CHAPTER XV.

Transcriber's note:

Spelling and punctuation are sometimes erratic. A few obvious

misprints have been corrected, but in general the original spelling

and typesetting conventions have been retained. Accents are

inconsistent, and have not been standardised.

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.

BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

NO. CCCXCIV. AUGUST, 1848. VOL. LXIV.

CONTENTS.

LIFE IN THE "FAR WEST." PART III. 129

ART--ITS PROSPECTS. CLEGHORN'S ANCIENT AND MODERN ART 145

KAFFIRLAND. 158

THE CAXTONS. PART V. 171

MODERN TOURISM. 185

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND TWELVE. 190

THE BLUE DRAGOON. 207

LAURELS AND LAUREATES. 220

THE HORSE-DEALER. 232

SKETCHES IN PARIS. 248

EDINBURGH:

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, 45, GEORGE STREET;

AND 37, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.

_To whom all Communications (post paid) must be addressed._

SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.

LIFE IN THE "FAR WEST."

PART III.

La Bonté and his companions proceeded up the river, the Black Hills on

their left hand, from which several small creeks or feeders swell the

waters of the North Fork. Along these they hunted unsuccessfully for

beaver "sign," and it was evident that the spring hunt had almost

entirely exterminated the animal from this vicinity. Following Deer

Creek to the ridge of the Black Hills, they crossed the mountain on to

the waters of the Medicine Bow, and here they discovered a few lodges,

and La Bonté set his first trap. He and old Luke finding "cuttings"

near the camp, followed the "sign" along the bank until the practised

eye of the latter discovered a "slide," where the beaver had ascended

the bank to chop the trunk of a cotton wood, and convey the bark to

its lodge. Taking a trap from "sack," the old hunter after "setting"

the "trigger," placed it carefully under the water, where the "slide"

entered the stream, securing the chain to the stem of a sappling on

the bank; while a stick, also attached to the trap by a thong, floated

down the stream, to mark the position of the trap, should the animal

carry it away. A little farther on, and near another "run," three

traps were set; and over these Luke placed a little stick, which he

first dipped into a mysterious-looking phial which contained his

"medicine."[1]

[1] A substance obtained from a gland in the scrotum of the beaver,

and used to attract that animal to the trap.

The next morning they visited the traps, and had the satisfaction of

finding three fine beaver secured in the first three they visited, and

the fourth, which had been carried away, they discovered by the

floatstick, a little distance down the stream, with a large drowned

beaver between its teeth.

The animals being carefully skinned, they returned to camp with the

choicest portions of the meat, and the tails, on which they most

luxuriously supped; and La Bonté was fain to confess that all his

ideas of the superexcellence of buffalo were thrown in the shade by

the delicious beaver tail, the rich meat of which he was compelled to

allow was "great eating," unsurpassed by "tender loin" or "boudin," or

other meat of whatever kind he had eaten of before.

The country where La Bonté and his companions were trapping, is very

curiously situated in the extensive bend of the Platte which encloses

the Black Hill range on the north, and which bounds the large expanse

of broken tract known as the Laramie Plains, their southern limit

being the base of the Medicine Bow Mountains. From the north-western

corner of the bend, an inconsiderable range extends to the westward,

gradually decreasing in height until they reach an elevated plain,

which forms a break in the stupendous chain of the Rocky Mountains,

and affords their easy passage, now known as the Great, or South Pass.

So gradual is the ascent of this portion of the mountain, that the

traveller can scarcely believe that he is crossing the dividing ridge

between the waters which flow into the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans,

and in a few minutes can fling a stick into two neighbouring streams,

one of which would be carried thousands of miles, which the eastern

waters traverse in their course to the Gulf of Mexico, the other,

borne a lesser distance, to the Gulf of California.

The country is frequented by the Crows and Snakes, who are at

perpetual war with the Shians and Sioux, following them often far down

the Platte, where many bloody battles have taken place. The Crows are

esteemed friendly to the whites; but when on war expeditions, and

"hair" their object, it is always dangerous to fall in with Indian

war-parties, and particularly in the remote regions of the mountains,

where they do not anticipate retaliation.

Trapping with tolerable success in this vicinity, as soon as the

premonitory storms of approaching winter warned them to leave the

mountains, they crossed over to the waters of Green River, one of the

affluents of the Colorado, intending to winter at a rendezvous to be

held in "Brown's Hole"--an enclosed valley so called, which, abounding

in game, and sheltered on every side by lofty mountains, is a

favourite wintering-ground of the mountaineers. Here they found

several trapping bands already arrived; and a trader from the Uintah

country, with store of powder, lead, and tobacco, prepared to ease

them of their hardly earned peltries.

In bands numbering from two to ten, and singly, the trappers dropped

into the rendezvous; some with many pack-loads of beaver, others with

greater or less quantity, and more than one came in on foot, having

lost his animals and peltry by Indian thieving. Here were soon

congregated many mountaineers, whose names are famous in the history

of the Far West. Fitzpatrick and Hatcher, and old Bill Williams, with

their bands, well-known leaders of trapping parties, soon arrived.

Sublette came in with his men from Yellow Stone, and many of Wyeth's

New Englanders were there. Chábonard with his half-breeds, Wahkeitchas

all, brought his peltries from the lower country; and half-a-dozen

Shawanee and Delaware Indians, with a Mexican from Taos, one

Marcellin, a fine strapping fellow, the best trapper and hunter in the

mountains, and ever first in the fight. Here, too, arrived the

"Bourgeois" traders of the "North West"[2] Company, with their

superior equipments, ready to meet their trappers, and purchase the

beaver at an equitable value; and soon the encampment began to assume

a busy appearance when the trade opened.

[2] The Hudson's Bay Company is so called by the American trappers.

A curious assemblage did the rendezvous present, and representatives

of many a land met there. A son of _La belle France_ here lit his pipe

from one proffered by a native of New Mexico. An Englishman and a

Sandwich islander cut a quid from the same plug of tobacco. A Swede

and an "old Virginian" puffed together. A Shawanee blew a peaceful

cloud with a scion of the "Six Nations." One from the Land of Cakes--a

canny chiel--sought to "get round" (in trade) a right "smart" Yankee,

but couldn't "shine."

The beaver went briskly, six dollars being the price paid per lb. in

goods--for money is seldom given in the mountain market, where

"beaver" is cash for which the articles supplied by the traders are

bartered. In a very short time peltries of every description had

changed hands, either by trade, or gambling with cards and betting.

With the mountain men bets decide every question that is raised, even

the most trivial; and if the Editor of _Bell's Life_ was to pay one of

these rendezvous a winter visit, he would find the broad sheet of his

paper hardly capacious enough to answer all the questions which would

be referred to his decision.

Before the winter was over, La Bonté had lost all traces of civilised

humanity, and might justly claim to be considered as "hard a case" as

any of the mountaineers then present. Long before the spring opened,

he had lost all the produce of his hunt and both his animals, which,

however, by a stroke of luck, he recovered, and wisely "held on to"

for the future. Right glad when spring appeared, he started from

Brown's Hole, with four companions, to hunt the Uintah or Snake

country, and the affluents of the larger streams which rise in that

region and fall into the Gulf of California.

In the valley of the Bear River they found beaver abundant, and

trapped their way westward until they came upon the famed locality of

the Beer and Soda Springs--natural fountains of mineral water,

renowned amongst the trappers as being "medicine" of the first order.

Arriving one evening, about sundown, at the Beer Spring, they found a

solitary trapper sitting over the rocky basin, intently regarding, and

with no little awe, the curious phenomenon of the bubbling gas. Behind

him were piled his saddles and a pack of skins, and at a little

distance a hobbled Indian pony was feeding amongst the cedars which

formed a little grove round the spring. As the three hunters

dismounted from their animals, the lone trapper scarcely noticed their

arrival, his eyes being still intently fixed upon the water. Looking

round at last, he was instantly recognised by one of La Bonté's

companions, and saluted as "Old Rube." Dressed from head to foot in

buckskin, his face, neck, and hands appeared to be of the same

leathery texture, so nearly did they assimilate in colour to the

materials of his dress. He was at least six feet two or three in his

mocassins, straight-limbed and wiry, with long arms ending in hands of

tremendous grasp, and a quantity of straight black hair hanging on his

shoulders. His features, which were undeniably good, wore an

expression of comical gravity, never relaxing into a smile, which a

broad good-humoured mouth could have grinned from ear to ear.

"What, boys," he said, "will you be simple enough to camp here,

alongside these springs? Nothing good ever came of sleeping here, I

tell you, and the worst kind of devils are in those dancing waters."

"Why, old hos," cried La Bonté, "what brings you hyar then, and camp

at that?"

"This niggur," answered Rube solemnly, "has been down'd upon a sight

too often to be skeared by what can come out from them waters; and

thar arn't a devil as hisses thar, as can 'shine' with this child, I

tell you. I've tried him onest, an' fout him to clawin' away to

Eustis,[3] and if I draws my knife agin on such varmint, I'll raise

his hair, as sure as shootin'."

[3] A small lake near the head waters of the Yellow Stone, near which

are some curious thermal springs of ink-black water.

Spite of the reputed dangers of the locality, the trappers camped on

the spot, and many a draught of the delicious sparkling water they

quaffed in honour of the "medicine" of the fount. Rube, however, sat

sulky and silent, his huge form bending over his legs, which were

crossed, Indian fashion, under him, and his long bony fingers spread

over the fire, which had been made handy to the spring. At last they

elicited from him that he had sought this spot for the purpose of

"_making medicine_," having been persecuted by extraordinary ill luck,

even at this early period of his hunt,--the Indians having stolen two

out of his three animals, and three of his half-dozen traps. He had,

therefore, sought the springs for the purpose of invoking the fountain

spirits, which, a perfect Indian in his simple heart, he implicitly

believed to inhabit their mysterious waters. When the others had, as

he thought, fallen asleep, La Bonté observed the ill-starred trapper

take from his pouch a curiously carved red stone pipe, which he

carefully charged with tobacco and kinnik-kinnik. Then approaching the

spring, he walked three times round it, and gravely sat himself down.

Striking fire with his flint and steel, he lit his pipe, and, bending

the stem three several times towards the water, he inhaled a vast

quantity of smoke, and, bending back his neck and looking upwards,

puffed it into the air. He then blew another puff towards the four

points of the compass, and emptying the pipe into his hand, cast the

consecrated contents into the spring, saying a few Indian "medicine"

words of cabalistic import. Having performed the ceremony to his

satisfaction, he returned to the fire, smoked a pipe on his own hook,

and turned into his buffalo robe, conscious of having done a most

important duty.

In the course of their trapping expedition, and accompanied by Rube,

who knew the country well, they passed near the vicinity of the Great

Salt Lake, a vast inland sea, whose salitrose waters cover an extent

of upwards of one hundred and forty miles in length, by eighty in

breadth. Fed by several streams, of which the Big Bear River is the

most considerable, this lake presents the curious phenomenon of a vast

body of water without any known outlet. According to the trappers, an

island, from which rises a chain of lofty mountains, nearly divides

the north-western portion of the lake, whilst a smaller one, within

twelve miles of the northern shore, rises six hundred feet from the

level of the water. Rube declared to his companions that the larger

island was known by the Indians to be inhabited by a race of giants,

with whom no communication had ever been held by mortal man; and but

for the casual wafting to the shores of the lake of logs of gigantic

trees, cut by axes of extraordinary size, the world would never have

known that such a people existed. They were, moreover, white, as

themselves, and lived upon corn and fruits, and rode on elephants, &c.

Whilst following a small creek at the south-west extremity of the

lake, they came upon a band of miserable Indians, who, from the fact

of their subsisting chiefly on roots, are called the Diggers. At first

sight of the whites, they immediately fled from their wretched huts,

and made towards the mountain; but one of the trappers, galloping up

on his horse, cut off their retreat, and drove them like sheep before

him back to their village. A few of these wretched creatures came into

camp at sundown, and were regaled, with such meat as the larder

afforded. They appeared to have no other food in their village but

bags of dried ants and their larvæ, and a few roots of the yampah.

Their huts were constructed of a few bushes of grease-wood, piled up

as a sort of breakwind, in which they huddled in their filthy skins.

During the night, they crawled up to the camp and stole two of the

horses, and the next morning not a sign of them was visible. Now La

Bonté witnessed a case of mountain law, and the practical effects of

the "lex talionis" of the Far West.

The trail of the runaway Diggers bore to the north-west, or along the

skirt of a barren waterless desert, which stretches far away from the

southern shores of the Salt Lake to the borders of Upper California.

La Bonté, with three others, determined to follow the thieves, recover

their animals, and then rejoin the other two (Luke and Rube) on a

creek two days' journey from their present camp. Starting at sunrise,

they rode on at a rapid pace all day, closely following the trail,

which led directly to the north-west, through a wretched sandy

country, without game or water. From the appearance of the track, the

Indians must still have been several hours ahead of them, when the

fatigue of their horses, suffering from want of grass and water,

compelled them to camp near the head of a small water-course, where

they luckily found a hole containing a little water, and whence a

broad Indian trail passed, apparently frequently used. Long before

daylight they were again in the saddle, and, after proceeding a few

miles, saw the lights of several fires a short distance ahead of them.

Halting here, one of the party advanced on foot to reconnoitre, and

presently returned with the intelligence that the party they were in

pursuit of had joined a village numbering thirty or forty huts.

Loosening their girths, they permitted their tired animals to feed on

the scanty herbage which presented itself, whilst they refreshed

themselves with a pipe of tobacco--for they had no meat of any

description with them, and the country afforded no game. As the first

streak of dawn appeared in the east, they mounted their horses, after

first examining their rifles, and moved cautiously towards the Indian

village. As it was scarcely light enough for their operations, they

waited behind a sandhill in the vicinity, until objects became more

distinct, and then, emerging from their cover with loud war-whoops,

they charged abreast into the midst of the village.

As the frightened Indians were scarcely risen from their beds, no

opposition was given to the daring mountaineers, who, rushing upon the

flying crowd, discharged their rifles at close quarters, and then,

springing from their horses, attacked them knife in hand, and only

ceased the work of butchery when nine Indians lay dead upon the

ground. All this time the women, half dead with fright, were huddled

together on the ground, howling piteously; and the mountaineers

advancing to them, whirled their lassos round their heads, and

throwing the open nooses into the midst, hauled out three of them, and

securing their arms in the rope, bound them to a tree, and then

proceeded to scalp the dead bodies. Whilst they were engaged in this

work, an old Indian, withered and grisly, and hardly bigger than an

ape, suddenly emerged from a rock, holding in his left hand a bow and

a handful of arrows, whilst one was already drawn to the head. Running

towards them, and almost before the hunters were aware of his

presence, he discharged an arrow at a few yards' distance, which

buried itself in the ground not a foot from La Bonté's head as he bent

over the body of the Indian he was scalping; and hardly had the whiz

ceased, when whirr flew another, striking him in his right shoulder.

Before the Indian could fit a third arrow to his bow, La Bonté sprang

upon him, seized him by the middle, and spinning the pigmy form of the

Indian round his head, as easily as he would have twirled a tomahawk,

he threw him with tremendous force on the ground at the feet of one of

his companions, who, stooping down, coolly thrust his knife into the

Indian's breast, and quickly tore off his scalp.

The slaughter over, without casting an eye to the captive squaws, the

trappers proceeded to search the village for food, of which they stood

much in need. Nothing, however, was found but a few bags of dried

ants, which, after eating voraciously of, but with wry mouths, they

threw aside, saying the food was worse than "poor bull." They found,

however, the animals they had been robbed of, and two more

besides,--wretched half-starved creatures; and on these mounting their

captives, they hurried away on their journey back to their companions,

the distance being computed at three days' travel from their present

position. However, they thought, by taking a more direct course, they

might find better pasture for their animals, and water, besides saving

at least half a day by the short cut. To their cost, they proved the

truth of the old saying, that "a short cut is always a long road," as

will be presently shown.

It has been said that from the south-western extremity of the Great

Salt Lake a vast desert extends for hundreds of miles, unbroken by the

slightest vegetation, destitute of game and water, and presenting a

cheerless expanse of sandy plain, or rugged mountain, thinly covered

with dwarf pine or cedar, the only evidence of vegetable life. Into

this desert, ignorant of the country, the trappers struck, intending

to make their short cut; and, travelling on all day, were compelled to

camp at night, without water or pasture for their exhausted animals,

and themselves ravenous with hunger and parched with thirst. The next

day three of their animals "gave out," and they were fain to leave

them behind; but imagining that they must soon strike a creek, they

pushed on until noon, but still no water presented itself, nor a sign

of game of any description. The animals were nearly exhausted, and a

horse which could scarcely keep up with the slow pace of the others

was killed, and its blood greedily drunk; a portion of the flesh being

eaten raw, and a supply carried with them for future emergencies.

The next morning two of the horses lay dead at their pickets, and one

only remained, and this in such a miserable state that it could not

possibly have travelled six miles further. It was, therefore, killed,

and its blood drunk, of which, however, the captive squaws refused to

partake. The men began to feel the effects of their consuming thirst,

which the hot horse's blood only served to increase; their lips became

parched and swollen, their eyes bloodshot, and a giddy sickness seized

them at intervals. About mid-day they came in sight of a mountain on

their right hand, which appeared to be more thickly clothed with

vegetation; and arguing from this that water would be found there,

they left their course and made towards it, although some eight or ten

miles distant. On arriving at the base, the most minute search failed

to discover the slightest traces of water, and the vegetation merely

consisted of dwarf piñon and cedar. With their sufferings increased by

the exertions they had used in reaching the mountain, they once more

sought the trail, but every step told on their exhausted frames. The

sun was very powerful, the sand over which they were floundering deep

and heavy, and, to complete their sufferings, a high wind was blowing

it in their faces, filling their mouths and noses with its searching

particles.

Still they struggled onwards manfully, and not a murmur was heard

until their hunger had entered the _second stage_ attendant upon

starvation. They had now been three days without food, and three

without water; under which privation nature can hardly sustain herself

for a much longer period. On the fourth morning, the men looked

wolfish, their captives following behind in sullen and perfect

indifference, occasionally stooping down to catch a beetle if one

presented itself, and greedily devouring it. A man named Forey, a

Canadian half-breed, was the first to complain. "If this lasted

another sundown," he said, "some of them would be 'rubbed out;' that

meat had to be 'raised' anyhow; and for his part, he knew where to

look for a feed, if no game was seen before they put out of camp on

the morrow; and meat was meat, anyhow they fixed it."

No answer was made to this, though his companions well understood him:

their natures as yet revolted against the last expedient. As for the

three squaws, all of them young girls, they followed behind their

captors without a word of complaint, and with the stoical indifference

to pain and suffering, which alike characterises the haughty Delaware

of the north and the miserable stunted Digger of the deserts of the

Far West. On the morning of the fifth day, the party were sitting

round a small fire of piñon, hardly able to rise and commence their

journey, the squaws squatting over another at a little distance, when

Forey commenced again to suggest that, if nothing offered, they must

either take the alternative of starving to death, for they could not

hope to last another day, or have recourse to the revolting extremity

of sacrificing one of the party to save the lives of all. To this,

however, there was a murmur of dissent, and it was finally resolved

that all should sally out and hunt; for a deer-track had been

discovered near the camp, which, although it was not a fresh one,

proved that there must be game in the vicinity. Weak and exhausted as

they were, they took their rifles and started for the neighbouring

uplands, each taking a different direction.

It was nearly sunset when La Bonté returned to the camp, where he

already espied one of his companions engaged in cooking something over

it. Hurrying to the spot, overjoyed with the anticipations of a feast,

he observed that the squaws were gone; but, at the same time, thought

it was not improbable they had escaped during their absence.

Approaching the fire, he observed Forey broiling some meat on the

embers, whilst at a little distance lay what he fancied was the

carcass of a deer.

"Hurrah, boy!" he exclaimed, as he drew near the fire. "You've 'made'

a 'raise,' I see."

"_Well_, I have," rejoined the other, turning his meat with the point

of his butcher knife. "There's the meat, hos--help yourself."

La Bonté drew the knife from his scabbard, and approached the spot his

companion was pointing to; but what was his horror to see the yet

quivering body of one of the Indian squaws, with a large portion of

the flesh butchered from it, and part of which Forey was already

greedily devouring. The knife dropped from his hand, and his heart

rose to his throat.

The next day he and his companion struck the creek where Rube and the

other trapper had agreed to await them, and whom they found in camp

with plenty of meat, and about to start again on their hunt, having

given up the others for lost. From the day they parted, nothing was

ever heard of La Bonté's two companions, who doubtless fell a prey to

utter exhaustion, and were unable to return to the camp. And thus

ended the Digger expedition.

It may appear almost incredible that men having civilised blood in

their veins could perpetrate such wanton and cold-blooded acts of

aggression on the wretched Indians, as that detailed above; but it is

fact that the mountaineers never lose an opportunity of slaughtering

these miserable Diggers, and attacking their villages, often for the

purpose of capturing women, whom they carry of, and not unfrequently

sell to other tribes, or to each other. In these attacks neither sex

nor age is spared; and your mountaineer has as little compunction in

taking the life of an Indian woman, as he would have in sending his

rifle-ball through the brain of a Crow or Blackfoot warrior.

La Bonté now found himself without animals, and fairly "afoot;"

consequently nothing remained for him but to seek some of the trapping

bands, and hire himself for the hunt. Luckily for him, he soon fell in

with Roubideau, on his way to Uintah, and was supplied by him with a

couple of animals; and thus equipped, started again with a large band

of trappers, who were going to hunt on the waters of Grand River and

the Gila. Here they fell in with another nation of Indians, from which

branch out the innumerable tribes inhabiting Northern Mexico and part

of California. They were in general friendly, but lost no opportunity

of stealing horses or any articles left lying about the camp. On one

occasion, being camped on a northern affluent of the Gila, as they sat

round the camp-fires, a volley of arrows was discharged amongst them,

severely wounding one or two of the party. The attack, however, was

not renewed, and the next day the camp was moved further down the

stream, where beaver was tolerably abundant. Before sundown a number

of Indians made their appearance, and making signs of peace, were

admitted into the camp.

The trappers were all sitting at their suppers over the fires, the

Indians looking gravely on, when it was remarked that now would be a

good opportunity to retaliate upon them for the trouble their

incessant attacks had entailed upon the camp. The suggestion was

highly approved of, and instantly acted upon. Springing to their feet,

the trappers seized their rifles, and commenced the slaughter. The

Indians, panic-struck, fled without resistance, and numbers fell

before the death-dealing rifles of the mountaineers. A chief, who had

been sitting on a rock near the fire where the leader of the trappers

sat, had been singled out by the latter as the first mark for his

rifle.

