"The type of such Sunday schools is no more than this. A

congregation meets in its chapel. It elects those whom it

considers to be its most worthy members, intellectually and

religiously, to act as 'teachers' to the rest, and one or

more to 'superintend' the whole. Bible classes, Testament

classes, and classes of such as cannot yet read, are formed.

They meet once, generally from 2 to 4 P.M., sometimes in the

morning also, on each Sunday. The superintendent, or one of

the teachers, begins the school by prayer; they then sing;

then follows the class instruction, the Bible and Testament

classes reading and discussing the Scriptures, the others

learning to read; school is closed in the same way as it

began. Sections of the same congregation, where distance or

other causes render it difficult for them to assemble in the

chapel, establish similar schools elsewhere. These are

called branches. The constitution throughout is purely

democratic, presenting an office and some sort of title to

almost every man who is able and willing to take an active

part in its administration, without much reference to his

social position during the other six days of the week. My

returns show 11,000 voluntary teachers, with an allowance of

about seven scholars to each. Whatever may be the accuracy

of the numbers, I believe this relative proportion to be not

far wrong. The position of teacher is coveted as a

distinction, and is multiplied accordingly. It is not

unfrequently the first prize to which the most proficient

pupils in the parochial schools look. For them it is a step

towards the office of preacher and minister. The

universality of these schools, and the large proportion of

the persons attending them who take part in their

government, have very generally familiarised the people with

some of the more ordinary terms and methods of organisation,

such as _committee_, _secretary_, and so forth.

"Thus, there is every thing about such institutions which

can recommend them to the popular taste. They gratify that

gregarious sociability which animates the Welsh towards each

other. They present the charms of office to those who, on

all other occasions, are subject; and of distinction to

those who have no other chance of distinguishing themselves.

The topics current in them are those of the most general

interest; and are treated in a mode partly didactic, partly

polemical, partly rhetorical, the most universally

appreciated. Finally, every man, woman, and child feels

comfortably at home in them. It is all among neighbours and

equals. Whatever ignorance is shown there, whatever mistakes

are made, whatever strange speculations are started, there

are no superiors to smile and open their eyes. Common habits

of thought pervade all. They are intelligible or excusable

to one another. Hence, every one that has got any thing to

say is under no restraint from saying it. Whatever such

Sunday-schools may be as places of instruction, they are

real fields of mental activity. The Welsh working man rouses

himself for them. Sunday is to him more than a day of bodily

rest and devotion. It is his best chance, all the week

through, of showing himself in his own character. He marks

his sense of it by a suit of clothes regarded with a feeling

hardly less Sabbatical than the day itself. I do not

remember to have seen an adult in rags in a single Sunday

school throughout the poorest districts. They always seemed

to me better dressed on Sundays than the same classes in

England."

As a specimen of the relative number of Sunday schools belonging to

the different religious persuasions in North Wales, we will take Mr

Johnson's summary, which gives the following tabular result; and which

is nearly in the same proportion in the rest of the principality:--

SUNDAY SCHOOLS.

Church of England, 124

Baptists, 73

Calvinistic Methodists, 545

Independents, 232

Wesleyan Methodists, 183

Other Denominations, 4

----

Total, 1161

But if we take the returns of the daily schools for the same six

counties, the proportions will be found to, be greatly changed:--

DAY SCHOOLS FOR THE POOR.

Schools. Scholars.

Church, 269 18,732

Baptists, 0 0

Calvinistic Methodists, 3 140

Independents, 6 275

Roman Catholics, 2 55

Wesleyans, 2 285

British and Foreign, 42 4,979

Schools, not British and Foreign, 29 1,726

Workhouse Schools, 8 463

Factory, 1 30

Private adventure, 216 5,348

--- ------

Total, 578 32,033

Out of these daily schools for the poor, not less than 269, or 46½

per cent of the whole number, (to say nothing of many of the private

schools,) are publicly provided by the Church; and it should be

remembered that of the Dissenting Sunday schools nearly all are held

in their meeting-houses, and form part and parcel of their religious

system; whereas the Church Sunday school is mostly an institution

apart from the church itself, and established on its own separate

footing.

With regard to the funds for supporting schools, the following remarks

by Mr Johnson, as applied to North Wales, are too important to be

omitted. He says:--

"It appears, from the foregoing analysis of the funds of 517

schools, that the amount annually raised by charitable

contributions of the rich is (in round numbers) £5675, that

raised by the poor £7000. It is important to observe the

misdirection of these branches of school income, and the

fatal consequences which ensue.

"The wealthy classes who contribute towards education belong

to the Established Church; the poor who are to be educated

are Dissenters. The former will not aid in supporting

neutral schools; the latter withhold their children from

such as require conformity to the Established Church. The

effects are seen in the co-existence of two classes of

schools, both of which are rendered futile--the Church

schools supported by the rich, which are thinly attended,

and that by the extreme poor; and private-adventure schools,

supported by the mass of the poorer classes at an exorbitant

expense, and so utterly useless that nothing can account for

their existence except the unhealthy division of society,

which prevents the rich and poor from co-operating. The

Church schools, too feebly supported by the rich to give

useful education, are deprived of the support of the poor,

which would have sufficed to render them efficient. Thus

situated, the promoters are driven to establish premiums,

clothing-clubs, and other collateral inducements, in order

to overcome the scruples and reluctance of Dissenting

parents. The masters, to increase their slender pittance,

are induced to connive at the infringement of the rules

which require conformity in religion, and allow the parents

(sometimes covertly, sometimes with the consent of the

promoters) to purchase exemption for a small gratuity; those

who cannot afford it being compelled to conform, or expelled

in case of refusal. Where, however, the rules are

impartially enforced, or the parents too poor to purchase

exemption, a compromise follows. The children are allowed to

learn the Church catechism, and to attend church, so long as

they remain at school, but are cautioned by their parents

not to believe the catechism, and to return to their

paternal chapels so soon as they have finished schooling. A

dispensation, in fact, is given, allowing conformity in

matters of religion during the period required for

education, provided they allow no impression to be made upon

their minds by the ritual and observances to which they

conform. The desired object is attained by both parties.

Outward conformity is effected for the time, and the

children return in after-life to the creed and usages of

their parents."

The fact is, that the farmers and all the lower classes care little

for education _per se_, though they wish their children to profit by a

knowledge of English, in order to facilitate their advancement in

after life; and they are unwilling, at the same time, to support

schools in connexion with the Church. That Church is to them the

church of the rich man as distinguished from the poor; of the

conqueror as distinguished from the conquered; of the Englishman as

distinguished from the Welsh; it is the Church of England, not of

Wales; and their affections as well as their prejudices are all

opposed to it. This again is one of the main causes--and it is so

pointed out by the commissioners--of the slow progress of education in

Wales, supported, as it mainly is, by the upper classes. It is not the

proper place to enter here into any further discussion as to _all_ the

causes of dispute in Wales; we will merely state that we believe it to

be now confirmed, not only by the national antagonism of the two

races, but also by the democratic principles which are so widely

diffused throughout the country, and which are sure to break out again

to a most dangerous extent in Wales on the first opportunity. Hear

what Mr Lingen states on the subject:--

"Most singular is the character which has been developed by

this theological bent of minds isolated from nearly all

sources, direct or indirect, of secular information.

Poetical and enthusiastic warmth of religious feeling,

careful attendance upon religious services, zealous interest

in religious knowledge, the comparative absence of crime,

are found side by side with the most unreasoning prejudices

and impulses; an utter want of method in thinking and

acting; and (what is far worse) wide-spread disregard to

temperance, wherever there are the means of excess, of

chastity, of veracity, and of fair dealing. I subjoin two

extreme instances of the wild fanaticism into which such

temperaments may run. The first concerns the Rebecca riots.

W. Chambers, jun., Esq. of Llanelly House, kindly furnished

me with a large collection of contemporary documents and

depositions concerning the period of those disturbances. An

extract from the deposition of one Thomas Phillips of

Topsail, is illustrative of the vividly descriptive and

imaginative powers of the Welsh, and of the peculiar forms

under which popular excitement among them would be sure to

exhibit itself.

"Shoui-yschwr-fawr and Dai Cantwr were _noms de guerre_

borne by two ringleaders in these disturbances.

"Between ten and eleven o'clock on the night of the attack

on Mr Newman's house, I was called upon by

Shoui-yschwr-fawr, and went with the party. On my way I had

a conversation with Dai Cantwr. Thomas Morris, a collier, by

the Five Cross Roads, was walking before us, with a long

gun. I said "Thomas is enough to frighten one with his long

gun." Dai said, "There is not such a free man as Tom Morris

in the rank. I was coming up Gellygwlwnog field, arm in arm

with him, after burning Mr Chambers's ricks of hay; and he

had a gun in the other hand, and Tom said, "Here's a hare,"

and he up with his gun and shot it slap down--and it was a

horse--Mr Chambers's horse. One of the party stuck the horse

with a knife--the blood flowed--and Tom Morris held his

hand under the blood, and called upon the persons to come

forward and dip their fingers in it, and take it as a

sacrifice instead of Christ; and the parties did so.' And

Dai added, 'that he had often heard of a sacrament in many

ways, but had never heard of a sacrament by a horse before

that night.'

"The other instance was told me by one who witnessed much of

the Chartist outbreak. He said that 'the men who marched

from the hills to join Frost, had no definite object beyond

a fanatical notion that they were to march immediately to

London, fight a great battle, and conquer a great kingdom.'

I could not help being reminded of the swarm that followed

Walter the Penniless, and took the town which they reached

at the end of their first day's march for Jerusalem."

We could point out several districts in Wales, in which few gentry

reside, such as the south-western portion of Caernarvon, and some

parts of Anglesey, where the most republican and levelling doctrines

prevail extensively among the farmers and the labouring classes, and

where resistance to tithes, and not only to tithes, but to rents, is a

subject fondly cherished for future opportunity. The town of

Caernarvon itself is a pestilent hot-bed of discontent; so is Merthyr

Tydvil; so is Newtown; so is Swansea; and so are many others.

