CHAPTER I.

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BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

NO. CCCLXX. AUGUST, 1846. VOL. LX.

CONTENTS.

THE ARMY, 129

MY COLLEGE FRIENDS. NO. IV. CHARLES RUSSELL,

THE GENTLEMAN COMMONER. CHAPTER I., 145

THE ROMANTIC DRAMA, 161

THE MINSTREL'S CURSE. FROM UHLAND, 177

THE MINE, THE FOREST, AND THE CORDILLERA, 179

"MORIAMUR PRO REGE NOSTRO," 194

MESMERIC MOUNTEBANKS, 223

COOKERY AND CIVILISATION, 238

THE LATE AND THE PRESENT MINISTRY, 249

EDINBURGH:

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, 45, GEORGE STREET;

AND 37, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.

_To whom all Communications (post paid) must be addressed._

SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.

PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND HUGHES, EDINBURGH.

BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

NO. CCCLXX. AUGUST, 1846. VOL. LX.

THE ARMY.[1]

When we glance back at the bright page of British military history, so

thickly strewn with triumphs, so rarely checkered by a reverse, it seems

paradoxical to assert that the English are not a military nation. Such,

nevertheless, is the case. Our victories have been the result of no

especial fitness for the profession of arms, but of dauntless spirit and

cool stubborn courage, characterising the inhabitants of the narrow island

that breeds very valiant children. Mere bravery, however heroic, does not

of itself constitute an aptitude for the soldier's trade. Other qualities

are needful--qualities conspicuous in many European nations, but less

manifest in the Englishman. Naturally military nations are those of

France, the Highlands of Scotland, Poland, and Switzerland--every one of

them affording good specimens of the stuff peculiarly fitted for the

manufacture of soldiers. They all possess a martial bent, a taste for the

military career, submitting willingly to its hardships and privations, and

are endowed with a faculty of acquiring the management of offensive

weapons, with which for the most part they become acquainted early in

life. A system of national conscription, like that established in many

continental countries, is the readiest and surest means of giving a

military tone to the character of a people, and of increasing the civil

importance and respectability of an army. But without proceeding to so

extreme a measure, other ways may be devised of producing, as far as is

desirable, similar results.

We appeal to all intelligent observers, and especially to military men,

whom travel or residence upon the Continent have qualified to judge,

whether in any of the great European states the soldier has hitherto

obtained so little of the public attention and solicitude as in England?

Whether in any country he is so completely detached from the population,

enjoying so little sympathy, in all respects so uncared for and unheeded

by the masses, and, we are sorry to say it, often so despised and looked

down upon, even by those classes whence he is taken? Let war call him to

the field, and for a moment he forces attention: his valour is extolled,

his fortitude admired, his sufferings are pitied. But when peace, bought

by his bravery and blood, is concluded, what ensues? Houses of Parliament

thank and commend him, towns illuminate in honour of his deeds, pensions

and peerages are showered upon his chiefs, perhaps some brief indulgence

is accorded to himself; but it is a nine days' wonder, and those elapsed,

no living creature, save barrack masters, inspecting officers, and

Horse-guards authorities, gives him another thought, or wastes a moment

upon the consideration of what might render him a happier and a better

man. Like a well-tried sabre that has done its work and for the present

may lie idle, he is shelved in the barrack room, to be occasionally

glanced at with pride and satisfaction. Hilt and scabbard are, it is true,

kept carefully polished--drill and discipline are maintained; but

insufficient pains are taken to ascertain whether rust corrodes the blade,

whether the trusty servant, whose achievements have been so glorious and

advantageous, does not wear out his life in discouragement and

despondency. But this state of things, we hope and believe, is about to

change. We rejoice to see a daily increasing disposition on the part of

English legislators and of the English nation, to investigate and amend

the condition of their gallant defenders. If war is justly considered the

natural state of an army,[2] peace, on the other hand, is the best time to

moot and discuss measures likely to raise its character and increase its

efficiency.

We do not fear to be accused of advocating change for its own sake, or

what is vulgarly nicknamed Reform, in any of the institutions of this

country, whether civil or military. But we rejoice at the appearance of

books calculated to direct attention, we will not say to the abuses of the

army, but to its possible improvement. And we know no class of men better

qualified to write such books than army surgeons, whose occupations, when

attached to regiments, bring them of necessity into more frequent contact

with a greater variety of men, and to a more intimate acquaintance with

the soldier's real character and feelings, than the duties of field or

company officers in our service either exact or permit.

"To obviate the reproaches I may encounter for presuming to write upon

subjects altogether military, I may be allowed to state, that during a

quarter of a century that I served with the armies of the country, I

officiated as surgeon of three different regiments in different parts of

the world. I embarked nine times from the shores of Britain with armaments

on foreign expeditions, and out of twenty-four years' actual service, (for

the year of the peace of Amiens has to be deducted,) I spent seventeen

years, or parts of them, in other climates, passing through every grade of

medical rank, in every variety of service, even to the sister service of

the navy."--DR. FERGUSSON. _Preface._

These are the men, or we greatly err, to write books about the army. They

may not be conversant with tactics in the field, although even of those,

unless they wilfully shut both eyes and ears, they can hardly avoid

acquiring some knowledge. But on other matters connected with soldiers and

armies, they must be competent to speak, and should be listened to as

authorities. We look upon Dr Fergusson's testimony, and upon the

information--the result of his vast experience--which he gives us in

concise form and plain language, as most valuable; although some of the

changes he suggests have been accomplished, wholly or partially, since his

book was written. Mr Marshall's opportunities of personal observation

have, we suspect, been less extensive; but to atone for such deficiency,

he has been a diligent reader, and he places before us a host of military

authorities, references and statistical tables. The value of his

authorities may, perhaps, here and there be questioned; and he sometimes

gives, in the form of extracts, statements unauthenticated by a name, but

of which he does not himself seem to accept the responsibility.

Nevertheless, his book has merit, and is not unlikely to accomplish both

the objects proposed by its author,--namely, "to supply some information

respecting the constitution, laws, and usages of the army, and to excite

attention to the means which may meliorate the condition of soldiers, and

exalt their moral and intellectual character."

These are three measures whose adoption would, we fully believe, elevate

the character of the British soldier, increase his self-respect and

willingness to serve, and, consequently, his efficiency in the field and

good conduct in quarters. They will not be thought the worse of, we are

sure, because they would assimilate the organization of our army to that

of certain foreign services. The day is gone by when prejudice prevented

Englishmen from adopting improvements, merely because they were based upon

foreign example. The measures referred to, and whose adoption we would

strenuously urge, are--first, the enlistment of soldiers for limited

periods only; secondly, the total abolition of corporal punishment;

thirdly, the increase of rewards, and especially a gradual and cautious

augmentation of the number of commissions given to non-commissioned

officers. Be it understood that we recommend these changes collectively,

and not separately. They hinge upon each other, particularly the two last;

and if one of them be refused, the others may require modification.

By the British constitution, no man may sell himself to unlimited

servitude. On what grounds, then, is the practice of enlistment for life

to be justified; and can it be justified upon any, even upon those of

expediency? Ought not the thoughtless and the destitute--for under these

heads the majority of recruits must at present be ranked--rather to be

protected against themselves, and preserved, as far as may be, from the

consequences of non-reflection and of want? Such is assuredly the duty of

a just and paternal government. Very different is the practice of this

country under the present system! Influenced by a boyish caprice, or

driven by necessity, an inexperienced lad takes the shilling and mounts

the cockade. After a while he gets weary of the service; perhaps he sees

opportunities, if once more a civilian, of making his way in the world.

But weary though he be, or eagerly as he may desire to strip off the

uniform assumed hastily, or by compulsion of circumstances, no perspective

of release encourages him to patient endurance. No hope of emancipation,

so long as his health holds good, or his services are found useful, smiles

to him in the distance. After twenty-one years he _may_ obtain his

discharge, as a favour, but without pension. After twenty-five years, if

discharged at his own request, he gets sixpence a-day! Truly a cheering

prospect and great encouragement, to be liberated in the decline of life,

any trade that he had learned as a boy forgotten, and with sixpence a-day

as sole reward for having fought the battles and mounted the guards of his

country during a quarter of a century! What are the frequent results of so

gloomy a perspective? Despondency, desertion, drunkenness, and even

suicide.

The British army, its strength considered, and in comparison with the

armies of other countries, is, undeniably, a very expensive establishment,

and the necessity of economy has been urged as an argument in favour of

unlimited enlistment. The evidence both of Dr Fergusson and of Mr Marshall

goes far to prove that one more fallacious was never advanced. Innumerable

are the artifices resorted to by soldiers, under the present system, in

the hope of obtaining their discharge--artifices sometimes successful,

frequently entailing expense on the government, and at times almost

impairing the efficiency of an army. Speaking of the last war, Dr

Fergusson says,--"Artificial ulcers of the legs were all but universal

amongst young recruits, and spurious ophthalmia was organised in

conspiracy so complicated and extended, that at one time it threatened

seriously to affect the general efficiency of the forces, and was in every

respect so alarming that the then military authorities durst not expose

its naked features to the world. These are the results, and ever will be

the results, whilst human nature is constituted as it is, of service for

life." That unlimited service is the chief cause of desertion may be

proved beyond a doubt, if there be any value in the statistics of armies

as given by Mr Marshall. In the year 1839, the mean strength of the French

army was three hundred and seventeen thousand five hundred and

seventy-eight men; the number condemned for desertion was six hundred and

six. Eight hundred and eighty-one conscripts were punished for failing to

join their corps. In the same year, in our army, of which the strength

was less than one third of the French--under one hundred thousand men--the

deserters punished amounted to two thousand one hundred and ten, or nearly

one-fifth of the number of recruits annually raised. Where must we seek

the cause of so monstrous a disparity? Chiefly in the difference of the

term of service. The English soldier is by far the best paid and rationed;

most of his comforts are more cared for than those of the Frenchman; but

the latter takes his service kindly, because he knows that in six or seven

years (the period varies a little according to the arm served in) he will

be free to return to civil life, whilst still at an age to begin the world

on his own account. The following extract from the _Military Miscellany_

illustrates and confirms our present argument, that unlimited enlistment

is no saving to the country.

"I have no adequate materials to enable me to state the mean duration of

service of men who enlist for the army; but I am disposed to conjecture

that it is not much, if at all, above ten years. It has, I believe, been

ascertained, that the average length of service performed by men now on

the permanent pension list, is about fifteen or sixteen years. Upon these

grounds I conclude that enlistment for life, as a means of obtaining an

average length of service of more than from ten to twelve years, is a

fallacy; and consequently, I submit whether it would not be an advisable

measure to abolish enlistment for an unlimited period, and to adopt a

regulation whereby a soldier might have the option of being discharged

after a certain length of service, say ten years."

In estimating the average duration of service at ten to twelve years, Mr

Marshall has, we conjecture, taken into consideration the men discharged

under fifteen years' service, before which time they would not be entitled

to a pension. To the ten years' enlistment proposed by him, we should

prefer the term of seven years, fixed by Mr Wyndham's bill, passed in

1806, but rendered nugatory in 1808, by a clause in Lord Castlereagh's

Military bill, which made it optional to enlist for life, adding the

temptation of a higher bounty. The latter bait, aided by the

thoughtlessness of recruits, and by the cajolery of recruiting sergeants,

caused the engagement to be almost invariably for life. And since then,

Horse-guards' orders have been issued, forbidding recruiting officers to

accept men for limited service. According to Mr Wyndham's plan, the seven

years' engagement was to be prolonged indefinitely in war time. We should

not object to the latter arrangement, which is necessary for the safety of

the country. Nor is it when actively engaged in the field that soldiers

are likely to repine at length of service, but in the tedium of a

garrison, when no change, or prospect of one, no opportunity of

distinction, or chance of promotion, relieves the monotony of a military

existence.

There is one advantage of short enlistments that has been overlooked both

by Dr Fergusson and by Mr Marshall, but which nevertheless is, in our

opinion, an important one. It is the increased military character that it

would give to the nation, the greater number of men whom it would

familiarize with the use of arms, and render competent to use them

effectually at a moment's notice. We believe that short enlistments, and

the other improvements already referred to, and which we shall presently

speak of at greater length, would produce, in this thickly peopled

kingdom, a regular annual supply of recruits, a large proportion of them

of a very superior class to those who now offer. On the other hand, the

army, instead of being thinned by desertions, transportations, and feigned

diseases, would each year give up from its ranks a number of young and

able-bodied men, who, whilst entering upon the occupations of civil life,

would in a great measure retain their soldierly qualities, and be ready,

in case of an emergency, to stand forward successfully in defence of their

homes and families. We have long been accustomed to look upon this country

as guaranteed from invasion by her wooden walls. Noble as the bulwark is,

there is no dissembling the fact, that its efficiency has been greatly

impaired by the progress of steam, rendering it extremely difficult, in

case of a war, effectually to guard our long line of coast. And although

Europe seems now as disinclined for war as a long experience of the

blessings of peace can render her, this happy state cannot, in the nature

of things, last for ever. Let us suppose a general war, and a large body

of French troops thrown upon our shores in a night, whilst our armies were

absent on the battle fields of the Continent, or of America. The

supposition is startling, but cannot be viewed as absurd; many looked upon

its realization as certain when circumstances were far less favourable to

it than they would now be. How far would volunteers and militiamen,

hastily raised, unaccustomed to services in the field, and many of whom

had never fired a ball-cartridge in their lives,[3] be able to cope, with

any chance of success, with fifty thousand French soldiers? And admitting

that they did successfully contend, and that superior numbers and

steadfast courage--although these, without good drill and discipline, are

of little avail against a veteran army--eventually gained the day, how

much more effective would they be, and how much loss of life and injury to

the country might be avoided, did their ranks contain a fair proportion of

men trained to arms, and able to instruct and encourage their comrades?

But these are subjects so suggestive as to afford themes for volumes,

where they might be better discussed than in the scanty pages of a review.

We can only afford to glance at them, and to throw out hints for others to

improve upon.

The liability to the lash, inflicted, until very recently, even for the

least disgraceful offences, has long been thrown in the teeth of the

British soldier by his foreign brethren in arms. That infamous punishment

has been utterly disapproved and eloquently argued against by military men

of high rank and great abilities, whose enlightened minds and long

experience taught them to condemn it. The feeling of the nation is

strongly against it, the armies of other countries are seen to flourish

and improve without it, and yet it is still maintained, although gradually

sinking into disuse, and, we hope and believe, drawing near to its

abolition. Unnecessarily cruel as a punishment, ineffectual as an example

to repress crime, and stamping the indelible brand of infamy on men the

soul of whose profession should be a feeling of honour, why is it so

lovingly and tenaciously clung to? "The service would go to the

devil--could not be carried on without it--no soldiering without

flogging," is the reply of a section of officers--the minority, we

assuredly believe. "No one can doubt," says Dr Fergusson, "that for

infamous crimes there ought to be infamous punishments, and to them let

the lash be restricted." Be it so, but then devise some plan by which the

soldier, whose offence is so disgraceful as to need the most humiliating

of chastisements, shall be thenceforward excluded from the army. When he

leaves the hospital, let his discharge be handed to him. "A fine plan,

indeed!" it will be said. "Men will incur a flogging every day to get out

of the service." Doubtless they will, so long as service is unlimited. And

this is one reason why short enlistments and abolition of corporal

punishment should go together. Against desertion, transportation has

hitherto been found an ineffectual remedy. If men were enlisted for seven

years only, it would cease to be so. Few would then be sufficiently

perverse to risk five or seven years' transportation in order to get rid

of what remained of their period of service. To flog for drunkenness,

however frequent the relapse, is an absurdity, for it usually drives the

culprit to habits of increased intemperance, that he may forget the

disgraceful punishment he has suffered. In war time, when in the field

before the enemy, discipline should assume its most Spartan and inflexible

aspect. The deserter, the mutineer, the confirmed marauder, to the

provost-marshal and cord. For minor offences, there would be no difficulty

in finding appropriate punishments; such as fines, imprisonment in irons,

extra guards and pickets, fatigue-duty, and the like. No military

offenders should be punished by the cat. It is in direct opposition to the

spirit by which armies should be governed: a spirit of honour and

self-respect.

"The incorrigible deserter," says Dr Fergusson, "may be safely committed

to penal service in the West Indies or the coast of Africa; and should the

pseudo-philanthropists interfere with the cant of false humanity, let them

be told that the best and bravest of our troops have too often been sent

there, as to posts of honour and duty, from which they are hereafter to be

saved by the substitution of the criminal and the worthless. The other

nations of the Continent, who have not these outlets, conduct the

discipline of their armies without flogging; and why should not we? They,

it may be said, cultivate the point of honour. And does not the germ of

pride and honour reside as well, and better, in the breast of the British

soldier, distinguished, as he has ever been, for fidelity to his colours,

obedience to his commanders, pride in his corps, and attachment to its

very name?"

Mr Marshall's history of punishments in the army is rather to be termed

curious than useful. Agreeable it certainly cannot be considered, except

by those persons, if such there be, who luxuriate in Fox's _Book of

Martyrs_, or gloat over the annals of the Spanish Inquisition. It shows

human ingenuity taxed to the utmost to invent new tortures for the

soldier. The last adhered to, and, it may safely be said, the worst

devised, is the lash; and we need look back but a very little way to find

its infliction carried to a frightful extent. A thousand lashes used to be

no unusual award; and it sometimes happened (frequently, Mr Marshall

asserts, but this other information induces us to doubt) that a man who

had been unable, with safety to his life, to receive the whole of the

punishment at one time, was brought out again, as soon as his back was

skinned over, to take the rest. At one time there was no limit to the

number of lashes that a general court-martial might award. Mr Marshall

says, that at Amboyna, in the year 1813 or 1814, he knew three men to be

condemned to fifteen hundred lashes each. The whole punishment was

inflicted. At Dinapore, on the 12th September 1825, a man was sentenced to

nineteen hundred lashes, which sentence the commander-in-chief commuted to

twelve hundred. Such sentences, however, were in direct contradiction to

the general order of the 30th January 1807, by which "his Majesty was

graciously pleased to express his opinion, that no sentence for corporal

punishment should exceed one thousand lashes." In 1812, when the powers

of a regimental court-martial had been limited to the infliction of three

hundred lashes, "many old officers believed, and did not hesitate to say,

that such limitation would destroy the discipline of the

army."--(_Marshall_, p. 185.) We cannot put the same faith that Mr

Marshall appears to do in the outrageous narratives of some of his

authorities. It is impossible, for instance, to swallow such a tale as we

find at page 267 of the _Military Miscellany_, of seventy men of one

battalion being flogged on the line of march in one day. This, however, is

only given as an _on dit_. Equally incredible is the story quoted from the

book of a certain Sergeant Teesdale, of ten to twenty-five men being

flogged daily for six weeks for coming dirty on parade; and another, which

Mr Marshall tells, of _seventeen thousand_ lashes being for some time the

monthly allowance of a regiment in India--the said regiment being, we are

informed, treated very little worse than its neighbours. The articles of

war, as they stand at the present day, restrict the award of corporal

punishment, by a general court-martial, to two hundred lashes; by a

district court-martial, to one hundred and fifty; and by a regimental

court, to one hundred.

We would put the question to any military man--even to the strongest

advocate of flogging--what is the usual effect of corporal punishment on

the soldier? Does it make or mar him, improve his character and correct

his vices, or render him more reckless and abandoned than before? The

conscientious answer would be, we are persuaded, that seldom is a good

soldier made of a flogged man. "There is not an instance in a thousand,"

says Dr Jackson, "where severe punishment (flogging is here referred to)

has made a soldier what he ought to be; there are thousands where it has

rendered those who were forgetful and careless, rather than vicious,

insensible to honour, and abandoned to crime." But then the example is

supposed, erroneously, as we believe, to be of good operation. We cannot

admit that, to justify the practice of marking a man's shoulders with the

ineffaceable stripes of disgrace.

In speaking of corporal punishment, we have considered only its moral

effect, and have not touched on the unnecessary and unequal amount of pain

it occasions. Much might be said upon this head. "My first objection to

flogging," says Sir Charles Napier, in his treatise "_On Military Law_,"

published in 1837, "is, that it is torture,"--using the word, no doubt, in

the sense of inhumanity, and meaning that more pain than is necessary is

inflicted. Sir Charles's second objection is, that it is torture of a very

unequal infliction--varying, of course, according to the strength of the

drummers or others employed, to the rigour of the drum-major

superintending their exertions, and to other circumstances. Mr Marshall

tells us that different men suffer in very different degrees from

punishment of like severity. Tall slender men, of a sanguine temperament,

feel a flogging more severely than short, thickset ones; and instances

have been known of soldiers succumbing under a sixth part of the

punishment which others have borne and rapidly recovered from. The

presence of a surgeon is in many cases no guarantee against a fatal

result. "It is impossible to say what may be the effect of corporal

infliction with more certainty than to predict the consequences of a

surgical operation."--(_Military Miscellany_, p. 224.) "No medical officer

can answer either for the immediate or ultimate consequences of this

species of corporal punishment. Inflammation of the back, or general

fever, may occur after a very moderate infliction, and may terminate

fatally, notwithstanding the greatest diligence and attention on the part

of a well-informed and conscientious surgeon."--(_Ibid._ p. 276.) Besides

the reasons against corporal punishment above stated, Sir Charles Napier

advances and supports by argument six others equally cogent. Gustavus

Adolphus of Sweden, although he introduced into his army the species of

flogging known as the gantlope or gauntlet, rarely had recourse to it,

being persuaded that "such a disgrace cast a damp upon the soldier's

vivacity, and did not well agree with the notions which a high spirit

ought to entertain of honour." "Il ne faut point," says Kirckhoff, a

medical officer in the army of the king of the Netherlands, quoted by Mr

Marshall, "soumettre le soldat fautif a des punitions avilissantes. A quoi

bon les coups de baton qu'on donne trop legerement au soldat, si ce n'est

pour l'abrutir, et pour deshonorer le noble etat du defenseur de la

patrie? Ce genre de punition deshonorant ne devrait etre reserve qu'aux

laches et aux traitres; et des qu'une fois un militaire l'aurait subi, il

faudrait l'exclure a jamais d'un ordre auquel les destins d'une nation

sont confies; d'un ordre qui a pour base le courage, l'honneur, et toutes

les vertus genereuses."

It is singular that whilst such remarkable ingenuity has been exhibited in

devising punishments for the soldier, so very little should have been

displayed in the invention of rewards. Of these latter, the most

legitimate and desirable are pensions and promotion. We would add a

third--a military order of merit to be bestowed upon men distinguishing

themselves by acts of gallantry, or by steady good conduct. Decorations of

this kind--we are convinced of it by our observations on various foreign

services--act as a strong incentive to the soldier. There exists in this

country a prejudice against their adoption, principally because we are

accustomed to see such rewards heaped without discrimination, and with a

profusion that renders them worthless, upon the soldiers of foreign

nations. There seems a natural tendency to the abuse of such institutions,

and Napoleon might well shudder were he to rise from his grave and see his

"Star of the Brave" dangling from the buttonhole of half the pamphleteers

and national guardsmen of the French capital. In other countries the

lavish profusion with which stars, crosses, riband-ends, and rosettes are

bestowed, is enough to raise a suspicion of collusion between the royal

donors and the jewellers and haberdashers of their dominions. But even

when largely distributed, we believe them to act as a spur to the soldier.

If there is a fear of England's becoming what we find so ridiculous in

others, a country where the non-decorated amongst military men are the

exception, let great caution be used in the bestowal of such honours. We

now refer to an order of merit for the soldiers only. With officers we

have at present nothing to do; although we shall be found upon occasion

equally ready and willing to support their just claims. But they can plead

their own cause, if not effectually, at least perseveringly, as the recent

numerous letters in newspapers, and articles in military periodicals,

claiming a decoration for Peninsular services, sufficiently prove. Such a

decoration was certainly nobly deserved, but, if conceded at all, it

should be given quickly, or its existence, it is to be feared, will be

very brief. Our present business, however, is with the soldier--the humble

private, the deserving non-commissioned officer.

It is not unnatural that when tardy reflection comes to the thoughtless

lad who has sold himself to unlimited military bondage, he should be

anxious to know what provision is made for him when age or disease shall

cause his services to be dispensed with. Inquiry or reference informs him,

that should he be discharged after fourteen and under twenty-one years

service, so far disabled as to be _unable to work_--this is a

condition--he may be awarded the magnificent sum of from sixpence to

eightpence a-day! Discharged under twenty-one years' service, as disabled

for the army only, he may get a temporary pension of sixpence a-day for a

period varying from one month to five years. Discharged by indulgence

after twenty-five years, he may receive sixpence a-day. We have already

remarked on the little heed taken by civilians in this country of the

treatment and ordinances of the army. These statements will probably be

new to most of our non-military readers, many of whom, we doubt not,

entertain an absurd notion, that when a man has served his country well

and faithfully during twenty-five years, or is dismissed, as unable to

work, after fourteen years' servitude, he invariably finds a snug berth

ready for him at Chelsea, or at least has a pension awarded to him

tolerably adequate to supply him with the bare necessaries of life, and to

keep him from begging or crossing-sweeping. As to the savings of soldiers

out of their pay, facilitated though they now are by the establishment of

savings' banks in the army, they can be but exceedingly small. A soldier's

pay varies from thirteen to fifteen pence, according to the time he has

served. Deduct from this the cost of his clothing, only a portion of which

is supplied to him free of charge, and sixpence a-day for his rations of

bread and meat, and what remains will frequently not exceed threepence

a-day for tobacco, vegetables, coffee, and other small necessaries. The

great difference between the pay, rations, and pensions of soldiers and

sailors, is not generally known. Besides receiving rations far more

abundant and varied, an able seaman gets thirty-four shillings per month

of twenty-eight days, more than double the pay of a soldier under seven

years' service. Seamen have a claim of right to be discharged after

twenty-one years' service with a pension of one shilling to fourteen pence

a-day. And, besides this, it must be remembered that a sailor may enlist

for a short time, and at its expiration, or at any time that he is

discharged, employment is open to him in the merchant service. But what is

the soldier to do when dismissed from the army at forty years of age or

upwards? "A very small number of men," says Mr Marshall, "are fit after

forty years of age for the arduous duties of the service." Surely it may

be claimed for our brave fellows that a more liberal system of pensioning

be adopted. We do not lose sight of the necessity of economy in these days

of heavy taxation; and before deciding on a plan, the matter should be

well sifted and considered. But we have already expressed our conviction

that limited service would of itself in various ways produce a pecuniary

saving to the government. Adequate pensions would have other beneficial

results. Mr Marshall throws out suggestions for a new scale of pensions,

and declares his opinion, that no man who has served twenty-one years

should receive a smaller allowance than a shilling a-day.

"The more striking," he proceeds to say, "the honourable example of an old

soldier enjoying his pension, the more likely is it to contribute to

spread a military feeling in the neighbourhood. But to repay the retired

soldier by a pension inadequate to his sustenance, must have the effect of

consigning him to the workhouse, and of sinking him and the army in the

estimation of the working class of the population; destroying all military

feeling, and, whilst the soldier is serving, weakening those important

aids to discipline--the cheerfulness and satisfaction which the prospect

of a pension, after a definite period, inspires."

We now come to a branch of our subject encompassed with peculiar

difficulties, and that will be met with many objections; the present

system of disposing of commissions in the army is too convenient and

agreeable to a large and influential class of the community for it to be

otherwise. The most important part of the proposed scheme of rewards is

the bestowing of commissions upon sergeants. We are aware that, in the

present constitution of the army, much may be urged against such a plan

being carried out beyond an exceedingly limited extent. But most of the

objections would, we think, be removed by the adoption and consequences of

limited service, and by the extinction of corporal punishment. Others

would disappear before a greater attention to the education of the

soldier, and before some slight reductions in what are now erroneously

considered the necessary expenses of officers.

Constituted and regulated as the British army now is, the immediate

consequences of enlistment to the young peasant or artisan of previous

respectability is a total breach with his family. However good his

previous character, the single fact of his entering what ought to be an

honourable profession, excludes him from the society and good opinion of

his nearest friends. Former associates shun and look coldly upon him, his

female relatives are ashamed to be seen walking with him, often the door

of his father's cottage or workshop is shut on his approach. The community

in general, there is no dissembling the fact, look upon soldiers as a

degraded class, and upon the recruit as a man consigned to evil company,

to idleness and the alehouse, and perhaps to the ignominy of the lash. To

brand an innocent man as criminal is the way to render him so. Avoided and

despised, the young soldier, to whom bad example is not wanting, speedily

comes to deserve the disreputable character which the mere assumption of a

red coat has caused to be fixed upon him. So long as military service

stands thus low in the opinion of the people, the army will have to

recruit its ranks from the profligate and the utterly destitute, and the

supply of respectable volunteers will be as limited as heretofore. At

present, most young men of a better class whom a temporary impulse, or a

predilection for the service, has induced to enlist, strain every nerve,

when they awake to their real position, to raise funds for their

discharge. In this their friends often aid them; and we have known

instances of incredible sacrifices being made by the poor to snatch a son

or brother from what they looked upon as the jaws of destruction. And thus

is it that a large proportion of the respectable recruits are bought out

after a brief period of service.

