"Jobson has paid, and Grabbie compounded. Heckles--may he die an evil

death!--has repudiated, become a lame duck, and waddled; but no doubt

his estate will pay a dividend."

"So, then, we are clear of the whole Glenmutchkin business, and at a

handsome profit."

"A fair interest for the outlay of capital--nothing more. But I'm not

quite done with the concern yet."

"How so? not another bearing operation?"

"No; that cock would hardly fight. But you forget that I am secretary

to the company, and have a small account against them for services

already rendered. I must do what I can to carry the bill through

Parliament; and, as you have now sold your whole shares, I advise you

to resign from the direction, go down straight to Glenmutchkin, and

qualify yourself for a witness. We shall give you five guineas a-day,

and pay all your expenses."

"Not a bad notion. But what has become of M'Closkie, and the other

fellow with the jaw-breaking name?"

"Vich-Induibh? I have looked after their interests, as in duty bound,

sold their shares at a large premium, and dispatched them to their

native hills on annuities."

"And Sir Polloxfen?"

"Died yesterday of spontaneous combustion."

As the company seemed breaking up, I thought I could not do better

than take M'Corkindale's hint, and accordingly betook myself to

Glenmutchkin, along with the Captain of M'Alcohol, and we quartered

ourselves upon the Factor for Glentumblers. We found Watty Solder very

shakey, and his assistant also lapsing into habits of painful

inebriety. We saw little of them except of an evening, for we shot and

fished the whole day, and made ourselves remarkably comfortable. By

singular good-luck, the plans and sections were lodged in time, and

the Board of Trade very handsomely reported in our favour, with a

recommendation of what they were pleased to call "the Glenmutchkin

system," and a hope that it might generally be carried out. What this

system was, I never clearly understood; but, of course, none of us had

any objections. This circumstance gave an additional impetus to the

shares, and they once more went up. I was, however, too cautious to

plunge a second time into Charybdis, but M'Corkindale did, and again

emerged with plunder.

When the time came for the parliamentary contest, we all emigrated to

London. I still recollect, with lively satisfaction, the many pleasant

days we spent in the metropolis at the company's expense. There were

just a neat fifty of us, and we occupied the whole of an hotel. The

discussion before the committee was long and formidable. We were

opposed by four other companies who patronised lines, of which the

nearest was at least a hundred miles distant from Glenmutchkin; but as

they founded their opposition upon dissent from "the Glenmutchkin

system" generally, the committee allowed them to be heard. We fought

for three weeks a most desperate battle, and might in the end have

been victorious, had not our last antagonist, at the very close of his

case, pointed out no less than seventy-three fatal errors in the

parliamentary plan deposited by the unfortunate Solder. Why this was

not done earlier, I never exactly understood; it may be, that our

opponents, with gentlemanly consideration, were unwilling to curtail

our sojourn in London--and their own. The drama was now finally

closed, and after all preliminary expenses were paid, sixpence per

share was returned to the holders upon surrender of their scrip.

Such is an accurate history of the Origin, Rise, Progress, and Fall of

the Direct Glenmutchkin Railway. It contains a deep moral, if any body

has sense enough to see it; if not, I have a new project in my eye for

next session, of which timely notice shall be given.

THE SCIENCE OF LANGUAGES.[8]

The past history of Mr Morgan Kavanagh is probably as little known to

our readers as it is to ourselves. But his future destiny is not

equally obscure. We have it, on his own authority, that he has made a

discovery of unparalleled merit and magnitude, as simple as it is

surprising, and calculated, in an equal degree, to benefit mankind,

and immortalize its author. He has discovered the science of

languages--a science in which the wisest hitherto have been

smatterers, but in which the most shallow may henceforward be

profound. In the prophetic spirit of conscious genius, Horace, Ovid,

and other great men, have boasted of the perpetuity of fame achieved

by their efforts; and Kavanagh, apparently under a similar

inspiration, indulges the pleasing anticipation, that he has completed

a monument more lasting than brass--of which material, it may be

observed, he does not appear to have a deficient supply. He confesses,

that on so trite a subject, the presumption is against him of so great

an achievement; but he sticks to his point, and is sure that he has

attained an undying name by his inestimable disclosures:--

"A discovery equalling in magnitude the one to which I lay claim,

must appear to all, before examining its accompanying proofs,

just about as probable as the discovery, in the neighbourhood of

the British Channel, of some rich and extensive island that had

escaped till now the mariner's notice. Then am I either

egregiously in error, or, through my humble means, one of the

greatest and most important discoveries on record has been made."

The alternative here allowed us is irresistible--_either_ our author

is egregiously in error, _or_ he has made a great discovery. Who can

doubt it? We feel at once driven to the wall by the horns of so

dexterous a dilemma; and unable as we are, in the kindness of our

hearts, to adopt the more uncivil supposition, we succumb, without a

struggle, to the only choice left us, and concede to such a disputant

all that he can demand.

Mr Kavanagh is determined that the importance of his discovery shall

lose nothing from his reluctance to put it in the strongest light:--

"If, from having taken a view of the human mind different from

any other hitherto taken, and from having founded a rational

principle, in conformity with this view, I can offer such a

definition of words as may bear the strictest investigation, and

which all may understand; and if a child, by adhering to this

principle, may be able to account for words with all their

changes and variations, and show them such as they must have

been, not only ages before the Bible and the Iliad had been

written, but even as they were at their very birth; then it will,

I dare hope, be admitted, that I shall not only have surmounted

innumerable difficulties, but have discovered the real science of

languages. Yet all this, and a great deal more, may be done by

the application of the principle by which I am guided."

Again he says:--

"I am sorry that the resolution I have formed, of frankly speaking

my mind throughout this work, obliges me to express myself as I

do here and elsewhere with such an apparent want of modesty; but

were I to adopt, with regard to this discovery, and the knowledge

we have hitherto had of the science of grammar, what is

understood by a more becoming and humble tone, I should, by doing

so, lose in truth what I might gain by affected modesty, since I

should not only be speaking falsely, but be leading the reader

into error by concealing from him my real opinion, which I should

by no means do. And if while it be allowed, as I am sure it must,

that though I do well to speak as I think, it be observed that

this is not a reason why I should think as I do--that is, so

presumptuously--I beg to reply, that if I had never _thought so_,

this discovery had never been attempted, and much less made; for

notwithstanding what the world may say about the modesty of

certain great men, I do in my heart believe that such modesty has

been ever affected, and that it is wholly impossible that any

thing great may be undertaken or achieved, but where there is at

bottom great presumption, which is, after all, nothing more than

a consciousness of one's own strength."

This is all right, and no apology was necessary. Why should a man be

modest, who, in the six thousandth year of the creation, has found

out, for the first time, the science of languages? Though entirely

devoid of originality ourselves, we can sympathize with the proud

exultation of those who have produced a new and "glorious birth." From

the cackling of the hen when she has laid an egg, to the [Greek:

heurecha] of Archimedes when he discovered hydrostatics, we see the

instinctive impulse under which those who have brought to light a

great result, are constrained to proclaim it aloud; and we should be

thankful when the mighty inventor can refrain from rushing out, in

native nudity, into the public way.

The discoverer of the science of languages, however, does not come

forth upon us, like Archimedes, in a state of dishabille. Attired in

the same fashionable garb, rejoicing in the same paper and type, and

issuing from the shelves of the same respectable publishers, Mr

Kavanagh's two goodly octavos may fitly range, as far as exterior is

concerned, with the collected productions of Jeffrey and Macaulay, who

will no doubt feel honoured by such good company. The fly-leaf at the

beginning of the work warns all pirates and poachers "that it is

private property, protected by the late Copyright Act;" and a foot-note

seems to inform us that a French edition is simultaneously to appear

in Paris. Who could doubt that such mighty notes of preparation were

to usher in some _magnum opus_, worthy of the expectations thus

excited?

Mr Kavanagh appears to us to have lived for some time in France, and

if so, he has not lived there in vain. He has acquired the knack of

framing a bill of fare, that would do honour to the reigning prince of

restaurateurs, whoever he may be, and would create an appetite under

the ribs of death. Take the following excerpts from the contents:--

"What the author should do before attempting to prove the

discovery of the science of languages. This he does, and a great

deal more."

"View of the human mind. That taken by eminent philosophers

inquired into, and found to be erroneous. The author's view of

it."

"Proof that there are no such words as substantives or nouns."

"Pronouns, supposed like nouns, but erroneously, to represent

substances. They never represent nouns, as they have been

supposed to do. Proof that they never stand for substances, nor

can be, any more than nouns, the subject of propositions. Their

real nature shown, and difficulties and locutions connected with

them accounted for. The original form of _oh me_! and _ah me_!"

"Thus far the author pretends to have shown that there is but one

part of speech."

"The author's account of the verb. Why it cannot be compared like

the adjective. The verb is an adjective or name in the fourth

degree. It does not represent an action. TO and DO. Shown how it

does not represent an action, and how grammarians have been led

to suppose that it does."

"How men expressed themselves in the beginning of the world, when

they had occasion to make use of the verb TO BE."

"The nature of a past participle in English and French. This

knowledge of a past participle in French leads to a precious

discovery."

"How to find the etymology of words. Instances given: the meaning

of _friend_, _mind_, _blind_, &c., shown."

"The origin of the termination _ish_ discovered. The etymology of

the words, _Ireland_, _Scotland_, _Dublin_, with many other

etymologies."

"The feminine and plural of _mon_, _ton_, _son_, explained.

_Mes_, _tes_, and _ses_, not plural numbers. _Notre_ and _votre_

do not come from the Latin words _noster_ and _vester_. No

language derived from another."

"The first names man ever had for his own dwelling, with several

other etymologies, such as _barrack_, _good-by_, _property_,

_coin_, _copper_, _maistre_, _castor_, _out-cast_, _caserne_,

_quoit_, _cat_, _quiet_, _discus_, _Apollo_, _tranquil_, _keel_,

_cuisse_, &c."

"The delicate meaning of certain words."

"The extraordinary wisdom displayed in the formation of words:

different accounts of the words _man_, _woman_, _Adam_, &c. The

meanings of _animare_, _animal_, _animation_, _beget_, _amo_,

_Venus_, _shame_, _honte_, &c.

"The etymology of _squat_, _cower_, _square_, _four_, _year_,

_fair_, _faire_, &c."

"In the account given of the letters of the Greek alphabet are to

be found explained the letters of all languages. To what this

knowledge may lead. Shown how the twenty-four letters make but

one. The dot over the _i_. A straight line, a circle, &c."

"The _ing_ in _being_ accounted for. Meaning of _big_, _wig_,

_mig_, &c.; of _hat_, _oyster_, &c.; of _eight_, _octo_, &c.; of

_nigh_, _near_, _night_, &c. The literal meaning of negatives and

affirmatives. What man's first oaths were."

"_Big_, once a name for the Divinity."

"How all numbers make but one. No such thing as a plural number.

Examination of the ten figures, 1, 2, 3, &c. Each of them means

_one_."

"Concluding observations resumed. The difficulty of believing in

this discovery. The great wisdom it contains. The language

supposed to be spoken in heaven."

"The advantages to be derived from this discovery. How

Mathematicians, Theologians, Grammarians, Lexicographers,

Logicians, and Philosophers, are likely to consider this

discovery. Other works proposed."

"The members of the press. Bookmaking. The many important

discoveries in this work lie in the way of its immediate success

with such minds as cannot receive new ideas. The view which the

man of enlarged ideas is likely to take of it. The author's

pretensions. His confidence in the ultimate success of this

discovery."

We confess we felt our mouth water at the glimpses thus afforded of

the coming feast; and we are happy to acknowledge that what we

expected was fully realized.

It must not be imagined that we are going to furnish, in these trivial

pages, a full disclosure of Mr Kavanagh's discovery. There are several

reasons for our not doing so. First, we could not, in common justice,

think of spoiling the sale of Mr Kavanagh's book. Secondly, we are not

sanguine that, in the space allowed us, we could make the discovery

understood by our readers. And thirdly, we are not sure that we

understand it ourselves. But, as far as consistent with these

considerations, we shall endeavour to give such a view of it as may

excite, without satiating, curiosity, and may give the means of

conjecturing what the book itself must be, of which we are enabled to

offer such specimens.

