BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. CCCCLIV. AUGUST, 1853. VOL. LXXIV.
CONTENTS.
THE NARCOTICS WE INDULGE IN, 129
SOUTH AMERICAN TRAVEL AND ADVENTURE, 140
NAPOLEON AND SIR HUDSON LOWE, 159
NEW READINGS IN SHAKESPEARE, 181
THE INSURRECTION IN CHINA, 203
LADY LEE’S WIDOWHOOD—PART VIII., 220
THE MARQUIS DE LAROCHEJAQUELEIN—FRANCE IN 1853, 245
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BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. CCCCLIV. AUGUST, 1853. VOL. LXXIV.
THE NARCOTICS WE INDULGE IN.[1][2]
When a distinguished man sinks into his grave, from the midst of many
rivals in a common race, the strife of opinions in reference to him is
instantaneously allayed; personal feelings, if not quenched, are
repressed and hushed; and, like the heroism of the triumphant warrior,
when he is caught by the anxious eye emerging unscathed from the battle
and the smoke, his merits appear now unclouded and confessed. Such, we
believe, is the general feeling among the members of his own profession
in regard to the author of the valuable work now before us. Snatched
suddenly from the midst of his labours, before the third edition of his
_Materia Medica_ was completed, there are few in any way familiar with
the subject who will not regret the sudden extinction of so much
learning, and, apart from all private considerations, that the world
should have so prematurely lost the benefits of his ripening judgment
and experience, and the results of his extended reading and research.
Yet how many precious cabinets of collected knowledge do we see thus
hurriedly sealed up for ever! How often, when a man appears to have
reached that condition of mental culture and accumulated information, in
which he is fitted to do the most for the advancement of learning, or
for promoting the material comfort of his fellows, how often does the
cold hand suddenly and mysteriously paralyse and stop him! He has been
permitted to add only a small burden of earth to the rising mound of
intellectual elevation, scarcely enough to signify to after-comers that
_his_ hand has laboured at the work. Nevertheless, he may have shown a
new way of advancing, in some sense, so that to others the toil is
easier and the progress faster, because he has gone before. The more,
however, the true-hearted worker in the cause of progressive science
becomes familiar with its actual condition and its great future, the
more he becomes satisfied also of the vanity of attempting to associate
with an individual name the merit of this or that advance—the more
earnestly he trains himself to find the best reward for individual
attempts in the growing conquests and dimensions of the field he
cultivates, and in the consciousness that he has not been unhelpful in
widening its domain. Such a consciousness Dr Pereira might well
entertain, and we trust he found in it something to alleviate the
regrets the best of us naturally feel, when compelled to leave a
favourite task unfinished.
We should be forsaking widely the field we usually occupy, were we to
attempt to lay before our readers any analysis of a work so elaborate
and so purely professional as this of Dr Pereira. We propose, however,
to take it as our text-book, in considering a subject of great general
interest—one scarcely of more importance to the professional physician
than it is to the physiologist, the psychologist, and the economical
statist. The book is replete with scattered information on the subject
of the _Narcotics we Indulge in_, and some of this we propose to bring
together in the present article. And among other sources from which we
mean to draw the materials necessary to our purpose, are the
_Confessions of an English Opium-Eater_, long, long ago noticed in our
pages, but, to us who have been reading it to-day, as fresh and new as
ever—as full of interest, as suggestive of profound reflection. We who
are ourselves somewhat scientific, can scarce restrain a selfish sigh
when we think how fresh and new, how sure of human sympathy this actual
burning experience of a living man will continue to be when the heavy
and toilsome tomes of Pereira shall have become mere records of the
progress of science, and be turned up only to illustrate the ignorance
of the most learned or trusted in their professions about the middle of
the nineteenth century.
In ministering fully to his natural wants, man passes through three
successive stages. First, the necessities of his material existence are
provided for; next, his cares are assuaged and for the time banished;
and lastly, his enjoyments, intellectual and animal, are multiplied and
for the time exalted. Beef and bread represent the means by which, in
every country, the first end is attained; fermented liquors help us to
the second; and the third we reach by the aid of narcotics.
When we examine, in a chemical sense, the animal and vegetable
productions which in a thousand varied forms, among various nations,
take the place of the beef and pudding of the Englishman in supplying
the first necessities of our nature, we are struck with the remarkable
general similarity which prevails among them naturally, or which they
are made to assume by the artifices of cookery, before they are conveyed
into the stomach. And we exclaim, in irrepressible wonder, “by what
universal instinct is it that, under so many varied conditions of
climate and of natural vegetation, the experience of man has led him
everywhere so nicely to adjust the chemical constitution of the staple
forms of his diet to the chemical wants of his living body?”
Nor is the lightening of care less widely and extensively attained.
Savage and civilised tribes, near and remote—the houseless barbarian
wanderer, the settled peasant, and the skilled citizen—all have found,
without intercommunion, through some common and instinctive process, the
art of preparing fermented drinks, and of procuring for themselves the
enjoyments and miseries of intoxication. The juice of the cocoa-nut tree
yields its _toddy_ wherever this valuable palm can be made to grow.
Another palm affords a fermented wine on the Andean slopes of Chili—the
sugar palm intoxicates in the Indian Archipelago, and among the Moluccas
and Philippines—while the best palm wine of all is prepared from the sap
of the oilpalms of the African coast. In Mexico the American aloe
(_Agave Americana_) gave its much-loved _pulque_, and probably also its
ardent brandy, long before Cortez invaded the ancient monarchy of the
Aztecs. Fruits supply the cider, the perry and the wine, of many
civilised regions—barley and the cereal grains the beer and brandy of
others; while the milk of their breeding mares supplies at will to the
wandering Tartar, either a mild exhilarating drink, or an ardently
intoxicating spirit. And to our wonder at the wide prevalence of this
taste, and our surprise at the success with which, in so many different
ways, mankind has been able to gratify it, the chemist adds a new wonder
and surprise when he tells us, that as in the case of his food, so in
preparing his intoxicating drinks, man has everywhere come to the same
result. His fermented liquors, wherever and from whatever substances
prepared, all contain the same exciting alcohol, producing everywhere,
upon every human being, the same exhilarating effects!
It is somewhat different as regards the next stage of human wants—the
exalted stage which we arrive at by the aid of narcotics. Of these
narcotics, it is remarkable that almost every country or tribe has its
own—either aboriginal or imported—so that the universal instinct has led
somehow or other to the universal supply of this want also.
The aborigines of Central America rolled up the tobacco leaf, and
dreamed away their lives in smoky reveries, ages before Columbus was
born, or the colonists of Sir Walter Raleigh brought it within the
chaste precincts of the Elizabethan court. The coca leaf, now the
comfort and strength of the Peruvian muletero, was chewed as _he_ does
it, in far remote times, and among the same mountains, by the Indian
natives whose blood he inherits. The use of opium and hemp, and the
betel nut, among eastern Asiatics, mounts up to the times of most
fabulous antiquity, as probably does that of the pepper tribe in the
South Sea Islands and the Indian archipelago; while in northern Europe
the hop, and in Tartary the narcotic fungus, have been in use from time
immemorial. In all these countries the wished-for end has been attained,
as in the case of intoxicating drinks, by different means; but the
precise effect upon the system, by the use of each substance, has not,
in this case, been the same. On the contrary, tobacco, and coca, and
opium, and hemp, and the hop, and _Cocculus indicus_, and the toadstool,
each exercise an influence upon the human frame, which is peculiar to
itself, and which in many respects is full of interest, and deserving of
profound study. These differences we so far know to arise from the
active substances they severally contain being chemically different.
I. TOBACCO.—Of all the narcotics we have mentioned, tobacco is in use
over the largest area, and by the greatest number of people. Opium comes
next to it; and the hemp plant occupies the third place.
The tobacco plant is indigenous to tropical America, whence it was
introduced into Spain and France in the beginning of the sixteenth
century by the Spaniards, and into England half a century later (1586)
by Sir Francis Drake. Since that time, both the use and the cultivation
of the plant have spread over a large portion of the globe. Besides the
different parts of America, including Canada, New Brunswick, the United
States, Mexico, the Western coast, the Spanish main, Brazil, Cuba, St
Domingo, Trinidad, &c., it has spread in the East into Turkey, Persia,
India, China, Australia, the Philippine Islands, and Japan. It has been
raised with success also in nearly every country of Europe; while in
Africa it is cultivated in Egypt, Algeria, in the Canaries, on the
Western coast, and at the Cape of Good Hope. It is, indeed, among
narcotics, what the potato is among food-plants—the most extensively
cultivated, the most hardy, and the most tolerant of changes in
temperature, altitude, and general climate.
We need scarcely remark, that the use of the plant has become not less
universal than its cultivation. In America it is met with everywhere,
and the consumption is enormous. In Europe, from the plains of sunny
Castile to the frozen Archangel, the pipe and the cigar are a common
solace among all ranks and conditions. In vain was the use of it
prohibited in Russia, and the knout threatened for the first offence,
and death for the second. In vain Pope Urban VIII. thundered out his
bull against it. In vain our own James I. wrote his “Counterblaste to
Tobacco.” Opposition only excited more general attention to the plant,
awakened curiosity regarding it, and promoted its consumption.
So in the East—the priests and sultans of Turkey and Persia declared
smoking a sin against their holy religion, yet nevertheless the Turks
and Persians became the greatest smokers in the world. In Turkey the
pipe is perpetually in the mouth; in India all classes and both sexes
smoke; in China the practice is so universal that “every female, from
the age of eight or nine years, wears as an appendage to her dress a
small silken pocket, to hold tobacco and a pipe.” It is even argued by
Pallas that the extensive prevalence of the practice in Asia, and
especially in China, proves the use of tobacco for smoking to be more
ancient than the discovery of the New World. “Amongst the Chinese,” he
says, “and amongst the Mongol tribes who had the most intercourse with
them, the custom of smoking is so general, so frequent, and has become
so indispensable a luxury; the tobacco purse affixed to their belt so
necessary an article of dress; the form of the pipes, from which the
Dutch seem to have taken the model of theirs, so original; and, lastly,
the preparation of the yellow leaves, which are merely rubbed to pieces
and then put into the pipe, so peculiar—that they could not possibly
derive all this from America by way of Europe, especially as India,
where the practice of smoking is not so general, intervenes between
Persia and China.”[3]
Leaving this question of its origin, the reader will not be surprised,
when he considers how widely the practice of smoking prevails, that the
total produce of tobacco grown on the face of the globe has been
calculated by Mr Crawford to amount to the enormous quantity of two
millions of tons. The comparative magnitude of this quantity will strike
the reader more forcibly, when we state that the whole of the wheat
consumed by the inhabitants of Great Britain—estimating it at a quarter
a-head, or in round numbers at twenty millions of quarters—weighs only
four and one-third millions of tons; so that the tobacco yearly raised
for the gratification of this one form of the narcotic appetite weighs
as much as the wheat consumed by ten millions of Englishmen. And
reckoning it at only double the market value of wheat, or twopence and a
fraction per pound, it is worth in money as much as all the wheat eaten
in Great Britain.
The largest producers, and probably the largest consumers, of tobacco,
are the United States of America. The annual production, at the last two
decennial periods of their census returns, was estimated at
1840, 219,163,319 lb.
1850, 199,752,646 „
being about one-twentieth part of the whole supposed produce of the
globe.
One of the remarkable circumstances connected with the history of
tobacco is, the rapidity with which its growth and consumption have
increased, in almost every country, since the discovery of America. In
1662, the quantity raised in Virginia—the chief producer of tobacco on
the American shores of the Atlantic—was only 60,000 lb.; and the
quantity exported from that colony in 1689, only 120,000 lb. In two
hundred and thirty years, the produce has risen to nearly twice as many
millions. And the extension of its use in our own country may be
inferred from the facts that, in the above year of 1689, the total
importation was 120,000 lb. of Virginian tobacco, part of which was
probably re-exported; while, in 1852, the quantity entered for home
consumption amounted to
28,558,753 lb.
being something over a pound per head of the whole population; and to
this must be added the large quantity of contraband tobacco, which the
heavy duty of 3s. per lb. tempts the smuggler to introduce. The whole
duty levied on the above quantity in 1852, was £4,560,741, which is
equal to a poll-tax of 3s. a head.
Tobacco, as every child among us now knows, is used for smoking, for
chewing, and for snuffing. The second of these practices is, in many
respects, the most disgusting, and is now rarely seen in this country,
except among seafaring men. On shipboard, smoking is always dangerous,
and often forbidden; while snuffing is expensive and inconvenient; so
that, if the weed must be used, the practice of chewing it can alone be
resorted to.
For the smoker and chewer it is prepared in various forms, and sold
under different names. The dried leaves, coarsely broken, are sold as
canaster or knaster. When moistened, compressed, and cut into fine
threads, they form cut or shag tobacco. Moistened with molasses or with
syrup, and pressed into cakes, they are called cavendish and negrohead,
and are used indifferently either for chewing or smoking. Moistened in
the same way, and beaten until they are soft, and then twisted into a
thick string, they form the pigtail or twist of the chewer. Cigars are
formed of the dried leaves, deprived of their midribs, and rolled up
into a short spindle. When cut straight, or truncated at each end, as is
the custom at Manilla, they are distinguished as _cheroots_.
For the snuff-taker, the dried leaves are sprinkled with water, laid in
heaps, and allowed to ferment. They are then dried again, reduced to
powder, and baked or roasted. The dry snuffs, like the Scotch and Irish,
are usually prepared from the midribs—the rappees, or moist snuffs, from
the soft part of the leaves. The latter are also variously scented, to
suit the taste of the customer.
Extensively as it is used, it is surprising how very few can state
distinctly the effects which tobacco produces—can explain the kind of
pleasure the use of it gives them—why they began, and for what reason
they continue the indulgence. In truth, few have thought of these
points—have cared to analyse their sensations when under the narcotic
influence of tobacco—or, if they have analysed them, would care to tell
truly what kind of relief it is which they seek in the use of it. “In
habitual smokers,” says Dr Pereira, “the practice, when employed
moderately, provokes thirst, increases the secretion of saliva, and
produces a remarkably soothing and tranquillising effect on the mind,
which has made it so much admired and adopted by all classes of society,
and by all nations, civilised and barbarous.” Taken in excess in any
form, and especially by persons unaccustomed to it, it produces nausea,
vomiting, in some cases purging, universal trembling, staggering,
convulsive movements, paralysis, torpor, and death. Cases are on record
of persons killing themselves by smoking seventeen or eighteen pipes at
a sitting. With some constitutions it never agrees; but both our author
and Dr Christison of Edinburgh agree that “no well-ascertained ill
effects have been shown to result from the habitual practice of
smoking.” The effects of chewing are of a similar kind. Those of
snuffing are only less in degree; and the influence which tobacco
exercises in the mouth, in promoting the flow of saliva, &c., manifests
itself when used as snuff in producing sneezing, and in increasing the
discharge of mucus from the nose. The excessive use of snuff, however,
blunts the sense of smell, alters the tone of voice, and occasionally
produces dyspepsia and loss of appetite. In rarer cases it ultimately
induces apoplexy and delirium.
But it is the soothing and tranquillising effect it has on the mind for
which tobacco is chiefly indulged in. And amid the teasing paltry cares,
as well as the more poignant griefs of life, what a blessing that a mere
material soother and tranquilliser can be found, accessible alike to
all—to the desolate and the outcast, equally with him who is rich in a
happy home and the felicity of sympathising friends! Is there any one so
sunk in happiness himself, as to wonder that millions of the
world-chafed should flee to it for solace? Yet the question still
remains which is to bring out the peculiar characteristic of tobacco. We
may take for granted that it acts in some way upon the nervous system;
but what is the special effect of tobacco on the brain and nerves, to
which the pleasing reverie it produces is to be ascribed? “The pleasure
of the reverie consequent on the indulgence of the pipe consists,”
according to Dr Madden, “in a temporary annihilation of thought. People
really cease to think when they have been long smoking. I have asked
Turks repeatedly what they have been thinking of during their long
smoking reveries, and they replied, ‘Of nothing.’ I could not remind
them of a single idea having occupied their minds; and in the
consideration of the Turkish character there is no more curious
circumstance connected with their moral condition. The opinion of Locke,
that the soul of a waking man is never without thought, because it is
the condition of being awake, is, in my mind, contradicted by the waking
somnambulism, if I may so express myself, of a Moslem.”[4]
We concede that Dr Madden might find in England, in Germany, and in
Holland, many good smokers, who would make excellent Moslems in his
sense, and who at the close of long tobacco reveries are utterly
unconscious and innocent of a single thought. Yet we restrict our faith
in his opinion to the simple belief, that tobacco, with a haze such as
its smoke creates, tends to soften down and assuage the intensity of all
inner thoughts or external impressions which affect the feelings, and
thus to create a still and peaceful repose—such a quiet rest as one
fancies might be found in the hazy distance of Turner’s landscapes. We
deny that, in Europeans in general, smoking puts an end to intellectual
exertion. In moderation, our own experience is, that it sharpens and
strengthens it; and we doubt very much if those learned Teutonic
Professors, who smoke all day, whose studies are perpetually obscured by
the fumes of the weed, and who are even said to smoke during sleep,
would willingly, or with good temper, concede that the heavy tomes which
in yearly thousands appear at the Leipsic book fair, have all been
written after their authors had “really ceased to think.” Still it is
probably true, and may be received as the characteristic of tobacco
among narcotics, that its major and first effect is to assuage, and
allay, and soothe the system in general; its minor, and second, or after
effect, to excite and invigorate, and, at the same time, give steadiness
and fixity to the powers of thought.
The active substances, or chemical ingredients of tobacco or tobacco
smoke, by which these effects upon the system are produced, are three in
number. The _first_ is a volatile oil, of which about two grains can be
obtained from a pound of leaves, by distilling them with water. This oil
or fat “is solid, has the odour of tobacco, and a bitter taste. It
excites in the tongue and throat a sensation similar to that of tobacco
smoke; and, when swallowed, gives rise to giddiness, nausea, and an
inclination to vomit.” Small as the quantity is, therefore, which is
present in the leaf, this substance must be regarded as one of the
ingredients upon which the effects of tobacco depend.
The _second_ is a volatile _alkali_, as it is called by chemists, which
is also obtained by a form of distillation. The substance is liquid, has
the odour of tobacco, an acrid burning taste, and is possessed of
narcotic and highly poisonous qualities. In this latter quality it is
scarcely inferior to Prussic acid. The proportion of this substance
contained in the leaf varies from 3 to 8 per cent, so that he who smokes
a hundred grains of tobacco _may_ draw into his mouth from three to
eight grains of one of the most subtle of all known poisons. It will not
be doubted, therefore, that some of the effects of tobacco are to be
ascribed to this peculiar substance.
The third is an oil—an empyreumatic oil, it is called—which does not
exist ready formed in the natural leaf, but is produced along with other
substances during the burning. This is supposed to be “the juice of
cursed hebenon,” described by Shakspeare as a _distilment_.[5] It is
acrid, disagreeable to the taste, narcotic, and so poisonous that a
single drop on the tongue of a cat causes immediate convulsions, and in
two minutes death.
Of these three active ingredients contained in tobacco smoke, the
Turkish and Indian pipes, in which the smoke is made to pass slowly
through water, arrest a large proportion, and therefore convey the air
to the mouth in a milder form. The reservoir of the German meerschaums
retains the grosser portions of the oils, &c., produced by burning; and
the long stem of the Russian pipe has a similar effect. The Dutch and
English pipes retain less; while the cigar, especially when smoked to
the end, discharges everything into the mouth of the smoker, and, when
he retains the saliva, gives him the benefit of the united action of all
the three narcotic substances together. It is not surprising, therefore,
that those who have been accustomed to smoke cigars, especially such as
are made of strong tobacco, should find any other pipe both tame and
tasteless, except the short black _cutty_, which has lately come into
favour again among inveterate smokers.
The chewer of tobacco, it will be understood from the above description
of its active ingredients, is not exposed to the effects of the oil
which is produced during the burning. The natural oil and the volatile
alkali are the substances which act upon him. The taker of snuff is in
the same condition. But _his_ drug is still milder than that of the
chewer, inasmuch as the artificial drying or roasting to which the
tobacco is subjected in the preparation of snuff, drives off a portion
of the natural volatile oil, and a large part of the volatile alkali,
and thus renders it considerably less active than the natural leaf.
In all the properties by which tobacco is characterised, the produce of
different countries and districts is found to exhibit very sensible
differences. At least eight or ten species, and numerous varieties, of
the plant are cultivated; and the leaf of each of these, even where they
are all grown in the same locality, is found to exhibit sensible
peculiarities. To these climate and soil add each its special effects;
while the period of growth at which the leaves are gathered, and the way
in which they are dried or cured, exercise a well-known influence on the
quality of the crop. To these causes of diversity is owing, for the most
part, the unlike estimation in which Virginian, Cuban, Brazilian,
Peruvian, East Indian, Persian, and Turkish tobaccos are held in the
market.
The chemist explains all the known and well-marked diversities of
quality and flavour in the unadulterated leaf, by showing that each
recognised variety of tobacco contains the active ingredients of the
leaf in a peculiar form or proportion; and it is interesting to find
science in his hands first rendering satisfactory reasons for the
decisions of taste. Thus, he has shown that the natural volatile oil
does not exist in the green leaf, but is formed during the drying, and
hence the reason why the mode of curing affects the strength and quality
of the dried leaf. He has also shown that the proportion of the
poisonous alkali (nicotin) is smallest (2 per cent) in the best
Havannah, and largest (7 per cent) in the Virginian tobacco, and hence a
natural and sound reason for the preference given to the former by the
smokers of cigars.
As to the lesser niceties of flavour, this probably depends upon other
odoriferous ingredients not so active in their nature, or so essential
to the leaf as those already mentioned. The leaves of plants, in this
respect, are easily affected by a variety of circumstances, and
especially by the nature of the soil they grow in, and of the manure
applied to them. Even to the grosser senses of us Europeans, it is
known, for example, that pigs’ dung carries its _gout_ into the tobacco
raised by its means. But the more refined organs of the Druses and
Maronites of Mount Lebanon readily recognise, by the flavour of their
tobacco, the kind of manure employed in its cultivation, and esteem,
above all others, that which has been aided in its growth by the
droppings of the goat.
But in countries where high duties upon tobacco hold out a temptation to
fraud, artificial flavours are given by various forms of adulteration.
“Saccharine matter (molasses, sugar, honey, &c.), which is the principal
adulterating ingredient, is said to be used both for the purpose of
adding to the weight of the tobacco, and of rendering it more agreeable.
Vegetable leaves (as those of rhubarb and the beech), mosses, bran, the
sproutings of malt, beet-root dregs, liquorice, terra japonica, rosin,
yellow ochre, fullers’ earth, sand, saltpetre, common salt,
sal-ammoniac”[6]—such is a list of the substances which have been
detected in adulterated tobacco. How many more may be in daily use for
the purpose, who can tell? Is it surprising, therefore, that we should
meet with manufactured tobacco possessing a thousand different flavours
for which the chemistry of the natural leaf can in no way account?
There are two other circumstances in connection with the history of
tobacco, which, because of their economical and social bearings, are
possessed of much interest.
_First_, Every smoker must have observed the quantity of ash he has
occasion to empty out of his pipe, or the large nozzle he knocks off
from time to time from the burning end of his cigar. This incombustible
part is equal to one-fourth or one-fifth of the whole weight of the
dried leaf, and consists of earthy or mineral matter which the tobacco
plant has drawn from the soil on which it has grown. Every ton, when
dried, of the tobacco leaf which is gathered, carries off, therefore,
from four to five hundredweight of this mineral matter from the soil.
And as the substances of which the mineral matter consists are among
those which are at once most necessary to vegetation, and least abundant
even in fertile soils, it will readily be understood that the frequent
growth and removal of tobacco from the same field must gradually affect
its fertility, and sooner or later exhaust it.
It has been, and still is, to a great extent, the misfortune of many
tobacco-growing regions, that this simple deduction was unknown and
unheeded. The culture has been continued year after year upon virgin
soils, till the best and richest were at last wearied and worn out, and
patches of deserted wilderness are at length seen where tobacco
plantations formerly extended and flourished. Upon the Atlantic borders
of the United States of America, the best known modern instances of such
exhausting culture are to be found. It is one of the triumphs of the
chemistry of this century, that it has ascertained what the land loses
by such imprudent treatment—what is the cause, therefore, of the
barrenness that befalls it, and by what new management its ancient
fertility may be again restored.
_Second_, It is melancholy to think that the gratification of this
narcotic instinct of man should in some countries—and especially in
North America, Cuba, and Brazil—have become a source of human misery in
its most aggravated forms. It was long ago remarked of the tobacco
culture by President Jefferson, in his _Notes on Virginia_, that “it is
a culture productive of infinite wretchedness. Those employed in it are
in a continued state of exertion beyond the powers of nature to support.
Little food of any kind is raised by them, so that the men and animals
on these farms are badly fed, and the earth is rapidly impoverished.”[7]
But these words do not convey to the English reader a complete idea of
the misery they allude to. The men employed in the culture, who suffer
the “infinite wretchedness,” are the slaves on the plantations. And it
is melancholy, as we have said, to think that the gratification of the
passion for tobacco should not only have been an early stimulus to the
extension of slavery in the United States, but should continue still to
be one of the props by which it is sustained. The exports of tobacco
from the United States in the year ending June 1850, were valued at ten
millions of dollars. This sum European smokers pay for the maintenance
of slavery in these states, besides what they contribute for the same
purpose to Cuba and Brazil. The practice of smoking is in itself, we
believe, neither a moral nor a social evil; it is merely the
gratification of a natural and universal, as it is an innocent instinct.
Pity that such evils should be permitted to flow from what is in itself
so harmless!
II. The HOP, which may now be called the _English narcotic_, was brought
from the Low Countries, and is not known to have been used in malt
liquor in this country till after the year 1524, in the reign of Henry
VIII. In 1850 the quantity of hops grown in England was 21,668 tons,
paying a duty of £270,000. This is supposed to be a larger quantity than
is grown in all the world besides. Only 98 tons were exported in that
year; while, on the other hand, 320 tons were imported, so that the home
consumption amounted to 21,886 tons, or 49 millions of pounds; being
two-thirds more than the weight of the tobacco which we yearly consume.
It is the narcotic substance, therefore, of which England not only grows
more and consumes more than all the world besides, but of which
Englishmen consume more than they do of any other substance of the same
class.
And who that has visited the hop grounds of Kent and Surrey in the
flowering season, will ever forget the beauty and grace of this charming
plant? Climbing the tall poles, and circling them with its clasping
tendrils, it hides the formality and stiffness of the tree that supports
it among the exuberant profusion of its clustering flowers. Waving and
drooping in easy motion with every tiny breath that stirs them, and
hanging in curved wreaths from pole to pole, the hopbines dance and
glitter beneath the bright English sun—the picture of a true English
vineyard, which neither the Rhine nor the Rhone can equal, and only
Italy, where her vines climb the freest, can surpass.
The hop “joyeth in a fat and fruitful ground,” as old Gerard hath it
(1596). “It prospereth the better by manuring.” And few spots surpass,
either in natural fertility or in artificial richness, the hop lands of
Surrey, which lie along the out-crop of the green sand measures in the
neighbourhood of Farnham. Naturally rich to an extraordinary degree in
the mineral food of plants, the soils in this locality have been famed
for centuries for the growth of hops; and with a view to this culture
alone, at the present day, the best portions sell as high as £500 an
acre. And the _highest_ Scotch farmer—the most liberal of manure—will
find himself outdone by the hop-growers of Kent and Surrey. An average
of ten pounds an acre for manure over a hundred acres of hops, makes
this branch of farming the most liberal, the most remarkable, and the
most expensive of any in England.
This mode of managing the hop, and the peculiar value and rarity of hop
land, were known very early. They form parts of its history which were
probably imported with the plant itself. Tusser, who lived in Henry
VIII.’s time, and in the reigns of his three children, in his _Points of
Husbandry_ thus speaks of the hop:—
“Choose soil for the hop of the rottenest mould,
Well-doonged and wrought as a garden-plot should:
Not far from the water (but not overfloune),
This lesson well noted, is meet to be knowne.
The sun in the south, or else southlie and west,
Is joy to the hop as welcommed ghest;
But wind in the north, or else northerly east,
To hop is as ill as fray in a feast.
Meet plot for a hop-yard, once found as is told,
Make thereof account, as of jewel of gold;
Now dig it and leave it, the sun for to burne,
And afterwards fense it, to serve for that turne.
The hop for his profit, I thus do exalt:
It strengthened drink, and favoureth malt;
And being well brewed, long kep it will last,
And drawing abide, if ye draw not too fast.”[8]
The hops of commerce consist of the female flowers and seeds of the
_humulus lupulus_, or common hop plant. Their principal consumption is
in the manufacture of beer, to which they give a pleasant, bitter,
aromatic flavour, and tonic properties. Part of the soporific quality of
beer also is ascribed to the hops, and they are supposed by their
chemical properties to check the tendency to become sour. The active
principles in the hop consist of a volatile oil, and a peculiar bitter
principle to which the name of _lupulin_ is given.
When the hop flowers are distilled with water, they yield as much as
eight per cent of their weight of a volatile oil, which has a brownish
yellow colour, a strong smell of hops, and a slightly bitter taste. In
this “oil of hops” it has hitherto been supposed that a portion of the
narcotic influence of the flowers resided, but recent experiments render
this opinion doubtful. It is probable that in the case both of tobacco
and of the hop, a volatile substance distils over in small quantity
along with the oil, which has not hitherto been examined separately, and
in which the narcotic virtue resides. This is rendered probable by the
fact that the rectified hop oil is not possessed of narcotic properties.
The hop has long been celebrated for its sleep-giving qualities. To the
weary and wakeful, the hop-pillow has often given refreshing rest, when
every other sleep-producer had failed. It is to the escape, in minute
quantity, of the volatile narcotic substance we have spoken of, that
this soporific effect of the flowers is most probably to be ascribed.
Besides the oil and other volatile matter which distil from them, the
hop flowers, and especially the fine powdery grains or dust which, by
rubbing, can be separated from them, yield to alcohol a bitter principle
(lupulin) and a resinous substance, both in considerable proportion. In
a common tincture of hops these substances are contained. They are
aromatic and tonic, and impart their own qualities to our beer. They are
also soothing, tranquillising, and in a slight degree sedative and
soporific, in which properties well-hopped beer also resembles them. It
is certain that hops possess a narcotic virtue which beer derives from
them;[9] but in what part of the female flower, or in what peculiar
chemical compound this narcotic property chiefly resides, is still a
matter of doubt.
To the general reader it may appear remarkable, that the chemistry of a
vegetable production, in such extensive use as the hop, should still be
so imperfect—our knowledge of its nature and composition so
unsatisfactory. But the well-read chemist, who knows how wide the field
of chemical research is, and how rapidly our knowledge of it, as a
whole, is progressing, will feel no surprise. He may wish to see all
such obscurities and difficulties cleared away, but he will feel
inclined rather to thank and praise the many ardent and devoted men, now
labouring in this department, for what they are doing, than to blame
them for being obliged to leave a part of the extensive field for the
present uncultivated.
