DURING a severe illness with which I was visited in 1812,—the
particulars of which I need not detail to you, my dear Jane, as the part
you and your mother and sisters took, in nursing me night and day, must
be fresh in all your memories, and which I only here mention on account
of its association,—I determined, if I recovered, to go on with a
publication of “Æsop’s Fables.” While I lay helpless, from weakness, and
pined to a skeleton, without any hopes of recovery being entertained
either by myself or any one else, I became, as it were, all mind and
memory. I had presented to my recollection almost everything that had
passed through life, both what I had done and what I had left undone.
After much debating in my own mind where I should be buried, I fixed
upon Ovingham; and, when this was settled, I became quite resigned to
the will of Omnipotence, and felt happy. I could not, however, help
regretting that I had not published a book similar to “Croxall’s Æsop’s
Fables,” as I had always intended to do. I was extremely fond of that
book; and, as it had afforded me much pleasure, I thought, with better
executed designs, it would impart the same kind of delight to others
that I had experienced from attentively reading it. I was also of
opinion, that it had (while admiring the cuts) led hundreds of young men
into the paths of wisdom and rectitude, and in that way had materially
assisted the pulpit.
As soon as I was so far recovered as to be able to sit at the window at
home, I began to draw designs upon the wood of the fables and vignettes;
and to me this was a most delightful task. In impatiently pushing
forward to get to press with the publication, I availed myself of the
help of my pupils—my son, William Harvey, and William Temple—who were
eager to do their utmost to forward me in the engraving business, and in
my struggles to get the book ushered into the world. Notwithstanding the
pleasurable business of bringing out this publication, I felt it an
arduous undertaking. The execution of the fine work of the cuts, during
day-light, was very trying to the eyes, and the compiling or writing the
book by candle-light, in my evenings at home, together injured the optic
nerve, and that put all the rest of the nerves “out of tune;” so that I
was obliged, for a short time, to leave off such intense application
until I somewhat recovered the proper tone of memory and of sight.
Indeed I found in this book more difficulties to conquer than I had
experienced with either the “Quadrupeds” or the “Birds.” The work was
finished at press on the first of October, 1818. It was not so well
printed as I expected and wished.
During the eventful period of the French Revolution, and the
wide-spreading war which followed in consequence of it, and in which our
government became deeply engaged, extending from 1793 to 1814—a time of
blood and slaughter—I frequently, by way of unbending the mind after the
labours of the day, spent my evenings in company with a set of staunch
advocates for the liberties of mankind, who discussed the passing events
mostly with the cool, sensible, and deliberate attention which the
importance of the subject required. In partaking in these debatings, I
now find I spent rather too much time. I fear it was useless; for it
requires little discernment to see that, where a man’s interest is at
stake, he is very unwilling to hear any argument that militates against
it; and people who are well paid are always very loyal. To argue on any
subject, unless a principle, or what mathematicians would call a datum,
is first laid down to go upon, is only gabble. It begins and must end in
nonsense; and I suspect that many of the long, wearisome speeches and
debatings, carried on for such a number of years in the Houses of Lords
and Commons, as well as many of the innumerable weekly or daily essays,
and some of the pamphlets which the revolution and the war gave rise to,
were devoid of a right principle—a principle of rectitude to guide them.
The causes of this Revolution, and the horrible war which ended it, will
form a most interesting subject for the head and the pen of some future
historian of a bold and enlightened mind—truly to depicture it in all
its bearings, perhaps long after the animosity of party feelings and the
parties themselves have passed away.
From the best consideration I have been able to give to the question, I
cannot help viewing it in this way. In the year 1789, the French
Revolution broke out, first of all from the income of the government not
being sufficient to defray its expenditure, or in other words, from its
finances having become deranged for want of money, and which the people,
having been taxed to the utmost and brought down to poverty, could no
longer supply. The aristocracy and the priesthood (the privileged
orders, as they were called) contributed little or nothing to support
the state; and, instead of being the natural guardians or depositories
of the honour and virtue of the nation, they were chiefly known as its
oppressors. By exaction, cruelty, and tyranny, the people had long been
borne down to the lowest pitch of degradation. They were considered, not
as rational human beings, equal in mind and intellect to their
oppressors, but as beings made for the purpose only of continually
labouring to support them in all their real and imaginary wants. This is
nearly the case in all countries where the aristocracy are kept up and
blinded by pride and guided by ignorance. In this they are supported by
what may be called their satellites—a kind of bastard breed, who, in
aping the worst part of the character of those exalted above them, show
themselves off as the opulent, aspiring, purse-proud gentry of a
country.
“If aught on earth th’ immortal powers deride,
’Tis surely this,—the littleness of pride.”
This kind of treatment, so long shown to the people of France, could be
endured no longer. They, indeed, seemed heartily disposed to settle a
rational and just representative government quietly themselves; but this
did not suit the views of the surrounding despots, to whom the very word
liberty was offensive, and it was determined, at once, that this attempt
of the people to resume their rights should instantly be overwhelmed.
