CHAMBERS'S
PAPERS

FOR
THE PEOPLE.
PHILADELPHIA:
J. B. LIPPINCOTT AND CO.
1856.
AP


CHAMBERS'S
PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE
VOLUME IX

EDINBURGH
PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS
1851
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY W. AND R. CHAMBERS.
Gift
Harry & Joy
12-1-58
CONTENTS.
RECENT DECORATIVE ART,
ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS,
THE LOST LAIRD-A TALE OF '45,
GERMAN POETS AND POETRY,
THE DESERTS OF AFRICA,
SIGISMUND TEMPLE-A TALE,
ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS,
FICHTE—A BIOGRAPHY,
No.
65
66
67
68
. 69
70
. 71
72

ནས་་
CHAMBERS'S
PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
RECENT DECORATIVE ART.
По
O few will a teapot or a cotton-gown suggest itself in the light of a
work of art; yet, produced on right principles, such things may in the
full sense fall within the category. When manufactured in the most uti-
litarian spirit, attention will be expended on their decorative characteristics,
influence exerted thereby. Some tincture of æsthetic aim, in development
of form, colour, surface-design, it is difficult to separate from the results
of man's mechanical ingenuity: some instinctive endeavour to satisfy the
demands of appearance as well as of utility. How truly and how far the
endeavour be fulfilled, depends on the soundness and degree of the vitality
of art generally, among a particular people, or at a particular epoch.
In the decoration of utilities art makes its first appearance-long before
the birth of its independent phases. It thus shows itself among unde-
veloped nations, even, with few exceptions, the most barbarous. We descend
very low when we find no art at all-neither the rudiments of science in
observation of nature-God's creation-nor those of man's own secondarily
creative power. The progress of every nation has probably been, from
æsthetic treatment of articles of familiar use-utensils, weapons, personal
adornments—to architecture, the development of expression and beauty in
buildings, primary objects of utility too; and thence a further stage, in
their decoration by painting and sculpture. Here, we find the origin of
those two fine arts, in all ancient time attaining ripest excellence in asso-
ciation with architecture, in recent having an isolated existence. A cycle
has been completed: from the inability of the lowest savage to the inability
of a confused civilisation. In the intermediate stage, a semi-developed
people possesses decorative art of its own, perhaps an architecture of its
No. 65. Vol. IX.
1
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
own. In modern days, has been seen the anomaly of nations that could
paint a good picture, or carve a poetic sculpture, without possessing an
architecture or any decorative art, in the true sense; without ability to
construct a building having its own meaning and beauty, or to adorn
an ordinary utensil in a ornamented consistent way. Strangely enough,
the articles of uncultivated nations are more pleasing in effect, more faithful
to principles, than any characteristic of existing Europe. The lot of the
former would seem intuitive congruity with nature. The latter has so
far lost itself, as to find it hopeless to realise that simple truth obeying
the hand of the half-savage craftsman.
Passing to the civilised but stationary nations of the East, and their
more advanced art, occurs similar exemplification of happy excellence, of
singleness of aim, and simplicity of execution. The consistent beauty
and truth, in colour and pattern, of a Persian carpet, a Cashmere shawl,
and in harmony of form, hue, general effect, of a piece of Chinese porce-
lain, are familiar, and have originated copyism more or less successful.
Among those nations of antiquity since extinct or degenerate-Egypt,
Assyria, Etruria-like facility and truth of decorative art are attested by
existing remains, as accompanying high attainment in universal art, in
architecture, sculpture, painting.
In Greece, accompanied, in its famous pottery preceded, by Etruria, and
followed in a lower by Rome, consummated beauty succeeded to the less
intellectual stages. Greece realised a catholic manifestation of all the arts,
each in unexampled perfection; with a consonant refinement of the arts
decorative. It has been only approached, before or since, in the medieval
time. These two epochs-the Grecian and the medieval-stand alone, for
a universal application, after their separate manners, of true art, and a
universal reaching, not only, as among the Orientals, of vitality, but also
of a peculiarly elevated standard. In every direction, however, mediæval
Europe did not attain parallel executive excellence. The period Gothic
spirit ruled intact was not long enough for this. That department-
pottery-through the abundance of remains, specially characteristic with
us of antiquity, an application of art to utilities, elevating this to a par
with art's highest manifestations-happens to be far from prominent in
the medieval era: one undeveloped till the 'Revival.'
At the 'Revival,' the legitimate principles of Christian art became first
blended, then lost, in those of alien models. Under the new conditions
of the pseudo-classicism of the sixteenth century, decorative art continued
to be informed by very full life. In some provinces it, in Italy and Ger-
many, was prosecuted by artists-Benvenuto Cellini, Albert Durer, &c.—
whose works yet maintain their renown for exceeding beauty of execution
and of feeling. Throughout the seventeenth century similar vitality lingered,
but in still less purity. During the eighteenth century it gradually ex-
pired; assuming in England the stiff forms of the time of Queen Anne, and
elsewhere such perverted phases as the Louis Quinze. Early Louis
Quatorze itself was to medieval ornament what in architecture Elizabethan
was to Gothic—the vigorous distortion of that once art.
Throughout these changes of form, the Gothic spirit may be recognised
surviving indirectly. After the final loss of the remnants of the old
spirit late in the last century, commenced that indiscriminate eclecticism,
2
RECENT DECORATIVE ART.
and reproduction, come to a height in the present practice of ornamental
art, as of architecture. Grecian, Gothic, Byzantine, Oriental, Renaissance
—all are copied. The same jumbling of principles has come to pass, as
of styles; forgetfulness of those varying fundamental laws governing the
pursuit of nature in every phase of art. We moderns have evidently
something to say here, could we but find the way. The multiplicity of
models is our perplexity; the way so sadly confused: a confusion as of
Babel, worse confounded, by lack of grammar in each separate tongue.
These losses are shared by all Europe. In some Oriental nations deco-
rative art still survives, decrepit, but not insane.' One difference exists
between the leading continental nations and ourselves-the more cultivated
executive skill of the latter. Their hold of principles, the essential vitality
of their design, are no greater. They contrive no more than we to express
anything of their own. But what they do say, they say grammatically.
In England, art, after a space of utter inanition, revived in a piecemeal
fashion; one isolated fragment or so at a time. In continental Europe, an
artistic tradition had never died out. Direct remembrances of the Gothic
system here and there lingered. The lineal succession was, in a material
sense, always maintained. An education of producers, artisans and
designers, and of consumers, existed under one form or another from the
Gothic time downwards. And as one result, industrial artists have never
there been degraded into mere mechanical servants, of manufacturers almost
necessarily ignorant of art. When, during the eighteenth century, the
mediæval system of guilds and apprenticeships had become extinct—when
machine-work began to compete with hand-work-academies, Schools of
Design, in the end, public exhibitions, were substituted. By these was
sustained the executive facility of the artisans.
In England, no substitution was made. Things were left to take their
own course, as always left here, in matters of government. The new system
silently undermined the old. Machine-work took more and more the place
of hand-work. The education of the factory superseded that of the work-
shop. That of the workshop grew more and more mechanical, less and
less artistic. Design separated itself from art-workmanship. No means
were provided for right culture of either. At last, things having taken
their course, arrived at such a pass, after England, by gigantic mechanical
movements creating a manufacturing system for the world, saw itself in
danger of losing its regal share in the results, through inferiority in all
wherein design had part. In one direction, paper-hangings, where it had
had the superiority, it imported in the ratio of former exports.
Fifteen years ago, people awoke in a fright; the government itself, at
the eleventh hour. A committee of the House sat. Schools of Design
were to be established. In 1837 the head-school was set agoing at the
public expense; followed by branch ones in the provinces, in part dependent
on local contributions. As yet, it is hard to find a manufacturer attribut-
ing any sensible personal advantage to this step.
General attention has been unprecedentedly aroused. It has shown itself
in many ways. Six years ago, the 'Art-Journal' testified to the importance
of the arts decorative, by including them within its scope. Three years
later, an association of the endeavours of some leading artists, with those
of enterprising manufacturers, commenced through the agency of 'Felix
3
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
(
Summerly.' Last year (1849), a periodical, the Journal of Design,' was
successfully established, specially devoted to industrial art; comprising
original papers, and notices of new productions in textile manufacture, in
the metals, pottery, &c.; with illustrations and actual textile specimens.
Its tone of criticism has been of an advanced and eminently - intelligent
order.
Above all, the popular interest has been quickened and educated by the
exhibitions which have so rapidly gained ground. These have introduced
the producers to the public. Manufactures, of which the results are scat-
tered among all, had before been almost unknown in their general bearings.
On the continent, national exhibitions had long prevailed: in France, since
1798, recurring at irregular intervals down to 1819, from which date quin-
quennial. In England, small special exhibitions had occasionally taken
place at Birmingham, Glasgow, &c.; and more continuously at Dublin.
The first attempt at a comprehensive representation of British manufacture
was the bazaar of the Anti-Corn-Law League in 1845. It was followed
by an exhibition independent of political ends at Manchester, in 1846;
and by those of the London Society of Arts, commencing in 1847. This
society early took a prominent and laudable position in the movement.
Finally, we have repetitions of former experiments at Manchester;
and
the very splendid display of last year at Birmingham. These things have
paved the way for that grand scheme, the cynosure of all immediate hope
in industrial design—an Exhibition of the Industry of All Nations in
1851 due to Prince Albert and an intelligent party in the Society of Arts.
Such realisations are rather the result than cause of the general move-
ment. Had no new interest arisen in the public mind, they could not have
existed, far less have had a widespread influence.
The ready response
each scheme has met proves how much was latent. Exhibitions-Felix
Summerly's art-manufactures-Schools of Design-all are witnesses of the
feeling which, consonantly with the spirit of the age, had silently taken
root in the public mind, amid the neglect of the 'constituted authorities;
necessitated by the vast and growing importance of the interests con-
cerned, and the changes in the governing conditions of production and
design.
In the practical employment of design, what with recent public interest,
and awakened manufacturing zeal, advances have been made during the
last ten, and still more six, years. A new sense of their position has
arisen among manufacturers; due to the new demand from the public. The
present public has, with all its deficiencies, a vague desire for something
good. The manufacturers soon feel this, in the competition with foreign
and other rival producers, and must meet it. The immense commercial
importance of design, with its daily operating influence on the choice of
purchasers, forces itself on their notice. To the previous torpor, a general
quest after decorative effect of some kind has succeeded; fulfilled by fair
means or foul, original design, or piracy of the ideas of others.
The sense of deficiency, the mere attempts at art, even without imme-
diate success, are promising. We doubt not the final attainment, with
awakened attention, of that executive facility, and correct representation
of nature, constituting present French superiority. The distance is not so
great as it appears. It is art-workmen our manufacturers need, even more
4
RECENT DECORATIVE ART.
than training in the designer; workmen capable of executing the design
with artistic intelligence. These things will come with time and zeal. The
demand is pretty sure, in England, of securing the supply when, materially
speaking, feasible. Within the memory of man the reproach of inability
to 'draw' has been removed from our school of painting. A curious fact
is the superiority of English higher art, parallel with equal inferiority in
the subordinate phases. The former was earliest to emerge from the
general prostration. Till lately art, as a result of the modern piecemeal
manifestation of it, had long been understood to mean this or that of its
leading developments. We are now beginning to understand that art (for-
mative) is not painting, is not sculpture, merely, but a much larger matter,
embracing, with architecture as the mistress, every department of technic
production, on the results of which æsthetic meaning may be impressed.
Essential progress, in the true, to us half-ideal, practice of design; in
obedience to fundamental principles; in a consistent language of our own;
is not readily to be made. It will long, we fear, continue beyond the
reach of England and of Europe. The real advance of the age, and of
England distinctively, is circumscribed to the technic arts, their abridged
processes, their enlarged results; to that colossal extension of utilitarian
attainment, of the facilitating services of nature, which has made the time
a marvel to itself. In the strictly mechanical phases it has been one
system of progress. Machinery has developed a before-undreamed life;
has lifted its arms of might, and done its wondrous work; realised its store
of comforts by the million in the place of luxuries by the score. But the
eloquence to have been impressed on its work has not been added. Dumb,
inarticulate, is its outward appeal; or worse, lying, distorted; putting on
semblance of alien life, instead of the revealment of its own. For, as
already said, we cannot avoid some attempt at decorative effect. Whether
it be genuine, or idle and inane, is then a consideration well to study.
In the æsthetic province there has been entirely wanting the vitality which
should have turned to account the mechanical gains of the age, and
educed expression of that spirit surely pervading them.
The modern conditions of design are distinct from any previous; they
demand equally novel fulfilment. For hand-work, we have machine-work;
for an ornamental idea lavished on a single example, infinite multiplication,
by engraved plates, blocks, cylinders; by punches, squeezes, moulds, types,
dies. For that highest value of art-working, the living 'evidence of human
care and thought and love,' reigns the 'blind accuracy of the engine.'
But the evidence of human thought, though banished from the execu-
tion, may pervade in the fullest measure the idea. The absence of direct
executive human labour may be met by an appropriate decorative system.
The extent to which multiplication is carried is peculiar to modern time.
The multiplication itself is no novelty. The coins of the ancients exem-
plify the artistic excellence transmissible through a mechanical medium.
