CHAPTER VII.

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BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE

No. CCCLXXVI. FEBRUARY, 1847. VOL. LXI.

CONTENTS.

MEMOIR OF THE LATE JOHN WILLIAM SMITH, OF THE INNER TEMPLE,

BARRISTER-AT-LAW.

MODERN ITALIAN HISTORY.

FRENCH PLAYERS AND PLAYHOUSES.

THE REIGN OF GEORGE THE SECOND.

MILDRED: A TALE.

THE EARLY TAKEN.

A RIDE TO MAGNESIA.

DIRECT TAXATION.

* * * * *

MEMOIR OF THE LATE JOHN WILLIAM SMITH, OF THE INNER TEMPLE,

BARRISTER-AT-LAW.

BY SAMUEL WARREN, OF THE INNER TEMPLE, BARRISTER-AT-LAW.

But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,

And think to burst out into sudden blaze,

Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears,

And slits the thin-spun life.

MILTON.--_Lycidas_.

The name of John William Smith, barrister-at-law, of the Inner Temple,

now appears, possibly for the first time, before nineteen-twentieths of

the readers of _Blackwood's Magazine_. It is that, however, of a

remarkable and eminent man, just cut off in his prime, before he had

completed his thirty-seventh year: having as yet lain little more than a

twelvemonth in his grave, to which he had been borne by a few of his

sorrowful and admiring friends, on the 24th of December, 1845. Another

eminent member of the English bar, Sir William Follett, belonging to the

same Inn of Court, and also cut off in the prime of life, while

glittering in the zenith of his celebrity and success, had been buried

only five months previously. I[1] endeavoured to give the readers of

this Magazine, in January 1846, some account of the character of that

distinguished person; and Mr. Smith, learning that I was engaged upon

the task, with morbid anxiety repeatedly begged me to show him what I

was writing, up to within a few weeks of his own decease: a request with

which, for reasons which will become obvious to the reader of this

sketch, I declined to comply. With Sir William Follett's name all the

world is acquainted: yet I venture to think that the name of John

William Smith has greater claims upon the attention of readers of

biography. His character and career will, it is believed, be found

permanently and intrinsically interesting,--at once affecting,

inspiriting, and admonitory. He fell a martyr to intense study, just as

that competent and severe body of judges, the English bench and bar, had

recognised his eminent talents and acquirements, and the shining and

substantial rewards of unremitting exertion were beginning to be

showered upon him. He came to the bar almost totally unknown, and was

destitute of any advantages of person, voice, or manner. His soul,

however, was noble, his feelings were refined and exalted; and, when he

departed from the scene of intense excitement and rivalry into which his

lot had been cast, those who had enjoyed the best opportunities for

forming a true judgment of him, knew not whether more to admire his

moral excellence or his intellectual eminence, which shone the more

brightly for the sensitive modesty which enshrouded them. Many have

expressed surprise and regret that so interesting a character should

fade from the public eye, without any attempt having been made by his

friends to give a full account of his character and career. I was one of

his very earliest friends; witnessed the whole of his professional

career, shared his hopes and fears, and, with two or three others,

attended upon him affectionately to the very last. During the year which

has since elapsed, I have reflected much upon his character, and had

many opportunities for ascertaining the respect with which his memory is

cherished in the highest quarters. I shall endeavour, therefore, though

with great misgivings as to my competency for the task, to present to

the reader an impartial account of my gifted friend: no one else, with

one exception,[2] having, up to this time, undertaken the task.

[1] This narrative was originally composed in the third person; but

so much of it consists of my own personal intercourse with Mr.

Smith, that the use of that circuitous form of expression became as

irksome to the writer, as he thinks it would have proved tedious and

irritating to the reader.

[2] See an eloquent but brief sketch, of W. Smith, in the _Law

Magazine_ for February 1846, by Mr. Phillimore, of the Oxford

Circuit, one of his most accomplished friends.

John William Smith, the eldest of eight children, was of a highly

respectable family: his father having died in 1835, Vice-treasurer and

Paymaster-general of the Forces in Ireland. Both his parents were

Irish--his mother having been a Miss Connor, the sister of a late Master

in Chancery, in Ireland. They lived, however, in London, where the

subject of this memoir was born, in Chapel Street, Belgrave Square, on

the 23d January, 1809. From the earliest period at which note could be

taken of their manifestation, he evinced the possession of superior

mental endowments. No one is less disposed than the writer of this

memoir, to set a high value upon precocious intellectual development.

_Observatum fere est_, says Quinctilian, in his passionate lamentation

for the death of his gifted son, _celerius occidere festinatam

maturitatem_.[3] The maturity, however, of John William Smith, far more

than realised his early promise, and renders doubly interesting any

well-authenticated account, and such I have succeeded in obtaining, of

his early childhood. When advanced not far from infancy, he appears to

have been characterised by a kind of quaint thoughtfulness, quick

observation, and a predilection for intellectual amusements. He was

always eager to have poetry read to him, and soon exhibited proofs of

that prodigious memory, by which he was all his life pre-eminently

distinguished, and which has often made the ablest of his friends

imagine that with him, _forgetting_ was a thing impossible. Before he

knew a single letter of the alphabet, which he learnt far earlier,

moreover, than most children, he would take into his hand his little

pictured story-book, which had been perhaps only once, or possibly

twice, read over to him, and pretend to read aloud out of it: those

overlooking him scarcely crediting the fact of his really being unable

to tell one letter from the other; for he repeated the letterpress

_verbatim_, from beginning to end. This feat has been repeatedly

witnessed before he had reached his third year. To all the friends of

Mr. Smith in after-life, this circumstance is easily credible: for the

quickness of his memory was equalled by its tenacity, and both appeared

to us almost unequalled. When three years old, he read with the greatest

facility all such books as are usually put into the hands of children;

and his delight was to _act_, in the evening, the fable which he had

read in the morning--and a reader insatiate he even then appeared to be.

Between his third and sixth year, he had read, _effectually_, many books

of history, especially those of Greece, Rome, England, and France;

acquiring with facility what he retained with the utmost fidelity. He

seems to have been, at this time, conscious of possessing a strong

memory, and pleased at testing it. When not five years old, he one day

put the parts of a dissected map, consisting of a hundred pieces, into

his father's pocket, and then called for them again one by one, without

having made a single mistake, till he had finished putting them together

on the carpet. At this early period, also, he displayed another

first-rate mental quality, namely, the power of abstraction--one by

which he was eminently distinguished throughout his subsequent life.

When a very young child, he was frequently observed exercising this rare

power--lost to all around him, and evidently intent upon some one

object, to the exclusion of all others. Thus, for instance, he would

often be occupied with a play of Shakspeare, while sitting in the corner

of the drawing-room, in which were many persons engaged in conversation,

or otherwise doing what would have effectually interrupted one who was

not similarly endowed with himself. One of his brothers often played at

chess with him, with closed folding doors between them, the former

moving the chess-men for both, and the latter calling out the moves,

without ever making an erroneous one, and frequently winning the game.

His partiality to poetry, from almost his infancy, has been already

noticed: and it is to be added, that he was equally fond of reading and

_writing_ verses. One of his relatives has at this moment in her

possession a "Poem" from his pen, in pencilled _printed_ characters,

before he had learned, though he learned very early, to write, entitled,

"The Mariner's Return." Till very recently, also, the same lady

possessed another curious relic of this precocious child,--namely, a

prose story; the hero of which was a peasant boy, whom he took through

almost all the countries of Europe, and through many vicissitudes,

finally exalting him to the post of Prime Minister to Henry VIII. The

knowledge of geography and history displayed in this performance, is

declared by those who have read it, to be truly wonderful. Shortly after

he had reached his eighth year, he was sent to a school at Isleworth,

kept by a Dr. Greenlaw, and remained there four years. I have heard him

frequently describe his first arrival at the school, and several

incidents attending it, in such a manner as showed him then to have had

great shrewdness and keenness of observation. One, in particular, struck

me at the time as illustrative of his stern sense of right, and habits

of reflection, at that very early period. "I remember," said he, "that

soon after I had got to school, a big boy called me aside, and told me

very seriously that I must prepare for a terrible flogging on Saturday

morning, and that however well I behaved, it would signify nothing, for

it was an old custom at the school to flog a little boy on his first

Saturday, before the whole school, by way of example, and to make him

behave well. I was horribly frightened at this; but the first thing that

struck me, and kept me awake a good while thinking of it, was, how very

_unjust_ a thing it was to do this; and I thought so much of _this_,

that I do believe I was at length far more angry than frightened. Of

course, when Saturday came, I found it had been all a joke only; but I

always thought it a very disagreeable and improper joke." I have several

times heard Mr. Smith mention this little circumstance, and I have above

given many of his own expressions. He used to proceed to describe the

reasonings which he had held in his own mind upon this subject, all

which, he said, he vividly recollected; and it was certainly both

curious and interesting to hear how he puzzled himself in trying to find

out "reasons why it might be right to flog him under these

circumstances." Dr. Greenlaw was not slow in discovering the

extraordinary abilities of the little new-comer, and used to describe

them in glowing terms to his father; but would add that, much as he

admired the child's talent and diligence, he entertained a still higher

opinion of the little fellow's perfect modesty, his seeming

unconsciousness of his mental superiority over his companions, his

honesty and simplicity of character, and, above all, his unwavering and

inflexible adherence to truth on even the most trifling occasions. Every

living friend of his will testify that he was thus distinguished

throughout life, exhibiting that

Compositum jus, fasque animi, sanctosque recessus

Mentis, et incoctum generoso pectus honesto,

which the stern moralist[4] declared to afford the noblest qualification

for approaching the presence of the gods.

[3] Lib. vi. _proëm._

[4] Pers. Sat. ii. 73, 74.

Hæc cedo ut admoveam templis, et farre litabo.

During this period, namely, from his eighth to his twelfth year, he

became passionately fond of writing verses: and I have now before me,

kindly forwarded by one of his relatives in Ireland, two small quarto

MS. volumes, containing exclusively what he wrote during this period,

extending to upwards of seventy or eighty pieces, some of considerable

length, and in every kind of English verse. Their genuineness is

unquestionable; and I shall quote from them in the state in which they

were originally collected at the time, without the alteration of a

single letter. Having completely satisfied myself on this point, and I

hope the reader also, what will he think of the following evidence of

the creative perception of humour professed by a child scarce thirteen

years of age? I have transcribed it _verbatim_. It is prefixed to a

satirical poem of some length, entitled "Practical Morality."

Preface _loquitur_--

"Though it may appear to thee, courteous reader, that I have in all

ages been considered as a vehicle of fumbling apologies and trivial

excuses, a sort of go-between employed by the writer to deprecate

the anger of the peruser, in short, the literary servant of

all-work, whether my duty be to expatiate on the merits, or

apologise for the defects of my master, or (as it often is) to

claim the pity and forbearance of the mobile, and set forth in

humble terms the degradations he has submitted, and is still ready

to submit to,--I say, reader, though a part so servile has been

assigned to me, yet, should my natural claims and intrinsic merits

be duly considered, different, far different would be my station.

What! am I thus exalted in situation above my [_sic_] situated, (as

I may say,) in the very van, exposed to the sneer of every

satirical reader and sententious critic? Am I placed in a post so

dangerous, and are contempt and humiliation my only reward? O,

mankind, where is your gratitude? Think, generous reader, on the

services I have so often rendered you: think how often, when you

were about to enter upon the stupendous folio, or the dull and

massy quarto, four inches at least in thickness, think, O think,

how often my timely, though unpromising appearance, has warned you

not to encumber your brain with the incalculable load of lumber!

With me, then, let the glorious work of reformation commence,

restore me to the honour and esteem I so justly deserve. I, for my

part, shall still continue to be a spy upon stupidity, and oft

shall you receive the reward of your benevolence from my friendly

and seasonable admonitions."

"Hezekiah Shortcut,

O tempora! O mores!"

The poem is in two cantos: the first of which thus opens,--

Long have I viewed the folly and the sin

That fill this wicked globe of ours, call'd earth,

And once a secret impulse felt within

My bosom, to convert it into mirth;

But then the voice of pity, softly sighing,

Hinted the subject was more fit for crying.

Democritus was once a Grecian sage--

A famous man, as every one must know--

But rather fond of sneering at the age,

And turning into laughter human wo;

Another sage, Heraclitus to wit,

Considered it more wise to weep for it.

I can't determine which of them was right,

Nor can I their respective merits see;

The subject, disputation may invite,

But that belongs to wiser men than me.

It has already been discuss'd by one,

A better judge by far (see Fenelon.)

Verse the twelfth touches upon a topic with which its writer was

destined afterwards, for a short time, to be practically familiar.

How sweet a fee unto the youthful lawyer

Never before presented with a brief,

To whose distressing case some kind employer

Steps in, and brings his generous relief;

Thus giving him a chance to show _that_ merit

So long kept down by the world's envious spirit.

Here is the little practical moralist's advice to the ladies!--

Ye ladies, list! and to my words attend,

They're for your good, as you shall quickly see.

Sit down by the fireside, your stockings mend,

And never mingle spirits with your tea.

When you retire at night, put out the candle,

Discard your lap-dogs, leave off talking scandal.

When card-tables are set, you must not play

For ought beyond the value of one shilling:

This is my firm decree, although you may,

As ladies mostly are, be very willing.

I bid you cease, for into debt 't will run ye,

Do you no good, but spend your husband's money.

Husbands are fools who let their wives do so,--

I scarce can pity when I see them ruin'd.

For when they squander all, they ought to know,

Destruction is a consequence pursuant.

When each has turn'd his home into a sad-house,

He then finds out that he deserves a mad-house.

I do denounce, in all the songs you sing,

The words, _sweet_, _lovely_, dear angelic charmer,

_Flames_, _darts_, _sighs_, _wishes_, _hopes_,--they only bring

Thoughts to a lady which perchance may harm her.

You therefore must consider as ironic

Every expression which is not Platonic.

The whole poem is written in a droll, satirical strain, and shows a

great familiarity with the topics of ancient and modern literature. The

rest of the volume consists of translations from Anacreon, Horace, and

other Greek and Latin poets, and many original pieces; one of which

latter, entitled "The Prodigal Son," thus gravely and impressively

opens,--

Far from his kindred, from his country's soil,

By want enfeebled, and oppress'd by toil,

Compelled with slow reluctance to demand

The niggard pity of a stranger's hand,

And forced, in silent anguish, to abide

The sneer of malice, the rebuke of pride:

A wretch opprest by sorrow's galling weight,

Deplored his ruined peace, his hapless fate.

His was such anguish as the guilty know,

For self-reproach was mingled with his wo.

He dared not fortune's cruelty bemoan--

The error, the offence, was all his own.

There are also scattered over the volume several epigrams, one of which

is headed thus: "On a Lady who married her Brother-in-law."

After so many tedious winters past,

The lovely S---- has caught a swain at last--

A swain who twice has tried the marriage life,

And now resolves again to take a wife.

Behold! behold _the new-made_ mother runs,

With ardour to embrace--_her nephew-sons_!

The second volume commences with a poem of considerable length,

entitled, "Salamis," with a notice that "The foregoing poem was

presented to his father, by John William Smith, January 23d, 1821, the

day on which he completed his twelfth year." The following is "The

Argument of Canto I:--

"Themistocles lying awake in the night, is surprised by the

entrance of Aristides, who informs him that the Persian fleet had

completely surrounded them. Themistocles tells him that this was

effected by a device of his own, to prevent the Greeks from

deserting the Straits, and sends him to Eurybiades, calls a council

in the morning, in which it is resolved to attack the enemy, and

the whole fleet move forward in order of battle.--Scene, the

Grecian camp on the sea-shore of Salamis."

The first Canto thus opens--

Now darkness over all her veil had spread,

Save where the moon her feeble lustre shed,

When from the clouds emerging, her dim ray

Mock'd the effulgence of the lucid day.

Stretch'd on their beds, the Greeks in soft repose

Awhile forgot their harass'd country's woes.

Themistocles alone awake remain'd,

By his anxiety from sleep restrain'd;

Although the chief with labour was opprest,

His care for Greece withheld his wonted rest.

For three long hours, all had been still around,

At length he hears (or thinks he hears) a sound;

He starts, and sees a stately form advance,

Clad in bright arms, and with a shining lance,

And by the moon's faint beams, the chief descried

A Persian sabre glittering at his side.

Here follows the "Argument of Canto II--

"Mardonius is surprised by the noise of the Greeks advancing, and

the hostile fleet appearing, the ships move forward to meet

them.--Lycomedes takes the first galley, and consecrates the spoils

to Apollo.--The acts of Eurybiades, Mardonius, and

Themistocles.--Aristides and Lycomedes landing in the Isle of

Psyttalia, destroy a number of Persians stationed there, at sight

of which, part of the Persian fleet gives way.--Ariamenes

endeavouring to rally them, is slain.--At his death the rest of the

Persians fly. The Greeks pursue them to the Attic shore, and obtain

a complete victory, which concludes the Poem."

The whole poem shows a mind thoroughly imbued with Grecian history, and

the action is conceived and described with considerable spirit. There

are a few lame verses, here and there, but scarcely a single puerile

conceit; while a perusal of the entire contents of these records of a

gifted child, is calculated to surprise, by the great extent of reading

displayed by its writer, and the ease and precision with which he brings

it to bear upon his subject.

In the spring of 1821 he entered Westminster School, taking his place on

the fourth form, which secured him all exemption from fagging. Here,

again, his progress was that of a boy of first-rate abilities, great

diligence, and unvarying good conduct. Two years afterwards, viz. in the

spring of 1823, he gained a king's scholarship, without the assistance

of a "_help_," a thing which it is believed was unprecedented. In the

College, however, he could not escape _fagging_; but such was his

independent spirit, that he refused to submit to it, and immediately

resigned his hard-won scholarship, with all its prospects. His father

was somewhat nonplussed by this occurrence; and presently sent him to a

school at Blackheath, kept by the present rector of Woolwich, the Rev.

Willain Greenlaw, a son of his former master, Dr. Greenlaw. The

Blackheath school contained no fewer than seventy-two boys, many of them

on the eve of quitting for the universities; but as soon as John William

Smith made his appearance, he was not only recognised as being far

superior to them all, but equally well read with the ushers; and he

consequently read with Mr. Greenlaw himself, alone! being then, it will

be recollected, little move than fourteen years of age! He wrote every

species of Latin verse with the utmost facility--of which he gave, on

one occasion, a proof not yet forgotten by his schoolfellows: for, one

evening, shortly after going there, he wrote all the Latin verses for

the entire school, from the highest to the lowest--in all metres, and on

every variety of subject. This feat was lately communicated to me by one

of his then schoolfellows; and I also recollect him once mentioning the

subject to me himself; adding, if I recollect correctly, that there was

not a blunder found in any of the verses which he had written. During

his vacations he visited France, and mastered the French and Italian

languages, with both of which, up to the period of his death, he

continued perfectly familiar, and very partial to the writers of both.

About this time he began to cast about for a profession; and entertained

the notion of either going out to India, in a military capacity, or

entering Woolwich academy as a cadet. His father persuaded him to

relinquish the former step, but assented to his adopting the latter; and

he paid close attention to engineering. He has often expressed to me the

delight he took in studying _fortification_; adding, that he had

sometimes regretted having abandoned that line of life, for that he

fancied he should have been successful in it. His father would have

procured him an appointment in conformity with his wishes, had not his

views concerning him been changed by his friend, the Right Honourable

Sir George Fitzgerald Hill, then Vice-treasurer of Ireland, who gave his

son an appointment in the Vice-treasurer's office at Dublin Castle. Sir

George quickly detected the superior talents and acquirements of young

Smith, and became much attached to him; evincing peculiar satisfaction

in conversing with him, and listening to his quaint, exact, pithy

answers to questions proposed to him. About this time he was smitten

with the love of Lord Byron's poetry, which he devoured with avidity,

and his own love of verse-writing revived. He became, indeed, very

anxious to excel in poetry. He was soon tired of his official duties,

and resigned his situation in favour of his brother, who at this moment

fills a responsible office in the same department in Dublin Castle.

In the year 1826, being then in his seventeenth year, Mr. Smith entered

Trinity College, Dublin, where his whole career was, as might have been

expected, one of easy triumph. He constantly carried off the highest

classical premiums, and occasionally those in science, as well

as--whenever he tried--for composition. In 1829, he gained a

scholarship, and in the ensuing year obtained the highest honours in the

power of Trinity College to bestow, namely, the gold medal for classics.

He thought so little, however, of distinctions gained so easily, that he

either forgot, or at all events neglected, even to apply for his gold

medal till several years afterwards; when, happening to be in Dublin,

and conversation turning upon the prize which he had obtained, he said,

in a modest, casual kind of way, to a friend, "By the way, I never went

after the medal; but I think, as I'm here, I'll go and see about it."

This he did, and the medal was of course immediately delivered to its

phlegmatic oblivious winner! He was a great favourite at college, for he

bore his honours with perfect meekness and modesty, was very kind and

obliging to all desiring his assistance, and displayed, on all

occasions, that truthful simplicity and straightforwardness of

character, which, as we have already seen, he had borne from his birth.

He was much beloved, in short, by all his friends and relations; and one

of the latter, his uncle, Mr. Connor, an Irish Master in Chancery,

confidently predicted that "John William would live to be an honour to

his profession and friends." In 1829, he joined his family, who were

settled in Versailles, and spent some time there. In the ensuing year,

his father, who possessed a first-rate capacity for business, was

appointed Vice-treasurer and Paymaster-general of the forces in Ireland,

and was obliged to reside in Dublin, whither he accordingly soon

afterwards repaired with his family. His son, John William, however,

remained in London, having determined upon forthwith commencing his

studies for the English bar: a step which his father and he had for some

time before contemplated; as it appears, from the records of the Inner

Temple, that he was entered as student for the bar on the 20th June,

1827, which was during his second year at Trinity College. The facility

with which he not only got through the requisite studies, but obtained

every honour for which he thought proper to compete, allowed of his

devoting much of his attention at that time to the acquisition of legal

knowledge. He procured a copy, therefore, of Blackstone; that, I

believe, which had appeared a year or two before, edited by the present

(then Sergeant,) Mr. Justice Coleridge,--the only edition of the

Commentaries of which he approved, and which he used to the last,--and

read it through several times with profound attention, as he has often

told me; expressing himself as having been charmed by the purity and

beauty of Blackstone's style, his remarkable power of explaining

abstruse subjects, and his perspicuous arrangement. The next book which

he read was, I believe, "Cruise's Digest of the Laws of England,

respecting Real Property," in seven volumes octavo, a standard work of

great merit; which, while at college, he read, I think, twice over, and

continued perfectly familiar with it for the rest of his life. He also

read carefully through nearly the whole of Coke upon Littleton, which he

told me he found very "troublesome," and that he had expended much

valuable time and attention on some of the most difficult portions,

which he very soon afterwards found to be utterly obsolete, particularly

mentioning those concerning "homage," "fealty," "knight-service,"

"wardship," &c. The above may seem a great undertaking for vacant hours

at college, but will not appear to any of Mr. Smith's friends to have

been such to him, who read as rapidly, as he attended closely to, and

tenaciously retained what he had read. It may here be mentioned, that in

this particular, viz. reading law at college, Mr. Smith resembled Sir

William Follett, who also devoted himself with ardour to the study of

the law when at Cambridge, but did _not_, like Mr. Smith, also gain the

highest college honours; for Sir William never competed, or at all

events never obtained college honours of any kind. Mr. Smith commenced

keeping terms at the beginning, I believe, of 1830; and it was at the

mess-table of the Inner Temple Hall that I, who had also shortly before

come up from Edinburgh University for the same purpose, first had the

happiness and the honour of becoming acquainted with my late

distinguished friend. He was then in about his twenty-first year. I

distinctly recollect the first time of our meeting, which was at the

aforesaid mess-table; and that his appearance struck me as that of a

bashful and awkward person dull and taciturn, with a formal precise way

of speaking, and a slight abruptness of manner. If Lord Bacon's saying

be correct, that a good face is a _letter of recommendation_--poor John

William Smith may be said to have come without a character! How little

did I dream of the bright jewel hid in so plain and frail a casket: how

often have I felt ashamed of my own want of discernment: what a lesson

has it been never again to contract any sort of prejudice against a man

from personal appearance! It was not till I had known him for nearly a

year, owing partly to our unfrequent meetings, and his absence, that I

began to be sensible of his superior talents and acquirements. His

personal appearance was, it must be candidly owned, certainly

insignificant and unprepossessing. He was of slight make, a trifle under

the middle height, his hair was rather light, and his complexion pale.

He wore spectacles, being excessively near-sighted, and had a very

slight cast in his eyes, which were somewhat full and prominent. The

expression of his features, at all events when in repose, was neither

intellectual nor engaging, but they improved when he was animated or

excited in conversation. His forehead, however, was, though retreating,

lofty, and I have heard it characterised as intellectual. At the time of

which I am speaking, he used to wear a white hat, placed so far back on

his head, that it gave him, to a stranger, almost a ludicrous aspect.

His utterance was slow, his demeanour very solemn; and he would sit at

dinner for a long time silent, till you would be surprised by his

bursting into a short, sudden, but very hearty laugh, when any thing had

been said which tickled his fancy; for I found out before long that he

had a great taste for the ludicrous, an exquisite perception of humour.

When he shook hands with you, he placed his cold hand into yours, like a

dead man's hand--even with his most intimate friends--instead of

greeting you with a hearty cordial grasp or pressure. How long again

this little circumstance misled me as to his supposed insensibility to

the claims of friendship or affection! whereas the very reverse was the

case; for he was a most firm and devoted friend, and of an exquisite

delicacy and sensitiveness of feeling. He did not, at first, as the

phrase is, _make way_ with his companions, nor appear desirous of doing

so. I recollect, on one occasion, that he and I remained the last at the

dinner-table; and, though he sate opposite to me for some minutes,

thoughtfully balancing his wine-glass in his hand, an empty decanter

being between us, he spoke not a syllable; and I was watching him (his

eyes being directed towards the floor) with an amused curiosity, on

account of his apparent eccentricity, when he suddenly said, "Mr.

Warren, will you take a walk with me up Regent Street, or any where

else, as it is such a fine evening?" What passed through my mind, on

being thus unexpectedly encountered, was, "Well--he's a curiosity, and

seems to know no one--so I _will_;" and, having said as much, we rose.

He walked down the hall, and we took off our gowns in the ante-room, and

quitted the building, without his having uttered a syllable! I recollect

feeling almost inclined to be offended. We then walked about the town

till nearly nine o'clock, and I think he talked a little about France,

and we compared notes together concerning Dublin and Edinburgh

Universities. I quitted him, musing upon his quaint manner, and his

solemn precision of language: but nothing that had passed between us

gave me the idea of his being a person of superior ability or

acquirements. He was, indeed, a very shy and modest man. It was not, for

instance, till after a seven years' intimacy, that I knew of the

distinction which he had obtained at college; and on my asking him, one

day, whether it was true that he had obtained the gold medal, he

blushed, slightly moved his head aside, and, after a pause, said, in a

tone rather even of displeasure than gratification, "Possibly I did!"

and we dropped the subject. In the year 1830, he entered the chambers of

Richard Grainger Blick, Esquire, one of the most eminent special

pleaders in the Temple, and who has assured me, that he always

considered Mr. John William Smith to be a remarkable man. Probably there

never before entered the chambers of pleader or barrister, in the

character of novice, a man of more formidable legal aptitude and

acquirements. We have already seen the substantial and extensive

character of his law-reading at college; but, between leaving it, and

entering Mr. Blick's chambers, Mr. Smith read carefully over "from cover

to cover"--such were his words to me--"Tidd's Practice," a standard

book, in two closely printed, large octavo volumes, and also "Selwyn's

Nisi Prius," in two similar volumes. He had not been long in chambers

before he found that "he had not a sufficient knowledge of pleading, to

get any benefit from the business, which he saw;" wherefore he absented

himself from chambers for some time, to enable him to read through the

first volume of "Mr. Chitty's Treatise on Pleading;" and some time

afterwards he again withdrew, for similar reasons, to read "Phillips on

Evidence." Having obtained such an acquaintance with these two works, as

to a person of inferior intellect or discipline might seem a complete

mastery, he returned to chambers, able better to avail himself of the

advantages afforded by Mr. Blick's extensive practice; very frequently

surprising that gentleman by his mental vigour, and accurate and

extensive legal knowledge. "I was very cunning," he has more than once

said to me, "at chambers; for I soon saw how to go to work, better than

the other pupils. They would be all for the 'heavy papers,' the great

cases that came in, not caring for the shoal of small things that were

continually appearing and disappearing. Now it seemed to me, that

_these_ constituted three-fourths of a lawyer's business, and that to be

able to do _them_, was three-fourths of the battle: so I very quietly

let my fine gentlemen take all the great papers, while I did nothing but

these same despised common things, till at length I really began to feel

that I was improving, and learning a good deal of law. But, as to the

other sort of cases and papers, as soon as my fellow-pupils had done,

puzzling their brains over them, and written the opinions, or drawn the

pleadings, and Mr. Blick had revised them, and given them his

_imprimatur_, I _then_ read them over very diligently, and with great

profit: but you must remember that this was before the late revolution

in pleading." All this he repeated to me one day, only a few months

before his death.--He never studied under any other practitioner than

Mr. Blick, with whom, moreover, he spent only one year: yet such was his

close application, his wonderful memory, his clear, vigorous, and

disciplined understanding, and the soundness and extent of his

previously acquired law, that on quitting Mr. Blick, Mr. Smith was

really an able pleader, and had laid the basis of an extended, profound,

and scientific knowledge of the law. Even at that early period, I

frequently heard his opinion deferentially asked by men far his seniors,

and of considerable standing in business. On quitting Mr. Blick, Mr.

Smith read a number of other law books, in his usual attentive and

thorough manner, completely mastering both them and the "cases"

contained in them, and of which, generally speaking, they were little

else than digests or epitomes. He was a very keen and acute logician,

and felt great satisfaction in balancing the _pros_ and _cons_ of the

reported cases, and testing the soundness of the judges' decisions, and

the relevancy and force of the arguments of council which had led to

them. Among the books which he read about this time, he enumerated to me

"Sanders on Uses and Trusts," (which, he said, he found to be a

difficult book to master practically;) "Fearne on Contingent

Remainders," which he represented as likely to prove interesting to

_any_ educated man of intellect, fond of exercising it, who would take

the trouble to read it; Sir Edward Sugden's Treatises on "Vendors and

Purchasers of Real Estates," and on "Powers," and Williams' "Saunders;"

while "Comyn's Digest" was ever lying before him, the subject of

continual reference, and with which he soon acquired an invaluable

familiarity. He also read several books on Equity with great attention,

and often said, that no one, who really knew law, could fail to feel a

deep interest in Equity, and the mode of its operating upon law. The

"Code Napoleon," too, he read very carefully, and for many years. He had

a copy of Justinian's Code, and Institutes, always lying on his

mantel-piece, and which he was very fond of reading. We have frequently

conversed together on the subject of the extensive obligations of our

Common Law to the Roman Law; to which he used to refer, in the absence

of the books, with great facility and accuracy. He was very fond of

Plautus, and would quote almost an entire scene, as accurately, and with

as natural a fluency and zest, as another would have shown in reading

off any of the scenes in a popular English play; often accompanying his

quotations with shrewd and ingenious critical comments. He was also very

fond of the French Dramatists, particularly Moliere, from whom I have

heard him quote entire scenes with wonderful accuracy. You might have

imagined him reading from the book, as I have several times myself

observed, and heard others remark: and all this he did in a perfectly

natural and unobtrusive way, as if merely to relieve an over-charged

mind, and give pleasure to those whom he credited with inclination and

ability to appreciate the excellencies which he pointed out. His memory

seemed, indeed, equally tenacious of things important and unimportant;

incapable, in short, of _forgetting_ any thing. I have heard him quote

long-forgotten but once popular and laughable trash, ballads, squibs,

epigrams, &c., till at length he revived in the listener such a sort of

recollection of them, as made him imagine that Mr. Smith must have

recently committed them to memory for some special purpose, but for

their appearing so really fresh and racy to him, and plainly suggested

by the casual current of conversation. He was, about this time, and for

years afterwards, a very frequent visiter at my house; and never was any

one, independently of my personal regard for him, more welcome; for his

conversation was always that of a ripe and varied scholar and fastidious

_gentleman_. He was ever gay and animated as soon as he had recovered,

which he quickly did, from the exhaustion of a long and severe day's

work, and his fund of anecdote appeared inexhaustible. Never was any man

farther removed from being that insufferable social nuisance, a

professed talker. Display of any kind was quite foreign to his nature;

and whenever he chanced to encounter a person cursed with that

propensity, he would sit in silence for a whole evening: not in the

silence of vexation or pique, but of a man left at leisure to pursue his

own thoughts, or calmly amuse himself with the characteristics of the

chatterer. If, while thus occupied, unexpectedly interrupted, or

appealed to by the aforesaid chatterer, or any one else, he readily

answered, though certainly with a somewhat frigid courtesy. It was

impossible for any one, of the least powers of observation, to fail of

detecting in Mr. Smith, though beneath a reserve and formality not very

easy to penetrate, a kind of scrupulous antique courtliness, suggesting

to you a resuscitated gentleman of the school of Addison, particularly

in his intercourse with ladies. He was caution personified,--never

saying any thing that required retraction or modification: and though

you might guess the contemptuous estimate which he had formed of some

particular person's character or doings, he rarely permitted himself to

express it. He would sometimes smile significantly at the recital, or

witnessing, of some particular absurdity or weakness; but I think that

no one ever heard him utter a hasty, harsh, or uncharitable judgment of

any body. He seemed, in fact, equally chary of giving praise or blame.

No man would laugh louder, or longer, on hearing, or being told, of some

signal and ludicrous miscarriage of another; but he would _say_ nothing,

except on very rare occasions, and among his intimate friends--and even

then, never any thing severe or violent. Tell him, however, of any thing

really mean and unworthy, or let him have witnessed it, and no one could

fail to see, calm and measured though Mr. Smith's _language_ might be,

the profound contempt, or the lively indignation with which he regarded

the delinquent and his delinquency. I fear, however, that I am

digressing.--He and I commenced our careers as special pleaders about

the same time, viz. in 1831; and not many days passed without our being

at each other's chambers, borrowing one another's books, or going out to

walk together, or conversing on law or other matters. I always listened

to what he said on legal subjects, as to a master: he was so ready, so

correct, so concise, so judicious, that his suggestions, upon any case

which I mentioned to him, were very valuable; and they were given with a

heartiness of good-nature that made them doubly welcome. He was

delighted to assist me, or any other of his friends. We were a small

circle, about that time, of some half a dozen; and I may take upon

myself to say, that we all cheerfully recognised in him our

superior--our _facile princeps_, from the first. Some of us set agoing a

little weekly periodical, called "The Legal Examiner," to which he was a

constant contributor--his papers being always characterised by point and

precision, though the style was dry and stiff. It grieves me to say,

that he met with no encouragement as a special pleader, consummately

qualified as he was for success in that department, and scarcely ever to

be found absent from his chambers; where he was at all hours to be

found, modest, patient, though sometimes a little dejected,--yet

True as the dial to the sun,

Although it be not shone upon.

I question whether, during this two or three years' bitter and

disheartening probation, he made more than thirty, or at least forty

guineas; his annual certificate for leave thus to do--nothing, cost him,

nevertheless, £12. Yet I never once heard him, nor I undertake to say,

did any of his friends, express fretfulness or impatience at his

disheartening lack of employment. He manifested, on the contrary, a

quiet fortitude that was touching to witness. I recollect him once,

however, when we were conversing on the subject, saying rather

pensively, "If one has not connexions, and cannot make them, it is next

to impossible to get any business." The professional public possess

conclusive and permanent evidence of the admirable use which he made of

his time, during the first year or two of his essaying to practise as a

pleader; for in July 1834, two months after having been called to the

bar, he gave to the world a work which, as soon as it had become known,

raised him to the very highest rank of legal writers. The more it was

read or referred to the higher was the estimate formed of its writer's

intellect and learning, alike by the bench and the bar; for he had most

discreetly, yet boldly, chosen a subject of great difficulty and

importance, properly treated by no work extant, and which gave him

opportunity of supplying a long-acknowledged deficiency in professional

literature. He undertook, in fact, to produce a comprehensive practical

treatise, within an exceedingly moderate compass, on "Mercantile Law:"

and he succeeded to admiration--did this neglected young man of scarce

twenty-five years old--in producing, entirely unassisted, a work

signally calculated to attain the proposed object; condensing into a

very small space, and with almost unerring accuracy, a great amount of

exceedingly difficult law, beautifully and perspicuously arranged, so as

that even laymen might read as they ran, and receive guidance in the

most perplexing exigencies of business, while the ablest lawyers, might

safely refer to the pages of the "Compendium" for a terse and true

statement of the result of many conflicting decisions, and a luminous

exposition of the _principles_ which ought to govern the administration

of commercial law. The calm, practised skill with which this young

unknown jurist moved about in these regions of subtle intricacy--_inter

apices juris_--excited the cordial admiration and respect of all

competent judges. He was manifestly a master of his subject; and having

quietly detected important but unoccupied ground, had possessed himself

of it with skill and resolution:--and this he did within little more

than two years after he had quitted the scene of his solitary year's

pupilage. Within six years this book has passed through three large

editions; and a fourth is, it is believed, in preparation, which will

comprise a great number of its departed author's own additions and

emendations, continued up to within two or three months of his decease.

Not only in this country, but in the United States of America, is this

valuable work deservedly held, at this moment, in the highest

estimation, as practically the only book of its kind. A glance at the

brief Preface will suffice to show to a competent judge, whether lay or

professional, at once the real and peculiar difficulty of the

undertaking, the author's exact and happy illustration of the sources of

that difficulty, and the simplicity and accuracy of his style.

