"It has been the writer's study to render this biographical

history of Howard as worthy of its subject, and of the

confidence of the reader, as the nature of the materials at

his disposal would allow. He has carefully collated every

document already printed--made, and caused to be made, numerous

researches--conversed with persons who have preserved traditions

and other memorials of this subject--travelled in his traces

over a great number of prisons--examined parliamentary and

other records for such new facts as they might afford--and, in

conclusion, has consulted these several sources of information,

and interpreted their answers by such light as his personal

experience of the prison-world suggested to be needful. The

result of this labour is, that some new matter of curious

interest has turned up--_amongst other things_, a manuscript

throwing light on the early history of prison reforms in this

country, found in the archives of the Society for Promoting

Christian Knowledge, and for which he is indebted to the

courtesy of the secretary, the Rev. T. B. Murray; and the

writer is assured _that no other papers_ exist in any known

quarter. The material for Howard's life is therefore _now fully

collected_; whether it is herein finally used, will entirely

depend upon the verdict of the reader."

From all this mystification, the reader is at least to conclude

that something very important has been done, and contributions

very valuable have been made, for a final biography of Howard.

Documents collated--researches made, and caused to be made--then a

discovered manuscript, which now is, and now is not, appertaining

to the subject--assurance "that no other papers exist in any

known quarter!"--"materials _now_ fully collected!" Oh, Admirable

Crichton! Our author has done all this for us! Our author has read

the memoirs of Baldwin Brown--and that not very attentively: if he

has done more it is a pity, because there is not the least trace of

it in his book. Our author has read the memoirs of Baldwin Brown,

and travestied his narrative, and then writes this preface, as a

travesty, we presume, of erudite prefaces in general. The book

altogether does not belong to literature, but is a sort of parody

upon literature.

We may as well give our readers the benefit of the rest of the

preface:--

"The mental and moral portraiture of Howard attempted in this

volume is new." [Fortunately, and to the recommendation of

the volume, it is not new, but a transcript of that which his

predecessor had drawn.] "As the writer's method of inquiry and

of treatment was different to that ordinarily adopted, so his

result is different. His study of the character was earnest,

and, he believes, faithful. After making himself master of all

the facts of the case which have come down to us, biographically

and traditionally, his plan was to _saturate himself with

Howardian ideas_, and then strive to reproduce them _living,

acting, and suffering_ in the real world."

How the Howardian ideas _suffered_ from this process, we can

somewhat guess. The rest of the sentence is not so plain:--

"The writer lays down his pen, not without regret. Long

accustomed to contemplate one of the most noble and beautiful

characters in history, he has learnt to regard it with a human

affection; and at parting with his theme--the mental companion

of many hours, and the object of his constant thoughts--_he

feels somewhat like a father who gives away his favourite

daughter in marriage_. He does not lose his interest in his

child; but she can be to him no longer what she has been. A

touch of melancholy mingles with his joy. He still regards his

offspring with a tender solicitude--_but his monopoly of love is

ended_."

Oh, surely no!

We propose, as far as our limits will permit, to retrace the chief

incidents in the biography of Howard. A brief sketch of his life and

character may not be unacceptable to our readers. Such strictures as

we have passed upon his latest biographer, Mr Dixon, we shall have

abundant opportunities to justify as we proceed.

The well-known monument in St Paul's Cathedral, which, from the

circumstance of the key held in the hand of the statue, has been

sometimes taken by foreigners for the representation of the apostle

St Peter, bears inscribed on the pedestal that Howard "was born in

Hackney, in the county of Middlesex, September 2, 1726." But both

the place and the year of his birth have been differently stated by

his biographers. The Rev. S. Palmer, who had known him long, writes

that he was born at Clapton; Dr Aikin, that he was born at Enfield.

To the authority of the Doctor, on such a point as this, we attach

no weight; it is plain to us that he gave himself little trouble to

determine whether he was born at Clapton or Enfield. It was probably

at Clapton; but Clapton is in the parish of Hackney, so that there

is really no discrepancy between Mr Palmer's statement and that on

the monument. The year 1726 seems also to be generally received as

the most probable date of his birth. After all the discussion, we

may as well adhere to the inscription on the pedestal of the statue.

The father of Howard had acquired a considerable fortune in business

as an upholsterer and carpet warehouseman in Long Lane, Smithfield.

He was a dissenter, of Calvinistic principles; and, it is presumed,

an Independent. The question has been raised, whether our Howard

was descended from any branch of the noble family of that name; but

his biographers generally agree in rejecting for him the honours of

such a pedigree. Nor can any one be in the least degree solicitous

to advance such a claim. The military achievements of a Norman

ancestry would diffuse a very incongruous lustre over the name of

our Christian philanthropist. Thus much, however, is evident, that

at one time there existed some tradition, or belief, or pretence,

in the family of the citizen Howard, that they were remotely

connected with the noble family whose name they share. "The arms

of the Duke of Norfolk, and of the Earls of Suffolk, Effingham,

and Carlisle, are placed at the head of the tombstone which Howard

erected to the memory of his first wife, on the south side of

Whitechapel churchyard." Such is the assertion of the anonymous

biographer in the _Universal Magazine_, (vol. lxxxvi.) who stands

alone, we believe, in maintaining the validity of this claim. And

Mr Brown, after quoting these words, adds--"From actual inspection

of the mouldering monument, I can assure those of my readers who

may feel any curiosity on the subject, that this description of its

armorial bearings is correct; and am further enabled to add, on the

authority of his relative, Mr Barnardiston, that the distinguished

individual by whom that monument was erected, occasionally spoke of

Lord Carlisle as his relative; thus claiming at least a traditional

descent from the Howards, Earls of Suffolk." That such a man as

Howard should have used these arms _once_ is significant; that he

should have used them only once, is equally so. He was one of the

last men, if we have read his character correctly, who would have

assumed what he did not, at the time, think himself entitled to; and

one of the last who would shrink from claiming a right where his

title was clear.

Mr Dixon not only rejects the claim, but is highly indignant that it

should ever have been suggested. "Howard sprang from a virgin and

undistinguished soil;"--why the upholsterer's should be peculiarly

_a virgin soil_ we do not see. "Attempts, however, have not been

wanting to _vulgarise_ his origin--to rob its greatness of its most

natural charm--by circling his brows with the _distant glitter_ of

a ducal crown; by finding in his simple lineaments the trace of

noble lines, and in his veins the consecrated currents of patrician

blood." Strange waste of eloquent indignation! But he does not keep

quite steady in his passion. "No," he exclaims, "let Howard stand

alone. His reputation rests upon a basis already broad enough. _Why

should we pile up Pelion on Olympus?_" There was, then, a Pelion to

pile upon Olympus? We had thought not. Our author should have kept

these red and purple patches at a greater distance: they do not

harmonise.

Meanwhile the father of Howard had so little of what is commonly

called aristocratic pride, that although he had retired from

business, and had a good property--and property, too, in land--to

leave to his son, he yet wished that son to tread in his own

footsteps. He apprenticed him to a wholesale grocer in Watling

Street.

The education of young Howard was such as is, or was, generally

given to a lad of respectable parents intended for trade. He was at

two schools. Of the first, Howard himself is reported to have said,

that, having been there seven years, "he left it not fully taught

in any one thing." He left it when a boy, and what boy ever left

his school "fully taught in any one thing?" The remark is rather

characteristic of the speaker than condemnatory of John Worsley,

the schoolmaster in question. His second school was kept by a Mr

Eames, a man of acknowledged ability. But how long he remained there

is not known. At this school he made the friendship of one Price,

afterwards that Dr Price who remains, to all posterity, impaled in

Burke's _Letter on the French Revolution_. The great orator thrust

his spear through his thin texture, and pinned him to the board; and

never, but in this rich museum, will any one behold or think of Dr

Price. Perhaps he deserved a better fate, but his case is hopeless

now. Yet, if it can heal his memory to connect his name with one

who was not a _revolutionary philanthropist_, let him have all the

benefit of the association. Howard had never acquired the art of

writing his own language with ease and correctness, and therefore it

will be directly understood how valuable to him, in the preparation

of his reports, was the help of a literary friend. That literary

friend he found in Dr Price. In a letter to him, Howard writes, "It

is from your kind aid and assistance, my dear friend, that I derive

so much of my character and influence. I exult in declaring it, and

shall carry a grateful sense of it to the last hour of my existence."

After his father's death, Howard purchased his freedom from the

wholesale grocer's in Watling Street, and travelled upon the

Continent. He was not without taste for the arts; and it was at this

time, Mr Brown supposes, that he brought with him from Italy those

paintings with which he afterwards embellished his favourite seat at

Cardington.

On returning from this tour, he took lodgings at Stoke Newington,

in the house of Mrs Loidore, a widow, upwards of fifty, of rather

humble station in life, and a perpetual invalid. She, however,

nursed him with so much care, through a severe illness, by which he

was attacked while residing under her roof, that, on his recovery,

he offered her marriage. "Against this unexpected proposal," says

Mr Brown, "the lady made remonstrances, principally upon the ground

of the great disparity in their ages; but Mr Howard being firm to

his purpose, the union took place, it is believed, in the year

1752, he being then in about the twenty-fifth year of his age, and

his bride in her fifty-second. Upon this occasion, he behaved

with a liberality which seems to have been inherent in his nature,

by settling the whole of his wife's little independence upon her

sister. The marriage, thus singularly contracted, was productive of

mutual satisfaction to the parties who entered it. Mrs Howard was a

woman of excellent character, amiable in her disposition, sincere

in her piety, endowed with a good mental capacity, and forward in

exercising its powers in every good word and work."

Thus runs the sober narrative of Mr Brown. Not so does Mr Dixon let

pass the opportunity for fine descriptive writing. Read and admire:--

"As he became convalescent, his plan ripened into form. When

the danger had entirely passed away, his health was restored

to its accustomed state; he offered her, as the only fitting

reward of her services--a toy? an ornament? a purse? a house?

an estate? or any of those munificent gifts with which wealthy

and generous convalescents reward their favourite attendants?

No. He offered her his hand, his name, his fortune! Of course,

the good lady was astonished at the portentous shape of her

patient's gratitude. She started objections, being older, and

having more worldly prudence than her lover. It is even said

that she seriously refused her consent to the match, urging

the various arguments which might fairly be alleged against

it,--the inequality in the years, fortune, social position of

the parties, and so forth--but all to no purpose. Howard's mind

was made up. During his slow recovery, he had weighed the matter

carefully--had come to the conclusion that it was his duty to

marry her, and nothing could now change his determination. The

struggle between the two must have been extremely curious: the

sense of duty on both sides, founded upon honest convictions,

no doubt,--the mutual respect without the consuming fire,--the

cool and logical weighing of arguments, in place of the rapid

pleading of triumphant passion; the young man without the

ordinary inspirations of youth, on the one hand; the widow,

past her prime, yet simple, undesigning, unambitious, earnestly

struggling to reject and put aside youth, wealth, protection,

honour, social rank,--the very things for which women are

taught to dress, to pose, to intrigue, almost to circumvent

heaven, on the other;--form together a picture which has its

romantic interest, in spite of the incongruity of the main

idea. Humble life is not without its heroic acts. _Cæsar

refusing the Roman crown_, even had he been really serious, and

without after-thought in its rejection, _is a paltry piece of

magnanimity, compared with Mrs Loidore's refusal of the hand

of Howard_. At length, however, her resistance was overcome by

the indomitable will of her suitor. One of the contemporary

biographers has thrown an air of romance over the scene of

this domestic struggle, which, if the lady had been young and

beautiful--that is, if the element of passion could be admitted

into the arena--would have been truly charming. As it is, the

reader may receive it with such modifications as he or she may

deem necessary. 'On the very first opportunity,' says this grave

but imaginative chronicler, 'Mr Howard expressed his sentiments

to her in the strongest terms of affection, assuring her that,

if she rejected his proposal, _he would become an exile for ever

to his family and friends_. The lady was upwards of forty [true

enough! she was also upwards of fifty, good master historian,]

and therefore urged the disagreement of their years, as well as

their circumstances; but, after _allowing her four-and-twenty

hours for a final reply_, his eloquence surmounted all her

objections, and she consented to a union wherein gratitude was

to supply the deficiencies of passion!' Criticism would only

spoil the pretty picture--so let it stand."

