BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. CCCCXXI. NOVEMBER, 1850. VOL. LXVIII.
CONTENTS.
MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE. PART III. 499
THE RISE, POWER, AND POLITICS OF PRUSSIA, 516
HOURS IN SPAIN, 534
MODERN STATE TRIALS. PART II. 545
ANNA HAMMER, 573
ALTON LOCKE, TAILOR AND POET: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY, 592
THE RENEWAL OF THE INCOME-TAX, 611
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PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. CCCCXXI. NOVEMBER, 1850. VOL. LXVIII.
MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.
BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.
BOOK II--INITIAL CHAPTER:--INFORMING THE READER HOW THIS WORK CAME TO
HAVE INITIAL CHAPTERS.
"There can't be a doubt," said my father, "that to each of the main
divisions of your work--whether you call them Books or Parts--you
should prefix an Initial or Introductory Chapter."
PISISTRATUS.--"Can't be a doubt, sir! Why so?"
MR CAXTON.--"Fielding lays it down as an indispensable rule, which he
supports by his example; and Fielding was an artistical writer, and
knew what he was about."
PISISTRATUS.--"Do you remember any of his reasons, sir?"
MR CAXTON.--"Why, indeed, Fielding says very justly that he is not
bound to assign any reason; but he does assign a good many, here and
there--to find which, I refer you to _Tom Jones_. I will only observe,
that one of his reasons, which is unanswerable, runs to the effect that
thus, in every Part or Book, the reader has the advantage of beginning
at the fourth or fifth page instead of the first--'a matter by no means
of trivial consequence,' saith Fielding, 'to persons who read books
with no other view than to say they have read them--a more general
motive to reading than is commonly imagined; and from which not only
law books and good books, but the pages of Homer and Virgil, of Swift
and Cervantes have been often turned over.' There," cried my father
triumphantly, "I will lay a shilling to twopence that I have quoted the
very words."
MRS CAXTON.--"Dear me, that only means skipping: I don't see any great
advantage in writing a chapter, merely for people to skip it."
PISISTRATUS.--"Neither do I!"
MR CAXTON, dogmatically.--"It is the repose in the picture--Fielding
calls it 'contrast '--(still more dogmatically) I say there can't
be a doubt about it. Besides, (added my father after a pause,)
besides, this usage gives you opportunities to explain what has gone
before, or to prepare for what's coming; or, since Fielding contends
with great truth, that some learning is necessary for this kind of
historical composition, it allows you, naturally and easily, the
introduction of light and pleasant ornaments of that nature. At each
flight in the terrace, you may give the eye the relief of an urn or a
statue. Moreover, when so inclined, you create proper pausing places
for reflection; and complete, by a separate yet harmonious ethical
department, the design of a work, which is but a mere Mother Goose's
tale if it does not embrace a general view of the thoughts and actions
of mankind."
PISISTRATUS.--"But then, in these initial chapters, the author thrusts
himself forward; and just when you want to get on with the _dramatis
personæ_, you find yourself face to face with the poet himself."
MR CAXTON.--"Pooh! you can contrive to prevent that! Imitate the chorus
of the Greek stage, who fill up the intervals between the action by
saying what the author would otherwise say in his own person."
PISISTRATUS, slily.--"That's a good idea, sir--and I have a chorus, and
a chorægus too, already in my eye."
MR CAXTON, unsuspectingly.--"Aha! you are not so dull a fellow as
you would make yourself out to be; and, even if an author did thrust
himself forward, what objection is there to that? It is a mere
affectation to suppose that a book can come into the world without an
author. Every child has a father, one father at least, as the great
Condé says very well in his poem."
PISISTRATUS.--"The great Condé a poet!--I never heard that before."
MR CAXTON.--"I don't say he was a poet, but he sent a poem to Madame
de Montansier. Envious critics think that he must have paid somebody
else to write it; but there is no reason why a great Captain should not
write a poem--I don't say a good poem, but a poem. I wonder, Roland,
if the Duke ever tried his hand at 'Stanzas to Mary,' or 'Lines to a
sleeping babe.'"
CAPTAIN ROLAND.--"Austin, I'm ashamed of you. Of course the Duke could
write poetry if he pleased--something, I dare say, in the way of the
great Condé--that is something warlike and heroic, I'll be bound. Let's
hear!"