Assuming limitation of service and the abolition of corporal punishment to

have been conceded, the next thing demanding attention would be the

education of the soldier. This has hitherto been sadly neglected,

strangely so at a period and in a country where education of the people is

so strongly and generally advocated. The schoolmaster is abroad, we are

told--we should be glad to hear of his visiting the barrack-room. To no

class of the population would a good plain education be more valuable than

to the soldier, as a means of filling up his abundant leisure, of

improving his moral condition, and preserving him from drunkenness and

vice. How extraordinary that its advantages should so long have been

overlooked, even by those to whom they ought to have been the most

palpable. "Of two hundred and fourteen officers," Mr Marshall writes, "who

returned answers to the following query, addressed to them by the General

Commanding in Chief, in 1834, only two or three recommended intellectual,

moral, or religious cultivation as a means of preventing crime:--'Are you

enabled to suggest any means of restraining, or eradicating the propensity

to drunkenness, so prevalent among the soldiery, and confessedly the

parent of the majority of military crimes?' A great variety of penal

enactments were recommended, but no one suggested the school master's

drill but Sir George Arthur and the late Colonel Oglander. The colonel's

words are:--'The only effectual corrective of this, as of every other

vice, is a sound and rational sense of religion. This is the only true

foundation of moral discipline. The establishment of libraries, and the

system of _adult_ schools, would be useful in this view.'" To prevent crime

is surely better than to punish it. Vast pains are taken with the merely

military education of the soldier. A recruit is carefully drilled into the

perpendicular, taught to handle his musket, mount his guards, clean his

accoutrements--converted, in short, into an excellent automaton--and then

he is dismissed as perfect, and left to lounge away, as best he may, his

numerous hours of daily leisure. He has perhaps never been taught to read

and write, or may possess those accomplishments but imperfectly. What more

natural than to encourage, and, if necessary, to compel him to acquire

them, together with such other useful scholarship as it may be desirable

for him to possess? Education would be especially valuable under a system

of limited service. The soldier, leaving the army when still a young man,

would be better fitted than before he entered it, for any trade or

occupation he might adopt. And when the lower classes found that military

service was made a medium for the communication of knowledge, and that

their sons, after seven years passed under the colours, were better able

to get through the world advantageously and creditably than when they

enlisted, the present strong prejudice against a soldier's life would

rapidly become weakened, and finally disappear. The army would then be

looked upon by poor men with large families as no undesirable resource

for temporarily providing for one or two of their sons.

It is certainly not creditable to this country, that in France, Prussia,

Holland, and even in Russia--that land of the serf and the Cossack--greater

pains are taken with the education of the soldier than in free and

enlightened England. It has become customary to compare our navy with that

of France, and when we are found to have a carronade or a cock-boat less

than our friends across the water, a shout of indignation is forthwith set

up by vigilant journalists and nervous naval officers. We heartily wish

that it were equally usual to contrast our army with that of the

French--not in respect of numbers, but of the attention paid to the

education and moral discipline of the men. Every French regiment has two

schools, a higher and a lower one. In the latter are taught reading,

writing, and arithmetic; in the former, geography, book-keeping, the

elements of geometry and fortification, and other things equally useful.

The schools are managed by lieutenants, aided by non-commissioned

officers; and sergeants recommended for commissions are required to pass

an examination in the branches of knowledge there taught. It is well known

that in the French service, as in most others, excepting the English, a

proportion of the commissions is set aside for the sergeants. In the

Prussian service there is a school in each battalion, superintended by a

captain and three lieutenants, who receive additional pay for alternately

taking a share in the instruction of the soldiers. "Non-commissioned

officers," Mr Marshall informs us, "who wish to become officers, first

undergo an examination in geography, history, simple mathematics, and the

French and German languages. At the end of another year they are again

examined in the same branches of knowledge, and also in algebra, military

drawing, and fortification. If they pass this second examination, they

become officers."

How many of the young men, who, by virtue of interest or money, enter the

British army as ensigns and cornets, would be found willing to devote even

a small portion of their time to the instruction of the soldier? Very few,

we fear. By the majority, the idea would be scouted as a bore, and as

quite inconsistent with their dignity. Extra pay, however acceptable to

the comparatively needy Prussian lieutenant, might be expected to prove an

insufficient inducement in a service where it is frequently difficult to

find a subaltern to accept the duties of adjutant. None can entertain a

higher respect than we do for the gallant spirit and many excellent

qualities of the present race of British officers; but we confess a wish

that they would view their profession in a more serious light. Young men

entering the army seemingly imagine, that the sole object of their so

doing is to wear a well-made uniform, and dine at a pleasant mess; and

that, once dismissed to their duty by the adjutant, they may fairly

discard all idea of self-instruction and improvement. But war is an art,

and therefore its principles can be acquired but by study. Our young

officers too often neglect not only their military studies, but their

mental improvement in other respects; forgetting that the most valuable

part of a man's education is not that acquired at a public school before

the age of eighteen, but that which he bestows upon himself after that

age. The former is the foundation; the latter the fabric to be raised upon

it. We have known instances of smart subs deft upon parade, brilliants in

the ball-room, perfect models of a pretty soldier from plume to boot-heel,

so supremely ignorant of the common business of life as to be unable to

write a letter without a severe effort, or to draw a bill upon their

agents when no one was at hand to instruct them in its form. It was but

the other day that an officer related to us, that, being detached on an

outpost in one of our colonies, he found himself in company with two

brother subalterns, both most anxious to make a call upon their father's

strong-box, but totally ignorant how to effect the same. Their spirit was

very willing, but their pen lamentably weak; their exchequer was

exhausted, and in their mind's-eye the paternal coffers stood invitingly

open; but nevertheless they sat helpless, ruefully contemplating oblong

slips of blank paper, until our friend, whose experience as a man of

business was somewhat greater, extricated them from their painful dilemma,

by drawing up the necessary document at _thirty days' sight_. In this

particular view, want of skill as a "pen and ink man" would probably not

be regretted by those most interested in their sons; and doubtless many

_governors_ would exclaim, as fervently as Lord Douglas in _Marmion_,

"Thanks to St Bothan, son of mine

Could never pen a written line!"

Seriously speaking, a graver and more studious tone is wanted in our

service. It is found in the military services of other countries. German

and French officers take their calling far more _au serieux_ than do ours.

They find abundant time for pleasure, but also for solitude and reading,

and for attention to the improvement of the soldier. Dressing, dining, and

cigars, and beating the pavements of a garrison town with his boot-heels,

ought not to fill up the whole time of a subaltern officer. That in this

country they usually do so, will be admitted by all who have had

opportunities of observing young English officers in peace time. We could

bring hosts of witnesses in support of our assertion, but will content

ourselves with one whose competency to judge in such matters will not be

disputed. The following passages are from Major-General Sir George

Arthur's "General Observations upon Military Discipline, and the

Intellectual and Moral Improvement of both Officers and Soldiers."

"I have said that education is essential, as well as moral character, and

so it is. Look into the habits of the officers of almost every regiment in

His Majesty's service--how are they formed? Do men study at all after they

get commissions? Very far from it; unless an officer is employed in the

field, his days are passed in mental idleness--his ordinary duties are

carried on instinctively--there is no intellectual exertion. To discuss

fluently upon women, play, horses, and wine, is, with some excellent

exceptions, the ordinary range of mess conversation. In these matters lie

the education of young officers, generally speaking, after entering the

service."

"If the officers were not seen so habitually walking in the streets in

every garrison town, the soldiers would be less frequently found in

public-houses."

The influence of example is great, especially when exercised by those whom

we are taught to look up to and respect. A change in the habits of

officers will go far to produce one in those of their men. French

officers, of whom we are sure that no British officer who has met them,

either in the field or in quarters, will speak without respect, feel a

pride and a pleasure in the instruction of the soldier, and take pains to

induce him to improve his mind, holding out as an incentive the prospect

of promotion. And such interest and solicitude produce, amongst other good

effects, an affectionate feeling on the part of the soldier towards his

superiors, which, far from interfering with discipline, makes him perform

his duties, often onerous and painful, with increased zeal and good-will.

For the want of this kindly sympathy between different ranks, and of the

moral instruction which, by elevating their character, would go far to

produce it, our soldiers are converted into mere machines, unable even to

think, often forbidden so to do. We are convinced that attention to the

education of the soldier, introduced simultaneously with short enlistments

and abolition of flogging, would speedily create in the army of this

country a body of non-commissioned officers, who, when promoted, would

disgrace no mess-table in the service. With the prospect of the epaulet

before them, they would strive to improve themselves, and to become fit

society for the men of higher breeding and education with whom they hoped

one day to be called upon to associate. For, if it be painful and

unpleasant to a body of gentlemen to have a coarse and ill-mannered man

thrust upon them, it is certainly not less so to the intruder, if he

possess one spark of feeling, to find himself shunned and looked coldly

upon by his new associates. The total abolition of corporal punishment is,

we consider, a necessary preliminary to promotion from the ranks on an

extensive scale. We were told four years ago, in the House of Commons,

during a debate on the Mutiny bill, that there were then in the British

army four colonels who were flogged men. Many will remember the story

related in a recent military publication, of the old field-officer who,

one day at the mess-table, or amongst a party of his comrades, declared

himself in favour of corporal punishment, on the ground that he himself

had never been worth a rush till he had taken his cool three hundred.

During a long war, abounding in opportunities of distinction, and at a

time when the lash was the universal punishment for nearly every offence,

it is not surprising that here and there a flogged man got his commission.

But, in our opinion, not only the circumstance of having been flogged, but

the mere liability to so degrading an infliction, might plausibly be urged

as an argument against promotion from the ranks. Let the lash, then, at

once and totally disappear; replace torture by instruction, hold out

judicious rewards instead of disgraceful punishment, appeal to the sense

of honour of the man, instead of to the sense of pain of the brute; and,

repudiating the harsh traditions of less enlightened days, lay it down as

an axiom, that the British soldier can and will fight at least as well

under a mild and generous system, as when the bloody thongs of the cat are

suspended _in terrorem_ over him.

The physical as well as moral training of the soldier should receive

attention, as a means both of filling up his time, thereby keeping him

from the alehouse, and of increasing his efficiency in the field. At

present the marching qualities of our armies are very far inferior to

their fighting ones. In the latter, they are surpassed by none--in the

former, equal to few. And yet how important is it that troops should be

able to perform long and rapid marches! The fate of a campaign, the

destruction of an enemy's army, may, and often does depend upon a forced

march. At that work there is scarcely an army in Europe worth the naming,

but would beat us, at least at the commencement of a war, and until our

soldiers had got their marching legs--a thing not done in a day, or

without great loss and inconvenience by straggling. Foot-sore men are

almost as great a nuisance and encumbrance to infantry, as sore-backed

horses to dragoons. Our soldiers are better fed than those of most other

countries, and to keep them in hard and serviceable condition they require

more exercise than they get. French soldiers are encouraged to practice

athletic exercises and games; running, quoit-playing, and fencing, the

latter especially, are their constant pastimes. Most of them are expert

swordsmen, no valueless accomplishment even to the man whose usual weapons

are musket and bayonet, but one that in our infantry regiments is

frequently neglected even by those whose only arm is the sword, namely,

the officers. Surely the man who carries a sword should know how to use it

in the most effectual manner. Let old officers say on whose side the

advantage usually was in the sword duels that occurred when Paris was

occupied by the Allies, and when the French officers, maddened by their

reverses, sought opportunities of picking quarrels with their conquerors.

The adjutant of a British foot regiment informed us, that on one occasion,

not very long ago, at a review of his corps by an officer of high rank,

the latter, after applauding the performances of the regiment, expressed a

wish to see the officers do the sword exercise. In obedience to orders,

the adjutant called the officers to the front. "I suppose, gentlemen,"

said he, "that few of you know much about the sword exercise." His

assumption was not contradicted. "Probably, your best plan will be to

watch the sergeant-major and myself." And accordingly adjutant and

sergeant-major placed themselves in front of each flank, and the officers,

looking to them as fuglemen, went through their exercise with great

delicacy and tolerable correctness, to the perfect satisfaction of the

inspecting general, who probably was not disposed to be very captious. But

we are digressing from the subject of the soldier's occupations. In

France, let a military work be required--a wall, road, or

fortification--and the soldiers slip into their working dresses, and

labour at it with a good will produced by additional pay. Thus were the

forts and vast wall now surrounding Paris run up in wonderfully short time

by the exertions of the soldiery. In all German garrison towns, we

believe--certainly in all that we have visited--is found an Exercitiums

Platz, a field or plot of ground with bars, poles, and other gymnastic

contrivances, reserved for the troops, who are frequently to be seen

there, amusing themselves, and improving their strength and activity of

body. We are aware of nothing of this kind in our service, beyond a rare

game at cricket, got up by the good-nature of officers. As Dr Fergusson

truly says, "of all European troops, our own appear to be the most

helpless and listless in their quarters. Whilst the soldiers of other

nations employ their leisure hours in fencing, gymnastics, and other

exercises of strength, ours are lounging idle, or muddled, awaiting the

hour of their unvaried meal, or the drum being beat for the daily

parades." This might easily be altered. It needs but to be thought of,

which hitherto it appears not to have been. No men are naturally more

adapted and prone to manly exercises than the English. Give the soldier

the opportunity, and he will gladly avail himself of it.

Before closing this paper, a word or two on the equipment and dress of the

army will not be out of place. We are glad to find the opinions we have

long entertained on those subjects confirmed by a pithy and pointed

chapter in Dr Fergusson's book. The externals of the army have of late

been much discussed, and have undergone certain changes, scarcely

deserving the name of improvements. In regulating such matters, three

objects should be kept in view, and their pursuit never departed from;

lightness on the march, protection from the weather, ease of movement. The

attainment of these should be sought by every means; even by the

sacrifice, if necessary, of what pleases the eye. The most heavily laden,

the British soldier is in many respects the most inconveniently equipped,

of all European men-at-arms. The covering of his head, the material and

colour of his belts, the very form of the foot-soldier's overalls, cut

large over the shoe, as if on purpose to become dirty and draggled on the

march, seem selected with a view to occasion him as much uncomfort and

trouble as possible. Time was, when the soldier was compelled to powder

his hair and wear a queue and tight knee breeches, like a dancing master

or a French marquis of the _ancien regime_. For the sweeping away of such

absurdities, which must have been especially convenient and agreeable in a

bivouac; we may thank the Duke of York; but much as has been done, there

is much more to do. And first as regards the unnecessarily heavy belts,

the cumbersome and misplaced cartridge-box. Than the latter it would be

difficult to devise any thing more inconvenient, as all who have seen

British infantry in the field will admit. The soldier has to make a rapid

advance, to pursue a flying enemy, to scud across fields, leap ditches or

jump down banks when out skirmishing. At every spring or jump, bang goes

the lumbering cartridge-box against his posteriors, until he is fain to

use his hand to steady it, thereby of course greatly impeding his

progress, the swiftness and ease of running depending in great measure on

one arm, at least, being at liberty. And then the belts, what an

unnecessary mass of leather is there, all bedaubed with the fictitious

purity of chalk and water. When will the soldier cease to depend for

cleanliness upon pipe-clay, justly styled by Dr Fergusson "as absurd and

unwholesome a nuisance as ever was invented." Had the object been to give

the utmost possible trouble to the infantry-man, no better means could

have been devised than inflicting on him the belts at present used, of all

others the most easily sullied and troublesome to clean. Let a black

patent leather belt and rifleman's cartridge-box be adopted as the

regulation for the whole of the British service. Light to carry,

convenient in form, and easy to clean, it is the perfection of infantry

equipment.

There has recently been a great talk about hats, and various shocking bad

ones have been proposed as a substitute for the old top-heavy shako.

Without entering upon a subject that has already caused so much

controversy, we would point attention to the light shako worn by the

French troops in Algeria. Low, and slightly tapering in form, with a broad

peak projecting horizontally, so as to shade the eyes without embarrassing

the vision, which peaks that droop overmuch are apt to do, its

circumference is of cloth, its crown of thick leather painted white. The

general effect is good, conveying an idea of lightness and convenience,

both of which this head-dress certainly possesses; and it appears to us

that a hint might be taken from it, at any rate, for our troops in India,

and other hot climates. As to fur caps a yard high, and similar

nonsensical exhibitions, we can only say that the sooner they are done

away with, the better for the credit of those who have it in their power

to abolish such gross absurdities. With regard to coats, "I advance no

pretensions," says Dr Fergusson, "to fancy or taste in military dress, but

I ought to know what constitutes cover and protection to the human frame,

and amongst these the swallow-tailed coat of the infantry, pared away as

it is to an absurdity, holds no place. If health and protection were the

object, the coat should be of round cut, to cover the thighs as low as the

knees, with body of sufficient depth to support the unprotected flanks and

abdomen of the wearer." In the French service, frock-coats have of late

been universally adopted. We should prefer a tailed coat of greater

amplitude of skirt and depth of body than the one in present use; for it

is certain, and will be acknowledged by all who have performed marches and

pedestrian excursions, that the skirts of a frock-coat flapping against

the front of the thighs, more or less impede motion and add to fatigue.

Although the form of a soldier's dress is important, for it may make a

considerable difference in his health and comfort, its colour and

ornamental details are a very secondary consideration. It were absurd to

doubt that a British soldier would fight equally well, whatever the tint

of the cloth that covered his stalwart arm and stout heart. Strip him

to-morrow of his scarlet, and he will do his devoir as nobly in the white

jacket of the Austrian grenadier or the brown one of the Portuguese

_cazador_. Such matters, it will be said, may be left to army tailors and

pet colonels of fancy regiments, in conclave assembled. Nevertheless it is

a subject that should not entirely be passed over. Soldiers are apt to

look with disgust and contempt upon equipments that are tawdry and

unserviceable, or that give them unnecessary trouble. They should be

gravely, soberly, and usefully clad, in the garb that may be found most

comfortable and durable in the field, not in that which most flatters the

eye on a Hounslow or Hyde Park parade. Dr Fergusson is amusing enough upon

the subject of hussar pelisses and such-like foreign fooleries.

"The first time I ever saw a hussar, or hulan, was at Ghent, in Flanders,

then an Austrian town; and when I beheld a richly decorated pelisse

waving, empty sleeves and all, from his shoulder, I never doubted that the

poor man must have been recently shot through the arm; a glance, however,

upon a tightly braided sleeve underneath, made it still more

unaccountable; and why he should not have had an additional pair of richly

ornamental breeches dangling at his waist, as well as a jacket from his

shoulders, has, I confess, puzzled me from that time to the present; it

being the first rule of health to keep the upper portion of the body as

cool, and the lower as warm as possible."

The doctor further disapproves of scarlet as a colour for uniform, because

"a man clothed in scarlet exhibits the dress of a mountebank rather than

of a British warrior going forth to fight the battles of his country," and

also "because it is the worst adapted for any hard work of all the

colours, as it immediately becomes shabby and tarnished on being exposed

to the weather; and a single wet night in the bivouac spoils it

completely." Here we must differ from the doctor. The chief advantage of

scarlet, we have always considered, and we believe the same opinion to be

generally held by military men, is that it looks well longer, gets white

and shabby later, than a darker colour. The preparation of the cloth and

mode of dyeing, may, however, have been improved since Dr Fergusson's

period of service. With regard to the colour, there is a popular prejudice

in its favour, associating it as most persons do, from childhood upwards,

with ideas of glory and victory. Had our uniform been yellow for the same

period that it has been red, we should have attached those ideas to the

former colour; but that would be no reason for continuing to dress

soldiers like canary birds. Apart from association, scarlet is unmilitary,

first, because it is tawdry; and, secondly, as rendering the soldier, when

isolated, an easier mark than a less glaring colour. We doubt also, if it

would harmonize well with the black belts, which we desire to see adopted;

and on these various accounts we must give our vote in favour of the sober

blue of the Prussians, assuredly no un-British colour, and one already in

use for many of our cavalry regiments. The Portuguese troops, as they are

now uniformed, or were, when last we saw them, offer no bad model in this

respect. Blue coats and dark grey trousers are the colours of their line

regiments, and these we should like to see adopted in our service,

preserving always the green for the rifles, who ought to be ten times as

numerous as they are, as we shall discover whenever we come to a brush

with the Yankees, or with our old and gallant opponent, Monsieur

Nong-tong-paw. One would have thought that the picking off of our officers

at New Orleans, and on other occasions, and the stinging practice of

French tirailleurs during the last war, would have taught our military

rulers a lesson in this respect; but the contrary seems the case, and on

we go at the old jog-trot, heavy men, heavy equipments, and slow march,

whilst seven-eighths of the French army are practically light infantry,

and it is only the other day that they raised ten new regiments of

sharpshooters, the Chasseurs de Vincennes, or some such name, little light

active riflemen, trained to leap and to march for leagues at double quick,

and who would scamper round a ten acre field whilst a heavy British

grenadier went through his facings. The cool steadiness and indomitable

pluck of our fellows has hitherto carried the day, and will doubtless do

it again when the time comes, but it would be done with greater ease and

less loss if we could condescend to fight our enemy rather more with his

own weapons. _Fas est ab hoste doceri_, is a maxim oftener quoted than

acted upon. But to return to uniforms. The scarlet might be reserved for

the guards--it has always been a guardsman's colour--the blue given to the

line, the green kept for the rifles; black belts on rifle plan for all.

And above all, if it can be done without too great annoyance to tailors,

amateur and professional, deliver us from braided pelisses, bearskin caps,

crimson pantaloons, and all such costly and unserviceable fopperies. Spend

money on the well-being of the soldier, rather than on the smartness of

his uniform; cut down frippery, and increase comfort. Attend less to the

glitter of externals, and more to that moral and intellectual cultivation,

which will convert men now treated as machines, into reasoning and

reasonable creatures, and valuable members of society.

MY COLLEGE FRIENDS. NO. IV.

CHARLES RUSSELL, THE GENTLEMAN-COMMONER.

CHAP. I.

"Have you any idea who that fresh gentleman-commoner is?" said I to

Savile, who was sitting next to me at dinner, one day soon after the

beginning of term. We had not usually in the college above three or four

of that privileged class, so that any addition to their table attracted

more attention than the arrival of the vulgar herd of freshmen to fill up

the vacancies at our own. Unless one of them had choked himself with his

mutton, or taken some equally decided mode of making himself an object of

public interest, scarcely any man of "old standing" would have even

inquired his name.

"Is he one of our men?" said Savile, as he scrutinized the party in

question. "I thought he had been a stranger dining with some of them.

Murray, you know the history of every man who comes up, I believe--who is

he?"

"His name is Russell," replied the authority referred to; "Charles

Wynderbie Russell; his father's a banker in the city: Russell and Smith,

you know, ---- Street."

"Ay, I dare say," said Savile; "one of your rich tradesmen; they always

come up as gentlemen-commoners, to show that they have lots of money: it

makes me wonder how any man of decent family ever condescends to put on a

silk gown." Savile was the younger son of a poor baronet, thirteenth in

descent, and affected considerable contempt for any other kind of

distinction.

"Oh!" continued Murray, "this man is by no means of a bad family: his

father comes of one of the oldest houses in Dorsetshire, and his mother,

you know, is one of the Wynderbies of Wynderbie Court--a niece of Lord De

Staveley's."

"_I_ know!" said Savile; "nay, I never heard of Wynderbie Court in my

life; but I dare say _you_ know, which is quite sufficient. Really,

Murray, you might make a good speculation by publishing a genealogical

list of the undergraduate members of the university--birth, parentage,

family connexions, governors' present incomes, probable expectations, &c.,

&c. It would sell capitally among the tradesmen--they'd know exactly when

it was safe to give credit. You could call it _A Guide to Duns_."

"Or a _History of the_ Un-_landed Gentry_," suggested I.

"Well, he is a very gentleman-like looking fellow, that Mr Russell, banker

or not," said Savile, as the unconscious subject of our conversation left

the hall; "I wonder who knows him?"

The same question might have been asked a week--a month after this

conversation, without eliciting any very satisfactory answer. With the

exception of Murray's genealogical information--the correctness of which

was never doubted for a moment, though how or where he obtained this and

similar pieces of history, was a point on which he kept up an amusing

mystery--Russell was a man of whom no one appeared to know any thing at

all. The other gentlemen-commoners had, I believe, all called upon him, as

a matter of courtesy to one of their own limited mess; but in almost every

case it had merely amounted to an exchange of cards. He was either out of

his rooms, or "sporting oak;" and "Mr C. W. Russell," on a bit of

pasteboard, had invariably appeared in the note-box of the party for whom

the honour was intended, on their return from their afternoon's walk or

ride. Invitations to two or three wine-parties had followed, and been

civilly declined. It was at one of these meetings that he again became the

subject of conversation. We were a large party, at a man of the name of

Tichborne's rooms, when some one mentioned having met "the Hermit," as

they called him, taking a solitary walk about three miles out of Oxford

the day before.

"Oh, you mean Russell," said Tichborne: "well, I was going to tell you, I

called on him again this morning, and found him in his rooms. In fact, I

almost followed him in after lecture; for I confess I had some little

curiosity to find out what he was made of."

"And did you find out?"--"What sort of a fellow is he?" asked half-a-dozen

voices at once; for, to say the truth, the curiosity which Tichborne had

just confessed had been pretty generally felt, even among those who

usually affected a dignified disregard of all matters concerning the

nature and habits of freshmen.

"I sat with him for about twenty minutes; indeed, I should have staid

longer, for I rather liked the lad; but he seemed anxious to get rid of

me. I can't make him out at all, though. I wanted him to come here

to-night, but he positively would not, though he didn't pretend to have

any other engagement: he said he never, or seldom, drank wine."

"Not drink wine!" interrupted Savile. "I always said he was some low

fellow!"

"I have known some low fellows drink their skins full of wine, though;

especially at other men's expense," said Tichborne, who was evidently not

pleased with the remark; "and Russell is _not_ a low fellow by any means."

"Well, well," replied Savile, whose good-humour was imperturbable--"if you

say so, there's an end of it: all I mean to say is, I can't conceive any

man not drinking wine, unless for the simple reason that he prefers brandy

and water, and that I _do_ call low. However, you'll excuse my helping

myself to another glass of this particularly good claret, Tichborne,

though it _is_ at your expense: indeed, the only use of you

gentlemen-commoners, that I am aware of, is to give us a taste of the

senior common-room wine now and then. They do manage to get it good there,

certainly. I wish they would give out a few dozens as prizes at

collections; it would do us a great deal more good than a Russia-leather

book with the college arms on it. I don't know that I shouldn't take to

reading in that case."

"Drink a dozen of it, old fellow, if you can," said Tichborne. "But really

I am sorry we couldn't get Russell here this evening; I think he would be

rather an acquisition, if he could be drawn out. As to his not drinking

wine, that's a matter of taste; and he is not very likely to corrupt the

good old principles of the college on that point. But he must please

himself."

"What does he do with himself?" said one of the party--"read?"

"Why, he didn't _talk_ about reading, as most of our literary freshmen do,

which might perhaps lead one to suppose he really was something of a

scholar; still, I doubt if he is what you call a reading man; I know he

belongs to the Thucydides lecture, and I have never seen him there but

once."

"Ah!" said Savile, with a sigh, "that's another privilege of yours I had

forgotten, which is rather enviable; you can cut lectures when you like,

without getting a thundering imposition. Where does this man Russell

live?"

"He has taken those large rooms that Sykes used to have, and fitted up so

capitally; they were vacant, you remember, the last two terms; I had some

thought of moving into them myself, but they were confoundedly expensive,

and I didn't think it worth while. They cost Sykes I don't know how much,

in painting and papering, and are full of all sorts of couches, and easy

chairs, and so forth. And this man seems to have got two or three good

paintings into them; and, altogether, they are now the best rooms in

college, by far."

"Does he mean to hunt?" asked another.

"No, I fancy not," replied our host: "though he spoke as if he knew

something about it; but he said he had no horses in Oxford."

"Nor any where else, I'll be bound; he's a precious slow coach, you may

depend upon it." And with this decisive remark, Mr Russell and his affairs

were dismissed for the time.

A year passed away, and still, at the end of that time--(a long time it

seemed in those days)--Russell was as much a stranger in college as ever.

He had begun to be regarded as a rather mysterious person. Hardly two men

in the college agreed in their estimate of his character. Some said he was

a natural son--the acknowledged heir to a large fortune, but too proud to

mix in society, under the consciousness of a dishonoured birth. But this

suspicion was indignantly refuted by Murray, as much on behalf of his own

genealogical accuracy, as for Russell's legitimacy,--he was undoubtedly

the true and lawful son and heir of Mr Russell the banker, of ---- Street.

Others said he was poor; but his father was reputed to be the most wealthy

partner in a wealthy firm, and was known to have a considerable estate in

the west of England. There were not wanting those who said he was

"eccentric,"--in the largest sense of the term. Yet his manners and

conduct, as far as they came within notice, were correct, regular, and

gentlemanly beyond criticism. There was nothing about him which could

fairly incur the minor charge of being odd. He dressed well, though very

plainly; would converse freely enough, upon any subject, with the few men

who, from sitting at the same table, or attending the same lectures, had

formed a doubtful sort of acquaintance with him; and always showed great

good sense, a considerable knowledge of the world, and a courtesy, and at

the same time perfect dignity of manner, which effectually prevented any

attempt to penetrate, by jest or direct question, the reserve in which he

had chosen to inclose himself. All invitations he steadily refused; even

to the extent of sending an excuse to the dean's and tutors' breakfast

parties, to their ineffable disgust. Whether he read hard, or not, was

equally a secret. He was regular in his attendance at chapel, and

particularly attentive to the service; a fact which by no means tended to

lower him in men's estimation, though in those days more remarkable than,

happily, it would be now. At lectures, indeed, he was not equally

exemplary, either as to attendance or behaviour; he was often absent when

asked a question, and not always accurate when he replied; and

occasionally declined translating a passage which came to his turn, on the

ground of not having read it. Yet his scholarship, if not always strictly

accurate, had a degree of elegance which betokened both talent and

reading; and his taste was evidently naturally good, and classical

literature a subject of interest to him. Altogether, it rather piqued the

vanity of those who saw most of him, that he would give them no

opportunity of seeing more; and many affected to sneer at him, as a

"_muff_," who would have been exceedingly flattered by his personal

acquaintance. Only one associate did Charles Russell appear to have in the

university; and this was a little greenish-haired man in a scholar's gown,

a perfect contrast to himself in appearance, whose name or college no man

knew, though some professed to recognise him as a Bible-clerk of one of

the smallest and most obscure of the halls.