"The Mercantile Law is in one respect better adapted to compression

than the Law of Real Property; inasmuch as the reasons upon which

the former is based, can be explained more shortly than those which

support the latter. The reasons upon which our Law of Real Property

is founded, are, generally speaking, historical; and part of

history must therefore be recounted, in order to explain them

clearly and philosophically; while the Mercantile Law is deduced

from considerations of utility, the force of which the mind

perceives as soon as they are pointed out to it. For instance, if a

writer were desirous of explaining why a rent-service cannot be

reserved in a conveyance, by a subject, of lands in fee-simple, he

would be obliged to show the feudal relations that existed between

lord and tenant, the nature of sub-infeudations, and how the lord

was injured by them, in such his relation to his tenant, how the

statute _quia emptores_ was enacted to prevent this injury; in

consequence of which statute a tenure, without which no

rent-service exists, cannot be raised by a conveyance from one

subject to another, in fee-simple. In like manner, the explanation

of a recovery, of a fine, of a copyhold, of an estate in ancient

demesne, of an use, of a trust, would require a process of

historical deduction. But when the reader is told, that the drawer

of a bill of exchange is discharged, if timely notice be not given

him of its dishonour; because, without such notice, he might lose

the assets he had placed to meet it in the drawee's hands; or, that

if A hold himself out as B's partner, he will be liable as such,

because he might else enable B to defraud persons who had trusted

him upon the faith of the apparent partnership and joint

responsibility: when these reasons, and such as these, are given,

every man at once perceives their cogency, and needs not to be told

_how_, that he may know _why_, the law was settled on its present

footing. The fitness of this subject for compression is, therefore,

hardly questionable. The difficulty of compressing it is, however,

extreme. The author who attempts to do so, must continually keep in

view a triple object, must aspire at once to clearness, brevity,

and accuracy; a combination so difficult, that its difficulty may,

it is hoped, be fairly pleaded in excuse for some of the

deficiencies and imperfections which the reader may discover in the

following pages."

After a luminous and elegant introductory account of the rapid growth

and development of mercantile law, the author thus announces the

convenient and comprehensive plan of his work:--

"This treatise will be divided into four books. The first,

concerning Mercantile _Persons_; the second, Mercantile _Property_;

the third, Mercantile _Contracts_; the fourth and last, Mercantile

_Remedies_; a method which appears the simplest and most

comprehensive; since it includes, under a few heads, the

description of those by whose intervention trade is carried on; of

that which they seek to acquire by so employing themselves; of the

arrangements which they are in the habit of adopting, in order to

do so effectually; and of the mode in which the proper execution of

those arrangements is enforced."

A striking evidence of the value of this work, the soundness of his

opinions, and the importance attached to them in the highest judicial

quarters, was afforded by the very first number of the Reports of the

Court of Exchequer, published after his death, where (in _Tanner_ v.

_Scovell_, 14 _Meeson and Welshy_, 37,) the Lord Chief Baron, after time

taken to consider an important question of mercantile law, delivered the

judgment of the Court in expressed conformity with the doctrine which

Mr. Smith has laid down in his "Mercantile Law," and in opposition to

the opinion of the late very learned Mr. Justice Taunton!

To retrace our steps, however, for a moment: Mr. Smith at length

despaired of getting business under the bar, and tired of sitting a

prisoner at chambers, in vain expectation of it. His rooms and mine were

directly opposite to each other, on the same floor; and rarely or never

was a knock heard at his door, except that of some friend coming either

to ask his able and willing assistance, or chat away a weary half hour.

Towards the close of 1833, he announced to his friends that he

contemplated trying his fortune at the bar, and was easily persuaded,

with that view, to commence attendance at a professional debating

society, called "The Forensic," which, confined to barristers and

students for the bar, and established so long ago as 1815, has numbered

among its members almost every lawyer of eminence who has appeared since

that year, including Sir William Follett and Mr. J.W. Smith. He entered

this society on the 29th January, 1834; and I well recollect his first

essay at addressing it. It was upon the discussion of a legal question.

He was evidently very nervous when he rose, for the colour quite

deserted his cheek. His manner was cold, dry, and formal, and

sufficiently uninteresting, and uninviting. We were all, however, soon

struck by the book-like precision of his language, the clearness and

closeness of his reasoning, and the extent of his legal knowledge. He

spoke for about ten minutes; and, having risen amidst a half-suppressed

titter, sate down amidst earnest cries of "Hear, hear, hear!" He

afterwards spoke pretty regularly, especially upon legal questions; and

those who, in due course, were appointed beforehand to argue against

him, felt it expedient to come particularly well prepared! Shortly

before he was called to the bar, he said to me, with a timid, dejected

air, "It is a bold step; but I really don't see what else is to be done.

Why should I sit any longer perishing in chambers? Besides, my

'Mercantile Law' will be out in a month or two, and if it succeed, it

may _possibly_ give me a lift--so I shall try it." He was accordingly

called to the bar on the 2d May, 1834, selecting the Oxford Circuit and

the Hereford and Gloucester Sessions. "There are only two ways," I heard

him say, (quoting the well-known dictum of a late able judge,) "of

getting on at the bar, Pleading or Sessions. I have failed in the

former, I shall now try the latter. _Flectere si nequeo superos,

Acheronta movebo!_" I was, I confess, amongst those of his friends who

were not sanguine as to his prospects of success at the bar, regarding

him as unlikely to attract favourable notice in court practice. Shortly

after he had attended at the Sessions, however, he began to obtain a

little employment in petty cases there; and, contrary to expectation,

became very successful in defending prisoners: his acuteness, vigilance,

ingenuity, and legal knowledge--particularly of the law of

evidence--became more apparent in every succeeding case intrusted to

him. In spite of the dry formality of his manner, he soon attracted the

_understanding_ of his hearers, exhibiting great caution and judgment in

dealing with the evidence, his tenacious memory here standing him in

great stead. His start at sessions, however, seemed likely to lead to

nothing, on the civil side at the assizes--where his reception was

sufficiently disheartening. He attended regularly, nevertheless, both

assizes and sessions; during his stay in town labouring with

indefatigable energy in the acquisition of law. In 1835, he composed a

lucid little treatise on the Law of Practice, entitled, "An Elementary

View of the Proceedings in an Action at Law," distinguished by

simplicity, correctness, and condensation, and calculated to give

students a perspicuous view of an extremely dry and troublesome subject.

This also has become a standard book. In 1836, he wrote another little

work--one upon Patent Law, explanatory, in a practical way, of a statute

which had just before been passed, and had effected important

alterations in that department of law. He told me that "he did not like

to throw a chance away," and this "might possibly get him some briefs in

Patent cases;" but I suspect that in this he was disappointed. In the

same year he and I occupied our long vacation in preparing together a

work entitled "Select Extracts from Blackstone's Commentaries, carefully

adapted to the use of schools and young persons." We both took great

pains with this book, and it has had a large sale: but for some

whimsical reason or other, he would not allow his name to appear, though

particular in retaining a share in the copyright.

Neglected and discouraged though he was, he continued to prosecute his

studies with patient energy, appearing to me scarcely ever to spend an

idle moment. He attended very frequently the Courts at Westminster, and

on returning to chambers would spend the rest of the day in reading the

constantly-accumulating Reports, and noting their more important

contents in his favourite text-books. He constantly sat up till a very

late, or rather early hour in the morning, and would frequently, on

awaking, lie reading in bed till noon, when he would rise and take a

sparing breakfast. I recollect calling upon him one gloomy day in

December, about the time of which I am writing, to ask him to accompany

me home to dinner, as he generally did once or twice a-week. He suffered

a martyrdom from tooth-ache; and on this occasion had passed a miserable

night from that cause, not having slept at all, and his swollen face

betokened the violence of the fit. He had, nevertheless, got up much

earlier than usual, to oblige one of his friends, for whom he had

promised to draw some very pressing and difficult pleadings, which he

was finishing as I entered. When he had despatched his clerk with them,

he requested me to sit down and take a cup of tea with him, as he was

suffering, both from pain, and fatigue, and _ennui_. I never saw him in

so desponding an humour. He promised to dine with me on the morrow,

provided I would sit with him for an hour "gossiping," for he said that

he could not sleep, he could not sit still, he could not read or write.

I complied with his request, and stayed with him a long time. In the

course of conversation, I recollect him saying, that "He supposed he was

not to get on in the law; that he could not fight against the want of a

connexion." I reminded him that it was surely premature to hold such

language, and that he must bide his time,--when he interrupted me by

saying, shaking his head, "Ah, but while the grass grows the steed

starves." Presently he said, rather suddenly, "Should you be surprised

to hear of my entering the church?" "The church!" I echoed with

surprise.--"What do you see so wonderful in the notion of my going into

the church?" said he gravely. "Do you think me unfit for it?"--"Not at

all; but what I wonder at is, that you should dream of quitting the

bar."--"Why not, if I find that it will not afford me a living? Let me

tell you, that I am very partial to the study of Divinity, and have read

a good deal of it, much more than you would suppose. I think I should

like composing sermons, though it is very possible that they might not

be popular; and I suppose you will not deny that Divinity is a nobler

study than law?" He said much more in the same strain, which led me to

believe that the subject had for some time occupied his thoughts, and

that he had begun seriously to contemplate quitting the bar--at all

events, if another year should leave him as little likely to succeed in

obtaining practice, as that which was on the eve of closing. Many of

even his intimate friends were unaware of his partiality for Divinity,

and the extent to which he had studied it; for he was very reserved on

such matters.

I once told him that I had read the whole, of "Pearson on the Creed;" at

which, in his usual cold dry way, he replied, "So have I, and very

carefully. I liked it much. And I'll tell you another book that I have

read still more carefully, both in Latin and English--Mosheim's

'Ecclesiastical History.'" I have heard him say the same of Hooker's

"Ecclesiastical Polity." We have often discussed the merits of Jeremy

Taylor, Barrow, and South; the last of whom was a favourite of his. He

had a surprising knowledge of the Old and New Testaments. One of his

oldest and ablest friends, and whom he appointed one of his executors,

recently alluded, in conversation with me, to this circumstance, adding,

"Smith _read_ the Bible as few but he could read it; and _remembered_

it, as very few but he could remember it." I have occasionally myself

had evidence of his exact knowledge of very recondite portions of the

Old Testament; but, as already intimated, he was always cautious and

sparing in scriptural allusions or quotations. Since writing the

foregoing sentences, a learned friend has informed me, that Mr. Smith,

about two years before his death, had entered into a prolonged and

ardent discussion with him on the subject of the _Apostolical

Succession_, insisting that no one who did not assent to that doctrine,

was in reality, or could be conscientiously, a minister of the Church of

England. Again and again, during a considerable interval of time,

whenever they met, Mr. Smith pertinaciously renewed the discussion,--his

friend for some time doubting whether Mr. Smith had any other motive

than to amuse himself with the matter as one of mere logical exercise,

but being at length satisfied that he was sincerely expressing his own

opinions. To a brother of this gentleman, Mr. Smith became closely

attached, on discovering the extent and depth of his knowledge of

divinity, a subject on which they conversed whenever they could, Mr.

Smith exhibiting, on all such occasions, the utmost zest and energy. I

have already intimated the extent of his acquaintance with general

literature; to which it may be here added that he possessed a correct

and very extensive knowledge of history, ancient and modern. He knew it,

_and its true uses_; and was equally conversant with its minute details,

and its general scope and bearing, as illustrative of the practical

operation of political principles and doctrines. He always, in short,

appeared to me to be a man, whose first anxiety in all matters was to

obtain a thorough knowledge of details, of facts; and then experienced

delight in contemplating and reflecting upon them with a view to the

discovery or detection of some leading principle of action or conduct

involved in them. Such grave matters, however, did not alone occupy him;

for I never saw a more eager and indiscriminate reader of even the

ephemeral trash loading the shelves of circulating libraries. Scarcely a

novel, play, or magazine appeared, which he did not take up, and,

whenever they happened to be mentioned, show as complete a knowledge of

them as if they had been worthy of it. I have often laughed at him on

these accounts; he generally receiving my sallies with a sort of piqued

silence, or simply saying, "It amuses me." I think that this

circumstance is well accounted for by Mr. Phillimore--that Mr. Smith's

over-tasked mind found light and easy narrative, of any kind, a

relaxation.

Early in the year 1835 appeared a work on legal education, in which was

enforced the advantage to the student and practitioner, of early

mastering, as so many _nuclei_ of future legal acquisitions, a few of

the "_leading cases_" in the Law Reports, which suggested to Mr. Smith

the idea of writing a book under the name of "Leading Cases." He was

engaged upon it from about the middle of 1835 till the early part of

1837. There was no book of the kind extant. The idea was felicitous; but

much learning and judgment were requisite to work it out practically.

Mr. Smith proved himself, however, fully equal to the undertaking.

Though in 1835 and 1836 he composed and published, as we have seen, two

other minor professional works, he was all the while quietly elaborating

this more important performance, the first volume of which (in large

8vo) he published in March 1837. His plan was, to select from the

recognised Law Reports some of the chief Cases which had been decided in

the Common Law Courts, and which were of such superior importance as to

have become "Leading Cases," _i.e._ in his own words, "involving, and

being usually cited to establish some point or principle of real

practical importance." Each of these he made the basis of an elaborate

disquisition, in which, to continue his own explanation, "in order that

the consequences of each 'Case' might be understood, and its authority

estimated as easily as possible, NOTES" were "subjoined, in which were

collected subsequent decisions bearing on the points reported in the

text, and in which doctrines having some obvious connexion with them,"

were "occasionally discussed," ... "without allowing them to digress so

far from the subject matter of the text, as to distract the reader's

mind from that to which they ought to be subsidiary." It is difficult to

speak in terms too highly commendatory of this masterly performance--one

quite of a judicial tone of investigation--and which, immediately upon

its appearance, arrested the attention of all persons competent to form

an opinion on the subject, as a sterling and permanent addition to the

highest class of legal literature, and entitled its author to be

regarded as really a first rate lawyer. Almost all the judges, and the

most eminent members of the bar, wrote to him in terms of warm respect

and approbation; and to this moment evince the same appreciation of the

excellence of the work by quoting it, not more frequently in the

arguments of counsel than in the most elaborate judgments delivered by

the bench. It is indeed difficult to know which most to admire--the

great extent and unerring accuracy of his law, or the clearness and

precision of his reasoning, rendering simple and easy of apprehension

the most obscure and perplexing subjects. The "Cases" were selected with

great judgment out of the many thousands contained in the Reports; and

whether he confirms, or questions, or illustrates the doctrine

established by the case upon which he is annotating, he exhibits the

same modest freedom, masterly ease, accuracy, and subtlety of

discrimination, distinctness of thought, and complete familiarity with

the progress of legal decision. Every note, in short, is a model of

legal analysis; and the style, also, is pure, simple, terse, and

perspicuous. He dedicated this work to his former tutor Mr. Blick: and I

recollect our having a long discussion upon the original terms of the

dedication; which were these, "To Richard Granger Blick, Esq., this work

is inscribed by his obliged friend and pupil." I suggested the insertion

of the word "_former_," before "pupil:" without which, I said, it might

appear that the work had been written by one still in _statu pupillari_.

He was a man always difficult to convince of the impropriety of any

thing on which he had once determined. He quitted my chamber unconvinced

by what I had said: but the dedication afterwards appeared in accordance

with my suggestion. I recollect being highly amused by the pertinacious

ingenuity with which he defended his own view of the case. The fame of

this work was not, however, confined to this country, but soon reached

the United States of America, where it immediately met with the most

flattering reception, and is at this moment accounted an established

text-book, and quoted as an authority by their best writers and judges.

I recollect Mr. Smith one day coming to me, and asking me, with a quaint

mixture of mystery, pleasure, and embarrassment, if I would "be sure not

to mention to any one what he was going to tell me:" and on my promising

him that I would not, he showed me a letter which he had just received

from that eminent American jurist, Mr. Justice Story, himself one of the

most elaborate and successful, legal writers of his age, and whose works

are continually cited by both Bench and Bar in their country, with the

utmost respect in this country, in which are contained the following.

"I consider your work among the most valuable additions to judicial

literature which have appeared for many years. The 'Notes' are

excellent, and set forth the leading principles of the various cases in

the most satisfactory form, with an accuracy and nicety of

discrimination equally honourable to yourself and to our common

profession. I know not, indeed, if any work can be found which more

perfectly accomplishes the purpose of the author.... I hope that your

life may long be spared, so that you may be able to devote yourself to

similar labours for the advancement of the learning and honour of the

profession." Alas! both Mr. Justice Story and Mr. Smith, each a great

ornament to his country, died within a few months of each other. When I

congratulated my friend on this encomium, from so competent and eminent

a judge, he replied modestly--"_Laudari à laudato viro_ is certainly

pleasing."

So great was the demand for this work, that Mr. Smith's publisher urged

him to proceed as quickly as possible with the second volume, which he

had, in his preface to the former one, announced his intention of doing,

in the event of the first portion of his labours meeting with the

approbation of the profession. He accordingly at once set to work upon

the second volume; and although he was beginning to have serious calls

upon his time, owing principally to his having accepted the appointment,

in November 1837, of Common Law Lecturer to the Law Institution, such

were his energy and industry, that by the 12th of May, 1838, he had

succeeded in bringing out the first part of the second volume, which was

fully equal in execution to the first. While, however, he was receiving

with his usual modesty the congratulations of his friends on this solid

addition to his reputation, he received a sort of _checkmate_, which

embarrassed and utterly confounded him; occasioning him infinitely

greater annoyance and mortification than he ever experienced in his

life. A highly respectable firm of law booksellers, the publishers of

his "Compendium of Mercantile Law," and to whom he had also offered the

publication of his "Leading Cases," which they had declined, without the

slightest intimation of any objection to the principle of selecting the

"Cases," which he had explained fully to them, suddenly took it into

their heads, that in thus selecting some few cases from "Reports"

published by them, as mere texts for his masterly legal discussions, he

had been guilty of PIRACY! and actually filed a bill in Equity against

him and his publisher, to restrain them "from printing, selling, or

publishing any copies of the first part of the second volume." I never

saw Mr. Smith exhibit such intense vexation as that occasioned him by

this proceeding: he felt at once his own honour impugned, and that he

might have seriously compromised the character and interests of his

publisher. Such, however, was the confidence in the justice of his case

felt by the latter, that he resolved to resist this attack upon his own

rights and those of Mr. Smith to the very last; and he did so, at his

own expense, and with triumphant success. The Vice-Chancellor of

England, (Sir Launcelot Shadwell,) after an elaborate argument, refused

to grant the desired injunction--expressing his very decided opinion

"that on the substance of the case, and on the conduct of the

plaintiffs, (the publishers in question,) they were not entitled to the

injunction which they had asked." Against this decision the plaintiffs

immediately appealed to the present Lord Chancellor, Lord Cottenham,

who, after another very elaborate argument, and taking time to consider,

delivered a luminous judgment confirming the decision of the

Vice-Chancellor, triumphantly vindicating the propriety of both author

and publisher's conduct, and supporting the right which Mr. Smith had

thought proper to exercise; and his lordship dismissed the appeal with

costs.[5] Thus ended, what has always appeared to me a very absurd, and

as the event proved, expensive experiment, on the part of the

plaintiffs. Only one of them now carries on the business, and is a

gentleman of such high respectability, and also liberality in his

dealings with the profession, that I feel satisfied he had really very

little part in this most unsatisfactory proceeding. Mr. Smith's right

to continue his selections from the Reports, for the purpose of

annotation, having been thus established, and the excellence and

importance of his labours conspicuously made known (had that, indeed,

been necessary) to the entire profession, he at once proceeded with, and

in due time completed the remaining portion of the second volume; and

for the sake of legal science, it is to be lamented that there this

admirable work ended. Mr. Smith felt no exultation at the defeat of this

most thoughtless and unjustifiable attack upon him, nor evinced any

pleasure in the friendly congratulations showered upon him. His

sensitive mind had, indeed, been thoroughly shocked by the imputation

which had been sought to be fixed upon him; and the only feeling on the

subject which he ever expressed to me, or appeared to entertain, was one

of calm indignation. I must say that in this I think he was abundantly

justified. He repeatedly told me that he should never write another

book, for "that he had had quite enough of it." As it happened, he never

did; nor do I think that he would ever have done so, even had his career

not been cut short by death. Whenever works of solid interest and

importance in general literature appeared, Mr. Smith was very eager to

peruse them, and seldom failed in doing so. I recollect him one day

borrowing from me the first volume of Mr. Hallam's, "Introduction to the

Literature of Europe in the 15th, 16th, and 17th Centuries," which was

published alone early in 1837. He read it with great interest, and

reviewed it very ably in this Magazine--his only contribution to its

pages, in the No. for May, 1837.

[5] The leading Counsel for the plaintiffs was the present

Vice-Chancellor Knight Bruce; for the defendants the present

Vice-Chancellor Wigram.

He was about the same time reading largely in the State Trials, and

frequently conversed with me upon their interesting character, wondering

that they had so seldom been made really available for the purposes of

amusing literature. He himself selected one of the trials as one

possessed of peculiar capabilities, and intended to have completed it

for this Magazine, but was prevented by his other labours. These lighter

occupations, however, were soon interfered with by his appointment, as

already intimated, to be Common Law Lecturer to the Law Institution in

Chancery Lane, in November, 1837. This he owed entirely to his own

merit, and the reputation which his writings had already gained him in

the profession. I knew that fears were entertained by the directors of

that important institution, lest his unpopular _manner_ should stand in

the way of his usefulness as a lecturer; but aware of his rare

intellectual and legal qualifications, they wisely resolved to try an

experiment, which completely succeeded. I recollect accompanying him, at

his own request, to deliver his first lecture, at the close of 1837. He

was somewhat fluttered when he made his appearance before his audience,

but at once commenced reading with apparent calmness, a very able

introductory lecture, which soon arrested attention, and caused the

committee who sat before him to congratulate themselves on their

selection. He held this appointment till March, 1843, during which time

he delivered a great number of lectures to increasingly attentive

auditories; and as he read over several portions of them to me, I am

able to say that, in my humble judgment, they were of the highest value,

for their clear, close, and correct exposition of some of the most

difficult branches of the law. He had a great talent for communicating

elementary information; and even the most ignorant and stolid of his

listeners could scarce avoid understanding his simple and lucid

explanations of legal principles. One series of his lectures on "The Law

of Contracts," has just (1846,) been published[6] _verbatim_ from his

MSS. as they were delivered, and fully justifies the opinion here

expressed. He never designed them for publication, but solely for

delivery to the attorneys' and solicitors' clerks, for whom the

lectureship was founded; yet it is doubtful whether there be any book

extant in which the difficult and extensive subject of contracts is,

and that within the space of ten short lectures, comparably treated. The

most youthful student, with only moderate attention, can acquire from

it, in a short time, correct general notions calculated to be of

infinite service to him, while able practitioners will regard it as at

once concise, accurate, and practical, and evincing a thorough mastery

of the subject in all its branches. In the words of his editor, "The

lectures embody the chief _principles_ of that branch of the law, and

will be found equal to any of the former productions of the author for

that clear, concise, and comprehensive exposition of his subject, which

has characterised his works, and ensured the vitality of his reputation;

popularising a branch of law which peculiarly affects the ordinary

business of life; divesting it of the superfluities with which it is

often encumbered; educing the great maxims, and broad rules by which it

is moulded, and unravelling the perplexity in which an occasional

conflict of judgments had from time to time involved it." I am not aware

that Mr. Symonds had any personal knowledge of Mr. Smith, so that the

more valuable is his concluding eulogium,--"That the profession already

ranks him as among the most gifted of its writers, and most learned of

modern lawyers." As an example of the ease and precision with which he

elucidated the most difficult subjects, and brought them to the level of

youthful capacities, I select the following brief passage on a most

practically important subject, that of the "consideration" essential to

support a valid simple contract, according to the civil law and that of

England.[7] After explaining the doctrine of "_Nudum pactum_," he thus

proceeds:--

[6] In one vol. 8vo, pp. 386, Benning & Co. Fleet Street,

accompanied by Notes by Jelinger C. Symons, Esq. Barrister-at-Law.

[7] But not that of Scotland. Bell's Princip. Law of Scotland, p. 4,

(4th Edition.)

"Now, with regard to the question,--_What does the law of England

recognise as a consideration capable of supporting a simple contract?_

the short practical rule" [after adverting to a well-known passage in

Blackstone, for which he substitutes his own definition] "is, that _any

benefit accruing to him who makes the promise, or any loss, trouble, or

disadvantage undergone by, or charge imposed upon, him to who it is

made_, is a sufficient consideration in the eye of the law to sustain an

assumpsit. Thus, let us suppose that I promise to pay B £50 at

Christmas. Now there must be a _consideration_ to sustain this promise.

It may be that B has lent me £50; here is a consideration by way of

_benefit_ or _advantage_ to me. It may be that he has performed, or has

agreed to perform, some laborious service for me; if so, here is a

consideration by way of _inconvenience_ to _him_, and of advantage to me

at the same time. It may be that he is to labour for a third person at

my request; here will be _inconvenience_ to him, without advantage to

_me_: or it may be that he has become surety for some one at my request;

here is a _charge_ imposed upon him: any of these will be a good

consideration to sustain the promise on my part....

"Provided there be _some_ benefit to the contractor, or _some_ loss,

trouble, inconvenience, or charge imposed upon the contractor, so as to

constitute a _consideration_, the courts are not willing to enter into

the question whether that consideration be ADEQUATE in value to the

thing which is promised in exchange for it. Very gross inadequacy,

indeed, would be an index of fraud, and might afford evidence of the

existence of fraud; and fraud, as I have already stated to you, is a

ground on which the performance of any contract may be resisted. But if

there be no suggestion that the party promising has been defrauded, or

deceived, the court will not hold the promise invalid upon the ground of

mere _inadequacy_; for it is obvious, that to do so would be to exercise

a sort of tyranny over the transactions of parties who have a right to

fix their own value upon their own labour and exertions, but would be

prevented from doing so were they subject to a legal scrutiny on each

occasion, on the question whether the bargain had been such as a prudent

man would have entered into. Suppose, for instance, I think fit to give

£1000, for a picture not worth £50: it is foolish on my part; but, if

the owner do not take me in, as the phrase is, no _injury_ is done. I

_may_ have my reasons. Possibly I may think that I am a better judge of

painting than my neighbours, and that I have detected in the picture the

touch of Raphael or Correggio. It would be hard to prevent me from

buying it, and hard to prevent my neighbour from making the best of his

property, provided he do not take me in by telling me a false story

about it. Accordingly, in the absence of fraud, mere _inadequacy_ of

consideration is no ground for avoiding a contract."[8]

[8] Pp. 88-96.

Those who are acquainted with the practical difficulties of this

subject, will best appreciate the cautious accuracy, and yet elementary

simplicity and clearness, which characterised his teaching: he being

then, be it remembered, little more than twenty-eight years of age.

His writings having thus led to his being placed in a situation where he

had ample opportunities for exhibiting legitimately to the profession

his great legal acquirements and abilities, it was not long before he

became sensible of making his way, but gradually, nevertheless, into

business. He had given up practising at sessions some time before, and

resolved thenceforth to address himself entirely to civil business in

London, and at the Assizes. The late Mr. Robert Vaughan Richards,

Q.C.,[9] then one of the leaders of the Oxford Circuit, and himself an

eminent lawyer and accomplished scholar, was one of the earliest to

detect the superior qualifications of Mr. Smith, and lost no fair and

legitimate opportunity of enabling him to exhibit his abilities, by

naming him as an arbitrator, when the most important causes at the

Assizes had been agreed to be so disposed of; and he invariably gave the

highest satisfaction to both parties--the counsel before him, in

arbitrations both in town and country, finding it necessary to conduct

their cases as carefully as if they were before one of the astutest

judges on the bench. Though many important causes were thus referred to

him, and were attended by some of the most experienced members of the

bar, I am not aware of any instance in which his decisions were

afterwards reversed by, or even questioned before, the courts. When once

he had obtained a fair "start" on his circuit, he quickly overcame the

disadvantages of a person and manner which one _might_ characterise more

strongly than as unprepossessing. Few cases of great importance were

tried, in which Mr. Smith was not early engaged; and the entire conduct

of the cause, up to the hour of trial, confidently intrusted to his

masterly management. Amongst many others may be mentioned the great will

case of _Panton v. Williams_, and that of James Wood of Gloucester, and

other well-known cases. He was, without exception, one of the ablest

_pleaders_ with whom I ever came into contact: equally quick, sure, and

long-headed in selecting his point of attack or defence with reference

to the ultimate decision, skilfully escaping from difficulties, and

throwing his opponent in the way of them, and of such, too, as not many

would have had the sagacity to have foreseen, or thought of speculating

upon. A recent volume of the Law Reports contains a case which, though

his name does not appear in it, attests his appreciated superiority. It

involved a legal point of much difficulty, and so troublesome in its

facts as to have presented insuperable obstacles to two gentlemen

successively, one under the bar, the other at the bar, and both eminent

for their knowledge and experience. Their pleadings were, however,

successfully demurred to; and then their client was induced to lay the

case before Mr. Smith, who took quite a new view of the matter, in

accordance with which he framed the pleadings, and when the case came on

to be argued by the gentleman, (an eminent Queen's Counsel,) who has

recently mentioned it to me, he succeeded, and without difficulty. "I

never," said he, "saw a terribly bepuzzled case so completely

disentangled--I never saw the real point so beautifully put forward: we

won by doing little else than stating the course of the pleadings; the

court holding that the point was almost too clear for argument." I could

easily multiply such instances. Mr. Smith had a truly astonishing

facility in mastering the most intricate state of facts; as rapidly

acquiring a knowledge of them, as he accurately and tenaciously retained

even the slightest circumstances. He seldom used precedents, (often

observing that "no man who understood his business needed them, except

in very special occasions;") and, though a rapid draughtsman, it was

rarely, indeed, that he laid himself open to attack in matters of even

mere formal inaccuracy, while he was lynx-eyed enough to those of his

opponents. When _he_ was known to be the party who had demurred, his

adversaries began seriously to think of _amending_! When his cases were

ripe for argument _in banc_, he took extreme pains to provide himself

with authorities on every point which he thought it in the least

probable might be started against him by either the bench or the bar. I

told him, on one of these occasions, that I thought "he need not give

his enemy credit for such far-sighted astuteness."--"Oh," said he

quickly, "never undervalue an opponent: besides, I like turning up

law--I don't forget it, and, as Lord Coke says, it is sure to be useful

at some time or another." In court, he was absorbed in his case,

appearing to be sensible of the existence of nothing else but his

opponent and the bench. He was very calm, quiet, and silent, rarely, if

ever interrupting, and then always on a point proving to be of adequate

importance. He did not take copious or minute notes on his brief, but

never missed any thing of the least real significance or moment. When he

rose to speak, his manner was formal and solemn, even to a degree of

eccentricity calculated to provoke a smile from the hearers. His voice

was rather loud and hard, his features were inflexible, his utterance

was exceedingly deliberate, and his language precise and elaborate. His

motions were very slight, and, such as he had, ungraceful: for he would

stand with his right arm a little raised, and the hand hanging down

passively by his side for a long time together, except when a slight

vertical motion appeared--he, the while, unconscious of the

indication--to show that he was uttering what he considered very

material. When a question was put to him by the judges, he always paused

for a moment or two to consider how best he should answer it; and if it

_could_ be answered, an answer precise and pointed indeed he would give

it. He afforded, in this instance, a contrast to the case of a gentleman

then at the bar, about whom he has often laughed heartily with me.

"Whenever," said he, "the judges put a question to ----, however subtle

and dangerous it may be, and though he evidently cannot in the least

degree perceive the drift of it, before the words are out of their

mouths, he, as it were, thrusts them down again with a confident

good-humoured volubility, a kind of jocular recklessness of law and

logic, which often makes one wonder whether the judges are more inclined

to be angry or amused; nay, I have once or twice seen one of them lean

back and laugh outright, poor ---- looking upon that as an evidence of

his own success!" How different was the case with Mr. Smith, is known to

every one who has heard him argue with the judges. Nothing consequently

could be more flattering than the evident attention with which they

listened to him, and most properly; for he never threw away a word,

never wandered from the point, and showed on all occasions such a

complete mastery of his facts, and such an exact and extensive knowledge

of the law applicable to them, as not only warranted but required the

best attention of those whose duty it was to decide the case. His manner

was very respectful to the bench, without a trace of servility; and to

those associated with him, or opposed to him, he was uniformly courteous

and considerate. When he had to follow his leader, or even two of them,

he would frequently give quite another tone to the case, a new direction

to the argument, and draw his opponents and the judges after him,

unexpectedly, into the deeper waters of law. He was also distinguished

by a most scrupulous and religions fidelity and accuracy of statement,

whether of cases or facts, and documents, especially affidavits. The

judges felt that they might rely upon every syllable that fell from him;

that he was too accurate and cautious to be mistaken, too conscientious

to suppress, garble, mislead, or deceive, with whatever safety or

apparent advantage he might have done so. I have heard him say, that he

who made rash and ill-considered statements in arguing in a court of

justice, was not worthy of being there, and ought to be pitied or

despised, according as the fault arose from timidity and inexperience,

or confirmed carelessness or indifference, or fraudulent intention to

deceive. It was in arguing before the court _in banc_, that Mr. Smith so

much excelled; being equally lucid in stating and arranging his facts,

logical in reasoning upon them, and ready in bringing to bear on them

the most recondite doctrines of law. He was certainly not calculated to

have ever made a figure at Nisi Prius; yet I recollect one day that one

of the present judges, then a Queen's Counsel, was talking to me in

court as Mr. Smith entered, and said, "What think you? your friend Smith

has been opposing me to-day in a writ of inquiry to assess damages in a

crim. con. case." I laughed. "Ay, indeed,--I thought myself that if

there was a man at the bar more unfit than another for such a case, it

was Smith; but I do assure you that he conducted the defendant's case

with so much tact and judgment, that he reduced my verdict by at least

£500! He really spoke with a good deal of feeling and spirit, and when

the Jury had got accustomed to him, they listened most attentively; and

the result is what I tell you."

[9] To this gentleman he dedicated, in 1843, the third edition of

his "Mercantile Law." Within a very few months of each other, both

of them died--Mr. Richards himself having, as he once told me,

ruined his health by his intense and laborious prosecution of his

profession. He had found it necessary to retire a year or two before

his death. His brother, also, Mr. Griffith Richards, Q.C., one of

the ablest members of the Chancery Bar, recently died under similar

circumstances.

Following the course of his professional progress, in 1840 Mr. Smith was

appointed a revising barrister for one of the counties on his circuit,

by Mr. Baron Alderson, who was personally a stranger to him, and named

him for the office solely on account of his eminent fitness for the

post. He held it for several years, giving unmixed satisfaction to all

parties, until precluded from further retaining it, in reference, I

believe, to a rule of etiquette respecting seniority, prevailing at the

bar of the Oxford circuit.

I recollect that, on one occasion, while he was waiting, apparently in

vain, for the chance of professional employment, and not long before the

occurrence of that moment of despondency already mentioned, when he

contemplated quitting the profession, he and I were walking in the

Temple Gardens, and he said, "Now, if I were to choose my future life at

the bar, I should, of all things, like to have, and should be delighted

with, a first-rate pleading business; not made up of many petty things,

but of a few very important cases,--of 'heavy business,' in short. I

feel that I could get on very well with it, and that it is just the

thing suited to me. It would exercise my mind, and also secure me a

handsome income, and, before long, an independence. What I should do

_then_ I don't know." His wishes were amply gratified a few years

afterwards, as the reader must have already seen. So rapidly, indeed,

did the calls of private practice increase upon him, that he was forced,

early in 1843, to resign his lectureship at the Law Institution, having,

in fact, got fairly into the stream of his desired "first-rate pleading

business" to an extent which heavily taxed both his physical and mental

energies. Whatever was brought to him, he attended to thoroughly, never

resting till he had completely exhausted the subject, and contemplated

it from every point of view. Even at this time, however, it would be

incredible to what an extent he obliged his friends at the bar,

principally by preparing for them arguments, and sketching for them

"opinions" on their cases, and these, too, generally of special

difficulty and importance. Some of the most admirable arguments

delivered by others of late, at the bar of the House of Lords, had been

really prepared by Mr. Smith. In one instance, indeed, I recollect

hearing the ablest living lawyer and advocate mention, that in a

particular cause of great magnitude, not having found it possible even

to open his ponderous brief before he was called upon to argue, he had

time, before he rose, barely to glance over a very brief "epitome" of

the facts, and of the _real_, though unsuspected point in which the case

ought to be decided, which had been prepared for his assistance by Mr.