The substitution of the machine for human labour is often made with no
commensurate result: a mere superfluous triumph over difficulty, or tame
imitation of effects proper to the living hand. But the legitimate value of
machinery is high; the extension of the range of decorative art, the general
diffusion of refinements. These are great goods. They are rightly to be
realised through development of an independent character and reality
5
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
in the multiplied ornament. The cheap, widely-diffused bad copy of some
good thing is not, as too often implied, gain-only evil. The cheap, widely-
diffused good substitute, having its own individuality, however restricted,
is unmixed benefit.
}
Separation inevitably prevails, of designer—the furnisher of the specific
ornament-and practical workman, the reproducer. But the divorce be-
tween art itself and the secondary agencies is not so absolute. Much
of the effect depends on the latter. Art-workmanship is as important as
art-design, wherever, as in paper-hangings and bronzes, hand-labour is
required in the finishing. And equally so is educated skill in some
middle stages-the 'putting on' in textile fabrics-though the final pro-
cesses be wholly mechanical. In some manufactures-as casting in iron,
even in these, much depends on the care, guided by intelligence, of the
workmen. The two modes of reproduction are, where partially mechani-
cal, as in the above cases; and where artistic skill is, or ought to be,
indispensable throughout. The latter class includes house-decoration,
carving on wood, metal-cutting and chasing, engraving on glass, painting
on pottery.
Great and various have been the technic advances of manufacture: in
material, processes, new applications of mechanical power. In textile manu-
facture, within a century, a whole branch of trade we find created, in
cotton, and progressively increasing. Throughout, it has been systematic
improvement. Foremost, ranks increased facility of production, through the
mechanical discoveries of our Watts, Arkwrights, Cromptons, Hargreaves,
and the colossal application of their steam-power and complex machinery.
Secondly, we have the practical mastery of chemistry, applied to bleaching
and dyeing, to the securing permanency and variety of hue, and exten-
sion of the decorative range. Thirdly, come facilitated processes of print-
ing; the introduction of metal cylinders, with their new capabilities to
compete with wooden blocks; the engraving the cylinder from the pre-
viously-engraved die; and recently, the printing several colours at once,
instead of for each colour a cylinder. Last, we rank modifications of
fabric, and the consequent creation of new demands.
In the silk manufacture, in England more of an exotic, the usual
enhancement of production through machinery has taken place; above
all, through application of the French Jacquard-loom.
One manufacture has been created since the beginning of the cen-
tury, by machinery especially complicated in invention: the bobbin-net, or
machine-made lace, now of national importance, producing to the annual
value of more than £3,000,000 sterling. The cheapness here, as in the
cotton manufacture, result and cause of increased production, has been
carried to its utmost. Ever-new improvements in mechanism have resulted
in a present market-price often 90 per cent. less than that of former days.
In the woollen manufacture, both fabric and dye have advanced.
Worsteds and stuffs have been distinguished by increased production,
and multiplication of the kinds of fabric. In the finer sorts, merinos,
we now rival the French. In shawls, the beautiful Oriental manu-
facture has been imitated and superseded; and the men of Paisley
have kept pace with those of Lyons. Carpets have in fabric and dye
undergone manifold transmutations; terminating with the economised
€
RECENT DECORATIVE ART.
application of dye and extension of the scale of colour of the tapestry-
carpets; and the recent application of printing, successful as to first
cost-cheapness.
In paper-hangings we have recently, facilitated production through
machinery, improvements of material in increased length of piece, of
texture and surface of the finished article, and of colour, its effect and
durability.
Among the metals, iron has made the greatest stride. By development
of the system of casting, so characteristic of modern manufacture, a revo-
lution has been effected. For ornamental works on a large scale, as gates
and screens, its facility of production has commanded acceptance. In its
application to furniture-bedsteads, tables, and smaller articles-besides
its previous employment for grates, stoves, &c. an opening of indefinite
capability has been commenced. For constructive purposes, it has made
way to an extent only perhaps the germ of a new architecture. For
supports, trusses of roofs, balconies, its strength and cheapness have
already been of great value.
The universal adoption of pottery for domestic use dates within the last
half century. At the beginning of the eighteenth century it was an insig-
nificant manufacture; throughout the middle ages it was an incipient one.
In the sixteenth century, decorated earthenware assumed some remarkable
phases in Italy, Germany, and subsequently, France. In Italy, during
a period including the sixteenth, and, in less perfection, the seventeenth
century, character and beauty were reached peculiar to the time; and the
surviving remnants of the ware termed Majolica are much prized by the
connoisseur in such matters. The finer kinds of pottery were unknown to
Europe till the beginning of the eighteenth century, when the production
of European porcelain, in imitation of Oriental, arose; and the manufactories
of Dresden, Sèvres, and Chelsea, were successively established. The story
of the great Wedgwood, and the rise of English pottery as a staple branch
of production, is well known. During the latter part of the eighteenth
century, under his and auxiliary influence, it advanced in character and
extent in a ratio unexampled. Both by recourse to chemical science in
improvement and invention of material, and by attention to art new to
English manufacture, Wedgwood signalised himself. In the utilitarian
qualities of earthenware-strength, and perfection of glaze-the English
have been hitherto unequalled. In porcelain, for fineness of material,
and combination of impermeability with semi-transparency, foreign manu-
factures have been rivalled and reproduced. In lustre of hue, some
colours in Oriental china have been unapproached, others excelled. The
scientific pursuit of colour has not been adequately cultivated.
In glass, recent technic advances are confined to the development of
plate-glass, and its remarkable results in size and clearness; and in flint-
glass, to the purity of the English crystal, parallel with the equally unap-
proached success of continental, above all, Bohemian coloured glass.
Among new materials, or new in their wide extension, papier-maché
ranks first. Introduced early in the last century, it had made rapid
advances before its close, in strength, facility of production, and of orna-
mentation; all much further developed during the present. Its applica-
tions have become indefinitely multiplied. These, and the strength and
7
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
durability of the finished article, are marvellous, when we consider its
original beginnings, from thin sheets of paper. Its possible durability, like
that of other artificial materials, as porcelain, often rivals or exceeds that
of many natural substances-wood or some kinds of stone. Carton-pierre,
a composition more successfully imitative of stone, is a later introduction.
Of gutta percha, a material not invented, but discovered, the application, and
to the most ornamental and varied purposes, dates within the last few years.
Stamped leather is a manufacture of the middle ages, to which machinery
and new processes have imparted a fresh character and very extended
adaptability. Some materials, literally new, are devoted to the reproduc-
tion of works of art: statuary-porcelain, and parian, recent inventions of
the potter's art; and fictile ivory, a composition of facile production, a
fine kind of plaster of Paris subjected to particular chemical action.
The application of science to manufacture belongs to the nature of every
advance instanced: it is characteristic of the age. Chemistry, above all,
in the hands of the cotton-printer, the potter, the caster in metal, plays
an important part. A signal example of scientific influence is electro-
metallurgy—the process of metallic deposits by electric agency, adapted
for silver-plating, recently for bronzing. Its advantages are eminent, in
the facility, combined with fidelity, of its reproductions, and the integrity
of the deposited surface. Among the fresh applications of mechanism,
whereof the name is legion, that for wood-carving is an independent and
notable one.
Such, then, are the utilitarian acquisitions of the age, and of the last
century of devotion to mechanical pursuits. Thus large and varied is the
material, to which a 'form and pressure' is to be imparted by a system of
indefinitely-multiplied design. Throughout the course we have sketched,
England has been foremost. In those departments-machinery, cotton-
manufacture-of most important progress, she has been the leading power;
in some secondary ones, as pottery, she has engrossed the lion's share. We
will now take a summary of design in England, in its bearings to this vast
sum of brute-energy, realised by the technic genius of our time.
The importance of textile design, commercially considered, immeasurably
exceeds all other. In most printed and woven fabrics, England commands
the markets of half the world, for quality of material and cheapness; French
design alone competes with us. This very proficiency-the one wanting for
predominance—the English manufacturer once disregarded in his eager pur-
suit of facility of production. The design was reckoned as purely mechani-
cal as the rest. Instead of occupying an honoured station, as in France, the
professional designer was slighted to a great extent still is-poorly paid,
and worse esteemed. Of this, the fault lies at the door of all concerned-
the public and non-educating government included. Barefaced plagiarism
was substituted for that good design, not at hand, nor forming part in the
manufacturer's notion of personal outlay: a system still too favoured; one
of little wisdom. A design is thus the common property or plunder of all;
instead of securing remuneration to one, gives it to none, or gives it by
chance, in the general scramble. The cost of an original design is itself
trifling. The getting-up is the main expense; one incurred whether the
design be original or copied. And though good in itself, the copied design
may be, and constantly is, ruined in the processes of 'putting on,' &c.;
i
8
RECENT DECORATIVE ART.
processes, though more mechanical, requiring artistic skill like that of
the designing itself.
Present textile design is necessarily miscellaneous enough; what with
plagiarism, and ill-judged doctoring of plagiarism, the paucity of well-
instructed designers, and the uncertain treatment experienced by them
from manufacturers, ignorant commercial' buyers,' and a capricious public.
Novelty-novelty is the end to which all efforts are directed. The patterns
of one season are effete long before the next. It is little remembered that
novelty, far from a thing good in itself, is positive evil, unless it be also
improvement. In the headlong pursuit of this one aim, it is unheeded
whether novel beauty or novel ugliness be attained, so it be indubitable
novelty a difficult matter, however. That which passes for it is generally
only a ringing of the changes on some two or three notes; with imper-
ceptible or unmeaning variations; and occasionally a launch into something
novel indeed, in barbarous, outré grotesqueness. Of course there is a reason
for this indiscriminate preference of novelty on the consumer's part, more
deep-seated than the tyranny of caprice itself: the absence of any one
design of pre-eminent excellence, and of a settled style of good designs,
such as pervades goods of Oriental manufacture.
It is in textile manufacture the fullest scope for an independent decora-
tive system exists. The conditions of modern reproduction and multi-
plication of pattern by machinery, here prevailing, are so individual to the
age, and the diffusion of the design so unprecedentedly large, there per-
force has been a development more adapted to the exigencies of the case,
than in any other manufacture. Styles, original and appropriate, have
been worked out. A modern cotton-gown does preserve its character of
cotton-gown, does not ape that of something else—an architectural façade
or a painted canvas. Even when ugly and unmeaning, the design has
a certain amount of consistency. Often it is very satisfactory.
In most cases, agreeable arrangement of colour is the legitimate effect,
rather than outline. To garments, destined, as they are, to fall in folds
about the person, elaborate displays of drawing are obviously inappropriate.
They presuppose for being seen an impossible surface when the material
is made up.'. The pattern, whether in single colours or not, should
be composed of general outlines that will lose nothing by transposition
one over the other; not too detailed or precise; and handled, especially
where numerous colours are used, as the vehicle of colour. In the latter
relation, the capabilities of textile design have not been fully developed.
The available hues are necessarily limited by technical difficulties, though
continually increased through systematic resort to experimental chemistry.
But the combination of those already used is not understood. The vivid
sense of harmony of colour natural to early or simple nations, so charac-
teristic a beauty of Oriental manufacture still, has been lost. The well-
grounded culture which should supply its place is not yet attained, nor
even aimed at, by the producers of English goods.
In printed garment fabrics manufactured for the home-market, many
true principles more or less consistently prevail. Smallness of pattern is
one followed to a considerable extent, though not enough; essential in a
design consisting of indefinitely-repeated parts. These separate features
should make a general whole in which they are lost; not breaking up the
No. 65.
9
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
person of the wearer, but subordinate to it.
Unbroken distribution of
pattern is another attribute contributing to the same ends, not so strictly
obeyed as the former, yet of modified prevalence. Flatness of effect, the
legitimate characteristic of painted as opposed to sculptured surface orna-
ment, especially as applied by a mechanical medium; essential to unpre-
tentious self-consistency; is also unequally adhered to. As regards colour,
the questionable preference of English taste for neutral, undecided tints,
what are called chaste' effects, prevents the glare and harsh combina-
tions commonly united to the brilliancy and larger patterns of calicos
got up for the southern and tropical markets. There the very extension
of the scale often educes the more forcibly the incompetence of the English
manufacturer for harmonious use of it. A class of goods affording an
illustration of the legitimate attributes, smallness of pattern and equal
distribution, united to true taste in colour, are the well-known Swiss
muslins; fabrics it is, for these reasons, a real pleasure to inspect in stock.
Chintz hangings form a class in which the design of the day is by no
means felicitous, evidencing retrogression, not advancement: size of pattern
increased to an ungainly extent, a correspondingly violent and harsh system
of colour, the legitimate characteristics of the material lost.
In silks, the taste of the French is sufficiently celebrated. The English
follow at a distance; much resorting to copyism of French design, and
even regular employment of French designers. The present prevalence
of large patterns, though these are often of much abstract beauty, is far
from correct in principle, for reasons already stated. Too naturalistic a
tendency is also characteristic of the French designs; too ambitious and
irreflective an emulation; that is, of natural objects too little artistic
conventionalising; a mimicking of nature where the range of representa-
tion is necessarily all-circumscribed. By the reverse system, a weak-
ness can be turned into a source of power, of new and self-consistent
excellence.