Among largely used narcotics, therefore, especially in England, the hop
is to be placed. It differs, however, from all the others we have
mentioned, in being rarely employed alone except medicinally. It is
added to infusions like that of malt, to impart flavour, taste, and
narcotic virtues. Used in this way, it is unquestionably one of the
sources of that pleasing excitement, gentle intoxication, and healthy
tonic action, which well-hopped beer is known to produce upon those who
drink it. Other common vegetable productions will give the bitter
flavour to malt liquor. Horehound and wormwood, and gentian and quassia
and strychnia, and the grains of paradise, and chicory, and various
other plants, have been used to replace or supplant the hop. But none
are known to approach it in imparting those peculiar qualities which
have given the bitter beer of the present day so well-merited a
reputation.
Among our working classes, it is true, in the porters and humbler beers
they consume and prefer, the _Cocculus indicus_ finds a degree of favour
which has caused it, to a considerable degree, to take the place of the
hop. This singular berry possesses an intoxicating property, and not
only replaces the hop by its bitterness, but to a certain extent also
supplies the deficiency of malt. To weak extracts of malt it gives a
richness and _fulness in the mouth_, which usually imply the presence of
much malt, with a bitterness which enables the brewer to withhold
one-third of his hops, and a colour which aids him in the darkening of
his porter. The middle classes in England prefer the thin wine-like
bitter beer. The skilled labourers in the manufacturing districts prefer
what is rich, full, and substantial in the mouth. With a view to their
taste, it is too often drugged with the _Cocculus indicus_ by
disreputable brewers; and much of the very beastly intoxication which
the consumption of malt liquor in England produces, is probably due to
this pernicious admixture. So powerful is the effect of this berry on
the apparent richness of beer, that a single pound produces an equal
effect with a bag of malt. The temptation to use it, therefore, is very
strong. The quantity imported in 1850 was 2359 cwt., equal to a hundred
and twelve times as many bags of malt; and although we cannot strictly
class it among the narcotics we voluntarily indulge in, it may certainly
be described as one in which thousands of the humbler classes are
compelled to indulge.
It is interesting to observe how men carry with them their early tastes
to whatever new climate or region they go. The love of beer and hops has
been planted by Englishmen in America. It has accompanied them to their
new empires in Australia, New Zealand, and the Cape. In the hot East
their home taste remains unquenched, and the pale ale of England follows
them to remotest India. Who can tell to what extent the use of the hop
may become naturalised, through their means, in these far-off regions?
Who can predict that, inoculated into its milder influence, the devotees
of opium and the intoxicating hemp may not hereafter be induced to
abandon their hereditary drugs, and to substitute the foreign hop in
their place? From such a change in one article of consumption, how great
a change in the character of the people might we not anticipate?
This leads us to remark, that we cannot as yet very well explain in what
way and to what extent the use of prevailing narcotics is connected, as
cause or effect, with peculiarities in national character. But there can
no longer be any doubt that the soothers and exciters we indulge in, in
some measure as the luxuries of life, though sought for at first merely
to gratify a natural craving, do afterwards gradually but sensibly
modify the individual character. And where the use is general and
extended, the influence of course affects in time the whole people. It
is a problem of interest to the legislator, not less than to the
physiologist and psychologist, to ascertain how far and in what
direction such a reaction can go—how much of the actual tastes, habits,
and character of existing nations has been created by the prolonged
consumption of the fashionable and prevailing forms of narcotics in use
among them respectively, and how far tastes and habits have been
modified by the changes in these forms which have been introduced and
adopted within historic times. The reader will readily perceive that
this inquiry has in it a valid importance quite distinct from that which
attaches itself to the supposed influence of the different varieties of
intoxicating fermented drinks in use in different countries. The latter,
as we have said, all contain the same intoxicating principle, and so
far, therefore, exercise a common influence upon all who consume them.
But the narcotics now in use owe their effects to substances which in
each, so far as is known, are chemically different from those which are
contained in every one of the others. They must exercise, therefore,
each a different physiological effect upon the system, and, if their
influence, as we suppose, extend so far, must each in a special way
modify also the constitution, the habits, and the character.
Our space does not permit us, in the present Number, to speak of the use
of opium and hemp; we shall return to these extensively consumed drugs
on a future occasion.
SOUTH AMERICAN TRAVEL AND ADVENTURE.[10]
We here associate two books which have little in common beyond their
relation to the same region and races of men; the one is chiefly
scientific and statistical, the other deals largely in the
characteristic and romantic. Dr Weddell, physician and naturalist, and
member of various scientific societies and commissions, who had
previously travelled in and written of certain districts in South
America, was induced, two years ago, once more to cross the Line, bound
for Bolivia. His former journey had had a purely botanical object: he
had gone to make acquaintance with the trees which produce the Peruvian
bark. His researches were crowned with success; but he was attacked with
fever and dysentery, and quitted the unwholesome shores, vowing never to
revisit them. A handful of sand which he carried away with him caused
him to break through his resolution. Deposited in the Museum of Natural
History at Paris, it attracted attention by the beauty of the golden
spangles it contained. Dr Weddell again sailed for America, this time
with a double mission. The administrators of the Garden of Plants
confided to him certain scientific researches; and a number of persons,
whose objects were more material, commissioned him to examine and obtain
concessions of tracts of land upon the Tipuani—a stream which, rising
amongst the snows of the Cordilleras, flows over golden sands to its
junction with one of the chief tributaries of the mighty Amazon.
Mr Theodore Pavie has been a great traveller. In the volume before us we
find him alternately in India, Africa, America, on the banks of the
Nile, on the Coromandel coast, in the forests that fringe the Sabine.
His book includes even a Chinese legend; but that he confesses to have
derived from a missionary, the companion of one of his voyages. His most
interesting chapters are a series of South American sketches—in the
Pampas, Chili, and Peru. He makes half an apology for having mingled
fiction with facts he himself witnessed. The system he has pursued is
perfectly allowable, and has been adopted by many travellers of wider
fame. We may instance Sealsfield, Ruxton, and a host of other
precedents. Like them, he has brought home from his distant wanderings a
portfolio of rough sketches, which he has filled up, coloured, and
completed by his own fireside. The landscape, the character, the
figures, even some of the incidents, are true to nature; but he has
thrown in a little artificial action, rendering the picture more
attractive.
From the Peruvian port of Arica, which he reached, _viâ_ Southampton and
Panama, in the spring of 1851, Dr Weddell started at once for the
Bolivian town of La Paz. After passing Tacna, where they were detained
for some days by purchase of mules and travelling stores, the doctor and
his two companions, Mr Borniche and Mr Herrypon (the latter a civil
engineer), soon found themselves in the mountains, and suffering from
the painful sensations produced by the great rarefaction of the air.
This effect of the sensible diminution of the atmospheric pressure upon
the circulation and respiration is there called the _soroche_, and is
ignorantly attributed by the natives to metallic emanations from the
soil. At the height of about 12,000 feet above the level of the sea, the
travellers came to the first _apacheta_. In former days the Peruvian
Indians, upon attaining, with a burden, the summit of a mountain, were
accustomed to offer to their god Pachacamac the first object that met
their view. The custom was not costly, for the object was usually a
stone. They accompanied the offering by several repetitions of the word
_apachecta_, which was a sort of prayer. In time, this word, slightly
altered, was applied to the heaps of stones which the superstition
accumulated, and then to the mountain-peaks which these heaps
surmounted. Apachetas are found upon all elevated points of Peruvian
roads. Around one of them, at the summit of the Pass of
Gualillos—estimated by Dr Weddell, and by the English traveller
Pentland, to be nearly 15,000 feet above the sea—were numerous skeletons
of asses, mules, and lamas, which had perished of fatigue on attaining
that prodigious elevation. The three Frenchmen felt almost as much
inclined to lay their own bones beside those of the defunct brutes as to
push on further; but they managed to continue their route over one of
those vast mountain platforms known as _puñas_, of which the German
doctor Tschudi has given so striking an account. They passed the night
in the village of Tacora, and had regained their wonted courage and
activity when aroused next morning by their muleteer with intelligence
that four vicuñas were grazing close at hand. Stealing up to them under
cover of a wall, Dr Weddell and Mr Herrypon got within fair shot, fired,
and missed. Three of the animals took to flight; the fourth stood its
ground, and gazed boldly at its enemies. The doctor, supposing that a
wound was the cause of its immobility, quitted his cover and approached
the vicuña. When he got within a certain distance, the animal ran. It
was too late. The doctor fired his second barrel, and the ball broke its
spine. It was not, as Dr Weddell had supposed, a wound that had delayed
its flight. “When a herd of vicuñas is pursued,” he says, “the most
vigorous of the males, who act as chiefs, invariably remain the last
upon the place of danger, as if to cover the retreat of the others. This
is a fact of which we were more than once witnesses during our journey,
and hence it is much easier to obtain male than female vicuñas. I have
been twenty times within shot of males, but not once of females. The
vicuña (_Camelus vicogna_ Gmel.) is the most numerous species (it and
the _guanaco_) of the camel tribe in the New World. It is met with in
all the elevated regions of the Andes, from the equator to Magellan’s
Straits. The places it best loves to haunt are those where man and the
condor alone can follow it. The condor, that mighty bird of prey, which
is to the Andes what the eagle is to the Alps, prefers carrion to a
living prey, and seldom makes war upon it; and man, until our own days,
has rather encouraged its multiplication than aided in its destruction.
This explains the abundance of the vicuña at the period of the conquest
of Peru.” The old Spanish chroniclers relate that the vicuñas, although
wild, were regarded as the exclusive property of the Incas, and any who
hunted them incurred severe penalties. At fixed seasons—about once
a-year—a general hunt took place, under the personal superintendence of
the Inca and his chief officers; but only once in every four years was
this monster _battue_ allowed in the same district. The chase was on a
prodigious scale. Fifty or sixty thousand hunters—even more, if some
writers are to be believed—armed themselves with poles and lances,
traced an immense circle, and drove to a common centre all the animals
it enclosed. A selection then took place. Roebuck, guanacos, and other
inferior animals, were killed, especially the males; their skins were
used for various purposes, and their flesh was divided amongst the
hunters. This meat, cut in thin slices and dried, was called charqui,
and composed the sole animal food of the lower classes of Peruvians. The
vicuñas, of which thirty or forty thousand were often thus collected,
were more gently treated. They were carefully shorn, and then set at
liberty. The wool was stored in the royal warehouses, and issued as
required—the inferior qualities to the people, the better ones to the
nobles, who alone had a right to wear fine cloth. The tissues then
manufactured from the best vicuña wool are said to have been as
brilliant as the finest silks, and to have excited, by the delicacy of
their tints, the envy of European manufacturers. At the present day, no
salutary law protects the graceful and useful vicuñas; they lose their
life with their fleece, and have greatly diminished in numbers. The
Indians drive them into enclosures, knock them on the head with cudgels,
or break their necks across their knees, strip off the skin, and sell it
for half a dollar. The wool sells as high as a dollar a pound upon the
coast of Peru. It is chiefly consumed in the country, to make hats and
gloves. Only two or three thousand dollars’ worth is annually exported
from Peru.
Dr Weddell makes numerous interesting zoological observations during his
journey up the country. Whilst traversing the frozen puña, he was
greatly surprised to find a ruin—in which his party slept, with snow for
a counterpane—infested with mice, whose sole nourishment, in that barren
and inhospitable district, must have been grass. The next halt was at
the farm of Chulunguiani, the highest point upon the road from Tacna to
La Paz. Here the party slept under a roof, and found a _pulperia_ or
little shop, where they were able to obtain sardines in oil,
sheep’s-milk cheese, and bad Bordeaux wine. A day was passed here in
duck-shooting, and in hunting the _viscacha_, a small animal of the
chinchilla tribe, having a dark grey fur, very soft, but less esteemed
by furriers than that of the chinchilla. It is about the size of a
rabbit, burrows amongst rocks, and is found only at a very great
elevation, equal to that habitually preferred by the vicuña. Dr Weddell
and his host shot two specimens. When the doctor went indoors to skin
them, he found that the animals had lost the tips of their tails. The
farm-steward, who had carried them in, explained that he had thus docked
them to preserve them from decomposition, the extremity of the tail
having the singular property of producing the corruption of the whole
animal, if not cut off almost immediately after death. Dr Weddell was
not very well satisfied with this explanation, but, to his astonishment,
he afterwards found it everywhere the custom to sever the end of the
viscacha’s tail.
Whilst at the farm (it was a sheep-farm—oxen live but do not thrive at
that altitude) Dr Weddell did his utmost to get an alpaca, knowing that
there were some in the neighbourhood. He was unsuccessful; and as to
buying one, it is a most difficult matter in that country, where the
Indians have an extraordinary dislike to parting with their domesticated
animals, except sheep. During his stay in Bolivia, he repeatedly offered
five or six times its value for an alpaca, and was refused. The alpaca
wool, which constitutes one of the most important branches of Peruvian
commerce, and is consumed chiefly in England, varies greatly in price,
the pure white selling for thirty or thirty-five dollars a
hundredweight; other colours at an average of twenty-two dollars. The
weight of the fleeces ranges from three to seven pounds. “I have seen
some of these animals,” says Dr Weddell, “whose virgin fleece almost
swept the earth; when they attain that state, their faces are hidden in
the wool that surrounds them.” From a priest, who afforded hospitality
to the travellers at their second halt after they quitted the farm, they
obtained some instructive details concerning the country, and a most
marvellous story of a natural phenomenon observed by him during his
rambles in the province of Yungas. “This was nothing less than a
bird-plant—that is to say, a bird which, having alighted upon the
ground, had there taken root. More than a hundred persons, the _cura_
said, had seen this wonder, and verified its reality. The person who had
discovered the bird, unfortunately forgot one day to take it food, and
it died. We were not informed how it had lived before it found a
master.” It is odd to be able to trace a coincidence between the wild
tale of the Peruvian puña and a tradition of Asiatic-Russian steppes.
Edward Jerrmann, in his _Pictures from St Petersburg_,[11] tells of the
_baranken_ or sheep-plant, supposed to produce the fine silky fleece
that was in reality obtained by ripping unborn lambs from the mother’s
belly.
At La Paz, which the little caravan reached after much fatigue, some
severe hardship, and a few misadventures, but without serious disaster,
one of the first things the travellers did was to avail of a letter of
introduction from the Bolivian minister at Paris, to obtain an audience
of the president of the republic, General Belzu, who had just recovered
from wounds inflicted by assassins. One ball had struck him full in the
face, and his visitors looked curiously for the trace. A scarcely
perceptible scar, at the angle of the nose, was all they could discern.
The bullet remained in the head, but occasioned no inconvenience; and
the general said that his health was even better than before the
occurrence. Some time afterwards he consulted Dr Weddell about his
wounds, and the doctor learned, from the best source, the particulars of
the attempt upon his life, which he briefly recapitulates.
“Raised to the presidency after the battle of Yamparaës, in which he
discomfited the adherents of Velasco, General Belzu had not only to
struggle against the remains of that party, but to defend himself
against the secret and much more formidable attacks of General
Ballivian, Velasco’s predecessor. It is said to have been at the
instigation of Ballivian that the plot I have spoken of was formed; and,
in support of this assertion, the remarkable fact is adduced that, upon
the very day on which the crime was committed at Chuquisaca, Ballivian
and one of his intimates quitted Copiapo (in Chili), where they were
staying, and rode in great haste towards the frontiers of Bolivia.
“The day selected for the crime was the 6th September 1850. In the
afternoon the president left his palace, accompanied by an aide-de-camp,
and by Colonel Laguna, one of the principal members of the senate, and
betook himself to the public walk. Scarcely had he reached it, when four
men assailed him. He stood upon his defence, but at that moment a bullet
struck him in the face, and he fell to the ground. The shot had been
fired so near that his beard was burnt, and his cheeks were speckled
with grains of powder. A second shot was fired, but without effect. When
the assassins saw him stretched upon the earth, they fired three other
shots at him, but, strange to relate, each time the weapons flashed in
the pan. The chief of the brigands—a mulatto named Moralès, who was
mounted—then tried to trample him under his horse’s feet, but without
success. After several efforts, he at last urged his horse close up to
his victim, and, leaning over him, put a pistol to his head and fired a
last shot. ‘The tyrant is dead!’ he cried, and, spurring his horse, he
galloped through the streets to the barracks, to excite the garrison to
revolt. Meanwhile Laguna, the senator, stood by with folded arms, and
when the crime seemed fully consummated, he walked away with its
perpetrators, thus affording good grounds for suspicion of his
complicity. He was shot a few days afterwards.
“As to the president, whose existence, with two bullets in his head,
seemed almost impossible, he had not even, he himself assured me, lost
consciousness for a moment; and when Moralès and his band left him, he
got up unaided, and reached, bathed in his blood, a neighbouring hut,
inhabited by a poor Indian. The news quickly spread that the chief of
the state still lived, and the projected revolution was stifled in its
birth.”
The preservation of the president’s life was little short of a miracle.
One of the bullets had glanced off the skull without doing material
damage beyond occasioning complete loss of hearing with the left ear;
but the other had gone so deep into the head that it could not be
extracted. Dr Weddell probed the wound, and satisfied himself of the
course and position of the ball. A few hairs’-breadths farther, or a
copper bullet instead of a leaden one, and all was over with General
Belzu.
The travellers made some stay at La Paz, where they soon became
acquainted with the principal people in the place. They passed their
time in paying visits, in seeking useful information relative to the
objects of their expedition, and in getting dreadfully out of breath by
the ascent of steep streets in an atmosphere so rarified that a
newly-arrived European can hardly take ten steps without a pause.
English housewives will read with interest Dr Weddell’s account of
Bolivian edibles, with disgust his sketch of the filthy horrors of a
Bolivian kitchen, with wonderment and incredulity the recipes he gives
for the manufacture of certain Bolivian dishes and delicacies. The mode
of using potatoes is very original. As it freezes nearly every night of
the year in the upper regions of the Andes, and the people have no means
of preserving potatoes from frost, they anticipate its action, in order
to regulate it. “They spread the potatoes on a thin layer of straw in
the open air; they water them slightly, and expose them to the frost for
three successive nights. When the vegetables subsequently thaw in the
sun, they acquire a spongy consistency; in that state they are trodden
under naked feet, in order to get rid of the skin and squeeze out the
juice; then they are left in the air until perfectly dry.” This
delectable preparation is known as the black _chuño_; and when wanted
for food, requires soaking in water for six or eight days. White _chuño_
is prepared in another way, but one description of the sort will
probably satisfy everybody of the untempting nature of the diet. Besides
the animal and vegetable kingdoms, the mineral reign contributes to the
gratification of South American epicures. An important section of the
market at La Paz is occupied by sellers of a species of light-grey clay,
very greasy to the touch, and called _pahsa_. The Indians alone consume
it, mixing it with water to the consistency of thin gruel, and eating it
with salt. At Chuquisaca, Dr Weddell was informed, a sort of earth
called _chaco_, similar to the _pahsa_ of La Paz, was sold and eaten in
little cups, like custard or chocolate; and he heard of a _señorita_ who
thus ate dirt till she killed herself. The moderate use of this queer
article of food is not injurious, but neither does it afford the
slightest nourishment.
The beefsteak was long in making its appearance one day at Don Adolfo’s
_gargotte_, where Dr Weddell and his companions usually took their
meals, and an impatient Frenchman started from his seat to visit the
kitchen and inquire into the delay. “Do not so!” cried a more
experienced customer; “if you see how it is done, you will not eat for a
week.” Dr Weddell had opportunity of inspecting more than one _Pazeña_
kitchen. Besides the cooks—which we take to be something indescribably
abominable, since he describes them merely as a degree or two more
disgusting than the scene of their operations—those kitchens contain
three things,—shapeless earthen pots, black and greasy; heaps of dried
lama-dung, used as fuel; guinea-pigs _ad libitum_. Guinea-pigs are the
rabbits of Bolivia, where European rabbits are curiosities, called
Castilian conies, and kept in cages like some outlandish monkey. The
guinea-pig has the run of the kitchen, where he thrives and fattens, and
is ultimately slaughtered and cooked.
Dr Weddell went to a ball, given in celebration of the birthday of a
young and amiable Peruvian lady, recently allied with one of the best
families of La Paz. His account of it gives a curious notion of the
degree of civilisation of the best Bolivian society. No illuminated
portals, liveried lackeys, or crowd of carriages indicated to the doctor
(who had not yet been at the house) the scene of the festival, when he
issued forth, at eight in the evening, white-waistcoated, and draped in
his cloak. The street was dark and deserted. By inquiring at shops, he
at last found the door he sought; it stood open. A little Indian girl,
whom he encountered in the court, pointed to the staircase, up which he
groped his way. At the end of a passage, upon the first floor, he
discovered a faint light. Following this beacon, and passing through two
doors that stood ajar, he reached a small room, where several of the
guests were smoking cigars round a table, on which stood half-emptied
cups and glasses. In a corner two _señoras_ were squatted, making ice;
and a little farther off an old negress was putting sugar into a caldron
of punch. The ice-makers were the mother and sister of the heroine of
the day; the master of the house was amongst the smokers. Dr Weddell
paid his respects, got rid of his cloak, and passed on into antechamber
No. 2. This was in darkness, save for the glimmering rays of light that
shot in from the adjacent rooms; and the doctor, seeing nothing, and
advancing quickly, ran up against a soft substance, which he presently
made out to be another _señora_, enveloped, even to the crown of her
head, in a vast shawl. The room was half full of shawled ladies, seated
on either side of the passage left open for the guests, some on chairs,
others on trunks, and two or three upon a bed. These _señoras_, the
doctor learned, were mothers, friends, or relatives of the guests. Not
being sufficiently smart to show themselves in the foreground of the
festival, they yet would have a view of it. They came as _mosqueteras_.
Antechamber No. 2 contained what is called, in that country, the
_mosqueteria_.[12] Another step took the doctor into the ball-room.
Thence shawls and cigars were banished, and replaced by silks and lace,
white gloves and black patent leather. Dr Weddell looked down with some
shame at his boots, which he had himself blacked before leaving home.
Silence reigned in the saloon. The ladies were on one side, the men upon
the other, waiting for the military band, which was behind time. The
first tap of the drum electrified the mute assemblage. Smiles and
animation beamed upon every face. At the same time were distributed the
fragrant contents of the caldron which the black Hecate had brewed in
anteroom No. 1. Cups of punch circulated, and were not disdained by the
ladies. Dancing began. The doctor, who, whilst climbing mountains, three
days previously, in quest of flowers and simples, had suffered terribly
from the _soroche_, and had counted a hundred and sixty throbs of his
pulse in a minute, was feverish and ill at ease, and did not intend to
dance. But he was borne away by the torrent. After the quadrille came
another distribution of punch, and a proportionate rise in the ladies’
spirits; then came the ices which mamma and sister had so industriously
manufactured, and which were, of course, pronounced excellent; then
(Bolivia seems a very thirsty country) bottles of champagne and sherry
made their appearance, every gentleman seized as many glasses as he
could carry, and challenged the _señoritas_, who were not allowed to
refuse. The fun now grew fast and furious. A new phase of the ball
commenced. For formal quadrilles were substituted national dances.
These, Dr Weddell acutely remarks, have little merit unless danced as
soup is eaten—hot. The military orchestra played the airs of the
_bailesitos_ with infinite spirit, one of the musicians accompanying
them with words, in which there was some license and much wit. The
_zapateado_ was danced amidst vehement applause. The good-humour of the
evening was at its height. Farther they could not go, thought Dr
Weddell. He was mistaken. In an interval of the dancing, it was decided
that a colonel there present, who, in the doctor’s opinion, was
abundantly gay, was not sufficiently so, and he was condemned to be
shot. The sentence was forthwith carried into execution. The victim was
placed upon a chair in the middle of the room, the band played a funeral
march, and the unhappy (or happy) colonel was compelled to swallow, one
after the other, as many glasses of champagne or sherry as there were
young ladies present. This done, the dead-march ceased, and the culprit
was released. The German students have a custom somewhat similar to
this, _Der Fürst der Thoren_, when one sits astride upon a barrel, and
imbibes all the beer, _schnaps_, and Rhenish presented to him by his
boon-companions. But with the exception of Lola Montes, who smoked her
cigar and drank her _chopine_ in a Heidelberg _studenten-kneipe_, the
fair sex in Europe do not generally mingle in orgies of this kind. After
a substantial supper, Dr Weddell was condemned to be shot, and shot
accordingly. Other executions followed, and the jollity reached its
climax by the men voting the execution _en masse_ of the whole of the
ladies—a sentence which was resisted, but at last carried out. The
Bolivian _señoritas_ must have strong heads, for we read that dancing
recommenced and continued vigorously until five in the morning, when the
band and the majority of the guests beat a retreat. A guitar was then
procured, and the lady of the house and two or three of her friends,
with half-a-dozen of the most active of the _caballeros_, danced on, and
kept up the ball until one in the afternoon! After which, all we have to
say is, Brava, Bolivia!
Dr Weddell, who had been unwell before the ball, was very ill after it,
and lay in bed for six weeks. When his strength returned, he made an
excursion to La Lancha, a point about four leagues from La Paz. The
steps he and his companions had taken to obtain concessions of land on
the Tipuani had not led to the results they anticipated; so they
temporarily directed their attention to the river Chuquiaguillo, upon
which La Lancha is situated. In the opinion of the natives, this place
is _un pozo de oro_—a well of gold. Early one morning in May the three
Frenchmen set out for it, upon mule-back, passing along a road
enlivened, during its early portion, with various kinds of shrubs,
bearing flowers of brilliant colours. At this part of the doctor’s book
we come to a good deal of scientific detail, accompanied by woodcuts,
all very interesting to miners and intending gold-seekers, but on which
we shall not dwell. The gold of the Chuquiaguillo is found in the form
of _pépites_, or nuggets, very various in shape and size. One of them,
sent to Spain by the Conde de Moncloa, is said to have weighed more than
twenty kilogrammes—forty-four English pounds. At various periods, and
much more recently, nuggets of several pounds’ weight have been found.
“During the presidency of General Ballivian, an Indian came from time to
time to La Paz, to sell pieces of gold, which had the appearance of
being cut with a chisel from a considerable mass of the metal, and many
persons judged, from the colour, that the mass in question must proceed
from the river Chuquiaguillo. No bribe or promise could induce the
Indian to reveal his secret. The affair got to the ears of the
president, who expected to obtain without difficulty the information
refused to others; but the Indian held out, and would say nothing.
Finding gentle means ineffectual, the general tried threats,
imprisonment, &c., but all in vain. Finally, the poor man was condemned
to life-long service in the army, as guilty of disobedience and
disrespect to the chief of the state! From that day forward nothing more
was heard either of him or of his treasure. Some persons in La Paz told
me that he perished under the lash.”
La Lancha (the word signifies a boat) is neither town nor village, but a
marsh. On approaching it, up a ravine, the travellers came to an immense
dike or barrier of rock, through one extremity of which the river had
wrought itself a narrow passage. This dike had evidently long been an
immense obstacle to the waters that flowed down the ravine of
Chuquiaguillo, and it was a rational enough conclusion that, since those
waters washed down gold, a good deal of the metal must still remain
behind that natural barrier. But it seemed more probable that the river
gathered its gold _after_ than _before_ passing the rocky wall. It
struck Dr Weddell as pretty certain that Count Moncloa’s nugget would
have remained behind the dike instead of being washed over it. The
conclusion was reasonable enough. Behind the dike La Lancha begins,
terminating a quarter of a league above it, at the foot of another rock,
which rises vertically to a height of thirty feet. Over this rock the
river dashes, covering its surface with great stalactites of ice, and
then winds along the right side of the marsh, where it has made itself a
channel.
“At one point of its surface the Lancha contracts, and thus presents the
form of the figure 8. Perhaps one should seek the figure of a boat, to
which the site has been compared, in the combination of the marsh and of
the mountains of bluish schist that rise abruptly around it. According
to this manner of viewing it, the surface of the marsh would represent
the deck of the vessel, and the gold would be in the hold—that is to
say, on the rock which is supposed to form the bottom of the basin.
Several attempts have been made to ascertain the existence of the
precious metal, and we were told a multitude of attractive tales—much
too attractive to be credible. The upshot, however, which could not be
concealed, was, that all attempts had ultimately failed, owing to the
infiltration of water into the wells sunk in the attempt to reach the
_veneros_ (strata of argillaceous sand) in which the gold is found.”
Nevertheless, the doctor thought the place worthy deliberate
examination, and to that end established himself, with Mr Herrypon the
engineer, and with Franck, their carpenter, under a tent, within which,
during the night, the thermometer rarely stood at less than three
degrees below zero. When the sun shone, the climate was genial and
agreeable; but at three o’clock it dipped behind the mountains, which
was the signal for the wanderers to creep under canvass, wrap themselves
in blankets, and feast upon the hot stew their Indian cook had passed
the morning in preparing. They had neighbours: several Indians had built
huts on the ledges of the mountains, and daily drove their sheep and
alpacas to graze upon the herbage of the marsh. From one of them Dr
Weddell subsequently obtained an alpaca for his collection. Vicuñas
occasionally strayed near the camp, and Franck managed to shoot one,
which, with viscachas and a few wild ducks, improved the campaigning
fare.
“Of the feathered inhabitants of the district, the most curious,
unquestionably, is a species of variegated woodpecker (_Picus
rupicola_), which, notwithstanding its name of _carpintero_ (carpenter),
has all the habits of a mason. Instead of working at trees, as do its
congeners, it finds nothing in that graminaceous region but rock and
earth upon which to exercise its beak. These birds are invariably met
with in isolated pairs; they skim the ground in flying, and settle,
after a few moments’ flight, upon a sod or rock, uttering a long,
shrill, cooing sound. If one is killed, it is rare that its mate does
not come and place itself beside the dead body, as if imploring a
similar fate—a request which the sportsman is not slow to comply with,
for the _carpintero_ of the Cordilleras is a dainty morsel.”
Whilst Dr Weddell herborised, adding nearly a hundred species of plants
to his collection, the engineer studied the Lancha with other views, and
at last resolved to sound it. Mr Borniche, who had remained at La Paz,
obtained authorisation from the Government—_el derecho de cateo_, or
right of search, in the whole of the Lancha, during a fixed time, at the
end of which he might, if he thought proper, purchase the ground at its
rough value, fixed without reference to any mineral wealth it might
contain. All this in accordance with the Mining Code. But poor Herrypon
knew not what he undertook. He had no idea of mining difficulties in
Bolivia. In this single operation he took the measure of the country’s
capabilities. A month and a half passed in hammering out, in a forge at
La Paz, a common and very clumsy Artesian screw, such as would have been
got ready in three days in a European city, and at a cost considerably
less than that of the coal consumed in the Bolivian smithy. The mere
hire of the forge and bellows-blower was four dollars (sixteen
shillings) a-day. When at last the instrument was ready and applied,
layers of solid rock and a thick bed of diffluent clay long frustrated
all the miners’ attempts. Finally, a deep well was sunk, but no gold was
found, nor signs of any, and the miners quitted the place, where nothing
less than the certainty of ultimately reaching a rich vein would have
justified them in continuing their costly and laborious researches.
