to say the least of it, just as good as that of the anonymous corrector, who, by the blunders into which he has fallen, has proved himself signally disqualified for the task of rectifying Shakespeare where his text may happen to be corrupted.

Act III. Scene 1.—Now and then, however, as we have all along admitted, the old corrector makes a good hit. A very excellent emendation, about the best which he has proposed, occurs in the scene where Mortimer says—

The lady then speaks to him in Welsh, being at the same time in tears; whereupon her husband says—

“The swelling heavens”—her eyes might no doubt be swollen; but that is not a pretty picture. The correction, which is a manifest improvement, and worthy of a place in the text, is “from these welling heavens.” This correction is taken from Mr Collier’s appendix, or “notes,” where it might be easily overlooked.

Act V. Scene 1.—The MS. corrector is very fond of eking out imperfect lines with conjectural interpolations, and of curtailing others which present a superfluity of syllables. This is a practice which cannot be permitted even in cases where the alteration improves the verses, as sometimes happens; much less can it be tolerated in cases, which are still more frequent, where the verses are manifestly enfeebled by the change. A conspicuous instance of the latter occurs in these lines. The rebellious Worcester says to the king,

Here the words, “How comes it then?” are vehement and abrupt, and the verse is purposely defective. Its impetuosity is destroyed by the corrector’s stilted and unnatural interpolation—

That word say takes off the sharp edge of the king’s wrathful interrogative, and converts him from a flesh and blood monarch into a mouthing ranter, a mere tragedy-king.

The Second Part of Henry IV.—Act I. Scene 2.—We agree with Mr Collier and Mr Singer that the substitution of diseases for “degrees” in Falstaff’s speech is a good and legitimate emendation, and we willingly place it to the credit of the MS. corrector.

Act I. Scene 3.—The MS. corrector attempts to amend the following passage in several places—not very successfully, as we shall endeavour to show. The rebellious lords are talking about their prospects and resources. Bardolph counsels delay, and warns his friends against being over-sanguine.

In this speech of Bardolph’s we shall confine our attention to the two main points on which the corrector has tried his hand. These are the two first lines, and the verse printed in italics. The two first lines are somewhat obscure; but we are of opinion that a much better sense may be obtained from them than is afforded by the corrector’s emendation, which we shall presently advert to. “Hope,” says Hastings, “never yet did harm.” “Yes,” says Bardolph, “in a state of affairs like the present, where action seems imminent, it has done harm to entertain (unfounded) hopes.” He then proceeds to press on his friends, as their only chance of safety, the necessity of making the war not imminent—of postponing it until they have pondered well their resources, and received farther supplies. All this is intelligible enough, and may be elicited with perfect ease from the ordinary text which was adjusted by Dr Johnson—the original reading of the two lines in question being obviously disfigured by typographical errors. There is therefore no call whatever for the MS. corrector’s amendment, which seems to us infinitely more obscure and perplexing than the received reading. He writes—

Mr Collier says that this emendation “clears the sense” of the passage. We should have thanked him had he shown us how; for, if the old reading be obscure, the only merit of the new one seems to be that it lends an additional gloom to darkness. In regard to the other point—the line printed in italics—the MS. corrector breaks the back of the difficulty by means of the following interpolated forgery—

This, and the other similar delinquencies of which the MS. corrector is frequently guilty, are neither more nor less than swindling—and swindling, too, without an object. Nothing is gained by the rascality; for the sense of the passage may be opened without resorting to the use of such a clumsy crowbar, such a burglarious implement as

It means, before we engage in any great and perilous undertaking, we should know how able we are to undergo such a work—how able we are to weigh against the opposite of such a work; that is, to contend successfully against the forces of the enemy. Mr Singer says that, if any change is necessary, we should read “this opposite,” instead of “his opposite.” With submission we beg to say, that, if any change is necessary, “its” and not “this” is the word which must be substituted for “his.” But no change is necessary; “his opposite” means the work’s opposite; and it is no unfrequent idiom with Shakespeare to use “his” for “its.”

Act II. Scene 1.—Hostess Quickly says, according to the old copies—

“A hundred marks is a long one for a poor lone woman to bear.”

“One” being obviously a misprint, Theobald substituted “loan;” and this is the usual reading. The MS. corrector proposes “score;” and this, we think, ought to go into the text. But it will be long before the MS. corrector, by means of such small instalments, clears his “score” with the ghost of Shakespeare. As a help, however, towards that consummation, we are rather inclined to place to his credit the substitution of high for the in the line—

Perhaps, also, he ought to get credit for “shrouds” instead of “clouds”—although the former is now no novelty, having been started long ago by some of the early commentators. The original reading is “clouds;” but the epithet “slippery” renders it highly probable that this is a misprint for shrouds—that is, the ship’s upper tackling; and that “slippery shrouds” is the genuine reading. It seems probable also that rags, the MS. correction, and not rage, the ordinary reading, is the right word in the lines where rebellion is spoken of (Act IV. Scene 1) as

The MS. corrector seems to be retrieving his character. We are also willing to accept at his hands “seal” instead of “zeal” in the line—

We cannot, however, admit that there is any ground for emendation in the following passage (Act IV. Scene 1) where the king is spoken of, and where it is said that he will find much difficulty in punishing his enemies without compromising his friends:—

The question is, who is the “him” referred to in the fifth of these lines? It can be no other than the king. He, the husband, being excited to chastise his wife—that is, the rebellious country—she, as he is striking, holds his infant (that is, certain of his friends) up, and thus stays his arm, and suspends the execution of his vengeance. The MS. corrector substitutes “her man” for the words “him on.” Mr Collier approves, and even Mr Singer says that this “is a very plausible correction, and is evidently called for.” If these gentlemen will reconsider the passage, they will find that it cannot be construed with the new reading, unless several additional words are inserted; thus, “So that this land (is), like an offensive wife who hath enraged her man to offer strokes, (and who) as he is striking, holds his infant up, and hangs resolved correction in the arm that was upreared to execution.” This is as intelligible as the ordinary text, though not more so; but the introduction of so many new words—which are absolutely necessary to complete the grammar and the sense—is quite inadmissible; and therefore the MS. correction must be abandoned.

King Henry V.—In this play none of the MS. corrector’s emendations are entitled to go into the text. First, we shall call attention for a moment to a very small correction of our own, which perhaps may have been made in some of the editions, but not in that which we use, the variorum of 1785. In Act I. Scene 2, the Bishop of Ely says—

Surely “though” ought to be through. “For government, put into parts, like a piece of music, doth keep in one consent or harmony, through high, and low, and lower,” &c. In the same Act, same scene, an emendation is proposed by the MS. corrector, which, though specious, we cannot bring ourselves to endorse. King Henry, in reply to the dauphin’s taunting message, says—

The corrector proposes soul for “sail.” But Shakespeare’s is a grand expression—“I will show my sail of greatness,”—will set all my canvass—will shine,

It is a pity that he did not write hoist or spread, which would have removed all doubt as to the word “sail.” “Show,” however, is, on some accounts, better than hoist or spread. Neither do we perceive any necessity for adopting the MS. correction “seasonable swiftness” instead of “reasonable swiftness.” Nor is it by any means necessary to change “now thrive the armourers” into “now strive the armourers:” In Act II. Scene 2, the king says, in reference to a drunkard who had railed on him—

The margins read, “on our more advice,” overturning the authentic language of Shakespeare, who by the words “on his more advice,” means on his having returned to a more reasonable state of mind, and shown some sorrow for his offence.

Act II. Scene 3.—We now come to one of the most memorable corrections—we might say to the most memorable correction ever made on the text of our great dramatist. In Dame Quickly’s description of the death of Falstaff she says, as the old copies give it, “for after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon his fingers’ ends, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and a table of green fields.” There is evidently something very wrong here. Theobald gave out as a new reading, “and a’ (he) babbled of green fields,” the history and character of which emendation he explained as follows: “I have an edition of Shakespeare by me with some marginal conjectures by a gentleman some time deceased, and he is of the mind to correct this passage thus: ‘for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and a’ talked of green fields.’ It is certainly observable of people near death, when they are delirious by a fever, that they talk of moving, as it is of those in a calenture that their heads run on green fields. The variation from table to talked is not of very great latitude; though we may come still nearer to the traces of the letters by restoring it thus—‘for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and a’ babbled of green fields.’”—(Vide Singer’s Shakespeare Vindicated, p. 127.)

This, then, is now the received reading; and there can be no doubt that it is highly ingenious—indeed, singularly felicitous. But the MS. corrector’s emendation is also entitled to a hearing. He reads: “for his nose was as sharp as a pen on a table of green frieze.” This, it must be admitted, is a lamentable falling off, in point of sentiment, from the other conjectural amendment. We sympathise most feelingly with the distress of those who protest vehemently against the new reading, and who cling almost with tears to the text to which they have been accustomed. We admit that his babbling of green fields is a touch of poetry, if not of nature, which fills up the measure of our love for Falstaff, and affords the finest atonement that can be imagined for the mixed career—which is now drawing to a close—of the hoary debauchee. It is with the utmost reluctance that we throw a shade of suspicion over Theobald’s delightful emendation. Nevertheless, we are possessed with the persuasion that the MS. corrector’s variation is more likely to have been what Dame Quickly uttered, and what Shakespeare wrote. Our reasons are—first, the calenture, which causes people to rave about green fields, is a distemper peculiar to sailors in hot climates; secondly, Falstaff’s mind seems to have been running more on sack than on green fields, as Dame Quickly admits further on in the dialogue; thirdly, however pleasing the supposition about his babbling of green fields may be, it is still more natural that Dame Quickly, whose attention was fixed on the sharpness of his nose set off against a countenance already darkening with the discoloration of death, should have likened it to the sharpness of a pen relieved against a table, or background, of green frieze. These reasons may be very insufficient: we are not quite satisfied with them ourselves. But, be they good or bad, we cannot divest ourselves of the impression (as we most willingly would) that the marginal correction, in this instance, comes nearer to the genuine language of Shakespeare than does the ordinary text.

Should, then, the MS. corrector’s emendation be admitted into the text of the poet? That is a very different question; and we answer decidedly—No. Its claim is not so absolutely undoubted as to entitle it to this elevation. It is more probable, we think, than Theobald’s. But Theobald’s has by this time acquired a prescriptive right to the place which it enjoys. Although originally it may have been a usurpation, it is now strong with inveterate occupancy: it is consecrated to the hearts of all mankind, and it ought on no account to be displaced. It is part and parcel of our earliest associations with Falstaff, and its removal would do violence to the feelings of universal Christendom. This consideration, which shows how difficult, indeed how injudicious, it is to eradicate anything which has once fairly taken root in the text of Shakespeare, ought to make us all the more scrupulous in guarding his writings against such innovations as the MS. corrector usually proposes; for, however little these may have to recommend them, succeeding generations may become habituated to their presence, and, on the plea of prescription, may be indisposed to give them up.

“Principiis obsta, sero medicina paratur.”

Act III., chorus.

“Borne” is here a far finer and more expressive word than “blown,” the MS. corrector’s prosaic substitution.

Act IV. Scene 1.—In the fine lines on ceremony, the MS. corrector proposes a new reading, which at first sight looks specious, but which a moderate degree of reflection compels us to reject. The common text is as follows:—

The MS. corrector gives us—

The objection to this reading is that Shakespeare’s lines are equivalent to—O, ceremony, thou hast no worth; O, adoration, thou hast no soul—absolutely none. This reading, which denies to ceremony and adoration all soul and substance—all worth and reality—is more emphatic than the corrector’s, which declares that adulation is the soul of ceremony; and we therefore vote for allowing the text to remain as we found it.

Act IV. Scene 3.—In the following lines Shakespeare pays a compliment—not of the most elegant kind we admit—to the English, whose valour, he says, is such that even their dead bodies putrefying in the fields of France will carry death into the ranks of the enemy.

The similitude of “the bullet’s grazing” has led the MS. corrector into two execrable errors. By way of carrying out the metaphor, he proposes to read “rebounding valour,” and “killing in reflex of mortality.” But Shakespeare knew full well what he was about. He has kept his similitude within becoming bounds, while the corrector has driven it over the verge of all propriety. Both of his corrections are wretched, and the latter of them is outrageous. We are surprised that he did not propose “killing in reflex off mortality,” for this would bring out his meaning much better than the expression which he has suggested. But we may rest assured that “killing in relapse of mortality” merely means, killing in their return to the dust from whence they were taken; and that this is the right reading.

The First Part of King Henry VI.—A difficulty occurs in the last line of Act II. Scene 5, where Plantagenet says—

This is the common reading, and it means, “or make my ill the occasion of my good.” The earlier copies have “will” for “ill,” The MS. correction is—

But this is no improvement upon the common reading, which ought to remain unaltered.

Act IV. Scene 1.—A small but very significant instance, illustrative of what we are convinced is the true theory of these new readings, namely, that they are attempts, not to restore, but to modernise Shakespeare, comes before us in the following lines, where the knights of the garter are spoken of as

“Most extremes” does not mean (as one ignorant of Shakespeare’s language might be apt to suppose) “in the greater number of extremes:” it means, in extremest cases, or dangers. The same idiom occurs in the “Tempest,” where it is said—

which certainly does not mean that the greater number of poor matters point to rich ends, but that the poorest matters often do so. It would be well if the two words were always printed as one—most extremes, and most poor. Now, surely Mr Collier either cannot know that this phraseology is peculiarly Shakespearean, or he must be desirous of blotting out from the English language our great poet’s favourite forms of speech, when he says, “there is an injurious error of the printer in the second line;” and when he recommends us to accept the MS. marginal correction, by which Shakespeare’s archaism is exchanged for this modernism—

Act V. Scene 1.—How much more forcible are Shakespeare’s lines—

than the MS. substitution—

Scene 4.—Four competing readings of the following lines present themselves for adjudication—

This is the text of the earlier editions, and it evidently requires amendment. Sir T. Hanmer reads—

Our MS. corrector proposes—

Mr Singer, who also, it seems, has a folio with MS. corrections, gives us, as a gleaning from its margins,

It may assist us in coming to a decision, if we view this sentiment through the medium of prose. First, according to Sir T. Hanmer, the presence of beauty is so commanding that it confounds the tongue, and overawes the senses. Secondly, “The princely majesty of beauty,” says Mr Collier, expounding his protégé’s version, “confounds the power of speech, and mocks all who would attempt to touch it.” Thirdly, “Beauty,” says Mr Singer, taking up the cause of his MS. corrector, “although it confounds the tongue, awakes desire. This must have been the meaning of the poet.” How peremptory a man becomes in behalf of MS. readings of which he happens to be the sole depositary. We confess that we prefer Sir T. Hanmer’s to either of the other emendations, as the most intelligible and dignified of the three.

The Second Part of King Henry VI.—Act I. Scene 3. (Enter three or four petitioners.)

“First Petitioner.—My masters, let us stand close, my Lord Protector will come this way by and by, and then we may deliver our supplications in the quill.”

“In the quill”—what does that mean? Nobody can tell us. The margins furnish “in sequel.” Mr Singer advances, “in the quoil, or coil”—“that is,” says he, “in the bustle or tumult which would arise at the time the Protector passed.” And this we prefer.

Act II. Scene 3.—Anything viler than the following italicised interpolation, or more out of keeping with the character of the speaker and the dignity of the scene, it is impossible to conceive. Queen Mary says to the Duke of Glo’ster—

Yet Mr Collier has the hardihood to place this abominable forgery in the front of his battle, by introducing it into his preface, where he says, “Ought we not to welcome it with thanks as a fortunate recovery and a valuable restoration?” No, indeed, we ought to send it to the right about instanter, and order the apartment to be fumigated from which it had been expelled.

Act III. Scene 2.—The MS. corrector seems to be right in his amendment of these lines. Suffolk says to the Queen,

The ordinary reading is “no” for “to.” This ought to go into the text; and the same honour ought to be extended to “rebel” for “rabble” in Clifford’s speech, Act IV. Scene 8.

The Third Part of King Henry VI.—In this play two creditable marginal emendations come before us, one of which it might be safe to admit into the text. The safe emendation is ev’n, in the lines where the father is lamenting over his slain son, (Act II. Scene 5)—

The ancient copies have “men,” and the modern ones “sad.” Ev’n was also proposed by Mr Dyce some little time ago. The other specious correction is “bitter-flowing” for “water-flowing,” in the lines where the king says (Act IV. Scene 8),

But “water-flowing” may simply mean flowing as plentifully as water, and therefore our opinion is, that the corrector’s substitution ought not to be accepted. “Soft carriage” (Act II. Scene 2), recommended by the margins, instead of “soft courage,” is not by any means so plausible. “Soft courage” may be a Shakespeareanism for soft spirit. The Germans have a word, sanftmuth—literally soft courage—i. e., gentleness; and therefore Shakespeare’s expression is not what Mr Collier calls it, “a contradiction in terms.”

Act V. Scene 5.—The young prince having been stabbed by Edward, Clarence, and Glo’ster, Margaret exclaims—

which, of course, means that Cæsar’s murderers would be pronounced comparatively innocent, if this foul deed were set alongside their act. The margins propose,

than which nothing can be more inept.

King Richard III.—Act I. Scene 3.—Richard is thus agreeably depicted:

The correction here proposed is—

But the allusion, as Steevens says, is to the ancient custom of masters branding their profligate slaves; and, therefore, “slave” is unquestionably the right word. As for the “scorn of hell,” that, in certain cases, might be a compliment, and is no more than what a good man would desire to be.

Act III. Scene 1.—Buckingham is endeavouring to persuade the Cardinal to refuse the privilege of sanctuary to the Duke of York. The Cardinal says—

That is, do not go to your traditions, but take into account the unrefining character and somewhat licentious practice of this age, and you will perceive that you break not sanctuary in seizing him; for common sense declares that a youth of his years cannot claim this privilege. This interpretation renders the MS. corrector’s inept substitution, “the goodness of his age,” quite unnecessary. Strict and abstinent for “senseless-obstinate” is still worse.

Act III. Scene 7.—To change “his resemblance” into disresemblance, is to substitute a very forced and unnatural reading for a very plain and obvious one. Glo’ster asks Buckingham,

“I did,” answers Buckingham, who then goes on to say, “I also touched upon his own (i. e. Edward the Fourth’s) bastardy,”

—that is, I also touched upon his resemblance (which is no resemblance) to his (reputed) father the Duke. “Disresemblance” has not a shadow of probability in its favour.

Act IV. Scene 3.—Mr Collier seriously advocates the change of “bloody dogs” into “blooded dogs,” in the lines about the two ruffians.

“Blooded dogs” means, if it means anything, dogs that have been let blood, and not dogs that are about to draw blood as these dogs are. There seems to be nothing in the other corrections of this play which calls for further notice.

King Henry VIII.—Act I. Scene 1.—Speaking of Cardinal Wolsey, Buckingham says,

The margins offer—

This emendation looks plausible; but read Johnson’s note, and you will be of a different way of thinking. He says—“that is, the literary qualifications of a bookish beggar are more prized than the high descent of hereditary greatness. This is a contemptuous exclamation very naturally put into the mouth of one of the ancient, unlettered, martial nobility.” In scene 2, the change of “trembling contribution” into “trebling contribution,” where the increase of the taxes is spoken of, is a proper correction, and we set it down to the credit of the MS. corrector as one which ought to go into the text.

Act II. Scene 3.—What a fine poeticism comes before us in the use of the word salute in the lines where Anne Bullen declares that her advancement gives her no satisfaction.

—that is, this promotion is not like a peal of bells to my blood; it is not like the firing of cannon; it is not like the huzzaing of a great multitude: it rather weighs me down under a load of anxiety and depression; or, as she herself expresses it—

The MS. corrector, turning, as is his way, poetry into prose, reads—

This must go to the debit side of the old corrector’s account.

In Scene 4 of the same act, the queen, on her trial, adjures the king, if she be proved guilty—

The MS. corrector writes—“to the sharpest knife of justice.” But the queen is here speaking of a kind of justice sharper even than the knife—to wit, the contempt and ignominy which she imprecates on her own head if she be a guilty woman; and therefore “kind of justice” is the proper expression for her to use, and the MS. substitution is unquestionably out of place.

Act III. Scene 2.—Mr Singer says, “‘Now may all joy trace the conjunction,’ instead of, ‘Now all my joy,’ &c. is a good conjecture, and may, I think, be safely adopted.” We agree with Mr Singer.

Act III. Scene 2.—The following is one of the cases on which Mr Collier most strongly relies as proving the perspicacity and trustworthiness of his corrector. He brings it forward in his introduction (p. xv.), where he says, “When Henry VIII. tells Wolsey—

he cannot mean that the cardinal has scarcely time to steal from ‘leisure,’ but from ‘labour’ (the word was misheard by the scribe); and while ‘leisure’ makes nonsense of the sentence, labour is exactly adapted to the place.

The substituted word is found in the margin of the folio 1632. This instance seems indisputable.” Did Mr Collier, we may here ask, never hear of learned leisure, when he thus brands as nonsensical the expression “spiritual leisure”? Is it nonsense to say that the study of Shakespeare has been the occupation of Mr Collier’s “learned leisure” during the last fifty years, and that he has had little time to spare for any other pursuit? And if that be not nonsense, why should it be absurd to talk of the “spiritual leisure” of Cardinal Wolsey, as that which left him little or no time to attend to his temporal concerns? Spiritual leisure means occupation with religious matters, just as learned leisure means occupation with literary matters. Leisure does not necessarily signify idleness, as boys at school (σχολη—leisure) know full well. It is a polite synonym, perhaps slightly tinged with irony, for labour of an unmenial and unprofessional character. It stands opposed, not to every kind of work, but only to the work of “men of business,” as they are called. And it is used in this place by Shakespeare with the very finest propriety. In so far, therefore, as this flower of speech is concerned, we must insist on turning “the weeder-clips aside” of Mr Collier’s ruthless spoliator, and on rejecting the vulgar weed which he offers to plant in its place.

Act IV. Scene 2.—In the following passage, however, we approve of the spoliator’s punctuation, which it seems Mr Singer had adopted in his edition 1826.

All the common copies place a full stop after honour, and represent the cardinal as a scholar “ripe and good from his cradle,” as if he had been born with a perfect knowledge of Greek and Latin.

Act V. Scene 2.—It is very difficult to say what should be made of the following:—

Malone proposed—

The margins propose “culpable of our flesh,” which was also recommended by Mr Monck Mason. We venture to suggest—

i. e., incontinent of our flesh. But whatever may be done with this new reading, the next ought certainly to be rigorously excluded from the text. Loquitur Cranmer—

“The substitution of strives for ‘stirs,’” as Mr Singer very properly remarks, “would be high treason against a nervous Shakespearean expression.”

Scene 3.—The MS. emendation in the speech of the porter’s man (queen for “chine,” and crown for “cow”) is certainly entitled to consideration; but it is quite possible that his language, being that of a clown, may be designedly nonsensical.

Troilus and Cressida.—Act I. Scene 2.—Cressida says,

This line is probably misprinted. Mr Harness long ago proposed,

—that is, men command us (women) when we are achieved or gained over—they beseech us, so long as we are ungained. The MS. corrector’s emendation falls very far short of the perspicuity of this amendment. He gives us—

Scene 3.—We may notice, in passing, a “new reading” proposed by Mr Singer, which, though ingenious, we cannot be prevailed upon to accept. It occurs in the following lines, where Ulysses says—

Instead of “other,” Mr Singer proposes to read “ether.” But “other” is more in harmony with the context, in which the sun is specially described as exercising a dominion over the other celestial luminaries. The parallel passage from Cicero, which Mr Singer quotes, tells just as much against him as for him. “Medium fere regionem sol obtinet, dux, et princeps, et moderater luminum reliquiorum.” We therefore protest against the established text being disturbed.

To return to Mr Collier. He must have very extraordinary notions of verbal propriety when he can say that “a fine compound epithet appears to have escaped in the hands of the old printer, and a small manuscript correction in the margin converts a poor expression into one of great force and beauty in these lines—

—that is, praise from an enemy is praise of the highest quality, and is the only pure kind of praise. The poor expression here condemned is “sole pure,” and the fine compound epithet which is supposed to have escaped the fingers of the old compositor, is soul-pure. We venture to think that Shakespeare used the right words to express his own meaning, and that the MS. corrector’s fine compound epithet is one of the most lack-a-daisical of the daisies that peer out upon us from the margins of the folio 1632.

Act III. Scene 1.—The words, “my disposer Cressida,” have been satisfactorily shown by Mr Singer to mean, my handmaiden Cressida. Therefore the change of “disposer” into dispraiser, as recommended by the MS. corrector, is quite uncalled for. The speech, however, in which these words occur must be taken from Paris, and given to Helen.

Act III. Scene 2.—In the dialogue between Troilus and Cressida, the lady says, that she must take leave of him:

This conversation is not very clear; yet sense may be made of it. The lady says, that she is offended with her own company: the gentleman rejoins, that she cannot get rid of herself. “Let me try,” says the lady; “I have a kind of self which resides with you—an unkind self, because it leaves me to be your fool; of that self I can get rid, because it will remain with you when I leave you.” The MS. emendation affords no kind of sense whatsoever.

Scene 3.—In the following passage, in which it is said that the eye is unable to see itself except by reflection, these lines occur:

Mirrored, for “married,” is certainly a very excellent emendation; but it may reasonably be doubted whether mirror was used as a verb in Shakespeare’s time. “To mirror” does not occur even in Johnson’s Dictionary. This consideration makes us hesitate to recommend it for the text; for “married,” though, perhaps, not so good, still makes sense. On further reflection we are satisfied that “married” was Shakespeare’s word. In this Scene Shakespeare says, “that the providence that’s in a watchful state” is able to unveil human thoughts “in their dumb cradles,” in their very incunabula—a finer expression certainly than the MS. corrector’s substitution “in their dumb crudities.”

Act IV. Scene 4.—Between Mr Collier and his corrector the following passage would be perverted into nonsense, if they were allowed to have their own way:

—that is, trusting rashly to their potency, which is better than impotency, and yet falls far short of perfect potency. Mr Collier hazards the opinion, that “unchangeful potency” would be a better reading. We cannot agree with him except to this extent that it would be a better reading than the one which the MS. corrector proposes,

which we leave to the approbation of those who can understand it.

Scene 5.—The lines in which certain ladies of frail virtue, or, in the stronger language of Johnson, “corrupt wenches,” are spoken of, have given rise to much comment.

This is the ordinary reading. The margins propose,

We prefer the emendation suggested by Monck Mason and Coleridge,

—that is, who take the initiative, and address before they are addressed.

Coriolanus.—Act I. Scene 1.—In his first emendation, the MS. corrector betrays his ignorance of the right meaning of words. The term “object,” which nowadays is employed rather loosely in several acceptations, is used by Shakespeare, in the following passage, in its proper and original signification. One of the Roman citizens, referring to the poverty of the plebeians as contrasted with the wealth of the patricians, remarks, “The leanness that afflicts us, the object of our misery, is an inventory to particularise their abundance; our suffering is a gain to them.” For “object” we should, nowadays, say spectacle. But the corrector cannot have known that this was the meaning of the word, otherwise he surely never would have been so misguided as to propose the term abjectness in its place. “This substitution,” says Mr Collier, “could hardly have proceeded from the mere taste or discretion of the old corrector.” No, truly; but it proceeded from his want of taste, his want of discretion, and his want of knowledge.

The ink with which these MS. corrections were made, being, as Mr Collier tells us, of various shades, differing sometimes on the same page, he is of opinion that they “must have been introduced from time to time during, perhaps, the course of several years.” We think this a highly probable supposition; only, instead of several years, we would suggest sixty or seventy years. So that, supposing the MS. corrector to have begun his work when he was about thirty, he may have completed it when he was about ninety or a hundred years of age. At any rate, he must have been in the last stage of second childhood when he jotted down the following new reading in the famous fable of the “belly and the members.” The belly, speaking of the food it receives, says—

And so on; upon which one of the citizens asks Menenius, the relator of the fable, “How apply you this?”

Yet, with this line staring him in the face, the old corrector proposes to read,

The senate brain! when Shakespeare has distinctly told us that the senate is the belly. This indeed is the very point of the fable. Surely nothing except the most extreme degree of dotage can account for such a manifest perversion as that; yet Mr Collier says that “it much improves the sense.”

The MS. corrector cannot have been nearly so old when he changed “almost” into all most in the line,

for this is decidedly an improvement, and ought, we think, to get admission into the text.

Scene 3.—Unless we can obtain a better substitute than contemning, we are not disposed to alter the received reading of these lines:

Scene 6.—In the following passage a small word occasions a great difficulty. Coriolanus, wishing to select a certain number out of a large body of soldiers who have offered him their services, says—

But why “four?” Surely four men would not be sufficient for the attack which he meditated. The MS. corrector gives us—

The second line is unintelligible, and not to be construed on any known principles of grammar. Mr Singer proposes—

We would suggest—

—that is: And my command shall quickly draw out, or select, those men which (men) are best inclined to be of service to me. The construction here is indeed awkward, but less awkward, we think, than that of the other emendations.

Scene 9.—The punctuation of the following passage requires to be put right. Coriolanus is declaring how much disgusted he is with the flatteries, the flourish of trumpets, and other demonstrations of applause with which he is saluted—

But what is the sense of saying—let courts and cities be made up of hypocrisy, when drums and trumpets in the field shall prove flatterers? This has no meaning. We should punctuate the lines thus—

The meaning is—When drums and trumpets in the field shall prove flatterers (as they are doing at present), may they never sound more! Let courts and cities be as hollow-hearted as they please; but let the camp enjoy an immunity from these fulsome observances. When steel grows soft as the parasite’s silk (that is, when the warrior loses his stubborn and unbending character), let silk be made a coverture for the wars, for it will then be quite as useful as steel. The only alteration which the MS. corrector proposes in this passage, is the substitution of coverture for the original reading “overture”—a change which was long ago made.

Act II. Scene 1.—The margins make an uncommonly good hit in the speech of Menenius, who says, “I am known to be a humorous patrician, and one that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in’t: said to be something imperfect in favouring the first complaint.” No sense can be extracted from this by any process of distillation. The old corrector, brightening up for an instant, writes “thirst complaint;” on which Mr Singer remarks, “The alteration of ‘first’ into thirst is not necessary, for it seems that thirst was sometimes provincially pronounced and spelt first and furst.” Come, come, Mr Singer, that is hardly fair. Let us give the devil his due. What one reader of Shakespeare out of every million was to know that “first” was a provincialism for thirst? We ourselves, at least, had not a suspicion of it till the old corrector opened our eyes to the right reading—the meaning of which is, “I am said to have a failing in yielding rather too readily to the thirst complaint.” This emendation covers a multitude of sins, and ought, beyond a doubt, to be promoted into the text.