Among woven fabrics, in shawls, more beauty is daily encountered than
in any other article of dress. The reason lies in the imitation of the
Oriental models, induced in the Europeans in their successful contest. The
French here, too, won the foremost place in the race. Though their
excellence has been equalled by the beautiful products of British manu-
facture, French design takes the lead, as elsewhere-is in itself an
immeasurable commercial advantage. According to accustomed subter-
fuges of trade, the best British goods are, as in the case of silks, to a great
extent sold as French; thus dust is thrown into uninitiated eyes, and
unmerited slight cast on British manufacture. The subservience of draw-
ing to harmonious colour, and the employment of a restricted, effective
scheme of outline-outline always analogous, yet variable—as the vehicle
of such colour, are very noticeable in the original models, just as in
Oriental carpets. The futility of the European system of novelty-hunting
is here made manifest; and the perennial freshness of a thing of beauty.
None, it has been well said, tire of a Turkey carpet, or a Cashmere shawl,
which have ever been essentially the same; who does not of two-thirds of
the ever-varying apparitions of our European ribbons, or de laines? By
systematic adherence to one good type of ornamentation, the fabricators
of the shawl were enabled to produce beauty ever true, and to develop
10
RECENT DECORATIVE ART.
all the minor variations of outline and effect. The practice contains a
useful lesson for the Europeans. Fair ladies do indeed complain of the
interminable repetition of the pine. But this is because it has, amid the
customary aimless quest after novelty, been so preposterously obtruded on
them--wrenched from the plan of which it was a part. In the best
Indian Cashmeres and European imitations, this conventional form is simply
the key-note, the ground-work, of other elaborate combinations; lost in
them. In many of the cheaper kinds of shawl now prevailing, as espe-
cially the Barège, rows of these pines, though having no use or beauty
save as the medium of colour, and of other forms, stand by themselves
without colour or meaning: the prosaic, senseless parodies of a pure and
beautiful original. A leaven of the fault, the over-definement of the pine,
may enter into the better kinds. The opposite treatment is the ideal of
an original Cashmere.
The carpet manufacture, like that of shawls, is of Oriental origin. Dur-
ing the last two centuries of rivalry, and with substitution of machine for
hand-work, the Europeans have far enough departed from their models.
While, with their mechanical resources and cheapened results, they have
never equalled the technic value and marvellous durability of the Turkey
carpet, they have established a fundamentally opposite and false plan of
decoration-that of pictures on floors. In France, the manufacture, con-
ducted on a grand scale in one or two favoured establishments, is, from a
prevailing domestic custom-the retainment of ornamental wood-floorings—
no nationally characteristic one. The French manufacturers have carried
the pictorial system to the most vicious extent, so great and misdirected
has been their ambition. The loss, again, of true principles of colour, is,
through this ambition, the more egregiously manifested; violent, inhar-
monised combinations being freely resorted to. In England, this, like the
other more recent branches of production, began to gain consideration
at the beginning of the eighteenth century, when the polished, inlaid
wooden floorings had gone out. It continued growing in importance
till the present century, during which very great advances have been
made in material. The beauty of texture, mossy and velvet-like to look
and touch, characterising the better-class carpets, has its æsthetic as
well as technic value. In general truth of decorative principle there
is little to commend. The so obvious fundamental condition, flatness
of effect, the marked characteristic of ancient and Oriental decorations
of the floor-the Roman tesselated pavement, the medieval encaustic
tile-the Persian or Turkey carpet-is wholly violated. Fruits and
flowers rounded off into approximate light and shade form the com-
mon stock in trade. Fruits are, in any case, inappropriate to be
trodden on. Flowers, if represented, should tell their tale, as only repre-
sented, and on the floor, not as on a wall: then they might be sug-
gestive and pleasing. On the same terms, similarly conventionalised,
and with reference to their destination, not denying their purely decorative
nature, other subjects demanding moderate attention from the spectator,
are admissible. Smallness, simplicity, and equal distribution of pattern,
are indispensable-especially when the greater portion, as in an English
sitting-room, is covered by furniture-for the eye to apprehend the design;
a part standing for the whole. But sprawling, disconnected patterns much
11
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
prevail. The cheaper sorts of carpet, having geometric devices, though
not over-burthened with æsthetic beauty, often unmeaning and mechanical,
are less incorrect in principle than the ambitious, where so much is
attempted, better left unattempted. Flatness and concentration of effect
are wanting in these also. In colour there is great inequality; anything
like the rich harmonies of the Oriental carpets is never approached. But
from the less pretentious, more sober effects, there is a wide range up to
the most glaring, gaudy, and costly. In truth of gradation, matters have
not been mended in the tapestry carpets, with their extended scale of hue.
There is more room to err than in the Brussels carpets, with their half-
dozen colours. The claims of exceeding brilliancy and superficial attrac-
tiveness cannot be denied. There has been a parallel development of the
defects of the old carpets-pretentiousness, largeness of pattern, pictorial
attempts at light and shade and roundness of effect.
In most other woollen fabrics, design, properly so called, has small part.
The male creation of Europe has long discarded decorative aid to its
external appearance; trusting to intrinsic merit, to the sober claims of
mind and pocket, or to the personal charms surviving external disadvan-
tages, softened by a kind of prim foppery and neatness of toilet. The
last traditions of taste as to design in its bearing on costume are in the
keeping of the ladies. In the whole male wardrobe, the sole vestiges of
'decorative art' are traceable sometimes in the waistcoat and nether-gar-
ment. In the former, there has lately been a movement towards a little
actual decoration. In the latter, the approximation is of the most inarti-
ficial kind-a few neutral colours and a few straight lines, striped or
crossed. It is an instance of the little thought vouchsafed to such matters,
that rational men could be found to walk about with limbs disfigured by a
series of broad, party-coloured bars running at right angles to one another.
Yet the most sane men may have been so seen. Every one of us, in fact,
was liable to the innocent adoption of this barbarity when it 'came up,'
and so making a monstrous network of his body. Such lines, not to speak
of their ugliness, destroy the whole character of the human form. ~All
check-patterns are in themselves, unaided by harmonious colour, mechani-
cal, and devoid of beauty. Ladies seldom fall into such egregious blunders.
They instinctively understand too well the becoming. They are fond of
'stripes,' because they assist the effect of height; though a like result would
belong to the stripe translated into graceful curves. Striped patterns,
wherever occurring in a dress or a paper-hanging, fall under the same cate-
gory with checks as to inherent lack of art or beauty-an absence of beauty
characterising in general all straight lines, just as distinctively as does its
presence curvilinear ones. The latter form the attribute of every portion
of the human form itself: a significant fact. Stripes are more admissible,
however, than checks; being true to the leading lines of the body, and
suggesting them, instead of clipping it into fragments. Even in ladies'
dress, there is at present a strong inartistic movement: the recourse to
undecorated garments, 'polkas,' &c. in which all the character is given by,
and half the cost lavished on, the milliner. Fashion is indifferent to this
circumstance; the more or less art, the more or less intelligence brought to
bear in the satisfaction of her demands, elicited in the toiling multitude.
Unfortunately, the empty-headed tyrant unconsciously sways the destinies,
12
RECENT DECORATIVE ART.
creates or mars the prosperity, not only of the decorative arts, but of
manufactures themselves, and of whole classes of human beings.
To the majority of our day it must seem a puerility to attach impor-
tance to dress, to look for art in such quarters, or concern ourselves
for the lack of it. Yet real art has been displayed in the costume of all
times and nations save the modern European-the classic, the mediæval,
the Oriental. Some distorted attempt at it may be recognised amid the
shabbiest disguises of humanity of a London crowd. Is it not a point
worth consideration, whether we practically accept a make-believe, or a
reality, in its way?—whether we go about labelled 'failure,' ticketted
with nonentity and ugliness, incongruity with nature; wearing the em-
blem of some sordid and inane idea; or whether the decorative symbol
be suggestive and consistent? The dearth of thought, both in producer
and consumer, is here, as everywhere, the source of all mistake, and folly,
and loss.
Of other textile manufactures, a few words remain to be said.-First,
as to lace; a century or two ago a costly rarity, now an every-day
adornment. The grace and delicacy of effect of the material are its legi-
timate and most striking beauties. Independent beauty and coherence
of design are compatible with them. Both in the hand-made and machine-
mnade lace such real design occasionally occurs. In some of the machine-
made, where something better is attempted than imitation of the hand-
made-a false and vicious system--a style adopted specifically charac-
teristic, there is much to praise in appropriate and pleasing flatness of
effect, and beauty of design based on this attribute; a style essentially
distinct from the thickness and richness of the old hand-made, and having
its own claims.
In the linen manufacture, designs for damask are at no high standard
with us, either in prevailing decorative 'motives' or special treatment.
Foreigners have the advantage; in design and quality of material. The
manufacturers of two hundred years ago were still more before both.
Pottery is a manufacture not so commercially important as that of textile
fabrics, nor educing equal activity in design; yet it is one peculiarly
favourable to art. No article produced, however simple, but may evince
decorative treatment, or artistic feeling, in its form at least; art may be
part and parcel of it, so far. And this attribute, form, is often not given
by mechanical agency, but is the direct result of human dexterity.
The decorative constituents are two-form, and surface-ornamentation.
The first is the fundamental, imparting the leading character. In per-
fection of form alone, sufficing beauty may be realised.
We have alluded to the especial glory of Josiah Wedgwood-the union
of improved material and colour, with the development of an artistic ele-
ment. The round of the antique forms was exhausted, and the poetic
aid of that greatest of English or modern sculptors, John Flaxman, secured.
It was Wedgwood's misfortune-the inevitable sequence of the peculiar
condition of modern design-rather than fault, that as to form, no
more than copyism was done. Nothing better has been reached since,
only greater license in departure from the antique models and from the
natural standard of beauty. In the æsthetic phase, the manufacture has
remained much where he left it, in some points, rather, has retrograded ;
13
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
though just lately there has been considerable and laudable activity.
Copies of good things have divided sway with copies of bad. Copyism
it is, still, which brings in all that's fair:' reproduction of the antique or
of Oriental forms. Settled principles of design we have none. We have
no philosophically-artistic study of beauty of form, in one given route;
no independent pursuit of the general principles of aesthetic truth of line;
such, as in other times and nations, resulted severally, in antique, in
mediæval, and in Oriental art; in the attainment of systems of form, all
genuine, each distinct from the other, and characteristic.
There are two kinds of acceptable form: æsthetic perfection, and expres-
sive character. There may, too, be the union of both. In Greece, this
union was, in all art, nearly equal. In the middle ages, character was
the dominant attribute. In Etruscan and Grecian pottery, we have the
deepest, most refined visual melodies, so to speak. In Oriental pottery, and
in mediæval decorative forms generally, we have harmonies, lower, as to
mere æsthetic perfection—that definite completeness the Greeks realised
everywhere. Oriental forms are sometimes of mixed truth. The medieval
have equal or even more striking suggestiveness than the Grecian, a pre-
vailing idiosyncrasy, as eloquent and unmistakable as belongs to the archi-
tecture of the time. The natural development of forms, simple, but true in
feeling, in all early potteries, whether of the rude South-Sea islander, of
the aboriginal Mexican, or the ancient British occupiers of our own land,
is a remarkable fact. In modern forms, reigns mere anarchy, the abrupt
transition from harmony to discords. In the potter's work, pre-eminently,
the intrinsic aesthetic claim, as distinguished from that of character, is con-
fined to lines curved and flowing. Such lines prevail in Oriental China;
though straight-lined combinations occur, judiciously managed; as again,
in all mediæval decorative forms, subserviently to those other claims of
which we have spoken. There is in our pottery the ample use of straight
lines, to meet the insatiable rage for novelty;' while the curved forms
of the classic models are often inharmoniously adapted, through mere
bluntness of taste and the absence of controlling principles.
Still, the adoption, more or less modified, of good models as a basis, has
dictated the general forms of our pottery, to an extent scarce now to be
adequately apprehended. In tea-services, the Chinese gave us not only
the beverage, but the material and form of the vessels to contain it. In
many familiar earthenware and porcelain articles, dishes, plates, &c. the
purpose has dictated the form; with much of that success which obedience
to the demands of utility and common sense, without farther attempt,
insures. In the remainder, antique forms have had their all-powerful
influence. On the other hand, in all these classes the unaided fancy of the
designer, and spasmodic efforts at novelty, have been the fertile source of
monstrosity. Attention to form, however, has been a welcome feature in
the late progress of the potteries. Our general characteristics in form may
be summed up as, a lack of any one style of our own, or rule; a conflict
with types uncouth, unmeaning, and contemptible; and a leaven-with
importation from one trustworthy quarter and another-of much that is
agreeable.
In surface-ornamentation there is less to applaud. An original or
consistent system here, too, there is not. Little available for ordinary
14
RECENT DECORATIVE ART.
purposes was to be gleaned from good models. The examples in ancient
pottery were of too high and costly a description. The Chinese patterns
were nothing without the harmony of hue, of which they were the medium.
