Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, No. 371, September, 1846

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Man must be content to follow the steps of Providence tardily, timidly, and uncertainly; but he can have no pursuit more worthy of his genius, his wisdom, or his virtue. Why one half of the globe remained hidden from the other during the four or five thousand years after its creation, is among the questions which we may long ask without obtaining an answer. Why the treasures, the plants, and the animals of America should have been utterly unknown, alike to the adventurous expeditions of Tyre and Sidon, to the nautical skill of the Carthaginian, to the brilliant curiosity of the Greek, and to the imperial ambition of the Roman; while their discovery was reserved for a Genoese sailor in the fifteenth century, is a problem perhaps inaccessible of solution by any human insight into the ways of the Great Disposer of all things. Yet may it not be conjectured that the knowledge was expressly withheld until it could be of practical use to mankind; that if America had been discovered a thousand years before, it would have been found only a vast wilderness in both its southern and northern divisions, for it was then almost wholly unpeopled; that with the chief interest of imperial Rome turned to European possession or Eastern conquest, the discovery would have been nearly thrown away; that there was hitherto no superflux of European population to pour into this magnificent desert; and that even if Roman adventure had dared the terrors of the ocean, and the perils of new climates, at an almost interminable distance from home, the massacres and plunders habitual to heathen conquest must have impeded, if not wholly broken up, the progress of the feeble population already settling on the soil; or perhaps trained that population to habits of ferocity like their own, and turned a peaceful and pastoral land into a scene of slaughter and misery?

The discovery of the American Continent flashed on the world like the discovery of a new Creation. In reading the correspondence of the learned at the time, the return of Columbus, and the knowledge which that return brought, is spoken of with a rapture of language more resembling an Arabian tale than the narrative of the most adventurous voyage of man. The primitive races of their fellow-beings, living in the simplicity of nature, under forests of the palm, with all delicious fruits for their food, with gold and pearls for their toys, and the rich treasures of new plants and animals of all species for their indulgence and their use, were described with the astonishment and delight of a dream of Fairy-land, or the still richer visions of restored Paradise.

Yet, when the hues of imagination grew colourless by time, the continents of the West displayed to the ripened knowledge of Europe virtues only still more substantial. The contrast between the northern and southern portions of the New World is of the most striking kind. It is scarcely less marked than the distinction between the broken, deeply-divided, and well-watered surface of Europe, and the broad plains, vast mountain ranges, and few, but mighty rivers, which form the characteristic features of Asia. In North America, we see a land of singularly varied surface, in its primitive state, covered with forest; with an uncertain climate; a soil seldom luxuriant, often sterile, every where requiring, and generally rewarding human industry; watered by many rivers, penetrated in almost every direction by navigable streams, and traversed from north to south, an unusual direction for rivers, by an immense stream, the Mississippi, bringing down the furs, the produce of the north, the corn of the temperate zone, the fruits of the tropics, and connecting all those regions with the commerce of Europe: a natural canal, of more than two thousand miles, without a perceptible difference of breadth, from New Orleans to the falls of St Anthony. The Arkansas, Missouri, Ohio, noble rivers, traverse the land in a variety of directions, with courses of from fifteen hundred to two thousand miles; and to the north of the United States, a chain of vast inland seas, a succession of Mediterraneans, surrounded by productive provinces, rapidly filling with a busy population.

The southern portion of the New World exhibits the plains of Tartary, the solitary mountain range of India, the fertility of the Asiatic soil. It, too, has its Ganges and its Indus, in the Amazon and the Rio de la Plata; but its smaller streams are few and feeble. It has the fiery heat of India, the dangerous exhalations of the jungle, the tiger and the lion, though of a less daring and powerful species; and the native, dark, delicate, timid, and indolent, as the Hindoo.

Without speaking of the contrast as perfectly sustained in all its points, it is unquestionable that North and South America have been formed for two great families of humankind as distinct as energy and ease; that the North is to be possessed only as the conquest of toil, while the South allows of the languor into whose hand the fruit drops from the tree.

May it not also be rationally conjectured, that in the discovery Europe and America were equally the objects of the Providential benevolence? It was palpably the Divine will to give Europe a new and powerful advance in the fifteenth century. Printing, gunpowder, and the mariner’s compass, were its gifts to Europe; to be followed and consummated in that new impulse at once to religious truth and to social improvement, which so soon transpired in the German Reformation, and in the commercial system of England and the continental nations. The extension of this mighty impulse to America rapidly followed. The first English colony was planted in North America in the reign of Elizabeth, the great protectress of Protestantism; and the first authentic knowledge of South America was brought to Europe by the discoveries of Englishmen, following the route of Columbus, and going beyond him. It is true that the intercourse of the South with the energetic qualities and free principles of Europe was impeded by an influence which, from its first being, has been hostile to the free progress of the human mind. The Popedom threw its shadow over Spanish America, and the great experiment of civilisation was comparatively thrown away wherever the priest of Rome was paramount. The land, too, witnessed a succession of slaughters, and the still more fearful trade in the unfortunate natives of Africa. But the most powerful contrast was furnished to mankind in the rapid growth of the Protestant states of the north, in their increasing commerce, in the vigour of their laws, in the activity of the public mind, and the ascent of their scattered and feeble communities into the rank and the enjoyments of a great nation.

Nor are we to speak of South America as having wholly slept during the period since its discovery. If all the larger faculties which give nations a place in history remained in a state of collapse under the pressure of Spain, society had made a forward step in every province of that great territory. The inhabitants had never relapsed into their primitive barbarism; they had laws, commerce, manufactures, and literature, all in a ruder degree than as developed under the vivid activity of Europe, but all raising the provinces into a gradual capacity of social vigour, of popular civilisation, and perhaps even of that pure religion without which national power is only national evil. Perhaps the cloud which has rested for so many ages over the moral soil of South America, may have been suffered to remain until the soil itself acquired strength for a larger product under a more industrious generation. It is not improbable that as the gold and silver of the South were evidently developed, in the fifteenth century, to supply the new commercial impulse of that time of European advance, the still more copious, and still more important, agricultural wealth of countries overflowing with unused exuberance—the magnificent tropical fertility of the continents beyond the ocean—may have been reserved to increase the opulence and stimulate the ardour of a period which the Steam-boat and the Railway have marked for a mighty change in the earth; and in which they may be only the first fruits of scientific skill, the promises of inventions still more powerful, the heralds of a general progress of mankind, to whose colossal strides all the past is feeble, unpurposed, and ineffectual.

The invasion of the Mexican territory by the army of the United States has naturally attracted the eyes of Europe; and whether the war shall issue in a total conquest or in a hollow peace, its results must strongly affect the future condition of the country. Mexico must at once take the bold attitude of an empire, or must be dis-severed, province by province, until its very name is no more. But no country of the western world has a position more fitted for empire. Washed on the east by the gulf which bears its name, and on the west by the Pacific, it thus possesses direct access to two oceans, and by them to the most opulent regions of the globe. On the south it can dread no rival in the struggling state of Guatemala. But the north is the true frontier on which the battle of its existence is to be fought, if fought at all, for beyond that barrier stretch the United States. The extent of its territory startles European conceptions, extending in north latitude from fifteen to forty-two degrees, and in west longitude from eighty-seven to one hundred and twenty-five degrees. Its surface, on a general calculation, contains about a million and a half of square miles, or about seven times the dimensions of France. Yet, though thus approaching the equator, the climate of Mexico is in general highly favourable to life and to the products of the temperate zone: the incomparably larger portion of its surface being a succession of table-lands or elevated plains, where, with the sun of the tropics blazing almost vertically, the evenings are refreshingly cool, the breeze is felt from the mountains or the ocean, and the days are scarcely hotter than those of Europe.

We now glance at the principal features of the great territory.

Vera Cruz, its chief commercial city, and medium of intercourse with Europe, is handsomely built, exhibiting the usual signs of commercial wealth, in the stateliness of its private houses, and in the rarer peculiarity of wide and cleanly streets. But when did commerce build with any other consideration than that of trade? Vera Cruz is proverbially unhealthy; a range of swamps in the vicinity loads the summer air with fatal exhalations; and the Vomito, the name for a rapid disease, evidently akin to the fearful Black-vomit of Africa, requires either the most vigilant precaution, or more probably the most fortunate chance, to escape its immediate seizure of the frame. Yet it is said that this disease seldom attacks the natives of the city.

But the general susceptibility of the European frame to tropical disease, is tried here in almost every shape of suffering; and typhus, yellow fever, and almost pestilence, terribly thin the concourse of the stranger.

Yet such is the courage of money-making in all parts of the world, that climate is regarded as only a bugbear. The trader in Vera Cruz enters on the campaign against “all the ills that flesh is heir to,” as if he had a patent for life. The streets, in the trading season, exhibit perpetual crowds; the harbour is full of masts, nestling under the protection of St Juan d’Ulloa from the bursts of wind which sometimes come with terrible violence from the north; and the funeral and the festivity go on together, and without much impeding each other, in a land which for the time exhibits the very Festino, or fête of the Merchant, the Sailor, and the Creole.

But, when this season ends, Vera Cruz is as sad as a dungeon, as silent as a monastery, and as sickly as an hospital. The señoras, a race of perfectly Spanish-visaged, black-eyed, and very coquettish beauties, sit all day drooping in their balconies, like doves upon the housetops, perhaps longing for a hurricane, an earthquake, or any thing which may break up the monotony of their existence. The sound of a guitar, a passing footstep, nay, the whine of a beggar, sets a whole street in motion, and there is a general rustling of mantillas, and a general rush to the windows. The men bear their calamity better; the señor, when he has once a cigar between his sallow lips, has made up his mind for the day. Whether he stands in the sunshine or sits in the shade—whether he wakes or sleeps, the cigar serves him for all the exercise of his animal functions. His brain is as much enveloped in smoke as his moustaches; his cares vanish like the smoke itself. It is not until his cigar-box is empty, that he reverts to the consciousness of his being an inhabitant of this world of ours.

But some are of a more aspiring disposition. They now and then glance round upon the noble landscape which encircles their city. But they do this with the most dexterous determination not to move a limb. Their houses are flat-roofed; some of them have little glazed chambers on the roofs; and there they sit with the sky above them, the mountains round them, and the sea beneath them, dreaming away like so many dormice. One of their American describers compares the whole well-bred population to a colony of beavers; but, we presume, without the industry of the quadruped. Their still closer resemblance would be to a wax-work collection on a large scale, where tinsel petticoats, woollen wigs, and bugle eyes imitate humanity, and every thing is before the spectator but life.

Jonathan, who thinks himself born to lay hold on every scrap of the globe by which he can turn one cent into two, looks, of course, on the whole shore of the gulf—towns, mines, and mountains—as his own. He frees himself from all scruples on the subject by the obvious convenience of the conception.

“No spot of the earth,” says one of those neighbourly persons, “will be more desirable than the soil of Mexico for a residence, whenever it is in possession of our race, with the government and laws which they carry with them wherever they go. The march of time is not more certain than that this will be, and probably at no distant day.”

And, on this showing, the man of “government and laws” proceeds to “sink, burn, and destroy,” in the “great cause of humanity,” edifies the native by grapeshot, and polishes him with the cutlass. In those exploits of a “free and enlightened” people, our only surprise is that diplomacy itself takes the trouble of offering any apology whatever. The comparative powers of resistance and attack settle the conscience of the affair in a word. The seizure is easy, and therefore why should it not be made? The riflemen of Kentucky and the hunters of Virginia, the squatters of Ohio and the sympathizers of Massachusets, all see the affair in the proper light; and why should the philosopher or the philanthropist, the man of justice or the man of religion, be listened to on subjects so much more easily settled by the rattle of twelve-pounders? The right of making war on Mexico has not yet found a single defender but in the streets; not a single ground of defence but in the roar of the rabble; not a single plea but in the convenience of the possession. Even the American journals have given up their old half-savage rant of universal conquest. Every drop of blood shed in a war of aggression is sure to be avenged.

The present town is not the town of Cortes. His “Villa Rica de Vera Cruz” (The Rich City of the True Cross) was seated six miles further inland. But trade decided against the choice of the great soldier. The pen, in this instance, conquered the sword a century before the conflict began in Europe. The population of the old city slipped away to the new and hasty hovels on the shore; and the ground consecrated by the banner of the Spanish hero was left to the donkey and the thistle.

The visible protector of the city and harbour (it has saints innumerable) is the island of St Juan de Ulloa, lying within 600 yards of the mole; and on which stands the well-known fortress. Ships, of course, pass immediately under its guns; and it is regarded as the most powerful fortress in Mexico, or perhaps in the New World, being now thoroughly armed. This is a different state of things from the condition in which it was found by the French squadron in 1839. The ramparts were then scarcely mounted, the guns were more dangerous to the garrison than to the enemy, and of regular artillerists there were few or none; engineers were unheard of. The French naturally did as they pleased; achieved a magnanimous triumph over bare walls, and plucked a laurel for the Prince de Joinville from the most barren of all possible soils of victory; but it served for a bulletin. They would probably now find another kind of reception, for the ramparts have guns, and the guns have artillerymen.

The aspect of the Mexican coast from the sea is singularly bold. On the north and west the waters of the Gulf wash a level shore; but on the south all is a crescent of mountains, rising to a general height of 12,000 feet above the level of the sea; but the noblest object is the snow-capped pinnacle of Orizaba, rising, according to Humboldt, 17,400 feet, and covered with perpetual snow from the height of 15,092. This is a volcanic mountain, but which has slept since the middle of the sixteenth century; what must have been its magnificence when its summit was covered with flame!

The mode of conveyance between Vera Cruz and Mexico is chiefly by an establishment of stage-coaches, making three journeys a-week between the capitals. Those vehicles, originally established by an American of the United States, are now the property of a Mexican whom they are rapidly making rich. The horses are Mexican, and, though small, are strong and spirited. The stage leaves Vera Cruz at eleven at night, and arrives about three o’clock in the next afternoon at Jalapa, a distance of about seventy miles, and a continual ascent through mountains. The houses on the wayside are few and wretched, constructed of canes ten feet long, fixed in the ground, and covered with palm-tree leaves. The villages strongly resemble those of the American Indians; hovels ten or twelve feet square, with a small patch of ground for Chillies and Indian corn—the only difference of those original styles of architecture being, that the northern builds with logs, the southern with mud in the shape of bricks.

A large portion of the country between those two towns belonged to the well-known General Santa Anna. The soil of his vast estate is fertile, but left to its natural fertility—the General being a shepherd, and said to have from forty to fifty thousand head of cattle in his pastures. He also acts the farmer, and takes in cattle to graze. His demand is certainly not high; and Yorkshire will be astonished to hear that he feeds them at forty dollars the hundred.

The ascent of the mountain range, and the varieties of the road, naturally keep the traveller on the qui vive. With the air singularly transparent, with the brightest of skies above, and the most varied of southern landscapes stretching to an unlimited extent below, the eye finds a continual feast. The city of Jalapa stands on the slope, throned on a shelf of the mountain 4000 feet above the sea, and with 4000 feet of the bold and sunny range above it. The whole horizon, except in the direction of Vera Cruz, is a circle of mountains, and towering above them all, at a distance of twenty-five miles, (which, from the clearness of the air, seems scarcely the fourth part of the distance,) rises the splendid cone of Orizaba. On the summit of the range stands Perote, a town connected with a strong fortress, perhaps the highest in position that the world exhibits—8500 feet above the shore.

Height makes the difference between heat and cold every where. In the middle of a summer which burns the blood in the human frame at Vera Cruz, men in Perote button their coats to the chin, and sleep in blankets. Thus winter is brought from the Poles to the Tropic, and the Mexican shivers under the most fiery sunshine of the globe.

The next stage is Puebla—eighty miles; the road passes over a vast plain generally without a sign of cultivation, as generally destitute of inhabitants, and with scarcely a tree, and scarcely a stream. It is difficult to know to what purpose this huge prairie can be turned, except to a field of battle. As the road approaches Puebla, there are farms erected by the town, and from which its wants are chiefly supplied. They produce wheat, barley, and Indian corn. The only fodder for horses is wheaten straw, but on this they contrive to “grow fat;” we are not called on to account for the phenomenon.

But every nation loves to intoxicate itself, and the Mexican boasts of the most nauseous invention for the purpose among the discoveries of man. Pulque, the national beverage, is the juice of the Agave Americana, fermented. The original process by which the fermentation is produced is one which we shall not venture to detail; but the liquor obtained from the section of the plant is drawn up by a rude syphon, and poured into dressed ox-hides. The taste is mawkish, and the smell is noisome. Yet, to the Mexican, it is nectar and ambrosia together. Pulque is to him meat, drink, and clothing, for without it the world has no pleasures. The most remarkable circumstance is, that it is without strength. Thus it wants the charm of brandy, which may madden, but which at least warms; or aquafortis, which the Pole and the Russ are said to drink as a qualifier of their excesses in train oil; but the Mexican would rather die, or even fight, than dispense with his pulque; and if Santa Anna had but put his warriors on short allowance of the national liquor before his last battle, and promised them double allowance after it, he would probably have been, at this moment, on the Mexican throne.

The Agave, called by the natives Maguey, is certainly an extraordinary instance of succulency, and an unrivalled acquisition to a thirsty population. A single plant of the Agave has been known to supply one hundred and fifty gallons of this sap. In good land it grows to an enormous size, the centre stem often thirty feet high, and twelve or fifteen inches in diameter at the bottom. When the plant is in flower, which occurs from seven to fifteen years old, the centre stem is cut off at the bottom, and the juice is collected.

Humbolt says, that a single plant will yield four hundred and fifty-two cubic inches of liquor in twenty-four hours, for four or five months, which would give upwards of four hundred gallons. How curious are the distributions of nature! All this profuse efflux of mawkish fluid would be thrown away in any other country. But nature has given the Mexican a palate for its enjoyment, and to him the draught is rapture.

Mexico is the land for the lovers of pumice-stone. The whole road from Vera Cruz to the capital is covered with remnants of lava. Every plain seems to have been burnt up by eruptions a thousand years old, or, according to the time-table of the geologist, from ten to ten thousand millions of years ago. With the mountain tops all on fire, and the plains waving with an inundation of flame, Mexico must have been a splendid, though rather an inconvenient residence, in the “olden time.”

Mexican agriculture has not yet attained the invention of an iron ploughshare; its substitute is primitive, and wooden. It evidently dates as far back as the times of the Dispersion. Nor, with thousands and tens of thousands of horses, have they yet discovered that a horse may be yoked to a plough. The Turks say, that the plague exists only where Mahometanism is the religion, and they seem to regard the distinction as a peculiar favour of Providence. It has been said by, or for, the Spaniards of the present day, that no railroad exists, nor, we presume, can exist, “where the Spanish language is spoken.” The late abortive attempts to make a railway from Bayonne to Madrid, so far prove the incompatibility of railways with the tongue of the Peninsula. A little effort of human presumption in Cuba, has been ventured on, in the shape of a brief railway, which already goes, as we are informed, at the rate of some half-dozen miles an hour. But as this is a dangerous speed to a Spaniard, we naturally suppose that the enterprise will be abandoned. But though the majority of the population, between drinking pulque and smoking cigars, find their hands completely full, one class is at least sufficiently active. Robbers in Mexico are what pedlars used to be in England; they keep up the life of the villages, plunder wherever they can, cheat where they cannot plunder, ride stout horses, and lead, on the whole, a varied, and sometimes a very gay life. One of the American travellers saw, at one of the villages where the stage changed horses, a dashing and picturesque figure, gaudily dressed, who rode by on a handsome horse richly caparisoned. On inquiring if the coachman knew him, the answer was, that he knew him perfectly well, and that he was the captain of a band of robbers, who had plundered the stage several times since the whip and reins had been in his hands. On the Americans urging the question, why he had not brought the robber to punishment, the answer was, “that he would be sure to be shot by some of the band the next time he passed the road;” the honour of Mexican thieves being peculiarly nice upon this point. It appeared that the dashing horseman had gone through the village on a reconnaissance, but probably not liking the obvious preparations of the travellers, had postponed the caption.

The mode of managing things in this somnolent country, is remarkable for its tranquillity. The American who narrates the circumstance, had taken with him from Vera Cruz four dragoons; but on accidentally enquiring on the road into the state of their arms, he found that but one carabine had a lock in fighting order, and even that one was not loaded; on which he dismissed the guard, and trusted to his companions, who were all well armed. The Mexican travellers, taking the matter in another way, never carry arms, but prepare a small purse “to be robbed of,” of which they are robbed accordingly. A few miles from Perote, the road winds round a high hill, and the passengers generally get out and walk. The Americans on this occasion had left their arms in the carriage, but their more prudent chief immediately ordered them to carry them in their hands, and in the course of the ascent, they pounced upon a group of ruffians whom the driver pronounced to be robbers; and who, but for their arms, would probably have attacked them. In less than a month after this, five or six Americans having left their arms in the stage at this spot, were attacked, and stript of every cent belonging to them.

It must be owned that this country has fine advantages for the gentlemen of the road. The highway between Vera Cruz and Mexico is the great conduit of life in the country. Nearly all the commerce goes by that way, and ninety out of every hundred travellers pass by the same route. The chief portion of the road is through an absolute desert. It frequently winds up the sides of mountains, and then is bordered by forests of evergreens, forming a capital shelter for the land pirate, the whole being a combination of Hounslow Heath and Shooter’s Hill on a grand scale, and making highway robbery not merely a showy but a safe speculation, the gaming-table being the chief recruiting-office of the whole battalion of Mercury.

The statistics of gaming might borrow a chapter from Mexico. The passion for play is public, universal, and unbounded. It is probably superior even to the passion for pulque. Every one plays, and plays for all that he is worth in the world, and often for more. But he has his resource—the road. A man who has lost his last dollar, but who is determined to play on till he dies, lays himself under strong temptations of coveting his neighbour’s goods. The hour when the stages pass is known to every one; the points of the road where they must go slowly up the hill, are familiar to all highway recollections. Associates are expeditiously found among the loiterers, who, after their own ruin, sit round the room watching the luck of others. The band is formed in a moment; they take the road without delay, post themselves in the evergreens, enjoy the finest imaginable prospect, and breathe the most refreshing air, until the creaking of the coach-wheels puts them on the alert. They then exhibit their weapons, the passengers produce their little purses, the stage is robbed of every thing portable, or convertible into cash, the band return to the gaming-table, fling out their coin, and play till they are either rich or ruined once more.

Some time after an adventure, such as we have described, the stage was robbed near Puebla by a gang, all of whom had the appearance of gentlemen. When the operation of rifling every body and every thing was completed, one of the robbers observed—“that they must not be looked on as professional thieves, for they were gentlemen; but having been unfortunate at play, they were forced to put the company to this inconvenience, for which they requested their particular pardon.”

An incident of this order occurring in the instance of a public personage, some years before, long excited remarkable interest. The Swiss consul had been assassinated at noonday. A carriage had driven up to his door, out of which three men came, one in the dress of a priest. On the doors being opened they seized and gagged the porter, rushed into the apartment where the consul was sitting, murdered and robbed him, and then retreated. None knew whence they came or whither they went; but the murdered man, in his dying struggle, had torn a button off the coat of one of the robbers, which they found still clenched in his hand. A soldier was shortly after seen with more money than he could account for; suspicion naturally fell upon him; his quarters were searched, and one of his coats was found with the button torn off. He was convicted, but relied upon a pardon through the Colonel Yanez, chief aide-de-camp of the president Santa Anna, who was his accomplice in the transaction. On being brought out for execution, and placed on the fatal bench where criminals are strangled, he cried out, “Stop, I will acknowledge my accomplices;” and he pronounced the name of the colonel. Search was immediately made in the house of Yanez, and a letter in cipher was found, connecting him with this and other robberies. This letter was left in the hands of one of the judges: he was offered a large sum to destroy it, and refused. In a few days after he was found dead, as was supposed, by poison. The paper was then transferred to another judge who was offered the same bribe, and who promised to destroy it; but on conferring with his priest, though he took the money, he shrank from the actual destruction of the document and kept it in silence. Yanez was brought to trial, and, believing that the paper was no longer in existence, treated the charge with contempt. The paper was produced, and the aide-de-camp was condemned and executed.

Puebla is one of the handsomest cities in the Mexican territory. The houses are lofty, and in good taste, and the streets are wide and clean About six miles from the city stood Choluta, which Cortes described “as having a population of forty thousand citizens, well clothed,” and as it might appear, peculiarly devout according to their own style, for the conqueror counted in it the towers of four hundred idol temples. Of this city not a vestige remains but an immense mound of brick, on which now stands a Romish chapel.

Beyond Puebla, cultivation extends to a considerable distance on both sides of the road. To the right lies the republic of Tlascala, so memorable in the history of the Spanish conquest, and once crowded with a population of warriors. The road then runs at the foot of Pococatapetl, the highest of the Mexican mountains, seventeen thousand feet above the level of the sea. The capital is now approached; and on passing over the next ridge, the first glimpse is caught of the famous valley and city of Mexico. From this ridge Cortes had the first view of his conquest. It must have been an object of indescribable interest to the great soldier who had fought his way to the possession of the noblest prize of his age. The valley of Mexico, a circuit of seventeen hundred square miles, must then have been a most magnificent sight, if it be true that it contained “forty cities, and villages without number.” Time, war, and the fatal government of Spain, have nearly turned this splendid tract into a desert. But it still has features combining the picturesque with the grand. The valley partially resembles the crater of an immense volcano wholly surrounded by mountains, some of them rising ten thousand feet above the city. In the centre of this vast oval basin is a lake, or rather a chain of lakes, through the midst of which the road now passes for about eighteen miles, on a raised causeway. The city stands in the north-eastern quarter of the valley, not more than three miles from the mountains, at an elevation of seven thousand four hundred and seventy feet, and its position seems obviously made for the capital of an empire.

Mexico is regarded as the “stateliest city” in the New World. Its plan was laid, and the principal portion of its public buildings are said to have been designed, by Cortes. They bear all the impress of a superb mind. The habitual meanness of democratical building has no place there; the majority of the fabrics were evidently constructed by a man to whom the royal architecture of the European nations was familiar, and the finest houses in the city are still inhabited by the descendants of the conqueror.

The principal square is the pride of the Mexicans, and the admiration of travellers. It has an area of twelve acres; unluckily, this fine space, which in England would be covered with verdant turf, shrubs, and flowers, is covered only with pavement. But the buildings are on a noble scale. The Cathedral fills one whole side of the square, the Palace another, and the sites of both are memorable and historical; the Cathedral standing on the ground where once stood the great idol temple, and the Palace on the ground of the palace of Montezuma! The latter building is 500 feet long, and contains the public offices, besides the apartments of the President. The Cathedral is of striking Gothic architecture, and after all the pressures and plunderings of the later period, still retains immense wealth. The high altar is covered with plates of silver, interspersed with ornaments of massive gold. This altar is inclosed with a balustrade a hundred feet long, not less precious than the high altar itself. It is composed of an amalgam of gold, silver, and copper, richly flourished and figured. It is said that an offer had been made to purchase it at its weight in silver, giving half a million of dollars besides. Of this balustrade there are not less in the building than 300 feet. Statues, vases, and huge candlesticks of the precious metals, meet the eye every where; and yet it is said that the still more precious portion of the treasure is hidden from the popular eye. The streets are wide, and cross each other at right angles, dividing the whole city into squares. But the Romish habit of giving the most sacred names to common things, is acted on in Mexico with most offensive familiarity. The names of the streets are instances of this profanation, which has existed wherever monks have been the masters. Thus, the Mexican will tell you that he lives in “Jesus,” or in the “Holy Ghost.” In the Spanish navy the most sacred names were similarly profaned; and the Santissima Trinidada (the Most Holy Trinity) was a flag-ship in the fleet destroyed at Trafalgar. What blasphemies and brutalities must not have been mingled with this sacred name in the mouths of a crew!

The churches are the chief buildings in the city, some of them of great size, and all filled with plate and other wealth. Yet the houses, even of the most opulent families, exhibit some of the vilest habits of the vilest southern cities of Europe. To pass over other matters, in the whole city there is perhaps not a stable separate from the house. The stud is on the basement story, and it may be conceived how repulsive must be the effects of such an arrangement in the burning climate of Mexico! The servants’ rooms are also upon this floor; and in some of the principal houses the visitors have to pass through this row of stables and sleeping rooms on their way to the chief apartments. In some, too, of the larger private houses, no less than thirty or forty families reside, each renting one or two rooms, and having a common stair of exit to the street. This crowding of families is produced, in the first instance, by the narrow limits of the city, which is scarcely more than two miles in length by a mile and a half in breadth; and in the next, by the lazy habits of their Spanish ancestry, which still gathered them together for the sake of gossiping and idling, and which seem every where to have had an abhorrence of cleanliness, of fresh air, and of the sight of a field; the population thus festering on each other, while the country round them is open, healthful, and cheerful. The inhabitants, to the amount of two hundred thousand, evidently prefer half suffocation in an atmosphere that tortures the nostrils of all strangers; and are content with the dust and dimness, the heat and the effluvia, naturally generated by a tropical sun acting upon a crowded population.

In addition to this voluntary offence, Mexico has two natural plagues, inundations and earthquakes. The city was once a kind of American Venice, wholly surrounded by water, penetrated by water, and built on piles in the water. A gigantic canal, which was tunnelled through its mountain barrier in the beginning of the seventeenth century, partially drained the waters of the lakes, and left it on firm ground. But the lakes, from time to time, take their revenge; clouds of a peculiarly ominous aspect begin to roll along the mountains, until they break down in a deluge. Then the genius of the land of monks exhibits itself, and all the bells in the city are rung, whether to frighten the torrent, or to propitiate the Deity. But the rain still comes down in sheets, and the torrents roar louder. The bells meet the enemy by still louder peals. At length the clouds are drained, and the torrents disappear; the bells have the praise. The city recovers its spirits, finds that its time for being swept from the earth has not yet arrived; the sun shines once more, and the monks have all the credit of this triumph over Satan and Nature.

Mexico has its museum, and it contains some curiosities which could not be supplied in any other part of the world. They are almost wholly Mexican. The weapons found among the people at the time of the conquest: rude lances, daggers, bows and arrows, with the native armour of cotton, and those wooden drums which the old Spaniards seem to have dreaded more than the arms. Among them is the Mexican “razor sword,” a staff with four projecting blades, made of volcanic glass, and brought to such sharpness that a stroke has been known to cut off a horse’s head. In the museum there are some still more curious specimens of their manufactures, paper made from the Cactus, with much of their hieroglyphic writing on it. One of these rolls exhibits the Mexican idea of the deluge, and among other details shows “the bird with a branch in its claw.” It is said that they had traditions of the leading events from the Creation to the Deluge, nearly resembling the Mosaic history; but that from the Deluge downwards all records have escaped them. But the museum contains more modern and more characteristic remains. Among the rest, the armour of Cortes.

From its size, its wearer must have been a man of small stature, and about the size of Napoleon. The armour of the brave Alvarado is also in the museum, and is even smaller than that of Cortes; but, as a covering of the form, both are complete. The wearer could have been vulnerable only at the joints; the horse of the man-at-arms was similarly protected, being in fact covered all over either with steel or bull’s hide. The use of cannon finally put an end to the wearing of armour, which was found to be useless against weight of metal. It is now partially reviving in the cuirass, and unquestionably ought to be revived among the infantry so far as covering the front of the soldiers. The idea is childish that this would degrade the intrepidity of the troops. The armour of knighthood did not degrade its intrepidity; the cuirasses of our dragoons have not degraded their intrepidity; nor will any man be the less daring from the sense that he is less exposed to the casualties of the field.

A colossal bronze statue of Charles IV. stands in the court-yard of the museum, but its history is of higher value than its subject; that history being, that it was designed by one native Mexican, and cast by another. Thus at least showing that the cultivation of the fine arts is not impossible, even in Spanish America.

There also is the great sacrificial stone on which human victims bled, a circular mass four feet high and eight in diameter, with figures in relief elaborately carved on the top and sides. On this stone sixty-two of the companions of Cortes were put to death before the eyes of their countrymen.

The finance of Mexico becomes a matter of European importance, in a period which should be called the “Age of Loans.” The debt in 1844 was about one hundred millions of dollars, of which sixty millions are due to foreigners. But the territory is evidently the richest in silver that the world has yet seen, and possibly exceeding in mineral wealth all the world beside, if we except the gold sands of the Ural, which have lately teemed with such marvellous produce. Humboldt reckoned no less than three thousand silver mines in Mexico in the year 1804. But not one fiftieth of those mines continue to be worked, a result caused by the distance of quicksilver in the mines of Old Spain. The mines produce but little gold, and that little is generally found in combination with silver. But the quantity of silver is absolutely astonishing. The mines still continue to give a produce as large as in any year of the last two centuries, in which Humboldt computes the average produce at twelve millions of dollars annually. But allowing for the quantity notoriously smuggled out of the country, besides the eighteen millions and a half of gold and silver actually registered for exportation, the produce may amount to twenty-four millions of dollars yearly. This increase evidently arises from the greater tranquillity of the country; for in the times of actual revolution, it frequently sank to three or four millions.

The American writer from whom we have taken these calculations, cannot help betraying the propensity of Yankeeism, by talking of the wonders which would be done in such a country if it were once in the possession of Jonathan. He thinks that the produce of the mines would be “at least five times as great as it is now,” that every mine would be worked, and that many more will be discovered. Calculating the exports of British produce at two hundred and sixty millions of dollars yearly, he thinks that “Mexico, if in full action, would equal that amount in ten years.” But his words are more significant still with respect to the relations of the United States. We are to remember that those words were written previously to the aggression which has just taken place against Mexico, and which the Americans pretend to be perfectly innocent and justifiable. And also, that they are written by an American minister. “Recent manifestation,” says this writer, “of a rabid, not to say rapacious spirit of acquisition of territory on the part of our countrymen, may well cause a race so inferior in all the elements of power to tremble for the tenure by which they hold this Eldorado. It is not often, with nations at least, that such temptations are resisted, or that ‘danger winks on opportunity.’ I trust, however, that our maxim ever will be, ‘noble ends by worthy means,’ and that we may remember that wealth improperly acquired never ultimately benefited an individual or a nation.”

Those are wise and just sentiments. But we unluckily see the practical morality of the Americans on the subject, in the invasion of the territory, and the slaughter of the natives.

The mineral produce is not confined to gold and silver. No country produces larger masses of that iron which so much better deserves the name of precious metal, if we are to estimate its value by its use. And tin, lead, and copper are also found in large masses.

The fertility of the soil, where it receives any tolerable cultivation, is also remarkable, and two crops may be raised in one year. But the farmers have neither capital nor inclination to cultivate the soil. Having no market, they have no use for their superfluity, and therefore they raise no superfluity. A considerable portion of the whole territory is also distributed into immense pastures of eighty or a hundred thousand cattle, and fifteen or twenty thousand mules and horses, the grass being green all the year round, and those animals being left to the course of nature. Yet, except when there is a government demand to mount the cavalry, those immense herds of horses seldom find a purchaser, nearly all agricultural work being done by oxen. Horses are sold at from eight to ten dollars a-piece. But the Mexicans exhibit the old Spanish preference for mules and a pair of handsome carriage mules will cost one thousand dollars.

Thus, in all the precious products of the earth, Mexico may stand rivalry with the most favoured nations. It is the land of the cochineal; it produces all the rice which is required for the food of the people; the silk-worm might there be multiplied to any extent; cotton can be raised in almost every province to a boundless amount. The high grounds are covered with fine timber, and, where nothing else is produced, bee’s-wax abounds; this is consumed chiefly in the churches, where a part of their religion consists in keeping candles perpetually burning. Yet the Mexican bee-masters are as careless as the rest of their countrymen, and they do not produce wax enough for this holy ignition, and great quantities are imported accordingly.

The history of Mexico, since the Spanish conquest, is a combination of the histories of European sovereignty and American republicanism.

Mexico was not among the discoveries of the great Columbus, though he approached Yucatan. That peninsula was first seen in 1517 by Cordova. In 1519 the famous Hernan Cortes landed on the site of Vera Cruz. After founding Villa Rica, he began his memorable march into the territory of Montezuma, King of the Aztecs. It cost him two years of desperate struggle to make good his ground; the Mexicans exhibited occasional bravery, and fought with the fervour of devotees to their king and their idols. But the novelty of the Spanish arms, the belief in an ancient prediction that “the kingdom was to be conquered from the sea,” and, above all, the indefatigable bravery of Cortes, finally established the supremacy of Spain.

The great source of calamity to Spain has always been its pride. The groundless sense of personal superiority in every thing belonging to Spain, its religion, its government, its literature, and its people, has, during the last four hundred years of European advance, kept Spain stationary. The country was pronounced to be perfect, and what is the use of trying to improve perfection? But the Spaniard pronounced himself as perfect as the country; and, therefore, what was the use of his adopting the inventions, habits, or intelligence of others? He disdained them all, and therefore continued the byword of ignorance, arrogance, and prejudice, to all nations. The troops of Cortes, and the gallant adventurers who followed them as settlers in the Spanish colonies, had descendants who soon began to form a powerful population. Among those, a government possessed of common sense would have found the natural support of the parent state. But the man of Spain scorned to acknowledge the equality even of the Spanish blood, when born in the colonies; and no office of trust, and no commission in the colonial troops, could be given to a Creole. The foundation of hostility was thus laid at once, and on it was raised a large superstructure.

Another race soon rose, the children of Spaniards by native women, the Mestizos. They, too, were excluded from all employments. The revolt of the United States would probably have applied the torch to this mass of combustible matter, but for the jealousy of the two races. As the men of Old Spain despised the Creole, the Creole despised the Mestizo. Thus the power of Spain remained guarded by the jealousies of both.

But a new period was at hand. The infamous seizure of Spain by Napoleon in 1808, roused both races to an abhorrence of the French name, and a determination to separate themselves from a kingdom which could now be regarded only as a French province. Again jealousy prevailed; the Creoles demanded a national representation, the Spanish troops and employés a royal government. In the midst of their disputes, a powerful enemy appeared. The Mestizos and Indians united under a village priest, Hidalgo, and overran the country. This incursion brought the disputants to a sense of their own peril; they collected troops, were beaten by the bold priest, rallied for another field, beat him, took him prisoner in the battle, and put him to death.

But the spirit of revolt had now become popular, and another priest, Morellos, was found to head another insurrection. His talents and intrepidity swept all before him for a period, and the “independence of Mexico” was declared by a “national assembly” in November 1813. But Morellos was finally unfortunate, was attacked by the Spanish general Colleja, who seems to have been a man of military genius, was taken prisoner, and shot. The Old Spaniards were once more masters, and Apodaca, a man of intelligence and conduct, was sent from Spain as viceroy.

But sudden tumults broke out in Spain itself. The “Constitution of 1820” was proclaimed, the parties in Mexico followed the example, and a constitution strongly tending to democracy was proposed. It produced a total dissolution of the alliance between the Creoles and the Old Spaniards, the former demanding a government virtually independent, the latter adhering to Spain. In the confusion, Iturbide, a young Creole of an ancient family, and of large possessions, pushed his way into power, and, to the astonishment of all Western republicanism, in 1822 proclaimed himself Augustin the First, Emperor of Mexico.

But he instantly committed the capital fault of quarrelling with his congress. By a rash policy he dissolved the assembly and appointed another, composed of his adherents. But Cromwell’s boldness required Cromwell’s abilities to sustain it. The army had been the actual givers of the throne, and what they had given they regarded themselves as having the right to resume. The generals revolted against Iturbide, overthrew him, proclaimed a new constitution, and sent him to travel in Europe on a pension!

The constitution thus formed (October 1824) was republican, and took for its model that of the United States. Its two assemblies are a senate and a house of representatives. The senate consisting of two members for each state; the representatives, of two for every eighty thousand inhabitants. All must be natives, and have landed property to the amount of eight thousand dollars, or some trade or profession which brings in ten thousand dollars annually. The congress sits every year from the first of January to the middle of April. The senators holding their seats for four years, generally; the representatives for two. The executive is vested in a president and vice-president, both elected by the state legislatures for four years. The ages of the several functionaries are curiously fixed. The representative must have attained the age of twenty-five, the senator of thirty, and the high officers of state thirty-five.A The whole territory forms one “Federal Republic, governed by one Executive,” a marked distinction between Mexico and its model; the several states of the American Union retaining to themselves many of the privileges which, in the Mexican, belong to the government of the capital.

Iturbide, after a two years’ exile, whether uneasy in his fall, or tempted by the perpetual tumults of party at home, returned to Mexico in 1824. He was said to complain of the stoppage of his pension; but, before his arrival, a party especially hostile to him had obtained power, and Iturbide, with a rashness which exhibits the true Creole, landing, without making the natural inquiry into the actual condition of things, was instantly seized and shot. Santa Anna, who had distinguished himself in the military service, now appealed to the usual donor of power, the army, and, at the head of his squadrons, took possession of the Presidentship.

In the present confusion of Mexican affairs, the recollection of Santa Anna has been frequently brought before the mind of his nation, as the only man fit to sustain it under the difficulties of the crisis; and nothing can be more fully acknowledged, than that, among the successive leaders of the country, he has had no rival in point of decision, intelligence, and intrepidity, the qualities obviously most essential for the time.

Santa Anna, in 1823, was unknown; he was simply a colonel in the Mexican service. The declaration of public opinion in that year for Republicanism, found him a zealous convert; and at the head of his regiment he marched from Vera Cruz to meet the troops of Iturbide. He met the Emperor’s general, Echavari, half-way to the capital, and, after some trivial encounters, made a convert of his enemy; Echavari’s battalions marched into Santa Anna’s camp. Iturbide, thus suddenly stript of his troops, had no alternative but to capitulate, and go into banishment. The Republic was proclaimed, and Santa Anna was recognised as the deliverer of his country. But an occasion occurred in which his military talents were to be equally conspicuous.

In 1829, a Spanish armament, with four thousand troops under General Barrados, made its appearance off Tampico, dispatched to recover the country for the Spanish crown. This instance of activity on the part of Old Spain was so unexpected, that the Republic was in general consternation. But Santa Anna took his measures with equal intelligence and bravery. Collecting about seven hundred men hastily, crossing the Gulf in open boats, and evading the Spanish vessels of war, he landed within a few miles of the Spanish expedition. Barrados, unprepared for this dashing antagonist, had gone on some rash excursion, carrying with him three-fourths of his force; the remaining thousand were the garrison of Tampico. Santa Anna, losing no time, assaulted the place next morning, and after a four hours’ struggle, made the whole garrison prisoners. But his victory had placed him in imminent danger. Barrados rapidly returned; the Mexican general, encumbered with prisoners, found himself in presence of triple his numbers, and with a river in his rear. Death, or surrender, seemed the only alternatives. In this emergency, he dexterously proposed an armistice, impressing the Spanish general with the idea that he was at the head of an overwhelming force—an impression the more easily made, from the apparent hardihood of his venturing so near an army of Spanish veterans. One of his first conditions was, that the Mexican troops should return to their own quarters unmolested. Thus, with merely six hundred men, he escaped from five times that number. In a few days he was joined by several hundred men. He then commenced a vigorous and incessant attack on the Spanish position, which was followed by the surrender of the entire corps; and 2200 Spaniards were embarked for the Havannah as prisoners of war. Santa Anna’s force never exceeding 1500 men.

A campaign of this rank naturally placed him in a distinguished point of public view. Yet he remained in comparative quiet on his estates near Vera Cruz, probably on the Napoleon principle—waiting his opportunity. It soon came; in 1841, Bustamente, the president, fell into unpopularity; murmurs rose ominously among the troops, and Santa Anna was summoned to head a revolution. Gathering five or six hundred men, chiefly raw recruits, he marched on the capital. The enterprise was singularly adventurous, for Bustamente was an experienced officer, with 8000 men under his immediate command. Santa Anna again tried the effect of diplomacy; the result was, that Bustamente finally surrendered both his power and his place, and was shortly after sent into exile.