Smith. In confident reliance upon his accuracy in matters both of fact

and law, the counsel in question boldly opened the case, implicitly

adopting, and ably enforcing Mr. Smith's view of it, and succeeded in

obtaining the judgment of the House. Mr. Smith never spoke, however, of

these his subsidiary labours to others, nor liked ever to have any

allusion made, to the subject. It was impossible that he could get

through all this business without sitting up during most of the night;

and I know that, for the last three or four years of his life, he was

rarely in bed before two, and sometimes three, and even four o'clock,

having to be, nevertheless, at Westminster or Guildhall as early as ten

o'clock, or half-past nine, on the ensuing morning. While thus arduously

engaged, he kept a constant eye upon the progress of the decisions of

the various courts, as bearing upon his "Mercantile Law," and "Leading

Cases," interleaved copies of which always lay on his table before him,

and received almost daily MS. additions. Thus it was that he was able,

in 1841 and 1843, to present new editions of his "Leading Cases," and

"Mercantile Law," greatly enlarged and improved, and in many instances,

especially in the "Leading Case," entirely remodelled. Nor was he, with

all this, so absorbed as to forget literature; for, amidst his piles of

opened law-books, you might often see a well-used copy of some classic

English, French, Spanish, or Italian author, either prose or poetry,

which he would read with equal zest and attention, as his pencil-marks

in such volumes even now attest. As for "Don Quixote", and "Gil Blas," I

really think he knew them almost by heart, in the originals. He was also

very fond of Tacitus, Cicero, and Demosthenes, from all of whom, as well

as the other leading classics, but especially the two latter, he could

quote to a surprising extent, and with signal accuracy--a fact well

known to all his friends. Of this, indeed, Mr. Phillimore[10] has given

a striking instance, in his sketch of Mr. Smith in the "Law Magazine."

After observing that "his memory was, indeed, astonishing, and the feats

which he performed with it were incredible; that the writer had heard

him repeat, successively, scene after scene from a French

vaudeville,--the Record in an Action filling up the "&c.'s," and a

passage from a Greek orator, without the least apparent difficulty or

hesitation," Mr. Phillimore proceeds to say, that the passage in

question "was one of the finest in the Greek language, being in the

speech of Æschines, which the most celebrated effort of the genius of

Demosthenes was required to answer; when, after adjuring the Athenians

not to raise a trophy to their own loss and shame, nor awaken in the

minds of their confederates the recollection of their misfortunes, he

proceeds--'[Greek: all' epeidê tois sômasin ou paregenesthe, alla tais

ge dianoiais apoblepsat' autôn eis tas symphoras],' &c., down to the

words, '[Greek: episkêptontas mêdeni tropôi ton tês helladus aleitêrion

stephanoun],' the writer well remembering that Mr. Smith insisted

particularly on the extraordinary force and beauty of the word, '[Greek:

episkêptontas].'" I, also, have often heard him quote long passages from

the Greek dramatists, particularly from "Aristophanes," really

_impromptu_, and with as much facility and vivacity as if he had been

reading English. I have already intimated that he read many of the new

publications of the day. One of these was Mr. Macaulay's "Lays of

Ancient Rome," with which he was much amused, saying that "some of them

were very clever and spirited;" and, after reading them, he sate down

one evening and wrote a humorous parody on them, which he showed me,

entitled, "Lay of Gascoigne Justice," prefaced by an "Extract from a

Manuscript of a Late Reporter," who says, "I had observed numerous

traces, in the old reports and entries, of the use of _Rhythm_ in the

enunciation of legal doctrines; and, pursuing the investigation, I at

length persuaded myself that, in the infancy of English law, the

business of the court was transacted _in verse_, or, at least, rhythm,

sometimes without, but on grand and solemn occasions with, the aid of

music; a practice which seems to have been introduced by the

ecclesiastical advocates." After a humorous argument in support of this

notion, he concludes: "The following attempt to restore certain of these

_Lays of Ancient Law_ is conceived, as the original lays themselves

probably were, partly in bad English, partly in Dog-Latin." Then follows

the "Lay of Gascoigne Justice, Chanted by Cooke and Coke, Serjeants, and

Plowden, Apprentice in the Hall of Serjeants' Inn, A.D., 15--." The

subject of the Lay was a certain highway exploit of Prince Harry, Poins,

and Peto. Poins gets into trouble, being brought incontinently before

Gascoigne Justice, "presiding at the Bailey." The concluding verses

contain a just satire on certain gross defects in the administration of

criminal justice, which have been only very recently remedied.

[10] "Law Magazine," N.S. Vol. lxx. p. 183.

"When Poins he spied, ho, ho! he cried,

The caitiff hither bring!

We'll have a quick deliverance,

Betwixt him and the King:

And sooth he said, for justice sped

In those days at a rate

Which _now_ 'twere vain to seek to gain,

In matters small or great.

* * * *

For sundry wise precautions,

The sages of the law

Discreetly framed, whereby they aimed

To keep the rogues in awe.

For lest some sturdy criminal

False witnesses should bring--

_His witnesses were not allowed

To swear to any thing_.

And lest his oily advocate

The court should overreach,

_His advocate was not allowed

The privilege of speech_.

Yet such was the humanity

And wisdom of the law!

That if in his indictment there

Appeared to be a flaw--

The court assigned him counsellors,

To argue on the doubt,

_Provided he himself had first

Contrived to point it out_.

Yet lest their mildness should perchance

Be craftily abused,

_To show him the indictment they

Most sturdily refused_.

But still that he might understand

The nature of the charge,

_The same was in the Latin tongue

Read out to him at large_.

'Twas thus the law kept rogues at awe,

Gave honest men protection,

And justly famed, by all was named,

Of '_wisdom the perfection_!'

But _now_ the case is different,

The rogues are getting bold--

It was not so, some time ago,

In those good days of old!"

It may be gathered from what has gone before, that Mr. Smith's mind was

one of equal _activity_ and strength. His physical energies might flag,

but never those of his mind. He was always ready to pass from protracted

and intense professional study and exertion, to other kinds of mental

exercise--"from gay to grave, from lively to severe"--either reading

general literature, or amusing himself with slight affairs such as the

foregoing; or, as soon as a little leisure had recruited his spirits,

entering with infinite zest into superior conversation on almost any

topic that could be started. He was for a long time shy and distant to

strangers; but was quite a different person at the tables, and in the

company, of his old friends and companions. There certainly never sate

at _my_ table a man who, when in the humour, could supply for hours

together such genuine fun and amusement as Mr. Smith. Our little

children were always very glad to see him, for he was patient and gentle

with them, and contrived really to entertain them. Towards ladies, his

manner was always most fastidiously delicate and courteous. There was,

if I may so speak, a smack of days gone by--a kind of antique and rather

quaint gracefulness of demeanour and address, which I used frequently to

contemplate with lively interest and curiosity. When he returned from

dining out, to his chambers, he would light his candles, and, instead of

going to bed, sit up till a very late hour; for not only had he much to

get through, but was a bad sleeper. A few years before his death, he had

become a member of the Garrick Club, which was ever after his favourite

resort, and was also frequented by several other members of the bar. He

was delighted to take a friend or two to dinner with him, and would

entertain them most hospitably, and with increasing frequency, as his

means became rapidly more ample. He was also fond of the theatres,

taking special delight in comedies and farces, however broad, and even

pantomimes. With what solemn drollery he would afterwards dwell on the

feats of Clown and Pantaloon! I am here, however, speaking of several

years ago; for latterly he said, "It was a very hard thing to find any

thing to laugh at in a pantomime, however much one tried!"

During the years 1842, 1843, and 1844, his practice continued steadily

increasing, and that, too, in the highest and most lucrative class of

business--not only before special juries at Nisi Prius, and the Courts

in Banc and in Error in the Exchequer Chamber, but in the Privy Council

and the House of Lords. Before the last tribunal, in particular, he

appeared as one of the counsel in the O'Connell case, on behalf of Mr.

O'Connell and his companions. His time was now incessantly occupied, by

day and night; his slight intervals of relaxation necessarily becoming

fewer and fewer. His evenings, indeed, were almost always occupied with

arbitrations, consultations, or preparing those pleadings and writing

those opinions which his constant attendance in the Courts prevented his

_then_ disposing of. His friends saw with pain how grievously he was

over-tasking his strength, and earnestly importuned him to give himself

more intervals of relaxation--but in vain. For nearly two years before

his death, his haggard countenance evidenced the direful havoc which he

was making of a constitution never of the strongest. Sir William Follett

and he were both sitting at the bar of the House of Lords, on one of the

latest days of the hearing of Mr. O'Connell's case, each within a yard

or two of me. Two death-doomed beings they looked, each, alas! having

similarly provoked and accelerated his fate. On the same afternoon that

Sir William Follett leaned heavily and feebly on a friend's arm as he

with difficulty retired from the bar, I went home in a cab with Mr.

Smith, who sate by me silent and exhausted, and coughing convulsively. I

repeatedly conjured him to pause, and give his shattered health a chance

of recovery, by retiring for a few months, or even for a year or two,

from the excitement and wasting anxieties and exertions of business; but

he never would listen to me, nor to any of his friends. "It is all very

well," he said to me several times, "to talk of retiring _for a while_;

but what is to become of one's business and connexion in the mean time?

You know it will have melted away for ever." He had, however, been

persuaded to consult a physician of experienced skill in cases of

consumption; who, after having once or twice seen him, sent a private

message to the friend who had prevailed on Mr. Smith to call upon him;

and on that friend's attending the physician, he pronounced the case to

be utterly hopeless; that it might be a matter of months, even; but he

ought to be prepared for the worst, and apprised of his situation. His

friend requested the physician to undertake that duty, assuring him of

his patient's great strength of mind and character: but he declined. Mr.

Smith spent the long vacation of 1844 with his brothers and sisters in

Ireland. They were shocked at his appearance, and affectionately

implored him not to return to England, or attempt to resume his

professional duties; but in vain. While staying in Ireland, he regretted

the fast flight of time, evidently clinging to the society of his

brothers and sisters, to the latter of whom he was most devotedly

attached; but bleak, bitter, blighting November saw him again

established at the Temple, and fairly over head and ears in the business

of the commencing term. He attended the courts as usual; went out in the

evenings to arbitrations and consultations as of old; dined also at the

Garrick as before, and sat up as late at nights as ever. We all sighed

at this deplorable infatuation; but what could we do? He was a man of

inflexible will, and a peculiar idiosyncracy. Remonstrance and entreaty,

from the first useless, at length evidently became only irritating. Not

a judge on the bench, nor a member of the bar, but regretted to see him

persist in attending the courts; where he sat and stood, indeed, a

piteous spectacle. He resolved on going the Spring Circuit in 1845,

being retained in some of the heaviest cases tried there. Shortly before

this, the friend already referred to resolved to perform the painful

duty of telling him, that in his physician's opinion there was not a ray

of hope for his recovery; a communication which he received with perfect

calmness and fortitude. To his brother's entreaties, about the month of

June, that he would either go abroad, accompanied by one of his brothers

or sisters, or allow the latter to come and live with him, in a house a

little removed from town, he steadily turned a deaf ear. He evidently

knew that it was useless; and spoke of his desperate state as calmly as

he would have done in referring to the case of a mere stranger. It is

believed that his sole reason for refusing to permit his sister to come

over, was his fond and tender regard for her--a reluctance to permit her

to witness him waste away, injuring in vain her own health and spirits.

About this time, he said to his brother very quietly, but sadly, that

"he feared his sisters would soon have to bear a severe shock!" He sat

in his chambers, which were within only a few yards' distance from the

Temple Church, on the day of Sir William Follett's funeral. He heard the

tolling of the bell, and from his window[11] he could have seen much of

that solemn ceremonial. What must have been his feelings? This was on

the 4th July; and five days afterwards, (viz. on the 9th,) poor Mr.

Smith appeared, I believe for the last time in the Court of Exchequer,

during the post-terminal sittings in Trinity vacation, to argue a

demurrer! I was present during part of the time. What a dismal object he

looked, while addressing the Court! I think we drove up to the Temple

together. He had argued the case of Bradburne _v._ Botfield, (reported

in 14 Meeson and Welsby, 558,) the last time, I believe, that his name

appears in the Reports. It was a very nice question, as to whether

certain covenants in a lease were joint or several: his argument was

successful, and the Court gave judgment in his favour. The next day he

said to me, speaking of this occasion, "The judges must have thought me

talking great nonsense: I was so weak, that it was with very great

difficulty I could keep from dropping down, for my legs trembled under

me all the time violently, and now and then I seemed to lose sight of

the judges." Yet his argument was distinguished by his usual accuracy,

clearness, and force of reasoning. Nobody could prevail upon him to

abstain from going the summer circuit. He went accordingly, and unless I

am mistaken, held several heavy briefs. When the northern circuit had

closed, I joined my family at Hastings; and found that poor Mr. Smith

was staying alone at the Victoria Hotel, St. Leonards. I called upon him

immediately after my arrival. His appearance was truly afflicting to

behold. Consumption had fixed her talons still deeper in his vitals. He

sat in an easy chair, from which he could not rise without great effort;

and he expressed himself as delighted that I, and another of his oldest

friends, happened to have established ourselves so near him. He was

quite alone--no friend or relative with him; several briefs, &c. lay on

his table, together with the most recent numbers of the Reports, several

law-books, and works on general literature. A Bible also lay in the

room, with several papers placed within the leaves. Nothing could exceed

the attention paid him by the landlady and her daughter, and the

servants; but he gave them very little trouble. His cough was much

aggravated, as were the wasting night-sweats; and he could walk only a

few steps without assistance. Soon after having got to Hastings, I was

summoned away to attend a court-martial at Leeds, which kept me there

for upwards of a fortnight. On my return, Mr. Smith expressed a lively

anxiety to hear from me a detailed account of "how the military managed

law." He seemed never tired of hearing of those "curious proceedings,"

as he styled them. I spent nearly two hours a day with him during the

remainder of my stay, accompanying him in long drives whenever the

weather permitted. Weak though his body was, his mind was as active and

strong as ever. I saw several as heavy "sets" of papers, from time to

time, forwarded by his clerk from London, according to Mr. Smith's

orders, as I had ever seen even in his chambers. When I implored him to

send them back, and take a real holiday, he answered simply, "No; they

_must_ be attended to,"--and he did so: though I saw him once unable

from weakness to lift a brief from his knees to the table. I never

beheld so calm and patient a sufferer. He never repined at the fate

which had befallen him, nor uttered a word showing impatience or

irritability. When we drove out together, he generally said little or

nothing the whole time, lest his cough should be aggravated, but was

very anxious to be talked to. Once he suddenly asked me, when we were

driving out, "Whether I really ever intended to permit him to see the

sketch of Follett, which I was preparing." I parried the question, by

asking him, "Whether he thought Sir William Follett a great

lawyer."--"Certainly," said he, "if there _be_ such a character as a

great lawyer. What thing of importance that only a great lawyer could

do, did not Follett do? He _necessarily_ knew an immensity of law; and

his tact was a thing quite wonderful. I was a great admirer of

Follett.... I once heard him say, by the way, that either he had applied

for the place of a police magistrate, or would have accepted it, if it

had been offered, soon after he had come to the bar; so that it is quite

a mistake to suppose that he was all at once so successful.... And I can

tell you another little fact about Follett: though perhaps no man took

so few notes on his brief, during a cause: this was not always so; for,

when he first came to the bar, he took most full and elaborate notes of

every case, and prepared his arguments with extreme care. I have seen

proofs of this." Shortly before his leaving town, he purchased a copy of

Thirlwall's (the Bishop of St. David's) History of Greece, in eight

volumes, "to read over at the sea-side;" and he did so: telling me that

"he liked it much,--that it had told him many things which he had not

known before." This copy his brother presented to me after Mr. Smith's

death, and I value it greatly. One morning I found him much exhausted;

but soon after I had taken my seat, he said, "You can oblige me by

something, if you will do it for me. I recollect that there is generally

lying on your table, at chambers, 'Bell's Principles of the Law of

Scotland.' Now I am very anxious to read the book, as I expect to be in

one, if not two, Scotch appeal cases, in the House of Lords, next

session!--Will you do me this favour?" Of course I immediately procured

the book to be forwarded to him, and it afforded him uncommon pleasure

for many days. He read it entirely through with deep attention, as his

numerous pencil marks on the margin attest, as well as several notes on

the fly-leaf, of leading points of difference between our law and that

of Scotland. At page 35, §76, the text runs thus:--"Tacit acceptance may

be inferred from silence, when the refusal is so put as to require

rejection, if the party do not mean to assent; as when a merchant writes

to another, that he is against a certain day, to send him a certain

commodity, at a certain price, unless he shall previously forbid."

Opposite to this, Mr. Smith has written in pencil, "_Surely one man

cannot throw the duty of refusal on another, [in] that way?_" In the

course of a little discussion which we had on this subject, I said,

"Suppose the parties have had previously similar transactions?"--"Ah,"

he answered, "that might make a difference, and evidence a _contract_ to

the effect stated; but as nakedly enunciated in the text, I think It

cannot be the law of Scotland, or law any where." He made many

interesting and valuable remarks from time to time on Scotch law, and

expressed a high opinion of the work in question, referring to every

portion of it as readily as though it had been his familiar text-book

for years. I often found him reading the numbers of the Queen's Bench,

Common Pleas, and Exchequer Reports; and he once said, "I have a good

many arrears to get through, in this way, before the beginning of

term!" One day I saw a prodigious pile of law papers lying on his table,

which had just arrived from London. "Why, what are these, my dear

Smith?" said I earnestly--for he lay on the sofa in a state of miserable

exhaustion. After some minutes' pause, he replied, "It is a very

troublesome case. I have to reply or demur to some very harassing pleas

of ----."--"But why not postpone them till near the end of October?"

"When I am not fatigued, papers amuse me, and occupy my attention." I

offered to him my services. "No, thank you--it would fatigue me more to

explain the previous state of matters, with which I am familiar, than to

draw the pleadings"--and he did it himself. On another occasion, I saw

him sitting in his easy chair, deadly pale. When I had placed myself

beside him, he said in a faint tone, but calmly and deliberately, "This

morning a very serious thing has happened to me," and he mentioned a new

and very alarming feature in his complaint, which, alas! fully justified

his observation; and during the day he allowed me to request Dr. Duke,

who was attending a patient in the hotel, to see him. He did--and on

quitting him, told me that of course the case was hopeless; that his

friends should be sent for, and he would not answer for his life for a

few weeks, or even days. Two or three days afterwards, Dr. Duke saw him

again, and had left him only half-an-hour when I called. He was writing

a letter to an old friend (one of his executors,) and his face wore an

expression of peculiar solemnity. Laying down his pen, and leaning back

in his chair, he gently shook my hand, and, in an affectionate manner,

said, "Warren, I have just had a startling communication made me by Dr.

Duke; he has told me plainly that I cannot live much longer,--that

recovery is utterly out of the question,--and that I am nearer death

than I suppose." After a pause, I said, "He has been faithful, then, my

dear Smith. It was his duty; and I trust he did it in a prudent

manner."--"Perfectly," he replied. Profound gloom was in his features,

but he was perfectly calm. Presently he said, covering his face with his

attenuated hand, "I have none to thank but myself; I have killed myself

by going the last circuit, but I could not resist some tempting briefs

which awaited me! I now regret that I did not allow my sister to come

over, months ago, and go with her to the South of France; but of course

wishing _now_ is useless." Again I entreated him to allow her to be sent

for. "My dear Warren," said he very decisively, "you and B. have often

asked me to do so. I beg you to do so no more. I have private reasons

for declining to follow your advice." His voice slightly faltered. His

"private reasons" have already been adverted to--they were, his tender

love for one whom he would not shock by showing himself to her in the

rapid progress of decay! From that day I never saw the semblance of a

smile upon his face, nor any appearance of emotion, but only of solemn

thoughtfulness. A few days afterwards I said to him, "Well, if it be the

will of God that you should never return to your profession, it is

certainly consolatory for you to reflect how great a reputation you

justly enjoy at the bar, and in how short a time you have gained it.

Your name will live." He made no answer for some minutes, but shook his

head, and then said, "I have done nothing worthy of being remembered

for; but you are very kind for saying so." Even after this, the mail

every now and then brought him fresh "papers" from town; and Miss ----,

the daughter of the landlady, and who attended him with the utmost

solicitude, one evening burst into tears, as she showed me a fresh

packet; adding, "It is really heart-breaking to have to take them in to

him: he is so weak that he feels a difficulty in even opening them!" It

was so, indeed! The two old friends whom he had named as executors, came

down to St. Leonards two or three times, and spent several days with

him. As the time for our family's return to town approached, he

evidently regarded it with uneasiness, and almost daily said, "Must you

_really_ go by the 15th?... And ---- is also going before that: then I

shall be left quite alone, and shall certainly feel dull." A friend of

mine, a lady, who resides near St. Leonards, having requested me to

introduce her to him, in order that when we were gone she might come

and see him, I asked him if he would allow me to do so? "Indeed," said

he, faintly, and with a slight flush, "I should not only feel it a

compliment, but extremely kind." The lady in question accordingly drove

down very kindly almost daily, bringing him grapes and flowers, which he

said he felt to be a very delicate attention: and so anxious was he to

evince his sense of her courtesy, that he insisted on driving, when very

feeble, on a bleak day, to leave a card at the lady's residence, nearly

three miles off, with his own hand. When I took my leave of him, he

seemed, I thought, a little moved; but said calmly, "If the weather

breaks up, I shall return to the Temple: and it is possible that I may

take lodgings in another part of the town; but to court I _must_ go, at

whatever inconvenience--for I have cases there which I must personally

attend to!"

[11] His chambers were No. 2, Mitre Court Buildings, to which he had

removed from No. 12, King's Bench Walk, about two years before.

Towards the close of October he followed us to London, alone, and was

sadly fatigued and exhausted by his journey. He went at once to his

chambers; which he never, with one exception, quitted till his death;

lying stretched in his dressing-gown upon the sofa, a large table near

him being covered with briefs, cases, and pleadings, which he attended

to almost as regularly as if he had been in perfect health. Yet he found

it difficult to sit up, his hand trembled when holding even a small

book, and his cough was fearfully increased in frequency and violence,

and he could get little or no sleep at nights. The reader may imagine

the concern and astonishment with which I heard, that about a fortnight

after his return, he had actually gone to dine at the Garrick Club!

Sitting at his table there, as a friend who saw him told me, "more like

a corpse than a living being; in short, I almost thought it must be his

ghost!" He left his rooms, however, no more; having his dinner sent in,

till within the last few days of his life, from a neighbouring tavern.

He had several consultations held at his chambers, in cases where new

trials were to be moved for; his leaders, (one of whom was Mr. Sergeant

Talfourd,) considerately waving etiquette, and coming to their dying

junior's chambers. They were, as may be supposed, most reluctant to

transact business with one in his state, but he insisted upon it. He

earnestly requested me not to mention at Westminster, or elsewhere, how

ill I thought him; "for if you do, my clients will send me no business,

and then I shall have nothing to amuse my mind with." Towards the end of

the term, he observed to me one morning,--"See how very kind my clients

are to me! I suspect they have heard that I cannot go to court, so they

send me a great number of pleas, demurrers, and motion papers, which I

have merely to sign, and get half a guinea: I think it so considerate!"

About the last day of the term, I happened myself to be his opponent, in

one of those minor matters of form, a motion for judgment as in case of

a nonsuit, on account of my client's not having gone to trial at the

preceding assizes. Mr. Smith was lying in a state of great exhaustion on

the sofa; but mentioned the "rule." I told him that I had brought my

brief with me,--"A peremptory undertaking, I suppose," said he,

languidly, "to try at the next assizes?"--"Yes, and I will sign my own

papers, and yours too, to save you the trouble,--or your clerk

shall?"--"No, thank you," said he, and with difficulty raised himself.

"Will you oblige me by giving me a pen?" I did so, and with a trembling

hand he wrote his name on the briefs, saying, in a melancholy tone as he

wrote, "It is the last time I shall sign my name with yours. Even if you

_perform_ your undertaking, _I_ shall not be at the trial." About a week

afterwards I found him finishing the last sheet of a huge mass of

short-hand writer's notes of an important case in which he was

concerned, and he was grievously exhausted. It was in vain to

remonstrate with him! An early and devoted friend of his, and I, called

upon him daily two or three times, and sat with him as long as our

engagements would permit us. We found his mind always vigorous; and

though he could converse little, from weakness, and its irritating his

cough, his language was as exact and significant as ever, and he liked

to hear others talk, especially about what was going on at Westminster.

I was sitting silently beside him one afternoon, only a fortnight

before his death, when a friend came in, and, after we had sat some time

together, asked me a question which had just arisen in his practice.

"Don't you think," said he, "that, under these circumstances, we may

read the word '_forthwith_,' in this act of parliament, to mean, 'as

soon as reasonably may be?'" Our poor friend, who had not spoken before,

and lay apparently asleep, instantly raised his head, and with some

quickness observed, "Ah! if you could only read an act of parliament _in

any way you liked_, what fine things you could do!" The reader is not,

however, to suppose that Mr. Smith's mind was exclusively occupied with

business, and legal topics. On the contrary, I am certain that he both

read and thought much, and anxiously, on religious subjects. I saw the

Bible constantly open, and also one or two religious books; in

particular, Mr. Wilberforce's "Practical Christianity" lay on his table

and on his sofa. He seemed, however, to feel no disposition to

_converse_ on such topics, with any one. If any one attempted to lead

conversation in that direction, he would either be silent, or in a

significant manner change the subject. He had a favourite copy of Dante

lying often near him, and it may be interesting to state, that he has

left, underscored in pencil, the two following verses in the third

canto, (_Del Purgatorio_,) expressive of faith in the great mysteries of

Christianity,--

"Matto è chi spera che nostra ragione,

Possa trascorrer la 'nfinita via,

Che tiene una sustanzia in tre persone.

State contente, umana gente, al quia:

Che si potuto aveste veder tutto,

Mestier non era partorir Maria."

It may not be necessary to say it, but I am persuaded that he was a firm

believer in the truths of Christianity, and a conscientious member of

the Church of England. One day, within about a fortnight of his death,

he said, "There is a work which I have often heard you speak of, and

which, it does so happen, I never read, though I have often wished to do

so; I mean Paley's _Horæ Paulinæ_. I may say almost that I know his

_Evidences_ off by heart. Now, will you do me the favour of procuring me

a copy of the other book, in as large type as you can, and as soon as

you can, for," he added with a slight sigh, after a pause, "I have not

much time to lose?" I immediately procured him the book in question; and

about three days afterwards he said to me, "I have read the Horæ

Paulinæ; it is a book of extraordinary merit; I very much wonder that I

never read it before." I asked him if he had read "Butler's Analogy."

"Oh yes, of course, several times, and know it well," he replied, rather

quickly. Life was visibly ebbing fast away during the first week in

December. He grew weaker and weaker almost hourly, and scarcely ever

rose from his sofa, where he always lay in his dressing-gown, except to

go to his bed-room, which adjoined and opened into his sitting-room. He

would even then allow no one to be in his chamber with him during the

might! not even his attentive and attached laundress, or his clerk! I

once very strongly urged upon him to allow the former to sleep in the

chambers. "Either she leaves my chambers at her usual hour," said he,

peremptorily, "or I do." We felt it, however, impossible to allow this;

and, without his being aware of it, his clerk and laundress by turns

continued to spend the night in one of the adjoining rooms. It was well

that such was the case, for he began to get delirious during the nights.

About ten days before his death, a great and marked change came very

suddenly over him: his eyes assumed a strange glazed appearance, and his

voice was altogether altered. His mind, however, continued calm and

collected as ever. He moaned continually, though gently, assuring us,

however, repeatedly that he felt no pain, "but an exhaustion that is

quite inconceivable by _you_." Not many days before his end, he gave us

a signal proof of the integrity of his reasoning faculties. Two of his

friends, I and another, were sitting with him, and he told us, as he

often latterly had, that he heard strange voices in the room. He asked

the one who sat next him if there were not strangers at that moment in

the room speaking? When assured that there were not, he said very

earnestly, "Will you, however, oblige me by looking immediately under

the sofa, and tell me whether there is really no one there?" His friend

looked, and solemnly assured him that there was no one there. "Now,"

said he, with some difficulty, after a pause, and suddenly looking at

us, "how extraordinary this is! Of course, after what you say, I am

bound to believe you, and the voices I hear are consequently imaginary:

yet I hear them uttering _articulate sounds_; they are human voices;

they speak to me intelligibly. What can make that impression upon the

organ of hearing--upon the tympanum? How is it done? There must be some

strange disorder in the organs. I can't understand it, nor the state of

my own faculties!" Then he relapsed into the state of drowsy, moaning,

half-unconsciousness, in which he spent the last fortnight of his life.

For a few days previously, no more briefs or papers were taken in by the

clerk: but one, a case for an opinion, which had been brought about a

week before, Mr. Smith immediately read over with a view of answering

it. In consequence of a communication from the physician, we at once

summoned Mr. Smith's two brothers, the one from Dublin Castle, and the

other (an officer on board the Devastation Steam Frigate) from

Portsmouth. Both of them came as quickly as possible, and remained to

the last in affectionate attendance upon their afflicted brother. About

three days before his death, he was asked if he wished to receive the

sacrament. "Yes," he immediately replied, "I was about to ask for it,

but feared I was too ill to go through with it. I request it may now be

administered to me as soon as can be, for I am sensible that I have no

time to lose; _and I beg that the rubric may be strictly complied with

in all respects_." This he said specially with reference to the

prescribed number ("three, or two at the least") of communicants beside

himself. The Rev. Mr. Harding, father of one of his intimate friends,

being near at hand, immediately attended, and administered that sacred

and awful rite: Lieutenant Smith, I, and another, partaking of the

sacrament with our dying friend. He was in full possession of his

faculties. He could not rise from the sofa, but made a great effort to

incline towards the clergyman, lying with his hands clasped upon his

breast. When the name of our Saviour was mentioned, he inclined his head

with profound reverence of manner. It was, indeed, a very solemn and

affecting scene, such as will never be effaced from my memory. When it

was over, Mr. Smith gently grasped the hand of Mr. Harding, and faintly

thanked him for his kindness in so promptly attending. He was unable, at

night, to walk to his bed; to which he was assisted by his brother and a

friend. The dark curtain was now rapidly descending between him and this

life. He never rose again from bed; but lay therein the same moaning yet

comparatively tranquil state in which he had been during the week. On

the morning of the day of his death, I went early to sit beside him,

alone; gazing at his poor emaciated countenance, with inexpressible

feelings. Shortly after I left, his oldest friend took my place; and,

after a while, to his great surprise, Mr. Smith, on recognising him,

asked if a particular "case,"--"Exparte ----" was not still in chambers?

On being answered in the affirmative, he requested his friend to get

pen, ink, and paper, and he would dictate the opinion! His friend,

though conceiving him to be wandering and delirious, complied with his

request; on which Mr. Smith slightly elevated himself in bed, and, to

the amazement of his friend, in a perfectly calm and collected manner,

but with great difficulty of utterance, dictated not only an

appropriate, but a correct and able opinion on a case of considerable

difficulty! When he had concluded, with the words, "the case is

practically remediless," he requested that what had been written might

be read over. It was done, and he said, on its being concluded, "There

is only one alteration necessary--strike out the words '_on the case_,'

leaving it '_action_,' simpliciter;" thereby showing an exact

appreciation of a point in the case, with reference to the suggested

form of action, of much difficulty! After this effort he rallied no

more, but lay in a dozing state all day; his friend, his brother, and

myself, by turns, sitting at his bedside. He appeared to suffer no pain.

I sate with him till about six o'clock, gazing at him with mournful

intensity, perceiving that the struggle was rapidly drawing to a close.

Being compelled to leave, I intended to have returned at eight o'clock;

but, alas! a little before that hour, tidings were brought me that at

shortly after seven o'clock our poor friend had been released from his

sufferings. A few minutes before he expired, none being present but his

brother and the laundress, he gently placed his left hand under his left

cheek, and, after a few soft breathings, each longer than the preceding

one, without apparent pain, ceased to exist upon earth. I immediately

repaired to his chambers, and joined his brother and his oldest friend.

They were sitting in mournful silence in his sitting room. Around us

were all the evidences of our departed friend's very recent

occupancy--his spectacles lay on the table;--many briefs, some of which

I had seen his own feeble hands open only a few days before, so

remained, as well as various books; among which were two large

interleaved copies of his "Mercantile Law" and "Leading Cases," with

considerable MS. additions and corrections in his own handwriting. When

I looked at all these, and reflected that the prematurely wasted remains

of one of my earliest and most faithful friends lay, scarce yet cold, in

the adjoining room, I own that I felt it difficult to suppress my

emotions.

Quis desiderio sit pudor, aut modus

Tam cari capitis?

He died on the 17th December, 1845. On looking among his papers, there

was found a will which he had executed so long before as the year 1837,

for a reason assigned in that document, viz., that on the 3d of July in

that year, was passed the important Act of 7 Will. IV., and 1 Vict. c.

26, which rendered it necessary for all wills to be signed by the

testator in the presence of two or more attesting witnesses, none having

till then been necessary in the case of wills of personal estate, which

alone Mr. Smith left behind him. This document contains some

characteristic touches. It begins in this old fashioned and formal

style:--

"In the name of God, Amen!

"I, John William Smith, of the Inner Temple, barrister-at-law, being

minded to make my last will and testament before the act passed in the

first year of the reign of Her present Majesty, (whom God long

preserve,) entitled 'An Act for the Amendment of the Law with respect to

Wills,' shall have come into operation, do make this my last will and

testament; that is to say," &c. &c.: and he proceeded, after giving some

trifling mementoes to his friends, to bequeath all his property to his

two executors, in trust for his sisters. He directed that his coffin

should not be closed till after decay should have visibly commenced in

his body; a precaution against the possibility of premature interment:

which he always regarded with peculiar apprehension. He proceeded to

direct that he should be buried in the burying-ground around the Temple

church, a right which he always contended was possessed by every member

of the Inn. With this request, however, it was impossible for the

Benchers to comply, though anxious, by every means in their power, to do

honour to his memory. He was, therefore, buried, on the 24th December,

1845, at Kensal Green. Had it been deemed desirable by his brothers and

executors, a great number of the members of the bar would have attended

his funeral. As it was, however, sixteen only of those most intimate

with him followed his remains to their last resting-place. A small

stone, placed at the head of his grave, merely mentions his name, age,

and profession, and the day of his death; and adds, that a tablet to his

memory is erected in the Temple church. On the ensuing Sunday, the

Benchers of the Inner Temple caused the staff, or pole, surmounted with

the arms of the Inn, carved in silver, and which is always borne before

the Benchers into church, and placed at the corner of their pew, to be

covered with crape, and the vergers to wear scarves; a tribute of

respect which had never before then, I believe, been paid to any but

deceased Benchers. They expressed anxiety to pay every honour to the

memory of so distinguished a member of the Inn, and cordially assented

to the request that a tablet should be placed in the Triforium, where

one of white marble now stands, bearing the following fitting

inscription, written by his friend, Mr. Phillimore, of the Oxford

circuit:--

JOH: GVL: SMITH

IN. STVDIIS. HVMANITATIS. AC. LITTERARVM.

A. PVERITIA. SUMMA. LAVDE. VERSATO.

LEGVM. ET. CONSVETVDINIS. ANGLIÆ.

TVM. JVRIS. NEGOTIANTIBVS PROPRII.

PERITISSIMO. VT. SCRIPTA. QVÆ. MAGNAM.

ETIAM. TRANSMARINAS. APVD. GENTES.

AUCTORITATEM. CONSECVTA. SUNT. TESTANTVR.

MEMORIA. DILIGENTIA. ACVMINE. DOCTRINA.

NECNON. FIDE. ET. BENEVOLENTIA. SINGVLARI.

A. FORO. VBI. QVOAD. VIXIT. INGENII. LAVDE.

CREVIT.

IMMATVRA. MORTE. ABREPTO.

H: L: S: E

NATVS. A.D. MDCCCIX. OBIT. IDIBVS. DEC. A.D.

MDCCCXLV.

Thus died, and thus was honoured in his, alas! premature death, John

William Smith: leaving behind him a name of unsullied purity, and a

permanent reputation, among a body of men noted for their severe

discrimination in estimating character. He practised his profession in

the spirit of a GENTLEMAN, disdaining all those vulgar and degrading

expedients now too often resorted to, for the purpose of securing

success at the bar. He waited, and prepared for, _his opportunity_ with

modest patience, and fortitude, and indomitable industry and energy. He

possessed an intellect of uncommon power, consummately disciplined, and

capable of easily mastering any thing to which its energies were

directed. Having devoted himself to jurisprudence, he obtained a

marvellously rapid mastery, both theoretically and practically, over its

greatest difficulties, leaving behind him writings which have

contributed equally to facilitate the study and the practice of the law,

in an enlightened spirit. Had Providence been pleased to prolong his

life, the voice of the profession would, within a very few years, have

called for his elevation to the judicial bench, and he would have proved

one of its brightest ornaments. Nor did he sink the scholar in the

lawyer, but cherished to the last those varied, elegant, refined, and

refining tastes and pursuits, which, having acquired him early

academical distinction, rendered in after life his intercourse always

delightful to the most accomplished and gifted of his friends and

acquaintance, and supplied him with a never-failing source of

intellectual recreation. Above all, his conduct was uniformly

characterised by truth and honour, by generosity and munificence, hid

from nearly all but the objects of it; and by a profound reverence for

religion, and a sincere faith in that Christianity whose consolations he

experienced in the trying time of sickness and death, and which could

alone afford him a well-founded hope of eternal peace and happiness.

_Inner Temple, 8th January, 1847._

* * * * *

MODERN ITALIAN HISTORY.[12]

[12] Memoirs of General Pépé. Written by himself. London, 1846.

Upon the fifth day of February, 1783, the province of Calabria was

visited with a terrific earthquake. "The sway of earth _shook_ like a

thing unfirm," thousands of houses crumbled to their base, tens of

thousands of human beings were buried beneath ruins, or engulfed by the

gaping ground. In the small and ancient town of Squillace, the

devastation was frightful; amongst others, the spacious mansion of the

noble family of PÉPÉ was overthrown and utterly destroyed. At the time

of this calamity, Irene Assanti, the wife of Gregorio Pépé, was in daily

expectation of being brought to bed. In vain was it attempted to find a

fitting refuge for the suffering and feeble woman. The ruin that had

overtaken her dwelling extended for leagues around; not a roof-tree

stood in the doomed district; misery and desolation reigned throughout

the land. A tent was hastily erected; and, under its scanty shelter, in

a season of extreme rigour, the lady gave birth to a son, who was

baptised by the name of William.

