CHAPTER XII.

“Bring the light nearer,” said John Burley—“nearer still.”

Leonard obeyed, and placed the candle on a little table by the sick

man’s bedside.

Burley’s mind was partially wandering; but there was method in his

madness. Horace Walpole said that “his stomach would survive all the

rest of him.” That which in Burley survived the last was his quaint wild

genius. He looked wistfully at the still flame of the candle: “It lives

ever in the air!” said he.

“What lives ever?”

Burley’s voice swelled—“Light!” He turned from Leonard, and again

contemplated the little flame. “In the fixed star, in the

Will-o’-the-wisp, in the great sun that illumes half a world, or the

farthing rushlight by which the ragged student strains his eyes—still

the same flower of the elements. Light in the universe, thought in the

soul—ay—ay—Go on with the simile. My head swims. Extinguish the light!

You cannot; fool, it vanishes from your eye, but it is still in the

space. Worlds must perish, suns shrivel up, matter and spirit both fall

into nothingness, before the combinations whose union makes that little

flame, which the breath of a babe can restore to darkness, shall lose

the power to unite into light once more. Lose the power!—no, the

_necessity_:—it is the one _Must_ in creation. Ay, ay, very dark riddles

grow clear now—now when I could not cast up an addition sum in the

baker’s bill! What wise man denied that two and two made four? Do they

not make four? I can’t answer him. But I could answer a question that

some wise men have contrived to make much knottier.” He smiled softly,

and turned his face for some minutes to the wall.

This was the second night on which Leonard had watched by his bedside,

and Burley’s state had grown rapidly worse. He could not last many days,

perhaps many hours. But he had evinced an emotion beyond mere delight at

seeing Leonard again. He had since then been calmer, more himself. “I

feared I might have ruined you by my bad example,” he said, with a touch

of humour that became pathos as he added, “That idea preyed on me.”

“No, no; you did me great good.”

“Say that—say it often,” said Burley, earnestly; “it makes my heart feel

so light.”

He had listened to Leonard’s story with deep interest, and was fond of

talking to him of little Helen. He detected the secret at the young

man’s heart, and cheered the hopes that lay there, amidst fears and

sorrows. Burley never talked seriously of his repentance; it was not in

his nature to talk seriously of the things which he felt solemnly. But

his high animal spirits were quenched with the animal power that fed

them. Now, we go out of our sensual existence only when we are no longer

enthralled by the Present, in which the senses have their realm. The

sensual being vanishes when we are in the Past or the Future. The

Present was gone from Burley; he could no more be its slave and its

king.

It was most touching to see how the inner character of this man unfolded

itself, as the leaves of the outer character fell off and withered—a

character no one would have guessed in him—an inherent refinement that

was almost womanly; and he had all a woman’s abnegation of self. He took

the cares lavished on him so meekly. As the features of the old man

return in the stillness of death to the aspect of youth—the lines

effaced, the wrinkles gone—so, in seeing Burley now, you saw what he had

been in his spring of promise. But he himself saw only what he had

failed to be—powers squandered—life wasted. “I once beheld,” he said, “a

ship in a storm. It was a cloudy, fitful day, and I could see the ship

with all its masts fighting hard for life and for death. Then came

night, dark as pitch, and I could only guess that the ship fought on.

Towards the dawn the stars grew visible, and once more I saw the ship—it

was a wreck—it went down just as the stars shone forth.”

When he had made that allusion to himself, he sate very still for some

time, then he spread out his wasted hands, and gazed on them, and on his

shrunken limbs. “Good,” said he, laughing low; “these hands were too

large and rude for handling the delicate webs of my own mechanism, and

these strong limbs ran away with me. If I had been a sickly puny fellow,

perhaps my mind would have had fair play. There was too much of brute

body here! Look at this hand now! you can see the light through it!

Good, good!”

Now, that evening, until he had retired to bed, Burley had been

unusually cheerful, and had talked with much of his old eloquence, if

with little of his old humour. Amongst other matters, he had spoken with

considerable interest of some poems and other papers in manuscript which

had been left in the house by a former lodger, and which, the reader may

remember, that Mrs Goodyer had urged him in vain to read, in his last

visit to her cottage. But _then_ he had her husband Jacob to chat with,

and the spirit bottle to finish, and the wild craving for excitement

plucked his thoughts back to his London revels. Now poor Jacob was dead,

and it was not brandy that the sick man drank from the widow’s cruise.

And London lay afar amidst its fogs, like a world resolved back into

nebulæ. So to please his hostess and distract his own solitary thoughts,

he had condescended (just before Leonard found him out) to peruse the

memorials of a life obscure to the world, and new to his own experience

of coarse joys and woes. “I have been making a romance, to amuse myself,

from their contents,” said he. “They may be of use to you, brother

author. I have told Mrs Goodyer to place them in your room. Amongst

those papers is a journal—a woman’s journal; it moved me greatly. A man

gets into another world, strange to him as the orb of Sirius, if he can

transport himself into the centre of a woman’s heart, and see the life

there, so wholly unlike our own. Things of moment to us, to it so

trivial; things trifling to us, to it so vast. There was this journal—in

its dates reminding me of stormy events of my own existence, and grand

doings in the world’s. And those dates there, chronicling but the

mysterious unrevealed record of some obscure loving heart! And in that

chronicle, O Sir Poet, there was as much genius, vigour of thought,

vitality of being, poured and wasted, as ever kind friend will say was

lavished on the rude outer world by big John Burley! Genius, genius; are

we all alike, then, save when we leash ourselves to some matter-of-fact

material, and float over the roaring seas on a wooden plank or a herring

tub?” And after he had uttered that cry of a secret anguish, John Burley

had begun to show symptoms of growing fever and disturbed brain; and

when they had got him into bed, he lay there muttering to himself, until

towards midnight he had asked Leonard to bring the light nearer to him.

So now he again was quiet—with his face turned towards the wall; and

Leonard stood by the bedside sorrowfully, and Mrs Goodyer, who did not

heed Burley’s talk, and thought only of his physical state, was dipping

cloths into iced water to apply to his forehead. But as she approached

with these, and addressed him soothingly, Burley raised himself on his

arm, and waived aside the bandages. “I do not need them,” said he, in a

collected voice. “I am better now. I and that pleasant light understand

one another, and I believe all it tells me. Pooh, pooh, I do not rave.”

He looked so smilingly and so kindly into her face, that the poor woman,

who loved him as her own son, fairly burst into tears. He drew her

towards him and kissed her forehead.

“Peace, old fool,” said he fondly. “You shall tell anglers hereafter how

John Burley came to fish for the one-eyed perch which he never caught;

and how, when he gave it up at the last, his baits all gone, and the

line broken amongst the weeds, you comforted the baffled man. There are

many good fellows yet in the world who will like to know that poor

Burley did not die on a dunghill. Kiss me! Come, boy, you too. Now, God

bless you, I should like to sleep.” His cheeks were wet with the tears

of both his listeners, and there was a moisture in his own eyes, which

nevertheless beamed bright through the moisture.

He laid himself down again, and the old woman would have withdrawn the

light. He moved uneasily. “Not that,” he murmured—“light to the last!”

And putting forth his wan hand, he drew aside the curtain so that the

light might fall full on his face. In a few minutes he was asleep,

breathing calmly and regularly as an infant.

The old woman wiped her eyes, and drew Leonard softly into the adjoining

room, in which a bed had been made up for him. He had not left the house

since he had entered it with Dr Morgan. “You are young, sir,” said she

with kindness, “and the young want sleep. Lie down a bit: I will call

you when he wakes.”

“No, I could not sleep,” said Leonard. “I will watch for you.”

The old woman shook her head. “I must see the last of him, sir; but I

know he will be angry when his eyes open on me, for he has grown very

thoughtful of others.”

“Ah, if he had but been as thoughtful of himself!” murmured Leonard; and

he seated himself by the table, on which, as he leaned his elbow, he

dislodged some papers placed there. They fell to the ground with a dumb,

moaning, sighing sound.

“What is that?” said he starting.

The old woman picked up the manuscripts and smoothed them carefully.

“Ah, sir, he bade me place these papers here. He thought they might keep

you from fretting about him, in case you would sit up and wake. And he

had a thought of me, too; for I have so pined to find out the poor young

lady, who left them years ago. She was almost as dear to me as he is;

dearer perhaps until now—when—when—I am about to lose him.”

Leonard turned from the papers, without a glance at their contents: they

had no interest for him at such a moment.

The hostess went on—

“Perhaps she is gone to heaven before him; she did not look like one

long for this world. She left us so suddenly. Many things of hers

besides these papers are still here; but I keep them aired and dusted,

and strew lavender over them, in case she ever come for them again. You

never heard tell of her, did you, sir?” she added, with great

simplicity, and dropping a half curtsey.

“Of her?—of whom?”

“Did not Mr John tell you her name—dear—dear;—Mrs Bertram.”

Leonard started;—the very name so impressed upon his memory by Harley

L’Estrange.

“Bertram!” he repeated. “Are you sure?”

“Oh yes, sir! And many years after she had left us, and we had heard no

more of her, there came a packet addressed to her here, from over sea,

sir. We took it in, and kept it, and John would break the seal, to know

if it would tell us anything about her; but it was all in a foreign

language like—we could not read a word.”

“Have you the packet? Pray show it to me. It may be of the greatest

value. To-morrow will do—I cannot think of that just now. Poor Burley!”

Leonard’s manner indicated that he wished to talk no more, and to be

alone. So Mrs Goodyer left him, and stole back to Burley’s room on

tiptoe.

The young man remained in deep reverie for some moments. “Light,” he

murmured. “How often ‘Light’ is the last word of those round whom the

shades are gathering!”[31] He moved, and straight on his view through

the cottage lattice there streamed light, indeed—not the miserable ray

lit by a human hand—but the still and holy effulgence of a moonlit

heaven. It lay broad upon the humble floors—pierced across the threshold

of the death chamber, and halted clear amidst its shadows.

Leonard stood motionless, his eye following the silvery silent

splendour.

“And,” he said inly—“and does this large erring nature, marred by its

genial faults—this soul which should have filled a land, as yon orb the

room, with a light that linked earth to heaven—does it pass away into

the dark, and leave not a ray behind? Nay, if the elements of light are

ever in the space, and when the flame goes out, return to the vital

air—so thought, once kindled, lives for ever around and about us, a part

of our breathing atmosphere. Many a thinker, many a poet, may yet illume

the world, from the thoughts which yon genius, that will have no name,

gave forth—to wander through air, and recombine again in some new form

of light.”