A second illness, by which he was attacked before he had fully recovered
from the debilitating effects of the first, determined Dr Weddell to
seek change of air. Whilst his engineering ally was still sinking wells
and unprofitably probing the Lancha, he set out with Mr Borniche for
Tipuani. Passing the magnificent Mount Illampŭ, which is upwards of
seven thousand English yards high, and the great lake of Titicaca, they
reached the town of Sorata, after an easy journey of thirty leagues. A
toilsome one of forty remained to be accomplished before they should
reach Tipuani. The roads were difficult, their muleteers fell ill, their
mules were stubborn and restive, and _mal-pasos_ (dangerous places to
pass) were numerous; but after a few small accidents and much fatigue
they reached the village, which derives its name from _tipa_, the name
of a tree that produces a gum known in that country as _sangre de
drago_—dragon’s blood. This tree, it is said, was formerly very abundant
in the valley of Tipuani. In the _aymara_, or Indian tongue, the
particle _ni_, added to a word, implies possession. The village consists
of fifty or sixty houses, built chiefly of palm trunks, placed side by
side, thatched with leaves of the same tree, and partitioned, when
partitions there are, with bamboos. “I found the place somewhat
increased in size since my visit in 1847, but no way improved with
respect to healthiness and cleanliness. At its entrance, stagnant water,
covered with a green scum, filled old excavations, or _diggings_, and
told that there, as in California, gold and fever are inseparable. It
sufficed, moreover, to behold the pallid countenances of the
inhabitants, to judge of the atmosphere we breathed.” This was hardly
the place for an invalid to recruit his health and strength in, and,
after visiting the mines, Dr Weddell set out for the Mission of Guanay,
boating it down the rapid and rocky Tipuani—a rather dangerous mode of
travelling. The priest of the Mission was an _aymara_ Indian, a native
of La Paz; his parishioners were _Lecos_ Indians, considerable
savages—although they had abjured paint, or only secretly used it—and
very skilful with gun and bow, as well as in the capture of several
large species of fish found in the river Mapiri, hard by which they
dwelt. Some of these fish attain the weight of nearly a hundred pounds.
They are taken with strong hooks, shot with arrows, or _hocussed_ and
taken by hand. This last practice prevails amongst some other South
American tribes.
“The substance employed for this purpose by the Guanay Indians is the
milky juice of one of the largest trees of their forests, known by them
under the name of Soliman. It is the _Hura crepitans_ of the botanist.
To obtain this venomous milk, they cut numerous notches in the bark of
the tree, and the sap which exudes runs down and soaks the earth at its
foot. This earth, enclosed in a large sack, is thrown into the river,
and as soon as the water becomes impregnated with it, the fish within
the circle of its influence float inanimate upon the surface, and are
collected without trouble. A creek or small branch of the river is
usually selected for this operation. In other parts of Bolivia, and
especially in the province of Yungas, they use, to poison the water, the
green stalk of a small liana called _Pepko_ or _Sacha_, of which they
crush, upon a stone, a fathom’s length or two, in that part of the river
they wish to infect. Its effect is said to be as speedy as that of the
Soliman sap, and I was assured that the fish thus taken could be eaten
with impunity. It is not to be thence inferred that the sap, like the
poison used for their arrows by the Indians of Guiana and on the Amazon,
may be taken by man without injury; it is to the extreme smallness of
the dose swallowed with the fish that its apparent harmlessness is to be
attributed. The sap of the Soliman has, in fact, such caustic qualities,
that its mere emanations cause violent irritation of the organs which
receive them. We saw at the Mission a person who had lost his sight in
consequence of a few drops of this juice having accidentally spirted
into his eyes; and Messrs Boussingault and Rivero related that, having
subjected the sap of the Soliman to evaporation, with a view to analyse
it, the person who superintended the operation had his face swollen and
his eyes and ears ulcerated, and was cured only after several days’
medical treatment.”
Bolivia is evidently a fine field for the botanist. Dr Weddell mentions
a number of vegetables unknown, or little known, in Europe, but
interesting and valuable by reason of their medical properties or
economical uses. When in the province of Yungas, he briefly refers to
two or three of the principal of these: “The _Matico_, a shrub of the
pepper tribe, whose leaves, which resemble those of sage, have
remarkable vulnerary properties; the _Vejuco_, a curious species of
_Aristolochia_, whose crushed leaves are said to be an infallible cure
for the bites of serpents; and a sort of _Myrica_, or wax-tree, whose
berries, soaked in boiling water, yield in abundance a green wax, used
to make candles.” Concerning the _Quinquina_, or Peruvian bark tree, and
the _Coca_ shrub, whose leaves the Indians chew, the doctor gives many
interesting particulars. When descending the river Coroico in a _balsa_
or Indian canoe, he frequently encountered his old acquaintances the
_cascarilleros_, or bark-gatherers, who pursue their wild and solitary
calling in the interior of the forests, dwelling under sheds of
palm-leaves, and exposed to many dangers and hardships. Whilst seeking,
one evening, a good place to bivouac, the doctor, and the _padre_ from
the Guanay Mission, who was then his fellow-traveller, came upon a
_cascarillero’s_ hut, in front of which they beheld a horrible
spectacle. A man lay upon the ground in the agonies of death. He was
almost naked; and, whilst yet alive, he was preyed upon by thousands of
insects, whose stings and bites doubtless accelerated his end. “His
face, especially, was so much swollen that its features could not be
distinguished; and his limbs, the only portion of this corpse which
still moved, were in an equally hideous state. Under the roof of leaves
was the remainder of the poor wretch’s clothes, consisting of a straw
hat and a ragged blanket; beside them lay a flint and steel, and an old
knife. A small earthen pot contained the remains of his last meal—a
little maize, and two or three frozen potatoes. For a few seconds the
missionary contemplated this piteous object, then made a step towards
the unfortunate man, and was about, I thought, to offer him some
assistance, at least of a spiritual nature, but his courage failed him;
and, suddenly turning away, he walked hastily to his _balsa_, and had
himself rowed to a place some hundred yards farther, upon the opposite
bank of the river.” In fact, the tortured bark-gatherer was beyond human
aid, and on the brink of death. Dr Weddell covered him with his blanket,
and returned to the boats.
We have dipped but into a few chapters of this compendious volume of
nearly six hundred pages. A large portion of its contents are more
interesting to naturalists and miners than to the general reader. Dr
Weddell’s investigations are of a comprehensive nature, including the
animal, vegetable, and mineral kingdoms, extending to an analysis of the
various Indian languages of the country, and even to Bolivian music, of
which he furnishes specimens. A map, some useful illustrations, an
excellent table of contents, and headings to the chapters, give the work
a completeness not so common in French as in English publications of
this nature. Having adopted it for examination as a book of travel, and
not of scientific and mining research, we recommend the numerous
chapters we have not touched upon to those classes of readers to which
they especially address themselves, and turn to Mr Pavie’s sketches of
countries adjacent to those in which Dr Weddell has more recently
wandered. It does not appear, from the former gentleman’s book, that his
rambles had any more serious motive than love of locomotion, and a
curiosity to view strange lands. The form he has adopted, and the modest
pretensions announced in his preface, relieving him of most of the
responsibility to which writers of travel usually hold themselves
subject, he gives no account of himself, is very desultory, and does not
take the trouble to supply dates. We collect, however, from his volume
and preface, that some years have elapsed since his travels were
performed, and that he was then a young man, eager for adventure, and
enthusiastic for local peculiarities and national characteristics. It is
with a view to variety, he tells us, that he has jumbled the sections of
his book, and irregularly distributed those of them which have a natural
order and sequence of their own. It was about twenty years ago—as we
gather from the internal evidence of the chapters—that Mr Pavie left
Buenos Ayres for Valparaiso, by the route across the Pampas. The moment
was not particularly well chosen for such a journey. Anarchy was at its
height in South America, and especially in the country of the Argentine
republic. There was strife between federalists and unitarians. The
Indians, resuming the offensive, had committed many depredations, and
defeated the volunteers of the province of Cordova. The roads were far
from safe; impediments and stoppages were numerous, and two months were
consumed by the journey from La Plata to the Cordillera, a distance of
three hundred leagues. When at only four days’ march from the Andes,
snow fell, and a halt was called in the poor little town of Mendoza. The
mountains were white from foot to summit; there was no possibility of
crossing them; patience must be cultivated, and spring waited for. In
these dull winter-quarters Mr Pavie had abundant leisure to note down
the incidents of his two months’ journey, to gather characteristic
traits of the people, and striking anecdotes of the war. We shall take
him up, however, at an earlier period of his expedition, when he was but
a week out from Buenos Ayres. He had traversed the province of the same
name and that of Santa Fé, and hoped to reach the town of Cordova upon
the following night. A forest succeeded to bare and monotonous plains.
The horses trotted briskly over a light sandy soil, refreshed by
numerous streams; the country was smiling, the vegetation rich. It still
wanted two hours of sunset, and another league would bring the
travellers to the post-house of the _esquina_—the Corner—situated at the
junction of the two high-roads which connect the Pacific and the
Atlantic—one leading northwards, to Bolivia and Peru, the other
south-west, to Chili, passing through St Luis and Mendoza. Mr Pavie
would have availed himself of the remaining daylight to push on a stage
farther, but a young Cordovan, who accompanied him, and who was a lively
and pleasant fellow, urged him to pass the night at the _esquina_. It
was kept by a widow, he said, a certain Doña Ventura, whose eggs with
tomata sauce were quite beyond praise, and whose daughter Pepa sang like
a nightingale. It was a long road from that to Santiago de Chili—three
hundred leagues, besides the Andes to cross, and the season was
advanced, but Mr Pavie was unwilling to disoblige his friend.
“An old _gaucho_, the widow’s managing man, came out to receive us.
Whilst the horses were unharnessed, a lad of twelve or thirteen,
beautiful as one of Murillo’s shepherds—who was hurling stones at the
wild pigeons perched upon the fig-trees—threw his sling across his
shoulder, and ran into the house, crying out—‘Mother! mother! here is
Don Mateo with some foreign señores.’ Don Mateo, our Cordovan friend,
went to see after dinner, and to inform the post-mistress that we should
not need horses before the next morning. The travellers’ room was
tolerably clean, and very large. Its sole furniture consisted of a small
lamp burning before an image of the Virgin, and of a guitar suspended
from a nail. When dinner was ready, Doña Ventura brought in immense
arm-chairs, covered with leather and gilt nails, and evidently made at
Granada in the time of the Catholic kings. Some very brisk peasant girls
(_cholas_), who said nothing, but looked a great deal, laid the table,
and placed upon it the promised eggs and tomatas, and large salad-bowls
containing lumps of roast meat swimming in gravy. Pimento had not been
spared. The soup was brought to us, according to the custom of the
country, at the end of the repast. The post-mistress, seated upon the
estrade or platform that extended completely round the room, triumphed
in our famous appetites, and proudly drew herself up whenever one of us
paid her a more or less exaggerated compliment on the excellence of her
dinner. Pepa, a handsome girl, with a remarkably white skin and fresh
complexion, stood near her, smoking a cigarrito, and gazing about with
her great blue eyes, which were shaded by long dark lashes. Juancito,
the boy with the sling, rambled round the table, and unceremoniously
tasted the Bordeaux wine in our glasses. Dinner cleared away, Mateo took
down the guitar and presented it to Pepa: ‘Señorita,’ he said, ‘these
gentlemen would be enchanted to hear you sing; favour them with a
ballad, and they will consider you the most amiable girl—_la mas
preciosa niña_—in the entire province.’ We were about to add our
entreaties to those of Mateo, but the young girl had already tuned the
instrument; and, without coughing, complaining of a cold, or waiting to
be asked again, she sang half-a-dozen very long songs. At the end of
every verse Mateo applauded. Pepa certainly had a charming voice, which
she did not badly manage. Gradually her countenance grew animated. From
time to time she stopped and exclaimed—‘Ay, Jesus! I am dead!’ and then
went on again. Doña Ventura at last began to accompany her daughter’s
song. At every chorus we slapped the table with the palms of our hands;
and Mateo, imitating castanets with his fingers, danced like a madman in
the middle of the hall.”
This thoroughly Spanish-American scene was interrupted by the arrival of
fifteen waggons, each drawn by six oxen, and laden with dried fruits,
cotton, and bales of horse-hair. They drew up in line upon the open
space in whose centre stood the post-house. The oxen, unharnessed,
joined the reserve drove which followed the convoy, in charge of a dozen
horsemen; and from the innermost recesses of the vehicles there emerged
bullock-drivers, women, children, passengers of all ages and of motley
aspect, who had joined the caravan in order to get over three hundred
leagues at small expense. Some ran to cut wood, others to fetch water.
Fires were lighted, and enormous slices of meat set to roast before them
upon spits stuck in the ground. Every convoy of this kind is under the
orders of a _capataz_ or chief. This one was commanded by a certain Gil
Perez, whose arrival seemed of strong interest to Doña Ventura and her
daughter. Pepa hastened to adorn herself with a silk shawl, the gaudy
product of a Lyons loom, and with a fashionable Buenos Ayres comb, a
foot high. His camp established, Gil Perez entered the house with a
beaming countenance. He had brought presents for everybody;—a scarf and
satin shoes for Pepa, a Peruvian gold chain for her mother, a dirk for
Juancito. In Spanish countries acquaintance is soon made. His gifts
distributed, Perez sat down and chatted with Don Mateo and the other
travellers; whilst the bullock-drivers, the _cholas_, and the postilions
of the _esquina_, were dancing outside. By and by, Perez, who had been
out to look after his people, announced the approach of more travellers,
indicated by a cloud of dust in the south-east. Juancito went out to
reconnoitre, and reported that the muleteers from San Juan were close at
hand. Pepa and her mother exchanged a rapid glance. The muleteers halted
at some distance from the posting-house, and unloaded their beasts, each
of which carried two barrels of brandy. Their chief dismounted and
walked towards the house, his saddle-bags over his shoulder. Walking
rapidly and on tiptoe, on account of the long steel spurs which he
dragged at his heels, he knocked at Doña Ventura’s door. Juancito
answered.
“Gil Perez looked at the muleteer pretty much as an admiral might look
at the humble master of a merchantman. The muleteer, disconcerted at
finding the room full of strange faces, to say nothing of that of the
_capataz_, which seemed greatly to incommode him, paused near the door
for some seconds.
“‘Come in, Fernando,’ said Doña Ventura; ‘you are surprised to see my
Pepita in full dress, eh, my lad? We have had an arrival of gentlemen.
Will you sup? I have some _puchero_ at hand.’
“‘Thanks, señora,’ replied Fernando; ‘I want nothing. You know that I
never pass this way without calling to see Pepita. I have brought you a
little barrel of the best brandy that has been tasted at San Juan for
many a year.’
“‘Is the brandy for Pepa?’ said Gil Perez.
“‘Don Gil,’ replied the muleteer, ‘every one gives what he has, and
according to his means.’ Then, turning to the young girl—‘Pepita,’ he
said, ‘when you were a child you liked the tarts made in our mountains;
I have brought you some, and of the best peaches.’
“Whilst speaking, he drew from his saddle-bags the little barrel of
brandy, and a dozen square cakes filled with a thick marmalade, which
seemed particularly grateful to the gums of Juancito. Then he sat
himself down near Pepa, and looked proudly at the captain of the
waggons.
“‘How many beasts have you?’ said the latter.
“‘Fifteen, besides saddle-horses.’
“‘Just as many as I have carts. Not so bad, really. You carry thirty
casks—half a load for one of my waggons. Pshaw! what can you earn? A
poor trade is yours, my lad, and you will follow it long before you grow
rich.’
“‘When I am tired of it,’ replied Fernando, ‘I will try another.’ The
muleteer spoke these words in a singular tone.
“‘Fernando is stout-hearted,’ said Doña Ventura, ‘and he will do well
yet; and he will find, somewhere in his own province, a pretty girl with
a good dowry. Eh, Fernando?’
“Fernando made no reply, but pulled down his little pointed hat over his
forehead;—his eyes glittered like those of a cat. Seizing the guitar,
which lay upon the bench beside Pepa, he strummed it with an absent air,
like one absorbed by his thoughts. Juancito, who stood before him,
waiting doubtless for the end of the prelude, and for the commencement
of some lively mountain ditty, pushed his arm, and said—‘Fernando, have
you seen the fine presents Gil Perez has brought us?’ Without raising
his eyes, the muleteer sang, in a low voice, this verse of an old
ballad:—
‘No estès tan contenta, Juana,
En ver me penar por ti;
Que lo que hoy fuere de mi,
Podrá ser de ti mañana,’[13]
Then suddenly throwing down the guitar, he jumped upon the estrade,
extinguished the lamp that burned before the Madonna, and clapped his
hand to his knife. Pepa took refuge close to her mother. At the cry she
uttered, Gil Perez stood upon his guard; but Fernando passed close by
him without looking at him, and reached the door. ‘Ah, Pepita!’ muttered
he as he went out, ‘you will drive me to harm!’ And he disappeared.”
This stormy episode broke up the party. Agitated and alarmed, Doña
Ventura and her daughter betook themselves to their bedchambers. The
travellers wrapped themselves in their blankets—Mr Pavie establishing
himself, according to his custom, in their _coche-galera_, or
travelling-carriage, where he slept but little, owing to the songs and
dancing of the waggon-drivers, and the screaming of innumerable parrots.
The night passed without incident, and at daybreak he was roused by
Mateo. The horses were ready; the San Juan muleteers were already on
their road; Gil Perez, foot in stirrup, was directing the departure of
his convoy. That evening the travellers reached Cordova.
Several months had elapsed since the scene at the _esquina_, and Mr
Pavie, after rambling through Chili and Pern, returned to Santiago, the
capital of the former country. Looking on, one night, at a dance in a
public garden, he fell in with his old acquaintance, Don Mateo, somewhat
threadbare, but still a passionate lover of song and dance. One of the
political changes so common in South America had driven him across the
Andes. He was an exile, proscribed in his own country. His party had
fallen, his patrimony had been swallowed up by fines, and he deemed
himself fortunate to have saved his neck.
“Do you remember,” said Mateo, as he leaned beside his French friend
upon the parapet bordering the Tajamar, and gazed at the summits of the
Cordillera, which still reflected a last gleam of sun—“do you recollect
one evening at the _esquina_? Well, of all the persons then assembled
under Doña Ventura’s hospitable roof, and including her and her
daughter, how many, do you suppose, still live? Two, you and I! The
first scene of the drama passed before your eyes. I will narrate those
that ensued. You have not forgotten our merry supper at the
posting-house, Gil Perez and his waggons, and Fernando, the little
muleteer with the long spurs?”
Mr Pavie perfectly remembered all that had passed at the _esquina_.
Mateo took up the tale from the moment of their departure. Although
Fernando and Gil Perez started nearly at the same moment, they met no
more until they reached Buenos Ayres. The _aria_ (string of mules)
trotted briskly over the plain, whilst the heavy waggons lingered in the
ruts. Four days had elapsed since Fernando’s arrival, when Perez reached
his usual halting-ground near the hill of the Retiro, and, after turning
out his cattle to graze, rode into the city. As soon as he was gone, the
bullock-drivers, a vagabond and insubordinate race, gathered round the
camp-fires to discuss the news that had reached them of insurrections in
the inland provinces. Most of these wild _gauchos_ felt sorely tempted
to exchange goad for lance, and join the armed bands then scouring the
country. To gallop in boundless plains, to pillage isolated farms, and
attack hamlets—such was the fascinating perspective that offered itself
to their imagination. Whilst they were debating the probable course of
events in the _tierra adentro_, Fernando came by. He was on foot; his
long spurs were still at his heels.
“‘Ha!’ cried the bullock-drivers, ‘here is the little muleteer, the
brandy-merchant from San Juan! Give us a barrel, Fernando, and we will
drink your health.’
“‘Give me something to eat,’ replied the muleteer, ‘I am fasting since
yesterday.’
“And cutting a slice off a great piece of beef that roasted at the fire,
he took one end of it in his fingers, put the other into his mouth, and
swallowed it at a single gulp, as a lazzarone swallows an ell of
macaroni. Then he wiped his knife on his cowskin boot and lay down under
a cart to sleep. When Gil Perez returned and walked round his camp, he
saw the muleteer, who was snoring on the grass.
“‘Hallo, Fernando!’ he cried, ‘what do you there, my man?’
“‘Resting myself,’ replied Fernando, rubbing his eyes, ‘I have passed
four days and nights playing at cards.’
“‘Have you won?’
“‘Lost everything—my load of brandy, my mules, all I had in the world.
Lend me twenty dollars, Gil Perez?’
“‘To gamble them?’
“‘Perhaps. See, I was a steady man; I never played, and you are cause
that I am perhaps about to become a robber. I have known Pepa from her
childhood; her mother received me well, saw that I loved her daughter,
and encouraged me to work and increase my little trade. Every trip I
made I never missed calling at the _esquina_, and every trip I found
Pepa prettier than before. She received me joyfully, and I was happy.
But since two years that you have gone that road, all is changed. With
your gold chains and silk shawls you have turned their heads. Lend me
twenty dollars, that I may make them presents and regain their favour.
You are rich, Gil Perez—you will find a wife in the towns, at Salta,
Cordova, where you please; I am poor, but I love Pepita, the only girl
who would not refuse me, ruined though I be.’”
Surprised at the muleteer’s frank explanation and request, Gil Perez
offered him the twenty dollars, but laughed at the idea of abandoning
his pretensions to Pepita. Fernando refused the money, and departed with
a muttered threat. That night he took to the plain, mounted on a fine
horse and bearing gold in his girdle—the spoils of a traveller he had
waylaid and murdered. The die was cast; the honest muleteer had become a
_gaucho malo_.
A few days after this, Fernando rode up to the _esquina_. Little
Juancito ran to kiss him. Torribio, the steward, surprised to see him
come alone, riding a valuable horse and without his usual retinue of
mules and muleteers, hurried out to meet him. “_Amigo!_” he cried,
“whence come you, thus finely equipped? It seems the San Juan brandy
fetches a good price in the market!” Without replying, Fernando abruptly
opened the door and addressed the two women, astonished at his sudden
appearance.
“The _gauchada_ is about to take the field,” he said, “and I greatly
fear that one of its earliest visits will be for you. I have friends in
its ranks; give me your daughter, Doña Ventura, and I answer for her
safety and yours.’
“‘Since when are you allied with the brigands, Fernando?’ indignantly
demanded Doña Ventura.
“‘Pepita,’ said the muleteer, evading reply, ‘will you have me?—You
tremble—you turn away your head!—Are you afraid of me, Pepita? Do you
take me for a bandit?’
“There was something terrible in the sound of Fernando’s voice, which
even the passionate love he still felt for Pepa was insufficient to
soften. The young girl in vain endeavoured to speak.
“‘Fernando,’ cried Doña Ventura, ‘when last you were here, you left my
house like a madman, your hand on the haft of your knife; you enter it
to-day like a bandit, with threats upon your lips. Begone, and return no
more; I need not your protection.’
“‘Ha! you mean to say that Gil Perez will protect you. Reckon upon that!
There are times when fine shawls and gold chains are not worth sabre and
carbine. After all, I too have gold! See here. Once more, Pepita, will
you follow me? I am no longer a muleteer; it was too base a trade, was
it not? Shall I carry you off on my horse’s crupper into the sierra of
Cordova and to Chili?’”
Pepa, frightened at the _gaucho’s_ fierce voice and vehement manner,
burst into tears and fainted in her mother’s arms. Fernando hastily left
the house, his love—the last good sentiment his heart retained—exchanged
for bitter hate.
It was not long after this incident, early upon a winter’s morning, that
Gil Perez, riding ahead of his waggons, which had camped on the banks of
the Rio Salado, discerned at the horizon a dozen black specks that
rapidly approached him. Soon he made them out to be horsemen, armed some
with lances, others with rifles. Deeming them suspicious, he rode back
and formed his caravan in order of battle. The waggons were arranged in
a circle, the bullocks inwards; arms were distributed to the men, and
from between the waggons the muzzles of pistols and blunderbusses
menaced those who should assail the fortress. These arrangements were
scarcely made when the party of horsemen slackened speed, and one of
them rode forward alone. At twenty paces from the waggons he drew rein
and removed the handkerchief, which partly concealed his face.
“‘Don Gil,’ cried the horseman, ‘confess that the little muleteer
Fernando has given you a famous fright.’
“‘It is you,’ replied Perez, ‘what do you here? what do you want of us?’
“‘I have changed my trade, _amigo_; did I not once tell you that when I
should be tired of mule-driving, I had another trade in view? I am now
an ostrich hunter. A fine flock escaped from us this morning. Have you
not met it?’
“‘Another poor trade that you have taken to,’ replied Perez. ‘If that be
all you have to say to me, there was no need to charge down upon us with
your comrades like a band of robbers. When you first came in sight there
were some ostriches about a mile in front of me; if those are what you
seek, continue your hunt and leave us to continue our journey.’
“During this parley, the bullock-drivers, believing danger past, ceased
to stand upon the defensive; Fernando’s comrades slowly approached and
carelessly mingled with them, rolling their cigarritos and entering into
conversation. Although suspecting no treachery, Perez hesitated to
resume his march so long as Fernando and his band were there. Thus the
halt was prolonged, and the ostriches, no longer frightened by the
creaking of wheels, reappeared upon a rising ground behind which they
had taken refuge.
“‘Don Gil,’ exclaimed Fernando, ‘I will wager that my horse, which has
already done ten leagues to-day, will overtake one of those birds sooner
than yours, fresh though he be.’
“‘I have no time to try,’ replied Perez, annoyed at the delay; ‘the
place is not safe, and I am in haste to see the houses of Cordova.’
“‘Pshaw! a five minutes’ ride,’ said the muleteer; ‘come, one gallop,
and I will rid you of my company, and of that of my friends, with which
you do not seem over and above pleased.’
“‘So be it then,’ answered Perez, ‘and then I must be off;’ and he set
spurs to his horse. Fernando rode so close to him that their knees
touched. The _gauchos_ and drivers shouted to excite the two horses,
which seemed to fly over the plain; and the ostriches, finding
themselves pursued, fled their fastest, stretching out their necks,
beating the air with their short wings, and furrowing the ocean of tall
herbage by rapid zigzags right and left. The two horsemen gained upon
them. The furious race had lasted at least ten minutes, when Fernando
fell into the rear. Gil Perez, looking back to calculate the distance
that separated them, saw him brandishing a set of balls as big as his
fist.[14] ‘_Amigo_,’ cried he, without stopping, ‘those balls are big
enough to catch a wild horse.’ Whilst he sought, in his girdle, the
small leaden balls he proposed throwing round the ostrich’s neck, his
horse fell, his fore-legs entangled in the ropes that had just quitted
the muleteer’s hands. The violence of the fall was in proportion to the
rapidity of the ride. On beholding his rival roll in the dust, Fernando
uttered a triumphant shout. Perez, who had fallen upon his left side,
sought to extricate his sabre in order to cut the terrible cord which
shackled his horse’s legs. The poor brute, panting and covered with
foam, struggled violently for release. Before Gil Perez could draw his
weapon, the muleteer was on foot and held him by the throat.
“‘You are a traitor and a coward!’ cried the unfortunate Perez, giddy
from his fall, and trying to shake his enemy off. ‘You have led me into
a snare to murder me!’
“‘That is not all,’ coolly replied the muleteer. ‘Look yonder; you see
that smoke, it proceeds from your waggons. The plain is on fire. ’Tis
you whom I was hunting, _carretero_ (waggoner); but for you I should
still be a muleteer. I have become a brigand. I have seen Pepa; she
rejects me. The traitor, I say, is you, who have ruined all my hopes.’
“Perez was active and vigorous: on equal terms his enemy would not have
dared contend with him; but surprise and terror paralysed his strength.
After deliberately stabbing him, Fernando passed a rope round his neck,
and, as he still breathed, dragged him to a neighbouring stream and
threw him into the water.”
Gil Perez dead, most of his men, who had arms and were more than a match
for the banditti, joined the latter, plundered the waggons, killed the
oxen, and departed with their new comrades, those who had no horses
riding double. Fernando promised to take them to a place where they
could mount themselves well. He kept his word. One night, old Torribio,
who, ever since Fernando’s visit and the commencement of the civil war,
had kept vigilant watch, and frequently patrolled the neighbourhood of
the _esquina_, thought he heard voices in the forest. He bridled up the
horses, which he always had ready-saddled in the stable, and entreated
his mistress and her daughter to escape by the Cordova road. The two
women got upon the same horse; Torribio, armed with sabre and carbine,
mounted another, to escort them; Juancito, not understanding the danger,
leaped, light and laughing, into his saddle, whip in hand, and his sling
over his shoulder. The little party set out. They would have escaped an
enemy to whom the locality was not familiar. But Fernando had placed
spies round the posting-house, and lay in ambush upon the road to
Cordova. A bullet from Torribio’s carbine grazed the brigand’s cheek;
the next moment the faithful old servant lay in the road, his skull
cleft by a sabre-cut. Juancito escaped into the forest. His mother and
sister did the same, but were captured and taken back to the
posting-house, which was pillaged and afterwards burnt. The outlaws then
departed. Doña Ventura had supplied them plentifully with brandy, hoping
to escape during their intoxication, but Fernando drank nothing. When
the moment came for departure, he lifted Pepa upon his horse, repulsed
with his foot her despairing mother—who in vain struggled and clung to
her child—and rode off. Pepita, more dead than alive, uttered lamentable
cries. The muleteer heeded them not, but sang the lines he had sung upon
the memorable night when he found Gil Perez at the posting-house, and
left it with a sombre prediction that Pepa would drive him to evil.
“No estès tan contenta, Juana,
En ver me penar por ti;
Que lo que hoy fuere de mi,
Podrá ser de ti mañana.”
Doña Ventura’s fate is not upon record; she is believed to have perished
of hunger, misery, and cold. Juancito lost his way in the pampas.
Although bred in the desert, the poor boy had not sufficient experience
to guide himself by sun and stars. It was never known how long he held
out. Not many days after his flight, there was found, upon the frontier
of the Indian country, a child’s corpse, which was supposed to be his. A
whip hung from the wrist, and a sling was over the shoulder. The birds
of prey had made a skeleton of the body.
