BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. CCCCLV. SEPTEMBER, 1853. VOL. LXXIV.
CONTENTS.
SCOTLAND SINCE THE UNION, 263
FOREIGN ESTIMATES OF ENGLAND, 284
NEW READINGS IN SHAKESPEARE.—NO. II., 303
THE DUKE’S DILEMMA: A CHRONICLE OF NIESENSTEIN, 325
LADY LEE’S WIDOWHOOD.—PART IX., 342
CORAL RINGS, 360
THE AGED DISCIPLE COMFORTING, 371
THE EXTENT AND THE CAUSES OF OUR PROSPERITY, 373
EDINBURGH:
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, 45 GEORGE STREET;
AND 37 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.
_To whom all communications (post paid) must be addressed._
SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.
BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. CCCCLV. SEPTEMBER, 1853. VOL. LXXIV.
SCOTLAND SINCE THE UNION.[1]
Notwithstanding all that has been said regarding the strict impartiality
required from an historian, we are of opinion that the theory, however
proper and plausible, can hardly be reduced to practice by any writer
whilst treating of affairs in which he must feel a national or political
interest. If facts alone were to be dealt with, it might, at first
sight, appear no very difficult task to present an accurate and orderly
array of these. But no one who has had occasion to investigate minutely
contemporary records, for the purpose of arriving, if possible, at a
clear and distinct understanding of the details of any one particular
transaction, can have failed to remark the startling discrepancies and
gross contradictions which meet him at every turn. There is, indeed, a
common skeleton or framework, but the clay which is cast around it, and
moulded into form, differs in shape according to the peculiar instincts
of the artist. Even diarists, who might be supposed to be impartial, as
labouring solely for their own gratification, are by no means to be
implicitly received in regard to what they set down. The many tongues of
rumour begin to babble contrariety almost as soon as a deed is acted.
You cannot be certain that the event of yesterday is narrated to you one
whit more faithfully than that which occurred a hundred years ago. All
men have their prepossessions and tendencies towards belief—what they
wish they accept without investigation; and discard with as little
ceremony all that is obnoxious to their views. Men there are,
undoubtedly, at all times, who cannot be termed partisans, seeing that
they have no leaning to one side or other of a dispute; but theirs is
the impartiality of indifference, not of conscientiousness. And as it
rarely happens that a man thinks it worth his while to preserve a record
of events in which he does not feel a vivid interest, history receives
very little assistance from the contributions of cold-blooded
spectators. Take any event of moderate remoteness; and, if it be of such
a nature as to excite party antagonism, you will find, almost
invariably, that the real evidence is resoluble into two parts—one of
assertion and one of contradiction. For example, even a circumstance so
publicly notorious as a political execution, shall be related by two
eyewitnesses in a totally different manner. One of them, whose opinions
are precisely identical with those of the victim, describes his bearing
and demeanour at the scaffold as heroic, and claims for him the sympathy
of the populace—the other, who regards him as a criminal of the deepest
dye, charges him with cowardly pusillanimity, and declares that he
departed from this life amidst the execrations of the mob. As to what
took place before the execution, when the prisoner was necessarily
secluded from the eyes of both witnesses, that must ever remain a
mystery. The friend portrays him as a Christian martyr, surrounded by
fiends in human shape, whose delight was to insult his misfortunes—the
enemy would have you look upon him as a poltroon, whose fear of death
was so abject as to overcome all his other faculties. So difficult is
it, even at the source, to acquire accurate information as to the
complexion of the facts upon which subsequent historians must found.
Passing from facts to motives, there is of course much greater
discrepancy. The grand outlines of history cannot be violently
distorted, though the accessories constantly are. Certain landmarks
remain, like mountains, unchangeable in their form, though the
portraying artist may invest them either with sunshine or with storm.
But in dealing with the characters of public men, historians are rarely
liberal, almost never impartial. They judge the man, not only by his
cause, but by their estimate of his cause. If the tendencies of the
writer are puritanical, he will see no merit in the devotion, loyalty,
and courted sufferings of the cavalier; nay, he will often insinuate
that he was actuated by baser motives. On the other hand, the writer who
detests the violence and condemns the principles of the Parliamentarian
faction, is too apt to include, in his general censure, men of
unblemished life and irreproachable private character. And the
temptation to exaggerate becomes all the greater, because exaggeration
has already been practised on the other side.
Mr Burton, in his praiseworthy endeavours to elucidate the history of
Scotland from the Revolution of 1688, down to the suppression of the
Jacobite cause in 1746, has exhibited, throughout his work, very little
of the spirit of the partisan. In this respect he is entitled to much
credit—the more so perhaps, as, had he chosen to adopt the other course,
he might have pleaded the example of a brilliant living authority, who
is rather to be regarded as a fashioner than as a truthful exponent of
history. His subject, too, is a difficult one, and such as few men
living could approach without exhibiting a decided bias on one side or
on the other. In Scotland, religious and political zeal run constantly
into extremes, so that zealotry perhaps is the more appropriate term.
There was no considerable neutral party in the country, constituted as
it then was, to recall the others to reason, or to temper their stern
enthusiasm; and hence arose that series of conflicts and commotions
which, for more than a century, convulsed the kingdom. Even now, men are
not agreed as to the points on which their ancestors disputed. They have
inherited, concerning the events of the past, a political faith which
they will not surrender; and the old leaven is seen to affect the
consistency of modern character. From this sort of party spirit Mr
Burton is remarkably free. He has diligently collected facts from every
available source, but he has not allowed himself to be swayed by the
deductions of previous writers. In forming his estimate of public
characters, he has dismissed from his mind, as much perhaps as it was
possible for man to do, the extravagant eulogy of the friend, and the
indiscriminate abuse of the opponent; and it must be acknowledged that
many of his individual portraits impress us with the idea of reality,
though they differ widely in resemblance from the handiwork of other
artists. A book of history, constructed on such principles, though it
may not excite enthusiasm, is undeniably entitled to respect; and as Mr
Burton was eminently qualified, by his previous studies and pursuits, to
undertake this difficult task, we are glad at length to receive from his
hands so valuable a contribution to the history of Scottish affairs
during a period of peculiar importance.
If it were our intention to enter into a minute consideration of the
subject-matter of the work, we should be inclined to take exception to
some portions of the narrative, as calculated to convey erroneous
impressions as to the social state of the country. We have already said
that, as a political chronicler, Mr Burton may be considered as
remarkably free from prejudice. We ought to add that he is equally fair
in his estimate and analysis of the religious differences which were, in
Scotland, for a long period, the fruitful sources of discord; and that
he has succeeded, better than any former historian, in explaining the
nature of the ecclesiastical difficulties which—arising out of the
intricate question of the connection between Church and State, and the
efforts of the latter to restrain the former from arrogating, as had
been done before, an entire and dogmatic independence of action—have
resulted in repeated secessions from the main Presbyterian body. But we
cannot accord him the same meed of praise for his sketches of the
Highlanders, and his attempted delineation of their character. The
martial events of last century, in which the Highlanders were
principally engaged, have given them, in the eyes of strangers, a
prominence greater than is their due; so that, even at the present day,
Englishmen and foreigners are apt, when reference is made to Scotland,
to form an entirely mistaken view as to the bulk of the population. Many
of the present generation must remember the singular spectacle which
Edinburgh displayed during the visit of George IV., when the tartan
mania was at its height, and the boundary of the clans seemed to have
been extended from the Highland line to the Tweed. There was no harm in
such a demonstration, but it tended to generate and diffuse false ideas;
which, however, may be corrected without unduly lowering the position of
the Highlanders, or denying them that consideration which their valour
undoubtedly deserves. When we remember the materials of which the armies
of Montrose, Dundee, Mar, and Charles Edward were composed, we should be
slow to credit the assertion that the Highlanders have played an
unimportant part in Scottish history; nor can we assent to the sweeping
propositions advanced by writers who, for years past, have been ringing
the changes upon what they are pleased to term the superiority of the
Anglo-Saxon race, over every other sept which has a distinct name, and
especially over such of the inhabitants of the British Isles as are
supposed to be of a different descent. Notwithstanding the vast
intermixture of blood which has taken place, there are undoubtedly
visible, even at the present day, in so small a country as Scotland,
very marked peculiarities of race; but, without descending to the minute
distinctions of the antiquarian, the Scottish nation has, by popular
consent, been long divided into two sections, territorially
separated—the Lowlanders and the Highlanders. Whatever may have been the
origin of the Lowlanders, it is at all events certain that up to the
reign of Malcolm III. there were few or no Saxons in the land.
“Malcolm,” says Hailes, “had passed his youth at the English court; he
married an Anglo-Saxon princess; he afforded an asylum in his dominions
to many English and Norman malcontents. The king appeared in public with
a state and retinue unknown in more rude and simple times, and affected
to give frequent and sumptuous entertainments to his nobles. The natives
of Scotland, tenacious of their ancient customs, viewed with disgust the
introduction of foreign manners, and secretly censured the favour shown
to the English and Norman adventurers, as proceeding from injurious
partiality.” Of many important districts on the coasts, the
Scandinavians acquired and retained possession, and some of the nobility
and gentry are undoubtedly of Norman descent. But the old names, such as
those of Douglas, Graham, Ogilvie, and Keith, are indigenous to the
country, and have no more affinity with the Saxon than they have with
the Hungarian race. Alexander III.—whose accidental death at Kinghorn
led to the nefarious attempts of the English Edward upon the liberties
of a free nation—was the last of a long line of Celtic monarchs, in
whom, however, it is not now the fashion for our petty virtuosos to
believe. That descent, which tradition had preserved from times of the
remotest antiquity—which was referred to as acknowledged fact in the
public acts of the legislature and official documents of the
kingdom—which was not refuted nor denied when advanced as a plea against
the pretended right of suzerainty asserted for the English crown—which
such men as Fletcher and Belhaven cited in the course of their arguments
against an entire incorporating union—is sneered at by modern
antiquaries who have nothing to substitute for the faith which they seek
to overthrow. Indeed, to call such gentlemen antiquaries, is a direct
abuse of language. Scriblerus, we are told, flew into a violent passion
when, by dint of unnecessary scouring, his handmaid demonstrated that
the ancient buckler in which he prided himself, was nothing more than a
rusty pot lid. His successors take the scouring into their own hands,
and deny the possibility of a buckler. Our present business, however, is
not with the pseudo-antiquaries—for whom we entertain a sentiment
bordering very closely upon contempt—we simply wish to show that the
term Saxon, as applied to the Scottish Lowlanders, is altogether
inappropriate; and that, if there is any remarkable degree of energy in
their character which distinguishes them from the Highlanders, it does
not, at all events, arise from a superabundant infusion of the
Anglo-Saxon blood. Energy, indeed, is about the last quality that can be
claimed for the Saxons. They were brave, no doubt, but also intensely
phlegmatic; and, in point of intellect, were not to be compared either
to the Normans or the Danes. They were smally endowed with that
imaginative faculty which is so remarkable a characteristic of the
Celtic race—displayed but little aptitude for proficiency in the
arts—and in all matters of taste and cultivation were exceedingly slow
and unimpressible.
Owing to the peculiar nature of the country in which they were located,
and to their obstinate adherence to the patriarchal, as opposed to the
feudal system, the Highlanders retained not only their speech but their
original manners and customs, while the Lowlanders were gradually
altering theirs. Thus there came to be, within the same country, and
nominally owing allegiance to the same sovereign, two great sections
which held but little intercourse with each other. Still they were both
Scots, and gathered round the same standard. At Bannockburn and at
Flodden, the Highland chief and clansman fought alongside of the Lowland
knight and man-at-arms; and some of the most powerful heads of tribes
stood high in the roll of the nobility. In this way the Highland
influence, important on account of the warlike material which it
commanded, was always more or less powerfully represented at the court
of Scotland; and although the southern population generally saw little,
and knew less, of their northern neighbours, it is not true that there
existed between them a feeling of strong animosity. Raids and reprisals
there were undoubtedly; but these were common from Caithness to the
border. The strife was not always between the tartan and the broadcloth.
Scotts and Kerrs, Johnstones and Maxwells, fought and harried one
another with as much ferocity as did the Campbells, Macdonalds, and
M‘Leans in their mountain country; nor, if we are to trust contemporary
accounts, is it very clear that the former were decidedly superior in
civilisation to the latter.
Mr Burton, we think, has not done full justice to the Highland
character. Whatever may be thought of the abstract merits of the cause
which they espoused, the resolute adherence of the Highland clans to the
exiled family, the surprising efforts which they made, and sufferings
which they endured in the last memorable outbreak, must ever command our
sympathy, and excite our warm admiration. Surely Mr Burton might have
been contented with narrating the fact that, notwithstanding the reward
of thirty thousand pounds offered for the apprehension of Prince Charles
Edward, none of the poor Highlanders or outlaws whom he encountered in
his wanderings would stoop to the treachery of betraying him, without
suggesting that the amount “was too large for their imagination
practically to grasp as an available fund”! The same under-current of
depreciation towards the Highlanders is visible in his account of the
atrocious massacre of Glencoe, and even in the half-apologetic manner in
which he palliates, though not excuses, the butcheries of Cumberland
after the battle of Culloden. It is necessary to note these blemishes,
the rather because they occur in a work distinguished, in other
respects, for a high degree of accuracy.
We have the less inclination to enter upon disputed grounds, because the
points on which we differ from Mr Burton are not of practical moment.
The political intrigues and risings of the last century have not left
any permanent effect upon the social condition of the country; but the
subsequent blending together of the Lowland and Highland population, and
the establishment throughout the country of a uniform administration of
the laws, have been productive of the happiest results. So far the
changes have wrought well within Scotland. But the great event of last
century undoubtedly is the union between England and Scotland, which,
often proposed, and long delayed by mutual jealousy and clashing
interests, has elevated Great Britain to the foremost rank among the
European states.
That union was carried into effect, not as the result of any sympathy
between the English and Scottish nations—for antipathy rather than
sympathy was felt on both sides—but as an absolute political necessity.
In truth, such an event was an almost inevitable sequel to the union of
the crowns in the person of one monarch, at least if that arrangement
was to be maintained; and it could not be long delayed. There is, in
Lockhart’s Papers, an anecdote which shows how early this was foreseen.
“We are told,” says he, “that when King James was preparing to go and
take possession of his crown of England, his subjects of Scotland came
to take their leave of him, and attend him part of his way thither with
all the state and magnificence imaginable; but amongst these numerous
attendants, decked up in their finest apparel, and mounted on their best
horses, there appeared an old reverend gentleman of Fife, clothed all
over in the deepest mourning; and being asked why, whilst all were
contending to appear most gay on such an occasion, he should be so
singular? ‘Why, truly,’ replied he, ‘there is none of you congratulate
His Majesty’s good fortune more than I do, and here I am to perform my
duty to him. I have often marched this road, and entered England in an
hostile manner, and then I was as well accoutered in clothes, horses,
and arms, as my neighbours, and suitable to the occasion; but since I
look upon this procession as Scotland’s funeral solemnity, I’m come to
perform my last duty to my deceased and beloved country, with a heart
full of grief, and in a dress correspondent thereto.’ This gentleman, it
seems, foresaw that, by the removal of the king’s residence from
Scotland, the subject wanted an occasion of making so immediate an
application to the fountain of justice, and the state of the nation
could not be so well understood by the king; so that the interest and
concerns of every particular person, and likewise of the nation in
general, would be committed to the care of the ministers of state, who,
acting with a view to themselves, could not fail to oppress the people.
He foresaw that England, being a greater kingdom, made (as said Henry
VII. when he gave his daughter to the King of Scotland rather than the
King of France) an acquisition of Scotland, and that the king would be
under a necessity of siding with, and pleasing the most powerful of his
two kingdoms, which were jealous of, and rivals to, one another; and
that, therefore, ever after the union of the crowns, the king would not
mind, at least dare encourage, the trades of Scotland; and that all
state affairs would be managed, laws made and observed, ministers of
state put in and turned out, as suited best with the interest and
designs of England; by which means trade would decay, the people be
oppressed, and the nobility and great men become altogether corrupted.”
These anticipations—though probably confined to a few who were not
dazzled at the prospect of the enormous succession which had opened to
their prince, nor rendered blind to the future by the splendour of the
present triumph—were afterwards thoroughly realised. From the union of
the crowns, Scotland derived no permanent benefit, but the reverse. She
retained, indeed, her parliament; but she had parted with the presence
of her sovereign, who was entirely surrounded and swayed by English
influence. Whenever the interests of the two countries clashed—and that
was not seldom—the weaker was sure to suffer; and thus, instead of
increasing amity, a feeling even bitterer than that which had existed
while the kingdoms were entirely independent, was engendered. No wonder
that there were rebellions and outbreaks; for, in a political point of
view, it would have been better for Scotland to have had no king at all,
than to owe allegiance to one who was necessarily under English
dictation. Hence, instead of advancing like England, steadily in the
path of prosperity, Scotland rapidly decayed—until, to use the words of
an historian of the union—“in process of time, the nobility and gentry
turned, generally speaking, so corrupted by the constant and long tract
of discouragement to all that endeavoured to rectify the abuses and
advance the interests of the country, that the same was entirely
neglected, and religion, justice, and trade made tools of to advance the
private and sinister designs of selfish men; and thus the nation, being
for a hundred years in a manner without a head, and ravaged and gutted
by a parcel of renegadoes, became, from a flourishing, happy people,
extremely miserable.”
Passages like the foregoing are apt to be regarded as general
complaints, which hardly could be substantiated by reference to special
instances. There is, however, abundance of evidence to show that
Scotland, during the period which intervened between the union of the
crowns and that of the kingdoms, was greatly depressed by the influence
and policy of her more powerful neighbour. Under Cromwell, an entire
freedom of trade had been established between the two countries. His
ordinance was as follows: “That all customs, excise, and other imposts
for goods transported from England to Scotland, and from Scotland to
England, by sea or land, are, and shall be, so far taken off and
discharged, as that all goods for the future shall pass as free, and
with like privileges, and with the like charges and burdens, from
England to Scotland, and from Scotland to England, as goods passing from
port to port, or place to place in England; and that all goods shall and
may pass between Scotland _and any other part_ of this commonwealth or
dominions thereof, with the like privileges, freedom, and charges, as
such goods do or shall pass between England and the said parts or
dominions.”
“Thus,” remarks Mr Burton, who has entered very fully and distinctly
into the trading and commercial history of the times, “there was no
privilege enjoyed by traders in England which was not communicated to
Scotland; and what was not even attempted in France till the days of
Turgot, and only arose in Germany with the Prussian league—an internal
free trade—was accomplished for Britain in the middle of the
seventeenth century. It was during the few years of prosperity
following this event that many of our commercial cities arose.
Scotland enjoyed peace and abundance, and was making rapid progress in
wealth.”
After the Restoration, however, the Parliament of England repealed this
wise arrangement, and by enacting that the Scottish people should be
commercially considered as aliens, introduced a fresh element of discord
between the nations.
“In 1667, commissioners were appointed from the two kingdoms to treat
of union, when this object of a free trade was at once brought
prominently forward on the part of Scotland, and at once repelled on
that of England. It was stated that the colonies had been created at
the expense of Englishmen, and should exist for their advantage only;
that the East India and some other trades were monopolies in the hands
of companies, not even open to the English at large, which it was out
of the question to communicate to any strangers; and, finally, that
the privileges of English shipping were far too precious to the
merchants of England to be extended to Scotsmen.”
This churlishness on the part of England was the more inexcusable,
because the Scots nation was not left, as of old, free to form an
unfettered and reciprocal alliance with any of the Continental states.
From very early times, the relations between Scotland and France had
been of the most intimate description—it being the policy of the latter
country to support the former, and to retain its friendship, as the most
effective check upon English aggression. The military service of France
had long been open to the enterprising Scottish youth, and at the French
universities the northern men of letters were received with open arms.
But the union of the crowns, if it did not entirely close, at least
greatly limited the extent of this intercourse. If England went to war
with France, all communication with Scotland was necessarily closed. It
might not be Scotland’s quarrel, but the enemies of the King of England
were also to be considered as her foes. Hence she found that, on the one
hand, her old relations were ruthlessly broken off, whilst, on the
other, she was denied all participation in the commercial privileges
which were rapidly augmenting the wealth of her southern neighbour. Hume
tells us that “the commerce and riches of England did never, during any
period, increase so fast as from the Restoration to the Revolution.” At
the accession of the Stuarts to the English throne, the revenue of that
country amounted to about £500,000: in 1688, when James II. left the
throne, it had risen to £2,000,000. Within twenty-eight years the
shipping of England had more than doubled. And, while this extraordinary
degree of prosperity prevailed in the south, Scotland was daily becoming
poorer, not through the fault or indolence of her people, but in
consequence of that anomalous connection, which, while it withheld any
new advantages, deprived her of the opportunity of the old.
One effort, which well deserves to be remembered in history, was made by
the Scottish nation to rescue themselves from this degrading position.
We allude to the Darien scheme, which, though unfortunate in its issue,
was yet as bold and comprehensive a commercial enterprise as ever was
undertaken. That it failed, was undoubtedly not the fault of the
projectors. The most disgraceful means were used on the part of the
English government, at the instigation of English merchants alarmed for
the continuance of their monopoly, to render it abortive; and even were
the character of William of Orange otherwise without reproach, his
duplicity and treacherous dealing in this transaction would remain as a
dark blot upon his memory. But in thus attempting, disreputably and
unfairly, to crush the rising spirit of Scottish enterprise in a field
hitherto unoccupied, the English advisers of the crown had gone too far.
True, they had succeeded in annihilating nearly all the available
capital of the northern kingdom, which had been embarked in this
gigantic scheme; but they had also roused to a point almost of
ungovernable fury the passion of an insulted people. There is this
peculiarity about the Scots, that they are slow to proclaim a grievance,
but resolute to redress it when proclaimed. The extreme quietude of
demeanour and retinence of speech have sometimes been falsely
interpreted as indicative of a want of spirit; whereas, on the contrary,
no people can be more keenly alive than they are to a sense of injury.
And such was the attitude of the Scottish parliament at the time, and
such the defiant tone of the nation, that William, seriously alarmed for
the safety of his throne, “took up the neglected question of the union,
and earnestly recommended such a measure to the House of Lords, with a
special reference to the history of Darien, and to the adjustment of
trading privileges, as the only means of saving the two nations from
endless and irreconcilable discord.”
It was not, however, destined that the union of the kingdoms should be
effected under the auspices of the prince whose name in Scotland is
indissolubly connected with the tragedies of Glencoe and Darien. The
accession of Queen Anne, a daughter of the house of Stuart, inspired the
Scottish people with the hope that their grievances might be at last
redressed, or, at all events, be considered with more fairness than they
could expect from her predecessor, who was an utter stranger to their
habits and their laws, and whose title to rule, being questionable in
itself, might naturally lead him to show undue favour to the stronger
nation which had accepted him, at the expense of the weaker and more
remote. It was now perfectly evident to all who were capable of forming
a judgment on the matter, that, unless some decided step were taken for
admitting the Scots to a commercial reciprocity with the English, an
entire separation of the two kingdoms must inevitably take place. With a
large portion of the northern population, the latter alternative would
have been cheerfully accepted. What they complained of was, that they
were uselessly fettered by England—could not take a single step in any
direction without interfering or being interfered with by her—were
denied the privilege, which every free nation should possess, of making
their own alliances; and had not even the right of sending an accredited
ambassador to a foreign court. They had no objection, but the reverse,
to be associated with England on fair terms; but hitherto there appeared
no reason to hope that such terms would ever be granted; and they would
not consent to be degraded from their rank as an independent nation. The
English were, on the other hand, exceedingly adverse to any measure of
conciliation. As in individuals, so in nations, there are always
peculiarities which distinguish one from another; and an overweening
idea of their own superiority is essentially the English characteristic.
A great deal has been and is written in the South about Scottish
nationality—it is, in reality, nothing compared to the feelings which
are entertained by the Englishman. But of this we shall have occasion to
speak presently; in the mean time, it is sufficient to note that no
measure could have been more unpopular in the trading towns and shipping
ports of England, than one which proposed to admit the subjects of the
same crown to an equal participation of privileges. Accordingly, the
first attempt of Queen Anne, made only three days after her accession,
in her opening speech to the Parliament of England, towards a union
between the two countries, proved entirely abortive. It is worth while
quoting from Mr Burton the note—for it is little more—of this
negotiation, for the purpose of showing how determined the English
people were to maintain their old monopoly. Commissioners on either side
were appointed.
“It became at once apparent that the admission of Scotland to equal
trading privileges was still the great difficulty on the side of
England. The first fundamental proposition—the succession to the
throne, according to the Act of Settlement—was readily acceded to, as
well as the second for giving the United Kingdom one legislature. As
an equivalent fundamental article, the Scottish commissioners demanded
‘the mutual communication of trade, and other privileges and
advantages.’ To this it was answered, that such a communication was
indeed a necessary result of a complete union; but a specific answer
was deferred, until the Board should discuss ‘the terms and
conditions’ of this communication. There was a deficiency of
attendance of English members to form a quorum, which for some time
interrupted the treaty. Whether this was from their being otherwise
occupied, or from distaste of the business before them, it chafed the
spirits of the Scots. When the two bodies were brought together again,
the trade demands of the Scots were articulately set forth. They
demanded free trade between the two nations; the same regulations and
duties in both countries for importation and exportation; equal
privileges to the shipping and seamen of the two nations; the two
nations not to be burdened with each other’s debts, or, if they were
to be so, an equivalent to be paid to Scotland, as the nation more
unequally so burdened; and, lastly, it was proposed that these demands
should be considered without reference to existing companies in either
kingdom. This was well understood by both parties to have reference to
the Darien affair.
“On the part of England it was conceded that ‘there be a free trade
between the two kingdoms for the native commodities of the growth,
product, and manufactures of the respective countries.’ But even this
concession, defined so as to exclude external trade, was not to extend
to wool—an article on which English restrictions on exportation, for
the support of home manufacture, had risen to a fanatical excess. A
reference was made to the colonial trade—the main object of the
Scottish demand of an exchange of commercial privileges. It was
postponed, and in a tone indicating that it was too precious, as a
privilege of Englishmen and a disqualification of Scotsmen, to be
conceded.”
After further communing, without any satisfactory result, the meetings
of the commissioners were adjourned; and there stands on the minutes of
the Scottish Parliament the following brief but exceedingly emphatic
resolution, that the Scottish commission for the treaty is terminate and
extinct, and not to be revived without the consent of the Estates.
These details are absolutely necessary for a proper understanding of the
circumstances under which the great Act of Union of the two kingdoms was
finally carried. Former historians have given too much prominence to
mere party intrigues and ecclesiastical contests, which, though they
undoubtedly lend a colour to the transactions of the times, are by no
means to be regarded as the sole motives of action. The Presbyterian
form of Church government was by this time finally settled; and there
was no wish, on the part of any large section in the country, to have
that settlement disturbed. The Jacobite or Cavalier party regarded the
proposals for a union with suspicion, as necessarily involving a
surrender of their cherished principle of legitimacy; and it is not
unreasonable to suppose that many of them were rather glad than
otherwise to perceive that the failure of the negotiation was entirely
attributable to the tenacity and superciliousness of the English. Some
of the nobility were conscientiously opposed to an entire incorporating
union as degrading to the country, and injurious to the dignity of their
own order; and they were supported in that view by a large number of the
gentry, who were not sufficiently conversant with commercial affairs to
understand the enormous importance of the development of the national
trade. But in the midst of parties actuated by traditionary feeling and
sectarian motives, there had arisen one, the members of which were fully
alive to the critical state of the country, earnestly impressed with the
necessity of elevating its position, and, withal, determined that its
honour should not suffer in their hands.
At the head of this independent body of politicians was Fletcher of
Saltoun, a man of high and vigorous intellect, but of a hasty and
impetuous nature. Fletcher was heart and soul a Scotsman, and devoted to
his country. Loyalty to the sovereign was with him a secondary
consideration—indeed he seems always to have entertained the theory that
the kingly office was simply the result of the election of the people.
He had taken an active part in Monmouth’s rebellion, and fought against
King James—William he looked upon as no better than a usurping
tyrant—and he was now ready to transfer the crown, if transferred it
must be, to the head of any claimant, if by so doing he could rescue his
country from what he deemed to be intolerable degradation. Those who
followed Fletcher, and acted along with him in Parliament, did not
subscribe to all these peculiar opinions; but, like him, they regarded
the welfare of the country as their primary object, and were determined,
since England would not come to terms, to achieve once more an entire
and thorough independence. They looked for support, as brave men will
ever do in such emergencies, not to party politicians who might use and
betray them, but to the great body of the people; and they did not
appeal in vain.
The last Parliament ever held in Scotland, assembled on the 6th of May
1703. Nothing was said about further negotiation for a union, but
something was done significant of the determination of the country to
vindicate its rights. An act was passed restraining the right of the
monarch to make war, on the part of Scotland, without the consent of the
Scottish Parliament. Another, by removing the restrictions on the
importation of French wines, was intended to show that the Scottish
legislature did not consider themselves involved in the English
continental policy. But the most important measure by far was that
termed the “Act for the Security of the Kingdom.” The crown of England
had been formally settled upon the Princess Sophia and her heirs,
failing direct descendants of Queen Anne, and it appears to have been
confidently expected that the Scottish Parliament would adopt the same
order of succession. So little doubt seems to have been entertained on
this point, that no conference on the subject had been held or even
proposed,—a neglect which the Scots were entitled to consider either as
an insult, or as an indirect intimation that they were at perfect
liberty to make their own arrangements. The latter view was that which
they chose to adopt. In their then temper, indeed, it was not to be
expected that they would let slip the opportunity of testifying to
England that, except on equal terms, they would enter into no permanent
alliance, and that, in the event of these not being granted, they were
desirous to dissolve the connection by effecting a separation of the
crowns. The main provisions of the Act, as it was passed, were these:—
“That on the death of the Queen without issue, the Estates were to
name a successor from the Protestant descendants of the royal line of
Scotland, _but the admitted successor to the crown of England was
excluded from their choice_, unless ‘there be such conditions of
government settled and enacted as may secure the honour and
sovereignty of this crown and kingdom,—the freedom, frequency, and
power of Parliaments,—the religion, freedom, and trade of the nation,
from English or any foreign influence.’ It was made high treason to
administer the coronation oath without instructions from the Estates.
By a further clause, to come in force immediately, the nation was
placed in a state of defence, and the able-bodied population were
ordained to muster under their respective heritors or burgh
magistrates.”
This act, though not formally ratified until another session, affords
the true key to the history of the great Union effected in 1707, whereby
the people of two kingdoms, long rivals and often at hostility, were
happily blended into one. It is not our intention to enter into any
minute details regarding the progress of that measure, or to depict the
popular feeling with which it was received. It was hardly possible that
an event of this magnitude could take place, without exciting in some
quarters a feeling of regret for altered nationality, and creating in
others a strong misgiving for the future. But, in reality, there was no
national surrender. The treaty was conducted and carried through on
terms of perfect equality. England and Scotland were united into one
kingdom by the name of Great Britain, and their separate ensigns were
appointed to be conjoined. Each division was to retain its own laws,
institutions, and ecclesiastical polity, and one Parliament was to
legislate for the whole. It was upon the latter point that the great
difference of opinion prevailed. Some advocated—and the reasons they
adduced were not without their weight—a federal union, which would at
least have the effect of preserving to Scotland the administration of
its own affairs. They maintained that, under an incorporating union, the
interests of Scotland, in so far as their own domestic and peculiar
institutions were concerned, must necessarily, in the course of time, be
neglected, in as much as the Scottish representatives in the Imperial
Parliament would constitute but a small minority—that by entire
centralisation of government, the wealth of the lesser country would be
gradually attracted to the greater—and that no guarantees could justify
the imprudence of parting with an administrative and controlling power
over such matters as were intended to remain peculiarly distinctive of
the nation. The experience of well-nigh a century and a half has proved
that such apprehensions were not altogether without a foundation, and
that the predicted tendency to absorb and centralise was not the mere
phantom of an inflamed patriotic imagination; nevertheless, we are
clearly of opinion that the objections which were raised to a federal
were of far greater weight than those which could be urged against an
incorporating union. It is impossible, we think, to read the history of
last century without perceiving that a federal union, however skilfully
framed, could hardly have been maintained unbroken—it would at any rate
have engendered jealousies and perpetuated prejudices which are now
happily set at rest—and it probably would have been a material bar to
that unrestricted intercourse which has been productive of so much
advantage to both divisions of the island. But, while granting this, we
by no means intend to deny that centralisation, when pushed beyond a
certain necessary point, may not become a grievance which loudly calls
for a remedy.
To judge from their language, and the general tone of their opinions,
many of our brethren in the south seem to regard the Union simply as an
act by means of which Scotland was annexed to England. A few weeks ago,
a presumptuous scribbler in a London weekly journal, while reviewing Mr
Burton’s work, designated Scotland as the incorporated, in
contradistinction to the incorporating body; and although we do not
suppose that such exceeding ignorance of historical fact is common, we
are nevertheless constrained to believe that a good deal of
misapprehension prevails as to the real nature of the treaty. Even the
language of statesmen in Parliament is often inaccurate, and has a
tendency to promote false views upon the subject. To talk of the laws of
England or of her Church, is strictly correct, for these are peculiar
to, and distinctive of herself; but such expressions as the English
flag, English army, English parliament, &c., are altogether
inappropriate, unless, indeed, the Treaty of Union is to be considered
as an absolute dead letter. These things may be deemed trifles; but
still there is a significance in words, which becomes the greater the
oftener they are employed. We have, however, no desire to cavil about
terms; nor would we have noticed such a matter, if it were not also
evident that there has been, for some time past, and still is, a
tendency to regard Scotland in the light of a subsidiary province, and
to deal with her accordingly. Such, we say, is the case at present; but
we do not therefore by any means conclude that there is a desire to
defraud us of our privileges, or to degrade us from our proper position.
We believe that we have grievances for which we require redress; but we
are induced to attribute the existence of these grievances, most of
which have been generated by neglect, rather to the limited number of
our national representatives, and the inadequate provision which has
been made for the administration of Scottish affairs, than to any
intention on the part of British statesmen to withhold from us what we
consider to be our due. Still, as claimants, and especially as claimants
under so solemn a treaty, we are not only entitled, but bound to state
our case, which we shall do, we hope, with proper temperance and
discretion.
We have often been told, especially of late years, that any expression
of what is called Scottish nationality is absurd, and likely to be
injurious to the general interest of the kingdom; and those journals who
have taken upon themselves the task of ridiculing any movement on the
part of Scotsmen to obtain what they consider to be their just
privileges under a solemn international treaty, beseech us not “to
engage in a disgraceful imitation of the worst features of Irish
character.” We certainly have no intention of imitating the Irish; but
we have as little idea of relinquishing that which is our own, or of
submitting to domineering pretensions which have not a shadow of a
foundation to rest on. In all matters common to the British empire, we
acknowledge but one interest—in all matters peculiar to Scotland, we
claim a right to be heard.