Soothsayers would have augured a stormy existence to the child who thus

first saw light when "the frame and huge foundation of the earth shak'd

like a coward." Such omens might have attended the birth of an

Alexander, a Cæsar, or a Napoleon, marking the advent of one of those

human meteors sent at long intervals to astonish and dazzle the world.

In this instance, if the man born during Nature's most terrible

convulsion, was not destined to exercise a material or lasting influence

on the fate of nations, at least his lot was cast in troublous and

agitated times; he took share in great events, came in contact with

extraordinary men, passed through perils and adventures such as few

encounter, and fewer still survive. The last sixty years, comprising the

most interesting and important chapter in the history of Europe, perhaps

of the world, have been prolific in sudden transformations and startling

reverses of fortune. During that period of revolution and restless

activity, we have seen peasants become princes, private soldiers

occupying the thrones of great and civilized countries, obscure

individuals in every walk of life raised by opportunity, genius, and the

caprice of fate, to the most exalted positions. Some of these have

maintained themselves on the giddy pinnacle on which fortune placed

them. They are the few. Reverses, even more sudden and extraordinary

than their upward progress, have cast down the majority from their high

estate. The transitions have been rapid, from the palace to the prison,

from the sway of kingdoms to the sufferings of emigration, from the

command of mighty armies to the weariness and obscurity of a forced

inactivity. Fortunes built up in a year, have been knocked down in a

month; again reconstructed, they have been yet more rapidly destroyed.

Such changes have been as numerous, often as strikingly contrasted, as

the shifting visions of a magic lantern, or the fitful corruscations of

a firework. Within a short half century, how often has the regal purple

been bartered for the fugitive's disguise, the dictator's robe for a

prison garb, the fortunate soldier's baton of command for the pilgrim's

staff and the bitter bread of exile. Notable instances of such

disastrous fluctuations are to be found in the memoirs of the Neapolitan

general Guglielmo Pépé.

One of the youngest of a family of two-and-twenty children, born of

wealthy and highly descended parents, young Pépé was placed, before he

was seven years old, in the royal college of Catanzaro. There, his

father, anxious that his education should be complete and excellent,

intended him to remain until the age of eighteen. The peculiar

disposition of the boy proved a grave obstacle to the accomplishment of

the paternal wish. Nature had destined him for a military career, and

his tendency to a soldier's life was early manifest. To the studies that

would have qualified him for a learned profession, he showed an

insurmountable aversion; Latin he detested; on the other hand,

geography, history, and mathematics, were cultivated by him with a zeal

and eagerness that astonished his professors. He had just attained his

fourteenth year, when two of his brothers, but a little older than

himself, left the military college at Naples, and received commissions

in the army. This redoubled the military ardour of their junior, who had

already caught the warlike feeling with which the Neapolitan government

strove at that time to inspire the nation. He urged his father to

purchase him a commission; his father refused, and the wilful boy

absconded from college. Brought back again, he a second time escaped,

and enlisted in a regiment of riflemen. Again he was captured, and the

poor Sergeant who had accepted the juvenile recruit, was thrown into

prison for enticing away a pupil of the royal college. But this time

Gregorio Pépé thought it advisable to yield to the wishes of his

headstrong son, and allowed him to enter the military school. He

remained there two years, and left it to join, as drill sergeant, a

company of the newly raised national guard. This was in 1799. Towards

the close of the previous year, the ill-disciplined and inefficient

Neapolitan army, composed for the most part of raw and uninstructed

levies, had marched into the Papal States; and, the French having

evacuated it, had entered Rome without opposition. The triumph was very

brief. Neither the Neapolitan troops, nor their leader, General Mack,

were capable of contending successfully against the skilful officers and

well-trained soldiers opposed to them. On the first alarm, the

pusillanimous Ferdinand of Naples fled from Rome in disguise, and soon

afterwards embarked for Sicily with his wife and court, carrying away

"the wealth and jewels of the crown, the most valuable antiquities, the

most precious works of art, and what remained from the pillage of the

banks and churches, which had been lying in the mint either in bullion

or specie." The amount of the rich treasure was estimated at twenty

millions of ducats. The French still advanced, feebly opposed by the

disheartened Neapolitans and their inefficient foreign leaders. Gaeta,

the Gibraltar of Italy, was surrendered after a few hours' siege, by an

old general so ignorant of his profession that we are told he was

accustomed to seek counsel from the bishop of the town. Capua, the

bulwark of the capital, was given up by Ferdinand's vicar-general,

Prince Pignatelli, in consideration of a two months' truce, which

lasted, however, but as many days. A condition of this disgraceful

armistice was a payment of two and a half millions of ducats. The money

was not forthcoming; and the French commander, General Championnet,

marched upon Naples. After three days' obstinate combat, maintained

around and in the city by the lazzaroni, victory remained with the

assailants. They were aided by the republican or patriot party, who

delivered up to them the fort of St. Elmo. By this party, then a very

small minority in Naples--much the greater part of whose population,

ignorant, fanatical, and worked upon by wily priests, were frantic in

their hatred of the French, and of the Jacobins, as they called the

liberal section of their own countrymen--the triumph of the invaders was

looked upon as a temporary evil, trifling when compared with the

advantages that would result from it. Amongst the most enthusiastic

liberals was young Pépé, who had already conceived that ardent love of

liberty, which, throughout life, has been his mainspring of action. He

hailed with delight the publication of the edict by which Naples was

erected into the Parthenopean Republic. He was eager to enter the new

army, whose organisation had been decreed, but his tender age made his

brothers oppose his wish, and he was fain to content himself with a post

in the national guard.

The new republic was destined to a very short existence. The provisional

government, consisting, in imitation of the French system, of six

committees, displayed little activity and still less judgment. It

neglected to conciliate and win over the popular party, which remained

stanch to the Bourbons and absolutism; it took little pains to convince

the bigoted multitude of the advantages and blessings of a free

constitution. The treasury was bare, the harvest had been bad, the coast

was blockaded, and their difficulties were aggravated by the heavy

taxes imposed, and rigorously levied by Championnet for the support of

his army. These impositions, and a decree for the disarming of the

people, produced discontent even amongst the friends of the new

institutions. Nevertheless, Championnet, by showing an interest in the

rising Republic, had gained a certain degree of popularity, when he was

recalled to Paris to be tried by a court-martial, for his opposition to

the exactions of a French civil commissary, "one of those voracious

blood-suckers, whom the French government was wont to fasten upon the

newly formed republics which it created, and upon which it bestowed the

derisive title of independent." General Macdonald succeeded Championnet;

the commissary, maintained in his functions, had full scope for

extortion, and the Republican government, unable, for want of money, to

organise an army that might have given permanence to its existence,

became daily more unpopular, and visibly tottered to its downfal.

Meanwhile, on the opposite coast of Sicily, Ferdinand, his adherents and

allies, were any thing but idle. They issued proclamations, lavished

money, spared no means to excite the people to revolt against the French

and their favourers. Every support and encouragement was given to the

disaffected, and at last Cardinal Ruffo landed in Calabria, and by

proclamations issued in his name, and in that of Ferdinand, promised the

property and estates of the patriots to those who should take up arms

for the holy cause of the king. Apulia was overrun by four Corsican

adventurers; the other provinces were infested by bands of ruffians,

mostly the outpourings of the prisons and galleys, which had been thrown

open by the furious populace when preparing to defend the city against

the French. A miller, by name Mammone, was one of the most ferocious and

dreaded leaders of these banditti. His cruelties, as related by General

Pépé, almost exceed belief. "He butchered in the most dreadful manner

all who fell into his power, and with his own hands murdered nearly four

hundred of them, chiefly Frenchmen and Neapolitans. Blood-thirsty by

nature, he seemed to revel in shedding blood, and carried his cruelty to

such a pitch, that when seated at his meals, he delighted in having

constantly before him a human head newly divided from the trunk and

streaming with blood. This monster, the perpetrator of so many horrors,

was, nevertheless, greeted by King Ferdinand and his Queen Caroline, in

the most affectionate manner by the title of 'dear general,' and of

'faithful supporter of the throne.'"

After long and unaccountable delay, two columns were formed for the

pursuit of the Bourbonites, and a regular civil war began. At first the

Republicans, supported by the French, had the best of the fight, and the

strong towns of Andria and Trani were taken, after a vigorous defence,

with great loss to the royalists, and no inconsiderable one to the

assailants. But the Austrians and Russians now prepared to drive the

French from northern Italy, and Macdonald, compelled to keep his army

together, was unable to follow up these successes. Cardinal Ruffo's

forces increased; he besieged and took several towns, and overran entire

provinces, his ferocious followers committing, as they proceeded, the

most terrible excesses and acts of cruelty. At last, in the month of

May, Macdonald evacuated the Neapolitan territory, placing French

garrisons in the castle of St. Elmo and in the fortresses of Capua and

Gaeta, and leaving the handful of republicans to defend themselves as

best they might against the vast majority of the nation that supported

the cause of the king. Against such odds, the enthusiasm of the

liberals, ill assisted by a feeble and vacillating government, was

unable successfully to contend. Nevertheless, they still struggled on;

fresh troops were raised, and in a sort of sacred battalion, composed of

officers, young Pépé, who had just completed his sixteenth year, was

appointed serjeant-major. In this capacity he first saw fire, in a

skirmish with a band of armed peasants. But the enemy gained ground, the

limits of the Republic grew each day narrower, until at last they were

restricted to the capital and its immediate environs. Cardinal Ruffo's

army, now amounting to forty thousand men, backed by detachments of

foreign troops, and by regiments landed from Sicily, had improved in

discipline and organisation, and, flushed with their successes, ventured

to attack Naples. They encountered an obstinate resistance. General

Schipani, an officer of distinguished bravery but little skill,

commanded the body of troops of which Pépé's battalion formed a part,

and occupied the most advanced of the Republican positions, between

Torre dell' Annunziata and Castella-mare. The Cardinal's troops cut him

off from Naples, and whilst gallantly endeavouring to force a passage

through them and assist the city, his little band, fifteen hundred in

number, was assailed by a body of Russians, and by a thousand Calabrians

under the command of Pano di Grano, a returned galley slave, and Ruffo's

favourite officer. In a narrow road a desperate contest ensued, and

terminated in the defeat of the Republicans. Pépé received a bayonet

thrust and a sabre cut, and although he escaped at the time, was soon

afterwards captured with some of his comrades, by a party of peasants

armed with scythes. This was the commencement of the young soldier's

misfortunes. Suffering from hunger, thirst, and wounds, he was

imprisoned in a damp and unwholesome warehouse, and subjected to the

brutality of his peasant guards, who called in their women to gaze at

the ill-fated patriots, as if they had been strange and savage animals

caught in a snare, and to be viewed as objects of mingled curiosity and

loathing. On the following day, when a detachment of the Cardinal's

troops came to take charge of the prisoners and escort them to the

capital, they were so exhausted with fatigue, loss of blood, and want of

food, that before they could move, it was necessary to supply them with

bread and water. This meagre refreshment taken, they were stripped to

their shirts, manacled in couples, and marched off to Naples. Although

informed of it by their captors, many of them had refused to credit the

downfal of the city. "This illusion was soon dispelled by the mournful

spectacle which presented itself to our gaze, and which I believe has

very rarely been equalled. Men and women of every condition were being

barbarously dragged along the road, most of them streaming with blood,

many half dead, and stripped of every article of apparel, presenting

altogether the most deplorable sight the mind can conceive. The shrieks

and howlings of that ferocious mob were such, that it seemed composed,

not of human beings, but of a horde of wild beasts. They cast stones and

every species of filth at us, threatening to tear us to pieces." The

Iazzaroni, instigated by the priests,--at Naples, as every where, the

steadfast partisans of absolutism,--were the chief perpetrators of these

atrocious misdeeds. Scarcely a party of patriot prisoners passed through

the streets without some of its number being torn from the hands of the

escort and sacrificed to the blind fury of the benighted populace. And

it was a question if death were not preferable to the barbarous

treatment reserved for the survivors. Twenty thousand men, half-naked,

many of them wounded, were crowded into the halls of the public granary,

now converted into a temporary prison. Heat, filth, and vermin, were the

least of the evils endured by these unfortunates, amongst whom were

noblemen, priests, officers of high rank, many literary men, several

Celestin monks, and, to crown all, a number of lunatics. The Hospital of

Incurables had been held out by the medical students against the

royalists, and when the latter took it, they sent both sane and insane

to prison, where some of the madmen were detained on suspicion of

feigning lunacy. "One of these poor wretches was the cause of a most

disastrous scene, which we witnessed. Having struck one of the royal

officers on the face, the latter called out, 'to arms!' and as soon as

he was surrounded by his followers, he rushed furiously upon the

lunatic, whom he clove in two by a sabre stroke. During this time the

sentinels placed in the street to guard the royal granary, fired

musket-shots at the windows, and the bullets, rebounding from the

ceiling of the building, wounded and killed several amongst us." The

horrors of their situation, and the pangs of hunger and thirst were so

great, that some of the sane amongst the prisoners nearly went mad. It

was not till the third day that a scanty ration of bread and water was

distributed. This spare diet and the absence of covering had one good

effect, in preserving them from fever, and causing their wounds to heal

rapidly. Their republican enthusiasm continued unabated, at least as

regarded the younger men. "We had four poets amongst us, who sang by

turns extemporary hymns to freedom." After twenty-two days passed in the

granary, Pépé and a number of his companions were placed on board a

Neapolitan corvette. Here they were, if any thing, worse off than in

their previous prison. In a short time they were taken on shore again

and lodged in the Vicaria prison, whence, each day, one or other of them

was conveyed to the scaffold. Pépé was summoned before the Junta of

State, where the bold sharpness of his replies irritated his judge, who

consigned him to the _Criminali_, dark and horrible dungeons,

appropriated to the worst of criminals. Three men loaded with fetters,

and entirely naked, were his companions in this gloomy cavern. Two of

them were notorious malefactors, "the third recalled vividly to my mind

Voltaire's Lusignan in the tragedy of Zaire, which I had been perusing a

few days before. His body was covered with hair, his head bald, a long

and thick black beard contrasted forcibly with his ruddy lips and pearly

teeth." His name was Lemaître, Marquis of Guarda Alfieri, and he had

been several years imprisoned for participation in a republican

conspiracy.

At last, after six months of the most painful captivity, Pépé, and seven

hundred others sentenced to exile, were put on board three small

vessels, and after a voyage of twenty-two days, during which their

numbers were thinned by a destructive epidemic, were landed at

Marseilles. There the first thing they learned was the arrival of

Buonaparte from Egypt, and his enthusiastic reception in France. During

his absence nothing had gone well, and the French nation looked to him

to redeem their disasters. Italy was again in the hands of the

Austrians. To aid in their expulsion, the formation of an Italian legion

was decreed, and this Pépé hastened to join. Upon reaching Dijon, where

it was organising, he found that every corps had its full compliment of

officers. As a supernumerary he was ordered to a depot, where he would

receive lieutenant's half-pay until his services were required. Like

many others of the exiles, he preferred serving as a volunteer to

remaining idle, and accordingly joined a company of riflemen intended to

be mounted, but who, from the scarcity of horses, were for the most part

on foot. At the beginning of May, 1800, the legion, consisting of six

thousand men, marched into Switzerland, and crossed the St. Bernard.

They were detached from Napoleon's army during the battle of Marengo,

but distinguished themselves at the fight of the Jesia, and in the

Valteline, until, by the truce which followed that memorable campaign,

Pépé again found himself without employment, and in depot at Pavia. His

restless spirit would not tolerate repose, and he entered the service of

the Tuscan republic, where he continued until the truce of Luneville. An

amnesty for Neapolitan political refugees being a condition of the

treaty between France and Naples, he might now have returned home; but

his hatred of the Bourbons indisposed him to such a step, and he

resolved to enter the French army serving in Egypt. Murat was then

commander-in-chief of the French troops in central Italy, and to him the

young officer applied for a commission. He received that of a captain,

and was about to start for Alexandria when his purse was emptied at a

faro table. This compelled him to visit Naples for fresh supplies, and

owing to the delay, before he could embark, the French had received

orders to evacuate Egypt.

Notwithstanding the presence of the French troops, who by the treaty

concluded at Florence, on terms ignominious for Naples, occupied several

Neapolitan provinces, the patriot party again began to conspire against

Ferdinand, and in their machinations Pépé, in spite of his youth, soon

took a prominent share. His aversion to the Neapolitan Bourbons was only

equalled by the indignation with which he saw his native land garrisoned

by foreigners, feeding upon its fatness. Murat, who at first had viewed

him with favour, soon looked upon him as a dangerous political agitator.

At Rome he was imprisoned, but obtained his release through the interest

of a friend. All warnings were unavailing; he was foremost in every

plot, until at last he was arrested at Naples and sent to the Fossa del

Maritimo. He gives a striking description of this horrible place of

confinement. Opposite to the city of Trapano in Sicily, at a distance of

thirty miles, is the small island or rather the barren rock of the

Maritimo, "a Sicilian anagram of Morte-mia, a name quite characteristic

of the horror of the place. Upon a point of this island stands a castle

where, in former days, watch was kept for the approach of the African

pirates who infested the Sicilian coasts. Upon a platform of the castle,

situated at the north, a deep cistern had been made in the rock. Towards

the middle of the seventeenth century, the water had been emptied from

this cistern in order to transform it into a prison for a wretched youth

who had murdered his own father in the most barbarous manner, but who

was too young to be condemned to death." In this den, which since 1799

had been used as a state prison, Pépé and five other political offenders

were confined. It was six feet wide and twenty-two long; only in the

centre could they stand upright: it was so dark that a lamp was kept

constantly burning; the rain entered through the only opening that gave

air; and two prisoners, who had already been there some time, declared

that they had counted twenty-two species of insects. Fortunately for

him, Pépé was not kept long in this dismal cell, although his next

prison, a dungeon cut in the rock, in the very deepest vault of the

castle of St. Catherine, on the island of Favignana, was but little

preferable. Here, however, he obtained books, and was able to complete

his education, which had been interrupted by the revolution. "My passion

for study," he says, "was carried to such an extent, that I felt pain

and regret whenever I did not devote to it, either in reading or

writing, fourteen hours a-day. During the three years of my

imprisonment, my application was unremitting, and I owe to it that I did

not fall into the habits, so common to prisoners, of smoking and

drinking."

Most graphically told, the chapters relating to General Pépé's

imprisonment, are as amusing as any romance. More than once did he and

his fellow-captive muse over an escape, and ponder its possibilities.

These were very remote. At last they devised a plan, which they thought

would ensure their transfer to a less rigorous confinement, whence they

might find means of flight. Twenty galley slaves were imprisoned in the

castle. At night they occupied the same apartment with Pépé; in the

day-time they were set to work in different parts of the fortress. These

men were easily persuaded to adopt an ingenious plan of escape devised

by Pépé, who, with his friend, was to remain behind, "upon the plea

that, as the government attached far more importance to the custody of

state prisoners, than to that of common criminals, our company would

prove more dangerous than useful to them." The fact was, that the

chances were a hundred to one against the escape. Nevertheless it was

accomplished, although the fugitives, with one exception, were promptly

retaken. Pépé and his companion now made a merit of not having

participated in it, and wrote to their friends at Naples, entreating

them to urge their release. This would hardly have been obtained but for

the outbreak of hostilities. Ferdinand, without waiting to see the

result of the struggle between Austria, Russia, and France, declared

against the latter power. He soon had reason to repent his

precipitation. The crushing campaign of Austerlitz, followed by the

march of Massena upon Naples, sent him and his court flying into Sicily.

In the confusion that ensued, Pépé was set at liberty. Embarking at

Messina, he once more landed in his native province of Calabria, and

reached Naples, a wiser and better man than he had left it. Three

years' study and reflection had cooled the rash fervour of his youthful

aspirations. His desire for his country's freedom was unabated, but his

Utopian visions of a republic had lost much of the brilliant colouring

that had dazzled his boyish imagination. Prudence told him that it was

unwise, by aiming at too much, to risk obtaining nothing. He was not

singular in this modification of his views. The great majority of the

liberal party had also moderated their pretensions; and in Naples, as in

France, the word republic was now seldom spoken but in derision. Pépé

was content that the desired changes should come more gradually than

would have suited him before three years of thought and dungeon-life had

sobered and matured his judgment. And henceforward we find his

endeavours directed, steadily and unceasingly, to the establishment of

free institutions under a constitutional monarchy.

By the grace of his brother the king-maker, Joseph Buonaparte was now

upon the throne of Naples. On arriving in that capital, Pépé was

presented to the minister of war, General Dumas. "From my extreme

anxiety to produce the well or ill digested theories I had imbibed in

prison, I was very loquacious, and urged so strongly the danger

threatened to Calabria by the impending landing, not only of the

British, but of all Cardinal Ruffo's banditti levies, who had acquired

consequence in 1799, that he ordered a militia to be raised throughout

the country." By Dumas, the young theorist, whose predictions, however,

were not ill-founded, was presented to King Joseph, of whom he speaks in

no very favourable terms. He admits him to have been courteous and

affable, not deficient in information, and to have established many of

those institutions which pave the way to liberty; but he blames him for

neglecting his ample opportunities of establishing his power on a solid

basis, and acquiring the affections of his subjects. The higher

classes--of which, in Naples, contrary to what is the case in many

countries, the liberal party consists--were devoted to Joseph, until he

disgusted them by various parts of his conduct, and especially by the

introduction of a horde of Frenchmen, who monopolised the most lucrative

posts, both civil and military. He also gave offence by his luxurious

and expensive manner of living. The sumptuousness of his table was

proverbial throughout the kingdom, and, having left Madame Joseph in

France, he permitted himself considerable license in other respects,

living a very free life amongst the young beauties of his court, whom he

used to take with him on his hunting excursions under the name of

_cacciatrici_. It is probable that Neapolitan morality might have found

little ground for censure in these Sardanapalian indulgences, but for

the heavy expenses they entailed upon Neapolitan pockets, and, indeed,

they were most unjustifiable in a country impoverished by wars and

revolutions.

Personally, Pépé had no reason to complain of the king, who gave him a

lieutenant-colonelcy and charged him with the organisation of the

militia in Upper Calabria. Eager to serve his country, the newly made

field officer hurried to his post. The English had not yet landed, but

some of Ruffo's former followers had been put on shore, and laboured,

not unsuccessfully, to induce the peasantry to revolt. Pépé soon found

himself in action. Surprised in the town of Scigliano, he shut himself

up in a house with two-and-twenty French soldiers, and there made a

desperate defence against an overpowering force of the insurgents.

Compelled to surrender, he received from his captors intelligence of the

battle of Maida. So persuaded was he of the invincibility of the French,

that at first he could not credit their defeat. He gives a brief account

of the action, founded upon the report of French officers of rank

present at it, and upon details collected from the inhabitants of Maida

and Nicastro. It smells of its French origin. At the battle of Maida

there were barely thirteen thousand men in the field, of which the

larger portion, by some twenty-five hundred, were French. But the

victory was as complete and as creditable to the handful of victors, as

it could have been had those numbers been multiplied by ten. And the

action was especially interesting as the first, during the late war, in

which the superiority of British bayonets over those of any other

nation, was proved and established beyond the possibility of

dispute,--the first of a long succession of triumphs, the Alpha of the

series of which Waterloo was the Omega. Destitute of cavalry, and

fiercely attacked by a superior force of horse and foot, the British

grenadiers stemmed the tide of the foeman's pride, and showed the men

who had overrun half Europe, that they had at last met their masters. By

General Pépé, Regnier's army is represented as worn out by fatigue, and

as attacking their opponents at the termination of a succession of

forced marches, without any interval for repose and refreshment. It is

well authenticated that this was the case with but a small portion of

the French force, which joined the main body during the night preceding

the action. The bulk of Regnier's division, numerically superior to the

British, had been encamped upon the heights of Maida at least

twenty-four hours previously to the battle. General Pépé says nothing of

the brilliant charge with the bayonet that first broke the French ranks,

and by which the victory was half won. "The English," he says, "who had

constantly practised firing at a target in Sicily, and who were become

skilful marksmen, directed their shot so ably that they caused great

havoc in the French ranks, killing and wounding many. General Regnier

now ordered the second line to advance and defile through the first, and

as the movement is extremely difficult of execution under an enemy's

fire, the French army fell into confusion, and Regnier was obliged to

retreat." A retreat which history calls a precipitate flight. General

Pépé's version of the affair reads like the bulletin of a vanquished

commander trying to make the best of his disaster. The General, although

he inveighs against the French when they interfere with the independence

of his _cara patria_, betrays a leaning to them on mere campaigning

questions. This is not unnatural. Both in Italy and Spain he fought by

their side and witnessed their gallantry. With regard to the English,

however his subsequent residence in this country and intimacy with

various Englishmen may have modified his opinion of them, they were

certainly in no good odour with him forty years ago, at least as a

nation. They supported the cause he detested, that of an absolute King;

and to their greatest naval hero, he attributes the death, not only of

Carraciolo, but of a long list of Italian patriots. His book is written

in something of a partisan spirit, nor could it well be otherwise, with

so fervent a politician. His account of many events and circumstances

differs widely from that given by his former companion in arms,

Colletta, whom he speaks of with contempt and dislike, and frequently

accuses of misstatement and wilful falsehood. "Men," he says, "of loose

morals, and so corrupt that they reflected contempt and abhorrence upon

those who associated with them. Such were Catalani d'Azzia and the

historian Pietro Colletta." That party feeling influenced Colletta, to

the prejudice of the impartiality of his writings, is pretty generally

admitted. But does General Pépé feel that his own withers are unwrung?

Can he, hand on conscience, declare himself guiltless of exaggeration?

Probably he believes himself so; there is evidence in his memoirs of

honesty of purpose, and of a wish to do justice to all; but the best of

us are led astray by our predilections, and it is right to be on one's

guard against the colouring given to men's actions, and to great events,

by the political prejudices of an ardent partisan.

Delivered into the hands of Pano di Grano, the ex-galley slave, now a

royalist chief, Pépé was kindly treated, and, being carelessly guarded,

effected his escape. Recaptured, he was about to be shot, when an order

for his release was obtained from Sir John Stewart, who offered him, he

informs us, the command of an English regiment, if he would change sides

and serve King Ferdinand. He blames that general for having been in such

haste to re-embark his troops, thus abandoning the insurgents to their

fate; and is of opinion, that if he had continued to advance, flanked by

the Calabrian bands, his forces would have increased, and he would have

reached Naples. On the departure of the British, Massena commenced

vigorous operations for the suppression of the insurrection, and Pépé

was actively employed in the organisation of the Calabrian patriots.

Massena promised him the colonelcy of a light infantry regiment about to

be raised; but upon the Marshal being summoned to Germany by Napoleon,

the project was given up, and Pépé could not even get employment in his

rank of lieutenant-colonel. Disgusted at this injustice, and preferring

foreign service to residence in his own country, where he had the

mortification of seeing the French paramount, he embarked for Corfu as

major on the staff.

After a year's absence, during which he narrowly escaped death by

shipwreck and met with various other adventures, Pépé returned to

Naples. It was in 1808: Napoleon had created his brother King of Spain,

and given the Neapolitan crown to the Grand Duke of Berg. _Soldat avant

tout_, Murat's first care was the amelioration of the army, then in a

deplorable state. To this end he sent for all the Neapolitan officers

employed in the Ionian islands. Pépé was amongst the number. Presenting

himself before King Joachim, he exhibited his testimonials of service,

and claimed the rank of colonel. The king replied, by appointing him one

of his orderly officers, as a proof of the good opinion he had of him.

"I recollect that I was so engrossed by admiration of the elegance of

his appearance, and the affability of his address, that I omitted

expressing my thanks. He talked to me a great deal about the Neapolitan

army, and manifested a confidence in us that even exceeded my own; and,

God knows, that was not small. His conversation filled me with such

delight, that, had it not been for fear lest he should mistake my ardour

of patriotism for courtier-like flattery, I could have fallen at his

feet and worshipped him. It seemed to me that I beheld in him the

Charles XII. of the Neapolitans."

Murat was the very man to become at once popular with an excitable and

imaginative people. His handsome person, his dash and brilliancy, his

reputation for romantic and chivalrous courage, his winning smile, and

affable manner, prepossessed the Neapolitans in his favour, and they

joyfully received him in exchange for Joseph. But the dashing commander

was not of the stuff of which kings should be made; still less was he

the man to found and consolidate a new dynasty, and reduce to order a

fickle and divided nation. Strong-handed, but weak-headed,--a capital

man of action, but valueless at the council-board,--Murat's place was at

the head of charging squadrons. There he was a host in himself; in the

cabinet he was a cipher. He was not equal even to the organisation of

the troops whom, in the field, he so effectively handled. His good

nature rendered him unwilling to refuse a favour, and, as there were no

fixed and stringent regulations for the appointment and promotion of

officers, the higher posts of his army were often most inefficiently

occupied. "He could never resist the supplications of the courtiers,

still less the entreaties of the ladies about the court."--(_Pépé's

Memoirs_, page 262.) And again, "Murat was a Charles XII. in the field,

but a Francis I. in his court. He would have regarded the refusal of a

favour to any lady of the court, even though she were not his mistress,

as an indignity." His _débonnaire_ facility was so well known, that

people used to way-lay him in the street with a petition and an

ink-stand, and he often signed, without inquiry, things that should

never have been granted. "One day he was returning from the Campo di

Marte, when a woman, in tears, and holding a petition in her hand, stood

forward to present it to him. His horse, frightened at the sight of the

paper, kicked and reared, and ended by throwing his majesty some

distance from the spot. After swearing roundly, in the French fashion,

Joachim took the paper and granted its request--the life of the woman's

husband, who was to have been executed the following day." As his

orderly officer, and subsequently, when promoted to a higher military

grade, as his aide-de-camp, General Pépé saw a great deal of Murat, and

we are disposed to place great faith in his evidence concerning that

splendid soldier but poor king. His feelings towards Joachim were of a

nature to ensure the impartiality of his testimony: as his military

chief, and as a private friend, he adored him; as a sovereign he blamed

his acts, and was strenuously opposed to his system of government. He

seems never to have satisfactorily ascertained the king's real feelings

towards himself: at times he thought that he was really a favourite, at

others, he imagined himself disliked for his obstinate political

opposition, and for the pertinacity with which he urged Murat to grant

the nation a constitution. It is probable that Joachim's sentiments

towards his wrong-headed follower, whom he used to call the _tribune_,

and the _savage_, were of a mixed nature; but, whether he liked him or

not, he evidently esteemed and valued him. No other officer was so

constantly employed on confidential, important, and hazardous missions,

both previously to the battle of Wagram, when the Anglo-Sicilians

menaced Naples with an invasion, and at a later period, when Murat

entertained a design of landing in Sicily. In this project the king was

thwarted by the chief of his staff, the French general, Grenier, a

nominee of Napoleon's, who, with three French generals of division,

strongly opposed the invasion of Sicily, acting, as General Pépé

believes, on private instructions from the emperor. "The great aim of

Napoleon was, so to divert the attention of the English, as to cause

them to withdraw part of their forces from Spain and the Ionian islands,

whilst that of Joachim was, simply to get possession of Sicily." In

pursuance of this design, the king established himself, with 22,000 men,

in and around the town of Scylla. His own head-quarters were upon the

summit of a hill, in a magnificent tent, containing one large saloon and

six small chambers. "The tricolor banners, streaming on its summit,

seemed to defy the English batteries on the opposite shore, which

discharged bombs and shot that not only could reach the king's tent, but

even fell beyond it. One day, three balls descended into the tent, where

I was dining with the other officers of the king's household, although

it was situated farther back than that of Joachim." From this exposed

position Murat gazed at Sicily through a telescope, and tried to

persuade himself that it was his. But English ships and men continued to

arrive at Messina, rendering his enjoyment of his nominal possession

each day less probable. So sharp a look-out was kept by the British

fleet, that it was impossible to obtain intelligence from Sicily. The

vessels could be counted; but the amount of land forces was unknown, and

this Murat was most anxious to ascertain. He ordered Pépé to take two of

the boats called _scorridore_, to land in Sicily during the night, and

bring off a peasant, a soldier, or even a woman; any thing, in short,

that could speak. The expedition was so dangerous, that Pépé expected

never to return, and made all arrangements respecting the disposal of

his property, as if condemned to certain death. The two naval officers

whom he warned for the duty, looked at him with horror and astonishment,

and asked what he had done, that the king wanted to get rid of him. To

add to the peril, it was a bright moonlight night. Instead of perishing,

however, he was fortunate enough to capture an English boat, having on

board eight smugglers, spies of General Stewart. Murat's impatience was

so great, that he came into the saloon of his tent, with only his shirt

on, to receive his successful emissary; and General Pépé confesses, that

if the king was delighted at receiving news, he himself was no less so,

at having escaped with life and liberty. At last the invasion was

attempted by a division of Neapolitan troops, and totally failed. Part

of the invaders were taken prisoners: the remainder only escaped by

favour of the strong current, which prevented the English from coming up

with them. Murat returned to Naples, having spent a vast deal of money

on these very expensive and fruitless operations. To Napoleon alone had

they been of any use. He had "succeeded in conveying the necessary

provisions to the Ionian islands whilst the seas were free from the

enemy. At the same time, he had not to contend in Spain with that

portion of the British forces which had been sent to protect Sicily."

In the stir and excitement of campaigning, Pépé managed to endure the

presence of the French, whom he disliked, not because they were

_Frenchmen_, but in their quality of foreigners, and of intruders in his

country. He felt them to be a necessary evil, in the absence of an

efficient native army, which Murat, impatient of his dependence on

Napoleon,--who, according to his custom, treated him rather as a subject

than as a sovereign,--perseveringly endeavoured to organise. Had the

king's talents been equal to his decision and industry, he could not

have failed of success. As it was, his efforts had little result. Pépé

observed this with pain, and his exaggerated feelings of nationality

again obtaining the ascendency, he determined once more to expatriate

himself. He reminded Murat of an old promise to give him the command of

one of the Italian regiments then serving in Spain. The king reproached

him slightly with wishing to leave him; but, on his urging his request,

and pleading a desire to improve himself in his profession, he appointed

him colonel of the 8th of the line, formed out of the remnants of three

regiments, food for powder, furnished to Napoleon by Naples. At the end

of 1810, Pépé took his departure, passed through France, and reached

Saragossa. There he met his brother Florestano, on his way back to

Naples, where he received, on the recommendation of Marshal Suchet, and

by the express desire of Buonaparte, the rank of major-general for his

good services in the Peninsula. The career of this distinguished officer

is highly interesting. At the siege of Andria, in 1799, he was shot

through the breast whilst scaling the walls at the head of his company

of grenadiers. Without being mortal, the wound was extremely severe, and

the surgeon who attended him, and who was esteemed the most skilful in

Naples, cut his chest completely open, in order the better to treat it.

An India-rubber tube was inserted in the centre of the gash to receive

the oozing blood. So terrible was the operation, that the surgeon wished

him to be held down by four strong men. To this Florestano refused to

submit, and bore the anguish without a movement or a murmur. He was then

told that the greatest care and regularity of living were essential to

his existence. His answer was, "that he preferred a month's life of

freedom to an age of solicitude about living;" and with this ghastly

gaping wound he lived, in spite of the predictions of his leech, through

fifteen campaigns. In command of a brigade of cavalry, he took share in

the Russian expedition, and, on the night of the 6th December 1812, it

fell to him to escort Napoleon from Osmiana to Wilna. Out of two

regiments, not more than thirty or forty men arrived. The emperor's

postilion was frozen to death, and had to be replaced by an Italian

officer, who volunteered his services. The two colonels of the brigade

had their extremities frozen, and Florestano Pépé shared the same fate,

losing half his right foot, and only reaching Dantzic through the

assistance of a devoted aide-de-camp. But, even thus mutilated, the

heroic soldier would not abandon his beloved profession, and, during the

final struggle against the Austrians in 1815, he was made

lieutenant-general, by Murat, upon the field of battle.

On assuming command of his regiment, Colonel Pépé was as much struck by

its martial aspect, as he was vexed at its clumsy manoeuvres, and low

moral condition. Both men and officers lacked instruction. The former

were most incorrigible thieves. Plundering was a pretty common practice

with the French armies in Spain, even in Suchet's corps, which was one

of the best disciplined: and the Italians, anxious not to be outdone in

any respect by their allies, were the most accomplished of depredators.

They had come in fact to hold theft meritorious, and designated it by

the elegant name of _poetry_. This slang term had become so general,

that it was used even by the officers; and the adjutant of Pépé's

regiment, in reporting a marauder to him, calls the man a _poet_. The

prosaic application of a couple of hundred lashes to the shoulders of

this culprit, served as a warning to his fellows, and soon the crime

became of rare occurrence. The officers, although deficient in the

theory of their profession, "were brave and honourable men, and had

shown their valour, not only against the enemy, but in numerous duels,

fought with the French, justifying fully, a saying of Machiavel, that

the courage of the Italians, when opposed man to man, is far superior to

that of other nations." The example of their new commander was not

likely to break the officers of the eighth infantry of their duelling

propensities. In the course of General Pépé's memoirs, he refers to at

least half a score encounters of the kind, in which he was a principal.

With the exception of two, which occurred when he was only seventeen,

and of his final one--as far as we are informed--with General Carascosa,

fought in England, in 1823, these single combats were invariably with

foreigners, with whom the general seems to have been very unenduring.

