A struggle had been going on, from the time they left the coach,

between Harry Bolton's good-nature, and what he thought his due

dignity. Every word his fellow-passenger had uttered had convinced

him, more and more, that he was a man of education and good sense, to

say the least; a totally different being from the class of whom Jabez

Green, who expounded at Mount Pisgah in his own parish on Sundays,

and did a little shoemaking and poaching on week-days, formed a

specimen ever before his eyes; and if it had not seemed a ludicrous

misapplication of hospitality to have entertained the great gun of

schism within the lares of the "_persona ecclesia_," he would long ago

have offered the very respectable and mild-mannered gentleman, dropped

by an unlucky accident almost at his door, at least a good fire, and

a pair of clean sheets for the night. Sleep at the Crown and Thistle!

why, on consideration, it was scarcely creditable to himself to send

him there. The landlord was one of the most disreputable fellows in

the parish, and, by ten o'clock on a Saturday night, was usually so

drunk as to be more likely to refuse a guest any accommodation at all,

than to take any extra pains for him. And the dirt, and the noise, and

the etceteras! No, Dr Bates had better have stuck to the inside of the

coach than have tried the Crown and Thistle. But where else was he to

go? There was a good spare bedroom, no doubt, at Barby farm, within

half-a-mile; but it had not been occupied since Harry had slept in it

himself on his first arrival in the parish, and then it took a week's

notice to move the piles of wool and cheese, and have it duly aired.

The stranger coughed. Harry grew desperate, and spoke out.

"We are close to my little place now, sir. I think I can offer you what

you will hardly find at the inn--a clean room and a well-aired bed; and

it seems a mere act of common civility to beg you to accept it."

With many thanks, but with the natural politeness and ease with which

a gentleman receives from another the courtesy which he is always

ready to offer himself, the hospitable invitation was at once freely

accepted; and in five minutes they had passed the little gate, and were

awaiting the opening of the door.

This service was performed by the whole available force of Harry's

establishment. One active little elderly woman, who was there on

resident and permanent duty, in all capacities, assisted on this

occasion by Samuel Shears, parish clerk, sexton, barber, bird-fancier,

fishing-tackle maker, &c. &c. &c.; and acting gardener, valet, butler,

and footman, when required, to the reverend the curate. Loud was the

welcome he received from both. "Had he walked through all the rain,

sure_ly_! The coach was very late then; they'd 'most given him up: no,

Sam hadn't, 'cause of service to-morrow;" when their volubility was

somewhat checked by the sight of his companion; and the old lady's face

underwent no very favourable change when informed she must prepare a

second bed.

"Walk in, pray, and warm yourself--that room--Sam, take these bags;"

and Harry stepped aside into the kitchen, to negotiate with his

housekeeper for the stranger's accommodation; a matter not to be

effected but by some little tact: for Molly, like servants of higher

pretensions, did not like being put out of her way, by people "coming

tramping in," as she said, at all hours of the night; and if Bolton

had replied to her close inquiries, as to who and whence the new guest

was, with the statement that he was a stray Methodist preacher, it

is probable that Molly, who had lived with clergymen since she was a

child, and would sooner have missed her dinner than "her church," would

have resigned her keys of office at once in high disgust.

"The gentleman will sleep in my room, of course, Molly, and I shall

have my things put into the other;--anything will do for supper--bread

and cheese, Molly, quite well--toast a little, will you? Poor man, he

seems to have a cough."

"Toasted cheese a'n't good for a cough."

"No; to be sure not. Well, you can fry a little bacon, and a few eggs,

you know."

"There a'n't no eggs. I don't know what's come to the 'ens: they

behaves 'orrid, they does."

"Well, anything, anything, Molly. I'm very tired, and I don't care what

it is: we shall both be very glad to get to bed."

"Lor, I dare say you be tired, sir," said Molly, somewhat pacified.

"You've had a very wet ride, to be sure; lawk-a-me, why this coat might

be a-wringed out." And she hastened to relieve her master of some of

his outer wrappings, and supply him with a warm dressing-gown and

slippers, in which he soon joined his guest in the little parlour; and

having introduced him to the room he was to occupy for the night, left

him also to make himself comfortable.

If Harry Bolton did not repent of his hospitality, which would have

been very unlike him, yet, upon consideration, he certainly felt he

was acting the good Samaritan somewhat more literally than he had ever

expected to do.

"What on earth shall I do with him to-morrow, I should like to know?"

was the first question that suggested itself--much more readily than

did the answer. He could not be expected to go to church, perhaps; but

would he stay quietly at home? or walk off to assist the very reverend

Jabez at Mount Pisgah? As to his keeping his appointment at S----, that

at least was out of the question; and, after all, there seemed so much

good sense and feeling of propriety about the traveller, that it was

most probable--at least Harry thought so--that he would not in any way

offend against the rules of the household which he had entered under

such circumstances.

So the curate brushed the clinging rain from his hair, and the cloud

from his brow, with one and the same motion, and relapsed into his

usual state of good-humour. Supper came in, and he and his guest sat

down opposite to each other, and prepared to discuss old Molly's simple

cookery. Really, now that one could look at him well, the man was very

presentable in person as well as in manner. Harry said grace in a very

few words, and the other's "Amen" was audible and unexceptionable;

reverent, and not nasal. He had a capital appetite: it was said to be

characteristic of his calling, but in that point Harry fully kept pace

with him; and the conversation was not, for the present, a very lively

one. Sam came in at last to take away.

"Sam," said the curate in a half-aside, "_is_ there a bottle of

port?--here's the key."

"La! sir, you bid me take it down to old Nan, you know; and it wor the

last bottle, I tell'd you then."

"Ha! so I did, so I did. Did she like it, Sam?"

"Like it?" said Sam, opening his eyes, "I warrant her!"

"Well, Sam, I hope it did her good;--never mind. You must fare as I do,

I am afraid," said he to the other. "Bring out the whisky-jar, Sam."

Bolton mixed himself a glass without further preface or apology; and

his neighbour, with the remark that it could not be much amiss after a

wetting, very moderately followed his example.

"And now," said Bolton, rummaging in a little cupboard behind him, "I

hope you don't dislike the smell of tobacco. I'm rather too fond of it

myself. My weakness is a pipe: I could find you a cigar, perhaps, if

you are ever--"

"Thank you, I never do smoke; but pray do not mind me: I was at a

German university for a year and a half, and that is a pretty fair

apprenticeship to cloud-raising."

Took a doctor's degree there, no doubt, thought Harry; but it served

excellently as an opening for general conversation; and two pipes had

been consumed, and Molly had twice informed the gentlemen that the

beds were all ready, and that Sam was waiting to know if there were

any orders for to-morrow, before Harry remembered that he had a sermon

still to finish, and that it was verging upon Sunday morning--so

intelligent and agreeable had been the discourse of the stranger.

"If you please, sir," said the clerk, putting his head in at the door,

"the rain is a-coming down like nothing, and that great hole over the

pulpit ben't mended yet. Master Brooks promised me it should be done

afore to-night; but he's never seen to it."

"That Brooks is the very--but, there, it can't be helped to-night, Sam,

at all events," said Bolton, rather ashamed that the defects of his

parochial administration should be exposed, as it were, to the enemy.

"I must speak to him about it myself."

"I clapped a couple of sods over it as well as I could, sir," said

the persevering Sam; "and I don't think much wet can come in to hurt,

like. Will this gentleman 'ficiate to-morrow?--(this was in a loud

confidential whisper)--'cause the t'other surplice a'n't"--

"Don't bother now--there's a good fellow," said Harry, considerably

annoyed, as he shut the door in the face of his astonished subordinate,

who was generally privileged to gossip as much as he pleased. He

covered his embarrassment by showing his visitor at once to his room,

and then sat down to complete his own preparations for the next day's

duties.

The rain was as busily falling in the morning as if it had only just

begun, instead of having been at it all night. Harry had been more than

usually scrupulous in his dress; but when they met at the breakfast

table, his guest's clerical _tout-ensemble_ beat him hollow. After a

rather silent meal, in which both, as if by tacit consent, avoided all

allusion to subjects connected with the day and its duties, Bolton

mustered his courage, as they rose from table, to say--"My service is

at eleven, and I shall have rather a wet walk; you, perhaps, are not

disposed to accompany me?"

"By all means," said the stranger, bowing; "I am quite ready;--is it

time to set out?" And in a few minutes they were picking their way,

side by side, down the little miry lane.

The church, it must be confessed, was not a comely edifice. Its

architectural pretensions must originally have been of the humblest

order; and now, damp and dilapidated, it was one of the many which,

in those days, were a disgrace to any Christian community. There was

the hole in the roof, immediately over the curate's head, imperfectly

stopped by Sam's extempore repairs; and very wretched and comfortless

did the few who composed the congregation look, as they came dripping

in, and dispersed themselves among the crumbling pews. The service

proceeded, and none showed such reverent attention as the stranger; and

being placed in the rectorial pew, immediately opposite the clerk, the

distinct though subdued tone of his responses was so audible, and so

disturbed that functionary, (who had that part of the service usually

pretty much to himself, and had come to consider it as in some sort his

exclusive privilege,) that he made some terrible blunders in the hard

verses in the Psalms, and occasionally looked round upon his rival, on

these latter occasions especially, with unmistakeable indignation.

The service concluded, Bolton found his guest awaiting him in the

porch; and some ten minutes' sharp walking, with few remarks, except

in admiration of the pertinacity of the rain, brought them home again

to the cottage. A plain early dinner was discussed: there was no

afternoon service; and the curate had just stepped into his kitchen

to listen to some petition from a parishioner, when the stranger took

the opportunity of retiring to his own apartment, and did not reappear

until summoned to tea.

Bolton's visit to the kitchen had interrupted a most animated debate.