To say that Scottish nationality is a dream without an object, is to
deny history, and to fly in the face of fact. The Union neither did nor
could denationalise us. It left us in undisturbed possession of our
national laws and our national religion; and it further provided, as
well as could be done at the period, and most anxiously, for the future
maintenance of those institutions which the state is bound to foster and
preserve. If it had been intended that in all time coming the Imperial
Parliament of Britain was to have full liberty to deal as it pleased
with the internal affairs of Scotland, certainly there would not have
been inserted in the treaty those stringent clauses, which, while they
maintain the institutions of the past, lay down rules for their
regulation in the future. These were, to all intents and purposes,
fundamental conditions of the treaty; and to that treaty, both in word
and spirit, we look and appeal. We can assure our friends in the south
that they will hear nothing of what a polished and judicious journalist
has had the exquisite taste to term “a parcel of trash about
Bannockburn, and sticks of sulphur of which a schoolboy, in his calmer
moments, might feel ashamed.” We have no intention whatever, as the same
ornament of letters has averred, of demanding a repeal of the Union—on
the contrary, our demand resolves itself into this, that the spirit of
the treaty should be observed, and the same consideration be shown by
Parliament to matters which are purely Scottish, as to those which
relate exclusively to England. And until it shall be received as
righteous doctrine, that men are not only ridiculous, but culpable, in
demanding what has been guaranteed to them, we shall give such
assistance as lies in our power, to any movement in Scotland for the
vindication of the national rights.
That the provisions of the Treaty of Union were just and equitable, will
not be disputed. They were adjusted with much care, with much
difficulty, and were, in many points of view, exceedingly favourable to
Scotland. But, unfortunately, almost from the very outset, a series of
infringements began. Mr Burton, who certainly does not exaggerate
Scottish grievances, remarks, “that many of the calamities following on
the Union, had much encouragement, if they did not spring from that
haughty English nature which would not condescend to sympathise in, or
even know, the peculiarities of their new fellow-countrymen.” We go even
further than this; for we are convinced that, had the provisions of the
Union been scrupulously observed, and a judicious delicacy used in the
framing of the new regulations necessary for the establishment of a
uniform fiscal system—had the pride of the Scots not been wantonly
wounded, and a strong colour given to the suspicions of the vulgar that
the national cause had been betrayed—it is more than probable that no
serious rising would have been attempted on behalf of the Stuarts.
Obviously it was the policy of the English to have conciliated the
Scots, and by cautious and kindly treatment to have reconciled them to
their new position. But conciliation is not one of the arts for which
Englishmen are famed; and it is not improbable that the nation was
possessed with the idea that the Scots had, somehow or other, obtained a
better bargain than they were altogether entitled to. Moreover, the
English were then, as some of them are even now, profoundly ignorant of
the history, temper, and feelings of the northern population. Mr Burton
very justly remarks:—
“The people of Scotland, indeed, knew England much better than the
people of England knew Scotland—perhaps as any village knows a
metropolis better than the people of the metropolis know the village.
Those who pursued historical literature, it is true, were acquainted
with the emphatic history of the people inhabiting the northern part
of the island, and were taught by it to respect and fear them; but the
ordinary Englishman knew no more about them than he did about the
natives of the Faroe or Scilly isles. The efforts of the pamphleteers
to make Scotland known to the English at the period of the Union, are
like the missionary efforts at the present day to instruct people
about the policy of the Caffres or the Japanese.”
No sooner was the Union effected, than disputes began about duties.
Illegal seizures of Scottish vessels were made by the authorities.
Englishmen, wholly ignorant of the laws and habits of those among whom
they were to reside, were appointed to superintend the revenue; and, as
sometimes occurs even at the present day, the dogmatic adherence of such
men to the technicalities of the “system” under which they were bred,
and their intolerance of any other method, made them peculiarly odious,
and cast additional unpopularity upon the English name. If we again
quote Mr Burton on this subject, it is less with the view of exposing
what formerly took place, than in the hope that the spirit of his
remarks, not altogether inapplicable even now, may penetrate the obtuse
mist which shrouds our public departments; and lead to some relaxation
of that bigoted bureaucracy which prevails in the Government offices. It
has been, we are aware, laid down as an axiom that the local business of
any district is best conducted by a stranger. Our view is directly the
reverse. We maintain that an intimate knowledge of the people with whom
he is to transact, is a high qualification for an official; and it is
much to be regretted that the opposite system has been pursued in
London, under the baneful influence of centralisation.
“Cause of enmity still more formidable passed across to Scotland
itself, where the Englishman showed his least amiable characteristics.
To manage the revenue, new commissioners of excise and customs were
appointed, consisting in a great measure of Englishmen. They were
followed by subordinate officers trained in the English method of
realising the duties, whose distribution throughout the country
afforded opportunities for saying that a swarm of harpies had been let
loose on the devoted land, to suck its blood and fatten on the spoils
of the oppressed people. The Englishman’s national character is not
the best adapted for such delicate operations. He lays his hand to his
functions with a steady sternness, and resolute unconsciousness of the
external conditions by which he is surrounded. The subordinate officer
generally feels bound, with unhesitating singleness of purpose, to the
peculiar methods followed at home in his own ‘department,’ as being
the only true and sound methods. He has no toleration for any other,
and goes to his duty among strangers as one surrounded by knaves and
fools, whose habits and ideas must be treated with disdain. Thus has
it often happened, that the collective honesty and national fidelity
to engagements of the English people, have been neutralised by the
tyrannical pride and surly unadaptability of the individual men who
have come in contact with other nations.”
These arrangements were evidently unwise, as being calculated to produce
throughout the country a spirit of discontent among the middle and lower
classes, whom the Government ought to have conciliated by every means in
their power. There is much independence of thought, as well as
shrewdness, among the Scottish peasantry and burghers; and their hearty
co-operation and good-will would have been an effectual barrier against
any attempts to overthrow the Hanoverian succession. To that, indeed, as
a security for the maintenance of the Presbyterian form of church
government, they were well inclined; and, therefore, it was of the more
moment that they should be reconciled as speedily as possible to the
Union. But instead of the fair side of the picture, the dark one was
imprudently presented to them. The taxation was greatly increased, the
measures altered according to a foreign standard, and a degree of rigour
exercised in the collection of the revenue, to which they had been
previously unaccustomed. Against these immediate burdens and
innovations, it was of no use to expatiate upon future prospects of
national prosperity as an off-set. The Commons, never keenly in favour
of the Union, began presently to detest it; and, if they did not
absolutely wish success to the Jacobite cause, it was pretty generally
understood that they would take no active measures to oppose a rising
which at least might have the effect of freeing them from a burdensome
connection.
Nothing, indeed, could be more injudicious than the early legislation of
the United Parliament in regard to Scottish affairs. In order to
strengthen the hands of the English officers of customs and excise
located in the north, who could not understand the technicalities, and
would not observe the forms of a law to which they were habitually
strangers, it was determined that the Scottish Justices of the Peace
should be made fac-similes of the English. We may conceive the horror of
a grim Presbyterian west-country laird at finding himself associated in
the commission with “the most reverent father in Christ, and our
faithful counsellor, Thomas Archbishop of Canterbury, primate of all
England, and metropolitan thereof!” Then came the abolition of the
Scottish Privy Council, and a new act for the trial of treason,
superseding the authority of the Court of Justiciary, and introducing
the commission, unintelligible to Scottish ears, of Oyer and Terminer.
This was passed in the face of the united opposition of the whole body
of the Scottish members. Then came the Patronage Act, which effected a
schism in the church, and others more or less injurious or injudicious;
so that it is impossible to avoid the conclusion of Mr Burton, “that
English statesmen, had they desired to alienate Scotland, and create a
premature revulsion against the Union, could not have pursued a course
better directed to such an end.” In fact, the existence of the Union was
at one time in the greatest peril. The Scottish members of the House of
Commons, though almost to a man returned on the Revolution interest,
held a meeting for the purpose of considering the propriety of taking
steps to have the Union dissolved; and it does not appear that there was
a single dissentient voice. Lockhart, the member for Mid-Lothian, who
summoned the meeting, has given us a sketch of his statement, the most
important points of which were as follows: “That the Scots trade was
sunk and destroyed by the many prohibitions, regulations, and
impositions on it, and the heavy taxes imposed on the native produce and
manufacture (all which were calculated and adapted to the conveniency
and circumstances of England, with which those of Scotland did noways
correspond); and that the country was exhausted of money, by the
remittance of so great a part of the public taxes, and the great
recourse of so many Scotsmen to London: if matters stood long on such a
footing, the ruin and misery of Scotland was unavoidable; that from the
haughty and insolent treatment we had lately received, it was
sufficiently evident we could expect no just redress from the English.”
The result of the conference was a communication with the Scottish
Representative Peers, who were also by this time thoroughly disgusted
with the Union; and the Earl of Findlater, selected as the mouthpiece of
the party, moved the dissolution of the Union in the House of Lords, and
succeeded in effecting an equal division of the members present. The
motion was lost by the small majority of three upon the proxies.
It is remarkable that in this debate the Duke of Argyle and his brother,
Lord Ilay, both warm friends of the Hanoverian succession, spoke
strongly in favour of the motion; thus showing how keenly and
universally the attempt to provincialise Scotland was felt by all
classes. It became evident that, under such a system of administration,
Scotland could not long remain tranquil; and, accordingly, the death of
Queen Anne was followed by the raising of the insurrectionary standard.
Mar’s rebellion was at length quelled, mainly through the efforts and
personal popularity of the Duke of Argyle. In all human probability it
never would have taken place, but for the encouragement held out to the
Jacobites by the universal discontent of Scotland. But in spite of every
warning, the ministers of the day persevered in a line of conduct most
offensive to the northern population. They suppressed the important
office of the Scottish Secretary of State, as if the affairs of that
kingdom were of so little importance, that an English Secretary, who
knew nothing of the people or their laws, was perfectly competent to
superintend their business in addition to that of the other country.
Such an arrangement as this, however, was too preposterous to remain
unaltered. The English Secretary might just as well have attempted to
administer the affairs of Muscovy as those of Scotland; and, in process
of time, the functions of Secretary were quietly handed over to the Lord
Advocate—a combination of which the country has had much reason to
complain, and which it certainly ought not to tolerate longer. The
history of the country between 1715 and 1745, is, with the exception of
a short period during which the Duke of Argyle exercised a sort of
provisional vice-royalty, little else than a catalogue of repeated
innovations and dissensions. At that time Scotland was regarded by
English statesmen as a dangerous and smouldering volcano; and fully half
a century, dating from the time of the Union, went by, before anything
like a feeling of cordiality was established between the two nations.
When we regard Scotland as it is now—tranquil, prosperous, and
enterprising—we are naturally led to wonder at the exceeding greatness
of the change. The change, however, is not in the character of the
people: they are still as jealous of what they esteem to be their just
rights and guaranteed privileges as ever; but they have felt, and fully
appreciate, the advantages which they have derived from the union; a
closer intercourse has taught them to respect and admire the many
estimable qualities of the English character; and they perceive that a
very great deal of the aggression of which their fathers complained, and
which led not only to heartburnings but to civil strife, arose rather
from ignorance than from deliberate intention of offence. And if, even
now, there are some matters with regard to which they consider that they
have not received justice, these have not been, and will not be, made
the subjects of a reckless agitation. No one believes that there is any
design on the part of England to deal unkindly or unfairly with her
sister. We may, indeed, complain that purely Scottish matters are
treated with comparative indifference in the British House of Commons;
but, then, it is impossible to forget that the great majority of the
members know very little indeed of the Scottish laws and institutions.
There is some truth in one observation of the _Times_—though the writer
intended it for a sneer—“that the Scottish representatives in London are
not only regarded with the deepest respect, but to them the highest of
all compliments is paid—namely, that when a Scotch subject is brought
before the House, almost invariably the matter is left to their own
decision, without interference of any kind.” If the _Times_ could have
added that Scottish business obtained that prominence to which it is
entitled—that our bills were not invariably shuffled off and postponed,
as if they related to matters of no moment whatever—the statement might
be accepted as satisfactory. Even as it is, we are not inclined to stand
greatly upon our dignity. Neglect is, upon the whole, preferable to
over-legislation; and we are not covetous of the repetition of such
experiments as were made by the late Sir Robert Peel upon our banking
system. But, so far as we know, beyond an occasional grumble at slight
and delay, there has been no serious remonstrance on this head. What we
do remonstrate against is, that while exposed to an equal taxation with
England, Scotland does not receive the same, or anything like the same,
encouragement for her national institutions, and that her local
interests are not properly cared for on the part of the British
government.
We are very anxious that this matter should be stated fairly and calmly,
so that our brethren in the south may judge for themselves whether or
not there is substantive reason in the appeal for “Justice to Scotland”
which, having been faintly audible for many years, is now sounded
throughout the land. We have anything but a wish to make mountains out
of molehills, or to magnify and parade trifles as positive grievances.
Therefore we shall not allude to such matters as heraldic arrangements,
though why the stipulations made by treaty with regard to these should
be violated or overlooked, we cannot comprehend. If emblems are to be
retained at all, they ought to be in strict accordance with the position
of the things which they represent. Our real complaints, however, are
not of a nature which will admit of so easy a remedy as the application
of a painter’s brush, or a readjustment of quarterings; nor can they be
laughed down by silly sneers at the attitude of the Scottish Lion. They
are substantial and specific; and both the honour and the interest of
Scotland are concerned in obtaining their redress.
And first we maintain, and refer to the Treaty of Union, and our present
arrangements as proof, that the equality established between England and
Scotland has been observed only as regards equality of taxation, but has
been disregarded in the matter of allowances. We ask Englishmen, against
whom the charge of pecuniary injustice has almost never been made, and
who frequently have erred, in regard to foreign connection and subsidy,
on the other side, to take into serious consideration the facts which we
are about to adduce.
The object of the Treaty of Union was to establish uniformity of trade
and privilege, internal and external, throughout the United Kingdom; to
equalise taxation and burdens; and to extinguish all trace of separate
interest in matters purely imperial. But it was not intended by the
Union to alter or innovate the laws and institutions of either
country—on the contrary, these were strictly excepted and provided for.
The previous acts, both of the English and the Scottish Parliaments,
remained in force, applicable to the two countries: but, for the future,
all legislation was to be intrusted to one body, “to be styled the
Parliament of Great Britain.” Referring again to the Treaty of Union, we
find anxious and careful provision made for the maintenance in Scotland
of three national institutions, the Church, the Courts, and the
Universities; all of which the united legislature was bound to recognise
and protect. In short, the whole spirit and tenor of the Treaty is,
that, without altering national institutions, equality should be
observed as much as possible in the future administration of the
countries.
It cannot be pretended that the Union implied no real sacrifice on the
part of the Scottish people. London, to the exclusion of Edinburgh,
became the seat of government. Thither the nobility and wealthier gentry
were drawn, and there a considerable portion of the revenue of the
country was expended. That was the inevitable consequence of the
arrangement which was made, and the Scots were too shrewd not to
perceive it. But, on the other hand, the advantages which the union
offered, seemed, in prospect at least, to counterbalance the sacrifice;
and it was understood that, though the Scottish parliament was
abolished, and the great offices of state suppressed, the remanent local
institutions were to receive from the British government that
consideration and support which was necessary to maintain them in a
healthy state of existence.
It is almost to be regretted that the Treaty of Union was not more
distinct and specific on those points; and that no stipulation was made
for the expenditure of a fair proportion of the revenue raised from
Scotland within her bounds. That such a guarantee would have been
advantageous is now evident; for, instead of diminishing, the tendency
towards centralisation has become greater than ever. No government has
tried to check it—indeed, we question whether public men are fully aware
of its evil.
As a country advances in wealth, the seat of government will always
prove the centre point of attraction. The fascinations of the court, the
concourse of the nobility, the necessary throng of the leading commoners
of Britain during the parliamentary season, are all in favour of the
metropolis. To this, as a matter of course, we must submit, and do so
cheerfully; but not by any means because we are in the situation of an
English province. It never was intended to make us such, nor could the
whole power of England, however exerted, have degraded us to that
position. London is not our capital city, nor have we any interest in
its aggrandisement. We do not acknowledge the authority, in matters of
law, of the Chief-Justice of England—we are altogether beyond the reach
of the southern Ecclesiastical Courts. These are not accidental
exceptions; they are necessary parts of the system by which it was
provided that, in all things concerning our local administration, we
were to have local courts, local powers, and a local executive. We
complain that, in this respect, the spirit of the treaty has not been
observed. Our Boards of Custom and Commissioners of Excise have been
abolished; the revenues of the Scottish Woods and Forests are
administered in London, and applied almost entirely to English purposes;
and a like centralisation has been extended to the departments of the
Stamps and Post-office.
But lest it should be said that these are grievances more shadowy than
real, let us take the case of the Woods and Forests mentioned above. The
hereditary revenues of the Crown in Scotland amount to a very large sum,
all of which is sent to London, but hardly a penny of it ever returns.
Holyrood, Dunfermline, Linlithgow—all our old historical buildings and
objects of interest, are allowed to crumble into decay; because the
administration of a fund which ought to be devoted to such purposes is
confided to Englishmen, who care nothing whatever about the matter. By
one vote in the present year, £181,960 were devoted to the repair and
embellishment of royal palaces, parks, and pleasure-grounds in England;
but it seems by the statement of the Chancellor of the Exchequer that
there are no funds available for the repair of Holyrood. Of course there
can be no funds, if all our money is to be squandered in the south, and
an annual expenditure of nearly £10,000 lavished upon Hampton Court,
where royalty never resides. Of course there can be no funds, if £40,000
is given for a palm-house at Kew, and upwards of £62,000 for royal parks
in England. But there _are_ funds, if we may believe the public
accounts, arising from the revenue of the Crown in Scotland, though most
unjustly diverted to other than Scottish purposes. It may be, however,
that, very soon, no such funds will remain. A large portion of the Crown
property situated in Scotland has been advertised for public sale; and
we may be sure of this, that not even a fractional portion of the
proceeds will be applied to the North of the Tweed. Now, if the
management of this branch of the Revenue had been intrusted to a board
in Edinburgh (as it formerly was, before the Barons of Exchequer were
abolished), we venture to say that, without asking or receiving one
shilling of English money, we could have effectually rescued ourselves
from the reproach to which we are daily subjected by strangers, who are
not aware of the extent to which centralisation has been carried. They
look with wonder and sorrow at Holyrood, with her ruined chapel, and the
bones of our Scottish kings and queens exposed to the common gaze, and
ask whether they really are among a people famous for the enthusiasm
with which they cleave to the memories of the past, and to the
recollections of their former glories. Peering through the bars of that
charnel vault where the giant skeleton of Darnley is thrown beside the
mouldering remains of those who once wore the crown and wielded the
sceptre of Scotland, they can recall no parallel instance of desecration
save the abominable violation of the sepulchres of St Denis by the base
republican rabble. And who are to blame for this? Not certainly the
Scottish people, but those who have diverted the revenues applicable to
purely national objects, to the maintenance of English palaces and the
purchase of London parks.
Centralisation has deprived us of several important offices which could
have been filled quite as economically and efficiently for the public
service in Scotland as in the south. We are by no means in favour of the
extension of useless offices, but there is a vast difference between
such and places of responsibility, where local knowledge becomes a very
high qualification. It is impossible that a board, sitting in London,
can give the same satisfaction to the people of Scotland, or conduct
business so effectually, as if it was located among them. But, besides
this, it seems to be a settled matter that Scottish official
appointments are to be remunerated on a different scale from that which
is applied in England and in Ireland. Why is it that our officials—in
the Edinburgh Post-office, for example—are paid at a far lower rate than
those who perform the same duties in London and in Dublin? Is it because
Ireland contributes more than we do to the revenue? Let us see. The
revenue of Scotland for the year ending 1852 was £6,164,804, of which
there was expended in the country £400,000, leaving £5,764,804, which
was remitted to London. The revenue of Ireland for the same period was
£4,000,681, of which there was expended in Ireland £3,847,134; leaving a
balance merely of £153,547. Have the people of Scotland no reason to
complain whilst this monstrous inequality is tolerated?
Let us now turn to the Universities, which in the eyes of a Government
so zealous as the present affects to be in the cause of education, and
to Lord John Russell in particular, ought to be objects of considerable
interest. Let us see how they have been treated. In the year 1826 a
Commissioner was appointed by George IV. to examine into the state of
the Scottish Universities, and to report thereon. The Commissioners, of
whom the Earl of Aberdeen was one, made a report in 1831, to the effect
that, in general, the chairs were scandalously ill-endowed, and that
adequate and complete provision should be made in all the Universities,
so that the appointment to the Chairs “should at all times be an object
of ambition to men of literature and science.” Four or five bulky blue
books of evidence, &c., were issued; but the only party connected with
literature who derived any benefit from the commission, was the English
printer. Not a step has been taken in consequence by any administration,
_although two-and-twenty years have elapsed since the report was given
in_! Sir Robert Peel had no objection to found and endow Popish colleges
in Ireland, but he would not listen to the representations made on
behalf of the Protestant colleges of Scotland. In consequence, the
emolument drawn from many Chairs in Scotland is under £250 per annum,
even in cases where the Crown is patron! Such is the liberality of the
British Government in regard to Scottish education in its highest
branches, even with the most positive reports recorded in its favour! As
for museums, antiquarian and scientific societies and the like, they are
left entirely dependent upon private support. We do not say that a
Government is bound to expend the public money upon such objects as the
latter; but it is at all events bound to be impartial; and really, when
we look at the large sums devoted every year as a matter of course to
London and Dublin, while Edinburgh is passed over without notice, we
have a right to know for what offence on our part we experience such
insulting neglect. This is, moreover, a matter which ought not to be
lightly dismissed, inasmuch as, if Edinburgh is still to be regarded as
a capital city, she is entitled to fair consideration and support in all
things relating to the diffusion of arts and science. We do not desire
to see the multiplication of British museums; but we wish to participate
directly in that very lavish expenditure presently confined to London,
for what are called the purposes of art. If we are made to pay for
pictures, let us at least have some among us, so that our artists may
derive the benefit. We have all the materials and collections for a
geological museum in Edinburgh, but the funds for the building are
denied. Nevertheless, a grant of £18,000 per annum is made from the
public money to the geological museums of London and Dublin.
Passing from these things, and referring to public institutions of a
strictly charitable nature, we find no trace whatever of state almonry
in Scotland. Dublin last year received for its different hospitals
£23,654 of state money. Edinburgh has never received the smallest
contribution. Can any one explain to us why the people of Scotland are
called upon to maintain their own police, while that of London receives
annually £131,000, that of Dublin £36,000, and that of the Irish
counties £487,000—or why one half of the constabulary expense in the
counties of England is defrayed from the consolidated fund, while no
such allowance is made to Scotland? We should like very much to hear Mr
Gladstone or Lord Palmerston upon that subject.
It is anything but an agreeable task for us to repeat the items of
grievance, of which these are only a part. There are others highly
discreditable to the Government, such as the continued delay, in spite
of constant application, to devote any portion of the public money to
the formation of harbours of refuge on the east and northern coasts of
Scotland, where shipwrecks frequently occur. But enough, and more than
enough, has been said to prove that, while subjected to the same
taxation, Scotland does not receive the same measure of allowances and
encouragements as England, and that the system of centralisation has
been carried to a pernicious and unjustifiable length. If these are not
grievances, we are really at a loss to know what may be the true meaning
of that term. To many of the English public they must be new, as we have
no doubt they are startling; for the general impression is, that
Scotsmen, on the whole, know pretty well how to manage their own
affairs, and are tolerably alive to their own interest. That is
undeniable; but the peculiarity of the case is, _that we are not
permitted to manage our own affairs_. England has relieved us of the
trouble; which latter, however, we would not grudge to bestow, if
allowed to do so. But our grounds of complaint are not new to statesmen
and officials of every party. Representation after representation has
been made, but made in vain. The press of Scotland has, year after year,
charged the Government with neglect of Scottish interests, and warned it
against persevering in such a course; but without effect. The
unwillingness of the people to agitate has been construed into
indifference; and now, when the national voice is raised in its own
defence, we are taunted with previous silence!
Now, we beg to repeat again, what we have already expressed, that we do
not believe it is the wish of Englishmen, or of English statesmen, that
we should be so unfairly treated. Indeed, we have reason to know that
some of the latter have expressed their conviction that Scottish affairs
are not well administered, and that great reason of complaint exists.
That is consoling, perhaps, but not satisfactory. We are told that we
ought to be very proud, because, at the present moment, a Scotsman is at
the head of the Government. As yet we have seen no reason to plume
ourselves upon that accident, which in no way adds materially to the
national glory. We shall reserve our jubilation thereon, until we have a
distinct assurance that Lord Aberdeen is prepared to grant us
substantial justice. Of that, as yet, no indication has been afforded;
and, to confess the truth, were it only for the grace of the movement,
we would far rather see the reforms and readjustments we require
conceded to us, as matter of right, by an English than by a Scottish
Premier. What we seek is neither favour nor jobbing, but that attention
to our interests which is our due. If Lord Aberdeen thinks fit to render
it now, we shall, of course, be very glad to receive it; but we do not
entertain extravagant expectations from that quarter. If his heart had
really been warmly with the country of his birth, it is almost
impossible to suppose that, having set his name, as he did, to a strong
report in favour of assistance to the Scottish universities, he would
have allowed about a quarter of a century to elapse without mooting the
subject, either as a peer of Parliament, or as an influential member of
more than one Cabinet; and it is impossible to forget that, with the
most deplorable schism in the history of the national Church of
Scotland—the more deplorable, because it might have been prevented by
wise and timely legislation—his name is inseparably connected.
Therefore, in so far as our interests are concerned, we see no especial
reason for glorification in the fact that Lord Aberdeen is a peer of
Scotland. That Lord Campbell, who, as the _Times_ avers, “holds the
highest common law appointment in the three kingdoms,” was born in
Cupar, in the ancient kingdom of Fife, by no means reconciles us to the
fact of an unfair application of the revenue. Lord Brougham, we believe,
first saw the light in Edinburgh—is his subsequent occupation of the
woolsack to be considered a sufficient reason why the citizens of the
Scottish metropolis should be compelled to maintain their own police,
when those of London and Dublin are paid out of the imperial revenue?
Really it would appear that notorieties are sometimes expensive
productions. With profound respect for the eminent individuals referred
to, we would rather, on the whole, surrender the credit of their birth,
than accept that as an equivalent for the vested rights of the nation.
Supposing, then, that the reality of the grievance is made out—as to
which we presume there can be no question, for the matters we have
referred to are of public notoriety—it is necessary to consider what
remedy ought to be applied. Undoubtedly much is in the power of
Ministers. They may select more than one point of grievance for curative
treatment; and Mr Gladstone may possibly endeavour, in his next
financial arrangements, to atone for past neglect; but it is not by such
means as these that the evil can be wholly eradicated. We must look to
the system in order to ascertain why Scotland should have been exposed
so long to so much injustice; and, believing as we do, that there was no
deliberate intention to slight her interests, we are driven to the
conclusion that the fault has arisen from the utterly inadequate
provision made by the State for the administration of her internal
affairs.
The absurd idea that the true position of Scotland is merely that of a
province, has received countenance from the fact that there is no
Minister in the British Cabinet directly responsible for the
administration of Scottish affairs. There is, indeed, a Home Secretary
for the United Kingdom; but it is impossible to expect the holder of
that office to have an intimate acquaintance with the laws,
institutions, and internal relations of the northern division of the
island. The Secretary of State, in general, knows nothing about us, and
is compelled to rely, in almost every case, upon the information which
he receives from the Lord Advocate. Now, the position of a Lord Advocate
is this: He must be a Scottish barrister, and he usually is one who has
risen to eminence in his profession. But he has had no experience of
public affairs, and usually little intercourse with public men, before
he receives her Majesty’s commission as first law officer of the Crown.
He has not been trained to Parliament, for a Scottish barrister is
necessarily tied to his own courts, and cannot, as his English brethren
may, prosecute his profession while holding a seat in Parliament. Thus,
even supposing him to be a man of real eminence and ability—and we are
glad to express our opinion that, of late years, the office has been
worthily filled—he enters the House of Commons without parliamentary
experience, and has very little leisure allowed him to acquire it. For,
in the first place, he is, as public prosecutor, responsible for the
conduct of the whole criminal business of Scotland; and he is the Crown
adviser in civil cases. Then he has his own practice to attend to, which
generally increases rather than diminishes after his official elevation;
and in attending to that in Edinburgh, he is absent from London during
half the parliamentary session—in fact, is seldom there, except when
some important bill under his especial charge is in progress. Besides
this, the office of Lord Advocate is understood to be the stepping-stone
to the bench. One gentleman, now a judge of the Court of Session, did
not hold the office of Lord Advocate for three months, and never had a
seat in Parliament. In the course of last year (1852), no less than
three individuals were appointed Lords Advocate in succession, and two
of them did not sit in the House. Owing to these circumstances, it
rarely happens that a Lord Advocate can acquire a reputation for
statesmanship—he has neither the time, the training, the facilities, nor
the ordinary motives of doing so. At any moment, even on the eve of
completing some important national measure, he may be summoned to the
bench, and, in such an event, the interests of the country are tied up
until his successor in office has been able to procure a seat, and has
become, in some measure, reconciled to the novel atmosphere of St
Stephen’s.
This is, beyond all question, a bad system. The peculiar legal functions
of the Lord Advocate are, in addition to his private practice, a burden
quite heavy enough for any single pair of shoulders to sustain; nor is
it consonant either with the dignity or the convenience of the country,
that he should be made to act as a sort of assessor or adviser to the
Home Secretary. He ought certainly to be in Parliament, as the
Attorney-General of England is, to give advice in legal matters, but no
further. The training of the bar is not by any means that which tends to
the development of administrative qualities; and, even were it
otherwise, we have shown that the precarious nature of the office must
preclude the holder of it from the advantage of official experience.
But, in fact, as those who have had public business to transact in
London know full well, there is no order or arrangement whatever
provided for the administration of Scottish affairs. Let us take the
case of a deputation sent to London about some local matter. They
naturally, in the first instance, direct their steps to the Lord
Advocate, who, if in town—by no means a certain occurrence—receives them
with great courtesy, listens to their story, and then, regretting that
the subject in question does not fall within the sphere of his
department, refers them to the Junior Lord of the Treasury. They recount
their tale to that official, who really seems to exhibit some interest,
but discovers, after a time, that they should have made application to
the Board of Woods and Forests. Thither they go, and are probably
referred to some clerk or under-secretary, brimful of conceit, and
exclusively English in his notions. He refers them to the Secretary of
the Treasury; but that man of figures is too busy to listen to them, and
knows nothing about the matter. He suggests an application to the Home
Secretary. Lord Palmerston, the pink of politeness, smiles, bows, and
remits them to the knowledge of the Lord Advocate. By this time half the
deputation have left, and the others are savage and excited. They are
advised to memorialise the Treasury, which they do, and receive an
immediate reply that “my Lords” will take the matter into their
consideration. And so in all probability they do; but it turns out at
the last moment that the Chancellor of the Exchequer has a ruling voice
in the matter; and, as his financial arrangements for the year are
already made, the application must stand over to be considered at a
future period.
It is now full time that a new order of things should be introduced, and
that the affairs of Scotland should be administered by a responsible
Secretary of State with a seat in the Cabinet. We have, on every ground,
full right to demand this. The public revenue levied from Scotland is
larger than that of either Holland, Belgium, Naples, Sardinia, or Sweden
and Norway. It is larger than the combined revenues of Bavaria, Denmark,
Greece, and Switzerland. The revenue of Ireland is one-third less than
ours, and yet Ireland has not only a Secretary of State, but a
Lord-Lieutenant. No one surely can venture to say that the interests
here involved are too trifling to require superintendence, or that any
organisation would be superfluous. For our own part, having watched
narrowly for years the working of the present absurd and unregulated
system, we do not hesitate to declare our conviction that justice never
can, and never will, be done to Scotland until its affairs are placed
under the management of a separate Secretary of State. This point cannot
be pressed too strongly. The wealth, importance, and position of the
country justify the demand; and we have yet to learn that there is any
one sound or substantial reason for denying it.
Another point, and it is one of vast importance, is to insist that, at
the next adjustment of the representation, Scotland shall send its just
proportion of members to the House of Commons. At present, whether the
test of revenue or of population be applied, we are inadequately
represented as contrasted with England. We pay more than a ninth of the
whole revenue of the United Kingdom, but we have only a thirteenth part
of the representation. It is quite necessary that this should be
remedied, so that our interests may be properly and efficiently attended
to in the legislature. We care not what criterion is taken—whether that
of revenue or that of population—but we have a right to demand and
expect, that in this matter also we shall be dealt with according to the
same measure which is applied to England. According to the last census,
each of our Scottish members represents an average population of 54,166;
whilst one member is returned for every 35,845 of the population of
England. The apportionment ought to be made according to some clear,
intelligible principle—not by a mere flourish of the pen, or an
arbitrarily assumed figure. With a responsible Minister, and an adequate
representation, attention to the interests of Scotland would be secured;
and it is the bounden duty of every man who wishes well to his country
to bestir himself for the attainment of these objects.
We have not approached this subject with any feeling of exacerbation. In
demonstrating wherein Scotland has not received its proper meed of
justice and consideration, we have been careful to avoid rash strictures
or unworthy reflections upon our neighbours. If in some things we have
suffered from neglect, and in others from innovation, we must not
hastily conclude that there is a deliberate intention anywhere to
deprive us of our due. The form in which our affairs have been
administered for well-nigh a hundred years, is, as we believe we have
shown, quite inadequate for the purpose for which it was originally
intended; and the rapid development of the wealth and population of the
country ought, long ago, to have suggested the propriety of a more
rational arrangement. There is no occasion, in a matter of this sort,
for any appeal to national feelings, which indeed it would be
superfluous to rouse. The case is a very clear one, founded upon justice
and public policy; and, if properly urged, no government can venture to
treat it indifferently. But in whatever way this movement may be
met—whether it is regarded with sympathy, or replied to by derision—it
is our duty to aid in the assertion of our country’s rights; and we
shall not shrink from its performance.
FOREIGN ESTIMATES OF ENGLAND.[2]
With what heart or conscience can an English critic expose the
deficiencies of a foreign book, “dedicated to the great, the noble, the
hospitable English people”? Upon its first page he finds a compliment
that cripples his quill. Though he had gall in his ink, it must turn to
honey on his paper. Mr Schlesinger takes his English readers and
reviewers at an unfair advantage. Perhaps he thinks to treat them like
children, thrusting a comfit into their mouths to bribe them to swallow
drugs. The flattering flourish of his commencement may be intended to
mask the batteries about to open. He gags us with a rose, that we may
silently bear the pricking of the thorns.