The commissioners dwell rather lightly on this part of the subject--on

these consequences of the past and present condition of the country,

and of the defective education existing in it. Many of the assistants

employed by the commissioners were Dissenters, and their examinations

of Church schools may be therefore suspected; at least we fancy that

we can discern a certain warmth of admiration, and intensity of

unction, in the reports on the Dissenting schools, which are not

bestowed on the others. However this may be, we cannot but admit that

these reports do actually show the existence of a very defective state

of things in the principality; and we find the commissioners justly

pointing out and reprobating two glaring vices in the Welsh character,

the existence of which we admit, and to which we shall, of our own

knowledge, add a third.

The first refers to the want of chastity, or rather to the lax ideas

of the common order of people on that subject previous to marriage.

This, with every wish to excuse the national feelings and failings of

the Welsh, we must allow to be proved by the concurrent testimony and

experience of every one well acquainted with the principality. This

vice, however, is more systematically established in the northern than

in the southern counties; and the existence of this system is, we have

no doubt, of very long standing, ranking, indeed, among the national

customs which lose their origin in the night of ages. The common

notion prevalent among the lower classes in Wales, and generally acted

on, is, that want of chastity before marriage is no vice, though

afterwards it is considered a crime, which is very rarely committed.

Before we pass a sweeping condemnation on the rude population of the

Welsh mountains for this laxity, let us remember that, such is the

false state of "over-civilisation" in England, the same ideas and

practices exist universally among the male portion, at least, of the

people, and pass without any thing beyond a formal, we might almost

say, a legal reprimand: that in France, Spain, Portugal, Italy, and,

it may be, other countries of Europe, this laxity exists not so much

_before_ as _after_ marriage; and that therefore the poor Celtic

mountaineers do not stand alone in their ignorance of what is better.

It appears by the official returns, that the proportion of

illegitimate children in North Wales shows an excess of 12·3 per cent

above the average of all England and Wales upon the like numbers of

registered births. We know ourselves of a union of 48 parishes in

which there are now 500 bastard children supported out of the

poor-rates; and, in fact, the prevalence of the vice is not to be

denied. The volumes of these reports contain numerous minutes of

evidences and letters from magistrates and clergymen corroborative of

this fact; and they all agree in referring it to the ignorance of the

people. We are not inclined to lift the veil which we would willingly

allow to hang over the faults, the weaknesses, and the ignorance of a

poor uncultivated people; believing, as we do, that the remedies for

such a state of things are not far off, nor difficult to find; and

knowing that, if there be any palliation of such a state of things, it

is to be found in this circumstance, that the married state is most

duly honoured and observed in that country, and also, that the women

marry early in life, and support all the duties of their state in an

exemplary manner. We could also pick out county after county in

England, where we know that the morality of the lower orders is

little, if at all, elevated above this standard, and where the

phenomenon of the pregnant bride is one of the most ordinary

occurrence. The statement of these facts, as published by the

commissioners, has caused great indignation throughout Wales, and has

set the local press in a ferment, but has not produced any

satisfactory refutation of the impeachment.

Another vice, correlative to, and consequent upon the other, is the

want of truth and honesty in petty matters observable throughout the

land. This is the common complaint of almost every gentleman and

magistrate in the twelve counties--that the word of a Welshman of the

lower classes is hardly to be trusted in little matters; and that the

crime of false swearing in courts and at quarter-sessions is

exceedingly frequent. In the same manner, the people generally, in the

minor transactions of life, are given to equivocations and by-dealing,

and make light of telling an untruth if it refers only to a matter of

minor importance. Were a Welshman called as a witness in a case of

felony, we think his oath might be depended upon as much as an

Englishman's; but is he called up on a case of common assault, or the

stealing of a few potatoes from his neighbour's field--or is he

covenanting to sell you coals or corn at a certain price and

weight--we should be uncommonly careful how we trusted to his

deposition or his assurances.

A clergyman of Brecknockshire says:--

"The Welsh are more deceitful than the English; though they

are full of expression, I cannot rely on them as I should on

the English. There is more disposition to pilfer than among

the English, but we are less apprehensive of robbery than in

England. There is less open avowal of a want of chastity,

but it exists; and there is far less feeling of delicacy

between the sexes here in every-day life than in England.

The boys bathe here, for instance, in the river at the

bridge in public, and I have been insulted for endeavouring

to stop it. There is less open wickedness as regards

prostitution than in England. Drunkenness is the prevailing

sin of this place and the county around, and is not confined

to the labouring classes, but the drunkenness of the lower

classes is greatly caused by the example of those above

them, who pass their evenings in the public-houses. But

clergymen and magistrates, who used to frequent them, have

ceased to do so within the last few years. I have preached

against the sin, and used other efforts to check it, though

I have been insulted for doing so in the street. I think

things are better than they were in this respect.... I do

not think they are addicted to gambling, but their chief

vice is that of sotting in the public-houses."

A magistrate, in another part of the county, gives the following

testimony:--

"Crimes of violence are almost unknown, such as burglary,

forcible robbery, or the use of the knife. Common assaults

are frequent, usually arising from drunken quarrels. Petty

thefts are not particularly numerous. Poultry-stealing and

sheep-stealing prevail to a considerable extent. There is no

rural police, and the parish constables are for the most

part utterly useless, except for serving summonses, &c.

Sheep and poultry stealers, therefore, very frequently

escape with impunity. Drunkenness prevails to a lamentable

extent--not so much among the lowest class, who are

restrained by their poverty, as among those who are in

better circumstances. Every market or fair day affords too

much proof of this assertion. Unchastity in the women is, I

am sorry to say, a great stain upon our people. The number

of bastard children is very great, as is shown by the

application of young women for admission into the workhouse

to be confined, and by the application to magistrates in

petty sessions for orders of affiliation. In hearing these

cases, it is impossible not to remark how unconscious of

shame both the young woman and her parents often appear to

be. In the majority of cases where an order of affiliation

is sought, marriage was promised, or the expectation of it

held out. The cases are usually cases of _bonâ fide_

seduction. Those who enter the workhouse to be confined are

generally girls of known bad character. I believe that in

the rural districts few professed prostitutes would be

found."

The clerk, to the magistrates at Lampeter observes:--

"Perjury is common in courts of justice, and the Welsh

language facilitates it; for, when witnesses understand

English, they feign not to do so, in order to gain time in

the process of translation, to shape and mould their answers

according to the interest they wish to serve. Frequently

neither the prisoner nor the jury understand English, and

the counsel, nevertheless, addresses them in English, and

the judge sums up in English, not one word of which do they

often understand. Instances have occurred when I have had to

translate the answers of an English witness into Welsh for

the jury; and once even to the grand jury at Cardigan I had

to do this. A juryman once asked me, 'What was the nature of

an action in which he had given his verdict.'

"Truth and the sacredness of an oath are little thought of;

it is most difficult to get satisfactory evidence in courts

of justice."

Upon the above evidence, Mr Symons, the inspector, remarks:--

"Notwithstanding the lamentable state of morals, the jails

are empty. The following comparison between the relative

criminality of the three counties in my district with that

of the neighbouring agricultural county of Hereford,

exhibits this moral anomaly in the Welsh character very forcibly:--

| | Committals |

| | for Trial at | Centesimal

| | Assizes and | Proportion

Counties of|Population|Quarter Sessions |of Offenders

| in 1841 | for the 5 years |to Population

| |ending with 1845.|

-----------+----------+-----------------+-------------

Brecknock | 55,603 | 261 | .46

Cardigan | 68,766 | 135 | .19

Radnor | 25,356 | 140 | .55

Hereford | 113,878 | 1,198 | 1.05

"Crimes, therefore, are twice as numerous in Herefordshire

as in Radnorshire or Brecknockshire, and five times more so

than in Cardiganshire.

"I attribute this paucity of punishable offences in Wales

partly to the extreme shrewdness and caution of the people,

but much more to a natural benevolence and warmth of heart,

which powerfully deters them from acts of malice and all

deliberate injury to others. And I cannot but express my

surprise that a characteristic so highly to the credit of

the Welsh people, and of which so many evidences presented

themselves to the eye of the stranger, should have been left

chiefly to his own personal testimony. Facts were

nevertheless related to me which bore out my impression; and

I may instance the ancient practice among neighbouring

families of assisting the marriages of each other's children

by loans or gifts of money at the 'biddings' or marriage

meetings, to be repaid only on a similar occasion in the

family of the donor, as well as the attendance of friends at

times of death or adversity, as among the incidents which

spring from and mark this honourable characteristic."

Notwithstanding all this, we know, from official sources, that the

proportion per cent of commitments for North Wales is _sixty-one_ per

cent _below_ the calculated average for all England _and Wales_, on

the same amount of male population of the like ages. In fact, the

jails of Wales are commonly empty, or the next thing to it; and the

whole twelve counties would hardly keep one barrister, on the crown

side, above starving-point. Maiden assizes are any thing but uncommon

in that country.

That particular _foci_ of evil do exist, we have asserted before; and

we find the following trace of this portion of the subject in the

report of Mr Vaughan Johnson on Montgomeryshire:--

"The following evidence relates to the parishes of _Newtown_

and _Llanllwchaiarn_, which contain 6842 inhabitants:--

'It appears that, previously to the year 1845, no district

in North Wales was more neglected, in respect of education,

than the parishes of Newtown and Llanllwchaiarn. The effects

were partly seen in the turbulent and seditious state of the

neighbourhood in the year 1839. The permanent evils which

have sprung from this neglect it will require many years of

careful education to eradicate. A memorial, presented by the

inhabitants to the Lords of the Committee of Council on

Education, at the close of the year 1845, contains the

following plea for assistance in providing popular

education:--

"In the spring of the year 1839 the peace of the town and

neighbourhood was threatened by an intended insurrection on

the part of the operative class, in connexion, it is

supposed, with other parts of the kingdom, with a view to

effect a change in the institutions of the country; but such

an insurrection, if intended, was prevented by the presence

of an armed force; and a military force has ever since been

stationed in the town, with a view of preserving its peace.

