What could I do with such a persevering fellow? There was nothing for it

but to walk up with him to the house, however unpleasant I found it so

to do. And unpleasant to me it certainly was, in the then state of my

habitation and domain. It was a melancholy sight--a perfect abomination

of desolation. Every thing looked so ruined, decayed, and rotten, that I

felt sick and disgusted at the prospect before me. I had not expected to

find matters half so bad. Of the hedge round the garden only a few

sticks were here and there standing; in the garden itself some

unwholesome-looking pigs were rooting and grubbing. As to the house!

Merciful heavens! Not a whole pane in the windows! all the frames

stopped and crammed with old rags and bunches of Indian corn leaves! I

could not expect groves of orange and citron trees--I had planted none;

but this! no, it was really too bad. Every picture must have its shady

side, but here there was no bright one; all was darkness and gloom. We

did not meet a living creature as we walked up from the shore, winding

our way amongst the prostrate and decaying tree-trunks that encumbered

the ground. At last, near the house, we stumbled upon a trio of black

little monsters, that were rolling in the mud with the dogs, half a

shirt upon their bodies, and dirty as only the children of men possibly

can be. The quadrupeds, for such they looked, jumped up on our approach,

stared at us with their rolling eyes, and then scuttled away to hide

themselves behind the house. Ha! Old Sybille! Is it you? She was

standing before a caldron, suspended, gipsy-fashion, from a triangle of

sticks--looking, for all the world, like a dingy parody of one of

Macbeth's witches. She, too, stared at us, but without moving. I must

introduce myself, I suppose. Now she has recognised me, and comes

towards us with her enormous spoon in her hand. I wonder that her

shriveled old turkey's neck--which cost me seventy-five dollars, by the

by--has not got twisted before now. She runs up to me, screaming and

crying for joy. There _is_ one creature, then, glad to see me. It is

amusing to observe the anxiety with which she looks at the caldron, and

at three pans in which ham and dried buffalo are stewing and grizzling;

she is evidently quite unable to decide whether she shall abandon me to

my fate, or the fleshpots to theirs. She sets up her pipe and makes a

most awful outcry, but nobody answers the call. "_Et les chambres_,"

howls she, "_et la maison, et tout, tout!_" I could not make out what

the deuce she would be at. She looked at my companion, evidently much

embarrassed.

"_Mais, mon Dieu!_" croaked she, "_pourrai-je seulement un moment? Tenez

la_, Massa!" she continued in an imploring tone, holding out the spoon

to me, and making a movement as if she were stirring something, and

then again pointing to the house.

"_Que diable as tu?_" cried I, out of all patience at this

unintelligible pantomime.

The rooms wanted airing and sweeping, she said; they were not fit to

receive a stranger in. She only required a quarter of an hour to put

every thing to rights; and mean time, if I would be so good, for the

sake of the honour of the house, just to stir the soup, and keep an eye

upon the ham and buffalo flesh.

Mentally consigning the old Guinea-fowl to the keeping of the infernal

deities, I walked towards the house. My only consolation was, that

probably my companion's residence was not in a much better state than

mine, if in so good a one; those Creoles above Alexandria still live

half like Redskins. Monsieur Menou did not appear at all astonished at

my slovenly housekeeping. When we entered the parlour, we found, instead

of sofas and chairs, a quantity of Mexican cotton-seed in heaps upon the

floor; in one corner was a dirty tattered blanket, in another a

washing-tub. The other rooms were in a still worse state: one of the

negroes had taken up his quarters in my bed-chamber, from which the

musquitto curtains had disappeared, having passed, probably, into the

possession of the amiable Mrs Bleaks. I hastened to leave this scene of

disorder, and walked out into the court, my indignation and disgust

raised to the highest pitch.

"_Mais tout cela est bien charmant!_" exclaimed the Creole.

I looked at the man; he appeared in sober earnest, but I could not

believe that he was so; and I shook my head, for I was in no jesting

humour. The wearisome fellow again took my arm, and led me towards the

huts of my negroes and the cotton-fields. The soil of the latter was of

the richest and best description, and in spite of negligent cultivation,

its natural fertility and fatness had caused the plants to spring up

already nearly to the height of a man, though we were only in the month

of June. The Creole looked around him with the air of a connoisseur, and

in his turn shook his head. Just then, the bell on board the steamer

rang out the signal for departure.

"Thank Heaven!" thought I.

"_Monsieur_," said Menou, "the plantation is _tres charmante, mais ce_

Mistere Bleak is nothing worth, and you--you are _trop gentilhomme_."

I swallowed this equivocal compliment, nearly choking as I did so.

"_Ecoutez_," continued my companion; "you shall go with me."

"Go with you!" I repeated, in unbounded astonishment. "Is the man mad,"

I thought, "to make me such a proposition within ten minutes after my

return home?"

"_Oui, oui, Monsieur_, you shall go with me. I have some very important

things to communicate to you."

"_Mais, Monsieur_," replied I, pretty stiffly, "I do not know what you

can have to communicate to me. I am a good deal surprised at so strange

a proposition"----

"From a stranger," interrupted the Creole, smiling. "But I am serious,

Mr Howard; you have come here without taking the necessary precautions.

Your house is scarcely ready for your reception--the fever very

dangerous--in short, you had better come with me."

I looked at the man, astonished at his perseverance.

"Well," said he, "yes or no?"

I stood hesitating and embarrassed.

"I accept your offer," I exclaimed at last, scarcely knowing what I

said, and starting off at a brisk pace in the direction of the steamer.

Mr Bleaks looked on in astonishment. I bid him pay more attention to the

plantation, and with that brief injunction was about to step on board,

when my five-and-twenty negroes came howling from behind the house.

"Massa, Gor-a-mighty! Massa, Massa, stop with us!" cried the men.

"Massa, dear good Massa! Not go!--Mr Bleaks!" yelled the women.

I made sign to the captain to wait a moment.

"What do you want?" said I, a little moved.

One of the slaves stepped forward and bared his shoulders. Two others

followed his example. They were hideously scarred and seamed by the

whip.

I cast stern glance at Bleaks, who grinned a cruel smile. It was a

right fortunate thing for my honour and conscience that my poor negroes

had thus appealed to me. In the thoughtlessness of my nature, I should

have followed the Creole, without troubling myself in the least about

the condition or treatment of the five-and-twenty human beings whom I

had left in such evil hands. I excused myself hastily to Monsieur Menou,

promised an early visit, to hear whatever he might have to say to me,

and bade him farewell. Without making me any answer, he hurried on

board, whispered something to the captain, and disappeared down the

cabin-stairs. I thought no more about him, and was walking towards the

house, surrounded by my blacks, when I heard the splashing of the

paddles, and the steamer resumed its voyage. At the same instant,

somebody laid hold of my arm. I looked round--it was the Creole.

"This is insupportable!" thought I. "I wonder he did not bring his two

daughters with him. That would have completed my annoyance."

"You will want my assistance with that _coquin_," said Menou, quietly.

"We will arrange every thing to-day; to-morrow my son will be here; and

the day after you will go home with me."

I said nothing. What would have been the use if I had? I was no longer

my own master. This unaccountable Creole had evidently taken the

direction of my affairs entirely into his own hands.

My poor negroes and negresses were crying and laughing for joy, and

gazing at me with expectant looks. I bid then go to their huts; that I

would have them called when I wanted them.

"D--n those blackies!" said Mr Bleaks as they walked away: "they want

the whip; it's too long since they've had it."

Without replying to his remark, I told old Sybille to fetch Beppo and

Mirza, and signed to the overseer to leave me. He showed no disposition

to obey.

"This looks like an examination," said he sneeringly, "and I shall take

leave to be present at it."

"None of your insolence, Mr Bleaks," said I; "be so good as to take

yourself off and wait my orders."

"And none of your fine airs," replied the Mister. "We're in a free

country, and you ain't got a nigger afore ye."

This was rather more than I could stomach.

"Mr Bleaks," said I, "from this hour you are no longer in my employment.

Your engagement is out on the 1st of July; you shall be paid up to that

date."

"I don't set a foot over the threshold till I have received the amount

of my salary and advances," replied the man dryly.

"Bring me your account," said I. My blood was beginning to boil at the

fellow's cool impudence.

Bleaks called to his wife, who presently came to the room door. They

exchanged a few words, and she went away again. Meanwhile I opened my

portmanteau, and ran my eye over some accounts, letters, and receipts.

Before I had finished, Mrs Bleaks reappeared with the account-books,

which she laid upon the table, and planting herself, with arms akimbo,

in the middle of the room, seemed prepared to witness whatever passed.

Her husband lounged into the next apartment and brought a couple of

chairs, upon which he and his better half seated themselves. Truly,

thought I, our much-cherished liberty and equality have sometimes their

inconveniences and disagreeables.

"The 20th December, twenty-five bales cotton, four hogsheads tobacco in

leaf, delivered to Mr Merton," began the overseer; "the 24th January,

twenty-five bales cotton and one hogshead tobacco-leaves."

"Right," said I.

"That was our whole crop," said the man.

"A tolerable falling off from the former year," I observed. "There were

ninety-five bales and fifty hogsheads."

"If it doesn't please the gentleman, he ought to have stopped at home,

and not gone wandering over half the world instead of minding his

affairs," retorted Mr Bleaks.

"And leaving us to rot in this fever hole, without money or any thing

else," added his moiety.

"And further?" said I to the man.

"That's all. I've received from Mr Merton 600 dollars: 300 more are

still comin' to me."

"Very good."

"And moreover," continued Bleaks, "for Indian corn, meal, and hams, and

salt pork, and blankets, and cotton stuffs, I have laid out 400 dollars,

making 700, and 4000 hedge-stakes for mending fences, makes a total of

740 dollars."

I ran into the next room, found a pen and ink upon my dilapidated

writing-table, wrote an order on my banker, and came back again. At any

price I was resolved to get rid of this man.

"Allow me," said the Creole, who had been a silent witness of all that

had passed, but who now attempted to take the paper from my hand.

"Pardon me, sir," said I, vexed at the man's meddling; "on this occasion

I wish to be my own counsellor and master."

"Wait but one moment, and allow me to ask a few questions of your

overseer," continued the Creole, no way repulsed by my words or manner.

"Will Mr Bleaks be so good as to read over his account once more?"

"Don't know why I should. Mind your own business," was the churlish

answer.

"Then I will do it for you," said Menou. "The 20th December, twenty-five

bales cotton, and four hogsheads tobacco-leaves, delivered to Mr Merton.

Is it not so?"

Mr Bleaks made no answer.

"The 23d December, twenty bales cotton, and one hogshead tobacco, to

Messrs Goring. Is it not so?"

The overseer cast a fierce but embarrassed look at the Creole. His wife

changed colour.

"The 24th January, twenty-five bales and one hogshead to Mr Groves, and

again, on the 10th February, twenty-two bales and seven hogsheads to

Messrs Goring. Is not that the correct account?"

"D----d lies!" stammered the overseer.

"Which I shall soon prove to be truth," said the other. "Mr Howard, you

have a claim on this man for upwards of 2000 dollars, of which he has

shamefully cheated you. I shall also be able to point out another fraud

to the extent of 500 dollars."

My faithless servants were pale with rage and confusion; I was struck

dumb with surprise at this unexpected discovery, and at the way in which

it was made.

"We must lose no time with these people," whispered the Creole to me,

"or they will be off before you can look round you. Send immediately to

Justice T---- for a warrant, and give the sheriff and constables a hint

to be on the look-out. He cannot well escape if he goes down stream, but

he will no doubt try to go up."

I immediately took the needful measures, and sent off Bangor, one of my

smartest negroes, to the justice of peace. "We must write immediately to

Goring's house," said the Creole.

In an hour all was ready. At the end of that time the Montezuma steamer

came smoking down the river. We got the captain to come on shore, told

him briefly what had happened, gave him our letters, and were just

accompanying him back to his vessel, when we saw a figure creep

stealthily along behind the hedge and wood-stack, and go on board the

steamer. It was Mr Bleaks, who had imagined that, under existing

circumstances, a trip to New Orleans might be of service to his health.

We found the worthy gentleman concealed amongst the crew, busily

converting himself into a negro by the assistance of a handful of soot.