Criticism had already spoilt the picture, such as it is. But

this matters not to Mr Dixon. The quotation he has thought fit

to embellish his pages with, is taken from an anonymous pamphlet

published in 1790, under the title of _The Life of the late John

Howard, Esquire, with a Review of his Travels_. Mr Dixon, however,

evidently extracts it second-hand from the note in Mr Brown, where

it is quoted, with some other passages from the same performance,

for the express purpose of refutation and contradiction. This is

what Mr Dixon would call _artistic_--the picking up what had been

discarded as worthless, and, with a gentle shade of doubt thrown

over its authenticity, making use of it again.

A note of Mr Brown's, in the same page of his memoirs, (p. 634,)

will supply us with another instance of this ingenious procedure.

That note runs thus:--

"We are informed in the memoirs of Mr Howard, published in

the _Gentleman's Magazine_, that, during the period of his

residing as a lodger in the house of Mrs Loidore, he used to

ride out in the morning for a few miles with a book in his

pocket, dismount, turn his horse to graze upon a common, and

spend several hours in reading. 'On a very particular inquiry,

however,' says the author of the _Life of Mr Howard_, inserted

in the _Universal Magazine_, 'of persons very intimate, and who

had often rode out with him, we are assured that they never saw,

nor ever _heard_ of such a practice.'"

Mr Dixon makes use of the first part of the note, ignoring the

second.

"It is said," he writes, gravely suspending his judgment on

the authenticity of the fact--"it is said, in a contemporary

biographical notice, that he would frequently ride out a mile

or two in the country, fasten his nag to a tree, or turn him

loose to browse upon the way-side; and then, throwing himself

upon the grass, under a friendly shade, would read and cogitate

for hours. This statement, if true, would indicate more of a

romantic and poetical temperament in Howard, than the generally

calm and Christian stoicism of his manner would have led one to

expect."

That Mr Dixon never consulted the memoir itself, in the _Gentleman's

Magazine_, we shall by-and-by have an opportunity of showing. That

memoir, worthless as an authority, has become notorious for the

calumny it originated. But this collator of documents, this inquirer

after traditions, this maker of unimaginable researches, has never

turned over the pages of the _Gentleman's Magazine_ for that

obituary which, owing to its slanderous attack, has excited so much

controversy in all the biographies of Howard, his own included.

This wife, so singularly selected, died two or three years after

her marriage. Howard is again free and solitary, and again betakes

himself to travel. We are in the year 1755, and the great earthquake

of Lisbon has laid that city in ruins. He goes to see the grand

and terrific spectacle. Dr Aikin calls it a sublime curiosity.

We presume that no other motive than curiosity impelled him on

this occasion; it would be certainly very difficult to suggest

any other. No difficulties, however, daunt Mr Dixon. According to

him,--"Howard, attracted by reports of the unexampled sufferings of

the survivors, no sooner found himself at his own disposal, than he

determined to haste with all possible speed to their assistance!"

Single-handed, he was to cope with the earthquake.

Lisbon, however, he was not fated to reach. The vessel he sailed

in was taken by a French privateer, and he, with the rest of the

passengers and crew, carried into Brest, and there retained prisoner

of war. The calamities of imprisonment he here endured himself, and

under no mild form: afterwards, when other circumstances had drawn

his attention to the condition of the prisoners, the remembrance

of his own sufferings came in aid of his compassion for others.

"Perhaps," he says, in the preface to his first report, "what I

suffered on this occasion increased my sympathy with the unhappy

people, whose case is the subject of this book."

Released upon parole, he returned to England, obtained his

exchange, and then sat himself down on his estate at Cardington.

Here he occupied himself in plans to ameliorate the condition of

his tenantry. Scientific studies, and the study of medicine, to

which, from time to time, he had applied himself, also engaged his

attention. It was at this period he was elected a member of the

Royal Society, not assuredly, as Mr Thomas Taylor presumes, from

the "value attached" to a few communications upon the state of the

weather, but, as Dr Aikin sensibly tells us, "in conformity to the

laudable practice of that society, of attaching gentlemen of fortune

and leisure to the interests of knowledge, by incorporating them

into that body."

Howard now entered into matrimony a second time. On the 25th April

1758, he married Henrietta Leeds, second daughter of Edward Leeds,

Esq. of Croxton, in Cambridgeshire. This alliance is pronounced by

all his biographers to be in every respect suitable. Parity of age,

harmony of sentiment, and, on the part of the lady, the charms of

person and amiability of temper, everything contributed to a happy

union. And it was so. Unfortunately, the happiness was as brief as

it seems to have been perfect. His second wife also expired after

a few years,--"the only years," Howard himself has said, "of true

enjoyment he had known in life."

On this occasion, Mr Dixon, after infusing into Howard "the bland

and insinuating witchery of a virgin passion," proceeds to describe

his Henrietta in the most approved language of the novelist:

"Although her features were not cast in the choicest mould of

Grecian beauty, she was very fair--had large impressive eyes, an

ample brow, a mouth exquisitely _cut_," &c. Shall we never again get

the chisel out of the human face?

Connected with this second marriage of Howard, his biographers

relate a trait of character which will be differently estimated by

different minds--we relate it in the words of Mr Dixon:--

"We must not omit an incident that occurred before the ceremony,

which is very significant of Howard's frankness and firmness

at this epoch. Observing that many unpleasantnesses arise

in families, from circumstances trifling in themselves, in

consequence of each individual wishing to have his own way

in all things, he determined to avoid all these sources of

domestic discord, by establishing his own paramount authority

in the first instance. It is just conceivable that his former

experience of the wedded life may have led him to insist upon

this condition. At all events, he stipulated with Henrietta,

_that, in all matters in which there should be a difference of

opinion between them, his voice should rule_. This may sound

very ungallant in terms, but it was found exceedingly useful in

practice. Few men would have the moral honesty to suggest such

an arrangement to their lady-loves at such a season; though, at

the same time, few would hesitate to make the largest mental

reservations in their own behalf. It may also be, that few young

belles would be disposed to treat such a proposition otherwise

than with ridicule and anger, however conscious _they_ might

be, that as soon as the hymeneal pageantries were passed, their

surest means of happiness would lie in the prompt adoption of

the principle so laid down.

"Would that men and women would become sincerer with each other!

The great social vice of this age is its untrustfulness."

And Mr Dixon thereupon launches into we know not what heroics upon

etiquette, upon English law, morals, and the constitution, all

_à propos_ of Henrietta's obedience! For our own part, we do not

look with much respect upon this stipulation which calls forth

the admiration of Mr Dixon, and apparently meets with his cordial

sympathy. Such a stipulation would probably be a mere nullity; with,

or without it, the stronger will would predominate; but if we are

to suppose it a really binding obligation, forming the basis of the

conjugal union, it presents to us anything but an attractive aspect.

It was the harsh feature in Howard's character, or the mistaken

principle that he had adopted--this love of an authority--this claim

to a domestic absolutism--which was to give no reasons, and admit of

no questioning.

In justice to the character of Howard, we must not leave this matter

entirely in the hands of Mr Dixon. Everything he draws is, more or

less, a caricature. The authority on which his narration is founded

is the following statement of the Rev. S. Palmer, given in Brown, p.

55:--

"The truth is," says Mr Palmer, in his manuscript memoir of his

distinguished friend, "he had a high idea (some of his friends

may think, too high) of the authority of the head of a family.

And he thought it right, because most convenient, to maintain

it, for the sake of avoiding the unhappy consequences of

domestic disputes. On this principle I have more than once heard

him _pleasantly relate_ the agreement he made with the last

Mrs Howard, previous to their marriage, that, _to prevent all

altercation about those little matters_ which he had observed to

be the chief grounds of uneasiness in families, he should always

decide. To this the amiable lady readily consented, and ever

adhered. Nor did she ever regret the agreement, which she found

to be attended with the happiest effects. Such was the opinion

she entertained, both of his wisdom and his goodness, that

she perfectly acquiesced in all that he did, and no lady ever

appeared happier in the conjugal bonds."

Here the matter has a much less repulsive aspect than in Mr Dixon's

version, who has, in fact, exaggerated, in his zeal, a trait of

Howard's character, which his best friends seem always to have

looked upon with more or less of regret and disapproval.

As the only other circumstance connected with Howard's domestic

life which we shall have space to mention, has also a peculiar

reference to this trait in his character, we will depart from the

chronological order of events, and allude to it here. His last wife

left him one child, a son. This son grew up a dissolute youth;

his ill-regulated life led to disease, and disease terminated in

insanity. To this last malady, Mr Brown tells us he is authorised to

say that there was a hereditary predisposition--we presume he means

upon the mother's side.

Immediately on the death of Howard, there appeared, amongst the

obituaries of the _Gentleman's Magazine_, a memoir of the deceased,

in which the miserable fate of the son is directly charged upon the

severity of the father. The whole memoir is full of errors. For

this, the extreme haste in which it was necessarily written forms an

excuse. But no excuse can be given for the perverse and malignant

spirit it betrays. The very next number of the magazine opens with

four or five letters addressed to Mr Urban, all remonstrating

against, and refuting this baseless calumny; and every biographer

has felt himself compelled to notice and repel the slander.

The fact is, that the writer or writers of the memoir--for

several were engaged in concocting this very hasty and wretched

performance--were quite ignorant, both of the education the son

had received, and of the profligate course, and the consequent

derangement of his health into which he had fallen. They knew only

that the son was in a lunatic asylum, and that the father was a

severe disciplinarian; and they most unwarrantably combined the two

together, in the relation of cause and effect. "All prospects," they

say, speaking of the youth, "were blasted by paternal severity,

which reduced the young man to such an unhappy situation as to

require his being placed where he now is, or lately was."

The vindication of Howard from this slander is complete; the origin

of the son's malady is clearly traced; his affection for his child

is amply demonstrated, and his unceasing anxiety to train him to

virtue and piety is made equally manifest. But his most intimate

friends entertained the opinion that his conduct towards his son was

not _judicious_, and that his method of training up the youth was

by no means so wisely, as it was conscientiously adopted. This is

the sole charge, if such it can be called, to which the father is

obnoxious; nor, from this, do we pretend to acquit him.

"It is agreed, on all hands," says Mr Brown, "that Howard

entertained the most exalted notions of the authority of the head

of a family--notions derived rather from the Scriptural history of

patriarchal times than from any of our modern codes of ethics, or

systems of education." Accordingly, we are told that he trained

up his child from earliest infancy to an implicit obedience.