Santa Anna now governed the country as dictator. His administration had the rashness, but the honesty, of his Spanish origin; and Mexico, relieved from the encumbrances of her Spanish dependence, was beginning to enjoy the riches of her unparalleled climate and boundless fertility, when a new enemy arose in Texas—the American settlers, who, in the spirit of cosmopolitism, had been universally suffered to enter the Mexican territories as inhabitants. The result was, that they began to clamour for provincial independence. The natives were generally tranquil; but the new-comers intrigued, harangued, and demanded a direct alliance with the United States. The struggle has been too recent to require recital. Santa Anna, with the rashness which characterises his courage, rushed into this war with troops evidently unprepared. After various skirmishes, in which the settlers suffered severely, his undisciplined force was routed, and Santa Anna, left alone in the field, was made prisoner in the attempt to escape. The “Independence” of Texas followed, which was quickly exchanged for the “Annexation” to the United States, by which its independence was extinguished.

The “Annexation” was immediately pronounced by the Mexican government to be a breach of that treaty by which the neighbour States were pledged to respect the possessions of each other; and the invasion of Mexico by an American army was the consequence. The Mexican force on the frontier was obviously too feeble for any effective resistance; and the American general, after some delays of movement, and divisions of his forces, which one active officer on the defensive would have turned to his ruin, attacked the Mexicans, drove them from their position, and took their guns. Since that period the advance of the Americans seems to have been checked by the difficulties of the country. Whether it is the intention of the American commander to fight, or to negotiate, to make a dash for the capital, or to treat for California, must be left to be discovered by events. But Paredes, the present head of the state, and commander of the troops, has the reputation of a brave officer, and Santa Anna is strongly spoken of as the man whom the nation would gladly summon to the redemption of his country.

But Mexico has one fatal feature which makes the mind despair of her ever holding the rank of a great nation. However glaring may be the superstition of continental Europe, it is of a feeble hue to the extravagance of Mexican ceremonial. In those remote countries, once guarded under the Spanish government with the most jealous vigilance from the stranger’s eye, every ceremonial was gradually adopted, of every shape and colour, which the deepest superstition, aided by great wealth, the influence of a powerful hierarchy, and the zeal of a people at once desperately ignorant and singularly fond of show, could invent. Rome, and even Naples, were moderate, compared with Mexico. The conveyance of the Host to the sick was almost a public pageant; its carriage to the wife of Santa Anna was accompanied by twenty thousand people. The feast of Corpus Christi exhibits streets through which thirty or forty thousand people pour along, of all classes of society, with thousands of soldiery, to swell and give military brilliancy to the display. At the head of the pageant moves a platform, on which the wafer is borne by the highest dignitaries of the church. Then follows, in a similar vehicle, “Our Lady of the Remedies,” the blessed Virgin Mother, a little alabaster doll, with the nose broken and an eye out. This was the image of herself given by the Virgin to Cortes to revive the valour of his soldiers after their Mexican defeat; and this the priests profess to believe, and the populace actually do believe. The doll’s wardrobe, with its precious stones, is valued at a million of dollars. The doll stops all contagious diseases, and is remarkably active in times of cholera.

Some of the popular exhibitions on Scriptural subjects are actually too startling to be described to Christian ears. Among those is the exhibition of the Nativity, as the especial display of Christmas eve. Joseph enters Bethlehem with Mary; they are sitting on the same mule; they search the city for lodgings in vain. At last they find the stable. The rest of the exhibition, a part of which, however, passes behind a curtain, is indescribable. And all this is done with the highest approbation of the ecclesiastical authorities.

The anniversary of the “Miracle” of the “Virgin of Guadaloupe,” is one of the “grand days” of the Federal Republic. The president, the cabinet, the archbishop, and all the principal functionaries of the state, are present, with an immense multitude of every class. A member of Congress delivers an oration on the subject; and the Virgin and her story are no more doubted than the history of Magna Charta. The story thus blazoned, and thus believed, is briefly this:—

An Indian, going to Mexico one morning in the sixteenth century, saw a female form descending from the sky. He was frightened; but the female told him that she was the Virgin Mary, come down to be the patron of the Mexican Indians, and ordered him to announce to the bishop that a church must be built in the mountain where she met him. The Indian flew to the bishop, but the prelate drove him away. The next day he met the Virgin on the same spot, and she appointed a day to convince the sceptical ecclesiastic. She bid him go to the summit of the mountain, where he should find the rock covered with roses for the first time since the Creation. He carried the roses in his apron to the bishop, when, lo! he found that on his apron was stamped a figure of the Virgin in a cloak of velvet spangled with stars of gold! Her proof was irresistible, and the church was built. The original portrait is still displayed there, in a golden frame studded with precious stones, with the motto, Non fecit taliter omni nationi. (He hath not so done to every nation; or, more significantly, to any other nation.) Copies of the miraculous picture, of more or less costliness, are to be found in almost every house, and all have the full homage of saintship. The Church of the Virgin, though not so large as the Cathedral, is of a finer style, and nearly as rich; the balustrade is pure silver, and all the candelabra, &c., are of the precious metals.

The idleness and the low class of life from which the majority of the monks and friars are taken, make celibacy especially dangerous to the community. The higher orders of the priesthood are comparatively decorous; but many of them have these suspicious appendages to a priest’s household, which are called “house-keepers,” with a proportionate share of those equally suspicious appendages, which are popularly called “nephews and nieces,” the whole system being one which furnishes a large portion of the gossip of Mexican society. But on those topics we have no wish to dwell.

Whether the American invasion will succeed in reaching Mexico, or in obtaining Upper California, or in breaking up the Federation, are matters still in the future. The disruption of the Federation seems to have been already, and spontaneously begun; Yucatan is said to have demanded independence; and the northern provinces bordering on the United States will, in all probability, soon make the same demand. It is obvious that the present Mexican territory is too large for the varying, distracted, and feeble government which Mexico has exhibited for the last quarter of a century—a territory seven times the size of France, or perhaps ten times that size, can be governed by a central capital only so long as the population continues scanty, powerless, and poor. But if Mexico had a population proportionate to France, and there is no reason for doubting its capacity of supporting such a population, the capital would govern a territory containing little less than three hundred millions of men; an obvious impossibility, where those men were active, opulent, intelligent, and engaged in traffic with the world. The example of the Chinese population is not a contrary case. There the empire was old, the throne almost sacred, the imperial power supported by a large military establishment, the character of the people timid, and the country in a state of mental stagnation. Yet, even for China, great changes may be at hand.

But the whole subject is to be looked on in a more comprehensive point of view. There is a general shaking of nations. The Turk, the Egyptian, the African, and the Chinese, have all experienced an impulse within late years, which has powerfully influenced their whole system. That impulse is now going westward. The immense regions beyond the Atlantic are now commencing the second stage of that existence, of which their discovery by Europe was the first. The language, the habits and history, the political feelings of England, are becoming familiar to them. They have begun their national education in the great school of self-government, with England for their teacher; and however tardy may be the pupilage, or however severe the events which turn the theory into example, we have strong faith in the conception, that all things will finally work together for good, and that a spirit of regeneration is already sent forth on its mighty mission to the New World as to the Old, to the “bond as to the free;” to those whom misgovernment has enfeebled, and superstition has debased, as to those who, possessing the original advantages of civilisation and religion, have struggled their difficult way to increasing knowledge, truth, and freedom, and whose progress has alike conferred on them the power, and laid upon them the duty, of being the moral leaders of Mankind.

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Dumfries, May 18, 1846.

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[Historia de la Guerra Ultima en Aragon y Valencia, escrita par D. F. Cabello, D. F. Santa Cruz, y D. R. M. Temprado. Madrid: 1846.]

On the twenty-seventh day of December 1806, at the collegiate town of Tortosa in Catalonia, Maria Griño, the wife of José Cabrera, an industrious and respectable mariner, gave birth to a son. Destined to the church, this child, from his earliest boyhood, was the petted favourite of his family. His parents looked to him as a staff and support for their declining years, his sisters as a protector; and none ventured to thwart his whims, or correct the failings of the young student. Thus abandoned to the dictates of a disposition naturally perverse, Ramon Cabrera led the life of a vagabond, rather than that of a scholar and of one destined to holy orders. Avoided by the more respectable of his classmates and townsmen, he fell amongst evil associates, and soon became notorious for precocity of vice. The reprimands of his superiors, the entreaties of his relatives, even punishment and seclusion, were inefficacious to reclaim him. Disliking books, the sole use he made of opportunities of study, was to imbibe the abominable and sanguinary maxims of the Inquisition. The taint of Carlism, widely spread amongst the clergy of the diocese of Tortosa, whose bishop, Saenz, was an influential and devoted member of the apostolical party, was speedily contracted by Cabrera. By character and propensities better fitted for an unscrupulous military partisan than for a minister of the gospel, for a devouring wolf than for a meek and humble shepherd of God’s flock, no sooner was the cry of insurrection raised in the kingdom of Arragon than he hastened to swell it with his voice. On the 15th of November 1833 he joined Colonel Carnicer, who had already planted on the ramparts of Morella the standard of Charles the Fifth.

Six years have elapsed since the termination of the civil war in Arragon and Valencia, and we should scarcely hope to interest English readers by raking up its details. In taking the volumes named at foot for the subject of an article, our intention is rather to give a correct notion of the character of a man who by one party has been extolled as a hero, by another stigmatized as a savage. A brief sketch of his career, and a few personal anecdotes, will afford the best means of deciding which of these epithets he may with most justice claim.

For the first sixteen months of the war, Cabrera acted as subordinate to Carnicer, chief of the Arragonese Carlists; and during that time he in no way distinguished himself, save by occasional acts of cruelty. His presumption and want of military knowledge caused the loss of more than one action—especially that of Mayals in Catalonia, in which, as it was then thought, the Arragonese faction received its death-blow. This unlucky encounter was followed by various lesser ones, equally disastrous; and at the commencement of 1835, the Carlist chiefs in the eastern provinces of the Peninsula were reduced to wander in the mountains at the head of scanty and disheartened bands, seeking shelter from the Queen’s troops, against whom they were totally unable to make a stand. Furious at this state of things, and still more so at the conduct of Carnicer, to whose lenity with the prisoners and population he attributed their reverses, discontented also with his obscure and subaltern position, Cabrera, who represented in Arragon the apostolical or ultra-absolutist party, and who on that account had influential supporters at the court of Charles the Fifth, resolved upon a bold attempt to get rid of his chief and command in his stead. Abandoning his post, he set out for Navarre, in company with a clever and resolute female of considerable personal attractions, intended as a propitiatory offering to the royal widower whose favour he was about to solicit. On his arrival he obtained a private audience of Don Carlos, to whom he represented himself as capable of commanding in Arragon, and of achieving the triumph of the King’s cause. He exposed his plan of campaign, accused Carnicer of weakness and mistaken humanity, and urged the necessity of severe and sanguinary measures. The result of his representations, and of the pleadings of his friends, some of whom were the Pretender’s most esteemed counsellors, was his return to Arragon, bearing a despatch by which Carnicer was ordered to make over his command to Cabrera, and to present himself at headquarters in Navarre. On the ninth of March 1835, Cabrera assumed the supreme command, and Carnicer, in obedience to his instructions, set out for the Basque country. On his road he fell into the hands of the Christinos, and was shot at Miranda del Ebro.

Public opinion amongst the Carlists unhesitatingly attributed to Cabrera the death of his former superior. Under pretence of their serving him as guides, he had prevailed upon Carnicer to take with him two officers whom he pointed out. These were also made prisoners; but although the Eliot convention was not yet in existence, and quarter was rarely given, both of them were exchanged after a very short delay. The information received by the Christino authorities, of the route that Carnicer was to follow, was sent from the village of Palomar on a day when Cabrera was quartered there. Other circumstances confirmed the suspicion of foul play, and that Carnicer had been betrayed by his own party; and so generally was the treachery imputed to Cabrera, that he at last took notice of the charge, and used every means to check its discussion. So long as a year afterwards, he shot at Camarillas the brother of one of the two officers who had accompanied Carnicer, for having been so imprudent as to say that the latter had been sold by Cabrera.B Such severity produced, of course, a directly opposite effect to that desired by its author; for although Cabrera pretexted other motives, its real ones were evident, and all men remained convinced of his guilt. Subsequently the Carlist general Cabañero threw the alleged calumny in his face in presence of several persons, and instead of repelling it with his sword, Cabrera submitted patiently to the imputation.

Justly distrustful of those about him, Carnicer, when passing the night in the mountains, was wont to change his sleeping place after all his companions had retired to rest. On one occasion, in the neighbourhood of Alacon, a soldier who had lain down upon the couch prepared for his general, was assassinated by a pistol-shot. Cabrera was in the encampment, and although the perpetrator of the deed was never positively known, rumour laid the crime at his door. Whether or not the dark suspicion was well founded, the establishment of its justice would scarcely add a shade of blackness to the character of Ramon Cabrera.

Already, during a period of eighteen months, the kingdoms of Arragon and Valencia had groaned beneath the calamities of civil war. Their cattle driven, their granaries plundered, their sons dragged away to become unwilling defenders of Don Carlos, the unfortunate inhabitants could scarcely conceive a worse state than that of continual alarm and insecurity in which they lived. They had yet to learn that what they had hitherto endured was light to bear, compared to the atrocious system introduced by the ruthless successor of Carnicer. From the day that Cabrera assumed the command, the war became a butchery, and its inflictions ceased to be confined to the armed combatants on either side. Thenceforward, the infant in the cradle, the bedridden old man, the pregnant matron, were included amongst its victims. A mere suspicion of liberal opinions, the possession of a national guardsman’s uniform, a glass of water given to a wounded Christino, a distant relationship to a partisan of the Queen, was sentence of death. The rules of civilized warfare were set at nought, and Cabrera, in obedience to his sanguinary instincts, committed his murders not only when they might possibly advance, but even when they must positively injure, the cause of him whom he styled his sovereign. “Those days that I do not shed blood,” said he, in July 1837, when waiting in the ante-chamber of Don Carlos with Villareal, Merino, Cuevillas, and other generals, “I have not a good digestion.” During the five years of his command, his digestion can rarely have been troubled.

The task of recording the exploits and cruelties of Cabrera, and the history of the war in which he took so prominent a part, has been undertaken by three Spaniards of respectability and talent; the principal of whom, Don Francisco Cabello, was formerly political chief of the province of Teruel, in the immediate vicinity of Cabrera’s strongholds. There he had abundant opportunities of gathering information concerning the Carlist leader. In the book before us he does not confine himself to bare assertion, but supplies an ample appendix of justificatory documents, without which, indeed, many of the atrocious facts related would find few believers.

The Carlist troops in Arragon and Valencia were of very different composition from those in Navarre and Biscay. In the latter provinces, an intelligent and industrious peasantry rose to defend certain local rights and immunities, whose preservation, they were taught to believe, was bound up with the success of Don Carlos. In Eastern Spain the mass of the respectable and labouring classes were of liberal opinions, and the ranks of the faction were swelled by the dregs and refuse of the population. Highwaymen and smugglers, escaped criminals, profligate monks, bad characters of every description, banded together under command of chiefs little better than themselves, but who, by greater energy, or from having a smattering of military knowledge, gained an ascendancy over their fellows. In these motley hordes of reprobates, who, after a time, schooled by experience and defeat, were formed into regular battalions, capable of contending, with chances of success, against equal numbers of the Queen’s troops, the clergy played a conspicuous part. Rare were the encounters between Christinos and Carlists, in which some sturdy friar did not lose his life whilst heading and encouraging the latter; after every action cowls and breviaries formed part of the spoil; scarce one of the rebel leaders but had his clerical staff of chaplains, sharing in, often stimulating, his cruelties and excesses. Those monks who did not openly take the field, busied themselves in promoting disaffection amongst the Queen’s partisans. The most subversive sermons were daily preached; the confessional became the vehicle of insidious and treasonable admonitions; the liberal section of the clergy was subjected to cruel molestation and injustice. All these circumstances, added to the scandal and discord that reigned in the convents, loudly called for the suppression of the latter. Not only the government, which saw and suffered from the rebellion so enthusiastically shared in and promoted by the monks, but the very founders of the orders, could they have revisited Spain, would have advised their abolition. The following curious extract from the book now under review gives a striking picture of Spanish monastic doings in the nineteenth century.

“If, in the year 1835, St Bernard could have accompanied us on our visit to the monastery of Beruela in the Moncayo, surely he would have been indignant, and would have chastised the monks; surely he himself would have solicited the extinction of his order. Out of thirty monks, very few confessed, and only two or three knew how to preach; every one breakfasted and said mass just when he thought proper; by nine in the morning they might be seen wandering about the neighbouring country and gardens, or shooting small birds near the gates of the monastery; at eleven, they assembled in a cell to play monté with visitors from the neighbouring towns and villages, winning and losing thousands of reals. During dinner, instead of having some grave and proper book read aloud to them, one of their number related obscene stories for the amusement of his companions; at dessert the finest wines were served, the monks played upon the piano, and sang indecent songs. The siesta passed away the afternoon, until, towards evening, these self-denying anchorites roused themselves from their slumbers, and resumed their favourite amusements of birding and tale-telling. At nightfall the green-cloth was again spread, and the cards were in full activity; sometimes six or eight of the monks got upon their mules, and rode a distance of two or three leagues to a ball, dressed in the height of the fashion. The writer of these pages once asked the prior to let him see the paintings executed by the brotherhood; he was conducted to the apartments of the abbot, and in the most secluded of them was shown a wretched daub, of which the subject was shamefully coarse and disgusting. * * * Many of the women of the neighbouring village of Vera went by the names of the monks; and so great became the scandal, that, on one occasion, when the national guards were sent upon an expedition, the alcalde issued an order prohibiting their wives to walk in the direction of the monastery. One woman, who disobeyed the injunction, was made to pay a fine, and narrowly escaped having her head shaved in the public marketplace.”

The monks prosecuted the alcalde for this abuse of authority; but in the course of the trial so many scandalous revelations were made concerning them, that the over-zealous official got off with a very light punishment. His proclamation, the sentence of the Audiencia of Saragossa, and some other documents confirming the truth of the above allegations against the monastery, are given in the appendix to Señor Cabello’s book. “Certainly,” continues that gentleman, “all monasteries were not like that of Beruela. There were many virtuous, enlightened, and laborious monks; but if these were too numerous to be styled the exceptions, they at any rate composed the minority.”

To return to Cabrera. His first act, upon assuming the supreme command, was to collect the scattered remnant of Carnicer’s faction, which amounted but to three hundred infantry and forty horsemen. With these he commenced operations, limited at first, owing to the scanty numbers of his band, to marauding expeditions amongst the villages, whence he retreated to the mountains on the approach of the Queen’s forces. His cruelties soon made him universally dreaded in the districts he overran. To the militia especially he gave no quarter, slaying them unmercifully, wherever he could lay hands upon them, even when they capitulated on promise of good treatment. He was seconded by Quilez, El Serrador, Llangostera, and other partisans, as desperate, and nearly as bloodthirsty, as himself. With extraordinary and stupid obstinacy, the Madrid government persisted in treating the Arragonese rebellion as unimportant; and instead of at once sending a sufficient force for its suppression, allowed the insurgents to gain ground, recruit their forces, capture fortified places, and ravage the country, setting at defiance the feeble garrisons, and gallant but unavailing efforts of the national guard.

On the 11th of September, at day-break, Cabrera suddenly appeared in the town of Rubielos de Mora. Believing him far away, the garrison were taken entirely by surprise, and after a brief skirmish in the streets, retreated to a fortified convent. Here they made a vigorous defence, and no efforts of the Carlists were sufficient to dislodge them; until at dawn upon the 12th, after a siege of twenty-four hours, the Christinos perceived the points of the assailants’ pickaxes piercing the wall that divided the convent from an adjoining house. They set fire to the house, but unfortunately a high wind fanned the flames, which speedily communicated to the convent. Even then the besieged continued to defend themselves, but at last, overcome by fatigue, hunger, and thirst, scorched, bruised, and exhausted, they accepted the terms offered by the besiegers. Their lives were to be spared, and they were to retain their clothes and whatever property they had about them. Cabrera and Forcadell signed the agreement; and sixty-five national guardsmen and soldiers of the regiment of Ciudad Real marched out of the burning convent, and were escorted by the Carlists in the direction of Nogueruelas. On reaching a plain near that town, known as the Dehesa, or Pasture, Cabrera ordered a halt, that his soldiers might eat their rations. The prisoners also were supplied with food. The meal over, the Carlist chief formed his infantry and cavalry in a circle, made the captives strip off every part of their clothing, and bade them run. No sooner did they obey his order, than they were charged with lance and bayonet, and slaughtered to a man. It was a fine feast of blood for Cabrera and his myrmidons. On the body of one victim twenty-six wounds were afterwards counted. When Cabrera departed, the authorities of the adjacent town buried the bodies; but at the end of the war, in the year 1841, upon the anniversary of the massacre, their remains were disinterred and removed to Rubielos with much pomp and religious ceremony.

Such were the pastimes of Cabrera, such was the faith he kept with those who confided in his word. The barbarous execution detailed above was one of many that occurred in the first year of his command. Up to the month of February 1836, the number of his victims, slain after the battle, in cold blood, often in defiance of capitulation, sometimes on mere suspition of liberalism, amounted to one hundred and eighty-one. This does not include murders committed on the highways and in the mountains, but those only of which there were abundant witnesses, and that are proved by dates and documents. Amongst the slaughtered, were children and old men. Two lads of sixteen and seventeen years of age were shot at Codoñera in presence of their mother. When she implored Cabrera’s mercy, he told her that her sons should be spared if her husband would give himself up and take their place. On hearing this reply, worthy of a Caligula or a Nero, the unhappy woman swooned away, and the infant at her breast fell dead from her arms as if struck by lightning. The shock to the mother had killed the child. All these atrocities were committed whilst Cabrera’s mother yet lived unmolested in Tortosa.

Meanwhile the Christino general Nogueras, busied in the pursuit of the rebels, passed his whole time in the mountains, often not entering a town for a month together, except to get pay or shoes for his troops. Wherever he went, he was assailed by the tears and lamentations of bereaved wives and mothers. If he paused at Calatayud, they told him of the death of nine national guards shot at Castejoncillo; at Caspe, the weeping widows and orphans of five others presented themselves before him; at Teruel he was horrified by the narrative of the massacre of the Dehesa; when he traversed the plains of Alpuente, the Carrascal of Yesa, where forty prisoners had been bayoneted, was pointed out to his notice; in the Maestrazgo he found universal mourning for sixty-one nationals, pitilessly butchered at Alcanar; in each hamlet where he halted for the night, the authorities complained to him of the most barbarous ill-treatment at the hands of Cabrera. Not a village did he pass through, whose alcalde had not been brutally bastinadoed. From his companions, his visitors, his guides, he heard continually of Cabrera’s cruelties. In the whole district nothing, else was talked of. The sole thought of the liberal party was how to put a period to them, and to be avenged upon their perpetrator. The most humane and peaceable men urged a system of reprisals, as both legitimate and likely to be efficacious. Such a system, Nogueras, yielding to the public voice, and enraged at the murder of two alcaldes, whom Cabrera had causelessly shot, at last resolved to adopt. He demanded the execution of Cabrera’s mother, in the vain hope that it would strike terror into the rebel chief, and check his excesses. Most unhappy was the impulse to which he yielded. The act itself was cruel and hasty; its consequences were terrible. But such was the state of feeling in Arragon at that time, that, until those consequences were felt, many approved the deed. The captain-general of Arragon, Don Francisco Serrano, a man noted for humanity and mildness, deemed the measure advisable, and even announced it with satisfaction in a proclamation, by which he declared a similar fate to be in reserve for Cabrera’s sisters, and for the relatives of the other rebel chiefs, if the Carlists persisted in their atrocities. Hitherto the whole odium of the fate of a forlorn old woman, who perhaps deplored as much as any one the enormities committed by her son, has rested upon Nogueras. This is hardly fair. Ill-advised, and in a moment of just irritation, he urged a request, too hastily complied with, speedily repented, and which, according to the conviction of Señor Cabello, he would himself have retracted had he not been absent from Tortosa when its accomplishment took place. A more unfortunate act, to whomsoever it may chiefly be imputed, could not have been devised. It was at once repudiated by the Spanish government, by the Cortes and the nation. In the eyes of Europe, it went far to convert Cabrera from a pitiless butcher into an injured victim. At a distance from the theatre of war, the nine score unfortunates whom he had massacred in cold blood were forgotten or overlooked. Pity for the mother’s fate procured oblivion for the previous crimes of the son. Filial affection and regret, working upon an impassioned nature, were urged in extenuation of his subsequent excesses. His massacres became holocausts, offered by a pious child to the manes of a murdered parent.

In Valderobles, on the 20th of February, Cabrera received intelligence of his mother’s death. Its first result was a ferocious proclamation, by an article of which he decreed the death of four women, one of them the lady of a Christino colonel, then in his power. Had he shot them at once, in the first heat of anger and heaviness of grief, the act, however barbarous and severe, would have been palliated by circumstances; but for seven days he dragged those unfortunate women with him on all his marches, compelling them to wander barefoot over the rugged Mountains of Arragon. So great were the sufferings of these poor creatures, that even Cabrera’s aides-de-camp, albeit not very tender-hearted, interceded for them with their chief. At last, on the 27th February, having returned to Valderobles, three of the women were released from their misery by a violent death. This execution was followed by many others. Seven and twenty national guards, taken prisoners at Liria, were kept alive for two or three days, and then massacred at Chiva. On the 17th of April, the ferryman of Olva, who acted as spy to Cabrera, and who was shot after the war, in the year 1841, brought information to the Carlist camp that two companies of Christino soldiers, quartered in the hamlet of Alcotas, kept but a careless watch, and might easily be surprised. Cabrera immediately set out, the ferryman acting as guide, and fell upon the Christinos before they were aware of his approach. They defended themselves bravely; but their ammunition being expended, and themselves surrounded, they capitulated on promise of quarter. Cabrera’s chaplain, Father Escorihuela, was the person who prevailed on them to surrender, solemnly assuring them that their lives should be spared. A few hours later, this same priest heard the confession of the officers previously to their execution. To the soldiers, even the last consolations of religion were refused. Unshriven, they were shot to the last man.

But enough of such sanguinary details. Notwithstanding a severe defeat sustained a short time previously at Molina, Cabrera, in the spring of 1836, found himself at the head of four thousand infantry and three hundred dragoons. He displayed extraordinary activity; improved the organisation of his forces, and put them upon the footing of a regular army. Owing to these ameliorations, and to the culpable negligence of the Spanish government, who left the Army of the Centre unprovided with the commonest necessaries for campaigning, he was now able to abandon his former haunts in the mountains of Beceite, and to advance into the open country. Seeing the necessity of a stronghold for his stores and hospitals, and as a place of refuge in case of a reverse, he fixed upon the town of Cantavieja, which, from its size, the strength of its walls, its central position in the territory of his operations, and especially from the difficulty of bringing artillery over the steep and bad roads leading to it, was peculiarly suited to his purpose. He set to work to fortify it; and in spite of the representations made to the Madrid government by the inhabitants of the province, who foresaw the evils that would accrue to them from its fortification, he was allowed, without interruption or molestation, to put it in a state of defence. The energy and skill exhibited by him at this period were wonderfully great, and would have done honour to an older soldier. He formed capacious hospitals, and vast depots for food and other stores; established powder manufactories, and workshops for armourers and tailors; and leaving a strong garrison in the place, again took the field.

Some sharp fighting now occurred, and the Christinos had the worst of it in several encounters; until at last the minister of war, roused from his apathy, sent strong reinforcements to Arragon and Valencia. Amongst others, General Narvaez, at the head of a brilliant brigade, was detached from the army of the north, and after a rapid march of nine days, during which he crossed nearly the whole north-eastern corner of Spain from the Bay of Biscay to the Mediterranean, arrived at Teruel, and commenced operations with an activity that inspired the Arragonese with fresh hopes of a prompt termination of the war. He was in the field, and hard upon the heels of a Carlist corps commanded by a chief known as the Organist, when an orderly, bearing despatches from Madrid, came up at speed. “Yonder rebels,” said Narvaez, after reading his letters, and pointing to the enemy, “may truly say that they exist by royal order.” The despatches directed him instantly to quit Arragon, and pursue Gomez, who had left Biscay on his celebrated expedition to the southern provinces of Spain.

It is significant of the little estimation in which Cabrera was held by the generals of the Navarrese and Biscayan faction, that when Gomez, finding himself hard pressed by the Queen’s troops, sent to Arragon for assistance, he did not address himself to Cabrera, who commanded in chief in that province, but to Quilez and El Serrador, subordinate partisans. Nevertheless Cabrera joined him, not with a body of troops, but accompanied only by his aides-de-camp and staff, and by one of his clerical mentors, the canon Cala y Valcarcel. Gomez treated him with great contempt, and would give him no command in his division; but he still continued with him, and was present at the defeat of Villarrobledo, where Diego Leon with his hussars routed Gomez, taking the whole of his baggage, twelve hundred prisoners, and two thousand muskets. When the Carlists occupied Cordova, Cabrera was one of the first men in the town, which he entered with a handful of cavalry, under the command of Villalobos, to whom he had attached himself, and who was killed by a shot fired from a window. If Gomez disliked Cabrera, Cabrera, on his side, heartily despised Gomez. To have captured three thousand national guardsmen in Cordova, and not to have shot at least a couple of thousands of them—to have spared the fifteen hundred men composing the garrison of Almaden, were inexcusable weaknesses in the eyes of the Arragonese leader. Moreover, his name was omitted in the despatches and proclamations announcing the triumphs of the division; and at this he was indignant, viewing it as a stain upon his reputation, and a dishonour to his rank. At last, so troublesome did he become, constantly murmuring at whatever was done, and even conspiring to promote mutiny amongst the men, that Gomez, in order not to shoot him, which he otherwise would have been compelled to do, insisted upon their parting company. On the 3d of November, Cabrera, with his staff, orderlies, and a small escort, set out for the mountains of Toledo. His numbers increased by the accession of some parties of Carlist cavalry, picked up on the road, he passed through La Mancha, and made for the Ebro, intending to visit Don Carlos at Oñate. But whilst seeking a ford, he was surprised by the cavalry of Irribarren. The lances of Leon and the sabres of Buenvenga made short work of it with the astonished rebels. Cabrera and a handful of men escaped, and only paused at midnight, when exhausted by their long flight, in the village of Arévalo. Scarcely had they taken up their quarters, when a column of Christino infantry dashed into the place, bayoneting all before them. Unacquainted with the localities, Cabrera wandered about the streets, seeking an exit; and finally, favoured by the darkness, and after receiving a stab from a knife, and another from a bayonet, he succeeded in escaping to the neighbouring forest. Here he was found by one of his officers, who conveyed him to the house of a village priest, named Moron, where he was concealed and taken care of till his wounds were healed. At the commencement of 1837 he found himself well enough to travel, and started for Arragon, escorted by a squadron of cavalry and a few light infantry, whom he had sent for from the Maestrazgo. But he had been tracked by Christino spies, and Señor Cabello, then political chief of Teruel, had information of his route. This he communicated to the military governor, an old and dilatory officer, who moved out with a small body of troops, intending to surprise Cabrera at Camañas, one of his halting places, and hoping to gain in the field the promotion which he would have done better to have awaited within the walls of his citadel. At a village, four hours’ march from Camañas, he paused, and wasted a day in sending out spies to ascertain the movements of the enemy. His emissaries at last returned; but only to tell him that Cabrera had rested at Camañas from ten in the morning till one in the afternoon, and had then continued his journey, travelling in a wretched carriage, and escorted by a hundred sleepy infantry, and as many horsemen, whose beasts were unshod, and half dead with fatigue. It was too late to pursue; and thus, owing to the sluggishness and incapacity of this officer, Cabrera escaped, probably without knowing it, from one of the greatest risks he had yet run.

The disastrous result of the various expeditions which, under Gomez, Garcia, and others, had left the Basque provinces for the interior of Spain, had not yet convinced Don Carlos that his cause was unpopular. Deceived by his flatterers, who assured him that his appearance would every where be the signal for a general uprising in his favour, he crossed the Ebro in the month of May with sixteen battalions and nine squadrons. Victorious at Huesca, at Gra, in Catalonia, his army was utterly routed by the Baron de Meer and Diego Leon; and his sole thought then became how to recross the Ebro, and take refuge at Cantavieja, under the wing of his faithful Cabrera. Orders were sent to the latter chief to come and meet his sovereign. He obeyed, and by his assistance the passage of the river was accomplished. It was shortly before this time that Cabrera, whilst witnessing the conflagration of a village set on fire by his command, was struck by lightning, which killed one of his aides-de-camp, and threw him senseless from his horse. At first it was thought that he also was dead; but bleeding restored him, and the next day he was again in the saddle, burning, plundering, and shooting. His atrocities at this period surpass belief, and are too horrible to recapitulate. The curious in such matters may find them set down in all their hideous details, in the pages of Señor Cabello. Whether on account of his cruelties, or of his other bad qualities, most of the Carlist generals in Arragon about this time refused to act with him, and even loaded him with abuse. Cabañero actually challenged him to fight—a challenge which he did not think proper to accept. The same chief repeatedly told Don Carlos that he would rather serve as a private soldier in the army of Navarre than as a general under the orders of Cabrera. Quilez, who hated Cabrera as the assassin of his friend and countryman Carnicer, published an address to the Arragonese troops, calling upon them to leave the standard of the vile, dissolute, and cowardly Catalonian who disgraced them by his cruelties. He invited their attention to the ruined and miserable condition of their province since Cabrera had commanded there, and urged them to petition Don Carlos to give them a general more worthy of defending his rights and leading them to victory. So high did the quarrel run, and so widely did it spread, that the Arragonese and Catalonian battalions were near coming to blows. Don Carlos supported Cabrera, and Quilez and Cabañero, with their divisions, separated themselves from the army, and went to make war elsewhere.

In the month of July there were forty thousand infantry and four thousand cavalry in the province of Teruel; for nearly four years the district had been devastated and plundered by the Carlists, and the harvest was not yet ripe. Under these circumstances the troops were half-starved. The Carlist soldiers received no bread and only half rations of meat. Even in the towns, and for ready money, provisions were unobtainable. The Conde de Luchana, who then commanded the Christinos, did all that general could do, more than could be expected of any commander—all, in short, that he was wont to do, when the opportunity offered, for the cause of liberty and of his Queen. Thinking that the surrounding country would not supply rations because the impoverished government could not pay cash for them, he drew upon his private funds, and sent a commissioner with large sums of money to Teruel, to purchase all the corn that could be obtained. This was so little that it did not yield two days’ rations to each soldier. At last Espartero and his division were summoned to the defence of Madrid, then menaced by Zaratiegui. During his absence occurred the action of Herrera, in which General Buerens, greatly outnumbered, was defeated with considerable loss. But this reverse was soon revenged. Encouraged by their recent success, Don Carlos and Cabrera approached Madrid by forced marches. Their movements had been so eccentric and rapid that they had thrown most of the Christino generals off the scent. Espartero was an exception. After driving away Zaratiegui, he had returned to Arragon. He now hurried back to Madrid, and entered its gates a few hours after the arrival of the Pretender within sight of that city, amidst the acclamations of the national guards, who, until then, formed the sole garrison of the capital. Don Carlos retired, Espartero followed, came up with him on the 19th of September, and so mauled his army that he entirely gave up his mad project of establishing himself in Madrid, sent Cabrera back to Arragon, and scampered off in the direction of the Basque provinces. He was followed up by Espartero and Lorenzo, overtaken and beaten at Covarubbias and at Huerta del Rey, and finally entered Biscay in lamentable plight, his illusions dissipated, his hopes of one day sitting upon the throne of his ancestors entirely destroyed. Five months had elapsed since he left Navarre, and strange had been their vicissitudes. Surrounded in Sanguesa by bishops, ministers, generals, and courtiers, in Espejo a handful of Chapel-churris were his sole defenders. Enthroned and almost worshipped at Huesca in the mountains of Bronchales he had been glad to accept the support and guidance of a shepherd. One day holding a levee, the next he was unable to write a letter in safety. At Barbastro he bestowed places and honours upon his adherents; at El Pobo he had not wherewith to reward the servants who waited on him. Strange transitions, bitterly felt! By the failure of the expedition all his prospects were blighted. A loan, and his recognition by the Northern powers, both promised him contingently on his entering Madrid, were now more remote than ever. That nothing might be wanting to the discomfiture of this ill-starred prince, even the hypocrisy of his character was discovered and exposed. Several of his letters to the Princess of Beira were intercepted by General Oraa, and published in the Spanish newspapers. Although written by one professedly so devout and austere, their contents were both trivial and licentious.

The year 1838 opened disastrously for the Christinos. The strong town and fort of Morella fell into the hands of Cabrera. Situated on a hill in the valley formed by the highest sierras of the Maestrazgo, and at the point of junction of Arragon, Catalonia, and Valencia, difficult of approach, and protected by defiles and rivers, chief town of a corregimiento or department, and possessing considerable wealth both agricultural and manufacturing, it was, of all others, the place most coveted by the Carlists. For a long time previously to its capture, an officer of the faction, Paul Alio by name, had been entrusted with its blockade. His orders were to employ every possible means to win over the garrison or accomplish a coup de main. Various attempts had proved unsuccessful, when, at the moment that he least expected it, he was suddenly enabled to accomplish his objects. An artilleryman, a deserter from the castle, offered to scale the walls with twenty men, to surprise the sentinel upon the platform, and subsequently the whole guard. The idea was caught at; ladders were made according to the measure which the traitor had brought of the exact height of the walls, and on the dark and rainy night of the 25th January a party of Carlists crept up the hill, planted and climbed the ladders, stabbed the sentry, who was asleep in his box, overcame the guard, and fired upon the town. In vain did the unfortunate governor, Don Bruno Portillo, endeavour to make his way into the fort; he was repulsed and wounded, and before morning he and the remains of the garrison were compelled to abandon Morella. Although an old and respected officer, he was accused of treachery, or at least of want of vigilance. The latter might perhaps be imputed to him, but there appear to have been no sufficient grounds for the former charge. Eager to wash out the stain upon his reputation, he returned to Morella, when General Oraa made his unsuccessful attack upon it a few months later, and died leading the forlorn-hope, the first man upon the breach.

The capture of Morella was a great triumph for Cabrera, whose chief stronghold it became. It assured him the dominion of a large and fertile tract of country. From its towers, lofty though they were, the banner of Isabella the Second could nowhere be descried, save on the coasts of the Mediterranean and the distant banks of the Ebro. The termination of the war seemed less likely than ever.

It was about a month after the surprise of Morella, that General Cabañero, encouraged by the recent success of his party, eager for distinction, and perhaps jealous of Cabrera’s reputation, attempted the most daring and dashing enterprise of the whole war. He conceived the hope of capturing in one night, and with three thousand men, a fortress that had defended itself for two months against the best generals of Napoleon, backed by seventy thousand veterans, and a hundred pieces of artillery. The capital of Arragon, the heroic city of Saragossa, was the high game at which Cabañero ventured to fly. Had he succeeded, he would have commanded the Ebro and the communication between Navarre and Catalonia, and might have installed Don Carlos in the palace of Alonzo the Fifth, and of Ferdinand the Catholic. Making one march from Alloza, a distance of four-and-twenty hours, he arrived late at night in the environs of Saragossa. Provided with ladders by the owner of a neighbouring country-house, who was in his confidence, he caused a few soldiers to scale the wall, and open the gate of the Virgin de la Carmen, through which he marched. Some vivas given for Cabañero and Carlos Quinto roused the nearest inhabitants, and preserved the main guard from a surprise. Shots were fired, and the alarm spread. By this time Cabañero was far into the town, posting his battalions in the squares and open places. In every street the Carlist drums were beating, and several houses were broken open and entered. It was a terrible moment for the inhabitants of Saragossa. Startled from their sleep, without chiefs to direct or previous plan to guide them, none knew what measures to adopt. Some few ran to the public squares, and were taken prisoners; but the majority, recovering from their first panic, adopted the best and surest means of ridding the city of the unexpected foe. In an instant every window was thrown open, and bristled with the muskets of the national guards. They could not be confident of victory, for they were totally ignorant of the number of their enemies; but if the triumph was to be for the latter, the Sargossans were determined that it should cost them dear. When the much-wished-for daylight appeared, the battle ceased to be from the balconies; the nationals, and about two hundred soldiers of various regiments who happened to be in the town, descended to the streets, and after a sharp but short struggle, drove out the daring intruders. The loss of the Carlists was a thousand men, inclusive of seven hundred prisoners; that of the Saragossans amounted to about one hundred and twenty.

Various strange incidents occurred during this night-attack. A French writer who visited Arragon during the civil war, relates an anecdote of two drummers who came up with each other at midnight in the streets of Saragossa, both plying their sticks with extraordinary vigour, but to very different tunes.

“Why do you beat the chamade?” demanded one.

“Why do you beat to arms?” retorted the other.

“I obey my orders.”

“And I mine.”

At that moment a passing lantern lit up the Carlist boina of the one, and the blue national guard’s uniform of the other. The drummers stared at each other for a moment, and then, instead of drawing their swords and setting to, which one would have thought the most natural course to adopt, they continued their march side by side, each indulging in his own particular rub-a-dub. The rights of the sheepskin were mutually respected.

The results of Cabañero’s attack were a cross of honour conferred upon the national guards, who had made so gallant a defence, and the death of the governor, Esteller, who was assassinated by the populace two days afterwards. His conduct during the fight had been marked by extreme weakness, and even cowardice. He entirely lost his presence of mind, could give no orders, and remained shut up in his house in spite of all the efforts of his aides-de-camp and secretaries to get him out into the street. He would not even allow his servants and orderlies to fire from the balconies, and his windows were the only ones in Saragossa that continued closed during that eventful night. The next day he was imprisoned, and it was intended to bring him to trial; but on the following morning a mob composed of the lowest of the people repaired to his place of confinement, brought him out into the streets and there murdered him. At the time the delinquents remained unpunished, but seven years later, in 1845, the sons of Esteller revived the affair, and procured the condemnation to ten years’ galleys of one Chorizo, the leader of the marranos, or lazzaroni of Saragossa. Chorizo, literally Sausage, whose real name was Melchior Luna, was a butcher by trade, and a sort of popular demagogue amongst the lower orders of his fellow citizens. But according to Señor Cabello, his condemnation was unjust; and instead of sharing in the murder of Esteller, he had done his utmost to protect him, even risking his own life to save that of the unfortunate governor. After a lapse of seven years it was difficult to get at the real facts of the case; and the chief effect of the trial has been to publish the pusillanimity of General Esteller, concerning which the people of Saragossa had previously observed a generous silence.