In that lower house of his little commonwealth, the new arrival had

been a fruitful topic of discussion. The speakers were three; Molly,

Sam, and Binns the wheelwright, who had looked in, as he said, on a

little business with the parson. Molly, as has been said, was a rigid

churchwoman. Her notions of her duty in that capacity might not have

been unexceptionable, but they were, so far as the Sunday went, as

follows:--Church in the morning and afternoon, if practicable, as much

reading as her eyes--not quite what they used to be--could comfortably

manage; pudding for dinner, and tea and gossip in the evening. If fine,

a walk would have come among the day's arrangements; but with the

rain coming down as it did, and after having rather puzzled herself

with a sermon upon the origin of evil, the sudden, and in a degree

mysterious, visit of a strange gentleman--where visitors of any kind

were so rare--became invaluable as a topic of interesting--for aught

we know, of profitable--discourse. Sam Shears dined with her always on

this day; and was allowed, not without scruples, to have his pipe in

the chimney-corner; in consideration of which indulgence, he felt it

his duty to make himself as agreeable as possible; and inasmuch as his

stock-stories respecting enormous perch caught, or gifted starlings

educated by him, Samuel Shears, had long ceased to interest--indeed

had never much interested--his fair listener here, though they still

went down, with variations, at the Crown and Thistle, he was reduced

very often, in the absence of anything of modern interest stirring

in the neighbouring town of S----, to keep up his credit as a "rare

good companion," by entering into politics--for which study, next

to divinity, Molly had a decided taste--talking about reforms and

revolutions in a manner that Molly declared made her "creep," and

varying this pleasurable excitement by gloomy forebodings with regard

to "Rooshia and Prooshia."

On this particular evening, however, the subject of debate was of a

domestic nature, and Molly and the clerk had taken opposite sides:

Binns arriving opportunely to be appealed to by both, and being a man

of few words, who shook his head with great gravity, and usually gave

a nod of encouragement to the last speaker. Molly, after her first

indignation at the intrusion of a wet stranger, without notice, at ten

o'clock of a Saturday night, had been so softened by the courteous

address and bearing of the enemy, that she had gradually admitted him

at least to a neutrality; and when Sam Shears had in confidence hinted

that he "hadn't quite made up his mind about 'un"--her woman's kindness

of heart, or her spirit of contradiction, rushed forth as to the rescue

of a friend.

"I wonder at you, Sam," said she; "you've had heddication enough to

know a gentleman when you see's him; and you'd ought to have more

respect for cloth."

"Cloth! There now," replied Sam, "that's just it; I an't so sure about

his cloth, as you call it."

"Why, what ever do you mean, Sam Shears?"

"I mean," rejoined Sam boldly, though he felt that Molly's fiercest

glance was upon him, and almost choked himself in the endeavour to hide

himself in a cloud of his own creating--"I mean, I don't think as he's

a regular parson. If he had been, you see, he'd have took some of the

duty. Besides," continued the official, reassured by Binns' respectful

attention, "we had a little talk while we was a-waiting for master

after church--I offered him a humbereller, you see--and I just asked

whereabouts his church was, and he looked queerish at me, and said he

hadn't no church, not exactly; and then I begged his pardon, and said

I thought he was a clergyman; and he said, so he was, but somehow he

seemed to put me off, as it might be." Binns nodded.

"To be sure," said Molly, "and 'twas like your manners, Sam, to go

questioning of him in that way."

"Bless you, I was as civil as could be; however, I say again, I 'as

my doubts: he'd a quakerish-looking coat too, such as I never see'd

on a regular college parson. He's the very moral of a new Irvingite

preacher."

"And what's their doctrines, Sam?" asked Molly, whose theological

curiosity was irresistibly excited.

"Why," said the clerk after a puff or two to collect his thoughts,

"they believes in transmigration."

Binns made a gesture of awe and abjuration.

"Stuff!" said Molly, "that's popery: nor you don't suppose, Sam, that

master would have anybody of that sort in his house--eh, Mr Binns?"

The benefit of that gentleman's opinion was lost to both parties, for

it was at that juncture "master" himself entered, and having discussed

his communication, which related to a sick wife, bid him call again in

the morning, and the wheelwright took his leave.

"And now Shears," said the curate, "(don't put your pipe behind you,

man; do you suppose I have not smelt it this half hour--I wish you

would buy better tobacco)--you must be off to S---- to-morrow at

daylight, and order a chaise to be here, for this gentleman, by nine

o'clock at the latest. Do you understand, now?"

"Yes, sir, yes. I'll be sure to go. And what name shall I say, sir?"

"Name, eh! oh, it doesn't matter. Say for me, of course. And look here:

there will be five shillings for you if the chaise is here in time. Ay,

you may well make a bow; I told the gentleman it was too much for you."

"I'm very much obliged to you both," said Sam slyly, "I'm sure, sir;

I'll be off at cock-crow."

"There, Sam Shears," said Molly, as soon as they had the kitchen

to themselves again, "did you ever hear of one of your new

what-d'ye-call-ums ordering a chaise to go ranting about in, I should

like to know? What have you got to say now?"

"I say," said Sam, "as he's a gentleman, and no mistake."

The evening passed away very quietly in the little parlour. The

favourable impression made upon Bolton by his guest's manners and

conversation was certainly deepened by their further intercourse: but

the position seemed felt by both parties to be an awkward one; and when

his departure early on the following morning was proposed, Bolton of

course made no effort to detain him. Both employed most of the evening

in reading; and one or two remarks made by the stranger, as he made his

selection from the curate's library, proved at least his acquaintance

with the works which it contained, though nothing escaped him, as he

wiped the dust from some of Harry's presentation volumes, which could

indicate either his agreement or disagreement with the sound divines

he was handling, and his clever criticisms were rather those of the

bibliographer than the theologian. At last he seemed to bury himself in

a volume of old South, and carried it off with him early to his chamber.

The morning came, and eight o'clock brought breakfast, and half-past

eight the chaise, with Sam Shears fast asleep inside of it. The curate

and his guest parted with mutual good-will, and with a short but warm

acknowledgment, on the part of the latter, of the hospitality he had

received. Sam was not forgotten; he received the promised gratuity with

many bows, and did not put his hat on again until the chaise had fairly

turned the corner.

"Uncommon nice gentleman that, sir, to be sure," said he to his master,

with whom be seldom missed the chance of a little conversation, if he

could help it--and Bolton was generally good-natured enough to indulge

him--"uncommon nice gentleman; what a thousand pities it is he should

be a Methody!"

"A _what_?" inquired the curate, turning round upon him in ludicrous

dismay.

"A Methody preacher, sir," said Sam boldly; for Harry's countenance

quite confirmed his suspicions. "Oh! I know all about it, sir; but it

ain't of no account with me, sir, you know, not none whatever,"--and he

redoubled his negatives with a confidential mysteriousness which made

Harry inclined to kick him. "I met Joe Haines, as drives the Regulator,

this morning, and he asked me very particular about you, you see, sir,

and how you got home o' Saturday night; and then I told him as how this

gentleman came with you; and when he heard as he'd been staying here

all day yesterday, how he did laugh, to be sure; and then he told me"--

"I'll tell you something, Sam, too. You had much better mind your own

business, and not trouble yourself to talk to Joe Haines, or anybody

else, about what goes on in my house."

There was no mistaking the fact that his master was angry: and as such

a thing had very seldom happened within Sam's experience, it was a

result of which he stood considerably in awe; and he hastened, with

some confusion, to apologise, and to resume his praises of the "very

nice gentleman, whatever he was,"--"And as you say, sir, that's no

business of mine: I'm sure I should be most happy to wait upon him at

any time, sir"--

But Bolton had retired, and shut the door of his little sitting-room in

an unmistakeable manner. So Sam was obliged to soliloquise the rest of

his apologies, which began to be very sincere, as he consoled himself

by gazing at the two half-crowns which had come into his possession

so easily. "Of course; if so be as he's a gentleman, what matters?

That's what I say: that's what I said to master: that's what I said to

Molly:--hallo! hey?--If this here half-crown ain't a smasher!"

'Twas too true: it rung upon the flag-stone like an unadulterated piece

of lead.

"What's the matter now, Sam?" said Mrs Molly, who heard the sound, and

met his blank face in the passage.

"I told you what he was," said Sam--"look here!" Molly examined the

unfortunate coin with, every wish to give it the benefit of a doubt,

but was obliged finally to pronounce against it. She had to listen,

also, to the story which Sam had heard from Joe Haines; and though

she clung pertinaciously to her previously-formed conclusions in the

stranger's favour, Sam had now decidedly the best of the argument,

which he clinched at last with what he considered an unanswerable

proposition--"If you says as he's a parson and a gentleman, will you

give me two-and-sixpence for this here half-crown?"

Weeks passed on, and other events wore out the interest of the

stranger's visit, even in those dull localities. Binns' wife had

a baby; and another piece of the church roof fell in, and nearly

carried Brooks the churchwarden with it, as he was mounted on a ladder

estimating its repairs--for there was an archdeacon's visitation coming

on, and not even the vulcanised conscience of a parish functionary

could be brought to pronounce, on oath, its present state of repair to

be good and sufficient. And Harry received an invitation to dine with

the said archdeacon, who was a good kind of man on the whole--that is,

his good qualities would not very well bear taking to pieces--but he

rather patronised the younger clergy in his neighbourhood, provided

that they were young men of tolerable family, and good address,

and not, as he expressed it, _ultra_ in any way. It so happened,

that he was almost the only acquaintance that Harry had made in the

neighbourhood. He had written to request his interference in enforcing

the repair of the church; and as that was a compliment seldom paid

to his official dignity, the archdeacon had actually driven over

thirteen miles to inspect the place personally: and, arriving quite

unexpectedly, had caught the curate just sallying forth equipped for

fishing--an art to which he himself occasionally condescended--for

even archdeacons do unbend. And very soon ascertaining that there

was no tendency to an objectionable _ultra_, of any kind, in our

hero, and that he was in fact rather an eligible rear-rank man for

a dinner-table, had made a mental memorandum of the fact, and, in

consequence, had twice favoured him with an invitation, which Harry,

according to his present humour, had declined. On this occasion,

however--as a third refusal would have seemed ungracious--he had

determined to go; and, with some compunction at the expense (he had

thought nothing at Oxford of a hunter, and a "team" to cover, at

about five guineas for the day,) he, found himself in a hired gig at

the archdeacon's door, a little before the dinner hour on the day

appointed. None of the guests were as yet assembled. His host, however,

met him in the drawing-room, and presented him, with considerable

cordiality, to his lady and her daughters.