Thus he went on in vague speculations, seeking, as youth enamoured of

fame seeks too fondly, to prove that mind never works, however

erratically, in vain—and to retain yet, as an influence upon earth, the

soul about to soar far beyond the atmosphere where the elements that

make fame abide. Not thus had the dying man interpreted the endurance of

light and thought.

Suddenly, in the midst of his reverie, a low cry broke on his ear. He

shuddered as he heard, and hastened forebodingly into the adjoining

room. The old woman was kneeling by the bedside, and chafing Burley’s

hand—eagerly looking into his face. A glance sufficed to Leonard. All

was over. Burley had died in sleep—calmly, and without a groan.

The eyes were half open, with that look of inexpressible softness which

death sometimes leaves; and still they were turned towards the light;

and the light burned clear. Leonard closed tenderly the heavy lids; and,

as he covered the face, the lips smiled a serene farewell.

OUR LONDON COMMISSIONER.

NO. II.

In the northern outskirt of London, there is a dingy-looking, ill-shaped

building, on the bank of a narrow canal, where at one time, not very

long ago, real water fell in sparkling cascades, Trafalgars were fought

in veritable vessels, and, triumphant over all, radiant in humour and

motley, with wit at his fingers’ ends, and ineffable character in his

feet, laughed, hobbled, jeered, flouted, and pirouetted the clown,

Joseph Grimaldi. The audiences, in those days, were partial to beer.

Tobacco was a pleasant accompaniment to the wonders of the scene. Great

effect was produced by farces of a very unsentimental kind; and the

principal effort of the author was to introduce as much bustle and as

many kicks into his piece as he could. A bloody nose secured three

rounds of applause; a smack on the cheek was a successful repartee; a

coarse oath was only emphatic—nobody blushed, everybody swore. There

were fights in the pit, and the police-office was near at hand. It was

the one place of entertainment for a poor and squalid district. Poverty

and dirt went there to forget themselves, and came away unimproved. It

was better, perhaps, than the beer-shop, certainly better than the

prize-fight, but not so good as the tea-garden and hop. This building is

now the Theatre Royal, Sadler’s Wells, presided over by one of the best

actors on the English stage, and ringing, night after night, to the

language of Shakspeare and Massinger. How does the audience behave?

Better than young gentlemen of the Guards at a concert of sacred music;

better than young ladies of fashion at a scientific lecture. They don’t

yawn, they don’t giggle, they don’t whisper to each other at the finest

passages; but there is intense interest—eyes, heart, mind, all fixed on

the wondrous evolvement of the story. They stay, hour by hour, silent,

absorbed, attentive, answering the touch of the magician’s wand, warming

into enthusiasm, or melting into tears, with as fine an appreciation of

the working of the play as if they had studied the Greek drama, and been

critics all their days. Are they the same people, or the same class of

people, who roared and rioted in the pit in the days of the real water?

Exactly the same. The boxes are three shillings, the pit a shilling, the

gallery a sixpence. There are many fustian jackets in the pit, and in

the gallery a sprinkling of shirt sleeves. Masters of trades, and

respectable shopkeepers, and professional men, and their families are in

the boxes; and Mr Phelps is as great a benefactor to that neighbourhood

as if he had established a public park, or opened a lyceum for

education. There is a perceptible difference, we are told, in the

manners of the district. You can’t raise a man in any one department

without lifting him up in all. Improve his mind, you refine his

character; teach him even mathematics, he will learn politeness; give

him good society, he will cease to be coarse; introduce him to

Shakspeare, Jonson, Beaumont, Massinger, and Webster, he will be a

gentleman. A man with friends like these will not go to the tap of the

Black Dog. Better spend his sixpence at Sadler’s Wells, and learn what

was going on in Rome in the time of Coriolanus, or learn the

thanklessness of sycophantic friends in the Athenian Timon. With the

bluff and brutal Henry VIII. they are quite familiar, and form a very

tolerable idea of a certain pinchbeck cardinal’s pride, from the

insolence of the overweening Wolsey. That energy and honour overcome all

impediments, they have long discovered from the story of the Lady of

Lyons, and the grandeur of self-devotion in the noble aspirations of

Ion. A world like this opening to their eyes, reflects a pleasant light

on the common earth they inhabit. “One touch of nature makes the whole

world kin.” The same sentiment brings a big sob into their rough

throats, and swells the gentle bosom of the delicate young lady in the

front row of the dress circle. If the Queen were there, there would be a

quivering of the royal lip. Jack Wiggins, the tinman, cries as if he

were flogged. Let us off to see Sadler’s Wells, where a new play is to

be acted, with our old friend James VI. for its hero. A pretty hero for

a play!—The pedantic, selfish, ambitious, and cowardly son of Mary

Stuart, who kissed the hand reeking with his mother’s blood, and held

out the Scottish crown to be an awmous-dish, into which Elizabeth

disdainfully threw her niggard charity, like an old maid depositing a

farthing in the plate at the Magdalen Hospital door. This play is

improperly called a tragedy, because a few people happen to be killed in

the course of it. The foundation is decidedly comic—horribly,

grotesquely comic. There the laughter tries in vain to banish the

shudder, and between them a compound is created which we believe to be

new to the stage. The conventional tyrant of tragedy is entirely done

away with. There are no knittings of brows and crossings of elbows,

starts and struttings, such as we generally see made the accompaniments

of revenge and hatred. There is a low, selfish, cruel nature, disguised

in ludicrous repartee and jocular conversation—a buffoon animated by the

soul of Richard III., a harlequin’s lath tipt with deadly poison—our

ordinary ideas turned topsy-turvy, and Polonius running his sword

through Hamlet behind the arras. Whether this historical view of James

be correct or not, does not matter to the play. It is the view chosen by

the author on a preponderating weight of evidence; and the point of his

career chosen for the development of these blacker portions of his

disposition is the Gowrie plot, where even the king’s adulators were

unable to hide the murmurs of the people, who certainly believed his

conduct to have been cruel and unjust.

Such a piece of acting as Mr Phelps’s presentment of James is rarely

seen on the stage. His command of the Scotch dialect is wonderful in an

Englishman; his walk, his look, his attitude, are as palpable

indications of character as the language he employs. There is not a turn

of his mouth, or a leer of his eye, that is not in harmony with the

general design. His pride, terror, abasement, doubt, triumph, and final

despair, are all given with a marvellous versatility, which yet never

trenches on the identity of the actor’s creation. But touches are here

and there added, some to soften, some to darken, till the whole is like

a Dutch picture—laboriously minute in all its details, and perfect as a

finished whole.

The English envoy, Sir John Ayliffe, has been sent by Elizabeth with an

answer to a demand made by James, that she should proclaim him her

successor on the English throne. He has diverged from his road to

Holyrood to the castle of the Laird of Restalrig—the secret, but

principal agent in a plot for seizing the king; and is greatly alarmed

on hearing that Spanish and Roman agents are at the Scottish court,

promising the king great pecuniary assistance if he will march across

the Border, and, with the help of the discontented Catholic nobility,

assert his claim by force. He therefore agrees to aid Restalrig in his

attempt to secure the king, and proceeds on his way to Edinburgh. Lord

Gowrie, with his brother, is on a visit to the Laird, Gowrie being, of

course, in love with his daughter, and is easily worked on to aid the

plot by hearing of certain indignities which had been offered to his

mother in his absence by the minions of the king. He also goes to

Edinburgh, and here we are introduced to his mother, the widowed

countess, who urges him to revenge her wrongs, and vindicate his honour

by confronting the oppressor. Restalrig has also come to the capital,

encounters his friend Gomez, the Spanish agent, and is by him requested

to take care of certain sums of gold which have been sent over for the

purpose of purchasing the assistance of the nobles to the views of

Spain. We now come into the court of Holyrood. James gabbles, and

storms, and fleeches, and goes through the most strange, yet natural

evolutions—hears a negative reply from England delivered by Sir John

Ayliffe—is startled by the apparition of Gowrie drest in his father’s

arms—and dismisses the court with a threat of vengeance against all his

opponents, especially the heirs of his old enemy, Lord Ruthven.

The interest of the plot hangs on the intellectual combat between the

wily and sagacious laird, and the truculent and relentless king. With

some of the gold obtained from the Spaniard, Restalrig induces James to

move the court to Falkland, in order to be more easily seized when in

the vicinity of Gowrie’s house; but James carries his design farther,

and goes into the mansion of the Gowries, having arranged with his train

to follow him, and make themselves masters of his hosts. When

Restalrig’s triumph in the success of his plan and the imprisonment of

the king is at its height, a chivalrous sense of honour in the young

earl has disconcerted the whole design, by restoring James to liberty,

and admitting his followers. Slaughter then takes place; but while James

is rejoicing in his gratified revenge, and the destruction of his

enemies, it is announced to him that Restalrig, at the head of the men

of Perth, is at the gate; they are clamorous for vengeance—the

alarm-bells are ringing—strange yells of an outraged populace are

heard—James, in an agony of cowardly remorse, blames the instruments of

his cruelty—and the curtain falls, leaving him in immediate expectation

of being torn to pieces in punishment of his useless crime. The

performers have little to do in this play, except to bring out the

peculiarities of the king. Restalrig is played with a rough humour, and

appreciation of the part, by Mr Bennet; but the effect of the young

earl, upon whom a great deal depends in the scene of the release, is

entirely destroyed by the unfortunate voice and feebleness of the actor.

As an exhibition, however, of how one great performer can vivify a whole

play in spite of all drawbacks, we pronounce the acting of Mr Phelps in

some respects without a parallel on the modern stage.

In the good old comedy of the “Man of the World,” he is no less

remarkable in his delineation of Sir Pertinax Macsycophant. His power

over the Scotch dialect is the same; and it is only a less powerful

performance, from the character itself being less diversified, and the

tragic element being entirely omitted. Disagreeable characters both,

from their hardness and selfishness; and we should like to see the same

art applied to some softer and more captivating specimens of the

Scottish species.

