CHAPTER IX.

_The Mystery Revealed_

MY DEAREST Henrietta,’ said the Consul as he entered, ‘who, think you,

has returned? Lord Bohun.’

‘Indeed!’ said Henrietta. ‘Have you seen him?’ ‘No. I paid my respects

to him immediately, but he was unwell. He breakfasts with us to-morrow,

at ten.’

The morrow came, but ten o’clock brought no Lord Bohun; and even eleven

sounded: the Consul sought his daughter to consult her--he was surprised

to learn that Miss Ponsonby had not returned from her early ramble. At

this moment a messenger arrived from the yacht to say that, from some

error, Lord Bohun had repaired to the casino, where he awaited the

Consul. The major mounted his barb, and soon reached the pavilion. As

he entered the garden, he beheld, in the distance, his daughter and--Mr.

Ferrers. He was, indeed, surprised. It appeared that Henrietta was

about to run forward to him; but her companion checked her, and she

disappeared down a neighbouring walk. Mr. Ferrers advanced, and saluted

her father--

‘You are surprised to see me, my dear sir?’

‘I am surprised, but most happy. You came, of course, with Lord Bohun?’

Mr. Ferrers bowed.

‘I am very desirous of having some conversation with you, my dear Major

Ponsonby,’ continued Mr. Ferrers.

‘I am ever at your service, my dearest sir, but at the present moment I

must go and greet his lordship.’

‘Oh, never mind Bohun,’ said Mr. Ferrers, carelessly. ‘I have no

ceremony with him--he can wait.’

The major was a little perplexed.

‘You must know, my dearest sir,’ continued Mr. Ferrers, ‘that I wish to

speak to you on a subject in which my happiness is entirely concerned.’

‘Proceed, sir,’ said the Consul, looking still more puzzled.

‘You can scarcely be astonished, my dearest sir, that I should admire

your daughter.’

The Consul bowed.

‘Indeed,’ said Mr. Ferrers; ‘it seems to me impossible to know her and

not admire: I should say, adore her.’

‘You flatter a father’s feelings,’ said the Consul.

‘I express my own,’ replied Mr. Ferrers. ‘I love her--I have long loved

her devotedly.’

‘Hem!’ said Major Ponsonby.

‘I feel,’ continued Mr. Ferrers, ‘that there is a great deal to

apologise for in my conduct, towards both you and herself: I feel that

my conduct may, in some degree, be considered even unpardonable: I will

not say that the end justifies the means, Major Ponsonby, but my end

was, at least, a great, and, I am sure a virtuous one.’

‘I do not clearly comprehend you, Mr. Ferrers.’

‘It is some consolation to me,’ continued that gentleman, ‘that the

daughter has pardoned me; now let me indulge the delightful hope that I

may be as successful with the father.’

‘I will, at least, listen with patience, to you, Mr. Ferrers; but I must

own your meaning is not very evident to me: let me, at least, go and

shake hands with Lord Bohun.’

‘I will answer for Lord Bohun excusing your momentary neglect. Pray, my

dear sir, listen to me. I wish to make you acquainted, Major Ponsonby,

with the feelings which influenced me when I first landed on this

island. This knowledge is necessary for my justification.’

‘But what is there to justify?’ inquired the major.

‘Conceive a man born to a great fortune,’ continued Mr. Ferrers, without

noticing the interruption, ‘and to some accidents of life, which many

esteem above fortune; a station as eminent as his wealth--conceive this

man master of his destiny from his boyhood, and early experienced in

that great world with which you are not unacquainted--conceive him with

a heart, gifted, perhaps, with too dangerous a sensibility; the dupe and

the victim of all whom he encounters--conceive him, in disgust, flying

from the world that had deceived him, and divesting himself of those

accidents of existence which, however envied by others, appeared to his

morbid imagination the essential causes of his misery--conceive this

man, unknown and obscure, sighing to be valued for those qualities of

which fortune could not deprive him, and to be loved only for his own

sake--a miserable man, sir!’

‘It would seem so,’ said the Consul.

‘Now, then, for a moment imagine this man apparently in possession

of all for which he had so long panted; he is loved, he is loved for

himself, and loved by a being surpassing the brightest dream of his

purest youth: yet the remembrance of the past poisons, even now, his

joy. He is haunted by the suspicion that the affection, even of this

being, is less the result of his own qualities, than of her inexperience

of life--he has everything at stake--he dares to submit her devotion to

the sharpest trial--he quits her without withdrawing the dark curtain

with which he had enveloped himself--he quits her with the distinct

understanding that she shall not even hear from him until he thinks fit

to return; and entangles her pure mind, for the first time, in a secret

from the parent whom she adores. He is careful, in the meanwhile, that

his name shall be traduced in her presence--that the proudest fortune,

the loftiest rank, shall be offered for her acceptance, if she only will

renounce him, and the dim hope of his return. A terrible trial, Major

Ponsonby!’

‘Indeed, most terrible.’

‘But she is true--truer even than truth--and I have come back to claim

my unrivalled bride. Can you pardon me? Can you sympathise with me?’

‘I speak, then-----’ murmured the astounded Consul--

‘To your son, with your permission-to Lord Bohun!’

WALSTEIN; OR A CURE FOR MELANCHOLY

CHAPTER I.

_A Philosophical Conversation between a Physician and

His Patient._

DR. DE SCHULEMBOURG was the most eminent physician in Dresden. He was

not only a physician; he was a philosopher. He studied the idiosyncrasy

of his patients, and was aware of the fine and secret connection between

medicine and morals. One morning Dr. de Schulembourg was summoned to

Walstein. The physician looked forward to the interview with his patient

with some degree of interest. He had often heard of Walstein, but had

never yet met that gentleman, who had only recently returned from his

travels, and who had been absent from his country for several years.

When Dr. de Schulembourg arrived at the house of Walstein, he was

admitted into a circular hall containing the busts of the Caesars, and

ascending a double staircase of noble proportion, was ushered into a

magnificent gallery. Copies in marble of the most celebrated ancient

statues were ranged on each side of this gallery. Above them were

suspended many beautiful Italian and Spanish pictures, and between them

were dwarf bookcases full of tall volumes in sumptuous bindings, and

crowned with Etruscan vases and rare bronzes. Schulembourg, who was a

man of taste, looked around him with great satisfaction. And while he

was gazing on a group of diaphanous cherubim, by Murillo, an artist of

whom he had heard much and knew little, his arm was gently touched, and

turning round, Schulembourg beheld his patient, a man past the prime of

youth, but of very distinguished appearance, and with a very frank and

graceful manner. ‘I hope you will pardon me, my dear sir, for permitting

you to be a moment alone,’ said Walstein, with an ingratiating smile.

‘Solitude, in such a scene, is not very wearisome,’ replied the

physician. ‘There are great changes in-this mansion since the time of

your father, Mr. Walstein.’

‘’Tis an attempt to achieve that which we are all sighing for,’ replied

Walstein, ‘the Ideal. But for myself, although I assure you not a

_pococurante_, I cannot help thinking there is no slight dash of the

commonplace.’

‘Which is a necessary ingredient of all that is excellent,’ replied

Schulembourg.

Walstein shrugged his shoulders, and then invited the physician to be

seated. ‘I wish to consult you, Dr. Schulembourg,’ he observed,

somewhat abruptly. ‘My metaphysical opinions induce me to believe that

a physician is the only philosopher. I am perplexed by my own case. I

am in excellent health, my appetite is good, my digestion perfect. My

temperament I have ever considered to be of a very sanguine character.

I have nothing upon my mind. I am in very easy circumstances. Hitherto

I have only committed blunders in life and never crimes. Nevertheless,

I have, of late, become the victim of a deep and inscrutable melancholy,

which I can ascribe to no cause, and can divert by no resource. Can you

throw any light upon my dark feelings? Can you remove them?’

‘How long have you experienced them?’ inquired the physician.

‘More or less ever since my return,’ replied Walstein; ‘but most

grievously during the last three months.’

‘Are you in love?’ inquired Schulembourg.

‘Certainly not,’ replied Walstein, ‘and I fear I never shall be.’

‘You have been?’ inquired the physician.

‘I have had some fancies, perhaps too many,’ answered the patient; ‘but

youth deludes itself. My idea of a heroine has never been realised, and,

in all probability, never will be.’

‘Besides an idea of a heroine,’ said Schulembourg, ‘you have also, if I

mistake not, an idea of a hero?’

‘Without doubt,’ replied Walstein. ‘I have preconceived for myself a

character which I have never achieved.’

‘Yet, if you have never met a heroine nearer your ideal than your hero,

why should you complain?’ rejoined Schulembourg.

‘There are moments when my vanity completes my own portrait,’ said

Walstein.

‘And there are moments when our imagination completes the portrait of

our mistress,’ rejoined Schulembourg.

‘You reason,’ said Walstein. ‘I was myself once fond of reasoning, but

the greater my experience, the more I have become convinced that man is

not a rational animal. He is only truly good or great when he acts from

passion.’

‘Passion is the ship, and reason is the rudder,’ observed Schulembourg.

‘And thus we pass the ocean of life,’ said Walstein. ‘Would that I

could discover a new continent of sensation!’

‘Do you mix much in society?’ said the physician.

‘By fits and starts,’ said Walstein. ‘A great deal when I first

returned: of late little.’

‘And your distemper has increased in proportion with your solitude?’

‘It would superficially appear so,’ observed Walstein; ‘but I consider

my present distemper as not so much the result of solitude, as the

reaction of much converse with society. I am gloomy at present from a

sense of disappointment of the past.’

‘You are disappointed,’ observed Schulembourg. ‘What, then, did you

expect?’

‘I do not know,’ replied Walstein; ‘that is the very thing I wish to

discover.’

‘How do you in general pass your time?’ inquired the physician.

‘When I reply _in doing nothing_, my dear Doctor,’ said Walstein,

‘you will think that you have discovered the cause of my disorder. But

perhaps you will only mistake an effect for a cause.’

‘Do you read?’

‘I have lost the faculty of reading: early in life I was a student, but

books become insipid when one is rich with the wisdom of a wandering

life.’

‘Do you write?’

‘I have tried, but mediocrity disgusts me. In literature a second-rate

reputation is no recompense for the evils that authors are heirs to.’

‘Yet, without making your compositions public, you might relieve your

own feelings in expressing them. There is a charm in creation.’

