In the sequel this agreement was by no means regularly observed, and its

frequent infractions by Turkey led to continual remonstrances from

Russia. The former power had long completely lost sight of the

obligations imposed upon her by her treaties with the Principalities,

and no stronger proof of this can be adduced than her cession to Russia,

by the treaty of Bucharest, in 1812, of nearly half Moldavia, from the

Dniester to the Pruth, now forming the Russian province of Bessarabia, a

portion of which has been restored by the recent treaty of Paris.

According to the capitulations, which to this very day are legally in

force, the Porte had no more right to dispose of that territory than it

had to grant the temporary sovereignty of the provinces to the greedy

and venal Greeks of the Fanar. But the stipulated immunities and

autonomy of the Moldo-Wallachians had long been disregarded and trodden

under foot; they could do nothing against the power of Turkey; and

Russia, whilst seeming to sympathise with them, joyfully beheld, in the

oppressive and illegal conduct of their suzerain, a means of herself

acquiring influence amongst them, and perhaps of eventually bringing

them under her own rule. To do this she reckoned upon the services and

assistance of her party amongst the boyards, the majority of whom,

although claiming to be old nobility, are of mushroom origin and Greek

descent. For the last 150 years the services of the boyards are to be

sought, not in the patriotic annals of their country, but in the

archives of the Fanar or of St Petersburg. It was from those amongst

them devoted to Russia, and including Bibesco and Stirbey, upstart names

now held in abhorrence in Wallachia, that were selected the members of

the commission appointed, at the close of the war that commenced in

1828, to draw up, under the superintendence of Kisseleff, the Organic

Regulations or new Constitution of the Principalities. This constitution

professed to vindicate and insure the rights of the peasantry; but,

although plausible enough in the letter, the manner in which it

practically worked may be inferred from the new and extensive emigration

that quickly followed its promulgation, and from the wholesale departure

of rich Bulgarian colonies, which, encouraged by the just rule of

Gregory Ghika, had settled in Wallachia previously to 1828.

From the date of the treaty of Adrianople until the commencement of the

late war, Russia was all-powerful in the Principalities, and that

period, of nearly a quarter of a century, is marked by repeated acts of

base submission on the part of Turkey, humiliating to herself, and

treacherous to the provinces to which she had promised protection and

the maintenance of their rights. In 1839 a firman granted to Russia the

right of controlling the acts of the Rouman National Assembly. In the

same year Alexander Ghika was dismissed from the hospodariat, because he

was displeasing to Russia. In 1844, the Wallachian Assembly was

suspended for having rejected a project of law by which the monopoly of

working the mines of the province would have been secured to a Russian

company. Finally, in 1849, the Porte subscribed the Sened of Balta

Liman, by which she upset all the institutions of the Principalities,

and made a Russian commissioner their legislator and administrator.

For a period extending far beyond the memory of the oldest man amongst

them, the Moldavians and Wallachians have thus been the sport of rival

and intriguing powers. They have been deceived and oppressed by the

Porte, and sold again and again to the best bidder; they have been the

prey of the vilest Greek adventurers, who have done their best to

introduce amongst them their own principles of falsehood and corruption;

they have been taxed and squeezed by successive foreign rulers, who saw

in their brief period of power only a favourable opportunity of filling

their pockets; they have been harassed and impoverished by foreign

military occupations, which ceased only to be renewed. Russia, whilst

affecting, with crocodile tears, to commiserate and deplore their

unhappy condition, has secretly fomented their vexations, griefs, and

miseries, in hopes of their ultimately throwing themselves into her

arms. The triumph of the Allies has at last delivered them, at least for

the time, from these conflicting and noxious influences, and given them

hopes that Europe will do something to secure their future welfare.

Something ought to be, and it is to be hoped will be, done for them; but

important considerations may render it impossible to grant them all that

they, carried away, after long suffering, by the prospect of a brighter

future, desire and demand. There should be secured to them the

opportunity and means of moral and material improvement, and as much

liberty and self-government as they are fitted to enjoy and able to make

good use of. Their sudden elevation, after they have so long been sunk

in degradation and almost in slavery, into a constitutional kingdom on

the model of Belgium or Piedmont, whilst the most sagacious amongst them

possess as yet scarcely the rudiments of political education, would be

at best, and setting apart considerations of European policy that oppose

themselves to it and demand due weight, a hazardous experiment, and one

which for their own sakes it may be thought hardly advisable to try,

since it is of a class that has hitherto been found more fertile in

failures than in successes. It is one which the majority of the powers

who are to decide upon the question are not likely to risk. Russia is

understood to be favourable to the project, but that alone is a

sufficient reason for regarding it with mistrust. She doubtless reckons

on the powerful influences and successful intrigues she might bring to

bear on a young kingdom adjoining her own frontier. France has somewhat

ostentatiously put herself forward as an advocate of the Union under a

foreign prince; but it is now more than suspected that Russian arguments

have had undue weight with certain prominent members of the French

government and advisers of the French Emperor. England, Austria, and

Turkey, and also Sardinia, will oppose the dangerous scheme, and with

good reason; for although the Moldo-Wallachians, who have an abundantly

high opinion of their own capacities and merits, imagine that, were

their wishes complied with, they should within a very short time offer

to Europe the edifying example of an Oriental Belgium, it is feared by

those who know them best that there would be at least as great a chance

of their scandalising it by the deplorable spectacle of a second Greece.

LETTERS FROM A LIGHTHOUSE.—NO. I.

My dear Ebony,—If you still retain in your composition one drop of the

milk of human kindness, the reappearance of an old contributor, whom

doubtless you long ago considered as irretrievably lost or strayed, must

impart to you a thrill of pleasure. At all events, it ought to do so:

for, though I say it, there seems to have been a sad falling-off in

power and stamina since I withdrew from the literary ring. Nine years

ago, when I regularly stained paper in your service, the world was brisk

and bustling. All of us had drunk more or less deeply of the Circean cup

of speculation; and though the hour of retribution, or rather of paying

up calls, was nigh at hand, we had not yet been summoned to partake of

the soda-water of repentance. The political game was fast and exciting.

There was a clear, distinct, and obvious contest of principles; and it

was a real gratification to see how valiantly men on either side would

stand forth and fisticuff their opponents. The forehead of the

Manchester Goliath was a first-rate mark for the sling of the

Conservative David; and many a time have I groaned with pleasure over

the prostrate carcass of a Quaker Philistine. All things seemed

flourishing, when a heavy shadow passed over me and my fortunes. Don’t

be alarmed. I have no intention of troubling you with details which I

did not think it necessary at the time to divulge to a Court of

Bankruptcy. I have no creditors now. The misfortunate creatures who

arrogated to themselves that absurd and empty title, have long since

bolted also. In fact, if I had not been an ass, I might easily have got

rid of the whole of them by adopting the simple expedient of tarrying

incognito for the space of a twelvemonth at Dalnacardoch, where a friend

of mine, a duiniewassail of the house of M‘Tavish, who was largely

engaged in the process of illicit distillation, would willingly have

afforded me shelter. However, I committed the grievous mistake of

outrunning, not the constable, but my creditors. I shall never forget

the kind manner in which you acceded to my request for an advance of an

hundred pounds, on the strength of future articles. Your liberality was

not thrown away, for the money you gave me materially facilitated my

departure, and enabled me to take my leave with that calmness, decorum,

and equanimity which become a gentleman. I mention this for the purpose

of showing you that I am not oblivious of such favours, though I should

be the last man in the world to insult you by hinting at repayment after

the lapse of so much time. Indeed you will not expect to receive any

such paltry proposal, as the debt must be long ago prescribed. But what

is friendship, if not based upon gratitude and confidence? Therefore

understand, that, if you print this letter or any other lucubration of

mine, I shall consider myself your creditor (at a short date) on the

same terms as before; unless, indeed, you have raised the literary

tariff since the period of our former connection, in which case I shall

gladly avail myself of any reasonable increment.

Business first—pleasure afterwards. That was always my motto; and I

already feel that I can write more easily, and express myself more

felicitously, now that I have discharged this debt upon my conscience. I

have been, it is true, a little out of practice; for amongst the various

kinds of thirst which affected the Californian diggers and the Norfolk

Island whalers, with whom respectively I sojourned for considerable

periods, I did not observe that for literature exorbitantly developed.