Attempts were made to pump out of his scout some information as to how

Russell passed his time: for, with the exception of a daily walk,

sometimes with the companion above mentioned, but much oftener alone, and

his having been seen once or twice in a skiff on the river, he appeared

rarely to quit his own rooms. Scouts are usually pretty communicative of

all they know--and sometimes a great deal more--about the affairs of their

many masters; and they are not inclined in general to hold a very high

opinion of those among "their gentlemen" who, like Russell, are

behind-hand in the matter of wine and supper parties--their own

perquisites suffering thereby. But Job Allen was a scout of a thousand.

His honesty and integrity made him quite the "_rara avis_" of his

class--_i.e._, a _white_ swan amongst a flock of black ones. Though

really, since I have left the university, and been condemned to

house-keeping, and have seen the peculation and perquisite-hunting

existing pretty nearly in the same proportion amongst ordinary

servants--and the higher you go in society the worse it seems to

be--without a tittle of the activity and cleverness displayed by a good

college scout, who provides supper and etceteras for an extemporary party

of twenty or so at an hour's notice, without starting a difficulty or

giving vent to a grumble, or neglecting any one of his other multifarious

duties, (further than perhaps borrowing for the service of the said

supper, some hard-reading freshman's whole stock of knives, and leaving

him to spread his nocturnal bread and butter with his fingers;) since I

have been led to compare this with the fuss and fidget caused in a

"well-regulated family" among one's own lazy vagabonds by having an extra

horse to clean, or by a couple of friends arriving unexpectedly to dinner,

when they all stare at you as if you were expecting impossibilities, I

have nearly come to the conclusion that college servants, like hedgehogs,

are a grossly calumniated race of animals--wrongfully accused of getting

their living by picking and stealing, whereas they are in fact rather more

honest than the average of their neighbours. It is to be hoped that, like

the hedgehogs, they enjoy a compensation in having too thick skins to be

over-sensitive. At all events, Job Allen was an honest fellow. He had been

known to expostulate with some of his more reckless masters upon the

absurdities of their goings-on; and had more than once had a commons of

bread flung at his head, when taking the opportunity of symptoms of

repentance, in an evident disrelish for breakfast, to hint at the slow but

inevitable approach of "degree-day." Cold chickens from the evening's

supper-party had made a miraculous reappearance at next morning's lunch or

breakfast; half-consumed bottles of port seemed, under his auspices, to

lead charmed lives. No wonder, then, there was very little information

about the private affairs of Russell to be got out of Job Allen. He had

but a very poor talent for gossip, and none at all for invention. "Mr

Russell's a very nice, quiet sort of gentleman, sir, and keeps his-self

pretty much to his-self." This was Job's account of him; and, to curious

enquirers, it was provoking both for its meagreness and its truth. "Who's

his friend in the rusty gown, Job?" "I thinks, sir, his name's Smith." "Is

Mr Russell going up for a class, Job?" "I can't say indeed, sir." "Does he

read hard?" "Not over-hard I think, sir." "Does he sit up late, Job?" "Not

over-late, sir." If there was any thing to tell, it was evident Job would

neither commit himself nor his master.

Russell's conduct was certainly uncommon. If he had been the son of a poor

man, dependent for his future livelihood on his own exertions, eking out

the scanty allowance ill-spared by his friends by the help of a

scholarship or exhibition, and avoiding society as leading to necessary

expense, his position would have been understood, and even, in spite of

the prejudices of youthful extravagance, commended. Or if he had been a

hard-reading man from choice--or a stupid man--or a "saint"--no one would

have troubled themselves about him or his proceedings. But Russell was a

gentleman-commoner, and a man who had evidently seen something of the

world; a rich man, and apparently by no means of the character fitted for

a recluse. He had dined once with the principal, and the two or three men

who had met him there were considerably surprised at the easy gracefulness

of his manners, and his information upon many points usually beyond the

range of undergraduates: at his own table, too, he never affected any

reserve, although, perhaps from a consciousness of having virtually

declined any intimacy with his companions, he seldom originated any

conversation. It might have been assumed, indeed, that he despised the

society into which he was thrown, but that his bearing, so far from being

haughty or even cold, was occasionally marked by apparent dejection. There

was also, at times, a breaking out as it were of the natural spirits of

youth, checked almost abruptly; and once or twice he had betrayed an

interest in, and a knowledge of, field-sports and ordinary amusements,

which for the moment made his hearers fancy, as Tichborne said, that he

was "coming out." But if, as at first often happened, such conversations

led to a proposal for a gallop with the harriers, or a ride the next

afternoon, or a match at billiards, or even an invitation to a quiet

breakfast party--the refusal, though always courteous--and sometimes it

was fancied unwilling--was always decided. And living day by day within

reach of that close companionship which similarity of age, pursuits, and

tastes, strengthened by daily intercourse, was cementing around him,

Charles Russell, in his twentieth year, in a position to choose his own

society, and qualified to shine in it, seemed to have deliberately adopted

the life of a recluse.

There were some, indeed, who accounted for his behaviour on the ground of

stinginess; and it was an opinion somewhat strengthened by one or two

trifling facts. When the subscription-list for the College boat was handed

to him, he put his name down for the minimum of one guinea, though Charley

White, our secretary, with the happy union of impudence and "soft sawder"

for which he was remarkable, delicately drew his attention to the fact,

that no other gentleman-commoner had given less than five. Still it was

not very intelligible that a man who wished to save his pocket, should

choose to pay double fees for the privilege of wearing a velvet cap and

silk gown, and rent the most expensive set of rooms in the college.

It happened that I returned one night somewhat late from a friend's rooms

out of college, and had the satisfaction to find that my scout, in an

unusually careful mood, had shut my outer "oak," which had a spring lock,

of which I never by any chance carried the key. It was too late to send

for the rascal to open it, and I was just planning the possibility of

effecting an entrance at the window by means of the porter's ladder, when

the light in Russell's room caught my eye, and I remembered that, in the

days of their former occupant, our keys used to correspond, very much to

our mutual convenience. It was no very great intrusion, even towards one

in the morning, to ask a man to lend you his door-key, when the

alternative seemed to be spending the night in the quadrangle: so I walked

up his staircase, knocked, was admitted, and stated my business with all

proper apologies. The key was produced most graciously, and down I went

again--unluckily two steps at a time. My foot slipped, and one grand

rattle brought me to the bottom: not head first, but feet first, which

possibly is not quite so dangerous, but any gentleman who has tried it

will agree with me that it is sufficiently unpleasant. I was dreadfully

shaken; and when I tried to get up, found it no easy matter. Russell, I

suppose, heard the fall, for he was by my side by the time I had collected

my ideas. I felt as if I had skinned myself at slight intervals all down

one side; but the worst of it was a sprained ankle. How we got up-stairs

again I have no recollection; but when a glass of brandy had brought me to

a little, I found myself in an easy-chair, with my foot on a stool,

shivering and shaking like a wet puppy. I staid there a fortnight, (not in

the chair, reader, but in the rooms;) and so it was I became intimately

acquainted with Charles Russell. His kindness and attention to me were

excessive; I wished of course to be moved to my own rooms at once, but he

would not hear of it; and as I found every wriggle and twist which I gave

quite sufficiently painful, I acceded to my surgeon's advice to remain

where I was.

It was not a very pleasant mode of introduction for either party. Very few

men's acquaintance is worth the pains of bumping all the way downstairs

and spraining an ankle for: and for a gentleman who voluntarily confines

himself to his own apartment and avoids society, to have another party

chummed in upon him perforce, day and night, sitting in an armchair, with

a suppressed groan occasionally, and an abominable smell of hartshorn--is,

to say the least of it, not the happiest mode of hinting to him the evils

of solitude. Whether it was that the one of us, compelled thus against his

will to play the host, was anxious to show he was no churl by nature, and

the other, feeling himself necessarily in a great degree an intruder and a

bore, put forth more zealously any redeeming social qualities he might

possess; be this as it might, within that fortnight Russell and I became

sincere friends.

I found him, as I had expected, a most agreeable and gentlemanlike

companion, clever and well informed, and with a higher and more settled

tone of principles than is common to his age and position. But strongly

contrasted with his usually cheerful manner, were sudden intervals of

abstraction approaching to gloominess. In him, it was evidently not the

result of caprice, far less of any thing approaching to affectation. I

watched him closely, partly from interest, partly because I had little

else to do, and became convinced that there was some latent cause of grief

or anxiety at work. Once in particular, after the receipt of some letters,

(they were always opened hurriedly, and apparently with a painful

interest,) he was so visibly discomposed and depressed in spirits, that I

ventured to express a hope that they had contained no distressing

intelligence. Russell seemed embarrassed at having betrayed any unusual

emotion, and answered in the negative; adding, that "he knew he was

subject to the blues occasionally"--and I felt I could say no more. But I

suppose I did not look convinced; for catching my eyes fixed on him soon

afterwards, he shook my hand and said, "Something _has_ vexed me--I cannot

tell you what; but I won't think about it again now."

One evening, towards the close of my imprisonment, after a long and

pleasant talk over our usual sober wind-up of a cup of coffee, some recent

publication, tasteful, but rather expensive, was mentioned, which Russell

expressed a wish to see. I put the natural question, to a man in his

position who could appreciate the book, and to whom a few pounds were no

consideration--why did he not order it? He coloured slightly, and after a

moment's hesitation hurriedly replied, "Because I cannot afford it." I

felt a little awkwardness as to what to say next; for the style of every

thing round me betrayed a lavish disregard of expense, and yet the remark

did not at all bear the tone of a jest. Probably Russell understood what

was passing in my mind; for presently, without looking at me, he went on:

"Yes, you may well think it a pitiful economy to grudge five guineas for a

book like that, and indulge one's-self in such pompous mummery as we have

here;" and he pushed down with his foot a massive and beautiful silver

coffee-pot, engraved with half-a-dozen quarterings of arms, which, in

spite of a remonstrance from me, had been blackening before the fire to

keep its contents warm. "Never mind it," he continued, as I in vain put

out my hand to save it from falling--"it won't be damaged; it will fetch

just as much per ounce; and I really cannot afford to buy an inferior

article." Russell's behaviour up to this moment had been rational enough,

but at the moment a suspicion crossed my mind that "eccentricity," as

applied to his case, might possibly, as in some other cases, be merely an

euphonism for something worse. However, I picked up the coffee-pot, and

said nothing. "You must think me very strange, Hawthorne; I quite forgot

myself at the moment; but if you choose to be trusted with a secret, which

will be no secret long, I will tell you what will perhaps surprise you

with regard to my own position, though I really have no right to trouble

you with my confidences." I disclaimed any wish to assume the right of

inquiring into private matters, but at the same time expressed, as I

sincerely felt, an interest in what was evidently a weight on my

companion's mind. "Well, to say the truth," continued Russell, "I think it

will be a relief to me to tell you how I stand. I know that I have often

felt of late that I am acting a daily lie here, to all the men about me;

passing, doubtless, for a rich man, when in truth, for aught I know, I and

all my family are beggars at this moment." He stopped, walked to the

window, and returned. "I am surrounded here by luxuries which have little

right within a college's walls; I occupy a distinctive position which you

and others are supposed not to be able to afford. I never can mix with any

of you, without, as it were, carrying with me every where the

superscription written--'This is a rich man.' And yet, with all this

outward show, I may be a debtor to your charity for my bread to-morrow.

You are astonished, Hawthorne; of course you are. I am not thus playing

the hypocrite willingly, believe me. Had I only my own comfort, and my own

feelings to consult, I would take my name off the college books to-morrow.

How I bear the life I lead, I scarcely know."

"But tell me," said I, "as you have told me so much, what is the secret of

all this?"

"I will; I was going to explain. My only motive for concealment, my only

reason for even wishing you to keep my counsel, is, because the character

and prospects of others are concerned. My father, as I dare say you know,

is pretty well known as the head of the firm of Russell and Smith: he

passes for a rich man, of course; he _was_ a rich man, I believe, once;

and I, his only son and heir--brought up as I was to look upon money as a

plaything--I was sent to college of course as a gentleman-commoner. I knew

nothing, as a lad, of my father's affairs: there were fools enough to tell

me he was rich, and that I had nothing to do but to spend his money--and I

did spend it--ay, too much of it--yet not so much, perhaps, as I might.

Not since I came here, Hawthorne; oh no!--not since I found out that it

was neither his nor mine to spend--I have not been so bad as that, thank

God. And if ever man could atone, by suffering, for the thoughtlessness

and extravagance of early days, I have wellnigh paid my penalty in full

already. I told you, I entered here as a gentleman-commoner; my father

came down to Oxford with me, chose my rooms, sent down this furniture and

these paintings from town--thank Heaven, I knew not what they

cost--ordered a couple of hunters and a groom for me--those I stopped from

coming down--and, in fact, made every preparation for me to commence my

career with credit as to heir-apparent to a large fortune. Some suspicions

that all was not right had crossed my mind before: certain conversations

between my father and cold-looking men of business, not meant for my ear,

and very imperfectly understood--for it appeared to be my father's object

to keep me totally ignorant of all the mysteries of banking--an increasing

tendency on his part to grumble over petty expenses which implied ready

payment, with an ostentatious profusion in show and entertainments--many

slight circumstances put together had given me a sort of vague alarm at

times, which I shook off, as often as it recurred, like a disagreeable

dream. A week after I entered college, a letter from my only sister opened

my eyes to the truth. What I had feared was a temporary embarrassment--a

disagreeable necessity for retrenchment, or, at the worst, a stoppage of

payment, and a respectable bankruptcy, which would injure no one but the

creditors. What she spoke of, was absolute ruin, poverty, and, what was

worse, disgrace. It came upon me very suddenly--but I bore it. I am not

going to enter into particulars about family matters to you,

Hawthorne--you would not wish it, I know; let me only say, my sister Mary

is an angel, and my father a weak-minded man--I will hope, not

intentionally a dishonest one. But I have learnt enough to know that there

are embarrassments from which he can never extricate himself with honour,

and that every month, every week, that he persists in maintaining a

useless struggle will only add misery to misery in the end. How long it

may go on no one can say--but the end must come. My own first impulse was,

of course, to leave this place at once, and so, at all events, to avoid

additional expenses: but my father would not hear of it. I went to him,

told him what I knew, though not how I had heard it, and drew from him a

sort of confession that he had made some unfortunate speculations. But

'only let us keep up appearances'--those were his words--a little while,

and all would be right again, he assured me. I made no pretence of

believing him; but, Hawthorne, when he offered to go on his knees to

me--and I his only son--and promised to retrench in every possible method

that would not betray his motives, if I would but remain at college to

take my degree--'to keep up appearances'--what could I do?"

"Plainly," said I, "you did right: I do not see that you had any

alternative. Nor have you any right to throw away your future prospects.

Your father's unfortunate embarrassments are no disgrace to you."

"So said my sister. I knew her advice must be right, and I consented to

remain here. _You_ know I lead no life of self-indulgence; and the

necessary expenses, even as a gentleman-commoner, are less than you would

suppose, unless you had tried matters as closely as I have."

"And with our talents," said I.

"My talents! I am conscious of but one talent at present: the faculty of

feeling acutely the miserable position into which I have been forced. No,

if you mean that I am to gain any sort of distinction by hard reading, it

is simply what I cannot do. Depend upon it, Hawthorne, a man must have a

mind tolerably at ease to put forth any mental exertion to good purpose.

If this crash were once over, and I were reduced to my proper level in

society--which will, I suppose, be pretty nearly that of a pauper--_then_

I think I could work for my bread either with head or hands: but in this

wretchedly false position, here I sit bitterly, day after day, with books

open before me perhaps, but with no heart to read, and no memory but for

one thing. You know my secret now, Hawthorne, and it has been truly a

relief to me to unburden my mind to some one here. I am very much alone,

indeed; and it is not at all my nature to be solitary: if you will come

and see me sometimes, now that you know all, it will be a real kindness.

It is no great pleasure, I assure you," he continued, smiling, "to be

called odd, and selfish, and stingy, by those of one's own age, as I feel

I must be called; but it is much better than to lead the life I might

lead--spending money which is not mine, and accustoming myself to

luxuries, when I may soon have to depend on charity even for necessaries.

For my own comfort, it might be better, as I said before, that the crisis

came at once: still, if I remain here until I am qualified for some

profession, by which I may one day be able to support my sister--that is

the hope I feed on--why, then, this sort of existence may be endured."

Russell had at least no reason to complain of having disclosed his mind to

a careless listener. I was moved almost to tears at his story: but,

stronger than all other feelings, was admiration of his principles and

character. I felt that some of us had almost done him irreverence in

venturing to discuss him so lightly as we had often done. How little we

know the heart of others, and how readily we prate about "seeing through"

a man, when in truth what we see is but a surface, and the image conveyed

to our mind from it but the reflection of ourselves!

My intimacy with Russell, so strangely commenced, had thus rapidly and

unexpectedly taken the character of that close connexion which exists

between those who have one secret and engrossing interest confined to

themselves alone. We were now more constantly together, perhaps, than any

two men in college: and many were the jokes I had to endure in

consequence. Very few of my old companions had ventured to carry their

attentions to me, while laid up in Russell's rooms, beyond an occasional

call at the door to know how I was going on; and when I got back to my old

quarters, and had refused one or two invitations on the plea of having

Russell coming to spend a quiet evening with me, their astonishment and

disgust were expressed pretty unequivocally, and they affected to call us

the exclusives. However, Russell was a man who, if he made few friends,

gave no excuse for enemies: and, in time, my intimacy with him, and

occasional withdrawals from general society in consequence, came to be

regarded as a pardonable weakness--unaccountable, but past all help--a

subject on which the would-be wisest of my friends shook their heads, and

said nothing.

I think this new connexion was of advantage to both parties. To myself it

certainly was. I date the small gleams of good sense and sobermindedness

which broke in upon my character at that critical period of life, solely

from my intercourse with Charles Russell. He, on the other hand, had

suffered greatly from the want of that sympathy and support which the

strongest mind at times stands as much in need of as the weakest, and

which in his peculiar position could only be purchased by an unreserved

confidence. From any premeditated explanation he would have shrunk; nor

would he ever, as he himself confessed, have made the avowal he did to me,

except it had escaped him by a momentary impulse. But, having made it, he

seemed a happier man. His reading, which before had been desultory and

interrupted, was now taken up in earnest: and idly inclined as I was

myself, I became, with the pseudo sort of generosity not uncommon at that

age, so much more anxious for his future success than my own, that, in

order to encourage him, I used to go to his rooms to read with him, and we

had many a hard morning's work together.

We were very seldom interrupted by visitors: almost the only one was that

unknown and unprepossessing friend of Russell's who has been mentioned

before--his own contradictory in almost every respect. Very uncouth and

dirty-looking he was, and stuttered terribly--rather, it seemed, from

diffidence than from any natural defect. He showed some surprise on the

first two or three occasions in which he encountered me, and made an

immediate attempt to back out of the room again: and though Russell

invariably recalled him, and showed an evident anxiety to treat him with

every consideration, he never appeared at his ease for a moment, and made

his escape as soon as possible. Russell always fixed a time for seeing him

again--usually the next day: and there was evidently some object in these

interviews, into which, as it was no concern of mine, I never enquired

particularly, as I had already been intrusted with a confidence rather

unusual as the result of a few weeks' acquaintance; and on the subject of

his friend--"poor Smith," as he called him--Russell did not seem disposed

to be communicative.

Time wore on, and brought round the Christmas vacation. I thought it due

to myself, as all young men do, to get up to town for a week or two if

possible; and being lucky enough to have an old aunt occupying a very dark

house much too large for her, and who, being rather a prosy personage, a

little deaf, and very opinionated, and therefore not a special object of

attraction to her relations, (her property was merely a life-interest,)

was very glad to get any one to come and see her--I determined to pay a

visit, in which the score of obligations would be pretty equally balanced

on both sides. On the one hand, the tete-a-tete dinners with the old lady,

and her constant catechising about Oxford, were a decided bore to me;

while it required some forbearance on her part to endure an inmate who

constantly rushed into the drawing-room without wiping his boots, who had

no taste for old china, and against whom the dear dog Petto had an

unaccountable but decided antipathy. (Poor dog! I fear he was ungrateful:

I used to devil spunge biscuit, internally, for him after dinner, kept a

snuff-box more for his use than my own, and prolonged his life, I feel

confident, at least twelve months from apoplexy, by pulling hairs out of

his tail with a tweezer whenever he went to sleep.) On the other hand, my

aunt had good wine, and I used to praise it; which was agreeable to both

parties. She got me pleasant invitations, and was enabled herself to make

her appearance in society with a live nephew in her suite, who in her eyes

(I confess, reader, old aunts are partial) was a very eligible young man.

So my visit, on the whole, was mutually agreeable and advantageous. I had

my mornings to myself, gratifying the dowager occasionally by a drive with

her in the afternoon; and we had sufficient engagements for our evenings

to make each other's sole society rather an unusual infliction. It is

astonishing how much such an arrangement tends to keep people the best

friends in the world.

I had attended my respectable relation one evening (or rather she had

attended me, for I believe she went more for my sake than her own) to a

large evening party, which was a ball in every thing but the name. Nearly

all in the rooms were strangers to me; but I had plenty of introductions,

and the night wore on pleasantly enough. I saw a dozen pretty faces I had

never seen before, and was scarcely likely to see again--the proportion of

ugly ones I forbear to mention--and was prepared to bear the meeting and

the parting with equal philosophy, when the sight of a very familiar face

brought different scenes to my mind. Standing within half-a-dozen steps of

me, and in close conversation with a lady, of whom I could see little

besides a cluster of dark curls, was Ormiston, one of our college tutors,

and one of the most universally popular men in Oxford. It would be wrong

to say I was surprised to see him there or any where else, for his roll of

acquaintance was most extensive, embracing all ranks and degrees; but I

was very glad to see him, and made an almost involuntary dart forward in

his direction. He saw me, smiled, and put out his hand, but did not seem

inclined to enter into any conversation. I was turning away, when a sudden

movement gave me a full view of the face of the lady to whom he had been

talking. It was a countenance of that pale, clear, intellectual beauty,

with a shade of sadness about the mouth, which one so seldom sees but in a

picture, but which, when seen, haunts the imagination and the memory

rather than excites passionate admiration. The eyes met mine, and, quite

by accident, for the thoughts were evidently pre-occupied, retained for

some moments the same fixed gaze with which I almost as unconsciously was

regarding them. There was something in the features which seemed not

altogether unknown to me; and I was beginning to speculate on the

possibility of any small heroine of my boyish admiration having shot up

into such sweet womanhood--such changes soon occur--when the eyes became

conscious, and the head was rapidly turned away. I lost her a moment

afterwards in the crowd, and although I watched the whole of the time we

remained, with an interest that amused myself, I could not see her again.

She must have left the party early.

So strong became the impression on my mind that it was a face I had known

before, and so fruitless and tantalizing were my efforts to give it "a

local habitation and a name"--that I determined at last to question my

aunt upon the subject, though quite aware of the imputation that would

follow. The worst of it was, I had so few tangible marks and tokens by

which to identify my interesting unknown. However, at breakfast next

morning, I opened ground at once, in answer to my hostess's remark that

the rooms had been very full.

"Yes, they were: I wanted very much, my dear aunt, to have asked you the

names of all the people; but you really were so much engaged, I had no

opportunity."

"Ah! if you had come and sat by me, I could have told you all about them;

but there were some very odd people there, too."

"There was one rather interesting-looking girl I did not see dancing

much--tallish, with pearl earrings."

"Where was she sitting? how was she dressed?"

I had only seen her standing--I never noticed--I hardly think I could have

seen--even the colour of her dress.

"Not know how she was dressed? My dear Frank, how strange!"

"All young ladies dress alike now, aunt; there's really not much

distinction: they seemed all black and white to me."

"Certainly the balls don't look half so gay as they used to do: a little

colour gives cheerfulness, I think." (The good old lady herself had worn

crimson satin and a suite of chrysolites--if her theory were correct, she

was enough to have spread a glow over the whole company.) "But let me

see;--tall, with pearls, you say; dark hair and eyes?"

"Yes."

"You must mean Lucy Fielding."

"Nonsense, my dear Ma'am--I beg a thousand pardons; but I was introduced

to Miss Fielding, and danced with her--she squints."

"My dear Frank, don't say such a thing!--she will have half the

Strathinnis property when she comes of age. But let me see again. Had she

a white rose in her hair?"

"She had, I think; or something like it."

"It might have been Lord Dunham's youngest daughter, who is just come

out--she was there for an hour or so."

"No, no, aunt: I know her by sight too--a pale gawky thing, with an arm

and hand like a prize-fighter's--oh no!"

"Upon my word, my dear nephew, you young men give yourselves abominable

airs: call her a very fine young woman, and I've no doubt she will marry

well, though she hasn't much fortune. Was it Miss Cassilis, then?--white

tulle over satin, looped with roses, with gold sprigs"----

"And freckles to match: why, she's as old as"----; I felt myself on

dangerous ground, and filled up the hiatus, I fear not very happily, by

looking full at my aunt.

"Not so very old, indeed, my dear: she refused a very good offer last

season: she cannot possibly be above"--

"Oh! spare the particulars, pray, my dear Ma'am; but you could not have

seen the girl I mean: I don't think she staid after supper: I looked every

where for her to ask who she was, but she must have been gone."

"Really! I wish I could help you," said my aunt with a very insinuating

smile.

"Oh," said I, "what made me anxious to know who she was at the time, was

simply that I saw her talking to an old friend of mine, whom you know

something of, I believe; did you not meet Mr Ormiston somewhere last

winter?"

"Mr Ormiston! oh, I saw him there last night! and now I know who you mean;

it must have been Mary Russell, of course; she did wear pearls, and plain

white muslin."

"Russell! what Russells are they?"

"Russell the banker's daughter; I suppose nobody knows how many thousands

she'll have; but she is a very odd girl. Mr Ormiston is rather committed

in that quarter, I fancy. Ah, he's a very gentlemanly man, certainly, and

an old friend of the family; but that match would never do. Why, he must

be ten years older than she is, in the first place, and hasn't a penny

that I know of except his fellowship. No, no; she refused Sir John Maynard

last winter, with a clear twelve thousand a-year; and angry enough her

papa was about that, every body says, though he never contradicts her; but

she never will venture upon such a silly thing as a match with Mr

Ormiston."

"Won't she?" said I mechanically, not having had time to collect my

thoughts exactly.

"To be sure she won't," replied my aunt rather sharply. It certainly

struck me that Mary Russell, from what her brother had told me, was a

person very likely to show some little disregard of any conventional

notions of what was, or what was not desirable in the matter of matrimony;

but at the same time I inclined to agree with my aunt, that it was not

very probable she would become Mrs Ormiston; indeed, I doubted any very

serious intentions on his part. Fellows of colleges are usually somewhat

lavish of admiration and attentions; but, as many young ladies know, very

difficult to bring to book. Ormiston was certainly not a man to be

influenced by the fortune which the banker's daughter might reasonably be

credited with; if any thing made the matter seem serious, it was that his

opinion of the sex in general--as thrown out in an occasional hint or

sarcasm--seemed to border on a supercilious contempt.

I did not meet Miss Russell again during my short stay in town; but two or

three days after this conversation, in turning the corner of the street, I

came suddenly upon Ormiston. I used to flatter myself with being rather a

favourite of his--not from any conscious merit on my part, unless that,

during the year of his deanship, when summoned before him for any small

atrocities, and called to account for them, I never took up his time or my

own by any of the usual somewhat questionable excuses, but awaited my

fate, whether "imposition" or reprimand, in silence; a plan which, with

him, answered very well, and saved occasionally some straining of

conscience on one side, and credulity on the other. I tried it with his

successor, who decided that I was contumacious, because, the first time I

was absent from chapel, in reply to his interrogations I answered nothing,

and upon his persevering, told him that I had been at a very late

supper-party the night before. I think, then, I was rather a favourite of

Ormiston's. To say that he was a favourite of mine would be saying very

little; for there could have been scarcely a man in college, of any degree

of respectability, who would not have been ready to say the same. No man

had a higher regard for the due maintenance of discipline, or his own

dignity, and the reputation of the college; yet nowhere among the seniors

could the undergraduate find a more judicious or a kinder friend. He had

the art of mixing with them occasionally with all the unreservedness of an

equal, without for a moment endangering the respect due to his position.

There was no man you could ask a favour of--even if it infringed a little

upon the strictness of college regulations--so readily as Ormiston; and no

one appeared to retain more thoroughly some of his boyish tastes and

recollections. He subscribed his five guineas to the boat, even after a

majority of the fellows had induced our good old Principal, whose annual

appearance at the river-side to cheer her at the races had seemed almost a

part of his office, to promulgate a decree to the purport that boat-racing

was immoral, and that no man engaged therein should find favour in the

sight of the authorities. Yet, at the same time, Ormiston could give grave

advice when needed; and give it in such a manner, that the most

thoughtless among us received it as from a friend. And whenever he did

administer a few words of pointed rebuke--and he did not spare it when any

really discreditable conduct came under his notice--they fell the more

heavily upon the delinquent, because the public sympathy was sure to be on

the side of the judge. The art of governing young men is a difficult one,

no doubt; but it is surprising that so few take any pains to acquire it.

There were very few Ormistons, in my time, in the high places in Oxford.

On that morning, however, Ormiston met me with evident embarrassment, if

not with coolness. He started when he first saw me, and, had there been a

chance of doing so with decency, looked as if he would have pretended not

to recognise me. But we were too near for that, and our eyes met at once.

I was really very glad to see him, and not at all inclined to be content

with the short "How d'ye do?" so unlike his usual cordial greetings, with

which he was endeavouring to hurry on; and there was a little curiosity

afloat among my other feelings. So I fairly stopped him with a few of the

usual inquiries, as to how long he had been in town, &c., and then plunged

at once into the affair of the ball at which we had last met. He

interrupted me at once.