‘My sympathies are strong,’ replied Walstein. ‘In an evil hour I might

descend from my pedestal; I should compromise my dignity with the herd;

I should sink before the first shaft of ridicule.’

‘You did not suffer from this melancholy when travelling?’

‘Occasionally: but the fits were never so profound, and were very

evanescent.’

‘Travel is action,’ replied Schulembourg. ‘Believe me, that in action

you alone can find a cure.’

‘What is action?’ inquired Walstein. ‘Travel I have exhausted. The world

is quiet. There are no wars now, no revolutions. Where can I find a

career?’

‘Action,’ replied Schulembourg, ‘is the exercise of our faculties. Do

not mistake restlessness for action. Murillo, who passed a long life

almost within the walls of his native city, was a man of great action.

Witness the convents and the churches that are covered with his

exploits. A great student is a great actor, and as great as a marshal or

a statesman. You must act, Mr. Walstein, you must act; you must have an

object in life; great or slight, still you must have an object. Believe

me, it is better to be a mere man of pleasure than a dreamer.’

‘Your advice is profound,’ replied Walstein, ‘and you have struck upon a

sympathetic chord. But what am I to do? I have no object.’

‘You are a very ambitious man,’ replied the physician.

‘How know you that?’ said Walstein, somewhat hastily, and slightly

blushing.

‘We doctors know many strange things,’ replied Schulembourg, with a

smile. ‘Come now, would you like to be prime minister of Saxony?’

‘Prime minister of Oberon!’ said Walstein, laughing; ‘’tis indeed a

great destiny.’

‘Ah! when you have lived longer among us, your views will accommodate

themselves to our limited horizon. In the meantime, I will write you a

prescription, provided you promise to comply with my directions.’

‘Do not doubt me, my dear Doctor.’

Schulembourg seated himself at the table, and wrote a few lines, which

he handed to his patient.

Walstein smiled as he read the prescription.

‘Dr. de Schulembourg requests the honour of the Baron de Walstein’s

company at dinner, to-morrow at two o’clock.’

Walstein smiled and looked a little perplexed, but he remembered his

promise. ‘I shall, with pleasure, become your guest, Doctor.’

CHAPTER II.

_Containing Some Future Conversation_

WALSTEIN did not forget his engagement with his friendly physician. The

house of Schulembourg was the most beautiful mansion in Dresden. It was

situated in a delicious garden in the midst of the park, and had been

presented to him by a grateful sovereign. It was a Palladian villa,

which recalled the Brenda to the recollection of Walstein, with flights

of marble steps, airy colonnades, pediments of harmonious proportion,

all painted with classic frescoes. Orange trees clustered in groups upon

the terrace, perfumed the summer air, rising out of magnificent vases

sculptured in high relief; and amid the trees, confined by silver chains

were rare birds of radiant plumage, rare birds with prismatic eyes and

bold ebon beaks, breasts flooded with crimson, and long tails of violet

and green. The declining sun shone brightly in the light blue sky,

and threw its lustre upon the fanciful abode, above which, slight and

serene, floated the airy crescent of the young white moon.

‘My friend, too, I perceive, is a votary of the Ideal,’ exclaimed

Walstein.

The carriage stopped. Walstein mounted the marble steps and was ushered

through a hall, wherein was the statue of a single nymph, into an

octagonal apartment. Schulembourg himself had not arrived. Two men moved

away, as he was announced, from a lady whom they attended. The lady was

Madame de Schulembourg, and she came forward, with infinite grace, to

apologise for the absence of her husband, and to welcome her guest.

Her appearance was very remarkable. She was young and strangely

beautiful. Walstein thought that he had never beheld such lustrous locks

of ebon hair shading a countenance of such dazzling purity. Her

large and deep blue eyes gleamed through their long black lashes. The

expression of her face was singularly joyous. Two wild dimples played

like meteors on her soft round cheeks. A pink veil worn over her head

was carelessly tied under her chin, and fastened with a white rose of

pearls. Her vest and train of white satin did not conceal her sylphlike

form and delicate feet. She held forth a little white hand to Walstein,

adorned only by a single enormous ruby, and welcomed him with inspiring

ease.

‘I do not know whether you are acquainted with your companions, Mr.

Walstein,’ said Madame de Schulembourg. Walstein looked around,

and recognised the English minister, and had the pleasure of being

introduced, for the first time, to a celebrated sculptor.

‘I have heard of your name, not only in Germany,’ said Walstein,

addressing the latter gentleman. ‘You have left your fame behind you

at Rome. If the Italians are excusably envious, their envy is at least

accompanied with admiration.’ The gratified sculptor bowed and slightly

blushed. Walstein loved art and artists. He was not one of those frigid,

petty souls who are ashamed to evince feeling in society. He felt keenly

and expressed himself without reserve. But nature had invested him with

a true nobility of manner as well as of mind. He was ever graceful, even

when enthusiastic.

‘It is difficult to remember we are in the North,’ said Walstein to

Madame Schulembourg, ‘amid these colonnades and orange trees.’

‘It is thus that I console myself for beautiful Italy,’ replied the

lady, ‘and, indeed, to-day the sun favours the design.’

‘You have resided long in Italy?’ inquired Walstein.

‘I was born at Milan,’ replied Madame de Schulembourg, ‘my father

commanded a Hungarian regiment in garrison.’

‘I thought that I did not recognise an Italian physiognomy,’ said

Walstein, looking somewhat earnestly at the lady.

‘Yet I have a dash of the Lombard blood in me, I assure you,’ replied

Madame de Schulembourg, smiling; ‘is it not so, Mr. Revel?’

The Englishman advanced and praised the beauty of the lady’s mother,

whom he well knew. Then he asked Walstein when he was at Milan; then

they exchanged more words respecting Milanese society; and while they

were conversing, the Doctor entered, followed by a servant: ‘I must

compensate for keeping you from dinner,’ said their host, ‘by having the

pleasure of announcing that it is prepared.’

He welcomed Walstein with warmth. Mr. Revel led Madame to the

dining-room. The table was round, and Walstein seated himself at her

side.

The repast was light and elegant, unusual characteristics of a German

dinner. Madame de Schulembourg conversed with infinite gaiety, but with

an ease that showed that to charm was with her no effort. The Englishman

was an excellent specimen of his nation, polished and intelligent,

without that haughty and graceless reserve which is so painful to

a finished man of the world. The host was himself ever animated and

cheerful, but calm and clear--and often addressed himself to the artist,

who was silent, and, like students in general, constrained. Walstein

himself, indeed, was not very talkative, but his manner indicated that

he was interested, and when he made an observation it was uttered with

facility, and arrested attention by its justness or its novelty. It was

an agreeable party.

They had discussed several light topics. At length they diverged to the

supernatural. Mr. Revel, as is customary with Englishmen, who are very

sceptical, affected for the moment a belief in spirits. With the rest

of the society, however, it was no light theme. Madame de Schulembourg

avowed her profound credulity. The artist was a decided votary.

Schulembourg philosophically accounted for many appearances, but he

was a magnetiser, and his explanations were more marvellous than the

portents.

‘And you, Mr. Walstein,’ said Madame de Schulembourg, ‘what is your

opinion?’

‘I am willing to yield to any faith that distracts my thoughts from the

burthen of daily reality,’ replied Walstein.

‘You would just suit Mr. Novalis, then,’ observed Mr. Revel, bowing to

the sculptor.

‘Novalis is an astrologer,’ said Madame Schulembourg; ‘I think he would

just suit you.’

‘Destiny is a grand subject,’ observed Walstein, ‘and although I am not

prepared to say that I believe in fate, I should nevertheless not be

surprised to read my fortunes in the stars.’

‘That has been the belief of great spirits,’ observed the sculptor, his

countenance brightening with more assurance.

‘It is true,’ replied Walstein, ‘I would rather err with my great

namesake and Napoleon than share the orthodoxy of ordinary mortality.’

‘That is a dangerous speech, Baron,’ said Schulembourg.

‘With regard to destiny,’ said Mr. Revel, who was in fact a materialist

of the old school, ‘everything depends upon a man’s nature; the

ambitious will rise, and the grovelling will crawl--those whose volition

is strong will believe in fate, and the weak-minded accounts for the

consequences of his own incongruities by execrating chance.’

Schulembourg shook his head. ‘By a man’s nature you mean his structure,’

said the physician, ‘much, doubtless, depends upon structure, but

structure is again influenced by structure. All is subservient to

sympathy.’

‘It is true,’ replied the sculptor; ‘and what is the influence of the

stars on human conduct but sympathy of the highest degree?’

‘I am little accustomed to metaphysical discussions,’ remarked Walstein;

‘this is, indeed, a sorry subject to amuse a fair lady with, Madame de

Schulembourg.’

‘On the contrary,’ she replied, ‘the mystical ever delights me.’

‘Yet,’ continued Walstein, ‘perceiving that the discontent and

infelicity of man generally increase in an exact ratio with his

intelligence and his knowledge, I am often tempted to envy the ignorant

and the simple.’

‘A man can only be content,’ replied Schulembourg, ‘when his career is

in harmony with his organisation. Man is an animal formed for great

physical activity, and this is the reason why the vast majority, in

spite of great physical suffering, are content. The sense of existence,

under the influence of the action which is necessary to their living,

counterbalances all misery. But when a man has a peculiar structure,

when he is born with a predisposition, or is, in vulgar language, a man

of genius, his content entirely depends upon the predisposition being

developed and indulged. And this is philosophical education, that

sublime art so ill-comprehended!’

‘I agree with you,’ said Revel, who recollected the nonsense-verses of

Eton, and the logic of Christ Church; ‘all the scrapes and unhappiness

of my youth, and I assure you they were not inconsiderable, are to be

ascribed to the obstinate resolution of my family to make a priest out

of a man who wished to be a soldier.’

‘And I was disinherited because I would be a physician,’ replied

Schulembourg; ‘but instead of a poor, insignificant baron, I am now a

noble in four kingdoms and have the orders of all Europe, and that lady

was not ashamed to marry me.’

‘I was a swineherd in the wilds of Pomerania,’ said Novalis, his eyes

flashing with enthusiasm. ‘I ran away to Italy, but I broke my poor

mother’s heart.’

There was a dead, painful pause, in which Walstein interposed. ‘As for

myself, I suppose I have no predisposition, or I have not found it out.

