SCENE 1.--_Enter_ CLEMENTINA, _with a letter in her hand_.

Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

Olla Podrida, by Captain Marryat.

________________________________________________________________________

Captain Frederick Marryat was born July 10 1792, and died August 8 1848.

He retired from the British navy in 1828 in order to devote himself to

writing. In the following 20 years he wrote 26 books, many of which

are among the very best of English literature, and some of which are

still in print.

Marryat had an extraordinary gift for the invention of episodes in his

stories. He says somewhere that when he sat down for the day's work, he

never knew what he was going to write. He certainly was a literary

genius.

"Olla Podrida" was published in 1840, the fifteenth book to flow from

Marryat's pen. It consists of short stories, articles, his Diary on the

Continent, (as opposed to his Diary in America), short plays. Except

for "The Modern Town House" there is very little of great importance in

the book.

________________________________________________________________________

OLLA PODRIDA, BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT.

CHAPTER ONE.

April 3, 1835.

Reader, did you ever feel in that peculiarly distressing state of mind

in which one oppressing idea displaces or colours every other,

absorbing, intermingling with, empoisoning, and, like the filth of the

harpy, turning every thing into disgust--when a certain incubus rides

upon the brain, as the Old Man of the Mountain did upon the shoulders of

Sinbad, burdening, irritating, and rendering existence a misery--when,

looking around, you see but one object perched everywhere and grinning

at you--when even what you put into your mouth tastes of but that one

something, and the fancied taste is so unpleasant as almost to prevent

deglutition--when every sound which vibrates in your ear appears to

strike the same discordant note, and all and every thing will remind you

of the one only thing which you would fain forget;--have you ever felt

any thing like this, reader? If you have not, then thank God, by way of

grace, before you out with your knife and fork and begin to cut up the

contents of these pages.

I have been and am now suffering under one of these varieties of

"Phobias," and my disease is a Politicophobia, I will describe the

symptoms.

I am now in the metropolis of England, and when I walk out every common

house appears to me to be the House of Commons--every lordly mansion the

House of Lords--every man I meet, instead of being a member of society,

is transferred by imagination into a member of the senate--every

chimney-sweep into a bishop, and a Bavarian girl, with her "Py a proom,"

into an ex-chancellor. If I return home, the ring at the bell reminds

me of a Peel--as I mount the stairs I think of the "Lobby"--I throw

myself on the sofa, and the cushion is transformed into a woolsack--if a

solitary visitor calls in, I imagine a public meeting, and call out

chair! chair!--and I as often address my wife as Mr Speaker, as I do

with the usual appellative of "my dear."

This incubus, like the Catholic anathema, pursues me everywhere--at

breakfast, the dry toast reminds me of the toasts at public dinners--

tea, of the East India charter--sugar, of the West India question--the

loaf, of agricultural distress--and, as every one knows that London eggs

are a lottery, according as they prove bad or good, so am I reminded of

a Whig or Tory measure. When the newspaper is brought in, I walk round

and round it as a dog will do round the spot he is about to lie down

upon. I would fain not touch it; but at last, like a fascinated bird

who falls per force into the reptile's mouth, so do I plunge into its

columns, read it with desperation, and when the poison has circulated,

throw it away in despair. If I am reminded to say grace at dinner, I

commence "My Lords, and gentlemen;" and when I seek my bed, as I light

my taper, I move "that the House do now adjourn." The tradesmen's bills

are swelled by my disease into the budget, and the checks upon my banker

into supplies. Even my children laugh and wonder at the answers which

they receive. Yesterday one brought me her book of animals, and

pointing to a boa constrictor, asked its name, and I told her it was an

_O'Connell_. I am told that I mentioned the names of half the members

of the Upper and Lower House, and at the time really believed that I was

calling the beasts by their right names. Such are the effects of my

unfortunate disease.

Abroad I feel it even worse than at home. Society is unhinged, and

every one is afraid to offer an opinion. If I dine out, I find that no

one will speak first--he knows not whether he accosts a friend or foe,

or whether he may not be pledging his bitter enemy. Every man looks at

his neighbour's countenance to discover if he is Whig or Tory: they

appear to be examining one another like the dogs who meet in the street,

and it is impossible to conjecture whether the mutual scenting will be

followed up by a growl or a wag of the tail; however, one remark will

soon discover the political sentiments of the whole party. Should they

all agree, they are so busy in abuse that they rail at their adversaries

with their mouths full--should they disagree, they dispute so vehemently

that they forget that they were invited to dinner, and the dishes are

removed untasted, and the duties of the Amphytryon become a sinecure.

Go to an evening party or a ball and it is even worse, for young ladies

talk politics, prefer discussion to flirtation, and will rather win a

partner over to their political opinions than by their personal charms.

If you, as a Tory, happen to stand up in a cotillion with a pretty Whig,

she taps you with her fan that she may tap your politics; if you agree,

it is "_En avant deux_," if not, a "_chassez croisee_." Every thing

goes wrong--she may _set_ to you indeed, but hers is the set of

defiance, and she shakes her _wig_ against your _Tory_. To _turn your

partner_ is impossible, and the only part of the figure which is

executed _con amore_ is _dos a dos_. The dance is over, and the lady's

looks at once tell you that you may save your "oaths," while she "takes

her seat."

I have tried change of scene--posted to watering places; but the deep,

deep sea will not drown politics. Even the ocean in its roaring and

commotion reminded me of a political union.

I have buried myself in the country, but it has been all in vain. I

cannot look at the cattle peacefully grazing without thinking of

O'Connell's tail, Stanley's tail, and a short-docked pony reminded me of

the boasted little tail of Colonel Peel. The farm-yard, with its noisy

occupants, what was it but the reality so well imitated by the members

of the Lower House, who would drown argument in discord? I thought I

was in the lobby at the close of a long debate. Every tenth field,

every tenth furrow, (and I could not help counting,) every tenth animal,

and every tenth step, reminded me of the Irish tithes; and when I saw a

hawk swoop over a chicken, I thought of the Appropriation Bill--so I

left the country.

I have tried every thing--I have been every where, but in vain. In the

country there was no relaxation--in society no pleasure--at home no

relief. England was disjointed, never to be united until it was

dismembered--and there was no repose. I had my choice, either to go

abroad, or to go mad; and, upon mature deliberation, I decided upon the

former, as the lesser evil of the two. So I gave--I sold--I

discharged--I paid--I packed up, and I planned. The last was the only

portion of my multifarious duties not satisfactorily arranged. I looked

at the maps, plied my compasses that I might compass my wishes, measured

distances that I might decide upon my measures--planned, looked over the

maps--and planned again.

CHAPTER TWO.

Well, as I said in my last chapter, I planned--and planned--but I might

as well conjugate it, as many others assisted--it was I planned, thou

plannedst, he planned, we planned, ye planned, and they planned--and

what annoyed me was, that I could not help considering that "the whole

house was in a committee," and without being able "to report progress."

At first it was _decided upon_ that we should proceed up the Rhine, and

not leave off paddling until we had arrived at Manheim, at which town I

fancied that I should at least be out of political distance. We read

all about Manheim, found out that it was a regular-built town, with a

certain number of inhabitants--with promenades, gardens, and a fine view

of the Rhine. "So you're going abroad--where?" Manheim, was the reply,

and all the world knew that we were bound to Manheim; and every one had

something to say, or something that they had heard said, about Manheim.

"Very nice place--Duchess Dowager Stephanie--very cheap--gay in winter--

masters excellent"--were the variety of changes rung, and all was

settled; but at last one unlucky observation raised a doubt--another

increased--a third confirmed it. "A very dull place--German cookery bad

for children--steam-boats from Rotterdam very bad, and often obliged to

pass two nights on deck." A very influential member of the committee

took alarm about the children being two nights on deck, and it was at

last decided that to go up to Manheim by steam-boat at 4 pounds, 9

shillings a-head, and children at half-price was not to be thought of.

"I wonder you don't go to Bruges," observed a committee man; "nice quiet

place--excellent masters--every thing so cheap--I once bought eighty

large peaches there for two francs."

And all the children clapped their little hands, and cried out for

Bruges and cheap peaches.

It was further submitted that it was convenient--you might go the whole

of the way by water--and Bruges was immediately under consideration.

"If you go to Bruges, you will find it very dull," observed another;

"but you'll meet Mrs Trollope there--now Brussels is very little

farther, and is a delightful place;" and Brussels was also referred to

the committee.

"You won't like Brussels--there is such a mixture, and house-rent is

dear. Now I should recommend Spa for the summer--it is a most beautiful

spot--and excellent company." And Spa was added to the list.

Then after a day or two came an Anti-Teutonic, who railed against

Germany--and Germans--German towns, German travelling, and German

_French_, which was detestable--German cookery, which was nothing but

grease. "You may imagine," said he, "and so have many more, that

Germany is more pleasant and less expensive than France; but they have

been disappointed, and so will you be. Now, for a quiet place, I should

recommend Saint Omer--only thirty miles from Calais--so convenient--and

very pretty."

Saint Omer--humph--very quiet and retired--and no politics--and Saint

Omer was occasionally canvassed.

"Saint Omer!" said another who called the next day, "you'll die of

ennui. Go to Boulogne--it is delightful--you may be there as retired or

as gay as you please."

Boulogne to be taken into consideration many inquiries made and all very

satisfactory--good sands and excellent jackasses for the children.

"My dear friend, Boulogne is something like the King's Bench--at least

most of the people only go there in preference. Every body will suppose

that you've _levanted_. Pray don't go to Boulogne."

"Why don't you go by Southampton to Havre--there you'll have quiet and

amusement--beautiful country about Honfleur--scenery up the Seine

splendid; and then you can go up to Rouen by water, if you intend to go

on to Paris."

Havre and Honfleur submitted to the committee.

But then came Dieppe, and Brest, and the environs of Paris, Versailles,

Saint Germain, Passy, and other recommendations, in which every one

particular place was proved incontestably to be more particularly suited

to us than any other, and the committee sat for three weeks, at the end

of which, upon examining the matured opinions of the last seven days, I

found them to have fluctuated as follows:--

Monday morning, Manheim. Evening, Spa.

Tuesday morning, Bruges. Evening Brussels.

Wednesday morning, Saint Omer. Evening, Boulogne.

Thursday morning, Havre. Evening Honfleur.

Friday morning, Dieppe. Evening, Passy.

Saturday morning, Versailles. Evening, Saint Germain.

Sunday morning, Spa. Evening, Brussels.

The fact was, that there was a trifling difference of opinion in the

committee--the great object appeared to be, and the great difficulty at

the same time, to find a place which would suit all parties, that is to

say, a place where there were no politics, plenty of gaiety, and cheap

peaches.

CHAPTER THREE.

Paddle, paddle--splash, splash--bump, thump, bump. What a leveller is

sea-sickness--almost as great a radical as death. All grades, all

respect, all consideration are lost. The master may summon John to his

assistance, but John will see his master hanged before he'll go to him;

he has taken possession of his master's great coat, and he intends to

keep _it--he_ don't care for warning.

The nurses no longer look after the infant or the children, they may

tumble overboard--even the fond yearnings of the mother at last yield to

the overwhelming sensation, and it it were not for the mercenary or

kind-hearted assistance of those who have become habituated to the

motion of a vessel, there is no saying how tragical might be the

commencement of many a party of pleasure to the Continent.

"O lauk, Mary, do just hold this child," says the upper nurse to her

assistant; "I do feel such a _sinking_ in my stomach."

"Carn't indeed, nurse, I've such a _rising_."

Away hurried both the women at once to the side of the vessel, leaning

over and groaning heavily. As for the children, they would soon have

been past caring for, had it not been for my protecting arms.

Decorum and modesty, next to maternal tenderness, the strongest feelings

in woman, fall before the dire prostratiou of this malady. A young lady

will recline unwittingly in the arms of a perfect stranger, and the

bride of three months, deserted by her husband, will offer no resistance

to the uncouth seaman, who, in his kindness, would loosen the laces that

confine her heaving bosom.

As for politeness, even the _ancien regime_ of the noblesse of France

put it in their pockets as if there were a general chaos--self is the

only feeling; not but that I have seen occasional traits of good-will

towards others. I once witnessed a young lady smelling to a bottle of

Eau de Cologne, as if her existence depended upon it, who handed it over

to another, whose state was even more pitiable, and I was reminded of

Sir Philip Sidney and the cup of water, as he lay wounded on the field

of battle, "Thy necessity is greater than mine." And if I might have

judged from her trembling lips and pallid countenance, it was almost an

equal act of heroism. Paddle, paddle, splash, splash, bump, thump,

bump--one would really imagine that the passengers were so many pumps,

all worked at once with the vessel by the same hundred horse power, for

there were an hundred of them about me, each as sick as a horse. "_Sic

omnes_," thought I.

I have long passed the ordeal, and even steam, and smoke, and washing

basins, and all the various discordant and revolting noises _from those_

who suffer, have no effect upon my nervous system--still was I doomed to

torment, and was very sick indeed. For some time I had been watched by

the evil eyes of one, whom the Yankees would designate, as _almighty

ugly_. He was a thin, spare man, whose accost I could well have spared,

for he had the look of a demon, and, as I soon found, was possessed with

the demon of politics. Imagine what I must have suffered when I found

out that he was a button-holder to boot. Observing that I was the only

one who was in a state to listen, he seized upon me as his victim. I,

who had fled from politics with as much horror as others have done from

the cholera--I, who had encountered all the miseries of steam

navigation, and all the steam and effluvia of close cabins, to find

myself condemned with others "alike to groan--" what with King Leopold,

and William of Nassau, and the Belgian share of the debt, and the French

and Antwerp, and his pertinacious holding of my button. "Shall I knock

him down," thought I; "he insists upon laying his hands upon me, why

should I not lay my hands upon him?" But on second consideration, that

would not have been polite; so I made other attempts to get rid of him,

but in vain; I turned the subject to far countries--the rascal had been

everywhere; at one moment he would be at Vienna, and discuss the German

confederation--at another in South America, canvassing the merits of

Bolivar and Saint Martin. There was no stopping him; his tongue was

like the paddle of a steam-boat, and almost threw as much spray in my

face. At last I threw off my coat, which he continued to hold in his

hand by the third button, and threw myself into one of the cribs

appropriated to passengers, wishing him a good night. He put my coat

down in the crib beneath, and as he could no longer hold the button, he

laid hold of the side of the crib, and continued his incessant clack.

At last I turned my back to him, and made no answer, upon which he made

a retreat, and when I awoke the next morning, I found that he was too

ill to spout politics, although as he progressed, he spouted what was

quite as bad.

Par parenthese, he was a great liar, and as he drew a long bow when he

was able to talk, so did he prove a long shot when he was sea-sick.

Confound the fellow, I think I see him now--there he stood, a tall,

gaunt misery, about the height of a workhouse pump, and the basin was on

the floor of the cabin, nearly three feet from his two feet; without

condescending to stoop, or to sit down, or to lift up the basin, so as

to lessen the distance, he poured forth a parabola, "quod nunc

describere" had just as well be omitted. I shall therefore dismiss this

persecuting demon, by stating, that he called himself a baron, the truth

of which I doubted much; that he was employed by crowned heads, which I

doubted still more. On one point, however, I had little doubt, although

he did not enter upon the subject, (and his tongue to a great degree

confirmed it) that he was a _chevalier d'industrie_.

"I am rid of him, thank God," exclaimed I, as I went on deck to breathe

a little fresh air, having lighted my cigar in the steward's berth as I

ascended. The first objects which attracted my attention, were a young

gentleman and lady, the former standing by the latter, who was sitting

in a pensive position, with her elbow leaning on the gunnel. She was in

deep mourning, and closely veiled.

"And how does the beautiful Maria find herself this morning?" said the

young gentleman, leaning over her with his hand on the rail to support

himself.

The beautiful Maria! How was it possible not to be attracted by such a

distinguishing appellation? The beautiful Maria! I thought of Sterne's

Maria, and the little dog with a string, and I trimmed my ear like a

windsail in the tropics to catch the soft responding, and most

assuredly, to my expectant imagination, melodious vibration of the air

which would succeed.

At last there was a reply. "Oh! _tol, lol_!" And that in anything but

a melodious voice. "Oh! tol, lol!" What a bathos! The beautiful

Maria, whom in my imagination I had clothed with all the attributes of

sentiment and delicacy, whom I had conjured up as a beau ideal of

perfection, replies in a hoarse voice with, "Oh! tol, lol!" Down she

went, like the English funds in a panic--down she went to the zero of a

Doll Tearsheet, and down I went again into the cabin. Surely this is a

world of disappointment.

Perhaps I was wrong--she might have been very beautiful, with the voice

of a peacock; she might also have the plumage--but no, that is

impossible--she must, from her sex, have been a peahen. At all events,

if not very beautiful, she was very sick. I left the beautiful Maria

screeching over the gunnel. If the young gentleman were to repeat the

same question now, thought I, the beautiful Maria will hardly answer,

"_Oh! tol, lol_!"

It was very cold on deck, blowing fresh from the East. I never heard

any one give a satisfactory reason why a west wind should be warm, and

an east wind cold in latitude 50 degrees N. It is not so in the tropics

when the east wind follows the rarefaction occasioned by the sun. Yet,

does not Byron say:--

"'Tis the land of the east, 'tis the clime of the sun."

Certainly our east winds are not at all poetical.

"Very cold, sir," said I, addressing a round-faced gentleman in a white

great coat, who rested his chin and his two hands upon a thick cane.

"You are fortunate in not being sea-sick."

"I beg your pardon, I am not fortunate. I am worse than sea-sick, for I

want to be sea-sick and I can't. I do believe that everything is

changed now-a-days, since that confounded Reform Bill!"

Politics again, thought I; what the devil has sea-sickness to do with

the Reform Bill? Mercy on me, when shall I be at peace? "There

certainly has been some change," observed I.

"Change, sir! yes, everything changed. England of 1835 is no more like

merry England of olden time, than I am like Louis the Fourteenth--

ruined, sir--every class suffering, sir--badly ruled, sir."

"Things are much cheaper."

"Much cheaper! Yes, sir; but what's the good of things being cheap when

nobody has any money to purchase with? They might just as well be dear.

It's a melancholy discovery, sir, this steam."

"Melancholy just now to those who are on board, and suffering, I grant."

"Pooh, nonsense! melancholy to those on shore, sir; the engines work

while man looks on and starves. Country ruined, sir--people miserable--

thrown out of employment, while foreigners reap the benefit; we sell

them our manufactures at a cheaper rate; we clothe them well, sir, at

the expense of our own suffering population. But is this all, sir?

_Oh, no_!"

And here the gentleman dropped his chin again upon his hands, and looked

very woeful indeed. After a few seconds, he resumed.

"We are dismembered, sir--ruined by faction. Society is disintegrated

by political animosities; thousands have retreated from the scene of

violence and excitement, to find peace and repose in a foreign land."

I nodded an assent.

"Ay, sir, and thousands will follow, withdrawing from the country its

resources, circulating millions which enrich other nations, and avoiding

their own share of the national burdens, which fall still heavier upon

those who remain. But is that all, sir? _Oh, no_!"

This second "oh, no!" was pronounced in a more lugubrious note: he shook

his head, and after a pause, he recommenced. "England is no longer

priest-ridden, sir; but she is worse, she is _law-ridden_. Litigation

and law expenses have, like locusts, devoured up the produce of

industry. No man is safe without a lawyer at his elbow, making over to

him a part of his annual income to secure the remainder. And then

there's Brougham. But, sir, is that all? _Oh, no_!"

Another pause, and he continued. "I never grumble--I hate grumblers; I

never talk of politics--I hate politics; but, sir, is it not the case,

that madmen and fools have united to ruin the country? Is it not true,

sir, that unable to rise by their talents, and urged by a wicked

ambition, they have summoned main force, and the power of numbers to

their assistance, and have raised a spirit which they cannot put down

again? Is it not true, sir, that treason walks barefaced through the

land, pointing to general destruction--to a violation of all rights, to

anarchy, confusion, and the shedding of blood? is not reason borne down

by faction, sir? but, sir, is that all? _Oh, no_!"

This last "oh, no!" was more melancholy than the preceding, but I

considered that my companion must have nearly exhausted his budget of

miseries, and was curious to ascertain what would come next.

"What, is there more, sir?" inquired I, innocently.

"More, sir. Yes, sir, plenty more. I ask you whether even the seasons

have not changed in our unhappy country; have we not summer with

unusual, unexampled heat, and winters without cold; when shall we ever

see the mercury down below sixty degrees again? never, sir. What is

summer but a season of alarm and dread? Does not the cholera come in as

regularly as green peas--terrifying us to death, whether we die of it or

not? Of what advantage are the fruits of the earth so bountifully

bestowed--have they not all been converted into poisons? Who dares to

drink a light summer wine now? Are not all vegetables abjured, peaches

thrown to the pigs, and strawberries ventured upon only by little boys

who sweep the streets, with the broom in one hand and the pottle in the

other? Are not melons rank poison, and cucumbers sudden death? And in

the winter, sir, are we better off? Instead of the wholesome frosts of

olden days, purifying the air and the soil, and bracing up our nerves,

what have we but the influenza, which lasts us for four months, and the

spasmodic cough which fills up the remainder of the year? I am no

grumbler, sir, I hate and abhor anything like complaining, but this I

will say, that the world has been turned upside down--that everything

has gone wrong--that peace has come to us unattended by plenty--that

every body is miserable; and that vaccination and steam, which have been

lauded as blessings, have proved the greatest of all possible curses,

and that there is no chance of a return to our former prosperity, unless

we can set fire to our coal mines, and re-introduce the small-pox. But,

sir, the will of Heaven be done, I shall say no more; I don't wish to

make other people unhappy; but pray don't think, sir, I've told you all.

_Oh, no_!"

At this last "oh, no!" my companion laid his face down upon his

knuckles, and was silent. I once more sought the deck, and preferred to

encounter the east wind. "Blow, blow, thou wintry wind, thou art not so

unkind," soliloquised I, as I looked over the bows, and perceived that

we were close to the pile entrance of the harbour of Ostend. Ten

minutes afterwards there was a cessation of paddle, paddle, thump,

thump, the stern-fast was thrown on the quay, there was a rush on board

of commissionnaires, with their reiterated cries accompanied with cards

thrust into your hands, "Hotel des Bains, Monsieur." "Hotel Waterloo,

Monsieur." "Hotel Bellevue." "Hotel Bedford, Monsieur." "Hotel

d'Angleterre," _ad infinitum_--and then there was the pouring out of the

Noah's Ark, with their countenances wearing a most paradoxical

appearance, for they evidently showed that they had had, quite enough of

water, and, at the same time, that they required a great deal more. I

looked at my children, as they were hoisted up from the ladies' cabin,

one after another; and upon examination I decided that, with their

smudged faces, the Hotel des _Bains_ would be the most appropriate to

their condition; so there we went.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Ostend, April 18, 1835.

I was confoundedly taken in by a rascal of a commissionnaire, and aware

how the feelings of travellers are affected by the weather or the

treatment they receive at any place they may pass through, I shall

display the heroism of saying nothing about the place, except that I

believe Ostend to be the most rascally hole in the world, and the sooner

the traveller is out of it so much the better will it be for his purse

and for his temper.

April 19.

It has been assumed as an axiom that every one in this world is fond of

power. During our passage in the track-schuyt I had an evidence to the

contrary, for as we glided noiselessly and almost imperceptibly along, a

lady told me that she infinitely preferred the three-horse power of the

schuyt to the hundred-horse power of the steam-packet. We arrived at

Bruges, escaping all the horrors and difficulties of steam navigation.

House rent at Bruges is cheap, because one half of the houses are

empty--at least that was the cause assigned to me, although I will not

vouch for its being the true one. The reader may remember that this was

the site of cheap peaches, but none met our sight, the trees not being

yet in blossom. I ought to observe, for the satisfaction of the Foreign

Bible Society, that at the hotel at Bruges I saw a book of their

exportation lying on the chimney-piece in excellent preservation.

April 21.

As to what passed on our canal voyage to Ghent, I can only say that

every thing passed us--for the roads were very heavy, the horses very

lazy, and the boys still lazier--they rode their horses listlessly,

sitting on them sideways, as I have seen lads in the country swinging on

a gate--whereby the _gait_ of the track-schuyt could not be styled a

swinging pace. We did arrive at last, and thus ended our water

carriage. At Ghent we went to the Hotel Royal, from out of the windows

of which I had a fine view of the belfry, surmounted by the Brazen

Dragon brought from Constantinople; and as I conjured up times past, and

I thought how the belfry was built and how the dragon got there, I found

myself at last wandering in the Apocrypha of "Bel and the Dragon."

We went to see the picture by Van Eck, in the cathedral of Saint Bovin.

The reader will probably wish to know who was Saint Bovin--so did I--and

I asked the question of the sacristan: the reader shall have the benefit

of the answer, "Saint Bovin, monsieur, il etait un _saint_."

That picture of Van Eck's is worth a van full of most of the pictures we

see: it was Van Eck who invented, and was indeed the father of painting

in oil. It is a wonderful production.

Mrs Trollope says that people run through Belgium as if it were a mere

railroad to other countries. That is very true--we did the same--for

who would stop at Ostend to be swindled, or at Bruges to look at empty

houses, or at Ghent, which is nothing but a Flanders Birmingham, when

Brussels and King Leopold, and the anticipation of something more

agreeable, were only thirty miles off. Not one day was our departure

postponed; with post-horses and postilions we posted post haste to

Brussels.

CHAPTER FIVE.

April 22.

The Queen of Belgium "a fait un enfant." On the Continent it is always

the wife who is considered as the faiseuse; the husband is supposed, and

very often with justice to have had nothing to do in the matter--it

certainly does appear to be optional on the part of the ladies, for they

limit their family to their exact wishes or means of support. How

different is it in England, where children will be born whether it is

convenient or not! O Miss Martineau! you may talk about the "preventive

check," but where is it? In England it would be as valuable as the

philosopher's stone.

I think that the good people of Paris would do well, as they appear just

now to have left religion in abeyance, to take up the manners and

customs of the empire of the Nahirs, a Mahratta nation, which I once

read about. In that country, as in heaven, there is no marrying, nor

giving in marriage. All are free, and all inheritance is through the

children of the sister; for although it is impossible to know who may be

the father of any of the children, they are very certain that the

sister's children must have the blood on the maternal side. What a good

arrangement this would be for the Parisians--how many _peches a mortels_

would they get rid of--such as adultery, fornication, etcetera,--by

passing one simple law of the land. By-the-by, what an admirable idea

for reforming a nation--they say that laws, now-a-days, are made to

prevent crime: but if laws were enacted by which crime should no longer

be considered as crime, what a deal of trouble might be saved.

The theatre is closed owing to the want of funds; the want of funds is

owing to the want of honesty on the part of the manager having run away

with the strong box, which was decidedly the very best box in the

theatre.

April 26.

I went to see a species of Franconi, or Astley's: there is little

variety in these performances, as there are only a certain quantity of

feats, which can be performed either by the horses or the riders,

nevertheless we had some novelty. We had the very best feminine rider I

ever saw; she was a perfect female Centaur, looking part and parcel of

the animal upon which she stood; and then we had a regularly Dutch-built

lady, who amused us with a tumble off her horse, coming down on the

loose saw-dust, in a sitting posture, and making a hole in it as large

as if a covey of partridges had been husking in it for the whole day.

An American black (there always is a black fellow in these companies,

for, as Cooper says, they learn to ride well in America by stealing

their masters' horses) rode furiously well and sprained his ankle--the

attempt of a man in extreme pain to smile is very horrible--yet he did

grin as he bowed and limped away. After that we had a performer, who

had little chance of spraining her ankle: it was a Miss Betsey, a female

of good proportions, who was, however, not a little sulky that evening,

and very often refused to perform her task, and as for forcing the

combined will of a female and an elephant to boot, there was no man rash

enough to attempt it, so she did as little as she pleased, and it

pleased her to do very little; one feat, however, was novel, she took a

musket in her mouth, and fired it off with her trunk.

When I was in India I was very partial to these animals; there was a

most splendid elephant, which had been captured by the expedition sent

to Martaban; he stood four or five feet higher than elephants usually

do, and was a great favourite of his master, the rajah. When this

animal was captured there was great difficulty in getting him on board

of the transport. A raft was made, and he was very unwillingly

persuaded to trust his huge carcass upon it; he was then towed off with

about thirty of the natives on the raft, attending him; the largest

purchases and blocks were procured to hoist him in, the mainyards doubly

secured, and the fall brought to the capstern. The elephant had been

properly slung, the capstern was manned, and his huge bulk was lifted in

the air, but he had not risen a foot before the ropes gave way, and down

he came again on the raft with a heavy surge, a novelty which he did not

appear to approve of. A new fall was rove, and they again manned the

capstern; this time the tackle held, and up went the gentleman in the

air; but he had not forgotten the previous accident, and upon what

ground it is impossible to say, he ascribed his treatment to the

natives, who were assisting him on the raft. As he slowly mounted in

the air, he looked about him very wroth, his eyes and his trunk being

the only portions of his frame at liberty. These he turned about in

every direction as he ascended--at last, as he passed by the main

channels, he perceived the half of a maintop-sail yard, which had been

carried away in the slings, lying on the goose-necks; it was a weapon

that suited him admirably; he seized hold of it, and whirling it once

round with his trunk, directed the piece of wood with such good aim,

that he swept about twenty of the natives off the raft, to take their

chance with a strong tide and plenty of alligators. It was the

self-possession of the animal which I admired so much, swinging in the

air in so unusual a position for an elephant, he was as collected as if

he had been roaming in his own wild forests. He arrived and was

disembarked at Rangoon, and it was an amusement to me, whenever I could

find time to watch this animal, and two others much smaller in size who

were with him; but he was my particular pet. Perhaps the reader will

like to have the diary of an elephant when not on active service. At

what time animals get up who never lie down without being ordered, it is

not very easy to say. The elephants are stalled at the foot of some

large tree, which shelters them during the day from the extreme heat of

the sun; they stand under this tree, to which they are chained by their

hind legs. Early in the morning the keeper makes his appearance from

his hovel, and throws the respective keys down to the elephants, who

immediately unlock the padlocks of the chains, cast themselves loose,

and in the politest manner return the keys to the keeper; they then

march off with him to the nearest forest, and on their arrival commence

breaking down the branches of the trees, selecting those which are most

agreeable to their palates, and arranging them in two enormous faggots.

When they have collected as much as they think they require, they make

withies and bind up their two faggots, and then twist another to connect

the two, so as to hang them over their backs down on each side, and

having thus made their provision, they return home; the keeper may or

may not be present during this performance. All depends upon whether

the elephants are well trained, and have been long in servitude. Upon

their return, the elephants pass the chains again round their legs, lock

the padlock, and present the key as before; they then amuse themselves

with their repast, eating all the leaves and tender shoots, and

rejecting the others. Now when an elephant has had enough to eat, he

generally selects a long bough, and pulling off all the lateral

branches, leaves a bush at the end forming a sort of whisk to keep off

the flies and mosquitoes; for although the hide of the elephant is very

thick, still it is broken into crannies and cracks, into which the

vermin insert themselves. Sometimes they have the following ingenious

method of defending themselves against these tormentors--they put the

end of their trunk down in the dust, draw up as large a quantity as they

can, and turning their trunks over their heads, pour it out over their

skin, powdering and filling up the interstices, after which they take

the long branch I have before mentioned, and amuse themselves by

flapping it right and left, and in all directions about their bodies,

wherever the insects may settle.

And now for an instance of self-denial, which I have often witnessed on

the part of my friend the large elephant. I have observed him very

busy, flapping right and flapping left, evidently much annoyed by the

persecution of the mosquitoes; by-the-by, no one can have an idea how

hard the tiger-mosquito can bite. I will, however, give an instance of

it, for the truth of which I cannot positively vouch; but I remember

that once, when it rained torrents, and we were on a boating expedition,

a marine who, to keep his charge dry, had his fore-finger inserted in

the barrel of his musket, pulled it out in a great hurry, exclaiming to

his comrade, "May I be shot, Bill, if one of them beggars ha'n't bit me

right through the barrel of my musket." This _par parenthese_, and now

to proceed. As I said before, the elephant showed, by constant

flagellation of his person, that he was much annoyed by his persecutors,

and just at that time, the keeper brought a little naked black thing, as

round as a ball, which in India I believe they call a child, laid it

down before the animal with two words in Hindostanee--"_Watch it_!" and

then walked away into the town. The elephant immediately broke off the

larger part of the bough, so as to make a smaller and more convenient

whisk, and directed his whole attention to the child, gently fanning the

little lump of Indian ink, and driving away every mosquito which came

near it; this he continued for upwards of two hours regardless of

himself, until the keeper returned. It was really a beautiful sight,

and causing much reflection. Here was a monster, whose bulk exceeded

that of the infant by at least two thousand times, acknowledging that

the image of his Maker, even in its lowest degree of perfection, was

divine; silently proving the truth of the sacred announcement, that God

had "given to man dominion over the beasts of the field." And here,

too, was a brute animal setting an example of devotion and self-denial,

which but few Christians, none indeed but a mother, could have

practised. Would Fowell Buxton, surrounded by a host of mosquitoes,

have done as much for a fellow-creature, white or black? not he; he

would have flapped his own thighs, his own ears, his own face, and his

own every thing, and have left his neighbours to take care of

themselves; nor would I blame him.

As I am on the subject, I may as well inform my readers how and in which

way this elephant and I parted company, for it was equally

characteristic of the animal. The army was ordered to march, and the

elephants were called into requisition to carry the tents. The

quarter-master general, the man with four eyes, as the natives called

him, because he wore spectacles, superintended the loading of the

animals--tent upon tent was heaped upon my friend, who said nothing,

till at last he found that they were overdoing the thing, and then he

roared out his complaints, which the keeper explained; but there was

still one more tent to be carried, and, therefore, as one more or less

could make no difference, it was ordered to be put upon his back. The

elephant said no more, but he turned sulky. Enough was as good as a

feast with him, and he considered this treatment as no joke. Now it so

happened that at the time the main street, and the only street of the

town, which was at least half a mile long, was crowded to suffocation

with tattoos, or little ponies, and small oxen, every one of them loaded

with a couple of cases of claret, or brandy, or something else, slung on

each side of them, attended by coolies, who, with their hooting, and

pushing, and beating, and screaming, created a very bustling and lively

scene. When the last tent was put on the elephant he was like a

mountain with canvass on each side of him, bulging out to a width equal

to his own; there was just room for him to pass through the two rows of

houses on each side of the street, and not ten inches to spare; he was

ordered by the keeper to go on--he obeyed the order certainly, but in

what way--he threw his trunk up in the air, screamed a loud shriek of

indignation, and set off at a trot, which was about equal in speed to a

horse's gallop, right down the street, mowing down before him every

pony, bullock, and coolie that barred his passage; the confusion was

indescribable, all the little animals were with their legs in the air,

claret and brandy poured in rivulets down the streets, coolies screamed

as they threw themselves into the doors and windows; and at one fell

swoop the angry gentle man demolished the major part of the comforts of

the officers, who were little aware how much they were to sacrifice for

the sake of an extra tent. With my eyes I followed my friend in his

reckless career, until he was enveloped and hid from my view in a cloud

of dust, and that was my farewell of him. I turned round, and observed

close to me the quarter-master general, looking with all his _four eyes_

at the effects of his inhumanity. But I have wandered some twenty

thousand miles from Brussels, and must return.

CHAPTER SIX.

Brussels, May 5.

His Belgian Majesty, the Belgian ministers, Belgian ambassadors, Belgian

authorities, and all the Belgian nobility and gentry, all the English

who reside in Brussels for economy and quiet, and all the exiles and

propaganda who reside here to kick up a row, have all left Brussels by

the Porte d'Anvers. And all the Belgians who live at Brussels have shut

up their shops, and gone out by the Porte d'Anvers. And the whole

populace, men, women, and children, have gone out of the Porte d'Anvers.

And all the infants have also gone, because the mothers could not leave

them at home. And the generals, and their staffs, and the officers, and

all the troops, and all the artillery, have also left Brussels, and gone

out at the Porte d'Anvers, to keep the said populace quiet and in good

order. So that there is no one left at Brussels, and Brussels must for

one day take care of itself.

And now you of course wish to know why they have all left Brussels, and

further, why they have gone through the Porte d'Anvers.

Because there is this day the commemoration of the inauguration of the

_Chemin de Fer_, which has just been completed from Brussels to Malines,

and which is on this day to be opened, that is to say, that three steam

tugs, whose names are the Stephenson, the Arrow, and the Elephant, are

to drag to Malines and back again in the presence of his majesty, all

his majesty's ministers, all the ambassadors who choose to go, all the

heads of the departments, and every body else who can produce a

satisfactory yellow ticket, which will warrant their getting into one of

the thirty-three omnibuses, diligences, or cars, which are attached to

the said three steam-tugs, the Arrow, the Stephenson, and the Elephant.

I shall go and see it--I will not remain at Brussels by myself, the

"last man."

May 6.

It was a brilliant affair, and went off well, because the trains went on

well. We were tugged through twelve miles of the most fertile pasture

in the universe, the whole line of road so crowded with spectators, as

to make evident the extreme populousness of the country. For the first

mile it was one mass of people--and a Belgian crowd has a very agreeable

effect, from the prevailing colours being blue and white, which are very

refreshing, and contrast pleasantly with the green background. Every

man had his blouse, and every woman her cap and straw bonnet; but if the

Belgians look well _en masse_, I cannot say that they do so in detail:

the men we do not expect much from, but the women are certainly the

plainest race in the whole world--I will not except the Africans. In

some of our men-of-war it was formerly the custom to have an old knife,

which was passed from one to the other, as the men joined the ship,

being handed to the ugliest man they could find; he held the knife until

another came, more unfortunate in physiognomy than himself, when it was

immediately made over to the last, who was obliged in his turn to retain

it until he could discover some one even more unprepossessing.

Following up this principle with the women of Belgium, and comparing

them with other European states, they are most unequivocally entitled to

hold the knife, and unless they improve by crossing the breed, I am

afraid they will have it in their possession for centuries.

We arrived safe at Malines, and I was infinitely amused at the variety

of astonishment in the five hundred thousand faces which we passed. In

one rich meadow I beheld a crowd of Roman Catholic priests, who looked

at the trains in such a manner as if they thought that they were

"heretical and damnable," and that the Chemin de Fer was nothing but the

Chemin d'Enfer. At Malines we all got out, walked to a stone pillar,

where a speech was made to the sound of martial music, and we all got in

again. And then to show the power of his engines, Mr Stephenson

attached all the cars, omnibuses, and diligences together, and directed

the Elephant to take us back without assistance from the other two

engines. So the Elephant took us all in tow, and away we went at a very

fair pace. It must have been a very beautiful sight to those who were

looking on the whole train in one line, covered with red cloth and

garlands of roses with white canopies over head, and decorated with

about three hundred Belgian flags, of yellow, red, and black. However,

the huge animal who dragged this weight of eighty tons became thirsty at

Ville Vorde, and cast us off--it took him half an hour to drink--that is

to say, to take in water, and then he set off again, and we arrived

safely at Brussels, much to the delight of those who were in the cars

and also of his majesty, and all his ministers, and all his authorities,

and all the mercantile classes, who consider that the millennium is

come, but very much to the disappointment of the lower classes, who have

formed the idea that the _Chemin de Fer_ will take away their bread, and

who therefore longed for a blow-up. And Mr Stephenson having succeeded

in bringing back in safety his decorated cars, has been _decore_

himself, and is now a Chevalier de l'Ordre Leopold. Would not the

_Iron_ order of the Belgian patriots have been more appropriate as a

_Chemin de Fer_ decoration?

It is impossible to contemplate any steam-engine, without feeling wonder

and admiration at the ingenuity of man; but this feeling is raised to a

degree of awe when you look at a locomotive engine--there is such

enormous power compressed into so small a space--I never can divest

myself of the idea that it is possessed of _vitality_--that it is a

living as well as a moving being--and that idea, joined with its immense

power, conjures up in my mind that it is some spitting, fizzing,

terrific demon, who, if he could escape control, would be ready and

happy to drag us by thousands to destruction.

And will this powerful invention prove to mankind a _blessing_ or a

_curse_?--like the fire which Prometheus stole from heaven to vivify his

statue, may it not be followed by the evils of Pandora's fatal casket?

The lower classes of Belgium have formed an idea that the introduction

of steam is to take away their bread. Let us examine whether there is

not in this idea a degree of instinctive and prophetic truth.

The axiom of our political economists is, that the grand object to be

sought and obtained is to produce the greatest possible results by the

smallest possible means. The axiom, as an axiom by itself, is good; but

the axiom to be opposed to it is, that the well-being and happiness of

any state depends upon obtaining full employment for the whole industry

of the people.

The population of Belgium is enormous. In England we calculate about

eighteen hundred souls to the square league. In Belgium it amounts to

three thousand eight hundred souls to the square league. Now it would

be impossible for Belgium to support this population, were it not, in

the first place, for her extensive manufactories, (for upon the cotton

manufactories alone, in which steam is as yet but partially introduced,

two hundred and fifty thousand souls depend for their existence,) and in

the second place, from the subdivision of the land in small portions,

arising from the laws of inheritance, which bar the right of

primogeniture; the consequence of which is, that the major part of

Belgium is cultivated by spade husbandry, and is in the very highest

state of fertility. Nevertheless, the proportion of those who receive

relief in Belgium from public institutions and private charities of all

descriptions amounts even at present to _one in eight persons_. Now,

allowing that the steam-engine should be generally introduced into this

country, the consequence must be, that machinery will supply the place,

and do the work of man. And what may be the result? that thousands will

be thrown out of employment, and must be supported by the nation. When

the population is so dense that there is not room for the labour of its

present inhabitants, it is clear that the introduction of machinery can

have but one effect--that of increasing pauperism. Are not, then, the

Belgians right in thinking that it will deprive them of their bread?

That machinery has already had that effect to a certain degree in

England cannot be denied; and not only our manufacturing, but our

agricultural population, have been distressed from an adherence to the

same principle, of obtaining the greatest possible results from the

smallest possible means. The subdivision of land will do more to

relieve the agricultural distress than anything else. At present large

farms are preferred both by landlord and tenant, because a large farm

can be cultivated with a fewer number of men and horses; but how does

this act? It throws a certain quantity of labourers out of employ, who

are supported in idleness. Is the sum gained by farmers by employing

fewer men on large farms more than their proportion of the poor's rates

paid for unproductive industry? That it may be more to the farmers is

possible, as they shift a great part of the onus upon others; but to the

nation it certainly is not--for the man who does not work must still be

fed. May we not then consider the following propositions as correct?

That, producing the greatest possible results from the least possible

means, is an axiom which can only hold good when it does not interfere

with the industry of the people. That, as long as the whole population

are employed, such powers become a benefit, and a source of extra

wealth. But that, in proportion as it throws the population out of

employment, so much the more does it prove an injury, and must finally

lead to a state of things which must end in riot, anarchy, and

confusion. _Quod est demonstrandum_--I hope it will not be in our time.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Antwerp.

Every one has heard of the cathedral at Antwerp and the fine pictures by

Rubens--every one has heard of the siege of Antwerp and General Chasse,

and how the French marched an army of non-intervention down to the

citadel, and took it from the Dutch--and every one has heard how Lord

Palmerston protocol-ed while Marshal Gerard bombard-ed--and how it was

all bombard and bombast. The name of Lord Palmerston reminds me that

conversing after dinner with some Belgians, the topic introduced was the

great dearth of diplomatic talent in a country like England, where

talent was in every other department so extremely prominent. It was not

the first time that this subject had been canvassed in my presence by

foreigners. Naturally envious of our general superiority, it is with

them a favourite point of attack; and they are right, as it certainly is

our weakest point. They cannot disparage our army, or our navy, or our

constitution; but they can our climate, which is not our fault, but our

misfortune; and our diplomacy, which is our fault, and has too often

proved our misfortune also.

It certainly is the fact, that our diplomatic corps are very inferior,

and this can arise but from one cause; the emoluments which have been

attached to it having rendered admission into it an advantage eagerly

sought by the higher classes as a provision for the junior branches of

their families. Of course, this provision has been granted to those to

whom government have felt most indebted for support, without the least

regard to the important point as to whether those who were admitted were

qualified or not; so that the mere providing for a younger son of an

adherent to the government may have proved in the end to have cost the

country millions from the incompetence of the party when placed in a

situation requiring tact and discrimination. This evil is increased by

the system of filling up the vacant appointments according to

seniority--the exploded and absurd custom of "each second being heir

unto the first." Should any man have proved, upon an emergency, that he

was possessed of the highest talent for diplomacy, it will avail him

nothing--he never, under the present system, will be employed--he cannot

be admitted into the corps without having entered as a private secretary

or attache. It would be monstrous, unheard _of_; and the very idea

would throw Lord Aberdeen on the one side, or Lord Palmerston on the

other, into convulsions. Is it therefore to be wondered at our being so

deficient in our diplomatic corps? Surely if any point more than

another requires revision and reform, it is this; and the nation has a

right to insist upon it.

It may be asked, what are the most peculiar qualities necessary in a

diplomatist, taking it for granted that he has talents, education, and a

thorough knowledge of the routine of business? The only term which we

can give to this `desideratum is' presence of mind--not the presence of

mind required in danger, but that presence of _mind_ which enables him,

when a proposition is made, at once to seize all its bearings, the

direction to which it tends, and the ultimate object (for that will

always be concealed at first) which the proposer may have in view.

Diplomatists, when they enter the field, are much in the situation of

two parties, one defending and the other attacking a stronghold.

Admissions are highly dangerous, as they enable the adversary to throw

up his first parallels; and too often, when you imagine that the enemy

is not one jot advanced, you find that he has worked through a covered

way, and, you are summoned to surrender. It is strange that, at the

very time that they assert that it would be impossible to employ those

as diplomatists who have not been regularly trained to the service,

officers in the army, and captains in the navy are continually so

employed, and often under circumstances of vital importance. Now it

would be supposed that the latter of all people they must be the most

unfit; as, generally speaking, they are sent to sea, _as unfit for

anything else_. But it appears that once commanding a frigate, they are

supposed to be fit for everything. A vessel is ordered for "particular

service," why so called I know not, except that there may be an elision,

and it means "particularly _disagreeable_ service." The captain is

directed by the Admiralty to consider himself under the orders of the

Foreign Office, and he receives a huge pile of documents, numbered,

scheduled, and red-taped (as Bulwer says in his pamphlet), the contents

of which he is informed are to serve as a guide for his proceedings. He

reads them over with all their verbiage and technicalities, sighs for

Cobbett's pure Saxon, and when he has finished, feels not a little

puzzled. Document Number 4 contradicting document Number 12, and

document Number 1 opposed to Number 66; that is, as _he_ reads and

understands English. Determined to understand them if possible, he

takes a dose of protocol every morning, until he has nearly learnt them

by heart, and then acts to the best of his knowledge and belief. And it

is undeniable that, with very few exceptions, the navy have invariably

given satisfaction to the Foreign Office when they have been so

employed, and often under circumstances of peculiar difficulty. I have

heard, from the best authority, that military men have also been equally

successful, although they have not so often been called into "particular

service." By the bye, particular service is all done at the same price

as general service in his Majesty's navy, which is rather unfair, as we

are obliged to find our own red tape, pens, ink, and stationery.

As I was walking on the glacis with a friend, he pointed out to me at a

window an enormous fat man smoking his pipe, and told me that he had

been in the Dutch service under William of Orange; but not being a very

good hand at a forced march, he had been reduced with others to

half-pay. He had not been many months in retirement when he went to the

palace, and requested an audience of his Majesty, and, when admitted,

stated that he had come to request that his Majesty would be pleased to

put him again upon full pay. His Majesty raised many objections, and

stated his inability to comply with his request; upon which the

corpulent officer exclaimed, embracing with his arms as far as he could,

his enormous paunch, "My God! your Majesty, how can you imagine that I

can fill this big belly of mine with only my half-pay?" This

_argumentum ad ventrem_ so tickled King William, that he was put on

_full pay unattached_, and has continued so ever since. The first

instance I ever heard of a _man_ successfully pleading as ladies do at

the Old Bailey.

It is hard for a wanderer from childhood like me, to find out anything

new or interesting. I have travelled too much and have seen too much--I

seldom now admire. I draw comparisons, and the comparison drawn between

the object before my eyes, and that in my mind's eye, is unfortunately

usually in favour of the latter. He who hath visited so many climes,

mingled with so many nations, attempted so many languages, and who has

hardly anything left but the North Pole or the crater of Vesuvius to

choose between; if he still longs for something new, may well cavil at

the pleasures of memory as a mere song. In proportion as the memory is

retentive, so is decreased one of the greatest charms of existence--

novelty. To him who hath seen much, there is little left but

comparison, and are not comparisons universally odious? Not that I

complain, for I have a resource--I can fly to imagination--quit this

every-day world, and in the region of fiction create new scenes and

changes, and people these with new beings.

Moreover, there is still endless variety, endless amusement, and food

for study and contemplation, in our own species. In all countries still

the same, yet ever varying:--

"The proper study of mankind is man."

From which, I presume, we are to infer that it is time thrown away to

study woman.

At the same party in which the conversation was raised relative to

diplomacy, a person with whom I was, until that day, wholly

unacquainted, was sitting by me, and as it happened, the name of one

with whom I had long been on terms of intimacy was mentioned. "Do you

know him?" said my neighbour, with a very peculiar expression. I

replied that I had occasionally met him, for I thought there was

something coming forward.

"Well, all I can say is, that he is rather a strange person."

"Indeed!" replied I; "how do you mean?"

"Why, they say, that he is of a very uncertain temper."

"Indeed!" continued I, with the same look of inquiry, as if demanding

more information.

"Yes, yes, rather a dangerous man."

"Do you know him?" inquired I, in return.

"Yes; that is to say--not very intimately--the fact is, that I have

avoided it. I grant that he is a very clever man--but I hear that he

quarrels with everybody."