Neither were the Bashi-Bazouks, in which honourable corps of irregulars

I held an honourable commission, and whom I might, could, would, or

should have led on to glory, had they not preferred devoting their

energies to the expiscation of hen-roosts, the discovery of secret

cellars, and such-like baubles—neither, I say, were the Bashi-Bazouks a

hard-reading set. Indeed they rather appeared to incline to the tenets

of that capital old cock, Caliph Omar, whom it is the fashion to abuse

because he burned the Alexandrian library. I am sure that if he were

alive again, and could contrive to make a bonfire of every book that has

been printed since Gutenberg drew his first proof-sheet, he would be

regarded as a blessed benefactor by every man who now earns his

livelihood by handling the pen. Positively my mouth waters at the bare

idea of such a thing! Living authors would then have the whole monopoly,

and might fix their own prices; and we should have none of those

rascally reprints of the works of the defunct, which interfere so

materially with our sales. But indulgence in such extravagant dreams is

useless, and even criminal. I simply mean to observe that, while among

my friends the Bashis, I had not much opportunity of giving my nights

and days to the study of Addison, or Alison, or Tennyson, or Emerson, or

any other son of woman born; so that, perhaps, my style may, for some

little time, appear deficient in grace and polish. But since I came here

(I shall presently tell you what I mean by _here_, and how I obtained

the exceedingly desirable situation which I now enjoy), I have had

plenty leisure for reading, and have gradually unstacked a pile of

reviews, big enough, and I must add heavy enough, to sink a respectable

steam-tug. I have read, sir, very nearly through the whole periodical

literature of Great Britain published during the last eight years; and I

have arrived at the deliberate conclusion that the said floating

literature has been gradually becoming water-logged, and is in great

danger of disappearing, like the mysterious islet on Lochlomond.

Time was when the Quarterlies supplied a stock of reading, which, if not

very pungent, was at least easy of digestion, suited to the

comprehension of the numerous class of consumers who do not affect

unusual profundity, and occasionally relieved by a touch of something

which it was possible to mistake for humour. But all that has

disappeared. The new brood of contributors are much too learned for

their audience, and you might as well look for liveliness at an

undertaker’s wedding, as within the pages of a Quarterly Review. I read

a number of one of them—I won’t specify which—no later than last night,

under the reflector; and, do you know, it positively gave me a fit of

colic. Six or eight fellows, each more heavy-sterned than the other,

trudged by in succession, bearing burdens of bosh upon their shoulders;

just as I have seen, on a tearing wet day, some of my Bashi-Bazouks

straggle in from a plundering expedition, one bending beneath a load of

dripping mats not worth an asper, another sweating under the abandoned

pack-saddle of a camel, and a third carrying a dead goat in an advanced

stage of putrefaction. I protest to you, Ebony, that I have a very great

regard in the abstract for the ancients, and am willing to take (or

affect) as much interest in their quondam doings as can possibly be

expected from a gentleman whose fortune it was to be born some two

thousand years or so after their time; but is it reasonable to expect me

to wade through some thirty or forty mortal pages devoted to the subject

of the Peloponnesian war? I like the Orientals, who, after all, have

some sound notions on the subjects of coffee and tobacco; but why should

I be solicited to bother my brains with criticisms upon the Coptic

grammar? My chief objection to Egypt is its fleas; but, at a pinch—or

rather in spite of innumerable pinches—I might bring myself to submit

even to that nuisance, and enjoy in comparative tranquillity the really

salubrious air of the heritage of the Pharaohs, provided I were not

perpetually pestered by jabbering about hieroglyphs, and monoliths, and

Orus, and Osiris, and the beetles, and the Ibis, and the leeks, and the

crocodiles, and Necho, and Psammis, and Rhamses (who was no relation of

the Dalhousies), and other myths, reptiles, vegetables, and divinities,

who at one time molested the Delta. I had the pleasure, a couple of

years ago, of kicking, after various warnings, a British antiquarian out

of a coffee-house in Cairo; and he ought to feel very grateful to me for

having done so, as otherwise he would have been poniarded to a certainty

at a later period of the evening. Well, sir; last night, in the course

of my reading, I recognised my old friend, in the pages of the review,

by marks which I hold to be infallible: for you must know that, before

my patience gave way altogether, I had imparted to him divers startling

details touching discoveries in Upper Egypt, which occurred to me (I was

drinking rum and water at the time, and the lymph of the Nile from a

porous jar is, I assure you, when properly qualified, very seductive

tipple) as extremely probable to be made in localities whereof I had not

the slightest knowledge; and—will you believe it?—the caitiff has

actually embodied in his article the results of my sublime and

extemporaneous researches! If it ever should be my lot to fall in with

him near Nineveh, he may expect a sterner measure of justice and

retribution. Next comes an ecclesiastical monomaniac, maundering—O

me—about the Council of Chalcedon! I thought we really had done with

councils. Most of us of the Protestant way of thinking, are well pleased

to be rid, once and for ever, of a controversy which was understood to

have been settled at the Reformation; and we are entitled to object to

its revival. So about Italian history. We don’t want to hear about Duke

Sforza this, or Count Paolo that;—the record of their crimes, intrigues,

murders, rapes, and adulteries ought to have no manner of interest, and

really has none, except to a few antiquarians with diseased

appetites;—and if deeds of this kind are worthy of promulgation at this

time of day, I am serious in thinking that we do injustice to such

native heroes as Turpin and Abershaw, by giving the foreigners a decided

quarterly preference. Next I observe that an awful deal of drivel is

current about Niebuhr and the Romans. I know something about Niebuhr;

and I always esteemed him a prig. He was a regular old, pottering,

professional German humbug—one of your why-and-wherefore men, who looked

regularly twice at each side of his _kalbs-braten_, and would not have

taken upon trust an ordinary report of a police trial from the columns

of the _Times_. He was as little susceptible of poetical feeling or

inspiration as an ink-fish or a polypus; and thought—for the conceit of

the animal was unbounded—that he knew far more about Roman history than

either Livy or Ovid. It humbly appears to me that, in dealing with the

history of such remote times, the man who, without absolute information

enabling him to substitute truth for falsehood, flies in the face of

tradition, is a blockhead. Tradition is much older than he is, and

infinitely more respectable; and if he cannot disprove it by evidence,

he is bound to let it stand. What is the use of all this captious

infidelity? What does Niebuhr give us in exchange for the story of

Romulus and Remus, or any of the glowing early legends of Rome, which,

despite of the ultra-grammarian tendencies of too many pedagogues, have,

for centuries, roused the curiosity and emulation of our youth, except

the vision of a duffle-clad professor, with a pipe in his mouth,

attempting, in uncleanly fashion, to blow away the settled belief of

ages! And all this passes current under the title of profound criticism!

Then what with philology, archæology, ontology, epistemology, and

æsthetics, a plain fellow like myself feels as though he had lodged

surreptitiously in Bedlam. Lads, in their second year at college, patter

away in a jargon more perplexing than that of the swell-mob or the

gypsies, and discuss the science of mind instead of occupying themselves

with the gustative enjoyment of tarts. One very marked feature of the

age is the growth and excessive multiplication of what are facetiously

called philosophical institutes. I conjecture, from the multitude of

advertisements and circulars which have reached me, that there is now

hardly a village throughout the country without its lecture-room, for

the purpose of affording an easy vent to the available talent and ready

impudence of the district. Lairds, dominies, dissenting ministers,

enthusiastic excisemen, and philanthropic collectors of the revenue,

seem to avail themselves with the utmost eagerness of these

opportunities of displaying the vast treasures of thought and

information stored up in their respectable brains; and they rant,

declaim, speculate, or mumble over every imaginable subject—politics,

poetry, religion, or railways, causality, cookery, or consciousness.

Noble lords and members of the House of Commons, of all shades of

opinion, have been pressed into the service. One day Lord John Russell

drones upon the subject of history; on the next, Sir Robert Peel is

heard spouting the poetry of Mrs Hemans. And on all sides, from every

corner, nook, and cranny, rises a dreary hum about education, which

possibly might be considered as a hopeful symptom, provided any two

people could be found to agree as to the exact meaning of the term.

Far be it from me to object to this general expansion of the public

mind. I fully concur in the observation made a few weeks ago by the

chairman of the Cowcaddens’ Mechanics Institute, that every man

possesses, upon some particular topic, a stock of information which he

is bound to communicate for the advantage of his fellow-creatures: and,

along with him, I expect the advent of the time when the number of the

British lecturers shall exceed that of their collective audiences. I

sometimes experience a feeling of regret that my present circumstances

and position preclude me from taking an active hand in the game, so long

as there is a chance of profit. I am quite certain that I could get up a

stunning course upon less than a fortnight’s warning; and by shifting my

ground dexterously from one institute to another, I have no doubt that I

should be able to pick up guineas as fast as a pigeon gathers peas. But,

after all, it is a great matter to bear a contented mind. I never envied

any one, being of opinion that there is always a skeleton in the closet;

and recent events have convinced me that this is the true philosophy.