The fate of poor Pepita was far worse even than that of her mother and
brother. Forced to follow the fortunes of the _gaucho malo_ and his
band, she was compelled to enliven their bivouacs by song and dance. At
first, even the rude desperados amongst whom she had fallen, were
inclined to pity her sufferings, but soon they imitated the contempt
with which Fernando treated her. Elegantly dressed, she accompanied them
everywhere; she was their ballet-dancer and opera-singer. Her duty was
to amuse those who rarely addressed but to insult her. She was known in
the country as the wife of the _gaucho malo_. Sometimes, in the night,
when the robbers, overcome by fatigue, slept to the last man, she might
have escaped; but whither could she fly? Their halts were generally in
places remote from all habitations; and even had she reached a farm or
village, what sort of welcome would there have been for the supposed
wife of the _gaucho malo_ and accomplice of his misdeeds?
“After several months,” Mateo continued, “passed in rambling about the
plains, Fernando, emboldened by impunity and success, approached the
villages. Other bands, better organised and more numerous than his own,
spread terror through the province of Cordova. He profited by the
general confusion to take share in the fight, like a privateer who
spreads his sails in the wake of friendly frigates. The militia, called
out to oppose the insurgents who threatened the town of Cordova, were
beaten. The town remained in the power of the horsemen of the plain, and
the militia could not return to their homes, of which the enemy had
taken possession. They were forced to fly, exchanging a few parting
shots with roving corps that sought to impede their escape. I was of the
number of the fugitives. The company to which I belonged daily
diminished. Every man secretly betook himself to the place where he
hoped an asylum. Only twenty of us remained together, resolved to make
for the western provinces, and to cross the Andes into Chili: we had two
hundred leagues to get over before putting the frontier between us and
the enemy.
“One evening, as we were riding through the sierra of Cordova, we
noticed a bivouac amongst the rocks. ‘Shall we reconnoitre that camp?’ I
asked of the officer who commanded us. ‘They are _gauchos_,’ he replied;
‘it is almost dark, we can pass them unperceived: the robbers are not
fond of fighting when there is no chance of booty;’ and we silently
continued our march. By the light of the bivouac fires, we made out a
dozen horsemen seated on the ground upon their saddles. Their lances
were piled in a sheaf in the middle of the camp; before them a woman was
dancing, her figure and movements clearly defined against the bright
fire-light. They did not hear us; we marched at a walk, pistol in
bridle, hand and carbine on thigh. We had already passed the bivouac
unperceived, and were closing up our files preparatory to starting off
at a gallop—it was no use fighting, the game was already lost—when a
young man in the rearguard imprudently fired at the group. In an
instant, the _gauchos_ were armed and on horseback. Then they paused for
a moment to see whence the danger came. We set up a loud shout, which
the echoes repeated. The _gauchos_ were terrified. Whilst they hesitated
to assume the offensive, we turned their camp. They fired half-a-dozen
carbines at us, but hit nobody. Those who had no firearms went about and
ran, and their example was quickly followed by the rest of the band.
Their flight was accelerated by the shots we sent after them. A few
fell, but we did not stop to count the dead. This useless victory might
betray our flight; our best plan was now to hasten on through the
ravines, and avoid for the future all similar encounters.
“During the skirmish, the woman who had been dancing before the fire had
disappeared. We thought no more of her. Suddenly, as we formed up, a
shadow passed before the head of the column. ‘Who goes there?’ cried the
officer, and we quickly reloaded. ‘Who goes there?’ he repeated, probing
with his sabre the bushes that bordered the path. We listened, and
presently we heard a plaintive moan, followed by sobs. ‘It is a wounded
man,’ said the officer: ‘so much the worse for him, the devil a doctor
have we here!’
“‘Señores caballeros,’ cried the mysterious being that was thus hid in
the darkness, ‘have pity upon me—save me! He is dead! I am free! Ah!
mother, mother!’...
“The officer had dismounted; a young girl threw her arms round his neck,
repeating the words: ‘Save me—he is dead!’ We had all halted. ‘It is the
dancing-girl,’ said the men; ‘she detains us here to give time to her
friends to return. It is the wife of the _gaucho malo_.’
“‘I am Pepa Flores,’ she vehemently replied, ‘the daughter of Doña
Ventura of the _esquina_! Ah, _señores_, you are honest people, you are!
Never, never have I been Fernando’s wife. Is there none here who knows
Doña Ventura?’
“I at once recognised Pepa’s voice. ‘She speaks the truth,’ I cried; ‘I
will answer for her. Come, Pepita, you have nothing to fear with us.’
“Fernando had perished in the skirmish. It was perhaps my hand that had
terminated the career of the formidable bandit, and liberated Pepita.
When she learned that her mother was dead—I myself was obliged to impart
to her the mournful fact, which everybody else knew—she shed a flood of
tears, and begged me to take her with me. A proscribed fugitive, I had
enough to do to take care of myself; but how could I resist the
entreaties of an orphan, who had neither friend nor relative in the
world?”
All the fugitives pitied the poor girl, and were kind to her. Her
character had been changed, as well it might be, by her abode with the
_gaucho malo_ and his band. She was no longer the timid, indolent
creature whom Mateo had known at the posting-house; she was quick,
alert, courageous, and gave little trouble to anybody. At halts she made
herself useful, and was particularly grateful and attentive to Mateo,
whom she called her saviour and liberator. At the town of San Luis, he
would have left her in charge of a respectable family, but she wept
bitterly, and begged to follow his fortunes, disastrous though they
were. He was then for the first time convinced that she had never loved
either Fernando or Gil Perez. The poor girl had attached herself to the
man who had delivered her from dreadful captivity, and shown her
disinterested kindness. At Mendoza he again attempted to prevail on her
to accept of an asylum under a friendly roof, but with no better success
than at San Luis. The season was far advanced, snow rendered the passage
of the Andes dangerous and very painful. Mateo’s companions urged her to
wait till spring, when she might rejoin them at Santiago. She would not
hear of delay. Her vision was fixed upon Chili and its Paradise Valley,
Valparaiso. Providing themselves with sheepskins for protection against
the cold, and abandoning their arms, now a useless encumbrance, the
party commenced the toilsome ascent. They got on pretty well until they
reached the region of snow. There they were obliged to quit their
horses, and to climb on foot the steep and frozen acclivities, bearing
on their shoulders heavy loads of provisions and fuel, their legs
wrapped in fur, and handkerchiefs tied over their ears. Pepita, her head
and neck enveloped in a large shawl, marched stoutly along, and often
led the way, bounding like a mountain goat. Three days passed thus.
There were frequent falls upon the frozen snow, many narrow escapes from
death in a torrent, or over a precipice. The enormous condor hovered
over the heads of the weary pilgrims, as if hoping a repast at their
expense. At last they reached the foot of the Cumbre, the last steep
they had to climb before commencing their descent into a milder climate,
and a land of refuge. An icy wind blew, a driving snow fell: it was
doubtful whether the Cumbre could be ascended upon the morrow. The
wanderers halted early, in a hut known by the ominous name of _Casucha
de Calavera_ (the Cabin of the Skull). They had still a little wine in
their ox-horns, which they heated and drank, and then wrapped themselves
in their blankets and lay down to sleep. At midnight the wind was still
high, but the snow had ceased, and they determined to proceed. The
reflection of the sun from the snow had so fatigued their eyes, that
they travelled in the night as often as they could safely do so. Their
next stage was almost perpendicular, but it was unbroken by precipices,
and they thought they might risk progress. They would have done more
prudently to await daylight, but they were eager to cross the
frontier—to reach the summit of the Cumbre, the boundary-line between
Chili and the Argentine provinces. They began to ascend. Poor Pepa’s
feet were swollen, and she suffered in walking, but she was as
courageous as ever, and made light of hardship. Soon the travellers
entered a dense fog: they no longer saw the stars; all around them was
white as a shroud. The fog became sleet; they plodded wearily on,
supporting themselves with their sticks, sometimes on hands and knees.
“I was so weary,” said Mateo, “that I thought I was in a dream. I had no
sensation in my body, but my head was very painful. A few paces off, I
heard the frozen snow crack gently under Pepa’s feet, and I discerned
her form accompanying me like my shadow. Snow succeeded the sleet; it
fell in heavy flakes, and accumulated so rapidly as to threaten burial
to laggards. The path—or rather the track—was invisible; in spite of all
my efforts to follow it, I felt that I was deviating. I called to Pepa,
but neither her voice nor the voices of my comrades replied; we were
scattered. I walked on at random, I know not for how long. When daylight
came, I found myself in a deep ravine, amidst snowdrifts and glaciers.
Right and left, as far as I could see, was a vista of similar valleys.
Not a vestige of Pepa or of my comrades. My strength failed me. With
great difficulty I crept into a sort of cave amongst the rocks. There I
fell asleep.”
He would have perished but for Pepa, who, on discovering his absence,
spurred his comrades, by her reproaches, to a search for the friend whom
their own terrible sufferings and fatigues would have induced them to
abandon. There was, indeed, little chance of finding and saving him, and
the men would have been fully justified in consulting their own safety,
and pushing forwards. But a woman’s courage shamed them. Pepa, _esperaba
desesperada_—despairing, she still hoped. She nobly paid her debt of
gratitude to her deliverer. His life was saved, but hers was lost. Her
hands and face cut and bleeding from the cold, her legs scarcely able to
support her, she traced him out. It was still in time; friction restored
him to consciousness. But the sunlight had scarcely greeted his eyes,
when a cry of distress reached his ears. A treacherous crust of snow,
covering a crevice of incalculable depth, gave way beneath Pepa’s feet,
and she disappeared for ever.
The whole of this sketch—of which we have given but a bare outline,
omitting many incidents—is full of life, interest, and character,
although it is to be remarked and regretted that Mr Pavie’s style is
deficient in that terseness and vigour which enhance the fascination of
narratives of adventure. He is too diffuse and explicit, dwells too
lovingly upon details, distrusts his readers’ intelligence, and is
rather sentimental than energetic. “Pepita” is decidedly the best of his
South American sketches. That entitled “The Pinchegras” has interest.
For several years after the battle of Ayacucho had finally overthrown
Spanish dominion in Chili, an armed band, known as the Pinchegras, from
the name of their chief, still upheld the banner of Castile. Pablo
Pinchegra began his singular career with his brothers and a few
vagabonds for sole followers. They formed a mere gang of robbers.
Presently he was joined by several Indian caciques and their warriors,
and then by a Spaniard named Zinozain and five-and-twenty men, who
carried arms in the names of Ferdinand and Spain. Thenceforward
Pinchegra adopted the same rallying cry; at the end of 1825 the
“royalist army” numbered eight hundred men, including Indians, and
gained an important advantage over the Chilian troops at Longabi, where
a squadron of cavalry was annihilated by the long lances of the Indians.
The Spanish faction in Chili, encouraged by this unexpected success,
recognised Pinchegra as their champion, and supplied him with arms and
munitions of war. Deserters from the army of the Republic, adventurers
of all kinds, flocked to his standard, beneath which a thousand men were
soon ranged. With these and his Indian allies to support him, he found
himself master of a large track of country, attacked and pillaged towns,
carried off cattle and women to his camp in the Andes, and made his name
everywhere dreaded. It was found necessary to send large bodies of
troops against him. These accomplished little; and it was not until 1832
that his band was completely defeated and broken up—or rather, cut to
pieces—he himself having previously been betrayed to his enemies, and
shot. No quarter was given to the fugitives, and the victor’s bulletin
(but Spanish bulletins are proverbially mendacious) stated that only
four men of the army—for it then really was a small army—escaped the
slaughter. The Indian auxiliaries had run at the beginning of the
action. With one of the four survivors, a _caudillo_, or chief of some
mark, named Don Vicente, Mr Pavie fell in at Mendoza, during the winter
he passed there. The Pinchegra was silent and mysterious enough; but a
young French physician, settled in the place, told his countryman the
history of the last body of men that maintained with arms the right of
Spain to her South American colonies. It is an interesting narrative,
comprising much personal adventure, and numerous romantic episodes. The
story of _Batallion_, an Indian foundling, adopted by a cavalry
regiment, in whose ranks he serves and is slain, and that of Rosita, a
lovely _Limeña_ who loved and was abandoned by an English naval officer,
and whom Mr Pavie saw in the madhouse at Lima, where she inquired of
every foreign visitor whether the frigate had returned, complete the
South American portion of a very interesting book.
NAPOLEON AND SIR HUDSON LOWE.[15]
One of the most distinguishing features of public life in England is the
judgment exercised upon the character of its public men. In other
countries the public man is generally seen through a haze of opinion.
The minister of a foreign monarchy stands in the clouded light of the
throne. If eminent, his fame is the result of secret councils, unknown
circumstances, and personal influences almost purposely hidden from the
national mind. If unsuccessful, his failures are sheltered under his
partnership with the higher powers. He is hidden in the curtains of the
Cabinet. At all events, he divides this responsibility with the monarch
whose choice has placed him in office, and whose influence retains him
in power. There are no publications of private correspondence, no
despatches, except garbled ones; no secret instructions, hereafter to be
developed. All the materials for forming a true estimate of the minister
are withheld, by suppressing all the materials for forming a true
estimate of the man. Even if a biography of the individual is written,
either by a friend or an enemy, it is generally greatly destitute of
that evidence from which alone posterity can come to a rational
conclusion. But in England—and it is to the honour of England—the career
of the public man is almost incapable of misconception. He has seldom
been chosen by the caprice of power. He must have given pledges as to
character. Parliament has been the point from which he has launched into
the navigation of public life; his principles must have undergone a
probation before his possession of office, and the whole course of his
after life is registered by correspondences, despatches, and authentic
memorials, which may be made public at the requisition of any member of
the Legislature. The twofold advantage of this publicity is, that public
justice is sure to be done to character, and that every man acts under a
sense of that enlarged responsibility which is the safest guardian of
public honour. If even to this feeling there may be exceptions, this
view is the true theory of Ministerial life; and, among the imperfect
motives of all human virtue, it is not the least that the documents are
in existence, hourly accumulating, and sure to be brought forward, which
shall testify to the nation and the world against every act of
individual shame.
The record to which we now advert is a collection of letters,
despatches, and orders, on a subject which formed some years ago the
chief topic of Europe—the detention of Napoleon at St Helena. The
treatment by the British officer to whom he was given in charge, the
commands of Government, and the character of his captivity, are now, for
the first time, laid before the world on the testimony of unanswerable
documents; and an authentic form is now given to the narrative of that
melancholy period which closed on the most eventful, disturbing,
changeful, and dazzling era of Europe for a thousand years; the fifth
act of the most magnificent drama of the modern world; the thunderstorm
which, combining all the influences of a world long reeking with
iniquity, the feculence of earth with the fires of heaven, at last burst
down, perhaps to purify the moral atmosphere, or perhaps to warn nations
of the still deeper vengeance to come, and startle them into
regeneration.
We now give a brief sketch of the governor of St Helena. Sir Hudson Lowe
was born in Ireland, in Galway, in July 1769. His father was an
Englishman, who had served as a medical officer with the British troops
in the Seven Years’ War, and whose last service was as head of the
medical department in the garrison of Gibraltar, where he died in 1801.
Shortly after the birth of Sir Hudson Lowe, his father’s regiment, the
50th, being ordered to the West Indies, he was taken out with it, and
thus underwent the first hazard of a life of soldiership. On his
return to England he was made an ensign in the East Devon
Militia—probably the youngest in the service, for he was but twelve
years old. In 1787 he was appointed to an ensigncy in the 50th
regiment, then at Gibraltar—arriving while the place was still in
ruinous confusion from the memorable siege. “The whole rock was
covered with fragments of broken shells and shot; and there was not a
house in the town, nor a building within the batteries, which did not
bear the marks of its devastation.” O’Hara succeeded to Elliot as the
governor, and seemed resolved to signalise himself by his discipline.
“I was once,” says Sir Hudson, “proceeding with the escort, in order
to reach the barrier-gate by daybreak, with my head down, to stem, as
well as I was able, the tremendous gusts of rain and wind, when I
heard myself very sharply spoken to by a mounted officer, who desired
me to ‘hold up my head and look what I was about, for it was not as a
mere matter of form I was ordered on that duty.’” This officer was
General O’Hara. “This,” says the narrator, “is the only _real rebuke_
I ever experienced from a superior officer during the whole course of
my military life.” He approves of the rebuke. On another occasion, on
parade, when the late Duke of Kent happened to have done something
which displeased the General—on a rebuke, in the presence of the
officers, the Prince said, “I hope, sir, I shall always do my duty.”
The General’s reply was, “And if you don’t, I shall make you do it.”
It, however, happened that this man of fierce tongue showed himself at
least _unlucky_ in the field; for, having been sent to take the
command of Toulon, then in possession of the Allies, he was taken
prisoner in an unsuccessful sortie, and carried off by the besiegers.
On leave of absence, after four years’ duty in the garrison, Lowe, then
a lieutenant, travelled into France and Italy, and made himself master
of the languages of both; an accomplishment of prime value to a soldier,
and which was the pivot of his fortunes. On his return to Gibraltar, the
war having broken out, the 50th was ordered to Corsica, and garrisoned
Ajaccio—the residence of that family who were afterwards to enjoy such
splendid fortune.
In a memorandum he says, “We were all delighted with our change of
quarters to Ajaccio. The town was well laid out, spacious, well built,
and the citadel had excellent accommodations, but not sufficient for all
the officers. One of the best houses was occupied by the mother and
sisters of Bonaparte. An officer of the 50th, of the name of Ford, was,
for a short time, quartered in the house, and spoke with much
satisfaction of the kind manner in which the family acted towards him.
The young girls—for such they were at that time—ran slipshod about the
house, but hardly any notice was taken of them. There were several balls
and parties given after our arrival there, but Madame Bonaparte was not
invited to them, on account of the situation of her two sons (in
France). She shortly after removed to Cargese, originally a Greek
colony, to a house which had been built or occupied by Count Marbœuf
while in the administration of that part of the island. It is not from
my own recollection I mention those circumstances, because, strange as
it may appear, I was not aware of the residence of any of the Bonaparte
family at Ajaccio during nearly two years when we were in garrison in
that town. I used frequently to hear Napoleon spoken of, but not as
connected with the exploits generally mentioned as giving the first
celebrity to his name—his share in the expulsion of the British from
Toulon.”
The 50th subsequently served in Elba, Lisbon, and Minorca. To this last
place flocked a large body of Corsican emigrants, who were formed into a
corps called the Corsican Rangers, the charge of which was intrusted to
Lowe, then a captain. In 1800 they were attached to the Egyptian
Expedition under Abercromby, Lowe having the temporary rank of major. In
the famous landing at Aboukir, on the 8th of March 1801—one of the most
brilliant exploits ever performed by an army—the Corsican Rangers fought
on the right of the Guards, and were warmly engaged; they were present
also at the battle of Alexandria (March 21, 1801), when the dashing
attack of the French on the English lines was most gallantly
defeated;—an action which, in fact, involved the conquest of Egypt, for
the French fought no more, the rest of the campaign being a succession
of marches and capitulations. In this campaign the Major had the good
fortune to save Sir Sydney Smith’s life; for a picket, mistaking Sir
Sydney for a French officer, from his wearing a cocked hat (the English
wearing round hats), levelled their muskets at him, when Lowe struck up
their pieces and saved him. His activity in command of the outposts
received the flattering expression from General Moore—“Lowe, when you
are at the outposts, I always feel sure of a good night’s rest.” Moore,
in writing to Lowe’s father, said—“In Sir Ralph Abercromby he lost, in
common with many others, a good friend; but his conduct has been so
conspicuously good, that I hope he will meet with the reward he merits.”
In Sir Robert Wilson’s history of the campaign, Lowe is mentioned as
“having always gained the highest approbation,” and his Corsican Rangers
as exciting, from their conduct and appearance, “the general
admiration.”
On the Peace of Amiens they were disbanded, but Lowe was confirmed in
his rank of Major-Commandant; and after being placed on half-pay, was
appointed to the 7th or Royal Fusileers, on Moore’s recommendation;
adding, “It is nothing more than you deserve; and if I have been at all
instrumental in bringing it about, I shall think the better of myself
for it.” This generous testimony continued to influence Lowe’s fortunes;
for on his arrival in England, in 1802, he was appointed one of the
permanent Assistants Quartermaster-General. “I have known you,” said
Moore, “a long time; and I am confident your conduct, in whatever
situation you may be placed, will be such as to do honour to those who
have recommended you.” He soon obtained a mark of still higher
confidence. Before he had been many weeks in England, he was sent on a
secret mission to Portugal, for the purpose of ascertaining the state of
Oporto and the neighbouring cities. On this occasion he expressed his
opinion of the practicability of defending the country by united British
and Portuguese. Thus he gave an opinion contradictory to that of Europe,
but subsequently realised with the most admirable success by Wellington.
He then proceeded to the Mediterranean, with an order to raise another
regiment of Corsican Rangers. In the course of service with this corps,
he commanded at Capri, in the Bay of Naples; and as the loss of this
place formed one of the chief themes of foreign obloquy on this officer,
we enter into a slight statement of the facts, less for the clearance of
his character, than for the more important purpose of showing how truth
may be mutilated, partly by negligence in the general narrative, and
partly by exaggeration in the personal enemy.
The island of Capri, in May 1806, had surrendered to a British squadron.
Its possession was of value as blocking up the Bay of Naples. Colonel
Lowe, with five companies of his regiment, and a small detachment of
artillery, were sent in May to garrison the island. The whole regiment
was subsequently sent. In August, Murat took possession of the kingdom
of Naples, and his first expedition was to Capri, whose possession by a
British force, seen from the windows of his palace, continually molested
him. Accordingly, on the 4th of October, an embarkation under General
Lamarque attempted a landing near the town of Capri. Lowe with his
Rangers hastened to the spot, and drove the enemy back to their ships.
The island is three miles long, and about two miles across, and had 4000
inhabitants. Lowe had demanded a force of 2190 men for its defence. The
whole number under his command were 1400, of whom 800 were a regiment of
Maltese, of a miscellaneous description, and but imperfectly
disciplined, though commanded by a gallant officer, Major Hammill. Lowe
placed this regiment in Ana-Capri, an elevated district, on a platform
of rock, to be ascended only by 500 steps of stone. The French landed
2000 men there. The Maltese regiment dispersed themselves,
notwithstanding the utmost efforts of Major Hammill, who, disdaining to
follow their flight, was killed; finally, the whole of the Maltese
regiment were taken prisoners. Thus the 1400 men were reduced to 600, in
the presence of a French force of 3000! Lowe’s object was now
necessarily confined to defending the town of Capri, which he did
vigorously, for ten days of frequent attacks, in the hope of being
succoured by the English squadron, which would have turned the tables on
the besiegers, and caught the French General in a trap. But, from some
cause not easily accountable, the fleet did not appear, and the Corsican
Rangers were left to the rotten and unprepared ramparts of the town. On
the 15th the French cannon had made a practicable breach. Lowe still
held out, and attempted to erect new defences under the fire of the
French guns; but the walls were crumbling, and the cannon of the town
were rendered nearly unserviceable by the enemy’s fire. The French
flotilla also approached. In the evening Lamarque sent in a flag of
truce, demanding the surrender of the garrison as prisoners of war, with
the exception of Lowe and five or six of his officers. Lowe would permit
no distinction between his officers and soldiers, nor suffer the words
“prisoner of war,” positively refusing to accept of any other terms than
“to evacuate his post with his arms and baggage.” On these terms alone
the town was surrendered, and on the 20th the garrison embarked at the
Marina, “with all the honours of war.” In addition, it deserves to be
remembered that, on Lamarque’s demanding that several of the foreigners,
who had enlisted in the British service while prisoners, should be given
up to him, Lowe’s spirited answer was, “You may shoot _me_, but I will
never give up a single man.”
On this occasion he received many flattering letters on his defence of
the island under such difficulties; and among the rest, one from
Major-General Lord Forbes, expressing the sense which must be
entertained by his superior, Sir John Stuart, “of the unremitting zeal,
ability, and judgment which his conduct had displayed, under the trying
circumstances of Capri.”
After various services on the Italian coast, Colonel Lowe with his
regiment was ordered on an expedition against the Ionian Islands, then
garrisoned by the French. On their conquest, he was appointed governor
of Cephalonia and Ithaca, with a recommendatory circular from General
Oswald, commanding the expedition, and congratulating the people on the
government of an officer “who had shown himself the common father of all
ranks and classes of their communities.” In 1812 he obtained the rank of
full Colonel, and returned on leave to England. “I was then,” he says,
“in my twenty-fourth year of service, and had never been absent a single
day from my public duty since the commencement of the war in 1793. I had
been in England only once during that time.” His services were still
required by Government in matters of importance; in inspecting foreign
regiments to be taken into English pay; in attendance on the
negotiations for the accession of Sweden to the Grand Alliance, &c. &c.
At the Swedish Court he met the “Queen of the Blues,” the celebrated
Madame de Stael, talking politics as usual. She had begun her
performances in Sweden with writing a letter of thirty pages to
Bernadotte, _instructing him_ how to govern the Swedes; but she was not
always guilty of this extravagance of _presumption_. Silly in her
political ambition, she was hospitable in her home. A little theatre was
formed in her house—for the French, even in exile, cannot live without
the follies of the theatre—where she and her daughter exhibited scenes
from the _Iphigenie_ of Racine. How her physiognomy might have agreed
with the requisitions of the stage, it is difficult to conjecture, for
Nature never clothed a female with a more startling exterior. She
afterwards performed in a farce of her own, in which her daughter
exhibited as a dancer! And those were the entertainments for ambassadors
and princes!—for Bernadotte, then Prince-Royal, came in, but soon
disappeared. We should by no means wish to see the manners of foreign
life adopted by the pliancy of Englishwomen.
The prince is thus described: “I have never seen so remarkable a
countenance as that of Bernadotte; an aquiline nose of most
extraordinary dimensions—eyes full of fire—a penetrating look—with a
countenance darker than that of any Spaniard—and hair so black that the
portrait-painters can find no tint dark enough to give its right hue: it
forms a vast bushy protuberance round his head, and he takes great
pains, I understand, to have it arranged in proper form.” When we had
the honour of seeing the prince, which we did in Pomerania, when he was
about to march his army to the camp of the Allies, every lock of his
hair was curled like a Brutus bust displayed in the window of a Parisian
_perruquier_. From Sweden Colonel Lowe was summoned by Lord Cathcart,
then ambassador to Russia, to join him at the Imperial headquarters in
Poland. After an interview with the Czar, he joined the Allied troops,
and was present at the hard-fought battle of Bautzen on the 20th and
21st of May. Here he first saw that extraordinary man, whom he
afterwards was to see under such extraordinary circumstances of change.
In his correspondence with Lord Bathurst, the Colonel says—“Between the
town of Bautzen and the position of the Allies is a long elevated
ridge.... In the morning a body of the enemy’s troops was observed to be
formed on its crest. In their front a small group was collected, which
by our spyglasses we discovered to be persons of consequence in their
army. Among them was most clearly distinguishable Napoleon himself. He
advanced about forty or fifty paces, accompanied only by one of his
marshals (conjectured to have been Beauharnais), with whom he remained
in conversation, walking backwards and forwards (having dismounted) for
nearly an hour.
“I was on an advanced battery in front of our position, and had a most
distinct view of him. He was dressed in a plain uniform coat, and a
star, with a plain hat, different from that of his marshals and generals
(which were feathered); his air and manner so perfectly resembling the
portraits that there was no possibility of mistake. He appeared to me
conversing on some indifferent subject; very rarely looking towards our
position, of which, however, the situation in which he stood commanded a
most comprehensive and distinct view.”
In October, through Sir C. Stewart (now Marquis of Londonderry), he was
attached to the army under that great and bold soldier, Marshal Blucher,
and was with him in every battle from Leipsic to Paris. His description
of the horrors of the French retreat, after the battle of Leipsic,
unfolds a dreadful picture of the sufferings of war. “For an extent of
fifty miles, on the French route, there were carcasses of dead and dying
horses without number; bodies of men, who had been either killed, or
died of hunger, sickness, and fatigue, lying in the roads and ditches;
parties of prisoners and stragglers brought in by the Cossacks; blown-up
ammunition waggons, in such numbers as absolutely to obstruct the
road.... Pillaged and burning towns and villages marked, at the same
time, the ferocity with which the enemy had conducted himself.”
In the close of this memorable year, Colonel Lowe was ordered to Holland
on a commission for organising the Dutch troops who were to join Sir
Thomas Graham’s army; but (as it appears), at his own request, his
destination was changed for the Prussian army, under Blucher, then
crossing the Rhine. He was present at all the battles fought by that
army on their march through France, forming, with its four German
actions, no less than _thirteen_—of which _eleven_ were fought against
Napoleon in person.
In all those campaigns he gallantly took the soldier’s share, being
constantly at the Marshal’s side; being present, on one occasion, when
he was wounded; on another, when the Cossack orderly was shot beside
him; and on two others, when he narrowly escaped being made prisoner,
being obliged to make a run of it, with the whole of his retinue,
through a party of the enemy; Bonaparte also having been nearly taken by
him in the same way, on the same day. He was present at the conferences
of Chatillon, where he strongly joined those opinions which were in
favour of the “March to Paris;” and he had the honour of bearing the
despatch to England announcing the abdication of Napoleon; which was
instantly published from the Foreign Office, in a “Gazette
Extraordinary.” Colonel Lowe was received with great distinction. The
Prince-Regent immediately knighted him; and the Prussian order of
Military Merit was conferred on him, with the order of St George from
the Emperor of Russia.
In 1814 Sir Hudson Lowe was promoted to the rank of major-general, and
appointed quartermaster-general to the British troops in the
Netherlands, commanded by the Prince of Orange. In that capacity he
visited the fortresses on the frontier, and drew up reports on their
restoration. It is remarkable that among his plans was the
recommendation of building a Work at Mont _St Jean_, as the commanding
point at the junction of the two principal roads from the French
frontier, on the side of Namur and Charleroi, to Brussels, and the
direction in which an army must move for the invasion of Belgium. How
much earlier the battle of Waterloo would have terminated, and how many
gallant lives might have been saved by the possession of a fortress in
the very key of the position, we may conjecture from the defence of
Hougomont, where the walls of a mere farmyard, defended by brave men,
were sufficient to resist the entire left wing of the enemy during that
whole hard-fought, decisive, and illustrious day.
The news of Napoleon’s escape from Elba roused all Europe. It was at
once the most dexterous performance, and the most unwise act, of the
great charlatan of empire. He ought to have delayed it, at least for a
year. The negotiators at Vienna were already on the verge of discontents
which might have broken up the general alliance; the troops were on the
point of marching to their homes: thus Europe was about to be left
without defence, or even to a renewal of hostilities. But the escape of
Napoleon sobered all. The universal peril produced the universal
reconciliation. And the Manifesto was issued in the shape of a universal
declaration, proclaiming Napoleon Bonaparte the enemy of mankind.