We also willingly accept empirick physic for “empirick qutique,” the ordinary, but unintelligible reading.

A difficulty occurs in the admirable verses in which the whole city is described as turning out in order to get a sight of the triumphant Coriolanus.

Cheers instead of “chats” is proposed by the old corrector. Mr Singer says that cheers “savours too much of modern times,” and suggests claps; but a woman with an infant in her arms would find some difficulty, we fancy, in clapping her hands; though, perhaps, this very difficulty and her attempt to overcome it may have been the cause of her baby crying himself “into a rapture.” We are disposed, however, to adhere to the old lection—“while she chats him”—that is, while she makes Coriolanus the subject of her gabble. For it ought to be borne in mind that Coriolanus has not, as yet, made his appearance: and, therefore, both cheering and clapping would be premature. We observe that, instead of a “rapture”—i. e., a fit—one of the wiseacres of the variorum proposes to read a rupture! The nurse lets the baby cry himself into a rupture! This outflanks even the margins. The annotator subscribes himself “S. W.”—which means, we presume, Something Wanting in the upper story.

We accept touch for “reach” in the sentence where it is said, “his soaring insolence shall reach (the oldest reading is “teach”) the people. This correction had been already proposed by Mr Knight. But we cannot approve of the following change (prest for “blest,” Scene 2) which has obtained the sanction of Mr Singer. Sicinius has just remarked that the senate has assembled to do honour to Coriolanus, on which Brutus says—

Does not this mean—which honour we shall be most happy to do to Coriolanus, if &c.? Why then change “blest” into prest? a very unnatural mode of speech.

Scene 3.—In the next instance, however, we side most cordially with the margins and Mr Collier, against Mr Singer and the ordinary text. The haughty Coriolanus, who is a candidate for the consulship, says—

Now Shakespeare, in a previous part of the play, has described the candidate’s toga as “the napless vesture of humility;” and it is well known that this toga was of a different texture from that usually worn. Is it not probable, therefore—nay certain—that Coriolanus should speak of it as woolless, the word wolvish being altogether unintelligible? Accordingly, the MS. corrector reads—

Mr Singer, defending the old reading, says, it is sufficient that his investiture in this gown “was simulating humility not in his nature, to bring to mind the fable of the wolf.” Oh, Mr Singer! but must not the epithet in that case have been sheepish? Surely, if Coriolanus had felt himself to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing, he never would have said that he was a sheep in wolves’ clothing!^[4]

Act III. Scene 1.—In the following speech of Coriolanus several corrections are proposed, one of which, and perhaps two, might be admitted into the text:—

Leave for “here” is, we think, a good exchange; and revoke for “awake,” an improvement which can scarcely be resisted. Further on, Coriolanus asks—

There is, it seems, an old word bisson, signifying blind; and therefore we see no good reason (although such may exist) against accepting, as entitled to textual advancement, the old corrector’s substitution of bisson multitude for “bosom multiplied.” The latter, however, is defended, as we learn from Mr Singer, “by one strenuous dissentient voice.” Why did he not tell us by whom and where? One excellent emendation by Mr Singer himself we must here notice. Coriolanus speaks of those who wish

No sense can be made of this. Some copies have vamp, which is not a bad reading; but there is an old word imp, which signifies to piece or patch. Accordingly, Mr Singer reads—“To imp a body,” &c. This is the word which ought to stand in the text.

Scene 2.—Here the old corrector is again at his forging tricks upon a large scale. Volumnia says to Coriolanus, her son—

The interpolated line is very unlike the diction of Shakespeare, and is not at all called for. “Apt” here means pliant, accommodating. “I have a heart as stubborn and unaccommodating as your own; but yet,” &c. Mr Singer proposes soft for “apt;” but this seems unnecessary.

Act IV. Scene 1.—Although the construction of the latter part of these lines is somewhat involved, it is far more after the manner of Shakespeare than the correction which the margins propose. Coriolanus says to his mother—

Gentle-minded is the new reading; but it is quite uncalled for. The meaning is—You were used to say that when fortune’s blows were most struck home, to be gentle, though wounded, craves a noble cunning—that is, a high degree of self-command.

Scene 5.—It is curious to remark how cleverly Shakespeare has anticipated old Hobbes’ theory of human nature and of society, in the scene where the serving-men are discussing the merits of peace and war. “Peace,” says one of them, “makes men hate one another.” “The reason?” asks another. Answer—“Because they then less need one another.” This, in a very few words, is exactly the doctrine of the old philosopher of Malmesbury.

Scene 6.—“[God] Marcius” for “good Marcius,” is a commendable emendation; and perhaps, also, it may be proper to read—

instead of

The following passage (Scene 7) has given a good deal of trouble to the commentators. Aufidius is describing Coriolanus as a man who, with all his merits, had failed, through some unaccountable perversity of judgment, in attaining the position which his genius entitled him to occupy. He then says—

Our virtues, says Aufidius, consist in our ability to interpret, and turn to good account, the signs of the times. “And power, unto itself most commendable, hath not a tomb so evident as a chair to extol what it hath done;” that is,—and power, which delights to praise itself, is sure to have a downfall, so soon as it blazons forth its pretensions from the rostrum. The MS. corrector proposes—

The original text is obscurely enough expressed, but the new reading seems to be utter nonsense. What can Mr Singer mean by his reading—

The old corrector also reads, unnecessarily, as we think, suffer for “fouler.” “Rights by rights suffer.” There seems to be no necessity for changing the received text. “Right is fouler by right,”—which Steevens thus explains: “what is already right, and is received as such, becomes less clear when supported by supernumerary proof.”

Act V. Scene 3.—An emendation, good so far as it goes, comes before us in the speech of Volumnia, the mother of Coriolanus. She, his wife, and young son, are supplicating the triumphant renegade to spare his native country. She says that, instead of his presence being a comfort to them, it is a sight—

This is the reading of the ordinary copies, but it is neither sense nor grammar. The old corrector removes the full stop after out, and reads—

But if this is the right reading, it must be completed by changing “we” into us. The meaning will then be—making thy mother, wife, &c.; and so (making) poor us (that is, those whom you are bound to love and protect before all others) thy chief enemies.

Scene 5.—Aufidius, speaking of Coriolanus, says, I

The word “end” has been a stumbling-block to the commentators. The old corrector reads—

On which Mr Singer remarks, with a good deal of pertinency, “The substitution of ear for ‘end’ is a good emendation of an evident misprint; but the correctors have only half done their work: ear—i. e. plough—and reap should change places; or Aufidius is made to say that he had a share in the harvest, while Coriolanus had all the labour of ploughing, contrary to what is intended to be said. The passage will then run thus—

“This,” adds Mr Singer, “is the suggestion of a correspondent of Notes and Queries, vol. vii. p. 378.”

Ten plays, as revised by the old corrector, still remain to be overhauled. These shall be disposed of in our next Number, when it will appear that the MS. emendations offer no symptoms of improvement, but come out worse and worse the more fully and attentively they are considered.

THE DUKE’S DILEMMA. A CHRONICLE OF NIESENSTEIN.

The close of the theatrical year, which in France occurs in early spring, annually brings to Paris a throng of actors and actresses, the disorganised elements of provincial companies, who repair to the capital to contract engagements for the new season. Paris is the grand centre to which all dramatic stars converge—the great bazaar where managers recruit their troops for the summer campaign. In bad weather the mart for this human merchandise is at an obscure coffeehouse near the Rue St Honoré; when the sun shines, the place of meeting is in the garden of the Palais Royal. There, pacing to and fro beneath the lime-trees, the high contracting parties pursue their negotiations and make their bargains. It is the theatrical Exchange, the histrionic Bourse. There the conversation and the company are alike curious. Many are the strange discussions and original anecdotes that there are heard; many the odd figures there paraded. Tragedians, comedians, singers, men and women, young and old, flock thither in quest of fortune and a good engagement. The threadbare coats of some say little in favour of recent success or present prosperity; but only hear them speak, and you are at once convinced that they have no need of broadcloth who are so amply covered with laurels. It is delightful to hear them talk of their triumphs, of the storms of applause, the rapturous bravos, the boundless enthusiasm, of the audiences they lately delighted. Their brows are oppressed with the weight of their bays. The south mourns their loss; if they go west, the north will be envious and inconsolable. As to themselves—north, south, east, or west—they care little to which point of the compass the breeze of their destiny may waft them. Thorough gypsies in their habits, accustomed to make the best of the passing hour, and to take small care for the future so long as the present is provided for, like soldiers they heed not the name of the town so long as the quarters be good.

It was a fine morning in April. The sun shone brightly, and, amongst the numerous loungers in the garden of the Palais Royal were several groups of actors. The season was already far advanced; all the companies were formed, and those players who had not secured an engagement had but a poor chance of finding one. Their anxiety was legible upon their countenances. A man of about fifty years of age walked to and fro, a newspaper in his hand, and to him, when he passed near them, the actors bowed—respectfully and hopefully. A quick glance was his acknowledgment of their salutation, and then his eyes reverted to his paper, as if it deeply interested him. When he was out of hearing, the actors, who had assumed their most picturesque attitudes to attract his attention, and who beheld their labour lost, vented their ill-humour.

“Balthasar is mighty proud,” said one; “he has not a word to say to us.”

“Perhaps he does not want anybody,” remarked another; “I think he has no theatre this year.”

“That would be odd. They say he is a clever manager.”

“He may best prove his cleverness by keeping aloof. It is so difficult nowadays to do good in the provinces. The public is so fastidious! the authorities are so shabby, so unwilling to put their hands in their pockets. Ah, my dear fellow, our art is sadly fallen!”

Whilst the discontented actors bemoaned themselves, Balthasar eagerly accosted a young man who just then entered the garden by the passage of the Perron. The coffeehouse-keepers had already begun to put out tables under the tender foliage. The two men sat down at one of them.

“Well, Florival,” said the manager, “does my offer suit you? Will you make one of us? I was glad to hear you had broken off with Ricardin. With your qualifications you ought to have an engagement in Paris, or at least at a first-rate provincial theatre. But you are young, and, as you know, managers prefer actors of greater experience and established reputation. Your parts are generally taken by youths of five-and-forty, with wrinkles and grey hairs, but well versed in the traditions of the stage—with damaged voices but an excellent style. My brother managers are greedy of great names; yours still has to become known—as yet, you have but your talent to recommend you. I will content myself with that; content yourself with what I offer you. Times are bad, the season is advanced, engagements are hard to find. Many of your comrades have gone to try their luck beyond seas. We have not so far to go; we shall scarcely overstep the boundary of our ungrateful country. Germany invites us; it is a pleasant land, and Rhine wine is not to be disdained. I will tell you how the thing came about. For many years past I have managed theatres in the eastern departments, in Alsatia and Lorraine. Last summer, having a little leisure, I made an excursion to Baden-Baden. As usual, it was crowded with fashionables. One rubbed shoulders with princes and trod upon highnesses’ toes; one could not walk twenty yards without meeting a sovereign. All these crowned heads, kings, grand dukes, electors, mingled easily and affably with the throng of visitors. Etiquette is banished from the baths of Baden, where, without laying aside their titles, great personages enjoy the liberty and advantages of an incognito. At the time of my visit, a company of very indifferent German actors were playing, two or three times a-week, in the little theatre. They played to empty benches, and must have starved but for the assistance afforded them by the directors of the gambling-tables. I often went to their performances, and, amongst the scanty spectators, I soon remarked one who was as assiduous as myself. A gentleman, very plainly dressed, but of agreeable countenance and aristocratic appearance, invariably occupied the same stall, and seemed to enjoy the performance, which proved that he was easily pleased. One night he addressed to me some remark with respect to the play then acting; we got into conversation on the subject of dramatic art; he saw that I was specially competent on that topic, and after the theatre he asked me to take refreshment with him. I accepted. At midnight we parted, and, as I was going home, I met a gambler whom I slightly knew. ‘I congratulate you,’ he said; ‘you have friends in high places!’ He alluded to the gentleman with whom I had passed the evening, and whom I now learned was no less a personage than his Serene Highness Prince Leopold, sovereign ruler of the Grand Duchy of Niesenstein. I had had the honour of passing a whole evening in familiar intercourse with a crowned head. Next day, walking in the park, I met his Highness. I made a low bow and kept at a respectful distance, but the Grand Duke came up to me and asked me to walk with him. Before accepting, I thought it right to inform him who I was. ‘I guessed as much,’ said the Prince. ‘From one or two things that last night escaped you, I made no doubt you were a theatrical manager.’ And by a gesture he renewed his invitation to accompany him. In a long conversation he informed me of his intention to establish a French theatre in his capital, for the performance of comedy, drama, vaudeville, and comic operas. He was then building a large theatre, which would be ready by the end of the winter, and he offered me its management on very advantageous terms. I had no plans in France for the present year, and the offer was too good to be refused. The Grand Duke guaranteed my expenses and a gratuity, and there was a chance of very large profits. I hesitated not a moment; we exchanged promises, and the affair was concluded.

“According to our agreement, I am to be at Karlstadt, the capital of the Grand Duchy of Niesenstein, in the first week in May. There is no time to lose. My company is almost complete, but there are still some important gaps to fill. Amongst others, I want a lover, a light comedian, and a first singer. I reckon upon you to fill these important posts.”

“I am quite willing,” replied the actor, “but there is still an obstacle. You must know, my dear Balthasar, that I am deeply in love—seriously, this time—and I broke off with Ricardin solely because he would not engage her to whom I am attached.”

“Oho! she is an actress?”

“Two years upon the stage; a lovely girl, full of grace and talent, and with a charming voice. The Opera Comique has not a singer to compare with her.”

“And she is disengaged?”

“Yes, my dear fellow; strange though it seems, and by a combination of circumstances which it were tedious to detail, the fascinating Delia is still without an engagement. And I give you notice that henceforward I attach myself to her steps: where she goes, I go; I will perform upon no boards which she does not tread. I am determined to win her heart, and make her my wife.”

“Very good!” cried Balthasar, rising from his seat; “tell me the address of this prodigy: I run, I fly, I make every sacrifice; and we will start to-morrow.”

People were quite right in saying that Balthasar was a clever manager. None better knew how to deal with actors, often capricious and difficult to guide. He possessed skill, taste, and tact. One hour after the conversation in the garden of the Palais Royal, he had obtained the signatures of Delia and Florival, two excellent acquisitions, destined to do him infinite honour in Germany. That night his little company was complete, and the next day, after a good dinner, it started for Strasburg. It was composed as follows:

Balthasar, manager, was to play the old men, and take the heavy business.

Florival was the leading man, the lover, and the first singer.

Rigolet was the low comedian, and took the parts usually played by Arnal and Bouffé.

Similor was to perform the valets in Molière’s comedies, and eccentric low comedy characters.

Anselmo was the walking gentleman.

Lebel led the band.

Miss Delia was to display her charms and talents as prima donna, and in genteel comedy.

Miss Foligny was the singing chambermaid.

Miss Alice was the walking lady, and made herself generally useful.

Finally, Madame Pastorale, the duenna of the company, was to perform the old women, and look after the young ones.

Although so few, the company trusted to atone by zeal and industry for numerical deficiency. It would be easy to find, in the capital of the Grand Duchy, persons capable of filling mute parts, and, in most plays, a few unimportant characters might be suppressed.

The travellers reached Strasburg without adventure worthy of note. There Balthasar allowed them six-and-thirty hours’ repose, and took advantage of the halt to write to the Grand Duke Leopold, and inform him of his approaching arrival; then they again started, crossed the Rhine at Kehl, and in thirty days, after traversing several small German states, reached the frontier of the Grand Duchy of Niesenstein, and stopped at a little village called Krusthal. From this village to the capital the distance was only four leagues, but means of conveyance were wanting. There was but a single stage-coach on that line of road; it would not leave Krusthal for two days, and it held but six persons. No other vehicles were to be had; it was necessary to wait, and the necessity was anything but pleasant. The actors made wry faces at the prospect of passing forty-eight hours in a wretched village. The only persons who easily made up their minds to the wearisome delay were Delia and Florival. The first singer was desperately in love, and the prima donna was not insensible to his delicate attentions and tender discourse.

Balthasar, the most impatient and persevering of all, went out to explore the village. In an hour’s time he returned in triumph to his friends, in a light cart drawn by a strong horse. Unfortunately the cart held but two persons.

“I will set out alone,” said Balthasar. “On reaching Karlstadt, I will go to the Grand Duke, explain our position, and I have no doubt he will immediately send carriages to convey you to his capital.”

These consolatory words were received with loud cheers by the actors. The driver, a peasant lad, cracked his whip, and the stout Mecklenburg horse set out at a small trot. Upon the way, Balthasar questioned his guide as to the extent, resources, and prosperity of the Grand Duchy, but could obtain no satisfactory reply: the young peasant was profoundly ignorant upon all these subjects. The four leagues were got over in something less than three hours, which is rather rapid travelling for Germany. It was nearly dark when Balthasar entered Karlstadt. The shops were shut, and there were few persons in the streets: people are early in their habits in the happy lands on the Rhine’s right bank. Presently the cart stopped before a good-sized house.

“You told me to take you to our prince’s palace,” said the driver, “and here it is.” Balthasar alighted and entered the dwelling, unchallenged and unimpeded by the sentry who passed lazily up and down in its front. In the entrance hall the manager met a porter, who bowed gravely to him as he passed; he walked on and passed through an empty anteroom. In the first apartment, appropriated to gentlemen-in-waiting, aides-de-camp, equerries, and other dignitaries of various degree, he found nobody; in a second saloon, lighted by a dim and smoky lamp, was an old gentleman, dressed in black, with powdered hair, who rose slowly at his entrance, looked at him with surprise, and inquired his pleasure.

“I wish to see his Serene Highness, the Grand Duke Leopold,” replied Balthasar.

“The prince does not grant audiences at this hour,” the old gentleman drily answered.

“His Highness expects me,” was the confident reply of Balthasar.

“That is another thing. I will inquire if it be his Highness’s pleasure to receive you. Whom shall I announce?”

“The manager of the Court theatre.”

The gentleman bowed, and left Balthasar alone. The pertinacious manager already began to doubt the success of his audacity, when he heard the Grand Duke’s voice, saying, “Show him in.”

He entered. The sovereign of Niesenstein was alone, seated in a large arm-chair, at a table covered with a green cloth, upon which were a confused medley of letters and newspapers, an inkstand, a tobacco-bag, two wax-lights, a sugar-basin, a sword, a plate, gloves, a bottle, books, and a goblet of Bohemian glass, artistically engraved. His Highness was engrossed in a thoroughly national occupation; he was smoking one of those long pipes which Germans rarely lay aside except to eat or to sleep.

The manager of the Court theatre bowed thrice, as if he had been advancing to the foot-lights to address the public; then he stood still and silent, awaiting the prince’s pleasure. But, although he said nothing, his countenance was so expressive that the Grand Duke answered him.

“Yes,” he said, “here you are. I recollect you perfectly, and I have not forgotten our agreement. But you come at a very unfortunate moment, my dear sir!”

“I crave your Highness’s pardon if I have chosen an improper hour to seek an audience,” replied Balthasar with another bow.

“It is not the hour that I am thinking of,” answered the prince quickly. “Would that were all! See, here is your letter; I was just now reading it, and regretting that, instead of writing to me only three days ago, when you were half-way here, you had not done so two or three weeks before starting.”

“I did wrong.”

“More so than you think, for, had you sooner warned me, I would have spared you a useless journey.”

“Useless!” exclaimed Balthasar aghast. “Has your Highness changed your mind?”

“Not at all; I am still passionately fond of the drama, and should be delighted to have a French theatre here. As far as that goes, my ideas and tastes are in no way altered since last summer; but, unfortunately, I am unable to satisfy them. Look here,” continued the prince, rising from his arm-chair. He took Balthasar’s arm and led him to a window: “I told you, last year, that I was building a magnificent theatre in my capital.”

“Your Highness did tell me so.”

“Well, look yonder, on the other side of the square; there the theatre is!”

“Your Highness, I see nothing but an open space; a building commenced, and as yet scarcely risen above the foundation.”

“Precisely so; that is the theatre.”

“Your Highness told me it would be completed before the end of winter.”

“I did not then foresee that I should have to stop the works for want of cash to pay the workmen. Such is my present position. If I have no theatre ready to receive you, and if I cannot take you and your company into my pay, it is because I have not the means. The coffers of the State and my privy purse are alike empty. You are astounded!—Adversity respects nobody—not even Grand Dukes. But I support its assaults with philosophy: try to follow my example; and, by way of a beginning, take a chair and a pipe, fill yourself a glass of wine, and drink to the return of my prosperity. Since you suffer for my misfortunes, I owe you an explanation. Although I never had much order in my expenditure, I had every reason, at the time I first met with you, to believe my finances in a flourishing condition. It was not until the commencement of the present year that I discovered the contrary to be the case. Last year was a bad one; hail ruined our crops and money was hard to get in. The salaries of my household were in arrear, and my officers murmured. For the first time I ordered a statement of my affairs to be laid before me, and I found that ever since my accession I had been exceeding my revenue. My first act of sovereignty had been a considerable diminution of the taxes paid to my predecessors. Hence the evil, which had annually augmented, and now I am ruined, loaded with debts, and without means of repairing the disaster. My privy-councillors certainly proposed a way; it was to double the taxes, raise extraordinary contributions—to squeeze my subjects, in short. A fine plan, indeed! to make the poor pay for my improvidence and disorder! Such things may occur in other States, but they shall not occur in mine. Justice before everything. I prefer enduring my difficulties to making my subjects suffer.”

“Excellent prince!” exclaimed Balthasar, touched by these generous sentiments. The Grand Duke smiled.

“Do you turn flatterer?” he said. “Beware! it is an arduous post, and you will have none to help you. I have no longer wherewith to pay flatterers; my courtiers have fled. You have seen the emptiness of my anterooms; you met neither chamberlain nor equerry upon your entrance. All those gentlemen have given in their resignations. The civil and military officers of my house, secretaries, aides-de-camp, and others, left me, because I could no longer pay them their wages. I am alone; a few faithful and patient servants are all that remain, and the most important personage of my court is now honest Sigismund, my old valet-de-chambre.”

These last words were spoken in a melancholy tone, which pained Balthasar. The eyes of the honest manager glistened. The Grand Duke detected his sympathy.

“Do not pity me,” he said with a smile. “It is no sorrow to me to have got rid of a wearisome etiquette, and, at the same time, of a pack of spies and hypocrites, by whom I was formerly from morning till night beset.”

The cheerful frankness of the Grand Duke’s manner forbade doubt of his sincerity. Balthasar congratulated him on his courage.

“I need it more than you think!” replied Leopold, “and I cannot answer for having enough to support the blows that threaten me. The desertion of my courtiers would be nothing, did I owe it only to the bad state of my finances: as soon as I found myself in funds again I could buy others or take back the old ones, and amuse myself by putting my foot upon their servile necks. Then they would be as humble as now they are insolent. But their defection is an omen of other dangers. As the diplomatists say clouds are at the political horizon. Poverty alone would not have sufficed to clear my palace of men who are as greedy of honours as they are of money; they would have waited for better days; their vanity would have consoled their avarice. If they fled, it was because they felt the ground shake beneath their feet, and because they are in league with my enemies. I cannot shut my eyes to impending dangers. I am on bad terms with Austria; Metternich looks askance at me; at Vienna I am considered too liberal, too popular: they say that I set a bad example; they reproach me with cheap government, and with not making my subjects sufficiently feel the yoke. Thus do they accumulate pretexts for playing me a scurvy trick. One of my cousins, a colonel in the Austrian service, covets my Grand Duchy. Although I say grand, it is but ten leagues long and eight leagues broad; but, such as it is, it suits me; I am accustomed to it, I have the habit of ruling it, and I should miss it were I deprived of it. My cousin has the audacity to dispute my incontestible rights; this is a mere pretext for litigation, but he has carried the case before the Aulic Council, and notwithstanding the excellence of my right I still may lose my cause, for I have no money wherewith to enlighten my judges. My enemies are powerful, treason surrounds me; they try to take advantage of my financial embarrassments, first to make me bankrupt and then to depose me. In this critical conjuncture, I should be only too delighted to have a company of players to divert my thoughts from my troubles—but I have neither theatre nor money. So it is impossible for me to keep you, my dear manager, and, believe me, I am as grieved at it as you can be. All I can do is to give you, out of the little I have left, a small indemnity to cover your travelling expenses and take you back to France. Come and see me to-morrow morning; we will settle this matter, and you shall take your leave.”

Balthasar’s attention and sympathy had been so completely engrossed by the Grand Duke’s misfortunes, and by his revelations of his political and financial difficulties, that his own troubles had quite gone out of his thoughts. When he quitted the palace they came back upon him like a thunder-cloud. How was he to satisfy the actors, whom he had brought two hundred leagues away from Paris? What could he say to them, how appease them? The unhappy manager passed a miserable night. At daybreak he rose and went out into the open air, to calm his agitation and seek a mode of extrication from his difficulties. During a two hours’ walk he had abundant time to visit every corner of Karlstadt, and to admire the beauties of that celebrated capital. He found it an elegant town, with wide straight streets cutting completely across it, so that he could see through it at a glance. The houses were pretty and uniform, and the windows were provided with small indiscreet mirrors, which reflected the passers-by and transported the street into the drawing-room, so that the worthy Karlstadters could satisfy their curiosity without quitting their easy chairs. An innocent recreation, much affected by German burghers. As regarded trade and manufactures, the capital of the Grand Duchy of Niesenstein did not seem to be very much occupied with either. It was anything but a bustling city; luxury had made but little progress there; and its prosperity was due chiefly to the moderate desires and phlegmatic philosophy of its inhabitants.

In such a country a company of actors had no chance of a livelihood. There is nothing for it but to return to France, thought Balthasar, after making the circuit of the city: then he looked at his watch, and, deeming the hour suitable, he took the road to the palace, which he entered with as little ceremony as upon the preceding evening. The faithful Sigismund, doing duty as gentleman-in-waiting, received him as an old acquaintance, and forthwith ushered him into the Grand Duke’s presence. His Highness seemed more depressed than upon the previous day. He was pacing the room with long strides, his eyes cast down, his arms folded. In his hand he held papers, whose perusal it apparently was that had thus discomposed him. For some moments he said nothing; then he suddenly stopped before Balthasar.

“You find me less calm,” he said, “than I was last night. I have just received unpleasant news. I am heartily sick of these perpetual vexations, and gladly would I resign this poor sovereignty, this crown of thorns they seek to snatch from me, did not honour command me to maintain to the last my legitimate rights. Yes,” vehemently exclaimed the Grand Duke, “at this moment a tranquil existence is all I covet, and I would willingly give up my Grand Duchy, my title, my crown, to live quietly at Paris, as a private gentleman, upon thirty thousand francs a-year.”

“I believe so, indeed!” cried Balthasar, who, in his wildest dreams of fortune, had never dared aspire so high. His artless exclamation made the prince smile. It needed but a trifle to dissipate his vexation, and to restore that upper current of easy good temper which habitually floated upon the surface of his character.

“You think,” he gaily cried, “that some, in my place, would be satisfied with less, and that thirty thousand francs a-year, with independence and the pleasures of Paris, compose a lot more enviable than the government of all the Grand Duchies in the world. My own experience tells me that you are right; for, ten years ago, when I was but hereditary prince, I passed six months at Paris, rich, independent, careless; and memory declares those to have been the happiest days of my life.”

“Well! if you were to sell all you have, could you not realise that fortune? Besides, the cousin, of whom you did me the honour to speak to me yesterday, would probably gladly insure you an income if you yielded him your place here. But will your Highness permit me to speak plainly?”

“By all means.”

“The tranquil existence of a private gentleman would doubtless have many charms for you, and you say so in all sincerity of heart; but, upon the other hand, you set store by your crown, though you may not admit it to yourself. In a moment of annoyance it is easy to exaggerate the charms of tranquillity, and the pleasures of private life; but a throne, however rickety, is a seat which none willingly quit. That is my opinion, formed at the dramatic school: it is perhaps a reminiscence of some old part, but truth is sometimes found upon the stage. Since, therefore, all things considered, to stay where you are is that which best becomes you, you ought——But I crave your Highness’s pardon, I am perhaps speaking too freely——

“Speak on, my dear manager, freely and fearlessly; I listen to you with pleasure. I ought—you were about to say?——”

“Instead of abandoning yourself to despair and poetry, instead of contenting yourself with succumbing nobly, like some ancient Roman, you ought boldly to combat the peril. Circumstances are favourable; you have neither ministers nor state-councillors to mislead you, and embarrass your plans. Strong in your good right, and in your subjects’ love, it is impossible you should not find means of retrieving your finances and strengthening your position.”

“There is but one means, and that is—a good marriage.”

“Excellent! I had not thought of it. You are a bachelor! A good marriage is salvation. It is thus that great houses, menaced with ruin, regain their former splendour. You must marry an heiress, the only daughter of some rich banker.”

“You forget—it would be derogatory. I am free from such prejudices, but what would Austria say if I thus condescended? It would be another charge to bring against me. And then a banker’s millions would not suffice; I must ally myself with a powerful family, whose influence will strengthen mine. Only a few days ago, I thought such an alliance within my grasp. A neighbouring prince, Maximilian of Hanau, who is in high favour at Vienna, has a sister to marry. The Princess Wilhelmina is young, handsome, amiable, and rich; I have already entered upon the preliminaries of a matrimonial negotiation, but two despatches, received this morning, destroy all my hopes. Hence the low spirits in which you find me.”

“Perhaps,” said Balthasar, “your Highness too easily gives way to discouragement.”

“Judge for yourself. I have a rival, the Elector of Saxe-Tolpelhausen; his territories are less considerable than mine, but he is more solidly established in his little electorate than I am in my grand duchy.”

“Pardon me, your Highness; I saw the Elector of Saxe-Tolpelhausen last year at Baden-Baden, and, without flattery, he cannot for an instant be compared with your Highness. You are hardly thirty, and he is more than forty; you have a good figure, he is heavy, clumsy, and ill-made; your countenance is noble and agreeable, his common and displeasing; your hair is light brown, his bright red. The Princess Wilhelmina is sure to prefer you.”