Not that provocation was wanting on the part of the French, more than

sufficient to rouse the ire of the meekest. The insolence of Napoleon's

victorious legions exceeded all bounds; nor was it the less irritating

for being often unintentional,--the result of a habit of gasconading,

and of a settled conviction that they were superior in valour and

military qualities to all the world besides. A certain General F. could

find no higher praise for Pépé's battalions, when they had gallantly

attacked and beaten a Spanish corps, than was conveyed in the

declaration that they ought, in future, to be regarded, not as

Neapolitans but as Frenchmen! A compliment which to patriotic Italian

ears, sounded vastly like an insult. Attributing it to stupidity, Pépé

did not resent the clumsy eulogium. But it was very rare that he allowed

slights of that kind to pass unnoticed, nor could he always restrain his

disgust and impatience at the fulsome praise he heard lavished upon

Napoleon. The officers who had gained rank and wealth under the French

emperor, exalted him above all the heroes of antiquity, and breathed

fire and flames when their Italian comrades supported the superior

claims to immortality, of an Alexander, a Hannibal, or a Cæsar. "I

believe Colonel Pépé loves neither Napoleon nor the French!" angrily

exclaimed a French general during one of these discussions. "I replied

instantly, that I was serving in the army of Arragon, but that I made no

parade of my affections." Words like these were, of course, neither

unheeded nor forgotten, and were little likely to push their utterer

upwards on the ladder of promotion. But at no period of his life did

General Pépé trust to courtier-like qualities for the advancement which

he well knew how to conquer at point of sword.

After two years passed in Spain, and with the reputation of one of the

best colonels in Suchet's army, Pépé returned to Naples. Murat, who had

just come back from Russia, received him kindly, and made him a

major-general. Notwithstanding this, he entertained serious thoughts of

quitting the service. He had left Spain full of political hopes; and now

the independence which Napoleon's disasters had given to Murat rendered

their realization more than ever improbable. His discontent was

participated in by many of his countrymen, especially by the Carbonari,

which sect was greatly on the increase, fostered by the Bourbonites,

who, for their own purposes, sought to sow dissensions in Naples. "I

looked upon this sect," says General Pépé, "as a useful agent for the

civilisation of the popular classes; but, at the same time, I was of

opinion that, as it was necessary to force the king to grant liberal

institutions, it was needful to make use of the army to avoid, as much

as possible, all disorders of the state." The Abruzzi were the focus of

the Carbonaro doctrines, and thither the general had been despatched

with his brigade. When there, he learned Murat's departure for Dresden,

to command Napoleon's cavalry. "Such was the eccentricity of Joachim,

that a few days before quitting Naples, he had been in treaty with

England to proclaim the independence of Italy, that nation engaging to

furnish twenty thousand men and a considerable sum of money for this

purpose. The ratification of the treaty only reached Naples after the

departure of the king." Caroline Buonaparte, regent of Naples during her

husband's absence, hated Pépé for his liberal principles and declared

opposition to the French party, and showed him marked distrust. October

came; Leipsic was fought, Napoleon retreated towards the Rhine,--Murat

returned to Naples. Deprived of the support of his brother-in-law, whose

star was visibly on the decline, it was time he should think and act

for himself. In this critical conjuncture, he displayed, as usual, a

grievous want of judgment. With a strong Bourbonite party against him,

he could not make up his mind to conciliate, by concession, the liberal

section of his subjects. On the other hand, Ferdinand, under the

guidance of England, had given a constitution to Sicily, and promised to

extend a similar boon to the Neapolitans if they would restore him to

his continental dominions. In this promise, it is true, the patriot

party, with the horrors of 1799 fresh in their memory, placed little

confidence. General Pépé attributes much of Murat's undecided and

injudicious conduct to Napoleon's treatment of him. "The emperor," he

says, "one day exalted him to the skies, and the next would humble him

to the very dust, condemning every thing he did, not only through the

public papers, but in his private correspondence." On this head, the

general gives very curious particulars, derived from the Duke of Campo

Chiaro, chief of the police, and minister under Murat. The dilemma in

which King Joachim found himself might have perplexed a wiser man. It

was an option between turning his arms against his country and his

benefactor, and losing his crown, which he could not hope to retain if

he declared against the allies. After negotiating at one and the same

time with all parties, he finally, at the commencement of 1814,

concluded a treaty of alliance with Austria. But his mind was in an

unsettled and wavering state; and he made no secret to those French

officers who still followed his fortunes, of the good will with which he

would once more fight beside, instead of against, his old companions in

arms. "The Austrians so firmly expected this _volta-facia_, that they

attempted, with one of Nugent's regiments of hussars, to take him

prisoner at Bologna." At times, Pépé fancied that the king was about to

comply with the wishes of the patriot party, grant a liberal

constitution, and proclaim the independence of Italy. His hopes of this

were particularly strong, when he found himself appointed to organise

and command a legion, to consist of men from all the provinces of Italy,

and of whose officers he was to have the nomination. That so important a

trust as this should be confided to a man noted for his democratic

principles, of whom the king never spoke but as the tribune and the

_tête de fer_, and who had been more than once suspected of an intention

to revolt, was indeed a symptom of a change in Murat's views. But it all

ended in smoke. Pépé drew up the plan of the legion, and submitted it to

the king, who took no further notice of it. He was engrossed in watching

the final struggle between Napoleon and the allies.

On the 19th April, when about to besiege Piacenza, news reached Murat of

the fall of Paris, and of the treaty of peace concluded with the viceroy

of the kingdom of Italy. The war was suspended, and the Neapolitan army

retired southwards. At Rimini, General Pépé, who commanded the rear

guard, fell in with the Pope, then proceeding to Rome, and was admitted

to an interview. Never oblivious of his political principles, he took an

opportunity of saying, "that it would be worthy of an Italian pontiff to

collect about him the sons of Italy, and to drive the foreigners out of

his native land." His holiness listened attentively, but made no reply.

When Murat was informed of this bold suggestion of Pépé's, he exclaimed,

"He will not leave even the Pope quiet," and this saying became a

standing joke against the tenacious patriot. A few days afterwards,

General Ambrosio, another of the liberal party, had been advocating to

the Pope the advantages of a constitution for Italy, "when a crippled

gentleman was brought to the carriage door, who requested the pontiff to

bestow his blessing upon him, that he might recover the use of his

limbs. The Pope, turning towards Ambrosio, said, 'You see, General,

where we are; Italy is still far from the period you so ardently

desire.'" Ambrosio and his friends, especially Pépé, were of the

contrary opinion, and conspired to compel Murat to grant them a

constitution. Seventeen general officers were implicated in the plot,

but when the moment for action came, the majority faltered, Pépé was

left in the lurch, and became the scapegoat. Urged to fly to Milan, he

refused to lower himself in the opinion of his countrymen by seeking

refuge amidst the oppressors of Italy. He was ordered to the castle of

St. Elmo, there to appear before a court-martial, but on reaching

Naples, the placable Murat had forgotten his anger, and received him

kindly. "I treat all my subjects, and you in particular, like my

children," were his first words. In the interesting conversation that

followed, Pépé urged the king to grant a constitution, as the surest

means of securing the affections of his subjects and consolidating his

throne. Murat replied, that he should long since have done so, but that

such a proceeding would draw upon him the implacable animosity of

Austria. And he declined relying, as his unceremonious counsellor urged

him to do, upon the courage of six millions of Neapolitans and the

natural strongholds of the country. He was never offended at Pépé's

frankness, for he had faith in his personal attachment. "It is certain,"

says the General, "that, after my country, I was most truly attached to

Joachim, and I would have given my life for him." Subsequent events

proved this, and showed Murat that the man who, boldly and to his face,

had blamed the conduct of the king, was the firm friend of the depressed

and unhappy fugitive. In the closing scene of Joachim's reign, when the

disbanded Neapolitans, badly led, and in some instances deserted by

generals who should never have held the rank, fled before the hosts of

Austria, the sympathy and friendship of his plain-spoken follower were

amongst the last and best consolations of the falling monarch. Very

bitter must have been Murat's reflections at that moment; the conviction

was forced upon him that his misfortunes resulted chiefly from his own

want of judgment and too great facility; captivity or exile stared him

in the face; the sunny smile which, even in moments of the greatest

peril, rarely left his countenance, was chased by shame and

self-reproach, and tears stood upon his cheeks. "I could not restrain my

own, and, instead of speaking, I advanced, took his hand, and kissed it.

Oh! how touched he was by this act of respectful affection on my part!

Who knows but at that moment he recollected the words I had addressed to

him in his palace, 'Whenever you shall find yourself in a situation of

danger, you will learn to distinguish your real friends from the friends

of your fortune.'" A very few days after this affecting scene, on the

night of the 20th May, Murat crossed over in disguise to Ischia, and

embarked for France. On the 23d, took place the triumphal entry of the

Austrians into the city of Naples.

The particulars of Murat's last mad act, his landing in Italy at the

head of thirty men, and of his consequent capture and tragical death,

have been related by many writers, and General Pépé could add little in

the way of facts to what was already known. He makes some interesting

reflections on the subject, and traces the supreme ill-luck by which

Joachim was pursued in his last desperate venture. On the return of the

Bourbons to France, two of his followers, who had accompanied him from

Naples, hired a vessel to convey him to England or America. But, as fate

would have it, the place of rendezvous was misunderstood. Murat missed

his friends, and, being in hourly peril of his life, put to sea in a

boat. Landed in Corsica, the affectionate welcome he met from thousands

of the inhabitants, many of whom had formerly served under him, cheered

his drooping spirits, and inspired him with the idea of a descent in

Italy. He had two hundred and seventy followers, hardy Corsican

mountaineers, and had they landed with him, General Pépé is of opinion

that he would soon have raised a force sufficiently strong to maintain

the campaign, and extort favourable conditions from Austria, as far, at

least, as regarded his life and liberty. But the six small vessels in

which he left Ajaccio were scattered by a tempest, and he was driven,

with but a tithe of his followers, to the very last port he ought to

have made. The inhabitants of Pizzo, whose coasting trade had been

ruined during the war, were glad of peace on any terms, and looked upon

Murat as a firebrand, come to renew their calamities. They assailed the

adventurers and drove them to the shore. But when Joachim would fain

have re-embarked, he saw his ship standing out to sea. The treacherous

commander had betrayed him for the sake of the valuables he had left on

board. And Murat, the chivalrous, the brave, remained a prisoner in the

hands of his former subjects, scoffed at and reviled by the lowest of

the people. Five days afterwards, twelve bullets in the breast

terminated his misfortunes. It was a soldier's death, but had been

better met on the battle-field. There, amidst the boom of artillery, and

the din of charging squadrons, should have terminated the career of the

most dashing cavalry officer of modern times, of one who might well have

disputed with Ney the proud title of the "_brave des braves_."

We have purposely dwelt upon the earlier portion of General Pépé's work,

to the exclusion of its latter chapters. We can take but little interest

in Neapolitan history since 1815, in the abortive revolutionary

struggles and manoeuvres of the Carbonari and other would-be

liberators. Nor do the ample details given by the general greatly

increase our respect for Italian patriotism; whilst we trace more than

one discrepancy between the conclusions he draws and the results he

exhibits. He holds his countrymen to have been long since ripe for a

constitutional government and free institutions, and yet he himself

shows us that, when a revolution was achieved, and those great objects

attained, the leading men of his party, those who had been foremost in

effecting the change, proved traitors or dupes, and that the people,

organised in militia and national guards, displayed so little

self-devotion, such small zeal in defence of their newly acquired

liberties, as to be utterly disheartened by the very first conflict with

their treacherous king's supporters, and to disperse, never again to

reassemble. Such was, the case in 1821, and in vain does General Pépé

try to justify his countrymen by attributing their weakness and

defection to the machinations of the evil-disposed. The truth, we

believe, is to be found in the final words of his own proclamation,

addressed to the national guards after the disastrous encounter, in the

vain hope of once more rousing them to resistance. "Your women," he

said, "will make you blush for your weakness, and will bid you hasten

again to surround that general whose confidence in your patriotism you

should have justified better than you did on the 7th of March, when you

fought at Rieti."

His darling Constitution overthrown, Pépé wandered forth an exile. But

hope never deserted him. Baffled, he was not discouraged. He sought on

all sides for means to renew the struggle. And truly some of his

projects, however creditable to his intrepidity and zeal, say little for

his prudence and coolness of judgment. What can be thought of his

application in 1823 to Mavrocordato for a thousand chosen Greeks, with

whom he proposed to land in Calabria! Of course the chief of the new

Greek government civilly declined leading a thousand of his countrymen

for any such desperate venture. In 1830 the general's hopes were raised

high by the success of the French revolution. His active brain teemed

with projects, and in his mind's eye he again saw the tri-colored banner

floating from St. Elmo's towers. Vain delusions, not destined to

realization. The feeble attempts of the Italian patriots were easily

suppressed, and Pépé retired to Paris, to mourn the fate of his beloved

and beautiful country, doomed to languish in Austrian servitude and

under Bourbon despotism.

* * * * *

FRENCH PLAYERS AND PLAYHOUSES.[13]

[13] "_The Theatres of Paris_. By Charles Hervey." London and Paris,

1846.

In these dull days of latter winter few of our readers will quarrel with

us for transporting them to the gayest capital in Europe, the city of

pleasure, the Capua of the age. In London, at least, there is just now

little to regret; it wears its dreariest, dirtiest, and most

disconsolate garb. The streets are slippery with black mud and blacker

ice, a yellow halo surrounds the gas lamps, even the Bude lights look

quenched and uncomfortable; cabmen, peevish at the paucity of fares,

curse with triple intensity the wood pavement and the luckless garrons

that slide and stumble over it; the blue and benumbed fingers of Italian

grinders can scarcely turn the organ handles; tattered children and

half-starved women, pale, shivering, and tearful, pester the pedestrian

with offers of knitted wares, and of winter nosegays, meagre and

miserable as themselves. The popular cheerfulness and merry-making of

Christmas time are over, and have not yet been succeeded by the bustle

and gaiety of the fashionable world. London is abandoned to its million

of nobodies; the few thousands whose presence gives it life are still on

the list of absentees.

Mark the contrast. But a minute ago we were in London--dull, empty

London--and behold! we are in Paris--gay, crowded, lively Paris--now

at the height of its season, and in full swing of carnival dissipation.

By a process of which, since the days of Scheherazade, we alone possess

the secret, we have flown over Kent, skimmed the Channel, sped across

the uninteresting plains of Picardy, and are seated at dinner--where? In

the spacious saloon of the _Hotel des Princes_, at the succulent table

of the _Café de Paris_, or in the gaudy and dazzling apartments of the

_Maison Dorée_? No matter. Or let us choose the last, the _Maison

Dédorée_ as it has been called, its external gilding having ill resisted

the assaults of winter's snows and summer's parching heat. But although,

as Mr. Moore of Ireland has informed us, all that's bright must fade, it

follows not that the substantial deteriorates with the superficial. And

the cookery of the _Maison Dorée_ has improved as its gilding has rubbed

off, until even the _Café de Paris_ and the far-famed _Trois Frères_

must veil their inferior charms before the manifold perfections of this

Apician sanctuary. Here, then, we establish ourselves, in this snug

embrasure, whence we have a full view of the throng of diners, whilst

plate glass and a muslin curtain alone intervene between us and the

broad asphalt of the Boulevard. A morocco book, a sheet of vellum, and a

pencil, are before us. We write a dozen lines, and hand them to our

companion; he reads, nods approval, and transfers the precious document

to the smug and expectant waiter. The sharp eye of that Ganymede of the

Gilt House had at once detected our Britannic origin, conspicuous in our

sober garb and shaven chins; and doubtless he anticipated one of those

uncouth bills of fare, infamous by their gastronomical solecisms, which

Englishmen are apt to perpetrate, for he smiles with an air of agreeable

disappointment as he glances at our judicious _menu_. No cause for

wonder, most dapper of _garçons_! 'Tis not the first time, by many, that

we have tabled our Napoleons on your damask napery. Schooled by

indigestion, like Dido by misfortune, we have learned to order our

dinner, even at Paris; and are no more to be led astray in the labyrinth

of your interminable _carte_, than you, versed in the currency of

Albion, are to be deluded by a Brummagem sovereign, or a note of the

Bank of Elegance. So, _presto_, to work! our blessing and a double

_pourboire_ your promised reward. And, verily, he earns them well. The

_potage à la bisque_ is irreproachable; the truffles, those black

diamonds of the epicure, are the pick of Perigueux; the chambertin is of

the old green seal, the sparkling _ai frappé_ to a turn, and, whilst we

tranquilly degustate and deliberately imbibe, the influence of that

greatest achievement of human genius, a good dinner, percolates through

our system, telling upon our moral as upon our physical man. We feel

ineffably benevolent: doubtless we look so; for yonder old gentleman

with the white hair, red ribbon, and ditto face, dining, _tête-à-tête_

with himself, and who is now at his eleventh dish--a tempting but

inexplicable compound, which Ortila himself would be puzzled to

analyse--contemplates us, in the intervals of his forkings-in, with a

benign and admiring look. Our trusty friend and _vis-à-vis_ turns his

head, and we behold ourselves reflected in the opposite mirror. 'Tis as

we thought: our physiognomy is philanthropical in the extreme. Quite the

"mild, angelic air," that Byron talks of, when describing a gentleman in

very different circumstances.

But we have no time to dwell upon our personal fascinations, or to

speculate upon the cause of their increase within the last half hour; no

eyes have we save for that Lucullian _salmi_ steaming before us; and,

like ourselves, all around us are absorbed in absorbing. Though every

table is full, there is little noise in the crowded apartment. Men go to

the _Maison Dorée_ to eat, not to chatter. Without, too, there is a

lull, after the bustle and racket of the afternoon. The day has been

splendid--crisp, bright, and invigorating, and all the dandies and

beauties of Paris have been abroad, driving in the Champs Elysées,

galloping through the leafless avenues of the Bois de Boulogne, basking

in the winter sun upon the cheerful Boulevards. The morning's amusements

are over; those of the night have not yet begun. It is the moment of the

interlude, the hour of dine, and Paris is busied in the most important

of its diurnal acts. But, alas for the briefness of earthly joys, and

the limited capacity of mortal stomachs! Sad is it that not even in this

Golden Mansion can a feeble child of clay dine twice. We long for the

appetite of a Dando, for the digestion of the bird of the desert, to

recommence our meal, from the soup to the _fondu_. Vain are our

aspirations. The soft languor of repletion steals over us, as we dally

with our final olive, and _buzz_ the Lafitte. Waiter! the coffee. At the

word, the essence of Mocha, black as Erebus, and fragrant as a breeze,

from the Spice Islands, smokes beneath our nostrils, the sparkling

glasses receive the golden _liqueur_, and--WE HAVE DINED.

Good dinners and amusing theatricals enter largely into the pleasurable

anticipations of English visiters to Paris. The fame of French cooks and

actors is universal; all are eager to taste their productions, and

witness their performances. Let a tyrannical royal ordinance or

sumptuary law close the playhouses and cut down the bills of fare from a

volume to a page, and a sensible diminution will ensue in the influx of

foreigners into France. However great the desire to visit Versailles,

stare at the Vendôme column, and ramble round the Palais Royal, those

attractions, if put into the scale, will frequently be found less

weighty than a vaudeville, a dinner at Véry's, and a breakfast at the

renowned Rocher. In their expectations, both gastronomical and

theatrical, strangers in Paris are often disappointed. We refer, of

course, to tyros; not to the regular birds of passage who consider a

month or two in the French metropolis as essential a part of their

annual recreations as Ascot or the moors. These, of course, are well

versed in Parisian mysteries, both of the drama and the dining room. But

to the novice, a guide is necessary, whether through the crowded columns

of a _restaurateur's_ complicated _carte_, or amidst the fair promises

held out by the two dozen playbills posted each morning at eleven

o'clock upon the walls and pillars of Paris. For want of it, many a

Johnny Newcome finds himself, after much bewilderment and painful

deliberation, masticating an unsatisfactory dinner or witnessing a

stupid play. We have often wondered that, amongst the multitude of Paris

guide books, not one was to be found containing minute instructions to

the stranger as to the dinners he should order, and the plays and actors

he should see; giving, in short, a series of bills of fare, culinary and

histrionic. This deficit has at last been supplied, at least as regards

things theatrical. A book has been published which should find a place

in the portmanteau of every Englishman starting for the French capital.

Partly a compilation from French works, and partly the result of the

author's own experience, it contains the general history of each of the

Paris theatres, biographical and critical sketches of the actors, lists

and anecdotes of the principal musicians and authors who compose and

write for the stage, and, finally, an enumeration of the best performers

at each theatre, and of the pieces in which they are seen to the

greatest advantage. We need say no more to demonstrate the utility of

the work to those going abroad. And by those remaining at home, its

lively pages will be found a mine of amusing anecdote and curious

information. Abounding in racy and pungent details, sometimes valuable

from their connexion with historical characters, and as illustrations of

the manners and morals of the times, the history of the French stage

might almost be indefinitely prolonged; and, amidst the multitude of

materials, it required some ingenuity to select, as Mr. Hervey has done,

those most suitable to the taste of the day, and to pack them into a

single volume.

Less than a century ago Paris contained but four theatres. These were,

the French Comedy, the Royal Academy of Music or Grand Opera, the

Italian Comedy, where vaudevilles and comic operas were performed, and

the Theatre de la Foire. The two last named were the ancestors of the

present Opera Comique. "Up to 1593," says Mr. Hervey, "the actors of the

Théatres de la Foire St. Germain and St. Laurent consisted of dogs,

cats, monkeys, and even rats, some of the latter animals being so

admirably trained as to dance a grand ballet on a table, whilst one in

particular, a white rat from Lapland, executed a saraband with

surpassing grace." In 1716 the manager of one of these theatres obtained

leave to give musical performances. This was the origin of the Opera

Comique, which, forty years later, was amalgamated with the Italian

comedy at the Hôtel de Bourgogne, whence, in 1783, the united companies

transferred themselves to the Salle Favart. To the four theatres above

enumerated, a few others were added during the reigns of Louis XV. and

his successor, but they were of little note, and the increase in the

number of theatrical establishments was unimportant until the

revolution. Then license was universal, and no special one was required

to open theatres. In 1791 a prodigious number were established, and, for

some years afterwards, nearly fifty, large and small, existed in Paris.

In the time of the empire twenty-eight of these remained, until Napoleon

issued an edict reducing them to ten. At the present day the French

capital contains twenty-two theatres, including the new Théatre

Montpensier, the privilege for which was conceded to Alexandre Dumas at

the request of the prince whose name it bears. Besides these there are a

number of petty playhouses outside the barriers, at Batignolles,

Belleville, and similar places, and Mr. Hervey informs us that a license

has just been granted for a third French opera-house. Play-loving as the

population of Paris undoubtedly is, it must be admitted that ample

provision is made for its gratification.

The natural classification of the more important of the Parisian

theatres, about fifteen in number, is under four heads: opera--tragedy,

comedy, and drama--vaudeville--melodrama. The first division includes

the French opera, the Italians, the Opera Comique; the second, the

Français and the Odeon; at the Porte St. Martin and Ambigu Comique,

melodrama is the staple commodity, varied, however, with performances of

a lighter kind; whilst vaudevilles, broad farces, and short comedies

constitute the chief stock in trade of the remainder. At many of the

theatres an entire change in the style of the performances is of no

unfrequent occurrence. We have known the Gaité in the dolefuls, and the

Porte St. Martin abandoning its scaffolds, trap-doors, and other

melodramatic horrors, for fun, farce, and ballet. As a regular thing,

dancing is only to be seen at the Grand Opera. The license of each

theatre specifies the nature of the performances allowed it, but this

is a matter difficult exactly to define, and the rule is easy of

evasion. A better check, perhaps, is the jealousy with which one theatre

beholds another infringing on its attributes. Thus, some years ago, at

the Français, where the performances should be confined to tragedy, high

comedy, and drama, a play interspersed with songs was brought out. The

Vaudeville viewed this as a usurpation of its privileges, and forthwith

produced a piece called "La Tragédie au Vaudeville," saying that if the

Français sang vaudevilles, the Vaudeville was justified in singing

tragedy.

There are in Paris four Theatres Royal, subsidised by the French

government to the extent of about twelve hundred thousand francs, or

nearly £50,000. Rather more than the half of this sum goes to the Grand

Opera, nor is it too much, if we consider the enormous salaries paid to

the singers and dancers at that theatre, and the low prices of

admission; the best place in the house costing less than a pit-ticket at

the Italian opera in London. The Opera Comique receives nearly ten

thousand pounds a-year, the Français eight, the Odeon four. The other

theatres do as well as they can without subsidies, and, as in this

country, are losing or profitable concerns according to the skill of the

manager, to the merits of the actors and plays produced; and, oftener

still, according to the caprice and good pleasure of the public. Their

prices of admission are generally higher in proportion than those of the

larger theatres. It must be admitted that their performances are often

more amusing.

Although one or two attempts were made at earlier periods, the permanent

establishment of the opera in France cannot be traced further back than

the reign of Louis XIV., when Cardinal Mazarine had the happy idea of

introducing it, in hopes of amusing that most unamuseable of monarchs.

The novelty found great favour, both with sovereign and courtiers.

Performances took place in the king's private apartments; the Marquis of

Sourdeac, a man of immense wealth and considerable mechanical skill,

constructed a theatre in his Norman castle, and brought out the "Toison

d'Or," with words by Corneille. At last an opera company was regularly

installed in a building in the Rue Vaugirard, and here, upon one

occasion, when the King was present, the Prince of Condé, and other

great nobles, danced upon the stage amongst the actors. "The first opera

in which female dancers were introduced was the Triumph of Love, played

at St. Germains before Louis XIV. On the occasion of this brilliant

_fête_, several ladies of the court were amongst the performers, and it

was resolved that they should in future be replaced by professional

_danseuses_, the female characters in the ballet having previously been

sustained by men." Lully, the celebrated composer, was manager of the

opera house, where he amassed a very large fortune. He made himself

greatly dreaded by his orchestra, whom he used to belabour over the head

with his fiddle. In this manner he is said to have broken scores of

violins, and one unlucky clarionet-player, in particular, who was never

either in time or tune, cost him a vast number of instruments. They

shivered like glass upon the obdurate noddle of the faulty Orpheus, and

Lully swore he had never met with so vile a musician, or so hard a head.

After a time it was discovered that the offender wore a leaden lining to

his periwig. Louis XIV. never ceased to take a most paternal interest in

his opera company. He went so far as to regulate and write out with his

own hand, the salaries allowed to the performers. Those were not days

when a singer was better paid than the general of an army, or a minister

of state; when each note of a tenor's voice was worth a corresponding

one, and of no small figure, issued from the Bank of France. The salary

of a first rate tenor or barytone, was then less than is now given to a

chorister or walking gentleman. Sixty pounds were the highest yearly sum

granted by Louis XIV. to the best opera singer. The first female dancer

received thirty-six pounds! We are quite sure, that the waiting maid of

an Elssler or a Taglioni, would turn up her nose at such a pittance.

Louis XIV. was gathered to his fathers, and soon after his death

matters improved a little. Still the pay was poor enough. But what of

that? Those were the palmy days of the heroes and heroines of the foot

lamps. For the disciples of Thespis, Paris was a paradise. True, when

dead they were refused Christian burial, but they cared little about

that, sinners that they were, for, whilst living, courted, flattered,

and cherished, they amassed, or more often spent, princely fortunes.

During the dissolute half century preceding the revolution, they were at

the summit of their prosperity. High born dames, even princesses of

blood royal, culled their favourites from amongst the knights of the

buskin; actresses, dancers, mere figurantes, saw the wealthiest and

proudest languishing at their feet, and contending for their smiles.

That was the time when Vestris, the God of Dance, as he called himself,

said publicly, and with the most perfect conviction, that there were

only three great men in Europe, the King of Prussia, M. de Voltaire, and

himself! "There are roses as well as thorns in my profession," said he

to a friend who expatiated on the happiness of being a public favourite.

"I assure you, sometimes I think I would rather be a mere captain of

cavalry than what I am." "Old chronicles," says Albert Cler, in a

spirited sketch of the French opera, "tell us of the extraordinary

luxury, in carriages, liveries, furniture, and jewels, displayed by the

goddesses of the opera. The Prince d'Henin passed a contract with Sophie

Arnould, by a clause of which he engaged to supply her with a new

equipage every month. A nymph who flourished in the time of the

Directory, the celebrated Clotilde, enjoyed, thanks to the munificence

of an Italian prince and of a Spanish admiral, an income of two

millions, and managed, notwithstanding this royal revenue, to get into

debt to the tune of some five hundred thousand francs yearly." Earlier

than this, by fifty years, the Camargo and the Sallé were all the rage.

The latter, Mr. Hervey tells us, paid a visit to London, and there, at

one of her performances, gold and bank-notes were showered upon the

stage, to the amount of £800. Her annual salary at the French opera was

less than £150. The suppers of Mademoiselle Guimard, another of the

fairy-footed sisterhood, whose bust, bequeathed by her to the opera, is

still the principal ornament of the dancers' green-room, were renowned

throughout Europe. They occurred thrice in the week; the first was

attended by the most distinguished courtiers and nobles, the second by

artists and by men of letters and learning, the third, which deserved

the name of an orgie, by the prettiest women she could collect.

Few of the amateurs, who, armed with double-barrelled telescopes,

contemplate from box or stall the agile bounds and graceful evolutions

of the houris of the ballet, have any conception of the amount of labour

and torture gone through, before even an approach to perfection in the

Terpsichorean art is accomplished. Alberic Second, the very witty author

of a very amusing book (albeit in thorough French taste) "Les Petits

Mysteres de l'Opera," to whose pages Mr. Hervey confesses himself

largely indebted, gives many curious details on this subject. An immense

amount of courage, patience, resignation, and toil, is necessary, to

become even a middling dancer. The poor children--for dancing, above all

things, must be learnt young--commence with the stocks, heel to heel and

knees outwards. Half an hour of this, and another species of martyrdom

begins. One foot is placed upon a bar which is grasped by the contrary

hand. This is called _se casser_, to break one's self. After this

agreeable process come the thousand and one steps, essential to an opera

dancer. "Such," says an imaginary _danseuse_ from whom M. Second

professes to receive his information, "are the agreeable elements of the

art of dancing. And do not suppose that these rude fatigues are of short

duration. They are perpetual, and on that condition only does a dancer

retain her activity and suppleness. A week's idleness must be atoned for

by two months' double labour. The opera-dancer realises the fable of

Sisyphus and his rock. She resembles the horse, who pays with his

repose, his flesh and his liberty, the rapid victories of the

racecourse. I have seen Mademoiselle Taglioni, after receiving a two

hours' lesson from her father, fall helpless upon the floor, and allow

herself to be undressed, spunged, and again attired, without the least

consciousness of what passed. The agility and wonderful bounds with

which she, that same evening, delighted the public, were at this price."

Besides these terrible fatigues, dancers often run serious personal

risks. So, at least, says the author of the "Petits Mysteres" who, as a

journalist and frequenter of the _coulisses_, is excellent authority. He

cannot resist a joke, but it is easy to sift the facts from their

admixture of burlesque exaggerations. "By dint of incurring simulated

dangers, the dancer accustoms herself to real peril, as a soldier in war

time becomes habituated to murder and pillage. She suspends herself from

wires, sits upon pasteboard clouds, disappears through trap doors, comes

in by the chimney and goes out by the window. In the first act of the

Peri there is so dangerous a leap, that I consider Carlotta Grisi risks

her life every time she takes it. Let M. Petipa be once awkward, or even

absent, and Carlotta will break her head upon the boards. I know an

Englishman who attends every performance of this ballet. He is persuaded

it will be fatal to Carlotta, and would not for the world miss the

catastrophe. It is the same man who, for three years, followed Carter

and Van Amburgh, always hoping that a day would come when the animals

would sup with their masters, and upon their masters." Considering the

preparatory ordeal and frequent perils of their profession, dancers

fairly earn the money and honours paid to them. Crowned heads have

condescended to treat them as equals. At Stuttgart, we are told,

Taglioni, towards the commencement of her career, won the affections of

the Queen of Wurtemberg, who shed tears at her departure. At Munich, the

King of Bavaria introduced her to his Queen, with the words,

"_Mademoiselle, je vous présente ma femme_." "At Vienna she was once

called before the curtain twenty-two times in one evening, and was drawn

to her hotel, in her own carriage, by forty young men of the first

Austrian families." Every one remembers the enthusiasm excited by Fanny

Elssler amongst the matter-of-fact Yankees. During her last engagement

at the French opera her salary was eighty thousand francs a-year.

Taglioni and Elssler personify the two styles into which the present

school of dancing is divided, the _ballonné_ and the _tacqueté_. The

former is lightness combined with grace, when the dancer seems to float

upon air. The _tacqueté_ is vivacity and rapidity; little quick steps on

the points of the feet.

The principal singers now engaged at the French opera are Duprez and

Gardoni, tenors; Baroilhet, the barytone; Brémond and Serda, who have

succeeded, if they could not replace, the celebrated bass, Levasseur;

and Madame Stoltz. Duprez is well known in England as a singer of great

energy and admirable method, but whose powers have grievously suffered

from over-exertion. Halevy and Meyerbeer should be indicted as the

assassins of his once beautiful voice. The five tremendous acts of

Robert le Diable, and the stunning accompaniments of the author of the

Juive, are destructive to any tenor. In Paris, Duprez is still a

favourite, especially in Guillaume Tell, considered his crack part.

Gardoni, who has now been two years on the opera boards, has replaced

him in some of his characters. This young singer has a very fresh and

melodious voice, great taste and feeling, but lacks power, and, it is to

be feared, will share the fate of most of his predecessors, and soon

succumb to the thundering orchestra of the Academie Royale.[14] As Mr.

Hervey very justly observes, there is no medium for a tenor at the

French opera. He must either scream, in order to be heard above the

music, or be wholly inaudible. Baroilhet is unquestionably the best of

the present opera company. His acting and singing are alike good, and

his voice, of a less delicate texture than a tenor, has preserved its

vigour and freshness. It would be unfair to estimate his abilities by

his performance, some two years ago, at the London Opera-house. He was

then in ill health, and was heard to great disadvantage. He has been

fifteen years on the stage, but only the last five of them have been

passed at Paris. He previously sang at various Italian theatres, chiefly

at the San Carlo. Donizetti's Roberto Devereux and Belisario were

composed expressly for him. Madame Rosine Stoltz, whose portrait, a very

fair resemblance, is prefixed to Mr. Hervey's sketch of her operatic

career, is a highly dramatic singer and an excellent actress, but her

voice, of unusually extensive range, has a metallic sharpness which to

our ear is not pleasant. She possesses a good stage face and figure, and

her performance is most effective both in tragic and comic parts,

although she is usually preferred in the former. We believe she has

never sung in England, perhaps on account of the short respite allowed

her by the French opera--but one month in the year. She is said to be a

god-daughter of the Duchess of Berri. Various notices of her life have

been published, but there is little agreement between them. It is

generally understood that her early years were unprosperous, and that

she endured much suffering and misfortune. If so, she learned mercy from

persecution, for she is now noted for her benevolence, and for the

generous assistance she affords to the needy amongst her comrades.

[14] Doubtless Gardoni was apprehensive of some such deterioration

of his voice, for he has just left the _Académie_, after much

opposition on the part of the manager, and has made a highly

successful appearance at the Italian opera.

Notwithstanding the efforts and merits of these three or four singers,

the French opera is in a declining state. A numerous company is not

always synonymous with a strong one. The present manager, M. Léon

Pillet, has been accused of disgusting, dismissing, or omitting to

engage, some of the best singers of the day. Poultier, the Rouen cooper,

a tenor of the Duprez school, is cited as an instance. He was engaged by

a former management at a thousand francs a-month for eight months in the

year, but, although much liked by the public, he was kept in the

background, owing partly, it was reported, to his own unassuming

character, and partly to certain green-room intrigues and jealousies.

During his vacation he starred in the provinces, earning four or five

times the amount of his Paris salary. In his native town he was carried

in triumph, and treated to an interminable serenade, whose performers,

according to the deposition of our friend, M. Second, relieved each

other every two hours, and kept up their harmony for a whole day and

night. Roger, of the Opera Comique, is another singer whose proper place

is at the Grand Opera, he is young, handsome, a good actor, and since

Duprez' decline, the best French tenor extant.

At Paris theatres, and especially at the opera, the next best thing to

having a good company is to have a good _claque_. Such, at least, is the

theory of the actors and managers of the present day. The more rusty the

tenor, the more wrinkled the prima donna, the greater the need of an

army of iron-fisted, brazen-visaged hirelings to get artificial

applause, and inoculate the public with their factitious enthusiasm. In

this latter respect they now rarely succeed. The device is stale, the

trick detected, and yet the practice is maintained. It takes in no one.

Even raw provincials and newly imported foreigners are up to the

stratagem before they have been a week in Paris. The press inveighs

against it; audiences, far from being duped, often remain silent when

most pleased, lest they should be confounded with the _claqueurs_. But

no manager dares to strike the first blow at this troublesome abuse.