Look at Paul the banker, Sadleir, Redpath, Cameron—what has been the

upshot of all their wealth and prosperity? Hang me if I would not rather

cut kelp at sixpence a-day than be a director of the Bank of England!

Then as to power—what is the good of that? Nobody in our time has had a

longer lease of it than Johnny Russell, and yet where is his reputation

now? Where be his followers, the men who used to cheer him so

vociferously—who were so lavish of their adulation, so perfectly slavish

to his will? Dancing at the back of Palmerston, like so many fantoccini,

and shrugging their shoulders with affected pity for the misfortunes of

their former leader! Where is Cobden now? No man in my day, barring

O’Connell, had a larger personal following than the redoubted

crumpler-up of Russia, but somehow his adherents have melted from him,

like snow at the breath of the thaw. Surely it would be better never to

rise from obscurity at all, than, after a splendid meridian, to shiver

in the eve of life under the cold shadows of contumely and neglect.

It is my belief that you men who dwell amidst the whirl and turmoil of

public affairs, who are constantly engaged either in attack or defence,

and whose brains are consequently kept spinning like a whirligig, are

quite unfitted to take a philosophic view of any immediate subject, or

to pronounce a candid opinion upon its merits. You are like the warriors

on the plain of Troy, thrusting, foining, and contending for the armour

of those who are down; and amidst the dust and stour of the battle, it

is physically impossible that you can see anything at the distance of

twenty yards. Very different is the position of us Olympians, who, from

our elevated perch, in clear weather, can survey complacently all that

is passing beneath, without allowing party feeling, or affection, or

prejudice, to distort our deliberate judgments.

“For we lie beside our nectar, and the bolts are hurl’d

Far below us in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl’d

Round our golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world.”

But I forget that you are no Œdipus, and necessarily must think me

crazy, unless I condescend to explanation.

Know, then, that after my return from the wars, without accepting a

Pashalik, which was the very least that those ungrateful infidels should

have offered me, I found myself nearly as much out at elbows as the

Copper Captain or the redoubted Bobadil. Arrearages there were none; and

I found myself wandering about the streets of London, with a magnificent

beard, a seedy greatcoat, galligaskins that had seen better days, and a

very few shillings in my pocket. I believe—at least I have been

told—that the British public was exceedingly excited and gratified by

the return of the soldiers from the Crimea, and that all sorts of

hospitalities were lavished upon the victors of Alma and Inkermann. Be

that as it may, I can conscientiously aver that I did not profit, to the

extent of a single beefsteak, by my military renown. True, I did not

belong to the regulars, or even to the German Legion. I never saw

Sebastopol, nor was I quartered at Heligoland. But that was no fault of

mine. Had I, with my brave Bashis, been moved forward to the van of

fight, I flatter myself that—but I will not pursue the subject further.

Suffice it to say, that I received no medals, and no allowances, and

that I was twice requested by the police to exhibit my ticket-of-leave.

Suspicion is a horrid thing, and apt to unsettle even the best-regulated

mind. I began to ponder within myself whether it were worth while to be

suspected without a cause; and had Mephistopheles displayed his usual

diabolic activity on the night of the display of fireworks, I really do

think that I might have been overpersuaded to try my hand at the

garotte. I was, however, such a very dilapidated Faustus, that the demon

passed me by as if I were not worth his notice; and with the return of

morning, virtue reassumed her sway. I then bethought me that in other

and more fortunate days I was known to certain individuals now holding

office under the beneficent administration of the Whigs; and, as it was

notorious that some very loose fish had recently been patronised by that

respectable faction, I thought it not impossible that they might cast a

few crumbs of comfort in the way of a meritorious veteran who was always

ready to serve his country for an extremely moderate consideration. So,

after making what toilet I could, I laid siege to the public offices,

being fully determined that my old besetting sin of modesty should not

this time, at all events, prove a bar to my advancement, and that no one

whom I was privileged to accost should hereafter be able to plead

ignorance as an excuse for having overlooked my claims. Nor was I at all

particular as to the kind of employment. Any of the newly-created

offices in the gift of the Secretary of the War Department would have

suited me like a kid-glove. Had my godfathers and godmothers been gifted

with sufficient prescience to bestow upon me the name of Dowb, I might

possibly have been taken care of; but, alas! I had no part or portion in

that sacred monosyllable. Flights of harpies had been before me; and

they had swept away even the most insignificant remnants of the banquet.

Go where I might, I met with nothing save incivility and official

insolence; until at last one friend, more true than the others,

purchased my evacuation of his lobby, in which I had permanently

encamped myself, by procuring for me a nomination as an assistant

light-keeper. Yes—you may well stare, and drop the paper as you read!

“Is it possible,” you will say—or you ought to say—“that our ancient and

illustrious contributor, a man of such varied learning and minute

accomplishment, &c. &c., should be so depressed by fortune as to immure

himself within the narrow precincts of a lonely Pharos?” Well—why not?

The work is easy and regular, provided you can keep awake; and the pay

and perquisites by no manner of means to be despised. Government is good

enough to find us in all manner of victual and appurtenances (save

liquor, which is somewhat churlishly prohibited); you have comfortable

lodgings, prime air, wholesome exercise in ascending the stair, and the

most magnificent of sea-views, either in calm or in storm. Add to this,

your absolute immunity, nowhere else to be enjoyed in the British

islands, from all visits of those disagreeable savages the

tax-gatherers; and it will require no exorbitant stretch of fancy to

imagine worse quarters. The society, no doubt, is limited, but then it

has the advantage of being select. Archy M‘Craw, my principal, is a

superannuated sergeant of a Highland regiment, who remembers Waterloo,

and has a settled belief in the authenticity of Ossian; and when he

produces his stores of anecdote about Picton and Fingal—heroes whose

deeds he is rather apt to confound—he is anything but stupid company.

His helpmate, Elspeth, is a nice tidy old body, somewhat addicted to

snuff and the perusal of _Boston’s Fourfold State_, but extremely

obliging; and her talents in the concoction of an Irish stew are by no

means despicable. Like all genuine Highlanders, M‘Craw has a proper

respect for birth and education; and as he knows that my circumstances

are now somewhat altered from what they have been, he is courteous in

his demeanour, and, instead of trying to impose upon me, as a newcomer,

additional labour, I observe that he is most anxious to lighten my

burden. So upon the whole we get on capitally, and I do not know that I

was ever more comfortable than now. I was always a consumer of the

midnight oil, which the Government now provides for me _gratis_; and I

have plenty of time for reading in the long watch beneath the glow of

the reflectors. As for the wind and rain—of which, it must be confessed,

there is rather a superabundance here—one becomes used to them after a

certain period of probation; indeed I rather like a storm, as the

roaring of the elements tends to stir poetical ideas, which otherwise

might be apt to stagnate. I wrote a most capital description of an

eruption of Vesuvius, a few nights ago, during one of the most violent

gales that ever swept this Sound. Then, during the daytime, after

polishing the mirrors and making up the log-book, I have plenty of

leisure for meditation. Our lighthouse is perched upon a cliff some

three hundred feet above the sea, and there is a long sloping hillside

behind, where our cattle and ponies graze, which leads down to the

beach. There is prime fishing all about; and the sea-fowl are so

prolific in the matter of eggs, that, at the proper season, it would not

be difficult, from our rocks alone, to furnish a daily ration of

omelette to every soldier in the British army. Then there is a reef on

which the seals at ebb-tide come up to bask, and, as I have not parted

with my rifle, I have had some pretty sport, and have even turned an

honest penny by the disposal of the peltry. On the whole, I should say,

after much experience of life in different phases, that there is no more

agreeable post for a man who unites in himself the combined characters

of philosopher, sportsman, and student, than that of a keeper of a

lighthouse; and I would not, with my present feelings, change places

with the venerated Palmerston. I warrant me I am much more comfortable

while reading the columns of the Magazine (by the way, do not forget to

send me the numbers in future—I have borrowed the last few from the

parish minister), by the mild effulgence of the _Stella maris_, than he

is while compelled, long after midnight, to listen to the dreary debates

in the House of Commons, cursing all the while the imbecility of his

supporters, who attempt to copy his jocular manner, without possessing a

tithe of his ability. If the noble viscount had been but ten years

younger, I would have strenuously recommended him to isolate himself for

a twelvemonth in a lighthouse. If he were to undergo such a

contemplative ordeal, I am ready to stake my life that on his emergence

he would make a clean sweep of such preposterous and exhaustive

satellites as the two Peels, Bernal Osborne, Sir Charles Wood, Vernon

Smith, and Mr Robert Lowe; and would have tried at least to reconstruct

his Administration on the principle of common sense, if he could not

command a more exalted kind of talent. But the Premier, with all his

dexterity, official experience, and sleight-of-hand, is, for the

present, like a theatrical manager at the head of a most sorry _corps

dramatique_, the members of whom he must shift as occasion requires; and

were his own performances not extremely adroit, he could hardly hope to

escape the envenomed hiss which is the sure signal of dissolution.