'Your memorialists believe that, if the inhabitants had had

the benefit of a sound moral and religious culture in early

life, the presence of an armed force to protect the peace of

the town would not be needed in so comparatively small a

place; and your memorialists are under a firm conviction

that no better way can be devised for the removal of all

disposition to vice and crime, than by enlightening the

ignorant, and especially by sowing in early life, by the

hands of the teacher, the seeds of religion and morality.'"

'The alarm occasioned by these disturbances has passed away;

but I ascertained, by a careful inquiry among the persons

best acquainted with the condition of the working-classes,

that even at the present day low and unprincipled

publications, of a profane and seditious tendency, are much

read by a class of the operatives; that private and secret

clubs exist for the dissemination of such writings, by means

of which the class of operatives have access to the writings

of Paine and Volney, to Owen's tracts, and to newspapers and

periodicals of the same pernicious tendency. It is stated

that many persons who read such works also attend Sunday

schools, from their anxiety to obtain a knowledge of the art

of reading, which they cannot otherwise acquire. It is the

opinion of those who are best acquainted with the evils

complained of, that the most efficacious remedy would be the

circulation of intelligent publications on general subjects,

within the comprehension of the working-classes, by the help

of reading-societies and circulating libraries, at terms

which the operatives would be able to afford.'"

The third vice--for it is a vice--which we know to be prevalent in

Wales, is the extreme dirt and untidiness of all the inhabitants. Go

into any Welsh town or village, and observe the squalid shabby look of

the houses and their tenants; visit their farms and cottages, and see

the wretched filth in which men and animals herd together, and you

will bear witness to the truth of our assertion. There is no spirit of

order and improvement among them; every thing is done on the principle

of the least possible present trouble. Were the Welsh blessed with the

climate of Naples, they would, every one of them, become pure

Lazzaroni,--as it is, they approximate to the Irish in their innate

indolence and love of dirt. Whenever the commissioners for the health

of towns receive their full power, they will have an Augean stable to

cleanse, comprising the whole Principality.

Even here, however, we are disposed to find some excuse for the

people. They have so few resident gentry, at least of the larger

proprietors; their country is so wild and so lonely; the difficulties

of poverty and bad weather which they have to contend against are so

great, that the philanthropical inquirer must make large allowances

for them on this head. The commissioners found most of the country

schools conducted in the most wretched buildings; but perhaps these

buildings were some of the very best and cleanest in the district:

they thought them neglected, and in bad repair; whereas the

inhabitants might have supposed that they "had done the correct

thing," and had adorned them in a style of lavish expenditure.

We might go on multiplying our extracts and our comments _ad

infinitum_, but we purposely abstain; and we shall conclude our review

of these highly important documents with one or two inferences that

seem to us obviously necessary.

In the first place, as long as the Welsh language cannot reckon, among

its literary treasures, the principal portion of the good elementary

books of instruction which have long been employed in England, and are

still issuing from the English press, it is obviously impossible to

place the education of the Welsh on the same level as that of their

Saxon neighbours. Not only should the best English books be translated

into Welsh--we mean for the instruction and amusement of the middle

and lower classes,--but translations might be made most advantageously

from other tongues; and the literature of Wales might become

permanently enriched with the best fruits of all nations. We by no

means coincide in opinion with those who would discourage the study of

Welsh, and would even attempt to suppress that language altogether; we

look upon it as one of the most interesting and valuable, though not

one of the most fortunate and gifted, of European tongues. In

_ancient_ literature, in poetry, and in an immense mass of oral

tradition, it is uncommonly rich, and, by the mere dignity of age, is

worthy of its place being ever kept for it among the languages of the

world. But, further than this, though it operates to a certain extent

as a social bar to the more intimate connexion of the Welsh and

English populations, it serves also as a strong bond and support of

Welsh nationality, and keeps alive in their breasts that indomitable

love of their country, and that spirit of national pride, which is the

best safeguard of the liberties of the realm, and its protection from

democratic invasion. It hinders the operations of centralisation--that

odious and destructive principle of government which Whigs and

Democrats are so fond of copying from their masters, the revolutionary

French; and it teaches the people to rely on their own resources, and

to preserve the ancient freedom of their country. In times like these,

when the aggressive levelling spirit of democracy is actively at work,

and when the ancient liberties of the country are gradually falling

beneath the scythe of radical innovation, any thing that may serve as

a check to the decline and fall of the empire is not to be lightly

despised or abandoned. The Welsh, like the Basques, like the Bretons,

like the Hungarians, have preserved their national language and

feelings, though all these are united to empires and people far more

powerful and numerous than themselves; and thus are destined to form

the most energetic and abiding portions of those empires, when the

excessive advance of civilisation, and the destruction of all national

virtues, shall have brought about their disruption and ruin. Let the

higher orders and the government of the country show, the former more

enlightened and more energetic patriotism, and the latter more

intelligence and foresight than hitherto. Let them provide the people

with the materials of education and instruction; let them call forth

the numerous learned men to be found amongst the clergy of the

Principality; let them require and pay for the formation of an

elementary literature, and the nucleus thus originated will grow

betimes into a goodly mass, fit for the work required, and itself

generating the means of its future increase. The natural acuteness of

the Welsh people is such--and the Commissioners bear ample testimony

to the fact--that, had they but books in their own tongue, the facts

of knowledge would be universally acquired. They would make as much

progress in secular as they now do in theological research; and were

their powers of acquisition well directed, the whole character of the

nation would undergo an elevating and improving change.

We would have them taught English as a foreign language--as an

accomplishment, in fact. It belongs to a totally different family of

languages, and must always be a foreign tongue to a Celt--but still it

may be acquired sufficiently for all the common purposes of life;

while all facts, all instruction, all matters for reflection and

memory, should be conveyed in the national tongue, the pure Cymric

language.

Government need not trouble itself by attempting to carry the details

of educational systems into operation; all that it is required to

supply is the moving and the controlling power; the various duties of

the great machine will be better fulfilled by the people at

large--that is to say, by the local authorities, the constituted

voices and hands of the national body.

We are aware of the many difficulties that are sure to meet any

government, or rather any political party, that should attempt at the

present day to carry into effect a scheme of general education. The

sectarian spirit of the country is so thoroughly excited, the minds of

the people are so thoroughly wild upon certain subjects, that any

thing like a patriotic sinking of interests for the general good is

out of the question; much less is it to be expected that, under Whig

leaders, the discordant members of the state would be inclined to

defer to the superior authority of the legislators. The predominance

of the democratic element in the present phase of the constitution of

England hinders the action of government, and injures in this, as in

most other respects, the very best interests of the country. Still we

cannot but think that, were there at the head of affairs a band of

statesmen in whose political integrity, private honour, and public

capacity, the country could firmly rely, the mass of the people might

be made to rally round their standard, rather than round the

gathering-posts of factious leaders, whether political or religious.

But at the present moment, when the tone of political morality and

parliamentary consistency is so low, when treason and tergiversation

are the order of the day, and when the undisguised pursuit of gain--by

fair means or by foul, but still by some means or other--is allowed to

usurp an undue place in the councils of the nation, it is in vain to

hope for any very satisfactory results.

We would say, follow out the Church scheme fearlessly and boldly, but

without intolerance--follow it out consistently and honestly, and you

will obtain more numerous and more worthy followers, you will produce

more permanent and more beneficial results, than by truckling to this

sect or to that, or by the vain endeavour to curry favour with all. At

the same time we think, with the commissioners, that to make the Bible

the sole book of education, as is the case in most schools, is a bad

plan; it brings the sacred volume itself into contempt and dislike,

and it limits the field of instruction in an undue degree. We would

introduce more of secular subjects even into the common schools, and

certainly not less of real religion; and to that end we would

endeavour to fit the teachers for their duties, and suit the

extensiveness of the schools to the amount of work to be done.

Religious education being maintained daily as a part, not as the

whole, of education, it should be made the exclusive topic of Sunday

education; and the amount of information on religious topics thus

gained would be found to be greater, in a given time, than when the

child's mind is bent to that one subject alone--the hardest, the

sublimest of all subjects--and when all his thoughts, all his ideas,

are concentrated on the Bible, the Prayer-Book, and the Catechism. In

this matter, however, the heads of the Church are the authorities with

whom the move for improvement ought to originate; and, would they but

act with energy and unanimity, there is no doubt that they would carry

the weight and influence of the nation along with them.

The third observation we have to offer refers to the lamentably

inadequate provision made, in a pecuniary point of view, for the

education of the people. Not only are the teachers totally unprepared

by previous education, but, even let their talents and acquirements be

what they may, their brightest prospect is that of earning less than

at any trade to which they may be take themselves--without any

prospect of ever, by some turn of fortune's wheel, amassing for

themselves a store for their declining years. Work, to be done well,

no matter what its nature may be, must be properly recompensed; no

system that is not adequately supported with funds can be expected to

continue in a state of efficiency--it will speedily degenerate,

decline, and ultimately perish.

Not to dwell upon truisms of this kind, we shall at once state what we

think would form a sufficient fund for the maintenance of a uniform

and effective system of public instruction in Wales, and the means of

carrying it into effect. We conceive that the advantages of education,

being felt by every man--even whether he be the direct recipient of it

or not--should be paid for out of a common fund, raised in an

equitable manner by the state. On the other hand, in an agricultural

country, where the main interests of the state are in the hands of the

great landed proprietors, and where the well-being and safety of the

whole depends upon the morality and the physical good of the labouring

classes, the magistrates of the country, and all the owners of land,

are most intimately bound up with the healthy action and welfare of

the whole people; nor can they by any means shift from their shoulders

the duty of providing for the happiness of their tenants and

dependents. For similar reasons, the merchants, manufacturers, and

other citizens of large towns, have a direct interest in the welfare

and in the in moral advancement of all the working and inferior

classes of the urban population. Now, we maintain that one of the

most efficient and ready methods for the promotion of industry, the

suppression of vagrancy, the diminution of drunkenness, sensuality,

and crime, and therefore the lowering of poor-rates, police-rates,

county-rates, &c., would be the giving the people a better religious

and secular education, and the raising of them in the scale of social

beings. It would follow from these premises, if assented to, that an

education tax would be one of the fairest and most directly

advantageous which could be imposed on the country; and we are further

persuaded that, as its effects began to make themselves felt, its

justice would be acquiesced in by all who should pay it.