Without once striking the child, but by manifesting a firmness of

purpose which it was hopeless to think of shaking, he established

such an authority over him that Howard himself, on one occasion,

said, that "if he told the boy to put his finger in the fire, he

believed he would do it." When he was an infant, and cried from

passion, the father took him, laid him quietly in his lap, neither

spoke nor moved, but let him cry on till he was wearied. "This

process, a few times repeated, had such an effect, that the child,

if crying ever so violently, was rendered quiet the instant his

father took him." When he grew older, the severest punishment his

father inflicted was to make him sit still in his presence, without

speaking, for a time proportioned to the nature of the offence.

But this impassive, statue-like firmness must have precluded all

approach to companionship or confidence on the part of the son.

It was still the obedience only of fear. "His friends," we quote

from Mr Brown, "and amongst the rest the most intimate of them, the

Rev. Mr Smith, thought that in the case of his son he carried those

patriarchal ideas rather too far, and that by a lad of his temper

(the son is described as of a lively disposition) he would have

been more respected, and would have possessed more real authority

over him, had he attempted to convince him of the reasonableness

of his commands, instead of always enforcing obedience to them

on his parental authority." We therefore may be permitted to say,

that we look upon this aspect of Howard's character as by no means

estimable. As a husband he claimed an unjust prerogative, and as a

parent he divorced authority from persuasion, nor allowed obedience

to mingle and ally itself with filial affection.

Mr Dixon does not, of course, omit his tribute of indignation

against the calumny of the _Gentleman's Magazine_. We said that he

had not given himself the trouble to look at the memoir itself which

he denounces. Here is the proof:--

"The atrocious slander to which reference is made," says Mr

Dixon, "was promulgated in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, in an

obituary notice of the philanthropist. The charge was made _on

the strength of one asserted fact_--namely, that Howard had

once locked up his son for several hours in a solitary place,

put the key into his pocket, and gone off to Bedford, leaving

him there till he returned at night. On the appearance of this

article, the friends of the illustrious dead came forth publicly

to dispute the fact, and to deny the inferences deduced from it.

Meredith Townsend, one of Howard's most intimate friends, sifted

the story to the bottom, and gave the following account of its

origin."

The charge was _not_ made on the strength of this one asserted

fact--nor on any fact whatever--it was made on the mere authority

of the writer. The story alluded to is _not to be found_ in the

obituary of the _Gentleman's Magazine_. The writers of that obituary

had never heard of the story, or we may be sure they would have made

use of it. The friends of the illustrious dead could not, therefore,

have come forward, in refutation of this article, to "dispute the

fact and deny the inferences." If Mr Dixon had but read Brown's

memoirs attentively he would not have fallen into this blunder,

which shows how little else he can have read.

The story alluded to had been circulated during the life of Howard,

and when he was absent on one of his journeys. The Rev. Mr Townsend,

"many years Mr Howard's pastor at Stoke Newington," took the first

opportunity _he_ had of mentioning it to Howard himself, who

contradicted it, and related to him the incident which he supposed

must have given rise to the report. On the death of Howard the

story was again revived, where, or by whom, Mr Brown does not tell

us. The Rev. Mr Palmer thereupon obtained from Mr Townsend the

explanation which he had received from Howard himself. The letter

which the latter gentleman addressed to the Rev. Mr Palmer is given

at length in Brown, (note, p. 645.) This letter the Rev. Mr Palmer

communicates to the _Editor of the Universal Magazine_, and mentions

that extracts from it, unauthorised by him, had found their way into

the _Gentleman's Magazine_.

The explanation of the story there given, is briefly this. Howard

was engaged one day with his child in the root-house, which served

also as a summer-house, when the servant came in great haste, to say

that a gentleman on horseback wished to speak to him immediately.

Not to lose time, he told the little fellow to sit quiet, and he

would soon come to him again. To keep him out of mischief he locked

the door. The gentleman kept him in conversation longer than he

expected, and caused his forgetting the child. Upon the departure of

the guest, recollecting where the child had been left, he flew to

set him at liberty, and found him quietly sleeping on the matting of

the floor.

It was on the 31st March 1765 that Howard lost his second wife.

After spending some time in the now melancholy retirement of

Cardington, he again quits England for the Continent. Travel

is still with him, as with so many others, the mere relief for

unavailing sorrow, or for the wasting disease of unemployed

energies. It is during this journey to Italy that we are able to

trace, more distinctly than usual, the workings of Howard's mind.

Some memoranda, and fragments of a diary which he kept, have given

us this insight.

It was his design to proceed to the south of Italy. He stops at

Turin. He is dissatisfied with himself. This life of sight-seeing,

this vagrancy of the tourist, does not content him. He will go no

further. But we must give the extract itself from his journal. We

quote from the more faithful text of Mr Brown--Mr Dixon having

the habit of omitting, here and there, a sentence if it does not

please his taste, and tricking the whole out with dashes and a novel

punctuation.

"_Turin, 1769, Nov. 30._--My return without seeing the

southern part of Italy was on much deliberation, as I feared

a misimprovement of a Talent spent for mere curiosity, at the

loss of many Sabbaths, and as many donations must be suspended

for my pleasure, which would have been as I hope contrary to

the general conduct of my Life, and which on a retrospective

view on a death Bed would cause Pain as unbecoming a Disciple

of Christ--whose mind should be formed in my soul.--These

thoughts, with distance from my dear boy, determine me to check

my curiosity and be on the return.--Oh, why should Vanity and

Folly, Pictures and Baubles, or even the stupendious (_sic_)

mountains, beautiful hills, or rich valleys, which ere long

will all be consumed, engross the thoughts of a candidate for

an eternal everlasting kingdom--a worm ever to crawl on Earth

whom God has raised to the hope of Glory which ere long will be

revealed to them which are washed and sanctified by Faith in the

blood of the Divine Redeemer! Look forward, oh! my Soul! how

low, how mean, how little is everything but what has a view to

that glorious World of Light, Life, and Love--the Preparation of

the Heart is of God--Prepare the Heart, Oh! God! of thy unworthy

Creature, and unto Thee be all the glory through the boundless

ages of Eternity.

Sign'd J. H.

"This night my trembling soul almost longs to take its flight to

see and know the wonders of redeeming Love--join the triumphant

Choir--Sin and Sorrow fled away--God my Redeemer all in all--Oh!

happy Spirits that are safe in those mansions."

Accordingly he retraces his steps. He flies back to Holland. He is

now at the Hague. It is Sunday evening, 11th February 1770. Here is

a portion of his self-communing. Many of these quotations we will

not give; we know they look out of place, and produce a strange, and

not an agreeable impression, when met with in the walks of polite

literature. But, without some extracts, it is impossible to form a

correct idea of the character of Howard.

"Oh! the wonders of redeeming love! Some faint hope, even I!

through redeeming mercy in the perfect righteousness--the full

atoning sacrifice shall, ere long, be made the instrument

of the rich free grace and mercy of God through the divine

Redeemer. Oh, shout my soul grace, grace--free, sovereign,

rich, unbounded grace! Not I, not I, an ill deserving, hell

deserving creature!--but where sin has abounded, I trust grace

superabounds. * * * *

"Let not, my soul, the interests of a moment engross thy

thoughts, or be preferred to my eternal interests. Look forward

to that glory which will be revealed to those who are faithful

to death. My soul, walk thou with God; be faithful, hold on,

hold out, and then--what words can utter!--J. H."

But he could not rest in Holland. "Continuing in Holland," he

writes, "or any place, lowers my spirits." He returns to Italy. He

visits Genoa, Pisa, Florence, Rome, and extends his tour to Naples.

It was, and may still be, a custom with a certain class of religious

people, to make, in writing, a solemn covenant with God, and sign it

with their own hand. It is at Naples that Howard retires into his

chamber, indites and signs such a covenant. He appears, afterwards,

to have carried it with him. With the same sort of formality with

which a person republishes a will, he "renews the covenant, Moscow,

September 27, 1789."

Through the remainder of this journey we need not follow him. He

returns to England, and we see what sort of man has landed on its

shores.

Those who are acquainted with the religious world and religious

biographies, will bear us out when we say, that the language we have

quoted from this journal, and the other extracts which may be read

in Brown, would not, _of themselves_, manifest any extraordinary

degree of piety or self-devotion. With a certain class of persons,

such language has become _habitual_; with others, it really

expresses nothing but a very transitory state of excitement. Solemn

self-denunciations--enthusiastic raptures--we have heard them both,

from the lips of the most worldly, selfish, money-loving men we have

ever known. It is the after life of Howard which proves that in him

such language had its first, genuine, full meaning. These passages

from his diary explain his life, and his life no less explains them.

On his return to Cardington, he occupied himself, as before, with

plans to improve the condition of his tenantry; building for them

better houses, and erecting a school. But at length an event

occurred which supplied his self-consuming energy with the noble

task it craved. Elected High Sheriff for the county of Bedford,

the duties of his office led him to the interior of the prison. He

witnessed the sufferings, the extortion, the injustice, the manifold

cruelty, which the supineness of the legislature allowed to reign

and riot there.

"The distress of prisoners," he tells us, in the preface to his

first report, "came more immediately under my notice, when I was

sheriff of the county of Bedford; and the circumstance which

excited me to activity in their behalf was the seeing some, who,

by the verdict of juries, were declared _not guilty_; some, on

whom the grand jury did not find such an appearance of guilt as

subjected them to trial; and some, whose prosecutors did not

appear against them; after having been confined for months,

dragged back to jail, and locked up again, till they should

pay _sundry fees_ to the jailor, the clerk of assize, &c. In

order to redress this hardship, I applied to the justices of

the county for a salary to the jailor in lieu of his fees. The

bench were properly affected with the grievance, and willing

to grant the relief desired; but they wanted a precedent for

charging the county with the expense. I, therefore, rode into

several neighbouring counties in search of a precedent; but I

soon learned that the same injustice was practised in them; and,

looking into the prisons, I beheld scenes of calamity, which I

grew daily more and more anxious to alleviate."

These oppressions, these calamities he dragged to light. He may

be said to have _discovered_ them--so indifferent, at this time,

was one class of the community to the misery of another. His

official position gave him just that elevation requisite to make

his voice heard. The attention of parliament was roused. He was

examined before a committee of the whole House; he received the

thanks of parliament; and a bill was passed to remunerate the

jailor by a salary, instead of by fees--thus remedying one of the

most extraordinary mal-practices that was surely ever endured in a

civilised society.

Here, then, was a task to strain all his powers, and absorb all his

benevolence. Here was misery to be alleviated, and injustice to be

redressed, and a nation to be aroused from its culpable negligence.

Benevolent, liberal, systematically and perseveringly charitable,

not averse to the exercise of authority and censorship, of restless

and untameable energy, and of a singular constancy and firmness

of purpose, the task employed all his virtues, and what in some

positions of life would have proved to be his failings. Even to his

love of travel, his new occupation suited him. What wonder that,

with all these aptitudes, the _religious man_, devoured by his

desire to do some good and great work, should have devoted to it his

life and his fortune, his days and his nights, and every faculty of

his soul. He had now found his path. His foot was on it; and he trod

it to his dying hour.

After inspecting the jails of England, Scotland, and Ireland, he, in

1775, took the first of those journeys on the Continent, which had,

for their sole object, the inspection of prisons. And henceforward,

in all his travels, he is so absorbed in this one object, that he

pays attention to nothing else. Not the palace, rich with painting

and sculpture; not the beautiful hills and valleys--only the prison

and the lazaretto can retain him for a moment. Once he is tempted to

hear some fine music--it distracts his attention--he foregoes the

music. The language of Burke, in his well-known panegyric, is true

as it is eloquent.