There is a regular contractor for the opera _claque_, receiving so much

a month from each actor. Duprez has always refused to submit to this

extortion, but he is, or was, the only exception to the rule. The

contractor has an organised regiment under his orders, mustering sixty

strong. Every opera night, before the opening of the doors, they

assemble at a low coffee-house in the Rue Favart, to receive his orders

for the evening, and thence follow him to the theatre, into which they

are admitted through a private entrance. Some of them are paid for

applauding--these are the chiefs, the veteran clappers; others applaud

for a free admission, whilst a third class are content to do their best

for the good of the house, and to pay half-price for their tickets. The

distribution of these _bravo_-battalions, these knights of the

chandelier, as they are called, from the post of their main body being

in the centre of the pit, requires much skill and judgment. The captain

of the _claque_ is an important personage, respected by his

subordinates, courted by the actors, and skilled in the strategy of his

profession, which yields him a handsome income. A tap of his cane on the

ground is the signal for applause. The _chatouilleur_, or tickler, a

variety of the genus _claqueur_, is in vogue chiefly at the smaller

theatres. His duty is to laugh, and, if possible, infect his neighbours

with his mirth. He stands upon a lower grade of the social step-ladder

than the _claqueur_; very unjustly, as it appears to us, his scope for

the display of original genius being decidedly larger. How delicately

may he modulate his merriment, and control his cachinnations,

establishing a regular gamut, rising from the titter to the guffaw,

abating from the irrepressible horse-laugh to the gratified snigger. He

may himself be a better actor than those for whose benefit his mirth is

feigned. And when, with aching ribs and a moist pocket-handkerchief--for

an accomplished _chatouilleur_ must be able to laugh till he cries--he

retires from the scene enlivened by his efforts, it is with the proud

consciousness that his contagious chuckle, as much as author's _jokes_

or _buffo's_ comicalities, has contributed to set the theatre in a roar.

Boileau said that

Le Français, né malin, créa le vaudeville,

and Boileau was right, although, when he wrote the line, he referred to

a particular style of satirical song, and not to the farces and

comedies, intermixed with couplets and snatches of music, that have

since borne the name. The Frenchman not only created the vaudeville, but

he reserved to himself its monopoly. Essentially French, it is

inimitable on any other stage. Of the many attempts made, none have

succeeded in catching its peculiar spirit. The Englishman has his farce,

the German his _possenspiel_, the Spaniard his _saynete_, but the

vaudeville will only flourish on French soil, or, at least, in the hands

of French authors and actors. Piron and Lesage were its fathers; their

mantle has been handed down through succeeding generations, worn

alternately by a Piis and a Barré, by a Panard, whom Marmontel called

the La Fontaine of the vaudeville, and a Desaugiers, until, in the

present day, it rests upon the shoulders of Scribe, and his legion of

rivals and imitators. With the exception of the four theatres royal and

the Italian opera, there is not a playhouse in Paris where it is not

performed, although in each it takes a different tone, to which the

actors, as they change from one stage to another, insensibly adapt

themselves. Thus the four principal vaudeville theatres have each their

own style. There is an immeasurable distance between the vaudeville

_grivois_, the laxity, not to say the positive indecency, of the Palais

Royal--supported by the _double-entendres_ of Ravel and Madame Lemenil,

and the buffoonery of Alcide Tousez--and the neat and correct little

comedies of the Gymnase, so admirably enacted by a Ferville, a Numa, and

a Rose Chéri. To the latter theatre, the Parisian matrons conduct their

daughters; the former they themselves hesitate to visit. The substance

is not invariably more praiseworthy at the one than at the other, but

the form is always more decorous.

In discussing the vaudeville, the theatre bearing that name naturally

claims the precedence, to which the excellence of its present company

also gives it some title. Until the year 1792, there existed at Paris no

theatre specially appropriated to this style of performance, which was

given at the Comédie Italienne. It attracted crowds; and Sedaine, the

composer, vexed to see it preferred to his comic operas, wrote a couplet

against it, exhibiting more spleen than poetical merit. The attack,

however, together with the refusal of a small pension which he had

claimed from the Italian Comedy, to whose treasury he had brought

millions of francs, irritated Piis, the vaudevilliste then in vogue, the

Scribe of his day. In conjunction with Barré and a few actors, he opened

a theatre in the Rue de Chartres. The enterprise was crowned with

complete success, and an able company was soon assembled. Mr. Hervey has

collected some droll anecdotes of the actors who flourished under this

management, although they lose part of their point by translation.

Chapelle, a short stout man, "with eyes that were continually opening

and shutting, thick black eyebrows, a mouth always half open, and a pair

of legs resembling in shape the feet of an elephant," was remarkable for

his credulity, and his comrades took particular delight in mystifying

him. "Seveste, who had just returned from fulfilling an engagement at

Rouen, told the unfortunate dupe that, during his stay in that town, he

had succeeded in taming a carp so perfectly, that it followed him about

like a dog; adding, that he was much grieved at having lost it. 'How did

that happen?' said Chapelle, greatly interested. 'Why,' replied Seveste,

'one evening I took it to my dressing-room at the theatre; as I was

going home after the performance, a terrible storm came on, and my poor

carp, in trying to leap a gutter, fell in and was drowned.'--'How very

unlucky!' cried Chapelle; 'I always thought a carp could swim like a

fish!' As he grew older, however, Chapelle, weary of being continually

hoaxed, made up his mind to believe nothing, and carried his scepticism

so far as to reply to a friend's anxious inquiries after his health,

'Ask somebody else that question, my fine fellow; you can't take _me_ in

now.'" Another of the company, Carpentier, drank away his memory, forgot

his old parts, and could learn no new ones. For a long time he did not

act, but at last ventured to appear in a procession, as a barber who had

nothing to say. The audience immediately recognised their old favourite,

and applauded him for several minutes after he left the stage. Once more

behind the scenes, he exclaimed, "Ils m'ont reconnu! Ils m'ont reconnu!"

and burst into tears. "In one of his parts, Carpentier had some couplets

to sing, of which the first ran as follows:--

Un acteur,

Qui veut de l'auteur

Suivre en tout

L'esprit et le gout,

Doit d'abord,

De savoir son rôle,

Faire au moins le petit effort.

Here he stopped short, and repeated the verse thrice, but could get no

further; from that day a settled gloom came over him, and he soon

committed suicide, by throwing himself out of a window."

The great guns of the present Vaudeville company are, Arnal, Bardou, and

Felix; Madame Albert, lately become Madame Bignon, by a second marriage;

and Madame Doche, sister of Miss Plunkett the dancer. It would be

difficult to find five better actors in their respective styles. All of

them, with the exception, we believe, of Bardou, have performed in

London, and been received with enthusiasm as great as the chilly

audience of the St. James's theatre ever thinks fit to manifest. Arnal,

although he has formidable rivals at his own and other theatres, is

unquestionably the first French comic actor of the day. Farce is his

_forte_--we ask his pardon, and would say, comedy, vaudeville, _charge_,

extravaganza, or any other names by which it may be fitting to designate

the very farcical pieces in which he usually performs. There are no

farces now upon the French stage; the term is voted low. Moliere, it is

true, wrote and acted farces, until he glided into a higher style; but

the more genteel authors and actors of the present time, will not so far

condescend. They willingly produce and perform the most pitiful

buffooneries, but then it is under a better sounding title. They look to

the letter and not the spirit; admit the thing, but repudiate the name.

_Les farceurs!_ Arnal, of course, follows the fashion of the times,

although too sensible a fellow, we suspect, to care a rush about the

matter. For the last twenty years he has been the chief prop of the

Vaudeville, where he performs for ten months out of the twelve, at a

salary of fourteen hundred pounds, with _feux_ or allowances of twenty

francs for every act he plays in. His first appearance was in the

tragic character of Mithridates, in which he convulsed his audience with

laughter. Convinced by this experiment that tragedy was not his line, he

turned his attention to low comedy, and enacted Jocrisse. "In this

part," he says, in a very clever poetical epistle to his friend Bouffé,

"I was allowed to be tolerably amusing, but all declared that I was much

more comic in Mithridates." Off the stage there is nothing particularly

funny in Arnal's appearance. The expression of his face, which is much

marked with the small pox, is quiet and serious, and it is by this same

seriousness that he makes his hearers laugh. When acting, nothing will

extort a smile from him. Gifted with extreme self-possession and a ready

wit, he now and then embroiders his parts, always with the happiest

effect. The excessive dryness with which he gives out his jokes often

constitutes their chief merit. To enumerate his crack characters, those

which he may be said to have created, would be too long a task. The

_Poltron_ is one of his best, and the story goes that his valet, who had

been a soldier, having seen him perform it, gave him warning the next

morning, declaring that he could not possibly remain in the service of

so inveterate a coward. Some of his happiest efforts have been made in

little one-act drolleries for two performers; such as _Passé Minuit_,

where he is ably seconded by Bardou. "In private life, Arnal is grave,

taciturn, and fond of study; he is said to be a regular frequenter of

the _Bibliothèque Royale_, and has published, besides his epistle to

Bouffé, a collection of prettily versified tales and fables." The letter

to Bouffé is an amusing, and witty sketch of his own career.

Happening, some seven years ago, to enter the ill-lighted, low-roofed

theatre of a third-rate French town, full five hundred miles from Paris,

we were struck and fascinated by the exquisite grace and feeling with

which an actress of the name of Albert enacted the part of a blind girl

in Frederick Soulié's painful drama of _Diane de Chivry_. The place of

so accomplished a performer was evidently on the Parisian boards, and we

learned with surprise, that she was on no mere starring expedition, but

had quitted the capital, where she was idolised, with a view to a long

stay in the provinces. It is rare that French actors who can obtain a

decent engagement at Paris, consent to waste their sweetness upon

provincials for more than a few nights in the year; and at the time, the

motives of Madame Albert's self-banishment, which has only recently

terminated, was to us a mystery. The explanation we subsequently heard

of it, agrees with that given by Mr. Hervey, and is most creditable to

the delicacy and good feeling of the actress who thus abandoned the

scene of her early triumphs to submit herself to the caprices and clumsy

criticisms of country audiences. She wished "to spare her husband--then

engaged in a subordinate capacity at the Théatre Français, and who was

seldom spoken of otherwise than as 'the husband of Madame Albert of the

Vaudeville'--the mortification of seeing his own efforts completely cast

into the shade by those of his wife; and it was with the view of

associating him in future with her own successes that she determined on

refusing every proposal made to her by the different managers of the

capital, a task she persevered in until his death enabled her to return

without compunction to Paris, where her place had long been empty."

Eclipsed and unnoticed in the metropolis, M. Albert, whose real name was

Rodrigues, passed muster very well in country towns. Of his widow, who

has been seen and appreciated in London, we need say nothing. All who

have witnessed her delightful performances, will admit her to be one of

the most charming actresses of the day. Voice, face, figure, every thing

is in her favour; her popularity is as well established as her talent is

versatile and perfect. "She is cited," says Mr. Hervey, "as one of those

who, not more by their brilliant natural gifts than by their private

worth, have become ornaments of the profession to which they belong, and

who, whilst they can fairly claim universal admiration, are not less

entitled to universal respect." There are few actresses upon any stage

deserving of so high an encomium; there is perhaps not one of whom, as

of Madame Albert, it may with truth be said, that in the several styles

of comedy, vaudeville, and domestic drama, she is unsurpassed, if not

unequalled.

Another pretty woman and excellent actress is the Belgian beauty, Madame

Doche, to whose personal attractions the lithograph prefixed to her

memoir does less than justice. She made her first appearance at the

early age of fourteen, at the Versailles theatre, under the assumed name

of Fleury. She is now only three-and-twenty, but her reputation as a

first-rate actress has been established for the last half-dozen years.

Of her it was said, when she acted at Brussels, her native city, that

she was pretty enough to succeed without talent, and had enough talent

to dispense with beauty. She was one of the first who, with Felix for

her partner, danced the Polka upon the Paris stage, in the piece called

_La Polka en Province_. The dance was then new, and her graceful

performance of it excited enthusiastic applause.

From the _Vaudeville_ to its neighbour and rival, the _Variétés_, the

distance is short; to choose between them, in respect of excellence of

acting, and amount of amusement, is very difficult. The founder of the

_Variétés_ was the witty Mlle. Montansier, who, previously to the first

French Revolution, had the management of the Versailles theatre, as well

as of several of the principal provincial ones. In 1790, she opened the

house now known as the _Palais Royal_, for mixed performances, tragedy,

comedy, and opera. There Mlle. Mars commenced her career. The prosperity

of the company dates from 1798, when the celebrated Brunet joined it.

Brunet was the theatrical joker of his time; and all stray puns and

witticisms, good, bad, and indifferent, were attributed to him as

regularly as, at a later day, and in another country, they have, been

fathered upon a Jekyll and a Rogers. Many of his jests had a political

character, and got him into serious scrapes. This, Mr. Hervey appears to

doubt, but without reason. In various memoirs and reminiscences of the

early years of the present century, we find recorded Brunet's stinging

sarcasms, and the consequent reprimands and even imprisonments be

incurred. "_L'Empereur n'aime que Joséphine et la chasse!_" was his

exclamation when Napoleon's project of divorce was first bruited about;

and for days Paris rang with the sharp jest. "_Le char l'attend!_" he

cried, pausing before the triumphal arch on which stood the horses and

empty chariot, the spoils of Venice. But the license of Monsieur

Brunet's tongue was little relished by the imperial _charlatan,--le

claqueur de la Grand Armée_, as he has been called. Corsican though he

was, he had a thorough French susceptibility of ridicule, and well knew

that, with his laughter-loving subjects, wit carried weight. The actor

was summoned before the prefect of police, severely lectured, and

admonished to abjure puns, if he would escape punishment. "_Mais que

voulez vous que je fasse_," replied poor Brunet, in piteous accents,

"_c'est mon metier de faire des calembourgs, j'y gagne ma vie. Voulez

vous donc que je scie du bois?_"[15] And, in spite of menaces and

imprisonment, he continued each evening to delight the audience of the

Variétés with his highly spiced allusions to the men and events of the

day. His reputation was European. "Brazier, in his _Histoire des Petits

Théatres de Paris_, relates that, being one day, (March 31st, 1814) on

guard at the Barrière St. Martin, a young Calmuck officer, who could

hardly speak a word of French, asked him the way to Brunet's theatre."

Aided by Tiercelin, the popular actor of the time, who took his types

from the lowest classes of the people, Brunet ensured the prosperity of

the theatre, until at last the actors at the Français, who had long

complained of the preference accorded by the public to Brunet's

performances, addressed repeated remonstrances to government, and

declared that the taste of the nation was becoming corrupted, and the

classic drama of Corneille and Racine despised. They were supported by

Fouché and a section of the press, until at last Napoleon, who meddled

greatly in theatrical matters, and one of whose sayings was, that if

Corneille had lived in his time, he would have made him a prince,

thought proper to interfere. Brunet's company was ejected from the

Palais Royal, and took refuge, whilst the present theatre on the

Boulevard Montmartre was building, in the Théatre de la Cité, on the

left bank of the Seine. On the last night at the Palais Royal, (31st

December, 1806,) the actors and actresses took their leave of the public

on that side the river, in a series of appropriate couplets. One of

these ran as follows:--

Vous que l'tambour et tambourin

A la gloir', au plaisir entraine;

Quand vous avez passé le Rhin,

Craindrez vous de passer la Seine?

[15] Innumerable jests and lampoons circulated at the time of

Napoleon's separation from Josephine, and second marriage. Conscious

of the unworthy part he acted, the Emperor was greatly galled by

them. "The keenest and most remarkable of these," says a German

author who was in Paris at the time, "is unquestionably a _Chanson

Poissarde_, of which hundreds of copies have been distributed, and

which thousands have got by heart. Its author, in spite of

Napoleon's fury, and of the zealous exertions of the police, has not

been discovered. Several hundred persons have been arrested for

copying or repeating it; but its original source remains unknown."

It consists of nine verses, in the vulgar and mutilated French of

the Paris _halles_. A couple of them will give a notion of the sly

wit of the whole. They refer, of course, to the Emperor and to his

future bride, Maria Louisa of Austria:--

Pour ell' il s'est fait l'aut' jour

Pemd'en bel habit d'dimanche,

Et des diamants tout autour,

Près d' sa figur comm' ça tranche!

La p'tite luronne, j'en somm' sûr,

Aim' mieux l'présent que l'futur.

Ah! comm' ell' va s'amuser,

C' te princess' qui nous arrive!

Nous, j'allons boir' et danser,

N's enrouer á crier: Vive!

Ell, s' ra l'idol' d' la nation,

J' l'ons lu dans l'proclamation.

This reference to the martial prowess of the "_grande nation_," of

course nearly brought down the house, but it did not carry the audience

over the water, at least for some time. At last a new and successful

play proved a magnet of irresistible attraction, and produced a receipt

of twelve thousand pounds in three months.

In June, 1807, the new Théatre des Variétés opened. Its situation, on a

crowded central boulevard, is excellent, and its vogue, with a few brief

intervals, has been constant. A large proportion of the best French

comic actors of the present century have acted there during the

thirty-nine years that have elapsed since its inauguration. Amongst

these are reckoned Bosquier Gavaudan, the best couplet singer of his

day,--remarkable for his distinct articulation, and who, "from

constantly personating officers of rank, grew so accustomed to wear a

red ribbon in his coat, that, even when sitting in his dressing-gown at

home, he did not feel comfortable without one in his button-hole;" Mme.

Barroyer, a flame of Charles X. before the Revolution, the protectress

and one of the teachers of Mlle. Mars; Potier, pronounced by Talma to be

the most consummate actor he ever knew; Vernet, the admirable comedian;

and Odry, who has been called the French Liston, but who is preferred,

by most of those whom a thorough knowledge of both languages renders

capable of equally appreciating French and English farce, even to the

great Paul Pry himself. Then came Frederick Lemaitre, the hero of the

melodrama, and sometimes of the more elevated class of drama. He was ill

supported at the Variétés, and consequently proved less attractive than

he has since been at the Porte St. Martin. He is remarkable for the care

with which he studies every detail of his characters, even to the most

trifling points of dress and accessories. His love of consistency

betrays him, at times, into what may be termed the pedantry of costume.

"When playing Buridan, in the Tour de Nesle, he appeared as prime

minister in the fourth act, clad in velvet, but with a plain woollen

shirt, whereas the courtiers around him wore fine linen garnished with

lace. On his being asked the reason of this apparent inconsistency, he

replied, that he did not wear a linen shirt because at the epoch

referred to in the piece, they were not in common use; 'Nay, more,'

added he, 'a century afterward, Isabel of Bavaria was reproached with

extravagance for having too much of linen in her _trousseau_." He was

once hissed at Orleans, when performing the part of a starving and

destitute man, for taking snuff out of a bit of paper. He had thought it

improbable that the needy wretch he represented would carry a

snuff-box. Guessing the cause of the public disapprobation, he produced

a gold one, which was vehemently applauded.

Jenny Vertpré the miniature Mars, as she has been called, in compliment

to her talent, and with reference to her diminutive stature, held more

than one engagement at the Variétés. She has been a great rambler,

having acted in Germany, Holland, and Belgium, and visited England as

manager of a French company. She married Carmouche, a writer of

vaudevilles, has left the stage, and teaches young actresses.

The present company at this pleasant theatre is rich in talent. It

includes seven or eight actors and actresses, who may be justly termed

excellent in their respective styles. At the top of the list stand

Bouffé and Déjazet. Respecting the latter, we have but little to add to

the opinion we expressed in a recent number of this Magazine. After a

long and fatiguing career, and at an age when most actresses have either

left the stage, or dwindled into duennas and other subordinate parts,

she still affords more pleasure by her performances than nine-tenths of

her youthful contemporaries. Her _making-up_, is admirable, and she and

Madame Doche divide between the honour of being the best dressed women

on the French stage. In the ball-room or the street she still looks

young; for although her face depends upon paint, her figure is erect and

juvenile, and one would hardly suspect her of being the mother of

"Monsieur Eugene Déjazet, who has attained some celebrity as a musical

composer, and of a daughter who appeared at the St. James's theatre, in

1844, under the name of Mademoiselle Herminie." Her generosity and

excellent heart have endeared her to her comrades. Her wit and ready

repartee are proverbial. Mr. Hervey quotes a few of her _bon mots_, but

he might have made a better selection. It is true that, besides the

difficulty of translation, he may have been hampered by the latitude the

lady allows herself. He regrets that a collection of her smart sayings

is not made, to be called Déjazetiana; and opines that it would rival in

merit, and far surpass in bulk, the volume containing the sallies of the

famous Sophie Arnould. Something of the sort has been published, under

the title of the "Perroquet de Mademoiselle Déjazet," but to its

authenticity or value we are unable to speak.

In the year 1821, a young man in his twenty-first year, by trade a

carver and gilder, was engaged to act at the new theatre of the Panorama

Dramatique, at the enormous salary of twelve pounds per annum. To

augment this pittance, and to please his father, who was averse to his

new profession, he employed himself between the acts in gilding frames

in a small workshop behind the scenes. This ill-paid aspirant to

histrionic fame was MARIE BOUFFÉ, "the most perfect comedian of his

day," says Mr. Hervey, and we fully coincide in the verdict. Bouffé, is

one of the most intelligent, accomplished, and agreeable actors we ever

saw; subtle and delicate in his conceptions of character, energetic

without rant, ever true to Nature, and of a rare versatility of talent.

We have known several persons who fancied, partly perhaps on account of

his name, that he only acted comic parts: they should see him obtain a

_succès de larmes_, throw a whole theatre into tears, by his exquisite

feeling and pathos in serious ones. No actor more thoroughly makes his

audience forget that he is one. His identification with his part is

complete. The two lines of characters he usually takes are old men and

lads, even very young boys. And in both he perfectly succeeds. We are

doubtful in which to prefer him. As the noisy, lively, mischievous

urchen in the _Gamin de Paris_, and as the griping old miser in the

_Fille de l'Avare_, he is equally excellent. His countenance is

remarkable. A clever critic has said of him, that he has the physiognomy

of a Mephistopheles and the eye of an angel. The observation is

singularly happy. There _is_ something Mephistophelian in the curve of

his nose, and in the lines around his mouth. His command of expression

is extraordinary; his eyes, especially, alternately flash fire and grow

dim with melancholy or tenderness. His figure is short, thin, and frail;

his general appearance sickly, and not without cause, for poor Bouffé

is consumptive, and, to judge from his looks, not long for this world.

The only actor upon the French or English stage with whom we can compare

him is the veteran Farren. But the comparison is to the advantage of the

Frenchman, whose chief characteristic is his entire freedom from

mannerism and stage trick. Mr. Farren is of the old and sterling school

of actors, of which, unfortunately, so few remain. He stands first in

his line upon the English boards, and deserves to be spoken of with all

respect. Would that we had a dozen as good. But he has his faults, and

the chief one is mannerism, certain peculiar ways that prevent the

spectator from forgetting the actor in the person he represents,

trifles, which it may be hypercritical to cavil at, but which

nevertheless spoil the illusion, and compel the exclamation, "There is

Farren." Take for example his favourite trick of scratching his upper

lip with his forefinger. We have seen Bouffé many times--less

frequently, certainly, than we have Farren--but we never perceived in

him any of these peculiarities. His creations are original and new

throughout; the mime disappears, and we have before as the gossiping old

man, the rough shipboy, the simple-hearted recruit. We are really at a

loss to point out a fault or suggest an improvement in Bouffé's acting.

"If the public," says M. Eugene Briffault, "finds that he makes but

little progress in the course of each year, it is because he is as near

perfection as an actor can be." Many of Mr. Hervey's criticisms are

excellent; none more so than the following:--"Bouffé's gaiety is frank

and communicative, his pathos simple, yet inexpressibly touching; the

foundation of his character is sensibility; he _feels_ all he says. He

never employs any superfluity of action for the purpose of producing

effect, nor does he seek, by first raising his voice almost to a shriek,

and then lowering it to a whisper, to _startle_ his audience into a fit

of enthusiasm; on the contrary, a studied sobriety, both of speech and

gesture, is one of the peculiar features of his acting." When Bouffé

visits England, we recommend some of our actors, who at present "imitate

humanity so abominably," to attend his performances, and strive to

profit by his example.

We have lingered at the Variétés, and must move onwards, rather against

our will, and although much remains to be said concerning that amusing

theatre and its actors. Hyacinthe's nose, alone, would furnish materials

for a chapter, and of alarming longitude, if in proportion with the

feature. The two Lepeintres would fill an article. They are brothers and

rival punsters. The jokes of Lepeintre, Jenue have been printed and sold

at the theatre door. His senior, who is no way inferior to him, either

as a wit or an actor, said, with reference to himself, that he carried

abundance, wherever he went, "_puisqu'on y voyoit le pain trainer_

(Lepeintre âiné.)"

On the site of an old cemetery stands the theatre known as the Gymnase

Dramatique. A suggestive fact for the moralist. Death replaced by Momus;

the mourner's tears succeeded by the quips and cranks of an Achard, by

the wreathed smiles of a Rose Chéri. Where the funeral once took its

slow and solemn way, rouged processions pass, tinsel heroes strut, and

vapour. Thousand-tinted garlands supplant the pale _immortelles_ that

decked the graves; the sable cloak is doffed, and motley's the only

wear. Surely actors must be bold men to tread a stage covering so many

mouldering relics of mortality. Not for Potosi, and the Real del Monte

to boot, would we do it, lest, at the witching hour, some ghastly

skeleton array should rise and drive us from the Golgotha, or drag us to

the charnel-house beneath. But we forget that the good old days are gone

when such things were, or were believed in, and that superstition is now

as much out of date as a heavy coach upon the Great North Road. Spectres

may occasionally be seen at the Gymnase, but they are very material,

flesh-and-blood sort of goblins, well known as impostors, even to the

scene-shifters. This need not prevent any aspiring young novelist,

desirous of coming out in the ghastly and ghostly line, from profiting

by our hint, and producing, after a little preparatory cramming with

Mrs. Radcliffe and the Five Nights of St. Albans, what the newspapers

call "a romance of thrilling interest" on the subject of the gay Gymnase

and its grave foundation.

Built in 1819, the Gymnase "was originally intended, as its name

denotes, to be a kind of preparatory school for dramatic aspirants,

whence the most promising actors and actresses were to be occasionally

transferred to the different royal theatres." For some years--from 1824

till the July Revolution--it was known as the _Théatre de Madame_, and

was under the special patronage of the Duchess of Berri, whom the

manager had propitiated by sending a part of his company to amuse her

when bathing at Dieppe. At that time it ranked immediately after the

theatres royal, taking the precedence of the Vaudeville and other

minors. Shorn by the Revolution of its honours and privileges, its

favour with the public suffered little diminution. For many years Bouffé

performed there, and there achieved his greatest triumphs. At the

Variétés he has not been so well catered for by the dramatists. The

present company at the Gymnase is very good. Bressant, Ferville, Numa,

Klein, and Achard, are excellent actors. In actresses, also, the theatre

is well provided, and the whole tone of its company and performances is

such as to render it one of the most correct and agreeable in Paris. But

the gem of the Gymnase, its grand attraction, to our thinking, is that

delightful little actress, Rose Chéri. Never, assuredly, was a pretty

name more appropriately bestowed. Her plump, fresh, pleasant little

face, reminds one of the _Rose_, and _chérie_ she assuredly is by the

hundreds of thousands whom her graceful and tasteful performance has

enchanted. Mademoiselle Chéri, who is only one-and-twenty, made her

"first appearance upon any stage" at the somewhat early age of five

years. "She acted the part of _Lisette_, in the _Roman d'une Heure_, for

the amusement of her parents, (the other two characters being sustained

by two of her playmates;) and the talent displayed by her was so

remarkable, that she was encouraged to repeat the essay in public at the

theatre of Bourges, on which occasion her infant exertions were rewarded

by the enthusiastic applause of the audience, and--which was probably

still more to her taste--by a shower of _bonbons_." Either the applause

or the _bonbons_, or both, decided her vocation, and she continued to

act from time to time, until at length she became a regular member of a

provincial company, whose manager was her father. In 1842, she went to

Paris, where she soon took rank with the best _jeunes premières_ of the

capital. She has been justly called the most loveable actress upon the

French stage; so graceful, so soft and womanly, displaying alternately

such genuine feeling and nature, and such arch coquetry of manner;

always such great freshness of style. We were pleased to see her

properly appreciated during her last visit to London, both by press and

public. Trained to the stage from so early an age--although not, as

Mademoiselle Déjazet is said to have been, born in a theatre--it is not

surprising that Rose Chéri is in the highest degree self-possessed and

at her ease. But if she is _sans peur_ on the boards, she is also--most

rare commendation for a French actress--_sans reproche_ in private life.

Such a Rose as this is indeed the pride of the garden.

Two words about the Palais Royal, and we have done; leaving the dramatic

aristocracy of the theatres royal, and the smaller fry of the

Boulevards, for some future opportunity of comment. The Français,

although it reckons in its company several excellent comic actors,

relies chiefly on tragedy, and will doubtless continue to do so, as long

as it possesses Rachel, or until a comedian of very extraordinary talent

starts up. And in French tragedies, even, heretical as it may sound, in

the classic masterpieces of Corneille and Racine, we take far less

pleasure than in the witty and sparkling comedies of many less renowned

authors, to which the genius of the language so much better adapts

itself. Nay, we confess to have more than once passed the Français

without the least compunction, with _les Horaces_ or _Andromaque_ on the

bills, and a crowd at the door, to commit ourselves, a few paces

farther, to the friendly arms of a stall at the Palais Royal, and the

mirth-inspiring influence of Tousez and Levassor, the most comical

buffoon and admirable mimic on the French stage.

When the _Variétés'_ company was expelled from the little theatre of the

Palais Royal, it became the scene of all manner of bastard performances.

Rope dancers, wooden puppets, even dogs were the actors. The most

intelligent of these were the quadrupeds. Mr. Hervey gives the following

analysis of a melodrama enacted by them:--

"A young Russian princess, held captive in a castle by a tyrant, has a

lover, who has sworn to effect her rescue. On the rising of the curtain,

the fair prisoner, a pretty spaniel, is discovered walking on the

parapet of a tower; the lover, a very handsome dog, presently appears at

the foot of the wall, barking most amorously. As for the tyrant, he is

represented by a ferocious-looking bull-dog, with a smashed nose. On a

given signal, the lover's army make their entrée, and scale the walls of

the castle, which, after a gallant defence on the part of the garrison,

is finally taken, and the princess delivered."

When the public had had enough of these canine comedies, the theatre was

converted into a coffee-house. But the old dramatic prestige still hung

about the place, and, after a time, the frequenters of the establishment

were diverted, whilst sipping their punch and lemonade, with detached

scenes and short vaudevilles, performed by two or three persons.

Finally, in 1830, the house was rebuilt, and a regular license obtained;

and from that date to the present day it has been a favourite resort of

all lovers of a hearty laugh. Déjazet and Achard were long its chief

support. They have left it; but others, little, if at all, inferior,

have replaced them. Foremost amongst these stands Pierre Levassor, the

best comic ballad-singer in France. Innumerable were the difficulties he

had to overcome before he could fully gratify his passion for acting,

and display his innate talent at a Paris theatre. His father, an old

soldier of Napoleon's armies, opposed his propensity, which early

manifested itself, in every possible way, and apprenticed him to a

trade. During the revolution of 1830, young Levassor was on business at

Marseilles, where a dinner was given to celebrate the event. "At the

general request, he sang the song of the _Trois Couleurs_, with such

immense success, that on the party adjourning after dinner to the

theatre, a note was thrown on the stage, in which he volunteered to sing

it in public, if agreeable to the audience. The offer was accepted; and

both song and vocalist were loudly applauded." This incident was

decisive of his future career. On his return to Paris he became an

actor, and soon conquered great popularity. He is particularly clever in

disguising himself, so as to be quite unrecognisable. With his dress he

changes his voice, gait, and even his face; and will look the part of a

decrepid old woman every bit as well as the more easily assumed one of a

scapegrace student. His vivacity, good-humour, and fun, are

inexhaustible. In the ludicrous extravaganzas, reviews of the past year,

which nearly every carnival sees produced at the Palais Royal, he is

perfectly irresistible. Powerfully aided by Grassot, Lemenil, Sainville,

and Alcide Tousez, he keeps the house in an unceasing roar, even at

pieces which, like the _Pommes-de-terre Malades_ and the _Enfant du

Carnaval_, are in themselves of very feeble merit. An excellent singer

and clever actor, he is also a capital dancer and first-rate mimic,

imitating with extraordinary facility every possible sound, whether the

cries of animals or any thing else. And, off the stage, Levassor is as

unassuming and gentlemanly as he is amusing and accomplished upon it.

Ravel is another droll dog, but quite in a different style from

Levassor. The latter is all quickness, impetuosity, and _entrain_; Ravel

is of a more passive style of comicality. At times he reminds us of two

English actors, Buckstone of the Haymarket, and Wright, the Adelphi low

comedian. He has something of Buckstone's odd monotony of manner, and,

like him, often excites the laughter of an audience by his mere look or

attitude. When Wright is not compelled to make a buffoon of himself in

some stupid travestie, but is allowed fair scope for the display of his

comic talents, which are really considerable, we prefer him to Ravel. He

is a steady and improving performer. In _Paul Pry_, and some other stock

pieces, his acting is quiet and excellent. Many of Ravel's characters

have been taken by him in the English version. Ravel is seldom seen to

greater advantage than as a soldier. He exactly renders the mingled

simplicity and cunning of the conscript; the tricks of the barrack-room

grafted upon clownish dulness. The piece called the _Tourlourou_--the

French nickname for a recruit--founded on a novel of Paul de Kock's, was

one of his triumphs, and another was _Le Caporal et la Payse_, Englished

as "Seeing Wright." In short, he occupies a high position amongst the

half-dozen drolls who, night after night, send home the audience of the

Palais Royal brimful of mirthful reminiscences.

In this imperfect sketch of some of the leading French theatres and

actors, we have taken little opportunity of censure. We could notice but

a few, and have selected from the most worthy. In Paris, as elsewhere,

_pumps_, to use a green-room term, are plentiful. But in the higher

class of theatres they are in the minority; and moreover there is a

neatness and _tact_ in the performance of French actors, which, in the

less prominent characters, at least, goes some way to atone for the

absence of decided talent. A French comedian may be tame, he may be

incorrect in the conception of his part; he is rarely vulgar or

ridiculous. We refer, of course, to the actors allowed to figure on the

boards of the half-score good theatres in Paris. There is no lack of

inferior ones, where the laugh is more often at the performer than at

the performance. But most even of these will repay a visit, if not for

the sake of the actors, for that of the audience. Despised by the

fashionable and pleasure-seeking, they afford a rich field to the

observant man. He must not, it is true, be squeamish, and fear to let

the unsavoury reek of _tabac-de-caporal_, or the odours of potato brandy

and logwood wine come betwixt the wind and his nobility. Neither must he

dread contact with the mechanic's blouse, with the cotton gown of the

grisette, or the velveteen vest of the _titi_ of the Boulevards; he must

even make up his mind to see his neighbour, dispensing with his upper

garment, exhibit his brawny arms in shirt sleeves of questionable

purity. If he dare encounter these little imaginary contaminations, he

will find entertainment in the humours of the Boulevard du Temple; in

the pantomimes of the Funambules--once the scene of poor Debureau's

triumphs--and in the ten-franc vaudevilles of the Petit Lazari.

* * * * *

THE REIGN OF GEORGE THE SECOND.[16]

[16] "Memoirs of the Reign of George the Second; by Horace Walpole."

Edited by the late Lord Holland. 3 vols. Colburn: London.

Walpole, in giving his history to the world, renounces the title of an

historian. He proclaims himself simply a compiler; his volumes,

_Memoires Pour Servir_; and his chief purpose, simply, to give his own

recollections, day by day, of the men and things passing before his

eyes. Yet what historian has ever told his story with more spirit, ever

sketched his characters with more living truth, or led our curiosity

onward through the labyrinth of political intrigue, parliamentary

struggle, and national vicissitude, with so light, and yet so leading a

hand? A part of this charm arises from the interest which he himself

took in his performance. He evidently delighted in the revival of those

scenes in which he had once figured, and the powerful portraiture which,

in his study, realized the characters of the eminent men whom he had

seen successively depart from the political world. In this lies the

spell which makes Walpole the favourite of all the higher order of

readers in our age, and will make him popular to the last hour of the

English language.

We read Gibbon like a task. We are astonished at his learned opulence,

his indefatigable labour, and his flood of rich and high-wrought

conception; but we grow as weary of him, as if we walked through an

Indian treasury, and rested the eye only on heaps of gold. With all our

great historical writers, the mind feels a sense of their toil, and,

however it may be endured for the sake of its knowledge, _our_ toil,

too, is inevitable, and the crop must be raised only by the sweat of our

own brow.

But the pages of Walpole give us the knowledge without the toil, and,

instead of bending to the tillage, we pluck the fruit from the tree as

we pass along. When he, too, is heavy, his failure arises simply from

his attempting to assume the style of his contemporaries. He is not made

for their harness, however it may be plated and embroidered. He cannot

move in their stately and measured pace. His genius is volatile and

vivid; he moves by bounds: and his display is always the most effective

when, abandoning the beaten tracks of authorship, he speeds his light

way across the field, and exhibits at once the agility of his powers and

the caprice of his will.

What infinite gratification have we lost, by the want of such a writer

in the days of classical antiquity! With what interest would the living

world follow a Greek or a Roman Walpole! With what delight should we

contemplate a Greek Council, with Pericles for its president, sketched

by the hand of a spectator, and shown in the brilliant contests,

intellectual intrigue, and ardent ambition of these sons of soul! What a

scene would such a writer make of Cicero confronting Catiline, with the

supremacy of Rome trembling in the scale, and the crowded senate-house

preparing to hear the sentence of life or death! We might have wanted

the strong historic phraseology of Sallust; or, in a subsequent age, the

gloomy grandeur of Tacitus, that Caravaggio of ancient Rome; we might

have lost some of the classic beauty, and all the theatric drapery, but

we should have had a clearer, more emphatic, and more faithful picture,

than in the severe energy of the one, or the picturesque mysticism of

the other. We should have _known_ the characters as they were known to

the patrician and the populace of two thousand years ago; we should have

seen them as they threw out all their stately and muscular strength; we

should have been able to recover them from the tomb, make them move

before us "in their armour, as they lived," and gather from their lips

the language of times and things, now past away from man.