MR CAXTON, reciting--
"Telle est du Ciel la loi sévère
Qu'il faut qu'un enfant ait un père;
On dit même quelque fois
Tel enfant en a jusqu'à trois."
CAPTAIN ROLAND, greatly disgusted.--"Condé write such stuff!--I don't
believe it."
PISISTRATUS.--"I do, and accept the quotation--you and Roland shall be
joint fathers to my child as well as myself."
"Tel enfant en a jusqu'à trois."
MR CAXTON, solemnly.--"I refuse the proffered paternity; but so far as
administering a little wholesome castigation, now and then, I have no
objection to join in the discharge of a father's duty."
PISISTRATUS.--"Agreed; have you anything to say against the infant
hitherto?"
MR CAXTON.--"He is in long clothes at present; let us wait till he can
walk."
BLANCHE.--"But pray whom do you mean for a hero?--and is Miss Jemima
your heroine?"
CAPTAIN ROLAND.--"There is some mystery about the--"
PISISTRATUS, hastily.--"Hush, Uncle; no letting the cat out of the
bag yet. Listen, all of you! I left Frank Hazeldean on his way to the
Casino."
CHAPTER II.
"It is a sweet pretty place," thought Frank, as he opened the gate
which led across the fields to the Casino, that smiled down upon him
with its plaster pilasters. "I wonder, though, that my father, who is
so particular in general, suffers the carriage road to be so full of
holes and weeds. Mounseer does not receive many visits, I take it."
But when Frank got into the ground immediately before the house, he saw
no cause of complaint as to want of order and repair. Nothing could
be kept more neatly. Frank was ashamed of the dint made by the pony's
hoofs in the smooth gravel; he dismounted, tied the animal to the
wicket, and went on foot towards the glass door in front.
He rang the bell once, twice, but nobody came, for the old
woman-servant, who was hard of hearing, was far away in the yard,
searching for any eggs which the hen might have scandalously hidden
from culinary purposes; and Jackeymo was fishing for the sticklebacks
and minnows, which were, when caught, to assist the eggs, when found,
in keeping together the bodies and souls of himself and his master.
The old woman was on board wages,--lucky old woman! Frank rang a third
time, and with the impetuosity of his age. A face peeped from the
Belvidere on the terrace. "Diavolo!" said Dr Riccabocca to himself.
"Young cocks crow hard on their own dunghill; it must be a cock of a
high race to crow so loud at another's."
Therewith he shambled out of the summer-house, and appeared suddenly
before Frank, in a very wizard-like dressing robe of black serge, a red
cap on his head, and a cloud of smoke coming rapidly from his lips,
as a final consolatory whiff, before he removed the pipe from them.
Frank had indeed seen the Doctor before, but never in so scholastic a
costume, and he was a little startled by the apparition at his elbow,
as he turned round.
"Signorino--young gentleman," said the Italian, taking off his cap with
his usual urbanity, "pardon the negligence of my people--I am too happy
to receive your commands in person."
"Dr Rickeybockey?" stammered Frank, much confused by this polite
address, and the low yet stately bow with which it was accompanied,
"I--I have a note from the Hall. Mama--that is, my mother,--and aunt
Jemima beg their best compliments, and hope you will come, sir."
The Doctor took the note with another bow, and, opening the glass door,
invited Frank to enter.
The young gentleman, with a schoolboy's usual bluntness, was about to
say that he was in a hurry, and had rather not; but Dr Riccabocca's
grand manner awed him, while a glimpse of the hall excited his
curiosity--so he silently obeyed the invitation.
The hall, which was of an octagon shape, had been originally panelled
off into compartments, and in these the Italian had painted landscapes,
rich with the warm sunny light of his native climate. Frank was no
judge of the art displayed; but he was greatly struck with the scenes
depicted: they were all views of some lake, real or imaginary--in all,
dark-blue shining waters reflected dark-blue placid skies. In one,
a flight of steps descended to the lake, and a gay group was seen
feasting on the margin: in another, sunset threw its rose-hues over
a vast villa or palace, backed by Alpine hills, and flanked by long
arcades of vines, while pleasure-boats skimmed over the waves below.