On the 1st of October 1838, the Christino general Pardinas, with five battalions and a regiment of cavalry, encountered Cabrera near the town of Maella. The forces were about equal on either side, and at first the Christinos had the advantage. But Pardinas having thrown his left too forward, it was cut off and surrounded. Without waiting for help from the centre and right wing, the battalions fell into confusion and surrendered themselves prisoners, thereby grievously compromising the remainder of the division. Astounded at the sudden loss of one third of his force, Pardinas made desperate efforts to preserve order; but all was in vain, and his heroic efforts and example served but to procure him an honourable death, thereby saving him the pain of reporting the most unfortunate and disgraceful action of the whole war. More than three-fifths of the division were killed or taken prisoners. The fate of the latter could not be doubtful, for Cabrera was their captor. Whilst still on the field of battle, with the groans of the wounded and dying sounding in his ears, he sent an order to Major Espinosa to kill a number of dragoons of the regiment del Rey, whom he had made prisoners. Espinosa replied, that, the action once over, he had forgotten how to use his lance. Cabrera, however, had little difficulty in finding a more pliant agent. The unhappy dragoons were stripped naked and bayoneted: Espinosa was deprived of his command and of future opportunities of distinction. The same afternoon Cabrera shot twenty-seven wounded, in hospital at Maella. Amongst his prisoners were ninety-six sergeants. These he crammed into a dark and narrow dungeon, and after a few days, proposed to them to take service in the rebel army. They all refused, and one of them imprudently added, “Sooner die than serve with robbers.” These words were reported to Cabrera, and he sought to discover the man who had uttered them; but although the other ninety-four well knew who it was, no menaces could induce them to betray their comrade. Any one but Cabrera would have been touched by such courage and constancy, but he only found in it a pretext for murder. The ninety-six sergeants were shot at Horcayo. Similar enormities now followed in rapid succession; until the exasperation in Saragossa and Valencia became extreme, and the inhabitants tumultuously assembled, demanding reprisals. These it was not safe to refuse. General Mendez Vigo, commanding at Valencia, and who ventured to deny them, was shot in the streets. Juntas were formed, and Carlist prisoners were executed. One of these unfortunates, when marching to his doom, was heard to exclaim, “Not to the people of Valencia, but to the infamous Cabrera, do I ascribe my death.” There was a great outcry made at the time, especially by persons who knew nothing of the real facts of the case, concerning these reprisals, which were in fact unavoidable. Cabrera’s atrocities had reached such a pitch, that disaffection was widely spreading in Arragon and Valencia. The people, finding themselves constantly in mourning for the death of some near relative, murdered by his orders, murmured against the government which could not protect them, and accused their rulers of Carlism and treachery, of cowardice and indifference. There was danger, almost a certainty indeed, of an insurrection, in which every Carlist prisoner and a vast number of innocent persons would inevitably have been sacrificed. Cabrera would listen to no proposals for exchanges, but persisted in shooting all who fell into his hands. Without reckoning the innumerable captives dead from hunger and cruel treatment, or those murdered on the march and in the Carlist depots, but counting only such as were shot and stabbed before witnesses, Cabrera had killed, previously to his mother’s death, one hundred and eighty-one soldiers and nationals; and seven hundred and thirty subsequently to that event, and up to the 1st of November 1838. His subalterns had slain three hundred and seventy more, making a total of twelve hundred and eighty. Under these circumstances, there was nothing for it but a system of retaliation. This, General Van Halen and the juntas adopted, and after a very short time the good effect was manifest. The imprecations of the Carlist prisoners, and the murmurs of his party, reached the ears of Cabrera in tones so menacing, that he was compelled to listen. The treaty for exchange of prisoners and cessation of reprisals, signed by him and Van Halen, caused much discontent amongst the coffeehouse politicians of the Puerta del Sol; but those who had experience of the war, and who dwelt in its district, appreciated the firmness of the Christino general, as well as the docility and true dignity with which he signed the honourable name of a brave soldier beside that of the assassin Count of Morella.

Anticipating an attack upon the fort of Segura, to whose possession he attached great importance, Cabrera took measures for its defence. For this, if the inhabitants of the town did not unite in it, a very large garrison was necessary. Cabrera endeavoured, therefore, by great promises, to win over the townspeople, menacing them at the same time with the destruction of their town if they did not comply with his wishes. They held a meeting, and its result was a declaration that they would never take up arms against the Queen, and that sooner than do so, they would submit to be driven from their dwellings, and become wanderers in the woods. Cabrera took them at their word, and in a few days the plough might have passed over the site of Segura. The magnificent church, the public edifices, and three hundred and fifty houses, were razed to the ground. The castle alone was preserved. The inhabitants themselves had been compelled to accomplish the work of destruction; and when that was done, sixteen hundred men, women, and children emigrated to the neighbouring villages, or took shelter in the caves and hollows of the pine forests. In this circumstance, it is hard to say which is most striking, the barbarity of the destroyer, or the courageous patriotism of the victims. The expected siege of the castle soon followed, but the inclemency of the weather compelled Van Halen to raise it. He was removed from the command, and Nogueras, who was to succeed him, being attacked by illness, the army in Arragon remained for a while without a competent chief. Cabrera took advantage of this, prosecuted the war with great activity and vigour, and captured some fortified places. Amongst others, he laid siege to Montalban, which was desperately defended for fifty days. At the end of that time, the town being reduced to ruins, the garrison and inhabitants evacuated it, and retired to Saragossa. During the siege, there occurred a trait worthy of Cabrera. The medicines for the wounded being expended, the colonel of the national guards spoke from the walls to the Carlist general, and begged permission to send to the nearest village for a fresh supply. There were many wounded Carlists in the town hospital, and it was expected, therefore, that the request would be granted. Cabrera refused it, but, feigning compassion, advised Vicente to hoist a flag upon the hospital, that it might be respected by the besiegers’ artillery. The flag was hoisted, and instantly became a mark for every gun the Carlists had. In the course of that day, sixty-six shells fell into the hospital, killing many of the wounded, and, amongst others, thirteen Carlist prisoners. During this siege, a young woman, two-and-twenty years of age, Manuela Cirugeda by name, emulous of the example of the Maid of Saragossa, served as a national guard, and fought most valiantly, until incapacitated by illness, the result of her fatigues and exertions.

Were it his only crime, Cabrera’s treatment of his prisoners in the dungeons of Morella, Benifasa, and other places, would suffice to brand him with eternal infamy. From the commencement of the war till he was driven out of the country, twelve thousand soldiers and two thousand national guards fell into his hands. Half of the first named, and two-thirds of the latter, died of hunger, ill treatment, and of the diseases produced by the stifling atmosphere of their prisons, by the bad quality of their food, and the state of general destitution in which they were left. Those who bore up against their manifold sufferings only regained their liberty to enter an hospital, incapacitated for further military service. It took months to rid them of the dingy, copper-coloured complexion acquired in their damp and filthy prisons, and some of them never lost it. When the prisoners taken in the action of Herrera arrived at Cantavieja, they were barefooted, and for sole raiment many had but a fragment of matting, wherewith to cover their nakedness, and defend themselves from the weather. They were thrust into a convent, and no one was allowed to communicate with them: even mothers, who anxiously strove to convey a morsel of bread to their starving sons, were pitilessly driven away. Sick and squalid, they were marched off to Beceite, and on the road more than two hundred were murdered. Those who paused or sat down, overcome by fatigue, were disposed of with the bayonet; some fainted from exhaustion, and had their heads crushed with large stones, heaped upon them by their guards. The muleteers, who compassionately lent their beasts to the wounded or dying, were unmercifully beaten. On reaching Beceite, the daily ration of each prisoner was two ounces of raw potatoes. After repeated entreaties of the inhabitants they were at last allowed to leave their prison by detachments, in order to clean the streets; and by this means they were enabled to receive the assistance which the very poorest of the people stinted themselves and their children to afford them. In spite of the prohibitions of the Carlist authorities, bread, potatoes, and maize ears were thrown into the streets for their relief. But even of these trifling supplies they were presently deprived, for an epidemic broke out amongst them, and they were forbidden to leave their prison lest they should communicate it to the troops. Will it be believed that in a Christian country, and within the last ten years, men were reduced to such extremities as to devour the dead bodies of their companions? Such was the case. It has been printed fifty times, and hundreds of living witnesses are ready to attest it. When the Carlist colonel Pellicer, the savage under whose eyes these atrocities occurred, discovered the horrible means by which his wretched captives assuaged the pangs of hunger, he became furious, caused the prisoners to be searched, and shot and bayoneted those who had preserved fragments of their frightful meal. The poor creatures thus condemned marched to death with joy and self-gratulation; those who remained accused themselves of a similar crime, and entreated that they also might be shot. Twelve hundred entered the prison; two hundred left it; and of these, thirty were massacred upon the road because they were too weak to march. In the appendix to his book, Señor Cabello gives the diary of a survivor, an officer of the regiment of Cordova. The cruelties narrated in it exceed belief. They are nevertheless confirmed by unimpeachable evidence. The following extract is from a document dated the 20th of March 1844, and signed by fifteen respectable inhabitants of Beceite.

“During the abode of the said prisoners in this town, each day twelve or fourteen of them died from hunger and misery. It was frequently observed, when they were conveyed from the prison to the cemetery, that some of them still moved, and made signs with their hands not to bury them; some even uttered words, but all in vain—dead or alive, those who once left the prison were buried, and only one instance was known of the contrary occurring. The chaplain of a Carlist battalion had gone to the burying-ground to see if the graves were deep enough, and whilst standing there, one of a pile of corpses pulled him by the coat. This attracted his attention, and he had the man carried to the hospital. * * * There would be no end to our narrative if we were to give a detailed account of the sufferings of these prisoners; so great were they, as at last to shock even the commandant of the depot, Don Juan Pellicer, who was heard to exclaim more than once that he wished somebody would blow out his brains, for he was sick of beholding so much misery and suffering. The few inhabitants who remained in the town behaved well, and notwithstanding that the Carlists robbed them of all they had, and that it was made a crime to help the prisoners, they managed in secret to give them some relief, especially to the officers. The facts here set down are true and certain, and of them more than a hundred eyewitnesses still exist.”

When the war in Biscay and Navarre was happily concluded by the convention of Vergara, the Duke de la Victoria invited Cabrera to follow the example of the other Carlist generals, offering to him and to the rebel troops under his command the same terms that had been conceded to those in the Basque provinces. But the offer, generous though it was, and undeserved by men who had made war like savages rather than as Christians, was contemptuously spurned. Those best acquainted with the character of Cabrera, were by no means surprised at the refusal. They foresaw that he would redouble his atrocities, and only yield to brute force. These anticipations were in most respects realised.

In the months of October 1839, Espartero, with the whole army of the North, consisting of forty thousand infantry, three thousand cavalry, and the corresponding artillery, entered lower Arragon. Anxious to economise the blood of his countrymen, trusting that Cabrera would open his eyes to the inutility of further resistance, confiding also, in some degree, in the promises of certain Carlist chiefs included in the treaty of Vergara, and who expected by their influence to bring over large bodies of the rebels, the Duke de la Victoria remained inactive during the winter, merely blockading the Carlists within their lines. Meanwhile Cabrera, debilitated by six years of anxiety and agitation, and by the dissolute life he had led from a very early age, and preyed upon by vexation and rage occasioned him by the convention of Vergara, fell seriously ill, and for some time his life was in peril. Contrary to expectation, he recovered; but sickness or reflection had unmanned him, and it is certain that in his last campaign he displayed little talent and less courage. Not so his subordinates. The Arragonese Carlists fought like lions, and the final triumph of the Queen’s army and of their distinguished leader was not achieved without a desperate struggle.

The first appearance of spring was the signal of action for the Christinos. Even before the inclement season had entirely passed away, in the latter days of February 1840, Espartero attacked Segura. One day’s well-directed cannonade knocked the fort about the ears of the garrison, and in spite of the proverb, Segura serà segura, ó de Ramon Cabrera sepultura, the place capitulated. The defence of Castellote was longer, and extraordinarily obstinate. Pelted with shot and shell, the walls mined and blown up and reduced to ruins, its garrison, with a courage worthy of a better cause, still refused to surrender, hoisted a black banner in sign of no quarter, and received a flag of truce with a volley. The position of the castle, on the summit of a steep and rugged rock, rendered it almost impossible to form a column of attack and take it by assault. At last, however, this was attempted, and after a desperate combat of an hour’s duration, and great loss on the part of the assailants, the latter established themselves in a detached building at the eastern extremity of the fortress. The besieged still defended themselves, hurling down hand-grenades and masses of stone, until at last, exhausted and overcome, they hung out a white flag. By their obstinate defence of an untenable post, when they had no hope of relief, they had forfeited their lives. Fortunately their conqueror was no Cabrera.

“They were Spaniards,” said Espartero in his despatch to Madrid, “blinded and deluded men who had fought with the utmost valour, and I could not do less than view them with compassion.” Their lives were spared, and the wounded were carried to the hospital in the arms of their recent opponents.

Cabrera had sworn to die before giving up Morella, but when the time came his heart failed him. He visited the town, harangued the garrison and inhabitants from the balcony of his quarters, and told them that he had come to share their fate. A day or two later he marched away, taking with him all his particular friends and favourites, and left Morella to take care of itself. It was the last place attacked by Espartero. The siege lasted eleven days, but Cabrera did not come to its relief; dissension arose amongst the garrison, and surrender ensued. Three thousand prisoners, including a number of Carlist civil functionaries, a quantity of artillery, ammunition, and other stores, fell into the hands of the victors. Morella taken, the war in Arragon was at an end.

Determined that his last act should be worthy of his whole career, Cabrera, now upon his road to France, precipitated into the Ebro a number of national guards, whom he carried with him as captives. Others were shot, and some few were actually dragged across the frontier, bound hand and foot, and only liberated by the French authorities. Such wanton cruelty is the best refutation of the arguments of certain writers, who have maintained that Cabrera was severe upon principle, with the sole objects of intimidating the enemy, and of furthering the cause of his king. On the eve of his departure from Spain, himself a fugitive, the self-styled sovereign a captive in a foreign land, what end, save the gratification of his insatiable thirst of blood, could be attained by the massacre of prisoners? At last, on the sixth of July 1840, he delivered his country from the presence of the most execrable monster that has disgraced her modern annals. On that day, at the head of twenty battalions and two hundred cavalry, Cabrera entered France.

By superficial persons, unacquainted with facts, attempts have been made to cast upon the whole Spanish nation the odium incurred by a small section of it. The cruelties of Cabrera and his likes, have been taken as an index to the Spanish character, wherein ferocity has been asserted to be the most conspicuous quality. Nothing can be more unjust and fallacious than such a theory. Cabrera’s atrocities were viewed and are remembered in Spain with as deep a horror as in England or France. Those who shared in them were a minute fraction of the population, and even of these, many acted on compulsion, and shuddered at the crimes they were obliged to witness and abet. Is the character of a nation to be argued from the excesses of its malefactors, even when, banded together and in military array, they assume the style and title of an army? Assuredly not. The Carlist standard, uplifted in Arragon, became a rallying point for the scum of the whole Spanish people. Under Cabrera’s banner, murder was applauded, plunder tolerated, vice of every description freely practised. And accordingly, escaped galley slaves, ruined profligates, the worthless and abandoned, flocked to its shelter. To these may be added the destitute, stimulated by their necessities; the ignorant and fanatical, led away by crafty priests; the unreflecting and unscrupulous, seeking military distinction where infamy alone was to be reaped. Bad example, seduction, even force, each contributed its quota to the army of Cabrera. From the commencement, the war was of a very different nature in Navarre and in Arragon. Both chiefs and soldiers were of different origin, and fought for different ends. To Navarre repaired those men of worth and respectability who conscientiously upheld the rights of Don Carlos; the battalions were composed of peasants and artisans. In Arragon and Valencia, a few desperate and dissolute ruffians, such as Cabrera, Llangostera, Quilez, Pellicer, assembled under their orders the refuse of the jails.

“The Navarrese recruit,” says Señor Cabello, “when he set out to join the Carlists, took leave of his friends and relatives, and even of the alcalde of his village; the volunteer into the faction of Arragon, departed by stealth after murdering and robbing some private enemy or wealthy neighbour. The Biscayan Carlist, going on leave to visit his mistress, took her at most a flower gathered in the gardens of Bilboa, when a soldier of Cabrera revisited his home, he carried with him the spoils of some slaughtered family or plundered dwelling. All Spain knew Colonel Zumalacarregui; but only the lay brothers of St Domingo de Tortosa, or the gendarmes of Villafranca, could give an account of Cabrera or the Serrador. To treat with the former was to treat with one who, a short time previously, had commanded with distinction the first light infantry regiment of the Spanish army. To negotiate with the latter was to condescend to an equality with the Barbudo or José Maria.”C

Even in the inevitable confusion of civil war, a distinction may and must be made between the man who takes up arms to defend a principle, and him who makes the unhappy dissensions of his country a stepping-stone to his own ambition, a pretext for the indulgence of the worst vices and most unhallowed passions.

---

It was the last night of the boat races. All Oxford, town and gown, was on the move between Iffley and Christchurch meadow. The reading man had left his ethics only half understood, the rowing man his bottle more than half finished, to enjoy as beautiful a summer evening as ever gladdened the banks of Isis. One continued heterogeneous living stream was pouring on from St “Ole’s” to King’s barge, and thence across the river in punts, down to the starting-place by the lasher. One moment your tailor puffed a cigar in your face, and the next, just as you made some critical remark to your companion on the pretty girl you just passed, and turned round to catch a second glimpse of her, you trod on the toes of your college tutor. The contest that evening was of more than ordinary interest. The new Oriel boat, a London-built clipper, an innovation in those days, had bumped its other competitor easily in the previous race, and only Christchurch now stood between her and the head of the river. And would they, could they, bump Christchurch to-night? That was the question to which, for the time being, the coming examination, and the coming St Leger, both gave way. Christchurch, that had not been bumped for ten years before—whose old blue and white flag stuck at the top of the mast as if it had been nailed there—whose motto on the river had so long been “Nulli secundus?” It was an important question, and the Christchurch men evidently thought so. Steersman and pullers had been summoned up from the country, as soon as that impertinent new boat had begun to show symptoms of being a dangerous antagonist, by the rapid progress she was making from the bottom towards the head of the racing-boats. The old heroes of bygone contests were enlisted again, like the Roman legionaries, to fight the battles of their “vexillum,” the little three-cornered bit of blue and white silk before mentioned; and the whole betting society of Oxford were divided into two great parties, the Oriel and the Christchurch, the supporters of the old, or of the new dynasty of eight oars.

Never was signal more impatiently waited for than the pistol-shot which was to set the boats in motion that night. Hark! “Gentlemen, are—you—ready?” “No, No!” shouts some umpire, dissatisfied with the position of his own boat at the moment. “Gentlemen, are you ready?” Again “No, no, no!” How provoking! Christchurch and Oriel both beautifully placed, and that provoking Exeter, or Worcester, or some boat that no one but its own crew takes the slightest interest in to-night, right across the river! And it will be getting dusk soon. Once more—and even Wyatt, the starter, is getting impatient—“Are you ready?” Still a cry of “No, no,” from some crew who evidently never will be satisfied. But there goes the pistol. They’re off, by all that’s glorious! “Now Oriel!” “Now Christchurch!” Hurrah! beautifully are both boats pulled—how they lash along the water! Oriel gains evidently! But they have not got into their speed yet, and the light boat has the best of it at starting. “Hurrah, Oriel, its all your own way!” “Now, Christchurch, away with her!” Scarcely is an eye turned on the boats behind; and, indeed, the two first are going fast away from them. They reach the Gut, and at the turn Oriel presses her rival hard. The cheers are deafening; bets are three to one. She must bump her! “Now, Christchurch, go to work in the straight water!” Never did a crew pull so well, and never at such disadvantage. Their boat is a tub compared with the Oriel. See how she buries her bow at every stroke. Hurrah, Christchurch! The old boat for ever! Those last three strokes gained a yard on Oriel! She holds her own still! Away they go, those old steady practised oars, with that long slashing stroke, and the strength and pluck begins to tell. Well pulled, Oriel! Now for it! Not an oar out of time, but as true together as a set of teeth! But it won’t do! Still Christchurch, by sheer dint of muscle, keeps her distance, and the old flag floats triumphant another year.

Nearly hustled to death in the rush up with the racing boats, I panted into the stern sheets of a four-oar lying under the bank, in which I saw Leicester and some others of my acquaintance. “Well, Horace,” said I, “what do you think of Christchurch now?” (I had sufficient Tory principle about me at all times to be a zealous supporter of the “old cause,” even in the matter of boat-racing.) “How are your bets upon the London clipper, eh?” “Lost, by Jove,” said he; “but Oriel ought to have done it to-night; why, they bumped all the other boats easily, and Christchurch was not so much better; but it was the old oars coming up from the country that did it. But what on earth is all that rush about up by the barges? They surely are not going to fight it out after all?”

Something had evidently occurred which was causing great confusion; the cheering a moment before had been deafening from the partisans of Christchurch, as the victorious crew, pale and exhausted with the prodigious efforts they had made, mustered their last strength to throw their oars aloft in triumph, and then slowly, one by one, ascended into the house-boat which formed their floating dressing-room; it had now suddenly ceased, and confused shouts and murmurs, rather of alarm than of triumph, were heard instead: men were running to and fro on both banks of the river, but the crowd both in the boats on the river and on shore made it impossible for us to see what was going on. We scrambled up the bank, and were making for the scene of action, when one of the river-officials ran hastily by in the direction of Iffley.

“What’s the matter, Jack?”

“Punt gone down, sir,” he replied without stopping; “going for the drags.”

“Anybody drowning?” we shouted after him.

“Don’t know how many was in her, sir,” sung out Jack in the distance. We ran on. The confusion was terrible; every one was anxious to be of use, and more likely therefore to increase the danger. The punt which had sunk had been, as usual on such occasions, overloaded with men, some of whom had soon made good their footing on the neighbouring barges; others were still clinging to their sides, or by their endeavours to raise themselves into some of the light wherries and four oars, which, with more zeal than prudence, were crowding to their assistance, were evidently bringing a new risk upon themselves and their rescuers. Two of the last of the racing eights, too, coming up to the winning-post at the moment of the accident, and endeavouring vainly to back water in time, had run into each other, and lay helplessly across the channel, adding to the confusion, and preventing the approach of more efficient aid to the parties in the water. For some minutes it seemed that the disaster must infallibly extend itself. One boat, whose crew had incautiously crowded too much to one side in their eagerness to aid one of the sufferers in his struggles to get on board, had already been upset, though fortunately not in the deepest water, so that the men, with a little assistance, easily got on shore. Hundreds were vociferating orders and advice, which few could hear, and none attended to. The most effectual aid that had been rendered was the launching of two large planks from the University barge, with ropes attached to them, which several of those who had been immersed succeeded in reaching, and so were towed safely ashore. Still, however, several were seen struggling in the water, two or three with evidently relaxing efforts; and the unfortunate punt; which had righted and come up again, though full of water, had two of her late passengers clinging to her gunwale, and thus barely keeping their heads above the water’s edge. The watermen had done their utmost to be of service, but the University men crowded so rashly into every punt that put off to the aid of their companions, that their efforts would have been comparatively abortive had not one of the pro-proctors jumped into one, with two steady hands, and authoritatively ordering every man back who attempted to accompany him, reached the middle of the river, and having rescued those who were in most imminent danger, succeeded in clearing a sufficient space round the spot to enable the drags to be used, (for it was quite uncertain whether there might not still be some individuals missing.) Loud cheers from each bank followed this very sensible and seasonable exercise of authority; another boat, by this example, was enabled to disencumber herself of superfluous hands, and by their united exertions all who could be seen in the water were soon picked up and placed in safety. When the excitement had in some degree subsided, there followed a suspense which was even more painful, as the drags were slowly moved again and again across the spot where the accident had taken place. Happily our alarm proved groundless. One body was recovered, not an University man, and in his case the means promptly used to restore animation were successful. But it was not until late in the evening that the search was given up, and even the next morning it was a sensible relief to hear that no college had found any of its members missing.

I returned to my rooms as soon as all reasonable apprehension of a fatal result had subsided, though before the men had left off dragging, and was somewhat surprised, and at first amused, to recognise, sitting before the fire in the disguise of my own dressing-gown and slippers, Charles Russell.

“Hah! Russell, what brings you here at this time of night?” said I; “however, I’m very glad to see you.”

“Well, I’m not sorry to find myself here, I can tell you; I have been in a less comfortable place to-night.”

“What do you mean?” said I, as a suspicion of the truth flashed upon me—“Surely”——

“I have been in the water, that’s all,” replied Russell quietly; “don’t be alarmed, my good fellow, I’m all right now. John has made me quite at home here, you see. We found your clothes a pretty good fit, got up a capital fire at last, and I was only waiting for you to have some brandy and water. Now, don’t look so horrified, pray.”

In spite of his good spirits, I thought he looked pale; and I was somewhat shocked at the danger he had been in—more so from the suddenness of the information.

“Why,” said I, as I began to recall the circumstance, “Leicester and I came up not two minutes after it happened, and watched nearly every man that was got out. You could not have been in the water long then, I hope?”

“Nay, as to that,” said Russell, “it seemed long enough to me, I can tell you, though I don’t recollect all of it. I got underneath a punt or something, which prevented my coming up as soon as I ought.”

“How did you get out at last?”

“Why, that I don’t quite remember; I found myself on the walk by King’s barge; but they then had to turn me upside down, I fancy, to empty me. I’ll take that brandy by itself, Hawthorne, for I think I have the necessary quantity of water stowed away already.”

“Good heavens! don’t joke about it; why, what an escape you must have had!”

“Well, seriously then, Hawthorne, I have had a very narrow escape, for which I am very thankful; but I don’t want to alarm any one about it, for fear it should reach my sister’s ears, which I very much wish to avoid, for the present at all events. So I came up to your rooms here as soon as I could walk. Luckily, John saw me down at the water, so I came up with him, and got rid of a good many civil people who offered their assistance; and I have sent down to the lodgings to tell Mary I have staid to supper with you; so I shall get home quietly, and she will know nothing about this business. Fortunately, she is not in the way of hearing much Oxford gossip, poor girl!”

Russell sat with me about an hour, and then, as he said he felt very comfortable, I walked home with him to the door of his lodgings, where I wished him good-night, and returned.

I had intended to have paid him an early visit the next morning; but somehow I was lazier than usual, and had scarcely bolted my commons in time to get to lecture. This over, I was returning to my rooms, when my scout met me.

“Oh, sir,” said he, “Mr Smith has just been here, and wanted to see you, he said, particular.”

Mr Smith? Of all the gentlemen of that name in Oxford, I thought I had not the honour of a personal acquaintance with one.

“Mr Russell’s Mr Smith, sir,” explained John: “the little gentleman as used to come to his rooms so often.”

I walked up the staircase, ruminating within myself what possible business “poor Smith” could have with me, of whom he had usually appeared to entertain a degree of dread. Something to do with Russell, probably. And I had half resolved to take the opportunity to call upon him, and try to make out who and what he was, and how he and Russell came to be so intimately acquainted. I had scarcely stuck old Herodotus back into his place on the shelf, however, when there came a gentle tap at the door, and the little Bible-clerk made his appearance. All diffidence and shyness had wholly vanished from his manner. There was an earnest expression in his countenance which struck me even before he spoke. I had scarcely time to utter the most commonplace civility, when, without attempt at explanation or apology, he broke out with—“Oh, Mr Hawthorne, have you seen Russell this morning?”

“No,” said I, thinking he might possibly have heard some false report of the late accident—“but he was in my rooms last night, and none the worse for his wetting.”

“Oh, yes, yes! I know that; but pray, come down and see him now—he is very, very ill, I fear.”

“You don’t mean it? What on earth is the matter?”

“Oh! he has been in a high fever all last night! and they say he is worse this morning—Dr Wilson and Mr Lane are both with him—and poor Miss Russell!—he does not know her—not know his sister; and oh, Mr Hawthorne, he must be very ill; and they won’t let me go to him!” And poor Smith threw himself into a chair, and fairly burst into tears.

I was very much distressed too: but, at the moment, I really believe I felt more pity for the poor lad before me, than even apprehension for my friend Russell. I went up to him, shook his hand, and begged him to compose himself. Delirium, I assured him—and tried hard to assure myself—was the usual concomitant of fever, and not at all alarming. Russell had taken a chill, no doubt, from the unlucky business of the last evening, but there could not be much danger in so short a time. “And now, Smith,” said I, “just take a glass of wine, and you and I will go down together, and I dare say we shall find him better by this time.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” he replied; “you are very kind—very kind indeed—no wine, thank you—I could not drink it: but oh! if they would only let me see him. And poor Miss Russell! and no one to attend to him but her!—but will you come down now directly?”

My own anxiety was not less than his, and in a very few minutes we were at the door of Russell’s lodgings. The answer to our inquiries was, that he was in much the same state, and that he was to be kept perfectly quiet; the old housekeeper was in tears; and although she said Dr Wilson told them he hoped there would be a change for the better soon, it was evident that poor Russell was at present in imminent danger.

I sent up my compliments to Miss Russell to offer my services in any way in which they could be made available; but nothing short of the most intimate acquaintance could have justified any attempt to see her at present, and we left the house. I thought I should never have got Smith from the door; he seemed thoroughly overcome. I begged him to come with me back to my rooms—a Bible-clerk has seldom too many friends in the University, and it seemed cruel to leave him by himself in such evident distress of mind. Attached as I was to Russell myself, his undisguised grief really touched me, and almost made me reproach myself with being comparatively unfeeling. At any other time, I fear it might have annoyed me to encounter as I did the inquisitive looks of some of my friends, as I entered the College gates arm-in-arm with my newly-found and somewhat strange-looking acquaintance. As it was, the only feeling that arose in my mind was a degree of indignation that any man should venture to throw a supercilious glance at him; and if I longed to replace his shabby and ill-cut coat by something more gentlemanly in appearance, it was for his sake, and not my own.

And now it was that, for the first time, I learnt the connexion that existed between the Bible-clerk and the quondam gentleman-commoner. Smith’s father had been for many years a confidential clerk in Mr Russell’s bank; for Mr Russell’s bank it was solely, the Smith who had been one of the original partners having died some two generations back, though the name of the firm, as is not unusual, had been continued without alteration. The clerk was a poor relation, in some distant degree, of the some-time partner: his father, too, had been a clerk before him. By strict carefulness, he had saved some little money during his many years of hard work: and this, by special favour on the part of Mr Russell, he had been allowed to invest in the bank capital, and thereby to receive a higher rate of interest than he could otherwise have obtained. The elder Smith’s great ambition—indeed it was his only ambition—for the prosperity of the bank itself he looked upon as a law of nature, which did not admit of the feeling of hope, as being a fixed and immutable certainty—his ambition was to bring up his son as a gentleman. Mr Russell would have given him a stool and a desk, and he might have aspired hereafter to his father’s situation, which would have assured him £250 per annum. But somehow the father did not wish the son to tread in his own steps. Perhaps the close confinement, and unrefreshing relaxations of a London clerk, had weighed heavily upon his own youthful spirits: perhaps he was anxious to spare the son of his old age—for, like a prudent man, he had not married until late in life—from the unwholesome toils of the counting-house, varied only too often by the still less wholesome dissipation of the evening. At all events, his visions for him were not of annually increasing salaries, and future independence: of probable partnerships, and possible lord mayoralties; but of some cottage among green trees, far away in the quiet country, where, even as a country parson, people would touch their hats to him as they did to Mr Russell himself, and where, when the time should come for superannuation and a pension—the house had always behaved liberally to its old servants—his own last days might happily be spent in listening to his son’s sermons, and smoking his pipe—if such a thing were lawful—in the porch of the parsonage. So while the principal was carefully training his heir to enact the fashionable man at Oxford, and in due time to take his place among the squires of England, and shunning, as if with a kind of remorseful conscience, to make him a sharer in his own contaminating speculations; the humble official too, but from far purer motives, was endeavouring in his degree, perhaps unconsciously, to deliver his boy from the snares of Mammon. And when Charles Russell was sent to the University, many were the enquiries which Smith’s anxious parent made, among knowing friends, about the expenses and advantages of an Oxford education. And various, according to each individual’s sanguine or saturnine temperament, were the answers he obtained, and tending rather to his bewilderment than information. One intimate acquaintance assured him, that the necessary expenses of an under-graduate need not exceed a hundred pounds per annum: another—he was somewhat of a sporting character—did not believe any young man could do the thing like a gentleman under five. So Mr Smith would probably have given up his darling project for his son in despair, if he had not fortunately thought of consulting Mr Russell himself upon the point; and that gentleman, though somewhat surprised at his clerk’s aspiring notions, good-naturedly solved the difficulty as to ways and means, by procuring for his son a Bible-clerk’s appointment at one of the Halls, upon which he could support himself respectably, with comparatively little pecuniary help from his friends. With his connexions and interest, it was no great stretch of friendly exertion in behalf of an old and trusted servant; but to the Smiths, father and son, both the munificence which designed such a favour, and the influence which could secure it, tended if possible to strengthen their previous conviction, that the power and the bounty of the house of Russell came within a few degrees of omnipotence. Even now, when recent events had so fearfully shaken them from this delusion; when the father’s well-earned savings had disappeared in the general wreck with the hoards of wealthier creditors, and the son was left almost wholly dependent on the slender proceeds of his humble office; even now, as he told me the circumstances just mentioned, regret at the ruined fortunes of his benefactors seemed in a great measure to overpower every personal feeling. In the case of the younger Russell, indeed, this gratitude was not misplaced. No sooner was he aware of the critical situation of his father’s affairs, and the probability of their involving all connected with him, than, even in the midst of his own harassing anxieties, he turned his attention to the prospects of the young Bible-clerk, whose means of support, already sufficiently narrow, were likely to be further straitened in the event of a bankruptcy of the firm. His natural good-nature had led him to take some little notice of young Smith on his first entrance at the University, and he knew his merits as a scholar to be very indifferent. The obscure suburban boarding-school at which he had been educated, in spite of its high-sounding name—“Minerva House,” I believe—was no very sufficient preparation for Oxford. When the Greek and the washing are both extras, at three guineas per annum, one clean shirt in the week, and one lesson in Delectus, are perhaps as much as can reasonably be expected. Poor Smith had, indeed, a fearful amount of uphill work, to qualify himself even for his “little-go.” Charles Russell, not less to his surprise than to his unbounded gratitude, inasmuch as he was wholly ignorant of his motives for taking so much trouble, undertook to assist and direct him in his reading: and Smith, when he had got over his first diffidence, having a good share of plain natural sense, and hereditary habits of plodding, made more rapid progress than might have been expected. The frequent visits to Russell’s rooms, whose charitable object neither I nor any one else could have guessed, had resulted in a very safe pass through his first formidable ordeal, and he seemed now to have little fear of eventual success for his degree, with a strong probability of being privileged to starve upon a curacy thereafter. But for Russell’s aid, he would, in all likelihood, have been remanded from his first examination back to his father’s desk, to the bitter mortification of the old man at the time, and to become an additional burden to him on the loss at once of his situation and his little capital.

Poor Smith! it was no wonder that, at the conclusion of his story, interrupted constantly by broken expressions of gratitude, he wrung his hands, and called Charles Russell the only friend he had in the world. “And, oh! if he were to die! Do you think he will die?”

I assured him I hoped and trusted not, and with the view of relieving his and my own suspense, though it was little more than an hour since we had left his door, we went down again to make enquiries. The street door was open, and so was that of the landlady’s little parlour, so we walked in at once. She shook her head in reply to our inquiries. “Dr Wilson has been up-stairs with him, sir, for the last hour nearly, and he has sent twice to the druggist’s for some things, and I fancy he is no better at all events.”

“How is Miss Russell?” I inquired.

“Oh, sir, she don’t take on much—not at all, as I may say; but she don’t speak to nobody, and she don’t take nothing: twice I have carried her up some tea, poor thing and she just tasted it because I begged her, and she wouldn’t refuse me, I know—but, poor dear young lady! it is very hard upon her, and she all alone like.”

“Will you take up my compliments—Mr Hawthorne—and ask if I can be of any possible service?” said I, scarce knowing what to say or do. Poor girl! she was indeed to be pitied; her father ruined, disgraced, and a fugitive from the law; his only son—the heir of such proud hopes and expectations once—lying between life and death; her only brother, her only counsellor and protector, now unable to recognise or to speak to her—and she so unused to sorrow or hardship, obliged to struggle on alone, and exert herself to meet the thousand wants and cares of illness, with the added bitterness of poverty.

The answer to my message was brought back by the old housekeeper, Mrs Saunders. She shook her head, said her young mistress was very much obliged, and would be glad if I would call and see her brother tomorrow, when she hoped he would be better; “But oh, sir!” she added, “He will never be better any more! I know the doctors don’t think so, but I can’t tell her, poor thing—I try to keep her up, sir; but I do wish some of her own friends were here—she won’t write to any body, and I don’t know the directions”—and she stopped, for her tears were almost convulsing her.

I could not remain to witness misery which I could do nothing to relieve; so I took Smith by the arm—for he stood by the door half-stupified, and proceeded back towards college. He had to mark the roll at his own chapel that evening; so we parted at the top of the street, after I had made him promise to come to breakfast with me in the morning. Russell’s illness cast a universal gloom over the college that evening; and when the answer to our last message, sent down as late as we could venture to do, was still unfavourable, it was with anxious anticipation that we awaited any change which the morrow might bring.

The next day passed, and still Russell remained in the same state. He as in a high fever, and either perfectly unconscious of all around him, or talking in that incoherent and yet earnest strain, which is more painful to those who have to listen to and to soothe than even the total prostration of the reason. No one was allowed to see him; and his professional attendants, though they held out hopes founded on his youth and good constitution, acknowledged that every present symptom was most unfavourable.

The earliest intelligence on the third morning was, that the patient had passed a very bad night, and was much the same; but in the course of an hour or two afterwards, a message came to me to say that Mr Russell would be glad to see me. I rushed, rather than ran, down to his lodgings, in a perfect exultation of hope, and was so breathless with haste and excitement when I arrived there, that I was obliged to pause a few moments to calm myself before I raised the carefully muffled knocker. My joy was damped at once by poor Mrs Saunders’ mournful countenance.

“Your master is better, I hope—is he not?” said I.

“I am afraid not, sir; but he is very quiet now: and he knew his poor dear sister; and then he asked if any one had been to see him, and we mentioned you, sir; and then he said he should like to see you very much, and so Miss made bold to send to you—if you please to wait, sir, I’ll tell her you are here.”

In a few moments she returned—Miss Russell would see me if I would walk up.

I followed her into the little drawing-room, and there, very calm and very pale, sat Mary Russell. Though her brother and myself had now so long been constant companions, I had seen but very little of her; on the very few evenings I had spent with Russell at his lodgings she had merely appeared to make tea for us, had joined but little in the conversation, and retired almost before the table was cleared. In her position, this behaviour seemed but natural; and as, in spite of the attraction of her beauty, there was a shade of that haughtiness and distance of manner which we had all at first fancied in her brother, I had begun to feel a respectful kind of admiration for Mary Russell, tinged, I may now venture to admit—I was barely twenty at the time—with a slight degree of awe. Her very misfortunes threw over her a sort of sanctity. She was too beautiful not to rivet the gaze, too noble and too womanly in her devotion to her brother not to touch the affections, but too cold and silent—almost as it seemed too sad—to love. Her brother seldom spoke of her; but when he did it was in a tone which showed—what he did not care to conceal—his deep affection and anxious care for her; he watched her every look and movement whenever she was present; and if his love erred in any point, it was, that it seemed possible it might be even too sensitive and jealous for her own happiness.

The blinds were drawn close down, and the little room was very dark; yet I could see at a glance the work which anguish had wrought upon her in the last two days, and, though no tears were to be seen now, they had left their traces only too plainly. She did not rise, or trust herself to speak; but she held out her hand to me as if we had been friends from childhood. And if thorough sympathy, and mutual confidence, and true, but pure affection, make such friendship, then surely we became so from that moment. I never thought Mary Russell cold again—yet I did not dream of loving her—she was my sister in every thing but the name.

I broke the silence of our painful meeting—painful as it was, yet not without that inward throb of pleasure which always attends the awakening of hidden sympathies. What I said I forget; what does one, or can one say, at such moments, but words utterly meaningless, so far as they affect to be an expression of what we feel? The hearts understand each other without language, and with that we must be content.

“He knew me a little while ago,” said Mary Russell at last; “and asked for you; and I knew you would be kind enough to come directly if I sent.”

“Surely it must be a favourable symptom, this return of consciousness?”

“We will hope so: yes, I thought it was and oh! how glad I was! But Dr Wilson does not say much, and I fear he thinks him weaker. I will go now and tell him you are come.”

“You can see him now if you please,” she said when she returned; “he seems perfectly sensible still and, when I said you were here, he looked quite delighted.” She turned away, and, for the first time, her emotion mastered her.

I followed her into her brother’s room. He did not look so ill as I expected; but I saw with great anxiety, as I drew nearer his bed, that his face was still flushed with fever, and his eye looked wild and excited. He was evidently, however, at present free from delirium, and recognised me at once. His sister begged him not to speak much, or ask questions, reminding him of the physician’s strict injunctions with regard to quiet.

“Dr Wilson forgets, my love, that it is as necessary at least for the mind to be quiet as the tongue,” said Russell with an attempt to smile; and then, after a pause, he added, as he took my hand, “I wanted to see you, Hawthorne; I know I am in very great danger; and, once more, I want to trouble you with a confidence. Nay, nothing very important; and pray, don’t ask me, as I see you are going to do, not to tire myself with talking: I know what I am going to say, and will try to say it very shortly; but thinking is at least as bad for me as speaking.” He paused again from weakness; Miss Russell had left the room. I made no reply. He half rose, and pointed to a writing-desk on a small table, with keys in the lock. I moved towards it, and opened it, as I understood his gestures; and brought to him, at his request, a small bundle of letters, from which he selected one, and gave it me to read. It was a banker’s letter, dated some months back, acknowledging the receipt of three hundred pounds to Russell’s credit, and enclosing the following note:—

“Sir,—Messrs —— are directed to inform you of the sum of £300 placed to your credit. You will be wrongly advised if you scruple to use it. If at any time you are enabled, and desire it, it may be repaid through the same channel.

“One of your Father’s Creditors.”

“I have never touched it,” said Russell, as I folded up the note.

“I should have feared you would not,” said I.

“But now,” he proceeded, “now things seem changed with me. I shall want money—Mary will; and I shall draw upon this unseen charity; ay, and gratefully. Poor Mary!”

“You are quite right, my dear Russell,” said I, eager to interrupt a train of thought which I saw would be too much for him. “I will manage all that for you, and you shall give me the necessary authority till you get well again yourself,” I added in a tone meant to be cheerful.

He took no notice of my remark. “I fear,” said he, “I have not been wise counsellor to my poor sister. She had kind offers from more than one of our friends, and might have had a home more suited to her than this has been, and I allowed her to choose to sacrifice all her own prospects to mine!”

He turned his face away, and I knew that one painful thought besides was in his mind—that they had been solely dependent on her little income for his support at the University since his father’s failure.

“Russell,” said I gently, “this conversation can surely do no good; why distress yourself and me unnecessarily? Come, I shall leave you now, or your sister will scold me. Pray, for all our sakes, try to sleep; you know how desirable it is, and how much stress Dr Wilson has laid upon your being kept perfectly calm and quiet.”

“I will, Hawthorne, I will try; but oh, I have so much to think of!”

Distressed and anxious, I could only take my leave of him for the present, feeling how much there was, indeed, in his circumstances to make rest even more necessary, and more difficult to obtain, for the mind than for the body.

I had returned to the sitting-room, and was endeavouring to give as hopeful answers as I could to Miss Russell’s anxious inquiries as to what I thought of her brother, when a card was brought up, with a message that Mr Ormiston was below, and “would be very glad if he could see Miss Russell for a few moments, at any hour she would mention, in the course of the day.”

Ormiston! I started, I really did not know why. Miss Russell started also, visibly; did she know why? Her back was turned to me at the moment; she had moved, perhaps intentionally, the moment the message became intelligible, so that I had no opportunity of watching the effect it produced, which I confess I had an irrepressible anxiety to do. She was silent, until I felt my position becoming awkward: I was rising to take leave, which perhaps would have made hers even more so, when, half turning round towards me, with a tone and gesture almost of command, she said, “Stay!” and then, in reply to the servant, who was still waiting, “Ask Mr Ormiston to walk up.”

I felt the few moments of expectation which ensued to be insufferably embarrassing. I tried to persuade myself it was my own folly to think them so. Why should Ormiston not call at the Russells, under such circumstances? As college tutor, he stood almost in the relation of a natural guardian to Russell; Had he not at least as much right to assume the privilege of a friend of the family as I had, with the additional argument, that he was likely to be much more useful in that capacity? He had known them longer, at all events, and any little coolness between the brother and himself was not a matter, I felt persuaded, to be remembered by him at such moment, or to induce any false punctilio which might stand in the way of his offering his sympathy and assistance, when required. But the impression on my mind was strong—stronger, perhaps, than any facts within my knowledge fairly warranted—that between Ormiston and Mary Russell there either was, or had been, some feeling which, whether acknowledged or unacknowledged—whether reciprocal or on one side only—whether crushed by any of those thousand crosses to which such feelings, fragile as they are precious, are liable, or only repressed by circumstances and awaiting its developement—would make their meeting under such circumstances not that of ordinary acquaintances. And once again I rose, and would have gone; but again Mary Russell’s sweet voice—and this time it was an accent of almost piteous entreaty, so melted and subdued were its tones, as if her spirit was failing her—begged me to remain—“I have something—something to consult you about—my brother.”