"Who told you so?" replied I.

Oh! he was not authorised to give the name of the person.

"Then," replied I, "allow me to say that you have been misinformed. I

have been on intimate terms with that person for nearly twenty years,

during which he never quarrelled with me or any one that I know of;

although, I grant, he is not over civil to those whom he may despise.

The only part of your communication which is correct is, that he is a

very clever man, and our government are of the same opinion."

My neighbour was discomfited, and said no more, and I joined the general

conversation. What may have been his cause of dislike I know not--but I

have frequently remarked, that if a man has made himself enemies either

from neglect of that sophistry and humbug, so necessary to enable him to

roll down the stream of time with his fellows without attrition, if they

can find no point in his character to assail, their last resort is, to

assert that he is an uncertain tempered man, and not to be trusted.

This is the last, and although not the most empoisoned, still the surest

shaft in the whole quiver of calumny. It does not exactly injure the

character, but it induces others to avoid the acquaintance of the party

so misrepresented.

It is rather singular, and perhaps I may have been fortunate, but in

more than half-a-dozen instances I have found the very parties to whom

this character has been given, although high-minded and high-spirited,

the very antithesis to the character which has been assigned them. That

some do deserve the character is undoubted--but there is no species of

calumny to be received with such peculiar caution. It may be right to

be on your guard, but it never should be the ground for a positive

avoidance of the party accused. Indeed, in some degree, it argues in

his favour, for it is clear that the whole charge they can bring against

his character is an infirmity to which we are all more or less

subjected; and he who looks for perfection in his acquaintance or his

friends, will inevitably meet with disappointment.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Brussels.

I have lost all my memoranda! I cannot find them any where. Well--

children are a great blessing when they are kept in the nursery--but

they certainly do interfere a little with a papa who has the misfortune

to be an author. I little thought, when my youngest girl brought me up

a whole string of paper dolls, hanging together by the arms, that they

had been cut off my memoranda. But so it was; and when I had

satisfactorily established the fact, and insisted upon an inquisition to

recover my invaluables, I found that they had had an auto-da-fe, and

that the whole string of dolls, which contained on their petticoats my

whole string of bewitching ideas, had been burnt like so many witches.

But as the man said in the packet--"Is that all?" Oh, no!--they come

rushing in like a torrent, bounding, skipping, laughing, and screaming,

till I fancied myself like another Orpheus, about to be torn to pieces

by Bacchanals (they are all girls), and I laid down my pen, for they

drive all my ideas out of my head. May your shadows never grow less,

mes enfans, but I wish you would not make such a cursed row.

The author and the author of existence do not amalgamate. That's a

fact.

Their joyous countenances are answered by a look of despair--their

boiling-water heat drives my thermometer down to zero--their confounded

merriment gives me a confounded headache--their animal spirits drive me

to vegetable spirits--their cup of bliss running over makes me also

require a bumper--brandy restores the equilibrium, and I contrive to get

rid of them and my headache about one and the same time.

Talking about brandy--one morning at two o'clock, about the witching

time that ghosts do glide about in churchyards, as I was thinking

whether it would not be better to go to bed instead of writing nonsense,

in which opinion most of my readers may coincide with me, in stalked

three young men who were considerably the worse for potation. There is

a great deal of character in inebriety--at the same time that no

estimate of character can be made from its effects; for we often find

the most quiet men when sober to be the most choleric in their cups--but

still there is character, and much that is curious in witnessing its

variety of effects. Now these young men were each drunk in a very

different war--the first, in a way quite novel; for although he could

preserve his equilibrium, and stare immensely, he had lost the power of

speech; you saw his lips move, but no articulation or sound succeeded--

the second was laughing drunk; everything that was said, either by

himself or by any one else, was magnified into a pun or a _bon mot_--the

third, with whom I had no previous acquaintance, was _politely_ drunk.

I presume the idea of intruding himself upon a stranger, at such an

unseasonable hour, had produced that effect--but let me describe the

scene.

"Ha, ha, ha! we come to you--ha, ha! capital. We want some brandy and

water; and, ha, ha! we know you always keep a stock," said the second,

seating himself in an armchair.

The first also took a chair, moved his lips for a few seconds, and then

sat bolt upright, staring at the two candles; how many he counted I

cannot pretend to say.

"Really," said Number Three, "we are--I'm afraid--taking a great

liberty--a very great liberty; but--an apology is certainly due--if you

will allow me to offer an apology for my two friends--will you allow me

to introduce them?"

"Many thanks, but I have the pleasure of knowing _them_ already."

"I really beg your pardon--it was quite unintentional on my part. I

trust you are not offended? Will you allow me to introduce myself? I

am Captain C--, of the --. Will you permit me to present my card, and

to say how happy I shall be to make your acquaintance?" So saying, the

third gentleman presented me with his card, and returned the card-case

into his pocket.

"Capital!" cried Number Two. "Ha, ha, ha! what an excellent joke, ha,

ha, ha! Now for the brandy-and-water."

This was soon produced, and although Number One had lost all

articulation, he had still the power of deglutition; he filled his

glass, sat up more erect, stared at the candles, and drank his grog; the

other did the same, when Number Three again spoke.

"My dear Sir, I hope you will excuse the liberty, but my name is Captain

C--, of the --. Will you allow me the honour of presenting my card, and

of saying how proud I shall be to make your acquaintance?" So saying,

he presented me another card, which I put aside with the first.

"Ha, ha, ha! what a good joke, to find you up. I said we should get

brandy-and-water here; wasn't that capital?--ha, ha, ha, ha!"

I could not exactly see the joke of being kept up for perhaps two more

hours, but I begged they would refill their glasses, as the sitting

would be sooner ended one way or the other--either by the bottle being

empty, or their falling under the table--I did not care which--when I

was again addressed by Number Three.

"I really beg your pardon, but--I'm afraid I have been very remiss--will

you allow me to introduce myself? I am Captain C--, of the --. Here is

my card, and I cannot say how happy I shall be if I may have the honour

of your acquaintance."

I bowed a third time, and received a third card.

"By heavens, I've finished my tumbler! Ain't that capital? Ha, ha, ha!

famous fun;--and so has Alfred."

"Famous fun, indeed," thought I, as the contents of the bottle

disappeared.

"And Alfred is going to help himself again; well, that is capital, ha,

ha, ha!--ha, ha, ha!--ha, ha, ha, ha!"

Alfred, who was Number One, moved his lips, but like the frozen horn of

Munchausen, sounds would not come out; he did, however, follow up the

joke, by refilling his tumbler for the third time.

"Upon my honour, I've been very rude, I ought to apologise," said Number

Three, again drawing out his card-case; "but will you allow me to offer

my card? I am Captain C--, of the --, and I shall be most happy to make

your acquaintance."

I bowed again, and received the fourth card.

Thus were the changes rung by numbers, one, two, and three, until I was

tired out, two bottles more drank out, and I had received fifteen cards

from my very polite friend, whom I had never seen before.

At four o'clock they all rose to depart.

"Upon my soul, I do believe I'm drunk," said Number Two; "capital joke--

ha, ha, ha!"

Number One continued dumb, brandy had not thawed him; but he stared very

hard at me, as much as to say, I would speak if I could.

Number Three put into my hand the sixteenth card, and made a rash

attempt at a bow.

Having seen them fairly outside my door, I bolted it, saying with

Shakespeare--

"O! that a man

Should put an enemy in his mouth

To steal away his brains!"

I have been this morning to visit an establishment founded by two

brothers, of the name of Van der Maelen. It comprehends natural

history, botany, geography, and statistics, and they have, moreover, a

lithographic press for maps and plates. It is a very curious, and very

spirited undertaking. As yet, the whole has been effected by their own

means, which are extensive, and without any assistance from government.

How few people in this world employ their money so usefully! This

establishment is but yet in its infancy, and the collections are not

very valuable, although rapidly increasing, from the interest felt by

every one in its welfare.

Of all collections of natural history, the fossil department is, to me,

the most interesting; there is room for speculation and reflection, till

the mind is lost in its own wanderings, which I consider one of the

greatest delights of existence. We are indebted to the vast,

comprehensive mind, and indefatigable labour of Cuvier, for the gleams

of light which have lately burst upon us, and which have rendered what

was before mere speculative supposition now a source of interesting and

anxious investigation, attended with results that are as satisfactory as

they are undeniable.

That there was a period when the surface of the earth was almost

entirely covered with water--a state between chaos and order, when man

was not yet created (for that then the world had not yet been rendered

by the Almighty a fit receptacle for man), appears to be undoubted. Yet

the principle of life had been thrown forth by the Almighty hand, and

monsters had been endowed with vitality, and with attributes necessary

for their existence upon an intermediate world.

These were the many varieties of the Ichthyosauri and the Plesiosauri,

of whose remains we have now such abundant specimens--all animals of the

lizard species; some supposed to have been supplied with wings, like the

flying fish of the present day.

But imagine an animal of the lizard species, one hundred and twenty feet

long--imagine such a monster--the existence of which is now proved

beyond a cavil, by the remains, deeply imbedded in the hard blue lias

rocks, and which remains are now in our possession. What a terrific

monster it must have been! We look with horror at an alligator of

twenty or thirty feet, but imagine an animal of that species extending

his huge bulk to one hundred and twenty feet. Were they all destroyed

when the waters were separated from the hand, or did they gradually

become extinct when the earth was no longer a suitable habitation for

them, and no longer congenial to those properties with which they had

been endowed when ordered into existence by the Almighty power? The

description of the Behemoth, by Job, has long been a puzzle to the

learned; we have no animal of the present time winch will answer to it,

but in many points, this description will answer to what may be supposed

would be the appearance, the muscular power, and the habits of this huge

denizen of a former world.

"His force is in the navel of his belly.

He moveth his tail like a cedar.

His bones are as strong pieces of brass.

His bones are like bars of iron.

He lieth under the shady trees in the covert of the reeds and fens.

The shady trees cover him with their shadow.

The willows of the brook compass him about."

It may be a matter of deep surmise, whether all animals were created as

we now find them, that is, whether the first creation was final--or how

far the unerring hand has permitted a change to take place in the forms

and properties of animals, so as to adapt them to their peculiar

situations. I would say, whether the Almighty may not have allowed the

principle of vitality and life to assume, at various epochs, the form

and attributes most congenial to the situation, either by new formation

or by change.

May not the monster of former worlds have dwindled down to the alligator

of this--the leviathan to the whale? Let us examine whether we have any

proofs in existing creation to support this supposition. We all know

that the hair of the goat and sheep in the torrid zones will be changed

into wool when they are taken to the colder climes, and that the reverse

will also take place--we know that the hare and weazel tribes, whose

security is increased from their colour so nearly approaching to that of

the earth in temperate latitudes, have the same protection afforded to

them when they are found in the regions of snow, by their changing to

white--and we know that the _rete mucosum_ of the African enables him to

bear the exposure to a tropical sun, which would destroy an European.

But this is not sufficient, we must examine further. Sir Humphry Davy

has given us a very interesting account of a small animal found in the

pools of water in the caves in Carniola; this animal is called the

_Proteus Anguinus_ or Syren: it is a species of eel with two feet--a

variety only to be found in these caves--it lives in darkness, and

exposure to the light destroys it. Now, here is an animal which we must

either suppose to have been created at the universal creation--and that

is to suppose that these caves and pools of water have also existed from

the time of the creation--or that the principle of vitality has been

permitted, at a later date, to take that form and those attributes

congenial to its situation: it is a curious problem. Again, it is well

known that in the continent of New Holland there are animals who have a

property peculiar to that continent alone--that of a pouch or false

stomach, to contain their young after their birth; it has been surmised

that at one time the major part of that continent was under water, and

that this pouch was supplied to them for the safety of their young; nor

is this conjecture without strong grounds; if only the kangaroo and

opossum tribes, which are animals peculiarly indigenous to that

continent, were supplied with this peculiar formation, the conjecture

would fall to the ground, as it might fairly be said that this property

was only another proof of the endless variety in creation; but the most

remarkable fact is, that not only the kangaroo and opossum, animals

indigenous and peculiar to that portion of the globe, but that very

variety of squirrel, rat, and mouse, which in every other respect are of

the same species as those found in the other continents, are all of them

provided with this peculiar false pouch to contain their young. Why,

therefore, should all these have been supplied with it, if not for a

cause? And the question now arises, whether at the first creation they

had that pouch, or were permitted so far to change their formation, when

the pouch became necessary for the preservation and continuation of

these species? That these changes are the changes of centuries, I

grant, and therefore are not likely to be observed by man, whose records

or whose knowledge are not permitted to be handed down beyond a certain

extent. Knowledge is not happiness; and when the accumulation has

arrived to that height so as to render it dangerous, it is swept away by

the all-wise and benevolent Creator, and we are permitted to begin again

_de novo_. After all, what we term posterity is but a drop of water in

the ocean of Time.

CHAPTER NINE.

Brussels.

There are few people in Brussels, indeed in Belgium, who do not complain

of the revolution; all that goes wrong is at once ascribed to this

cause--indeed I was rather staggered by one gentleman, at Ghent, telling

me very gravely that they had had no fat oxen since the revolution; but

this he explained by stating that the oxen were fattened from the refuse

of several manufactories, all of which had been broken up, the

proprietors having quitted for Holland. The revolution has certainly

been, up to the present time, injurious to both countries, but it is

easy to foretell that eventually Belgium will flourish, and Holland, in

all probability, be the sufferer. The expenses of the latter even now

are greater than her revenue, and when the railroads of Belgium have

been completed, as proposed, to Vienna, the revenue of Holland will be

proportionably decreased from her loss of the carrying trade. It may be

urged that Holland can also have her railroads--but she cannot: so large

a proportion of her population find their support at present on the

canals, that a railroad would be productive of the most injurious

effects. It is true that she can lower her rates of carriage, but the

merchant will save ten days of transport by the railroads, and this

rapidity of communication will always obtain the preference.

But whatever may be the future prospects of Belgium, it is certain that,

from the heavy expenses attending the support of so large an army, the

retirement into Holland of most of the influential and wealthy

commercial men, and the defection of almost all the nobility, at present

she is suffering. Brussels, her capital, has perhaps been most injured,

and is no longer the gay and lively town which it was under the dynasty

of King William of Nassau. When the two countries were united, it was

the custom of the Dutch court to divide the year between Brussels and

the Hague; and as there was not only the establishment of the King, but

also those of Princes William and Frederick (in fact three courts), as

well as all the nobility of Holland and Belgium, there was an overflow

of wealth, of company, and of amusement, which rendered Brussels one of

the most delightful winter residences on the Continent: but this has now

all passed away. The court of Leopold, in consequence of the radical

party having the entire sway, is but a shadow, as nearly all the Belgian

nobility have retired from it. The few who reside in town will not

visit at the palace, and live in seclusion, receiving no company, and

spending no money; the majority, however, have either removed from

Brussels to their country seats, or have left the kingdom to spend their

revenue amongst foreigners.

At present there are but few English here, it being no longer the scene

of gaiety, and there are other reasons which gradually decrease the

number. The fact is, that Brussels is not a very cheap residence. The

duties on every thing are now enormous, and the shop-keepers prey upon

the English as much as they can, having avowedly two prices, one for

them and the other for the Belgians. There are very few amusements, and

the people, since the revolution, are rude and bearish, imagining that

by incivility they prove their liberty and independence. The other

towns of Belgium are very dull and very cheap--Brussels is very dull and

very dear. In another point, Brussels presents a contradiction to all

the other capitals of Europe, in which you generally find the most

polished manners, and the greatest beauty in the female sex,

concentrated. At Brussels it is directly the reverse--the men are

uncivil and the women plain: whereas in the Belgian provinces you will

meet with civility and respect, and at Antwerp, Ostend, and most other

provincial towns, fall in with many fine countenances, reminding you of

the Spanish blood which has been for centuries mingled with that of the

Low Provinces.

Nevertheless there are many advantages in Brussels: the communication

with England is so rapid, and its situation so central, that it may be

considered as the point from which travellers diverge on their various

routes.

About the end of May the arrivals and departures from Brussels are

constant; this stream continues to pour through the city for three

months, after which, as the Belgians do not mix with the foreign

residents, the latter are left entirely to their own resources for

amusement. But the greatest objection to Brussels is, that the English

have brought with them the _English feeling_. I hardly know how else to

term it, but it certainly is a feeling peculiarly English, which has

taken deep root within this last half century, and which has already

produced much evil, and may eventually be productive of more serious

results. I refer to the system of spending more money than you can

afford, to enable you to hold a certain position in the scale of

society.

For these last forty years, during which immense fortunes have been made

in England, there has been a continued struggle of wealth against rank.

_Parvenus_, as the aristocracy have been pleased to call them, have

started up in every direction, vying with, and even eclipsing the

nobility in lavish expenditure--in some instances, driving the

aristocracy to spend more money than they could afford, and thereby

impoverishing them; in others, forcing admittance into their circles.

Wealth and public opinion have latterly gained the ascendency, and the

aristocracy are now more looked up to on account of their large

possessions than of their high birth. Now this has been nothing more

than a demand for greater liberty and more extended rights on the part

of the commoners of England, in proportion as they found themselves a

more important body in the state. It has not been a case of Magna

Charta, but it is still analogous; for they have demanded that the

barrier raised between them and the aristocracy should be thrown down,

as soon as they possessed all the advantages, with the exception of that

nominal rank, the title too often conferred without discrimination on

the one hand or claims on the other. As soon as a partial breach had

been made in this barrier,--every one rushed for admittance, displaying

wealth as their ticket of admission, and the consequence has been, that

wealth has now become the passport into society; but another consequence

has also ensued, which is, that to obtain entrance, almost everybody has

been living and keeping up an appearance which has not been warranted by

their means. Many have exceeded their incomes, and then sunk down into

poverty; others have, perhaps, only lived up to their incomes; but in so

doing, have disappointed those who, induced by the appearance of so much

wealth, have married into the family and discovered that they have

obtained wives with expensive ideas, and no money. But there have been

other reasons which have induced some to live beyond their means--they

have done it in the pure spirit of gambling. In England, credit, next

to money, is of most value, and according to their supposed wealth, so

did the parties obtain credit; an expenditure beyond their means was,

therefore, with commercial men, nothing more than a speculation, which

very often succeeded, and eventually procured to the parties the means

of expenditure. It is well known that the income tax, in many cases,

was paid double; commercial men preferring to give in their income at

twice its real value, and pay the tax to that amount, that they might be

supposed to possess more than they really had; indeed, as it was

imagined that a man would evade so heavy an impost as much as possible,

he was generally considered to be worth even more than what he himself

had stated. It is from these causes that has arisen what I have called

the English feeling, for display beyond the means, and which has made

our countrymen look down upon those who cannot compete with them in

expense. Let a married couple be ever so well connected--let them have

talent, and every other advantage, it will avail them nothing, if they

have not money, sufficient at least to keep a carriage, and not shock

the mistress of a house by the sound of the rattling steps of a

hackney-coach at her door; besides which, in our commercial country, the

principle of barter, of _quid pro quo_, is extended even to dinner and

evening parties--and the reason is obvious--when people live to the full

extent, or even beyond their incomes, a little management is required.

A dinner-party is so arranged, that the dinners received from others are

returned to them, and they cannot afford to ask a couple who cannot give

them a dinner in return, as they would fill up the places of others to

whom a dinner is due, and who, if not asked then, must be at another

time; and an extra dinner is an extra expense to be avoided. The

English therefore, who have only moderate incomes, have the choice,

either to live beyond their means, and leave their children unprovided

for, or of being shut out from that society, to which every other is but

the adventitious claim of wealth, they are entitled. The consequence

has been that since the peace thousands and thousands have settled on

the Continent, that they may make more display with a small income, and

thousands more, with a much better feeling, to avoid expense, and lay by

a provision for their children. Of course all these remarks are made

with reservation, but with reservation, it may be said, that in England

we have, or soon shall have, only two classes left, the extreme rich and

the extreme poor, for the intermediate classes are gradually retiring to

the continent, emigrating to Canada and America, or sinking down into

the second class.

This is a most dangerous state of society, and, if carried to the

extreme, has always proved ruinous to the state. Although the immense

extent of the Roman empire may be asserted as the ultimate cause of its

downfall, still that downfall was most certainly accelerated by the

rottenness at the core, the system of patrons and clients having thrown

all the wealth into the hands of a few. Are we not rapidly advancing to

this state in England? The landholders are almost at the mercy of the

fundholders, who, in fifty years' time, will probably have possession of

the land as well as of the money. And should there be no check put to

this disintegration of society, then must come what the radicals are now

so anxious to obtain, the equitable adjustment--and in that case it is a

problem how far that may not be really _equitable_; for society may, by

degrees, arrive to a state so anomalous as to warrant that the few

should be sacrificed for the benefit of the community at large.

CHAPTER TEN.

Brussels, May 22.

Among the _lions_ of Brussels, a dog was pointed out to me, as he lay on

the pavement in front of the House of Assembly. It was a miserable

looking cur; but he had a tale extra attached to him, which had

magnified him into a lion. It was said that he belonged to a Dutch

soldier, who was killed in the revolution, at the spot where the dog

then lay, and that ever since (a period of four years) the animal had

taken up his quarters there, and invariably lain upon that spot.

Whether my informant lied, and the dog did not, I cannot pretend to say;

but if the story be true, it was a most remarkable specimen of fidelity

and ugliness. And he was a sensible dog, moreover; instead of dying of

grief and hunger, as some foolish dogs have done, he has always

dedicated an hour every evening to cater for his support, and then

returns to pass the night on the spot. I went up to him, and when

within two yards he thought proper to show his teeth, and snarl most

dog-matically; I may therefore, in addition to his other qualities,

state that he is an ill-natured dog. How far the report was correct, I

cannot vouch; but I watched him three or four days, and always found him

at his post; and after such strict investigation, had I asserted ten

years instead of four, I have a prescriptive right, as a traveller, to

be believed.

It is singular that it is only in England that you can find dogs,

properly so called; abroad they have nothing but curs. I do not know

anything more puzzling than the genealogy of the animals you meet with

under the denomination of dogs in most of the capitals of Europe. It

would appear as if the vice of promiscuous and unrestricted intercourse

had been copied from their masters; and I have been almost tempted to

take up the opinion, that you may judge of the morality of a capital

from the degeneracy of the dogs. I have often, at Paris, attempted to

make out a descent; but found it impossible. Even the late Sir G

Naylor, with all the herald's office, stimulated by double fees, could

not manage to decipher escutcheons obliterated by so many crosses.

I am very partial to dogs; and one of my amusements, when travelling, is

to watch their meetings with each other; they appear to me to do

everything but speak. Indeed, a constant observer will distinguish in

dogs many of the passions, virtues, and rices of men; and it is

generally the case, that those of the purest race have the nobler

qualifications. You will find in them devotion, courage, generosity,

good temper, sagacity, and forbearance; but these virtues, with little

alloy, are only to be found in the pure breeds. A cur is quite a

lottery: he is a most heterogeneous compound of virtue and vice; and

sometimes the amalgamation is truly ludicrous. Notwithstanding which, a

little scrutiny of his countenance and his peculiar movements will soon

enable you to form a very fair estimate of his general character and

disposition.

One of the most remarkable qualities in dogs is the fidelity of their

attachments; and the more so, as their attachments are very often

without any warrantable cause. For no reason that can be assigned, they

will take a partiality to people or animals, which becomes a feeling so

dominant, that their existence appears to depend upon its not being

interfered with. I had an instance of this kind, and the _parties_ are

all living. I put up, for an hour or two, at a livery stables in town,

a pair of young ponies. On my taking them out again, the phaeton was

followed by a large coach-dog, about two years old, a fine grown animal,

but not well marked, and in very poor condition. He followed us into

the country; but having my establishment of dogs (taxes taken into

consideration), I ordered him to be shut out. He would not leave the

iron gates; and when they were opened, in he bolted, and hastening to

the stables, found out the ponies, and was not to be dislodged from

under the manger without a determined resistance. This alternate

bolting in and bolting out continued for many days; finding that I could

not get rid of him, I sent him away forty miles in the country; but he

returned the next day, expressing the most extravagant joy at the sight

of the ponies, who, strange to say, were equally pleased, allowing him

to put his paws upon them, and bark in their faces. But although the

ponies were partial to the dog, I was not; and aware that a voyage is a

great specific for curing improper attachments, I sent the dog down the

river in a barge, requesting the men to land him where they were bound,

on the other side of the Medway; but in three days the dog again made

his appearance, the picture of famine and misery. Even the coachman's

heart was melted, and the rights and privileges of his favourite

snow-white terrier were forgotten. It was therefore agreed, in a

cabinet council held in the harness room, that we must make the best of

it; and, as the dog would not leave the ponies, the best thing we could

do, was to put a little flesh on his bones, and make him look

respectable. We therefore victualled him that day, and put him on our

books with the purser's name of Pompey. Now this dog proved, that

sudden as was his attachment to the ponies, it was of the strongest

quality. He never would and never has since left these animals. If

turned out in the fields, he remains out with them, night as well as

day, taking up his station as near as possible half way between the two,

and only coming home to get his dinner. No stranger can enter their

stables with impunity; for he is very powerful, and on such occasions

very savage. A year or two after his domiciliation, I sold the ponies,

and the parties who purchased were equally anxious at first to get rid

of the dog; but their attempts, like mine, were unavailing, and, like

me, they at last became reconciled to him. On my return from abroad, I

re-purchased them, and Pompey of course was included in the purchase.

We are none of us perfect--and Pompey had one vice; but the cause of the

vice almost changed it into a virtue. He had not a correct feeling

relative to _meum_ and _tuum_, but still he did not altogether steal for

himself, but for his friends as well. Many have witnessed the fact of

the dog stealing a loaf, or part of one, taking it into the stables, and

dividing it into three portions, one for each pony, and the other for

himself. I recollect his once walking off with a round of beef,

weighing seventeen or eighteen pounds, and taking it to the ponies in

the field--they smelt at it, but declined joining him in his repast.

By-the-bye, to prove that lost things will turn up some day or another,

there was a silver skewer in the beef, which was not recovered until two

years afterwards, when it was turned up by the second ploughing. One

day, as the ponies were in the field where I was watching some men at

work, I heard them narrating to a stranger the wonderful feats of this

dog, for I have related but a small portion. The dog was lying by the

ponies as usual, when the servants' dinner-bell rang, and off went

Pompey immediately at a hard gallop to the house to get his food.

"Well, dang it, but he is a queer dog," observed the man, "for now he's

running as fast as he can, to _answer the bell_."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

May 23.

With all the faults of the Roman church, it certainly appears to me that

its professors extend towards those who are in the bosom of their own

church a greater share than most other sects, of the true spirit of

every religion--charity. The people of the Low Countries are the most

bigoted Catholics at present existing, and in no one country is there so

much private as well as public charity. It is, however, to private

charity that I refer. In England there is certainly much to be offered

in extenuation, as charity is extorted by law to the utmost farthing.

The baneful effects of the former poor laws have been to break the links

which bound together the upper and lower classes, produced by protection

and good will in the former, and in the latter, by respect and

gratitude. Charity by act of parliament has dissolved the social

compact--the rich man grumbles when he pays down the forced

contribution--while the poor man walks into the vestry with an insolent

demeanour, and claims relief, not as a favour, but as a right. The poor

laws have in themselves the essence of revolution, for if you once

establish the right of the poor man to any portion of the property of

the rich, you admit a precedent so far dangerous, that the poor may

eventually decide for themselves what portion it may be that they may be

pleased to take; and this becomes the more dangerous, as it must be

remembered, that the effect of the poor laws is _repulsion_ between the

two classes, from the one giving unwillingly, and the other receiving

unthankfully. How the new Poor Law Bill will work remains to be proved;

but this is certain, that much individual suffering must take place,

before it works out the great end which it is intended to obtain.

That the Roman Catholic laity are more charitable is not a matter of

surprise, as they are not subjected to forced contributions: but it

appears to me that the Catholic clergy are much more careful and kind to

their flocks than our own. Now, indeed, can it be otherwise, when even

now, although so much reform in the Church has been effected, so many of

our clergymen are pluralists and non-residents, expending the major part

of the church revenue out of the parish, leaving to the curate, who

performs the duty, a stipend which renders it impossible for him to

exercise that part of his Christian duty to any extent?--for charity

_begins_ at home, and his means will not allow him to proceed much

farther. That serious evils have arisen from the celibacy of the Roman

clergy is true, for priests are but men, and are liable to temptation;

but it is equally certain that when a Roman Catholic clergyman is a pure

and pious man, he has nothing to distract his attention from the

purposes of his high calling; and not only his whole attention is

devoted to his flock, but his existence, if necessary, is voluntarily

endangered. At the period of the cholera, there were many remarkable

instances of this devotion to death on the part of the Roman priesthood,

and as many, I am forced to say, of the Protestant clergy flying from

the epidemic, and leaving their flocks without a shepherd. And why so?

because the Protestant clergymen had wives and families depending upon

them for support, and whose means of existence would terminate with

their own lives. It was very natural that they should prefer the

welfare of their own families to that of their parishioners. But in

other cases not so extreme, the encumbrance of a family to a clergyman

in England is very often in opposition to his duty. To eke out a scanty

remuneration, he sets up a school or takes in pupils. Now if the duties

of a clergyman consisted in merely reading the services on a Sunday, and

christening, burying, and marrying, he might well do so; but the real

duties of a clergyman are much more important. His duty is to watch

over the lives and conduct of his parishioners, to exhort, persuade, and

threaten, if necessary; to be ever among his flock, watching them as a

shepherd does his sheep. And how can he possibly do this, if he takes

charge of pupils?--he must either neglect his pupils or neglect his

parish. He cannot do justice to both. As Saint Paul says to the

bishops, "Although it is better to marry than burn, still it is better

to be even as I am," unencumbered with wife and family, and with no ties

to distract my attention from my sacred and important calling.

But the _public_ charitable institutions abroad are much better

conducted than those of England, where almost every thing of the kind is

made a job, and a source of patronage for pretending pious people, who

work their way into these establishments for their own advantage. It is

incredible the number of poor people who are effectually relieved on the

Continent in the course of the year, at an expense which would not meet

the weekly disbursements of a large parish in England. But then, how

much more judicious is the system! I know for a fact, that in the

county where I reside, and in which the hard-working labourer, earning

his twelve shillings a week, is quite satisfied if he can find

sufficient _bread_ for his family, (not tasting meat, perhaps, ten times

during the whole year,) that those who were idlers, supported by

charity, were supplied with meat three or four times a week; nay, even

the felons and prisoners in the county gaol were better fed than was the

industrious working man. And this is what in England is called charity.

It is base injustice to the meritorious. But many of the

charitable institutions in England, from mal-administration, and

pseudo-philanthropy, have become very little better than establishments

holding out premiums for idleness and hypocrisy.

Among the institutions founded by Roman Catholics and particularly

deserving of imitation, that of the Soeurs de la Charite appears to be

the most valuable. It is an institution which, like mercy, is twice

blessed--it blesses those who give, and those who receive. Those who

give, because many hundreds of females, who would otherwise be thrown

upon the world, thus find an asylum, and become useful and valuable

members to society. They take no vows--they only conform to the rules

of the sisterhood during the time that they remain in it, and if they

have an opportunity, by marriage or otherwise, of establishing

themselves, they are at free liberty to depart. How many young women,

now forced into a wretched, wicked life, would gladly incorporate

themselves into such a society in England; how many, if such a society

existed, would be prevented from falling into error!

It is well known, that to support a large community, the expenses are

trifling compared to what they are when you have the same number of

isolated individuals to provide for. A company of two or three hundred

of these sisters living together, performing among themselves the

various household duties, washing, etcetera, and merely requiring their

food, would not incur the same expense in house rent, firing, and

provisions, as thirty or forty isolated individuals. Soldiers in

barracks are even well fed, housed, and clothed, at a much less expense

than it costs the solitary labourer to eat his _dry bread_ in his own

cottage; and the expenses of such communities, if once established,

would very soon be paid by their receipts.

It would be a double charity, charity to those who would willingly

embrace the life, and charity to those who might require their

assistance. It is well known how difficult it is to obtain a sick nurse

in London. It is an avocation seldom embraced by people, until they are

advanced in years, and all feeling has been dried up by suffering or

disappointment. Those who undertake the task are only actuated by gain,

and you can expect but eye-service. Not being very numerous, and

constantly in demand, they are overworked, and require stimulants in

their long watchings. In fact, they drink and dose--dose and drink

again.

But how different would it be if the establishments, which I have

referred to, were formed! those who are wealthy would send for one of

the sisters when required, and if the illness were tedious, her services

could be replaced by another, so that over-fatigue might not destroy

watchfulness and attention to the patient. You would at once feel that

you had those in your house in whom you could confide. If your means

enabled you, you would send a sum to the funds of the charity in return

for the service performed, and your liberality would enable them to

succour those who could only repay by blessings. A very small

subscription would set afloat such a charity, as the funds would so

rapidly come in; and if under the surveillance of the medical men who

attended the hospitals, it would soon become effective and valuable. I

trust if this should meet the eye of any real philanthropist who has

time to give, which is more valuable than money, that he will turn it

over in his mind:--the founder would be a benefactor to his country.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

May 25.

"A man cannot die more than once," is an old apothegm, and it would

appear bold to dispute it; but still there are lives within lives, such

as political lives, literary lives, etcetera, and there is also such a

thing as being dead in the eye of the law; so that it is evident that a

man can die twice, that is, once professionally or legally, and once

naturally.

I presume, like all other scribblers, I must meet my literary death,

that is, when I have written myself down, or have written myself out. I

have no objection, for I am very weary of my literary existence,

although authors are not so in general; on the contrary, they can

perceive in themselves no sign of decay when it is apparent to every

body around them. Literary decay is analogous to the last stage of a

consumption, in which you believe you are not going to die, and plan for

the future as if you were in perfect health. And yet to this complexion

must all authors come at last. There is not a more beautiful, or more

true portrait of human nature, than the scene between the Archbishop of

Grenada and Gil Blas, in the admirable novel of Le Sage. Often and

often has it been brought to my recollection since I have taken up the

pen, and often have I said to myself, "Is this homily as good as the

last?" (perhaps homily is not exactly the right term my writings.) The

great art in this world, not only in writing, but in everything else, is

to know when to leave off. The mind as well as the body must wear out.

At first it is a virgin soil, but we cannot renew its exhausted vigour

after it has borne successive crops. We all know this, and yet we are

all archbishops of Grenada. Even the immortal Walter Scott might have

benefited by the honesty of Gil Blas, and have burnt his latter

homilies; but had he had such an unsophisticated adviser, would he not,

in all probability, have put him out by the shoulders, wishing him, like

the venerable hierarch, "a little more taste and judgment."

Since I have been this time abroad, I have made a discovery for which

all prose writers ought to feel much indebted to me. Poets can invoke

Apollo, the Muses, the seasons, and all sorts and varieties of gods and

goddesses, naked or clothed, besides virtues and vices, and if none of

them suit, they may make their own graven image, and fall down before

it; but we prose writers have hitherto had no such advantage, no

protecting deity to appeal to in our trouble, as we bite our pens, or to

call upon to deliver us from a congestion of the brain. Now being aware

that there were upwards of three hundred and fifty thousand canonised

saints on the Roman calendar, I resolved to run through the catalogue,

to ascertain--if there was one who took prose authors under his

protection, and to my delight, I stumbled upon our man. By-the-bye, Tom

Moore must have known this, and he has behaved very ill in keeping him

all to himself. But I must introduce him. It is the most holy, and the

most blessed, Saint Brandon. Holy Saint Brandon inspire me, and guide

my pen while I record thy legend! In the first place, let me observe

that our patron saint was an Irishman, and none the worse for that, as

Ireland has had as good saints as any in the calendar. And it is now

clear that he does protect us prosaic writers, by the number of

reporters and gentlemen of the press which have been sent over from the

sister kingdom. But to proceed.

Saint Brandon, it appears, was a reading man, and amused himself with

voyages and travels; but Saint Brandon was an unbeliever, and thought

that travellers told strange things. He took up the Zoology of Pliny,

and pursued his accounts of "Antres vast, and men whose heads do grow

beneath their shoulders." He read until his patience was exhausted,

and, in a fit of anger, he threw the manuscript into the flames. Now

this was a heavy sin, for a man's book is the bantling of his brain,

and, to say the least, it was a literary-infanticide. That very night

an angel appeared to him, and as a penance for his foul crime (in the

enormity of which every author will agree with the angel), he was

enjoined to _make the book over again_, no easy task in those days, when

manuscripts were rare, and the art of book-making had not been invented.

The sinner, in obedience to the heavenly mission, goes to work; he

charters a vessel, lays in provisions for a seven years' voyage, and

with a crew of seven monks, he makes sail, and after going round the

world seven times, during which the world went round the sun seven

times, he completed his task in seven volumes folio, which he never

published, but carried his manuscript away with him to prove that he had

performed his penance. For this miraculous voyage--and certainly with

such a ship's company, it was a miracle--he was canonised, and is now

the patron saint of all prose authors, particularly those whose works

are measured by the foot-rule.

And now that I have made known to my fraternity that we also have a

saint, all they have to do is to call upon him six or seven times, when

their brains are at sixes and sevens. I opine that holy Saint Brandon

made a very _hazard-ous_ voyage, for it is quite clear that, in the

whole arrangement, it was--_seven's the main_.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

En route, May 26.

Passed Waterloo--was informed that two days before the Marquis of

Anglesey had arrived there, and stayed a short time to visit the

cemetery of his leg; a regular family visit of course, as all the

_members_ were present.

May 27.

Slept at Namur. The French are certainly superior to us in the art of

rendering things agreeable. Now, even in the furnishing of a common

apartment, there is always something to relieve the eye, if not to

interest you. I recollect when I was last in London, in furnished

apartments, that as I lay awake in the morning, my eye caught the

pattern of the paper. It was a shepherdess with her dog in repose,

badly executed, and repeated without variation over the whole apartment.

Of course I had nothing to do but to calculate how many shepherdesses

and dogs there were in the room, which, by counting the numbers in

length and breadth, squaring the results, and deducting for door and

windows, was soon accomplished. But how different was the effect

produced by the paper of the room in which I slept last night! It was

the history of Dunois, the celebrated bastard of France, who prays in

his youth that he may prove the bravest of the brave, and be rewarded

with the fairest of the fair. This was not the true history, perhaps,

of Dunois; but I am drawing the comparison between the associations and

reminiscences conjured up by this decoration in opposition to the dull

and tasteless recapitulation of the English manufacture. From the

latter I could not extract a bare idea, except that shepherdesses are,

as a race, extinct, and that Lord Althorp had taken the tax off

shepherds' dogs, by way of a bonus, to relieve a distressed capital of

some hundred millions, to which the agricultural interest had very

properly replied, "Thank you for nothing, my Lord;" but from the sight

of the French paper what a host of recollections started up at the

moment! The mind flew back to history, and was revelling in all the

romance of chivalry, from King Arthur and his Knights, to the Field of

the Cloth of Gold.

"Yet, after all," thought I, at the end of a long reverie, "divest

chivalry, so called, of its imposing effect, examine well into its

nature and the manners of the times, and it must be acknowledged that

the modern warfare has a much greater claim than the ancient to the

title of chivalry. In former times men were cased in armour of proof,

and, before the discovery of gunpowder, had little to fear in a _melee_,

except from those who, like themselves, were equally well armed and

equally protected, and even then only from flesh wounds, which were

seldom mortal. The lower classes, who served as common soldiers, were

at the mercy of the mounted spearsmen, and could seldom make any

impression upon their defences. In those days, as in the present, he

who could command most gold carried the day, for the gold procured the

steel harness, and a _plump_ of spears brought into the field was more

than equal to a thousand common men. He who had the best tempered

armour was the most secure, and that was it be only procured by gold.

He who could mount and case in iron the largest number of his followers

was the most powerful, and, generally speaking, the most lawless.

Divest chivalry of its splendour, which threw a halo round it, and it

was brutal, and almost cowardly. Single combats did certainly prove

courage; but even in them, skill, and more than skill, personal

strength, or the best horse, decided the victory. In fact, although not

the origin, it was the upholder of the feudal system, in which might was

right; and we may add, that the invention of gunpowder, which placed

every man upon a level, if not the cause of, certainly much assisted to

break up the system. How much more of the true spirit of chivalry is

required in the warfare of the present day, in which every man must

stand for hours to be shot at like a target, witnessing the mowing down

of his comrades, and silently filling up the intervals in the ranks made

by their deaths, exposed to the same leaden messengers; a system of

warfare in which every individual is a part of a grand _whole_, acting

upon one concerted and extended plan, and forced a hundred times to

exhibit the passive and more perfect bravery of constancy, for once that

he may forget his danger in the ardour of the charge! When shall we

learn to call things by their right names?"

Liege, May 28.

Our landlord is a most loyal man, but there is a reason for it. Leopold

took up his quarters at this hotel in his way to Spa. In every room we

have upon every article of _fayence_--"Leopold, with the Genius of

Belgium crowning him with laurels, while Truth is looking on." Every

plate, every dish, is impressed with this proof print of loyalty. But

this is not all, as the man said in the packet, "Oh, no!" All the

wash-hand basins, jugs, and every other article required in a

bed-chamber, have the same loyal pattern at the bottom. Now it appeared

to me, when I went to bed, that loyalty might be carried too far; and

what may have been intended as respect, may be the cause of his Majesty

being treated with the greatest disrespect; and not only his sacred

Majesty, but the glorious Belgian constitution also. As for poor Truth,

she is indeed said to sojourn at the bottom of a well; but in this

instance, it would, perhaps, be as well that she should not be

insulted--I am wrong, she always is, and always will be, insulted, when

she appears in the purlieus of a court, or in the presence of a king.

After all, mine is a strange sort of Diary. It is not a diary of

events, but of thoughts and reminiscences, which are thrown up and

caught as they float to the surface in the whirlpool of my brain. No

wonder!--events are but as gleanings compared to the harvest of many

years, although so negligently gathered into store. I have been

puzzling myself these last two hours to find out what a man's brain is

like. It is like a kaleidoscope, thought I; it contains various ideas

of peculiar colours, and as you shift them round and past, you have a

new pattern every moment. But no, it was not like a kaleidoscope, for

the patterns of a kaleidoscope are regular, and there is very little

regularity in my brain, at all events.

It is like a pawnbroker's shop, thought I, full of heterogeneous

pledges; and if you would take anything out, experience stands at the

counter, and makes you pay her compound interest, while many articles of

value are lost for ever, because memory cannot produce the duplicate.

And then I compared it to almost every thing, but none of my comparisons

would hold good. After all, thought I, I have been only playing at

"What are my thoughts like?" which is a childish game; and how can I

possibly find out what my brain is like, when my brain don't choose to

tell? So I rose, and opening the window, lighted my cigar, and smoked

myself into a reverie, as I watched the smoke ascending from the

chimneys of the good town of Liege.

And this is the city which travellers pass through, describing it as a

mere manufacturing town, thought I. A city which has, in its time,

produced a greater moral influence upon society than any other in

existence--a city that has led the van in the cause of religion and

liberty. Liege presents a curious anomaly among the states of Europe.

It is the only town and province, with the exception of Rome, which has

been, for centuries, ruled by the clerical power. But be it

recollected, that at the very period that Christianity was offering up

her martyrs at the blood-stained arena of the Coliseum, it was from

Liege (or rather Tongres, for Liege was not then built) that she was

spreading wide her tenets, unpersecuted and unrestrained, for she was

too far removed from idolatry and imposture to be regarded. The

province of Liege was the cradle of the Christian faith. From the

earliest records there were bishops at Tongres; and it was about five

hundred years after Christ, that Saint Monulphe, the reigning bishop,

founded the city of Liege. From that time until the French Revolution,

this town and these fertile provinces had always remained under clerical

authority.

Although these prince-bishops proved that, upon necessity, they could

change the crosier for the coat of mail, still, as by endowments and

benefactions they increased their revenues, so did they, by the mildness

of their sway, induce thousands to settle in their territory; and to

increase their population (which was to increase their wealth), they

first granted to their citizens those privileges and liberties, which

have, upon their precedent, been obtained by force or prayers by others.

The very boast of the English of the present day, that _every man_'s

_house is his castle_, was the sacred grant of one of the bishops to the

citizens at Liege, long before the feudal system had been abolished in

our island.

I may also observe, for it is to be gained from the chronicles of this

province, that the time at which it may be said that the primitive

Christian church first fell into error, appears to have been about one

thousand years after the death of our Saviour. And as I thought of all

this, and a great deal more, and smoked my cigar, I felt a great deal of

respect for the good old city of Liege; and then I wandered back to the

country I had passed through the day before, excelling in all lovely

scenery. I had seen it before, but it was many years ago; and it may be

seen many times without the least degree of satiety. I do not know any

scenery which raises up such pleasurable sensations as that of the

Valley of Meuse, taking it the whole way from Namur to Liege, and from

Liege to Spa. It is not so magnificent as the Rhine, to which it bears

a miniature resemblance. It is not of that description creating a

strong excitement, almost invariably succeeded by depression; but it is

of that unchanging and ever-pleasing, joyous description, that you are

delighted without being fatigued, and have stimulus sufficient to keep

you constantly in silent admiration without demanding so much from the

senses as to weary them. If I could have divested myself from the

knowledge that I was in motion, and have fancied that the scene was

moving past, I could have imagined myself seated at one of our large

theatres, watching one of Stanfield's splendid panoramas. But the

lighted end of my cigar at last approximated so near to my nose, that I

was burnt out of my reverie; I took the last save--all whiffs, tried to

hit an old woman's cap with the end of it, as I tossed it into the

street, and retreated to the diurnal labour of shaving--of all human

miseries, certainly, the "unkindest cut of all"--especially when the

maids have borrowed your razor, during your absence, to pare down the

apex of their corns.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Liege.

I have been reading the "Salmonia" of Sir Humphry Davy: what a pity it

is that he did not write more! there are so many curious points started

in it. I like that description of book, which, after reading a while,

you drop it on your knee, and are led into a train of thought which may

last an hour, before you look for the page where you left off. There

are two cases argued in this work, which led me into a meditation. The

one is, a comparison between reason and instinct, and the other, as to

the degree of pain inflicted upon fish by taking them with the hook.

Now it appeared to me, in the first question, what has been advanced is

by no means conclusive, and although it is the custom to offer a penny

for your thoughts, I shall give mine for nothing, which is perhaps as

much as they are worth, (I say that, to prevent others from making the

sarcastic remark), and in the second question, I think I can assist the

cause of the lovers of the _gentle_ art of angling--why _gentle_, I know

not, unless it be that anglers bait with _gentles_, and are mostly

_gentle_-men.

But before I attempt to prove that angling is not a cruel sport, I must

first get rid of "reason and instinct." Of reason most undoubtedly a

philanthropist would reply, "Be it so;" nevertheless, I will argue the

point, and if I do not succeed, I have only to hedge back upon Solomon,

and inquire, "If man was born to misery as the sparks fly upwards, why

are not the inferior classes of creation to have their share of it?"

I do not think that any one can trace out the line of demarcation

between reason and instinct. Instinct in many points in wonderful,

especially among insects, but where it is wonderful, it is a blind

obedience, and inherited from generation to generation. We observe, as

in the case of the bees, that they obey the truest laws of mathematics,

and from these laws they never have deviated from their creation, and

that all animals, as far as their self-defence or their sustenance is

concerned, show a wonderful blind obedience to an unerring power, and a

sagacity almost superior to reason. But wonderful as this is, it is

still but instinct, as the progenitors of the race were equally guided

by it, and it is handed down without any improvement, or any decay in

its power. Now if it could be asserted that the instinct of animals was

only thus inherited from race to race, and could "go no farther," the

line of demarcation between reason and instinct would at once be

manifest, as instinct would be blindly following certain fixed laws,

while reason would ever be assisted by memory and invention. But we

have not this boasted advantage on the side of reason, for animals have

both memory and invention, and, moreover, if they have not speech, they

have equal means of communicating their ideas. That this memory and

invention cannot be so much exercised as our own, may be true, but it is

exercised to an extent equal to their wants, and they look no further;

that is to say, that if any want not prepared for, or anything should

take place interfering with their habits and economy, instinct will

enable them to meet the difficulty. There is nothing more wonderful

than the application of mechanical power by ants. No engineer could

calculate with greater nicety, and no set of men work together with such

combination of force. After they have made ineffectual attempts to

remove a heavy body, you will observe them to meet together, consult

among themselves, and commence an entire new plan of operations. Bees,

also, are always prepared to meet any new difficulty. If the _sphinx

atropos_, or death's head moth, forces its way into the hive, the bees

are well known, after having killed it with their stings, to embalm the

dead body with wax--their reason for this is, that the body was too

large for them to remove through the passage by which it entered, and

they would avoid the unpleasant smell of the carcass. It may be argued,

that instinct had always imparted to them this knowledge; but if so,

they must have had a fresh accession of instinct after they had been

domiciled with men: for it is well known that the hole in the tree, in

which the wild bees form their cells, is invariably too small to admit

any animal larger than themselves, and the bodies of such sized animals

they could remove with as much ease as they do the bodies of their own

dead.

I could cite a hundred instances, which would prove that animals have

invention independent of the instinct handed down from generation to

generation. I will, however, content myself with one instance of

superior invention in the elephant, which occurred at Ceylon. Parties

were employed felling timber in the forests of Candia, and this timber,

after having been squared, was dragged to the depot by a large party of

elephants, who, with their keepers, were sent there for that purpose.