"He has visited all Europe--not to survey the sumptuousness of

palaces or the stateliness of temples--not to make accurate

measurements of the remains of ancient grandeur, nor to form a

scale of the curiosity of modern art--not to collect medals or

collate manuscripts--but to dive into the depths of dungeons,

to plunge into the infection of hospitals, to survey the

mansions of sorrow and pain, to take the gauge and dimensions

of misery, depression, and contempt, to remember the forgotten,

to attend to the neglected, to visit the forsaken, and compare

and collate the distresses of all men, in all countries. His

plan is original, and it is full of genius as it is of humanity.

It was a voyage of discovery, a circumnavigation of charity.

Already the benefit of his labour is felt more or less in every

country. I hope he will anticipate his final reward, by seeing

all its effects fully realised in his own."

But the boon--for a great task of this kind was a veritable boon

to such a spirit as Howard's--was nearly missed. Before he went

abroad on his first journey of philanthropy, he ran the risk of

being imprisoned himself, within the walls of the House of Commons,

as member for the town of Bedford. The borough had formerly been

under the control of the house of Russell. Responding to the cry of

"Wilkes and Liberty!" the corporation had risen against their lord.

To free themselves from his control, they had boldly created five

hundred honorary freemen, coined, in short, five hundred votes,

which were to be at their own disposal. The measure seems to have

passed undisputed. They were, of course, victorious. Whom they

elected, in the first glow of patriotism, we do not know; but, after

a few years, the corporation rewarded their own patriotic efforts

by selling the borough to the highest bidder. Such, at least, was

the accusation brought against them in the town of Bedford itself,

where a strong party rose which made strenuous efforts to wrest the

election out of their hands. By this party, Whitbread and Howard

were put in nomination. The candidates of the corporation were Sir

W. Wake and Mr Sparrow. After a severe struggle on the hustings, and

in the committee of the House of Commons, the election was decided

in favour of Whitbread and Wake. Howard lost his election--happily,

we think--by a majority only of four votes.

On his return from the Continent, he published his first report on

the state of prisons. We had designed to give some account of this,

and the subsequent publications of Howard, but our space absolutely

forbids. Perhaps some other opportunity will occur, when we can

review the history of our prisons, to which the volumes of Howard

form the most valuable contribution. We must content ourselves with

a few general remarks on his labours, and with the briefest possible

account of this the great and eventful period of his life.

To lead our readers over the numerous, toilsome, and often

perilous journeys which Howard now undertook, for this national

and philanthropic object of improving our prisons and houses of

correction, would be utterly impracticable. But, to give them

at once some adequate idea of his incessant activity, we have

thrown into a note a summary, taken from Dr Aikin, of what may be

considered as his public labours.[10]

[10] 1773. High Sheriff of Bedfordshire--visited many county and

town jails.

1774. Completed his survey of English jails. Stood candidate to

represent the town of Bedford.

1775. Travelled to Scotland, Ireland, France, Holland, Flanders, and

Germany.

1776. Repeated his visit to the above countries, and to Switzerland.

During these two years revisited all the English jails.

1777. Printed his State of prisons.

1778. Travelled through Holland, Flanders, Germany, Italy,

Switzerland, and part of France.

1779. Revisited all the counties of England and Wales, and travelled

into Scotland and Ireland. Acted as supervisor of the

Penitentiary Houses.

1780. Printed his first Appendix.

1781. Travelled into Denmark, Sweden, Russia, Poland, Germany, and

Holland.

1782. Again surveyed all the English prisons, and went into Scotland

and Ireland.

1783. Visited Portugal, Spain, France, Flanders, and Holland; also

Scotland and Ireland, and viewed several English prisons.

1784. Printed the second Appendix, and a new edition of the whole

works.

1785.{ From the close of the first of these years to the beginning

of the last, on

1786.{ his tour through Holland, France, Italy, Malta, Turkey, and

Germany.

1787.{ Afterwards went to Scotland and Ireland.

1788. Revisited Ireland; and, during this and the former year,

travelled over all England.

1789. Printed his work on Lazarettos, &c. Travelled through Holland,

Germany, Prussia, and Livonia, to Russia, and Lesser Tartary.

1790. January 20. Died at Cherson.

These long, incessant, and often repeated journeys--were they

necessary, some will be tempted to ask, for the object he had in

view? Surely a few instances, well reasoned on, would have been

sufficient to put us on the right track for the reformation of our

prisons. But it should be considered, in the first place, that

Howard was teaching a people pre-eminently practical in their

intellectual character, a people who require to be taught by example

and precedent. The most philosophical reasoning, the most eloquent

diatribe, would not have availed half so much to stir the public

mind, as, on the one hand, these details which Howard threw before

it, fact upon fact, unsparingly, repeatedly--details of cruelty

and injustice perpetrated or permitted by our own laws; and, on

the other hand, this plain statement, brought from abroad, that in

Ghent, that in Amsterdam, that even in Paris, many of the evils

which we suffered to remain as incurable, _were_ cured, or had never

been allowed to exist. It was much to tell the citizen of London

that in Flanders, and in Holland, there were prisons and bridewells

that ought to put him to the blush.

And, in the second place, let it be considered, that Howard

himself was pre-eminently a practical man. He neither wrote books

of speculation, nor thought in a speculative manner. It was from

detail to detail that his mind slowly advanced to principles and

generalisations. These prisons, they were his books; these repeated

circuits he made through the jails of Europe, they were his course

of reading. He reperused each blotted page of human misery till he

was satisfied that he had comprehended all it could teach. He was no

Beccaria to enunciate a principle from the recesses of his library,

(though it should be mentioned, in passing, that he had read

Beccaria--that the man of speculative talent had stimulated the man

of administrative talent, and the two were co-operating, all over

Europe, on the same great subject of penal legislation;) his eye was

ever upon practices, he got wisdom in the concrete, principle and

instance indissolubly combined: he so learnt, and he so taught.

Again, in England itself, there was no system that equally regulated

all the jails of the country; or, to speak more correctly, there was

no uniformity in the abuses which existed amongst them. Arrangements

were found in one, no trace of which might be discovered in another.

All were bad, but the evils in each were different, or assumed

different proportions. In some, there was no separation between the

debtor and the criminal; in others, these were properly classified,

but the criminal side might be more shamefully mismanaged than

usual. In some, there was no attention paid to the sick; in others,

the infirmary might be the only part of the jail that was not

utterly neglected. There might be a good supply of medicine, and

no food. In some, the separation of the two sexes was decently

maintained; in others not. It was impossible to make any general

statement that would not have called forth numerous contradictions.

An accusation strictly just with regard to York, might be repelled

with indignation by Bristol; whilst, on some other charge, Bristol

might be the culprit, and York put on the show of injured innocence.

Some prisons were private property; they were rented to the jailor,

and he was to extract the rent and his profit, by what extortion

he could practise on his miserable captives. These were prisons

belonging to liberties, manors, and petty courts, of the existence

of which few people were aware. In some of these the prisoner lay

forgotten by his creditor--lay there to starve, or live on the

scanty and precarious charity of those who gave a few pence to "the

starving debtor." In many cases the jailor--for all remuneration and

perquisite--was allowed _to keep a tap_. Of course, whatever was

doled out to the prisoner by charity, was spent in drunkenness. The

abuses were of all kinds, strange, and numberless. Howard tracked

them out, one by one--recorded them--put them in his book--published

them to the world.

Add to all this, that, after some time, he became invested with

the character of _censor_ of the prisons. He looked through them

to see that, when a good law _had_ been made, it was obeyed. There

was never a commissioner so universally respected. Men are not so

bad but they all admired his great benevolence, and his justice

equally great. No bribery, no compliments, and no threats, could

avail anything. In vain the turnkey suggested to _him_, that the

jail-fever was raging in the lower wards: the crafty official

had so deterred many a visiting magistrate, who had thanked him

politely for his warning, and retired. Howard entered, and found

_no_ jail-fever; but he found filth and famine, that had been shut

up there for years from the eyes of all men. No danger deterred him.

The infected cell, where the surgeon himself would not enter--from

which he called out the sick man to examine him--was the very

last he would have omitted to visit. This character of public

censor he carried with him abroad, as well as at home. Foreign

potentates courted his good opinion of their institutions--consulted

him--shrank from his reproof--a reproof all Europe might hear.

The Grand-duke of Tuscany, the Emperor of Germany, the Empress of

Russia, were all anxious to see and hear him. He had no flattery

for them; the report he gave was as faithful as a page out of his

note-book.

As a popular misconception has prevailed upon the character of

Howard, attributing benevolence to him as almost a sole motive, so

a like popular misconception has prevailed, as to the nature and

objects of that benevolence. He is sometimes spoken of as if to

visit the sick and the captive, and relieve _them_ individually,

was the main object of his charitable journeys, and his unremitting

inquisitions. If, indeed, he had done nothing more than seek out

those unhappy men, who, at the bottom of their infected dens, lay

abandoned by all the world, he would have been entitled to our

admiration, and to all the merits of a heroic charity. But he did

more than this. He aimed at a permanent improvement of the condition

of the prisoner. He aimed farther still. His object was the same

which excites so much attention at the present moment: by a good

system of imprisonment, both to punish and reform the criminal.

"To make them better men," is a phrase often in his mouth, when

speaking of prisoners; and he thought this might be effected by

combining imprisonment with labour, with perfect abstinence from

intoxicating drinks, and other good regulations. Those who will read

his reports with attention, will be surprised to find how often he

has anticipated the conclusions to which a wider experience has

led the reflective men of our own age. There is a note of his upon

Solitary Confinement which might be adopted as a summary of those

views which enlightened men, after many trials of various systems,

have rested in. No false sensibility accompanied the benevolence of

Howard. In some respects he was a sterner disciplinarian than would

be generally approved of.

Upon this aspect of his character there remains only one remark to

add: his mind was never absorbed in the great objects of a public

philanthropy to an oblivion of his _near duties_ and his private

charities: he was to the last the just, considerate, benevolent

landlord, quite as much as he was Howard the philanthropist.

"During his absence in one of his tours," says Dr Aikin, "a

very respectable-looking elderly gentleman on horseback, with

a servant, stopt at the inn nearest Mr Howard's house at

Cardington, and entered into conversation with the landlord

concerning him. He observed that characters often appeared very

well at a distance, which could not bear close inspection; he

had therefore come to Mr Howard's residence in order to satisfy

himself concerning him. The gentleman then, accompanied by the

innkeeper, went to the house, and looked through it, with the

offices and gardens, which he found in perfect order. He next

inquired into Mr Howard's character as a landlord, which was

justly represented; and several neat houses which he had built

for his tenants were shown him. The gentleman returned to his

inn, declaring himself now satisfied with the truth of all he

had heard about Howard. This respectable stranger was no other

than Lord Monboddo; and Mr Howard was much flattered with the

visit, and praised his lordship's good sense in taking such a

method of coming at the truth, since he thought it worth his

trouble."

The traveller who undertook all these philanthropic journeys

was a man of slight form, thin, and rather beneath the average

height. Every feature, and every movement, proclaimed energy and

determination. "An eye," says Dr Aikin, "lively and penetrating,

strong and prominent features, quick gait and animated gestures,

gave promise of ardour in forming, and vivacity in executing his

designs." "Withal there was a bland smile," says another of his

biographers, "always ready to play upon his lips." "I have,"

continues Aikin, "equally seen the tear of sensibility start into

his eyes, on recalling some of the distressful scenes to which he

had been witness; and the spirit of indignation flash from them, on

relating instances of harshness and oppression." In his dress and

person he was remarkably neat, and in his ablutions, we are told,

punctilious as a Mussulman;--far more so, we suspect. For the rest,

he had reduced his wants to the lowest possible scale. Water and

the simplest vegetables sufficed. Animal food, and all vinous and

spirituous liquors, he had utterly discarded. Milk, tea, butter, and

fruit were his luxuries; and he was equally sparing in the quantity

of food, and indifferent as to the stated times of taking it.