She stopped, for Ormiston’s step was at the door. I had naturally—not from any ungenerous curiosity to scan her feelings—raised my eyes to her countenance while she spoke to me, and could not but mark that her emotion amounted almost to agony. Ormiston entered; whatever his feelings were, he concealed them well; not so readily, however, could he suppress his evident astonishment, and almost as evident vexation, when he first noticed my presence: an actor in the drama for whose appearance he was manifestly unprepared. He approached Miss Russell, who never moved, with some words of ordinary salutation, but uttered in a low and earnest tone, and offered his hand, which she took at once, without any audible reply. Then turning to me, he asked if Russell were any better? I answered somewhat indefinitely, and Miss Russell, to whom he turned as for a reply, shook her head, and, sinking into a chair, hid her face in her hands. Ormiston took a seat close by her, and after a pause of a moment said,

“I trust your very natural anxiety for your brother makes you inclined to anticipate more danger than really exists, Miss Russell: but I have to explain my own intrusion upon you at such a moment”—and he gave me a glance which was meant to be searching—“I called by the particular request of the Principal, Dr Meredith.”

Miss Russell could venture upon no answer, and he went on, speaking somewhat hurriedly and with embarrassment.

“Mrs Meredith has been from home some days, and the Principal himself has the gout severely; he feared you might think it unkind their not having called, and he begged me to be his deputy. Indeed he insisted on my seeing you in person, to express his very sincere concern for your brother’s illness, and to beg that you will so far honour him—consider him sufficiently your friend, he said—as to send to his house for any thing which Russell could either want or fancy, which, in lodgings, there might be some difficulty in finding at hand. In one respect, Miss Russell,” continued Ormiston in somewhat a more cheerful tone, “your brother is fortunate in not being laid up within the college walls; we are not very good nurses there, as Hawthorne can tell you, though we do what we can; yet I much fear this watching and anxiety have been too much for you.”

Her tears began to flow freely; there was nothing in Ormiston’s words, but their tone implied deep feeling. Yet who, however indifferent, could look upon her helpless situation, and not be moved? I walked to the window, feeling terribly out of place where I was, yet uncertain whether to go or stay; for my own personal comfort, I would sooner have faced the collected anger of a whole common-room, called to investigate my particular misdemeanours; but to take leave at this moment seemed as awkward as to stay; besides, had not Miss Russell appeared almost imploringly anxious for me to spare her a tête-à-tête?

“My poor brother is very, very ill, Mr Ormiston,” she said at last, raising her face, from which every trace of colour had again disappeared, and which seemed now as calm as ever. “Will you thank Dr Meredith for me, and say I will without hesitation avail myself of his most kind offers, if any thing should occur to make his assistance necessary.”

“I can be of no use myself in any way?” said Ormiston with some hesitation.

“I thank you, no,” she replied; and then, as if conscious that her tone was cold, she added—“You are very kind: Mr Hawthorne was good enough to say the same. Every one is very kind to us, indeed; but”—and here she stopped again, her emotion threatening to master her; and Ormiston and myself simultaneously took our leave.

Preoccupied as my mind had been by anxiety on Russell’s account, it did not prevent a feeling of awkwardness when I found myself alone with Mr Ormiston outside the door of his lodgings. It was impossible to devise any excuse at the moment for turning off in a different direction, as I felt very much inclined to do; for the little street in which he lived was not much of a thoroughfare. The natural route for both of us to take was that which led towards the High Street, for a few hundred steps the other way would have brought us out into the country, where it is not usual for either tutors or under-graduates to promenade in cap and gown, as they do, to the great admiration of the rustics, in our sister university. We walked on together, therefore, feeling—I will answer at least for one of us—that it would be an especial relief just then to meet the greatest bore with whom we had any pretence of a speaking acquaintance, or pass any shop in which we could frame the most threadbare excuse of having business, to cut short the embarrassment of each other’s company. After quitting any scene in which deep feelings have been displayed, and in which our own have been not slightly interested, it is painful to feel called upon to make any comment on what has passed; we feel ashamed to do so in the strain and tone which would betray our own emotion, and we have not the heart to do so carelessly or indifferently. I should have felt this, even had I been sure that Ormiston’s feelings towards Mary Russell had been nothing more than my own; whereas, in fact, I was almost sure of the contrary; in which case it was possible that, in his eyes, my own locus standi in that quarter, surprised as I had been in an apparently very confidential interview, might seem to require some explanation which would be indelicate to ask for directly, and which it might not mend matters if I were to give indirectly without being asked. So we proceeded some paces up the little quiet street, gravely and silently, neither of us speaking a word. At last Ormiston asked me if I had seen Russell, and how I thought him? adding, without waiting for a reply, “Dr Wilson, I fear from what he told me, thinks but badly of him.”

“I am very sorry to hear you say so,” I replied; and then ventured to remark how very wretched it would be for his sister, in the event of his growing worse, to be left at such a time so utterly helpless and alone.

He was silent for some moments. “Some of her friends,” he said at last, “ought to come down; she must have friends, I know, who would come if they were sent for. I wish Mrs Meredith were returned—she might advise her.”

He spoke rather in soliloquy than as addressing me, and I did not feel called upon to make any answer. The next moment we arrived at the turn of the street, and, by what seemed a mutual impulse, wished each other good-morning.

I went straight down to Smith’s rooms, at —— Hall, to get him to come and dine with me; for I pitied the poor fellow’s forlorn condition, and considered myself in some degree bound to supply Russell’s place towards him. A Bible-clerk’s position in the University is always more or less one of mortification and constraint. It is true that the same academical degree, the same honours—if he can obtain them—the same position in after life—all the solid advantages of a University education, are open to him, as to other men; but, so long as his undergraduateship lasts, he stands in a very different position from other men, and he feels it—feels it, too, through three or four of those years of life when such feelings are most acute, and when that strength of mind which is the only antidote—which can measure men by themselves and not by their accidents—is not as yet matured either in himself or in the society of which he becomes a member. If, indeed, he be a decidedly clever man, and has the opportunity early in his career of showing himself to be such, then there is good sense and good feeling enough—let us say, to the honour of the University, there is sufficient of that true esprit du corps, a real consciousness of the great objects for which men are thus brought together—to ensure the acknowledgment from all but the most unworthy of its members, that a scholar is always a gentleman. But if he be a man of only moderate abilities, and known only as a Bible-clerk, then, the more he is of a gentleman by birth and education, the more painful does his position generally become. There are not above two or three in residence in most colleges, and their society is confined almost wholly to themselves. Some old schoolfellow, indeed, or some man who “knows him at home,” holding an independent rank in college, may occasionally venture upon the condescension of asking him to wine—even to meet a friend or two with whom he can take such a liberty; and even then, the gnawing consciousness that he is considered an inferior—though not treated as such—makes it a questionable act of kindness. Among the two or three of his own table, one is the son of a college butler, another has been for years usher at a preparatory school; he treats them with civility, they treat him with deference; but they have no tastes or feelings in common. At an age, therefore, which most of all seeks and requires companionship, he has no companions; and the period of life which should be the most joyous, becomes to him almost a purgatory. Of course, the radical and the leveller will say at once, “Ay, this comes of your aristocratic distinctions; they ought not to be allowed in universities at all.” Not so: it comes of human nature; the distinction between a dependent and an independent position will always be felt in all societies, mark it outwardly as little as you will. Humiliation, more or less, is a penalty which poverty must always pay. These humbler offices in the University were founded by a charity as wise as benevolent, which has afforded to hundreds of men of talent, but of humble means, an education equal to that of the highest noble in the land, and, in consequence, a position and usefulness in after life, which otherwise they could never have hoped for. And if the somewhat servile tenure by which they are held, (which in late years has in most colleges been very much relaxed,) were wholly done away with, there is reason to fear the charity of the founders would be liable to continual abuse, by their being bestowed upon many who required no such assistance. As it is, this occurs too often; and it is much to be desired that the same regulations were followed in their distribution, throughout the University, which some colleges have long most properly adopted: namely, that the appointment should be bestowed on the successful candidate after examination, strict regard being had to the circumstances of all the parties before they are allowed to offer themselves. It would make their position far more definite and respectable, because all would then be considered honourable to a certain degree, as being the reward of merit; instead of which, too often, they are convenient items of patronage in the hands of the Principal and Fellows, the nomination to them depending on private interest, which by no means ensuring the nominee’s being a gentleman by birth, while it is wholly careless of his being a scholar by education, and tends to lower the general standing of the order in the University.

This struck me forcibly in Smith’s case. Poor fellow! with an excellent heart and a great deal of sound common sense, he had neither the breeding nor the talent to make a gentleman of. I doubt if an University education was any real boon to him. It ensured him four years of hard work—harder, perhaps, than if he had sat at a desk all the time—without the society of any of his own class and habits, and with the prospect of very little remuneration ultimately. I think he might have been very happy in his own sphere, and I do not see how he could be happy at Oxford. And whether he or the world in general ever profited much by the B.A. which he eventually attached to his name, is a point at least doubtful.

I could not get him to come and dine with me in my own college. He knew his own position, as it seemed, and was not ashamed of it; in fact, in his case, it could not involve any consciousness of degradation; and I am sure his only reason for refusing my invitations of that kind was, that he thought it possible my dignity might be compromised by so open an association with him. He would come over to my rooms in the evening to tea, he said; and he came accordingly. When I told him in the morning that Russell had inquired very kindly after him, he was much affected; but it had evidently been a comfort to him to feel that he was not forgotten, and during the hour or two which we spent together in the evening, he seemed much more cheerful.

“Perhaps they will let me see him to-morrow, if he is better?” he said, with an appealing look to me. I assured him I would mention his wish to Russell, and his countenance at once brightened up, as if he thought only his presence were needed to ensure our friend’s recovery.

But the next morning all our hopes were dashed again; delirium had returned as had been feared, and the feverish symptoms seemed to gain strength rather than abate. Bleeding, and the usual remedies had been had recourse to already to a perilous extent, and in Russell’s present reduced state, no further treatment of the kind could be ventured upon. “All we can do now, sir,” said Dr Wilson, “is little more than to let nature take her course. I have known such cases recover.” I did not ask to see Mary Russell that day; for what could I have answered to her fears and inquiries? But I thought of Ormiston’s words; surely she ought to have some friend—some one of her own family, or some known and tried companion of her own sex, would surely come to her at a moment’s notice, did they but know of her trying situation. If—if her brother were to die—she surely would not be left here among strangers, quite alone? Yet I much feared, from what had escaped him at our last interview, that they had both incurred the charge of wilfulness for refusing offers of assistance at the time of their father’s disgrace and flight, and that having, contrary to the advice of their friends, and perhaps imprudently, taken the step they had done in coming to Oxford, Mary Russell, with something of her brother’s spirit, had made up her mind now, however heavy and unforeseen the blow that was to fall, to suffer all in solitude and silence. For Ormiston, too, I felt with an interest and intensity that was hourly increasing. I met him after morning chapel, and though he appeared intentionally to avoid any conversation with me, I knew by his countenance that he had heard the unfavourable news of the morning; and it could be no common emotion that had left its visible trace upon features usually so calm and impassible.

From thoughts of this nature, indulged in the not very appropriate locality of the centre of the quadrangle, I was roused by the good-humoured voice of Mrs Meredith—“our governess,” as we used to call her—who, with the doctor himself, was just then entering the College, and found me right in the line of her movements towards the door of “the lodgings.” I was not until that moment aware of her return, and altogether was considerably startled as she addressed me with—“Oh! how do you do, Mr Hawthorne? you young gentlemen don’t take care of yourselves, you see, when I am away—I am so sorry to hear this about poor Mr Russell! Is he so very ill? Dr Meredith is just going to see him.”

I coloured up, I dare say, for it was a trick I was given to in those days, and, in the confusion, replied rather to my own thoughts than to Mrs Meredith’s question.

“Mrs Meredith! I really beg your pardon,” I first stammered out as a very necessary apology, for I had nearly stumbled over her—“May I say how very glad I am you are returned, on Miss Russell’s account—I am sure ”——

“Really, Mr Hawthorne, it is very natural I suppose, but you gentlemen seem to expend your whole sympathy upon the young lady, and forget the brother altogether! Mr Ormiston actually took the trouble to write to me about her”——

“My dear!” interposed the Principal.

“Nay, Dr Meredith, see how guilty Mr Hawthorne looks! and as to Mr Ormiston”—“Well, never mind,” (the doctor was visibly checking his lady’s volubility,) “I love the poor dear girl so much myself, that I am really grieved to the heart for her. I shall go down and see her directly, and make her keep up her spirits. Dr Wilson is apt to make out all the bad symptoms he can—I shall try if I can’t cure Mr Russell myself, after all; a little proper nursing in those cases is worth a whole staff of doctors—and, as to this poor girl, what can she know about it? I dare say she sits crying her eyes out, poor thing, and doing nothing—I’ll see about it. Why, I wouldn’t lose Mr Russell from the college for half the young men in it—would I, Dr Meredith?”

I bowed, and they passed on. Mrs Principal, if somewhat pompous occasionally, was a kind-hearted woman; I believe an hour scarcely elapsed after her return to Oxford, before she was in Russell’s lodgings, ordering every thing about as coolly as if it were in her own house, and all but insisting on seeing the patient and prescribing herself for him in spite of all professional injunctions to the contrary. The delirium passed off again, and though it left Russell sensibly weaker, so weak, that when I next was admitted to see him with Smith, he could do little more than feebly grasp our hands, yet the fever was evidently abated; and in the course of the next day, whether it was to be attributed to the remedies originally used, or to his own youth and good constitution, or to Mrs Meredith’s experienced directions in the way of nursing, and the cheerful spirit which that good lady, in spite of a little fussness, succeeded generally in producing around her, there was a decided promise of amendment, which happily each succeeding hour tended gradually to fulfil. Ormiston had been unremitting in his inquiries; but I believe had never since sought an interview either with the brother or sister. I took advantage of the first conversation Russell was able to hold with me, to mention how very sincerely I believed him to have felt the interest he expressed. A moment afterwards, I felt almost sorry I had mentioned the name—it was the first time I had done so during Russell’s illness. He almost started up in bed, and his face glowed again with more than the flush of fever, as he caught up my words.

“Sincere, did you say? Ormiston sincere! You don’t know the man as I do. Inquired here, did he? What right has he to intrude his”——

“Hush, my dear Russell,” I interposed, really almost alarmed at his violence. “Pray, don’t excite yourself—I think you do him great injustice; but we will drop the subject, if you please.”

“I tell you, Hawthorne, if you knew all, you would despise him as much as I do.”

It is foolish to argue with an invalid—but really even my friendship for Russell would not allow me to bear in silence an attack so unjustifiable, as it seemed to me, on the character of a man who had every claim to my gratitude and respect. I replied therefore, somewhat incautiously, that perhaps I did know a little more than Russell suspected.

He stared at me with a look of bewilderment. “What do you know?” he asked quickly.

It was too late to hesitate or retract. I had started an unfortunate subject; but I knew Russell too well to endeavour now to mislead him. “I have no right perhaps to say I know any thing; but I have gathered from Ormiston’s manner, that he has very strong reasons for the anxiety he has shown on your account. I will not say more.”

“And how do you know this? Has Mr Ormiston dared ”——

“No, no, Russell,” said I, earnestly; “see how unjust you are, in this instance.” I wished to say something to calm him, and it would have been worse than useless to say any thing but the truth. I saw he guessed to what I alluded; and I gave him briefly my reasons for what I thought, not concealing the interview with his sister, at which I had unintentionally been present.

It was a very painful scene. When he first understood that Ormiston had sought the meeting, his temper, usually calm, but perhaps now tried by such long hours of pain and heaviness, broke out with bitter expressions against both. I told him, shortly and warmly, that such remarks towards his sister were unmanly and unkind; and then he cried, like a chidden and penitent child, till his remorse was as painful to look upon as his passion. “Mary! my own Mary! even you, Hawthorne, know and feel her value better than I do! I for whom she has borne so much.”

“I am much mistaken,” said I, “if Ormiston has not learned to appreciate her even yet more truly. And why not?”

“Leave me now,” he said; “I am not strong enough to talk; but if you wish to know what cause I have to speak as I have done of your friend Ormiston, you shall hear again.”

So exhausted did he seem by the excess of feeling which I had so unfortunately called forth, that I would not see him again for some days, contenting myself with learning that no relapse had taken place, and that he was still progressing rapidly towards recovery.

I had an invitation to visit my aunt again during the Easter vacation, which had already commenced, and had only been prevented from leaving Oxford by Russell’s alarming state. As soon, therefore, as all danger was pronounced over, I prepared to go up to town at once, and my next visit to Russell was in fact to wish him good-by for two or three weeks. He was already sitting up, and fast regaining strength. He complained of having seen so little of me lately, and asked me if I had seen his sister. “I had not noticed it until the last few days,” he said—“illness makes one selfish, I suppose; but I think Mary looks thin and ill—very different from what she did a month back.”

But watching and anxiety, as I told him, were not unlikely to produce that effect; and I advised him strongly to take her somewhere for a few weeks for change of air and scene. “It will do you both good,” I said; “and you can draw another L.50 from your unknown friend for that purpose; it cannot be better applied, and I should not hesitate for a moment.”

“I would not,” he replied, “if I wanted money; but I do not. Do you know that Dr Wilson would take no fee whatever from Mary during the whole of his attendance; and when I asked him to name some sufficient remuneration, assuring him I could afford it, he said he would never forgive me if I ever mentioned the subject again. So what remains of the fifty you drew for me, will amply suffice for a little trip somewhere for us. And I quite agree with you in thinking it desirable, on every account, that Mary should move from Oxford—perhaps altogether—for one reason, to be out of the way of a friend of yours.”

“Ormiston?”

“Yes, Ormiston; he called here again since I saw you, and wished to see me; but I declined the honour. Possibly,” he added bitterly, “as we have succeeded in keeping out of jail here, he thinks Mary has grown rich again.” And then he went on to tell me, how, in the days of his father’s reputed wealth, Ormiston had been a constant visitor at their house in town, and how his attentions to his sister had even attracted his father’s attention, and led to his name being mentioned as likely to make an excellent match with the rich banker’s daughter. “My father did not like it,” he said, “for he had higher views for her, as was perhaps excusable—though I doubt if he would have refused Mary any thing. I did not like it for another reason: because I knew all the time how matters really stood, and that any man who looked for wealth with my sister would in the end be miserably disappointed. What Mary’s own feelings were, and what actually passed between her and Ormiston, I never asked; but she knew my views on the subject, and would, I am certain, never have accepted any man under the circumstances in which she was placed, and which she could not explain. I did hope and believe, however, then, that there was sufficient high principle about Ormiston to save Mary from any risk of throwing away her heart upon a man who would desert her upon a change of fortune. I think he loved her at the time—as well as such men as he can love any one; but from the moment the crash came—Ormiston, you know, was in town at the time—there was an end of every thing. It was an opportunity for a man to show feeling if he had any; and though I do not affect much romance, I almost think that, in such a case, even an ordinary heart might have been warmed into devotion; but Ormiston—cold, cautious, calculating as he is—I could almost have laughed at the sudden change that came over him when he heard the news. He pretended, indeed, great interest for us, and certainly did seem cut up about it; but he had not committed himself, I conclude, and took care to retreat in time. Thank Heaven! even if Mary did ever care for him, she is not the girl to break her heart for a man who proves so unworthy of her regard. But why he should insist on inflicting his visits upon us now, is what I cannot make out, and what I will not endure.”

I listened with grief and surprise. I knew well, that not even the strong prejudice which I believed Russell to have always felt against Ormiston, would tempt him to be guilty of misrepresentation: and, again, I gave him credit for too much penetration to have been easily deceived. Yet I could not bring myself all at once to think so ill of Ormiston. He had always been considered in pecuniary matters liberal almost to a fault, that he really loved Mary Russell, I felt more than ever persuaded; and, at my age, it was hard to believe that a few thousand pounds could affect any man’s decision in such a point, even for a moment. Why, the very fact of her being poor and friendless was enough to make one fall in love with such a girl at once! So when Russell, after watching the effect of his disclosure, misconstruing my silence, proceeded to ask somewhat triumphantly—“Now, what say you of Mr Ormiston?”—I answered at once, that I was strongly convinced there was a mistake.

“Ay,” rejoined he with a sneering laugh; “on Ormiston’s part, you mean; decidedly there was.”

“I mean,” said I, “there has been some misunderstanding, which time may yet explain: I do not, and will not believe him capable of what you impute to him. Did you ever ask your sister for a full and unreserved explanation of what has passed between them?”

“Never; but I know that she has shunned all intercourse with him as carefully as I have, and that his recently renewed civilities have given her nothing but pain.” My own observation certainly tended to confirm this: So, changing the subject—for it was one on which I had scarce any right to give an opinion, still less offer advice, asked whether I could do any thing for him in town; and, after exchanging a cordial good-by with Miss Russell, in whose appearance I was sorry to see confirmation of her brother’s fears for her health, I took my leave, and the next morning saw me on the top of “The Age,” on my way to town.

There I received a letter from my father, in which he desired me to take the opportunity of calling upon his attorney, Mr Rushton, in order to have some leases and other papers read and explained to me, chiefly matters of form, but which would require my signature upon my coming of age. It concluded with the following P.S.:—

“I was sorry to hear of your friend’s illness, and trust he will now do very well. Bring him down with you at Christmas, if you can. I hear, by the way, there is a Miss Russell in the case—a very fascinating young lady, whom you never mention at all—a fact which your mother, who is up to all those things, says is very suspicious. All I can say is, if she is as good a girl as her mother was before her—I knew her well once—you may bring her down with you too, if you like.”

How very unlucky it is that the home authorities seldom approve of any little affairs of the kind except those of which one is perfectly innocent! Now, if I had been in love with Mary Russell, the governor would, in the nature of things, have felt it his duty to be disagreeable.

I put off the little business my father alluded to day after day, to make way for more pleasant engagements, until my stay in town was drawing to a close. Letters from Russell informed me of his having left Oxford for Southampton, where he was reading hard, and getting quite stout; but he spoke of his sister’s health in a tone that alarmed me, though he evidently was trying to persuade himself that a few weeks’ sea-air would quite restore it. At last I devoted a morning to call on Mr Rushton, whom I found at home, though professing, as all lawyers do, to be full of business. He made my acquaintance as politely as if I had been the heir-expectant of an earldom, instead of the very moderate amount of acres which had escaped sale and subdivision in the Hawthorne family. In fact, he seemed a very good sort of fellow, and we ran over the parchments together very amicably—I almost suspected he was cheating me, he seemed so very friendly, but therein I did him wrong.

“And now, my dear sir,” continued he, as we shut up the last of them, “will you dine with me to-day? Let me see; I fear I can’t say before seven, for I have a great deal of work to get through. Some bankruptcy business, about which I have taken some trouble,” he continued, rubbing his hands, “and which we shall manage pretty well in the end, I fancy. By the way, it concerns some friends of yours, too: is not Mr Ormiston of your college? Ay, I thought he was; he is two thousand pounds richer than he fancied himself yesterday.”

“Really?” said I, somewhat interested; “how, may I ask?”

“Why, you see, when Russell’s bank broke—bad business that—we all thought the first dividend—tenpence-halfpenny in the pound, I believe it was—would be the final one: however, there are some foreign securities which, when they first came into the hands of the assignees, were considered of no value at all, but have gone up wonderfully in the market just of late, so that we have delayed finally closing accounts till we could sell them to such advantage as will leave some tolerable pickings for the creditors after all.”

“Had Ormiston money in Mr Russell’s bank, then, at the time?”

“Oh, yes: something like eight thousand pounds: not all his own, though: five thousand he had in trust for some nieces of his, which he had unluckily just sold out of the funds, and placed with Russell, while he was engaged in making arrangements for a more profitable investment; the rest was his own.”

“He lost it all, then?”

“All but somewhere about three hundred pounds, as it appeared at the time. What an excellent fellow he is! You know him well, I dare say. They tell me that he pays the interest regularly to his nieces for their money out of his own income still.”

I made no answer to Mr Rushton at the moment, for a communication so wholly unexpected had awakened a new set of ideas, which I was busily following out in my mind. I seemed to hold in my hands the clue to a good deal of misunderstanding and unhappiness. My determination was soon taken to go to Southampton, see Russell at once, and tell him what I had just heard, and of which I had no doubt he had hitherto been as ignorant as myself. I was the rather induced to take this course, as I felt persuaded that Miss Russell’s health was suffering rather from mental than bodily causes; and, in such a case, a great deal of mischief is done in a short time. I would leave town at once.

My purse was in the usual state of an under-graduate’s at the close of a visit to London; so, following up the train of my own reflections, I turned suddenly upon Mr Rushton, who was again absorbed in his papers, and had possibly forgotten my presence altogether, and attacked him with—

“My dear sir, can you lend me ten pounds?”

“Certainly,” said Mr Rushton, taking, off his spectacles, and feeling in his pockets, at the same time looking at me with some little curiosity,— “certainly—with great pleasure.”

“I beg your pardon for taking such a liberty,” said I, apologetically; “but I find I must leave town to-night.”

“To-night!” said the lawyer, looking still more inquiringly at me; “I thought you were to dine with me?”

“I cannot exactly explain to you at this moment, sir, my reasons; but I have reasons, and I think sufficient ones, though they have suddenly occurred to me.”

I pocketed the money, leaving Mr Rushton to speculate on the eccentricities of Oxonians as he pleased, and a couple of hours found me on the Southampton mail.

The Russells were surprised at my sudden descent upon them, but welcomed me cordially; and even Mary’s pale face did not prevent my being in excellent spirits. As soon as I could speak to Russell by himself, I told him what I had heard from Mr Rushton.

He never interrupted me, but his emotion was evident. When he did speak, it was in an altered and humbled voice.

“I never inquired,” he said, “who my father’s creditors were—perhaps I ought to have done so; but I thought the knowledge could only pain me. I see it all now; how unjust, how ungrateful I have been! Poor Mary!”

We sat down, and talked over those points in Ormiston’s conduct upon which Russell had put so unfavourable a construction. It was quite evident, that a man who could act with so much liberality and self-denial towards others, could have had no interested motives in his conduct with regard to Mary Russell; and her brother was now as eager to express his confidence in Ormiston’s honour and integrity, as he was before hasty in misjudging him.

Where all parties are eager for explanation, matters are soon explained. Russell had an interview with his sister, which brought her to the breakfast table the next morning with blushing cheeks and brightened eyes. Her misgivings, if she had any, were easily set at rest. He then wrote to Ormiston a letter full of generous apologies and expressions of his high admiration of his conduct, which was answered by that gentleman in person by return of post. How Mary Russell and he met, or what they said, must ever be a secret, for no one was present but themselves. But all embarrassment was soon over, and we were a very happy party for the short time we remained at Southampton together; for, feeling that my share in the matter was at an end—a share which I contemplated with some little self-complacency—I speedily took my departure.

If I have not made Ormiston’s conduct appear in as clear colours to the reader as it did to ourselves, I can only add, that the late misunderstanding seemed a painful subject to all parties, and that the mutual explanations were rather understood than expressed. The anonymous payment to Russell’s credit at the Bank was no longer a mystery: it was the poor remains of the College Tutor’s little fortune, chiefly the savings of his years of office—the bulk of which had been lost through the fault of the father—generously devoted to meet the necessities of the son. That he would have offered Mary Russell his heart and hand at once when she was poor, as he hesitated to do when she was rich, none of us for a moment doubted, had not his own embarrassments, caused by the failure of the bank, and the consequent claims of his orphan nieces, to replace whose little income he had contracted all his own expenses, made him hesitate to involve the woman he loved in an imprudent marriage.

They were married, however, very soon—and still imprudently, the world said, and my good aunt among the rest; for, instead of waiting an indefinite time for a good college living to fall in, Ormiston took the first that offered, a small vicarage of £300 a-year, intending to add to his income by taking pupils. However, fortune sometimes loves to have a laugh at the prudent ones, and put to the rout all their wise prognostications; for, during Ormiston’s “year of grace”—while he still virtually held his fellowship, though he had accepted the living—our worthy old Principal died somewhat suddenly, and regret at his loss only gave way to the universal joy of every individual in the college, (except, I suppose, any disappointed aspirants,) when Mr Ormiston was elected almost unanimously to the vacant dignity.

Mr Russell the elder has never returned to England. On the mind of such a man, after the first blow, and the loss of his position in the world, the disgrace attached to his name had comparatively little effect. He lives in some small town in France, having contrived, with his known clever management, to keep himself in comfortable circumstances, and his best friends can only strive to forget his existence, rather than wish for his return. His son and daughter pay him occasional visits, for their affection survives his disgrace, and forgets his errors. Charles Russell took a first class, after delaying his examination a couple of terms, owing to his illness, and is now a barrister, with a reputation for talent, but as yet very little business. However I hear the city authorities had the impudence to seize some of the college plate in discharge of a disputed claim for rates, and that Russell is retained as one of the counsel in an action of replevin, I trust he will begin a prosperous career, by contributing to win the cause for the “gown.”

I spent a month with Dr and Mrs Ormiston at their vicarage in the country, before the former entered upon his official residence as Principal; and can assure the reader that, in spite of ten—it may be more—years of difference in age, they are the happiest couple I ever saw. I may almost say, the only happy couple I ever saw, most of my married acquaintance appearing at the best only contented couples, not drawing their happiness so exclusively from each other as suits my notion of what such a tie ought to be. Of course, I do not take my own matrimonial experience into account; the same principle of justice which forbids a man to give evidence in his own favour, humanely excusing him from making any admission which may criminate himself. Mrs Ormiston is as beautiful, as amiable, as ever, and has lost all the reserve and sadness which, in her maiden days, over-shadowed her charms; and so sincere was and is my admiration of her person and character, and so warmly was I in the habit of expressing it, that I really believe my dilating upon her attractions used to make Mrs Francis Hawthorne somewhat jealous, until she had the happiness to make her acquaintance, and settled the point by falling in love with the lady herself.

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Dear Mr Editor—I should like to offer you some more of my criticisms on the hexameters which have been written in English, and, by your good leave, will try to do so at some future time. But there are probably some of your readers who entertain the prejudices against English hexameters which we often hear from English critics of the last generation. I cannot come to any understanding with these readers about special hexameters, till I have said something of these objections to hexameters in general. One of these objections I tried to dispose of in a former missive; namely, that “we cannot have good hexameters in English, because we have so few spondees.” There are still other erroneous doctrines commonly entertained relative to this matter, which may be thus briefly expressed;—that in hexameters we adopt a difference of long and short syllables, such as does not regulate other forms of English versification; and that the versification itself—the movement of the hexameter—is borrowed from Greek and Latin poetry. Now, in opposition to these opinions, I am prepared to show that our English hexameters suppose no other relations of strong and weak syllables than those which govern our other kinds of verse;—and that the hexameter movement is quite familiar to the native English ear.

The first of these truths, I should have supposed to be, by this time, generally acknowledged among all writers and readers of English verse: if it had not been that I have lately seen, in some of our hexametrists, a reference to a difference of long, and short, as something which we ought to have, in addition to the differences of strong and weak syllables, in order to make our hexameters perfect. One of these writers has taken the model hexameter—

and has objected to it that the first syllable of column is short. But, my dear sir, it is not shorter than the first syllable of collar, or of the Latin collum! The fact is, that in hexameters, as in all other English verses, the ear knows nothing of long and short as the foundation of verse. All verse, to an English ear, is governed by the succession of strong and weak syllables. Take a stanza of Moore’s:—

I have marked the strong syllables, which stand in the place of long ones, so far as the actual existence of verse is concerned; though no doubt the smoothness of the verse is promoted by having the light syllables short also, that they may glide rapidly away. But this, I say, though favourable to smoothness, is not essential to verse: thus the syllable death, though strong, is short; I and while, though weak, are long.

Now this alternation, in a certain order, of strong and weak syllables, is the essential condition of all English verse, and of hexameters among the rest. Long and short syllables, to English ears, are superseded in their effect by strong and weak accents; and even when we read Greek and Latin verses, so far as we make the versification perceptible, we do so by putting strong accents on the long syllables. The English ear has no sense of any versification which is not thus constructed.

I had imagined that all this was long settled in the minds of all readers of poetry; and that all notion of syllables in English being long, for purposes of versification, because they contain a long vowel or a diphthong, or a vowel before two consonants, had been obliterated ages ago. I knew, indeed, that the first English hexametrists had tried to conform themselves to the Latin rules of quantity. Thus, as we learn from Spenser, they tried to make the second syllable of carpenter long; and constructed their verses so that they would scan according to Latin rules. Such are Surry’s hexameters; for instance:—

But this made their task extremely difficult, without bringing any gain which the ear could recognise; and I believe that the earlier attempts to naturalize the hexameter in England failed mainly in consequence of their being executed under these severe conditions, which prevented all facility and flow in the expression, and gave the popular ear no pleasure.

The successful German hexametrists have rejected all regard to the classical rules of quantity of syllables; and have, I conceive, shown us plainly that this is the condition of success in such an undertaking. Take, for instance, the beginning of Hermann und Dorothea:—

The penultimate dactyls in these lines, “unter dem Thorweg,” “Bemerkung ergötgend,” “Hansfrau und sagte,” “kommt auch der Nachbar,” have, in the place of short syllables, syllables which must be long, if any distinction of long and short, depending upon consonants and dipthongs, be recognised; but yet these are good and orderly dactyls, because in each we have a strong syllable followed by two weak ones. If we call such trissyllable feet dactyls, and in the same way describe other feet by their corresponding names in Greek and Latin verse, spondees, trochees, and the like, we shall be able to talk in an intelligible manner about English verse in general, and English hexameters in particular.

And I have now to show, in the second place, that English hexameters are readily accepted by the native ear, without any condition of discipline in Greek and Latin verse. I do not mean to say that hexameters have not a peculiar character among our forms of verse; and I should like to try to explain, on some future occasion, the mode in which the recollection of Homer and Virgil, in Greek and Latin, affects and modifies the pleasure which we receive from hexameter poems in German and English. But I say that, without any such reference, poems written in rigorous hexameters will be recognised by a common reader as easy current verse.

In order to bring out this point clearly, you must allow me, Mr Editor, to make my quotations with various readings of my own, which are requisite to exemplify the forms of verse of which I speak.

I begin by talking of “dactylics,” in spite of the Antijacobin. Dactylic measures are very familiar to our ears, and congenial to the genius of our versification. These lines are dactylics:—

But the lines may be also regarded as anapæstics:—

In all these cases, the line begins with a weak syllable; and if the lines are regarded as dactylics, this syllable must be taken as a fragment of foot. When the line begins with a strong syllable, the dactylic character is more decided: as if the lines were,—

Now, in such examples, along with the trissyllable feet, dissyllable feet are often mixed, as their metrical equivalents: as

We may observe that there is, in this example, a kind of symmetry shown in preserving the dissyllable feet always in the second place, which is not without its effect on the ear. Some of these feet may be made two or three syllables at pleasure, as linger’d or lingerèd. I will add the next stanza as a further example:—

That the verse so constructed is perfectly rhythmical, we know, by the exactness with which it lends itself to music. The musical bars would point out the divisions, or the number at least, of the feet, if we had any doubt upon that subject.

In order that we may the more distinctly perceive the mixture of two kinds of feet in this example, let us reduce it entirely to trissyllable feet, by slight changes in the expression:—

I have arranged this variation so that the incomplete feet at the end of one line and the beginning of the next in each distich, as well as the rest, make up a complete dactyl; and thus, the measure runs on through each two written lines in a long line of seven dactyls and a strong syllable. But it will be easily perceived, that if the feet had been left incomplete at the end of each written line, the pause in the metre would have supplied what was wanting, and would have prevented the verse from being perceived as irregular. Thus these are still true dactylic lines:——

I will now arrange the same passage so as to reduce it entirely to dissyllable feet, which alters the character of the versification.

As the dissyllable feet may be divided either as dactyls or as anapæsts, so the dissyllable feet may be divided either as trochees or as iambuses. Thus we may scan either of these ways—

But in this case, as in that of dissyllable feet, the metre is more decidedly trochaic, because each line, (that is, each distich, as here written,) begins with a strong syllable.

The animated trochaic character, when once given by a few lines of this kind, continues in the movement of the verse, even when retarded by initial iambuses; as,

Here the weak syllables And, And, do not materially interrupt the trochaic verse. They may be taken as completing the trochee at the end of the preceding line.

In these verses, and in all English verses, there are no spondees, or feet consisting of two strong syllables. No foot in English metre has more than one strong syllable, and the weak syllables are appended to the strong ones, and swept along with them in the current of the metre. The equality between a trissyllable and a consecutive dissyllable foot, which the metre requires, is preserved by adding strength to the short syllable, so as to preserve the balance. Thus, when we say——

There is a strength given to bear, and mistress, which makes them metrically balance carry and conqueror in this verse,

It must be observed, however, that the proportion between heavy and light, or strong and weak, in syllables, is not always the same. When a dissyllable foot occurs in the place of a trissyllable one, in a metre of a generally trissyllabic character, the light syllable may be conceived as standing in the place of two, and is therefore more weighty than the light syllables of the trissyllabic feet. Thus, if we say—

the and is more weighty than it would be, if we were to say—

And if again we say—

the on is more weighty than the same syllable in upon. Hence, in these cases, smiles and, lived on, approach to spondees. But still there is a decided preponderance in the first syllables of each of these feet respectively.

I have hitherto considered dactylics with rhyme; of course the measure may be preserved, though the rhyme be omitted, either at the end of the alternate lines; as

Or altogether; as

In the absence of rhyme, each distich is detached, and the number of such distiches, or long lines, may be either odd or even.

I shall now take a shorter dactylic measure; and first, with alternate rhymes.

We see, in this example that the rhyme is a fetter to the construction. In this case, it is necessary to have three distichs which rhyme, in order to close the metre with the sentence.

We detach these distichs, or long lines, from each other, by rejecting the use of rhyme between successive distichs. We might make the two parts of the same long line rhyme thus:—

But these rhymes, even if written in one long line, are really two short lines with a double rhyme; and this measure, besides its difficulty, is destitute of dignity and grace.

If we take the same measure, rejecting rhyme, and keep the dactylics pure, we have such distichs as these:—

But these may be written in long lines, thus:—

These verses are of a rhythm as familiar and distinct to the English ear as any which our poets use. Now these are hexameters consisting each of five dactyls and a trochee,—the trochee approaching to a spondee, as I have seen; yet still, not being a spondee, but having its first syllable decidedly strong in comparison with the second.

The above hexameters are perfectly regular, both in being purely dactylic, and in having the regular cæsura, namely the end of a word at the beginning of the third dactyl, as—

But these hexameters admit of irregularities in the same manner as the common English measures of which we have spoken. We may have dissyllable feet instead of trissyllable in any place in the line; thus in the fourth—

In the third—

In the second—

In the first—

We may also have a dissyllable for the fifth foot—

But this irregularity disturbs the dactylic character of the verse more than the like substitution in any other place. So long as we have a dactyl in the fifth place, the dactylic character remains. Thus, even if we make all the rest dissyllables—

But if the fifth foot also be a dissyllable, the measure becomes trochaic.

Supposing the dactylic character to be retained, we may have dissyllables not in one place only, but in several, as we have seen is the case in the more common English dactylics. Now, the metre thus produced corresponds with the heroic verse hexameters of the Greek and Latin languages; except in this, that the English dissyllable feet are not exactly spondees. The Greek and Latin hexameters admit of dactyls and spondees indiscriminately, except that the fifth foot is regularly a dactyl, and the sixth a spondee or trochee. Also, the regular cæsura of the Greek and Latin hexameters occurs in the beginning of the third foot, as in the English hexameters above given.

I think I have now shown that, without at all deviating from the common forms of English metre, and their customary liberties, we arrive at a metre which represents the classical hexameters, with this difference only, that the spondees are replaced by trochees. And this substitution is a necessary change; it results from the alternation of strong and weak syllables, which is a condition of all English versification.

And thus I have, I conceive, established my second point; that hexameters, exactly representing those of Greek and Latin verse, may grow out of purely English habits of versification.

But at the same time, I allow that classical scholars do read and write English hexameters with a recollection of those which they are familiar with in Greek and Latin; and that they have a disposition to identify the rhythm of the ancient and the modern examples, which leads them to treat English hexameters differently from other forms of English verse. This gives rise to some particularities of English hexameters, of which I may have a few words to say hereafter. In the mean time, I subscribe myself, your obedient

M. L.

M. L.

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[Algeria and Tunis in 1845. By Captain J. C. Kennedy, 18th Royal Irish. London: 1846.]

[Algeria in 1845. By Count St Marie, formerly in the French Military Service. London: 1846.]

We have always felt a strong interest in the welfare and progress of the French colonies in Africa. Our reasons for the same are manifold, and must be manifest to the readers of Maga; that is to say, to all judicious and reflecting persons conversant with the English language. There is, indeed, much to excite sympathy and admiration in the conduct of our neighbours to their infant settlement in the land of the Moor and the Arab. Their treatment of the natives has been uniformly considerate, their anxiety to avoid bloodshed painfully intense, their military operations have been invariably successful, and in their countless triumphs, modestly recorded in the veracious bulletins of a Bugeaud, they have ever shown themselves generous and magnanimous conquerors. The result of their humane and judicious colonial administration, and of a little occasional wholesome severity on the part of Colonel Pelissier, or some other intrepid officer, is most satisfactory and evident. A hundred thousand men are now sufficient to keep the ill-armed and scattered Arab tribes in a state of perfect tranquillity. Twice or thrice in the year, it is true, they rise up, like ill-bred savages as they are, and fiercely assault the Europeans who have kindly volunteered, to govern their country, and, whenever it may be possible, to civilize themselves. A few unfortunate French detachments, outposts and colonists, are plundered and slaughtered; but then up comes a Lamoricière or a Changarnier, perchance the Duke of Isly himself, or a prince of the blood in person, with thousands of bayonets and sabres; and forthwith the turbulent Bedouins scamper across the desert in tumultuous flight, their dingy bournouses waving in the wind, shouts of fury and exultation upon their lips, and Frenchmen’s heads upon the points of their scimeters. As to Abd-el-Kader, the grand instigator of these unjustifiable outbreaks, he is a troublesome and discontented barbarian, always kicking up a devil of a hubbub, usually appearing where least desired, but, when wanted, never to be found. The gallant and reverend gentleman—for, besides being an emir and a general, he is a marabout or saint of the very first chop—has caused the aforesaid Bugeaud a deal of annoyance; and the marshal has long been desirous of a personal interview, which hitherto has been obstinately declined. Altogether the emir is a vexatious fellow; and it is another strong proof of French kindness and conciliatory spirit, that although he has frequently wandered about in very reduced circumstances, sans army or friends, with a horse and a half, and a brace of barefooted followers, (vide the Paris newspapers of any date for the last dozen years,) the French, instead of laying hold of him and hanging him up, which of course they might easily have done, have preferred to leave him at large. Some say that it would be as unreasonable to expect an enthusiastic fox-hunter to waylay and shoot the animal that affords him sport, as to look for the capture of Abd-el-Kader at the hands of men who find pleasure and profit in the chase, but would derive little of either from its termination. To cut his throat would be to cut their own, and to slay the bird that lays the golden epaulets. It is related, in a book now before us, that M. Bugeaud, when applied to by a colonel for a column of troops to pursue and capture the emir, replied in these terms:—“Do not forget, sir, that to Abd-el-Kader most of your brother officers are indebted for their chances of promotion.” Others have asserted, that if the Arab chief is still a free denizen of the desert, it must be attributed to his own skill, courage, and conduct; to the bravery of his troops, and the fidelity of his adherents; and not to any merciful or prudential scruples of his opponents. We reject this notion as absurd and groundless. We are persuaded that French forbearance is the sole reason that the head of Abd-el-Kader, duly embalmed by the procédé Gannal, does not at this moment grace the sideboard of the victorious Duke of Isly, or frown grimly from the apex of the Luxor obelisk.