Perhaps nature intended me for a swineherd, instead, of a baron. This,

however, I do know, that life is an intolerable burthen--at least it

would be,’ he added, turning with a smile to his fair hostess, ‘were it

not for occasionally meeting some one so inspiring as you.’

‘Come,’ said Madame, rising, ‘the carriages are at the door. Let us take

a drive. Mr. Walstein, you shall give me your opinion of my ponies.’

CHAPTER III.

_Containing a Drive in the Park with a Very Charming Lady._

MADAME DE SCHULEMBOURG’S carriage, drawn by two beautiful Hanoverian

ponies, cream in colour, with long manes and tails like floss silk, was

followed by a britzka; but despatches called away Mr. Revel, and Novalis

stole off to his studio. The doctor, as usual, was engaged. ‘Caroline,’

he said, as he bid his guest adieu, ‘I commend Mr. Walstein to your

care. When I return in the evening, do not let me find that our friend

has escaped.’

‘I am sure that though unhappy he is not ungallant,’ replied Caroline,

with a smile; and she took his offered arm, and ascended her seat.

Swiftly the little ponies scudded along the winding roads. The Corso was

as yet but slightly attended. Caroline passed through the wide avenue

without stopping, but sometimes recognising with bow and smile a

flitting friend. They came to a wilder and woodier part of the park, the

road lined on each side with linden trees, and in the distance were vast

beds of tall fern, tinged with the first rich hues of autumn.

‘Here, Mr. Walstein,’ said Caroline, ‘with your permission, I shall take

my afternoon walk.’ Thus speaking, she stopped the carriage, which

she and her companion quitted. Walstein offered her his arm, but she

declined it, folding herself up in her shawl.

‘Which do you like best, Mr. Walstein, Constantinople or Dresden?’ said

Madame de Schulembourg.

‘At this moment, decidedly Dresden,’ replied her companion.

‘Ah! that is a compliment,’ said Madame de Schulembourg, after a

moment’s musing. ‘My dear Mr. Walstein,’ she continued, looking up with

an arch expression, ‘never pay me compliments.’

‘You mistake me: it was not a compliment,’ replied Walstein. ‘It was a

sincere and becoming tribute of gratitude for three hours of endurable

existence.’

‘You know that you are my patient,’ rejoined Madame de Schulembourg.

‘I have orders to cure your melancholy. I am very successful in such

complaints.’

‘I have no doubt of it,’ replied Walstein, with a slight bow.

‘If we could but find out the cause!’ continued Caroline. ‘I venture to

believe that, after all, it will turn out an affair of the heart. Come,

be frank with your physician. Tell me, have you left it captive with

a fair Greek of the Isles, or a dark-eyed maiden of the Nile? Is our

heroine a captive behind a Spanish jalousie, or in an Italian convent?’

‘Women ever believe that all moods and tempers of man are consequences

of their influence,’ replied Walstein, ‘and in general they are right.’

‘But in your case?’

‘Very wrong.’

‘I am determined to find it out,’ said Madame de Schulembourg.

‘I wish to heaven you could,’ said Baron de Walstein.

‘I think a wandering life has spoiled you,’ said Caroline. ‘I think it

must be civilisation that you find wearisome.’

‘That would be very sublime,’ replied Walstein. ‘But I assure you,

if there be one thing that disgusts me more than another, it is the

anticipation of renewed travel! I have seen all that I wish, and more

than I ever expected. All that I could experience now would be exertion

without excitement, a dreadful doom. If I am not to experience pleasure,

let me at least have the refuge of repose. The magic of change of scene

is with me exhausted. If I am to live, I do not think that I could be

tempted to quit this city; sometimes I think, scarcely even my house.’

‘I see how it is,’ exclaimed Madame de Schulembourg, shaking her head

very knowingly, ‘you must marry.’

‘The last resource of feminine fancy!’ exclaimed Walstein, almost

laughing. ‘You would lessen my melancholy, I suppose, on the principle

of the division of gloom. I can assure you, my dear Madame de

Schulembourg,’ he continued, in a very serious tone, ‘that, with

my present sensations, I should consider it highly dishonourable to

implicate any woman in my destiny.’

‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed Madame; ‘I can assure you, my dear Mr. Walstein,

that I have a great many very pretty friends who will run the risk. ‘Tis

the best cure for melancholy, believe me. I was serious myself at times

before I married, but you see I have got over my gloom.’

‘You have, indeed,’ said Walstein; ‘and perhaps, were I Doctor de

Schulembourg, I might be as gay.’

‘Another compliment! However, I accept it, because it is founded on

truth. The fact is, I think you are too much alone.’

‘I have lived in a desert, and now I live in what is called the world,’

replied Walstein. ‘Yet in Arabia I was fairly content, and now I

am-----what I shall not describe, because it will only procure me your

ridicule.’

‘Nay! not ridicule, Mr. Walstein. Do not think that I do not sympathise

with your affliction, because I wish you to be as cheerful as myself.

If you were fairly content in Arabia, I shall begin to consider it an

affair of climate.’

‘No,’ said Walstein, still very serious, ‘not an affair of

climate--certainly not. The truth is, travel is a preparation, and we

bear with its yoke as we do with all that is initiatory--with the solace

of expectation. But my preparation can lead to nothing, and there appear

to be no mysteries in which I am to be initiated.’

‘Then, after all, you want something to do?’

‘No doubt.’

‘What shall it be?’ inquired Madame de Schulembourg, with a thoughtful

air.

‘Ah! what shall it be?’ echoed Walstein, in accents of despondence; ‘or,

rather, what can it be? What can be more tame, more uninteresting, more

unpromising than all around? Where is there a career?’

‘A career!’ exclaimed Caroline. ‘What, you want to set the world in

a blaze! I thought you were a poetic dreamer, a listless, superfine

speculator of an exhausted world. And all the time you are very

ambitious!’

‘I know not what I am,’ replied Walstein; ‘but I feel that my present

lot is an intolerable burthen.’

‘But what can you desire? You have wealth, youth, and station, all the

accidents of fortune which nature can bestow, and all for which men

struggle. Believe me, you are born to enjoy yourself; nor do I see that

you require any other career than the duties of your position. Believe

me, my dear Mr. Walstein, life is a great business, and quite enough to

employ any man’s faculties.’

‘My youth is fast fading, which I don’t regret,’ replied Walstein, ‘for

I am not an admirer of youth. As for station, I attribute no magic to

it, and wealth I value only because I know from experience its capacity

of producing pleasure; were I a beggar tomorrow, I should be haunted by

no uneasy sensations. Pardon me, Madame de Schulembourg; your philosophy

does not appear to be that of my friend, the Doctor. We were told this

afternoon that, to produce happiness, the nature of a being and his

career must coincide. Now, what can wealth and station produce of

happiness to me, if I have the mind of a bandit, or, perhaps, even of a

mechanic?’

‘You must settle all this with Augustus,’ replied Madame de

Schulembourg; ‘I am glad, however, to hear you abuse youth. I always

tell Sidonia that he makes his heroes too young, which enrages him

beyond description. Do you know him?’

‘Only by fame.’

‘He would suit you. He is melancholy too, but only by fits. Would you

like to make his acquaintance?’

‘Authors are best known by their writings,’ replied Walstein; ‘I admire

his, because, amid much wildness, he is a great reader of the human

heart, and I find many echoes in his pages of what I dare only to think

and to utter in solitude.’

‘I shall introduce you to him. He is exceedingly vain, and likes to make

the acquaintance of an admirer.’

‘I entreat you not,’ replied Walstein, really alarmed. ‘It is precisely

because I admire him very much that I never wish to see him. What

can the conversation of Sidonia be compared with his writings? His

appearance and his manner will only destroy the ideal, in which it is

always interesting to indulge.’

‘Well, be not alarmed! He is not now in Dresden. He has been leading a

wild life for some time in our Saxon Switzerland, in a state of despair.

I am the unhappy nymph who occasions his present desperation,’ continued

Madame de Schulembourg, with a smile. ‘Do not think me heartless; all

his passion is imagination. Change of scene ever cures him; he has

written to me every week--his letters are each time more reasonable.

I have no doubt he has by this time relieved his mind in some mad work

which will amuse us all very much, and will return again to Dresden

quite cool. I delight in Sidonia--he is my especial favourite.’

After some little time the companions re-entered the carriage. The

public drive was now full of sparkling equipages. Madame de Schulembourg

gaily bowed, as she passed along, to many a beautiful friend.

‘Dear girls, come home with us this eve,’ she exclaimed, as she curbed

her ponies by the side of an open carriage, and addressed two young

ladies who were seated within it with their mother. ‘Let me introduce

Mr. Walstein to you-Madame de Man-heim, the Misses de Manheim, otherwise

Augusta and Amelia. Ask any of our friends whom you pass. There is

Emilius--How do you do? Count Voyna, come home with us, and bring your

Bavarian friend.’

‘How is Sidonia, Madame de Schulembourg?’ inquired Augusta.

‘Oh, quite mad. He will not be sane this week. There is his last letter;

read it, and return it to me when we meet. Adieu, Madame de Manheim;

adieu, dear girls; do not stay long: adieu, adieu.’ So they drove away.

IBRAHIM PASHA

THE eyes of all Europe have been lately directed with feverish anxiety

towards the East. With the early history of the present ruler of Egypt,

and with his projects of military reform, our readers are doubtless

well acquainted. We shall, therefore, only rapidly glance at the present

condition of Syria, as on the causes that led to the astonishing success

of a campaign that at one time threatened to construct, upon a new

basis, the political geography of the East.

In contemplating the state of degradation and impotency into which have

fallen Syria, and that vast Peninsula which extends westward of the

Euphrates, after having occupied so proud a place in the page of

history, from the earliest traditionary periods down to the time when

the Turkish Sultans abandoned Broussa for Adrianople, we naturally

inquire what has become of the intellectual inheritance which the

ancient inhabitants of these countries left behind them? Where are the

successors of the skilful workmen of Damascus, of Mossul, and of Angora;

the navigators of Phoenicia, the artists of Ionia, and the wise men of

Chaldea? Several distinct characters of civilisation have successively

flourished in this part of Asia. To the primitive ages, to the reign of

the Pelasgi, correspond the subterraneous excavations of Macri, and the

Phrygian monuments of Seïdï Gazi; to the Babylonian power, the ruins of

Bagdad, and the artificial mountains of Van; to the Hellenic period,

the baths, the amphitheatres, and the ruins which strew the coast of the

Archipelago; to the Roman empire, the military roads which traverse in

every direction the whole Peninsula; to the Greeks of the middle ages,

the church of Iznik.