We have been forced already to confess that single-character pieces are

the only style of drama to which full justice can be done in any theatre

in London. Many people, deluded by this circumstance, and preferring the

perfection of one to the mediocrity of many, will gravely tell you that

the drama itself ought to be formed, in this respect, on the model of

the stage; that the interest ought to be concentred in the hero, and the

others kept entirely subordinate, or at least only endowed with vitality

enough to enable them to survive the kicks and buffets with which the

chief personage of the plot asserts his superiority. That one central

interest must exist in a properly-constructed drama, there is no doubt;

but it is a terrible narrowing of the author’s walk if you debar him

from affixing this interest to a group, and limit it entirely to one.

You force him to descend to mere peculiarities, and the evolvement of

character in its most contracted sense—thereby, and to this extent,

trenching upon the province of farce, which consists in a development of

the humours of some selected individual. The drama, on the other hand,

paints humanity in the abstract, modified in its particular action by

the position and character of the personages of the story; and in so far

as, for the sake of one chief actor, the movement of the play is made to

depend on him, the poet sinks from being the Titian or Michael Angelo of

his art, into the Watson Gordon, Phillips, or Pickersgill;—high names

certainly; but portrait-painting, even at its best, is not history. Let

any man read _Julius Cæsar_, and think of the Kembles, Young, Macready,

and Elliston all in the same play, and talk no more of a one-charactered

drama as the fittest for representation, and the highest of its class. A

one-charactered drama is only the best when there is but one good actor

in a theatre; if there were three good actors, a three-charactered play

would speedily arise; where all were good, Shakspeare would

reappear—that is to say, crowds would go to see Shakspeare, instead of

going, as now, to see this or that performer in Hamlet or Macbeth.

The nearest approach to this diffusion of excellence is to be found on

the French stage. A unity of purpose is visible in the whole company.

The flunky who announces the countess’s carriage enters into the spirit

of the scene, and is as completely the flunky, and nothing more, as

Regnier is the marquis, and nothing less. But one man we possess on the

English boards, who is very superior to Regnier and all his clan.

Charles Matthews has more graceful ease, more untiring vivacity, more

genial comprehension, than the very finest of the Parisians. For

ninety-five nights he has held a hushed theatre in the most complete

subjection to his magic art, and was as fresh and forcible on the last

night of the course as at its beginning. Yet never once does he raise

his voice above drawing-room pitch; no reliance has he on silver

shoe-buckles or slashed doublets; he wears the same coat and other

habiliments in which he breakfasts at home or dines with a friend. Never

once does he point an epigram with a grimace, or even emphasise a

sentiment with a shrug of his shoulders. The marvel is how the effect is

created; for there is no outward sign of effort or intention. That the

effect is there, is manifest from pit to gallery; and yet, there stands

a quiet, placid, calm-eyed, pleasant-mannered, meek-voiced, bald-headed,

gentlemanly stockbroker, with respectable brass-buttoned blue coat and

grey trousers, such as is to be seen on any day of the week pursuing his

way from St John’s Wood or Brompton; and, at first sight, as unfit for

theatrical representation as the contents of his ledger for the material

of an epic poem. But he is placed in queer and unaccountable

situations?—made intensely interesting by some strange instance of

mistaken identity?—or endangered in life and fame by some curiously

ingenious piece of circumstantial evidence? Nothing of the kind. The man

is before you all the time. You know his whole circumstances as well as

he himself does. He has a wife and daughter; he lives in a

well-furnished capacious house—we should say in the upper part of Baker

Street; and probably a brass plate reveals to the inquiring passenger

that it is the residence of Mr Affable Hawk. That is his name: a

merchant or stockbroker, at one time very honest and very rich; but his

partner, a Mr Sparrow, has eloped with the co-partnery funds, leaving Mr

Hawk’s affairs in inextricable confusion, and throwing him into the

disagreeable necessity of living on his wits. He has a great and

available capital, and lays it out to the best advantage. Never did wits

so stand in the stead of money before. With them he pays off debts, with

them he embarks in speculations, and on their security raises loans

throwing seed in the stoniest places, and receiving a hundredfold. Nor

is his triumph over a set of trustful spinsters, or persons unaccustomed

to business. He does not live upon pigeons, but, like the lovers in

Boccaccio, makes an excellent dinner on a sharp-beaked falcon. Mr

Hardcore will stand no more nonsense. He rushes into the house—hat on

head, stick in hand. He will have his money, or issue a writ at once.

With a gentlemanly motion towards his head, Mr Affable convicts him

silently of ill-breeding and impertinence, and the hat is instantly

removed. With the utmost suavity, he requests the irate creditor to

write to his clerk to stop farther proceedings, and to add, in a

postscript, a cheque for £200. The man is staggered by the immensity of

the impertinence. But the calm superiority of his debtor makes itself

felt in spite of his utmost efforts. Certain shares in a brilliant

speculation have been secured by Mr Hawk for his friend at a very low

premium. The letter to the clerk is written. But the cheque for £200?

Sir Harry Lester, a rich baronet, is about to marry Mr Hawk’s daughter;

all debts are to be paid by the enraptured son-in-law; a fitting

breakfast must be given; a few trinkets, a few dresses. You wouldn’t

have such a glorious prospect spoiled by the want of such a trifle?

Hardcore writes the cheque, and rushes off to secure the depreciated

shares. Another comes in who throws himself on the charity of his

debtor, pleads poverty, distress, even starvation. How can the polished

and humane Mr Hawk resist so touching an appeal? He can’t. He doesn’t.

He goes for three pounds, as an instalment of which it appears he has

already paid nine, making a remarkably good return on the loan of our

penurious friend, Mr Earthworm. That gentleman rejoices in the success

of his “dodge,” and appears triumphant in his conquest over the feelings

of Mr Hawk. But the benevolent debtor now returns, pays the three

sovereigns, and hurries his visitor off to make way for Mr Grossmark,

who is about to purchase shares in a speculation of Mr Hawk’s, which is

to yield three hundred per cent. “How much is required?” says the

miserable Earthworm—“three hundred pounds?” He thinks he can raise the

sum—a friend who is very rich will help him: he will advance the money.

“But the four hundred pounds are required at once.” “Is it _four_

hundred?” A bow from Mr Hawk. “Well, my friend will not stick at that.”

“And the five hundred pounds will set the matter afloat,” said Mr Hawk;

“but go—there’s a good fellow—for I hear Grossmark’s step, and the

shares are promised to him.” Earthworm’s disguise is seen through, and

falls off like the traveller’s cloak before the heat of the sun. “Here!

here’s the money,” he cries—puts a pile of notes into Mr Hawk’s

reluctant hand, and the bargain is closed. Prosperity once more seems an

inhabitant of Baker Street. He has received seven hundred pounds, and

can now provide a trousseau, and furnish forth a wedding breakfast.

Twenty thousand pounds he has settled on his daughter; but they are any

twenty thousand he may be able to extract from the uncountable riches of

his son-in-law. This noble specimen of Hibernian honour rejoices in a

double name; one being Sir Harry Lester, with which to tickle the ears

of the millionaires of Baker Street, and the other his workday

appellation under which he enacts the distinguished part of a stag in

railways, and a defaulter in other speculations. His interview with Mr

Hawk would be diamond cut diamond if the strength and brilliancy weren’t

all on one side. Preliminaries are settled—the amount of marriage

portion agreed upon—a description of the Lester estates, including a

salt marsh taken on trust, and all things verging towards a satisfactory

fulfilment. The salt marsh instantly suggests to the ingenious Hawk a

perfect California of speculation; divided into shares, market rigged,

property realised, and no other inquiries are made. But the course of

true love never did run smooth. In the most dramatic scene of the play,

the mutual discovery is made that Mr Hawk is an insolvent, and Sir Harry

a swindler—the Lester estates are in an Irish bog, the salt marsh is the

sea. Pleasant is it to see the mild self-composure, and sublime

self-reliance of Mr Hawk. For some years he has softened his creditors’

hearts, and amused their hopes with reports of the return of his runaway

partner Mr Sparrow, with all the funds of the firm, and a vast increase

of capital by successful trade in the East. That expedient has been

tried so often that it begins to lose its effect. The creditors laugh

when he mentions Sparrow’s name. What can be better than to make Sir

Harry bronze his countenance, shave off his beard, put on a wig, buy a

carriage in Long Acre, and post up to Baker Street at the very moment,

decisive of his fate, when his creditors, now aware of the failure of

his chance of marrying his daughter to a fortune, are to assemble with

their united claims and remorselessly convey him to the Fleet? Sir Harry

agrees. Hawk retires to mature his plans; but Mrs Hawk, radiant with

some unexpected good news, hurries in—stops Sir Harry from the execution

of his infamous plot, and waits in happy expectation the _dénouement_ of

the piece. The creditors come in—they bawl, they grin, they scold, they

bully. Sparrow is appealed to in vain. They have heard too much of that

Levanter’s return to believe in it any more. Hark! a carriage rattles up

to the door. They look out of the window: carriage covered with mud;—old

fellow hobbles out—pigtail wig exactly as ordered. Capital, Sir Harry,

cries Hawk! Now, then, gentlemen, will you be persuaded? Won’t you wait

for ten days till I have arranged our partnership accounts, and then we

will pay you in full? The creditors pause. At last one of them goes out

to see. He comes back with a cheque for the amount of his debt! Hawk

stands aghast. Another goes out, and comes in holding up a bank post

bill for ten thousand pounds! More and more confounded. Hawk has

uncomfortable thoughts of forgery, and thinks Sir Harry carries the joke

too far. At last the wife of his bosom rushes in, and at the other door

Sir Harry makes his appearance. This is magic, witchcraft, sorcery; for

still the creditors go out, and still come back with all their claims

discharged. The real Sparrow has indeed returned; and, having thus made

the _amende_, is in a position to solicit an interview with his injured

partner; and that sagacious and now thoroughly honourable gentleman

concludes the series of his “dodges” with a solemn declaration in favour

of probity and fair-dealing, which would have been more edifying if he

could have appealed to his own conduct in illustration of what he said.

There was no occasion for any piece of hypocrisy like this at the end.