“Perhaps so, if she were asked; but she is in the power of her august brother, who will marry her to whom he pleases.”

“That must be prevented.”

“How?”

“By winning the young lady’s affections. Love has so many resources. Every day one sees marriages for money broken off, and replaced by marriages for love.”

“Yes, one sees that in plays——”

“Which afford excellent lessons.”

“For people of a certain class, but not for princes.”

“Why not make the attempt? If I dared advise you, it would be to set out to-morrow, and pay a visit to the Prince of Hanau.”

“Unnecessary. To see the prince and his sister, I need not stir hence. One of these despatches announces their early arrival at Karlstadt. They are on their way hither. On their return from a journey into Prussia, they pass through my territories and pause in my capital, inviting themselves as my guests for two or three days. Their visit is my ruin. What will they think of me when they find me alone, deserted, in my empty palace? Do you suppose the Princess will be tempted to share my dismal solitude? Last year she went to Saxe-Tolpelhausen. The Elector entertained her well, and made his court agreeable. He could place chamberlains and aides-de-camp at her orders, could give concerts, balls, and festivals. But I—what can I do? What a humiliation! And, that no affront may be spared to me, my rival proposes negotiating his marriage at my own court! Nothing less, it seems, will satisfy him! He has just sent me an ambassador, Baron Pippinstir, deputed, he writes, to conclude a commercial treaty which will be extremely advantageous to me. The treaty is but a pretext. The Baron’s true mission is to the Prince of Hanau. The meeting is skilfully contrived, for the secret and unostentatious conclusion of the matrimonial treaty. This is what I am condemned to witness! I must endure this outrage and mortification, and display, before the prince and his sister, my misery and poverty. I would do anything to avoid such shame!”

“Means might, perhaps, be found,” said Balthasar, after a moment’s reflection.

“Means? Speak, and whatever they be, I adopt them.”

“The plan is a bold one!” continued Balthasar, speaking half to the Grand Duke and half to himself, as if pondering and weighing a project.

“No matter! I will risk everything.”

“You would like to conceal your real position, to re-people this palace, to have a court?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think the courtiers who have deserted you would return?”

“Never. Did I not tell you they are sold to my enemies.”

“Could you not select others from the higher class of your subjects?”

“Impossible! There are very few gentlemen amongst my subjects. Ah! if a court could be got up at a day’s notice! though it were to be composed of the humblest citizens of Karlstadt——”

“I have better than that to offer you.”

“You have? And whom do you offer?” cried Duke Leopold, greatly astonished.

“My actors.”

“What! you would have me make up a court of your actors?”

“Yes, your Highness, and you could not do better. Observe that my actors are accustomed to play all manner of parts, and that they will be perfectly at their ease when performing those of noblemen and high officials. I answer for their talent, discretion, and probity. As soon as your illustrious guests have departed, and you no longer need their services, they shall resign their posts. Bear in mind that you have no other alternative. Time is short, danger at your door, hesitation is destruction.”

“But, if such a trick were discovered!——”

“A mere supposition, a chimerical fear. On the other hand, if you do not run the risk I propose, your ruin is certain.”

The Grand Duke was easily persuaded. Careless and easy-going, he yet was not wanting in determination, nor in a certain love of hazardous enterprises. He remembered that fortune is said to favour the bold, and his desperate position increased his courage. With joyful intrepidity he accepted and adopted Balthasar’s scheme.

“Bravo!” cried the manager; “you shall have no cause to repent. You behold in me a sample of your future courtiers; and since honours and dignities are to be distributed, it is with me, if you please, that we will begin. In this request I act up to the spirit of my part. A courtier should always be asking for something, should lose no opportunity, and should profit by his rivals’ absence to obtain the best place. I entreat your Highness to have the goodness to name me prime minister.”

“Granted!” gaily replied the prince. “Your Excellency may immediately enter upon your functions.”

“My Excellency will not fail to do so, and begins by requesting your signature to a few decrees I am about to draw up. But in the first place, your Highness must be so good as to answer two or three questions, that I may understand the position of affairs. A new-comer in a country, and a novice in a minister’s office, has need of instruction. If it became necessary to enforce your commands, have you the means of so doing?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Your Highness has soldiers?”

“A regiment.”

“How many men?”

“One hundred and twenty, besides the musicians.”

“Are they obedient, devoted?”

“Passive obedience, unbounded devotion; soldiers and officers would die for me to the last man.”

“It is their duty. Another question: Have you a prison in your dominions?”

“Certainly.”

“I mean a good prison, strong and well-guarded, with thick walls, solid bars, stern and incorruptible jailors?”

“I have every reason to believe that the Castle of Zwingenberg combines all those requisites. The fact is, I have made very little use of it; but it was built by a man who understood such matters—by my father’s great-grandfather, Rudolph the Inflexible.”

“A fine surname for a sovereign! Your Inflexible ancestor, I am very sure, never lacked either cash or courtiers. Your Highness has perhaps done wrong to leave the state-prison untenanted. A prison requires to be inhabited, like any other building; and the first act of the authority with which you have been pleased to invest me, will be a salutary measure of incarceration. I presume the Castle of Zwingenberg will accommodate a score of prisoners?”

“What! you are going to imprison twenty persons?”

“More or less. I do not yet know the exact number of the persons who composed your late court. They it is whom I propose lodging within the lofty walls constructed by the Inflexible Rudolph. The measure is indispensable.”

“But it is illegal!”

“I crave your Highness’s pardon; you use a word I do not understand. It seems to me that, in every good German government, that which is absolutely necessary is necessarily legal. That is my policy. Moreover, as prime minister, I am responsible. What would you have more? It is plain that, if we leave your courtiers their liberty, it will be impossible to perform our comedy; they will betray us. Therefore the welfare of the state imperatively demands their imprisonment. Besides, you yourself have said that they are traitors, and therefore they deserve punishment. For your own safety’s sake, for the success of your project—which will insure the happiness of your subjects—write the names, sign the order, and inflict upon the deserters the lenient chastisement of a week’s captivity.”

The Grand Duke wrote the names and signed several orders, which were forthwith intrusted to the most active and determined officers of the regiment, with instructions to make the arrests at once, and to take their prisoners to the Castle of Zwingenberg, at three quarters of a league from Karlstadt.

“All that now remains to be done is to send for your new court,” said Balthasar. “Has your Highness carriages?”

“Certainly! a berlin, a barouche, and a cabriolet.”

“And horses?”

“Six draught and two saddle.”

“I take the barouche, the berlin, and four horses; I go to Krusthal, put my actors up to their parts, and bring them here this evening. We instal ourselves in the palace, and shall be at once at your Highness’s orders.”

“Very good; but, before going, write an answer to Baron Pippinstir, who asks an audience.”

“Two lines, very dry and official, putting him off till to-morrow. We must be under arms to receive him.... Here is the note written, but how shall I sign it? The name of Balthasar is not very suitable to a German Excellency.”

“True, you must have another name, and a title; I create you Count Lipandorf.”

“Thanks, your Highness. I will bear the title nobly, and restore it to you faithfully, with my seals of office, when the comedy is played out.”

Count Lipandorf signed the letter, which Sigismund was ordered to take to Baron Pippinstir; then he started for Krusthal.

Next morning, the Grand Duke Leopold held a levee, which was attended by all the officers of his new court. And as soon as he was dressed he received the ladies, with infinite grace and affability.

Ladies and officers were attired in their most elegant theatrical costumes; the Grand Duke appeared greatly satisfied with their bearing and manners. The first compliments over, there came a general distribution of titles and offices.

The lover, Florival, was appointed aide-de-camp to the Grand Duke, colonel of hussars, and Count Reinsberg.

Rigolet, the low comedian, was named grand chamberlain, and Baron Fidibus.

Similor, who performed the valets, was master of the horse and Baron Kockemburg.

Anselmo, walking gentleman, was promoted to be gentleman-in-waiting and Chevalier Grillenfanger.

The leader of the band, Lebel, was appointed superintendant of the music and amusements of the court, with the title of Chevalier Arpeggio.

The prima donna, Miss Delia, was created Countess of Rosenthal, an interesting orphan, whose dowry was to be the hereditary office of first lady of honour to the future Grand Duchess.

Miss Foligny, the singing chambermaid, was appointed widow of a general and Baroness Allenzau.

Miss Alice, walking lady, became Miss Fidibus, daughter of the chamberlain, and a rich heiress.

Finally, the duenna, Madame Pastorale, was called to the responsible station of mistress of the robes and governess of the maids of honour, under the imposing title of Baroness Schicklick.

The new dignitaries received decorations in proportion to their rank. Count Balthasar von Lipandorf, prime minister, had two stars and three grand crosses. The aide-de-camp, Florival von Reinsberg, fastened five crosses upon the breast of his hussar jacket.

The parts duly distributed and learned, there was a rehearsal, which went off excellently well. The Grand Duke deigned to superintend the getting up of the piece, and to give the actors a few useful hints.

Prince Maximilian of Hanau and his august sister were expected that evening. Time was precious. Pending their arrival, and by way of practising his court, the Grand Duke gave audience to the ambassador from Saxe-Tolpelhausen.

Baron Pippinstir was ushered into the Hall of the Throne. He had asked permission to present his wife at the same time as his credentials, and that favour had been granted him.

At sight of the diplomatist, the new courtiers, as yet unaccustomed to rigid decorum, had difficulty in keeping their countenances. The Baron was a man of fifty, prodigiously tall, singularly thin, abundantly powdered, with legs like hop-poles, clad in knee breeches and white silk stockings. A long slender pigtail danced upon his flexible back. He had a face like a bird of prey—little round eyes, a receding chin, and an enormous hooked nose. It was scarcely possible to look at him without laughing, especially when one saw him for the first time. His apple-green coat glittered with a profusion of embroidery. His chest being too narrow to admit of a horizontal development of his decorations, he wore them in two columns, extending from his collar to his waist. When he approached the Grand Duke, with a self-satisfied simper and a jaunty air, his sword by his side, his cocked hat under his arm, nothing was wanting to complete the caricature.

The Baroness Pippinstir was a total contrast to her husband. She was a pretty little woman of five-and-twenty, as plump as a partridge, with a lively eye, a nice figure, and an engaging smile. There was mischief in her glance, seduction in her dimples and the rose’s tint upon her cheeks. Her dress was the only ridiculous thing about her. To come to court, the little Baroness had put on all the finery she could muster; she sailed into the hall under a cloud of ribbons, sparkling with jewels and fluttering with plumes—the loftiest of which, however, scarcely reached to the shoulder of her lanky spouse.

Completely identifying himself with his part of prime minister, Balthasar, as soon as this oddly-assorted pair appeared, decided upon his plan of campaign. His natural penetration told him the diplomatist’s weak point. He felt that the Baron, who was old and ugly, must be jealous of his wife, who was young and pretty. He was not mistaken. Pippinstir was as jealous as a tiger-cat. Recently married, the meagre diplomatist had not dared to leave his wife at Saxe-Tolpelhausen, for fear of accidents; he would not lose sight of her, and had brought her to Karlstadt in the arrogant belief that danger vanished in his presence.

After exchanging a few diplomatic phrases with the ambassador, Balthasar took Colonel Florival aside and gave him secret instructions. The dashing officer passed his hand through his richly-curling locks, adjusted his splendid pelisse, and approached Baroness Pippinstir. The ambassadress received him graciously; the handsome colonel had already attracted her attention, and soon she was delighted with his wit and gallant speeches. Florival did not lack imagination, and his memory was stored with well-turned phrases and sentimental tirades, borrowed from stage-plays. He spoke half from inspiration, half from memory, and he was listened to with favour.

The conversation was carried on in French—for the best of reasons.

“It is the custom here,” said the Grand Duke to the ambassador; “French is the only language spoken in this palace; it is a regulation I had some difficulty in enforcing, and I was at last obliged to decree that a heavy penalty should be paid for every German word spoken by a person attached to my court. That proved effectual, and you will not easily catch any of these ladies and gentlemen tripping. My prime minister, Count Balthasar von Lipandorf, is the only one who is permitted occasionally to speak his native language.”

Balthasar, who had long managed theatres in Alsace and Lorraine, spoke German like a Frankfort brewer.

Meanwhile, Baron Pippinstir’s uneasiness was extreme. Whilst his wife conversed in a low voice with the young and fascinating aide-de-camp, the pitiless prime minister held his arm tight, and explained at great length his views with respect to the famous commercial treaty. Caught in his own snare, the unlucky diplomatist was in agony; he fidgeted to get away, his countenance expressed grievous uneasiness, his lean legs were convulsively agitated. But in vain did he endeavour to abridge his torments; the remorseless Balthasar relinquished not his prey.

Sigismund, promoted to be steward of the household, announced dinner. The ambassador and his lady had been invited to dine, as well as all the courtiers. The aide-de-camp was placed next to the Baroness, the Baron at the other end of the table. The torture was prolonged. Florival continued to whisper soft nonsense to the fair and well-pleased Pippinstir. The diplomatist could not eat.

There was another person present whom Florival’s flirtation annoyed, and that person was Delia, Countess of Rosenthal. After dinner, Balthasar, whom nothing escaped, took her aside.

“You know very well,” said the minister, “that he is only acting a part in a comedy. Should you feel hurt if he declared his love upon the stage, to one of your comrades? Here it is the same thing; all this is but a play; when the curtain falls, he will return to you.”

A courier announced that the Prince of Hanau and his sister were within a league of Karlstadt. The Grand Duke, attended by Count Reinsberg and some officers, went to meet them. It was dark when the illustrious guests reached the palace; they passed through the great saloon, where the whole court was assembled to receive them, and retired at once to their apartments.

“The game is fairly begun,” said the Grand Duke to his prime minister; “and now, may Heaven help us!”

“Fear nothing,” replied Balthasar. “The glimpse I caught of Prince Maximilian’s physiognomy satisfied me that everything will pass off perfectly well, and without exciting the least suspicion. As to Baron Pippinstir, he is already blind with jealousy, and Florival will give him so much to do, that he will have no time to attend to his master’s business. Things look well.”

Next morning, the Prince and Princess of Hanau were welcomed, on awakening, by a serenade from the regimental band. The weather was beautiful; the Grand Duke proposed an excursion out of town; he was glad of an opportunity to show his guests the best features of his duchy—a delightful country, and many picturesque points of view, much prized and sketched by German landscape-painters. The proposal agreed to, the party set out, in carriages and on horseback, for the old Castle of Rauberzell—magnificent ruins, dating from the middle ages, and famous far and wide. At a short distance from the castle, which lifted its grey turrets upon the summit of a wooded hill, the Princess Wilhelmina expressed a wish to walk the remainder of the way. Everybody followed her example. The Grand Duke offered her his arm; the Prince gave his to the Countess Delia von Rosenthal; and, at a sign from Balthasar, Baroness Pastorale von Schicklick took possession of Baron Pippinstir; whilst the smiling Baroness accepted Florival’s escort. The young people walked at a brisk pace. The unfortunate Baron would gladly have availed of his long legs to keep up with his coquettish wife; but the duenna, portly and ponderous, hung upon his arm, checked his ardour, and detained him in the rear. Respect for the mistress of the robes forbade rebellion or complaint.

Amidst the ruins of the venerable castle, the distinguished party found a table spread with an elegant collation. It was an agreeable surprise, and the Grand Duke had all the credit of an idea suggested to him by his prime minister.

The whole day was passed in rambling through the beautiful forest of Rauberzell. The Princess was charming; nothing could exceed the high breeding of the courtiers, or the fascination and elegance of the ladies; and Prince Maximilian warmly congratulated the Grand Duke on having a court composed of such agreeable and accomplished persons. Baroness Pippinstir declared, in a moment of enthusiasm, that the court of Saxe-Tolpelhausen was not to compare with that of Niesenstein. She could hardly have said anything more completely at variance with the object of her husband’s mission. The Baron was near fainting.

Like not a few of her countrywomen, the Princess Wilhelmina had a strong predilection for Parisian fashions. She admired everything that came from France; she spoke French perfectly, and greatly approved the Grand Duke’s decree, forbidding any other language to be spoken at his court. Moreover, there was nothing extraordinary in such a regulation; French is the language of all the northern courts. But she was greatly tickled at the notion of a fine being inflicted for a single German word. She amused herself by trying to catch some of the Grand Duke’s courtiers transgressing in this respect. Her labour was completely lost.

That evening, at the palace, when conversation began to languish, the Chevalier Arpeggio sat down to the piano, and the Countess Delia von Rosenthal sang an air out of the last new opera. The guests were enchanted with her performance. Prince Maximilian had been extremely attentive to the Countess during their excursion; the young actress’s grace and beauty had captivated him, and the charm of her voice completed his subjugation. Passionately fond of music, every note she sang went to his very heart. When she had finished one song, he petitioned for another. The amiable prima donna sang a duet with the aide-de-camp Florival von Reinsberg, and then, being further entreated, a trio, in which Similor—master of the horse, barytone, and Baron von Kockemburg—took a part.

Here our actors were at home, and their success was complete. Deviating from his usual reserve, Prince Maximilian did not disguise his delight; and the imprudent little Baroness Pippinstir declared that, with such a beautiful tenor voice, an aide-de-camp might aspire to anything. A cemetery on a wet day is a cheerful sight, compared to the Baron’s countenance when he heard these words.

Upon the morrow, a hunting party was the order of the day. In the evening there was a dance. It had been proposed to invite the principal families of the metropolis of Niesenstein, but the Prince and Princess begged that the circle might not be increased.

“We are four ladies,” said the Princess, glancing at the prima donna, the singing chambermaid, and the walking lady, “it is enough for a quadrille.”

There was no lack of gentlemen. There was the Grand Duke, the aide-de-camp, the grand chamberlain, the master of the horse, the gentleman-in-waiting, and Prince Maximilian’s aide-de-camp, Count Darius von Sturmhaube, who appeared greatly smitten by the charms of the widowed Baroness Allenzau.

“I am sorry my court is not more numerous,” said the Grand Duke, “but, within the last three days, I have been compelled to diminish it by one half.”

“How so?” inquired Prince Maximilian.

“A dozen courtiers,” replied the Grand Duke Leopold, “whom I had loaded with favours, dared conspire against me, in favour of a certain cousin of mine at Vienna. I discovered the plot, and the plotters are now in the dungeons of my good fortress of Zwingenberg.”

“Well done!” cried the Prince; “I like such energy and vigour. And to think that people taxed you with weakness of character! How we princes are deceived and calumniated.”

The Grand Duke cast a grateful glance at Balthasar. That able minister by this time felt himself as much at his ease in his new office as if he had held it all his life; he even began to suspect that the government of a grand duchy is a much easier matter than the management of a company of actors. Incessantly engrossed by his master’s interests, he manœuvred to bring about the marriage which was to give the Grand Duke happiness, wealth, and safety; but, notwithstanding his skill, notwithstanding the torments with which he had filled the jealous soul of Pippinstir, the ambassador devoted the scanty moments of repose his wife left him to furthering the object of his mission. The alliance with the Saxe-Tolpelhausen was pleasing to Prince Maximilian; it offered him various advantages: the extinction of an old lawsuit between the two states, the cession of a large extent of territory, and, finally, the commercial treaty, which the perfidious Baron had brought to the court of Niesenstein, with a view of concluding it in favour of the principality of Hanau. Invested with unlimited powers, the diplomatist was ready to insert in the contract almost any conditions Prince Maximilian chose to dictate to him.

It is necessary here to remark that the Elector of Saxe-Tolpelhausen was desperately in love with the Princess Wilhelmina.

It was evident that the Baron would carry the day, if the prime minister did not hit upon some scheme to destroy his credit or force him to retreat. Balthasar, fertile in expedients, was teaching Florival his part in the palace garden, when Prince Maximilian met him, and requested a moment’s private conversation.

“I am at your Highness’s orders,” respectfully replied the minister.

“I will go straight to the point, Count Lipandorf,” the Prince began. “I married my late wife, a princess of Hesse-Darmstadt, from political motives. She has left me three sons. I now intend to marry again; but this time I need not sacrifice myself to state considerations, and I am determined to consult my heart alone.”

“If your Highness does me the honour to consult me, I have merely to say that you are perfectly justified in acting as you propose. After once sacrificing himself to his people’s happiness, a prince has surely a right to think a little of his own.”

“Exactly my opinion! Count, I will tell you a secret. I am in love with Miss von Rosenthal.”

“Miss Delia?”

“Yes, sir; with Miss Delia, Countess of Rosenthal; and, what is more, I will tell you that I know everything.”

“What may it be that your Highness knows?”

“I know who she is.”

“Ha!”

“It was a great secret!”

“And how came your Highness to discover it?”

“The Grand Duke revealed it to me.”

“I might have guessed as much!”

“He alone could do so, and I rejoice that I addressed myself directly to him. At first, when I questioned him concerning the young Countess’s family, he ill concealed his embarrassment: her position struck me as strange; young, beautiful, and alone in the world, without relatives or guardians—all that seemed to me singular, if not suspicious. I trembled, as the possibility of an intrigue flashed upon me; but the Grand Duke, to dissipate my unfounded suspicion, told me all.”

“And what is your Highness’s decision?... After such a revelation”—

“It in no way changes my intentions. I shall marry the lady.”

“Marry her?... But no; your Highness jests.”

“Count Lipandorf, I never jest. What is there, then, so strange in my determination. The Grand Duke’s father was romantic, and of a roving disposition; in the course of his life he contracted several left-handed alliances—Miss von Rosenthal is the issue of one of those unions. I care not for the illegitimacy of her birth; she is of noble blood, of a princely race—that is all I require.”

“Yes,” replied Balthasar, who had concealed his surprise and kept his countenance, as became an experienced statesman and consummate comedian. “Yes, I now understand; and I think as you do. Your Highness has the talent of bringing everybody over to your way of thinking.”

“The greatest piece of good fortune,” continued the Prince, “is that the mother remained unknown: she is dead, and there is no trace of family on that side.”

“As your Highness says, it is very fortunate. And doubtless the Grand Duke is informed of your august intentions with respect to the proposed marriage?”

“No; I have as yet said nothing either to him or to the Countess. I reckon upon you, my dear Count, to make my offer, to whose acceptance I trust there will not be the slightest obstacle. I give you the rest of the day to arrange everything. I will write to Miss von Rosenthal; I hope to receive from her own lips the assurance of my happiness, and I will beg her to bring me her answer herself, this evening, in the summerhouse in the park. Lover-like, you see—a rendezvous, a mysterious interview! But come, Count Lipandorf, lose no time; a double tie shall bind me to your sovereign. We will sign, at one and the same time, my marriage-contract and his. On that condition alone will I grant him my sister’s hand; otherwise I treat, this very evening, with the envoy from Saxe-Tolpelhausen.”

A quarter of an hour after Prince Maximilian had made this overture, Balthasar and Delia were closeted with the Grand Duke.

What was to be done? The Prince of Hanau was noted for his obstinacy. He would have excellent reasons to oppose to all objections. To confess the deception that had been practised upon him was equivalent to a total and eternal rupture. But, upon the other hand, to leave him in his error, to suffer him to marry an actress! it was a serious matter. If ever he discovered the truth, it would be enough to raise the entire German Confederation against the Grand Duke of Niesenstein.

“What is my prime minister’s opinion?” asked the Grand Duke.

“A prompt retreat. Delia must instantly quit the town; we will devise an explanation of her sudden departure.”

“Yes; and this evening Prince Maximilian will sign his sister’s marriage-contract with the Elector of Saxe-Tolpelhausen. My opinion is, that we have advanced too far to retreat. If the prince ever discovers the truth, he will be the person most interested to conceal it. Besides, Miss Delia is an orphan—she has neither parents nor family. I adopt her—I acknowledge her as my sister.”

“Your Highness’s goodness and condescension——” lisped the pretty prima donna.

“You agree with me, do you not, Miss Delia?” continued the Grand Duke. “You are resolved to seize the good fortune thus offered, and to risk the consequences?”

“Yes, your Highness.”

The ladies will make allowance for Delia’s faithlessness to Florival. How few female heads would not be turned by the prospect of wearing a crown! The heart’s voice is sometimes mute in presence of such brilliant temptations. Besides, was not Florival faithless? Who could say whither he might be led in the course of the tender scenes he acted with the Baroness Pippinstir? Prince Maximilian was neither young nor handsome, but he offered a throne. Not only an actress, but many a high-born dame, might possibly, in such circumstances, forget her love, and think only of her ambition.

To her credit be it said, Delia did not yield without some reluctance to the Grand Duke’s arguments, which Balthasar backed with all his eloquence; but she ended by agreeing to the interview with Prince Maximilian.

“I accept,” she resolutely exclaimed; “I shall be Sovereign Princess of Hanau.”

“And I,” cried the Grand Duke, “shall marry Princess Wilhelmina, and, this very evening, poor Pippinstir, disconcerted and defeated, will go back to Saxe-Tolpelhausen.”

“He would have done that in any case,” said Balthasar; “for, this evening, Florival was to have run away with his wife.”

“That is carrying things rather far,” Delia remarked.

“Such a scandal is unnecessary,” added the Grand Duke.

Whilst awaiting the hour of her rendezvous with the prince, Delia, pensive and agitated, was walking in the park, when she came suddenly upon Florival, who seemed as much discomposed as herself. In spite of her newly-born ideas of grandeur, she felt a pain at her heart. With a forced smile, and in a tone of reproach and irony, she greeted her former lover.

“A pleasant journey to you, Colonel Florival,” she said.

“I may wish you the same,” replied Florival; “for doubtless you will soon set out for the principality of Hanau!”

“Before long, no doubt.”

“You admit it, then?”

“Where is the harm? The wife must follow her husband—a princess must reign in her dominions.”

“Princess! What do you mean? Wife! In what ridiculous promises have they induced you to confide?”

Florival’s offensive doubts were dissipated by the formal explanation which Delia took malicious pleasure in giving him. A touching scene ensued; the lovers, who had both gone astray for a moment, felt their former flame burn all the more ardently for its partial and temporary extinction. Pardon was mutually asked and granted, and ambitious dreams fled before a burst of affection.

“You shall see whether I love you or not,” said Florival to Delia. “Yonder comes Baron Pippinstir; I will take him into the summerhouse; a closet is there, where you can hide yourself to hear what passes, and then you shall decide my fate.”

Delia went into the summerhouse, and hid herself in the closet. There she overheard the following conversation:—

“What have you to say to me, Colonel?” asked the Baron.

“I wish to speak to your Excellency of an affair that deeply concerns you.”

“I am all attention; but I beg you to be brief; I am expected elsewhere.”

“So am I.”

“I must go to the prime minister, to return him this draught of a commercial treaty, which I cannot accept.”

“And I must go to the rendezvous given me in this letter.”

“The Baroness’s writing!”

“Yes, Baron. Your wife has done me the honour to write to me. We set out together to-night; the Baroness is waiting for me in a post-chaise.”

“And it is to me you dare acknowledge this abominable project?”

“I am less generous than you think. You cannot but be aware that, owing to an irregularity in your marriage-contract, nothing would be easier than to get it annulled. This we will have done; we then obtain a divorce, and I marry the Baroness. You will, of course, have to hand me over her dowry—a million of florins—composing, if I do not mistake, your entire fortune.”

The Baron, more dead than alive, sank into an arm-chair. He was struck speechless.

“We might, perhaps, make some arrangement, Baron,” continued Florival. “I am not particularly bent upon becoming your wife’s second husband.”

“Ah, sir!” cried the ambassador, “you restore me to life!”

“Yes, but I will not restore you the Baroness, except on certain conditions.”

“Speak! What do you demand?”

“First, that treaty of commerce, which you must sign just as Count Lipandorf has drawn it up.”

“I consent to do so.”

“That is not all: you shall take my place at the rendezvous, get into the post-chaise, and run away with your wife; but first you must sit down at this table and write a letter, in due diplomatic form, to Prince Maximilian, informing him that, finding it impossible to accept his stipulations, you are compelled to decline, in your sovereign’s name, the honour of his august alliance.”

“But, Colonel, remember that my instructions——”

“Very well, fulfil them exactly; be a dutiful ambassador and a miserable husband, ruined, without wife and without dowry. You will never have such another chance, Baron! A pretty wife and a million of florins do not fall to a man’s lot twice in his life. But I must take my leave of you. I am keeping the Baroness waiting.”

“I will go to her.... Give me paper, a pen, and be so good as to dictate. I am so agitated——”

The Baron really was in a dreadful fluster. The letter written, and the treaty signed, Florival told his Excellency where he would find the post-chaise.

“One thing more you must promise me,” said the young man, “and that is, that you will behave like a gentleman to your wife, and not scold her over-much. Remember the flaw in the contract. She may find somebody else in whose favour to cancel the document. Suitors will not be wanting.”

“What need of a promise?” replied the poor Baron. “You know very well that my wife does what she likes with me? I shall have to explain my conduct, and ask her pardon.”

Pippinstir departed. Delia left her hiding-place, and held out her hand to Florival.

“You have behaved well,” she said.

“That is more than the Baroness will say.”

“She deserves the lesson. It is your turn to go into the closet and listen; the Prince will be here directly.”

“I hear his footsteps.” And Florival was quickly concealed.

“Charming Countess!” said the prince on entering, “I come to know my fate.”

“What does your Highness mean?” said Delia, pretending not to understand him.

“How can you ask? Has not the Grand Duke spoken to you?”

“No, your Highness.”

“Nor the prime minister?”

“Not a word. When I received your letter, I was on the point of asking you for a private interview. I have a favour—a service—to implore of your Highness.”

“It is granted before it is asked. I place my whole influence and power at your feet, charming Countess!”

“A thousand thanks, illustrious prince. You have already shown me so much kindness, that I venture to ask you to make a communication to my brother, the Grand Duke, which I dare not make myself. I want you to inform him that I have been for three months privately married to Count Reinsberg.”

“Good heavens!” cried Maximilian, falling into the arm-chair in which Pippinstir had recently reclined. On recovering from the shock, the prince rose again to his feet.

“’Tis well, madam,” he said, in a faint voice. “’Tis well!”

And he left the summerhouse.