This work was so tedious, that a large truck was made, capable of

receiving a very heavy load of timber, which might be transported at

once. This truck was dragged out by the elephants, and it was to be

loaded. I should here observe, that when elephants work in a body,

there is always one who, as if by common consent, takes the lead, and

directs the others, who never refuse to obey him. The keepers of the

elephants, and the natives, gave their orders, and the elephants obeyed;

but the timber was so large, and the truck so high on its wheels, that

the elephants could not put the timber in the truck according to the

directions given by the men. After several attempts, the natives gave

up the point, and retiring to the side of the road as usual, squatted

down, and held a consultation. In the meantime, the elephant who took

the lead summoned the others, made them drag two of the squared pieces

to the side of the truck, laid them at right angles with it, lifting one

end of each on the truck, and leaving the other on the ground, thus

forming the inclined plane. The timber was then brought by the

elephants, without any interference on the part of the keepers or

natives, who remained looking on, was pushed by the elephants with their

foreheads up the inclined plane, and the truck was loaded. Here then is

an instance in which the inventive instinct of the animal--if that term

may be used--was superior to the humbler reasoning powers of the men who

had charge of them.

That animals have the powers of memory as well as man, admits of no

dispute. In elephants, horses, and dogs, we have hourly instances of

it: but it descends much lower down--the piping bullfinch, who has been

taught to whistle two or three waltzes in perfect concord, must have a

good memory, or he would soon forget his notes. To detail instances of

memory would therefore be superfluous; but, as it does occur to me while

I write, I must give an amusing instance how the memory of a good

thrashing overcame the ruling passion of a monkey, which is gluttony,

the first and only instance that I ever saw it conquered.

I had on board a ship which I commanded, a very large Cape baboon, who

was a pet of mine, and also a little boy, who was a son of mine. When

the baboon sat down on his hams, he was about as tall as the boy was

when he walked. The boy having tolerable appetite, received about noon

a considerable slice of bread and butter, to keep him quiet till

dinner-time. I was on one of the carronades, busy with the sun's lower

limb, bringing it in contact with the horizon, when the boy's lower

limbs brought him in contact with the baboon, who having, as well as the

boy, a strong predilection for bread and butter, and a stronger arm to

take it withal, thought proper to help himself to that to which the boy

had been already helped. In short, he snatched the bread and butter,

and made short work of it, for it was in his pouch in a moment. Upon

which the boy set up a yell, which attracted my notice to this violation

of the articles of war, to which the baboon was equally amenable as any

other person in the ship; for it is expressly stated in the preamble of

every separate article, "All who are _in_, or _belonging_ to."

Whereupon I jumped off the carronade, and by way of assisting his

digestion, I served out to the baboon monkey's allowance, which is, more

kicks than halfpence. The master reported that the heavens intimated

that it was twelve o'clock; and with all the humility of a captain of a

man-of-war, I ordered him to "make it so;" whereupon it was made, and so

passed that day. I do not remember how many days it was afterwards that

I was on the carronade as usual, about the same time, and all parties

were precisely in the same situations,--the master by my side, the

baboon under the booms, and the boy walking out of the cabin with his

bread and butter. As before, he again passed the baboon, who again

snatched the bread and butter from the boy, who again set up a squall,

which again attracted my attention. Looked round, and the baboon caught

my eye, which told him plainly that he'd soon catch what was not "at all

_my eye_;" and he proved that he actually thought so, for he actually

put the bread and butter back into the boy's hands. It was the only

instance of which I ever knew or heard of a monkey being capable of

self-denial when his stomach was concerned, and I record it accordingly.

(Par parenthese:) it is well known that monkeys will take the

small-pox, measles, and I believe the scarlet fever; but this poor

fellow, when the ship's company were dying of the cholera, took that

disease, went through all its gradations, and died apparently in great

agony.

As, then, invention and memory are both common to instinct as well as to

reason, where is the line of demarcation to be drawn; especially as in

the case of the elephants I have mentioned, superior instinct will

invent when inferior reason is at fault? It would appear, if the two

qualities must be associated, that, at all events, there are two

varieties of instinct: blind instinct, which is superior to reason, so

far that it never errs, as it is God who guides; and inventive instinct,

which enables the superior animals to provide for unexpected

difficulties, or to meet those which memory has impressed upon them.

But if we examine ourselves, the difficulty becomes even greater--we

have decidedly two separate qualities. We are instinctive as well as

reasonable beings; and what is inventive instinct but a species of

reason, if not reason itself?

But although I say that it is hardly possible to draw the line of

demarcation, I do not mean to say that they are one and the same thing;

for instinct and reason, if we are to judge by ourselves, are in direct

opposition. Self-preservation is instinctive; all the pleasures of

sense, all that people are too apt to consider as happiness in this

world; I may say, all that we are told is wrong, all that our reason

tells us we are not to indulge in, is _instinct_.

Such are the advantages of being reasonable beings in _this world_;

undoubtedly, we have a right to claim for ourselves, and deny to the

rest of the creation, the enjoyments of the next. Byron says:--

"Man being reasonable, must get drunk."

That is to say, being reasonable, and finding his reason a reason for

being unhappy, he gets rid of his reason whenever he can. So do the

most intellectual animals. The elephant and the monkey enjoy their

bottle as much as we do. I should have been more inclined to agree with

Byron, if he had said:--

Man being reasonable, must _go to the devil_.

For what are poor reasonable creatures to do, when instinct leads them

to the "old gentleman;" and reason, let her tug as hard as she pleases,

is not sufficiently powerful to overcome the adverse force.

After all, I don't think that I have come to a very satisfactory

conclusion. Like a puppy running round after his own tail, I am just

where I was when I set out; but, like the puppy, I have been amused for

the time. I only hope the reader will have been so too.

And now, my brethren, I proceed to the second part of my discourse,

which is, to defend anglers and fly-fishers from the charge of cruelty.

It is very true that Shakespeare says, "The poor beetle that we tread

on, in mortal sufferance, feels a pang as great as when a giant dies;"

and it is equally true that it is as false as it is poetical.

There is a scale throughout nature, and that scale has been divided by

unerring justice. Man is at the summit of this scale, being more

fearfully and wonderfully made, more perfect than any other of the

creation, more perfect in his form, more perfect in his intellect; he is

finer strung in his nerves, acuter in his sympathies; he has more

susceptibility to pleasure, more susceptibility to pain. He has

pleasures denied to, and he has pains not shared with him by, the rest

of the creation. He enjoys most, and he suffers most. From man, the

scale of creation descends, and in its descent, as animals are less and

less perfect, so is meted out equal but smaller proportions of pleasure

and pain, until we arrive to the Mollusca and Zoophyte, beings existing

certainly, but existing without pleasure and without pain--existing only

to fill up the endless variety, and add the links to the chain of nature

necessary to render it complete. The question which naturally will be

put is, "how do you know this? it is assertion but not proof." But

arguments are always commenced in this way. The assertion is the

_quid_, the _est demonstrandum_ always comes afterwards. I handle my

nose, flourish my handkerchief, and proceed.

Man is the most perfect of creation. What part of his body, if

separated from the rest, can he renew? No part, except the hair and the

nail. Reproduction can go no further. With the higher classes of

animals, also, there is no reproduction: but even at this slight descent

upon the scale, we may already point out a great difference. Although

there is no reproduction, still there are decided proofs of inferiority;

for instance, a hare or rabbit caught in a trap, will struggle till they

escape, with the loss of a leg; a fox, which is carnivorous, will do

more; he will _gnaw_ off his own leg to escape. Do they die in

consequence? no, they live and do well; but could a man live under such

circumstances? impossible. If you don't believe me, gnaw your own leg

off and try. And yet the conformation of the Mammalia is not very

dissimilar from our own; but man is the more perfect creature, and

therefore has not the same resources.

I have hitherto referred only to the _limbs_ of animals; I will now go

further. I had a beautiful little monkey on board my ship. By accident

it was crushed, and received such injury that the backbone was divided

at the loins, and the vertebra of the upper part protruded an inch

outside of its skin. Such an accident in a man would have produced

immediate death; but the monkey did not die; its lower limbs were of

course paralysed. The vertebra which protruded gradually rotted off,

and in six weeks the animal was crawling about the decks with its fore

feet. It was, however, such a pitiable object, that I ordered it to be

drowned. Now, if we descend lower down in the scale until we come to

the reptiles and insects, we shall find not only that the loss of limbs

is not attended with death, but that the members are reproduced. Let

any one take a spider by its legs, it will leave them in your hands that

it may escape. Confine the animal under a glass, and in a few weeks it

will have all its members perfect as before. Lizards are still more

peculiar in their reproduction. I was at Madeira for many months, and

often caught the lizards which played about the walls and roofs of the

out-houses; and if ever I caught a lizard by the tail, he would make a

spring, and leave his tail in my hand, which seemed to snap off as

easily as would a small carrot. Now the tail of the lizard is longer

than its body, and a continuation of the vertebrae of the back. I soon

found out that lizards did not die from this extensive loss, but, on the

contrary, that their tails grew again. Even the first week afterwards,

a little end began to show itself, and in about two months the animal

had reproduced the whole. What I am about to say now will probably be

considered by some as incredible; they are, however, at full liberty to

disbelieve it. One day I was looking out of the window with the late

Tom Sheridan, who lived in the same house, and we observed on the roof

of the out-house a lizard with two tails, but neither of them full

grown; and we argued that, at the time the animal lost his tail, he must

have suffered some division of the stump. Being at that time a

naturalist, i.e. very cruel; I immediately caught a lizard, pulled off

his tail, notched the vertebra, and turned him loose again. Our

conjectures were right; the animal in two or three weeks had two tails

growing out like the one we had seen. I repeated this experiment

several times, and it always appeared to succeed; and all the two-tailed

lizards were called mine.

Now this power of reproduction increases as you descend the scale; as an

instance, take the polypus, which is as near as possible at the bottom

of it. If you cut a polypus into twenty pieces, without any regard to

division, in a short time you will have twenty perfect polypi.

Now the deductions I would draw from these remarks are--

That the most perfect animals are least capable of reproduction, and

most sensible of pain.

That as the scale of nature descends, animals become less perfect, and

more capable of reproduction.

Ergo--they cannot possibly feel the same pain as the more perfect.

Now with respect to fish, they are very inferior in the scale of

creation, being, with the exception of the cetaceous tribe, which class

with the Mammalia, all cold-blooded animals, and much less perfect than

reptiles or many insects. The nervous system is the real seat of all

pain; and the more perfect the animal, the more complicated is that

system: with cold-blooded animals, the nervous organisation is next to

nothing. Most fish, if they disengage themselves from the hook, will

take the bait again; and if they do not, it is not on account of the

pain, but because their instinct tells them there is danger. Moreover,

it is very true, as Sir H. Davy observes, that fish are not killed by

the hook, but by the hooks closing their mouths and producing

suffocation. How, indeed, would it otherwise be possible to land a

salmon of thirty pounds weight, in all its strength and vigour, with a

piece of gut not thicker than three or four hairs?

Upon the same grounds that I argue that fish feel very little

comparative pain, so do I that the worm, which is so low in the scale of

creation, does not suffer as supposed. Its writhings and twistings on

the hook are efforts to escape natural to the form of the animal, and

can be considered as little or nothing more. At the same time I

acknowledge and, indeed, prove, by my own arguments, that it is very

cruel to _bob for whale_.

To suppose there are no gradations of feeling as well as of perfection

in the animal kingdom, would not only be arguing against all analogy,

but against the justice and mercy of the Almighty, who does not allow a

sparrow to fall to the earth without his knowledge. He gave all living

things for our use and our sustenance; he gave us intellect to enable us

to capture them: to suppose, therefore, at the same time, that he

endowed them with so fine a nervous organisation as to make them undergo

severe tortures previous to death, is supposing what is contrary to that

goodness and mercy which, as shown towards us, we are ready to

acknowledge and adore.

I cannot finish this subject without making a remark upon creation and

its perfectibility. All _respectable_ animals, from man down to a

certain point in the scale, have their lice or parasites to feed upon

them. Some wit, to exemplify this preying upon one another, wrote the

following:--

"Great fleas have little fleas,

And less fleas to bite them,

These fleas have lesser fleas,

And so--_ad infinitum_."

This, however, is not strictly true. Parasites attach themselves only

to the great. Upon those they can fatten. Having your blood sucked, is

therefore, a great proof of high heraldry and perfectibility in the

scale of creation. If animals were endowed with speech and pride like

man, we might imagine one creature boasting to another, as a proof of

his importance.

"And I, too, also have my louse!"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Liege, May 30th.

What strange meetings take place sometimes! I recollect once, when I

was sitting at a _table d'hote_, at Zurich, being accosted by a lady

next to me, and being accused of having forgotten her. I looked with

all my eyes, but could not discover that I had ever seen her before. At

last, after allowing me to puzzle for some time, she said: "Sir, you and

I met at dinner four years ago, at Mr K--'s house in Demerara." It was

very true; but who would have thought of running his memory over to

South America, to a cursed alluvial deposite, hatching monthly broods of

alligators, and surrounded by naked slaves, whilst out of the window

before him his eye rested upon the snow-covered mountains of

Switzerland, and he breathed the pure air of William Tell and liberty.

This morning I fell in with an acquaintance whom had not seen for years,

and him also I did not recollect. I am very unfortunate in that

respect, and I am afraid that I have very often given offence without

intending it; but so imperfect is my memory of faces, that I have danced

with a lady in the evening, and the next day have not known her, because

she was in a bonnet and morning dress. Sometimes the shifts I am put to

are quite ludicrous, asking all manner of questions, and answering those

put to me at random, to find out some clue as to who my very intimate

friend may be. They ought not to be angry at my forgetting their names,

for sometimes, for a few minutes, I have actually forgotten my own. It

does, however, only require one clue to be given me, and then all of a

sudden I recollect every thing connected with the party. I remember one

day as I was passing Whitehall, somebody came up, wrung my hand with

apparent delight, and professed himself delighted to see me. I could do

no other than say the same, but who he was, and where I had seen him

before, was a mystery. "I am married since we parted," said he, "and

have a fine little boy." I congratulated him with all my heart. "You

must come and see me, and I will introduce you to Mary."

"Nothing would give me more pleasure;" but if he had only called his

wife Mrs So-and-so, I should have a _clue_. "Let me see," said I,

"where was it we parted?"

"Don't you recollect?" said he, "At the Cape of Good Hope."

But I was still mystified, and after putting several leading questions,

I found myself quite as much in the dark as ever. At last I asked him

for his card, that I might call upon him. He had not one in his pocket.

I pulled out my tablets, and he took out the pencil, and wrote down his

address; but that was of no use to me.

"Stop, my good fellow, I have so many addresses down there, that I shall

be making some mistake; put your name down above it."

He did so, and when I saw the name every thing came fast like a torrent

into my recollection; we _had been_ very intimate, and he was fully

justified in showing so much warmth. I could then talk to him about old

scenes, and old acquaintances; so I took his arm, and went forthwith to

be introduced to his Mary. The knowledge of this unfortunate failing

makes me peculiarly careful not to avoid a person who appears to know

me; and one day a very absurd scene took place. I was standing on some

door steps close to the Admiralty, waiting for a friend, and there was

another gentleman standing close to me, on the pavement. A third party

came up, extending his hand, and I immediately took it, and shook it

warmly,--although who my friend was, I was, as usual, very much puzzled

to find out. Now it so happened that the hand which I had taken was

extended to the gentleman standing by me, and not to me; and the party

whose hand I was squeezing looked me in the face and laughed. I did the

same, and he then gave his hand to the right party, and walked off. As,

however, we had said, "How d'ye do?" we had the politeness to say,

"Good-by;" both taking off our hats on the broad grin.

I _was_ observing, that I here met with a person whom I could not

recollect, and, as usual, I continued to talk with him, trusting to my

good fortune for the clue. At last it was given me. "Do you recollect

the little doctor and his wife at Bangalore?" I did, and immediately

recollected him. As the story of the doctor and his wife has often made

me laugh, and as I consider it one of the best specimens of _tit for

tat_, I will narrate it to my readers. I have since been told that it

is not new--I must tell it nevertheless.

A certain little army surgeon, who was stationed at Bangalore, had

selected a very pretty little girl out of an invoice of young ladies,

who had been freighted-out on speculation. She was very fond of gaiety

and amusement, and, after her marriage, appeared to be much fonder of

passing away the night at a ball than in the arms of her little doctor.

Nevertheless, although she kept late hours, in every respect she was

very correct. The doctor, who was a quiet, sober man, and careful of

his health, preferred going to bed early, and rising before the sun, to

inhale the cool breeze of the morning. And as the lady seldom came home

till past midnight, he was not very well pleased at being disturbed by

her late hours. At last, his patience was wearied out, and he told her

plainly, that if she staid out later than twelve o'clock, he was

resolved not to give her admittance. At this, his young wife, who, like

all pretty women, imagined that he never would presume to do any such

thing, laughed heartily, and from the next ball to which she was

invited, did not return till half-past two in the morning. As soon as

she arrived, the palanquin-bearers knocked for admittance; but the

doctor, true to his word, put his head out of the window, and very

ungallantly told his wife she might remain all night. The lady coaxed,

entreated, expostulated, and threatened; but it was all in vain. At

last she screamed, and appeared to be frantic, declaring that if not

immediately admitted, she would throw herself into the well, which was

in the compound, not fifty yards from the bungalow. The doctor begged

that she would do so, if that gave her any pleasure, and then retired

from the window. His wife ordered the bearers to take her on her

palanquin to the well; she got out, and gave her directions, and then

slipped away up to the bungalow, and stationed herself close to the

door, against the wall. The bearers, in obedience to her directions,

commenced crying out, as if expostulating with their mistress, and then

detaching a large and heavy stone, two of them plunged it into the

water; after which, they all set up a howl of lamentation. Now the

little doctor, notwithstanding all his firmness and _nonchalance_, was

not quite at ease when he heard his wife express her determination. He

knew her to be _very entetee_, and he remained on the watch. He heard

the heavy plunge, followed up by the shrieks of the palanquin-bearers.

"Good God," cried he, "is it possible?" and he darted out in his shirt

to where they were all standing by the well. As soon as he had passed,

his wife hastened in-doors, locked, and made all fast, and shortly

afterwards appeared at the window from which her husband had addressed

her. The doctor discovered the _ruse_ when it was too late. It was now

his turn to expostulate; but how could he "hope for mercy, rendering

none?" The lady was laconic and decided. "At least, then, throw me my

clothes," said the doctor. "Not even your slippers, to protect you from

the scorpions and centipedes," replied the lady, shutting the

"jalousie." At day-light, when the officers were riding their Arabians,

they discovered the poor little doctor pacing the verandah up and down

in the chill of the morning, with nothing but his shirt to protect him.

Thus were the tables turned, but whether this _ruse_ of the well ended

well,--whether the lady reformed, or the doctor conformed,--I have never

since heard.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

Liege, June 2.

The academy or college established at Liege in 1817 is very creditable

to the Liegeois. Much has been done in fifteen years: the philosophical

apparatus, collections of minerals and natural history, are all

excellent for instruction, although the minerals are not very valuable.

The fossils found in the Ardennes are very interesting, and ought to be

a mine of wealth to the Liegeois, as by exchanging them they might soon

have a valuable collection. It is a pity that the various museums of

Europe do not print catalogues, not of their own collections only, but

also of the duplicates which they can part with, so that they may be

circulated, not only among the national collections, but also among

private cabinets; by so doing they would all become more perfect. It is

currently reported that more duplicates have been allowed to perish in

the cellars of the British Museum than would have furnished all the

cabinets in Europe. It may be replied, that other cabinets had nothing

to offer in exchange; but that is only a surmise: and even if they had

not, they should have been presented to other institutions abroad.

Science ought not to be confined to country or people: it should be

considered as universal.

To the college is annexed a botanical garden. There is nothing I

dislike more than a botanical garden. I acknowledge the advantages,

perhaps the necessity, of such institutions; but they always appear to

me as if there was disarrangement instead of arrangement. What may be

called order and classification seems to me to be disorder and

confusion. It may be very well to class plants and trees for study, but

certainly their families, although joined by man, were never intended to

be united by God. Such a mixture in one partition, of trees, and

shrubs, and creeping plants, all of which you are gravely told are of

one family. I never will believe it: it is unnatural. I can see order

and arrangement when I look at the majestic forest-trees throwing about

their wild branches, and defying the winds of heaven, while they afford

shelter to the shrubs beneath, which in their turn protect and shelter

the violets that perfume all around. This is beautiful and natural--it

is harmony; but in a botanical garden every thing is out of its place.

The Scripture says, "Those whom God hath joined let no man put asunder;"

may we not add, Those whom God hath sundered let no man presume to join.

I felt as I looked at the botanical garden as if it were presumptuous

and almost wicked, and as it was on the banks of the Meuse, I sat down

on the wall and recovered myself by looking at the flowing river, and

thinking about utility and futility, "and all that sort of thing and

everything else in the world," as poor Matthews used to say,--and there

I sat for an hour, until my thoughts revolved on the propriety of going

back and eating my dinner,--as Mrs Trollope used to do when she was in

Belgium.

As I was walking about in the evening, I perceived a dirty little alley

illuminated with chandeliers and wax candles. There must be a ball,

thought I, or some gaiety going on: let us inquire. "No, sir," replied

a man to whom I put the question, "it's not a ball,--it is a Monsieur

who has presented to an image of the Virgin Mary which is up that court,

a petticoat, which, they say, is worth one thousand five hundred francs,

and this lighting-up is in honour of her putting it on." The race of

fools is not extinct, thought I. I wonder whether, like King Ferdinand,

he worked it himself. Belgium is certainly at this present the

stronghold of superstition.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

June 3.

Went to Harquet's manufactory of arms, and was much amused. They export

all over the world, and the varieties they make up for the different

markets are astonishing. They were then very busy completing an order

for several thousand muskets for the Belgian troops, which load at the

breech and fire off without locks or priming. They showed me a

fowling-piece on the same principle, which they fired off under water.

But the low prices of the arms astonished me. There were a large

quantity of very long fowling-pieces with the _maker's_ name at

_Constantinople_, for the Turkish gentlemen, at thirty francs each: a

common musket was fourteen francs. I perceived in a corner a large

number of muskets, of infamous workmanship, and with locks resembling

those awkward attempts made two hundred years back. I asked what they

were for. They were for the South American market, and made to order,

for the people there would use no others: any improvement was eschewed

by them. I presume they had borrowed one of the Spanish muskets brought

over by Pizarro as a model, but, at all events, they were very cheap,

only eight francs each. God help us, how cheaply men can be killed

now-a-days!

It is very seldom that you now meet with a name beginning with an X, but

one caught my eye as I was walking through the streets here. _Urban

Xhenemont, negociant_. I perceive there are still some to be found in

Greece; the only one I know of in England is that of Sir Morris Ximenes,

who, I presume, claims descent from the celebrated cardinal. The

mention of that name reminds me of the songs of the improvisatore,

Theodore Hook, and his address in finding a rhyme for such an awkward

name as Ximenes. Few possess the talent of improvising. In Italy it is

more common, because the Italian language admits the rhyme with so much

facility; but a good improvisatore is rare even in that country. There

was a Dutchman who was a very good improvisatore, a poor fellow who went

about to amuse companies with his singing and this peculiar talent. One

day a gentleman dropped a gold Guillaume into a glass of Burgundy, and

told him if he would make a good impromptu, he should have both the wine

and the gold: without hesitation he took up the glass, and suiting the

action to the word, sang as follows:--

"Twee Goden in een Glas,

Wat zal ik van maken?

K' steek Plutus in myn tas,

K slaak Bacchus in myn Kaken."

Which may be rendered into French as follows:--

"Quoi! deux dieux dans un verre,

Eh bien! que vais-j'en faire?

J'empocherai Plutus,

J'avalerai Bacchus."

The gentleman, who gave me this translation, also furnished me with a

copy of extempore French verses, given by a gentleman of Maestricht, who

was celebrated as an improvisatore. They certainly are very superior.

He was at a large party, and agreed to improvise upon any theme given

him by five of those present in the way of _Souvenir_. The first person

requested the souvenir of _early youth_.

"Vous souvient-il? Amis de ma jeunesse,

Des beaux momens de nos fougueux exploits?

Quand la raison sous le joug de l'ivresse,

Essaye en vain de soutenir ses droits.

Ce tems n'est plus, cet age de folie,

Ou tout en nous est presse de jouir:

Mes bons amis, du printemps de la vie

Gardons toujours le joyeux _souvenir_."

The next party requested a souvenir of the conscription, many of them,

as well as the poet, having been forced into the army of France.

"Vous souvient-il? que plus tard, sous les armes

Plusieurs donons, designes par le sort,

Loin des parents; versant d'ameres larmes,

Allaient trouver ou la gloire ou la mort.

Ces jours de deuil par milliers dans l'histoire

Ne viendront plus, sur nous s'appesantir

Amis, volons an temple de Memoire

Effacons-en le sanglant _souvenir_."

The third party requested a souvenir of his "first love."

"Vous sonvient-il? de cet enfant de Guide

Fripon ruse, volage et seducteur;

Qui par les yeux d'une beaute timide,

D'un trait de feu veut nous frapper au coeur.

Du sentimens que sa fleche fit naitre,

Et que la mort peut seul aneantir,

Eternissons le ravissant bien-etre,

En conservant un si beau _souvenir_."

The fourth proposed as a theme, the morning of his marriage.

"Vous souvient-il? du jour ou l'hymenee

Vint nous dicter ses eternelles loix,

En attachant a notre destinee

L'objet sacre de notre premier choix.

Solennite qui par des voeux nous lie,

De saints devoirs chargeant notre avenir,

Solennite que le vulgaire oublie

Nous te gardons en pieux _souvenir_."

The last party desired him to wind up with _friendship_.

"Quel souvenir puis-je chanter encore,

Apres celui ne dans la volupte?

Il en est un que le tems corrobore,

C'est le premier elan de l'amitie.

Eh! qui de nous n'a pas dans sa jeunesse,

Livre son coeur a ses charmes puissants,

Sainte Amitie, jusqu'a dans la vieillesse,

Console-nous des ravages du tems."

I should imagine that after the gentleman had finished all this, he must

have been pretty well out of breath.

About four miles from Liege is the celebrated manufactory of Seraing,

belonging to Messrs. Cockerell. It is beautifully situated on the banks

of the Meuse, and was formerly the summer palace of the Prince

Archbishop. But it is not only here that you observe these symptoms of

the times--all over France you will perceive the same, and the major

portion of the manufactories have the arms of princes or nobles

emblazoned over the facade, while the interiors, which once were the

abode of refinement and luxury, are now tenanted by artisans and

appropriated to utility. The utilitarian system was, however, more

fully exemplified before the Belgian revolution, for William of Nassau

was, in fact, a partner of Mr Cockerell. Mr Cockerell, the father,

who is now dead, came over from England before the peace, bringing with

him either the machinery for spinning cotton, or the knowledge necessary

for its construction, so jealously guarded by our manufacturers. He

established himself at Liege, and soon gained patrons. The firm has now

three or four manufactories at Liege besides the one at Seraing. Large

as was the bishop's palace, it has been increased to about three times

its original size: it reminds me more of Portsmouth yard than any other

place. The number of workmen employed in this manufactory alone is

between fourteen and fifteen hundred. They make every variety of steam

engines, and not only supply this country, but Prussia, Austria, France,

and even Russia. People talk of Mr Cockerell having done much mischief

to his country by furnishing foreigners with the machinery which enabled

us to undersell them. I doubt it very much: I consider that the sooner

other countries are enabled to compete with us to a certain extent, the

better it will be for England. At present we are in an unhealthy state,

and chiefly arising from the unlimited use of machinery. Let us lose

that advantage, and, if not richer, at all events we shall be much

happier. We are now suffering under a plethora of capital at the same

time that we are oppressed with debt. As for Mr Cockerell, it may be

very well to cry out about patriotism, but the question is, would not

every other man have done the same? Had he not a right to bring his

talents to the best market? and before he is accused of having had no

regard for his country, it may first be fairly asked, what regard had

his country shown for him?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

Spa, June 10.

Here we are, and for a time at rest. Rest! no, the wheels of the

carriage may rest, even the body for a time may rest, but the mind will

not. We carry our restlessness with us wherever we go. Like a

steam-engine, the mind works, and works, and works, sometimes, indeed,

with less rapidity of motion; but still it goes on, goes on in its

ever-continued labour; waking or sleeping, no repose; until the body,

which is the mechanical part of the engine, is worn out by constant

friction, or the steam of the mind is exhausted. And people tell you,

and believe that there is rest in the grave. How can that be? The soul

is immortal and cannot exist without consciousness. If not conscious,

it does not exist; and if conscious, it must work on, even beyond the

grave, and for ever. To assert that there is rest in the grave, is

denying the immortality of the soul. And what a contemptible, base

slave the body is to the soul! I was going to say that he could not

call his soul his own; but that would be a Catachresis, and I hate and

abominate every thing which begins with _cat_. It is singular that they

are all unpleasant, or unlucky, or unsafe; for instance--

+=============+=========================================+

Ý Ýremind you of Ý

+-------------+-----------------------------------------+

ÝCat-acombs Ýdeath, funerals, and mummies. Ý

+-------------+-----------------------------------------+

ÝCat-alogue Ýsale of effects, some poor devil done up.Ý

+-------------+-----------------------------------------+

ÝCat-aplasm Ýa boil poulticed. Ý

+-------------+-----------------------------------------+

ÝCat-aract Ýsore eyes, Sam Patch, and devastation. Ý

+-------------+-----------------------------------------+

ÝCat-arrh Ýhead stuffed, running of the glands. Ý

+-------------+-----------------------------------------+

ÝCat-echism Ýequally unpleasant in youth and marriage.Ý

+-------------+-----------------------------------------+

ÝCat-egorical Ýargument, which is detestable. Ý

+-------------+-----------------------------------------+

ÝCat-erpillarsÝbeasts who foul nature. Ý

+-------------+-----------------------------------------+

ÝCat-erwaul Ýhorrid variety of love. Ý

+-------------+-----------------------------------------+

ÝCat-gut Ýstreet music, hurdy-gurdy. Ý

+-------------+-----------------------------------------+

ÝCat's-paw Ýa calm, with a prize in sight. Ý

+=============+=========================================+

As for a cat itself, I cannot say too much against it; and it is

singular, that the other meanings of the single word are equally

disagreeable; as to _cat_ the anchor, is a sign of _going to sea_, and

the _cat_ at the gangway is the worst of all.

Five o'clock in the morning,--the sun has not yet appeared above the

hills, but the mist is rising gradually. The bell of the church in

front of my window is tolling;--it ceases; and the pealing of the organ,

with the chanting of the priests, comes distinct and clear upon my ear,

as the notes of the bugle over the still water, from some dashing

frigate in the Sound, beating off at sunset. How solemn and how

beautiful is this early prayer! The sun is rising, the mists of the

night are rolling off, and the voices and music resound at the same time

to heaven. The church is full, and many remain outside, uncovered, and

kneeling in humility. But who comes here, thought I, as a man in a

shabby coat walked to within a few yards of the church door, and laid

down his burden, consisting of a drum, a fiddle, a roll of canvass, a

chair, and a long pole. This is a curious stock in trade, methinks; how

in the name of all the saints do you gain your livelihood? This was

soon ascertained. A minute before the mass was over, he fixed his pole

upright in the ground, hung his canvass on it, and unrolled it,

displaying a picture divided in six compartments. He then hung his

fiddle to his button, took his drum, and putting his chair close to his

pole, stood upon it, giving a long, but not loud roll of his drum, which

he repeated at intervals, to attract attention. He had taken his

station with judgment; and as the people came out of church, he had soon

a crowd about him, when he commenced with crossing himself, and then

continued to explain the legend which was attached to his pictures on

the canvass. I could not hear all, but still I could understand enough

to fill up the rest. It was the wonderful cure performed by a certain

saint; and as he told the story, he pointed to the different

compartments with his fiddlestick, for he had laid aside his drum as

soon as he had collected an audience. Now and then he crossed himself

devoutly, and at last informed the crowd around him that he had the very

prayer, and the very remedy which had been prescribed. He then played

his fiddle, singing the prayer in a solemn chaunt; and then he pulled

out of his pocket a packet of little books and little boxes. They are

only one halfpenny each; and all that is necessary is, that they should

touch the figure of the saint on the canvass, to be imbued with the

necessary virtue. He sells them rapidly; each time that he puts them to

the canvass crossing himself, and insisting that the party who purchases

shall do the same. He takes his fiddle again, and sings the history of

the saint, pointing with his fiddlestick to the compartments of the

picture as he goes on; and now he pulls out more little books and more

boxes; and how fast they purchase them! The stock in trade in his own

possession is certainly of little value; but he possesses a fruitful

mine in the superstition of others. Ah, well! Are not those inside the

church setting him the example of mixing up religion with quackery?

Spa is beautifully situated, between abrupt hills covered with verdure;

the walks cut in these hills are very beautiful, and much pains have

been taken to render the place agreeable;--no wonder, when we recollect

how many crowned heads have visited the place: but the sun of Spa has

set, probably never to rise again; for whatever may be the property of

its waters, to be frequented, a watering-place must be fashionable.

There are many causes for its desertion. One is, the effects of the

Belgian revolution. During the time that Belgium was attached to the

Netherlands, the king, with the prince and princess of Orange, came here

almost every year, bringing with them, of course, a great number of the

nobility; but now the nobility have deserted the court; and when Leopold

came here, no one followed. He was disgusted, and remained but a few

days. The Prussians used also to resort very much to Spa; but the king

of Prussia finding that so many young men were ruined at the

gaming-tables, and so much distress occasioned by it, with a most

fatherly despotism, has refused all the officers permission to visit

Spa, and has forbidden the medical men to recommend the waters. The

Russians also flocked in great numbers to Spa; but the emperor, although

very indifferent about their losing their money, is very particular

about his subjects gaining revolutionary opinions; and Spa being in a

revolutionary country, has been condemned: they may just as well ask to

go to Siberia, for that would probably be their route; and lastly, there

is one more cause which, these two last seasons, has had a powerful

effect, neither more nor less than a certain book, called the "_Bubbles

of the Brunnen_." I say for the last two seasons, for its influence

will not extend to a third, as hundreds and hundreds who have gone to

the Baths with the intention of passing this season, have already

returned in disgust. A word upon this.

When Sir George Head published his "Bubbles," he set people almost as

mad as they were during the great "Bubble Mania;" and like all the

mining and other associations, they have proved but bubbles at last. It

is said that one hundred and thirty-five thousand passports were taken

out last year to go up the Rhine, by people who wished to see the pigs

go through their daily manoeuvres, to an unearthly solo on the horn, and

to witness the decapitation of the Seltzer-water bottles, which were

condemned as traitors. Now, so large an influx of people to these

German watering-places could have but one effect; that of a glorious

harvest to the innkeepers, and those who had lodgings to let. The

prices, at these places, have now become so enormous, that three florins

have been asked for a single bed, and everything else has risen in the

same proportion. The reaction has now begun to take place, and every

day and every hour we have carriages returning through Liege, and other

towns, from these watering-places, the occupants holding up their hands,

quite forgetting the pigs and bottles, and only exclaiming against

extortion, and everything German. They have paid too dear for their

whistle, as Franklin used to say; the bubble has burst, and they look

with regret at their empty purses. And yet, all that Head said in his

amusing book was true. He rambled through a verdant and unfrequented

lane, and described what he felt as he stopped to pick blackberries. An

immense multitude have followed him, the green lane has been beaten down

into a high road, and, as for blackberries, they are only to be procured

at the price of peaches in May.

And now let us reflect whether the bubble will not also burst with the

Germans. Formerly they were contented with moderate profits, and

received their visitors with humility and thankfulness. Now, that they

have suddenly made large profits, they have become independent and

unceremonious; and, like most people, because they have reaped a golden

harvest for two years, they anticipate that it will continue. The value

of property at these places has risen, speculations have been entered

into on a large scale, provisions and the necessaries of life have

become dear; new houses are building against time, and the proprietors

smoke their pipes with becoming gravity, calculating upon their future

gains. But the company will fall off more and more each succeeding

year, although the speculations will continue; for people always find a

good reason for a bad season, and anticipate a better one the next. At

last, they will find that they are again deserted, and property will

sink in value to nothing; the reaction will have fully taken place,

prices will fall even lower than they were at first; honesty and

civility will be reassumed, although, probably, the principal will have

been lost. Thus will the bubble burst with them, as it has already with

deserted Spa.

But when all idle people shall have visited all the bubbling fountains

of Germany, where are they to go next? There are some very nice springs

in Iceland not yet patronised; but although the springs there are hot,

the Springs, vernally speaking, are cold. I can inform travellers where

they will find out something new, and I advise them to proceed to the

boiling springs at Saint Michael's, one of the Western isles, and which

are better worth seeing than all the springs that Germany can produce.

I will act as _guide de voyage_.

When you land at Saint Michael's, you will find yourself in one of the

dirtiest towns in the world, and will put up at one of the worst hotels;

however, you will have to pay just as dear as if lodged at the

Clarendon, and fed at the _Rocher de Cancale_. The town contains many

inhabitants, but more pigs. German pigs are not to be compared to them.

You must then hire donkeys and ascend to the mountains, and after a hot

ride, you will arrive at a small valley in the centre of the mountains,

which was once the crater of a volcano, but is now used by nature as a

kettle, in which she keeps hot water perpetually boiling for those who

may require it. There you will behold the waters bubbling and boiling

in all directions, throwing up huge white columns of smoke, brought out

in strong relief by the darker sides of the mountains which rear their

heads around you. The ground you tread upon trembles as you walk; you

feel that it is only a thin crust, and that in a moment you may sink

into the vast cauldron below, and have a hot bath without paying for it.

Continue along the valley, and you will find lakes of still,

deadly-cold water, with hot springs at their verge, throwing the smoke

over their surface, while they pour in their boiling water as if they

would fain raise the temperature; depositing sulphur in cakes and

crystals in their course. And in another spot there is a dark,

unfathomable hole, called the Devil's Mouth: you approach it, and you

hear low moanings and rumblings, as if nature had the stomach-ache; and

then you will have a sudden explosion, and a noise like thunder, and a

shower of mud will be thrown out to a distance of several yards. Wait

again; you will again hear the moans and rumblings, and in about three

minutes the explosion and the discharge will again take place; and thus

has this eternal diarrhoea continued ever since the memory or tradition

of man.

Yet, upon this apparently insecure and dangerous spot have been erected

houses and baths, and it is resorted to by the fashionables of Saint

Michael's, who wish, by its properties, to get rid of certain cutaneous

disorders: for the whole air is loaded with sulphurous vapour, as the

eternal pot keeps boiling.

Observe the advantages of this place:--you may have a bath as hot as you

please, as cold as you please, or you may have a mud _douche_, if you

have that buffalo propensity; and then you will have to rough it, which

is so delightful; you will find little or nothing to eat, and plenty of

bedfellows in all their varieties, a burning sun, and a dense

atmosphere, and you will be very delighted to get back again, which,

after all, is the _summum bonum_ to be obtained by travel.

Not very far from this valley of hot water there is another valley,

containing four small lakes, and in those lakes are found the most

beautiful gold and silver fish, perhaps, in the world. How they came

there, Heaven only knows; but I mention this because there is a curious

coincidence. These lakes are known by the name of the Quadre Cidade, or

four cities. Now, if my readers will recollect, in the "Arabian

Nights," there is a story of a valley with four lakes, which were once

four cities, and that in these lakes were fish of various beautiful

colours, who were once the inhabitants. If I recollect right, when the

fish were caught and put into the frying-pan, they jumped up and made a

speech; (so would fish now-a-days, if they were not mute;) and the story

is told by a prince, whose lower extremities are turned into black

marble, very convenient, certainly, if he dined out every day, as he had

only his upper toilet to complete. This coincidence appeared to me to

be very curious, and had I had time and opportunity I certainly should

have fried four of these unfortunate fish, to ascertain whether they

were of the real breed spoken of in the Arabian Tales, of the

authenticity of which no one, I presume, will venture to doubt.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

Spa, July 15.

What a curious history might be afforded by Spa and its gaming tables!

When Spa was in its glory, when crowned heads met and dukes were forced

to remain in their carriages for want of accommodation, when it was the

focus of all that was _recherche_ and brilliant, for Spa was so before

the French revolution, the gaming tables were a source of immense

profit; and to whom do you imagine that a great portion of the profits

belonged?--to no less a person than the most sacred and puissant prince,

the Bishop of Liege, who derived a great revenue from them. But it

would appear as if there was a judgment upon this anomalous secular

property, for these gaming-tables were the cause of the Prince Bishop

losing all, and being driven out of his territories. There were two

gaming establishments at Spa, the Redoubt in the town, and the Vauxhall

about a quarter of a mile outside of it. The Redoubt is a fine

building, with splendid ball-rooms and a theatre, but you must go

_through the gaming-rooms_ to enter either the ball-room or the theatre.

The Vauxhall has no theatre, but the rooms are even more spacious; but

when Spa was at its zenith, even these two immense edifices were barely

sufficient for the company. Both these establishments were under the

same proprietors, and it so happened that the English nobility, who were

always a very strong party here, were displeased with the conduct of the

lessees, and immediately raised funds for the building of a second

Vauxhall. The bishop ordered the building to be discontinued, but, as

by the privileges granted by former bishops, this was a violation of the

rights of the Liegeois, his order was disregarded, and the Vauxhall now

known by the name of _the Vauxhall_, was finished. When finished, the

bishop would not permit it to be opened, but his commands being

disregarded, he came down with two hundred soldiers and two pieces of

cannon and took possession. This created a revolution, and the bishop

was ultimately obliged to fly his territory and seek assistance. The

Prussians marched an army into the city, and there was apparent

submission, but as soon as they quitted, the insurrection again took

place, and the bishop was forced again to solicit aid from the

Austrians, for Prussia would no longer interfere. Metternich, who was

so fond of legitimacy that he considered the gaming-tables a legitimate

source of revenue to the apostle, marched in an Austrian army, and

hundreds were slaughtered that the bishop might obtain his rights. Such

was the state of affairs when the French revolution broke out and

convulsed Europe, and the province of Liege was among the very first to

receive with open arms the _bonnet rouge_ and to join themselves with

France, and thus did the bishop lose his beautiful province for ever.

As far as Liege was concerned, the French revolution proved a blessing.

It certainly was a disgraceful finale to an ecclesiastical power, which,

as I have before mentioned, had formerly led the van in the march of

Christianity and liberty.

But it appears that the clergy are fated to have an interest in these

gaming-tables, the stipend of the English resident clergyman being, even

now, paid out of their profits; for when Belgium was made over to the

Netherlands, King William assumed his right to the bishop's former share

of the profits of the tables, and of course brought as many people down

here as he could to _lose their money_, as he pocketed his _thirds_.

Since the revolution, Leopold is in King William's shoes, but there are

little or no profits, as Spa is deserted and the expenses of the

establishments are great. Perhaps there is no spot of ground in

Europe--I will not except Paris--where so much money has been lost by

gaming as at Spa. I was walking with a friend who pointed out to me a

small pavilion in a garden. "There," says he, "the Prince of Orange,

who played very deeply, lost to a Spanish gentleman those very jewels

that were pretended to be stolen. It was well got up in the papers, but

that is the real truth." How far it may be the truth or not, I cannot

pretend to say, and only know that in Spa you cannot pick your teeth

without all the world knowing it, and that this is fully believed at Spa

to be the real truth of the disappearance of the splendid jewels of the

princess, which have since been redeemed from the Spanish gentleman, who

now resides at the Hague.

Gaming has always been held up in abhorrence as a vice; but it is rather

a passion strongly implanted by nature, and abhorrent from the dreadful

effects produced by its overpowering influence, than a vice _per se_.

Life itself is a lottery, and the best part of our life is passed in

gambling. It is difficult to draw the line between gambling and

speculation, for every speculation is a gambling transaction. Is not

the merchant a gambler? in fact, is not every venture an act of

gambling? As for the Stock Exchange, it is the very worst species of

gambling. All we can say is, that gambling may be legitimate or

otherwise; that is, there are species of gambling which may enrich the

individual if he is fortunate, but whether it enriches him or not, at

all events it is beneficial to the community at large. A merchant

speculates--he sends out manufactures of every description: he fails,

and is ruined: but the artisans have procured employment for their

industry, and, although the merchant fails, the community at large has

benefited. This is legitimate gambling; but do people in business stop

there? No: they will agree to deliver so many thousands of casks of

tallow or tons of hemp at such and such a time and at a certain price,

whatever the price may then be. They cannot complete their engagement,

and they are ruined; but in this instance, which is simply termed

speculation, we have quite as much gambling as if the money were at once

laid down on the table, and the chances decided in an hour instead of so

many months. But there is this difference, that this party does not

injure his character by such a transaction, whereas, if he lost his

money at the gaming-table he would. The English are, with the exception

of the Americans, the most gambling nation under heaven; naturally so,

because they are the greatest mercantile nation. The spirit of gambling

is innate, and when directed into the proper channel it becomes

enterprise. It is doubtless a great moral error on the part of a

government to encourage vice with the view of increasing the revenue,

but, at the same time, there is no tax so well laid on as that which is

imposed on vice. Again, there are certain propensities in man which

cannot be overcome, and which, if attempted to be wholly eradicated by

legal enactments, would occasion more evil still. All that a judicious

government can or should attempt to effect is, to restrain them within

proper bounds, to regulate them, and as much as possible to keep them

out of sight, that the virus may not extend. It is well known, that

certain houses are licensed by the magistrates, because, it being

impossible to eradicate the vice, they can do no more than to separate

it, that it may not be communicated to the healthier part of the

community. Now upon this principle, which is the true principle of

sound legislation, I have often thought that it was a great error in our

legislature when they consented to put down the public lotteries in

England. I am convinced that they were beneficial, acting as

safety-valves to the gambling spirit of the nation, and that their

prohibition has been productive of much crime and misery. The spirit of

gambling cannot be eradicated; it ought, therefore, to be kept within

due bounds. There was one great advantage in the English lottery; it

was drawn but once a year, and those who purchased the tickets were

content to remain quiet until their success was made known. The

chances, although very distant, of so high a prize, satisfied the spirit

of gambling; if they lost, they purchased again, and waited patiently

for another year, trusting to be more fortunate. Now, although they

gambled, they did not acquire the _habit_ of gaming. What has been the

consequence since the lotteries have been abolished? that there are

hells of every description established throughout the metropolis, from

those which admit the stake of a shilling, to Crockford's splendid

Pandemonium; and those who were formerly content with a lottery ticket,

now pass their evenings away from their families, and ruin themselves in

a very short time. The lottery never ruined any one. The sum staked

might be large for the circumstances of the parties, but it was a yearly

stake, and did not interfere with the industry, the profits, or the

domestic happiness of the year. One half the tradesmen who now appear

in the "Gazette," have been ruined by frequenting the low hells with

which the metropolis abounds. From the above considerations, I do not

think it was advisable to abolish the lotteries.

The next question is one upon which I hesitate to offer an opinion; but

it is worthy of consideration how far it may be advisable to license and

tax gaming-houses. Were it possible to put them down altogether, the

question need not be discussed; but it is impossible. Has any

magistrate ventured to interfere with Crockford's, where it is well

known that the highest gaming is carried on every night? Are you not

permitted to walk through the club at any hour of the day? Do they not

have the tables exposed to the view of every one? Yet who has

interfered, although you find that the smaller hells are constantly

broken in upon, and the parties had up to the police-office? Are not

the laws made for all? Is that an offence in the eyes of government in

a poor man which is not one in the rich? Yet this is the case: and why

so? Because the rich will game, and the government cannot prevent them.

Has not a man a right to do as he pleases with his own money? You

legalise the worst of gambling on the Stock Exchange, for a man can

there risk what he cannot pay: you cannot control the gaming of the

race-course, and yet you would prevent a man from gambling after his own

fashion. You wink at the higher classes ruining themselves, and you

will not permit the middle classes. Now the consequence of not having

licensed tables is, that you have no control over them, and the public,

who will play, are the dupes of rascals who cheat in every way: whereas,

if a certain number were licensed and controlled, those who play would

have a better chance, and the licensed tables taxed by government would

take care to put down all others who were not. We must legislate for

society as it is, not as it ought to be; and, as on other points, we

have found it necessary to submit to the lesser evil of the two, it is a

question whether in this also we might not do better by keeping within

due bounds that which it is impossible to prevent.

I was amused with an anecdote told me to-day. An Englishman and a

Frenchman arrived at Spa in the same diligence. They both took up their

quarters at the same hotel, but from that moment appeared to have no

further intimacy.

"Do you see that fellow?" would the Englishman say, pointing at the

Frenchman, "I know him, and he's a confounded rogue. I recommend you to

be shy of him."

"Voyez-vous cet Anglais?" said the Frenchman as the Englishman passed

by. "Gardez-vous en bien; c'est un coquin superieur."

Thus did they continue to warn the company of each other, until the

close of the season, when one fine day they both went off together in

the diligence, leaving all their debts unpaid, and their trunks and

portmanteaus for the benefit of the landlord of the hotel, who, on

opening them, found them to contain nothing but stones and rubbish.

This was a new species of holy alliance, but the _ruse_ was by no means

ill advised. When you hear a man constantly proclaiming the roguery of

another, you are too apt to give him credit for honesty in his own

person. Thus, with those whom each party associated and dealt with,

they obtained a credit for honesty, which enabled them to succeed in

their roguish endeavours.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

Ostend.

From Spa to Liege, from Liege to Brussels, from Brussels to Ostend, how

detestable it is to go over the same ground again and again! only to be

imposed upon and cheated again and again. What a weary world this is,

and what a rascally one! How delightful a little honesty would be, by

way of a change! Of all the rascality spread like butter on bread over

the surface of the globe, certainly the butter lies thicker on the

confines of each territory. There is a concentration of dishonesty at

the ports of embarkation and debarkation. Take London when you land

from a steam-boat, or Dover, or Calais, or Ostend. It is nothing but a

system of extortion or over-reaching. And why so? because in the hurry,

the confusion, the sickness, and the ignorance of what is right,

everything that is wrong can be practised with impunity. These preyers

upon mankind at the confines, remind you of the sharks in India, who

always ply _in the surf_, where their motions cannot be seen, and the

unwary are invariably their prey. I have knocked three down already,

and one would imagine they would hasten for redress; but they will not,

for that would take hours, and during these hours they will lose the

opportunity of making their harvest, so they get up again, and pocket

the affront, that they may not lose time in filling their pockets.