His life was a sermon. We have heard an objection made to the moral of

this play, that it invests swindling with dignity, and so unites

dishonesty with wit, ease, grace, and fascinating manner, as to make

dishonesty itself far from a repulsive object. Have you ever reflected,

oh critic, that the creditors here are the helots of the scene, to be a

disgust and warning to others; and, in the midst of their apparent

respectabilities, are shown to be the dishonest workers of their own

losses?—that Mr Hawk is far less the tempter of those City gentlemen,

than the creation of the style of speculation in which they are all

engaged. Without Earthworms and Hardcores there would be no possible

existence for our easy, pleasant, buoyant friend Hawk. The whole play

may be called “Rochefoucauld’s Maxims Dramatised;” for a better satire

on the selfishness, meanness, and gullibility of the animal man is not

to be found in the whole range of literature or philosophy. What little

is to be done by Mr Roxby, as Sir Harry, is done “excellent well.” There

is a very praiseworthy obtuseness to the rascality of his conduct, and

calm consideration of his claims, which is very edifying as contrasted

with the thorough appreciation of him instantaneously arrived at by his

intended father-in-law. The principal creditors also are very adequately

represented, especially the miserable begging impostor, by Mr Frank

Matthews. A more life-like combination of mendicity, and its unvarying

accompaniment mendacity, was never observed by Mr Horsford; and we

confess to a feeling approaching displeasure, when we learn that the

beneficent Sparrow has restored his money to that smooth-tongued,

supple-backed, blackhearted vagabond. Now, what is the conclusion

derived from all this?—That a dramatic feast of this quality has not

been seen in our time. Not that the language is comparable to

Sheridan’s—in fact, the composition is rather poor; not even that there

is any novelty in the plot;—but the strength of this play is first of

all in the prevailing truthfulness of Charles Matthews’ acting; and,

secondly, that it never on any one occasion oversteps the modesty of

nature. With the sole exception of the opportune return of the

defaulting partner, we believe that the entire story of this drama was

enacted every day in the neighbourhood of Capel Court all the time of

the railway mania, and is now performing every day not far from the

Stock Exchange. And the proof that this lecture, as it may be called, on

the art of commercial gambling, is carried on in accordance with

inevitable natural laws, is that in spite of the English names, the

Irish baronet, the Baker Street furniture, and the thoroughly London

atmosphere that surrounds all the personages introduced, the play is

originally French. The scene is Paris—the creditors are Parisian—the

swindling, speculating, caballing, kite-flying, and mystification, are

all originally the offspring of the Bourse; and all the merit of the

English play-wright is, that he has very ingeniously hidden the

birthplace of his characters, without altering, or in the slightest

degree damaging, their features; and, in fact, has given them letters of

naturalisation under which they could rise to be Lord Mayors of London,

and eat turtle and drink port as if to the manner born. The author is

poor Balzac, lately dead, who left _Mercadet_ a legacy to the stage of

more value by far than all his contributions to it during his lifetime.

His minute dissection of character had given a charm to his novels, but

gave no promise of a success upon the boards; for his ends were worked

out by a thousand little traits, as in our own Miss Austin, without ever

having recourse to the broad effects that seem adapted to the

theatre;—and we believe his dramatic triumph came as a surprise upon the

Parisian public, which, at the same time, highly appreciated his Eugenie

Grandet, and his other revelations of provincial life.

While dwelling on the performances of the Lyceum, it would be

unpardonable to omit, from the notice of Maga and her readers, the

genius of Mr Beverley, the scene-painter. It almost requires an apology

for applying that old appellation to a man who lavishes upon the

landscapes required in a play a richness of imagination and power of

touch which would bring envy to the hearts of the Poussins or Claude. It

is not by gorgeous colours, or startling light and shade, that Beverley

produces his effects. With a severe adherence to his original design, he

works out a scene, so perfect in its parts, and so combined as a whole,

that it is difficult to realise to the mind the gigantic scale, or the

coarse touches, with which it is painted: you gaze on it as on a

finished picture by some great artist, who has devoted months to its

elaboration in the solitude of his studio; and wonder not less at the

taste, and fancy, and sentiment of those extraordinary works, than at

the rapidity with which they are produced, and the inexhaustible

resources of the mind that gives them birth. It rests with Mr Beverley

himself, whether to follow his illustrious predecessors, Roberts and

Stanfield, to the highest honours of the Academy, or to continue an

exhibition of his own, where the applause of shouting theatres testifies

nightly to his artistic powers; and ample room and verge enough is given

for his highest conceptions, which would, perhaps, object to find

themselves cramped within the limits of an ordinary frame, and subjected

to the tender mercies of a hostile hanging committee. Whichever way he

decides, the arts will infallibly be the gainers. If he descends to

ordinary canvass, and places “infinite riches in a little room,” he will

take rank in after ages with the masters who have ennobled the English

school; if he continues where he is, not less useful will his efforts be

in diffusing a love of beauty and a knowledge of effect. The Lyceum,

like its Athenian prototype, will become a lecture-hall; and from his

lessons and examples, new Wilsons and Turners, new Calcotts and

Constables, may arise to maintain the supremacy of British landscape

against all competitors.

Our readers must remember a very spirited account of an ascent of Mont

Blanc by Mr Albert Smith. Very spirited, and very interesting it was;

but you should go and hear the author give his _vivâ voce_ version of

it, illustrated by Beverley’s views. When we say the descriptions are

funny, we are not correct; though certainly there is a great deal of

whim and fun in the course of his address. When we say the narrative is

grave, startling, entrancing, we are not correct; though, undoubtedly,

there are passages that take away the auditor’s breath, and hair-breadth

’scapes that make him shudder;—but the true description of the whole two

hours’ entertainment is, that it is a remarkable combination of talent,

humour, lucid narrative, and personal adventure, which everybody ought

to go and hear, and a succession of scenes and paintings which everybody

ought to go and see. The deaf man will be delighted; the blind man will

be amazingly pleased; but people in the full enjoyment of eyes and ears

will be inexcusable, if they refuse them so great a treat as the united

efforts of two such artists will afford.

Saturday—and the week’s inspection has come to a close. A cold east wind

is howling along Oxford Street, evidently in search of snow, and rather

disappointed at not finding the Serpentine covered with ice. The Almanac

tells us it is April; but our extremities have private information that

it is December. As we go shivering home, we will diverge for a moment

into the most curious repository of nick-nacks the world contains—being

the gatherings of thirty years, at a cost of thirty thousand pounds. We

call in Argyll Street, and are civilly received by Mr Hertz, the

proprietor of the collection. He is a little, round, oily-faced German,

evidently of the Jewish persuasion, and remarkably fond of tobacco. His

room is like a pawnbroker’s shop; only all his customers must have been

possessors of picture galleries, and have brought themselves into

difficulties by cultivating a “taste.” There are wardrobes richly

inlaid, with a genealogy as carefully kept as the pedigree of a

race-horse. He will tell you how it came into the hands of Louis XIV.,

and how it ornamented a chamber in the Tuileries during the Empire; or a

ring will be shown you, with the hair of Julius Cæsar under the glass.

Beautiful miniatures are pointed out, of great value as works of art,

but far more valuable from their being undoubted likenesses of their

fair and famous originals. Beauties of the reign of Francis; eyes that

looked kindly on Henry IV.; cheeks that flushed in vain to win a

transient smile from the Grand Monarque, are all there. Then there are

little ivory cabinets, and screens magnificently embroidered, all with

their respective stories—there being no article that depends entirely on

its intrinsic merits, but borrows a great part of its interest from the

adventures it has gone through. Finally, he gives you a key, and sends

you off, under the guardianship of his maid, to a house in Great

Marlborough Street, which you find filled, from cellar to garret, with

works of a still more valuable description. We have only time to mention

some very fine cartoons by Correggio, and a splendid statue in black

marble of a Roman prizefighter. This is a very fine specimen of ancient

skill. Mr Hertz’s object is to sell the entire collection, and we

believe he declines to dispose of it piecemeal. Were this not the case,

it would be indispensable for the country to secure some of the

treasures here contained, though it would perhaps be asking too much of

the Chancellor of the Exchequer to endow the British Museum with the

miscellaneous articles by which the statue and cartoons are accompanied.

Colder, colder still, and fast and furious we hurry towards our

chambers. What do blockheads and poetasters of all ages mean by the

balmy breath of April?—the sunny showers of April?—the “smiles and tears

together” characteristic of that hopeful and delicious month? We believe

it is a cuckoo note, continued by imitative mediocrity from the days of

Theocritus. All very well for him in the beautiful climate of Sicily to

cover the head of Spring with fresh flowers, and lie upon the grass

playing his Pandean pipes. But where are flowers to be seen, at this

most uncheering season, here? Or who can lie down on the grass before

the end of July without the certainty of cold and rheumatism? Here has

the cold wind been blowing for two months—sneezes and snufflings loading

every breeze; and yet you turn to a pastoral poem, an eclogue or

rhapsody, about the beauties of nature, and you read whole passages in

praise of April! With our hat clenched over our brow, and a handkerchief

held to our mouth, we career madly through Leicester Square. On the

steps of Miss Linwood’s old exhibition, a man is standing enveloped in

ancient armour. He might as well be cased in ice. But utterly

unconscious seems he of the absurdity of his appearance, or of the cold

that must be shot through him from steel cuirass and iron greaves. In a

gentle voice he addresses the passer by. “It is useless to observe,” he

says, “that all intelligent individuals will be gratified by a sight of

the strongest man in the world.” This is so different from the usual

style of those touters, that we involuntarily slacken our pace. “It is

scarcely necessary,” he proceeds, “to remark that Professor Crosso is

decidedly at the head of his profession, and that the entrance money is

only one shilling.” We are won by the smooth volubility of the knightly

orator. Who is Professor Crosso?—and what is his profession? We ascended

the steps, traversed a gallery, deposited a shilling, and entered a

large apartment with a number of wooden benches, a small gallery at the

back, and a green curtain door, hiding for a time the wonders of the

stage. Three fiddlers strung their instruments with most unholy discord;