After reading Baron Pippinstir’s letter, Prince Maximilian fell a-thinking. It was not the Grand Duke’s fault if the Countess of Rosenthal did not ascend the throne of Hanau. There was an insurmountable obstacle. Then the precipitate departure of the ambassador of Saxe-Tolpelhausen was an affront which demanded instant vengeance. And the Grand Duke Leopold was a most estimable sovereign, skilful, energetic, and blessed with wise councillors; the Princess Wilhelmina liked him, and thought nothing could compare, for pleasantness, with his lively court, where all the men were amiable, and all the women charming. These various motives duly weighed, the Prince made up his mind, and next day was signed the marriage-contract of the Grand Duke of Niesenstein and the Princess Wilhelmina of Hanau.

Three days later the marriage itself was celebrated.

The play was played out.

The actors had performed their parts with wit, intelligence, and a noble disinterestedness. They took their leave of the Grand Duke, leaving him with a rich and pretty wife, a powerful brother-in-law, a serviceable alliance, and a commercial treaty which could not fail to replenish his treasury.

Embassies, special missions, banishment, were alleged to the Grand Duchess as the causes of their departure. Then an amnesty was published on the occasion of the marriage; the gates of the fortress of Zwingenberg opened, and the former courtiers resumed their respective posts.

The reviving fortunes of the Grand Duke were a sure guarantee of their fidelity.

LADY LEE’S WIDOWHOOD. — PART IX.—CHAP. XLIII. — CHAPTER XLIV. — CHAPTER XLV. — CHAPTER XLVI.

A short time after the loss of poor Julius, Bagot had gone to town without seeing Lady Lee in the interval. The night of his arrival he wrote a note to Seager, desiring that gentleman to come to him in the morning.

Seager came about ten o’clock to the lodgings occupied by Bagot, expecting to find him up and dressed. As he was not in the sitting-room, Seager proceeded up-stairs to his bedroom. He was met at the head of the stairs by Wilson, the Colonel’s servant, who told him he feared his master was ill. “He had been talking queer,” Wilson said,—“very queer.”

Seager entered the bedroom. The Colonel was in bed, and did not look ill, but his friend observed that he cast a peculiar hurried anxious glance at the door as he entered. He went up to him, shook hands, congratulated him on the late event, and then seated himself on the side of the bed.

“What makes you so late in bed?” asked Seager; “keeping it up late last night, eh?”

“No,” said Bagot, “no. I want to get up—but how can I, you know, with these people in the room?” (casting a quick nervous glance towards a corner of the apartment.)

“Very odd,” thought Seager, following the direction of the Colonel’s eyes, and seeing no one. “He hasn’t lost his wits, I hope. A little feverish, perhaps. I’m afraid you’re out of sorts, Lee,” he said. “You don’t look well.”

“Quite well,” said Bagot; “never better. I’ll get up in a minute, my good fellow, as soon as they’re gone. Couldn’t you”—(in an under tone),—“couldn’t you get ’em to go?”

“Who?” inquired Seager, again following the glance the Colonel cast towards the same part of the room.

“Who!” cried Bagot; “why, that tea-party there. They’ve been drinking tea the whole morning—two women and a man.”

“By Jove, he’s mad,” thought Seager to himself—“mad as a March hare.”

“I’ve asked ’em as civilly as I could to go away,” said Bagot, “but they don’t mind that. It’s very curious, too, where they got the tea, for I don’t take much of it. Fancy them coming to me for tea, eh?” said Bagot. “Absurd, you know.”

“Why, ’tis rather a good joke,” said Seager, affecting to laugh, but in great consternation. Since reading the accident to the poor little Baronet in the papers, he had counted on Bagot as the source from whence all the funds required for the conduct of the coming trial (without mentioning other more immediate wants) were to be supplied. And here was the Colonel evidently out of his mind—unfit, perhaps, to transact even so simple a business as drawing money.

“Have you got much money in the house, Lee?” asked Seager presently.

“Money,” said Bagot, who seemed to answer some questions rationally enough; “no, I don’t think I have; I’m going to draw some as soon as I’ve seen my lawyer.”

“Just so,” said Seager, “and the sooner the better. Where’s your check-book? Just sign your name, and I’ll fill it up. We must have some funds to carry on the war. The trial comes on the beginning of next month, and there’s a great deal to be done beforehand.”

“Ah, that cursed trial!” said the Colonel, grinding his teeth; “but I’ve been thinking it over, Seager, and it’s my belief that, if we bribe the Crown lawyers high enough, we may get ’em to lay the indictment for manslaughter.”

“Manslaughter!” repeated Seager to himself, as he took the check-book from Bagot’s writing-desk. “Oh, by Jove, he’s stark staring! Now, old fellow,” he continued, coming to the bedside with the inkstand and check-book, “here you are. Just take the pen and write your name here. I’ll fill it up afterwards.”

Bagot took the pen, and tried to write his name as Seager directed; but his hand shook so that he could not, and after an attempt or two, he threw the pen from him.

“Come, try once more, and I’ll guide your hand,” said Seager. But Bagot refused so testily that he did not press him.

“Do you know,” said Seager presently, puzzled at Bagot’s extraordinary demeanour, “I don’t think you’re half awake yet, Lee. You’ve been dreaming, haven’t you?”

“Not a bit,” said Bagot; “I didn’t sleep a wink all night.”

“I wonder if that’s true?” thought Seager. “You don’t see the tea-party now, do you?”

Bagot, as if suddenly recollecting them, looked quickly towards the corner where he had fancied them seated. “No,” said he, with a kind of doubtful pleasure; “they’re gone—gone, by Jove!” Then, raising himself on his elbow, he cast a searching glance all round the room, and at last behind his bed, when he started, and, falling back aghast on his pillow, muttered, “There they are behind the curtains, drinking tea as hard as ever, and they’ve got a little boy with ’em now.”

“Ah,” said Seager, humouring him, “what’s the boy like?”

“I could only see his back,” answered Bagot, in a whisper, “but I wouldn’t look again for the world,” (shuddering, and turning his face away.)

Seager now went to the door, and, calling Wilson, desired him to fetch a physician who lived in the street, to see his master.

The physician, a brisk man, of few years, considering his eminence, and who piqued himself on suiting his tone to that of his patients and their friends, soon arrived. He came in jauntily, asked Bagot how he was, heard all about the intrusive tea-party, felt his pulse, looked at him attentively, and then took Seager aside.

“The Colonel, now, isn’t the most abstemious man in the world, is he?” he inquired, with a jocular air.

“No, by Gad,” said Mr Seager; “he’s a pretty hard liver.”

“Drinks pretty freely, eh? Wine?—brandy?”

“More than I should like to,” replied Seager. “I’ve often told him he’d have to pull up some day.”

“Ah, yes, he’ll have to”—said the other nodding. “He’s got delirium tremens.”

“Has he, by Jove!” exclaimed Seager—adding, with an oath, “what a fool I was, that it never occurred to me, knowing him as I do.”

“The attack’s just beginning now, and promises to be violent,” said the doctor.

“What—you think ’twill go hard with him, eh?”

The physician said, “Perhaps it might; ’twas impossible to say; however,” he added, “you won’t be long in suspense—a few days will settle the matter.”

“Come, that’s a comfort,” said Seager, remembering how important it was that Bagot should be able to exert himself before the trial. “Poor devil,” he added, “what a pity—just come into a fine property!”

“Well, well, we’ll try to keep him in possession,” said the doctor. “I’ll leave a prescription, and look in again shortly.”

“By the by,” said Seager, detaining him, “people who’ve got this complaint sometimes talk confounded stuff, don’t they?” The doctor said they did.

“And let out secrets about their own affairs, and other people’s?”

“Possibly they might,” the doctor said—“their delusions were various, and often mixed strangely with truth. I’ve heard patients,” he added, “in this state talk about private matters, and therefore it may be as well to let no strangers come about him, if you can avoid it.”

Seager thought the advice good, and assured the doctor that he would look after him himself. Accordingly, he sent to his own lodgings for a supply of necessaries, and established himself as Bagot’s attendant.

In this capacity Mr Seager’s energy and vigilant habits enabled him to act with great effect; in fact, if he had been the poor Colonel’s warmly-attached brother, he could not have taken better care of him. He administered his medicine, which there was no difficulty in getting him to take, as it consisted principally of large doses of brandy: he held him down, with Wilson’s assistance, in his violent fits, and humoured the strange hallucinations which now began to crowd upon him thick and fast.

Some of these Mr Seager found rather diverting, especially an attendant imp which Bagot conceived was perpetually hovering about the bed, and in whose motions he took vast interest.

“Take care,” said Bagot, starting up in bed on one occasion as Seager approached him; “mind, mind! you’ll tread on him.”

“Tread on what?” said Seager, looking down, deceived by the earnestness of the appeal.

“Why the little devil—poor little fellow, don’t hurt him. You’ve no idea how lively he is. I wouldn’t have him injured,” added Bagot tenderly, “on any account.”

“Certainly not,” said Seager; “not while he behaves himself. What’s he like, eh?”

“He’s about the size,” returned Bagot, “of a printer’s devil, or perhaps a little smaller; and, considering his inches, he’s uncommonly active. He was half-way up the bedpost this morning at one spring.”

All this nonsense, delivered with perfect earnestness and gravity, contrasted so oddly with the Colonel’s red nose and bristly unshaven face, that it greatly amused Mr Seager, and helped him to pass the time. By and by, however, both the tea-party and the imp disappeared, and their place was taken by spectres of more formidable stamp. In particular, there was a demon disguised as a bailiff in top-boots, who was come, as Bagot firmly believed, to take his soul in execution, he having unfortunately lost it at chicken hazard to the enemy of mankind, which latter personage he paid Mr Seager the compliment of taking him for.

It was now that Seager began to appreciate the soundness of the doctor’s advice with respect to excluding strangers from the hearing of Bagot’s delusions. He began to talk, sometimes pertinently, sometimes wildly, of the approaching trial, generally ending in absurd ravings; sometimes charging Seager with dreadful crimes, sometimes imagining himself the culprit. On the third day of his attack, Seager remarked that a showman figured largely in his discourse, and, finding the patient in a tractable mood, he questioned him as to who this showman might be.

“I know,” said the Colonel, still taking Mr Seager for the distinguished personage aforesaid—“I know it’s of no use to try to keep anything a secret from you. But suppose now I tell you all about Holmes, will you let me off what—what I lost, you know?”

“What was that?” asked Seager, forgetting the imaginary forfeit.

“Why the—the soul,” said Bagot. “It’s of no use to you, you know.”

“Oh, ah, I’d forgotten that,” said Seager. “Pray, don’t mention it; ’tisn’t of the least consequence. Yes, we’ll cry quits about that.”

Then, to his hearer’s surprise, Bagot, apparently satisfied with the conditions, related all the particulars of his nocturnal interview with Mr Holmes, comprising what had passed between them inside the caravan.

Seager listened in breathless astonishment. The delusion, if delusion there was in this instance, was the most plausible and coherent of any that had yet haunted Bagot. It had touched, too, on some previous suspicions in Seager’s own mind, and he resolved, if Bagot recovered, to sound him on the subject.

Meantime he tried to lead him to talk more freely on the subject. But Bagot now began to wander, talked all kinds of nonsense, and ended, as usual, in violent ravings.

All this time the demon in top-boots and his brethren were in constant attendance. Never for a moment was Bagot free from the horror of their presence; and if all the frightful spectres of romance and superstition had been actually crowded round his bed, the poor Colonel could not have suffered more than from the horrible phantasms that his imagination summoned to attend him.

It was beginning to be doubtful if he could hold out much longer under the disease; but on the third night he fell asleep, and woke the next morning in his right mind.

“Ah, he’s pulled through this time,” said the doctor, when he saw him. “All right, now; but he mustn’t resume his hard drinking, or he’ll have another attack.”

“I’ll look after him myself,” said Mr Seager. “I’ll lock up the brandy bottle, and put him on short allowance.”

“Well, he ought to be very grateful to you, I’m sure,” said the doctor, “for all your attention. Really, I never saw greater kindness, even among near relations.” And the doctor having been paid, departed, perfectly convinced that Mr Seager was one of the best fellows that ever breathed, and the sort of person to make any sacrifice to serve his friends.

“Now I’ll tell you what it is, Lee,” said Seager, when Bagot was on his legs again, and manifested a desire for his customary drams. “You mustn’t go on in your old way yet awhile. If you do, you’ll go to the devil in no time.”

“Never you mind, sir,” said Bagot with dignity. “I presume I’m the best judge of what’s good for me.”

“You never made a greater mistake,” returned Mr Seager. “Just go and look in the glass, and see what your judgment of what’s good for you has brought you to, you unfortunate old beggar. You look like a cocktail screw after the third heat, all puffing and trembling. I’ll lay you a five-pound note you don’t look me straight in the face for a minute together. Here’s a sovereign, now—well, I’ll put it between your lips, and if you can hold it there for fifty seconds, you shall have it, and if not, you shall give me one. What d’ye say to that?”

“Sir,” said Bagot, with his lips trembling, and his eyes rolling more than ever at these delicate allusions to his infirmities—“sir, you are disagreeably personal.”

“Personal!” sneered Mr Seager. “I wish you could hear the confounded rubbish you talked while in bed. I only wished I’d had a short-hand writer to take it down—all about the bailiffs, and devils, and so forth. And the showman, too—one Holmes. He struck me as a real character; and if all you said was true, you must have had some queer dealings together.”

As he spoke he fixed his green eye on Bagot, who started, cast one nervous glance at him, and then, in great agitation, rose and walked to the window, where Seager saw him wipe his forehead with his handkerchief.

Presently he looked stealthily over his shoulder, and, perceiving that Seager still eyed him, he affected to laugh. “Cursed nonsense I must have talked, I daresay,” said he huskily. “Oh, cursed, you know, ha, ha.”

“But that about the showman Holmes didn’t sound so absurd as the rest,” said Seager. “It struck me as more like some real circumstances you were recollecting. Come, suppose you tell me all about it sensibly, now.”

“No more of this, sir,” said Bagot, waving the handkerchief he had been wiping his forehead with. “The subject is unpleasant. No man, I presume, likes to be reminded that he has been talking like a fool. We won’t resume the subject now, or at any other time, if you please.”

“Ah,” said Seager to himself, on observing Bagot’s agitation, “I was right—there was some truth in that. I must consider how to turn it to account.”

In his new circumstances Bagot was, of course, a very different personage from the Colonel Lee known to tradesmen and money-lenders of old. There was no talk now of arresting him for small debts, no hesitation in complying with his orders. The Jews, bill-brokers, and other accommodating persons who had lately been open-mouthed against him, now offered him unlimited credit, of which he did not fail to avail himself. His creditor, Mr Dubbley, seeing the very different position the Colonel would now occupy at the Heronry, and alive to the impolicy of offending so important a neighbour, stopt all proceedings against him, and, with the most abject apologies and assurances of regard, entreated him to take his own leisure for the payment of the debt. Apparently satisfied with these advantages, the Colonel showed no eagerness to take upon him either the dignity or the emoluments that had now devolved on him in the succession of inheritance.

The first lawyers in the kingdom were retained for him and Seager. A considerable sum was placed at the disposal of the latter, who was to employ it either in bribing that very important witness, Jim the groom, who had charge of Goshawk, to perjure himself, or in getting him to abscond. As he proved tractable, however, and agreed, for a sum which he named, to swear anything that the gentlemen might wish, it was resolved to produce him; and Seager was very sanguine of a favourable result.

In the mean time Bagot, anxious and gloomy, kept almost entirely in his lodgings, and seldom spoke to anybody except on business. He did not know what reports might be abroad about the coming trial; he did not know how his associates would look upon him; and he feared at present to put the matter to proof by going among them. This line of conduct Seager thought highly impolitic, and told him so. “Put a good face on the matter,” he said. “Go down to the club—play billiards—go to the opera. If you go sneaking about with a hangdog face, as if you didn’t dare show yourself, people will bring you in guilty before the trial, and the legal acquittal will hardly serve to set you right again.”

So Bagot suffered himself to be persuaded, and went down to his club. Here he had been, in days of yore, a prominent character, and had enjoyed an extensive popularity among the members. He formed a sort of connecting link between the fogies and the youngsters; his experience allying him with the one class, his tastes and habits with the other. Here he might formerly often have been seen entertaining a knot of immoral old gentlemen with jokes improper for publication, or the centre of an admiring circle of fledglings of the sporting world, who reverenced him as an old bird of great experience and sagacity.

With doubtful and anxious feelings, he now revisited the scene of his former glory. Putting on as composed a face as possible, he went up-stairs and entered the library. There were several people in it whom he knew. One well-known man-about-town, with whom the Colonel was rather intimate, was seated opposite the door reading a newspaper, and, as Bagot could have sworn, fixed his eye on him as he entered, but it was instantaneously dropt on the paper. Another member—an old gentleman who was strongly suspected of a happy knack of turning up honours at critical movements of the game of whist—looked round at his entrance, and the Colonel advanced to greet him, in perfect confidence that he, at any rate, was not a likely person to cast the first stone at him; but Bagot was mistaken. The old gentleman shifted his chair so as to place his back towards Bagot, with a loud snort of virtuous indignation, and, leaning forward, whispered to a neighbour some hurried words, of which Bagot could distinguish—“Deuced bad taste!—don’t you think so?”

Crimson with rage and shame, Bagot bent down over a newspaper to recover himself, and fumbled with trembling hands at his eye-glasses. He heard a step behind him presently, but he dared not look up.

“Lee, my boy, how are you?” said a stout hearty man about fifty, slapping the Colonel on the shoulder. “I’ve just come back from a tour, and the first thing I saw in the paper was about you—about your”—the stout gentleman stopt to sneeze, which he did four times, with terrible convulsions of face and figure, during which Bagot was in horrible suspense, while every ear in the room was pricked up—“about your good fortune,” said the stout gentleman, after he had blown and wiped his sonorous nose as carefully as if it were some delicate musical instrument that he was going to put by in its case. “I congratulate you with all my heart. Fine property, I’m told. Just wait while I ring the bell, and we’ll have a chat together.”

He went to the bell and rung it; but, on his way back to Bagot, he was stopped by a friend who had entered the library with him, and who now drew him aside. Bagot stole a glance over his paper at them. He felt they were talking about him. He heard his stout friend say—“God bless me, who would have thought it!” and he perceived that, instead of rejoining him, according to promise, he took a chair at the farther end of the room.

Bagot still kept his own seat a little while, but he could not long endure his position. He fancied every one was looking at him, though, when, with this impression strong on him, he glared defiance around, every eye was averted. He wished—he only wished—that some one would offer him some gross tangible insult, that he might relieve himself by an outburst—that he might hurl his scorn and defiance at them and the whole world.

No one, however, seemed likely to oblige him with an opportunity of this kind, and, after a minute or two, Bagot rose, and, with as much composure as he could command, quitted the room and the house. As he walked—in no happy frame of mind with himself, with the world, or with Seager, whose advice had entailed upon him this mortification—towards his lodgings, along one of the small streets near St James’s, he saw some one wave his hand to him, in a friendly manner, from the opposite side of the way. Bagot was too short-sighted to recognise this acquaintance; but, seeing him prepare to cross the road to him, and reflecting that he could not afford to drop any acquaintances just then, when all seemed deserting him, he stopped to see who it was.

Mr Jack Sharpe, the person who now drew near, had been intended for the Church, but happening to be fast in everything except in his progress in the different branches of university learning, in which he was particularly slow, he never arrived at the dignity of orders. He had formerly moved in the same circle as Bagot, but had lost his footing there, in consequence of strong suspicions of dishonourable conduct on the turf. These seemed the more likely to be just, as he had never sought to rebut the charge against him; and it was rumoured that, since the occurrence, he had allied himself—taking, at the same time, no great precautions for secresy—with a certain swindling confederacy. Therefore Bagot had, when last in town, in all the might and majesty of conscious integrity, avoided Mr Jack Sharpe, sternly repelled all his attempts to renew their acquaintance, and returned his greetings, when they chanced to meet, with the most chilling and formal bows. Sharpe appeared to think that late circumstances had bridged over the gulf between them, for he not only saluted Bagot with unwonted familiarity, but took his hand. The Colonel disengaged it, and, intrenching himself behind his dignity, endeavoured to pass on. Jack Sharpe, nothing daunted, walked cheerfully beside him.

“Well, Colonel, how goes the trial?” asked Mr Sharpe, who had managed, notwithstanding his downfall, to preserve the appearance and manners of a gentleman. “You’ll get a verdict, I hope.”

The Colonel inclined his head stiffly.

“Well, I hope so,” said Jack Sharpe. “It was a deuced clever thing, from what I hear of it, and deserves success; and my opinion of the cleverness of the thing will be exactly the same, whether you and Seager get an acquittal or not.” And Mr Sharpe looked as if he expected to find Bagot highly gratified by his approbation.

“Do you presume, for a moment, to insinuate a doubt of my innocence of the charge?” asked Bagot sternly.

“Oh, certainly not,” returned Jack Sharpe, with a laugh. “Quite right to carry it high, Colonel. Nothing like putting a good face on it.”

“Sir,” said Bagot, increasing his pace, “your remarks are offensive.”

“I didn’t mean them to be so,” answered the other. “But you’re quite right to carry it off this way. You’ve come into a good property, I hear, and that will keep you fair with the world, however this trial, or a dozen other such, might go. Some people have the devil’s own luck. Yes, Colonel, you’ll pull through it—you’ll never fall among thieves. It’s only the poor devils,” added Jack Sharpe bitterly, “that get pitched into and kicked into outer darkness.”

Bagot was perfectly livid. By this time they had reached a corner of the street, and, stopping short, the Colonel said—

“Oblige me by saying which way your road lies.”

“Well, well, good morning, Colonel. I’m not offended, for, I daresay, I should do the same myself in your place. Politic, Colonel, politic! I wish you good luck and good morning.” And Mr Jack Sharpe took himself off.

This encounter grated on Bagot’s feelings more than any other incident that had occurred to him. To be hailed familiarly as a comrade by a swindler—to be prejudged as one who had forfeited his position in society, and was to retain it only on new and accidental grounds—this sunk deep, and shook that confidence of success which he had hitherto never permitted himself to question.

Just afterwards he met Seager, who came gaily up to ask him how he had got on at the club. Bagot told him something of the unpleasant treatment he had met with, and the disgust and annoyance it had caused him to feel. Seager grinned.

“You’re not hard enough, Lee—you think too much of these things. Now, I’m as hard as a nail. I meet with exactly the same treatment as you do, but what do I care for it? It doesn’t hurt me—they can’t put me down,” and Seager smiled at the thought of his own superiority. “What would you do, I wonder, if a thing which just now happened to me were to happen to you? I was looking on at a billiard match, and Crossley, (you know Crossley?) who had been, like the rest of ’em, deuced distant and cool to me, offered to bet on the game. I took him up—he declined. ‘Oh, you back out, do you?’ says I. ‘Not at all,’ says Crossley; ‘but I don’t bet with everybody.’ Now, what would you have done?”

“I should have desired him to apologise instantly,” said the Colonel.

“He’d have refused.”

“I’d have kicked him,” said the Colonel.

“’Twould have caused a row, and we’re quite conspicuous enough already,” said Seager. “No; I turned coolly to him, and says I, ‘Very good; as we’re going to close our accounts, I’ll thank you for that ten-pound note I won from you on the Phœbe match.’ Crossley, you know, is poor and proud, and he looked cursedly disgusted and cut up at this exposure of his shortcomings. I’ll bet, he wishes he’d been civil now. You must take these things coolly. Never mind how they look at you: go back to the club, now, and brave it out—show ’em you don’t care for ’em.”

“No,” muttered Bagot, “I’d die first. I’ll go out no more till ’tis over.”

In this resolution he shut himself up in his lodgings, only going out in the dusk to walk in such thoroughfares as were not likely to be frequented by any of his acquaintances. Never had a week passed so dismally with him as this. His nerves were yet unstrung by his late attack, and his anxiety was augmented as the day of the trial approached, until he wondered how he could endure it. In spite of his efforts, his thoughts were impelled into tracks the most repugnant to him. The remembrance of his reception by the members of his club haunted him incessantly, though it was what most of all he wished to forget; for Bagot, being, as we have seen him, a weak-principled man of social habits, though he had found no difficulty in quieting his own conscience, was keenly alive to the horrors of disgrace.

He felt as he remembered to have often felt when a great race was approaching, which was to make or mar him—only the interest now was more painfully strong than ever before. There was an event of some sort in store—why could he not divine it?—ah, if he were only as wise now as he would be this day week, what anxiety would be saved him! He only dared contemplate the possibility of one result—an acquittal. That would lift the weight from his breast and reopen life to him. But a conviction!—that he dared not think of—for that contingency he made no provision.

During this week Harry Noble had come up from the Heronry on some business connected with the stable there, in which the Colonel had been interested; and Bagot, conceiving he might be useful in matters in which he did not choose to trust his own servant Wilson, had desired him to remain in town for the present. This Seager was glad of, for he knew Harry was to be trusted, and he told him in a few words the nature of the predicament the Colonel was in.

“You must have an eye to him,” said Seager; “don’t let him drink much, if you can help it; and if it should be necessary for him to make a trip to France for a time, you must go with him.”

“I’ll go with him to the world’s end, Mr Seager,” said Harry. He was much attached to the Colonel, having known him since the time when Noble, as a boy, entered the Heronry stables; and though he had then, like the other stable-boys, found Bagot very severe and exacting, yet, having once proved himself a careful and trustworthy servant and excellent groom, the Colonel had honoured him since with a good deal of his confidence.

Harry had the more readily agreed to this since, when leaving the Heronry, he had parted in great wrath from Miss Fillett, who had found time in the midst of her religious zeal to harrow up Noble’s soul with fresh jealousies, and to flirt demurely, but effectually, with many brethren who frequented the same chapel.

The day before the trial Seager came, and Bagot prevailed on him to stay and dine, and play écarte. Seager was sanguine of the result of the trial, which was to commence on the morrow, in the Court of Queen’s Bench—spoke in assured terms of the excellence of their case, their counsel, and their witnesses; and telling him to keep up his spirits, wished him good night, promising to bring him back the earliest intelligence of how the day had gone.

The Colonel’s eagerness for, and terror of, the result had now worked him into a state of agitation little short of frenzy. The trial was expected to last two days, but the first would probably show him how the case was likely to terminate. Both Bagot and Seager preferred forfeiting their recognisances to surrendering to take their trial, which would have shut out all hope of escape in the event of an adverse verdict.

Finding it impossible to sit still while in this state, the Colonel started for a long walk, resolving to return at the hour at which Seager might be expected. Arriving a few minutes later than he intended, he went up-stairs to his sitting-room, but started back on seeing a person whom he did not recognise there. His first impression was, that it was a man come to arrest him.

His visitor, on seeing his consternation, gave a loud laugh. It was Mr Seager.

“Gad, Lee,” said that worthy, “it must be well done, if it takes you in. I was in court all day, and sat next a couple of our set, but they hadn’t an idea who I was.”

Mr Seager was certainly well disguised, and it was no wonder the Colonel had not recognised him. Low on his forehead came a black wig, and whiskers of the same met under his chin. He had a mustache also; his coat was blue, his waistcoat gorgeous, with two or three chains, evidently plated, meandering over it, and his trousers were of a large and brilliant check. In his elaborate shirt-front appeared several studs, like little watches, and his neck was enveloped in a black satin stock with gold flowers and a great pin.

“What d’ye think, Lee—don’t I look the nobby Israelite, eh?”

Bagot shortly admitted the excellence of his disguise, and then asked, “What news?—is it over?”

“Only the prosecution—that’s finished,” returned the metamorphosed Seager.

“Well,” said Bagot breathlessly, “and how—how did it go?”

“Sit down,” said Seager; “give me a cigar, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Nothing could be more strongly contrasted than the anxiety of Bagot with the composure of Seager. No one would have imagined them to be both equally concerned in the proceedings that the latter now proceeded to relate; while Bagot glared at him, gnawing his nails and breathing hard.

“The court,” said Seager, throwing himself back in the chair after he had lit his cigar, with his hands in his trousers’ pockets, and his feet stretched to the fire—“the court was crowded. Sloperton’s counsel opened the ball by giving a sketch of the whole affair—little personal histories of you and me and Sloperton, the sort of things that might be prefixed to our poetical works after we’re dead—you know the style of thing, Lee, birth, parentage, breeding, so forth. Then came out Sloperton’s meeting with us at the Bush at Doddington—the adjournment to Oates’s room—the broiled bones, cards, and betting, and the terms of the wager with Sloperton.

“Our friend Sloper was the first witness, and had got himself up a most awful swell, as you may suppose, on such a grand occasion, and there wasn’t a young lady in court who didn’t sympathise with him. I could see by his way of giving evidence he was as vindictive as the devil. Our fellows went at him, but they didn’t damage his evidence much. He told about the bet—how, by your advice, he had sent to me to offer to compromise it—and how he had perfectly depended all was fair till he heard the mare was lame. Oates followed, and corroborated the whole story. Then came one of the vets who attended the mare, and he swore, in his opinion, she’d got navicular disease. Then came a new actor” (Bagot listened more eagerly than ever), “one Mr Chick, who saw us return to the stable that morning we gave Goshawk the trial; and he swore the mare was lame then.”

Bagot drew a long breath, and fell back in his chair.

“Against all this,” Seager went on, “we’ve got to-morrow the evidence of Jim, who’ll swear the mare never was lame while in his charge, and of the other vet, who’ll swear she was and is sound. So cheer up, old boy; it may go all right yet. Never say die.”

Seager paused, and looked at Bagot, who had covered his face with his hands. Both were silent for a space.

“By the by,” said Seager presently, in an indifferent tone, yet eyeing Bagot with a keenness that showed his interest in the question—“by the by, where’s Lady Lee now?”

Bagot did not answer, and Seager repeated the question.

“What’s Lady Lee to you, sir?” said Bagot, removing his hands from his face, the colour of which was very livid.

“O, nothing particular; but she might be something to you, you know, in case of the business going against us to-morrow. You said she had left the Heronry, didn’t you?”

Bagot did not reply.

“It’s no use blinking the matter,” said Seager testily. “Things may go against us to-morrow, in which case I’m off, and so are you, I suppose. I’ve made all my arrangements; but I think we had better take different roads, and appoint a place to meet on the Continent. But I’m short of money for a long trip, and, of course, you’ll accommodate me. We row in the same boat, you know. Come, what will you come down with?”

“Not a penny,” said Bagot in a low thick voice.

“Eh! what?” said Seager, looking up at him.