It is a common and allowable artifice, in those attempting to lead us

up the hill of science, to point to some attractive object that is to

be reached at the summit. Mr Kavanagh employs this expedient with

great effect. He shows us, near the outset of our journey, one

astonishing result to which it is to conduct us, and which necessarily

inflames our eagerness to get over the ground:--

"That the reader may have in advance some notion of this manner

of analysing words, and discovering their hidden meaning, I beg

here to give, for the present, the contents of the analysis of

the English alphabet _collectively_ considered; that is, not as

to what each letter means when read by itself, but as to what

they all mean when read together in the following order:--

A B C D E F G H I (or J) K L M N O P Q

R S T U (or V) W X Y Z;

of which the literal meaning in modern English is--_This first

book is had of the Jews; it opens the mind, and is good breeding

and wisdom._ I shall show in the proper place how this meaning

may be found in the above characters."

The steps by which we are to reach a mighty secret like this, are

given by our author in great detail; for, as he candidly observes--

"Though my discoveries are mostly about as evident as any thing

in Euclid, still, as they are new to the world, and require,

previous to their being received as truths, the disagreeable

admission that we have been hitherto in error; some art, besides

down-right logical persuasion, will be necessary towards bringing

the mind friendly to them."

The first discovery Mr Kavanagh seems to have made is, that he knew

nothing of grammar; and had he stopped here, he would have been

entitled to no small praise for discernment. But this was but a

stepping-stone to greater things.

Mr Kavanagh seems by and by to have found out that "there are no such

words as substantives or nouns; that is to say, words standing for

substances, or representing substances in any manner." He discovered

that such words, and indeed all words, are, whether it be true or not,

sounds to our ears not altogether new. We had a notion that, at least,

the term _noun_, _nom_, and _nomen_, meant properly a _name_, but of

course Mr Kavanagh must know better. We must decline, however, to

follow him through his explanation on this footing of the real

presence.

But then comes an announcement of undoubted originality, "that all

words called substantives are but names _in the fourth degree of

comparison_; that is to say, in a degree above the one commonly called

the superlative." We durst not doubt that Mr Kavanagh is here right;

but, for persons of slow perception like ourselves, we should have

liked to see a little more fully explained what are the first, second,

and third degrees of comparison of those names, of which _hat_,

_stick_, _thing_, _hand_, _foot_, &c., are the fourth degrees.

Discoverers should bear a little with beginners; and we suggest that,

in a second edition, a full table should be given of what we

desiderate.

The view thus taken of nouns, leads, it seems, to important results,

and, in particular, enables us to explain what Mr Kavanagh had been

puzzling himself about for half his lifetime--the meaning of the

expressions, "This is John's book," and "this is a book of John's." We

had always thought that the first of these phrases was plain sailing,

and that the second meant, "this a book of John's books--or, one of

John's books," _ex libris Joannis_. But these simple suppositions

cannot satisfy men of science, who require a discovery to explain what

other men think they understand without one:--

"We can now account for what has hitherto puzzled all grammarians,

namely, the double possessive. This book of John's means, this

book of all John's; that is, this book forming a part of all

John's, of all things belonging to John."

"And how rich and full the meaning of this new possessive! What

an image it brings before the mind, compared to the wretched

meaning our ignorance of this noble science has hitherto taught

us to allow it to have! This book is John's, means, we have been

told, this book is John's book. How frivolous, how poor, compared

to, 'this book is part of all things corporeal and ideal

belonging to John.' How useless this repetition of the same word

book! and how incorrect! since if John possessed only one book,

and that we said, 'this book of John's is better than mine,' we

were immediately stopt, as we cannot say, this book of John's

book is better than mine. But now we know that this book of

John's, &c., means, 'this book is a part of all John's,' &c."

Our discoverer thereafter proceeds to analyse the personal

terminations of verbs, of which he seems to give an elucidation highly

satisfactory to himself, and which, we hope, will be equally so to his

readers. It is obviously of oriental origin, being analogous to the

astronomical theory of the elephant and tortoise, by which the Hindoos

are said so clearly to account for the support of our terrestrial

planet. "_Love_, _lovest_, _loveth_, or _loves_," &c., have been

formed by combining the root with the inflections of the auxiliary

verb, _to have_. He gives a very distinct table by which

"We see that _love hast_ has been shortened to _lovest_; _love

has_, to _loves_; _love hath_ to _loveth_; _love had_ to _loved_;

and _love hadst_ to _lovedst_. The _ha_ has been omitted

throughout, as, love [ha]st; love [ha]s; love [ha]th; love [ha]d;

love [ha]dst."

This is remarkably ingenious, and it must be from a very

unphilosophical curiosity that ignorant persons like ourselves are

tempted to ask how Mr Kavanagh explains the origin of the inflections

_have_, _hast_, _hath_, _had_, &c. We have been accustomed to regard

these terminations, though in a contracted form, as having the same

origin as those of other verbs; and we doubt if it would command

general acquiescence to say that "hath" was a compound of "have hath."

But these are probably foolish doubts, only showing the small progress

of our scientific enlightenment; and we feel assured that they would

occur to no one who was once fully imbued with Mr Kavanagh's

principles.

A similar theory is applied by Mr Kavanagh with equal success to the

Latin system of conjugation; but we think it better to refer our

readers to the book itself, than weaken its effect by any attempt at

an abstract of it. We cannot, however, resist quoting Mr Kavanagh's

account of the advantages to which his theories directly tend.

"And this inquiry has led me to the most important of all my

discoveries; since it not only showed me the original of the

endings of the Latin verbs, but also those of the several

declensions of Latin nouns, adjectives, pronouns, participles,

&c., with their several cases, genders, numbers, &c. And this

knowledge will not only apply to the Latin language, but of

course to all the languages in the world. From this I have been

also led to discover the real nature of a pronoun, and how words

have been made in the beginning of time, and how they have

increased from a single letter, or at most from two, to all which

they have at present: by which means we may see the state of

languages at different periods of the world, even such as they

must have been ages before the building of the tower of Babel;

which knowledge will, it is presumed, throw great light on the

ancient history of the world, since men must, in the composition

of words, have ever made allusion to things already known, and

such as might serve to explain the words they made. Thus is it

even in our own times, and thus has it ever been. I intend

towards the end of this work to give numerous instances of how

words were at first formed, and the various forms they bore at

different times; so that no doubt may remain on any man's mind,

either as to the truth of this, the most important part of my

discovery, or as to the advantages which may, from our following

it up, arise from it."

In pursuing this interesting subject, Mr Kavanagh shows the important

part in etymology played by the Latin verb _esse_.

"Nothing of this has, however, been known. The greatest

lexicographers have not even suspected that _sagesse_ was for

_sage-esse_ (sage-etre,) so short-sighted is man without the

light of science; then much less did they suspect that for _to

be_, and _to go_ there was, whilst languages were yet in their

infancy, but one word. The learned, from their not knowing that

_sagesse_ is for _sage-esse_, must have lost discovering the

etymology of a vast number of words in all languages. Thus, all

the French words ending in _esse_, as, caresse, finesse, paresse,

&c., have never been accounted for; and, in like manner, the

etymology of all English words ending in _ess_ and _ness_, as,

car_ess_, happi_ness_, &c., has been unknown. But here the

reader, as he has not yet seen how we are to discover in words

their own definitions, may say, that though he can admit _caress_

and _caresse_ to be for _cara_ or _carus esse_ (to be dear,) and

_finesse_ to be for _fin-esse_ (etre fin,) he cannot so readily

allow _paresse_ and _happiness_ to be accounted for after a

similar manner, since _paresse_ must hence become _par-esse_, and

_happiness_, _happin-esse_, which words _par_ and _happin_ here

offer no meaning. But a little farther on, he will know that

_par_ here signifies _on the ground_; so that _paresse_ literally

means _on the ground to be_, that is, to be lying down, or doing

nothing. He will also see, that the termination _ness_ has not

the ridiculous meaning assigned it by the learned, namely, "the

top or the foot of a hill" (I forget which,) but that it

literally means _the being_ (_en-esse_,) so that _happiness_ was

first _en-esse-happy_, (the being happy, the thing happy,) after

which, _en-esse_ became contracted to _ness_, and so fell behind

happy, making _happiness_.

"Here, not to perplex the reader's and my own mind, by the

considering of too many things at once, I am really obliged to

turn my view from the many important discoveries that rush upon

me, all emanating out of this little word _be_, or _go_, (no

matter which we call it,) in order merely to show how verbs in

Latin have, from this single word, formed their endings."

By and by it appears that if we are so much indebted to the Latin for

their verb _esse_, the Latin is no less indebted to us for our verb

_am_.

"But I have not shown by what artifice this past time (ibam) of

_eo_ is formed. It is, we may see, composed of two words, _ib_

and _am_; yet the latter word _am_ has all the appearance of a

present time or a future; as we may see it in e_am_, leg_am_, and

audi_am_. Then it is evidently to the word _ib_ we are indebted

for this word _ibam_ having a past signification; and as there

is now no such Latin word, we are led to believe that _ib_ must

be a contraction, and this at once leads us upon _ibi_, which

means, _then_, or, _at that time_. Hence, _ibam_ is a contraction

of _ibi am_, there being only the letter _i_ omitted. Now, as

_am_ is evidently a present time, and the same _am_ we have in

English, it means, "I existence;" so that when _ibi_ is added to

it, both words mean, "I existence then," or "at that time;" and

it is in this manner that men, in the beginning, made a past

time. If we now turn to the past time of _sum_ (_eram_, _eras_,

_erat_, &c.) we shall find that the same method has been adhered

to. The _am_ here is the _am_ in ib_am_; and now we have to look

to the word _er_ by which it is preceded, in order to find its

past signification. This brings us to _era_, or as it is now

written in Latin, _aera_ which, like _ibi_, refers also to a past

time, meaning _that epoch_. Then _eram_, which might as well be

written _aeram_, is a contraction of aer_a_am, there being, as

before, but a single letter omitted, (the _a_,) and the meaning

is as before, "I existence _then_, or _at that epoch_."

Certainly if ever there was a man who "existenced" at an era or epoch,

or rather who was himself the era, Mr Kavanagh may claim the

distinction.

We are informed by the printer that our space is nearly out, and we

must therefore draw to a close. We cannot better fill up the limits

allowed us, than by selecting a few examples of our author's

successful treatment of etymology. It will be seen that in the

zoological department of this subject he is particularly happy.

"The third person plural, _etoient_, is a very curious word: it

literally means _the great lives_--and there is for this a very

wise reason. When this word first received this name, persons

were not referred to, but the winds of heaven; and hence the

propriety of the name _great lives_ or _great beings_; and also

of making this name signify afterwards _persons_ or _beings

gone_, since nothing can, to all appearance, be more gone than

the winds that have passed by. When _oient_ means _the great

lives_, it is to be thus analysed: _oi-iv-it_; or thus,

_ii-iv-it_; or thus, _iv-iv-it_. But when considered as meaning

but a single idea, it may be indifferently written _went_ or

_ivent_. It is easy to perceive that _ivent_ is no other than

_vent_, the French of wind, the _i_ having been dropped. Thus we

discover the origin of the English word _went_: we see that it is

the same as _vent_ or _wind_."

"As the French word _souvent_ means, when analysed, _all the

wind_ (_is-oii-vent_), it would appear that men in the beginning

of time received also the idea of frequency from the winds. But

in a country rarely visited by them, this idea must have been

borrowed from some other natural object. Thus the Latin word for

_often_ (_saeepe_) takes, when analysed, this form, _is-ae-ip-e_,

which literally means, _is the bees_. Here the word _bees_ is

represented by _ip-e_, of which the meaning is _bee_, _bee_; but

to avoid the repetition of the second _bee_, a pronoun, that is

_e_, and which means life or being, has been put in its place.