Placing the muzzle to his heart, he pulled the trigger, but the

Indian, with extraordinary tenacity of life, rose and grappled with

his assailant. The white was a tall powerful man, but, notwithstanding

the deadly wound the Indian had received, he had his equal in strength

to contend against. The naked form of the Indian twisted and writhed

in his grasp, as he sought to avoid the trapper's uplifted knife. Many

of the latter's companions advanced to administer the _coup-de-grâce_

to the savage, but the trapper cried to them to keep off: "If he

couldn't whip the Injun," he said, "he'd go under."

At length he succeeded in throwing him, and, plunging his knife no

less than seven times into his body, tore off his scalp, and went in

pursuit of the flying savages. In the course of an hour or two, all

the party returned, and sitting by the fires, resumed their suppers,

which had been interrupted in the manner just described. Walker, the

captain of the band, sat down by the fire where he had been engaged in

the struggle with the Indian chief, whose body was lying within a few

paces of it. He was in the act of fighting the battle over again to

one of his companions, and was saying that the Indian had as much life

in him as a buffalo bull, when, to the horror of all present, the

savage, who had received wounds sufficient for twenty deaths, suddenly

rose to a sitting posture, the fire shedding a glowing light upon the

horrid spectacle. The face was a mass of clotted blood, which flowed

from the lacerated and naked scalp, whilst gouts of blood streamed

from eight gaping wounds in the naked breast.

Slowly this frightful figure rose to a sitting posture, and, bending

slowly forward to the fire, the mouth was seen to open wide, and a

hollow gurgling--owg-h-h--broke from it.

"H----!", exclaimed the trapper--and jumping up, he placed a pistol to

the ghastly head, the eyes of which sternly fixed themselves on his,

and pulling the trigger, blew the poor wretch's head to atoms.

The Gila passes through a barren, sandy country, with but little game,

and sparsely inhabited by several different tribes of the great nation

of the Apache. Unlike the rivers of this western region, this stream

is, in most parts of its course, particularly towards its upper

waters, entirely bare of timber, and the bottom, through which it

runs, affords but little of the coarsest grass. Whilst on this stream,

the trapping party lost several animals from the want of pasture, and

many more from the predatory attacks of the cunning Indians. These

losses, however, they invariably made good whenever they encountered a

native village--taking care, moreover, to repay themselves with

interest whenever occasion offered.

Notwithstanding the sterile nature of the country, the trappers,

during their passage up the Gila, saw with astonishment that the arid

and barren valley had once been peopled by a race of men far superior

to the present nomade tribes who roam over it. With no little awe they

gazed upon the ruined walls of large cities, and the remains of

houses, with their ponderous beams and joists, still testifying to the

skill and industry with which they were constructed: huge ditches and

irrigating canals, now filled with rank vegetation, furrowed the

plains in the vicinity, marking the spot where once the green waving

maize and smiling gardens covered what now was a bare and sandy

desert. Pieces of broken pottery, of domestic utensils, stained with

bright colours, every where strewed the ground; and spear and

arrow-heads of stone, and quaintly carved idols, and women's ornaments

of agate and obsidian, were picked up often by the wondering trappers,

examined with child-like curiosity, and thrown carelessly aside.[4]

[4] The Aztecs are supposed to have built this city during their

migration to the south; there is little doubt, however, but that the

region extending from the Gila to the Great Salt Lake, and embracing

the province of New Mexico, was the locality from which they

emigrated.

A Taos Indian, who was amongst the band, was evidently impressed with

a melancholy awe, as he regarded these ancient monuments of his fallen

people. At midnight he rose from his blanket and left the camp, which

was in the vicinity of the ruined city, stealthily picking his way

through the line of slumbering forms which lay around; and the

watchful sentinel observed him approach the ruins with a slow and

reverential gait. Entering the mouldering walls, he gazed silently

around, where in ages past his ancestors trod proudly, a civilised

race, the tradition of which, well known to his people, served but to

make their present degraded position more galling and apparent.

Cowering under the shadow of a crumbling wall, the Indian drew his

blanket over his head, and conjured to his mind's eye the former power

and grandeur of his race,--that warlike people who, forsaking their

own country for causes of which not the most dim tradition affords a

trace, sought in the fruitful and teeming valleys of the south for a

soil and climate which their own lands did not afford; and displacing

the wild and barbarous hordes which inhabited the land, raised there a

mighty empire, great in riches and civilisation, of which but the

vague tradition now remains.

The Indian bowed his head and mourned the fallen greatness of his

tribe. Rising, he slowly drew his tattered blanket round his body, and

was preparing to leave the spot, when the shadow of a moving figure,

creeping past a gap in the ruined wall, through which the moonbeams

were playing, suddenly arrested his attention. Rigid as a statue, he

stood transfixed to the spot, thinking a former inhabitant of the city

was visiting, in a ghostly form, the scenes his body once knew so

well. The bow in his right hand shook with fear as he saw the shadow

approach, but was as tightly and steadily grasped when, on the figure

emerging from the shade of the wall, he distinguished the form of a

naked Apache, armed with bow and arrow, crawling stealthily through

the gloomy ruins.

Standing undiscovered within the shadow of the wall, the Taos raised

his bow, and drew an arrow to the head, until the other, who was

bending low to keep under cover of the wall, and thus approach the

sentinel, standing at a short distance, seeing suddenly the

well-defined shadow on the ground, rose upright on his legs, and,

knowing escape was impossible, threw his arms down his sides, and,

drawing himself erect, exclaimed, in a suppressed tone, "Wa-g-h!"

"Wagh!" exclaimed the Taos likewise, but quickly dropped his arrow

point, and eased the bow.

"What does my brother want," he asked, "that he lopes like a wolf

round the fires of the white hunters?"

"Is my brother's skin not red?" returned the Apache, "and yet he asks

a question that needs no answer. Why does the 'medicine wolf' follow

the buffalo and deer! For blood--and for blood the Indian follows the

treacherous white from camp to camp, to strike blow for blow, until

the deaths of those so basely killed are fully avenged."

"My brother speaks with a big heart, and his words are true; and

though the Taos and Pimo (Apache) black their faces towards each

other, (are at war,) here, on the graves of their common fathers,

there is peace between them. Let my brother go."

The Apache moved quickly away, and the Taos once more sought the

camp-fires of his white companions.

Following the course of the Gila to the eastward, they crossed a range

of the Sierra Madre, which is a continuation of the Rocky Mountains,

and struck the waters of the Rio del Norte, below the settlements of

New Mexico. On this stream they fared well; besides trapping a great

quantity of beaver, game of all kinds abounded, and the bluffs near

the well-timbered banks of the river were covered with rich gramma

grass, on which their half-starved animals speedily improved in

condition.

They remained for some weeks encamped on the right bank of the stream,

during which period they lost one of their number, who was shot with

an arrow whilst lying asleep within a few feet of the camp-fire.

The Navajos continually prowl along that portion of the river which

runs through the settlements of New Mexico, preying upon the cowardly

inhabitants, and running off with their cattle whenever they are

exposed in sufficient numbers to tempt them. Whilst ascending the

river, they met a party of these Indians returning to their mountain

homes with a large band of mules and horses which they had taken from

one of the Mexican towns, besides several women and children, whom

they had captured, as slaves. The main body of the trappers halting,

ten of the band followed and charged upon the Indians, who numbered at

least sixty, killed seven of them, and retook the prisoners and the

whole cavallada of horses and mules. Great were the rejoicings when

they entered Socorro, the town from whence the women and children had

been taken, and as loud the remonstrances, when, handing them over to

their families, the trappers rode on, driving fifty of the best of the

rescued animals before them, which they retained as payment for their

services. Messengers were sent on to Albuquerque with intelligence of

the proceeding; and as there were some troops stationed there, the

commandant was applied to to chastise the insolent whites.

That warrior, on learning that the trappers numbered less than

fifteen, became alarmingly brave, and ordering out the whole of his

disposable force, some two hundred dragoons, sallied out to intercept

the audacious mountaineers. About noon one day, just as the latter had

emerged from a little town between Socorro and Albuquerque, they

descried the imposing force of the dragoons winding along a plain

ahead. As the trappers advanced, the officer in command halted his

men, and sent out a trumpeter to order the former to await his coming.

Treating the herald to a roar of laughter, on they went, and, as they

approached the soldiers, broke into a trot, ten of the number forming

line in front of the packed and loose animals, and, rifle in hand,

charging with loud whoops. This was enough for the New Mexicans.

Before the enemy were within shooting distance, the gallant fellows

turned tail, and splashed into the river, dragging themselves up the

opposite bank like half-drowned rats, and saluted with loud peels of

laughter by the victorious mountaineers, who, firing a volley into the

air, in token of supreme contempt, quietly continued their route up

the stream.

Before reaching the capital of the province, they struck again to the

westward, and following a small creek to its junction with the Green

River, ascended that stream, trapping _en route_ to the Uintah or

Snake Fork, and arrived at Roubideau's rendezvous early in the fall,

where they quickly disposed of their peltries, and were once more on

"the loose."

Here La Bonté married a Snake squaw, with whom he crossed the

mountains and proceeded to the Platte through the Bayou Salado, where

he purchased of the Yutes a commodious lodge, with the necessary

poles, &c.; and being now "rich" in mules and horses, and all things

necessary for _otium cum dignitate_, he took unto himself another

wife, as by mountain law allowed; and thus equipped, with both his

better halves attired in all the glory of fofarraw, he went his way

rejoicing.

In a snug little valley lying under the shadow of the mountains,

watered by Vermilion Creek, and in which abundance of buffalo, elk,

deer, and antelope fed and fattened on the rich grass, La Bonté raised

his lodge, employing himself in hunting, and fully occupying his

wives' time in dressing the skins of the many animals he killed. Here

he enjoyed himself amazingly until the commencement of winter, when he

determined to cross to the North Fork and trade his skins, of which he

had now as many packs as his animals could carry. It happened that he

had left his camp one day, to spend a couple of days hunting buffalo

in the mountain, whither the bulls were now resorting, intending to

"put out" for Platte on his return. His hunt, however, had led him

farther into the mountains than he anticipated, and it was only on the

third day that sundown saw him enter the little valley where his camp

was situated.

Crossing the creek, he was not a little disturbed at seeing fresh

Indian sign on the opposite side, which led in the direction of his

lodge; and his worst fears were realised when, on coming within sight

of the little plateau where the conical top of his white lodge had

always before met his view, he saw nothing but a blackened mass

strewing the ground, and the burnt ends of the poles which had once

supported it.

Squaws, animals, and peltry, all were gone--an Arapaho mocassin lying

on the ground told him where. He neither fumed nor fretted, but

throwing the meat off his pack animal, and the saddle from his horse,

he collected the blackened ends of the lodge poles and made a

fire--led his beasts to water and hobbled them, threw a piece of

buffalo meat upon the coals, squatted down before the fire, and lit

his pipe. La Bonté was a true philosopher. Notwithstanding that his

house, his squaws, his peltries, were gone "at one fell swoop," the

loss scarcely disturbed his equanimity, and before the tobacco in his

pipe was half smoked out, he had ceased to think of his misfortune.

Certes, as he turned his apolla of tender loin, he sighed as he

thought of the delicate manipulations with which his Shosshone squaw,

Sah-qua-manish, was wont to beat to tenderness the toughest bull

meat--and missed the tending care of Yute Chil-co-thē, or the "reed

that bends," in patching the holes worn in his neatly fitting

mocassin, the work of her nimble fingers. However, he ate and smoked,

and smoked and ate, and slept none the worse for his mishap; thought,

before he closed his eyes, a little of his lost wives, and more

perhaps of the "Bending Reed" than Sah-qua-manish, or "she who runs

with the stream," drew his blanket tightly round him, felt his rifle

handy to his grasp, and was speedily asleep.

As the tired mountaineer breathes heavily in his dream, careless and

unconscious that a living soul is near, his mule on a sudden pricks

her ears and stares into the gloom, from whence a figure soon emerges,

and with noiseless steps draws near the sleeping hunter. Taking one

look at the slumbering form, the same figure approaches the fire and

adds a log to the pile; which done, it quietly seats itself at the

feet of the sleeper, and remains motionless as a statue. Towards

morning the hunter awoke, and, rubbing his eyes, was astonished to

feel the glowing warmth of the fire striking on his naked feet, which,

in Indian fashion, were stretched towards it; as by this time, he

knew, the fire he left burning must long since have expired. Lazily

raising himself on his elbow, he saw a figure sitting near it with the

back turned to him, which, although his exclamatory wagh was loud

enough in all conscience, remained perfectly motionless, until the

trapper rising, placed his hand upon the shoulder: then, turning up

its face, the features displayed to his wondering eye were those of

Chilcothē, his Yuta wife. Yes, indeed, the "reed that bends" had

escaped from her Arapaho captors, and made her way back to her white

husband, fasting and alone.

The Indian women who follow the fortunes of the white hunters are

remarkable for their affection and fidelity to their husbands, the

which virtues, it must be remarked, are all on their own side; for,

with very few exceptions, the mountaineers seldom scruple to abandon

their Indian wives, whenever the fancy takes them to change their

harems; and on such occasions the squaws, thus cast aside, wild with

jealousy and despair, have been not unfrequently known to take signal

vengeance both on their faithless husbands and the successful beauties

who have supplanted them in their affections. There are some

honourable exceptions, however, to such cruelty, and many of the

mountaineers stick to their red-skinned wives for better and for

worse, often suffering them to gain the upper hand in the domestic

economy of the lodges, and being ruled by their better halves in all

things pertaining to family affairs; and it may be remarked, when once

the lady dons the unmentionables, she becomes the veriest termagant

that ever henpecked an unfortunate husband.

Your refined trappers, however, who, after many years of bachelor

life, incline to take to themselves a better half, often undertake an

expedition into the settlements of New Mexico, where not unfrequently

they adopt a very "Young Lochinvar" system in procuring the required

rib; and have been known to carry off, _vi et armis_, from the midst

of a fandango in Fernandez, or El Rancho of Taos, some dark-skinned

beauty--with or without her own consent is a matter of unconcern--and

bear the ravished fair one across the mountains, where she soon

becomes inured to the free and roving life which fate has assigned

her.

American women are valued at a low figure in the mountains. They are

too fine and "fofarraw." Neither can they make mocassins, or dress

skins; nor are they so schooled to perfect obedience to their lords

and masters as to stand a "lodge poleing," which the western lords of

the creation not unfrequently deem it their bounden duty to inflict

upon their squaws for some dereliction of domestic duty.

To return, however, to La Bonté. That worthy thought himself a lucky

man to have lost but one of his wives, and the worst at that. "Here's

the beauty," he philosophised, "of having two 'wiping sticks' to your

rifle; if the one break whilst ramming down a ball, still there's

hickory left to supply its place." Although, with animals and peltry,

he had lost several hundred dollars' worth of "possibles," he never

groaned or grumbled. "There's redskin will pay for this," he once

muttered, and was done.

Packing all that was left on the mule, and mounting Chil-co-thē on

his buffalo horse, he shouldered his rifle and struck the Indian trail

for Platte. On Horse Creek they came upon a party of French[5]

trappers and hunters, who were encamped with their lodges and Indian

squaws, and formed quite a village. Several old companions were

amongst them; and, to celebrate the arrival of a "camarade," a

splendid dog-feast was prepared in honour of the event. To effect

this, the squaws sallied out of their lodges to seize upon sundry of

the younger and plumper of the pack, to fill the kettles for the

approaching feast. With a presentiment of the fate in store for them,

the curs slunk away with tails between their legs, and declined the

pressing invitations of the anxious squaws. These shouldered their

tomahawks and gave chase; but the cunning pups outstripped them, and

would have fairly beaten the kettles, if some of the mountaineers had

not stepped out with their rifles and quickly laid half-a-dozen ready

to the knife. A cayeute, attracted by the scent of blood, drew near,

unwitting of the canine feast in progress, and was likewise soon made

_dog_ of, and thrust into the boiling kettle with the rest.

[5] Creoles of St Louis, and French Canadians.

The feast that night was long protracted; and so savoury was the stew,

and so agreeable to the palates of the hungry hunters, that at the

moment when the last morsel was being drawn from the pot, and all were

regretting that a few more dogs had not been slaughtered, a

wolfish-looking cur incautiously poked his long nose and head under

the lodge skin, and was instantly pounced upon by the nearest hunter,

who in a moment drew his knife across the animal's throat, and threw

it to a squaw to skin and prepare it for the pot. The wolf had long

since been vigorously discussed, and voted by all hands to be "good as

dog."

"Meat's meat," is a common saying in the mountains, and from the

buffalo down to the rattlesnake, including every quadruped that runs,

every fowl that flies, and every reptile that creeps, nothing comes

amiss to the mountaineer. Throwing aside all the qualms and

conscientious scruples of a fastidious stomach, it must be confessed

that _dog-meat_ takes a high rank in the wonderful variety of cuisine

afforded to the gourmand and the gourmet by the prolific "mountains."

Now, when the bill of fare offers such tempting viands as buffalo

beef, venison, mountain mutton, turkey, grouse, wildfowl, hares,

rabbits, beaver and their tails, &c., &c., the station assigned to

"dog" as No. 2 in the list can be well appreciated--No. 1, in delicacy

of flavour, richness of meat, and other good qualities, being the

flesh of _panthers_, which surpasses every other, and all put

together.

"Painter meat can't 'shine' with this," says a hunter, to express the

delicious flavour of an extraordinary cut of "tender loin," or

delicate fleece.

La Bonté started with his squaw for the North Fork early in November,

and arrived at the Laramie at the moment that the big village of the

Sioux came up for their winter trade. Two other villages were encamped

lower down the Platte, including the Brulés and the Yanka-taus, who

were now on more friendly terms with the whites. The first band

numbered several hundred lodges, and presented quite an imposing

appearance, the village being laid out in parallel lines, the lodge of

each chief being marked with his particular totem. The traders had a

particular portion of the village allotted to them, and a line was

marked out which was strictly kept by the soldiers appointed for the

protection of the whites. As there were many rival traders, and

numerous _coureurs des bois_, or peddling ones, the market promised to

be brisk, the more so as a large quantity of ardent spirits was in

their possession, which would be dealt with no unsparing hand to put

down the opposition of so many competing traders.

In opening a trade a quantity of liquor is first given "on the

prairie,"[6] as the Indians express it in words, or by signs in

rubbing the palm of one hand quickly across the other, holding both

flat. Having once tasted the pernicious liquid, there is no fear but

they will quickly come to terms; and not unfrequently the spirit is

drugged, to render the unfortunate Indians still more helpless.

Sometimes, maddened and infuriated by drink, they commit the most

horrid atrocities on each other, murdering and mutilating in a

barbarous manner, and often attempting the lives of the traders

themselves. On one occasion a band of Sioux, whilst under the

influence of liquor, attacked and took possession of a trading fort of

the American Fur Company, stripping it of every thing it contained,

and roasting the trader himself over his own fire during the process.

[6] "On the prairie," is the Indian term for a free gift.

The principle on which the nefarious trade is conducted is this, that

the Indians, possessing a certain quantity of buffalo robes, have to

be cheated out of them, and the sooner the better. Although it is

explicitly prohibited by the laws of the United States to convey

spirits across the Indian frontier, and its introduction amongst the

Indian tribes subjects the offender to a heavy penalty; yet the

infraction of this law is of daily occurrence, and perpetrated almost

in the very presence of the government officers, who are stationed

along the frontier for the very purpose of enforcing the laws for the

protection of the Indians.

The misery entailed upon these unhappy people by the illicit traffic

must be seen to be fully appreciated. Before the effects of the

poisonous "fire-water," they disappear from the earth like "snow

before the sun;" and knowing the destruction it entails upon them, the

poor wretches have not moral courage to shun the fatal allurement it

holds out to them, of wild excitement and a temporary oblivion of

their many sufferings and privations. With such palpable effects, it

appears only likely that the illegal trade is connived at by those

whose policy it has ever been gradually but surely to exterminate the

Indians, and by any means extinguish their title to the few lands they

now own on the outskirts of civilisation. Certain it is that large

quantities of liquor find their way annually into the Indian country,

and as certain are the fatal results of the pernicious system, and

that the American government takes no steps to prevent it. There are

some tribes who have as yet withstood the great temptation, and have

resolutely refused to permit liquor to be brought into their villages.

The marked difference between the improved condition of these, and the

moral and physical abasement of those tribes which give way to the

fatal passion for drinking, sufficiently proves the pernicious effects

of the liquor trade on the unfortunate and abused aborigines; and it

is matter of regret that no philanthropist has sprung up in the United

States to do battle for the rights of the Red man, and call attention

to the wrongs they endure at the hands of their supplanters in the

lands of their fathers.

Robbed of their homes and hunting-grounds, and driven by the

encroachments of the whites to distant regions, which hardly support

their bare existence, the Indians, day by day, are gradually

decreasing before the accumulating evils, of body and soul, which

their civilised persecutors entail upon them. With every man's hand

against them, they drag on to their final destiny; and the day is not

far distant when the American Indian will exist only in the traditions

of his pale-faced conquerors.

The Indians who were trading at this time on the Platte were mostly of

the Sioux nation, including the tribes of Burnt-woods, Yanka-taus,

Pian-Kashas, Assinaboins, Oglallahs, Broken Arrows, all of which

belong to the great Sioux nation, or La-cotahs, as they call

themselves, and which means cut-throats. There were also some

Cheyennes allied to the Sioux, as well as a small band of Republican

Pawnees.

Horse-racing, gambling, and ball-play, served to pass away the time

until the trade commenced, and many packs of dressed robes changed

hands amongst themselves. When playing at the usual game of "_hand_,"

the stakes, comprising all the valuables the players possess, are

piled in two heaps close at hand, the winner at the conclusion of the

game sweeping the goods towards him, and often returning a small

portion "on the prairie," with which the loser may again commence

operations with another player.

The game of "hand" is played by two persons. One, who commences,

places a plum or cherry-stone in the hollow formed by joining the

concaved palms of the hands together, then shaking the stone for a few

moments, the hands are suddenly separated, and the other player must

guess which hand now contains the stone.

Large bets are often wagered on the result of this favourite game,

which is also often played by the squaws, the men standing round

encouraging them to bet, and laughing loudly at their grotesque

excitement.

A Burnt-wood Sioux, Tah-tunga-nisha, and one of the bravest chiefs of

his tribe, when a young man, was out on a solitary war expedition

against the Crows. One evening he drew near a certain "medicine"

spring, where, to his astonishment, he encountered a Crow warrior in

the act of quenching his thirst. He was on the point of drawing his

bow upon him, when he remembered the sacred nature of the spot, and

making the sign of peace, he fearlessly drew near his foe, and

proceeded likewise to slake his thirst. A pipe of kinnik-kinnik being

produced, it was proposed to pass away the early part of the night in

a game of "hand." They accordingly sat down beside the spring, and

commenced the game.