“Not a penny,” said Bagot, raising his voice. “You devil,” he cried, starting from his chair, “don’t you know you’ve ruined me?” and, seizing the astonished Seager by the throat, he shook him violently.

“You cursed old lunatic!” cried Seager, as soon as he had struggled himself free from Bagot’s grasp. “You’re mad, you old fool. Only raise a finger again, and I’ll brain you with the poker. What d’ye mean, ha? We must talk about this, and you shall apologise, or give me satisfaction.”

“What, an affair of honour, eh?” sneered Bagot between his ground teeth. “Between two gentlemen! That sounds better than convicted swindlers. Curse you,” he added, in a hoarse whisper, “you’ve been my destruction.”

“He’s dangerous,” thought Seager, as he looked at him. “Come, Lee,” said he, “listen to reason; lend me a supply, and we’ll say no more about this queer behaviour. I know you’ve been drinking.”

“You have my answer, sir,” said Bagot. “Not a penny, I repeat. I wish you may starve—rot in a jail.”

Seager looked at him keenly for a minute. “He’s been at the brandy bottle,” he thought. “Well, let him drink himself mad or dead, if he likes. But, no!—that won’t do either—he may be useful yet. The old fool!” he muttered as he departed, “he doesn’t know how far he has let me into his secrets. Well, he’ll change his note, perhaps;” so saying, he left the room and the house.

Disguised as before, Seager went to Westminster next day, to hear the conclusion of the trial. The court was, as on the previous day, crowded to excess, and Seager recognised a great number of his and Bagot’s acquaintances among the spectators.

The counsel for the defendants made an able address to the jury. The prosecutor, he said, had tried to win Seager’s money, as Seager had tried to win his; and, nettled at finding he had made a rash bet, he now brought the action. The defendants were men of reputation, who had been engaged in many betting transactions before, and always without blemish or suspicion. There was no proof that the mare was unfit for the feat she had been backed to perform; and, if she had attempted it, she could have done it with ease.

After calling several witnesses to speak to minor points, the other veterinary surgeon who had attended the mare was put in the box. He swore the mare’s lameness was trifling and temporary; that he had seen her trot, and believed her certain to win such a match as the one in question; and that he had not detected in her any trace of navicular disease.

This witness having sustained a severe cross-examination unshaken, Mr Seager began to breathe more freely. The last witness was Jim the groom. Jim, though very compliant in respect of any evidence he might be required to give, had obstinately insisted on payment beforehand. It was to no purpose Seager had promised him the money the instant he should come out of court; the cautious Jim was inflexible till the stipulated sum was put in his hands.

Seager watched him as he was being sworn with the greatest attention; but Jim’s was not an expressive countenance, and nothing was to be read there. But Mr Seager detected treachery in his manner the moment the examination began. Without attempting to repeat the lesson he had been taught, he prevaricated so much that the counsel for the defendants, finding he was more likely to damage than to assist his clients, abruptly sat down. In the cross-examination he suffered (though with some appearance of unwillingness) the whole truth to be elicited; admitted the mare’s lameness—remembered the Colonel and his master trying her, and finding her lame—(an incident he had been especially desired to erase from his memory)—and also remembered to have heard them talk about “navicular.” He also recollected that Seager cautioned him to keep the circumstance very quiet.

Seager sat grinding his teeth with rage. He had forgotten the incident of the horse-whipping which he had administered to Jim, though the latter had not, and was therefore at a loss to account for his treachery. Jim’s revenge happening to coincide with his duty, he had no sooner pocketed the reward for his intended perjury, than he resolved to pursue the paths of rectitude, and to speak the truth.

Just at this time Seager caught sight of one he knew standing very near him, and listening as eagerly as himself. This was Harry Noble, who had been there also on the previous day, and who, firmly convinced that his master was wrongfully accused, had heard the evidence of the groom Jim with high indignation, and was now burning to defy that perjured slanderer to abide the ordeal of single combat. Seager, writing a few words on a slip of paper, made his way up to Harry, and pulled his sleeve. Noble turned round and stared at him, without any sign of recognition.

“Look another way,” said Seager, “and listen. ’Tis me—and I want you to run with this note to the Colonel.”

“What! are you Mr Sea——?” began Harry; but Seager squeezed his arm.

“Hush!” he said. “I don’t want to be known; and don’t mention to anybody but the Colonel that you’ve seen me. Take this note to him; he’ll start for France as soon as he gets it, and you must get him away with all the speed you can. Don’t delay a minute.”

Noble nodded and quitted the court. He got a cab, and went with all speed to Bagot’s lodgings, and, telling the cabman to wait, immediately ran up-stairs with the note. The Colonel, who was pacing the room, snatched it eagerly, read it, and let it fall, sinking back into a chair quite collapsed. “It’s all over,” he muttered.

Noble stood near, looking at him in respectful silence for a minute or two. At length he ventured to say, “Shall I begin to pack up, sir? Mr Seager said we must be quick.”

“Don’t name him!” thundered Bagot, starting from his chair. “Curse him! I could tear him!”

“I’ll never believe ’twas you as did the trick, sir,” said Noble. “No more won’t anybody else; though, as for Mr Seager, I couldn’t say. Shall I begin to pack up, sir?” he repeated.

“Do what you please,” returned his master in fierce abstraction.

Noble, thus empowered, entered the bedroom, and began to stow Bagot’s clothes away in his portmanteau. Presently he came to the door of the apartment, where the Colonel had again sunk down in his chair. Bagot was now face to face with the event he had so dreaded; no subterfuge could keep it off any longer—no side look rid him of its presence. He would, in a few hours, be a convicted, as he was already a disgraced, man. The averted looks—the whispers—the cold stares of former friends, that had lately driven him almost mad, were now to be his for life. Life! would he bear it? It had no further hope, promise, or charm for him, and he was resolved to be rid of it and dishonour together.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said Noble at length, seeing that Bagot took no notice of him. “Perhaps you’d wish to let my lady know where we’re gone, sir?”

Bagot started, and seemed to think for a minute. As soon as Noble, after delivering his suggestion, had vanished, the Colonel drew his chair to the table, and began to write, while Harry, in the next room, went on with the packing.

He finished his letter, directed and sealed it, and laid it down, muttering, “Thank God there’s one act of justice done.” Then he went to a cupboard in the apartment, filled a large glass of brandy, and drank it off. “Now,” he muttered, “one moment’s firmness! no delay! Leave that room,” he called out to Noble, as he went towards the bedroom—“there’s something I wish to pack up myself.”

Noble accordingly came out. As he passed the Colonel, he noticed a wildness in his expression. Before entering the bedroom the Colonel turned and said, “Let that letter be sent to-day,” pointing to the one he had just written, “and you can go down stairs for the present,” he added.

Noble’s suspicions were aroused. Having got as far as the door, he pretended to shut himself out, and came softly back. Listening for a moment, he heard Bagot open some sort of case that creaked. Presently he peeped in—Bagot was in the very act of fumbling, with trembling hands, at the lock of a pistol. He was just raising it towards his head when Noble, with a shout, rushed in and caught his arm.

“Don’t ye, sir, don’t ye, for God’s sake!” he said, as Bagot turned his face with a bewildered stare towards him. “Give it to me, sir.”

“Leave me, sir,” said Bagot, still looking wildly at him—“leave me to wipe out my dishonour.” He struggled for a moment to retain the pistol, but Noble wrested it from him, took off the cap, and returned it to its case. The Colonel sunk down moaning on the bed, and covered his face with his hands.

Noble hastily fastened the portmanteau and carpet-bag, and called to Wilson to help to take them down to the cab in which he had come, and which waited at the door.

“Now, sir,” he whispered to Bagot, “don’t take on so—we shall be safe to-night. You won’t think of doing yourself a mischief, sir, will you? don’t ye, sir!”

He took him gently by the arm. The poor Colonel, with his nerves all unstrung, rose mechanically, and stood like a child while Noble put on his hat and wiped his face, which was moist with sweat and tears; then he followed him down stairs unresistingly. Noble whispered to Wilson at the door, that he and the Colonel were going away for a time, and that there was a letter on the table to be sent that night to the post. Then he put the Colonel and the luggage into the cab, mounted himself to the box, and they drove off, Harry frequently turning to look at his master through the front glass.

Meantime Seager sat hearing the close of the defence. The judge summed up, leaving it to the jury to say whether the defendants knew of the mare’s unfitness to perform her engagement at the time they persuaded the plaintiff to pay a sum in compromise. The jury, after a short deliberation, found them both guilty of fraud and conspiracy.

There was some technical objection put in by the defendants’ counsel; but this being overruled, the judge proceeded to pass sentence. He was grieved to find men of the defendants’ position in society in such a discreditable situation. No one who had heard the evidence could doubt they had conspired to defraud the prosecutor of his money. He did not know whether he was justified in refraining from inflicting the highest punishment allotted to their offence, but, perhaps, the ends of justice might be answered by the lesser penalty. The sentence was, that the defendants should be imprisoned for two years.

Seager, seeing how the case was latterly going, was quite prepared for this. Just waiting to hear the close of the judge’s address, he got out of court with all possible speed.

He went to his lodgings, changed his dress, and hurried to Bagot’s. There he met Wilson with a letter in his hand which he was about to take to the post. Seager glanced at the direction, and then averting his eye, “That’s for Lady Lee,” he said—“from the Colonel, is it not?” Wilson said it was.

“Ah,” said Seager, “I just met him, and he asked me to call for it—he wants to add something he forgot, before ’tis posted. Give it me.”

Wilson, supposing it was all right, gave it to him. Mr Seager, chuckling over the dexterity with which he had obtained the letter, and thus more than accomplished the design of his visit to Bagot’s lodgings, which was to get Lady Lee’s address, drove off to his own lodgings, reassumed his disguise, and went straight to the station.

Entering the railway office, he shrunk aside into a corner till the train should be ready to start—he wished to leave as few traces as possible behind him. He was quite unencumbered with baggage, having taken the precaution to send that on to Dover to await him there under a feigned name. As he stood aside in the shade a man passed and looked narrowly at him. Seager thought he recognised his face: again he passed, and Seager this time knew him for a police sergeant in plain clothes. He was rather alarmed, yet he was a little reassured by considering that his disguise was a safe one. But he reflected that it might have caused him to be taken for some other culprit, and it would be as awkward to be arrested as the wrong man, as in his own character.

The last moment before the starting of the train was at hand, and Seager, as the police sergeant turned upon his walk, darted stealthily to the check-taker’s box and demanded a ticket, not for Frewenham, but for the station beyond it—for his habitual craft did not fail him. Having secured it, he hastened on to the platform and took his place.

At the moment he took his ticket, the sergeant, missing him, turned and saw him. Instantly he went to the box and asked where that last gentleman took his ticket for, and, on being told, took one for the same place. The bell had rung, and he hastened out, but he was too late. The train was already in motion; the last object he caught sight of was Seager’s head thrust out of one of the carriages; and the baffled policeman turned back to wait for the next train.

Fane had spent some time in diligent pursuit of Onslow; at first with no great promise of success, but latterly with some certainty of being upon his track. Just, however, as his hopes of securing him were strongest, he had received a letter which had been following him for some time from town to town, summoning him to attend the sick-bed of his uncle, who had been attacked with sudden and dangerous illness.

Of course he set off at once, as in duty bound; but he was surprised and ashamed, knowing the obligations he lay under to his relative, to notice how little anxiety and pain the news occasioned him. Fane was very honest in analysing his own emotions, and on the present occasion laid more blame to the account of his own nature, which he accused of unsympathising callousness, than it by any means deserved. He would have done as much to serve a friend, and was capable of as warm attachment, as most people, but his feelings required a congenial nature to call them forth. He was not one of those who wear their hearts on their sleeve for any daw to peck at, and had none of that incontinence of affability which insures a man so many acquaintances and so few friends. Had he been Lear’s eldest son, he would, to a certainty, have been disinherited, along with Cordelia, in favour of those gay deceivers, Goneril and Regan.

Now, Mr Levitt his uncle, though naturally amiable, was an undemonstrative character, full of good impulses which terribly embarrassed him. He would read a poem or romance with the keenest enjoyment, yet with affected contempt, turning up his nose and screwing down the corners of his mouth, while his eyes were watering and his heart beating. He would offer two fingers to a parting friend, nod good-by to him slightly, and turn away, feeling as if a shadow had come upon his world. He had been used to write to his nephews in the spirit of a Roman or Spartan uncle, giving them stern advice, and sending them the most liberal remittances, in the most ungracious manner—throwing checks at their heads, as it were—while all the time he was yearning for their presence. In fact, he was so ashamed of his best points, and so anxious to conceal them, that the rigid mask wherewith he hid his virtues had become habitual, and he was a very sheep in wolf’s clothing.

Those, however, who had known him long, rated him at his true value. Fane found the household in great grief. Miss Betsey, an ancient housekeeper, distinguished principally by strong fidelity to the family interests, a passion for gin-and-water, and a most extraordinary cap, wrung her hands with great decorum; and Mr Payne the banker, Orelia’s father, at the first news of his old friend’s illness, had left a great money transaction unfinished to rush to his bedside, where Fane found him on his arrival. Indeed, it was from him he had received intelligence of his uncle’s illness.

Mr Payne’s temperament had suffered foul wrong when they made him a banker. He had naturally an intense dislike to matters of calculation, his bent being towards belles lettres, foreign travel, and the like pleasant paths. Somehow or other he had got rich, and flourished in spite of his want of talent for money-making. His worldly pursuits, perhaps, made his tastes keener, for he fell upon all manner of light reading with wonderful zest after a busy day at the bank. As for his taste for travelling, it was whispered among his acquaintances that its development was not so much owing to an erratic and inquiring spirit, as to the fact that in the second Mrs Payne he had caught a Tartar, and availed himself of any plausible excuse to escape from her domestic tyranny. Orelia, coming home from school one vacation, and finding her stepmother in full exercise of authority, not only, as a matter of course, rebelled herself, but tried to stir up her father to join in the mutiny. Finding him averse to open war, she proclaimed her intention forthwith of quitting the paternal mansion, and living in the house which had become hers by the death of her godmother, as before related; and Mr Payne, coming down on Saturdays after the bank was closed, would spend one-half of his weekly visit in lamenting the ill-temper of his spouse, and the other in his favourite studies.

Fane found his uncle slowly recovering from the effects of the attack which had prostrated him, and by no means secure from a relapse. Mr Levitt caught the sound of his step on the stair, and recognised it; and Mr Payne, seated by the bedside, saw the invalid glance eagerly at the door. Nevertheless, he received his nephew almost coldly, though the latter testified warm interest in his state.

“You’ve been some time finding me out, Durham,” said his uncle, after shortly answering his inquiries. “I’m afraid you’ve been summoned to this uninteresting scene from some more agreeable pursuit.”

“It was an important one, at any rate, sir,” returned Fane; “yet even that did not prevent me hastening hither the moment Mr Payne’s letter reached me. I only got it this morning.”

“An important one, hey, Durham!” said Mr Levitt, with the cynical air under which he was accustomed to veil his interest in his nephew’s proceedings. “We may judge of its importance, Payne, by his hurrying away from it to look after the ailments of a stupid old fellow like me. Some nonsense, I’ll be bound.”

Mr Payne, a bald benevolent man of fifty, in spectacles, came round the bed to shake Fane’s hand.

“Without the pleasure of knowing the Captain, I’ll answer for his holding you in due consideration,” said Mr Payne. “And your uncle knows that, too; he’s only joking,” he said to Fane.

“Well, but the important business, Durham?” said the invalid, as Fane seated himself beside his pillow.

Fane, remembering that his cousin’s was a prohibited name, and fearing the effect it might produce, attempted to laugh off the inquiry.

“Love!” said Mr Levitt, with another cynical glance at Mr Payne, who had resumed his station at the other side of the bed. “A charmer for fifty pounds; why, I grow quite curious—don’t you, Payne? It’s exactly what you suggested as the cause of his delay. Come, let’s hear about her—begin with the eyes—that’s the rule, isn’t it?”

“Wrong, sir, quite wrong,” said Fane, with another disclaiming laugh.

“Poor, bashful fellow!” persisted his uncle. “But we won’t spare his blushes, Payne. And how far did you pursue the nymph, Durham?—and why did she fly you? Is she at length propitious? I hope so!—you know my wishes.”

“There’s no lady in the case, sir, I assure you,” said Fane earnestly.

“Ah! it’s always the way with your sensitive lovers,” pursued his questioner, addressing Mr Payne. “They’re as shy of the subject which occupies their thoughts as if they didn’t like it. Come, if you’re afraid to speak out before my friend Payne (though I’m sure you needn’t be—he’s discretion itself), he’ll go away, I daresay. What is she like? and when is it to be?”

“When is what to be, sir?” asked Fane, trying to humour the old gentleman, but getting impatient, nevertheless.

“Why, the wedding, of course. Seriously, Durham, I’m all impatience. Your last letter seemed to point at something of the kind; and it was written long enough ago to have settled half-a-dozen love affairs since. I’m more earnest than ever on the subject, now that my admonitions seem likely to be cut short; and this matrimony question may affect the dispositions of my will, Durham.”

“Consider it settled, then, I beg, sir,” said Fane seriously. “I shall never marry.”

“I shall be sorry to find you serious, Durham. A bachelor’s life is but a dreary one. Just look at the difference between me and my friend Payne—he is rosy and happy, and, if he were lying here, he would have quite a family meeting assembled round him—while I should be alone, but for a nephew who has no great reason to care about me, and a friend whose good-nature brings him to see what may, perhaps, be the last of an old acquaintance. My opinions on the subject I’ve so often spoken to you of, haven’t changed, you see, in the least—and perhaps I shall act upon them.”

“As you please, sir,” said Fane. “I speak my deliberate thought when I say I don’t intend to marry.”

Here Miss Betsey tapt at the door, to say that Mr Durham’s supper was ready.

“Go down with him, Payne,” said Mr Levitt. “I’ll go on with this story here—a silly thing; but sick people mustn’t be too critical.”

“An excellent novel!” exclaimed Mr Payne—“full of feeling.”

“Ay, ay, well enough for that kind of trumpery,” said the invalid, who was secretly burning to know how the hero and heroine were to be brought together through such a sea of difficulties; and his friend and his nephew, after making a few arrangements for his comfort, went down stairs together.

Fane dismissed the servant who waited at table. He wished to open what he intended to be, and what proved, a very interesting conversation.

“You’re a very old friend of my uncle’s, Mr Payne,” he said. “I’ve so often heard him speak of you, that I seem almost familiar with you, though this is our first meeting.”

“A school friendship,” said Mr Payne; “and it has continued unbroken ever since.”

“I will tell you,” said Fane, “what the pursuit was I was really engaged in, and you will perceive I could not mention it to my uncle. The fact is, I believe I was on the point of discovering my cousin Langley.”

Mr Payne dropt his knife and fork, and leant back in his chair. “You don’t say so!” cried he. “Poor Langley—poor, poor Langley!”

Fane told the grounds he had for suspecting Langley and the ex-dragoon Onslow to be one and the same person.

“Following some faint traces,” said Fane, “I reached a town where, exposed for sale in a shop window, I saw some drawings which I recognised for his. You know his gift that way.”

“Ay, a first-rate draughtsman, poor fellow,” said Mr Payne.

“He had sold these for a trifle far below their value, and, as I found, had left the town only the day before. I therefore felt secure of him when your letter diverted me from the pursuit.”

“Poor Langley!” repeated the sympathetic Mr Payne. “Such a clever fellow! Draw, sir! he had the making of half-a-dozen academicians in him—and ride!—but you’ve seen him ride, of course. And such an actor!—nothing like him off the London boards, and not many on them equal to him, in my opinion. And to end that way, I don’t know if I should like to see him again.”

“You can perhaps enlighten me on a point I’ve long been curious about,” said Fane. “I mean the real cause of my uncle’s displeasure towards him—the extravagance attributed to Langley doesn’t sufficiently account for it.”

“No,” said Mr Payne, “your uncle would have forgiven that readily enough. He pretended, as his way is, to be angrier at it than he was. But the real cause of estrangement was more serious.

“Your uncle finding, by his frequent applications for money, that accounts which had reached him of Langley’s gambling were but too true, at length replied to a request for a hundred pounds by enclosing a check to that amount, at the same time saying it was the last he must expect, and expressing his displeasure very harshly. The check was brought to our bank the next day, and it was not till after it had been cashed that it was suspected that the original amount, both in words and figures, had been altered. Four hundred pounds it now stood, and that sum had been paid on it. The 1 had easily been made into a 4, and the words altered to correspond—neatly enough, but not so like your uncle’s as to pass with a close scrutiny. While we were examining it, your uncle came in, his anxiety on Langley’s account having brought him to town. He took the check, looked at it, and then drew me aside. ‘’Tis forged,’ said he; ‘mine was for a hundred: but not a word of this, Payne—let it pass as regular—tell the clerks ’tis all right.’ This was a terrible blow to him. From that day to this we have heard nothing of Langley, nor does your uncle ever mention his name; and no one but an intimate friend like me would guess how much he felt the dishonour.”

“But Langley must have known ’twould be discovered immediately,” said Fane, who listened with deep attention.

“Ay—but meantime his end was answered. The money was paid, and he doubtless calculated that your uncle would rather lose the sum than suffer the disgrace of exposure—and he was right.”

“I can’t believe him guilty,” said Fane.

“He must have been severely tempted, poor boy,” said Mr Payne—“always so open and upright; but there can, I’m afraid, be no doubt of his guilt. Consider, he has never showed his face since.”

Fane thought for a minute or two. “No,” he said—“no, not guilty, I hope and believe. No guilty man could have borne himself as he has done since. But there is now more reason than ever for resuming my search for him. Yes, yes—I must see and question him myself.”

“Where do you believe him to be?” asked Mr Payne.

“I traced him to Frewenham, in ——shire,” answered Fane.

“Frewenham! God bless me! Why, my daughter’s place, Larches, is close to that. I’m going down there in a day or two to see Orelia.”

“Orelia!” exclaimed Fane; “then Miss Payne is your daughter.”

“Oh, you have met, then, perhaps?” said Mr Payne, with interest; “where and when?”

“At the Heronry,” said Fane. “My troop is at Doddington, the town nearest to where Miss Payne was staying.”

“Oh, ho! this is fortunate,” said Mr Payne. “As soon as your uncle gets better, we will go down together to Frewenham. My friend Levitt,” he resumed presently, “is, I see, much disappointed to find his surmises as to your matrimonial prospects incorrect. He had set his heart on their fulfilment; and some expressions of admiration for some lady, in a late letter of yours, prepared him to expect something of the kind.”

Fane coloured deeply. He remembered, indeed, that, writing to his uncle one evening, after a delightful afternoon passed with Lady Lee, he had suffered his admiration to overflow in expressions which, though they seemed to him slight compared with the merits of the subject, were yet, perhaps, sufficiently warm to warrant his uncle’s inferences. It was some comfort to remember that he had not mentioned her name in this premature effusion.

“My uncle seems to have quite a monomania on the subject of my becoming a Benedict,” he said presently, by way of breaking an awkward silence. “His doctrine would have seemed more consistent had he inculcated it by example as well as by precept. One doesn’t often see a more determined bachelor.”

“A love affair was the turning-point of your uncle’s life,” said Mr Payne. “He knows and feels that a different, and how much happier man he might have been, but for an early disappointment, and that makes him so desirous to see you comfortably established.”

“Now, do you know,” said Fane, “I can’t, by any effort of imagination, fancy my uncle in love. His proposals, if he ever reached that point, must have been conveyed in an epigram.”

“Your uncle is a good deal changed, in every respect, within the last few years, especially since that sad business of poor Langley,” said Mr Payne; “but I scarcely recognise in him now my old (or rather, I should say, my young) friend Levitt. However, you may take my word for it, Captain Durham, that your uncle knew what it was, some five-and-twenty years ago, to be desperately in love. He seemed, too, to be progressing favourably with the object of his affections, till a gay young captain in the Guards turned her head with his attentions—Captain, afterwards Colonel Lee.”

“What! Bagot!” said Fane.

“Ah, you know him, then,” said Mr Payne; “then you also know it was no great alleviation to your uncle’s disappointment to find a man like Colonel Lee preferred to him. Lee, it seems, had no serious intentions, and jilted her—and your uncle disdained to renew his suit.”

This account seemed to Fane to throw a good deal of light upon parts of his uncle’s character which he had hitherto been unable to fathom.

“Yes,” resumed Mr Payne, “yes; your uncle is a great advocate for marriage, and certainly ’tis all very well in its way, though, perhaps,” he added dubiously, in an under tone, to himself—“perhaps it may be done once too often.”

Here Mr Payne left Durham while he went up-stairs to visit his sick friend, and presently returned to say he had found him asleep, and thought he had better not be disturbed again. Shortly afterwards, finding Durham more disposed to ruminate over what he had heard than to converse, he bid him good night, and went to bed.

Fane’s meditations were interrupted by Miss Betsey, who came in, not altogether free from an odour of gin-and-water, to express her gratification at seeing him well. Miss Betsey was a thin old lady, with an unsteady eye, and a nose streaked with little veins, like a schoolboy’s marble. She wore on her head the most wonderful structure, in the shape of a cap, ever seen. It was a kind of tower of muslin, consisting of several stories ornamented with ribbons, and was fastened under her chin with a broad band like a helmet. Her aged arms protruded through her sleeves, which were tight as far as the elbow, and sloped out wider till they terminated half-way to her wrist, where a pair of black mittens commenced.

“Your dear uncle’s been bad, indeed,” said Miss Betsey, taking a pinch of snuff. “I a’most thought we should have lost him, Mr Durham; but he’s better now, poor dear. But there’s no knowing what might happen yet,” said Miss Betsey, shaking her head; “and I’ve had a thought concerning you, and him, and another, Mr Durham.” Here Miss Betsey closed her snuff-box—which was round, black, and shining, and held about a quarter of a pound of princes’ mixture—and, putting it in her ample pocket, laid the hand not occupied with snuff on Fane’s shoulder with amiable frankness, which gin-and-water generates in old ladies. “Mr Durham, your dear uncle’s never forgot your cousin, Master Langley—and ’twould be a grievious thing if he was to leave us” (a mild form of hinting at Mr Levitt’s decease) “without forgiving him. Couldn’t you put in a word, Mr Durham, for your dear cousin?”

“The very thing I intend, Miss Betsey,” returned Fane, “as soon as it can be done effectually.”

“Ah, Mr Durham,” the old lady went on, waxing more confidential, “your dear uncle’s fond of you, and well he may be, but you’re not to him what Master Langley was;—no,” repeated the old lady, shaking her forefinger, and looking sideways at him, “not what Master Langley was; and your dear uncle’s never been like the same man since that poor dear boy left us.”

“You seem to be quite as fond of him as my uncle ever could have been, Miss Betsey,” Fane remarked.

“Fond!” said Miss Betsey, “who wasn’t? He had that coaxing way with him that he could”—she completed the sentence by flourishing her forefinger in the air, as if turning an imaginary person round it. “Everybody was fond of him;—the maids (the pretty ones in particular) was a’most too fond of him—so much so, that it rather interfered with their work.”

Fane’s smile at this proof of his cousin’s irresistibility called forth a playful tap on the shoulder from the old virgin, who presently afterwards dived down into her pocket for her snuff-box, and, screwing off the lid, which creaked like the axle of a stage waggon, stimulated her reminiscences with a pinch.

“Well-a-day! your uncle’s never been the same man since. You don’t know, perhaps” (whispering in a tone that fanned Fane’s cheek with a zephyr combined of gin-and-water and princes’ mixture), “that he keeps Master Langley’s room locked up the same as the poor boy last left it, do you? There now, I said so,” giving him a gentle slap on the back, and retreating a pace, as he answered in the negative; “for all you lived here weeks together, on and off, you never knew that. Come with me,” added the old lady; “I’ve got the key, and we’ll go in there together.”

Fane willingly followed her, taking deep interest in all fragments of his cousin’s history. Arriving at the door of a room looking out on the lawn, Miss Betsey stopped, and, after some protracted fumbling at the keyhole, opened it. “Once or twice, when he thought nobody was watching him, I’ve seen your uncle coming out of this door with tears in his blessed eyes,” said she, as she entered, preceding him with the candle.

The rooms were, as Miss Betsey had said, just as their former occupant had left them. The pieces of a fishing-rod, with their bag lying beside them, were scattered on the table, together with hackles, coloured worsteds, peacocks’ herls, and other materials for fly-making. An open book was on the window-seat, and an unfinished sketch in oils stood on an easel.

“There,” said Miss Betsey, holding the candle up to a painting over the mantelpiece, “there you see the dear fellow taking a leap that none of the others would face. Your uncle was so proud of that deed that he got it painted, as you see—and a pretty penny it cost him. There were other likenesses of him here, but your uncle put ’em all away before you came from Indy.”

Fane approached to look at the picture, which set at rest any uncertainty that might remain as to his cousin’s identity with the rough-riding corporal. There was the same handsome face, only younger, and without the mustache. The same gay air and easy seat that distinguished the dragoon Onslow on horseback appeared in the sportsman there represented, who rode a gallant bay at a formidable brook, with a rail on the farther side. The work was highly artistic, being the production of a famous animal-painter.

At this stage of the proceedings Miss Betsey’s feelings seemed to overpower her. She wept copiously, and even hiccupped with emotion; and, setting the candle on the table, abruptly retired.

Fane lingered round the room, looking at the backs of the books, and turning over portfolios of drawings, which would, of themselves, have identified the hand that produced them with Onslow’s, as exhibited in the sketch-book of Orelia. Among these was a coloured drawing of his uncle—a good likeness—and another of the artist himself. Fane, looking at the bold frank lineaments, internally pronounced it impossible that their possessor could have been guilty of the mean and criminal action imputed to him. He pictured to himself, and contrasted his cousin’s condition before he lost his uncle’s favour, with his life as a soldier, and decided it to be contrary to experience that any one could, under such a startling change of circumstances, have behaved so well, had he been conscious of guilt.

After some time spent in these and similar meditations, suggested by the objects around him, he went out and locked the door. Passing the housekeeper’s room, he went in to leave the key. Miss Betsey appeared to have been soothing her emotions with more gin-and-water, for she sat still in her elbow-chair, with her wonderful structure of cap fallen over one eye, in a manner that rather impaired her dignity, while she winked the remaining one at him with a somewhat imbecile smile.

“Come, Miss Betsey,” said Fane, “let me see you to bed.”