When it is remarked that this pronoun might as well be _is_ or

_es_ as what it is, it will be admitted that _saepe_ might as well

be written _saepes_. I make this remark to show how slight the

difference between _apes_, the Latin of _bees_ and _ape_ in

_is-ape_, which means also the _bees_. Now the English word

_often_ becomes, when analysed, _en-ov-it_, of which the literal

meaning is _the sheep-sheep_; the pronoun _it_ serving here as in

the last instance, and for the same reason, as a substitute for

the second word _sheep_; but this _it_ might as well be _es_ or

_is_. In Latin the word for _sheep_ is _ov is_, which must have

first been _is ov_; that is, _the sheep_: but when the _is_ fell

behind, it became _ovis_, and it has no other meaning than _the

one life_ (_is-o-vie_). Thus we perceive that _the winds, bees_,

and _sheep_, have, in three different countries, given birth to

the same idea."

Mr Kavanagh adds in a foot-note as to the word sheep--

"This is for she-bay; that is, _the female-bay_, this animal being

so called from its crying _bay_. Hence it would appear that the

word sheep (_she-bay_) did not in the beginning apply equally to

both genders, but that it was only in the feminine. When we

recollect that the _b_ and the _p_ are frequently confounded, it

can be easily admitted that, with our great love for contraction,

_sheep_ should be used instead of _sheeb_. An analysis of the

French word for sheep (_brebis_) confirms what I have here stated

with regard to this animal's being called after its bleat. When

analysed, it is _is-bre-be_; of which the literal meaning is,

the _bray bay_; that is, the _cry bay_ or _the breath bay_, for

the word _breath (bray the)_ is no other than _the bray_ which

became _breath_ from the article _the_ falling behind _bray_. And

this again is confirmed by an analysis of the word _bleat_, which

makes _it_-BE-_il-ea_, or _it bay il e_, and means, _the bay it

is_, that is, it is the cry of the sheep."

"_Mons_," says Mr Kavanagh, "is the original of _monster_ in

English, of _monstre_ in French, and _monstrum_ in Latin. Then

the literal meaning of these words is--_monster, it is to be a

mountain; est er_ literally means 'it is the thing,' and, of

course, these two words first preceded _mon_, thus, _est er mon_

(it is the thing mountain.) _Monstre_ is for _mon estre_, this

_estre_ being the infinitive _etre_, and the same as _est re_ (it

is the thing.) _Monstrum_ is more modern in its form than either

the English word _monster_, or the French word _monstre_, since

it has in its composition the pronoun _um_, besides what these

two words have. Then the Latins had _monstre_ or _monster_ before

they had _monstrum_; and they must have said _um monstre_ or _um

monster_ just as the French say now _le monstre_."

"The word _chien_ becomes when analysed (and the explanation of

the alphabet will show how this happens) _ic iv ien_; or, as

_ien_ can be reduced to _iv_, we may say it is equal to _ic iv

iv_. No matter which of these two forms we adopt, the analysis of

_chien_ will be still the same, since both are expressive of

haste. _Ic iv ien_ means _the thing come_ or _go_, or _life

life_. Thus if we contract _iv ien_ to one word, we have _vien_,

so that _ic vien_ will mean _the come_; and this word is we know

expressive of haste, since _venir_, as we have seen in the

account given of _oient_, means the wind (_ir ven_). In like

manner _ic iv iv_ may mean _the life life_, which we know from

the repetition of _life_ must imply quickness. And hence it is

that _iv iv_ become when contracted, _vive_, that is, _be alive_.

Now when we contract _iv ien_ to _vien_, if we give to _ic_ its

primitive meaning, which is that of _here_, we shall, by allowing

that _vien_ in the beginning went before _ic_, have for the

meaning of both words, come here (_vien ic_). Hence it is we

still hear a dog called upon in English by _Here! here!_ and in

French by the word _Ici_ with the dog's name attached to it. The

English word _dog_ is also, when analysed, expressive of haste,

since it makes _id eo ge_ or _id-o-ge,_ which implies _the thing

go_, or _the go, go_."

We conclude this brief, and, we fear, imperfect notice of so great a

work, by suggesting for the author's consideration, whether, in a

revisal of his views, he might not bestow some attention on one or two

other languages than English and French. His attainments in these seem

to be of a superior order, and he seems also to have made considerable

progress in the Latin rudiments. We do not hold that Greek is

essential, but we respectfully submit that the acquisition of

Anglo-Saxon, and some other older dialects of Europe, with which

English is generally supposed to have some connexion, might with

advantage be attempted. Not that we imagine Mr Kavanagh's views would

then be changed or improved. The etymologist's eye, "in a fine frenzy

rolling," may have intuitive perceptions of results such as no course

of study could attain. But still there is a vulgar prejudice to which

we think it prudent to pay some deference, and which recommends that,

before writing on a subject, we should know something about it.

This, however, is a secondary matter, which we merely submit in

passing. As it is, Mr Kavanagh has taken his place as a philologist on

an elevation which only a few can hope to attain. He may be said to

have done for language in general what has hitherto only been

attempted in the field of Celtic speculation; but it is no light

matter to have followed and outstripped in their course the

illustrious men who have excelled in that more limited province.

Henceforth the name of Morgan Kavanagh will be entwined in the same

undying wreath with those of Lachlan Maclean and Sir William Betham.

SCRAMBLES IN MONMOUTHSHIRE.

A SEQUEL TO HOUSE-HUNTING IN WALES.

As we sat in the state of mind which has become characteristic of the

gallant Widdrington--in the large room at the Angel inn at

Abergavenny, wondering when our pilgrimage among the hotels would come

to an end--a messenger of joyful tidings made his appearance in the

person of our friendly landlord. He had just remembered that a house

about three miles off was occasionally let--he thought it was unlet at

that moment--it was the larger portion of a farm-house, originally

occupied by the 'squire, but now in the hands of a most respectable

farmer. We would hear no more; in ten minutes from this communication

we were careering along in a one-horse car to judge for ourselves--our

imaginations filled with the same celestial visions that blest the

slumbers of the friar, in the song--

"All night long of heaven I dream--

But that is fat pullets and clouted cream"--

and before we had conjured up one-half the delights of a residence in

a real farm-house, we turned in at some iron gates, drove up a

gravelled avenue, and stood at the door of a very nice,

comfortable-looking house, that in many advertisements would pass very

well for "a quiet and gentlemanly mansion, fit for a family of the

first distinction." The rooms were of good size--a beautiful lawn

before the door--a well-filled garden behind--fields, hedges, trees

all round--and the river winding through brushwood a few hundred yards

in front. It did not take long to settle about terms. We were

installed the very next day; and, after our ten days' wanderings, it

was no little satisfaction to find once more

"All that the heart can dream of heaven

--a home!"

Trunks were unpacked, books laid on the table, and, in spite of the

season of the year, a roaring fire went rushing up the chimney; and as

we looked round, after candles were brought in, and the novel skies

and unaccustomed earth shut out, we could hardly believe we had gone

through such a succession of coaches and cars, boats, busses, and

flies--Yorks, Westerns, Beauforts, Angels, Swans, Lions, and other

beasts of hospitable inclinations--but that we had long been

completely settled in our present quarters, while all these

conveyances and hotels were the phantasmata of a dreadful dream.

Even in the best furnished houses, in Aladdin's palace itself,

new-comers always discover some deficiency; and a few things were

wanting in this to complete our felicity;--but Fate, which had frowned

from every sign-board on us for a long time, was now determined to

make up for her bad behaviour, and at that moment put into our hands a

catalogue of household goods to be sold the very next day, a few miles

off, at Oakfield Lodge. The one-horse car was again put in

requisition, and our hostess--the kindest of women--accompanied us to

the sale, and by nodding at intervals to the auctioneer, procured all

the articles required.

A sale is always a melancholy event. A house looks so miserable with

all its carpets and chairs and tables piled in useless heaps--the beds

dismantled--and the rooms filled with a staring crowd, handling every

thing, and passing its vulgar judgment upon curtains and drapery that

the proprietor perhaps thought finer than those of a Grecian

statue--on pier-glasses which had reflected shapes of love or

beauty--on the polish of mahogany that had been set in a roar with

wit,--a low, mean, savage-hearted crowd, bent on making bargains, and

caring nothing for the associations that make commonest furniture more

valuable than cedar and ebony. The auction on this occasion lasted

nearly a week; and day after day the whole population of the

neighbourhood streamed to it like a fair. It was a handsome house, and

the arrangement of the rooms spoke audibly of taste and comfort.

Selling the things that agreed together so well, to go into separate

situations--the library table to one town--the library chairs to

another--seemed very like selling a family of slaves to different

masters; so, after a cursory glance at the dwelling, we betook

ourselves in solitary rumination to the banks of the river. And a

quiet, steady, calm, respectable kind of river the Usk is--not of the

high aristocratic appearance of the Wye, with wild outbursts of

youthful petulance softened immediately into grace and elegance--but a

sedate individual, like a retired citizen, well to do in the world,

and glad to jog on as uninterruptedly as he can. The grounds of

Oakfield slope down to the water--and beautiful grounds they are--a

line of rich meadows, shaded with stately trees, and divided into

numerous portions by invisible wires, stretches for several miles

along the banks; and the abrupt elevation, bounding this level sweep

of grass and stream, affords an admirable site for two or three of the

moderate-sized and tasteful villas that seem the characteristics of

this vicinity. On pursuing our way through field and fell towards the

suspension bridge over the river, we saw, emerging from a wood, a

figure that Isaac Walton would have adopted immediately for his son

and heir. He was a good-looking young man, but so piscatorially

habilimented that there was no making out his order or degree from his

external sophistications. Round his hat were twined spare lines; on

his back, as Paris's quiver hung over his shoulder broad, was

suspended a fish-basket; an iron blade of a foot or so in length

formed the end of his rod; and, as if he had been afraid of the

disciples of the gentle Rebecca, he bore an instrument something

between a Highland claymore and a reaping-hook; and as we looked on

his accoutrements, we thought we would not be a trout in such a

neighbourhood on any consideration. Escape must be impossible for

everything with fins, from a thirty-pound salmon to a minnow. As we

got near him, he handled his rod with a skill and dexterity that left

the young waterman far behind in the management of his oars; and,

after a whisk or too in the upper air, he deposited the hook and line,

not on the ripple in the middle of the Usk, but on the bough of an

elm-tree.

"Here's a mess!" he said, with a half-despairing, half-angry look at

the entanglement. He pulled, and it seemed firmer at every tug. We

approached to render what aid we could.

"Here's a mess!" again he said.

"You can scarcely call it a kettle of fish," was our sympathizing

reply; and by the aid of crooked sticks to hold the bough with, and

the warlike weapon, which cut off some of the branches, the hook was

regained, the fly found uninjured, and with mutual good wishes we each

took off his several way.

There seems a good deal of amateur fishing in this country. In the

course of our walk to the bridge, we saw three or four individuals

flogging the water with great energy, who had evidently been fitted

out in Bond Street, or who were perhaps taking out the value of the

dresses in which they had enacted piscators at the fancy ball; but

their success, we are sorry to say, was in no degree proportioned to

the completeness of their preparations; and we suspect that people

with less adornments, and a much more scanty apparatus of flies and

fish-baskets, are the real discoverers of the treasures of the deep in

the shape of trout and sewin. This latter fish, the sewin, we may add

in passing, is a luxury of which the Usk has great reason to boast;

for it is better than any thing we remember of the salmon kind, except

the inimitable grilses at Stirling.

On returning from the sale, with the carriage loaded with our

purchases, we disposed our new acquisitions in the different rooms,

and laid ourselves out for a few weeks' enjoyment of the blest

retirement--friend to life's decline--which we had struggled so hard

to gain, and which now looked so satisfying in every point.

There is nothing to be compared, for comfort and beauty, to a

dairy-farm. Arable lands are detestable; and the windows of the house

generally look into a horrible yard, where the present agonies of the

nose are made tolerable only by the hope of the rich crop to come.