the company gradually dropped in, principally foreigners; the gas gave a

leap of increased light; a tune began, and the curtain rose. Oh, earth

and sky! what is this we behold? A _tableau-vivant_ of the death of

Hector. Old Priam, venerable from the length of his beard, is the

central figure; around him sit the maids and matrons of Troy. Hector

lies dead in front; and to slow music, the stage on which they stand is

whirled round so as to give a variety of views of the same group, and

great applause rewards the display. There is certainly a great scarcity

of drapery about the principal figures, but nothing to be found fault

with on the score of decorum or propriety; but we read in a small

hand-bill that the _artistes_ are all German, and we gaze with great

curiosity on the development of the Teutonic form. The round hilarious

faces, the flat noses, and prominent chins, would prove, to the entire

satisfaction of Professor Owen, that our Bavarian friends were lineal

descendants of the Caffres at the Cape. There was not a single one of

the Trojan ladies who did not look well practised in asking the

inhabitants to buy a broom. The sons of Priam seemed waiters from the

foreign _restaurants_ in Lisle Street; and the dead Hector had a strong

resemblance to the owner of a small cigar-shop, where there is a card in

the window with the words, “Hier sprecht Mann Deutsch.” There were other

subjects illustrated, but all by the same _artistes_. The figures were

very tastefully disposed; but a little more beauty, and a closer

approximation to the outlines of the Canova Venus, would be a great

improvement. However, the patriotic audience were highly gratified, and

the Dutch ideal evidently fulfilled. Performances then began, where

there was a display of strength which would be incredible if there was

no trick in some of the displays. The professor tossed weights about

which were more fit for waggons than human arms. An immense iron bar was

laid upon the floor, which he first lifted by the middle with unanimous

approbation; he then raised it, keeping it horizontal by a hold about

one-third from the end. He then laid it down, and grasping one end of

it, certainly succeeded in raising the other end from the ground, while

the minutest observation could detect no hair suspended from the

ceiling, nor other means by which he could be assisted in the feat. But

the crowning performance, which was preceded by a long pause, to enable

“the yellow-haired and blue-eyed Saxons” to recover from their surprise,

was called the Harmless Guillotine, and consisted in cutting off a

girl’s head, without doing her any harm. The professor walked in leading

his victim by the hand. She was probably one of the Trojan maidens, and

by no means so favourable a specimen of female charms as the Argive

Helen. With a vast amount of guttural and other splutter, the professor

addressed the audience in German; and was interpreted by one of the

fiddlers for the benefit of any untravelled Englishman who might be

present. The object of the speech was to beg the ladies not to be

alarmed at what they are about to see; for though the head appeared to

be cut off, he assured them, on his own word as a gentleman and a

Christian, that it was mere deception, and that he was by no means the

murderer he appeared. He then led away his victim, and placed her on a

kind of sofa-bed at the back of the stage, and drew the curtains round

her. He next advanced, and asked whether the company would have the

execution done behind the curtain or in front? There was a unanimous

answer to this, that we wished to see the operation; whereupon he drew

the curtain, waved a sword two or three times, and appeared to saw away

at the girl’s neck, till finally the head came off, and in a triumphant

manner he held it up for popular applause. It was a failure. The stage

was so dark, the figure so indistinct, the preparation so clumsy, that

we could not by any means entertain the feelings of horror and

astonishment he intended to produce. The fiddler, in a feeble voice,

invited any of the ladies or gentlemen present to go on the stage and

examine more nearly the separated head and its marks of reality. But

nobody responded to the invitation; and again we fixed our hat

desperately over our brows, and faced once more the pitiless blowings of

the April breeze.

Thus have we attempted to give a clear and dispassionate view of some of

the amusements offered to the millions of London. The list we have

chosen is very limited; for, in this communication we have omitted all

mention of the great majority of the theatres, the operas, the _salles

de danse_, the panoramas, the dioramas, and other pictorial exhibitions.

What we wish to impress on the intelligent reader is the absolute

necessity of improving, and turning to as beneficial purpose as

possible, the means of entertainment which already exist. The theatre,

we maintain, has in itself the material most fitted for this purpose;

not the theatre of show and spectacle, of burlesque and buffoonery, but

the theatre of life and poetry. The machinery is already there, the

actors capable of improvement, the drama ready to spring into fresh

existence, and all that is wanted is the fostering presence of good and

benevolent men—wise enough to see the immense engine, for good or for

evil, which it is in their power to direct, and brave enough, in the

confidence of a good cause, to despise the sneers of the ignorant. The

amusements of the people, properly considered, are as important as their

ability to spell, or even as the comfort of their houses; and the

philanthropic economist who spreads the light of education into desolate

lanes, and brightens, with cleanliness and convenience, the poor man’s

room, only half executes his task if he does not afford intellectual

recreation to the mechanic who has a shilling or two to spare, but

leaves him to the false encitement of the melodrama, or the leer and

vulgarity of the tea-garden.

But this is Sunday morning, and we are at Woolwich in time for changing

guard. Here are four or five thousand artillery, and a regiment or two

of dragoons; and what with cadets and engineers, the fighting population

must be close on seven thousand men. The heath spreads its smooth hard

surface in front of the parade-ground, and scattered all over the place

are cannons and carriages, and mortars and implements of warfare enough

to exterminate the human race in half-an-hour. There are no such fine

intelligent-looking men as the artillery in the British service. Great

care is taken in the selection of recruits; for the duties even of a

private need both bodily and mental activity. Their pay is higher than

that of the line, and their conduct so good, that out of that immense

body only four have made their appearance before a magistrate for the

last two years.

The quiet of the town is wonderful. There is not a uniform anywhere to

be seen, except where the sentry, with drawn sword, guards the heath

gates. On this great expanse there is no motion. A flag here and there

sways to and fro in the breeze, and occasionally the burst of a

bugle-call rises into the air from some distant barrack-yard. But now a

few officers and their wives and families move silently about—fine

handsome lads come down by twos and threes from the college of

cadets—white-haired generals, and majors and captains scarcely less

white-haired, pace solemnly along the gravel—and, finally, we all arrive

at the door of the barrack chapel, which is guarded by sentinels, and

devoted entirely to the garrison. On entering on the ground line we are

surprised to find ourselves in the gallery. On the different pew doors

the ranks and designations of the occupants are written—general

officers, field-officers, officers, &c. &c.; and on going forward to the

front of the seat, and looking down into the body of the building, we

see already assembled the men of the 4th Dragoons on the cross-benches

in front of the pulpit, and artillerymen on the seats under the gallery.

A beautiful sight—above a thousand gallant fellows in their blue

trousers with red or yellow stripes, their belts crossed, their

side-arms on, and all exhibiting any medals or decorations they may

possess. A corporal in full uniform acted as clerk, and the band played

the anthems, while some military choristers sang the hymns and

responses. Better behaviour it is impossible to see in a church. It was

a calm, observant, and very attentive congregation. After the prayers,

the clergyman, who rejoices in a very fine voice, commenced his sermon

amid the hushed attention of his audience. He was very plain, very

straightforward, and spoke to them as men who had duties which were by

no means inconsistent with the Christian character. Their temptations he

touched upon, and gave them warnings and advice. In about a quarter of

an hour, having seen that his admonition had had its effect—for he

preached without book, and kept his eye on his congregation the whole

time—he dismissed them with their faculties unfatigued, and what he had

told them fresh upon their minds. On standing up or kneeling down, the

clash of their swords upon the pavement was very fine; the jingle of

spurs also was heard whenever they moved; and not the less gallantly

will they press their horses’ flanks, and sway their sabres in some

deathful charge, that they heard and treasured the lessons of their

friend the chaplain. We intend, on some future occasion, to devote a

whole paper to a day at Woolwich, but we have already seen enough to

take off the edge of our fear of a French invasion. With Hardinge at the

head of our Ordnance, and the great name of Wellington still sounding in

the hearts of his countrymen—with rifle corps innumerable, and the whole

empire ready to rise at the first beacon that flares on Beachy Head—we

shall only observe to the whole world in arms, that if by some miracle

it finds its way to English ground, it will receive the most tremendous

thrashing that ever a world in arms, or out of them, received since

history began. We therefore solemnly advise all foreign nations, kings,

princes, adventurers, bullies, and personages whatsoever, to keep a

civil tongue in their heads, and stay quietly at home.

THE GOLD-FINDER.

I.

To travellers by the seas, or on long plains,

The distant objects, on the horizon’s verge,

Show but their highest summits; so with Time.

Time orbs so silently beneath our feet,

We look around, and know not that we move,

Or that the point whereon we stand, to-day,

This moment, is our culminating point;

The Past and Future dip as they recede,

And only give to view the tops of things.

Therefore, be happy now; the mental eye

May take his pleasure, pleasure if it be,

In gazing on the Cottage, or the Church;

The Heart may fondly dwell upon the one,

And think of days of piety, to be;

And on the other, till the breath of Home

Waft to the soul more pleasant memories

Than the West stealing o’er a field of hay;—

Blest in our ignorance, we cannot see

That, underneath the rose-grown eaves of Home

Lurk fire and sickness, bickering and want;

Or, where the steeple-cross shines in the sun,

That damp, cold graves are nestling dark beneath.

All Nature cries, “Be happy now.” The Bee,

Whose angry labours wound the ear of Noon,

Finds in the winter, from his garnered store,

Quick spoliation, and a bitter death;

The light-winged Butterfly, with truer scope,

Ranges, all summer, through the garden-beds,

And, ignorant of darker days to come,

Enjoys a life-long holiday; the Man

Who spake as never man did, bade us view

The untended lilies of the desert-plain:

“They toil not,” said he, “neither do they spin;

And yet I say to you that Solomon,

In all his glory, was not clad like these.”

Michael De Mas knew not this holy truth;

Alas! _his_ thought was ever of the morrow:

And yet he was no foolish homesick swain,

Such as, amid the perils of the strife,

The conflict of existence, pine and sigh

To flee to some ideal resting-place,

To feed on contemplation, or to woo

Some simple Thestylis in beechen groves.

To him the cry of subjugate despair

Rang, like a trumpet of encouragement;

And brave resistance did but seem to him

Another step that led him to the heights.

Ten years had poured their various gifts on earth

Of death and life, of sunshine and of shade,

Since Michael left his little school disgraced

By acts of lawless violence; and went

Back to a ruined parent’s ruined home,

To feed his heart on innutritious dreams

And idle scorn of those he would not know.

Once when the lights of English Autumn time,

Clear, vigorous, spirit-cheering, morning lights,

Were dancing on a thousand thousand trees,

Were streaming on a thousand fertile fields,

And smoking on a hundred cottage tops,

He felt that these, once his, were his no more:

A stranger ploughed his very garden plots;

The Halls, where his forefathers fed the shire,

Were fallen, and the stones and timbers sold;

One-tenth of all the house, one-hundredth part

Of the broad lands, and how much less part still

Of the respect and power that graced the name,

Would cleave to him the heir. So slow had been

The gradual alienation, that till now

He had not felt it fully; but that morn

(’Twas Sabbath) they had been to worship God,

And even in the very Church, where once

The service staid for them, and bells rang on

Till good Sir Marmaduke, in coach of state,

Drawn by six solemn Flanders steeds, and girt

By a full score of stalwart serving men,

Approaching, gave the signal to begin,

Even there a London Scrivener, with his brood

Of pale and purse-proud children of the fog,

Sate in their ancient place, beneath the crest

Which Black Sir Walter wore at Agincourt;

Ay, over the cold stones, where lies at peace

The knight who fell at Naseby, by his King,

There sate his steward’s grandson.