"It was very good indeed of Mr Bolton to come so far to see us," said

the archdeacon. "Indeed, I am particularly glad you came to-day,"

continued he with a sort of pompous kindness, "for I have the bishop

staying here, and I wished you to meet him."

Harry was interrupted in his acknowledgments by the entrance of two

men of the expected party: the Honourable and Reverend Mr Luttridge,

a young man, who eyed his brother curate, on his introduction, with

what he intended for a critical and interrogative glance, but which

had by no means the effect upon that party which he intended; and

another archdeacon, or dean, or some such dignitary, who made Bolton

a very low bow indeed; and, turning his back upon him forthwith,

began to discourse with the other two upon the business of the last

Petit Sessions. A discussion upon some point of magisterial law was

interrupted by a burst of shrill and hearty laughter from the younger

of Misses Archdeacons--a fat merry girl, with whom Harry had struck up

an acquaintance instantly--_that_ was a point he never failed in; and

although the other two gentlemen looked rather astonished, and turned

round again to resume their argument, the father--she was his favourite

daughter, and ludicrously like him--was delighted to see her amused,

and insisted upon knowing what the fun was between them. Some absurd

remark of Harry's was repeated, as well as her continued merriment

would allow her; and the archdeacon, after a preparatory shaking of his

sides, had just burst into a stentorian "ha-ha," when the drawing-room

door again opened, and the Bishop of F---- was most audibly announced.

Every one tried to look deferential, of course; and the two gentlemen

in front of Harry separated, and took open order to receive his

lordship. Everybody recovered their propriety, in fact, in an instant,

except Miss Harriet, to whom a bishop was no treat at all--not to

be compared with an amusing young curate. She kept her eyes fixed

upon Harry Bolton--she thought he was going to faint. Could it be

possible?--oh! there was no doubt about it. Schismatic Doctor Bates, or

Bishop of F----, there he was!--there was the man he had walked home in

the rain with!

Harry's quondam guest walked forward with an easy grace, which

contrasted strikingly with the stiff dignity of his subordinates. He

shook hands politely with Mr Luttridge, and returned the greeting of

his companion somewhat more warmly. The archdeacon was preparing to

introduce Bolton, without noticing his embarrassment, when the bishop

anticipated the introductory speech by saying, as he held out his hand,

"Mr Bolton and I are old friends--may I not say so?"

A man of less self-possession than our friend the curate might have

been put quite at his ease by the kind tone and manner, and warm grasp

of the hand. "Certainly," was his reply, "your lordship and myself

_have_ met, under rather different circumstances."

The archdeacon's respectable face expressed considerable astonishment,

as well it might; and the other two gentlemen began to eye his

lordship's "old friend" with interested and inquisitive glances.

"My dear archdeacon," said the bishop, laughing, "pardon my

mystification; this is the friend with whom I spent a day or two on my

last visit to this neighbourhood, when you really thought you had lost

me altogether; though, if you had told me I was to have the pleasure of

meeting him at your table to-day, I might, perhaps, have let you into

the secret."

"But, my dear Bolton," said the host--he had dropped the Mr at

once, and for ever--" why did you not tell me that you knew his

lordship?--eh?"

Harry laughed, and got a little confused again; but the bishop answered

the question for him, before he had time to frame an intelligible reply.

"Oh, that's a long story; but it was no mystery of Mr Bolton's, be

assured. I am afraid, indeed, it will tell rather better for him than,

for me; but I promise you the explanation, someday," continued the

bishop, good-humouredly, "when we have nothing better to talk about."

The archdeacon took the hint, and turned the conversation. Another

guest or two joined the party; dinner succeeded, and passed off much

as such affairs usually do. The bishop, although he did not address

much of his conversation directly to Bolton, took care to make him feel

at his ease; and Mr Luttridge, who sat next to him, became remarkably

friendly--was quite surprised that he had not heard of him before,

being, in fact, quite a near neighbour--only nine miles--nothing at all

in that part of the country--should ride over to call on him one of the

first days he could spare--and, in fact, said what became him to say to

the bishop's friend and _protégé_.

Whatever curiosity might have been felt on the subject by the rest

of the company, it was not until they had taken their departure that

the bishop thought proper to explain to Bolton and the archdeacon the

circumstances which had led to his paying an incognito visit to the

former. He had only lately been appointed to the diocese, and was

therefore personally known to but few of his clergy. The archdeacon and

himself, however, were old college acquaintances, and he had accepted

an invitation to spend a few days with him, at the time of his casual

meeting with Harry Bolton. Being averse at all times to any kind of

ceremony or etiquette, which he could reasonably dispense with, it had

been arranged that the archdeacon's carriage should meet him at B----,

to which place his own had conveyed him. Upon his arrival in the town

somewhat before the hour appointed, he had, according to his custom,

walked out quietly to make himself acquainted with the localities, and

had unconsciously passed some hours in exploring some ruins at a little

distance. Meanwhile, the archdeacon, not so punctual as his diocesan,

drove up to the hotel door in hot haste, considerably too late for

his appointment, and was saluted with the unpleasant information that

his lordship had been there, and was gone on these two hours,--for

his previous orders had been duly obeyed, and the episcopal equipage,

with a portly gentleman inside, who sustained the dignity of his

position as chaplain very carefully, had really rolled away on its

road homeward. The archdeacon doubted, but mine host was positive; and

strengthened his position by the assertion that his lordship had said

he was going to Bircham rectory, a piece of intelligence picked up

from the servants, with exactly enough truth in it to do mischief. Off

went the archdeacon again, annoyed at his own dilatoriness; and great

was his consternation on reaching home to find no bishop; and great

was the bishop's surprise, on returning at last to the hotel, to find

no archdeacon; and great the confusion throughout the Kings Arms; the

landlord throwing the blame upon the waiters, and the waiters upon each

other. Post-horses to S----, which was within a short three miles of

the archdeacon's rectory, were ordered at once. But, alas! after many

delays and apologies, none were to be had; almost every quadruped in

the town was engaged in taking parties home from the opening of the

Independent College. The bishop was not a man to make difficulties; so,

leaving his only remaining servant to await any remedial measures which

the archdeacon might take when he discovered his error, and to give an

intelligible account of his movements, he himself, without mentioning

his intention to any other person, walked down to the coach-office

at the Swan, paid his fare, and became an inside passenger by the

Regulator.

Of course, when the archdeacon discovered his mistake, no time was lost

in procuring fresh horses, and sending back the carriage to B----,

in the hope that his lordship might still be forthcoming; but it

brought back to the anxious expectants at the rectory only a servant

and, a portmanteau; and as they did not pass the spot where the

accident occurred, and all inquiries made at S---- only resulted in

the intelligence that "there had been an upset, that no one was hurt,

and that the passengers had walked home," they made up their minds to

await some accurate information as to his lordship's whereabouts from

himself, when he relieved his friends from their uncomfortable suspense

by making his appearance personally at breakfast on the Monday morning;

though, to punish, as he jokingly said, the archdeacon, for leaving him

in such a predicament, he would tell them nothing more than that he had

spent the Sunday very pleasantly with a friend.

Much amusement ensued at the bishop's details of his visit, though

he good-naturedly avoided any allusions that could possibly be

embarrassing to his late host. Bolton had accepted the offer of a bed,

and it was late before they separated for the night. Before he took his

leave on the following morning, the bishop, to his surprise, announced

his intention of paying him a second visit. "I think, Mr Bolton," said

he, "that, having intruded upon you once in disguise, as I may say,

I am bound to come and preach for you some Sunday, if it be only to

clear my own character in the eyes of your parishioners," (for Harry

had confessed, to the exceeding amusement of all parties, his own and

his clerk's suspicions.) "So, if you please, and if my good friend here

will accompany me, we will drive over to you next Sunday morning; and

I'll try," continued the bishop slyly, "if I cannot get Mr Churchwarden

Brooks to put your church a little to rights for you."

The morning arrived, and the archdeacon and the bishop. A proud woman

had Molly been from the moment the announcement was made to her of

the intended honour; and the luncheon which she had prepared was,

considering her limited resources, something extraordinary. But when

his lordship alighted, and, catching a sight of her eager face in

the passage, called to her by name, and addressed her kindly--and

she recognised the features of the unknown guest, whom Sam had

so irreverently slandered--the good old woman, between shame and

gratification, was quite overcome, and was wholly unable to recover her

self-possession throughout the day. During the whole of the service,

she looked at the bishop instead of the prayer-book, made responses

at random, and was only saved by the good-natured interference of his

lordship's own man from totally ruining the luncheon. Of course, the

church was crowded; the sermon was plain and impressive: and when,

after service, the whole of the rustic congregation, collected in the

churchyard to see as much as they could of a personage few of them had

ever seen before, formed a lane respectfully, with their hats off, for

him to pass to the gate, the bishop, taking off his hat and claiming

their attention for a few moments, spoke a few words, homely and

audible, approving their behaviour during the service, and representing

to them the advantages they might derive from the residence among them

of an exemplary minister, such as he believed they had at present, and

such as he would endeavour to provide them with in the possible event

of his removal. And when afterwards he begged to be introduced to the

churchwarden, and, taking him familiarly by the arm, walked with him

round the building, pointed out indispensable repairs, and, without

any word of reproof, explained to him the harm done by injudicious

patching, and put into his hands a liberal contribution towards the

expenses--it might have seemed quite wonderful to those who either

overrate or underrate poor human nature, how much more popular a

notion, and how much better understood a bishop was in that remote

village from that time forth. The landlord of the Crown and Thistle

was quite surprised at the change that had come over Mr Brooks. He

used to be rather a popular orator on club nights and other convivial

occasions, taking that economical view of church dignitaries and

their salaries which, by an amusing euphemism, is called "liberal" in

politics; but subsequently to this occasion he seldom joined in these

discussions, was seen less frequently by degrees in the taproom of the

Crown and Thistle, and more regularly at church; and once, when hard

pressed for an opinion by some of his former supporters, was asserted

to have told them that the Crown and Thistle took more money out of

people's pockets than ever the bishops did.