Here our windows looked upon a sloping green field, bounded from the

road by a good thick hedge, at the distance of seventy or eighty

yards. Beyond the road stretched fine luxuriant meadows, each bordered

with its fence of noble elms, down to the river; so that we had

nothing to do but cross the road, and wander among fields and

hedgerows, miles and miles, either east or west--always within hearing

of the gentle voice of the Usk, and often in sight of the long, still

reaches of the river, that looked like beautiful lakes, fringed to the

water side with willows and flowering shrubs. Seventeen or eighteen

cows were our fellow-lodgers at the farm; and no sight is more

fascinating, especially if you are fond of warm milk, than the long

majestic march, and musical invocations, of the milky mothers, as they

come home at evening from the pastures. Before three days were over,

the names of all the cows were household words among the young ones;

their very voices were distinguished; and it was decided that the

flower of the flock, as to beauty, was Glo'ster, though some of us

stoutly maintained that the whiteness of Handsome entitled her to the

prize. Then there were about thirty sheep; but with them (in spite of

frequent intercourse) we could only make out a general acquaintance--for

we disbelieve altogether in the possibility of distinguishing one of

the flock from the others. It must be the easiest thing in the world

for a sheep to establish an _alibi_; and we are rather surprised that

the impossibility of detection does not encourage some of the bolder

of the woolly-sided heroes to some desperate outrage. There could be

no identifying the culprit. But we saw no instance of spirit among

them, except a wicked attempt on the part of a young lamb to overthrow

authorities and powers; and we are sorry to say it was successful. Our

friend the farmer discovered the presence of some insects in the wool,

or rather in the body, of one of the yearlings. He proceeded, attended

by us all, to extirpate this fatal enemy with his shears; and, having

seized the sufferer, put its head between his knees, and proceeded to

lay bare the hiding-place of the devouring grub. By some unlucky

chance, the lamb got its head loose, pushed forward with two or three

tremendous jumps, and the operator was thrown on his back, his feet in

the air, and the shears held helplessly up in his discomfited hands.

It created great consternation among the spectators; and the two

younger children, after looking on in speechless amazement, thought,

probably, that the assailant was a tiger in disguise, and sought

safety ignominiously in flight. The patient--the lamb, we mean--was

again submitted to the shears, the grub extirpated, and the cure, we

believe, effected. The muscular power of a sheep is tremendous; and,

if it were to get its head between the ankles of the brazen Achilles,

down would fall the glory of Hyde Park. It is lucky they have not

found out the secret of their strength, as they might take such a

dangerous attitude as materially to raise the price of mutton--a

consummation by no means to be wished.

In addition to the cows and sheep, and innumerable multitudes of

chickens and turkeys, the farm boasted a goodly array of horses. These

would have made a poor figure at Newmarket, as they were no kin to

Godolphin or Eclipse--but in plough or harrow they looked respectable.

There was an old mare, and her daughter, and her daughter's

daughter--Grannie, and Polly, and Rose by name. There were also

another mare and her foal; but our acquaintance was confined to the

three generations--or rather to the two--for Grannie was old and

stupid; and as the farmer sported a fine old-fashioned strong rough

gig, we occasionally pressed Polly into the service, put two or three

children on footstools in the front, brandished a whip that had done

duty at the plough, and trotted off with the easy dignity of four

miles an hour, and lionized the whole neighbourhood. Amidst bumps, and

thumps, and bursts of laughter at the unwieldy turn-out, the excursion

was pleasanter than if made in a chariot and four.

One day we started off to visit Ragland Castle; the distance was five

or six miles, the day beautiful, the mare in splendid order, and the

whip ornamented with a new lash. Disregarding the whinnyings and

neighings with which the family received our steed as we passed the

field where they were all assembled to see us at the gate, from

Grannie down to the foal, we applied the thong vigorously, and

chirruped, and whistled, and cried "Gee!" and "Hither!" and got fairly

into a trot; and an easy thing it is to maintain the pace after you

have once got into it--in fact, you find some difficulty in getting

into a slower rate; and if by any chance we pulled up altogether to

see a view, Polly, who was no judge of the picturesque, was very apt

to turn round and run away home--if the word "run away" can be applied

to a very determined walk, with no regard whatever to bit and rein. A

struggle of this sort was very apt to occur at Llansaintfraed Lodge,

meaning, we are told, in the original, the Church of St Bridget--and a

pretty church it is. It is in a park of moderate size, crowning a

gentle elevation; a carriage-drive leads to it, nicely gravelled, for

it is the approach to Llansaintfraed House. The church, when we saw

it, was all festooned over the porch and a portion of the walls, with

honeysuckle in full show; roses and other flowers were planted all

round, and a fine solid stone cross threw its beautiful shadow over

the graves. The church is very small and very old, and owes a part of

its good condition to the good fortune of having had the late Bishop

of Llandaff for a parishioner. Some years ago he occupied

Llansaintfraed House, and rescued the parish from the disgrace of a

ruinous and neglected church. It is only to be wished that every

parish had its manor occupied so well--for a district with churches so

shamefully fallen into disrepair we never saw. In all the churchyards,

for instance, the piety of our forefathers had raised a cross; and it

surely does not argue a man to be a Puseyite, if he thinks highly of

such an emblem in such a place; and in every instance, except this one

of Llansaintfraed, the hand of the spoiler hath been upon it. The

cross, in every instance, is broken, and only a portion of the broken

pillar remaining. If the archdeacon disapproves of the cross, let it

be removed altogether; but if not, let it be repaired, and not left to

affront the parishioners with the daily spectacle of the rate-payers'

meanness and the clergyman's neglect. So, having managed to get

Polly's head round again--for she had availed herself of our pause to

whisk homeward--we proceed on our way to Ragland. Welsh precisians, we

perceive, call it Rhaglan--and probably attach a nobler meaning to the

name than can be forced out of the Saxon Rag and Land; but as

novelists and historians have agreed in calling it Ragland, we shall

keep to the old spelling in spite of sennachie and bard. A short way

beyond Llansaintfraed is the handsome gate and beautiful park of

Clytha; the gate surmounted by a magnificent and highly ornamented

Gothic arch, and the mansion-house pure Grecian--an allegory, perhaps,

of the gradual civilization of mankind, or the process by which

chivalrous knights are turned into Christian gentlemen. The house is

modern, and even the arch without much pretension to antiquity; but

the family stretching far back into the gloom of ages, and lineal

ancestors of the antediluvian patriarchs. Since the Deluge, however,

they have restricted themselves to this part of Monmouthshire; and

judging from the number of Joneses--which is the great name in the

neighbourhood--there seems no great chance of the genealogical tree

being in want of branches. There is nothing so strange in a new

vicinity as the different weight attached to family names. We have

known districts where the word Smith itself, even without the

fictitious dignity of _y_ in the middle and _e_ at the end, was

pronounced with great veneration. Jones--elsewhere sacred to the comic

muse--is of as potent syllable--unluckily it has only one--along the

banks of the Usk, as Scott or Douglas on the Nith and Yarrow. And such

is the effect of territorial or moral association, that we shall

willingly withdraw an objection we made to a line in the tragedy of

our late friend J---- S----, where some one, speaking of the patriot

Pym--to eye and ear the most pithless and contemptible of

cognomens--says,

"There is a sound of thunder in the name."

We have no doubt there was a very distinct peal of heaven's dread

artillery in the ear of that bitter-hearted Roundhead every time he

heard the magic word--Pym.

The family highest in mere antiquity in Monmouthshire, we are told,

rejoices in the curious-looking name of Progers. From them are

descended the noble Beauforts, and even the Joneses of Clytha. For

hundreds of years, the Progerses had kept going down-hill; estate

after estate had disappeared; farm after farm took to flight; till,

thirty or forty years ago, the blood of the Progerses flowed in the

veins of a poor gentleman with about two hundred a-year, a house in

very bad repair, and family pride that seemed to flourish in

proportion as every thing else decayed. Some tourist, in the course of

his researches, encountered this Monmouthshire Marins sitting among

the ruins of his former state. The tourist was of a genealogical turn

of mind, and the Desdichado poured forth his hoarded boasts in his

sympathizing ear. "Out of this house," he said, pointing mechanically

to the tottering walls of his family mansion, but metaphorically

alluding to the House of Progers, "came the Joneses of Clytha and

Llanerth--out of this house came the noble Somersets, now Dukes of

Beaufort;" and so he went on, relating all the great and powerful

names that had owed their origin to his house. The tourist seems also

to have had some knowledge of architecture, for his answer to the

catalogue was--"Well, sir, it's my advice to you to come out of this

house yourself as quickly as you can, or it will be down upon you some

of these days to a certainty."

On passing Clytha, we enter into a territory which might more justly

be called Somersetshire than the county the other side of the channel.

The Dukes of Beaufort seem paramount wherever you go; and in every

town, and even in all the villages, there is sure to be a house of

entertainment with the royal portcullis on the signpost, and the name

of the Beaufort Arms. The domains of the family must be larger than

half a dozen foreign principalities; and, from all we heard, the

conduct of the present noble Somerset is worthy of his high

position--liberal, kind-hearted, magnificent. One thing very pleasant

to see was the little garden-ground taken from the road, and attached

to nice clean cottages, almost all the way. Little portions, about

thirty feet in depth, and considerable length, formed the wealth and

ornament of the wayside dwellings. They were all well filled with

apple and other fruit-trees, and stocked with useful vegetables. If

this is the plan of enclosing commons, we wish we were in Parliament

to give Lord Worsley our aid; for a few perches, well hedged and

carefully kept, are worth all the rights of pasture, whether of cows,

geese, or donkeys, that ever the poor possessed. Inside of this fringe

of rustic independencies, snug farm-houses rose up in all directions;

but, with a perverseness which seems characteristic of the whole

county, and not limited to farm-houses, or even semi-genteel villas, no

sooner does a man fix on a nice situation--a rising knoll beside a

river--a gentle slope--or beautiful level green--no sooner does he

rear a modest, or perhaps an ornamental, mansion on the site, than his

next care is to plant as thick round it as the trees will stand. Elms,

poplars, oaks, and larches, in a few years block up the view; and

arbutus, rododendrons, and enormous Portugal laurels, stand as an

impenetrable screen before every window; so that a house, which by its

architecture ought to be an ornament to the neighbourhood, and should

command noble hills and rich valleys, might as well be a wigwam in an

Indian forest. There seems a greater tendency to rheumatism than

romance among the inhabitants; and, by the by, we observed on all the

walls Welsh placards of Parr's pills. But in spite of the large

letters, and the populousness of the towns and villages where they

were posted up, we did not see a single individual reading the

announcements. Query, can the Welsh peasantry read Welsh? or is their

book-learning limited to English, and their native tongue left to its

oral freedom, untrammeled with A, B, C? In addition to the usual fence

of impenetrable trees and shrubs, we noticed one pretty little

dwelling, newly built, a mile or two from the village of Ragland,

tastefully ornamented with an immense heap of compost, which nearly

barricaded the drawing-room window. The inhabitant must have been a

prodigious agriculturist; and probably preferred the useful, but

unromantic heap, to any other object in the view. We gave it the name

of Guano Hall.