We would therefore suggest, 1st, That a general poll-tax should be

raised on the country, without distinction of person, or age, or sex,

for the purposes of education; and, in order that people might not

murmur at it for its oppressiveness, we would fix it at the value of

one day's work of an adult agricultural labourer. 2d, On all the

acreage of the country we would recommend a land-tax to be levied,

with the same intent, and without exception for any class of property

whatsoever. This we would fix at some small fractional part of the

annual value of the land in rent charge,--say at one penny per acre.

3d, On all household property in towns, for tenements, belonging to

persons not in the condition of labourers, we would lay a similar tax

of a small fractional portion of the annual rent; and on all mining

and manufacturing property, wherever situated, we would impose a

certain small annual charge. To fix ideas, we will suppose that the

sum produced by this latter class of property should be equal to

one-half of that charged for the same purpose on the landed

proprietors. The sums to be raised may be thus calculated:--

1st., The entire population of North and South Wales, as ascertained

by the census of 1841, is 911,603: and the average rate of wages for

an able-bodied agricultural labourer may be safely estimated at 1s.

6d. per diem, as a minimum throughout Wales, A poll-tax, therefore, of

1s. 6d. per head on the _whole_ population, would produce a sum of

£68,375.

2d., The entire acreage of Wales is very nearly 5,206,900 acres; and a

land-tax of 1d. per acre would therefore produce £21,695.

3d., Estimating a tax on houses, and mining and manufacturing property

throughout Wales, at only half the amount of that raised on the land,

we should have a sum of £10,847.

The whole would stand thus:--

Poll-tax L.68,375

Land-tax 21,695

House-tax, &c. 10,847

---------

L.100,917

Now assuming that, whether by adhering to the old division of parishes

for the formation of educational districts--and for many reasons,

religious as well as political, we should be sorry to see this

arrangement disturbed--there would be required, at the rate of at

least one school for each parish, the total number of 863 schools. But

on account of the increased size of some of the towns, and the

accumulation of mining population in several mountainous districts, it

might be necessary to provide more than this number. We will

therefore, at a guess, fix it at 1000, and this would furnish at least

one school for every 1000 of the whole population, adult as well as

infantine--a proportion which will be allowed to be abundantly

sufficient, when it is considered that such schools are intended only

for the lower classes.

To support, however, a school in a proper state of efficiency--that is

to say, to furnish it with properly trained teachers, male and female,

and with the requisite books and other instruments of teaching--we do

not think that we are overstraining the point if we assign the annual

sum of one hundred pounds as necessary. This sum might either be

divided in the proportion of sixty pounds per annum for a male

teacher, and forty pounds per annum for a female,--or it might most

advantageously, in some cases, be bestowed on a teacher and his wife,

supposing them both capable of undertaking such duties. Of course, in

all cases suitable buildings, including school-rooms for both sexes,

residences and gardens for the teachers, should be provided at the

public expense, and maintained in repair from a distinct fund. We

shall then perceive that the sum mentioned above, amounting in round

numbers to one hundred thousand pounds per annum, would be sufficient

for the purpose; and we think that it would not only be so, but that,

it would be made to furnish a sufficient sum for retiring and

superannuated pensions, on the principle adopted in several of the

Continental states, of an annual percentage being deducted from the

salaries of all civil servants to form a fund of this nature,

specially devoted to their own benefit. We do not throw out any

specific hints for the collection and management of this fund; but it

might be raised along with other local rates, and by the same local

officers, so that the smallest possible addition might be thereby made

to the cost of collecting it.

One part of this plan, however, without which the whole would be

inefficient, would be the forming of a body of inspectors, and the

establishing of training-schools or colleges for teachers. The latter

are already beginning to exist, and machinery for the former is now at

work under the direction of the Committee of Council. But we should

hope to see training-schools established on a much larger and more

efficient scale than at present; and we should desire to see the

appointment of inspectors, and the management of the education funds,

taken out of the hands of such a body as the Privy Council, and given

to the local and provincial authorities, civil and ecclesiastical, of

Wales. If such appointments remained in the hands of government,

political jobbing would act upon them with greater intensity than

through the medium of local interests and county influence; and, what

would be far worse than this, another impulse would be given to the

principle of centralisation, one of the most fatal for national spirit

and national freedom that can be devised, and which we are called upon

to resist at all times, but especially when a party of Whig

politico-economists, as wild and destructive in the ultimate

tendencies of their theories as the Girondists of France, are in

possession of the reins of power.

We say nothing on the subject of Sunday schools; we leave them

altogether to the consideration and support of the Church, and the

various sects in Wales, by whom, if they are wanted, they can be

efficiently maintained without any interference of the state. But we

call loudly upon the legislature of the United Kingdom to give at

least the initiative and the moving power to the natural inertness of

the Welsh people; and we would summon them, as they value the

happiness, the tranquillity, and the moral advancement of that portion

of the country, to take the matter of education under their primary

control, and to form a general system, harmonious in its manner of

working, comprehensive in its extent, and tolerant in its religious

tendencies. Much opposition and prejudice and clamour would have to be

combated, as upon every question seems now to be the case in what we

fondly consider the model of all political constitutions. But unless

the legislature and the statesmen at the head of affairs are prepared

to meet these obstacles, and to remove them in their sovereign wisdom,

they had better declare their incapacity openly, and renounce their

functions.

THE SILVER CROSS.--A CAMPAIGNING SKETCH.

FROM THE GERMAN OF ERNEST KOCH.[4]

[4] This sketch is derived partly from the note-book, and partly from

the conversation, of a young German, now living upon a small estate

near Barèges in the Upper Pyrenees.

NIGHT-QUARTERS.

In the village of Careta, upon the mountains near the Arga, which

flows from the Pyrenees to Pampeluna, the wind whistled and the snow

drifted upon a stormy January evening of the year 1836. It was about

seven of the clock: José, a sturdy peasant, sat by his kitchen fire,

on which withered vine-branches blazed and crackled, and dried his

hempen sandals. Beside him knelt a haggard old woman, handsome in the

ugliness of one of those strongly-marked, melancholy, yellow

countenances, in which a legend of the Alhambra seems to lurk. Dressed

in rusty black, she crouched like an animal by the hearth, poking and

blowing at the fire, which sometimes broadly illuminated the remotest

corners of the room and rafters of the roof, at others was barely

sufficiently vivid to light up her mysterious old physiognomy.

Suddenly a tremendous gust of wind burst open the wooden shutter, and

howled into the apartment.

"_Dios!_ what weather!" croaked the old woman.

An affirmative _carajo_ was her husband's reply, as he knocked the dry

mud from his leathern gamashes against the edge of the raised

hearthstone.

"God help the poor troops in the mountains!" continued the old woman.

"Daughter, shut the window."

A young girl, who sat, spindle in hand, upon a wooden bench in the

gloom of the chimney corner, obeyed the order. Her coarse woollen

dress could not wholly disguise the graces of her form, as she tripped

across the kitchen through the fitful firelight, which shone upon her

gipsy features and clear brown skin, and upon the two long plaited

tails of jet-black hair that fell down her back nearly to her heels.

Before closing the window she listened, with the true instinct of a

vedette, to the sounds without. In a lull of the blast, her ear caught

the noise of distant drums, beaten not in irregular guerilla fashion,

but by well-trained drummers, in steady quick time.

"Father," cried Manuela, "troops are at hand."

"Nonsense, child: 'tis the garrison tattoo below at Larasuena."

"No, father, it draws nearer. 'Tis the French. Mother, hide the beds."

Beds were hidden, a sack of white beans was carefully concealed, the

family jackass was tethered in the darkest corner of the cellar-like

stable. Preceded by rattle of drums, two wet and weary battalions of

the French Legion marched into Careta, and after a few minutes' halt

the shivering alcalde was hurrying from house to house, allotting

quarters to the tired strangers.

An hour later I sat beside José's hearth, smoking a friendly

cigarillo, with the surly old peasant. Upon the earthen floor, at

various distances from the fire, at which sundry pair of white

gaiters, newly washed, hung to dry, lay those soldiers of my squad (I

was then a corporal) who had not fallen in that day's fight by

Larasuena. At a sort of loop-hole in the wall, looking out into the

street, a sentry stood. For a long while José sat with folded hands,

gazing at the fire. I did all I could to make him talk; told him about

German customs and German men; then spoke of Spain, of the

Constitution and so forth; less, however, if truth must be told, with

a view to his amusement than to that of the sweet-faced girl with the

long black locks who sat over her spindle in the opposite corner. At

last José's sullenness thawed so far that he asked me very earnestly

if the German jackasses were as big and as strong as those in Navarre.

What could I reply to such a question!

Suddenly a long shrill whistle was heard outside the house. "Keep a

bright look-out!" cried I, to the sentry at the loophole. Again all

was still. Father José dropped off to sleep; the patrona went down

stairs to fodder the donkey, and I addressed my conversation to pretty

Manuela. I know not how it was, but we got on so well together that

soon I found myself seated close beside her, one arm round her waist,

whilst the other hand played with a silver cross that hung from her

neck, and on which were engraved the words, "Mary, pray for me!" And

she told me of her brother Antonio, who was away from home, and of her

sister Maria, who was with relations at Hostiz, in the valley of the

Bastan.

"And where is your brother Antonio, Manuela?"