Miss Betsey rose, and, taking his offered arm, they proceeded slowly along the passage together. “By Jove,” thought Fane, “if those youngsters, Bruce and Oates, could see me now, what a story they’d make of it!”

“You must make haste and get a wife, Mr Durham,” said Miss Betsey, whose thoughts seemed to be taking a tender hue—“though, to be sure, you’re not such a one for the ladies as Mr Langley was”—and here the old lady commenced the relation of an anecdote, in which a certain housemaid, whom she stigmatised as a hussy, bore a prominent part, but which we will not rescue from the obscurity in which her somewhat indistinct utterance veiled it.

Fane opened the old lady’s bedroom door, and, putting the candle on the table, left her, not without a misgiving that she might possibly set fire to her cap, and consequently to the ceiling. This fear impressed him so much that he went back and removed it from her head, and with it a row of magnificent brown curls, which formed its basis, and, depositing the edifice, not without wonder, on the drawers, he wished her good night, and retreated; but, hearing her door open when he had got half-way along the passage, he looked back, and saw Miss Betsey’s head, deprived of the meretricious advantages of hair, gauze, and ribbon, protruded shiningly into the passage, as she smiled, with the utmost blandness, a supplementary good night.

CORAL RINGS. [5]

Montgomery’s well-known lines in praise of the coral polyps have given these animals a tolerable share of poetical celebrity. Mr Darwin’s ingenious researches have invested them with a degree of importance which elevates them to the rank of a great geological power. These minute creatures are now entitled to a larger share of consideration than the greatest and most skilful of quadrupeds can claim. All the elephants and lions which have been quartered in this world since its creation—all the whales and sharks which have prowled about in its waters—have done much less to affect its physical features, and have left far slighter evidences of their existence, than the zoophytes by whose labours the coral formations have been reared. For the most colossal specimens of industry we are indebted to one of the least promising of animated things. Comparing their humble organisation with that of other tribes, we feel pretty much the same sort of surprise as a man might express were he told that the pyramids and temples of antiquity had not been constructed by Egyptians or Romans, but by a race like the Earthmen of Africa, or by a set of pigmies like the Aztecs now exhibiting in London.

Though the works now before us have been long in the hands of the public, the substance of their contents is far from being generally known. Yet the beauty of the results at which their authors have arrived, and the interest with which they have invested the coral reefs, may well recommend these volumes to universal perusal. While Dana, more than all his predecessors, has illustrated the natural history of the little gelatinous creatures by which the coral is secreted, Darwin has described the growth and consolidation of their labours into lofty and extended reefs, and connected these with the broadest and most striking phenomena of physical geology. The toiling of the minute zoophytes in the production of vast masses of coral rock which wall round whole islands, and stretch their mural barriers across deep and stormy seas, he has shown to be successful only through the conjoined operation of those wonderful physical forces which are now lifting and now lowering large areas of the earth’s surface.

Mr Darwin’s views not only exhibit a charming sample of scientific induction, but carry with them such an air of probability, that the most cautious investigators may subscribe to them without any particular demur. Being the result of very extensive inquiries, and confirmed by collating the peculiarities of many reefs, they are grounded upon a sufficient quantity of data to entitle them to reasonable confidence. We propose, in the present article, to indicate some of the principle steps in the theory which this gentleman has propounded; and that the reader may examine them consecutively, we shall imagine an intelligent voyager visiting the Pacific for the first occasion in his life. As he sails across that noble sheet of water, observing with a philosophic eye every object which presents itself to his view, he suddenly perceives in the midst of the sea a long low range of rock against which the surf is breaking with a tremendous roar. He is told that this is a coral reef; and having read a little respecting these curious productions, he resolves to investigate them carefully, in order to fathom, as far as possible, the mystery of their origin. As he approaches, the spectacle grows more interesting at every step. Trees seem to start up from the bosom of the ocean, and to flourish on a beach which is strewed with glistening sand, and washed by the spray of enormous billows. When sufficiently near to survey the phenomenon as a whole, he perceives that he has before him an extensive ring of stone, set in an expanse of waters, and exhibiting the singular form of an annular island. Launching a boat, and following the curve of the shore for some distance, he finds at length an opening through which he penetrates into the interior of the ring. Once entered, he floats smoothly on a transparent lake of bright green water, which seems to have been walled in from the rest of the ocean, as if it were a preserve for some sort of nautical game, or a retreat for the more delicate class of marine divinities. Its bed is partially covered with pure white sand, but partly also with a gay growth of coral—the stems of this zoophyte branching out like a plant, and exhibiting the most brilliant diversities of colour, so that the floor of the lake glows like a sunken grove. All the hues of the spectrum may be seen gleaming below, whilst fishes scarcely less splendid in their tints glide to and fro in search of food amidst this shrubbery of stone. A fringe of trees, consisting principally of graceful palms, decorates the inner portion of the ring, and when surveyed from the centre of the lagoon, this edging of verdure springing up in the midst of the Pacific presents one of the most picturesque sights the voyager can conceive. Indeed, as he contemplates the tranquil lake within, and listens to the dash of the surf without—as he runs over the features of this beautiful oasis in the wilderness of waters, we may pardon him if he almost expects to be accosted by ocean nymphs or startled mermaids, and indignantly expelled from their private retreat.

The whole structure is so striking, that the most careless observer must feel some little curiosity to ascertain its origin. Our voyager regards it with much the same sort of interest as an intelligent wanderer would display, were he to stumble upon a ring of blocks like those at Abury or Stonehenge in some distant desert. In order to pursue his inquiries systematically, he proceeds to note down the principal characteristics of the scene. The first peculiarity which arrests his consideration, is the circular form which the rock assumes. Though far from constituting a smooth and perfect ring, its outline is sufficiently definite to rivet the attention at once. Then he observes that the outer portion of the annulus scarcely rises above the level of the sea, whilst the inner portion—the bank on which the belt of trees is mounted—is not more than ten or twelve feet in height at the utmost. From this he infers that the agency concerned in the formation of the structure was probably restricted in its upward range. Next he notices that the ring itself—that is, the wall of rock enveloping the lake, though by no means uniform in breadth—is not more, perhaps, than three or four hundred yards across in any part of its extent: this seems to say, that the agency was also restrained by circumstances in its lateral expansion. Again, as he runs his eye along the whole sweep of the reef, he remarks that it is not quite continuous, the ring being broken here and there by openings, through one of which he himself passed into the lagoon. If he then endeavours to estimate the size of the whole formation with its included lake, he may find it in this particular case to be eight or ten miles in circumference. Should he stoop down to examine the material of which the reef is composed, he will discover it to be dead coral rock mixed with sand where it is not washed by the sea; but on breaking off a fragment where it is covered with water, he may observe multitudes of little worms, or curiously shaped polyps, which, incompetent as they seem, are in reality the architects of the pile. But perhaps the most significant circumstance to be noticed is the difference in depth between the internal lagoon and the external ocean. If he takes soundings within the reef, he ascertains that the water is comparatively shallow, the slope of the rock beneath the lake being tolerably gentle, and the depth rarely more than thirty or forty fathoms. Let him cross the ring, however, pushing his way through the belt of trees; and on trying the experiment in the contrary direction, seawards, he finds that the ground shelves downwards gradually under the water, until it reaches a depth of five-and-twenty fathoms, after which it plunges precipitously into the abyss. So abrupt, indeed, does the descent become when this point has been attained, that at the distance of a hundred yards from the reef he cannot reach the bottom of the sea with a line of two hundred fathoms. If, then, our explorer were capable of existing under water for a while, and could be lowered to the bed of the ocean, he would see before him an enormous cone or mound of rock shooting upwards through the liquid to a prodigious height, its summit being hollowed into a kind of cup or shallow basin, the rim of this lofty vase just peering above the level of the waves, and its interior being partially inlaid with a gorgeous and flower-like growth of coral.

Now, without glancing at minor details, it must be admitted that our voyager has stumbled upon a fine physical problem. As the Round Towers of Ireland have constituted one of the most perplexing questions on shore, so these coral towers of the tropics seem to present an equally perplexing mystery for the sea. In the course of his researches, however, he detects a circumstance which appears to be perfectly paradoxical. Climbing the cliff from the bottom of the ocean, he perceives that the creatures which produce the coral cannot exist at any greater depths below the surface than from twenty to five-and-twenty fathoms. Within that limit, upwards, the rock is covered with life; below, it is tenantless and dead. Yet, descending as the structure of coral does to immeasurably greater depths, the question naturally arises—how could the animal ever toil where it cannot even live? How has that part of the edifice, which lies buried in a region where no sunbeam ever pierces, been built by architects whose range of activity is comparatively so restricted?

Brooding over an inquiry, which only adds fuel to his curiosity, he proceeds on his cruise. He has already noted the prominent features of one particular reef, which exhibits a coral construction in its simplest shape—namely, as a ring enclosing a lagoon. He now falls in with specimen after specimen of a similar class, and carefully observes the differences in character they present. In point of shape, he finds that some are oval, others greatly elongated, and many very jagged and irregular in their form. Here is one like a bow, and there another like a horse shoe, whilst none can be said to be geometrically round. In regard to size, he meets with reefs which are a single mile only in diameter, and then with others, which amount to as many as fifty, sixty, or even more. If he compares the various rings, he observes that some are perforated by few openings, and in rare cases there are none—the fissures having apparently been filled up with sand or detritus, so as to form a continuous girdle round the lake. But, in other instances, the reef is so freely intersected by these openings, that the ring itself may be said to consist of a series of small islands arranged upon an extensive curve. In general, however, he perceives that the channels connecting the ocean with the lagoon are confined more especially to that side of the structure which is least exposed to the action of the wind; and as he is sailing within the region of the trade-winds, the portion of the reef which fronts the breeze and the billow perpetually, appears to be more lofty and substantial than the other. Glancing, too, at the bank which carries the fringe of trees, he observes that it never seems to rise higher than a certain level in any case whatever; and as he finds that it consists chiefly of sand and sediment, he concludes that it has been heaped up by the waves themselves. The vegetation, indeed, which frequently gives such a gay and graceful aspect to coral rocks, does not always gladden the eye; but where it is wanting, he infers that the circumstances which favour the dissemination of seeds or the growth of plants, have failed to operate as yet, but may, perhaps, in process of time produce their accustomed effects. Comparing also the depth of the lagoons with that of the surrounding ocean, he ascertains that the striking discrepancy which attracted his attention in the first reef he examined, obtains to a considerable degree in every subsequent instance: however shallow the sea may be within the ring, its depth rapidly increases, and frequently becomes quite unfathomable at no great distance without. Finding, then, that though certain differences exist in the formations he has already inspected, yet certain general features of resemblance invariably prevail, he concludes that all of these structures are due to the operation of a kindred agency. But here there arises another perplexing question. If he must admit—and the admission is inevitable—that the coral polyps have been the builders of these piles, how can he suppose that a number of small animals, each labouring separately, as it were, could erect an immense wall of rock, leagues in circumference, which, though far from regular in its composition, shall yet exhibit any marked approach to a circle, an oval, a horse shoe, or any other symmetrical form? Still more, how could they build, not one, but innumerable reefs, differing in various particulars, but all indicating some common principle of construction? How is he to explain the appearance of co-operation, where, from the nature of the creatures, he cannot imagine any intentional co-operation to exist? A troop of moles working beneath a field will never cast up a succession of hillocks in such a way that they will all combine to form a spacious circle, or any other regular and definite figure. If, therefore, he is compelled to believe that a number of insignificant creatures like the coral polyps are capable of executing such prodigious undertakings, wanting, as they do, the intelligence which enables higher beings to carry out a coherent scheme, he must look for an explanation, not in the instincts of the animals, but in the conditions under which they pursue their toils.

Hitherto, however, our voyager has only encountered reefs of one class—namely, “atolls,” or lagoon islands. He looks anxiously, therefore, in the hope of falling in with a specimen of a different description. He knows that if a process is too slow in its action to admit of direct observation, yet its character may probably be ascertained by comparing several cases where the same agency is employed—that is, by criticising the phenomenon in distinct stages of development. He proceeds on his voyage, and at length is fortunate enough to meet with a coral formation which varies in type from those already inspected. There is the same sort of ring springing hastily from the sea; but instead of an internal lagoon, the central space is occupied by a beautiful and populous island, leaving only a belt of water between the reef and the shore. Where all the elements of such a scene are sufficiently defined, a more charming spectacle can hardly be conceived. The land appears like a pleasant picture framed in coral. Round a group of mountains, forming the nucleus of the isle, there runs a verdant zone of soil—next comes a girdle of tranquil water—then a ring of coral—and last, a band of snowy breakers, where the swell of the ocean is shattered into surf. The island of Tahiti, whose mountains rise to the height of seven thousand feet, and whose greatest breadth is about thirty-six miles, is almost encompassed by a reef of this description. When this spot is approached so as to make the separate objects visible, the appearance becomes quite striking. “Even upon the steep surface of the cliff, vegetation abounds; the belt of low land is covered with the tropical trees peculiar to Polynesia, while the high peaks and wall-faced mountains in the rear are covered with vines and creeping plants. This verdure is seen to rise from a quiet girdle of water, which is again surrounded by a line of breakers dashing in snow-white foam on the encircling reefs of coral.”^[6] Perhaps, however, the descent of the waves upon the ring—curling and chafing like coursers suddenly curbed—constitutes the most magnificent feature of the scene. “The long rolling billows of the Pacific, arrested by this natural barrier, often rise ten, twelve, or fourteen feet above its surface, and then, bending over it, their foaming tops form a graceful liquid arch, glittering in the rays of a tropical sun, as if studded with brilliants; but before the eyes of the spectator can follow the splendid aqueous gallery which they appear to have reared, with loud and hollow roar they fall in magnificent desolation, and spread the gigantic fabric in froth and spray upon the horizontal and gently broken surface of the coral.”^[7]

With a reef like this before him our explorer may now collect some additional data which will help him a few steps onward in his inquiry. The distinction between a formation of this class and those of the former description, consists principally in the substitution of an internal island for a lagoon. Were that island pared away or dug out, a simple lake surrounded by a ring of coral rock would be left. The one structure would pass into the other by the erasure of the central land. But here again he has stumbled over a difficulty apparently as great as any he has previously encountered; for it would be preposterous to suppose that large areas or lofty hills could be readily expunged from the surface of the earth. There is a stage, however—call it rather a pause—in the reasoning process, when the great master of inductive logic recommends that, after having arranged all our available facts, and extracted from them all the inferences they can legitimately supply, we should allow the mind to take a little leap forward, just by way of venture, and see what conclusions it will suggest. In short, we are to send for the imagination, yoke it to the materials we have accumulated, and observe in what direction it will conduct us. Our explorer does this. He sets that faculty to work—with due discretion, however—and in a short time it hints to him that islands may possibly sink down slowly in the ocean by the action of the subterranean forces. And if so, would not that explain everything?

He proceeds, therefore, to inquire how this supposition will work; for there are many conditions which it must satisfy, and many puzzles which it must solve, before its probability can be affirmed. In the first place, the coral polyps, as we have seen, can only operate within a limited depth of water, which has been roughly fixed at twenty or five-and-twenty fathoms. Mr Dana, indeed, considers that sixteen fathoms will perhaps measure the whole extent of the region assigned to the principal artificers. Consequently, when the creatures laid the foundation of any particular reef, they must have done so in shoal water, or in the neighbourhood of land. Next, where a small isle issues from a profound sea, it will in general be tolerably regular in shape; because, with relation to the bed of that sea, it must in reality be a kind of mountain: therefore, as the coral builders find the requisite range of water in the zone which encircles the shore, the reef they form will be tolerably regular too. Hence the circular or curvilinear outline which these structures generally assume. Then, if, after the basement of such a ring has been laid, the land should begin to descend slowly, the polyps must proceed to raise the edifice storey after storey, for thus alone can they keep themselves within the region of vitality; and here we have an explanation of the singular fact, that the reef, where it constitutes a true atoll, or coral-lagoon, usually ascends to the level of the sea. A singular fact we call it; because, if we consider how variable are the heights of any series of mountains on land, the equality of stature which distinguishes these marine elevations is certainly a remarkable result. If it were possible for some great giant to run the palm of his hand along the tops of the Andes or Himalayas, it would describe a very irregular sweep, rising or falling with every peak it visited; but were he to draw it over the summits of a succession of atolls, though these might stretch through a space thousands of miles in length, he would scarcely perceive any difference whatever in point of altitude. It will be seen, therefore, that the uniformity characterising these Alps of the ocean is a circumstance which our explorer’s hypothesis readily solves. But in raising their embankment higher, it is clear that the animals must build up vertically, and hence the abrupt or precipitous face which it presents externally towards the deep water. Landwards, again—that is, within the reef—the pigmy architects will labour more feebly, because it is found that the kind of polyps which exist in smooth still water are more delicate in their productions than their gallant little brethren who flourish amongst the breakers. This serves to explain, again, why there is an interval of fluid left between the rising reef and the sinking shore; but as the land subsides, the space which it occupies within the magic ring will obviously diminish, whilst the space covered by water will proportionately increase. The girdle of coral will not maintain its original dimensions, because the polyps will probably incline inwards, instead of building directly upwards; but the contraction of the ring will proceed slowly, because the wall is invariably steep seawards, even if it should not be altogether precipitous. Finally, when the island is fairly drowned, when we have got its whole body well under water, we shall have an enormous mass of coral raised by successive additions of coral skeletons, and resting upon a basis which may be hundreds of feet below the level of the sea. A zone of rock, constituting the rim of the structure, will just show itself above the waves, whilst within this zone sleeps a shallow lake, where the polyps, for various reasons, have not followed the growth of the ring with equal rapidity, or where the sediment deposited has not accumulated in sufficient quantities to fill up the interior. And when the lake is obliterated, as ultimately it may be, either by the labours of the feebler animals, or by the deposition of detritus from the reef, we shall have the platform of a new country where tropical forests may some day flourish, where towns and villages may hereafter arise, and where man may exhibit the strange and mingled play of virtue and vice, which has marked his footsteps from the first. “The calcareous sand lies undisturbed, and offers, to the seeds of trees and plants cast upon it by the waves, a soil upon which they rapidly grow, to overshadow its dazzling white surface. Entire trunks of trees, which are carried by the rivers from other countries and islands, find here, at length, a resting-place, after many wanderings: with these come some small animals, such as insects and lizards, as the first inhabitants. Even before the trees form a wood, the sea-birds nestle here; stray land-birds take refuge in the bushes; and at a much later period, when the work has been long since completed, man appears, and builds his hut on the fruitful soil.”^[8]

Thus, it will be seen that the supposition of a slow descent of the land appears to meet the prominent requirements of the case; and however startling the assumption might seem when first suggested, yet the pressure of certain conditions, which this theory alone can sustain, renders its adoption almost, if not altogether, inevitable. But, says the explorer, if this hypothesis be correct, it should follow that, as the sinking isle may vary in altitude in different parts—as it may have several peaks or elevated districts—all these higher portions must be left projecting out of the water for some time after the lower lands have been entirely submerged. Accordingly, we may expect to discover coral reefs, containing within their circuit several small islands, the relics of some larger district which has died a watery death. And this is just what frequently occurs. The two isles of Raiatea and Tahaa, for example, are included in one reef. The group known as Gambier’s Islands consists of four large and a few smaller islets encircled by a single ring. The reef of Hogoleu, which is one hundred and thirty-five miles in circuit, contains ten or eleven islands in its spacious lagoon.

So, again, says our explorer, as islands are frequently arranged in clusters, it should follow that, if the areas whereon any of these groups were stationed, have subsided, whole archipelagoes of coral reefs ought to exist. And some of these archipelagoes may be expected to exhibit a series of perfect lagoons, where the land has been fairly submerged; whilst others, where the process is less advanced, or the ground more elevated, ought to present a series of reef-encircled islands merely. Here also the theory is fully corroborated by facts. Low Archipelago is composed of about eighty atolls; and of the thirty-two groups examined by Captain Beechy, twenty-nine then possessed the internal lakes which we have seen are characteristic of this class; the remaining three having passed, as he believed, from the same condition originally to the dignity of closed or consolidated reefs. The Society Archipelago, again, consists of tolerably elevated islands, encircled by coral ledges, and lying in a direction almost parallel to the last.

Indeed, it will be readily imagined that the shape and character of the coral formations must be considerably influenced by the nature of the site upon which they are reared. They will assume different aspects according to the physical configuration of the land to be entombed. They must be interrupted where the water is too deep, or the shore too precipitous to permit the artificers to acquire a proper footing. They will exhibit breaches where the descent of cold streams from the mountain heights, or the presence of mud carried down by rivers, rendered it impracticable for the creatures to pursue their avocations. They may also adopt peculiar forms where the lowering of the ground may not have taken place gradually, or where, from some eccentric action of the subterranean force, one portion may have sunk under different circumstances from the rest. A reef may, therefore, be submerged in part, or, as in some instances, throughout its whole extent. Thus, in the Peros Banhos Atoll, forming a member of the Chagos group in the Indian Ocean, a portion of the ring dips under water for a distance of about nine miles. This sunken segment consists of a wall of dead coral rock, lying at an average depth of five fathoms below the surface, but corresponding in breadth and curve with the exposed reef, of which it is obviously the complement. Or a ring may be wholly submarine. The same group affords, amongst others, an admirable example of this in the Speaker’s Bank, which is described as a well-defined annulus of dead coral, let down into the sea to a depth of six or eight fathoms, with a lagoon twenty-two fathoms deep and twenty-four miles across. It is apparently a drowned atoll. Hence from these, or from other causes, such as the action of the sea, the killing of the zoophytes by exposure or otherwise, we may have several modifications of the model reef.

As yet we have only mentioned two principal types of structure—first, the atolls or coral-lagoons; and, second, the encircling reefs. But we may here refer, in a sentence or two, to a third and an important class—namely, the barrier reefs. These are extensive lines of coral masonry, which pursue their course at a considerable distance from the shore, but with a degree of conformity to its outline, sufficient to prove that some relationship subsists between them. They do not, however, surround an island like the encircling reefs. The West Coast of New Caledonia is armed with a reef of this character, 400 miles in length; but in some parts it is sixteen miles distant from the shore, and seldom approaches it nearer than eight miles in any other quarter. This great ledge of coral rock is, moreover, prolonged for 150 miles at the northern extremity of the island; and then, returning in the form of a loop, and terminating on the opposite shore, seems to intimate that, in ancient days, New Caledonia was of much greater extent in this direction than it is at present. There is a still more magnificent specimen of the barrier reef on the north-east of Australia. This noble coral ridge is a thousand miles in length. Its distance from the coast is generally between twenty and thirty miles, but occasionally as much as seventy. The depth of the sea within the barrier is from ten to twenty-five fathoms, but at the southern extremity it increases to forty, or even sixty. On the other side, without the barrier, the ocean is almost unfathomable. The breadth of this embankment varies from a few hundred yards to a mile, and it is only at distant intervals that it is intersected by channels through which vessels may enter. It is a causeway for giants, and yet the architects were mere polyps!

It is time, however, that our voyager should proceed to verify the supposition his fancy suggested. As yet he has adduced no proof that subsidence is, or has been, the order of the day where its results are supposed to appear. He knows that mountains and islands must not be sunk by a mere assumption, however plausibly that assumption may seem to solve the mystery of the reefs. Now, it is an admitted fact that, in certain parts of the globe, extensive regions have been hoisted up, some suddenly, some slowly; whilst others have gone down in the world just as suddenly or as slowly. The coast of Chili and the adjoining district, as is well known, were once elevated several feet, throughout an area of perhaps 100,000 square miles, in the course of a single night. Sweden has long been rising in its northern portion, and sinking in its southern, as if it were playing at see-saw on a magnificent scale. But we want evidence from the coral localities themselves. Of course, from the nature of the case, the testimony must necessarily be somewhat limited; because the question relates to a tardy movement, operating through ages, and occurring in regions which may be wholly uninhabited, or else peopled by tattooed and unphilosophical savages. But there seems to be tolerable proof for the purpose in hand. For instance, in an island called Pouynipate, in the Caroline Archipelago, one voyager describes the ruins of a town which is now accessible only by boats, the waves reaching to the steps of the houses. Of course, it is not likely that the founders of that place would build their habitations in the water; and, therefore, it must be inferred that this spot is in course of depression. Such, according to theory, should be its condition, because it consists of land encircled by a reef—that is, of land which must all vanish before the formation can be converted into a true coral-lagoon. At Keeling Island, again, Mr Darwin observed a storehouse, the basement of which was originally above highwater, but which was then daily washed by the tide. Many other instances of the same sort might be advanced; but there is still more striking evidence on this point, perhaps, in the existence of certain reefs which may now be introduced as links in the theory, or rather as tests by which its validity may be tried. These have been styled “shore” or “fringing” reefs. They differ from the other classes in the shallowness of the foundation on which they rest, and in the closeness of their approach to the land—either lining the shore itself, or, if separated, leaving a channel of no great depth between the coral bank and the coast. Wherever these exist, it is clear that the soil is stationary, or that it must be in course of elevation. It cannot be undergoing depression, because the coral beds would increase in thickness, and graduate into another class of structure. And in many instances where these fringes abound, there is the clearest proof, derived from organic remains, and other geological evidences, that the land has been actually upraised. A resident at Oahu, one of the Sandwich Islands (which are all fringed), stated that, from changes effected within a period of sixteen years only, he was satisfied that the work of elevation was proceeding at a very perceptible rate. Indeed, in numerous cases of this kind, coral deposits are found at a height where it is as certain that the polyps could never have toiled, as it is certain that fishes could never have lived. But elevation in one quarter implies depression in another. And, accordingly, it has been shown that the Pacific and Indian Oceans might almost be divided into a series of great bands, where the bed of the sea has alternately risen and sunk—just as if in one band the crust of the earth had been heaped up into a great solid wave, and in the next had subsided into a huge submarine trough or valley. For it happens that the reefs abounding over one of these areas belong almost universally to the class of formation which, according to theory, indicates that the ground is subsiding, whilst those which distinguish the next area are quite of the opposite description, and intimate that the crust is rising. Thus, for example, if we select the broadest illustration available, it will be seen, on referring to a map of the Pacific, that there is an extensive chain of islands, beginning to the west of the Caroline Archipelago, and running through Low Archipelago—a distance of several thousand miles—the whole family of which belong to the type denoting depression; whilst there is another long chain of islands, corresponding or parallel, in some measure, with the first, and extending, say from Sumatra to the south-east of the Friendly Isles, most of which indicate, by their reefs, that they belong to the type denoting elevation.

The general coincidence, therefore, of fringing reefs with raised or stationary districts, and of atolls or lagoons with regions which appear to be subsiding, affords considerable support to the theory our voyager is maturing. But there is another remarkable criterion, which in due time he contrives to discover. In the districts where fringing reefs occur, or where the coral has been plainly uplifted, active volcanoes are frequently established. But where reefs of the contrary character prevail, these agents are rarely, if ever, to be found. Of course, where a volcano presents itself in any particular locality, and especially if it happens to be a volcano in a state of activity, this shows that the subterranean forces are disposed to upheave the soil above them; whereas, if volcanoes are wanting in another quarter, or if, being there, their activity has ceased, the conclusion is, that in this region no upward tendency at present exists. Now, this test, too, is in striking accordance with geographical fact. The two great chains of reefs already mentioned may again be adduced. In the series of atolls or subsiding islands extending from Caroline Archipelago to Low Archipelago, not a single working volcano is to be detected within several hundred miles of any moderate cluster; whereas, in the band or series of isles which are characterised by fringes, numbers of these powerful agents are busily engaged; and in some of them, as, for instance, in Java, the subterranean forces are known to be intensely energetic. In fact, it may be stated as a pretty authentic conclusion, that whilst volcanoes frequently appear in those areas where the crust of the earth is now, or has recently been, in upward motion, “they are invariably absent in those where the surface has lately subsided, or is still subsiding.”^[9]

At the same time, it may be interesting to remark, that whilst busy volcanoes are thus shown to be irreconcilable with the presence of true atolls, yet at one period the theory most in fashion assumed that all coral-lagoons were mere submarine craters, whose rims had been coated with calcareous matter by the coral polyps. However plausible this hypothesis might seem when applied to a few particular cases, its insufficiency was soon discovered when a considerable number of reefs had been compared, and when the order of transition from one type to another was clearly understood. The vast size of some of these atolls—the elongated shape which many assume—the mode in which they are frequently clustered—the precipitousness of their flanks, rendered it difficult, if not impossible, to treat them as drowned Etnas or Heclas. Then the equal altitudes they must have attained as submarine mounts, is totally inexplicable, if the fact of the limited operations of the polyps be admitted; for it would be preposterous to imagine that thousands of volcanic cones could all rise to the surface of the sea, or within a range of five-and-twenty fathoms, and yet never overtop the waves to a greater height than a dozen feet. But, above all, the existence of coral rings, with land in the interior—where, if the theory were correct, a large cavity should have taken the place of primitive rocks, exhibiting no signs of volcanic action—has proved utterly fatal to the theory. It is manifest that Tahiti, for example, with its lofty mountains, could never have been the centre-piece of a huge crater; and it is certain that a volcanic vent would not assume the shape of a mere moat, like the girdle of water which encompasses an ancient castle.

Combining, then, the various data already adduced, and observing that there is a general harmony in the results, our voyager may reasonably conclude that his theory has now been mounted upon a tolerably fair basis of facts. He has explained the seeming paradoxes which thrust themselves upon his view at the earlier stages of the inquiry. He has brought all the different varieties of coral formations under the grasp of one law, and shown how, by the continued operation of a subsiding force and the continued addition of coral skeletons, the “fringing” reef would pass into an “encircling” reef, and this again would graduate into a perfect “atoll.” It is true that in doing this he has been compelled to draw a pretty picture of the fluctuations to which the earth’s crust is exposed. Large areas are supposed to sink in one quarter, and to rise in another. Here and there a spot which has once been lowered may again be uplifted; and this fitful movement may, in the course of ages, be repeated, as if to show what “ups-and-downs” a poor island may be called upon to endure. He knows, indeed, that his theory trenches upon the marvellous. Were it not for the light which geology has latterly thrown upon the pranks played by the Earth in its youthful days, he is aware that his hypothesis would be condemned as a thing far too romantic for belief.