Talking about roguery, there was a curious incident occurred some time

back, in which a rascal was completely outwitted. A bachelor gentleman,

who was a very superior draftsman and caricaturist, was laid up in his

apartments with the gout in both feet. He could not move, but sat in an

easy chair, and was wheeled by his servant in and out of his chamber to

his sitting-room. Now a certain well-known vagabond ascertained the

fact, and watched until the servant was sent upon a message. The

servant came out of the front door, but left the area door open,

communicating with the kitchen. Down went the vagabond, entered the

kitchen, and walked up stairs, where, as he anticipated, he found the

gentleman quite alone and helpless.

"I am sorry, sir, to see you in this situation," said the rogue; "you

cannot move, and your servant is out."

The gentleman stared.

"It is excessively careless of you to leave yourself so exposed, for

behold the consequences. I take the liberty of removing this watch and

these seals off the table, and putting them into my own pocket; and, as

I perceive your keys are here, I shall now open these drawers, and see

what suits my purpose."

"Oh! pray help yourself, I beg," replied the gentleman, who was aware

that he could do nothing to prevent him.

The rogue did so accordingly; he found the plate in the sideboard

drawer, and many other articles which suited him, and in about ten

minutes, having made up his bundle, he made the gentleman a very low

bow, and decamped. But the gentleman had the use of his hands, and had

not been idle; he had taken an exact likeness of the thief with his

pencil, and on his servant returning soon after, he despatched him

immediately to Bow Street with the drawing, and an account of what had

happened. The likeness was so good, that the man was immediately

identified by the runners, and was captured before he had time to

dispose of a single article purloined. He was brought to the gentleman

in two hours afterwards, identified, the property found on him sworn to,

and, in six weeks, he was on his passage to Botany Bay.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

London, November.

We have the signs of the times here. I peep through the fog and see

quite enough to satisfy me that the prosperity is but partial. Money in

plenty, but lying in heaps--not circulated. Every one hugs his bag, and

is waiting to see what the event may be. Retrenchment is written up as

evident as the prophetic words of fire upon the walls of Belshazzar's

palace--_To let--to let--to let_. Leave London in any direction, and

you find the same mystical characters every one hundred yards of the

road. This beautiful villa, this cottage ornee, this capital house with

pleasure-grounds, this mansion and park--all--all to let. It is said

that there are upwards of seven thousand of these country seats to let

within twelve miles of the metropolis. Again, look at the arms of the

carriages which still roll through the streets, and you will perceive

that if not with a coronet or supporters, nine out of ten have the

widow's _lozenge_. And why so? because they belong to the widows of

those who died in the times of plenty, and who left them large jointures

upon their estates. They, of course, can still support and even better

support, the expense; but the estates now yield but sufficient to pay

the jointure, and the incumbent swallows up the whole. And where are

the real owners of the properties? At Paris, at Naples, at Brussels, if

they can afford to be in a Capital--if not, dispersed over Belgium,

Switzerland, and Italy--retrenching in other countries, or living more

comfortably upon their incomes. How many millions, for it does amount

to millions, are now spent on the continent, enriching the people of

other countries, and in all probability laying up for those countries

the sinews for another war to be directed against England! How much of

wretchedness and starvation has been suffered in our own country within

these few years, which, if our people had not been living abroad, might

never have been felt! Where are the elite of our aristocracy? Where

are our country gentlemen who used to keep open house at their estates,

disseminating their wealth and producing happiness? All driven abroad--

society disjointed--no leader of fashion to set the example, by

luxurious entertainments, of disseminating that wealth which ultimately

finds its way into the greasy pocket of the labourer or mechanic. Shops

opened late and closed early. Gin palaces, like hell, ever open to a

customer. The pulse of London hardly beats--it is perceptible, but no

more. Nothing is active but the press, and the pressure from without.

But who would remain ten days in London in the month of November, when

he can go away, without he had serious thoughts of suicide? Candles at

high noon, yellow fogs, and torches in mid-day, do not suit me, so I'm

off again to a purer atmosphere.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

Spa, June 30.

Yesterday I fell in with two old friends, who, from a mere "truant

disposition," joined perhaps with a little good will towards me, came

over to Spa. As soon as their arrival had been announced, I went to

them, and at their request joined their dinner. After our first

greetings, B--, who not only appears, but really is, a man of fashion,

in the best sense of the term, wanted his snuff-box. It was in his

bed-room, and his bed-room was locked by the servant, who had taken the

key and gone out. The consequence was, that B-- had to wait some time,

and until the man came back. I have always had a great aversion to a

valet when constantly moving about on the Continent, as a single man;

and, although I do not now, as I used to do when a midshipman, brush my

own clothes and black my own shoes, yet I like independence, in every

thing, and infinitely prefer doing anything myself, to being waited

upon; for, generally speaking, it is the master who waits and not the

man.

"I wonder you bother yourself with such a travelling appendage, B--,"

observed I, giving him a pinch of snuff to quiet his impatience. "I

have never lately travelled with one."

"My dear fellow--the comfort of it--you have no idea. It would be

impossible to get on without one."

"Quite impossible," observed W--, my other acquaintance.

"I have been brought up in a school in which the word impossible has

been erased from the language."

"Well, but the comfort of it. When you arrive, dirty and dusty, your

portmanteau opened, all your articles of dress laid out."

"I can do all that myself sooner than he can; and, as I must wait till

it be done, I may as well do it myself."

"Yes, so you may, but then the security; every thing locked up, which,

in a strange hotel, is so necessary."

I lock my own room, and know where to find the key when I come in.

"Very likely; but still it is impossible to travel comfortably without a

valet."

"Quite impossible," rejoined W--.

"Be it so," replied I; "we differ in opinion. All I can say is, that

necessary as a valet is when stationary, he is a nuisance when you

travel _en garcon_."

The conversation dropped, and we sat down to dinner; the time passed

away, as it always does, when old friends, who respect and like each

other, meet, after an absence of some months. After dinner we smoked

cigars; and, as the evening advanced, there were none left on the table.

B-- rang the bell for his servant to procure others; the servant had

gone out and was no where to be found, and for _security_ had locked the

bed-room door and taken the key with him. So we drank our claret, and

waited for his return. "Thinks I to myself"--but I said nothing. At

last, we waited till past twelve o'clock; but the gentleman's gentleman

was no where to be found. B-- was angry with the man, W-- had thrown

himself on the sofa. He wished to go to bed after a long day's travel;

but his key was also, for security, in the valet's pocket, who had been

searched for every where without success. B-- begged me not to remain

out of politeness; but I did remain not out of politeness, but of

"_malice_," as the French term it. "I had too much pleasure in their

company to think of leaving them;" and we continued to sip

brandy-and-water. At last, three o'clock came, B-- was out of all

patience, W-- snoring on the sofa, and I, quite delighted. The sun

should have poured his beams upon us before I would have gone away. The

bell was rung, but in vain, for the waiters would wait no longer. It

was proposed to send for a menuisier to pick the lock; but how was one

to be found at three o'clock in the morning? At last the valet, drunk

and reeling in his morning jacket, entered the room. "The keys the

keys!" demanded B-- in wrath.

"The key!" roared W--, who had woke up.

"I have them," replied the valet, with a most knowing leer, facetiously

smiling. "I have them--all safe--all right, gentlemen. Here they are,"

continued the man, pulling them out, and presenting them as if he had

done a very clever thing. "Here they are, you see."

The man was too tipsy to be expostulated with, and the gentlemen took

their keys in silence. "And now," said I, "gentlemen, I wish you a very

good night. You have fully established the extreme _comfort_ of a

travelling valet, and the impossibility of doing without one." It was a

glorious victory, although to get _out_ of the house I had to open a

window and leap from it, and to get _into_ my own house at that hour was

even more difficult.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

I have been reading Jesse's "Gleanings." Is he quite correct? I have

my doubts. In one point I certainly do not agree with him, in his

favourite opinion of cats. I do, however, know an instance of misplaced

affection in a cat, which, although it does not add to the moral

character of the race, is extremely curious for more reasons than one,

and as it happened in my own family, I can vouch for its authenticity.

A little black spaniel had five puppies, which were considered too many

for her to bring up. As, however, the breed was much in request, her

mistress was unwilling that any of them should be destroyed, and she

asked the cook whether she thought it would be possible to bring a

portion of them up by hand before the kitchen fire. In reply, the cook

observed that the cat had that day kittened, and that, perhaps, the

puppies might be substituted for her progeny. The experiment was made,

two of the kittens were removed, and two puppies substituted. The cat

made no objections, took to them kindly, and gradually all the kittens

were taken away, and the cat nursed the two puppies only. Now, the

first curious fact was, that the two puppies nursed by the cat were, in

a fortnight, as active, forward, and playful, as kittens would have

been: they had the use of their legs, barked, and gambolled about; while

the other three, nursed by the mother, were whining and rolling about

like fat slugs. The cat gave them her tail to play with, and they were

always in motion; they very soon ate meat, and long before the others

they were fit to be removed. This was done, and the cat became very

inconsolable. She prowled about the house, and on the second day of

tribulation fell in with the little spaniel, who was nursing the other

three puppies.

"O ho!" says Puss, putting up her back, "it is you who have stolen my

children."

"No," replied the Spaniel, with a snarl, "they are my own flesh and

blood."

"That won't do," said the cat, "I'll take my oath before any justice of

peace that you have my two puppies."

Thereupon issue was joined, that is to say, there was a desperate

combat, which ended in the defeat of the spaniel, and the cat walking

proudly off with one of the puppies, which she took to her own bed.

Having deposited this one, she returned, fought again, gained another

victory, and redeemed another puppy. Now it is very singular that she

should have only taken two, the exact number she had been deprived of.

Does this not prove to a certain extent the power of calculating numbers

in animals? and does not the precocity of the two puppies brought up by

the cat, infer there is some grounds for the supposition that with the

milk is imbued much of the nature and disposition of the mother? A few

experiments made on these points would be interesting, and we should

have a new science, that of _lacteology_, to add to craniology, in our

nurture and rearing of the species.

This reminds me of a singular fact, little known. The Burmahs, who are

disciples of Gaudma, equally with the inhabitants of Pegu and Syriam,

whose country they have conquered, worship the White Elephant, who is

considered as a god. There have been but three white elephants since

the foundation of the Burmah dynasty by Alompraa. The first one is

dead, and I have one of his teeth carved with figures, which was

consecrated to the great Dagon Pagoda. The second now _reigns_--he is

attended by hundreds, wears a howdah, or cloth, studded with precious

stones; which is said to be worth a million of money. He also wears his

bangles or armlets on each leg, and fares sumptuously every day. White

elephants are very scarce; the colour is occasioned by a disease in the

animal, a species of leprosy. Any elephant hunter in these countries,

who is fortunate enough to capture a white elephant, is immediately

created a noble, and advanced to high honour and wealth. The third

white elephant, of which I am about to speak particularly, and who may

be considered as the heir apparent, was taken a few months previous to

our declaring war against the Burmahs. He was very young; his mother

had been killed, and he yet required partial nourishment. He was

brought to Rangoon, established in one of the best houses in the place,

and an edict was sent forth from the capital, ordering that twenty-four

of the most healthy young married women should be dedicated to his

wants, and if they fell off in powers of nourishment, be replaced by

others. This was considered an honour--for were they not nursing a

_God_? Major Canning, the political agent, who went to see this curious

spectacle, described it to me as follows: "The animal was not above

three feet and a few inches high, its colour was a dirty grey, rather

than white; it was very healthy, playful, and in good spirits. When I

went into the room, which was very spacious, and built of teak-wood, the

twenty-four nurses were sitting or lying on mats about the room, some

playing at draughts and other games, others working. The elephant

walking about, looking at them, and what they were doing, as if he

understood all about it. After a short time, the little deity felt

hungry, and, with his trunk he pushed some of the women, but to annoy

him they would not yield to his solicitations. When he became angry,

and was too rough for them, they submitted, and he put his trunk round

their waists in the most affectionate manner, while he was supplying

himself." I did not see the animal myself, as immediately that they

heard of our arrival at the mouth of the river, they despatched him

under a strong guard to a place of security. But I should like to

ascertain hereafter, whether his nurture made him a more reasonable

being than are elephants in general.

How one's thoughts fly away over time and space! What a rush of

incidents crowd into my memory, merely from having mentioned this

circumstance of the white elephant. I did once intend to have written a

narrative of what passed during our sojourn in that country, for I saw

more of the inhabitants than most people; but others have forestalled

me, and it is now too late. Nevertheless, it will perhaps amuse the

reader, if, without entering into the military details, I mention a few

of the operations and scenes which then occurred. It shall be so then,

and we will discourse a little about the Burmahs.

An Armenian merchant who resided there told me a story one day which was

curious. The King of Pegu was possessed of the most splendid ruby in

the world, both as to size and colour. This was well known; it was the

boast of the nation. When the Burmahs subdued the kingdom of Pegu, the

old king with all his family were taken prisoners, vast treasure was

also captured, but the great ruby was not to be found, notwithstanding

the torture and beheading of thousands. With the usual barbarity of

these countries, the old king, a miserable paralytic little man, was

stripped naked and confined in an iron cage, which I saw when I was at

Rangoon. In this confinement he lived for ten or twelve years, every

festival day being brought out and exposed to the derision of the

populace. At last he died, and his body was thrown out to be devoured

by the dogs and birds of prey. One of the soldiers who assisted to drag

the body out of the cage, turned it over with his foot, and perceived

that his right hand grasped a hump of _damma_, (a sort of pitch,) which

curiosity induced the Burmah to force out with the point of his spear.

This had been observed before, but the Burmahs, who are very

superstitions and carry about them all sorts of charms, imagined it to

be a charm for his paralysis or palsy with which he was afflicted, and

therefore had allowed him to retain it. But when the Burmah took it up,

the weight of it convinced him that it was not all damma: he examined

it, and found that it was the great ruby of the Pegu kingdom which had

been lost, and which the old man had for so many years, in a state of

nudity and incarceration, held in his left hand. I asked one of the

Burmah chiefs whether this ruby now in the possession of the King of Ava

was so fine as represented: his answer was in truly Eastern

hyperbole--"Dip it in the Irrawaddy," said he, (that is, an enormous

river seven hundred miles long and in many parts several miles broad,)

"and the whole water will turn to blood."

I have said that the Burmahs are very superstitious: they have a great

variety of charms which they wear about their persons, but there is one

custom of theirs which is very singular. They polish rubies; that is,

without cutting them in _facettes_, but merely the stone, whatever its

primitive shape, is rubbed down on every side until it is perfectly

smooth. They then make an incision in the flesh, generally the arm or

leg, put in the ruby and allow the skin to heal over it, so that the

stone remains there. Soldiers and sailors in search of plunder will

find out any thing, and this practice of the Burmahs was soon

discovered; and after the assault and carrying of a stockade, you would

see the men passing their hands over the bodies, and immediately they

felt a rising in the limb, out with their knives and cut in for the

rubies. Indeed, the plunder was more considerable than might be

imagined, for every Burmah carried all his wealth about his person.

Another singular custom arising from their superstition prevails among

this people. The king has a corps denominated _Invulnerables_, whose

ranks are filled up in this manner:--when a criminal is condemned to

death for certain offences, such as robbery, he is permitted to

challenge as an _invulnerable_. This is proved by his standing at a

certain distance from several men who fire at him with ball. Should he

not be wounded or killed, he is pronounced an invulnerable and enrolled

in the corps. In every stockade we attacked, there were always one or

two of these men, and they really appeared to believe in their own

powers. They generally stood above the timbers of the stockade, dancing

and capering as the boats advanced, and continued their extravagance

amidst a shower of bullets, exposing their persons in a most undaunted

manner. There was one fellow who, dressed in a short red jacket, and

nothing else except the cloth round his loins, who was well known to our

men; they called him _Happy Jack_, from the capers which he used to cut,

and somehow or another it was his good fortune never to be hit, at

least, not that we know of, for taking stockade after stockade, at every

fresh attack there was Happy Jack to be seen capering and shouting as

usual, and never ceasing to expose himself until the troops had landed

and were about to scale the fortress. It was quite amusing to hear the

men shout out with laughter, "By heavens, there's Happy Jack again." I

hope he is alive at this moment; at all events, he deserves to be.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

Spa.

Yes, now Spa is agreeable: we have no _redoubte_ open with fools losing

their money, no English _passants_ looking after amusement, no

valetudinarians drinking the _poupon_, no Spa boxes crowding every

window: we are now as a Spa should be, a _coterie_ of houses in a

ravine, surrounded by the mountains of the Ardennes, crowding and

shoving up together in mutual protection against the deep snow and the

forest wolves. There is something new in this: most of the houses are

shut up; the shop-windows are all bare; the snow is two feet deep in the

streets; the mountains on every side are white; the icicles hang upon

the leafless boughs, and the rivulets are enchained. All is one drear

blank; and except the two-horse diligence which heaves slowly in sight

three or four hours past its time, and the post, (which is now delivered

at nine o'clock instead of noon); there is no such thing as an arrival:

the boys slide upon their little sledges down the hills; the cattle are

driven home; the church clock strikes; and unless we are enlivened by

the crowd assembled round the countryman, who appears with the carcass

of a wolf which he has been fortunate enough to kill, we are all quiet,

monotony and peace: in fact, Spa, now that it is a desert, has become to

me, at least agreeable.

They say, this hard winter promises plenty of wolves; if so, I recommend

those who are fond of excitement come here. Indeed, it will be

profitable, for if they are active huntsmen, they can pay their

expenses. A dead horse costs little, and in Spa, as they give very

little to the horses to eat in summer, and nothing at all in the winter,

they die fast. You have only to drag the carcass to an outhouse at a

little distance from the town, and with your rifle watch during the

night. The wolves will come down to prey upon the carrion, and it is

hard if you do not kill your couple during the night, and then you are

rewarded by the commune. I do not know what the price is now, but when

the King of Holland was in possession of Belgium it was one hundred

francs for a male, and three hundred francs for a female wolf. Now a

brace a night, four hundred francs, or sixteen pounds, is not a bad

night's earning: in Spa it would keep a half-pay officer for three

months. There is a curious story here, proving the sagacity of a wolf

which came down an hour before dusk into the town, and made off with a

child of two years old in her mouth. The cry was raised, and the

pursuit immediate. After following her track for many miles, she gained

upon them, it became quite dark, and the people returned homewards,

melancholy at the fate of the poor child. When they were about half way

back, they heard the wail of an infant, and, guided by it, they arrived

at a thick bush, where they found the child alive and unhurt. The wolf,

finding that her pursuers gained upon her, had deposited the child

there, intending to return and make a meal of it upon a more favourable

opportunity.

We have had nothing to excite us within these last few days but the

death and burial of an old curate. He died in all the odour of sanctity

three days ago, and was buried yesterday. He was not loved or even

liked, for he wanted that greatest of all gifts--charity. His situation

was worth, with offerings, six thousand francs a year,--a large sum in

this country: but he did not give to the poor; he exacted from them, and

they religiously obeyed him, no one killing a pig or anything else

without a present of part of it to the curate. When the old man was

told that he could not live, the ruling passion still governed him. He

sent for a person to dispose of for him the sundry pieces of pork which

he had gathered as presents, then took the extreme unction, and died.

His will is not known, but he is supposed to be very rich, and whether

he leaves his wealth to some nephews, or to support a hospital here

which is at present without funds, is a question of some interest. He

was buried in great parade and procession, followed by hundreds holding

candles. He was dressed in his best, and every one said that he never

looked so clean or so well in his life. He was carried on an open

_brancard_, with his canonical hat on his head, the snow fell fast and

settled on his face and clothes, but he felt it not. The funeral was as

cold as his charity, the thermometer being exactly 130 below the

freezing point. Except the procession of the dead curate and of a dead

wolf, we have had nothing to interest us for the last ten days.

But I promised to talk about the Burmahs. There have been two or three

accounts of the military movements, but there has been no inquiry or

examination into the character of the people, which, in my opinion, is

of more importance than is generally supposed; for although the East

India Company may imagine that they have done with the Burmahs, it is my

conviction that the Burmahs have not done with them, and even I may live

to witness the truth of my assertion.

It certainly is a point of some interest to ascertain from whence the

Burmah nation originally came: that they are not aborigines, I think

most certain. They are surrounded by the Cochin Chinese, the Chinese,

and the Hindoos, all races of inferior stature and effeminate in person,

with little or no beard. Now the Burmahs are a very powerful race, very

muscular in their limbs, possessing great strength and energy: generally

speaking, I should say, that they are rather taller than Europeans.

They have the high cheek bones of the Tatar, but not the small eyes;

they have strong hair and beards, and certainly would remind you of a

cross between the Jew and the Tatar. This is singular; and it gave the

idea to some of those who are fond of indulging in theory, that they

might be the remnants of that portion of the Jews who, when permitted to

leave Babylon, instead of going east with the others, bent their course

to the westward and were never spoken of afterwards. But the only props

they had to this argument were the appearance of the people, the weight

in silver being called the _tekel_ or shekel, and the great pagoda

having the name of the _Dagon_ pagoda. At least I heard of no more to

support the argument but those three, which can hardly be sufficient,

although the coincidence of the two words is singular.

The Burmahs are semi-barbarous: but this term must be used in the most

favourable light; because, surrounded on every side by people who are

wedded to their own customs, the Burmahs have a liberality and a desire

to improve, which is very remarkable. I never met with any Burmah, not

even a lad, who could not read and write; they allow any form of

religion to be made use of, and churches of any description to be built

by foreigners, but they do not like missionaries making converts of

their own people; for as the king is the head of the religion,

conversion is a breach of allegiance. One of the missionaries had an

audience with the king, and demanded permission to make proselytes. The

king replied that the missionary might convert as many as he pleased,

but that he would cut all their heads off afterwards. The missionary

had not much trouble, when this answer was made known, in counting the

heads of his proselytes. In their own religion, which is Budhism, the

Burmahs appear to be very relax; it is too absurd for the energy of

their minds. Those who enter the priesthood wear a yellow dress; but if

a priest at any time feels disposed to quit his profession, he is at

liberty so to do. All he has to do is to throw off his yellow garment;

but at the same time he can never resume it. The Burmahs are

superstitious about charms, but are not superstitious on religious

points. In fact, there is very little religion among them, and had we,

at the close of the war, instead of demanding a crore of rupees,

insisted that they should embrace Christianity, the king would have

given the order, and the whole nation would have nominally been

Christians. I once asked a Burmah soldier what was his idea of a future

state. His idea of bliss was singular--"I shall be turned into a

buffalo, and shall lie down in a meadow of grass higher than my head,

and eat all day long, and there won't be a single mosquito to annoy me."

While on the subject of religion, I may here observe, that at the

capture of Rangoon I entered a Chinese temple, the altar-piece, if I may

use the term, was the Ganesa of the Hindoos, but not seated on the lotus

leaf, but on the Chinese rat. On each side of this were two little

candelabras, formed of the Egyptian ibis, holding the oil cups in its

beak. I also found the Hounyman, or monkey god of the Hindoos, and

Budhist figures. I once observed some sepoys playing and laughing at a

bronze image they had picked up at the pagoda of Syriam, and on

examining it, I was surprised to find that it was a figure of the

Egyptian Isis, with her hand raised, and her person in the position

described as the correct one when blessing the world. The art of

embalming appears to be known to the Burmahs, and is occasionally

practised by the priests. At the capture of the old Portuguese fort at

Syriam, I found, not far from it, a sort of canopied shed, decorated

with carving, cut paper, and tinsel, and supported by four pillars, like

a bedstead. Below lay the body of a priest, embalmed and gilt. I

intended to have brought this home, but before I arrived there, I found

one of my marines, a graceless dog without religion or any other good

quality, very busy hammering the mummy to pieces with the butt end of

his musket. I was very angry, and ordered him to desist. In excuse, he

replied that it was an abominable molten image, and it was his duty, as

a _good Christian_, to destroy it--the only evidence of Christianity

ever witnessed on that fellow's part. On examination, I found that the

body had been wrapped in sundry clothes, and, like the ark of Noah,

pitched within and without: over the clothes was a coat of damma, then

of chunam, and lastly it was gilt; the head of the mummy was fictitious,

and formed of a cocoa-nut, the real skull being where, in the mummy,

would have appeared to have been the breast of the body. It did not

smell much, but there were a great many small scarabei inside, and it

was so mutilated that I did not remove it. The Burmahs are cleanly in

their houses, which generally are raised from the ground a few feet, so

as to allow the pigs; which are the scavengers of the town, to walk

under. They have houses of brick, or stone and mortar, such as the

custom-house at Rangoon, and one or two others; but the most substantial

houses are usually built of thick teak plank. The smaller houses and

cottages are built of bamboo, the floors and walls being woven like

wicker-work: the cleanliness and the beauty of these houses when new are

very remarkable, and what is still more so, the rapidity with which they

are built. I have known an officer order a house to be built of three

rooms, with doors and windows to each, and of a comfortable size, and

three or four Burmahs will complete this house in a day, and thatch the

roof over. In another point, the Burmahs show a degree of civilisation,

which might be an example to the northern Athens--to every house there

is a very neat and clean cloaca.

The government, like all in Asia, is most despotic; and the people have

the faults which are certain to be generated by despotism--but not to

that degree which might be expected. They have their hereditary

nobility, and the orders of it are very clearly defined. They consist

of gold chains, worn round the neck, with four plates or chased bosses

dividing them; the lowest order wears the bosses linked together by

three chains, the next highest in degree with six, the next nine, and

the last and highest order has twelve; the king only wears twenty-four

chains. The use of gold and silver, as drinking cups, etcetera, is only

permitted to the nobility. They are very clever in chasing of metals,

and they have a description of work in glass and enamel, quite their

own, with which they decorate the temples, houses of the priests, and

coffers containing the sacred volumes. Their ornamental writings in the

Pali language, a variety of the Sanscrit, known only to the priests, are

also very beautiful--especially that upon long leaves of ivory. Upon

the whole, their manufactures are superior to all around them, except

perhaps the Chinese.

The women are small, and delicately formed, in proportion to the men;

they are not shut up, but go where they please; their dress is becoming;

they braid the hair with flowers, and they are much fairer than would be

supposed. Those who keep much within doors are nearly as white as

Europeans. They have a singular custom of putting a patch of white

chunam on the cheek bone, something in opposition to the black patches

which used formerly to be worn by our belles; and it is intended to show

how near they approach to white. Indeed, when the men of the lower

class, who are exposed all day to the sun, remove their garments, it is

singular to witness how many shades lighter they are in that part of

their bodies which is covered up. Usually, the men have but one wife,

but occasionally there are supernumeraries.

The laws of the Burmahs appear to be good, but, as in all despotic

countries, they are not acted upon, unless it please the ruler. Slavery

of a certain species is allowed. Should one man be in debt to another,

and is summoned before the chief; if he states his inability to pay, he

is asked how many children he has, and according to the debt, so are his

children given in bond slavery to his debtor, who writes off a certain

sum every year until they are free. If he has no children, his wife, or

himself perhaps, will be bonded in the same manner. But in this case,

where ill-treatment can be proved, the bondage will be removed; and

further, any person so bonded, may at his or her wish remove to the

service of another master, provided they can find one who will pay to

the debtor the amount still due, and thus finish the time of servitude

under one whom they like better. These bonds are all in writing, and

must be produced. Some of our military officers released several of the

young women from their slavery.

_Sitting down_ in your presence, is, among the Burmese, a mark of

respect. Every poor man who is sent for, immediately drops down on his

hams in the corner of the room, or at the portal. The use of the cocoa,

or betel nut, is universal among the men, but not so common with the

women until they grow old. The consequence is, that the teeth of the

men are quite black and decayed, while those of the young women are very

good.

The most remarkable feature in the character of the Burmahs is their

_good temper_; I think they are the most even-tempered race, ever met

with. They are always gay, always content under any privation. I had,

as will be seen hereafter, more opportunities of seeing into the

character of this people than others had, for we mixed with them in

amity for some weeks. They are very fond of marionettes, and puppet

playing, and are very amusing mimics. They work very hard, and with the

greatest cheerfulness. They have a high respect for the English, or the

white faces, as they call us; and the superiority of our warlike

instruments, and our ships, _was_ a subject of wonder, and, at the same

time, of most careful examination. They perceive how far they are

behind us, and are most anxious to improve. From this reason, joined to

others, it was a pity that we ever made war with the Burmahs; they had

made an easy conquest of those around them, and were satisfied with

their supposed superiority, but now they are not, for they are active

and enterprising, fond of war, and will not be content until they have

improved their system. Twenty years hence we shall find the Burmahs a

much more formidable nation than they are at present, for they have

every quality necessary to become the first nation in the East: indeed,

when we consider with what weapons they defended themselves, and the

nature of the warfare, it is not a little to their credit that they held

out for nearly three years against the power of Great Britain.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

February, 1836.

The Burmahs are decidedly a brave nation: the government being despotic,

their rulers are cruel, but the people are not. I state this, as

cowardice and cruelty usually go hand in hand. Good temper and

generosity are the prominent features in their character--excellent

materials to work upon in judicious hands. I witnessed acts of courage

at the early part of the war, before the Burmahs found out how

impossible it was to cope with our superior arms, which were most

surprising, and which excited our admiration. They are peculiarly a

warlike nation; indeed, they are fond of war. Every man is a soldier,

and when ordered out to join the ranks, obeys without receiving any pay,

providing his own arms. This fact, at once, establishes that they are

inclined to war. Their aims generally consist of a double-handed sword,

a weapon of great force, and very large spears; but every one will

possess a musket if he can, and if it has not a lock, he will fire it

with a match. It is in this point that the Burmahs are so deficient in

aims: we used to consider it a very courageous act to venture to fire

off a Burmese musket, they were in such a wretched condition: and to

crown all, every man _makes his own gunpowder_. Now it may be easily

imagined what stuff this must be; as, previous to an expected combat,

each Burmah sits down and composes the article to the best of his

knowledge and belief. The consequences are, that when these muskets do

go off (and it is ten to one they do not), it is again ten to one that

the bullet falls short, from the inefficacy of the powder. There is

another singular fact, and one which proves that they have been used to

muskets but a short time: it is, that they have no bullet-moulds or

leaden bullets. All their bullets are of iron, hammered as round as

they can hammer them at the forge; of course the windage produced by

this imperfect shape, occasions it to deviate much from its intended

direction.

The guns on their stockades and war-boats are equally defective from bad

powder, and the hammered iron bullets. It is difficult to know where

they could have collected such a curious assemblage. Sometimes you will

fall in with a small brass piece of exquisite Spanish manufacture, at

others you will find them of the strangest forms that can be conceived.

I rather think they were purchased, or taken as a part of the duties on

vessels trading to Rangoon. I recollect once at the first taking of a

stockade, we knocked off the trunnions of an old iron gun, and left it

there as useless. The Burmahs reoccupied the stockade, and we had to

take it a second time, when we found that they had most ingeniously

supplied the want of trunnions with iron hoops and rivets, and the gun

was fired at us before we entered. At another time, we entered a

stockade which had kept up a brisk fire for a few minutes, and to our

surprise found that they had made _wooden_ guns, very well bound and

braced with iron hoops. Of course these guns would not fire more than

two or three shots each, as the touch-holes became inflamed, and were

soon so large as to render the guns unserviceable; but I mention these

points, to prove the perseverance of these people, and the efforts they

made in their own defence. After the first campaign it is true that

they deserted, and the levies were made by force; but the reason of

this, for I inquired into it, was not that they had any objection to

fight, but that, fighting without pay, they wanted to go home and put

the seed into the ground, as otherwise their wives and families would

starve.

The Burmah war-boats are very splendid craft, pulling from eighty to one

hundred oars; the Burmahs manage them very dexterously, and will pull

them from seven to eight miles an hour. They have a war-boat dedicated

to the Deity, which brought intelligence that saved the nation at the

time of the war with the empire of Pegu, in a space of time so short, as

almost to appear incredible.

As I before observed, the gun mounted on the boat's bow is of little

effect, but their spears are really formidable. At a night attack upon

some of our vessels, anchored off a stockade which they wanted to

regain, I had an evidence of the force with which they are thrown. The

sides of the vessels were covered with them, sticking out like

porcupine's quills, and they had entered the plank with such force, that

it required a very strong arm to pull them out again. We lost some men

by them; the effect of a hundred spears hurtling through the air at the

same time was singularly appalling to our men, who were not accustomed

the sound, especially during the night. I heard several of the sailors

observe afterwards that they "did not like that at all," and I am sure

they would have infinitely preferred to have been met with fire-arms.

Some of these spears were sixteen feet long, with an iron head, sharp at

both sides, weighing from twelve to fourteen pounds. I have seen bows

and arrows in the possession of the Burmahs, but never have observed

that they used them in their conflicts with us. They appeared to

despise them. The system of warfare and defence pursued by these

people, is undoubtedly excellent for the peculiarities of the country.

Their stockades are usually built of any thick teak timber, or rather

squared trees, which are much too strong to be penetrated by any other

than battering cannon, and, in consequence, were invariably carried by

escalade. Some of them are built of bamboos, running from a foot to two

feet in diameter. These are equally strong, with the peculiarity that

if you fire cannon at them the bamboos yield, admit the shot, and then

close again. If these stockades are not close to the river side, they

usually have a deep ditch round them, and are further protected by what

was more serious to us than the escalading, which were abbatis of

pointed bamboos, stuck in a slanting direction in the ground. The

slight wounds made by these bamboos brought on lock-jaw, and too often

terminated fatally. In the attacks upon us at Rangoon they made their

approaches with some degree of military skill, throwing up trenches as

they advanced. Their fire-rafts on such a rapid river were also

formidable. They have wells of petroleum up the country: their rafts

were very large, and on them, here and there, were placed old canoes

filled with this inflammable matter. When on fire, it blazed as high as

our maintop, throwing out flames, heat, and stink quite enough to drive

any one away.

I have mentioned their mode of warfare and their deficiencies, to prove

that if the Burmahs had been as well provided with every species of arms

equal to our own, the country would not have been so soon subjugated as

it was. Their system of defence was good, their bravery was undoubted,

but they had no effective weapons. I strongly suspect that they will,

now that they have been taught their inferiority, use every means to

obtain them; and if so, they will really become a formidable nation. As

one proof of their courage, I will mention, that at every stockade there

is a look-out man, perched on a sort of pole, about ten feet or more

clear of the upper part of the stockade, in a situation completely

exposed. I have often observed these men, and it was not till the

cannonade had fairly commenced on both sides, that they came down, and

when they did, it was without hurry; indeed, I may say, in a most

leisurely and indifferent manner. Of their invulnerables and their

antics I have already spoken.

In countries governed despotically, life is not so much valued as it is

in others. The very knowledge that it may be taken in a moment at the

will of the rulers, renders even the cowardly comparatively indifferent.

Having been accustomed from our earliest years to anticipate an event,

when it actually arrives we meet it with composure and indifference.

The lad in England who is brought up to thieving, and who is continually

reminded by his parents, that he _must be hung_ before he is twenty goes

to the gallows when his turn comes with much _sang froid_. So it is in

a despotic country, where the people witness the heads of their

companions roll on the ground, and surmise how soon their own turn will

come. I had more than one evidence of this during my stay. In one

instance I wished to obtain information from a prisoner, but could

extract none. He had been sitting between the carronades on deck for

twenty-four hours, and some of the men or officers had given him a bowl

of grog and a couple of cigars, with which he was busy when I

interrogated him. As he professed ignorance, I told him that if he

would not give me the desired information, I should take his head off;

and I sent for the serjeant of marines, who appeared with two of his

party, and with his drawn sword. We called him out from between the

guns, but he begged through the interpreter to be allowed to finish his

grog, to which I consented: when that was done, he was again ordered

out, but requested leave to finish about an inch of cigar which remained

in his mouth. To which I also acceded, not being in a particular hurry

to do that which I never intended to do. During all this the man was

perfectly composed, and did not show the least alarm at his approaching

fate. As soon as the cigar was finished, he bound his long hair up

afresh, and made preparation. I again asked him if he would tell, but

he pleaded ignorance, and stepped forward, went down on his knees and

took off the cloth from about his loins, which he spread on the deck to

receive his head, and then putting his hands on the deck, held it in the

position to be cut off. Not a muscle trembled, for I watched the man

carefully. He was, of course, remanded, and the sailors were so pleased

with him, that he went on shore with more grog and more tobacco than he

had probably ever seen in his life.

The Burmahs have, however, a means of extracting information from spies,

etcetera, which I never saw practised by them, although it was borrowed

from them by us. It was in our own quarter-master-general's office that

I witnessed this species of torture, so simple in its operation, and

apparently so dreadful in its effects. It consists in giving one single

blow upon the region of the heart, so as to stop for some seconds the

whole circulation. The way by which this is effected is as follows:--

the man--the Burmahs are generally naked to the waist--is made to sit

down on the floor; another man stands behind him, and leaning over him,

takes a very exact aim with his sharp bent elbow at the precise spot

over his heart, and then strikes a blow which, from its being propelled

so very mechanically, descends with increased force.

The effect appears dreadful; the dark hue of the sufferer's face turns

to a deadly white; the perspiration bursts out from his forehead, and he

trembles in every limb. I never witnessed such apparent agony. These

blows repeated three or four times, will unman the most resolute, and

they will call for death as a favour.

There is one point which must not be overlooked by the Indian

government, and which, connected with what I have already mentioned,

makes the Burmese nation more formidable; it is, the great contempt they

have for the sepoys. And what is equally true, the fears which the

sepoys have of them. The Burmahs are only afraid of the white faces, as

I shall very soon establish. They despise the sepoys, although they are

so well armed. Now, that the sepoys are good troops, there can be no

doubt; they have proved it often; but, at the same time, they are not,

as some of the Indian officers have asserted in my presence, the best

troops in the world, and preferable to Europeans. That they are much

easier to control, and that they excel in discipline, I grant, because

they are never intoxicated; but they have, in the first place, very

little stamina, and are, generally speaking, a small and very

effeminately built race. Still they have fought well--very well; but

they never fought well against the Burmahs; and for this simple

reason,--that superstition is more powerful than courage, and subdues

it. The sepoys are very superstitious, and had the idea, which was

never eradicated, that the Burmahs were _charmed men_, and they never

went out against them willingly, even when they were headed by the

English troops. As for the Burmahs' contempt of them, it was notorious.

I have myself seen one of the Burmah prisoners at Rangoon lift up a

piece of timber that six of the sepoys could hardly have moved, and

throw it down, so as to make it roll at the feet of the sepoy guard who

watched him, making them all retreat several paces, and then laugh at

them in derision. But we had many more decisive proofs. The Burmahs

had stockaded themselves about seven miles from Rangoon, and it was

determined to dislodge them. Colonel S--, who was very partial to the

native troops, was ordered on this service, and he requested

particularly that he might have no troops but the sepoys. Sir A

Campbell did not much like to consent, but, as the stockades were not

higher than breastworks, and the Burmahs not in very great force, he

eventually yielded to the Colonel's arguments. Fifteen hundred sepoys

were ordered out, and the Colonel went on his expedition. The Burmahs

had good intelligence that there were no European troops, and when the

sepoys arrived, they did not wait to be attacked, but attacked the

sepoys, and put them completely to the rout. One half of the sepoys

were said to be killed; the others came back to Rangoon in parties of

ten or twelve, and in the utmost consternation and confusion. Sir A

Campbell was, of course, much annoyed, and the next day a European force

was despatched against the Burmahs. On their arrival they witnessed a

dreadful and disgusting scene. A long avenue had been cut in the wood,

and on each side of it were hung by the heels, at equal distances,

shockingly mutilated, the naked bodies of the seven hundred and fifty

sepoys killed. The Burmahs did not, however, attempt to resist the

European force, but after a few shots made their retreat. Now, this is

a very important fact: and it is a fact which cannot be denied, although

it has not been made known. In India there is a nominal force of three

hundred thousand men; but they are scattered over such a vast extent of

territory, that, allowing they could be made disposable, which they

could not, it would require many months before they could be collected,

and if the Burmahs despise the sepoys, and the sepoys dread the Burmahs,

the only check against the latter will be the European troops; and of

them how many can be called out. Not ten thousand, at the very utmost;

and the difficulty of collecting them was well known at the commencement

of the Burmah war. There certainly is a great difference between

attacking others in their own territories, and defending ourselves; but

if the Burmahs could hold out against us, as they did, for nearly three

years, without arms to cope with us, what might be the consequence if

they were supplied with arms and officers by any other nation? We have

now a footing in the country, and it must be our object to prevent the

ingress of any other, and to keep the Burmahs as quiet and as peaceable

as we can. But our very intercourse will enlighten them by degrees, and

we have more to dread from that quarter than from all the hordes of

Russia or Runjeet Sing, and the whole disaffection of India.

As I have more to say relative to the Burmahs, I will, in my next

chapter, enter into a short narrative of the expedition to Bassein. It

was a bloodless one, although very important in its results: and

circumstances occurred in it which will throw much light upon the

character of the nation.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

It was not until many months after the war had been carried on, that Sir

Archibald Campbell found himself in a position to penetrate into the

heart of the Burmah territory, and attempt the capital. He wanted

almost every thing, and among the rest reinforcements of men; for the

rainy season had swept them off by thousands. At last, when determined

to make the attempt, he did it with a most inadequate force; so small

that, had the Burmahs thought of even trenching up and barricading the

roads at every half mile, he must have been compelled, without firing a

shot, to have retreated. Fortunately, he had an accession of

men-of-war, and his river detachment was stronger than he could have

hoped for. I do not pretend to state the total force which was embarked

on the river or that which proceeded by hand, communicating with each

other when circumstances permitted, as the major part of the provisions

of the army were, I believe, carried up by water. The united river

force was commanded by Brigadier Cotton, Captain Alexander, and Captain

Chads; the land forces, of course, by Sir A Campbell, who had excellent

officers with him, but whose tactics were of no use in this warfare of

morass, mud, and jungle.

It will be proper to explain why it was considered necessary to detach a

part of the forces to Bassein. The Rangoon river joins the Irrawaddy on

the left, about one hundred and seventy miles from its flowing into the

ocean. On the right of the Irrawaddy is the river of Bassein, the mouth

of it about one hundred and fifty miles from that of the Irrawaddy, and

running up the country in an angle towards it until it joins it about

four hundred miles up in the interior. The two rivers thus enclose a

large delta of land, which is the most fertile and best peopled of the

Burmah provinces, and it was from this delta that Bundoola, the Burmah

general, received all his supplies of men. Bundoola was in the strong

fortress of Donabue, on the Bassein side of the river, about half way

between where the Rangoon river joined it on the left, and the Bassein

river communicated with it a long way farther up on the right. Sir A

Campbell's land forces were on the left of the river, so that Bundoola's

communication with the Bassein territory was quite open; and as the

river forces had to attack Donabue on their way up, the force sent to

Bassein, was to take him in the rear and cut off his supplies. This was

a most judicious plan of the General's, as will be proved in the sequel.

Major S--, with four or five hundred men in three transports, the

Larne, and the Mercury, Hon. Company's brig, were ordered upon this

expedition, which sailed at the same time that the army began to march

and the boats to ascend the river.

On the arrival at the mouth of the river we found the entrance most

formidable in appearance, there being a dozen or more stockades of great

extent; but there were but two manned, the guns of the others, as well

as the men, having been forwarded to Donabue, the Burmahs not imagining,

as we had so long left that part of their territory unmolested, that we

should have attempted it. Our passage was therefore easy; after a few

broadsides, we landed and spiked the guns, and then, with a fair wind,

ran about seventy miles up one of the most picturesque and finest rivers

I was ever in. Occasionally the right lines of stockades presented

themselves, but we found nobody in them, and passed by them in peace.

But the river now became more intricate, and the pilots, as usual, knew

nothing about it. It was, however, of little consequence; the river was

deep even at its banks, over which the forest trees threw their boughs

in wild luxuriance. The wind was now down the river, and we were two or

three days before we arrived at Bassein, during which we tided and

warped how we could, while Major S-- grumbled. If the reader wishes to

know why Major S-- grumbled, I will tell him--because there was no

fighting. He grumbled when we passed the stockades at the entrance of

the river because they were not manned; and he grumbled at every

dismantled stockade that we passed. But there was no pleasing S--; if

he was in hard action and not wounded, he grumbled; if he received a

slight wound, he grumbled because it was not a severe one; if a severe

one, he grumbled because he was not able to fight the next day. He had

been nearly cut to pieces in many actions, but he was not content. Like

the man under punishment, the drummer might strike high or strike low,

there was no pleasing S--: nothing but the _coup de grace_, if he be now

alive, will satisfy him. But notwithstanding this mania for being

carved, he was an excellent and judicious officer. I have been told he

is since dead; if so, his Majesty has lost one of the most devoted and

chivalric officers in his service, to whom might most justly be applied

the words of Hotspur,--"But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the

most offending soul alive." [See note 1.]

As I before observed, the branches of the trees hung over the sides of

the river, and a circumstance occurred which was a source of great

amusement. We had a little monkey, who had been some time on board, and

was a favourite, as usual, of the ship's company. The baffling winds

very often threw us against the banks of the river, near which there was

plenty of water; and when this was the case, the boughs of the trees

were interlaced with the rigging of the ship. This unusual embracing

between nature and art gave Jacko the idea of old times when he

frolicked in the woods, and unable to resist the force of early

associations, he stepped from the top-sail yard to the branch of a large

tree, and when the ship had hauled off clear, we found that Jacko had

deserted. We lamented it, and ten minutes afterwards, thinking no more

about him, we continued our course up the river. About an hour had

elapsed, during which we had gained upwards of a mile, when again

nearing the bank on that side, we heard a loud chattering and screaming.

"That's Jacko, sir," said one of the men, and others expressed the same

opinion. We manned the jolly-boat, and sent it on shore towards the

place where the noise was heard. The monkey did not wait till the bow

of the boat touched the shore, but springing into it when some feet off,

he took his seat very deliberately on the stern, and was pulled on

board, where immediately he flew up the side, caressing every one he

met. The fact was, that Jacko had found several of his own race in the

woods, but, like all wild animals, they immediately attacked one who had

worn the chains of servitude, and Jacko had to fly for his life. We

very often interlaced the rigging with the boughs after that, but the

monkey remained quiet on the booms, and showed not the slightest wish to

renew his rambles.

I think it was on the third day that we arrived below the town of

Naputah, which was defended by a very formidable stockade, commanding

the whole reach of the river. The stockade was manned, and we expected

that it would be defended, but as we did not fire, neither did they; and

we should have passed it quietly, had not S-- grumbled so much at his

bad luck. The next day we arrived at Bassein, one of the principal

towns in the Burman Empire. Here again the Major was disappointed, for

it appeared that, on hearing of the arrival of the expedition at the

entrance of the river, the people had divided into two parties, one for

resistance, the other for submission. This difference of opinion had

ended in their setting fire to the town and immense magazines of grain,

dismantling the stockades, and the major part of the inhabitants flying

into the country. The consequence was, that we took possession of the

smoking ruins without opposition.

It was soon observed that the people were tired of the protracted war,

and of the desolation occasioned by it. They wanted to return to their

wives and families, who were starving. But up to this time the chiefs

had remained faithful to Bundoola, who had amassed stores and provisions

at Bassein, intending to retreat upon it, should he be driven out of the

fortress of Donabue; and as long as he held that fortress, receiving

from Bassein his supplies of men and of provisions. The Burmahs were so

unwilling to fight any longer, that they were collected by armed bands,

and made prisoners by the chiefs, who sent them up as required; and many

hundreds were still in this way detained, enclosed in stockaded ground,

and watched by armed men, in several towns along the river. An

expedition was first despatched up the river, to its junction with the

Irrawaddy, as there was a town there in which was the dockyard of the

Burmahs, all their war boats, and _canoes_ of every description being

_built_ at that place. They ascended without difficulty, and, after a

little skirmishing, took possession of the place, burnt all the boats

built or building, and then returned to Bassein.

Of course, we had then nothing to do: Major S--'s orders were to join

Sir A Campbell, if he possibly could; which, with much difficulty, he

ultimately effected. We must now return to the Irrawaddy expedition

sent up at the same time that Sir A Campbell marched by land, and our

expedition went up the Bassein river.

This force arrived at Donabue before we had gained Bassein. It found a

most formidable fortress, or rather, three fortresses in one, mounting a

great number of guns, and, as I before observed, held by Bundoola, the

commander of the Burmah forces, in whom the Burmah troops placed the

greatest confidence. I speak from hearsay and memory, but I believe I

am correct when I state that there were not less than ten thousand men

in Donabue, besides war elephants, etcetera. Now the river force did

not amount in fighting men certainly to one thousand, and they were not

in sufficient strength to attack a place of this description, upon which

every pains had been taken for a long while to render it impregnable.

The attack was however made, and the smaller stockade of the three

carried; but when they had possession of the smallest stockade, they

discovered that they were at the mercy of the second, and in a sort of

trap. The consequence was, defeat--the only defeat experienced by the

white troops during the whole war. The troops were re-embarked, and the

boats were obliged to drop down the river clear of the fire of the fort.