"By the way," said he, "have you heard of poor Russell's business?"

I actually shuddered, for I scarcely knew what was to follow. As

composedly as I could, I simply said, "No."

"His father is ruined, they say--absolutely ruined. I suppose _that_ is no

secret by this time, at all events. He cannot possibly pay even a shilling

in the pound."

"I'm very sorry indeed to hear it," was all I could say.

"But do you know, Hawthorne," continued Ormiston, taking my arm with

something like his old manner, and no longer showing any anxiety to cut

short our interview, "I am afraid this is not the worst of it. There is a

report in the city this morning, I was told, that Mr Russell's character

is implicated by some rather unbusinesslike transactions. I believe you

are a friend of poor Russell's, and for that reason I mention it to you in

confidence. He may not be aware of it; but the rumour is, that his father

_dare_ not show himself again here: that he has left England I know to be

a fact."

"And his daughter? Miss Russell?" I asked involuntarily--"his children, I

mean--where are they?"

I thought Ormiston's colour heightened; but he was not a man to show much

visible emotion. "Charles Russell and his sister are still in London," he

replied; "I have just seen them. They know their father has left for the

Continent; I hope they do _not_ know all the reasons. I am very sincerely

sorry for young Russell; it will be a heavy blow to him, and I fear he

will find his circumstances bitterly changed. Of course he will have to

leave Oxford."

"I suppose so," said I; "no one can feel more for him than I do. It was

well, perhaps, that this did not happen in term time."

"It spared him some mortification, certainly. You will see him, perhaps,

before you leave town; he will take it kind. And if you have any influence

with him--(he will be inclined to listen, perhaps just now, to you more

than to me--being more of his own age, he will give you credit for

entering into his feelings)--do try and dissuade him from forming any wild

schemes, to which he seems rather inclined. He has some kind friends, no

doubt; and remember, if there is any thing in which I can be of use to

him, he shall have my aid--even to the half of my kingdom--that is, my

tutorship."

And with a smile and tone which seemed a mixture of jest and earnest, Mr

Ormiston wished me good-morning. He was to leave for Oxford that night.

Of Russell's address in town I was up to this moment ignorant, but

resolved to find it out, and see him before my return to the University.

The next morning, however, a note arrived from him, containing a simple

request that I would call. I found him at the place from which he

wrote--one of those dull quiet streets that lead out of the Strand--in

very humble lodgings; his father's private establishment having been given

up, it appeared, immediately. The moment we met, I saw at once, as I

expected, that the blow which, to Ormiston, had naturally seemed so

terrible a one--no less than the loss, to a young man, of the wealth,

rank, and prospects in life to which he had been taught to look

forward--had been, in fact, to Russell a merciful relief. The failure of

that long-celebrated and trusted house, which was causing in the public

mind, according to the papers, so much "consternation" and "excitement,"

was to him a consummation long foreseen, and scarcely dreaded. It was only

the shadow of wealth and happiness which he had lost now; its substance

had vanished long since. And the conscious hollowness and hypocrisy, as he

called it, of his late position, had been a far more bitter trial to a

mind like his, than any which could result from its exposure. He was one

to hail with joy any change which brought him back to truth and reality,

no matter how rude and sudden the revulsion.

He met me with a smile; a really honest, almost a light-hearted smile. "It

is come at last, Hawthorne; perhaps it would be wrong, or I feel as if I

could say, thank God. There is but one point which touches me at all; what

do they say about my father?" I told him--fortunately, my acquaintance

lying but little among men of business, I could tell him so honestly--that

I had not heard a syllable breathed to his discredit.

"Well, well; but they will, soon. Oh! Hawthorne; the utter misery, the

curse that money-making brings with it! That joining house to house, and

field to field, how it corrupts all the better part of a man's nature! I

vow to you, I believe my father would have been an honest man if he had

but been a poor one! If he had never had any thing to do with interest

tables, and had but spent his capital, instead of trying to double and

redouble it! One thing I have to thank him for; that he never would suffer

me to imbibe any taste for business; he knew the evil and the pollution

money-handling brings with it--I am sure he did; he encouraged me, I fear,

in extravagance; but I bless him that he never encouraged me in

covetousness."

He grew a little calmer by degrees, and we sat down and took counsel as to

his future plans. He was not, of course, without friends, and had already

had many offers of assistance for himself and his sister; but his heart

appeared, for the present, firmly bent upon independence. Much to my

surprise, he decided on returning at once to Oxford, and reading for his

degree. His sister had some little property settled upon her--some hundred

and fifty pounds a-year; and this she had insisted on devoting to this

purpose.

"I love her too well," said Russell, "to refuse her: and trifling as this

sum is,--I remember the time when I should have thought it little to keep

me in gloves and handkerchiefs,--yet, with management, it will be more

than I shall spend in Oxford. Of course, I play the gentleman-commoner no

longer; I shall descend to the plain stuff gown."

"You'll go to a hall, of course?" said I; for I concluded he would at

least avoid the mortification of so palpable a confession of reduced

circumstances as this degradation of rank in his old College would be.

"I can see no occasion for it; that is, if they will allow me to change; I

have done nothing to be ashamed of, and shall be much happier than I was

before. I only strike my false colours; and you know they were never

carried willingly."

I did not attempt to dissuade him, and soon after rose to take my leave.

"I cannot ask my sister to see you now," he said, as we shook hands: "she

is not equal to it. But some other time, I hope"----

"At any other time, I shall be most proud of the introduction. By the way,

have you seen Ormiston? He met me this morning, and sent some kind

messages, to offer any service in his power."

"He did, did he?"

"Yes; and, depend upon it, he will do all he can for you in college; you

don't know him very well, I think; but I am sure he takes an interest in

you now, at all events," I continued, "and no man is a more sincere and

zealous friend."

"I beg your pardon, Hawthorne, but I fancy I _do_ know Mr Ormiston very

well."

"Oh! I remember, there seemed some coolness between you, because you never

would accept his invitations. Ormiston thought you were too proud to dine

with him; and then _his_ pride, which he has his share of, took fire. But

that misunderstanding must be all over now."

"My dear Hawthorne, I believe Mr Ormiston and I understand each other

perfectly. Good-morning; I am sorry to seem abrupt, but I have a host of

things, not the most agreeable, to attend to."

It seemed quite evident that there was some little prejudice on Russell's

part against Ormiston. Possibly he did not like his attentions to his

sister. But that was no business of mine, and I knew the other too well to

doubt his earnest wish to aid and encourage a man of Russell's high

principles, and in his unfortunate position. None of us always know our

best friends.

The step which Russell had resolved on taking was, of course, an unusual

one. Even the college authorities strongly advised him to remove his name

to the books of one of the halls, where he would enter comparatively as a

stranger, and where his altered position would not entail so many painful

feelings. Every facility was offered him of doing so at one of them where

a relative of our Principal's was the head, and even a saving in expense

might thus be effected. But this evident kindness and consideration on

their part, only confirmed him in the resolution of remaining where he

was. He met their representations with the graceful reply, that he had an

attachment to the college which did not depend upon the rank he held in

it, and that he trusted he should not be turned out of two homes at once.

Even the heart of the splenetic little vice-principal was moved by this

genuine tribute to the venerable walls, which to him, as his mistress's

girdle to the poet, encircled all he loved, or hoped, or cared for; and

had the date been some century earlier--in those remarkable times when a

certain fellow was said to have owed his election into that body to a

wondrous knack he had at compounding sherry-posset--it is probable Charles

Russell would have stepped into a fellowship by special license at once.

He had harder work before him, however, and he set stoutly to it. He got

permission to lodge out of college--a privilege quite unusual, and

apparently without any sufficient object in his case. A day or two after

his return, he begged me to go with him to see the rooms he had taken: and

I was surprised to find that although small, and not in a good part of the

town, they were furnished in a style by no means, I thought, in accordance

with the strict economy I knew him to be practising in every other

respect. They contained, on a small scale, all the appointments of a

lady's drawing-room. It was soon explained. His sister was coming to live

with him. "We are but two, now," said Russell in explanation, "and though

poor Mary has been offered what might have been a comfortable home

elsewhere, which perhaps would have been more prudent, we both thought why

should we be separated? As to these little things you see, they are nearly

all hers: we offered them to the creditors, but even the lawyers would not

touch them: and here Mary and I shall live. Very strange, you think, for

her to be here in Oxford with no one to take care of her but me; but she

does not mind that, and we shall be together. However, Hawthorne, we shall

keep a dragon: there is an old housekeeper who would not be turned off,

and she comes down with Mary, and may pass for her aunt, if that's all; so

don't, pray, be shocked at us."

And so the old housekeeper did come down, and Mary with her; and under

such guardianship, a brother and an old servant, was that fair girl

installed within the perilous precincts of the University of Oxford;

perilous in more senses than one, as many a speculative and disappointed

mamma can testify, whose daughters, brought to market at the annual

"show" at commemoration, have left uncaught those dons of dignity, and

heirs-apparent of property, whom they ought to have caught, and caught

those well-dressed and good-looking, but undesirable young men, whom they

ought not to have caught. Mary Russell, however, was in little peril

herself, and, as little as she could help it, an occasion of peril to

others. Seldom did she move out from her humble abode, except for an early

morning walk with her brother, or sometimes leaning on the arm of her old

domestic, so plainly dressed that you might have mistaken her for her

daughter, and wondered how those intensely expressive features, and

queen-like graces, should have been bestowed by nature on one so humble.

Many a thoughtful student, pacing slowly the parks or Christchurch meadow

after early chapel, book in hand, cheating himself into the vain idea that

he was taking a healthful walk, and roused by the flutter of approaching

female dress, and unwillingly looking up to avoid the possible and

unwelcome collision with a smirking nurse-maid and an unresisting

baby--has met those eyes, and spoilt his reading for the morning; or has

paused in the running tour of Headington hill, or Magdalen walk, by which

he was endeavouring to cram his whole allotted animal exercise for the day

into an hour, as that sweet vision crossed his path, and wondered in his

heart by what happy tie of relationship, or still dearer claim, his

fellow-undergraduate had secured to himself so lovely a companion; and has

tried in vain, over his solitary breakfast, to rid himself of the

heterodox notion which would still creep in upon his thoughts, that in the

world there might be, after all, things better worth living and working

for, prizes more valuable--and perhaps not harder to win--than a first

class, and living personations of the beautiful which Aristotle had

unaccountably left out. Forgive me, dear reader, if I seem to be somewhat

sentimental: I am not, and I honestly believe I never was, in love with

Mary Russell; I am not--I fear I never was or shall be--much of a reading

man or an early riser; but I will confess, it would have been a great

inducement to me to adopt such habits, if I could have ensured such

pleasant company in my morning walks.

To the general world of Oxford, for a long time, I have no doubt the very

existence of such a jewel within it was unknown; for at the hours when

liberated tutors and idle undergraduates are wont to walk abroad, Mary was

sitting, hid within a little ambush of geraniums, either busy at her work,

or helping--as she loved to fancy she helped him--her brother at his

studies. Few men, I believe, ever worked harder than Russell did in his

last year. With the exception of the occasional early walk, and the

necessary attendance at chapel and lecture, he read hard nearly the whole

day; and I always attributed the fact of his being able to do so with

comparatively little effort, and no injury to his health, to his having

such a sweet face always present, to turn his eyes upon, when wearied with

a page of Greek, and such a kind voice always ready to speak or to be

silent.

It was not for want of access to any other society that Mary Russell spent

her time so constantly with her brother. The Principal, with his usual

kindheartedness, had insisted--a thing he seldom did--upon his lady making

her acquaintance; and though Mrs Meredith, who plumed herself much upon

her dignity, had made some show of resistance at first to calling upon a

young lady who was living in lodgings by herself in one of the most

out-of-the-way streets in Oxford, yet, after her first interview with Miss

Russell, so much did her sweetness of manner win upon Mrs Principal's

fancy--or perhaps it will be doing that lady but justice to say, so much

did her more than orphan unprotectedness and changed fortunes soften the

woman's heart that beat beneath that formidable exterior of silk and

ceremony, that before the first ten minutes of what had been intended as a

very condescending and very formal call, were over, she had been offered a

seat in Mrs Meredith's official pew in St Mary's; the pattern of a

mysterious bag, which that good lady carried every where about with her,

it was believed for no other purpose; and an airing the next day behind

the fat old greys, which their affectionate coachman--in commemoration of

his master's having purchased them at the time he held that

dignity--always called by the name of the "Vice-Chancellors." Possibly an

absurd incident, which Mary related with great glee to her brother and

myself, had helped to thaw the ice in which "our governess" usually

encased herself. When the little girl belonging to the lodgings opened the

door to these dignified visitors, upon being informed that Miss Russell

was at home, the Principal gave the name simply as "Dr and Mrs Meredith:"

which, not appearing to his more pompous half at all calculated to convey

a due impression of the honour conveyed by the visit, she corrected him,

and in a tone quite audible--as indeed every word of the conversation had

been--up the half-dozen steep stairs which led to the little drawing-room,

gave out "the Master of ---- and lady, if you please." The word "master"

was quite within the comprehension of the little domestic, and dropping an

additional courtesy of respect to an office which reminded her of her

catechism and the Sunday school, she selected the appropriate feminine

from her own vocabulary, and threw open the door with "the master and

mistress of ---- if you please, Miss." Dr Meredith laughed, as he entered,

so heartily, that even Mary could not help smiling, and the "mistress,"

seeing the odds against her, smiled too. An acquaintance begun in such

good humour, could hardly assume a very formal character; and, in fact,

had Mary Russell not resolutely declined all society, Mrs Meredith would

have felt rather a pleasure in patronising her. But both her straitened

means and the painful circumstances of her position--her father already

spoken of almost as a criminal--led her to court strict retirement; while

she clung with redoubled affection to her brother. He, on his part, seemed

to have improved in health and spirits since his change of fortunes; the

apparent haughtiness and coldness with which many had charged him before,

had quite vanished; he showed no embarrassment, far less any consciousness

of degradation, in his conversation with any of his old messmates at the

gentlemen-commoners' table; and though his communication with the college

was but comparatively slight, nearly all his time being spent in his

lodgings, he was becoming quite a popular character.

Meanwhile, a change of a different kind seemed to be coming over Ormiston.

It was remarked, even by those not much given to observation, that his

lectures, which were once considered endurable, even by idle men, from his

happy talent of remark and illustration, were fast becoming as dull and

uninteresting as the common run of all such business. Moreover, he had

been in the habit of giving, occasionally, capital dinners, invitations to

which were sent out frequently and widely among the young men of his own

college: these ceased almost entirely; or, when they occurred, had but the

shadow of their former joyousness. Even some of the fellows were known to

have remarked that Ormiston was much altered lately; some said he was

engaged to be married, a misfortune which would account for any imaginable

eccentricities; but one of the best of the college livings falling vacant

about the time, and, on its refusal by the two senior fellows, coming

within Ormiston's acceptance, and being passed by him, tended very much to

do away with any suspicion of that kind.

Between him and Russell there was an evident coolness, though noticed by

few men but myself; yet Ormiston always spoke most kindly of him, while on

Russell's part there seemed to be a feeling almost approaching to

bitterness, ill concealed, whenever Ormiston became the subject of

conversation. I pressed him once or twice upon the subject, but he always

affected to misunderstand me, or laughed off any sarcastic remark he might

have made, as meaning nothing; so that at last the name was seldom

mentioned between us, and almost the only point on which we differed

seemed to be our estimation of Ormiston.

THE ROMANTIC DRAMA.

Macaulay says, that the object of the drama is the painting of the human

heart; and, as that is portrayed by the events of a whole life, he

concludes that it is by poets representing in a short space a long series

of actions, that the end of dramatic composition is most likely to be

attained. "The mixture," says he, "of tragedy and comedy, and the length

and extent of the action, which the French consider as defects, is the

chief cause of the excellence of our older dramatists. The former is

necessary to render the drama a just representation of the world, in which

the laughers and the weepers are perpetually jostling each other, in which

every event has its serious and ludicrous side. The latter enables us to

form an intimate acquaintance with characters, with which we could not

possibly become familiar during the few hours to which the unities

restrict the poet. In this respect the works of Shakspeare in particular

are miracles of art. In a piece which may be read aloud in three hours, we

see a character gradually unfold all its recesses to us. We see it change

with the change of circumstances. The petulant youth rises into the

politic and warlike sovereign. The profuse and courteous philanthropist

sours at length into a hater and scorner of his kind. The tyrant is

altered by the chastening of affliction into a pensive moralist. The

veteran general, distinguished by coolness, sagacity, and self-command,

sinks under a conflict between love strong as death, and jealousy cruel as

the grave. The brave and loyal subject passes step by step to the excesses

of human depravity. We trace his progress step by step, from the first

dawnings of unlawful ambition, to the cynical melancholy of his impenitent

remorse. Yet in these pieces there are no unnatural transitions. Nothing

is omitted; nothing is crowded. Great as are the changes, narrow as is the

compass within which they are exhibited, they shock us as little as the

gradual alterations of those familiar faces which we see every evening and

morning. The magical skill of the poet resembles that of the dervise in

the _Spectator_, who condensed all the events of seven years into the

single moment during which the king held his head under water."[4]

In this admirable passage, the principle on which the Romantic Drama

rests, is clearly and manfully stated; and it is on the possibility of

effecting the object which is here so well described, that the whole

question between it and the Greek unities depends. As we have decidedly

embraced the opposite opinion, and regard, after much consideration, the

adherence to the variety and license of the romantic drama as the main

cause of the present degraded condition of our national theatre, we have

prefaced our observations with a defence of the romantic drama by one of

its ablest advocates, and shall now state the reasons which appear to us

conclusive in favour of a very different view.

The drama is part of the great effort of mankind for the representation of

human character, passion, and event. Other sister arts--History, the

Historical Romance, the Epic poem--also aim in some degree, by different

methods, at the same object; and it is by considering their different

principles, and necessary limitations, that the real rules of the drama

will best be understood.

HISTORY, as all the world knows, embraces the widest range of human

events. Confined to no time, restricted to no locality, it professes, in a

comparatively short space, to portray the most extensive and important of

human transactions. Centuries, even thousands of years, are sometimes, by

its greatest masters, embraced within its mighty arms. The majestic

series of Roman victories may occupy the genius of one writer: the fifteen

centuries of its decline and fall be spanned by the powers of another. The

vast annals of Mahommetan conquest, the long sway of the Papal dominion,

present yet untrodden fields to future historical effort.[5] But it is

this very greatness and magnitude of his subject which presents the chief

difficulty with which the historian has to contend. With the exception of

a very few instances, such lengthened annals are necessarily occupied by a

vast variety of characters, actions, states, and events, having little or

no connexion with each other, scarce any common object of union, and no

thread by which the interest of the reader is to be kept up throughout.

Hence it is that works of history are so generally complained of as dull:

that, though they are more numerous than any other class of literary

compositions, the numbers of those generally read is so extremely small.

Enter any public library, you will see hundreds of historical works

reposing in respectable dignity on the shelves. How many of them are

generally studied, or have taken hold by common consent on the minds of

men? Not ten. Romance numbers its readers by hundreds, Poetry by fifties,

where History can with difficulty muster one. This amazing difference is

not owing to any deficiency of ability turned to the subject, or interest

in the materials of which it is formed. It can never be supposed that men

will be indifferent to the annals of their own fame, or that the

groundwork of all human invention--real event--can be wanting in the means

of moving the heart. It is the extraordinary difficulty of this branch of

composition, owing to its magnitude and complication, which is the sole

cause of the difference.

The HISTORICAL ROMANCE is founded on history, but it differs from it in

the most essential particulars, and is relieved from the principal

difficulties with which the annalist of actual occurrences has to contend.

It selects a particular period out of past time, and introduces the

characters and events most remarkable for their interest, or the deep

impress they have left on the minds of men. This is an immense advantage;

for it relieves the writer from the great difficulty with which the

general historian has to contend, and which, in ninety-nine cases out of

an hundred, proves fatal to his success. Unity in the midst of confusion

is given to his subject. Room is afforded for graphic painting, space for

forcible delineations of character. It becomes possible to awaken interest

by following out the steps of individual adventure. Though the name of

historical romance is not to be found in antiquity, the thing itself was

far from being unknown. Its most charming Histories are little other than

Historical Romance; at least, they possess its charm, because they exhibit

its unity. The _Cyropaedia_ of Xenophon, the _Lives_ of Plutarch, many of

the heart-stirring _Legends_ of Livy, of the profound _Sketches_ of the

Emperors in Tacitus, are in truth historical romances under the name of

histories or biography. The lives of eminent men owe their chief charm to

the unity of the subject, and the possibility of strongly exciting the

feelings, by strictly adhering to the delineation of individual

achievement. So great is the weight of the load--crushing to the

historian--which is thus taken from the biographer or writer of historical

romance, that second-rate genius can effect triumphs in that department,

to which the very highest mind alone is equal in general historical

composition. No one would think of comparing the intellect of Plutarch

with that of Tacitus; but, nevertheless, the _Lives_ of the former will

always prove more generally attractive than the annals of the latter.

Boswell's mind was immeasurably inferior to that of Hume; but for one

reader of his _History of England_, will be found ten of the _Life of

Johnson_. Sir Walter Scott's _Life of Napoleon_ proves that he was not

altogether qualified to take a place among the great English historians;

but, to the end of the world, Richard Coeur-de-Lion, Queen Mary, and

Elizabeth, will stand forth from his canvass more clearly than either from

the rhetoric of Hume, or the eloquence of Robertson.

The EPIC POEM confines within still narrower limits the narration of human

events. As it borrows the language and is clothed with the colours of

poetry, so it is capable of rousing the feelings more powerfully than

either biography or romance, and, when crowned with success, attains a

fame, and takes a hold of the hearts of men, to which nothing in prose

composition can be compared. Elevation of thought, fervour of language,

powerful delineation of character, are its essential qualities. But all

these would prove unavailing if the one thing needful, _unity of subject_,

were awanting. It is that which is its essential quality, for that alone

lets in all the others. All the great Epic Poems which have appeared in

the world are not only devoted to one interest, but are generally

restricted in point of space and time within limits not materially wider

than those of the Greek drama. The _Iliad_ not only relates exclusively

the latter stages of the siege of Troy, but the whole period of its action

is forty-eight days--of its absorbing interest, (the time from the

storming of the Greek lines by Hector to his death by the heaven-defended

Achilles,) thirty-six hours. The _Paradise Lost_ adheres strictly to unity

both of subject and time: the previous battles of the angels is the

subject of narrative by the angel Raphael; but the time that elapses from

the convocation of the devils in Pandemonium to the expulsion of Adam and

Eve from paradise is only three days. The _Jerusalem Delivered_ has the

one absorbing interest arising from the efforts of the Christians for the

deliverance of the Holy Sepulchre; and its time is limited to a few weeks.

Virgil was so enamoured of his great predecessor that he endeavoured to

imitate, in one poem, both his great works. The _AEneid_ is an _Iliad_ and

_Odyssey_ in one. But every one must feel that it is on the episode with

Dido that the interest of the poem really rests; and that all the magic of

his exquisite pencil can scarcely sustain the interest after the pious

AEneas has taken his departure from the shores of Carthage. The _Lusiad_ of

Camoens, necessarily, from its subject, embraced wider limits; but the one

interest of the poem is as single and sustained as that of the discovery

of the new world by Columbus. If any of these writers had professed in

rhyme to give a history of a wider or more protracted subject, the

interest would have been so much diffused as to be lost. The confusion of

ideas and incidents so painfully felt by all the readers of _Orlando

Furioso_, and which the boundless fancy of Ariosto was unable to prevent,

proves that epic poetry has its limits, and that they are narrower than

either history or romance.

What epic poetry is to romance or biography, THE DRAMA is to epic poetry.

As the former selects from the romance of history its most interesting and

momentous events, and makes them the subject of brilliant description, of

impassioned rhetoric, so the latter chooses from the former its most

heart-stirring episodes, and brings them in actual dialogue and

representation before the mind of the spectator. Immense is the effect of

this concentration--still more marvellous that of the personation with

which it is attended. Imagination assumes the actual form of beings;

conception is realised. The airy visions of the past are clothed in flesh

and blood. The marvels of acting, scenery, and stage effect, come to add

to the pathos of incident, to multiply tenfold the charms of poetry. It is

impossible to conceive intellectual enjoyment carried beyond the point it

attained, when the magic of Shakspeare's thought and language was enhanced

by the power of Siddons or Kemble's acting, or is personified by the

witchery of Helen Faucit's conceptions. But for the full effect of this

combination, it is indispensable that the principles of dramatic

composition be duly observed, and the stage kept within its due limits,

more contracted in point of time and place than either romance or epic

poetry. Within those bounds it is omnipotent, and produces an impression

to which, while it lasts, none of the sister arts can pretend. Beyond

them it never fails to break down, and not only ceases to interest, but

often becomes to the last degree wearisome and exhausting. It is not

difficult to see to what this general failure of the drama, when it

outstrips its proper bounds, is owing. It arises from the impossibility of

awakening interest without attending to unity of emotion; of keeping alive

attention without continuity of incident; of making the story intelligible

without simplicity of action.

Dramatic authors, actors, and actresses, how gifted soever in other

respects, are the worst possible judges on this subject. They are so

familiar with the story, from having composed the piece themselves, or

made it the subject of frequent repetition or rehearsal, that they can

form no conception of the difficulty which nine tenths of the audience, to

whom the piece is entirely strange, experience in understanding the plot,

or acquiring any interest in the incidents or development of the piece. It

may safely be affirmed, that a vast majority of the spectators of the

dramas now habitually represented, with the exception of a few of

Shakspeare's, which have become as household words on the English stage,

never understand any thing of the story till the end of the third act, and

are only beginning to take an interest in the piece when the curtain

falls. Dramatic authors and performers would do well to ponder on this

observation; they may rely upon it that it furnishes the key to the

present degraded state of the English drama.

It is not obtuseness on the part of the audience which occasions this. So

complicated is the story, so lengthened the succession of events, in most

of our modern theatrical pieces, that the most acute understanding,

fortified by the most extensive practice, requiring alertness of

intellect, will long be at fault in comprehending them. We have seen many

a barrister famed for cross-examination unable to comprehend, till the

piece was half over, the drift of Sheridan Knowles's dramas. Is it

surprising, when this is the case, that the vast majority of the audience

complain of weariness during the representation, and that the managers of

theatres, sensible of this difficulty, are fain to eke out the proper

interest of the drama by the meretricious aids of scenery, and dancing,

and decorations?

What is constantly complained of by all classes at the theatre is, that it

is so tiresome; that the back is broken by sitting without a support; that

they cannot comprehend the story; that they do not understand what it is

all about; and that the performance is infinitely too long. This last

observation is, undoubtedly, frequently well founded: no where is the

truth of old Hesiod's maxim, that a half is often greater than the whole,

more frequently exemplified than in dramatic representations. But still

the fact of the complaint being so universally made, and equally by all

classes, is very remarkable, and pregnant with instruction, as to the

limits of the drama and the causes of the decline of its popularity so

painfully conspicuous in the British empire. No one complains of his back

being broken for want of support at a trial for murder; on the contrary,

all classes, and _especially the lowest_, will sit at such heart-stirring

scenes, without feeling fatigue, for ten, twelve, sometimes eighteen hours

consecutively. Nor can it be affirmed that this is because the interest is

real; that the life of a human being is at stake. Every day's experience

proves that fiction, when properly managed, is more interesting than

reality. The vast multitude of novels which yearly issue from the press,

the eagerness with which they are sought after by all classes, the

extraordinary extent of their circulation, sufficiently prove this. No one

complains that the best romances of Sir Walter Scott or Bulwer are too

long; on the contrary, they are generally felt to be too short; and those

who are loudest in their declamations against the intolerable fatigue of

the theatre, will sit for days together with their feet at the fire,

devouring even an indifferent novel.

The general complaint now made in Great Britain against the tedium of

theatrical representations was unknown in other ages and countries. The

passion of the Greeks for their national theatre is well known, and the

matchless perfection of their great dramatists proves to what a degree it

is capable of rousing the human mind. The French, prior to the Revolution,

were passionately fond of the drama, which was then entirely founded on

the Greek model. The decline complained of in the Parisian theatre has

been contemporary with the introduction of the Romantic school. In Italy,

it is, with the opera, the chief, almost the sole public amusement. There

is not a city with forty thousand inhabitants in the classic peninsula

that has not a theatre and opera, superior to any thing to be met with in

the British islands out of London. The theatre is in high favour in

Germany and Russia. Complaints, indeed, are frequently made, that the

drama is declining on the Continent, and the present state of the lesser

Parisian theatres certainly affords no indication that, in departing from

the old land-marks and bringing romance on the stage, they have either

preserved its purity or extended its influence. But the decline of the

theatre is far greater and more remarkable in England than in any of the

continental states. It has, indeed, gone so far as to induce a serious

apprehension among many well-informed persons, that it will cease to

exist, and the country of Shakspeare and Garrick, of Kemble and Siddons,

be left altogether without a theatre at which the legitimate drama is

represented. Such a result in a country overflowing, in its great cities

and metropolis at least, with riches, and with a population passionately

desirous of every species of enjoyment, is very remarkable, and deserving

of the most serious consideration. It may well make us pause in our

career, and consider whether the course we have been pursuing has, or has

not, been likely to lead to perfection and success in this noble and

important branch of composition.