The position of Sir Hudson Lowe at Brussels made his advice of
importance. The question was, where the Allied armies should expect the
attack? The Prussian generals were of opinion that they should be
prepared on the side of Switzerland and Mayence. Sir Hudson Lowe, more
sagaciously, affirmed that Brussels would be the object. Count
Gneisenau, the Prussian quartermaster-general, finally decided to wait
for the opinion of the Duke of Wellington on his arrival in the
Netherlands. At this period, while matters remained in a state of
uncertainty as to the movements of France, Sir Hudson Lowe was offered
the command of the British troops at Genoa, intended to act with the
Austro-Sardinian army, and the squadron under Lord Exmouth, against the
south of France. Unwilling to quit the great Duke, he waited on him for
his opinion. As all recollections of Wellington are dear to his country,
we give his few words, in which, after saying that Sir W. Delancy (as
his successor) might not at once be _au fait_ at the business of the
Office, and as Sir G. Murray, “who had been with him for six years, was
only on his return from Canada, still he did _a good deal of his own
business_, and _could do business with any one_.” In short, “it was a
case that must be left to himself.”
Accordingly, he remained with the Duke until the beginning of June, and
then went to take his command. On his way through Germany, he met at the
Imperial headquarters Blucher, Schwartzenberg, and the Czar. With the
last he had the honour of a conversation. The Czar received him in his
cabinet, quite alone; took him by the hand; said that he was glad to see
him, but that it was an unfortunate circumstance which compelled him
(the Czar) to come forward; that oceans of blood might be again spilt;
but that, while that man (Napoleon) lived, there would be no hope of
repose for Europe; that armies must be kept up by every nation on a war
footing; and that, in short, there appeared no other alternative than
carrying on the war with vigour, and thus bringing it to the speedier
close. The Czar spoke in English. He asked many other questions; but
seemed most gratified by knowing that the force under the Duke of
Wellington, instead of being 60,000 men, was, with the Allied forces of
the Netherlands, not less than 100,000.
On reaching Genoa, the expedition sailed to the south of France; but all
the cities having suddenly hoisted the white flag, the war was at an
end.
Now began the only portion of his prosperous and active career, which
could be called trying and vexatious. On the 1st of August 1815 he
received an order to return immediately to London, for the purpose of
taking charge of Napoleon Bonaparte.
On his arrival in Paris he had communications with all the Cabinet. Lord
Castlereagh asked him his opinion of the possibility of Napoleon’s
escape. He answered that he could see none, except in case of a mutiny,
of which there had been two instances at St Helena. But on being
informed of the nature of the intended garrison, he answered that its
chance would be proportionably diminished. This was the only
conversation which he ever had with Lord Castlereagh. On reaching
London, he received the Ministerial orders for the charge of his
memorable prisoner. By Lord Liverpool’s authority, he was told that if
he remained in charge for three years, the royal confidence, and, we
presume, the royal reward, “should not stop there.” Lord Ellenborough,
Chief-Justice, assured him, “that in the execution of the duty the law
would give him every support.” On the 23d of August, the Directors of
the East India Company appointed him governor of St Helena; the command
of the troops, with the local rank of lieutenant-general, was given to
him; and his salary was fixed at £12,000 a-year.
The regulations for the safe keeping of Napoleon, adopted by the
Secretary of War and Colonies, Lord Bathurst, and delivered to Sir
George Cockburn, were (in outline) as follows:—
1. When General Bonaparte shall be removed from the Bellerophon to the
Northumberland, there shall be an examination of the effects which the
General shall have brought with him.
2. All articles of furniture, books, and wine, which the General shall
have brought, shall be transhipped to the Northumberland.
3. Under the head of furniture is the plate, provided it be not to such
an amount as to bespeak it rather an article of convertible property
than for domestic use.
4. His money, diamonds, and negotiable bills of exchange, are to be
given up. The admiral will explain to him that it is by no means the
intention of Government to confiscate his property, but simply to
prevent its being converted into an instrument of escape.
The remainder consists of details. In the event of his death, the
disposition of his property was to be determined by his will, which
would be strictly attended to.
Bonaparte was to be always attended by a military officer; and if he was
permitted to pass the boundaries allotted to him, the officer was to be
attended by an Orderly. No individual of his suite was to be carried to
St Helena but with his own consent, it being explained to him that he
must be subject to the restraints necessary for the security of
Bonaparte’s person. All letters addressed to him were to be delivered to
the admiral, or governor, and read by them. Bonaparte must be informed,
that any representation addressed to Government would be received and
transmitted, but must be transmitted open to the governor and admiral’s
inspection, that they might be enabled to transmit answers to any
objections. If Bonaparte were to be attacked with serious illness, the
governor and admiral were each to direct a medical person, in addition
to his own physician, to attend him, and desire them to report daily on
the state of his health. Finally, in the event of his death, the admiral
was to give orders for the conveyance of his body to England.
It would be difficult to conceive arrangements less severe, consistently
with the urgent necessity of preventing another war.
On the embarkation on board the Northumberland, the arms were to be
taken from the French officers on board; but to be packed carefully, and
put into the charge of the captain. Napoleon’s sword was not taken from
him, and the swords of the officers were restored on their arrival at St
Helena. Of this order, Count Montholon made a handsome melodramatic
story, in the following style: “His lordship (Lord Keith) said to him,
in a voice suppressed (assourdie) by vivid emotion, ‘England demands
your sword.’ The Emperor, with a convulsive movement, dropped his hand
on that sword, which an Englishman _dared_ to demand. The expression of
his look was his sole answer. It had never been more powerful, more
_superhuman_ (sur-humaine). The old admiral felt thunderstruck
(foudroyé). His tall figure shrank; his head, whitened by age, fell upon
his bosom, like that of a criminal humbled before his condemnation.”
This theatric affair Mr Forsyth declares to be _pure fiction_. The story
is contradicted even by Las Cases, who says, in his journal—“I asked,
whether it was possible that they would go so far as to deprive the
Emperor of his sword? The admiral replied that _it_ would be respected;
but that Napoleon was the only person excepted, as all the rest would be
disarmed.” The perpetual habit of frequenting the theatre spoils all the
taste of France. The simplest action of life must be told in
rhodomontade, and even the gravest facts must be dressed up in the
frippery of fiction.
On the 7th of August 1815, Bonaparte was removed on board of the
Northumberland, with a suite of twenty-five persons, including Count and
Countess Bertrand, with their three children; Count and Countess
Montholon, with one child; and Count de Las Cases, with his son, a boy
of fourteen. As Mengeaud, the surgeon who had accompanied him from
Rochefort was unwilling to go to St Helena; O’Meara, the surgeon of the
Bellerophon, was chosen by Bonaparte, and allowed by Lord Keith to
attend him.
They hove to at Madeira for refreshments, and landed at St Helena on the
15th of October.
A letter of O’Meara to a Mr Finlayson at the Admiralty, gives a
characteristic detail of the voyage. “During the passage the ladies were
either ill the whole time, or fancied themselves to be so; in either of
which cases, it was necessary to give them medicine, in the choice of
which it was extremely difficult to meet their tastes or humours, or
their ever-unceasing caprice. What was most extraordinary, they never
complained of loss of appetite. They generally ate of every dish at a
profusely supplied table, of different meats, twice every day, besides
occasional tiffins, bowls of soup, &c. They mostly hate each other, and
I am the depositary of their complaints—especially Madame Bertrand’s,
who is like a tigress deprived of her young, when she perceives me doing
any service for Madame Montholon. The latter, to tell the truth, is not
so whimsical, nor subject to so many fits of rage as the other.
“Bonaparte was nearly the entire of the time in perfect health. During
the passage, Napoleon almost invariably did not appear out in the
after-cabin, before twelve; breakfasted either in bed or in his own
cabin about eleven; dined with the admiral about five; stayed about half
an hour at dinner, then left the table and proceeded to the
quarter-deck, where he generally spent a couple of hours, either in
walking, or else leaning against the breech of one of the guns, talking
to De las Cases. He generally spoke a few words to every officer who
could understand him; and, according to his custom, was very inquisitive
relative to various objects. His suite, until the day before we landed
(three days after our arrival), invariably kept their hats off while
speaking to him, and then, by his directions, remained covered. He
professes his intention, I am informed, to drop the name of Bonaparte,
and to assume that of a colonel he was very partial to, and who was
killed in Italy.
“He is to proceed in a few days to Longwood, the present seat of the
Lieutenant-governor, where there is a plain of above a mile and a half
in length, with trees (a great rarity here) on it. He is to have a
captain constantly in the house with him, and he is also to be
accompanied by one whenever he goes out. None of his staff are to go
out, unless accompanied by an English officer or soldier.
“I had a long conversation with him the day before yesterday. Among
other remarks he observed, ‘Why, your Government have not taken the most
economical method of providing for me. They send me to a place where
every necessary of life is four times as dear as in any other part of
the globe; and not content with that, they send a regiment here, to a
place where there are already four times as many inhabitants as it can
furnish subsistence to, and where there are a superabundance of troops.
This is the way,’ continued he, ‘that you have contracted your national
debt—not by the actual necessary expenses of war, but by the unnecessary
expenses of colonies.’”
Napoleon was in the habit of predicting the ruin of England, and
pointing out, we may presume, with no intention of warning, the
_blunders_ of that policy which, however, had rescued Europe from the
French yoke, and sent himself to moralise in a dungeon. “This island,”
said he, “costs, or will cost, two millions a-year, which is so much
money thrown in the sea. Your East India Company, if their affairs were
narrowly scrutinised, would be found to lose instead of gaining, and in
_a few years_ must become bankrupt. Your manufactures, in consequence of
the dearness of necessaries in England, will be _undersold_ by those of
France and Germany, and your manufacturers will be _ruined_.” All this
train of ill omen is profitable, if it were only to show how little we
are to depend upon the foresight of politicians. Here was unquestionably
one of the most sagacious of human beings delivering his ideas on the
future, and that not a remote future, not a future of centuries, but a
future within the life of a generation; and yet what one of these
predictions has not been completely baffled? The East Indian territories
of England have been constantly aggrandising for nearly forty years of
that period which was to have seen their bankruptcy. The manufactures of
England, instead of total failure, have been growing to a magnitude
unequalled in the annals of national industry, and are rapidly spreading
over the globe. England, instead of struggling with exclusion from
foreign commerce, and domestic disaffection, has possessed a peace, the
longest in its duration, and the most productive in its increase of
opulence, invention, and power, that Europe has ever seen. But if the
malignant spirit of her prisoner may be presumed to have perverted his
sagacity, his opinions were the opinions of the Continent; and every
statesman, from Calais to Constantinople, occupied himself by counting
on his fingers the number of years that lay between England and
destruction. Yet England still stands, the envy of all nations; and will
stand, while she retains her loyalty, her principle, and her honour; or,
rather, while she retains her religion, which includes them all.
The exterior of St Helena is unpromising. “Masses of volcanic rock,
sharp and jagged, tower up round the coast, and form an iron girdle. The
few points where a landing can be effected are bristling with cannon.”
The whole has the evidence of the agency of fire; and from the gigantic
size of the strata, so disproportioned to its circuit, it has been
supposed the wreck of a vast submerged continent. But the narrow
valleys, radiating from the basaltic ridge forming the backbone of the
island, have scenes of beauty. A writer on the “Geognosy” of the island,
even describes those valleys as exhibiting an alternation of hill and
dale, and luxuriant and constant verdure. Even Napoleon, in all his
discontent, admitted that it had “good air.” Or, as in some more
detailed remarks transmitted by Las Cases—“After all, as a place of
exile, perhaps St Helena was the best. In high latitudes we should have
suffered greatly from cold; and in any other island of the tropics we
should have expired miserably, under the scorching rays of the sun. The
rock is wild and barren, no doubt; the climate is monstrous and
unwholesome; but the temperature, it must be confessed, is mild
(douce).”
It is of some importance to the national character to touch on those
matters, as they show that Napoleon was not sent for any other purpose
than security of detention. A West Indian island might have unduly
hastened the catastrophe. A letter from Lieutenant-Colonel Jackson gives
even a more favourable testimony than has been generally conceived. He
had been a resident for several years.
“Lying within the influence of the south-east trade-wind, which is
usually a strong breeze between the Cape and St Helena, the tropical
heat is moderated thereby to a delightful temperature, and perhaps there
is no finer climate to be found than in certain parts of St Helena. In
the town, I rarely saw the thermometer above 80°, while the general
height may have been about 75°. But I write from memory, having lost my
register of the temperature. Between Longwood and Jamestown there is a
difference of eight or ten degrees. A fire is rarely necessary, unless
perhaps as a corrective of the dampness produced by fog, to which the
elevated portions of the island are occasionally liable. I believe the
average duration of life to be much as in England.”
Mr Henry, who was stationed in the island as assistant-surgeon during
Napoleon’s residence, gives even a more decided testimony. “For a
tropical climate, only 15° from the line, St Helena is certainly a
healthy island, if not the _most_ healthy of the description in the
world. During one period of twelve months, we did not lose _one_ man by
disease out of five hundred of the 66th quartered at Deadwood. In 1817,
1818, and 1819, Fahrenheit’s thermometer, kept at the hospital, ranged
from fifty-five to seventy degrees; with the exception of calm days,
when it rose to eighty. In Jamestown, from the peculiar radiation of
heat to which it was exposed, the temperature was sometimes upwards of
ninety.... There is no endemic in the island.... The upper parts of St
Helena, including the residence of Bonaparte, are decidedly the most
healthy, and we often moved our regimental convalescents from Jamestown
to Deadwood for cooler and better air. The clouds moved so steadily and
regularly with the trade-wind that there appeared to be no time for
atmospherical accumulations of electricity, and we never had any thunder
or lightning. No instance of hydrophobia, in man or any inferior animal,
had ever been known in St Helena.”
We shall limit ourselves to an outline of the transactions referring to
Napoleon. He landed at Jamestown on the evening of the 17th of October,
where he remained for the night, and on the next day removed to the
“Briars,” the country house of Mr Balcombe, who afterwards became
purveyor to the residence at Longwood. Two proclamations were
immediately issued by the governor, Colonel Wilkes, one cautioning the
inhabitants of the island against any attempt to aid the escape of
“General Napoleon Bonaparte;” and the other, prohibiting all persons
from passing through any part of the island (except in the immediate
vicinity of the town) from nine at night until daylight, without having
the _parole_ of the night; and a third, placing all the coasts, and
vessels or boats, under the control of the Admiral. A despatch from the
Admiral, to the Secretary of the Admiralty, explained the choice of
Longwood for the residence of the prisoner. “I have not hesitated on
fixing on it. Longwood is detached from the general inhabited parts of
the island, therefore none of the inhabitants have occasion, or are at
all likely, to be met with in its neighbourhood; it is the most distant
from the parts of the coast _always_ accessible to boats.” He then
mentions it as having an extent of level ground, perfectly adapted for
horse-exercise, carriage-driving, and pleasant walking. The house was
small, but it was better than any other in the island (out of the town)
except the governor’s; and by the help of the ships’ carpenters and
others, was capable of convenient additions. Repairs were accordingly
made, and everything was done that could fit it for a comfortable
residence.
The system of discontent, remonstrance, and, we must add,
misrepresentation, was begun. A letter from the “Grand Marshal, Count
Bertrand,” led the way. It protested against everything, and
frequently applied the term “Emperor” to Napoleon. The Admiral’s reply
was fair and manly. It expressed regret for the necessary
inconveniences, and a desire to consult the wishes of General
Bonaparte; but said that he was authorised to apply _no_ title which
had not been given by his Government. This refusal was perfectly
justifiable, though it made one of the clamours of the time. The
custom of European diplomacy is _never_ to acknowledge a new title but
by treaty, and in return, if possible, for some concession on the part
of the claimant. The embarrassments connected with the opposite
practice are obvious. Where is the line to be drawn? If every ruler,
however trifling his territory, or however recent his usurpation, were
to fix his own title, all the relations of public life might be
outraged. The creature of every revolution might be authenticated the
legitimate possessor of sovereignty—an upstart received into the
family of kings, become a living encouragement to political
convulsion. All the declamation which was lavished on the denial of
the Imperial title to Bonaparte, amounted to the maxim, that success
justifies usurpation. If, in general life, no man can bear a title
without the sanction of the laws—to avoid the disturbance of the Civil
order, why should not the same sanction be demanded where the result
of concession without cause might influence the highest interests of
public life? There can be no question that the Imperial title,
continued to Napoleon by the credulity of Alexander, laid the
foundation of the renewed disturbances of France and Europe. It had
placed him within sight of power again; it had fixed the eye of French
conspiracy on him; it had conveyed to all his partisanship the idea
that he still was an object of fear to Europe, and it thus revived the
hope of his restoration. This dangerous concession made him, while at
Elba, the virtual Emperor of France—prompted him to contemplate the
resumption of the sceptre—pointed him out as a rallying point for
disaffection—connected his mock crown with his former sovereignty—and
left the peace of the world to the hazard of the die which was thrown
at Waterloo.
If it be said that the concession which was dangerous at Elba was
trifling at St Helena, we have no hesitation in accounting for the
sudden forgetfulness of Napoleon exhibited by France to the refusal of
the title. “General” Bonaparte lived only in the recollection of a
broken army; the “Emperor” lived in the pride and passions of the
people. It was essential to dissolve this combination; to show that the
_prestige_ of his name existed no longer; that he was an object of fear
no more; and especially, that his connection with title-loving France
was to be cut asunder for the remainder of his existence. All this was
done, and could alone be done, by refusing to continue that title to the
prisoner, which England had loftily refused to him in the height of his
power.
Even Napoleon himself was so fully convinced of the contradiction
between his present state and his former, that he subsequently wrote a
Memorial addressed to the Governor, containing this declaration: “Seven
or eight months ago Count Montholon proposed, as a means of removing the
little inconveniences which were ever recurring, the adoption of an
ordinary name.... I am quite ready to take any ordinary name; and I
repeat that, when it may be deemed proper to remove me from this cruel
abode, I am resolved to remain a stranger to politics, whatever may be
passing in the world. Such is my resolve; and anything which may have
been said different from this would not be the fact.”
Unfortunately, it was wholly impossible to rely on any declaration of
this kind, and it would have been absolute folly to have hazarded the
peace of Europe on the contingency of Napoleon’s keeping his word. He
had gone to Elba with the same protest against politics, he had publicly
declared that his political life was ended; and the weakness of giving
credit to that declaration cost the lives of perhaps fifty thousand men,
and might have cost a universal war.
If the strictness of the regulations at St Helena have been matter of
charge against this country, it is to be remembered that the highest
interests might have been endangered by his escape; that no royal
captive was ever so indulged before; and that England was but a trustee
for the tranquillity of the world. The instructions were the most
lenient possible, consistently with his safe keeping. A captain was to
ascertain his presence twice in the twenty-four hours. Whenever Napoleon
rode or walked _beyond_ the boundaries where the sentinels were placed,
he was to be attended by an officer. Napoleon and his attendants were to
be within his house at nine o’clock every night.
If these restrictions might be considered severe, it is to be remembered
that they were only severities against the necessity of a second
Waterloo. It is to be observed, also, that these regulations all took
place before the arrival of Sir Hudson Lowe. The English mind revolts
against confinement of any kind; but the limits of Napoleon’s grounds,
within which he might take exercise _unattended_ by any officer,
embraced a circuit of _twelve_ miles! The ground was nearly flat, and
well covered with turf. On the plain of Deadwood, adjoining, was an
excellent race-course, a mile and a half long, of which one mile was in
a straight line. The house at Longwood had been used by the former
governor as a villa; but it was small, consisting only of five rooms. To
these, however, additions were made; the whole being merely a temporary
residence until the completion of a house on a larger scale, which was
preparing in England.
It became the peevish custom of the French, on the arrival of Sir Hudson
Lowe, to contrast his conduct with that of Sir George Cockburn, and
speak of their satisfaction with the latter; but they quarrelled equally
with both. A letter from O’Meara to his correspondent Finlayson (not
printed in his volumes), says: “Napoleon inveighs most bitterly against
the English Ministry for sending him here. He has been for sometime back
at Longwood, where he is tolerably well lodged, considering the island.”
As to his displeasure at being sent to the island, he should have
regarded himself as peculiarly well treated; for what must have been his
condition in the custody of any other government? He must have been sent
to a fortress with no other liberty of exercise than within the space of
the ramparts; he must have had sentinels everywhere on his steps, and
have been subjected to all the rigid regulations of a garrison, and
perhaps altogether separated from his attendants and general society.
The greater probability of escape in Europe would have required the
greater strictness; and the necessity of the case must have made his
confinement little better than that of the dungeon. What liberty was
allotted to Louis Napoleon in Ham for six years? What liberty was
allotted to Toussaint Louverture by Napoleon himself?—a damp dungeon
until he died. What liberty was allotted to the State prisoners under
the Empire?—or what liberty was allotted to the English officers
confined in the casemates of Biche? Instead of such restrictions, he had
a large space of a healthy island in which he might move, without watch
or ward, with a crowd of attendants of his own choice round him, with
such society as he chose to receive, with a sumptuous table kept for
him, and every deference paid to his fame and rank, compatible with that
essential point, the prevention of his escape, which he appears to have
been constantly meditating.
An order prohibiting the general access of the population to Longwood
was now issued. Napoleon at this was in great indignation. He said to
O’Meara, “It was absurd to prohibit people from visiting him, while he
was at liberty to go out and call upon them.... I will never receive any
person coming with a pass from the Admiral, as I will immediately set
down the person receiving it as being _like the donor_, and a spy upon
me.”... Then becoming more warm, he said, “Who is the Admiral? I have
never heard his name as the conqueror in a battle, either singly or in
general action.... It is true, he has rendered his name in_famous_ in
America; and so he will now render it here, on this desolate rock.”
Stopping then with much agitation, and looking at me earnestly—“Next to
your Government exiling me here, the worst thing they could have done,
and the most insufferable to my feelings, is sending me with such a _man
as_ HE. I shall make my treatment known to all Europe. It will be a
reflection and a stain on his posterity for centuries. What! does he
want to introduce Turkish laws into the Rock? Other prisoners under
sentence of death are allowed to communicate, by the laws of England and
all other civilised nations.”
The fact was, that Napoleon wished to accomplish an object incompatible
with the purpose of his being sent to the island; he demanded all the
conveniences of perfect freedom—of course for the purpose of escape.
However, to avoid all shadow of cruelty, the passports were finally left
to the distribution of Bertrand.
O’Meara further says, “He has since discovered that the Admiral’s
conduct has been most grossly and shamefully misrepresented and
blackened to him. The people he is surrounded by at present give me some
faint idea of what the court of St Cloud must have been during his
omnipotent sway. Everything here is disguised and mutilated.”
Napoleon’s theatrical rants were sometimes amusing. Foreigners can rail
fluently enough at misfortune, but they always forget the share which
they had in bringing it on themselves. “Behold the English Government!”
said he one day, gazing round on the stupendous rocks which encompassed
him; “this is their liberality to the unfortunate, who, _confiding_ in
what is called their national character, in an evil hour gave himself up
to them! But your Ministers laugh at your laws. I thought once that the
English were a free nation; but I now see that you are the _greatest
slaves_ in the world. You all tremble at the sight of _that_ man.”
“Another time, talking to me (O’Meara) about the island, he said, ‘In
fact, I expect nothing less from your Government than that they will
send out an executioner to _despatch_ me. They send me here to a
horrible rock, where even the water is not good. They send out a
_sailor_ with me, who does not know how to treat a man like me, and who
puts a camp under my nose, so that I cannot put my head out without
seeing my jailors. Here we are treated like felons: a proclamation is
issued for nobody to come near and touch us, as if we were lepers.’”
O’Meara’s description of the officers in attendance on Napoleon is
sufficiently contemptuous. Of Montholon he speaks most offensively. He
admits Bertrand to be a “good man;” but he thus characterises Gourgaud,
whose quarrel with Sir Walter Scott once made some noise: “Gourgaud is
now recovering from dysentery. During his illness, I never saw a man
betray so much fear of dying as he did on various occasions. One night a
large black beetle got into the bed, and crawled up alongside of him.
His imagination immediately magnified the insect into a devil, or some
other formidable apparition, armed with talons, long teeth, and ready to
tear away his lingering soul from its mortal abode. He shrieked, became
terribly agitated and convulsed; a cold sweat bedewed his pallid face;
and when I entered he presented all the appearance of a man about to
expire, with the most terrific ideas of what would be his future lot;
and it was not till after a considerable time that he could be restored
to some degree of composure.” Gourgaud had in some degree provoked this
description by his previous _fanfaronades_. When he arrived in the
island he had produced a sword to the daughters of Mr Balcombe, on which
he had himself represented in the act of killing a Cossack who was about
to take Bonaparte prisoner, with a pompous inscription narrating the
feat. At the end of the blade he made them observe a spot, as if stained
with the blood of two Englishmen, slain by him at Waterloo. He gave the
last finish to this “passage of arms,” by saying, that in the same
battle he _might_ have made the Duke prisoner! “but that he saw the
business was decided, and he was unwilling to produce any further
effusion of human blood!” (“Credit—believe it who will,” says O’Meara.)
During Gourgaud’s illness, however, he seemed to have forgotten all his
chivalry—as, one day, “whining and lamenting over his state, he said,
with many _tears_, ‘He did not know for what he was exiled, for he had
never done harm to mortal man.’”
O’Meara’s own history was a varied one. He had begun his course as an
assistant-surgeon in the 18th, in 1804; but a duel happening in the
regiment, in which he acted as second, a courtmartial was the
consequence, and he retired from the army. He then served as a naval
surgeon, for many years, in the Mediterranean and the West Indies, with
Maitland (captain of the Bellerophon), who gave him an advantageous
character. He was then selected as the surgeon in attendance on
Napoleon. The quick observation of that sagacious personage saw
instantly that O’Meara might be useful in more capacities than those of
his profession; he flattered him with his confidence, and converted him
into partisanship.
Nothing but the extraordinary selfishness of Napoleon’s character could
have stooped to those perpetual complaints. A man who had sat upon the
first throne of the Continent ought to have felt that nothing, after
such a catastrophe, could be worth a care. A man of true grandeur of
mind, after having seen all the diadems of the Continent under his feet,
ought to have scorned any inferior degree of power—been utterly
indifferent to title, wealth, or the homage of dependents. A philosopher
would have despised the mockery of ex-emperorship; rejected the
affectation of a power which he was to possess no more; and, having been
once forced to submit to a change of fortune which displaced him from
the summit of society for ever, would have been contemptuous of living
on the fragments of his feast of supremacy. But Napoleon had no sense of
this generous and lofty disdain—he clung to the wrecks of his royalty.
He was as anxious to sustain the paltry ceremonial of kissing a hand, as
when he saw kings crowding to his palace; and showed as much fretfulness
at the loss of the most pitiful mark of respect, as he could at an
insult to a throne which threw its shadow across the civilised world.
This anomaly is easily explained. The spirit of selfishness belongs to
all foreign life. Its habits, its amusements, its perpetual passion for
frivolous excitement, its pursuit of personal indulgence in every shape,
high or low, utterly extinguish all the nobler attributes of
mind—substitute fierceness for fortitude, rashness for decision—and
feeble repinings against fate, for the dignity which makes defeat but
another occasion of showing the superiority of man to fortune. Napoleon
was selfishness embodied, and was as important to _himself_ at St Helena
as in the Tuileries.
On the 10th of January 1816, Sir Hudson Lowe received a despatch from
Earl Bathurst, stating that, on his arrival at St Helena, he should
notify to all the attendants of Napoleon that they were at perfect
liberty to leave the island for Europe or America; but that those who
remained should declare, in writing, that they were prepared to submit
to the necessary restrictions. To Sir Hudson the orders were—“You are to
continue to treat Napoleon Bonaparte as a prisoner of war, until further
orders.”
The governor reached St Helena on the 14th of April, and on the 16th he
visited Bonaparte, having given him previous notice of his intention.
The visit was unlucky, for even the hour was constituted into an
offence. Las Cases thus mentions the visit: “The new governor arrived at
Longwood about ten o’clock, notwithstanding the rain, which still
continued. He was accompanied by the admiral, who was to introduce him,
and who had, _no doubt_, told him that this was the most suitable hour
for his visit. The emperor did not receive him—he was indisposed; and
even had he been well, he would not have seen him. The governor, by this
abrupt visit, neglected the usual forms of decorum. It was easy to
perceive that this was a _trick of the admiral_. The governor, who
probably had no intention to render himself at all disagreeable,
appeared very much disconcerted. _We laughed in our sleeves._ As to the
admiral, he was quite _triumphant_. The governor, after long hesitation,
and very evident marks of ill-humour, took his leave rather abruptly. We
doubted not that this visit had been planned by the admiral, with the
view of prepossessing us against each other at the very outset.”
The English reader of this incident will find in it the key to the whole
conduct of Napoleon and his attendants; _he_ was determined to turn
everything into an offence, and they were equally determined to turn
everything into an intrigue. The narrative foolishly and malignantly
represents the conduct of a naval officer of high character in the light
of a paltry _ruse_, and for no imaginable purpose but ill-will. “_They
laughed in their sleeves_” at the success of this ruse. The admiral was
_triumphant_, _because_ the governor was vexed; and Napoleon was, of
course, conqueror on the occasion. This is the most pitiful of all
gossip, and is unworthy of even the nursery. Let this be contrasted with
the manly account by the governor himself of the first interview which
took place next day at four. “I was accompanied by Sir G. Cockburn.
General Bertrand received us in the dining-room serving as an
antechamber, and instantly ushered me into an inner room, where I found
him (Napoleon) standing, having his hat in his hand. Not addressing me
when I came in, but apparently waiting for me to speak to him, I broke
silence by saying, ‘I am come, sir, to present my respects to you.’ ‘You
speak French, sir, I perceive; but you also speak Italian. You once
commanded a regiment of Corsicans.’ I replied, ‘the language was alike
to me.’ ‘We will speak, then, in Italian;’ and immediately commenced a
conversation which lasted about half an hour—the purport of which was
principally as follows. He first asked me, ‘where I had served?—how I
liked the Corsicans? They carry the stiletto; are they not a bad
people?’ (looking at me very significantly for an answer.) My reply
was—‘They do not carry the stiletto, having abandoned that custom in our
service. They have always conducted themselves with propriety; I was
very well satisfied with them.’
“He asked me if I had not been in Egypt with them; and on my replying in
the affirmative, he entered into a long discussion respecting that
country. ‘Menou was an imbecile. If Kleber had been there, _you would
have been all made prisoners_.’” To this ungracious remark the governor
seems to have abstained from any reply. How easily might he have
reminded Napoleon of Acre! and the difficulty which he found then of
taking prisoners even the crews of two English ships, who drove him from
the walls at the head of his army, and virtually, after hunting him from
Syria, drove him into the desertion of Egypt. In the French narratives
of war, the general who has been beaten is always an _imbecile_. It is
an extraordinary _trait_ of character in Napoleon to have ventured on
the subject at all. Yet he expatiated on it, as if he had never known
defeat on its shores. “He blamed Abercromby for not having landed
sooner, or for not proceeding to another point. Moore, with his six
thousand men, ought to have been all destroyed.” He admitted, however,
the bravery of the generals. “He asked me if I knew Hutchinson, and
whether he was the same who had been arrested at Paris” (for the escape
of Lavalette). “His question on this point betrayed great interest.” The
subject of Egypt was resumed. “It was the most important geographical
point in the world, and had always been considered so. He had
reconnoitered the line of the Canal across the Isthmus of Suez; he had
calculated the expense at ten or twelve millions of livres (half a
million sterling, he said, to make me understand more clearly the
probable cost of it); that a powerful colony being established there, it
would have been _impossible_ for us to have preserved our empire in
India.”