Still, we must acknowledge that Walpole's chief excellence is in his

letters. His sportive spleen, his polished sarcasm, and his keen

insight into the ways of men, place him at the head of all epistolary

authorship. He has had but two competitors for this fame,--it is

remarkable that they were both women,--De Sevigne in France, and Lady

Wortley Montague in England; yet, how utterly inferior are De Sevigne's

feeble sketches of court life, and vapid panegyrics on the "adorable

Grignan;" or the Englishwoman's rambling details of travels and

tribulations, to the pungent pleasantry and substantial vigour of

Walpole! The Frenchwoman's sketches are like her artificial flowers, to

the freshness of the true. Lady Mary's slipshod sentences and coarse

voluptuousness are equally inferior to the accurate finish and

fashionable animation of the man who combined the critic with the

courtier, and was the philosopher even more than he was the man of

fashion.

Walpole is now an English classic. It is striking, to see a man of

talent thus vindicating his genius in the grave, making a posthumous

defence of his character, and compelling posterity to acknowledge the

distinctions of which he was defrauded by the petulance of his time. His

example and his success administer a moral which ought not to be thrown

away. There are many individuals in our own time, who might thus nobly

avenge themselves on the injustice of their age. The Frenchman's maxim,

_Il n'y a que bonheur, et malheur_, is unanswerably true; and not only

men of the finest faculties are often ill used by fortune, but they are

often the worst used. Their conscious superiority renders them

fastidious of the lower arts of success; their sense of honour

disqualifies them for all those services which require flexibility of

conscience; and their sensibility to injustice makes them retort public

injury, by disdainfully abandoning the struggle, and retiring from the

vulgar bustle of the world.

Let such men, then, glance over the pages of Walpole, and see how

productive may be made the hours of obscurity; how vigorously the

oblivion of one generation may be redeemed by the honours of another;

and how effectively the humble man of genius may survive the glaring

favourites of an ephemeral good fortune.

Walpole, in his lifetime, was either pitied as a disappointed official,

or laughed at as a collector of cracked china; but who either pities or

laughs at him now? Posterity delights in the products of his study,

while the prosperous tribe of his parliamentary day are forgotten, or

remembered only through those products of his study. The Pulteneys,

Granvilles, Lyttletons, and Wyndhams, are extinguished, and their chief

interest now arises from Walpole's fixing their names in his works; as

an architect uses the busts and masks of antiquity to decorate the

gates, or crowns the buttresses of his temple.

Lord Holland's preface contains the following brief statement relative

to the present publication.

Among the papers found at Strawberry Hill, after the death of Lord

Orford, was the following memorandum, wrapped in an envelope, on which

was written, "Not to be opened till after my will."

"In my library, at Strawberry Hill, are two wainscot chests or boxes,

the larger marked with an A, the lesser with a B. I desire that, as soon

as I am dead, my executor and executrix will cord up strongly and seal

the larger box marked A, and deliver it to the Honourable Hugh Conway

Seymour; to be kept by him unopened and sealed, till the eldest son of

Lady Waldegrave, or whichever of her sons, being Earl of Waldegrave,

shall attain the age of twenty-five years, when the said chest, with

whatever it contains, shall be delivered to him for his own."

The rest of the order refers simply to the keeping of the key in the

interim. The date is August 19, 1796.

Lord Holland then argues, with a rather unnecessary waste of argument,

that the history contained within this chest was intended for

publication, which, of course, it must have been.

In his private correspondence, Walpole frequently alludes to his

preparation of the present work. In a letter to Mr. Montague, in 1752,

he tells him, that "his memoirs of last year are quite finished," but

that he means to add some pages of notes, "that will not want

anecdotes;" and in answer to Montague, who had ludicrously menaced him

with a messenger from the Secretary's office, to seize his papers, he

says, "I have buried the memoirs under the oak in my garden, where they

are to be found a thousand years hence, and taken perhaps for a Runic

history in rhyme."

In another part of his memoirs of 1758, he says, with reference to the

different stages of his work, "During the former part, I lived in the

centre of business, was intimately acquainted with many of the chief

actors, was eager in politics, and indefatigable in heaping up materials

for my work. Now, detached from those busy scenes, with many political

connexions dropped or dissolved; indifferent to events, and indolent; I

shall have fewer opportunities of informing myself or others." And in

this supposed indolence and ignorance, he sits down to his work without

delay, and fills his volumes with information, inaccessible to

nine-tenths of the ablest and most active in his generation.

But it is not our purpose to give a consecutive view of the contents of

those volumes. Their nature is the reverse of consecutive. They are as

odd, irregular, and often as novel, as the changes of a kaleidoscope.

Nothing can be less like a picture, with its background, and foreground,

its middle tints and its _chiaroscuro_. Their best emblem perhaps would

be the "Dissolving views," where a palace has scarcely met the eye,

before it melts into an Italian lake; or the procession to a Romish

shrine is metamorphosed into a charge of cavalry. The volumes are a

_melange_ of characters, anecdotes, and reflections. We shall open the

pages at hazard, and take, as it comes first, in those "Sortes

Walpolianæ," a Westminster election.

There is "nothing new under the sun." What the Irish cry for "Repeal" is

now, the cry for the "Stuarts" was a hundred years ago. Faction equally

throve on both; and the tribe who live by faction in all ages uttered

both cries with equal perseverance--the only distinction between them

being, that as the Jacobite cry was an affair of the scaffold, it was

uttered with a more _judicious_ reserve.

Yet, it is only justice to the men of the older day, to acknowledge that

their motives were of a much higher order than the stimulants of the

modern clamour. With many of the Scottish Jacobites, the impulse was a

sense of honour to their chieftains, and a gallant devotion to their

king; with many of the English, it was a conscientious belief that they

were only doing their duty to the lawful throne in resisting the claims

of the Prince of Orange. It is remarkable, that of the "seven bishops"

sent to trial by James, but one, Trelawny, could be prevailed on to take

the oath of allegiance to William; yet, unfounded and extravagant as

were these conceptions, they showed manliness and conscience. Later

times have had motives, unredeemed by the chivalry of the Scotch, or the

integrity of the English; but the cause of both has been marked with a

similarity of operation, which makes Solomon still "an oracle."

The elections became the chief scenes of display. The efforts to return

Jacobite members were of the most pertinacious kind, and sometimes

proceeded to actual violence. In one of the Westminster elections, the

court candidate had been furiously attacked by a hired mob; and one

Murray, a man of family, and marked, by his name, for an adherent of the

Stuarts, had exhibited himself as a leader, had been captured, and

consigned to the custody of the Serjeant-at-arms.

After a period of confinement, pardon was tendered to him, if he would

ask it. He refused contemptuously, and obtained popularity by playing

the hero.

Murray was brought to the bar of the House of Commons to be heard in his

own defence. He asserted his innocence, smiled when he was taxed with

having called Lord Trentham and the High Bailiff rascals, desired

counsel, and was remanded. Another character then comes on the tapis by

way of episode. This was Sir William Yonge. It has been said of the

celebrated Erskine, that in the House he was a natural, out of the House

he was a supernatural; and certainly nothing could be less like, than

the orator of the bar, and the prattler of the House of Commons. Yonge's

characteristics were just the reverse. He was always trifling, out of

the House, and sometimes singularly effective in it. Walpole says of

him, that his Parliamentary eloquence was the more extraordinary, as it

seemed to come upon him by inspiration. Sir Robert Walpole frequently,

when he did not choose to enter early into the debate himself, gave

Yonge his notes as the latter came into the House; from which he could

speak admirably, though he had missed all the preceding discussion.

Sir Robert Walpole said of him, with a pungency worthy of his son, that

"nothing but Yonge's character could keep down his parts, and nothing

but his parts support his character;" but, whatever might be his

character, it is certain that his parts served him well, for though but

four-and-twenty years in Parliament, he was twice a Lord of the

Treasury, a Lord of the Admiralty and Secretary at War, finishing with

the then very lucrative situation of Vice-Treasurer of Ireland. For the

more honorary part of his distinctions, he had the Ribbon of the Bath,

was a Privy Councillor, and was appointed Lord Lieutenant of

Carnarvonshire.

We now return to Murray. It was moved that he should appear before the

House on his knees. Walpole's description is very graphic. "He entered

with an air of confidence, composed of something between a martyr and a

coxcomb.

"The Speaker called out, Your obeisances, sir, your obeisances, and

then, sir, you must kneel. He replied, Sir, I beg to be excused, I never

kneel but to God. The Speaker repeated the command with great warmth.

Murray answered, Sir, I am sorry I cannot comply with your request: I

should in any thing else. Speaker cried, Sir, I call upon you again to

consider of it. Murray answered, Sir, when I have committed a crime, I

kneel to God for pardon, but I know my own innocence, and I cannot kneel

to any one else. The Speaker ordered the Serjeant to take him away and

secure him. He was going to reply, but the Speaker would not suffer him.

The Speaker then made a representation to the House of his contemptuous

behaviour, and said, However you may have differed in the debate, I hope

you will be unanimous in the punishment.

"Then ensued a long, tedious, and trifling succession of speakers,

finishing by an adjournment at two in the morning."

Then comes another character passing through the magic lantern. The

Mutiny Bill is the back-ground for this caricature. The front figure is

Lord Egmont. John Percival, second Earl of Egmont, seems to have been an

extraordinary compound of the fanatic and the philosopher. He was

scarcely of age, before he had a scheme of assembling the Jews, and

making himself their king. His great talent was, indefatigable

application. He was never known to laugh. He was once, indeed, seen to

smile; but _that was at chess_. His father had trained him to history

and antiquities; and he early settled his own political genius by

scribbling pamphlets. Towards the decline of Sir Robert Walpole's power,

he had created himself a leader of the Independents, a knot of desperate

tradesmen, many of them converted to Jacobinism, by being fined at the

custom-house for contraband practices. One of their chiefs was

Blackistone, a grocer in the Strand, detected in smuggling, and forgiven

by Sir Robert Walpole; detected again, and fined largely, on which he

turned patriot and became an alderman of London.

At the beginning of this parliament, rejected by Westminster, and

countenanced nowhere, he bought what Walpole pleasantly calls, the loss

of an election at Weobly, for which place, however, on a petition, Fox

procured his return to parliament, and immediately had the satisfaction

to find him declare against the court. At the Westminster election, his

indefatigability against the ministerial favourite came amply into play.

All the morning he passed at the hustings, then came to the House, where

he was a principal actor, and the rest of the day he spent at hazard,

not to mention the hours spent in collecting materials for his speeches,

or in furnishing them to his weekly mercenaries.

We then have a touch of the pencil at Lord Nugent.

"This Irishman's style was florid bombast; his impudence as great as if

he had been honest. He affected unbounded good-humour, and it was

unbounded, but by much secret malice, which sometimes broke out into

boisterous railing, but oftener vented itself in still-born satires.

Nugent's attachments were to Lord Granville; but all his flattery was

addressed to Mr. Pelham, whom he mimicked in candour, as he often

resembled Granville in ranting. Nugent had lost the reputation of a

great poet, by writing works of his own, after he had acquired fame by

an ode that was the joint production of several others."

Walpole certainly had an aversion to the wits of his day, with the

exception of George Selwyn; on whom he lavished a double portion of the

panegyric that he deserved, as a sort of compensation for his petulance

to others. His next portrait was Lord Chesterfield, the observed of all

observers, "the glass of fashion, and the mould of form," a man of

talent unquestionably, and a master of the knowledge of mankind, but

degrading his talent by the affectation of coxcombry, and turning his

knowledge into a system of polished profligacy.

Chesterfield, though not the first who had made a study of the art of

_nothings_, was the first who publicly prided himself on its study; and

while France owed her fashionable vice to a hundred sources, all England

looked up to Chesterfield as the high priest of that shrine, in which

time and reputation were equally sacrificed, and in which fame was to be

acquired alone by folly.

Walpole's sketch was struck off when Chesterfield was sinking into the

vale of years, and he exhibits that celebrated peer under the character,

at once melancholy and ridiculous, of a superannuated politician and an

old beau. Chesterfield, since he had given up the seals in 1748, had

retired from politics; in that spirit of resignation, which, in

extinguished politicians, is only a decent disguise for despair.

He had published what he called an apology for his resignation, which,

as Walpole says, excited no more notice than the resignation itself.

"From that time he had lived at White's, gaming, and pronouncing

witticisms among the boys of quality." He then proceeds to examine the

noble lord's construction, pretty much in the style of an anatomist with

the subject on the table, and cuts him up with all the zeal of angry

science.

"Chesterfield, early in life, announced his claim to wit, and the women

believed in it. He had besides given himself out for a man of great

intrigue, and the world believed in that too. It was not his fault if he

had not wit, for nothing exceeded his efforts in that point. His

speeches were fine, but as much laboured as his extempore sayings. His

writings were every body's; that is, whatever came out good was given to

him, and he was too humble ever to refuse the gift. But besides the

passive enjoyment of all good productions in the present age, he had

another art of reputation, which was, either to disapprove of the

greatest authors of other times, or to patronize whatever was too bad to

be ascribed to himself."

We then have a slight glance at his public life. His debut in diplomacy

was as ambassador to Holland, where, as Walpole says, "he courted the

good opinion of that economical people," by losing immense sums at play.

On his return, he attached himself to Lord Townshend, an unlucky

connexion; but what did him more harm still, was the queen's seeing him

one Twelfth Night after winning a large sum of money at hazard, cross

St. James's Court, "to deposit it with my Lady Suffolk until next

morning." The queen never pardoned an intimacy there, and well she might

not, Lady Suffolk's royal intimacies being perfectly notorious.

His next employment of note was the vice-royalty of Ireland; in which

Walpole acknowledges that he was the most popular governor which that

luckless country ever had. "Nothing was cried up but his integrity. He

would have laughed at any man who had any confidence in his morality."

But Chesterfield's vice-royalty deserves better treatment than this. In

Ireland he _was_ an able governor. The man had something to do, and he

did it. The lounger of the London clubs could not dawdle through the

day in the midst of a fiery people full of faction, bleeding with the

wounds of civil war, and indignant at the supremacy of the "Saxon."

Jacobitism, in England a fashion, was in Ireland a fury. In England a

phantom of party, it was in Ireland a fierce superstition. In England a

fading recollection of power lost, and a still feebler hope of favours

to come, it was in Ireland a hereditary frenzy embittered by personal

sufferings, exalted by fantastic notions of pedigree, and sanctioned by

the secret but powerful stimulants of Rome. This was no place for a man

to take his rest, unless he could contrive to sleep on thorns.

Chesterfield was thus forced to be vigorous and vigilant; to watch every

symptom of disaffection, to suppress every incipient turbulence, to

guide without the appearance of control, and to make his popularity the

strength of a government almost wholly destitute of civil reputation or

military force. But the highest panegyric is to be found in the period

of his thus preserving the peace of Ireland. It was in 1745, when the

Pretender was proclaimed in Edinburgh, when the Highland army was on its

march to London, and when all the hopes of hollow courtiership and

inveterate Jacobitism were turned to the triumph of the ancient dynasty.

Yet, Ireland was kept in a state of quietude, and the empire was thus

saved from the greatest peril since the Norman invasion.

An Irish insurrection would have largely multiplied the hazards of the

Brunswick throne; and though we have firm faith in the power of England

to extinguish a foreign invader, yet, when the question came to be

simply one of the right to the crown, and the decision was to be made by

civil conflict, the alienation, or the insurrection, of Ireland might

have thrown an irresistible weight into the scale.

It is not our purpose, nor would it be becoming, to more than allude to

the private life of this showy personage. His was not the era of either

public or private morality. His marriage was contemptible, a connexion

equally marked by love of money and neglect of honour; for his choice

was the niece of the Duchess of Kendal, the duchess being notoriously

the king's mistress, and Chesterfield obviously marrying the niece as

being a probable heiress of her aunt, and also of bringing to her

husband some share of the royal favour. He was disappointed, as he

deserved, in the legacy; and seems to have been not much happier in the

wife, who brought him no heir, and was apparently a compound of pride

and dulness. He was more fortunate, however, in earning the political

favour of the old Duchess of Marlborough, who left him £20,000 in her

will.

Still, with all the political chicanery, and all the official squabbles

of parliament, those were sportive times; and Walpole records the delay

of the debate on the bill for naturalizing the Jews, as arising from the

adjournment of the house, to attend private theatricals at Drury Lane,

where Delaval had hired the theatre to exhibit himself in Othello!

Walpole, in his pleasant exaggeration, says, that "the crowd of people

of fashion was so great, that the footman's gallery was hung with blue

ribands."

For some reason, which must now sleep with the author, he had an

inveterate aversion to Seeker, then Bishop of Oxford, and afterwards

translated to Canterbury. "The King," said he, "would not go to chapel

because the Bishop of Oxford was to preach before him. The ministers did

not insist upon his hearing the sermon, as they had lately upon his

making him Dean of St. Paul's."

Character and popularity do not always depend upon the circumstances

which alone ought to fix either. He then proceeds to hew the right

reverend lord in pieces. "This bishop," says he, "who had been bred a

Presbyterian and man-midwife, which sect and profession he had dropt for

a season, while he was President of a Free-thinking Club, had been

converted by Bishop Talbot, whose relation he married, and his faith

_settled_ in a prebend of Durham, whence he was transplanted by the

queen, and advanced by her (who had no aversion to a medley of

religions, which she always compounded into a scheme of heresy of her

own) to the living of St. James's, vacant by the death of her favourite

_Arian_, Dr. Clarke, and afterwards to the bishoprics of Bristol and

Oxford."

Then, probably for the purpose of relieving the dark hues of this

desperate portrait, he throws in a touch of praise, and tells us that

Secker grew surprisingly popular in his parish of St. James's, and was

especially approved of in the pulpit.

Secker's discourses, with his charges and lectures, still remain; and it

is impossible to conceive any thing more commonplace in style, weaker in

conception, or more thoroughly marked with mediocrity of mind. And yet

it is perfectly possible to conceive such a man popular. What the

multitude call eloquence, in the pulpit, is palpably different from

eloquence any where else. At the bar, or in the legislature, it

evidently consists in a mixture of strong sense and powerful feeling. It

must exhibit _some_ knowledge of the subject, and more knowledge of

human nature. But the "sermons" which then achieved a passing popularity

were characterised by nothing but by the most shallow notions in the

most impotent language. The age of reasoners had passed away with

Barrow, South, and Sherlock; and a studied mingling of affected

simplicity and deliberate nonsense constituted the sole merits of the

pulpit in the middle of the eighteenth century. Then, according to the

proverb, that "when things come to the worst, they must mend," came the

gentle enthusiasm of Wesley and the fierce declamation of Whitefield,

both differing utterly in doctrine, practice, and principle, yet both

regarding themselves as missionaries to restore Christianity, and both

evidently believed by the multitude to be all but inspired. Their

example, however, infused some slight ardour into the established

pulpit, and its sermons were no longer dull _rechauffes_ of Epictetus,

and substitutes for the Gospel, taken from the schoolboy recollections

of Plato. Secker reigned in this middle-age of the pulpit, and his

performances are matchless as models of words without thought, doctrines

without learning, and language that trickled through the ear without the

possibility of reaching the understanding.

But Secker's faults were those of nature, which alone is to be blamed;

unless we are to join in the blame the ministers who placed such a

twinkling taper as a "shining light" in the church.

We do not believe in the story of his freethinking, though Walpole

strongly repeats it, and gives his authority. Secker's was obviously a

commonplace mind, wholly destitute of all pretension to ability, yet as

obviously not disinclined to make use of those means which often

constitute court favour, but which high minds disdain. He had been made

Dean of St. Paul's by the Chancellor's interest, though he had been for

some time in the shade at court, from being strongly suspected of

cultivating the Prince's connexions at the same time; however, he

achieved Canterbury at last, and, once sheltered in Lambeth, he might

laugh at the jealousies of courtiers.

Walpole now bursts out into indignant virtue; exclaims that even the

church has its renegades in politics, and almost compassionates the

king, "who was obliged to fling open his _asylum_ to all kinds of

deserters; revenging himself, however, by not speaking to them at his

levee, or listening to them in the pulpit."

In the meantime, the great source of all opposition, the dread of the

successful, the hope of the defeated, the thorn in the royal side, or,

to take a higher emblem, the tree of promise to all that contemptible

race who trade in conscience, and live on faction,--disappeared in a

moment. The heir-apparent died! The Prince of Wales had suffered from a

pleurisy, but was so much recovered as to attend the king to the House

of Lords. After being much heated in the atmosphere of the house, he

returned to Carlton House to unrobe, put on only a light frock, went to

Kew, where he walked some time, returned to Carlton House, and lay down

upon a couch for three hours on a ground floor next the garden. The

consequence of this rashness or obstinacy was, that he caught a fresh

cold, and relapsed that night.

After struggling with this illness for a week, he was suddenly seized

with an increase of his distemper. Three years before, he had received

a blow on the breast from a tennis ball, from which, or from a

subsequent fall, he often felt great pain. Exhausted by the cough, he

cried, "Je sens la mort," and died in the arms of his valet.

The character of this prince, who was chiefly memorable as the father of

George III., had in it nothing to eclipse the past age, conciliate the

present, or attract honour from the future. Walpole, in his keen way,

says, "that he resembled the Black Prince in nothing, but in dying

before his father." "Indeed," he contemptuously adds, "it was not his

fault if he had not distinguished himself by warlike achievements." He

had solicited the command of the army in Scotland in the rebellion of

1745, which was of course given to his brother; "a hard judgment," says

Walpole, "for what he could do, he did." When the royal army lay before

Carlisle, the prince, at a great supper which he gave his court and

favourites, had ordered for the dessert a model of the citadel of

Carlisle, in paste, which he in person, and the maids of honour,

_bombarded with sugar plumbs_!

The Prince had disagreed with the king and queen early after his coming

to England, "not entirely," says Walpole, "by his own fault." The king

had refused to pay his debts in Hanover, and "it ran a little in the

blood of the family to hate the eldest son!" The queen exerted more

authority than he liked, and "the Princess Emily, who had been admitted

into his greatest confidence, had not," the historian bitterly observes,

"forfeited her duty to the queen, by concealing any of his secrets that

_might do him prejudice_."

Gaming was one of his passions; "but his style of play did him less

honour than even the amusement." He carried this _dexterity_ into

practice in more essential points, and was vain of it. "One day at

Kensington that he had just borrowed £5000 of Doddington, seeing him

pass under his window, he said to Hedges, his secretary, 'that man is

reckoned one of the most sensible men in England; yet, with all his

parts, I have just tricked him out of £5000!'" A line from Earl Stanhope

summed up his character,--"He has his father's head and his mother's

heart."

A smart hit is mentioned of Pelham, who, however, was not remarkable for

humour. One Ayscough, who had been preceptor to Prince George, and who

had "not taught him to read English, though eleven years old," was about

to be removed from the preceptorship. Lyttleton, whose sister he had

married, applied to Pelham to save him. Pelham answered, "I know nothing

of Dr. Ayscough--Oh, yes, I recollect, a very worthy man told me in this

room, two years ago, that he was a _great rogue_." This very worthy man

happened to be _Lyttleton himself_, who had then quarrelled with

Ayscough about election affairs. Walpole abounds in sketches of

character, and they are generally capital. Here is a kit-cat of Lord

Albemarle, then ambassador in Paris. "It was convenient to him to be any

where but in England. His debts were excessive, though he was

ambassador, groom of the stole, governor of Virginia, and colonel of a

regiment of guards. His figure was genteel, his manner noble and

agreeable. The rest of his merit was the interest Lady Albemarle had

with the king through Lady Yarmouth. He had all his life imitated the

French manners since he came to Paris, where he never conversed with a

Frenchman. If good breeding is not different from good sense, Lord

Albemarle at least knew how to distinguish it from good nature. He would

bow to his postilion, while he was ruining his tailor."

The prince's death had all the effect of the last act of a melo-drama.

It had blown up more castles in the air, than any explosion in the

history of paint and pasteboard. All the rejected of the court had

naturally flocked round the heir-apparent, and never was worship of the

rising sun more mortified by its sudden eclipse. Peerages in embryo

never came to the birth, and all sorts of ministerial appointments, from

the premier downwards, which had been looked upon as solid and sure,

were scattered by this one event into thin air. Drax, the prince's

secretary, who "could not write his own name;" Lord Baltimore, who,

"with a great deal of mistaken knowledge, could not spell;" and Sir

William Irby, the princesses' Polonius, were to be barons; Doddington,

it was said, had actually kissed hands for the reversion of a dukedom!

The whole work is a picture gallery. Doddington, whose "Diary" has

placed him among those authors whose happiest fate would have been to

have been prohibited the use of pen, ink, and paper, is sketched to the

life in a few keen and graphic lines.

"This man, with great knowledge of business and much wit, had, by mere

absurdity of judgment and a disposition to finesse, thrown himself out

of all estimation, and out of all the views which his large fortune and

abilities could not have failed to promote, if he had preserved but the

least shadow of steadiness. He had two or three times gone all lengths

of flattery, alternately with Sir Robert Walpole and the prince. The

latter keenly said, 'that they had met again, at last, in a necessary

connexion, for no party would have any thing to do with either.'"

Why has not some biographer, curious in the dissection of human vanity,

written the real life of Doddington? There could be no richer subject

for a pen contemptuous of the follies of high life and capable of

dissecting that compound of worldly passion and infirm principle which,

in nine instances out of ten, figures in the front ranks of mankind.

Doddington had begun public life with higher advantages than most men of

his time. He had figure, fortune, and fashion; he was employed early in

Spain, with Sir Paul Methuen, our ambassador; where he signed the treaty

of Madrid. He then clung to Walpole, whom he panegyrised in verse and

adulated in prose. But Walpole thwarted his longing for a peerage, and

the refusal produced his revolt. He then went over to the Opposition,

and flattered the prince. But the prince had a favourite already; and

Doddington failed again. He then returned to Walpole, who made him a

lord of the treasury. But Walpole himself was soon to feel the chances

of power; and Doddington, who was never inclined to prop a sinking

cause, crossed the House again. There he was left for a while, to suffer

the penalties of a placeman's purgatory, but without being purified;

and, after some continuance in opposition, a state for which he was as

unfitted as a shark upon the sea-shore, he crossed over again to the

court, and was made treasurer of the navy. But he was now rapidly

falling into ridicule; and, determining to obtain power at all risks, he

bowed down before the prince. At this mimic court he obtained a mimic

office, was endured without respect, and consulted without confidence.

Even there he had not secured a final refuge.

The prince suddenly died; and Doddington's hopes, though not his

follies, were extinguished in his grave. Such was the fate of a man of

ability, of indefatigable labour, of affluent means, and confessedly

accomplished in all the habits and knowledge of public life. He wanted,

as Walpole observes, "nothing for power but constancy." Under a foreign

government he might have been minister for life. But in the free spirit

and restless parties of an English legislature, though such a man might

float, he must be at the mercy of every wave.

We then have the most extraordinary man in England in his day, under

review, the well-known Duke of Newcastle, minister, or possessing

ministerial influence, for nearly a quarter of a century! Of all the

public characters of his time, or perhaps of any other, the Duke of

Newcastle was the most ridiculed. Every act of his life, every speech

which he uttered, nay, almost every look and gesture, became instantly

food for burlesque. All the scribblers of the empire, with some of the

higher class, as Smollett, were pecking at him day by day; yet, in a

Parliament where Chatham, with his powerful eloquence, Bedford with his

subtle argument, Townshend with his wit, and the elder Fox with his

indefatigable intrigue, were all contending for the mastery; this man,

who seemed sometimes half-frenzied, and at other times half-idiotic,

retained power, as if it belonged to him by right, and resigned it, as

if he had given it away.

Walpole thus describes his appearance. "A constant hurry in his walk, a

restlessness of place, a borrowed importance, gave him the perpetual air

of a solicitor. His habit of never finishing, which proceeded from his

beginning every thing twenty times over, gave rise to the famous bon-mot

of Lord Wilmington: 'The Duke of Newcastle always loses half an hour in

the morning, which he is running after for the rest of the day.' But he

began the world with advantages:--an estate of £30,000 a-year, great

borough and county interest, the heirship of his uncle, the old Duke of

Newcastle, and a new creation of the title in his person." Walpole

curiously describes the temperament of this singular man. "The Duke of

Newcastle had no pride, though infinite self-love. He always caressed

his enemies, to enlist them against his friends. There was no service

that he would not do for either, till either was above being served by

him.

"There was no expense to which he was not addicted, but generosity. His

houses, gardens, table, and equipage, swallowed immense treasures. The

sums which he owed were exceeded only by those which he wasted. He loved

business immoderately, yet was always only doing it, never did it. His

speeches in council and parliament were copious of words, but unmeaning.

He aimed at every thing, yet endeavoured nothing. A ridiculous fear was

predominant in him; he would venture the overthrow of the government,

rather than dare to open a letter that might discover a plot. He was a

secretary of state without intelligence, a man of infinite intrigue

without secrecy or policy, and a minister despised and hated by his

master, by all parties and ministers, without being turned out by any."

This faculty of retaining office is evidently the chief problem in

Walpole's eyes, and was as evidently the chief source of wrath, in the

eyes of his crowd of clever opponents.

But the duke must have had some qualities, for which his caricaturists

will not give him credit. He must have been shrewd, with all his oddity,

and well acquainted with the science of the world, with all his

trifling. He must have known the art of pulling the strings of

parliament, before he could have managed the puppet show of power with

such unfailing success. He must also have been dexterous in dealing with

wayward tempers, while he had to manage the suspicious spirit, stubborn

prejudices, and arrogant obstinacy of George II. It may be admitted that

he had great assistance in the skill and subtlety of his brother Pelham;

but there were so many occasions on which he must have trusted to

himself alone, that it may well be doubted, whether to be, constantly

successful, he must not have been singularly skilful, and that the

personal dexterity of the minister was the true secret of his prolonged

power.

We now come to Walpole's summary of the career of the two most

celebrated men of his early life--his father and Bolingbroke.

Sir Robert Walpole and Lord Bolingbroke had begun, as rivals at school,

lived a life of competition, and died much in the same manner, "provoked

at being killed by empirics, but with the same difference in their

manner of dying as had appeared in the temper of their lives,--the first

with a calmness which was habitual philosophy, the other with a rage

which his affected philosophy could not disguise. The one had seen his

early ambition dashed with imprisonment, from which he had shot into the

sphere of his rival. The other was exiled, recalled, and ruined. Walpole

rose gradually to the height of power, maintained it by his single

talents against Bolingbroke, assisted by all the considerable men of

England; and when driven from it at last, resigned it without a stain or

a censure; retiring to private life without an attempt to re-establish

himself, and almost without a regret for what he had lost."

Though this was the tribute of a son to a father, it is, in all its

essentials, the tribute of truth; for Walpole was, beyond all doubt, a

man of great administrative abilities, remarkably temperate in the use

of power, and, though violently assailed both within and without the

house, neither insolent in the one instance, nor vindictive in the

other. It was equally beyond a doubt, that to him was in a great degree

owing the establishment of the Hanover succession. The peaceful

extinction of Jacobitism, whose success would have been the renewal of

despotism and popery; and that system of finance and nurture of the

national resources, which prepared the country for the signal triumphs

of the reign, were the work of Walpole.

Bolingbroke, with talents of the highest brilliancy, wanted that

strength of judgment without which the most brilliant talents are only

dangerous to their possessor. After tasting of power, only to feel the

bitterness of disappointment--after rising to the height of ambition,

only to be cast into the lowest depths of disgrace, after being driven

into exile, and returning from it only in the humiliation of a pardon

under the hand of his rival,--Bolingbroke died in retirement, without

respect, and in the obscurity, without the peace of a private station.

It must be acknowledged that, in his instance, ill-fortune was only

another name for justice; that the philosopher, whose pen was employed

in defaming religion, was punished in the politician, who felt the

uncertainty of human power; and that a life expended in treachery to the

religion in which he was born, was well punished by his being forced in

public life to drink the bitterest dregs of political shame, live with

an extinguished reputation, and be buried in national scorn, long before

his body was consigned to the tomb.

At this period, the king, far advanced in years, was destined to feel

the heaviest pressure of domestic calamity. His queen, a woman of sense

and virtue, to whom, notwithstanding the grossness of his vices, he

could not help paying public respect, died from the effects of an

accident, which had grown into a confirmed disease. Her death was

followed by that of his youngest daughter, the Queen of Denmark, a woman

"of great spirit and sense," who died of an accident resembling her

mother's. She, too, like the Queen of England, had led an unhappy

life,--for like her, she had the vice and scandal of royal mistresses to

contend with.

The king, on the news of this death, broke into unusual expressions of

sorrow and fondness. "This," said he, "has been a fatal year to my

family; I lost my eldest son, but I was _glad of it_. Then the Prince of

Orange died, and left every thing in confusion. Poor little Edward has

been cut open, (for an imposthume in his side,) and now the Queen of

Denmark is gone. I know I did not love my children when they were young,

I hated to have them running about my room; but now I love them as well

as most fathers."

The contrast between the Walpole and the Pelham administrations, is

sketched with great force and fidelity. In our days the character of a

cabinet depends upon the party. In those days the character of the

cabinet depended upon the premier. Walpole was bold, open, steady, and

never dejected: Pelham was timorous, reserved, fickle, and apt to

despair. Presumption made Walpole many enemies: want of confidence in

himself estranged from Pelham many friends. Walpole was content to have

one great view, and would overlook or trample on the intermediate

degrees: Pelham could never reach a great view, through stumbling at

little ones. Walpole loved power so much, that he would not endure a

rival: Pelham loved it so much that he would endure any thing. Walpole

would risk his administration by driving every considerable man from

court, rather than venture their rivalry: Pelham would employ any means

to take able men out of the opposition, though he ventured their

engrossing his authority and outshining his capacity; but he dreaded

abuse more than competition, and always bought off his enemies, to avoid

their satire, rather than to acquire their support.

The historian, on the whole, regards Pelham's conduct on this point,

though the less bold, as the more prudential. He acknowledges that the

result of Sir Robert's driving away all able men from him was, to gain

for himself but weak and uncertain assistance, while he always kept up a

formidable opposition. But he might have grounded Sir Robert's failure,

on insulted justice, as well as on mistaken policy; for, by depriving

able men of their natural right to official distinction, he did more

than enfeeble himself,--he deprived the country of their services.

Walpole's was the more daring plan, and Pelham's was palpably and

abjectly pusillanimous; but the result of the one was, to reduce the

government to a solitary minister, while the result of the other was

always to form an effective cabinet. The former plan _may_ subsist,

during a period of national peril; but the return of public

tranquillity, which, in England, is always the severest trial of

governments, invariably shows the superior stability of the other.

Both were valued in private life. "Walpole was fond of magnificence, and

was generous to a fault: the other had neither ostentation nor avarice,

and yet had but little generosity. The one was profuse to his family and

friends, liberal indiscriminately, and unbounded to his tools and spies:

the other loved his family and his friends, and enriched them as often

as he could _steal an opportunity_ from his extravagant bounty to his

enemies and antagonists." Walpole was "forgiving to a fault, if

forgiveness be a fault. Pelham _never_ forgave, but when he durst not

resent! The one was most appreciated while he was minister; the other

most, when he ceased to be minister. All men thought Pelham honest,

_until_ he was in power. Walpole was never thought so, until he was

out." Such is the lecture which this dexterous operator gives, knife in

hand, over the corpses of the two most powerful men of their age.

Is it to be supposed that Ireland was doing nothing during this bustling

period of English faction? Quite the contrary. It was in a flame, yet

the subject was as insignificant as the indignation was profuse. One

Jones, the court architect, was charged by the opposition with

irregularities in his conduct, and was defended by the ministry. On the

first division ministers had a majority, but it was almost a defeat, the

majority amounting to but three. All Ireland resounded with acclamation.

The "national cause" was to live, only with the expulsion of Jones from

his office; and to perish irrecoverably, if he should draw another

quarter's salary. His protectors were anathematised, his assailants were

the models of patriotism. The populace made "bonfires of reproach"

before the primate's house, a tolerably significant sign of what might

happen to himself; and stopped the coaches in the streets, demanding of

their passengers a pledge "whether they were for Ireland, or England."

Even the hackney coachmen exhibited their patriotic self-denial by the

heroism of refusing to carry any fare to the Castle, the residence of

the viceroy. The passion became even more powerful than duelling. A Dr.

Andrews, of the Castle party, challenging Lambert, a member, at the door

of the Commons, on some election squabble, Lambert said, "I shall go

_first_ into the house, and vote against that rascal Neville Jones."

Andrews repeating the insult, and, as it seems, not allowing time for

this patriotic vote, Lambert went in and complained; in consequence of

which Andrews was ordered into custody; Carter, the Master of the

Rolls,--for even the lawyers had caught fire on the

occasion,--exclaiming of Andrews, "What! would that man force himself

into a seat here, and for what? only to prostitute his vote to a man,

the sworn enemy of his country," (Lord George Sackville, then Secretary

for Ireland.) The Speaker, too, was equally hostile. The government were

finally defeated by 124 to 116. Never was ridiculous triumph more

ridiculously triumphant. The strangers in the gallery huzzaed, the mob

in the streets huzzaed. When Lord Kildare returned to his house (he had

been the leader of the debate,) there was a procession of some hours.