His intended excursion was, of course, put an end to, and he was

conveyed back to his dwelling. We took precautions against a second

attempt at flight; and the following morning he was placed in safe

custody of the authorities.

"But, my dear Monsieur Menou," said I to the Creole, as we sat after

dinner discussing the second bottle of his Chambertin, of which the

excellent man had not forgotten to bring a provision on shore with

him--"whence comes it that you have shown me so much, and such

undeserved sympathy and interest?"

"Ha, ha! You citizen aristocrats cannot understand that a man should

take an interest in any one, or any thing, but himself," replied Menou,

half laughing, half in earnest. "It is incomprehensible to your stiff,

proud, republican egotism, which makes you look down upon us Creoles,

and upon all the rest of the world, as beings of an inferior order. We,

on the other hand, take care of ourselves, but we also occasionally

think of our neighbours. Your affairs are perfectly well known to me,

and I hope you do not think I have made a bad use of my knowledge of

them."

I shook the worthy man heartily by the hand.

"We are not, in general, particularly fond of you northern gentlemen,"

continued he; "but you form an exception. You have a good deal of our

French _etourderie_ in your blood, and a good deal also of our

generosity."

I could not help smiling at the _naive_ frankness with which this sketch

of my character was placed before me.

"You have stopped too long away from your own house, and from people who

would willingly be your friends; and if all that is said be true, you

have no particular reason to congratulate yourself upon the result of

your wanderings."

I bit my lips. The allusion was pretty plainly to my misfortune at New

York.

"Better as it is," resumed the Creole, with a very slight and

good-humoured smile. "A New York fine lady would be strangely out of her

element on a Red River plantation. But to talk of something else. My son

will be here to-morrow; your estate only wants attention, and a small

capital of seven or eight thousand dollars, to become in a year or two

as thriving a one as any in Louisiana. My son will put it all in order

for you; and, meanwhile, you must come and stop a few months with me."

"But, Monsieur Menou"----

"No _buts_, Monsieur Howard! You have got the money, you must buy a

score more negroes; we will pick out some good ones for you. To-morrow

every thing shall be arranged."

On the morrow came young Menou, an active intelligent youth of twenty.

The day was passed in visiting the plantation, and in a very few hours

the young man had gained my full confidence. I recommended my interests

and the negroes to his care; and the same evening his father and myself

went on board the Ploughboy steamer, which was to convey us to the

residence of the Menous.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

CREOLE LIFE.

The good Creole had certainly behaved to me in a more Christian-like

manner than most of my own countrymen would have done; and of this I had

before long abundant proof. A little after nightfall, the steamboat

paused opposite the house of the justice of peace; and I went on shore

to communicate with him concerning my faithless steward. Although so

early, the functionary was already going to bed, and came out to me in

his nightshirt.

"Knew it all, dear Mr Howard," said he with the utmost _naivete_; "saw

every bale that they stole from you, or tried to steal from you."

"And for Heaven's sake, man!" I exclaimed, "why did you not put a stop

to it?"

"It was nothing to me," was the dry answer.

"If you had only given information to my attorney!"

"No business of mine," returned the man. Then fixing his eyes hard upon

me, he commenced a sort of lecture, for which I was by no means

prepared.

"Ah!" said he, pushing his nightcap a little over his left ear, "you

young gentlemen come out of the north with your dozen blackies or so,

lay out some two or three thousand dollars in house and land, and then

think you can play the absentee as much as you like, and that you do us

a deal of honour when you allow us to collect and remit your income, for

you to spend out of the country. I'm almost sorry, Mr Howard, that you

didn't come six months later."

"In order to leave the scoundrel time to secure his booty, eh?"

"At any rate, he has worked, and has wife and child, and has been

useful to the land and country."

"The devil!" I exclaimed, mighty indignant. "Well--for a judge, you have

a singular idea of law!"

"It mayn't be Bony's code, nor yet Livingston's, but I reckon it's

justice," replied the man earnestly, tapping his forehead with his

forefinger.

I stared at him, but he returned my gaze with interest. There was a deal

of backwoods justice in his rough reasoning, although its morality was

indefensible. It was the law of property expounded _a la_ Lynch. What is

very certain is, that in a new country especially, absenteeism ought to

be scouted as a crime against the community. In my case my ramblings had

been very near costing me three thousand hard dollars. As it was,

however, they were saved--thanks to Menou--and the money still in the

hands of Messrs Goring, whose standard of morality on such subjects was

probably not much more rigid than that of the worthy Squire Turnips, and

who would, I doubt not, have bought my cotton of the Evil One himself,

if they could have got it half-a-cent a pound cheaper by so doing. I

gave the squire the necessary papers and powers for the adjustment of my

affairs with Bleaks; we shook hands, and I returned on board.

In the grey of the morning the steamboat stopped again. I accompanied

Menou on shore, and we found a carriage waiting, which, in spite of its

singularly antique construction, set off with us at a brisk pace. I had

just fallen asleep in my corner, when I was awakened by a musical voice

not ten paces off, exclaiming, "_Les voila!_" I looked up, rubbed my

eyes--it was Louise, the Creole's youngest daughter, who had come out

under the verandah to welcome us. Where should we find one of our

northern beauties who would turn out of her warm bed at six in the

morning, to welcome her papa and a stranger guest, and to keep hot

coffee ready for them, to counteract the bad effects of the morning air

on the river? Monsieur Menou, however, did not seem to find any thing

extraordinary in his daughter's early rising, but began enquiring if the

people had had their breakfasts, and were at work. On this and various

other subjects, Louise was able to give him all the information he

desired. She must have made astonishingly good use of the twenty-four

hours that had elapsed since her return home, to be versed in all

particulars concerning her sable liege subjects, and to be able to

relate so fluently how Cato had run a splinter into his foot, Pompey had

a touch of fever, and fifty other details, which, although doubtless

very interesting to Menou, made me gape a little. I amused myself by

looking round the dining-room, in which we then were, the furniture and

appearance of which rather improved my opinion of Creole civilization

and comfort. The matting that covered the floor was new and of an

elegant design--the sideboard solid and handsome, although prodigiously

old-fashioned--tables, chairs, and sofas were of French manufacture. On

the walls were suspended two or three engravings; not the fight at New

Orleans, or Perry and Bainbridge's victories over the British on

Champlain and Erie, but curiosities dating from the reigns of Louis the

Fifteenth and Sixteenth. There was a Frenchified air about the whole

room, nothing of the republic, the empire, or the restoration, but a

sort of odour of the genuine old royalist days.

By the time I had completed my inspection, Louise had answered all her

father's enquiries; and we went out to take a look at the exterior of

the house. It was snugly situated at the foot of a conical hillock, the

only elevation of any kind to be found for miles around. South, east,

and west, it was enclosed in a broad frame of acacia and cotton trees;

but to the north it lay open, the breath of Boreas being especially

acceptable in our climate. A rivulet, very bright and clear, at least

for Louisiana, poured its waters from the elevation before mentioned,

and supplied a tannery, which doubtless contributed much to the

healthiness of the neighbourhood. The house consisted of three parts,

built at different times by grandfather, father, and son, and now united

into one. The last and largest portion had been built by the present

proprietor; and it would have been as easy, it struck me, to have

pulled down the earlier erections and have built one compact house. The

reason the Creole gave for not having done so, did honour, I thought, to

his heart. "I wish my children constantly to remember," said he, "how

hard their ancestors toiled, and how poorly they lived, in order to

ensure better days to those who should come after them."

"And they will remember it," said a voice close behind us. I turned

round.

"_Madame Menou, j'ai l'honneur de vous presenter notre voisin, Monsieur

Howard._"

"_Qui restera longtems chez nous_," cried the two girls, skipping

forward, and before I had time to make my bow to the lady, taking me by

both hands and dragging me into the house, and through half a dozen

zigzag passages and corridors, to show me my room. This was a sexagonal

apartment, situated immediately over a small artificial lake, through

which flowed the rivulet before mentioned. It was the coolest and most

agreeable chamber in the house, on which account it had been allotted to

me. After I had declared my unqualified approval of it, my fair

conductresses took me down stairs again to papa and mamma, the latter of

whom I found to be a ladylike woman, with a countenance expressive of

good nature, and manners that at once made one feel quite at home. She

received me as if she had known me for years, without compliments or

ceremonious speeches, and without even troubling herself to screw her

features into the sort of holiday expression which many persons think it

necessary to assume on first acquaintance. I was soon engaged in a

conversation with her, in the middle of which a lady and two gentlemen

came out under the verandah and joined us. Their olive complexions and

foreign appearance at once attracted my attention, and I set them down

as Spaniards or of Spanish extraction. In this I was not mistaken. The

men were introduced to me as Senor Silveira and Don Pablo. The lady, who

was the wife of the former, was a remarkably lovely creature, tall and

elegant in person, with dark eyes, an aquiline and delicately-formed

nose, a beautiful mouth, enclosing pearl-like teeth. Hitherto I had held

our American fair ones to be the prettiest women in the world; but I now

almost felt inclined to alter my opinion. I was so struck by the fair

stranger's appearance that I could not take my eyes off her for some

moments; until a sharp glance from her husband, and (as I fancied) the

somewhat uneasy looks of the other ladies, made me aware that my gaze

might be deemed somewhat too free and republican in its duration. I

transferred my attention, therefore, to the breakfast, which, to my no

small satisfaction, was now smoking on the table, and to which we at

once sat down. The strangers appeared grave and thoughtful, and ate

little, although the steaks were delicious, the young quails

incomparable, and the Chambertin worthy of an imperial table.

"Who are those foreigners?" said I to Menou, when the meal was over, and

we were leaving the room.

"Mexicans," was the reply; "but who they are I cannot tell you."

"What! do you not know them?"

"I know them perfectly well," he answered, "or they would not be in my

house. But even my family," whispered he, "does not know them."

Poor wretches! thought I, some more sacrifices on freedom's altar;

driven from house and home by the internal commotions of their country.

Things were going on badly enough in Mexico just then. On the one hand,

Guerrero, Bustamente, Santa Anna; on the other, a race of men to whom,

if one wished them their deserts, one could desire nothing better than

an Austrian schlague or a Russian knout, to make them sensible of the

value of that liberty which they do not know how to appreciate.

Meanwhile Julie and Louise were busy, in the next room, passing in

review, for the third or fourth time at least, the thousand-and-one

purchases they had made at New Orleans. It was a perfect picture of

Creole comfort to see the mamma presiding at this examination of the

laces, gros de Naples, Indiennes, gauze, and other fripperies, which

were passed rapidly through the slender fingers of her daughters, and

handed to her for approval. She found every thing charming; every

thing, too, had its destination; and my only wonder was, how it would be

possible for those ladies to use the hundreds of ells of stuffs that

were soon spread out over chairs, tables, and sofas, and that, as it

appeared to me, would have been sufficient to supply half the women of

Louisiana with finery for the next five years. This Creole family was

really a model of a joyous innocent existence; nothing constrained or

artificial; but a light and cheerful tone of conversation, which,

however, never degenerated into license, or threatened to overstep the

limits of the strictest propriety. Each person fulfilled his or her

allotted task thoroughly well, and without appearing to find it an

exertion. The housekeeping was admirable; to that point the excellence

of the breakfast had borne witness. I recollect once falling violently

in love with a Massachusetts beauty, possessed of a charming face, a

sylph-like figure, and as much sentimentality as would have stocked half

a dozen flaxen-haired Germans. It was my ninth serious attachment if I

remember rightly, and desperately smitten I was and remained, until one

unlucky day when the mamma of my _adorata_ invited me to a dinner _en

famille_. The toughness of the mutton-chops took the edge off my teeth

for forty-eight hours, and off my love for ever. As regards the Menous,

however, I have hardly known them long enough to form a very decided

opinion concerning them. In a few days I shall be able to judge better.

Meanwhile we will leave the ladies, and accompany Monsieur Menou over

his plantation. It is in excellent order, admirably situated, and

capitally irrigated by trenches cut through the cotton and maize fields.

There are above three hundred acres in cultivation--the yearly crop two

hundred and fifty bales: a very pretty income. Only three children, and

the plantation comprising nearly four thousand acres. Not so bad--might

be worth thinking of. But what would the world say to it? The

aristocratic Howard to marry a Creole, with, perhaps, a dash of Indian

blood in her veins! Yet Menou has threescore negroes and negresses,

besides a whole colony of ebony children, and the two girls are not so

ill to look at. Roses and lilies--especially Louise. Well, we will think

about it.