For this purpose, immense armed and well-disciplined mercenaries were
gathered together, and almost surrounded the country. Thus situated, and
remembering the traditionary tales handed down to them of the cruelties
and oppressions under which their forefathers had groaned, the French
people could not bear their condition any longer. They were driven to
madness, and instantly retaliated upon their oppressors, who, they
conceived, meant that they and their children’s children should continue
to be doomed for ages to come. In this state of the public mind, the
French people rose simultaneously, as one man, and with unconquerable
energy and bravery, like a whirlwind, swept the advocates and the armies
of despotism from off the face of the earth. Thus roused, this
confederacy of Legitimates, finding or fearing that they might be
baffled in their attempts, looked to England for support; and grieved,
indeed, were the advocates of rational liberty to find that these
enemies to freedom had not looked in vain; for the government of this
free country and free people—long veering, indeed, from the line of
rectitude—had readily found pretexts for entering into a war in support
of despotism; and war was begun, in the year 1793, against the
republican government of France.
It had long been the settled opinion of many profound politicians, that
corruption had spread, and was spreading, its baneful influence among
the members of the government of this kingdom; and that the majority
cared nothing about maintaining the constitution in its purity, which to
them was become like an old song. In this state of things, with Mr. Pitt
at their head, and the resources of the British Isles in their hands, it
was calculated upon as a certainty that his weight, added to the already
powerful confederacy, would soon put a stop to the march of intellect,
and, if found necessary, put an extinguisher upon the rights of man.
It is horrible to contemplate the immense destruction of human beings,
and the waste of treasure, which followed and supported this
superlatively wicked war. Under the mask of patriotism, Mr. Pitt had
begun his career, but he soon changed sides, and, blinded perhaps by
ambition, became the powerful advocate of an opposite and perverted
order of things. Thus situated, nothing could to a certainty serve his
purpose so well as corruption; and the House of Commons had long been
growing into a state befitting his purpose; for its members had, in a
great degree, ceased to be the representatives of the people, and he had
now only to begin an invigorated, new, or more extended system of place
and patronage to have the majority at his nod; and, in aid of this, to
add an extension of the peerage. This demi-oligarchy, cemented together
by feelings of rapacious interests, in his hands was the best organised
system of extorting money that ever had appeared in the world. They met
together to tax—tax—tax; and, under various pretexts, to rob the people
“according to law,” and to divide the spoil amongst themselves and their
friends. Arbitrary laws were enacted, gagging bills were passed, and a
system of espionage spread over the kingdom to keep the people down,
many of whom seemed to have forgotten the exertions of their
forefathers, whose blood had been spilt to purchase a better order of
things. I felt particularly hurt at the apathy of country gentlemen in
these (politically considered) worst of times. Their faculties seemed
benumbed; but, indeed, most of them fell into the vortex of corruption
themselves. They appeared to me to have lost their former independent
character, and to be now looking out to that evil source as a provision
for the younger branches of their own families, unmindful of all other
ill consequences, which this selfishness blindly supported and
maintained. The minions of power were countenanced and protected, by
which they became insolent and impudent, and walked in stately array,
hand in hand, in safety. Although the friends of liberty and the
constitution were both numerous and intrepid, yet, for want of what they
termed respectable heads, they were widely spread and divided, and their
efforts proved in vain. There was also an intermediate or neutral race,
consisting of those who had not laid down any principle to guide them.
They were mostly such as advocated the cause of corruption; and, in
listening to them, I was disgusted at their senseless arguments. They
were proof against reasoning, and thoroughly convinced me that “a wise
man changes his opinion, but a fool never does.” They, however, kept on
the safe side; _they were loyal_; and the gist of their arguments, with
which they ended all their disputes, were summed up in this—“If you do
not like your country, leave it. What do you want? are not _we_ very
well off?” Their reflecting powers reached no further, and they could
not see by what slow degrees the arm of despotism had so often
circumspectly stretched its iron hand over the liberties of the people,
and then crushed them.
While bickerings and debatings were going on amongst politicians at
home, the Continent was deluged with the blood of many destructive
battles. The sea was also crimsoned in the same way; and it was on this
element that the tide of affairs was first turned in favour of Britain,
who now, by the valour of her seamen, reigned complete “mistress of the
deep,” and the commerce of the world seemed to be poured into her lap.
Estates rose in value to an extraordinary height, and the price of
grain, &c., still more so. The shipping interest wallowed in riches; the
gentry whirled about in aristocratic pomposity; they forgot what their
demeanour and good, kind, behaviour used to be to those in inferior
stations of life; and seemed now far too often to look upon them like
dirt. The character of the richer class of farmers was also changed.
They acted the gentleman very awkwardly, and many of them could not, in
these times, drink anything but wine, and even that was called “humble
port.” When these upstart gentlemen left the market, they were ready to
ride over all they met or overtook on the way; but this was as nothing
compared to the pride and folly which took possession of their empty or
fume-charged heads, when they got dressed in scarlet. They were then
fitted for any purpose, and were called “yeomanry cavalry.” Pride and
folly then became personified. When peace came, it brought with it a
sudden fall in the price of corn; but the taxes continuing the same to
them, and rents still keeping high, they, with few exceptions, suddenly
experienced a woful change. I cannot say, after seeing so much of their
folly, that I was sorry for them; for they mostly deserved this reverse
of fortune. Not so with the industrious labourer. His privations were
great, and he was undeservedly doomed to suffer for want of employment,
and often to waste away and die of hunger and want.