Inexhaustible interest attaches to the printed observations of
intelligent foreigners upon England and its capital. The field is vast,
and has been little worked. There are few books upon the subject either
in French or in German, and, of such as there are, very few possess
merit or have met with success. Defaced, in a majority of instances, by
prejudice, triviality, or misappreciation, they attracted slight notice
in the countries of their publication, and were utterly unheeded in that
they professed to describe. Increased facilities of communication, and
more extensive study of the English language in France and Germany, will
bring about a change in this respect. We anticipate the appearance,
within the next twenty years, of many foreign books upon England, and
especially upon London—a city first known to Continentals, according to
the author now present, in the year of grace 1851. “Stray travellers,
bankers, wandering artisans, and diplomatic documents, had occasionally
let fall a few words, which sounded like fairy tales, concerning the
greatness, the wealth, the industry, and the politics of the monster
city of the West; but that city lay, geographically, too far out of the
way, and the phases of its historical development had not been
sufficiently connected with the history of Continental nations, for it
to be, like Paris, a favourite object of travel and study.” The
cosmopolitan glasshouse was the glittering bait which drew to our shores
a larger concourse of foreigners than England ever before at one time
beheld, or than she is likely ever again to behold, at least in our day,
unless in the rather improbable contingency of the French Emperor’s
successfully realising those projects of invasion some are disposed to
impute to him. A summer of unusual beauty, a general disposition to show
kindness and hospitality to the stranger, the manifold attractions of
that really wonderful building, unsurpassed save by the edifice now
rising from its remains on the slope of a Kentish hill, combined to
invest London with a charm to which foreigners who had already visited
it were wholly unaccustomed, and for which those who for the first time
beheld it were quite unprepared.
Max Schlesinger, well known as the author of one of the most successful
and popular of the books that were written on the late Hungarian war,
was amongst the visitors to the Crystal Palace, but must have resided in
England for a longer period than the duration of that exhibition. The
first volume of his “Wanderings,” which appeared last year, was written
in England, for he dates his preface from the Isle of Wight. He does not
profess to give an account of London. He felt that two volumes,
compendious though they be, would be insufficient for more than a glance
at such a multitude of objects for description, and of subjects for
reflection and analysis, as are presented by the overgrown British
metropolis, and he preferred dwelling upon a few points to glancing at a
great many. He has hit upon an ingenious and amusing plan for the
exposition of his views and maintenance of his impartiality. He
establishes himself in an English family, in the _terra incognita_ of
Guildford Street. The master of the house, Sir John, who is intended as
a prototype of his countrymen, is a thorough John Bull—shrewd, sensible,
intelligent, with a moderate allowance of English prejudices, a warm
attachment to his country, a well-founded conviction of its pre-eminence
amongst the nations, and of the excellence of its institutions. Dr Keif
(the word signifies a grumbler), another inmate of the house, and an old
friend of Sir John’s, is an Austrian journalist, whose pen has taken
liberties that have endangered his own, and who has sought refuge in
England, which he begins good-humouredly to abuse almost as soon as he
has landed in it. He is kind-hearted, impetuous, excitable, given to
faultfinding and polemics, and nearly as much convinced of German
superiority as Sir John is of that of England. Then there is a
Frenchman, Tremplin, introduced in the second volume, and who can see
nothing good out of Paris. An Englishman named Frolick—who conducts the
foreigners upon nocturnal excursions to theatres, gin palaces, “penny
gaffs,” the purlieus of Drury Lane and St Giles’s, and to any other
place they are curious to study—and the ladies of Sir John’s family,
make up the list of characters, amongst whom there are occasionally very
amusing dialogues, when the master of the house, Keif, and Tremplin,
hold stiff disputations as to the merits of their respective countries.
Mr Schlesinger’s style is pointed, and often humorous; and the plan he
has adopted imparts to his book a lightness and entertaining quality by
no means invariably found in works of the kind; whilst it at the same
time enables him to avoid that appearance of invidious dogmatism which
is one of the most fatal pitfalls literary travellers are exposed to
stray into.
As may be supposed from the terms of his dedication, Mr Schlesinger has
found much to like and admire in England, and especially in the English
nation. His book is, upon the whole, highly favourable to us, although
sarcastic Dr Keif and that puppy Tremplin now and then point to a raw
spot. Evidently well acquainted with our language, gifted with an active
mind and an observant eye, he has no need to resort to the flimsy
devices of some recent writers on the same topic. There is solid pabulum
in his pages, something superior to the flimsy lucubrations of one or
two French writers we have lately fallen in with, and of one of whom (M.
Méry) we took notice a few months ago. Most Frenchmen who write about
London do so with an extremely superficial knowledge of the subject.
Want of self-confidence is not a failing of theirs; they come to England
with a mere smattering of the language, and with a predisposition to
dislike the place and its customs, to laugh at the people, to be
tortured by the climate and poisoned by the cooks. They remain a short
time, examine nothing thoroughly, nor appreciate anything impartially,
quit the country with joy, remember it with a shudder, and write books
in which burlesque stories and ridiculous exaggerations are eked out by
denunciations of perpetual fogs, and by hackneyed jokes concerning the
sun’s invisibility. Such writers may be sometimes witty, occasionally
amusing, but they are neither fair critics nor reliable authorities.
There is no plan or order in Mr Schlesinger’s book. Guildford Street is
his headquarters; thence he rambles, usually with Dr Keif, sometimes
with Sir John and other companions, whithersoever the fancy of the
moment leads him. On their return home, from Greenwich or Vauxhall, from
the House of Commons or a minor theatre, or from a stroll in the
streets, they invariably find, no matter how late the hour, the cheerful
tea-urn and smiling female faces to welcome them; and it is usually
during these sober sederunts, whilst imbibing innumerable cups of bohea,
that Sir John and Dr Keif hold those lively arguments which Mr
Schlesinger has transcribed with stenographic fidelity. We turn to the
fourth chapter of the second volume, headed “Westminster—The
Parliament.” Probably no foreigner ever gave a more vivid and correct
description than this chapter contains of things with which it takes
both time and pains for a foreigner to become thoroughly acquainted.
Doubtless Mr Schlesinger has been indebted to reading and conversation
as well as to his own observations, and some statistical and descriptive
parts of his work are probably derived from English books. One entire
chapter, that on Spitalfields, he acknowledges to have taken from such a
source. But there are numerous remarkable passages for which he can
hardly be indebted to anything but to his own quick ear and sharp eye.
In company with Sir John and Dr Keif, he goes to the Speaker’s Gallery
of the House of Commons. It is five o’clock—bills are being
read—presently the debate begins—Dr Keif, who has a perfect knowledge of
English, is indignant that the chat amongst the members prevents his
hearing the orators. These, he is assured by Sir John, who is an old
frequenter of the House, are mere skirmishers, of little importance; the
gossips will be still enough when any one worth listening to rises to
speak. A message from the Upper House fixes the attention of the
Germans, who are immensely diverted by the formalities with which it is
presented, by the forward and backward bowing of the messengers and of
the sergeant-at-arms, whose official costume, knee breeches and sword,
has already excited their curiosity. Mr Schlesinger, a decided liberal
in German politics, not unfrequently becomes as decidedly conservative
in treating of English customs and institutions. “All these ceremonies,”
he says, “are extraordinarily comical to the foreign guest, and even the
Englishman, who enters for the first time in his life the workshop of
his lawmakers, may probably be rather startled by such pigtailed
formalities, although his courts of justice have already accustomed him
to periwigs. In most Continental states, ceremonies handed down from
previous generations, and unsuited to the present time, have been done
away with as opportunity offered. People got ashamed of perukes and silk
cloaks, and dismissed them to the lumber room, as opposed to the spirit
of the age. Whether they might not, in their war against those
intrinsically unimportant and harmless externals, make a commencement of
more serious conflicts, was probably overlooked. In France and Germany
we have lived to witness such conflicts. In the revolutions of both
those countries the war was in great measure against externals, against
abuses of minor importance, against titles of nobility, orders of
knighthood, upper chambers, clerical and royal prerogatives; but in
neither did a compact majority ever contrive to seize the right moment,
to harmonise contradictions, and to secure the two results which should
be the aim of every revolution—improvement of the condition of the
people, and unlimited individual liberty. Where these two things are
secured, all other difficulties peaceably solve themselves.... A pacific
progress ensues; a gradual, but so-much-the-safer activity of reform
becomes not only possible, but necessary and inevitable. The English,
even those belonging to the Radical party, have an instinctive sense of
this truth. The Lower House has never taken the field against the Peers,
because their wives wear coronets in their hair, or because the Queen
opens and closes Parliament in the Upper House, upon which occasions the
Commons stand thronged like a flock of sheep before the bar of the House
of Lords,” &c. &c. We pass over some pages of interesting remarks to get
to Mr Schlesinger’s sketches of certain prominent members of the House
of Commons, merely recording, by the way, this German reformer’s
opinion, that the monarchical principle is firmer in England at the
present day than it was a century ago, before the clamour of innovation
and revolution had swept across the Channel. We trust and believe that
he is right in this opinion. We well know that there are, both in and
out of Parliament, a few men, more noted for a certain class of talent
than respected for consistency and high principle, who look upon the
crown as a costly bauble, and would gladly see it replaced by a
republican government. If they do not say as much, it is because they
dare not, because they know that the press and the public would combine
to hoot them down. But it is not difficult to discern the levelling
principle that is paramount in their hearts. The enunciation of that
principle, did they ever contemplate it in any form, has not been
favoured by the events of the last five years. Common sense and shrewd
perception are qualities claimed by Englishmen, and usually conceded to
them even by those foreigners who like them least. We must, indeed, be
lamentably deficient in both, not to have taken a warning from what we
have beheld, since 1847, in the two most civilised countries of the
European continent. There is little contagion in such examples as have
been set to us. License, with despotism as a sequel, constitutes no very
alluring prospect to a nation accustomed to seek its prosperity in
industry and order. We have seen enough of the results of sudden changes
abroad to desire that any we adopt at home should be exceedingly gradual
and well-considered. Foreign revolutionists have done us the service
which drunken helots were made to render to the children of Sparta. We
have learned temperance from the spectacle of their degradation.
In his preface, Mr Schlesinger protests his impartiality, and on this
score we have no fault to find with him. Some of his parliamentary
portraits, however, are perhaps a little tinged by his political
predilections. In the main they are extremely correct, and the
likenesses undeniable. Mr Disraeli, Lord John Russell, Lord Palmerston,
Colonel Sibthorp, are his four most prominent pictures. Lord John
himself would hardly claim the designation of “a great orator” bestowed
upon him by his German admirer, who, in other respects, gives a truthful
and happy delineation of the Whig statesman. But the following sketch is
the gem of the parliamentary chapter.
“‘So that is my Lord Palmerston,’ whispered Dr Keif, parodying his
friend Kappelbaumer—‘that is the “_God-preserve-us_” of all rational
Continental cabinets? He yonder with the white whiskers, the finely-cut
features, the striped neckcloth, and the brown trousers, which he
probably got as a present from Mazzini? Yonder elderly gentleman, lying
rather than sitting upon his bench, and chatting with his neighbour as
he might do in a tavern? Now, by Metternich! this Lord Palmerston looks
so cordial, that, if I had not read the German newspapers for many years
past, I never would have believed all the wickedness there is in him. To
think that yonder people do not scruple to converse with him! with a
convicted partisan of rebels, in whose company no respectable citizen of
Vienna or Berlin would be seen to cross a street! But, as we say, there
is nothing in a man’s looks. He does not look in the least like a rebel
or a conspirator. And yet to think of all the rude notes he has
written!’
“‘That is just because he is a great diplomatist,’ remarked Sir John,
with much unction. ‘We like him so much the more because you, across the
water, hate, and fear, and throw stones at him. He has the luck to be as
popular at home as he is abused abroad. When that is not the case with a
minister of foreign affairs, better pension him off at once. He is
appointed for the very purpose of barking and snapping all round the
house, to keep off intruders and thieves. And can you deny that Lord
Palmerston perfectly performed his bull-dog mission? Was he not always
on his legs? Did he not lustily bark like a chained watch-dog, so that
all the neighbours round respected him? And did he ever bite anybody?
No, you cannot say that he ever bit anybody. Only showed his teeth.
Nothing more. That was enough. And that, merely by so doing, he
frightened you all, that, we well know, is what you will never forgive.’
“‘I would give anything in the world,’ cried Dr Keif, ‘to hear him make
a little speech. How does he speak?’
“‘In a way I well like to hear,’ answered Sir John; ‘out and openly; no
pathos, no emotion—sensibly, intelligibly—and above all, courteously and
politely, as befits an English gentleman. It is not in his nature to be
rude; he cannot be so, except when he takes pen in hand to write abroad.
In the House he is never personal; and yet nobody better knows how to
turn a troublesome questioner into ridicule, often in the most innocent
manner, so that it is impossible to be angry with him.
“‘I was in the House last summer,’ continued Sir John, ‘when Mr
So-and-so questioned him about the foreign refugees. In such cases
members do not put to a minister the straightforward question, Have you
answered this or that note? but they make an introduction a yard long,
ramble round and round the subject like cats round a plate of porridge,
make a long rhetorical display before coming to the point. Mr So-and-so
made a lengthy discourse—spoke until the sweat broke out upon his brow
from sheer liberalism and sympathy with the refugees; at last he got to
his question, Whether it was true that several Continental governments
had demanded that the British Government should keep watch over the
proceedings of the refugees in London? what governments those were?
whether the Secretary of State for foreign affairs had replied to the
demand? and whether he had any objection to lay before the House the
correspondence concerning it? The question was not a very agreeable one
to a minister in Lord Palmerston’s position. During the speech by which
it was prefaced, he sat with his head bent forward and his legs crossed,
pulling his hat down lower and lower upon his forehead, and frequently
passing his handkerchief across his face. It seemed as if he perspired
even more than his interrogator; he was evidently in the most painful
embarrassment what to reply. Mr So-and-so made an end and sat down. The
House was so silent that one could plainly distinguish the snoring of
some drowsy members on the back benches; Palmerston slowly rose, and
requested the speaker to repeat his question in plainer terms, it not
having been put with sufficient clearness the first time. The fact was,
it had been put so clearly and plainly that in the gallery we lost not a
syllable. Oho! thought I, and many with me—something wrong here; the
noble Lord wants to gain a few minutes to prepare his reply. Mr
So-and-so probably thought the same thing. He got up with the air of a
man who feels confident that he has found a sore place, and repeated his
question in the following simplified form: “I beg to ask the Secretary
of State for foreign affairs,” he said, “which are the foreign
governments that have demanded of the British Cabinet that it should
exercise _surveillance_ over the political refugees in London?” He
paused. There was dead silence. Lord Palmerston rose with solemn
slowness, took off his hat, cleared his throat, as if he were about to
make a long speech, said very quickly, “Not one”—threw his hat upon his
head and himself back upon his seat. You may imagine the stupefied
countenance of the questioner, and the roar of laughter in the House. Do
you suppose Lord Palmerston had not at once understood the question? He
understood it perfectly; but his meditative attitude, his request for
its repetition, his solemn uprising, his clearing of his throat, his
very perspiration—all, everything was diplomatic roguery, intended to
heighten the effect of the two carelessly-spoken monosyllables, “Not
one.” His interrogator looked ridiculous enough, but Lord Palmerston had
said nothing that could offend him. The minister had so far attained his
object that for some time afterwards he was not plagued with questions
about refugees. Such scenes do not bear telling; they must be witnessed.
When Lord Palmerston pleases, the House laughs, and all laugh, and no
man is hit so hard that he cannot laugh with the rest.’”
Proceeding from a foreign pen, this lively parliamentary sketch must be
admitted to be wonderfully truthful. Mr Schlesinger was particularly
struck, upon his visits to the House of Commons, by two things, and
these were, the longwindedness of the orators, and their ungraceful
gesticulation. An English orator, he says, seems to make up his mind
beforehand to abstain from gestures, and does his best to put his hands
in a place of safety. Some of the attitudes, which are the consequence
of this desire, he justly describes as neither tasteful nor elegant.
“One man thrusts his hands into his breeches’ pockets, another sticks
them into his waistcoat armholes, some hide them inside their
waistcoats, or under their coat tails, others take a Napoleonic
attitude. Thus do they begin their speeches. But, as the Englishman is
wont to linger no short time over the mere exordium of his harangue; as
he is capable of talking much longer about nothing than is commonly
supposed upon the Continent; as he has very good lungs; and as a large
portion of the British public is apt to estimate a speech’s value by its
length, it is quite conceivable that he cannot maintain, during the
whole duration of his discourse, the posture he adopts at its
commencement. Besides this, he may warm as he goes on, and, when this is
the case, he displays the strangest action of his arms and of his whole
body.” In this paragraph, Mr Schlesinger makes one grave mistake. With
the exception of a very limited number of methodical old fogies—slaves
to habit, and the curse of their clubs—who, having nothing else in the
world to do, make it the business of their lives to read the debates
from the first line to the last, we know of no class in the United
Kingdom that would not heartily rejoice if members of Parliament would
cultivate brevity of speech and early hours, as advantageous alike to
their own health and to the business of the country. “What a capital
speech; it took an hour and a half in delivery!” Such, according to Mr
Schlesinger, is the form of praise often heard in England. He blunders
here. People will certainly listen with pleasure for an hour and a half,
or for thrice as long, if they have the chance, to the earnest and fiery
eloquence of a Derby—to the graceful, lucid, and often witty discourse
of a Palmerston—to the polished and scholarly periods of a Macaulay—to
the incisive oratory of a Disraeli. They will even lend their attention
to the somewhat drawling and monotonous, although business-like delivery
of the Whig leader whom Mr Schlesinger has dubbed a great orator,
because Lord John is supposed not to be one of those Englishmen whom his
German admirer has declared to be capable of talking a long while about
nothing at all. But Mr Schlesinger has taken a part for the whole, and
imagines that English willingness to hear and read the long discourses
of a few chosen and gifted men, extends itself to the lame prose of the
first noodle who takes advantage of dinner-time to inflict himself upon
a bare house, a yawning gallery, and reporters with closed note-books.
Let him take the confession of members, public, and reporters, as to the
feelings with which they listen to an infinitesimal economical
calculation, or to a two hours’ blatter about Borneo, from Mr Hume; or
to a monody on Poland, or eulogium of Kossuth, from the lips of that
most wearisome of well-meaning men, Lord Dudley Coutts Stuart. He will
find that in England the value of a speech is not—as Byron says that of
a very different thing should be—“measured by its length.”
Probably the two things that foreigners, upon a visit to London, are
most curious to see, are the Thames tunnel and Greenwich. Mr
Schlesinger, Dr Keif, and Frolick—who seems an easy-going man-about-town
sort of cockney, delighted to have the pretext of ciceronism to revisit
all manner of queer haunts—take ship at London Bridge, their minds upon
white bait intent. They find much to say upon the way, and are very
pleasant and amusing. In the beginning Mr Schlesinger moralises upon the
crowd of colliers, more precious, he maintains, to Britain than ever
were gold-laden galleons to Spain. “Take from the British Isles their
coals,” he says; “pour gold, silver, and diamonds, into the gloomy
shafts; fill them with all the coins that have been coined, since the
world’s commencement, by good and bad princes, and you will not replace
the inflammable spark that lies dormant in the coal, and which creates
vitality by its own exhaustion.” Then he turns his attention to his
fellow-passengers by the steam-boat, and remarks that the difference of
classes is not so strongly defined by costume in England as in France
and Germany. He misses the linen frocks or blouses worn on the Continent
by men of a class which, in England, is usually clad in broadcloth,
though this be often ragged or threadbare. “In London,” he says, “if you
see, early in the morning, a man hurrying along the street in a black
coat, round hat, and white cravat, do not take him for a professor
hastening to his college, or for an attaché to an embassy conveying
important despatches to his chief. He probably has soap-box, strap, and
razor in his pocket, or at best is shopman to some Regent Street
haberdasher—he may be a waiter, a tailor, a shoemaker, or a
boot-cleaner. Many an omnibus-driver sits white-cravated upon his lofty
box, and drives his horses as gravely as a Methodist preacher leads his
flock. Amongst Englishwomen, also, the difference of rank is not very
easy to be inferred from their dress. Coloured silks, black velvet, and
hats with botanical appurtenances, are worn by the maid as by her
mistress.” This general uniformity of costume in England strikes most
foreigners, and shocks many. Frenchmen, in particular, consider the use
of old and second-hand clothes, common amongst the lower classes of our
countrymen and countrywomen, as a sort of degrading barbarism. An
amusingly impertinent French journalist, in a little book now before us,
states his view of the matter in colours which are certainly vivid, but
can hardly be called exaggerated. “The eternal black coat and white
cravat!” he exclaims. “One might take the people for so many gentlemen
of high degree, condescending, in their leisure moments, or from
eccentric caprice, to weigh sugar and measure calico. Thus it was that I
took the grocer, in whose house I lodge, for a gentleman, and, through
stupid pride, dared not bargain for my apartment, for which I pay twice
its value. The history of an English black coat would fill a volume, at
once comic and philosophical. One must take it up at its birth, when it
quits the premises of a fashionable tailor to grace the shoulders of
Lord ——, who pays seven or eight guineas for it, on account of its
inimitable cut. Thrown, a fortnight later, to the nobleman’s
valet-de-chambre, it passes to the second-hand dandy, then from back to
back, lengthened, shortened, always descending in the social scale,
losing its buttons, gaining holes, and at last devolving to the poor
devil who sweeps a crossing, over which prance the splendid horses of
the lord who was its first possessor. Poor coat! Sold at last for three
shillings; its fragments finally used to polish a table or cleanse a
kitchen floor, until they are bought by the hundredweight and cast into
the mill, to reappear in some new form. The fate of the coat is also
that of the gown. The lady’s gown and hat begin their career in the
drawing-room, and end it in the gutter. We foreigners are always
shocked, on our first arrival in England, to see the servant-maids
washing the door-steps in bonnets, which once were of velvet, and now
are of nothing at all! One sometimes observes upon them certain vestiges
which, plunged into Marsh’s apparatus and analysed by a skilful chemist,
might be recognised as fragments of feathers, shreds of lace, or stalks
of flowers. Does the cook who wears this cast-off covering, who wraps
herself, to go to market, in a tattered shawl, on whose surface holes
and stains vie for the mastery, imagine that she will be taken for her
mistress going to buy her own butter and vegetables, as an agreeable
change from the daily routine of park and opera? What strange vanity is
it that peeps through these ragged garments? Why do these honest
Englishmen prefer a gentleman’s old clothes to the clean blouse or warm
strong jacket they might get for the same price?” There is considerable
truth in these remarks, especially as regards men’s coats and women’s
head-dress, although we do not believe, as does the Frenchman we have
quoted, that the wearing of second-hand clothes proceeds, on the part at
least of English _men_ of the lower classes, from a desire to ape their
superiors. It is one of those habits one can hardly explain, which we
may designate as _cosa de Inglaterra_, just as Spaniards define as _cosa
de España_ any peculiar and eccentric usage of their country. We must
submit the matter, one of these days, to our old friend and contributor,
the author of the “Æsthetics of Dress.” Of one thing we are very sure,
that no one possessing an eye—we will not say for the picturesque, but
for what is neat, appropriate, and convenient—can travel on the
Continent, without drawing between the everyday dress of the English
lower orders and that of the corresponding classes in most foreign
countries, comparisons highly unfavourable to the former. And this is
the more surprising that, in most things, neatness is peculiarly an
English characteristic. Witness the trim gardens, the whitewashed
cottages, the well-swept courts of our villages, the vigorous
application of brush, broom, and soap in the humblest dwellings of
Britain. But a line must be drawn between the country and the towns. In
the latter, the appearance of the lower classes is anything but well
calculated to inspire foreigners with a high opinion of their regard to
the external proprieties. We share our French friend’s horror of greasy,
threadbare coats, and of bonnets requiring chemical decomposition to
ascertain their primitive materials; and, were it possible, we would
gladly see the former replaced by the coarse clean frock or jacket; the
latter by the cheap coloured handkerchief or straw-hat, which looks so
neat and becoming upon the heads of Continental peasant and
servant-women. It is to be feared, however, that to agitate the change
would be but a profitless crusade. The fault—and a fault we think it
must be admitted to be—lies in the total absence of anything like a
national costume. In all the more highly civilised European countries,
this, however graceful, has been abandoned by the upper classes in
favour of a conventional, and certainly, in most respects, a graceless
dress. But in all those countries, except in England, that national
costume has been either retained, to a certain extent, by the people, or
exchanged for one more in harmony with their occupations—not discarded
in favour of such absurdities as long-tailed coats and high-crowned
beavers.
At the Thames Tunnel the two Germans and their companion pause, and Mr
Schlesinger gives an account of its origin and progress, which will have
novelty and interest even for many Londoners. On reaching Greenwich, the
party admire the hospital—the finest architectural group of modern
England, according to Mr Schlesinger, with whom, notwithstanding the
florid pretensions of the new Houses of Parliament, we quite agree on
this score. Greenwich is unquestionably the only royal palace England
possesses worthy of the name. Windsor Castle ranks in a different
category. “Take the most ingenious architect in the world,” says Mr
Schlesinger, “bind his eyes, and bring him to the platform on which we
now stand; then, removing the bandage, ask him the purpose of this
magnificent pile. If he does not at once say that it is a king’s palace,
he is either the most narrow-minded or the sharpest-witted mortal that
ever drew the plan of a house. Who would suspect that all this splendour
of columns and cupolas is devoted to the service of poor crippled old
sailors? That it nevertheless is so, does honour to the founders and to
the English nation.” And then Mr Schlesinger, who is a bit of a
_frondeur_, and not very indulgent to his own country’s defects and
failings, contrasts the thoughtful care, tender kindness, and splendid
provision which England’s veterans find at Chelsea and Greenwich, with
the deficiencies and discomforts of the analogous institution at Vienna,
and with the absence of any at all at Berlin. Passing the Trafalgar,
which he recommends to all “who are willing to pay more money for a good
dinner than would keep an Irish family for a week,” he moralises his way
through the Park—then full of holiday-makers, for it is Monday, and “the
people indemnify themselves for the rigidity of English
Sabbath-observance.” A dinner at Lovegrove’s, and speculations upon
white bait, conclude a pleasant day and an amusing chapter.
Mr Tremplin is described as a little elderly gentleman, with hair curled
in a very youthful fashion, rosy cheeks, and a forest of grey whisker
which would make him look quite fierce, but for the expression of
mingled good-humour and vanity that twinkles in his little black eyes.
For twenty years he had been in the habit of paying an occasional week’s
visit to Sir John, and upon each succeeding visit he found London more
and more gloomy and unbearable. Nothing less than his affection for his
old friends could have induced him to exchange his heavenly Paris for
the fogs of Thames. When in England, however, he amiably concealed his
dissatisfaction, ate and drank like an Englishman, laughed and joked
with the ladies from morning till night, and wiped his eyes when he took
his leave. Between him and Dr Keif vehement discussions were of frequent
occurrence. Tremplin was inexhaustible in his laudation of France; and
this the doctor could the less endure, that this adulator of Paris was
himself a German by birth, although he had passed his life in the French
capital, had made his little fortune in the Opera Passage, and, like
most renegades, out-Heroding Herod, was infinitely more French than a
native-born Frenchman. Had he been an undeniable Parisian, Dr Keif might
perhaps, from courtesy, have spared his feelings; but the Austrian
journalist had no consideration for the feelings of a Frenchman who had
first seen the light at Frankfort-on-the-Maine, and he gave his
sarcastic tongue full swing. At dinner, one day, at Sir John’s, we find
them at it, hammer-and-tongs; Monsieur Tremplin holding up Paris as an
example in all respects to the entire universe; Dr Keif, exasperated by
this exorbitant claim, sneering bitterly at the pretension.
“‘It is inconceivable,’ cried the doctor, ‘that all the world beside
does not sit idle, since Paris is there to think and work for it. What
does one need for universal regeneration beyond the _Journal des
Débats_, which signifies enlightenment—Mademoiselle Rachel, who
represents the æsthetical education of mankind—and the _Chasseurs
d’Afrique_ as the representatives of freedom? Even in the Paris
_cancan_, immoral as it may seem, there is doubtless grace and decency
enough to civilise half a world. Eh? What say you? And if France is
found one morning in the guardhouse, it is merely because she has danced
like mad the whole night through for the good of oppressed humanity, and
her evil case is but a witty trick, suggested by the most profound ideas
of emancipation; for, _enfin_, France can do whatever she wills to do.
She undertakes, in broad daylight and before the eyes of all Europe, to
lie down in the dirtiest gutter, and she succeeds. Woe to the benighted
people who do not forthwith follow her example, who cannot see that a
gutter in which France wallows must lead straight to salvation. The
French are the most conceited and crazy people on the earth’s surface—a
nation of witty fools, of genial ragamuffins, of old _gamins_ and
revolutionary lacqueys, who can neither govern themselves nor be
governed, for any length of time, by God’s grace; they consequently,
after their fourth revolution and third republic, will seek safety at
the feet of an Orleanist or Bourbon prince, whom they will replace,
after a while, by some romantic hairdresser, dancing-master, or cook,
elected by universal suffrage. For my part, I vote for Soyer: he has at
least the merit of having established a good school of cookery at the
Reform Club.’”
Whilst extracting this tirade of the incorrigible Keif’s, we have taken
no notice of the frequent interruptions attempted by the unfortunate
German-Frenchman. The doctor’s flowers of rhetoric were far from
fragrant to the nostrils of Tremplin, and the vein of truth that ran
through his discourse made its somewhat brutal and exaggerated form yet
harder to bear. “The most audacious blasphemy,” says Mr Schlesinger,
“shouted into the ear of an English bishop’s grandmother, might have an
effect approaching to that which the compliments of the excited Keif had
upon his neighbour’s nerves.” Purple and perspiring, and unable to get
in a word, poor Tremplin received one rattling volley after another,
vainly endeavouring to escape from the iron grip the doctor kept upon
the topmost button of his coat. At last he was released, with a parting
prod from Keif’s barbed tongue.
“‘Notwithstanding their deeply sunken condition,’ the doctor said, ‘it
is undeniable that the French, like the Spaniards, Italians, and Irish,
are still a witty, diverting, and highly interesting nation.’
“‘_Infiniment obligé!_’ screamed Tremplin, breaking from the doctor,
making a low bow, and thrice repeating the words, ‘How said you?
Di-vert-ing! _Infiniment obligé, Monsieur le Docteur!_ Your German
modesty inspires you with charming compliments.’
“‘No compliment, Monsieur Tremplin,’ replied Keif: ‘merely my honest
opinion.’
“The Frenchman cast an epigrammatical side-glance at the doctor,
buttoned his coat to the chin, as if arming himself for an important
decision, and exclaimed in a loud voice: ‘You are’—(A long pause ensued,
during which all present rose in confusion from their seats.) ‘You are
totally unacquainted with Paris!’
“‘And what then?’ said Dr Keif.
“‘That is enough, I need to know no more. _Enfin_....’ And with a shrug
of the shoulders in which the doctor should have beheld his moral
annihilation, Mr Tremplin turned his back upon his opponent.”
Some minutes elapsed before the agitation caused by this little scene
completely subsided. In the embrasure of a window, the lady of the house
poured balm into poor Tremplin’s wounds; Keif paced the room, his
complexion green and yellow, visibly struggling with the consciousness
that he had been too hard upon the poor little Frenchman—rather rudely
vehement and sarcastic; Sir John alone remained at table, balancing a
silver dessert-knife, and making a small speech, to which nobody
listened, in praise of the admirable parliamentary order observed at
English public dinners. “‘There, when did it occur to anybody, before
the removal of the cloth, to speak on more serious subjects than the
domestic virtues of turtle and turbot, the tenderness of the lamb and
venison, the age and excellence of the wines, and the qualities of all
those good things of the earth which are so exquisitely adapted to
promote the harmonious intercourse of Whigs and Tories, High Churchmen
and Dissenters, landlords and cotton lords? There is the great point.
That is what foreigners will not learn. They do nothing at the right
time and nothing thoroughly, therefore do they eat gall and brew
poison.’” There may be more than one grain of truth in the baronet’s
words, Mr Schlesinger opines, but he does not stay to discuss the
subject. It was written that the evening should be one of scrutiny and
controversy. The feud between Keif and Tremplin having been easily put
an end to by Sir John’s good-humoured intervention, the conversation
again became general. The doctor must go out at nine o’clock, he said;
he had promised to accompany Frolick to the theatre, and in a stroll
through the theatrical district of London. This brought up Tremplin—not,
indeed, to renew wordy combat with the formidable antagonist by whom he
had been so recently worsted, but to express his astonishment that
anybody could go to a London theatre in the dead season. He had always
understood that the only theatres to which _comme-il-faut_ people went
in London were the Italian operas and the miniature French playhouse in
St James’s, and these were then closed. It was true that the queen
annually honoured the obscure English theatres with a few visits, but
that was merely out of complaisance to English prejudices. The ladies
protested against this depreciation of the English drama; but the
Parisian, who had quite forgotten his late indignation and discomfiture,
did but smile and politely persist—developing his notions on an infinite
variety of subjects with that easy, urbane, superficial dogmatism which
characterises the very numerous class of Frenchmen who combine unbounded
admiration of their own nation and country with slight esteem for, and
considerable ignorance of, all others.
“‘_Mesdames!_’ he exclaimed, ‘you have no idea of all that you forego by
living in London. It is well for you that you have never been in Paris,
or you would feel like Eve when banished from Paradise, to which she
would so gladly have returned for a chat with the seductive serpent.
_Pardieu_, Paris! There, everyday life is an enchanting drama; every
drawing-room is a stage; every chamber has its wings; and every one,
from the porter to the duke, has perfectly learned his part. The
theatres that open at night do but display and illuminate, with a
magical light, the day’s comedy. Your worthy English people can neither
act nor judge of acting. An English actor is a creature as much out of
nature as a Parisian quaker. Where do you find most passion for the
art—here or with us? Paris has hardly half so many inhabitants as
London, but has many more theatres, and they are always as full as your
churches. The poorest artisan cannot exist without sunning himself in
the radiance of the stage; and will live for two days of the week on
bread and milk, in order to save a few _sous_ for the _Variétés_ or the
_Funambules_ on Sunday evening. Show me the Englishman who will
sacrifice a mouthful of his bloody roast-beef for the sake of a refined
enjoyment. No, no;—you weave and spin, and steam and hammer, and eat and
drink, with God knows how many horses’ power; but as to enjoying life,
you do not understand it. Am I right, _Madame_?’”
The ladies looked at each other, but were not ready with an answer. Sir
John shook his head as he sat in his arm-chair, and remarked that there
were good grounds for the difference. The Frenchman would not admit
their goodness, and launched into an energetic diatribe against the
strictness of London Sabbath-observance. We take it for granted that,
even if the personages introduced into Mr Schlesinger’s book are not
imaginary, the conversations he gives are chiefly of his own
composition, intended to display the different sides of the various
questions discussed; and that a _juste milieu_ between the rather
extreme views expressed by Keif and Tremplin, and occasionally by Sir
John, may be adopted with tolerable certainty as the measure of the
author’s own opinions. Of this last point we feel the more convinced, by
the moderate and sensible manner in which Mr Schlesinger expresses
himself when speaking in his own person. His delineation of the
representatives of England, Germany, and France, and the manner in which
he puts them through their parts, is really very spirited and clever.