"My brother is--in the mountains. You seem good and kind, stranger;

you tell me you are not a Frenchman, but a German. Oh! if you meet my

brother in fight, do not kill him--spare him for my sake!"

"But, dear Manuela, how am I to know your brother? One Carlist is so

like another."

"No, no! you are sure to know him: he resembles me, and he wears upon

his breast a silver cross like mine. The same words are written upon

it, and not a bullet has touched him since he has worn it."

"So, your brother is a soldier of Don Carlos, your sister dwells in a

Carlist village, and your parents--at least your father, judging from

his looks when I spoke of the Constitution,--also hold for the

Pretender. Do you not fear Christino troops?"

"No, Señor--at least I should not, if they were all as good as you,

who protected me from that rude Italian.--_Dios!_" she exclaimed,

suddenly interrupting herself, and springing from her chair like a

scared deer. From under the bench on the other side of the fire peered

forth the dark countenance of a Piedmontese soldier, his checks

flushed with wine, his eyes sparkling with a sullen fire, his ignoble,

satyr-like features expressing a host of evil passions. He shot a

venomous glance from under his dirty eyelashes, then turned himself

round, grinding between his teeth an Italian malediction. He still lay

where I had violently thrown him, when, upon our first entrance, I

rescued Manuela from his brutality.

"To bed, girl!" screamed the old woman, who just then re-entered the

kitchen. Manuela went to bed, and I composed myself to sleep upon the

bench by the fire. It was eleven o'clock, and the silence in the

village was unbroken save by the howling of the storm and the

occasional challenge of a sentry.

IN THE MOUNTAINS.

The road from Pampeluna to France passes by a mountain of some size,

whose real name I have forgotten, but which our soldiers called the

Hill of Death, because, for a league around, it emitted an odour of

unburied corpses. Close to the road, but at a considerable elevation,

a conical peak springs from the hill-side.

Around this peak, upon a July night, about six months after the scene

at Careta, lay a column of Carlists, awaiting the dawn. There they

are, scattered about the fires, forlorn figures of unconquerable

endurance, barefoot, in linen trousers and thin cloth jackets, the

scarlet plate-shaped cap upon their heads. Burnt brown by the

Castilian sun, their daring picturesque countenances assume an

additional wildness of aspect in the red light of the watch-fires.

From one of these, Fernando, a handsome Arragonese lad, whose father

and brothers have been shot, and whose sister is a _fille-de-joie_ at

Saragossa, snatches a charcoal with his fingers, and places it upon a

stone, to light his paper cigar. Then comes Hippolito, a pale

emaciated boy of sixteen, and sets upon the fire a small pot of

potatoes, which he has carried with him since morning. The Carlists

caught him in Catalonia, and dragged him along with them, and often

does he swear a peevish oath that his death will be in the hospital.

Beside him lies Cyrillo, a desperate scapegrace from Estremadura,

intended for the university, but whom restlessness and evil courses

have brought under the banners. He has a piece of bacon on his

bayonet, and toasts it at the flame. Hard by, a brace of Andalusians

have got a guitar, and strike up a melody, so plaintive and yet so

strangely spirit-stirring, that a bearded dragoon, slumbering upon his

back, with his hands beneath his head, suddenly opens his great wild

eyes. One of his comrades stands near him, his arms folded on his

breast, gazing down wistfully into the valley of the Arga, now veiled

by the mists of evening, and which he perhaps for many a long day has

not dared to visit--as if the tones of the guitar brought melancholy

to his mind. Suddenly the measure is changed, and the musician breaks

into the lively fandango; a joyous Navarrese seizes the pensive

trooper by the arm and whirls him round, but receives in return a push

that sends him staggering against the guitar player, whilst he grasps

at his girdle for the ready knife. An obscene curse burst from

half-a-dozen throats; with fierce looks the two men confront each

other, but are separated by force, and again the guitar tinkles in the

night air, whilst Hippolito gathers up his potatoes, upset and

scattered in the scuffle. A dirty priest comes up, a decoration upon

his black coat, and enjoins order and peace. He has scarcely walked

away, when a soldier in handsome uniform rushes up to the fire, and

throws himself down, breathless and half fainting. He is a deserter

from the Christino regiment of Cordova. They give him unlimited wine,

and he tells them the latest news from the hostile camp. The _bota_

passes from mouth to mouth; and whilst the deserter sleeps off his

libations and fatigue, his new comrades cast lots for his good shirt

and strong shoes.

The same evening four battalions of the foreign legion were quartered

at Villalba, four leagues nearer to Pampeluna. Upon an open space in

the village, whence the sun had long since burned away the grass, a

party of Germans sat upon scattered blocks of stone, and discussed,

whilst a gourd of wine circulated slowly amongst them, an order just

issued to hold themselves ready to march at a minute's notice.

"Who knows," said one of them, a tailor from Regensburg, "whether we

shall be alive to-morrow? Let's have a song."

"A song, a song!" repeated another, a shoemaker from Rhenish Prussia,

who had found himself uncomfortable in the Vauban barracks in

Luxemburg.

"What shall it be?" cried a journeyman mechanic, who, when upon his

travels, ran short of work and money.

Before any one could answer, a capering Frenchman struck up,

"Entendez-vous, le tambour bat, le clairon sonne," &c.

"Hold your infernal French tongue!" shouted the Germans. "Here's the

sergeant from Munich will give us a song."

The Bavarian, nothing loath, struck up a song, whose simple strain and

familiar words brought home and friends to the memory of all present.

The melody echoed far through the still evening air, and, when it

concluded, tears were in every eye, and no one spoke, save the

Regensburg tailor, who muttered,

"God take us safe out of this cutthroat country!"

The sun went down. A few pieces of ship-biscuit were shared for the

evening meal, and then the drums beat to roll-call, which was held in

quarters, and at whose next repetition many a man then present was

doomed to be missing.

That same night, twelve o'clock had scarcely struck, when the three

solemn taps with which the French _générale_ begins, resounded through

the village of Villalba. In less than ten minutes the battalions were

under arms, hurrying at quick step along the desolate road to

Larasuena. In a meadow, outside this village, half an hour's halt was

allowed, for the men to fill their flasks with vinegar and water, as a

remedy for the faintness occasioned by heat. Then the march continued.

The column had scarcely halted, for the second time, in rear of the

houses of Zubiri, when a sharp fire of musketry was heard from the

mountain above. At charging pace the weary troops hurried up the steep

acclivity. The sun was scorching hot; the knapsacks seemed

insupportably heavy. Nearer and nearer was the noise of the fight; in

the ranks of the ascending soldiers short suppressed gasps and groans

were heard. The tailor from Regensburg fell forward, with froth upon

his lips, and gave up the ghost.

On reaching a small level, we saw it was high time for our arrival.

The second regiment of the royal guard already gave ground, when the

cry "La Legion!" changed the fortune of the day. With fixed bayonets

our battalions rushed like tigers upon the factious ranks, which were

disordered by the shock. The Bavarian sergeant fell amongst five

Carlists, who settled him with their knives. A pale subaltern of the

factious came in contact with three of our grenadiers, and begged

piteously for mercy. But the grenadiers had no time; they cut a bad

joke in Swabian dialect, and brained him with their muskets. Of the

first encounter of the day, these are the only episodes I remember.

Suddenly the Carlist bugles sounded the retreat. We formed column and

hurried in pursuit, followed by the royal guard. From time to time the

enemy halted, till the bayonet again dislodged them. By turns our

battalions were sent forward as skirmishers. It was nearly noon. A

dying officer of ours begged me for a mouthful of vinegar. I had but

two; one for myself, and one for my comrade, whom I had not seen,

however, the whole of the day, and never saw afterwards. It was about

twelve o'clock when my company advanced to skirmish. The line

deployed, and as we slowly advanced, loading and firing, I had to pass

through the corner of a small thicket. Just as I entered it, I

observed a Carlist horseman, at its other extremity, fire his carbine

at one of our men. Then he disappeared amongst the trees, and five

seconds later I saw him riding towards me. "Surrender!" he shouted in

Navarrese patois, and stooped behind his horse's head. At my shot the

animal stood stock-still, and the rider fell from his saddle. Blood

streamed from a wound between neck and shoulder. I released his foot

from the stirrup, propped him up against a beech-tree, and unbuttoned

his jacket from over his panting breast. As I did so, a silver cross

fell almost into my hand. It hung from his neck by a ribbon, and upon

it were the words, "Mary, pray for me!" I had seen such a cross

before. "Open your mouth, Antonio!" I cried. He obeyed, and I poured

upon his parched tongue the last contents of my flask. He thanked me

with his dying breath. I concealed the cross within his jacket, and

followed the signal that called the skirmishers forward.

HIDDEN TREASURE.

A fortnight later, at about the same hour as in the previous January,

the Legion marched into Careta. As before, old José was seated upon

the bench in the chimney corner, making a cigarillo out of the stumps

of a dozen others, carefully treasured in his coat cuff; and the

patrona jumped up with a shrill "_Dios de mi alma!_" as the foreign

drums announced her former guests. "The old billets" was the

convenient order, as regarded quarters; and with shout and song, and

clatter of musket-buts, my company rushed up the well-known staircase.

The rough greeting over, and a demand for wine complied with, I

inquired after Manuela. "She is with friends in the mountains,"

grumbled the old woman.

It was ten o'clock. With four other non-commissioned officers I betook

myself, an iron lamp in hand, to the room allotted us. José and the

patrona had been long asleep. The soldiers lay for the most part in

the deathlike slumber of extreme fatigue, upon the chairs and in the

kitchen. The floor of our room was of tiles, affording a cold,

uncomfortable resting-place. As to bedding, it was not to be thought

of.

Whilst examining our dreary lodgings, one of my companions pointed out

an opening in the wall, closed up with square flat stones, laid upon

each other, but not cemented. Judging from the external aspect of the

house, we conjectured this condemned doorway to lead into another

apartment.