I believe two hundred and fifty English troops were left dead in the

stockade, and the next day their bodies, crucified on rafts, were

floated down among the English boats by the triumphant Bundoola. In the

meantime a despatch had been sent to Sir A Campbell, who was in advance

on the banks of the river; stating that the force afloat was not able to

cope with the fortress, the real strength of which no one had been aware

of. The consequence was, that Sir A Campbell retraced his steps,

crossed the river, and attacked it in conjunction with the flotilla, Sir

A Campbell taking it in the rear. After some hard fighting, in which

the elephants played their parts, the troops gained possession, and

Bundoola having been killed by a shell, the Burmahs fled. Now it was

very fortunate that the expedition had been sent to Bassein, for

otherwise the Burmahs would have fallen back upon that place, which held

all their stores, and would thus have been able to continue in the rear

of Sir A Campbell, as he advanced up the river. But they had heard of

the destruction and capture of Bassein, and consequently directed their

flight up the river towards the capital. We were in possession of all

these circumstances shortly after we had taken possession of Bassein;

and although the death of Bundoola and taking of Donabue had dispirited

the Burmahs, yet there were many chiefs who still held out, and who, had

they crossed with their troops to the Irrawaddy, would have interrupted

the supplies coming up, and the wounded and sick who were sent down. We

had, therefore, still the duty of breaking up these resources if

possible. Having ascertained who the parties were, we sent a message to

one of the weakest to say, that if he did not tender his submission, and

come in to us, we should attack him, and burn the town to the ground.

The chief thought it advisable to obey our summons, and sent word that

he would come in on the ensuing day. He kept his promise: about noon,

as we were sitting in the verandah of a large _Sammy_ house (a sort of

monastery), which we had taken possession of, we were informed that he

had arrived. The token of submission on the part of the Burmahs is,

presenting the other party with _wax candles_. If a poor man has a

request to make, or favour to ask of a great man, he never makes it

without laying a small wax candle at his feet. Neither do they approach

the Rayhoon and Mayhoon without this mark of respect.

Some time after this, one of the chiefs who had submitted took up his

quarters at Bassein; and his little daughter, about eight or nine years

old, was very fond of coming to see me, as I generally made her little

presents. She became very much attached to me, but she never appeared

without a little wax candle, which she dropped at my feet before she

threw herself into my lap.

In the present instance, the chief first made his appearance, and having

come within a few feet, sat down as a _mark of respect_. He was

followed by six more, who each carried about two pounds of wax candles,

tastefully arranged in a sort of filigree work of coloured papers.

After these came about fifty men, carrying large baskets full of

vegetables and fruit, which they poured out on the floor before us, and

then walked away and squatted at a distance. A few words of ceremony

were then exchanged, and the friendship cemented over a bottle of brandy

and some wine; which, notwithstanding the use of spirituous liquors is

against their religion, and forbidden by the government, they did not

object to. Before he left I made him a present in return, and he went

away delighted with the gift. Several more of the minor chiefs

afterwards came in, and the same formalities were gone through; but

there were three of the most important who would not make their

appearance; one, the chief of Naputah, the town which we had passed,

which did not fire at us from the stockades, and two others down at

another large arm of the river, who had many men detained for the

service of the army if required, and who were still at open defiance.

All these three were gold chatta chiefs, that is, permitted to have a

gold umbrella carried over their heads when they appeared in public.

After waiting a certain time for these people to send in their

submission, we sent word down to the chief of Naputah, that we should

visit him the next day, threatening him with the consequences of not

complying with our request. Accordingly we weighed in the Larne, and

dropped down the river till we were abreast of the town and stockade,

which was about thirty miles distant from Bassein. Our broadside was

ready; but as we were about to fire, we perceived that boats were

manning, and in about five minutes the chief of Naputah, in his own

war-boat, accompanied by about twelve others, and a great many canoes,

pulled off from the shore and came alongside. He made his submission,

with the usual accompaniments, and we were soon very good friends. We

gave him a beautiful little brass gun, which ornamented our poop, and he

went away very well pleased. We here had an opportunity of witnessing

the dexterity with which they handle their boats. They really appeared

to be alive, they darted through the water with such rapidity. Many of

the Burmahs remained on board, examining every part of the vessel and

her equipment; and soon they were on the best of terms with the seamen

and the few troops which I had on board to assist us, for we were very

short manned. We had gained intelligence that there were some guns sunk

in a creek, about three miles from Bassein, and we had despatched a boat

to look for them, having the assurance of a chief who was at Bassein

that the people were peaceable and well-disposed. By some mistake, the

boat went up the wrong creek, and pulled many miles into the country,

without finding the spot pointed out by marks given. At night they were

at the mercy of the Burmahs, who came to them to know what they

required. The Burmahs told them that they had mistaken the creek, but

were very kind to them, giving them a good supper, and passing the night

among them, playing their marionettes. The next day they showed them

their way, and when they came to the guns, the Burmahs dived, and made

ropes fast, and brought them up for them, sending a message that they

would come and see the _Great Water-dog_ (meaning me) the next day.

We remained two days at anchor, off the town of Naputah, waiting for

this boat, as it was our intention to go down the river, and attack the

two other gold chatta chiefs, if they did not send in their submission.

On the second day the chief came on board to ask us if we would attend a

Nautch which he gave that evening in compliment to us; but requested

that we would not bring all our people, as it would frighten his own.

Although it was not pleasant to trust ourselves on shore in the night,

in the midst of so large a force, yet, anxious to make friends with him,

we thought it advisable to accept the invitation in the manner he

desired. I replied, "that I would only bring on shore a few officers,

and my usual attendants of six marines without arms." At eight o'clock

some of the officers and I went on shore: it was quite dark, but we

found the chief at the landing-place ready to receive us. The marines

had their bayonets, and the officers had pistols concealed in case of

treachery, and the first lieutenant kept a good look out, with the

broadside of the ship all ready at the first flash of a pistol, but

these precautions were unnecessary; the chief took me by the hand and

led me up to his house, in front of which had been erected a sort of

covered circus, brilliantly lighted up with oil in cocoa-nut shells, and

round which were squatted several hundred Burmahs. He took us all to

the raised verandah of the house, which was fitted up for the ceremony,

where we found his wife, and all his attendants, but not his daughter,

who was said to be very handsome. As soon as we had taken our seats the

Nautch commenced. About twenty men struck up a very barbarous kind of

music, in which the bells and drums made the most noise. After a few

minutes of discordant sound, the play began. The actors were in a sort

of costume, and appeared quite at home in their parts. The story

consisted in the attempts of a young prince to obtain the hand of a

young princess; and the dialogue was constantly interrupted by an actor

who appeared to be a looker-on, but who made his remarks upon what

passed, so as to excite bursts of laughter from the audience. He was

the Jack Pudding, or wit of the piece, and several of his jokes were not

very delicate. At all events, he was the Liston of the company, for he

never spoke nor moved without creating a laugh. The play ended very

curiously; after the prince had gained the princess, they had a

procession, in which they made an imitation of a ship, out of compliment

to us; and then built a little house on the stage with singular

rapidity, to the door of which they conducted the youthful couple,

closed it, and then the play was over. In the meantime _pickled tea_

(which is a great compliment and excessively nasty) was handed round to

us, and we all partook of it, taking it out with our fingers; but we

could not swallow it, so it remained like a quid of tobacco in our

cheeks until we had an opportunity of getting rid of it.

The purser had had the foresight to put a couple of bottles of wine, and

one of brandy, in the pockets of the marines, which were now produced,

while the band continued to play, and wrestling was introduced. We

asked the chief to join us, but he refused; he handed down a sort of

picture, in which was represented the white elephant, pagodas, etcetera,

and told us that he was not only the war chief, but the head of the

religion at Naputah, and that it would not be right that he should be

seen by his people transgressing the laws. In the meantime his

daughter, who did not come out to us, was very anxious to know what sort

of people we were, and she sent for one to be brought in to her. My

clerk was the favoured party. She examined him very closely, pulled his

dress about, made him bare his legs, to see how white they were, and

then dismissed him. The clerk reported her as very handsome, and quite

as white as he was; splendidly dressed; and with an air of command,

which showed that she was aware of her importance.

We staid about two hours longer, and then we rose to go away. The chief

walked with us down to the boats, and we were not sorry to find

ourselves on board again; for the population was much more numerous than

we had imagined, and had any treachery been attempted, we must have

fallen a sacrifice.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

EXPEDITION TO BASSEIN CONTINUED.

May, 1836.

Although on friendly terms with the chief of Naputah, he was a person of

such weight in that part of the country, that it was advisable, if

possible, to identify him with us, so that he should never again fall

off, and oppose us, in the contingency of a reverse, on the Irrawaddy.

The next day we sent for him, informing him that it was to make him a

present in return for his civility the day before. But before we handed

the present to him, we stated our intention of dropping down the river

to reduce the two gold chatta chiefs who still held out; and that, as we

did not exactly know where their towns were situated, we wished for some

of his people to go with me. To this first proposition, after some

hesitation, he consented. We then pointed out that our men were not

accustomed to work in the sun, and were often ill; that, as we were now

friends, we wished him to allow me some of his boats to assist the ship

in the river. To this also he consented. In fine, we brought forward

our last proposition, which was, that he should supply us with six or

eight war-boats, well manned, and that we would pay the men and officers

at the same rate per day as we paid our own men; stating the sum we

would give, and that, if he was really sincere in his friendship and

goodwill, we expected not to be refused. Now, among the Burmahs who

were with him, there were many whose relations were detained to join the

army; a consultation ensued; the chief was pressed by his own people,

and, at last, gave his consent. We then presented him with the piece of

plate, upon which his eyes had constantly been turned, and he went away,

promising us that the men and boats should be alongside by daylight the

next morning.

This chief adhered to his promise, and we weighed anchor the next day,

and made sail down with the war-boats, and three or four

despatch-canoes, pulled by four or five men. These little canoes, when

put to their speed, dashed through the water at such a rate, that they

threw off from each bow one continued little fan-shaped _jet-d'eau_,

which had a very beautiful appearance, the sunbeams forming them into

rainbows. As for our Burmah force, they were at one time pulling

against the vessel sailing; at others, hanging on, and the people

climbing about the rigging, and ascending the masthead of the vessel;

but they soon all congregated to the stand of muskets, for that was the

great object of attraction. In the afternoon we had ball practice with

the small arms; and the Burmahs were, much to their delight, permitted

to fire. It is surprising how exact they were in their aims,

considering the little practice they must have had. Bad as all the

muskets are which are served out to the ships of war, I really believe

that there was not a Burmah who would not have laid down every thing he

possessed, except his life, to have obtained one. One of them, when he

was permitted to take a musket, looked proudly round, and said, with a

smile of joy, "Now I'm a man!"

The next day we arrived at the branch of the river where one of the

chiefs held out. At daylight our own boats were manned, and with the

Burmah boats ranged in line, made an imposing appearance, which was very

necessary, for at that time we were so short-handed, that we could not

send away more than forty men--a force so small, that, had the Burmahs

opposed to us seen it advance, they would probably have tried their

strength with us. As it was, we pulled into the stockaded town in a

line, the despatch-boats flying across us backwards and forwards like

porpoises before the bows of a ship running down the trades: not that

they had any messages to carry, but merely to show their own dexterity.

When we had advanced to within a quarter of a mile, a boat came out and

communicated with one of the despatch-boats, saying that the Burmahs

would not fight if we did not attack them, and that they would deliver

up the men detained, and their chief as a prisoner. We agreed to these

terms, landed, took possession of the chief with his gold chatta,

correspondence with Bundoolah, etcetera, and took him on board. On this

occasion, we would not trust the Burmahs employed with muskets; it was

too soon; they had only their own swords and spears.

The chief was a fine tall man with a long beard. Like all Burmahs, he

took his loss of liberty very composedly, sitting down between the guns

with his attendants, and only expressing his indignation at the

treachery of his own people. We were very anxious to know what had

become of the guns of the dismantled stockade, which were said to be in

his possession, but he positively denied it, saying that they had been

despatched in boats across to the Irrawaddy. Whether this were true or

not, it was impossible to say; but, at all events, it was necessary to

make some further attempts to obtain them, so we told him, that if he

did not inform us where the guns were, by the next morning his head

would be taken off his shoulders. At this pleasant intelligence he

opened his betel-bag and renewed his quid. The next day he was summoned

forth to account for the said guns, and again protested that they had

been sent to Donabue, which I really believe was false, as they were not

taken out of the stockade until after Donabue was in the possession of

Sir A. Campbell: it was therefore judged proper to appear to proceed to

extremities; and this time it was done with more form. A file of

marines was marched aft with their muskets, and the sergeant appeared

with his drawn sword. Sand was strewed on the deck in front of the

marines; and he was led there and ordered to kneel down, so that his

head, if cut off, would fall where the sand was strewn. He was again

asked if he would tell where the guns were concealed, and again stated

that they were at Donabue; upon which he was desired to prepare for

death. He called one of his attendants and gave him his silver

betel-box, saying, "Take this to my wife,--when she sees it she will

know all." I watched him very closely; his countenance was composed,

but, as he bent forward over the sand, the muscles of his arms and

shoulders quivered. However, as it is not the custom to cut off

people's heads on the quarter-deck of his Majesty's ships, we very

magnanimously reprieved him, and he was afterwards sent a prisoner to

Calcutta. But that he had the guns, we discovered afterwards, which

adds to his merit.

Having succeeded in this attempt, we made sail for the stockade of the

other chief, and arrived there that evening. As he was supposed to be

greater in force than the other, we decided upon an attack in the dark,

when he would not be able to distinguish of what our force was composed;

and this time we gave muskets to our Burmah comrades. The attack was

successful, we obtained possession, and the chief fled, but our Burmahs

pursued him nearly two miles, made him prisoner, and brought him aboard.

As he immediately tendered his submission, which the other would not

do, he was released the next day.

We had done all our work, and having employed the Burmahs for a few days

more in destroying the stockades at the entrance of the river, they were

paid and discharged from his Majesty's service. They would not,

however, quit us; but, so long as we remained in the river they

continued to hang on to the ship, and discovered three guns which had

been sunk, which they weighed and brought on board.

I have entered into this short narrative, as it will give some idea of

the character of these people. The government is despotic, cruel, and

treacherous, but the people are neither cruel nor treacherous: on the

contrary, I think they would make most excellent and faithful soldiers;

and it is singular to find, surrounded by natives who have not the

slightest energy of mind or body, a people so active, so laborious, and

so enterprising as the Burmahs. The English seamen are particularly

partial to them, and declared they were "the best set of chaps they had

ever fallen in with." They admitted the Burmahs to their messes, and

were sworn friends. I forgot to say, that when the chiefs sent in their

submissions, at first, among other presents, they sent _slaves_, usually

females, which was rather awkward. But not wishing to affront them, I

begged that the slaves sent might be children, and not grown up, as we

had no accommodation for them. The consequence was, that I had quite a

young family when I left the river, which I distributed at Rangoon and

the presidencies on my return. For if they were only bond-slaves, which

I suppose they were, it was a kindness to have them educated and taken

care _of_. We lost one little fellow, that was a great favourite with

the men; he was about three years old, and could speak English. He had

been christened by the sailors Billy Bamboo, and was quite as amusing as

the monkey. The poor little fellow died very suddenly, and was much

regretted by all on board.

I certainly do think that we may eventually find the Burmahs to be the

most powerful enemy that we shall have to contend with in India; and, at

the same time, I cannot help giving my opinion as to the ridiculous fear

we entertain of the Russians ever interfering with us in that quarter.

That the extension of the Russian empire has been a favourite object

through many of her dynasties, is true: but it is so no longer: they

have discovered that already their empire is too extensive; and hardly a

year passes but they have outbreaks and insurrections to quell in

quarters so remote that they are scarcely heard of here. That Russia

might _possibly_ lead an army through our Indian possessions, I admit;

but that she never could hold them if she did do so, is equally certain;

the conquest would be useless to her, after having been obtained at an

enormous sacrifice. The fact is, the Russians (with the exception of

the Emperor Paul) never had any intention of the kind, and _never will

attempt it_: but they have discovered how very alive we are to the

possibility, and how very jealous and anxious we are on the subject, and

it is possible that they have made demonstrations in that direction to

alarm us; but I think myself, that the great object of Russia in these

advances has been to force a channel for trade, which in her present

situation she is to the south of her extensive empire nearly deprived

of. Notwithstanding the outcry which has so often been raised against

the Russian empire, it has always appeared to me that _our natural ally_

is Russia; as for an alliance with France it is morally impossible that

two rival nations like us can continue very long at peace; our interests

are separate and conflicting, and our jealousy but sleeps for the

moment. We have been at peace with France many years, and have not yet

succeeded in making a satisfactory commercial treaty with her; neither

will any of the other Continental powers permit our manufactures to

enter, with the exception of Russia, who not only takes them, but

returns to us what is most valuable for our marine.

Why, then, this outcry against the ambition of Russia? nothing but

tirades against _Russian_ ambition. Does France show no ambition? Does

America show no ambition? Have we no ambition ourselves? Why this

constant suspicion and doubt against a power whose interest it is to be

closely allied to us, and who can always prove a valuable aid in case of

emergency?--simply because Russia wishes to have an opening to the Black

Sea. And this is very natural; her northern ports are closed nine

months in the year, and therefore her navy and mercantile marine are

almost useless. She has no outlet, no means of raising either. Does

she, then, ask too much? Is a great empire like Russia to be blocked

up, her commerce and navy crippled, for the want of an outlet? She does

require the opening of the Black Sea; it is all that she requires. She

never will remain quiet until she obtains it; and obtain it sooner or

later she certainly will; and in my opinion she is perfectly justified

in her attempts. What would be the consequence if she succeeded?--that,

if we were wise enough to continue on terms of amity with Russia, who

has invariably extended the hand of friendship to us, and has I believe

never failed in her treaties, we should have a balance of power to us

very important. Whose navies shall we in future have to contend

against?--those of France and America; for it is certain that whenever

we go to war with France, America will back her, and their navies will

be united. At present, the navy of America is not very large, but it

can soon be made so; and we should not be sorry to have the navy of

Russia on our side, to balance against the two which will always be

opposed to us. It is, therefore, our interest to _assist_ Russia in the

object she has in view, and to keep up a firm alliance with her. It is

the interest of France to excite jealousies between Russia and this

country; and her emissaries have been but too successful, at the very

time that France has, contrary to all treaty, and exclaiming against

_Russian_ ambition, seized upon Algiers, and is now playing her game, so

as if possible to command the whole of the Mediterranean. The very

strides which France has made in that quarter should point out to us the

propriety of opening the Black Sea for Russia, so as to restore the

balance of power in that future site of contention. I repeat that we

are blind in every way to our own interests, in not uniting ourselves

firmly by an alliance, offensive and defensive, with Russia; and that by

so doing, we should be the greatest gainers; for with France we must

never expect more than a _hollow truce_, concealing for the time her

jealousy and thirst for revenge,--a truce during which her secret

efforts to undermine us, will be still carried on as indefatigably as

ever, and which must only be considered as a mere feint to recover her

breath, before she again renews her frenzied efforts to humiliate

England, and obtain universal dominion.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

London, June, 1837.

To one who has visited foreign climes, how very substantial everything

appears in England, from the child's plaything to the Duke of York's

column! To use a joiners phrase, everything abroad is comparatively

scamp-work. Talk about the Palais Royale, the Rue Richelieu, and the

splendour of the Parisian shops--why, two hundred yards of

Regent-street, commencing from Howell and James's, would buy the whole

of them, and leave a balance sufficient to buy the remainder of the

French _expositions_. But still, if more substantial and massive, we

are at the same time also heavy. We want more space, more air, more

room to breathe, in London; we are too closely packed; we want gardens

with trees to absorb the mephitic air, for what our lungs reject is

suitable to vegetation. But we cannot have all we want in this world,

so we must do without them.

What wealth is now pouring into the country! and, thank God, it is now

somewhat better expended than it was in the bubble mania, which acted

upon the plethora certainly, but bled us too freely and uselessly. The

rail-road speculators have taken off many millions, and the money is

well employed; for even allowing that, in some instances, the

expectations of the parties who speculate may be disappointed, still it

is spent in the country; and not only is it affording employment and

sustenance to thousands, but the staple produce of England only is

consumed. In these speculations--in the millions required and

immediately produced, you can witness the superiority of England.

Undertakings from which foreign governments would shrink with dismay are

here effected by the meeting of a few individuals.

And now for my commissions. What a list! And the first item is--two

Canary birds, the last having been one fine morning found dead: nobody

knows how; there was plenty of seed and water (put in after the servant

found that they had been starved by his neglect), which, of course,

proved that they did not die for want of food. I hate what are called

pets; they are a great nuisance, for they will die, and then such a

lamentation over them! In the "Fire Worshippers" Moore makes his Hinda

say--

"I never nursed a dear gazelle,

To glad me with its soft black eye,

But when it came to know me well

And love me--it was sure to die."

Now Hinda was perfectly correct, except in thinking that she was

peculiarly unfortunate. Every one who keeps pets might tell the same

tale as Hinda. I recollect once a Canary bird died, and my young people

were in a great tribulation; so to amuse them we made them a paper

coffin, put the defunct therein, and sewed on the lid, dug a grave in

the garden, and dressing them out in any remnants of black we could find

for weepers, made a procession to the grave where it was buried. This

little divertissement quite took their fancy. The next day one of the

youngest came up to me and said, "Oh, papa, when will you die?"--A

strange question, thought I, quite forgetting the procession of the day

before.--"Why do you ask, my dear?"--"Oh, because it will be such fun

burying you."--"Much obliged to you, my love."

There is much more intellect in birds than people suppose. An instance

of that occurred the other day, at a slate quarry belonging to a friend,

from whom I have the narrative. A thrush, not aware of the expansive

properties of gunpowder, thought proper to build her nest on a ridge of

the quarry, in the very centre of which they were constantly blasting

the rock. At first she was very much discomposed by the fragments

flying in all directions, but still she would not, quit her chosen

locality; she soon observed that a bell rang whenever a train was about

to be fired, and that, at the notice, the workmen retired to safe

positions. In a few days, when she heard the bell, she quitted her

exposed situation, and flew down to where the workmen sheltered

themselves, dropping close to their feet. There she would remain until

the explosion had taken place, and then return to her nest. The

workmen, observing this, narrated it to their employers, and it was also

told to visitors who came to view the quarry.

The visitors naturally expressed a wish to witness so curious a specimen

of intellect; but, as the rock could not always be ready to be blasted

when visitors came, the bell was rung instead, and, for a few times,

answered the same purpose. The thrush flew down close to where they

stood; but she perceived that she was trifled with, and it interfered

with her process of incubation: the consequence was, that afterwards,

when the bell was rung, she would peep over the ledge to ascertain if

the workmen did retreat, and if they did not, she would remain where she

was, probably saying to herself, "No, no, gentlemen; I'm not to be

roused off my eggs merely for your amusement."

Some birds have a great deal of humour in them, particularly the raven.

One that belonged to me was the most mischievous and amusing creature I

ever met with. He would get into the flower-garden, go to the beds

where the gardener had sowed a great variety of seeds, with sticks put

in the ground with labels, and then he would amuse himself with pulling

up every stick, and laying them in heaps of ten or twelve on the path.

This used to irritate the old gardener very much, who would drive him

away. The raven knew that he ought not to do it, or he would not have

done it. He would soon return to his mischief, and when the gardener

again chased him (the old man could not walk very fast), the raven would

keep just clear of the rake or hoc in his hand, dancing back before him,

and singing as plain as a man could, "Tol de rol de rol; tol de rol de

rol!" with all kinds of mimicking gestures. The bird is alive now, and

continues the same meritorious practice whenever he can find an

opportunity.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

June, Steam-boat Princess Victoria.

It certainly appears that the motion of a steam-vessel produces more

nausea than that of a sailing-vessel; and people appear to suffer in

some degree in proportion to the power of the engines. This may be

accounted for by the vibration of the vessel increasing in the same

ratio.

We are now in a vessel of two hundred and fifty horse power, and the

consequence is that the passengers are as sick as two hundred and fifty

horses. The effect of the vibration of the after part of the vessel

amounts to the ridiculous.

When dinner was put on the table, we had no occasion for a bell to

announce it, for every glass on the table was dancing to its own

jingling music. And when the covers were taken off, it was still more

absurd--everything in the dishes appeared to be infected with Saint

Vitus's dance. The boiled leg of mutton shook its collops of fat at a

couple of fowls which figured in a sarabande round and round their own

dish,--roast beef shifted about with a slow and stately movement--a ham

_glisseed croisee_ from one side to the other--tongues wagged that were

never meant to wag again--bottles reeled and fell over like drunken men,

and your piece of bread constantly ran away and was to be pulled back

into its proper place. It was a regular jig-a-jig--a country-dance of

pousette, down the middle, and right and left.

The communication of motion was strange; the whole company seated on

long forms were jig-a-jigging up and down together--your knife jigged

and your fork jigged--even the morsel which was put into your mouth gave

one more jump before it could be seized. However, we jigged it to some

purpose; for, in eighteen hours and a half, we passed from London to

Antwerp.

The English are naturally great _voyageurs_: the feeling is inherent

from our insular position. I have been reflecting whether I can

recollect, in my whole life, ever to have been three months in one

place, but I cannot, nor do I believe that I ever was--not even when

sent to school; for I used to run away every quarter, just to see how my

family were--an amiable weakness, which even flogging could not

eradicate. And then I was off to sea; there I had my wish, as

Shakespeare says, borne away by "the viewless winds, and blown with

restless violence about the pendent world," north, south, east, and

west; one month freezing, the next burning; all nations, all colours,--

white, copper, brown, and black; all scenery, from the blasted pine

towering amidst the frost and snow, to the cocoa-nut waving its leaves

to the sea-breeze. Well, "homekeeping youths have homely wits," says

the same author; and he has told more truth than any man who ever wrote.

I certainly did hear of one young man who did not gain much by

travelling; he was a banker's clerk, and obtained three months' vacation

to go on the Continent. He landed at Ostend, and the next day found

himself in the track-schuyt that is towed by horses, from Bruges to

Ghent. The cabins were magnificent, velvet and gold the down cushions

luxurious, the dinner and breakfast sumptuous, the wine excellent, the

bed-rooms comfortable, and the expense moderate. Moreover, the motion

was imperceptible. What could a man wish more? He arrived at Ghent,

and could not make his mind up to quit this barge; so he returned in her

to Bruges, and then back again to Ghent; and thus he continued between

the two towns, backwards and forwards, until the three months' leave had

expired, and he was obliged to return to the desk. I have never yet

made up my mind whether this personage was a wise man or a fool.

But, until the opening of the Continent, the English were only

voyageurs, not travellers; and that, after having been so long debarred,

they should be desirous of visiting the various portions of Europe, is

not only natural but praiseworthy; but that they should make the

Continent their residence--should expatriate themselves altogether, is,

to me, a source of astonishment as well as of regret.

The excuse offered is the cheapness. It is but an excuse, for I deny it

to be the fact: I have visited most places, with and without a family;

and I will positively assert, not for the benefit of others who have

already expatriated themselves, but as a check to those who feel so

inclined, that they will discover too soon that, at less expense, they

can command more good living and substantial comforts in England, than

in any part of the Continent they may fix upon as their habitation.

Let us enter a little into the subject. First, as to the capitals,

Paris, Brussels, etcetera.

Let it first be remembered that we have no longer war prices in England,

that almost every article has fallen from thirty-five to fifty per cent.

It is true that some tradespeople who are established as fashionable

keep up their prices; but it is not absolutely necessary to employ them,

as there are those equally skilled who are more moderate. But even the

most fashionable have been obliged, to a certain degree, to lower their

prices; and their present prices, reduced as they are, will most

assuredly die with them.

Everything will, by degrees, find its level; but this level is not to be

found at once. Should peace continue, ten years from this date will

make a great alteration in every article, not only of necessity, but of

luxury; and then, after having been the dearest, England will become the

cheapest residence in the world. House rent in the capitals abroad is

certainly as dear, if not dearer than it is in England. There are

situations more or less fashionable in every metropolis; and if you wish

to reside in those quarters, you pay accordingly. It is true that, by

taking a portion of a house, you to a certain degree indemnify

yourself;--a first, second, or third story, with a common staircase

loaded with dirt and filth; but is this equal to the comfort of a clean

English house, in which you have your own servants, and are not

overlooked by your neighbours? If they were to let out houses in floors

in England as they do in Paris and elsewhere, a less sum would be

demanded. You may procure a handsome house in a fashionable quarter,

well furnished, in London, for 300 pounds per annum. Go to the Place

Vendome, or those quarters styled the English quarters, at Paris, and

which are by no means the most fashionable quarters, and you will pay

for a handsome front floor 700 francs per month; so that for one floor

of a house in Paris you will pay 336 pounds per annum, when in London

you will obtain the whole house for 300 pounds. The proprietor of the

Paris house, therefore, receives much more by letting his floors

separate than the English do. The common articles of necessity are as

dear, if not dearer abroad; the _octroi_ duty upon all that enters the

barriers raising the price excessively. Meat at Paris or Brussels is as

dear as in London, and not so good; it is as dear, because they charge

you the same price all round, about 5 pence per pound, independent of

its inferiority and the villainous manner in which it is cut up. Our

butchers only butcher the animal, but foreign butchers butcher the meat.

Poultry is as dear; game much dearer; and so is fish. Indeed, fish is

not only dear, but scarce and bad. Horses and carriages are quite as

dear abroad, in the capitals, as in London. Clothes are in some

respects cheaper, in others dearer, especially articles of English

manufacture, which are more sought after than any others.

Amusements are said to be cheaper; but, admitting that, the places of

amusement are oftener resorted to, and in consequence as much money is

spent abroad as in England. It is true that there are an immense number

of theatres in Paris, and that most of them are very reasonable in their

charges for admission; but be it recollected that there are not above

three of them which are considered fashionable, if even respectable; and

there the prices are sufficiently high. If people went to Sadler's

Wells, the Coburg, Victoria, Queen's Theatre, Astley's, and other minor

theatres in London, as they do to the Theatres Saint Martin, Gymnase, et

Varietes at Paris, they would find no great difference in the prices.

What then is there cheaper? Wine. I grant it; and, it is also

asserted, the education of children. We will pass over these two last

points for the present, and examine whether living is cheaper on the

Continent, provided you do _not_ hive in any of the capitals.

That at Tours and other places in the south of France, at Genoa, at

Bruges, in Belgium, you may live cheaper than in London, I grant; but if

any one means to assert that you can live cheaper than in the country in

England, I deny it altogether. People go abroad, and select the

cheapest parts of the Continent to live in. If they were to do the same

in England, they would find that they could live much cheaper and much

better; for instance, in Devonshire, Cornwall, and Wales, and, indeed,

in almost every county in England.

The fact is, it is not the cheapness of the living which induces so many

people to reside abroad. There are many reasons; and as I wish to be

charitable, I will put forward the most favourable ones.

In England, we are money-making people, and we have the aristocracy of

wealth as well _as_ the aristocracy of rank. It has long been the

custom for many people to live beyond their incomes, and to keep up an

appearance which their means have not warranted. Many, especially the

landed proprietors, finding their rentals reduced from various causes,

have been necessitated to retrench. They were too proud to put down

their carriages and establishments before the eyes of those who had

perhaps looked upon them with envy, and whose derision or exultation

they anticipated. They therefore have retired to the Continent, where a

carriage is not necessary to prove that you are a gentleman. Should

those return who have emigrated for the above reasons, they would find

that this striving for show is hardly perceptible now in England. Those

who have remained have either had sense enough, or have been forced by

circumstances, to reduce their expenditure.

Another cause is the easy introduction into what is called good society

abroad on the Continent, but which is in reality very bad society.

Certainly there are a sufficient number of Counts, Viscounts, and

Marquesses to associate with; but in France high birth is not proved by

titles, which are of little or no value, and do not even establish

gentility. This society may certainly be entered into at a much less

expense than that of England, especially in the metropolis; but, depend

upon it, there is a species of society dear at any price.

With respect to education of children, that boys may receive advantage

from a Continental education I admit; but woe be to the mother who

intrusts her daughter to the ruin of a French _Pension_!

In England there are many excellent schools in the country, as cheap and

cheaper than on the Continent: but the schoolmasters near London,

generally speaking, are ruining them by their adherence to the old

system, and their extravagant terms. The _system_ of education on the

Continent is certainly superior to that of England, and the attention to

the pupils is greater: of course there are bad schools abroad as well as

in England; but the balance is much in favour of those on the Continent,

with the advantage of being at nearly one-half the expense. A great

alteration has taken place in modern education; the living languages and

mathematics have been found to be preferable to the classics and other

instruction still adhered to in the English schools.

I have always considered, and have every reason to be confirmed in my

opinion, that the foundation of all education is mathematics. Every

thing else may be obtained by rote, and without thinking; but from the

elements of arithmetic up to Euclid and algebra, no boy can work his

task without thinking. I never yet knew a man who was a good

mathematician who was not well-informed upon almost every point; and the

reason is clear--mathematics have prepared his mind to receive and

retain. In all foreign schools this important branch of education is

more attended to than it is in England; and that alone would be a

sufficient reason for me to give them the preference. In point of

morals, I consider the schools of both countries much upon a par;

although, from the system abroad of never debasing a child by corporal

punishment, I give the foreign schools the preference even in that

point.

I consider, then, that boys are better educated abroad than in England,

and acquire much more correctly the living languages, which are of more

use to them than the classics. So much I can say in favour of the

Continent; but in every other respect I consider the advantage in favour

of England. Young women who have been brought up abroad I consider,

generally speaking, as unfitted for English wives; and that in this

opinion I am not singular, I know well from conversation with young men

at the clubs and elsewhere. Mothers who have returned with their

daughters full of French fashions and ideas, and who imagine that they

will inevitably succeed in making good matches, would be a little

mortified and surprised to hear the young men, when canvassing among

themselves the merits of the other sex, declare that "such a young lady

may be very handsome and very clever, but she has received a

_Continental education_, and that won't do for them." Many mothers

imagine, because their daughters, who are bold and free in their

manners, and talk and laugh loud, are surrounded by young men, while the

modest girl, who holds aloof, is apparently neglected, that their

daughters are more admired; but this is a great mistake. Men like that

boldness, that coquetry, that dash, if I may use the term, because it

amuses for the time being; but although they may pay attention to women

on that account, marrying them is quite another affair. No: the modest

retiring girl, who is apparently passed by, becomes the wife; the others

are flattered before their faces, and laughed at behind their backs. It

certainly is unmanly, on the part of our sex, to behave in this manner,

to encourage young women in their follies, and ruin them for their own

amusement; as Shakespeare says:--

"Shame to him whose cruel striking

Kills for faults of his own liking."

But so it is, and so it will be so long as the world lasts, and mankind

is no better than it is at present.

If then, as I have asserted, there is so little to be gained by leaving

a comfortable home, what is the inducement which takes so many people

abroad to settle there? I am afraid that the true reason has been given

by the author whom I now quote. Speaking of the French metropolis, she

says--

"I have been lately trying to investigate the nature of the charm which

renders Paris so favourite a sojourn of the English.

"In point of gaiety (for gaiety read dissipation) it affords nothing

comparable with that of London. A few ministerial fetes every winter

may perhaps exceed in brilliancy the balls given in our common routine

of things; but for one entertainment in Paris at least thirty take place

_chez nous_. Society is established with us on a wider and more

splendid scale. The weekly _soirees_, on the other hand, which properly

represent the society of this place, are dull, meagre, and formal to the

last degree of formality. There is no brilliant point of reunion as at

Almack's,--no theatre uniting, like our Italian Opera, the charm of the

best company, the best music, and the best dancing. Of the thousand and

one theatres boasted of by the Parisians, only three are of a nature to

be frequented by people of consideration, the remainder being as much

out of the question as the Pavilion or the Garrick. Dinner parties

there are none; water parties none; _dejeuners_, unless given by a

foreign ambassadress, none. A thousand accessories to London amusements

are here wanting. In the month of May, I am told, the public gardens

and the Bois de Boulogne become enchanting. But what is not charming in

the month of May? Paris, perhaps, least of all places; for at the

commencement of the month every French family of note quits the

metropolis for its country seat, or for sea or mineral bathing.

Foreigners and the mercantile and ministerial classes alone remain.

What, then, I would fain discover, constitutes the peculiar merit of

inducing persons uninstigated by motives of economy to fix themselves in

the comfortless and filthy city, and call it Paradise? Alas! my

solution of the problem is far from honourable to the taste of our

absentees. _In Paris people are far less amenable than in London to the

tribunal of public opinion_; or, as a lady once very candidly said to

me, `One gets rid of one's friends and relations.'"

Indeed, there are so many petty annoyances and vexatious of life

attendant upon residents abroad, that it must require some strong

motives to induce them to remain. Wherever the English settle they

raise the price of everything, much to the annoyance of the _rentiers_

and respectable people of the place, although of advantage to the

country generally. The really highbred and aristocratic people will not

associate with the English, and look upon them with any feeling but good

will. With regard to servants, they are invariably badly served,

although they pay two or three times the wages that are paid by the

inhabitants, who, in most places, have made it a rule never to take a

domestic that has once lived in an English family; the consequence is

that those engaged by the English are of the worst description, a sort

of _pariahs_ among the community, who extort and cheat their employers

without mercy. If not permitted so to do, they leave them at a minutes

warning; and you cannot go to any foreign colony of English people

without listening to very justified tirades of the villany of the

servants. Upon the same principle, there are few places abroad where

the tradespeople have not two prices; one for the English, and the other

for the inhabitants.

I was in company with an English lady of title, who gave me a very

amusing instance of the insolence of the Belgian servants. She had a

large family to bring up on a limited income, and had taken up her abode

at Brussels. It should be observed that the Belgians treat their

servants like dogs, and yet it is only with the Belgians that they will

behave well. This lady, finding her expenses very much exceeding her

means, so soon as she had been some time in the country, attempted a

reformation. Inquiring of some Belgian families with whom she was

acquainted what were the just proportions allowed by them to their

servants, she attempted by degrees to introduce the same system. The

first article of wasteful expenditure was bread, and she put them upon

an allowance. The morning after she was awoke with a loud hammering in

the saloon below, the reason of which she could not comprehend; but on

going down to breakfast she found one of the long loaves made in the

country nailed up with tenpenny nails over the mantelpiece. She sent to

inquire who had done it, and one of the servants immediately replied

that she had nailed it there that my lady might see that the bread did

not go too fast.

There is another point on which the English abroad have long complained,

and with great justice,--which is, that in every litigation or petty

dispute which may appear before a smaller or more important tribunal,

from the Juge de Paix to the Cour de Cassation, the verdict invariably

is given against them. I never _heard_ an instance to the contrary,

although there may have been some. In no case can an Englishman obtain

justice; the detention of his property without just cause, all that he

considers as law and justice in his own country, is overruled: he is

obliged to submit to the greatest insults, or consent to the greatest

imposition. This is peculiarly, observable at Paris and Brussels, and

it is almost a _jour de fete_ to a large portion of the inhabitants when

they hear that an Englishman has been thrown into prison. It must,

however, be acknowledged that most of this arises not only from the wish

of the rentiers, or those who live upon their means (who have these

means crippled by the concourse of English raising the price of every

article), that the English should leave and return to their own country;

but also from the number of bad characters who, finding their position

in society no longer tenable in England, hasten abroad, and, by their

conduct, leave a most unfavourable impression of the English character,

which, when Englishmen _only travelled_, stood high, but, now they

reside to economise, is at its lowest ebb; for the only charm which the

English had in the eyes of needy foreigners was their lavishing their

money as they passed through the country, enriching a portion of the

community without increasing the prices of consumption to the whole.

As a proof of the insolence to which the English are subjected, I will

give the reader a verbatim copy of a letter sent to me by a friend not

more than a year ago. I have heard of such a circumstance taking place

in France, but then the innkeeper was a Chevalier of the Legion of

Honour; but this case is even more remarkable. Depend upon it, those

who travel will find many a Monsieur Disch before they are at the end of

their journey. I will vouch for the veracity of every word in the

letter:--

"Wisbaden, July 3, 1836.

"My Dear --, As you kindly said that you would be glad to hear of our

progress when any opportunity offered of writing you a letter, I now

avail myself of some friends passing through Brussels to let you know

that thus far we have proceeded in health and safety; but whether we

shall complete our project of wintering in Italy seems more and more

doubtful, as I believe the cholera to be doing its work pretty actively

in some of the states we propose to visit; and a gentleman told me

yesterday, who has lately left the country, that the Pope is so glad of

an excuse to keep heretics out of his dominions, that he has never taken

off the quarantine: so that, under any circumstances, we must vegetate

in some frontier hole for a fortnight before we can be admitted; a

circumstance in itself sufficiently deterring, in my opinion. Besides

which, what with the perplexity of the coinage, and the constant attempt

at pillage which we have already met with, and which, I am told, is

quadrupled on the other side of the Alps, such a counterbalance exists

to any of the enjoyments of travelling, that I am heartily weary of the

continual skirmishing and _warfare_ I am subjected to;--warfare indeed,

as at Cologne I was _called out_. The story is too good to be lost, so

I will tell it for your amusement and that of our friends at Brussels;

moreover that you may caution every one against Mons. Disch, of the

Cour Imperiale:--We had _marchandeed_ with Madame Disch for rooms, who

at last agreed to _our_ terms; but when the bill came, she changed her

_own_. We remonstrated, and the bill was altered; but Mons. Disch made

his appearance before I could pay it, insisting on the larger sum,

saying his wife had no business to make a bargain for him. I

remonstrated in vain, and Mrs -- commenced most eloquently to state the

case: he was, however, deaf to reason, argument, eloquence, and beauty.

At last I said, `Do not waste words the matter, I will pay the fellow

and have done with him, taking care that neither I nor my friends will

ever come to his house again,' at the same time snatching the bill from

his hand when he demanded, in a great fury, what I meant by that;

exclaiming, `I am Germans gentlemans,--you English gentlemans, I

challenge you--I challenge you.' Although somewhat wroth before this.

I was so amused that I laughed in the rascal's face, which doubled his

rage, and he reiterated his mortal defiance; adding,--`I was in London

last year; they charge me twelve--fourteen shillings for my dinner at

coffee-house, but I too much gentlemans to ask them take off one

farding. I challenge you--I challenge you.' I then said, `Hold your

tongue, sir; take your money and be off.' `Me take money!' replied he;

`me take money! No, my servant take money; I too much gentlemans to

take money.' Upon which the waiter swept the cash off the table, handed

it to his master, who immediately sacked it and walked off."

I certainly have myself come to the conclusion that the idea of going

abroad for economy is most erroneous. As I have before observed, the

only article, except education, which is cheaper, is wine; and I am

afraid, considering the thirsty propensities of my countrymen, that is a

very strong attraction with the nobler sex. If claret and all other

French wines were admitted into England at a much lower duty, they would

be almost as cheap in England as they are in foreign capitals; and, as

the increased consumption would more than indemnify the government, it

is to be lamented that it is not so arranged.--Formerly we shut out the

French wines, and admitted those of Portugal, as our ancient ally; but

our ancient ally has shown any thing but good-will towards us lately,

and we are at all events under no further obligation to support her

interests. Let us admit French wines in bottles at a very low duty, and

then England will be in every respect as cheap, and infinitely more

comfortable as a residence than any part of the Continent. The

absentees who are worth reclaiming will return; those who prefer to

remain on the Continent are much better there than if they were

contaminating their countrymen with their presence. How true is the

following observation from the author I before quoted on her return from

abroad:--

"Home, home at last. How clean, how cheerful, how comfortable! I was

shown at Marthien the shabby, dirty-looking lodgings where the -- are

economising, in penance for the pleasure of one little year spent in

this charming house! Poor people! How they must long for England! how

they must miss the thousand trivial but essential conveniences devised

here for the civilisation of human life! What an air of decency and

respectfulness about the servants! what a feeling of homeishness in a

house exclusively our own! The modes of life may be easier on the

Continent,--but it is the ease of a beggar's ragged coat which has

served twenty masters, and is twitched off and on till it scarcely holds

together, in comparison with the decent, close-fitting suit

characteristic of a gentleman."

CHAPTER THIRTY.

Brussels.

Authors, like doctors, are very apt to disagree. Reading, the other

day, a very amusing publication, called the "Diary of a Desennuyee,"

some passages in it induced me to fall back upon Henry Bulwer's work on

France. Among his remarks upon literary influence in that country, he

has the following:--

"A literary Frenchman, whom I met not long ago in Paris, said to me that

a good-natured young English nobleman, whom I will not name, had told

him that dancers and singers were perfectly well received in English

society, but not men of letters.

"`Est il possible qu'on soit si barbare chez vous?'"

He subsequently adds:--"To be known as a writer is certainly to your

prejudice.

"First, people presume you are not what they call a gentleman; and the

grandfather who, if you were a banker or a butcher, or of any other

calling or profession, would be left quiet in his tomb, is evoked

against you."

Mr Bulwer then proceeds with a variety of argument to prove that

literary men are not _Maecenased_ by either the government or

aristocracy of Great Britain. He points out the advantages which the

French literati have from their Institute, the ennoblements, the

decorations, and pensions which they receive; and certainly makes out a

strong case.

The author of the "Diary" would attempt to deny the statements of Mr

Bulwer; but, in the very denial, she admits all his points but one--to

wit that they are not so well received by the aristocracy in England as

they are in France.

She says--

"What does Henry Bulwer mean by the assertion that literary men are more

eagerly welcomed in society here than in England?

"They occupy, perhaps, a more independent and honourable position, are

less exposed to being lionised by patronising dowagers, and more sure of

obtaining public preferment; but, with the exception of Mignet and

Merimee--who are courted for their personal merits and official standing

rather than for their literary distinctions--I have scarcely met one of

them. To the parties of the ministers of the _Grand Referendaire_, and

other public functionaries, artists and men of letters are admitted as

part of a political system; but they are not to be found--like Moore,

Rogers, Chantrey, Newton, and others--in the boudoirs of the _elite_, or

the select fetes of a Devonshire House.

"The calling of `_un homme de lettres_' is here, however, a profession

bearing its own rewards and profits, and forming an especial and

independent class. In common with the artists they look to ennoblement

in the Academy, and under the existing order of things have been richly

endowed with places and pensions."

It appears then, in France, that to the parties of ministers, etcetera,

they are admitted as a part of the political system; and further, that

they have been festered by the government, by being ennobled and richly

endowed with places and pensions. Therefore, upon his opponent's own

showing, Henry Bulwer has made out his case. In another part of the

same work there is the following amusing passage, in advice given by a

lady of fashion to her protegee upon entering into London society.

"`Pore over their books as much as you please, but do not so much as dip

into the authors,' said she, when I proposed an introduction to one of

the most popular authors of the day. `These people expend their spirit

on their works--the part that walks through society is a mere lump of

clay, like the refuse of the wine-press after the wine has been

expressed.' In conversing with a clever author you sometimes see a new

idea brighten his eye or create a smile round his lip; but for worlds he

would not give it utterance. It belongs to his next work, and is

instantly booked in the ledger of his daily thoughts, value 3 shillings

6 pence. The man's mind is his mine; he can't afford to work it gratis,

or give away the produce."

If we are to draw any inference from this extract, it is, that although

some noblemen do extend their patronage to literary men, at all events

the general feeling is against them. I must say that I never was more

amused than when I read the above sarcasm. There is much truth in it,

and yet it is not true. In future when I _do_ say good things, as they

call them, in company, I shall know precise value of my

expenditure during the dinner or evening party by reckoning up the

three-and-sixpences. One thing is clear, that if an author say half a

dozen good things, he fully pays for his dinner.

In the "Student," Edward Bulwer makes some remarks which range in

opposition to the author of the above "Diary." In arguing that most

authors may be known by their works, he says--

"Authors are the only men we really do know; the rest of mankind die

with only the surface of their character understood."

It appears, then, that people have no excuse for being disappointed in

authors; when they meet them in company they have but to read their

works, and if they like the works they must live the authors. Before I

proceed I must be permitted to make a remark here. An author's opinion

given as his own will allow the public to have an insight into his

character and feelings, and the public are justified in forming their

opinions of an author upon such grounds. But it too often happens that

the public will form their opinion of an author from opinions put by him

into the mouths of the characters drawn in a work of fiction, forgetting

that in these instances it is not the author who speaks, but the

individuals which his imagination has conjured up; and that the opinions

expressed by these creatures of his brain, although perfectly in keeping

with the character, and necessary to produce that _vraisemblance_ which

is the great merit of fiction, may be entirely opposed to the real

sentiments of the author. The true merit of fiction, and that which is

essential to its success, is the power of the author at the time that he

is writing to divest himself, as it were, of himself, and be for the

time the essence of the character which he is delineating. It is

therefore a great injustice to an author to accuse him of being an

infidel because his infidel character is well portrayed, particularly

as, if he is equally fortunate in describing a character which is

perfect, the public do not ever give him the credit for similar

perfection. That is quite another affair. Again, Edward Bulwer says,

in opposition to the poverty of the _mine_:--

"A man is, I suspect, but of a second-rate order whose genius is not

immeasurably above his works,--who does not feel within him an

inexhaustible affluence of thoughts, feelings, and invention, which he

never will have leisure to embody in print. He will die and leave only

a thousandth part of his wealth to posterity, which is his heir."

I like to bring all in juxtaposition. There is excitement in making

mischief, and that is the reason why people are so fond of it. Still,

the question at issue ought to be fairly decided; and, as in case of

arbitration, when the disputants cannot agree, a third party is called

in by mutual consent, I shall venture to take upon myself that office,

and will fairly argue the point, as there is more dependent upon it

than, upon the first view, the question may appear to merit.

If we turn back to the last century, in what position shall we find

authors?--looking up to patrons among the aristocracy, and dedicating

their works to them in panegyrics, fulsome from their obsequiousness and

flattery. At that period the aristocracy and the people were much wider

apart than they are at present.

Gradually the people have advanced; and, as they have advanced, so have

the authors thrown off the trammels of servitude, and have attacked the

vices and follies as well as the privileges of those to whom they once

bowed the knee.

The advancement of the people, and the lowering of the aristocracy, have

both been effected through the medium of the press. The position of

authors has been much altered. Formerly we behold such men as Dryden,

Otway, and many others (giants in their days), humbling themselves for

bread. Now we have seldom a dedication, and of those few we have the

flattery is delicate. The authors look to the public as their patrons,

and the aristocracy are considered but as a part and portion of it.