This remark is an example of the dashing way in which foreigners settle
all the affairs of the world. If Napoleon had been asked to show how a
French colony in Egypt could have overthrown an Indian empire, he must
have been profoundly puzzled. A French colony would, doubtless, have
prevented the overland passage. Yet, _without_ that passage, India had
been ours, or in the direct progress to be ours, for a hundred years!
What could a colony in Egypt have done while the Red Sea was blocked up
by English ships? How could it transport an army over the Desert—through
Arabia, Persia, and the passes of the Himalaya?—and without an army,
what could they do in India? The much greater chance was, that a French
colony would have been starved or slaughtered, as the French army in
Egypt would have been, but for its capitulation. The same absurdity is
common to other services. The Russians, from the peasant to the throne,
think that India is at their mercy, from the instant of a battalion’s
appearing on the verge of Tartary, while they are forced to acknowledge
that the Desert is impassable by any army in summer; and General
Perowsky, in an expedition which decimated his army, half way to Thibet,
has proved it to be equally impassable in winter. Or, may we not ask, if
this mighty conquest is so much a matter of calculation, why have not
the poor and feeble tribes of the Caucasus been conquered in a war of
twenty years, within a stone’s throw of the Russian frontier?—while in
India, after a march across swamps, sands, and mountains, they would
have to meet an army of two hundred thousand men (easily increased to
half a million), led by British officers?
The people of the United States are equally absurd in their speculations
on the conquest of Canada. They pronounce it ready to drop into their
hands, like fruit from the tree. Yet, every attempt at the invasion of
Canada has resulted only in ridiculous defeat!
Napoleon again railed at Menou, and concluded with the remark, which he
pronounced in a very serious manner: “‘In war, the gain is always with
him who commits the fewest faults.’ It struck me as if he was
reproaching himself with some great error.”
In this curious interview, Sir G. Cockburn’s having been shut out by a
mere accident was made the most of, as a charge of incivility against
the governor. We give Sir Hudson Lowe’s own version. He had been
accompanied by the admiral to Longwood. “In order that there might be no
mistake respecting the appointment being for Sir George Cockburn as well
as myself, I distinctly specified to Bertrand that we should go
together. We went, and were received in the outer room by Bertrand, who
almost immediately ushered me into Bonaparte’s presence. I had been
conversing with him for nearly half an hour, when, on his asking me if I
had brought with me the Regent’s speech, I turned round to ask Sir
George Cockburn if I had not given it to him? and observed, to my
surprise, that he had not followed me into the room. On going out, I
found him in the antechamber much irritated. He told me that Bertrand
had almost shut the door in his face as he was following me into the
room, and that a servant had put his arm across him. He said he would
have forced his way, but that he was expecting I would have turned round
to see that he was following me, when he supposed I would have insisted
on our entering the room together. I told him I knew nothing of his not
being in the same room till Bonaparte asked me for the Regent’s
speech.... Bonaparte was ready to receive him after I had left the room;
but he would not go in. Bertrand and Montholon have been with him since,
making apologies. But the admiral, I believe, is still not quite
satisfied about it.”
Napoleon’s conversation was essentially rough, a circumstance to be
accounted for, partly by his birth, and partly by his camp education.
O’Meara mentions that Montholon, having brought a translation of the
paper which the domestics who desired to remain with him were to sign,
Napoleon, looking at it, said—“This is not French—it is not sense.”
“Sire,” said the other, “it is a literal translation of the English.”
“However,” said Napoleon, “it is neither French nor German (tearing it
in two)—_you are a fool_.” Then, looking it over, he said—“He makes a
translation into stuff, which is not French, and is nonsense to any
Frenchman.”
As we are not the defenders of the governor, and the subject of mere
defence is now past by, we shall chiefly give abstracts of the
conversation of his memorable prisoner. He asked O’Meara if he had been
at Alexandria. “Yes, in a line-of-battle ship.” “But I suppose you could
not enter the harbour?” O’Meara told him, “that we soon found a passage
through which any vessel might go. This he would not believe for some
time, until I told him that I saw the Tigre and the Canopus, of eighty
guns each, enter with ease. ‘Why!’ said he, with astonishment, ‘that
Commodore Barré, whom you took in the Rivoli, was ordered by me to sound
for a passage when I was there, and he reported to me that there was not
a possibility of a line-of-battle ship’s entering the harbour.’ He
observed, then, ‘that the fleet might have been saved if he had done his
duty.’ I told him, then, that we had blocked up the passage by sinking
two vessels laden with stone in it; to which he replied, ‘that it was
easy to remove such obstacles.’”
The expenses of Napoleon’s household were heavy. On the voyage out,
between the 8th of August and the 17th of November, they had consumed a
hundred dozens of wine, besides some casks of an inferior kind for the
servants. In one of the governor’s despatches to Lord Bathurst, two
fortnights’ accounts are given from Mr Balcombe, purveyor to Longwood.
The amount of one fortnight is an expenditure of £683, 5s. 4d.; and of
the other, £567, 10s. 4d.; the annual expense, at the former rate, thus
amounting to above £16,000, and at the latter to £13,000—nine persons,
with four children, being the family; the rest, with the exception of
the two officers in attendance, being servants—the whole number
amounting to 59.
One day, on hearing that Napoleon had not been seen by the attendant
officer, the governor visited Longwood. “I passed,” said he, “through
his dining-room, drawing-room, and another room, in which were displayed
a great number of maps and plans laid out on a table, and several quires
of writing, and was then introduced into an inner room, with a small bed
in it, and a couch, on which Bonaparte was reclining, having only his
dressing-gown on, and without his shoes.” On the governor’s expressing
regret for his indisposition, and offering him medical advice, “I want
no doctor,” said he. On his asking “whether Lady Bingham had arrived,
and being answered that her non-arrival was owing to the delay of the
Adamant transport, which was also bringing wines, furniture, &c., for
Longwood, he said—‘It was all owing to the want of a chronometer; that
it was a miserable saving of the Admiralty not to give every vessel of
above two hundred tons one; and that he had done it in France.’ After a
pause, he asked—‘What was the situation of affairs in France when I left
Europe?’ I said, ‘Everything, I believe, was settled there.’ Beauchamp’s
Campaign of 1814 was lying on the floor near him. He asked me if I had
written the letters referred to in the appendix to this work. I
answered, ‘Yes.’ ‘I recollect Marshal Blucher at Lubeck,’ said he; ‘is
he not very old?’ ‘Seventy-five years,’ I replied, ‘but still
vigorous—supporting himself on horseback for sixteen hours a-day, when
circumstances render it necessary.’”
Napoleon then, after a pause, returned to the usual observations on his
captivity. “I should have surrendered myself,” said he, to the Emperor
of Russia, who was my friend, or to the Emperor of Austria, who was
related to me. “There is courage in putting a man to death, but it is an
act of cowardice to let him languish, and to poison him in so horrid an
island, and so detestable a climate.” To the governor’s remark that St
Helena was not unhealthy, and that the object of the British Government
was, to make his residence on the island as satisfactory to himself as
possible, he said—“Let them send me a coffin—a couple of balls in the
head is all that is necessary. What does it signify to me whether I lie
on a velvet couch or on fustian? I am a soldier, and accustomed to
everything.”
As to his repeated expression, that he might have put himself into the
hands of others, and that he voluntarily gave himself up to England,
there can be no doubt of his _conscious_ falsehood on both points. The
French provisional government would not have suffered him to pass the
frontier; nor would he have given himself up to Captain Maitland if he
could have escaped to America. He also dreaded the sentence of the
Bourbons, who would probably have imprisoned, or even put him to death,
as they did Ney and Labédoyère, and as Murat was shot by order of the
Neapolitan government. If he had fallen into Blucher’s hands, that
officer proposed to have him shot in the ditch of Vincennes, on the very
spot where the Duc d’Enghien was murdered; a proposal which was
ineffectual only through the generous objections of the Duke of
Wellington. The proclamation of the Allied sovereigns had already put
him in a state of _outlawry_ with Europe. Napoleon knew all this: he had
been a prisoner at Malmaison; and though spared for the moment, he might
be convinced that, on the withdrawal of the Allied troops, his life
would have been demanded by the tribunals. Thus his declarations of
confidence in England amounted simply to the belief that he would not be
put to death in its hands. He was too sagacious to suppose that he could
have been let loose again, to be the firebrand of the Continent, or to
play once more the farce of royalty in Elba.
The inveteracy of Napoleon in his hatred of the governor almost amounted
to frenzy. After one of these interviews, he said, “I never saw such a
horrid countenance. He (Sir H. Lowe) sat in a chair opposite to my sofa,
and on the little table between us was a cup of coffee. His physiognomy
made such an unfavourable impression on me that I thought _his looks had
poisoned it_. I ordered Marchand to throw it out of the window. I could
not have swallowed it for the world.” Part of this “_horror_” was
probably “acting;” but as everything reached Sir Hudson, it belonged to
the system of insult.
Napoleon’s ideas of religion were sometimes regarded as _decent_,
compared with the general tone of the Continent. On his deathbed he
said, “Je ne suis ni _physicien_ ni _philosophe_.” (I am neither a
_materialist_ nor an _infidel_.) But an anecdote given in Sir Hudson’s
correspondence shows the unfortunate conception of his creed: “Dr
O’Meara related to me yesterday a very characteristic observation of
this remarkable personage. He asked him, on seeing that he had taken his
oath to the authenticity of the paper he had brought to me, in what
manner he had sworn to it. Dr O’Meara replied, ‘On the New Testament.’
‘_Then_, you _are_ such a fool!’ was his reply.” His attendants were
obviously much of the same order of thinking: “Cipriani came out one day
from Bonaparte’s room, to Dr O’Meara, saying, in a manner indicative of
great surprise, ‘My master is certainly beginning to lose his head. _He
believes in God._ You may think; he said to the servant who was shutting
the windows, Why do you take from us the light which God gives us?’ Oh,
certainly he loses his head. He began at Waterloo, but now it is
_certain_.” His following remark was curious, as an evidence of the
_actual_ feeling of these people with respect to the man whom they
professed to _adore_. Cipriani added—“I do not believe in God; because,
if there were one, he would not have allowed a man, who has done so much
harm, to live so long. And _he_ does not believe; because, if he
believed, he would not have caused so many millions of men to be killed
in this world, for fear of meeting them in the other.” This is absurd,
but it is perhaps the average of Italian belief. Cipriani was _maître
d’hotel_, and a man of intelligence. He died on the island in 1818.
One of the conversations transmitted by O’Meara related to Waterloo.
“The worst thing,” said Napoleon, “that England ever did, was that of
endeavouring to make herself a great military nation. In doing that, she
must _always be the slave_ of Russia, Prussia, or Austria, or at least
in some degree subservient to them, because she has not enough of men to
combat on the Continent either France or any of the others, and
consequently must hire men from some of them; whereas, at sea, you are
so superior, your sailors so much better, that you will always be
superior to us. Your soldiers, too, have not the qualities for a
military nation; they are not equal in agility, address, or intelligence
to the French; and when they meet with a reverse, their discipline is
very bad.... I saw myself the retreat of Moore, and I never in my life
witnessed anything so bad as the conduct of the soldiers; it was
impossible to collect them or make them do anything; nearly all were
drunk.”
This is a calumny. The army under General Moore offered battle to the
army under Napoleon, who _declined it_; and when he saw the steadiness
of the British, on their retreat through an exhausted country, and
especially saw that his troops could make no impression on the fifteen
thousand men commanded by Moore, and _saw_ (as we understood) the utter
defeat of the cavalry of his guard by the British hussars, under the
command of the present Marquis of Londonderry, he wisely drew rein, and
returned to Paris, leaving it to Soult “to drive the leopards into the
sea,” who, instead of performing this exploit, was himself beaten on the
shore, and forced to see the British embark at their ease. It is true
that the rapidity and exhaustion of the British march left many
stragglers on the road; but the rapidity resulted from the error of
having supposed that there were parallel roads to the highroad, by which
a French force might have intercepted their march. But, in _every_
attack on that march, the French were repulsed; and such was the nature
of their defeat in the battle of Corunna, that they were wholly driven
off their ground, and another hour of daylight must have seen their
retreat converted into a _rout_.
The sneer at England, as not being a military nation, is at once
answered by the fact, that its whole regular force is an army of
_volunteers_, while all the other armies of Europe are raised by a
_conscription_; that in the French war England had an army of 200,000
men, raised by the military spirit of the country, besides 500,000
militia and yeomanry! The answer to the “want of soldierly
qualification” in the British troops, is given in the fact, that in the
whole war the British army _never_ lost a pitched battle.
Napoleon’s account of Waterloo, as given in those pages, is, simply,
that Wellington did everything _wrong_, but with the good fortune of
everything turning out right; that he _ought_, in all propriety, to have
been beaten, though he beat; that the battle was a series of blunders,
which by the power of destiny, or _something_ else, turned into victory;
and that he himself ought, by all the rules of war, to have been
marching in triumph into Brussels, while he was running away to Paris,
leaving 40,000 Frenchmen slain, prisoners, or fugitives, instead of the
40,000 Englishmen, who _ought_ to have fallen. In the same spirit,
Napoleon ought to have been sitting on the throne of France, while he
was talking fustian at St Helena. “What,” said Napoleon, “must have been
the consequence of _my_ victory?” The indignation against the Ministry
for having caused the loss of 40,000 of the flower of the English army,
of the sons of the first families, and others, who would have perished
there, would have excited such a popular commotion, that—“they would
have been _turned out_.” (A rather lame and impotent conclusion.) “The
English would then have made peace, and withdrawn from the Coalition.”
This is one of the perpetual absurdities of foreigners. England has
_never_ been compelled to an ignominious peace, by losses in war. She
has _never_ seen an enemy in her capital. Loving peace, she willingly
makes peace; but she has _never_ surrendered her sword to make it.
He persevered in this verbiage. “I had succeeded; before twelve o’clock
everything was mine, I might _almost_ say. But _destiny_ and _accident_
decided it otherwise.” The curious combination of the most fixed, and
the most casual, of all things, was alone adequate to account for the
defeat of Napoleon! and with this folly the prisoner nursed his
self-delusion to the end.
One of the chief charges against the English Government was its stinting
the French tables. But one of O’Meara’s _private_ letters gives a fair
account of the matter. “With respect to the allowance within which all
the expenses were directed to be comprised—viz., £8000 sterling a-year,
to which Sir Hudson Lowe has, on his own responsibility, since added
£4000 yearly (!) in my opinion a due regard has not been paid to
circumstances, and I do not think even this latter sum will be
sufficient.... You perhaps are not aware of the French mode of living
and their cookery. They have, in fact, _two_ dinners every day—one at
eleven or twelve o’clock, to which joints, roast and boiled, with all
their various hashes, ragouts, fricassees, &c., &c., are served up, with
wine and liqueurs; and another at eight o’clock, which differs from the
former only in being supplied with more dishes. Besides these two meals,
they all have (except Bonaparte himself, who eats only twice a-day,
certainly very heartily) something like an English breakfast, in _bed_,
between eight and nine in the morning; and a luncheon, with wine, at
four or five in the afternoon.
“The common notion of the English eating more animal food than the
French is most incorrect. I am convinced that between their two dinners
and luncheon they consume three or four times as much as any English
family of a similar number. Those two dinners, then, the first of which
they have separately in their respective rooms, cause a great
consumption of meat and wine, which, together with their mode of
cookery, require a great quantity of either oil or butter, both of which
are excessively dear in this place (and you may as well attempt to
deprive an Irishman of potatoes as a Frenchman of his oil, or some
substitute for it). Their _soupes consommés_ (for they are, with one or
two exceptions, the greatest gluttons and epicures I ever saw),
producing great waste of meat in a place where the necessaries of life
are so dear, altogether render necessary a great expenditure of money.”
Among the cunning attempts to throw the conduct of the governor into
abhorrence, was the charge of refusing Napoleon the _bust_ of his son,
and even intending to destroy it. O’Meara says, that it had been “landed
fourteen days, and some of those in the governor’s hands.” This is
another instance of the language perpetually used; the fact being, “that
the bust was landed on the 10th or 11th of June, and sent to Longwood
the _next day_.”
The true narrative was this: In the summer of 1816, the ex-empress Maria
Louisa having visited the baths of Leghorn, two marble busts of her son
were executed. One of those was purchased by Messrs Beaggini in London,
in hopes of an opportunity of sending it to St Helena. A store-ship, the
Baring, being about to sail there in January 1817, a foreign gunner on
board, named Radavich, was intrusted with the bust, with instructions to
give it to Count Bertrand, for Napoleon, leaving it to his generosity
“to refund their expenses.” If, however, he wished to know the price, it
was to be a hundred louis. The captain of the ship (a half-pay
lieutenant) knew nothing of its being on board till shortly before, or
immediately after, his arrival at St Helena; at that time Radavich was
ill of apoplexy, followed by delirium, so that for several days it was
impossible to speak to him on the subject. When Sir Thomas Reade was
informed that it was on board, he immediately acquainted the governor
with the circumstance. Sir Hudson Lowe, considering the clandestine
manner in which it was brought, was at first inclined to retain it until
he had communicated with Lord Bathurst. But, Sir T. Reade suggesting
that as the bust was not _plaster_, it could not contain letters,
advised its being forwarded at once, and the governor assented. Before,
however, ordering it on shore, he himself went to Longwood, to ascertain
Napoleon’s wish through Bertrand. Major Gorrequer accompanied him, and
in his notes gives an account of the interview. The governor mentioned
the arrival of the bust to Bertrand, and said that he would take upon
himself the responsibility of landing it, if such was the wish of
Napoleon. Bertrand’s answer was, “No doubt it will give him pleasure.”
The _next_ day the bust was landed, taken to Longwood, and received by
Napoleon with evident delight. By some means or other he had known of
its arrival, and said to O’Meara on the 10th, “I have known it several
days.” He then rushed into one of those explosions of wrath and oratory
which were familiar to him. He said, “I intended, if it had not been
given, to have made such a complaint as would have caused every
Englishman’s hair to stand on end! I should have told a tale which would
have made the mothers of England execrate him as a monster in human
shape.”
And all this with the bust before his eyes. To heighten the effect, he
would persist in pretending to believe that Sir Hudson Lowe had given
orders for breaking up the bust, and on this fancy he declaimed anew
against him, calling him “barbarous and atrocious.” “That countenance,”
said he, turning to the bust, “would melt the heart of the most
ferocious _wild beast_! The man who gave orders to break that image
would _plunge a knife_ into the heart of the original, if it were in his
power.” And all this fury for a fiction!—the palpable contradiction to
the charge of cruelty standing on his table.
It is not even clear, after all, that there was _not_ an intrigue
connected with this bust: Napoleon exhibited extreme anxiety to see
Radavich. This the governor permitted, but on the condition of the
officer in attendance being present, and it was declined. Lord Bathurst,
in his despatch to St Helena, said, “The suspicious circumstances under
which the bust arrived, were sufficient to make you pause before you
determined to transmit it to the general. Had the package contained
anything less interesting to him in his character as a father, the
clandestine manner in which it was introduced on board of the vessel
would have been a sufficient reason for withholding the delivery of it,
at least for a much longer period.... I am not disposed to participate
in his (the French ambassador’s) apprehensions that letters _were
conveyed_ in it. No doubt, however, can be entertained that attempts are
making at clandestine communications.”
To this we may add that, by some secret means, the French were
acquainted with every transaction of Europe, and frequently before the
public authorities.
Napoleon ordered £300 to be given to Radavich (who was merely the agent
for the London house). O’Meara says, in his _Voice from St Helena_,
that, “by some unworthy tricks, this poor man did not recover the money
for nearly two years.” This is a proof of the slipshod statements which
are to be found in the volume; the fact being, that, in March 1818, the
former proprietors of the bust wrote to Bertrand, to complain of the
conduct of Radavich, as having come to no settlement with them “for the
payment he had received for the bust, and for the other articles
intrusted to him; and that he had gone from England without rendering
any account to _them_.” They solicited Bertrand to give them some
remuneration.
Our limits warn us that we must conclude, leaving a crowd of interesting
incidents behind. The work seems perfectly to clear Sir Hudson Lowe’s
character, not merely from the charge of severity, but even from the
imputation of petulance. No man could be placed in a situation of
greater difficulty. He had to deal with a _coterie_ of the most
unscrupulous kind; he had also especially to deal with a man irritated
by the most signal downfall in European record, subtle beyond all
example, unhesitating in evasion, formed of falsehood, and furious at
necessary coercion. He had to meet also the clamours of French
partisanship throughout Europe, and to bear the calumnies of faction
even in England. He had to endure personal insult, and to counteract
reckless intrigue. If he had been roused into violence of temper, no man
could be more easily pardoned for its excess; but there is not a single
_proof_ of this charge, and the whole tenor of his conduct seems to have
been patient and equable, though strict and firm. He had one paramount
duty to perform—the prevention of Napoleon’s escape, and he did that
duty. All minor deficiencies, if they existed, might be merged in the
perfect performance of a duty which involved the peace of the world.
The dismissal of O’Meara from his office in the island, followed by his
dismissal from the navy, let loose a personal enemy of some ability,
much plausibility, and the bitterest anger. His volume, _A Voice from St
Helena_, embodied all the charges against Sir Hudson Lowe, and was
prosecuted as a libel. But the prosecution having, in the opinion of the
judges, been delayed for some months beyond the legal time, it failed,
on that ground only. The governor of St Helena drew up a refutation of
the volume, which still remains in the archives of Government. Why he
did not appeal to the opinion of the country—a duty which no public man
can decline without loss to his own character—cannot now be ascertained.
He was probably weary of a life of contradiction, and had no desire to
continue it in controversy.
But the task, though long delayed, has finally been performed, as it
appears to us, with perfect manliness, clearness, and conviction, by its
present author. Mr Forsyth’s style is admirably fitted for his
subject—fair, forcible, and argumentative. By his work he has done
credit to himself, and cleared the character of a brave, an honest, and
a high-minded English soldier and gentleman. We know no ampler panegyric
on the uses or the successes of authorship.
Sir Hudson Lowe was appointed to the colonelcy of the first vacant
regiment (the 93d) on his return—was subsequently in command of the
troops in Ceylon—and at length, yielding to the effects of toil and
time, died in 1844, in his 75th year.
NEW READINGS IN SHAKESPEARE.[16]
A copy of almost any ancient author, with its margins studded with
antique manuscript jottings, is a treasure to the scholar who possesses
it, and a sore temptation to all his antiquarian friends. What, then,
must be the pricelessness of an early folio, thus annotated, of
Shakespeare, the Emperor of all the Literatures? Would not a lover of
the poet be almost inclined to sell his whole library in order to
purchase that single book? And when secured, with what zest would he not
set himself to decipher the crabbed hieroglyphics on the margins of the
intoxicating windfall! The various readings, recommended by the charm of
novelty, and yet apparently as old, and _perhaps_ as genuine as the
printed text, would gradually become its rivals. Alterations,
occasionally felicitous, would throw an air of respectability over their
less insinuating associates. Sole possession would enhance the
importance of the discovery. Solitary enjoyment would deepen the relish
of the entertainment. The situation is one not at all favourable to the
exercise of a sound critical judgment. Imagination goes to work, and
colours the facts according to its own wishes; and faith and hope,
“hovering o’er,” at length drive away all misgivings as to the
authenticity of the emendations. That fine old handwriting, which is as
conscientious as it is curious, is itself a guarantee that the
corrections are not spurious—are not merely conjectural. The manuscript
corrector must have had good grounds for what he did. He may have been
Shakespeare’s bosom friend, his boon companion, his chosen confidant,
and perhaps the assistant in his labours; or, if not that, at any rate
the friend of some one who had known the great dramatist well—was
acquainted with his innermost thoughts—and as intimate with his works,
and with all that he intended to express, as if he himself had written
them. At all events, the corrector must have had access to sources of
information respecting the text of the plays, the results of which have
perished to all the world—_except me_, the happy holder of this unique
and inestimable volume.
Such, we conceive, would be the state of mind and the train of reasoning
into which a man would naturally be thrown by the acquisition of such an
agitating prize as we have supposed. Under the excitement of his
feelings, the authority of the corrector of the work would, in all
likelihood, supersede the authority of its composer; the penman would
carry the day against the printer; and the possessor of the book would
do his best to press the “new readings” into the ears and down the
throats of a somewhat uncritical but not altogether passive or
unsuspicious public.
The case which we have described is to be understood as a general and
ideal one; but something of this kind seems to have befallen Mr Collier,
whom accident lately placed in possession of a copy of the folio of
Shakespeare, 1632, plentifully garnished with manuscript notes and
emendations. In these trying circumstances he has acted very much in the
way which might have been anticipated. It is true that he announces his
good fortune in a strain of moderated enthusiasm. “In the spring of
1849,” says he, “I happened to be in the shop of the late Mr Rodd, of
Great Newport Street, at a time when a package of books arrived from the
country.” Among them was a very indifferent copy of the folio of
Shakespeare, 1632, which Mr Collier, concluding hastily that it would
complete an imperfect copy of the same edition which he had purchased
from the same bookseller some time before, bought for thirty shillings.
The purchase did not answer its purpose. The two leaves that were wanted
to complete the other folio “were unfit for my purpose, not merely by
being too short” (how very particular these book-fanciers are), “but
otherwise damaged and defaced. Thus disappointed, I threw it by, and did
not see it again until I made a selection of books I would take with me
on quitting London. On consulting it afterwards,” continues Mr Collier,
“it struck me that Thomas Perkins, whose name, with the addition of ‘his
Booke,’ was upon the cover, might be the old actor who had performed in
Marlowe’s _Jew of Malta_ on its revival shortly before 1633.” That would
have been an important fact, as helping to connect the MS. corrections
closely with the Shakesperian era. But here Mr Collier was doomed to
disappointment. On further inquiry he found that the actor’s name was
Richard Perkins: “still,” says he, with a faith too buoyant to be
submerged by such a trifle, “Thomas Perkins might have been a descendant
of Richard,” from whom, of course, he probably inherited a large portion
of the emendations. “This circumstance,” says Mr Collier, “and others,
induced me to examine the volume more particularly: I then discovered,
to my surprise, that there was hardly a page which did not present, in a
handwriting of the time, some emendations in the pointing or in the
text, while on most of them they were frequent, and on many numerous. Of
course I now submitted the folio to a most careful scrutiny; and as it
occupied a considerable time to complete the inspection, how much more
must it have consumed to make the alterations? The ink was of various
shades, differing sometimes on the same page, and I was once disposed to
think that two distinct hands had been employed upon them. This notion I
have since abandoned, and I am now decidedly of opinion that the same
writing prevails from beginning to end, but that the amendments must
have been introduced from time to time during perhaps the course of
several years.”
But although Mr Collier speaks thus calmly of his prize, we are
nevertheless convinced, by the rapidity of his conversion from the old
readings to the new, that he, like the rest of us, is liable to be
carried a little off his feet by any sudden stroke of prosperity, and is
keenly alive (as most people are) to the superior merits of anything
that happens to be his own. It is our nature to admire what we alone
have been privileged to possess or to discover. Hence Mr Collier has
stepped at one plunge from possession into cordial approbation and
unhesitating adoption of most of the corrections set forth on the
margins of his folio. Formerly the stanchest defender of the old
Shakesperian text, he is now the advocate of changes in it, to an extent
which calls for very grave consideration on the part of those who regard
the language of the poet as a sacred inheritance, not to be disturbed by
innovations, without the strongest evidence, the most conclusive
reasons, and the most clamant necessity being adduced in their support.
We are far from blaming Mr Collier for having published his volume of
“Notes and Emendations.” Although it might be advantageously reduced in
bulk by the omission of many details occupied with the settlement of
matters which have been long ago settled, still it is in some respects a
valuable contribution to the literature of Shakespeare. We have no faith
whatever in the authenticity of the new readings; a few of them,
however—a very few—seem to us to be irresistibly established by their
own self-evidence; while the whole of them are invested with a certain
degree of interest as the interpretations of an indefatigable, though
thick-headed—of a blundering, yet early and perhaps almost contemporary,
scholiast. As a matter of curiosity, and as indicative of the state of
English criticism in the 17th century, the new readings are acceptable;
and the thanks of the literary portion of the community are due to Mr
Collier for having favoured them with this publication. But here the
obligation stops. To insert the new readings into the text, and to
publish them as the genuine words of Shakespeare (which we understand Mr
Collier has either done or threatens to do), is a proceeding which
cannot be too solemnly denounced. This is to poison our language in its
very “wells of English undefiled.” It is to obliterate the distinctions
which characterise the various eras of our vernacular tongue; for
however near to the time of Shakespeare our newly discovered scholiast
may have lived, there was doubtless some interval between them—an
interval during which our language was undergoing considerable changes.
It is to lose hold of old modes of thought, as well as of old forms of
expression;—it is to confound the different styles of our literature;—it
is to vitiate with anachronisms the chronology of our speech;—it is to
profane the memory of Shakespeare.
When we look for evidence in favour of the authenticity of these
(so-called) “Emendations,” we look for it in vain. The state of the case
may perhaps be understood, by attending to the following particulars. Of
Shakespeare’s handwriting, so far as is known, there is not now extant
so much as “the scrape of a pen,” with the exception of the autograph of
his name. Of his plays, thirteen were published in an authentic form
during his life, and four in spurious or “pirated” editions. These are
called the quartos. After his death, one of his plays was published, by
itself, for the first time—“Othello.” In 1623, seven years after his
death, the first folio appeared. It contains the eighteen plays just
referred to, with the addition of eighteen, now published for the first
time. This folio 1623 was printed (if we are to believe its editors, and
there is no reason to doubt their word) _from Shakespeare’s own
manuscripts_, and from the quarto editions, revised and corrected to
some extent, either by his own hand or under his authority. So that the
folio 1623 is the highest authority that can be appealed to in the
settlement of his text. It ranks even before the quartos, except in
cases of obvious misprint, or other self-evident oversights. To it, in
so far as _external_ evidence is concerned, all other proofs must yield.
_Internal_ evidence may occasionally solicit the alteration of its text;
but such emendations must, in every case, be merely conjectural. It is
the basis of every genuine edition, and must continue so, until
Shakespeare’s own manuscripts be brought to light.