I will tell you why I make these observations. The last mail brought me

an account of a discourse, lately delivered by the present Sir Robert

Peel, at the opening of some kind of museum in the neighbourhood of

Birmingham, which you, as the conductor of an important organ of public

opinion, are bound to notice in terms of the severest reprobation.

However disposed men may be in this indulgent country of ours, to pass

over youthful follies, or to palliate more matured eccentricities, some

guarantee is required that those who are advanced to responsible

offices, and who are paid servants of the Crown, shall, in that

capacity, maintain ordinary decorum, and, whatever their private

impressions, impulses, or desires may be, conform to that decency which

is the duty of all officials. Sir Robert Peel was among the number of

those selected to represent the Court of St James’s at the recent

coronation of the Emperor of Russia: a ceremony of no ordinary mark and

significance, occurring as it did immediately after the termination of

the war. Of the wisdom of the selection made, I need say nothing, as I

believe upon that point there is no divided opinion in the public mind.

But whether the choice was good or bad, judicious or extremely

imprudent, the fact remains that Sir Robert Peel went to Russia, as a

member of the Legation sent by Her Majesty Queen Victoria, to give a

pledge and testimony of renewed amity between two of the mightiest

nations of Europe. From a man intrusted with so high a function, not

only is the utmost degree of circumspection required during the period

occupied by the discharge of his duties, but an entire suppression of

his private and personal opinions. Gentlemen connected with the press,

or adventurous tourists who went to Moscow in a private capacity, were

perfectly free on their return to lay before the public their

impressions and sentiments. Some of them have done so; but in so far as

I have had the opportunity of observing, in no instance has anything

been written which could by possibility give offence to Russia, or tend

to increase the irritation which will sometimes linger even after peace

has been restored. But Peel stood altogether in a different position. He

was not only a subordinate member of the Ministry, but a special

delegate; and therefore he was doubly bound to use caution, and to

abstain from unguarded speech. Yet no sooner does this favoured

statesman return to his own country, than we find him, on an occasion

quite unsuited for the introduction of such a topic, commenting upon his

Russian experiences in terms which would have disgraced the meanest

mountebank that ever spouted on a platform. Everything in Russia,

according to Sir Robert Peel, is deception and imposture. The Empress,

by a fine stroke of humour, was represented by him as appearing at the

coronation “with her hair dishevelled, looking like Norma in the opera.”

Not in coarser, but not in better taste is his reference to the Archduke

Constantine. “The Marble Palace is the residence of that ‘frank and

open-hearted sailor,’ Constantine. How I laughed when I read that

description of Constantine’s character! With all respect to his

highness, I must say that I never saw a man who gave me less of the

impression of a ‘frank and open-hearted sailor.’ It is all soft sawder,

you know.” Now, setting aside the ineffable vulgarity of the man’s

discourse, I would just ask what kind of sensation would be created in

England, if a representative from the United States, sent to attend the

coronation of Queen Victoria, had, on his return home, used such

offensive language? Why, the whole British press, from Land’s End to

John o’ Groat’s, would have been vociferous in denunciation of the

outrage, as a breach not only of public duty, but of private manners;

and Judge Lynch would have been recommended to take immediate steps for

the punishment of the insolent offender. I have no great faith in the

plenitude of American courtesy; but I do verily believe that it would be

impossible to find, within the compass of Yankee-land, a single man of

ordinary education and breeding, who, after having been accredited as

was this individual, Peel, would so have spoken of the royal family of

Great Britain. The effect of such a speech as this, upon foreigners,

must be twofold. In the first place, they cannot but consider it,

proceeding from the mouth of a member of the Administration, as a

pregnant sign that a bad and rancorous feeling towards Russia still

exists among the British people. In the second place, they will take it

as a proof of the assertion which ere now has been made, that the

British aristocracy are no longer pre-eminently distinguished for

politeness, courtesy, and high-toned chivalry; for we cannot expect

foreigners to be intimately acquainted with the antecedents of the house

of Peel.

“I look upon it,” says Machiavelli, “as one of the greatest points of

discretion in a man, to forbear injury and threatening, especially in

words. Neither of them weakens the enemy; but threatening makes him more

cautious, and injury the more inveterate and industrious to revenge it.

Nothing provokes and incenses a man so highly as to have his

imperfections reaped up: whether in earnest or in jest, ’tis the same

thing. _Nam facetiæ asperæ, quando nimium ex vero traxere, acrem sui

memoriam relinquunt._ For biting raillery, especially with a tincture of

truth, leaves an ill impression on the memory.” I do not, of course,

suppose that Peel has any acquaintance with the writings of the famous

Florentine; but he may, possibly, have looked into the works of Lord

Bacon; and if so, it is a pity that he has forgotten the following

passage: “As for jest, there be certain things which ought to be

privileged from it; namely, religion, matters of state, great persons,

any man’s present business of importance, and any case which deserveth

pity. Yet there be some that think their wits have been asleep except

they dart out somewhat that is piquant and to the quick. That is a vein

which would be bridled;

Parce puer stimulis, et fortius utere loris.

And, generally, men ought to find the difference between saltness and

bitterness. Certainly, he that hath a satirical vein, as he maketh

others afraid of his wit, so he had need be afraid of others’ memory.”

The conclusion of which last sentence Sir Robert Peel has peculiar

reason to study.

But this is not all. It was not enough for the Palmerstonian protegé to

insult Russia—he must also have a fling at the representatives of our

nearer allies. The following is his account of Count de Morny, the

representative of France. “We were presented at the coronation by Count

de Morny, the French ambassador, a spick-and-span man of considerable

_aplomb_, and who, by the way, is one of the greatest speculators in the

world. He speculates in everything, and bought a lot of pictures to sell

again and make a profit of.” The intense indecency of this is only

equalled by its vulgarity. No man with the real feelings of a gentleman

would so have spoken publicly of another, for whose good offices he was,

moreover, indebted. “Spick-and-span man!” Why, the veriest bagman that

ever perambulated the Midland Counties would blush if convicted of

having used such language. I should like to know what Sir Robert Peel

would have thought if Count de Morny, at some public meeting in France,

had regaled his audience by personal allusions of a similar kind, for

which there is no lack whatever of current material. Presently comes the

turn of the ambassador sent by the uncle of Queen Victoria. “Then came

the ambassador of the smallest kingdom in Europe—Belgium—the Prince de

Ligne, the very picture of swelling insignificance; so swelling, indeed,

that he could not, for the life of him, look down from the contemplation

of his own importance.” Apart from the shameless personality of this

sketch, which at once betrays the _parvenu_, the man has contrived in

this sentence to exhibit a degree of ignorance sufficient to entitle him

to a pluck if he offered himself for examination as a candidate for a

portership in a public office. Belgium is so far from being the smallest

kingdom in Europe, that, in point of population and revenue, which have

always been considered the proper tests of the greatness of a state, it

is superior to Portugal, Denmark, Bavaria, Hanover, Saxony, Würtemburg,

and Greece. It has a larger population than Holland; a larger revenue

than Naples, Sweden, or Sardinia; and a larger territorial extent than

three of the kingdoms which I have mentioned. It is to be hoped that

this instance of stupid and gross blunder on the part of a man who was

shoved by paternal interest into important and diplomatic situations,

will convince Sir Charles Trevelyan of the necessity of extending his

system of examination beyond the rank of mere subordinates. However much

Peel may in other respects resemble the renowned Katterfelto, who was

the most famous jack-pudding of his day, he certainly has not acquired

the secret of consummate dexterity and manipulation. It is highly

improbable that the repute of the Prince de Ligne will suffer from the

scratches of so coarse and clumsy a caricaturist. To this succeeds a

touch of Tartuffe. “Then the representative of Naples, of whom, IN

CHARITY, I will say nothing.” It is to be hoped, for the credit of

Drayton Manor, that the representative of Naples will be inspired with

the like Christian forbearance. Lastly comes the poor Turkish

representative, of whom our pattern Englishman says: “You could not look

at him without feeling that he was the representative of an effete and

worn-out nation.” If nations are to be judged by their representatives,

and if Great Britain is to be estimated according to the intellectual

measurement of Peel, I protest that I would rather inscribe myself in

the universal register as a Dog-ribbed Indian, than as a native of these

islands.