We have stated what are the limits of the drama, and what part is assigned

to it in the general effort of the human mind to portray events, or paint

the human heart. Macaulay has explained, in the passage already quoted,

what the Romantic drama proposes to do, and the reason why, in his

estimation, it is more likely to attain its end than the more closely

fettered theatre of the Greeks. The whole question comes to be, which of

the two systems is best adapted to attain the undoubted end of all

dramatic composition, the painting of the human heart? If he is right in

the views he has so well expressed, it is very singular how it has

happened, that in a country which, for the last three centuries, has

constantly adhered to these ideas, and worked out the Romantic drama with

extraordinary zeal and vigour, dramatic representations should have been

constantly declining, so as at length to be threatened with total

extinction. This becomes the more remarkable, when it is recollected, that

in other countries, inferior in wealth, genius, and energy to Great

Britain, but where the old system had been adhered to, it continued to

flourish in undiminished vigour, and that decay in them has uniformly been

coexistent with the entry on the stage of Romantic representation. Racine,

Corneille, Voltaire in France, and Metastasio and Alfieri in Italy,

Schiller and Goethe in Germany, have nobly upheld the legitimate drama in

their respective countries. Still more extraordinary is it, if these views

be the correct ones, that while, by the marvels of one heaven-born genius,

the Romantic drama was in the days of Queen Elizabeth raised to the very

highest perfection in this country, it has since continually languished,

and cannot from his day number one name destined for immortality among its

votaries.

It is said in answer to this obvious objection to the Romantic drama,

founded on its fate in all the countries where it has been established,

that it shares in this respect only in the common destiny of mankind in

creating works of imagination; that the period of great and original

conception is the first only--that Homer was succeeded by Virgil, AEschylus

by Euripides, Dante by Tasso, Shakspeare by Pope, and that the age of

genius in all countries is followed by that of criticism.[6] There can be

no doubt that this observation is in many respects well founded; but it

affords no solution of the causes of the present degraded condition of our

national drama, nor does it explain the course it has taken in this

country. We have made a progress, but it has not been from originality to

taste, but from genius to folly. The age of AEschylus has not with us been

succeeded by that of Sophocles and Euripides, but by that of melodrama and

_spectacle_. We have not advanced from the wildness of conception to the

graces of criticism, but from the rudeness of some barbaric imagination,

to the cravings of corrupted fancy. The age of Garrick has been with us

succeeded, not by that of Roscius, but by that of Cerito; the melodrama of

the _Crusaders_, the dancing of Carlotta Grisi, have banished tragedy from

the boards trod by Kemble and Siddons. The modern dramas which have been

published, and in part appeared on the stage, have in no respect been

distinguished by more legitimate taste, or a stricter adherence to rule,

than those of Ford and Massinger, of Beaumont and Fletcher, of Jonson and

Shakspeare. They have discarded, indeed, the indecency which forms so

serious a blot on our older dramatists, but, in other respects, they have

faithfully followed out their principles. The drama still, as in earlier

days, professes to exhibit in a few hours a representation of the

principal events of a lifetime. Time and place are set at nought, as they

were by the bard of Avon, and not unfrequently the last act opens at the

distance of years, or hundreds of miles from the first. We need only

mention two of the ablest and most popular of our modern dramas--_The Lady

of Lyons_, by Bulwer, and the best of Sheridan Knowles' theatrical pieces,

for a confirmation of these observations. But no one will pretend that the

dramatic works of these writers, excellent in many respects as they are,

can be set off against the master-pieces of the Greek or French drama

which succeeded the days of AEschylus and Corneille.

Again it is said, and very commonly too, as an explanation of the

extraordinary failure of dramatic genius since the days of Queen Elizabeth

in this country, that originality and greatness can be reached only once

in the lifetime of a nation; that we have had our Shakspeare as Greece had

its Homer, and that we should be content; and that it is the necessary

effect of superlative excellence in the outset, to extinguish rivalry and

induce mediocrity in the end. The observation is plausible, and it has

been so frequently made, that it has passed with many into a sort of

axiom. But when tried by the only test of truth in human affairs--that of

experience--it entirely fails. Past history affords no countenance to the

idea, that early greatness extinguishes subsequent emulation, or that

superlative genius in one department is fatal to subsequent perfection in

it. On the contrary, it creates it. It is by the collision of one great

mind with another, that the greatest achievements of the human mind have

been effected--often the chain continues from one age and nation to

another; but it is never snapped asunder.

These considerations are fitted to cast a serious doubt on the question,

how far the true principles of the drama are those which have been

embraced by the English school, and may lead us to consider whether the

acknowledged inferiority of our tragic writers, since the time of

Shakspeare, is not in reality to be ascribed to his transcendent genius

having led them astray from the true principles of the art. It will be

considered in the sequel, to what cause _his_ acknowledged success has

been owing, and whether his finest dramas, those which chiefly retain

their popularity, are not in reality constructed on the Grecian model.

But, in the mean time, let it be considered what in reality the drama can

do, and what limits are imposed upon it, not by the arbitrary rules of

critics, but by the lasting nature of things.

The drama is restricted by the well known limits of human patience to a

representation of three hours. Experience has every where proved that the

greatest genius, both in the poet and performer, cannot keep alive

interest, or avert weariness, beyond that period. The spectators sit still

in their places the whole time. Whatever changes of scene, or external

objects to look at are introduced, the audience itself is motionless. It

is to persons thus situated, and within this time, that theatrical

representations are addressed. They expect, and with reason, to be amused

and interested in comedy, moved and melted in tragedy. It is for this they

go to the theatre, for this they pay their money. Writers and actors are

equally aware that this is the case. Then what course do the Greek and the

Romantic school respectively follow to attain this object?

Both in some respects follow the same course, or rather both make use, for

the main part, of the same materials. It is universally acknowledged, that

it is essential to the success of the drama, in all its branches, that the

plot be interesting, the characters forcible, the ideas natural, the

attention constantly kept up. In tragedy, by far its noblest department,

it is indispensable, in addition, that the feelings should be vehemently

excited in the spectators, and the human heart laid bare, by the most

violent passions, in the characters on the stage. Aristotle expressly

says, that it is the delineation of passions which is the object of

tragedy. In order to achieve this object, all are agreed, that some

permanent characters must be selected, generally from those known to

history, to whom striking and tragic events have occurred; and it is in

the delineation of the passions which those events excite, and the

interest they awaken in the breast of the spectators, that the art of the

writer consists. So far both parties are agreed; but they differ widely in

the methods which they respectively take to attain this object.

The Romantic dramatist, overstepping the bounds of time and place,

professes in three hours to portray the principal events of years--it may

be of a whole lifetime. He selects the prominent events of his hero's or

heroine's career, the salient angles, as it were, of human existence, and

brings them forward in different scenes of his brief representation. Years

often intervene between the commencement of his piece and its termination;

the spectator is transported hundreds, it may be thousands of miles by a

mere mechanical sleight of hand in the scene-shifter, or between the acts.

The drama constructed on these principles does not represent a short

period, into which the crisis, as it were, of a whole lifetime is

concentrated, but it gives sketches of the whole life itself, from the

commencement of its eventful period to its termination. The poet chooses

the most exciting scenes out of the three volumes of the historical novel,

and brings these scenes on the stage in a few hours. As the drama,

constructed on this principle, professes to portray the changes of real

life, so it admits, it is thought, of that intermixture of the serious and

the comic, which the actual world exhibits; and willingly transports the

spectator from the most highly wrought scenes of passion, the deepest

accents of woe, to the burlesque of extravagant characters, or the picture

of vulgar life. This is deemed admissible, because it is natural; and

certainly no one can have gone from the drawing-room, or the library, to

the stage-coach or the steam-boat, without seeing that it exhibits at

least a true picture of the varied phantasmagoria which existence

presents.

The Greek dramatists, and their successors in modern Europe, proceed upon

an entirely different principle. Having made their selection of the

characters and the events on which their piece is to be constructed, they

pitch upon that period in their progress in which matters were brought to

a crisis, and, for good or for evil, their destiny was accomplished.

Having done this, they portray the minutest incidents of that brief period

with the utmost care, and exert all their strength on the graphic painting

on which every artist knows the awakening of interest is almost entirely

dependent. The previous history of the principal personages is described

in dialogue at the commencement of the piece, so as to make the spectators

aware both of the great lives of the characters which are brought before

them, and of the antecedent events which had brought matters to their

present crisis. Having carried them to this point, the crisis itself is

portrayed at full length, and with all the power and pathos of which the

artist is capable. The poet does not pretend to narrate the campaign from

its commencement to its termination: he begins his piece with the

commencement of the last battle, and exerts all his strength on painting

the decisive charge. He does not give the voyage from its commencement to

its termination, with its long periods of monotonous weariness; he

confines himself to the brief and terrible scene of the ship-wreck. As the

crisis and catastrophe of life is thus alone represented, and every thing

depends on the interest excited by its development, so nothing is admitted

which can disturb the unity of the emotion, or interrupt the flow of the

sympathy which it is the great object of the piece from first to last to

awaken.

If it were _possible_ to create the same interest, or delineate character

and passion as completely, by brief and consequently imperfect sketches of

a whole lifetime, as it is by a minute and glowing representation of its

most eventful period, much might be advanced with justice in favour of the

Romantic school of the drama. Our objection is, that this is impossible;

and that the failure of the English theatre, since the time of Shakspeare,

is entirely to be ascribed to this impossibility. And the impossibility is

owing to the length of time which it requires, by narrative or

representation, to kindle that warm and glowing image, or awaken those

ardent feelings in the mind of another, upon which the emotion of taste

and the success of all the Fine Arts depend.

In the arts which address themselves to the _eye_, and through it to the

heart, it is possible to produce a very strong impression almost

instantaneously. A beautiful woman has only to be seen to be admired; a

charming landscape bursts upon the sight with immediate and almost magical

force. The impression produced by the finest objects in Europe,--the sun

setting on the Jungfrawhorn, the interior of St Peter's, the fall of

Schaffhausen, the view on the Acropolis of Athens, Constantinople from the

Seraglio point, the Bay of Naples, for example,--is such, that though seen

_only_ for a few minutes, it may almost be said seconds, an impression is

made, a picture is painted, on the mind's retina, which can never be

effaced. Painting, as it imitates external nature, so it shares in the

rapidity and, in the hands of great masters, durability of its

impressions. Sculpture and architecture have the same advantage. Yet even

in these arts, the productions of which require only to be seen to be

admired, it is well known that the impression, strong as it is at first,

is, with all persons of a cultivated mind, greatly increased by repeated

inspections. The common observation, that a fine painting or statue grows

upon you the oftener you see it, and that "Time but the impression deeper

wears," sufficiently proves that it is not at once, even in those arts

which speak at once to the eye, that the soul of the artist is transferred

to that of the spectator.

But the case is entirely different with those arts--such as history,

romance, epic poetry, or the drama--which do not at once produce a visible

object to the mind, but give descriptions or dialogues by which the reader

or spectator is required to form a _mental_ object or awaken a mental

interest of his own creation, though from the materials furnished, and

under the guidance of the genius of the artist. It is not instantaneously

that this can be done: on the contrary, it is by very slow degrees and

many successive efforts that the inward picture is created in the mind,

the absorbing interest awakened in the heart, which gives the pleasure or

rouses the sympathy which is the object of the writer to communicate. A

very little reflection will be sufficient to show that this observation is

well founded, in all the arts of narrative or description. And nothing, we

apprehend, can be clearer than that the Romantic Drama has failed because

it professes, within limits and by means which render the attempt

hopeless, to excite this interest.

Notwithstanding the well-known and proverbial dulness of history, there

are many historical works which do succeed in awakening a durable and

sometimes absorbing interest in the mind of the reader. Probably few works

professedly addressed to the imagination have awakened in many breasts so

deep and lasting an interest as the narrative of Livy, the biography of

Tacitus, the pictured page of Gibbon. Such works are almost always

complained of as dull at first: but the interest gradually waxes warmer as

the narrative proceeds; the feelings become roused on one side, or in

favour of one hero or another, in the great drama of the world; and not

unfrequently in the end the most attractive works of imagination are laid

aside for the annals of real events. But how is it that this interest is

awakened? By the study of months, sometimes of years: by an interest

produced by the reading of a whole winter by the fireside. Let any man

try, in a narrative of _long_ continued historical events, to excite a

deep interest in a space which can be read _in three hours_, and the

powers of Tacitus or Gibbon would at once fail in the attempt. It is quite

possible in that brief period to awaken the deepest interest in a single

or closely connected series of events, as a battle, a siege, a revolt, a

ship-wreck: but wholly impossible to do so with incidents scattered over a

long course of years.

The interest so generally felt in epic poetry and romance is excited in

the same way, though in a much shorter period. As the colours of these

species of composition are more brilliant, the feelings more chastened,

the events more select, the characters more prominent, the catastrophe

more rapidly brought about, than in real life, so the artist has the

means, in a much shorter period, of awakening the interest upon the growth

of which the success of his work is chiefly dependent. But nevertheless,

even there, it is by comparatively slow degrees, and by reading for a very

considerable period, that the interest is created. It is wholly impossible

to produce it, or make the story or the characters intelligible, in a few

hours. Every scholar recollects the delight with which his mind grew, as

it were, under the fire of Homer's conceptions, his taste matured under

the charm of Virgil's feelings: but no one will pretend that the intense

delight he felt could be awakened, if he had read extracts from their most

brilliant passages in a few hours; this pleasure was the feast, this

interest the growth, of weeks and months. No reader of Tasso, Milton, or

Klopstock, for the first time, would think he could acquire an interest in

the _Jerusalem Delivered_, the _Paradise Lost_, or the _Messiah_, between

tea and supper. Many of their finest passages might be read in that brief

space, and their beauty _as pieces of poetry_ fully appreciated; but it

would be wholly impossible in so short a time to awaken an interest in the

whole story, or the fate of the principal characters.--Nevertheless it

would be quite possible, in that period to excite the deepest sympathy

with some of their most striking events or episodes _taken singly_; as the

parting of Hector and Andromache, or the death of the Trojan hero, in the

_Iliad_; the love of Dido for AEneas, or the catastrophe of Nisus and

Euryalus, in the _AEneid_; the death of Clorinda, or the flight of Erminia,

in the _Jerusalem Delivered_. The reason is, that it is possible in a

short space to point a single catastrophe with such force and minuteness

as to excite the warmest sympathy, but wholly impossible to effect that

object within such limits, with a long series of consecutive events.

Again, look at the historical romance or the common novel. No one needs to

be told how deep and universal is the interest which the masterpieces in

that department awaken. Whatever may be said to the decline of the public

taste for the drama, most certainly there is no symptom of any abatement

in the general interest awakened by works of fiction; but that interest is

of comparatively slow growth. It would be impossible to produce it in a

few hours. It is excited by the reading of three evenings by the fireside.

No one would deem it possible to awaken the interest, or make the

characters intelligible, in three hours.

It is true that to the aid of six or eight chapters culled out of three

volumes, the Romantic dramatist brings the auxiliaries of acting, scenery,

and stage effect; but that adds little to the power of exciting deep

sympathy or powerful emotion. Such feelings cannot be awakened without

minute painting, and continuity of action, and they are excluded by the

very nature of the Romantic drama. That species of composition proposes to

give a picture of the principal events of a long period, as the

peristrephic panorama does of the chief scenes of a great space, as the

whole course of the Rhine or the Danube. Every one knows how inferior the

interest it excites is to those in which the whole skill of the artist and

outlay of the proprietor have been exerted on a single picture, as the

original round one of Barker and Burford. The art of panoramic painting

has signally receded, since the moving panorama has been substituted for

the fixed one. A series of galloping lithographic sketches of Italy,

however highly coloured or skilfully drawn, will never paint that lovely

peninsula like a single sunset of Claude in the bay of Naples. Claude

himself could not do so in his varied sketches, graphic and masterly as

they are. The Romantic drama is the _Liber Veritatis_; the Greek drama is

the finished Claude in the Doria Palace, or the National Gallery. Few

persons will hesitate to say which excites the strongest admiration, which

they would rather possess.

Performers on the stage are very naturally led to form an erroneous

opinion on this subject. Many of the most captivating qualities they

possess are seen at once. Physical beauty, elegance of manner, a noble

air, a majestic carriage, a lovely figure, a bewitching smile, produce

their effect instantaneously. No one needs to be told how quickly and

powerfully they speak to the heart, how warmly they kindle the

imagination. But that admiration is _personal_ to the artist; it does not

extend to the piece, nor can it overcome its imperfections. It gives

pleasure often of the very highest kind; but it is a pleasure very

different from the true interest of dramatic representation, and cannot be

relied on to sustain the interest of an audience for a long period. It is

where these powers of the performer are exerted on a drama constructed on

its true principles, that the full delight of the theatre is felt. No

talents in the performer can sustain a faulty piece. We cannot sit three

hours merely to admire the most beautiful and gifted actress that ever

trod the boards. Mental sympathy, the rousing of the feelings, is

required, and that is mainly the work of the poet.

We are the more confirmed in the opinion that these are the true

principles of dramatic composition, from observing how generally they are

applicable to the historical novel; how clearly they are illustrated by

the decided verdict of public opinion pronounced on the works of the most

popular writers in that species of composition. The two novels of Sir

Walter Scott that are most admired, are _Ivanhoe_ and _The Bride of

Lammermoor_. Well, these romances have the interest concentrated within

the narrowest limits. _The Bride of Lammermoor_ is a Greek drama in prose.

It has its simplicity of story, unity of emotion, and terrible concluding

catastrophe. _Lucia di Lammermoor_, performed with signal success in every

opera of Europe, is a proof how easily it was dramatised. It is the _only

one_ of Sir Walter's novels that, out of Scotland, where local feelings

warp the judgment, has been durably successful on the stage. The principal

events in _Ivanhoe_ are contracted within three days; the characters which

interest are only two or three in number. Look at Cooper. The great secret

of his success is the minuteness and fidelity of his painting, and the

graphic power with which heart-stirring events occurring within a very

short period are painted. In the most admired of all his novels, _The

Deerslayer_, the whole scene is laid on the borders of a single lake, and

the interest arises from the adventures of two girls on its watery bosom.

Events in _The Pathfinder_, _The Last of the Mohicans_, and _The Prairie_,

are nearly as concentrated in point of time and characters, though, as the

story depends in each on the adventures of a party on a journey, a

considerable transference of place is of course introduced. _The Promessi

Sposi_ of Manzoni has acquired a European reputation, and every reader of

it knows how entirely its interest is dependent on the unity of interest

and extraordinary fidelity and skill with which, within narrow limits, the

characters, events, and still life, are portrayed. It is the same in

history. The success of Alison's _History of Europe_ has been mainly

owing to the fortunate unity of the subject, and the dramatic character of

the events which, within the space of twenty years, were thus crowded into

the theatre of human affairs.

In those romances again, and they are many, in which great latitude in the

unities has been taken, it is very rarely that the skill of the artist has

succeeded in preventing a painful break in the interest, or cessation in

the sympathy, where any considerable transposition of place or overleaping

of time occurs. It is very frequent in James's novels to see this done;

but we believe he never yet had a reader in whom it did not excite a

feeling of regret. When a chapter begins--"We must now transport the

reader to a distant part of the country"--or "Many years after the events

detailed in the last chapter had occurred, two persons met in an hostelry

on the side of a forest," &c., we may rely upon it that, not only is the

scene changed, but the interest, for the time at least, is lost. The

pictures formed in the mind, the interest awakened in the events, the

admiration felt for the characters, are alike at an end. The chain of

sympathy is broken with the rupture of the continuity of events. The

reader's mind sets out as it were on a new track, in which the sails must

be spread, and the oars worked afresh. Everything must be done over again;

fresh pictures conjured up in the mind, new interests awakened in the

breast from the last starting-point. But it is seldom that such new

interests can supply the want of those which have been lost, or that,

where such a system is adopted, even a sustained sympathy can be

maintained throughout. We do not say that the first love is exclusive of

any other; but only that the interest is not to be transferred from one to

the other, until a considerable time has elapsed, and no small pains have

been taken. Several such dislocations of place, or violations of time,

will prove fatal to a novel, though written with the utmost ability, and

managed in other respects with the most consummate skill. Every reader of

Mr James's romances, which in many respects possess high merits, must be

sensible of the truth of this observation; and all the richness of

colouring, and fidelity in drawing, in Sir L. Bulwer's splendid historical

romance of _Rienzi_, cannot take away the painful impression produced by

the long interval which elapses between the commencement of the story,

where the characters first appear, its middle, where the real interest is

developed, and its termination, where the catastrophe occurs.

In the historical romance, however, such diffusion of the events over a

long period, though extremely difficult to be managed in consistence with

the preservation of interest in the story, is adverse to no principle;

because it is the very object of that species of mingled truth and fiction

to narrate a lengthened course of events as they affected the history of

individual men; and the only unity to which the author is restricted by

the principles of his art is the unity of interest. But the curious thing

is, that in the Romantic drama this difficulty is voluntarily undertaken

when no necessity exists for its introduction; nay, when the principles of

the art, as evinced in the works of its greatest masters, forbid its

adoption. What would the historian give to be able to dwell only on the

brilliant episodes of his period--to be permitted to throw aside the long

intervening years of monotony or prose, and dwell only on those where the

poetry of existence is brought forth? On what scenes does the romance

writer dwell with transport--where does he paint with force and minuteness

but in those incidents, generally few and far between in his volumes,

which form the fit subject of dramatic composition? The stage alone is

relieved from the necessity of portraying the prosaic adjunct to poetic

interest; the dramatist only is permitted to select the decisive

crisis--the burning incident of life--and present it with all the

additions of poetry, music, scenery, and personation. Strange that, when

thus relieved of the fetters which so grievously restrain the other

species of human narrative, he should voluntarily choose to wear them;

that when at liberty to soar on the eagle's wing, he should gratuitously

assume the camel's load.

In truth, the adoption of the Romantic style in theatrical composition,

and the tenacity with which, despite centuries of failure, it is still

adhered to by dramatic poets, is mainly to be ascribed to a secret sense

of inability to work up the simpler old drama of Greece with the requisite

force and effect. Men distrust their own powers in awaking a continued

interest for hours from one incident, or the portraying of a single

catastrophe. They are fain to borrow the adventitious aid to be derived,

as they think, from frequent changes of time and place. They rail at the

drama of Athens, as many modern artists do at the paintings of Claude

Lorraine, because they feel themselves unable to imitate them. They crowd

their canvass with objects, from a secret sense of inability to finish any

one with perfect force and fidelity. In that way they flatter themselves

that the defects of their composition will be less strongly felt, and the

audience will experience something like the enjoyment of foreign

travelling without any great trouble on the part of their conductor, on

the brilliant succession of pictures which is presented to their

intellectual vision. They forget only one thing, but it generally proves

fatal to their whole undertaking. Foreign travelling is delightful; but it

is only so when sufficient time is allowed to see the objects properly,

and take in the impression. Without this, it is little more than a

grievous fatigue, relieved by one or two splendid but fleeting pictures

painted on the mind. The drama being limited to a three hours'

representation, must portray the events of years, if it attempts it, at

railway speed. Thence it is, that no greater pleasure is in general felt

from its representations than from seeing the tops of villages or the

steeples of churches fleeting past when travelling fifty miles an hour on

the Great Western. If we would really enjoy nature, we must stop short and

sketch one of them, and then we shall feel pleasure indeed.

It is a most grievous but unavoidable consequence of this original

departure, as we deem it, from right principle in dramatic composition,

that it leads by a natural and almost unavoidable transition to all the

extravagances and meritricious aids, the presence of which has so long

been felt as the chief disgrace of the British stage. As long as the

unities of time and place are adhered to, the poet has no resource but in

the forces of character, the pathos of incident, the beauty of language.

If he does not succeed in these he is lost. But the moment that he feels

himself at liberty to change the scene or time at pleasure, there is no

end to the assistance which he will seek to derive from such adventitious

support, how foreign soever to the real interest and true principles of

his art. Frequent changes of scene, gorgeous pictures of buildings or

scenery, brilliant exhibitions of stage effect, processions, battles,

storming of castles, the clang of trumpets, the clashing of swords, the

discharge of fire-arms, are all resorted to in order to save the trouble

of thought, or conceal mediocrity of conception. It may be that such

exhibitions are very attractive, that they draw full houses of children,

or of men and women with the minds of children--no small portion of the

human race. But no one will assert that they are the drama, any more than

that name belonged to the exhibitions of lions or cameleopards in the

Roman amphitheatre. But the Romantic drama, by the unbounded latitude in

point of time, place, and incident, which it permits, opens the door to

all these substitutes for genius which the great drama, by excluding them,

kept carefully closed. Therefore it is that the corruption of taste has

been much more rapid and irremediable in the countries by which it has

been adopted, than in those in which the old landmarks were adhered to;

and that in the latter the taste for extravagance in the public, and the

degradation in the character of dramatic composition, has always been

contemporary with the introduction of the Romantic style on the theatre.

To see to what the Romantic style leads, we have only to look at the

dramatic pieces founded on the favourite works of fiction which have

recently appeared in England and France. Dramas in both countries have

been formed on the stories of the most popular novels of Scott, Bulwer,

Victor Hugo, Janin, and Eugene Sue. What success have they had? What sort

of things are they? We pass over the horrors, the indecency, adulterous

incest, and murders of the modern French drama, founded on the romances of

three popular and imaginative novelists, and come to the dramas founded on

our own great romance writers, against whom no such charges can be

brought, and the original plots of which have been constructed with the

utmost talent by the greatest master of prose fiction the world ever saw.

What has been the fate of the dramas of _Ivanhoe_, _The Antiquary_, _Guy

Mannering_, _Rob Roy_, or Sir Walter's other popular novels? With the

exception of the lowest class of Scotch audiences, who roar on the

representations of Dandie Dinmont, Bailie Nicol Jarvie, or the like, it

may safely be affirmed that they have every where proved entire failures.

The talent of a popular actress may for a time keep some of them up, as

Miss Cushman has recently done with Meg Merrilies both in the London and

provincial theatres; but left to themselves, they have every where sunk to

the ground. The reason is evident. The story is so complicated, and leaps

so from one thing to another, from a desire to skim over the whole novel,

that except to those who have the original by heart, it is absolutely

unintelligible.

It is said that the sketch of a whole lifetime, or of many years, is

essential to the true development of character, which it is the great end

of the drama to exhibit, because it is by the varied events of so long a

period that we are made acquainted with it in real life. Here again we

join issue with our opponents, and do most confidently maintain that the

Greek drama, which professes to paint the heart by the paroxysms of

passion it undergoes in the crisis of its fate, is much more likely to do

it faithfully and effectually than the Romantic, which portrays the events

of a whole lifetime. When it is said the object of the drama is to paint

the human heart, a distinction must be made. The heart may become known by

ordinary life or moments of crisis, _by custom or passion_. The novelist,

who portrays a whole life, may delineate it in the first way; but the

dramatic poet, who is limited to a representation of three hours, must of

necessity embrace the latter. But if the delineation of the heart by its

expressions or sufferings in moments of passion, when it is laid bare by

the vehemence of emotions, be the end in view, it must at once be evident

that it is much more likely to be attained by vividly and minutely

painting a single decisive crisis, with the acts and feelings to which it

gives rise, than by presenting comparatively hurried and imperfect

sketches of previous events, when the current of life ran comparatively

smoothly. Every one knows how much the character of the French church and

nobility rose during the sufferings of the Revolution; with truth was the

instrument of their execution called the "holy guillotine," from the

virtues previously unheard of which it brought to light. Could any

dramatic sketch of their previous lives paint the inmost heart of these

victims so well as one faithful portrait of their conduct in the supreme

hour? Could the mingled greatness and meanness of Napoleon's character be

so well portrayed, by a sketch of his life and impressive scenes from Lodi

to St Helena, as by a graphic delineation of his conduct in the decisive

crisis at Waterloo?

It sounds well, no doubt, to say, as Macaulay does, that the Romantic

drama exhibits all the plans of a man's life, from the ardour of generous

youth to the coolness of experienced age. This may be done in history or

romance; but it is impossible within the limits of a single

representation. It is quite enough if, in so short a space, the stage can

represent one momentous crisis with adequate power, and really paint the

heart as laid bare by its occurrence. He who knows how difficult it is to

do that in a single instance, will feel that the effect can only be

weakened by repeated draughts upon the sympathy of the audience, from the

effect of different events in the same piece. The attempt to do so

scarcely ever fails to weaken the effect of the whole piece, by

distracting the interest and confusing the idea of the spectators. If it

succeeds, the result, like the repeated demands which Matthews made on

our risible faculties, in general is to produce an effect directly the

reverse of what was intended. The comedian, by trying too often to make us

laugh, made us in the end more ready to cry; the tragedian, by trying too

often to make us cry, succeeds generally only in making us laugh.

But what, then, it is said, is to be made of Shakspeare, and how is his

transcendent and universally acknowledged greatness, while setting the

unities at defiance, to be reconciled with those principles? We accept the

challenge; we take the case of the Earl of Avon, with his deathless fame,

and maintain that his dramatic excellence not only affords no impeachment

of what has now been advanced, but furnishes its most decisive

confirmation.

When it is commonly said that Shakspeare sets the unities at defiance, and

assumed that his success has been owing to his disregarding them, the

_fact_ is not correctly stated, and the _inference_ is not logically

drawn. It is a mistake to say that the unities are always disregarded by

the great English tragedian. In many of his most popular pieces, they are

maintained nearly as strictly as they were by Sophocles; and we are aware

of not one of his dramas which is still represented with undiminished

effect on the stage, in which the principle of the unities may not

distinctly be recognised, and the long-continued success is not to be

traced to their observation.

The Greeks, as every scholar knows, took great latitude with _time_ in

their representations. The interval between one act and another, often

even the time occupied by the chaunting of the chorus, frequently was made

to cover a very considerable period, during which battles were fought, a

duel or a conspiracy broke forth, an execution took place, and the most

momentous events of the piece off the stage occurred. In place, it is

true, they were strictly limited; the scene never changed, and all the

incidents were introduced by bringing successive persons upon it. In this

respect, it may be admitted, they carried their strictness too far.

Probably it arose from the pieces being represented, for the most part, in

the open air, under circumstances when the illusion produced by a change

of scene, such as we witness at our theatres, was difficult, if not

impossible, from the audience being, for the most part, above the actors,

and the stage having no top. But to whatever cause it may have been owing,

we hold the adherence to unity of place an unnecessary and prejudicial

strictness in the Greek theatre. But a very slight deviation from it alone

seems admissible; and the unity of action or emotion seems to be the very

essence of this species of composition.