Having thus avowed our strong interest in the prosperity of Algeria, we need hardly say that we read every book calculated to throw light upon the progress and prospects of that country. The volumes referred to at foot of the first page, had scarcely issued from the sanctuaries of their respective publishers, when our paper-knife was busy with their contents, and as we cut we eagerly read. We confess to have been disappointed. Captain Kennedy’s narrative is tame, and rather pedantic; its author appears more anxious to display his classical and historical lore, and to indulge in long descriptions of scenery and Arab encampments, than to give us the sort of information we should most have appreciated and relished. As a book of travels, it is respectable, and not unamusing; but from travellers in a country whose state is exceptional, one has a right to expect more. We had hoped for more copious details of the present condition and probable result of French colonization, for more numerous indications of the state of feeling and intercourse between the Arab tribes and their European conquerors. These matters are but slightly touched upon. It is true that Captain Kennedy, in his preface, avows his intention of not entering into political discussions, and of abstaining from theories as to the future condition of the southern coast of the Mediterranean. We can only regret, therefore, that he has not thought proper to be more comprehensive. His opportunities were excellent, his pen is fluent, and he evidently possesses some powers of observation. Received with open arms and cordial hospitality by the numerous officers to whom he had introductions, or with whom he casually became acquainted, he has perhaps felt a natural unwillingness to probe and lay bare the weak points of the French in Africa. Such, at least, is the general impression conveyed to us by his book. He seems hampered by fear of requiting kindness by censure; and, to escape the peril, has abstained from criticism, forgetting the possible construction that may be put upon his silence. There is certainly scope for a work on Algeria of a less superficial character, and such a one we wish he had applied himself to produce. From no one could it better proceed than from a British officer of intelligence and education. We are not disposed, however, because Captain Kennedy has not fulfilled all our expectations, to judge with severity the printed results of his tour. His tone is easy and gentlemanly, and we are far from crying down what we presume to be his first literary attempt.

From the English officer we turn to the French one, whose book is of a much more ambiguous character. Who is this Count St Marie? Whence does he derive his countship and his melodramatic or vaudevilleish name? Does he write in English, or is his book translated? Is he a Frenchman as well as a French officer, a bonâ fide human being, or a publisher’s myth; a flesh and blood author, or a cloak for a compilation? From sundry little discrepancies, we suspect the latter; and that he is indebted for name, title, and rank, to the ingenious benevolence of his editor. Sometimes he talks as if he were a Frenchman; at others, in a manner to make us suppose him English. Whatever his nation, it is strange, if he has been an officer in the French service, that he should request information from a certain mysterious Mr R——, whom he constantly puts forward as an authority, on the subject of promotion in the French army, and respecting French military decorations. The commanders of the Legion of Honour, he tells us, wear the gold cross en sautoir, like the cross of St Andrew. Odd enough that Count St Marie should be more conversant with Scottish decorations than with French ones. Talking of Bougia, at page 203, he remarks that “the blindness and imbecility of the French in Africa is (he might have said are) more perceptible there than any where else;” and adverts to “the ruined débarcadère, the fragments of which seem left only to put French negligence to shame.” We doubt if any Frenchman would have written in this tone, especially in a book intended for publication in England. There are many similar passages in the volume. Yet the gallant count talks of the French consul as “our consul,” and of the French troops as “our columns,” the latter in the very same paragraph in which he sneers at their victories. His style is free from foreign idioms, but here and there occurs a peculiarity seeming to denote a translation. A town is said to be garrisoned by veteran troops, when the meaning evidently is, that the garrison was a detachment of the French corps known as “the Veterans.” Although cent sous is a common term in France to express a five-franc piece, in English we do not talk of a payment of one hundred sous. But it is unnecessary to multiply instances. We have probably said enough to make our readers coincide in our suspicion, that “Algeria in 1845,” by Count St Marie, is neither fish, flesh, nor red herring, but altogether of the composite order. It is, nevertheless, amusing and full of anecdote, with only here and there a blunder or dash of exaggeration; and although, as we believe, a compilation, it is tolerably correct in its statistics and inferences. We must protest, however, against the humbug of the system. A book that has merit may be launched under its true colours, and kept afloat without a titled name upon the title-page.

The motives that induce the French to cling, with a tenacity which an immense annual outlay of treasure and human life has hitherto failed to weaken, to their African conquest, are, we believe, pretty well appreciated, at least in this country, where colonies and colonization are understood, and where French policy is studied by many. Algeria is the safety-valve by which the superfluous steam of the national character is in some measure let off; it affords a point de mire for the people, occupation for the army, a subject of discussion for the newspapers. Doubtless a large section of the French nation, or at least of its more sensible and thinking classes, would gladly witness the abandonment of a colony which has already cost more than there is any probability of its yielding for years to come—more, perhaps, than it ever will yield, either in direct or indirect advantages. But were it proposed to give it up, the general cry would be loudly against the measure. Not that there is a probability of the proposal being made. The present shrewd and wary ruler of France well knows that a little blood-letting is as essential to keep down the feverish temperament of his people as a plaything is to occupy their thoughts and preserve them from mischief. Algeria is at once the leech and the toy. Restless and enterprising spirits there find the field of action they require; those who might otherwise be busy with home politics, have their attention diverted by battles and bulletins. The evils of protracted and unprofitable warfare do not, in this instance, come home to the nation in a very direct and palpable form, and therefore disgust at the resultless strife has not yet replaced the interest and excitement it creates. Now and then a tent or an umbrella is captured and stuck up in the gardens of the Tuileries to be gaped and wondered at by the Parisians. This gives a fillip to popular enthusiasm, and well-fed national guardsmen, as they take their turn of duty at the palace gates, look with increased respect and envy upon the Algerine schako and bronzed visage of their fellow sentry of the line. Captain Kennedy gives an amusing instance of the extent to which the martial ardour of sober French citizens is sometimes carried by that stir of arms and din of battle whose echoes are wafted to their ears from the distant shores of the Mediterranean.

“Among the various costumes and styles of dress seen in the streets of Algiers, none are so ridiculous as that of the European civilian, dressed à l’Arabe, some fine specimens of which we saw to-day. One of this genus, a wealthy shopkeeper from the Rue Chaussée d’Antin, had, by his adventures a short time since, created some little amusement. Enthusiastic on the subject of the new colony, his thoughts by day had been for months of Algiers, and his dreams by night of bournoused warriors, fiery steeds, and bloody yataghans. At last, determined to see with his own eyes, he left his beloved Paris, and arrived safely in Algiers.

“His first care was to procure a complete Arab dress, in which he sallied forth the morning after his arrival. He came in search of adventures, and he was soon gratified. Stalking along, he accidentally hustled a couple of French soldiers, was sworn at, thrashed, and rolled in the mud as a ‘Sacré cochon d’Arabe,’ lost his purse from having no pockets in his new garments, and was nearly kicked down stairs by the garçon of his hotel for venturing to enter his own room.

“Undismayed by these misadventures, he set out the following day, armed to the teeth, to ride to Blidah. When, half-way there, he was seized as a suspicious character by two Arab gendarmes, for being armed without having a permit, and pretending not to understand Arabic; he was disarmed and dismounted, his hands tied behind his back, and fastened to his captor’s stirrup. He spent the night on the ground in a wretched hut, with a handful of cuscusoo for supper, and next morning was dragged into Algiers in broad daylight, half dead with fear and fatigue. On being carried before the police he was instantly liberated; and, taking advantage of the first packet, returned to France, having seen more of life in Algeria in a few days, than many who had spent the same number of years in the colony.”

Great must have been the discomfiture of the worthy burgher, although he had much reason to rejoice at having encountered Arab gendarnes and French troopers, instead of Bedouins or Kabyles, who would hardly have let him off with a beating, a night’s imprisonment, and a cuscusoo supper. We can imagine his delight at again finding the asphalte of the Boulevards under his boot-soles, and the respect with which his coffee-house gossips regarded him, as he related, over his post-prandial demi-tasse, or in the intervals of his game at dominos, the adventures of his amateur campaign, and the perils that beset the pilgrim to Algeria. A slight traveller’s license would convert the pair of gendarmes into a troop of hostile cavalry, and his brief detention in the hut into a visit to the dungeons of Abd-el-Kader. His friends would look up to him as a military authority, his wife exclaim at the injustice that left his button-hole undecorated; and when next his company of the national guard elected their officers, he would have but to present himself to be instantly chosen. The laurels he had failed to achieve in Africa would be bestowed upon him by acclamation in the guard-room of his arrondissement.

In relating the well-known incident that gave rise to hostilities between France and the Dey of Algiers, Count St Marie goes back to the remote cause, which, by his account, was a lady. In the time of Napoleon the Bey of Tunis had a favourite female slave, for whom he ordered, of an Algerine Jew, a costly and magnificent head-dress. The Jew, unable to get it manufactured in the country, wrote to Paris; the head-dress was made, at an expense of twelve thousand francs, and the modest Israelite charged it thirty thousand to the Bey. The latter was too much pleased with the bauble to demur at the price, but, not being in cash, he paid for it in corn. There chanced just then to be a scarcity in France; the Jew sold his grain to the army contractors, and managed so well that he became a creditor of the French government for upwards of a million of francs. Napoleon fell, and the Bourbons declined to pay; but the Jew contrived to interest the Dey of Algiers in his cause, and remonstrances were addressed to the French government. The affair dragged on for years, and at last, in 1829, on the eve of a festival when the diplomatic corps were admitted to pay their respects to the Dey, the latter expostulated with the French consul on the subject of the long delay. The answer was unsatisfactory, and the consequence was the celebrated rap with a fan or fly-flap, which sent its giver into exile, and converted Algeria into a French province. On visiting the Kasbah, or citadel, at Algiers, Captain Kennedy was shown the little room in which the insult was offered to the representative of France. It is now used as a poultry-yard. “Singularly enough,” says the captain, “as we entered, a cock, strutting on the deserted divan, proclaimed his victory over some feebler rival by triumphant crow—an appropriate emblem of the real state of affairs.” But the conquered cock is game; and although sorely punished by his adversary’s spurs, he returns again and again to the charge.

Within the fortress of the Kasbah were comprised the Dey’s palace, harem, and treasury. The buildings are now greatly altered, at least as regards their application. The private residence of the Dey has been converted into officers’ quarters, the harem is occupied by artillerymen, a kiosk has been arranged as an hospital, and a mosque has become a Catholic chapel. The treasury was said to contain an immense sum at the time of its capture by the French; but the exact amount was never known, and various accounts have been given of the probable disposal of the money. Captain Kennedy believes there is little doubt that the sum of forty-three millions of francs, officially acknowledged to have been shipped to France, was employed by the ministers of Charles the Tenth in their vain endeavours to suppress the revolution of 1830. Certain general officers of the invading army have been charged with acts of appropriation; but nothing was ever proved, and the whole rests on rumour and unsupported assertion. However the money was got rid of, there is no doubt that a vast deal was found. The Dey, a careless extravagant old dog, worthy of his piratical ancestors, was any thing but minute in his record of receipts and expenditure. He was not the man to ring his sovereign or mark his bank-notes; he knew as much about double entry as about the Greek mythology or the Waverley novels, and kept his accounts with a shovel and a corn-bin. Wooden partitions divided his treasury into compartments—one for gold, one for silver, and separating foreign and native coin; when money was received, it was thrown in uncounted; when wanted, it was taken out without form or ceremony of writing. “Such also was the carelessness shown,” adds Captain Kennedy, “that, in one part, the walls still bear the impressions of coins cast in at random, before the inner coating of plaster had had time to dry,”—quite a realisation of fairy tale accounts, and popular ideas of Oriental profusion and lavish prodigality. The manner in which these heads of gold and silver were guarded is equally curious, and completes a picture worthy of the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments. “Prior to the French occupation,” says M. St Marie, “any attempt to penetrate into these caves was impracticable, the approach to them being guarded by lions, tigers and hyenas, chained up at short distances from each other.” Besides these formidable brute body-guards, whose melodious voices must have greatly soothed the slumbers of the fair inmates of the seraglio, the Dey had barracks within the Kasbah for his household troops, on whose fidelity he relied for protection from the soldiery of the regency, frequently in a state of mutiny.

Military hospitals are of course a primary necessity in a country where half a million of soldiers have perished during the last fifteen years, either by disease or the sword. At Algiers there are several establishments of the kind, one of which, situated in the gardens of the Dey, and capable of containing five thousand sick, is particularly worthy of notice. Large as the building is, it is insufficient in summer and autumn to accommodate all who seek admission. The gardens have been left as much as possible uninjured, and their orange-trees and fountains afford cool shade and delightful freshness to the convalescent soldiers. On the other hand, the Jardin Marengo, belonging to Colonel Marengo, the commandant of the citadel of Algiers, contributes its quota to the sick wards. It is cultivated, Count St Marie informs us, by condemned soldiers, who suffer dreadfully from the heat and from exposure to the burning sun. Scarcely a day passes without some of the unfortunate men being conveyed to hospital, and in many instances they never recover. The real name of Colonel Marengo is Capon. His father distinguished himself at the battle of Marengo, and Napoleon jestingly bestowed on him the name retained by his son, instead of the ignoble appellation that he previously bore. Apropos of the hospital—or it might just as well be said, àpropos de bottes—the Count, who certainly never loses an opportunity of bringing in a good story, relates one of a M. St Vincent, president of a French learned society, who went to Africa to prosecute researches in natural history. Eager for specimens, he was liberal in his payments; and one day a great curiosity was brought to him in the shape of two rats, each with a long excrescence, like the trunk of an elephant, issuing from the top of the nose. He caught at the prize, and immediately forwarded to the Jardin des Plantes at Paris a scientific description of the rat trompé. But his letter had scarcely gone when the excrescence became dry and dropped off; and on examination it was found that incisions had been made above the noses of the animals, and the tails of two other rats inserted The rat trompé dwindled into a rat trompeur.

After a short stay in the city of Algiers, and contemplating a return thither, Captain Kennedy and his companion, Viscount Fielding, started for Blidah by diligence. At about half a mile from the Kasbah, the road—an excellent one, constructed by the troops—passes under the walls of Fort l’Empereur, built in commemoration of a victory obtained by the Moors in the year 1541 over the troops of Charles V. Some of the cannon abandoned on this occasion by the Spaniards were originally French, having been taken by the imperial army at the battle of Pavia. The Algerines mounted them on the Kasbah, where they remained until in 1830, after an interval of three hundred and five years, they again fell into the hands of their first possessors. The fort, which owes its existence to a signal triumph of Algerine power, was not destined to survive the downfall of the Crescent. Invested by the French, a few hours’ cannonade dismounted its guns, breached its walls, and ruined its defences. The garrison were compelled to abandon it, and retreat into the city, with the exception of a few desperadoes, who had sworn to perish, but never to fly before the Christians. Whilst the French troops impatiently awaited orders for an assault, a tremendous explosion took place; and when the dust and smoke cleared away, the whole western face of the fort was a heap of ruins. The surrender of the city shortly followed.

Previously to an earthquake that occurred in 1825, the town of Blidah, situated in a fertile valley at the foot of the lesser Atlas, numbered fifteen thousand inhabitants. Many of these perished in the ruins of their dwellings, and the place never recovered itself; for, at the period of the French invasion, the population was only five thousand. Placed in the very heart of the scene of war, the diminution continued, and the native inhabitants are now an insignificant handful. The European population is on the increase, and the situation of the town on the line of communication between the port of Algiers and the country beyond the Atlas, as well as its good climate and abundance of water, seems to mark it out as a place of future importance. In former times it was a favourite residence of the Moors and Arabs, who called it the New Damascus. There has been hard fighting there during the present war, and it has thrice changed masters. It is surrounded by luxuriant gardens and groves of orange-trees, whose fruit is said to be the finest in the world. The plantations formerly extended quite up to the town; but the Arabs took advantage of this to come down and pick off the sentries, and it was found necessary to clear a large number of acres. This impoverished many of the inhabitants, whose wealth consisted in plantations of oranges, lemons, and olives. The town is usually garrisoned by the Zouaves, troops originally raised amongst the natives in imitation of our Sepoys. Soon after the formation of the corps, however, Frenchmen were allowed and encouraged to enlist, and of these the three battalions now principally consist. As fighting men they enjoy the highest possible character, but in quarters they are terrible scamps. Its gallant reputation and picturesque uniform, and the numerous opportunities of distinction afforded to it, cause this corps to be generally preferred by volunteers, and non-commissioned officers often leave the line to serve as privates in the Zouaves.

At Blidah, Captain Kennedy and his friend procured horses, and with their party strengthened by two Prussian officers, they set out for Medeah. West of the river Chiffa they came upon another military road, at which a battalion was then working. Men and officers were encamped in tents, and in huts constructed of boughs. “The men employed on this duty receive seventy-five centimes (about sevenpence) additional pay per diem; and during the winter and spring, as the work is not hard, it is rather preferred by the troops to garrison duty.” The system of providing employment for the soldier, when he is not actually opposed to the enemy, is very generally carried out by the French in their African colony, and also in France when it is possible to be done. Captain Kennedy evidently approves of it. At Medeah, a few minutes’ walk from the gate, are the gardens of the garrison. Each regiment or battalion has its piece of ground, divided into lots for the different companies, and supplying the troops with vegetables. “Here, as at other places I have since visited, the ground in the occupation of the troops was in a high state of culture, and superior both in produce and neatness of arrangement to the gardens of the civilians. * * * In many of our own colonies, and even at home, this system might be followed with beneficial results to our troops; for, putting aside the addition the produce would make to the comforts of the men, any employment or amusement that would tend to keep the soldier out of the canteen or public-house during his leisure hours, and there are many on whom it would have that effect, must be advantageous.”

Medeah is the capital of the province of Tittery, and the head-quarters of a subdivision of the French army, commanded by General Marey, to whom Captain Kennedy had introductions. To these the general did all honour, and sketched out for his guests the plan of an expedition to the Little Sahara. A French traveller, recording his visit to Medeah, has given the following ludicrous and melancholy account of the caravanserais of the town. “On a déjà plusieurs cafés avec l’inévitable billard, et deux hôtels où le travail est divisé, car l’un loge and l’autre nourrit; les chambres n’y sont pas encore tout à-fait meublées, et le charpentier n’a pas encore achevé l’escalier qui y monte. On y a oublié une certaine faience très utile, mais il y a déjà des miroirs.” This description, doubtless as true as it is characteristic, now no longer applies. Things have improved in the last year or two; and at the time of Captain Kennedy’s journey, the Medeah hotels were very tolerable. But he was eager for the desert, and tarried little in the town. Accompanied by an aide-de-camp of General Marey, who had volunteered to do the honours of the colony, and show to the English visitors life amongst the Bedouins, escorted also by a score of light infantry, a party of Spahis or native cavalry, by half a dozen officers of the garrison, several servants, and a vast number of dogs, our travellers struck into the Arab country. The district they were about to traverse being peopled by friendly tribes, this large attendance was less for purposes of protection to the Englishmen than of mischief to the wild-boars, which it was proposed to hunt. After a night passed in an Arab tent, the battue began; and although not very successful, only one boar being killed, the sportsmen deemed themselves well repaid for eight hours’ walk in a broiling sun, by magnificent scenery, and the excitement of the chase.

There is interest, although no very great novelty, in Captain Kennedy’s narrative of his wanderings amongst the dasheras and douars of the Bedouins. The douars are Arab camps, the dasheras villages, or rather collections of huts, built of stone and mud, and roofed with branches of trees. The walls of these miserable habitations are low; the door does duty as sole window; for a fireplace a hole is made in the earthen door; the furniture consists of a few mats, a corn-mill, some pots, and a lamp. These are the dwellings of the agricultural tribes, who live near the mountains. The pastoral tribes roam over the desert; their tents, corn-mills, and mats, packed upon camels; and driving with them flocks and herds of sheep, goats, and cattle. When they halt, the tents are pitched in a circle, the opening towards the east; and at night the animals are driven into the inclosure, for safety from robbers, and to prevent straying. A family of Arabs will frequently wander several days’ march from their usual abiding-place to some French garrison or settlement, there to barter their stock for corn and European produce. They travel by easy journeys, and halt whenever convenient, only taking care to keep out of the way of hostile tribes. “A short time serves to unload the camel, spread the mats, and pitch the tent. A few handfuls of corn, ground in the mill, kneaded into a paste with water, and baked in thin cakes on the fire, with a drink of water, or, if they have it, milk, forms their simple meal.” Such is the abstemious life of these sons of the desert. In the autumn, when the great fair is held at Boghar, the advanced post of the French on the side of the Little Sahara, several thousand people repair thither, bringing hides, cheese, butter, and wool; also dates, skins of beasts, ostrich feathers, and the woollen manufactures of the Arab women, received from the interior of the country. These various products are exchanged for honey, oil, corn, cutlery, and cotton cloths. Arms and ammunition used to be greatly in request, but the French have prohibited that traffic. The imports of European goods are on the increase, and Captain Kennedy considers French trade in the north of Africa in a highly improving state, favoured as it is by numerous roads, made or making, through the Atlas, by the pacification of the country, and submission of the tribes between Blidah and Boghar. How long this submission may last must be considered doubtful. It has been induced neither by love nor fear, but by self-interest. The more prosperous tribes, and those located in the plain, finding Abd-el-Kader unable to protect them, took the only means left to secure themselves from the fierce razzias of the French, and from the ruin that these entailed. So long as they deem it advantageous, they will doubtless be staunch to their compact; but let then see or imagine a probable change in the fortune of the war, and they will be found eager, as some of them have already shown themselves, to rally once more round the standard of the Emir.

Amongst the tribes whose hospitality was shared by Captain Kennedy, the most powerful was that of Ouled-Macktar, whose chief, Ben Douda, is considered by the captain to afford a good type of the Arab chiefs in the pay of France. For a long period he acted as one of Abd-el-Kader’s lieutenants, but at a critical moment transferred his services to the French. His people had their possessions secured to them, and he himself received the appointment of Aga over the Arabs of the Little Desert, with an allowance of ten per cent on the tribute paid by the tribes under his jurisdiction. He is described as about fifty years of age, with handsome though harsh features of the true Arab cast. “What struck me most in his appearance, was the expression of deep cunning strongly marked in the lines that crossed his forehead, and in the downcast and furtive glances of the eye, observing every thing, yet seemingly inattentive.” The Aga is very wealthy, and lives in great luxury, comparatively to most of the Arabs. Captain Kennedy’s party reached his camp at a fortunate moment. The douar was in an unusual state of excitement, and great rejoicings were on foot in honour of the marriage of the Aga’s son. The wedding-feast, consisting of sheep roasted whole, stewed gazelle, cuscusoo, and other Bedouin delicacies, was succeeded by some very graceless dances. Whilst the latter proceeded, the men kept up an irregular fire of guns, pistols, and blunderbusses, presenting their weapons at each others’ breasts, and suddenly dropping the muzzle at the moment of pulling the trigger, so that the charge struck the ground. As might be anticipated, this dangerous sport did not terminate without an accident. One young savage omitted to sink his muzzle, and sent a blank cartridge into the hip of a comrade, knocking him over, burning his bournous, and causing an ugly, although not a dangerous wound. “The rest of the party did not seem to care much about it, and the wounded man’s wife, instead of looking after her husband, rushed up to the man who had shot him, and, assisted by some female friends, opened upon him a torrent of abuse, with such fluency of tongue and command of language, that, after endeavouring in vain to get in a word or two, he fairly turned tail and walked off.”

In the douar of the Abides tribe, Captain Kennedy fell in with a scorpion-eater. This was a disgusting-looking boy, who, being an idiot, was looked upon by the Arabs as a saint—deprivation of intellect constituting in their opinion a high claim to holiness. This urchin bolted, sting and all, a fine lively scorpion upwards of two inches long—the reptile writhing between his teeth as he deliberately crunched it. Our traveller had heard of such exploits, but had naturally been rather incredulous concerning the non-removal of the sting. In this case, however, he was perfectly satisfied that no deception was practised. The boy afterwards devoured another of the same dangerous species of vermin. He belonged to the religious sect of the Aisaoua, who claim the privilege of being proof against the venom of reptiles and the effects of fire. A most extraordinary account of a festival of this sect has been given by a French officer, of whose narrative Captain Kennedy supplies a translation. Fortunately he does not vouch for its veracity; so we may be permitted to disbelieve one half and doubt the rest. M. St Marie relates some marvels of a similar description, collected from an interpreter who had been a prisoner of Abd-el-Kader.

The general impression made on us by Captain Kennedy’s account of his visit to the Arab tribes, is, that the French have as yet done little or nothing towards securing the affections and improving the condition of the people they have subjugated. It must be acknowledged that they have had to do with an intractable race, and one difficult to conciliate. The old hatred and contempt of Mussulmans towards Christians has been preserved in full force in the deserts and mountains of Northern Africa. Centuries have done nothing to weaken it, or to cause the followers of Mahomet to look with liking, or even tolerance, upon the children of the Cross. The Christian is still a dog, and the son of a dog; and even when crouching before his power and intelligence, the Arab nurtures hopes of revenge, long deferred but never abandoned. The French regard their conquest as secure; and doubtless it may be rendered so by the maintenance of a powerful military establishment; but who can foretell the time when they will be enabled to withdraw even a portion of their present African army? Their doing so would be a signal for revolt amongst the chiefs now in their pay, amongst the tribes apparently most effectually humbled and subdued. Patience and vindictiveness are distinguishing traits of the Arab. He bides his time, but never loses sight of his object and of his revenge. “They do not forget,” says Count St Marie, speaking of the Arabs of the province of Oran, “that the Spaniards, weary of occupying a territory which cost them great sacrifices, and yielded them no advantages, abandoned their conquest after two centuries of possession. They foresee that, one day or other, they will be rid of the French, who have made as great a mistake as the Spaniards. The Arabs are animated by an innate spirit of pride and independence which nothing can subdue.” We venture no prophecies in this sense, but neither can we predict the day when Algeria, as a colony, will become other than an unproductive burden to its present possessors, or when it will repay them for the blood and treasure they so liberally expend upon it. They should beware of arguing too favourably from apparent calm and submission on the part of the natives. The ocean is often smoothest before a storm; the Arab most dangerous when apparently most tranquil. Like other Orientals, he starts in an instant from torpor and indolence into the fiercest activity. “The Arab,” says a German officer, whose narrative of adventure in Africa has recently been rendered into English, “lies whole days before his tent, wrapped in his bournous, and leaning his head on his hand. His horse stands ready saddled, listlessly hanging his head almost to the ground, and occasionally casting sympathising glances at his master. The African might then be supposed phlegmatic and passionless, but for the occasional flash of his wild dark eye, which gleams from under his bushy brows. His rest is like that of the Numidian lion, which, when satisfied, stretches itself beneath a shady palm-tree—but beware of waking him! Like the beasts of the desert and the forest, and like all nature in his own land, the Arab is hurried from one extreme to the other, from the deepest repose to the most restless activity. At the first sound of the tam-tam, his foot is in the stirrup, his hand on his rifle, and he is no longer the same man. He rides day and night, bears every privation, and braves every danger, in order to make prize of a sheep or ass, or of some enemy’s head. Such men as these are hard to conquer, and harder still to govern: were they united into one people, they would form a nation which would not only repulse the French, but bid defiance to the whole world. Unhappily for them, every tribe is at enmity with the rest; and this must ultimately lead to their destruction, for the French have already learned to match African against African.”

The constant hostilities amongst the tribes have doubtless facilitated their conquest; and the French still act upon the maxim of “divide et impera,” as the best means to retain what they have won. As yet little attention has been paid to more humane means of strengthening themselves in their new possessions, and to the civilisation of the natives. The chief plan proposed for the attainment of the latter object, has been to subject to the conscription all Arabs born since the occupation of the country by the French. It is very doubtful what may be the effect of this measure should it be carried out. Will it Frenchify the natives, and induce kindly feelings towards their conquerors, or render them more dogged and dangerous than before? They will, at any rate, acquire military knowledge, and an acquaintance with the European system of warfare, which, combined with the skill in arms and horsemanship they already possess, will render them doubly dangerous in case of a revolt. After their seven years’ service, they may perhaps think fit to join Abd-el-Kader, or any other leader then warring against the French. It is want of proper discipline that has rendered the Arab cavalry unable to compete successfully with that of France. They charge tumultuously and with little order, each man relying much upon himself individually, but doing little to aid the combined effect of the mass.

Might not conversion to Christianity be made a powerful lever for the civilisation of the tribes? They entertain a degree of respect for the Catholic priests scarcely inferior to that shown to their own marabouts. Abd-el-Kader has more than once released a prisoner, without ransom, at the prayer of the Bishop of Algiers. Near the last-named city, some French Jesuits have formed an establishment for the education, in the Christian faith, of young Arabs and Moors. There, as the author of “Algeria in 1845” informs us, a certain number of youths, after being baptized, are fed, clothed, lodged, and instructed in some trade. The French government pays little attention to this establishment, which is supported chiefly by charitable contributions. “It is, however, a great work of civilisation. The young pupils are hostages in the hands of the French. It is pretty certain that their fathers, brothers, and relations, will not join the rebels. When they leave this establishment, they will carry with them indelible feelings of gratitude. They will have an occupation, they will speak the French language, and will be of the same religion as their masters.”

Exclusive of the army, Frenchmen form less than half of the European population of Algeria. After them come Spaniards, who are very numerous; then Maltese and Italians; and finally, a small number of Germans, barely five per cent of the whole. The Spaniard, although often taxed with idleness and dislike to labour, here proves himself an industrious and valuable colonist; the Maltese travels from village to village with his little stock of merchandise; the German tills the ground. In the neighbourhood of Algiers, things have a very European aspect; and the Arabs themselves, from constant intercourse with the city, have lost much of their nationality. The appearance of a flourishing colony is, however, confined to this district. Little progress has as yet been made in rebuilding the other towns, although in most of them the work of improvement is begun, and the narrow dirty streets are being pulled down to make room for wider avenues and more commodious houses. In some of them the only buildings as yet erected are barracks and hospitals. The seaport town of Bona, bordering on the regency of Tunis, is an exception. In 1832 it was reduced to ruins by the troops of the Bey of Constantina, under command of Ben Aïssa. It is now rebuilding on the European plan. A large square, with a fountain, has been laid out in its centre, and several well-built streets are completed. The town already boasts of an opera, with an Italian company, who are assisted by amateurs, chiefly Germans, from the ranks of the foreign legion.

The Algerine Jews attribute their first arrival in Africa to a miracle, of which we find the following version in Count St Marie’s book. In the year 1390, Simon-ben-Sinia, chief rabbi of Seville, and sixty of his co-religionists were imprisoned, and condemned to die, the object being to get possession of their wealth. On the eve of the day fixed for their execution, Simon drew the image of a ship on his prison wall. The drawing was miraculously changed into a real vessel, on board of which the prisoners embarked for Algiers, where they were kindly received by the Marabout Sidi Ben Yusef. This tradition is still an article of faith, even with the most enlightened of the Jews. In whatever manner they came, they have increased and multiplied, and now abound in all the towns of Algeria. Preserving the characteristics of their race, they differ little from their European brethren; or, if there be any difference, it is not much in their favour. Their moral condition is low; and although some honourable and honest men are found amongst them, the majority are of a very different stamp. They are charitable to their poor, and hospitable to their own people, and are generally well conducted; but their insatiable and inherent greed leads them into all sorts of disgraceful transactions. They have been immense gainers by the expulsion of the Deys, under whose rule they were subjected to much oppression and ill usage. “Their condition is now vastly ameliorated, and I have even heard complaints of their insolence; a very extraordinary charge against a race so tamed and broken in spirit. The French, I fear, can place but little reliance on their courage in occasions of danger.” The Jewish women, when young, are for the most part strikingly handsome; and the boys are models of beauty until the age of ten or eleven years, when their features grow coarse. Education is confined to the males.

The taming of savage animals is no uncommon amusement amongst the French in Algeria; and the most extraordinary and alarming pets are encountered not only in officers’ quarters but in ladies’ drawing-rooms. At Medeah, Captain Kennedy was introduced to a magnificent lion, the property of General Marey, Sultan by name, two years old, and of a most amiable and docile disposition. Sultan allowed himself to be examined and pulled about, and did not even exhibit anger, but some annoyance when an aide-de-camp puffed a cigar in his nostrils—a pleasantry which we are disposed to consider fool-hardy. The only thing that excited his ire was a Scotch plaid worn by Captain Kennedy. It was supposed that the hanging ends reminded him of an Arab bournous, to which he had shown great aversion, having probably been ill-treated in his infancy by the Arabs who caught him. Notwithstanding his good temper, the general intended to get rid of him, fearing that in the long run instinct might prove stronger than education. Besides the lion, General Marey had an unhappy-looking eagle, and a pair of beautiful gazelles. Count St Marie abounds in anecdotes of ferocious beasts in a state of civilisation. One of the first acquaintances he made in Algiers was a tame hyena, of most unamiable aspect, but who lived in touching amity with a little dog, and did the civil for lumps of sugar. At Bona, the count went to call upon some ladies, and, on opening the door, beheld a brace of lions walking about the room. He shut himself out with great precipitation, but was presently reassured by the fair proprietresses of these singular favourites. When he ventured into the saloon, and sat down, the lion laid his head upon his knee, and the lioness jumped on the divan beside her mistress. These brutes were seven years old. Lions are not very common in Algeria. Now and then they approach the douars, greatly to the alarm of the Arabs, who hasten to inform the French authorities, and a battue takes place. Accidents generally happen at these lion-hunts: Count St Marie affirms that there are always three or four lives lost, to say nothing of wounds and other serious injuries. Whilst passing the night in an Arab encampment at the entrance of the Bibans or Iron Gates—the scene of much hard fighting, and of a gallant exploit of the late Duke of Orleans—the count was roused, he informs us, in the dead of the night, “by a noise which appeared to me like a distant peal of thunder, repeated and prolonged by the mountain echoes. Gradually the noise became louder. The animals sprang from their resting-places, and the men, armed with muskets, rushed out of the tents. The oxen, grouped themselves together, and turned their horns to the enemy; the dogs were afraid even to bark. Presently the roaring became less frequent and more distant; and we found that we had been saved from the unwelcome visit of a lion, by the light of the burning brushwood on the neighbouring hills.” The boar and the jackal are more common and less dangerous objects of chase than the lion. Some of the rich colonists and many of the officers are ardent sportsmen. Two of the former have regular packs of hounds and studs of horses. Hares, rabbits, and red partridges are very common.

The horse has greatly degenerated in Algeria, owing chiefly to the neglect of the Arabs, who consider the choice of the dam to be alone important, and pay no attention to the qualities of the sire. The French government has recently established stables near Bona, with a view to the improvement of the breed; the stud is to consist of stallions only. There are to be similar establishments in the other two provinces. So great is the demand for the better class of horses, that the Arabs obtain very high prices for their stallions, which they willingly sell, but they will not part with the mares. Every year, therefore, it becomes more difficult to propagate a good breed. Officers have now been sent to Tunis to make purchases, at a limit of eighty ponds sterling for each horse. This price, Captain Kennedy says, ought to buy the best horses in the country. Although less numerous than formerly, splendid specimens of the Barbary Arab are still to be met with in Algeria. Captain Kennedy describes, in glowing terms, a magnificent charger belonging to General Marey, purchased by that officer at a high price, and after a long negotiation, from a wealthy chief in the south-west. M. St Marie says, that he knew a Morocco horse to perform fifty leagues in eleven hours, without turning a hair or showing a trace of the spur. Assuming him to speak of the common three-mile league, or even of the old French posting league, which was something less, this statement appears incredible. Thirteen miles and a half an hour! Dick Turpin himself, upon his fabulous mare, would have recoiled before such a pace sustained for such a time. The rate of marching of the Arabs, however, from Captain Kennedy’s evidence, is very rapid. The infantry do their fifteen or twenty leagues in the twenty-four hours—the cavalry from thirty to forty-five—the meharies (so say the Arabs) from fifty to eighty. This is when the tribes are on the war-path, making razzias upon each other’s flocks and camps, when it may be supposed that they put on a little extra steam. The mehary is an inferior race of camel, with a small hump, and possessed of considerable strength and spirit, carrying a couple of men. It keeps up for the whole day at about the same speed as the ordinary trot of a horse. Its diet is herbs and date kernels. The horses of the Sahara thrive best upon dates and milk; few of them get barley; and they are sometimes reduced, when no other food is obtainable, to eat cooked meat.

Amongst the most determined enemies of the French in Africa, are to be enumerated the Kabyles, tribes dwelling in the ranges of the Lesser Atlas, from Tunis to Morocco. Of different race from the Arabs, they are believed to be the aboriginal inhabitants of Northern Africa. Secure in their wild valleys, they have ever preserved their independence. Carthaginians, Romans, Vandals, Arabs, all failed to subdue them; and, although some of the tribes, whose territory is the least inaccessible, are now partially under the rule of the French, the maritime range, from the east of the Metidjah to Philippeville, remains unconquered. Their numbers are inconsiderable, roughly estimated at eighty thousand. This would give a fighting population of at most from sixteen to twenty thousand men; but that small force has been found efficient to preserve from foreign domination the almost impregnable fastnesses in which they dwell. Although the tribes wage frequent war amongst themselves, a common enemy unites them all. The attachment of the Kabyles to their country and tribe is remarkable. Like the Swiss, or the Spanish Galicians, they are accustomed to wander forth when young, and seek their fortune in other lands. Kabyle servants and labourers are found in all the towns and villages of Northern Africa. But if they learn that their tribe is threatened or at war, they abandon their situations, however advantageous, and hasten home, and to arms. They are very brave, but barbarously cruel, giving no quarter, and torturing their prisoners before cutting off their heads.

Their weapons are guns six or seven feet long, pistols, and yataghans, chiefly of their own manufacture, and the materials for which are found in their mountains, where they work mines of copper, lead, and iron. In their rude way, and considering the badness of their tools, they are tolerably ingenious. Amongst other things, they make counterfeit five-franc pieces, sufficiently well executed to take in the less knowing amongst the Arabs. Their industry is great, and, besides the valleys, they cultivate the steep mountain sides, forming terraces by means of walls, such as are seen in the vineyards on the Rhine and in Switzerland. Possessing few horses, they usually fight on foot; and in the plain, their untutored courage is unable to withstand the discipline of the French troops. Their charges are furious but disorderly; and when beaten back, they disperse to rally again at a distance. In the mountains, where the advantages of military organization have less weight, they are sturdy and dangerous foes, fighting on the guerilla plan, disputing each inch of ground, and disappearing from before their enemy only to fall with redoubled fierceness upon his flank or rear. No foreigners can penetrate into their country, and even Arabs run great risk amongst them. Not long ago, Captain Kennedy informs us, a party of Arab traders, suspected by the Kabyles of being in the French interest, were murdered to a man. Most of them understand and speak the Arabic, but they have also a language of their own, called the Shilla or Sherwia, whose derivation it has hitherto been impossible to discover. They profess Islamism, but mix up with it many superstitions of their ancestors, and ascribe certain virtues to the symbol of the cross, which they use as a talisman and tattoo upon their persons. “It would seem from this,” observes Captain Kennedy, “that at least the outward forms of the early Christians had at one period penetrated into the heart of their mountains.” That, however, like all that relates to the early history of the Kabyles, is enveloped in doubt and obscurity.

A barbarous practice, prevalent in Algeria before the French invasion, is still, Count St Marie tells us, adhered to by the Kabyles. The amputation of a limb, instead of being surgically performed, is effected by blow of a yataghan. The stump is then dipped into melted pitch, to stop the bleeding. The barber is the usual operator. Until the French came, regular physicians and surgeons were unknown in Algeria.

Besides the Zouaves already referred to, the French have raised various other corps expressly for African service. Conspicuous amongst these are two regiments of light cavalry, composed of picked men, and known as the “Chasseurs d’Afrique.” They are mounted on Arab horses; and in order to obtain a sufficient supply, each tribe has to furnish a horse as part of its yearly tribute. The arms of the Chasseurs are carbine, sabre, and pistols; their equipment is light; their uniform plain, and well suited to the nature of the service. Wherever engaged, they have greatly distinguished themselves, and are proportionably esteemed in the army of Africa. The reputation of the Spahis stands less high. These consist of four regiments of native cavalry, under the command of the Arab general Yussuf, whose history, as related by M. St Marie, is replete with romantic incident. It has been said that he is a native of the island of Elba, and was captured, when yet a child, by a Tunisian corsair. Sold to the Bey, he was placed as a slave in the seraglio, and there remained until an intrigue with his master’s daughter compelled him to seek safety on board a French brig, then about to join the fleet destined to attack Algiers. He made the first campaign as interpreter to the general-in-chief. His talents and heroic courage rapidly advanced him, and when the first regiment of Spahis was raised, he was appointed its colonel. Previously to that, he had rendered great services to the French, especially at Bona, when that town was attacked by Ben Aïssa. Landing from a brig of war with Captain d’Armandy and thirty sailors, he threw himself into the citadel, then garrisoned by the Turkish troops of Ibrahim, the former Bey of Constantina, who professed to hold the town for the French government, but had left his post. The Turks rose against their new leaders, and would have murdered them, but for the energy of Yussuf, who killed two ringleaders with his own hand, and then, heading the astounded mutineers, led them against the besiegers, who were totally defeated. The exterior of this dashing chief is exceedingly elegant and prepossessing. When at Paris he was called “le beau Yussuf,” and caused quite a furore, especially among the fair sex. His portrait may still be seen in the various print-shops, side by side with Lamoricière, Bugeaud, and the other “great guns” of the “Armée d’Afrique.”

The first Foreign Legion employed by the French in Africa was transferred to Spain in 1835, and there used up, almost to a man. Another has since been raised, composed of men of all countries—Poles, Belgians, Germans of every denomination, a few Spanish Carlists, and even two or three Englishmen; the legion, like most corps of the same kind, is remarkable for the reckless valour and bad moral character of its members. The Polish battalion is the best and most distinguished. The others are not to be trusted; and only a very severe system of punishments preserves something like discipline in their ranks, where adventurers, deserters, and escaped criminals are the staple commodity. Bad as they are, they are eclipsed by the condemned regiments, known by the slang name of “Les Zephyrs” These are punished men, considered ineligible to serve again in their former regiments, and who are put together on the principle of there being no danger of contagion where all are infected. A taught hand is kept over them; they are insubordinate in quarters, but dare-devils in the field. It will easily be imagined that the duties assigned to these convict battalions are neither the most agreeable nor the least perilous. At present, however, a detachment is employed on no unpleasant service, the care of a experimental military farm, near the camp of El Arrouch, in the district of Constantina. Here they cultivate a considerable tract of land, both farm and garden, breed cattle, and supply the colonists with seeds, fruit-trees, and so forth. Workshops are attached to the farm, for the manufacture of agricultural implements. The men who work as artisans receive three-pence, and the field labourers three halfpence, in addition to their daily pay. “Since the commencement of the experiment,” says Captain Kennedy, “the offences that have been committed bear but a small proportion to those that formerly occurred during a similar period in garrison.” In these days of reform in our military system, might not some hints be taken from such innovations as these? If employment is found to diminish crime amongst a troop of convicts, it might surely be expected to do as much in regiments to which no stigma is attached, and the vices of those members are often solely to be attributed to idleness and its concomitant temptations.