But what incenses me more than anything else, is the excessive malignity

exhibited by this flippant and absurd young man while speaking of

Admiral Sir Charles Napier. It is not for me to hazard an opinion

whether the admiral acted wisely or over-cautiously in abstaining from

an attack upon Cronstadt, although the evidence, in so far as it has

been made public, appears to be strong in his justification. The

antecedents of Sir Charles Napier are such that it would be work of

supererogation now to insist upon the courage, intrepidity, and daring,

which he has so often conspicuously displayed. Of his former laurels,

honourably gained and universally acknowledged, no breath of slander can

deprive him. If old age is to be considered as a disqualification for

public service, then the blame rests solely with the Lords of the

Admiralty, who intrusted the charge of the Baltic fleet to a man on the

verge of seventy. They ought to have known that if desperate service was

required, a younger man than Napier would have been a more fitting

leader; but I am not aware that service of that kind was expected, or

that it was necessary in that stage of the war to attempt such a

hazardous exploit as the bombardment of Cronstadt, unless the chances of

success appeared greater than those of failure. Any serious disaster

sustained by our fleet in the Baltic would have been not only a triumph

to Russia, but an immense political advantage; the maintenance of the

blockade was undeniably the chief object of the expedition; and

therefore, the admiral was bound to weigh the consequences deliberately

before attempting any extraordinary enterprise. Sir Charles Napier says

that, with the force at his disposal, he did not consider himself

justified in attacking Cronstadt; and in that view he was fortified by

the opinion of the French admiral. Since then, the Earl of Dundonald,

one of the bravest and most daring of British sailors, has expressed his

deliberate opinion that Napier was perfectly right in abstaining from

any such attempt, because, in all human probability, the result would

have been futile, if not disastrous. With such authorities at his back,

Sir Charles Napier might well afford to despise the insinuations of his

silly persecutor; and I wish that he had done so, instead of flying into

a passion, because he has been assailed by an insect. His evident

annoyance served only to increase the malignity of the wasp who pursued

him; until, in an evil hour for himself, the venomous creature committed

a mistake, which ought, for the remainder of his existence, to put a

stop to his buzzing. Sir Robert Peel had the temerity to assert that, in

the course of conversation, the Archduke Constantine stated to him

(Peel) that if Napier had attacked Cronstadt, the fortress must have

fallen. Upon this, Napier writes to the Archduke, and receives in reply

a letter distinctly stating _that no such conversation took place_!

This, I must needs remark, gives a most serious complexion to the

matter. Either the Archduke or Sir Robert Peel must be guilty of

deliberate falsehood. Peel states that such a conversation was held—the

Archduke denies it _in toto_. Which of them are we to believe?

All I can say is, that it seems to me a very unlikely thing that, under

any circumstances, the Archduke should have selected an underling of the

legation, with whom he had no previous acquaintance, as the depositary

of his confidences; and tenfold more extraordinary, that he should have

made so singular a revelation. What was the use of it? What could be his

object? Had Constantine anything to gain by exposing the weakness or

want of preparation of his country, in a matter so serious as the main

defence and bulwark of St Petersburg? or is he so very “frank and

open-hearted,” as to be in the habit of blurting out state-secrets to

every Tom-noddy who may arrive from England? I cannot answer those

questions, satisfactorily to myself; and no more, I venture to think,

can you. But, observe this, that the matter, as it now stands, is of a

nature exceedingly grave. If the Archduke Constantine held no

conversation of the kind alleged with Sir Robert Peel (and we have his

express denial of it), in what terms shall we characterise the assertion

made by the latter for the evident purpose of blasting the reputation of

one of the oldest and most distinguished of the British admirals? If

Constantine _did_ hold such a conversation with Peel, then the latter

has obviously violated the conventional courtesies of society, by

publishing what must, in any point of view, be held as a private

communication. Lord Palmerston, however jauntily he may ride the public

horse, would do well to pay some attention to its shoeing. Whatever may

be the indiscretions of such men as Sir Charles Napier—however imprudent

they may be in their squabbles with the Admiralty or other boards—they

have at all events won, by honourable and dangerous service, that hold

on the nation’s heart, that no man of generous feeling, whatever his

party may be, will allow them to be wantonly assailed by an

understrapper or buffoon, whose continuance in office must be an

additional disgrace to the Ministry, who were imprudent enough to

elevate him to a position for which he was obviously and notoriously

unfit.

Let me now, for a few moments, direct your attention to another subject.

It is one of considerable importance and vast interest to the public,

who during the last twelve months have expended large sums in the

fortification of their dwelling-houses, to the no small delight and

emolument of the ironmongers and locksmiths. The old adage, that an

Englishman’s house is his castle, which at first was a mere figure of

speech, has now been actually realised. What with bolts, bars, chains,

screws, iron-shutters, and alarum-bells, our private mansions are as

well secured as Newgate; and the burglars, in their more recent

attempts, have been reduced to the unartistic device of breaking through

side-walls, in order to arrive at the plate-chests. But this state of

comparative security has been dearly purchased. Many old ladies, of

nervous temperament, have expired in paroxysms of terror, caused by the

slamming of doors and the creaking of hinges during the silent watches

of the night. I have heard of one timorous gentleman, who coughed

himself to death in consequence of a cold contracted from incarceration

in the coal-cellar, to which donjon-keep he had fled, alarmed by a sound

which resembled the rasping of a file. Innumerable Blowsalindas

threatened to abandon their places, unless a policeman was allowed to

sleep in the house; and in one unfortunate instance, a brace of

glaziers, who had gone early to work, and were engaged in cleaning the

windows, were shot right and left by an eccentric colonel of militia. At

length, by the aid of Chubb and his coadjutors, who must have realised

colossal fortunes during the panic, men are tolerably safe within doors,

and can retire to roost without the dread of being wakened about three

in the morning by the gleam of a lantern carried by a gentleman who has

modestly veiled his countenance with crape, but who, being armed with a

carving-knife, needs not to employ many arguments before you make

surrender of your movables. But alas! the same degree of security does

not exist without. If you tarry at your club until the witching hour of

midnight, in the enjoyment of the conversation of some facetious friend,

or seduced by the charms of roasted oysters, the chances are that, on

your return homeward, you are garotted before you reach the second

lamppost. It is not pleasant to feel your weazand contract under the

gripe of one brawny ruffian, while a second trips up your heels,

bringing your occiput into violent contact with the pavement or the

kerbstone: it is not profitable to lose your watch, your note-case, and

your purse, in so ignominious a manner; and it is decidedly disagreeable

to be compelled to walk about for the next fortnight with your eyes

protruding from your head like those of a lobster, and an expression of

countenance which would infallibly lead a stranger to conjecture that

you had been ordered for execution, and been cut down, in consequence of

the arrival of a reprieve, before the vital spark was extinguished. Many

an excellent gentleman and pious Christian has recently walked the

streets, after sunset, under the influence of those terrors so well

described by Coleridge, who, I think, must have been garotted in his

day;—

“Like one, that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turned round walks on,

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.”

Under such circumstances, fear becomes a positive duty; and the

apparition of an intoxicated apprentice staggering suddenly from a

common stair, is enough to make Julius Cæsar betake himself to his

heels. I have seen a good deal of foreign cities, the repute of which is

by no means creditable, but I give you my word that I would rather

thread the streets of Lisbon or Pera, after nightfall, than perambulate

those of an English town, under the operation of the system now pursued

with regard to the disposal of criminals.