The true principle appears to be, that the place should not change to a

greater extent than the spectators _can conceive the actors to have gone

over without inconvenience within the time embraced in the

representation_. This time often extended with the Greeks to a half of, or

even a whole day, and there seems nothing adverse to principle in such

extension. Changes of scene, therefore, from one room in a palace to

another; from one part of a town to another; or even from town to a

chateau, garden, forest, or other place in its near vicinity, appear to be

perfectly admissible, without any violation of true dramatic principle.

The popular opera of the "Black Domino," to which the charming singing and

acting of Madame Thillon have recently given such celebrity at the

Haymarket, may be considered in this respect as a model of the unities

taken in a reasonable sense. The time which elapses in the piece is a

single night; the subject is the adventures which befel the heroine during

that period; the scene changes, but only to the places in the same town to

which she went during its continuance. There seems nothing inconsistent

with the production of unity of interest in such a latitude. And with this

inconsiderable expansion of the old Greek unities, it will be found that

Shakspeare's greatest plays, and those which experience has found to be

best adapted for the stage, have been constructed on the true principles.

Take for example, _Romeo and Juliet_, and _As you Like it_; perhaps the

tragedy and comedy of his composition which have most completely kept

their hold of the stage. The unities are nearly as closely observed in

both as in any drama of Sophocles. With the exception of a slight

alteration of place and scene, every thing is concentrated. The interest

and emotion, which is the great point, is maintained one and indivisible.

With the exception of Romeo's banishment to Mantua, and the scene with the

druggist there, which, after all, is but an episode, and took the hero

only two hours' drive from Verona, the place is confined to different

scenes in that town. The festive hall where the lovers first meet--the

exquisite meeting on the balcony--Father Ambrose's cell--the room where

Juliet coaxes the nurse--the garden where she parts from Romeo, when

"Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day

Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain's top--"

the terrible scene where Juliet contemplates wakening in the tomb amidst

her ancestors' bones--the mausoleum itself, where the catastrophe occurs,

are all in the same town. The time supposed to elapse does not exceed

twenty-four hours; not more than in the _Electra_ or _Iphigenia in Aulis_

of Euripides. The interest, dependent entirely on the ardent love of

Juliet, is as much undivided as in the _Antigone_ of Sophocles. And yet we

are told Shakspeare succeeded by disregarding the unities.

Again, in _As you Like it_, the same observation holds true. Whoever

recollects the scenes of that delightful drama, must be sensible that it

is, with the single exception of the scenes of the wrestlers in the first

act, nothing but a Greek drama on the English stage. Menander or

Aristophanes would have made one of the characters recount that scene,

which is merely introductory, and introduced Rosalind and her companions

for the first time in the Forest of Arden, where the real interest of the

piece commences. A slight change of scene, indeed, occurs from one part of

the forest to another, but it is so inconsiderable as in no degree to

interfere with the unity of effect. The single interest awakened by

Rosalind's secret love and playful archness of manner is kept up undivided

throughout. So also in _The Tempest_, the unities in all the scenes which

excite sympathy are as completely preserved as ever they were on the Greek

stage; and the angelic innocence of Miranda stands forth in as striking

and undivided relief as the devotion of Antigone to sisterly affection, or

the self-immolation of Iphigenia to patriotic duty. We are well aware

there are characters of a very different kind in that drama; but the

interest is concentrated on those in which the unity is preserved. Look at

_Othello_. In what play of Euripides is singleness of interest more

completely preserved than in that noble tragedy? The haughty bearing,

conscious pride, but ardent love of the Moor; the deep love of Desdemona,

nourished, as we so often see in real life, by qualities in her the very

reverse; the gradual growth of jealousy from her innocent sportiveness of

manner, and the diabolical machinations of Iago; her murder, in a fit of

jealousy, by her despairing husband, and his self-sacrifice when the veil

was drawn from his eyes,--are all brought forward, if not with the literal

strictness of the Greek drama, at least with as much regard to unity of

time, place, and action, as is required by its principles.

We are well aware that there are many other dramas, and those, perhaps,

not less popular, of Shakspeare, in which unity of time and place is

entirely set at defiance, and in which the piece ends at the distance of

hundreds of miles, sometimes after the lapse of years, from the point

whence it commenced. _Macbeth_, _Julius Caesar_, _Richard III._, _Henry

V._, _Hamlet_, and many others, are examples of this deviation from former

principle, and it is to the universal admiration which they excite that

the national partiality for the Romantic drama is to be ascribed. But in

all these instances it will be found--and the observation is a most

material one--that the real interest is nearly as much centralised as it

was in the Greek stage, and that it is on the extraordinary fascination

which a few scenes, or _the incidents grouped round a single event_,

possess, that the success of the piece depends. The historical tragedies

read well, just as a historical romance does, and from the same cause,

that they are looked on, not as dramas, but as brilliant passages of

history. But this has proved unable to support them on the theatre. One by

one they have gradually dropped away from the stage. Some are occasionally

revived, from time to time, in order to display the power of a particular

actor or actress, but never with any lasting success. Those plays of

Shakspeare which alone retain their hold of the theatre, are either those,

such as _Romeo and Juliet_, or _As you Like it_, in which the unities are

substantially observed, or in which the resplendent brilliancy of a few

characters or scenes, within very narrow limits, fixes the attention of

the audience so completely as to render comparatively harmless, because

unfelt, the distraction produced by the intermixture of farce in the

subordinate persons, or the violations of time and place in the structure

of the piece. But it is not to every man that the pencil of the Bard of

Avon,

"Dipp'd in the orient hues of heaven,"

is given; and the subsequent failure of the Romantic drama, in this and

every other country, is mainly to be ascribed to succeeding writers not

having possessed his power of fixing, by the splendid colours of genius,

the attention of the spectators on a particular part of the piece.

Shakspeare disregards the unities in form; but his burning imagination

restores their operations in substance.

Take for example the most popular of the really Romantic dramas, _Macbeth_

and _Hamlet_. No one need be told how the unities are violated in the

first of these pieces: that it begins on a heath in Morayshire, where the

witches appear to the victorious Thane; that the murder of the King takes

place in the Castle of Inverness; that the usurper is slain by Macduff in

front of Dunsinnane Castle near the Tay. But none can either have read the

play, or seen it acted, without feeling that the real interest lies in the

events which occurred, and the ambitious feelings which were awakened in

Macbeth and his wife, when temptation was put in their way within their

own halls. Sophocles would have laid the scene there, and made one of the

characters narrate in the outset the appearance of the witches on the

heath, and brought Macduff to the gates of Macbeth's castle shortly after

the murder of Duncan to avenge his death. Shakspeare has not done this;

but he has painted the scenes in the interior of the castle, before and

after the murder, with such force and effect, that the mind is as much

riveted by them, as if no previous or subsequent deviation from the

unities had been introduced. _Hamlet_ begins in a strain of unparalleled

interest; had the last four acts proceeded in the same sublime style as

the first, and the filial duty devolved by the ghost on his son of

avenging his murder been discharged as rapidly as it should have been, and

as the feelings of the audience lead them to desire, it would have been

perhaps the most powerful tragedy in the world. Had Shakspeare proceeded

on the principles of the Greek drama, he would have done this, and

produced a drama as universally admired as the _Agamemnon_ of AEschylus.

But every one feels that the interest is weakened and wellnigh lost as the

play proceeds; new characters are introduced, the burlesque succeeds the

sublime, the original design is forgotten; and when the spectre appears a

second time "to whet your almost blunted purpose," his appearance is felt

to be as necessary to revive the decaying interest of the piece, as to

resuscitate the all but forgotten fervour of the Prince of Denmark.

We feel that we have committed high treason in the estimation of a large

part of our readers, by contesting the justice of the principles on which

Shakspeare proceeded in the construction of many of his dramas; and we

know that the opinions advanced are adverse to those of many, whose genius

and professional success entitle their judgment on this subject to the

very highest respect. But yet the weight of authority, if that is to be

appealed to, is decidedly in favour of the principles of the Greek being

the true ones of the drama. From the days of Aristotle to those of

Addison, the greatest critics have concurred in this opinion; and he is a

bold innovater on this subject who sets at nought the precepts of Horace

and Quintilian, forgets the example of Sophocles and Schiller, of

Euripides and Alfieri, of Corneille and Metastasio, and disregards the

decided judgment of Pope[7] and Byron. The opinion of the latter poet was

peculiarly strong in favour of the unities, and was repeatedly expressed

in his correspondence preserved in Moore's Life; although his own noble

dramas, being avowedly constructed with no view to representation, but as

a vehicle for powerful declamation or impassioned poetry, often exhibit,

especially in _Manfred_, the most glaring violations of them. Johnson

confessed that the weight of authority in favour of the Greek rules was so

great, that it required no small courage to attempt even to withstand it.

But it is not by authority that this, or any other question of taste, is

to be decided. The true test of the correctness of opinion on such matters

is to be found in experience, and the inward feelings of persons of

cultivated minds and enlarged observation. And in the preceding remarks we

have only extended to the drama, principles familiar to artists in every

other department of human imagination, and generally admitted in them, at

least, to be correct; and appealed, we trust not in vain, to the

experience gained, and the lessons learned, by those who have cultivated

the sister arts in those times with the greatest success.

THE MINSTREL'S CURSE.

FROM UHLAND. BY A. LODGE.

A castle of the olden time, o'er subject regions wide,

Throned on its rocky height afar looked forth in feudal pride;

And fragrant gardens decked the plain, where lakes, with crystal sheen,

Mirrored the pleasant sylvan glades and lawns of living green.

Here dwelt, of jealous fears the prey, in pomp of moody state,

A King, by realms and cities fair, and conquest's laurels great;

His glance bespoke the tyrant soul to pity ne'er subdued;

His words were chains and torments--his characters were blood!

Once to these lordly towers at eve approached a tuneful pair,

Of reverend silvery tresses one, and one with golden hair;

The old man on a palfrey sate--his harp, the Minstrel's pride,

He bore--his comrade, young and blithe, tripped lightly at his side.

Thus to the youth the old man spoke--"My son, it boots to-day,

To try our deepest melodies, our most impassioned lay;

With cunning'st art essay the notes of blended joy and pain;

Perchance this royal heart may own the magic of the strain."

Soon in the pillared regal hall, amid the courtly throng

Of belted knights and beauteous dames, they range the sons of song:--

The King, in fearful majesty, recalled the meteor's blaze;

His spouse, with beaming loveliness, the moonlight's gentle rays.

The old man swept the chords--and quick, responsive to the tone,

Through all the train each heart confessed the spell of power unknown;

And when a clear angelic voice chimed in with youthful fire,

'Twas like the unseen minstrelsy of some ethereal quire!

They sang of Love's delightful spring--of the old golden time;

Of knightly leal, and maiden's truth, and chivalry sublime;

Of each high thought that stirs the soul informed with heavenly flame;

Of man's exalted destinies--of freedom, worth, and fame!

They paused:--in rapt attention hushed, the crowd had clustered near;

The courtier smoothed the lip of scorn, the warrior dropped a tear;

The Queen, with trembling extasy, took from her breast a rose;

And see! at the young Minstrel's feet the guerdon flower she throws.

"Ha!" shrieked the King--"my lieges first, with your detested lays,

Ye have seduced--and now my Queen their witchery betrays;

Die, tuneful minion!"--at the youth he hurled the gleaming sword,

And from the fount of golden strains the crimson tide was poured.

While scared, as by the lightning's flash, all stood in mute dismay,

The boy on his loved master's breast had breathed his soul away:--

The old man round the bleeding form his mantle wrapped with speed;

Raised the dear victim in his arms, and bound him on his steed.

The portals passed, he stood awhile, and gazed with tearful eyes--

And grasped his harp--the master harp--of thousand harps the prize:

Then frantic on a column's base he dashed the useless lyre,

And thus the curse of Poesy spoke with a prophet's fire!

"Woe! Woe! proud towers--dire House of blood! thy guilty courts among,

Ne'er may the chords of harmony be waked--the voice of song;

The tread of silent slaves alone shall echo mid the gloom,

Till Ruin waits, and hovering fiends of vengeance shriek thy doom!

"Woe! Woe! ye blooming gardens fair--decked in the pride of May,

Behold this flower untimely cropped--look--and no more be gay!

The sight should wither every leaf--make all your fountains dry,

And bid the bright enchantment round in wasteful horror lie!

"And thou, fell Tyrant, curst for aye of all the tuneful train--

May blighted bays, and bitter scorn, mock thy inglorious reign!

Perish thy hated name with thee--from songs and annals fade--

Thy race--thy power--thy very crimes--lost in oblivion's shade!"

The aged Bard has spoken--and Heaven has heard the prayer;

The haughty towers are crumbling low--no regal dome is there!

A single column soars on high, to tell of splendours past--

And see! _'tis cracked--it nods the head_--this hour may be it's last!

Where once the fairy garden smiled, a mournful desert lies--

No rills refresh the barren sand--no graceful stems arise--

From storied page, and legend strain, this King has vanished long;

His race is dead--his power forgot:--such is the might of song!

THE MINE, THE FOREST, AND THE CORDILLERA.[8]

The silver mines of Potosi, the virgin forests, and mighty cordilleras of

South America, are words familiar and full of interest to European ears.

Countless riches, prodigious vegetable luxuriance, stupendous grandeur,

are the associations they suggest. With these should be coupled ideas of

cruelty, desolation, and disease, of human suffering and degradation

pushed to their utmost limit, of opportunities neglected, and advantages

misused. Not a bar of silver, or a healing drug, or an Alpaca fleece,

shipped from Peruvian ports to supply another hemisphere with luxuries and

comforts, but is the price of an incalculable amount of misery, and even

of blood--the blood of a race once noble and powerful, now wretched and

depraved by the agency of those whose duty and in whose power it was to

civilize and improve them. The corrupt policy of Spanish rulers, the

baneful example of Spanish colonists and their descendants, have gone far

towards the depopulation and utter ruin of the richest of South American

countries. How imprudent and suicidal has been the course adopted, will

presently be made apparent. Those who desire evidence in support of our

assertion, need but follow Dr Tschudi, as we now propose doing, into the

mining, mountainous, and forest districts of Peru.

Difficult and dangerous as a journey through the maritime provinces of

Peru undeniably is, it is mere railroad travelling when compared with an

expedition into the interior of the country. In the former case, the land

is level, and the sun, the sand, and the highwayman, are the only perils

to be encountered or evaded. But a ramble in the mountains is a succession

of hairbreadth escapes, a deliberate confronting of constantly recurring

dangers, to which even the natives unwillingly expose themselves, and

frequently fall victims. The avalanches, precipices, gaping ravines,

slippery glaciers, and violent storms common to all Alpine regions, are

here complicated by other risks peculiar to the South American mountains.

Heavy rains, lasting for weeks together, falls of snow that in a few

moments obliterate all trace of a path, treacherous swamps, strange and

loathsome maladies, and even blindness, combine to deter the traveller

from his dangerous undertaking. All these did Dr Tschudi brave, and from

them all, after the endurance of great hardship and suffering, he was

fortunate enough to escape.

At a very short distance from Lima, the traveller, proceeding eastward,

gets a foretaste of the difficulties and inconveniences in reserve for

him. Whilst riding, through the vale of Surco, or through some other of

the valleys leading from the coast to the mountains, he perceives a

fountain by the road side, and pauses to refresh his tired mule. Scarcely

is his intention manifest, when he is startled by a cry from his guide, or

from a passing Indian--"_Cuidado! Es agua de verruga!_" In these valleys

reigns a terrible disease called the _verrugas_, attributed by the natives

to the water of certain springs, and for which all Dr Tschudi's

investigations were insufficient to discover another cause. Fever, pains

in the bones, and loss of blood from cutaneous eruptions, are the leading

symptoms of this malady, which is frequently of long duration, and

sometimes terminates fatally. It seizes the Indians and lighter castes in

preference to the white men and negroes, and no specific has yet been

discovered for its cure. Mules and horses are also subject to its attacks.

In no country, it would appear from Dr Tschudi's evidence, are there so

many strange and unaccountable maladies as in Peru. Nearly every valley

has its peculiar disease, extending over a district of a few square miles,

and unknown beyond its limits. To most of them it has hitherto been

impossible to assign a cause. Their origin must probably be sought in

certain vegetable influences, or in those of the vast variety of minerals

which the soil of Peru contains.

In the mountains, the shoeing of mules and horses is frequently a matter

of much difficulty; and it is advisable for the traveller to acquire the

art, and furnish himself with needful implements, before leaving the more

civilized part of the country. Farriers are only to be found in the large

Indian villages, and it is common to ride fifty or sixty leagues without

meeting with one. In the village of San Geronimo de Surco, the innkeeper

is the only blacksmith, and Dr Tschudi, whose horse had cast a shoe, was

compelled to pay half a gold ounce (upwards of thirty shillings) to have

it replaced. This was one half less than the sum at first demanded by the

exorbitant son of Vulcan, who doubtless remembered the old Spanish

proverb, "for a nail is lost a shoe, for a shoe the horse, for the horse

the horseman."[9] The doctor took the hint, and some lessons in shoeing,

which afterwards stood him in good stead. It is a common practice in Peru,

on the sandy coast, and where the roads permit it, to ride a horse or mule

unshod for the first four or five days of a journey. Then shoes are put on

the fore feet, and a few days later on the hinder ones. This is thought to

give new strength to the animals, and to enable them to hold out longer.

On the mountain tracks, the wear and tear of iron must be prodigious, as

may be judged from the following description of three leagues of road

between Viso and San Mateo, by no means the worst bit met with by our

traveller.

"The valley frequently becomes a mere narrow split in the mountains,

enclosed between walls of rock a thousand feet high. These enormous

precipices are either perpendicular, or their summits incline inwards,

forming a vast arch; along their base, washed by the foaming waters of the

river, or higher up, along their side, winds the narrow and dangerous

path. In some places they recede a little from the perpendicular, and

their abrupt slopes are sprinkled with stones and fragments of rock, which

every now and then, loosened by rain, detach themselves and roll down into

the valley. The path is heaped with these fragments, which give way under

the tread of the heavily laden mules, and afford them scanty foothold.

From time to time, enormous blocks thunder down the precipice, and bury

themselves in the waters beneath. I associate a painful recollection with

the road from Viso to San Mateo. It was there that a mass of stone struck

one of my mules, and precipitated it into the river. My most important

instruments and travelling necessaries, a portion of my collections and

papers, and--an irreparable loss--a diary carefully and conscientiously

kept during a period of fourteen months, became the prey of the waters.

Two days later the mule was washed ashore; but its load was irrecoverably

lost. Each year numerous beasts of burden, and many travellers, perish

upon this dangerous road. Cavalry on the march are particularly apt to

suffer, and often a slip of the horse's foot, or a hasty movement of the

rider, suffices to consign both to the yawning chasm by their side. At the

inn at Viso I met an officer, who had just come from the mountains,

bringing his two sons with him. He had taken the youngest before him; the

other, a boy of ten years of age, rode upon the mule's crupper. Half a

league from Viso, a large stone came plunging down from the mountain,

struck the eldest lad, and dashed him into the stream."

Although frequently ill-treated by the Creoles, and especially by the

officers, the Indians in most parts of Peru show ready hospitality and

good-will to the solitary traveller. Those in the neighborhood of San

Mateo are an exception; they are distrustful, rough, and disobliging. When

a traveller enters the village, he is instantly waited upon by the alcalde

and regidores, who demand his passport. Has he none, he risks

ill-treatment, and being put upon a jackass and carried off to the

nearest prefect. Luckily the ignorance of the village authorities renders

them easy to deal with; it is rare that they can read. On one occasion,

when Dr Tschudi's passport was demanded, the only printed paper in his

pocket was an old playbill, that of the last opera he had attended before

his departure from Lima, and which he had taken with him as wadding for

his gun. He handed it to the Indian regidor, who gravely unfolded it,

stared hard at the words Lucia di Lammermoor, and returned it with the

remark, that the passport was perfectly in order.

Any thing more wretched in their accommodations than the _tambos_ or

village inns, can scarcely be imagined. So bad are they, that the

traveller is sometimes driven to pass the night in the snow rather than

accept of their shelter, and at the same time submit to the nuisances with

which they abound. One of these villanous hostelries, in which Dr Tschudi

several times attempted to sleep, is described by him with a minuteness

that will rather startle the squeamish amongst his readers. Vermin every

where, on the floor and walls, in the clothes of the Indian hag

officiating as hostess, even in the caldron in which a vile mixture of

potatoe water and Spanish pepper is prepared for supper. For sole bed

there is the damp earth, upon which hosts, children, and travellers

stretch themselves. Each person is accommodated with a sheepskin, and over

the whole company is spread an enormous woollen blanket. But woe to the

inexperienced traveller who avails himself of the coverings thus

bountifully furnished, swarming as they are with inhabitants from whose

assaults escape is impossible. Even if he creeps into a corner, and makes

himself a bed with his saddle-cloths, he is not secure. Add to these

comforts a stifling smoke, and other nauseous exhalations, and the gambols

of innumerable guinea-pigs, common as mice in many parts of Peru, who

caper the night through over the faces and bodies of the sleepers, and the

picture of a South American mountain inn will be as complete as it is

uninviting. But these annoyances, great though they be, are very trifles

compared to the more serious evils awaiting the traveller in the higher

regions of the Cordilleras. At about 12,600 feet above the level of the

sea, the effects of the rarefaction of the atmosphere begin to be sensibly

and painfully felt. The natives, unacquainted with the real cause of the

malady thus occasioned, and which by them is called _puna_, by the Spanish

Creoles _veta_ or _mareo_, attribute it to the exhalations of metals,

especially of antimony. Horses, not bred in the mountains, suffer greatly

from the _veta_, and frequently fall down helpless. The arrieros adopt

various cruel means for their revival, such as cutting off their ears and

tail, and slitting up their nostrils, the latter being probably the only

useful remedy, as it allows the animal to inhale a large volume of air. To

preserve them from the _veta_, chopped garlic is put into their nostrils.

With human beings, this state of the atmosphere causes the blood to gush

from the eyes, nose, and lips, and occasions faintings, blood-spittings,

vomitings, and other unpleasant and dangerous symptoms. The sensation

somewhat resembles that of sea-sickness, whence the Spanish name of

_mareo_. The malady, in its most violent form, sometimes causes death from

excessive loss of blood. Of this, Dr Tschudi saw instances. Much depends

on the general health and constitution of the persons attacked. The action

of the _veta_ is very capricious. Some persons do not experience it on a

first visit to the mountains, but suffer on subsequent ones. Another

singular circumstance is, that it is much more violent in some places than

in others of a greater altitude. This affords ground for a supposition,

that other causes, besides the diminished pressure of the atmosphere,

concur to occasion it. These as yet remain unknown. The districts in which

the _veta_ is felt with the greatest intensity, are for the most part very

metallic, and this has given rise to the Indian theory of its cause.

Another terrible scourge to the traveller in the Cordilleras is the

_surumpe_, a violent inflammation of the eye, brought on by the sudden

reflection of the sun from the snow. In those mountains the eyes are kept

continually in an irritated state by the rarefied air and cutting winds,

and are consequently unusually susceptible. Often the heavens become

suddenly overcast, and in a few minutes the yellowish-green waste is one

sheet of snow. Then out bursts the sun with overpowering splendour, a

sharp burning pain is instantly felt in the eyes, and speedily increases

to an unbearable extent. The eyes become red, the lids swell and bleed. So

violent is the agony as to cause despair and delirium. Dr Tschudi compares

it to the sensation occasioned by rubbing Spanish pepper or gunpowder into

the eyes. Chronic inflammation, even total blindness, is the frequent

consequence of the _surumpe_ in its most intense form. In the Cordilleras

it is no unusual thing to find Indians sitting by the wayside, shrieking

from pain, and unable to continue their journey. The Creoles, when they

visit the mountains, protect themselves with green spectacles and veils.

During five months of the year, from November till March, storms are of

almost daily occurrence in the Cordilleras. They commence with remarkable

punctuality between two and three in the afternoon, and continue till five

or half-past; later than this, or in the night, a storm was never known to

occur. They are accompanied by falls of snow, which last till after

midnight. The morning sun dispels the cold mist that hangs about the

mountain peaks, and in a few hours the snow is melted. "On the raging

ocean," says Dr Tschudi, "and in the dark depths of the aboriginal

forests, I have witnessed terrific storms, whose horrors were increased by

surrounding gloom and imminent danger, but never did I feel anxiety and

alarm as in Antaichahua, (a district of the Cordilleras celebrated for

storms.) For hours together flash followed flash in uninterrupted

succession, painting blood-red cataracts upon the naked precipices; the

thunder crashed, the zigzag lightning ran along the ground, leaving long

furrows in the scorched grass. The atmosphere quivered with the continuous

roll of thunder, repeated a thousand-fold by the mountain echoes. The

traveller, overtaken by these terrific tempests, leaves his trembling

horse, and seeks shelter and refuge beneath some impending rock."

The hanging bridges and _huaros_ are not to be forgotten in enumerating

the perils of Peruvian travelling. The former are composed of four thick

ropes of cow-hide, connected by a weft of cords of the same material, and

overlaid with branches, straw, and agair roots. The ropes are fastened to

posts on either side of the river; a couple of cords, two or three feet

higher than the bridge, serve for balustrades; and over this unsteady

causeway, which swings like a hammock, the traveller has to pass, leading

his reluctant mule. The passage of rivers by _huaros_ is much worse, and

altogether a most unpleasant operation. It can be effected only where the

banks are high and precipitous. A single strong rope extends from one

shore to the other, with a wooden machine, in form of a yoke, slung upon

it. To this yoke the traveller is tied, and is then drawn over by means of

a second cord. In case of the main rope breaking, the passenger by the

yoke is inevitably drowned. When rivers are traversed in this manner, the

mules and horses are driven into the water, and compelled to swim across.

But a further detail of the dangers and difficulties of travel in Peru

would leave us little space to enumerate its interesting results.

Supposing the reader, therefore, to have safely accomplished his journey

through the solitary ravines, and over the chilly summits of the

Cordilleras, we transport him at once to the Cerro de Pasco, famed for the

wealth of its silver mines. In a region of snow and ice, at an elevation

of 13,673 feet above the sea, he suddenly comes in sight of a large and

populous city, built in a hollow, and surrounded on all sides by lakes and

swamps. On the margin of eternal snows, in the wildest district of Peru,

and in defiance of the asperities of climate, Mammon has assembled a host

of worshippers to dig and delve in the richest of his storehouses.

Some two hundred and fifteen years ago, according to the legend, a small

pampa that lies south-east from Lake Lauricocha, the mother of the mighty

river Amazon, an Indian, Hauri Capcha by name, tended his master's sheep.

Having wandered one day to an unusual distance from his hut, he sought

shelter from the cold under a rock, and lighted a large fire. The

following morning he saw to his astonishment that the stone beneath the

ashes had melted and become pure silver. He joyfully informed his

employer, a Spaniard of the name of Ugarte, of this singular circumstance.

Ugarte hastened to the place, and found that his shepherd had lit upon a

vein of silver ore of extraordinary richness, of which he at once took

possession, and worked it with great success. This same mine is still

worked, and is known as _la Descubridora_, the discoverer. Presently a

number of persons came from the village of Pasco, two leagues distant, and

sought and discovered new veins. The great richness of the ore and the

increase of employment soon drew crowds to the place--some to work, others

to supply the miners with the necessaries of life; and thus, in a very

brief time, there sprung up a town of eighteen thousand inhabitants.

The ground whereon Cerro de Pasco is built is a perfect network of silver

veins, to get at which the earth has been opened in every direction. Many

of the inhabitants work the mines in their own cellars; but this, of

course, is on a small scale, and there are not more than five hundred

openings meriting, by reason of their depth and importance, the name of

shafts. All, however, whether deep or shallow, are worked in a very

senseless, disorderly, and imprudent manner--the sole object of their

owners being to obtain, at the least possible expense, and in the shortest

possible time, the utmost amount of ore. Nobody ever thinks of arching or

walling the interior of the excavations, and consequently the shafts and

galleries frequently fall in, burying under their ruins the unfortunate

Indian miners. Not a year passes without terrible catastrophes of this

kind. In the mine of Matagente, (literally, Kill-people,) now entirely

destroyed, three hundred labourers lost their lives by accident. For

incurring these terrible risks, and for a species of labour of all others

the most painful and wearisome, the Indians are wretchedly paid, and their

scanty earnings are diminished by the iniquitous truck system which is in

full operation in the mines as well as in the plantations of Peru. The

miner who, at the week's end, has a dollar to receive, esteems himself

fortunate, and forthwith proceeds to spend it in brandy. The mining

Indians are the most depraved and degraded of their race. When a mine is

in _boya_, as it is called, that is to say, at periods when it yields

uncommonly rich metal, more labourers are required, and temporarily taken

on. When this occurs in several mines at one time, the population of Cerro

de Pasco sometimes doubles and trebles itself. During the boyas, the

miners are paid by a small share in the daily produce of their labours.

They sometimes succeed in improving their shares by stealing the ore, but

this is very difficult, so narrowly are they searched when they leave the

mine. One man told Dr Tschudi how he had managed to appropriate the

richest piece of ore he ever saw. He tied it on his back, and pretended to

be so desperately ill, that the corporal allowed him to leave the mine.

Wrapped in his poncho, he was carried past the inspectors by two

confederates, and the treasure was put in safety. Formerly when a mine

yielded polvorilla, a black ore in the form of powder, but of great

richness, the miners stripped themselves naked, wetted their whole body,

and then rolled in this silver dust, which stuck to them. Released from

the mine they washed off the crust, and sold it for several dollars. This

device, however, was detected, and, for several years past, the departing

miners are compelled to strip for inspection.