“Ah,” thought Michael,

“The desolate abomination stands

Most proudly where it ought not; ’tis not these

I blame, but gold, the cursed cause of all,

Gold that o’erthrew my fathers, and raised these,

These—and why not me also?” till he swore

That gold, and gold alone, should be his god,

As who alone rewards its worshippers.

“Therefore,” he said, “dear Idol, I to thee

From henceforth pay my vows; thou who dost raise

The Beggar, till the Princes of the Earth

Bow low to kiss his stirrup; who dost give

Power and distinction, virtue and renown.

My name shall be among the fortunate,

For I am of those whose will is Destiny.

And then, perhaps, when Victory shall be mine,

My Margaret will not turn away from me,

As now, methinks, even she must wish to do.”

The thought was inspiration: all on fire,

He wrote to one, their noble house’s chief,

Whose voice was heard at Eastern council boards;

And with the ardour of a youthful heart,

He urged his claim: “His Lordship knew him well,

The soldier’s spirit He felt; for He was strong;—

The influence of wind, or sun, or rain,

Could never sap His sinews: were it his

To draw a sword in yonder golden land,

He promised them no niggard of himself,

No slothful wearer of a scarlet coat,

Most terrible to women.”

Marvel not

That Michael took the final step alone;

His Mother never knew a wish but his;

His Father, ah, the sorrows of decay,

And sorrow-taught indulgence, made him cold,

Cold as the inmate of an idiot’s cell.

II.

Michael had gained his end, and India’s Sun

Now ruled his eager blood; some of his hopes

Were crowned with triumph; he got store of gold,

But lost his sense of honour.

In days like those,

Deceit and violence gave the rule of life

To men once wise and generous; they were poor,

And they had power: Opinion, far away

Raved, like the idle murmurs of the Sea,

Heard, in still summer evenings, from a hill.

Blame them not over harshly; skill and valour

Give power, which, even when marred and mixed with wrong,

May bless those who abide its visitings.

When Autumn nights are moonless, and thick clouds

Have hid the friendly faces of the stars,

The storm may bring keen lightnings: here and there

Some wretch, whose hour was come, may gain by them

Immunity from other lingering deaths,

And that may seem an Evil; yet the air,

Purged by those very bolts, grows sweet and clear,

And feeds the corn, the oil, the parched vine,

And gives to men, for many and many a day,

Prosperity and pleasure: so with these,

God’s chosen messengers to work his will;

They purify the poisoned moral gale,

Cause peace and plenty wheresoe’er they go,

And lead in happiness on a path of thorns.

Among the foes of the English settlers, one

Was ever foremost; he—by what arts won

Boots not to trace—had made a friend of Michael,

Who grew in power and riches day by day.

But purer times were coming; there were heard

Deserved, though little looked for then from those,

Themselves not pure who raised them, murmurings;

Surmise grew into knowledge; Michael’s friends

Were few; men stained as he pronounced his doom.

Still there was hope; he never knew despair:

The Rajah he had served should shelter him,

And he would lead his Armies; he foresaw

More wealth, more power, more means of growing great.

III.

He passed from low Bengal’s unbroken green,

That, like a harlot, smiles but to betray,

And with a troop of chosen cavaliers,

Came to the Holy Land of Hindostan,

Wearily wandering, whether the strong sun

Parched the wide champaign, and the furnace blasts

Came howling, hot and dry, whirling the sand

In dense and overwhelming canopy,

So that, for hours, the dark was palpable;

Or whether, under the moist star of Eve,

The village slumbered peaceful, great old trees

Intensely still, and immemorial pools

Silently shining, save where, now and then,

The Alligator glided from the bank,

Warned by the chill of evening, or the girls

With tinkling bangles, and the ringing laugh

Of youth, and happiness, and unrestraint,

In coming down for water, scared away

The timid monster of two elements.

Once, as they halted in an ancient grove,

Set by some hospitable hand, of old,

And consecrate to travellers, now too near

The fortress of a wild Mahratta Prince,

The weary band were throwing by their arms,

And, gathered in their separate brotherhoods,

Prepared for evening’s rest; some made in earth

Their simple ovens, some set up the tents,

Some slew the bleating kid, some kneeling, turned

Their faces to the West, their Prophet’s shrine,

And with much prostrate bending, prayed to Him

Who made the morning and the even-tide.

Suddenly came upon them, unawares,

The soldiers of the castle, bound their arms,

And drove them, harshly, o’er the plain, on foot,

Weary and terror-stricken, through the gate,

Into the presence hall, where sate their chief.

Sternly he questioned Michael of his wealth,

And with what hope he, from a foreign land,

Was wandering, thus attended; who, in scorn,

Answered him nothing; till “Away with him!

Bind him there on the house-top, that the moon

Shed curses on his face, pale as her own,

And our strong Sun burn up his alien blood;

And straitly search, and bring me all his gold.”

They laid him on a low, unfurnished couch,

And left him, bound, alone; he could but look

Up to the sky, his head so fast was set,

And so he lay, and strove to rest himself,

But vainly; the sharp cords entered his flesh,

The dews sank on his shuddering skin; the Moon

Rose, like a fire, among the mango boughs,

And, slowly wending on her westward way,

Smote him with deadly influence: so night passed,

A night as long as three; the chilly dawn

Came, grey, and weakly struggling with the Moon,

Then threw a red flush over all the East,

Whereat the Moon turned white, and hid herself,

While the great Orb that is her lord arose,

And swiftly mounted high: his pain increased,

His body streamed, his brain was agonised,

His sense was reeling; suddenly there came

A tingling stillness on his ears; his eyes

Closed; and he scarcely knew of one who said,

“Let be; unbind him; ’tis a warrior good.”

Long days the fever lasted, but his strength,

Nursed by the breezes of a hardier clime,

Would not desert him; so that he arose,

A bold, refreshed young giant: then the Chief

Spoke soothing words; and Michael hid his wrath,

And answered calmly; till they made them terms,

That Michael gave the service of his skill

To tame those wild Mahrattas, ruling them

To discipline, that they might grow more fierce,

Like dogs, that wreak on foes their masters’ will.

IV.

Time held his course; the strong-willed man of blood

Prospered in all he undertook, and throve,

And gathered stores, and seemed to casual eyes

A happy child of Fortune; yet there burned

Two unextinguished furnaces of woe

Within him—lust of gold and of revenge:

For his was not a spirit that e’er could yield,

Or ever cease to think upon its wrongs.

And therefore watched he, many days and years,

How he might compass his employer’s ruin,

And yet not risk his fortunes; the last spark

Of holier fire, his love for that fair girl,

That cottage-flower of purity and truth,

Margaret, the sister of his boyhood’s friend—

That spark still smouldered in some inmost nook

Of his sin-darkened bosom, for the fumes

Of thought debased, rose ever, like a smoke,

Dimming the smiles of Nature; the carouse,

The fierce extremes of dalliance and of blood,

Had almost made him something less than Man.

At length came round the time he waited for;

The fraud and rapine of the prince he served

Rose to such height, as seemed, to the English chiefs

A source of fear, if not at once abridged;

And thereupon, they issued words of War.

Full long the Rajah treated, hoping still,

By terms, to pacify the alien power

Which, even then, was growing terrible;

But each concession, made a day too late,

Drew forth fresh claims of power, and land, and gold;

For, in those days, the illusion of the East

Had not yet vanished; like the peasant boy

Who deems that London streets are paved with gold,

Men, old in all the arts of peace and war,

Dreamed that a land whose poverty they saw,

Might harbour still the treasures of romance.

At last, grown desperate, he stood at bay,

And, hoping that the neighbouring potentates,

(Whose crooked policy still left in doubt

Which side they meant to favour) when they saw

Their countryman but once victorious,

Would join to drive the usurper to the Sea,

Resolved to stand the hazard of a fight.

V.

The season was the later Indian rains;

The sorrowing sky, bereaved of her Lord,

Was dark and full of weeping, and the heart

Of Michael, though a bold one, had been trained

In its cold native Island, to a love

Of the bright beams of Summer; and the Sun

Even when it dealt destruction, gave him joy:

And now he drooped, and felt an inward dread,

Such as the priests of old Jerusalem

Felt, when they heard the sighing gust that swept,

From the dark shrine to the gate Beautiful,

Upon the fatal night before the storm,

When the Shechinah left them audibly.

Long mused he, while the chill damp night came on,

And starting, after dark, trooped with sad thoughts,

Felt fear and wonder that he was alone.

Around his tent he heard the mighty waters

Plash in the wet, and hiss upon the dry;

Within, the congregated insect life

Monotonously hummed; he made two turns,

Then, calling for his torch, took an old book,

Brass-bound and weather wasted, the last gift

Of a dear mother, given to him with sobs,

And murmured blessings, when he left his home.

He opened it, and face to face arose

The dead old years he thought to have escaped,

All chronicled in letters; there he saw

Answers to some of his, containing doubts

Long since become negations, some again

Encouraging resolves of his, long broke,

And, as he thought, forgotten; not a leaf

But marked some downward step: Oh, in our life

There are no hours so full of speechless woe,

As those in which we read, through misty eyes,

Letters from those who loved us once; of whom

Some have long ceased to love at all; the hand

That traced the fond warm records still and cold;

The spirit that turned to ours, long lost to all

That moves and mourns and sins upon the earth;

And some, oh! sadder! that, by us estranged,

Still live, still love, but live for us no more.

He sate and gazed, till through the tent was heard

That sound the coldest cannot hear unmoved,

The strong spasmodic weeping of a man.

And all that night in Michael’s tent there burned,

Though foul with smoke, and swayed by gusty winds,

A strong bright torch, fit emblem of his soul,

That keen lamp of God’s lighting bright and strong.

While, looking on a tress of golden hair

That lay before him, all night long he sate;

This was the man who left in days gone by,

A friend, and a friend’s sister, dear as he—

A most kind mother, sinking with her cares—

An apathetic father, worn with woe—

A home in ruins—and a noble name,

To be renewed, or ended, by himself.

VI.