"Apropos!" said the Creole, as we were walking along a field path. "You

have three thousand dollars with Gorings?"

I nodded.

"And eight thousand with Mr Richards?"

"How do you know that, my dear M. Menou?"

I must observe, by way of parenthesis, that I had lent these eight

thousand dollars to Richards some five years previously; and although,

on more than one occasion during that time, the money would have been of

considerable use to me, I had been restrained from asking it back by my

natural indolence and laziness of character, added to the nonsensical

notion of generosity and devotion in friendship that I had picked out of

waggon-loads of novels. Richards, I must observe, had never hinted at

returning the money. I now felt rather vexed, I cannot exactly say why,

at Menou's being acquainted with the fact of this debt, which I had

fancied a secret between Richards and myself.

"And how do you know that, my dear M. Menou?"

Menou smiled at my question. "You forget," said he, "that I am only just

returned from New Orleans. One hears and learns many things when one

opens one's ears to the gossip of the _haut-ton_ of the capital."

"Ha, ha!" said I, a little sarcastically, and glancing at the man's

straw hat, and unbleached trousers and jacket; "Monsieur Menou--the

plain and unsophisticated Monsieur Menou, also a _haut-ton_ man?"

"My wife was a M----y; my grandfather was president of the Toulouse

parliament," replied the Creole quietly, to my somewhat impertinent

remark.

I bowed. My suspicions concerning Indian blood were unfounded then.

"And have my proceedings and follies really served as tea-table talk to

the New Orleans' gossips?" said I.

"Don't let that annoy you," replied Menou. "Let the world talk; and you,

on your part, prove to it that you are a more sensible man than it

takes you for. Will you put yourself for a while entirely under my

guidance?"

"Very willingly," said I.

"And promise to abide by my advice."

"I promise to do so."

"Then," continued Menou, "you must let me have, to use as I think

proper, eight out of the eleven thousand dollars which you have lying

idle."

"And Richards?" said I.

"Can do without them better than you can. It is very well to be

generous, but not to the extent of injuring yourself. Here is a receipt

for the sum in question. I will account to you for its expenditure."

And with these words he handed me the receipt. He had evidently laid a

little plot to force me to my own good. It went decidedly against the

grain with me to requite Richards' hospitality and friendship by

claiming back the money I had lent him, and for which he no doubt had

good use. At the same time, it would have been rather Quixotic to let my

own plantation go to rack and ruin for want of the funds by which he was

profiting; and moreover, I had given Menou my word to be guided by him;

so I put the receipt and my romantics in my pocket, and returned to the

house to give my adviser an order for the money.

Julie and Louise scarcely seemed to observe our entrance. Both had their

hands full--the one with cookery and domestic matters, the other with

the ginghams and muslins, which she was rending and tearing with a

vigour that caused the noise to be heard fifty yards off. At supper,

however, they were as merry as ever, and there was no end to their mirth

and liveliness. It seemed as if they had thrown off the burden of the

day's toils, and awakened to a new and more joyous existence. The three

Mexicans, with their gravity and grandeur, did not seem to be the least

restraint upon the girls, who at last, however, towards eight o'clock,

appeared to grow impatient at sitting so long still. They exchanged a

whisper, and then, rising from table, tripped into a adjoining room.

Presently the harmonious tones of a pianoforte were audible.

"We must not linger here," said the Creole. "_Les dames nous en

voudraient._"

And we all repaired to the drawing-room, an elegant apartment, where the

Mexican lady was already seated at the piano, while the two girls were

only waiting partners to begin the dance. Julie took possession of her

father, Silveira stood up with Madame Menou, Louise fell to my share;

and a cotillon was danced with as much glee and spirit as if both

dancers and lookers-on had been more numerous. Between dancing, music,

and lively conversation, eleven o'clock came before we were aware of it.

"_Voici notre maniere Creole_," said Menou, as he left me at my bed-room

door. "With us every thing has its time; laughing, talking, working,

praying, and dancing: each its appointed season. We endeavour so to

arrange our lives that no one occupation or amusement should interfere

with another. It is only by that means that our secluded domestic

existence can be rendered agreeable and happy. As it is, _nous ne nous

ennuyons jamais_. Good-night."

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

QUITE UNEXPECTED.

Eight weeks had flown by like so many hours. I had become domesticated

in the family circle of the Menous, and was getting so frugal and

economical, that I scarcely knew what a dollar or a bank-note looked

like. Time passed so lightly and pleasantly, and there was something so

patriarchal and delightful in this mode of life, that it was no

difficult matter to forget the world, with its excitements, its

pleasures, and its cares. I, at least, rarely bestowed a thought upon

any thing but what was passing immediately around me; whole piles of

newspapers lay unread upon my table, and I became every day more and

more of a backwoodsman. I rose early, slipped into my linen jacket and

trousers, and accompanied M. Menou about his fields and cotton presses.

The afternoon passed in looking over accounts, or in reading and

laughing at the discussions and opinions of Colonel Stone and Major

Noah, as set forth in the well-known papers, the _Morning Courier_ and

_Commercial Gazette_, while the evening of each day was filled up by an

_impromptu_ of some kind, a dance, or a merry chat.

We were sitting one night at supper, when M. Menou proposed a stag-hunt

by torchlight. I caught eagerly at the idea, and he at once gave orders

to make the needful preparations. The two Mexicans begged to be allowed

to accompany us; but almost before they had proffered the request, the

lady interfered to oppose it.

"Don Lop----!" she exclaimed, and then checked herself in the middle of

the word she was about to utter. "_Te suplico_," she continued in

Spanish, after a momentary pause, "I implore you not to go to-night."

There was something inexpressibly anxious and affectionate in her manner

and tone. Her husband begged her not to make herself uneasy, and

promised he would not go; at the same time, it was evident that he was

vexed not to accompany us. I assured the lady there was no danger.

"No danger!" repeated she, in her sonorous Castilian. "No danger! Is

nobody aware of the intended hunt?" said she to Menou.

"Nobody," was the reply.

It just then occurred to me, that during the whole period of my

residence with the Menous, neither the Mexican nor his wife had ever

gone out of the house and garden. This circumstance, in combination with

the anxiety now shown by the lady, struck me forcibly, and I gazed at

Silveira, while I vainly endeavoured to conjecture whence arose the

mystery that evidently environed him. He was a man of about thirty years

of age, with handsome features, a high forehead, and a pale, but not

unhealthy complexion. The expression of his eyes particularly struck me;

at times there flashed from them a fire, indicative of high purposes and

strong resolution. There was a military and commanding air about him,

which was very apparent, though he evidently did his utmost to conceal

it; and it was this same manner which had hitherto caused me to treat

him rather coolly, and rendered me little disposed to cultivate his

intimacy. His companion, Don Pablo, was a tolerably insignificant

person, who seemed to look up to Silveira and his wife with a respect

and reverence almost amounting to idolatry. Beside him, their suite was

composed of four attendants.

"And is there really no danger?" said the Senora to Menou. The Creole

assured her there was none. She whispered a few words to her husband,

who kissed her hand, and repeated his request to be of our party--this

time without any opposition on his wife's part.

Supper over, we put on our shooting coats, took our guns, and mounted

the horses that had been prepared for us. Six negroes with pitch-pans,

and a couple of dogs, had gone on before. The clock struck ten as we set

out. It was a dark sultry night; towards the south distant thunder was

heard, betokening the approach of one of those storms that occur almost

daily at that season and in that country. During the first twenty

minutes of our ride, the atmosphere became stiflingly oppressive; then

suddenly a strong wind rushed amongst the trees and bushes, the thunder

drew nearer, and from time to time a flash of forked lightning

momentarily illumined the forest. Again a flash, more vivid than the

preceding ones, and a clap, compared to which our northern thunder would

sound like the mere roll of a drum; the dogs began to whine, and kept as

near to the horses as they could. We pushed onward, and were close to a

laurel thicket, when the leading hound suddenly came to a stand, and

pricked up his ears. We dismounted, and walked forward--the negroes

preceding us with the pitch-pans. Some twenty pace before us we

perceived four small stars, that glittered like diminutive

fire-balls--they were the eyes of two stags that awaited our approach,

in astonishment at the unusual spectacle offered to them. We took

aim--the Creole and myself at one, two Mexicans at the other. "_Feu!_"

cried Menou. There was the crack of the four rifles, then a crashing

noise amongst the branches, and the clatter of hoofs, succeeded by cries

of _Sacre!_ and Damn ye! and _Diabolo!_ and _San Jago!_ The six

pitch-pans lay smoking and flaring on the ground; the Creole and I had

sprung on one side, the negroes had thrown themselves on their faces in

great terror, and the two Dons lay beside them, overthrown by the rush

of one of the stags.

"_Santa Virgen!_" shouted Don Pablo, mightily alarmed and angry;

"_Maldito bobo, Senor don Manuel!_"

And scrambling to his feet, he proceeded in desperate haste to raise his

companion from the ground, on which he lay motionless, and apparently

much hurt.

"_Maldito sea el dia! Nuestro Libertador! Santa Anna! Ay de mi!_"

"_Calla te_--hold your tongue!" said Silveira to his alarmed adherent.

On the first appearance of danger, M. Menou had jumped behind a tree,

which had afforded a sufficient shelter against the mad rush of the

terrified stag; but his cry of warning had come too late for the young

Mexican, who had less experience in this kind of chase, and who,

standing full in the path of the furious beast, was knocked down, and

run over. I pushed Pablo, who was howling and wringing his hands, on one

side, and with Menou, proceeded to investigate the hurts which the other

Mexican had received. His coat was torn, and both legs were bleeding,

having been rent by the deer's antlers. Fortunately the wounds were not

deep, or he might have had serious reason to regret the bad aim he had

taken. We placed him on his horse, and turned towards home.

It was midnight when we reached the house with the wounded man, and the

carcass of the deer that Menou and I had shot. The sight of a white

figure at the window of the apartment occupied by the Mexican, warned us

that his wife was watching for his arrival. At the sound of our horses'

feet, she came hurrying down stairs, and out of the house to meet us;

and upon beholding her husband, pale, exhausted, and supported on his

horse by couple of negroes, she uttered a shrill cry, and with the word

"_Perdido!_" sank, almost fainting, on the door steps.

"Gracious God!" cried a second female voice at that moment. "A

misfortune! Is it Howard?"

It was Louise, who at that moment made her appearance in her nightdress,

breathless with terror.

"_Mon Dieu_, it is only the Mexican! Thank God!" lisped she, in an

accent of infinite joy and relief.

"Thanks, dearest Louise! for those words," said I; "they make me very

happy."

I caught her in my arms, and pressed a kiss upon her lips. She struggled

from my embrace, and, blushing deeply, hurried back into her chamber.

I now followed Menou into the apartment of the Mexican, whose wife was

hanging over him, speechless with grief and anxiety. Menou had much

trouble to get her away from him, in order that he might examine and

dress his hurts. I do not know where the worthy Creole had learned his

surgery, but he was evidently no tyro in the healing art; and he cut out

the flesh injured by the antler, washed and bandaged the wounds, with a

dexterity that really inspired me with confidence in him. The wounds

were not dangerous, but might easily have become so, taking into

consideration the heat of the weather, (the thermometer stood at

eighty-six,) and the circumstance of their having been inflicted by a

stag's horn. In a short half hour the patient was comfortably put to

bed, and the afflicted Donna Isabella consoled by Menou's positive

assurance, that in a very few days her husband would be well again. She

received this piece of comfort with such a thoroughly Roman Catholic

uplifting of her magnificent eyes, that I could scarcely help envying

the saints for whom that look was intended.