Of few men so largely talked of, and so justly celebrated, is so little positively known as of Abd-el-Kader. The contradictory accounts obtained from the tribes, the narratives of prisoners, who, from their very condition, were precluded from gathering other than partial and uncertain information, compose all the materials hitherto afforded for the history of this remarkable chieftain. Even his age is a matter of doubt, and has been variously stated, although it appears probable that he is now about forty years old. Seeing the great difficulty of obtaining authentic information, Captain Kennedy has abstained from nore than a brief reference to the Emir. At the period of his visit, Abd-el-Kader was not in the field, and his whereabout was very vaguely known—the French believing him to be “somewhere on the frontiers of Morocco.” In the absence, therefore, of trustworthy data, and of opportunities of personal observation, the captain says little on the subject. His reserve is unimitated by M. St Marie, who not only gives a detailed account of the Arab sultan, but prefixes to his book a portrait of that personage, with whom he claims to have had an interview. As regards the portrait, it may be as much like Abd-el-Kader as any other of the half-dozen we have met with, no two of which bore any similitude to each other. The account of the interview is rather marvellous. During his stay in the city of Algiers, M. St Marie went to breakfast with a young Belgian acquaintance, and found an Arab seated in his friend’s room, smoking a pipe. Refreshments were offered to the stranger, and, whilst he discussed them, the count had an opportunity of studying his countenance. He was struck with the dignity of his manner and deportment, and with his air of intellectual superiority, and was given to understand that he was sheik of a tribe friendly to the French. Breakfast over, the Arab departed. Two days afterwards, M. St Marie met his Belgian entertainer. “You were very fortunate the other day,” said the latter; “the Arab whom you saw, when breakfasting with me, was no other than the Emir himself.” And he proceeded to relate how Abd-el-Kader had entered the city with a party of peasants, carrying some chickens, which he sold in the marketplace, to prevent suspicion of his real character. He pledged his word to the truth of this statement, of whose accuracy the count appears satisfied. His readers will possibly be more incredulous. As a traveller’s story, the “yarn” may pass muster, and is, perhaps, not much out of place in the book where it is found. With it we conclude our notice of the rival “Algerias.” Those who desire further details of Bedouin douars and French encampments, of camels and Kabyles, razzias and the like, may seek and find them in the chronicle of the English captain, and the varied, but less authentic pages of the foreign count.

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We spent last Sunday at Figgins’s at Brixton, No. 2, Albert Terrace, Woodbine Lane. A hearty fellow: good glass of port: prime cigar: snug box in the garden: and a bus every five minutes at the end of the road: a regular A.1. place for a Sunday out, and home again in an hour and a half to our paradise at ——; but we are not going to give you our address, or we should be pestered to death with your visits. Suffice it to say that Figgins’s is a good specimen of a citizen’s villa near London. Now, there are several kinds of villas: there is the villa near London, and the villa not near: there is the villa in a row, and the detached villa: there is your lodge, and your park, and your grange, and your cottage ornée; and best of all, in our opinion, there is—what is neither the one nor the other of all these—there is the plain old-fashioned country-house:—once a cottage, then a farm, then a gentleman’s house: irregular, odd, picturesque, unpretending, comfortable, and convenient. But Figgins’s is a new slap-up kind of affair; built within the last two years, and uniting in itself all the last improvements and the most recent elegancies. He has settled himself in a neighbourhood quite the genteelest of that genteel district: for, though merchants and men of yesterday, so to speak, the people of Albert Terrace show that they have respect for the good times of yore, and they admire the character of the fine old English gentleman: they pride themselves, moreover, on being a steady set of people, and they show their respect for things ancient even in the outward arrangements of their dwellings. Thus you enter each of the twenty little gardens surrounding each of the twenty little detached houses, through gates with Norman pillars at their sides, that would have done honour to Durham or Canterbury; while the wooden barriers themselves are none of your radical innovations on the Greek style, nor any of your old impious fox-hunting five-bars, but beautiful pieces of fretwork, copied from the stalls of Exeter Cathedral, painted so nicely in oak, and so well varnished, that Stump the painter must have out-stumped himself in their execution. Once within the gate, however, and the connecting wall—capped, we ought to have said, with a delicious Elizabethan cornice—all Gothic formality ends for the while; and you are lost in astonishment at the serpentine meanderings, the flowing lines, and the thousand attractions of the garden. An ill-natured friend, who went with us, took objection at the weeping ash, in the middle of the circular grass-plot in front of the door; but he altered his mind in the evening, when he found the chairs ranged under its sociable branches—and the Havannahs and sherry-coblers crowding the little table made to fit round the central stem. ’Twas a wrinkle that which he was not up to:—he was a Goth—a cockney. Figgins, though a Londoner, knows what’s what, in matters of that kind; and shows his good taste in such a practical combination of the utile with the dulce. On either side of the house, the pathways ran off with the most mysterious windings among the rhododendrons and lilac bushes, and promised a glimpse of better things in the garden behind, when we should have passed through our host’s atrium, aula, porticus, and viridarium. Figgins’s house has its main body, or corps de logis, composed of two little bits of wings, and a wee little retiring centre—the former have their gables capped with the most elaborate “barge-boards,” as the architects term them, all fretwork and filigree, and swell out below into bay windows, with battlements at top big enough for Westminster Abbey. The centre has a narrow and exceedingly Gothic doorway, and one tiny bit of a window over it, through which no respectably-sized mortal has any chance of getting his head: and again over this is a goodly shield, large enough to contain the blazoned arms of all the Figginses. The builder has evidently gone upon the plan of making the most of his design in a small compass; but he has committed the absurdity first of allowing subsidiary parts to become principals, and then of making the ornaments more important than the spaces: thus the centre is squeezed to death like a nut in a pair of crackers, and battlements, boards, and shield “engross us whole,” by the obtrusiveness of their size and workmanship. Nevertheless, this façade, such as it is, struck us as beating Johnson’s house, in Paragon Place, all to nothing: there was something like the trace of an idea in it, there was an aim, or a pretension, at something: whereas the other is really nothing at all, and its appearance indicates absolute vacuity in the central cerebral regions of its inventor. Figgins has two good rooms on the ground floor, a lobby and staircase between them, to keep the peace between their occupants, three good bed-rooms on his first, and four very small ones up amongst his gables: add to which, that he boasts of what he calls his future dressing-room, but what his wife says is to be her boudoir—we forget where—but somewhere up the stairs. All this again is much better than the Paragon Place plan—it shows that men recover somewhat of their natural good sense when they get into country air.

Figgins has not got a great deal of room in his villa, it is true; but he and his nineteen neighbours are all suitably lodged; and when they all go up to the Bank every morning in the same omnibus, can congratulate themselves on emerging each from his own undivided territory; or when they all come down again in the afternoon, each in a different vehicle—(you never meet the same faces in the afternoon that you do in the morning trip: we know not why, but so it is, and the fact should be signalized to the Statistical Society)—they can each perambulate their own eighth of an acre with their hands under their coat-tails in solemn dignity; or their wife, while awaiting their arrival, and listening to the beef-steaks giving an extra fiz, wanders round and round again, or, like a Virgil’s crow,

If Figgins had but insisted on having the back of his residence plastered and painted to look more natural than stone, the same as the front—or, better still, if his ambition could have contented itself with the plain unsophisticated original brick, we should say nothing against his taste—’tis peculiar certainly, but he’s better off than Johnson.

On the opposite side of Woodbine Lane, some wretch of a builder is going to cut off the view of the Albert Terrace people all over the narrow field, as far as the brick kilns, by erecting a row of contiguous dwellings some three or four storeys high, besides garrets, and they are to be in the last Attic style imported. One word is enough for them: the man who knowingly and voluntarily goes out of town to live in a house in a row, like those lines of things in the Clapham Road or at Hammersmith, deserves to be sent with his house to “eternal smash;” he is an animal below the range of æsthetics, and is not worth remonstrating with.

One of these next days, when we take our hebdomadal excursion, we intend going to see old Lady de Courtain at Lowlands Abbey, near ——; you can get to it in about twenty minutes by the Great Western. It is no abbey in reality, you know; there never was any Foundation on the spot further than what Sam Curtain, when he was an upholsterer in Finsbury, and before he got knighted, had laid down in the swampy meadow which he purchased, and thus bequeathed to his widow: but it’s all the same; it looks like an abbey;—that is to say, there are plenty of turrets, and the windows have all labels over their heads, and there are two Gothic conservatories, and two Gothic lodges at each of the two Gothic gates; and there is a sham ruin at the end of the “Lake:” and if this is not as good as a real abbey, we should like to know what is. Old Lady de Courtain was perfectly justified in Normanizing her name and her house:—why should she not? she had plenty of money: had she been a man, she could have bought a seat for half a dozen boroughs, and might even have gone a step higher; but, as it is, she has married her eldest daughter to the eldest son of Sir Thomas Humbug, a new Whig baronet; and she calls her house as she pleases. We applaud the old lady’s spirit; she has two other daughters still on the stocks, and she gives good dinners; we shall certainly go and patronize her. Comfort for comfort, we are not quite sure but that we had rather take up our quarters with John Bold, Esq., at Hazel House, on the top of the hill opposite. It is quite a different-looking mansion, and yet the rooms are laid out nearly on the same plan: in the one all is Gothic, in the other all is classic: one is be-fretted, and be-pinnacled, and be-shafted, and be-buttressed; but the other has a good plain Tuscan portico, like St Paul’s in Covent-Garden—plain windows wide and high, at enormous distances from each other—sober chimney-pots, that look as if they were really meant to be smoked, and not a single gimcrack or fanciful device any where about the building. It’s only a brick house plastered, after all; but it has a certain air of ease and comfort and respectability about it, that corresponds to a nicety with the character of its worthy inmate. If the door were wide enough, you might turn a coach and pair in the dining-room; there is a good, wide, low-stepped staircase; you may come down it four-a-breast, and four steps at a time, if you like—and if it were well behaved so to do, but it isn’t; and your bedroom would make two of Figgins’s drawing-rooms, lobby and all. The house always looks to us as if it would last longer than Lady de Courtain’s; and so we think it will; just as we doubt not but that honest John Bold’s dirty acres will be all in their proper places when Lady de C.’s three per cents shall be down at forty-two again, and her houses in the city shall be left empty by their bankrupt tenants. They live, too, in a very different way, and in widely distinct circles: at the Abbey you meet many an ex-civic notoriety, and many a rising hope of Lombard Street: it is a perpetual succession of dinners, dances, and picnics: at the House you are sure to be introduced to some sober-faced, top-booted, elderly gentleman or other, and to one or two rotund black-skirted individuals; and you find a good horse at your service every morning, or the keeper is ready for you in proper time and season; and sometimes the county member calls in, or a quorum of neighbouring magistrates sit there in solemn conclave. One is the house of to-day, the other of yesterday: one keeps up the reminiscences of the town, and of a peculiar part of the town, rather too strongly; the other actually smells of the country, and, though so near the metropolis, has nothing with it in common. Their owners, when they go to town, live, one in the Regent Park, the other in Park Lane.

Another acquaintance of ours—and this we will say that we are proud of being known to him—dwells in an old-fashioned gloomy house at Petersham. It is a respectable old gentleman in a brown coat, black shorts, white waistcoat, and a pigtail; and is a member of the Royal Society as well as of the Society of Antiquarians. The house in question suits him, and he suits the house; it was built in the time of that impudent intriguing Dutchman who came over here and drove out his uncle and beau-père; and it accordingly possesses all the heavy dignity of the Dutch houses of that period. The windows are pedimented and cased with mouldings; they are lofty and sufficiently numerous; the doorway has two cherubs flying, with cabbages and roses round the shell that hangs over it; and the lawns are still cut square, and have queer-shaped beds and parterres. There is something dignified and solemn in the very bricks of the mansion, wearing as they do a more regular and sombre hue of red than the dusty-looking things of the present day; and when you once get into the spacious rooms, all floored and pannelled with oak, you feel a glow of veneration for olden times—though not for those times—that you cannot define, but which is nevertheless excessively pleasing. While sitting in the well-stored library of this mansion, you expect to see Addison walking in at the one door, and Swift at another; and you are not quite sure but that you may have to meet Bolingbroke at dinner, and take a glass of wine with Prior or Pope. There are numberless large cupboards all over the place; you could sit inside any of the fireplaces, if the modern grates were, as we wish them, removed: and as for opening or slamming a door in a hurry, it is not to be done; they are too heavy; no such impertinences can ever be tolerated in such a residence. And then our friend himself—we could tell you such a deal about him, but we are writing about houses, not men—you must go and get introduced to him yourself. Let it be put down in your pocket memoranda, whenever you hear of a house of this kind to let, either take it yourself or recommend somebody else whom you have a regard for to do so. It is not a handsome, stylish kind of house; but it is one of the right sort to live in.

Very little is to be said in blame, much in praise, of the majority of English country gentlemen’s houses; if atrocities of taste be committed any where, it is principally near the metropolis, where people are only half-and-half rural, or rather are of that rus-in-urbe kind, that is in its essence thoroughly cockney. There is every variety of mansion throughout the land, every combination of style, and more often the absence of all style at all; and in most cases the houses, at least the better kind of them, are evidently made to suit the purposes of the dweller rather than the architect. This ought to be the true rule of building for all dwellings, except in the cases of those aristocratic palaces or châteaux where the public character of the owner requires a sacrifice of private convenience to public dignity. Houses that are constructed in accordance with the requirements of those that are to live in them, and that are suited to the exigencies of their ground and situation, are sure to please longer, and to gratify the taste of a greater number of persons, than those which are the mere embodyings of an architect’s portfolio. This, however, requires that the principles of the architect should be allowed to vary from the strict proportions of the classic styles;—or rather, that he should be allowed to copy the styles of civil architecture, whether of Greece or Rome, or of ancient Europe. The fault hitherto has been, that designers of houses have taken all their ideas, models, and measurements from the religious rather than the civil buildings of antiquity; and that they have thought the capitals of the Jupiter Stator more suited to an English gentleman’s residence than the capricious yet elegant decorations of a villa at Pompeii. In the same way, until very lately, those who call themselves “Gothic Architects” have been putting into houses windows from all the cathedrals and monasteries of the country, but have seldom thought of copying the more suitable details of the many mansions and castellated houses that still exist. Better sense and better taste are now beginning to prevail, and we observe excellent houses rising around us. Of these, by far the larger proportion are in the styles of the Middle Ages; and for this reason, that the architects who practise in those styles have a wider field to range in for their models, and have also more thoroughly emancipated themselves from their former professional thraldom. There is also a very decided reaction in the public taste in favour of the arts of the Middle Ages, or rather let us say, in favour of a style of national architecture;—and as the Greek and Roman styles have little to connect them with the historical associations of an Englishman’s mind, they have fallen into comparative disfavour. For one purely classic house now erected, there are three or four Gothic. The worst of it is, however, that from the low state into which architecture had fallen by the beginning of the present century, and even for some time afterwards, there has been no sufficient space and opportunity for creating a number of good architects adequate to meet the demands of the public; and hence, the greatest barbarisms are being daily perpetrated, even with the best intentions of doing the correct thing, both on the part of the man who orders a building, and of him who builds. Architecture is a science not to be acquired in a day, nor by inspiration;—nor will the existence of one eminent man in that profession immediately cause a hundred others of the same stamp to rise up around him. On the contrary, it requires a long course of scientific study, and of actual scientific practice; it demands that a great quantity of traditionary precepts be kept up, and handed down from master to pupil through many generations of students and practitioners: it requires the accumulation of an enormous number of good instances and examples; and in most cases it is to be polished by long foreign travel. Now, all this cannot be accomplished in an impromptu, off-hand manner: the profession of architecture requires to be raised and kept up at a certain height of excellence through many long years: it is like the profession of medicine, of law, or the study of all scientific matters: when once the school of architecture declines, the practice of it declines in the same ratio, and the resuscitation of it becomes a work of considerable time. Such a regenerating of architecture is going on amongst us: comparatively more money is now laid out on buildings than at any preceding period for the last hundred years: our architects are becoming more scientific and more accomplished: the profession is occupying a higher rank than it has lately done; and we may, therefore, hope for an increasing proportion of satisfactory results. If only the public eye be cultivated and refined in a similar degree, we may reasonably expect that some beautiful and notable works will be executed.

Not, however, to launch forth into the wide question of architectural fitness and beauty, we will confine our observations to two special topics; one concerning the ornamentation of architectural objects, the other concerning the materials used in private dwellings.

Thank goodness for it! but people are now beginning to see rather further than six inches beyond their noses, and to find out that if they adopt ornament as the starting point, and usefulness as the goal of their architectural course, they are likely to end in the committing of some egregious folly. Private persons are more convinced of this truth than public ones; and the unprofessional crowd more than professed architects. In the one case, as ornament costs dear, the pocket puts an effectual drag on the vagaries of taste; whereas, in the other, public money is most commonly spent without any virtual control: and again, all architects are liable to descend to the prettinesses of their profession rather than abide by the great qualities of properly balanced proportion and design. A bad architect, too, is always seeking after ornament to conceal his mistakes of construction. In private houses, therefore, the superabundance of bad ornament that was adopted after a period of its almost total disuse is now giving way to a moderate employment of it; but, in public buildings, the rage for covering blank spaces, and for getting rid of sharp edges or corners, still continues. Persons who have not inquired practically into the matter can hardly believe how very meagre is the stock of ornament with which nine architects out of ten set up in their trade; looking at what they usually employ in the Greek or Roman style, we observe that the details are generally debased clumsy copies of antiques, jumbled together with much incongruity, and commonly altered in proportions. We do not apply this to capitals and bases, which are now worked with tolerable precision, though even in these we observe a heaviness of hand and eye that detracts greatly from their effect; we refer more particularly to mouldings, and to the decoration of cornices and friezes. Any one who has visited the galleries of the Vatican, or wandered over the Acropolis of Athens, will recollect the broad freedom and spirit with which the most graceful details are treated, and the total absence of stiffness or heaviness in any of the designs; whereas, whoever takes the trouble of lounging about London must prepare his eye for that overload of thick heavy ornament which characterises what is now called the English style. The foliage of Greece and Italy was well worked in those countries, because the objects represented by the architectural sculptor were familiar to his own and to the public eye; his own eye committed no blunder, nor would the public eye have tolerated it. In the application, too, of the human form to sculptured ornament, the proportions and harmonies of the body were too well known and felt to allow of any egregious errors taking place; hence, even in the decorating a frieze, the wonderful taste and skill of the Greek and Roman artists fully appear; whereas, in the hands of the English sculptor, such objects are purely mythical—he knows them only by imagination, not by reality, and he properly designates them as “fancy objects.” Hence their clumsiness, their heaviness, and their incongruity. In all the ordinary details of modern common house-building, the mouldings and enrichments ordinarily used are of a very poor description; decorators lived for a long time on the slender stores of the puerile and meretricious embellishments adopted from the French, and translated, if we may so say, for the use of the English public;—they had lost the boldness and originality which made the style of Louis XIV. tolerable, or rather agreeable; and they had substituted in its place the poorest and the cheapest kind of details that could be worked. Let any one go and find out a house in London, built between 1780 and 1810, and he will instantly remark the meagreness of which we are speaking. Grosvenor Square and the adjacent streets abound with houses of this kind; so does Portland Place. Carlton House was one of the most notable examples. In the stead of this, after the war, came in a flood of Greek ornament; every thing Roman was thrown aside; all was to be either Doric or Attic, with an occasional admixture of the Egyptian: the Greek zig-zag, the Greek honey-suckle and acanthus, Doric flutings and flat bands for cornices, swarmed all over the land. Many an honest builder must have broken his heart on the occasion, for his old ornament-books were no longer of use; and he had, as it were, to learn his trade all over again. From poor Batty Langley, with his five orders of Gothic architecture, who was the type of architects towards the end of the last century, down to Nash, Smirke, and Wilkins, who had it all their own way at the beginning of the present, such was the commutation and revolution of ornamental propriety. These styles were not the only ones that had to go through changes of accessory parts, and to suffer from the caprices of those that dressed them up for public exhibition: the revivers of the mediæval styles, the new and old Gothic men, ran also their race of absurdity and clumsy invention. It was long—very long, before they could make any approach towards a proper understanding of the spirit of their predecessors: all was to them a thorough mystery: and it is actually only within the last ten years that any tolerable accuracy has been attained in such matters. Norman capitals used to be put on shafts of the 15th century, and perpendicular corbels used in early English buildings: as for the tracery of windows, it was “confusion worse confounded”—architects there ran quite mad. In these classes of ornamental forms, the faults of awkward and ignorant imitators have been equally apparent: for just as English sculptors have made the Greek acanthus and olive twine and enwreath themselves like Dutch cabbages and crab-trees, so the modern Gothics have made their water-lilies, their ivy, their thistle, and their oak-leaves twist and frizzle in præternatural stiffness—while their griffins and heraldic monsters have ramped and regarded and displayed in the most awful and mysterious manner. Gothic decorators, too, fell into the mistake of over-ornamenting their objects far more than the pseudo-classical men did: what used to be called Gothic ornament in 1820—no longer ago than that—is now so intolerable that many an expensive building requires to be re-erected ere it can square with the laws of common sense and good taste. Gothic furniture-makers went wild in their peculiar art; and there are still numberless magnificent drawing-rooms that require to be entirely unfurnished ere their owners can lay claim to any portion of decorative discernment. Eton Hall and Fonthill (while the latter stood) were two notable instances of this lamentable excess of Gothic absurdity. Windsor Castle is by no means free from blame; and in fact there is hardly a Gothic house in England, of modern date, that does not require the severe hand of the architectural reformer.

To hit the due medium in such matters is not easy; and the reason is, that in architecture we are all imitators, not originators: we are all aiming at renovating old things and restoring old buildings, rather than at inventing new ones: and the result is, that architectural genius and invention are thereby closely cramped and thwarted. To imitate all the details of an old style in the closest manner is indispensable when ancient buildings are to be restored, or when an exact facsimile is to be produced in some new work: but for the ornamental powers of the architect to be perpetually tied down to one set class of forms, is to lower him to the level of a Chinese artist.

Unless we are mistaken, it appears to us that the Greeks imitated nature in her most perfect and abstract forms of beauty: and that they, with their successors the Romans, or rather the later Greeks, sought for beautiful objects as adapted to architectural ornament, wherever they could find them. They were not prevented by any traditional or conventional proprieties from imitating and using the beautiful and the natural wherever they might exist: all the varied forms of nature would have come right to them had they been willing. They seem, however, not to have taken so wide a range as we should have expected; or else their works that have come down to us are so few in number that their choice seems to have been rather restricted. The Middle Age architects also took a wide or rather a free range in the forms of the vegetable and animal world: but they worked with barbarous eyes and stiff hands; nor till the twelfth century do they seem to have arrived at that artistical freedom and correctness which are requisite to interpret and to imitate the multiplex forms of the natural world. As for the human figure, they confined themselves principally to draperied forms; and they embued these with considerable elegance; nevertheless, through all their operations, we trace a want of anatomical knowledge, which not all their ready invention can conceal, and which is scarcely compensated by the value of their sculpture, as a contemporaneous illustration of mediæval history. Heraldry seems always to have been a mystic and a mythic art; and hence heraldic forms have a certain privilege of caricature and distortion from which it is in vain to try to emancipate them.

Such being the case, it becomes a question—how should modern ornament be composed? In the classic style, are we always to adhere to foreign foliage, foreign animals, and mythological figures: and in the Gothic style, are we always to preserve the same rigidity and distortion which prevailed as long as those styles were in actual practice? We apprehend the true rule of æsthetics in this case to be, as we implied before, that for restorations or exact facsimiles of buildings, whether classical or mediæval, the very form as well as the spirit of the ornaments contemporaneously used in such buildings should be most strictly adopted. An imitation, unless it is an exact one, is good for nothing, as far as architecture is concerned. But should we prevail on ourselves either to depart from these styles, or to carry out their main principles, so as to form a national style of our own—not a fixed one, but a style varying through different ages, suiting itself to the social requirements of each—then we should be prepared, not only to call in the aid of natural beauty to the fullest extent, but also to avail ourselves of all that rich fund of form which results from the extensive use of scientific knowledge, and the investigation of physical curves. There is no reason why such a style, or succession of styles, should not be formed, if the great principles of science and utility be taken as the substructure on which imagination may afterwards raise its enrichment: and, if ever it come into existence, we have the unlimited expanse of the universe to range through in search of beauty and harmony. It is impossible to say what changes the introduction of new mathematical forms may not produce, and produce with good effect: thus the beautiful curve of the catena would not have been known, but for the introduction of suspension bridges. The application of the cycloid is comparatively modern, though the curve itself is ancient; and the grand effect of the horizontal line was not fully known—despite of Greece and Rome—till our interminable lines of railroad had stretched their lengths across the land. In the same way, our more extended and more intimate knowledge of the animal and vegetable kingdom ought to furnish us with an immense variety of new and beautiful forms of ornament—we do not mean of mythic or fanciful ornament, but of that highest and best kind of decoration, absolute, and yet partial, imitation of nature. Thus, for example, have we a blank space, extending horizontally to a long distance, which we desire to cover with enrichments. We have our choice, either in mathematical forms and combination of forms, such as mediæval architects might have applied, or else we may throw along it wreaths and branches of foliage, peopled with insect life, or enlivened by birds and animals. A succession of simple oak-branches or laurel-leaves, or the shoots of any other common plants, faithfully imitated, and cut into mimic life, from the inanimate stone, would form an ornament of the most effective kind, and would constitute a work of art, being an intelligent and poetical interpretation of natural beauty. In the building of our houses, why should the straight line and sections of the circle be the only lines admissible for doors, windows, and roofs? Why should the Greek and Roman ovolo, cavetto, and square, be the only combination that we know of in our common mouldings? How much richer were the architects of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, who drew with “free hands,” and gave us such exquisite effects of light and shade! We are firmly persuaded, that an architect, deeply imbued with the scientific principles of his profession, and endowed, at the same time, with the hand and the eye of a skilful artist, may cause a most happy and useful reformation of our national architecture.

In our choice of materials for our common buildings, it appears that we are always struggling with a deficiency of pecuniary means: for we never yet met an architect whose skill was not thwarted, in this respect, by the necessities of his employer. Such a man would have built a splendid palace, only he was not allowed to use stone; another would have made a magnificent hall, had he been able to employ oak instead of deal. Whenever people are so situated that they are restricted in their choice of materials, they should remember that they are immediately limited, both in construction and in decorative forms; and, being so limited, it becomes an absurdity in them to aim at any thing that is unreal, any thing that is in fact beyond their means. This has been one of the curses of all architectural and ornamental art in modern times, that every thing has been imitative, fictitious, sham, make-believe:—brick is stuccoed to look like stone, and fir is painted to look like oak. It is impossible for art to flourish when an imitative object can be accepted in the place of original ones; for when once public taste becomes so much vitiated as to be easily satisfied with cheap copies of the real instead of the real itself, the productive faculties of the artist and the manufacturer take a wrong turn, and go directly to increase rather than diminish the evil. On architecture, the effects of a corrupted national desire for the cheap and the easily made are peculiarly disastrous: this being the least suited of all arts to any thing like deception, since, to be good, it must be essentially real and true. Hence it has arisen, that instead of being content with humble brick, and learning how to convert that material to purposes of ornamentation, the use of stucco and cement has become universal—materials totally unsuited to our country and climate. The decorative portion of architecture has fallen into the same track, and elaborate looking things in plaster, and fifty other substances—in the production of which art has had no share—have come to cover our ceilings and our walls. Had not, indeed, the repairs and erection of public buildings called forth the dormant skill of our workmen, decorative art had long since become extinct amongst us. It may therefore be taken as a fundamental rule in architecture, that the decorations of buildings should be made either of the same materials as the edifices themselves, or that more costly substances should be combined with the former, and should serve for the decorator to exercise his skill on. Thus the combination of stone with brick, an old-fashioned expedient, is good, because it is justified by all the exigencies of constructive skill, and because it is founded on common sense. Look for what effective buildings may be thus produced at Lincoln’s Inn, the Temple, St James’s, and several of our colleges in the universities: how intrinsically superior are these to the flimsy shabby buildings of Regent Street and its Park: even old Buckingham House was good in comparison with some of these. Or go to Hampton Court and Kensington, and see how much grandeur may be produced by proportions and well-combined decoration, without any cement, stucco, or paint, to bedizen the walls. If a man cannot be content to adopt plain brick with such instances as these before his eyes, let him travel forth a little, and see what the effect of the great brick buildings is in Holland, or the south-west of France, where the most admirable churches and public edifices are all erected of this material. Sculptured ornament is of course out of the question in such a case as this: nothing but stone will bear the chisel and mallet to produce any effect that shall satisfy the eye and the judgment of the lover of natural beauty.

We protest strongly against all terra-cotta imitations of sculptural forms; but for geometrical figure they are allowable, and their stiffness, if justified by sufficient solidity, will be found highly suitable for buildings of such a kind.

Whenever the means of the employer are ample enough, let him make up his mind to sink a little additional capital, and build a good stone house, that shall last him and his family for a couple of centuries, instead of a rickety edifice, that can endure for only a couple of generations. And, in this case, let him call in the decorative aid of the architect, to whatever amount his taste dictates. Ornament, to be effective, need not be abundant; it should be employed sparingly rather than the contrary; and, if kept in its proper place, and limited to its due purposes, it will reward its owner’s eye, and will prove a permanent source of artificial satisfaction. Good stone-work without, and good oak-work within, will make a house that a prince may live in. A good house, well built and well decorated, is like a good coat—there is some pleasure in wearing it; it will last long, and look well the whole time; it will bear reparation; and (though we cannot say the same of any short-cut, upper Benjamin, or jacket we ever wore—we wish we could) it will always fetch the price given for it. We have plenty of the finest stone and timber within this snug little island of ours, and it is entirely our own fault that we are not one of the best-built people in the universe.

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Had the royal army of Israel been accoutred after the colour and fashion of the British battalions, I am quite satisfied that another enigma would have been added by King Solomon to his special list of incomprehensibilities. The extraordinary fascination which a red coat exercises over the minds and optics of the fair sex, appears to me a greater phenomenon than any which has been noticed by Goethe in his Theory of the Development of Colours. The same fragment of ensanguined cloth will irritate a bull, charm a viper, and bewitch the heart of a woman. No civilian, however good-looking or clean-limbed—and I rather pique myself upon my pins—has the ghost of a chance when opposed in the lists of love to an officer, a mail-guard, a whipper-in, or a postman. You may be as clever a fellow as ever coopered up an article for the Magazine, as great a poet as Byron, in beauty an Antinous, in wit a Selwyn, in oratory a Canning—you may dance like Vestris, draw like Grant, ride like Alexander; and yet, with all these accomplishments, it is a hundred chances to one that your black coat, although fashioned by the shears and polished by the goose of Stultz, will be extinguished by the gaudy scarlet habiliments of a raw-boned ensign, emancipated six months ago, for the first time in his life, from the wilderness of a Highland glen, and even now as awkward a cub as ever presumed to plunge into the perils of a polka.

Let no man, nor woman either, consider these observations flummery or verbiage. They are my calm deliberate opinions, written, it is true, under circumstances of considerable irritation, but nevertheless deliberate. I have no love to the army, for I have been sacrificed for a dragoon. My affections have been slighted, my person vilified, my professional prospects damaged, and my constitution fearfully shaken in consequence of this military mania. I have made an idiot of myself in the eyes of my friends and relatives. I have absolutely gone upon the turf. I have lost some valuable inches of epidermis, and every bone of my body feels at the present moment as sore as though I were the sole survivor of a terrific railway collision. A more injured individual than myself never mounted upon a three-legged stool, and from that high altitude I now hurl down defiance and anathemas upon the regulars, be they horse or foot, sappers or miners, artillery, pioneers, or marines!

It was my accursed fate to love, and love in vain. I do not know whether it was the eye or the instep, the form or the voice, of Edith Bogle, which first drew my attention, and finally fascinated my regards, as I beheld her swimming swan-like down the Assembly Rooms at the last Waverley Ball. A more beautiful representative of Die Vernon could not have been found within the boundary of the three kingdoms. Her rich auburn hair flowed out from beneath the crimson network which strove in vain to confine within its folds that bright luxuriant sea—on her brow there lay one pearl, pure as an angels tear—and oh! sweet even to bewilderment was the smile that she cast around her, as, resting upon the arm of the moody Master of Ravenswood, she floated away—a thing of light—in the mazy current of the waltz! I shall not dwell now upon the circumstances of the subsequent introduction; on the delicious hour of converse at the supper-table; or on the whispered, and—as I flattered myself—conscious adieux, when, with palpitating heart, I veiled her fair shoulders with the shawl, and felt the soft pressure of her fingers as I tenderly assisted her to her chair. I went home that night a lovesick Writer to the Signet. One fairy form was the sole subject of my dreams, and next morning I woke to the conviction, that without Edith Bogle earth would be a wilderness, and even the bowers of Paradise damp, chilly, and uncomfortable.

There is no comfort in looking back upon a period when hope was high and unchecked. I have met with men who, in their maudlin moments—usually towards the close of the evening—were actuated by an impulse similar to that which compelled the Ancient Mariner to renew his wondrous tale: and I have heard them on such occasions recount the whole circumstances of their unfortunate wooing with voices choked by grief, and with tears of tender imbecility. I have observed, however, that, on the morrow succeeding such disclosures, these gentlemen have invariably a shy and sheepish appearance, as though inwardly conscious that they had extended their confidence too far, and rather dubious as to the sincerity of their apparent sympathizers. Warned by their example, I hold it neither profitable nor wise to push my own confessions too far. If Edith gave me at the outset more encouragement than she ought to have done—if she systematically led me to believe that I had made an impression upon her heart—if she honoured me with a preference so marked, that it deceived not only myself, but others—let the blame be hers. But why should I go minutely into the courtship of half a year? As difficult, indeed, and as futile, would it be to describe the alternations of an April day, made up of sunshine and of shower, of cloud and rainbow and storm—sometimes mild and hopeful, then ominous of an eve of tempest. For a long time, I had not the slightest suspicion that I had a rival. I remarked, indeed, with somewhat of dissatisfaction, that Edith appeared to listen too complacently to the commonplace flatteries of the officers who are the habitual haunters of private ball and of public assembly. She danced too often with Ensign Corkingham, flirted rather openly with Major Chawser, and certainly had no business whatever to be present at a military fête and champagne luncheon given at the Castle by these brave defenders of their country. I was not invited to that fête, and the circumstance, as I well remember, was the cause of a week’s coolness between us. But it was not until Lieutenant Roper of the dragoons appeared in the field that I felt any particular cause for uneasiness.

To give the devil his due, Roper was a handsome fellow. He stood upwards of six feet in his boots, had a splendid head of curling black hair, and a mustachio and whiskers to match. His nose was beautifully aquiline, his eyes of the darkest hazel, and a perpetual smile, which the puppy had cultivated from infancy, disclosed a box of brilliant dominoes. I knew Roper well, for I had twice bailed him out of the police-office, and, in return, he invited me to mess. Our obligations, therefore, to each other might be considered as nearly equal—in fact, the balance, if any, lay upon his side, as upon one occasion he had won from me rather more than fifty pounds at ecarté. He was not a bad fellow either, though a little slap-dash in his manner, and somewhat supercilious in his cups; on which occasions—and they were not unfrequent—he was by far too general in his denunciation of all classes of civilians. He was, I believe, the younger son of a Staffordshire baronet, of good connexions, but no money—in fact, his patrimony was his commission, and he was notoriously on the outlook for an heiress. Now, Edith Bogle was rumoured to have twenty thousand pounds.

Judge then of my disgust, when, on my return on a rent-gathering expedition to Argyleshire, I found Lieutenant Roper absolutely domiciled with the Bogles. I could not call there of a forenoon on my way from the Parliament-House, without finding the confounded dragoon seated on the sofa beside Edith, gabbling away with infinite fluency about the last ball, or the next review, or worsted-work, or some similar abomination. I question whether he had ever read a single book since he was at school, and yet there he sat, misquoting Byron to Edith—who was rather of a romantic turn—at no allowance, and making wild work with passages out of Tom Moore’s Loves of the Angels. How the deuce he got hold of them, I am unable up to this day to fathom. I suspect he had somehow or other possessed himself of a copy of the “Beauties,” and dedicated an hour each morning to committing extracts to memory. Certainly he never opened his mouth without enunciating some rubbish about bulbuls, gazelles, and chibouques; he designated Edith his Phingari, and swore roundly by the Koran and Kiebaubs. It was to me perfectly inconceivable how any woman of common intellect could listen to such egregious nonsense, and yet I could not disguise from myself the consciousness of the fact, that Miss Bogle rather liked it than otherwise.

Roper had another prodigious advantage over me. Edith was fond of riding, an exercise to which, from my earliest years, I have had the utmost abhorrence. I am not, I believe, constitutionally timid, and yet I do not know almost any ordeal which I would not cheerfully undergo, to save me from the necessity of passing along a stable behind the heels of half a dozen stationary horses. Who knows at what moment the concealed demon may be awaked within them? They are always either neighing, or pulling at their halters, or stamping, or whisking their tails, in a manner which is absolutely frightful; and it is impossible to predict the exact moment they may select for lashing out, and, it may be, scattering your brains by the force of a hoof most murderously shod with half a hundred-weight of iron. The descent of Hercules to Hades seems to me a feat of mere insignificance compared with the cleaning out of the Augean stables, if, as I presume, the inmates were not previously removed.

Roper, on the contrary, rode like a Centaur, or the late Ducrow. He had several brutes, on one or other of which you might see him every afternoon prancing along Princes Street, and he very shortly contrived to make himself the constant companion of Edith in his daily rides. What took place on these occasions, of course I do not know. It was, however, quite clear to me, that the sooner this sort of thing was put an end to the better; nor should I have cared one farthing had a civil war broke out, if that event could have ensured to me the everlasting absence of the pert and pestilential dragoon.

In this dilemma I resolved to make a confidante of my cousin Mary Muggerland. Mary and I were the best possible friends, having flirted together for five successive seasons, with intermissions, on a sort of general understanding that nothing serious was meant, and that either party was at liberty at any time to cry off in case of an extraneous attachment. She listened to the history of my sorrows with infinite complacency.

“I am afraid, George,” she said, “that you have no chance whatever: I know Edith well, and have heard her say, twenty times over, that she never will marry any man unless he belongs to the army.”

“Then I have been exceedingly ill-used!”

“O fie, George—I wonder at you! Do you think that nobody besides yourself has a right to change their mind? How often, I should like to know, have you varied your attachments during the last three years?”

“That is a very different matter, Mary.”

“Will you have the kindness to explain the difference?”

“Pshaw! is there no distinction between a mere passing flirtation and a deep-rooted passion like mine?”

“I understand—this is the first time there has been a rival in the case. Well—I am sorry I cannot help you. Rely upon it that Roper is the man; and, to be plain with you, I am not at all surprised at it.”

“Mary!—what do you mean?”

“Do you really know so little of the sex as to flatter yourself that a lively girl like Edith, with more imagination than wit, would prefer you, who—pardon me, dear cousin—are rather a commonplace sort of personage, to a gay young officer of dragoons? Why, don’t you see that he talks more to her in one hour than you do in four-and-twenty? Are not his manners more fascinating—his attentions more pointed—his looks”——

“Upon my word, Miss Mary!” I exclaimed, “this is going rather too far. Do you mean to say that in point of personal appearance”——

“I do, indeed, George. You know I promised you to be candid.”

“Say no more. I see that you women are all alike. These confounded scarlet coats”——

“Are remarkably becoming; and really I am not sure that in one of them—if it were particularly well made—you might not look almost as well as Roper.”

“I have half a mind to turn postman!”

“Not a bad idea for a man of letters. But why don’t you hunt?”

“I dislike riding.”

“You stupid creature! Edith never will marry you: so you may just as well abandon the idea at once.”

So ended my conference with my cousin. I had made it a rule, however, never to believe above one half of what Miss Mary Muggerland said; and, upon the whole, I am inclined to think that was a most liberal allowance of credulity. A young lady is not always the safest depository of such secrets, or the wisest and most sound adviser. A little spice of spite is usually intermingled with her counsels; and I doubt whether in one case out of ten they sincerely wish success to their simple and confiding clients. On one point, however, I was inclined to think her right. Edith certainly had a decided military bias.

I begin to think that there is more in judicial astrology than most people are inclined to admit. To what other mysterious fount than the stars can we trace that extraordinary principle which regulates men in the choice of their different professions? Take half a dozen lads of the same standing and calibre; give them the same education; inculcate them with the same doctrines; teach them the identical catechism; and yet you will find that in this matter of profession there is not the slightest cohesion among them. Had I been born under the influence of Mars, I too might have been a dragoon—as it was, Saturn, my planetary godfather, had devoted me to the law, and here I stood a discomfited concocter of processes, and a botcher of deeds and titles. Pondering these things deeply, I made my way to the Parliament-House, then in the full hum attendant upon the close of the Session. The usual groups of the briefless were gathered around the stoves. As I happened to have a paper in my hand, I was instantly assailed by half a dozen.

“Hallo, M’Whirter, my fine fellow—d’ye want a counsel? Set you down cheap at a condescendence,” cried Mr Anthony Whaup, a tall barrister of considerable facetiousness.

“I say, M’Whirter, is it a semiplena? Hand it over to Randolph; he has lots of experience in that line.”

“Get out, you heretical humbug! Never mind these fellows, George. Tip, and I’m your man,” said Randolph.

“Can any body tell me who is pleading before the Second Division just now?” asked a youth, looking rather white in the gills.

“Old Windlass. He’s good for three quarters of an hour at least, and then the judges have to give their opinions.”

“I’m devilish glad to hear it. I think I shall bolt.”

“Haven’t you got that case over yet, Prior?”

“No, nor sha’n’t for a week. A confounded count and reckoning, with columns of figures as long as Anthony. Well, Scripio, how are stocks?”

“Rather shakey. What do you say to a shot at the Northerns?”

“O, hang Northerns! I burned my fingers with them a month ago,” replied Randolph. “This seems a fine afternoon. Who’s for Musselburgh?”

“I can’t go to-day,” said Whaup. “I was tempted yesterday with a shilling, and sold myself.”

“Who is the unfortunate purchaser?”

“Tom Hargate, crimp-general to the yeomanry.”

“I’m delighted to hear it, old fellow! We have been wanting you for two years back in the corps. ’Gad! won’t we have fun when we go into quarters. I say, M’Whirter—why don’t you become a yeoman?”

I started at the suggestion, which, strange to say, had never crossed my mind before. There was a way then open to me—a method left by which I might satisfy, without compromising my professional character, the scruples of Edith, and become a member of the military service without abandoning the pen. The man that hesitates is lost.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I think I should rather like it. It seems a pretty uniform.”

“Pretty!” said Randolph. “By the Lord Harry, it’s the splashest affair possible! I’ll tell you what, M’Whirter, I’ll back you in the yeoman’s jacket and pantaloons against the Apollo Belvidere.”

“It is regular Queen’s service, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is. Only we have no flogging.”

“That’s no great disadvantage. Well, upon my word, I have a great mind”——

“Then, by Jove, there goes the very man! Hallo—Hargate, I say—Tom Hargate!”

“What’s the row?”

“Here’s a new recruit for you. George M’Whirter, W.S. Book him down, and credit me with the bounty money.”

“The Edinburgh squadron, of course,” said Hargate, presenting me with a shilling.

“Don’t be in a hurry,” said one of my friends. “There are better lancers than the Templars. The Dalmahoy die, but they never surrender!”

“Barnton à la rescousse!” cried another.

“No douking in the Dalkeith!” observed a third.

“Nonsense, boys! you are confounding him. M’Whirter and Anthony Whaup shall charge side by side, and woe betide the insurgent who crosses their path!” said Randolph. “So the sooner you look after your equipments the better.”

In this identical manner was I nailed for the yeomanry.

I confess that a thrill of considerable exultation pervaded my frame, as I beheld one morning on my dressing-table a parcel which conscience whispered to me contained the masterpiece of Buckmaster. With palpitating hand I cut the cord, undid the brown paper foldings, and feasted my eyes in a trance of ecstasy upon the pantaloons, all gorgeous with the red stripe; upon the jacket glittering with its galaxy of buttons, and the polished glory of the shoulder scales. Not hurriedly, but with a protracted sense of keen enjoyment, I cased myself in the military shell, slung on the pouch-belt, buckled the sabre, and finally adjusted the magnificent helmet on my brows. I looked into the mirror, and hardly could recognise the counterpart of Mars which confronted me.

“’Ods scimiters!” cried I, unsheathing my Bilboa, and dealing, with a reckless disregard to expense, a terrific cut at the bed-post—“Let me catch any fellow saying that the yeomanry are not a constitutional force!”

And so I strode into the breakfast-room, where my old housekeeper was adjusting the materials for the matutinal meal.