But perhaps the most surprising circumstance, after all, is, that such stupendous structures should really be fashioned by such puny artificers. When he turns his attention to the builders themselves, he finds that they are little better than lumps of jelly.^[10] The workmen, who far surpass, in the vastness of their erections, all the proud masonry of man, belong to the lowest classes of animated things. They are half-plant, half-animal. Until the commencement of the last century, indeed, their pretensions to a higher dignity than that of marine vegetables was denied; and when a certain M. Peyssonel interested himself on their behalf, and endeavoured to raise them to a higher position in the scale of organisation, his proposal was treated with much the same sort of derision as if he had demanded the admission of monkeys into the ranks of humanity. These zoophytes consist, in the main, of a mere visceral cavity, containing no distinct system of vessels, exhibiting no decided appearance of nerves, possessing no other senses than an imperfect touch and taste, and certainly manifesting no distinction of sex. They are simply digestive sacs, for which a troop of tentacles are continually foraging: they eat, drink, secrete coral, throw off young polyps, and die, without in general wandering an inch from the place where they were produced.

Of all living things we should least expect that creatures so imbecile as these would be able to run up great embankments capable of repelling billows which sometimes roll along in an unbroken ridge of a mile or two in length, or of resisting a surf whose roar may be heard at the distance of eight or nine miles. That a feeble zoophyte should have the power of breasting the waves of the Pacific, did we not know it to be a fact, would appear a more preposterous notion than that of the memorable lady who attempted to keep the Atlantic out of her dwelling with a mop. No other animals seem to possess a faculty at all approaching to this: none exhibit a constructive propensity which leads to such massive results. The bee, for example, produces more geometrical works, but we cannot conceive of a honeycomb as large as a county, or a mountain of cells as tall as Skiddaw or Snowdon. It would be absurd to dream of fabricating a reef of sponge, though, if its animal character be admitted, this creature will almost hold as high a rank in life as the coral polyp; nor would it be pardonable to imagine that such a miserable material could ever become the basis of a new island. The beaver, it is true, executes very extensive dams; he is an excellent carpenter—perhaps the most skilful four-footed artisan with which we are acquainted; but put him in the midst of a boisterous sea, to erect a great circular rampart fifty or a hundred miles in diameter, with the billows tumbling about his ears continually, and he might just as well have contracted to build the Plymouth Breakwater, or the Eddystone Lighthouse. In fact, if we consider what difficulty men have in achieving their simplest specimens of marine architecture, it may be said that, were a whole nation of human beings set to work in the Pacific, they could not accomplish one of the colossal enterprises which these morsels of pulp silently effect.

What renders the undertaking more surprising is, that these soft-bodied things have to make rock for themselves; they have to provide the very stone which constitutes the edifice they build; they have not only to find straw to produce their bricks, as it were, but to procure the clay itself. The hard coral composing their edifices is the internal skeleton of the animals, and appears to be a secretion from their own tissues. Chemical analysis has shown that it consists principally of carbonate of lime—upwards of 95 parts out of every 100—including also small quantities of silica, alumina, magnesia, iron, fluorine, and phosphoric acid. It is remarkable, however, that this secreted matter is harder than calcareous spar or common marble—much harder, indeed, says Mr Dana, than its peculiar chemical composition will explain. “Using an iron mortar,” observes Mr B. Silliman, junior, “in the earlier trials, the iron pestle was roughened and cut under the resistance of the angular masses of coral, to a degree quite remarkable, considering the nature of the substance operated on. So much iron was communicated to the powder from this source, that recourse was had to a mortar of porcelain; and even this was not proof against wear, the porcelain pestle being pitted by the repeated blows. The more porous species, of course, were crushed with less difficulty.” Whence, then, do the animals procure the materials which they fashion into such dense and enormous piles? Here are millions of tons of calcareous matter heaped up by their agency, and yet there is no visible storehouse from which they can obtain any solid supplies. For as the land subsides, the builders of the reef are cut off from the shore: there is little but coral beneath them—there is nothing but water around them. It must therefore be from the billows of the ocean that the creatures possess the power of picking out the small quantity of carbonate of lime which the fluid contains. Their food may, of course, contribute to the supply; but from what source again did the minute animals they devour procure their stock of salts and earths?

It is singular, too, to observe how limited is the sphere of activity assigned to these creatures. In order to complete a reef, it is not sufficient that one tribe or species alone should be employed; the Madrepores, Astræas, and Gemmipores are the principal masons engaged; but each structure exhibits considerable diversity of workmen. There are some polyps, as we have seen, which love the contention of the surf, and thrive only when exposed to the play of the waves; there are others which covet a more tranquil life, and prosper only in the peaceful lagoon. Neither could change places with safety, any more than the reindeer could barter climates with the camel. A reef might almost be divided into a number of zones, in each of which a particular sort of coral polyp finds its appropriate habitat. The sea-front of the ring appears to be partitioned into belts, like the vegetable regions on the slope of a mountain. “The corals on the margin of Keeling Island,” says Mr Darwin, “occurred in zones: thus the Porites and Millepora complanata grow to a large size only where they are washed by a heavy sea, and are killed by a short exposure to the air; whereas three species of Nullipora also live amidst the breakers, but are able to survive uncovered for a part of each tide. At greater depths a strong Madrepora and Millepora alcicornis are the commonest kinds, the former appearing to be confined to this part. Beneath the zone of massive corals, minute encrusting corallines and other organic bodies live.” Thus, even in the limited range allotted to these zoophytes, we have a minute illustration of the law which has been so admirably developed by Professor Edward Forbes—that the bed of the sea exhibits a series of regions, each peopled, according to its depth, by its peculiar inhabitants.

But if the creatures which are employed in the erection of the reefs are restricted to so narrow a field of exertion, a very peculiar provision has fitted them for the work they have to perform. This consists in what is called their acrogenous mode of increase. If, for example, the zoophytes assume the form of a plant, it is not the whole mass which is alive, but only a very small portion at the summit and at the extremities of the branches. All the remainder of the stem and boughs has been converted into dead coral. To grow, with them, is therefore to mount. The skeleton of the young animal is hoisted upon that of its defunct predecessor. Some zoophytes, like the Goniopores, spring up in columns to the height of two or three feet; and to each of these coral pillars a capital of live polyps, two or three inches in extent, is affixed. Or if the creatures assume a more clustered or globular form, as is the case with many of the Astrææ, Porites, and others, the depth of life in the mass is extremely small. A dome of Astræas, twelve feet in diameter, is supposed to consist of a thin film of living polyps, extending not more than half or three quarters of an inch below the surface—a solid nucleus of coral being, in fact, merely coated with vitality. It is to this property of upward and outward growth that we must ascribe the prodigious power these animals possess. Their labours are cumulative; and hence, though in themselves the most insignificant of creatures, they are enabled to heap up tier after tier of skeletons, until the mountain which has sunk in the waters is rivalled by the monument they erect upon its site.

If we wish, however, to form some conception of the marvels which these zoophytes accomplish, we have only to remember that the coral formations in the Pacific occupy an area of four or five thousand miles in length, and then to imagine what a picture that ocean would exhibit were it suddenly drained. We should walk amongst huge mounds which had been cased and capped with the stone these animals had secreted. Prodigious cones would rise from the ground, all towering to the same altitude, and reflecting the light of the sun from their white summits with dazzling intensity. Here and there we should come to a huge platform, once a large island, whose peaks, as they sank, were clothed in coral, and then prolonged upwards until they rose before us like the columns of some huge temple which had been commenced by the Anakims of an antediluvian world. If, as Champollion has said, the edifices of ancient Egypt seem to have been designed by men fifty feet high, here, whilst wandering amongst these strange monuments, we might almost fancy that beings hundreds of yards in stature had been planting the pillars of some colossal city, which they never lived to complete. But the builders, as we have seen, were mere worms; the quarry from which they dug their masonry was the limpid wave; and the vast structures which have been calmly upreared in the midst of a tempestuous sea, are the workmanship of creatures which possess neither bodily strength nor high animal instinct. That duties so important should have been assigned to beings so lowly, is one of the finest moral facts science has unfolded. It is the function of the coral polyp, under the present geological dispensation, to counteract the distant volcano, and to repair in some degree the ravages of the subterranean fires. Its task is to fasten upon a sinking island, and keep its top on a level with the sea. The haughtiest of physical forces—that which sometimes shakes great continents—which lifts or lowers whole regions in a night—is often kept in check by the industry of these diminutive things. When the earth’s crust is collapsing, and it becomes necessary to fill up the vacancy, the commission is not given to any gigantic workmen, but a number of mere polyps are bid to labour upon the subsiding soil, as if to show that the Creator could employ the humblest of His creatures in executing the largest of physical undertakings.

THE AGED DISCIPLE COMFORTING.

THE EXTENT AND THE CAUSES OF OUR PROSPERITY. — TO THE EDITOR OF BLACKWOOD’S MAGAZINE.

The majority of the Legislature and of the great Conservative party throughout the country have declared, either openly or tacitly, that our present commercial policy cannot be reversed; and, in the present temper of the people, such submission was almost inevitable. Whatever might be the convictions of Conservative statesmen as to the working and tendency of Free Trade, the expression of those convictions, and evidence, however strong, in support of them, would have fallen idly upon the ear of the masses, taught as they have been—and, indeed, are predisposed—to jump to the nearest conclusion, when tracing effects to their causes. They see the outward and visible marks of prosperity accumulating around them on every side. Blue books and merchants’ and brokers’ circulars at length speak the same language and tell the same story of a widely-spread prosperity, which every man hears boasted of in his daily avocations, whilst exulting Liberalism continually proclaims to the world the coexisting fact of free imports. It is of no avail to remind those men that the prosperity in question is not that which they predicted or anticipated; that it is not the prosperity meant by the men whose most loudly-urged inquiry was, “How can we compete with the foreigner, whilst food is at war prices?” It is of no avail to remind them that the foreigner has not, as was promised us, reciprocated our generous policy, and that the tariffs of the world are still maintained in their restrictive character; or to point to the palpable fact that we have not even that “cheapness” of all the necessaries and comforts of life, which was held up as the great boon to be achieved by Free Trade legislation. The arguments, assumed to be conclusive, brought to bear against those who still adhere to the principles which they have all along maintained, are that the commercial and industrial enterprise of the country is extending—that our population is fully employed—that the revenue increases in elasticity—that property of every description maintains its value—and that, through the length and breadth of the land, there is scarcely a cry of suffering raised which is not at once drowned by counter acclamations of satisfaction with the existing condition and prospects of the great masses of the community.

Whilst statesmen, however, are forbearing, and refrain from active opposition to the conclusions, be they founded on delusion or not, drawn by the advocates of onward policy in the direction of Free Trade, it is the legitimate province of the political essayist to investigate facts, which lie below the surface from which ordinary inquirers derive their arguments, and to take care that such facts are brought with sufficient prominency before the public. The suppressio veri has ever been a favourite weapon of casuists; and when we see that a precisely opposite result is admitted by all parties to have followed the adoption of a given policy, it is reasonable to conclude that some suppression of the truth has taken place as to the facts, or that they do not legitimately lead to the conclusions drawn from them. We see at the present moment high prices of every commodity prevailing, whereas we were assured that low prices would bring them within the reach of the mass of consumers. We have dear labour in every department of industry, instead of the cheap labour which the capitalist made no secret of expecting as the result of free imports of foreign food. We have high freights for our shipping, both inwards and outwards, yet both Free-Traders and Protectionists prophesied low freights as the result of the repeal of the Navigation Laws. We have well-employed artisans, notwithstanding the anticipated displacement of their labour by the introduction of foreign manufactured articles. Lastly, the British farmer is not ruined; a good Providence has protected the tiller of the soil from the annihilation which was predicted for him; and he is enabled indirectly, by high prices of certain portions of his produce, to wring an ample reward for his industry from the consuming classes. The obvious inference to be drawn from such a state of things is that some circumstance or circumstances, previously unforeseen, have interfered to derange and falsify the calculations of both the great opposing parties in the country; and it is most desirable to know what are those circumstances, and what their past and probable future operation.

To arrive at the solution of these questions, we may be excused if we refer to a notice of the industrial and commercial condition of the country given in this Magazine in June 1851, or a little more than two years ago. At that period, as admitted by the circulars of our leading merchants, brokers, and manufacturers, we were in anything rather than a condition of general prosperity. Importation of foreign produce was unattended with profit, the export trade to foreign markets was equally unprofitable, and the home demand, both for produce and manufactures, was seriously restricted. With respect to the latter, an eminent Manchester firm, Messrs M‘Nair, Greenhow, and Irvine, reported in their circular of March 31, 1851—“The market is far from satisfactory. Complaints to this effect are very frequent, and determined resolutions in favour of reducing the production of cloth of certain descriptions are becoming general on the part of manufacturers, who assign, with reason, their inability to render their manufactures remunerative. Vitality is wanted, and the absence of anything approaching to a demand for the country trade contributes necessarily to aggravate and deepen the dissatisfaction.” The Shipping Interest was at that time in a most disastrous condition, freights being reduced in many cases fully 50 per cent, and far below the remunerative point. Such was the condition of the country five years after the repeal of the Corn Laws, and two years after the repeal of the Navigation Laws. With respect to the latter interest, it is important to bear in mind that the low freights in 1851—particularly for long voyages—were very generally attributed to the competition of the American shipowner, who, having a valuable passenger and carrying trade secured to him by the new conquests of his countrymen in California, could afford to bring return cargoes from India, China, and the markets of the Pacific, at much lower rates than British shipowners. The changed fortunes of the latter class afford striking testimony of the fact that their prosperous position, at all events, is not attributable to Free-Trade measures, or to legislation of any kind. A few months after the ruinous period to which we have referred, the country was electrified by intelligence of the discovery in our Australian possessions of wealth equal in amount, if not even superior, to that which was being gathered by the adventurers in California; and although at first doubts were expressed of the correctness of the intelligence, a large emigration to those colonies at once set in, which has continued to increase up to the present time. We ceased to hear of shipping lying idle in the docks of our leading seaports. We ceased to hear of our seamen entering into the service of rival countries. Our building-yards, both at home and in the American colonies, became scenes of unprecedented activity; and every branch of industry connected directly or indirectly with shipping, was placed in a prosperous condition. To enable the reader to form an idea of the amount of tonnage employed in this new trade, it may be stated that the amount of shipping which sailed from the port of Liverpool for Australia, since the first of January 1852, to the end of July 1853, was 175 ships of 138,500 tons register. These were exclusively passenger-ships. If we add 40 more as the number taking cargo or cabin passengers alone, which are not mentioned in the Government officer’s returns, we have in round numbers 215 ships with a tonnage of 170,000 tons, from the port of Liverpool, engaged in this new trade. The departures from London and other ports, of which we have not at hand correct returns, but which very materially exceed those of Liverpool, will swell the amount of tonnage to about 500,000 tons. Of the shipping from Liverpool, 52 vessels—in all, 46,000 tons—have been chartered by Government for the conveyance of Irish and Scotch emigrants chiefly, sent out by the Emigration Board. There were loading in Liverpool, on the 8th inst., 48 ships, with an aggregate tonnage of 33,369 tons. Moreover, from the nature of the trade, and the peculiar temptations which present themselves to our seamen to desert when they arrive in the colony, and proceed to the diggings, the wages paid them have been nearly double the average paid for other voyages.

Here, then, we have the prosperity of one great interest in the country distinctly accounted for, with which Free Trade has manifestly no connexion. Australia has saved the British shipowner from ruin; and it has done more. An increasing population, attracted to the colony from every quarter of the globe, have become large consumers of British products, and promise at no distant date to be still larger consumers. In the first six months of 1851 we exported to Australia 3,003,699 yards of plain calicoes, and 3,611,751 yards of printed and dyed calicoes. In the corresponding period of 1852 the exports were 1,453,079 yards of plain, and 5,683,822 yards of printed and dyed calicoes; and in the six months just ended they have increased to 6,856,010 yards of plain, and 5,751,431 yards of printed and dyed. This is in addition to the large quantity of these goods taken as outfits by emigrants, and the stocks which may have gone from our Indian and other markets. The hardware trade of Birmingham has been largely benefited by the consumption of Australia; and, in fact, there is scarcely a branch of industry in this country which it has not stimulated. Even the farmer owes to it much of his present position. The absorption of agricultural labour by the diggings of Australia, from which colony we derive the finest wools used in the manufacture of broadcloth, has, by raising the price of those wools, encouraged the substitution of an inferior article. This cause, and the great increase in the home consumption, a portion of which increase has been taken by emigrants in the shape of slops, blankets, &c., has contributed materially to raise the value of our own produce. The extent of this advance is thus stated by a leading firm in the wool trade in Liverpool—“The advance in the value of the various kinds of British sheep’s wool, from August 1851 to August 1853, varies from 30 to 40 per cent. Production has not decreased, but perhaps the contrary, while consumption is very much increased.” Farm produce of all kinds—butter, cheese, bacon, &c.—have found in the colony a new market, which has greatly contributed to produce the high prices existing at home.

If we turn to the manufacturing interest, we suspect it will be found that much of its present boasted prosperity is attributable to other causes than our Free-Trade policy. We have had a considerable increase in our exports of cotton manufactures during the first six months of the present year; but when we inquire to what countries this increase has gone, we find that nearly the whole has gone to four—viz., the United States, China, Australia, and the coast of Africa. The three last we may certainly exclude from the countries whose increased dealings with us are at all distinctly traceable to Free Trade. We have therefore to examine how far those of America can properly be so considered. The exports of cotton goods to that country, as given in Burn’s Monthly Colonial Circular for the first six months of 1851, 1852, and 1853, were as follows:—

The shipments to that country are still being made on so extended a scale that, whilst every sailing vessel which can be secured is promptly filled up at high rates of freight, the steamers are actually compelled to shut out goods, although the rates have lately been advanced to £5 per ton for those chiefly of the class called “fine,” which they are in the habit of carrying. It is calculated that there are at present lying in Liverpool for shipment by the “Cunard” line of mail boats, more cargo of this description than can go for three weeks to come; and the consignees of the American or “Collins” line had recently a lottery in their office, to decide whose goods were to go by the steamer then loading. To what cause, then, can we attribute this amazing increase of our exports to America? It cannot be the operation of Free-Trade measures in this country which has enabled America to take from us, in the first six months of 1853, twenty million yards of plain, and nearly twenty-eight and a half million yards of printed and dyed calicoes, more than in 1851. We have not extended to her, in particular, any material concessions since the latter year. We have not been greater importers of her bread-stuffs, or of any other article of her production, with the exception of cotton. Of this great staple the clearances from all the ports of the Union to this country, from 1st September 1852 to 5th July 1853, were 1,617,000 bales, against 1,577,160 bales in the corresponding period of 1851–2, and 1,285,173 bales in that of 1850–51; showing an excess this year of 39,840 bales over last, and 331,827 bales over 1851. This may account in part for the increased purchases of America from the British manufacturer; but, on the same grounds, she must also have increased her purchases from other countries; for we find that, whilst her excess of exports to Great Britain was 331,827 bales last year, as compared with 1851, the excess to “all countries” was 533,386 bales, showing that other countries had also received increased supplies to the extent of 201,559 bales: and we are not aware that any of those countries have been legislating of late in the direction of Free Trade; The conclusion which it strikes us as most likely to be correct, as to the cause of our increased exports to America, is that something has occurred to improve the condition and enlarge the consuming power of that country. Such, on inquiry, we find to have been the case; for with the comparatively light import of British fabrics in 1851, what was the state of the American market for those fabrics? We have it thus stated by the New York Courier and Enquirer of the 16th of April in that year, as quoted in the article to which we have before referred—“The very heavy sales made of domestic light prints have put an end to all inquiry for the foreign article; and we do not know a case of English prints that will bring prime cost, whilst the majority must suffer a heavy loss...... Nor is the prospect better for ginghams; few, if any, bring cost and charges.”

It is true that reference was made by the American writer to accidental causes, which were alleged to have produced this unprofitable state of business in 1851; but it is tolerably clear that there must have been besides a want of the power to buy—and it is the fact that there was such a want—compared with that which exists at present. The American planters have had, since 1851, two crops of cotton, in succession, larger than were ever raised before, which have been sold, especially the last, at higher prices than those which prevailed in 1851—a year of short crop, as will be seen from the following table, made up to the 30th ult.:—

The American farmer also has had this year considerably enhanced prices of grain of all kinds—cheese, butter, pork, beef, and other produce—for which large markets have been opened in California and Australia. Emigration has greatly swelled the number of the population, and thus increased domestic consumption. Employment throughout the Union is ample, every fresh body of labourers, as soon as they are landed, being sought out and engaged at good wages for the various railways, canals, and other public works, which are constructing in almost every state. California, with its vast mineral wealth, is exercising an almost inconceivable influence throughout the entire continent, enlarging and rendering more secure its monetary resources, stimulating domestic enterprise, and furnishing that which a new country most urgently requires—the means of extending its foreign commerce. It is not the Free-Trade policy of Great Britain per se, if indeed at all, which has rendered the United States better customers of Great Britain, but mainly the increased and unparalleled prosperity of the American people—a prosperity which, it should ever be borne in mind by the statesman, is coexistent with a strictly protected domestic industry.

In addition to the effect produced upon the industrial portion of the community in our own country by the increased demand for British productions to supply the wants of America and Australia, we must not omit to notice some other important circumstances which have been in operation during the past three or four years. We have recently been sending away to our North American Colonies, to the United States, and, for two years past, to Australia, large numbers of our population, and particularly of that portion of them whose position at home may be termed one of struggling for the means of living. Large tracts of land in Ireland, once thronged with this class, are at present almost literally unpeopled; and from England and Scotland many thousands of able-bodied labourers, skilled artisans, and small farmers, have swelled the tide of emigration. It may be said, with truth, that this is not a sign of prosperity at home. These classes confessedly left their native soil because it no longer afforded remunerative employment for their industry. Yet, indirectly, an increased prosperity has been the result of their departure, especially in our large towns and in the manufacturing districts. We feel no longer the pressure upon the labour market of continual immigration from Ireland to this country of a semi-pauper class, ready to accept employment at the very lowest rate of wages upon which life can be supported by the coarsest description of food. The visits of Irish agricultural labourers are now decreasing year by year; and although many still come to settle amongst us, and to partake with our own working classes of the advantages of continuous employment, they are no longer satisfied with that low scale of remuneration for which they were formerly content to labour.

The comparative dearness of what used to be their staple article of food—the potato—has driven them, during the past few years, to the adoption of a higher scale of living. They have imbibed, even in their own workhouses, the taste for aliments similar to those upon which the English labourer is fed. In proof of this change, which has been taking place in Ireland during the past few years, we may point to the fact of that country having ceased almost entirely to supply the British markets with cereal productions, and to its diminished exports of other descriptions of farm produce; for it is not true that this has been altogether caused by diminished production. The result is felt upon their arrival in this country, by the Irish emigrants speedily falling into the scale of living, and demanding the same wages, as our own labouring classes. To the causes referred to is, in a great measure, to be attributed the improved condition of those classes generally in every department of industry. Labour is no longer in excess of the demand for it, and commands a higher rate of remuneration. An additional portion of the working masses, too, have become consumers of both foreign and domestic produce and manufactures, and hence some of those marks of prosperity which political economists see in increased imports and customs, and excise receipts, and attribute exclusively to the operation of Free Trade. We have got rid of the surplus portion of our labouring masses; and, as the result, those who remain to us are better employed at better wages.

The operation of this change, so far as regards the revenue, the importing merchant, and the manufacturer, is much greater than is generally supposed. Below a certain scale of wages the working classes contribute almost nothing to the revenue, or to the profits of the importer, and comparatively little to those of the manufacturer; and the bulk of the population of Ireland had ever been hitherto below that scale, where they were in receipt of wages at all. Any addition to such wages, half of which at least is expended upon customable or exciseable commodities, tells immediately upon revenue and upon the profits of imports; whilst the remainder is probably expended upon the consumption of home productions, and thus further stimulates the prosperity of the producing classes. The comforts of life are sought for, instead of the mere necessaries being endured; and, virtually, an improvement in the condition of the labourer becomes a real increase in the numbers of the population. The United States are experiencing this fact in the immense consumption of every description of produce and manufactures by her prosperous gold miners in California; and Great Britain is experiencing it also in the consumption of the settlers in the gold regions of Australia. Our merchants had paused in their shipments to that colony. They feared that they might have glutted its markets. In doing this they had simply overlooked the fact, that a highly prosperous community consumes ten times the quantity of commodities of all kinds, which suffices for the wants of the same number of individuals prohibited by their position from indulging the tastes and desires natural to them. A few hundred thousand of diggers in Australia, with Anglo-Saxon habits, gathering each their ounce of gold per day, are equal to as many millions of rice-eating Hindoos in India, or opium smokers in the Celestial Empire.

Since these remarks were written, they have received a very striking confirmation from the circular of Messrs W. Murray, Ross, and Co., commission merchants of Melbourne, dated 20th May. After referring to the high prices existing in Melbourne, and the rapidity with which the supplies of goods which had arrived up to that date had been taken off, the writer proceeds, with respect to the apprehended glut to be created by the large shipments known to be on the way—“Great though the quantity of goods to come forward may be, it is yet equally evident that consumption will keep pace with, if it do not exceed, the import. The fact, moreover, must not be omitted out of the calculations of operators at foreign ports, that the exorbitant rates current in Melbourne have attracted such large importations from all the other Australian colonies, that the markets of every one of them are more bare of commodities than our own. The consequence will be, that as Melbourne and Sydney will be the principal recipient ports for foreign merchandise, large transhipments must be made to fill up the vacuum which our extraordinary demand has created. The European population of the Australias is estimated at 600,000, the consuming power of whom is equal to at least three times as many in England. Therefore, the wants of a population, equivalent to 1,500,000 at home, have to be provided for. The immense addition which will also be made to these numbers by the rapid immigration which is, and will continue flowing from the mother country and elsewhere, must also be taken into account. The average immigration has latterly been about 3000 souls per week. No diminution is expected; on the contrary, an increase is expected. Some idea of the probable increase of the population during this year may be formed from knowing the increase which took place during the last year in Victoria alone, namely, 100,000. As respects our power of consumption, nothing need be feared by the foreign shippers; all the goods that come forward will be wanted.” When it is borne in mind that the bulk of the population, described to be thus rapidly increasing, have Anglo-Saxon tastes, and consume principally British articles of the best description, we need scarcely be surprised if present prices at home, especially of agricultural produce, are not only maintained, but very materially enhanced. We find, from the same circular, that Australia is diverting from this country a large portion of our usual supplies of flour, cheese, &c., which we should otherwise have received from the United States, thus accounting for the advance in prices in the British market already experienced. All other commodities, whether of British, colonial, or purely foreign production, are bringing enormous rates in that country. English products, however, such as butter, cheese, hams, bacon, &c., are those most materially increased in value; and large quantities must go out to meet the demand, thus trenching still more upon the amount of the necessaries and comforts of life which are at present within the reach of our consuming classes.

That, under all these circumstances combined, we have a high range of prices of produce existing, is scarcely to be wondered at; but, whilst we must decline to admit that such high prices are attributable to our adoption of a Free-Trade policy, we are rather doubtful of the fact that they are altogether the result of the undeniably-increased consumption of our population. Other causes are operating, which account, in part, for such high prices, irrespective of those which are urged by the advocates of that policy, and of those who attribute them to the prosperous condition of the country. We have had, during the present year and a portion of the last, decreased imports of some of the leading articles of foreign produce. Thus we have received in the ports of London, Liverpool, Bristol, and the Clyde, during the first seven months of 1853, only 100,080 hhds. and 13,065 tierces of West India sugar against an import of 122,300 hhds. and 15,685 tierces during the corresponding months of 1852. We have received of Bengal and Madras sugar 401,970 bags, &c. against 526,345 last year. From the Mauritius our receipts have been 777,900 against 708,730 mats, &c.; and from Java, and our other East Indian possessions 62,360 bags, &c. against 88,915 last year. Decreased stocks and advanced prices naturally follow such a state of things. On the other hand, we have both increased imports and stocks of Havana, Brazil, and other foreign sugar—which, however, being chiefly used for refining purposes and for export, is not so correct an index of the consuming power of our home population. We have a slightly increased import of colonial molasses, and a considerable decrease of stocks. Our imports of colonial rum have been 19,330 puncheons only against 23,450 puncheons last year, whilst the stocks are only 15,530 against 25,695 last year. The causes of this decline in the productiveness of our West Indian possessions, as well as in our imports from the East Indies, need scarcely be glanced at; and, as a just retribution, we find that the exports of cotton manufactures to the most important of the former—Jamaica—have fallen off from 2,413,611 yards of plain cottons, and 2,036,598 yards of printed and dyed, in the first six months of 1851, to 874,382 yards of plain, and 888,565 yards of printed and dyed in the corresponding period of 1853. Of another important article—tea—our imports during the first seven months of the present year have been less than in the corresponding months of last year, viz. 30,086,000 lb. in 1853 against 32,867,000 in 1852; and prices have been enhanced in part by the civil war going on in China, and by the effect of the reduction made in the duty by Mr Gladstone’s Budget. Dried fruit, which was cheapened by the Tariff of 1841–2, has advanced enormously in price; but the principal cause of such increase has been a blight, which has occurred during the past two years. The supply of many articles of home produce, too,—such as butchers’ meat, butter, bacon, &c.—has been limited by the wet season at the beginning of this year, which was unfavourable to every description of agricultural produce. All these are distinctly exceptional causes of apparent prosperity, as shown by high prices of commodities, and have nothing whatever to do with the question of Free Trade v. Protection.