From the prisoner, and the subject of prison-discipline, it is well

known that the attention of Howard was directed to measures for

arresting the plague. It was a grand idea this--that he would lead

the way to some general scheme to be adopted throughout Europe, and

the contiguous parts of Asia, for checking the incursions of, and

perhaps finally exterminating, the plague. For no object did he

suffer so much, or expose himself to so great dangers; embarking

purposely in a vessel with a foul bill of health, and undergoing the

perilous confinement of the lazaretto, that every practice of the

quarantine might be thoroughly known to him. Nowhere was his conduct

more heroic. It cannot be said here, however, that his object was

equally well chosen, or that his labours were attended with any good

result. Whilst it would be difficult to over-estimate the value of

his service as inspector-general of the prisons of Europe, we can

detect nothing in this latter scheme but an unfortunate waste of

heroic benevolence. In dealing with jails and houses of correction,

he was dealing with evils, the nature of which he, and all men,

could well understand; but, in dealing with the pestilence, he was

utterly in the dark as to the very nature of the calamity he was

encountering. It is very probable that, had he realised his utmost

wishes, and built a lazaretto on the most improved plan, combining

every valuable regulation he had observed in every lazaretto of

Europe, it would only have proved an additional nuisance.

This period of his life is more full of striking incidents than any

other, but we must hurry rapidly over it.

"The point," says Mr Brown, "at which he wished to commence his

new investigations was Marseilles; but the extreme jealousy of

the French government respecting their Levant trade, had long

kept the lazaretto of that port carefully concealed from the

eye of every foreigner; but, as Mr Howard's object was such

as ought to have awakened neither political nor commercial

jealousy in any one, Lord Caermarthen, then secretary of state

for foreign affairs, made an application to the French minister

for permission for him to view this celebrated building. After

waiting some time at the Hague, in expectation of its arrival,

he went to Utrecht to visit his friend Dr Brown, at whose house

he received a letter from his lordship, informing him, not only

that the request he preferred had been peremptorily refused,

but that he must not think of entering France at all, as, if he

did, he would run a risk of being committed to the Bastille.

Howard, however, was not to be deterred. He started immediately

for Paris. At Paris, "having gone to bed, according to his

usual custom, about ten o'clock, he was awaked between twelve

and one, by a tremendous knocking at his room door, which,

starting up, in somewhat of an alarm, he immediately opened;

and, having returned to bed, he saw the chambermaid enter with a

candle in each hand, followed by a man in a black coat, with a

sword by his side, and his hands enveloped in an enormous muff.

This singular personage immediately asked him if his name was

not Howard. Vexed at this interruption, he hastily answered,

'Yes--and what of that?' He was again asked if he had not come

to Paris in the Brussels diligence, in company with a man in

a black wig? To this question he returned some such peevish

answer, as that he paid no attention to such trifles; and his

visitor immediately withdrew in silence. Not a little alarmed

at this adventure, though losing none of his self-possession,

and being unable to compose himself to sleep, Mr Howard got up;

and, having discharged his bill the night before, took his small

trunk, and, removing from this house, at the regular hour of

starting took his seat in the diligence, and set off for Lyons."

Such is the narrative of Mr Brown. It has been supposed that this

midnight visitor was an officer of the police, and that, had Howard

remained a few hours longer at his hotel, he would have been

arrested. But some mystery still hangs over this adventure. Howard,

in one of his letters, alluding to it, says that he had since learnt

who his strange visitor was, and adds that "he had had a narrow

escape;" and his biographer Mr Brown tells us that--

"He learned that the man in a black wig was a spy, sent with

him to Paris, _by the French Ambassador at the Hague_, and that

he himself would have been arrested then, (at Paris,) if Mr Le

Noir had not been at Versailles on the day of his arrival; and,

several persons having recently been arrested on very false or

frivolous grounds, he had left orders for no arrests being made

before his return, which was not until late in the evening of

the next day, when he was pursued, but not overtaken."

If it was this that Howard learnt, we think his informant must

have deceived him. An air of great improbability hangs over this

story. The French government is represented as being so anxious to

arrest Howard, if he should enter France, that it sends a spy to

travel with him from the Hague; if so, the identity of Howard was

sufficiently known to the police on his arrival at Paris. Yet we are

next told that an officer visits Howard at midnight, only to assure

himself that it _is_ Howard;--pays a visit, in short, that can have

no other effect than to give the alarm to his intended captive.

In addition to this, we are to suppose that this person, whom the

French government is so anxious to arrest, pursues his journey

unmolested, and spends five days at Marseilles, visiting the very

lazaretto to which it was known he was bound, and the inspection of

which that government was so solicitous to prevent.

As to the other motives by which Mr Brown accounts for these hostile

proceedings of the French government, we can attach no weight

to them whatever. On a previous visit to Paris, Howard had been

extremely desirous to survey the interior of the Bastille. Not

being able to obtain permission, he had boldly knocked at the outer

door, and, assuming an air of official authority, walked in. He had

penetrated to some of the inner courts before this little _ruse_ was

detected. He was then, of course, conducted out. He was obliged to

content himself with an account of the Bastille written in French,

and the publication of which had been forbidden by the government.

He obtained a copy, and translated it into English. For this, and

for another cause of offence of a far slighter character, it is

difficult to suppose that Howard had excited the peculiar animosity

of the French government.

Howard visited the lazaretto of Marseilles, however, under the

full impression that the police were on the search for him. From

Marseilles he went to Toulon, and inspected the arsenal and the

condition of the galley-slaves. To obtain admission into the

arsenal, he dressed himself, says Mr Brown, "in the height of the

French fashion," Englishmen being strictly prohibited from viewing

it at all. We are told that this disguise was easy to him, "as he

always had much the air and appearance of a foreigner, and spoke the

French language with fluency and correctness." Mr Dixon, faithful

to his system of caricaturing all things, describes him as "dressed

as an exquisite of the Faubourg St Honoré!" We presume that it was

the French gentleman of the period, and not the French dandy, that

Howard imitated.

He next visited the several lazarettos of Italy--went to Malta--to

Smyrna--to Constantinople, everywhere making perilous inquisitions

into the plague. At Smyrna he is "fortunate enough" to meet with a

vessel bound to Venice with a foul bill of health, and he embarks in

it. On its way, the vessel is attacked by pirates. "The men," says

Mr Brown, "defended themselves for a considerable time with much

bravery, but were at length reduced to the alternative of striking,

or being butchered by the Moors, when, having one very large cannon

on board, they loaded it with whatever missiles they could lay

their hands upon, _and, pointed by Mr Howard himself_, it was

discharged amongst the corsair crew with such effect that a great

number of them were killed, and the others thought it prudent to

sheer off." Pointed by Mr Howard himself! We can well understand it.

The intrepid, energetic man, Fellow too of the Royal Society, would

look at the elevation of the gun, and lend a helping hand to adjust

it.

We throw into a note a parting specimen of the manner of Mr Dixon.

Not satisfied with the simple and probable picture which Mr Brown

presents to us, he makes Howard load the gun as well as point

it--makes him sole gunner on board; and in order to improve his

_tableau_, after having fought half the battle through, recommences

it, that he may discharge his gun with the more effect.[11] Mr Dixon

advertises, as his next forthcoming work, a history of our prisons.

We are sorry that so good a subject has fallen into such bad hands.

Unless he should greatly improve, we shall have a book necessarily

replete with much popular and interesting matter, in not one page of

which will the narrative be strictly trustworthy.

[11] "For a while the Venetian sailors defended themselves with

desperate courage, for it was a question of victory or perpetual

slavery with them; but their numbers were limited, their arms

indifferent, and altogether the contest seemed too unequal to

last long. It was the first actual fighting in which Howard had

been present; but the imminency of the danger and the sight of

conflict appealing to the strong combative instincts of his race,

he fought on deck with the coolness of a Saxon and the courage of

a knight-templar. Indeed, it was his self-possession which proved

the salvation of the crew. There was only one gun of large calibre

on board, and of this he assumed the direction, though he had

probably never fired even a rifle in his life; but, in the hour of

peril, fighting seemed to come to him, as to most of his countrymen,

by inspiration. _This gun he rammed almost to the muzzle with

nails, spikes, and similar charge, and then, steadily waiting his

opportunity, as the privateer bore down upon them with all her crew

on deck, apparently expecting to see the Venetians strike their

flag, he sent the contents in amongst them with such murderous

effect_, that, after a moment or two of consternation, the corsairs

hoisted sail, and made off at their best speed."--(P. 356.)

At Venice he is conducted to the lazaretto, to undergo the

quarantine. He is shut up in a close loathsome room, the very walls

of which are reeking with foul and pestilential odours. Surely never

was a valuable life so heroically ventured, for so futile a purpose.

Whilst lying here, smitten with a low fever, he received--we quote

from Mr Brown--"intelligence from England of two circumstances

which had transpired there, each of them an occasion of the deepest

affliction to his mind. The first was the formation of a fund for

the erection of a statue to his honour; the second the misconduct of

his only son."

We can well believe they were _both_ afflictions. Those who have

entered into the character of Howard, will feel at once that

the project of doing him any public honour would be, in his own

language, "a punishment, and not a reward." It was mingling with his

conduct and motives that very alloy of vanity, and consideration

for men's opinion, which he was so anxious to keep them clear from.

If a generous man has done a kind action for kindness' sake, how

it spoils all if you _pay_ him for it! You lower him at once. He

refuses your payment; he would deny, if he could, his previous

action; he begs, at all events, it may be utterly forgotten. To

pay Howard in praise was, to his mind, as great an incongruity.

He shrank from the debasing coin. He would have denied his

philanthropy: "Say it is my hobby, if you will," he is heard at one

time to mutter. Dying, he says to his friend--"Lay me quietly in the

earth, place a sun-dial over my grave, and let me be forgotten."

Child of Time--was it not enough?

When he had escaped the lazaretto and returned to England, he

wrote a letter to the gentlemen who had undertaken to collect

subscriptions, requesting them to lay aside their project. The money

collected was in part returned, a part was spent in liberating a

certain number of poor debtors, and the residue was applied towards

erecting, at his death, the statue of him in St Paul's Cathedral.

His son he was compelled to consign to the care of a lunatic

asylum. He now published the information he had obtained, at so

much risk, upon lazarettos, and the mode of performing quarantine,

together with additional observations upon prisons and hospitals at

home and abroad. Connected with this publication, an incident is

related, which shows the extraordinary value Howard had put on the

materials he had collected, and also the singular perseverance and

determination of the man. We give it in the words of Mr Brown:--

"On his return from his Turkish tour, one of his boxes was

stolen as he was getting into a hackney-coach in Bishopsgate

Street, from the stage in which he had travelled from Dover. It

contained a duplicate of his travels, twenty-five guineas, and

a gold watch. The plan of the lazaretto of Marseilles, of which

he possessed no duplicate, was, happily, _in the other box_.

Had it not been so, he declared to his friend Dr Lettsom, that,

notwithstanding the risks he had run in procuring that document,

so important did he consider it, that he would a second time

have exposed himself to the danger of a visit to France to

supply its place."