“Lord save us a’!” cried Nelly, dropping in her astonishment a platter of finnans upon the floor—“Lord save us a’, and keep us frae the sin o’ bluidshed! Dear-a-me, Maister George, can that really be you! Hae ye turned offisher, and are ye gaun oot to fecht!”

“To be sure, Nelly. I have joined the yeomanry, and we shall turn out next week. How do you like the uniform?”

“Dinna speak to me o’ unicorns! I’m auld enough to mind the days o’ that bluidy murderin’ villain Bony-party, wha was loot loose upon huz, as a scourge and a tribulation for the backslidings o’ a sinfu’ land: and, wae’s me! mony a mither that parted frae her son, maybe as bonny, or a hantle bonnier than yoursel’, had sair een, and a broken heart, when she heard that her laddie was streekit cauld and stiff on the weary field o’ Waterloo! Na—for gudeness sake, dinna draw yer swurd or I’ll swarff! O, pit it aff—pit it aff, Maister George—There’s a dear bairn, bide at hame, and dinna gang ye a sodgerin’! Think o’ the mither that lo’es ye, forbye yer twa aunties. Wad ye bring doun their hairs—I canna ca’ them a’ grey, for Miss Kirsty’s is as red as a lobster—in sorrow to the grave?”

“Why, you old fool, what are you thinking of? We are not going out to fight—merely for exercise.”

“Waur and waur! Can ye no tak’ yir yexerceese at hame, or doun at the Links wi’ golf’ or gang awa’ to the fishin’? Wadna that be better than stravagin’ through the streets, wi’ a lang swurd harlin’ ahint ye, and consortin’ wi’ deboshed dragoons, and drinkin’ the haill nicht, and rinnin’ wud after the lasses? And if ye’re no gaun out to fecht, what’s the use o’ye? Are ye gaun to turn anither Claverse, and burn and hang puir folk like the wicked and bluid-thirsty troopers lang syne? Yexerceese indeed! I wonder, Maister George, ye’re no just ashamed o’ yersel!”

“Hold your tongue, you old fool, and bring the tea-pot.”

“Fule! ’Deed I’m maybe just an auld fule to gang on clattering that gate, for I never kent ye tak’ gude advice syne ye were a wean. Aweel! He that will to Cupar maun to Cupar. Ye’se hae it a’ yer ain way; but maybe we’ll see some day sune, when ye’re carried hame on a shutter wi’ a broken leg, or a stab in the wame, or bullet in the harns, whilk o’ us twa is the greater fule!”

“Confound that woman!” thought I, as I pensively buttered my roll. “What with her Cameronian nonsense and her prophecies, she is enough to disband a regiment.”

And, to say the truth, her last hint about a broken leg was not altogether foreign to my own apprehensions. I had recollected of late, with no slight uneasiness, that for this sort of service a horse was quite as indispensable as a man; and, as already hinted, I had more than doubts as to my own equestrian capabilities. However, I comforted myself with the reflection, that out of the fifty or sixty yeomen whom I knew, not one had ever sustained any serious injury; and I resolved, as a further precaution against accident, to purvey me the very quietest horse that could be found any where. Steadiness, I have always understood, is the characteristic feature of the British cavalry.

My correspondence that morning was not of the legal kind. In the first place, I received a circular from the commanding-officer, extremely laudatory of the recruits, whose zeal for the service did them so much credit. We were called upon, in an animated address, to maintain the high character of the regiment—to prove ourselves worthy successors of those who had ridden and fought before us—to turn out regularly and punctually to the field, and to keep our accoutrements in order. Next came a more laconic and pithy epistle from the adjutant, announcing the hours of drill, and the different arrangements for the week; and finally, a communication from the convener of the mess committee.

To all these I cordially assented, and having nothing better to do, bethought me of a visit to the Bogles. I pictured to myself the surprise of Edith on beholding me in my novel character.

“She shall see,” thought I, “that years of dissipation in a barrack or guard-room, are not necessary to qualify a high-minded legal practitioner for assuming his place in the ranks of the defenders of his country. She shall own that native valour is an impulse, not a science. She shall confess that the volunteer who becomes a soldier, simply because the commonwealth requires it, is actuated by higher motive than the regular, with his prospects of pay and of promotion. What was Karl Theodore Körner, author of the Lyre and Sword, but a simple Saxon yeoman? and yet is there any name, Blucher’s not excepted, which stirs the military heart of Germany more thrillingly than his? And, upon my honour, even as a matter of taste, I infinitely prefer this blue uniform to the more dashing scarlet. It is true they might have given us tails to the jacket,” continued I soliloquizing, as a young vagabond who passed, hazarded a contumelious remark regarding the symmetry of my nether person. “But, on the whole, it is a manly and a simple garb, and Edith cannot be such a fool as not to appreciate the motives which have led me to assume it.”

So saying, I rung the Bogles’ bell. Edith was in the drawing-room, and there also, to my no small mortification, was Lieutenant Roper. They were sitting together on the sofa, and I rather thought Miss Bogle started as I came in.

“Goodness gracious! Mr M’Whirter,” cried she with a giggle—Edith never looked well when she giggled!—“What have you been doing with yourself?”

“I am not aware, Miss Bogle, that there is any thing very extraordinary”——

“O dear, no! I beg your pardon for laughing, but really you look so funny! I have been so used, you know, to see you in a black coat, that the contrast is rather odd. Pray forgive my ignorance, Mr M’Whirter, but what is that dress?”

“The uniform of the Mid-Lothian Yeomanry Cavalry, madam. We are going into quarters next week.”

“How very nice! Do you know it is one of the prettiest jackets I ever saw? Don’t you think so, Mr Roper?”

“Veway much so,” replied Roper, reconnoitring me calmly through his eyeglass. “A veway handsome turn-out indeed. ’Pon my honour, I had no idea they got up things so cleverly in the fencibles”——

“Yeomanry, if you please, Lieutenant Roper!”

“Ah, yes! Yeomanry—so it is. I say, M’Whirter, ’pon my soul, do you know, you look quite killing! Do, like a good fellow, just march to the corner of the room, and let us have a look at you on the other side.”

“Oh do, Mr M’Whirter!” supplicated, or rather supplemented Edith.

I felt as if I could have shot him.

“You’ll excuse me, Roper, for not going through drill just now. If you like to come to the review, you shall see how our regiment can behave. At any rate, we shall be happy to see you at mess.”

“Oh certainly, certainly! Veway good things those yeomanry messes. Always a deal of claret, I believe.”

“And pray, Mr M’Whirter, what rank do you hold in that distinguished corps?” asked Miss Bogle.

“A full private, madam.”

“Goodness gracious!—then you’re not even an officer!”

“A private of the yeomanry, Miss Bogle, is, let me inform you, totally independent of rank. We enrol ourselves for patriotism, not for pay. We are as honourable a body as the Archers of the Scots Guard, the Cavaliers of Dundee, or the Mousquetaires”——

“How romantic and nice! I declare, you are quite a D’Artagnan!” said Edith, who had just read the Trois Mousquetaires.

“Don’t they pay you?” said Roper. “’Pon my honour that’s too bad. If I were you I’d memorialize the Horse Guards. By the way, M’Whirter, what sort of a charger have you got?”

“Why, to say the truth,” replied I, hesitatingly, “I am not furnished with a horse as yet. I am just going to look out for one at some of the livery stables.”

“My dear friend,” said Roper, with augmented interest, “I strongly recommend you to do nothing of the kind. These fellows will, to a dead certainty, sell you some sort of a brute that is either touched in the wind or dead lame; and I can tell you it is no joke to be spilt in a charge of cavalry.”

I felt a sort of sickening sensation as I recalled the lines of Schiller——

The fate of Max might be mine, and Edith might be left, a mournful Thekla, to perform a moonlight pilgrimage to my grave in the solitary churchyard of Portobello!

“Do you really think so, Roper?” said I.

“Think so! I know it,” replied the dragoon. “Never while you live trust yourself to the tender mercies of a livery stable. It’s a regular maxim in the army. Pray, are you a good rider?”

“Pretty—fairish—tolerable. That is, I can ride.”

“Ah! I see—want of practice merely—eh?”

“Just so.”

“Well then, it’s a lucky thing that I’ve seen you. I have just the sort of animal you want—a regular-bred horse, sound as a roach, quiet as a lamb, and quite up to the cavalry movements. Masaniello will suit your weight to an ounce, and you shall have him for seventy guineas.”

“That’s a very long price, Roper!”

“For Masaniello? I assure you he’s as cheap as dirt. I would not sell him for twice the sum: only, you see, we are limited in our number, and my father insists upon my keeping other two which he bred himself. If you like to enter Masaniello for the races, I’ll ensure your winning the cup.”

“Oh do, Mr M’Whirter, take Mr Roper’s advice!” said Edith. “Masaniello is such a pretty creature, and so quiet! And then, after the week is over, you know you can come and ride with us.”

“Won’t you take sixty, Roper?”

“Not a penny less than seventy,” replied the dragoon.

“Well, then, I shall take him at that. Pounds?”

“Guineas. Call down to-morrow forenoon at Piershill, and you shall have delivery. Now, Miss Bogle, what do you say to a canter on the sands?”

I took my leave rather satisfied than otherwise with the transaction. Edith evidently took a warm interest in my welfare, and her suggestion as to future expeditions was quite enchanting. Seventy guineas, to be sure, was a deal of money, but then it was something to be assured of safety for life and limb. On the street I encountered Anthony Whaup.

“Well, old fellow,” quoth Anthony, “how are you getting on? Pounding away at drill, eh?”

“Not yet.”

“Faith, you had better look sharp about it, then. I’ve been down twice at Canonmills of a morning, and I can tell you the facings are no joke. Have you got a horse yet?”

“Yes; a regular dragoon charger—and you?”

“A beast from Wordsworth. He’s been out regularly with the squadron for the last ten years; so it is to be presumed he knows the manœuvres. If not, I’m a spilt yeoman!”

“I say, Anthony—can you ride?”

“No more than yourself, but I suppose we shall contrive to stick on somehow.”

“Would it not be as well to have a trial?” said I, with considerable intrepidity. “Suppose we go together to the riding-school, and have an hour or two’s practice.”

“I have no earthly manner of objection,” said Anthony. “I suppose there’s lots of sawdust there, and the exhibition will, at any rate, be a private one. Allons!” and we departed for the amphitheatre.

We enquired for a couple of peaceable hacks, which were forthwith furnished us. I climbed up with some difficulty into the saddle, and having submitted to certain partial dislocations of the knee and ankle, at the hands of the master of the ring, (rather a ferocious Widdicomb, by the way,) and having also been instructed in the art of holding the reins, I was pronounced fit to start. Anthony, whose legs were of a parenthetical build, seemed to adopt himself more easily to his seat.

“Now then, trot!” cried the sergeant, and away we went with a wild expenditure of elbow.

“Toes in, toes in, gentlemen!” continued our instructor; “blowed but you’d drive them wild if you had spurs on! You ain’t been at the dancing-school lately, have you? Steady—steady—very good. Down your elbows, gentlemen, if you please! them bridles isn’t pumps. Heads up! now gallop! Bravo! very good. Screw in the knees a little. Hold on—hold on, sir, or damme you’ll be off!”

And sure enough I was within an ace of going over, having lost a stirrup, when the sergeant caught hold of me by the arm.

“I’ll tell you what, gents,” he said, “you’ll never learn to ride in this ’varsal world, unless you tries it without the irons. Nothing like that for giving a man a sure seat. So, Bill, take off the stirrups, will you! Don’t be afeard, gentlemen. I’ll make riders of you yet, or my name isn’t Kickshaw.”

Notwithstanding the comforting assurances of Kickshaw, I felt considerably nervous. If I could not maintain my seat with the assistance of the stirrups, what the mischief was I to do without them? I looked rebelliously at Anthony’s stirrup, but that intrepid individual seemed to have nerved himself to meet any possible danger. His enormous legs seemed calculated by nature to embrace the body of his charger, and he sat erect like an overgrown Bacchus bestriding a kilderkin of beer.

“Trot, gentlemen!” and away we went. I shall never forget the agony of that hour! The animal I rode was peculiarly decided in his paces; so much so that at each step my os coccygis came down with a violent thump upon the saddle, and my teeth rattled in my head like dice in a backgammon-box. How I managed to maintain my posture I cannot clearly understand. Possibly the instinct of self-preservation proved the best auxiliary to the precepts of Sergeant Kickshaw; for I held as tight a hold of the saddle as though I had been crossing the bridge of Al Sirat, with the flames of the infernal regions rolling and undulating beneath.

“Very good, gentlemen—capital!—you’re improving vastly!” cried the complimentary sergeant. “Nothing like the bare saddle after all—damme but I’ll make you take a four-barred gate in a week! Now sit steady. Gallop!”

Croton oil was a joke to it! I thought my whole vitals were flying to pieces as we bounded round the oval building, the speed gradually increasing, until in my diseased imagination we were going at the pace of Lucifer. My head began to grow dizzy, and I clutched convulsively at the pommel.

“An-tho-ny!” I gasped in monosyllables.

“Well?”

“How—do—you—feel?”

“Monstrous shakey,” replied Anthony in dissyllables.

“I’m off!” cried I; and, losing my balance at the turn, I dropped like a sack of turnips.

However, I was none the worse for it. Had it not been for Anthony, and the dread of his report, I certainly think I should have bolted, and renounced the yeomanry for ever. But a courageous example does wonders. I persevered, and in a few days really made wonderful progress. I felt, however, considerably sore and stiff—straddled as I walked along the street, and was compelled to resort to diachylon. What with riding and the foot-drill I had hard work of it, and earnestly longed for the time when the regiment should go into quarters. I almost forgot to mention that Masaniello turned out to be an immense black brute, rather aged, but apparently sound, and, so far as I could judge, quiet. There was, however, an occasional gleam about his eye which I did not exactly like.

“He’ll carry you, sir, famously—no doubt of it,” said Kickshaw, who inspected him; “and, mind my words, he’ll go it at the charge!”

It was a brilliant July morning when I first donned my regimentals for actual service. Dugald M’Tavish, a caddy from the corner of the street, had been parading Masaniello, fully caparisoned for action, before the door at least half an hour before I was ready, to the no small delectation of two servant hizzies who were sweeping out the stairs, and a diminutive baker’s boy.

“Tak’ a cup o’ coffee afore ye get up on that muckle funking beast, Maister George,” said Nelly; “and mind ye, that if ye are brocht hame this day wi’ yer feet foremost, it’s no me that has the wyte o’t.”

“Confound you, Nelly! what do you keep croaking for in that way?”

“It’s a’ ane to me; but, O man, ye’re unco like Rehoboam! Atweel ye needna flounce at that gate. Gang yer wa’s sodgerin’, and see what’ll come o’t. It’s ae special mercy that there’s a hantle o’ lint in the hoose, and the auld imbrocation for broken banes; and, in case o’ the warst, I’ll ha’e the lass ready to rin for Doctor Scouther.”

This was rather too much; so, with the reverse of a benediction on my gouvernante, I rushed from the house, and, with the assistance of Dugald, succeeded in mounting Masaniello, a task of no small difficulty, as that warlike quadruped persisted in effecting a series of peripherical evolutions.

“And when wull ye be back, and what wull ye ha’e for denner?” were the last words shouted after me as I trotted off to the rendezvous.

It was still early, and there were not many people abroad. A few faces decorated with the picturesque mutch, occasionally appeared at the windows, and one or two young rascals doubtless descendants of the disaffected who fell at Bonnymuir, shouted “Dook!” as I rode along. Presently I fell in with several of my comrades, amongst whom I recognised with pleasure Randolph and Anthony Whaup.

“By Jove, M’Whirter!” said the former, “that’s a capital mount of yours. I don’t think there is a finer horse in the troop; and I say, old chap, you sit him as jauntily as a janissary!”

“He has had hard work to do it though, as I can testify,” remarked Anthony, whose gelding seemed to be an animal of enviable placidity. “I wish you had seen us both at Kickshaw’s a week ago.”

“I dare say, but there’s nothing like practice. Hold hard, M’Whirter! If you keep staring up that way, you may have a shorter ride of it than you expect. Easy—man—easy! That brute has the mettle of Beelzebub.”

The remark was not uncalled for. We were passing at that moment before the Bogles’ house, and I could not resist the temptation of turning round to gaze at the window of Edith, in the faint hope that she might be a spectator of our expedition. In doing so, my left spur touched Masaniello in the flank, a remembrancer which he acknowledged with so violent a caper, that I was very nearly pitched from the saddle.

“Near shave that, sir!” said Hargate, who now rode up to join us “we’ll require to put you into the rear rank this time, where, by the way, you’ll be remarkably comfortable.”

“I hope,” said Anthony, “I may be entitled to the same privilege.”

“Of course. Pounset, I think, will be your front rank man. He’s quite up to the whole manœuvre, only you must take care of his mare. But here we are at Abbey-hill gate, and just in time.”

I was introduced in due form to the officers of the squadron, with none of whom I was previously acquainted, and was directed to take my place as Randolph’s rear rank man, so that in file we marched together. Before us were two veteran yeomen, and behind were Anthony and Pounset.

Nothing particular occurred during our march to Portobello sands. Masaniello behaved in a manner which did him infinite credit, and contributed not a little to my comfort. He neither reared nor plunged but contented him at times with a resolute shake of the head, as if he disapproved of something, and an occasional sniff at Randolph’s filly, whenever she brought her head too near.

On arriving at the sands we formed into column, so that Anthony and I were once more side by side. The other squadrons of the regiment were already drawn up, and at any other time I should no doubt have considered the scene as sufficiently imposing. I had other things, however, to think of besides military grandeur.

“I say, Anthony,” said I, somewhat nervously, “do you know any thing about these twistified manoeuvres?”

“Indeed I do not!” replied Whaup, “I’ve been puzzling my brains for the last three days over the Yeomanry Regulations, but I can make nothing out of their ‘Reverse flanks’ and ‘Reforming by sections of threes’?”

“And I’m as ignorant as a baby! What on earth are we to do? That big fellow of a sergeant won’t let us stand quietly, I suppose.”

“I stick to Pounset,” said Whaup. “Whatever he does I do, and I advise you to do the same by Randolph.”

“But what if they should ride away? Isn’t there some disgusting nonsense about forming from threes?”

“I suppose the horses know something about it, else what’s the use of them? That brute of yours must have gone through the evolutions a thousand times, and ought to know the word of command by heart—Hallo!—I say, Pounset, just take care of that mare of yours, will ye! She’s kicking like the very devil, and my beast is beginning to plunge!”

“I wouldn’t be Pounset’s rear-rank for twenty pounds,” said a stalwart trooper to the left. “She has the ugliest trick of using her heels of any mare in Christendom.”

“Much obliged to you, sir, for the information,” said Whaup, controlling, with some difficulty, the incessant curveting of his steed. “I say, Pounset, if she tries that trick again I’ll hamstring her without the slightest ceremony.”

“Pooh—nonsense!” replied Pounset. “Woa, Miss Frolic—woa, lass!—she’s the gentlest creature in the creation—a child might ride her with a feather. Mere playfulness, my dear fellow, I assure you!”

“Rot her playfulness!” cried Anthony; “I’ve no idea of having my brains made a batter pudding for the amusement of a jade like that.”

“Are you sure, Whaup, that you did not tickle her tail?” asked Pounset, with provoking coolness. “She’s a rare ’un to scatter a crowd.”

“Hang me if I’d come within three yards of her if I possibly could help it,” quoth Anthony. “If any gentleman in the neighbourhood has a fancy to exchange places, I’m his man.”

“Threes right!” cried the commanding-officer, and we executed a movement of which I am wholly unconscious; for, to the credit of Masaniello be it said, he took the direction in his own mouth, and performed it so as to save his rider from reproach.

Then came the sword exercise, consisting of a series of slashes, which went off tolerably well—then the skirmishing, when one of our flank men was capsized—and at last, to my great joy, we were permitted to sit at ease; that is, as easily as our previous exertions would allow. I then learned to appreciate the considerate attention of the authorities in abrogating the use of pistols. In each man’s holsters was a soda-water bottle, filled for the nonce with something more pungent than the original Schweppe, and a cigar case. These were now called into requisition, and a dense wreath of smoke arose along the lines of the squadron. The officer then in command embraced the opportunity of addressing us in a pithy oration.

“Gentlemen!” said he, “I would not be performing my duty to my Queen and my country, (cheers,) if I did not express to you my extreme surprise and satisfaction at the manner in which the new recruits have gone through the preliminary drill. Upon my honour I expected that more than one-half of you would have been spilt—a spectacle which might possibly have been pleasing to those veteran warriors of Dalmahoy, but which I should have witnessed with extraordinary pain. As it is, you rode like bricks. However, it is my duty to inform you, that a more serious trial of your fortitude is about to come. The squadrons will presently form together, and you will be called upon to charge. Many of you know very well how to do that already”——

“Especially the Writers to the Signet,” muttered Anthony.

“But there are others who are new to the movement. To these gentlemen, therefore, I shall address a few words of caution; they are short and simple. Screw yourselves tight in your saddles—hold hard at first—keep together as you best can—think that the enemy are before you—and go at it like blazes!”

A shout of approval followed this doughty address, and the heart of every trooper burned with military ardour. For my own part, I was becoming quite reconciled to the thing. I perfectly coincided with my commanding-officer in his amazement at the adhesive powers of myself and several others, and with desperate recklessness I resolved to test them to the utmost. The bugle now sounded the signal to fall in. Soda bottles and cigar cases were returned to their original concealment, and we once more took our respective places in the ranks.

“Now comes the fun,” said Randolph, after the leading squadron had charged in line. “Mind yourselves, boys!”

“March—trot—gallop.”

On we went like waves of the sea, regularly enough at first, then slightly inclining to the line of beauty, as some of the weaker hacks began to show symptoms of bellows.

“Cha—a—rge!”

“Go ahead!” cried Randolph, sticking his spurs into his Bucephalus. Masaniello, with a snort, fairly took the bridle into his teeth, and dashed off with me at a speed which threatened to throw the ranks into utter confusion. As for Pounset, he appeared to be possessed with the fury of a demon. His kicking mare sent up at every stride large clods of sand in the teeth of the unfortunate Anthony Whaup, whose presence of mind seemed at last to have forsaken him.

“What the mischief are you after, Whaup?” panted the trooper on his left. “Just take your foot out of my stirrup, will you?”

“Devil a bit!” quoth Anthony “I’m too glad to get any thing to hold on by.”

“If you don’t, you’re a gone ’coon. There!—I told you.” And the steed of Anthony was rushing riderless among the press.

I don’t know exactly how we pulled up. I have an indistinct notion that I owed my own arrest to Neptune, and that Masaniello was chest deep in the sea before he paid the slightest attention to my convulsive tugs at the bridle. Above the rush of waves I heard a yell of affright, and perceived that I had nearly ridden over the carcass of a fat old gentleman, who, in puris naturalibus, was disporting himself in the water; and who now, in an agony of terror, and apparently under the impression that he was a selected victim for the tender mercies of the yeomanry, struck out vigorously for Inchkeith. I did not tarry to watch his progress, but returned as rapidly as possible to the squadron.

By this time the shores of Portobello were crowded with habitual bathers. There is a graceful abandon, and total absence of prudery, which peculiarly characterise the frequenters of that interesting spot, and reminds one forcibly of the manners of the Golden Age. Hirsute Triton and dishevelled Nereid there float in unabashed proximity; and, judging from the usual number of spectators, there is something remarkably attractive in the style of these aquatic exercises.

The tide was pretty far out, so that of course there was a wide tract of sand between the shingle and the sea. Our squadron was again formed in line, when a bathing-machine was observed leisurely bearing down upon our very centre, conveying its freight towards the salubrious waters.

“Confound that boy!” cried the commanding-officer; “he will be among the ranks in a minute. Sergeant! ride out, and warn the young scoundrel off at his peril.”

The sergeant galloped towards the machine.

“Where are you going, you young scum of the earth? Do you not see the troops before you? Get back this instant!”

“I’ll do naething o’ the kind,” replied the urchin, walloping his bare legs, by way of encouragement, against the sides of the anatomy he bestrode. “The sands is just as free to huz as to ony o’ ye, and I would like to ken what richt ye have tae prevent the foulks frae bathin’.”

“Do you dare to resist, you vagabond?” cried the man of stripes, with a terrific flourish of his sabre “Wheel back immediately, or”—— and he went through the first four-cuts of the sword exercise.

“Eh man!” said the intrepid shrimp, “what wull ye do? Are ye no ashamed, a great muckle fellie like you, to come majoring, an’ shakin’ yer swurd at a bit laddie? Eh, man, if I was ner yer size, I’d gie ye a licking mysel’. Stand oot o’ the gate, I say, an I’ll sune run through the haill o’ ye. I’m no gaun to lose saxpence for yeer nonsensical parauds.”

“Cancel my commission!” said the lieutenant, “if the brat hasn’t bothered the sergeant! The bathing-machine is coming down upon us like the chariot of Queen Boadicea! This will never do. Randolph—you and M’Whirter ride out and reinforce. That scoundrel is another Kellerman, and will break us to a dead certainty!”

“Twa mair o’ ye!” observed the youth with incredible nonchalance, as we rode up with ferocious gestures. “O men, but ye’re bauld bauld the day! Little chance the Frenchies wad hae wi’ the like o’ you ’gin they were comin’! Gee hup, Bauldy!”

“Come, come, my boy,” said Randolph, nearly choking with laughter, “this is all very well, but you must positively be off. Come, tumble round, my fine fellow, and you shall have leave to pass presently.”

“Aum no gaun to lose the tide that way,” persevered the urchin. “The sands is open to the haill o’ huz, and I’ll no gang back for nane o’ ye. Gin ye offer tae strike me, I’ll hae the haill squad o’ ye afore the Provost o’ Portobelly, and, ma certie, there’ll be a wheen heels sune coolin’ in the jougs!”

“By heavens! this is absolutely intolerable!” said the sergeant—“M’Whirter, order the man in the inside to open the door, and come out in Her Majesty’s name.”

I obeyed, as a matter of course.

“I say—you, sir, inside—do you know where you are going? Right into the centre of a troop of the Royal Yeomanry Cavalry! If you are a gentleman and a loyal subject, you will open the door immediately, and desire the vehicle to be stopped.”

In order to give due effect to this remonstrance, and also to impress the inmate with a proper sense of the consequences of interference with martial discipline, I bestowed cut No. Seven with all my might upon the machine. To my horror, and that of my companions, there arose from within a prolonged and double-voiced squall.

“Hang me, if it isn’t women!” said the sergeant.

“Yer mither wull be proud o’ ye the nicht,” said the Incubus on the atomy, “when it’s tell’t her that ye hae whanged at an auld machine, and frichtet twa leddies to the skirlin’! Ony hoo, M’Whirter, gin that’s your name, there’ll be half-a-croun to pay for the broken brodd!”

The small sliding-pannel at the back of the machine was now cautiously opened.

“Goodness gracious, Mr M’Whirter!” said a voice which I instantly recognised to be that of Edith Bogle, “is it possible that can be you? Is it the custom, sir, of the Scottish yeomen to break in upon the privacy of two young defenceless females, and even to raise their weapons against the place which contains them? Fie, sir! is that your boasted chivalry?”

“O George—go away, do! I am really quite ashamed of you!” said the voice of my cousin, Mary Muggerland.

I thought I should have dropped from my saddle.

“Friends of yours, eh, M’Whirter?” said Randolph. “Rather an awkward fix, I confess. What’s to be done?”

“Would the regulars have behaved thus?” cried Edith, with increased animation. “Would they have insulted a woman? Never. Begone, sir—I am afraid I have been mistaken in you”——

“By my honour, Edith!—Miss Bogle, I mean—you do me gross injustice! I did not know—I could not conceive that you, or Mary, or any other lady, were in the machine, and then—consider my orders”——

“Orders, sir! There are some orders which never ought to be obeyed. But enough of this. If you have delicacy enough to feel for our situation, you will not protract this interview. Drive on, boy! and you, Mr M’Whirter, if you venture to interrupt us further, never expect my pardon.”

“Nor mine!” added Mary Muggerland.

“Who the mischief cares for yours, you monkey!” muttered I sotto voce. “But Edith—one other word”——

“Don’t call me Edith, sir! This continued importunity is insufferable! If you have any explanation to make, you must select a fitter time,” and the sliding-pannel was instantly closed.

“Ye’ve cotched it ony hoo!” said the shrimp, with a malignant leer. “Wauken up, Bauldy, my man, and see how cleverly ye’ll gae through them!”

A few words of explanation satisfied our commanding-officer, and the victorious machine rolled insultingly through the lines. I have not spirits to narrate the further proceedings of that day. My heart was not in the squadron; and my eyes, even when ordered to be directed to the left, were stealthily turned in the other direction towards two distant figures in bathing-gowns, sedulously attempting to drown one another in fun. Shortly afterwards we dispersed, and returned to Edinburgh. I attempted a visit of explanation, but Miss Bogle was not at home.

I messed that evening for the first time with the squadron. Judging from the laughter which arose on all sides, it was a merry party; but my heart was heavy, and I could hardly bring myself to enter cordially into the festivities. I was also rather uneasy in person, as will happen to young cavalry soldiers. I drank, however, a good deal of wine, and, as I was afterwards informed, recovered amazingly towards the end of the sederunt. They also told me next morning, that I had entered Masaniello to run for the Squadron Cup.

“And so you really forgive me, Edith!” said I, bending over the lady of my love, as she sate creating worsted roses in a parterre of gossamer canvass; “you are not angry at what happened the other day at that unlucky encounter on the sands?”

“Have I not said already that I forgive you?” replied Edith. “Is it necessary that I should assure you twice?”

“Charming Miss Bogle! you do not know how happy you have made me.”

“Pray, don’t lean over me so, or you’ll make me spoil my work. See—I have absolutely put something like a caterpillar in the heart of this rosebud!”

“Never, dearest lady, may any caterpillar prey upon the rosebud of your happiness. How curious! Do you know, the outline of that sketch reminds me forcibly of the countenance of Roper?”

“Mr M’Whirter!”

“Nay, I was merely jesting. Pray, Miss Bogle, what are your favourite colours?”

“Peach blossom and scarlet; but why do you ask?”

“Do not press me for an explanation—it will come early enough. And now, Edith, I must bid you adieu.”

“So soon? Cannot you spare a single hour from your military duties? Bless me, how pale you are looking! Are you sure you are quite well?”

“Quite—that is to say a little shaken in the nerves or so. This continued exertion”——

“Do you mean at mess? Mr Roper told me sad stories about your proceedings two nights ago.”

“Oh, pooh-nonsense! You will certainly then appear at the races?”

“You may depend upon me.”

And so I took my leave.

The reader will gather from this conversation, which took place four days after the events detailed in last chapter, that I had effectually made my peace with Miss Bogle. For this arrangement Mary Muggerland took much more credit than I thought she was entitled to; however, it is of no use quarrelling with the well disposed, especially if they are females, as, in that case, you are sure to have the worst of it in the long run. I did not feel quite easy, however, regarding the insinuations thrown out upon my unusually pallid appearance. The fact is, that the last week had rather been a fast one. The mess was remarkably pleasant, and all would have been quite right had we stopped there. But I had unfortunately yielded to the fascinations of Archy Chaffinch and some of the younger hands, who, being upon the loose, resolved to make the very most of it, and the consequence was, that, to the great scandal of Nelly, we kept highly untimeous hours. In fact, one night I made a slight mistake, which I have not yet, and may never hear, the last of, by walking, quite accidentally, into the house of my next-door neighbour—a grave and reverend signior—instead of my own, and abusing him like a pickpocket for his uncalled-for presence within the shade of my patrimonial lobby. It therefore followed, that sometimes of a morning, after mounting Masaniello, I had a strong suspicion that a hive of bees had taken a fancy to settle upon my helmet—a compliment which might have been highly satisfactory to the infant Virgil, but was by no means suited to the nerves or taste of an adult Writer to the Signet.

Roper had been my guest at one of the late messes. His speech in returning thanks for the health of his regiment was one of the richest specimens of oratory I ever had the good fortune to hear, and ought to be embalmed for the benefit of an aspiring posterity. It ran somewhat thus——

“I assure you, sir, that the honour you have just conferred upon ours, is—yas—amply appweciated, I assure you, sir, by the wegular army. It gives us, sir—yas—the hiwest gwatification to be pwesent at the mess of such a loyal body as the South-Lothian Yeomanry Cavalry. The distinguished services of that gallant corps, both at home and abwoad, are such as—yas—to demand the admiwation of their country, and—yas—in short, I feel compwetely overpowared. The bwoad banners of Bwitain floating over land and sea—chalk cliffs of old Albion, if I may be allowed the simile—wight hand of the service and left—wegulars and yeomanry—and the three corners of the world may come at once in arms, and be considewably shocked for their pains. Permit me again to expwess my extweme thanks for the honour you have done to ours.”

Now, on that evening, as I can conscientiously vouch, Roper contrived to deposit at least two bottles of claret beneath his belt. Any revelations, therefore, of what took place at our hospitable board, amounted to a gross breach of confidence, and were quite unpardonable; more especially when our relative situations with regard to the affections of Miss Bogle are considered. But Punic faith is the very least that one can expect from a rival.

On the review day, the whole regiment turned out under auspices of unusual smartness. We were to be inspected by a veteran officer of high rank and reputation, and, under these circumstances, we all thought ourselves bound in honour to support the credit of the corps. This was not remarkably difficult. You will hardly see anywhere a finer-looking set of fellows than the Mid-Lothian yeomanry, and our discipline, considering the short period of exercise, was really praiseworthy. In the words of our commanding-officer, he was justly proud of his recruits, and I can answer for it, that the recruits most cordially reciprocated the sentiment.

“Now, Anthony,” said Pounset, as we formed into line, “I shall really be obliged to you to make less clatter with that scabbard of yours when we charge. My mare is mad enough with the music, without having the additional impetus of supposing that a score of empty kettles are tied to her tail.”

“By Jove, that’s a good one!” replied Anthony. “Here have you been bunging up my eyes and making attempts upon my ribs for the last week, and yet you expect me to have no other earthly consideration beyond your personal comfort! How the deuce am I to manage my scabbard when both hands are occupied?”

“Can’t you follow the example of Prince Charles, and throw it away?”

“Thank you for nothing. But, I say, that sort of madness seems contagious. Here’s M’Whirter’s horse performing a fandango, which is far more curious than agreeable.”

“What’s the matter with Masaniello?” cried Archy Chaffinch; “he looks seriously inclined to bolt.”

I had awful suspicions of the same nature. No sooner had the regimental band struck up, than my charger began to evince disagreeable signs of impatience; he pawed, pranced, snorted, curveted, and was utterly deaf to the blandishments with which I strove to allay his irritability. I was even thankful when we were put into motion preparatory to the charge, in the belief that action might render him less restive; and so it did for a time. But no sooner had we broke into a gallop, than I felt it was all up with me. I might as well have been without a bridle. The ungovernable brute laid back his ears like a tiger, and I shot past Randolph in an instant, very nearly upsetting that judicious warrior in my course.

Nor was I alone. Pounset’s mare, who never brooked a rival, and who, moreover, had taken umbrage at the sonorous jolting of Anthony, was resolved not to be outstripped; and, taking the bridle between her teeth, came hard and heavy on my flank. The cry of “halt!” sounded far and faint behind us. We dashed past a carriage, in which, from a momentary glimpse, I recognised the form of Edith; while a dragoon officer—I knew intuitively it was Roper—had drawn up his horse by the side. They were laughing—yes! by heavens they were laughing—at the moment I was borne away headlong, and perhaps to destruction. My sword flew out of my hand—I had need of both to hold the reins. I shouted to Pounset to draw in, but an oath was the only reply!

I heard the blast of the recall bugle behind us, but Masaniello only stretched out more wildly. We splashed through the shallow pools of water, sending up the spray behind us; and onwards—onwards we went towards Joppa, with more than the velocity of the wind.

“Have a care, M’Whirter!” shouted Pounset. “Turn his head to the sea if you can. There’s a quicksand right before you!”

I could as easily have converted a Mussulman. I saw before me a dark streak, as if some foul brook were stagnating on the sands. There was a dash, a splash, a shock, and I was catapulted over the ears of Masaniello.

I must have lost consciousness, I believe, for the next thing I remember was Pounset standing over me, and holding my quadruped by the bridle.

“We may thank our stars it is no worse,” said he; “that stank fairly took the shine out of your brute, and brought him to a stand-still. Are you hurt?”

“Not much. But I say, what a figure I am!”

“Not altogether adapted for an evening party, I admit. But never mind. There’s a cure for every thing except broken bones. Let’s get back again as fast as we can, for the captain will be in a beautiful rage!”

We returned. A general acclamation burst from the squadron as we rode up, but the commanding-officer looked severe as Draco.

“Am I to conclude, gentlemen,” said he, “that this exhibition was a trial of the comparative merits of your horses preparatory to the racing? Upon such an occasion as this I must say”——

“Just look at M’Whirter, captain,” said Pounset, “and then judge for yourself whether it was intentional. The fact is, my mare is as hot as ginger, and that black horse has no more mouth than a brickbat!”

“Well, after all, he does seem in a precious mess. I am sure it was a mere accident, but don’t let it happen again. Fall in, gentlemen.”

There was, however, as regarded myself, considerable opposition to this order.

“Why, M’Whirter, you’re not going to poison us to death, are you?” said Anthony Whaup. “Pray keep to the other side, like a good fellow—you’re not just altogether a bouquet.”

“Do they gut the herrings down yonder, M’Whirter?” asked Archy Chaffinch. “Excuse me for remarking that your flavour is rather full than fragrant.”

“I wish they had allowed smoking on parade!” said a third. “It would require a strong Havannah to temper the exhalations of our comrade.”

“Hadn’t you better go home at once?” suggested Randolph. “My horse is beginning to cough.”

“Yes—yes!” cried half-a-dozen. “Go home at once.”

“And if you are wise,” added Hargate, “take a dip in the sea—boots, helmet, pantaloons, and all.”

I obtained permission, and retired in a state of inconceivable disgust. Towards the carriage where Edith was seated, I dared not go; and with a big and throbbing heart I recollected that she had witnessed my disgrace.

“But she shall yet see,” I mentally exclaimed, “that I am worthy of her! Once let me cast this foul and filthy slough—let me don her favourite colours—let me win the prize, as I am sure I ought to do, and the treasure of her heart may be mine!—You young villain! if you make faces at me again, I shall fetch you a cut over the costard!”

“Soor dook!” shouted the varlet. “Eh! see till the man that’s been coupit ower in the glaur!”

I rode home as rapidly as possible. I throw a veil over the triumphant ejaculations of Nelly at the sight of my ruined uniform, and the personal allusions she made to the retreat and discomfiture of the Philistines. That evening I avoided mess, and courted a sound sleep to prepare me for the fatigues of the ensuing day.

“Here is a true, correct, and particular account, of the noblemen, gentlemen, and yeomen’s horses, that is to run this day over the course of Musselburry, with the names, weights, and liveries of the riders, and the same of the horses themselves!”

Such were the cries that saluted me, as next day I rode up to the race-course of Musselburgh. I purchased a card, which among other entries contained the following:—

Edinburgh Squadron Cup, 12 Stone.

Mr A. Chaffinch’s br. g. Groggyboy—Green and White Cap.

Mr Randolph ns. b. g. Cheeser—Geranium and French Grey.

Mr M’Whirter’s bl. g. Masaniello—Peach-blossom and Scarlet.

Mr Hargate ns. ch. m. Loupowerher—Fawn and Black Cap.

Mr Pounset’s b. m. Miss Frolic—Orange and Blue.

Mr Shakerley ns. b. g. Spontaneous Combustion—White body and Liver-coloured sleeves.

I made my way to the stand. Miss Bogle and Mary Muggerland were there, but so also was the eternal Roper.

“Ah, M’Whirter!” said the latter. “How do you feel yourself this morning? None the worse of your tumble yesterday, I hope? Mere accident, you know. Spiwited cweature Masaniello, it must be confessed. ’Gad, if you can make him go the pace as well to-day, you’ll distance the whole of the rest of them.”

“Oh, Mr M’Whirter! I’m so glad to see you!” said Edith. “How funny you looked yesterday when you were running away! Do you know that I waved my handkerchief to you as you passed, but you were not polite enough to take any notice?”

“Indeed, Miss Bogle, I had something else to think of at that particular moment.”

“You were not thinking about me, then?” said Edith. “Well, I can’t call that a very gallant speech.”

“I’ll lay an even bet,” said Roper, “that you were thinking more about the surgeon.”

“Were you ever wounded, Mr Roper?” said I.

“Once—in the heart, and incurably,” replied the coxcomb, with a glance at Edith.

“Pshaw! because if you had been, you would scarce have ventured to select the surgeon as the subject of a joke. But I forgot. These are times of peace.”

“When men of peace become soldiers,” retorted Roper.

“I declare you are very silly!” cried Edith; “and I have a good mind to send both of you away.”

“Death rather than banishment!” said Roper.

“Well, then, do be quiet! I take such an interest in your race, Mr M’Whirter. Do you know I have two pairs of gloves upon it? So you must absolutely contrive to win. By the way, what are your colours?”

“Peach-blossom and scarlet.”

“How very gallant! I take it quite as a compliment to myself.”

“M’Whirter! you’re wanted,” cried a voice from below.

“Bless me! I suppose it is time for saddling. Farewell, Edith—farewell, Mary! I shall win if I possibly can.”

“Good-by!” said Roper. “Stick on tightly and screw him up, and there’s no fear of Masaniello.”

“Where the deuce have you been, M’Whirter?” said Randolph. “Get into the scales as fast as you can. You’ve been keeping the whole of us waiting.”

“I’ll back Masaniello against the field at two to one,” said Anthony Whaup.

“Done with you, in ponies,” said Patsey Chaffinch, who was assisting his brother from the scales.

“Do you feel nervous, M’Whirter?” asked Hosier, a friend who was backing me rather heavily. “You look a little white in the face.”

“To tell you the truth—I do.”

“That’s bad. Had you not better take a glass of brandy?”

“Not a bad idea;” and I took it.

“That’s right. Now canter him about a little, and you’ll soon get used to it.”

I shall carefully avoid having any occasion to make use of my dear-bought experience. I felt remarkably sheepish as I rode out upon the course, and heard the observations of the crowd.

“And wha’s yon in the saumon-coloured jacket?”

“It’ll be him they ca’ Chaffinch.”

“Na, man—yon chield wad make twa o’ Chaffinch. He’s but a feather-wecht o’ a cratur.”

“Wow, Jess! but that’s a bonnie horse!”

“Bonnier than the man that’s on it, ony how.”

“Think ye that’s the beast they ca’ Masonyellow?”

“I’m thinkin’ sae. That man can ride nane. He’s nae grupp wi’ his thees.”

These were the sort of remarks which met my ears as I paced along, nor, as I must confess, was I particularly elated thereby. Pounset now rode up.

“Well, M’Whirter, we are to have another sort of race to-day. I half fear, from the specimen I have seen of Masaniello, that my little mare runs a poor chance; but Chaffinch will give you work for it—Groggyboy was a crack horse in his day. But come, there goes the bell, and we are wanted at the starting-post.”

The remainder of my story is short.

“Ready, gentlemen?—Off!” and away we went, Spontaneous Combustion leading, Miss Frolic and Groggyboy next, Randolph and myself following, and Hargate bringing up the rear on Loupowerher, who never had a chance. After the first few seconds, when all was mist before my eyes, I felt considerably easier. Masaniello was striding out vigorously, and I warmed insensibly to the work. The pace became terrific. Spon. Bus. gradually gave way, and Groggyboy took the lead. I saw nothing more of Randolph. On we went around the race-course like a crowd of motley demoniacs, whipping, spurring, and working at our reins as if thereby we were assisting our progression. I was resolved to conquer or to die.

Round we came in sight of the assembled multitude. I could even hear their excited cries in the distance. Masaniello was now running neck and neck with Groggyboy—Miss Frolic half-a-length before!

And now we neared the stand. I thought I could see the white fluttering of Edith’s handkerchief—I clenched my teeth, grasped my whip, and lashed vigorously at Masaniello. In a moment more I should have been a-head—but there was a crash, and then oblivion.