Without, of course, in the slightest degree coinciding in the levity and
irreverence of the profane Parisian, we will give a further specimen of
his views and notions concerning this country, its condition and
institutions; views and notions which, allowing for the tinge (only a
slight one) of humorous caricature thrown in by Mr Schlesinger, are, in
our firm belief—we might almost say, to our certain knowledge—those of a
great number of Monsieur Tremplin’s fellow-citizens. Having taken up the
ball of conversation, the Frenchman ran on with it at a canter,
curvetting and kicking up his heels with huge self-satisfaction, and
highly pleased at having an opportunity of showing himself at once
patriotic, eloquent, and gallant. He proceeded to explain the causes of
the decline of the British drama.
“In the first place,” he said, “the performance of a play would
desecrate the Sunday evening. The Sabbath must be ended as wearisomely
as it is begun. If one speaks of this to an Englishman, he pulls a long
face, and talks about the morality of the lower orders. How moral the
English lower orders are! One sees that every Monday, when the drunken
cases are brought up at the police offices. One man has bitten off a
constable’s nose by way of a joke; another has knocked down his wife and
danced upon her body; a third has cut open his better-half’s head with
the poker. All morality and liquor; but, thank heaven, they have not
been to the theatre—any more than to church. Don’t tell me, because you
have more churches than there are days in the calendar, that your poor
people go to them; there is no room for them. Your churches are for
respectable citizens, with cash jingling in their pockets. Then again,
there are thousands of quakers, methodists, and other fanatics, who
consider it a deadly sin to visit a theatre even upon working days. And
finally, you are all such smoky fireside people—so given to stick in
your shells like snails—that it is a punishment to you to have to creep
out of your houses; or else you have such a silly passion for green
grass, that you go and live at the end of the world, where you need a
carriage to bring you home from the theatre by daybreak. These terrible
distances ruin the pocket, and cramp civilisation. Your much-be-praised
Englishmen, doctor, have not got a monopoly of wisdom. But I pity them
not. It is for the poor daughters of Albion that I feel sorry. Upon my
honour, ladies, I should not grieve if Napoleon’s glorious dream were to
be realised. Ha, ha! That would be a life! Fancy our _grande armée_
leaping one day upon the British shores. Before the sun is up the
_braves_ are in the city, say _bonjour_, conquer, and are forthwith
conquered—by the charms of the fair-haired Anglo-Saxons. Our soldiers
ask nothing in the way of acknowledgment. Keep your bank, your religion,
and your lord mayor. The sole glory desired by France is, to annihilate
the dragon of English _ennui_. Hand in hand with the fair sex, the
invincible army achieves that feat. On the first evening there is a
great fraternity-ball at Vauxhall; the next morning appears a manifesto
in the name of the liberating army, by which the erection of at least
one French vaudeville theatre in every parish is decreed, as the sole
reward of the victors; and in a few years, when these new institutions
have taken firm root in the hearts of the English people, the heroic
army returns to sunny France, promising to come back should you relapse
into your puritanical hypochondria. The daughters of Albion stand upon
their chalky cliffs, and wring their white hands in grief at their
deliverers’ departure. What say you to this picture? Is it not
chivalrous? Is it not replete with the most affecting disinterestedness?
And do you doubt that it dwells in the hearts of thousands of
Frenchmen?”
If Monsieur Tremplin here paused, it was for breath rather than for a
reply. Certainly it was not for want of matter, for he quickly resumed
his satirical commentary on English usages, rattling off a string of
libels on the dress and carriage of Englishwomen, on English musical
taste, &c. &c.—the whole for the special benefit of Keif, whom he had
got into a corner, the ladies being now busy tea-making. In the heap of
flippancy and exaggeration, a few sparkles of sense and truth are
discernible; not all the Frenchman’s arrows fly wide of the mark. He
laughs pitilessly at the medley of colours frequently seen in ladies’
dresses in England; talks of “a scarlet shawl over an apple-green gown
with yellow flounces, and a cavalry hat with ostrich feathers” (the
judicious assortment of colours is one of the great studies and
occupations of a Parisian woman’s life), and is altogether abominably
disrespectful and scandalous in his remarks upon the fair sex of Great
Britain, although he speaks in raptures of the beauty of “the raw
material”—the beautiful hair, form, complexion, and so forth. Presently
he gets upon the opera, and the dress exacted as a condition of
admission. “Dresscoats and black trousers—why not powder and bagwigs? It
is written in the _Morning Post_ that seven delicate ladies, in the
first row of boxes, once fell into picturesque fainting fits, because a
foreigner with a coloured neckcloth had smuggled himself into the pit.
Be it observed that he had paid his bright Victorias at the door like
anybody else. Dress-coat is indispensable—black trousers ditto; but coat
and trousers may be old, dirty, threadbare. It strikes one as strange,
that, besides paying his money, he is to be tutored by the servants at a
theatre-door.” Keif, listening with smiling indulgence to the petulant
Frenchman, occasionally presumes to differ from him, or at least to
modify his strictures on English tastes and usages. “One meets with very
good musical connoisseurs in this country,” says the doctor; “but I
confess that the British public’s digestive powers, in respect of music,
often astonish me. John Bull sits out two symphonies by Beethoven, an
overture of Weber’s, a couple of fugues by Bach, half-a-score of
Mendelssohn’s songs, and half-a-dozen other airs and variations, and
goes home and sleeps like a marmot. At the theatre he will take in a
tragedy by Shakespeare, a three-act comedy from the French, a ballet,
and a substantial London farce. All that does not spoil his stomach.”
Tremplin was delighted to find the doctor falling into his line. “Yes,”
he said, “nothing satisfies these people but quantity. The Englishman
throws down his piece of gold and asks for a hundredweight of music”—and
he urged the doctor to go to Paris. Sir John was the best creature in
the world, but he was an original—an oddity. The doctor, upon the other
hand, was a man of sense and observation; and before he had worn out a
couple of pair of shoe-soles upon the asphalt of the boulevards, his
eyes would be opened.
“_Pardieu!_ Paris!” cried the little man, getting very excited. “The
whole civilised world dresses itself out in the cast-off clothes of
Paris. What has Paris not? Do you wish religion? There are Lacordaire,
Lamennais, and the _Univers_. Religion of all sorts. Are you a lover of
philosophy? Go to Proudhon. For my part, to speak candidly, I care
neither for philosophy nor religion; both are _mauvais genre_, and I
should not mind if M. Proudhon were hung; but that does not prevent me,
as a Frenchman, from being proud of him. In a word, you will convince
yourself that the whole world beside is but a bad imitation of Paris.
There you find heaven and the other place, order and freedom, the
romance of orgies and the solitude of the cloister, all combined in the
most beautiful harmony—in the most magnificent and elegant form. Of one
thing especially”—and Tremplin laid his hand, with the earnestness of an
apostle, upon the shoulder of the astounded Keif—“be well assured, and
that is, that nowhere but in Paris can you learn to speak French.
Impossible. You never catch the accent. England’s climate is the most
dangerous of all for the pronunciation. I, an old Parisian, still am
sensible of the pestilential influence the jargon here spoken has upon
my tongue; and whenever I return to Paris from London, I feel ashamed
before my own porter.”
The hour was come for Keif to bend his steps theatrewards. Sir John
escorted him to the door, and apologised, by the way, for the
provocation Tremplin had given him at dinner. It was some slighting
remark about Germans—an intimated opinion that they would never be
accessory to the combustion of the Thames—that had first roused the ire
of Keif, and provoked his tremendous denunciation of Frenchmen as all
that is frivolous, unstable, and contemptible.
“‘What can you expect from a Frenchman?’ said Sir John. ‘He is a
harmless soul, but a great oddity; one might make money by exhibiting
him in Piccadilly. When I first knew him I took some trouble with him,
and tried to give him an idea of what England is; but, as the proverb
says, you cannot argue a dog’s hind-leg straight. You will never catch
_me_ arguing with him again.’”
Keif went his way, chuckling at the notion of this precious pair of
mortals taxing each other with oddity, and totally unconscious that he
himself was as great an oddity as either of them. It was long after
midnight when he returned home. Everybody was gone to bed, the servant
told him, except Sir John and Monsieur. He found them at their
chamber-doors; with candles, burnt low, in their hands. The baronet had
forgotten his resolution;—he was trying to argue the dog’s hind-leg
straight. The pair were in the heat and fervour of a discussion, which
had evidently been of long duration. Shakspeare and Frenchwomen were its
rather strangely assorted subjects. The doctor caught a few sentences as
he passed, wished the disputants good night, and turned into bed. Fully
a quarter of an hour elapsed before they evacuated the lobby to follow
his example. Keif laughed to himself.
“‘So,’ he said, ‘in Monsieur Tremplin’s eyes, Shakespeare is deficient
in power; and Sir John denies that Frenchwomen are graceful! Was there
ever such a pair of originals?’ And so saying, the third original went
to sleep.”
We need hardly say that the ramble of Dr Keif (by whom we suspect Mr
Schlesinger himself is meant) through the theatrical purlieus, furnished
abundant materials for a chapter. It was Saturday—the very night to see
the Drury district in its glory; for wages had been paid, and after
twelve no liquor would be sold; so the fortunate recipients of cash were
making the most of the short night. This chapter, like some others in
the book, shows such a thorough familiarity with, and correct perception
of, London low life—is so totally different, in short, from the
blundering and exaggerated pictures one usually meets with in accounts
of London by foreigners—that we are more than once tempted, whilst
reading it, to suspect the writer of unacknowledged obligations to
English authors. But Mr Schlesinger has, we have no doubt, been long
resident in England, and as he, moreover, in one or two instances,
indicates by a note his appropriation of English materials, we dismiss
from our mind the idea of unconfessed plagiarism. Since we do so, we
must not refuse him the praise to which his faithful and striking
sketches fairly entitle him. With him and Frolick, we turn out of the
Strand, through a narrow court, into Drury Lane.
“In the shops which occupy the ground floor of almost all the houses,
are exposed for sale, at low prices, shabby female apparel, coarse
eatables, low literature with horrible illustrations, strong shoes, old
clothes, abominable cigars, cold and hot meat. But the most prominent
feature in the whole of Drury Lane is the gin palace, whose favourite
station is at corners, where the lane is intersected by cross streets.
The gin palace contrasts with the adjacent buildings pretty much as does
a Catholic church with the cottages of a Slavonian village. From afar it
looms like a lighthouse to the thirsty working man; for it is sumptuous
with plate glass and gilt cornices, and dazzling with a hundred
many-coloured inscriptions. Here, in the window, is the portrait of a
giant from Norfolk, who is employed in the house to draw liquor and
customers; yonder, in green letters upon the pane, we read—‘The Only
Genuine Brandy in London;’ or, in red letters—‘Here is sold the
celebrated strengthening wholesome Gin, recommended by all the
doctors’—‘Cream Gin’—‘Honey Gin’—‘Genuine Porter’—‘Rum that would knock
down the Devil,’ &c. &c. Often the varnished door-posts are painted from
top to bottom with suchlike spirited announcements. It is to be
remarked, that even those gin shops which externally are the most
brilliant, within are utterly comfortless. The landlord intrenches
himself behind the bar, as in a fortress where his customers must not
enter. The walls in this sanctuary are covered with a whole library of
large and small casks, painted of various colours. The place thus
partitioned off is sometimes a picture of cleanliness and comfort, and
within it an arm-chair invites to repose; but in front of the bar, for
the customers, there is nothing but a narrow dirty standing place,
rendered yet more disagreeable by the continual opening and shutting of
the doors, and where the only seat, if there be one at all, is afforded
by an empty cask in a corner. Nevertheless the palace receives a
constant succession of worthy guests, who, standing, reeling, crouching
or lying, muttering, groaning or cursing, drink and—forget.
“On sober working days, and in tolerable weather, there is nothing
remarkable, to the uninitiated, in the appearance of Drury Lane. Many a
little German capital is worse lighted, and not so well paved. Misery is
less plainly legible upon the physiognomy of this district than upon
that of Spitalfields, St Giles’s, Saffron Hill, and other wretched
corners of London. But at certain times it oozes, like Mississippi
slime, out of every pore. On Saturday evenings, after working-hours, on
the evening of holiday-Monday, and after church on Sunday, Drury Lane is
seen in its glory. On the other hand, Sunday morning in Drury Lane is
enough to give the most cheerful person the spleen. For the poorer
classes of labourers the Lord’s day is a day of penance, without church
to go to or walk to take. The well-dressed throngs that fill parks and
churches scare smock-frock and fustian-jacket into the beer-shops. For
the English proletarian is ashamed of his rags, and knows not how to
drape himself with them picturesquely, like the Spanish or Italian
lazzarone, who holds beggary to be an honourable calling. In the deepest
misery, the Englishman has still pride enough to shun the society of
those even half a grade superior to himself, and to confine himself to
that of his equals, amongst whom he may freely raise his head. And then
church and park have no charm for him. His legs are too weary for a walk
into the country; boat, omnibus, and railway, are too dear. His church,
his park, his club, his theatre, his refuge from the exhalations of the
sewers above which he dwells and sleeps, are the gin palace.”
This is a gloomy, but we fear, to a certain extent, too true a picture.
In every large city, and particularly in such an overgrown one as
London, a certain-amount of misery of the kind above depicted must
exist; there must be a certain number of human beings living in a state
of almost total deprivation of those blessings which God intended all
his creatures to share—of a pure air, of the sight of fields and
flowers, of opportunities to praise His name in the society of their
fellow-men. But we are pretty sure Mr Schlesinger has lived long enough
in England to discern, and has candour enough to admit, that in no
country in the world are such generous, energetic, and unceasing efforts
made by the more fortunate classes for the moral and physical betterment
of the unfortunates whose degraded condition he graphically and truly
describes. That which in most European countries is left almost entirely
to the charge of government, and which is consequently often left
undone, or at best half done, is effected in England by the cordial
co-operation of the government and the nation, aided by a press which
must in justice be admitted to be ever ready to give publicity to social
grievances, to the sufferings of particular classes, and to practical
suggestions for their alleviation or remedy. Fortunate inhabitants of a
favoured land, we must not allow the difference just pointed out to
inflate our national vanity over-much. In no country is there so much
private wealth as in England, and thus, when we seem to give much, we
may be giving not more than others whose means are less, but their will
as good. Then there is, undeniably, another, and we should perhaps say a
selfish, motive for the energetic, efficient, and liberal manner in
which the opulent and well-to-do classes of Englishmen take up and
prosecute schemes for the amelioration of their poorer countrymen. An
observant people, shrewd in deduction, and setting common sense above
every other mental quality, we take warning by our neighbours. And we
feel that the best safeguard for institutions we all revere and
cherish—the best security against sedition and revolution, and against
the propagation, by designing knaves and misguided enthusiasts, of that
jacobinism whose manœuvres and excesses have proved so fatal in other
lands—is a generous and humane consideration of the wants and sufferings
of the poorer classes, and an earnest endeavour to elevate their
condition.
And let us acknowledge, with thankfulness, that we have good stuff to
work upon; that if the higher classes show themselves prompt in
sacrifices, a praiseworthy patience is displayed by those they strive to
succour. The Parisian artisan or day-labourer, although probably less of
a bellygod than the Londoner of the same class, quickly gets irate when
he finds bread dear and commons short; and, upon the first suggestion
from any democrat who promises him a big loaf, is ready enough to
“descend into the street,” tear up the pavement, build a barricade, and
shoot his brother from behind it. Contrast this with the fortitude and
long-suffering of the poor gin-and-beer-drinking people whom Mr
Schlesinger qualifies (and the terms, perhaps, may not be justly
gainsaid) as besotted and obtuse of sense. Grant that they be so; they
yet have qualities which constitute them valuable citizens of a free
country. They will toil, when work is to be had; they have an innate
respect for law and order, and a manly pride which makes them shun a
workhouse coat as an abject livery; they loathe the mendicancy in which
the southern lazzarone luxuriates; they are not insensible to the
benevolent efforts constantly making in their behalf; and they take
little heed of the demagogue’s artful incitements.
“There is hardly any people,” muses Mr Schlesinger, in a very different
part of his book and of London, (when strolling at the Hyde Park end of
Piccadilly), “that loves a green tree and an open lawn so heartily as
the English. They have not less reverence for the noble trees in their
parks than had the Druids for the sacred oaks in their consecrated
groves; and it does one’s heart good to see that the struggle with
Nature, the striving to apply her powers to wool-carding and
spindle-turning, does not destroy the feeling for those of her beauties
which cannot be converted into capital and interest. The English nation
refute, in their own persons, the oft-repeated lie that ‘excessive’
cultivation (civilisation) estranges men from their primitive childish
feelings. In England, more than in any other part of the world, are fire
and water, earth and air, made use of as bread-winners; in England, the
ploughed field is fattened with manure gathered on barren reefs
thousands of miles distant; in England, nature is forced to produce the
enormous water-lilies of the tropics, and to ripen fruits of unnatural
size; in England, one eats grapes from Oporto, oranges from Malta,
peaches from Provence, pine-apples from Jamaica, bananas from St
Domingo, and nuts from Brazil. That which the native soil produces only
upon compulsion, and at great cost, is borrowed from other zones, but
not on that account are his native trees and meadows, woods and
shrubberies, less dear to the Englishman.”
Mr Schlesinger will not doubt that this love of rural scenes and
nature’s beauties, which he so happily and gracefully discriminates and
defines, is common to all classes of Englishmen. We believe that it is,
and we recognise in it a propitious sign. The poor people he has seen,
during his Sabbath rambles in London’s “back-slums,” losing sight of the
blessed sunshine, and immuring themselves in a tap-room or gin palace,
would perhaps, but for their ragged garments, weary limbs, and scantily
furnished pockets, have preferred, like their betters, a country ramble,
to the cheap and deleterious excitement provided for them by Booth and
Barclay. But we feel that we are arguing without an opponent. We can
only trust, and we do so trust, seriously and gladly, that the day will
never come when the consciousness that the attainment of perfection is
impossible will deter English legislators and philanthropists from
devoting their utmost energies and abilities to the improvement of the
meanest and most depraved classes of their fellow-countrymen.
The conviction that Shakespeare is better known, better understood, and,
above all, better acted in Germany than in England, is very prevalent in
the former country, where we have often heard it boldly put forward and
sustained. When in Shakespeare’s native land, Germans may possibly be
more modest in their pretensions; and yet we must not be too confident
of that, when we see a German company selecting Shakespeare’s plays for
performance before a refined and critical London audience. The recent
performances of Emil Devrient and his companions, give especial interest
to some theatrical criticisms put forth by Dr Keif for the benefit of
his friend Frolick, seated by his side in the pit of the Olympic
Theatre. He is of opinion that English actors, when rendering
Shakespeare’s characters, cling too tenaciously to tradition, and aim
too little at originality. After a visit to a penny theatre, of the
proceedings at which he gives a most laughable account, he returns, at
some length, to the subject of the English stage, and highly praises
certain English comic actors as excellent, and superior to any of the
same class in Germany. “I know nothing better,” he says, “than Matthews
at the Lyceum, and Mrs Keeley. There you have natural freshness, vigour,
ease, and finesse, all combined in right proportions. There is less
heartiness about our German comic performances; they always remind me of
the strained vivacity of a bookworm in a drawing-room; now the author,
then his interpreter, is too visibly forced in his condescension.” What
follows is less complimentary. “When I for the first time, at Sadler’s
Wells, saw Romeo and Juliet performed, I bit my lips all to pieces.
Juliet looked as if she came from a ladies’ school at Brompton, instead
of an Italian convent; the orthopedical stays and backboard were
unmistakable: as to Romeo, I would unhesitatingly have confided to him
the charge of an express train, so sober and practical was his air, so
solid and angular each one of his movements. The same impression was
made upon me by Mercutio, Tybalt, Lorenzo. It was not that they
displayed too little vocal and mimic power; on the contrary, it was
because they gesticulated like madmen, and ranged up and down the entire
gamut of human tones, from a whistle to a roar, that I too plainly saw
that no tragic passion was in them. The same company afterwards
delighted me in comic pieces.” In English theatricals Mr Schlesinger’s
taste is strongly for the humorous; the broader the farce and the
thicker the jokes, the better he is pleased. A Christmas pantomime, with
its practical fun and methodical folly, delights him. He is wonderstruck
and enchanted by the mischievous agility of clown, and the only drawback
to his pleasure is the inappropriate introduction of a ballet. “To see
twenty or thirty Englishwomen, of full grenadier stature, perform a
ballet-dance ten minutes in length, is an enjoyment from which one does
but slowly recover. To this day I live in the firm conviction that the
worthy young women had not the least idea that they were called upon for
an artistical performance, but took their long legs for mathematical
instruments, with which to demonstrate problems relating to right
angles, the hypothenuse, and the squaring of the circle.” This sarcasm
elicited a long reply from Frolick, who had once, it seems, been a
_fideler bursch_ in Heidelberg, who knew German well, and had seen
Shakespeare acted in both countries. In some respects he preferred the
German performance of Hamlet and Romeo and Juliet, but Richard III. and
Falstaff were to be seen best in England. The decline of the drama in
this country he attributed to a complication of causes, of which he
cited two—the nation’s preoccupation with matters more practical and
important, and the want of a government support. “In your country,” he
said, “thirty courts cherish, foster, and patronise the theatre; here,
every theatre is a private speculation. When the Queen has taken a box
at the Princess’s Theatre and another at Covent Garden, she has done all
that is expected from her Majesty in the way of patronage of the drama.
Upon the same boards upon which to-day you hear the swanlike notes of
Desdemona, you to-morrow may behold an equestrian troop or a party of
Indian jugglers. If you complain of such desecration of the muse’s
temple, you are simply laughed at. Aubry’s dog, which so excited the
holy indignation of Schiller and Goethe, would be welcomed at any of our
theatres, so long as he filled the house.” Without going the length of
restricting theatrical performances to what is termed the legitimate
drama, there ought to be a limit to illegitimacy, and unquestionably the
introduction upon our stage of tumblers, jugglers, and posture-masters,
circus-clowns, rope-dancers, and wild Indians, has powerfully
contributed to lower its character, and to wean many lovers of the drama
from the habitual frequenting of theatres. But the stage in England has
not the importance and weight it enjoys in some foreign countries;
notably in France, where it is one of the means used to distract from
politics the attention of the restless excitement-loving people; where
ministers of state, and imperial majesty itself, condescend to interfere
in minute dramatic details, and to command the suppression of pieces
whose merits they deem beneath the dignity of the theatre at which they
are produced. There, it is worth a government’s while to subsidise the
theatres; in England such an item would never be tolerated in a
chancellor of the exchequer’s budget. Nor is it needed. Public demand
will always create as large a supply as is really required.
Pleasantly and intelligently criticising and discoursing, the German
doctor and his companion took their way again through Drury Lane,
witnessing more than one disgusting scene of drunkenness, riot, and
brutality. It was hard upon midnight: the gin palaces and their
frequenters were making the most of their last few minutes; the barrows
of battered fruit and full-flavoured shell-fish were trading at reduced
prices, upon the principle of small profits and quick returns; oysters
as big as a fist were piled up by threes and fours, at a penny a
heap—poverty and oysters, Mr Weller has informed us, invariably walk
hand in hand; here was a girl carried away dead drunk upon a
stretcher—“it was the hunger,” an old Irishwoman, with a glowing pipe in
her mouth, assured the gentleman, “that had done it—oh! only the
hunger—the smallest drop had been too much for poor Sall;” here a brace
of Amazons were indulging in a “mill” in the centre of an admiring ring;
in front of a public-house a half-famished Italian ground out the air of
“There’s a good time coming, boys—wait a little longer,” the organist
looking the while as if he had great need of the “good time,” and very
little power to wait. Suddenly the lights went out in the gin palaces,
ballad-singers and hurdygurdy stopped short in the middle of their
melodies, shouts and curses subsided into a hoarse murmur, and the mob
dispersed and disappeared, to adopt Mr Schlesinger’s severe comparison,
“like dirty rain-water that rolls into gutters and sewers.” The amateur
observers of London’s blackguardism pursued their homeward way.
“Suddenly, from a side street, a tall figure emerged with long noiseless
steps, and cast a glance right and left—no policeman was in sight. Then
she rapidly approached our two friends and fixed her glassy eyes upon
them.
“It is no midnight spectre, but neither is it a being of flesh and
blood, it consists but of skin and bone. Upon her arm is an infant, to
which the bony hand affords but a hard dying-bed. For a few seconds she
gazes at the strangers. They put some silver into her hand. Without a
word of thanks, or of surprise at the liberality of the alms, she walks
away.
“‘The holy Sabbath has commenced,’ said Keif, after they had proceeded
for some distance in silence, ‘the puritanical Sabbath, on which misery
feels itself doubly and trebly forlorn.’
“‘My dear friend,’ replied Frolick, ‘five-and-twenty years ago you might
have paved Oxford Street with such unhappy wretches as that we just now
met. Now you must seek them out in a nook of Drury Lane. And the
puritanism of the present day is a rose-coloured full-blooded worldling,
compared to that of the Roundheads; it is nothing but the natural
reaction against the licentious cavalier spirit, created by the gloomy
hypocrisy that prevailed before the Restoration, and handed down even to
the beginning of the present century. It is English nature to cure one
extreme by running into the other. Either wildly jovial or prudishly
refined; drunkards or teetotallers; prize-fighters or peace-society-men.
If the perception of a harmonious happy medium, and the instinct of
beauty of form, were innate in us, either we should no longer be the
tough, hard-working, one-sided, powerful John Bull, or we should ere now
have proved the untruth of your German proverb that in no country under
the sun do trees grow until their branches reach the sky.’”
After which modest intimation (somewhat Teutonic in style) of his
patriotic and heartfelt conviction that if England were a little better
than she is, she would be too good for this world, Frolick took leave of
his friend. We shall soon follow his example. Before doing so, we
recommend to all English readers of German, the twelfth chapter of Mr
Schlesinger’s second volume, both as very interesting and as containing
many sensible observations and home-truths. No extraordinary acuteness
is necessary to discriminate between the writer’s jest and earnest.
“The reader acquainted with English domestic arrangements,” says Mr
Schlesinger in a note to his first volume, “will long ago have found out
that the house we live in is that of a plain citizen. So we may as well
confess that Sir John is neither knight nor baronet, but was dubbed by
ourselves, in consideration of his services to the reader, without
licence from the Queen, and with a silver spoon instead of a sword.” Sir
John is not the less—if Mr Schlesinger’s sketch be a portrait—a good
fellow and a worthy simple-hearted Englishman; and we find with
pleasure, at the close of the book, a letter from him, dated from his
cottage in the country, and addressed to the cynical Keif, who was
braving November’s fogs in Guildford Street. The doctor had sent to his
friend and host the proof-sheets of the second volume of the _Wanderings
through London_; Sir John writes back his thanks, his opinion of the
work, and his cordial forgiveness of the jokes at his expense that it
contains. “Never mind,” he says; “we Englishmen can stomach the truth;
and if you will promise me to abjure some portion of your German
stiffneckedness, I willingly pledge myself never again to try to reason
a Frenchman’s hind-leg straight. Between ourselves, that was the
greatest absurdity our friend has exposed. As to all the rest, I will
maintain my words before God, the Queen, and my countrymen. But,”
continues Sir John, quitting personal considerations, “as regards our
friend’s book—which, you tell me, is to be published at Christmas in
Berlin, the most enlightened of German cities—I really fear, my dear
doctor, that it is a bad business. How, in heaven’s name, are Germans to
form an idea of London from those two meagre volumes? Many things are
depicted in them, but how many are neglected, and these the very things
in which you Germans should take a lesson from us! Not a word about our
picture-galleries, which, nevertheless, impartially speaking, are the
first in the world! Not a word about the British Museum, about the
Bridgewater, Vernon, and Hampton Court galleries! Not a word about St
Paul’s, nor a syllable concerning the Colosseum, Madame Tussaud, or
Barclay and Perkins’ Brewery! No mention of our finest streets—Regent
Street, Bond Street, Belgravia, and Westbourne Terrace; of our concerts
at Exeter Hall, our markets, our zoological and botanical gardens, Kew,
Richmond, Windsor, art, literature, benevolent institutions,” &c. &c.
Sir John continues his enumeration of omissions, until it seems to
comprise everything worth notice in London; and we ask ourselves with
what Mr Schlesinger has filled the eight hundred pages we have read with
so much satisfaction and amusement. We perceive that he has given his
attention to men rather than to things, that his vein has been
reflective and philosophical, and that he has not mistaken himself for
the compiler of a London guide. But still Sir John is dissatisfied.
In Berlin, he says, “people will imagine England has no
picture-galleries—ha! ha! and no hospitals—ha! ha! ha! In ten such
volumes, the materials would not be exhausted.”
“It is delightful here in the country,” concludes Sir John, breaking off
his criticism. “Where do you find such fresh green, and such mild air in
November as in our England? I go out walking without a greatcoat, and
say to myself, ‘Across the water, in Germany, the snow lies deep, and
the wolves walk in and out of Cologne Cathedral.’ Here it is a little
damp of a morning and evening, but then one sits by the fire and reads
the newspaper. Nowhere is one so comfortable as in the country in
England. Come and see us in our cottage; the children are longing to see
you, and so am I.”
Then comes a postscript, which, like many postscripts, is not the least
important part of the letter. “At this damp time of the year,” says the
spoon-dubbed baronet, “I advise you to take a small glass of cognac of a
morning—there must still be some bottles of the right sort in the
cellar—and every night one of my pills. You will find a boxful on the
chimney-piece in my study. Do not be obstinate: you do not know how
dangerous this season of the year is in England.”
So kind and hospitable a letter demanded a prompt reply, and accordingly
we get Dr Keif’s by return of post. It is pretty evident, however, that
the motive of his haste is rather anxiety to answer the charge of
incompleteness brought against Max Schlesinger’s book, than generous
impatience to thank Sir John for placing the pill-box at his disposal.
The author of the _Wanderings_, he says, preferred dissecting and
dwelling upon a few subjects to slightly touching upon a large number;
and, in his usual caustic strain, he reminds his friend, that if some
things of which London has a right to be proud have been left unnoticed,
the same has been the case with other things of which she has reason to
be ashamed. He then enumerates the blots, as Sir John had detailed the
glories. Having done so: “it is horrible here in London,” he says.
“Where do you find such fogs and such a pestilential atmosphere, in
November, as in your London? That the wolves now walk in and out of
Cologne Cathedral is a mere creation of your Britannic imagination; and,
since you talk of doing without a greatcoat, why, the English walk about
the whole winter through, in Germany, in black dresscoats, but they are
cunning enough to carry several layers of flannel underneath them. Have
you by chance discarded yours? That you are comfortable in your
country-house I have no doubt. _That_ I never disputed.”
In his turn, Dr Keif treats himself to a postscript. “Since this
morning,” he says, “I have followed your medical prescription, and will
keep to it—partially, that is to say. I found the cognac, and will take
it regularly. On the other hand, when you return to London, you will
find your pills untouched upon your chimney-piece.”
And so we come to “Finis.” Mr Schlesinger is a genial and unprejudiced
critic of a foreign capital’s customs and character, and we thank him
for his agreeable, spirited, and impartial volumes. By his own
countrymen they will, or we are greatly mistaken, be highly and
deservedly prized.
NEW READINGS IN SHAKESPEARE.[3]
NO. II.
If the glory of Shakespeare is a theme for national congratulation, the
purity of his text ought to be an object of national concern. It is not
enough that the general effect of his writings should impress itself
clearly on the hearts and minds of all classes of readers; that the
grander and broader features of his genius should commend themselves to
the admiration of all mankind. This they can never fail to do. The
danger to which Shakespeare is exposed is not such as can ever
materially affect the soul and substance of his compositions. Here he
stands pre-eminent and secure. But he is exposed to a danger of another
kind. As time wears on, his text runs periodically the risk of being
extensively tampered with; whether by the introduction of _new_
readings, properly so called, or by the insertion of glosses of a
comparatively ancient date. The carelessness with which it is alleged
the earlier editions were printed, is pleaded as an apology for these
conjectural corrections;—one man’s ingenuity sets to work the wits of
another; and thus, unless the _cacoethes emendandi_ be checked betimes,
a distant posterity, instead of receiving our great poet’s works in an
authentic form, may succeed to a very adulterated inheritance.
This consideration induces us to exert such small power as we may
possess to check the growing evil, and in particular to repress that
deluge of innovations which Mr Collier has lately let loose upon the
gardens of Shakespeare, from the margins of his corrected folio of 1632,
and which, if they do not shake the everlasting landmarks, at any rate
threaten with destruction many a flower of choicest fragrance and most
celestial hue. We believe that when Mr Collier’s volume was first
published, the periodical press was generally very loud in its praises.
“Here we have the genuine Shakespeare at last,” said the journals, with
singular unanimity. But when the new readings have been dispassionately
discussed, and when the excitement of their novelty has subsided, we
believe that Mr Collier’s “Shakespeare restitutus,” so far from being an
acceptable present to the community, will be perceived to be such a book
as very few readers would like to live in the same house with.
In order, then, to carry out what we conceive to be a good work—the
task, namely, of defending the text of Shakespeare from the impurities
with which Mr Collier wishes to inoculate it—we return to the discussion
(which must necessarily be of a minute and chiefly verbal character) of
the new readings. We shall endeavour to do justice to the old corrector,
by bringing forward every alteration which looks like a real emendation.
Two or three small matters may perhaps escape us, but the reader may be
assured that they are very small matters indeed. It will be seen that
the unwise substitutions constitute an overwhelming majority. The play
that stands next in order is “King John.”
KING JOHN—_Act II. Scene 1._—In this play the new readings are of no
great importance. A few of them may equal the original text—one or two
may excel it—but certainly the larger portion fall considerably below it
in point of merit. The best emendation occurs in the lines in which
young Arthur expresses his acknowledgments to Austria—
“I give you welcome with a powerless hand,
But with a heart full of _unstained_ love.”
The MS. corrector proposes “_unstrained_ love,” which perhaps is the
better word of the two, though the change is by no means necessary. The
same commendation cannot be extended to the alteration which is proposed
in the lines where Constance is endeavouring to dissuade the French king
from engaging precipitately in battle. She says—
“My lord Chatillon may from England bring
That right in peace, which here we urge in war;
And then we shall repent each drop of blood,
That hot rash haste so _indirectly_ shed.”
“Indirectly” is Shakespeare’s word. The MS. corrector suggests
“indiscreetly”—a most unhappy substitution, which we are surprised that
the generally judicious Mr Singer should approve of. “Indiscreetly”
means imprudently, inconsiderately. “Indirectly” means wrongfully,
iniquitously, as may be learnt from these lines in King Henry V., where
the French king is denounced as a usurper, and is told that Henry
“bids you, then, resign
Your crown and kingdom, _indirectly_ held
From him the native and true challenger.”
It was certainly the purpose of Constance to condemn the rash shedding
of blood as something worse than indiscreet—as criminal and unjust—and
this she did by employing the term “indirectly” in the Shakespearean
sense of that word.
In this same Act, _Scene 2_, a new reading—also approved of by Mr
Singer, and pronounced “unquestionably right” by Mr Collier—is proposed
in the lines where the citizen says—
“That daughter there of Spain, the Lady Blanch
Is _near_ to England.”