In short, throughout all the eight compartments, the scene, though
it differed in details, preserved the same general character, as if
illustrating some favourite locality. The Italian did not, however,
evince any desire to do the honours to his own art, but, preceding
Frank across the hall, opened the door of his usual sitting-room, and
requested him to enter. Frank did so, rather reluctantly, and seated
himself with unwonted bashfulness on the edge of a chair. But here new
specimens of the Doctor's handicraft soon riveted attention. The room
had been originally papered; but Riccabocca had stretched canvass over
the walls, and painted thereon sundry satirical devices, each separated
from the other by scroll-works of fantastic arabesques. Here a Cupid
was trundling a wheelbarrow full of hearts, which he appeared to be
selling to an ugly old fellow, with a money-bag in his hand--probably
Plutus. There Diogenes might be seen walking through a market-place,
with his lantern in his hand, in search of an honest man, whilst the
children jeered at him, and the curs snapped at his heels. In another
place, a lion was seen half dressed in a fox's hide, while a wolf in
a sheep's mask was conversing very amicably with a young lamb. Here
again might be seen the geese stretching out their necks from the Roman
Capitol in full cackle, while the stout invaders were beheld in the
distance, running off as hard as they could. In short, in all these
quaint entablatures some pithy sarcasm was symbolically conveyed; only
over the mantelpiece was the design graver and more touching. It was
the figure of a man in a pilgrim's garb, chained to the earth by small
but innumerable ligaments, while a phantom likeness of himself, his
shadow, was seen hastening down what seemed an interminable vista; and
underneath were written the pathetic words of Horace--
"Patriæ quis exul
Se quoque fugit?."
--"What exile from his country can fly himself as well?" The
furniture of the room was extremely simple, and somewhat scanty;
yet it was arranged so as to impart an air of taste and elegance to
the room. Even a few plaster busts and statues, though bought but
of some humble itinerant, had their classical effect, glistening
from out stands of flowers that were grouped around them, or backed
by graceful screen-works formed from twisted osiers, which, by the
simple contrivance of trays at the bottom, filled with earth, served
for living parasitical plants, with gay flowers contrasting thick ivy
leaves, and gave to the whole room the aspect of a bower.
"May I ask your permission?" said the Italian, with his finger on the
seal of the letter.
"Oh yes," said Frank with _naiveté_.
Riccabocca broke the seal, and a slight smile stole over his
countenance. Then he turned a little aside from Frank, shaded his face
with his hand, and seemed to muse. "Mrs Hazeldean," said he at last,
"does me very great honour. I hardly recognise her handwriting, or I
should have been more impatient to open the letter." The dark eyes were
lifted over the spectacles, and went right into Frank's unprotected
and undiplomatic heart. The Doctor raised the note, and pointed to the
characters with his forefinger.
"Cousin Jemima's hand," said Frank, as directly as if the question had
been put to him.
The Italian smiled. "Mr Hazeldean has company staying with him?"
"No; that is, only Barney--the Captain. There's seldom much company
before the shooting season," added Frank with a slight sigh; "and then
you know the holidays are over. For my part, I think we ought to break
up a month later."
The Doctor seemed reassured by the first sentence in Frank's reply,
and seating himself at the table, wrote his answer--not hastily, as
we English write, but with care and precision, like one accustomed to
weigh the nature of words--in that stiff Italian hand, which allows the
writer so much time to think while he forms his letters. He did not
therefore reply at once to Frank's remark about the holidays, but was
silent till he had concluded his note, read it three times over, sealed
it by the taper he slowly lighted, and then, giving it to Frank, he
said--
"For your sake, young gentleman, I regret that your holidays are so
early; for mine, I must rejoice, since I accept the kind invitation you
have rendered doubly gratifying by bringing it yourself."
"Deuce take the fellow and his fine speeches! One don't know which way
to look," thought English Frank.
The Italian smiled again, as if this time he had read the boy's heart,
without need of those piercing black eyes, and said, less ceremoniously
than before, "You don't care much for compliments, young gentleman?"
"No, I don't indeed," said Frank heartily.
"So much the better for you, since your way in the world is made: it
would be so much the worse if you had to make it!"
Frank looked puzzled: the thought was too deep for him--so he turned to
the pictures.
"Those are very funny," said he: "they seem capitally done--who did
'em?"
"Signorino Hazeldean, you are giving me what you refused yourself."
"Eh?" said Frank inquiringly.
"Compliments!"
"Oh--I--no; but they are well done, arn't they, sir?"
"Not particularly: you speak to the artist."
"What! you painted them?"
"Yes."