Like the extraction of the ore, the purification of the silver from the

dross is conducted in the rudest and most primitive manner. The

consequence is an immense consumption of quicksilver. On each mark of

silver, worth in Lima eight and a-half dollars, or about thirty shillings,

it is estimated that half a pound of quicksilver is expended. The

quicksilver comes chiefly from Spain--very little from Idria--in iron jars

containing seventy-five pounds weight. The price of one of these jars

varies from sixty to one hundred dollars, but is sometimes as high as one

hundred and forty dollars. Both the amalgamation and separation of the

metals are so badly managed, as to occasion a terrible amount of mercurial

disease amongst the Indians employed in the process. From the

refining-houses the silver is, or ought to be, sent to Callana, the

government melting-house, there to be cast into bars of a hundred pounds

weight, each of which is stamped and charged with imposts to the amount of

about forty-four dollars. But a vast deal of the metal is smuggled to the

coast and shipped for Europe without ever visiting the Callana. Hence it

is scarcely possible to estimate the quantity annually produced. The

amount registered is from two to three hundred thousand marks--rarely over

the latter sum.

Residence in the Cerro de Pasco is highly disagreeable. The climate is

execrable; cold and stormy, with heavy rains and violent falls of snow.

Nothing less than the _auri sacra fames_ could have induced such a

congregation of human beings, from all nations and corners of the globe,

in so inhospitable a latitude. The new-comer with difficulty accustoms

himself to the severity of the weather, and to the perpetual hammering

going on under his feet, and at night under his very bed, for the mines

are worked without cessation. Luckily earthquakes are rare in that region.

A heavy shock would bury the whole town in the bosom of the earth.

Silver being the only produce of the soil, living is very dear in the

Cerro. All the necessaries of life have to be brought from a great

distance; and this, combined with the greediness of the vendors, and the

abundance of money, causes enormous prices to be demanded and obtained.

House-rent is exorbitantly high; the keep of a horse often costs, owing to

the want of forage, from two to three dollars a-day. Here, as at Lima, the

coffee and eating-houses are kept by Italians, principally Genoese. The

population of the town is the most motley imaginable; scarcely a country

in the world but has its representatives. Of the upper classes the darling

vice is gambling, carried to an almost unparalleled extent. From earliest

morning cards and dice are in full activity: the mine proprietor leaves

his counting-house and silver carts, the trader abandons his shop, to

indulge for a couple of hours in his favourite amusement; and, when the

evening comes, play is universal in all the best houses of the town. The

mayordomos, or superintendents of the mines, sit down to the gaming-table

at nightfall, and only leave it when at daybreak the bell summons them to

the shaft. Often do they gamble away their share in a boya long before

signs of one are apparent. Amongst the Indians, drunkenness is the chief

failing. When primed by spirits, they become quarrelsome; and scarcely a

Sunday or holiday passes without savage fights between the workmen of

different mines. Severe wounds, and even deaths, are the consequences of

these encounters, in which the authorities never dream of interfering.

When, owing to the richness of a boya, the Indian finds himself possessed

of an unusual number of dollars, he squanders then in the most ridiculous

manner, like a drunken sailor with a year's pay in his pocket. Dr Tschudi

saw one fellow buy a Spanish cloak for ninety-two dollars. Draping it

round him, he proceeded to the next town, got drunk, rolled himself in the

gutter, and then threw away the cloak because it was torn and dirty. A

watchmaker told the doctor that once an Indian came to him to buy a gold

watch. He handed him one, with the remark that the price was twelve gold

ounces, (two hundred and four dollars,) and that it would probably be too

dear for him. The Indian took the watch, paid for it, and then dashing it

upon the ground, walked away, saying that the thing was no use to him.

Besides the mines of Cerro de Pasco, Dr Tschudi gives us details of many

others situate in various parts of Peru. The Salcedo mine, in the province

of Puno, is celebrated for the tragical end of its discoverer. Don Jose

Salcedo, a poor Spaniard, was in love with an Indian girl, whose mother

promised to show him a silver vein of uncommon richness if he would marry

her daughter. He did so, and worked the vein with great success. After a

time the fame of his wealth roused the envy of the Conde de Lemos, then

viceroy of Peru. By his generosity and benevolence Salcedo had made

himself very popular with the Indians, and this served the viceroy as a

pretext to accuse him of high treason, on the ground of his stirring up

the population against the Spanish government. Salcedo was imprisoned, and

sentenced to death. Whilst in his dungeon he besought Count Lemos to send

the papers relating to his trial to the supreme tribunal at Madrid, and to

allow him to make an appeal to the king's mercy. If this request were

granted, he promised to pay a daily tribute of a bar of silver, from the

time of the ship's sailing from Callao to that of its return. In those

days the voyage from Callao to Spain and back occupied from twelve to

sixteen months. This may give an idea of the wealth of Salcedo and his

mine. The viceroy refused the condition, hung up Salcedo, (in May 1669,)

and set out for the mines. But his injustice and cruelty were doomed to

disappointment. Whilst Salcedo prepared for death, his mother-in-law and

her friends and relations betook themselves to the mine, destroyed the

works, filled it with water, and closed the entrance so skilfully that it

was impossible to discover it. They then dispersed in various directions,

and neither promises nor tortures could induce those who were afterwards

captured, to reveal the position of the mine. To this day it remains

undiscovered.

Another example of the exceeding richness of Peruvian mines is to be found

in that of San Jose, in the department of Huancavelica. Its owner asked

the viceroy Castro, whose friend he was, to stand godfather to his first

child. The viceroy was prevented from going himself, but sent his wife as

a proxy. To do her honour, the proprietor of San Jose caused a triple row

of silver bars to be placed along the whole of the distance, and it was no

short one, between his house and the church. Over this costly causeway the

vice-queen Castro accompanied the child to its baptism. On her departure

her magnificent Amphitryon made her a present of the silver road as a mark

of gratitude for the honour she had done him. Since then, the mines and

the province have borne the name of Castrovireyna. Most of the former are

now no longer worked. In the richest of them, owing to the careless mode

of mining, one hundred and twenty-two workmen were buried alive at one

time. Since then, no Indian can be prevailed upon to enter it.

The Indians have not been slow to discover how little advantage they

derive from the mining system, procuring them, as it does, small pay for

severe labour. Hence, although acquainted for centuries past with

innumerable rich veins of ore, the knowledge of which has been handed down

from father to son, they obstinately persist in keeping them secret. All

endeavours to shake this determination have hitherto been fruitless; even

the rarely failing argument of brandy in these cases loses its power. The

existence of the treasures has been ascertained beyond a doubt; but there

is not a shadow of hope that the stubborn reserved Indian will ever reveal

their locality to the greedy Creole and detested Metis. Numerous and

romantic are the tales told of this determined concealment, and of the

prudence and watchfulness of the Indians. "In the great village of

Huancayo," says Dr Tschudi, "there lived, a few years ago, two brothers,

Jose and Pedro Iriarte, who ranked amongst the most influential of

Peruvian miners. They knew that in the neighbouring hills veins of almost

virgin silver existed, and, with a view to their discovery, they

dispatched a young man to a village near which they suspected them to be

situate. The emissary took up his dwelling in the hut of a shepherd, with

whose daughter, after a few months' residence, he established an intrigue.

At last the young girl promised to show him a rich mine. On a certain day,

when she drove her sheep to the pasture, he was to follow her at a

distance, and to dig the spot where she should let her cloak fall. This he

did, and after very brief labour found a cavity in the earth disclosing

ore of uncommon richness. Whilst breaking out the metal, he was joined by

the girl's father, who declared himself delighted at the discovery, and

offered to help him. After some hours' labour they paused to rest, and the

old Indian handed his companion a gourd of chicha, (a fermented drink,) of

which the latter thankfully drank. Soon, however, the young man felt

himself ill, and knew that he was poisoned. Taking his wallet full of ore,

he hastened to the village, mounted his horse, and rode to Huancayo, where

he informed Iriarte of what had occurred, described the position of the

mine, and died the same night. Immediate and careful researches were of no

avail. The Indian and his family had disappeared, the mine had been filled

up, and was never discovered."

A Franciscan monk, also resident in Huancayo, a confirmed gambler, and

consequently often embarrassed for money, had gained, by his kindness, the

affections of the Indians, who constantly brought him small presents of

cheese and poultry. One day when he had lost heavily, he confided his

difficulties to an Indian, his particular gossip. The latter promised to

help him, and the next evening brought him a large sack full of the

richest silver ore. The same was repeated several times; but the monk, not

satisfied, did not cease to importune his friend to show him the place

whence he took the treasure. The Indian at last agreed to do so. In the

night-time he came, with two companions, to the dwelling of the

Franciscan, blindfolded him, put him on his shoulders, and carried him,

alternately with his comrades, a distance of some leagues into the

mountains. Here the monk was set down, and found himself in a small

shallow shaft, where his eyes were dazzled by the beauty of the silver.

When he had gazed at it long enough, and loaded himself with the ore, he

was carried back as he had been brought. On his way he unfastened his

chaplet, and from time to time let a grain drop, trusting by this means to

trace out the mine. He had been but a few hours in bed when he was

disturbed by the entrance of his guide. "Father," said the Indian,

quietly, "you have lost your rosary." And he presented him with a handful

of the beads.

This mania for concealment is not universal amongst the Peruvians, who, it

must be remembered, originally sprang from various tribes, united by the

Incas into one nation. Great differences of character and manners are

still to be found amongst them, some showing themselves as frank and

friendly towards the white men as others are mistrustful and inimical. The

principal mines that are or have been worked, were pointed out to the

Spaniards by the natives. Generally, however, the latter look upon seekers

of mines with suspicion, and they still relate with horror and disgust,

how Huari Capcha, the discoverer of the mines of Cerro de Pasco, was

thrown by Ugarte into a gloomy dungeon, where he pined away his life. Dr

Tschudi could not ascertain the authenticity of this tale, but he often

heard it told by the Indians, who gave it as a reason for concealing any

new mines they might discover.

At the pass of Antarangra, 15,600 feet above the level of the sea, Dr

Tschudi found two small lakes, scarcely thirty paces asunder. One of these

is the source of the river San Mateo, which flows westward, passes Lima

under the name of the Rimac, and discharges itself into the Pacific Ocean;

the other sends its waters through a number of small mountain lakes to the

river Pachachaca, a diminutive tributary of the mighty Amazon. The worthy

doctor confesses that he could not resist the temptation to disturb the

order of nature, by transporting a jug-full of the water intended for the

Atlantic, into the lake communicating with the Pacific. Of a more serious

cast were his reflections on the mighty power that had raised these

tremendous mountains, on whose summits sea-shells and other marine

substances testify to the fact of the ocean having once rolled over their

materials.

Between the Cordilleras and the Andes, 12,000 feet above the sea, lie the

vast tracts of desolate tableland known as the Puna, a Peruvian word

equivalent to the Spanish _despoblado_. These plains extend through the

whole length of Peru from N.W. to S.E., a distance of 350 Spanish miles,

continue through Bolivia, and run out eastward into the territory of the

Argentine republic. Their sole inhabitants are a few shepherds, who live

with their families in wretched huts, and tend large flocks of sheep,

oxen, alpacas, and llamas, to which the yellow and meagre grasses of the

Puna yield a scanty nourishment. The district is swept by the cold winds

from the Cordilleras, the climate is most inhospitable, unintermitting

snow and storm during four months of the year. A remarkable effect of the

Puna wind is the rapid drying of dead bodies. A few days suffice to

convert a dead mule into a perfect mummy, the very entrails free from

corruption. Here and there the dry and piercingly cold wind, which causes

extreme suffering to the traveller's eyes and skin, changes its

temperature, or, it were better said, is crossed by a current of warm air,

sometimes only two or three paces, at others several hundred feet, in

breadth. These warm streams run in a parallel direction to each other, and

Dr Tschudi deposes to having passed through five or six in the space of

two leagues. He noticed them particularly in the months of August and

September, and, according to his observations, their usual direction was

that of the Cordillera, namely, from S.S.W. to N.N.E. He once travelled

for several leagues in one of these currents, the width of which did not

exceed seven-and-twenty paces. Its temperature was eleven degrees of

Reaumur higher than the adjacent atmosphere. The existence of these warm

streams is in some cases permanent, for the muleteers will frequently tell

beforehand where they are to be met with. The causes of such singular

phenomena, says Dr Tschudi, are well deserving the closest investigation

of the meteorologist.

The numerous deep valleys, of greater or less extent, which intersect the

Puna, are known as the Sierra, and their inhabitants as Serranos, although

that term is also applied by the dwellers on the coast of Peru to all

natives of the interior. Here the climate is temperate, not unlike that of

the central countries of Europe; towns and villages are numerous, and the

fruitful soil brings forth abundantly, watered by the sweat of the

laborious Indians. The people are hospitable in the extreme, and the

stranger is welcome in their dwellings so long as he chooses to abide

there. They appear, however, to be as yet very far removed from

civilisation. Their favourite diversions, cock and bull fighting, are

carried on in the most barbarous manner. Their chief vice is an extreme

addiction to brandy, and even the better classes get up evening parties

for the express purpose of indulging in the fiery liquor. The ladies as

well as the men consume it in large quantities, and Dr Tschudi estimates

the average consumption at one of these jaranas, or drinking bouts, to

amount to nearly a bottle per man or woman. At a ball given in 1839, in

one of the principal towns of the Sierra, to the Chilian general

Bulnes--now president of Chili--the brandy flowed so abundantly, that when

morning came many of the dancers, both male and female, lay dead drunk

upon the floor. The sole extenuation of such disgusting excesses is the

want of education of those who commit them, and the force of habit, which

prevents them from seeing any thing disgraceful in intoxication. It is

only in society that the Serrano gets drunk. In everyday life, when

jaranas are not going on, he is a sober man.

The dramatic representations of scenes in the life of Christ, introduced

by the Spanish monks who accompanied Pizarro, with a view to the easier

conversion of the Aborigines, have long been discontinued in the larger

Peruvian cities. But in the Sierra they are still kept up, and all the

efforts of enlightened priests to suppress them, have been frustrated by

the tenacity and threats of the Indians. Dr Tschudi gives an extraordinary

description of the celebration of Good Friday. "From early dawn," he says,

"the church is crammed with Indians, who pass the morning in fasting and

prayer. At two in the afternoon a large image of the Saviour is brought

out of the sacristy and laid down near the altar, which is veiled. No

sooner does this occur than the whole congregation rush forward and

strive to touch the wounds with scraps of cotton, and then ensues a

screaming, crowding, and fighting, only to be equalled by the uproar at an

ill conducted fair, until the priests at last succeed in restoring order.

The figure of the Saviour is now attached to the cross with three very

large silver nails, and a rich silver crown is placed upon its head; on

either side are the crosses of the two thieves. The Indians gaze their

fill and leave the church, but return thither at eight in the evening. The

edifice is then brilliantly illuminated, and at the foot of the cross

stand, wrapped in white robes, four priests, the _santos varones_ or holy

men, whose office it is to take down the body of the Saviour. A short

distance off, upon a stage or scaffolding, stands the Virgin Mary, in deep

mourning, and with a white cloth round her head. In a long discourse a

priest explains the scene to the congregation, and at the close of his

sermon, turning to the _santos varones_, he says--'Ye holy men, mount the

ladders of the cross, and bring down the body of the dead Saviour!' Two of

the priests ascend with hammers, and the preacher continues--'Thou, holy

man on the right side of the Saviour, strike the first blow upon the nail

in the hand, and take it out!' The hammer falls, and the sound of the blow

is the signal for the cry of _Misericordia! Misericordia!_ repeated by

thousands of voices in tones of anguish so heart-rending, as to produce a

strangely painful impression upon the hearer. The nail is handed to a

priest at the foot of the cross, to be taken to the Virgin Mary, still

standing upon her scaffold. To her the preacher now addressed himself with

the words--'Thou, afflicted mother, approach and receive the nail that

pierced the right hand of thy blessed son!' And as the priest draws near

to the image of the Virgin, the latter, moved by a secret mechanism,

advances to meet him, receives the nail in both hands, places it in a

silver bowl, dries its eyes, and returns to its place. These movements are

repeated when the two other nails and the crown are brought down. The

whole scene has for accompaniment the unintermitting howling and sobbing

of the Indians, which redouble at each stroke of the hammer, and reaches

its apogee when the body is delivered to the Virgin, who then again begins

to weep violently. The image of Christ is laid in a coffin adorned with

flowers, and is carried by torchlight through every street of the town.

Whilst the procession makes its circuit, the Indians erect twelve arches

of flowers in front of the church door, placing between each two of them a

carpet of the like materials, the simplest and most beautiful that it is

possible to see. Each carpet is manufactured by two Indians, neither of

whom seems to trouble himself about the proceedings of his comrade; but

yet, with incredible rapidity and a wonderful harmony of operation, the

most tasteful designs grow under their hands in rich variety of colours.

Arabesques, landscapes, and animals appear as if by magic. It was highly

interesting to me to observe in Tarma, upon one of these carpets, an exact

representation of the Austrian double eagle, as the Indians had seen it on

the quicksilver jars from Idria. When the procession returns, the Virgin

Mary is carried back into the church through the arches of flowers."

The traveller in the Sierras of Peru frequently encounters plantations of

a shrub about six feet high, bearing bright green leaves, white flowers,

and scarlet berries. This is the celebrated coca tree, the comforter and

friend of the Peruvian Indian under all hardships and evil usage. Deprive

the Turk of coffee and pipe, the Chinese of opium, the sailor and soldier

of grog and tobacco, and no one of them will be so miserable as the Indian

bereft of his coca. Without it he cannot exist; it is more essential to

him than meat or drink, for it enables him to dispense with both. With his

quid of dried coca leaves in his mouth, he forgets all calamities; his

rags, his poverty, the cruelties of his taskmaster. One meal a-day

suffices him, but thrice at least he must suspend his labour to chew his

coca. Even the greedy Creoles have been compelled to give in to this

imperious necessity, and to allow their labourers a quarter or half an

hour's respite three times in the day. In mines and plantations, wherever

Indians work, this is the universal practice. Although continued as a

barbarous custom by the whites, some few of the latter are inveterately

addicted to coca chewing, which they generally, however, practise

clandestinely. The effect of this plant upon the human system is very

similar to that of certain narcotics, administered in small doses. Taken

in excessive quantities it is highly injurious; used in moderation, Dr

Tschudi inclines to think it not only harmless, but positively salutary.

The longevity of the Indians, and their power of enduring great fatigue,

and performing the hardest work upon a very scant allowance of food, are

certainly in favour of this belief. The doctor met with men of 120 and 130

years old, and he assures us that such are by no means exceedingly rare in

Peru.[10] Some of these men had chewed coca leaves from their boyhood

upwards.

Allowing their daily ration to be no more than one ounce, the consumption,

in their lifetime, would amount to the prodigious quantity of twenty-seven

hundred pounds weight. Yet they were in perfect health. The coca is

considered by the Indians to be an antidote to the _veta_, and Dr Tschudi

confirms this by his own experience. Previously to his hunting excursions

in the upper regions of the Puna, he used to drink a strong decoction of

coca leaves, and found it strengthening and a preservative from the

effects of the rarefied atmosphere. So convinced is he of its salubrious

properties, that he recommends its adoption in European navies, or at

least a trial of its effects during a Polar or some other distant

expedition. One of the chief causes of Indian hatred to the Spaniards is

to be traced in the attempted suppression by the latter of the use of

coca, during the earlier period of their domination in Peru, their sole

reason being their contempt for Indian customs, and wish to destroy the

nationality of the people. Royal decrees were fulminated against coca

chewing, and priests and governors united to abolish it. After a time, the

owners of mines and plantations discovered its utility, in giving strength

and courage to their Indian vassals; books were written in its defence,

and anti-coca legislation speedily became obsolete. Since then, several

learned and reverend writers, Jesuits and others, have suggested its

introduction into Europe, as a substitute for tea and coffee, to which

they hold it far superior. There can be little doubt that--like as tobacco

is considered to preserve armies from mutiny and disaffection--the

soothing properties of coca have saved Peru from many bloody outbreaks of

the Indian population. But even this potent and much-loved drug has at

times been insufficient to restrain the deadly hatred cherished by the

Peruvians towards their white oppressors.

The Leyes de las Indias, or code for the government of the Spanish

colonies, although in some instances severe and arbitrary, were mild and

paternal compared with their administration by the viceroys and other

officials. Amongst them were two enactments, the Mita and the

Repartimiento, intended by their propounders to civilize and improve the

Indians, but fearfully abused in practice. By the Mita, the Peruvians were

compelled to work in the mines and plantations. Every Spaniard who

possessed one of these, received from the corregidor a certain number of

Indians, to each of whom he paid daily wages, and for each of them an

annual contribution of eight dollars to the State. This plan, if fairly

and conscientiously carried out, might have been made a means of

reclaiming the Indians from barbarity and idleness. But the truck system,

unlimited and excessive time of labour, and other abuses, caused it to

produce the precisely opposite effect to that proposed by the framers of

the law. One-third only of the stipulated wage was given in money, the

remainder in European manufactures, charged at exorbitant prices; and the

Indians, unable to purchase the bare necessaries of life, were compelled

to incur debts with their employers--debts that they could never pay off,

and which rendered them slaves for their whole lives. The field labourers

were made to toil from three in the morning till an hour after sundown;

even the Sunday was no day of rest for these unfortunate helots. Such

increasing and painful exertions annually swept away thousands of Indians.

Various writers estimate at nine millions the number of those killed by

labour and accident in the mines, during the last three centuries. Dr

Tschudi does not think this an exaggeration, and calculates that three

millions more have been sacrificed in the plantations, especially in the

coca fields of the backwoods.

The Repartimiento was the distribution of European wares and luxuries by

the provincial authorities. Under this law, intended for the convenience

of the people, and to supply them with clothes and other necessaries at

fair prices, every corregidor became a sort of shopkeeper, caused all

manner of merchandise to be sent to him from the capital, and compelled

the Indian to buy. The prices affixed to the articles were absurdly

exorbitant; a needle cost a real, a worthless knife or a pound of iron a

dollar, an ell of printed calico two or three dollars. Lace, silk

stockings, and false jewellery, were forced upon the richer class. After a

short delay, the money was demanded; those who could not pay had their

goods seized, and were sold as slaves to the mines or plantations. Not

only useless objects--razors, for instance, for the beardless Indians--but

things positively injurious and inconvenient, were thrust upon the

unwilling purchasers. It will scarcely be believed that a corregidor, to

whom a commercial friend had sent a consignment of spectacles, issued an

edict, compelling all Indians, under penalty of a heavy fine, to wear

glasses at certain public festivals.

Against the abominable system of which the above abuses formed but a part,

it was to be expected that sooner or later the Indians would revolt. For

two centuries they submitted to it with wonderful patience and

long-suffering. At last, a man was found to hoist the bloody flag of

insurrection and revenge.

Juan Santos, surnamed the Apostate, was an Indian from Huamanga, and

claimed descent from Atahualpa, the last of the Incas, whom Pizarro hung.

In the year 1741, having killed a Spaniard of noble birth in a quarrel, he

fled to the woods, and there brooded over the oppression to which his

countrymen were subjected. At that time, the zealous Spanish missionaries

had made great progress in the conversion of the _Indios bravos_, a savage

and cannibal tribe, amongst whom they fearlessly ventured, undeterred by

the murder of many who had preceded them. Against these priests Santos

instigated an outbreak. He first addressed himself to the tribe of the

Campas, declared himself a descendant of the mighty Peruvian kings, and

asserted that he possessed supernatural power, that he knew all their

thoughts, and had the portrait of each of them in his heart. Then calling

the Indians to him one by one, he lifted his upper garment, and allowed

them to look in a mirror fastened upon his breast. The savages, astonished

at the reflection of their faces, conceived a great veneration for Santos,

and implicitly obeyed him. He at once led them to a general attack upon

the priests, their property, and religion. By bold and sudden assaults,

several Spanish fortified posts were taken, and the garrisons murdered. At

the fort of Quimiri, the Indians put the muskets of the slain soldiers in

a heap, set fire to them, and danced round the blazing pile. But the

surprise of the place had been so well managed, that the Spaniards had had

no time to fire even one volley, and their muskets were still loaded.

Heated by the flames, they exploded, and spread destruction amongst the

dancing savages. Churches and mission-houses were destroyed, villages

burnt, plantations laid waste; the priests were tied to the images of

saints, and thrown into the rivers. In a few weeks, the missionary

districts of middle Peru were utterly ravaged, and terror reigned in the

land. The Spaniards feared a revolt of the Sierra Indians; strong measures

were taken, forts built along the frontier, and the _bravos_ driven back

to their own territory. What became of Santos is not exactly known. Some

affirm that he united several savage tribes in a confederacy, and ruled

over them till his death. In the monastery of Ocopa, Dr Tschudi found an

old manuscript, in which was the following note:--"The monster and

apostate Juan Santos Atahualpa, after his diabolical destruction of our

missions, suffered terribly from the wrath of God. He met the fate of

Herod, and was eaten alive by worms."

Although of short duration, the insurrection headed by Santos was weighty

in its consequences. It showed the Indians their strength, and was

followed by repeated revolts, especially in Southern Peru. For want of an

able leader they all proved fruitless, until Tupac Amaru, cacique of

Tungasuca, put himself at the head of a matured and well-organized

revolution. A valid pretext for this was afforded by the corregidor of

Tinta, Don Antonio Ariaga, who in one year, 1780, made repartimientos to

the amount of three hundred and forty thousand dollars, and exacted the

money for the useless wares with cruel severity. Tupac Amaru assembled the

Indians, seized the corregidor, and hung him. This was the signal for a

general uprising in the whole of Southern Peru, and a bloody war ensued.

In April 1781, Tupac Amaru, his wife, and several of the rebel chiefs,

were made prisoners by a detachment of Spanish cavalry. They were tried at

Cuzco, found guilty, and condemned to death. The unfortunate cacique was

compelled to witness the execution of his wife, two sons, his

brother-in-law, Antonio Bastidas, and of other relations and friends. He

then had his tongue cut out, and was torn by four horses. His body was

burned, his head and limbs were stuck upon poles in different towns of the

disturbed districts. In Huancayo, Dr Tschudi met with an old Creole, who,

when a lad of sixteen, had witnessed the barbarous execution of the

cacique of Tangasuca. He described him as a tall handsome man, with a

quick piercing eye, and serious resolute countenance. He beheld the death

of his family with great emotion, but submitted without a murmur to his

own horrible fate. He was not long unavenged. His brother, his remaining

son Andres, and a daring Indian chief named Nicacatari, carried on the war

with increased vigour and ferocity, and at the head of a numerous force

threw themselves before the large fortified town of Sorrata, whither the

Spaniards from the surrounding country, trusting to the strength of the

place, had fled for safety. When Andres Tupac Amaru saw that with his

Indians, armed only with knives, clubs, and slings, he had no chance

against the powerful artillery of his foe, he caused the streams from the

neighbouring mountains to be conducted to the town, and surrounded it with

water The earthen fortifications were soon undermined, and when they gave

way the place was taken by assault. With the exception of eighty-seven

priests and monks, the whole of the besieged, twenty-two thousand in

number, were cruelly slaughtered. From Sorrata the Indian army moved

westwards, and was victorious in several actions with the Spanish troops.

Gold, however, accomplished what the sword had failed to do. Seduced by

bribes and promises, an Indian follower of Andres guided a party of

Spanish soldiers to the council house of the rebels. The chiefs were all

taken and put to death. Deprived of its leaders, the Indian army broke up

and dispersed. Innumerable executions followed, and the war was estimated

to have cost from first to last nearly a hundred thousand lives. Its only

beneficial result to the Indians was the abolition of repartimientos.

During the revolution that lost Peru to Spain, the Indians took part with

the patriots, who deluded them with promises of a monarchy, and of placing

a descendant of the Incas on the throne. Not clearly understanding the

causes of the war, the Indians frequently turned their arms against their

own allies, and killed all white men who fell into their power. Many

provinces were entirely deserted by the Creoles and Metises, in

consequence of the furious animosity of the coloured race. In Jauja, the

Indians swore they would not leave so much as a white dog or fowl alive,

and they even scratched the white paint from the walls of the houses. When

General Valdos and his cavalry crossed the river of Jauja and attacked the

Indians, the latter scorned to save themselves by flight, but threw

themselves upon the lances with cries of "_Mata me, Godo!_[11] Kill me!"

Two thousand remained upon the field, the Spaniards not ceasing to kill

till their arms were too tired to strike.

Dr Tschudi inclines to believe that sooner or later the Indians will throw

off the yoke of the effeminate and cowardly Creoles, and establish a

government of their own. Whether such a government will be able or allowed

to maintain itself, it is difficult to say; although, as the doctor

observes, why should it not, at least, as well as a negro republic in an

Archipelago peopled by the most civilized nations of Europe? Since the

separation of Peru from Spain, the Indians have made great progress in

many respects; they have been admitted into the army, have become familiar

with fire-arms and military manoeuvres, and have learned the manufacture

of gunpowder, materials for which their mountains abundantly afford. Their

hatred of the whites is bitter as ever, their feeling of nationality very

strong--their attachment to the memory of their Incas, and to their old

form of government, undiminished. In spite of long oppression, they still

possess pride and self-reliance. Besides the government forced upon them

by the Creoles, they preserve and obey their old laws. Let a leader like

Tupac Amaru appear amongst them, and there is every probability of an

Indian revolution, very different in its results to any that has yet

occurred.

Most Robinson Crusoe-like in its interest is the long chapter wherein Dr

Tschudi details his forest adventures, and we regret that we must be very

summary in our notice of it. With extraordinary courage and perseverance

the doctor and a German friend made their way to the heart of the

backwoods, built themselves a log-hut, and, despising the numerous dangers

by which they were environed, abode there for months, collecting

zoological specimens. Of the perils that beset them, Dr Tschudi's

unvarnished narrative of the daily sights and nocturnal sounds that

assailed their startled senses in those wild regions, gives a lively idea.