For “near” the MS. correction is _niece_. But the Lady Blanch is
repeatedly, throughout the play, spoken of as niece to King John and the
Queen-mother. Therefore, if for no other reason than that of varying the
expression, we must give our suffrage most decidedly in favour of the
original reading. “_Near_ to England” of course means nearly related to
England; and it seems much more natural, as well as more poetical, that
the citizen should speak in this general way of Lady Blanch, than that
he should condescend on her particular degree of relationship, and style
her the “niece to England.”
At the end of this Act, in the soliloquy of Faulconbridge, a very
strange perversion on the part of the MS. corrector comes before us.
Faulconbridge is railing against what he calls “commodity”—that is, the
morality of self-interest. He then goes on to represent himself as no
better than his neighbours, in these words—
“And why rail I on this commodity?
But for because he hath not woo’d me yet;
Not that I have the power to clutch my hand,
When his fair angels would salute my palm.”
The meaning of these lines is certainly sufficiently obvious. Yet Mr
Collier’s corrector is not satisfied with them. He reads—
“Not that I have _no_ power to clutch my hand,” &c.
But unless Mr Collier can prove—what will be difficult—that “power” here
means _inclination_, it is evident that this reading directly reverses
Shakespeare’s meaning. If “power” means _inclination_, the sense would
be this—I rail on this commodity, not because I have no inclination to
clutch my hand on the fair angels that would salute my palm, but because
I have not yet been tempted; when temptation comes, I shall doubtless
yield like my neighbours. But power never means, and cannot mean
inclination; and Mr Collier has not attempted to show that it does; and
therefore the new reading must be to this effect—“I rail on this
commodity, not because I am _unable_ to close my hand against a bribe,”
&c. But Faulconbridge says the very reverse. He says—“I rail on this
commodity, not because I have the power to resist temptation, or am
_able_ to shut my hand against the fair angels that would salute my
palm; for I have no such power: in this respect I am just like other
people, and am as easily bribed as they are.” The new reading,
therefore, must be dismissed as a wanton reversal of the plain meaning
of Shakespeare.
_Act III. Scene 3._—We approve of the corrector’s change of the word
“race,” the ordinary reading, into _ear_, in the following line about
the midnight bell—
“Sound one unto the drowsy _ear_ of night.”
The old copies read _on_ instead of _one_, which was supplied—rightly,
as we think—by Warburton. The MS. corrector makes no change in regard to
_on_.
_Act III. Scene 4._—The passionate vehemence of Constance’s speech is
much flattened by the corrector’s ill-judged interference. Bewailing the
loss of her son, she says—
“O, that my tongue were in the thunder’s mouth;
Then with a passion would I shake the world:
And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy,
Which cannot hear a lady’s feeble voice,
Which scorns a _modern_ invocation.”
For “modern” the MS. corrector would read “widow’s”! And Mr Collier,
defending the new reading, observes that Johnson remarks, “that it is
hard to say what Shakespeare means by _modern_.” Johnson does make this
remark. Nevertheless the meaning of the word “modern” is perfectly
plain. It signifies moderate—not sufficiently impassioned; and we are
called upon to give up this fine expression for the inanity of a
“_widow’s_ invocation”! In the same lines this reckless tamperer with
the language of Shakespeare would change
“Then with a passion would I shake the world,”
into
“Then with _what_ passion would I shake the world.”
_Act IV. Scene 2._—In the following lines a difficulty occurs which
seems insuperable, and which the MS. corrector has certainly not
explained, although Mr Collier says that his reading makes “the meaning
apparent.” King John, in reply to some of his lords, who have tried to
dissuade him from having a double coronation, says—
“Some reasons of this double coronation
I have possessed you with, and think them strong:
And more, more strong (_when lesser is my fear_)
I shall endue you with.”
This is the common reading; but why the king should give them more and
stronger reasons for his double coronation, when his fears were
diminished, is not at all apparent. The strength of his fears should
rather have led him at once to state his reasons explicitly. The MS.
correction is—
“And more, more strong, _thus lessening_ my fear,
I shall endue you with.”
But how the _communication_ of his stronger reasons should have the
effect of lessening the king’s fear, is a riddle still darker than the
other. The _possession_ of these reasons might lessen the usurper’s
fears; but surely the mere utterance of them could make no difference.
If the MS. corrector had written, “thus lessening _your_ fears,” there
would have been some sense in the emendation; and, if a new reading be
required, this is the one which we venture to suggest.
_Act IV. Scene 3._—We confess that we prefer the MS. corrector’s line,
“Whose private _missive_ of the Dauphin’s love,”
to the ordinary reading,
“Whose private _with me_ of the Dauphin’s love.”
But we are not prepared to say that the latter is unintelligible, or
that it is not in accordance with the diplomatic phraseology of the
time.
The following new reading has something to recommend it; but much also
may be said in defence of the old text. Salisbury, indignant with the
king, says, as the ordinary copies give it,
“The King hath dispossessed himself of us;
We will not line his _thin bestained_ cloak
With our pure honours.”
The margins propose “sin-bestained,” which is plausible. But there is
also a propriety in the use of the word “thin.” The king’s cloak (that
is, his authority) was _thin_, because not lined and strengthened with
the power and honours of his nobles. The text ought not to be altered.
We conclude our _obiter dicta_ on this play with the remark, that Pope’s
change of “hand” into “head,” which is also proposed by the MS.
corrector in the following lines, (_Act IV. Scene III._) seems to us to
be an improvement, and entitled to admission into the text. Salisbury
vows
“Never to taste the pleasures of the world,
Never to be infected with delight,
Nor conversant with ease and idleness,
’Till I have set a glory to this _head_,
By giving it the worship of revenge,”
—that is, the head of young Arthur, whose dead body had just been
discovered on the ground.
KING RICHARD II.—_Act. II. Scene 1._—Ritson’s emendation, as pointed out
by Mr Singer, is unquestionably to be preferred to the MS. corrector’s
in these lines—
“The King is come; deal mildly with his youth,
For young hot colts, being _rag’d_, do rage the more.”
“Raged,” the common reading, can scarcely be right. Ritson proposed
“being reined.” The margins suggest “being urg’d.”
We differ from the MS. corrector, Mr Collier, and Mr Singer, in thinking
that there is no good reason for disturbing the received text in the
lines where the conspirators, Willoughby, Ross, and Northumberland, are
consulting together; but, on the contrary, very good reasons for leaving
it alone. Willoughby says to his brother—conspirator, Northumberland,
“Nay, let us share thy thoughts as thou dost ours.”
Ross also presses him to speak:
“Be confident to speak, Northumberland;
We three are but thyself; and speaking so,
Thy words are but _as_ thoughts, therefore be bold.”
The change proposed is _our_ for “as.” “Thy words are but _our_
thoughts.” The difference of meaning in the two readings is but slight;
but the old text seems to us to have the advantage in depth and
fineness. Ross’s argument with Northumberland to speak was not merely
because his words were as _their_ thoughts. That was no doubt true; but
the point of his persuasion lay in the consideration that
Northumberland’s words would be _as good as not spoken_. “We three are
but yourself, and, in these circumstances, your words are but _as_
thoughts—that is, you are as safe in uttering them as if you uttered
them not, inasmuch as you will be merely speaking to yourself.” The
substitution of “our” for “as” seems to bring out this meaning less
clearly.
_Act II. Scene 2._—The following lines (part of which, for the sake of
perspicuity, we print within a parenthesis, contrary, we believe, to the
common arrangement) require no emendation. The queen, labouring under
“the involuntary and unaccountable depression of mind which, says
Johnson, every one has some time felt,” remarks—
“Howe’er it be,
I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad,
As (though, in thinking, on no thought I think)
Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.”
The MS. corrector reads “unthinking” for “in thinking;” but this is by
no means necessary. The old text is quite as good, indeed rather better
than the new.
_Scene 3._—Much dissatisfaction has been expressed with the word
_despised_ in the lines in which York severely rates his traitorous
nephew Bolingbroke:
“Why have those banish’d and forbidden legs
Dared once to touch a dust of English ground?
But more than why,—why have they dared to march
So many miles upon her peaceful bosom,
Frighting her pale-faced villages with war,
And ostentation of _despised_ arms?”
“But sure,” says Warburton, “the ostentation of despised arms would not
_fright_ any one. We should read ‘disposed arms’—_i.e._, forces in
battle array.” “Despoiling arms” is the reading recommended by the
margins. “Displayed arms” is the right expression, according to Mr
Singer. But surely no emendation is required. The ostentation of
despised arms was quite sufficient to frighten the harmless villagers;
and this is all that Shakespeare says it did. And then it is in the
highest degree appropriate and consistent that York should give his
nephew to understand that his arms or forces were utterly despicable in
the estimation of all loyal subjects, of all honourable and
right-thinking men. Hence his words,
“Frighting her _pale-faced_ villages with war,
And _ostentation_ of _despised_ arms,”
mean—alarming with war only pale-faced villagers, who never smelt the
sulphurous breeze of battle, and making a vain parade of arms which all
true soldiers must despise.
_Act III. Scene 3._—The substitution of _storm_ for “harm,” in the
following lines, is an exceedingly doubtful emendation. York says of
Richard—
“Yet looks he like a king; behold, his eye,
As bright as is the eagle’s, lightens forth
Controlling majesty. Alack, alack for woe,
That any _harm_ should stain so fair a show!”
It is true that, in a previous part of the speech, the king is likened
to the setting sun, whose glory “the envious clouds are bent to dim;”
and therefore the word _storm_ has some show of reason to recommend it,
and “harm” may possibly have been a misprint. But we rather think that
it is the right word, and that it is more natural and pathetic than the
word _storm_. Nothing else worthy of note or comment presents itself in
the MS. corrections of King Richard II.
THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV.—_Act I. Scene 1._—“No new light,” says
Mr Collier, “is thrown upon the two lines which have produced so many
conjectures:
‘No more the thirsty entrance of this soil
Shall daub her lips with her own children’s blood.’”
The MS. corrector has in this instance shown his sense by not meddling
with these lines; for how any light beyond their own inherent lustre
should ever have been thought necessary to render them luminous, it is
not easy to understand. As a specimen of the way in which the old
commentators occasionally darkened the very simplest matters, their
treatment of these two lines may be adduced. The old quartos, and the
folio 1623, supply the text as given above. By an error of the press,
the folio 1632 reads _damb_ instead of _daub_. This _damb_ the earlier
commentators converted into _damp_. Warburton changed “damp” into
trempe—_i.e._, moisten. Dr Johnson, although very properly dissatisfied
with this Frenchified reading, is as much at fault as the bishop. With
the authentic text of the older editions before him, he says, “the old
reading helps the editor no better than the new” (in other words, _daub_
is no better than damb, and damp, and trempe); “nor can I satisfactorily
reform the passage. I think that ‘thirsty entrance’ _must be_ wrong, yet
know not what to offer. We may read, but not very elegantly—
‘No more the thirsty _entrails_ of this soil
Shall _daubed be_ with her own children’s blood.’”
Truly this reading is by no means elegant; it is nothing less than
monstrous. To say nothing of the physical impossibility of the blood
penetrating to the “entrails” of the earth, the expression violates the
first principles of poetical word-painting. The interior parts of the
earth are not seen, and therefore to talk of them as daubed with blood,
is to attempt to place before the eye of the mind a picture which cannot
be placed before it. In science, or as a matter of fact, this may be
admissible; but in poetry, where the imagination is addressed, it is
simply an absurdity. Steevens, with some hesitation, proposes—
“No more the thirsty _entrants_ of this soil
Shall daub her lips with her own children’s blood.”
“Entrants,” that is, “invaders.” “This,” says Steevens, “may be thought
very far-fetched.” It is worse than far-fetched—it is ludicrously
despicable. Conceive Shakespeare saying that “a parcel of _drouthy_
Frenchmen shall no more daub the lips of England with the blood of her
own children”! What renders this reading all the more inexcusable is,
that Steevens perceived what the true and obvious meaning was, although
he had not the steadiness to stand to it. He adds—“or Shakespeare _may_
mean the _thirsty entrance_ of the soil for the _porous surface_ of the
earth through which all moisture enters, and is thirstily drunk or
soaked up.” Shakespeare’s words cannot by any possibility mean anything
except this. “Porous surface,” as must be obvious to all mankind, is the
exact literal prose of the more poetical phrase, “thirsty entrance.” Yet
obvious as this interpretation is, Malone remained blind to it, even
after Steevens had pointed it out. He prefers Steevens’ first
emendation. He says, “Mr Steevens’ conjecture (that is, his suggestion
of _entrants_ for _entrance_) is so likely to be true, that I have no
doubt about the propriety of admitting it into the text.” In spite,
however, of these vagaries, we believe that the right reading, as given
above, has kept its place in the ordinary editions of Shakespeare. This
instance may show that our MS. corrector is not the only person whose
wits have gone a-woolgathering when attempting to mend the language of
Shakespeare.
Before returning to Mr Collier’s corrector, we wish to make another
digression, in order to propose a new reading—one, at least, which is
new to ourselves, and not to be found in the _variorum_ edition 1785.
The king says, in reference to the rising in the north, which has been
triumphantly put down—
“Ten thousand bold Scots,—two-and-twenty knights,
_Balked_ in their own blood, did Sir Walter see
On Holmedon’s plains.”
For “balked” Steevens conjectured either “bathed” or “baked.” Warton
says that _balk_ is a ridge, and that therefore “balked in their own
blood” means “piled up in a ridge, and in their own blood.” Tollet says,
“‘balked in their own blood,’ I believe, means, lay in heaps or hillocks
in their own blood.” We propose—
“Ten thousand bold Scots,—two-and-twenty knights,
_Bark’d_ in their own blood, did Sir Walter see
On Holmedon’s plains.”
“Barked,” that is, coated with dry and hardened blood, as a tree is
coated with bark. This is picturesque. To _bark_ or _barken_ is
undoubtedly an old English word; and in Scotland, even at this day, it
is not uncommon to hear the country people talk of blood _barkening_,
that is, hardening, upon a wound.
_Act I. Scene 3._—The following lines present a difficulty which the
commentators—and among them our anonymous scholiast—have not been very
successful in clearing up. The king, speaking in reference to the
revolted Mortimer and his accomplices, says—
“Shall we buy treason, and indent _with fears_,
When they have lost and forfeited themselves?
No, on the barren mountains let him starve.”
There is no difficulty in regard to the word “indent;” it means, to
enter into a compact—to descend, as Johnson says, to a composition. But
what is the meaning of “to indent, or enter into a compact, _with
fears_”? Johnson suggests “with peers”—that is, with the noblemen who
have lost and forfeited themselves. But this is a very unsatisfactory
and improbable reading. The MS. corrector proposes “with foes;” and Mr
Collier remarks, “It seems strange that, in the course of two hundred
and fifty years, nobody should ever have even guessed at _foes_ for
_fears_.” It is much more strange that Mr Collier should be ignorant
that “foes” is the reading of the Oxford editor, Sir Thomas Hanmer—a
reading which was long ago condemned. Mr Singer adheres rightly to the
received text; but he is wrong in his explanation of the word “fears.”
He says that it means “objects of fear.” But surely the king can never
have regarded Mortimer and his associates as objects of fear. He had a
spirit above that. He had no dread of them. Steevens is very nearly
right when he says that the word “fears” here means _terrors_: he would
have been quite right had he said that it signifies _cowardice_, or
rather, by a poetical licence, “cowards”—(_fearers_, if there were such
a word.) The meaning is, shall we buy treason, and enter into a
composition with cowardice, when they (the traitors and cowards) have
lost and forfeited themselves? Treason and cowardice are undoubtedly the
two offences which the king intends to brand with his indignation.
“Foes” is quite inadmissible.
In _Act II. Scene 1_—Gadshill, talking in a lofty vein of his high
acquaintances, says, “I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no
long-staff, six-penny strikers; none of these mad, mustachio,
purple-hued maltworms; but with nobility and _tranquillity_;
burgomasters and great _oneyers_; such as can hold in; such as can
strike sooner than speak,” &c. The change of “tranquillity” into
_sanguinity_, as proposed by the MS. corrector, we dismiss at once as
unworthy of any consideration. “Oneyers” is the only word about which
there is any difficulty; and it has puzzled the bigwigs. Theobald reads
“moneyers”—that is, officers of the mint—bankers. Sir T. Hanmer reads
“great owners.” Malone reads “onyers,” which, he says, means public
accountants. “To settle accounts is still called at the exchequer _to
ony_, and hence Shakespeare seems to have formed the word _onyers_.”
Johnson has hit upon the right explanation, although he advances it with
considerable hesitation. “I know not,” says he, “whether any change is
necessary; Gadshill tells the chamberlain that he is joined with no mean
wretches, but with burgomasters and great ones, or, as he terms them in
merriment, by a cant termination, great oneyers, or, great one-eers—as
we say privateer, auctioneer, circuiteer. This is, I fancy, the whole of
the matter.” That this is the true explanation, or very near it, and
that no change in the text is necessary, is proved beyond a doubt by the
following extract from the writings of one whose genius, while it
elevates the noblest subjects, can also illustrate the most small. “Do
they often go where glory waits them, and leave you here?” says Mr
Swiveller, alluding to Brass and his charming sister, in Dickens’ _Old
Curiosity Shop_. “‘O, yes, I believe they do,’ returned the marchioness,
_alias_ the small servant; ‘Miss Sally’s such a _one-er_ for that.’
‘Such a what?’ said Dick, as much puzzled as a Shakespearean
commentator. ‘Such a one-er,’ returned the marchioness. After a moment’s
reflection, Mr Swiveller determined to forego his responsible duty of
setting her right—[why should he have wished to set her right? she _was_
right; she was speaking the language and illustrating the meaning of
Shakespeare]—and to suffer her to talk on; as it was evident that her
tongue was loosened by the purl, and her opportunities for conversation
were not so frequent as to render a momentary check of little
consequence. ‘They sometimes go to see Mr Quilp,’ said the small
servant, with a shrewd look: ‘they go to a many places, bless you.’ ‘Is
_Mr_ Brass a _wunner_?’ said Dick. ‘Not half what Miss Sally is, he
isn’t,’ replied the small servant.” Here is the very word we want.
Shakespeare’s “oneyer” is Dickens’ _one-er_ or _wunner_—that is, a one
_par excellence_, a one with an emphasis—a top-sawyer—and the difficulty
is resolved. Set a thief to catch a thief; and leave one great
intellectual luminary to throw light upon another. After Mr Dickens’
lucid commentary, “oneyer” becomes quite a household word, and we
suspect that the MS. corrector’s emendation will scarcely go down. He
reads, “burgomasters and great _ones_,—_yes_ such as can hold in.” “This
will never do,” to quote a favourite aphorism, and literary canon of the
late Lord Jeffrey, when speaking of the Lake School of poetry.
_Act II. Scene 4._—The complacency with which Mr Collier sets the
authority of his MS. corrector above that of the other commentators on
Shakespeare, is one of the most curious features in his literary
character. The following is an instance of his marginolatry. “Rowe,”
says Mr Collier, “_seems_ to have been right (indeed, the emendation
hardly admits of doubt) in reading _tristful_ for ‘trustful’ in
Falstaff’s speech, as we learn from the alteration introduced in the
folio 1632. ‘For Heaven’s sake, lords, convey my _tristful_ queen.’” As
if the authority of Rowe, or of any other person, was not, to say the
least of it, just as good as that of the anonymous corrector, who, by
the blunders into which he has fallen, has proved himself signally
disqualified for the task of rectifying Shakespeare where his text may
happen to be corrupted.
_Act III. Scene 1._—Now and then, however, as we have all along
admitted, the old corrector makes a good hit. A very excellent
emendation, about the best which he has proposed, occurs in the scene
where Mortimer says—
“My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh.”
The lady then speaks to him in Welsh, being at the same time in tears;
whereupon her husband says—
“I understood thy looks, _that_ pretty Welsh
Which thou pourest down from the swelling heavens.”
“The swelling heavens”—her eyes might no doubt be swollen; but that is
not a pretty picture. The correction, which is a manifest improvement,
and worthy of a place in the text, is “from these welling heavens.” This
correction is taken from Mr Collier’s appendix, or “notes,” where it
might be easily overlooked.
_Act V. Scene 1._—The MS. corrector is very fond of eking out imperfect
lines with conjectural interpolations, and of curtailing others which
present a superfluity of syllables. This is a practice which cannot be
permitted even in cases where the alteration improves the verses, as
sometimes happens; much less can it be tolerated in cases, which are
still more frequent, where the verses are manifestly enfeebled by the
change. A conspicuous instance of the latter occurs in these lines. The
rebellious Worcester says to the king,
——“I do protest
I have not sought the day of this dislike.
_K. Henry._—You have not sought it—How comes it then?”
Here the words, “How comes it then?” are vehement and abrupt, and the
verse is purposely defective. Its impetuosity is destroyed by the
corrector’s stilted and unnatural interpolation—
“You have not sought it—_say_, how comes it then?”
That word _say_ takes off the sharp edge of the king’s wrathful
interrogative, and converts him from a flesh and blood monarch into a
mouthing ranter, a mere tragedy-king.
THE SECOND PART OF HENRY IV.—_Act I. Scene 2._—We agree with Mr Collier
and Mr Singer that the substitution of _diseases_ for “degrees” in
Falstaff’s speech is a good and legitimate emendation, and we willingly
place it to the credit of the MS. corrector.
_Act I. Scene 3._—The MS. corrector attempts to amend the following
passage in several places—not very successfully, as we shall endeavour
to show. The rebellious lords are talking about their prospects and
resources. Bardolph counsels delay, and warns his friends against being
over-sanguine.
“_Hastings._—But, by your leave, it never yet did hurt,
To lay down likelihoods, and forms of hope.
_Bardolph._—Yes, in this present quality of war;
Indeed, of instant action. A cause on foot
Lives so in hope, as in an early spring
We see the appearing buds; which, to prove fruit,
Hope gives not so much warrant, as despair,
That frosts will bite them. When we mean to build,
We first survey the plot, then draw the model;
And when we see the figure of the house,
Then must we rate the cost of the erection;
Which, if we find outweighs ability,
What do we then, but draw anew the model
In fewer offices; or, at least, desist
To build at all? Much more in this great work
(Which is, almost, to pluck a kingdom down
And set another up), should we survey
The plot of situation and the model;
Consent upon a sure foundation;
Question surveyors; know our own estate,
How able such a work to undergo,
_To weigh against his opposite_; or else
We fortify in paper and in figures,
Using the names of men, instead of men.”
In this speech of Bardolph’s we shall confine our attention to the two
main points on which the corrector has tried his hand. These are the two
first lines, and the verse printed in italics. The two first lines are
somewhat obscure; but we are of opinion that a much better sense may be
obtained from them than is afforded by the corrector’s emendation, which
we shall presently advert to. “Hope,” says Hastings, “never yet did
harm.” “Yes,” says Bardolph, “in a state of affairs like the present,
where action seems imminent, it _has_ done harm to entertain (unfounded)
hopes.” He then proceeds to press on his friends, as their only chance
of safety, the necessity of making the war _not_ imminent—of postponing
it until they have pondered well their resources, and received farther
supplies. All this is intelligible enough, and may be elicited with
perfect ease from the ordinary text which was adjusted by Dr Johnson—the
original reading of the two lines in question being obviously disfigured
by typographical errors. There is therefore no call whatever for the MS.
corrector’s amendment, which seems to us infinitely more obscure and
perplexing than the received reading. He writes—
“Yes, in this present quality of war;
Indeed the instant _act and_ cause on foot
Lives so in hope,” &c.
Mr Collier says that this emendation “clears the sense” of the passage.
We should have thanked him had he shown us how; for, if the old reading
be obscure, the only merit of the new one seems to be that it lends an
additional gloom to darkness. In regard to the other point—the line
printed in italics—the MS. corrector breaks the back of the difficulty
by means of the following interpolated forgery—
“_A careful leader sums what force he brings_
To weigh against his opposite.”
This, and the other similar delinquencies of which the MS. corrector is
frequently guilty, are neither more nor less than swindling—and
swindling, too, without an object. Nothing is gained by the rascality;
for the sense of the passage may be opened without resorting to the use
of such a clumsy crowbar, such a burglarious implement as
“A careful leader sums what force he brings.”
It means, before we engage in any great and perilous undertaking, we
should know how able we are to undergo such a work—how able we are to
weigh against the opposite of such a work; that is, to contend
successfully against the forces of the enemy. Mr Singer says that, if
any change is necessary, we should read “_this_ opposite,” instead of
“_his_ opposite.” With submission we beg to say, that, if any change is
necessary, “its” and not “this” is the word which must be substituted
for “his.” But no change is necessary; “his opposite” means the work’s
opposite; and it is no unfrequent idiom with Shakespeare to use “his”
for “its.”
_Act II. Scene 1._—Hostess Quickly says, according to the old copies—
“A hundred marks is a long _one_ for a poor lone woman to bear.”
“One” being obviously a misprint, Theobald substituted “loan;” and this
is the usual reading. The MS. corrector proposes “score;” and this, we
think, ought to go into the text. But it will be long before the MS.
corrector, by means of such small instalments, clears _his_ “score” with
the ghost of Shakespeare. As a help, however, towards that consummation,
we are rather inclined to place to his credit the substitution of _high_
for _the_ in the line—
“Under _the_ canopies of costly state.”
—_Act III. Scene 1._
Perhaps, also, he ought to get credit for “shrouds” instead of
“clouds”—although the former is now no novelty, having been started long
ago by some of the early commentators. The original reading is “clouds;”
but the epithet “slippery” renders it highly probable that this is a
misprint for _shrouds_—that is, the ship’s upper tackling; and that
“slippery shrouds” is the genuine reading. It seems probable also that
_rags_, the MS. correction, and not _rage_, the ordinary reading, is the
right word in the lines where rebellion is spoken of (_Act IV. Scene 1_)
as
“Led on by bloody youth, guarded with _rags_,
And countenanced by boys and beggary.”
The MS. corrector seems to be retrieving his character. We are also
willing to accept at his hands “seal” instead of “zeal” in the line—
“Under the counterfeited _seal_ of heaven.”
We cannot, however, admit that there is any ground for emendation in the
following passage (_Act IV. Scene 1_) where the king is spoken of, and
where it is said that he will find much difficulty in punishing his
enemies without compromising his friends:—
“His foes are so enrooted with his friends,
That, plucking to unfix an enemy,
He doth unfasten so, and shake a friend,
So that this land, like an offensive wife,
That hath enraged _him on_ to offer strokes;
As he is striking, holds his infant up,
And hangs resolved correction in the arm
That was uprear’d to execution.”
The question is, who is the “him” referred to in the fifth of these
lines? It can be no other than the king. _He_, the husband, being
excited to chastise his wife—that is, the rebellious country—_she_, as
he is striking, holds his infant (that is, certain of his friends) up,
and thus stays his arm, and suspends the execution of his vengeance. The
MS. corrector substitutes “her man” for the words “him on.” Mr Collier
approves, and even Mr Singer says that this “is a very plausible
correction, and is evidently called for.” If these gentlemen will
reconsider the passage, they will find that it cannot be construed with
the new reading, unless several additional words are inserted; thus, “So
that this land (is), like an offensive wife who hath enraged _her man_
to offer strokes, (and who) as he is striking, holds his infant up, and
hangs resolved correction in the arm that was upreared to execution.”
This is as intelligible as the ordinary text, though not more so; but
the introduction of so many new words—which are absolutely necessary to
complete the grammar and the sense—is quite inadmissible; and therefore
the MS. correction must be abandoned.
KING HENRY V.—In this play none of the MS. corrector’s emendations are
entitled to go into the text. First, we shall call attention for a
moment to a very small correction of our own, which perhaps may have
been made in some of the editions, but not in that which we use, the
_variorum_ of 1785. In _Act I. Scene 2_, the Bishop of Ely says—
“For government, _though_ high, and low, and lower,
Put into parts, doth keep in one consent
Congruing to a full and natural close
Like music.”
Surely “though” ought to be _through_. “For government, put into parts,
like a piece of music, doth keep in one consent or harmony, _through_
high, and low, and lower,” &c. In the same Act, same scene, an
emendation is proposed by the MS. corrector, which, though specious, we
cannot bring ourselves to endorse. King Henry, in reply to the dauphin’s
taunting message, says—
“But tell the Dauphin, I will keep my state,
Be like a king, and show my _sail_ of greatness,
When I do rouse me in my throne of France.”
The corrector proposes _soul_ for “sail.” But Shakespeare’s is a grand
expression—“I will show my sail _of greatness_,”—will set _all_ my
canvass—will shine,
“Like a proud ship with all her bravery on.”
It is a pity that he did not write _hoist_ or _spread_, which would have
removed all doubt as to the word “sail.” “Show,” however, is, on some
accounts, better than _hoist_ or _spread_. Neither do we perceive any
necessity for adopting the MS. correction “_seasonable_ swiftness”
instead of “reasonable swiftness.” Nor is it by any means necessary to
change “now _thrive_ the armourers” into “now _strive_ the armourers:”
In _Act II. Scene 2_, the king says, in reference to a drunkard who had
railed on him—
“It was excess of wine that set him on,
And on _his_ more advice, we pardon him.”
The margins read, “on _our_ more advice,” overturning the authentic
language of Shakespeare, who by the words “on _his_ more advice,” means
on his having returned to a more reasonable state of mind, and shown
some sorrow for his offence.
_Act II. Scene 3._—We now come to one of the most memorable
corrections—we might say to _the_ most memorable correction ever made on
the text of our great dramatist. In Dame Quickly’s description of the
death of Falstaff she says, as the old copies give it, “for after I saw
him fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon his
fingers’ ends, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp
as a pen, and _a table of green fields_.” There is evidently something
very wrong here. Theobald gave out as a new reading, “and a’ (he)
babbled of green fields,” the history and character of which emendation
he explained as follows: “I have an edition of Shakespeare by me with
some marginal conjectures by a gentleman some time deceased, and he is
of the mind to correct this passage thus: ‘for his nose was as sharp as
a pen, and a’ _talked_ of green fields.’ It is certainly observable of
people near death, when they are delirious by a fever, that they talk of
moving, as it is of those in a calenture that their heads run on _green
fields_. The variation from _table_ to _talked_ is not of very great
latitude; though we may come still nearer to the traces of the letters
by restoring it thus—‘for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and a’
_babbled_ of green fields.’”—(_Vide_ Singer’s _Shakespeare Vindicated_,
p. 127.)
This, then, is now the received reading; and there can be no doubt that
it is highly ingenious—indeed, singularly felicitous. But the MS.
corrector’s emendation is also entitled to a hearing. He reads: “for his
nose was as sharp as a pen _on a table of green frieze_.” This, it must
be admitted, is a lamentable falling off, in point of sentiment, from
the other conjectural amendment. We sympathise most feelingly with the
distress of those who protest vehemently against the new reading, and
who cling almost with tears to the text to which they have been
accustomed. We admit that his babbling of green fields is a touch of
poetry, if not of nature, which fills up the measure of our love for
Falstaff, and affords the finest atonement that can be imagined for the
mixed career—which is now drawing to a close—of the hoary debauchee. It
is with the utmost reluctance that we throw a shade of suspicion over
Theobald’s delightful emendation. Nevertheless, we are possessed with
the persuasion that the MS. corrector’s variation is more likely to have
been what Dame Quickly uttered, and what Shakespeare wrote. Our reasons
are—_first_, the calenture, which causes people to rave about green
fields, is a distemper peculiar to _sailors_ in hot climates;
_secondly_, Falstaff’s mind seems to have been running more on sack than
on green fields, as Dame Quickly admits further on in the dialogue;
_thirdly_, however pleasing the supposition about his babbling of green
fields may be, it is still more natural that Dame Quickly, whose
attention was fixed on the sharpness of his nose set off against a
countenance already darkening with the discoloration of death, should
have likened it to the sharpness of a pen relieved against a table, or
background, of green frieze. These reasons may be very insufficient: we
are not quite satisfied with them ourselves. But, be they good or bad,
we cannot divest ourselves of the impression (as we most willingly
would) that the marginal correction, in this instance, comes nearer to
the genuine language of Shakespeare than does the ordinary text.
Should, then, the MS. corrector’s emendation be admitted into the text
of the poet? That is a very different question; and we answer
decidedly—No. Its claim is not so absolutely undoubted as to entitle it
to this elevation. It is more probable, we think, than Theobald’s. But
Theobald’s has by this time acquired a prescriptive right to the place
which it enjoys. Although originally it may have been a usurpation, it
is now strong with inveterate occupancy: it is consecrated to the hearts
of all mankind, and it ought on no account to be displaced. It is part
and parcel of our earliest associations with Falstaff, and its removal
would do violence to the feelings of universal Christendom. This
consideration, which shows how difficult, indeed how injudicious, it is
to eradicate anything which has once fairly taken root in the text of
Shakespeare, ought to make us all the more scrupulous in guarding his
writings against such innovations as the MS. corrector usually proposes;
for, however little these may have to recommend them, succeeding
generations may become habituated to their presence, and, on the plea of
prescription, may be indisposed to give them up.
“_Principiis obsta, sero medicina paratur._”
_Act III., chorus._
“Behold the threaden sails,
_Borne_ with the invisible and creeping wind,
Draw the huge bottoms through the furrowed sea.”
“Borne” is here a far finer and more expressive word than “blown,” the
MS. corrector’s prosaic substitution.
_Act IV. Scene 1._—In the fine lines on ceremony, the MS. corrector
proposes a new reading, which at first sight looks specious, but which a
moderate degree of reflection compels us to reject. The common text is
as follows:—
“And what art thou, thou idol ceremony?
What kind of god art thou, that sufferest more
Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers?
What are thy rents?—what are thy comings in?
O ceremony, show me but thy worth!
What is thy soul, O, adoration?
Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form,
Creating awe and fear in other men?
Wherein thou art less happy, being feared,
Than they in fearing.”
The MS. corrector gives us—
“O, ceremony, show me but thy worth!
What is thy soul _but adulation_?”
The objection to this reading is that Shakespeare’s lines are equivalent
to—O, ceremony, thou hast _no_ worth; O, adoration, thou hast _no_
soul—absolutely none. This reading, which denies to ceremony and
adoration _all_ soul and substance—_all_ worth and reality—is more
emphatic than the corrector’s, which declares that adulation is the soul
of ceremony; and we therefore vote for allowing the text to remain as we
found it.
_Act IV. Scene 3._—In the following lines Shakespeare pays a
compliment—not of the most elegant kind we admit—to the English, whose
valour, he says, is such that even their dead bodies putrefying in the
fields of France will carry death into the ranks of the enemy.
“Mark, then, abounding valour in the English;
That being dead, like to a bullet’s grazing,
Break out into a second course of mischief,
Killing in relapse of mortality.”
The similitude of “the bullet’s grazing” has led the MS. corrector into
two execrable errors. By way of carrying out the metaphor, he proposes
to read “_re_bounding valour,” and “killing in _reflex_ of mortality.”
But Shakespeare knew full well what he was about. He has kept his
similitude within becoming bounds, while the corrector has driven it
over the verge of all propriety. Both of his corrections are wretched,
and the latter of them is outrageous. We are surprised that he did not
propose “killing in reflex _off_ mortality,” for this would bring out
his meaning much better than the expression which he has suggested. But
we may rest assured that “killing in relapse of mortality” merely means,
killing in their return to the dust from whence they were taken; and
that this is the right reading.
THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI.—A difficulty occurs in the last line of
_Act II. Scene 5_, where Plantagenet says—
“And therefore haste I to the Parliament,
Either to be restored to my blood,
_Or make my ill the advantage of my good_.”
This is the common reading, and it means, “or make my ill the _occasion_
of my good.” The earlier copies have “will” for “ill,” The MS.
correction is—
“Or make my will _th’ advancer_ of my good.”
But this is no improvement upon the common reading, which ought to
remain unaltered.
_Act IV. Scene 1._—A small but very significant instance, illustrative
of what we are convinced is the true theory of these new readings,
namely, that they are attempts, not to _restore_, but to _modernise_
Shakespeare, comes before us in the following lines, where the knights
of the garter are spoken of as
“Not fearing death, nor shrinking from distress,
But always resolute in _most extremes_.”
“Most extremes” does not mean (as one ignorant of Shakespeare’s language
might be apt to suppose) “in the greater number of extremes:” it means,
in _extremest_ cases, or dangers. The same idiom occurs in the
“Tempest,” where it is said—
“Some kinds of baseness
Are nobly undergone, and _most poor_ matters
Point to rich ends;”
which certainly does not mean that the greater number of poor matters
point to rich ends, but that the poorest matters often do so. It would
be well if the two words were always printed as one—most extremes, and
most poor. Now, surely Mr Collier either cannot know that this
phraseology is peculiarly Shakespearean, or he must be desirous of
blotting out from the English language our great poet’s favourite forms
of speech, when he says, “there is an injurious error of the printer in
the second line;” and when he recommends us to accept the MS. marginal
correction, by which Shakespeare’s archaism is exchanged for this
_modernism_—
“But always resolute in _worst_ extremes.”
_Act V. Scene 1._—How much more forcible are Shakespeare’s lines—
“See where he lies inhersed in the arms
Of the _most bloody_ nurser of his harms,”
than the MS. substitution—
“Of the _still bleeding_ nurser of his harms.”
_Scene 4._—Four competing readings of the following lines present
themselves for adjudication—
“Ay, beauty’s princely majesty is such,
Confounds the tongue, and makes the senses _rough_.”
This is the text of the earlier editions, and it evidently requires
amendment. Sir T. Hanmer reads—
“Ay, beauty’s princely majesty is such,
Confounds the tongue, and makes the senses _crouch_.”
Our MS. corrector proposes—
“Ay, beauty’s princely majesty is such,
Confounds the tongue, and _mocks the sense of touch_.”
Mr Singer, who also, it seems, has a folio with MS. corrections, gives
us, as a gleaning from its margins,
“Ay, beauty’s princely majesty is such,
Confounds the tongue, and _wakes the sense’s touch_.”
It may assist us in coming to a decision, if we view this sentiment
through the medium of prose. First, according to Sir T. Hanmer, the
presence of beauty is so commanding that it confounds the tongue, and
_overawes the senses_. Secondly, “The princely majesty of beauty,” says
Mr Collier, expounding his protégé’s version, “confounds the power of
speech, and _mocks all who would attempt to touch it_.” Thirdly,
“Beauty,” says Mr Singer, taking up the cause of _his_ MS. corrector,
“although it confounds the tongue, _awakes desire_. This _must_ have
been the meaning of the poet.” How peremptory a man becomes in behalf of
MS. readings of which he happens to be the sole depositary. We confess
that we prefer Sir T. Hanmer’s to either of the other emendations, as
the most intelligible and dignified of the three.
THE SECOND PART OF KING HENRY VI.—_Act I. Scene 3._ (_Enter three or
four petitioners._)
“_First Petitioner._—My masters, let us stand close, my Lord Protector
will come this way by and by, and then we may deliver our
supplications _in the quill_.”
“In the quill”—what does that mean? Nobody can tell us. The margins
furnish “in sequel.” Mr Singer advances, “in the quoil, or coil”—“that
is,” says he, “in the bustle or tumult which would arise at the time the
Protector passed.” And this we prefer.
_Act II. Scene 3._—Anything viler than the following italicised
interpolation, or more out of keeping with the character of the speaker
and the dignity of the scene, it is impossible to conceive. Queen Mary
says to the Duke of Glo’ster—
“Give up your staff, sir, and the King his realm.
_Glo’ster._ My staff?—here, noble Henry, is my staff!
_To think I fain would keep it makes me laugh_;
As willingly I do the same resign
As e’er thy father, Henry, made it mine.”
Yet Mr Collier has the hardihood to place this abominable forgery in the
front of his battle, by introducing it into his preface, where he says,
“Ought we not to welcome it with thanks as a fortunate recovery and a
valuable restoration?” No, indeed, we ought to send it to the right
about _instanter_, and order the apartment to be fumigated from which it
had been expelled.
_Act III. Scene 2._—The MS. corrector seems to be right in his amendment
of these lines. Suffolk says to the Queen,
“Live thou to joy in life,
Myself _to_ joy in nought but that thou liv’st.”
The ordinary reading is “no” for “to.” This ought to go into the text;
and the same honour ought to be extended to “rebel” for “rabble” in
Clifford’s speech, _Act IV. Scene 8_.
THE THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI.—In this play two creditable marginal
emendations come before us, one of which it might be safe to admit into
the text. The safe emendation is _ev’n_, in the lines where the father
is lamenting over his slain son, (_Act II. Scene 5_)—
“And so obsequious will thy father be,
_Ev’n_ for the loss of thee, having no more,
As Priam was for all his valiant sons.”
The ancient copies have “men,” and the modern ones “sad.” _Ev’n_ was
also proposed by Mr Dyce some little time ago. The other specious
correction is “bitter-flowing” for “water-flowing,” in the lines where
the king says (_Act IV. Scene 8_),
“My mildness hath allayed their swelling griefs,
My mercy dried their _water-flowing_ tears.”
But “water-flowing” may simply mean flowing as plentifully as water, and
therefore our opinion is, that the corrector’s substitution ought not to
be accepted. “Soft carriage” (_Act II. Scene 2_), recommended by the
margins, instead of “soft courage,” is not by any means so plausible.
“Soft courage” may be a Shakespeareanism for soft _spirit_. The Germans
have a word, _sanftmuth_—literally soft courage—_i. e._, gentleness; and
therefore Shakespeare’s expression is not what Mr Collier calls it, “a
contradiction in terms.”
_Act V. Scene 5._—The young prince having been stabbed by Edward,
Clarence, and Glo’ster, Margaret exclaims—
“O, traitors! murderers!
They that stabb’d Cæsar shed no blood at all,
Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame,
If this foul deed were by to _equal_ it”—
which, of course, means that Cæsar’s murderers would be pronounced
comparatively innocent, if this foul deed were set alongside their act.
The margins propose,
“If this foul deed were by to _sequel_ it”—
than which nothing can be more inept.
KING RICHARD III.—_Act I. Scene 3._—Richard is thus agreeably depicted:
“Thou elvish-marked, abortive, rooting hog,
Thou that wast seal’d in thy nativity,
The slave of nature, and the son of hell!”
The correction here proposed is—
“The _stain_ of nature, and the _scorn_ of hell.”
But the allusion, as Steevens says, is to the ancient custom of masters
branding their profligate slaves; and, therefore, “slave” is
unquestionably the right word. As for the “_scorn_ of hell,” that, in
certain cases, might be a compliment, and is no more than what a good
man would desire to be.
_Act III. Scene 1._—Buckingham is endeavouring to persuade the Cardinal
to refuse the privilege of sanctuary to the Duke of York. The Cardinal
says—
“God in heaven forbid
We should infringe the holy privilege
Of blessed sanctuary! not for all this land
Would I be guilty of so deep a crime.
_Buckingham._ You are too senseless-obstinate, my lord,
Too ceremonious and traditional:
Weigh it but with the _grossness_ of this age,
You break not sanctuary in seizing him.”
That is, do not go to your traditions, but take into account the
unrefining character and somewhat licentious practice of _this_ age, and
you will perceive that you break not sanctuary in seizing him; for
common sense declares that a youth of his years cannot claim this
privilege. This interpretation renders the MS. corrector’s inept
substitution, “the _goodness_ of _his_ age,” quite unnecessary. _Strict
and abstinent_ for “senseless-obstinate” is still worse.
_Act III. Scene 7._—To change “his resemblance” into _disresemblance_,
is to substitute a very forced and unnatural reading for a very plain
and obvious one. Glo’ster asks Buckingham,
“Touched you the bastardy of Edward’s children?”
“I did,” answers Buckingham, who then goes on to say, “I also touched
upon his own (_i. e._ Edward the Fourth’s) bastardy,”
“As being got, your father then in France,
And _his resemblance_ not being like the Duke,”
—that is, I also touched upon his resemblance (which is no resemblance)
to his (reputed) father the Duke. “Disresemblance” has not a shadow of
probability in its favour.
_Act IV. Scene 3._—Mr Collier seriously advocates the change of “bloody
dogs” into “blooded dogs,” in the lines about the two ruffians.
“Albeit they were fleshed villains, _bloody_ dogs.”
“Blooded dogs” means, if it means anything, dogs that have been _let_
blood, and not dogs that are about to _draw_ blood as _these_ dogs are.
There seems to be nothing in the other corrections of this play which
calls for further notice.
KING HENRY VIII.—_Act I. Scene 1._—Speaking of Cardinal Wolsey,
Buckingham says,
“A beggar’s _book_
Outworths a noble’s blood.”
The margins offer—
“A beggar’s _brood_
Outworths a noble’s blood.”
This emendation looks plausible; but read Johnson’s note, and you will
be of a different way of thinking. He says—“that is, the literary
qualifications of a _bookish beggar_ are more prized than the high
descent of hereditary greatness. This is a contemptuous exclamation very
naturally put into the mouth of one of the ancient, unlettered, martial
nobility.” In scene 2, the change of “trembling contribution” into
“_trebling_ contribution,” where the increase of the taxes is spoken of,
is a proper correction, and we set it down to the credit of the MS.
corrector as one which ought to go into the text.
_Act II. Scene 3._—What a fine poeticism comes before us in the use of
the word _salute_ in the lines where Anne Bullen declares that her
advancement gives her no satisfaction.
“Would I had no being,
If this _salute_ my blood a jot,”
—that is, this promotion is not like a peal of bells to my blood; it is
not like the firing of cannon; it is not like the huzzaing of a great
multitude: it rather weighs me down under a load of anxiety and
depression; or, as she herself expresses it—
“It faints me
To think what follows.”
The MS. corrector, turning, as is his way, poetry into prose, reads—
“Would I had no being,
If this _elate_ my blood a jot.”
This must go to the _debit_ side of the old corrector’s account.
In _Scene 4_ of the same act, the queen, on her trial, adjures the king,
if she be proved guilty—
“In God’s name
Turn me away; and let the foul’st contempt
Shut door upon me, and so give me up
To the sharpest _kind_ of justice.”
The MS. corrector writes—“to the sharpest _knife_ of justice.” But the
queen is here speaking of a _kind_ of justice sharper even than the
knife—to wit, the contempt and ignominy which she imprecates on her own
head if she be a guilty woman; and therefore “kind of justice” is the
proper expression for her to use, and the MS. substitution is
unquestionably out of place.
_Act III. Scene 2._—Mr Singer says, “‘Now _may all_ joy trace the
conjunction,’ instead of, ‘Now _all my_ joy,’ &c. is a good conjecture,
and may, I think, be safely adopted.” We agree with Mr Singer.
_Act III. Scene 2._—The following is one of the cases on which Mr
Collier most strongly relies as proving the perspicacity and
trustworthiness of his corrector. He brings it forward in his
introduction (p. xv.), where he says, “When Henry VIII. tells Wolsey—
‘You have scarce time
To steal from _spiritual leisure_ a brief span
To keep your earthly audit,’
he cannot mean that the cardinal has scarcely time to steal from
‘leisure,’ but from ‘labour’ (the word was misheard by the scribe); and
while ‘leisure’ makes nonsense of the sentence, _labour_ is exactly
adapted to the place.
‘You scarce have time
To steal from spiritual _labour_ a brief span.’
The substituted word is found in the margin of the folio 1632. This
instance seems indisputable.” Did Mr Collier, we may here ask, never
hear of _learned leisure_, when he thus brands as nonsensical the
expression “spiritual leisure”? Is it nonsense to say that the study of
Shakespeare has been the occupation of Mr Collier’s “learned leisure”
during the last fifty years, and that he has had little time to spare
for any other pursuit? And if that be not nonsense, why should it be
absurd to talk of the “spiritual leisure” of Cardinal Wolsey, as that
which left him little or no time to attend to his temporal concerns?
Spiritual leisure means occupation with religious matters, just as
learned leisure means occupation with literary matters. Leisure does not
necessarily signify idleness, as boys at _school_ (σχολη—leisure) know
full well. It is a polite synonym, perhaps slightly tinged with irony,
for labour of an unmenial and unprofessional character. It stands
opposed, not to every kind of work, but only to the work of “men of
business,” as they are called. And it is used in this place by
Shakespeare with the very finest propriety. In so far, therefore, as
this flower of speech is concerned, we must insist on turning “the
weeder-clips aside” of Mr Collier’s ruthless spoliator, and on rejecting
the vulgar weed which he offers to plant in its place.
_Act IV. Scene 2._—In the following passage, however, we approve of the
spoliator’s punctuation, which it seems Mr Singer had adopted in his
edition 1826.
“This Cardinal,
Though from an humble stock undoubtedly,
Was fashioned to much honour from his cradle.
He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one.”
All the common copies place a full stop after honour, and represent the
cardinal as a scholar “ripe and good from his cradle,” as if he had been
born with a perfect knowledge of Greek and Latin.
_Act V. Scene 2._—It is very difficult to say what should be made of the
following:—
“But we all are men,
In our natures frail; _and capable
Of our flesh_; few are angels.”
Malone proposed—
“In our natures frail: _incapable_;
Of our flesh few are angels.”
The margins propose “_culpable_ of our flesh,” which was also
recommended by Mr Monck Mason. We venture to suggest—
“In our natures frail; incapable
Of our flesh.”
_i. e._, incontinent of our flesh. But whatever may be done with this
new reading, the next ought certainly to be rigorously excluded from the
text. _Loquitur_ Cranmer—
“Nor is there living
(I speak it with a single heart, my Lords)
A man that more detests, _more stirs_ against,
Both in his private conscience and his place,
Defacers of a public peace, than I do.”
“The substitution of _strives_ for ‘stirs,’” as Mr Singer very properly
remarks, “would be high treason against a nervous Shakespearean
expression.”
_Scene 3._—The MS. emendation in the speech of the porter’s man (_queen_
for “chine,” and _crown_ for “cow”) is certainly entitled to
consideration; but it is quite possible that his language, being that of
a clown, may be designedly nonsensical.
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.—_Act I. Scene 2._—Cressida says,
“Achievement is, command—ungained, beseech.”
This line is probably misprinted. Mr Harness long ago proposed,
“_Achieved, men us_ command—ungained, beseech,”
—that is, men _command_ us (women) when we are achieved or gained
over—they _beseech_ us, so long as we are ungained. The MS. corrector’s
emendation falls very far short of the perspicuity of this amendment. He
gives us—
“_Achieved, men still_ command—ungained, beseech.”
_Scene 3._—We may notice, in passing, a “new reading” proposed by Mr
Singer, which, though ingenious, we cannot be prevailed upon to accept.
It occurs in the following lines, where Ulysses says—
“The heavens themselves, the planets, and this centre
Observe degree, priority, and place,
Insisture, course, proportion, season, form,
Office, and custom in all line of order;
And therefore is the glorious planet, Sol,
In noble eminence enthroned and sphered
Amidst the _other_; whose med’cinable eye
Corrects the ill aspects of planets evil,
And posts like the commandment of a king,
Sans check, to good and bad.”
Instead of “other,” Mr Singer proposes to read “ether.” But “other” is
more in harmony with the context, in which the sun is specially
described as exercising a dominion over the _other_ celestial
luminaries. The parallel passage from Cicero, which Mr Singer quotes,
tells just as much against him as for him. “Medium fere regionem sol
obtinet, dux, et princeps, et moderater luminum _reliquiorum_.” We
therefore protest against the established text being disturbed.
To return to Mr Collier. He must have very extraordinary notions of
verbal propriety when he can say that “a fine compound epithet appears
to have escaped in the hands of the old printer, and a small manuscript
correction in the margin converts a poor expression into one of great
force and beauty in these lines—
‘What the repining enemy commends
That breath fame blows; that praise, _sole pure_, transcends;’”
—that is, praise from an enemy is praise of the highest quality, and is
the _only pure_ kind of praise. The poor expression here condemned is
“sole pure,” and the fine compound epithet which is supposed to have
escaped the fingers of the old compositor, is _soul-pure_. We venture to
think that Shakespeare used the right words to express his own meaning,
and that the MS. corrector’s fine compound epithet is one of the most
lack-a-daisical of the daisies that peer out upon us from the margins of
the folio 1632.
_Act III. Scene 1._—The words, “my _disposer_ Cressida,” have been
satisfactorily shown by Mr Singer to mean, my _handmaiden_ Cressida.
Therefore the change of “disposer” into _dispraiser_, as recommended by
the MS. corrector, is quite uncalled for. The speech, however, in which
these words occur must be taken from Paris, and given to Helen.
_Act III. Scene 2._—In the dialogue between Troilus and Cressida, the
lady says, that she must take leave of him:
“_Troilus._—What offends you, lady?
_Cressida._—Sir, mine own company.
_Troilus._—You cannot shun yourself.
_Cressida._—Let me go and try.
I have a kind of self resides with you,
But an unkind self that itself will leave
To be another’s fool.”
This conversation is not very clear; yet sense may be made of it. The
lady says, that she is offended with her own company: the gentleman
rejoins, that she cannot get rid of herself. “Let me try,” says the
lady; “I have a kind of self which resides with you—an unkind self,
because it leaves _me_ to be _your_ fool; of that self I can get rid,
because it will remain with you when I leave you.” The MS. emendation
affords no kind of sense whatsoever.
“I have a _kind self that_ resides with you,
But an unkind self that itself will leave
To be another’s fool.”
_Scene 3._—In the following passage, in which it is said that the eye is
unable to see itself except by reflection, these lines occur:
“For speculation turns not to itself
Till it hath travelled, and is _married_ there,
Where it may see itself.”
_Mirrored_, for “married,” is certainly a very excellent emendation; but
it may reasonably be doubted whether _mirror_ was used as a verb in
Shakespeare’s time. “To mirror” does not occur even in Johnson’s
Dictionary. This consideration makes us hesitate to recommend it for the
text; for “married,” though, perhaps, not so good, still makes sense. On
further reflection we are satisfied that “married” was Shakespeare’s
word. In this Scene Shakespeare says, “that the providence that’s in a
watchful state” is able to unveil human thoughts “in their dumb
_cradles_,” in their very _incunabula_—a finer expression certainly than
the MS. corrector’s substitution “in their dumb _crudities_.”
_Act IV. Scene 4._—Between Mr Collier and his corrector the following
passage would be perverted into nonsense, if they were allowed to have
their own way:
“And sometimes we are devils to ourselves
When we will tempt the frailty of our powers,
Presuming on their _changeful_ potency;”
—that is, trusting rashly to their potency, which is better than
_im_potency, and yet falls far short of _perfect_ potency. Mr Collier
hazards the opinion, that “unchangeful potency” would be a better
reading. We cannot agree with him except to this extent that it would be
a better reading than the one which the MS. corrector proposes,
“Presuming on their _chainful_ potency,”
which we leave to the approbation of those who can understand it.
_Scene 5._—The lines in which certain ladies of frail virtue, or, in the
stronger language of Johnson, “corrupt wenches,” are spoken of, have
given rise to much comment.
“Oh! these encounterers so glib of tongue,
That give _a coasting_ welcome ere it comes.”
This is the ordinary reading. The margins propose,
“That give _occasion_ welcome ere it comes.”
We prefer the emendation suggested by Monck Mason and Coleridge,
“That give _accosting_ welcome ere it comes;”
—that is, who take the initiative, and address before they are
addressed.
CORIOLANUS.—_Act I. Scene 1._—In his first emendation, the MS. corrector
betrays his ignorance of the right meaning of words. The term “object,”
which nowadays is employed rather loosely in several acceptations, is
used by Shakespeare, in the following passage, in its proper and
original signification. One of the Roman citizens, referring to the
poverty of the plebeians as contrasted with the wealth of the
patricians, remarks, “The leanness that afflicts us, the _object_ of our
misery, is an inventory to particularise their abundance; our suffering
is a gain to them.” For “object” we should, nowadays, say _spectacle_.
But the corrector cannot have known that this was the meaning of the
word, otherwise he surely never would have been so misguided as to
propose the term _abjectness_ in its place. “This substitution,” says Mr
Collier, “could hardly have proceeded from the mere taste or discretion
of the old corrector.” No, truly; but it proceeded from his want of
taste, his want of discretion, and his want of knowledge.
The ink with which these MS. corrections were made, being, as Mr Collier
tells us, of various shades, differing sometimes on the same page, he is
of opinion that they “must have been introduced from time to time
during, perhaps, the course of several years.” We think this a highly
probable supposition; only, instead of _several_ years, we would suggest
_sixty_ or _seventy_ years. So that, supposing the MS. corrector to have
begun his work when he was about thirty, he may have completed it when
he was about ninety or a hundred years of age. At any rate, he must have
been in the last stage of second childhood when he jotted down the
following new reading in the famous fable of the “belly and the
members.” The belly, speaking of the food it receives, says—
“I send it through the rivers of the blood,
Even to the court, the heart, _to the seat o’ the_ brain,
And through the cranks and offices of man.”
And so on; upon which one of the citizens asks Menenius, the relator of
the fable, “How apply you this?”
“_Menenius._ The _senators_ of Rome are this good _belly_,
And you the mutinous members.”
Yet, with this line staring him in the face, the old corrector proposes
to read,
“I send it through the rivers of the blood,
Even to the court, the heart, the _senate brain_.”
The senate brain! when Shakespeare has distinctly told us that the
senate is the belly. This indeed is the very _point_ of the fable.
Surely nothing except the most extreme degree of dotage can account for
such a manifest perversion as that; yet Mr Collier says that “it much
improves the sense.”
The MS. corrector cannot have been nearly so old when he changed
“almost” into _all most_ in the line,
“Nay, these are _all most_ thoroughly persuaded;”
for this is decidedly an improvement, and ought, we think, to get
admission into the text.
_Scene 3._—Unless we can obtain a better substitute than _contemning_,
we are not disposed to alter the received reading of these lines:
“The breasts of Hecuba,
When she did suckle Hector, look’d not lovelier
Than Hector’s forehead, when it spit forth blood
At Grecian swords _contending_.”
_Scene 6._—In the following passage a small word occasions a great
difficulty. Coriolanus, wishing to select a certain number out of a
large body of soldiers who have offered him their services, says—
“Please you to march,
And _four_ shall quickly draw out my command,
Which men are best inclined.”
But why “four?” Surely four men would not be sufficient for the attack
which he meditated. The MS. corrector gives us—
“Please you to march _before_,
And _I_ shall quickly draw out my command,
Which men are best inclined.”
The second line is unintelligible, and not to be construed on any known
principles of grammar. Mr Singer proposes—
“Please you to march,
And _some_ shall quickly draw out my command,
Which men are best inclined.”
We would suggest—
“Please you to march,
And _those_ shall quickly draw out my command,
Which men are best inclined,”
—that is: And my command shall quickly draw out, or select, those men
which (men) are best inclined to be of service to me. The construction
here is indeed awkward, but less awkward, we think, than that of the
other emendations.
_Scene 9._—The punctuation of the following passage requires to be put
right. Coriolanus is declaring how much disgusted he is with the
flatteries, the flourish of trumpets, and other demonstrations of
applause with which he is saluted—
“May these same instruments which you profane
Never sound more! When drums and trumpets shall
I’ the field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be
Made all of false-faced soothing. When steel grows
Soft as the parasite’s silk, let him be made
A coverture for the wars!”
But what is the sense of saying—let courts and cities be made up of
hypocrisy, _when_ drums and trumpets in the field shall prove
flatterers? This has no meaning. We should punctuate the lines thus—
“May these same instruments which you profane,
Never sound more, when drums and trumpets shall
I’ the field prove flatterers. Let courts and cities be
Made all of false-faced soothing,” &c.
The meaning is—When drums and trumpets in the field shall prove
flatterers (as they are doing at present), may they never sound more!
Let _courts_ and _cities_ be as hollow-hearted as they please; but let
the _camp_ enjoy an immunity from these fulsome observances. When steel
grows soft as the parasite’s silk (that is, when the warrior loses his
stubborn and unbending character), let silk be made a coverture for the
wars, for it will then be quite as useful as steel. The only alteration
which the MS. corrector proposes in this passage, is the substitution of
_coverture_ for the original reading “overture”—a change which was long
ago made.
_Act II. Scene 1._—The margins make an uncommonly good hit in the speech
of Menenius, who says, “I am known to be a humorous patrician, and one
that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in’t:
said to be something imperfect in favouring the _first_ complaint.” No
sense can be extracted from this by any process of distillation. The old
corrector, brightening up for an instant, writes “_thirst_ complaint;”
on which Mr Singer remarks, “The alteration of ‘first’ into _thirst_ is
not necessary, for it seems that thirst was sometimes provincially
pronounced and spelt _first_ and _furst_.” Come, come, Mr Singer, that
is hardly fair. Let us give the devil his due. What one reader of
Shakespeare out of every million was to know that “first” was a
provincialism for _thirst_? We ourselves, at least, had not a suspicion
of it till the old corrector opened our eyes to the right reading—the
meaning of which is, “I am said to have a failing in yielding rather too
readily to the _thirst_ complaint.” This emendation covers a multitude
of sins, and ought, beyond a doubt, to be promoted into the text.
We also willingly accept _empirick physic_ for “empirick qutique,” the
ordinary, but unintelligible reading.
A difficulty occurs in the admirable verses in which the whole city is
described as turning out in order to get a sight of the triumphant
Coriolanus.
“All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights
Are spectacled to see him. Your prattling nurse
Into a rapture lets her baby cry
While she _chats_ him. The kitchen malkin pins
Her richest lockram ’bout her reechy neck,
Clambering the walls to eye him.”
_Cheers_ instead of “chats” is proposed by the old corrector. Mr Singer
says that cheers “savours too much of modern times,” and suggests
_claps_; but a woman with an infant in her arms would find some
difficulty, we fancy, in clapping her hands; though, perhaps, this very
difficulty and her attempt to overcome it may have been the cause of her
baby crying himself “into a rapture.” We are disposed, however, to
adhere to the old lection—“while she chats _him_”—that is, while she
makes Coriolanus the subject of her gabble. For it ought to be borne in
mind that Coriolanus has not, as yet, made his appearance: and,
therefore, both _cheering_ and _clapping_ would be premature. We observe
that, instead of a “rapture”—_i. e._, a fit—one of the wiseacres of the
_variorum_ proposes to read _a rupture_! The nurse lets the baby cry
himself _into a rupture_! This outflanks even the margins. The annotator
subscribes himself “S. W.”—which means, we presume, Something Wanting in
the upper story.
We accept _touch_ for “reach” in the sentence where it is said, “his
soaring insolence shall _reach_ (the oldest reading is “teach”) the
people. This correction had been already proposed by Mr Knight. But we
cannot approve of the following change (_prest_ for “blest,” _Scene 2_)
which has obtained the sanction of Mr Singer. Sicinius has just remarked
that the senate has assembled to do honour to Coriolanus, on which
Brutus says—
“Which the rather
We shall be _blest_ to do, if he remember
A kinder value of the people, than
He hath hereto prized them at.”
Does not this mean—which honour we shall be _most happy_ to do to
Coriolanus, if &c.? Why then change “blest” into _prest?_ a very
unnatural mode of speech.
_Scene 3._—In the next instance, however, we side most cordially with
the margins and Mr Collier, against Mr Singer and the ordinary text. The
haughty Coriolanus, who is a candidate for the consulship, says—
“Why in this _wolvish_ gown should I stand here,
To beg of Hob and Dick?” &c.
Now Shakespeare, in a previous part of the play, has described the
candidate’s toga as “the _napless_ vesture of humility;” and it is well
known that this toga was of a different texture from that usually worn.
Is it not probable, therefore—nay certain—that Coriolanus should speak
of it as _woolless_, the word wolvish being altogether unintelligible?
Accordingly, the MS. corrector reads—
“Why in this _woolless_ gown should I stand here.”
Mr Singer, defending the old reading, says, it is sufficient that his
investiture in this gown “was _simulating_ humility not in his nature,
to bring to mind the fable of the _wolf_.” Oh, Mr Singer! but must not
the epithet in that case have been _sheepish_? Surely, if Coriolanus had
felt himself to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing, he never would have said
that he was a sheep in _wolves’_ clothing![4]
_Act III. Scene 1._—In the following speech of Coriolanus several
corrections are proposed, one of which, and perhaps two, might be
admitted into the text:—
“O, good but most unwise patricians! why,
You grave but reckless senators, have you thus
Given Hydra _here_ to choose an officer
That with his peremptory ‘shall’ (being but
The horn and noise of the monsters), wants not spirit
To say he’ll turn your current in a ditch,
And make your channel his? If he have power,
Then vail your ignorance: if none, _awake_
Your dangerous lenity.”
_Leave_ for “here” is, we think, a good exchange; and _revoke_ for
“awake,” an improvement which can scarcely be resisted. Further on,
Coriolanus asks—
“Well, what then,
How shall this _bosom multiplied_, digest
The senate’s courtesy?”
There is, it seems, an old word _bisson_, signifying blind; and
therefore we see no good reason (although such may exist) against
accepting, as entitled to textual advancement, the old corrector’s
substitution of _bisson multitude_ for “bosom multiplied.” The latter,
however, is defended, as we learn from Mr Singer, “by one strenuous
dissentient voice.” Why did he not tell us by whom and where? One
excellent emendation by Mr Singer himself we must here notice.
Coriolanus speaks of those who wish
“To _jump_ a body with a dangerous physic
That’s sure of death without it.”
No sense can be made of this. Some copies have _vamp_, which is not a
bad reading; but there is an old word _imp_, which signifies to piece or
patch. Accordingly, Mr Singer reads—“To _imp_ a body,” &c. This is the
word which ought to stand in the text.
_Scene 2._—Here the old corrector is again at his forging tricks upon a
large scale. Volumnia says to Coriolanus, her son—
“Pray be counsell’d,
I have a heart as little apt as yours
_To brook control without the use of anger_;
But yet a brain that leads my use of anger
To better vantage.”
The interpolated line is very unlike the diction of Shakespeare, and is
not at all called for. “Apt” here means pliant, accommodating. “I have a
heart as stubborn and unaccommodating as your own; but yet,” &c. Mr
Singer proposes _soft_ for “apt;” but this seems unnecessary.
_Act IV. Scene 1._—Although the construction of the latter part of these
lines is somewhat involved, it is far more after the manner of
Shakespeare than the correction which the margins propose. Coriolanus
says to his mother—
“Nay, mother,
Where is your ancient courage? You were used
To say extremity was the trier of spirits;
That common chances common men could bear,
That when the sea was calm, all boats alike
Show’d mastership in floating; fortune’s blows,
When most struck home, being _gentle wounded_, craves
A noble cunning.”
_Gentle-minded_ is the new reading; but it is quite uncalled for. The
meaning is—You were used to say that when fortune’s blows were most
struck home, to be gentle, _though_ wounded, craves a noble cunning—that
is, a high degree of self-command.
_Scene 5._—It is curious to remark how cleverly Shakespeare has
anticipated old Hobbes’ theory of human nature and of society, in the
scene where the serving-men are discussing the merits of peace and war.
“Peace,” says one of them, “makes men _hate_ one another.” “The reason?”
asks another. Answer—“Because they then _less need_ one another.” This,
in a very few words, is exactly the doctrine of the old philosopher of
Malmesbury.
_Scene 6._—“[_God_] Marcius” for “_good_ Marcius,” is a commendable
emendation; and perhaps, also, it may be proper to read—
“You have made fair hands,
You and your _handycrafts_ have crafted fair,”
instead of
“You and your crafts, you have crafted fair.”
The following passage (_Scene 7_) has given a good deal of trouble to
the commentators. Aufidius is describing Coriolanus as a man who, with
all his merits, had failed, through some unaccountable perversity of
judgment, in attaining the position which his genius entitled him to
occupy. He then says—
“So our virtues
Lie in the interpretation of the time;
And power, unto itself most commendable,
Hath not a tomb so evident _as a chair_
To extol what it hath done.
One fire drives out one fire, one nail one nail,
Right’s by right _fouler_, strengths by strength do fail.”
Our virtues, says Aufidius, consist in our ability to interpret, and
turn to good account, the signs of the times. “And power, unto itself
most commendable, hath not a tomb so evident as a chair to extol what it
hath done;” that is,—and power, which delights to praise itself, is sure
to have a downfall, so soon as it blazons forth its pretensions from the
_rostrum_. The MS. corrector proposes—
“Hath not a tomb so evident _as a cheer_,” &c.
The original text is obscurely enough expressed, but the new reading
seems to be utter nonsense. What _can_ Mr Singer mean by his reading—
“Hath not a tomb so evident as a _hair_”?
The old corrector also reads, unnecessarily, as we think, _suffer_ for
“fouler.” “Rights by rights _suffer_.” There seems to be no necessity
for changing the received text. “Right is fouler by right,”—which
Steevens thus explains: “what is already right, and is received as such,
becomes less clear when supported by supernumerary proof.”
_Act V. Scene 3._—An emendation, good so far as it goes, comes before us
in the speech of Volumnia, the mother of Coriolanus. She, his wife, and
young son, are supplicating the triumphant renegade to spare his native
country. She says that, instead of his presence being a comfort to them,
it is a sight—
“Making the mother, wife, and child to see
The son, the husband, and the father tearing
His country’s bowels out. And _to_ poor we
Thine _enmity’s_ most capital.”
This is the reading of the ordinary copies, but it is neither sense nor
grammar. The old corrector removes the full stop after _out_, and reads—
“His country’s bowels out; and so poor we
Thine enemies most capital.”
But if this is the right reading, it must be completed by changing “we”
into _us_. The meaning will then be—making thy mother, wife, &c.; and so
(making) poor _us_ (that is, those whom you are bound to love and
protect before all others) thy chief enemies.
_Scene 5._—Aufidius, speaking of Coriolanus, says, I
“Served his designments
In mine own person, holp to _reap_ the fame
Which he did _end_ all his.”
The word “end” has been a stumbling-block to the commentators. The old
corrector reads—
“Holp to reap the fame
Which he did _ear_ all his.”
On which Mr Singer remarks, with a good deal of pertinency, “The
substitution of _ear_ for ‘end’ is a good emendation of an evident
misprint; but the correctors have only half done their work: _ear_—_i.
e._ plough—and _reap_ should change places; or Aufidius is made to say
that he had a share in the harvest, while Coriolanus had all the labour
of ploughing, contrary to what is intended to be said. The passage will
then run thus—
‘Served his designments
In mine own person; holp to _ear_ the fame
Which he did _reap_ all his.’