Out of these circumstances an important consideration arises. It is
this, that we are not entitled, on any account, to alter the text of the
folio 1623, even in cases where manifest improvements might be made, so
long as the old reading makes sense. If any reasonable meaning can be
extracted from the received lection, we are bound to retain it, because
we have every reason to believe that it is what Shakespeare wrote; and
it is our object to possess his words and his meaning, not as we may
suppose they _ought_ to have been, but as they actually _were_. Where no
sense at all can be obtained from a passage, a slight, perhaps a
considerable, alteration is allowable; because any man’s intelligibility
is to be preferred to even Shakespeare’s unintelligibility. But we are
never to flatter ourselves, with any strong degree of assurance, that
the correction has restored to us the exact language of the poet.
This consideration had, in former years, its due weight with Mr Collier.
No one was a keener advocate than he for preserving the original text
inviolate. He now views the matter in a different light. He is tolerant
of new readings, even in cases where sense can be elicited from the
received text. Further, he frequently gives the preference to new
readings, as we hope to show, even in cases where the old reading is far
the more forcible and intelligible of the two. And on what ground does
he countenance them? Setting aside at present the question of their
internal evidence, we reply, that he countenances them on the ground
that the folio 1623 is of doubtful authenticity. He denies that it was
prepared from Shakespeare’s own papers. This is the foundation of his
case. He maintains that the copy which the printer used had been
(probably) dictated by some underling of the theatre, to some scribe
whose ear (probably) often deceived him in taking up the right word, and
who consequently put down a wrong one, which was subsequently set up in
type by the printer. He is further of opinion that a text of
Shakespeare, purer than any that ever got into print, was preserved
_orally_ in the theatre, and that the corrector of his folio, who was
decidedly of a theatrical turn, and perhaps himself a manager, picked up
his new readings from the mouths of the players themselves. But he has
entirely failed to prove these improbable assertions. His theory in
regard to the printing of the folio 1623 is contradicted by the distinct
announcement of its editors, who say of their great master that “his
mind and hand went together, and what he thought he uttered with that
easiness that we have scarce received _from him_ a blot _in his
papers_.” This declaration, that the materials from which they worked
were derived directly from Shakespeare himself, seems to establish
conclusively the authenticity of the folio 1623; and that point being
made good, all external evidence in favour of the new readings must of
necessity fail.
But perhaps these new readings are supported by their internal
evidence—perhaps they bring along with them such an amount of force and
propriety as carries conviction on the very face of it, and entitles
them to a decided preference in comparison with the old? Mr Collier
would fain think so. On their evident superiority, both in sense and in
style, he rests the main strength of his case. Speaking of his volume,
he says, “I ought not to hesitate in avowing my conviction, that _we are
bound_ to admit _by far the greater body_ of the substitutions it
contains, as _the restored language_ of Shakespeare. As he was
especially the poet of common life, so he was emphatically the poet of
common sense; and to _the verdict of common sense_ I am willing to
submit all the more material alterations recommended on the authority
before me. If they will not bear that test, I for one am willing _to
relinquish_ them.”
Our principal object in the following pages is to show that “by far the
greater body of the substitutions” will not stand this test; and that
many of them present such a perverse depravation of the true text, that
if the design of the corrector had been to damage the literary character
of Shakespeare, he could not have accomplished his purpose more
effectually than by representing these new readings as his. At the same
time, we shall endeavour to bring forward everything in Mr Collier’s
volume which tells in the manuscript-corrector’s favour. This will
probably cause the corrector’s notes and emendations to be more highly
thought of than they deserve; because, while it will be no difficult
matter to lay before the reader _all_, or nearly all, his judicious
amendments, our space will not permit us to present to him one-twentieth
part of his astounding aberrations. Selecting, then, as many of the more
important alterations as our limits will allow, and weighing what their
internal evidence is worth, we shall go over the plays _seriatim_,
commencing with “The Tempest.”
THE TEMPEST.—The new readings in this play are generally unimportant,
and, in our judgment, not one of them ought to be admitted into the
text. In no case would anything be gained, and in some cases a good deal
would be lost, by adopting the proposed changes. In the following
passage the original text is certainly unsatisfactory, but the new
reading is at least equally so. Antonio, the usurping Duke of Milan, has
become so habituated to the possession of his unlawful power, and has
been so little checked in the exercise of it, that he at length believes
himself to be the real duke. This idea is thus expressed. Prospero, the
rightful duke, says of him—
“He being thus _lorded_,
Not only with what my revenue yielded,
But what my power might else exact,—like
one
Who having, _unto truth_, by telling of it,
Made such a sinner of his memory
To credit his own lie,—he did believe
He was indeed the duke.”
For “lorded,” Mr Collier’s emendator would read “loaded”—a correction
which Mr Collier himself admits to be “questionable,” and which we throw
overboard at once. For “unto truth” he proposes “to untruth”—
“like one
Who having, _to untruth_, by telling of it,” &c.
But here, if one flaw is mended, another and a worse one is made. By
reading “to untruth” we obtain, indeed, a proper antecedent to “it,”
which otherwise must be looked for, awkwardly enough, in the subsequent
word “lie.” But as a set-off against this improvement, we would ask, how
can a man be said to make his memory a sinner _to untruth_? This would
mean, if it meant anything, that the man’s memory was true; and this is
precisely what Prospero says Antonio’s memory was not. We must leave,
therefore, the text as it stands, regarding it as one of those passages
in which Shakespeare has expressed himself with less than his usual care
and felicity.
The substitution of “all” for “are” in the lines,
“They all have met again,
And _are_ upon the Mediterranean float”—
Or, as the MS. corrector reads it,
“They _all_ upon the Mediterranean float”—
strikes us as peculiarly un-Shakesperian. But this instance of the
corrector’s injudicious meddling is a small matter. The following
passage deserves more careful consideration, for we are convinced that
the text of the first and second folios, which has been universally
rejected since the days of Theobald, is, after all, the right reading.
_Act III. Scene 1_ opens with the soliloquy of Ferdinand, who declares
that the irksome tasks to which he has been set by Prospero are sweetly
alleviated by the consciousness that he has secured the interest and
sympathy of Miranda. He says—
“There be some sports are painful; but their labour
Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness
Are nobly undergone: and most poor matters
Point to rich ends. This my mean task
Would be as heavy to me as odious; but
The mistress, which I serve, quickens what’s dead,
And makes my labours pleasures. Oh, she is
Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabbed,
And he’s composed of harshness. I must remove
Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up
Upon a sore injunction. My sweet mistress
Weeps when she sees me work, and says such baseness
Had never like executor. I forget:
But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours,
_Most busy-less, when I do it_.”
The last line, as it here stands, is Theobald’s reading; and it has been
adopted almost unanimously by subsequent editors—by the compilers of the
_variorum_ Shakespeare—by Mr Knight—and most recently by Mr Halliwell,
in his magnificent folio. Mr Singer, in his edition of 1826, and Mr
Collier’s emendator, are, so far as we can learn, the only dissentients.
The former proposes, “most busiest when I do it;” and the latter, “most
busy,—blest when I do it;” which reading we agree with Mr Singer in
thinking “the very worst and most improbable of all that have been
suggested;”—will he excuse us for adding—except perhaps, his own?
Theobald’s text is certainly greatly to be preferred to either of these
alterations. Had the MS. corrector’s emendation been a compound epithet,
“busy-blest” (that is, blest with my business, because it is associated
with thoughts of Miranda), something, though perhaps not much, might
possibly have been said in its behalf. But Mr Collier regards the
correction as consisting of two distinct words; and, therefore, he must
excuse us for saying that it is one in which sense and grammar are
equally set at defiance. We now take up the original reading, which has
been universally discarded, but which, as we hope clearly to show, calls
for no alteration; and an attention to which, at an earlier stage in the
revision of Shakespeare’s text, might have prevented a large expenditure
of very unnecessary criticism. The original text of the line under
consideration is this—
“Most busy, least when I do it.”
This is the reading of the second folio. The first folio has “lest;”
but, of course, _least_ and _lest_ are the same word in the arbitrary
spelling of that early period. We maintain that this lection makes as
excellent and undeniable sense as could be desired.
“Most busy, least when I do it;”
—that is, “when I do it (or work) _least_, then am I _most_ busy, _most_
oppressed by toil.” More fully stated, the obvious meaning is “this
labour of mine is so preciously sweetened, so agreeably refreshed by
thoughts of Miranda’s kindness, that I really feel _most_ busy, most
burthened, most fatigued, when I am _least_ occupied with my task;
because, then I am not so sensible of being the object of her sympathy
and approval.” Shakespeare intends that Ferdinand should express the
ardour of his attachment to Miranda in a strong hyperbole; accordingly,
he makes him say, “I am most busy, when I am least busy;” because the
spirit of Miranda does not cheer and inspire my idleness, in the way in
which it cheers and inspires my labour. Theobald’s line expresses,
although in an imperfect manner, this same hyperbole conversely. “I am
least busy, when I am most busy; because, when I am working hardest, the
spirit of Miranda is present to refresh and alleviate my toils.” But
Shakespeare’s mode of expressing the exaggeration is both stronger and
finer than Theobald’s, which in point of language is exceedingly lame
and defective. Our only doubt, in restoring the old reading, is in
regard to the word “it.” Perhaps it would be as well away, and we might
read more perspicuously
“_Most_ busy,—_least_ when I do.”
The measure being already redundant, the word could be spared. But its
absence or presence makes little or no difference, and, with it, or
without it, we hope to see this restoration of the original text, which,
of course, requires no authority except its own to establish it,
embodied in all future editions of our great national dramatist.
The only new reading in this play which we have some hesitation in
condemning, is the following. The witch Sycorax is spoken of (_Act V.
Scene 1._) as one
“That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs,
And deal in her command _without_ her power.”
This is the ordinary text. The MS. corrector proposes “_with all_
power;” and, at first sight, this correction looks like an improvement;
for how could the witch deal in the moon’s command, if she had not got
the moon’s power? On second thoughts, however, we believe that Mr
Knight, who defends the common reading, is right. By “power,” we are
here to understand _legitimate_ authority; and of this Sycorax has none.
By means of her spells and counternatural incantations she could make
ebbs and flows, and thus wielded to some extent the lunar influences;
but she had none of that rightful and natural dominion over the tides of
the ocean which belongs only to the moon. Our verdict, therefore, is in
favour of the old reading. We pass from “The Tempest” with the remark
that the other new readings proposed by Mr Collier’s emendator have here
and elsewhere been conclusively set aside, in our estimation, by the
observations of Mr Knight and Mr Singer; and we again protest against
any adulteration of the text of this play by the introduction even of a
single word which the MS. corrector has suggested.
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.—Nothing connected with Shakespeare is
small, and therefore we make no apology for calling the reader’s
attention to what some people might consider a very small matter—the
difference between _for_ and _but_ in the following lines. _Act I. Scene
1._—Valentine and Proteus, “The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” are saying
good-bye to each other, the former being on the eve of setting out on
his travels. Valentine, the traveller, says to his friend—
—“on some love-book pray for my success.
_Proteus._ Upon some book I love, I’ll pray for thee.
_Valentine._ That’s on some shallow story of deep love,
How young Leander cross’d the Hellespont.
_Proteus._ That’s a deep story of a deeper love,
For he was more than over shoes in love.
_Valentine._ ’Tis true; _for_ you are over boots in love,
And yet you never swam the Hellespont.”
In place of “for” in the last line but one, the corrector proposes
“but,” and Mr Collier approves, remarking that _but_ “seems more
consistent with the course of the dialogue.” If, however, we attend to
the sequence of thought in this passage, it will be apparent that the
change not only fails to render the dialogue more consistent, but that
it altogether destroys its consistency, converting very good sense into
downright nonsense; smartness into drivel. When Proteus says that
Leander who crossed the Hellespont was more than over shoes in love,
Valentine catches him up, “’tis true: no doubt of it: he must have been
more than over shoes in love; _for_ you, who never swam the Hellespont
at all, are actually over boots in love.” The reasoning here seems very
plain. If Proteus, without swimming the Hellespont, was over _boots_ in
love, surely the very least that could be said of Leander, who did swim
it, must be that he was more than over _shoes_ in love. “Your remark,
friend Proteus, though very true, is not very recondite. It is decidedly
common-place, and such as I should scarcely have expected to hear from a
person of your wit and penetration. Pray favour us with something a
little more original and profound.” All this banter, and we venture to
think it rather happy, is implied in Valentine’s words—
“’Tis true; _For_ you are over boots in love,
And yet you never swam the Hellespont.”
But change this “for” into “but,” and the whole point of the dialogue is
gone. Let this new reading be adopted, and future commentators will be
justified in declaring that Shakespeare’s words were sometimes without
meaning. This single and apparently insignificant instance in which the
corrector has palpably misconceived his author, compels us to distrust
his capacity, and ought to go far to shake the general credit of his
emendations.
To alter “blasting in the bud,” into “blasted in the bud,” is merely an
instance of excessive bad taste on the part of the MS. corrector. We see
nothing worthy of approval or animadversion until we come to two lines
which are quoted from _Act III. Scene 2_—
“But say, this _weed_ her love from Valentine,
It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio”—
where it may be a question whether “wean” (the corrector’s suggestion),
might not be judiciously substituted for “weed.” If rapid extirpation
was intended to be expressed, “weed” is the word; otherwise we are
disposed to prefer “wean,” as better fitted to denote the contemplated
alienation of Julia’s affections from Proteus.
In _Act IV. Scene 2_, a whole new line is introduced; and as there is no
evidence to prove that the corrector did not write this line himself, we
must protest against its insertion in the genuine writings of
Shakespeare. The interpolation is in italics. Eglamour says to the
distressed Silvia, who is requesting him to be her escort—
“Madam, I pity much your grievances,
_And the most true affections that you bear_,
Which since I know they virtuously are placed,
I give consent to go along with you.”
Johnson explains _grievances_ as sorrows, _sorrowful affections_—an
explanation which renders the interpolated line quite unnecessary.
Shakespeare understood the art of _ne quid nimis_, and frequently leaves
something to be supplied by the imagination of his reader or hearer.
Besides, it would have been indelicate in Eglamour to have alluded more
particularly to the “loves” of Silvia and Valentine.
If the MS. corrector had ever seen _Scene IV._ effectively acted, he
must have perceived how completely one good point would have been
destroyed by his unwise insertion of the word “cur.” Launce, servant to
Proteus, has been sent by his master with a little dog as a present to
Silvia. Launce has lost the lap-dog, and has endeavoured to make
compensation by offering to Silvia his own hulking mongrel in its place.
These particulars are thus recounted:—
“_Launce._—Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia the dog you bade me.
_Proteus._—And what says she to my little jewel?
_Launce._—Marry, she says your dog was a cur; and tells you currish
thanks is good enough for such a present.
_Proteus._—But she received my present?
_Launce._—No, indeed, she did not. Here I have brought him back again.
_Proteus._—What! didst thou offer her _this_ from me?
_Launce._—Ay, sir, the other squirrel was stolen from me by the
hangman’s boys in the market-place; and then I offered her mine own,
who is a dog as big as ten of yours, and therefore the gift the
greater.”
The question is, whether the word “this” is better by itself, or whether
it should be coupled with the word “cur,” as the MS. emendator proposes.
Our notion is, that the single pronoun is greatly the more expressive.
“Did you offer her _this_” (of course pointing to the brute with an
expression of indignation and abhorrence, which disdained to call him
anything but _this_) “THIS!!! from me? The lady must think me mad.” In
regard to the other corrections, we perceive no such force or propriety
in any of them as might incline us to disturb, for their sake, the
received text of “The Two Gentlemen of Verona.”
THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.—In _Act II. Scene 1_, the commentators have
all been gravelled by the word “an-heires,” as it stands in all the
early editions in the following passage—
“_Host._—My hand, bully, thou shalt have egress and regress; said I
well, and thy name shall be Brook. It is a merry knight—will you go,
_anheires_?”
In place of this unintelligible word, various substitutes have been
proposed. The MS. corrector would read “Will you go _on here_?” This is
very poor, and sounds to our ears very unlike the host’s ordinary slang;
and we have no hesitation in agreeing with Mr Dyce,[17] who gives the
preference over all the other readings to that of Sir John Hanmer, the
editor of the Oxford edition: “Will you go on, _mynheers_?”—will you go
on, my masters? The word is proved to have been used in England in the
time of Shakespeare.
In _Act II. Scene 3_, this same host, who deals somewhat largely in the
unknown tongue, again says—
“I will bring thee where Mistress Page is, at a farm-house feasting,
and thou shalt woo her. _Cried game_, said I well?”
This obsolete slang has puzzled the commentators sorely. Mr Dyce
suggests “cried I aim,” which means, it appears, “Did I give you
encouragement?”—(_vide_ Singer, p. 7.) We confess ourselves incompetent
to form an opinion, except to this extent, that Mr Collier’s corrector,
who proposes “curds and cream,” seems to us to have made the worst shot
of any that have been fired.[18]
In _Act IV. Scene I_, we rather think that the MS. corrector is right in
changing “let” into “get,” in the following passage: “How now,” says Mrs
Page to Sir Hugh Evans the schoolmaster; “How now, Sir Hugh?—no school
to-day?” “No,” answers Sir Hugh; “Master Slender is _let_ (read _get_)
the boys leave to play.” In Sir Hugh’s somewhat Celtic dialect, he _is
get_ the boys a holiday.
In the following passage, _Act IV. Scene 5_, the received text is this—
“_Simple._—I would I could have spoken with the woman herself. I had
other things to have spoke with her, too, from him.
_Falstaff._—What are they?—let us know.
_Host._—Ay, come; quick.
_Simple._—I may not _conceal_ them, sir.
_Falstaff._—_Conceal_ them, or thou diest.”
Good Dr Farmer thought that, in both instances, we should read
“reveal”—not perceiving that the humour of the dialogue (such as it is)
consists in _reading_ “conceal,” and in _understanding_ “reveal.” But
the MS. emendator, with an innocence beyond even Dr Farmer’s, would
alter the passage thus—
“_Falstaff._—What are they?—let us know.
_Host._—Ay, come quick.
_Falstaff._—_You_ may not conceal them, sir.
_Host._—Conceal them, _and_ thou diest.”
And Mr Collier approves of this variation, as “making the dialogue run
quite consistently.”
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.—In the Duke’s speech, at the opening of the play, a
formidable difficulty presents itself. Addressing Escalus, of whose
statesmanlike qualities he has the highest opinion, the Duke says, as
all the editions give it—
“Of government the properties to unfold,
Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse,
Since I am put to know that your own science
Exceeds in that the lists of all advice
My strength can give you. Then no more remains
But that, to your sufficiency, as your worth is able,
And let them work.”
The two last lines of this passage have been a grievous stumbling-block
to the commentators. The _variorum_ men, with Johnson at their head,
have made nothing of it. Mr Singer reads—
“Then no more remains
But _there to_ your sufficiency as your worth is able,
And let them work;”
which seems quite as dark and perplexing as the original text. Mr
Collier’s man, cutting the knot with desperate hook, which slashes away
a good many words, gives us—
“Then no more remains,
But _add_ to your sufficiency your worth,
And let them work.”
These words are sufficiently intelligible; but this is not to rectify
Shakespeare’s text—it is to re-write it; and this no man can be
permitted to do. As a private speculation of our own, we venture to
propose the following, altering merely one word of the authentic
version—
“Then no more remains,
But that (to your sufficiency as your worth is able)
_You_ let them work.”
The Duke has remarked that he is not competent to give Escalus any
advice on matters of public policy, as he is much better versed in such
affairs than himself. He then goes on to say, “No more remains, but that
(seeing your worth is able—that is, is equal—to your sufficiency or
acquired knowledge) you should let the two, your worth, and your
sufficiency, work together for the good of your country.” Or it might be
allowable to introduce “equal” into the text, thereby making the sense
still plainer—
“Then no more remains
But that (to your sufficiency as your worth is _equal_)
You let them work.”
But if any auxiliar authority could be found for the use of the word
“able” as here employed (a point about which we are doubtful, though not
desperate), we should prefer to retain it in the text. By making the
words _to_ and _as_ change places, we obtain a still more perspicuous
reading—
“Then no more remains,
But that (_as_ your sufficiency _to_ your worth is equal)
_You_ let them work.”
Mr Collier remarks (p. 42), “Near the end of Mrs Overdone’s speech, ‘is’
is required before the words ‘to be chopped off.’ It is deficient in
_all_ printed copies, and is inserted in manuscript in the corrected
folio 1632.” We can inform Mr Collier that the word “is” stands, in this
place, in the _variorum_ edition of 1785.
_Act I. Scene 4._—The Duke, who has abdicated for a time in favour of
Angelo, says, in allusion to the abuses which Angelo is expected to
correct—
“I have on Angelo imposed my office,
Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike home,
And yet, my nature never in the sight,
To _do it_ slander.”
The corrector of Mr Collier’s folio suggests to _draw on_ slander; and
as a gloss or explanation of an antiquated or awkward expression, this
variation may be accepted; but it certainly has no title to be admitted
into the text as the authentic language of Shakespeare. The change of
“story” into “scorn” (_Scene 5_), is perhaps admissible. Alluding to a
false species of repentance, the friar, in _Act II. Scene 3_, says that
such insufficient
“Sorrow is always towards ourselves, not heaven,
Showing we would not _spare_ heaven, as we love it,
But as we stand in fear.”
On the margin of Mr Collier’s folio, “serve” is written, and “spare” is
scored out. We greatly prefer the old reading, in spite of Mr Collier’s
assertion that it is corrupt, and “seems little better than nonsense.”
To _spare_ heaven is not nonsense; it means to refrain from sin. To
_serve_ heaven means something more; it means to practise holiness. The
difference is but slight, but it is quite sufficient to establish the
language of Shakespeare as greatly superior to that of his anonymous
corrector, because the point here in question is much rather abstinence
from vice than the positive practice of virtue.
In _Act II. Scene 4_, the following somewhat obscure expression occurs:
“in the loss of question”—what does it mean? “It means,” says Mr Singer
(p. 11), “in the looseness of conversation.” That is a most satisfactory
explanation. Yet if Mr Collier and his emendator had their own way, we
should be deprived of this genuine Shakesperian phrase, and be put off
with the unmeaning words “in the _force_ of question.”
In _Act III. Scene 1_, the alteration of “blessed” into “boasted,” in
the speech in which the Duke so finely moralises on the vanity of human
life, cannot be too decidedly condemned—
“Thou” (oh Life) “hast nor youth nor age,
But as it were an after-dinner’s sleep,
Dreaming on both, for all thy _blessed_ youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms
Of palsied eld.”
Some people may not be able to understand how the period of youth can,
in one and the same breath, be called _blessed_, and yet miserable as
old age. They look on that as a contradiction. Such people ought never
to read poetry. At any rate, they ought first to learn that the poet is
privileged, nay, is often bound to declare as actual that which is only
potential or ideal. Thus, he may say that _blessed_ youth is a
_miserable_ season of existence, meaning thereby that misery overspreads
even that time of life which _ought to be_, and which _ideally_ is, the
happiest in the pilgrimage of man. The manuscript corrector has but an
obtuse perception of these niceties, and hence he substitutes _boasted_
for _blessed_—converting Shakespeare’s language into mere verbiage.
COMEDY OF ERRORS—_Act I. Scene_ 1.—The alteration of the word “nature”
into “fortune” in the following lines, is an undoubted departure from
the genuine language of Shakespeare, and a perversion of his sense.
Ægeon, whose life has been forfeited by his accidental arrival at
Ephesus, says—
“Yet that the world may witness that my end
Was wrought by _nature_, not by vile offence,
I’ll utter what my sorrow gives me leave.”
Mr Collier, slightly doubtful of the propriety of the new reading
(_fortune_), says, “Possibly by ‘nature’ we might understand the natural
course of events.” We say, _certainly_ this is what we _must_ understand
by the word. I die by nature, says Ægeon, not by vile offence; or, as
Warburton interprets it, “My death is according to the ordinary course
of Providence, and not the effects of Divine vengeance overtaking my
crimes.” But the word “fortune,” had Ægeon used it, would rather have
implied that he regarded himself as an object of Divine displeasure; and
therefore this word must not only not be adopted, but it must be
specially avoided, if we would preserve the meaning of Shakespeare. In
this case, the internal evidence is certainly in favour of the ordinary
reading.
In a subsequent part of the same scene, the Duke, who is mercifully
inclined towards Ægeon, advises him
“To seek thy _help_ by beneficial help.”
That is, he recommends him to borrow such a sum of money as may be
sufficient to ransom his life. The MS. corrector reads not very
intelligibly—
“To seek thy _hope_ by beneficial help.”
And Mr Collier, explaining the _obscurum per obscurius_, remarks that
“Ægeon was to seek what he hoped to obtain (viz. money to purchase his
life) by the ‘beneficial help’ of some persons in Ephesus.” The
“beneficial help” was itself the money by which he was to “seek his
help,” or save his life. “Beneficial help” means “pecuniary assistance,”
and therefore we are at a loss to understand Mr Collier when he says
that Ægeon was to seek money by the “beneficial help” or pecuniary
assistance of certain persons in Ephesus. All that he required to do was
to obtain this pecuniary assistance; obtaining that, he of course would
obtain the money by which his life was to be redeemed. The received text
of the line ought on no account to be disturbed. The repetition of the
word “help” is peculiarly Shakesperian.
_Act II. Scene 1._—A very little consideration may convince any one that
the following correction is untenable. The ordinary text is this: Dromio
the slave having been well drubbed by his master, says—
“He told his mind upon mine ear; Beshrew his hand, I scarce could
understand it.
“_Luciana._—Spake he so _doubtfully_, thou couldst not feel his
meaning?
_Dromio._—Nay, he struck so plainly, I could too well feel his blows;
and withal so _doubtfully_ that I could scarce understand them.”
The manuscript corrector proposes “doubly” for “doubtfully,” in both
instances; losing sight, as we think, of the plain meaning of words. To
speak doubly is to speak deceitfully; to speak doubtfully is to speak
obscurely or unintelligibly. But certainly Luciana had no intention of
asking Dromio if his master had spoken to him deceitfully. Such a
question would have been irrelevant and senseless. She asks, spake he so
_obscurely_ that you could not understand his words?—and the slave
answers, “By my troth, so obscurely that I could scarce understand (that
is, stand under) them.” This is the only quibble.
In _Act II. Scene 2_, the expression “she _moves_ me for her theme,”
that is, “she makes me the subject of her discourse,” occurs. This is
changed by the MS. corrector into “she _means_ me for her theme;” that
is, “she _means_ to make me the subject of her discourse.” But the “she”
who is here referred to is actually, at that very moment, talking most
vehemently about the person who utters these words; and therefore this
emendation is certainly no restoration, but a corruption of the genuine
language of Shakespeare.
_Act IV. Scene 2._—The bum-bailiff is thus maltreated. The words in
italics are the MS. corrector’s wanton and damaging interpolations.
“_Adriana._—Where is thy master, Dromio, is he well?
_Dromio._—No: he’s in Tartar limbo, worse than hell;
A devil in an everlasting garment hath him, _fell_;
One whose hard heart is buttoned up with steel,
_Who has no touch of mercy, cannot feel_;
A fiend, a _fury_, pitiless, and rough;
A wolf, nay worse, a fellow all in buff.”
Here the only doubt is, whether the word “fury” (the MS., and also
Theobald’s reading) is a judicious substitute for the word “fairy,”
which the old copies present. We think that it is not, being
satisfied with Johnson’s note, who observes—“There were fairies like
hobgoblins, pitiless and rough, and described as malevolent and
mischievous.”—Nowadays a fairy is an elegant creature dressed in
green. So she was in Shakespeare’s time. But in Shakespeare’s time
there was also another kind of fairy—a fellow clothed in a buff
jerkin, made of such durable materials as to be well-nigh
“everlasting;” and whose vocation it was, as it still is, to pay his
addresses to those who may have imprudently allowed their debts to
get into confusion. Let us not allow the old usages of language to
drop into oblivion.
_Act IV. Scene 3._—“The vigor of his rage,” is obviously a much more
vigorous expression than “the rigor of his rage,” which the MS.
corrector proposes in its place.
_Act V. Scene 1._—“The following lines,” says Mr Collier, “as they are
printed in the folio 1623, have been the source of considerable
_cavil_,” meaning, we presume, _dispute_. The words are uttered by the
Abbess, who has been parted from her sons for a great many years, and
has but recently discovered them.
“Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail
Of you, my sons, and till this present hour
My heavy burden are delivered.”
“That the above is corrupt,” continues Mr Collier, “there can be no
question; and in the folio 1632, the printer attempted thus to amend the
passage:—
‘Thirty-three years have I _been_ gone in travail
Of you my sons, and till this present hour
My heavy burthens are delivered.’
“Malone gives it thus:—
‘Twenty-five years have I but gone in travail
Of you my sons; until this present hour
My heavy burthen _not_ delivered.’
“The MS. corrector,” continues Mr Collier, “of the folio 1632 makes the
slightest possible change in the second line, and at once removes the
difficulty: he puts it—
‘Thirty-three years have I been gone in travail
Of you my sons, and _at_ this present hour
My heavy burthens are delivered.’”
In his edition 1826, Mr Singer reads—
“Twenty-five years have I but gone in travail
Of you, my sons, and till this present hour
My heavy burthen _ne’er_ delivered.”
We are of opinion that a better reading than any here given, and than
any ever given, might be proposed. Thus—
“Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail
Of you, my sons, and till this present hour
My heavy burthen _has_ delivered.”
That is, I have done nothing but go in travail of you, my children, for
thirty-three years; and, moreover (I have gone in travail of you), till
this present hour has delivered me of my heavy burden. This reading
brings her pains up to the present moment, when she declares herself
joyfully relieved from them by the unexpected restoration of her
children. This amendment seems to yield a more emphatic meaning than any
of the others; and it departs as little as any of them from the original
text of 1623.
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING—_Act I. Scene 3._—The brothers Don Pedro and Don
John have quarrelled, and have been reconciled. Conrade remarks to the
latter, “You have _of late_ stood out against your brother, and he hath
ta’en you newly into his grace.” The MS. correction is, “till of late,”
which, as any one looking at the context even with half an eye, may
perceive both spoils the idiom and impairs the meaning of the passage.
_Act II. Scene 1._—We admit that Shakespeare might—nay, ought—to have
written as follows, but we doubt whether he did. “Wooing, wedding, and
repenting,” says Beatrice, “is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a
cinque-pace; the first suit is hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and
full as fantastical; the wedding, mannerly modest, as a measure full of
state and ancienty; and then comes repentance, and, with his bad legs,
falls into cinque-pace faster and faster, till he sink _apace_ into his
grave.” “Apace” is MS. corrector’s contribution.
In the following much-disputed passage, we are of opinion that
Shakespeare uses somewhat licentiously the word “impossible” in the
sense of _inconceivable_, and that Johnson’s and the MS. corrector’s
substitution of “importable” (_i. e._ insupportable) is unnecessary.