We believe he would.

This publication completed, and his son so unhappily disposed of,

the veteran philanthropist quitted his country again, and for the

last time. It was still against the plague that his enterprise was

directed. He seems to have thought that successful barricades, by

quarantine and other measures, might be erected against it. With

the plague, as with the cholera, it is generally admitted there is

some occult cause which science has not yet penetrated; but the

predisposing, or rather the co-operating causes, are, in both cases,

dirt and bad diet; and the quarantine which would attack _these_

is the only measure which, in our present state of knowledge, is

worthy of serious consideration. It was his purpose, this time, to

travel through Russia into Turkey, and thence, perhaps, to extend

his journey far into the East, to whatever city this grim enemy of

mankind might have taken possession of.

He had reached as far as Cherson, on the eastern borders of Russia,

visiting, according to his wont, prisons and hospitals on his way.

Here he was seized by a fever which proved mortal, and which he is

supposed to have caught in visiting, with his usual benevolence,

a young lady, to whom also it proved fatal. He was buried in the

grounds belonging to the villa of a French gentleman who had shown

him much attention. A small brick pyramid, instead of the sun-dial

he had suggested, was placed over his grave. The little pyramid

or obelisk still stands, we are told--stands alone, "on a bleak

desolate plain." But Protestant England has a monument in that

little pyramid, which will do her as much honour as any colony or

empire she has planted or subdued.

THE DARK WAGGON.

BY DELTA.

I.

The Water-Wraith shrieked over Clyde,

The winds through high Dunbarton sighed,

When to the trumpet's call replied

The deep drum from the square;

And, in the midnight's misty shade,

With helm, and cloak, and glancing blade,

Two hundred horsemen stood arrayed

Beneath the torches' glare.

II.

Around a huge sepulchral van

They took their stations, horse and man--

The outer gateway's bolts withdrawn,

In haste the drawbridge fell;

And out, with iron clatter, went

That sullen midnight armament,

Alone the leader knew where bent,

With what--he might not tell.

III.

Into the darkness they are gone:--

The blinded waggon thundered on,

And, save of hoof-tramp, sound was none:--

Hurriedly on they scour

The eastward track--away--away--

To none they speak, brook no delay,

Till farm-cocks heralded the day,

And hour had followed hour.

IV.

Behind them, mingling with the skies,

Westward the smoke of Glasgow dies--

The pastoral hills of Campsie rise

Northward in morning's air--

By Kirkintilloc, Cumbernold,

And Castlecary, on they hold,

Till Lythgo shows, in mirrored gold,

Its palaced loch so fair.[12]

[12] It is mentioned by both the chroniclers, Hemingford, (i. 196)

and Trivet, (332,) that Edward the First built "a strength" or

fort "at Linlitcu" in 1301, and there enjoyed the festivities of

Christmas. Lord Hailes inaccurately states that he wintered there;

for, by dates since collected from writs, Chalmers has proved that,

although Edward was still at Linlithgow on the 12th January, he

was, on his way home, at Roxburgh on 12th February, and had reached

Morpeth by the 24th.

This fort, or castle, was probably the same that was, a few years

afterwards, taken by the stratagem of the patriotic yeoman, Binnock,

in concealing some of his followers in a waggon of hay; and who was

rewarded by King Robert with an estate, which his posterity long

afterwards enjoyed.

V.

Brief baiting-time:--the bugle sounds,

Onwards the ponderous van rebounds

Mid the grim squadron, which surrounds

Its path with spur and spear.

Thy shrine, Dumanie, fades on sight,[13]

And, seen from Niddreff's hazelly height,

The Forth, amid its islands bright,

Shimmers with lustre clear.[14]

[13] Dalmeny Church is unquestionably of very great antiquity. From

the style of its architecture, which a most competent authority, Mr

Billings, ("Baronial and Ecclesiastical Antiquities," vol. i.) has

pronounced to be of the purest Norman, it is referred, at least,

to the tenth or eleventh centuries. There is extant a charter of

Waldeve, Earl of Dunbar, from 1166 to 1182, witnessed by the parson

of Dumanie.

[14] On these banks a castle was afterwards erected by the Earls of

Wintoun, the picturesque ruins of which are yet a prominent object,

by the edge of the Edinburgh and Glasgow Railway, to the west of

Kirkliston. Queen Mary is said to have slept there, on her flight

from Lochleven to Hamilton, 2d May 1568.

VI.

The Maiden Castle next surveyed,

Across the furzy hills of Braid,

By Craig-Milor,[15] through Wymet's glade

To Inneresc they wound;[16]

Then o'er the Garlton crags afar,

Where, oft a check to England's war,

Cospatrick's stronghold of Dunbar[17]

In proud defiance frowned.

[15] The name has for centuries been vulgarised into Craigmillar.

Adam de Cardonnel, in his "Picturesque Antiquities," adheres to

the spelling in the text; although it is generally now admitted

that the appellation is Gaelic--_Craig-moil-ard_, or the high bare

rock running out into a plain. The original structure is of unknown

antiquity.

[16] Woolmet, or Wymet, and Inneresc, were granted by charter

of David the First to the Abbey of Dunfermline; the latter in

confirmation of a previous grant by Malcolm Canmore and Queen

Margaret, ("Registrum de Dunfermlyn," Imp. Edin. 1842, p. 5, 6.) A

small mausoleum of the Wauchope family now occupies the site of the

chapel of Wymet; and the venerable pile of St Michael the Archangel,

at Inneresc, was ruthlessly demolished in 1804. The house in which

the great Randolph died, which was about half a mile distant, was

also hewn down, about ten years afterwards, to make way for a shabby

masonic lodge.

[17] The family of Cospatrick, a powerful Northumbrian nobleman,

took refuge in Scotland after the death of Harold at Hastings, and

in 1072 had extensive lands in the Merse and Lothian gifted them by

Malcolm Canmore. They continued to be one of the most opulent and

powerful houses in the east of Scotland for a considerable period,

as evidenced by their donations, noted in the chartularies of

Coldingham, Newbottle, Dryburgh, Kelso, Melrose, and Soltra. Founded

on a steep rugged rock, within sea-mark, and communicating with the

land through a covered passage, the castle of Dunbar might well,

before the invention of gunpowder, have been deemed impregnable. It

was often the theatre of warlike contention, and two great battles

were fought in its immediate neighbourhood,--the first in 1296, when

Earl Warenne defeated the army of Scotland sent for its relief; and

the second in 1650, when Leslie was overthrown by Cromwell. It was

often besieged, and as often bravely defended; but perhaps never so

brilliantly as by Black Agnes against the Earl of Salisbury in 1337.

VII.

Weep through each grove, ye tearful rills!

Ye ivied caves, which Echo fills

With voice, lament! Ye proud, free hills,

Where eagles wheel and soar,

Bid noontide o'er your summits throw

Storm's murkiest cloud! Ye vales below,

Let all your wild-flowers cease to blow,

And with bent heads deplore!

VIII.

Ye passions, that, with holy fire,

Illume man's bosom--that inspire

To daring deed, or proud desire,

With indignation burn!

Ye household charities, that keep

Watch over childhood's rosy sleep,

Ashes bestrew the hearthstone,--weep

As o'er a funeral urn!

IX.

On--on they speed. Oh dreary day,

That, like a vampire, drained away

The blood from Scotland's heart--delay,

Thou lingering sun to set!

Rain, twilight! rain down bloody dews

O'er all the eye far northward views;

Nor do thou, night of nights! refuse

A darkness black as jet.

X.

Heroic spirits of the dead!

That in the body nobly bled,

By whom the battle-field for bed

Was chosen, look ye down,--

And see if hearts are all grown cold,--

If for their just rights none are bold,--

If servile earth one bosom hold,

Worthy of old renown?

XI.

The pass-word given, o'er bridge of Tweed

The cavalcade, with slackened speed,

Rolled on, like one from night-mare freed,

That draws an easier breath;

But o'er and round it hung the gloom

As of some dark, mysterious doom,

Shadows cast forward from the tomb,

And auguries of death.

XII.

Scotland receded from the view,

And, on the far horizon blue,

Faded her last, dear hills--the mew

Screamed to its sea-isle near.

As day-beams ceased the west to flout,

Each after each the stars came out,

Like camp-fires heaven's high hosts about,

With lustre calm and clear.

XIII.

And on, through many a Saxon town

Northumbrian, and of quaint renown,

Before the morning star went down,

With thunderous reel they hied;

While from the lattices aloof,

Of many an angled, gray-stone roof.

Rose sudden heads, as sound of hoof

And wheel to southward died.

XIV.

Like Hope's voice preaching to Despair,

Sweetly the chimes for matin prayer

Melted upon the dewy air

From Hexham's holy pile;

But, like the adder deaf, no sound,

Or stern or sweet, an echo found

'Mid that dark squadron, as it wound

Still onwards, mile on mile.

XV.

Streamers, and booths, and country games,

And brawny churls, with rustic names,

And blooming maids, and buxom dames,--

A boisterous village fair!

On stage his sleights the jongleur shows,

Like strutting cock the jester crows,

And high the morrice-dancer throws

His antic heels in air.

XVI.

Why pause at reel each lad and lass?

A solemn awe pervades the mass;

Wondering they see the travellers pass,

The horsemen journey-worn,

And, in the midst, that blinded van

So hearse-like; while, from man to man,

"Is it of Death"--in whispers ran--

"This spectacle forlorn?"

XVII.

Bright are thy shadowy forest-bowers,

Fair Ashby-de-la-Zouche! with flowers;

The wild-deer in its covert cowers,

And, from its pine-tree old,

The startled cushat, in unrest,

Circles around its airy nest,

As forward, on its route unblest,

Aye on that waggon rolled.

XVIII.

And many a grove-encircled town,

And many a keep of old renown,

That grimly watched o'er dale and down,

They passed unheeding by;

Prone from the rocks the waters streamed,

And, 'mid the yellow harvests, gleamed

The reapers' sickles, but all seemed,

Mere pictures to the eye.

XIX.

Behold a tournay on the green!

The tents are pitched--the tilters keen

Gambol the listed lines between--

The motley crowds around

For jibe, and jest, and wanton play

Are met--a merry holiday;

And glide the lightsome hours away

In mirth, to music's sound.

XX.

And hark! the exulting shouts that rise,

As, cynosure of circling eyes,

Beauty's fair queen awards the prize

To knight that lowly kneels.

"Make way--make way!" is heard aloud--

Like Red Sea waters part the crowd,

And, scornful of that pageant proud,

On grinding rush the wheels!

XXI.

Hundreds and hamlets far from sight,

By lonely granges through the night

They camped; and, ere the morning light

Crimsoned the orient, they

By royal road, or baron's park,

Waking the watchful ban-dog's bark,

Before the first song of the lark,

Were on their southward way.

XXII.

By Althorpe, and by Oxendon,

Without a halt they hurried on,

Nor paused by that fair cross of stone,

Now for the first time seen,

(For death's dark billows overwhelm

Both jewelled braid, and knightly helm!)

Raised, by the monarch of the realm,

To Eleanor his queen.[18]

[18] This venerable memorial, which gives the name of "Queen's

Cross" to the neighbouring locality in Northamptonshire, is a

beautiful specimen of architecture, although much defaced by time,

and the efforts of renovators.

The "trellised" vest, mentioned in stanza XXIV., was a species of

armour, so called by contemporary Norman writers; and consisted of

a cloth coat, reaching only to the haunches. This was intersected

by broad straps of leather, so laid on as to cross each other, and

leave small intervening squares of cloth, in the middle of which was

a knob of steel. (_Vide_ MEYRICK'S _Ancient Armour_, vol. i. p. 11.)