Fortune favoured the Crow. He won arrow after arrow from the

Burnt-wood brave; then his bow, his club, his knife, his robe, all

followed, and the Sioux sat naked on the plain. Still he proposed

another stake against the other's winnings--his scalp. He played, and

lost; and bending forward his head, the Crow warrior drew his knife

and quickly removed the bleeding prize. Without a murmur the luckless

warrior rose to depart, but first exacted a promise from his

antagonist, that he would meet him once more at the same pot, and

engage in another trial of skill.

On the day appointed, the Burnt-wood sought the spot, with a new

equipment, and again the Crow made his appearance, and they sat down

to play. This time fortune changed sides, and the Sioux won back his

former losses, and in his turn the Crow was stripped to his skin.

Scalp against scalp was now the stake, and this time the Crow

submitted his head to the victorious Burnt-wood's knife; and both the

warriors stood scalpless on the plain.

And now the Crow had but one single stake of value to offer, and the

offer of it, he did not hesitate to make. He staked his life against

the other's winnings. They played; and fortune still being adverse, he

lost. He offered his breast to his adversary. The Burnt-wood plunged

his knife into his heart to the very hilt; and, laden with his spoils,

returned to his village, and to this day wears suspended from his ears

his own and enemy's scalp.

The village presented the usual scene of confusion as long as the

trade lasted. Fighting, brawling, yelling, dancing, and all the

concomitants of intoxication, continued to the last drop of the

liquor-keg, when the reaction after such excitement was almost worse

than the evil itself. During this time, all the work devolved upon the

squaws, who, in tending the horses, packing wood and water from a long

distance, had their time sufficiently occupied. As there was little or

no grass in the vicinity, the animals were supported entirely on the

bark of the cotton-wood; and to procure this, the women were daily

engaged in felling huge trees, or climbing them fearlessly, chopping

off the upper limbs,--springing like squirrels from branch to branch,

which, in their confined costume, appeared matter of considerable

difficulty.

The most laughter-provoking scenes, however, were, when a number of

squaws sallied out to the grove, with their long-nosed,

wolfish-looking dogs harnessed to their _travées_ or trabogans, on

which loads of cotton-wood were piled. The dogs, knowing full well the

duty required of them, refuse to approach the coaxing squaws, and, at

the same time, are fearful of provoking their anger by escaping and

running off. They, therefore, squat on their haunches, with tongues

hanging out of their long mouths, the picture of indecision, removing

a short distance as the irate squaw approaches. When once harnessed to

the travée, however, which is simply a couple of lodge-poles lashed on

either side of the dog, with a couple of cross-bars near the ends to

support the freight, they follow quietly enough, urged by bevies of

children, who invariably accompany the women. When arrived at the

scene of their labours, the reluctance of the curs to draw near the

piles of cotton-wood is most comical. They will lie down stubbornly at

a little distance, whining their uneasiness, or sometimes scamper off

bodily, with their long poles trailing after them, pursued by the

yelling and half frantic squaws.

When the travées are laden, the squaws take the lead, bent double

under loads of wood sufficient to break a porter's back, and calling

to the dogs, which are urged on by the buffalo-fed urchins in rear,

take up the line of march. The curs, taking advantage of the helpless

state of their mistresses, turn a deaf ear to their coaxings, lying

down every few yards to rest, growling and fighting with each other,

in which encounters every cur joins, the _mêlée_, charging pell-mell

into the yelping throng; upsetting the squalling children, and making

confusion worse confounded. Then, armed with lodge-poles, the squaws,

throwing down their loads, rush to the rescue, dealing stalwart blows

on the pugnacious curs, and finally restoring something like order to

the march.

"Tszoo--tszoo!" they cry, "wah, kashne, ceitcha--get on, you devilish

beasts--tszoo--tszoo!" and belabouring them without mercy, start them

into a gallop, which, once effected, they generally continue till they

reach their destination.

The Indian dogs are, however, invariably well treated by the squaws,

since they assist materially the everyday labours of these patient

overworked creatures, in hauling firewood to the lodge, and, on the

line of march, carrying many of the household goods and chattels which

otherwise the squaw herself would have to carry on her back. Every

lodge possesses from half-a-dozen to a score,--some for draught and

others for eating,--for dog meat forms part and parcel of an Indian

feast. The former are stout, wiry animals, half wolf half sheep-dog,

and are regularly trained to draught; the latter are of a smaller

kind, more inclined to fat, and embrace every variety of the genus

cur. Many of the southern tribes possess a breed of dogs entirely

divested of hair, which evidently have come from South America, and

are esteemed highly for the kettle. Their meat, in appearance and

flavour, resembles young pork, but far surpasses it in richness and

delicacy of flavour.

The Sioux are very expert in making their lodges comfortable, taking

more pains in their construction than most Indians. They are all of

conical form: a framework of straight slender poles, resembling

hop-poles, and from twenty to twenty-five feet long, is first erected,

round which is stretched a sheeting of buffalo robes, softly dressed,

and smoked to render them watertight. The apex, through which the ends

of the poles protrude, is left open to allow the smoke to escape. A

small opening, sufficient to permit the entrance of a man, is made on

one side, over which is hung a door of buffalo hide. A lodge of the

common size contains about twelve or fourteen skins, and contains

comfortably a family of twelve in number. The fire is made in the

centre immediately under the aperture in the roof, and a flap of the

upper skins, is closed or extended at pleasure, serving as a cowl or

chimney-top to regulate the draught and permit the smoke to escape

freely. Round the fire, with their feet towards it, the inmates sleep

on skins and buffalo rugs, which are rolled up during the day, and

stowed at the back of the lodge.

In travelling, the lodge-poles are secured half on each side a horse,

and the skins placed on transversal bars near the ends, which trail

along the ground,--two or three squaws or children mounted on the same

horse, or the smallest of the latter borne in the dog travées. A set

of lodge-poles will last from three to seven years, unless the village

is constantly on the move, when they are soon worn out in trailing

over the gravelly prairie. They are usually of ash, which grows on

many of the mountain creeks, and regular expeditions are undertaken

when a supply is required, either for their own lodges, or for trading

with those tribes who inhabit the prairies at a great distance from

the locality where the poles are procured.

There are also certain creeks where the Indians resort to lay in a

store of kinnik-kinnik, (the inner bark of the red, willow,) which

they use as a substitute for tobacco, and which has an aromatic and

very pungent flavour. It is prepared for smoking by being scraped in

thin curly flakes from the slender saplings, and crisped before the

fire, after which it is rubbed between the hands into a form

resembling leaf-tobacco, and stored in skin bags for use. It has a

highly narcotic effect on those not habituated to its use, and

produces a heaviness sometimes approaching stupefaction, altogether

different from the soothing effects of tobacco.

Every year, owing to the disappearance of the buffalo from their

former haunts, the Indians are necessitated to encroach upon each

other's hunting-grounds, which is a fruitful cause of war between the

different tribes. It is a curious fact, that the buffalo retire before

the whites, while the presence of Indians in their pastures appears in

no degree to disturb them. Wherever a few white hunters are

congregated in a trading port, or elsewhere, so sure it is that, if

they remain in the same locality, the buffalo will desert the

vicinity, and seek pasture elsewhere; and in this, the Indians affirm

the wah-keitcha, or "bad medicine," of the pale-faces is very

apparent; and ground their well-founded complaints of the

encroachments made upon their hunting-grounds by the white hunters.

In the winter, many of the tribes are reduced to the very verge of

starvation--the buffalo having passed from their country into that of

their enemies, when no other alternative is offered them, but to

remain where they are and starve, or follow the game into a hostile

region, entailing a war and all its horrors upon them.

Reckless, moreover, of the future, in order to prepare robes for the

traders, and procure the pernicious fire-water, they wantonly

slaughter vast numbers of buffalo cows every year, (the skins of which

sex only are dressed,) and thus add to the evils in store for them.

When questioned on this subject, and such want of foresight being

pointed out to them, they answer, that however quickly the buffalo

disappears, the Red man "goes under" in greater proportion; and that

the Great Spirit has ordained that both shall be "rubbed out" from the

face of nature at one and the same time,--"that arrows and bullets are

not more fatal to the buffalo than the small-pox and fire-water to

them, and that before many winters' snows have disappeared, the

buffalo and the Red man will only be remembered by their bones, which

will strew the plains."--"They look forward, however, to a future

state, when, after a long journey, they will reach the happy

hunting-grounds, where buffalo will once more blacken the prairies;

where the pale-faces daren't come to disturb them; where no winter

snows cover the ground, and the buffalo are always plentiful and fat."

As soon as the streams opened, La Bonté, now reduced to but two

animals and four traps, sallied forth again, this time seeking the

dangerous country of the Blackfeet, on the head waters of the Yellow

Stone and Upper Missouri. He was accompanied by three others, a man

named Wheeler, and one Cross-Eagle, a Swede, who had been many years

in the western country. Reaching the fork of a small creek, on both of

which appeared plenty of beaver sign, La Bonté followed the left-hand

one alone, whilst the others trapped the right in company, the former

leaving his squaw in the company of a Sioux woman, who followed the

fortunes of Cross-Eagle, the party agreeing to rendezvous at the

junction of the two forks as soon as they had trapped to their heads

and again descended them. The larger party were the first to reach the

rendezvous, and camped on the banks of the main stream to await the

arrival of La Bonté.

The morning after their return, they had just risen from their

blankets, and were lazily stretching themselves before the fire, when

a volley of firearms rattled from the bank of the creek, and two of

their number fell dead to the ground, at the same moment that the

deafening yells of Indians broke upon the ears of the frightened

squaws. Cross-Eagle seized his rifle, and, though severely wounded,

rushed to the cover of a hollow tree which stood near, and crawling

into it, defended himself the whole day with the greatest obstinacy,

killing five Indians outright, and wounding several more. Unable to

drive the gallant trapper from his retreat, the savages took advantage

of a favourable wind which sprang up suddenly, and fired the long and

dried-up grass which surrounded the tree. The rotten log catching fire

at length compelled the hunter to leave his retreat, and, clubbing his

rifle, he charged amongst the Indians, and fell at last pierced

through and through with wounds, but not before two more of his

assailants had fallen by his hand.

The two squaws were carried off, and, shortly after, one was sold to

some white men at the trading ports on the Platte; but La Bonté never

recovered the "Bending Reed," nor even heard of her existence from

that day. So once more was the mountaineer bereft of his better half;

and when he returned to the rendezvous, a troop of wolves were

feasting on the bodies of his late companions, and of the Indians

killed in the affray, of which he only heard the particulars a long

time after from a trapper, who had been present when one of the squaws

was offered at the trading post for sale, and who had recounted the

miserable fate of her husband and his companions on the forks of the

creek, which, from the fact of that trapper being the leader of the

party, is still called La Bonté's Creek.

Nevertheless, he continued his solitary hunt, passing through the

midst of the Crow and Blackfeet country; encountering many perils,

often hunted by the Indians, but escaping all; and speedily loading

both his animals with beaver, he thought of bending his steps to some

of the trading rendezvous on the other side of the mountains, where

employés of the Great Northwest Fur Company meet the trappers with the

produce of their hunts, on Lewis's fork of the Columbia, or one of its

numerous affluents, and intending to pass the winter at some of the

company's trading posts in Oregon, into which country he had never yet

penetrated.

ART--ITS PROSPECTS. CLEGHORN'S ANCIENT AND MODERN ART.[7]

[7] _Ancient and Modern Art, historical and critical._ By GEORGE

CLEGHORN, Esq. 2 vols. Blackwoods. 1848.

As the age in which Shakspeare wrote, had he not been in existence,

would still have been remarkable on account of its dramatic writers,

so the Cinque Cento is equally distinguished as the era of the arts.

Yet has no very satisfactory cause been assigned for the direction of

the human mind to these particular pursuits at these precise periods;

for, simultaneously in countries differing in climate, governments,

and manners, have the requisite men of genius arisen.

It might be easier to account for the depression than the rise of the

noblest arts. Of this we shall presently speak; aware, at the same

time, how ungracious will be the words which will admit of a decadence

among ourselves. When we boast of our "enlightened age," it would not

be amiss that we stay for a moment our pride, look back, and consider

how much we have absolutely lost; in how much we are inferior. Every

age seems destined to do its own work, which it does nearly to the

perfection of its given art or science. Succeeding ages are destined

rather to invent new than to improve upon the old. What has been done,

becomes an accumulated wealth that Time deposits ever, and passes on

to continual work to add fresh materials, and stock the world with the

means of general improvement and happiness. There is always

progression, but it is a progression of invention; the destined works

are too vast, too infinite to allow a long delay in the advancement of

any one accomplishment. It is rapidly completed; we are scarcely

allowed time to stand and wonder; we must pass on to perform something

new. Yet, if such attained thing shall be lost, or nearly so, the

power to create it again may be again given; but it works _de novo_,

adapting itself to the new principle which has rendered the

reproduction advantageous, if not necessary. Thus, for instance, in

the ages which we are pleased to call dark, to what magnitude and what

exactness of beauty did not architecture reach, and that in a

particularly inventive style--the Gothic--borrowing not from what had

before been, and which had been held perfect, a style upon which we do

not now even hope to improve, but content ourselves with admiring and

copying. Thus it should seem that where any thing like a practical

continuance of an art has been permitted, the entirely new direction

it has taken would show that invention, required for the age, was the

object, and that, too, bounded by a limit. "For this purpose have I

raised thee up," would appear to be the text upon which the histories

of the arts, as of every thing human, may be considered the comment.

It is to the total loss of ancient art that mankind are indebted for

its revival, its re-discovery, as it were; for little or nothing was

left from which, as from an old stock, art was to begin.

The new Christian principle created a new mind, to which there was

little consonant in what was known, however imperfectly, of ancient

works. Hence what is termed revival might, with more aptitude of

expression, be called the re-discovery.

Had art been uninterruptedly continued from the days of Apelles, it

would probably have degenerated to its lowest state. The destruction,

the altogether vanishing away of the former glory, was essential to

the rise of the new. All was nearly obliterated. Of the innumerable

statues of which Greece was plundered by the Romans, but six were to

be found--five of marble, and one of brass--in the city of Rome, at

the beginning of the fifteenth century; so that art may be said to

have been defunct. The decadence of architecture seems also to have

been required for the originating the Gothic, for the inventing

altogether a new style, which had no prototype. It was necessary to

the establishing the Christian principle operatively, that the mind

should be wrested powerfully from former and antagonistic ideas. And

this could scarcely have been effected had any thing like a continual,

an important succession of vigorous life in these arts been allowed.

It seems to have been the work of a great guiding will, that the way

should be prepared for renovation, by the almost entire loss or

mutilation of the greatest works of former periods, and by the veil of

ignorance which victorious barbarism spread before all eyes, that they

should not distinguish through that cloud the remnant of a glory which

was too great to be altogether destroyed. The very language which

spoke of it was a buried charm, that the oblivion might be more

perfect. And not until the now grown Christian mind required the

re-discovery of art, was that tongue loosened. The revival of ancient

literature and the birth of new art were simultaneous. With the

latter, at least, it was more than a sleep from which it arose--it was

from a death, with all the marks of its corruption.

We do not mean to assert that art rose at once full-grown, as Pallas

from the head of Jove. It had undoubtedly its progression; but it did

not grow from an old stock; and hence it did grow and arose unimpeded

and unchoked by an unwholesome exuberance, to the greatest splendour

and glory. Whether there can be again any new principle which will

require new inventions, it would be almost presumptuous to consider;

but we do feel assured that should it be so, there will not be an

adaptation of present means to it, but that the wing of oblivion must

have to sweep over, overshadow, and obliterate the present

multifarious form and body of art. The fine arts are not like the

exact sciences, always progressing from accumulative knowledge towards

their final and sure establishment of truth; on the contrary, their

great truths recede further from view, as knowledge is accumulated,

and practice, deteriorates by example. Science is truth to be dug out

of the earth, as it were; a precious ore, not strictly ours, but by

and for our use. The fine arts are in a far greater degree ours, for

they are of the mind's creation; they are the product of a faculty

given, indeed, but given to create and not to gather, and dig up

ready-made for our purpose; they are of that faculty which has given

the name to the poet, as altogether the maker. They give that to the

world which it never could have received by any accumulation of fact

and knowledge. Take away the individual genius, the inventive, the

creating mind of the one man, the Homer, the Dante, the Shakspeare,

the Michael Angelo, the Raffaelle, and the whole product is

annihilated; we cannot even conceive of its existence, know of no mine

wherein to dig, no facts, no knowledge out of which it can grow. That

creating power may, indeed, turn all existing things to its use, all

facts and all knowledge; but it commands and is not governed by

them--is a power in no degree dependant on them, which would still be,

though they existed not--a power which, if it exhausted worlds, would

invent new for its purpose. To whom, then, are such powers given? for

what purpose?--and are they of a gift deteriorated in its use and

abuse? Alas! they are still of the "corruptible," and cannot, in our

present state, "put on incorruption." They are, however, of the mind,

which may be purified and strengthened, or corrupted and degraded.

They effect in a great degree, and suitably to the age's requirement,

their purpose. Corrupted from the ardour and sincerity of their first

passion, and by the admission, little by little, of what is vicious,

and yet which, we must confess, has its beauty; their very aim becomes

changed, less large by subdivision, and less sure by confusion and

uncertainty of aim, until all purpose be lost, in a low satisfaction

in mere dexterity and mindless imitation. And what shall stay art in

such downward way of decadence? Can a strong impulse be given to

it--for there is no strength but the mind's strength? It is not

patronage, but purpose, which is wanted. What shall revivify the

passion that gave it earnestness,--the sincerity, the trust in itself,

the confidence in its own high-mindedness, the sense of the importance

of its objects, and the true glory of their pursuit? We have our fears

that we are doing much to multiply artists, and degrade art. We

distribute patronage in so many streams, by our art-unions, that no

full fertilising current is visible. We make a pauperism, and stamp it

with the disgrace of the beggarly contribution; we, pauperise the

mind too, by the demand for mean productions, and by circulating, as

the choicest specimens of British art, engravings which tend utterly

to the deterioration of the public taste. Perhaps there is nothing

more frightfully injurious in the present state of art, than this ever

putting before the public eye things in themselves bad, and mostly

bad, where badness is more surely fatal, in purpose. It is far easier

for good taste and for good art, in practice, to arise out of a blank,

out of nothing, than out of an exuberance of bad examples. These

things tend to vitiate the pure. The great daily accumulation of

inferior works, low in character, and deficient in artistic knowledge

and skill, that are ever thrust before the public eye, are doing much

mischief. They are poisoning and vitiating the ground from which taste

should spring. We are not educating in art, but against art. We are

teaching to admire things which, were it possible to keep what is bad

from the public eye, would disgust as soon as seen. And even where the

exhibition is in no other respect vicious, it is too often vicious

from the total absence of any high purpose. For lack of object, we

look to some mere mechanical prettinesses; and by habit learn first to

look for, and then to work for, nothing more. When the great men of

other days, whose names we have now so constantly in our mouths,

dedicated themselves to art, they did it with all their soul. They had

the earnestness of a passion; and what they did not, as we should now

say, well, technically viewing some of their early works, they did to

express some strong and some worthy feeling. And as they advanced in

technical skill, still they ever thought a certain dignity and

importance were essential to their works. The public mind had not yet

felt satiety. But in time the progeny of art multiplied. The trading

multitude had to entice purchasers, and to persuade them that their

novelties were at least more pleasing, if the aim was not so high. The

new lamps were cried up above the old. Thus they first created a bad

taste, and then pandered to it. Cold conventionalities took the place

of feeling; even beauty was studied more for low sense, than for its

moral, and intellectual expression. Art was smothered by her own

children. The brood has been too numerous, and the productions as

variable as the brood. They who would do great things were they

allowed, are not allowed. The lower fascinations have taken possession

of the public mind. Patronage runs to the little, and the greatest

encouragement is to those who will provide the market with the

cheapest, if not the best wares. Artists must live as well as other

people. They cannot, if they would, sacrifice themselves to work out

great and noble ideas, for which there is no demand; and for this

state of things they are themselves in no small degree to blame. It is

their own cry for patronage that has raised these art-unions: the

patronage has been raised, but who gets it? They (like the national

guard in Paris) have been superseded by their own inferior workmen.

And what shall remedy all this superfœtation? First, let pains be

taken properly to educate in art the public eye, and the public mind.

We rejoice to know that, while we are writing, a society is forming,

similar to the Cambden Society, for the publication of all important

works on art, whether old or original, and for having the finest

productions of art engraved, in whatever country they are to be found.

As good taste is the object, so care will be taken that nothing of a

deteriorating character will be admitted; and works will be produced

which, in the present state of general feeling, private speculation

would scarcely venture upon. The works will, we are given to

understand, chiefly be distributable among the members of the society;

but some, thought to be particularly well adapted to give a better

direction to the public taste, will be generally purchasable.

This society is of great promise--if it succeeds at all, it will

succeed eminently, and we believe it must succeed. It will, we have

some hope drive the low, the meaningless things of the day out of the

field. We are, as a nation, really ignorant of art. We know it not, as

it has been. We want to see the public eye acquainted, through good

engravings, with the numerous fine frescos that cannot be generally

known in any other way. Whatever tends to the real advancement of art

will obtain the solicitous attention of this society.

The Fine Arts Commission affords another means of remedying the evils

that are besetting the profession, and through them the public taste.

We do not like the Government competition system. We go further--we do

not like the Government, we mean the Commission, constituting

themselves judges and purveyors. This is not the way to make great

men. The man of genius shrinks from the competition system; nay, he

fears or doubts the judgment of his judges. Perhaps he feels that he

is himself the best judge; and if he has a just confidence in himself,

he ought to feel this. He will not like the check of too much

dictation as to subjects, composition, or any of the detail. We are

persuaded that it would be far wiser, both for the public and for art,

that the commissioners should studiously select their man, without

competition, not for some one or more pictures, but for a far wider

range. There will be still competition enough for proper ambition in

the number still to be employed. Raffaelle had the Vatican assigned to

him, and that at an early age; so would we gladly see a large portion

given to one man, and let the whole be of his one mind, and let him

have his assistants if he please. Let him be dominant, and if he has

within him a power, it will come out; and it cannot be difficult to

find a few men of sense and vigour; and even though they have not as

yet shown great powers, it does not follow that they have them

not--trust to what they have, and more will grow. But we have some

even now capable of performing beautiful works to do honour to the

nation. We should rejoice to see their secretary released from the

clerkship of his office, and set to work seriously with his hand and

his superintending mind. We would impress this upon the consideration

of the commissioners as an indisputable truth, that if they select a

man of genius, they select one superior to themselves--one who is to

teach, not to be taught by them--and one with whose arrangements,

after their selection, they should by no means interfere. And

supposing the worst, that they have actually made an unfortunate

choice--what then? They have made an experiment at no very great cost,

and may obliterate whatever is a disgrace. The works of other painters

were obliterated in the Sistine Chapel to make room for Michael

Angelo. Nor was there any hesitation in destroying the labours of

previous artists, and even the suspended operations of his old master,

Perugino, that the whole space might be open to the genius of the

youth Raffaelle. It is whole, entire responsibility that makes great

men. Throw upon the persons you select the whole weight, and thereby

give them the benefit of all the glory; and whatever be their powers,

you tax them to the utmost. We would have them by no means interfered

with, any more than we would cripple the commander of our armies

abroad with the petty counsels and restrictions of bureau-manufacture.