These remarks equally hold good with respect to the government. Authors

are not to be so easily purchased as formerly; they prefer writing in

conformity with public opinion to writing for government, because they

are better remunerated. Now, if it will be recalled to mind that in the

rapid march of the people, in their assertion of their right to a

greater share in the government of the country, in the pointing out and

correcting of abuses, and in the breaking down of all the defences which

have gradually yielded in so many years, it is the authors and the press

who have led the van, and that in these continual inroads the

aristocracy have been the party attacked,--it is no wonder that there

has arisen, unwittingly perhaps on the part of the aristocracy, a

feeling against the press and against authors in general.

The press has been, and will probably for a long while continue to be,

the enemy of the aristocracy; and it is hardly reasonable to expect that

the aristocracy should admit the enemy within its camp. For, be it

observed, whether a man write a political pamphlet or a novel, he has

still the same opportunity of expressing his sentiments, of flattering

the public by espousing their opinions; and as a writer of fiction,

perhaps, his opinions have more effect that as a pamphleteer. In the

first instance, you are prepared to expect a political partisan; in the

latter, you read for amusement, and unconsciously receive the bias. For

one who reads a political pamphlet (by-the-by, they are generally only

read by those who are of the same way of thinking as the author) there

are hundreds who read through a work of fiction, so that the opinions of

the latter are much more widely disseminated. Now, as most works are

written for profit as well as reputation, they are naturally so worded

as to insure the good-will of the majority, otherwise they would not

have so extensive a sale. The majority being decidedly liberal, every

work that now appears more or less attacks the higher orders. When,

therefore, a gentleman who has been well received in the best society

ventures upon writing a work, it is quite sufficient to state that he is

an author (without his book being read) to occasion him to "_lose

caste_" to a certain degree. Authors have been the enemies of the

higher classes. You have become an author--consequently you have ranked

yourself with our enemies. Henry Bulwer, therefore, is right where he

asserts that "to be known as an author is to your prejudice among the

higher classes."

Having made these observations to point out that the aristocracy and the

press are at variance, let us now examine into the merits of authors, as

mixing in society. And here I think it will be proved that it is more

their misfortune than their fault that there should be a prejudice

against them. They are overrated before they are seen, and underrated

afterwards.

You read the works of an author--you are pleased with them, and you wish

to become acquainted with the man. You anticipate great pleasure--you

expect from his lips, in _impromptu_, the same racy remarks, the same

chain of reasoning, the same life and vigour which have cost him so many

hours of labour and reflection, or which have been elicited in his

happiest moods, and this from a person who comes, perhaps, almost a

total stranger into a large company. Is this fair or just to him? Did

you find any of your other friends, at first meeting, play the fiddle to

a whole company of strangers? Are not authors as reserved and shy as

other people--even more so? And yet you ask them, as if they were

mountebanks or jugglers with a certain set of tricks, to amuse the

company. The very circumstance of being aware that this is expected of

him makes the man silent, and his very anxiety to come up to your

expectations takes away from his power.

The consequence is, that you are disappointed, and so are the company,

to whom you have announced that "Mr So-and-So" is to meet them. Had

you become intimate with this person you would perhaps have found the

difference, and that he whom you pronounced as so great a failure, would

have turned out equally amusing. At the same time there is some truth

in the remarks of the "Desennuyee" that "some authors will not let out

their new ideas, because they require them for their books." But, as

Bulwer observes, they must be but second-raters, as the majority of

authors are.

In many instances they are punsters; but punning is not a standard of

authorship; or, perhaps, there may be other second-rate authors present,

and if so, they know that they are in the company of literary

pickpockets.

To prove that this remark of the "Desennuyee" can only apply to

second-rate authors, let us examine into the conversational powers of

those who are first-rate. And here I can only speak of those whom I

have known--there may be many others. Where could you find such

conversationists as Coleridge, Charles Lamb, Sir John Malcolm, and many

others, who are now gone? And among those in existence, I have but to

mention Croker, Theodore Hooke, Professor Wilson, Bulwer, Lockhart, the

Smiths, and, in the other sex, Lady Blessington, Lady Morgan, Mesdames

Somerville, Austin, and Jameson.

Now these are all first-rate authors in their various styles; and I can

challenge any one to bring forward an equal number out of the whole mass

who are so powerful or delightful in society. And there is still more

to be said in favour of authors. I know many whose conversation is

superior to their writings; I will not name them as they, perhaps, would

not consider this to be a compliment but it fully tends to disprove the

remarks of the "Desennuyee" as to authors of talent reserving their

thoughts for their hooks, for, on the _contrary_, when in company, they

generally take the lead. Still, there is a difference arising from the

variety of temperament: some, accustomed to mix constantly in society,

will be indifferent whether they are acquainted with the parties present

or not; others, more retiring, require to feel at their ease, and it is

only in small coteries, and among friends, that their real value can be

appreciated. Theodore Hooke is a proof of the former, the late Charles

Lamb was of the latter. Some shine most when they have no competitors;

others are only to be brought out when other men of talent are in

company, and, like the flint and steel, their sparks are only to be

produced by collision.

If I might be permitted to offer an opinion to the authors themselves,

it would be, not to mix in general company, but confine themselves to

their own friends. They would stand much higher in reputation if they

adhered to this plan; above all, let them avoid what the author of the

"Desennuyee" terms those "Skinnerian lion feeds" given by those who have

no talent to appreciate, and who, to fill their menagerie, will mix you

up with foreign swindlers, and home-bred ruffians. This is most

humiliating and has certainly injured the fraternity.

I have but one more remark to make. Authors in England have little to

expect from the Government and the aristocracy. Pensions and honours

have been given, but until Sir Robert Peel set a more worthy example,

they were bestowed for the support of political opinions, not as a

reward of talent. That the aristocracy, with but a few exceptions, have

not fostered talent, is most true; and they are now suffering from their

want of judgment. They have shut their doors to authors, and the

authors have been gradually undermining their power. To what extent

this may be carried, it is impossible to say; but one thing is certain,

that the press is more powerful than either king or lords, and that, if

the conflict continue, the latter must yield to the influence of the

former, who will have ample retaliation for the neglect to which they

have been subjected.

What a superiority there is in England over France, and every other

nation, in the periodical and daily press, especially in the latter!

Take up the "Constitutionnel," or "Journal des Debats" at Paris, and

then look at the broad double sheets of the "Times" and other morning

papers, with the columns of information and original matter which they

contain. Compare the flimsy sheets, bad printing, and general paucity

of information of the continental daily press, with the clear types,

rapid steam power called into action, the outlay, enormous expenditure,

and rapid information obtained by our leading journals from all quarters

of the globe. I have looked with astonishment and admiration at the

working of the "Times" newspaper by its beautiful steam-engine; it is

one of the most interesting sights that can be beheld.

Nothing but the assistance of steam could, indeed, enable the great

daily newspapers to accomplish their present task. When the reader

calls to mind that the debates in the House are sometimes kept up till

two or three o'clock in the morning; that the reporters, relieved every

twenty minutes, have to carry all their communications to the office;

that all this matter has to be arranged, put in type, and then worked

off; and that, notwithstanding this, the double sheet of matter is on

thousands and thousands of tables by nine o'clock the next morning, it

is really wonderful how it can be accomplished. Saturday night appears

to be the only night on which those connected with these immense,

undertakings can be said to have any repose from year's end to year's

end. What a life of toil what an unnatural life must theirs be, who

thus cater during the hours of darkness for the information and

amusement of the mass who have slept soundly through the night, and rise

to be instructed by the labour of their vigils! It can be effected in

no other country in the world. It is another link in the great chain of

miracles, which proves the greatness of England.

The editors of these papers must have a most onerous task. It is not

the writing of the leading article itself, but the obligation to write

that article every day, whether inclined or not, in sickness or in

health, in affliction, distress of mind, winter and summer, year after

year, tied down to one task, remaining in one spot. It is something

like the walking a thousand miles in a thousand hours. I have a

fellow-feeling for them, for I know how a monthly periodical will wear

down one's existence. In itself it appears nothing--the labour is not

manifest nor is it the labour--it is the continual attention which it

requires. Your life becomes as it were the magazine. One month is no

sooner corrected and printed than on comes the other. It is the stone

of Sisyphus--an endless repetition of toil--a constant weight upon the

mind--a continual wearing upon the intellect and spirits, demanding all

the exertion of your faculties, at the same time that you are compelled

to do the severest drudgery. To write for a magazine is very well, but

to edit one is to condemn yourself to slavery.

Magazine writing, as it is generally termed, is the most difficult of

all writing, and but few succeed in it; the reason of which is obvious--

it must always be what is termed "up to the mark."

Any one who publishes a work in one, two, or three volumes, may be

permitted to introduce a dull chapter or two: no one remarks it; indeed,

these dull chapters allow the mind of the reader to relax for the time,

and, strange to say, are sometimes favourable to the author. But in

magazine-writing these cannot be permitted; the reader requires

excitement, and whether the article be political or fictitious, there

requires a condensation of matter, a pithiness of expression (to enable

you to tell your story in so small a space), which is very difficult to

obtain. Even in continuations the same rule must be adhered to, for,

being read month after month, each separate portion must be considered

as a whole and independents of the other; it must not therefore flag for

one minute. A proof of this was given in that very remarkable

production in "Blackwood's Magazine," styled "Tom Cringle's Log." Every

separate portion was devoured by the public--they waited impatiently for

the first of the month that they might read the continuation, and every

one was delighted, oven to its close, because the excitement was so

powerful. Some time afterwards the work was published in two volumes,

and then, what was the consequence?--people complained that it was

overcharged--that it was too full of excitement--gave no repose. This

was true; when collected together it had that fault--a very good one, by

the by, as well as a very uncommon one; but they did not perceive that

until it was all published together. During the time that it came out

in fragments they were delighted. Although, in this instance, the

writing was overcharged, still it proved, from the popularity it

obtained when it appeared in the magazine, what force and condensation

of matter is required in writing for periodicals.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

I am grave to-day; it is the birth-day of one of my children--a day so

joyful in youth, in more advanced life so teeming with thought and

serious reflections. How happy the child is--and it is its happiness

which has made me grave.

How changed are our feelings as we advance in life!--Our responsibility

is increased with each fleeting year. In youth we live but for

ourselves--self predominates in every thing. In mature age, if we have

fulfilled the conditions of our tenure, we feel that we must live for

our children. Fortunately, increase of years weans us from those

selfish and frivolous expenses which youth requires, and we feel it

little or no sacrifice to devote to our children the means which,

before, we considered so important to the gratification of our pride and

our ambition. Not that we have lost either our pride or our ambition,

but they have become centred in other objects dearer to us than

ourselves--in the race springing up--to whom we shall leave our names

and worldly possessions when our own career is closed.

Worn out with the pursuit of vanity, we pause at a certain age, and come

to the conclusion that in this life we require but little else than to

eat, drink, prepare for a future existence, and to die.

What a miserable being must an old bachelor be!--he vegetates, but he

cannot be said to exist--he passes his life in one long career of

selfishness, and dies. Strange, that children, and the responsibility

attached to their welfare, should do more to bring a man into the right

path than any denunciations from holy writ or holy men! How many who

might have been lost, have been, it is to be hoped, saved, from the

feeling that they must leave their children a good name, and must

provide for their support and advancement in life! Yes, and how many

women, after a life so frivolous as to amount to wickedness, have, from

their attachment to their offspring, settled down into the redeeming

position of careful, anxious, and serious-minded mothers!

Such reflections will rise upon a birth-day, and many more of chequered

hopes and fears. How long will these flowers, now blossoming so fairly,

be permitted to remain with us? Will they be mowed down before another

birth-day, or will they be permitted to live to pass through the ordeal

of this life of temptation? How will they combat? Will they fall and

disgrace their parents, or will they be a pride and blessing? Will it

please Heaven to allow them to be not too much tempted, not overcome by

sickness, or that they shall be severely chastised? Those germs of

virtue now appearing, those tares now growing up with the corn--will the

fruit bring forth good seed? will the latter be effectually rooted up by

precept and example? How much to encourage! and how much to check!

Virtues in excess are turned to vice--liberality becomes extravagance--

prudence, avarice--courage, rashness--love, weakness--even religion may

turn to fanaticism--and superior intellect may, in its daring, mock the

power which granted it. Alas! what a responsibility is here. A man may

enjoy or suffer when he lives for himself alone; but he is doubly blest

or doubly cursed when, in his second stage, he is visited through his

children. What a blessing is our ignorance of the future! Fatal,

indeed, to all happiness in this world would be a foreknowledge of that

which is to come. We have but to do our duty and hope for the best,

acknowledging, however severe may be the dispensation, that whatever is,

or is to be, is right.

How strange, although we feel in the midst of life we are in death, that

mortals should presume to reduce it to a nice calculation, and speculate

upon it! I can sell my life now to an annuity-office for twenty years'

purchase or more, and they will share a dividend upon it. Well, if ever

I do insure my life, I hope that by _me_ they will lose money, for, like

every body else in this world, I have a great many things to do before I

die. There was but one man I ever heard of who could lie down and die,

saying, "Now, Lord, let thy servant depart in peace." I have no warning

yet, no screw is loose in this complex mechanism; and yet, this very

day, a chimney-pot may fall on my head, and put an end to all my

calculations.

It is right that the precarious tenure of our existence should not be

wholly forgotten, but certainly was never intended that it should be

borne on the mind, for, if we had ever in our memory that we may die

this very hour, what a check there would be to all energy, and

enterprise, and industry. Who would speculate with the anticipation of

large returns upon some future day, if he did not calculate upon living

to receive them? We should all stop to say _Cui bono_? If it were not

that our hopes support us, not only support us in all reasonable, but

even unreasonable calculations, the world would be at a stand-still.

No, no! we have our duty to perform towards our God; but we are also

enjoined to perform our duty towards our neighbour. The uncertainty of

life is to be remembered as a check to our worldly passions, but not as

a drag-chain to our worldly career.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

En route, August, 1837.

There is a great art in packing property, and in it our profession are

fortunately adepts. A midshipman, for instance, contrives to put every

thing at the bottom of his chest. No very easy matter to pack up and

arrange a carriage full of children, two birds, and a spaniel puppy--in

all, twelve living beings with all their appendages, down to the birds

and dogs' tails. As for packing up a dog, that is impossible; the best

way is to pack it off. Canary birds travel very well in the carriage

lamps, in the summer time, when they are not lighted; and I mention this

as a hint to those who travel with such indispensable appendages;

independent of their being out of the way, their appearance behind the

glass is a source of great amusement to those who are standing by where

you change horses.

Stopped at Saint Frond, and asked what was to be seen. Nothing here but

churches and monks. One of the little girls, three years old, looked

with avidity at the Virgin Mary, three feet high, in gold brocade. The

old verger observing this, led her nearer to it, ascribing her

admiration probably to piety, when, to his horror, she screamed out,

"_Quel jolie poupee_!" Solomon says, "Out of the mouths of babes shall

ye be taught wisdom." The old man dropped her hand, and looked as if he

would have lighted the faggots had she been bound to the stake, as she,

in his opinion, deserved.

The perseverance of Belgian beggars is most remarkable, and equally

annoying. The best way is to take out your purse, and pretend to throw

something over their heads; they turn back to look for it; and if you

keep pointing farther off, you distance them. On the whole, I consider

that it is much more advisable not to give to beggars, than to relieve

them. Begging is demoralising, and should be discountenanced in every

country. If children are brought up to whine, cry, and humiliate

themselves as in Belgium, that feeling of pride and independence in

early youth, which leads to industry in after life, is destroyed. And

yet, the aged and infirm would appear to be proper objects of charity.

In many cases, of course, they must be; but to prove how you may be

deceived, I will state a circumstance which occurred to me some years

ago.

I was driving up the road with a friend. He was one of the pleasantest

and most honest men that nature ever moulded. His death was most

extraordinary: of a nervous temperament, ill health ended in aberration

of intellect. At that time Lord Castlereagh had ended his life of

over-excitement by suicide; the details in the newspapers were read by

him, and he fancied that he was Lord Castlereagh. Acting precisely by

the accounts recorded in the newspapers, he went through the same forms,

and actually divided his carotid artery, using his penknife, as had done

the unfortunate peer. Peace be with him! To proceed. I was driving in

a gig, a distance of about forty miles from town, on the Northern Road,

when, at the bottom of a steep hill, we fell in with a group who were

walking up it. It consisted of a venerable old man, with his grey locks

falling down on his shoulders, dressed as a countryman, with a bundle on

a stick over his shoulders; with him were a young man and woman, both

heavily burdened, and five children of different sizes. The appearance

of the old man was really patriarchal, and there was a placidity in his

countenance which gave a very favourable impression. For a short time

they continued breasting the hill on the pathway: when about one-third

up, the old man crossed the road to us, as our horse was walking up, and

taking off his hat, said, "Gentlemen, if not too great a liberty, may I

ask how far it is to --?" mentioning a town about twelve miles off. We

told him, and he replied, "That's a long way for old legs like mine, and

young legs of tired children." He then informed us that they had lost

their employment in the country, and that, with his son and daughter,

and their children, he had gone to town to procure work, but had been

unsuccessful, and they were now on their return. "God's will be done!"

continued he, after his narrative, "and thankful shall we be to find

ourselves at our cottages again, although twelve miles is a weary bit of

road, and I have but a few halfpence left; but that will buy a bit of

bread for the poor children, and we must do as we can. Good morning,

and thank'ye kindly, gentlemen."

Now there was no begging here, certainly, except by implication. The

effect, however, of his narrative was to extract a crown out of our

pockets, which was received with a shower of blessings on our heads. We

drove off, observing how difficult it was to know how to select real

objects of charity, and flattering ourselves that alms in this instance

were worthily bestowed. My readers will agree with me, I have no doubt.

It so happened that, about ten days afterwards, I was driving on the

Dover Road, in the same gig, and in company with the same gentleman,

when we came to the bottom of Shooters Hill. Who should we fall in with

but the very same party, the venerable old man, the young people, and

the children trudging up the pathway. The same plan of proceeding was

observed, for, although we recognised them immediately it appeared that

they did not recognise us. We allowed the old fellow to tell his tale,

as before; it was just the same. He first took off his hat, and

inquired the distance to --; and then entered into the same narrative,

only changing the place of abode, and ending with his few halfpence to

buy bread for the children. I let him finish, and then I did not, as

before, give him a crown, but I gave him a cut across his face with the

whip, which made him drop his bundle, put his hands up to it; and we

left him, stamping with pain in the middle of the road, till we were out

of sight. A young rogue I can easily pardon, but an old one, on the

verge of the grave, is a proof of hardened villainy, which admits of no

extenuation. After giving him this _cut direct_, we never met again.

To return to Saint Frond.--In the last church we visited we had a scene.

A woman was in the confessional; the priest, with a white handkerchief

up to conceal his face, and prevent what he said being overheard,

attracted the attention of the children, who demanded an explanation.

Children ask so many questions. "Do you think she has been very wicked?

Will he forgive her?" Before I could offer my opinion upon this

important subject, the woman gave a loud scream, and fell back from the

confessional in a fit. The priest rose, the handkerchief no longer

concealed his face, and he appeared to be burning with indignation. She

was carried out of the church, and the priest hastened up the aisle to

the vestry. What had she done? At all events, something for which it

appeared there was no absolution.

Aix-la-Chapelle--alas! What did we care for the tomb of Charles the

Great, and his extensive dominions, his splendour and power? We had

lost something to us of much more importance--a carpet bag; not that the

carpet bag was of much value, for it was an old one, nor the articles

which it contained, for they were neither new nor of much worth; but we

lost in that carpet bag an invaluable quantity of comfort, for it

contained a variety of little absolute necessaries, the loss of which we

could not replace until our arrival at Cologne, to which town all our

trunks had been despatched. The children could not be brushed, for the

brushes were in the carpet bag; they could not be combed, for the combs

were in the carpet bag; they were put to bed without nightcaps, for the

night-caps were in the carpet bag; they were put to bed in their little

chemises, reaching down to the fifth rib or thereabouts, for their

night-clothes were in the carpet bag: not only the children, but every

one else suffered by this carpet bag being absent without leave. My

boots burst, and my others were in the carpet bag; my snuff-box was

empty, and the canister was in the carpet bag; and the servants

grumbled, for they had smuggled some of their things into the carpet

bag.

It would appear that everything had been crammed into this unfortunate

receptacle. Had we lost a jewel-case, or a purse full of money, it

would have been a trifle compared to the misery occasioned by this

jumble up of every day conveniences of little value, showing how much

more comfort depends upon the necessaries than the luxuries of life. I

may add, now that I read what I have written, that this carpet bag

increased in dimensions to a most extraordinary compass for several

weeks afterwards. Everything that was missing was declared by the

servants to have been in the carpet bag, which, like the scape-goat of

the Jews, wandered in the wilderness, bearing with it all the sins of

all the nurses and every other domestic of the family.

On our road, the landlord of an inn put the following printed document

into my hands, which I make public for the benefit of those who are

sportsmen without being landholders.

"COMFORTABLE INN.--The proprietor of the Red House, at Burgheim, on

the road from Aix-la-Chapelle to Cologne, pleasantly situated in the

middle of the town, opposite the Post-Office and Post-House, has the

honour of recommending himself to travellers. The `Galignani's

Messenger' and other newspapers are taken in. The English, German,

and French languages spoken. Having excellent preserves of game in

the neighbourhood, he is happy to inform travellers that he can

provide them with good sports in wild boar, deer, and hare hunting,

and wild duck and partridge shooting. Horses and carriages of all

descriptions supplied for excursions in the neighbourhood.

"AJ HONS."

_Prussia_.--I fear that our political economists are running after a

shadow, and that their reciprocity system will never be listened to. It

is remarkable, that, after subsidising this and other powers to break up

the continental system established by Napoleon for the expulsion of

English manufactures and the consequent ruin of England, now that the

world is at peace, these very powers who, by our exertions and our

money, have been liberated from their thraldom, have themselves

established the very system of exclusion which we were so anxious to

prevent. A little reflection will prove that they are right. The

government of a country ought never, if possible, to allow that country

to be dependent upon any other for such resources as it can obtain by

its own industry. We, ourselves, acted upon this principle when we

established the silk manufactories in Spitalfields; and it is the duty

of every government to do the same.

The indigenous productions of the soil may fairly be admitted on a

system of reciprocity and exchange, but not articles of manufacture, of

which the raw material is to be obtained by all. For instance, the

lead, and iron, and tin of Great Britain, the wines of other countries,

are all articles to be exchanged or paid for by those who have not mines

of those metals, or do not possess vineyards. Further than this

reciprocity cannot go, without being injurious to one, if not to both

parties.

Three of the carriage-wheels defective! Add this to the carpet bag, and

people will agree in the trite observation that misfortunes never come

single. This is not true; they do come single very often, and when they

do, they are more annoying than if they come in heaps. You growl at a

single mishap, but if you find that Fortune is down upon you and

attempts to overload you, you rise up against her with indignation, snap

your fingers, and laugh at her. The last mishap brought consolation for

all the others; if we had not so fortunately found out the defects in

the wheels, we might have broken our necks the next day, especially, as

some amateur took a fancy and helped himself to our _sabot_. I only

wish he may be shod with it for the remainder of his days.

It is curious how the ignorant and simple always rise or depreciate

others, whatever their rank may be, to their own levels, when they talk

of them. I listened to one little girl telling a story to another, in

which kings, queens, and princesses were the actors.

"And so," said the queen to the princess, "what a very pretty doll that

is of yours!"

"Yes, your majesty; papa bought it for me at the bazaar, and gave 5

shillings 6 pence for it," etcetera.

This reminded me of the sailors telling stories on board of a

man-of-war, who put very different language into the mouth of royalty.

"Well," says the king, "blow me tight if I'll stand this. You must

buckle-to as fast as you please, Mrs Queen."

"I'll see you hanged first, and your head shaved too," answered her

majesty in a rage, etcetera, etcetera. What queens may say in a rage it

is impossible to assert; but to the seamen this language appeared to be

perfectly regal and quite correct.

Some people form odd notions of gentility. A cabman took up a

well-dressed female, who made use of expressions which rather startled

him, and he observed to a friend of his, a hackney-coachman, that he had

no idea that the higher classes used such language.

"Pooh! pooh!" replied the coachman, "she warn't a lady."

"I beg your pardon," replied the cabman, "a real lady, _hat and

feathers_!"

Cologne.--This is a regular Golgotha--the skulls of the Magi, _par

excellence_, and then the skulls of Saint Ursula and her 11,000 virgins.

I wonder where she collected so many! Saint Ursula brought a great

force into the field, at all events, and, I presume, commands the right

wing of the whole army of martyrs. I went into the golden chamber,

where there are some really pretty things. The old fellow handed us the

articles one after another, but I observed that there were many things

which I had seen when here before, which were not presented to view, so

I looked into the cabinet and found them. They were crystal vases,

mounted with gold and precious stones. One had the thigh-bone of Saint

Sebastian; another, part of the ulna of Saint Lawrence; and a third a

bit of the petticoat of the Virgin Mary. I handed them out to the

ladies, and asked him why he did not show us those as he used to do

before. The old man smiled and turned the corners of his mouth down, as

if to say, "Its all humbug!" Relics are certainly at a discount, even

among the Catholics.

I question whether the Bridge of Boats at Cologne don't pay better than

any other in the whole world, although by no means the handsomest; the

stream of passengers on it all day is as strong and as wide as the Rhine

itself. As for Cologne, the best thing that could happen to it is to be

burnt down. Narrow streets, badly ventilated, badly drained; your nose

is visited with a thousand varieties of smell as you pass along; and the

Eau de Cologne in the gutters is very different in savour from that

which you buy in the bottles.

We had a pleasant passage from Cologne to Coblentz, and from thence to

Mayence, because we had pleasant company. It is singular, but it is a

fact, that you go on board a steamboat to avoid fatigue, and each night

you are more tired than if you had travelled by land. You go to avoid

dust and heat; the first is exchanged for blacks out of the funnel, and

you are more dirty than if you had travelled twice the distance; and the

heat is about the same; in these points you certainly gain nothing. The

expense of these Rhine steamboats is very great. By a calculation I

made--to travel by post, five persons in a carriage, from Cologne to

Strasburg--you will expend 200 and odd francs less than by the steam

conveyance. In time you certainly lose by steam, as you are four days

and a half going to Strasburg, and by land carriage it is half the

distance, being only forty-five posts.

Neither do you save trouble; for the steam-boats being changed every

evening, you have to take your luggage on shore, shift it from one to

the other, and, at the very time that you are least inclined to do

anything, independent of an enormous expense which you ought not to pay,

but cannot well resist.

Now, as you really gain nothing in the above points, it is at least to

be supposed that you gain in the picturesque; but this is not the case:

and I have no hesitation in asserting that those who go up the Rhine are

generally disappointed, although they do not like to say so. They

expect too much.--The vivid descriptions, the steel engravings, have

raised their anticipations too high; and they find that the reality is

not equal to the efforts of the pen and pencil. Several of the

passengers acknowledged to me that they were disappointed; and I must

confess that I hardly knew the Rhine again. When I travelled up the

Rhine by land I thought it beautiful; but in a steam-boat it was tame.

This was observed by others, besides myself, who had ascended both by

steam and by the road running close to the banks; and the reason was

simple. When you travel by land you have the whole breadth of the Rhine

as a foreground to the scenery of the opposite bank, and this you lose

by water; and the bank you travel on is much more grand from its

towering above you, and also from the sharp angles and turns which so

suddenly change the scenery. Abruptness greatly assists the

picturesque: the Rhine loses half its beauty viewed from a steam-boat.

I have ascended it in both ways, and I should recommend all travellers

to go up by land. The inconveniences in a steam-boat are many. You

arrive late and find the hotel crowded, and you are forced to rise very

early (as Mayence at three o'clock in the morning), which, with a

family, is no trifle. The only part of the Rhine worth seeing is from

Cologne to Mayence; below Cologne and above Mayence it is without

interest; and although between these two places the steam-boats are well

served, above Mayence everything is very uncomfortable, and you are

liable to every species of exaction.

If I were to plan a tour up the Rhine for any friends, I should advise

them not to go by the Rotterdam steamer; it is a long voyage and without

interest, and with many inconveniences; but start in the steamer to

Antwerp, go up to Brussels by the rail-road; from thence you will start

for Cologne by the route of Namur and Liege through Waterloo; and I

rather expect that many will prefer the banks of the _Meuse_ to the

Rhine. I know nothing more beautiful than the road from Namur as far as

Chaude Fontaine, although compared to the Rhine it is on a miniature

scale. From Liege to Aix-la-Chapelle, and from thence to Cologne. Go

up the Rhine by land as far as Mayence, and then you may do as you

please. When you are coming back, descend by the steam-boats; for then

you go with the stream and with great rapidity, and arrive in good time

at the towns where they stop. You will then have seen the Rhine by land

and by water.

At present the bubble is at its height; but it will burst by-and-by.

The English are lining the banks of the Rhine with gold, and receive

insult and abuse in exchange. I have been much amused with a young

countryman who has come up in the steamer with me. Not able to speak a

word of French or German, he is pillaged every hour of the day; but if

he could speak, he has no idea of the value of his money. He pulls out

his purse, and the waiters help themselves--very _plentifully_, I may

safely add. What he has come for it is difficult to say: not for the

picturesque, for he slept the whole time between Cologne and Mayence--

that is, all the time that was not occupied by eating and drinking. His

only object appears to be to try the Rhenish wines. He has tried all

upon the _Wein Presen_. He called for a bottle of the best; they gave

him one not on the _carte_, and charged him exactly one pound sterling

for the bottle. He is a generous fellow; he sits at the table with his

bottle before him, and invites every man to partake of it. And he found

plenty on board who were willing to oblige him.

"Capital wine, an't it?" said he to a Frenchman who drank his wine, but

did not understand a word of English.

"A votre sante, Monsieur," replied the Frenchman.

"I say, what wine do you call it?"

"C'est exquis, Monsieur," replied the Frenchman.

"Eskey, is it? You, waiter, bring us another bottle of eskey."

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

To continue.--Should travellers think it advisable to proceed upon the

Rhine, so far as Mayence, let them be careful how they venture to

proceed farther. I did so, out of curiosity to know what the features

of the Rhine were, after it had lost its character for magnificence; and

I will now detail my progress. At Mayence you are shifted into a

smaller steamer, with less power, upon the principle that there being

but a few passengers, their comforts do not require so much attention;

for, as the Rhine becomes more rapid as it narrows, upon any other

principle the power of the engine should have been greater. I must

caution the reader not to believe what is told them by the steam-packet

company.

Barbers were once considered liars _par excellence_, but I am inclined

to give the preference to these new associations. The features of the

Rhine change immediately that you leave Mayence; the banks are low, and

the river is studded with numerous islands, all of which, as well as the

greatest proportion of the banks, are covered with osiers. Still, there

is a great beauty in the Rhine even there; the waving of the osiers to

the strong breeze, the rapidity of the current, the windings of the

river, the picturesque spires of the village churches, or the change of

scenery when the river pours through forests, lining each bank as the

vessel slowly claws against the rapid stream, are by no means

uninteresting; of course we did not arrive at Leopoldshaffen at the hour

stated by the people at the office, but we did arrive late at night, and

took up our quarters at a small auberge in the above village, which is

not marked down in the maps, but which has post-horses and diligences to

convey passengers to Carlsruhe. Notwithstanding the assertion at the

packet-office, that we were to be in one day to Leopoldshaffen, in one

day more to Strasburg, we found there was no steamer until the day after

the morrow, and that we must wait one day more if we did not choose to

go to Carlsruhe. The females, being fatigued, preferred remaining where

they were. We sauntered about and amused ourselves quietly. The next

day, we found the steamer had arrived, and that instead of her ascending

in one day to Strasburg, it would take a day and a half, and that we

must pass the night aboard without the least accommodation--not very

pleasant, with a carriage full of young children. We embarked on board

the steamer, which was a miserable small vessel, with an engine of bad

construction, and very small power; and with this we were to oppose the

most rapid part of the Rhine. In every other point the vessel was

equally ill found: they had a very small stock of provisions, bad wine,

and none of those comforts provided for the passengers in the other

vessels. To crown all, another family with children (of whom more

hereafter) had taken their passage. The steward told us, that never

expecting so many people on board going up to Strasburg, he was totally

unprepared; and so it eventually appeared.

We started, and soon found out that the power of the engines was quite

disproportionate to the object in view. The Rhine now assumed a more

desolate character. For miles and miles not a village nor even a

solitary town to be seen; the Hartz mountains forming a blue opaque mass

in the distance; the stream rapidly passing through narrow and deep

channels, leaving one half of the bed of the river dry. At times we

passed very dangerous straits, where the waters boiled and eddied over

reefs of rocks, and were often obliged to force our way by keeping

within a foot of steep and muddy banks, where trees torn up, and hanging

by the roots, proved how violent must be the current when the river is

increased by the melting of the mountain snow.

Our progress was, as it may be imagined, most tedious; at no time did we

advance above a mile and a half per hour; sometimes we did not gain a

hundred yards in the same time, and occasionally we were swept back by

the current, and had to lose still more ground, while they increased the

power of the engine at the risk of explosion. The consequence was, that

when the day closed, the conducteur gave his opinion, that instead of

being at Strasburg by eleven or twelve o'clock the next day, we should

not arrive till four or five o'clock: we anchored within a yard of the

bank, and prepared to pass the night how we could.

Our party consisted of seven, with two nurses. The other party

consisted of four grown-up females, one male, four boys, an East African

negro, and a _cowskin_; the latter was a very important personage, and

made a great noise during the passage. The gentleman was apparently one

of those who denominate themselves eclectic: he paid very little

attention to what was going on; a peaceable sort of man, whose very

physiognomy said "any thing for a quiet life:" one of the ladies was his

wife, and two others, virgins of some standing, apparently his sisters;

the other lady, a bilious-looking sort of personage, and happy in being

the mother of four very fine boys, as great pickles as ever lived; these

she kept in order with the assistance of the negro and the cowskin, the

use of the latter occasioning such evident marks of astonishment and

horror to _our_ little ones, as not to be at all satisfactory to the

lady in question, who appeared not averse, had she dared, to have given

them a taste of it. The youngest and the youngest but one of the boys

were the two sufferers; the youngest had a regular dozen administered

every half hour. The two eldest were more particularly under the care

of the negro, who used his fists, I presume because they wore corduroys,

and, as Hood says, did not care for "cut behind." We had not been in

the vessel two minutes before there was a _breeze_. I heard the negro

expostulating as follows:--"You very foolish boy, what you mean? who

ever heard of putting new cloth cap into water to catch fish?" This was

the first offence. I must say that the coercion used did not appear to

originate from any feeling of regard for the children, for they were

allowed to climb, and push, and run over the sky-lights, and over the

engine, and I every moment expected that some of them would be provided

for either by the cog-wheels or the river Rhine.

It was evident at once, not only from the above accessories, but from

the Chinese trunks which contained their luggage, that they were an

Indian importation, and their behaviour subsequently proved it, beyond

all doubt, even if they had not made it known--not by talking to us, but

by talking at us, for they evidently did not consider that we were

sufficiently respectable to be admitted into their society, even in the

short intercourse of fellow-travellers.

I cannot here help making an observation relative to most of the people

who come from India. They are always dissatisfied, and would gladly

return. The reason is very obvious; they at once lose their rank and

consequence, and sink down to the level which they are entitled to in

English society. In India the rank of the servants of the Company takes

precedence; but whatever their rank or emolument may be in India, they

are still but servants of a company of merchants, and such rank is not,

of course, allowed in England. Accustomed to unlimited sway and control

over a host of fawning slaves, and to that attention as females--which,

where females are not very plentiful, is most sedulously paid--

accustomed to patronise the newcomers, who, of course, feel grateful for

such well-timed civility and hospitality--in short, accustomed to rank,

splendour, wealth, and power--it is not surprising that, upon their

return to England, when they find themselves shorn of all these, and

that their station in society is far more removed from the apex, they

become sullen and dissatisfied. Of course, there are many who have been

resident in India, where family and connections insure them every

advantage upon their return to their native country; but it must be

recollected that the greater proportion of those who return consists of

those who were of low origin, and who have obtained their appointments

in reward for the exertions of their parents in behalf of their patrons

in parliamentary returns, etcetera, and of young females who have (with

their face as their fortune) been shipped off to India upon a

matrimonial speculation. Now, however high in rank they may have, in

the course of many years' service, arrived to in India, when they return

they are nobodies; and unless they bring with them such wealth as to

warrant their being designated as nabobs, their chance of admittance

into the best society is very small indeed.

I have said that they _talked_ at us, and not to us. The gentleman was

civil, and would have conversed, but he was immediately interrupted and

sent off on a message; and, for a quiet life, he gave it up. The system

of talking at people always reminds me of the play of the "Critic," in

which it is asked why, if "he knows all this, it is necessary to tell

him again?" Simply because the audience do not; so, the party in

question were the actors, and we were the audience to be informed. The

conversation between the adults run as follows:--

"You recollect how polite Lord C-- was to us at --?"

"To be sure I do."

"Lady D-- told me so and so."

"Yes, I recollect it very well."

"What a nice man the Honourable Mr E-- is!"

"Yes, that he is."

"How very intimate we were at -- with Lady G--."

"That we were."

And so on, during the whole of the day, much to our edification. How

contemptible, how paltry is such vanity! But with their indulgence of

it for our amusement, the cow-skin, and a scanty dinner, we got through

the first day, during which two or three occasional patronising

questions or remarks were thrown at our heads, and then they reverted to

their own assumed exclusiveness. The night, as may be supposed, was

anything but comfortable to those in the cabin; but I shall not dwell

upon what, if fairly narrated, would be a very pretty sketch of human

nature.

We were to arrive the next day at five o'clock in the afternoon, but we

toiled on; and the sun at last went down, and we found ourselves with

the steeple of Strasburg a long way off. We again anchored, and had to

pass another night in this miserable vessel and delightful company. The

detention, of course, made our fellow-passengers more cross; and could I

have obtained possession of the cowskin, I would certainly have thrown

it overboard. The captain sent a man on shore to procure us something

to eat, for the steward declared himself bankrupt. The next forenoon we

arrived at the bridge of boats between Kehl and Strasburg; and thus was

finished our tedious and unpleasant voyage, of which I have given a

description as a warning to all future travellers. Our

fellow-passengers did once condescend to address and inform us that they

had left England (a party of ten people) only to pay a visit to some

friends in Switzerland--an expensive sort of trip, and which did not

appear at all consistent with the fact that they were travelling without

a carriage or female servants. Be it as it might, we separated without

so much as a salutation or good-bye being exchanged.

Much of the picturesque on the Rhine is destroyed by the vineyards,

which are, in reality, the most unpoetical things in landscape scenery,

being ranged up the sides of the mountains in little battalions like

infantry. It is remarkable in how shallow and how very poor a soil the

vine will grow. At Saint Michael's, they dig square holes in the

volcanic rocks, and the vines find sustenance. At the Cape of Good Hope

the Constantia vineyards are planted upon little more than sand. I dug

down some depth; and could find nothing else. The finest grapes grown

in Burgundy are upon a stratum of soil little more than a foot deep,

over schistus slate quarries, and the soil itself composed chiefly of

the _debris_ of this soft rock.

We know that the vegetable creation has a sort of instinct as well as

the animal and it appears to me that there are different degrees of

instinct in that portion of nature as well as in the other. A vine, for

instance, I take to be a very clever plant, and both apple and

pear-trees to be great fools. The vine will always seek its own

nourishment, hunting with its roots through the soil for the aliment it

requires; and if it cannot find it where it is planted, it will seek, in

every direction and to a great distance, to obtain it. It is asserted

that the famous vine at Hampton Court has passed its roots under the bed

of the river, and obtains aliment from the soil on the other side; but

an apple or pear-tree will take no such trouble--it will not even avoid

what is noxious. Plant one of these trees in the mould three or four

feet above the marl or clay; so long as the roots remain in the mould,

the tree will flourish, but so soon as the tap root pierces down to the

marl or clay below the mould, the tree will canker and die. To prevent

this, it is the custom to dig first down to the marl and put a layer of

tiles upon it, which turn the roots of the trees from a perpendicular to

a horizontal direction, and then they do well; but leave the tree

without assistance, and the fool will commit suicide, blindly rushing to

its own destruction; while the vine will not only avoid it, but use

every exertion to procure what is necessary for its continuing in health

and vigour. The vine is therefore certainly the more intellectual plant

of the two.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

Strasbourg.

There certainly is an impulse implanted in our natures to love

something; our affections were never intended to lie in abeyance, and if

they cannot be placed upon the other sex or our own children, they still

seek something as an object. This accounts for old bachelors being fond

of their nephews and nieces, for blood relationship has nothing to do

with it; and for old ladies, who have not entered into wedlock, becoming

so attached to dogs, cats, and parrots. Sometimes, indeed, the

affections take much wilder flights in the pursuit of an object, and

exhibit strange idiosyncrasies; but still it proves by nature we are

compelled to love something. I have been reflecting how far this

principle may not be supposed to pervade through the universe, and

whether we cannot trace it in the inferiors of the animal creation:

whether we cannot trace a small remnant of Paradise in the beasts who

enjoyed it with man, as well as in man himself. It is well known that

animals will take very strong and very strange attachments towards other

animals. It is, perhaps, more apparent in domestic animals, but is not

that because they are more brought together and more under our immediate

eye? in some instances, as in the case when maternal feelings are

roused, the strongest antipathies and habit will be controlled. A cat

losing her kittens has been known to suckle a brood of young rats, but

in this case I consider instinct to have been the most powerful agent;

wild beasts confined in cages show the same propensity. The lion

secluded in his den has often been known to foster and become strongly

attached to a dog thrown in to him to be devoured; but there never was

an instance of a lion or any other wild beast, which had a female in the

same den or even a companion of its own species, preserving the life of

any other living creature thrown in to him. This feeling occasions also

the production of Hybrids; which in a wild state could never take place.

There is not, probably, a more ferocious or ill-tempered animal than

the bear when it is grown up; it is subdued by fear, but shows no

attachment to its keeper; yet, the other day I fell in with a remarkable

narration proving the feeling I have referred to, actuating even this

animal. A proof of the bad feeling of a bear is fully established by

the fact that, although Martin, as the old bear is called in the Jardin

des Plantes, at Paris, had been confined in his fosse nearly twenty

years, during which time not a day passed that he was not well fed by

the people who amused themselves in the gardens, when a man fell into

his pit, he immediately destroyed him. It does, however, appear, that

all bears are not so ill-tempered as Monsieur Martin. Leopold, Duke of

Lorraine, had a bear confined by a long chain, near the palisades below

the glacis. Some poor Savoyard boys, who had emigrated as they still

do, with the hopes of picking up some money to take back with them, had

taken shelter in an out-house daring a severe snow storm. One of them

who was numbed with the cold, thought that he would try if he could not

find some warmer berth, and in seeking this, as the snow fell fast, he

at last crawled nearly exhausted into the kennel of the bear. Instead

of tearing the lad to pieces, the bear took him in his fore paws, and

pressed him to his shaggy warm coat till he was quite recovered. A bear

generally receives you with open arms, whatever may be his ultimate

decision; but in this instance it was favourable. The poor little boy

finding himself in good quarters, went fast asleep; the next morning he

sallied forth to obtain some victuals if he could, but without success.

Cold and hunger drove him again to the kennel of the bear, who not only

was delighted to see him, but had actually laid aside a portion of his

supper for the boy's use. The amicable arrangement continued for some

days, and the bear, at last, would not touch his victuals till the boy's

return. This peculiar friendship was at last discovered, and the story

narrated to the Duke, who sent for the boy, and took care of him,

admitting him into his own household. The narrator observes that the

boy died a year or two after this unusual occurrence had taken place. I

have no doubt but that many more instances might be brought forward by

others to establish my supposition. To us, all wild animals of the same

species appear to be much alike in disposition, because we have not an

opportunity of examining and watching them carefully, but I should

rather imagine, that as we can perceive such a manifest difference in

temper between individual horses and dogs and other animals who are

domesticated, that the same difference must exist in the wild species,

and that, in fact, there may be shades of virtue and vice in lions,

tigers, bears, and other animals; and that there does exist in animals

as well as in man, more or less according to their natural dispositions,

a remnant of those affections which in the garden of our first parents

were so strongly implanted as to induce the lion to lie down with the

lamb. "God is Love," says the Scriptures; before the devil found his

way to this earth all was love, for God only was there. Now man

struggles between the two principles of good and evil. When his nature

was changed, so was that of animals; but the principle not being extinct

in man, why should not a portion still remain in the rest of the

creation, who with him were permitted to inhabit the garden of Eden, and

whose savage natures were not roused until with man they were driven

from that abode of peace?

The most affectionate animal that I know of is the common brown

Mongoose: it is a creature between the squirrel and the monkey, with all

the liveliness but without any of the mischief of the latter.

Unfortunately they will not live in our country, or they would supersede

the cat altogether; they are very clean, and their attachment is beyond

all conception to those who have not seen them. They will leap on their

master's shoulder, or get into his bed, and coil their long bushy tails

round his neck like a boa, remaining there for hours if permitted. I

recollect one poor little fellow who was in his basket dying--much to

the grief of his master--who, just before he expired, crawled out of his

straw and went to his master's cot, where he had just sufficient

strength to take his place upon his bosom, coil his tail round his neck,

and then he died.

Hares and rabbits are also very affectionate. One of my little girls

had one of the latter, which she brought up in the house. He grew very

large, and was domesticated just like a dog, following you everywhere,

in the parlour and up into the bed-room; in the winter lying on the rug

before the fire on his side, and stretching out his four legs as

unconcerned as possible, even refusing to go away if you pushed him. As

for the cat, she durst not go near him. He thrashed her unmercifully,

for he was very strong; and the consequence was that she retired to the

kitchen, where he would often go down, and if she was in his way drive

her out. The hare and rabbit, as well as the deer tribe, defend

themselves by striking with their fore paws, and the blow which they can

give is more forcible than people would suppose. One day when I was in

a cover, leaning against a tree, with my gun in my hand, I presume for

some time I must have been in deep thought, I heard a rustling and then

a squeak on the other side of the tree; I looked round the trunk, and

beheld a curious combat between two hares and a stoat. The hares were

male and female, and had their leveret between them, which latter was

not above six weeks old. The stoat--a little devil with all its hair,

from the tip of its nose to the end of its tail, standing at end--was at

about two yards distance from them, working round and round to have an

opportunity to spring upon the leveret, which was the object of its

attack. As it went round so did the hares face him, pivoting on a

centre with the young one between them. At last the stoat made a spring

upon the leveret. He was received by the hares, who struck him with

their fore feet such blows as I could not have believed possible; they

actually resounded, and he was rolled over and over until he got out of

distance, when he shook himself and renewed his attacks. These

continued about ten minutes, and every time he was beaten off; but, at

every spring, his teeth went into the poor little leveret; at last it

gave its last squeak, turned over on its side, and died, the father and

mother still holding their relative situations, and facing the stoat.

The latter showed as much prudence as courage; for so soon as he

perceived that the leveret was dead, he also walked off. The hares

turned round to their young one, smelt at it apparently, pushed it with

their noses, and shortly after, as if aware that it was past all

defence, hopped slowly away; they were hardly out of sight in the bushes

when back came the stoat, threw the leveret, twice as big as himself,

over his shoulders, and went off with his prize at a hard gallop,

reminding me, in miniature, of the Bengal tiger carrying off a bullock.

All the actors in the drama having gone off; I walked off, and shortly

after both barrels of my gun went off, so the whole party disappeared,

and there's an end of my story.

If an elephant were not so very unwieldy, and at the same time so very

uncertain in his temper, he is the animal who has the most claims from

affection and intelligence to be made a pet of; but an elephant in a

drawing-room would be somewhat incommodious; and, although one may admit

a little irritability of temper in a lap-dog weighing three pounds, the

anger of an elephant, although he expresses himself very sorry for it

afterwards, is attended with serious consequences. There is something

very peculiar about an elephant in his anger and irritability. It

sometimes happens that, at a certain season, a wild elephant will leave

the herd and remain in the woods alone. It is supposed, and I think

that the supposition is correct, that these are the weaker males who

have been driven away by the stronger, in fact, they are elephants

crossed in love; and when in that unfortunate dilemma, they are very

mischievous, and play as many fantastic tricks as ever did any of the

knights of the round table on similar occasions in times of yore.

I was at Trincomalee; an elephant in this situation had taken possession

of the road at some leagues distant, and, for reasons best known to

himself, would not allow a soul to pass it. He remained _perdu_ in the

jungle till he saw somebody coming, and then he would burst out and

attack them. It is the custom to travel in palanquins from one part of

the island to another, as in all parts of India. If some officer or

gentleman was obliged to proceed to Colombo or elsewhere, so soon as the

palanquin came towards him, out came the elephant; the native bearers,

who knew that it was no use arguing the point, dropped the palanquin and

fled, and all that the occupant could do was to bundle out and do the

same before the elephant came up, otherwise he had little chance of his

life, for the elephant immediately put his knees in the palanquin and

smashed it to atoms. Having done this, he would toss the fragments in

the air in every direction, at the same time carefully unfolding all the

articles contained in the palanquin for the occupants use--shirts,

trowsers, boots, bottles, books, undergoing a most rigid examination,

and after that being rendered to fragments. If the cooley who had the

charge of the bag of letters made his appearance, he was immediately

pursued until he gave up the whole correspondence, official or private.

The bag was opened, every letter was opened one by one, and then torn in

fragments and tossed to the winds. In this way did he keep possession

of the road, stopping all communication for several weeks, until it was

his sovereign will and pleasure that people might receive their letters

and travel across the country as before. Now what an unaccountable

freak was this! It was like the madness of a reasonable being. If I

recollect right, it was when Captain Owen was on the east coast of

Africa, some of his party who landed were attacked by elephants, who

threw them down on the ground and, instead of killing them, as might

have been expected, and would have given them no trouble, they drew up a

large quantity of mud in their trunks and poured it into their mouths so

as to nearly to suffocate them, and then left them. On another

occasion, they put their fore feet on their limbs, so as to pinch and

bruise them severely in every part of their bodies, but avoided their

bones so as not to fracture one. Now this was evidently two species of

torture invented by the elephants, and these elephants in a wild state.