Their bad drawing and grotesque features were not in any case desirable
for adoption. The history of English ornamentation of earthenware and
porcelain is in great part a strange eventful series of barbarities: con-
catenations of incongruous objects, and medleys of copyism; assisted by
primitive drawing and ineptest rendering of nature. The progress lately
made has been unequal. Elaborate mistakes every way, unmeaning com-
binations, defiances of nature, abound. The extraordinary part pseudo-
pastorals and inconsistent 'made-up' landscapes have played, in this sec-
tion of the furniture of an English home, is well known. They still hold
sway; in conjunction with variations on Louis Quatorze and Quinze,
Moresque, &c.
In earthenware, the 'willow' pattern, now dying out, introduced towards
the end of the last century, is among the most remarkable ever in vogue;
for diffusion and continuance. Its success was not without cause. No
general popularity is. The pattern, though a mere parody of Chinese per-
versities, had great utilitarian merits: in its equal covering of the surface,
distinct adjustment of design to the separate parts-rim and centre-and
absence of pictorial pretence. Most of the better designs now current,
more correctly drawn, and sometimes of considerable taste, err in these
particulars-lack adaptation of design to the special purpose. As the
designers have grown more ambitious and artistic,' they have become
less attentive to the demands of decoration as decoration. A system of
ornament, properly so called, strictly confined to its decorative office,
assuming to be nothing else, while having in that individual beauty, is
unknown to the best modern design.
(
The fashion of aping pictures more or less pervading our manufac-
tured design, shows itself very prominently when we come to the finer,
more costly porcelains. Too much is attempted at once in all modern
decoration. Herein is one secret of the variance in genuine success
attending the Oriental, and the best of the European efforts. The designs
of the Dresden and Sèvres china, when not copies of the Oriental, pur-
port to be 'complete works of art,' pictures in pottery. They cannot
rival an actual picture, yet miss the effect proper to the material; result
in being neither one thing nor the other. The Chinese 'set light and
shade and perspective at defiance;' but in harmony and vivid beauty of
colour, and due subordination of pattern, produce an effect consistent with
the material, and in itself contenting. In the Dresden and Sèvres, the
Oriental harmony is by no means equalled. Just in the most ambitious
attempts of the latter the worst success is attained-the most gaudy,
harsh, false effects. We have triumphs over technical difficulties, amaz-
ing enough; that is all. The English, who have followed these manufac-
tures, have not been more successful in development of true decorative
character or refined colour. But they never have fallen into the extreme
gaudiness, the overloading with alien matter, of the more costly Sèvres;
where, sometimes, the material is scarce to be recognised, for gilding and
pretence.
The vivid feeling for colour of the Orientals is as pre-eminent here as in
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
their other manufactures. Similar feeling, fresh and living, is to be noticed
in the earlier European pottery-the enamelled wares of the sixteenth
century. The Majolica, though pictorial rather than strictly ornamental,
and its subjects those irrelevant classic ones for which a furor then pre-
vailed, was characterised by high æsthetic beauty; sometimes in drawing,
always in colour, with its peculiar rich, brown and golden hues.
The literal English reproductions of Oriental china, of Sèvres, of Dres-
den, are somewhat pitiable. As in other directions, we rival the fabric,
the technic qualities of the foreign article, but servilely affix the foreign
design trade-mark; so as surreptitiously to represent, instead of self-
reliantly competing with it. The repetition of the mere outward guise,
as well as material excellences of a successful manufacture, is a singular
evidence of æsthetic supineness-of the divorce between technic and
aesthetic ability. The repetition can, as to art, never have more than a
factitious, second-hand value. Where, in articles of show, vases, &c. the
continental products are not imitated, classic design is reproduced.
Etruscan vases, Etruscan and Grecian types of ornament and subjects, in
new applications, have been repeated from Wedgwood's day downward,
for modern edification; without reference to the original purpose of these
things, or modern exigencies. Even the beautiful original designs of Flax-
man were at fault in this particular of subject, considering a modern Euro-
pcan was addressed, not an ancient Greek. Original design is, however,
under any drawback, a far different, more living thing, than mere copyism.
In our ambitious attempts, then, from the cheapest chimney-ornament
up to the costly vase, we have spoiled pictures and literal reproduction :
beginning with copies of popular sentimental pieces, and ending with the
antique. In some directions advance has been made. Original designs for
the common wares and ordinary china are encouraged, and are progres-
sive in character. In several, for articles of common use, a leaven of
direct reference to nature has been introduced, started by the 'art-manu-
factures' of Felix Summerly: reference to nature, of value, as a step in the
right direction, though over-' naturalistic' in these particular instances.
The new applications of porcelain, for chimney-slabs, tiles, &c. form a
feature in recent movements. They have been successful in eliciting feli-
citous design and novel beauty of effect for purposes where the very
reverse of anything artistic or pleasing had been usual. It were well
should geometric, purely ornamental designs predominate in the slabs
rather than pictures: pastorals, festoons of flowers-scarce appropriate to
the vicinity of a fire-and æsthetic abominations, like ribbons and baskets.
An important auxiliary in the diffusion of art are the new inventions of
material, 'statuary porcelain,' 'parian :' improvements on the old 'Bisque'
or unglazed porcelain; in appearance approaching marble. They are pre-
paring the way for still further discoveries, whereby the evils in the pre-
sent process, the shrinking of material in the furnace, are to be obviated.
Already a demand has been created for artistic refinement through these
means of the homes of the middle classes. The opening is capable of
being turned to high account in the cultivation of a purely artistic manu-
facture. Success depends on two conditions-the subjects chosen, and
their execution. Some among those selected are of true artistic worth;
as especially Bell's Dorothea. Many recent selections are the very reverse
16
RECENT DECORATIVE ART.
of satisfactory. We have copies of French pictures and statuettes, not
deserving wide publication; in subject and treatment of a debased style:
mere sickly prettinesses and sentimentalisms; and nude female figures,
whose only recommendation is their nudity, having none of that purity
of feeling or refinement of beauty alone rendering such representations
acceptable. Instead of profitably enlarging the influence of the true and
the elevated, as by the Dorothea, the manufacture thus diffuses what is low
in art, as well as poor and depraved in meaning. Unhappily, it would seem
the complexion of public taste itself, as in the case of popular engravings,
which is pandered to. It were to be wished that not only copies of the best
works of English sculptors should be given, but still more extensively,
original models of them specially commissioned. The nature of the mate-
rial would here be considered; a new opening for art created; and a class
of subjects fostered in sculpture, addressed to the sympathies of our age
and country- a desideratum indeed! On the execution, the workman's
knowledge and skill, especially in the finishing, depends much of the
final effect. The inevitable difficulties of the process are great. But in
the niceties, the joining of the separately cast pieces, and the like, exists
fair room for improvement: improvement only to come through the
education and more refined feeling of the workman.
The revival of encaustic tiles for churches, public buildings, the halls
of private houses, has been successful; in the mechanical process and
decorative constituents. The admirable Gothic models, true to principle
in flatness of effect and simplicity, have been reproduced. Geometric
patterns prevail. It would be gain if this beautiful manufacture super-
seded the modern one, strong in its cheapness, of floor-cloth a disagree-
able material; the designs ordinarily devoted to it still more unsatisfac-
tory. These are mostly, with their absurd imitations of marble and stone,
poor, tautologous, false in principle. The geometric patterns are of course
better; but no wasteful lavishment of taste or invention is traceable.
The manufacture of figures and other ornaments in terra-cotta, recently
revived, has been carried further in France than in England; but with
success in the latter country as to durability of material-in all manufac-
ture the Englishman's strong point. In original design, little has been
done. We should mention, however, the noteworthy application of this
material to a modern Gothic church in Lincolnshire.
Ornamental domestic Glass, in which so great perfection, artistically
speaking unrivalled, was attained by the ancients, was not a characteristic
mediæval manufacture. Its European revival belonged to Venice, followed
by Germany. In both countries, much technic excellence and artistic
beauty in form and engraving were attained: during the sixteenth century
in I.aly, after some ages of practice; in Germany, with great access in
development of colour, early in the seventeenth. The English cultivation
of the manufacture to any important extent was late. Till the last few
years it laboured under the severest government check. A progressive
course, however, has all along been maintained.
Stained glass, on the other hand, is an art, in its glory as characteristi-
cally medieval, as perfect pottery is antique. It was reduced to the lowest
ebb during the last century, but has of late revived, so far as imitation of
the old remains goes. In mere technic qualities, of beauty of hue, there
17
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
is still, not to speak of design, great shortcoming in our imitations. The
unsuccessful modern refers for explanation to the coarseness of the old
glass, here undoubtedly of value, and to be reproduced; and to mellow-
ing influences of time, dirt, and decay. This latter is a plea least of all
calculated to explain all things; akin to the notion of some connoisseurs
of 'tone '—that is, dirt-in old pictures.
In domestic glass, similar importance attaches to form as in pottery.
Engraving offers a more restricted range of surface-ornamentation. In
development of colour we have greater difficulty, and greater beauty when
attained; in transmutation of form and substance through cutting and
frosting, effects peculiar to itself. The mere material has in its trans-
parency and brilliancy an æsthetic charm which bad design may injure, but
not destroy. The excess to which cutting is at present carried, interferes
with the former property, and with general outline; confusing the eye. It
substitutes effects dazzling, but often surprising rather than pleasing.
The variety of forms manufactured is great. Types borrowed from
the antique, or indirectly from the Venetian and German manufactures,
have exerted wide influence on articles in daily use. Many familiar
forms of wine-glasses, jugs, &c. are of considerable beauty, coming of a
pure stock. In others, as of decanters, the educing an æsthetic charm from
the utilitarian purpose had, till lately, been unattempted. Purely orna-
mental articles present effective reproduction of the beautiful antique forms;
reproduction mostly literal, sometimes as the basis of others. Any pre-
vailing adherence to defined principles no more exists than in pottery. The
late stimulated pursuit of design has been loose enough; as often directed
to straight-lined and outré as to curvilinear and refined forms. Novelty
has been the too influential aim. In the long-run, beauty and truth
are not to be hit upon; must be patiently, intelligently worked out.
The chandelier is a feature of modern manufacture, in which, with the
purity and brilliancy of their crystal, the English are pre-eminent. In
it modern design has had to rely on its own resources; and, following
the requirements of the article, been tolerably successful. In few other
cases have the peculiar beauties of the material been so adequately de-
veloped. The union of refined form-refinement capable of being carried
much further than it is-with the utmost possible eliciting of the grace
natural to these suspended masses of light, the full emphasis on their lead-
ing characteristics as such: herein consists the province of the designer.
The range of surface-ornament by engraving admits of very delicate
beauty. The most successful English design is that occupied with simple
forms, imitation of natural foliage, &c. The conditions of the mate-
rial preclude exaggeration, and such subject educes character strictly orna-
mental. To the costly work, where picture-like effects and the human
figure are introduced, a sufficiently high order of art has not been applied.
In one simple kind of engraving-that on window-glass-good decorative
effects have been produced, at a cheap rate. Its domestic use might be
advantageously extended. Concealment of outlook, where desirable, is
obtained by it, ornamentally and agreeably. Not so pretentious as stained
glass, success is more within the manufacturer's reach.
The inferiority, in depth and brilliancy of hue, of the English to the
continental coloured glass has been stated. Subject-painting has been little
18
RECENT DECORATIVE ART.
cultivated. Recent advances have been made, and pleasing effects pro-
duced, with copies from the antique, the Italian and modern masters.
In the useful metals, decoration includes treatment of general form, and
superaddition of surface-ornament. Esthetic beauty is to be educed from
utility, or engrafted on it; consistently with, and suggestive of, special
character. Such are the primary ends of ornamental design in this direc-
tion distinctively, as more or less strictly everywhere. In the hands of true
artists, or where a right system pervades industrial design, the decorative
attainment is never incompatible with the utilitarian, nor the union a diffi-
culty. Where such system does not exist, the sordid repulsiveness of
utility divorced from beauty results; or in the spasmodic attempt at their
union, the former is lessened, the character of the decorated object falsi-
fied or concealed, fitness neglected, reality lost. For æsthetic effect itself,
the expression of utility must be preserved, as the root of it. In the beau-
tiful examples of medieval iron-work, these principles are illustrated affir-
matively; in modern, negatively. In the former, utility was never denied
or injured, but always expressed, however elaborate the ornament thereon
grounded. And on the rudest work character was impressed, by combina-
tions of line-the mere grouping, perhaps, of nails on a door-pleasing
and suggestive. In their ornamental work we see also, contrary to much
of modern production, a style adapted to the materials: thinness, flatness
of surface, and consequent relative lightness and grace of effect.
ļ
The modern English, while excelling in the mechanical, had forgotten
till late years the decorative element, contenting themselves with occa-
sional meagrest apologies. In French work, there is, as to detail, genuine
beauty of design and workmanship; in the general aggregate, something
very ungenuine. The union of utility and beauty is mostly mechanical,
not essential. Fitness, the soul of all art however 'high,' is ignored.