Harry had anticipated much amusement from Sam Shears' confusion, when

he should encounter, in his full canonicals, the, bishop of the diocese

in the person of the apocryphal Dr Bates; but whatever that worthy's

secret discomfiture might have been, he carried it off wonderfully

well, and met his lordship in the vestry with a lurking smile in his

humble obeisance, as if he had all along penetrated the mystery of his

incognito. With Molly in the kitchen, indeed, he had for some evenings

a hard time of it; but a threat of absenting himself altogether, which

he ventured in some fear of being taken at his word, had the effect of

moderating her tone of triumph. Before the bishop left, he called Sam

aside, and presented him with a substantial token of remembrance; when

Sam took the opportunity of producing, with many prefaces of apology,

the condemned half-crown, which had fretted in his pocket ever since.

"Please your lordship's worship and reverence," said Sam, "this here

ain't a _very_ good half-crown; at least, I can't pass it noways down

here. I dare say as your lordship's worship might pass it away easy

enough among your friends, but--"

"Here, here," said the bishop, laughing heartily, "here's another for

you, by all means, my man; but pray excuse my having anything more to

do with the bad one."

Again the bishop parted from his entertainer with many expressions of

regard, and an invitation to spend some time with him at his palace,

which Bolton did much to his satisfaction; and received from him so

much valuable advice and paternal kindness, that he always considered

the snug living with which, some months afterwards, he was presented,

one of the least of his obligations.

* * * * *

"And that's how Harry Bolton came to be a neighbour of mine," concluded

Long Lumley; "and a nice place he has here, and a capital neighbour he

is."

We discussed the whole story over Lumley's wine after dinner the next

day, when the Hon. and Rev. Mr Luttridge, who had since married the

bishop's niece, and was said to have been a disappointed expectant of

the living given to Bolton, made one of our party.

"A very odd man, certainly, the bishop is," was that gentleman's

remark; "very strange, you know, to go poking about the country in that

kind of way. Scarcely the thing, in fact, I must say."

"Upon my honour," said Lumley, "you parsons ought to be better judges

of what is or is not 'the thing' for a bishop, than I can be; but if

the Bishop of F---- is an odd man, I know, if I had the making of

bishops, I'd look out for a match for him."

THE DANGERS OF THE COUNTRY.

NO. I.--OUR EXTERNAL DANGERS.

Among the many remarkable circumstances which a comparison of former

with present times never fails to present to an attentive observer,

it is perhaps the most remarkable with how much accuracy the effects

of great changes in public policy are predicted by one portion of

the community, and with what entire insensibility they are regarded

by another. The results of all the chief alterations in the system

of government which has taken place in our times--the Contraction of

the Currency, Roman Catholic Emancipation, the Reform Bill, Negro

Emancipation, Free Trade, the Repeal of the Navigation Laws--were all

foretold by their opponents at the time they were under discussion,

with such accuracy that their predictions might pass, after the events

had taken place, for a concise history of their effects. And yet the

whole body of their supporters, embracing at each period the numerical

majority at least of the most influential part of the nation, were

absolutely deaf to these warnings; they ridiculed the authors of them,

disputed their reasonings, impugned their motives, and were only the

more confirmed in the headlong course they were pursuing, by the

demonstration which daily experience was affording of the enormity

of their own error on previous occasions. It is evident, from these

examples, that Plato's observation is well founded, and that general

ignorance is neither the greatest social evil, nor the one most to be

dreaded. Prejudice, passion, a thirst for selfish aggrandisement, are

the real evils which affect society; and their sway, unhappily, is

only rendered the more powerful with the extension of knowledge and

the progress of civilisation. They do worse than conceal the truth:

they render men insensible to it. So obstinately do the majority

of men, when their interests are supposed to be at stake, or their

passions are inflamed, resist the light of truth; so resolutely do they

disregard the clearest procession of demonstration; so prone are they

to be led away by the arts of ambitious men or the efforts of class

interest,--that it may be safely concluded that the greatest national

disasters cannot long be averted when affairs are under the immediate

direction of a numerical majority; and that their own folly or

infatuation become the instruments of the Divine judgments upon mankind.

A memorable example of the truth of these observations, and of their

vast importance to a society constructed as it now is in this country,

is to be found in the recent instance of the Papal Aggression. For

above half a century past, the whole efforts of the Liberal party in

England were directed to the abolition of religious distinctions, and,

in particular, to the introduction of the Roman Catholics into an

entire and equal participation in the power, privileges, and influence

of Protestants. In vain was it urged by a small but determined band,

headed by Lord Eldon in one house of Parliament, and Mr Perceval in

another, that however well-founded the principles of toleration were

in the general case, and however desirable it might be, if consistent

with security, to abolish all distinctions founded on differences of

religious belief, yet the opinion of the great apostle of toleration,

Mr Locke, was well founded, that these principles could not be safely

applied to the Roman Catholics, because they formed part of a great

foreign religious power, which formerly boasted of Great Britain as

the brightest jewel in its crown, which openly aspired to universal

dominion, and would never cease striving to reunite that splendid

appanage to the Papal dominions.

These observations were generally disregarded: the names of bigots,

tyrants, illiberals, were constantly applied to the resolute patriots

who still continued to utter them; concession after concession to

the Roman Catholics went on; they were admitted without reserve into

the British Parliament; the titles of their Bishops were recognised

by Ministers in Ireland and the colonies; the entire government and

patronage of Ireland were surrendered into their hands; until at

length, in return for so many acts of condescension, the Pope deemed

it safe to throw off the mask, and send, for the first time during

three hundred years, a Cardinal to London, in order to superintend

the partition of England into ecclesiastical divisions, and the

re-establishment of the Romish worship in every parish of the realm!

_Then_, and not till then, the eyes of the nation were opened: the

bubble, which the Liberals had kept up for half a century, suddenly

burst, and the dormant strength of the Protestant principle was

awakened to an extent which outstripped all calculation, and almost

alarmed the most decided opponents throughout of Papal ambition! Then,

and not till then, the warning voice of the bigots and illiberals

of former days was recollected: their oft-derided predictions

were searched out: the streets were placarded with Lord Eldon's

vaticinations; and the journals which most openly shaped their course

according to popular feeling, were the first to insert in capital

letters the now fulfilled prophecies of former Illiberalism.[3]

Another, and not less memorable, instance of the way in which public

delusions, all but universal, which have withstood the utmost force

of reason, argument, and experience for a long course of years, have

been suddenly dispelled by some great fact which struck the senses of

all, and could no longer be denied, has occurred in the recent vast

and important change which the discovery of the gold in California has

made on the currency of this country, and of the world. For thirty

years past it has been the uniform policy of the British Government,

directed by the pressure of the money power, and the influence of

realised capital, to augment the value of realised wealth, by enhancing

its price and cheapening everything else. To effect this, gold was

first selected as the standard, because it was the most valuable of the

precious metals; and as its price had for a long course of years been

slowly but steadily advancing, it was thought, with reason, that the

assumption of it as the standard could not fail to enhance the value of

realised capital of every kind, by cheapening the money-price of all

the articles in which every one else dealt. Next, small notes were

extinguished, because they formed a currency commensurate to the wants

of the nation; and consequently their abundance tended to raise prices.

Then the issue of notes beyond £32,000,000 in the whole empire was made

to depend on an amount of gold coin corresponding to the notes issued

being in the coffers of the banks issuing: in other words, the currency

beyond that limited amount, not half of what the nation required,

was made entirely metallic. Free Trade was next introduced, in order

still further to augment the value of realised wealth, by taking a

fourth from the price of every commodity which it might purchase,

and consequently depressing to a similar extent the remuneration of

productive industry. All this was rested on the plausible plea of

maintaining a fixed and unchangeable standard of value, and preventing

monetary crises, by having no circulation except what was based on the

most precious of the precious metals.

This system was adhered to through a series of disasters directly owing

to its adoption, which would have destroyed any other nation, and

levelled with the dust any other people. In vain was it represented

that gold itself was a commodity, liable to change in price like any

other article of commerce, according as the supply was or was not equal

to the demand; that to fix a standard price for it was to cast anchor

in the clouds, and that to make the circulation of the country depend

entirely on the retention of an article of commerce, which could not

always be retained, was necessarily to expose it to the recurrence of

the most disastrous shock to credit. These warnings were systematically

disregarded; the bullion system was adhered to amidst the most

frightful calamities; and the nation, as the price of its adoption,

underwent a series of monetary convulsions beyond anything recorded

in history, and which entailed losses greatly exceeding in amount the

confiscation and destruction of property which resulted from the French

Revolution.

Where are these dogmas about the immutability and indestructible

value of the gold standard _now_? "Efflavit Deus, et dissipantur."

The beneficence of Providence has come to the aid of a benighted

and suffering world. As reason had proved inadequate to withstand

the pressure of interest, the reserves of nature were let in: the

floodgates were opened: the beneficent stream overspread the world.

A few grains of gold are discovered in digging a mill-course in

California, and the whole bullion system is blown into the air. The

labour of a lifetime is undone in a moment: the citadel of the money

power is blown up by a spark falling in its own magazine: the island

on which the Bullionists had cast anchor itself begins to drift along.

Farewell to all their dreams of cheapening everything: farewell to

the boast of their able and principal organ, that they had made the

sovereign worth two sovereigns! The sovereign is in process of becoming

only worth half a sovereign. The ominous intelligence has been received

from Paris that the English sovereign had declined fourteen sous in

value; Holland has openly abandoned the gold standard; France is

preparing measures to meet the altered value of the precious metals.