Nor should they be too strictly limited as to time, nor subjected to

the continual questionings of an ungenerous impatience. Let the trust

be conferred upon them as an honour which they are to wear and enjoy,

not as a notice of their servility, but of their freedom. That trust

is less likely to be abused the more generously it is given. To fulfil

it then, becomes an ambition; and the daily habit of this higher

feeling, by making the given work the all in all of life, renders the

men more fit for it. Let the nation, expecting liberality from the

"Liberal Arts," bestow it--hold out high rewards, leave the artists in

all respects unshackled; and, the intention of a work being approved

of, let not the time it is to occupy be in the stipulation. And it

would be well to look to the promise of the young as well as actual

performances; for the power to do will grow. Of thirty-eight

competitors convened at Florence, Lorenzo Ghiberti, only twenty-three

years of age, was chosen to execute the celebrated doors; the work

occupied forty years of his life. The work is immortal, if human work

can be; and obtained this eulogium from Michael Angelo, that "they

were worthy of being the gates of Paradise." He conferred honour upon

his city, and received such as was worthy the city to bestow. "His

labours were justly appreciated, and ably rewarded by his fellow

citizens, who, besides granting him whatever he demanded, assigned him

a portion of land, and elected him Gonfaloniere, or chief magistrate

of the state. His bust was afterwards placed in the baptistery." Was

the confidence, the full trust, in the power of the young Raffaelle

misplaced? What wonders did he not perform in his too short life! Had

he lived longer, he would without question have reached the highest

honours his country had to bestow.

One word more on this subject of generosity--of national generosity.

We seem to think it a great thing to bestow a knighthood upon an

artist of eminence here and there, yet give not the means of keeping

the dignity from conspicuous shame, of maintaining a decent

hospitality among his brethren artists, by which much general

improvement might evidently arise. All our real substantial honours

are conferred upon soldiers and lawyers. They have estates publicly

given, and are raised to the peerage; yet it is doubtful if one man of

genius, in literature and the arts, does not deserve better of his

country, and confer upon it more glory, than any ten of the other more

favoured professions: and more than this, the name of one such genius

will be remembered, perhaps with some sense of the disgrace of

neglect, when all the others are forgotten. Let a lawyer be but a

short period of his life upon the woolsack, he will find means to

raise to himself a fortune, and retire back upon private life with an

annual pension of thousands; while the man of genius in arts and

literature is too often left in old age uncheered by any

acknowledgment, and perhaps weighed down to death by embarrassments,

from which a delighted, improved, and at the same time an ungrateful

country will not relieve him. A government should know that it is for

the crown to honour a profession, and thereby to make it worthy the

honour. We live in a country where distinctions do much, and are worse

than profitless without adequate means to sustain them. It would be

well if sometimes selections were made in other directions than the

law and army, and if our peerage were not unfrequently radiated with

the glory of genius. Why should a barren baronetcy have been conferred

on the author of Waverley? Had he been a conqueror in fifty battles,

could he have conferred more benefit than he has conferred upon his

country? Why is it that there is always in our government a jealousy

of literature and the arts? There has not been a decent honour

bestowed on either since the reign of the unfortunate Charles. Poets,

painters, and sculptors, it is vulgarly thought, are scarcely

"alendi," and certainly "non saginandi." The arts might at least be

given a position in our universities. This, as a first step, would do

much,--it would tend, too, mainly to raise the public taste, which is

daily sinking lower and lower. We should be glad to see Mr Eastlake

made professor of painting at Oxford, with an adequate establishment

there to enable him not only to lecture, but to teach more practically

by design, in the very place of all others in the kingdom where there

is most in feeling congenial with art. We mention Mr Eastlake, not

making an invidious distinction, but because his acquirements in

literature, and his valuable contributions to it, seem most readily to

point to him as a fit occupant for the professor's chair. We have

repeatedly, in the pages of _Maga_, insisted upon the importance of

establishing the fine arts in our universities, and at one time

entertained a hope that the Taylor Legacy would have taken this

direction. We are not, however, sorry altogether that it did not do

so, for it would surely be more advantageous that such a movement

should begin with the Government. It would remedy, too, more evils

than one; it would give an occupation of mind, congenial with their

academic studies, to our youth, and preserve them from a dangerous

extravagance both of purse and of opinions. The hopes, however, of any

thing really advantageous to the fine arts arising from our

Government, unless very strongly urged to it, are small. They do not

seem inclined at all to favour the profession; they would look upon it

as solely addicted to the labour of the hand with a view to small

profits--a portion of which profits, too, upon some strange principles

of the political economists, they would appropriate to the nation as

a fine, the penalty of genius. One would imagine, from the proposition

of the Board of Trade to take 10 per cent from subscriptions to

art-unions for the purchasing pictures for the National Gallery, that

they considered the epithet "fine" so appropriated to the arts as

intended originally to suggest a tax. They would not allow the

profession a free trade. Whatever is obtained by exhibiting works of

artists, should be as much their property as would the product of any

other manufacture be the property of the respective adventurers, and

the art-union subscriptions are undoubtedly a portion of these

profits. What, in common justice, have the public to do with them? The

proposed scheme is a step towards communism, and may have been

borrowed from the French provisional seizure of their railroads. With

equal justice might they require that every butcher and baker and

tailor should give a portion of his meat, his bread, and his cloth to

feed and clothe our army and navy; and this not as of a common

taxation, but as an extra compliment and advantage to these trades.

There is a great deal too much here of the beggarly utilitarian view.

We advocate not the cause of art-unions--we think them perfectly

mischievous, and would gladly see them suppressed; but surely to

invite and tempt the poor artists to paint their twenty and

five-and-twenty pound pictures, and coolly to take 10 per cent out of

their pockets to purchase to yourself a gallery of art, is not very

consonant to our general ideas of what is due to the liberal arts. The

liberality is certainly not reciprocal.

Nor, indeed, when we view the state of our National Gallery,

considering the building as well as what it contains, can we be

induced to think that the Government are very much in earnest in their

profession of a desire to raise its importance. The National Gallery

has its committee, and there is the Commission of Fine Arts. The

former like not a questioning Parliament, and have not sufficient

confidence in themselves to disregard the uncomplimentary

animadversions of a critical press; and so the National Gallery

advances not. The latter appear to treat art too much as a taxable

commodity, and as having a right to levy specimens, and take for the

public the profit of them, when they are required to cater for any

national works. We do not, however, doubt their sincere desire to

promote the arts; but we do doubt if they are perfectly alive to the

real importance of the work they have to do, and fear their efforts

are rendered less useful by the number and conflicting tastes of the

members. Divisions and subdivisions of responsibility terminate too

frequently in many little things which, put together, do not make one

great one.

However deficient, or however faulty in our taste, there seems to be

at the present moment a more general desire to become acquainted with

art and its productions in former ages. Publications of historical and

critical importance are not wanting; but it is singular that the

prevailing patronage is little influenced as yet by the knowledge

received. From whatever cause it may arise, the fact is manifest that

we have not a distinct School of Art. It might be quite correct to

assert, that there is no characteristic school, not one founded on a

principle--a principle distinguished from former influences--in any

country of Europe. We do not even except the German schools; for able

though the men be and honoured, they show no symptom of an inventive

faculty, which can alone make a school. They are as yet in their

imitative state--in that of revival. They are in the trammels of an

artistic superstition. They have no one great and new idea to realise.

They make their commencement from art, not from mind--forgetful of

this truth, that art cannot grow out of art: for, if good, it seduces

the mind into mere imitation, which soon becomes effect; if bad, it

incapacitates from conceiving the beautiful. Art cannot grow out of

art; it may progress from its inferior to its better state, till the

idea of its principle has been completed. It must then begin again

from a new--from an idea not yet embodied--or it will inevitably

decline, from the causes named, to mediocrity.

It does not at all follow, in this rise of new art--or, if we please,

revival of art--that there shall be at first a consciousness of

working upon a new principle, or a positive purpose to deviate (for

such a purpose would be but a vagary and extravagance, relying on no

principle:) there must be some want of the day strongly felt, some

feeling to be embodied, some impress of the times to be stamped and

made visible. Hence alone can arise a new principle of art; and it is

one that cannot be preconceived, it must have its birth without

forethought, and possibly without a knowledge that it exists; it may

be in the artist's mind, an unconscious purpose working through the

conscious processes of art. The age in which we live has a strong

desire to _know_ all about art, as to advance in knowledge of every

kind; but has it in itself one characteristic feeling, one strong

impulse, favourable to art, such as will make genius start up, as it

were, from his slumber and his dream, and do his real work? Nor can

this be prophesied of; for, if it could, it would exist somewhere, at

least in the mind of the prophet. It is like the statue existing in

the block; but it is the hand of time, under direction that we wot not

of, that must be cutting it away. Nor is it fair, for any lack in one

power of mind, to underrate the age in which we live. It may be great

in another power to do a destined work; that work done, another may be

required, and another power be developed, in which art may be the

required means to the more perfect vivifying a new principle. The

genius of our day is too busy in the world's doings, in striving to

advance utility, to have leisure, or to take an interest in the ideal

and poetical. A great poetry it is indeed in itself, with all its

mighty engines, working with iron arms more vast and powerful than

fable could imagine of Brontes and Steropes, and all the huge

manufacturers of thunderbolts for an Ideal Jove. Reality has outgrown

fiction,--has become the "_major videri_,"--is doing a sublime

work--one, too, in which poetry of high cast is inherent, through

hands and means most unpoetical. Mind is there, thought is there,

worthy of all the greatness of man's reputation for sagacity or

invention, and gigantic energy; the reaching to and grasping the large

powers of nature, and adding them to his own body, thus becoming,

unconscious of the poetic analogy, a Titan again. This age is, after

all, doing a great deed. Let the dreamer, the versifier, the searcher

after visible beauty, the painter, the statuary, incapacitated as they

all generally are from the knowledge of what we term the business of

life, consider coolly, without prejudice for his art, and against what

more commonly meets him in some interrupting and ungracious form,

reality, the machinery of governments, the science of banking, the law

of markets, and the innumerable detail of which he seldom thinks, but

without the establishment of which he would not be allowed to

think,--by which he lives his daily life; let him trace any one

manufacture through all its successive ingenuities to its great uses

and its great results. Let him travel a few hundred miles on a

railroad, and note how all is ordered, with what precision all

arrangements are made and conducted, and what a world it is in itself,

moving through space like a world, and set in motion and stayed by the

hand of one of his own Saxon blood; and then, in idea, transferring

himself from his own work, and his pride of his own art, let him ask

himself if he sees not something beyond, quite extraneous to himself,

a great thing effected, which he never could have conceived nor have

executed; and then let him say if there be not even in this our

working world, a great and living poetry, a magnificent thought

realised, a principle brought out, worthy an age; and then let him be

content for a while that his own particular capacity should for a time

be in abeyance, to great purposes inoperative, unproductive of the

world's esteem. It may be that he will but have to wait for his

season. His time may come again. Some new principle in the world's

action, with possibly a secret and electric power, may reach him,

enter his own mind, and set at large all his capacities, and make them

felt; for that principle, whatever it is to be, will be electric, too,

in the general mind. It may arise naturally out of the present state

of things. Now, our schoolless art, like what has once been a mighty

river, with all its tributary streams, has wandered into strange and

lower lands, and been enticed away through innumerable small channels,

still fertilising, in a more homely and modest way, many countries,

but losing its own distinctive character and name. The streams will

never flow back and unite again, but some of them, in this earth's

shifts and changes, may again become rivers, and bear a rich

merchandise into the large ocean, and so enrich the world. If we think

upon the distinct characteristics of schools, we must be struck with

this, that before each one was known, established, and confirmed in

public opinion, it could not have been generally imagined and

preconceived. It is altogether the creation of gifted genius. We

acknowledge the setting up a great truth, of which we had not a

glimpse until we see it worked out, and standing before us manifest.

It is ours by natural adoption, not by a universal instinctive

invention. So that it is a presumption of our weakness to believe, as

some do, that the arena of art is limited, and every part occupied;

and that, for the future, nothing is left but a kind of copying and

imitation. Who is to set limit to the powers of mind? We can imagine a

dogmatist of this low kind, before Shakspeare's day, in admiration of

the Greek drama, laying down the laws of the unities as irrefragable,

and that the great volume of the drama was closed with them. And some

such opinions have been set forth by our Gallic neighbours, and

maintained with no little pertinacity. We must have been Shakspeares

to have preconceived his drama. How, for ages, was poetry limited! the

epic, as it were, closed! His age knew nothing of Milton before

Milton. It was a new principle coming dimly through troubadours and

romances, that shone forth at length Homerically, but with a

difference, in Marmion, and indeed all Sir Walter Scott's poetry,

which, if it be linked to any that has preceded it, must be referred

to the most remote, to that of Homer himself; so that let no man say

that the world of fact and possibility is shut against art. The great

classic idea, the deification, the worship of beauty, was completed by

the ancients. There was a long rest, a sleep, without a dream of a new

principle; but it came, and art awakened to its perception. Giotto,

Della Robbo, the old Siennese school, Beato Angelico, Pisani,

Donatello, evolve the Christian idea. Perugino, weak in faith, turns

art towards earth, and leads Rafaelle to strive for a new beautiful;

and Michael Angelo for the powerful--the former humanising the divine,

the latter, if not deifying, gigantising humanity--not in the antique

repose, but incorporeal energy--the whole dignity of man, as imagined

in his personal condition. This was the characteristic of the

Florentine school--as, after Perugino, or commencing with him,

intellect, united with grace and beauty, became the characteristic of

the Roman. But grace and beauty are dangerously human. The religious

mind, in reverential contemplation, felt awe above humanity, and

feared to invest divinity with corporeal charm. Even in heathen art,

the great Athenian goddess affects not grace, but stands in a severe

repose, so unlike rest, the beautiful emblem of weakness. Grace and

beauty became dangerous qualities when applied to Christian devotional

art. The followers of Perugino, who thought them essential, were not

at first aware to what degree they were deteriorating the great

principle of their school, and how they were rendering art too human

for their creed. Woman--by the gift of nature, beauty personified--by

more close and accurate study of her perfections, ceased to be an

object of real worship, as her fascinations were felt. Even Raffaelle

was under an unadoring influence. His madonnas often detract much from

the idolatry which his church laboured to confirm. We must not wonder,

then, if after him we find humanity in woman even dethroned from her

higher and almost majestic state of heavenly purity--though

legitimatised as an object of worship, the "mother of God," in that

higher sanctity than it was possible to set up man, in his most

saintly apotheosis, (for the boldest mind would necessarily be shocked

at the idea of bestowing a divine paternity on man, even if his

religion forbade it not.) Woman, in her real beauty, superseded the

ideal; and, from condescending to represent inferior saints and

conventual devotees, reassumed at length her more earthly empire, and

threw around fascinations which rather tended to dissipate than to

encourage religious sentiment. The divinity of art, which had deigned

to shine with sacred lustre beneath and through the natural veil of

modesty, indignantly withdrew, when that veil was rudely cast aside by

the undevotional hands of her not less skilful but more deteriorated

professors.

The Venetian school, with a truly congenial luxury of colour, evolved

the idea of civil polity, in all its connexions with religion, with

judicature, with manners, commerce, societies, dignities, triumphs; a

large field, indeed, but one in which the great civic idea was the

characteristic, running through every subject. Even the nude, before

considered as most eligible in the display of art, yielded to civic

dress and gorgeous ornament. What other ideas remain to be evolved?

The world does not stand still--art may for a time. We must wait till

some genius awaken us.

There is, we repeat, no modern school among us; art is pursued to an

extent unprecedented, but without any fixed serious purpose, in all

its multifarious forms, and with an ability sufficient to show that

some moving cause is alone wanted. We progress in skill, in precision

and clearness; but the hand is little directed by the mind. Our

exhibition walls abound with talent, but are for the most part barren

of genius: and surely this must continue to be the case, while the

public mind is in its unpoetic, its utilitarian state, and shall look

to art for its passing charm only as a gentle recreation, an idle

amusement. If there is any tendency to a school, it is unfortunately

to one which is most in opposition to that pure school which found,

and cherished, and idealised the sanctity of female beauty.

We know not if it should be considered an escape or not; but certainly

there was, in the earlier period of English art, one man of

extraordinary genius, who, vigorously striking out a great moral idea,

might have been the founder of a new school. We mean Hogarth. He was,

however, too adventurously new for the age, and left no successor; nor

is even now the greatness of his genius generally understood. He has

been classed with "painters of drolls;" yet was he the most tragic

painter this country--we were about to say, any country--has produced.

We are not prepared to say it is a school we should wish to have been

established; but we assert that the genius of Hogarth incurred for us

the danger. His works stand unique in art--that which can be said,

perhaps, of the works of no other painter that ever existed, and

obtained a name. We had written so far, when we were willing to see

what a modern writer says of this great man; and we are happy to find

his views in so great a degree coincide with our own. We make the

follow-extract from Cleghorn's 2d volume of _Ancient and Modern Art_;

a work, indeed, that, when we took up the pen, it was our purpose to

speak of more largely, and to which we mean to devote what further

space may be allowed for this paper:--

"To Hogarth, on the other hand, M. Passavant awards that justice which

has been denied to him by his countrymen. Hogarth is of all English

painters, and, perhaps, of all others, the one who knew how to

represent the events of common life with the most humour, and, at the

same time, with rare and profound truth. This truth of character is,

however, visible not only in his conception of a subject, but is

varied throughout in the form and colour of his figures in a no less

masterly manner." "Hogarth [continues Mr Cleghorn] stands alone as an

artist, having had no predecessors, rivals, nor successors. He is the

more interesting, too, as being the first native English artist of

celebrity. Yet a tasteless public was unable to appreciate his merits;

and he was driven to the necessity of raffling his pictures for small

sums, which only partially succeeded. In spite of the sneers of Horace

Walpole that he was "more a writer of comedy with his pencil than a

painter," and the epigrammatic saying of Augustus Von Schlegel, that

'he painted ugliness, wrote on beauty, and was a thorough bad

painter,' he was a great and original artist, both painter and

engraver, whose works, coming home to every man's understanding and

feelings, and applicable to every age and country, can never lose

their relish and interest. They are chiefly known to the public by

his etchings and engravings, which, however, convey a very imperfect

idea of the beauty and expression of the original paintings." We only

object to stress laid upon his humour, which is not his, or at least

his only, characteristic. He was a great dramatist of human life;

humour was the incidental gift, tragedy the more essential. Who had

more humour, more wit than Shakspeare, and who was ever so tragic, or

so employed his humour as to set it beside his most tragic scenes,

with an effect that made the pathos deeper? In such a sense was

Hogarth "comic." His "Marriage à la Mode" is the deepest of tragedies.

We turn to Mr Cleghorn's two interesting and very useful volumes. They

give a compendious, yet, for general use and information, sufficiently

elaborate view of architecture, sculpture, and painting, from their

very origin to their present condition. We know of no work containing

so complete a view. If we are disposed at all to quarrel with his

plan, it is that in every branch he comes down to too late a time. And

as it is always the case with writers who find themselves committed to

the present age, he evidently finds himself encumbered with the detail

which this part of his plan has forced upon him. In matter it will be

often found that the present age overpowers all preceding, when even

it is vastly inferior in importance. Nor is it very easy to avoid a

bias in speaking of contemporaries; nor can a writer safely depend

upon his own judgment when he looks too nearly and intimately on men

and their works, and fears the giving offence by omissions, or by too

qualified praise. His divisions into schools, with general remarks on

each at the end, give a very clear view, when taken together, of the

history of these arts; and we are rejoiced to see them--architecture,

sculpture, and painting--thus in a manner linked in history, as they

were formerly in the minds and genius of the greatest men. In this he

follows the good course led by Vasari. In his account of the Flemish

and Dutch schools, there is a strange omission of the early Flemish

painters preceding and subsequent to the Van Eycks, to the time of

Rubens; nor is the influence which the brothers Van Eyck had upon art

sufficiently discussed. We propose at some future day to treat more at

length on this subject, and to make extracts from Michiel's very

interesting little volume, his "Peintres Brugeois." Even in the short

account of Van Eyck's invention, Mr Cleghorn is somewhat careless, in

the omission of one important little word, _sue_, in his extract from

Vasari, who does not exactly describe the invention as "the result of

a mixture or vehicle composed of linseed oil or nut oil, _boiled up

with other mixtures_," but "_with other mixtures of his own_." Vasari

says, "e aggiuntevi altre _sue_ misture fece la vernice," &c.

In the following remarks on Greek sculpture we find something

consonant to the ideas we have ventured to express:--

"A remarkable difference is observable in the female ideal, the result

of that refined delicacy and purity of taste evinced on all occasions

by the Greeks. They neither increased the stature, nor heightened the

contours of their heroines and goddesses, convinced that in so doing

they must have sensibly impaired the beauty, modesty, and delicacy of

the sex. In this the Greek sculptors conformed to the rule inculcated

by Aristotle, and uniformly observed in the Greek tragedy, never to

make woman overstep the modesty of the female character. The Medicean

Venus is but a woman, though perhaps more beautiful than ever woman

appeared on earth. Another peculiarity is very striking. While a great

proportion of the male statues, whether men, heroes, or gods, were

naked, or nearly so, those of the other sex, with the exception of the

Venuses, Graces, and Hours, were uniformly draped from head to foot.

Even the three Graces by Socrates, described by Pausanias as

decorating the entrance to the Acropolis, were clothed in imitation of

the more ancient Graces." As to this exception of the Venuses and

Graces, Mr Cleghorn seems to have in some degree misapprehended the

passage relating thereto in Pausanias, who distinctly says that he

knows not who first sculptured or painted them naked, but it was after

the time of Socrates. These Graces of Socrates, by the bye, may be

the φιλαι, of whom he speaks in his dialogue with Theodota,

who, he says, will not let him rest day nor night.

The number of nude Venuses would, it may be suspected, scarcely

justify the elegant compliment in the epigram in the Anthologia--

"Γυμνην ειδε Παρις με και Ανχισης και

Αδωνις,

Τους τρεις οιδα μονους; Πραξιτελης δε

ποθεν?"

Paris, Anchises, and Adonis--Three,

Three only, did me ever naked see:

But this Praxiteles--when, where did He?

Our author censures the school of Bernini, we should have thought

justly, remembering much that has been said on the subject of the

unfitness of the ponderous material to represent light action, if we

had not seen the Xanthian marbles brought to this country by Sir

Charles Fellowes, and now deposited in the British Museum. The female

statues that stood in the Tomb Temple are exquisite, and perhaps equal

to any Grecian art, yet are they represented with flying drapery. It

is difficult to make a rule which some bold genius shall not subvert.