Indian cannibals, ferocious beasts, reptiles whose bite is instant death,

venomous insects, and even vampires, compose the pleasant population of

this district, into which these stout-hearted Europeans fearlessly

ventured. Of the beasts of prey the ounce is the most dangerous; and so

fierce and numerous has its breed become in certain districts of Peru, as

to compel the Indians to abandon their villages. We are told of one

hamlet, in the ravine of Mayunmarca, that has been desolate for a century

past on this account. The ounces used annually to decimate its

inhabitants. More perilous even than these animals, to the wanderer in the

forest, are the innumerable serpents that lurk beneath the accumulation of

dead leaves bestrewing the ground. The most deadly is a small viper about

ten inches long, the only species of the viper family as yet discovered in

South America. The virulence of its venom kills the strongest man in the

space of two or three minutes. The Indians, when bitten by it, do not

dream of seeking an antidote, but at once lie down to die. Bats are

exceedingly plentiful, and very large, some measuring nearly two feet

across the extended wings. The blood-sucker or vampire (phyllostoma) finds

its way in search of food into stables and houses. The smooth-haired

domestic animals are especially liable to its attacks. With wings half

open it places itself upon their backs, and rubs with its snout till the

small sharp teeth break the outer skin. Then it draws in its wings,

stretches itself out, and sucks the blood, making the while a gentle

movement with its body, not unlike the undulations of a busy leech. The

fanning motion of the wings described by some writers was never observed

by Dr Tschudi. Although these vampires only imbibe a few ounces of blood,

the subsequent haemorrhage is very great, and full-grown mules sometimes

die of the exhaustion caused by their repeated attacks. One of the

doctor's beasts was only saved from such a fate by being rubbed every five

or six days with turpentine and other strong-smelling drugs, which kept

off the vampires. It has often been disputed whether these disgusting

animals attack human beings. Our traveller deposes to their doing so, and

cites an instance witnessed by himself. A bat (Ph. erythromos, Tsch.)

fixed upon the nose of an Indian who lay drunk in the court of a

plantation, and sucked his blood till it was unable to fly away. Violent

inflammation and swelling of the Indian's head were the consequences of

the trifling wound inflicted.

We must here make mention of the carbunculo, a fabulous animal, whose

existence obtains credit in most parts of Peru. Wherever he went, Dr

Tschudi heard stories of this creature, and met persons who asserted that

they had seen it. It is reported to be of the size of a fox, with long

black hair, and only to appear at night, when it glides slowly through the

bushes or amongst the rocks. When pursued, a valve or trap-door opens in

its forehead, and an extraordinarily brilliant object--believed by the

natives to be a precious stone--becomes visible, dispelling the darkness

and dazzling the pursuer. Then the forehead closes, and the creature

disappears. According to other accounts, it emerges from its lurking-place

with carbuncle displayed, and only conceals it when attacked. This strange

superstition is not of Spanish origin, but of older date than Pizarro's

invasion. Of course it has never been possible to catch or kill a specimen

of this remarkable species, although the Spaniards have used every effort

to get hold of such a creature; and in the viceroy's instructions to the

missionaries, the carbunculo was set down in the very first rank of

desiderata. Dr Tschudi vainly endeavoured to discover, with some degree of

certainty, what animal had served as a pretext for the fable.

After a four years residence in Peru, and when preparing for a journey

that was to include an investigation of all the provinces, and to last for

several years, Dr Tschudi was seized in the Cordilleras with a nervous

fever, which brought him to the brink of the grave. Upon his recovery, he

found that long repose, both of mind and body, was essential to the

complete restoration of his health. Such repose he could not be certain of

granting himself if he remained in Peru, and he therefore resolved to seek

it upon the ocean. He took ship, and reached Europe at the commencement of

1843, after an absence of five years. He greatly regrets not having

visited every part of Peru, especially the historical city of Cuzco, and

the forests of Urubamba. But his harvest of knowledge has been so rich and

abundant, that he should not, we think, begrudge the remnant of the crop

to the gleaners who may come after him.

"MORIAMUR PRO REGE NOSTRO."

CHAPTER I.

"Our coming

Is not for salutation: we have business."

BEN. JONSON.

On the 9th of September 1741, shortly after the hour of nightfall, a

silvery mist hung over the broad stream of the Danube, and the environs of

the city of Presburg--at that time considered the capital of Hungary--and

shrouded the earth with its grey veil; although the heavens above were

bright and clear, and the stars shone cheerily and proudly, as if no

earthly influence could damp or dull them. Before the St Michael's gate,

which opens on the side of the town the most remote from the Danube, and

on to the road leading into the interior of the country, and towards the

first low ridge of the Carpathians which skirts Presburg to the north, sat

a traveller on horseback--his ample cloak wrapped carefully about his

person, as much, it would seem, to screen him from observation, as from

the first freshness of the commencing autumn season, and his broad

three-cornered and gold-laced hat pulled down upon his brow.

He had ridden, at the brisk pace, across the stone bridge which leads over

a dry moat to the old gateway, and had suddenly checked his horse on

finding the gate closed before him.

"_Corpo di Bacco!_" he exclaimed aloud, in a tone of intense vexation.

"The gate is shut for the night--I feared as much."

"What's to be done!" he continued to murmur to himself, after a pause. "To

wake the guardian of the gate, and demand an entrance, would be to excite

attention, and subject myself, perhaps, to questionings. No, no! That,

above all, must be avoided. And yet, see him I must to-night. Time

presses. Should the devil, who has served me so well as yet, desert me

now, and take flight, the coward! before a few inches of deal board, and a

few pounds of hammered iron! Bolts and bars! _Bagatelles!_ Fortunately the

old fox has taken up his earth near the gate. If I calculate aright, the

hinder windows of his lodging must look out upon the moat; and I will try

whether I cannot come to speech of him."

"Fortuna, jade! Thou art propitious still, if yonder rays be those from

the old ivy-owl's watch-lamp!" muttered the traveller once more to

himself, as he looked towards a light, which apparently struggled to send

its gleams through the thick haze, from a low window of one of the houses

overhanging the dry moat, to the left of the gateway. "At all events, I'll

even risk the venture; and if, after all, I am out in my reckoning, and

should stumble either upon an amorous dame awaiting her adored, or a mad

student seeking the philosopher's stone--should I appear as a spirit of

love from above, or a spirit of darkness from below--_Cospetto!_ I'll play

my part to the life, and find an entrance to this cursed town, spite of

locked gates and barred posterns! The Virgin be praised! I am no schoolboy

at my first adventure."

"_Allons_, Briccone!" he cried, applying the spur to his jaded horse,

which stood reeking thickly, in the misty air, from the effects of a long

and rapid journey. "You must seek other quarters for the night, old boy!"

The animal snorted, as its head was turned once more from the gateway, and

moved unwillingly, as if endeavouring to resist the seeming attempt to

undertake any further excursion that night: but the way was not long which

it was destined to travel. Among the clay-built houses which formed the

suburb, the traveller speedily discovered the projecting whisp of hay,

announcing that the hovel, from the doorway of which it was suspended,

offered accommodation, such as it was, for man and beast. Summoning from

the interior a sleepy lad, in a dirty Hungarian costume, of full

shirt-sleeves and broad trowsers, which once had been white, and

confiding Briccone to his care, he returned to the gateway of the town.

When he again stood upon the gateway bridge, the first care of the

stranger was to stoop, and collect a quantity of small pebbles in the

hollow of his left hand. Provided with this ammunition, he approached as

near as he could towards the spot whence the light he had before remarked

proceeded.

"A curse upon this rotten mist!" he muttered. "I can see nothing. Around

and about is a fog from the devil's own caldron, as if it were cooked on

purpose to blind me; whilst the stars are twinkling above, as if they

squinted down upon my confusion, and laughed me to scorn. However, at all

ventures, have at my mark!"

With these words, he flung pebble after pebble in the direction of the

light. Several of the missiles were heard to rattle against the walls of

the house; and a few others rendered a clearer ringing sound, as if they

had struck upon glass. After a short space of time, the light disappeared

almost entirely; and a window was heard to open. The traveller raised

another pebble in his hand, with a smile upon his face, as if inclined to

take a last random shot at the head which had probably replaced the light

at the open window; but he checked his humour with a short low laugh, and

coughed to attract attention. The cough was immediately re-echoed in a

hoarse and hollow voice.

"That should be the old raven's croak," said the stranger to himself.

"Bandini!" he cried, in a low but distinct tone, through his hollowed

hands.

"Hush!" rejoined the voice from the window. "Not so loud! Is it you?"

"_Diavolo!_" replied the traveller, approaching closer to the wall of the

town, and speaking as low as possible. "Who should it be, man? But the

gate is closed; and I have no mind to expose myself to the investigations

of the gatekeeper's lantern, and all the cross-examination and

tittle-tattle that may follow."

"I waited for you with impatience," pursued his interlocutor; "and when

the gate closed for the night, placed my lamp at the window as a beacon."

"All right!" replied the other. "But what's to be done now, man?"

"Can you climb?" continued the hoarse voice.

"Like a cat or a Spanish lover," was the reply. "Perhaps I have no little

in me of the first; at all events I have often tried the trade of the

latter."

"Descend into the moat from the end of the bridge," pursued the personage

at the window. "The passage is easy. I will provide for your ascent."

Following these short instructions, the stranger returned over the bridge;

and catching from stem to stem of the few stunted trees that grew upon the

precipitous sides of the descent, he clambered, without much difficulty,

to the bottom of the steep. As he crossed the reedy and moist soil of the

moat, the noise of a falling object directed his steps towards a part of

the wall where a ladder of cords awaited him. Profiting by this aid, and

grasping, where he could, the projecting stones of the rude masonry which

formed the lower part of the house, the stranger mounted with ready

agility to the level of a window.

"You have not chosen your quarters upon the town-wall for nothing, I am

inclined to suppose, Master Bandini," he said, as he found himself in face

of a dark form at the opening to which he had arrived.

"All things have their uses," was the laconic reply, uttered with a hoarse

laugh.

In a few moments the stranger had squeezed his person adroitly through the

low window, and stood in the interior of the room.

The apartment into which he had been thus clandestinely introduced, was

faintly lighted by the single lamp which had served as a beacon; and the

rays of this lamp, as they fell upon the dark walls, half revealed, in

fantastic indistinctness, a variety of miscellaneous objects. Ranged upon

shelves on either side of the entrance door, stood a quantity of jars and

phials of different shapes, mixed with glass vessels, containing strange

serpents and lizards, and human half-born deformities, preserved in

spirits--all the _materia medica_, either for use or show, necessary for

the establishment of a druggist-physician of the day. On the opposite side

of the room, beneath the hard and slovenly pallet which served as bed,

might be half seen, from under the covering, two or three chests, the iron

clasps and fastenings of which, with their immense padlocks, seemed to

tell a tale of well-stored treasures of moneys or papers, and of other

avocations than those of doctoring and leeching. Above the bed hung the

crucifix, that necessary appendage to the dwelling of a good and pious

Catholic; but, whether by accident or design, the form of the Divine

sufferer on the cross was now turned against the wall. A table in the

middle of the room was covered with old books and papers; and before the

chair, from which the inmate of the apartment had probably risen when

surprised by the signals of his visitor, was a large volume, which he now

precipitately closed, but not, however, without being remarked by the

stranger, who smiled a significant smile upon observing this hasty

movement.

But, if the aspect of the apartment was strange, stranger still was that

of its occupier. He was a little man, at an advanced period of life, whose

spare and shrivelled form might be fancied ill-calculated to support the

large head which surmounted it. Was the head, however, ill-proportioned to

the body, still more out of proportion were the large black projecting

eyebrows, the huge eagle nose, and the swelled hanging under-lip, to the

general contour of the head. His thick black hair was closely shorn to his

skull, as if to develop more clearly these interesting features; and if

powder had been bestowed upon it, in obedience to the fashion of the

better classes of the day, it had been bestowed so sparingly, or had

assumed a colour so closely assimilated to that of dust and dirt, as to

escape the discovery of all eyes but those of a very closely investigating

naturalist. No less doubtful was the colour of the long cravat tied

loosely about his neck. His upper person was inclosed in a huge black

widely pocketed coat and lappet waistcoat, both many ells too wide for his

shrunken form; whilst his nether man disported at ease in a pair of black

pantaloons and high boots, which seemed to incase the proportions of a

skeleton. From the sleeves of the wide coat hung a pair of long dirty

begrimed hands, which, without a doubt, belonged rightfully to the owner

of the aforesaid skeleton shanks.

Far different was the appearance of his visitor. He was a tall well-formed

man, between thirty and forty years of age. His dress, which he displayed

as he threw aside his cloak, cut in the cumbrous fashion of the day, was

that of a man of pretensions to a certain rank; and his _coiffure_, with

its necessary appendage of pigtail, might be seen, in spite of his hasty

journey, to have been arranged with care, and powdered. Although his

person was prepossessing, there was, however, a certain dash of the _roue_

in his appearance, and a look of design and cunning in his dark eyes, long

fine-drawn nose, and thin lipless mouth, which would speedily have removed

the first more agreeable impression of an observer.

"All's well that ends well!" said the stranger, as he removed his hat and

cloak. "It is perhaps better, after all, that I should make my entry thus.

I have ridden hard, Master Bandini, and Briccone carried me well; but the

road was longer than I had surmised, and I had a matter or two to dispose

of on my way."

"Better late than never, noble cavaliere!" replied the man addressed as

Bandini.

"Hush! no names, man, until I be assured that we have no listeners here,"

said the cavaliere.

Without replying, the old man removed the shutters from a window, forming

a thorough light to that by which the stranger had entered, and looked out

into the winding steep descent which forms the first street of the city of

Presburg from St Michael's gate. It was faintly lighted by a lantern, but

empty of all passengers.

"How now, man!" said the stranger impatiently.

"Why! if it must be said," replied the old man, closing the shutter and

returning; "I have a lodger here, in my apartment. But he is still

without; nor will he yet return."

"A lodger!" exclaimed the other, in an angry tone--"and at such a moment!

How could you be so incautious, Bandini? This is one of your miserly

tricks: you would expose your best friends for a few miserable kreutzers

more or less."

"Live and let live, is my maxim," answered Bandini with a growl.

The stranger shrugged his shoulders with vexation.

"And who is this lodger, man?" he cried.

"Only a poor Hungarian country noble," replied Bandini in a more cajoling

tone. "A youth! a very youth! a poor unsuspecting youth! He has come, like

all the other nobles of the land, great and small, to obey the call of her

they call their _King_, to attend this Diet summoned at Presburg; and he

occupies my other rooms with his servant--a rustic!--a mere rustic!--a

rude untutored rustic!"

"It was ill done, Bandini," continued the stranger, with still evident

marks of discontent. "A lodger in the house, when you must know that I

need privacy! It was ill done, I tell you."

The old man only muttered something between his teeth by way of a reply.

"Have a care, man," resumed his visitor, "how you juggle with me in this

matter. You are richly paid by my employers for the support you give me,

and the concealment your house affords; but should evil befall us--be it

through your treachery or your imprudence, it matters not--_per Jovem_,

the evil shall fall a hundred-fold upon your own head. I swear it to you;

and you know I am a man to keep my word."

"Jehovah! here's a turmoil about the mere miserable lodging of a poor

youth!" growled the old man doggedly, although the rapid passing of a long

skeleton finger over the tip of his huge nose betrayed a certain degree of

nervous agitation.

"Master Bandini," interrupted the stranger, unheeding him, "I have a word

to speak with you--and one that nearly concerns yourself, Master

Bandini--before we proceed further in business."

"Look ye!" he pursued, in a more indifferent tone, throwing himself down

on to a chair, and crossing his legs composedly, but fixing the man called

Bandini at the same time with his keen eye. "Look ye, friend druggist,

physician, usurer, miser, secret agent, spy--or whatever other name you

bear in designation, avocation, character, or _creed_"--and he laid a

slight emphasis on the word--"there are no friends so sure as those who

are convinced we know then thoroughly--a right understanding is sympathy,

_amico mio_, and sympathy is bond and union."

The old man looked through his beetling brows at his visitor without any

evidence of trouble; but he ceased irritating the tip of his nose only to

twitch more nervously at the sleeves of his coat, as if to give himself an

air of composure and dignity by adjusting them, as a modern fop might do

by pulling up his shirt-collar.

"Think you I have forgotten," continued the stranger with a slight sneer,

"that when we first met in Italy--no matter upon what business, or to what

intent--Master Bandini bore the name of Israeli, and that, when forced to

leave that country--persecuted, as he himself would say, for some little

matter of flagrant usury, and mayhap also of a drug or two that lulled

some rich old uncle to a sleep from which he woke not, and made a

spendthrift debtor his heir--he returned to the land of his birth, I will

not say of his fathers, and, for reasons good, under another name and a

foreign guise, thinking that the name of Israel, spite of its adopted

termination, smacked somewhat too notoriously of his origin, his Jewish

origin, Master Bandini?"

The Jew druggist tossed his heavy head with an expression that, however

ill assured, was meant to say, "Well! and what then?"

"Think you I know not that, fearing the prejudices against his race might

injure the gains of his various trades, perhaps also that the name he bore

might recal reminiscences better forgotten for ever, he assumed a

Christian appellation, passed for an honest Christian man--_honest_,

humph!" added the stranger with a sniggering laugh--"and infringed the

severe laws of Hungary, which compel all of his tribe to dwell within one

prescribed street in each city, and wear one distinctive dress--laws that,

if called into execution, would bring him contumely, imprisonment,

ruin--ay ruin, Master Israeli--humph, I forgot--Bandini? Think you I have

no eyes to see yon cross ostentatiously displayed to Christian visitors,

now turned against the wall, with the contempt of one of your accursed

race--a deed in itself a crime to merit mortal punishment?"

The Jew stole a glance at the cross, and was evidently moved.

"Think you I divine not," pursued his visitor, hastily snatching from the

table the heavy book closed upon his entrance, and flinging it open upon

his knees, "that this jargon of the devil is your Hebrew book of worship,

in which Master Bandini seeks for rules of conduct for the further welfare

of his soul--if so be he have one--in the persecution and torture of

Christian men--a pretty religion, _cospetto!_--or may be, practises

sorcery?" And the stranger laughed ironically at his own suggestion.

"Think you I know not all this, Master Bandini?"

"And if the Cavaliere Caracalli knows me, what have I to fear from him?"

said the Jew sullenly, with a look of defiance.

"Ha! that would seem a threat!" answered the cavaliere haughtily. "Once

more, have a care, man, how you deal with me! What you have to fear I will

tell you, Master Bandini, rogue--all that your worst fears can

contemplate, should I have reason to believe you a traitor." And, at these

words, he sprang up from his chair, and confronted the old man, with an

evident desire to intimidate him by his movement.

The Jew druggist did not flinch; but he answered with less of defiance.

"I am no traitor--no traitor to you; and, though you know me, why should I

not serve you still? Why should we not be friends?"

"Friends! you and I!" said the cavaliere with scorn. "But no matter! This

affair of the lodger looks ill, I tell you."

"Times are bad--times are bad, noble cavaliere," stammered the Jew, in a

whining and apologetic tone. "Our contract stipulated not that I should

not strive to earn an honest livelihood where I could."

"And who prevents you, man," said the cavaliere, with a sneer, "from

earning what you please to term an honest livelihood, as far as it

interfere not with my interests? But this imprudence"----

"Heavy losses! heavy losses!" continued the old man, interrupting him, to

pursue his apology. "I have had heavy and serious losses, which I must

strive to cover by what scanty means are left me--to say naught of drugs

unpaid, and services to the rich ill recompensed and scouted. I am a needy

man. I am, indeed, a needy man." The cavaliere shrugged his shoulders.

"Ah! You feel not that, noble sir. But the God of my fathers knows that it

is true. Was there not the Illok affair, in which the poor money-lender

was cheated of his honest earnings? Did not the Count Csaki leave the

country, a bankrupt, and cause me all but utter ruin? And, worse than all,

did not the Baron Bartori, after he had made over to me his estates, in

return for moneys lent him in his need, die with the intent and purpose,

as one would say, to defraud me of my just dues? and did not his son,

without whose signature to destroy the entail, I cannot obtain possession

of my rights--the God of Israel's curse be on the Philistine laws of this

unjust country!--disappear, no one knows whither? He is an honest youth,

and a just, they say, who would not deprive a poor needy man of his own:

but he may be dead--he may be dead, without giving his precious

sign-manual; and I should be a ruined man--a ruined man--alas! alas!"

The cavaliere had borne impatiently the lamentations thus uttered as

apologies for his love of gain by the Jew money-lender: and he now broke

in upon them with disgust.

"A truce to all this comedy of woe, man! If you be shorn of a lock or two

of your ill-gotten golden fleece, we well know that it is still a full and

warm one. Come, come--no more of this!" he pursued, as the Jew continued

to squeeze alternately the skeleton fingers of each hand, as though he

pretended to be wringing them in despair. "We must to business; and since

the mischief has been done--and, mark me! it must be remedied forthwith,

and this boy driven from the house--see that the coast be clear!"

"He is from home, I tell you," was Bandini's reply; and he was continuing

to murmur, with sunken head, the words, "Heavy losses! heavy losses! Why

did he die? And were aught to happen to his son, as is likely in these

troublesome times, I were ruined--utterly ruined. Oh! heavy losses!"--when

an angry exclamation and an imperative gesture from his visitor, repeated

the order to look that they were alone and undisturbed.

The old man lighted a small hand-lamp at that which stood upon the table,

undrew the bolts that fastened the door, and left the room with sullen

look and step. He was gone for a very brief space of time; but this short

interval was employed by the stranger in turning over, with rapid hand and

scrutinizing eye, the papers which lay upon the table. He shook his head

with a sneer of indifference, as if he had found nothing worthy of his

attention, and had scarcely time to resume his seat with an air of

unconcern, when the Jew returned, and, eyeing him narrowly, advanced into

the room with that haste of suspicion and fear, which induced even the

usurer to forget his usual precautions of bolts and bars.

"There is no one in the house but ourselves," he said, with still sulky

air.

"Then seat yourself, man, and open to me your wallet of sayings and

doings; and let's see what scraps of information you may have gleaned. It

should be crammed full, ere this. Seat yourself, I say, and clear that

gloomy brow of yours," said the cavaliere with a laugh. "What has passed

since I last saw you?"

"The city is already thronged with the nobility of Hungary, convoked by

this woman, who still asserts her rights over them, in the hope that they

may aid her in her troubles;" commenced the Jew, seating himself, in

obedience to his visitor's command. "Jehovah! what a stir they make! What

moneys do they lavish upon foolish pomp! What spendthrift profusion do

they display! It curdles the very blood of a poor thrifty man within him,

to witness such insensate prodigality. But they must rue their folly. They

will need moneys; they will seek to obtain moneys of the poor druggist.

Ah!" And the usurer rubbed his hands with satisfaction; but then, seeing

the gestures of impatience displayed by his companion, he proceeded: "But

there is much discontent, I hear, among them; and, where she has not

enemies, she has lukewarm friends. They will no longer, they say, be

governed by a weak woman, who can so ill wield the reins of power, and who

has already staked and lost all the other inheritance of her father"----

"Unjustly herited--unjustly held. Forget not that, Master Bandini!"

interrupted the Italian.

"Unjustly--well, well! I am no legist to understand these things," pursued

the Jew; "only a poor thrifty physician"----

"And usurer," again broke in his companion.

Bandini smiled a sour smile, and continued:

"Call me usurer, if you will. I see no scorn in the term; and I have

turned my money-lending to account in this matter. Yes! and in your

service; although you but now called me traitor. Have I not refused moneys

to those who offered me good securities and values, and at my own loss--at

my own loss, cavaliere--because I would not deal with those who would

hazard their all in a war to aid this woman in her desperate need? And

although my friend Zachariah has lent them sums of precious metal, has it

not been upon such great interest, and at such peril to themselves, that

they cannot risk so dangerous a venture as the espousing her cause, and

upon their written engagement also--and this as by my advice, mark me,

noble cavaliere!--that they should not take up arms? Have I not done this

to serve you?--at my own loss, I say; and can you call me traitor now?"

"So far all goes well," said the Italian, unheeding the importance

attached by the Jew to the supposed services rendered. "Maria Theresa will

be foiled in her last attempt at opposition to her enemy's force, by

seeking succours from her so-called faithful Hungarians. Success, also,

has crowned my efforts in my expedition throughout the land, Master

Bandini," he pursued, raising himself from his listless posture, with a

look of animation and triumph. "The seeds of discord and discontent have

every where been sown. I have visited these proud eagles, the Hungarian

nobles, in their country-nests; and I have employed all means to turn them

from listening to the appeal of their fugitive queen. To the worldly-wise,

I have urged the ruin of war to their already troubled and impoverished

country,--to the lovers of their fatherland, the independence of Hungary,

and freedom from the House of Austria, if they will seize this opportunity

to shake off its yoke, instead of again cringing to its call,--to the man,

the weakness of submitting to a woman's sway,--to the needy and the

grasping, I have promised, and even already lavished, the bribes of

France, Spain, and Sardinia, to induce them to refuse their aid,--to the

ambitious, place, rank, orders, courtly favour from my powerful employers,

should they espouse their cause. I have studied men's characters, and read

men's minds, to turn them to my will; and although I have met with

opposition, endangered my life indeed, and risked my safety from ill-will,

yet I have so strewn my grain, that, when Maria Theresa shall appear upon

the field, she shall reap tares where she hoped to gather wheat. The cause

is lost, I tell you!"

The Jew rubbed his hands with an air of satisfaction, which seemed to show

that the profits to be divided from his association in the political

manoeuvres of his visitor were to be proportionate to the success of

these hazardous schemes, and that visions of golden reward already floated

before his eyes.

"And the opening of the Diet is still fixed for the 11th?" inquired the

Italian, after a pause, in which he had allowed his unwonted enthusiasm to

cool down to a bearing of indifference, which was more his nature.

"Yes--the day following the morrow," answered Bandini.

"Has she already made her appearance in the city?" again asked his

visitor.

"It is supposed that she is not yet here. There has been no solemn entry;

but she must be here every hour," was the reply.

"In that morrow we have as yet time for much," said the cavaliere. "I must

pursue my measures here with caution. My great scheme, of which more,

perhaps, hereafter, may be tried at any issue; and woe betide Maria

Theresa, if"--

As he uttered these words, the Italian was startled and interrupted by the

abrupt opening of the door of the apartment. The Jew turned round with

surprise, whilst his companion, checking the first involuntary movement,

which induced him to look in the same direction, buried himself in his

chair, so as to conceal himself as much as possible from the intruder.

The person who entered was a tall old man, whose erect figure and firm

step proved how little time had weighed upon his natural vigour. His

features were bold and rude, although not deficient in that species of

manly beauty which an expression of confidence and energy bestows, and

were fully displayed by the disposal of his grizzled hair, which, torn

back from his forehead, and plastered over his head with an evident

profusion of grease, descended on to his back in a long braided tail. His

dress was of that description known in other parts of Europe as the hussar

uniform, which was worn by certain of the domestics belonging to the

Hungarian nobility. The yellow braid profusely bestowed across the breast

of his jacket, and upon the pockets and sides of his tight blue

pantaloons, was of a colour that showed what good service his attire had

already seen. In his brawny hands he held his shako, as he advanced into

the room, with more of rudeness than of deference in his manner.

"Is it you, Master Farkas?" said the Jew, rising to meet him. "I did not

hear you enter."

"I opened the street door below with the pass-key you gave us," replied

the man; whilst, at these words, the cavaliere stamped his foot in anger.

"You made but little noise," resumed Bandini suspiciously.

"I suppose you were too much engaged to hear us; for I see you have a

visitor," said the old man, fixing his eyes upon the form whose back was

turned to him, and advancing familiarly further into the room.

But the Jew intercepted him.

"What do you want here, Master Farkas?"

"_Teremtette!_" said the fellow roughly. "Would you have my lord up to bed

in the dark, like a rat or a gipsy thief? I want a light."

"I will attend your master forthwith," said the Jew, taking up the

hand-lamp, and hastening to the door.

"My master, ugh! My lord, if it please or please not your worship,"

growled Farkas, preceding the landlord out of the apartment.

When the Jew returned, his visitor confronted him with angry looks.

"See to what you expose me, fellow, by your villanous meanness!" exclaimed

the cavaliere. "And, not content with harbouring vagabonds in your house,

that, for aught I know, may be spies upon us, you furnish them with

pass-keys, to surprise us when they will--to ear-wig at the doors, hear

our discourse, betray our secrets. How now, fellow, what have you to

answer?"

"I tell you that they are most innocent and unsuspecting rustics, both,"

stammered the Jew--"both master and man. There can be no danger."

"No danger!" continued the angry cavaliere. "No danger, fellow!

_Cospetto!_ this very circumstance may be my ruin! That voice, too, was

not unknown to me. I have heard it somewhere, although I know not where.

It sounded to me as the reminiscence of some past evil--a raven's croak,

announcing still more ill to come. _Santa Vergine!_ If we are lost, I will

have your life, with my own hand;" and he half drew his sword from the

scabbard.

Bandini drew back sulkily, with further protestations, deprecations, and

endeavours to mollify his visitor: but it was long before the cavaliere

could be appeased. Once he left the room and listened in the passage, and

at the young Hungarian's door. Then he descended to the street entrance,

and examined the lock: and only when convinced that the other inhabitants

of the house were still, and had probably retired to rest, did he come

back. When he returned to the Jew's room, his brow was still knitted

angrily; but, after drawing a bolt across the door, he sat down with less

of agitation.

More unfriendly words again passed between the confederates; but, after a

time, the Italian spy and the Jew money-lender were again conversing, in

lowered tones, upon the schemes of the former.