Works of art are tacked on to works of utility. One idea is lost amid a
host of conflicting ones. We, who of late have been following our neigh-
bours, have not escaped their faults. We have not proceeded to their
extremes. Our practical sense will not allow us in the long-run to
commit the solecism of abjuring utility in attempts to be 'artistic.' Still,
to the endeavour at imparting a decorative aspect to our works in the
baser metals-iron, brass, &c.-fidelity of character and directness of
expression have been strangers. Our system is the reverse of the ancient,
'the medieval, the Oriental, or any other which bore good fruit. Instead
of an article being itself ornamented, it must be, if 'decorative,' something
else. A curtain-holder must be a flower, a fender a pastoral, a letter-
weight a dolphin, the back and elbows of a garden-chair a snake, and
an inkstand be transmuted into various strange figments. As for the
poor worn-out mermaid, her soul must be daily undergoing a fresh
decorative transmigration. This system had its beginning during the
sixteenth century 'Revival;' then counterbalanced by very exquisite art
and executive refinement. It has come to a head at the present day. It
is so easy, compared with engrafting decoration on undisguised features,
eliciting an unforced beauty and character proper to the article; and for
surface-ornament, employing a well-elaborated range of conventional forms,
refined and suggestive.
The present change in decorative intention is preparing the way for
19
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
something better, though only amounting as yet to imitations of this
'style' or that, combinations, or unintelligent using up of stock forms.
There is still work where even this change would be for the better. In
second and third-class grates, stoves, the most sordid pretence at orna-
ment is stuck on. In the more expensive, there is free recourse to nonde-
script, to Louis Quatorze and Quinze, not to speak of pseudo - Gothic
puerilities.
In some technical requisites of artistic effect we have advanced, by call-
ing in aid from science. In iron-casting, æsthetic beauty much depends
on mechanical causes, exactly determinable by chemical experiment; the
sharpness of the casting on the degree and kind of fluidity of the heated
metal. The beauty of the ornamental Berlin castings is well known.
Foreign castings of late have been competed with by our own, especially
those of the Coalbrook Dale Company, which body has signalised itself
by its efforts at decorative character.
We would here refer to Mr Pickett's system of iron-construction.
Hitherto, the large use of iron has been accompanied by little true
design: sordid ugliness or miserable disguises have been the rule. The
interior of the London New Coal-Exchange is a noticeable exception. The
series of balconies, and supports of the roof, all iron, are undisguised, and
possess appropriate character. Perhaps some other colour or shade than
the white adopted would have been preferable, the more unmistakably to
distinguish the material: otherwise, the general effect is unexceptionable.
In brasswork, Birmingham has long been famous, for utilitarian and
economic capabilities. In design, the French tendency above alluded to
is the predominant. Bronze has in England played a slender part. The
production of ornamental castings has been engrossed by Paris, and there
carried to a great pitch of perfection and on an extraordinary scale. A
disposition has shown itself to attempt something for ourselves. In technic
regards the French might not long hence be rivalled. The numerous skilled
art-workmen, modellers, chasers, &c. by whom the chief value of the Pari-
sian bronzes is conferred, it would be no easy task to get together.
In cutlery, so important a manufacture, wherein our technic perfection
is noted, design can scarce be said to have place. The modern Eng-
lish practice would imply the incompatibility of an aesthetic side; con-
trary to the evidence of mediæval, of Oriental work, where so much
exquisite ornamentation occurs, of weapons, knives, tools, locks, keys;
and, in the plainest examples, beauty of form. The stern utility, however,
of English work has a more genuine character than mere pretence could
give.
In gold and silver, that defect noticed in all modern metal work—
the making utility and art separate things, instead of one organic whole-
becomes especially prominent. In costly examples, the system is one
of sculptured pictures; of miscellaneous incongruous combinations. We
have groups, human or animal, affixed to the cup or centre-piece, with no
real connection, little germane significance. The province of the sculptor
in less costly material is illegitimately invaded; and effects emulated which
the material itself, with its glistening brilliancy, its legitimate attribute,
forbids. The fundamental principle, that every material requires its dis-
tinct treatment, a decorative language of its own, is ignored.
20
RECENT DECORATIVE ART.
For surface-ornament we have copyism, sometimes mixture, of traditional
styles-Renaissance, Louis Quatorze and Quinze. Of the two latter, with
their unmeaning curves and scrolls, it is painful to see the prevalence.
More or less they enter into every province of design; make their appear-
ance now in a paper-hanging, then on a porcelain cup; now again in metal-
work-above all the ordinary stock in trade of a goldsmith, whether solid
metal or plated and Sheffield wares. Their tyranny is here complete.
The technic skill of English workmen in gold and silver, with their nicety
of finish, is celebrated. Where modelling of the human figure has place,
there is demand for improved education of the art - workman, and more
definite evidence of knowledge of his subject and artistic feeling.
In plated goods, while the obtrusion of bad styles is the same, the
technic beauties of execution, of works in gold and silver, are of course
missing. By the electrotype process, however, with its perfect accuracy of
reproduction, great beauty of effect and refinement of finish are attainable :
all depends upon the original model.
In jewellers' work real design scarcely exists. The prevailing 'modes'
are meretricious and irrational.
As to form, it is in gold, silver, and plated work, as in the other metals
and all modern manufacture: when having no guides, or neglecting them,
the requisite principles and refinement of feeling are wanting. As for the
difficulties of a tea-pot, or an urn, they seem insurmountable by us. Even
in so easy a subject, for which good models are numerous, as a goblet,
there is unequal success. Everywhere, if not frightful, our forms are tame,
overloaded, or broken up; inharmonised into unity. From so simple a
matter as a spoon, ability for developing refined harmony of line and pro-
portion does not exist. In the more elaborate candlestick or centre-piece,
instead of clear enunciation of the structural features, and subservience of
decoration thereto, there prevails indiscriminate addition of ornament
everywhere, and combinations without plan or meaning for a whole.
The numerous uses of papier-maché-even within the present century
confined to tea-trays-its aptness to design, the elaborate attempts made
in it; all conspire to render the manufacture an important one in reference
to decorative art. It is divided into two distinct classes of application—
articles of furniture, and architectural decoration. In its many adapta-
tions under the first, to tables, desks, screens, &c. it has great claims; in
its durability, lightness, pliability, and susceptiveness to surface-decora-
tion. The manufacturers have been blamed for the gaudiness into which
their plastic material has led them. This should be changed into brilliancy.
It is harmonious combination that is demanded, not neglect of a legitimate
attribute. An example of the capabilities of the material are the recent
sparkling imitations of inlaid gems. As imitations which can deceive no
one, they are innocent. If pursued with taste, and feeling for colour,
unexceptionable beauty in brilliance of effect might result.
A manufacture this peculiarly modern, there has been individual success
in its decoration; in the flower-painting, grace and effectiveness. Flowers,
perhaps birds, and some kinds of still life, are appropriate to the material;
successfully produced, adapted for repetition, and approaching in character
the strictly ornamental. The prevailing error is the resort to pictures.
Instead of simple decoration, or superior design specially adapted, we have
21
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
copies of popular engravings, sentimental or otherwise; of which there
is, without this further echo, a surfeit. Any true feeling in the decoration
itself is precluded. For the buyer, remains the daily-nauseating influence
of a tale mechanical in the telling, and stale in itself. Manufacturers and
the public have yet to learn it is no literal, necessarily inadequate repetition.
of some other work of art, but expressly appropriate designs, unobtrusive,
yet suggestive, which deserve the name of decorative art. The suggestive-
ness and agreeableness of a mediæval tesselated pavement or Oriental vase,
we do not exhaust with familiarity. These never make too great a demand
at once: But the significance of the mechanical copy of a sentimental or
pretty picture is exhausted the very moment we see it. It needs all the
impress of genius, of the living hand, in an original good picture, or the
faithful shadow of it in an engraving-itself instinct with a certain new
life—to render either suggestive daily companions. Aught less will grow
dead indeed. Where anything like a picture is attempted in a manufac-
tured article, a very high pervading manner of art, as in a Grecian vase, is
required, and a range of imitation of nature restricted to the particular
vehicle of expression; or some other peculiar decorative excellence, as in
Oriental china the vivid harmony of colour, and stamp of distinctive cha-
racter. Papier-maché is a manufacture which has made great progress.
It is a pity that decoration should be pursued on a wrong track. Turning
from surface-ornament to form, little can be said. The material gives the
designer much license. The result has been a series of forms, mostly
capricious and unmeaning; sometimes mutations of the Louis Quatorze,
&c.; always insubordinated to æsthetic rule.
In papier-maché applied architecturally the perils of facility become
graver. The aid it, and in lesser degree carton-pierre, supplies, would be
legitimate were a distinctive character developed: these materials wearing
a recognisable decorative stamp; not used in make-believe of other sub-
stance, and imitatively of 'styles' characteristic of the latter. But we
have sham-classic, Gothic, Elizabethan work; sham-stone mouldings and
tracery; sham-stone pillars: all in papier-maché, carton-pierre. For the
present is the age of shams; at all events in architecture. The one idea
suggesting itself to our minds after making a mechanical discovery, is, how
to turn it to profit as a sham? And so the system does not exist whereby
these light materials might tell their own tale; one naturally graceful,
1 and in its kind effective. Partly inevitable is this, from the unfortunate
condition of modern architecture. Were it sound, such a state of things
could not be.
Used without disguise, these materials are admissible, in all private
houses where a more solid system of architectural effect has not been sup-
plied. In ceilings especially, if more than a blank surface be desired, since
that period in the last century when hand-worked plaster ceased, which
was synchronous with the universal relinquishment of hand-work, substi-
tutes mechanically multiplied have been necessary. Tasteful, well-executed
designs in papier-maché, or composition, obtained from a good manufac-
turer, adapted to the room and its proportions, enhancing size or height, or
diminishing either, as the case may require, are immeasurably preferable to
the coarse plaster-ornaments which generally occupy their place. Designs
of great merit, graceful developments of ornament adapted from nature,
22
RECENT DECORATIVE ART.
are produced. The use of colours specially appropriated, single or varied,
is an essential constituent not adequately studied.
The characteristic of modern art, as of so much modern life, is the ab-
sence of self-reliance. We cannot appear what we are. Our new materials,
facilitated processes, are thus turned to questionable account. One sub-
stance is aped by another; the decorative language proper to one pro-
duction mimicked in a different. The recently-improved manufacture of
stamped leather, for furniture, decorative panelling, &c. characterised by
much beauty, boldness and precision of outline, is another instance of
this. Instead of suggesting leather, in colour and effect, the chief glory is
considered to be its successful representation of wood-of an Elizabethan
cabinet, or what not. For extension of the resources of design by new
appliances, its healthful life is crippled; reality and truth daily more fore-
gone. Why should this be? Why should not papier-maché look like
papier-maché, carton-pierre like carton-pierre, stamped leather like
stamped leather, cast-iron like cast-iron; each putting in its claims as
such? Till this be, no true life is possible for decorative art in these
departments.
Wood, a substance apt to the hands of the artist, receives small treat-
ment from him now in articles of general use. English design in its
relation to cabinet-making is at a low ebb. In the middle ages, art was
as apparent in the outline and ornament of the simplest chair or chest,
as in the elaborations of the goldsmith. Throughout the sixteenth and
seventeenth, till the beginning of the last century, an artistic spirit was
still manifested in the more grandiose domestic furniture of the English
gentleman, though in far less pure and beautiful styles. In France, after
the sumptuous half-caste art of the Louis Quatorze and Quinze, came a
brief 'pure Greek' mania; then the present specious copyisms and com-
binations of former styles, with a leaven of the usual naturalistic, fanci-
´fully original design. In English costly furniture, there is the haphazard
conflict of all forms, models, and fashionable imported novelties;' in
the ordinary run of furniture, stern ugliness or insipidity. The implicit
repetition of Louis Quatorze is dying out. A blank occupies its place.
As for studious artistic development of refined forms, that is a thing
undreamed in the cabinet-maker's philosophy. Such degree of prosaic
character attention to utility insures, there is. Whatever of the decorative
element has place in it, and some necessarily must, is all uninstructed roting
-the laying-on ornament, and shaping routine meaningless forms, without
thought or feeling, according to mechanical book-precedents, established
authorities of confusion. The poverty of design in the artificers themselves
is complete.
6
The remark applies to the 'carver and gilder,' the workers in ormolu,
&c. Nothing can be more overworn than most of the current design,
nor more mechanical than the way of using it. In picture-frames, plain
gilding would possess infinitely more intrinsic beauty and relevance than
two-thirds of the stereotyped repetition of scroll - work, disconnected
curves, &c. daily multiplied. Variations of copyism, and some recourse
to natural material, form the remaining third. Whatever the ornament, it
is laid on, not specially adapted. Papier-maché and gutta percha offered
room for new effects, not turned to due account. Failing beauty, attention
23
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
might be given to the requisites of the special design, such as unity of
purpose in the bounding lines of the frame, and a connected whole,
instead of aimless patches of ornament at sides and corners.
Buhl is a costly luxury, antiquarian in design; the ornamental forms
traditionary; the effect attractive, if its production be not very intelligent.
Exceptional efforts at design characterise recent cabinet - making, as
every other manufacture. The extended application of wood-carving is
a promising opening for the development of art. Very beautiful works of
second-hand design have been produced, necessarily costly. For Gothic
forms there is a growing taste. In the diffusion of decorative character
machine-work may prove useful, especially in the simpler articles. For
these some degree of ornament adapted from nature may be produced at a
much smaller cost than by hand-work.
Of wood-carving by machinery two processes have gained attention :
the one known as Jordan's Patent is the less exceptionable in principle.