All things had now combined; they were to march

Against the English army; thoughts long nursed

Had taken form, to ripen into deeds.

The rains were ended; and the army met

In an old city where he marshalled them;

And, as he walked at evening, on the terrace

Of the high castle where his dwelling was,

He looked through fretted arches to the plain,

And saw their tents dropped white and countless there,

Like sheep without a shepherd—like poor sheep

Marked for the slaughter—and he pitied them.

Ere long, the dying despot of the day

Sank softly down, drowned in a sea of blood—

Like the old Roman Wolf in Capreæ.

Michael prepared for action: dark night fell,

The tents were lost to sight, the shouting sank,

The drums were silent, all the plain was dark;

Only against the far horizon loomed

The uneven outline of the distant hills.

He called his trusty troopers, and stole forth,

Hoping to pass the camp all unobserved;

But with that Host was one who loved him not,

His own Lieutenant, nephew to the King,

And higher in the soldiers’ hearts than he—

This man had dogged his path for many a day—

And when they came to the town’s outer gate,

They found it strictly guarded; Michael rode,

In anger, at the densest, shouting loud,

“Smite, smite them, spare not, each man for his life.”

His Arab Horse, that stood with gathered limbs,

And head reined to his chest, sprang at the cry,

And leaping, like a flame, plunged in the crowd;

The rest was one confusion, without sight,

Or sound—a breathless dream of ecstasy—

Till he, and half a hundred mounted men,

Were pouring o’er the plain, as pour the floods,

When the dams burst, and winter drowns the fields.

On came the fierce Lieutenant, and behind

Thundered a motley rabble, whose lean steeds

Could ill sustain that violent career,

And soon there were not left who followed him

Five hundred horsemen; still the chase was hot;—

Hot was the chase, and long—o’er scorched sands,

And open cornfields, till the spent pursuers

Began to drop behind;—some, rolled on earth,

Saw their girths broken, or their horses slain.

Then Michael’s men drew bridle and stood still,

Waiting the onset of the exhausted crew,

Whose numbers now were scarce the double of theirs.

First came the bold Foujdar. “Forward!” he cried;

“Down with the false Feringhi” his last word;—

A pistol flash, a groan, a drop of blood

On the white drapery he wore—his horse

Was riderless for ever. Michael turned

Fierce on the cowed pursuers, “Get you back,

And tell your master he is now to pay

My long-held forfeit for foul injuries,

Who dared to fling on me, when I was weak,

The childish insults of a childish mind.”

That night he was within the British lines;

But his dear gold was gone; for at the gate

His waggon-bullocks and their driver slain,

And half his guard cut off, he had but saved

His life alone, and some few jewels, stored

Upon his person: once more, all his toil,

His guilt, was foiled; he was a beggar still.

VII.

His ill-gained wealth was gone, but not his heart;

And gain it seemed to that impatient spirit

That now he should not go, a man disgraced,

To build his fallen ancestral home, long bare

To the invading scorn of low-born men.

He would sail eastward, with what yet remained,

Touch at some island of the Tropic seas,

And take a freight of spices; thence set sail

For the rich ports of China, there to trade,

And see the wonders of that unknown land;

Thence o’er the broad Pacific, and so down

By Panama, and Valparaiso, home

By the cold Land of Fire: thus would he voyage,

And gain more wealth, and win himself a name

For riches and adventure, courage bold,

And knowledge of strange countries. Then no more

Would cleave to him the brand of his disgrace;—

All bow the knee to him whom Fortune serves,

And he would be her master: he would rise

Higher and brighter o’er the heads of men,

Blaze in their sight—no meteor, shortlived, vain,

But rule them like the Day-God; then to him

The Senate and the Court should open their gates,

The mammon-loving City name his name,

His old ancestral mansion rear its head,

And he would dwell at ease, for all abroad

He should behold the lands his fathers held,

And breathe again his genial native air.

Nature and he should both their youth renew,

And all things have a beauty not their own.

There, on the upland, shall a milder sun

Smite the white cottage and the glistening vane;

And nestle in the balmy stack, and float,

A fruitful flood upon the southern wall;—

There the great oak shall stir his solemn head,

The lime-tree shed her blossoms sweetly faint,

The poplar tremble, like the heart of man,

Whose darkest thoughts have under-lights of hope;—

The beech shall spread his venerable shade,

The stately elms’ procession guard his walks,

The birch-bark gleam through foliage, and the ash

Wave ruddy clusters;—willows there shall weep,

And the wet alder shall delight to wade

Knee-deep in sluggish waters, where the kine

Take the whole meadow with contented eye,

Philosophers of nature.

One dark thought

Alone can mar these visions;—he must die,

And leave the dear possessions: in this land

Where men are struck down in their hour of strength,

That thought will oft intrude;—by day it flies

Before the excitement that his life affords—

The chase, the goblet, and the battle-field.

In sleep it haunts him; once he dreamed a dream:

Fifty unspeakable ones had borne his soul,

(For he was dead) with sounds of writhing laughter,

Into a sideless, roofless, bottomless place,

And left him there alone;—there was no pain;

But a sense that all was lost for evermore,

That this was now, and worse might be to come,

Made the stagnation misery; till, behold,

The sad and silent years wore on;—at length

His musing Spirit said within herself:—

“Oh! for one breath of life; a day, an hour,

Before the irrevocable change;—how great

My power was, had I used it; now ’tis gone.

Where is my wealth? a heap of rotten leaves

Blown to the shores of folly, where it grew;

My cherished body gone, perchance, for ever,

Perhaps reserved to torment.” With the thought

He strove to utter such a cry, as, heard

Echoing beyond the hollow halls of Hell,

Upon the confines of the orbed Earth,

Might warn the guilty, ere it was too late;—

And with that cry he woke: the dawning day

Saw him confused with horror; when it set,

He was carousing to the lips in sin.

Now was no hope! save that domestic joys

Might give him pause, and win him from his sins—

Sins not now pleasant, but so strong of growth,

That, like old Ivy, they had hid the tree,

And threatened its destruction.

There was one,

(Although he dared not name her) who had been

A cottage light, still seen, though far away,

In the dark, stormy wilderness of life;

Her love should win him yet;—for he had heard

That she was still unwedded; and he knew

Her woman’s heart, in blessed ignorance,

Might still be true to that which he had been.

VIII.

He sailed, in search of wealth, from Ganges’ mouth,

But the ship’s prow was never seen again,

Stemming the homeward waters—whether, whelmed

In stormy ocean, half way down she swayed

And swung among the dolphins and the sharks;

Or whether, on some calm Pacific night,

Where on the farthest limits of the dark

There rose and fell the momentary flash

Of lone inland volcanoes, some soft breeze

Had run her slowly on the coral reefs,

And the blue waves had rippled o’er her grave,

There was a nine days’ wonder;—men inquired,

Where was the man, whose wealth, without an heir,

(So lost, so wonderfully won again,

After he left the country, by the faith

Of an old servant, thought to have been slain,)

Was fabulously splendid? And some said

There was a Will; all he might have was left

To strangers—“to a Lady he had loved.”

It was the year that filled the century

From Michael’s birth, when he was seen again.

A venturous band had wandered in the West,

Till far from towns, or any haunt of men,

They came upon a region by the sea.

Rock-bound and bare it lay; and all the storms

That hurled the ancient, white-topped, weary waves

On California, since the world began,

Had, day by day, and year by untold year,

Heaped all their violence on its patient side,

And wasted it unhindered;—such salt herbs,

Such dwarf and barren trees as the keen air

Gave sufferance to, but rendered still more grim

The stony desolation of the place.

Yet was that soil not barren, or the men

Had never sought its distant boundaries;

For they were of the eager Saxon race,

And e’en their rude and weather-wasted garb

Bore mark of civilised life: “No foot of man,”

Said one, “has trode these wastes from everlasting:

Brothers, the land is virgin; part we here,

And in the evening let us meet again,

There, by the mouth of yonder natural cave,

And share the general labours of the day—

See, Edward, even now you tripped on gold.”

They parted: in the evening, when they met,

Their leader wore a sad and solemn look,

And with few words he led them up the rocks,

Into a stern wild scene. Far as they looked,

Cliff heaped on cliff, and stone on fragment stone,

The land’s brown ribs extended: here and there

Steep chasms it had, declining to the sea:—

Some were the beds of streams, that evermore

Washed down the golden grain, and in a year

Paid to the treasury of the insatiate flood

More than the subjects of the richest Kings

Yield to their despots in a century;—

But some of them were dry, and choked with stones

And logs of rotting timber, and deep sand;—

Here, with the lumps of ore heaped high around

They found a human skeleton; hard by,

A rusty cutlass, such as mariners use,

Whereon was rudely graven, and half-effaced,

The words “Michael De Mas;” and underneath,

“I die of want upon a bed of gold.”

THE VINEYARDS OF BORDEAUX.[32]

It is no easy matter now-a-days, for a tourist, whether he travels for

pleasure, health, or information, to throw his notes and memoranda into

such a shape as shall excite the interest of the reading public. Nothing

new is to be picked up by traversing the beaten highways of Europe. We

know all about Madrid, and Stockholm, and St Petersburg, and Vienna, and

Rome, and Naples. Not only the banks of the Danube and the Rhine, but

the coasts of Brittany and the fiords of Norway have been deflowered of

all their legends. There exists not as much virgin romance in this

quarter of the globe as would furnish a decent excuse for the

perpetration of three octavo volumes. Then, as to observations upon men

and manners—a line which earnest-minded travellers, who have an eye to

the regeneration of the human race, most commonly adopt—we shall fairly

confess that we take little interest, and repose less faith, in their

fancied discoveries. Your regenerator is almost invariably an

ass;—ignorant, garrulous, and as easy to be gulled as the last convert

to the Papacy. At every _table d’hôte_ he makes a violent effort to

increase his stores of knowledge by inveigling his nearest neighbour

into a discussion upon some point of grand social importance; and, in

nine cases out of ten, the result is, that he has to pay for the whole

of the liquor consumed, without being any wiser than before. And yet,

perhaps, even the travelling regenerator is less liable to be humbugged

than the travelling collector of statistics. The most truthful people in

the world neither think it necessary nor expedient to speak the truth

regarding themselves. Individuals are not apt to answer the queries of a

stranger touching the state of their own particular finances—neither do

men choose to disclose to foreigners the real nature of their national

relations. We are all in the habit of fibbing most egregiously, when the

honour, the pride, or the interest of our country is in any degree

concerned. Why should we scruple to confess that, on various occasions,

we made statements to confiding foreigners, under a solemn pledge of

secresy, which, when afterwards printed—the inevitable fate of all such

confidential statements—have greatly tended to the renown of this

portion of the United Kingdom? Our rule has always been to act upon the

principle professed by Caleb Balderstone, and never to stick at trifles

when the “credit of the family” was involved. We wholly deny that

fictions of this kind can be classed in the category of falsehoods. They

arise from a just and honourable estimate of the value of national

diplomacy; and no one but an arrant idiot would hesitate to contribute

his humble quota towards the exaltation of his race.