During the greater portion of the war, the landowners may be said to
have paid little or nothing to support it; for the extra rents paid
almost all their taxes; but at length the evils brought on by so long a
war fell also heavily upon numbers of them, who, on account of tithes
and taxes with which the land was loaded, could hardly get any rent at
all.
It will seem a wonder to future ages how the British people could so
long have supported the squandered expenditure of the government; still
they were not like the long-worn-down subjects of continental despots;
for what the latter can get from their subjects is like clippings from
the back and sides of swine, while the ingenuity, the industry, and the
energy of the British people furnish the well-grown fleeces of sheep.
Pity it is that they should have been so often wickedly shorn to the
bare skin.
This state of temporary prosperity, to which I have alluded, incited to
agricultural improvements; and societies for the promotion, and premiums
for the encouragement, of various desiderata blazed forth over a great
part of the kingdom. Cattle, sheep, horses, and swine, all of which were
called “live stock,” occupied a great deal of attention, and in the
improvement of the various breeds agriculturalists succeeded to a
certain, and in some cases, perhaps, to a great extent. And yet I cannot
help thinking that they often suffered their whimsies to overshoot the
mark, and in many instances to lead them on to the ridiculous.
After all,—these enquiries having opened the eyes of the landlords to
their own interests,—it is not unlikely that the man of industry, the
plain, plodding farmer will, without receiving any reward, have to pay
for these improvements. My kind, my intimate friend, John Bailey, Esq.,
of Chillingham, in conjunction with another friend of mine, George
Culley, Esq., of Fowberry, were the active, judicious, and sensible
authors of many of the agricultural reports, in which they did not lose
sight of the farmer. They wished to inculcate the principle of “to live
and let live” between landlord and tenant.
It will readily be supposed, that, where such exertions were made, and
pains taken to breed the best kinds of all the domestic animals,
jealousy and envy would be excited, and contentions arise as to which
were the best; but for me to dilate upon this would only lead me out of
the way. I shall, however, notice an instance, as it happened to occur
between my two friends, Mr. Smith, of Woodhall, and Mr. Bailey. The
latter, in connection with his report on Cheviot sheep, had given a bad
figure of a ram of that breed. This was construed into a design to
lessen the character of Mr. Smith’s Cheviot sheep, on which, in April,
1798, the latter sent for me to draw and engrave a figure of one of his
rams, by way of contrasting it with the figure Mr. Bailey had given. The
colour Mr. Smith gave to the business was, not to find fault with Mr.
Bailey’s figure, but to show how much he (Mr. Smith) had improved the
breed since Mr. Bailey had written his report.
Whilst I was at Woodhall, I was struck with the sagacity of a dog
belonging to Mr. Smith. The character for sagacity of the Shepherd’s Dog
was well-known to me, but this instance of it was exemplified before my
own eyes. Mr. Smith wished to have a particular ram brought out from
amongst the flock, for the purpose of my seeing it. Before we set out,
he observed to the shepherd, that he thought the old dog (he was
grey-headed and almost blind) would do well enough for what he wanted
with him. Before we reached the down, where the flock was feeding, I
observed that Mr. Smith was talking to the dog before he ordered him off
on his errand; and, while we were conversing on some indifferent
subject, the dog brought a ram before us. Mr. Smith found a deal of
fault with the dog, saying, Did I not order you so and so? and he
scolded him for bringing a wrong sheep, and then, after fresh
directions, set him off again to bring the one he wished me to see. We
then returned home, and shortly after our arrival there, the dog brought
the very ram wanted, along with a few other sheep, into the fold, where
I took a drawing of him.
Shortly after my return from Woodhall, I was sent for to Darlington, and
thence to Barmpton, to make drawings of cattle and sheep, to be engraved
for a Durham report. After I had made my drawings from the fat sheep, I
soon saw that they were not approved, but that they were to be made like
certain paintings shown to me. I observed to my employer that the
paintings bore no resemblance to the animals whose figures I had made my
drawings from; and that I would not alter mine to suit the paintings
that were shown to me; but, if it were wished that I should make
engravings from these paintings, I had not the slightest objection to do
so, and I would also endeavour to make _fac similes_ of them. This
proposal would not do; and my journey, as far as concerned these fat
cattle makers, ended in nothing. I objected to put lumps of fat here and
there where I could not see it, at least not in so exaggerated a way as
on the painting before me; so “I got my labour for my trouble.” Many of
the animals were, during this _rage_ for fat cattle, fed up to as great
a weight and bulk as it was possible for feeding to make them; but this
was not enough; they were to be figured monstrously fat before the
owners of them could be pleased. Painters were found who were quite
subservient to this guidance, and nothing else would satisfy. Many of
these paintings will mark the times, and, by the exaggerated productions
of the artists, serve to be laughed at when the folly and the
self-interested motives which gave birth to them are done away.
[Illustration]
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