And now that Mussulman civilisation, which at its brightest periods

produced the beautiful mosque of the Sultan Bayazid at Amasia, is at

its last gasp; for we can, with safety, affirm that not a single grand

thought, either social, religious, or political, any longer connects

together the four millions of inhabitants which the Porte numbers in

this part of her dominions. All unity has disappeared, and the Asmoulis,

who compose the predominating race, no longer obey but some old habits

and recollections. The downfall of the Janizary system destroyed their

last connecting link. Forgetting that their destiny was conquest--that

they were only encamped in the land--that they had received a military

organisation for a permanent state of warfare--that their headquarters

was Constantinople--they have become attached to the soil, and shut

themselves up in their harems, have established a feudal system, are

divided among themselves by hereditary enmities, and their contempt for

foreigners is no longer founded on their courage and power.

Near the coasts of the Archipelago European intercourse has, in some

degree, civilised the manners of the Turks, but as the traveller

advances into the interior, civilisation sensibly decreases. On

approaching the central plateau of Asia Minor, he perceives that

cultivation seldom extends beyond the distance of half a league round

a village; the inhabitants are secreted in the mountains, and carefully

avoid the vicinity of the great roads; it is a well-known statistical

phenomenon, that the most inaccessible districts are the most populous

and the richest. This will be easily understood, when it is told that

the passage of troops through a district is a pest more dreaded than

the fatal plague itself. The once flourishing and magnificent plains of

Eske-Seher have been deserts since the Sultan Amurath traversed them, at

the head of 300,000 men, to lay siege to Bagdad. His passage was marked

by all the devastating effects of the hurricane. When a body of those

horsemen called Delhis, who are attached to the suite of every Pasha,

enters a village, the consternation is general, and followed by a system

of exaction that to the unfortunate villager is equivalent to ruin. To

complain to the Pasha would be to court instant destruction.

From this we can conceive the horror of the peasantry of Anatolia at

the passage of large bodies of troops through their country, and

consequently the obstacles a European army would encounter which should

ever be masters of the Black and Mediterranean Seas. The Turcomans,

a Nornase tribe, who sometimes pitch their tents on the shores of the

Archipelago, and who pay but a moderate tribute to the Porte, are also

another cause of devastation. But it is the Musseleins, the farmers

of the Pasha, who are the oppressors _par excellence_; they are always

present to despoil the unfortunate fellah, to leave him, to use a common

expression in the mouths of this oppressed race, ‘but eyes wherewith to

weep.’ The welfare of the people, respect for the orders of the Porte,

are things to them of the utmost indifference; to govern is to raise

men and taxes; to obey, is to fear. Thus the law of force reigns almost

exclusively at forty or fifty leagues from the capital.

But on a nearer approach to the Euphrates, the dissolution of every

social tie becomes more striking. We find ourselves amid the independent

tribes--the cruel Lendes; among the Tezdis--a people who adore the

spirit of Erib. Towards the north we fall in with the Lazzi, and

all those fierce natives who are entrenched like vultures amid the

fastnesses of the Caucasus. Again, in the South we discover the

wandering Arabs, the pirates of the desert, and the mountaineers of

Lebanon, who live in a state of perpetual discord. Over this immense

line of countries centuries have passed, and left no trace behind;

all that the ancients and the crusaders have related to us of them, is

typical of their condition at this day. The bows and arrows, the armour,

exhibited as objects of curiosity in our museums, are still in use

among them. It is only by chance, or by profiting by their intestine

divisions, that the authority of the Porte is recognised. The Pashas are

mostly hereditary, and live in a state of perpetual insurrection. Thus

from the shores of the Archipelago to the banks of the Euphrates and

the Tigris, civilisation and vegetation appear to obey the same law of

decrease.

It is incontestable that Syria and the Pashalics on the confines of

Upper Asia are of no real importance to the Sultan; and that the pride

of this monarch would be the only sufferer by their loss. Desolation has

reached such a point in the Ottoman Empire, that it is almost impossible

to regenerate her, unless the branches of the tree, lopped of all

those parts so eccentric by their position, are detached from it, and

organised into independent states. Towards the North, Russia has

pushed on her battalions as far as Erzeroum, but it will be found

more difficult, to govern Armenia from St. Petersburg than from

Constantinople. In politics, the calculation of distances is an

important element. In the South of Asia, Egypt lays claim to Syria,

and that part of Caramania situated between Mount Taurus and the sea--a

territory in which she will find those resources she at present stands

so much in need of, such as timber for shipbuilding, etc., a Christian

population, among whom the seeds of European civilisation will be more

easily implanted. She will thus form an empire that will one day become

powerful, if not prematurely exhausted by that system of monopoly so

rigorously put in force by her present ruler.

The history of the quarrels of the Pasha of Acre with Mehemet Ali,

justifies, in some degree, the pretensions of the latter. Abdallah Pasha

had rendered himself famous by his extortions, and in 1822 took it

into his head to seize Damascus. The neighbouring Pasha formed a league

against him, and laid siege to his capital, when Mehemet Ali negotiated

his pardon for a sum of 60,000 purses, which of course the people paid.

Interest soon prevailed over gratitude; the Pasha of Acre felt there

was more to be gained from Constantinople than from Cairo--that the

authority of the Sultan in the Pashalic would never be more than

nominal, and that the Porte, satisfied by some presents, would not be

in a condition to prevent his exactions; he therefore sought, on every

occasion, to get rid of the influence of Mehemet Ali, and to excite the

jealousy of the Porte against him. An opportunity soon offered itself.

Some Egyptian fellahs had taken refuge under the guns of Abdallah Pasha;

Mehemet Ali demanded these men, but the Governor of Acre refused to give

them up, on the plea that they were subjects of the Grand Signor, and

referred the matter to the Porte, who on this occasion was seized with

a fit of humanity, and _bewailed_ the oppression of the peasantry of the

Valley of the Vale--_Inde Bellum_.’ This was at the close of 1831.

The moment was favourable for the Viceroy’s great designs. Europe was

sufficiently agitated to leave him no apprehensions of an intervention

on the part of Russia. The Albanians and the Borneans were in open

revolt, and insurrections had broken out also in several Pashalics

on the side of Upper Asia. The Sultan was considered the slave of the

Russians, and his conduct excited the contempt and hatred of the whole

empire. In the meantime, since the revolution the exactions of the

government had extended to every object of production and industry,

while the conscription decimated the most industrious portion of the

population; and if to this organised system of spoliation we farther

add the ravages of the plague and cholera, we may form some idea of the

wretched state of those provinces, and shall be no longer surprised that

the Egyptians were everywhere hailed as deliverers.

Ibrahim Pasha, the step-son of Mehemet Ali, was placed at the head

of the Egyptian army. Of a short, thick-set figure, he possesses that

gigantic strength which Homer so loved in his heroes, and which inspires

such respect among barbarous nations. To strike off the head of a bull

with a blow of his scimitar--to execute, like Peter the Great, his

victims with his own hand--to fall, dead drunk, amid the broken wrecks

of champagne bottles, are three diversions of his. But latterly his

manners, from his intercourse with Europeans, have been somewhat

polished, and in deference to them, he has displayed both clemency and

dignity--in fact, Ibrahim is excessively anxious to acquire the good

opinion of Europe. He possesses all that strong common-sense that so

distinguishes the Turks, rather than an elevated intelligence of mind.

Soliman Bey, a renegade Frenchman, formerly an officer on the staff

of Marshal Grouchy, was associated with him, and it is to him that the

success of the Egyptian army may be chiefly attributed.

Syria, with her various productions, was the first country which offered

itself to the conquest of the Egyptians. Closed entirely on the side of

Asia by Mount Amanus, which belongs to the chain of Taurus, and extends

from the Gulf of Scanderoun to the Euphrates, she is bounded on one side

by the Mediterranean, and on the other by the desert. Her length from

Aintab to Gaza is one hundred and fifty leagues, and the mean breadth

about thirty. By a single glance at the map we perceive the most

important military points for the defence of Syria are the fortress of

Saint Jean d’Acre; Tyre, which ought to be fortified; Bolbeck, as

the key to several valleys; Antakea, the passage of the Beilan;

Alexandretta, situated upon a tongue of land between the marshes and the

sea; and lastly, Aentab and Zenyma, which command the two passages on

the right side of Mount Amanus.

We have entered into details in order to show how destitute of all

strategetical combinations was the whole plan of campaign in Syria.

Malte Brun estimates the population of the district of Sham at

two millions, but we are inclined to question the accuracy of this

calculation, since no two travellers are agreed as to the numbers of the

Druses, some estimating them at 120,000, others at a million. The Turks

form two-fifths of the population--they inhabit the large towns with the

Greeks; the remainder of the population is composed of Arab fellahs,

of Kurds, and of Turcomans, who wander in the valley of the Orontes;

of Bedouin Arabs, who pitch their tents on the banks of the Jordan and

along the edge of the desert of Ansarich, worshippers of the sun, the

descendants of the servants of the Old Man of the Mountain of Maronites,

who profess the Catholic ritual; of Druses, whose creed is doubtful;

of all the inhabitants of Mount Lebanon; of Mebualis, Mussulmans of the

sect of Ali; of Naplonsins and other tribes who have preserved a state

of independence. We shall not be astonished to know that amidst this

prodigious diversity of races Syria is more easy to conquer than to keep

possession of. With the exception of the Ansarich, who inhabit the north

of Syria, all of them obeyed, at the moment when the war broke out, the

Emir Bechir, a Druse, prince of the family of the celebrated Fakr el

Din, who revolted against Amurath the Fourth. The Emir Bechir, when

Abdallah raised the standard of revolt in 1822, sought the protection of

Mehemet Ali, who re-established him in his government.