“She told me,” says Benedick, speaking of Beatrice, “that I was the
prince’s jester, and that I was duller than a great thaw, huddling jest
upon jest, with such _impossible conveyance_, upon me, that I stood like
a man at mark with a whole army shooting at me.” “Impossible conveyance”
means inconceivable rapidity.
_Act III. Scene 1._—There surely can be no question as to the superior
excellence of the received reading in the following lines. The repentant
Beatrice, who has overheard her character severely censured, says—
“What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?
Stand I condemned for pride and scorn so much?
Contempt farewell, and maiden pride adieu!
No glory lives behind the back of such.”
Beatrice means to say that contempt and maiden pride are never _the
screen_ to any true nobleness of character. This is well expressed in
the line,
“No glory lives _behind the back_ of such.”
A vigorous expression, which the MS. corrector recommends us to exchange
for the frivolous feebleness of
“No glory lives _but in the lack_ of such.”
This substitution, we ought to say, is worse than feeble and frivolous.
It is a perversion of Beatrice’s sentiments. She never meant to say that
a maiden should _lack_ maiden pride, but only that it should not occupy
a prominent position in the _front_ of her character. Let her have as
much of it as she pleases, and the more the better, only let it be drawn
up as a reserve in the background, and kept for defensive rather than
for offensive operations. This is all that Beatrice can _seriously_ mean
when she says, “maiden pride adieu.”
_Act IV. Scene 1._—In the following passage we back Shakespeare’s word
against the MS. corrector’s, not only in point of authenticity, but in
point of taste. Leonato, greatly exasperated with his daughter, says to
her—
“For did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,
Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,
Myself would, on the _rearward_ of reproaches,
Strike at thy life.”
This is the reading of the folio 1632. The folio 1623 reads “reward,”
but that is obviously a misprint for “rearward.” The MS. corrector
proposes _hazard_. As if the infuriated father would have cared one
straw what the world might think or say of him for slaying his daughter.
In his passion he was far beyond minding such a trifle as public
opinion, and would never have paused to give utterance to the sentiment
which the corrector puts into his mouth. What he says is this—that after
heaping reproaches on his daughter to the uttermost, he would _follow
them up_ by slaying her with his own hand. This is admirably expressed
by the words, “rearward of reproaches.” In this same scene the fine old
word “frame,” in the sense of fabrication, is twice most wantonly
displaced, to make way, in the one instance, for “frown,” and in the
other for “fraud.”
_Act V. Scene 1._—Let any reader who has an ear read the opening speech
of Leonato, and he will perceive at once how grievously its effect is
damaged by the insertion of the words “to me” in this line.
“And bid him speak (_to me_) of patience.”
In the same speech the following lines are a problem. Leonato, rebuffing
his comforters, says, “Bring to me a person as miserable as myself, and
“If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard,
_And, sorrow wag! cry_, Hem, when he should groan,
Patch grief with proverbs, make misfortune drunk
With candlewasters, bring him yet to me,
And I of him will gather patience.”
“And sorrow wag! cry,” is the main difficulty. Johnson explains it thus:
“If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard, and cry, Sorrow,
_begone_!” This, in our opinion, is quite satisfactory; but what is the
philology of the word “wag?” We believe it to be the German word
“weg”—away—off with you. The MS. corrector cuts the knot which he cannot
untie, by reading “call sorrow joy.” This is a gloss, not a reparation
of the text.
_Act V. Scene 4._—We maybe assured that a far finer sense is contained
under Hero’s expression, when she says, according to the common reading,
“One Hero died _defiled_, but I do live,”
than under the pseudo-emendation,
“One Hero died _belied_, but I do live.”
LOVE’S LABOUR LOST—_Act I. Scene 1._—We agree with Mr Dyce[19] in
thinking that a quibble is intended in Biron’s speech, when he says that
he and his friends will “_climb_ in the merriness,” according as the
absurd _style_ of Armado’s letter shall give them cause. At any rate,
nothing can be poorer than the MS. correction of this place, “chime in
the merriness.” We think, however, that the corrector is right in giving
the words, “Sirrah, come on,” to Dull the constable, and not to Biron,
to whom they are usually assigned. We also consider the change of
_manager_ into _armiger_ rather a happy alteration; at any rate, we can
say this of it, that had _armiger_ been the received reading, we should
not have been disposed to accept _manager_ in its place. This is a
compliment which we can pay to very few of the MS. corrections. Had
_they_ formed the original text, and had the original text formed the
_marginalia_, we should have had little hesitation as to which we would,
in most cases, adopt. On the ground of their internal evidence—that is,
of their superior excellence—the _marginalia_ would certainly have
obtained the preference. The passage to which we refer is this—“Adieu,
valour!” says the fantastical Armado, “rust rapier! be still drum, for
your _armiger_ is in love.” This reading, we think, is worthy of being
perpetuated in a note, though scarcely entitled to be elevated into the
text.
_Act III. Scene 1._—The corrector very soon relapses into his blunders.
Passing over several, here is one, not so conspicuous perhaps, but as
decided as any into which he has fallen. Armado, speaking to Moth his
page, says, “Fetch hither the swain (_i. e._, Costard the clown), he
must carry me a letter.” Moth replies, “A _message_ well-sympathed—a
horse to be ambassador for an ass.” The MS. corrector reads, “A
_messenger_ well-sympathised,” not perceiving that this destroys the
point, and meaning, and pertinency of Moth’s remark. “A message
well-sympathised” means a mission well concocted, an embassy consistent
with itself, which, says Moth, this one is, inasmuch as it is a case of
horse (Costard) representing an ass—(to-wit, yourself, master mine.) Yet
Mr Collier says that “we ought unquestionably to substitute messenger
for message.”
Moth, the page, having gone to fetch Costard, Armado says—
“A most acute juvenal, voluble, and free of grace.
By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face,
_Most rude_ Melancholy, valour gives thee place.”
The MS. corrector alters the last line into “moist-eyed melancholy;” and
Mr Collier remarks, “‘Most rude melancholy’ has no particular
appropriateness, whereas ‘moist-eyed melancholy’ is peculiarly accordant
with the sighs Armado breathes, in due apology, to the face of the
welkin.” _No particular appropriateness!_ when the euphuist is in the
very act of apologising to the welkin for the breach of good manners of
which his “most rude melancholy” has compelled him to be guilty. What
else could he, in the circumstances, have called his melancholy with any
degree of propriety? Oh, silly margins! you have much to answer for. You
are not only stupid yourselves, but you are the cause of stupidity in
other people.
_Act IV. Scene 1._—Having considered the following passage very
carefully, we are compelled to side with Mr Singer and Mr Dyce in favour
of the old reading “fair” against “faith,” which is advocated by the MS.
corrector, Mr Collier, and Mr Hunter. The princess, giving money to the
forester, whom she playfully charges with having called her anything but
good-looking, says—
“Fair payment for foul words is more than due.
_Forester._ Nothing but fair is that which you inherit.
_Princess._ See, see, my beauty will be saved by merit.
Oh, heresy in _fair_, fit for these days!
A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.”
The new reading proposed is, “Oh, heresy in _faith_.” But this change is
not necessary; indeed it spoils the passage. The princess, when the
forester compliments her, says—“See, see, my beauty will be saved” (not
on its own account, for, in this man’s opinion, I have little or none)
but “by merit,” that is, because I have given him money. He calls me an
angel of light because I have given him half-a-crown. Oh, heresy in
regard to beauty! None but the really beautiful ought to be so
complimented. Those who like me are plain (as this man thinks me in his
heart), and have “foul hands,” ought not to obtain _fair_ praise—ought
not to be praised as fair, however “giving” or liberal these hands may
be. The heresy here playfully alluded to is the error of supposing that
people can be _beautified_ by their gifts as well as by their
appearance; just as a religious heresy consists in the idea that a
person can be justified by his works as well as by his faith.
_Act IV. Scene 3._—The following passage has given some trouble to the
commentators—
“Black is the badge of hell,
The hue of dungeons, and the _school_ of night.”
Various substitutes have been proposed for the word “school.” The
_variorum_ reads “scowl,” which was introduced by Warburton. Theobald
conjectured “stole.” The _marginalia_ present “shade,” which is as poor
as poor can be. We believe the original word “school” to be right, and
that the allusion is to the different badges and colours by which
different schools or sects or fraternities were formerly distinguished.
“Black,” says the passage before us, “is the hue worn by all who belong
to the school or brotherhood of night.”
The context of the following passage seems fairly to justify the MS.
correction, by which “beauty” is changed into “learning.” _Beauty_ may
have been a misprint. _Loquitur_ Biron—
“For where is any author in the world
Teaches such _learning_ as a woman’s eye?
Learning is but an adjunct to ourself,
And where we are our learning likewise is,
Then, when ourselves we see in ladies’ eyes,
Do we not likewise see our learning there?”
This, we think, is one of the very few emendations which ought to be
admitted into the text.
It is curious to remark, what we learn incidentally from this play,
that, in Shakespeare’s time, the words “doubt” and “debt” were
pronounced as they are spelt, the “b” being sounded no less than the
“t,” and that it was the height of affectation to say “dout” and “det,”
as we do nowadays. So changes the _norma loquendi_.
_Act V. Scene 2._—The following, in the old copies, is obviously a
misprint—
“So _pertaunt_-like would I o’ersway his state,
That he should be my fool, and I his fate.”
The _variorum_ edition reads “portent-like.” In 1826, Mr Singer
published “potent-like.” The MS. corrector suggests “potently;” and this
we rather prefer.
When the princess is informed of the intended wit-assault on her and her
ladies by the king and his lords, she exclaims—
“What are they
That _charge their breath_ against us?”
“To ‘charge their breath,’” says Mr Collier, “is nonsense, and the
corrector alters it most naturally to
‘What are they
That _charge the breach_ against us?’”
“Should any one,” says Mr Singer,[20] “wish to be convinced of the utter
impossibility of the corrector having had access to better authority
than we possess—nay, of his utter incapacity to comprehend the poet, I
would recommend this example of his skill to their consideration. The
_encounters_ with which the ladies are threatened, are _encounters of
words, wit combats_;” and therefore it was quite natural that they
should talk of their opponents as “charging their breath against them.”
We agree with Mr Singer; but we willingly change “love-feat,” in this
same scene, into “love-suit,” at the bidding of the MS. corrector.
“Oh, poverty in wit!” exclaims the princess, when she and her ladies
have demolished the king and his companions in the wit-encounter.
“Kingly-poor flout!” The MS. corrector reads, “killed by pure flout;”
and Mr Singer “has no doubt” that “stung by poor flout” is the true
reading. We see no reason for disturbing the original text. A double
meaning is no doubt intended in the expression “kingly-poor flout.” It
means “mighty poor badinage;” and then, a king being one of the
performers, it also means “repartee as poor as might have been expected
from royal lips;” these being usually understood to be better fitted for
taking in than for giving out “good things.”
MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM—_Act I. Scene 1._—“Near the end of Helena’s
speech,” says Mr Collier, “occurs this couplet where she is stating her
determination to inform Demetrius of the intended flight of Lysander and
Hermia—
‘And for this intelligence
If I have thanks, it is a dear expense’—
which,” continues Mr Collier, “is only just intelligible; but the old
corrector _singularly improves_ the passage by the word he substitutes—
‘And for this intelligence
If I have thanks, it is dear _recompense_.’”
The old corrector is an old woman who, in this case, has not merely
mistaken, but has directly reversed Shakespeare’s meaning. So far from
saying that Demetrius’s thanks will be any “recompense” for what she
proposes doing, Helena says the very reverse, that they will be a severe
aggravation of her pain. “A dear expense” here means a painful purchase,
a bitter bargain. “If I have thanks, the sacrifice which I make in
giving Demetrius this information will be doubly distressing to me.” Of
course she would much rather that Demetrius, her old lover, did not
thank her for setting him on the traces of his new mistress. Thanks
would be a mockery in the circumstances, and this is what Helena means
to say. Such is manifestly the meaning of the passage, as may be
gathered both from the words themselves, and from their connection with
the context, which is this—
“I will go tell him of fair Hermia’s flight:
Then to the wood will he to-morrow night
Pursue her; and for this intelligence,
If I have thanks, it is a dear expense;
But _herein_ mean I to enrich my pain,
To _have his sight_ thither, and back again.”
The _sight_ of Demetrius, and not his _thanks_, was to be Helena’s
_recompense_.
_Act II. Scene 1._—The corrector is unquestionably wrong in his version
of these lines. Of Titania it is said by one of the fairies, that
“The cowslips _tall_ her pensioners be,
In their gold _coats_ spots you see,
Those be rubies, fairy favours,” &c.
The MS. corrector reads “all” for “tall,” and “cups” for “coats,” to the
manifest deterioration of the text. Mr Singer thus explains the matter,
to the satisfaction, we should think, of all readers. “This passage has
reference to the band of gentlemen-pensioners in which Queen Elizabeth
took so much pride. They were some of the handsomest and _tallest_ young
men of the best families and fortune, and their dress was of remarkable
splendour—their _coats_ might well be said to be of gold. Mr Collier’s
objection that ‘cowslips are never tall,’ is a strange one. Drayton in
his Nymphidia thought otherwise, and surely a long-stalked cowslip would
be well designated by a fairy as tall.”
_Act II. Scene 3._—The alteration of “conference” into “confidence” in
the following lines is an _improvement_, most decidedly, _for the
worse_. Lysander and Hermia are going to sleep in the wood. She says to
him—
“Nay, good Lysander, for my sake, my dear,
Lye further off yet, do not lye so near.
_Lysander._—Oh, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence;
Love takes the meaning, in love’s _conference_.”
That is, love puts a good construction on all that is said or done in
the “conference,” or intercourse of love. “Confidence,” the MS.
correction, makes nonsense.
_Act III. Scene 2._—The margins seem to be right in changing “What news,
my love?” into “What means my love?” in the speech in which Hermia is
appealing passionately to her old lover Lysander.
_Act V. Scene 1._—But we cannot accept the substitution of “hot ice and
wondrous _seething_ snow” for the much more Shakespearian “hot ice and
wonderous _strange_ snow.” The late Mr Barron Field’s excellent
emendation of the following lines is borne out by the MS. correction—
“Then know that I, one Snug the joiner, am
A lion’s _fell_, nor else no lion’s dam.”
“Fell” means skin. The old reading was—
“Then know that I, as Snug the joiner, am
A _lion fell_, nor else no lion’s dam.”
This ought to go into the text, if it has not done so already.
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE—_Act I. Scene 1._—In the following passage the
margins make rather a good hit in restoring “when” of the old editions,
which had been converted into “who,” and in changing “would” into
“’twould.”
“Oh, my Antonio, I do know of these
That therefore only are reputed wise
For saying nothing, _when_, I am very sure,
If they should speak, _’twould_ almost damn those ears,
Which hearing them would call their brothers fools.”
_Act II. Scene 1._—The Prince of Morocco says—
“Mislike me not for my complexion,
The shadowed livery of the _burnished_ sun.”
Altered by the MS. corrector into “burning sun,” which, says Mr Collier,
“seems much more proper when the African prince is speaking of his black
complexion as the effects of the sun’s rays.” Mr Collier will excuse us:
the African Prince is doing nothing of the kind. He is merely throwing
brightness and darkness into picturesque contrast—as the sun is bright,
or “burnished,” so am I his retainer dark, or “shadowed.” “To speak of
the sun,” continues Mr Collier, “as _artificially_ ‘burnished,’ is very
unworthy.” True: but Shakespeare speaks of it as _naturally_ burnished;
and so far is this from being unworthy, it is, in the circumstances,
highly poetical.
_Act II. Scene 9._—To change the words “pries not to the interior,” into
“prize not the interior,” in the following lines, is wantonly to deface
the undoubted language of Shakespeare.
“What many men desire!—that many may be meant
Of the fool multitude, that chuse by show,
Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach,
Which _pries_ not to the interior; but, like the martlet,
Builds in the weather, on the outward wall.”
_Act III. Scene 2._—The MS. corrector proposes a very plausible reading
in the lines where Bassanio is moralising on the deceitfulness of
external appearance.
“Thus ornament is but the guiled surf
To a most dangerous sea, the beauteous scarf
Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word,
The seeming truth which cunning times put on,
To entrap the wisest.”
The corrector proposes to put a full stop after Indian, and to read
on—“beauty, in a word,” (is) “the seeming truth,” &c. Mr Singer says,
“this variation in the pointing is no novelty; it occurs in an edition
of Shakespeare, published by Scott and Webster in 1833, and has been
satisfactorily shown to be erroneous and untenable by a correspondent in
_Notes and Queries_, vol. v. p. 483.” We regret that it is not in our
power, at this time, to consult the volume of _Notes and Queries_
referred to; but we confess that we see no very serious objection to
this new reading, except the awkwardness and peculiarly unShakespearian
character of the construction which it presents. That there is a
difficulty in the passage is evident from the changes that have been
proposed. Sir Thomas Hanmer gave “Indian _dowdy_”—Mr Singer, “Indian
_gipsy_,” which, however, he now abandons. We still confess a partiality
for the old text, both in the words and in the pointing. “An Indian
beauty” may mean the worst species of ugliness, just as a Dutch
nightingale means a toad. Still we believe that a good deal might be
said in favour of the MS. corrector’s punctuation.
Bassanio, descanting on the portrait of Portia, and on the difficulties
the painter must have had to contend with, thus expresses his admiration
of the eyes—
“How could he see to do them? having made one,
Methinks, it should have power to steal both his,
And leave itself _unfurnished_.”
The corrector reads “unfinished,” which Johnson long ago condemned.
“Unfurnished” means, as Mr Collier formerly admitted, unprovided with a
counterpart—a fellow-eye.
We willingly concede to Mr Collier the “bollen” instead of the “woolen”
bagpipe. And when he next “blaws up his chanter,” may the devil dance
away with his anonymous corrector, and the bulk of his emendations, as
effectually as he ever did with the exciseman.
AS YOU LIKE IT—_Act I. Scene 2._—In opposition to Mr Collier, we take
leave to say that Sir Thomas Hanmer was _not_ right in altering “there
is such odds in the _man_” to “there is such odds in the _men_.” What is
meant to be said is, “there is such superiority (of strength) in the
_man_;” and “odds” formerly signified _superiority_, as may be learnt
from the following sentence of Hobbes—“The passion of laughter,” says
Hobbes, “proceedeth from the sudden imagination of our own _odds_ and
eminency.”[21] Mr Collier’s man, who concurs with Sir Thomas Hanmer, is,
of course, equally at fault.
_Act I. Scene 3._—“Safest haste”—that is, most convenient despatch—is
much more probable than “fastest haste,” inasmuch as the lady to whom
the words “despatch you with your _safest_ haste” are addressed, is
allowed _ten days_ to take herself off in.
_Act II. Scene 3._—When Orlando, speaking of his unnatural brother, in
whose hands he expresses his determination to place himself, rather than
take to robbing on the highway, says,
“I will rather subject me to the malice
Of a _diverted blood, and bloody brother_,”
the language is so strikingly Shakesperian, that nothing but the most
extreme obtuseness can excuse the MS. corrector’s perverse reading—
“Of a diverted, _proud_, and bloody brother.”
“Diverted blood,” says Dr Johnson, means “blood turned out of the course
of nature;” and there cannot be a finer phrase for an unnatural kinsman.
_Act II. Scene 7._—The following passage is obviously corrupt. Jacques,
inveighing against the pride of going finely dressed, says—
“Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,
Till that the _very very_ means do ebb?”
The MS. correction is—
“Till that the very means _of wear_ do ebb.”
Mr Singer suggests, “Till that the _wearer’s_ very means do ebb.” The
two meanings are the same: people, carried away by pride, dress finely,
until their means are exhausted. But Mr Singer keeps nearest to the old
text.
_Act III. Scene 4._—“Capable impressure” must be vindicated as the
undoubted language of Shakespeare, against the MS. corrector, Mr
Collier, and Mr Singer, all of whom would advocate “palpable
impressure.”
“Lean but on a rush,
The cicatrice and _capable impressure_,
Thy palm a moment keeps.”
“Capable impressure” means an indentation in the palm of the hand
sufficiently deep to _contain_ something within it.
_Act IV. Scene 1._—Both the MS. corrector and Mr Collier have totally
misunderstood Rosalind, when she says, “Marry, that should you, or I
should think my honesty ranker than my wit.” The meaning, one would
think, is sufficiently obvious.
_Act V. Scene 4._—And equally obvious is the meaning of the following
line, which requires no emendation. Orlando says that he is
“As those who fear they hope, and know they fear.”
That is, he is as those who fear that they are feeding on _mere_
hope—hope which is not to end in fruition—and who are certain that they
fear or apprehend the worst:—a painful state to be in. The marginal
correction, “As those who fear _to_ hope, and know they fear,” is
nonsense.
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.—_Induction. Scene I._—We agree with the margins
in thinking that the following line requires to be amended, by the
insertion of “what” or “who.” In the directions given about the tricks
to be played off on Sly, it is said—
“And when he says he is—say that he dreams.”
The MS. corrector reads, properly as we think—
“And when he says _what_ he is, say that he dreams.”
_Scene 2._—There is something very feasible in the corrector’s gloss on
the word “_sheer_-ale.” For “sheer” he writes “Warwickshire,” and we
have no doubt that “shire (pronounced sheer) ale” is the true reading.
_Act I. Scene 1._—One of the happiest and most undoubted emendations in
Mr Collier’s folio, and one which, in his preface, he wisely places in
the front of his case, now comes before us—“ethics” for “checks,” in
these lines in which Tranio gives advice to his master Lucentio—
“Let’s be no stoics, nor no stocks, I pray,
Or so devote to Aristotle’s _checks_,
As Ovid be an outcast quite abjured.”
We have no hesitation in condemning “checks” as a misprint for “ethics,”
which from this time henceforward we hope to see the universal reading.
It is surprising that it should not have become so long ago, having been
proposed by Sir W. Blackstone nearly a hundred years since, and staring
every recent editor in the face from among the notes of the _variorum_.
Mr Singer alone had the good taste to print it in his text of 1826.
Let us here bestow a passing commendation on Mr Hunter for a very
ingenious reading, or rather for what is better, a very acceptable
restoration of the old text, which had been corrupted by Rowe and all
subsequent editors. In the same speech, Tranio, who is advising Lucentio
not to study too hard, says, according to all the common copies—
“_Talk_ logic wi’ th’ acquaintance that you have.”
The elder copies read—
“_Balk_ logic, wi’ th’ acquaintance that you have.”
This means, _cut_ logic, with such a smattering of it as you already
possess; or, as Mr Hunter explains it, “give the go-by to logic, as
satisfied with the acquaintance you have already gained with it.” “Balk”
ought certainly to replace “talk” in all future editions, and our thanks
are due to Mr Hunter for the emendation.[22]
How scandalous it is to change “mould” into “mood” in the following
lines, addressed by Hortensio to the termagant Kate:—
“Mates, maid! how mean you that? No mates for you:
Unless you were of gentler, milder _mould_.”
Kate was not, at least so thought Hortensio, one of those,
“Quas meliore luto _finxit_ præcordia Titan.”
_Act II. Scene 1._—We greatly prefer Mr Singer’s amendment of what
follows to the MS. corrector’s. The common text is this:—
“_Petruchio_ (to Kate).—Women were made to bear, and so were you.
_Katherine._—No such jade, sir, as you, if me you mean.”
This being scarcely sense, the corrector says—
“No such jade _to bear_ you, if me you mean.”
Mr Singer says,
“No such _load_ as you, sir, if me you mean.”
_Act IV. Scene 2._—“An ancient angel coming down the hill” has puzzled
the commentators. The margins read “ambler.” We prefer the received
text—the word “angel” being probably used in its old sense of
_messenger_, with a spice of the ludicrous in its employment.
_Act V. Scene 1._—Vincentio, who is on the point of being carried to
jail, exclaims—
“Thus strangers may be _haled_ and abused.”
The MS. corrector proposes “handled;” and Mr Collier says that “haled”
is a misprint, and the line “hardly a verse.” It is a very good verse;
and “haled” is the very, indeed the only, word proper to the place. On
turning, however, to Mr Collier’s appendix, we find that he says, “It
may be doubted whether ‘haled’ is not to be taken as _hauled_; but still
the true word may have been handled.” This is _not_ to be doubted;
“haled” is _certainly_ to be taken for _hauled_, and “handled” cannot
have been the right word.
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL—_Act I. Scene 1._—In Helena’s soliloquy, near
the end of the scene, the corrector, by the perverse transposition of
two words, changes sense into nonsense. She says—
“The mightiest space in fortune nature brings
To join like likes and kiss like native things.”
The lady is in love with Bertram, who is greatly above her in rank and
in fortune; and the meaning is, that all-powerful nature brings things
(herself, for example, and Bertram) which are separated by the widest
interval of _fortune_, to join as if they were “likes” or pairs, and to
kiss as if they were kindred things. The MS. corrector reverses this
meaning, and reads—
“The mightiest space in _nature fortune_ brings
To join like likes and kiss like native things.”
But there was no “space” at all between Helena and Bertram in point of
“nature.” They were both unexceptionable human beings. They were
separated only by a disparity of “fortune.” Why does the MS. corrector
go so assiduously out of his way for the mere purpose of blundering, and
why does Mr Collier so patiently endorse his eccentricities? That is
indeed marvellous.
_Act 1. Scene 3._—Helena says—
“You know my father left me some prescriptions
Of rare and proved effects, such was his reading
And _manifest_ experience.”
Read “manifold,” says the corrector; and Mr Collier adds, “we may safely
admit the emendation.” Retain the old reading, say we; “manifest” means
sure, well-grounded, indisputable, and is much more likely to have been
Shakespeare’s word than “manifold.”
_Act III. Scene 2._—The countess, comforting Helena, who has been
deserted by Bertram, says—
“I pr’ythee, lady, have a better cheer,
If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,
Thou robb’st me of a moiety.”
“The old corrector,” says Mr Collier, “tells us, and we may readily
believe him, that there is a small but important error in the second
line. He reads—
‘If thou engrossest all the griefs _as_ thine
Thou robbest me of a moiety.’”
The small but important error here referred to is committed by the old
corrector himself. The countess, to give her words in plain prose,
says—if you keep to yourself all the griefs which are thine, you rob me
of my share of them. The context where the countess adds—
“He was my son,
But I do wash his name out of my blood,
And thou art all my child,”
seems to have misled the old corrector. He appears to have supposed that
the countess had griefs of her own, occasioned by the conduct of her son
Bertram, and that she protests against Helena’s monopolising these
together with her own. This is the only ground on which “as” can be
defended. But the answer is, that although the countess may have had
such griefs, she was too proud to express them. She merely expresses her
desire to participate in the afflictions which _are_ Helena’s. This is
one of the innumerable instances in which Shakespeare shows his fine
knowledge of human nature. Whatever grief a proud mother may _feel_ on
account of a disobedient son, anger is the only sentiment which she will
_express_ towards him. The word “as,” however, had the countess used it,
would have been equivalent to an expression of grief, and not merely of
indignation; and therefore we strongly advocate its rejection, and the
retention in the text of the word “are.”
_Act IV. Scene 2._—The following is a troublesome passage. Diana says to
Bertram, who is pressing his suit upon her—
“I see that men make ropes, in such a scarre,
That we’ll forsake ourselves.”
This is the old reading, and it is manifestly corrupt. Rowe, the
earliest of the _variorum_ editors, reads—
“I see that men make _hopes_, in such _affairs_,
That we’ll forsake ourselves.”
Malone gives “in such _a scene_” for “in such a scarre.” The MS.
corrector proposes “in such a _suit_.” Mr Singer says “that it is not
necessary to change the word _scarre_ at all: it here signifies any
surprise or alarm, and what we should now write _a scare_.” We agree
with Mr Singer; and, following his suggestion, we give our vote for the
following correction—
“I see that men make hopes, in such _a scare_, That we’ll forsake
ourselves.”
That is, I see that men expect that we (poor women) will lose our
self-possession in the flurry or agitation, into which we are thrown by
the vehemence of their addresses.
_Act V. Scene 1._—We willingly change the received stage direction,
“enter _a gentle astringer_”—a most perplexing character certainly—into
“enter a gentleman, a stranger,” as proposed by the old corrector, who,
in this case, corrects like a human being.
_Act V. Scene 3._—To change the fine expression
“Natural rebellion done in the _blade_ of youth.”
into “Natural rebellion done in the _blaze_ of youth,” is to convert a
poeticism into a barbarism. “The blade of youth” is the springtime of
life. Besides, there is an affinity between the word “natural” and the
word “blade,” which proves the latter to have been Shakespeare’s
expression.
If “all was well that ended well,” as the title of this play declares to
be the case, the MS. corrections throughout it would be impregnable; for
these end with one of the very happiest conjectural emendations that
ever was proposed. Bertram, explaining how Diana obtained from him the
ring, says, according to the received text,
“Her _insuit coming_, and her modern grace
Subdued me to her rate.”
“Insuit coming” has baffled the world. The _marginalia_ give us, “Her
_infinite cunning_ and her modern grace subdued me to her rate.” It
ought to be mentioned that this excellent emendation, which ought
unquestionably to be admitted into the text, was also started some years
ago by the late Mr Walker, author of the “original.”
TWELFTH NIGHT, OR WHAT YOU WILL—_Act II. Scene 1._—The following words
in italics are probably corrupt; but the MS. correction of the place is
certainly a very bad piece of tinkering. Sebastian is speaking of his
reputed likeness to his sister Viola—“A lady, sir, though it was said
she much resembled me, was of many accounted beautiful; but though I
could not, _with such estimable wonder_, overfar believe that, yet thus
far I will boldly publish her,” &c. The margins give us—“But though I
could not _with selfestimation wander so far_ to believe that.” But who
can believe that, Shakespeare would wander so far in his speech as to
write in such a roundabout feckless fashion as this? What he really
wrote it may now be hopeless to inquire.
_Act II. Scene V._—Malvolio congratulating himself on his ideal
elevation says, “And then to have the _humour_ of state,” which the MS.
corrector changes into the poverty of “the _honour_ of state,”
overlooking the consideration that “the humour of state” means the high
airs, the capricious insolence, of authority, which is precisely what
Malvolio is glorying that he shall by and by have it in his power to
exhibit.
_Act III. Scene 4._—We never can consent to change “venerable” into
“veritable,” at the bidding of the venerable corrector, in these lines—
“And to his image which methought did promise
Most venerable worth, did I devotion.”
“The word ‘devotion,’” says Mr Singer, “at once determines that
_venerable_ was the poet’s word.”
_Act V. Scene 1._—How much more Shakesperian is the line—“A contract
_of_ eternal bond of love,” than the corrector’s
“A contract _and_ eternal bond of love.”
The word “bond” is here used not as a legal term, but in the more
poetical sense of _union_.
WINTER’S TALE—_Act I. Scene 2._—We agree with Mr Collier in his remark,
that “there is no doubt we ought to amend the words of the old copies,
‘What lady _she_ her lord’ by reading, ‘What lady _should_ her lord,’”
as given by the MS. corrector.