But where, all this while, is Ragland Castle, and when will the old

mare jiggle joggle to the end of our course? All eyes were kept in

constant motion to catch a glimpse of the towers and pinnacles, of

which we felt sure we were now within a mile. Trees, trees, and

nothing but trees, with sometimes a glimpse of blue hills far off, and

wreaths of smoke from cottages or farms rising above the wilderness of

leaves. At last, on a little elevation on the left hand, rising

solemnly, into the silent air, we caught sight of the old ruin, with

great ponderous walls, covered with ivy, and the sky seen through the

open arches of its immense windows. A beautiful mass of building, with

such rents and fissures in it, that you wondered whether it was ever

entire; and the walls so thick and massive that you wondered again how

it ever fell into decay. We hobbled into the village, keeping the

castle in view the whole time, got good quarters for the mare at the

first hostel we encountered, and proceeded up a country lane to spend

an hour or two among the ruins. The entrance is very fine, and might

give rise to grand historic emotions in people fond of the feudal and

sublime; but in our instance such a train of thought would have been

impossible, for just inside of the majestic portal sat an old harper

thrumming away at the pathetic melody of Jenny Jones. He might as well

have played Jim Crow at once, for romance was put to flight, and we

speedily got as far as we could from the descendant of Talessin. The

Duke of Beaufort has fitted up the ruins in a way that would have

gratified the heart of Mrs Radcliffe. Winding stairs lead, in the

thickness of the walls, from tower to tower, and the dim corridors and

dizzying bartizans are made safe to the most timid of Cockneys by

stout wooden banisters, that enable you to stand as securely on a

crumbling battlement as on the top of Salisbury plain. We saw the

courts and quadrangles, admired the splendid windows, and only

wondered at the lowness of the ceilings of some of the principal

rooms, as from floor to floor could not have been more than seven feet

and a half. There were fountain courts without a fountain; and

chapel-yards with no chapel; why should we speak of kitchens,

conjuring up visions of roasted oxen, and butteries suggestive of

hogsheads of home-brewed ale, when fire-places are now choked up, and

nothing is left of the buttery but a pile of broken stones? At first,

on going in, we dilated on the grand things we should do in the way of

restoration if we were the lord of the castle. First, we would fit it

up exactly as it was in the brave days of old: we should have new

floors put in the audience-chamber; a roof on the great dining-hall; a

stately dais at the upper end, and get it from the hands of Pugin--the

identical castle of the days of Elizabeth. But, on closer inspection,

we came to the conclusion that the natural condition of such buildings

is that of interesting remains. The rooms are low, the passages are

dark, the bed-rooms dog-kennels, the stairs ladders, the court-yards

damp, the windows all turned the wrong way, and, in short, the

sixteenth century an excellent trimmer of popes and conqueror of

armadas, but a very bad architect.

In one of the court-yards was a flock of sheep nibbling at the grass

that had been trodden by the great marquis, as he walked down after

his noble defence, to deliver his sword to the Parliamentarian

Fairfax. Has Cattermole or Charles Landseer never thought of the brave

old cavalier, at the age of eighty-five, surrendering his ancestral

home,--surrounded by his sorrowing garrison, and bearing himself with

the true dignity of a heroic noble? Let them think of this, and send

us a proof print.

Leader of the sheep was the most beautiful ram that ever was seen

since Aries was made a star. All our common-place muttons at home sank

into insignificance at once. The children patted it, and fed it, and

kissed it,--and to all their endearments it answered in the most

bewitching manner. It followed them like a dog, and rubbed its head

against them, and it was soon very evident that the greatest beauty of

Ragland Castle, in certain eyes, was thickly cased in wool. The

ancient gardener told us it had once taken such a fancy to one of the

visitors, that it had followed her up a hundred and sixty steps to the

very top of the signal tower,--and the old lady was so pleased with

it, she wished to take it home with her, though she lived two or three

hundred miles off. And certainly if ever a pet of such a size was

allowable, it must have been the gentle creature before us. But all

things are deceitful--gentle-looking rams among the number,--for on

the discontinuance of our gifts, he waxed all of a sudden very wroth,

and favoured the youngest of the party with a butt, that made her not

know whether she was on her head or her heels--which is an

extraordinary specimen of ignorance, for she was exactly half-way

between both. So, converting our admiration of the golden fleece into

a kick, we raised the astonished victim of his anger, and after a

delightful stroll got into our gig again, and in due time arrived at

our comfortable home.

We have heard of people being a month at Cairo, and never going to see

the Pyramids,--a circumstance which does not give a very lofty idea of

their activity. We determined to show those stay-at-homes a good

example, and not remain a week in Monmouthshire without visiting the

Wye. Again the old gig was put in requisition; but on this occasion we

succeeded in borrowing a horse of a neighbouring farmer, that trotted

merrily up and down hill at a reasonable pace; and away we started on

one of the few warm days of this hyperborean summer, on our way to the

town of Monmouth. Great is the enjoyment of passing through a

beautiful country on a fine clear day in June. There was no dust--the

sun was not too hot--the hedges were in full leaf, and no drawback to

our felicity except a preternatural dread of stone heaps by the

roadside, on the part of our steed, which: kept us on the alert to try

and pull in the proper direction the moment he shied to the side. All

other objects in nature or art it passed with the equanimity of a

sage; tilted waggons with the wind flapping their canvass coverings

with a sound and motion that would justify a little tremor in the

heart of Bucephalus--stagecoaches, loaded with men and luggage,

rushing down-hill at fifteen miles an hour, and apparently determined

to force their way over our very heads. Against all these it showed

the most unflinching courage; but if it came to a heap of stones,

large or small, broken or entire, it lost its presence of mind in a

moment, and would have jumped for safety into the ditch at the other

side of the road, if not restrained by a pull at the rein, and a good

cut of the whip scientifically applied. Even the milestone was an

object of great alarm; and as there were twelve of them on the way,

and the cowardly creature never by any chance missed seeing them,

however deep they were sunk in hedges, or buried in grassy banks, we

never required to distinguish the figures on the stones, but

calculated the progress we made by the number of starts and struggles.

After a dozen of these debates, which created great amusement among

the juveniles of the party, we arrived at the clean delightful town of

Monmouth--and here let us make amends for the disparaging mention of

this place in our former narrative of House-Hunting in Wales. The

weather on that occasion was very bad, and the inn we lunched at a

very poor and uncomfortable one. When a person's principal

acquaintance with a town consists in his experience of its wet streets

and tough beef steaks, it is no wonder that his impressions are not of

the most agreeable kind. On the present occasion we drove to the

Beaufort Arms, and, in imitation of the Marquis of Exeter, "we pulled

at the bell with a lordly air." The hostler and his curates rushed

zealously from the further end of the yard, and received us with

astonishing command of face--not a grin was visible, even the waiters

stood with decorous solemnity, while child after child was lifted

down, and all out of one gig. They rather looked on with the pleased

expression we have seen on the countenances of a rural audience when

Mr Ingilby, or other juggler, produced, out of some unaccountably

prolific hat, a stewing-pan, a salt cellar, a couple of eggs, a brood

of chickens, and finally the maternal hen. We ordered a cold dinner to

be put into baskets, with a moderate accompaniment of bottles and

glasses--enquired if a boat was to be had to take us up the Wye--were

recommended to a certain barge-master of the name of Williams; and, in

a very short space of time, were safely stowed in a beautiful clipper,

thirty feet long, with only nine inches draught of water, with a

gorgeous morning over our heads, luxurious cushions on the seats, a

tug, in the shape of a most strong, active fellow, pulling us by the

towing-path, and, seated at the helm, the most civil, the most polite,

the most communicative, and the most talkative man that it ever was

our fortune to meet. He united in his own person a vast multiplicity

of trades and offices. He was innkeeper, boat-builder, boat-owner,

pilot, turner, Bristol-trader, wood-merchant, coracle-maker,

fisherman, historian, and, above all, a warrior of the most tremendous

courage. In all of these capacities he had no rival; and as it was his

own boat, his native town, his own river, and we were merely his

passengers, he had it all his own way. He stood up in the excitement

of his discourse, and talked without a moment's intermission--sometimes

to us--sometimes to a little boy he had brought on board to look after

the baskets--sometimes to the man on the towing-path--and sometimes to

himself; but at all times there fell thick and fast about our ears the

words of Thomas Williams; and of all his words, Thomas Williams was

the hero. As people get used to the noise of a waterfall, at last we

stood the perpetual sound without any inconvenience, and carried on

quiet conversation, or sank into silent admiration, as we floated past

the bold cliffs, or soft-wooded shores, of the sylvan Wye.

For the first mile or two from Monmouth, the hermit of the woods is

nothing to boast of. The banks are low; the water sluggish; and the

scenery common-place. The beauties begin at a bend of the river, where

Mr Blakemore has built a large and comfortable-looking house. On a

high, conical hill above the mansion, there stands a lofty gazebo of

open iron-work, commanding a view of we don't remember how many

counties; but before our _cicerone_ had got half-way into an account

of each of them, with their capital towns, the names of the present

mayors, and the noble families he had supplied with cricket-bats, we

had passed far away among the noble scenery of the oak district; and

our friend launched into a description of oak plantations in

general--the value of oaks per acre--the sum paid to Lord George for

his estate, which was bought by government fourteen years ago, the

last time the duke was in power--

"What duke?"

An unlucky question, for it led into a disquisition o all dukes,

ancient and modern, and an encomium on the late Duke of Beaufort, as

the best soldier that England had ever produced. "He was a true

soldier's friend, and flogged every soul that came on parade-ground

with a dirty shirt. I don't think there was ever seen such a militia

regiment--there was a sight more flogging in it than the reg'lars--so

it was quite a comfort to some fellers that didn't like it, to go into

the line. I was in it myself; but I liked the duke, though he would

have flogged me as soon as look at me. And such dinners he gave us

when our time was over--it was dreadful--six of our corporals died of

drinking in one month. He was certainly the greatest officer ever _I_

see. I was threatened myself with a thing they call _delirium

tremens_, for he dined us in tents for a fortnight at a time. It's a

pity the French never landed; we would have licked them like sacks. I

hates a Frenchman, and hope to have a fling at 'em yet."

In the mean time we had glided further and further into the leafy

recesses of the river. Such banks are nowhere else to be seen--high

perpendicular cliffs, broken off in all manner of fantastic shapes;

sometimes a great rock standing up bare, smooth, and majestic, like a

vast tower of some gigantic cathedral; sometimes a solitary column,

higher and more massive than any of an architect's designing, with its

capital ornamented with self-sown shrubs, and its base washed by the

rippling water. Each of these called forth an anecdote from our guide,

philosopher, and friend--one was "the scene of the great fight between

Characterus and the Romans. The Romans licked 'em; for them Welsh was

never no great shakes. I could lick any three ancient Britons I ever

saw myself--and they knows it. And, as to Characterus, he could be no

great general, or he never would have fought on that side of the

water. He should have come across to the other side, and he would have

licked them Romans to a certainty."

We thought it was a pity Mr Williams, who, in spite of his contempt

for the ancient Britons, was as true a Welshman as ever ate his leek,

had not been of the council of war of Caractacus--for it _was_ the

scene of his great struggle we were passing. The ground still bears

the name of Slaughter Field, and was a fit altar on which to offer the

last victims to national freedom. The scenery all round it is of the

noblest character--rock and wood, and the mountain chain that they

hoped had shut out the invader. The river bends round it, and enables

you to keep for a long time in view the plain where the battle was

fought, and the rude remains of what is considered to have been the

Roman encampment. After an hour or two delightfully spent in gliding

under enormous cliffs, and winding among woods of all hues and sizes,

hanging over the precipice, and waving their branches almost down to

the water's edge, we arrived at our point of destination, a high rock

called Simon's Yatt, which our agreeable companion described as the

finest thing in the world. On bringing to at the landing-place, we

found we had nearly a mile to walk up a steep road, newly escarped on

the side of the hill; and setting ourselves manfully to the effort, we

began our march--Williams insisted on being the useful member of the

party. He offered, in the plenitude of his strength, to carry the

shawls, to carry a couple of children, to carry ourselves; he thought

nothing of weights; he was used to hard labour; he rather liked some

difficult thing to do; and finally, nearly broke down under the burden

of one of the provision baskets; stopping every now and then to rest,

and evidently over-tasked. The day was very hot--the soil was a red

ironstone--there was no shelter from the pervading sun--and the ascent

was on an inclination of at least one foot in six; at last, however,

urged on by a desire to enjoy the prospect--and the lunch--and also

with a malicious intention, shared by the whole party, to walk our

companion to death, we surmounted all difficulties, wound round a

rocky eminence at the top, and suddenly found ourselves on a

beautifully wooded platform, six or seven hundred feet above the

river, and in the enjoyment of the most surprising view we ever saw.