What are you all about, that you submit to lead a life of perpetual

fear, suspicion, and bondage? Do you not see that the remedy is in

your own hands, and that it is a very plain one? Can anything be more

absurd than the assemblage of meetings for the purpose of taking into

consideration schemes of education, projects for the diffusion of

knowledge, further reforms in the constitution, or even the

readjustment of the taxes, before demanding from the Government that

they shall fulfil their first duty, which is that of adequately

protecting the lives and property of the lieges? Have you not had

warning enough of the hideous results of that system of

ticket-of-leave which no one but an absolute idiot can now have the

temerity to defend? Why, the papers daily teem with accounts of

murders, garottings, housebreakings, and the like, to an extent which

never, in my remembrance at least, was paralleled; and yet certain

wiseacres, who hold the office of Ministers, and style themselves

statesmen, very calmly tell you that the system of tickets of leave

has not yet had a fair trial! And so you, Ebony, and your friends, and

all the honest men throughout the country, are to be exposed to the

imminent danger of being throttled, robbed, or murdered, in order that

a parcel of obstinate prigs in high places may have an opportunity of

solving what they are pleased to call an interesting social problem! I

should like to know what is the use of a Government if it does not

provide for the safety of the subject in life, limb, and property. Has

it indeed come to this, that an army of desperate convicts is to be

let loose upon the respectable classes of society, for the purpose of

ascertaining whether they have got rid of their old tendencies towards

crime, the experiment being measured by the number of throats which

are cut, of houses which are broken into and pilfered, of ladies and

gentlemen who are burked in the streets, and of tradesmen’s tills that

are plundered, compared with the number of the convicts who are

released from prison contrary to the sentence which they have

received? Had Swift introduced such a picture of pragmatic imbecility

in his voyage of Gulliver to Laputa, men would have laughed at it as

an utterly impossible extravaganza. It would at once have been said

that in no civilised country in the world—nay, for that matter, in no

country however barbarous, for the sense of justice is instinctive to

man—would the executive be allowed, except in extraordinary and

isolated cases, to interfere with the judgments pronounced by its

judicial tribunals. Yet, what is the fact? Our judges are practically

told that these sentences are of no avail. Having heard the case with

all its concomitant circumstances, which almost invariably indicates

the real character, habits, and tendencies of the accused—and having

received the verdict of the jury—they apportion the punishment, not

for vengeance, but, according to the righteous and humane spirit of

our laws, for the safety of society, and for a solemn warning to

others. Now, I say—and I am ready to maintain the argument against all

the _doctrinaires_ in Christendom and Heathenesse—that if you allow

any functionary or official, who knows nothing of the circumstances

elicited at the trial, to alter arbitrarily the sentence pronounced by

a competent court, a fatal, or, at all events, a very serious blow

will be struck at the best interests of society. Look, for example, at

the procedure in cases where a capital sentence has been pronounced.

The Secretary of State, to whom memorials praying for a mitigation of

punishment are sent, never ventures, on his own responsibility, to

advise the Sovereign to exercise her prerogative of mercy, without

communication with the judge before whom the case was tried. This

practice is laudable and necessary—laudable, because it gives the

judge an opportunity of stating the existence of any mitigating

circumstances—and necessary, because otherwise the dignity and

authority of a Supreme Court could not possibly be maintained. Can any

reason be stated why the like precautions should be dispensed with in

cases where the punishment falls short of a capital one? We have seen,

of late years, a considerable relaxation in our criminal code;

inasmuch as many offences which were formerly capital, are now visited

by arbitrary punishment only. There can be no doubt whatever that the

change was righteous, humane, and such as befitted a Christian nation,

although late occurrences give some colour to the opinion that the

relaxation was carried too far. But, be that as it may, it is

difficult to see—and I, for one, fairly confess that I am utterly

unable to see—why relaxation of statutory penalties, and substitution

of minor punishments, should carry along with it the right of

disregarding the sentence which the court has actually pronounced.

Twenty years ago a man would have been hanged for commission of an

offence, for which, now, he receives the sentence of seven, ten, or

fourteen years’ transportation. Is the relaxation of the law any

reason for dispensing with the precautions which were previously used

before a criminal was admitted to mercy? In the old times, a man was

executed, and there was an end of him. Society had no more to fear, at

least from his particular atrocity or depredations. But, under the new

system, the sentences of the judges, pronounced after a deliberate

investigation of the case, are virtually handed over for the revisal

of the chaplains of jails and penitentiaries, who are utterly ignorant

of the facts which were elicited at the trial. It is a gross mistake

to suppose that ignorance, or want of education, are the most fertile

causes of crime. Petty larcenies and wretched thefts—picking of

pockets, and abstraction of articles exhibited at shop-doors—are

undoubtedly the province of the children of the destitute, and for

them reformatory and ragged schools are imperatively required. But

crime, in the higher branches, is a regular profession, to attain

eminence in which a man must be as dexterous, wary, provident, and

careful, as if he were engaged in any lawful business. Nay, he must be

more so; because, being constantly liable to detection, he is

compelled to strain his ingenuity to the utmost, and so calculate

every step which he makes towards the attainment of his object. It is

a mere farce, an utter delusion, and a perfect abandonment of common

sense, to expect that such men will ever return to the paths of common

industry, or be contented with humble gains. They have an absolute

pride in the exercise of their profession; and they are not haunted by

remorse in consequence of what they do. Their moral perceptions are

utterly blunted; and that being the case, it is in vain to hope that

they will be converted from the error of their ways by occasional

visits from the chaplain of the jail. Very rarely indeed does a felon

of this stamp make any progress during the period of his incarceration

towards amendment. Orderly conduct and respectful demeanour are the

necessary results of strict prison discipline; but they are not by any

means to be taken as symptoms of actual improvement. Nay, the convict

has a direct inducement to assume a decorous, respectful, and even

repentant manner, because he hopes, through the recommendation of the

chaplain, to obtain a remission of his punishment. It is no disrespect

to the clergy to say that, as a body, they are very liable to

imposition. A clever scoundrel, if he addresses himself artfully to

the task, can hardly fail to make a favourable impression. He can soon

acquire the tricks of interlarding his discourse with Scriptural terms

and phraseology, of counterfeiting humility, and of shamming

penitence. Now, to let loose upon society men of this stamp, under

tickets of leave, is simply to encourage further violence and

depredation. I do not say that every convicted sinner must necessarily

be thereafter a felon; but I do say that, after more than one

conviction, his case is, humanly speaking, hopeless. In nine cases out

of ten, such men emerge from the jails and penitentiaries to steal,

rob, and swindle as before.

Philo-convicts of the maudlin school—for I will not call them

philanthropists—say that the frequent relapse into crime of liberated

prisoners, is very much owing to the fact, that no one, who is

acquainted with their previous history, will give them employment. I

grant that. If the gods had provided me with sufficient income to keep a

butler, I certainly should be chary of engaging an individual who had

just completed his sentence for embezzling the silver spoons of his

previous master. If I were a tradesman, I should decline taking the

extra trouble of watching the motions of a young Barnwell, who was

recommended to me by the fact that he had robbed his employer’s till.

And I further tell the philo-convicts, that, in utterly and entirely

refusing to trust a convict, I am acting not only prudentially to

myself, but wisely as regards society; because so long as an honest man

remains without employment, it is bad policy and worse morals to give

the preference to an attainted thief. To act otherwise, is practically

to deny that good character is to be considered as an element in the

selection of servants—a position which may suit the present Ministry,

seeing that some of their appointments have been made altogether

irrespective of character, but which never will be adopted by the great

body of the public. I accept, however, the fact that ticket-of-leave men

and other convicts have little chance in this country of obtaining

employment through the usual channels, even though they should be

sincere in their wishes to return to the ways of industry. Well, then,

what is the obvious deduction from this fact? Is it not that the

Government have been guilty of a grievous dereliction of duty in

commuting the sentences of prisoners, and letting them loose upon

society before the appointed time? It is all very well for officials to

wring their hands; to tell us that the colonies will no longer receive

prisoners from the mother country; that transportation, at least in the

old directions, is now impossible; and finally, to fix a stupid stare

upon the public, and ask _it_ what is to be done with the convicts? The

public ought sternly to reply that the disposal of the convicts is a

matter which the Government must look to; but that at all hazards life

and property must be protected. I deny _in toto_ that you, or I, or any

of us, are bound to tell the Government what they ought to do in regard

to the disposal of convicts. I say it is monstrous and intolerable that

society should be left in a state of siege and panic, exposed to

violence and outrage which seems to be every day on the increase, until

the Government shall determine whether any remote colonial possession is

available for purposes of transportation, or whether convicts ought not

to be employed in public works within the boundaries of Great Britain. I

do not underrate the importance of these questions. I do hope that the

Government will very soon make up their minds to adopt some one

intelligible and consistent course. But I protest against these

questions being mixed up with that of the system of ticket-of-leave,

which has nothing whatever to do with them. It may be a point of

consideration for the custodiers of a menagerie, or travelling

collection of wild beasts, whether it would be most advisable for them

to proceed north, or south, or east, or west, or otherwise to sell and

disperse their animals among the different zoological gardens; but what

right have they, pending their resolution, to open the doors of the

cages, and let wolves, tigers, and hyenas loose on the neighbouring

fields? And yet that is precisely what our Government has done with the

wild animals of which it is the custodier! Their wicked and dangerous

tendencies were known and established. They were tried for outrages on

society, convicted, and sentenced to restraint; and yet the Government,

because a difficulty has arisen abroad, consider themselves entitled to

disregard the sentences of the law, and again to deluge society with

experienced adepts in crime. One of the soundest arguments for the old

system of transportation was that, by removing hardened, expert, and

practised criminals from the country, there was so much the better

chance of reforming those who were merely beginners in crime. All that

is now forgotten. Scholars in larceny will never lack teachers so long

as the present infamous system is persevered in; young cracksmen will

find leaders to organise them into regular gangs, and the function of

the reformatories will be over.