“This,” adds Mr Singer, “is the suggestion of a correspondent of _Notes
and Queries_, vol. vii. p. 378.”
Ten plays, as revised by the old corrector, still remain to be
overhauled. These shall be disposed of in our next Number, when it will
appear that the MS. emendations offer no symptoms of improvement, but
come out worse and worse the more fully and attentively they are
considered.
THE DUKE’S DILEMMA.
A CHRONICLE OF NIESENSTEIN.
The close of the theatrical year, which in France occurs in early
spring, annually brings to Paris a throng of actors and actresses, the
disorganised elements of provincial companies, who repair to the capital
to contract engagements for the new season. Paris is the grand centre to
which all dramatic stars converge—the great bazaar where managers
recruit their troops for the summer campaign. In bad weather the mart
for this human merchandise is at an obscure coffeehouse near the Rue St
Honoré; when the sun shines, the place of meeting is in the garden of
the Palais Royal. There, pacing to and fro beneath the lime-trees, the
high contracting parties pursue their negotiations and make their
bargains. It is the theatrical Exchange, the histrionic _Bourse_. There
the conversation and the company are alike curious. Many are the strange
discussions and original anecdotes that there are heard; many the odd
figures there paraded. Tragedians, comedians, singers, men and women,
young and old, flock thither in quest of fortune and a good engagement.
The threadbare coats of some say little in favour of recent success or
present prosperity; but only hear them speak, and you are at once
convinced that _they_ have no need of broadcloth who are so amply
covered with laurels. It is delightful to hear them talk of their
triumphs, of the storms of applause, the rapturous bravos, the boundless
enthusiasm, of the audiences they lately delighted. Their brows are
oppressed with the weight of their bays. The south mourns their loss; if
they go west, the north will be envious and inconsolable. As to
themselves—north, south, east, or west—they care little to which point
of the compass the breeze of their destiny may waft them. Thorough
gypsies in their habits, accustomed to make the best of the passing
hour, and to take small care for the future so long as the present is
provided for, like soldiers they heed not the name of the town so long
as the quarters be good.
It was a fine morning in April. The sun shone brightly, and, amongst the
numerous loungers in the garden of the Palais Royal were several groups
of actors. The season was already far advanced; all the companies were
formed, and those players who had not secured an engagement had but a
poor chance of finding one. Their anxiety was legible upon their
countenances. A man of about fifty years of age walked to and fro, a
newspaper in his hand, and to him, when he passed near them, the actors
bowed—respectfully and hopefully. A quick glance was his acknowledgment
of their salutation, and then his eyes reverted to his paper, as if it
deeply interested him. When he was out of hearing, the actors, who had
assumed their most picturesque attitudes to attract his attention, and
who beheld their labour lost, vented their ill-humour.
“Balthasar is mighty proud,” said one; “he has not a word to say to us.”
“Perhaps he does not want anybody,” remarked another; “I think he has no
theatre this year.”
“That would be odd. They say he is a clever manager.”
“He may best prove his cleverness by keeping aloof. It is so difficult
nowadays to do good in the provinces. The public is so fastidious! the
authorities are so shabby, so unwilling to put their hands in their
pockets. Ah, my dear fellow, our art is sadly fallen!”
Whilst the discontented actors bemoaned themselves, Balthasar eagerly
accosted a young man who just then entered the garden by the passage of
the Perron. The coffeehouse-keepers had already begun to put out tables
under the tender foliage. The two men sat down at one of them.
“Well, Florival,” said the manager, “does my offer suit you? Will you
make one of us? I was glad to hear you had broken off with Ricardin.
With your qualifications you ought to have an engagement in Paris, or at
least at a first-rate provincial theatre. But you are young, and, as you
know, managers prefer actors of greater experience and established
reputation. Your parts are generally taken by youths of five-and-forty,
with wrinkles and grey hairs, but well versed in the traditions of the
stage—with damaged voices but an excellent style. My brother managers
are greedy of great names; yours still has to become known—as yet, you
have but your talent to recommend you. I will content myself with that;
content yourself with what I offer you. Times are bad, the season is
advanced, engagements are hard to find. Many of your comrades have gone
to try their luck beyond seas. We have not so far to go; we shall
scarcely overstep the boundary of our ungrateful country. Germany
invites us; it is a pleasant land, and Rhine wine is not to be
disdained. I will tell you how the thing came about. For many years past
I have managed theatres in the eastern departments, in Alsatia and
Lorraine. Last summer, having a little leisure, I made an excursion to
Baden-Baden. As usual, it was crowded with fashionables. One rubbed
shoulders with princes and trod upon highnesses’ toes; one could not
walk twenty yards without meeting a sovereign. All these crowned heads,
kings, grand dukes, electors, mingled easily and affably with the throng
of visitors. Etiquette is banished from the baths of Baden, where,
without laying aside their titles, great personages enjoy the liberty
and advantages of an incognito. At the time of my visit, a company of
very indifferent German actors were playing, two or three times a-week,
in the little theatre. They played to empty benches, and must have
starved but for the assistance afforded them by the directors of the
gambling-tables. I often went to their performances, and, amongst the
scanty spectators, I soon remarked one who was as assiduous as myself. A
gentleman, very plainly dressed, but of agreeable countenance and
aristocratic appearance, invariably occupied the same stall, and seemed
to enjoy the performance, which proved that he was easily pleased. One
night he addressed to me some remark with respect to the play then
acting; we got into conversation on the subject of dramatic art; he saw
that I was specially competent on that topic, and after the theatre he
asked me to take refreshment with him. I accepted. At midnight we
parted, and, as I was going home, I met a gambler whom I slightly knew.
‘I congratulate you,’ he said; ‘you have friends in high places!’ He
alluded to the gentleman with whom I had passed the evening, and whom I
now learned was no less a personage than his Serene Highness Prince
Leopold, sovereign ruler of the Grand Duchy of Niesenstein. I had had
the honour of passing a whole evening in familiar intercourse with a
crowned head. Next day, walking in the park, I met his Highness. I made
a low bow and kept at a respectful distance, but the Grand Duke came up
to me and asked me to walk with him. Before accepting, I thought it
right to inform him who I was. ‘I guessed as much,’ said the Prince.
‘From one or two things that last night escaped you, I made no doubt you
were a theatrical manager.’ And by a gesture he renewed his invitation
to accompany him. In a long conversation he informed me of his intention
to establish a French theatre in his capital, for the performance of
comedy, drama, vaudeville, and comic operas. He was then building a
large theatre, which would be ready by the end of the winter, and he
offered me its management on very advantageous terms. I had no plans in
France for the present year, and the offer was too good to be refused.
The Grand Duke guaranteed my expenses and a gratuity, and there was a
chance of very large profits. I hesitated not a moment; we exchanged
promises, and the affair was concluded.
“According to our agreement, I am to be at Karlstadt, the capital of the
Grand Duchy of Niesenstein, in the first week in May. There is no time
to lose. My company is almost complete, but there are still some
important gaps to fill. Amongst others, I want a lover, a light
comedian, and a first singer. I reckon upon you to fill these important
posts.”
“I am quite willing,” replied the actor, “but there is still an
obstacle. You must know, my dear Balthasar, that I am deeply in
love—seriously, this time—and I broke off with Ricardin solely because
he would not engage her to whom I am attached.”
“Oho! she is an actress?”
“Two years upon the stage; a lovely girl, full of grace and talent, and
with a charming voice. The Opera Comique has not a singer to compare
with her.”
“And she is disengaged?”
“Yes, my dear fellow; strange though it seems, and by a combination of
circumstances which it were tedious to detail, the fascinating Delia is
still without an engagement. And I give you notice that henceforward I
attach myself to her steps: where she goes, I go; I will perform upon no
boards which she does not tread. I am determined to win her heart, and
make her my wife.”
“Very good!” cried Balthasar, rising from his seat; “tell me the address
of this prodigy: I run, I fly, I make every sacrifice; and we will start
to-morrow.”
People were quite right in saying that Balthasar was a clever manager.
None better knew how to deal with actors, often capricious and difficult
to guide. He possessed skill, taste, and tact. One hour after the
conversation in the garden of the Palais Royal, he had obtained the
signatures of Delia and Florival, two excellent acquisitions, destined
to do him infinite honour in Germany. That night his little company was
complete, and the next day, after a good dinner, it started for
Strasburg. It was composed as follows:
Balthasar, manager, was to play the old men, and take the heavy
business.
Florival was the leading man, the lover, and the first singer.
Rigolet was the low comedian, and took the parts usually played by Arnal
and Bouffé.
Similor was to perform the valets in Molière’s comedies, and eccentric
low comedy characters.
Anselmo was the walking gentleman.
Lebel led the band.
Miss Delia was to display her charms and talents as prima donna, and in
genteel comedy.
Miss Foligny was the singing chambermaid.
Miss Alice was the walking lady, and made herself generally useful.
Finally, Madame Pastorale, the duenna of the company, was to perform the
old women, and look after the young ones.
Although so few, the company trusted to atone by zeal and industry for
numerical deficiency. It would be easy to find, in the capital of the
Grand Duchy, persons capable of filling mute parts, and, in most plays,
a few unimportant characters might be suppressed.
The travellers reached Strasburg without adventure worthy of note. There
Balthasar allowed them six-and-thirty hours’ repose, and took advantage
of the halt to write to the Grand Duke Leopold, and inform him of his
approaching arrival; then they again started, crossed the Rhine at Kehl,
and in thirty days, after traversing several small German states,
reached the frontier of the Grand Duchy of Niesenstein, and stopped at a
little village called Krusthal. From this village to the capital the
distance was only four leagues, but means of conveyance were wanting.
There was but a single stage-coach on that line of road; it would not
leave Krusthal for two days, and it held but six persons. No other
vehicles were to be had; it was necessary to wait, and the necessity was
anything but pleasant. The actors made wry faces at the prospect of
passing forty-eight hours in a wretched village. The only persons who
easily made up their minds to the wearisome delay were Delia and
Florival. The first singer was desperately in love, and the prima donna
was not insensible to his delicate attentions and tender discourse.
Balthasar, the most impatient and persevering of all, went out to
explore the village. In an hour’s time he returned in triumph to his
friends, in a light cart drawn by a strong horse. Unfortunately the cart
held but two persons.
“I will set out alone,” said Balthasar. “On reaching Karlstadt, I will
go to the Grand Duke, explain our position, and I have no doubt he will
immediately send carriages to convey you to his capital.”
These consolatory words were received with loud cheers by the actors.
The driver, a peasant lad, cracked his whip, and the stout Mecklenburg
horse set out at a small trot. Upon the way, Balthasar questioned his
guide as to the extent, resources, and prosperity of the Grand Duchy,
but could obtain no satisfactory reply: the young peasant was profoundly
ignorant upon all these subjects. The four leagues were got over in
something less than three hours, which is rather rapid travelling for
Germany. It was nearly dark when Balthasar entered Karlstadt. The shops
were shut, and there were few persons in the streets: people are early
in their habits in the happy lands on the Rhine’s right bank. Presently
the cart stopped before a good-sized house.
“You told me to take you to our prince’s palace,” said the driver, “and
here it is.” Balthasar alighted and entered the dwelling, unchallenged
and unimpeded by the sentry who passed lazily up and down in its front.
In the entrance hall the manager met a porter, who bowed gravely to him
as he passed; he walked on and passed through an empty anteroom. In the
first apartment, appropriated to gentlemen-in-waiting, aides-de-camp,
equerries, and other dignitaries of various degree, he found nobody; in
a second saloon, lighted by a dim and smoky lamp, was an old gentleman,
dressed in black, with powdered hair, who rose slowly at his entrance,
looked at him with surprise, and inquired his pleasure.
“I wish to see his Serene Highness, the Grand Duke Leopold,” replied
Balthasar.
“The prince does not grant audiences at this hour,” the old gentleman
drily answered.
“His Highness expects me,” was the confident reply of Balthasar.
“That is another thing. I will inquire if it be his Highness’s pleasure
to receive you. Whom shall I announce?”
“The manager of the Court theatre.”
The gentleman bowed, and left Balthasar alone. The pertinacious manager
already began to doubt the success of his audacity, when he heard the
Grand Duke’s voice, saying, “Show him in.”
He entered. The sovereign of Niesenstein was alone, seated in a large
arm-chair, at a table covered with a green cloth, upon which were a
confused medley of letters and newspapers, an inkstand, a tobacco-bag,
two wax-lights, a sugar-basin, a sword, a plate, gloves, a bottle,
books, and a goblet of Bohemian glass, artistically engraved. His
Highness was engrossed in a thoroughly national occupation; he was
smoking one of those long pipes which Germans rarely lay aside except to
eat or to sleep.
The manager of the Court theatre bowed thrice, as if he had been
advancing to the foot-lights to address the public; then he stood still
and silent, awaiting the prince’s pleasure. But, although he said
nothing, his countenance was so expressive that the Grand Duke answered
him.
“Yes,” he said, “here you are. I recollect you perfectly, and I have not
forgotten our agreement. But you come at a very unfortunate moment, my
dear sir!”
“I crave your Highness’s pardon if I have chosen an improper hour to
seek an audience,” replied Balthasar with another bow.
“It is not the hour that I am thinking of,” answered the prince quickly.
“Would that were all! See, here is your letter; I was just now reading
it, and regretting that, instead of writing to me only three days ago,
when you were half-way here, you had not done so two or three weeks
before starting.”
“I did wrong.”
“More so than you think, for, had you sooner warned me, I would have
spared you a useless journey.”
“Useless!” exclaimed Balthasar aghast. “Has your Highness changed your
mind?”
“Not at all; I am still passionately fond of the drama, and should be
delighted to have a French theatre here. As far as that goes, my ideas
and tastes are in no way altered since last summer; but, unfortunately,
I am unable to satisfy them. Look here,” continued the prince, rising
from his arm-chair. He took Balthasar’s arm and led him to a window: “I
told you, last year, that I was building a magnificent theatre in my
capital.”
“Your Highness did tell me so.”
“Well, look yonder, on the other side of the square; there the theatre
is!”
“Your Highness, I see nothing but an open space; a building commenced,
and as yet scarcely risen above the foundation.”
“Precisely so; that is the theatre.”
“Your Highness told me it would be completed before the end of winter.”
“I did not then foresee that I should have to stop the works for want of
cash to pay the workmen. Such is my present position. If I have no
theatre ready to receive you, and if I cannot take you and your company
into my pay, it is because I have not the means. The coffers of the
State and my privy purse are alike empty. You are astounded!—Adversity
respects nobody—not even Grand Dukes. But I support its assaults with
philosophy: try to follow my example; and, by way of a beginning, take a
chair and a pipe, fill yourself a glass of wine, and drink to the return
of my prosperity. Since you suffer for my misfortunes, I owe you an
explanation. Although I never had much order in my expenditure, I had
every reason, at the time I first met with you, to believe my finances
in a flourishing condition. It was not until the commencement of the
present year that I discovered the contrary to be the case. Last year
was a bad one; hail ruined our crops and money was hard to get in. The
salaries of my household were in arrear, and my officers murmured. For
the first time I ordered a statement of my affairs to be laid before me,
and I found that ever since my accession I had been exceeding my
revenue. My first act of sovereignty had been a considerable diminution
of the taxes paid to my predecessors. Hence the evil, which had annually
augmented, and now I am ruined, loaded with debts, and without means of
repairing the disaster. My privy-councillors certainly proposed a way;
it was to double the taxes, raise extraordinary contributions—to squeeze
my subjects, in short. A fine plan, indeed! to make the poor pay for my
improvidence and disorder! Such things may occur in other States, but
they shall not occur in mine. Justice before everything. I prefer
enduring my difficulties to making my subjects suffer.”
“Excellent prince!” exclaimed Balthasar, touched by these generous
sentiments. The Grand Duke smiled.
“Do you turn flatterer?” he said. “Beware! it is an arduous post, and
you will have none to help you. I have no longer wherewith to pay
flatterers; my courtiers have fled. You have seen the emptiness of my
anterooms; you met neither chamberlain nor equerry upon your entrance.
All those gentlemen have given in their resignations. The civil and
military officers of my house, secretaries, aides-de-camp, and others,
left me, because I could no longer pay them their wages. I am alone; a
few faithful and patient servants are all that remain, and the most
important personage of my court is now honest Sigismund, my old
valet-de-chambre.”
These last words were spoken in a melancholy tone, which pained
Balthasar. The eyes of the honest manager glistened. The Grand Duke
detected his sympathy.
“Do not pity me,” he said with a smile. “It is no sorrow to me to have
got rid of a wearisome etiquette, and, at the same time, of a pack of
spies and hypocrites, by whom I was formerly from morning till night
beset.”
The cheerful frankness of the Grand Duke’s manner forbade doubt of his
sincerity. Balthasar congratulated him on his courage.
“I need it more than you think!” replied Leopold, “and I cannot answer
for having enough to support the blows that threaten me. The desertion
of my courtiers would be nothing, did I owe it only to the bad state of
my finances: as soon as I found myself in funds again I could buy others
or take back the old ones, and amuse myself by putting my foot upon
their servile necks. Then they would be as humble as now they are
insolent. But their defection is an omen of other dangers. As the
diplomatists say clouds are at the political horizon. Poverty alone
would not have sufficed to clear my palace of men who are as greedy of
honours as they are of money; they would have waited for better days;
their vanity would have consoled their avarice. If they fled, it was
because they felt the ground shake beneath their feet, and because they
are in league with my enemies. I cannot shut my eyes to impending
dangers. I am on bad terms with Austria; Metternich looks askance at me;
at Vienna I am considered too liberal, too popular: they say that I set
a bad example; they reproach me with cheap government, and with not
making my subjects sufficiently feel the yoke. Thus do they accumulate
pretexts for playing me a scurvy trick. One of my cousins, a colonel in
the Austrian service, covets my Grand Duchy. Although I say _grand_, it
is but ten leagues long and eight leagues broad; but, such as it is, it
suits me; I am accustomed to it, I have the habit of ruling it, and I
should miss it were I deprived of it. My cousin has the audacity to
dispute my incontestible rights; this is a mere pretext for litigation,
but he has carried the case before the Aulic Council, and
notwithstanding the excellence of my right I still may lose my cause,
for I have no money wherewith to enlighten my judges. My enemies are
powerful, treason surrounds me; they try to take advantage of my
financial embarrassments, first to make me bankrupt and then to depose
me. In this critical conjuncture, I should be only too delighted to have
a company of players to divert my thoughts from my troubles—but I have
neither theatre nor money. So it is impossible for me to keep you, my
dear manager, and, believe me, I am as grieved at it as you can be. All
I can do is to give you, out of the little I have left, a small
indemnity to cover your travelling expenses and take you back to France.
Come and see me to-morrow morning; we will settle this matter, and you
shall take your leave.”
Balthasar’s attention and sympathy had been so completely engrossed by
the Grand Duke’s misfortunes, and by his revelations of his political
and financial difficulties, that his own troubles had quite gone out of
his thoughts. When he quitted the palace they came back upon him like a
thunder-cloud. How was he to satisfy the actors, whom he had brought two
hundred leagues away from Paris? What could he say to them, how appease
them? The unhappy manager passed a miserable night. At daybreak he rose
and went out into the open air, to calm his agitation and seek a mode of
extrication from his difficulties. During a two hours’ walk he had
abundant time to visit every corner of Karlstadt, and to admire the
beauties of that celebrated capital. He found it an elegant town, with
wide straight streets cutting completely across it, so that he could see
through it at a glance. The houses were pretty and uniform, and the
windows were provided with small indiscreet mirrors, which reflected the
passers-by and transported the street into the drawing-room, so that the
worthy Karlstadters could satisfy their curiosity without quitting their
easy chairs. An innocent recreation, much affected by German burghers.
As regarded trade and manufactures, the capital of the Grand Duchy of
Niesenstein did not seem to be very much occupied with either. It was
anything but a bustling city; luxury had made but little progress there;
and its prosperity was due chiefly to the moderate desires and
phlegmatic philosophy of its inhabitants.
In such a country a company of actors had no chance of a livelihood.
There is nothing for it but to return to France, thought Balthasar,
after making the circuit of the city: then he looked at his watch, and,
deeming the hour suitable, he took the road to the palace, which he
entered with as little ceremony as upon the preceding evening. The
faithful Sigismund, doing duty as gentleman-in-waiting, received him as
an old acquaintance, and forthwith ushered him into the Grand Duke’s
presence. His Highness seemed more depressed than upon the previous day.
He was pacing the room with long strides, his eyes cast down, his arms
folded. In his hand he held papers, whose perusal it apparently was that
had thus discomposed him. For some moments he said nothing; then he
suddenly stopped before Balthasar.
“You find me less calm,” he said, “than I was last night. I have just
received unpleasant news. I am heartily sick of these perpetual
vexations, and gladly would I resign this poor sovereignty, this crown
of thorns they seek to snatch from me, did not honour command me to
maintain to the last my legitimate rights. Yes,” vehemently exclaimed
the Grand Duke, “at this moment a tranquil existence is all I covet, and
I would willingly give up my Grand Duchy, my title, my crown, to live
quietly at Paris, as a private gentleman, upon thirty thousand francs
a-year.”
“I believe so, indeed!” cried Balthasar, who, in his wildest dreams of
fortune, had never dared aspire so high. His artless exclamation made
the prince smile. It needed but a trifle to dissipate his vexation, and
to restore that upper current of easy good temper which habitually
floated upon the surface of his character.
“You think,” he gaily cried, “that some, in my place, would be satisfied
with less, and that thirty thousand francs a-year, with independence and
the pleasures of Paris, compose a lot more enviable than the government
of all the Grand Duchies in the world. My own experience tells me that
you are right; for, ten years ago, when I was but hereditary prince, I
passed six months at Paris, rich, independent, careless; and memory
declares those to have been the happiest days of my life.”
“Well! if you were to sell all you have, could you not realise that
fortune? Besides, the cousin, of whom you did me the honour to speak to
me yesterday, would probably gladly insure you an income if you yielded
him your place here. But will your Highness permit me to speak plainly?”
“By all means.”
“The tranquil existence of a private gentleman would doubtless have many
charms for you, and you say so in all sincerity of heart; but, upon the
other hand, you set store by your crown, though you may not admit it to
yourself. In a moment of annoyance it is easy to exaggerate the charms
of tranquillity, and the pleasures of private life; but a throne,
however rickety, is a seat which none willingly quit. That is my
opinion, formed at the dramatic school: it is perhaps a reminiscence of
some old part, but truth is sometimes found upon the stage. Since,
therefore, all things considered, to stay where you are is that which
best becomes you, you ought——But I crave your Highness’s pardon, I am
perhaps speaking too freely——
“Speak on, my dear manager, freely and fearlessly; I listen to you with
pleasure. I ought—you were about to say?——”
“Instead of abandoning yourself to despair and poetry, instead of
contenting yourself with succumbing nobly, like some ancient Roman, you
ought boldly to combat the peril. Circumstances are favourable; you have
neither ministers nor state-councillors to mislead you, and embarrass
your plans. Strong in your good right, and in your subjects’ love, it is
impossible you should not find means of retrieving your finances and
strengthening your position.”
“There is but one means, and that is—a good marriage.”
“Excellent! I had not thought of it. You are a bachelor! A good marriage
is salvation. It is thus that great houses, menaced with ruin, regain
their former splendour. You must marry an heiress, the only daughter of
some rich banker.”
“You forget—it would be derogatory. _I_ am free from such prejudices,
but what would Austria say if I thus condescended? It would be another
charge to bring against me. And then a banker’s millions would not
suffice; I must ally myself with a powerful family, whose influence will
strengthen mine. Only a few days ago, I thought such an alliance within
my grasp. A neighbouring prince, Maximilian of Hanau, who is in high
favour at Vienna, has a sister to marry. The Princess Wilhelmina is
young, handsome, amiable, and rich; I have already entered upon the
preliminaries of a matrimonial negotiation, but two despatches, received
this morning, destroy all my hopes. Hence the low spirits in which you
find me.”
“Perhaps,” said Balthasar, “your Highness too easily gives way to
discouragement.”
“Judge for yourself. I have a rival, the Elector of Saxe-Tolpelhausen;
his territories are less considerable than mine, but he is more solidly
established in his little electorate than I am in my grand duchy.”
“Pardon me, your Highness; I saw the Elector of Saxe-Tolpelhausen last
year at Baden-Baden, and, without flattery, he cannot for an instant be
compared with your Highness. You are hardly thirty, and he is more than
forty; you have a good figure, he is heavy, clumsy, and ill-made; your
countenance is noble and agreeable, his common and displeasing; your
hair is light brown, his bright red. The Princess Wilhelmina is sure to
prefer you.”
“Perhaps so, if she were asked; but she is in the power of her august
brother, who will marry her to whom he pleases.”
“That must be prevented.”
“How?”
“By winning the young lady’s affections. Love has so many resources.
Every day one sees marriages for money broken off, and replaced by
marriages for love.”
“Yes, one sees that in plays——”
“Which afford excellent lessons.”
“For people of a certain class, but not for princes.”
“Why not make the attempt? If I dared advise you, it would be to set out
to-morrow, and pay a visit to the Prince of Hanau.”
“Unnecessary. To see the prince and his sister, I need not stir hence.
One of these despatches announces their early arrival at Karlstadt. They
are on their way hither. On their return from a journey into Prussia,
they pass through my territories and pause in my capital, inviting
themselves as my guests for two or three days. Their visit is my ruin.
What will they think of me when they find me alone, deserted, in my
empty palace? Do you suppose the Princess will be tempted to share my
dismal solitude? Last year she went to Saxe-Tolpelhausen. The Elector
entertained her well, and made his court agreeable. _He_ could place
chamberlains and aides-de-camp at her orders, could give concerts,
balls, and festivals. But I—what can _I_ do? What a humiliation! And,
that no affront may be spared to me, my rival proposes negotiating his
marriage at my own court! Nothing less, it seems, will satisfy him! He
has just sent me an ambassador, Baron Pippinstir, deputed, he writes, to
conclude a commercial treaty which will be extremely advantageous to me.
The treaty is but a pretext. The Baron’s true mission is to the Prince
of Hanau. The meeting is skilfully contrived, for the secret and
unostentatious conclusion of the matrimonial treaty. This is what I am
condemned to witness! I must endure this outrage and mortification, and
display, before the prince and his sister, my misery and poverty. I
would do anything to avoid such shame!”
“Means might, perhaps, be found,” said Balthasar, after a moment’s
reflection.
“Means? Speak, and whatever they be, I adopt them.”
“The plan is a bold one!” continued Balthasar, speaking half to the
Grand Duke and half to himself, as if pondering and weighing a project.
“No matter! I will risk everything.”
“You would like to conceal your real position, to re-people this palace,
to have a court?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think the courtiers who have deserted you would return?”
“Never. Did I not tell you they are sold to my enemies.”
“Could you not select others from the higher class of your subjects?”
“Impossible! There are very few gentlemen amongst my subjects. Ah! if a
court could be got up at a day’s notice! though it were to be composed
of the humblest citizens of Karlstadt——”
“I have better than that to offer you.”
“_You_ have? And whom do you offer?” cried Duke Leopold, greatly
astonished.
“My actors.”
“What! you would have me make up a court of your actors?”
“Yes, your Highness, and you could not do better. Observe that my actors
are accustomed to play all manner of parts, and that they will be
perfectly at their ease when performing those of noblemen and high
officials. I answer for their talent, discretion, and probity. As soon
as your illustrious guests have departed, and you no longer need their
services, they shall resign their posts. Bear in mind that you have no
other alternative. Time is short, danger at your door, hesitation is
destruction.”
“But, if such a trick were discovered!——”
“A mere supposition, a chimerical fear. On the other hand, if you do not
run the risk I propose, your ruin is certain.”
The Grand Duke was easily persuaded. Careless and easy-going, he yet was
not wanting in determination, nor in a certain love of hazardous
enterprises. He remembered that fortune is said to favour the bold, and
his desperate position increased his courage. With joyful intrepidity he
accepted and adopted Balthasar’s scheme.
“Bravo!” cried the manager; “you shall have no cause to repent. You
behold in me a sample of your future courtiers; and since honours and
dignities are to be distributed, it is with me, if you please, that we
will begin. In this request I act up to the spirit of my part. A
courtier should always be asking for something, should lose no
opportunity, and should profit by his rivals’ absence to obtain the best
place. I entreat your Highness to have the goodness to name me prime
minister.”
“Granted!” gaily replied the prince. “Your Excellency may immediately
enter upon your functions.”
“My Excellency will not fail to do so, and begins by requesting your
signature to a few decrees I am about to draw up. But in the first
place, your Highness must be so good as to answer two or three
questions, that I may understand the position of affairs. A new-comer in
a country, and a novice in a minister’s office, has need of instruction.
If it became necessary to enforce your commands, have you the means of
so doing?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Your Highness has soldiers?”
“A regiment.”
“How many men?”
“One hundred and twenty, besides the musicians.”
“Are they obedient, devoted?”
“Passive obedience, unbounded devotion; soldiers and officers would die
for me to the last man.”
“It is their duty. Another question: Have you a prison in your
dominions?”
“Certainly.”
“I mean a good prison, strong and well-guarded, with thick walls, solid
bars, stern and incorruptible jailors?”
“I have every reason to believe that the Castle of Zwingenberg combines
all those requisites. The fact is, I have made very little use of it;
but it was built by a man who understood such matters—by my father’s
great-grandfather, Rudolph the Inflexible.”
“A fine surname for a sovereign! Your Inflexible ancestor, I am very
sure, never lacked either cash or courtiers. Your Highness has perhaps
done wrong to leave the state-prison untenanted. A prison requires to be
inhabited, like any other building; and the first act of the authority
with which you have been pleased to invest me, will be a salutary
measure of incarceration. I presume the Castle of Zwingenberg will
accommodate a score of prisoners?”
“What! you are going to imprison twenty persons?”
“More or less. I do not yet know the exact number of the persons who
composed your late court. They it is whom I propose lodging within the
lofty walls constructed by the Inflexible Rudolph. The measure is
indispensable.”
“But it is illegal!”
“I crave your Highness’s pardon; you use a word I do not understand. It
seems to me that, in every good German government, that which is
absolutely necessary is necessarily legal. That is my policy. Moreover,
as prime minister, I am responsible. What would you have more? It is
plain that, if we leave your courtiers their liberty, it will be
impossible to perform our comedy; they will betray us. Therefore the
welfare of the state imperatively demands their imprisonment. Besides,
you yourself have said that they are traitors, and therefore they
deserve punishment. For your own safety’s sake, for the success of your
project—which will insure the happiness of your subjects—write the
names, sign the order, and inflict upon the deserters the lenient
chastisement of a week’s captivity.”
The Grand Duke wrote the names and signed several orders, which were
forthwith intrusted to the most active and determined officers of the
regiment, with instructions to make the arrests at once, and to take
their prisoners to the Castle of Zwingenberg, at three quarters of a
league from Karlstadt.
“All that now remains to be done is to send for your new court,” said
Balthasar. “Has your Highness carriages?”
“Certainly! a berlin, a barouche, and a cabriolet.”
“And horses?”
“Six draught and two saddle.”
“I take the barouche, the berlin, and four horses; I go to Krusthal, put
my actors up to their parts, and bring them here this evening. We instal
ourselves in the palace, and shall be at once at your Highness’s
orders.”
“Very good; but, before going, write an answer to Baron Pippinstir, who
asks an audience.”
“Two lines, very dry and official, putting him off till to-morrow. We
must be under arms to receive him.... Here is the note written, but how
shall I sign it? The name of Balthasar is not very suitable to a German
Excellency.”
“True, you must have another name, and a title; I create you Count
Lipandorf.”
“Thanks, your Highness. I will bear the title nobly, and restore it to
you faithfully, with my seals of office, when the comedy is played out.”
Count Lipandorf signed the letter, which Sigismund was ordered to take
to Baron Pippinstir; then he started for Krusthal.
Next morning, the Grand Duke Leopold held a levee, which was attended by
all the officers of his new court. And as soon as he was dressed he
received the ladies, with infinite grace and affability.
Ladies and officers were attired in their most elegant theatrical
costumes; the Grand Duke appeared greatly satisfied with their bearing
and manners. The first compliments over, there came a general
distribution of titles and offices.
The lover, Florival, was appointed aide-de-camp to the Grand Duke,
colonel of hussars, and Count Reinsberg.
Rigolet, the low comedian, was named grand chamberlain, and Baron
Fidibus.
Similor, who performed the valets, was master of the horse and Baron
Kockemburg.
Anselmo, walking gentleman, was promoted to be gentleman-in-waiting and
Chevalier Grillenfanger.
The leader of the band, Lebel, was appointed superintendant of the music
and amusements of the court, with the title of Chevalier Arpeggio.
The prima donna, Miss Delia, was created Countess of Rosenthal, an
interesting orphan, whose dowry was to be the hereditary office of first
lady of honour to the future Grand Duchess.
Miss Foligny, the singing chambermaid, was appointed widow of a general
and Baroness Allenzau.
Miss Alice, walking lady, became Miss Fidibus, daughter of the
chamberlain, and a rich heiress.
Finally, the duenna, Madame Pastorale, was called to the responsible
station of mistress of the robes and governess of the maids of honour,
under the imposing title of Baroness Schicklick.
The new dignitaries received decorations in proportion to their rank.
Count Balthasar von Lipandorf, prime minister, had two stars and three
grand crosses. The aide-de-camp, Florival von Reinsberg, fastened five
crosses upon the breast of his hussar jacket.
The parts duly distributed and learned, there was a rehearsal, which
went off excellently well. The Grand Duke deigned to superintend the
getting up of the piece, and to give the actors a few useful hints.
Prince Maximilian of Hanau and his august sister were expected that
evening. Time was precious. Pending their arrival, and by way of
practising his court, the Grand Duke gave audience to the ambassador
from Saxe-Tolpelhausen.
Baron Pippinstir was ushered into the Hall of the Throne. He had asked
permission to present his wife at the same time as his credentials, and
that favour had been granted him.
At sight of the diplomatist, the new courtiers, as yet unaccustomed to
rigid decorum, had difficulty in keeping their countenances. The Baron
was a man of fifty, prodigiously tall, singularly thin, abundantly
powdered, with legs like hop-poles, clad in knee breeches and white silk
stockings. A long slender pigtail danced upon his flexible back. He had
a face like a bird of prey—little round eyes, a receding chin, and an
enormous hooked nose. It was scarcely possible to look at him without
laughing, especially when one saw him for the first time. His
apple-green coat glittered with a profusion of embroidery. His chest
being too narrow to admit of a horizontal development of his
decorations, he wore them in two columns, extending from his collar to
his waist. When he approached the Grand Duke, with a self-satisfied
simper and a jaunty air, his sword by his side, his cocked hat under his
arm, nothing was wanting to complete the caricature.
The Baroness Pippinstir was a total contrast to her husband. She was a
pretty little woman of five-and-twenty, as plump as a partridge, with a
lively eye, a nice figure, and an engaging smile. There was mischief in
her glance, seduction in her dimples and the rose’s tint upon her
cheeks. Her dress was the only ridiculous thing about her. To come to
court, the little Baroness had put on all the finery she could muster;
she sailed into the hall under a cloud of ribbons, sparkling with jewels
and fluttering with plumes—the loftiest of which, however, scarcely
reached to the shoulder of her lanky spouse.