The river Wye takes a sharp turn round the foot of this enormous

projection, not only winding round the extremity, but actually flowing

down on one side exactly as it flowed up on the other, leaving Simon's

Yatt as a sort of wedge inserted in its course; and presents the

extraordinary effect of the same river at the same moment running both

north and south. The summit of Simon's Yatt is not above fifty feet

wide, and the descent on one side is perpendicular, showing the river

directly under your feet, and on the other is nearly precipitous,

leaving only room, between its base and the river, for a most

picturesque assemblage of cottages called the New-Weir village.

Directly in front is the rich level champaign, containing the town of

Ross at a considerable distance, Goodrich Priory, and many other

residences, from the feudal Castle to the undated Grange. On the

horizon-line you recognise Ledbury, the Malvern hills; and the whole

outline of the Black mountains. On the right, where the river careers

along in its backward course, you see the interminable foliage of the

forest of Dean, and the rich valleys of Glo'stershire. A very

handsome house, about a mile down the river, attracted our attention.

"It's a reg'lar good billet," said Mr Williams, breaking off from some

other piece of information with which he was regaling the idle wind,

for by this time we had acquired a power of not hearing a word he

said; "and it's a great shame, the gent as owns it never lives in it.

He is a very great man in foreign parts; and the Pope is his uncle.

So, in course, he always lives in France to be near his great

relations." No cross-examination could shake his statement of this

genealogical curiosity; so we looked with increased interest on the

mansion of the Pope's nephew, whose principal merit by the by, in Mr

William's eyes, was, that he had once furnished him with a coracle.

After gratifying our eyes for a long time with the surprising

prospect, we found a nice shady spot in a plantation at a little

distance; spread shawls and cloaks upon the grass, and were soon

engaged in the mysteries of cold meat, hard-boiled eggs, an excellent

salad, and Guinness's porter--not to mention a beautiful gooseberry

tart and sparkling ginger-beer. Some feasts have been more splendid,

and some perhaps more seasoned with eloquence and wisdom--but, as the

Vicar of Wakefield says of the united party of the Primroses and the

Flamboroughs, "If there was not much wit among the company, there was

a great deal of laughter, and that did just as well." So we laughed a

good hour among the shady walks at Simon's Yatt--managed for five

whole minutes to stop our companion's conversation by filling his

mouth with beef and porter, distributed the fragments among a hungry

and admiring population of young coal-heavers who looked on--like a

group starting out of Murillo's pictures--and with empty baskets and

joyous hearts set off on our homeward way. We glided at our own sweet

will down the river, exchanged the bark for our plethoric gig, and in

due course of time, after twelve starts at the twelve milestones,

arrived in safety at our home.

By this time there were no symptoms left of deficient health and

strength--the invalid would have done for an honorary member of the

club of fat people recorded in the _Spectator_; and we looked, with

disdain on the level territory on the banks of the Usk, and longed for

hills to climb, and walls to get over, and rocks to overcome, like

knights-errant in search of adventures. No walk was too great for us.

We thought of challenging Captain Barclay to a match against time, or

of travelling through England as the Pedestrian Wonders. Walker, the

twopenny postman, would have had no chance against us. So, merely by

way of practice, we started off one day, with straw-hats and short

summer frocks, and every other accompaniment of a professed

pedestrian's turn-out, and away we went on a pilgrimage to the

churchyard of Llanvair Kilgiden. Through rich fields of grass we

sauntered--over stiles we leapt--through hedges we dashed--and

occasionally became prosaic enough to walk on for half a mile or so in

a country lane, but generally we preferred trespassing through a

corn-field, and losing our way in searching for a short cut across a

plantation; and at last, after many hairbreadth 'scapes--after being

terrified by the bellowing of a bull, which turned out to be a

sentimental cow giving vent to her agitated feelings in what somebody

calls a "gentle voice and low"--after nearly losing half the party by

the faithlessness of a plank that crossed a ditch that swarmed with an

innumerable multitude of tadpoles--after surpassing these, and many

other perils, we at last got into the quiet road that leads from Penty

Goitre bridge down to the church of Llanvair--a large, solemn-looking

churchyard, ornamented with a goodly array of splendid yew-trees, and

boasting, at some former period, a majestic stone cross, now of course

defaced, and the very square it stood upon moss-grown and in ruins.

The church itself is a plain quiet structure, but the sylvan beauty

and peaceful seclusion of the situation cannot be surpassed. We

measured the great yews, and several of them were twenty-four or

twenty-five feet in circumference at four feet from the ground. There

were some graves enclosed in railings, and surrounded by evergreens

and rose-trees; and the sentiment of the place was not destroyed by a

few nibbling sheep that cropped the short grass on the graves where

the rude forefathers of the hamlet slept. Can the sepulchral muses

have found their way to so remote a district as this? Have

"afflictions sore" and "vain physicians" obtained a sculptor among the

headstones of this out-of-the-way place? We made a survey of the

inscriptions, as a very sure guide to the state of education among the

peasantry, and are compelled to confess that the schoolmaster had

decidedly gone abroad. Even monuments of some pretension to grandeur,

with full-cheeked cherubs on the sides, and solid stones on the top,

offered no better specimens of spelling and composition that this:--

"Laden with age my years they flew--

The Lord is holy, just, and trew."

And on the slab, over a child of three years old, the following pithy

observation:--

"If life and care could death p_er_vent,

My days would not so soon been spent."

The sculptor, in many instances, (being tired probably of chiselling

the same words over and over,) had attempted an improvement by

altering the arrangement of the lines,--an ingenious device on his

part, and a pleasing puzzle to the spectator:--

"A tender husband and a father

dear, a faithful friend lies

buried hear, he was true and

just in all his ways, he do

deserve this worthey praise."

To the memory of Margaret, wife of John Hall, appeared some lines of a

superior kind, with which we never met elsewhere:--

"You see around me richer neighbours lie

As deep and still in this cold ground as I;

From ease and plenty they were called away--

Could I in lingering sickness wish to stay?

When faith supports the body worn with pain,

To live is nothing but to die is gain."

But as if to show that the muse had made a very flying visit to the

hamlet, and had left the mason, on the next occasion, to his own

unassisted genius, the epitaph on two other members of the same family

runs thus:--

"When in the world we did remain,

Our latter days was grief and pain,

But God above he thought it best

To take _we_ to a place of rest."

What can it be that induces people, who were probably as unpoetical as

Audrey in their lives, to wish the ornament of verse upon their

tombstones? The effect must be almost ludicrous upon those who were

acquainted with the living individual, to hear "the long resounding

march and energy divine" of heroics and Alexandrines proceeding from

him, now he is dead. Philosophy put by the epitaph-writer in the

mouths of a chaw-bacon--moral reflections on the loveliness of virtue

in the mouth of a poor-law overseer--and noble incitements to follow a

good example in the mouth of the bully or drunkard of the parish, must

be far from useful to the surviving generation. We therefore highly

approve of the remarks of a sententious gentleman in this churchyard,

who seems to lay no great claim to extraordinary merit himself, but

favours his co-parishioners with very useful advice:--

"Farewell, vain world, I've seen enough of thee,

And now am careless what thou say'st of me,--

Thy smiles I court not, nor thy frowns I fear;

My cares are past; my head lies quiet here--

What faults thou see'st in me take care to shun--

Look well at home; enough there's to be done."

By the time we had transferred these and other inscriptions to our

note-book, the party were refreshed and ready for the homeward walk.

We got over the same stiles and underwent the same dangers as before,

and happily completed our voyage of discovery to the beautiful

churchyard of Llanvair.

Day after day saw us all busy in ferreting out fine views or old

manor-houses--the little Skirrid or old Llangattock. Sometimes we

crossed the river and wandered through the delicious lanes of

Llanover, or passed through Llanellen on our way to the Blorenge. As

our courage and strength expanded, we tried bolder flights--spent a

day among the smoke and thunder of the Nantiglo ironworks--with

processions of thousands of men hurrying off amidst music, and shouts

of the most tremendous loudness, to a dinner at their club. Great,

hard-featured, savage-looking fellows they were, though in their

holiday attire, and accompanied by one or two of the Bailey

family--the real iron kings of the neighbourhood; and a sight of their

grim features and brawny arms gave us a more vivid respect for the

courage of Sir Thomas Philips, who drove them back from the sack and

massacre of Newport; and also a clearer idea of the almost justifiable

hardihood of the worshipful Mister Frost, in thinking that with ten or

twelve thousand souls, made of fire, and children of the mine, he

could upset Old England, and be himself the legitimate successor of

King Coal.

Another day we spent among the ruins of Llantony Abbey, one of the

finest remains of ecclesiastical architecture in the kingdom. The

person who owns the ground and the ruins, is a poet, a philosopher, a

scholar, so at least he wishes to be thought; but from the condition

of the abbey, (a small pot-house protruding its vulgar sign from one

of the noble entrances, and a skittle-ground being established in the

main aisle--desolation, neglect, and dirtiness all around,) we formed

no very high estimate of the taste or feeling of Mr Walter Savage

Landor. If he had no higher object than merely to keep up the beauty

of the building, you might expect that he would have guarded it from

the degradation of beer, tobacco, and British spirits. A man of a

poetical mind would have taken care to prevent such miserable

associations as are supplied by a tap and skittle-ground;--a person of

loftier and purer sentiments would have shown more reverence for the

_genius loci_, and would have remembered that the walls were once

vocal with Christian prayers, and that what in other instances would

be only negligence, is profanation here. But probably the innkeeper

pays his rent regularly, and we hope will be made the interlocutor in

an imaginary conversation with the last abbot of Llantony.

The object we had in coming into Wales was now entirely gained; and

after ten weeks most happy wanderings over hill and dale, and

constantly breathing the clear fresh air of Monmouthshire, we packed

up bag and baggage, and returned to our home with a stock of health

laid in for winter use, which will keep us constantly in mind of the

benefits we derived from change of scene.

NEAPOLITAN SKETCHES.

GARDEN OF THE VILLA REALE.

This garden--which, during the winter months, is the lounge of the

English idler at Naples, and then looks as flowerless and dingy as

Kensington in an east wind--assumes a very different appearance in

spring. On the 7th of May, we, who had passed the winter at Rome, were

at once struck with the brilliancy of unusual blossoms, and the number

of distinguished vegetable foreigners who lifted their heads out of

parterres, of the very existence of which in winter one is scarcely

conscious. The formal line of clipt _Ilex_ that looks towards the sea,

had changed its dusky hue for a warmer tint; statues that had been

doing sentinel all the winter without relief, now seem to bend

delighted over fragrant flower-beds, and enjoy the spring. Two high

shrubs in flower (_Metresiglias_) hoist from opposite beds, the one

its _white_, the other its _red_ banner. Two of the _Muses_, the

_Speciosa_ and _Paravisogna_, or bread-tree plant, were raising their

light spiry trunks out of a _corbeille_ taller than a life-guardsman.

They want no hothouse in Naples:--would you shade your face from the

sun, an elsewhere exotic, the Brazilian _Camarotta_ at your feet,

furnishes you with a _screen_. The _white flocks_ of the _Acacia

verticillata_ are peeping out from the ranks of those small

_triangular leaves_, which are so singularly attached, without stalks,

by one of these angles to the stem. Amidst these pleasant perfumes

camphor would be unwelcome, but there is the _laurel_ that yields it.

_Fennel_ has here become a tree, in which, like the _mustard_ of the

Gospels, the fowls of the air may lodge; we are dwarfs beside it!

Three kinds of the soft, slimy Mallow of the Marsh are here so much

WOODY and so tall, that we must pick their flowers on tiptoe. The

_flattened disk_ of the sky-blue _Nana arborea_ contrasts with the

_Betula sanguinea_, glowing deeply in the flower-bed of many

lighter-coloured petals; the sweet-scented _African laurel_ grows

against the long-leafed Babylonian willow, which _susurrates_

droopingly over your head, as if it were "by _the waters of Babylon_."