I suspect that very few of the general public are aware of the extent to

which the system of ticket-of-leave has been carried. Blue-books are by

no means lively reading; and yet, without consulting the blue-books, it

is impossible adequately to understand the precise situation in which we

are placed with regard to convicts at large. Let me therefore note down

a few facts extracted from the evidence given before the Select

Committee on Transportation last year.

Mr Waddington, permanent Under-Secretary of State for the Home

Department, tells us that, up to March 1856, there were no less than

FIVE THOUSAND ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-TWO convicts, who had been sentenced

to transportation, discharged upon the public under licenses or tickets

of leave! How many more have since received their tickets I cannot say,

but judging from the numbers of former years, there cannot now be fewer

than from seven to eight thousand criminals, equivalent to a respectable

army, who are left to forage for themselves. Mr Waddington says very

jauntily,—“The Committee are aware, no doubt, that these persons under

sentence of transportation are persons who had been, most of them, two

or three times convicted that we know of; they may have been convicted

oftener than that, but they are almost all of them old offenders, and

therefore it was highly probable that, upon being thrown back into

society, _a great portion of them would misconduct themselves in a very

serious manner_.” This is, indeed, plain-speaking with a vengeance! Here

you have an admission that the Government _expected_, as the result of

their experiment, that a large portion of the ticket-of-leave men would

return to their old courses; that is, would steal, rob, assault, and

garotte as before! At whose expense, pray? At the expense of that

Issachar the public, who having borne the burden of their previous

offences, were next to bear that of their offences in time to come! Here

is a beautiful conflict between the law and the executive. “John

Noakes,” says the judge at the trial, “you have been convicted no less

than six times in competent courts. You are a hardened, brutal, and

irreclaimable criminal. You cannot be allowed, for the interests of

society, to remain longer in the country. Therefore your sentence is,

that you be transported for the period of fourteen years.” Noakes leaves

the dock, after having delivered himself of an irreverent remark

touching the judge’s eyes, and a facetious reference to being

herring-ponded. But there is yet a door of exit. “John Noakes,” says the

beautifully paternal government with which we are blessed, “you have

doubtless been convicted six times already, but we are willing to think

that, on the whole, you are a harmless and rather well-intentioned

fellow. It is true that you have been sentenced to transportation for

fourteen years; but at present there is some difficulty in finding

quarters for you abroad, and it would be both inconvenient and expensive

to keep you in custody at home. So, upon the whole, we think the best

course is to set you at liberty. Here is a ticket of leave for you,

which you will please accept, on the understanding that, if you are

again convicted, that leave will be revoked. You may not perhaps be able

to find employment, but that is your look-out—so good-by to you.” John

Noakes quits the prison, repairs straightway to the “Jack Sheppard”

public-house, where he falls in with some of his old associates, plans a

new burglary; and on the following night the premises of a respectable

jeweller are broken into, and property abstracted to the value of a

couple of thousand pounds!

Mr Waddington, however, thinks that the effect of the system “has been

at least as good as any reasonable person could have anticipated,

considering the nature of the offenders who have been discharged;” and

he states it to be a fact that out of 5152 liberated on ticket-of-leave,

_only_ 447 have been reported for misconduct; that is, have found their

way back to prison. Now, I must confess that I can see in this no ground

for congratulation, even supposing that no more than 447 have again

betaken themselves to unlawful courses within the short space of two and

a half years. But we have no right whatever to suppose anything of the

kind. We learn from other evidence that the ticket-of-leave men are

scattered all over the kingdom, without any mark or method by which the

police can recognise them; consequently a much larger number than the

above may have been apprehended and tried for new offences without the

knowledge of the authorities. “I think,” says Sir Archibald Alison, who,

as sheriff and criminal judge of Lanarkshire, can speak on this subject

with authority—“I think that the number of ticket-of-leave men who are

proved in courts to be concerned in crime, _bears a very small

proportion_ to the number of those who do commit crime; for this reason,

that they are not known.” In the appendix to the second report there are

some valuable documents touching the habits of ticket-of-leave men. Here

for example is an abridgment of the report of the Superintendent of the

F. Division of the London police, on the habits of the liberated

criminals in his district.

“R. W.: Constant associate of thieves; no lawful occupation; once

convicted of assault. E. M.: Does not follow any occupation, and is well

suspected of being a thief. J. W.: Immediately on his return, cohabited

with a notorious thief and prostitute, and does not follow any awful

occupation at present. C. G.: Does not follow any lawful calling. Since

his return has been the constant and daily associate of thieves and

other notoriously bad characters. J. C.: Keeper of a shop for the sale

of second-hand clothes, and has frequently been seen in the company of

convicted thieves. J. G.: Lodges with a convicted thief, and is supposed

to gain his living by hawking obscene cards, &c. T. C.: Employed as a

messenger or porter, and appears to be gaining an honest living. T. N.:

Was liberated on ticket of leave about two months since; at present does

not follow any employment.”

So that out of _eight_ ticket-of-leave men resident in this Division,

and known to the police, _six_ are supposed to have fallen back on their

old courses; one is doing well; and one has been liberated for so short

a time that, according to the Superintendent, “no decided opinion can be

expressed relative to him.”

Mr Hill, Q. C., Recorder of Birmingham, caused a special report to be

prepared by the police of that town relative to the habits of the

ticket-of-leave men known to reside there, their number being nineteen.

The report bears that of these, _eight_ were considered good, _nine_

bad, and _two_ doubtful.

The impression left upon my mind by the perusal of these and similar

returns, is that at least one half of the liberated convicts are at this

moment preying upon the public. I again quote from Alison’s evidence: “I

should say, from what I have seen, that the ticket-of-leave system has

had the very worst possible effects in Scotland; that it has sent back

the most talented, the most dangerous, and the most formidable class of

depredators; and that they are either concerned in the greatest crimes

themselves, or that they lead others to the commission of the same

description of crimes.”

If the good folks of Great Britain choose to submit to this monstrous

wrong and most iniquitous system—if they are willing without complaint

or murmur to see the dangerous classes, the convicted felons, let loose

among them, to resume the functions of the pick-lock and the crowbar,

the garotte and the bludgeon, and to destroy all chance of the success

of reformatory schools—it is no business of mine. No burglar will ever

think of breaking into a lighthouse, and I feel quite assured that what

little property I have is in perfect safety. But if they, on the

contrary, are convinced that the whole system is a rank imposture and

delusion, and that they, the people of character and property, are left

at the mercy of a rapidly increasing army of convicted scoundrels, in

order to be experimented on for the gratification of a few pragmatic

_doctrinaires_, let them make their voices audible, and the Ministry

must at once succumb. Never, within my recollection, has there been so

fitting an object for agitation, never so imperative a reason for it.

And I do hope that they will not allow themselves to be humbugged or

bamboozled by any difficulties, real or pretended, about the disposal of

the convicts. I am quite aware that there are difficulties; but with

these it is the express duty of the Government to grapple.

Now, Ebony, I have done for the present. You see this has been but a

rambling kind of letter, but I hope in future to be more concise. Send

me as much periodical literature as you can, and a few boxes of cigars,

if you have any to spare, as a token of your continued friendship. I do

not think it prudent, under existing circumstances, to adhibit my real

name and address, as that might awaken, in certain bosoms, expectations

which never can be realised; so I must even find a sobriquet connected

with my present humble though highly useful and honourable situation.

“Pharos” is too Egyptian for my taste—“Hesperus” too maudlin. “Lucifer”

is a title already appropriated, to which I desire to lay no manner of

claim; and therefore I shall modestly subscribe myself, your sincere

well-wisher,

PHOSPHORUS.

_Pictarnie Lighthouse,

North Britain._

LORD ST LEONARDS.[8]

Some little time ago might have been seen in the corner of a weekly

legal periodical the following brief intimation: “Early in January 1857

will be published the Thirteenth Edition of _Sugden’s Law of Vendors and

Purchasers of Estates_, with important additions. This Edition will

contain between eleven and twelve hundred cases, in addition to those in

the last Edition.... The Author has bestowed great pains on this

Edition.” The book now lies before us; and in the preface we find this

observation: “_Every case_ cited I have perused in the original Report,

and _every line_ of the book has been written by myself,” that book

being a royal octavo volume of 720 closely-printed pages, and those

cases—as we vouch, after curiously counting the table of cases—amounting

to upwards of four thousand six hundred! And who, it may be asked, is

this very laborious author? No other than Lord St Leonards, so lately

Lord High Chancellor, now in his seventy-fifth year, yet having the

inclination and the power, mental and physical, thus to occupy the

intervals of _leisure_ occurring in the discharge of his judicial and

legislative duties as a member of the House of Lords! The career of such

a man we commend to the studious attention of some future historian of

the _Lives of the Lord Chancellors_; and in the mean time shall supply

him with some authentic materials, collected in the course of careful

inquiry, and personal observation.