The finishing is performed by hand; thus some direct human agency
preserved. Where much space is covered, tameness is unavoidable, from
the prevailing uniformity of surface: in place of the freedom and variety
following hand-labour, that 'bright strange play of the living stroke,'
not moving with the precision of mathematic law. The machinery lite-
rally carves the wood. The fidelity with which the main form and leading
lines are wrought is marvellous. Something weird is the aspect of the
blocks, fresh from the machine; with their ghostly reality, kin to the
creation of a human hand, all the work of blind, inanimate agency.
The works of the Wood-carving Company are produced by heat and
pressure; the carved impression by a die, without after hand-labour.
The object of machinery, in lessening cost, is not always attained by these
processes; only in case of great repetition of one feature, or, less incon-
sistently with true art, by multiplication of the whole work. In Jordan's
Patent, the pecuniary advantage of machinery tells in simple forms. With
intricacy of pattern, too much finishing is required. In the other process,
it is exactly the reverse. The cost of the die
The cost of the die is too great for profitable
execution of simple work. As to the aesthetic bearing of machinery,
here, as elsewhere, it brings us gain in accomplishing the mechanical; loss,
in its substitution for human thoughtful labour, the fresh impress of the
living hand.
The revived wooden bread-platters, potato-bowls, &c. have elicited
felicitous application of wood-carving to ordinary uses.
The original
platter of Mr Bell's design was the successful parent of numerous others,
executed by hand and machinery.
Another revival is of inlaid woods for flooring —' parquetage,' as
termed in France. Geometric patterns form the appropriate field of
design. Good ones are in use. The English are too wedded to the
carpet, with its warmth and comfortable aspect, to return to parquetage in
the sitting-room. For hall or public building, a combination of different-
coloured woods in geometric device is effective. Where the cost is no
bar, parquetage or encaustic tiles should take the place of our ugly, ill-
joined public floors, and poor private substitutes for ornamental air-tight
floors, when carpet is not used.
Marquetrie, in furniture-inlaid tables, &c.-has also gained ground.
24
RECENT DECORATIVE ART.
For surface-ornamentation nothing can compete with it, as to richness and
harmony of effect, and durability: the ornament an integral part of the
substance the most coherent and secure decoration of any.
In book-binding, the costly works of the middle ages, on which so much
precious art and material, gold, ivory, jewels, were lavished, mark the
prevailing devotion to art; and times, when books were the rare, prized
possession of the prince and the religious body. Of the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries, examples are more akin to our own: leather largely
employed, decorated with geometric and arabesque patterns. After dwindl-
ing to insignificance, rude simplicity, book-covers have lately advanced.
In some directions, much activity exists. Cheap literature has drawn to
itself cheap design for the external book, whether silk, cloth, paper-boards
-quasi bindings unknown to the continent, where paper takes their place.
This employment of designer by publisher affords scope for obtaining a
good design, and its due influence on the public, through the extent of
its application. Some degree of decoration is now generally adopted.
Ornamental covers are used where plain roan was twenty years ago.
There is room for farther development, both of its amount and quality.
The variation among publishers is great in attention to the matter.
In leathern bindings, our technical excellences of finish are considerable.
Ordinary second and third-class bindings have little design, properly so
called: mechanical repetition of stock receipts, disjointed patches of orna-
ment at angles and corners. In the higher-class, where original design
is called in, we have, as in cloth covers, plenty of eclecticism and repro-
duction. Modified fragments of ideas from the arabesques of the Alhambra
form an especially favourite stop-gap of a style. Adaptations from nature
—foliage, &c.—there are also. The designs of Owen Jones deservedly stand
high for originality and effective development of natural material.
In this selecter class of leathern bindings, and in the temporary book-
covers, design of much merit occurs, in some measure original, though
frequent meretriciousness and wiry unmeaningness. Even in the better
designs we often find the pattern broken up-a concatenation, rather than
a blending, of parts. The management of the lettering is a constant
stumblingblock. There are three requisites in book decoration—lines
intrinsically harmonious, general unity, appropriateness.
Some ambitious attempts have been made in wood. The effect is blotchy
and confused. A relieved surface is not here the most in keeping.
Smoothness and flatness form the desirable attribute of a book we handle.
A design purely decorative, not aiming to be a work of art on its own
account, independently of that whereof it is the garment, is essential.
In imitation of the sumptuous medieval works, use of ivory, velvet,
enamel, and other costly adjuncts, the Parisian houses assert dazzling
claims, decorative and executive. This must be considered an exceptional
class. Those in which the English excel are those germane to present
literature, and the more important, in their wide diffusion and influence.
Paper-hangings form a decorative manufacture among the most important,
through its extensive use. Like most now developed on the largest scale,
it is substantially characteristic of our own time. Its first beginnings are
unknown. Before the seventeenth century, it was of small importance.
It gradually displaced the more costly tapestry of the rich; later, assumed
25
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
the part of covering the bare walls of the poorer classes. Before the end
of the eighteenth century, the English manufacturers took an important
position, for material and design. The story of recent French superiority
is well known. In the main qualities of material, the English are equal
to their rivals; in cheapness, superior. In design and finish, the French
have the confessed advantage, to a degree paralleled in few other instances.
The ability in drawing, the harmonious gradation of tints, their tasteful
selection, are points in their best papers, felt by all. It is not in design
the greatest English shortcoming lies, but in artistic execution. That
want of art-workmen every branch of English manufacture has to lament
makes the difficulty hard to overcome. French drawing, colour, and finish,
as much depend for their effect on the possession of such, as of well-trained
designers, versed in the requirements of the manufacture.
The
Efforts at superior design have been made in England, and good things
realised. But French designers are employed, or French design copied, to a
pitiable extent. In the costlier works, there is no English competition; it
is all direct importation. Of cheap English papers, forced upon the public
by their cheapness, the design of the majority is bad indeed, vulgar,
unmeaning. It is the misfortune of this, as other manufactures, that design,
the most important, from its diffusion, is least attended to. Tolerable art
has to travel downwards, and by very slow degrees. The manufacturers
manufacture, as some painters and musicians paint and compose, down to
their customers, under the delusion these will not accept better.
fact is, they do not buy better, because it is not to be had-not within
their reach. It is vain to talk of educating the taste of the people in
decorative art, while the articles of their familiar use are, in design, a
quarter of a century behind those produced for the richer classes. The
appreciation of excellence, while needing culture in all, and exercise, is
far more common to the many, than bad painters and low-class manu-
facturers would have it. Seldom is a good thing-not too recondite-set
before them without some recognition. And the people are, in their unso-
phisticatedness of taste, often proof against those splendid errors, apt to
dazzle the wealthy, always worshippers of the 'rich,' and the sumptuous
outlay; as we see in the more costly goods of all kinds-carpets, porcelain,
paper-hangings.
Some consideration of the elements of decoration would be advantageous
in the choice of papers: the necessity of consulting the aspect of the
room-warm colours for cold aspects, and vice versâ; its size-smallness
of pattern for small rooms; purpose, &c. As in the selection of other
upholsteries, and of dress, a few guiding ideas would do more in pre-
venting sins against decorative propriety than all the promptings of a
capricious 'taste.' It is a rudimentary principle in art, in whatever appli-
cation, that mere imitation is the veriest perversion of it, and as unsuccess-
ful in its deception, as ungenuine in itself. This the majority of people will
not see, obvious though it be. The first condition to any true effect is,
that the attempt be acknowledged; a painting purposing to be a represen-
tation of nature, not nature itself; a paper-hanging purposing to be a
paper-hanging, not an oak wainscot. Yet a popular class of cheap papers
are the make-believes of solid substance-stone and wood. They are the
descendants of a much more pretentious race, in vogue years ago, set much
26
RECENT DECORATIVE ART.
store by at the time, which succeeding generations have seen fit to banish-
imitative presentments of sculpture and architecture.
The prevailing styles in paper-hangings are, the direct employment of
the natural material common to all decorative art-foliage and flowers;
and geometric patterns, small or elaborate. In the latter, we have copyism
of the Elizabethan, Renaissance, and Louis Quatorze. Among recent
English papers of real excellence, good in principle, harmonised in colour,
are well-distributed diapers; also skilfully arranged, more intricate, geo-
metric patterns.
Of the former class may be instanced Mr Pugin's
designs, brought out by Mr Crace, the eminent decorator.
Mr Crace's name suggests domestic decoration-a branch of art in which
this gentleman is in London acknowledged leader. In Edinburgh, Mr
Hay has a high reputation for practical knowledge of decorative design,
and elaborate, but dogmatic, investigations into the theory of art.
The refinement to which decoration has been carried in the houses of the
wealthy; in panel-painting, and other ornamentation of wall and ceiling;
on a consistent plan, subservient to a general effect; assisted by wood-
carving equally subordinated, and attention to co-operating adjuncts, is a
salient feature in recent decorative art. In public buildings, a corres-
ponding development has, in contradiction to the practice of all time
preceding, and of modern Germany and France, been mostly ignored,
agreeably with that indifference and pusillanimous parsimony as to art,
characteristic of our government. And thus the efficient means of
cultivating popular taste and decorative skill has been lost. Any exten-
sive body, therefore, of competent, native, working-decorators is not to be
expected. The demands of private individuals have been met by a few
decorators, like Mr Crace, who have devoted time and study to their
pursuit, and assembled or educated a staff of executive assistants, of
more or less skill and taste. Correlatively with generally increasing
wealth and pretension, the title of 'decorator' has been more and more
assumed, in conjunction with the occupation of 'paper-hanger,' 'plumber
and glazier,' &c. The class is a heterogeneous one. Decorators of a
high kind are rare. Some of the self-styled professors cannot but discredit
the calling, and by questionable taste diffuse the influence of bad instead
of good art. A tasteful paper-hanging, let those of average means
remember, is a far more genuine thing than a bald panel-decoration,
tamely drawn, weakly coloured, still more than a vulgar sham. If not of
really the best order, such assumptions are mechanical and offensive. The
prevalence of imitative work, among all decorators, is an ill feature; as
again is that of impure styles-the Elizabethan, Louis Quatorze. De-
finite principles little prevail anywhere. The fundamental error is the
dominion of styles, instead of a style; of eclecticism, for independent
thought and feeling. In the present state of architecture, little better
perhaps can be expected.
Decorative art separates in application, like architecture, to which it
ministers, into two branches: the public-civil and ecclesiastic; and do-
mestic. The manufactures gone through have been viewed in the latter
relation, that being in our day immeasurably the more prominent. Prin-
ciples are alike in both-specifically modified by the varying manifes-
tation. In old times, the public application, especially in its ecclesiastic
27
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPle.
section, contested in productive importance, with the domestic; surpassed it
in artistic, and in costliness. In the medieval church, it included the purely
decorative aspects of painting-ornamentation of plain surface, in mono-
chrome, or single colour; in polychrome, or many; of sculpture-ornamen-
tation in relief of stone and wood; stained glass; tesselated pavements;
embroidered vestments for priests, studied in form and ornament; hang-
ings; wrought iron and brass; works in gold and silver; enamelling, niello,
&c. After long abandonment or perversion, revival of these developments
has accompanied that of Gothic architecture-the distinguishing feature
of current art. The High Church party in England has lent itself with
fervour to the movement. Mr Pugin among the Catholics has led the
way in design. A decorator like Mr Crace includes Gothic among his
'styles,' and finds it a favoured one. Reproductions of the Gothic patterns
of wood-carving, encaustic tiles, embroidery, metal work, of the forms of
church vessels; all, more or less correct in letter, have resulted. In stained
glass there has been least relative success; in technic attainments of hue
and aesthetic aspects-harmony of colour, unity of design, all comprised
under the old spirit and feeling. Decoration in the special sense, orna-
mentation of surfaces, in colour, with a strictly decorative end, of general
consistency of effect throughout an interior, has been little studied. In
it there is small likelihood of approximation to the beautiful medieval
models. The remnants of such decoration are few and slight; we, removed
from the feeling which dictated them. At the head of reproducers of
Gothic manufacture, Messrs Hardman and Price of Birmingham, assisted
by the able and fertile design of Mr Pugin, execute works in the metals,
in hangings, stained glass, faithful to the old technic and æsthetic cha-
racteristics, and of exceeding beauty. The interior of the new Houses
of Parliament, intrusted to the last-named master of Gothic precedent,
offers the example on a large scale, in a civil building, of reproduction of
Gothic decorative art, in most of its manifestations.
Thus we have completed the round, the endeavour to set before our
readers the main existing relations of the decorative to the useful arts; the
amount of aid æsthetic skill lends, the degree of fidelity with which it repre-
sents, contemporary manufacture. In contradistinction from the poetry of
ancient decorative art-the result of faithful study-we have seen the
prose, sometimes inanity, of modern. We have seen the consequence
of the æsthetic losses of the last few centuries, and of the new and
peculiar conditions of modern life; for adequately meeting which those
losses have disabled us. We have seen the absence of a definite organic
system of design, like the Grecian or mediæval—one spirit pervading all
phases such as insures a consistent development of the artistic re-
sources of a people or time. In place of its order, and simplicity, and real
freedom, have been noticeable mixed conflicting reproductions, of nature:
flowers, foliage, animals; of antique material-cupids, nymphs, allegories;
of lines Gothic and lines classic; of this 'style' and that-Elizabethan,
Italian, Moresque. We have seen the total absence of design, properly
so called, from many branches of English production; the weakness
flowing from lack of artistic education; the literal copyisms of estab-
lished manufactures; the surviving prevalence of Louis Quatorze and
Quinze. Imitative ornamentation on 'sound authorities' is the only
28
RECENT DECORATIVE ART.
advance yet dreamed by practical men; as a substitute for the same, at
haphazard.