"And the pictures in the hall?"
"Those too."
"Taken from nature--eh?"
"Nature," said the Italian sententiously, perhaps evasively, "lets
nothing be taken from her."
"Oh!" said Frank, puzzled again.
"Well, I must wish you good morning, sir; I am very glad you are
coming."
"Without compliment?"
"Without compliment."
"_A rivedersi_--good-by for the present, my young signorino. This way,"
observing Frank make a bolt towards the wrong door.
"Can I offer you a glass of wine--it is pure, of our own making?"
"No, thank you, indeed, sir," cried Frank, suddenly recollecting his
father's admonition. "Good-by--don't trouble yourself, sir; I know my
way now."
But the bland Italian followed his guest to the wicket, where Frank
had left the pony. The young gentleman, afraid lest so courteous a
host should hold the stirrup for him, twitched off the bridle, and
mounted in haste, not even staying to ask if the Italian could put him
in the way to Rood Hall, of which way he was profoundly ignorant. The
Italian's eye followed the boy as he rode up the ascent in the lane,
and the Doctor sighed heavily. "The wiser we grow," said he to himself,
"the more we regret the age of our follies: it is better to gallop with
a light heart up the stony hill than sit in the summer-house and cry
'How true!' to the stony truths of Machiavelli!"
With that he turned back into the Belvidere; but he could not resume
his studies. He remained some minutes gazing on the prospect, till
the prospect reminded him of the fields, which Jackeymo was bent on
his hiring, and the fields reminded him of Lenny Fairfield. He walked
back to the house, and in a few moments re-emerged in his out-of-door
trim, with cloak and umbrella, relighted his pipe, and strolled towards
Hazeldean village.
Meanwhile Frank, after cantering on for some distance, stopped at
a cottage, and there learned that there was a short cut across the
fields to Rood Hall, by which he could save nearly three miles.
Frank, however, missed the short cut, and came out into the highroad:
a turnpike keeper, after first taking his toll, put him back again
into the short cut; and finally, he got into some green lanes, where
a dilapidated finger-post directed him to Rood. Late at noon, having
ridden fifteen miles in the desire to reduce ten to seven, he came
suddenly upon a wild and primitive piece of ground, that seemed half
Chase, half common, with slovenly tumble-down cottages of villanous
aspect scattered about in odd nooks and corners; idle dirty children
were making mud pies on the road; slovenly-looking women were plaiting
straw at the thresholds; a large but forlorn and decayed church, that
seemed to say that the generation which saw it built was more pious
than the generation which now resorted to it, stood boldly and nakedly
out by the roadside.
"Is this the village of Rood?" asked Frank of a stout young man
breaking stones on the road--sad sign that no better labour could be
found for him!
The man sullenly nodded, and continued his work.
"And where's the Hall--Mr. Leslie's?"
The man looked up in stolid surprise, and this time touched his hat.
"Be you going there?"
"Yes, if I can find out where it is."
"I'll show your honour," said the boor alertly.
Frank reined in the pony, and the man walked by his side.
Frank was much of his father's son, despite the difference of age,
and that more fastidious change of manner which characterises each
succeeding race in the progress of civilisation. Despite all his Eton
finery, he was familiar with peasants, and had the quick eye of one
country-born as to country matters.
"You don't seem very well off in this village, my man?" said he
knowingly.
"Noa; there be a deal of distress here in the winter time, and summer
too, for that matter; and the parish ben't much help to a single man."
"But the farmers want work here as well as elsewhere, I suppose?"
"'Deed, and there ben't much farming work here--most o' the parish be
all wild ground loike."
"The poor have a right of common, I suppose," said Frank, surveying a
large assortment of vagabond birds and quadrupeds.
"Yes; neighbour Timmins keeps his geese on the common, and some has a
cow--and them be neighbour Jowlas's pigs. I don't know if there's a
right, loike; but the folks at the Hall does all they can to help us,
and that ben't much: they ben't as rich as some folks; but," added the
peasant proudly, "they be as good blood as any in the shire."
"I'm glad to see you like them, at all events."
"Oh yes, I likes them well eno'; mayhap you are at school with the
young gentleman?"
"Yes," said Frank.
"Ah! I heard the clergyman say as how Master Randal was a mighty clever
lad, and would get rich some day. I'se sure I wish he would, for a poor
squire makes a poor parish. There's the Hall, sir."