Evil was the mother that whelped that cur of a butcher’s dog! He ran right in before Masaniello, and horse and man were hurled with awful violence to the ground. I forgive Masaniello. Poor brute! his leg was broken, and they had to shoot him on the course. He was my first and last charger.

As for myself, I was picked up insensible, and conveyed home upon a shutter, thereby fulfilling to the letter the ominous prophecies of Nelly, who cried the coronach over me. Two of my ribs were fractured, and for three weeks I was confined to bed with a delirious fever.

“What noise is that below stairs, Nelly?” asked I on the second morning of my convalescence.

“’Deed, Maister George, I’m thinking it’s just the servant lass chappin’ coals wi’ yer swurd.”

“Serve it right. And what parcel is that on the table?

“I dinna ken: it came in yestreen.”

“Give it me.”

“Heaven and earth! Wedding-cake and cards! Mr and Mrs Roper!”

---

[Life at the Water-Cure; or, a Month at Malvern. A Diary. By Richard J. Lane. London: 1846.]

In the biographies of the Seven Sages of Greece, some interesting incidents have escaped even the discursive and vigilant erudition of Bayle. All of these worthies, in fact, being original members and perpetual vice-presidents of the Fogie Club, they were, naturally, as prosy octogenarians as the amber of history ever preserved for the admiration of posterity. But Thales of Miletus we imagine to have easily outstripped his six compeers in soporific garrulity; because an author whose name, while it would be Greek to the illiterate, is sufficiently familiar, without being mentioned, to the scholar, and who flourished long enough after the people of whom he speaks to give weight to his statements, has particularly recorded, that the Ionic philosopher was universally called by his friends, behind his back, “Old Hygrostroma.” This euphonical and distinctive epithet we have discovered, by dint of deep study, to mean, very literally, “Old Wet-Blanket.” Assigning an equal value to ancient and modern phraseology, the portrait of the Milesian, so characterised, wears an ugly aspect. Our own martyrdom, under the relentless persecutions of his legitimate successors, concentrates, by an instinctive process of mental association, all their worst features in the single physiognomy of their prototype. How many luxuriant posies of fancy and humour, ready to burst into brilliant blossom, have irrecoverably drooped—how many

of refreshing a laborious day by the evening carnival of nonsense—how many glorious “high jinks,” infandum renovare dolorem, have been stifled—beneath the dank suffocation of this water-kelpy of social enjoyment! It is proper, therefore, in order to be just, to ascertain whether the stigma which Thales carried about with him can be traced to the same causes which hang similar labels round the necks of men in our own day, or whether a term of reproach or of ridicule may not here, as in many other instances, have been widely diverted from, or excessively aggravated in, its original signification.

Now, it happened that the mind of the wise man was filled by a crotchet, which absorbed all other ideas. He announced to the world that water is the primal element, the essence, the seed, the embryo of all matter. Every thing, throughout the whole area of the universe, however ponderous or substantial, however complex or varied, was not merely evolved from the liquid laboratory, but was actually part and parcel of the radical fluid itself. Earth and fire, the azure heaven and the golden stars, marble and brass, birds and beasts, fruits and flowers, ay, men and women, were dew-drops, in different phases of configuration, and different stages of condensation. Such a doctrine, inculcated with endless iteration and intolerable prolixity, could not but exhaust the patience of the gay and dissipated Ionians, whose habits, we know, were far from being circumscribed by the rules and regulations of a total abstinence society. And although, even when the topic had become nauseously stale, a little hilarity might be excited by the old gentleman falling easily into the trap, and answering in harmony with his favourite theory, when tauntingly asked, if the glowing forms before him, whose witchery of grace had passed into a proverb, were indeed emanations from the muddy Mæander; or if the neighbouring Latmus, where

was no more than a pitcherful of the Ægean; or if the pyramids, whose altitude he had measured for the wondering priests of Isis, were but bubbles of the Nile. Still the echo of the merriment thus provoked was faint and feeble beside the vociferous uproar which shook the voluptuous chambers when young Anaximander, in whom Thales fondly thought he saw a disciple, ere yet the shadow of his deluded master had glided over the threshold, filled a ruddy bumper to the brim, and dashed down with a shout his libation to Bacchus, in thankfulness that at last they were rid of “Hygrostroma.” Flesh and blood could not bear for ever “the dreadful noise of water in their ears;” and so, most deservedly and fitly, Thales got the name of “Wet-Blanket,” and bequeathed it, we regret to acknowledge, to an infinite line of descendants, who, in dealing with other themes, daily and hourly, after their own fashion, stabilitate and eclipse his renown.

From the days of Thales, which may be fixed, according to the nicest calculations, about four-and-twenty hundred years ago, water was generally understood to have found its level. Occasionally, no doubt, it made vigorous spurts to revindicate its prominency, but never mounted to the alarming flood-mark which it had reached in the Ionic philosophy. It certainly has had little reason to complain of the position from which it cannot be displaced. Covering entirely three-fifths of the surface of the globe, few are the specks of land, and these few shunned by man, where its influence is not paramount. Permeating the vast economy of nature through its grandest and its minutest ramifications; nursing from its myriad fountains and reservoirs the vitality of creation; affecting and controlling the salubrity of climates, the purity and temperature of atmospheres, the fertility of soils; moistening the parched lips, and requickening the energies of vegetation; bearing all the necessaries and all the luxuries of life, all that industry can furnish or opulence procure, into the centre of immense continents, and up to the doors of populous cities; generating, with the help of a strong ally, the most gigantic power which human ingenuity has ever tamed to the uses, and comforts, and improvements of mankind; rolling the rampart of its sleepless tides round the shores and the independence of mighty empires, and stretching out its broad waters as the highway of amicable intercourse between all nations, this colossal and beneficent element needs not to aspire higher than the eminence where it must be raised by such a contemplation of its virtues and its strength. Regarding it, however, with a homelier eye, we cannot conceal our opinion that too many men, women, and children, have underrated its serviceable qualities in connexion with their personal and domestic welfare. Nor shall our observations, desultory as they may be, conclude without some serious reflections on this subject, applicable to our own country and our own times; for even in the relaxing warmth and idlesse of autumn, when nothing very grave is very palatable, we must coax our friends to swallow a thin slice of instruction along with our jests and their grouse. But in the mean time, casting a rapid glance from the Ionian era, whence we started, downwards to the present century, over the aquatic propensities which have distinguished successive generations in the intervening ages, it can scarcely be affirmed with truth that the efficacy of water, as an useful, agreeable, and a sanative boon from Providence to man, has been neglected and despised. The Greeks, the Romans, and the Orientals require no justification. Their bathing, shampooing, and anointing have survived the downfall of thrones and the extinction of dynasties. And if the inhabitants of less benign regions, who must sometimes smash the ice in their tubs before commencing a lavation, do not evince the same headlong predilection for continual immersion and ceaseless ablution as do their kindred of the genial South and blazing East, we confess that their apology seems to us to be remarkably clear and satisfactory. What do we think of Scotland?—is a query from which a sensitive patriotism, perhaps, might shrink. It does not abash us at all. All ducklings do not plunge into the pond or the stream exactly at the same age—one exhibiting, in this respect, a rash precocity, while another will for a long time obstinately refuse to acknowledge that

Had Caledonia been as tardy as she is alleged to have been in the practice of scrupulous cleanliness, we should easily have found good reasons for defending and palliating her procrastination. But the charge against her is absolutely a vulgar error—a popular delusion—a senseless clamour. Take the country. Is it likely that the national poet, who knew the customs and dispositions of our peasantry, being one of them himself, intimately and practically, would have enumerated among the dearest reminiscences of childhood, that

if such an occupation were not the delight of the whole rural population? Take the town. Does there ever come down a torrent of rain, making the streets the channels of mighty rivers, that there is not seen instantly a colony of young Argonauts emerging, like flies from the Tweed, out of the very water, and exploring the unknown profundities of the gutter, as from lamp-post to lamp-post they go, “sounding on their dim and perilous way?” Take every well-regulated family on Saturday night. Where is the fortunate urchin who shall escape the rude purgation of the Girzy, nor be sent to bed red as a lobster, and clean as a whistle? Take the far-reaching seabeach from Newhaven to Joppa. Are those tremendous scenes which have lately riveted the gaze of a whole country on the sands of Portobello characteristic of a people animated by a feline antipathy to moisture? The verdict is so unquestionably for us, that we decline to adduce any further evidence.

In short, Europe continued to maintain most amicable relations, while Asia cultivated the closest intimacy with water, hot and cold, fresh and salt. America is too young yet to be included in the argument; and as for Africa, crocodiles, hippopotami, and sharks, usurp a monopoly of the favourite pools so exclusively, that the returns of its bathing statistics are most uncertain. In this course, matters ran on smoothly for cycles and cycles of years, races of men following races, as waves follow waves. Any perceptible alteration in the relative positions of man and water, at the same time, was in the direction of stricter and more frequent communication between them. Cleanliness became fashionable—an event which, without snapping the connexion somewhat loosely subsisting between the purifying element and the inferior grades of society, rapidly and widely diffused a knowledge of its capabilities and its amiabilities among the higher circles. Well, on the dawn of a glorious morning, when the sun, and all the seas, lakes, and rivers of the globe were playing at battledore and shuttle-cock with the beams of the orb of day, water suddenly found itself, at a bound, lifted to a pinnacle only a little beneath the summit on which Thales of yore enthroned it. Matter, on this occasion, it was not announced to be—but the cure of all the afflictions with which matter could be visited. Ten thousand aromatic herbs gracefully adjusted their petals, ere they fell, and withered into rank and noisome weeds; ten thousand apothecaries were petrified in the act of braying poison in their mortars, and in that attitude remain, stony remembrances of their own villanies; physicians melted away by faculties and colleges;

walked once more emancipated, as Milton sings,

Numerous are the blunders under which humanity has reposed in incurious apathy. The sun gamboled round the earth so long, that, when they changed places and motions, the denizens at that moment of our planet were cheated out of several days in their sublunary or circumsolar career. What was that mistake in comparison with the disastrous error of having for centuries obdurately turned their backs on the inexhaustible laboratory in which alone health could be bought, and perversely purchased destruction from a series of quacks, whose infinite retails had caused more wholsale ruin than the pernicious wrath of Pelides? “Look here upon this picture and on this.” Declining to accede to the unpleasant request we hurry to another phenomenon. The inestimable discovery of the Water-Cure has proved the posthumous triumph of Old Hygrostroma. Instead of being a damper to good-fellowship, the wet-blanket is synonimous with, and symbolical, and productive of all that is vivacious, hilarious, obstreperous, and jolly. A dozen of champagne is not an equivalent for the “Sheet;” and when you are once properly “packed,” by the mere flow of your animal spirits, and a tumbler of pure spring water, you shall “sew up” the most potential toper and wit, whose facetiousness grows with the consumption of his wine.

Here we perceive that our readers, by an unmistakeable twitch of the muscles of the face, intimate their suspicions that our fidelity to the water system is impeachable. An explanatory sentence is unavoidable. In the month of August, we are always like Napoleon at Elba, confident of the incorruptible attachment of our adherents, but at a considerable distance from every one of them—certain of re-assuming, in undiminished splendour, and amidst thunders of acclamation, our undisputed sway on the first of September, but much at a loss a week before our return to find a bark, however frail, in which to trust our fortunes—projecting stupendous expeditions with invincible armies, and, in the meanwhile, possessing not even a recruit from the awkward squad to put through his facings. The days were insufferably hot or unmitigably rainy. Nobody cared about news, nor did anybody send us grouse. The Benledi steamboat was stranded with a broken back on a rock of the Fifeshire coast; and harrowing paragraphs represented all the railways in every direction as strewed with the “disjecta membra” of ill-fated travellers. The thunder and lightning deafened and blinded us, while the absence of all companionship reduced us to compulsory dumbness. In this torpor of the soul and confusion of the intellect, looking up with a vacant stare to the cupola, on which the firmament was playing with inimitable rapidity a fierce prelude, we were startled by the appearance of Mr Lane’s elegant and agreeable volume. It found us in no very consecutive or severely logical mood. The engravings were amusing—the writing was pleasant. Having skimmed the contents with our customary velocity, we flung ourselves back upon the downy slopes of our autumn ottoman, and poured forth the rhapsody which has bewildered our friends. It could not well be otherwise. There was such implicit faith in Mr Lane—in union with so much good feeling and good sense—pleading his case so fervently—interesting us so much in himself, his illness and his recovery, his relapses and his mendings, his packing and scrubbing, his company and his talk, his walks and his rides, his digestions and reflections, and leaving us in the end so little convinced of the unquestionable superiority of the treatment which had bettered him, and no doubt many others, that, assured of there being nothing new under the sun, we took our flight back into the olden times to recall, if we could, when water ever aspired so loftily before in popular estimation. Icarus-like, we dropped into the bosom of the Ægean, and were dragged up opportunely by the phantom of Thales at Miletus.

Captivating, we admit, is the notion that water cures all diseases. There is a grandeur in the simplicity, and a rapture in the tastelessness of such a medicine, which its motley competitors cannot approach. Did any one ever see physic, which, by its appearance, infused love for it at first sight, and a vehement longing to swallow it? Revolve how endless in variety of colour and substance are the contents of a medicine-chest, and confess that you have not been able to look at one of them with satisfaction. The mature mind recoils from terrible reminiscences; and at the apparition of some single phial, a hideous congregation of detestable tastes, starting from the crevices of memory, will rush into the palate, and resuscitate the forgotten tortures and trials of infancy and boyhood. To be spared all this were “a consummation devoutly to be wished.” To know that no shock sharper than the douche, and no draught more nauseous than half-a-dozen tumblers of water, should ever, at the doctors hand, visit or wrack the frame might subdue the refractory temper of patients. To throw physic to the dogs, and be cleansed of all perilous stuff by a currycomb and a pail, might reconcile us to be assimilated to the horse. But alas! what do we discern in man, “the paragon of animals,” which will entitle us to conclude that his innumerable bodily frailties can be so overcome or expelled?

Happy and painful experiences unite to prove it. It has cost the labour and the zeal, the intense concentration of the undivided energies, and, in memorable instances, the very lives of the erudite and the ingenious, the sagacious and the daring, engaged in an incalculable multiplicity of investigations, experiments, and observations, in all ages and in all countries, to explore, and test, and confirm what is valuable, trustworthy, and stable, in medical science. Even to-day it may be urged that much is still obscure, indefinite, unsteady, and liable to be overturned and dismissed by the clearer illumination of to-morrow. Be it so. But, in spite of all the lengths to which the objection can be pushed, there remain two points irrefragably settled in medicine. First of all, there are certain remedies ascertained, beyond the shadow of a doubt, to act efficaciously on certain diseases. In the second place—and by far the most important truth for us in this discussion—no one specific remedy has ever been discovered which applies efficaciously to all diseases, nor to the overwhelming majority, nay, nor to any majority of all diseases. A period of ten years never elapses without such a panacea being broached, paraded, and extinguished. The “impar congressus Achillei” is made manifest in every case. At the outset, accordingly, an advertisement of the Cold Water-Cure as a specific brands it with a suspicion which has never been false before. To affirm that, from Galen to Abernethy, a veil of impenetrable ignorance shrouded the vision of all physicians, which prevented them from picking up the truth lying at their feet, is not to be more arrogant than Holloway’s ointment, or Morrison’s pills. It is, however, to offer a statement for our acceptation which common sense and the practical testimony of more than two thousand years simultaneously reject. The question truly deserves no argument. The publication of the discovery of a panacea is sufficient. The remedy, whatever it is, cannot be what it pretends to be; although it may be worse or better than it is generally supposed to be. Those who have been restored to convalescence, to buoyancy of spirits, and agility of limbs, by cold water, are at perfect liberty to abjure and denounce all other cures. But the chasm in the reasoning is a yawning one, over which an adventurous leap must be taken, to stand firm on the other side upon the conclusion that what cured Richard of dyspepsia will deliver Thomas from typhus.

It is not incumbent on us to enumerate Mr Lane’s ailments. Blue pill and black draught, taraxacum and galvanism, were successively repelled by the stubborn enemy, whose entrenchments were to be neither sapped nor stormed. In a lucky hour, “an intimate friend of Sir E. Bulwer Lytton detailed, with generous eloquence, the great results of the Water-Cure in many cases; and his own characteristic benevolence prompted him to press upon me, as a duty, the visit of a month to Malvern.” So there he goes. “The drive from Worcester to Malvern is not marked by any particular beauty, except the occasional glimpses of the hills, and the constant succession of rich orchards, at this time luxuriant in apple blossoms.” The trifling exception to the monotony of the landscape, which does not escape his notice, almost suggests the possibility of the patient being a little better already.

“Here I am in the temple dedicated to Dame Nature and the Elixir Vitæ. The Doctor not at home, but a message that we are expected at a pic-nic at St Anne’s Well. Too tired to go, we went to our comfortable double-bedded room, and, being refreshed, waited for the Doctor, who soon returned, and severely scrutinized me. He found my boy in exactly the state which he had expected, and rubbed his hands with delight in anticipation of the change to be wrought in him. To me he boldly said, ‘Give me a month, and I will teach you to manage yourself at home.’ At supper (eight o’clock) we were presented to our fellow patients, all graciously and gracefully welcoming the new-comers. This is the final meal of the day, consisting of bread in many varieties, butter, and biscuits, with bottles of water and jugs of milk. Tea, although allowed in some cases, is not encouraged. The house overlooks the beautiful Abbey church. The monks always knew how to avail themselves of the charms of situation; sheltered by the hills, and yet overlooking the extensive plain, and receiving the first rays of the sun—nothing could be more lovely.

“Doctor examined and asked me divers questions, and then gave his orders to the bath attendant. To bed at ten.”

The compliment to the discrimination of the monks might not be inappropriately transferred to Dr Wilson. There are more things in the Water-Cure than cold water, and more than the body frequently morbid or ill at ease in the visitors to Malvern. Lovely scenery is wholesome food for a depressed mind.

“May 14.—At a little before seven came the bath attendant. He poured about four inches depth of water into a tin bath, five feet long, and directed me to get out of bed and sit in it. He then poured about two gallons of water on my head, and commenced a vigorous rubbing, in which I assisted. This is called THE SHALLOW BATH. After three or four minutes, I got out of the bath, and he enveloped me in a dry sheet, rubbing me thoroughly. All this friction produced an agreeable glow, and the desire to dress quickly and get into the air was uppermost. The same process was repeated with Ned; and, having each taken a tumbler of water, we started to mount the hill. I got as far as St Anne’s Well, with Ned’s help, and, drinking there, sauntered about the exquisite terrace walks on the hill. The fountain of St Anne’s Well is constantly flowing, and though varying in quantity, has never failed. I am told that the water is at nearly the same temperature in summer as in winter. In sparkling brilliancy, as well as purity, it is confessedly unrivalled even at Malvern, except by the water of the ‘Holy Well.’ A cottage, beautifully situated in the hollow of this eminence, encloses the fountain, where it escapes from the rock; the chief apartment of which is free, and open to all who wish to drink; but it is good taste to put down a half-crown upon the first visit, and inscribe a name in the book, which (with a ready pen) is also ‘open to all.’ From this cottage, which is I found a favourite place of rendezvous, paths lead by various routes to the highest hill called the Worcestershire Beacon, and the other commanding heights. We shall see, I trust.

“Another glass of this exquisite water, and home to breakfast at nine. Several sorts of bread (all in perfection) and excellent butter; bottles of the brightest water and tumblers duly arranged on the table; jugs of milk for those who like it, and to whom it is allowed. One jug smokes, and the well-known fragrant flavour soon suggests to the nose tea! Surely this is irregular, or why the disguise? Why not a teapot?

“The Doctor took his seat at the head of the table. In the place of honour on his left was the patient whose longest stay in the house entitled her to the distinction. (I afterwards found that precedence at table is arranged by this rule, subject to the intermixture of the gentlemen.) She is eminently gifted to grace her position, being more than pretty, and with tongue and manner to match. Next to her is a gentleman of a dissenting expression of countenance, then another pretty woman, a young man of distinguished manners, and another very pretty woman, who, unlike the two fair patients above her, is dark in all that beautifies a brilliant complexion.

“Skipping over the gentleman on her left, because on this first morning I found nothing to remark upon, I come to my vis-à-vis, with her kindly and companionable expression (I am sure I shall like her;) and having mentioned our present stock of ladies on the opposite side, the lower part of the table is made up of gentlemen, one of whom presides at that end. On my side of the table, the upper seat is generally reserved for a visitor. I am happy to find in the whole party nothing distressing to look at: no lameness, no appearance of skin diseases, no sign-post or label to proclaim an aliment, no sore eyes, no ‘eyesore;’ nothing, in short, worse than an occasional pallid or invalid character, like my own; and I am told that all who have any palpable or disagreeable infirmity, are treated as out-door patients, which wholesome regulation gives full play to the proverbially high spirits of hydropathists, who almost immediately jump from a state of dejection and perverse brooding over their ailments, to a joyous anticipation of good, even on the first day of initiation into the treatment. The appetite, too, is always ready for the simple, wholesome meal. Nobody ever enjoyed a well-earned breakfast more than I on this morning.”

The gentleman “of a dissenting expression of countenance,” of whom we desiderate a drawing, seems the only bit of shade in this bright scene. We have quoted, without abridgment, the description of the company at the table, as not unimportant, alongside of the hilarity of hydropathists, who jump from grave to gay, “even on the first day of initiation into the treatment.” Mr Lane will understand that we do not at all doubt his account of his illness. He must not quarrel with us for remarking that simple fare, regular diet, agreeable society, lots of laughing and talking, bathing and shampooing, bracing exercise, and enchanting natural prospects, appear admirably adapted to reinvigorate the invalids to whom we have been introduced. It would surprise us to be informed that the process had any where failed; and, as far as we can judge, the prescription of the regular practitioner in London would, without much hesitation, be in similar cases—“Go to Malvern for a month.” Shower-baths and douches, too, may be had in the Great Babylon, but not exactly the refreshing concomitants so vividly brought before us by Mr Lane. Suppose we take a peep at a hydropathist’s dinner:—

“At the head of the table, where the Doctor presides, was the leg of mutton, which, I believe, is every day’s head-dish. I forget what Mrs Wilson dispensed, but it was something savoury, of fish. I saw veal cutlets—with bacon, and a companion dish, maccaroni—with gravy (a very delicate concoction): potatoes, plain boiled, or mashed and browned; spinach, and other green vegetables. Then followed rice pudding, tapioca, or some other farinacious ditto, rhubarb tarts, &c. So much for what I have heard of the miserable diet of water patients. The cooking of all is perfection, and something beyond, in Neddy’s opinion, for he eats fat!

“After dinner, the ladies did not immediately retire, but made up groups for conversation, both in the dining and withdrawing room. A most happy arrangement this, which admits the refreshing influence of the society of ladies in such a house.

“A drive had been proposed, and, by the invitation of two of the ladies, I joined the party.

“Through picturesque lanes, we went to Madresfield Court, the seat of Lord Beauchamp (Ned on the box.) We saw the exquisite conservatories, the grapes in succession houses, and pineries. The principal furniture in this house—carpets, tapestry, &c.—were placed exactly as they now appear, more than fifty years ago. It is a very romantic place, abounding in a great variety of trees of magnificent growth.

“We returned soon after seven, when I prepared to take my first Sitz bath. It is not disagreeable, but very odd, and exhibits the patient in by no means an elegant or dignified attitude.

“For this bath it is not necessary to undress, the coat only being taken off, and the shirt gathered under the waistcoat, which is buttoned upon it; and when seated in the water, which rises to the waist, a blanket is drawn round, and over the shoulders.

“Having remained ten minutes in this condition (Ned and I being on equal terms, and laughing at each other), we dried and rubbed ourselves with coarse towels, and descended to supper with excellent appetite.”

Shall we alter or modify our observations, in consequence of this extract? Not pausing for a reply, we wish to explain, that, in hydropathical nomenclature, to be “half-packed” is to be put to bed, with a wet towel placed over you, extending from shoulders to knees, and enveloped with all the blankets, and a down-bed, with a counterpane to tuck all in, and make it air-tight. Here is complete “packing.”

“May 15.—It was not the experience of the half packing that caused me to awake early, but a certain dread in anticipation of the whole wet sheet; and at six the bath attendant appeared with what seemed a coil of linen cable, and a gigantic can of water, and it was some comfort to pretend not to be in the least degree apprehensive. I was ordered out of bed, and all the clothes taken off. Two blankets were then spread upon the mattress, and half over the pillow, and the wet sheet unfolded and placed upon them.

“Having stretched my length upon it and lying on my back, the man quickly and most adroitly folded it—first on one side and then on the other, and closely round the neck, and the same with the two blankets, by which time I was warm, and sufficiently composed to ask how the sheet was prepared of the proper degree of dampness. [I was told that being soaked well, it is held by two persons—one at each end, and pulled and twisted until water has ceased to drop; or that it may be done by one person putting it round the pump-handle, or any similar thing, and holding and twisting it at both ends.] Two more doubled blankets were then put upon me, and each in turn tucked most carefully round the neck, and under me. Upon this the down bed was placed, and over all another sheet or counterpane was secured at all sides and under the chin, to complete this hermetical sealing. By this time I was sure of being fast asleep in five minutes, and only anxious to see Ned as comfortable, for he was regarding the operation with silent horror. He, however, plucked up, and before Bardon (the attendant) had swathed him completely, favoured me with his opinion, conveyed in accents in which a slight tremor might be detected, that ‘packing is jolly.’”

“What occurred during a full hour after this operation neither man nor boy were in a situation to depose, beyond the fact that the sound, sweet, soothing sleep which both enjoyed, was a matter of surprise and delight, and that one of them, who had the less excuse for being so very youthful, was detected by Mr Bardon, who came to awake him, smiling, like a great fool, at nothing, if not at the fancies which had played about his slumbers. Of the heat in which I found myself, I must remark, that it is as distinct from perspiration, as from the parched and throbbing glow of fever. The pores are open, and the warmth of the body is very soon communicated to the wet sheet, until, as in this my first experience of the luxury, a breathing—steaming heat is engendered, which fills the whole of the wrappers, and is plentifully shown in the smoking state which they exhibit as they are removed: still it is not like a vapour bath. I can never forget the calm, luxurious ease in which I awoke on this morning, and looked forward with pleasure to the daily repetition of what had been quoted to me, by the uninitiated, with disgust and shuddering.

“The softness and delicacy of the skin under the operation is very remarkable, and to the touch, clearly marks the difference between a state of perspiration or of fever.”

We wish to be informed what there is of novelty in all this procedure? It is merely one way, out of many ways, of taking a bath. The shepherds on our hills, long before the Water-Cure had local habitation or name, were well aware, when their hard but faithful service made the heather their bed, that by dipping their plaids in the stream, and wringing them out, and then wrapping them round their bodies, such heat was generated as they could not otherwise procure. Then the alternation of hot bath and cold bath, followed by dry-rubbing! The Russians and the Turks are comparatively beings of yesterday. But what does a hydropathist undergo at Malvern, for which Galen and Celsus had not laid down plain and ample directions? There is no apparatus so intricate or so extensive—there is nothing done by the hand or by machinery at a hydropathical establishment, which is not anticipated at Pompeii, or was not familiar to those eminent ancients whom we have named. The economy of baths was brought to more exquisite and copious perfection by the Romans than it has been since. Vice, luxury, gluttony, fatigue, disease, caprice, indolence, extravagant wealth, inordinate vanity, imperial pomp, were all occupied according to the impulse or the necessity of the individual, or of cities and provinces, to adorn with new contrivances, or to supply the defects of that essential furniture to the comfort of the later Roman. The poets teem with allusions to and descriptions of the expedients used in ministering to their effeminacy in the baths. The medical writers have considered and discussed the whole subject of baths and bathing with a minuteness and a comprehensiveness which leave nothing to be learned from hydropathy now-a-days. The Greeks wanted only the enormous riches of Rome to be cited as of tantamount authority. Galen differs from Celsus in arranging the order according to which different baths should be taken; but the interval between them may account for all changes. Did it ever occur to Galen that water was a panacea? No; but many patients were under his care, the counterparts of the sojourners at Malvern; and that he treated them much after the fashion of Dr Wilson, we shall accord to the later gentleman our belief. Rome, in the reign of Commodus, was not less likely than London to send forth sufferers whose roses would renew their bloom, and whose nerves would regain their tension, at the bidding of rustic breezes, lively chat, and methodical discipline.

It has seldom been our happiness to meet with a more astute lady of her rank than the woman at the cottage at St Anne’s, who replies to Mr Lane, when he wonders at his power to mount the steep hills,—“Indeed, so do I, sir; but when I tell how the Water-Cure patients get strength to come up here, after a few days, and how well they look, some gentlefolks are hard enough to say the Doctor pays me to say so.” We exonerate the woman and the Doctor.

“May 26.—Packed, bathed, and out as usual, but instantly turned in again. It was raining after a fashion that, even to me, seemed to promise no interval or alleviation.

“We turned into the dining room, and, pushing the seats of the chairs under the table, we made a clear space for walking round the room. Our dining-room is forty feet long; and, after a minute’s discussion as to our intended route, it was settled that we should go (by the watch) to the spring beyond the Wyche. I opened the windows, and Ned arranged water bottle and tumblers on the table, undertaking to announce our arrival at the several springs. He had marked the distances by the time occupied, and so we started, and having walked from end to end of the room—and round the table ten minutes, Ned called that we were at the Turnpike, and we stopped to drink. We then passed on, doing all sorts of small talk with a friend who had joined us, until we got to the Wyche and to the Willow Spring; then we drank again, and just having started, we met, at the turn of the road, Mr Townley; who came suddenly upon us, and joined our party cheerfully. There were frequent over-takings of each other, and at the corners of the paths we contended for the sharp angles, and carried out the rules of the road by passing on the proper side.

“Mr Townley walked as well as the best of us, and was a delightful walking companion; full of anecdote, of solid information, and a quiet dry humour all his own; but we could not inoculate him with a love for Malvern. Enumerating the varied attractions of the place, I unluckily wound up with the charming drives; when he admitted that it is ‘a delightful place to get away from.’”

A rebel in the camp! What is to come next? Why, a revelation that the Water-Cure system at Malvern is so old that the memory of man runneth not to the contrary.

“May 27.—Packed, bathed, and out as usual. Surely the variable nature of our climate is a source of constant, never-failing interest. Here is a glorious morning, following a day that seemed to give no hope of a change. Walked with Sterling and Ned to the Holy Well at Malvern Wells, then mounting the hills to the Beacon.

“The work published by Dr Card tells of extraordinary cures effected by the water of the Holy Well. The monks of old used to wrap in cloths steeped in this water, persons afflicted with leprosy or other eruptions; and (as the Guide quotes) ‘make them lie in bed, and even sleep, with the wet cloths on the diseased parts.’

“Why, here was an instinctive use of the ‘Wet Sheet Packing’ of very ancient date; but not (as the monks perhaps deemed) miraculous.”

The monks have unexpectedly got Mr Lane into a scrape. Their treatment of their patients is in all respects the same as the hydropathic treatment. But what is science in hydropathy is instinct in the priesthood. It is the most singular instance of instinct ever recorded. A controversy has long raged as to the precise approximation of animal instinct to human reason. The line of demarcation between the instinct of the monk and the reason of the hydropathic doctor is so faint and slender that nobody, except a “packed” Malvern jury, with Mr Lane as foreman, could be audacious enough to hint its existence. So the worthy and intelligent monks not only knew how to select a charming residence, but practised the Water-Cure several hundred years ago! What becomes of the apt comparison between the “common fate of new revelations,” as illustrated in the hostility of doctors which nearly ruined the great Harvey, and the disbelief of sensible people in the virtue of hydropathy? Hydropathy, in our view of it, is nothing new; but when it is demonstrated that at Malvern itself it existed in former ages, its want of success cannot with consistency be attributed to its novelty. The originality of the system, altogether, is on a par with the following branch of it:—

May 31.—“At five o’clock in walked the executioner, who was to initiate me into the SWEATING process. There was nothing awful in the commencement. Two dry blankets were spread upon the mattress, and I was enveloped in them, as in the wet sheet, being well and closely tucked in round the neck, and the head raised on two pillows; then came my old friend, the down bed, and a counterpane, as before. I need not sketch this, as it is precisely like the wet sheet packing in appearance.

“Not so in luxury. At first I felt very comfortable, but in ten minutes the irritation of the blanket was disagreeable, and endurance was my only resource—thought upon other subjects out of the question. In half an hour, I wondered when it would begin to act. At six, in came Bardon, to give me water to drink. Another hour—and I was getting into a state. I had for ten minutes followed Bardon’s directions, by slightly moving my hands and legs, and the profuse perspiration was a relief; besides, I knew that I should be soon fit to be bathed, and what a tenfold treat! He gave me more water, and then it broke out! In a quarter of an hour more he returned, and I stepped, in that condition, into the cold bath, Bardon using more water on my head and shoulders than usual—more rubbing and sponging, and afterwards more vigorous dry rubbing. I was more than pink, and hastened to get out, and compare notes with Sterling. We went to the Wyche. This process is very startling. The drinking water is to keep quiet the action of the heart. To plunge into cold water after exercise has induced perspiration might be fatal, but this quiescent, passive state, involves no danger of any kind.”

To recur to the Roman bath is superfluous. The curious will find in Celsus all they have read in these extracts, and much more than is “dream’d of in your hydropathy, Horatio.” The ingenuous narrative of Mr Lane is useful. The preposterous pretensions of the Water-Cure are visible and palpable. There may be no harm in Malvern, so long as the patients with whom Mr Lane makes us acquainted resort to it; although, conscientiously, we coincide with Mr Townley in his opinion that it must be “a delightful place to get away from.” We do not at all impugn Dr Wilson’s medical skill, and we heartily admire his tact. There are numbers of people who, resisting and infringing the orders of their medical advisers at home, blindly obey the behests of the physician at a watering-place. There are many, also, blasés and out of sorts with the racket, the whirl, and the glare of London life—or of what is worse, a provincial burlesque of London life—to whom the gentle influences of the balmy country air waft back the health which their riot had almost frightened from its frail tenement. These people visit such places as Malvern, do what they are commanded to do, spend their hours in rational enjoyment, and go home—converts to the Water-Cure. It is not very just, but it is very common.

And now let us state distinctly what we would really consider, and gladly dignify, as “The Water-Cure.” For although unable to recognise in water an universal and infallible panacea for all the ills that flesh is heir to, we can yet bear a large testimony in its favour, and send it out to service with the highest character. It is our deliberate and mature conviction that the inhabitants of the Cumbraes and the adjacent islands of Great Britain and Ireland may, to their own infinite advantage, fishify their flesh a great deal more than they do at present. Our language does not embrace the full scope of our recommendation; because the minnow and the whale, along with all the intermediate gradations of the finny family, may probably disclaim the reputation of water-drinkers. Internally and externally, according to the rational views which we are about to explain, we advocate the application of the pellucid fountain and the crystal stream. This is to touch, we are quite aware, some of the most important questions which can engage the attention of the philanthropy and of the legislature of this country. It is to do so; and we hope to evince in our remarks at once the fearlessness and the moderation which become the honest and the practical investigation of matters affecting the moral and the physical welfare of thousands of human beings.

In lauding water as a beverage, it is impossible to evade an expression of opinion regarding the great movement which is represented and embodied in the existence and diffusion of temperance societies over the length and breadth of the land. Whatever words can be selected of most emphatic significance, we are willing to adopt in general approbation of that movement. We single out here no individuals for encomium, and refuse to decorate with a preference any particular fraternity or society. Taking, as our limits necessarily oblige us to take, a broad survey of the principle, and the results of the principle disclosed by experience, we cheerfully pronounce both to be positively and undeniably good. Observe, we say temperance. Total abstinence is a different thing altogether—an extreme which may warrant and cover abuses as bad as drunkenness itself. No spectacle is more ludicrous than a procession of Tee-totallers. If total abstinence is a virtue hard to win, and accessible only to an inconsiderable minority, the pharisaical ostentation of its vain-glory is not calculated to attract or conciliate the overwhelming majority who feel unable to soar to its sublimity. If, on the other hand, total abstinence is a virtue of such easy acquisition as to imply no sacrifice either in grasping or holding it, surely banners need not wave, nor bagpipes grunt, to celebrate such humble and ordinary merits. The Stoics, in declaring pain to be no evil, unconsciously proclaimed that there was no fortitude in suffering. The citizens of Edinburgh who live guiltless of larceny do not perambulate the streets once a-year in holiday attire to the cadence of martial music, for the purpose of being pointed out to the marvelling on-looker as men who never picked a pocket or broke into a larder. Total abstinence is not an end which common sense acknowledges to be attainable. In peculiar circumstances it may be that a sagacious and strong mind, determined to rescue masses of his countrymen from a degrading and destructive bondage, may begin by tearing them violently and completely asunder from their former pernicious habits. His ultimate hopes, however, do not rest on the permanency of this revulsion, but on the foundation which even its temporary supremacy enables him to plant in the understanding and in the heart, for finally establishing better inclinations, wiser purposes, a detestation of excess, and a love of moderation. National temperance will be the triumphant realisation of his aspirations; and as we believe national temperance to be practicable, so we believe it to be desirable, on the lowest and most selfish, as well as on the loftiest and purest grounds. As politicians, we are satisfied that the temperance of the people is an auxiliary in securing, assisting, and facilitating good government, little inferior to many of those invaluable institutions for which Britons are ready to shed their life-blood. The national tranquillity, energy, industry, and affluence, ought to be the aggregate of the contentment, enterprise, diligence, and wealth of each individual. Any thing, therefore, which will convince a man that sobriety makes a happier fireside than heretofore, gives to him at all hours of the day a cooler head and a steadier hand than he used to have, and leaves at sunset a shilling in the purse which he could never find there during the reckless season of his dissipation, is not merely a direct benefit to the individual, but a substantive addition to the resources and strength of the community. We wish to preach no ascetic doctrines, nor to curtail the enjoyment of life of any the least of its fair proportions. Over-fasting and over-feasting are alike repugnant to our ideas. What we delight to see is, that hundreds and tens of hundreds, voluntarily turning off from a road which leads invariably to misery, poverty, and crime, are now treading a more salubrious path, where, as they proceed, an unreproving conscience and domestic happiness must cheer them with their blessings, and, in all probability, worldly prosperity will reward them with its comforts. The first part, then, of our “Water-Cure” is temperance—by which we do not mean either that water is the only fluid which mortals shall imbibe, or that water, even if so exclusively imbibed, is the elixir of life. We mean a general recognition in the conduct of life, that while intemperance is senseless, brutish, dangerous, and guilty, temperance on the contrary—without stinting enjoyment, or balking mirth, or fettering the freest exhilaration of his nature—secures to man at all times, whether of relaxation or of toil, the healthful development of his faculties, and would, in this our own country, prodigious as its industry is, and magnificent as its achievements have been, redeem a quantity of time and means wasted, which, rightly employed and exerted, might elevate the social security and harmony, the political and commercial ascendancy, the public and the private affluence, of the British empire above the visionary splendours of an Utopian commonwealth. Thus far we

without fear of being accused of

The external application of our “Water-Cure” sends us plump over head and ears into as many fathoms as you please. In the middle of the multitudinous sea, or under the even-down deluge of a shower-bath, we are equally at home and at ease. No misgivings of any kind restrict our exhortation to wash and to bathe. Medical advice is so precious a thing that we are anxious to enhance its value by its rarity. Nothing will effect this purpose so certainly as the habitude of constant and sensitive cleanliness among rich and poor, young and old. What ought to be the cheapest, and what is the most thorough instrument of cleanliness, is an abundance, an overflowing superabundance, of water. Before judging our neighbours, we may begin by looking into matters at home. Is it possible that the metropolis of Scotland, at any season of any year, shall be in such a condition from want of water as to exclaim in its agony,

Is it possible that during certain summer months, in more than one year, of which the recollection does not dry up so readily as the city-reservoir, water could with difficulty be procured here for love or money? And is this the place, where the ordinary supply fails sometimes to meet the ordinary demand, in which it was gravely and enthusiastically proposed to erect spacious baths for the working classes? It is infinitely discreditable that such occurrences should have ever distressed us; but, looking forward both to what the people themselves are attempting, and to what the government intends to do, the necessity is apparent for an immense and immediate alteration and improvement in the supply of water to all large and densely-populated towns. The squabbles of companies cannot be permitted to banish health and breed fever. Extensive sanatory measures introduced into a city of which the water-pipes might be dry during the dog-days, would be a repetition of the monkey’s exhibition of the beauties of the magic-lantern, forgetting to light the lamp. The husky voice of the public, adust with thirst, shall not be wholly inaudible. The procrastinations of juntos cannot much longer be accumulated with the vicissitudes of the atmosphere.

When the scheme for the erection of baths for the working classes was first promulgated here, we individually subscribed our pittance, and predicted its failure—and for this reason: The plan could not stand by itself. To make a labourer, at the end of the day’s or the week’s work, as clean and fresh as soap and hot-water, with all appliances and means to boot, could make him, and send him to encounter in his own dwelling and vicinity the filth and the odours of a pig-stye, was not a very feasible proposition. But personal purification would induce household tidiness. It might do so, if ventilation and drainage and space were all at his command, and within his regulation. If they were not, in what a hopeless contest he engaged! Invisible demons, on whose invulnerable crests all his blows fell harmlessly, whose subtlety no precaution on his part could exclude, and to whose potency his own lustrations only made his senses more acute, would speedily quench his new-born ardour, and probably seduce him back to the persuasion, that for one in his position the truth lay in the proverb—“The clartier the cosier.” We must also give him the benefit of those data which political economists never refuse to any body—a prolific wife and numerous progeny. A clean house of one room, open to the incursions and excursions of seven or eight children, whose playground is the Cowgate, or, let it be the shores—that is, the common sewers—of the Water of Leith, is a tolerably desperate speculation. Thither, however, our operative, radiant from his abstersion, is doomed to repair, that he may be affronted by the muddy embraces of his infants, and oppressed by the fragrance of his home. The project of the baths, simply as such, although excellent in its spirit, and true in its tendency, could not, we repeat our belief, have been productive, as an isolated effort, of material or ending benefit. Much must go hand in hand, and step by step, with it. Ventilation and drainage, and more ample elbow-room, are indispensible to carry us forward successfully in the momentous progress on which we are, earnestly, we hope, entering towards the amelioration of the people. Nor shall we hesitate to affirm, that no system of education can be satisfactory or complete, which shall not at least endeavour to provide some means for extricating the offspring of the lower classes in their tender years, when the superintendence of father or mother is almost an impossibility for a great portion of the day, out of the causeway and the dunghill, and if not absolutely to put them in the way of good, at all events effectually to keep them out of the way of harm.

Then it is that we shall clamour for water with indomitable pertinacity. We shall demand it every where—in private houses, in public baths, and in fountains in our streets and squares. There can be no excuse for withholding it. Nature has not been niggardly in her distribution among the neighbouring hills of this simple and invaluable gift. When sums of money which stagger the most gaping credulity are revealed so near our thresholds, and demonstrated to be so readily available for useful purposes, it is neither presumptuous nor irrational to expect that a few driblets from the still swelling hoard may be dedicated to operations which, in combination with other extraordinary conceptions and performances, may crown the present century as more wonderful than any age, or all the ages, which it has succeeded. Great Britain, within a little span of time, has launched into an ocean of hazardous experiments. The voyage is more perilous, we think, than many anticipate; but if it be otherwise, and our forebodings are dissipated by steady sunshine and fine weather; if a new commercial policy shall furnish more sustenance than we require, without any detriment to native industry; if a grand system of education is destined to fortify public intelligence, without weakening public virtue; and if the physical condition of all ranks shall be ultimately so comfortable as to enable them to enjoy their good dinners and their good books, let us hope to hear, with our own ears, the people with one acclaim cry out—“We are well-fed, well-educated,” and “Our hands are clean!”

Edinburgh: Printed by Ballantyne and Hughes, Paul’s Work.