The Bullionists are struck in the very heart of their power. True to

their motives, though not to their principles, they are already in

their journals decrying gold as a standard, and proposing silver in

its stead. Everything has for a year past been rising in price in

England except agricultural produce and sugar, still kept down by the

unrestrained importation of foreign states. For long it was tried to

write down California; but the gold-dust at length became too strong

for them. The fatal truth could no longer be concealed, that the value

of money had declined, was declining, and, as they thought, ought to

be enhanced. But how to do that was the difficulty, amidst ceaseless

arrivals of gold from California, and an overflowing treasure in the

Bank of England. They discovered that some other idea could be formed

of a pound sterling, "than a certain determinate weight of gold metal."

They would fain have it something of less fleeting value. The truth is

at length apparent to the nation--which had been so long denied and

so studiously concealed by those who were profiting by the opposite

delusion--that gold, like every other metal, is a commodity liable to

change in value according to its plenty or scarcity, and that it is

hopeless to make a fixed standard of an article which is itself liable

to greater vicissitudes of price than perhaps any other.

It is hard to say whether examples of this sort are most fitted

to inspire confidence in the final triumph of the cause of truth,

or despondency as to the fate of a nation in which error has been

widespread and long continued, and powerful classes of society are

interested in its being perpetuated. It is evident that the enormity

of error, the clearness of the demonstration of its falsehood, the

perilous and even fatal consequences which may be anticipated from

its continuance, afford no sort of security against its sway being

continued, if an influential class is interested in its duration. It

is equally clear that the extension of education, the boasted march of

intellect, the spread of journals, the number of persons interested in

the termination of a pernicious policy, the awful consequences which

may be anticipated from its continuance, are often wholly impotent to

rescue a nation from disaster, it may be ruin, if the effects of the

disastrous system are not so plain and palpable as to be obvious _to

the senses_ of the whole of mankind. But while all this is perfectly

clear on the one hand--and there is obviously no limit to this long

continuance of the most ruinous error in the opinions and policy of a

particular nation--it is equally evident, on the other, that there is

a bar imposed by Providence to the _eternity_ of error in the world

in general. The laws of nature _at length come to the aid of truth_:

some great and decisive event occurs which renders its effects palpable

to all the people; the whole fabric of error so studiously upheld, so

anxiously defended, is overturned in an instant; and mankind, awakening

from the slumbers of half a century, are astonished only how a thing

so very evident had never before struck them. They then find, to

their infinite surprise, that all which has occurred had been clearly

foreseen and distinctly predicted by the few among them who judged of

the future by the past, and cast their eyes beyond the interests or

passions of the moment; and that it was not because truth had not been

told to them, but because _they would not listen to it_, that all the

calamities they deplore had been brought upon them.

The circumstances which mainly contribute to produce this extraordinary

tenacity of error and insensibility to truth, in the majority of

mankind at all times and under all circumstances, are their general

indifference to _distant_ effects, and their acute sense of _present_

burdens. If the danger is obvious and visible to the senses of all,

and, above all, if it threatens immediate evil to all, the mass of men

will often make incredible, almost superhuman efforts to avert it. But

if it is distant and contingent only, and the remedies proposed to

guard against it are attended with present burdens, however slight, it

will in general be found that it is wholly impossible to make them do

anything to guard against the impending evils. In the words of one who

knew them well,[4] "they prefer any load of infamy, however great, to

any burden of taxation, however light." They never will incur present

expense to guard against future danger. It is for this reason that

states in which the popular voice is all-powerful so often rush into

foreign wars with scarcely any preparations, and are so often defeated

by nations possessing far less vigour and fewer resources, but in whom

the wisdom of a monarchical or aristocratic government has made an

adequate provision in peace for the contingency of future hostilities.

All the eloquence of Demosthenes, we know, failed to make the Athenian

people take any steps to augment the national armaments, and they got

the battle of Chæronea and subjugation by Philip in consequence. The

English, in 1778, commenced the contest with their revolted American

colonies with a regular army of 20,000 men, and they lost the colonies

in consequence: they began the war with France in 1793 with 40,000

regular soldiers in the British empire, when their enemy had 1,200,000

men under arms; and it cost them a struggle of twenty years, and six

hundred millions of debt incurred, to get the better of the necessary

consequences of their infatuation. They starved down the establishment

in India, and forbade all hostile preparations, even though it was a

dominion won, and which could only be upheld, by the sword, till it was

brought to the verge of destruction on the banks of the Sutlej; and the

empire which disposed of the resources of 80,000,000 of subjects, owed

its extrication from what seemed unavoidable ruin, only to a strange

and unaccountable retreat of the enemy, resting on a population of

6,000,000 only, when victory was within their grasp. The Americans

rushed into a contest with England in 1812 with a fleet of six frigates

and an army of 8000 men; and the consequence was, that in two years

their commerce was totally destroyed, their capital taken by a British

division of 3500 men, and the general suffering would in six months

have made the Northern States break of from the Union, had not England,

weary of fighting and satiated with glory, sheathed her sword when the

dissolution of the Union was within her power.

But in addition to this general cause of delusion and error, which

pervades all states really regulated by the popular voice, there is

another and a still more powerful one which occasions and perpetuates

the most ruinous public delusions in an advanced and complicated

state of society. This arises from the strength and influence of the

classes who become interested in the perpetuating of error because

they profit by it, and the impossibility of getting the great bulk

of men to see, among the numerous causes which are then acting upon

their fortunes, the _real ones_ to which their sufferings are owing.

They know perfectly when they are prosperous, and when unfortunate;

but they do not know, and cannot be brought to see, to what either the

prosperity or adversity is to be ascribed. If the consequences of a

particular line of policy could be brought before them by a _clear and

short_ process of demonstration--if they could see from whence their

suffering in truth comes, and the arrow, known to have been discharged

from the quivers of Free Trade and a metallic currency, could be seen

festering in the breast of every industrious man in the country, one

universal burst of indignation would arise from one end of the kingdom

to the other. This system, so profitable to the moneyed rich, so

ruinous to the industrious poor, would be abolished, amidst shouts of

congratulation from one end of the country to the other, in a month.

But they cannot be brought to see this; and the vast riches which the

continuance of this system is daily bringing to the moneyed classes,

enables them to perpetuate the darkness.

The press in such circumstances becomes--what it was in Napoleon's time

in France, from the overwhelming weight of military power--what Madame

de Stael feared it would one day become in all aged communities--the

most powerful engine for the diffusion and continuance of error. The

most ruinous systems of public policy are then pursued with the cordial

support of the _millionnaires_ who profit by them, with the loud

applause and able assistance of the public press, who are guided by the

requirements of their subscribers, or directed by the dictates of their

shareholders, and amidst the supine indifference or sullen despair of

the industrious classes, who are steeped in misery by their effects.

They see they are ruined, but they know not how or by whom; and a large

part of the public press are careful to direct their attention to any

but the right quarter for redress. In despair at such an accumulation

of distresses, the great bulk of mankind follow the usual instinct of

the multitude in such cases--they fasten upon the seen in preference

to searching for the unseen, and lend a willing ear to any demagogue

of the day who lays before them plans for a great reduction of public

burdens, by abandoning nearly the whole means of the public defence.

Thus a perpetual reduction of our military and naval armaments, and

means of maintaining our independence or even existence as a nation,

is forced upon successive Governments, without the slightest regard to

the obvious peril with which such reductions, with increasing armaments

on the part of our neighbours, and increasing points of attack upon

the part of ourselves, _must_ be attended; and the policy which has

impoverished the greater part of the nation terminates in its natural

result, the destruction of the nation itself. Such is the most common

process of national ruin.

There can be no doubt that the day will one day come when all these

illusions will be dispelled. If a Russian fleet of twenty-five

ships of the line anchors off the Nore, and demands the surrender

of the arsenal of Woolwich, and of our ships of war at Portsmouth

and Plymouth, as the condition of their raising the blockade of the

capital or saving it from pillage--or if a French squadron of fifteen

ships of the line takes a _second_ look into Torbay, and we have only

three or four half-manned seventy-fours to oppose to them--or if an

invading army of 80,000 men lands on the coast of Sussex, and we can

only muster 30,000 regular troops to stop their progress--if Woolwich

is taken, and Hyde Park is the scene of an enemy's camp, and London,

like Paris, capitulates to the conqueror--or if Russia and America

unite together and demand the surrender of the half of our fleet and

the whole of our arsenals as the price at which they will allow their

grain-laden vessels to come to Great Britain and restore bread to

the 7,000,000 of our population whom we have in four years rendered

dependent on supplies from those countries for their daily food, or

if wheat rises to 150s the quarter, and the quartern loaf to 2s. in

consequence of our refusal--if the Thames, the Mersey, and the Clyde

are blockaded by hostile fleets, and 700,000 or 800,000 manufacturers

with their families, for the sake of the riches produced by whom we

have sacrificed everything, are suddenly thrown out of employment--or

if the seamen of the Baltic and other maritime powers of Europe have

come to outnumber our own in the carrying on of our trade, and threaten

to disable our commerce, and bring us to death's door, by simply

recalling their crews--or if the Bank stops payment in the midst of

these calamities, and public and private credit are at once destroyed

at the very time when their assistance is most needed--_then, and not

till then_, will England speak out in a voice of thunder.

How rapidly will the scales then fall from the eyes which have so

long been blinded; how bitter will be the regret at the inexplicable

insensibility now to solemn warnings; how intense the indignation at

the delusions which, for the sake of present profit to the deluders,

has so long been practised upon them! The burst of indignation with

which the appointment of the Lord Cardinal was received throughout

England, the more suppressed apprehensions with which the opening of

the Californian treasures was viewed by our moneyed oligarchy, can

afford but a faint image of the feelings of agony which will then wring

the British heart--the frightful cry of distress which will then rise

up from famishing millions, the universal horror at past neglect which

will send the iron into the soul of our whole people. Their efforts to

redeem the past will probably be great, their struggles will be those

of a giant. But it may be too late. They will be in the condition of

the Athenian people when Lysander cast anchor off the Piræus, after

the burning of their fleet at Aigos Potamos; or of the Carthaginians,

when the legions of Scipio, in the last Punic war, drew round their

walls; or of the Parisians, when "Europe in arms before their gates"

demanded the surrender of all their conquests. They will be profoundly

mortified--they will be cut to the heart; they would give half they

possess for a deliverance, but they will be _forced to submit_; and

to the annalist of these mournful times will only remain the task of

drawing the appropriate moral from the melancholy tale, and recording

the fall and ruin of England for the instruction of, and as a beacon to

be avoided by, future times.