I had held the candle for Menou during the operation; and as I put it

down upon the table, my eyes fell upon a beautifully executed miniature

of the Mexican set in brilliants. Beside it were lying letters addressed

to Don Lopez di Santa Anna, Marischal de Campo; one or two had the

superscription, Lieutenant-general. It was no other than the celebrated

Mexican leader, the second in rank in the would-be republic, who had

been sojourning in Monsieur Menou's house under the assumed name of

Silveira. This discovery afforded me matter for reflection as I repaired

to my bed-chamber; reflections, however, which were soon forced to make

way for other thoughts of a more personally interesting nature. It was

the graceful form of Louise that now glided forward out of the

background of my imagination. She had watched, then, anxiously for our

return; and the first rumour of a mishap had drawn from her lips the

name of him for whom her heart felt most interested. During the whole

time of my residence with the Menous, I had never once dreamed of

falling in love with either of the sisters. There was so much activity

and occupation in and out of the house, that I seemed to have had no

time to indulge in sentimental reveries. Now, however, they came

crowding upon me. It was so consolatory to an unlucky bachelor, only

just recovering from a recent disappointment, to find himself an object

of tender interest a lovely and innocent girl of seventeen.

At breakfast, the next morning, Louise did not dare to look me in the

face. Without distressing her, however, I managed to look at her more

than I had ever before done; and I really wondered what I had been

thinking about, during the preceding two months, not to have sooner

found out her manifold charms and perfections. Her elder sister was too

stout for my taste, altogether on too large a scale, and with too little

of the intellectual in the expression of her features; but Louise is

unquestionably a charming creature, slender and graceful, with a sweet

archness in her countenance, and hands and feet that might serve for

models. In short, I began to think seriously that all past

disappointments would be more than compensated by the affection of such

a woman. I must see first about setting my house in order, thought I.

"Will you be so kind as to lend me your carriage to go as far as the

river?" said I to the Creole.

"With much pleasure. A mere ride, I suppose?"

"No; a little more. I wish to see how things are getting on at my

plantation."

"You are going away?" exclaimed Madame Menou and Julie. Louise said

nothing, but she raised her eyes to mine for the first time that

morning.

"It is necessary that I should do so; but, if you will allow me, I will

pay you another visit before very long."

The roses had left the cheeks of poor Louise, and I fancied I saw a tear

glittering in her eyes. Several minutes elapsed without any body's

speaking. At last the silence was broken by the Creole.

"You seemed very happy here, I thought," said he. "Has any thing

happened?"

"Yes; something of great importance to me. I must really leave you

immediately," was my answer.

Mean time, Louise had left the room. I hurried after her, and overtook

her before she reached her chamber.

"Louise!" said I. She was weeping. "I leave you to-day."

"So I heard."

"In order to arrange my house."

"My brother is doing that already," said she. "Why leave us?"

"Because I would fain see with my own eyes if all is ready and fitting

for the reception of my Louise. When I have done so, will you follow me

home as my beloved wife?"

For one second she looked in my face, her features lighted up with a

beam of confiding joy, and then her gaze fell in timid confusion on the

ground.

"Take her, dear Howard!" said her father, who had followed us

unperceived. "She is the best of daughters, and will make as good a

wife."

Louise sank into my arms. An hour later I was on my way homewards.

At last, then, I was irrevocably pledged, and my bachelorship drew near

its close. I felt that I had made a judicious choice. Louise was an

excellent girl, sensible, prudent, active, and cheerful--uniting, in

short, all the qualities desirable in a backwoodsman's wife. It was

strange enough that all this should only have occurred to me within a

few hours. I had been living two months under the same roof with her,

and yet the idea of her becoming my wife had never entered my head till

the preceding night.

It was four in the afternoon when I reached my plantation, which I was

very near passing without recognising it, so great was the change that

had taken place since my last visit. The rubbish and tree-trunks that

had then encumbered the vicinity of the house had disappeared--the

garden had been increased in size, and surrounded by a new and elegant

fence--a verandah, under which two negro carpenters were at work, ran

along the front and sides of the house. As I walked up from the boat,

young Menou came to meet me. I shook him heartily by the hand, and

expressed my gratitude for the trouble he had taken, and my wonder at

the astonishing progress the improvements of all kinds had made.

"How have you possibly managed to effect all these miracles?" said I.

"Very easily," replied Menou. "You sent us fifteen negroes; my father

lent me ten of his. With these, and the twenty-five you had before, we

were able to make progress. We are now putting the finishing-stroke to

your cotton press, which was fearfully out of order."

I walked with a thankful heart through the garden, and stepped into the

verandah. The rooms that looked out upon it were all fitted up in the

most comfortable manner. In the principal bedroom, a negro girl was

working at the elegant musquitto curtains. Old Sybille, in a calico gown

of the most glaring colours, her face shining with contentment, was

brushing away some invisible dust from the furniture in the parlour.

"By the by," said young Menou, opening a writing-desk, "here are several

letters that have come for you within the last few days, and that amidst

my various occupations I have quite forgotten to forward."

I sat down and opened them. Two were from Richards, the earliest in

date, inviting me to go and stay with him again. The more recent one

renewed the invitation, and expressed the writer's surprise at my having

become on a sudden so domestic a character. In a postscript he added, as

a sort of inducement to me to visit him, that he was daily expecting a

friend of his wife's, the beautiful Emily Warren. Not a syllable,

however, about the eight thousand dollars, which surprised me not a

little; for Richards was by no means a man to remain silent on a subject

affecting his worldly interest, and I fully expected he would have felt

and expressed some pique or resentment at my sudden withdrawal of my

funds. But, on the contrary, the letter I had given to Menou, in which I

requested Richards to pay over the money in question to the Creole, was

not even alluded to.

"There are matters in these letters," said I to young Menou, "which

oblige me to return immediately to your father's house."

"Indeed!" cried the young man, much astonished.

"Yes," replied I. "I hear a steamboat coming down the river--I will be

off at once."

He looked at me in great surprise; Sybille shook her head. But my

character is so impatient and impetuous, that when I have resolved on

any thing, I can never bear to defer its execution a moment. Besides,

there was really nothing to detain me at my plantation. The arrangements

and improvements that I had reckoned on finding only half effected were

complete; and every moment that now elapsed before I could welcome

Louise as mistress of my house and heart, seemed to me worse than

wasted. I hurried down to the river and hailed the steamer. It was the

same that had brought me home two months previously.

"Mr Howard," said the captain joyously, as I stepped on board the

vessel, "I am right glad to see you on my deck again. Your plantation

looks quite another thing. You are really a worker of wonders."

I hardly knew how to accept this undeserved praise. One of the best

points in our American character is the universal respect paid to

industry and intellect. The wealthy idler who carries thousands in his

pocket-book, may, amongst us, look in vain for the respect and flattery

which a tithe of his riches would procure him in many other countries;

while the less fortunate man, who makes his way and earns his living by

hand and head work, may always reckon on the consideration of his

fellow-citizens. On my return to Louisiana I had been thought nothing

of. I was a drone in the hive--with money, but without skill or

perseverance. My overseer was more looked up to than myself; but the

recent change in the state of my plantation, attributed, however

wrongly, to my presence, had caused a revolution in people's ideas; and

I was now met on all sides with open hands and smiling countenances. The

change, I must confess, was a gratifying one for me.

The Menous were at breakfast the next morning, when I arrived, heated by

my walk from the river, opposite to the parlour window. I was received

with a cry of welcome.

"So soon back! Nothing wrong, I hope?" said Menou.

"Nothing," replied I dryly; "I have only forgotten something."

"And what is that?"

"My Louise," was my answer, as I seated myself beside the blushing girl.

"On arriving at my wilderness," I continued, "I found it converted into

so blooming a paradise, that I should really be heartbroken if it were

to remain any longer without its Eve. To-morrow, please God, we will

start for New Orleans, to put in requisition the service of Pere Antoine

and the worthy rector."

There was a cry of consternation from the papa and mamma.

"There is nothing ready--_point de trousseau_--nothing in the world. Do

not be so unreasonable, dear Howard."

"Our Yankee damsels," replied I, laughing, "if they have only got a pair

of shoes and a gown and a half, consider themselves perfectly ready to

be married."

"Well, let him have his way," said Menou. "We can manage, I daresay, to

equip the bride a little better than that."

"Apropos," said I to Menou, while the ladies were consulting together,

and recovering from the flurry into which my precipitation had thrown

them--"the eight thousand dollars? Richards says nothing about them."

"It was only an experiment I tried with you," replied my future

father-in-law, smiling. "I wished to see if you have sufficient firmness

of character to ensure your own happiness. Had you not come victoriously

out of the little ordeal, Louise should never have been wife of yours,

if all the plantations on the Mississippi had called you master. As to

the money, I advanced what was wanted. You can settle with Mr Richards

in the way most agreeable to yourself."

The next morning we set off for New Orleans--Menou and Louise, Julie,

who was to act as bridesmaid, and myself. Madame Menou remained at home.

I could have wished to have had young Menou as my bridesman; but his

presence was necessary at the plantation, and we were obliged to content

ourselves with receiving his good wishes as we passed. After a twenty

hours' voyage we reached the capital, and took up our quarters in the

house of a sister of Menou's.

I was hurrying to find Father Antoine, when, in turning the corner of

the cathedral, I ran bolt up against Richards. After the first greeting,

and without giving him time to ask me questions--

"Wait for me at the Merchant's Coffeehouse," said I; "in a quarter of an

hour I will meet you there."

And I left him in considerable astonishment at my desperate haste. I

found Father Antoine and the rector, and then hurried off to keep my

appointment.

"Do you know," said I to Richards, as I dragged him through the streets,

"that I am thinking seriously of becoming a Benedict?"

"Well," said he, "you must come home with me then. Emily Warren is

arrived. She is a charming girl, and a great friend of my wife's. You

will be sure of Clara's good word, and I really think Emily will exactly

suit you."

"I am afraid not," replied I, as I turned into the church.

Richards opened his eyes in amazement when he saw Louise, with her aunt,

sister, and the whole of the bridal party, walking up the aisle, and

Father Antoine standing at the altar in his robes.

"What does this mean?" said he.

I made no answer, but let matters explain themselves. Ten minutes after,

Louise Menou was my wife.

GREECE UNDER THE ROMANS.{A}

What is called _Philosophical History_ we believe to be yet in its

infancy. It is the profound remark of Mr Finlay--profound as we

ourselves understand it, _i.e._, in relation to this philosophical

treatment, "That history will ever remain inexhaustible." How

inexhaustible? Are the _facts_ of history inexhaustible? In regard to

the _ancient_ division of history with which he is there dealing, this

would be in no sense true; and in any case it would be a lifeless truth.

So entirely have the mere facts of Pagan history been disinterred,

ransacked, sifted, that except by means of some chance medal that may be

unearthed in the illiterate East, (as of late towards Bokhara,) or by

means of some mysterious inscription, such as those which still mock the

learned traveller in Persia, northwards near Hamadan, (Ecbatana,) and

southwards at Persepolis, or those which distract him amongst the

shadowy ruins of Yucatan (Uxmal, suppose, and Palenque,)--once for all,

barring these pure godsends, it is hardly "in the dice" that any

downright novelty of fact should remain in reversion for this 19th

century. The merest possibility exists, that in Armenia, or in a

Graeco-Russian monastery on Mount Athos, or in Pompeii, &c., some authors

hitherto +anekdotoi+ may yet be concealed; and by a channel in that

degree improbable, it is possible that certain new facts of history may

still reach us. But else, and failing these cryptical or subterraneous

currents of communication, for us the record is closed. History in that

sense is come to an end, and sealed up as by the angel in the

Apocalypse. What then? The facts _so_ understood are but the dry bones

of the mighty past. And the question arises here also, not less than in

that sublimest of prophetic visions, "Can these dry bones live?" Not

only they can live, but by an infinite variety of life. The same

historic facts, viewed in different lights, or brought into connexion

with other facts, according to endless diversities of permutation and

combination, furnish grounds for such eternal successions of new

speculations as make the facts themselves virtually new. The same Hebrew

words are read by different sets of vowel points, and the same

hieroglyphics are deciphered by keys everlastingly varied.

To us we repeat that oftentimes it seems as though the _science_ of

history were yet scarcely founded. There will be such a science, if at

present there is not; and in one feature of its capacities it will

resemble chemistry. What is so familiar to the perceptions of man as the

common chemical agents of water, air, and the soil on which we tread?