All the world was rejoicing, Neville Jones was prostrated, Ireland had

cast aside her sackcloth, and was thenceforth to be rich, loyal, and

happy. The triumph lasted during the night, and was forgotten in the

morning. Jones covered his retreat with a pleasantry, saying--"So, after

all, I am not to be In--igo, but Out--igo Jones," a piece of wit, which

disposed many in that wit-loving land to believe, that he was not so

very much a demon after all. But the revenge of government was longer

lived than the popular rejoicing. Their first intention was a general

casting out of all who had foiled them in the debate: a two-handed

slaughter of officials--a massacre of the innocents. But the wrath

cooled, and was satisfied with turning off Carter, master of the rolls;

Malone, prime serjeant; Dilks, the quarter-master general; and

abolishing the pension of Boyle, a near relative of the obnoxious

speaker.

But a powerful man was now to be snatched away from the scene: Pelham

died. He had been for some time suffering under the great disease of

high life, high living. His health had given way to many feasts, many

physicians, and the Scarborough waters. He died on the 8th of March,

1754.

France next supplies the historian with another display. The two

countries differ, even in the nineteenth century, by characteristics

wholly irreconcilable; and they are both of a sterner order as time

advances with both. But, in the eighteenth century, each country in its

public transactions approached nearer to the propensities and passions

of the drama. The rapid changes of the English cabinet--the clever

circumventions of courtiers--the bold developments of political talent,

and the dexterous intrigues of office--bore some resemblance to the

graver comedy. On the other hand, the Court life of France was all a

ballet, of which Versailles was the patent theatre. There all was show

and scene-shifting the tinsel of high life, and the frolic, of brilliant

frivolity.--The minister was eclipsed by the mistress; the king was a

buffoon in the hands of the courtier; and the government of a powerful

nation was disposed of in the style of a flirtation behind the scenes.

Louis XV. had at this period grown weary of the faded graces of Madame

de Pompadour, and selected for his favourite a woman of Irish

extraction, of the name of Murphy. The monarch had stooped low enough,

for his new sultana was the daughter of a shoe-maker. The royal history

was scarcely more profligate, than it was ridiculous. His Majesty,

though the husband of a respectable queen, had seemed to regard every

abomination of life as a royal privilege. He had first adopted the

society of a Madame de Mailly, a clever coquette, but with the

disqualification of being the utter reverse of handsome. Madame, to

obviate the known truantry of the King, introduced her sister, Madame de

Vintinsille, as clever, but as ordinary as herself. The latter died in

child-birth, supposed to have been poisoned! The same family, however,

supplied a third sultana, a very pretty personage, on whom the royal

favour was lavished in the shape of a title, and she was created Duchess

de Chateauroux.

But this course of rivalry was interrupted. The king was suddenly seized

with illness. Fitzjames, Bishop of Soissons, came to the royal bedside,

and remonstrated. The mistress was dismissed, with a kind of public

disgrace, and the queen went in a sort of public pomp, to thank the

saints for the royal repentance.

"But," says Walpole, "as soon as the king's health was re-established,

the queen was sent to her prayers, the bishop to his diocese, and the

Duchess was recalled--but died suddenly." He ends the narrative with a

reflection as pointed and as bitter as that of any French chamberlain in

existence:--"Though a jealous sister may be disposed to despatch a

rival, can we believe that _bishops_ and _confessors_ poison?"

Madame de Pompadour had reigned paramount for a longer period than any

of those Medeas or Circes. Walpole describes her as all that was

charming in person and manner. But nearer observers have denied her the

praise of more than common good looks, and more than vulgar animation.

She, however, evidently understood the art of managing her old fool, and

of keeping influence by the aid of his ministers. Madame mingled eagerly

in politics, purchased dependents, paid her instruments well, gave the

gayest of all possible entertainments--a resistless source of

superiority in France--had a purse for many, and a smile for more; by

her liveliness kept up the spirits of the old king, who was now

vibrating between vice and superstition; fed, fêted, and flattered the

noblesse, by whom she was libelled, and _worshipped_; and with all the

remaining decencies of France exclaiming against her, but with all its

factions, its private licentiousness, and its political corruption,

rejoicing in her reign; she flourished before the eyes of Europe, the

acknowledged ruler of the throne.

Can we wonder that this throne fell--that this career of glaring guilt

was followed by terrible retribution--that this bacchanalian revel was

inflamed into national frenzy--that this riot of naked vice was to be

punished and extinguished by the dungeon and the scaffold?

Walpole, though formed in courts, fashioned in politics, and a haunter

of high life to the last, now and then exhibits a feeling worthy of a

manlier vocation, and an honester time. "If I do not forbid myself

censure," says he, "at least I shall shun that poison of histories,

flattery. How has it predominated in writers. My Lord Bacon was almost

as profuse of his incense to the memory of dead kings, as he was

infamous for clouding the memory of the living with it. Commines, an

honester writer, though I fear, by the masters whom he pleased, not a

much less servile courtier, says that the virtues of Louis XI.

preponderated over his vices. Even Voltaire has in a manner purified the

dross of adulation which contemporary authors had squandered on Louis

XIV. by adopting and refining it after the tyrant was dead."

He then becomes courageous, and writes in his castle of Strawberry Hill,

what he never would have dared to breathe in the circle of St. James's.

"If any thing can shock one of those mortal divinities, and they must be

shocked before they can be corrected, it would be to find, that the

truth would be related of them at last. Nay, is it not cruel to them to

hallow their memories. One is sure that they will never hear truth;

shall they not even have a chance of reading it?"

In all great political movements, where the authority of a nation has

been shaken, we are strongly inclined to think that the shock has

originated in mal-administration at home. Some of the most remarkable

passages in these volumes relate to our early neglect of the American

Colonies. In the perpetual struggles of public men for power, the remote

world of the West seemed to be wholly forgotten, or to be remembered

only when an old governor was recalled, or a new creature of office sent

out. Those great provinces had been in the especial department of the

Secretary of State, assisted by the Board of Trade. That secretary had

been the Duke of Newcastle, a man whose optics seem never to have

reached beyond Whitehall. It would scarcely be credited, what reams of

papers, representations, memorials, and petitions from that quarter of

the world lay mouldering and unopened in his office. He even knew as

little of the geography of his province, as of the state of it. During

the war, while the French were encroaching on the frontier; when General

Ligonier hinted some defence for Annapolis, he replied in his evasive,

lisping hurry, "Annapolis. Oh, yes, Annapolis must be defended--Where is

Annapolis?"

But a more serious impolicy was exhibited in the neglect of American

claims to distinctions and offices. No cabinet seems ever to have

thought of attaching the rising men of the colonies, by a fair and

natural distribution of honours. Excepting a few trifling offices,

scarcely more than menial, under the staff of the British governors, or

commissions in the provincial militia, the promotion of an American was

scarcely ever heard of. The result was natural,--the English blood was

soaked in the American veins; the original spirit of the colonist became

first sullen, and then hostile. It was natural, as the population grew

more numerous; while individual ability found itself thwarted in its

progress, and insulted by the preference of strangers to all the offices

of the country, that the feelings of the people should ponder upon

change. Nothing could be more impolitic than this careless insult, and

nothing more calamitous in its consequences. The intelligent lawyer, the

enterprising merchant, the hardy soldier, and America had them all, grew

bitter against the country of their ancestors. It would scarcely be

believed, that the Episcopal Church was almost wholly abandoned to

weakness, poverty, and unpopularity, and even that no bishop was sent to

superintend the exertions, or sustain the efficacy, or cement the

connexion of the Church in America with the Church in England. The whole

of the united provinces were, by the absurd fiction of a sinecure law,

"in the diocese of London!" Of course, in the first collision, the

Church was swept away like chaff before the wind. An Episcopal Church

has since risen in its room; but it has now no farther connexion with

its predecessor than some occasional civilities offered to its tourist

bishops on presenting their cards at Lambeth, or the rare appearance of

a volume of sermons transmitted to our public libraries.

Another capital fault was committed in the administration of those great

colonies: they had been peopled chiefly by emigrants of the humbler

order. Leaving England chiefly in times of national disturbance, they

had carried with them the seeds of republicanism; but all men love

public honours, and Englishmen love them as much as any others.

Hereditary honours, too, are the most valuable of all, from their giving

a certain rank to those objects of our regard, which every honest and

high-minded man values most, his children. To be the founder of a family

is the most honourable, the most gratifying, and the most permanent

reward of public talents. The Americans of our day affect to abhor a

peerage; though no people on earth are more tenacious of the trifling

and temporary titles of office. Nothing could have been easier at this

period, than the creation of an aristocracy in America; and nothing

could have been wiser. The landed proprietors, and there were some of

vast possessions; the leading men of commerce, and there were some of

great wealth; and the principal lawyers, and there were men of eloquence

and ability among them--would have formed the _nucleus_ of an

aristocracy purely English, closely connected with the English throne as

the fountain of honour, and not less strongly bound to English

allegiance. An Episcopacy, of all ties the most powerful, required only

a word for its creation. And in this manly, generous, and free-spirited

connexion, the colonies would have grown with the growth of England;

have shunned all the bitter collisions of rival interests; have escaped

the actual wars which inflicted disaster on both; and, by the first of

all benefits to America, she would have obtained the means of resisting

that supremacy of faction, which is now hurrying her into all the

excesses of democracy.

In Canada we are still pursuing the same system, inevitably to be

followed by the same fruits. We are suffering it to be filled with men

of the lowest order of society; with the peasant, the small dealer, the

fugitive, and the pauper. Those men no sooner acquire personal

independence, than they aim at political. But who ever hears of a title

of honour among even the ablest, the most gallant, or the most attached

of the Canadian colonists? The French acted more rationally. Their

Canadians have a noblesse, and that noblesse to this moment keep their

station, and keep up the interest of France in Canada. Our obvious

policy would be, to conciliate the leading men by titles of honour, to

conciliate the rising generation by giving them the offices of their own

country, and make it a principle of colonial government, that while the

command of the forces, or the governor-generalship should be supplied

from home, every office below those ranks should be given to those brave

and intelligent individuals of the colony who had best earned them. We

should then hear of no factions, no revolts, and no republicanism in

Canada.

It is a curious contrast to the present state of things, that during the

long reign of George II. government was simply a game. Half a dozen

powerful men were the players. The king was merely the looker on, the

people knew no more of the matter than the passers by through Pall-Mall

know of the performances going on within the walls of its club-houses.

It must shock our present men of the mob to hear of national interests

tossed about like so many billiard balls by those powdered and ruffled

handlers of the cue. Yet every thing is to be judged of by the result.

Public life was never exhibited on a more showy scale. Parliament never

abounded with more accomplished ability. England never commanded higher

influence with Europe. If her commerce has since become more extensive,

it was then more secure, and if the victories of our own time have been

on a scale of magnitude, which throws the past into the shade, our

fleets and armies then gave proofs of a gallantry which no subsequent

triumphs could transcend.

It cannot be doubted, that the habits of that rank to which the

statesmen of that day were born, naturally influenced their views of

political transactions. Though party unquestionably existed in all its

force among them, there was no faction. If there was a strong

competition for power, there was little of the meanness of modern

intrigue; and a minister of the days of George II. would no more have

stooped to the rabble popularity, than he would have availed himself of

its assistance or dreaded its alienation.

We now come to one of those negociations which, like a gust of wind

against a tree, while they seemed to shake, only strengthened the

cabinet. A violent attack had been made in the house upon Sir Thomas

Robinson, a great favourite with the king. Walpole strikes off his

character with his usual spirit. Sir Thomas had been bred in German

courts, and was rather restored, than naturalised to the genius of

Germany. He had German honour, loved German politics, and "could explain

himself as little" as if he spoke "only German." Walpole attributes Sir

Thomas's political distinctions simply to Newcastle's necessity for

finding out men of talents inferior to his own, "notwithstanding the

difficulty of the discovery." Yet if the duke had intended to please his

master, he could not have done it more happily than by presenting him

with so congenial a servant. The king, "with such a secretary in his

closet, felt himself in the very Elysium of Heren-hausen."

Then follows a singular conversation between the king and Fox. The Duke

of Newcastle saw his power tottering, and had begun to look out for new

allies. His first thought was to dismiss Pitt, the next and more

natural, was to "try to sweeten Fox." Accordingly, on the morning of the

29th, the king sent for Fox, reproached him for concurring to wrong Sir

Thomas Robinson, and asked him if he had united with Pitt to oppose his

measures. Fox assured him he had not, and that he had given his honour

that he would resign first. Then, said the king, will you stand up and

carry on my measures in the House of Commons, as you can do with spirit.

Fox replied, I must know, sir, what means I shall have. "It would be

better for you," said the king, "you shall have favour, advantage, and

confidence," but would not explain particulars, only asking if he would

go to the Duke of Newcastle.

"I must, if you command me," said Fox, "go and say I have forgot every

thing."

"No," replied the king, "I have a good opinion of you. You have

abilities and honesty, but you are too warm. I will send a common

friend, Lord Waldegrave. I have obligations to you that I never

mentioned. The prince tried you, and you would not join him, and yet you

made no merit of it to me."

Mingled with these memoirs are appendices of anecdote, and those

anecdotes generally of remarkable characters. Among the rest is a sketch

of the famous Count Bruhl, one of those men who figured in Europe as the

grand burlesque of ministerial life, or rather of that life, which in

the East raises a slave into the highest appointments of the state, and

after showing him as a slipper-bearer, places him beside the throne. The

extravagances of the court of Saxony at that period were proverbial, the

elector being King of Poland, and lavishing the revenues of his

electorate alike on his kingdom and person. While the court was

borrowing at an interest of ten per cent. the elector was lavishing

money as if it rained from the skies. He had just wasted £200,000

sterling on two royal marriages, given £100,000 sterling for the Duke of

Modena's gallery of pictures, given pensions in Poland amounting to

£50,000 sterling above what he received, and enabled Count Bruhl

personally to spend £60,000 a-year.

This favourite of fortune, originally of a good family, was only a page

to the late king, and had the education of a page. By his assiduity, and

being never absent from the king's side, he became necessary to this

marvellously idle monarch; he himself, next to the monarch, being,

probably, the idlest man in his dominions. The day of a German prime

minister seems to have been a succession of formal idlenesses. Bruhl

rose at six in the morning, the only instance of activity in his

career. But he was obliged to attend the king before nine, after having

read the letters of the morning. With the king he staid until the hour

of mass, which was at eleven. From mass he went to the Countess

Moyensha, where he remained till twelve. From her house he adjourned to

dinner with the king, or to his own house, where he was surrounded by a

circle of profligates, of his own choosing. After dinner he undressed,

and went to sleep till five. He then dressed, for the second time in the

day, each time occupying him an hour. At six he went to the king, with

whom he staid till seven. At seven he always went to some assembly,

where he played deep, the Countess Moyensha being always of the party.

At ten he supped, and at twelve he went to bed. Thus did the German

contrive to mingle statesmanship with folly, and the rigid regularities

of a life not to be envied by a horse in a mill, with the feeble

frivolities of a child in the nursery. His expenses were immense; he

kept three hundred servants, and as many horses. Yet he lived without

elegance, and even without comfort. His house was a model of

extravagance and bad taste. He had contracted a mania for building, and

had at least a dozen country seats, which he scarcely ever visited. This

enormous expenditure naturally implied extraordinary resources, and he

was said to sell all the great appointments in Poland without mercy.

Frederick of Prussia described him exactly, when he said, that "of all

men of his age he had the most watches, dresses, lace, boots, shoes, and

slippers. Cæsar would have put him among those well dressed and perfumed

heads of which he was not afraid." But this mixture of prodigality and

profligacy was not to go unpunished, even on its own soil. Bruhl

involved Saxony in a war with Frederick. Nothing could be more foolish

than the beginning of the war, except its conduct. The Prussian king,

the first soldier in Europe, instantly out-manoeuvred the Saxons, shut

up their whole army at Pirna; made them lay down their arms, and took

possession of Dresden. The king and his minister took to flight. This

was the extinction of Bruhl's power. On his return to Dresden, after

peace had been procured, he lost his protector, the king. The new

elector dismissed him from his offices. He died in 1764.

Some scattered anecdotes of Doddington are characteristic of the man and

of the time. Soon after the arrival of Frederick Prince of Wales in

England, Doddington set up for a favourite, and carried the distinction

to the pitifulness of submitting to all the caprices of his royal

highness; among other instances, submitting to the practical joke of

being rolled up in a blanket, and trundled down stairs.

Doddington has been already spoken of as a wit; and even Walpole,

fastidious as he was, gives some instances of that readiness which

delights the loungers of high life. Lord Sunderland, a fellow

commissioner of the treasury, was a very dull man. One day as they left

the board, Sunderland laughed heartily about something which Doddington

had said, and, when gone, Winnington observed, "Doddington, you are very

ungrateful. You call Sunderland stupid and slow, and yet you see how

quickly he took what you said." "Oh no," was the reply, "he was only now

laughing at what I said last treasury day."

Trenchard, a neighbour, telling him, that though his pinery was

extensive, he contrived, by applying the fire and the tan to other

purposes, to make it so advantageous that he believed he got a shilling

by every pine-apple he ate. "Sir," said Doddington, "I would eat them

for half the money." Those are but the easy pleasantries of a man of

conversation. The following is better: Doddington had a habit of falling

asleep after dinner. One day, dining with Sir Richard Temple, Lord

Cobham, &c., he was reproached with his drowsiness. He denied having

been asleep, and to prove his assertion, offered to repeat all that

Cobham had been saying. He was challenged to do so. In reply, he

repeated a story; and Cobham acknowledged that he had been telling it.

"Well," said Doddington, "and yet I did not hear a word of it. But I

went to sleep because I knew that, about this time of day, you would

tell that story."

There are few things more singular than the want of taste, amounting to

the ludicrous, which is sometimes visible in the mansions of public men,

who have great opulence at their disposal. Walpole himself, when he

became rich, was an instance of this bad taste in the laborious

frivolity of his decorations at Strawberry hill. But in Doddington we

have a man of fashion, living, during his whole career, in the highest

circles, familiar with every thing that was graceful and classical in

the arts, and yet exhibiting at home the most ponderous and tawdry pomp.

At his mansion at Eastbury, in the great bed-chamber, hung with the

richest red velvet, was pasted on "every panel of the velvet his crest,

a hunting horn, supported by an eagle, cut out in gilt leather, while

the footcloth round his bed was a mosaic of the pocket flaps and cuffs

of all his embroidered clothes."

He was evidently very fond of this crest, for in his villa at

Hammersmith, (afterwards the well known Brandenburg House,) his crest in

pebbles was stuck in the centre of the turf before his door. The

chimney-piece was hung with spars representing icicles round the fire,

and a bed of purple lined with orange, was crowned by a dome of

peacock's feathers. The great gallery, to which was a beautiful door of

white marble, supported by two columns of lapis lazuli, was not only

filled with busts and statues, but had an inlaid floor of marble, and

all this weight was above stairs. One day showing it to Edward, Duke of

York, (brother of George III.) Doddington said, Sir, some persons tell

me, that this room ought to be on the ground. "Be easy, Mr. Doddington,"

said the prince, "it will soon be there."

At length this reign, which began in doubt of the succession, and was

carried on in difficulties both political and commercial, came to a

close in the most memorable prosperity. The British arms were triumphant

in every quarter, and the king had arrived at the height of popularity

and fortune, when the sudden bursting of a ventricle of the heart, put

an end to his life in October, 1760, in his seventy-seventh year, and

the thirty-third of his possession of the throne.

A general glance at the reigns of the first three Georges, might form a

general view of the operations of party. In other kingdoms, the will of

the monarch or the talents of the minister, alone stand before the eye

of the historian. In England, a third power exists, more efficient than

either, and moulding the character of both, and this is party, the

combination of able members of the legislature, united by similarity of

views, and continuing a systematic struggle for the supremacy. This

influence makes the minister, and directs even the sitter on the throne.

And this influence, belonging solely to a free government, is essential

to its existence. It is the legitimate medium between the people and the

crown. It is the peaceful organ of that public voice which, without it,

would speak only in thunder. It is that great preservative principle,

which, like the tides of the ocean, purifies, invigorates, and animates

the whole mass, without rousing it into storm.

The reign of George the First, was a continual effort of the

constitutional spirit against the remnants of papistry and tyranny,

which still adhered to the government of England. The reign of the

second George was a more decided advance of constitutional rights,

powers, and feelings. The pacific administration of Walpole made the

nation commercial; and when the young Pretender landed in Scotland, in

1745, he found adherents only in the wild gallantry, and feudal faith of

the clans. In England Jacobitism had already perished. It had undergone

that death from which there is no restoration. It had been swept away

from the recollections of the country, by the influx of active and

opulent prosperity. The brave mountaineer might exult at the sight of

the Jacobite banner, and follow it boldly over hill and dale. But the

Englishman was no longer the man of feudalism. The wars of the Roses

could be renewed no more. He was no longer the fierce retainer of the

baron, or the armed vassal of the king. He had rights and possessions of

his own, and he valued both too much to cast them away in civil

conflict, for claims which had become emaciated by the lapse of years,

and sacrifice freedom for the superstitious romance of a vanished

royalty.

Thus the last enterprise of Jacobitism was closed in the field, and the

bravery of the Highlander was thenceforth, with better fortune, to be

distinguished in the service of the empire.

The reign of the third George began with the rise of a new influence.

Jacobitism had been trampled. Hanover and St. Germains were no longer

rallying cries. Even Whig and Tory were scarcely more than imaginary

names. The influence now was that of family. The two great divisions of

the aristocracy, the old and the new, were in the field. The people were

simply spectators. The fight was in the Homeric style. Great champions

challenged each other. Achilles Chatham brandished his spear, and

flashed his divine armour, against the defenders of the throne, until he

became himself the defender. The Ajax, the Diomede, and the whole tribe

of the classic leaders, might have found their counterparts in the

eminent men who successively appeared in the front of the struggle; and

the nation looked on with justified pride, and Europe with natural

wonder, at the intellectual resources which could supply so noble and so

prolonged a display of ability. The oratorical and legislative names of

the first thirty years of the reign of George the Third have not been

surpassed in any legislature of the world.

But a still more important period, a still more strenuous struggle, and

a still more illustrious triumph, was to come. The British parliament

was to be the scene of labours exerted not for Britain alone, but for

the globe. The names of Pitt, Fox, Burke, and a crowd of men of genius,

trained by their example, and following their career, are cosmopolite.

They belong to all countries and to all generations. Their successes not

only swept the most dangerous of all despotisms from the field, but

opened that field for an advance of human kind to intellectual

victories, which may yet throw all the trophies of the past into the

shade.

* * * * *

MILDRED:

A TALE.

CHAPTER VII.

"To-morrow we quit Rome," said Mildred; "let us spend the day in quest

of nothing new, but in a farewell visit to some of our first and oldest

friends. How soon does that which we very much admire, come to be an old

friend!"

Winston felt the same inclination as herself; but Mr. and Miss

Bloomfield, since nothing new was to be seen, preferred to stay at home

and rest themselves, in anticipation of the morrow's journey. Winston

and Mildred therefore started together.

They entered a carriage and drove to St. Peter's; alighting, however, at

the entrance of the magnificent colonnade which extends before it. The

last visit we pay to any remarkable place bears a strong resemblance to

the first; for the prospect of quitting it revives the freshness of the

scene, and invests it for a second time with something like the charm of

novelty. As it broke on us before from a past spent in ignorance of it,

so now we seem to look out on it from the long anticipated absence of

the future.

"Standing at the extremity of the colonnade," said Winston, "how

diminutive seem the men who are ascending the broad flight of steps that

lead to the church itself; and the carriages and horses drawn up at the

bottom of those steps look like children's toys. Men have dwarfed

themselves by their own creations."

"Who is it," said Mildred, "that in his oracular criticism pronounced

this colonnade, beautiful as it is, to be disproportioned to the

building, and out of place. Whoever it was, he must have excogitated the

idea at a distance, and in some splenetic humour; it never could have

entered through his eyesight standing here. Had there been a portico to

the church, such as we are told Michael Angelo intended, resembling that

of the Pantheon, then this colonnade might have been unnecessary--it

would always have been a beautiful addition--but with so flat a façade,

(the only part of the building, I think, which disappoints expectation,)

I pronounce the colonnade to be absolutely essential. Without it the

temple would never seem to invite, as it does and ought to do, the whole

Christian world to enter it. Oh, if it were only to girdle in those two

beautiful fountains, it were invaluable."

"Beautiful indeed! Such should fountains be," said Winston. "The water,

in its graceful and noble play, should constitute the sole ornament. If

you introduce statuary, the water should be an accessary to the statue,

and no longer the principal ornament."

"How I abominate," said Mildred, "all those devices for spirting water

out of the mouths of animals! It is a constant surprise to me that a

taste so evidently revolting to all our natural associations, should be

still persevered in. To leave unmentioned more odious devices, I can

never pass without a sense of the disagreeable and the offensive, even

those lions or leopards, whichever they may be, in the _Piazza del

Popolo_, who are abundantly supplying the inhabitants with water through

their mouths. And where the fountain is made to play over the statue,

what a discoloured and lamentable appearance it necessarily gives to the

marble! Let the river god, if you will, lean safe and tranquil over his

reversed and symbolic pitcher: or at the feet of some statue, half

surrounded by foliage, let the little fountain be seen playing from the

ground; but keep the statue out of the water, and oh, keep the water out

of the statue!"[17]

[17] "The good Abderites," writes Wieland in his _Abderiten_, "once

got the notion that such a town as Abdera ought no longer to be

without its fountain. They would have one in their market place.

Accordingly, they procured a celebrated sculptor from Athens to

design and execute for them a group of figures representing the god

of the ocean, in a car drawn by four sea-horses, surrounded by

nymphs, and tritons, and dolphins. The sea-horses and the dolphins

were to spout a quantity of water out of their nostrils. But when

all was completed, it was found that there was hardly water enough

to supply the nose of a single dolphin. So that when the fountain

began to play it looked for all the world as if the sea-horses and

the dolphins had all taken a miserable cold, and were put to great

shame there in the public place by reason of this dropping rheum. As

this was too ridiculous for even the Abderites to endure, they

removed the whole group into the temple of Neptune; and now, as

often as it is shown to a foreigner, the custodian, in the name of

the worthy town of Abdera, bitterly laments that so glorious a work

of art should have been rendered useless _by the parsimony of

Nature_."

In like manner, our good _Brightonians_ lately got possessed of the

notion that their sea-beaten town ought no longer to be without its

fountain. They accordingly procured, not an artist from Athens, but

a tall iron machine from Birmingham, tall as their houses, and much

resembling in form one candlestick put upon another. This they

placed in the choicest site their town afforded. Its ugliness was of

no importance, as it was to be hidden underneath the graceful and

ample flow of water. But when this water-spouting instrument was

erected, it was found here too that no water was to be had--no

natural and gratuitous supply. And now when the stranger wonders at

this tall disfigurement, and inquires into its meaning, he is told

how the spirited efforts of the Brightonians to adorn their town

have been rendered fruitless _by the parsimony of water-companies_.

Once a week, however, his cicerone will advertise him--once every

week and for two hours together--the fountain is _let off_ to the

sound of music, and the people are gathered together to see it

play--or rather, he might add, to _weep_--for even at these moments

it feels the effect of the same cruel spirit of parsimony.

Our countrymen had better leave fountains alone. The introduction of

them into London is nothing but a thoughtless imitation of what can

only be a pleasing and natural ornament in a quite different

climate. Who cares to see water spirting in the fog of London, in an

atmosphere cold and damp, where there is rain enough to drown the

fountain, and wind enough to scatter it in the air? Out of the whole

twelve months there are scarce twelve days where this bubbling up of

water in our city does not look a very discomfortable object.

They ascended the broad flight of steps, and seemed now to feel

themselves dwarfs as they mounted--and entered the portico. Here are

several groups of allegorical figures, and to the right and left the

equestrian statues of Charlemagne and Constantine.

"I am not surprised," said Mildred, "at the mistake of a countryman of

ours, who took Charlemagne for St. Paul. One would more naturally look

for the apostle here."

"What! than the great benefactor of the Papacy! I rather suspect,"

replied Winston, "that St. Paul would find himself less at home in this

temple than Charlemagne. What think you of these colossal allegories?

Here we have Truth, with her invariable mirror."

"Which mirror, it has always appeared to me," said Mildred, "has a very

poor significance. It reflects faithfully the surface of all things. But

this is not the sort of truth we care much about."

"But it reflects _faithfully_."

"That would rather illustrate the good moral lesson to _speak_ the

truth, than the exalted effort to attain it."

"Here the lady--and a very sweet face she has--is looking at herself in

the mirror. This must represent, I suppose, metaphysic truth."

"If so, that must be the reason," rejoined Mildred, "that she is placed

here outside the temple. I am afraid she will never enter it. But we

will." And they proceeded into the church.

"What an admirable effect has this high altar!" said Winston, in a

subdued exclamation. "Standing as it does in the centre, just beneath

the dome, and so justly proportioned, it at once occupies the whole

building, and explains its purpose to the eye. I cannot agree with the

criticism which has objected to the twisted column in a position like

this. These four bronze and gilded pillars--how lofty they are!--sustain

nothing of greater weight than the canopy above them, and are here as

much in the character of ornament as support. The dove, in its golden

atmosphere of glory, the representation of the Holy Spirit, which is

indeed at the extremity of the church, seems brought within them, and to

be floating between the columns. In every picture or engraving I have

seen, the contrary effect is produced, and the high altar, losing its

central position, seems transferred, with the dove in it, to the

extremity of the church."

"And this semicircle of small burning lamps, arranged in their mystical

trinities on the marble balustrade before it; and this double flight of

stairs," continued Winston, as they approached the altar, and looked

over the balustrade, "leading down to those brazen doors below, before

which other burning lamps are suspended; and that marble figure of the

Pope kneeling before them, kneeling and praying incessantly for the

people--it is altogether admirable!"

"The light of lamps and tapers," said Mildred, "burning in midday, had

upon me at first an incongruous effect; they seemed so superfluous and

out of place. But after a little reflection, or a little habit, they

ceased to make this impression. The lamp and the taper are not here to

_give_ light, but to _be_ light. The light is a mystical and brilliant

ornament--it is here for its own sake--and surely no jewellery and no

burnished gold could surpass it in effect. These brazen lamps round the

altar, each tipped with its steady, unwavering, little globe of light,

are sufficiently justified by their beauty and their brightness. In the

light of the taper, as in the water of the fountain, the ordinary

purposes of utility are forgotten--enough that it is beautiful."

"How admirable the arrangement," said Winston, "of the tombs of the

pontiffs! The sculpture on them seems as much a part of the church as of

the monument. That kneeling figure of Clement XIII., kneeling upon its

exalted tomb--I shall see it whenever I think of St. Peter's. It is

here, and not in the Vatican, that Canova triumphs. That genius of

Death, reclining underneath the pontiff, with his torch reversed--what

could be more expressive, more tender, more melancholy! And Faith, or

Religion, whichever she may be, standing upright on the opposite side,

and leaning her outstretched hand _with force_ upon the marble--is a

noble figure too. But I could willingly have dispensed with those spikes

around her head, signifying rays of light."

"It is a fortunate subject for the artist, that of the Pope," said

Mildred. "Being a temporal prince, a high-priest, and it is to be

supposed, a saint, he can be represented in all attitudes; in the

humility of prayer, or the dignity of empire. Yonder he rises, blessing

the people, and here he sits enthroned, giving out the law, and Religion

is looking up to him! Have you observed this monument to our James

II.?--who certainly deserved a tomb in St. Peter's, since he paid the

price of a kingdom for it. It is one of the least conspicuous, but not

one of the least beautiful of Canova's. Those two youthful figures

leaning their brows each on his inverted torch--standing sentinels by

that closed door--are they not inexpressibly graceful? And that closed

door!--so firmly closed!--and the dead have gone in!"

"Mildred Willoughby," said Winston, "you are a poet."

It was the first time he had ever called his companion by her Christian

name. It was done suddenly, in the moment of admiration, and her other

name was also coupled with it; but he had no sooner uttered the word

"Mildred" than he felt singularly embarrassed. She, however, by not

perceiving, or not seeming to perceive his embarrassment, immediately

dissipated it.

"If I were," said she, "to tell me of it would for ever check the

inspiration. To banish all suspicion of poetry, let me make a carping

criticism, the only one, I think, which the whole interior of this

edifice would suggest to me. I do wish that its marble pillars could be

swept clean of the multitudes of little boys that are clinging to

them--cherubs I suppose they are to be called. By breaking the pillar

into compartments, they destroy the effect of its height. _Little_,

indeed, they are not; they are big enough. A colossal infant--what can

be made of it? And an infant, too, that must not smile, or he might be

taken for a representative of some other love than the celestial?"

"Ay, and do what the artist will," said Winston, "the two Loves often

bear a very striking resemblance. In the church of St. Giovanni, amongst

their wreaths of flowers, the cherubs have a very Anacreontic

appearance."

"But away with criticism. One farewell look," cried Mildred, "at this

magnificent dome. How well all its accessaries, all its decorations, are

proportioned and harmonised--growing lighter as they rise higher. Here

at the base of each of the four vast columns which support it, we have

gigantic statuary--seen and felt to be gigantic, yet disturbing nothing

by its great magnitude--just above the columns those exquisite

bas-reliefs--next the circular mosaics--then the ribbed roof, so

chastely gilded and divided into compartments, distinct yet never

separated from the whole--it is perfection!"

They bade farewell to St. Peter's; and, in pursuance of their design,

re-entered their carriage and drove to its great dilapidated rival--the

Coliseum.

"No dome here but the wide heavens," said Winston, as they approached

the vast circular ruin rising arch above arch into the air. "How it

scales, and would embrace the sky! Verily these old Romans seemed to

have no idea that any thing was to come after them; they lived and built

upon the earth as if they were the last types of the human species."

"Mutability and progress are modern ideas; they had not attained to

them," said Mildred.

They walked partly round the interior, looking through the deep arches,

overhung with verdure, and regretting the patches here and there too

perceptible of modern masonry, and still more the ridiculous attempt, by

the introduction of some contemptible pictures, or altar pieces, in the

arena, to _christianise_ the old heathen structure. They then ascended

to the summit to enjoy the prospect it commands, both of the distant

country, the beautiful hills of Italy, and of the neighbouring ruins of

ancient Rome.

"How plainly it is the change of religion," said Winston, "which gives

its true antiquity to the past! All that we see of ancient Rome bears

the impress of Paganism; every thing in the modern city, of Catholicism.

It is this which puts the great gulf between the two, and makes the old

Roman to have lived, as it seems to us, in a world so different from our

own. Strange! that what in each age is looked upon as pre-eminently

unchangeable and eternal, should by its transformations mark out the

several eras of mankind. Ay, and this religion which now fills the city

with its temples--which I do not honour with the name of

Christianity--will one day, by its departure from the scene, have made

St Peter's as complete an antiquity as the ruins we are now sitting on."

"I notice," said Mildred, "you are somewhat bitter against Catholicism."

"I was tolerant when at a distance from it, and when again at a distance

I shall perhaps grow tolerant again. But a priesthood, not teaching but

ruling, governing men in their civil relations, seizing all education

into its own hand, training the thinking part of the community to

hypocrisy, and the unthinking to gross credulity--it is a spectacle that

exasperates. I used in England to be a staunch advocate for educating

and endowing the Roman Catholic priesthood of Ireland. I shall never, I

think, advocate that cause again. To educate this priesthood,--what is

it but to perfect an instrument for the restraining and corrupting the

education of all the rest of the people? To endow this priesthood,--what

else would it be but to give them an additional influence and power, to

be used always for their own aggrandisement, and the strengthening of

their own usurpations? The donative of a Protestant government would not

make them dependent upon that government; they have sources of wealth in

their own superstitions; they draw their vitality, and strike their

roots, in a far other soil than the crafty munificence of an opponent.

They would use the gift as best it pleased them, and defy a

government--anxious only for peace--to withdraw it. No! even if the

tranquillity of the empire should require the two churches to be placed

on an equal footing, I still would not endow the Roman Catholic.--But

pardon me,--what have we to do with the politics of England here?"

"I cannot tell you," said Mildred, quite acquiescing in this dismissal

of the subject. "I cannot tell you what a singular pleasure it gave me

when I first saw the _classic_ ruin--the few upright Corinthian pillars

with their entablature across them, and the broken column lying at their

feet--which the pictures of Claude make us so familiar with. It must be

confessed, that the back-ground of my picture--such as the _Campo

Vaccino_ afforded me--was not exactly what a Claude would have selected.

How different in character and significance are the two ruins--the

classic and the romantic! The one square, well-defined,

well-proportioned, speaks of an age of _order_,--when Time stood still a

little, and looked with complacency on what he was about; the other,

with its round towers of unequal height, its arches of all shapes and

dimensions, full of grandeur, but never exhibiting either completeness

or congruity, tells us clearly of a period of turmoil and disorder, and

great designs withal,--when Time had struck his tent, and was hurrying

on in confused march, with bag and baggage, knight, standard, and the

sutler's wagon all jumbled together.--Let us, on our return, pass

through that group of desolate Corinthians; and, looking in at the

Capitol, bid farewell to the _Dying Gladiator_."

In retracing their steps, they therefore passed through the old forum,

and then ascending the Capitol, entered the museum there, and renewed

their impression of that admirable statue. What pain!--but pain

overmastered--on that brow, as he sinks in death! Nor was the charming

little group of _Cupid and Psyche_ forgotten. That kiss! it merits to be

eternised. In _his_ love, what delight! In _hers_, what devotion!

"But above all," said Mildred, "let us do reverence, before we part, to

_Aristides the Just_. How self-contained! Austere--the lover more of

virtue than of man. Full of his grand abstractions, he asks for nothing

even of the gods. Let them do justice! Nay, let them submit to justice

too! Great leveller! Is not virtue so uncompromising as this, very near

to rebellion against the gods and destiny?"