The fountains, with their _hydrophilous_ tribes, add to the charm; and

many a beautiful _Launaria aquatica_ had already buoyed himself up on

his large _cordate leaves_ on the surface of the _tazza_, and was

filling his vegetable skin with water. All these beauties and

peculiarities, a mere scantling of the whole of the Villa Reale,

escape the lounger, and the nurserymaids, and children, and those of

either sex who have appointments to keep, or to look out for; and the

soldiers, and the police, and the Neapolitan nobility and gentry, and

the pickpockets, and others:--to the nurseryman and botanist, things

not to be forgotten; and at present the weather is not too hot to

interfere with their enjoyment.

SERVI DI PENA.

At Castel Nuovo, a penal settlement of Naples, we held conversation

with a man sentenced to the galleys, and wearing, accordingly, a

_yellow_ jacket; but yellow is not here, as at Leghorn, the deepest

dye. Here, it is _red cloth_ and manacles that go together. We asked

him his crime. "Un _piccolo_ omicidio." "A small homicide, provoked by

a dispute for a single ducat! I quarrelled with a man _now in

paradise_. I killed him at one stab, but the devil possessed me to

give him another _colpo di coltello_ after he had fallen; and as the

judges asked me _why_ I did this, and I could not perfectly satisfy

them, they concluded I was a sanguinary fellow, and gave me eighteen

years galleys--but, as you see, I have no chains; nor ever had--_mai!

mai_!" and he extended his hands in somewhat of the attitude of

Raphael's _Paul before Festus_, to suit the action to the word. "No!

he was of a very different order of criminals to a boatful of

_birboni_ in red jackets, all _bad cases_ of homicide and _robbery!_"

"What do you call _bad_ cases?"

"Why, I call it a bad case to kill a man for NOTHING."

"Well, but _theft_ to any amount is not so bad as taking away _life_."

"Oh! as to that, the police are _quite right!_ A decent and a devout

man does not commit homicides every day: but he that steals at all,

steals always!" So that our culprit reasoned, like _Paley_, on the

_tendency_ of crimes. It was his _Chapter of the Silver Spoon_, with a

new exposition from the mouth of a Galeote! And they pluck men at

Cambridge for _not_ getting up their Paley! Our philosophical criminal

seemed satisfied with his lot.

"We are not so badly off after all: we walk out with an obliging

escort, who let us do pretty much as we like; and all our work is

confined to sweeping the courts in front of the king's palace. We

are free of the castle, and allowed to conduct strangers over it,

as in your case. Oh! for the fellows at _St Stefano_, it is quite

another matter; as a part of their punishment, they are

_compelled to be idle!_"

Our rascal was allowed a new coat once every eighteen months, with two

pair of drawers and as many shirts, and a penny a-day for

pocket-money! These _piccoli omicidii_ at home do not get off so

cheap, but stabbing is endemic at Naples. When a queen of Naples

brings the Neapolitans a new prince--great joy of course!--all the

penal settlements _except_ St Stefano receive _three_ years'

mitigation of their sentence; but the crimes that consign to that

island are _senza grazia_--the rays of royal bounty do not reach those

dark and solitary cells. The St Stefano convicts form a body of three

hundred doomed men, incorrigible housebreakers or systematic

assassins. The food of all classes of criminals is the same, whatever

the offence, and consists of twenty-four ounces of bread, with

half-a-pint measure of beans and some oil--a basin of cabbage soup,

without meat, for dinner, and meat once in fourteen days: there are

eight thousand out-of-doors convicts, many of whom being under

sentence for a less space _than two years_, work in their own

clothes--which is, of course, a considerable saving to government.

Although all the galley-slave establishments are full, no place swarms

like Naples with so many meritorious candidates for the _red_ and

_yellow_ liveries of the state.

ST CARLO, &c.

St Carlo is, as the guide-books tell us, "a very fine theatre." What

we particularly like, is the absence of all _side-lights round its

boxes_. Two hundred burners, arranged in three rows round a small

chandelier, give just light enough to set off the fine chastened white

and gold, and the one quiet fresco which embellishes the ceiling. A

pit of vast size, divided into comfortable sittings, six tiers of

boxes, and an orchestra of great space, suited to the extraordinary

size of the house, secure a far less adulterated playhouse atmosphere

than we are used to; and so exempt from the ordinary inconveniences,

that we were able to sit out the _Semiramide_, even with Ronzi di

Begnis, now old and out of keeping, for the heroine. Surely _she

never_ should have been Semiramis, even in her palmy day! Actors and

actresses _will_ not know that words written for them, scenery and

dresses adapted for them, and attitudes invented for them, can never

_make_ them the personages mentioned in the playbill. On returning

home, we stood at our balcony gazing on the lovely face of a true

Naples night--a night beyond description!--the whole vault of heaven

lighted by one light: a full moon, like a subdued sunshine over earth

and water. A world of light, that shone on a world of darkness,

tinging the air, gilding the mountain-tops, and making the sea run

like melted phosphorus. And what a silence abroad! not the perilous

cessation of sound which so often only anticipates the storm; nor the

sultry stillness of an exhausting noon; but a mighty and godlike

display, as it were, of the first full moon after creation shining on

an entranced world!

POZZUOLI.

An _amphitheatre_ is one of those few ruins that leave no problem to

solve. Here we have a grey antiquity without any mutilation of form,

and merely spoliated of its benches. The patron saint of Naples was,

they say, imprisoned here. A little chapel ascertains the spot, but he

does no miracles on this _arena_. When we come to _temples_, we are

always at a great loss for proprietors. The very large one here is

called of Jupiter Serapis. The remaining columns of this temple,

whatever it was, exhibit a very remarkable appearance. Three pillars,

forty-two feet in height, up to about twelve feet above their

pedestals, have the surface of the marble as smooth as any in the

Forum; then comes a portion of nine or ten feet, of which the marble

has been bored, drilled in all directions, by that persevering bivalve

the _Lithodomus;_ the perforations are so considerable, and go so

deep, as to prove "the long-continued abode" of these animals within

the stone, and by consequence, as Mr Lyell observes, "a long-continued

immersion of the columns in the sea at some period recent,

comparatively, with that of its erection." Indeed, there is abundant

evidence adduced in the fourth volume of his _Geology_ to show, that

all this ground was at a no very distant period _under the sea_, like

Monte Nuovo in its neighbourhood, and was thrust out of the water to

its present level. When the ground on which this temple stood,

collapsed, the _bottom part of its columns_ was protected by "the

rubbish of decayed buildings and strata of turf;" the _middle_ or

perforated part was left exposed to the action of the sea bivalves

above alluded to; and the _upper part_, which was never under the

water, remained smooth and free from perforation. But these columns

not only prove by internal evidence the general fact of the ground on

which they stand having been submerged--they also furnish an exact

_measure_ of the degree to which it sunk; viz. twenty feet--_i.e._ the

height where these perforations terminate at present. You can only

cross the floor of this building on stepping-stones; and as you do so,

you see shoals of small sea-fish darting about in the shallow water

which occupies its area, into which the sea has been _admitted_ on

purpose, to prevent the accumulation of the stagnant water that had

infected this particular spot with intense malaria.

BAIAE.

We took a hot bath under the _soi-disant_ villa of Lucullus. Steam,

sulphur, and hot water, may be had cheap any where along this coast.

An awful place it was to enter naked, and be kept in the dark,

stifling, as we were, for some seconds which seemed minutes, till our

guide returned with a _milord's_ dressing-gown, which he assured us

had been hung up as a votive offering for cured rheumatism. Being

candidates ourselves for a similar benefit, we desired to be rubbed

down like _milord_, till _aluminous_ perspiration stood thick upon us,

the alum being deposited from the walls and atmosphere of the place.

We were soon obliged to beg for quarter. The _milord_, whose

dressing-gown we were possessed of, was so bad as to be obliged to be

rubbed sitting; but so powerful is the remedy, that after fifteen such

sittings, he walked round the lake (two miles), and went home in his

carriage "_guerito!_" "Such baths!" that had cured _he_ knew not how

many persons:--

"Men who'd spent _all_ upon physician's fees,

Who'd _never_ slept, nor had a _moment's_ ease,

Were now as _roaches sound_, and all as _brisk as bees!_"--CRABBE.

What with its hot water, sulphur, vapour, and alum, we too should have

fancied Naples might have been comparatively exempt from rheumatisms

and skin diseases, in both of which it abounds.

LUCRINE AND AVERNUS LAKES.

From the sea and its inlet called the Lucrine _Lake_, we pass along a

pleasant green lane, about a mile long, which issues on _Avernus_,

whose waters we find both limpid and clear; but are instructed that

two months later will change them to a dark-red colour, and that the

neighbourhood will then become very malarious and unsafe. A piece of

semicircular wall on one side of the lake, indicates the whereabouts

of a temple of Proserpine, or Apollo, or any god or goddess you

please. We were so absurd as to pay a scudo to be taken through a vile

tunnel, accompanied by two torch-bearers, and two other dirty

wretches, who often carry us pick-a-back through one black hole into

another, splashing us through dark pools, putting us down here and

there as they pleased, picking us up again, grinning like demons, and

by dint of shaking their torches above, and disturbing the water

below, raising foul smells enough to intoxicate fifty Sybils. At

length, half suffocated by those classical delights, we cry Enough!

enough! and beg to be put into our saddles again. The _Stufa di

Nerone_, a little further on the high-road, is another volcanic

_calidarium_ in full activity, where you may boil eggs or scald

yourself in a dark cavern. There you may deposit your mattrass and

yourself in any one of a store of _berths_ wrought into that most

unpicturesque tufa, of which the exterior face constitutes the whole

of the sea view of _Baiae._ If ever there were decorations in these

caverns, they are gone; but there probably never were. Diana, Mercury,

Venus, and Apollo all claim brick tenements, called temples, in this

little bay, all close together on the seaside, and none having any

claim at present either on the artist or the poet.

We quit the seaside at this spot, and reach the summit of the hill

above, where there is more torch-work and more disappointment for

those that go a Sybil-seeking with the sixth book of Virgil for a

guide. Those who like it may also grope their way through _Nero's

prisons_, and descend into the _Piscina Mirabilis_, that vast

pilastered cellar like an underground dissenting chapel. They say the

Roman fleet was supplied with water from this huge tank; but if this

had been the intention of its construction, why obstruct it with more

pillars or supports of square masonry than the roof absolutely

required, without which incumbrances a reservoir of half its size

would have held more water,--and for water it was evidently meant?

Ascending the hill we see a man or two working away at a

newly-discovered _tomb_, from which he told us he had removed several

skulls in perfect preservation, even to the teeth of both jaws,

together with some small sepulchral lamps and old copper coins. We

dine on the summit of a low hill, immediately opposite a cape better

known to fame than the Cape of Good Hope--the promontory of _Misenum_,

with _Procida_ and _Ischia_ on our right, and _Nisida_ with its white

lazaretto, and _Puteoli_ (Pozzuoli,) where St Paul landed, on our

left. We took to _plant_ collecting after dinner, and were glad to

learn that we should find at Puzzuoli a celebrated botanist of the

locality, who could declare to us the _unknown_ of all we should

collect. On our return, therefore, the man of science was fetched to

look at our wild nose-gay and at us. We show him a specimen; he calls

it by some outlandish name; we tell him what we want is its _Latin_

one. It _is_ Latin, he says, which he is actually speaking! _We_

thought _not_. A crowd of fishermen and rustics are fast collecting

around us; we try him with another one of the grasses. "_Questo e

asparago_," cries a bumpkin, unasked, from behind. "_Che asparagi?_"

says _il mio Maestro_, "_e Pimpinella._" We show him a _Cytisus_, and

he calls it a _Campanula._ Seeing that so great a difference exists

between our friend and Linnaeus, we ask no further questions.