Let us now follow Ibrahim in his march. At the head of 32,000 regular

troops, and four or five thousand Bedouin Arabs and Hassouras, he took

the same route as Bonaparte, and rapidly advanced against Saint Jean

d’Acre. Without firing a shot, he made himself master of Jaffa, Caipha,

Jerusalem, Naplonsia. Tabaneh and all the country between Gaza and

Acre submitted at his approach. Master of the sea, by which he expected

reinforcements both in men and material, he made haste to occupy the

whole line of coast as far as Ladikich, and set down on the 27th of

November, before Saint Jean d’Acre, with a corps of 15,000 regular

infantry, two regiments of lancers, 1,000 Bedouins, two companies of

sappers, one of cannoniers, one of bombardiers, and a train of field

and siege artillery. The place is situated on a promontory surrounded on

three sides by the sea, and defended on the fourth by a fort, crowned

by a tower, which serves as a citadel. This last fort, the bastions

of which, from their retiring flanks being too short, is the only one

accessible on the land side, but it was enfiladed from a neighbouring

height. Bonaparte, at the siege of Saint Jean d’Acre, was destitute of

siege artillery, and was not master of the sea. He had, therefore, many

more obstacles to encounter than Ibrahim.

During the first ten days the cannonade of the besiegers was not very

vigorous, but on the 9th of December, five frigates having cast anchor

before the place, with some gun-boats under sail, a general attack was

made, and from eight in the morning until four in the afternoon the

fleet and the batteries on shore kept up a well-directed fire. The

besieged on their side were not inactive. The Egyptians experienced a

heavy loss, and several of their ships were much cut up. From the 9th

to the 18th the bombardment lasted night and day. On the 10th some heavy

guns were placed in battery. The operations of the siege were now

pushed forward with great ardour, but yet nothing denoted the immediate

reduction of the place. The defence of Ab-dallah Pasha was marked by

the most determined energy. He had sworn, it was reported, that he would

blow up the town. It was, however, of the utmost importance to push

forward the operations with the greatest activity. The first disposition

of the population, which had been favourable, might undergo a change

should not Ibrahim succeed in striking a great blow. The mountaineers of

Lebanon and of Naplonsia had sent their chiefs to the Egyptian camp, and

were ready to furnish a contingent of their warriors.

The news of the invasion of Syria by the army of Mehemet Ali, spread

terror at Constantinople. The Porte, with her usual craft, dissimulated,

and feigning to see in this event but a quarrel between two Pashas, she

summoned them to lay before her their respective griefs; but finding her

orders were disregarded, she made preparations for war. On the 16th of

December, 1831, Mehemet Pasha, already governor of Racca, was appointed

governor of Aleppo, and Seraskier of Syria and Arabia. Orders were sent

to the directors of the Imperial Mines, Osman Pasha, to the Musselims

of Marash, of Sevas, of Adana, and of Payas, to levy troops. Strict

injunctions were also given to the governors of Caramania, and of

Caesarea, to hold themselves in readiness; but this movement of Tartars

was insufficient to produce a numerous army; the lukewarm devotion of

the subjects of the Porte found ample means of evasion; and every

day the efforts of the Turkish government in Syria to reestablish its

authority, encountered new obstacles.

The son of the Emir Bechir assembled troops in the mountains, and held

out for Mehemet Ali. Damascus armed itself through fear, but retained as

an hostage the Pasha appointed to conduct the caravan to Mecca. Memiran

Osman Pasha had been selected by the Porte for the government of

Tripoli, but it was necessary to take possession of it by force of arms.

-This port was already occupied, in the name of Mehemet Ali, by Mustapha

Agar Barbar, a man of considerable note in the country. The Seraskier

Mehemet Pasha consented to furnish Osman with some thousand irregular

horsemen, and fourteen small field-pieces.

The latter arrived before his capital early in April. Believing the

Egyptian Commander-in-Chief still occupied with the siege of Saint

Jean d’Acre, all his dispositions of attack consisted in scattering his

troops over the surrounding hills, and in ordering his artillery to play

upon the town, which did not displace a single stone; the guns of the

castle were also so badly pointed that the Turkish horsemen galloped

up to the very houses, and were only beaten off by a brisk fire of

musketry, which, galling them severely, drove them across the heights.

Night put an end to the affair.

A few days after this skirmish, Ibrahim Pasha, having left to one of his

lieutenants the direction of the siege of Saint Jean d’Acre and wishing

to reconnoitre the country, appeared at the head of 800 men, with six

field-pieces, before Osman’s camp, who, seized with a panic, immediately

abandoned it to the enemy, and hastened to form a junction with the

Pasha of Aleppo, who was posted near Hameh. The Egyptian general

immediately pursued him, and took up a position at Horn. But, threatened

upon this point by three brigades of the Seraskier Mehemet Pasha, he

retired, after some skirmishes, to Bolbeck, where he established his

camp, and was joined by Abaz Pasha, his nephew, at the head of 800 men.

But his presence was required in other quarters. Divisions had broken

out at several points, and the slowness with which the operations of the

siege of Saint Jean d’Acre was carried on had damped the ardour of his

partisans.

At Tripoli a conspiracy was discovered, in which were implicated the

Cadi, the Mufti, and the principal Turks. After receiving a considerable

reinforcement of troops from Candia, and making some defensive

dispositions to the south of Bolbeck, Ibrahim encamped before Saint Jean

d’Acre, to bring the siege to a conclusion by a decisive attack. On the

19th of May the fire was recommenced with great vigour; the Egyptians

made the most extraordinary efforts to get into the city, and

experienced a heavy loss; but no sooner was a breach effected than it

was again closed up. Nothing was left standing in the town. The palace

was destroyed, and Abdullah Pasha obliged to retire to the caves dug by

Djezzar. The garrison was reduced to less than 2,000 men. At last,

on the 27th of May, a general assault was made. Three breaches were

practicable, one on the tower of Kapon Bourdjon, the other two at Nebieh

Zaleh, and at Zavieh. Six battalions had the horrors of the attack,

which commenced at daybreak and lasted twelve hours.

At Kapon Bourdjon the Arabs were on the point of giving ground, but

Ibrahim having with his own hand struck off the head of a captain, and

having turned a battery against them, they returned to the assault.

Unfortunately for Abdullah, his gunners ran from their pieces, and he

was obliged to capitulate. The Egyptians confessed a loss but of 1,429

wounded, and 512 killed. Thus fell Saint Jean d’Acre, after a memorable

defence of six months. The capture of this place insured to Ibrahim

the possession of Lower Syria, and enabled him to advance in perfect

security.

While the son of Mehemet Ali was thus vigorously pushing forward the

war, the Porte was still occupied with her preparations. In the month of

March, Hussein Pasha, celebrated by the destruction of Janizaries, and

by the extraordinary bravery he displayed in the Russian Campaign, but

in other respects, a soldier _à la Turc_, was appointed chief of the

expedition to Arabia. To this soldier was confided the safety of the

empire, with the title of field-marshal of Anatolia. He was solemnly

invested with the Har-vani (a short cloak) with an embroidered collar.

He received a sabre set in brilliants, and two Arabian horses, superbly

caparisoned; and, on the 17th of April, he received orders to join the

army which Horsen Pasha had organised, the headquarters of which was at

Konisk.

By the formation and rapid assembly of the new regular regiments, the

army had been raised to 60,000 men, including artillery and engineers.

The mass of their forces was composed of Beckir Pasha’s brigade of

infantry, with the 2nd regiment of cavalry and a strong brigade of

irregulars, under the orders of the governor of Silistria; of Skender

Pasha’s brigade of infantry, and the 6th cavalry; and Delaver Pasha’s

brigade, with the cavalry of the guard. Each of these corps was

accompanied by its batteries. An European organisation had been given

to the different services, such as the paymaster-general’s department,

commissariat, etc. The Sultan had written out many of the regulations

with his own hand.

The young general of division, Mehemet Pasha, a manumitted slave of

Hussein, was specially charged with the direction of the regular troops,

under the orders of Hussein Pasha. He was tolerably well acquainted with

all our manoeuvres, and possessed some military talent. The European

instructors were attached to his suite. They were the captain of

artillery, Thernin, whose counsels would have saved the Turkish army

had they been listened to; the engineer officer, Reully, a brave and

experienced soldier; and the captain of the cavalry, Colosso. The two

former (Frenchmen) saw almost the whole of the war. Taken prisoners by

the Egyptians, they refused to enter their service, and were sent back.

As for Colosso, he sojourned but a short time in the camp; for, on his

endeavouring to put a stop to the frightful abuses that pervaded every

branch of the service, the generals and colonels formed a league against

him, and he retired in disgust.

On the 14th of May the field-marshal arrived at Koniah, where he

displayed the most culpable negligence and carelessness. It was in

vain that the European inspectors requested him to put in force ‘the

regulation for troops in the field,’ of the French general Prevan, which

had been translated into Turkish; they were no more listened to than

were their complaints on the bad state of the camp, and on the indolence

and negligence of the chiefs.

The generalissimo never even deemed it once requisite to review his

army. The most frightful disorder prevailed in the Turkish military

administrations, which subsequently led to all their reverses; in fact,

it was evident to every experienced eye that an army so constituted,

once overtaken by defeat, would soon be totally disorganised, and that

the Porte ought to place no reliance upon its army. But there was an

arm which, in the flourishing times of Islamism, was worth 100,000

Janizaries. This was excommunication. The Sultan at last resolved to

unsheathe this weapon. The fatal fetva was launched against the traitor

Mehemet Ali, and his son, the indolent Ibrahim. Those who have studied

the Turkish history must have thought that the Viceroy of Egypt would

find at last his master--the executioner; but since the late victories

of the Russians, all national faith is extinguished among the Osmanlis.

Excommunication is an arm as worn out at Constantinople as at Rome.

Whilst the Porte was fulminating her bull of excommunication, she

directed a note to the corps diplomatique at Constantinople, in which

she explained the quarrel with her subjects, and in which she demanded

the strictest neutrality on the part of the great powers, and declared

Egypt in a state of blockade. The Emperor Nicholas recalled his consul

from Alexandria, and even made an offer of a fleet, and an auxiliary

corps d’armee. Austria, an enemy to all revolutions, went so far as

to threaten the Viceroy. England appeared to preserve the strictest

neutrality, while France strenuously employed all her influence to bring

about an accommodation; but in vain.