What right has a Frenchman or any other foreigner to inquire what is

going on in the heart of Great Britain? What business is it of his how

we cultivate our fields, work our machinery, or clear out the recesses

of our mines? Ten to one the fellow is no better than a spy; and if so,

it is our bounden duty to mislead him. But patriotism does not belong to

one nation only. When the Frenchman or other foreigner beholds an

unmistakable Briton, clad, perhaps, in the drab uniform of Manchester,

making curious investigations into the value of his crops, and the other

sources of his wealth, he most naturally concludes that the child of

perfidious Albion is actuated by some sinister motive. The result may be

conceived. Figures, more mendacious than any that were ever promulgated

by the League, are supplied with amazing liberality to the believing

statist. He calculates the product of a province, after the inspection

of a single farmyard; commits his observations to the press, and is

henceforward quoted as an oracle!

It is not from tourists that we can hope to gather accurate information

of the state of other countries. A very great amount of mischief and

misconception has arisen from an absurd reliance in the accuracy of men

who were absolute strangers to the country in which they sojourned, and

necessarily exposed to every sort of imposition; and really, with all

deference to our brethren of the daily press, we must be allowed to

express our conviction that the system of “Commissionership” has, of

late years, been carried a great deal too far. Of the talents of the

gentlemen so employed we would wish to speak with the utmost respect.

They are, almost all of them, clever fellows, sharp, shrewd, and

observing; but it is too much to expect that, at a moment’s notice, they

can forget the whole previous antecedents of their lives, and discourse

dogmatically and with perfect precision upon subjects of which they knew

nothing until they were gazetted for the special service.

Mr Reach, we trust, will do us the kindness to believe that these

preliminary remarks have not been elicited by anything contained in his

present volume, and also that we intend no insinuation derogatory of his

contributions in the capacity of a commissioner. The fact is, that we

have not read his papers on the social and agricultural condition of the

peasantry of France, being somewhat more deeply interested in the

condition of our peasantry at home; but we know quite enough of his

talent and ability to make us certain that he has treated the subject

both honestly and well. Fortunately we are not called upon now to

investigate his statistical budget. He comes before us in the more

agreeable character of a traveller in the sunny south of France. Led by

a fine natural instinct, he has tarried in the vinous district until he

has imbibed the true spirit of the region. His native Caledonian

sympathies in favour of claret—a disposition in which we cordially

participate, detesting port almost as intensely as Whiggery—were fully

developed by a sojourn in the neighbourhood of the Chateau Lafitte. Of

Ceres, at so much a quarter, he tells us nothing—of Bacchus, at so much

a bottle, he speaks well and eloquently. Endowed by nature with a gay

and happy temper, fond of fun, relishing adventure, and with a fine eye

for the picturesque, he ranges from the Garonne to the Rhone, from the

shores of the Bay of Biscay to the Mediterranean marshes, from the

sterile wastes of the Landes, by the splendour of the Pyrenees, to the

old Roman city of Nismes—making us wish all the while that we could have

made the journey in such agreeable company. As a fellow-traveller, we

should be inclined to say that he errs on the score of haste. Assuredly

we should have lingered with reverence at some places which he passed

with undue precipitancy. He had no right to hurry through Haut-brion as

he did—he should have dwelt longer at Leoville. Our matured taste and

experience of vintages would have mitigated the rapidity of his career.

Mr Reach has not done justice to himself in the selection of a title for

his volume. _Claret and Olives_ are rather apt to be misunderstood in

the present day, owing to the practices of previous authors, who have

been in the habit of vending the properties of the deceased Joseph

Miller under some such after-dinner disguise. _Wine and Walnuts_ was an

old title, whereof we have an indistinct recollection; our impression at

this moment being, that the wine was corked and the walnuts woefully

shrivelled. Then followed _Nuts and Nutcrackers_—maggoty enough, and

filled with devil’s-dust that might have choked a member of the League.

_Grog and Biscuits_ we presume to have been a feeble sort of production,

emanating from a disappointed mind, working on a heritage of wrong.

_Sherry and Cheroots_ did not amalgamate. _Alcohol and Anchovies_ gave

token of a diseased intellect and a ruined constitution. _Tumblers and

Talk_—a Glasgow publication, if we recollect aright—had little

circulation except among bibulous members of town-councils, or similar

corporations. _Ale and Æsthetics_ was but an unfortunate specimen of

alliteration. How many editions of _Beer and ‘Baccy_ have been printed,

we know not; but we are not aware as yet that the author has made his

fortune. With all these beacons before him, we could wish that Mr Reach

had announced his book under some other name. He is not to be

confounded, as an author, with the issuers of such catch-pennies.

Putting aside even his present work as one of limited interest—though we

should be puzzled to name any tourist who writes more pleasantly than

our author—his novel of _Leonard Lindsay_ displays a carefulness of

composition, and a life-like painting, in the style of Defoe, which

contrasts remarkably with the slip-shod trash now forming the staple

commodity of the circulating libraries. There is the right stuff in him,

visible throughout whatever he attempts; and if at times his taste is

liable to exception, we believe that aberration to be solely owing to

the exigencies of the times, which leave far too little leisure to most

men to revise and consider their productions.

The title, however, is unquestionably appropriate enough, though it may

be calculated to mislead the reader. In his wanderings he has visited

the home domain both of the vine and the olive—at least he has passed

from the sanctuary of the one to the outskirts of the other; but we

could really wish that he had not profaned the goodly vintage by

reminding us of those lumps of vegetable fatness which sometimes, even

now, are served up at an octogenarian symposium, in honour of the

goddess Dyspepsia. We honour oil like the Sultan Saladin, and could wish

to see it brought into more general use in this country; but there is

something revolting to us in the sight and colour of the olive, which

has neither the freshness of youth nor the fine hue of maturity. The

last man whom we remember to have seen eating olives was an eminent

manufacturer of Staleybridge, who helped himself to the fruit of Minerva

with his short stubby fingers, descanting all the while on the propriety

of the enactment of a bill for augmenting the hours of infant labour. He

died, if we recollect aright, about a fortnight afterwards—perhaps in

consequence of the olives: if so, we are not disposed to deny that at

times they may be served up with advantage.

Mr Reach, however, loathes the olive as much as we do, and therefore

there is no difference of opinion between us. We like the fine

enthusiasm with which he does justice to the taste of our mother

country—a taste which we are certain will not decay so long as Leith

flourishes, and the house of Bell and Rannie continues to maintain its

pristine ascendancy in claret. With us in the north, we are glad to say

there is no recognised medium between Glenlivat and Bordeaux. Either

have in the hot water, or produce your ’34; nobody will thank you for

that port which you bought last week at an auction, and which you are

desirous to represent as having been bottled for your use about the era

of the Reform Bill. It may be both “curious” and “crusted,” as you say

it is; but you had better have it set aside to make sauce for

wild-ducks. Indeed, “curious” port is, for many reasons, a thing to be

avoided. We remember once dining at the house of an excellent clergyman

in the country, whose palate, however, might have undergone a little

more cultivation, with mutual advantage to himself and to his

acquaintance. On that occasion we were presented three times with a

certain fluid, under three different names; but all of us afterwards

agreed that it was the same liquor, varying simply in degree of

temperature. First, it came in smoking in a tureen, and was then called

hare-soup; secondly, it was poured out cold from a decanter, under the

denomination of port; third, and lastly, it came before us tepidly, with

the accompaniment of sugar and cream, and the red-armed Hebe who brought

the tray had the effrontery to assure us that it was coffee. So much for

the curious vintage of Oporto—but we are forgetting Mr Reach.

“It is really much to the credit of Scotland that she stood staunchly

by her old ally, France, and would have nothing to do with that dirty

little slice of the worst part of Spain—Portugal, or her brandified

potations. In the old Scotch houses a cask of claret stood in the

hall, nobly on the tap. In the humblest Scotch country tavern, the

pewter _tappit-hen_, holding some three quarts—think of that, Master

Slender—‘reamed’ (_Anglice_, mantled) with claret just drawn from the

cask; and you quaffed it, snapping your fingers at custom-houses. At

length, in an evil hour, Scotland fell.”

We have more than half a mind to ascend the Rhine to Bacharach, and

swear upon the altar of Lyæus—which must now be visible, if the weather

on the Continent has been as dry as here—never to relax our efforts

until either the Union, or the infamous duty on the wines of Bordeaux,

is repealed! But we must calm ourselves and proceed moderately. Now,

then, for the vineyards—here, as elsewhere, no very picturesque objects

to the eye, but conveying a moral lesson that real goodness does not

depend upon external appearances. We never saw a vineyard yet, whereof

the wine was worth drinking, which a man would care to look at twice.

Your raspberry-bush is, upon the whole, a statelier plant than the vine

when fulfilling its noblest functions; nevertheless, we presume there

are few who would give the preference to raspberry vinegar over

veritable Lafitte. We have seen the vineyards in spring, when, as poor

Ovid says—

“Quoque loco est vitis, de palmite gemma movetur;”

but they do not bud at all so luxuriantly as a poet would fancy. The

only time for seeing them to advantage is at the gathering of the

grapes, when the gay dresses of the vintagers give animation to the

scene, and song and laughter proclaim the season of general jubilee.

There is nothing in our northern climates to compare with it, especially

of late years, since the harvest-home brings no certainty of added

wealth. Just fancy Mr Cobden at a _kirn_! Why, at the very sight of him

the twasome reel would stop of its own accord—the blind old fiddler,

scenting some unholy thing, would mitigate the ardour of his bow—and the

patriarch of the parish, brewing punch, would inevitably drown the

miller. Lucky for the intruder if he made his escape without being

immersed in a tub of sowens!

We shall let Mr Reach speak for himself, as to the complexion of his

favourite vineyards.