Most authors on art think it necessary to descant upon liberty, as

most favourable to its advancement. It is difficult to define what

liberty is, so that every example may be disputed. If we take the age

of Pericles, when the wonders of Phidias were achieved, we must not

forget that Phidias himself was treated by the Athenians with such

indignity that he left them, and deposited his finest work at Corinth.

The republic suspected him of thieving the gold, and he had the

precaution, knowing his men, to weigh the metal, and work it so as to

be removable. We must not forget that Pericles, who fortunately in a

manner governed Athens, was obliged to plead on his knees for the life

of Aspasia, whose offence was her superior endowments. When Alexander

subjugated Greece, art still flourished. Nor was it crushed even in

the wars and revolts and subjugations by Cassander, after the death of

Alexander. We should not say that the Augustan age was exactly the age

of liberty, but it was the age of literature. The easier solution may

be, "Sint Mæcenates, non deerunt Marones." Munificent patronage will

often raise what that state which passes under the name of liberty

will often destroy.

"In the most favoured periods of the fine arts, we find patronage

either dispensed by the sovereign, the state, or the priesthood; or,

if a commonwealth, by the rulers who had the revenues at their

command. Possessing taste and knowledge themselves, and appreciating

the importance and dignity of art, they selected the artists whom they

deemed best fitted for the purpose. The artists, again, respected and

consulted their patrons, between whom there reigned a mutual

enthusiasm, good understanding, and respect. Such were Pericles,

Alexander the Great, Julius Cæsar, Augustus, Hadrian, Francis I. of

France, Julius II., Lorenzo and Leo X. of the Medici, the nobles and

rulers of the different Italian cities and commonwealths, the Roman

Catholic church and clergy, Charles I. of England, Louis XIV. of

France--and in our own times the late and present kings of Prussia,

the King of Bavaria, Louis Philippe of France, and--it is gratifying

to add--Queen Victoria and Prince Albert of Great Britain. But,

indispensable as national patronage is, it can have no sure or

permanent foundation, unless it be likewise supported by the

aristocracy and wealthy classes. Instead of emanating, as in the

continental states, from the sovereign and government, patronage in

Great Britain may be said to have originated with the middle ranks,

and to have forced its way up to the higher classes, and even to the

government itself."

There are interesting yet short chapters on mosaic, tapestry, and

painted glass; subjects now demanding no little public attention,

coming again as we are to the taste for decoration. The ladies of

England will be pleased to find their needle-work so seriously

considered. Happy will it be if their idleness leads to a better and

employed industry. Due praise is bestowed upon Miss Linwood, whose

works are ranked with the Gobelin tapestry. We remember seeing many

years ago an invention that promised great things--painting, if it may

be so called, in wool work. It was the invention of Miss Thompson,

and was exhibited, and we believe not quite fairly--much mischief

having been done to the pictures by pulling out parts, either for

wanton mutilation, or to see the manner of the working. Whether from

disgust arising from this circumstance, or at the little encouragement

shown to it, the invention seems to have dropped. Yet was the effect

most powerful, more to the life than any picture, in whatever

material; and from the size of the works produced by the hands of one

person, we should judge that it is capable of rapid execution. We have

a vivid recollection of a copy from a picture by Northcote, figures

size of life, and of the head of Govartius, in the National Gallery.

We are not without hope that this slight notice may recall a very

effective mode of copying, at least, if not of producing, original

works.

Of painted glass, it is remarked,--

"The earliest notice of its existence is in the age of Pope Leo III.,

about the year 800. It did not, however, come into general use till

the lapse of some centuries. The earliest specimens differ entirely

from those of a later date, being composed of small pieces stained

with colour during the process of manufacture, and thus forming a

species of patchwork, or rude mosaic, joined together with lead, after

being cut into the proper shapes." Mr Cleghorn omits to say that this

more perfect invention of painting on one piece various tints and

colours, and regulating gradations of burning, was effected and

brought to perfection by the same extraordinary man to whom the world

is indebted for the invention of oil painting, Van Eyck. From the

discoveries of this extraordinary man, or rather these extraordinary

brothers, Van Eyck, must be dated the advance in the arts, both on

glass and in oil-colours, which brought to both the perfection of

colouring.

The wonderful splendour added to design upon glass, which was so

eminently practised at Venice, without doubt supplied to the Venetian

school an aim which it could not have had under the old tempera

system, but which the new oil invention of Van Eyck sufficiently

placed within its reach.

Yet, in one view, we may hence date the corruption of art. The

severity of fresco was superseded by the new fascination, and somewhat

of dignity was lost as beauty was more decidedly established. As very

much of the splendour of glass painting was thus introduced in oil,

the greater facility of more correctly representing nature, and

embodying ideas by degrees of opacity, so gave the preference to

oil-painting, that not only the old tempera and fresco were soon

neglected, but painting on glass itself, as if it had done its work,

and transferred its peculiar beauty, lost much of its repute, and, in

no very long time, the processes to which it owed its former glory.

Mr Cleghorn remarks--"Within a few years it has been much cultivated

in Great Britain; and the intended application to the decoration of

the Houses of Parliament will materially conduce to its improvement

and extension." It is unquestionably an art of the greatest importance

in decoration. It has a charm peculiarly its own. It dignifies, it

solemnises by its own light, and is capable of affecting the mind so

as particularly to predispose it to the purposes of architecture. It

encloses a sanctuary, excluding the very atmosphere of the outer

world. There is the impression and the awe of truth under the

searching and embracing light, that should make the utterance of a

falsehood the more mean, even sacrilegious. The art that can have this

power, nor is this its only, though its greater power, is surely to be

cultivated and encouraged extensively. There is now more attention

paid to the architecture and decoration of our churches, and a taste

has sprung up for monumental windows. We cannot resist, therefore, the

temptation to offer a few remarks upon the subject, now that so many

mistaken views are taken as to the proper application of this

beautiful art.

There seems to be a false idea abroad that the painted window is to be

predominant, not assistant to the general impression which the

architecture intends. In reality it loses, not gains, power by setting

up for itself. And, even in colours, it is not to vie with shop

display of colours "by the piece," nor to set forth all its powers at

once in a full glare and blaze, and too often without other object

and meaning than to display flags of strong unmixed colours. A painted

window should be a whole, and have no one colour predominant, but be

of infinite depths and degrees of tint and tone with one tendency. Nor

should it aim at picture-making, however it may be adapted to the

emblematical. It should never affect the absolutely real--the picture

illusion: it is altogether of a world of thought and imagination

belonging rather to the inner mind of the spectator than to his

ordinary thought or vision. The very difficulty of the early

manufacture was an advantage to it, for great brilliancy has resulted

from the crossings and hatchings of the leaden fastenings; and now

that we are enabled to hang up, as it were, flags of colour, the

effect of those subduing subdivisions is gone.

There is such a thing, so to speak, as the genius of a material. That

genius, in the case of glass-painting, is not for picture. Surely Sir

Joshua Reynolds made a great mistake when, in his window for New

College, he designed, as for canvass, a picture, and that for the most

part without colour, which the genius of the material required. Nor by

the largeness of his figures, and of the whole as a design, did he

assist, or indeed at all agree with, the character of the

architecture. In such instances many and small parts should make one

whole, both for the advantage of the real magnitude of the particular

work, and that the magnitude of the architecture be not lessened--a

method, indeed, which the Gothic architecture studiously followed, in

which even minute design and detail give largeness to all the leading

lines. Daylight is never to be seen--an imaginary light is the all in

all. In this respect it should be like a precious stone, which is best

seen in all its infinite depths, in shade, out of all common glare. In

the best specimens of old glass-painting the positive and strong

colours were few, and in small spaces, and adjoining them was a

frequent aiming at those which were almost opaque,--even black and

greens, browns and purples, bordering on black. And if emblematic

subjects were represented, they were in many compartments, as if the

window were a large history-book with its many pages--a world of

curious emblems, no one obtrusive. It is bad taste to fill up a whole

window with even Raffaelle's Transfiguration; either a picture or a

large design is out of place, and dissonant to the genius of the art.

One of the worst specimens of painted window is that in the Temple,

all self-glorifying, painted as a savage would paint himself, in flags

of colour as crude as possible. The genius of the art is for

innumerable subdivisions, none obtruding, lest there be no whole. It

should be of the light of a brighter world subduing itself, veiling

its glory, and diffusing itself in mystic communication with the inner

mind; and like that mind, one in feeling with all its varied depths of

thought. Colour and transparency are the means of this beautiful art;

but these, as they are very powerful require great judgment and

determination of purpose in the use. The interwoven gold in the old

tapestries was more effectually to separate the character of the

material from the too close imitation of nature or the picture; so on

the transparent material of glass, the crossing, and sometimes

quaintly formed lead lines, always marked, answer the same purpose. Mr

Cleghorn is too sparing of remarks and information on the art of

painting on glass, which we the less regret, as we are shortly to have

before the public the carefully gathered knowledge upon this subject

from the pen and research of Mrs Merrifield. His chapter on tapestry

is more full and interesting. We have not seen the specimens of a new

kind invented by Miss King. It will be a boon to the public if, in its

adoption, it supersedes, with a better richness, the Berlin work, at

which ladies are now so unceasingly and so tastelessly employed. The

_Art-Union_ speaks highly of the invention. It is curious that, in

modern times, a Raffaelle tapestry should be destroyed to get at the

gold. The anecdote is characteristic of the equally infidel French of

1798 and of the Jew--excepting that the Jew was ignorant of its value.

Mr Cleghorn thus speaks of the celebrated cartoon tapestries--"They

were sent to be woven at Arras, under the superintendence of Barnard

Van Orlay and Michael Coxes, who had been some years pupils of

Raffaelle. Two sets of these interesting tapestries were executed; but

the deaths of Raffaelle and the pontiff, and the intestine troubles,

prevented them being applied to their intended destination. They were

carried off by the Spaniards during the sack of Rome in 1526-7, and

restored by the French general, Montmorency. They were first exhibited

to the public by Paul IV. in front of the Basilica of St Peter's, on

the festival of Corpus Domini, and again at the Beatification: a

custom that was continued throughout part of the last century, and has

again been resumed. _The French took them in 1798, and sold them to a

Jew at Leghorn, who burned one of them--Christ's Descent into

Limbus--to extract the gold with which it was interwoven._"

There is so much information in these little volumes, that were we to

notice a small part of the passages which we have marked with the

pencil, we should unduly lengthen this paper, which we can by no means

be allowed to do. We here pause, intending, however, shortly to resume

the pen on the subject of art, which now offers so many points of

interest.

KAFFIRLAND.[8]

[8] _Five Years in Kaffirland, with Sketches of the Late War in that

Country._ Written on the Spot. By HARRIET WARD. Two vols. London,

1848.

_The Cape and its Colonists, with Hints to Settlers, in 1848._ By

GEORGE NICHOLSON, Jun., Esq., a late Resident. London, 1848.

_Three Years' Cruise in the Mozambique Channel, for the Suppression of

the Slave Trade._ By LIEUT. BARNARD, R.N. London, 1848.

It is always with fresh interest that we address ourselves to the

perusal of books relating to Great Britain's colonial possessions. The

subject, daily increasing in importance, has the strongest claims upon

our attention. In presence of a rapidly augmenting population, and of

the prodigious progress of steam and machinery, the question naturally

suggests itself--and more so in England than in any other country--how

employment and support shall be found for the additional millions of

human beings with which a few years (judging of the future from the

past) will throng the surface of a country already densely and

superabundantly populated? The problem, often discussed, has not yet

been satisfactorily solved. Without broaching the complicated question

of over-population and its antidotes, without attempting to decide

when a country is to be deemed over-populated, we may assert, without

fear of contradiction, that emigration is the simplest and most direct

remedy for the state of plethora into which a nation must sooner or

later be brought by a steady annual excess of births over deaths. It

is a remedy to which more than one European state will ultimately be

compelled to resort, however alleviation may previously be sought by

temporising and theoretical nostrums, more palatable, perhaps, to the

patient, but inadequate, if not wholly inefficacious and

charlatanical. And, after all, emigration is no such insupportable

prescription for a very ugly malady. Doubtless much may be said upon

the cruelty of making exile a condition of existence; but sympathy on

this score may also be carried too far, and degenerate into drivel. At

first sight the decree appears cruel and tyrannical, until we

investigate its source, and find it to proceed from no earthly

potentate, but from that omniscient Being whose intention it never was

that men should crowd together into nooks and corners, when vast

continents and fruitful islands, untenanted save by beasts of the

field, or by scanty bands of barbarians, woo to their shores the

children of labour and civilisation. Love of country, admirable as an

incentive to many virtues, may be pushed beyond reasonable limits. It

is so, we apprehend, when it prompts men to pine in penury and

idleness upon the soil that gave them birth, rather than seek new

fields for their industry and enterprise in uncultivated and vacant

lands. What choice of these is afforded by England's vast and

magnificent colonies! The emigrant may select almost his degree of

latitude. And where Britannia's banner waves, and her laws are

paramount, and the honest, kindly Anglo-Saxon tongue is the language

of the land, there surely needs no great effort of imagination for a

Briton to think himself still at home, though a thousand leagues of

ocean roll between him and his native isle.

Excepting that they all more or less refer to the British possessions

at the Cape of Good Hope, it were difficult to find three books more

distinct from each other in character than those whose titles we have

assembled at the foot of last page. An ex-settler, an accomplished

lady, and a shrewd sailor, have selected the same moment for the

publication of their African experiences. As in gallantry bound, we

give the precedence to the lady. Mrs Harriet Ward, wife of a captain

of the 91st regiment of foot, is a keen-witted, high-spirited person;

and, like most of her sex when they espouse a cause, a warm partisan

of the feelings and opinions of those she loves and admires. She is an

uncompromising assailant of the system pursued at the Cape, especially

as regards our treaties with the Kaffirs, whom she very justly

denounces as perfidious, bloody, and unclean savages, untameable, she

fully believes, and with whom Whig officials and negotiators have been

ridiculously lenient and confiding. Although some of her views are

rather sweeping and severe, she is certainly right in the main. And we

honour her for her heartiness in denouncing the nauseous humbug of the

pseudo-philanthropists, whose manœuvres have had a most prejudicial

effect upon our South African possessions, and have given to persons

in this country notions completely erroneous concerning the rights and

wrongs of the Kaffir question. But whilst blaming the administration

of the colony, she finds the country itself fair and excellent and of

great resource. Herein she differs from her contemporary, Mr George

Nicholson, junior. This gentleman, lately a settler at the Cape,

cannot be too highly lauded for the volume with which he has favoured

the public. We are not quite sure, however, that the public will think

as highly of it as we do. Our admiration is founded on the consistency

of its tone; upon the steady, well-sustained grumble kept up

throughout. The preface at once prepossessed us in favour of what was

to follow. Intended, doubtless, as a dram of bitters to assist in the

digestion of the subsequent sour repast, it consists of general

depreciation of other works regarding the Cape, and especially of one

by "a Mr Chase"--of sneers at "stay-at-home wiseacres" and hollow

theorists--and of a vague accusation brought against certain colonial

residents of "fomenting the warlike propensities of the neighbouring

barbarians, to secure their own ends," grievously to the detriment and

prejudice of their fellow-colonists. "The peculiar bent," says Mr

Nicholson, "of each author's mind has, in general, been so far allowed

to predominate as to exclude the hope of forming a correct estimate of

the capabilities of the soil, climate, and other interesting features

of this extensive country, by a perusal of their works." Could the

author of "The Cape and its Colonists" read his book with somebody

else's eyes, he would discover that his own "peculiar bent has been

allowed to predominate," and that the consequences have been of the

most gloomy description. Mr Nicholson is evidently a disappointed,

man. Either by his fault or misfortune, by the force of circumstances

or his own bad management, his attempt to establish himself thrivingly

at the Cape resulted unsatisfactorily; and this sufficiently accounts

for the general tint of blue so conspicuous in his retrospective

sketch of the scene of his mishaps. The particular spot where these

occurred was a considerable tract of land (called a farm) in the

district of Graaf Reinet, to arrive at which he steamed from Cape

Town, where he had landed from England, to Port Elizabeth in Algoa

Bay. The dismal aspect of this bay painfully affected him. He "had

read some of the glowing descriptions given of this part of the

country, by persons whose interest it is to entice over settlers by

any means, even the most dishonest, in order to have the benefit of

plucking them afterwards. It is true that I had not believed the El

Dorado stories so current of this and other colonies, but my

expectations had been raised sufficiently high to make the

disappointment at the really desolate appearance of the place,

perfect." The apparent desolation is accompanied by substantial

disadvantages, which Mr Nicholson complacently enumerates. Water is

scarce and brackish; there are no vegetables or fruit within twenty

miles; hardly forage for a team of oxen; the town is built on sand, of

which unceasing clouds are hurled by prevalent strong winds in the

face of all comers. No wonder that the new settler, evidently

indisposed to be easily pleased, made his escape as quickly as

possible from so dreary a neighbourhood. Shipping himself, family, and

chattels in an ox-waggon, he joyfully quitted Port Elizabeth on a

splendid morning of the African autumn--that is to say, about the end

of March or beginning of April, and set out for his property, over a

road which he describes as a fair sample of Cape causeways, "nothing

more than a series of parallel tracks made by the passage of waggons,

from time to time, through the sand and jungle." Finding little to

notice on his way, he takes the opportunity of having a fling at the

missionaries, whom he describes as doing much harm, although actuated,

as he is willing to believe, by the best of intentions. The stations

serve as the headquarters of the idlest and most vagabond portion of

the coloured population, who have only to affect a Christian

disposition to find ready acceptance and refuge. "No sooner is a

Hottentot, or other coloured servant, discontented or hopelessly lazy,

than off he flies to the nearest station, where he can indulge in the

greatest luxury he knows of--that of sleeping either in the sun or

shade as his inclination may lead him, with the occasional variation

of participating in the singing and praying exercises of the regular

inhabitants of the place." If the zealous propagators of Christianity,

who thus encourage the natural idleness of the natives, were

successful in their attempts at conversion, it might be accepted as

some compensation for the temporal evils and inconvenience they aid to

inflict on a colony where servants are scarce and bad. But this is far

from being the case. Mr Nicholson assures us (and we readily believe

him) that it is very rare to find an individual whose moral conduct

has been improved by a residence at a missionary station, and that for

his part he prefers the downright heathen to the imperfect convert.

Few of these coloured Christians have any distinct idea of the creed

they profess; when able, which is seldom, to answer questions

concerning its first principles, their replies are parrot-like and

unintelligent. Against the general character of the missionaries

nothing can be said; but they are throwing away time, and their

employers are wasting money which might be employed to far greater

advantage in England, or in other countries whose inhabitants, equally

in want of religious instruction, are more capable of receiving and

comprehending it than are the stolid aborigines of the Cape of Good

Hope. Mr Nicholson does not dwell upon the subject of missionary

labours in Africa, but compresses at the close of a chapter his

opinions, which are sound and to the purpose. Mrs Ward says nothing on

the matter, and we ourselves are not disposed to dilate upon it,

having already often taken occasion to expose the folly of the system

that sends preachers and biblemongers to the remotest corners of the

earth when such scope for their labours exists at home. Let us return

to George Nicholson, his trials and tribulations.

These were manifold; and he makes the most of them. No encouraging

signs or omens cheered his progress through the land, bidding his

heart beat high with hope. At two days' journey from Port Elizabeth he

halted for the night at a farm belonging to an Englishman of

independent property, who received him hospitably, but assured him

that sheep-breeding was a hopeless speculation, owing to the bad

pasturage, to the bushy tangled nature of the country, and to the

hyenas, there called wolves, who are most destructive. As he

proceeded, pasturage improved, but other plagues were apparent. In

some places water was as scarce as in an Arabian desert, and as much

prized--collected in pits and husbanded with the utmost care. "The

maps of the colony indicate rivers of the most encouraging description

in this part of the country. But the district itself presents only a

series of dry water-courses, leaving evident traces of their

capability of containing water for some hours after storms." These

sandy and deceitful gullies intersect "a frightful country, which can

only be described as a succession of low undulations, covered with

large shingles, between which the most debauched-looking stunted tufts

of the poisonous and prickly euphorbia, with here and there a

magnificent scarlet-headed aloe, forced their way." We are at a loss

to know what the ex-colonist here means by the epithet "debauched-looking,"

unless he intends some obscure allusion to the thirsty and

disreputable aspect of the brambles, remote as they were from the

vicinity of any water except one spring of "Harrowgate, which, to

judge from the nasty effluvium it produced, must have been possessed

of rare healing qualities." The severe droughts are the destruction of

the settlers, entailing terrible losses and often total ruin, and

their pernicious effects are aggravated by flights of locusts. These

the farmers do what they can to keep off by smoky fires and other

means, sometimes with success; but even when the insect cloud pass

over a field without ravaging it, they leave a memento of their

transit in the shape of innumerable eggs. In due time the young

generation come forth, and being wingless cannot be driven away, but

hop about and ravage every thing till their wings grow, and a gale of

wind takes them off to fresh pasturage. Mrs Ward's description of a

flight of locusts is remarkably striking, and given with a vigour of

phrase not often found in the productions of a female pen.

"The first two years of our sojourn here, the locusts

devastated the land. The prophet Joel describes this

dreadful visitation as 'like the noise of chariots on the

tops of mountains,' 'like the noise of a flame of fire that

devoureth the stubble,' as 'a strong people set in battle

array;' and any one who has ridden through a cloud of

locusts must admit the description to be as true as it is

sublime. On one occasion, at Fort Peddie, the cloud,

flickering between us and the missionary station, half a

mile distant, dazzled our eyes, and veiled the buildings

from our sight; at last it rose, presenting its effects in

some acres of barren stubble, which the sun had lit up in

all the beauty of bright green a few hours before. Verily,

the heavens seemed to tremble, and the sky was darkened by

this 'great army,' which passed on, 'every one on his way,'

neither 'breaking their ranks nor thrusting one another.' So

they swept on, occupying a certain space between the heavens

and the earth, and neither swerving from the path, extending

the mighty phalanx, nor pausing in the course: the noise of

their wings realising the idea of a 'flaming blast,' and

their whole appearance typifying God's terrible threat of a

'besom of destruction.'

"'They shall walk every one in his path!' Nothing turns them

from it. And if the traveller endeavours to force his way

through them with unwonted rapidity, he is sure to suffer. I

have ridden for miles at a sharp gallop through their

legions, endeavouring to beat them of with my whip, but all

to no purpose! Nothing turns them aside, and the poor horses

bend down their heads as against an advancing storm, and

make their way as best they can, snorting and writhing under

the infliction of sharp blows on the face and eyes, which

their riders endeavour to evade with as little success. You

draw a long breath after escaping from a charge of locusts;

and looking around you, you exclaim with the prophet, 'The

land is as the Garden of Eden before them, and behind them a

desolate wilderness; yea, and nothing shall escape

them!'"[9]

[9] _Five Years in Kaffirland_, vol. ii. p. 167-8.