The Divan refusing the demands of Mehemet Ali, the solution of the

question was referred to Field-Marshal Hussein, who proceeded with that

calculated exertion which the Ottomans take for dignity; and thus three

weeks were lost before the army advanced on Mount Taurus. It was only on

the 1st of June that Mehemet Pasha arrived with the vanguard and Beker’s

brigade at Adana. A reconnaissance, pushed forward as far as Tarsons,

brought back the news of the fall of Saint Jean d’Acre. It became,

therefore, an imperative necessity to occupy the passes of Syria, and to

march upon Antioch, in order to cover Beylau. A Tartar was despatched to

Hussein, who posted off in great haste to Adana, only to halt there for

a fortnight. At last the movement was effected, and the army reached

Antioch, where the cholera broke out in its ranks, and where eight days

were lost. Instead of profiting by Ibrahim’s delay to take up a more

advanced position, the latter descended into the valley of the Orontes,

and entered Damascus on the 15th of June, after a short engagement with

the Turkish irregulars.

But all Ibrahim’s operations were marked by a want of rapidity. After

securing Antioch, the Turkish army should have marched upon Horns,

which offered an excellent position, where they might have established

a communication with the Druses, upon whom some hopes were founded, and

whence they would have commanded the road to Damascus. But it was not

till the 6th of July that Hussein would execute this movement. Mehemet

Pasha commenced his march; but in their haste they forgot to issue

rations to the troops, who reached Horns at ten in the morning, almost

dead with hunger and fatigue. The Seraskier of Aleppo was encamped, with

his irregular troops, at the gates of the city; but without deigning

even to think of the enemy, whom they thought to be at some distance, or

to issue rations to the serving troops, they wasted their time in vain

ceremonies.

The young Mehemet Pasha was carried, under a salute of artillery, into

a magnificent tent pitched upon the bank of the river. There the

two viziers made a long interchange of compliments, and smoked the

hargueleh.

Midst of all this mummery, intelligence was brought in that the Egyptian

army was within two hours’ march of them. The disorder that ensued was

dreadful. The hungry soldiers dragged themselves in masses to meet the

Arabs. The latter waited for them, with their front masked by light

troops, presenting twenty-seven battalions deployed in line, the left of

which rested on the Orontes, and the right upon a hamlet at the foot of

a hill. The Egyptians, who were ignorant of the presence of the Turkish

regular infantry, had adopted this vicious disposition against their

irregular cavalry. But no one really commanded among the Turks, and thus

the opportunity of striking a decisive blow was lost. Every colonel had

an opinion of his own. One Pasha wished to retreat, while the European

instructors insisted on an immediate attack. In short, the artillery

even refused to advance to the front. However, Ibrahim Pasha did not

remain inactive; he pressed the Turks closely, doubled his line from

right to left, and pushed forward some battalions on the side of the

Orontes, but they were checked by part of Beker’s brigade and two pieces

of cannon. Then the whole Egyptian line halted and opened their fire.

In the course of twenty minutes the left of the Turks suffered

considerably.

Mehemet Pasha resolved to charge the enemy with the bayonet; but instead

of remaining with the second line in order to direct the movement,

he put himself at the head of his soldiers to attack the Arabs, who

immediately formed in column. Before he reached them, he was abandoned

by his artillery, while his cavalry, which should have turned the enemy,

fell back in disorder before a battery which they might have carried.

The second line of infantry did not support the movement with vigour;

and on the Egyptian columns deploying into line, preparatory to a

decisive charge, the whole Turkish army went to the right-about in

the most disgraceful manner, pursued by the enemy’s cavalry. It was a

general _sauve qui peut_. The approach of night alone saved the Turkish

army from total destruction. The loss of the Sultan’s forces in this

affair amounted to 2,000 killed and 2,500 prisoners.

The wrecks of the Turkish corps retired pell-mell upon Antioch. Instead

of rallying them, Ned-geb Pasha’s brigade, which was encamped at two

hours’ march from the field of battle, fled with them.

The field-marshal, on learning this disaster, took post at the _tête du

pont_ on Djezzer, on the Orontes. He received the fugitives at the

point of the bayonet, and cut off the heads of the first mutineers who

endeavoured to cross. It was in such moments that Hussein showed himself

to be above the ordinary stamp of mankind. His energy was admirably

calculated for quelling a revolt; but, on the other hand, though he was

able to master the confusion of a retreat, he knew not how to avoid it.

Such was his military incapacity that he was incapable of foreseeing

anything. In a short time he expended all the money in the military

chest, impoverishing all the districts through which he passed, paying

nowhere and holding up the name of his master to universal execration.

At the action of Horns, the mass of his forces were not engaged, so that

there yet remained 40,000 regular troops; but the field-marshal

allowed an army to perish, to which Horsen Pasha had given a tolerable

organisation. Instead of taking any measures of defence, he set out for

Antioch, with the view of effecting a junction with some troops in the

neighbourhood of Aleppo; but finding no provisions in those districts,

he returned by forced marches to Alexandretta, after fatiguing his

troops by a march of eight hundred leagues.

However, Ibrahim was advancing, having recalled all his garrisons, and

made new levies in the mountains. As he advanced, the whole country

declared in his favour, and the castle of Aleppo was delivered up to

him. His conduct was marked by great skill and generosity. Under his

protection the numerous Christians began to raise their heads. There

now only remained, to complete the entire occupation of Syria, to seize

Antioch and Alexandretta; but his operations were pushed forward with

extreme slowness, because he always expected from Constantinople a

decision favourable to the pretensions of his father-in-law. The Turkish

field-marshal had thus plenty of time to stop his passage into Carmania.

Antioch offered a position for an entrenched camp; but this he

disregarded, and made his advanced posts fall back upon the defile

of Beylau. This defile, formed by a deep valley, is so narrow in some

places that a camel can scarcely pass. Nevertheless, this is the grand

route of the Mecca caravan. Nothing was more easy than to defend it; yet

on the 5th of August the Egyptians made themselves masters of it, after

an action of two hours. The passage of the Beylau delivered to the

conqueror Alexandretta, its immense magazines, and one hundred pieces

of cannon. The Turks, instead of rallying in the rear, in the favourable

positions which the ground afforded, fled in the direction of Adana.

Ibrahim pursued them with his cavalry, which passed the Djihun at a

ford, Hussein Pasha having blown up the superb bridge of nine arches

that crossed that river at Missis.

The Ottoman troops continued their retreat across the plain of Adana,

but they had scarcely reached that city before they were dislodged by

the enemy, who were on the point of capturing the field-marshal. The

whole district of Adana declared for Ibrahim, who had at length

reached the new line of frontiers which Mehemet Ali wished to make the

boundaries of his empire. There was now nothing to prevent the march of

the Egyptians upon Constantinople itself, for the demoralised soldiers

of Hussein Pasha deserved not the name of an army. The Kurds and the

Anatolian peasantry murdered the Turkish regulars wherever they could

find them, which was not difficult, for, deserted by platoons, the

provinces of Upper Asia were in such a state of insurrection that a

single officer of Ibrahim’s would have been sufficient to make the most

considerable town capitulate.

The Viceroy, at one moment, had the insane idea of himself attacking the

Turkish capital by sea, while Ibrahim should threaten it from Scutari.

But his prudence doubtless prevented the execution of the enterprise,

for however popular the cause of Mehemet Ali may have been, he would

have appeared in Constantinople only as a subject, and certainly could

not have prevented the intervention of Russia. And lastly, had he

succeeded in these projects of unbounded ambition, what would have been

the result? Instead of a compact state bounded by Mount Taurus, he would

have found himself embarrassed with a great empire, tottering to its

base, which no human power can regenerate.

Mehemet Ali listened, therefore, to the sagacious counsel of France,

and endeavoured to obtain the recognition of his independence. But the

Porte, listening to the perfidious suggestions, and governed by the

blind obstinacy that led to the battle of Navarino and the victories

of the Russians, would make no terms, and reduced Ibrahim, after an

armistice of five months, to conquer her again. Hussein Pasha was

succeeded by the Grand Vizier, Redchid Pasha, the same who had

distinguished himself in Greece, and quelled the revolt of Scodro

Pasha. Brave and accustomed to the camp, a sound politician, Redchid was

superior to his predecessor, but even he was only a Turkish general.

He had been selected principally on account of his great influence

in Turkey in Europe. He therefore received orders to repair to

Constantinople, with considerable levies of Bosnians and Albanians, of

which they knew he could dispose, and with the six regiments of infantry

and cavalry that belonged to them.

In the meantime the indefatigable Hussein Pasha had succeeded in

re-organising an army with about 40,000 regulars of the reserve; it

was echeloned between the capital and Koniah, reinforced by the troops

brought by the Grand Vizier; it was sufficiently numerous to have

prevented Ibrahim’s further advance; but there was neither skill in

the general nor ardour among the troops; the councils of the European

instructors were, as usual, disregarded, while the Egyptian army, on

the contrary, was almost exclusively under the direction of European

officers. A single piece of artillery would have sufficed to defend the

passage of the Taurus, and yet when Ibrahim appeared on its northern

declivity he had to encounter but a few irregulars, of whom he soon gave

a good account. He then fixed his camp on the plain of Erekli, at one

hundred and sixty days’ march of a camel from Constantinople, and then

advanced upon Koniah.

Reuff Pasha, who had provisionally assumed the command of the Turkish

army until the arrival of Red-chid Pasha, prudently fell back upon Acken

at the approach of the Egyptians. But forgetting the disastrous day of

Koulaktche, the Grand Vizier merely assumed the offensive instead of

taking up a position in the mountains; and, allowing the unusual rigour

of the season to thin the ranks of the enemy, he precipitately advanced.

The cold was so excessive, the weather so dreadful, and the roads

rendered so impassable by the snow, that only a small portion of the

artillery and ammunition could follow the movement, so that they found

themselves, as at Horns, without provisions in the presence of the

enemy.

Some distance from Koniah, Redchid Pasha sent forward his selector at

the head of a body of irregulars, with orders to advance across the

mountains up the village of Lilé, which was occupied by a strong

detachment of Arabs, while the Grand Vizier on his side with the grand

army, was to pursue the route of the plain. The attack was to have been

simultaneous, but unfortunately the selector arrived too soon on the

scene of action, and was totally defeated. Undaunted by this check,

the Grand Vizier continued his advance, and did not halt till he was in

presence of the enemy, whom he found strongly entrenched, and prepared

to give him a warm reception. It was the 29th of the Redgeb (21st

of December), and from the advanced hour of the day there was no

alternative but to attack, otherwise he must have passed a night upon

the field, without bread, exposed to the action of an intense cold that

would have paralysed the ardour of the troops.