Completely identifying himself with his part of prime minister,
Balthasar, as soon as this oddly-assorted pair appeared, decided upon
his plan of campaign. His natural penetration told him the diplomatist’s
weak point. He felt that the Baron, who was old and ugly, must be
jealous of his wife, who was young and pretty. He was not mistaken.
Pippinstir was as jealous as a tiger-cat. Recently married, the meagre
diplomatist had not dared to leave his wife at Saxe-Tolpelhausen, for
fear of accidents; he would not lose sight of her, and had brought her
to Karlstadt in the arrogant belief that danger vanished in his
presence.
After exchanging a few diplomatic phrases with the ambassador, Balthasar
took Colonel Florival aside and gave him secret instructions. The
dashing officer passed his hand through his richly-curling locks,
adjusted his splendid pelisse, and approached Baroness Pippinstir. The
ambassadress received him graciously; the handsome colonel had already
attracted her attention, and soon she was delighted with his wit and
gallant speeches. Florival did not lack imagination, and his memory was
stored with well-turned phrases and sentimental tirades, borrowed from
stage-plays. He spoke half from inspiration, half from memory, and he
was listened to with favour.
The conversation was carried on in French—for the best of reasons.
“It is the custom here,” said the Grand Duke to the ambassador; “French
is the only language spoken in this palace; it is a regulation I had
some difficulty in enforcing, and I was at last obliged to decree that a
heavy penalty should be paid for every German word spoken by a person
attached to my court. That proved effectual, and you will not easily
catch any of these ladies and gentlemen tripping. My prime minister,
Count Balthasar von Lipandorf, is the only one who is permitted
occasionally to speak his native language.”
Balthasar, who had long managed theatres in Alsace and Lorraine, spoke
German like a Frankfort brewer.
Meanwhile, Baron Pippinstir’s uneasiness was extreme. Whilst his wife
conversed in a low voice with the young and fascinating aide-de-camp,
the pitiless prime minister held his arm tight, and explained at great
length his views with respect to the famous commercial treaty. Caught in
his own snare, the unlucky diplomatist was in agony; he fidgeted to get
away, his countenance expressed grievous uneasiness, his lean legs were
convulsively agitated. But in vain did he endeavour to abridge his
torments; the remorseless Balthasar relinquished not his prey.
Sigismund, promoted to be steward of the household, announced dinner.
The ambassador and his lady had been invited to dine, as well as all the
courtiers. The aide-de-camp was placed next to the Baroness, the Baron
at the other end of the table. The torture was prolonged. Florival
continued to whisper soft nonsense to the fair and well-pleased
Pippinstir. The diplomatist could not eat.
There was another person present whom Florival’s flirtation annoyed, and
that person was Delia, Countess of Rosenthal. After dinner, Balthasar,
whom nothing escaped, took her aside.
“You know very well,” said the minister, “that he is only acting a part
in a comedy. Should you feel hurt if he declared his love upon the
stage, to one of your comrades? Here it is the same thing; all this is
but a play; when the curtain falls, he will return to you.”
A courier announced that the Prince of Hanau and his sister were within
a league of Karlstadt. The Grand Duke, attended by Count Reinsberg and
some officers, went to meet them. It was dark when the illustrious
guests reached the palace; they passed through the great saloon, where
the whole court was assembled to receive them, and retired at once to
their apartments.
“The game is fairly begun,” said the Grand Duke to his prime minister;
“and now, may Heaven help us!”
“Fear nothing,” replied Balthasar. “The glimpse I caught of Prince
Maximilian’s physiognomy satisfied me that everything will pass off
perfectly well, and without exciting the least suspicion. As to Baron
Pippinstir, he is already blind with jealousy, and Florival will give
him so much to do, that he will have no time to attend to his master’s
business. Things look well.”
Next morning, the Prince and Princess of Hanau were welcomed, on
awakening, by a serenade from the regimental band. The weather was
beautiful; the Grand Duke proposed an excursion out of town; he was glad
of an opportunity to show his guests the best features of his duchy—a
delightful country, and many picturesque points of view, much prized and
sketched by German landscape-painters. The proposal agreed to, the party
set out, in carriages and on horseback, for the old Castle of
Rauberzell—magnificent ruins, dating from the middle ages, and famous
far and wide. At a short distance from the castle, which lifted its grey
turrets upon the summit of a wooded hill, the Princess Wilhelmina
expressed a wish to walk the remainder of the way. Everybody followed
her example. The Grand Duke offered her his arm; the Prince gave his to
the Countess Delia von Rosenthal; and, at a sign from Balthasar,
Baroness Pastorale von Schicklick took possession of Baron Pippinstir;
whilst the smiling Baroness accepted Florival’s escort. The young people
walked at a brisk pace. The unfortunate Baron would gladly have availed
of his long legs to keep up with his coquettish wife; but the duenna,
portly and ponderous, hung upon his arm, checked his ardour, and
detained him in the rear. Respect for the mistress of the robes forbade
rebellion or complaint.
Amidst the ruins of the venerable castle, the distinguished party found
a table spread with an elegant collation. It was an agreeable surprise,
and the Grand Duke had all the credit of an idea suggested to him by his
prime minister.
The whole day was passed in rambling through the beautiful forest of
Rauberzell. The Princess was charming; nothing could exceed the high
breeding of the courtiers, or the fascination and elegance of the
ladies; and Prince Maximilian warmly congratulated the Grand Duke on
having a court composed of such agreeable and accomplished persons.
Baroness Pippinstir declared, in a moment of enthusiasm, that the court
of Saxe-Tolpelhausen was not to compare with that of Niesenstein. She
could hardly have said anything more completely at variance with the
object of her husband’s mission. The Baron was near fainting.
Like not a few of her countrywomen, the Princess Wilhelmina had a strong
predilection for Parisian fashions. She admired everything that came
from France; she spoke French perfectly, and greatly approved the Grand
Duke’s decree, forbidding any other language to be spoken at his court.
Moreover, there was nothing extraordinary in such a regulation; French
is the language of all the northern courts. But she was greatly tickled
at the notion of a fine being inflicted for a single German word. She
amused herself by trying to catch some of the Grand Duke’s courtiers
transgressing in this respect. Her labour was completely lost.
That evening, at the palace, when conversation began to languish, the
Chevalier Arpeggio sat down to the piano, and the Countess Delia von
Rosenthal sang an air out of the last new opera. The guests were
enchanted with her performance. Prince Maximilian had been extremely
attentive to the Countess during their excursion; the young actress’s
grace and beauty had captivated him, and the charm of her voice
completed his subjugation. Passionately fond of music, every note she
sang went to his very heart. When she had finished one song, he
petitioned for another. The amiable prima donna sang a duet with the
aide-de-camp Florival von Reinsberg, and then, being further entreated,
a trio, in which Similor—master of the horse, barytone, and Baron von
Kockemburg—took a part.
Here our actors were at home, and their success was complete. Deviating
from his usual reserve, Prince Maximilian did not disguise his delight;
and the imprudent little Baroness Pippinstir declared that, with such a
beautiful tenor voice, an aide-de-camp might aspire to anything. A
cemetery on a wet day is a cheerful sight, compared to the Baron’s
countenance when he heard these words.
Upon the morrow, a hunting party was the order of the day. In the
evening there was a dance. It had been proposed to invite the principal
families of the metropolis of Niesenstein, but the Prince and Princess
begged that the circle might not be increased.
“We are four ladies,” said the Princess, glancing at the prima donna,
the singing chambermaid, and the walking lady, “it is enough for a
quadrille.”
There was no lack of gentlemen. There was the Grand Duke, the
aide-de-camp, the grand chamberlain, the master of the horse, the
gentleman-in-waiting, and Prince Maximilian’s aide-de-camp, Count Darius
von Sturmhaube, who appeared greatly smitten by the charms of the
widowed Baroness Allenzau.
“I am sorry my court is not more numerous,” said the Grand Duke, “but,
within the last three days, I have been compelled to diminish it by one
half.”
“How so?” inquired Prince Maximilian.
“A dozen courtiers,” replied the Grand Duke Leopold, “whom I had loaded
with favours, dared conspire against me, in favour of a certain cousin
of mine at Vienna. I discovered the plot, and the plotters are now in
the dungeons of my good fortress of Zwingenberg.”
“Well done!” cried the Prince; “I like such energy and vigour. And to
think that people taxed you with weakness of character! How we princes
are deceived and calumniated.”
The Grand Duke cast a grateful glance at Balthasar. That able minister
by this time felt himself as much at his ease in his new office as if he
had held it all his life; he even began to suspect that the government
of a grand duchy is a much easier matter than the management of a
company of actors. Incessantly engrossed by his master’s interests, he
manœuvred to bring about the marriage which was to give the Grand Duke
happiness, wealth, and safety; but, notwithstanding his skill,
notwithstanding the torments with which he had filled the jealous soul
of Pippinstir, the ambassador devoted the scanty moments of repose his
wife left him to furthering the object of his mission. The alliance with
the Saxe-Tolpelhausen was pleasing to Prince Maximilian; it offered him
various advantages: the extinction of an old lawsuit between the two
states, the cession of a large extent of territory, and, finally, the
commercial treaty, which the perfidious Baron had brought to the court
of Niesenstein, with a view of concluding it in favour of the
principality of Hanau. Invested with unlimited powers, the diplomatist
was ready to insert in the contract almost any conditions Prince
Maximilian chose to dictate to him.
It is necessary here to remark that the Elector of Saxe-Tolpelhausen was
desperately in love with the Princess Wilhelmina.
It was evident that the Baron would carry the day, if the prime minister
did not hit upon some scheme to destroy his credit or force him to
retreat. Balthasar, fertile in expedients, was teaching Florival his
part in the palace garden, when Prince Maximilian met him, and requested
a moment’s private conversation.
“I am at your Highness’s orders,” respectfully replied the minister.
“I will go straight to the point, Count Lipandorf,” the Prince began. “I
married my late wife, a princess of Hesse-Darmstadt, from political
motives. She has left me three sons. I now intend to marry again; but
this time I need not sacrifice myself to state considerations, and I am
determined to consult my heart alone.”
“If your Highness does me the honour to consult _me_, I have merely to
say that you are perfectly justified in acting as you propose. After
once sacrificing himself to his people’s happiness, a prince has surely
a right to think a little of his own.”
“Exactly my opinion! Count, I will tell you a secret. I am in love with
Miss von Rosenthal.”
“Miss Delia?”
“Yes, sir; with Miss Delia, Countess of Rosenthal; and, what is more, I
will tell you that _I know everything_.”
“What may it be that your Highness knows?”
“I know who she is.”
“Ha!”
“It was a great secret!”
“And how came your Highness to discover it?”
“The Grand Duke revealed it to me.”
“I might have guessed as much!”
“He alone could do so, and I rejoice that I addressed myself directly to
him. At first, when I questioned him concerning the young Countess’s
family, he ill concealed his embarrassment: her position struck me as
strange; young, beautiful, and alone in the world, without relatives or
guardians—all that seemed to me singular, if not suspicious. I trembled,
as the possibility of an intrigue flashed upon me; but the Grand Duke,
to dissipate my unfounded suspicion, told me all.”
“And what is your Highness’s decision?... After such a revelation”—
“It in no way changes my intentions. I shall marry the lady.”
“Marry her?... But no; your Highness jests.”
“Count Lipandorf, I never jest. What is there, then, so strange in my
determination. The Grand Duke’s father was romantic, and of a roving
disposition; in the course of his life he contracted several left-handed
alliances—Miss von Rosenthal is the issue of one of those unions. I care
not for the illegitimacy of her birth; she is of noble blood, of a
princely race—that is all I require.”
“Yes,” replied Balthasar, who had concealed his surprise and kept his
countenance, as became an experienced statesman and consummate comedian.
“Yes, I now understand; and I think as you do. Your Highness has the
talent of bringing everybody over to your way of thinking.”
“The greatest piece of good fortune,” continued the Prince, “is that the
mother remained unknown: she is dead, and there is no trace of family on
that side.”
“As your Highness says, it is very fortunate. And doubtless the Grand
Duke is informed of your august intentions with respect to the proposed
marriage?”
“No; I have as yet said nothing either to him or to the Countess. I
reckon upon you, my dear Count, to make my offer, to whose acceptance I
trust there will not be the slightest obstacle. I give you the rest of
the day to arrange everything. I will write to Miss von Rosenthal; I
hope to receive from her own lips the assurance of my happiness, and I
will beg her to bring me her answer herself, this evening, in the
summerhouse in the park. Lover-like, you see—a rendezvous, a mysterious
interview! But come, Count Lipandorf, lose no time; a double tie shall
bind me to your sovereign. We will sign, at one and the same time, my
marriage-contract and his. On that condition alone will I grant him my
sister’s hand; otherwise I treat, this very evening, with the envoy from
Saxe-Tolpelhausen.”
A quarter of an hour after Prince Maximilian had made this overture,
Balthasar and Delia were closeted with the Grand Duke.
What was to be done? The Prince of Hanau was noted for his obstinacy. He
would have excellent reasons to oppose to all objections. To confess the
deception that had been practised upon him was equivalent to a total and
eternal rupture. But, upon the other hand, to leave him in his error, to
suffer him to marry an actress! it was a serious matter. If ever he
discovered the truth, it would be enough to raise the entire German
Confederation against the Grand Duke of Niesenstein.
“What is my prime minister’s opinion?” asked the Grand Duke.
“A prompt retreat. Delia must instantly quit the town; we will devise an
explanation of her sudden departure.”
“Yes; and this evening Prince Maximilian will sign his sister’s
marriage-contract with the Elector of Saxe-Tolpelhausen. My opinion is,
that we have advanced too far to retreat. If the prince ever discovers
the truth, he will be the person most interested to conceal it. Besides,
Miss Delia is an orphan—she has neither parents nor family. I adopt
her—I acknowledge her as my sister.”
“Your Highness’s goodness and condescension——” lisped the pretty prima
donna.
“You agree with me, do you not, Miss Delia?” continued the Grand Duke.
“You are resolved to seize the good fortune thus offered, and to risk
the consequences?”
“Yes, your Highness.”
The ladies will make allowance for Delia’s faithlessness to Florival.
How few female heads would not be turned by the prospect of wearing a
crown! The heart’s voice is sometimes mute in presence of such brilliant
temptations. Besides, was not Florival faithless? Who could say whither
he might be led in the course of the tender scenes he acted with the
Baroness Pippinstir? Prince Maximilian was neither young nor handsome,
but he offered a throne. Not only an actress, but many a high-born dame,
might possibly, in such circumstances, forget her love, and think only
of her ambition.
To her credit be it said, Delia did not yield without some reluctance to
the Grand Duke’s arguments, which Balthasar backed with all his
eloquence; but she ended by agreeing to the interview with Prince
Maximilian.
“I accept,” she resolutely exclaimed; “I shall be Sovereign Princess of
Hanau.”
“And I,” cried the Grand Duke, “shall marry Princess Wilhelmina, and,
this very evening, poor Pippinstir, disconcerted and defeated, will go
back to Saxe-Tolpelhausen.”
“He would have done that in any case,” said Balthasar; “for, this
evening, Florival was to have run away with his wife.”
“That is carrying things rather far,” Delia remarked.
“Such a scandal is unnecessary,” added the Grand Duke.
Whilst awaiting the hour of her rendezvous with the prince, Delia,
pensive and agitated, was walking in the park, when she came suddenly
upon Florival, who seemed as much discomposed as herself. In spite of
her newly-born ideas of grandeur, she felt a pain at her heart. With a
forced smile, and in a tone of reproach and irony, she greeted her
former lover.
“A pleasant journey to you, Colonel Florival,” she said.
“I may wish you the same,” replied Florival; “for doubtless you will
soon set out for the principality of Hanau!”
“Before long, no doubt.”
“You admit it, then?”
“Where is the harm? The wife must follow her husband—a princess must
reign in her dominions.”
“Princess! What do you mean? Wife! In what ridiculous promises have they
induced you to confide?”
Florival’s offensive doubts were dissipated by the formal explanation
which Delia took malicious pleasure in giving him. A touching scene
ensued; the lovers, who had both gone astray for a moment, felt their
former flame burn all the more ardently for its partial and temporary
extinction. Pardon was mutually asked and granted, and ambitious dreams
fled before a burst of affection.
“You shall see whether I love you or not,” said Florival to Delia.
“Yonder comes Baron Pippinstir; I will take him into the summerhouse; a
closet is there, where you can hide yourself to hear what passes, and
then you shall decide my fate.”
Delia went into the summerhouse, and hid herself in the closet. There
she overheard the following conversation:—
“What have you to say to me, Colonel?” asked the Baron.
“I wish to speak to your Excellency of an affair that deeply concerns
you.”
“I am all attention; but I beg you to be brief; I am expected
elsewhere.”
“So am I.”
“I must go to the prime minister, to return him this draught of a
commercial treaty, which I cannot accept.”
“And I must go to the rendezvous given me in this letter.”
“The Baroness’s writing!”
“Yes, Baron. Your wife has done me the honour to write to me. We set out
together to-night; the Baroness is waiting for me in a post-chaise.”
“And it is to me you dare acknowledge this abominable project?”
“I am less generous than you think. You cannot but be aware that, owing
to an irregularity in your marriage-contract, nothing would be easier
than to get it annulled. This we will have done; we then obtain a
divorce, and I marry the Baroness. You will, of course, have to hand me
over her dowry—a million of florins—composing, if I do not mistake, your
entire fortune.”
The Baron, more dead than alive, sank into an arm-chair. He was struck
speechless.
“We might, perhaps, make some arrangement, Baron,” continued Florival.
“I am not particularly bent upon becoming your wife’s second husband.”
“Ah, sir!” cried the ambassador, “you restore me to life!”
“Yes, but I will not restore you the Baroness, except on certain
conditions.”
“Speak! What do you demand?”
“First, that treaty of commerce, which you must sign just as Count
Lipandorf has drawn it up.”
“I consent to do so.”
“That is not all: you shall take my place at the rendezvous, get into
the post-chaise, and run away with your wife; but first you must sit
down at this table and write a letter, in due diplomatic form, to Prince
Maximilian, informing him that, finding it impossible to accept his
stipulations, you are compelled to decline, in your sovereign’s name,
the honour of his august alliance.”
“But, Colonel, remember that my instructions——”
“Very well, fulfil them exactly; be a dutiful ambassador and a miserable
husband, ruined, without wife and without dowry. You will never have
such another chance, Baron! A pretty wife and a million of florins do
not fall to a man’s lot twice in his life. But I must take my leave of
you. I am keeping the Baroness waiting.”
“I will go to her.... Give me paper, a pen, and be so good as to
dictate. I am so agitated——”
The Baron really was in a dreadful fluster. The letter written, and the
treaty signed, Florival told his Excellency where he would find the
post-chaise.
“One thing more you must promise me,” said the young man, “and that is,
that you will behave like a gentleman to your wife, and not scold her
over-much. Remember the flaw in the contract. She may find somebody else
in whose favour to cancel the document. Suitors will not be wanting.”
“What need of a promise?” replied the poor Baron. “You know very well
that my wife does what she likes with me? I shall have to explain my
conduct, and ask her pardon.”
Pippinstir departed. Delia left her hiding-place, and held out her hand
to Florival.
“You have behaved well,” she said.
“That is more than the Baroness will say.”
“She deserves the lesson. It is your turn to go into the closet and
listen; the Prince will be here directly.”
“I hear his footsteps.” And Florival was quickly concealed.
“Charming Countess!” said the prince on entering, “I come to know my
fate.”
“What does your Highness mean?” said Delia, pretending not to understand
him.
“How can you ask? Has not the Grand Duke spoken to you?”
“No, your Highness.”
“Nor the prime minister?”
“Not a word. When I received your letter, I was on the point of asking
you for a private interview. I have a favour—a service—to implore of
your Highness.”
“It is granted before it is asked. I place my whole influence and power
at your feet, charming Countess!”
“A thousand thanks, illustrious prince. You have already shown me so
much kindness, that I venture to ask you to make a communication to my
brother, the Grand Duke, which I dare not make myself. I want you to
inform him that I have been for three months privately married to Count
Reinsberg.”
“Good heavens!” cried Maximilian, falling into the arm-chair in which
Pippinstir had recently reclined. On recovering from the shock, the
prince rose again to his feet.
“’Tis well, madam,” he said, in a faint voice. “’Tis well!”
And he left the summerhouse.
After reading Baron Pippinstir’s letter, Prince Maximilian fell
a-thinking. It was not the Grand Duke’s fault if the Countess of
Rosenthal did not ascend the throne of Hanau. There was an
insurmountable obstacle. Then the precipitate departure of the
ambassador of Saxe-Tolpelhausen was an affront which demanded instant
vengeance. And the Grand Duke Leopold was a most estimable sovereign,
skilful, energetic, and blessed with wise councillors; the Princess
Wilhelmina liked him, and thought nothing could compare, for
pleasantness, with his lively court, where all the men were amiable, and
all the women charming. These various motives duly weighed, the Prince
made up his mind, and next day was signed the marriage-contract of the
Grand Duke of Niesenstein and the Princess Wilhelmina of Hanau.
Three days later the marriage itself was celebrated.
The play was played out.
The actors had performed their parts with wit, intelligence, and a noble
disinterestedness. They took their leave of the Grand Duke, leaving him
with a rich and pretty wife, a powerful brother-in-law, a serviceable
alliance, and a commercial treaty which could not fail to replenish his
treasury.
Embassies, special missions, banishment, were alleged to the Grand
Duchess as the causes of their departure. Then an amnesty was published
on the occasion of the marriage; the gates of the fortress of
Zwingenberg opened, and the former courtiers resumed their respective
posts.
The reviving fortunes of the Grand Duke were a sure guarantee of their
fidelity.
LADY LEE’S WIDOWHOOD.
PART IX.—CHAP. XLIII.
A short time after the loss of poor Julius, Bagot had gone to town
without seeing Lady Lee in the interval. The night of his arrival he
wrote a note to Seager, desiring that gentleman to come to him in the
morning.
Seager came about ten o’clock to the lodgings occupied by Bagot,
expecting to find him up and dressed. As he was not in the sitting-room,
Seager proceeded up-stairs to his bedroom. He was met at the head of the
stairs by Wilson, the Colonel’s servant, who told him he feared his
master was ill. “He had been talking queer,” Wilson said,—“very queer.”
Seager entered the bedroom. The Colonel was in bed, and did not look
ill, but his friend observed that he cast a peculiar hurried anxious
glance at the door as he entered. He went up to him, shook hands,
congratulated him on the late event, and then seated himself on the side
of the bed.
“What makes you so late in bed?” asked Seager; “keeping it up late last
night, eh?”
“No,” said Bagot, “no. I want to get up—but how can I, you know, with
these people in the room?” (casting a quick nervous glance towards a
corner of the apartment.)
“Very odd,” thought Seager, following the direction of the Colonel’s
eyes, and seeing no one. “He hasn’t lost his wits, I hope. A little
feverish, perhaps. I’m afraid you’re out of sorts, Lee,” he said. “You
don’t look well.”
“Quite well,” said Bagot; “never better. I’ll get up in a minute, my
good fellow, as soon as they’re gone. Couldn’t you”—(in an under
tone),—“couldn’t you get ’em to go?”
“Who?” inquired Seager, again following the glance the Colonel cast
towards the same part of the room.
“Who!” cried Bagot; “why, that tea-party there. They’ve been drinking
tea the whole morning—two women and a man.”
“By Jove, he’s mad,” thought Seager to himself—“mad as a March hare.”
“I’ve asked ’em as civilly as I could to go away,” said Bagot, “but they
don’t mind that. It’s very curious, too, where they got the tea, for I
don’t take much of it. Fancy them coming to me for tea, eh?” said Bagot.
“Absurd, you know.”
“Why, ’tis rather a good joke,” said Seager, affecting to laugh, but in
great consternation. Since reading the accident to the poor little
Baronet in the papers, he had counted on Bagot as the source from whence
all the funds required for the conduct of the coming trial (without
mentioning other more immediate wants) were to be supplied. And here was
the Colonel evidently out of his mind—unfit, perhaps, to transact even
so simple a business as drawing money.
“Have you got much money in the house, Lee?” asked Seager presently.
“Money,” said Bagot, who seemed to answer some questions rationally
enough; “no, I don’t think I have; I’m going to draw some as soon as
I’ve seen my lawyer.”
“Just so,” said Seager, “and the sooner the better. Where’s your
check-book? Just sign your name, and I’ll fill it up. We must have some
funds to carry on the war. The trial comes on the beginning of next
month, and there’s a great deal to be done beforehand.”
“Ah, that cursed trial!” said the Colonel, grinding his teeth; “but I’ve
been thinking it over, Seager, and it’s my belief that, if we bribe the
Crown lawyers high enough, we may get ’em to lay the indictment for
_manslaughter_.”
“Manslaughter!” repeated Seager to himself, as he took the check-book
from Bagot’s writing-desk. “Oh, by Jove, he’s stark staring! Now, old
fellow,” he continued, coming to the bedside with the inkstand and
check-book, “here you are. Just take the pen and write your name here.
I’ll fill it up afterwards.”
Bagot took the pen, and tried to write his name as Seager directed; but
his hand shook so that he could not, and after an attempt or two, he
threw the pen from him.
“Come, try once more, and I’ll guide your hand,” said Seager. But Bagot
refused so testily that he did not press him.
“Do you know,” said Seager presently, puzzled at Bagot’s extraordinary
demeanour, “I don’t think you’re half awake yet, Lee. You’ve been
dreaming, haven’t you?”
“Not a bit,” said Bagot; “I didn’t sleep a wink all night.”
“I wonder if that’s true?” thought Seager. “You don’t see the tea-party
now, do you?”
Bagot, as if suddenly recollecting them, looked quickly towards the
corner where he had fancied them seated. “No,” said he, with a kind of
doubtful pleasure; “they’re gone—gone, by Jove!” Then, raising himself
on his elbow, he cast a searching glance all round the room, and at last
behind his bed, when he started, and, falling back aghast on his pillow,
muttered, “There they are behind the curtains, drinking tea as hard as
ever, _and they’ve got a little boy with ’em now_.”
“Ah,” said Seager, humouring him, “what’s the boy like?”
“I could only see his back,” answered Bagot, in a whisper, “but I
wouldn’t look again for the world,” (shuddering, and turning his face
away.)
Seager now went to the door, and, calling Wilson, desired him to fetch a
physician who lived in the street, to see his master.
The physician, a brisk man, of few years, considering his eminence, and
who piqued himself on suiting his tone to that of his patients and their
friends, soon arrived. He came in jauntily, asked Bagot how he was,
heard all about the intrusive tea-party, felt his pulse, looked at him
attentively, and then took Seager aside.
“The Colonel, now, isn’t the most abstemious man in the world, is he?”
he inquired, with a jocular air.
“No, by Gad,” said Mr Seager; “he’s a pretty hard liver.”
“Drinks pretty freely, eh? Wine?—brandy?”
“More than I should like to,” replied Seager. “I’ve often told him he’d
have to pull up some day.”
“Ah, yes, he’ll have to”—said the other nodding. “He’s got delirium
tremens.”
“Has he, by Jove!” exclaimed Seager—adding, with an oath, “what a fool I
was, that it never occurred to me, knowing him as I do.”
“The attack’s just beginning now, and promises to be violent,” said the
doctor.
“What—you think ’twill go hard with him, eh?”
The physician said, “Perhaps it might; ’twas impossible to say;
however,” he added, “you won’t be long in suspense—a few days will
settle the matter.”
“Come, that’s a comfort,” said Seager, remembering how important it was
that Bagot should be able to exert himself before the trial. “Poor
devil,” he added, “what a pity—just come into a fine property!”
“Well, well, we’ll try to keep him in possession,” said the doctor.
“I’ll leave a prescription, and look in again shortly.”
“By the by,” said Seager, detaining him, “people who’ve got this
complaint sometimes talk confounded stuff, don’t they?” The doctor said
they did.
“And let out secrets about their own affairs, and other people’s?”
“Possibly they might,” the doctor said—“their delusions were various,
and often mixed strangely with truth. I’ve heard patients,” he added,
“in this state talk about private matters, and therefore it may be as
well to let no strangers come about him, if you can avoid it.”
Seager thought the advice good, and assured the doctor that he would
look after him himself. Accordingly, he sent to his own lodgings for a
supply of necessaries, and established himself as Bagot’s attendant.
In this capacity Mr Seager’s energy and vigilant habits enabled him to
act with great effect; in fact, if he had been the poor Colonel’s
warmly-attached brother, he could not have taken better care of him. He
administered his medicine, which there was no difficulty in getting him
to take, as it consisted principally of large doses of brandy: he held
him down, with Wilson’s assistance, in his violent fits, and humoured
the strange hallucinations which now began to crowd upon him thick and
fast.
Some of these Mr Seager found rather diverting, especially an attendant
imp which Bagot conceived was perpetually hovering about the bed, and in
whose motions he took vast interest.
“Take care,” said Bagot, starting up in bed on one occasion as Seager
approached him; “mind, mind! you’ll tread on him.”
“Tread on what?” said Seager, looking down, deceived by the earnestness
of the appeal.
“Why the little devil—poor little fellow, don’t hurt him. You’ve no idea
how lively he is. I wouldn’t have him injured,” added Bagot tenderly,
“on any account.”
“Certainly not,” said Seager; “not while he behaves himself. What’s he
like, eh?”
“He’s about the size,” returned Bagot, “of a printer’s devil, or perhaps
a little smaller; and, considering his inches, he’s uncommonly active.
He was half-way up the bedpost this morning at one spring.”
All this nonsense, delivered with perfect earnestness and gravity,
contrasted so oddly with the Colonel’s red nose and bristly unshaven
face, that it greatly amused Mr Seager, and helped him to pass the time.
By and by, however, both the tea-party and the imp disappeared, and
their place was taken by spectres of more formidable stamp. In
particular, there was a demon disguised as a bailiff in top-boots, who
was come, as Bagot firmly believed, to take his soul in execution, he
having unfortunately lost it at chicken hazard to the enemy of mankind,
which latter personage he paid Mr Seager the compliment of taking him
for.
It was now that Seager began to appreciate the soundness of the doctor’s
advice with respect to excluding strangers from the hearing of Bagot’s
delusions. He began to talk, sometimes pertinently, sometimes wildly, of
the approaching trial, generally ending in absurd ravings; sometimes
charging Seager with dreadful crimes, sometimes imagining himself the
culprit. On the third day of his attack, Seager remarked that a showman
figured largely in his discourse, and, finding the patient in a
tractable mood, he questioned him as to who this showman might be.
“I know,” said the Colonel, still taking Mr Seager for the distinguished
personage aforesaid—“I know it’s of no use to try to keep anything a
secret from _you_. But suppose now I tell you all about Holmes, will you
let me off what—what I lost, you know?”
“What was that?” asked Seager, forgetting the imaginary forfeit.
“Why the—the soul,” said Bagot. “It’s of no use to you, you know.”
“Oh, ah, I’d forgotten that,” said Seager. “Pray, don’t mention it;
’tisn’t of the least consequence. Yes, we’ll cry quits about that.”
Then, to his hearer’s surprise, Bagot, apparently satisfied with the
conditions, related all the particulars of his nocturnal interview with
Mr Holmes, comprising what had passed between them inside the caravan.
Seager listened in breathless astonishment. The delusion, if delusion
there was in this instance, was the most plausible and coherent of any
that had yet haunted Bagot. It had touched, too, on some previous
suspicions in Seager’s own mind, and he resolved, if Bagot recovered, to
sound him on the subject.
Meantime he tried to lead him to talk more freely on the subject. But
Bagot now began to wander, talked all kinds of nonsense, and ended, as
usual, in violent ravings.
All this time the demon in top-boots and his brethren were in constant
attendance. Never for a moment was Bagot free from the horror of their
presence; and if all the frightful spectres of romance and superstition
had been actually crowded round his bed, the poor Colonel could not have
suffered more than from the horrible phantasms that his imagination
summoned to attend him.
It was beginning to be doubtful if he could hold out much longer under
the disease; but on the third night he fell asleep, and woke the next
morning in his right mind.
“Ah, he’s pulled through this time,” said the doctor, when he saw him.
“All right, now; but he mustn’t resume his hard drinking, or he’ll have
another attack.”
“I’ll look after him myself,” said Mr Seager. “I’ll lock up the brandy
bottle, and put him on short allowance.”
“Well, he ought to be very grateful to you, I’m sure,” said the doctor,
“for all your attention. Really, I never saw greater kindness, even
among near relations.” And the doctor having been paid, departed,
perfectly convinced that Mr Seager was one of the best fellows that ever
breathed, and the sort of person to make any sacrifice to serve his
friends.
“Now I’ll tell you what it is, Lee,” said Seager, when Bagot was on his
legs again, and manifested a desire for his customary drams. “You
mustn’t go on in your old way yet awhile. If you do, you’ll go to the
devil in no time.”
“Never you mind, sir,” said Bagot with dignity. “I presume I’m the best
judge of what’s good for me.”
“You never made a greater mistake,” returned Mr Seager. “Just go and
look in the glass, and see what your judgment of what’s good for you has
brought you to, you unfortunate old beggar. You look like a cocktail
screw after the third heat, all puffing and trembling. I’ll lay you a
five-pound note you don’t look me straight in the face for a minute
together. Here’s a sovereign, now—well, I’ll put it between your lips,
and if you can hold it there for fifty seconds, you shall have it, and
if not, you shall give me one. What d’ye say to that?”
“Sir,” said Bagot, with his lips trembling, and his eyes rolling more
than ever at these delicate allusions to his infirmities—“sir, you are
disagreeably personal.”
“Personal!” sneered Mr Seager. “I wish you could hear the confounded
rubbish you talked while in bed. I only wished I’d had a short-hand
writer to take it down—all about the bailiffs, and devils, and so forth.
And the showman, too—one Holmes. He struck me as a real character; and
if all you said was true, you must have had some queer dealings
together.”
As he spoke he fixed his green eye on Bagot, who started, cast one
nervous glance at him, and then, in great agitation, rose and walked to
the window, where Seager saw him wipe his forehead with his
handkerchief.
Presently he looked stealthily over his shoulder, and, perceiving that
Seager still eyed him, he affected to laugh. “Cursed nonsense I must
have talked, I daresay,” said he huskily. “Oh, cursed, you know, ha,
ha.”
“But that about the showman Holmes didn’t sound so absurd as the rest,”
said Seager. “It struck me as more like some real circumstances you were
recollecting. Come, suppose you tell me all about it sensibly, now.”
“No more of this, sir,” said Bagot, waving the handkerchief he had been
wiping his forehead with. “The subject is unpleasant. No man, I presume,
likes to be reminded that he has been talking like a fool. We won’t
resume the subject now, or at any other time, if you please.”
“Ah,” said Seager to himself, on observing Bagot’s agitation, “I was
right—there was some truth in that. I must consider how to turn it to
account.”