The suspicion that beds or wine were perhaps concealed there, induced

us to remove the upper stones, and when enough of them were out to

allow of ingress, my comrades hoisted me up to the opening, through

which I held the lamp, and saw a passage with several doors. Taking my

bayonet and havresack, I bid my comrades remain where they were, and,

promising an equitable division of spoils, I climbed over the wall.

Shading the lamp with my hand lest a ray should meet the eye of old

José, I moved along as noiselessly as possible, whilst behind me my

companions poked their heads through the opening, and made eager and

curious inquiries as to what I saw. In one corner I found a pile of

sheep's wool, which I threw out to serve as bed. In the room I found

some rude furniture, broken and worthless, old shrivelled goatskins,

empty casks, and the like. I was about to cease my investigation, when

I noticed a wooden partition cutting off the end of a room. There was

a door in it, which I opened. Whilst my comrades were busy spreading

out the wool, it revealed an alcove, containing a clean, white bed, in

which some one lay.

Hastily shading the lamp I gently closed the door. But perceiving that

the person in the bed, whoever it was, did not stir, I ventured

nearer, and beheld a mass of long black hair spread out in rich waves

over the snow-white sheet. The sleeper's face was turned to the wall;

another glance, and I recognised Manuela. My heart throbbed violently.

It was a hard fight, harder than that on the 4th July. She lay so

still and unconscious, breathing so softly, and her dark hair twined

so temptingly over the bed-clothes, like snakes out of paradise. But

upon her partially unveiled bosom lay the silver cross, and the

lamp-light shone upon the words, "Mary, pray for me!" Silently I shut

the door and returned to my comrades. Upon my assurance that I had

found nothing worth looking after, the stones were replaced in the

opening, and we lay down to sleep. But I have often slept more soundly

upon bare tiles than I did that night upon José's wool.

At daybreak the _diana_ called us, as usual, under arms, to wait the

return of the morning reconnoissance. After that, various duties

occupied me for some hours. Upon my return to the house, I had all the

difficulty in the world to appease Manuela's mother, who showered upon

us, to the astonishment of the whole company, every malediction the

Spanish language affords. The old lady had found the wool scattered

about our room, and naturally concluded that was not the full extent

of our depredations. Manuela now made her appearance, bathed in

tears--her presence in the house being already known, so her mother

supposed, to all of us.

It was again evening. The thunder rolled, and a heavy summer shower

poured down in torrents, when, as I ascended the stairs, a flash of

lightning showed me José equipped and girt for the road. Manuela hung

sobbing round his neck, and bid him God-speed. On my appearance, the

old peasant darted through the back-door; and a second flash gave me a

glimpse of his brown cloak as he strode over the garden fence and

disappeared across the country.

An hour later our drums beat for unexpected departure, and the

soldiers hurried out of the house. I lingered an instant, and, with my

arm round Manuela's waist, told her, in few words, my discovery of the

previous night. Her cheeks burned like flame, and she raised her great

dark eyes timidly and gratefully to my face. "May God repay it to your

sisters and mother!" were her words. "I said you were not like the

rest. But your home is far hence, and if the war spares you, poor

Manuela will soon be forgotten."

"Give me something whereby to remember you, Manuela. A kiss, if you

will."

"Take this cross. I give it you. Wear it in battle, as my brother

Antonio does his, and show it him if you meet in strife. May it shield

and accompany you to your distant home, and remind you sometimes of

the poor Navarrese maiden."

I pressed the sweet girl closer to my breast, took a farewell kiss,

and whispered, "Adieu, poor Manuela!" Just then, through the half-open

door, appeared the unclean countenance of the Piedmontese. He grinned

with rage and disappointment, and disappeared at Manuela's cry of

alarm.

Ten or twelve leagues south-west from Pampeluna lies the fortress of

Lerin, perched high upon the summit of a hill. Thence, a few weeks

after the preceding scene, the second division of the foreign legion

started suddenly at midnight, the object of the mysterious march

unknown even to the officers. When the column had reached the bottom

of the road that zig-zags down the hill, a peasant, tied, by

precaution, to one of the horses of the advanced guard, conducted them

rapidly across the Ega, through meadows and vineyards, and wild broken

country. It was very dark, and now and then a man or horse fell down a

bank or into a ditch. When day broke, however, it was discovered that

the wrong direction had been taken. The column went to the right

about, and reached, just as the sun rose, a beaten track leading

direct to Sesma, a village occupied by Carlist troops. Bright blazed

the bayonets in the sunbeams, betraying our presence to the foe we

were to have surprised. Whilst we gave the Carlists employment in the

adjacent woods and fields, our general made a dash into the village,

caught the alcalde, and, by threats of a short shrift and a sharp

volley, made him pay down a small portion of the long arrears due to

the legion.

Upon our orderly retreat to Lerin, effected in squares of battalions,

on whose skirts hosts of Carlist cavalry impotently hovered, we were

surprised to see our peasant guide led along with bound hands. When

the sight of the fort's artillery made the enemy cease the pursuit and

return to Sesma, the column was formed into one large square, a

drum-head court-martial was held upon the peasant, and preparation

made for his instant execution. Although well acquainted with the

country, he had led the troops astray, exposing them to great danger,

and partly frustrating the object of the expedition. Further proof of

his guilt was found upon him, in the shape of a letter from the

Carlist village of Hostiz. With bowed head, and in sullen silence, he

listened to his sentence, announced with a threefold rattle of drums.

For the first time the unpleasant duty devolved upon me of forming one

of the firing party. Heavens! how I started as I drew near to the

victim, and recognised old José from Careta. Poor Manuela! I trembled

as I looked round, expecting her to appear. Just then came pouring out

of the town, with a woman at their head, a crowd of peasants in Sunday

garb, hat in hand, and approached the general, slackening their pace

respectfully as they drew near. But Manuela's mother (she it was who

accompanied them) sprang forward like a fury, menacing the general

with her clenched fist and mad Cassandra-like countenance, and heaping

upon him curses such as only an angry Spaniard can lay tongue to. Her

shrill imprecations contrasted oddly with the humble and deprecating

entreaties of the men, and with the muttered prayers of José, who

awaited his last minute upon his knees before the firing party.

Permission given, one of the men stepped forward as spokesman.

"May it please your Excellency," said he to the general, "to spare

this man's life. He is unacquainted with the country. He first came

hither only a month ago, after his hearth had been ravaged, his family

scattered, his house burned. Be merciful, Señor. We will all be

sureties for his good behaviour. Let him return to his wife: and so

shall the blessed Mary and the angels comfort your Excellency in the

hour of agony!"

"No, no!" yelled the woman, sputtering with fury, her long grizzled

hair streaming around her distorted face. "No! they shall not comfort

him, the vile heretic! José Lopez! husband! die bravely, curse the

heretic dogs with thy last breath, and the angels will hear thee!

Curse upon ye, strangers, come to destroy our dwellings, to slay our

men, to slight our faith! Death and agony to your souls, pest in your

veins, ravens on your carcass, ashes on your threshold! Die, José,

for the King and the holy faith! _Viva la Santa Maria! Viva Carlos

Quinto!_"

Four men led away the peasants and the furious woman. The word of

command was given, and I had to aim at the breast to which, only a

month previously, poor Manuela had been pressed in the cottage at

Careta. Once more José exclaimed, in a loud voice, "Mary, pray for

me!" Then there was the rattle of a volley, the peasant sprang into

the air, and fell down upon his face, his jacket smoking with burnt

wadding.

The band struck up, and we marched back to Lerin.

THE WINE-SKIN.

Three days afterwards, on the 14th August, the legion made an

unexpected incursion into the valley of the Bastan, a district full of

strong positions, and formerly, for some time, the abiding place of

the Pretender, of whose cause its inhabitants were enthusiastic

partisans.

Moving with extreme rapidity, we swept, with small resistance, one

village after another. On our approach, soldiers, peasants, women, and

children, packed their beds upon jackasses, and fled with bag and

baggage to concealment in the mountains. Towards noon, every sign of a

foe having disappeared, we retired rapidly through the valley towards

the Arga, and on this retreat some plundering occurred in the

villages.

Arrived at Hostiz, I entered what appeared the best house in the

village. The streets were strewn with clothes, linen, and other

objects, dropped or thrown away by the fugitives. I met two soldiers

carrying large red curtains of heavy rich silk; others had laden

themselves with cheeses, others with honey or wine; one man had got a

large crucifix. Half-naked women ran screaming through the streets.

Eager for a draught of wine, for I was exhausted to faintness by the

extreme heat and by the fatigue of a long rapid march, I hurried up

the stairs. The house bore witness to utter wantonness of destruction.

Every thing was broken and smashed; and hence I was not a little

surprised to observe the good-humoured air with which a handsome young

woman, standing in the roomy vestibule, distributed wine to a large

party of our soldiers, who drank in greedy haste, laughing, singing,

and extolling the charms of their Hebe.

"Hallo! my girl, a drink of wine, for heaven's sake!"

I had scarcely uttered the words when an adjacent door opened; and,

with arms extended and dishevelled hair, Manuela rushed towards me.

"Give him none, Maria!" she cried; "and you," she added, seizing both

my hands, "for God and the saints' sake, drink not a drop!"

At the words, her sister Maria dropped the mouth of the wine-skin,

allowing the red liquor to gush over the floor, and disappeared. The

drums beat to fall in and march. But now the soldiers, an instant

before so joyous, sank down, one after the other, like poisoned flies,

writhing and bemoaning themselves upon the stairs and in the passage.

Manuela hung senseless upon my arm. I stooped to lay her gently on the

ground, when a musket was fired not three paces behind me. I looked

round. It was the Piedmontese, grinning horribly in mingled agony and

exultation, as he doubled himself like a worm in the pangs of poison.

But the wretch's aim had been too true. Her breast pierced by the

bullet, Manuela fell dead beside the other victims.

How beautiful she was, even in death, whilst her left breast poured

forth in a crimson stream the many sorrows she had sighed under! Poor

Manuela! How pale was now your cheek! How different the last farewell

kiss on your chill blue lips from that warm and thrilling one in

Careta!