XXIII.

Five times through darkness and through day,

Since crossing Tweed, with fresh relay

Ever in wait, their forward way

That cavalcade had held;

Now joy!!! for, on the weary wights,

Loomed London from the Hampstead heights,

As, by the opal morning, Night's

Thin vapours were dispell'd.

XXIV.

With spur on heel, and spear in rest,

And buckler'd arm, and trellised breast,

Closer around their charge they press'd--

On whirled, with livelier roll,

The wheels begirt with prancing feet,

And arms,--a serried mass complete,

Until, by many a stately street,

They reached their destined goal.

XXV.

Grim Westminster! thy pile severe

Struck to the heart like sudden fear;--

"Hope flies from all that enter here!"

Seemed graven on its crest.

The moat o'erpassed, at warn of bell,

Down thundering the portcullis fell,

And clang'd the studded gates,--a knell

Despairing and unblest.

XXVI.

Ye guardian angels! that fulfil

Heaven's high decrees, and work its will--

Ye thunderbolts! launched forth to kill,--

Where was it then ye slept--

When, foe-bemocked, in prison square,

To death fore-doomed, with dauntless air,

From out that van,

A shackled man--

Sir William Wallace stept!

THE GREEN HAND.

A "SHORT" YARN.

PART VII.

"Well," continued the commander, his voice making use of the breeze

as he stood aft of the group, "I could not have slept more than

three or four hours on a stretch, when I was woke up by a fellow

shoving his lantern in my face, and saying it wasn't me he wanted;

for which I gave him a hearty objurgation, and turned over with a

swing of the cot to go to sleep again. The sailor grumbled something

about the parson being wanted for the captain, and all at once it

flashed on my mind where we were, with the whole of last night's

ticklish work--seeing that, hard rub as it was, it had clean left

me for the time. "Try the aftermost berth, then," said I, slipping

out in the dark to put on my trousers. The fact was, on going below

to our state-room, I had found my own cot taken up by some one

in the confusion; and as every door stood open at night in that

latitude, I e'en made free with the nearest, which I knew was the

missionary's. In a minute or two I heard Westwood meet the mate, who

said he thought the captain would like to see him, and hoped they

hadn't "disturbed the other gentleman." "Oh no, I daresay not," said

Westwood, rather nervously, guessing, I daresay, what he was wanted

for; while Finch slipped quietly past to listen at the state-room

door, where both he and I might hear the "other gentleman," whoever

he was, snoring pretty plain. When the first officer shut the door

to, however, turned the key, and put it in his pocket, I nearly

gave vent to a whistle.--"I see!" thought I; "but, my fine fellow,

it seemed you never were meant for a good jailor, anyhow!" He was

no sooner gone than I walked forward toward the captain's cabin,

near the after-hatchway, anxious enough to see how the poor man

was, since I had had such a share in bringing him to a point, one

way or another. Westwood was standing against the light out of

the open door, and I looked in along with him, at the cot slung

high to the beams like a lump of shadow, the lamp striking across

below it on all the captain's little affairs--his glazed hat and

his wet coat, the names of two or three old books, even, hanging

in shelves against the bulkhead--and into the little state-room

off the cabin, where the surgeon was stooping to mix a draught.

The hard-featured Scotch mate stood holding the captain's wrist

with one clumsy flipper, as if trying to feel his pulse, fumbling

about his own face with the other, and looking more concerned than

I'd thought possible for him. "Well, I've slept a--good deal,"

said the captain, in a weak voice, putting up his hand slowly to

rub his eyes, but seemingly quite composed, and knowing nothing

of what had happened--which rid me of the horrid notion I could

scarce help before, that he had known what he was about. His head

was close shaved, and the look of a sailor clean gone off his face

with the bluff, honest oak-colour it commonly had, till you'd have

wished him decently in his bed thousands of miles off, with women

slipping out and in; only the blood from his arm hanging down on the

sheet, with the sharp point of his nose and the shape of his knees

coming up off the shadow, kept it all in one with the wild affair

on deck a few hours gone. "She's on her course, you say?" added he,

listlessly. "Must be a _very_ light breeze though, Mr Macleod." "So

it is, sir; so it is, no doubt!" replied the second-mate, soothing

him; "did ye say we'll _pent_ the ship, sir?" "Ay, before we go

into port, Mr Macleod, to be sure," said Captain Williamson, trying

to put a cheerful tone into his voice; "she's had a good deal of

buffeting, but we musn't let 'em see it, you know! Didn't you lose

a mizen-topmast somehow, though, Mr Macleod?" "'Deed ay, sir," said

Macleod hastily, afraid he was getting upon the scent of what had

happened; "the first officer's watch it was, sir--will I tell Mr

Finch ye're wanting to speak to him about it, Captain Williamson?"

and he began to shuffle towards the door. "Finch? Finch?" said the

sick man, passing his finger over his eyes again; "what voyage _is_

this, Mr Macleod?" "Why--why," said the Scotchman, starting, and

rather puzzled himself. "Oo, it's just _this_ voyage, ye know, sir!

Mr Finch, ye mind, sir?" "No, no; don't let him leave the deck for

a moment, Macleod!" said the captain anxiously: "harkye, James,

I'm afraid I've trusted overmuch to the young man all along! I'll

tell ye, Mr Macleod, I don't know whether I was asleep or not, but

I _heard_ him somewhere wishing he had the command of this ship!

I shouldn't like him to take her off my hands! Have you seen the

Scilly lights yet, Mr Macleod?" The mate shook his head; he had

contrived to persuade the poor man we were far homeward bound. "If

you'd only get the pilot aboard, Mr Macleod," the captain went on,

"I'd die contented;--but mind the charts--mind the charts--I've

got the charts to mind for another sort of voyage myself, James!"

"Hoot, hoot, captain!" said the Scotchman, "what sets ye for to talk

after that fashion--you'll be up an' about decks directly, sir!

What were ye saying about topem'sts now, sir?" Captain Williamson

gave the second mate a glance that looked into him, and he held

down his head, for the man evidently believed fully, as none of

us could help doing, that there was death on the captain's face.

"James, James!" said the captain slowly, "you've no notion how some

things weigh on the mind at a pass of this kind! Other things one

don't remember--but there's one in particular, almost as it were

yesterday--why, surely you were with me that voyage, Mr Macleod!

when I let some o' the passengers take a boat in a calm, and all--"

Here he stopped, seemingly overcome. "There was one young creature

amongst 'em," he went on, "the age of my own girl, Macleod--my own

little Nan, you know--and now--now I miss _her_--and, and--" The

poor man gave a great gulp, clutching the mate's arm, and gazing him

in the face. "Wasn't it a long time ago?" said he, very anxiously;

"if it wasn't, I would go mad! They were all drowned--drowned--I

_see_ that black squall coming down on the swell _now_, man, and the

brig, and all of us looking out to the wind'ard!" "I mind something

about it," replied Macleod stoutly, though he looked away; "'twas

none o' your fault, though, Captain Williamson--they were just

_fey_, sir; and more than that, if ye mind, sir, they took the boat

again' all orders--on the sly, I may say." Westwood was on the

point of starting forward to make known how the case stood, on the

strength of our finding the paper in the bottle; when I pressed his

arm, and whispered that it could only make things worse, and cheat

the sick man of a notion more likely to do him good than otherwise.

"It's a heavy charge, Mr Macleod, a heavy charge!" said he, falling

back again; "and one Mr Brown needn't envy." "Mr _Finch_, sir, ye

mind," put in the second mate, setting him right; "but keep up your

heart, sir, for anysake!" "I feel I'll last over the time o' next

full tide," said the captain solemnly. "I don't want to know _how_

far we're off, only if there's any chance at all, Macleod, you won't

spare canvass to carry her in." The Scotchman rubbed one of his hard

cheek-bones after the other, and grumbled something or other in his

throat by way of agreement. The whole thing was melancholy to see

after last night's stir, with the dim lamp or two twinkling along

the gloom of the steerage, the dead quietness of the ship, and the

smothered sort of glare under the captain's cot bringing out the

mere litter on the floor, to the very cockroaches putting their ugly

feelers out of one of his shoes in a corner: he shut his eyes, and

lay for a minute or two seemingly asleep, only murmuring something

about a breeze, and then asking them to shove out the port, 'twas so

close. The second mate looked to the surgeon, who signed to him to

do it, as if it didn't much matter by this time; while he gave him

the draught of physic he was mixing, however.

The Indiaman was beginning to swing slowly before the first of

the flood, stern off at her anchors; and whenever the port was

opened, 'twas so still otherwise, that you heard the tide clearly

in the cabin, rippling along the timbers to the copper upon her

bows--plash, plash, and lap, lip, lap, like no other earthly sound

that a man can hear--and you even began to note it on something else

a good bit off, though it seemed to be all quite dark out-board.

The captain's eyes opened by degrees, till we saw them looking at

us out of the shadow of the cot, and the second mate started as if

to mend his mistake; only 'twas plain enough, by that time, the

captain _knew_ the sound, half raising himself up and listening. A

few early musquitoes came in, and, after dancing about to refresh

themselves in the light and warmth under the cot, began to bite

savagely; every one of us had a distant horn sounding in his ear,

and each was rubbing it or his nose, except the sick man; but not

one of them settled on him. As the starboard port slued gradually

opposite to the nearest shore, a low, deep hum was carried in over

the water, ebbing and flowing, and full of dim, creeping noises,

like things stirring in their sleep, as if the little cabin had been

an ear to the ship. At times the tree-frogs broke out in a loud

clicking chirrup; then, between the fits of it, when all seemed

still again for a moment or two, you heard a low, half-smothered,

small sound, deeper down, as it were, fill up the break with its

throbbing and trill-trilling, as if just _one_ land-cricket or a

grasshopper did it, till it came out as clear as though it were a

child's rattle close by, and all of a sudden stopped; when back

floated the huge whispering hum again, with a damp smell of leaves

on a cold breath of the land air, that died away as quickly as it

reached us. The bewilderment on Captain Williamson's white face

for that minute's time was cruel to witness, and Macleod would

certainly have closed the port, but for the captain's seizing his

arm again, with a wild, questioning sort of a look into the second

mate's eyes. "Oh, good God!" faltered out the captain, "it's--it's

_land_!--where--where?--" "For goodsake, sir," said Macleod, "don't

ask me the now--take a bit sleep, sir." We could hear one another

breathing, when ting-tang went four bells on deck. You heard it

going across to the shore, as it were; and a few moments after, out

of the humming far and wide along the land, back came the sound of

another bell, toll upon toll, like some clock striking the hour a

long way off. Then a third one followed on it, from a different

direction, ringing clearer in the air; while the murmur and the rush

seemed to swell up the more all round, and the plashing of the tide

made the ship heave at her anchors. The mate shivered, Westwood

and I started, but some extraordinary notion or other gleamed over

the captain's face as he sat up. He was quite in his senses, too,

apparently, though it seemed to be neither more nor less than

sheer joy that overcame him, for he let out a long breath, and his

eyes were glistening as if the tears stood in them. "James--James

Macleod!" said he quickly, with a husky voice, "you oughtn't to've

deceived one you've sailed so long with; but you meant me a good

surprise, and 'twas kindly done of you! I know the very run o' the

clocks off Greenwich Reach, man; d'ye think one could mistake the

sound of Lon'on town, fidgeting when it wakes, either?--we're--we're

_home_ already!" And he fell back in the cot, with the drops running

down his cheeks, smiling happily all the time at Macleod in a way

that went to one's heart; while the Scotchman stared helplessly

to the surgeon, who slipped to the port and closed it. "I know by

your way, James," continued the poor man, "you wanted to send up to

Virginia Row for 'em _all_; but don't send for an hour yet; better

go up yourself and break it to 'em--_break_ it to 'em, be sure of

that, James; I shouldn't wonder but I pulled up, after all. Ay--that

first one we heard was Greenwich Hospital--t'other in Dickson's

brewery or Redriff--" Here his eyelids began to drop, owing to the

sleeping-draught he had got, when suddenly they opened wide again.