Yet each one of these elements is a mystery to this day; handled, used,

tried, searched experimentally, in ten thousand ways--it is still

unknown; fathomed by recent science down to a certain depth, it is still

probably by its destiny unfathomable. Even to the end of days, it is

pretty certain that the minutest particle of earth--that a dewdrop,

scarcely distinguishable as a separate object--that the slenderest

filament of a plant will include within itself secrets inaccessible to

man. And yet, compared with the mystery of man himself, these physical

worlds of mystery are but as a radix of infinity. Chemistry is in this

view mysterious and spinosistically sublime--that it is the science of

the latent in all things, of all things as lurking in all. Within the

lifeless flint, within the silent pyrites, slumbers an agony of

potential combustion. Iron is imprisoned in blood. With cold water (as

every child is now-a-days aware) you may lash a fluid into angry

ebullitions of heat; with hot water, as with the rod of Amram's son, you

may freeze a fluid down to the temperature of the Sarsar wind, provided

only that you regulate the pressure of the air. The sultry and

dissolving fluid shall bake into a solid, the petrific fluid shall melt

into a liquid. Heat shall freeze, frost shall thaw; and wherefore?

Simply because old things are brought together in new modes of

combination. And in endless instances beside we see the same Panlike

latency of forms and powers, which gives to the external world a

capacity of self-transformation, and of _polymorphosis_ absolutely

inexhaustible.

But the same capacity belongs to the facts of history. And we do not

mean merely that, from subjective differences in the minds reviewing

them, such facts assume endless varieties of interpretation and

estimate, but that objectively, from lights still increasing in the

science of government and of social philosophy, all the primary facts of

history become liable continually to new theories, to new combinations,

and to new valuations of their moral relations. We have seen some kinds

of marble, where the veinings happened to be unusually multiplied, in

which human faces, figures, processions, or fragments of natural scenery

seemed absolutely illimitable, under the endless variations or

inversions of the order, according to which they might be combined and

grouped. Something analogous takes effect in reviewing the remote parts

of history. Rome, for instance, has been the object of historic pens for

twenty centuries (dating from Polybius); and yet hardly so much as

twenty years have elapsed since Niebuhr opened upon us almost a new

revelation, by recombining the same eternal facts, according to a

different set of principles. The same thing may be said, though not with

the same degree of emphasis, upon the Grecian researches of the late

Ottfried Mueller. Egyptian history again, even at this moment, is seen

stealing upon us through the dusky twilight in its first distinct

lineaments. Before Young, Champollion, and the others who have followed

on their traces in this field of history, all was outer darkness; and

whatsoever we _do_ know or _shall_ know of Egyptian Thebes will now be

recovered as if from the unswathing of a mummy. Not until a flight of

three thousand years has left Thebes the Hekatompylos a dusky speck

in the far distance, have we even _begun_ to read her annals, or to

understand her revolutions.

Another instance we have now before us of this new historic faculty for

resuscitating the buried, and for calling back the breath to the frozen

features of death, in Mr Finlay's work upon the Greeks as related to the

Roman empire. He presents us with old facts, but under the purpose of

clothing them with a new life. He rehearses ancient stories, not with

the humble ambition of better adorning them, of more perspicuously

narrating, or even of more forcibly pointing their moral, but of

extracting from them some new meaning, and thus forcing them to arrange

themselves, under some latent connexion, with other phenomena now first

detected, as illustrations of some great principle or agency now first

revealing its importance. Mr Finlay's style of intellect is appropriate

to such a task; for it is subtle and Machiavelian. But there is this

difficulty in doing justice to the novelty, and at times we may say with

truth to the profundity of his views, that they are by necessity thrown

out in continued successions of details, are insulated, and in one word

_sporadic_. This follows from the very nature of his work; for it is a

perpetual commentary on the incidents of Grecian history, from the era

of the Roman conquest to the commencement of what Mr Finlay, in a

peculiar sense, calls the Byzantine empire. These incidents have nowhere

been systematically or continuously recorded; they come forward by

casual flashes in the annals, perhaps, of some church historian, as they

happen to connect themselves with his momentary theme; or they betray

themselves in the embarrassments of the central government, whether at

Rome or at Constantinople, when arguing at one time a pestilence, at

another an insurrection, or an inroad of barbarians. It is not the fault

of Mr Finlay, but his great disadvantage, that the affairs of Greece

have been thus discontinuously exhibited, and that its internal changes

of condition have been never treated except obliquely, and by men _aliud

agentibus_. The Grecian _race_ had a primary importance on our planet;

but the Grecian name, represented by Greece considered as a territory,

or as the original seat of the Hellenic people, ceased to have much

importance, in the eyes of historians, from the time when it became a

conquered province; and it declined into absolute insignificance after

the conquest of so many other provinces had degraded Hellas into an

arithmetical unit, standing amongst a total amount of figures, so vast

and so much more dazzling to the ordinary mind. Hence it was that in

ancient times no complete history of Greece, through all her phases and

stages, was ever attempted. The greatness of her later revolutions,

simply as changes, would have attracted the historian; but, as changes

associated with calamity and loss of power, they repelled his curiosity,

and alienated his interest. It is the very necessity, therefore, of Mr

Finlay's position, when coming into such an inheritance, that he must

splinter his philosophy into separate individual notices; for the

records of history furnish no grounds for more. _Spartam, quam nactus

est, ornavit._ But this does not remedy the difficulty for ourselves, in

attempting to give a representative view of his philosophy. General

abstractions he had no opportunity for presenting; consequently we have

no opportunity for valuing; and, on the other hand, single cases

selected from a succession of hundreds would not justify any

_representative_ criticism, more than the single brick, in the anecdote

of Hierocles, would serve representatively to describe or to appraise

the house.

Under this difficulty as to the possible for ourselves, and the just for

Mr Finlay, we shall adopt the following course. So far as the Greek

people connected themselves in any splendid manner with the Roman

empire, they did so with the eastern horn of that empire, and in point

of time from the foundation of Constantinople as an eastern Rome in the

fourth century, to a period not fully agreed on; but for the moment we

will say with Mr Finlay, up to the early part of the eighth century. A

reason given by Mr Finlay for this latter state is--that about that time

the Grecian blood, so widely diffused in Asia, and even in Africa,

became finally detached by the progress of Mahometanism and Mahometan

systems of power from all further concurrence or coalition with the

views of the Byzantine Caesar. Constantinople was from that date thrown

back more upon its own peculiar heritage and jurisdiction, of which the

main resources for war and peace lay in Europe and (speaking by the

narrowest terms) in Thrace. Henceforth, therefore, for the city and

throne of Constantine, resuming its old Grecian name of Byzantium, there

succeeded a theatre less diffusive, a population more concentrated, a

character of action more determinate and jealous, a style of courtly

ceremonial more elaborate as well as more haughtily repulsive, and

universally a system of interests, as much more definite and selfish, as

might naturally be looked for in a nation now every where surrounded by

new thrones gloomy with malice, and swelling with the consciousness of

youthful power. This new and final state of the eastern Rome Mr Finlay

denominates the Byzantine empire. Possibly this use of the term may be

capable of justification; but more questions would arise in the

discussion than Mr Finlay has thought it of importance to notice. And

for the present we shall take the word _Byzantine_ in its most ordinary

acceptation, as denoting the local empire founded by Constantine in

Byzantium early in the fourth century, under the idea of a translation

from the old western Rome, and overthrown by the Ottoman Turks in the

year 1453. In the fortunes and main stages of this empire, what are the

chief arresting phenomena, aspects, or relations, to the greatest of

modern interests? We select by preference these.

I. First, this was the earliest among the kingdoms of our planet _which

connected itself with Christianity_. In Armenia, there had been a

previous _state_ recognition of Christianity. But _that_ was neither

splendid nor distinct. Whereas the Byzantine Rome built avowedly upon

Christianity as its own basis, and consecrated its own nativity by the

sublime act of founding the first provision ever attempted for the

poor, considered simply as poor, (_i.e._ as objects of pity, not as

instruments of ambition.)

II. _Secondly, as the great aegis of western Christendom_, nay, the

barrier which made it possible that any Christendom should ever exist,

this Byzantine empire is entitled to a very different station in the

enlightened gratitude of us western Europeans from any which it has yet

held. We do not scruple to say--that, by comparison with the services of

the Byzantine people to Europe, no nation on record has ever stood in

the same relation to any other single nation, much less to a whole

family of nations, whether as regards the opportunity and means of

conferring benefits, or as regards the astonishing perseverance in

supporting the succession of these benefits, or as regards the ultimate

event of these benefits. A great wrong has been done for ages; for we

have all been accustomed to speak of the Byzantine empire with scorn,{B}

as chiefly known by its effeminacy; and the greater is the call for a

fervent palinode.

III. _Thirdly._ In a reflex way, as the one great danger which

overshadowed Europe for generations, and against which the Byzantine

empire proved the capital bulwark, Mahometanism may rank as one of the

Byzantine aspects or counterforces. And if there is any popular error

applying to the history of that great convulsion, as a political effort

for revolutionizing the world, some notice of it will find a natural

place in connexion with these present trains of speculation.

Let us, therefore, have permission to throw together a few remarks on

these three subjects--1st, on the remarkable distinction by which the

eldest of Christian rulers proclaimed and inaugurated the Christian

basis of his empire: 2dly, on the true but forgotten relation of this

great empire to our modern Christendom, under which idea we comprehend

Europe and the whole continent of America: 3dly, on the false

pretensions of Mahometanism, whether advanced by itself or by

inconsiderate Christian speculators on its behalf. We shall thus obtain

this advantage, that some sort of unity will be given to our own glances

at Mr Finlay's theme; and, at the same time, by gathering under these

general heads any dispersed comments of Mr Finlay, whether for

confirmation of our own views, or for any purpose of objection to his,

we shall give to those comments also that kind of unity, by means of a

reference to a common purpose, which we could not have given them by

citing each independently for itself.

I. First, then, as to that memorable act by which Constantinople (_i.e._

the Eastern empire) connected herself for ever with Christianity; viz.

the recognition of pauperism as an element in the state entitled to the

maternal guardianship of the state. In this new principle, introduced by

Christianity, we behold a far-seeing or proleptic wisdom, making

provision for evils before they had arisen; for it is certain that great

expansions of pauperism did not exist in the ancient world. A pauper

population is a disease peculiar to the modern or Christian world.

Various causes latent in the social systems of the ancients prevented

such developments of surplus people. But does not this argue a

superiority in the social arrangements of these ancients? Not at all;

they were atrociously worse. They evaded this one morbid affection by

means of others far more injurious to the moral advance of man. The case

was then every where as at this day it is in Persia. A Persian

ambassador to London or Paris might boast that, in his native Iran no

such spectacles existed of hunger-bitten myriads as may be seen every

where during seasons of distress in the crowded cities of Christian

Europe. "No," would be the answer, "most certainly not; but why? The

reason is, that your accursed form of society and government

_intercepts_ such surplus people, does not suffer them to be born. What

is the result? You ought, in Persia, to have three hundred millions of

people; your vast territory is easily capacious of that number. You

_have_--how many have you? Something less than eight millions." Think of

this, startled reader. But, if _that_ be a good state of things, then

any barbarous soldier who makes a wilderness, is entitled to call

himself a great philosopher and public benefactor. This is to cure the

headache by amputating the head. Now, the same principle of limitation

to population _a parte ante_, though not in the same savage excess as in

Mahometan Persia, operated upon Greece and Rome. The whole Pagan world

escaped the evils of a redundant population by vicious repressions of it

beforehand. But under Christianity a new state of things was destined to

take effect. Many protections and excitements to population were laid in

the framework of this new religion, which, by its new code of rules and

impulses, in so many ways extended the free-agency of human beings.

Manufacturing industry was destined first to arise on any great scale

under Christianity. Except in Tyre and Alexandria, (see the Emperor

Hadrian's account of this last,) there was no town or district in the

ancient world where the populace could be said properly to work. The

rural labourers worked a little--not much; and sailors worked a little;

nobody else worked at all. Even slaves had little more work distributed

amongst each ten than now settles upon one. And in many other ways, by

protecting the principle of life, as a mysterious sanctity, Christianity

has favoured the development of an excessive population. There it is

that Christianity, being answerable for the mischief, is answerable for

its redress. Therefore it is that, breeding the disease, Christianity

breeds the cure. Extending the vast lines of poverty, Christianity it

was that first laid down the principle of a relief for poverty.