Redchid Pasha made therefore no dispositions for attack, but his order

of battle was best: he drew up his army in four lines, thus rendering

useless a great part of his troops, and when he at length resolved to

alter his dispositions for a more extended order of battle, he did not

reconnoitre the ground to ascertain if it would permit such an extension

of front. His left wing therefore was unable to deploy, and remained

formed in columns of attack, while the enemy’s artillery committed

dreadful havoc on their profound masses. He committed also another

fault, that of placing his artillery between the interval of the lines,

so that it did not reach the Egyptians, while theirs on the contrary,

posted in their front, did great execution.

Mehemet Redchid’s main plan of battle was to attack with the mass of his

forces, composed chiefly of Albanians, the centre of the enemy’s army,

whilst the cavalry should make a demonstration upon the wings. But

Ibrahim, who had foreseen this manoeuvre, leaving only on the point

attacked a sufficient force to make ahead for a short time, turned his

adversary to the gorges of the mountains. On gaining the flanks of the

Ottoman party, he impetuously attacked and routed their cavalry, and

afterwards advanced against the principal Turkish corps, which thus

found itself attacked on both sides. The Albanians, in spite of all the

efforts of the Grand Vizier, broke and fled.

Redchid Pasha then put himself at the head of his guard for a last

effort, but after performing prodigies of valour, he was again repulsed,

and fell, severely wounded, into the hands of the Egyptians. The loss

of the Turks was immense; one regiment alone, the first infantry of the

line, left 3,000 men upon the field of battle.

The battle was decisive. The second army of the Grand Seigneur was

annihilated, and the road to Constantinople again open to Ibrahim; and

the tottering empire of Mahmoud was saved by the intervention of the

Russian Autocrat, who felt that it was his own property that was at

stake rather than that of the unfortunate Sultan. Mehemet Ali is now on

independent sovereign, and it is to the military genius of Europe that

he owes this glory; while the once formidable empire of Mahomet is

rapidly sinking under an accumulation of evils, the operation of which

European diplomacy will in vain attempt to arrest.

THE COURT OF EGYPT

TWO or three miles from Cairo, approached by an avenue of sycamores, is

Shoubra, a favourite residence of the Pasha of Egypt. The palace, on the

banks of the Nile, is not remarkable for its size or splendour, but the

gardens are extensive and beautiful, and adorned by a kiosk, which is

one of the most elegant and fanciful creations I can remember.

Emerging from fragant bowers of orange trees, you suddenly perceive

before you tall and glittering gates rising from a noble range of

marble steps. These you ascend, and entering, find yourself in a large

quadrangular colonnade of white marble. It surrounds a small lake,

studded by three or four gaudy barques, fastened to the land by silken

cords. The colonnade terminates towards the water by a very noble marble

balustrade, the top of which is covered with groups of various kinds of

fish in high relief. At each angle of the colonnade the balustrade gives

way to a flight of steps which are guarded by crocodiles of immense

size, admirably sculptured in white marble. On the farther side the

colonnade opens into a great number of very brilliant banqueting-rooms,

which you enter by withdrawing curtains of scarlet cloth, a colour

vividly contrasting with the white shining marble of which the whole

kiosk is formed. It is a frequent diversion of the Pasha himself to

row some favourite Circassians in one of the barques and to overset

his precious freight in the midst of the lake. As his Highness piques

himself upon wearing a caftan of calico, and a juba or exterior robe of

coarse cloth, a ducking has not for him the same terrors it would offer

to a less eccentric Osmanli. The fair Circassians shrieking, with their

streaming hair and dripping finery, the Nubian eunuchs rushing to their

aid, plunging into the water from the balustrade, or dashing down the t

marble steps,--all this forms an agreeable relaxation after the labours

of the Divan.

All the splendour of the Arabian Nights is realised in the Court

of Egypt. The guard of Nubian eunuchs with their black, glossy

countenances, clothed in scarlet and gold, waving their glittering

Damascus sabres, and gently bounding on their snow-white steeds, is,

perhaps, the most picturesque corps in the world. The numerous harem,

the crowds of civil functionaries and military and naval officers

in their embroidered Nizam uniforms, the vast number of pages and

pipe-bearers, and other inferior but richly attired attendants, the

splendid military music, for which Mehemet Ali has an absolute passion,

the beautiful Arabian horses and high-bred dromedaries, altogether form

a blending of splendour and luxury which easily recall the golden days

of Bagdad and its romantic Caliph.

Yet this Court is never seen to greater advantage than in the delicious

summer palace in the gardens of Shoubra. During the festival of the

Bairam the Pasha usually holds his state in this enchanted spot, nor is

it easy to forget that strange and brilliant scene. The banqueting-rooms

were all open and illuminated, the colonnade was full of guests in

gorgeous groups, some standing and conversing, some seated on small

Persian carpets smoking pipes beyond all price, and some young grandees

lounging, in their crimson shawls and scarlet vests, over the white

balustrade, and flinging their glowing shadows over the moonlit water:

from every quarter came bursts of melody, and each moment the river

breeze brought gusts of perfume on its odorous wings.

THE VALLEY OF THEBES

UPPER EGYPT is a river flowing through a desert; the banks on each side

affording a narrow margin of extreme fertility. Rocks of granite and

hills of sand form, at slight intervals, through a course of sev-earl

hundred miles, a chain of valleys, reaching from the rapids of the Nile

to the vicinity of Cairo. In one of these valleys, the broadest and the

most picturesque, about half-way between the cataracts and the modern

capital, we find the most ancient, the most considerable, and the most

celebrated of architectural remains. For indeed no Greek, or Sicilian,

or Latin city--Athens, or Agrigentum, or Rome; nor the platforms of

Persepolis, nor the columns of Palmyra, can vie for a moment in extent,

variety, and sublime dimensions, with the ruins of ancient Thebes.

These remains may be classed, generally, in four considerable divisions:

two of these great quarters of ruins being situated on each side of the

river Nile--Karnak and Luxor towards the Red Sea; the Memnonion and

Medcenet Habu towards the great Libyan Desert. On this side, also, are

the cemeteries of the great city--the mummy-caves of Gornou, two miles

in extent; above them, excavated in the mountains, are the tombs of the

queens; and in the adjacent valley of Beban-el-Maluk, the famous tombs

of the kings.

The population of the city of a hundred gates now consists of a few

Arab families, who form four villages of mud huts, clustered round those

gigantic columns and those mighty obelisks, a single one of which is

sought for by the greatest sovereigns of Europe for their palaces and

museums. Often, indeed, have I seen a whole Arab village rising from the

roof of a single Egyptian temple. Dendera is an instance. The population

of Gornou, numbering between three and four hundred, resides solely in

the tombs.

I think that Luxor, from its situation, usually first attracts the

notice of the traveller. It is close on the river, and is built on a

lofty platform. Its enormous columns are the first specimens of that

colossal genius of the Pharaohs, which the Ptolemies never attempted

to rival. The entrance to this temple is through a magnificent

propylon;-that is, a portal flanked by massy pyramidal moles. It is two

hundred feet in breadth, and rises nearly sixty feet above the soil.

This gate is entirely covered with sculpture, commemorating the triumph

of a conquering monarch.

On each side of the portal are two colossal statues of red granite,

buried in the sand up to their shoulders, but measuring thence, to the

top of their crowns, upwards of twenty feet. On each side of them, a

little in advance, at the time of my visit, were the two most perfect

obelisks remaining. One of them is now at Paris;--that famous obelisk of

Luxor, of which we have heard so much. From the propylon, you pass

into a peristyle court,--about two hundred and thirty feet long, by one

hundred and seventy--the roof of which was once supported by double rows

of columns, many of which now remain: and so on through other pyramidal

gates, and courts, and porticoes, and chambers, which are, in all

probability, of a more ancient date than those first described.

From Luxor you proceed to Karnak, the other great division on this side

of the river, through an avenue of sphinxes, considerably above a mile

in extent, though much broken. All the marvels of the world sink

before the first entrance into Karnak. It is the Alps-the Andes--of

architecture. The obelisks of Luxor may be unrivalled; the sculptures

of Medoenet Habu more exquisite; the colossus of the Memnonion more

gigantic; the paintings of the royal tombs more curious and instructive:

but criticism ceases before the multifarious wonders of the halls and

courts of Karnak, and the mind is open only to one general impression of

colossal variety.

I well remember the morning when I stood before the propylon, or chief

entrance of Karnak. The silver stars were still shining in the cold blue

heaven, that afforded a beautiful relief to the mighty structure, built

of a light yellow stone, and quite unstained by the winds of three

thousand years. The front of this colossal entrance is very much broader

than the front of our cathedral of St. Paul, and its height exceeds that

of the Trajan column. It is entirely without sculpture--a rare omission,

and doubtless intended that the unity of effect should not be broken.

The great door in the centre is sixty-four feet in height.

Through this you pass into colonnaded courts, which in any other place

would command undivided attention, until you at length arrive in front

of a second propylon. Ascending a flight of steps, you enter the great

hall of Karnak. The area of this hall is nearly fifty-eight thousand

square feet, and it has recently been calculated that four such churches

as our St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields might stand side by side in this

unrivalled chamber without occupying the whole space. The roof, formed

of single stones--compared with which the masses at Stonehenge would

appear almost bricks--has fallen in; but the one hundred and thirty-four

colossal columns which supported it, and which are considerably above

thirty feet in circumference, still remain, and with the walls and

propyla are completely covered with sculptured forms.

I shall not attempt to describe any other part of Karnak;-the memory

aches with the effort. There are many buildings attached to it, larger

than most temples; and infinite number of gates and obelisks, and

colossi; but the imagination cannot refrain from calling up some sacred

or heroic procession, moving from Luxor to Karnak, in melodious pomp,

through the great avenue of sphinxes, and ranging themselves in groups

around the gigantic columns of this sublime structure. What feudal

splendour, and what Gothic ceremonies; what tilts and tournaments, and

what ecclesiastical festivals, could rival the vast, the beautiful, and

the solemn magnificence of the old Egyptians?

Crossing the river to Western Thebes, we arrive at two seated colossi,

one of which is the famous musical statue of Memnon. It is fine to see

him still seated on his throne, dignified and serene, on the plain of

Thebes. This colossus is fifty feet in height; and its base is covered

with inscriptions of Greek and Roman travellers, vouching that they

had listened to the wild sunrise melody. This statue and its remaining

companion, though now isolated in their situation, were once part of an

enormous temple, the ruins of which yet remain, and the plan of which

may yet be traced.