Mr Nicholson's location included a tolerable house with mud floors and

reed ceilings, and thirty-five thousand acres of mountain and plain,

having the reputation of one of the best farms in the district. The

cost of this was about £2000; and the property was calculated to

maintain five or six thousand sheep, four hundred oxen, besides

horses. There were four small springs, allowing the cultivation of

about sixteen acres of good soil. Mr Nicholson, not wishing to

overburden the land, bought only three thousand sheep, with cattle in

proportion, and began the life (described by him as most discouraging

and unprofitable) of a Cape of Good Hope sheep-farmer. Melancholy

indeed is the account he gives of the profits and losses of that

occupation. In the first place, high wages and good keep are scarcely

sufficient inducement to the lazy Hottentots to take service; and when

they are prevailed upon, they are scarce worth having. They are sent

to the hills with the flocks, which they have to protect from beasts

of prey, always on the look-out for a bit of straggling mutton. They

themselves, however, are conspicuous for their rapacity, and by no

means remarkable for honesty; and doubtless many a stray sheep is

debited to the hyenas, of whose disappearance the Hottentots could

give a very good account. The wild animals, however--panthers,

jackals, hyenas, and, in some districts, lions--are amongst the

settler's worst foes. These prowling carnivora preclude the

possibility of leaving sheep out of doors after dark; and, even when

penned, the fleecy family can hardly be considered safe. "In stormy

weather," saith Nicholson, "my walled pens, although well bushed at

top, and above six feet high, did not sufficiently protect me from

great losses by the hyenas, which, on such occasions, would often jump

over and kill sheep, and often carry one off in their mouths." This

latter feat is rather astounding; but no matter, let us pass on to the

next grievances of the unfortunate settler and sheep-farmer,

grievances not peculiar to himself, but shared by all whose evil star

guides them to the land of locusts and hyena. The diseases of sheep

are numerous and fatal--scab, consumptive wasting, inflammation of the

lungs, violent inflammatory epidemics, poisonous bushes and

hailstones, drought and thunderbolts. "I recollect one of my

neighbours losing upwards of three hundred valuable sheep in a few

minutes from the effects of a hailstorm. Another farmer, living at no

great distance from me, lost fifteen hundred sheep in one season from

drought; and on my own farm, shortly before I became possessed of it,

four hundred sheep were destroyed by lightning in a moment." Doubtless

such mishaps as these do occur, but there is something particularly

painful in Mr Nicholson's lugubrious style of piling them up, without

intermixture of the smallest crumb of comfort for any unhappy

individuals planning emigration to the Cape. Did he but vaunt the

tender haunches and juicy saddles, the fine and profitable wool

yielded by the remnant of these afflicted flocks! But touching the

mutton he is mute; and as regards the produce of the fleeces, he

pledges himself that, under the most favourable circumstances, they

never yield more than four per cent on the value of the flock--a small

enough remuneration, as it appears to us, unlearned, we confess, in

ways of woollen. But we have not yet got to the worst of the story.

Supposing a farmer fortunate, and that his flocks escape the

multifarious evils above enumerated--that they are spared by the

lightning's blast, the big hailstones, the inflammatory epidemic, and

all the rest of it. Not upon that account may he rub his hands in

jubilation, and reckon upon a good clip and high prices. He gets up

one morning and finds his sheep converted into goats, or something

little better. "Woolled sheep have a natural tendency to deterioration

in this climate; and in a few generations, notwithstanding the

greatest care, the wool begins to show a tendency to assimilate itself

to the hairy nature of the coat, which, is the natural covering of the

indigenous animal." So that, upon the whole, Mr Nicholson inclines to

prefer goats to sheep, as stock, if properly attended to, and the

utmost possible numbers kept. The profit is made out of the skin, fat,

and flesh, and "those carcasses not required for food, might be boiled

down for tallow." He perhaps overlooks, in this calculation, "the

scarcity and bad quality of the fuel, composed of the dung dug out of

the sheep pens, and stacked for the purpose." The present system,

however, evidently does not answer, judging from his statement that

there is not "one sheep-farmer in the Eastern Province (depending on

the profits of his farm) who is either contented with the results of

his farming, or is not grievously indebted to his storekeeper, except

among the old-established and primitive Dutch families, who spend no

money in manufactures, and have but little to spend, had they the

habit." Is it unfair to argue, from this paragraph, the absence, on

the part of the English colonists, of that frugal simplicity of living

essential in a new country? A man settling in a country like the Cape,

should be prepared to resign not only luxuries, but many things which

in Europe are deemed positive necessaries of life, but which, in the

forest and prairie, may well be dispensed with. We infer, from certain

passages in Mr Nicholson's book, that he and his fellow-colonists were

rather above their position, too addicted to the comforts of England

to submit to the privations of Africa, and that they augmented their

expenses by procuring alleviations which their primitive Dutch

neighbours cheerfully dispensed with. The Dutchmen, Mr Nicholson tells

us, spend no money in manufactures. Then the English settlers' wives

were evidently quite out of their element in the bush, or as occupants

of houses mud-floored and roofed with reeds. "I have never," says Mr

Nicholson, "seen an English woman in the colony, at all raised above

the very poorest, who did not complain bitterly of the inconvenience

she endured when living on a farm; and I really know nothing more

affecting than the sight of the often elegant-minded and well-educated

sheep-farmer's wife struggling with the drudgery of her situation, and

repining fruitlessly at the deceptive accounts which had induced her

husband to seek his fortune in South Africa." Here we, perhaps, have a

clue to one cause of the jaundiced view the ex-settler takes of things

at the Cape. The impossibility of obtaining the requisite domestic

servants drove Mrs Nicholson from the sheep-farm in Graaf Reinet to

the more agreeable residence of Cape Town, at a distance of eight

hundred miles; and thenceforward her husband divided his time, as best

he could, between domestic and farming duties. This seems an

uncomfortable state of things. The want of the master's eye must have

been sadly felt at the farm during his visits to Cape Town, and he

must have lost much time and some patience in weary eight-hundred-mile

journeys, performed, for the most part, on horseback.

The Kaffir war is, of course, a prominent subject in the three books

before us. We find least of it in that of Lieutenant Barnard, whose

narrative is chiefly of things at sea, and most in Mrs Ward's volumes,

which consist principally of details of that unsatisfactory contest.

Mrs Ward and Mr Nicholson concur in attributing to Whig

mal-administration, and to the unwise treaties of Sir Andries

Stockenstrom, the numerous disasters that of late years have afflicted

the Cape, and the bloody and inglorious struggle that has cost this

country upwards of three millions sterling. Here, again, is to be

traced the hand and mischief-making tongue of the pseudo-philanthropists.

By those tender-hearted gentry was the original impulse given to the

series of changes which have done so much towards the ruin of a

prosperous colony. First came a scream about the ill-treated

Hottentots. These were certainly often ill-used by their Dutch

masters, but that was surely no reason for emancipating them, by one

summary ordinance, from every species of restraint. This, however, was

the course adopted; and forthwith the Hottentot, by nature one of the

most indolent of animals, spurned work, and took to idleness and

dram-drinking. Since that fatal day, the race has degenerated and

dwindled, and no doubt it will ultimately become extinct. Having thus,

greatly to the detriment and inconvenience of the colonists, procured

the Hottentots liberty, or rather license, the sympathisers extended

their charitable exertions to Kaffirland. What pretext existed for

this new crusade does not exactly appear, but its result was even more

mischievous than their interference with the Hottentots. The Kaffirs

were told of grievances they previously never had dreamed of, they

were rendered unsettled and dissatisfied, (greedy and rapacious they

already were,) and at last they poured into the colony, sweeping off

the flocks and herds, murdering the peaceable settler, and setting the

flaming brand to his roof-tree. This incursion, the ruin of

thousands, at an end, the colonists set to work to repair damages,

hoping for peace and a return of prosperity, when a new calamity came

upon them. Mrs Ward shall describe it.

"Suddenly there was a voice, which went through all the

countries of the known earth, crying aloud, 'Let the slave

be free!' Societies sent forth their ragged regiments, with

banners on which the negro was depicted as an interesting

child of nature, chained and emaciated, whilst a ruffian

beside him held the lash over his head. 'The people' really

imagined that the sugar plantations were worked by lanky

negroes, handcuffed one to another. Elderly ladies, who

abused their neighbours over their bohea, rejoiced in the

prospect of 'emancipation and cheap sugar,' and the people,

the dear 'people,' expected to get it for nothing. The Dutch

were quite ready to listen to the voice that cried 'shame'

at the idea of seizing our fellow-creatures, packing them

like herrings in slave-ships, and bartering them in the

market. But how to set about the remedy should have been

considered. The chain was broken, and the people of England

hurraed to their hearts' content. Meanwhile, what became of

the slave? If he was young and vicious, away he went--he was

his own master. He was free--he had the world before him

where to choose. Whether true or false, he was persuaded he

had been ill used. So, whilst his portrait, with a broken

chain, sleek limbs, eyes uplifted to heaven, and hands

clasped in speechless gratitude, was carried about the

streets of our manufacturing towns in England, (where there

was more starvation in one street than among the whole of

the South African slave population,) the original of the

picture was squatted beside the Kaffir's fire, thinking his

meal of parched corn but poor stuff after the palatable

dishes he had been permitted to cook for himself in the

boer's or tradesman's kitchen."[10]

[10] _Five Years in Kaffirland_, vol. i. pp. 35-6.

And the frugal, hard-working Dutchmen, an excellent ingredient in the

population of a young country, finding themselves deprived of their

slaves, insufficiently compensated, and in fifty ways prejudiced and

inconvenienced by the clumsy and injudicious manner in which the

emancipation had been carried out, brooded over the injustice done

them, and began to migrate across various branches of Orange river

towards the north-east corner of the colony, and finally beyond its

boundary, preferring constant warfare with the Kaffirs, entailed upon

them by the change, to submission to the new and vexatious ordinances,

and to the enactments of the Stockenstrom treaties. These were in the

highest degree absurd, although their framer was rewarded by a pension

and title, as if he had done the state some service, instead of having

actually been the main cause of the last Kaffir war. A ridiculous

report got abroad, credited largely by stay-at-home philanthropists,

and heartily laughed at by all who had any real knowledge of the

subject, that the Kaffirs were a mild, peaceable, and ill-used

people--in Exeter-Hall phrase, "a pastoral and patriarchal race." "It

was imagined," says Mr Nicholson, "that they possessed a strong sense

of honour and probity, and only desired to be guaranteed from the

tyranny of the colonists, (poor lambs!); and a determination was

accordingly come to, to make treaties with the chiefs, the performance

of which could only be secured by their honourable observance of what

was detrimental to the interests of themselves and their people, as

they understood it." Now the truth of the matter is, that a more

vicious and treacherous race than the Kaffirs would be sought in vain

upon the face of the inhabited earth. They unite every evil quality.

"The stalwart Kaffir," says Mrs Ward, "with his powerful form and air

of calm dignity, beneath which are concealed the deepest cunning and

the meanest principles. Some call the Kaffir brave. He is a thief, a

liar, and a beggar, ready only to fight in ambush; and although, to

use the common expression, he 'dies game,' his calmness is the result

of sullenness." Cunning is the most prominent characteristic of this

pleasing savage. "It makes them," says Lieutenant Barnard, "fully

aware of the humanity of the English character, which prevents us from

killing an unarmed man; so, when they find themselves taken unawares,

they throw their arms into the bush, pretend to be friendly Kaffirs,

and, in all probability, fire on our troops when they get to a

convenient distance." It also taught them, during the former war, that

they had no chance against Europeans unless they could procure

firearms; to have time to get these, they joyfully concluded a treaty,

and would have done so on far less favourable terms, never intending

to abide by them. But those made were not sufficiently stringent to

keep even civilised borderers in check. Some were laughed at, others

evaded, whilst a third class defeated their own object. Here is the

twenty-fourth article, as a sample of the last-named sort:--"If any

person being in pursuit of criminals or depredators, or property

stolen by them, shall not overtake or recover the same before he shall

reach the said line, (colonial boundary;) and provided he can make

oath that he traced the said criminals, &c., across a particular spot

on said line; that the property, when stolen, was properly guarded by

an armed herdsman; that the pursuit was commenced immediately after

such property was stolen; that, if the robbery was committed in the

night, the property had been (when stolen) properly secured in kraals,

(folds,) stables, or the like; and that the pursuit, in such case, was

commenced (at latest) early next morning, such person shall be at

liberty to proceed direct to the _pakati_, (Kaffir police!") and (we

abridge the _verbiage_) to make his affidavit and continue his

pursuit, "_provided he do not go armed, or accompanied by armed

British subjects_." Was there ever any thing more absurd than the

formalities here prescribed for the recovery of property from a set of

cattle-lifters, in comparison with whom a Scottish borderer of the

olden time was a man of truth and conscience, and a respecter of

neighbours' rights? It explains, if it does not quite justify, the

fierce personal attack made by Nicholson the sheep-farmer upon the

negotiator of such foolish treaties, whom he designates pretty

plainly, without positively naming him. Mrs Ward, too lady-like and

well-bred to descend to personalities--save in the case of Kaffirs,

whom at times she does most lustily vituperate--contents herself with

blaming acts without attacking individuals. The wily Kaffirs, with

whom theft is a virtue, were not slow to discover the facilities

afforded them, and stole cattle to a greater extent than ever.

Persuaded, moreover, that such regulations could be prompted only by

the weakness of the framers, they looked forward with glee to

overrunning the entire colony at their leisure. They only waited till

they should have sufficient muskets and cartridges. These they easily

obtained; there was no lack of unpatriotic white traders ready and

willing to supply them. This done, the warwhoop was raised, and

hostilities recommenced,--the Kaffirs confident of victory. There had

been so much parleying and lawyers'-work with them, threats had so

often been uttered and so seldom carried out, that the savages had

formed an immense idea of their own consequence and power. Whilst the

hollow peace lasted, their constant and imperious cry was "_Bassila!_"

Give!--when the mask of friendship was thrown aside, they burst into

the colony, desolating in their progress as a swarm of locusts; and if

assailed by the scanty forces that could at first be brought against

them, they plunged into the tangled bush, and, with levelled gun and

assegai, shouted "_Izapa!_" Come on! From the evidence of Mrs Ward's

own pages, we think she hardly does them justice in classing them with

poltroons. They appear to have made good fight on many occasions. And

if the white feather be so conspicuous an ornament in their savage

head-dress, on what ground can she claim such great credit for the

troops that overcame them, and talk of the war as one "not so noble in

its details as those of the days of Napoleon, but far more glorious in

its results." Here she evidently writes from the heat and impulse of

the moment, as she does in some other parts of her book. To this we do

not object, but rather prefer it to the cautious and circumspect

manner in which most writers, especially male ones, would have

extolled the deeds of the South African army, whose sole opportunities

of distinction were in petty skirmishes with undisciplined and naked

barbarians. Not that the Kaffirs could be considered as foes of the

most contemptible class. With a monkey-like faculty of imitation,

they caught up smatterings of European tactics. "Day by day," we

quote Mr Barnard, "they get more expert in the use of fire-arms, and

are observant of our least movements, that I have heard officers

describe their throwing out skirmishers as quite equal to our own

manœuvres." They also attempt stratagems, often with success. It is

a common trick with them to ensnare small parties of the enemy by

leaving a few cattle grazing at the edge of a thicket, in which they

conceal themselves, and when their opponents approach, issue forth and

assail them. In this manner were entrapped Captain Gibson and Dr

Howell, of the Rifles, and the Honourable Mr Chetwynd, who, as

new-comers to the colony, were not up to the hackneyed decoy. The

Kaffirs, on the other hand, are too cunning to be often taken

unawares, although we read of a few successful surprises in Mrs Ward's

chronicle of the campaign. Colonel Somerset, the gallant commander of

the Cape mounted Rifles, is the hero of one of these, upon which Mrs

Ward dwells with peculiar complacency. A small division of troops had

halted to bivouac, when an officer's horse ran away, and carried him

over a hill, past a "clump of Kaffirs" six hundred strong. Reining in

with great difficulty, he dashed back and made his report. What ensued

is described in appropriate style by our martial and dashing

authoress.

"Colonel Somerset lifted his cap from his head, gave three

hearty cheers and shouted, 'Major Gibsone, (7th Dragoon

Guards,) return carbines, draw swords, charge!' 'Hurrah!'

was echoed back; and on they dashed, dragoons, Cape corps,

burghers, Hottentots, and Fingos. They found the enemy up

and in position. Such a mêlée! The cavalry dashed through

the phalanx of Kaffirs, and for want of more cavalry to

support them, dashed back again! A Hottentot soldier, one of

the sturdy Cape corps, having two horses given him to take

care of, charged unarmed, save his sword, and with a horse

in each hand. There was great slaughter amongst the

enemy.... Such Kaffirs as could not escape fell down

exhausted and cried for mercy: there was a great deal of

cunning in this,--they would have stabbed any one who

approached near enough to them to offer a kind word. They

had all had enough, however, of meeting a combined force of

dragoons and Cape corps, and no doubt the latter tried to

surpass themselves. Those gallant little Totties are an

untiring and determined band. How little do we know in

England of the courage and smartness of the Hottentot!"

A very wholesome lesson for the Kaffirs, two hundred of whom were

killed, and a good many more wounded, but rather an inglorious victory

for regular cavalry--so, at least, it strikes us, when we contemplate,

in one of Mrs Ward's illustrations, a parcel of naked monsters, more

like Mexican apes than men, howling and capering, and hurling javelins

at an advancing party of infantry. Any "phalanx" formed by these

uncouth barbarians, would be, we should think, of a very loose

description, and not likely to oppose much resistance to the charge of

her Majesty's 7th Dragoon Guards, backed by the mounted Rifles, who in

spite of black skin, diminutive stature, and cucumber shanks, are

admitted on all hands to be very efficient light cavalry--the best,

probably, for warfare against savages. It were well, perhaps, to

increase their numbers; or at any rate, if cavalry _must_ be sent out

from England, it were surely advisable to select it of the lightest

description. Dragoon guards are excellent in their place, first-rate

fellows to oppose to helmeted Frenchmen or Germans; but the Cape is by

no means their place, and Kaffirs are not cuirassiers. It is like

hunting weasels with wolf-hounds; the very size and power of the dogs

impede them in the pursuit of their noxious and contemptible prey.

There is one point of difference, however, and by no means in favour

of the dragoons; weasels do not carry loaded muskets, which Kaffirs

habitually do, firing them off whenever occasion offers, from behind

bushes, out of wolf-holes, or from any other sequestered and sheltered

position, where it is impossible for the heavy six-foot-long dragoon

guardsmen to get at them. Red jackets, glittering accoutrements, and

tall figures make up a capital mark for the bullet of a lurking foe;

and the unfortunate warriors go perspiring through the bush, with the

thermometer at 120° in the shade, cursing the Kaffirs, but rarely

catching them, their clattering scabbards betraying their approach,

and their lofty helmets visible, leagues off, to the keen-eyed savage.

Local corps--the native article--are unquestionably the proper thing

at the Cape; the patient Hottentot and plucky Fingo bear heat, hunger,

and fatigue far better than the beef-fed Englishman. "The Hottentot

will smile quietly when there is neither food nor water, and draw his

girdle of famine[11] tighter round his waist, and travel on under the

sun uncomplainingly." The Fingos, when hard run for rations, sometimes

eat the bullock-hide shields that form part of their defensive

equipment. These Fingos, by the way, are rather remarkable fellows.

The word _Fingo_ means slave, and for a long period the tribe that

bore the name were in worse than Egyptian bondage. They were the serfs

of the pitiless Kaffirs, until Sir Benjamin de Urban rescued them. "On

the 7th May," says Sir James Alexander, in his sketches of Western

Africa, "I witnessed a most interesting sight, and one which causes

this day to be of immense importance in the annals of South Africa. It

was no less than the flight of the Fingo nation, seventeen thousand in

number, from Amakose bondage, guarded by British troops, and on their

way across the Kei, to find a new country under British protection."

Although an indolent race, fond of basking in the sun, and who will

not even hunt until driven to it by hunger, they fought bravely during

the last war, proving themselves, in many engagements, better men than

their former taskmasters, who to this day never speak of them but as

their "dogs." Fingo costume, as described by Mrs Ward, is rather

original than civilised. They ornament their heads with jackals'

tails, ostrich plumes, beads, wolves' teeth, &c. Across their

shoulders is the skin of a beast, around their waist a kilt of monkey

tails, and they bear enormous shields, on which they sometimes beat

time as on a drum. "They will lie down on the watch for hours, and

imitate the cries of animals to attract the attention of the Kaffirs,

who find themselves encountered by creatures of their own mould,

instead of the wolf or the jackal, as they expected. Sometimes, on the

other hand, the Kaffirs will encircle the Fingos, and dance round

them, yelling frightfully--now roaring like a lion, now hissing like a

serpent; but it is seldom the Kaffirs conquer the Fingos, unless the

latter are inferior in numbers." Notwithstanding their monkified

manœuvres, the Fingos have been found very useful. Nay, the very

Bushmen, (the real aborigines of South Africa,) of which diminutive

and miserable race specimens were recently exhibited in England, were

availed of as allies during the war--a detachment of them, armed with

poisoned arrows, accompanying the British forces. This may appear

rather derogatory to British humanity, but all is fair when Kaffirs

are the foe. The cruelties of these savages exceed belief. Mrs Ward

regales us with a few of their barbarous exploits, and details the

tortures inflicted on the unhappy wretches who fell into their hands.

A soldier of the 91st regiment, caught straggling, was flayed alive,

the little children being permitted, by way of a treat, to assist in

tormenting him. Another was burned to death. We find no account of

quarter ever being given. And Kaffir impudence equals Kaffir cruelty.

When they found themselves getting the worst of the fight, after

sustaining a reverse of unusual severity, they would coolly send

ambassadors to the British to know "why war was made upon them," and

to request permission to "plant their corn" in peace.

[11] Fingos, Kaffirs, and Hottentots, make use of a band or

handkerchief, drawn tightly round the body, to deaden the pain of

hunger; as the gnawing agony of famine increases, the ligature is

tightened accordingly.--_Five Years in Kaffirland_, vol. i., p. 102.

"After the affair at Fort Peddie, Stock, a T'Slambie chief,

sent messengers to complain of _our attacks upon him_, when

he, too, was 'sitting still,' and only wished to be allowed

to 'watch his father Eno's grave!' Very pathetic indeed!

This would sound most pastoral and poetical in Exeter Hall.

Stock _was_, no doubt, 'sitting still' beside 'his father's

grave,' but his people were at work, plundering, burning,

murdering, torturing, and mutilating the troops and

colonists, _whilst_ he 'sat still' and approved. He should

have protected that sacred spot, and kept the neighbourhood

of Fort Peddie clear of marauders."[12]

[12] _Five Years in Kaffirland_, vol. i. p. 304.