Constantine, the first Christian potentate, laid the first stone of the

mighty overshadowing institution since reared in Christian lands to

poverty, disease, orphanage, and mutilation. Christian instincts, moving

and speaking through that Caesar, first carried out that great idea of

Christianity. Six years was Christianity in building Constantinople, and

in the seventh she rested from her labours, saying, "Henceforward let

the poor man have a haven of rest for ever; a rest from his work for one

day in seven; a rest from his anxieties by a legal and a fixed relief."

Being legal, it could not be open to disturbances of caprice in the

giver; being fixed, it was not open to disturbances of miscalculation in

the receiver. Now, first, when first Christianity was installed as a

public organ of government, (and first owned a distinct political

responsibility,) did it become the duty of a religion which assumed, as

it were, the _official_ tutelage of poverty, to proclaim and consecrate

that function by some great memorial precedent. And, accordingly, in

testimony of that obligation, the first Christian Caesar, on behalf of

Christianity, founded the first system of relief for pauperism. It is

true, that largesses from the public treasury, gratuitous coin, or corn

sold at diminished rates, not to mention the _sportulae_ or stated doles

of private Roman nobles, had been distributed amongst the indigent

citizens of Western Rome for centuries before Constantine; but all these

had been the selfish bounties of factious ambition or intrigue.

To Christianity was reserved the inaugural act of public charity in the

spirit of charity. We must remember that no charitable or beneficent

institutions of any kind, grounded on disinterested kindness, existed

amongst the Pagan Romans, and still less amongst the Pagan Greeks. Mr

Coleridge, in one of his lay sermons, advanced the novel doctrine--that

in the Scriptures is contained all genuine and profound statesmanship.

Of course he must be understood to mean--in its capital principles:

for, as to subordinate and executive rules for applying such principles,

these, doubtless, are in part suggested by the local circumstances in

each separate case. Now, amongst the political theories of the Bible is

this--that pauperism is not an accident in the constitution of states,

but an indefeasible necessity; or, in the scriptural words, that "the

poor shall never cease out of the land." This theory, or great canon of

social philosophy, during many centuries, drew no especial attention

from philosophers. It passed for a truism, bearing no particular

emphasis or meaning beyond some general purpose of sanction to the

impulses of charity. But there is good reason to believe, that it

slumbered, and was meant to slumber, until Christianity arising and

moving forwards should call it into a new life, as a principle suited to

a new order of things. Accordingly, we have seen of late that this

scriptural dictum--"The poor shall never cease out of the land"--has

terminated its career as a truism, (that is, as a truth, either obvious

on one hand, or inert on the other,) and has wakened into a polemic or

controversial life. People arose who took upon them utterly to deny this

scriptural doctrine. Peremptorily they challenged the assertion that

poverty must always exist. The Bible said that it was an affection of

human society which could not be exterminated: the economists of 1800

said that it was a foul disease, which must and should be exterminated.

The scriptural philosophy said, that pauperism was inalienable from

man's social condition in the same way that decay was inalienable from

his flesh. "I shall soon see _that_," said the economist of 1800, "for

as sure as my name is M----, I will have this poverty put down by law

within one generation, if there's law to be had in the courts at

Westminster." The Scriptures had left word--that, if any man should come

to the national banquet declaring himself unable to pay his

contribution, that man should be accounted the guest of Christianity,

and should be privileged to sit at the table in thankful remembrance of

what Christianity had done for man. But Mr M---- left word with all the

servants, that, if any man should present himself under those

circumstances, he was to be told, "The table is full"--(_his_ words, not

ours;) "go away, good man." Go away! Mr M----? Where was he to go to?

Whither? In what direction?--"Why, if you come to _that_," said the man

of 1800, "to any ditch that he prefers: surely there's good choice of

ditches for the most fastidious taste." During twenty years, viz. from

1800 to 1820, this new philosophy, which substituted a ditch for a

dinner, and a paving-stone for a loaf, prevailed and prospered. At one

time it seemed likely enough to prove a snare to our own

aristocracy--the noblest of all ages. But that peril was averted, and

the further history of the case was this: By the year 1820, much

discussion having passed to and fro, serious doubts had arisen in many

quarters: scepticism had begun to arm itself against the sceptic: the

economist of 1800 was no longer quite sure of his ground. He was now

suspected of being fallible; and, what seemed of worse augury, he was

beginning himself to suspect as much. To one capital blunder he was

obliged publicly to plead guilty. What it was, we shall have occasion to

mention immediately. Meantime it was justly thought that, in a dispute

loaded with such prodigious practical consequences, good sense and

prudence demanded a more extended enquiry than had yet been instituted.

Whether poverty would ever cease from the land, might be doubted by

those who balanced their faith in Scripture against their faith in the

man of 1800. But this at least could not be doubted--that as yet poverty

_had_ not ceased, nor indeed had made any sensible preparations for

ceasing, from any land in Europe. It was a clear case, therefore, that,

howsoever Europe might please to dream upon the matter when pauperism

should have reached that glorious euthanasy predicted by the alchemist

of old and the economist of 1800, for the present she must deal actively

with her own pauperism on some avowed plan and principle, good or

evil--gentle or harsh. Accordingly, in the train of years between 1820

and 1830, enquiries were made of every separate state in Europe, what

_were_ those plans and principles. For it was justly said--"As one step

towards judging rightly of our own system, now that it has been so

clamorously challenged for a bad system, let us learn what it is that

other nations think upon the subject, but above all what it is that they

_do_." The answers to our many enquiries varied considerably; and some

amongst the most enlightened nations appeared to have adopted the good

old plan of _laissez faire_, giving nothing from any public fund to the

pauper, but authorizing him to levy contributions on that gracious

allegoric lady, Private Charity, wherever he could meet her taking the

air with her babes. This reference appeared to be the main one in reply

to any application of the pauper; and for all the rest they referred him

generally to the "ditch," or to his own unlimited choice of ditches,

according to the approved method of public benevolence published in 4to

and in 8vo by the man of 1800. But there were other and humbler states

in Europe, whose very pettiness had brought more fully within their

vision the whole machinery and watchwork of pauperism, as it acted and

re-acted on the industrious poverty of the land, and on other interests,

by means of the system adopted in relieving it. From these states came

many interesting reports, all tending to some good purpose. But at last,

and before the year 1830, amongst other results of more or less value,

three capital points were established, not more decisive for the

justification of the English system in administering national relief to

paupers, and of all systems that reverenced the authority of Scripture,

than they were for the overthrow of Mr M----, the man of 1800. These

three points are worthy of being used as buoys in mapping out the true

channels, or indicating the breakers on this difficult line of

navigation; and we now rehearse them. They may seem plain almost to

obviousness; but it is enough that they involve all the disputed

questions of the case.

_First_, That, in spite of the assurances from economists, no progress

whatever had been made by England or by any state which lent any

sanction to the hope of ever eradicating poverty from society.

_Secondly_, That, in absolute contradiction of the whole hypothesis

relied on by M---- and his brethren, in its most fundamental doctrine, a

legal provision for poverty did _not_ act as a bounty on marriage. The

experience of England, where the trial had been made on the largest

scale, was decisive on this point; and the opposite experience of

Ireland, under the opposite circumstances, was equally decisive. And

this result had made itself so clear by 1820, that even M---- (as we have

already noticed by anticipation) was compelled to publish a recantation

as to this particular error, which in effect was a recantation of his

entire theory.

_Thirdly_, That, according to the concurring experience of all the most

enlightened states of Christendom, the public suffered least, (not

merely in molestation but in money,) pauperism benefited most, and the

growth of pauperism was retarded most, precisely as the provision for

the poor had been legalized as to its obligation, and fixed as to its

amount. Left to individual discretion the burden was found to press most

unequally; and, on the other hand, the evil itself of pauperism, whilst

much less effectually relieved, nevertheless through the irregular

action of this relief was much more powerfully stimulated.

Such is the abstract of our latest public warfare on this great question

through a period of nearly fifty years. And the issue is this--starting

from the contemptuous defiance of the scriptural doctrine upon the

necessity of making provision for poverty as an indispensable element in

civil communities, the economy of the age has lowered its tone by

graduated descents, in each one successively of the four last

_decennia_. The philosophy of the day as to this point at least is at

length in coincidence with Scripture. And thus the very extensive

researches of this nineteenth century, as to pauperism, have re-acted

with the effect of a full justification upon Constantine's attempt to

connect the foundation of his empire with that new theory of

Christianity upon the imperishableness of poverty, and upon the duties

corresponding to it.

Meantime Mr Finlay denies that Christianity had been raised by

Constantine into the religion of the state; and others have denied that,

in the extensive money privileges conceded to Constantinople, he

contemplated any but political principles. As to the first point, we

apprehend that Constantine will be found not so much to have shrunk back

in fear from installing Christianity in the seat of supremacy, as to

have diverged in policy from our modern _methods_ of such an

installation. Our belief is, that according to _his_ notion of a state

religion, he supposed himself to have conferred that distinction upon

Christianity. With respect to the endowments and privileges of

Constantinople, they were various; some lay in positive donations,

others in immunities and exemptions; some again were designed to attract

strangers, others to attract nobles from old Rome. But, with fuller

opportunities for pursuing that discussion, we think it would be easy to

show, that in more than one of his institutions and his decrees he had

contemplated the special advantage of the poor as such; and that, next

after the august distinction of having founded the first Christian

throne, he had meant to challenge and fix the gaze of future ages upon

this glorious pretension--that he first had executed the scriptural

injunction to make a provision for the poor, as an order of society that

by laws immutable should "never cease out of the land."

_Secondly_, Let us advert to the value and functions of Constantinople

as the tutelary genius of western or dawning Christianity.

The history of Constantinople, or more generally of the Eastern Roman

empire, wears a peculiar interest to the children of Christendom; and

for two separate reasons--_first_, as being the narrow isthmus or bridge

which connects the two continents of ancient and modern history, and

_that_ is a philosophic interest; but, _secondly_ which in the very

highest degree is a practical interest, as the record of our earthly

salvation from Mahometanism. On two horns was Europe assaulted by the

Moslems; first, last, and through the largest tract of time, on the horn

of Constantinople; there the contest raged for more than eight hundred

years, and by the time that the mighty bulwark fell (1453,) Vienna and

other cities upon or near the Danube had found leisure for growing up;

so that, if one range of Alps had slowly been surmounted, another had

now slowly reared and embattled itself against the westward progress of

the Crescent. On the western horn, _in_ France, but _by_ Germans, once

for all Charles Martel had arrested the progress of the fanatical Moslem

almost in a single battle; certainly a single generation saw the whole

danger dispersed, inasmuch as within that space the Saracens were

effectually forced back into their original Spanish lair. This

demonstrates pretty forcibly the difference of the Mahometan resources

as applied to the western and the eastern struggle. To throw the whole

weight of that difference, a difference in the result as between eight

centuries and thirty years, upon the mere difference of energy in German

and Byzantine forces, as though the first did, by a rapturous fervour,

in a few revolutions of summer what the other had protracted through

nearly a millennium, is a representation which defeats itself by its own

extravagance. To prove too much is more dangerous than to prove too

little. The fact is, that vast armies and mighty nations were

continually disposable for the war upon the city of Constantine; nations

had time to arise in juvenile vigour, to grow old and superannuated, to

melt away, and totally to disappear, in that long struggle on the

Hellespont and Propontis. It was a struggle which might often intermit

and slumber; armistices there might be, truces, or unproclaimed

suspensions of war out of mutual exhaustion, but peace there could _not_

be, because any resting from the duty of hatred towards those who

reciprocally seemed to lay the foundations of their creed in a

dishonouring of God, was impossible to aspiring human nature. Malice and

mutual hatred, we repeat, became a duty in those circumstances. Why had

they _begun_ to fight? Personal feuds there had been none between the

parties. For the early caliphs did not conquer Syria and other vast

provinces of the Roman empire, because they had a quarrel with the

Caesars who represented Christendom; but, on the contrary, they had a

quarrel with the Caesars because they had conquered Syria, or, at the

most, the conquest and the feud (if not always lying in that exact

succession as cause and effect) were joint effects from a common cause,

which cause was imperishable as death, or the ocean, and as deep as are

the fountains of animal life. Could the ocean be altered by a sea fight?

or the atmosphere be tainted for ever by an earthquake? As little could

any single reign or its events affect the feud of the Moslem and the

Christian; a feud which could not cease unless God could change, or

unless man (becoming careless of spiritual things) should sink to the

level of a brute.