There certainly is something very incomprehensible about these animals.

The lion has been styled the king of beasts, but I think he is an

usurper allowed to remain on the throne by public opinion and suffrage,

from the majesty of his appearance. In every other point he has no

claim. He is the head of the feline or cat species, and has all the

treachery, cruelty, and wanton love for blood that all this class of

animals have to excess. The lion, like the tiger and the cat, will not

come boldly on to his prey, but springs from his concealment. It is

true that he will face his assailants bravely when wounded, but so will

the tiger.

In my opinion, the horse is the most noble of all animals, and, I am

sorry to say, the most ill-used, at least in England; for I do not

recollect a single instance of having seen a horse ill-treated on the

Continent. In fact, you hardly ever see a horse on the Continent that

is not in good working condition: you never meet the miserable, lame,

blind, and worn-out animals that you do in England, which stumble along

with their loads behind them till they stumble into their graves. If

any one would take the trouble to make friends with their horses, they

would be astonished at the intelligence and affection of this noble

animal; but we leave him to our grooms, who prefer to use force to

kindness. At the same time, I have observed, even in colts, very

different dispositions; some are much more fond and good-tempered than

others; but let them be what they will as colts, they are soon spoiled

by the cruelty and want of judgment of those who have charge of them in

the stable. The sympathy between the Arab and his horse is well known:

the horse will lie down in the tent, and the children have no fear of

receiving a kick; on the contrary, they roll upon, and with him: such is

the result of kindness. And I can now give a proof of the effects of

the contrary, as it was, in this instance, what may be termed _malice

prepense_ in the animal. The horses used in the West Indies are

supplied from the Spanish Main; they are from the Andalusian stock

originally, partly Arab and barb. These horses are taken by the lasso

from the prairies, and are broken in as follows:--They head them down to

the sea beach, saddle and bridle them for the first time, and mount them

with a pair of spurs, the rowels of which are an inch long. So soon as

the animal plunges and attempts to divest himself of his rider, he is

forced into the sea, and there he is worked in and out of his depth till

he is fairly worn out and exhausted. This is repeated once or twice

till they are submissive, and then they are sent off as broke-in horses

to the West India Islands. A friend of mine had a very beautiful

animal, which he had purchased from one of these ships. He had not

bought him more than a week before he took the bit in his mouth, and ran

away with the black boy who was exercising him. The boy lost his seat

and fell, and the horse, for a hundred yards, continued his career; and

then it stopped, turned round, and galloped up to the boy, who was still

on the ground, and never ceased kicking him till the poor fellow's

brains were scattered in the road. Now this was evidently determination

for revenge.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

Strasbourg is full of the pomp and circumstance of war. Being one of

the keys of France, it has a garrison of ten thousand men, and the drums

and bands play from morning to evening, much to the delight of the

children, at all events. It is a well-built town, although the houses

are most of them of very ancient date, with three stories of

_mansardes_, in their high-peaked roofs. I am rather partial to the

Alsatian character; it is a combination of French, Swiss, and German,

which make a very good cross. Not being in any particular hurry, I have

remained here ten days, and I will say for Strasbourg, that it has many

recommendations. It is lively and bustling; the walks outside the

ramparts are beautiful, and living is very reasonable. It has, however,

the reputation of being a very unhealthy place, and, I am afraid, with

truth. It is singular that the beautiful cathedral, although it has

already suffered so much by lightning, has not yet been fitted with a

conductor. There was a meeting of the dignitaries some years back; some

argued in favour and some against it, and it ended in neither party

being persuaded, and nothing being done. I met another Englishman here,

to whom the question might so properly be put, "What the deuce are you

doing here?" An old worthy, nearly seventy, who, after having passed

his fair allowance of life very happily in his own country, must,

forsooth, come up the Rhine, without being able to speak a word of

French, or any other language but his own. He very truly told me that

he had just begun to see the world at a time that he should be thinking

of going out of it. He honoured me with the office of interpreter as

long as he stayed, and I was not sorry to see him booked for the

steam-boat, all the way to the London Custom House stairs.

There is one remarkable point about the town of Strasbourg, which is,

that the Protestants and Catholics have, I believe always, and do now,

live in a state of amity which ought to be an example to others. In

running over the history of the town, I do not find that they ever

persecuted each other; but if they have not persecuted each other, I am

shocked to say that they have not spared the Jews. At the time of the

plague, they accused the Jews of having occasioned it by poisoning the

wells, and only burnt alive _two thousand of them at once_! I wonder

when the lightning struck the cathedral they did not drown two thousand

more in the Rhine--strange Christianity! when smitten by the hand of

God, to revenge themselves by smiting their fellow-creatures. I had to

call upon a Professor here upon some business; he amused me very much;

he fancied that he could speak English: perhaps he might have been able

to do so at one time, but if so, he had forgotten it, but he did not

think he had. I addressed him in French, and told him my business.

"Sir, you speak English?"--"Yes," replied I. "Then, Sir, I tell you

that--" Then he stopped, pondering and perplexed for some minutes,

without saying a syllable. "Speak French, Sir," said I; "I perceive

that you have forgotten a word in our language;" and I then put another

leading question to him, to which he replied, "Yes, I recollect that

very well, and I--" Then another dead pause for the verb. I waited a

minute in perfect silence, but his memory was as treacherous as he was

obstinately bent upon talking English, and then I again spoke to him,

and he replied, "That is true, that you must--" Then he broke down

again, and I broke up the conference, as I really could not wait until

he formed English words, and he was evidently resolved that he would

speak in no other language. Fortunately, it was no business of my own,

but a commission from another, which ended in an omission, which,

perhaps, did quite as well.

This morning I strolled into a small _debit de tabac_, to fill my box,

and it being excessively warm, was not sorry to sit down and enter into

a conversation with the young woman who attended upon the customers. I

asked her, among other questions, if the shop was hers. She replied,

"That she had hired the license." This answer struck me, and I inquired

if she could obtain a license for herself. She replied, "No, unless,"

said she, laughing, "I should marry some old _estropie_ who has been

worn out in the service." She then informed me of what I was not aware

which is, that instead of giving pensions to the old militaires, they

give them, and them only, the licenses for selling tobacco. They may

either carry on the trade themselves, or may lease out their licenses to

others, for as much as they can obtain for it per year.

I perceive that the Gallic cock now struts on the head of the staff,

bearing regimental colours, instead of the eagle of Napoleon. They

certainly have made the cock a most imposing bird, but still a cock is

not an eagle. The couplets written upon this change, which was made by

Louis Philippe, are somewhat sarcastic:--

"Le vaillant coq Gaulois,

Grattant sur le fumier,

A fait sortir le roi

Louis Philippe Premier;

Qui par juste reconnoissance

Le mit dans les armes de France."

Did not sleep very comfortably this night; there were too many of us in

the bed, and all of us bits of philosophers. I am a bit of a

philosopher myself, and surely fleas cannot be considered more than very

little bits. All French fleas are philosophers, it having been fairly

established by a French punster that they belong to the _secte--

d'Epicure (des piqueurs_).

The English who go up the Rhine to Switzerland generally proceed on the

German side. Few pass through Alsace or German France, and those who

do, take the shortest route, by which they avoid Colmar. As I took the

longest in preference, I shall in few words point out the features of

the country. You pass through the valley of the Rhine, which is flat

and fertile to excess, the only break in the uniformity of the country

being the chain of Vorges mountains, distant about eight miles on your

right, and the occasional passage of the dry bed of a winter torrent

from the mountains. The cathedral at Colmar is well worth seeing. In

outward architecture it is not very remarkable, but its painted windows

are quite as fine as those of Strasbourg; and, in one point, it excels

all the cathedrals I have seen, which is the choir, handsomely carved in

oak, and with good pictures let into the panels. It is in better taste,

more solid, and less meretricious in its ornaments, than any I know of.

It has also a very fine pulpit, the whole of which, as well as the steps

and balustrade leading up to it, is of fine marble. At Colmar, the eye

will be struck with the peculiarity of architecture in some of the old

buildings; it very often is pure Saracenic. The roads being excellent,

we arrived in good time at Basle.

Once more in Switzerland; I have more pleasure now in revisiting a

country which has left pleasant reminiscences in my mind, than in

passing through one hitherto unexplored. In the latter case, I am

usually disappointed. When we revisit those spots in which our

childhood was passed, how invariably do we find that the memory is true

to what the place appeared to us when children, and hardly to be

recognised when our ideas and powers of mind have been developed and

enlarged in proportion with our frames. Is it possible? thought I, when

I returned, after a lapse of fifteen years, to the house of my childhood

out of mere curiosity, for my family had long quitted it. Is this the

pond which appeared so immense to my eyes, and this the house in my

memory so vast? Why it is a nutshell! I presume that we estimate the

relative size of objects in proportion to our stature, and, as when

children, we are only half the size of men, of course, to children,

everything appears to be twice the size which it really is. And not

only the objects about us, but everything in the moral world as well.

Our joy is twice the joy of others, and our grief, for the moment, twice

as deep: and these joys and griefs all for trifles. Our code of right

and wrong is equally magnified: trifles appeared to be crimes of the

first magnitude, and the punishments, slight as they were, enough to

dissolve our whole frame into tears until we were pardoned. Oh dear!

all that's gone, as Byron says--

"No more, no more, O never more on me,

The freshness of the heart shall fall like dew."

The cathedral at Basle is nearly one thousand years old, which is a ripe

old age, even for a cathedral. I believe that it is only in

Switzerland, and England, and Holland, that you find the Protestants in

possession of these edifices, raised to celebrate the Catholic faith.

I met here a very intelligent Frenchman who has resided many years in

the town. One of the first questions I put to him was the following:

For more than twenty years Switzerland has been overrun with English and

other visitors, who have spent an enormous sum of money in the country:

what has become of all this money?

He replied that I might well ask the question.

"They have no banks in Switzerland; and, although land exchanges owners,

still the money does not leave the country. We have here," he said, "a

few millionaires, who do lend their money in France upon good

securities; but except these few, they do nothing with it. The interest

of money is so low, that I have known it lent by one of the rich people

at two-and-a-half per cent; and the Swiss in general, in preference to

risking what they can obtain for so small a premium, allow it to remain

in their chests. There is, at this present moment more bullion in

Switzerland than in any other country in Europe, or, perhaps, than in

all the countries in Europe. A Swiss is fond of his money, and he does

not use it; the millionaires that we have here, make no alteration in

their quiet and plain state of living." He then continued, "At this

moment, those who can afford to spend their money at Basle are

retrenching, not from motives of economy, but from feelings of ill will.

The burghers, who have country seats, to which they retire during the

summer, have abandoned them, and if any one wished to settle in this

canton, they might purchase them for half their value. The reason is,

that there has been a difference between the town burghers and the

country people. The canton wanted a reform bill to be passed, in which

they have not succeeded. They required a more equitable

representation--the country people amount to about forty thousand, the

town of Basle to only ten thousand; and the town of Basle, nevertheless,

returns two-thirds of the council, which governs the canton, to which

the people who live in the country have raised objections. Hence the

variance; and to punish the country people by not spending their money

among them, the burghers have abandoned their country houses."

It may not, perhaps, be generally known, that at the time of the three

days at Paris, there was an _emeute_ in Switzerland, in which the

aristocracy were altogether put down; and in Berne, and some other

cantons, the burghers' families, who, on pretence of preventing the

aristocracy from enslaving the count, had held the reins of power for so

long a period, were also forced to surrender that power to those who had

been so long refused participation in it. This was but the natural

consequence of the increase of wealth in the country: those who before

had remained quiet, feeling themselves of more consequence, insisted

upon their rights; and the usual results were, that the administration

of the government changed hands; but although this might be considered

as an advantage gained, still it was but a change, or rather an

admission of those who had become wealthy to a participation of the

advantages connected with the exercise of authority; a change beneficial

to a few, but to the _masse_, productive of no real advantage. At

Berne, to be a member of the government, is considered as a certain

source of wealth, a convincing proof that the interests of those who

hold the reins are not neglected; and that in a republic it is as

difficult to insure to the people their legitimate rights, as under any

other form of government. And so it will be as long as the world turns

round; man is everywhere the same exacting, selfish, preying creature;

and his disposition is not to be changed.

The Helvetic Republic is, in fact, nothing but an aggregation of petty

despotisms--leniently administered, I grant; but still nothing but

despotisms. Those who are in power, or connected with those in power,

are the only portion of the community who can amass large sums; and thus

the authority is handed down from one to the other within certain

limits, which it but rarely transgresses, something very nearly

approximating to the corporations in England.

In Switzerland, the working man remains the working man, the labourer

the labourer, almost as distinct as the Indian castes the nobles are

crushed, and the haughty burgh rules with all the superciliousness of

vested right.

I have always held a "respublica" as only to exist in theory or in name.

History has proved the impossibility of its retaining its purity for

half a century. What the American Republic may be, it is impossible to

say, until one has been in the country, and discovered what its

advocates have been careful to conceal. The Americans had a great

advantage in establishing this system of government; they had nothing to

overthrow, nothing to contend with. They all started fair, and their

half century is now nearly complete. Time will prove whether it be

possible in this world to govern, for any length of time, upon such a

basis. Mr Cooper, in his work on Switzerland, is evidently

disappointed with his examination into the state of the Helvetic

Republic; and he admits this without intending so to do.

At Soleure I saw nothing very remarkable, except a dog with a very large

goitre on his neck, a sight which I never had witnessed before, during

the long time that I wandered through Switzerland.

On our way to Berne, to divide the day's travelling more equally, we

stopped at a small village, not usually the resting-place of travellers,

and I there met with a little bit of romance in real life, which Sterne

would have worked up well, but I am not sentimental. The house, to

which the sign was the appendage, struck me, at first entering, as not

having been built for an _hotellerie_; the rooms were low, but large,

and the floors _parquette_; here and there were to be seen remains of

former wealth in pieces of _marquetterie_ for furniture, and clocks of

_ormolu_. There were some old prints, also, on the walls, very superior

to those hung up usually in the auberges of the continent, especially in

a village auberge. When the supper was brought up, I observed that the

silver forks and spoons were engraved with double arms and the coronet

of a marquis. I asked the female who brought up the soup, from whence

they had obtained them? She replied, rather _brusquement_, that she

supposed they had been bought at the silversmith's, and left the room as

if not wanting to be questioned. The master of the auberge came up with

some wine. He was a tall, fine, aristocratical-looking man, about sixty

years of age, and I put the question to him. He replied that they

belonged to the family who kept the inn. "But," said I, "if so, it is

noble by both descents?" "Yes," replied he, carelessly, "but they don't

think anything of that beer." After a few more questions, he

acknowledged that they were the armorial bearings of his father and

mother, but that the family had been unfortunate, and that, as no tithes

were allowed in the country, he was now doing his best to support the

family. After this disclosure, we entered into a long discussion

relative to the Helvetic Republic, with which I shall not trouble my

readers. Before I went, I inquired his name from one of the servants,

and it immediately occurred to me that I had seen it in the list of

those twenty-six who are mentioned as the leaders of the Swiss who

defeated the Burgundians, and whose monument is carved in the solid rock

at Morat. Two engravings of the monument were in the rooms we occupied,

and I had amused myself with reading over the names. I am no aristocrat

myself, heaven knows! and if a country could be benefited, and liberty

obtained, by the overthrow of the aristocracy, the sooner it is done the

better; but when we see, as in Switzerland, the aristocracy reduced to

keeping village inns, and their inferiors, in every point, exerting that

very despotism of which they complained, and to free the people from

which, was their pretence for a change of government, I cannot help

feeling that if one is to be governed, let it be, at all events, by

those who, from the merits of their ancestors and their long-held

possessions, have the most claim. Those who are born to power are not

so likely to have their heads turned by the possession of it as those

who obtain it unexpectedly; and those who are above money-making are

less likely to be corrupt than those who seek it. The lower the class

that governs, the worse the government will be, and the greater the

despotism. Switzerland is no longer a patriarchal land. Wealth has

rolled into the country; and the time will come when there will be a

revolution in the republic. Nothing can prevent it, unless all the

cantons are vested into one central government, instead of so many petty

oligarchies, as at present, and which will eventually tire out the

patience of the people.

I parted from my noble host, and will do him the justice to say that his

bill was so moderate, compared to the others paid in Switzerland, that I

almost wished that all the inns in the cantons were held by the

nobility--that is, provided they would follow his example. His wine was

excellent, and I suspect was laid in long before the sign was hung up at

the door.

From Soleure to Berne the whole road was lined with parties of troops

ordered in that direction: every man of them was drunk, cheering, and

hooting, and hallooing at us as we passed. As for the peasant girls

they met on the road, I really pitied them. At last we have arrived at

Berne. The Bernese have chosen a most appropriate symbol in their

heraldic crests of the bear, and, as if they had not a sufficient

quantity inside of their towns, they keep four in the ditch outside.

What a difference between the _tables d'hote_ in Germany and in

Switzerland! I always prefer the _table d'hote_ when it is respectable,

for nothing is more unpleasant than remaining in a hotel shut up in your

own room; the latter may be more dignified and aristocratic, but it is

not the way to see the world; one might as well be in England, and,

indeed, had much better. A _table d'hote_ is a microcosm: you meet

there all nations, people of all professions--some idle, some busy

travelling on important matters, others travelling for amusement. You

are unfortunate if you do not fall in with one clever man at least, and

you are quite sure to meet with a fool, which is almost as amusing.

When I survey a _table d'hote_ I often think of the calenders who had

all come to spend the _Ramadhan_ at Bagdad, and their histories; and I

have thought that Grattan might make a very good series of Highways and

Byways if he could obtain the history of those who meet at this general

rendezvous. The _tables d'hote_ in Germany are excellent, properly

supplied, and very moderate. I cannot say so of those in Switzerland.

The fondness of the Swiss for money betrays itself in everything, and

instead of liberality at the _table d'hote_, we have meanness. The

dinner itself is dearer than in Germany, and not half so good; but what

is the most unexcusable part of our host's conduct is, that he half

serves his guests, as Sancho was served at Barataria; for instance, as

is usually the case, the viands are put on the table and then removed to

be carved; two ducks will make their appearance at one end, two chickens

at the other; are removed, and only one of each is cut up and handed

round, the others are sent away whole to be re-dressed for some great

man who dines in his own room. This has been constantly the case since

I have been here. It may be asked, why we do not remonstrate? In the

first place, I prefer watching my host's manoeuvres; and in the next,

although I might get my duck, my host would charge me the whole value of

it when he sent in his bill.

The French Ambassador could not have taken a better step to bring the

Swiss to their senses than threatening them with a blockade. It would

have been ruin to them. All the golden harvests would have been over,

their country would have been deserted, and their Ranz des Vaches would

have been listened to only by the cows. As the French minister

expected, the councils fumed and vapoured, the officers drew their

swords and flourished them, and then--very quietly pocketed the affront

that they might not be out of pocket. What a pity it is that a nation

so brave and with so many good sterling qualities, should be, as it

would appear, so _innately_ mercenary! There never was a truer saying

than "Point d'argent, point de Suisse."

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

Geneva.

Twenty years have made a wonderful alteration in the good sober

puritanical city of Geneva. The improvement from the new buildings

which have been erected is so great, that I could hardly recognise the

old city of Geneva in her dress. It was an old friend with a new face,

for as you enter the town, all the new buildings and streets meet your

view. As far as it has proceeded (for there is much left yet to be

finished), the new portion of Geneva is finer than any portion of Paris,

upon an equal space of ground. But what surprised me more was to read

the _affiches_ of the _Comedie_. A theatre in Geneva! When I was last

here, a theatre was considered by the good people as criminal to the

highest degree. I inquired where the theatre was to be found, and it

was all true--there _was_ a _theatre_. I then made more inquiries. It

appeared that Mammon had seduced the puritans of Geneva. People would

not winter at Geneva; it was so dull--no amusements; and as soon as the

snow was knee deep at Chamouny, they all ordered horses and flew away to

Paris or Italy. This affected the prosperity of the good citizens, and

they talked among themselves; but no one of the Town Council would

propose a theatre, until it was discovered, by private communication,

that they were unanimously agreed,--then the proposition was started and

carried. But there are many concomitants attending a theatre, and with

the theatre many other innovations have crept in; so that in a few years

Geneva will be no better than Paris. When I was last here, Science was

the order of the day. There were many celebrated men residing in the

town, but they are all gone to their forefathers. Every branch of

Natural History had its _savant_; but, above all, Mineralogy was the

most in vogue. But Mineralogy has been superseded lately, by her eldest

sister Geology, who, although not so pretty, has been declared more

interesting and profound. Still Mineralogy is the more scientific,

although Geology is the more speculative. In the education of children,

I know no study which so enlarges the mind or gives a habit of research

and application, as that of Natural History; it is amusement and

instruction so happily blended, that it never tires. Perhaps, the

natural cupidity of our natures assists, as the knowledge of every new

specimen is for the most part accompanied by the _possession_ of the

specimen and an addition to the collection. Moreover, it is a tangible

study; not a nomenclature of things, but each substance is in your hand

to be examined. The arrangement and classification gives a habit of

neatness and order, and children are taught to throw nothing away until

its value is known. Every child should be made acquainted with Natural

History; and where the specimens can be obtained, and there is room for

them, they should be allowed to have a collection, such as minerals,

corals, shells, and plants; for these sciences, amusing in themselves,

will gradually impel them to the others more abstruse, as every branch

of Natural Philosophy is intimately connected with them. The mind will

ever be active, and if not interested in rational pursuits, it will fly

off to the sensual.

They have a very excellent plan in Switzerland, in many of the boys'

schools, of all the scholars setting off together on a pedestrian tour

of some weeks. You will meet a whole school of thirty or forty urchins,

with their knapsacks on their shoulders, attired in blouses, trudging

away from town to town, and from mountain to mountain, to visit all the

remarkable peculiarities of the country.

This is a most excellent method of relaxing from study, and invigorating

the mind at the same time that it is allowed to repose. Neither is it

so expensive as people would imagine. One room will hold a great many

school-boys, where the mattresses are spread over the floor: and I saw

them make a very hearty breakfast upon bread and cheese and three

bottles of wine, among about forty of them. Why should not the boys

about London set off on a tour to the lakes or elsewhere, in the same

way--every year changing the route. They then would see something of

their own country, which few do before they are launched in life, and

have no time to do afterwards. I have never seen the lakes; in fact, I

know nothing of my country, although I have scoured the world so long.

I recollect that my father, who had never seen the Tower of London, was

determined every year that he would go and see it; but he never could

find time, it appears, for he died without seeing it at last. I did,

however, make the observation, that if Geneva had backslided so far as

to permit a theatre, there was a feeling that this innovation required

being carefully opposed. When I was at Geneva before, there was no

theatre, but neither were there shops which dealt exclusively in

religious tracts and missionary works. I observed on this my second

arrival, that there were a great many to serve as a check to the

increasing immorality of the age.

I have referred to the change of twenty years, but what a change has

been effected in about three hundred years, in this very country. Read

what took place in these cantons at about the date which I have

mentioned. I have been reading the chronicles. Observe the powers

assumed by the bishops of that period; they judged not only men but

brutes; and it must be admitted that there was some show of justice, as

the offending parties, being dumb themselves, were allowed lawyers to

plead for them.

How the lawyers were paid, has not been handed down; and it appears that

the judgments were sometimes easier pronounced than carried into

execution.

At Basle, in the year 1474, it appears that a cock was accused of the

enormous crime of having laid an egg: he was brought to trial and

condemned to be burnt alive, as a warning to all cocks not to lay eggs,

from which it is well known would have been hatched a cockatrice or

basilisk.

In 1481, cockchafers committed great ravages in the Grisons. The Bishop

of Coire condemned them all to transportation, and a barren valley was

assigned to them as their future residence. Whether the cockchafers

obeyed his Lordship's orders, is not handed down to posterity.

Some years afterwards the river Aar was infested with leeches, who

spoilt all the salmon. The Bishop of Lausanne excommunicated the whole

tribe of leeches in a solemn procession to the river; and it is dreadful

to reflect, that this excommunication remains upon their heads even unto

this day. Also next door, in France, in 1386, a sow was arraigned for

having eaten a young child, and condemned to be hanged; to add to the

disgrace of her punishment, she was dressed _in man's clothes_.

About the same period rats were extremely mischievous, and in

consequence were summoned to appear before my Lord the Bishop. But the

rats had a good lawyer, who first asserted that the rats, being

dispersed in all the neighbouring villages, had not had time to collect

together, and make their appearance; and that a second and a third

summons would be but an act of justice. They were, therefore, again

summoned after the performance of mass on Sunday in each parish.

Notwithstanding the three summonses, the rats did not appear in court,

and then their defender asserted, that in consequence of the affair

having been made so public by the three summonses, all the cats were on

the look-out, and therefore his clients dare not make their appearance

without all the cats were destroyed. The consequence of this difficulty

was, that the rats were not punished for contempt of court.

I have often thought that it is a great pity that agricultural

associations in England do not send over a committee to examine into the

principle upon which they build and load carts and waggons on the

Continent.

It is a point on which we are very unenlightened in England. The waste

of wood in the building, and the wear and tear of horses, is enormous.

We have yet many things to learn in England, and must not be ashamed to

profit from our neighbours. One horse will do more work on the

Continent, especially in France and Switzerland, from the scientific

principles upon which their vehicles are built, and the loads are put

on, than three horses will accomplish in England. The inquiries of the

committee might be extended much if they went to the Agricultural

Association at Berne; they would discover many things which have not yet

entered into their philosophy. I doubt very much whether the

four-course shift of Norfolk, where farming is considered the most

perfect, is not more expensive and more exhausting to the land, than the

other systems resorted to on the Continent; that is, that it is not that

which will give the greatest possible returns at the minimum of expense.

I have before observed how very seldom you see a horse out of condition

and unfit for work on the Continent; one great cause must be from their

not being racked and torn to pieces by overloading; and notwithstanding

which, the loads they draw are much heavier than those in England. I

have seen a load of many tons so exactly poised upon two wheels, that

the shaft horse neither felt his saddle nor his belly-band.

One great cause of the ill usage of horses in England is the disgraceful

neglect of the public conveyances of all kinds. If an alteration was to

be made in the regulations of hackney coaches and cabs, we should no

longer have our feelings tortured by the spectacles of horse misery

which we daily meet with. There are plenty of commissioners for hackney

coaches, and it is a pity that they had not something to do for the

money they receive, or else that they were abolished and their duty put

into the hands of the police. It may appear a singular remark to make,

but I cannot help thinking that there would be a good moral effect in

the improvement of hackney coaches. There are a certain class of people

in London, to whom these vehicles are at present of no use. I refer to

those who have a sufficient independence, but who cannot afford to keep

their carriages, and who, by the present system of social intercourse,

are almost shut out of society, or are inclined to spend more money than

prudence would dictate. In all other capitals, the hackney coaches are

clean and respectable, and in some instances as good as a private

carriage; and besides that, they have a superior kind of carriage for

evening parties, which renders the expense of a private carriage

unnecessary. There certainly may be some excuse made for those who

dislike hackney coaches pulling up at their doors, when we look at the

disgusting turn-outs of the London stands, at one time filled with

drunken men and women, at others carrying diseased people to the

hospital, or dead bodies to the Surgeons' Hall. An English hackney

coach is a type of misery, as regards the horses' outsides, and a

_cloaca_ within; you know not, when you step into it, whether you are

not to encounter disease and death. It may be said that there are such

vehicles as glass coaches, as they are termed; but those are only to be

hired by the day, and become very expensive. The arrangements of these

vehicles should be under the police: every coach and cab should be

examined, at the commencement of the year, as to its appearance outside

as well as its cleanliness inside. The horses should be inspected, and

if not in fair working condition, and of a certain height, the license

should be refused. And there should be a superior class allowed at

certain stands, who are entitled to demand a higher fare. This would

not only be a boon to the public, but a much greater one to the poor

horse, who would not drag out his lengthened misery as he does now.

When there was no longer any means of selling a poor brute, to whom

death was a release, he would be put out of his misery. It would also

be a great improvement if the Numbers were put inside instead of out, as

they are abroad; and if _every_ description of vehicle, if well fitted,

were licensed.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

The Hotel des Bergues is certainly a splendid establishment; many people

winter at this hotel in preference to going to a pension, which is, with

the best arrangements, disagreeable, for you are obliged to conform to

the usages and customs, and to take your meals at certain hours, hungry

or not hungry, as if it were a pension of school-boys and girls, and not

grown up people. The price demanded is the same as at the pensions, viz

200 francs, or 8 pounds per month, which includes everything but wine

and fuel. The establishment is certainly very well conducted. There is

a salon, next to the table d'hote, large enough to hold 200 people, well

warmed and lighted, handsomely carpeted, with piano, books, prints,

newspapers, card tables, etcetera. Indeed, there is everything you wish

for, and you are all independent of each other, I was there for two or

three days, and found it very pleasant; I was amused with a circumstance

which occurred. One of the company, a Russian, sat down to the piano,

and played and sang. Every one wished to know who he was, and on

inquiring, it was a Russian prince. Now a prince is a very great person

where princes are scarce, as they are in England, although in Russia, a

prince, where princes are plenty as blackberries, is about on a par with

an English baronet.

He was a very honest off-hand sort of personage, and certainly gave

himself no airs on account of his birth and rank. Nevertheless, the

English ladies, who were anxious that he should sing again, made a sort

of deputation to him, and begged the honour of his highness favouring

them with a song, with every variety of courtesy and genuflexion.

"Oh yes, to be sure," replied his highness, who sat down and played for

an hour, and then there was so much thanking, complimentary

acknowledgement of condescension on his part, etcetera, and the ladies

appeared so flattered when he spoke to them. The next day it was

discovered that a slight mistake had occurred, and that, instead of

being a prince, he had only come to Geneva along with a Russian prince,

and that the real prince was in his own room upstairs; upon which not

only he fell himself at least 200 per cent, but, what was really too

bad, his singing fell also; and many who had been most loud in his

praises began to discover that he was not even a prince of musicians,

which he certainly was.

We had a good specimen of the independence and familiarity of Swiss

servants on the occasion of this gentleman's singing; they came into the

salon, and mixed almost with the company that they might listen to him;

and had they been ordered out, would, in all probability, have refused.

An American, with whom I was conversing, observed that in _his_ country

such conduct on the part of servants, notwithstanding what had been said

by English travellers on the subject, would never have been permitted.

I have fallen in with some odd characters here.

First, what would be considered a curiosity in England--a clergyman of

the Church of England with mustachios! What would the Bishop of London

say?--and yet I do not see how, if a clergyman choose to wear them, he

could be prevented. He has good authority to quote; Calvin wore them,

and so, I believe, did Luther.

Secondly, with a personage who is very peculiarly disorganised when he

drinks too much. His wife, a most amiable quiet lady, is the party

whose character is attacked. As soon as Mr -- is in his cups, he

immediately fancies that his wife is affected with the liquor, and not

himself, and he tells everybody in a loud whisper his important secret.

"There now, look at Mrs --, one of the best women in the world; an

excellent wife and mother, and at most times as lady-like as you would

wish to see: but look at her now--you see she's quite drunk, poor thing;

what a pity, isn't it, that she cannot get over her unfortunate

propensity; but I am afeard it's no use. I've reasoned with her. It's

a sad pity, and a great drawback to my happiness. Well, hang sorrow--it

killed a cat. Don't notice what I've told you, and pass the bottle."

I believe that the English are better acquainted with geography than

other nations. I have been astonished at the ignorance on this point I

have found in foreigners who otherwise were clever and well-informed men

and women. When the Marquis de Claremont Tonnere was appointed to the

office of Minister of the Marine and Colonies, upon the restoration of

the Bourbons, a friend of mine had an audience with him, and it was not

until a very angry discussion, and a reference to the map, that he could

persuade the minister that Martinique was an _island_. However, in this

instance we had nearly as great an error committed in our own Colonial

office, which imagined that the Dutch settlement of Demerara upon the

coast of South America, and which had fallen into our hands, _was_ an

island; indeed, in the official papers it was spoken of as such. A

little before the French Revolution, a princess who lived in Normandy

determined upon a visit to her relations in Paris; and having a sister

married to a Polish nobleman, she determined to take Poland in her way.

To her astonishment, instead of a day to two, her voyage was not

completed under four months.

I have heard it often asserted, that you should not build your house so

as to look at a fine prospect out of your windows, but so as to walk to

view it at a short distance. This may be true with the finest prospects

in other countries, but not so in Switzerland, where the view never

palls upon the eye, from the constant changing which occurs in the

tinting of the landscape. You may look upon the Lake of Geneva every

day, and at no one day, or even portion of the day, is the effect the

same. The mountains of Savoy are there, and change not their position:

neither does the Lake; but at one time the mountains will appear ten

miles nearer to you than they will at another. The changing arising

from refraction and reflection is wonderful. Never did I witness

anything finer than the Lake of Geneva at the setting of yesterday's

sun. The water was calm and glassy as a mirror, and it reflected in

broad patches, like so many islands dispersed over it, every colour of

the rainbow. I cannot attempt to describe it; the effect was heavenly,

and all I could say was, with the Mussulman, "God is great!"

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

In this world we are so jealous of any discovery being made, that

innovation is immediately stigmatised as quackery. I say innovation,

for improvement is not the term. The attempt to improve is innovation,

the success of the experiment makes it an improvement. And yet how are

we to improve without experiment? Thus we have quackery in everything,

although not quite so severely visited as it formerly was by the

Inquisition who would have burnt alive him who asserted that the sun did

not go round the earth, but the earth round the sun. In medicine,

quackery is the most frequently stigmatised. We know but little of the

human frame as far as medicine is to act upon it. We know still less of

the virtues of various plants which will effect a cure. We are

acquainted with a few but there are hundreds equally powerful, the

properties of which we are ignorant of. Could we add to medical science

the knowledge of the African negroes and Indians, which they so

carefully conceal from us, our pharmacopoeia would be much extended.

When metallic medicines were first introduced into general use by a

physician, an ancestor of mine, and the wonderful effect of them

established by the cures, the whole fraternity was up in arms, and he

was decried us a quack; notwithstanding which, the works he wrote have

gone through twenty five editions, and the doses prescribed by him are

to this day made use of by the practitioners.

The fact is, that although the surgical knowledge of the day is very

perfect, the medical art is still in its infancy. Even the quackeries

which fail should not be despised, for they have proved something,

although they could not be perfected. Animal magnetism, for instance:

it failed, but still it discovered some peculiar properties, some

sympathies of the human body, which may hereafter give a clue to more

important results. The great proof of the imperfection of medical

science is the constant change made by the profession itself. One

medicine is taken into favour, it is well received every where, until

the faculty are tired of it, and it sinks into disgrace. Even in my

time I have seen many changes of this sort, not only in medicine, but in

diet, etcetera.

What medical men would have thought of prescribing fat bacon for

delicate stomachs twenty years ago? Now it is all the vogue; breakfast

bacon sold in every quarter of the metropolis. Either this is quackery,

to use their own term, or twenty years ago they were very ignorant, for

their patients received positive injunctions to avoid all fat and greasy

substances.

Thus do the regular practitioners chop and change about, groping in the

dark: but the only distinction is, that all changes made by the faculty

are orthodox; but any alteration proposed out of the pale of MD, is an

innovation and a quackery.

That we have every where ignorant men, who are _de facto_ quacks, I

admit; but still that term has been as liberally applied to the attempts

of scientific and clever persons to improve the art of medicine. Even

homoeopathy must not be totally rejected until it has had a fair trial.

It has one merit in it, at all events, that you take less physic.

I consider the continual appearance of new quacks on the horizon a sure

proof of the low state of our medical knowledge. The more so as these

quacks, although they kill, do effect very remarkable cures. Do not

regular practitioners kill also? or rather, do not their prescriptions

fail? If a quack cures, they will tell you that it was by mere

accident. I suspect that there is more of accident in the practice than

the faculty are ready to admit; and Heaven knows they so change about

themselves, that it is clear that they feel no confidence in the little

that they do know; and it is because medicine is so imperfect that every

half century we have a new quack, as he is termed, rising up, and

beating the regular practitioners out of the field. I could tell a

story about Morrison's pills which would surprise not a little, and all

the parties are now alive to prove it; but instead of that, I will tell

another which occurred in France, in which a quack medicine had a most

wonderful and unusual effect, for it was the means of the _total

destruction of a Banditti_, who had defied the Government of the country

for many years. About twenty years ago,--I am not sure whether he still

lives,--there was an irregular practitioner in France of the name of Le

Roi. He was, by all accounts, the King of all Empirics, and the Emperor

of all Quacks. He was more potent than the sovereign, and the _par

l'ordre du Roi_ of Government was insignificant, compared to the _par

l'ordre du Roi_ of this more potent personage. He did not publish his

cures in _pamphlets_, but in large _quartos_. I have seen them myself,

larger in size than an Ainsworth's dictionary. It so happened that an

Englishman, who was afflicted with the _indescribables_, was recommended

from every quarter to buy the medicines of Monsieur Le Roi. He did so,

and his unknown complaint was removed. The consequence was, that the

Englishman swore by Le Roi; and as he was proceeding on to Spain, he

took with him a large supply of the doctor's medicines, that he might be

prepared in case his complaint should return. All quack gentlemen take

care that their medicines shall be palatable; no unwise precaution. I

do not know a better dram than Solomon's Balm of Gilead. Old Solomon,

by the bye, lived near Plymouth, and was very partial to the Navy. He

kept an excellent table, and was very hospitable.

I recollect one day after the officers had drunk a very sufficient

quantity of his claret and champagne, being a little elevated, they

insisted upon Solomon bringing them out some Balm of Gilead as a finish,

and they cleared off about two dozen one guinea bottles. The old

gentleman made no objection to provide it as often as they called for

more, and they separated; but the next day he sent them all their bills

in for the said Balm of Gilead, observing, that although they were

welcome to his wine and table, that he must be paid for his medicine.

But to proceed.

The Englishman travelled with the king's messenger; most of his baggage

had been sent on, but he would not part with his medicine, and this was

all in the vehicle with himself. As they passed the Pyrenees they were

stopped by the banditti, who dragged them out of the carriage, after

shooting the postilion, and made them lie with their faces on the

ground, with guards over them, while they rifled the carriage. They

soon came to the packages of medicine, and observing that _Le Roi_ was

upon all the bottles, and knowing that they had possession of a king's

messenger, they imagined that this was some liquor sent as a present to

the King of Spain; they tasted it, and found that, like other quack

medicines, it was very strong and very good.

Each man took his bottle, drank the king's health, and mirth and revelry

took place, until they had consumed all that the Englishman had brought

with him. Now there is a great difference between taking a

table-spoonful, and six or seven bottles per man; and so it proved, for

they had hardly finished the last case before they found that the

medicine acted very powerfully as a cathartic; the whole banditti were

simultaneously attacked with a most violent cholera; they disappeared

one by one; at last the guards could contain themselves no longer, and

they went off too. The two prisoners, perceiving this, rose from the

ground, mounted the horses and galloped off as fast as they could. They

gave notice to the authorities of the first town they arrived at, not

four miles distant, and a large body of cavalry were sent out

immediately. The effects of the medicine had been so violent that the

whole of the banditti were found near to the spot where they had drunk

the king's health, in such a state of suffering and exhaustion that they

could make no efforts to escape, and were all secured, and eventually

hung.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

Lausanne.

I recollect some one saying, that in walking out you should never look

up in the air, but always on the ground, as, by the former practice, you

were certain never to find any thing, although you might by the latter.

So if you will not enter into conversation, you are not likely to obtain

much information; whereas if you do, you will always chance to obtain

some, even from the quarters the least promising. I was seated on the

box of the carriage, with the Swiss _voiturier_--and asked him, "If it

were not a lucrative profession?"

"It may appear so to you, sir," replied he, "from the price paid for the

horses, but it is not so. All we gain, is in five months in the year;

the seven months of winter, we have to feed our horses without

employment for them, that is, generally speaking."

"But have you no employment for them in the winter?"

"Yes, we put them into the waggons and draw wood and stone, which about

pays their expenses. If you are known and trusted, you will be employed

to transport wine, which is more profitable; but that _voiturier_ who

can find sufficient employment for his horses during the winter to pay

their keeping, considers himself very fortunate."

"When you do make money, what do you do with it?"

"If we can buy a bit of land we do, but most people, if they can, buy a

house, which pays better. I prefer land."

"There is not much territory in Switzerland, and land is not often for

sale. Everybody cannot buy land. What do the others do?"

"Lock the money up in their chests."

"But do you never put your money in the foreign funds?"

"Yes, the rich do and those who understand it. We have a few very rich

people in Switzerland, but, generally speaking, the people do not like

to part with their money, and they keep it by them."

"I was told by a Frenchman at Basle, that there was a great deal of

bullion lying idle in Switzerland?"

"He told you very true, sir; there is an enormous quantity of it, if

collected together. Those are Jews," continued he, pointing to a

_char-a-banc_ passing.

"Have you many of those in Switzerland? I should think not."

"No, sir, we do not allow them. One or two families are perhaps

permitted in a large town, but no more. We are a small country, and if

we were to allow the Jews to settle here, we should soon have too large

a population to support. By their customs, they may marry at any age,

and they never go into the field, and work at the plough."

"But may not you marry at any age, and when you please?"

"No, sir; we have good laws in that respect, and it prevents the

population increasing too fast. I belong to a commune (parish); if I

wish to marry, I must first prove that all my debts are paid, and all my

father's debts, and then the commune will permit the Cure to marry me."

"All your father's debts as well as your own?"

"That is to say, all the debts he may have incurred to the commune.

Suppose my father had been a poor man and unable to work, the commune

would have let him want for nothing; but in supplying him they would

have incurred an expense, that must be repaid by his family before any

of the sons are allowed to marry. In the same way, when my father died,

although he received no assistance from the commune, he left little or

nothing. The commune clothed and educated me till I was able to gain my

own livelihood. Since I have done well, I have repaid the debt; I now

may marry if I choose."

"But cannot you evade this law?"

"No, sir. Suppose I was at Berne, and wished to marry a woman who

belonged to another commune as well as myself. The banns must be

published three times in my parish, three times in her parish, and three

times at Berne."

"But suppose you married in a foreign country?"

"If a Swiss marries in a foreign country, and has no debts to prevent

his marrying, he must write home to the heads of the commune, stating

his intention, and his banns will then be published in the commune, and

a license sent him to marry. But if, having debts of your own or your

father's, you marry without giving notice, you are then no longer

belonging to the commune, and if you come back in distress, you will be

conveyed to the confines of the republic, and advised to seek the parish

of your wife in her country. If you are out of Switzerland with your

wife, every child that you have born you must give notice of by letter

to the commune, that it may be properly registered; and if you omit so

doing, those children have no claim on their return."

Such was the result of our conversation, and I repeat it for the benefit

of those who occupy themselves with our internal legislation.

I have been searching a long while for liberty, but I can find her

nowhere on this earth: let me be allegorical. If all the world are

still in love with the name of Liberty, how much more were all the world

in love with the nymph herself when she first made her appearance on

earth. Every one would possess her, and every one made the attempt, but

Liberty was not to be caught. How was it possible without her

destruction? After being harassed all over the world, and finding that

she never was allowed to take breath, she once more fled from her

pursuers, and, as they seized her garments, with the spring of the

chamois she burst away, and bounding from the world, saved herself in

Ether, where she remains to this day. Her dress was, however, left

behind, and was carried home in triumph. It is, however, composed of

such slippery materials as its former owner, and it escapes as it

pleases from one party to another. It is this dress of Liberty which we

now reverence as the goddess herself, and whatever is clothed with it

for the time receives the same adoration as would have been offered up

to the true shrine. Even Despotism, when in a very modest mood, will

clothe herself in the garb of Liberty.

Now there is really a sort of petty despotism in these _free_ cantons,

which would be considered very offensive in England. What would an

English farmer say, if he was told that he could not commence his

harvest without the permission of Government? Yet such is the case in

Switzerland, where there is a heavy fine if any one commences his

vintage before the time prescribed by the authorities. Your grapes may

be ripe, and be spoiled; you have to choose between that alternative, or

paying a fine, which reduces your profits to _nil_. The reason given

for this is that there are so many petty proprietors holding half and

quarter acres of vineyards mixed together and not separated by a wall or

fence, that if one began first he would rob the vineyard of the other--

not arguing much for the Swiss honesty, which has become so proverbial.

The case of the vintage laws is peculiarly hard this season upon the

small proprietors. The vintage has been late, and winter has now set

in, all at once. After weather like summer, we are now deep in snow,

and the thermometer below the freezing point. Few of the small

proprietors have wine-presses; they have to wait until those who have

them have got in their vintage, and then they borrow them. The

consequence is, that the small proprietors are always the last to gather

their grapes, and now they have been overtaken by the weather, and they

will lose most of their harvest. Had they been permitted to pick their

grapes at their own time, they might have used the presses, and have

finished before the large vineyards had commenced.

From the inquiries I have made, it appears that the vineyards of

Switzerland pay very badly. Land is at a very high price here, in the

Canton de Vaud; 300 or 400 pounds per acre is not thought dear (600

pounds have been given); and in the best seasons a vineyard will not

yield 10 pounds per acre. The wine is very indifferent, and requires to

be kept for years to become tolerable.

But the Swiss are wedded to their vineyards; and although, if they laid

down the land in pasture, they would gain twice as much, they prefer the

speculation of the wine-press, which fails at least three times out of

four.

The office of public executioner or Jack Ketch of a canton in

Switzerland, as well as in many parts of Germany, is very appropriately

endowed. He has a right to all animals who die a natural death, with

their skins, hoofs, etcetera, and this, it is said, brings in a fair

revenue, if attended to. Executions are so uncommon in Switzerland,

that Jack Ketch would starve if he was not thus associated with death.

When an execution does take place he is well paid; they say the sum he

receives is upwards of twenty pounds; but it must be remembered that he

does not hang, he decapitates, and this requires some address: the

malefactor is seated in a chair, not laid down with his head on the

block.

An execution took place at Berne when I was last in Switzerland; the

criminal, after he was seated in the chair, was offered a cup of coffee,

and as he was drinking it, the executioner, with one blow of his heavy

sword, struck his head clear off; for a second or two the blood flew up

like a fountain: the effect was horrid.

An Englishman at Lausanne had a very favourite Newfoundland dog, which

died. He was about to bury it, when the executioner interfered and

claimed the skin; and it was not until he had submitted to the demands

of this official gentleman, that he was permitted to bury his favourite

in a whole skin. Only imagine, half a dozen old dowagers of Park Lane,

whose puffy lap-dogs were dead in their laps, bargaining for their

darlings with Jack Ketch, because they wish to have them stuffed; and

Jack's extortion raising his demands, in proportion to the value

apparently placed upon the defunct favourites. Talking about lap-dogs,

one of the best stories relative to these creatures is to be found in

Madame de Crequey's Memoirs. A Madame de Blot, a French dandysette, if

the term may be used, who considered her own sex as bound to be

ethereal, and would pretend that the wing of a lark was more than

sufficient for her sustenance during the twenty-four hours, had one of

the smallest female spaniels that was ever known. She treated her like

a human being, and when she went out to a party, used to desire her

lady's maid to read the animal a comedy in five acts, to amuse it during

her absence. It so happened that a fat priest, who was anxious for the

protection of Madame de Blot, called to pay his respects. Madame de

Blot made a sign to him, without speaking, to take his seat upon a large

fauteuil. No sooner had the priest lowered down his heavy carcass into

the chair, than he felt something struggling under him, and a little

recollection told him that it must be the little spaniel. That it was

all over with the spaniel was clear, and that if her mistress had

discovered his accident, it was equally clear that it was all over with

him, as far as the patronage of Madame de Blot was concerned. The

priest showed a remarkable degree of presence of mind upon this trying

occasion. He rose himself up a little from his chair and plumped down,

so as to give the poor little spaniel her _coup de grace_, and then

entered into conversation with Madame de Blot. During the conversation

he contrived by degrees to cram the dog, tail and all, into his

capacious coat pockets. As soon as it was fairly out of sight, he rose,

bade adieu to Madame de Blot, and backed out of the room with as great

respect as if he was in the presence of royalty, much to the

satisfaction of Madame de Blot, who was delighted at such homage, and

little thought why the good priest would not turn his back to her. The

story says, that the Madame de Blot never could find out what had become

of her little dog.

CHAPTER FORTY.

Lausanne.

What a continual strife there is between literary men! I can only

compare the world of authors to so many rats drowning in a tub, forcing

each other down to raise themselves, and keep their own heads above

water. And yet they are very respectable, and a very useful body of

men, also, in a politico-economical sense of the word, independent of

the advantages gained by their labours, by the present and the future;

for their capital is _nothing_ except brains, and yet they contrive to

find support for themselves and thousands of others. It is strange when

we consider how very few, comparatively speaking, are the number of

authors, how many people are supported by them.

There are more than a thousand booksellers and publishers in the three

kingdoms, all of whom rent more than a thousand houses, paying rent and

taxes; support more than a thousand families, and many thousand clerks,

as booksellers alone. Then we have to add the paper manufacturers, the

varieties of bookbinders, printing-ink manufacturers, iron pens, and

goose quills. All of which are subservient to and dependent upon these

comparatively few heads.

What a _train_ an author has! unfortunately for him it is too long.

There are too many dependent upon him, and, like some potentates, the

support of his state eats his whole revenue, leaving him nothing but

bread and cheese and fame. Some French writer has said, "La litterature

est le plus noble des loisirs, mais le dernier de tous les metiers;" and

so it is, for this one reason, that according as an author's wants are

cogent, so he is pressed down by the publisher. Authors and publishers

are natural enemies, although they cannot live without each other. If

an author is independent of literature, and has a reputation, he bullies

the publisher: he is right; he is only revenging the insults contumely

heaped upon those whom the publishers know to be in their power, and

obliged to submit to them. Well, every dog has his day, and the time

will come when I and others, having swam too long, shall find younger

and fresher competitors, who will, like the rats, climb on our backs,

and we shall sink to the bottom of the tub of oblivion. Now, we must

drive on with the stream; the world moves on so fast, that there is no

stopping. In these times, "Si on n'avance pas, on recule."