The Free Trade and Bullionist orators will exclaim that this statement

is overcharged--that these apprehensions are entirely chimerical--that

neither France nor Russia have the slightest intention of going to

war with us--that the days of hostility between nations are at an

end--that, even if we were attacked, our resources are greater than

ever--and that the insular situation of Great Britain gives her a

security which renders the maintenance of costly armaments for the

national defence wholly unnecessary. This is what they _will say_; and

we tell them what _they will not say_.--They will never allude to the

arguments which follow, which will demonstrate the reality of all this

peril as clearly as any proposition in Euclid; if they do allude to

them, it will only be to ridicule and misrepresent--the usual resource

of detected error in presence of irresistible arguments. They will

never allude to the facts or arguments adduced on the other side; but,

treating the whole persons who adduce them--and ourselves among the

rest--as utter fanatics and monomaniacs, continue to inculcate on their

numerous readers--who never look at any papers on the other side--the

entire security of the nation, the evident advent of a time when all

wars are to cease, our secure and unassailable position, and the utter

folly of incurring the certain evil of present expense for the purpose

of warding off such contingent, remote, and chimerical dangers. We are

well aware of the ability with which this method of upholding delusions

is carried on, and of the readiness with which it is listened to both

by the opulent and powerful class whose means of amassing fortunes

would be diminished, and the numerous class whose burdens would in a

slight degree be increased by a change of system.

The argument, that the era of wars has ceased, that Peace Congresses

are henceforth to supersede the logic of cannon, and that the sooner we

disband our troops, and sell our ships of the line, as a costly relic

of a preadamite age, the better--would be an extremely strong one, and

deserving of the most serious consideration, if it had any foundation

in fact. But if this is not the case--if, on the contrary, the facts

are all of an opposite character--then the argument, based on such a

fallacious foundation, becomes the strongest which can be urged on the

other side. Now, without going back to former times and the annals of

history, let us attend only to our own days, and what we see around us,

to ascertain whether there is any likelihood of war becoming unknown

among men, and a real millennium causing all swords to be turned into

pruning-hooks.

Everybody knows that the tendency of the present times is to become

democratic; and it is chiefly in the increased weight of the

people--the greatest sufferers from the ravages of war--in the

direction of public affairs, that the advocates of universal peace rest

their predictions of the immediate advent of a pacific millennium. What

countenance do the facts of recent times--even if all previous history

were set aside--afford to the assertion that democratic influence is

essentially of a pacific character, and that with the increase in

all civilised states of popular power, the disuse and, at length,

extinction of war may be anticipated?

So far from affording any countenance to such an idea, all recent, as

well as former experience, leads to conclusions directly the reverse,

and induces the melancholy prognostication that, with the general

increase of democratic influence, not only will the sphere of future

hostility be augmented, but its fierceness and devastations will be

fearfully enhanced. Who commenced the dreadful wars of the French

Revolution, which for twenty long years deluged Europe with blood,

and brought the tricolor standards--the emblem of Republicanism--into

every capital of continental Europe?--Democratic ascendency in Paris;

the crimes and ambition of the Girondists; the bloodthirsty passions

of the Jacobins, which, not content with ravaging and drenching with

gore their own country, could not find vent but in the sacking and

plundering of all Europe. What afterwards gave rise to the terrible

struggle in Poland in 1831, and induced the multiplied sufferings of

that gallant but inconsiderate and infatuated democracy?--The French

Revolution of 1830, which, but for the firmness of Louis Philippe, and

his determination to risk all rather than gratify the passion for war

in the Republicans who had elevated him to power, would have involved

Europe in universal conflagration. What brought on the horrid civil war

in Spain, which for five years overwhelmed the Peninsula with horrors

and cold-blooded atrocities, which throw even those consequent on the

invasion of Napoleon into the shade?--A democratic triumph in Madrid;

the placing of a revolutionary queen on the throne of Spain; the

determination and armed intervention of England and France to uphold

the cause of popular aggression in both kingdoms of the Peninsula.

What overturned the throne and pacific policy of Louis Philippe?--His

determination to keep at peace; his resolution to coerce, at any

hazard, the ambitious designs of the Parisian democrats. He tried

to be a "Napoleon of Peace," and he lost his throne and died in

exile in consequence. What immediately followed the triumph of the

Republicans in Paris in February 1848? Was it the reign of universal

tranquillity--the advent of peace and good-will among men? Was it not,

on the contrary, an outbreak of general hostility--the universal arming

of nation against nation, of people against people, of race against

race? Did not Republican Piedmont invade Lombardy; and Republican

Prussia, Holstein; and Republican France besiege Rome? Did not the

Magyar rise up, against the Sclave, and the Bohemian against the

Austrian, and the Lombard against both; and was not the frightful scene

of almost universal hostility appeased--and that for the time only--by

the appalling appearance of a hundred thousand Muscovites on the

Hungarian plains? Have not Austria and Prussia for the last six months

been on the verge of a dreadful contest? Have not the burghers and

ploughmen of all Germany been called from their peaceful avocations,

to man the ranks of the landwehr? Have not eight hundred thousand men

been arrayed on the opposite sides, and the banks of the Saale crowded

with armies paralleled only by those which in 1813 stood on those of

the Elbe? And what stopped this dreadful war, and sent back those

multitudes of armed citizens unscathed to their peaceful homes? Was it

republican France, or popular England? No; it was despotic Russia. It

was the presence of a hundred and fifty thousand armed and disciplined

Muscovites on the banks of the Vistula, which like a thundercloud

overcast the east of Europe, and at last cooled down the ardent

ambition of democratic Prussia into something like a just estimate of

the chances of the conflict, and a temporary respect for the rights of

other nations.

Turn to distant parts of the world, and is the prospect more indicative

of the advent of a pacific millennium? Is it to be found among the

English colonists in India, or the energetic republicans of America?

Have not the English, for the last twenty years, been engaged in almost

ceaseless hostilities in Hindostan or China, during which ultimately

our victorious standards have been advanced to Cabul and Nankin; and

we have seen our empire shaken to its very foundation by the disasters

of the Coord Cabul Pass, and the frightful contest on the banks of the

Sutlej? Is America more peaceful, and is the advent of the reign of

peace foreshadowed by the entire abstinence from ambitious and angry

passions in the republicans of its southern or northern hemisphere?

Has not the former, since the disastrous era when its revolution

began, been the theatre of convulsions so frequent, and bloodshed so

incessant, that history, in despair, has ceased to record the names

of these conflicts, and points with horror only to their woeful

consequences? And has not Northern America, during the last twenty

years, exhibited the most unequivocal evidence of the lust of conquest

having gained possession of the most influential portions of her

inhabitants? Were they not actually at war with us in 1837 to support

the Canadian revolutionists; did they not cheat us out of three-fourths

of Maine, and bully us out of half of Oregon; and have they not

squatted down, without the vestige of a title, on Texas; and when the

Mexicans resented the aggression, invaded their territory and wrested

from them the half of it, including the whole auriferous region of

California? In short, war surrounds us on all sides; its passions are

raging throughout the world; an era of such hostile prognostications is

scarcely to be found in the annals of mankind. And yet Mr Cobden and Mr

Bright declare, to admiring and assenting audiences in Manchester, that

the era of war is past, and that we should disband our troops and sell

our ships of the line! They are like an insane patient in a distant

wing of a building which is wrapped in flames, who positively refuses

to do anything to save himself, saying, "They will never reach me."

Has the conduct of the English Government for twenty years past evinced

the reality of the alleged disinclination to hostilities which is

said to be creeping over all established governments, and to which

popular ones in particular are in so remarkable a manner averse? Has

not our conduct, on the contrary, even in Europe, been aggressive and

provocatory to war in the very highest degree? Did we not unite with

France to force a revolutionary government on Spain and Portugal, and

to prevent a legitimate one in Belgium from recovering its lawful

possessions? Did we not, along with Russia, Prussia, and Austria,

throw down the gauntlet, at the time of the bombardment of Beyrout

and the siege of Acre, to France; and did not the firmness of Louis

Philippe and the accession of Guizot, whom he called to his councils

at the critical moment, alone prevent a general and frightful war in

Europe? It is well known, to all persons acquainted with the subject,

that we were still nearer a war with France some years afterwards,

when the affair of Otaheite and Queen Pomare revived the ancient and

undying jealousy of the two countries. We know it for a fact, that at

that period the French were prepared for, and _fully expected_ instant

hostilities; and that for several nights six thousand choice light

troops slept armed and accoutred on board the huge war-steamers at

Cherbourg, ready to start at daybreak for a descent on the southern

shores of Britain, and on some of its undefended dockyards, where not a

vestige of preparation had been made to repel them.

But why recur to periods comparatively remote for proofs of a state

of things which recur under our present foreign administration as

periodically as commercial catastrophes do under our monetary system?