Mrs Ward writes like a man. We mean this in no uncomplimentary sense;

on the contrary. Her clear, natural, and lively style has a masculine

vigour and concision; her opinions are bold and decided. To those she

emits upon the subject of the colony and its prospects, we are

inclined to attach considerable weight. Women are keen observers, and

Mrs Ward is evidently no ordinary woman, but a person of great energy

and penetration. We more willingly rely on the observations made

during her marches and countermarches, in her equestrian rambles and

at outquarters, than on the croaking experiences of our friend the

sheep-farmer. A soldier's daughter and wife--a life of change,

hardship, and danger, has quickened her perceptions and ripened her

judgment.

"When I read the miserable account from Ireland of its past

year's woe, and the wretched prospect for the next, I long

to hear of ships making their way to Algoa Bay, with

emigrants from that country. Some have arrived within the

last few weeks, and employment and provision have been met

with at once. Under another system, affording protection to

the settler, this country will afford a refuge to the

starving population of Ireland. Well might Sir Henry

Pottinger be struck with the capabilities and resources of

this fine colony, as he travelled through it. Here is a vast

and fertile space, comparatively free, at this moment, from

the murderous heathen.... An industrious population, located

in sections, would be the best protection for the country;

and a well-organised militia, or police force, might be

formed from those who are likely to die of cold and famine

at home. Until such locations can be established, more

troops will be required; the country we have added to our

possessions must be held by might, and to do this, a living

wall, bristling with arms, is necessary.

"The village of Bathurst, in the district of Lower Albany,

may be said to defend itself to its best ability. This

pretty settlement has risen and flourished under the patient

labour of emigrants, sent thither in 1820, chiefly through

the instrumentality of the Duke of Newcastle. The labourer,

the mechanic, the unthriving tradesman, the servant without

work, may not only find employment, but are absolutely

wanted here. The former may plant his three, and sometimes

four crops of potatoes in the year, to say nothing of other

produce, and manifold resources of gain and comfort. It is

singular that, whilst our fellow creatures in Great Britain,

in 1847, were suffering from the failure of their crops, the

gardens of corn, pumpkin, &c., in Kaffirland, were more than

usually productive.

"The miserable mechanics from our crowded manufacturing

districts may here earn six shillings a-day with ease; the

ruined tradesman of England, with a jail staring him in the

face, will meet a welcome here, where opposition in trade is

required, to promote industry, honesty, and civility; and

the youths of Ireland, instead of arming themselves for

rebellious purposes, may, in this colony, serve their Queen

honourably, by protecting their fellow creatures from the

aggressions of the savage."[13]

[13] _Ib._, vol. ii. p. 191-2.

Favourable and encouraging accounts, contrasting strongly with Mr

Nicholson's melancholy reports! That gentleman's book, if read and

credited, is of itself enough to stop emigration to the country

whither Mrs Ward thus strongly advocates it. And we must bear in mind,

moreover, that the colonial districts of the Cape include the least

fertile and valuable portion of South Africa. The finest pastures and

most healthy tracts are held by Hottentots, Kaffirs, and Fingos.

Savages, experience teaches us, recede and dwindle on the advance of

the white man. Increase the population of the Cape Colony, and in due

time the colonists will push their way. But Mr Nicholson strongly

objects to such increase, and holds it unwise and impracticable. We

cannot repeat, even in a compressed form, all the gloomy statements of

his eighth chapter, but will just glance at one or two of its points.

In the first place, in the country which, as Mrs Ward maintains, would

receive "the starving population of Ireland," and be the better for

their arrival, so long as they were willing to work, Mr Nicholson can

only make room for one thousand of the humbler classes of emigrants.

This, he opines, "would be the greatest number who could obtain

employment suited to the capacities and habits of decent labouring

people." They are to be principally female house-servants, cooks,

housemaids, and nurses; and with respect to the few out-door labourers

he is disposed to admit, those, he tells us, "would succeed best who,

without having previously followed any particular occupation so

closely as to be almost unfitted for any other, can, as the term is,

'turn their hands to any thing.'" Married men, in his opinion, should

not go out at all. These are certainly singular doctrines, rather

contrary to received notions concerning emigration, as well as to Mrs

Ward's opinions. As to persons of a superior class going out to take

farms, expecting to live upon their produce, Mr Nicholson treats the

idea as utterly visionary and chimerical. Such persons must possess an

independent income, in addition to what it may be necessary to invest

in a farm. The question then is, how do the Dutch manage? since the

"late resident" admits the superior success and contentedness found

amongst the Boërs, and which were far more evident before the

wealthiest and most intelligent of them had left the colony, to seek

at Port Natal refuge from foolish legislation, and from the

slave-emancipating absurdities of the philanthropists. May not an

answer be found in the following extract?--"It must be admitted that a

British population is of more intrinsic value than a colonial Dutch

one; but then the latter has, by long experience, been taught _to

moderate hopes and necessities within a compass little in accordance

with the go-a-head notions of the present race of Englishmen of all

classes of society_." Of course if "fast men" go out to settle at the

Cape, with Captain Harris's book of South African sports and a case of

rifles and fowling-pieces for chief baggage, and with expectations of

finding in the bush grand-pianos for their wives, and rocking-horses

for their first-born, they are likely to be exceedingly discontented

on discovering hard work and many privations to be the necessary

conditions of life in a new country. But Mr Nicholson is evidently not

one of those easily-pleased persons, who put up with present

disagreeables in hopes of a more prosperous future. To be sure, he

denies the possibility of any amount of energy, knowledge, and

industry procuring the emigrant a settled and comfortable position.

"When all this energy must be expended in an often vain effort to

prevent loss, or to overcome difficulties, the control of which will

only have a conservative, and not a progressive effect on the

settler's circumstances, its constant exercise soon sickens, and the

consequences will be despair and misery." We should put more faith in

these deplorable accounts, were they supported by the evidence of

other writers on the subject; but we know of none who partake Mr

Nicholson's dismal views, at least to any thing like the same extent.

And his whole book breathes a spirit of discontent and depreciation

that makes us regard it with distrust, as the splenetic effusion of a

man soured by ill success. With him, from Dan to Beersheba, all is

barren; or, if exceptional fertility here and there prevails, it is

neutralised by an accumulation of evils.

"The farmer is, in this country, always checkmated, as it

were, by the natural order of things: luxuriant-looking

pasturage is of poisonous quality, and the more wholesome

kinds scanty in quantity, and liable to be fatally

diminished by dry seasons. Crops of corn and all kinds of

vegetables grow most abundantly, and are cultivated at but

little expense, in most parts of Albany; frequent and heavy

losses in wheat crops, however, may be expected from the

'rust,' and less frequent and more partial destruction from

the attacks of locusts. When a large general yield of grain

occurs, it must be sold at a very low figure, as there is

great difficulty in preserving it for better prices, for

want of granaries and barns, which would be too expensive to

erect, and would, after all, but ineffectually guarantee it

from the attacks of the numerous animals and insects which

swarm in this climate. If sold for a good price in such a

season, to persons inhabiting other districts where the

crops may have failed, the expenses of transport would form

a serious item of deduction from the general profit."[14]

[14] _The Cape and its Colonists_, p. 114.

May we be a breakfast for hippopotami, if there is a possibility of

pleasing George Nicholson, junior, Esq.! Here is a catalogue of

calamities! How he baffles the unfortunate settler at every turn with

some fresh and inevitable disaster! When grass abounds, it is

poisonous, and, when wholesome, there is none of it! The rust and the

locust conspire to destroy the wheat: when it escapes both, it must be

sold for next to nothing, because it is not worth while building barns

to store it. And if a Cape farmer _were_ extravagant enough to build a

granary, insects and animals would empty it for him! Insects, animals,

and reptiles certainly are the curse of the country--certain

descriptions of them, at least. Snakes are very abundant, and nearly

all deadly in their bite. In the fertile district of Zwellendam they

abound, and frequently occasion severe loss by biting the sheep.

Amongst the beasts of prey, lions are getting thinned by the guns of

Boërs, settlers, and English officers; the jackals and hyenas are

cowardly creatures, and fly from man, but play the mischief with the

flocks. The rhinoceros is an ugly customer when provoked, but far less

so than he would be were his sight better, and his difficulty in

turning his stiff carcass less. The lumbering hippopotamus abounds in

most of the rivers, and is shot from the banks by huntsmen hidden

amongst the bushes; he is sometimes also taken in pitfalls, with a

sharp stake at the bottom, which impales any unfortunate animal

chancing to fall in. His teeth are more valuable than elephant ivory,

and his flesh--especially the fat, which, when salted, eats like

bacon--is greatly esteemed by both colonists and natives. The plains

are in some places infested by colonies of small animals, rather

larger than the squirrel, and obnoxious to the horseman, "who form a

kind of warren in the softer and more sandy portions of the plain,

which break in with the horse, and bury him up to his shoulders in the

dust and rubbish, amongst which the rider is pretty sure of finding

himself on his back." But if dangerous beasts and troublesome vermin

are too plentiful in the colony, this annoyance is compensated by an

extraordinary abundance of useful and profitable animals. Numerous

varieties of the stag and antelope overrun the plains. Mr Nicholson,

whom we suspect of a more decided predilection for the sportsman's

double-barrel than for the crook and tar-barrel of the sheep-farmer,

speaks in the highest terms of field-sports at the Cape, although,

faithful to his system of flying off from a subject almost as soon as

he touches upon it, he gives few details, hinting diffidence in

approaching that subject after Harris's famous book. The little he

does say impresses us with the idea of a glorious supply of venison

and other choice meats. We read of twenty thousand antelopes in sight

at one time; of a column of spring-bucks (a variety of the same

family) fifteen miles in length, and so closely packed, that nine fell

at one discharge from a large gun. The extensive forest of the

Zitikama, which supplies the colony with timber, abounds in buffalo,

boar, and antelope, in pheasants, partridges, and guinea-fowl. The

keen sportsman, not wedded to the pleasures of a city, will find

abundant pastime and recreation in so gamy a land as this; and, when

wearied by the monotonous occupations of his farm, may, almost without

losing sight of browsing herds and drowsy Hottentots, pleasantly

beguile an hour by stalking a "blesbok" or circling a bustard--the

latter process consisting in riding round the birds in large but

decreasing circles, which evolution, if skilfully performed, causes

them to lie close till the horse walks them up. Such is the

manœuvre advocated and practised by Mr Nicholson, who, having at

last left off grumbling, and begun to be amusing, prematurely closes

his very brief volume, as if afraid of writing himself into good

humour on his favourite subject of sporting, and of retracting some

portion of his previous depreciation of a colony which, with due

deference for his opinion and verdict, we persist in considering a

land of great promise to frugal, hardy, and industrious emigrants.

THE CAXTONS.--PART V.

CHAPTER XV.

In setting off the next morning, the Boots, whose heart I had won by

an extra sixpence for calling me betimes, good-naturedly informed me

that I might save a mile of the journey, and have a very pleasant walk

into the bargain, if I took the footpath through a gentleman's park,

the lodge of which I should see about seven miles from the town.

"And the grounds are showed too," said the Boots, "if so be you has a

mind to stay and see 'em. But don't you go to the gardener, he'll want

half-a-crown; there's an old 'oman at the lodge, who will show you all

that's worth seeing,--the walks and the big cascade--for a tizzy. You

may make use o' my name," he added proudly, "Bob, boots at the Lion.

She be a _h_aunt o' mine, and she minds them that come from me

pertiklerly."

Not doubting that the purest philanthropy actuated these counsels, I

thanked my shockheaded friend, and asked carelessly to whom the park

belonged?

"To Muster Trevanion, the great parliament man," answered the Boots.

"You has heard o' him, I guess, sir?"

I shook my head, surprised, every hour, more and more, to find how

very little there was in it.

"They takes in the _Moderate Man's Journal_ at the Lamb; and they say

in the tap there that he's one of the cleverest chaps in the House o'

Commons," continued the Boots in a confidential whisper. "But we takes

in the _People's Thunderbolt_ at the Lion, and we knows better this

Muster Trevanion: he is but a trimmer,--milk and water,--no

_h_orator,--not the right sort,--you understand?"

Perfectly satisfied that I understood nothing about it, I smiled, and

said, "Oh yes;" and, slipping on my knapsack, commenced my adventures;

the Boots bawling after me, "Mind, sir, you tells _h_aunt I sent you!"

The town was only languidly putting forth symptoms of returning life,

as I strode through the streets; a pale sickly unwholesome look on the

face of the slothful Phœbus had succeeded the feverish hectic of

the past night; the artisans whom I met glided past me, haggard and

dejected; a few early shops were alone open; one or two drunken men,

emerging from the lanes, sallied homeward with broken pipes in their

mouths; the bills stuck on the walls, with large capitals, calling

attention to "Best family teas at 4s. a-lb.;" "the arrival of Mr

Sloman's caravan of wild beasts," and Dr Do'ems "Paracelsian Pills of

Immortality," stared out dull and uncheering from the walls of

tenantless dilapidated houses in that chill sunrise which favours no

illusion. I was glad when I had left the town behind me, and saw the

reapers in the corn-fields, and heard the chirp of the birds. I

arrived at the lodge of which the Boots had spoken: a pretty rustic

building half concealed by a belt of plantations, with two large iron

gates for the owner's friends, and a small turn-stile for the public,

who, by some strange neglect on his part, or sad want of interest with

the neighbouring magistrates, had still preserved a right to cross the

rich man's domains, and look on his grandeur, limited to compliance

with a reasonable request mildly stated on the notice-board, "to keep

to the paths." As it was not yet eight o'clock, I had plenty of time

before me to see the grounds, and, profiting by the economical hint of

the Boots, I entered the lodge, and inquired for the old lady who was

_h_aunt to Mr Bob. A young woman, who was busied in preparing

breakfast, nodded with great civility to this request, and hastening

to a bundle of clothes which I then perceived in the corner, she

cried, "Grandmother, here's a gentleman to see the cascade."

The bundle of clothes then turned round, and exhibited a human

countenance, which lighted up with great intelligence as the

grand-daughter, turning to me, said with simplicity--"She's old,

honest cretur, but she still likes to earn a sixpence, sir;" and

taking a crutch-staff in her hand, while her grand-daughter put a

neat bonnet on her head, this industrious gentlewoman sallied out at a

pace which surprised me.

I attempted to enter into conversation with my guide; but she did not

seem much inclined to be sociable, and the beauty of the glades and

groves which now spread before my eyes reconciled me to silence.

I have seen many fine places since then, but I do not remember to have

seen a landscape more beautiful in its peculiar English character than

that which I now gazed on. It had none of the feudal characteristics

of ancient parks, with giant oaks, fantastic pollards, glens covered

with fern, and deer grouped upon the slopes; on the contrary, in spite

of some fine trees, chiefly beech, the impression conveyed was that it

was a new place--a made place. You might see ridges on the lawns which

showed where hedges had been removed; the pastures were parcelled out

in divisions by new wire-fences; young plantations, planned with

exquisite taste, but without the venerable formality of avenues and

quincunxes, by which you know the parks that date from Elizabeth and

James, diversified the rich extent of verdure; instead of deer, were

short-horned cattle of the finest breed--sheep that would have won the

prize at an agricultural show. Every where there was the evidence of

improvement--energy--capital; but capital clearly not employed for the

mere purpose of return. The ornamental was too conspicuously

predominant amidst the lucrative, not to say eloquently--"The owner is

willing to make the most of his land, but not the most of his money."

But the old woman's eagerness to earn sixpence had impressed me

unfavourably as to the character of the master. "Here," thought I,

"are all the signs of riches; and yet this poor old woman, living on

the very threshold of opulence, is in want of a sixpence."

These surmises, in the indulgence of which I piqued myself on my

penetration, were strengthened into convictions by the few sentences

which I succeeded at last in eliciting from the old woman.

"Mr Trevanion must be a rich man," said I.

"O ay, rich eno'!" grumbled my guide.

"And," said I, surveying the extent of shrubbery or dressed ground

through which our way wound, now emerging into lawns and glades, now

belted by rare garden trees, now (as every inequality of the ground

was turned to advantage in the landscape) sinking into the dell, now

climbing up the slopes, and now confining the view to some object of

graceful art or enchanting nature:--"And," said I, "he must employ

many hands here--plenty of work, eh!"

"Ay, ay--I don't say that he don't find work for those who want it.

But it aint the same place it wor in my day."

"You remember it in other hands, then?"

"Ay, ay! When the Hogtons had it, honest folk! My goodman was the

gardener--none of these set-up fine gentlemen who can't put hand to a

spade."

Poor faithful old woman!

I began to hate the unknown proprietor. Here clearly was some mushroom

usurper who had bought out the old simple hospitable family, neglected

its ancient servants, left them to earn tizzies by showing waterfalls,

and insulted their eyes by his selfish wealth.

"There's the water, all sp_i_l't--it warn't so in my day," said the

guide.

A rivulet, whose murmur I had long heard, now stole suddenly into

view, and gave to the scene the crowning charm. As, relapsing into

silence, we tracked its silvan course, under dipping chestnuts and

shady limes--the house itself emerged on the opposite side--a modern

building, of white stone, with the noblest Corinthian portico I ever

saw in this country.

"A fine house, indeed," said I. "Is Mr Trevanion here much?"

"Ay, ay--I don't mean to say that he goes away altogether, but it aint

as it wor in my day, when the Hogtons lived here all the year round in

their warm house, not that one."

Good old woman, and these poor banished Hogtons! thought I: hateful

parvenu! I was pleased when a curve in the shrubberies shut out the

house from view, though in reality bringing us nearer to it. And the

boasted cascade, whose roar I had heard for some moments, came in

sight.

Amidst the Alps, such a waterfall would have been insignificant, but

contrasting ground highly dressed, with no other bold features, its

effect was striking, and even grand. The banks were here narrowed and

compressed; rocks, partly natural, partly no doubt artificial, gave a

rough aspect to the margin; and the cascade fell from a considerable

height into rapid waters, which my guide mumbled out were "mortal

deep."

"There wor a madman leapt over where you be standing," said the old

woman, "two years ago last June."

"A madman! why," said I, observing, with an eye practised in the

gymnasium of the Hellenic Institute, the narrow space of the banks

over the gulf which veiled the falls--"Why, my good lady, it need not

be a madman to perform that leap."

And so saying, with one of those sudden impulses which it would be

wrong to ascribe to the noble quality of courage, I drew back a few

steps, and cleared the abyss. But when, from the other side, I looked

back at what I had done, and saw that failure had been death, a

sickness came over me, and I felt as if I would not have re-leaped the

gulf to have become lord of the domain.

"And how am I to get back?" said I, in a forlorn voice, to the old

woman, who stood staring at me on the other side--"Ah, I see there is

a bridge below."

"But you can't go over the bridge; there's a gate on it; master keeps

the key himself. You are in the private grounds now. Dear--dear! the

Squire would be so angry if he knew. You must go back; and they'll see

you from the house! Dear me! dear--dear! What shall I do? Can't you

leap back agin?"

Moved by these piteous exclamations, and not wishing to subject the

poor old lady to the wrath of a master, evidently an unfeeling tyrant,

I resolved to pluck up courage and re-leap the dangerous abyss.

"Oh yes--never fear," said I, therefore. "What's been done once ought

to be done twice, if needful. Just get out of my way, will you?"

And I receded several paces over a ground much too rough to favour my

run for a spring. But my heart knocked against my ribs. I felt that

impulse can do wonders where preparation fails.

"You had best be quick then," said the old woman.

Horrid old woman! I began to esteem her less. I set my teeth, and was

about to rush on, when a voice close beside me said--

"Stay, young man; I will let you through the gate."

I turned round sharply, and saw close by my side, in great wonder that

I had not seen him before, a man, whose homely (but not working) dress

seemed to intimate his station as that of the head-gardener, of whom

my guide had spoken. He was seated on a stone under a chestnut-tree,

with an ugly cur at his feet, who snarled at me as I turned.

"Thank you, my man!" said I joyfully. "I confess frankly that I was

very much afraid of that leap."

"Ho! Yet you said what can be done once can be done twice."

"I did not say it _could_ be done, but _ought_ to be done."

"Humph! that's better put."

Here the man rose--the dog came and smelt my legs; and then, as if

satisfied with my respectability, wagged the stump of his tail.

I looked across the waterfall for the old woman, and, to my surprise,

saw her hobbling back as fast as she could.

"Ah!" I said I laughing, "the poor old thing is afraid you'll tell her

master--for you're the head-gardener, I suppose? But I'm the only

person to blame. Pray say that, if you mention the circumstance at

all;" and I drew out half-a-crown, which I proffered to my new

conductor.

He put back the money with a low "Humph!--not amiss." Then, in a

louder voice, "No occasion to bribe me, young man; I saw it all."

"I fear your master is rather hard to the poor Hogtons' old servants."

"Is he? Oh! humph--my master. Mr Trevanion you mean?"

"Yes."

"Well, I dare say people say so. This is the way," and he led me down

a little glen away from the fall.

Every body must have observed, that after he has incurred or escaped

a great danger, his spirits rise wonderfully--he is in a state of

pleasing excitement. So it was with me. I talked to the gardener _à

cœur ouvert_, as the French say: and I did not observe that his

short monosyllables in rejoinder all served to draw out my little

history--my journey, its destination; my schooling under Dr Herman,

and my father's great book. I was only made somewhat suddenly aware of

the familiarity that had sprung up between us, when, just as, having

performed a circuitous meander, we regained the stream and stood

before an iron gate, set in an arch of rock-work, my companion said

simply--"And your name, young gentleman? What's your name?"

I hesitated a moment; but having heard that such communications were

usually made by the visitors of show places, I answered--"Oh! a very

venerable one, if your master is what they call a bibliomaniac--Caxton."

"Caxton!" cried the gardener with some vivacity. "There is a

Cumberland family of that name--"

"That's mine; and my Uncle Roland is the head of that family."

"And you are the son of Augustine Caxton?"

"I am; you have heard of my dear father, then?"

"We will not pass by the gate now. Follow me--this way;" and my guide,

turning abruptly round, strode up a narrow path, and the house stood a

hundred yards before me ere I had recovered my surprise.

"Pardon me," said I; "but where are we going, my good friend?"

"Good friend--good friend! Well said, sir. You are going amongst good

friends. I was at college with your father. I loved him well. I knew a

little of your uncle too. My name is Trevanion."

Blind young fool that I was! The moment my guide told his name, I was

struck with amazement at my unaccountable mistake. The small,

insignificant figure took instant dignity; the homely dress, of rough,

dark broadcloth, was the natural and becoming deshabille of a country

gentleman in his own demesnes. Even the ugly cur became a Scotch

terrier of the rarest breed.

My guide smiled good-naturedly at my stupor; and patting me on the

shoulder, said--

"It is the gardener you must apologise to, not me. _He_ is a very

handsome fellow, six feet high."