The difficulties of working out de novo, an artistic system, are great.
From two sources we may look for hope. Perhaps it has dawned. Among
recent successes, there is wide distinction between those merely revivals,
as some just noticed-encaustic tiles, &c.; and those necessarily inde-
pendent, but unguided—as dress-patterns. By reproduction of a good style,
much may be done; in popular familiarisation of forms executed on true
principles, and education therein of designer and artificer. In manufac-
tures, on the contrary, peculiar to our time, by exclusive study of their
technic conditions genuine character is attainable. In designing for
mechanical modes of reproduction-printing on textile fabrics and on
pottery, casting in iron, restrictions are happily laid on the designer. It is
indispensable to consider the capability of the process whereby the final
effect will be realised. Perforce, more reality is the indirect consequence,
than were there license for fanciful vagaries' all out of his own head.'
In all provinces, independent of architecture, comparative facilities
exist for future realisation of a consistent style of our own, through
legitimately confining all attempt to expression of the uses and character
of the article and material decorated. It has been seen throughout
the truth of a design depends on its specific application to material-
whether wood, iron, bronze, the precious metals, fictile substance, or textile;
and on the particular purpose, whether for the person, wall, floor. The
design effective in one material, consistent with one purpose, will not be
in others. Another postulate of true design all along referred to is the
imitation of nature within conventional boundaries, varying with the
application, and its special limits. Illustration of the principle occurs
in the question of adherence to natural local colour. In a painting pur-
posing to represent nature, this must be given as there occurring. But
in an isolated feature, leaf or flower, adapted to the pattern of a dress or
paper-hanging, when the natural colour consistently involves other impos-
sible requirements of fidelity, or trenches upon deception instead of sugges-
tion, it is inadmissible. The French school, and a rising English body—
including Bell the sculptor, and some recent disciples of ornamental design,
who have done the best things-have an undue naturalistic tendency: a
mistake apt to those not conversant with the laws affecting this particular
province. The 'naturalistic' and 'conventionalistic' schools have from
time immemorial been at feud. Their several truths are easily reconcil-
able. The solution lies in the equitable adjustment of the claims of nature
and art.
Meanwhile there is from this very school hope; of development of
unborrowed reality, from nature direct. To such end, one tendency must
be discarded-that to excess of ornament, decorative overloading of the
utility: another phase of the naturalistic, inartistic bias, this unmodified
transference of natural detail. Simplicity is as essential to right decoration
as to utility. In our efforts at the ornamental, would we have success,
simplicity, utility, fitness, must be primary considerations; also, in general,
compatibility of art with reasonable cost. That is NO decorative design
which is divorced from utility; and one little to the purpose, if beyond
the ordinary buyer. But whether the article be cheap or costly, simple
29
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
or elaborate, let designer, manufacturer, public, recognise the eternal fitness
of consistent union of utility and beauty: the one blending in the other;
beauty not interfering with, but growing out of utility. Let harmony of
form be fetched from nature by cultured sight; the lines of surface-
ornament be duly studied, graceful, in keeping, suggestive: harmony and
grace, opposed to forms and combinations merely fanciful and unmeaning,
because certain in their nature, and to be spontaneously recognised by the
educated, the æsthetically thoughtful, mind and sense.
We have yet a few words to say on two important topics affecting the
fortunes of industrial art-Schools of Design, and copyright. That recourse
to French designers, that inadequacy among our own, existing previously
to Schools of Design, exist still. Time has been wanting for these to
tell directly on the general body. Indirect good has been done by the
attention their existence has assisted to extend; and some direct good
of course, among the rising generation. The grave question is, whether
it might not have been more with the £100,000 expended? The course
of the head school-the others necessarily share its fortunes-has been a
series of experiments and of blunders: the natural sequel of official
management and British inexperience. After the English system, we
had numerous unpaid, consequently indifferent, irresponsible governors,
governors little conversant with the theory or practice of ornamental
design, presiding over artists, also tyros in the study. Naturally enough,
ensued conflicts between the rulers; resignations, changes of administra-
tion, more frequent than in the political world itself; alternating systems
of tuition, vacillation, the absence of any dominant efficient direction.
Matters are tending to a better position. The management is for the
while tacitly left to the masters-an arrangement still admitting of im-
provement.
All along they have been too merely drawing-schools: the student
taught to draw, and left to shift for himself as to the specialty of orna-
mental design; left, in his dealings with manufacturers, to make essays
practically beside the mark; to unlearn and learn by stern experience.
There is no systematic teaching in that fundamental relation of design, its
practical application. The superior applicability of French textile designs
results from training exactly the reverse. The reality of a decoration
is bound up with its specific purpose. Its merit can be determined in no
other aspect. As for tuition in the art of composing, rather than copying,
that is a step beyond present attempts at decorative art, within the
school or without. The need of general education among many prac-
tising design is a misfortune due to our national sin of educational neglect.
There are other essentials besides culture of the professed designer: that
of the public and manufacturer. Public, manufacturer, designer, operative,
act mutually on one another. Perhaps the public must ever lead the
way with the demand for good things. Thus its education is the
most important. Exhibitions of manufacture form the efficient means.
Just as familiarity with the works of nature enables us to discriminate
natural objects, so do these supply the material for comparison and pro-
gressive judgment. One paramount benefit of the Exhibition of 1851
will be the large scale on which it will give this education; the correction
it will enforce of crude notions, false judgments, preconceptions. People
30
RECENT DECORATIVE ART.
will be enabled to see what productions are relatively best; as also to
what quarters they are indigenous. The fact is as often at variance as
consonant with current notions: the popular fallacy of every nation being
a vague, wondering preference for foreign manufacture. The next in pos-
session of that powerful lever, demand, is the manufacturer. When once
aroused by the public, it has been well said, in his 'intelligence, taste,
and tact,' rest the sure means of educing good design. Improvement,
urgently required, 'tis reported, of the taste and knowledge of the inter-
mediate body, playing so important a part in some trades, especially those
in textile fabrics-the 'buyers' for commercial houses, falls under the same
category.
The importance, for the sake of manufacture itself, of securing for a
design some compensation, however trifling, by determining a property in
it; of removing from it, as from the writer's thought, the attributes of wild
game, property for all, has been of late years recognised, in extenso, by
the legislature. The sing-song dogma, indeed, about private wrong and
public benefit is not effaced from that very grasping entity-the 'public
mind.' Though we may not pick a man's pocket, we may justifiably his
brains, it seems. This reasonableness of public robbery, when the results
of mental labour are in question, is a kind of popular instinct. Applying
to a book, still more unquestioningly may it to the design of a cotton-
gown or damask tablecloth. The inability to conceive property attaching
in these directions is, we suspect, the mere consequence of its not having
been conventionally made to attach. If positive law had not secured our
neighbour tranquil possession of his field, as descendant or transferee of its
first occupier-the discoverer of its capabilities, just as an original designer
is first occupier of a certain idea, or development of lines-the popular
assumption would have been precisely the same as to it. In ornamental
design, recognition of the right is impeded by the naturally prevailing
affinities, the closeness with which one combination of lines trenches on
another. In this very analogousness exists full scope for variety, for
every new invention. A thousand patterns developed from the same
motive—a flower, or what not, may each have a distinct character. Here
is the escape from ill consequences in vesting any of these in one indi-
vidual. At the same time, under a healthful popular taste, disguised copies
would be of no avail. In the alterations necessary to disguise, the har-
mony of the original conception is lost. Vain multiplication of diversity
of patterns would be prevented by the same cause. The essentially good,
the best, are necessarily the few. To these the public would confine
itself.
The expediency, if not the justice, of granting the manufacturer and
designer a portion of their own, has been recognised. But, as in litera-
ture, the instalment is a progressive one, having begun at the lowest point.
For periods of one, two, three years, copyright is granted, if claimed, at
a cost to the designer-a deduction from the small sum his design gains.
The bill under which the matter is regulated is confessedly full of
anomalies; consisting of arbitrary and vexatious restrictions of the pro-
perty, according to no one discoverable plan or principle: to three years,
if the design be applied to one material; eleven months, if to another,
requiring no less protection, it may be more. Hence, often, no real protec-
31
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
tion is afforded. There is hope of a revision of the law: extension and
equalisation of the periods. For the sake of public morality, of design,
of manufacture, the amendment is desirable. Piracy, while it annihilates
design, can never in the long-run help, do other than cripple manufac-
ture itself. Neither will be on a sound footing, till all possibility be
removed, of indulgence in this noxious, enfeebling vice-the basest form
of that base subterfuge, copyism, the make-believe of a healthful original
activity.
The importance of design in its application to manufacture is scarcely
to be overrated: as a branch of popular education in feeling for art, as
supplying the contentment of such feeling, when awakened. It is a de-
velopment of art, the most comprehensive and various in itself, the widest
in its diffusion and influence. Neither are the interests of that large por-
tion of the people employed in manufacturing production less intimately
bound up with the question of the decorative phase of it, the more or less
reality and thought there brought to bear. The value in every department
of human labour, of the exertion of thought, is inestimable to the producer
himself, and all concerned in the production, as to the public. It elevates
the tenor of his work, enlarges the range of his work-day experience. In
decorative art, the scope of thought for the artificer lies in the imparting
an aim, a meaning, and appropriate expression, to the decoration, harmo-
nising material utility with nature. To those whom he addresses, is sup-
plied familiar, indirect, mental appeal, and mental contentment: appeal
and contentment, grounded on utilities, superadded to satisfaction of neces-
sities. Thence is extracted, nature-wise, a finer use. The result, when
decorative art is in a healthy state, truly fulfilling its function, is, as of all
art-the enlargement of life; of the range of familiar sympathies, and
delights, and thoughts, the rendering daily life to some extent fuller and
fairer to all producing, all enjoying such art.
ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.
I can be little dispute
IN
no
N the case of a purely modern science, like geology or statistics, there
can be little dispute and no mystery about its origin and progress. It
is analogous to the United States of America. Its history lies, first and last,
under the eye of present daylight: hour after hour recorded by the press,
that chronometer of recent ages. Such sciences as astrology and alchemy,
on the other hand, ran their courses in the twilight of time, having taken
rise in the starlit night of history. Resembling the nations of antiquity
in these respects, they resemble them also in tracing their origin to giants,
prophets, superhuman heroes, or demigods. This fabulous character of the
early annals of those dark-age mysteries-for they were schemes of esoteric
dogma rather than explicit fabrics of knowledge-is the first thing that
attracts the attention of the historical student of alchemy.
(
The very etymology of the word is lost in hopeless obscurity. Scaliger
says he saw a work in the king of France's library, written in Greek, by
Zozimus the Panapolite, in the fifth century; and Olaus Borrichius seems
to intimate that he also had read it, although it is in a somewhat ambiguous
passage that the hint occurs. They represent it as a faithful description
of the sacred and divine art of making gold and silver.' Borrichius gives
what professes to be an extract from it, in which the writer first refers to
a fact which he had managed to deduce from the Scriptures, Hermes Tris-
megistus, and many other sources-namely, that there is a tribe of genii
possessed of an unhappy propensity to fall in love with women.
ancient and divine Scriptures inform us,' he gravely assures the worthy
Olaus, the learned Scaliger, and others his readers, 'that the angels, capti-
vated by women, taught them all the operations of nature. Offence being
taken at this, they remained out of heaven because they had taught man-
kind all manner of evil, and things which could not be advantageous to
their souls. The Scriptures inform us that the giants sprang from these
embraces. Chema is the first of the traditions respecting these arts. The
book itself is called Chema; hence the art is called Chemia.'
The
Even supposing for a moment that the preamble of this singular account
is true, and that the 'Sons of God' did impart many a primitive secret to
the 'daughters of men,' it is not easy to perceive how a tradition could
also be a book; and there would remain for explanation the name of the
book itself. Plutarch, however, asserts that Egypt was sometimes called
Chemia, and Panapolis was an Egyptian city. It was, moreover, another
No. 66.
1
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
of the favourite opinions among the Arabian as well as the earlier Euro-
pean alchemists (an opinion entertained by Albertus Magnus amongst
others) that Hermes Trismegistus was the father of their science. That
august personage is represented as having flourished two thousand years
before the appearance of Christ. According to Kriegsmann, Avicenna
and other Arabian polypharmists believed that Sarah took a table made
of zatadi, supposed to have been emeralds, from the hands of Hermes,
entombed in a cave near Hebron. On this table were inscribed the dogmas
of the master concerning his chemical secrets, in thirteen mysterious sen-
tences. In the twelfth of these enunciations, he informs the discerning
public that on him 'was imposed the name of Hermes Trismegistus, because
he was the ordained doctor of three parts of the wisdom of the world.'