THE HOSPITAL.

The military hospital at Pampeluna was formerly the palace of the

bishop, who fled to Don Carlos at the commencement of the war. Its

spacious halls and corridors were converted into twelve large wards,

four of them for wounded men, and four others for fever patients. Each

ward contained about fifty beds, in which, upon dirty mattresses,

Christino soldiers pined and suffered. Most of the sick of the foreign

legion there gave up the ghost. The nurses were sisters of the Order

of Mercy; but these, like nearly all Spaniards pertaining to the

church, were adherents of the Pretender, and any thing but zealous in

the discharge of their duty towards us. People spoke even of the

poisoning of soups and drinks given to the patients--a thing certainly

not impossible, all such matters being prepared by the sisterhood,

whose proceedings were but carelessly superintended.

In each of these wards, during the dead hours of night, a single lamp

burned, leaving the two extremities of the room in darkness. The

hospital being close to the town wall, there was never a lack of

night-birds, attracted to the windows by the smell of corpses. Day and

night the sisters moved about the wards, in white veils and black

dresses--a mass of keys, beads, and crucifixes, suspended at their

side. And frequent were the visits of the episcopal chaplain, Don

Rafael Salvador, preceded by bell-ringing urchins, and bearing the

last sacrament to some expiring sinner.

Repeated bivouacs in inclement weather, and especially that of the

11th March, at the foot of the Dos Hermanas, laid me, on the 15th

March 1837, seven months after the incident last related, upon a sick

bed in this house of suffering.

Four bloodlettings within two days had done something towards calming

the fever that burned in my veins, but still enough remained to beset

my couch with delirious images. Grim and horrible visages, pale,

mournful figures that seemed of moonshine, and vaguely reminded me of

my home, scenes from my childhood, and others from the war in which I

had been nearly two years a sharer, passed rapidly before me. Now it

was the tailor from Regensburg, with froth on his lips, expiring on

the mountain side; then old José, with sightless eyes and pierced by a

dozen bullets, danced a ghastly fandango at my bed-foot; and then I

beheld a colossal breast, white and beautiful, offering blood to drink

to a host of thirsty soldiers.

From such visions as these I one night awoke and lay with my eyes

fixed upon the lamp, which hung just opposite to me, revolving wild

and melancholy fancies in my fevered brain. Do what I would, Manuela's

image continually recurred to me, and with the strange pertinacity of

delirium I repeated to myself that she would come and rescue me from

my unhappy condition. In a bed behind me, an Andalusian prayed with

the chaplain, who threw a red silk coverlid over his emaciated body,

received his confession, and administered the holy wafer. At the

window a screech-owl uttered its annoying cries. Upon a bed opposite

to me a sick German sang--

"Jetzt bei der Lampe Dämmerschein

Gehst du wohl in dein Kämmerlein."

Further off another patient whistled a fandango; and next to me, upon

my left hand, an unhappy creature, frantic with fever, and bound down

upon his bed with leathern straps, wrought and strove till he got rid

of his coverings, and wrenched the bandage from his arm, which

forthwith sent up into the air a spout of blood from a recently opened

vein. For a moment the German's kindly song soothed and calmed my

perturbed ideas; but suddenly José gave a bound before me, and held up

his fist with a frightful laugh, and yelled out like a lunatic, "_Viva

Carlos Quinto!_" And Manuela wrung her hands till my two sisters came

and consoled and prayed with her. Then suddenly her pale face,

surrounded by a white veil, was bent down till it nearly touched mine;

and she said, in soft and tender tones:--

Poor stranger, will you drink?"

"Yes," I replied, and looked her full in the face. Manuela it was. I

well remembered the sweet countenance, first seen in Careta. I raised

myself, and would fain have seized hold of her, but she moved slowly

away, her rosary and golden crucifix and black gown rustling through

the room. It was no deception. Again Manuela came, and brought me some

cooling drink. Once more I looked her hard in the eyes. God! now I

remembered! It was the same beautiful woman who distributed the wine

at Hostiz and would fain have given me some. "Faugh!" I exclaimed, and

raised myself in bed to call the Piedmontese to shoot her. But she

bent soothingly over me, and laid hold of the ribbon upon which I wore

Manuela's silver cross. I thought she was about to strangle me; but

she smiled kindly, and showed me that she wore a similar cross upon

her breast. And she gave me to drink, and then took away the little

earthen jug, and disappeared at the dark end of the room. And I lay

thinking how like she was to Manuela, the poor girl in Careta, who

loved me and saved my life.

The same night--how long afterwards I cannot tell, perhaps five

minutes, perhaps two hours--the pale sad face again bowed over me.

Just then two hospital attendants bore away a corpse, rolled in its

bed-clothes. My neighbour, No. 50, cried out, "Pierre! they are

burying you!" and laughed horridly, whilst the German opposite sang

gently and mournfully:

"Sei still! ich steh' in Gottes Hut,

Der schützt ein treu Soldatenblut."

But close beside me a soft voice whispered: "Sleep, and be at rest;

God give thee peace and health. I am not Manuela--I am Maria. I found

thy cross, and I pray for thee. Thou shalt recover and return to thy

country!"

And her prayers and care prevailed. I did recover, and returned to

friends and home. But often still do I think of poor Manuela, and of

my loves and perils and sufferings in yon strange land beyond the

Pyrenees.

HEIGH-HO!

A pretty young maiden sat on the grass,

Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!

And by a blythe young shepherd did pass,

In the summer morning so early.

Said he, "My lass will you go with me,

My cot to keep, and my bride to be,

Sorrow and want shall never touch thee,

And I will love you rarely?"

"Oh! no, no, no!" the maiden said,

Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!

And bashfully turn'd aside her head,

On that summer morning so early:

"My mother is old, my mother is frail,

Our cottage it lies in yon green dale;

I dare not list to any such tale,

For I love my kind mother rarely."

The shepherd took her lily-white hand,

Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!

And on her beauty did gazing stand,

On that summer morning so early.

"Thy mother I ask thee not to leave,

Alone in her frail old age to grieve,

But my home can hold us all, believe--

Will that not please thee fairly?"

"Oh! no, no, no! I am all too young,

Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!

I dare not list to a young man's tongue,

On a summer morning so early."

But the shepherd to gain her heart was bent;

Oft she strove to go, but she never went;

And at length she fondly blush'd consent--

Heaven blesses true lovers so fairly.

REPUBLICAN PARIS.

[MARCH, APRIL 1848.]

Is there any former lover of Paris who imagines that, when the

barricades of the last insurrection have been removed, the

devastations repaired, and the street lanterns mended, Paris will

wear, with its republican face, the same aspect as it did of old? If

there be such a man, let him still cherish the fond delusion, and not

come and see. Or, would he learn the truth, let him try the experiment

of taking from the fairest face he knows and loves, the gay,

coquettish cap of gauze and ribbon, the light, butterfly-like

_chef-d'œuvre_ of the most tasty fancy of a French _marchande des

modes_, and let him put on that head the Phrygian cap of liberty, the

_bonnet rouge_, in all its startling coarseness of red cloth. He

thinks, perhaps, that the face will be the same, or at least wear the

same expression as before! Fatal mistake! Animated, gay with colour,

flushed with the red reflected tints, picture-like even, may be the

pretty face--but it will have utterly lost its former charm; it will

look staring, vulgar, swaggering, disordered, at best Bacchante-like.

Or, to take a more psychological comparison:--Let him think back upon

the time when he was in love, and wandered in the company of the

beloved, and try to remember how he looked upon the objects that

surrounded him. Of a surety, whatever their natural want of beauty

they wore a peculiar look of brightness; there was a magical veil of

rose-coloured charm upon all. Let him then reflect upon the aspect of

the same spot when _she_ was gone. The objects remained the same, but

certainly they wore not the same air to his eyes; they were the

identical objects he had looked upon before, and yet he could have

sworn that they were changed--that the whole landscape was

discoloured. And so it is with Paris. Streets, squares, and houses are

the same, but its moral appearance is totally altered: there is a

changed look in the very air; the impression on the mind is as

different as rose-colour is from gray upon the sense; the

psychological tint has been washed out, blurred away, and replaced by

a troubled, confused, indescribably unharmonious and uncongenial

colour.

But without attempting to convey to others a feeling impossible to

define, it is easy enough to point out the altered state of being of

the French capital in the outward physical aspect of republican Paris.

True, the marks of devastation have been almost entirely removed from

the Boulevards and principal streets with wonderful alacrity on the

part of the municipal authorities. Young trees have been planted on

the spots where the old ones were cut down to form barricades: they

look stunted, meagre, and unhappy enough, to be sure--very like the

young republic that their frail stems typify--but they manage to keep

up the look of the line of avenue. There they stand, all ready to be

cut down again for the construction of fresh barricades, if ever they

grow big enough before they are wanted, which is certainly a very

doubtful matter. The asphalte is already laid down once more in the

holes of the broken-up _trottoirs_, or at least smoke and stench

enough prevail in the labours of plastering it down; and in a short

time the iron railings of the Boulevard du Rempart will again prevent

drunken citizens in smocks from falling down into the street below; at

all events, there is mortar and solder enough ready on the pavement to

do the work. On the opposite side of the way, that fatal building, the

Hotel of Foreign Affairs, before which so frightful a scene of carnage

was acted, looks much as it did of yore--perhaps only a little

dirtier, a little more public-office-like--although young citizens _en

blouse_ mount guard before its gates instead of soldiers of the line,

and on its walls, smeared with blood-dipped fingers, glare before

one's eyes, unwashed away by rain, the startling capitals--"MORT A

GUIZOT." But it is to be presumed that the eyes of passers-by will get

used to the bloody words--forgotten, perhaps, before many months in

other visions of blood--perhaps smeared over in their turn by "_Mort

à_ ----." Who can tell? The pavement has been long since restored to

the streets; although, to tell the truth, here and there the

disjointed, ill-replaced stones still slightly lift their heads to

tell a tale of past devastation, and proclaim their readiness to rise

again at a moment's warning; and _fiacres_ jolt uneasily over

them--very much like the Provisional Government over the rough work

left them to stumble against by the Revolution. But, upon the whole,

Paris has nigh recovered its former material look, and might almost

cheat the wanderer, who looks only upon stone walls, and pavements,

and lamp-posts, into the belief that it has undergone no change, and

retained no scars from its late burning eruptive disorder, unless he

stroll past two spots which startle him into a recollection of the

truth. Here the long façade of the palace of the Tuilleries, its

window-panes all smashed, its shutters shattered--the broken casket of

royalty! There the quondam Palais-Royal, its walls still blackened by

the bonfires of royal furniture lighted in its courts; its windows

paneless, its once flowered terraces bare or boarded with planks. And,

opposite, the smoked walls of that ruined building, on the other side

of the square, where the last defenders of royalty were shot down, or

were flung back to perish in the blazing pile of the vast guard-house.