How the style of literature changes! Even now I perceive an alteration

creeping on, which will last for a time. We are descending to the

homely truth of Tenier's pictures.

Every work of fiction now is "sketched from nature;" the palaces, the

saloon, all the elegancies of high life are eschewed, and the middle and

vulgar classes are the subjects of the pencil. But this will not last

long. It is the satiety of refinement on the part of the public which

for a short time renders the change palatable.

I was yesterday informed that a celebrated author wished to be

introduced to me. I was ashamed to say that I had never heard his name.

The introduction took place, and there was a sort of patronising air on

the gentleman's part, which I did not approve of. I therefore told him

very frankly that I was not aware of the nature of his literary labours,

and requested to know what were his works. He had _abridged_ something,

and he had written a _commentary_ upon another thing!--just the

employment fit for some old gentleman who likes still to puddle a little

with ink. One could write a commentary upon any thing. One of my

children is singing a nursery song, now I'll write a commentary on it in

the shape of notes:--

Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been?

I've been to London to see the new queen.

Pussy cat, pussy cat, what did you there?

Hunted a titty mouse under the chair.

Now for a commentary:--

This simple nursery rhyme is in the familiar style of question and

answer, which is always pleasing; and it is remarkable that two

excellent moral lessons are to be found in so few words.

The child who sings it may be supposed to repeat the words without

comprehending their full meaning; but although such may be the case,

still it is most important that even the rhymes put into the infantine

lips should afford an opportunity to those who watch over their welfare

to point out to them on a proper occasion the instruction which they

contain. In the first line, the term pussy cat may be considered

tautological, as pussy and cat both refer to the same animal; but if so,

it is allowable, as pussy may be considered as the christian name and

cat as the surname of the animal. It is to be presumed that the cat

addressed is young, for it evidently was at play, and old cats do not

play. Otherwise it would not have been necessary to repeat her name, to

call her attention to the question. The cat answers in few words, as if

not wishing to be interrupted, that she has been to London to see the

new queen. What queen of England may be referred to, it is impossible

to positively ascertain; but as she says the new queen, we have a right

to suppose that it must refer to the accession of a queen to the throne

of England. We have here to choose between three,--Elizabeth, Mary, and

Anne; and for many reasons, particularly as the two last were married,

we are inclined to give the preference to the first, the word _new_

having, for the sake of the metre, been substituted for virgin. Certain

it is that a married woman cannot be considered as _new_, although she

may not be old. We therefore adhere to our supposition that this rhyme

was composed at the accession of the great Elizabeth. And here we may

observe, that the old adage "that a cat may look at the king" is fully

corroborated, for pussy says expressly that she has been to see the new

queen, pointing out, that as the sun shines upon all alike, so the sun

of royalty, in a well-administered government, will equally dispense its

smiles upon all who approach to bask in them; and that even a cat is not

considered as unworthy to look upon that gracious majesty who feels that

it is called to rule over so many millions, for the purpose of making

them happy.

It would appear as if the cat continued to play with her ball, or

whatever else might have been its amusements, after having answered the

first question; for, on the second question being put, her attention is

obliged to be again roused by the repetition of her name. She is asked

what she did there, and the reply is, that she hunted a titty mouse

under the chair. There is a wonderful effect in this last line, which

fully gives us at once the nature and disposition of the cat, and a very

excellent moral lesson. The cat calls the mouse a _titty_ mouse, a term

of endearment applied to the very animal that she was putting in bodily

fear. It is well known how cats will play with a mouse in the most

graceful way; you would almost imagine, from the manner in which it is

tossed so lightly and so elegantly, allowed to escape and then caught

again, that it was playing with it in all amity, instead of prolonging

its miseries and torturing it, previously to its ultimate destruction.

It is in reference to this peculiar character of the cat, that she is

made to use the fond diminutive appellation of titty mouse.

The moral contained in this last line hardly needs to be pointed out to

our intelligent readers. A cat goes to court, she enters the precincts

of a palace, at last she is in the presence of royalty, not as usual in

the kitchen, or the cellar, or the attics, or on the roofs, where cats

do most congregate, but actually stands in the presence of royalty; and

what does she do? Notwithstanding the awe which it may be naturally

supposed she is inspired with, notwithstanding the probable presence of

noble lords and ladies, forgetful of where she is, and in whose presence

she stands, seeing a mouse under the chair, she can no longer control

the powerful instincts of her nature; and forgetting that the object of

her journey was to behold royalty, she no longer thinks of any thing but

hunting the titty mouse under the chair. What a lesson is here taught

to the juvenile sexes that we should never attempt to force ourselves

above our proper situations in society, and that in so doing we soon

prove how much we are out of our place, and how our former habits and

pursuits will remain with us, and render us wholly unfit for a position

to which we ought never to have aspired.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

Lausanne.

After all, there is more sympathy in this world than we would suppose,

and it is something to find that, in the turmoil and angry war of

opinion and interest, nations as well as parties can lay down their

weapons for a time, and offer one general and sincere tribute to genius.

In these exciting times, we hear of revolutions in Spain and Portugal,

deaths of crowned men, with indifference, but a shock as astounding as

that of an earthquake in the city of Peru was felt throughout Europe

when the numerous periodicals spread the unexpected intelligence that

the gifted Malibran was no more, that in the fulness of her talent and

her beauty, just commencing the harvest ripe and abundant, produced by

years of unremitting labour, in which art had to perfect nature, she had

been called away to the silent tomb, and that voice which has

electrified so many thousands was mute for ever. Poor Malibran! she had

had but a niggard portion of happiness in this world, although she

procured so much pleasure to others. A brutal father, from whom she

received but blows, who sold her to a dotard, who would have sold her

again would she have consented! until her late marriage, toiling for

others, without one object in the world on whom to throw her warm

affections. I remember one day when we were talking of seasickness, I

observed that the best remedy was beating the sufferer: she shook her

head.

"No," said she; "that will not cure it, or surely I should have been

cured when I crossed the Atlantic with my father."

Those who knew Malibran only as a performer did not know enough of her;

they should have known her in society, and in domestic life. She was

the _ne plus ultra_ of genius in a woman; one moment all sunshine, the

next a cloud would come over her expressive features; changeable as the

wind, but in every change delightful, for she never disguised a thought.

Six weeks--but six short weeks, and I saw her at Brussels at her

country house, whither she had retired after the fatigues of the season.

How impressive must be her death. Had she sickened and died at

Brussels, the shock would have been great, for it is a shock when youth,

beauty, and talent are so suddenly mowed down; but she died, as it were,

on the stage. Admiring and applauding thousands had been listening to

her magical powers, thousands more waiting to hear her at the other

festivals; all eyes were upon her, all expectation upon tiptoe, when

death, like a matador, comes in, strikes his victim, bows sarcastically

to the audience, and retires. A thousand sermons, and ten thousand

common deaths could not have produced so effective a moral lesson as the

untimely fate of Malibran. There is but one parallel to it, and the

effect of it was tremendous. It was that of Mr Huskisson, on the

opening of the Manchester Railroad. This is the second homily read to

the good people of Liverpool and Manchester. Peace be with her,

although her body is not permitted to be at rest.

The more I see of the Swiss and Switzerland, the more is my opinion

confirmed as to the strongest feature in the national character being

that of avarice. The country is poetry, but the inhabitants are the

prose of human existence. Not a chalet but looks as the abode of

innocence and peace; but whether you scale the beetling rock, or pause

upon the verdant turf which encircles their picturesque habitations, the

demon appears like Satan in the garden of Eden. The infant, radiant as

love, extends its little hand for money; the adult, with his keen grey

eye, searches into you to ascertain in what manner he may overreach you.

Avarice rules over the beautiful country of Helvetia.

The prevailing foible of a nation is generally to be found in the

proverbs of the country and of those adjacent. The Genevese appear to

have the credit of excelling the Swiss generally: they say here, "Il

faut trois Juifs pour faire un Baslois, et trois Baslois pour faire un

Genevois."

Again:--

"Si un Genevois se jette par la fenetre, suivez le? Il y aura pour

gagner."

It was, however, a very neat answer given by a Swiss to a Frenchman, who

asserted that the French fought for honour, and the Swiss for money.

"C'est vrai," replied the Swiss, "chacun se bat pour cela que lui

manque."

The Swiss have abolished titles, they have crushed their nobility; but

human nature will prevail; and they seek distinction by other channels;

every one who has the least pretention to education or birth looks out

for employment under government; and you can hardly meet with a

well-dressed person in the streets who is not a magistrate, inspector,

_directeur_, or _employe_ in some way or the other, although the

emoluments are little or nothing. The question has been brought forward

as to trial by jury being introduced, and, strange to say, the majority

are opposed to it as not being suitable to the Swiss. The reason they

give is, that as all respectable people hold offices under Government,

and are thereby excused from serving, that there will be nobody but the

lower classes to sit as jurors. It is very difficult to obtain evidence

in a Swiss court of justice; and this arises from the dislike of the

Swiss to give evidence; as, by so doing, they may make enemies, and

their own interests may be injured. This is completely the character of

the Swiss. When I visited Switzerland in my younger days, I used my

eyes only, and I was delighted; now that I visit it again, when years

have made me reflect and inquire more, I am disappointed. The charm is

dissolved, the land of liberty appears to me to be a land of petty

tyranny in the Government, and of extreme selfishness in the

individuals; even the much-vaunted fidelity of the Swiss seems not to

have arisen from any other than mercenary motives. Indeed, there is

something radically wrong--however faithful they may be to their

employers, or however they may be brave and talented--in the hearts of

those who volunteer for hire and pay to kill their fellow creatures. I

could not put my trust in such men in private life, although I would in

the service for which they have hired themselves.

Do the faults of this people arise from the peculiarity of their

constitutions, or from the nature of their Government? To ascertain

this, one must compare them with those who live, under similar

institutions.

I must go to America, that's decided.

CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

SOUTH WEST AND BY WEST THREE-QUARTERS WEST.

Jack Littlebrain was, physically considered, as fine grown, and moreover

as handsome a boy as ever was seen, but it must be acknowledged that he

was not very clever. Nature is, in most instances, very impartial; she

has given plumage to the peacock, but, as every one knows, not the

slightest ear for music. Throughout the feathered race it is almost

invariably the same; the homeliest clad are the finest songsters. Among

animals the elephant is certainly the most intelligent, but, at the same

time he cannot be considered as a beauty. Acting upon this well

ascertained principle, nature imagined, that she had done quite enough

for Jack when she endowed him with such personal perfection; and did not

consider it was at all necessary that he should be very clever; indeed,

it must be admitted, not only that he was not very clever, but (as the

truth must be told) remarkably dull and stupid. However, the

Littlebrains have been for a long while a well-known, numerous, and

influential family, so that, if it were possible that Jack could have

been taught anything, the means were forthcoming: he was sent to every

school in the country; but it was in vain. At every following vacation,

he was handed over from the one pedagogue to the other, of those whose

names were renowned for the Busbian system of teaching by stimulating

both ends: he was horsed every day and still remained an ass, and at the

end of six months, if he did not run away before that period was over,

he was invariably sent back to his parents as incorrigible and

unteachable. What was to be done with him? The Littlebrains had always

got on in the world, somehow or another, by their interest and

connections; but here was one who might be said to have no brains at

all. After many pros and cons, and after a variety of consulting

letters had passed between the various members of his family, it was

decided that, as his maternal uncle, Sir Theophilus Blazers, GCB, was at

that time second in command in the Mediterranean, he should be sent to

sea under his command; the Admiral, having in reply to a letter on the

subject, answered that it was hard indeed if he did not lick him into

some shape or another; and that, at all events, he'd warrant that Jack

should be able to box the compass before he had been three months

nibbling the ship's biscuit; further, that it was very easy to get over

the examination necessary to qualify him for lieutenant, as a turkey and

a dozen of brown stout in the boat with him on the passing day, as a

present to each of the passing captains, would pass him, even if he were

as incompetent as a camel (or, as they say at sea, a cable), to pass

through the eye of a needle; that having once passed, he would soon have

him in command of a fine frigate, with a good nursing first lieutenant;

and that if he did not behave himself properly, he would make his signal

to come on board of the flag-ship, take him into the cabin, and give him

a sound horsewhipping, as other admirals have been known to inflict upon

their own sons under similar circumstances. The reader must be aware

that, from the tenour of Sir Theophilus's letter, the circumstances

which we are narrating must have occurred some fifty years ago.

When Jack was informed that he was to be a midshipman, he looked up in

the most innocent way in the world, (and innocent he was, sure enough,)

turned on his heels, and whistled as he went for want of thought. For

the last three months he had been at home, and his chief employment was

kissing and romping with the maids, who declared him to be the

handsomest Littlebrain that the country had ever produced. Our hero

viewed the preparations made for his departure with perfect

indifference, and wished everybody good bye with the utmost composure.

He was a happy, good-tempered fellow, who never calculated, because he

could not; never decided, for he had not wit enough to choose; never

foresaw, although he could look straight before him; and never

remembered, because he had no memory. The line, "If ignorance is bliss,

'tis folly to be wise," was certainly made especially for Jack;

nevertheless he was not totally deficient: he knew what was good to eat

or drink, for his taste was perfect, his eyes were very sharp, and he

could discover in a moment if a peach was ripe on the wall; his hearing

was quick, for he was the first in the school to detect the footsteps of

his pedagogue; and he could smell anything savoury nearly a mile off, if

the wind lay the right way. Moreover, he knew that if he put his

fingers in the fire that he would burn himself; that knives cut

severely; that birch tickled, and several other little axioms of this

sort which are generally ascertained by children at an early age, but

which Jack's capacity had not received until at a much later date. Such

as he was, our hero went to sea: his stock in his sea-chest being very

abundant, while his stock of ideas was proportionably small.

We will pass over all the trans-shipments of Jack until he was

eventually shipped on board the Mendacious, then lying at Malta with the

flag of Sir Theophilus Blazers at the fore--a splendid ship, carrying

120 guns, and nearly 120 midshipmen of different calibres. (I pass over

captain, lieutenant, and ship's company, having made mention of her most

valuable qualifications.) Jack was received with a hearty welcome by

his uncle, for he came in pudding-time, and was invited to dinner; and

the Admiral made the important discovery, that if his nephew was a fool

in other points, he was certainly no fool at his knife and fork. In a

short time his messmates found out that he was no fool at his fists, and

his knock-down arguments ended each disputation. Indeed, as the French

would say, Jack was perfection in the _physique_, although so very

deficient in the _morale_.

But if Pandora's box proved a plague to the whole world. Jack had his

individual portion of it, when he was summoned to _box_ the compass by

his worthy uncle Sir Theophilus Blazers; who in the course of six months

discovered that he could not make his nephew box it in the three, which

he had warranted in his letter; every day our hero's ears were boxed,

but the compass never. It required all the cardinal virtues to teach

him the cardinal points during the forenoon, and he made a point of

forgetting them before the sun went down. They attempted it (and

various were the teachers employed to drive the compass into Jack's

head) his head drove round the compass; and try all he could, Jack never

could compass it. It appeared, as some people are said only to have one

idea, as if Jack could only have one _point_ in his head at a time, and

_to_ that point he would stand like a well-broken pointer. With him the

wind never changed till the next day. His uncle pronounced him to be a

fool, but that did not hurt his nephew's feelings; he had been told so

too often already.

I have said that Jack had a great respect for good eating and drinking,

and, moreover, was blessed with a good appetite: every person has his

peculiar fancies, and if there was anything which more titillated the

palate and olfactory nerves of our hero, it was a roast goose with sage

and onions. Now it so happened, that having been about seven months on

board of the Mendacious, Jack had one day received a summons to dine

with the Admiral, for the steward had ordered a roast goose for dinner,

and knew not only that Jack was partial to it, but also that Jack was

the Admiral's nephew, which always goes for something on board of a

flag-ship. Just before they were sitting down to table, the Admiral

wishing to know how the wind was, and having been not a little vexed

with the slow progress of his nephew's nautical acquirements, said,

"Now, Mr Littlebrain, go up, and bring me down word how the wind is;

and mark me, as, when you are sent, nine times out of ten you make a

mistake, I shall now bet you five guineas against your dinner, that you

make a mistake this time: so now be off and we will soon ascertain

whether you lose your dinner or I lose my money. Sit down, gentlemen,

we will not wait for Mr Littlebrain."

Jack did not much admire this bet on the part of his uncle, but still

less did he like the want of good manners in not waiting for him. He

had just time to see the covers removed, to scent a whiff of the goose,

and was off.

"The Admiral wants to know how the wind is, sir," said Jack to the

officer of the watch.

The officer of the watch went to the binnacle, and setting the wind as

nearly as he could, replied, "Tell Sir Theophilus that it is _South West

and by West three-quarters West_."

"That's one of those confounded long points that I never can remember,"

cried Jack, in despair.

"Then you'll `get goose,' as the saying is," observed one of the

midshipmen.

"No; I'm afraid that I sha'n't get any," replied Jack, despondingly.

"What did he say, South West and by North three-quarters East?"

"Not exactly," replied his messmate, who was a good-natured lad, and

laughed heartily at Jack's version. "South West and by West

three-quarters West."

"I never can remember it," cried Jack. "I'm to have five guineas if I

do, and no dinner if I don't: and if I stay here much longer, I shall

get no dinner at all events, for they are all terribly peckish, and

there will be none left."

"Well, if you'll give me one of the guineas, I'll show you how to manage

it," said the midshipman.

"I'll give you two, if you'll only be quick and the goose a'nt all

gone," replied Jack.

The midshipman wrote down the point from which the wind blew, at full

length, upon a bit of paper, and pinned it to the rim of Jack's hat.

"Now," said he, "when you go into the cabin, you can hold your hat so as

to read it, without their perceiving you."

"Well, so I can; I never should have thought of that," said Jack.

"You hav'n't wit enough," replied the midshipman.

"Well I see no wit in the compass," replied Jack.

"Nevertheless, it's full of point," replied the midshipman: "now be

quick."

Our hero's eyes served him well, if his memory was treacherous and as he

entered the cabin door he bowed over his hat very politely and said, as

he read it off, "South West and by West three-quarters West," and then

he added, without reading at all, "if you please, Sir Theophilus."

"Steward," said the Admiral, "tell the officer of the watch to step

down."

"How's the wind, Mr Growler?"

"South West and by West three-quarters West," replied the officer.

"Then, Mr Littlebrain, you have won your five guineas, and may now sit

down and enjoy your dinner."

Our hero was not slow in obeying the order, and ventured, upon the

strength of his success, to send his plate twice for goose. Having

eaten their dinner, drunk their wine, and taken their coffee, the

officers, at the same time, took the hint which invariably accompanies

the latter beverage, made their bows and retreated. As Jack was

following his seniors out of the cabin, the Admiral put the sum which he

had staked into his hands, observing, that "it was an ill wind that blew

nobody good."

So thought Jack, who, having faithfully paid the midshipman the two

guineas for his assistance, was now on the poop keeping his watch, as

midshipmen usually do; that is, stretched out on the signal lockers, and

composing himself to sleep after the most approved fashion, answering

the winks of the stars by blinks of his eyes, until at last he shut them

to keep them warm. But, before he had quite composed himself, he

thought of the goose and the five guineas. The wind was from the same

quarter, blowing soft and mild; Jack laid in a sort of reverie, as it

fanned his cheek, for the weather was close and sultry.

"Well," muttered Jack to himself, "I do love that point of the compass,

at all events, and I think that I never shall forget South West and by

West three-quarters West. No I never--never liked one before, though--"

"Is that true?" whispered a gentle voice in his ear; "do you love `South

West and by West three-quarters West,' and will you, as you say, never

forget her?"

"Why, what's that?" said Jack, opening his eyes, and turning half round

on his side.

"It's me--`South West and by West three-quarters West,' that you say you

love."

Littlebrain raised himself and looked round;--there was no one on the

poop except himself and two or three of the after-guard, who were lying

down between the guns.

"Why, who was it that spoke?" said Jack, much astonished.

"It was the wind you love, and who has long loved you," replied the same

voice; "do you wish to see me?"

"See you,--see the wind?--I've been already sent on that message by the

midshipmen," thought Jack.

"Do you love me as you say, and as I love you?" continued the voice.

"Well, I like you better than any other point of the compass, and I'm

sure I never thought I should like one of them," replied Jack.

"That will not do for me; will you love only me?"

"I'm not likely to love the others," replied Jack, shutting his eyes

again; "I _hate_ them all."

"And love me?"

"Well, I do love you, that's a fact," replied Jack, as he thought of the

goose and the five guineas.

"Then look round, and you shall see me," said the soft voice.

Jack, who hardly knew whether he was asleep or awake, did at this

summons once more take the trouble to open his eyes, and beheld a fairy

female figure, pellucid as water, yet apparently possessing substance;

her features were beautifully soft and mild, and her outline trembled

and shifted as it were, waving gently to and fro. It smiled sweetly,

hung over him, played with his chestnut curls, softly touched his hips

with her own, passed her trembling fingers over his cheeks, and its warm

breath appeared as if it melted into his. Then it grew more bold,--

embraced his person, searched into his neck and collar, as if curious to

examine him.

Jack felt a pleasure and gratification which he could not well

comprehend: once more the charmer's lips trembled upon his own, now

remaining for a moment, now withdrawing, again returning to kiss and

kiss again, and once more did the soft voice put the question,--"Do you

love me?"

"Better than goose," replied Jack.

"I don't know who goose may be," replied the fairy form, as she tossed

about Jack's waving locks; "you must love only me; promise me that

before I am relieved."

"What, have you got the first watch, as well as me?" replied Jack.

"I am on duty just now, but I shall not be so long. We southerly winds

are never kept long in one place; some of my sisters will probably be

sent here soon."

"I don't understand what you talk about," replied Jack. "Suppose you

tell me who you are, and what you are, and I'll do all I can to keep

awake; I don't know how it is, but I've felt more inclined to go to

sleep since you have been fanning me about, than I did before."

"Then I will remain by your side while you listen to me. I am, as I

told you, a wind--"

"That's puzzling," said Jack, interrupting her.

"My name is `South West and by West three-quarters West.'"

"Yes, and a very long name it is. If you wish me to remember you, you

should have had a shorter one."

This ruffled the wind a little, and she blew rather sharp into the

corner of Jack's eye,--however, she proceeded,--

"You are a sailor, and of course you know all the winds on the compass

by name."

"I wish I did; but I don't," replied Littlebrain, "I can recollect you,

and not one other."

Again the wind trembled with delight on his lips, and she

proceeded:--"You know that there are thirty-two points on the compass,

and these points are divided into quarters; so that there are, in fact,

128 different winds."

"There are more than I could ever remember; I know that," said Jack.

"Well, we are in all 128. All the winds which have northerly in them,

are coarse and ugly; all the southern winds are pretty."

"You don't say so?" replied our hero.

"We are summoned to blow, as required, but the hardest duty generally

falls to the northerly winds, as it should do, for they are the

strongest; although we southerly winds can--blow hard enough when we

choose. Our characters are somewhat different. The most unhappy in

disposition, and I may say, the most malevolent, are the north and

easterly winds; the North West winds are powerful, but not unkind; the

South East winds vary, but, at all events, we of the South West are

considered the mildest and most beneficent. Do you understand me?"

"Not altogether. You're going right round the compass, and I never

could make it out, that's a fact. I hear what you say, but I cannot

promise to recollect it; I can only recollect South West and by West

three-quarters West."

"I care only for your recollecting me; if you do that, you may forget

all the rest. Now you see we South Wests are summer winds, and are

seldom required but in this season; I have often blown over your ship

these last three months, and I always have lingered near you, for I

loved you."

"Thank you--now go on, for seven bells have struck sometime, and I shall

be going to turn in. Is your watch out?"

"No, I shall blow for some hours longer. Why will you leave me--why

wo'n't you stay on deck with me?"

"What, stay on deck after my watch is out! No, if I do, blow me! We

midshipmen never do that--but I say, why can't you come down with me,

and turn in my hammock; it's close to the hatchway, and you can easily

do it."

"Well, I will, upon one promise. You say that you love me, now I'm very

jealous, for we winds are always supplanting one another. Promise me

that you will never mention any other wind in the compass but me, for if

you do, they may come to you, and if I hear of it I'll blow the masts

out of your ship, that I will."

"You don't say so?" replied Jack, surveying her fragile, trembling form.

"Yes, I will, and on a lee shore too; so that the ship shall go to

pieces on the rocks, and the Admiral and every soul on board her be

drowned."

"No, you wouldn't, would you?" said our hero, astonished.

"Not if you promise me. Then I'll come to you and pour down your

windsails, and dry your washed clothes as they hang on the rigging, and

just ripple the waves as you glide along, and hang upon the lips of my

dear love, and press him in my arms. Promise me, then, on no account

ever to recollect or mention any other wind but me."

"Well, I think I may promise that," replied Jack, "I'm very clever at

forgetting; and then you'll come to my hammock, won't you, and sleep

with me? you'll be a nice cool bedfellow these warm nights."

"I can't sleep on my watch as midshipmen do; but I'll watch you while

you sleep, and I'll fan your cheeks, and keep you cool and comfortable,

till I'm relieved."

"And when you go, when will you come again?"

"That I cannot tell--when I'm summoned; and I shall wait with

impatience, that you may be sure of."

"There's eight bells," said Jack, starting up; "I must go down and call

the officer of the middle watch; but I'll soon turn in, for my relief is

not so big as myself, and I can thrash him."

Littlebrain was as good as his word; he cut down his relief; and then

thrashed him for venturing to expostulate. The consequence was, that in

ten minutes he was in his hammock, and "South West and by West

three-quarters West" came gently down the hatchway, and rested in his

arms. Jack soon fell fast asleep, and when he was wakened up the next

morning by the quarter-master, his bedfellow was no longer there. A

mate inquiring how the wind was, was answered by the quartermaster that

they had a fresh breeze from the North North West, by which Jack

understood that his sweetheart was no longer on duty.

Our hero had passed such a happy night with his soft and kind companion,

that he could think of nothing else; he longed for her to come again,

and, to the surprise of everybody, was now perpetually making inquiries

as to the wind which blew. He thought of her continually; and in fact

was as much in love with "South West and by West three-quarters West" as

he possibly could be. She came again--once more did he enjoy her

delightful company; again she slept with him in his hammock, and then,

after a short stay, she was relieved by another.

We do not intend to accuse the wind of inconstancy, as that was not her

fault; nor of treachery, for she loved dearly; nor of violence, for she

was all softness and mildness; but we do say, that "South West and by

West three-quarters West" was the occasion of Jack being very often in a

scrape, for our hero kept his word; he forgot all other winds, and, with

him, there was no other except his dear "South West and by West

three-quarters West." It must be admitted of Jack, that, at all events,

he showed great perseverance, for he stuck to his point.

Our hero would argue with his messmates, for it is not those who are

most capable of arguing who are most fond of it; and, like all arguers

not very brilliant, he would flounder and diverge away right and left,

just as the flaws of ideas came into his head.

"What nonsense it is your talking that way," would his opponent say;

"why don't you come to the point?"

"And so I do," cried Jack.

"Well, then, what is your point?"

"South West and by West three-quarters West," replied our hero.

Who could reply to this? But in every instance, and through every

difficulty, our hero kept his promise, until his uncle Sir Theophilus

was very undecided, whether he should send him home to be locked up in a

Lunatic Asylum, or bring him on in the service to the rank of

post-captain. Upon mature consideration, however, as a man in Bedlam is

a very useless member of society, and a tee-total non-productive,

whereas a captain in the navy is a responsible agent, the Admiral came

to the conclusion, that Littlebrain must follow up his destiny.

At last, Jack was set down as the greatest fool in the ship, and was

pointed out as such. The ladies observed, that such might possibly be

the case, but at all events he was the handsomest young man in the

Mediterranean fleet. We believe that both parties were correct in their

assertions.

Time flies--even a midshipman's time, which does not fly quite so fast

as his money--and the time came for Mr Littlebrain's examination. Sir

Theophilus, who now commanded the whole fleet, was almost in despair.

How was it possible that a man could navigate a ship, with only one

quarter point of the compass in his head?

Sir Theophilus scratched his wig; and the disposition of the

Mediterranean fleet, so important to the country, was altered according

to the dispositions of the captains who commanded the ships. In those

days, there were martinets in the service; officers who never overlooked

an offence, or permitted the least deviation from strict duty; who were

generally hated, but at the same time were most valuable to the service.

As for his nephew passing his examination before any of those of the

first or second, or even of the third degree, the Admiral knew that it

was impossible. The consequence was, that one was sent away on a

mission to Genoa, about nothing; another to watch for vessels never

expected, off Sardinia; two more to cruise after a French frigate which

had never been built: and thus, by degrees, did the Admiral arrange, so

as obtain a set of officers sufficiently pliant to allow his nephew to

creep under the gate which barred his promotion, and which he never

could have vaulted over. So the signal was made--our hero went on

board--his uncle had not forgotten the propriety of a little _douceur_

on the occasion; and, as the turkeys were all gone, three couple of

geese were sent in the same boat, as a present to each of the three

passing captains. Littlebrain's heart failed him as he pulled to the

ship; even the geese hissed at him, as much as to say, "If you were not

such a stupid ass, we might have been left alive in our coops." There

was a great deal of truth in that remark, if they did say so.

Nothing could have been made more easy for Littlebrain than his

examination. The questions had all been arranged beforehand; and some

kind friend had given him all the answers written down. The passing

captains apparently suffered from the heat of the weather, and each had

his hand on his brow, looking down on the table at the time that

Littlebrain gave his answers, so that of course they did not observe

that he was reading them off. As soon as Littlebrain had given his

answer, and had had sufficient time to drop his paper under the table,

the captains felt better and looked up again.

There were but eight questions for our hero to answer. Seven had been

satisfactorily got through; then came the eighth, a very simple

one:--"What is your course and distance from Ushant to the Start?" This

question having been duly put, the captains were again in deep

meditation, shrouding their eyes with the palms of their hands.

Littlebrain had his answer--he looked at the paper. What could be more

simple than to reply?--and then the captains would have all risen up,

shaken him by the hand, complimented him upon the talent he had

displayed, sent their compliments to the commander-in-chief, and their

thanks for the geese. Jack was just answering, "North--"

"Recollect your promise!" cried a soft voice, which Jack well

recollected.

Jack stammered--the captains were mute--and waited patiently.

"I must say it," muttered Jack.

"You shan't," replied the little Wind.

"Indeed I must," said Jack, "or I shall be turned back."

The captains, surprised at this delay and the muttering of Jack, looked

up, and one of them gently inquired if Mr Littlebrain had not dropped

his handkerchief or something under the table! And then they again

fixed their eyes upon the green cloth.

"If you dare, I'll never see you again," cried "South West and by West

three-quarters West,"--"never come to your hammock,--but I'll blow the

ship on shore, every soul shall be lost, Admiral and all; recollect your

promise!"

"Then I shall never pass," replied Jack.

"Do you think that any other point in the compass shall pass you except

me?--never! I am too jealous for that. Come now, dearest!" and the

Wind again deliciously trembled upon the lips of our hero, who could no

longer resist.

"South West and by West three-quarters West," exclaimed Jack firmly.

"You have made a slight mistake, Mr Littlebrain," said one of the

captains. "_Look_ again--I meant to say, _think again_."

"South West and by West three-quarters West," again repeated Jack.

"Dearest, how I love you!" whispered the soft Wind.

"Why, Mr Littlebrain," said one of the captains--for Jack had actually

laid the paper down on the table--"what's in the wind now?"

"She's obstinate," replied Jack.

"You appear to be so, at all events," replied the captain. "Pray try

once more."

"I have it!" thought Jack, who tore off the last answer from his paper.

"I gained five guineas by that plan once before." He then handed the

bit of paper to the passing captain: "I believe that's right, sir," said

our hero.

"Yes, that is right; but could you not have said it instead of writing

it, Mr Littlebrain?"

Jack made no reply; his little sweetheart pouted a little, but said

nothing; it was an evasion which she did not like. A few seconds of

consultation then took place, as a matter of form. Each captain asked

of the other if he was perfectly satisfied as to Mr Littlebrain's

capabilities, and the reply was in the affirmative; and they were

perfectly satisfied, that he was either a fool or a madman. However, as

we have had both in the service by way of precedent, Jack was added to

the list, and the next day was appointed lieutenant.

Our hero did his duty as lieutenant of the forecastle; and as all the

duty of that officer is, when hailed from the quarterdeck, to answer,

"_Ay, ay, sir_," he got on without making many mistakes. And now he was

very happy; no one dared to call him a fool except his uncle; he had his

own cabin, and many was the time, that his dear little "South West and

by West three-quarters West" would come in by the scuttle, and nestle by

his side.

"You won't see so much of me soon, dearest," said she one morning,

gravely.

"Why not, my soft one?" replied Jack.

"Don't you recollect that the winter months are coming on?"

"So they are," replied Jack. "Well, I shall long for you back."

And Jack did long, and long very much, for he loved his dear wind and

the fine weather which accompanied her. Winter came on and heavy gales

and rain, and thunder and lightning; nothing but double-reefed

top-sails, and wearing in succession; and our hero walked the

forecastle, and thought of his favourite wind. The North East winds

came down furiously, and the weather was bitter cold. The officers

shook the rain and spray off their garments when their watch was over,

and called for grog.

"Steward, a glass of grog," cried one; "and let it be strong."

"The same for me," said Jack; "only, I'll mix it myself."

Jack poured out the rum till the tumbler was half full.

"Why, Littlebrain," said his messmate, "that is a dose; that's what we

call a regular _Nor-wester_."

"Is it?" replied Jack. "Well then, Nor-westers suit me exactly, and I

shall stick to them like cobblers' wax."

And during the whole of the winter months our hero showed a great

predilection for Nor-westers.

It was in the latter end of February that there was a heavy gale; it had

blown furiously from the northward for three days, and then it paused

and panted as if out of breath--no wonder! And then the wind shifted,

and shifted again, with squalls and heavy rain, until it blew from every

quarter of the compass.

Our hero's watch was over, and he came down and called for a

"Nor-wester" as usual.

"How is the wind now?" asked the first lieutenant the master, who came

down dripping wet.

"South South West, but drawing now fast to the Westward," said old

Spunyarn.

And so it was; and it veered round until "South West and by West

three-quarters _West_," with an angry gust, came down the sky-light, and

blowing strongly into our hero's ear, cried,--

"Oh, you false one!"

"False!" exclaimed Jack. "What! you here, and so angry too? What's the

matter?"

"What's the matter!--do you think I don't know? What have you been

doing over since I was away, comforting yourself during my absence with

_Nor-westers_?"

"Why, you an't jealous of a Nor-wester, are you?" replied Littlebrain.

"I confess, I'm rather partial to them."

"What! this to my face!--I'll never come again, without you promise me

that you will have nothing to do with them, and never call for one

again. Be quick--I cannot stay more than two minutes; for it is hard

work now, and we relieve quick--say the word."

"Well, then," replied Littlebrain, "you've no objection to

_half-and-half_?"

"None in the world; that's quite another thing, and has nothing to do

with the wind."

"It has, though," thought Jack, "for it gets a man in the wind; but I

won't tell her so; and," continued he, "you don't mind a raw nip, do

you?"

"No--I care for nothing except a Nor-wester."

"I'll never call for one again," replied Jack; "it is but making my grog

a little stronger; in future it shall be _half-and-half_."

"That's a dear! Now I'm off--don't forget me;" and away went the wind

in a great hurry.

It was about three months after this short visit, the fleet being off

Corsica, that our hero was walking the deck, thinking that he soon

should see the object of his affections, when a privateer brig was

discovered at anchor a few miles from Bastia. The signal was made for

the boats of the fleet to cut her out; and the Admiral, wishing that his

nephew should distinguish himself somehow, gave him the command of one

of the finest boats. Now Jack was as brave as brave could be; he did

not know what danger was; he hadn't wit enough to perceive it, and there

was no doubt but he would distinguish himself. The boats went on the

service. Jack was the very first on board, cheering his men as he

darted into the closed ranks of his opponents. Whether it was that he

did not think that his head was worth defending, or that he was too busy

in breaking the heads of others to look after his own this is certain,

that a tomahawk descended upon it with such force as to bury itself in

his skull (and his was a thick skull too). The privateer's men were

overpowered by numbers, and then our hero was discovered, under a pile

of bodies, still breathing heavily. He was hoisted on board, and taken

into his uncle's cabin: the surgeon shook his head when he had examined

that of our hero.

"It must have been a most tremendous blow," said he to the Admiral, "to

have penetrated--"

"It must have been, indeed," replied the Admiral, as the tears rolled

down his cheeks; for he loved his nephew.

The surgeon having done all that his art would enable him, left the

cabin to attend to the others who were hurt; the Admiral also went on

the quarter-deck, walking to and fro for an hour in a melancholy mood.

He returned to the cabin, and bent over his nephew; Jack opened his

eyes.

"My dear fellow," said the Admiral, "how's your head now?"

"_South West and by West three-quarters West_," faintly exclaimed our

hero, constant in death, as he turned a little on one side and expired.

It was three days afterwards, as the fleet were on a wind, making for

Malta, that the bell of the ship tolled, and a body, sewed up in a

hammock and covered with the Union Jack, was carried to the gangway by

the Admiral's bargemen. It had been a dull cloudy day, with little

wind; the hands were turned up, the officers and men stood uncovered;

the Admiral in advance with his arms folded, as the chaplain read the

funeral service over the body of our hero,--and as the service

proceeded, the sails flapped, for the wind had shifted a little; a

motion was made, by the hand of the officer of the watch, to the man at

the helm to let the ship go off the wind, that the service might not be

disturbed, and a mizzling soft rain descended. The wind had shifted to

our hero's much loved _point_, his fond mistress had come to mourn over

the loss of her dearest, and the rain that descended were the tears

which she shed at the death of her handsome but not over-gifted lover.

CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

ILL-WILL.

Dramatis Personae.

MR CADAVEROUS, _An old miser, very rich and very ill_.

EDWARD, _A young lawyer without a brief_.

MR HAUSTUS GUMARABIC, _Apothecary_.

SEEDY, _Solicitor_.

THOMAS MONTAGUE, JOHN MONTAGUE, _Nephews to Mr Cadaverous_.

JAMES STERLING, WILLIAM STERLING, _nephews twice removed to Mr

Cadaverous_.

CLEMENTINA MONTAGU, _Niece to Mr Cadaverous_.

Mrs JELLYBAGS, _Housekeeper and nurse_.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

ACT ONE.

Scene.--_A sick room_.--Mr CADAVEROUS _in an easy chair asleep,

supported by cushions, wrapped up in his dressing-gown, a night-cap on

his head.--A small table with phials, gallipots, etcetera_.--Mrs

JELLYBAGS _seated on a chair close to the table_.

[Mrs JELLYBAGS _looks at_ Mr CADAVEROUS, _and then comes forward_.] He

sleeps yet--the odious old miser! Mercy on me, how I do hate him,--

almost as much as he loves his money! there's one comfort, he cannot

take his money-bags with him, and the doctor says that he cannot last

much longer. Ten years have I been his slave--ten years have I been

engaged to be married to Sergeant Major O'Callaghan of the Blues--ten

years has he kept me waiting at the porch of Hymen,--and what thousands

of couples have I seen enter during the time! Oh dear! its enough to

drive a widow mad. I think I have managed it;--he has now quarrelled

with all his relations, and Dr Gumarabic intends this day to suggest

the propriety of his making his last will and testament. (Mr

CADAVEROUS, _still asleep, coughs_.) He is waking, (_Looks at him_.)

No, he is not. Well, then, I shall wake him, and give him a draught,

for, after such a comfortable sleep as he is now in, he might last a

whole week longer. (_Goes up to_ Mr CADAVEROUS, _and shakes him_.)

Mr CAD. (_starting up_.) Ugh ugh! ugh! (_coughs violently_.) Oh!

Mrs Jellybags, I'm so ill. Ugh! ugh!

JEL. My dear, dear sir! now don't say so. I was in hopes, after such a

nice long sleep you would have found yourself so much better.

CAD. Long sleep! oh dear!--I'm sure I've not slept ten minutes.

JEL. (_aside_.) I know that. (_Aloud_.) Indeed, my dear sir, you are

mistaken. Time passes very quick when we are fast asleep. I have been

watching you and keeping the flies off. But you must now take your

draught, my dear sir, and your pill first.

CAD. What! more pills and more draughts! Why, there's no end to them.

JEL. Yes, there will be, by and by, my dear sir. You know Doctor

Gumarabic has ordered you take one pill and one draught every half hour.

CAD. And so I have--never missed one for the last six weeks--woke up

for them day and night. I feel very weak--very weak, indeed! Don't you

think I might eat something, my dear Mrs Jellybags?

JEL. Eat, my dear Mr Cadaverous!--how can you ask me, when you know

that Doctor Gumarabic says that it would be the death of you?

CAD. Only the wing of a chicken,--or a bit of the breast--

JEL. Impossible!

CAD. A bit of dry toast, then; any thing, my dear Mrs Jellybags. I've

such a gnawing--Ugh! ugh!

JEL. My dear sir, you would die if you swallowed the least thing that's

nourishing.

CAD. I'm sure I shall die if I do not. Well, then, a little soup--I

should like that very much indeed.

JEL. Soup! it would be poison, my dear sir! No, no. You must take

your pill and your draught.

CAD. Oh dear! oh dear!--Forty-eight pills and forty-eight draughts

every twenty-four hours!--not a wink of sleep day or night.

JEL. (_soothingly_.) But it's to make you well, you know, my dear Mr

Cadaverous. Come, now. (_Hands him a pill and some water in a

tumbler_.)

CAD. The last one is hardly down yet;--I feel it sticking half-way.

Ugh! ugh!

JEL. Then wash them both down at once. Come, now, 'tis to make you

well, you know.

CADAVEROUS _takes the pill with a wry face, and coughs it up again_.

CAD. Ugh! ugh! There--it's up again. Oh dear! oh dear!

JEL. You must take it, my dear sir. Come, now, try again.

CAD. (_coughing_.) My cough is so bad. (_Takes the pill_.) Oh, my

poor head! Now I'll lie down again.

JEL. Not yet, my dear Mr Cadaverous. You must take your draught;--

it's to make you well, you know.

CAD. What! another draught? I'm sure I must have twenty draughts in my

inside, besides two boxes of pills!

JEL. Come, now--it will be down in a minute.

[CADAVEROUS _takes the wine-glass in his hand, and looks at it with

abhorrence_.]

JEL. Come, now.

[CADAVEROUS _swallows the draught, and feels very sick, puts his

handkerchief to his mouth, and, after a time, sinks back in the chair

quite exhausted, and shuts his eyes_.]

JEL. (_aside_.) I wish the doctor would come. It's high time that he

made his will.

CAD. (_drawing up his leg_.) Oh! oh! oh!

JEL. What's the matter, my dear Mr Cadaverous.

CAD. Oh! such pain!--oh! rub it, Mrs Jellybags.

JEL. What, here, my dear sir? (_Rubs his knee_.)

CAD. No, no!--Not there!--Oh, my hip!

JEL. What, here? (_Rubs his hip_.)

CAD. No, no!--higher--higher! Oh, my side!

JEL. What, here? (_Rubs his side_.)

CAD. No!--lower!

JEL. Here? (_Rubbing_.)

CAD. No!--higher!--Oh, my chest!--my stomach! Oh dear!--oh dear!

JEL. Are you better now, my dear sir?

CAD. Oh dear! oh! I do believe that I shall die! I've been a very

wicked man, I'm afraid.

JEL. Don't say so, Mr Cadaverous. Every one but your nephews and

nieces say that you are the best man in the world.

CAD. Do they? I was afraid that I had not been quite so good as they

think I am.

JEL. I'd like to hear any one say to the contrary. I'd tear their eyes

out,--that I would.

CAD. You are a good woman, Mrs Jellybags; and I shall not forget you

in my will.

JEL. Don't mention wills, my dear sir. You make me so miserable.

(_Puts her handkerchief to her eyes_.)

CAD. Don't cry, Mrs Jellybags. I won't talk any more about it.

(_Sinks back exhausted_.)

JEL. (_wiping her eyes_.) Here comes Dr Gumarabic.

_Enter_ GUMARABIC.

GUM. Good morning, Mistress Jellybags. Well, how's our patient?--

better?--heh?

[Mrs JELLYBAGS _shakes her head_.]

GUM. No: well, that's odd. (_Goes up to_ Mr CADAVEROUS.) Not better,

my dear sir?--don't you feel stronger?

CAD. (_faintly_.) Oh, no!

GUM. Not stronger! Let us feel the pulse. [Mrs JELLYBAGS _hands a

chair, and_ GUMARABIC _sits down, pulls out his watch, and counts_.]

Intermittent--135--well, now--that's very odd! Mrs Jellybags, have you

adhered punctually to my prescriptions?

JEL. Oh yes, sir, exactly.

GUM. He has eaten nothing?

CAD. Nothing at all.

GUM. And don't feel stronger? Odd--very odd! Pray, has he had any

thing in the way of drink? Come, Mrs Jellybags, no disguise,--tell the

truth;--no soup--warm jelly--heh?

JEL. No, sir; upon my word, he has had nothing.

GUM. Humph?--and yet feels no stronger? Well, that's odd!--Has he

taken the pill every half-hour?

JEL. Yes, sir, regularly.

GUM. And feels no better! Are you sure that he has had his draught

with his pill?

JEL. Every time, sir.

GUM. And feels no better! Well, that's odd!--very odd, indeed!

(_Rises and comes forward with_ Mrs JELLYBAGS.) We must throw in some

more draughts, Mrs Jellybags; there is no time to be lost.

JEL. I am afraid he's much worse, sir.

GUM. I am not at all afraid of it, Mrs Jellybags,--I am sure of it;--

it's very odd,--but the fact is, that all the physic in the world won't

save him; but still he must take it,--because--physic was made to be

taken.

JEL. Very true, sir. (_Whispers to_ GUMARABIC.)

GUM. Ah! yes;--very proper. (_Going to_ Mr CADAVEROUS.) My dear sir,

I have done my best; nevertheless, you are ill,--very ill,--which is

odd,--very odd! It is not pleasant,--I may say, very unpleasant,--but

if you have any little worldly affairs to settle,--will to make,--or a

codocil to add, in favour of your good nurse, your doctor, or so on,--it

might be as well to send for your lawyer;--there is no saying, but,

during my practice, I have sometimes found that people die. After all

the physic you have taken, it certainly is odd--very odd--very odd,

indeed;--but you might die to-morrow.

CAD. Oh dear!--I'm very ill.

JEL. (_sobbing_.) Oh dear! oh dear!--he's very ill.

GUM. (_comes forward, shrugging up his shoulders_.) Yes; he is ill--

very ill;--to-morrow, dead as mutton! At all events he has not died for

want of physic. We must throw in some more draughts immediately;--no

time to be lost. Life is short,--but my bill will be long--very long!

[_Exit as scene closes_.]

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Act 2.

SCENE 1.--_Enter_ CLEMENTINA, _with a letter in her hand_.

CLEM. I have just received a letter from my dear Edward: he knows of my

uncle's danger, and is anxious to see me. I expect him immediately. I

hope he will not be seen by Mrs Jellybags as he comes in, for she would

try to make more mischief than than she has already. Dear Edward! how

he loves me! (_Kisses the letter_.)

_Enter_ EDWARD.

EDW. My lovely, my beautiful, my adored Clementina! I have called upon

Mr Gumarabic, who tells me that your uncle cannot live through the

twenty-four hours, and I have flown here, my sweetest, dearest, to--to--

CLEM. To see me, Edward: surely there needs no excuse for coming?

EDW. To reiterate my ardent, pure, and unchangeable affection, my

dearest Clementina to assure you, that in sickness or in health, for

richer or for poorer, for better or for worse, as they say in the

marriage ceremony, I am yours till death us do part.

CLEM. I accept the vow, dearest Edward. You know too well my heart for

me to say more.

EDW. I do know your heart, Clementina, as it is,--nor do I think it

possible that you could change;--still, sometimes--that is for a moment

when I call to mind that, by your uncle's death, as his favourite niece,

living with him for so many years, you may soon find yourself in

possession of thousands,--and that titled men may lay their coronets at

your feet,--then, Clementina--

CLEM. Ungenerous and unkind!--Edward, I almost hate you. Is a little

money, then, to sway my affections? Shame, Edward, shame on you! Is

such your opinion of my constancy? (_Weeps_.) You must judge me by

your own heart.

EDW. Clementina! dearest Clementina!--I did!--but rather--that is,--I

was not in earnest;--but when we value any object as I value you,--it

may be forgiven, if I feel at times a little jealous;--yes, dearest,

jealous!

CLEM. 'Twas jealousy then, Edward, which made you so unkind? Well,

then, I can forgive that.

EDW. Nothing but jealousy, dearest! I cannot help, at times,

representing you surrounded by noble admirers,--all of them suing to

you,--not for yourself, but for your money, tempting you with their

rank;--and it makes me jealous, horribly jealous! I cannot compete with

lords, Clementina,--a poor barrister without a brief.

CLEM. I have loved you for yourself, Edward. I trust you have done the

same toward me.

EDW. Yes; upon my soul, my Clementina!

CLEM. Then my uncle's disposition of his property will make no

difference in me. For your sake, my dear Edward, I hope he will not

forget me. What's that? Mrs Jellybags is coming out of the room.

Haste, Edward;--you must not be seen here. Away, dearest!--and may God

bless you.

EDW. (_kisses her hand_.) Heaven preserve my adored, my matchless,

ever-to-be-loved Clementina.

[_Exeunt separately_.]

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