Tench and eels abound in _Avernus_, and coot and teal also blunder

here occasionally, as if to contradict Virgil and confute

etymology--for Avernus is [Greek: aornos] (birdless,) and Latinised as

every one knows. However, few birds are to be found here. The

_Lucrine_ is now a mere salt-water pond of small extent, affording the

little sea fish, in rough weather, a sort of playground. No Lucrine

oysters now, though these dainties are of excellent quality at Naples,

and might have satisfied _Montanus_ himself. As to the _Mare Mortuum_,

it is another rank, unwholesome, unpicturesque pond. We walked all

round it, and have a right to say so; and, if we had done so _twice_

after sunset, might perchance have had to say _more_.

PROCIDA.

"_Ego vel Prochytam praepono Suburrae_," says Juvenal, and so would we

if compelled to live in that nasty St Giles's beyond the Coliseum; but

as the "_vel_" seems strangely misapplied--for the _situation_ of

Procida must always have been delightful--the poet's preference must

be understood as of a dull unlively place, with few inhabitants or

resources, to a dense and dangerous population. Baiae itself is not

three miles from Procida; but the Roman Baiae was thronged with good

society, and this little island was doubtless then as unpeopled as it

is now populous. Procida is about three-fourths of an hour's fair

rowing from Miniseolae, on the Baian side; but you may run your boat

over on a fine day in half an hour. As you approach the houses, you

discern the not unpicturesque frontage of a little fishing town; but

all is as revolting within as fair without. Something of the Greek or

Albanese costume is still preserved here, and they offer to dress up

one of their families in full _parure_ for our further satisfaction,

if we will pay them. The view from the leads of the fort (under which

the galley-slaves are confined) is fine indeed! Ischia and Vesuvius,

and the whole stretch of the bay, and _Sorrento_, and the promontory

of Minerva. Procida builds good enough trading vessels. We saw two in

the harbour of Baiae, as we rowed back on a delicious evening towards

sunset; they were going on a first voyage, bound for our London

docks;--and _a propos_ of the London docks, all this country is, as it

always was, rich in productive vineyards and bad wine. Every hill once

gave its own epithet to wines celebrated in _longs and shorts_ of

immortal celebrity, whereas the land round Rome could never have been

viniferous. You may still drink _Falernian_, if so minded, on its

native seat of St Agatha. The wine of _Gaurus_ has not deserted Monte

Babaro, and _Lachryma_, though not classical, has its own celebrity;

and the islands of Ischia and Procida also produce a strong, heating,

white wine. But there is not any wine, from the Alps to Messina, to be

compared to those of the _Garonne_, and the _Rhine_, or the _Moselle_.

The _Barbarians_ subdued by the Roman legions have long had it all

their own way, not only in this, but in every other good thing _except

sunshine_; but the vine, growing as it grows, suspended as it is

suspended, and wreathed round the hills of Italy, is still the _plant_

which secures the loudest admiration of the foreigner. "The vine of

Italy for ever!"--so we join the chorus of all travellers, and

say-"_till_ it lies bruised, bleeding, fermenting in the vat! _then_

commend us to the Bacchus of lands far nearer home." And here, feeling

ourselves called upon for a _song_, we will sing one.

A VINTAGE SONG.

ABRIDGED FROM BERANGER.

"Amidst the Celtic hordes of old

That gather'd round his wayworn band,

The cumbrous booty to behold

Brought from Ausonia's sunny land,

Thus _Brennus_ spake--'This lance of mine

Bears Rome's best gift--Behold--the Vine!

Plant, plant the Vine, to whose fair reign belong

The arts of Peace, and all the realms of Song!

"'They told us of its wondrous juice;

We fought to taste it, and have won!

Now o'er your hills new wealth diffuse

And cherish well the warrior's boon.

Plant, plant the Vine, &c.

"'Nor for ourselves alone we tore

That stem away; your ships shall bear

The freighted joy to many a shore,

And spread the unknown gladness there.

Plant, plant the Vine, &c.'

"He ended, and in face of all,

While deep in earth he strikes the lance

And plants the shoot--_unconscious Gaul

Prepares the world's vast vineyard--France!_"[9]

THE PALACE OF CASERTA.

About thirteen miles from Naples is one of the finest kingly

residences in Europe--so say all the guide-books, and they are right.

Vanvitelli is the very Michael Angelo of palace-rearing! Its shape is

a parallelogram approaching to a square. Counting mezzanines, it has

six stories besides the attics; and is pierced with no less than 1700

windows. Its stair, the very perfection of that sort of construction,

is vast in all its dimensions, and so very easy, that you look down

from its summit admiring, with untried lungs, the enormous height you

have reached. It starts double from the ground, and twenty persons

might ascent either branch abreast, and meet one another at the spot

where it begins to return upon itself; so that the noble octagonal

landing above finds itself just over the starting-place below. From

this post four large windows command four spacious courts, and the

simple construction of this gigantic edifice stands unveiled. You now

begin your journey through vast, lofty, magnificently marbled, and

very ill-furnished apartments, of which, before you have completed the

half circuit of a single floor, you are heartily tired, for, beyond

the architecture, there is nothing to see. The commonest broker's shop

would furnish better pictures. Boar-hunts of course, to represent how

Neapolitan kings kill boars at Portici, and shoot wild-ducks on the

_Lago di Fusina_. There is also an ample historical fresco on the

ceiling of the antechamber to the throne-room, on which Murat _had_

caused to be represented some notable _charge_ where he proved

victorious; but after he was shot, Ferdinand, with great taste,

judgment, and good feeling, _erased_, _interpolated_, and _altered_

the picture into a harmless battle of Trojans against Greeks, or some

such thing! The palace has two theatres and a chapel; and you must

change your conductor four times if you would be led through the

whole. For this enormous edifice boasts of only twelve servants, at

eleven dollars a-month from the privy purse. Caserta, which, even in

its present imperfect state, has cost 7,000,000 scudi, is raised

amidst a swarm of paupers, who are permitted to besiege the stranger,

and impede his progress, with an importunity such as could be shown by

none but men on the eve of famishing. We _never_ saw such a population

of beggars as those which infest the walls of this most sumptuous

palace and its park--but the park is a park indeed! It may have

something of the formality of Versailles or Chantilly; but its leading

features are essentially English; its thickets and copses abound in

hares and pheasants. The ilex attains twice the height we remember to

have seen it reach elsewhere. Its islands and fishponds, its kitchen

and flower-gardens, put one in mind of a first-rate English

country-seat. The ornamental water is fetched, by an aqueduct worthy

of old Rome, from mountains seven miles off, first emptying its whole

charge over a high ledge of rock, making a waterfall (which you see

from the drawing-room window) over a series of steps and terraces,

which get wider as they get lower, till they terminate in a superb

basin within a quarter of a mile of the palace, where the water makes

its last bound, and forms a broad lake fit for Diana and her nymphs,

amidst woods fit for Actaeon and his dogs. Of course we asked to be

conducted to these stone terraces, over which the dash of the mountain

stream into the lake is effected: but as we passed the latter, we were

surprised by our guide approaching the water, and, beginning to

whistle, he begs us to observe the water begins to be troubled at a

distance, and the more he whistles the more the commotion increases.

Ten, twenty, and in half a second hundreds of _immense_ fish come

trooping up, and, undeterred by our presence, approach as near as they

dare to the surface of the water where he stands; they swim backwards

and forwards, and lash the water with their tails. What is the matter?

Why! they come to be fed! and such is the ferocious impatience of this

aquatic _menagerie_, that we long to assist in quelling it; and so we

dip our hand into the man's basket of frogs, and drop a few right over

the swarm--and now the water is bubbling and lathering with the

workings and plungings of these mad fish; and so large are they, so

strong, so numerous, that, all angler as we are, we really felt

unpleasantly, nor would we, after what we saw, have trusted hand or

foot in the domain of such shark-like rapacity. They consume five

basketsful of frogs and minnows a-day. Except that of the Caserta

beggars, we never saw any thing like the hunger of the Caserta fish.

THE SILK MANUFACTORY.

The silk manufactory at Caserta is worth a visit. The labour is

chiefly accomplished by the hand, as is all labour in Naples. Silk is

wound off into skeins by a mill turned by the artificial falls of the

aqueduct. At one extremity you see the unpromising _cocoons_; at the

other the most rare and beautiful velvets and _gros de Naples_. The

locality of this manufactory is delightful, and the old queen

preferred its comforts and cheerfulness to the solitary grandeur of

the palace in the plain. In place of occupying and paying the poor

round his palace to make silk and satins for his court and the Pope,

the present king spends his money in _gunpowder and soldiering_. They

accuse him of having less compassion for the misfortunes of the poor

than even his father Francis, or his grandfather Ferdinand of blessed

memory. The view from this spot of the huge palace itself, with

Vesuvius smoking to our right, and Capri shining before it, is one of

those not to be forgotten.

THE SNAKE TAMER.

Behold the old snake-finder with his sack! "_Ola! vecchio, che cosa

avete pigliato quest' oggi?_" was a question put from our one-horse

cart, till then going at a great rate through the village of Somma, to

a little old man, with a humpback, a sack, and a large shallow box. He

was dressed in a queer costume, had a wolf's brush in his hat, and

remarkably tight-fitting leather leggings. "Tre! fra altri una vipera

meschia." "Oh! oh! aspetta," added we--we must see the viper. Upon

which there was a broad grin all round the circle; but the driver

stopped, and down we got. The old man, seeing our intention to be

serious, got a chair for us from a cottage, and putting his box on his

knee, looked knowing, and thus began.

"Gentlemen, you have all seen a viper, _basta feroce_--a reptile that

every one runs from _except_ me, and those who know, as I do, how to

humour him. I have a viper in this box whom I have so perfectly tamed,

that he lives with two others, and never quarrels with them. I will

open the box, and, as you will see, they will all lie as if they were

dead, until I notice _one_, when he will put up his head that I may

take him out."

He opened the box, where lay coiled, and perfectly still, a spotted

viper, an immense black snake, and one very light and silvery like an

eel.

"Here's my family," said the old man; and catching the viper round the

middle, brought him out, while the others wriggled a little, as if in

expectation of being caressed in their turn. "This animal, signor, is

not so bad in his temper as you have been told. It is only when he is

making love that he is poisonous--to all but his females; but in this,

gentlemen, he is scarcely worse than many of yourselves, whom it is

not safe then to approach."

"Bravo, bravo, _vecchaccio_! ancora! Go it again!" sounds every where

from the circle collected round the old snake-charmer.

"If you tread upon his tail, gentlemen, what can you expect but a

bite? Would not _you_ bite if you had your tails trodden on?"

The viper now raised his head, and darted it out, with about half of

his body behind it, at the crowd. The two nearest peasants fell back.

The viper, missing his spring, turns round to bite the hand that is

holding him, but no sooner touches it, than off it glides from the

horny finger, wriggling both head and tail at a great rate.

"He has been warmed by my hand, sirs, and wants to escape! _Ingrato!_

Come, I have something to tell you that these gentlemen must not

hear!"

And he opened his month, and the viper thrust his head between his

lips; upon which the old man closes them and makes believe to mumble

the horrid head, the body appearing violently convulsed, as if it

really suffered violence.

"He has lost his teeth," said one, "and can't bite."

"_Sicuro_," said another, and began to yawn.

"No," said the old man, "his teeth are all in his head. You doubt it,

do you? See here, then."

And catching him by the head, and drawing down his lower jaw, having

forced the mouth to its full stretch, he drew the red surface of his

upper-jaw smartly over the back of his own hand two or three times, so

as to bring blood from six or seven orifices. Then, drying the blood

off his hand, he returns his viper to the box, and asks a _baiocco_

for the exhibition.

"What's the price of your viper?" ask we.

"Two _carlines_, excellenza."

"Here, tie him up for me in my handkerchief." Which was accordingly

done, and we popped him into spirits of wine, as a _souvenir_ of Monte

Somma, and of the old man whom we saw handling him.

"Does he gain a livelihood by his trade?" we enquired.

"He teaches people how to catch serpents; and by familiarizing them

with the danger, they work in greater comfort, and are not afraid of

going over any part of Monte Somma, which, as it abounds in vipers and

snakes, still deters the unpractised a little. Besides, they like to

see the snake caught and exhibited, and every body gives him

something."