These are considerations of great importance in weighing the value of

the Eastern Empire. If the cause and interest of Islamism, as against

Christianity, were undying--then we may be assured that the Moorish

infidels of Spain did not reiterate their trans-Pyrenean expeditions

after one generation--simply because they _could_ not. But we know that

on the south-eastern horn of Europe they _could_, upon the plain

argument that for many centuries they _did_. Over and above this, we are

of opinion that the Saracens were unequal to the sort of hardships bred

by cold climates; and there lay another repulsion for Saracens from

France, &c., and not merely the Carlovingian sword. We children of

Christendom show our innate superiority to the children of the Orient

upon this scale or tariff of acclimatizing powers. We travel as wheat

travels through all reasonable ranges of temperature; they, like rice,

can migrate only to warm latitudes. They cannot support our cold, but we

_can_ support the countervailing hardships of their heat. This cause

alone would have weatherbound the Mussulmans for ever within the

Pyrenean cloisters. Mussulmans in cold latitudes look as blue and as

absurd as sailors on horseback. Apart from which cause, we see that the

fine old Visigothic races in Spain found them full employment up to the

reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, which reign first created a kingdom of

Spain; in that reign the whole fabric of their power thawed away, and

was confounded with forgotten things. Columbus, according to a local

tradition, was personally present at some of the latter campaigns in

Grenada: he saw the last of them. So that the discovery of America may

be used as a convertible date with that of extinction for the Saracen

power in western Europe. True that the overthrow of Constantinople had

forerun this event by nearly half a century. But then we insist upon the

different proportions of the struggle. Whilst in Spain a province had

fought against a province, all Asia militant had fought against the

eastern Roman empire. Amongst the many races whom dimly we descry in

those shadowy hosts, tilting for ages in the vast plains of Angora, are

seen, latterly pressing on to the van, two mighty powers, the children

of Persia and the Ottoman family of the Turks. Upon these nations, both

now rapidly decaying, the faith of Mahomet has ever leaned as upon her

eldest sons; and these powers the Byzantine Caesars had to face in every

phasis of their energy, as it revolved from perfect barbarism, through

semi-barbarism, to that crude form of civilization which Mahometans can

support. And through all these transmigrations of their power we must

remember that they were under a martial training and discipline, never

suffered to become effeminate. One set of warriors after another _did_,

it is true, become effeminate in Persia: but upon that advantage

opening, always another set stepped in from Torkistan or from the Imaus.

The nation, the individuals melted away; the Moslem armies were

immortal.

Here, therefore, it is, and standing at this point of our review, that

we complain of Mr Finlay's too facile compliance with historians far

beneath himself. He has a fine understanding: oftentimes his

commentaries on the past are ebullient with subtlety; and his fault

strikes us as lying even in the excess of his sagacity applying itself

too often to a basis of facts, quite insufficient for supporting the

superincumbent weight of his speculations. But in this instance he

surrenders himself too readily to the ordinary current of history. How

would _he_ like it, if he happened to be a Turk himself, finding his

nation thus implicitly undervalued? For clearly, in undervaluing the

Byzantine resistance, he _does_ undervalue the Mahometan assault.

Advantages of local situation cannot _eternally_ make good the

deficiencies of man. If the Byzantines (being as weak as historians

would represent them) yet for ages resisted the whole impetus of

Mahometan Asia, then it follows, either that the Crescent was

correspondingly weak, or that, not being weak, she must have found the

Cross pretty strong. The _facit_ of history does not here correspond

with the numerical items.

Nothing has ever surprised us more, we will frankly own, than this

coincidence of authors in treating the Byzantine empire as feeble and

crazy. On the contrary, to us it is clear that some secret and

preternatural strength it must have had, lurking where the eye of man

did not in those days penetrate, or by what miracle did it undertake our

universal Christian cause, fight for us all, keep the waters open from

freezing us up, and through nine centuries prevent the ice of

Mahometanism from closing over our heads for ever? Yet does Mr Finlay

(p. 424) describe this empire as labouring, in A.D. 623, equally with

Persia, under "internal weakness," and as "equally incapable of offering

any popular or national resistance to an active or enterprising enemy."

In this Mr Finlay does but agree with other able writers; but he and

they should have recollected, that hardly had that very year 623

departed, even yet the knell of its last hour was sounding upon the

winds, when this effeminate empire had occasion to show that she could

clothe herself with consuming terrors, as a belligerent both defensive

and aggressive. In the absence of her great emperor, and of the main

imperial forces, the golden capital herself, by her own resources,

routed and persecuted into wrecks a Persian army that had come down upon

her by stealth and a fraudulent circuit. Even at that same period, she

advanced into Persia more than a thousand miles from her own metropolis

in Europe, under the blazing ensigns of the cross, kicked the crown of

Persia to and fro like a tennis-ball, upset the throne of Artaxerxes,

countersigned haughtily the elevation of a new _Basileus_ more friendly

to herself, and then recrossed the Tigris homewards, after having torn

forcibly out of the heart and palpitating entrails of Persia, whatever

trophies that idolatrous empire had formerly wrested from herself. These

were not the acts of an effeminate kingdom. In the language of

Wordsworth we may say--

"All power was giv'n her in the dreadful trance;

Infidel kings she wither'd like a flame."

Indeed, no image that we remember can do justice to the first of these

acts, except that Spanish legend of the Cid, which assures us that, long

after the death of the mighty cavalier, when the children of those Moors

who had fled from his face whilst living, were insulting the marble

statue above his grave, suddenly the statue raised its right arm,

stretched out its marble lance, and drifted the heathen dogs like snow.

The mere sanctity of the Christian champion's sepulchre was its own

protection; and so we must suppose, that, when the Persian hosts came by

surprise upon Constantinople--her natural protector being absent by

three months' march--simply the golden statues of the mighty Caesars,

half rising on their thrones, must have caused that sudden panic which

dissipated the danger. Hardly fifty years later, Mr Finlay well knows

that Constantinople again stood an assault--not from a Persian hourrah,

or tempestuous surprise, but from a vast expedition, armaments by land

and sea, fitted out elaborately in the early noontide of Mahometan

vigour--and that assault, also, in the presence of the caliph and the

crescent, was gloriously discomfited. Now if, in the moment of triumph,

some voice in the innumerable crowd had cried out, "How long shall this

great Christian breakwater, against which are shattered into surge and

foam all the mountainous billows of idolaters and misbelievers, stand up

on behalf of infant Christendom?" and if from the clouds some trumpet of

prophecy had replied, "Even yet for eight hundred years!" could any man

have persuaded himself that such a fortress against such

antagonists--such a monument against a millennium of fury--was to be

classed amongst the weak things of this earth? This oriental Rome, it is

true, equally with Persia, was liable to sudden inroads and incursions.

But the difference was this--Persia was strongly protected in all ages

by the wilderness on her main western frontier; if this were passed, and

a hand-to-hand conflict succeeded, where light cavalry or fugitive

archers could be of little value, the essential weakness of the Persian

empire then betrayed itself. Her sovereign was assassinated, and peace

was obtained from the condescension of the invader. But the enemies of

Constantinople, Goths, Avars, Bulgarians, or even Persians, were strong

only by their weakness. Being contemptible, they were neglected; being

chased, they made no stand; and _thus_ only they escaped. They entered

like thieves by means of darkness, and escaped like sheep by means of

dispersion. But, if caught, they were annihilated. No; we resume our

thesis; we close this head by reiterating our correction of history; we

re-affirm our position--that in Eastern Rome lay the salvation of

Western and Central Europe; in Constantinople and the Propontis lay the

_sine-qua-non_ condition of any future Christendom. Emperor and people

_must_ have done their duty; the result, the vast extent of generations

surmounted, furnish the triumphant argument. Finally, indeed, they fell,

king and people, shepherd and flock; but by that time their mission was

fulfilled. And doubtless, as the noble Palaeologus lay on heaps of

carnage, with his noble people, as life was ebbing away, a voice from

heaven sounded in his ears the great words of the Hebrew prophet,

"Behold! YOUR WORK IS DONE; your warfare is accomplished."

III. Such, then, being the unmerited disparagement of the Byzantine

government, and so great the ingratitude of later Christendom to that

sheltering power under which themselves enjoyed the leisure of a

thousand years for knitting and expanding into strong nations; on the

other hand, what is to be thought of the Saracen revolutionists? Every

where it has passed for a lawful postulate, that the Saracen conquests

prevailed, half by the feebleness of the Roman government at

Constantinople, and half by the preternatural energy infused into the

Arabs by their false prophet and legislator. In either of its faces,

this theory is falsified by a steady review of facts. With regard to the

Saracens, Mr Finlay thinks as we do, and argues that they prevailed

through the _local_, or sometimes the _casual_, weakness of their

immediate enemies, and rarely through any strength of their own. We must

remember one fatal weakness of the Imperial administration in those

days, not due to men or to principles, but entirely to nature and the

slow growth of scientific improvements--viz. the difficulties of

locomotion. As respected Syria, Egypt, Cyrenaica, and so on to the most

western provinces of Africa, the Saracens had advantages for moving

rapidly which the Caesar had not. But is not a water movement speedier

than a land movement, which for an army never has much exceeded fourteen

miles a-day? Certainly it is; but in this case there were two desperate

defects in the Imperial control over that water service. To use a fleet,

you must have a fleet; but their whole naval interest had been starved

by the intolerable costs of the Persian war. Immense had been the

expenses of Heraclius, and annually decaying had been his Asiatic

revenues. Secondly, the original position of the Arabs had been better

than that of the emperor, in every stage of the warfare which so

suddenly arose. In Arabia they stood nearest to Syria, in Syria nearest

to Egypt, in Egypt nearest to Cyrenaica. What reason had there been for

expecting a martial legislator at that moment in Arabia, who should fuse

and sternly combine her distracted tribes? What blame, therefore, to

Heraclius, that Syria--the first object of assault, being also by much

the weakest part of the empire, and immediately after the close of a

desolating war--should in four campaigns be found indefensible? We must

remember the unexampled abruptness of the Arabian revolution. The year

622, by its very name of Hegira, does not record a triumph but a

humiliation. In that year, therefore, and at the very moment when

Heraclius was entering upon his long Persian struggle, Mahomet was yet

prostrate, and his destiny was doubtful. Eleven years after, viz. in

633, the prophet was dead and gone; but his first successor was already

in Syria as a conqueror. Such had been the velocity of events. The

Persian war had then been finished by three years, but the exhaustion of

the empire had perhaps, at that moment, reached its maximum. We are

satisfied, that ten years' repose from this extreme state of collapse

would have shown us another result. Even as it was, and caught at this

enormous disadvantage, Heraclius taught the robbers to tremble, and

would have exterminated them, if not baffled by two irremediable

calamities, neither of them due to any act or neglect of his own. The

first lay in the treason of his lieutenants. The governors of Damascus,

of Aleppo, of Emesa, of Bostra, of Kinnisrin, all proved traitors. The

root of this evil lay, probably, in the disorders following the Persian

invasion, which had made it the perilous interest of the emperor to

appoint great officers from amongst those who had a local influence.

Such persons it might have been ruinous too suddenly to set aside, as,

in the event, it proved ruinous to employ them. A dilemma of this kind,

offering but a choice of evils, belonged to the nature of any Persian

war; and that particular war was bequeathed to Heraclius by the

mismanagement of his predecessors. But the second calamity was even more

fatal; it lay in the composition of the Syrian population, and its

original want of vital cohesion. For no purpose could this population be

united: they formed a rope of sand. There was the distraction of

religion, (Jacobites, Nestorians, &c.;) there was the distraction of

races--slaves and masters, conquered and conquerors, modern intruders

mixed, but not blended with, aboriginal mountaineers. Property became

the one principle of choice between the two governments. Where was

protection to be had for _that_? Barbarous as were the Arabs, they saw

their present advantage. Often it would happen from the position of the

armies, that they could, whilst the emperor could not, guarantee the

instant security of land or of personal treasures; the Arabs could also

promise, sometimes, a total immunity from taxes, very often a diminished

scale of taxation, always a remission of arrears; none of which demands

could be listened to by the emperor, partly on account of the public

necessities, partly from jealousy of establishing operative precedents.