It is not our intention here to enter into an inquiry as to the effect which the increased production of gold in California and Australia has produced, in inflating prices by enlarging the basis of our monetary circulation. Political economists of our modern school persist in treating the question of the currency as a bugbear; and in maintaining that the price of gold, irrespective of its increased supply, must remain, unlike that of all other commodities, fixed. It is useless to direct their attention to the effect upon prices which an enlarged currency, sustained by the golden treasures of California, has produced throughout the length and breadth of the American continent. It is useless to attempt to show them, although such is the fact, that the increased banking facilities gained by that country during the past two or three years have enabled her growers of grain, of cotton, and other produce, to maintain prices above what European and other countries could afford to pay, and to liquidate an almost continually adverse balance of trade. This much, however, the most strenuous advocate of the bullionist theory will perhaps admit: The mercantile community of this country, notwithstanding their imports have in the aggregate very largely exceeded their exports—thus inducing of necessity large exports of specie—have not during the present year, as we might have expected, been incapacitated by the position of the bank from holding their stock of produce. Money for commercial, and even for speculative purposes, has been abundantly afforded; and even in the face of a somewhat high rate of interest, advances on mortgage and for permanent investment have been readily procurable at reasonable rates. But for this circumstance, we could certainly not have sustained prices of imported produce; and our merchants, having been compelled to submit to the inflated ones of foreign countries, must have been utterly prostrated. The same reasoning applies to the internal industry of the country. Had money not been cheap, and easily procurable on bona fide security and for investment, the vast amount of enterprise which has recently been manifested in the erection of new buildings, and new works of every description, in the drainage of our soil, in the beautifying of our large towns, and the health-producing improvement of their sanitary regulations, must have been checked, until, by a restriction of our imports, and something approaching to a general commercial bankruptcy, we had wrung back the limited amount of truant specie, upon which our currency is based, from the hands of the foreigner. We are not at all certain, however, for what period this pleasant state of things may last. For many weeks successively we have seen the stock of bullion in the Bank of England decreasing, notwithstanding the large arrivals from Australia and other quarters; and although this may in part be accounted for by the increased amount required to conduct the enlarged internal trade of the country, there can be no denial of the fact, that we are experiencing a serious external drain, required to meet our increased imports. For three or four months past the fear of a considerably tightened money market, as the result of such drain, has very greatly tended to repress speculation, which would otherwise have run into excess; and at the present moment anticipations of an advance in the rate of interest by the Bank of England and the large discounting houses are beginning to be seriously entertained.

We have, then, the following facts established with tolerable clearness—viz., first, that nearly all the most important commercial interests of the country have been placed during the past two years in a condition of great prosperity; and, in the second place, that our industrious classes are now fully employed, at good wages. But it cannot be admitted that the cause of such a beneficial change is altogether, or even mainly, the Free-Trade policy which we have recently adopted. Notwithstanding this fact, we are perfectly ready to admit that we cannot at present disturb that policy, or retrace our steps. A large majority of the public believe that the change in question has been produced by Free Trade. They cannot perceive the exceptional causes which have been in existence, or these are sedulously kept from their eyes. A large portion of our working masses, during the temporary cheapness which followed the first adoption of the system, which cheapness was increased by the commercial sacrifices caused by monetary paralysis in 1847, 1848, and 1849, became acquainted with luxuries to which they had ever previously been strangers. A population, whose staple food had been oatmeal in its various forms of preparation, became acquainted with wheaten bread, with tea, coffee, &c., and were enabled to resort more frequently to butchers’ meat. They found themselves enabled to be better housed and better clothed, as well as better fed. The change in this respect, which took place throughout the manufacturing districts especially, was most striking, and was dwelt upon as affording ample proof of the successful results of Free Trade policy, so far as regarded these classes, at a period when it was manifest that they were consuming every description of foreign and domestic commodities at prices which were ruinous alike to the importer and the home producer. It was only reasonable to expect that those classes, thus substantially benefited, would resolutely refuse to listen then to any proposal for the reversal of measures to which they were taught to attribute the increased comforts they were enjoying; and the same indisposition to do so continues to prevail now, with prices of all the necessaries of life materially enhanced. Any return to protection, however modified, is regarded by them as, so far, a return to their old diet, and to the discomforts of their previous condition. For any party to insist upon such a retrograde policy, would be to throw them once more into the hands of the political demagogues, from which they have, during the past few years, happily emancipated themselves. Without any legislative interference with Free Trade, however, the position of these masses is just now becoming materially changed for the worse; and notwithstanding the fact, which we have admitted, that employment is more abundant than at any former period, it is very questionable whether we are not threatened with serious difficulties and social disorganisation, arising from the efforts of the labouring classes to maintain themselves in that position which they have been taught was their right, and was the natural result of Free Trade. For some months past the temper of these classes has been in a state of almost universal ferment. With continuous employment superseding the intermittent employment of a large portion of them, demands have been made for increased wages, and have in most cases been conceded. We have had strikes of our dock labourers and porters for rates which were never heard of previously, even when three or four days’ work in a week was considered as affording a fair amount of the means of living. The same classes, on our railways and other public works, have given evidence of dissatisfaction with their position by similar proceedings. Handicraftsmen of every description have joined in the movement; and even the police of our large towns have shown a disposition to seek other avocations than those of wielding a truncheon for from 18s. to 21s. per week, with a livery. Throughout the manufacturing districts there has been, during the past three months, a large suspension of labour, the hands in one branch after another seeking advances of from 5 to 10 per cent, and in some instances attempting to impose conditions upon their employers. Turn-outs, of short duration, resulting in concessions to their demands, have served to show the operatives that they are now the most powerful body, and to lay the foundation of further aggressive efforts. Next only in importance to the increase thus caused in the cost of manual labour, the manufacturer has had to submit to a large increase in the cost of his fuel, to the extent, in some districts, of 15 to 20 per cent—the miners in most of the small-seam collieries, and in several of the deep pits, having successfully stood out for higher rates of remuneration. The iron-miners, especially in Wales, have followed the example of their brother operatives in other branches of industry; and in one district in South Wales it is expected that upwards of 20,000 of the working population will shortly be deprived of the means of living by the blowing out of furnaces by the masters, in the endeavour to resist the demands of their men.

There are two or three rather important questions which offer themselves for solution connected with these aggressive movements of the working classes. Are they the result of a confidence, on their parts, of power to coerce their employers? Is capital being compelled to relax its gripe upon industry? Or are these movements merely the defensive ones of men who feel that the comforts, which they have been recently enjoying through a factitious cheapness, are being withdrawn by high prices of the various articles of consumption? We believe that we must attribute them to all these causes combined. To this important part of our subject we entreat the earnest attention of our readers.

It is natural to conclude that the working classes must feel somewhat confident of the fact that, to a great extent, the pressure upon the labour market, caused by immigration of fresh hands into the large manufacturing and other towns, has been withdrawn. The surplus population of the agriculturists have either sought, or are seeking, new spheres for the exercise of their industry in other lands, which offer to them a surer prospect of permanent prosperity; but there is this striking difference between the present movement of our operatives and those of former years, that the opportunity for it has not been seized upon in a pressing emergency of the masters—that it is not confined to a particular class, or a particular district. It is, in fact, universal, and apparently unprompted. No demagoguism has been required to bring it about; and, with a few rare exceptions, we have observed characterising every conflict for higher wages the best possible feeling between the employers and the employed. So long as the latter remained in the enjoyment of cheap food, they were quiescent; and in the majority of the strikes which have recently occurred, the plea most prominently put forward has been the advanced price of all the necessaries of life. In some few cases only has a scarcity of labourers appeared to warrant a demand for advanced wages; and it is a remarkable fact that these have resulted from causes distinctly unconnected with Free-Trade policy. The carpenters in our shipbuilding yards, and other branches of industry connected with the shipping interest, have been enabled, by the increased demand for ships for the Australian trade, to command higher rates of remuneration, irrespective of the advance in the prices of food. The men employed in building trades generally—masons, house-joiners, bricklayers, &c.—have been placed in a similar position by the internal improvements, and the increase of public and private works, which a more plentiful currency has stimulated throughout the country. But the main inducing cause of the aggressive attitude of the industrious classes, as a body, has been the fact that employment, at the wages paid from 1845 up to within the past few months, was insufficient to enable them to keep up to the standard of living which the cheapness prevailing in the greater portion of those years had given them a taste for. The following comparison of the present prices of a few of the leading articles, which form the consumption of the working classes, with those existing in the corresponding period of 1851, will enable the reader to draw a tolerably accurate conclusion with respect to their condition in the respective years. We take the prices from the authorised Liverpool data, as this port may be said to regulate those of the manufacturing districts:—

There has obviously been upon the bulk of these articles an advance of from 25 to 30 per cent; and this advance has been most signal upon the articles which the working man’s family chiefly consumes—bread, butchers’ meat, cheese, bacon and pork, butter, &c. With respect to tea, which has recently formed an important item in their expenditure, we have had within the past few weeks a reduction of the duty. This, however, has been nearly met by the increase in price which it now commands in bond. We had in July last a reduction of 1s. per cwt. in the duty upon sugar, and since 1851 the total reduction is 2s. This also has been more than met by increased price, in the average, at least, of the period between 1851 to 1853, for we find that the price of “good dry brown” was, in 1852, only 35s. 6d. per cwt. The reduction of duty on soap is neutralised by the high price of the materials. In order to ascertain, or at all events to approximate to, an idea of the extent to which the working classes have been affected by the changes of the past two years, we shall take the instance of an average family, composed say of a man and wife and three children, earning the advanced wages of 24s. a-week. Such a family would consume at present, according to the scale of living enjoyed by them two years ago, when commodities were cheap, as follows:—

We have thus an expenditure of 17s. 9d. a-week for food and rent out of an income of 24s., leaving only a balance of 6s. 3d. for clothing, malt and other liquors, medical attendance and casualties. Such a scale of living may appear a high one to some parties, who have been in the habit of gauging the human appetite for the purpose of getting up statistics for union workhouses, model prisons, or model conditions of society. It will be found, nevertheless, to be pretty nearly that into the enjoyment of which our able-bodied working classes, pursuing moderately healthful though laborious avocations, rushed with eagerness during the period of cheapness resulting from the early operation of Free Trade. The cost of such a scale in 1851, calculated according to the prices of that period, would be about as follows:—

Thus the working man’s family in 1851 were enjoying the same scale of living for 3s. 1½d. less than it now costs them; and would have had 9s. 4½d. left for clothing, &c., out of 24s. per week, if the same range of prices which were then existing had continued. Their present wages, however, have only been gained by them during the last few months. The utmost advance realised by any class of workmen has been 6d. per day; and such a family as we have instanced were called upon, by the increased prices to which their food has risen since 1851, to adopt one of these alternatives: Their wages of a guinea a-week, with 17s. 9d. of expenditure for food and lodging, leaving them only the insufficient margin of 3s. 3d. for clothing, medical attendance, malt liquor, &c., they must either have gone back to their old scale of living, or insisted upon an advance of wages. The allowance of wheaten bread must have been curtailed and oatmeal substituted; a less comfortable dwelling must have been submitted to; their consumption of butchers’ meat must have been stinted; and they must have resigned altogether the whole, or a portion at least, of the luxuries contained in their dietary—tea, sugar, currants, &c., to the serious loss of the revenue. They preferred, and happily for them they have been able to obtain, the latter alternative, an increased remuneration for their labour. It is clear, however, that large as this increase has been, it has not placed the working man’s family in any better position than they occupied in 1851. They have at present 3s. per week more to live upon; but their living costs them 3s. 2d. more.

This, however, it will be said, is only the position of a family provided with constant work both in 1851 and at present. We readily admit that there is a class below this who are very materially better off now than they were in the former year. The condition of the working man who has now four or five days per week of employment, where he had formerly only three days, is materially improved, notwithstanding the recent advance in prices of commodities. But this is precisely the class which has been most materially benefited by the emigration of their competitors in the labour market, and by the activity which has been imparted to the internal enterprise of the country by our discoveries in Australia, and the enlargement of the currency resulting from them.

It must be tolerably clear to most men that no portion of our working classes will readily submit to a reduced scale of living, either as the result, or the fancied result, of legislation, or from known ordinary causes. There is a further source of social danger in the circumstance that, having been taught that legislation had realised whatever benefits have accrued to them since the adoption of Free-Trade policy, they will be inclined to look to further legislation in the same direction for a remedy, whenever, through an advance in the price of the necessaries and comforts of life, or circumstances at present unforeseen, anything may occur to injure their position. They have tasted of those comforts; and they will insist upon enjoying them whatever other interests or institutions may have to be prostrated in order to bring about that result. Indeed, the Ministry of Lord Aberdeen, as shown by their policy during the whole of the past session, have impressed upon the minds of the working classes the fact that nothing will be permitted to stand in the way of further progress of the policy upon which the country has entered, or of cheapness for the consuming classes. With a view to relieve those classes, we have just witnessed an impost, which may be almost called one of spoliation, authorised to be levied upon the owners of our soil; and, ludicrous though its failure has been, the operation of the Chancellor of the Exchequer upon the interest of the National Debt may be only a prelude to what the fundholder may expect from a more unprincipled minister. We are not at all assured that even the national honour will be permitted, without a struggle, to stand in the way of cheapness of the necessaries of life. Happily society is at present undisturbed by the efforts of the political demagogue. Our Brights and Cobdens, and their “peace progress” associates, are at present too small a minority to dare embarking in an attempt to persuade the highest-souled nation on earth to embrace degradation. But signs and portents have not been wanting during the past two months, whilst we have been upon the verge of a collision with Russia, which, combined with the temporising course of her Majesty’s Ministers, ought to be seriously weighed by every patriotic man. The world at large, reading the tenor of our trade circulars, and looking at the same time at our tedious protocolling and negotiations with an aggressive power, may well draw the conclusion that England is more anxious for uninterrupted supplies of grain from the Black Sea than for the maintenance of her prestige as the leading power in Europe; and reflecting men may seriously ask the question—how long, in the present temper of the consuming masses, would a state of warfare be tolerated with patience? Unprincipled persons there are sufficient amongst us, who, although at present their bad passions are without a profitable sphere for their exercise, would willingly emerge from obscurity to undertake the task of inflaming the minds of our working masses, and who might probably do so successfully if they could point to dear food as the result of a manly and consistent foreign policy.

Whatever may be the future price of food—and we are satisfied that it must maintain its present, if not a higher value, as measured in gold—there is another reason why we may look for a prematurely advanced rate of wages in this country. The great American continent is now bridged over, as it were, by a constant succession of passenger-ships—“clippers,” whose voyages rarely average above eighteen to twenty days, and of which eight or ten sail every week from the port of Liverpool, in addition to those which go from other ports of the United Kingdom. The postal arrangements between the two countries are as regular as those between London and Edinburgh. A month’s time suffices to exchange communications between this country and the Far West of the United States; and £5 or £6 will suffice to convey the British labourer or artisan to the prairies of the Mississippi, the Ohio, or the Western States of our North American colonies. Moreover, it is no longer to a new land, or amongst strangers, that the Celt and the Saxon now go to push their fortunes, and find new scope for their industry and enterprise. A hearty welcome awaits them in these countries from friends and relatives who have preceded them; and, in a majority of cases, it is the success of these pioneers which furnishes their connexions at home with the means of emigrating. Whilst high wages and prosperity prevail in new countries situated as the United States and Canada are, and must continue for years to be with respect to the old countries of Europe, it is sheer folly to imagine that low wages in those old countries can ever be secured. The cost of a passage across the Atlantic for an adult operative is insignificant, compared with that of a strike of even a few weeks’ duration; and the dangers and hardships of the voyage are regarded now, as compared with those contemplated by the emigrant a few years ago, very much like those attending modern railway travelling as compared with that by “the heavy stage,” which our great-grandfathers patronised, when the journey from Edinburgh to London was advertised to be performed in a fortnight—“God willing.” To a far greater extent than our statesmen imagined we are committed to the fortunes, and bound by the rate of labour, enjoyed by the working classes of the American Republic. If Free Trade, as was boasted, has placed Manchester alongside the valleys of the Mississippi, the increased facilities now afforded for emigration have also placed our operatives in closer proximity to their highly-paid American brethren. Those classes in Great Britain will never again succumb to the dictation of the capitalist, whilst there is afforded to them a way to the prosperity enjoyed by their fellow-labourers in the United States and Canada. And here a serious question arises for the consideration of those politico-economical schemers who have built up their expectations of manufacturing prosperity and enlarged foreign trade upon the basis of cheap production in this country. Great Britain cannot spin and weave for the world whilst her labouring population have the wages of new countries thus easily open, as we have seen, to their acceptance. We may command for a time the trade with our own colonies. The abundant capital of our merchants may maintain our commercial predominance for a time. But colonies situated as Australia and Canada are—the resort of the enterprise of every nation—will seek to be independent. Capital, the Free-Traders reminded us, owns no allegiance, and may command the cheap labour of countries differently situated to our own. It is worth the while of our manufacturing interest, whose selfishness has been manifested in our Free-Trade policy, to ponder upon the probable future operation of those signal events, which Providence seems to have thrown in the way of the realisation of their ambitious designs.

But the middle classes—the men who exercise the franchise—surely these, it will be urged, are, and have been for some time past, in a condition of unqualified prosperity. The retailers in our large towns and boroughs, as distributors of commodities between the merchant, or the producer, and the consumer, must have been benefited materially by the enlarged consumption of the country. The assumption is a natural one, and yet it may be only partially true. The business of the retailer is one of which we possess no statistics. We have no means of gauging the results of his dealings. A larger amount of money may be passing through his hands now than formerly. Enhanced prices of every article in which he deals, independently of increased consumption of those articles, will account for his receipts being larger. But the great question to be solved is—are his profits increasing in the same ratio? It would be a healthy sign if we could find that the increased consumption of the country had operated to put an end to that ruinous competition which has for years past been going on amongst these classes;—a sign that the consumers, being in possession of increased means to buy, were willing to afford to those from whom they buy a fair remuneration for their industry and their capital. It would be most gratifying to find that puffery and clap-trap were declining amongst our shopkeepers; that frauds were less rife than formerly; that adulteration was no longer practised, and just weight and measure were universally meted out. We observe, however, none of these healthy signs of a profitable trade. On the contrary, we have evidence around us on every side, that the retailer has for some months past been placed, as it were, in a vice between two opposing conditions of the community, by whose custom he has to live. He has to fight against rising markets and dear labour on the one hand, and the determination of the consumer to insist upon cheapness on the other. For every purchase which he makes, he has to pay higher prices; and he can only extort these from the community after a severe struggle. He is, in fact, in the position of the traveller, who has no sooner surmounted one hill than he sees another on the path before him. It is notorious that this is always the case in rising markets. Every advance in the price of raw materials or other commodities is followed by a period of business without profits. Traders are withheld, by mutual jealousy and the fear of competition, from the necessary efforts for self-protection. Doubts intervene as to the permanency of such advanced prices. And when at length the step is resolved upon of demanding a corresponding advance from the consumer, it is frequently found that a further upward movement has taken place in the wholesale markets, which once more compels the retailer to resign the gain which he ought to derive from his industry. This has been the position of these classes during the whole of the past twelve months; and it is one in which capital is rapidly exhausted, especially in the case of men whose dealings are from hand to mouth, and whose means are limited. The tradesman of large means and extensive credit may buy a stock in advance of his consumption; and thus for a time protect himself from the loss which rising wholesale markets, unattended with higher retail prices, would occasion; but the small capitalist has no such resource. He is continually reversing the principle extolled by the Free-Trader, by buying in the dearest market and selling in the cheapest.

The severity of this operation of rising markets has been very greatly increased on the present occasion by the prevailing temper and opinions of the consuming classes, especially throughout the manufacturing districts. They have been taught that free imports were to bring about a permanently low range of the prices of all commodities; and they are disposed to regard and to resist high prices, as the result of speculation on the part of the capitalist, or undue extortion on the part of the retailer. When being charged 8d. for a pound of beef or bacon, which a year ago was only worth 6d., or 10d. for a pound of butter, which a year ago was sold at only 7d., they have regarded the extra charge as something approaching to a fraud. It is of no use reminding those persons that they are themselves demanding from the community a higher price for their labour; and that dear labour involves dearness of every product of labour. They are deaf to such appeals to their reason, and resolutely ignore every fact which tends to account for the high prices of which they complain. The prosperity which they contemplated, and believed that they had secured by free imports, was one which the consumer could monopolise. Each class seems to have imagined that the remainder were to be prostrated for their own particular benefit.

It is perfectly natural that, during such a struggle between the distributors and the consumers of commodities, and whilst competition was unabated amongst the former, no effort would be left untried by them to secure business and profit. The great object to be achieved was to induce a belief on the part of the consumer that he was not paying advanced prices, and was still in the enjoyment of the idol “cheapness.” This could only be done by the aid of adulteration, and deception of every kind; and never were these dishonest practices of traders more rife, throughout the manufacturing districts especially, than they have been of late. The price of flour began to rise towards the close of last year. From an average of about 21s. for the best quality of American, it has gradually risen to 28s. Was the price of bread advanced, in proportion, to the consumer? It was not—at least apparently. A less profit was submitted to by the baker and retailer; and wherever it was possible, just weight was withheld. For example, the small loaves, nominally of two pounds weight, with which the small shopkeepers are supplied for retailing amongst that portion of the working classes in the manufacturing districts whose payments are usually weekly ones, were not very perceptibly advanced in price, but decreased in weight. Twenty pounds of bread contained in such loaves were manufactured into twelve or thirteen, nominally of two pounds each, instead of ten. The price to the consumer of each loaf remained the same. Although tallow has risen in price at least thirty per cent, the price of the candles principally consumed by the working classes remained mysteriously almost the same. We have had this accounted for by the fact that dishonest manufacturers have been supplying equally dishonest tradesmen with the article in quantities, purporting to be pounds in weight, but, in reality, two or three ounces less. Thus, candles sold as twelve, fourteen, or sixteen to the pound, contain still the number represented; but, as the buyer never asks to have them weighed, as he does beef or mutton, they are short of the proper weight. This practice has lately been shown to prevail throughout a great portion of the manufacturing districts, especially of the north of Lancashire and the West Riding of Yorkshire. The adulteration of coffee with chicory, it is well known, has prevailed so long, and the tastes of the consuming classes have become so accustomed to the mixed article, that the Legislature has had to submit to its permanent practice. Cheatery of every description, in short, has been resorted to by the dishonest trader, to disguise from the consumer the fact of dearness, and to wring a profit from the low range of prices which alone the public are disposed to tolerate; whilst the honest trader, who is not willing to descend to such arts, has been carrying on a continually losing business, and contemplating in despair the gradual absorption of his capital.

Unfortunately there are not in existence the requisite data to enable us to arrive at the precise position of these classes as compared with that which they formerly occupied. The humbler portions of them—the small retailers in our large towns and manufacturing districts—were never in the habit of attaining a place in that truth-telling and widely-read record, the London Gazette. They embark in their petty course of ambition, trusting to the enterprise which they feel stirring within them for a successful result; and when the reverse comes, and disappointment is their lot, they retire from the struggle, disappear amongst the classes from which they rose, and are forgotten. The other sources of information, with respect to the condition of these classes, have been so altered recently, since the extension of increased powers to the County Courts, that the means of an accurate comparison of any two periods are wanting. Moreover, the resort to legal proceedings, in cases of insolvency, is less now than in former years. Compositions and amicable private arrangements between creditors and debtors are found to be cheaper, and more satisfactory in their results, than the ordinary formal modes of proceeding. Hence the statistician, who would fain persuade mankind that nothing of ill exists in the world save that which such records reveal, can prate glibly of prosperity to classes, who, knowing the reality of their own position, must feel such prating to be a bitter mockery. The facts which we have shown above, as to the tendency of rising markets to decrease the profits of the retailer’s trade, are sufficient of themselves to prove that he cannot, at the present moment, be in the enjoyment of a satisfactory position; and we have the further fact to adduce, that at no previous period was credit more reluctantly extended to that class than at present. The merchant and the wholesale dealer are well aware, and watch well when the retailing classes are doing business without profit. They are aware when those classes are living upon their capital. And that a large portion of them are doing so at this moment, and have been so for many months past, is clear, not only from the increased jealousy of the wholesale dealer, but also from their almost general exclusion from the benefits of a money market which, up to within the last few weeks, might be fairly described as “easy” to most other classes. The extensive merchant who has produce in his hands to pledge, or the speculator who can raise capital of his own equal to cover the probable margin of loss to arise from his temporary investment, can command almost unlimited pecuniary accommodation, on tolerably reasonable terms. But the same facilities are not open to the retailer, who may for a time require an increase of his means. To this class money is always dear. It is to be had by the bulk of them only upon usurious terms. The retailer cannot command a capital by paying in to his banker small bills drawn upon his customers. He must resort to the Loan Society, to the Insurance Office, or to the moneylender, whose terms are even more ruinous than those of the previously mentioned parties; and it is a sad fact that such modes of raising money are more practised amongst tradesmen of the present day than formerly. We can scarcely glance over the columns of a newspaper published in any of our large commercial towns, without observing one or more advertisements of societies professing to lend money on personal security, repayable by instalments, the interest of which is seldom less than ten per cent; or of insurance companies, whose directors hold out to parties in want of money the inducement that life policies may be pledged, and the provision which might have been made, through the beneficial medium of insurance, for a widow or an orphan family, anticipated, for the purpose of bolstering up perhaps unprofitable speculations. There is known to be existing amongst the trading classes an underground ramification of involvements of this description, which would startle the world if it could be brought to light, as it is seen occasionally in the schedules of insolvents in our Bankruptcy and our County Courts. The most profitable business would not suffice to maintain a man who is paying ten to twenty per cent for every money accommodation which he may require in temporary emergencies, and is besides compelled from time to time to make up the defalcations of friends, between whom and himself a mutual system of guaranteeship for loans is constantly existing. The evil is not by any means confined to the small trading classes, but prevails as well amongst our working classes. We have loan societies whose accommodations range from £3 to £10 or £15, which the working man too frequently avails himself of to enable him to expend upon excursion trips, and other extravagancies scarcely justified by his station in life. We have, too, modes of anticipating the incomes of the working classes even less legitimate than the legalised loan societies. During this very week we find recorded, in a Manchester paper, the existence, throughout a large portion of the manufacturing districts, of clubs, the parties engaged in which pay small weekly instalments, as low even as a shilling or sixpence, and gamble with the dice, or draw lots for the privilege of having the whole sum—say of forty shillings or five pounds, for which they are responsible—advanced on personal guarantee. Another festering sore in the body politic is the present amazing increase, especially in the manufacturing districts, of what in the metropolis is called the “tally system,” but is elsewhere better known as dealing with “Scotchmen,” or “weekly men.” It argues little in favour of the provident character of our manufacturing operatives, that thousands of hard-working and industrious families amongst them purchase the bulk of their clothing from these men, at prices ranging from 40 to 60 per cent above the fair value of the articles, not only to their own manifest injury, but also to that of the legitimate trader. These men are to be seen in every manufacturing town and village, yard-stick in hand, and parcels of patterns and collecting-books protruding from their capacious pockets, perambulating the small streets and courts inhabited by our working classes, too often to wring their gains from simple-minded wives, whose husbands are unconscious of the indebtedness incurred, until made aware of the fact by a summons from the county or some other petty court of law. Not above twelve months ago one of these Scotchmen in a manufacturing borough in Lancashire had no fewer than fifty cases for hearing in a single fortnightly session of the County Court there; and it is not uncommon to find upwards of one-half of the cases tried at these courts, in the manufacturing districts, to consist of actions for debts incurred in the manner we have described. So largely has the number of this class of traders increased of late, that they have become a distinct power, and, in some of our boroughs, can determine the result of an election—in favour of Whig-Radicalism, by the by; for your travelling Scotch draper is invariably attached to “liberal” politics. In one borough in Lancashire with which we are acquainted, it is computed that they possess, amongst their own body, no less than eighty or ninety votes; and at the last two elections those votes decided the results of the contests.

Under such circumstances it would be most rash, at any time, to assert the existence of great prosperity, either of the retail traders or of our manufacturing operatives, merely from external appearances, or from the ordinary tests of employment and increased consumption of the necessaries of life. We know that at present there do exist all the external appearances of such prosperity; but we know also that there is a restlessness being manifested amongst those classes, which is incompatible with a perfect satisfaction with their real position. We have to bear in mind always, whilst speculating upon the state of the small traders in particular, that they form a class whose numbers are readily recruited during a period of actual or apparent prosperity. Little encouragement suffices to induce the well-to-do operative, disgusted with the arduous toil required from him in his legitimate sphere, to embark in the apparently more easy avocations of the small dealer; and since we have placed so large a share of the political power of the country in the hands of these classes, it is most important that we should not be misled as to their social condition, and the amount of prosperity which they are enjoying. We have taught them to believe that it is within the power of legislation alone to command that prosperity for them; we have taught the working classes, too, that it is in the power of legislation to bring about cheapness contemporaneously with highly remunerated labour; yet we see abundant elements at work, which point to dearness in prospect as the result. We see the prices of raw materials and produce rising in every foreign market as the result, in part at least, of an increase of the precious metals throughout the world. We see foreign enterprise and industry everywhere stimulated by increased monetary facilities afforded to the masses of the people, whilst such increased facilities at home never extend below the privileged classes, who are permitted to negotiate directly with the banker and the capitalist. We see the bulk of the transactions of the country, and especially the distribution of food and other necessaries, falling day by day more extensively into the hands of those classes who can avail themselves of cheap money; whilst all below them the very nature of our existing banking system drives into the hands of the usurious lender, unless they are contented to restrict their dealings to little beyond the supply of their daily wants. What must be the course of the great masses of our population, should their present doubtful prosperity altogether disappear; or should high prices and reduced profits press them further than at present towards the necessity of curtailing their enjoyment of material comforts? It is not difficult to perceive that a demand must arise for continual further reductions of taxation, and consequent reductions of the public expenditure. We have gone almost as far as we can go in dealing with those duties whose removal is followed by such an amount of increased consumption as will protect our customs’ revenue from exhaustion. The numerous small items the taxation of which was well-nigh unfelt, although, in the aggregate, it was productive, are being rapidly swept away; and there remain none for the financier to operate upon save the few large imposts, the removal of any one of which would be almost equivalent to national bankruptcy. If interference with these is denied, a demand must arise either for such a diminution of the public expenditure as is incompatible with the maintenance of the national honour and security, or for a decrease in the interest of the public debt. Mr Gladstone’s financial abortions have shown us, with tolerable distinctness, that, in the existing state of our monetary laws, a permanently reduced rate of interest is inconsistent with increased imports and an enlarged trade. Whilst the specie, which regulates the quantity of money which is permitted to circulate, is constantly liable to be drawn away to meet adverse balances of trade, such as we have now with almost every country of the globe, a reduction in the pressure of our indebtedness is impracticable, except by a stretch of power on the part of the legislature, which must for ever stamp us as an unprincipled people. With the important question of the currency, however, we repeat that we have no intention of meddling in this article. Our object has been simply to examine carefully the actual condition of our industrious classes, and to endeavour to trace that condition to its true causes; we leave to others to draw conclusions, and to point the way to a remedy, should further experience prove that a remedy is required.