In November 1849 we sent Admiral Parker, with the whole Mediterranean

fleet, to the mouth of the Dardanelles, and took the Czar by the beard

to rescue from his grasp some thousand Hungarian insurgents; and not

content with this demonstration--which was as hostile as the anchoring

of a Russian fleet off the Nore would have been to this country--he

was directed to cast anchor, on his return, off the Piræus, and bid

defiance to France and Russia, the guarantees with ourselves of the

independence of Greece. On this occasion we were so near a rupture

that the _French ambassador actually left London_, and the Russian

one was preparing to follow his example, when an immediate war with

the two largest powers of Europe--thus, by unparalleled rashness on

our part, brought, for the first time for half a century, to act

cordially together--was only prevented by our succumbing and referring

the matter to arbitration, as they had all along proposed, instead

of exacting it at the cannon's mouth, as we had at first endeavoured

to do. And for what mighty national interest was this enormous peril

incurred, when, as usual, we were wholly unprepared to meet it? Was

it to save Hindostan from invasion, or raise the blockade of the

Nore, or extricate our fleet from the grasp of the Czar? No! It was

to enforce _private_ claims of M. Pacifico and Mr Finlay on the Greek

Government, to the amount of a few thousand pounds--a proceeding which

afforded the Continental powers, if they had been as hostilely disposed

as our Government, a fair precedent for sending a Russian fleet of

thirty ships of the line to the Nore, to demand satisfaction from our

Government for the brutal attack on Marshal Haynau! And yet, such

is the infatuation produced by party spirit, that not only was this

aggressive act approved by a majority of the House of Commons, even

after we had been obliged to recede from it, but it was approved by

the very men who are constantly preaching up the immediate advent of

a pacific millennium, and the necessity of disbanding our troops and

selling our ships of the line.

Surrounded then, as we undeniably are, with the flames and the passions

of war on every side; slumbering on the edge of a volcano, the fires of

which are smouldering under our feet and gathering strength for a fresh

and still more terrific explosion; actuated as we are by unbounded

national haughtiness, and a most aggressive system of foreign policy,

have we done anything to support our pretensions, or avert those

ravages from our own shores which we have so liberally scattered on

all the adjacent coasts? Have we 100,000 regular troops and 200,000

landwehr, in the British Islands, ready to repel insult; and a fleet of

30 ships of the line and 20 armed steamers, ready afloat and _manned_,

on the German Ocean and in the Channel, to secure our harbours from

attack, and raise a blockade of our coasts? Have we--since we are so

set upon a foreign war, and have done so much to spread the passions

which necessarily lead to it, and made so many hostile demonstrations

_calculated instantly to induce it_--made preparations in our Exchequer

and our granaries for its expenses and its privations? Have we, like

Frederick the Great when he invaded Silesia, a fund of £7,000,000 in

the Treasury, to meet his war expenses; or Napoleon, when he plunged

into Russia, a reserve of £14,000,000 in the vaults of the Tuileries?

Have we fortified Woolwich, the general arsenal of the empire, and

Chatham, and our other naval depots, hitherto undefended? Have we

cleared out the glacis of Portsmouth and Plymouth, so as to give

free range to the guns of the works, and established a great central

fortification at Weedon, or some other central point in England,

whither our troops might retire, if obliged to evacuate London, and

where the new levies, raised in haste, might receive the elements

of discipline, without the risk of being assailed, while yet in the

awkward squad state, by the enemies' cuirassiers?

Alas! we have done none of these things. Woolwich is still an open

depot, liable to be taken by a single regiment; there is not a bastion

at Weedon; there is not a defensible post in the environs of London;

Chatham, Sheerness, and Deptford are entirely open on the land side;

and although Portsmouth and Plymouth are fortified, and may be

pronounced impregnable against a naval assault, they are far from being

so against a land force. The enemy would not require to run a sap up to

the counter-scarp: we have saved him the trouble, by allowing houses

to be built almost everywhere so near the ditch, that the besiegers

would effect a lodgment there the first day, and be able to batter

in the breach in two days more. Landwehr we have none, unless 30,000

pensioners--most valuable veterans, of great use against mobs, or for

garrison service, but little qualified for the field--deserve the name:

our yeomanry, though admirably mounted and full of spirit, are wholly

unacquainted with the duties, and unaccustomed to the fatigues, of

actual warfare. We have not more than seven or eight ships of the line,

and these but _imperfectly manned_, ready for sea in our harbours; and

the regular troops in Great Britain, though second to none in the world

in discipline and courage, can only muster 37,000 sabres and bayonets,

and in the two islands amount only to 61,000!! In proportion to the

eagerness with which we have spread abroad the passions and lighted the

flames of war in all the adjoining states, is the assiduity with which

we have neglected or abandoned our own defences; and the promptitude

we have evinced, on every possible occasion, to provoke the hostility

or rouse the jealousy of the most powerful states in our neighbourhood

can be paralleled only by the simultaneous reductions we have effected

in our own armaments, and the utterly defenceless state in which we

have exposed ourselves to their attacks. Judging from our internal

reductions, one would suppose we were never again to go to war: judging

from our foreign policy, one would suppose we were never again to be at

peace.

To illustrate these remarks, and demonstrate the utter insanity of our

simultaneous adoption of the most aggressive foreign policy and the

most pacific internal preparation, we subjoin from Sir Francis Head's

late most admirable and interesting work a _vidimus_ of the military

force of the principal European powers, as compared with that of Great

Britain, and subjoin to it a statement of our naval force, accompanied

with that of France, Russia, and the United States--the principal

maritime powers of the Continent and America:--

I. FRANCE.

_Regular troops_--

Infantry, 301,224

Cavalry, 58,932

Artillery, 30,166

Engineers, &c., 18,298

-------

408,630

National Guards, 2,630,800

---------

II. RUSSIA.

_Regular troops_--

Infantry, 468,000

Cavalry, 85,000

Cossacks, 20,000

-------

Regulars, 573,000

Guns, 1,020

-------

Garrisons and reserves, 150,000

Cossacks, 10,000

-------

160,000

-------

III. AUSTRIA (IN WAR.)

Infantry, 484,240

Cavalry, 54,560

Artillery, 26,104

Engineers, &c., 56,549

-------

626,453

In peace reduced to, 378,552

Landwehr, 200,000

-------

IV. PRUSSIA.

_Regulars and Landwehr_--

Infantry, 265,530

Cavalry, 49,662

Artillery, 23,400

Engineers, &c., 40,800

-------

379,392

Guns, 1,163

Landsturm, 222,416

-------

V. GREAT BRITAIN.

_Regulars, infantry, cavalry, and

artillery_--

In Great Britain, 37,845

" Ireland, 24,005

" European colonies, 7,915

" Asia, (English,) 30,467

" America, &c. 19,835

" Africa, 3,703

-------

123,768

Pensioners, 30,000

Dockyards-men, 8,000

Yeomanry, 13,441

Militia in Channel}

Islands, } 4,700

------ 56,141

-------

179,909

-------

--SIR F. HEAD, p. 5-36.

This is the _entire force_, so far as European troops are concerned,

which is on foot to protect the immense British dominions in the

four quarters of the globe! And as the entire regular force in Great

Britain and Ireland is only 61,848 men, with 40 guns equipped for

the field--and at least a fifth of every military force must always

be deducted for sick, absent, and deserters--it follows that 50,000

men, with 40 guns, is the very utmost of regular troops that could be

relied on in both islands to meet an enemy. Of this at least 20,000

would require to be left in Ireland; so that 30,000 men alone could be

assembled in the last extremity for the defence of Great Britain! As to

the pensioners and yeomanry, they would be entirely absorbed in forming

garrisons, keeping up the communications, and preserving tranquillity

in the manufacturing towns in the interior.

Formidable as this state of matters is, it becomes doubly serious when

the state of our naval force is considered.

In 1792, before the war broke out, and when our population was not a

half, nor our commerce and colonial dominions a fourth of what they now

are, the naval force of Great Britain was--

Ships of the line, of which 115} 156

were effective, }

Frigates, 97[5]

At this moment our naval force stands as follows:--

Ships of the line, and building,} 93

of which 65 are serviceable, }

50 to 70 gun ships, 39

Frigates, 110

War-steamers, 56

The forces of the principal maritime powers of the globe, Spain being

effete, stand thus:--

FRANCE.

Line, 46

Frigates, 50

Steamers of war, 102

RUSSIA.

Line, 45

Frigates, 30

AMERICA.

Line, 11

Frigates, 14

War-steamers, 14[6]

Thus Russia and France could produce 85 ships of the line, 80 frigates,

and 102 war-steamers, against our 65 or 70 of the line, 147 frigates,

and 56 war-steamers. A disproportion sufficiently great for a country

which boasts of being mistress of the waves: the more especially when

it is recollected that both these hostile nations are actuated by

the greatest jealousy of our naval power, and envy of our commercial

greatness, and that we have so managed our foreign policy that, not

six months ago, we were within a hairsbreadth of a war with _both

united_. We are aware of the resources which, if the contest were

prolonged for any considerable period, would arise to this country

from the steam-packets to America and the West Indies, which their

owners are taken bound, on an emergency, to place at the disposal of

the Admiralty. But this provision, though a most wise and judicious

one, and of very great moment in a lengthened conflict, would obviously

be of little or no avail if war surprised us, as to all appearance

it will do, in our usual state of fancied security and entire want

of preparation, and a Russian fleet of twenty-five ships of the line

from the Baltic anchors off the Nore, simultaneously with a French

one of ten off Portsmouth, with as little warning or intimation as

Admiral Parker gave to the Russians when he appeared at the mouth of

the Dardanelles, or to the Greek Government when he cast anchor off the

harbour of the Piræus.

But the danger becomes incomparably greater, and assumes the most

portentous aspect, when two other circumstances connected with our

naval situation are taken into consideration, of vital importance in

this question, but which the advocates for reduction studiously keep

out of view in its discussion.

The first is, the _immense extent of the colonial empire_ we have to

defend, and the consequent unavoidable _dispersion_ of our naval force,

such as it is, over the whole globe. This appears in the most decisive

manner from the table quoted below, taken from the _United Service

Gazette_ for December 1850, showing the distribution of our ships of

the line in commission up to 25th November last.

| GREAT BRITAIN: | MEDITERRANEAN. | COLONIES, |

| ON COMMISSION, AND | | AND EXPERIMENTAL |

| GUARDSHIPS. | | SQUADRON. |

| | | |

| Guns.| Guns.| Guns.|

| Bellerophon, 78 | Albion, 90 | Asia, 84 |

| Britannia, 120 | Caledonia, 120 | Hastings, 72 |

| Cumberland, 72 | Ganges, 84 | Imaum, 72 |

| Hogue, 60 | Powerful, 84 | Indefatigable, 50 |

| Impregnable, 104 | Superb, 80 | Leander, 50 |

| Monarch, 84 | Queen, 110 | Phæton, 50 |

| Ocean, 80 | | Portland, 50 |

| Saturn, 72 | | Prince Regent, 92 |

| St George, 120 | | Southampton, 50 |

| Trafalgar, 120 | | Wellesley, 72 |

| Vengeance, 84 | | |

| Victory, 101 | | |

| Blenheim, 56 | | |

| | | |

| Line and Guardships, 13 | 6 | 10 |

This shows that out of twenty-eight line-of-battle ships and fifties

in commission at that period, only thirteen were in the British

harbours, and even including the Experimental Squadron, only fifteen.