"Ha!" said he, listening, and putting up a finger, "but I haven't

heard St Paul's strike six yet; it's seldom so long after; ought

to be heard from here of a morning; let's--" By little and little,

however, the sick man's eyes closed, and you heard him murmuring,

as his finger sank down, "Macleod, say--to her--say--luff, luff, my

lad, keep her her course--," till his shrunk face was as quiet on

the pillow as if he'd been really at home the first night after a

voyage.

"Oh man, doctor!" said the second mate, heaving a breath, "isn't

terrible! Good forgive me for a lee to a dying man! Take an old

seaman's word for it, Doctor Small, yon clock ashore was no mortal

soond, sir; ye may keep your drogues for them they'll do good to.

'Twas neither more or less than the captain's _dregy_!" "Phoo!"

answered the Scotch surgeon, who was one of your sceptical chaps,

as I heard say, "some other vessels here, of course, that's

all." The sailor gave him only a smile of pity for not being

able to distinguish the sound of a ship's bell. "There can't be

a town hereabout, Collins?" whispered Westwood. "A town,--no!"

said I, "it's the best wilderness sign you can have--the African

bell-bird!"[19] "Ah, ah!" said the surgeon, laughing, "there now,

Macleod,--of course it can be explained naturally, like other

things." The second mate gave me a doubtful scowl; but seeing

Westwood, whom he had always seemed to think rather in the way

before, his eye softened.

[19] _Sc._--The South African and South American _Campanero_, or

bell-bird, whose peculiar note may be heard two or three miles off,

chiefly in the loneliest parts of the Brazilian or Benguela forests.

"You'll be wanting to see the captain as soon as he wakes up,

sir," said he. "I'm terrified to face him--but if ye'd juist slip

in when he comes to himself, sir, I'm thinking, reverend sir, ye

might wile him off yon terrible notion o' his." Westwood shook his

head seriously, not knowing what to say. "Ay, ay, sir," continued

Macleod, as he half closed the door, "no doubt a man ought to be

upon better things; but it's hard for him, when he's got a wife

and weans six thousand miles away, and wants them alongside in a

couple of hours--uncommon hard, sir! She's a douce, careful body,

too, Mistress Williamson, like the captain's self; and I heard her

fleech sore with the captain before we sailed, for to bide quietly

ashore this time, for good. Poor woman! if she didn't e'en go the

length o' partin' in anger the last morning, wae's me! till the very

moment when (he telt me himself, sir,) she out with her arms round

his neck, crying like to choke! An' all to--but if the captain had

a fault, 'twas the love o'--good forgive me, though, when it was

but studying his faim'ly, Mr Thomas! If it was only an auld tarry

deevil like me, now, with neither kith or kin!" "Except cousins,

Mr Macleod," said the surgeon, as he wiped his lancet on his

coat-tail--"plenty of them in the High--" But he caught Westwood's

eye, and was ashamed to finish his cursed heartless joke, though

the rough second mate was too full of his feeling to hear it: when

Westwood said something about our all thinking too little of these

things before-hand, but how the captain was plainly a man that had

done his duty carefully, which no doubt would ease his mind. The

mate looked up, and eyed him sideways for a moment: "Eh? what?" said

he, bluntly; "it's not so little I mind o' what I used to hear at

the kirk langsyne, as not to know that's not the right doctrine.

D'ye think, sir, _that's_ what'll put him over, when he finds out

this is not Greenwich Reach? There's the Methody minister with the

glasses, though!" he broke out, when again a look of despair came

over his broad hard-favoured countenance. "They're always upon

works, too, I've heard!" said he, turning and murmuring to himself;

"oh, if I could but hoist out a bit screed o' the truth, myself, to

comfort the poor man with! Lord, how didn't I think of the Shorter

Carritch--let's see how't went--'What is the chief end of'--no,

it's 'What is faith in--faith in the only rule to direct us--no,

no.--Baptism is a sacrament--where--whereby"--and he was still

overhauling some old catechism in this fashion, twisting himself all

the time as if he were twisting a stiff rope the wrong way, with

a look of misery none of us could have had the heart to laugh at,

when a middy's voice came squeaking down the dark after-hatchway.

"Mr Macleod, sir, the chief officer wants you on deck." Westwood

slipped quietly off, and the young surgeon was beginning to talk

easily, to rid his mind of something, perhaps; till I asked if

there wasn't any chance. "Oh, the captain, you mean?" said he,

"don't think there is--he's a bad subject! If we were out at sea

now, Mr Collins, the _calenture_ would make him think the waves all

grass, or something as green as--as the cawdets used to call--" I

looked at the fellow sternly, and he changed his key, though with

a surprised air. "You're blessed early up, though, you two!" said

he. "I suppose that cursed squall kept you idlers awake; but how

they managed without the first mate I can't think. Clever fellow,

Finch! but wasn't it a curious trick of the poor skipper to box him

up below here? I fancy he'd a guess we would all soon be under the

mate's command! It's a queer thing the brain, isn't it, Mr Collins?

For exaumple, now, there's the captain it makes think something or

other a clock near London, with everything accordingly! Macleod

fancies it a soopernatural knell, and twaddles about some Calvinist

stuff he learnt at school. Then you and me, you know, imaugines it's

a bird--now whuch is it after all? _Nothing_--maybe, eh?" The fellow

capped all with a sneer, as much as to say I was a fool, which I had

stood from him several times before; though now I could have kicked

him, more for his heartless way than aught else. "I'll tell you, Mr

Small," said I, "what I think _you_--you're neither more nor less

than a--" but I turned on my heel. "I'm off, however," said he, "to

turn in again."

Through the half-closed door one could see the sick man's face

sleeping so quiet in the shadow from the lamp, you heard not a

breath. I looked up the after-hatchway. It seemed still quite dark;

and a patch of the deep dark-blue sky showed high over the square

opening, with two or three keen sparks of stars, green ones and blue

ones--you'd have thought the ladder, short as it was, went up to

somewhere clean above the world. But the moment I got on deck, I saw

it was really lighter--the heavy fog creeping slowly astern of the

ship on both hands; the white mist rolling faster over it before the

sea-breeze against her bows, which had swung seaward by this time

from the tide, that rushed like a mill-stream upon both her tight

cables; while the muddy river-water, bubbling, eddying, and frothing

away past, spread far up in the middle, into the dusk astern.

_Such_ a jabbering, croaking, hissing, shrieking, and yelling,

too, as burst into one's ears out of the dark, as if whole legions

of monkeys, bull-frogs, parrots, parroqueets, and what not, were

coming together full upon us from both sides, one band nearer than

the other; till the heavy boom of the surf round the point, and the

roar of the tide coming in over the shallows about the river-mouth,

pretty well drowned it. The sudden change was a good relief, Babel

though it seemed, after the closeness below, with what had been

going on; and I looked ahead towards the sea, which lay away out off

our larboard bow, round the headland, and over the opposite point; a

cold, watery streak of light showing it from where the breakers rose

plunging and scattering along the sandy bar, to the steady gray line

of horizon, clipped by one of the two brown chops we had got into.

It looked dreary enough as yet, the mouth of it being wider than I'd

fancied it from seaward at night; though even with full water over

the long spit of sand in the middle, there was no draught at all for

the Indiaman except by the channel betwixt it and the bold point on

our right; and pretty narrow it appeared from our present berth,

heaving as it did with the green swell that set in, while meantime

the mist scudding across the face of the headland let us see but the

hard lump of bare black rock underneath.

In less time than I've taken to speak, however, the full space of

sky aloft was turning clear, the sea far away suddenly shone out

blue, with the surges tipped white; you saw a sparkling star high

over it sink slowly in, and the fog spread off the water near us,

till here and there you caught the muffled-up shape of a big tree

or two looming through, not half-a-mile off our starboard quarter;

the mist creeping over the headland till the sharp peak of it stood

out against its shadow on the shoulder of a hill beyond, and old

Bob Martin's single clump of cocoas on the rise, waving in landward

from the brisk sea-breeze. One passenger after another came peeping

sleepily out of the companion-hatch, at the men clearing away the

wreck of the spars, and swabbing the quarter-deck down; but scarce

had Smith, one of the young writers, reached the poop, when he gave

a shout that covered both poop-ladders in no time, with people

scrambling over each other to get up. Next minute you'd have fancied

them a knot of flamingoes with their wings out, as the bright red

daybreak brought out the edge of the woods far astern, through a

hazy lane in the purple mist, topped so with stray cocoa-nut trees

and cabbage-palms, dabbled like brushes in the colour, that they

scarce knew them to be woods at all, and not a whole lot of wild

savages fresh from other business of the kind, coming down with all

sorts of queer tools upon us; more especially when one heard such a

chorus of unaccountable cries, whistling, and screaming, as seemed

to struggle with the sound of the sea ahead of us, and the plash

alongside. The huge round sun struck hot crimson along the far turn

of the reach, with all manner of twisted blots upon him, as it were,

and the very grass and long reeds seemingly rustling into his face,

so one didn't for the moment know _him_ either; while the muddy

chocolate-coloured eddies, sweeping and closing beyond the ship's

rudder, glittered and frothed up like blood; and every here and

there, along the streak of light, the head of a log or a long branch

came dipping up terribly plain no wonder the old Seringapatam had

apparently turned tail to it all, ready to bolt if she could. Almost

as soon as you took your hands off your eyes, though, and could see

without a red ball or two before them,--_there_ was the nearest

shore growing out toward our starboard bulwark all along, crowded

with wet green woods, up into steaming high ground--all to eastward

a dazzle of light, with two or three faint mountain-peaks shooting

up far off in it, and a woody blue hill or so between; while here

and there a broad bright hazy spoke off the sun came cutting down

into the forest, that brought out a patch full of long big leaves,

ten times greener than the rest, and let you look off the deck into

the heart of it amongst the stems over the bank. The jabber in the

woods had passed off all at once with the dusk, the water deepening

over the bar, and the tide running slower, so that every one's

confused face turned breathless with delight as it grew stiller and

stiller. The whole breadth of the river shone out by this time, full

and smooth, to the opposite shore three times as far away, where the

wood and bulrushes seemed to grow out of the water; a long thick

range of low, muddy-looking mangroves, with a cover of dark-green,

rounding from the farthest point one saw, down to some sandy

hummocks near the mouth, and a ridge of the same, drifted up by the

wind off the beach. Beyond that side there was nothing, apparently,

but a rolling sweep of long coarse grass, with a few straggling

cocoa-nut trees and baobabs, like big swollen logs on end, and taken

to sprouting at top: a dun-coloured heave of land in the distance,

too, that came out, as it got hotter, in a long desert-like, red

brick-dust sort of a glare. The sole living things to be seen as

yet, were some small birds rising up out of the long grass, and the

turkey-buzzards sailing high over all across, as if on the look-out.