But if Paris has thus washed away its blood and dirt, thus mended its

rent garments, thus patched over its scars, where then is the great

change? Come and see! The scenes with which the streets of republican

Paris teem are such as those who have only known the city in its

kingly garb have never witnessed.

What was the aspect of Paris formerly on one of those bright

champagne-like spring days, when the Parisian butterflies of all

classes, the humble gray moth as the sparkling tiger-fly, came forth

to sun themselves in the golden air? There were crowds--but listless,

easy, careless crowds, that sauntered they knew not whither, and

turned back they knew not why--crowds of beings who ran over each

other, and almost over themselves, as they fluttered hither and

thither, enjoying the brightness of the sky without rendering

themselves any reckoning of their enjoyment. There are still crowds in

the streets; but no longer listless, easy, careless crowds. They form

in large groups, and knots, and circles on the pavement, and at street

corners, and at the entrance of galleries and passages; and, from the

midst of the mass, if you can get near enough to hear, comes the sound

of haranguing or of disputing. Each group is an _al fresco_ club in

which the interests of the country at large are being discussed; and

round about is ever a dark murmuring, and a rumour, and a ferment--and

sometimes minor disputants break off from the parent knot; and

presently they form a nucleus for a fresh encircling crowd; and

another group takes up its standing; and a great banian-tree of

politicising knots drops its branches, which thus take root up and

down the Boulevards, far and wide, until the whole long avenue is

planted with separate little circles of disputants or spouters. Here a

well-dressed man assures his unknown auditors that the arbitrary and

despotic measures of an obnoxious Minister of the Interior destroy all

confidence, and prepare the ruin of the country, with the fear of

another Reign of Terror: there a workman on a bench, with violent

gesture and inflamed countenance, declares that the salvation of the

republic, one and indivisible, hangs upon the despotism--he gives it

another name--of the same Minister of the Interior--for the time

being, the hero of the people. But think not that the _blouse_ is

sundered from the frock-coat, or the varnished boot from the clouted

shoe. Here you see a young _élégant_ of the Faubourg St Germain, his

legitimist principles and his old dynastic hopes prudently concealed

behind the axiom, "All for France! _Français avant tout!_" discussing

amicably a knotty point about elections, or the measures of the

Provisional Government, with an unshaved artisan in a smock: and look!

they are of one mind--or apparently so--and the kid-gloved hand grasps

the rough, callous, toil-hardened palm. Here again a good

_bourgeois_, a shopkeeper, in his uniform as a National Guard, the

grocer of your street corner maybe, holds _Monsieur_ the ex-Count, his

customer, by the button, to develop his last republican scheme for the

certain remedy of the financial crisis. A little further on, a

dark-browed man, in a ragged coat, with a tricolor cockade, scarcely

concealing the blood-red ribbon beneath, declares to a knot of young

schoolboys, that the only method to avert the general misery is by the

spoliation of the vile rich; but meets with little sympathy, and goes

away scowling, as if he thought that his time would yet come. And here

again a _gamin_, a very child, with his snub nose insolently cocked in

the air, his sabre bound about his body, and his musket on his

arm--for he just comes from keeping guard--is holding forth upon the

interests of the Republic to a red-faced, mustached old gentleman, who

looks like an old general; and who smiles good-temperedly on the

urchin, and listens, until the young patriot thinks probably that he

has sufficiently enlightened "granny" upon the art of sucking

republican eggs, and swaggers off, screeching _Mourir pour la Patrie_,

at the top of his shrill voice. And around each of these minor centres

of two suns is all the hemisphere of listening planets and satellites.

And thus every where is a fusion, according to the best-established

republican principles of _égalité_: and no great harm done, were the

doctrine to rest there--every where ferment, commotion, murmur,

movement. But the old Parisian _flaneur_, with his easily satisfied

curiosity, his desultory wanderings, his careless movements--and what

Parisian of the street-crowds, man, woman, or child, had not formerly

more or less of the spirit of a true _flaneur_?--is gone from the

streets of Paris. A _citizen_ has something else to do than _flaner_:

he feels all the weight of the interests of the country on his own

individual shoulders; and he has no time now but for making harangues,

on which the welfare of France depends, and discussing political or

social questions, equally for the welfare of all humanity. It is

wonderful how quickly the change has come over the spirit of his

dream. But fashion and contagion work miracles.

Come! look at this picture now. It is a bright moonlight night. The

beams of the full moon are whitening the long line of elevated columns

of the Bourse. In the large, open, moonlit _place_ before it are

crowds--every where crowds--in isolated circles again, looking like

clumps of little wooded islands in a glistening lake. Let us approach

one of the dark masses. In the midst of the circle stands a young

fellow, bare-headed, shaking his fair locks about him most

theatrically, and "baying at the moon." He is mounted on a tub, or

some such temporary pulpit. His arms are tossed aloft in the moonlight

with such energy that we feel convinced he fancies himself a second

Camille Desmoulins animating the Parisian population against the

tyrants of the country. We get as near as we can, and we now catch his

words. He is, in truth, haranguing against tyranny, but the tyranny of

the shopkeepers; and he calls upon all _citoyens_ and true patriots to

join him in a petition to the Government for the closing of shops on

Sundays and holidays at twelve o'clock, instead of three in the

afternoon! But the mass around does not seem to catch his enthusiasm;

for I see none of those shifting lights in the _chiaro-obscuro_ of the

crowd, that would indicate one of those electric movements that fall

upon popular masses, under the influence of inspiration. Now, he

cries, "_Vive la Republique!_ citizens, friends, let us to the

Faubourg St Antoine!"--the workman's quarter, where _émeutes_ are

generally cooked up. But no one seems inclined to follow him into that

distant region, in order to get up a shop-shutting insurrection; and

more than one voice calls out, "_plus souvent!_" or, _Anglice_, "I

wish you may get it!"

Come! here is another picture. The night this time is dark and

drizzly. Upon the pavement of the now naked flower-market, beneath the

quiet ghostly white walls of the Madeleine, stand thick groups of men:

there are some hundreds of them--some in cloaks, some in thick coats,

some with their hats slouched down upon their brows, all wearing, in

their several patches of murmuring forms, an air of conspiracy, which

is greatly increased by the sombre and inclement state of the night.

And conspirators they are--but bold-faced conspirators in the face of

a dripping heaven. In republican Paris, however, there is, _as yet_,

no police to prevent conspiracy: and in this instance the plotters are

not conspiring against republican France, but against monarchies and

empires. The dusky forms are those of the German democrats, who are

holding a desultory council for the raising of a German army to go and

conquer the liberties of the great German republic they intend to

found. To-morrow their address to the "_citoyens Français_," calling

on them to lend arms and give money towards the recruitment of their

force, will be on all the walls of Paris. In a day or two a few

hundreds will be off, with the full conviction that they are to mix

their own republican leaven of sourness into all the freshly baked

German constitutional governments, and proclaim their republic

wherever they go. They are talking, in this bigger group, not only of

"breaking tyrant-chains," but of "wreathing laurels for their own

brows."

Think not also that the Boulevards retain their glittering aspect of

rich decorated shops, teeming with the luxury of colour and gilding as

before. We are in the midst of a financial crisis, and misery and want

are increasing daily. Trade has ceased with the want of confidence;

ruin has fallen on many; workmen have been dismissed, and shop-boys

turned adrift in hundreds upon the streets; and, in spite of the

"roasted larks" all ready for hungry mouths, and "showers of gold"

which the Government promises as about to fall from the heaven of the

republic upon the working classes, it is not only on the faces of the

tradespeople at their shop-doors, or behind the mockery of their

plate-glass windows, that there is impressed a gloom, but upon the

many hundreds and thousands who seek work and cannot find it, and who

wander up and down with hanging heads, or while away their weary hours

in lounging about the outskirts of the disputing groups. See! how many

shops are shut! See! how sadly the placard of "_boutique à louer_,"

upon the closed doors, meets the eye at every ten steps, and tells a

tale of bankruptcy; how many rows of dismal shutters, like coffin-lids

erect upon their ends, give by day to the streets that funereal look

they formerly only gave by night; and chalked upon these shutters are

still the words--"_armes donnés au peuple_," a still remaining

_souvenir_ of the days of tumult, disorder, and bloodshed, when every

house in Paris was scrawled over by the same announcement, in order to

prevent the forcible entry of the mob into private dwellings to carry

off defensive weapons. If we step aside into one of those

monster-shops, with their vast corridors, and avenues, and galleries,

and staircases, which lately were so crowded that it was difficult for

customers to be served even by the hundred _commis_ within, what a

scene of desert listlessness meets our eyes! There is scarce a

solitary customer who wanders amongst their long galleries, vainly

draperied and beshawled with all the rich wonders of modern

manufacture. The weary-looking shop-boys, the few that remain, run out

of breath from one end of a long gallery to another to get what you

want, for they have now several departments of the establishment under

their care. There is not a trace here of Paris as it was.