Of these, at least a half are mere guardships--such as the Victory at

Portsmouth--of little real use but to furnish a mast for the Admiral on

the station to hoist his flag. Of the six or seven that really are fit

for sea, not more than one half are fully manned. Accordingly, it is

universally known among naval men, that there are not more than three

or four ships of the line that could on a sudden emergency be got ready

for sea in the British harbours: being not _half_ the force which the

Danes had when they were suddenly attacked by Nelson in 1801, and by

Lord Cathcart in 1807. On the first occasion, they had nine ships of

the line and floating batteries moored off Copenhagen: on the last,

_eighteen_ ships of the line were taken by the victors, and brought to

the British shores.

We are often told of the immense force which England now has in her

steam-vessels--more numerous, it is said, and unquestionably better

manned and navigated than any in Europe; and the "Excellent," at

Portsmouth, is referred to as able at a moment's warning to furnish

the requisite amount of experienced gunners. Fully admitting the high

discipline and training of the gunners on board the Excellent, of whose

merits we are well aware, they cannot do impossibilities. They amount

only to five hundred _men_; and what are they to the forces requisite

to defend the British shores against a combined French and Russian

fleet, such as we _all but brought upon us_ last April, when the French

ambassador left London? What could four or five hundred trained gunners

do when scattered over fifteen or twenty sail of the line, and as many

steamers, the crews of which were suddenly huddled together--supposing

them got at all--from the merchant service, where they had received no

sort of training in naval warfare? What could the peace steam-boats,

not pierced for a single gun, do against the broadsides of the Russian

line-of-battle ships, or the huge war-steamers which excited such

astonishment among our naval men, when exhibited at the late review

at Cherbourg? The thing is quite ridiculous. They would furnish, in

Napoleon's words, ample _chair au cannon_, and nothing more.

Contrast this now with the state of preparation in which the French

and Russian navies are kept, in consequence of their having both a

regular force raised by conscription, and constantly paid and under

arms like their land forces, wherewith to commence the conflict. The

Czar has always _twenty ships_ of the line and ten frigates in the

Baltic, completely equipped and ready for sea, with 30,000 soldiers

ready to step on board of them; and it would be surprising if, in

passing the Sound, they were not reinforced by the six ships of the

line and steam-frigates at the disposal of Denmark,[7] who would

desire nothing better than to return, in a manner equally unexpected,

the sudden visits we paid her in 1801 and 1807. France, in addition

to sixteen ships of the line in commission, and double that number

of war-steamers, has no less than 55,000 seamen ready to be called

on, like the national guard, at a moment's warning, perfectly trained

to gunnery and warlike duties, who could man double that number of

line-of-battle ships and war-steamers.

"The French nation, however, deeming it unsafe to rest on any such

frail contingency as voluntary enlistment, has wisely, as well as

justly, decreed that her maritime districts and commercial marine

shall be subject to the _same obligation_ to serve their country

as the other classes of the community; and, accordingly, by the

laws of France, every boy who goes to sea is required to register

his name on the 'Inscription Marine.' After one year's probation,

he enters into the class of 'Mousses' until he is sixteen, when he

becomes a 'novice' or apprentice till eighteen, when he is classed

as a marine or seaman, and _he is thenceforward at the service

of the state till he is fifty years of age_. Besides this, about

1/20 of the general conscription throughout the inland provinces

are by law liable to serve in the navy. By the above arrangements,

it appears that between the year 1835 and 1844, both inclusive,

55,517 seamen answered the calls of the annual _Levée permanente_,

and, moreover, that very nearly _the whole_ of the French merchant

seamen, amounting altogether to upwards of 100,000 men, must have

passed successively through the royal navy.

"Under this admirable system--which, while it flatters the

passions, cultivates the mind, and comfortably provides for the

sailor,--the French nation are prepared, by beat of drum, to march

from their various quarters to their respective ships, _compagnies

permanentes_ of well-trained gunner seamen; and thus, at a moment's

warning, even in time of peace, to complete the manning of _sixteen

sail of the line_."--SIR FRANCIS HEAD, 184, 185.

It is no exaggeration, therefore, but the simple truth, to say,

that France and Russia could, in ten days from the time that their

respective ambassadors left London, appear with a fleet of _thirty

ships of the line and forty frigates or war-steamers in the Channel_,

with which they could with ease blockade the Thames, Portsmouth,

and Plymouth, where not more, at the very utmost, than eight or ten

line-of-battle ships, and ten or twelve war-steamers, most of them only

half manned, could be collected to oppose them. We have no doubt the

crews of this diminutive fleet would do their duty as nobly as they

did at the Nile and Trafalgar; but we shudder at the thought of the

national blindness and infatuation which would expose them, and with

them the existence of England as an independent nation, to such fearful

odds.

In any such conflict, it is by the forces which can _suddenly be

rendered available_ that everything will be determined. It may be

quite true that England possesses resources in the vast extent of her

mercantile navy and steam-vessels, and the undaunted character of her

seamen, which, in any _prolonged_ contest, would give her the same

superiority which she maintained throughout the last war; but it is not

the less true, that this contingent ultimate superiority would be of no

avail to avert disaster--it may be conquest--if the enemy, by having

their forces better in hand, and available _in the outset_, were in a

situation to gain an advantage which could never be recovered from in

the commencement. It is impossible to overestimate the shock to credit,

and ruin to the best interests of the empire, which would arise from a

blockade of our harbours even for a single fortnight. Of what would it

avail us that we had six noble sail of the line, and double that number

of war-steamers in the Mediterranean, and as many scattered through the

world, from China to California, if the Thames, the Mersey, and the

Clyde, were blockaded by hostile fleets, and Portsmouth and Plymouth

could only furnish five or six half-manned line-of-battle ships to

raise the blockade? Russia has _no colonies_; France, next to none:

thus the whole naval forces of both these Powers could be brought to

bear, without deduction or defalcation of any sort, on Great Britain,

more than half of whose navy is necessarily scattered over the globe.

Our distant fleets would, in such a crisis, avail us as little as an

army of pawns, with bishops and knights, would a chess-player who had

received checkmate.

In the next place, these considerations become doubly powerful when it

is recollected how very peculiar and tardy is the mode of _collecting

men_, which alone is now thought of in the British navy. It is not

generally known by landsmen--though hereafter they may come to know

it to their cost--that in England at present there is _neither any

standing royal naval force, nor any compulsory means of levying it_.

By our great naval establishment and right of impressing seamen, we

had, practically speaking, both during the war: but these days are

past. The navy sailors are changed as ships come into harbour, and the

right of impressment has virtually become obsolete. When a ship, after

two or three years' service, comes into port, she is immediately _paid

off_, and a new set of sailors, wholly ignorant of war, are slowly got

together by the next captain who gets that or a corresponding ship; who

in their turn, when they begin to become expert at their new duties,

are displaced to make way for a third body of untrained men! What

should we say to a manufacturer, a merchant, or a general, who should

conduct things in this manner? Yet, such as it is, it is the system of

the British navy. This subject, of vital importance, has been so well

illustrated by two gallant naval officers, that we cannot do better

than quote their admirable observations on it.

"A ship," says Admiral Bowles, "is required to relieve another for

foreign service. She is selected, reported ready for commission,

the captain and officers are appointed, and then volunteers are

advertised for. They come in slowly and uncertainly. If the ship

is a large one, the men will not enter until the heaviest part of

the work of fitting is completed: the equipment proceeds slowly and

carelessly, because energy and rapidity are impracticable; but even

then, those who enter first feel they are unfairly worked, and the

seeds of discontent and desertion are sown at the very commencement

of their service.

"Three, or sometimes four, months thus pass away, before the ship's

complement is complete; and, in the meanwhile, little progress

is made in discipline or instruction. She at last sails for her

destination, and relieves a ship which, having been three or four

years on active service is, or ought to be, in a high state of

efficiency; but on its arrival in England it is dismantled, the

officers and crew are paid off and discharged, and we thus proceed,

on the plan of perpetually creating and as perpetually destroying,

what we have with so much labour and expense endeavoured to

obtain--an effective ship of war."[8]

Captain Plunkett adds his valuable testimony to the same effect:--

"Voluntary enlistment may be considered entirely inapplicable to

cases of emergency. There are no means of calculating how long

ships would be manning, if, as would necessarily happen in cases of

emergency, their crews were not increased by men recently paid off

from other ships. In peace, there are usually _as many ships_ paid

off as commissioned in a year; and thus the men who leave one ship

join another. But, even with this aid, the average time occupied

by general line-of-battle ships in completing their crews, we find

to have been above five months. In 1835-6, when we commissioned

several ships of line at once, they were _six months waiting for

seamen, and were then very ill manned_. We may safely suppose

that, were ten sail of the line commissioned at this moment, and

did circumstances not admit of paying others off, we should not

see them manned in less than _eight_ months. We may therefore say

that, for any case of emergency, simple volunteering will fail,

_as it always has failed_. We may expedite the material fitting

of a fleet; we may move ships about our harbours, put their masts

in, and call them 'demonstration' or 'advance ships!' we may even

fit them for sea--for the dockyard men can do all that--but, when

fitted, _there they must remain_ for months waiting for seamen.

Foreign powers are quite aware of this, for it is the duty of

their consuls at our ports to inform their governments, and they

must laugh at the demonstration by which John Bull plays a trick

upon--HIMSELF!