I had not found my tongue before we had ascended a broad flight of

stairs under the portico; passed a spacious hall, adorned with statues

and fragrant with large orange-trees; and, entering a small room, hung

with pictures, in which were arranged all the appliances for

breakfast, my companion said to a lady, who rose from behind the

tea-urn, "My dear Ellinor--I introduce to you the son of our old

friend Augustine Caxton. Make him stay with us as long as he can.

Young gentleman, in Lady Ellinor Trevanion think that you see one whom

you ought to know well--family friendships should descend."

"My host" said these last words in an imposing tone, and then pounced

on a letter-bag on the table, drew forth an immense heap of letters

and newspapers, threw himself into an arm-chair, and seemed perfectly

forgetful of my existence.

The lady stood a moment in mute surprise, and I saw that she changed

colour, from pale to red, and red to pale, before she came forward

with the enchanting grace of unaffected kindness, took me by the hand,

drew me to a seat next to her own, and asked so cordially after my

father, my uncle, my whole family, that in five minutes I felt myself

at home. Lady Ellinor listened with a smile (though with moistened

eyes, which she wiped every now and then) to my _naïve_ details. At

length she said--

"Have you never heard your father speak of me--I mean of us--of the

Trevanions?"

"Never," said I bluntly; "and that would puzzle me, only my dear

father, you know, is not a great talker."

"Indeed! He was very animated, when I knew him," said Lady Ellinor,

and she turned her head and sighed.

At this moment there entered a young lady, so fresh, so blooming, so

lovely, that every other thought vanished out of my head at once. She

came in singing, as gay as a bird, and seeming to my adoring sight

quite as native to the skies.

"Fanny," said Lady Ellinor, "shake hands with Mr Caxton, the son of

one whom I have not seen since I was little older than you, but whom I

remember as if it were but yesterday."

Miss Fanny blushed and smiled, and held out her hand with an easy

frankness which I in vain endeavoured to imitate. During breakfast, Mr

Trevanion continued to read his letters and glance over the papers,

with an occasional ejaculation of "Pish!" "Stuff!"--between the

intervals in which he mechanically swallowed his tea, or some small

morsels of dry toast. Then rising with the suddenness which

characterised his movements, he stood on his hearth for a few moments

buried in thought; and now that a large brimmed hat was removed from

his brow, and the abruptness of his first movement, with the

sedateness of his after pause, arrested my curious attention, I was

more than ever ashamed of my mistake. It was a care-worn, eager, and

yet musing countenance, hollow-eyed, and with deep lines; but it was

one of those faces which take dignity and refinement from that mental

cultivation which distinguishes the true aristocrat, viz., the highly

educated, acutely intelligent man. Very handsome might that face have

been in youth, for the features, though small, were exquisitely

defined; the brow, partially bald, was noble and massive, and there

was almost feminine delicacy in the curve of the lip. The whole

expression of the face was commanding but sad. Often, as my experience

of life increased, have I thought to trace upon that expressive visage

the history of energetic ambition curbed by a fastidious philosophy

and a scrupulous conscience; but then all that I could see was a

vague, dissatisfied melancholy, which dejected me I knew not why.

Presently he returned to the table, collected his letters, moved

slowly towards the door, and vanished.

His wife's eyes followed him tenderly. Those eyes reminded me of my

mother's, as, I verily believe, did all eyes that expressed affection.

I crept nearer to her, and longed to press the white hand that lay so

listless before me.

"Will you walk out with us?" said Miss Trevanion, turning to me. I

bowed, and in a few minutes I found myself alone. While the ladies

left me, for their shawls and bonnets, I took up the newspapers which

Mr Trevanion had thrown on the table, by way of something to do. My

eye was caught by his own name; it occurred often, and in all the

papers. There was contemptuous abuse in one, high eulogy in another;

but one passage, in a journal that seemed to aim at impartiality,

struck me so much as to remain in my memory; and I am sure that I can

still quote the sense, though not the exact words. The paragraph ran

somewhat thus:--

"In the present state of parties, our contemporaries have not

unnaturally devoted much space to the claims or demerits of Mr

Trevanion. It is a name that stands unquestionably high in the House

of Commons; but, as unquestionably, it commands little sympathy in the

country. Mr Trevanion is essentially and emphatically _a member of

parliament_. He is a close and ready debater; he is an admirable

chairman in committees. Though never in office, his long experience of

public life, his gratuitous attention to public business, have ranked

him high among those practical politicians from whom ministers are

selected. A man of spotless character and excellent intentions, no

doubt, he must be considered; and in him any cabinet would gain an

honest and a useful member. There ends all we can say in his praise.

As a speaker, he wants the fire and enthusiasm which engage the

popular sympathies. He has the ear of the House, not the heart of the

country. An oracle on subjects of mere business, in the great

questions of policy he is comparatively a failure. He never embraces

any party heartily; he never espouses any question as if wholly in

earnest. The moderation on which he is said to pique himself, often

exhibits itself in fastidious crotchets, and an attempt at

philosophical originality of candour, which has long obtained him the

reputation of a trimmer with his enemies. Such a man circumstances may

throw into temporary power; but can he command lasting influence? No:

let Mr Trevanion remain in what nature and position assign as his

proper part,--that of an upright, independent, able member of

parliament; conciliating sensible men on both sides, when party runs

into extremes. He is undone as a cabinet minister. His scruples would

break up any government; and his want of decision--when, as in all

human affairs, some errors must be conceded to obtain a great

good--would shipwreck his own fame."

I had just got to the end of this paragraph when the ladies returned.

My hostess observed the newspaper in my hand, and said, with a

constrained smile, "Some attack on Mr Trevanion, I suppose?"

"No," said I, awkwardly; for, perhaps, the paragraph that appeared to

me so impartial, was the most galling attack of all. "No, not

exactly."

"I never read the papers now--at least what are called the leading

articles--it is too painful: and once they gave me so much

pleasure--that was when the career began, and before the fame was

made."

Here Lady Ellinor opened the window which admitted on the lawn, and in

a few moments we were in that part of the pleasure-grounds which the

family reserved from the public curiosity. We passed by rare shrubs

and strange flowers, long ranges of conservatories, in which bloomed

and lived all the marvellous vegetation of Africa and the Indies.

"Mr Trevanion is fond of flowers?" said I.

The fair Fanny laughed. "I don't think he knows one from another."

"Nor I either," said I: "that is, when I fairly lose sight of a rose

or a hollyhock."

"The farm will interest you more," said Lady Ellinor.

We came to farm buildings recently erected, and no doubt on the most

improved principle. Lady Ellinor pointed out to me machines and

contrivances, of the newest fashion, for abridging labour, and

perfecting the mechanical operations of agriculture.

"Ah, then, Mr Trevanion is fond of farming."

The pretty Fanny laughed again.

"My father is one of the great oracles in agriculture, one of the

great patrons of all its improvements; but, as for being fond of

farming, I doubt if he knows when he rides through his own fields."

We returned to the house; and Miss Trevanion, whose frank kindness had

already made too deep an impression upon the youthful heart of

Pisistratus the Second, offered to show me the picture-gallery. The

collection was confined to the works of English artists; and Miss

Trevanion pointed out to me the main attractions of the gallery.

"Well, at least Mr Trevanion is fond of pictures!"

"Wrong again," said Fanny, shaking her arch head. "My father is said

to be an admirable judge; but he only buys pictures from a sense of

duty--to encourage our own painters--a picture once bought, I am not

sure that he ever looks at it again!"

"What does he then--" I stopped short, for I felt my meditated

question was ill-bred.

"What does he like then? you were about to say. Why, I have known him,

of course, since I could know any thing; but I have never yet

discovered what my father does like. No--not even politics, though he

lives for politics alone. You look puzzled; you will know him better

some day, I hope; but you will never solve the mystery--what Mr

Trevanion likes."

"You are wrong," said Lady Ellinor, who had followed us into the room,

unheard by us. "I can tell you what your father does more than

like--what he loves and serves and illustrates every hour of his noble

life--justice, beneficence, honour, and his country. A man who loves

these may be excused for indifference to the last geranium or the

newest plough, or even (though that offends you more, Fanny) the

freshest masterpiece by Landseer, or the latest fashion honoured by

Miss Trevanion."

"Mamma!" said Fanny, and the tears sprang to her eyes.

But Lady Ellinor looked to me sublime as she spoke, her eyes kindled,

her breast heaved. The wife taking the husband's part against the

child, and comprehending so well what the child felt not, despite its

experience of every day, and what the world would never know, despite

all the vigilance of its praise and its blame, was a picture, to my

taste, finer than any in the collection.

Her face softened as she saw the tears in Fanny's bright hazel eyes:

she held out her hand, which her child kissed tenderly, and

whispering, "'Tis not the giddy word you must go by, mamma, or there

will be something to forgive every minute,"--glided from the room.

"Have you a sister?" asked Lady Ellinor.

"No."

"And Trevanion has no son," she said, mournfully. The blood rushed to

my cheeks. Oh, young fool, again! We were both silent, when the door

was opened, and Mr Trevanion entered.

"Humph," said he, smiling as he saw me--and his smile was charming,

though rare. "Humph, young sir, I came to seek for you--I have been

rude, I fear: pardon it--that thought has only just occurred to me, so

I left my blue books, and my amanuensis hard at work on them, to ask

you to come out for half-an-hour--just half-an-hour, it is all I can

give you--a deputation at One! You dine and sleep here of course?"

"Ah, sir! my mother will be so uneasy if I am not in town to-night."

"Pooh!" said the member, "I'll send an express."

"Oh, no indeed; thank you."

"Why not?"

I hesitated. "You see, sir, that my father and mother are both new to

London: and, though I am new too, yet they may want me--I may be of

use." Lady Ellinor put her hand on my head, and sleeked down my hair

as I spoke.

"Right, young man, right: you will do in the world, wrong as that is.

I don't mean that you'll _succeed_, as the rogues say--that's another

question; but, if you don't rise, you'll not fall. Now, put on your

hat and come with me; we'll walk to the lodge--you will be in time for

a coach."

I took my leave of Lady Ellinor, and longed to say something, about

compliments to Miss Fanny; but the words stuck in my throat, and my

host seemed impatient.

"We must see you soon again!" said Lady Ellinor kindly, as she

followed us to the door.

Mr Trevanion walked on briskly and in silence--one hand in his bosom,

the other swinging carelessly a thick walking-stick.

"But I must go round by the bridge," said I, "for I forgot my

knapsack. I put it off when I made my leap, and the old lady certainly

never took charge of it."

"Come, then, this way. How old are you?"

"Seventeen and a half."

"You know Latin and Greek as they know them at schools, I suppose."

"I think I know them pretty well, sir."

"Does your father say so?"

"Why, my father is fastidious; however, he owns that he is satisfied

on the whole."

"So am I, then. Mathematics?"

"A little."

"Good."

Here the conversation dropped for some time. I had found and

restrapped the knapsack, and we were near the lodge, when Mr Trevanion

said, abruptly, "Talk, my young friend: talk, I like to hear you

talk--it refreshes me. Nobody has talked naturally to me these last

ten years."

The request was a complete damper to my ingenuous eloquence: I could

not have talked naturally now for the life of me.

"I made a mistake, I see," said my companion, good-humouredly,

noticing my embarrassment. "Here we are at the lodge. The coach will

be bye in five minutes: you can spend that time in hearing the old

woman praise the Hogtons and abuse me. And hark you, sir, never care

three straws for praise or blame--leather and prunella! praise and

blame are _here_!" and he struck his hand upon his breast, with almost

passionate emphasis. "Take a specimen. These Hogtons were the bane of

the place; uneducated and miserly; their land a wilderness, their

village, a pig-stye. I come, with capital and intelligence; I redeem

the soil, I banish pauperism, I civilise all around me: no merit in

me--I am but a type of capital guided by education--a machine. And yet

the old woman is not the only one who will hint to you that the

Hogtons were angels, and myself the usual antithesis to angels. And

what is more, sir, because that old woman, who has ten shillings

a-week from me, sets her heart upon earning her sixpences--and I give

her that privileged luxury--every visitor she talks with goes away

with the idea that I, the rich Mr Trevanion, let her starve on what

she can pick up from the sight-seers. Now, does that signify a jot?

"Good-bye. Tell your father his old friend must see him; profit by his

calm wisdom: his old friend is a fool sometimes, and sad at heart.

When you are settled, send me a line to St James's Square, to say

where you are.

"Humph! that's enough."

Mr Trevanion wrung my hand, and strode off.

I did not wait for the coach, but proceeded towards the turn-stile,

where the old woman, (who had either seen, or scented from a distance,

that tizzy of which I was the impersonation)--

"Hush'd in grim repose, did wait her morning prey."

My opinions as to her sufferings, and the virtues of the departed

Hogtons, somewhat modified, I contented myself with dropping into her

open palm the exact sum virtually agreed on. But that palm still

remained open, and the fingers of the other clawed hold of me as I

stood, impounded in the curve of the turn-stile, like a cork in a

patent cork-screw.

"And threepence for Nephy Bob," said the old lady.

"Threepence for nephew Bob, and why?"

"'Tis his parquisites when he recommends a gentleman. You would not

have me pay out of my own earnings: for he _will_ have it, or he'll

ruin my bizness. Poor folk must be paid for their trouble."

Obdurate to this appeal, and mentally consigning Bob to a master whose

feet would be all the handsomer for boots, I threaded the stile and

escaped.

Towards evening I reached London. Who ever saw London for the first

time and was not disappointed? Those long suburbs melting indefinably

away into the capital, forbid all surprise. The Gradual is a great

disenchanter. I thought it prudent to take a hackney coach, and so

jolted my way to the ---- hotel. I found my father in a state of great

discomfort in a little room, which he paced up and down like a lion

new caught in his cage. My poor mother was full of complaints--for the

first time in her life, I found her indisputably crossish. It was an

ill time to relate my adventures. I had enough to do to listen. They

had all day been hunting for lodgings in vain. My father's pocket had

been picked of a new India handkerchief. Primmins, who ought to know

London so well, know nothing about it, and declared it was turned

topsy-turvy, and all the streets had changed names. The new silk

umbrella, left for five minutes unguarded in the hall, had been

exchanged for an old gingham with three holes in it.

It was not till my mother remembered, that if she did not see herself

that my bed was well aired, I should certainly lose the use of my

limbs, and therefore disappeared with Primmins and a pert chambermaid,

who seemed to think we gave more trouble than we were worth--that I

told my father of my new acquaintance with Mr Trevanion.

He did not seem to listen to me till I to got to the name _Trevanion_.

He then became very pale, and sat down quietly. "Go on," said he,

observing I stopped to look at him.

When I had told all, and given him the kind messages with which I had

been charged by husband and wife, he smiled faintly; and then, shading

his face with his hand, he seemed to muse, not cheerfully, perhaps,

for I heard him sigh once or twice.

"And Ellinor," said he at last, without looking up. "Lady Ellinor, I

mean--she is very, very----"

"Very what, sir?"

"Very handsome still?"

"Handsome! Yes, handsome, certainly; but I thought more of her manner

than her face. And then Fanny, Miss Fanny is so young!"

"Ah!" said my father, murmuring in Greek the celebrated lines of

which Pope's translation is familiar to all.

"Like leaves on trees the race of man is found,

Now green in youth, now withering on the ground."

"Well, so they wish to see me. Did Ellinor, Lady Ellinor say that, or

her--her husband?"

"Her husband certainly--Lady Ellinor rather implied than said it."

"We shall see," said my father. "Open the window, this room is

stifling."

I opened the window, which looked on the Strand. The noise--the

voices---the tramping feet--the rolling wheels became loudly audible.

My father leant out for some moments, and I stood by his side. He

turned to me with a serene face. "Every ant on the hill," said he,

"carries its load, and its home is but made by the burdens that it

bears. How happy am I!--how I should bless God! How light my burden!

how secure my home!"

My mother came in as he ceased. He went up to her, put his arm round

her waist and kissed her. Such caresses with him had not lost their

tender charm by custom: my mother's brow, before somewhat ruffled,

grew smooth on the instant. Yet she lifted her eyes to his in soft

surprise. "I was but thinking," said my father apologetically--"how

much I owed you, and how much I love you!"

CHAPTER XV.

And now behold us, three days after my arrival, settled in all the

state and grandeur of our own house in Russell Street, Bloomsbury: the

library of the Museum close at hand. My father spends his mornings in

those _lata silentia_, wide silences, as Virgil calls the world beyond

the grave. And a world beyond the grave we may well call that land of

the ghosts, a book collection.

"Pisistratus," said my father, one evening as he arranged his notes

before him, and rubbed his spectacles. "Pisistratus, a great library

is an _awful_ place! There, are interred all the remains of men since

the Flood."

"It is a burial-place!" quoth my Uncle Roland, who had that day found

us out.

"It is an Heraclea!" said my father.

"Please, not such hard words," said the Captain, shaking his head.

"Heraclea was the city of necromancers, in which they raised the dead.

Do I want to speak to Cicero? I invoke him. Do I want to chat in the

Athenian market place, and hear news two thousand years old? I write

down my charm on a slip of paper, and a grave magician calls me up

Aristophanes. And we owe all this to our ancest----"

"Brother!"

"Ancestors, who wrote books--thank you."

Here Roland offered his snuff-box to my father, who, abhorring snuff,

benignly imbibed a pinch, and sneezed five times in consequence: an

excuse for Uncle Roland to say, which he did five times, with great

unction, "God bless you, brother Austin!"

As soon as my father had recovered himself, he proceeded, with tears

in his eyes, but calm as before the interruption--for he was of the

philosophy of the Stoics:--

"But it is not _that_ which is awful. It is the presuming to vie with

these 'spirits elect:' to say to them, 'Make way--I too claim place

with the chosen. I too would confer with the living, centuries after

the death that consumes my dust. I too'--Ah, Pisistratus! I wish Uncle

Jack had been at Jericho, before he had brought me up to London, and

placed me in the midst of those rulers of the world!"

I was busy, while my father spoke, in making some pendent shelves for

these "spirits elect;" for my mother, always provident where my

father's comforts were concerned, had foreseen the necessity of some

such accommodation in a hired lodging-house, and had not only

carefully brought up to town my little box of tools, but gone out

herself that morning to buy the raw materials. Checking the plane in

its progress over the smooth deal, "My dear father," said I, "if at

the Philhellenic Institute I had looked with as much awe as you do on

the big fellows that had gone before me, I should have stayed, to all

eternity, the lag of the Infant Division--"

"Pisistratus, you are as great an agitator as your namesake," cried my

father, smiling. "And so, a fig for the big fellows!"

And now my mother entered in her pretty evening cap, all smiles and

good humour, having just arranged a room for Uncle Roland, concluded

advantageous negotiations with the laundress, held high council with

Mrs Primmins on the best mode of defeating the extortions of London

tradesmen; and, pleased with herself and all the world, she kissed my

father's forehead as it bent over his notes; and came to the

tea-table, which only waited its presiding deity. My Uncle Roland,

with his usual gallantry, started up, kettle in hand, (our own urn,

for we had one, not being yet unpacked;) and having performed, with

soldier-like method, the chivalrous office thus volunteered, he joined

me at my employment, and said--

"There is a better steel for the hands of a well-born lad than a

carpenter's plane--"

"Aha! uncle--that depends--"

"Depends! what on?"

"On the use one makes of it.--Peter the Great was better employed in

making ships than Charles XII. in cutting throats."

"Poor Charles XII.!" said my uncle sighing pathetically--"a very brave

fellow!"

"Pity he did not like the ladies a little better!"

"No man is perfect!" said my uncle sententiously. "But seriously, you

are _now_ the male hope of the family--you are now--" my uncle

stopped, and his face darkened. I saw that he thought of his son, that

mysterious son! And looking at him tenderly, I observed that his deep

lines had grown deeper, his iron-gray hair more gray. There was the

trace of recent suffering on his face; and though he had not spoken to

us a word of the business on which he had left us, it required no

penetration to perceive that it had come to no successful issue.

My uncle resumed--"Time out of mind, every generation of our house has

given one soldier to his country. I look round now: only one branch is

budding yet on the old tree; and--"

"Ah! uncle. But what would _they_ say? Do you think I should not like

to be a soldier? Don't tempt me!"

My uncle had recourse to his snuff-box; and at that moment,

unfortunately perhaps for the laurels that might otherwise have

wreathed the brows of Pisistratus of England, private conversation was

stopped by the sudden and noisy entrance of Uncle Jack. No apparition

could have been more unexpected.

"Here I am, my dear friends. How d'ye do--how are you all? Captain de

Caxton, yours heartily. Yes, I am released, thank heaven! I have given

up the drudgery of that pitiful provincial paper. I was not made for

it. An ocean in a teacup! I was indeed--little, sordid, narrow

interests--and I, whose heart embraces all humanity. You might as well

turn a circle into an isolated triangle."

"Isosceles!" said my father, sighing as he pushed aside his notes, and

very slowly becoming aware of the eloquence that destroyed all chance

of further progress that night in the great book. "Isosceles triangle,

Jack Tibbets--not isolated."

"Isosceles or isolated, it is all one," said Uncle Jack, as he rapidly

performed three evolutions, by no means consistent with his favourite

theory of 'the greatest happiness of the greatest number:'--first, he

emptied into the cup which he took from my mother's hands, half the

thrifty contents of a London cream-jug; secondly, he reduced the

circle of a muffin, by the abstraction of two triangles, to as nearly

an isosceles as possible; and thirdly, striding towards the fire,

lighted in consideration of Captain de Caxton, and hooking his

coat-tails under his arms, while he sipped his tea, he permitted

another circle peculiar to humanity wholly to eclipse the luminary it

approached.

"Isolated or isosceles, it is all the same thing. Man is made for his

fellow creatures. I had long been disgusted with the interference of

those selfish Squirearchs. Your departure decided me. I have concluded

negotiations with a London firm of spirit and capital, and extended

views of philanthopy. On Saturday last I retired from the service of

the oligarchy. I am now in my true capacity of protector of the

million. My prospectus is printed--here it is in my pocket.--Another

cup of tea, sister, a little more cream, and another muffin. Shall I

ring?" Having disembarrassed himself of his cup and saucer, Uncle Jack

then drew forth from his pocket a damp sheet of printed paper. In

large capitals stood out "The ANTI-MONOPOLY GAZETTE, or POPULAR

CHAMPION." He waved it triumphantly before my father's eyes.

"Pisistratus", said my father, "look here. This is the way your Uncle

Jack now prints his pats of butter.--A cap of liberty growing out of

an open book! Good! Jack, good! good!"

"It is Jacobinical!" exclaimed the Captain.

"Very likely," said my father; "but knowledge and freedom are the best

devices in the world, to print upon pats of butter intended for the

market."

"Pats of butter! I don't understand," said Uncle Jack.

"The less you understand, the better the butter will sell, Jack," said

my father, settling back to his notes.