For religion, again, protection was more easily obtained in that day

from the Arab, who made war on Christianity, than from the Byzantine

emperor, who was its champion. What were the different sects and

subdivisions of Christianity to the barbarian? Monophysite, Monothelite,

Eutychian, or Jacobite, all were to him as the scholastic disputes of

noble and intellectual Europe to the camps of gypsies. The Arab felt

himself to be the depository of one sublime truth, the unity of God. His

mission therefore, was principally against idolaters. Yet even to _them_

his policy was to sell toleration for tribute. Clearly, as Mr Finlay

hints, this was merely a provisional moderation, meant to be laid aside

when sufficient power was obtained; and it _was_ laid aside, in after

ages, by many a wretch like Timour or Nadir Shah. Religion, therefore,

and property once secured, what more had the Syrians to seek? And if to

these advantages for the Saracens we add the fact, that a considerable

Arab population was dispersed through Syria, who became so many

emissaries, spies, and decoys for their countrymen, it does great honour

to the emperor, that through so many campaigns he should at all have

maintained his ground, which at last he resigned only under the

despondency caused by almost universal treachery.

The Saracens, therefore, had no great merit even in their earliest

exploits; and the _impetus_ of their movement forwards, that principle

of proselytism which carried them so strongly "ahead" through a few

generations, was very soon brought to a stop. Mr Finlay, in our mind,

does right to class these barbarians as "socially and politically little

better than the Gothic, Hunnish, and Avar monarchies." But, on

consideration, the Gothic monarchy embosomed the germs of a noble

civilization; whereas the Saracens have never propagated great

principles of any kind, nor attained even a momentary grandeur in their

institutions, except where coalescing with a higher or more ancient

civilization.

Meantime, ascending from the earliest Mahometans to their prophet, what

are we to think of _him_? Was Mahomet a great man? We think not. The

case was thus: the Arabian tribes had long stood ready, like dogs held

in a leash, for a start after distant game. It was not Mahomet who gave

them that impulse. But next, what was it that had hindered the Arab

tribes from obeying the impulse? Simply this, that they were always in

feud with each other; so that their expeditions, beginning in harmony,

were sure to break up in anger on the road. What they needed was, some

one grand compressing and unifying principle, such as the Roman found in

the destinies of his city. True; but this, you say, they found in the

sublime principle that God was one, and had appointed them to be the

scourges of all who denied it. Their mission was to cleanse the earth

from Polytheism; and, as ambassadors from God, to tell the nations--"Ye

shall have no other gods but me." That was grand; and _that_ surely they

had from Mahomet? Perhaps so; but where did he get it? He stole it from

the Jewish Scriptures, and from the Scriptures no less than from the

traditions of the Christians. Assuredly, then, the first projecting

impetus was not impressed upon Islamism by Mahomet. This lay in a

revealed truth; and by Mahomet it was furtively translated to his own

use from those oracles which held it in keeping. But possibly, if not

the _principle_ of motion, yet at least the steady conservation of this

motion was secured to Islamism by Mahomet. Granting (you will say) that

the launch of this religion might be due to an alien inspiration, yet

still the steady movement onwards of this religion through some

centuries, might be due exclusively to the code of laws bequeathed by

Mahomet in the Koran. And this has been the opinion of many European

scholars. They fancy that Mahomet, however worldly and sensual as the

founder of a pretended revelation, was wise in the wisdom of this world;

and that, if ridiculous as a prophet, he was worthy of veneration as a

statesman. He legislated well and presciently, they imagine, for the

interests of a remote posterity. Now, upon that question let us hear Mr

Finlay. He, when commenting upon the steady resistance offered to the

Saracens by the African Christians of the seventh and eighth

centuries--a resistance which terminated disastrously for both

sides--the poor Christians being exterminated, and the Moslem invaders

being robbed of an indigenous working population, naturally enquires

what it was that led to so tragical a result? The Christian natives of

those provinces were, in a political condition, little favourable to

belligerent efforts; and there cannot be much doubt, that, with any

wisdom or any forbearance on the part of the intruders, both parties

might soon have settled down into a pacific compromise of their feuds.

Instead of this, the cimeter was invoked and worshipped as the sole

possible arbitrator; and truce there was none until the silence of

desolation brooded over those once fertile fields. How savage was the

fanaticism, and how blind the worldly wisdom, which could have

co-operated to such a result! The cause must have lain in the

unaccommodating nature of the Mahometan institutions, in the bigotry of

the Mahometan leaders, and in the defect of expansive views on the part

of their legislator. He had not provided even for other climates than

that of his own sweltering sty in the Hedjas, or for manners more

polished, or for institutions more philosophic, than those of his own

sun-baked Ishmaelites. "The construction of the political government of

the Saracen empire"--says Mr Finlay, (p. 462-3)--"was imperfect, and

shows that Mahomet had neither contemplated extensive foreign conquests,

nor devoted the energies of his powerful mind to the consideration of

the questions of administration which would arise out of the difficult

task of ruling a numerous and wealthy population, possessed of property,

but deprived of civil rights." He then shows how the whole power of the

state settled into the hands of a chief priest--systematically

irresponsible. When, therefore, that momentary state of responsibility

had passed away, which was created (like the state of martial law) "by

national feelings, military companionship, and exalted enthusiasm," the

administration of the caliphs became "far more oppressive than that of

the Roman empire." It is in fact an insult to the majestic Romans, if we

should place them seriously in the balance with savages like the

Saracens. The Romans were essentially the leaders of civilization,

according to the possibilities then existing; for their earliest usages

and social forms involved a high civilization, whilst promising a

higher: whereas all Moslem nations have described a petty arch of

national civility--soon reaching its apex, and rapidly barbarizing

backwards. This fatal gravitation towards decay and decomposition in

Mahometan institutions, which, at this day, exhibits to the gaze of

mankind one uniform spectacle of Mahometan ruins, all the great Moslem

nations being already in a _Strulbrug_ state, and held erect only by the

colossal support of Christian powers, could not, as a _reversionary_

evil, have been healed by the Arabian prophet. His own religious

principles would have prevented _that_, for they offer a permanent

bounty on sensuality; so that every man who serves a Mahometan state

faithfully and brilliantly at twenty-five, is incapacitated at

thirty-five for any further service, by the very nature of the rewards

which he receives from the state. Within a very few years, every public

servant is usually emasculated by that unlimited voluptuousness which

equally the Moslem princes and the common Prophet of all Moslems

countenance as the proper object of human pursuit. Here is the mortal

ulcer of Islamism, which can never cleanse itself from death and the

odour of death. A political ulcer would or might have found restoration

for itself; but this ulcer is higher and deeper:--it lies in the

religion, which is incapable of reform: it is an ulcer reaching as high

as the paradise which Islamism promises, and deep as the hell which it

creates. We repeat, that Mahomet could not effectually have neutralized

a poison which he himself had introduced into the circulation and

life-blood of his Moslem economy. The false prophet was forced to reap

as he had sown. But an evil which is certain, may be retarded; and

ravages which tend finally to confusion, may be limited for many

generations. Now, in the case of the African provincials which we have

noticed, we see an original incapacity of Islamism, even in its palmy

condition, for amalgamating with any _superior_ culture. And the

specific action of Mahometanism in the African case, as contrasted with

the Roman economy which it supplanted, is thus exhibited by Mr Finlay in

a most instructive passage, where every negation on the Mahometan side

is made to suggest the countervailing usage positively on the side of

the Romans. O children of Romulus! how noble do you appear when thus

fiercely contrasted with the wild boars who desolated your vineyards!

"No local magistrates elected by the people, and no parish priests

connected by their feelings and interests both with their superiors and

inferiors, bound society together by common ties; and no system of legal

administration, independent of the military and financial authorities,

preserved the property of the people from the rapacity of the

government."

Such, we are to understand, was _not_ the Mahometan system: such _had_

been the system of Rome. "Socially and politically," proceeds the

passage, "the Saracen empire was little better than the Gothic, Hunnish,

and Avar monarchies; and that it proved more durable, with almost equal

oppression, is to be attributed to the powerful enthusiasm of Mahomet's

religion, which tempered for some time its avarice and tyranny." The

same sentiment is repeated still more emphatically at p. 468--"The

political policy of the Saracens was of itself utterly barbarous; and it

only caught a passing gleam of justice from the religious feeling of

their prophet's doctrines."

Thus far, therefore, it appears that Mahometanism is not much indebted

to its too famous founder: it owes to him a principle, viz. the unity of

God, which, merely through a capital blunder, it fancies peculiar to

itself. Nothing but the grossest ignorance in Mahomet, nothing but the

grossest non-acquaintance with Greek authors on the part of the Arabs,

could have created or sustained the delusion current amongst that

illiterate people--that it was themselves only who rejected Polytheism.

Had but one amongst the personal enemies of Mahomet been acquainted with

Greek, _there_ was an end of the new religion in the first moon of its

existence. Once open the eyes of Arabs to the fact, that Christians had

anticipated them in this great truth of the divine unity, and

Mahometanism could only have ranked as a subdivision of Christianity.

Mahomet would have ranked only as a Christian heresiarch or schismatic;

such as Nestorius or Marcian at one time, such as Arius or Pelagius at

another. In his character of _theologian_, therefore, Mahomet was simply

the most memorable of blunderers, supported in his blunders by the most

unlettered of nations. In his other character of _legislator_, we have

seen, that already the earliest stages of Mahometan experience exposed

decisively his ruinous imbecility. Where a rude tribe offered no

resistance to his system, for the simple reason that their barbarism

suggested no motive for resistance, it could be no honour to prevail.

And where, on the other hand, a higher civilization had furnished strong

points of repulsion to his system, it appears plainly that this

pretended apostle of social improvement had devised or hinted no readier

mode of conciliation than by putting to the sword all dissentients. He

starts as a theological reformer, with a fancied defiance to the world

which was no defiance at all, being exactly what Christians had believed

for six centuries, and Jews for six-and-twenty. He starts as a political

reformer, with a fancied conciliation to the world which was no

conciliation at all, but was sure to provoke imperishable hostility

wheresoever it had any effect at all.

We have thus reviewed some of the more splendid aspects connected with

Mr Finlay's theme; but that theme, in its entire compass, is worthy of a

far more extended investigation than our own limits will allow, or than

the historical curiosity of the world (misdirected here as in so many

other cases) has hitherto demanded. The Greek race, suffering a long

occultation under the blaze of the Roman empire, into which for a time

it had been absorbed, but again emerging from this blaze and reassuming

a distinct Greek agency and influence, offers a subject great by its own

inherent attractions, and separately interesting by the unaccountable

neglect which it has suffered. To have overlooked this subject, is one

amongst the capital oversights of Gibbon. To have rescued it from utter

oblivion, and to have traced an outline for its better illumination, is

the peculiar merit of Mr Finlay. His greatest fault is to have been

careless or slovenly in the niceties of classical and philological

precision. His greatest praise, and a very great one indeed, is--to have

thrown the light of an _original_ philosophic sagacity upon a neglected

province of history, indispensable to the _arrondissement_ of Pagan

archaeology.

FOOTNOTES:

{A} _Greece under the Romans._ BY GEORGE FINLAY, K.R.G. William Blackwood

& Sons. Edinburgh and London. 1844.

{B} "_With scorn._"--This has arisen from two causes: one is the habit of

regarding the whole Roman empire as in its "decline" from so early a

period as that of Commodus; agreeably to which conceit, it would

naturally follow that, during its latter stages, the Eastern empire must

have been absolutely in its dotage. If already declining in the second

century, then, from the tenth to the fifteenth it must have been

paralytic and bed-ridden. The other cause may be found in the accidental

but reasonable hostility of the Byzantine court to the first Crusaders,

as also in the disadvantageous comparison with respect to manly virtues

between the simplicity of these western children, and the refined

dissimulation of the Byzantines.

* * * * *

_Edinburgh: Printed by Ballantyne and Hughes, Paul's Work._