We believe that England never before saw, living at once, three such

remarkable subjects for the portraiture of some future Lord Campbell, as

the three ex-Chancellors now adorning the House of Lords—Lords

Lyndhurst, Brougham, and St Leonards,—Lord Campbell himself being a

distinguished member of that House, for a brief space Lord Chancellor of

Ireland, and now the learned and upright Lord Chief Justice of England.

At some future time we may ourselves attempt sketches of Lords

Lyndhurst, Brougham, and Campbell; but our present concern is with that

one of the aforesaid three ex-Chancellors whose name stands at the head

of this article. Without attributing to him the attractive and dazzling

characteristics of Lords Lyndhurst and Brougham as orators and

statesmen—the latter, too, a prodigy of versatility and power—we shall,

by a plain narrative of facts, establish the pretensions of Lord St

Leonards to be regarded as a great lawyer, whose name will be ranked

with those of Lord Hardwicke and Lord Eldon; while, in several respects,

his career is more remarkable and more instructive than that of either.

The race of great lawyers in England is but too evidently dying out.

Perhaps we see the last of them in Lord St Leonards, who may be said to

have exhibited as great legal, as the late Duke of Wellington military,

genius. And the former has this signal characteristic, that throughout

the whole of his long, arduous, and distinguished career as advocate,

judge, and legislator, he has never intermitted the labours of legal

authorship; but brought forth works of practical and profound erudition,

contributing to develop law as a science, aiding the studies, and

facilitating the practice and administration of that law, by every

member of the profession. Under this fourfold aspect, therefore, of

author, advocate, judge, and legislator, we propose to exhibit a sketch

of the life and labours of Lord St Leonards,—tracing him from his first

book and his first brief, to his last edition of that first book; to his

last brief; to his last judgment as Lord High Chancellor; and the most

recent of a long series of Acts of Parliament, of the highest practical

importance, contributed by him to the Statute-book.

Edward Burtenshaw Sugden was born in the year 1781; and having duly

entered himself a student of Lincoln’s Inn, such was the use he had made

of his time, and such his marvellous aptitude for the acquisition of

legal knowledge—for which, indeed, his intellect may be said to have

exhibited a sort of elective affinity—that before he had reached his

twenty-second year, as he himself has left on record,[9] he had written

his _Vendors and Purchasers of Estates_—which was published in February

1805,—_i. e._ in his twenty-fourth year! It is an octavo volume of 461

pages. We have seen a copy of it bearing the date 1805; and no person,

competent to judge, can read its terse and thoroughly practical

exposition of the leading principles applicable to so difficult and

unwieldy a subject, without wondering how the youthful author could have

acquired the requisite knowledge and facility in using it. He was a

pupil of the late eminent conveyancer, Mr Duval, but we are not aware at

what age he entered the chambers of that gentleman. Let us now, however,

leap over a good half-century, and look for a moment at the account of

this early performance, given by its author on the 10th of this present

January 1857, in the highly interesting preface to the edition now under

consideration:—

“After the lapse of half a century since the first publication of this

work, I am about to send forth a thirteenth edition of it. Determined

at my outset in life to write a book, I was delighted when I hit upon

the subject now before the reader—the _Law of Vendors and Purchasers_.

The title promised well; and many portions of the law had not

previously been embodied in any treatise. Modern law-treatises were

indeed few at that period. When this work was announced for

publication, nearly the universal opinion was that it would be a

failure, as the subjects to be considered were too multifarious for

one treatise. Nothing dismayed, I laboured diligently; and with the

aid of Lincoln’s Inn library, in which a considerable portion of the

book was written—for my own shelves were but scantily furnished—I at

length finished the work in its original shape. My courage then failed

me. The expense of publication was certain, and success I thought more

than doubtful; and it was not without some difficulty that I could be

persuaded to refrain from committing the manuscript to the flames, and

to join with a bookseller in incurring the risk of publishing it at

half profit and loss, as it is termed. As soon as the book was

printed, another bookseller bought my interest in the edition, and

thus relieved me from my obligations. The amount I received as the

price of the edition was small, but I have never since received any

sum with anything approaching to the same satisfaction. The book was

certainly the foundation of my early success in life.”

Who does not envy the veteran (not lagging lazily on the stage) this

retrospect, and thank him for a glimpse of his autobiography? He

proceeds to tell us that this first edition was sold “at once;” that a

greatly enlarged one was published in June 1806—both before he was

called to the bar; the third in a year afterwards, in 1808; the fourth

in 1813; and five new and very large editions at regular intervals of

four years, till 1834;—“all these six appearing,” he continues, “while I

was in full practice at the bar, and could ill afford the time required

to re-edit the work.” On returning from Ireland, in 1835, after his

first Chancellorship, “I had,” he says, “for the first time in my

professional life, full leisure, and revised the whole work with great

care;” and published a tenth edition, in three volumes royal 8vo, in

1839. “While yet a second time in office in Ireland” (as to which we

shall have by-and-by to say much that is interesting), “I prepared and

published, on the 1st May 1846” (that is, while holding the Irish

Seals), “the eleventh edition, compressed into two volumes.” A twelfth,

in a greatly compressed form, in one small octavo volume, a work of very

great labour, appeared in June 1851,—every portion, including even index

and table of cases, being his own exclusive personal handiwork. Six

months afterwards he became Lord Chancellor of Great Britain; and now,

at the opening of the new year, 1857, we have, as a sort of parting

gift, of infinite value to the profession of the law, this thirteenth

edition, “the last,” he says, though he is in full health and vigour,

“that I can expect to publish.... To restore the work to its original

shape as a treatise, and at the same time preserve its character as a

concise and practical view of the subject” (the form which the twelfth

edition had assumed), “I have spared neither time nor labour.” Those

only can judge of the labour and time required for such a task, who are

in the habit of perusing all the voluminous reports of our many courts.

The twelfth edition contained some five hundred cases not quoted in the

eleventh; and upwards of _twelve hundred cases_ are included in this

thirteenth which were not in the twelfth. “This collection of cases is

the fruit of upwards of half a century of research and labour;—every

case” (as we have seen), “I have perused in the original report, and

every line of the book has been written by myself. I doubt not that

there are errors which have escaped me, but I have endeavoured to leave

behind me this, my first work, in a shape in some sense worthy of the

acceptance of the members of the profession to which I have the honour

to belong; and I know, by a long experience, that I may safely rely on

their indulgence.” Such is the first glimpse we obtain of Edward Sugden,

starting on his career as an author,—during half a century’s

overwhelming labour and anxiety as a Chancery counsel, as an active

member of the House of Commons, and as thrice a Lord Chancellor.

_Blackwood’s Magazine_ is not the fitting expositor, in detail, of this

great law-treatise, stamped by the unanimous and uninterrupted

approbation, for half a century, of the whole legal profession, of every

rank—by judges, counsel, and solicitors, alike in courts of law and

equity. We think there must at this moment be extant some thirty or

forty thousand copies of the various editions of the “Vendors and

Purchasers;” and we entertain little doubt that, as soon as this last is

seen, no member of the profession, who can afford to procure it, will be

long without doing so. To the general reader we may intimate that this

work is of an intensely practical character; and the art of condensation

which it manifests can go no further. Its sweep is immense. The gifted

author exhibits the power of grasping the whole subject, however

extensive and complicated, and yet applying accurate—and the

latest—legal knowledge to the minutest exigency,—from the terse, clear,

cautious, and yet decisive enumeration of the profoundest principles of

equity, down to a question of costs,—in all the variety of subdivisions

of that somewhat expensive luxury,—whether as “costs” _simpliciter_, or

as “costs, charges, and expenses!” Probably no book of the kind has ever

stood on a lawyer’s shelves, or was constantly in hand, in which so few

errors have been detected; while able and experienced lawyers could

point to great numbers of opinions and doubts from time to time

expressed by the author, which have afterwards been sanctioned by

judicial decision, and are always entertained and canvassed with the

utmost respect—the respect due to one bringing the results of vast

practical and scientific knowledge and experience to bear upon the

ordinary exigencies of litigation. It has facilitated the labour, and

alleviated the anxieties and responsibilities of tens of thousands of

practitioners during half a century:[10] and those of 1857,—students as

well as practitioners—now see a new edition, thoroughly remodelling the

work, and adapting it to existing exigencies with scrupulously

conscientious personal care and labour, by an author who so lately

administered justice as Lord High Chancellor, to the admiration of all.