The Memnonion itself is now near at hand. In the colossal Caryatides

we recognise the vast genius that excavated the rocks of Ipsambul, and

supported a cavern temple upon the heads of giants. From the Memnonion

came the statue that is now in the British Museum. But this figure,

though a fine specimen of Egyptian sculpture, sinks, so far as magnitude

is concerned, into insignificance, when compared with the statue of the

supposed Sesostris, which, broken off at the waist, now lies prostrate

in the precincts of the sanctuary. This is, probably, the most huge

colossus that the Egyptians ever constructed. The fragment is of red

granite, and of admirable workmanship. Unfortunately, the face is

entirely obliterated. It lies upon its back, and in its fall has

destroyed all the temple within reach. It measures more than sixty feet

round the shoulders, the breadth of the instep is nearly seven feet, and

the hieroglyphical figures engraven on the arm are large enough for a

man to walk in.

Perhaps the most interesting group of ruins at Thebes is the quarter of

Medoenet Habu, for here, among other vast remains, is that of a

palace; and it is curious, among other domestic subjects, that we find

represented on the walls, in a very admirable style, a Pharaoh playing

chess with his queen. It is these domestic details that render also the

sepulchres of Thebes so interesting. The arts of the Egyptians must be

studied in their tombs; and to learn how this remarkable people lived,

we must frequent their burial-places. A curious instance of this is,

that, in a tomb near Beni-hassan, we learn by what process the Egyptians

procured from the distant quarries of Nubia those masses of granite with

which they raised the columns of Karnak and the obelisks of Luxor.

If I were called upon to describe in a word the principal and

primary characteristic of Egyptian architecture, I should at once say

Imagination, as Grace is the characteristic of the architecture of the

Greeks. Thus, when the Ptolemies assumed the sceptre of the Pharaohs,

they blended the delicate taste of Ionia t with the rich invention

of the Nile, and produced Philoe, Dendera, and Edfou. It is from the

Pharaohs, however, that you must seek for the vast and the gigantic: the

pyramid, the propylon, the colossus, the catacomb, the obelisk, and the

sphinx.

It was in the early part of the year of the invasion of Syria by the

Egyptians, some eight years gone, that I first visited Thebes. My barque

was stowed against the bank of the river, near the Memnonion; the last

beam of the sun, before it sunk behind the Libyan hills, quivered on the

columns of Luxor; the Nubian crew, after their long and laborious

voyage, were dispersed on shore; and I was myself reposing in the shade,

almost unattended, when a Turk, well mounted, and followed by his

pipe-bearer, and the retinue that accompanies an Oriental of condition,

descended from the hills which contain the tombs of the queens, and

approached the boat. I was surprised, on advancing to welcome him, to be

hailed in my native tongue; and pleased, at such a moment and in such a

place, to find a countryman. While we smoked the pipe of salutation, he

told me that he had lived at Thebes for nearly ten years, studying the

antiquities, the history, and the manners of its ancient inhabitants. I

availed myself of his invitation to his residence, and, accompanying

him, I found that I was a visitor in a tomb, and yet by no means a

gloomy dwelling-place. A platform, carved in the mountain, was

surrounded by a mud wall and tower, to protect it from hostile Arabs.

A couple of gazelles played in this front court, while we, reposing on a

divan, arranged round the first chamber of the tomb, were favoured with

a most commanding view of the valley outspread beneath. There were

several inner chambers, separated from each other by hangings of scarlet

cloth. Many apartments in the Albany have I seen not half as pleasant

and convenient. I found a library, and instruments of art and science;

a companion full of knowledge, profound in Oriental manners, and

thoroughly master of the subject which naturally then most interested

me. Our repast was strictly Eastern, but the unusual convenience of

forks was not wanting, and my host told me that they were the very ones

that he had used at Exeter College. I shall never forget that first day

at Thebes, and this my first interview with one then unknown to fame,

but whom the world has since recognised--the learned, the ingenious, and

amiable Mr. Wilkinson.

EGYPTIAN THEBES

THE characteristic of Egyptian architecture is Imagination; of Grecian

architecture, Grace. When the Ptolemies assumed the sceptre of the

Pharaohs, they blended the delicate taste of Ionia with the rich

invention of the Nile; and they produced the most splendid creations

of architectural power that can now be witnessed. Such is the refined

Philoe--such the magnificent Dendera--such the sumptuous Edfou!

All the architectural remains of the most famous nations and the

greatest empires,--the amphitheatres, and arches, and columns of

the Romans; the fanes of the Greeks; the temples of the Syrians and

Sicilians; the Colosseum, the Parthenon, the courts of Baalbec, the

pillars of Palmyra and Girgenti,--sink into insignificance when compared

with the structures that line the banks of an African river. The mind

makes a leap amid their vastness, their variety, and their number. New

combinations rise upon our limited invention and contract the

taste,--the pyramid, the propylon, the colossus, the catacomb, the

obelisk, the sphinx.

Take the map; trace the windings of the mysterious stream, whose source

baffles even this age of enterprise, and which remains unknown even when

the Niger is discovered. It flows through a wilderness. On one side are

the interminable wastes of Libya; on the other, a rocky desert, leading

to the ocean: yet its banks are fertile as a garden; and within 150

miles of the sea it divides into two branches, which wind through an

immense plain, once the granary of the world.

A Nubian passed me in a state of nudity, armed with a poisoned spear,

and guarded by the skin of a hippopotamus, formed into a shield. In this

country, the animal called man is fine, although his wants are

few,--some rice, a calabash of palm wine, and the fish he himself spears.

Are his ancestors the creators of the adjoining temple, covered with

beautiful sculptures, and supported by colossal figures fifty feet in

height? It is well to ponder, by the roar of the cataracts of the Nile,

over the perfectibility of man.

A light has at length broken into the darkness of Egyptian ages; and

although we cannot discover the source of the Nile, we can at least

decipher its hieroglyphics. Those who are ignorant of the study are

incredulous as to its fruits; they disbelieve in the sun, because they

are dazzled by its beams. A popular miscellany is not the place to enter

into a history, or a vindication, of the phonetic system. I am desirous

here only of conveying to the general reader, in an intelligible manner,

some idea of the discoveries that are now unfolding themselves to the

Egyptian antiquarian, and of wandering with him for a moment amid the

marvellous creations of the Pharaohs and the Ptolemies, with a talisman

which shall unfold for his instruction and amusement their mystical and

romantic history.

I approach this mighty temple. A goose and globe, encircled in an oval,

at once inform me that it was constructed by a ‘Son of the Sun,’ or

a ‘Phrah,’ or ‘Pharaoh.’ It is remarkable that the Greeks never once

mention this memorable title, simply because they have always translated

it by their celebrated personification, ‘Sol,’ or ‘Apollo.’ In the

obelisk of Hermapion, given by Ammianus Marcellinus, we should therefore

read, in the third column, instead of ‘the powerful Apollo,’ ‘the

powerful Phrah, the all-splendid Son of the Sun.’ Proceeding with the

inscription, I also discover that the temple was constructed by Rameses

the Second, a monarch of whom we have more to hear, and who also raised

some of the most wonderful monuments of Thebes.

The first step of the Egyptian student should be to eradicate from his

mind all recollection of ancient authors. When he has arrived at his

own results, he may open Herodotus with interest, read Diodorus with

suspicion; but, above all, he will then learn to estimate the value of

the hitherto reviled Manetho, undoubtedly the fragments of the work of a

genuine Egyptian writer. The history and theology of ancient Egypt must

be studied on the sculptured walls of its palaces and temples, breathing

with sacred mysteries and heroic warfare; its manners and customs in its

catacombs and sepulchres, where the painter has celebrated the minutest

traits of the social life and the domestic economy of the most ancient

of nations.

Even in the time of Strabo, Egyptian Thebes was a city of enormous

ruins, the origin of which no antiquary could penetrate. We now know

by the inscriptions we decipher that these mighty monuments chiefly

celebrate the achievements of a great conqueror,--Rameses the Second, or

the Great, whom the most rigid critic would be rash to place later than

fifteen hundred years before Christ. These great creations, therefore,

demonstrate the mature civilisation of Egypt far beyond three thousand

years back. Rameses and his illustrious predecessors, the Thothmes

and the Amunophs, are described as monarchs of the eighteenth dynasty.

Thothmes the Fourth, one of these ancestors, cut the great Sphinx of the

Pyramids; as for the Pyramids themselves, it is now undeniable that they

were not raised at the comparatively late period ascribed to them

by Herodotus and Diodorus. No monuments in Egypt can be compared in

antiquity with these buildings; and the names of the predecessors of

Rameses the Great are found in their vicinity, evidently sculptured at

a much later epoch. ‘The Pyramids are at least ten thousand years old,’

said Champollion to a friend of mine in Egypt, rubbing his hands, with

eyes sparkling with all the enthusiasm of triumphant research.

It is highly probable that Rameses the Great was the Sesostris of

Herodotus. This name is entirely a Greek invention, and is found on no

Egyptian monuments. The splendid tomb, first opened by Belzoni, in the

Valley of the Kings, is of the grandfather of this monarch--Rameses the

First. It is evident from the Theban sculptures and inscriptions, that

Rameses and his predecessors were engaged in a long war with a most

powerful enemy,’ and that that enemy was an Oriental people, a nation

with fair countenances and flowing robes, dwelling in a hilly and

well-wooded country. It is probable that this nation was the Assyrians,

who, according to ancient writers, invaded Egypt under Ninus and

Semiramis. Thothmes the Third and Fourth, Amunoph, and Rameses the

First, carried on this war with uncertain success. The successor of

Rameses the First, whose phonetic name is doubtful, was not unworthy

of the son whom the gods accorded to him as a reward for his valour

and magnificence. This anonymous sovereign led the war in person,

and probably against degenerate princes. On the walls of Karnak--a

sculptured scroll, more durable than those of his poets and

historians--we find him in his triumphal chariot, leading a host of

infantry and chariots, attacking fortified places, defended by lofty

walls and surrounded by water. The enemy is seen clearing their country

in advance, driving away their cattle, and felling forests to impede the

progress of the invader’s chariots; but at length the victorious Pharaoh

returns to his Nile with crowds of prisoners, bearing every variety of

rich and fantastic tribute.