Now, although the very name of this supposed interpreter, not to speak of
still more obvious internal evidences, is quite sufficient to prove the purely
mythical character of the whole story, the existence of this tradition among
both the eastern and the western adepts, seems to render it not unlikely
that the etymology of the word is connected with Egypt. Borrichius's own
private opinion is clearly to the effect, that the hermetic art descended from
Tubal-Cain or Vulcan; but he allows that there is much to be said in
favour of Trismegistus, who has been supposed by some to have been
Chanaan, the son of Ham, whose son Mizraim first occupied Egypt.
It has to be mentioned, in fact, that the word Thoth, the Egyptian name
for Hermes Trismegistus, means a pillar, according to Josephus and
Manetho; in which, it seems, they are corroborated by Jablonski. The
truth of the matter appears to be, that pillars were early used by the
Egyptians for the same purposes as parchment and paper have been
employed by the literary men of more modern nations. These pillars were
their books and standard body of literature. It further appears that there
were three successive Thoths or schemes of inscription; that is to say,
three dispensations or epochs of pillared literature. The first set are said
to have reached down to the time of the Flood; the second contained all
that was discovered or thought during the infancy of the scientific know-
ledge of these ancient people; and the third was the embodiment or pub-
lication of the full-grown science of Egypt. Hence the whole system of
pillars was readily impersonated under the mythical appellation of Hermes
Trismegistus, the thrice-great interpreter, as the name implies. It is,
accordingly, easy to understand how that illustrious and encyclopædical
author was subsequently represented as having composed thirty thousand
volumes! It must be confessed that all this looks very satisfactory, not
only as explaining the traditionary story of Trismegistus, but also as con-
firmatory of the historic hint that the word chemistry is of Egyptian
origin, as has already been shewn to be not unlikely.
On the other hand, it has been customary among more recent critics
than these mediæval speculators to make the root of alchemy a Greek
word. It has been supposed to be derived from xuμn, which signifies juice
or menstruum; and to refer to the acids, leys, and other solvents in use
among chemists and alchemists. This was the favourite etymology among
the very latest of the European adepts; and it gave rise to the spelling of
the word with y—alchymy. Boerhaave contended that it was drawn from
the Greek verb meaning to fuse or melt, xew; and ever since the inculca-
2
ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.
tion of this etymology, both alchemy and chemistry have been written as
they are printed here, in deference to established custom. Webster resists
this derivation; spells them alchimy and chimistry; and remarks upon the
noticeable circumstance, that the southern nations of Europe have never
yielded to the Teutonic innovation.
It is unfortunate for these specimens of Græco-mania, that neither the
word chemia (xua), nor any etymon connected with the notion of alchemy
or chemistry, occurs in any Greek author before Suidas, who is said to
have produced his lexicon in the eleventh century, under the Emperor
Alexander Comnenus. That lexicographer explains chemia to be the con-
version of silver and gold; and is of opinion that the art of doing so was
known to the Egyptians in the time of Dioclesian, who is said to have
burned all the manuscripts in Egypt, in order to put an end to the pursuit.
Suidas also suggests, under another head (Agas, a skin), that the invalu-
able fleece, which Jason and his Argonauts carried off from Colchis along
with Medea, was nothing less than a treatise on gold-making written on
hides. This is of course a piece of private and personal ingenuity on the
part of Suidas; and, as such, it is not unlike another esoteric doctrine
which some one has fetched us from the East, to the effect that the 'Ara-
bian Nights' is a symbolic setting forth of alchemy! In fine, there seems
to be not the shadow of a reason for surmising that the ancient Greeks
ever dreamed of the matter. They had neither the name nor the thing.
In whatever way this significant question concerning the origin of the
substantive root of the word be eventually settled, there can be no dispute
about the prefix. The unquestionably Arabic character of that particle,
indeed, appears to indicate the fact that Al-chemy, as such, had its his-
torical, though, probably enough, not its traditional origin in Arabia.
Johannes Chrysippus Fanianus, or an author under that somewhat too
significant name (for there is no department of literature so overcrowded
with spurious productions as that of the Spagyric art), is careful to insist
that the polypharmists meant more than is apparent in denominating the
doctrine of transmutation the chemia. According to him, they recognised
a difference between all common chemical operations and the 'great pro-
jection.' Such operations belonged to the domain of vulgar chemistry,
but transmutation was represented as being dependent on more secret and
interior principles. It was the chemistry of chemistries, or Alchemy.
1
There has been implied in these observations on the derivation of alchemy
a certain degree of discussion of the origin of the science itself. It is need-
less to inquire into the tradition, for example, which traces it to Moses,
whose empirical knowledge of metallic reactions must have been not only
considerable, but almost beyond that of the present day, if the Hebrew
word be correctly translated in the account of Aaron's golden calf, given
in the book of Exodus. It is said that the Jewish leader and legislator
burned the idol, strewed the ashes of it upon the waters, and imbittered
the drink of his impatient host. Now it has been remarked that, in order
to produce such effects upon gold, he must have been, at least practically,
acquainted with the properties of the sulphur salts-a class of compounds
which have been discovered by the modern experimentalist only in very
recent times. It is impossible, however, to come to anything like a satis-
factory conclusion on such a point, after men like Spinoza and Fabre
3
CHAMBERS's PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
d'Olivet have united, with the rabbinical school of these ages, in assert-
ing that the Old Testament is far from being properly rendered, even
in the Septuagint, in a multitude of particulars. It is, indeed, almost
universally allowed, even amongst the most bibliolatrous of Protestant
interpreters, that the glory of our version resides in its conveyance of the
spirit of the Sacred Writings, and not in its literal fidelity concerning every
petty detail. There can be no manner of doubt, for instance, that the word
translated mitre ought to have been expressed by natron-that is, soda, or,
more strictly speaking, the carbonate of soda. Hence Solomon illustrates
one of his sharpest proverbs by the action of 'vinegar upon nitre,' referring
to the violent commotion and effervescence which ensues on the mingling
of natron and that acid; the principle, in fact, upon which the effervescing
draughts of the modern apothecary are prepared. It is not altogether
improbable, therefore, that the gold of Aaron and his rebellious brethren.
may have been a kind of brass or pinchbeck, with a large proportion of
gold-a supposition which would render its calcination quite intelligible,
without assigning anything like remarkable chemical information to the
indignant prophet. Howsoever all this may really be, moreover, it is not
to be overlooked that the practical acquaintance with even very compli-
cated processes of this sort does by no means implicate a scientific know-
ledge or rationale of chemistry. The arts of baking and of brewing, for
instance, are dependent on very complicated and recondite principles of
action and reaction; yet it is generally understood that they were found
out by 'rule of thumb,' and not discovered by induction.
Accordingly, one is prepared to find a positive and methodical chemist
like Dumas setting all those antique claims imperiously aside; putting
that of Maria the Jewess, a kind of mythological Joan of Arc in this
fantastical region of fabulous history, among the rest. We can no
longer,' says that eloquent philosopher, 'place the cradle of chemistry
exclusively even in the laboratory of the ancient pharmacopolists, to
whom some are willing to attribute its discovery. The services we
have done raise us quite high enough to enable us to remember, and that
without embarrassment, our obscure parentage. Let us confess at once,
then, without going round about it, that practical chemistry took its rise
in the workshops of the smith, the potter, or the glass-blower, and in
the shop of the perfumer; and let us just agree that the first elements
of scientific chemistry date no farther back than yesterday.'
Although this judgment seems to be very sensible and very natural,
as coming from so great an ornament of the present school of chemistry,
neither the one nor the other of the terms of which it is composed can
stand the scrutiny of a stricter dialectics. In the first place, practical
chemistry is not practical chemistry until it has first been theoretical or
doctrinal chemistry. The moment an inventor bethought himself of using
some chemical discovery or other for the purposes of economical art, the
idea of practical chemistry was conceived. The origin of practical che-
mistry must therefore have been posterior to, or, at the earliest, coincident
with, that of theoretical chemistry, be the date of the latter what it may.
If, however, this criticism appear to be nothing better than a verbal or
logical refinement, there is another consideration which is as unobjection-
able as it is obvious. Accepting any less precise definition of practical
4
ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.
chemistry than has just been given, why stop at the workshops of civilised,
or even of semi-civilised life, in tracing it to its rise? Why not ascend
at once to Adam and his primeval family? If practical chemistry consist
in the performance of operations which are essentially chemical in their
nature, then the first man who kindled a fire, roasted an ox, or seethed a
kid, was the father of all such as deal in that manifold art. These obser-
vations are certainly very unimportant, but so is the question which they
concern; and they are offered for no other purpose than to prepare for
the serious discussion of Dumas's second opinion about the history of
chemistry. He asks us to grant that the first elements of scientific
chemistry date no farther back than yesterday. It is the common opinion
among the chemists of to-day. They are for the most part so dazzled by
the really brilliant results of very modern chemistry, and so blind to the
possibility of any of its first principles being only temporary and remote
approximations to the truth, as to be incapable of tracing the theory of
chemistry any farther back than the memorable days of Lavoisier, in the
light of whose thought they still rejoice and work. Without caring to
protest against this amiable idol-worship of the immortal Lavoisier, we
deny that doctrinal or scientific chemistry is the contemporary of either
the printing-press or any other modern instrument, whether of thought or
of handiwork.
The Lavoisierian chemistry was only one of the epochs of the life of the
science. But there were epochal developments before that of Lavoisier, just
as the Daltonian era has come after it. Each of these movements had not
only its grand and abiding truth to bring forward, but also some important
and deciduous error to leave behind it, as might easily be shewn to have
been the case with the French chemistry itself. In one word, alchemy
(to say nothing of the post-alchemical doctrine of Phlogiston at present)
had its genuine scientific function to perform, and its distinct scientific
value in the history of chemistry. A true history of the science, in fact,
would exhibit one continuous stream of truth mingled with error, from the
origin of alchemy down to the latest discoveries and views. In the mean-
time, we shall unfold the story of the early progress of chemistry, with the
aid of the competent authorities: and in doing so, we shall find a sufficient
deliverance of all that is necessary, in the present connection, concerning
the alchemists; and concerning their relation to science in general, as well
as to chemistry in particular. It is desirable, however, to take a preli-
minary glance at the ideas of classical Greece respecting the theory of
nature, for it will be found that those ideas have had not a little to do not
only with alchemy in all its stages of evolution, but also with the chemistry
of Dalton and the future.
Nor will the reader grudge the time and the labour of thought bestowed on
such distant topics, when he finds that the consideration of them is fraught
with lessons of importance. He will learn that man never labours in vain
when he is sincere, devout, and industrious in his endeavours, as the alche-
mists will be discovered to have been. He will perceive to his delight, more-
over, that there is no such thing as revolution in the progress of science,
but only the large and solemn growth of a living creature. Nor will it be
difficult to extend such precious verities from this, their private and parti-
cular sphere, into the grander domain of universal history.
5
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
It was Thales of Miletus, the father of Greek philosophy, who metho-
dically originated the conception that water is the first principle of things.
He inculcated the scientific dogma that water is the one substantial or
underlying essence, of which the rest of nature is but the manifold expres-
sion. Water was represented in his system as the sole and primeval
matter, convertible and actually converted, by some plastic power, into
the thousand-and-one familiar creatures in the universe: now into this
one, and now into that; now into wood, and now into stone; now into the
grass of the fields, and now into the body of man himself! Nor does this
doctrine appear to be fantastical, as has been remarked by Ritter, when one
reflects how rocks and salts can be extracted by mere boiling and evapora-
tion not only out of the sea, but also from the most insipid of lakes and
streams, and even from rain. It is not yet beyond the memory of man,
that Lavoisier was careful to distil water backwards and forwards in an
alembic, for many long days and nights together, in order to settle the
question whether water were actually convertible into earthy matter, as had
been asserted and believed by his immediate predecessors. Scheele, one of
his most distinguished contemporaries, instituted another sort of experiment
upon water, with a view to the determination of the very same point.
It is not fifty years since Davy conducted his celebrated experiments on
the electrolysis of water by means of the galvanic current, with very much
the same object in view. It is, accordingly, easy to perceive that the
ceaseless circulation of the liquid element from the ocean into the air, and
through the air again to the earth in dews and mists and rains, only to
run once more from springs and streams and lakes and rivers down to
the ocean whence it rose, must have impressed the youthful science
of ancient and imaginative times with the supreme importance of water in
the economy of creation. But this contemplation of nature as one vast
alembic, for the revolution of that beautiful and lifelike creature, was not
the only motive to its exaltation as the best and first of things in the mind
of Thales. The marvellous effects of moisture in its varying forms of river,
rain, and dew, in covering the hills, the valleys, and the plains with ver-
dure, during the flushing spring of Asia Minor and the Archipelago, to say
nothing of the indispensable necessity of water not only to vegetation,
but also to animal vitality itself, must have gone deeper still into the
thoughts of those venerable seers who were first visited by the inquisitive
spirit of wonder.
Willing to forget the moon and all sublunary science, we have stood
beside the sea a whole year round, and abandoned ourselves to its first
impressions in the spirit of antique faith and awe. It moved forever
at our feet, now driving us before it, and then drawing us after it, its
everlasting voices in our ear. One day it murmured about our steps,
kissing the brown earth, and kissing it again, never weary of kissing the
softened beach; another, it was testy as a great wayward child, and chid
the world the livelong day; on a third, it was as angry as a brawling
woman, and chafed along the shore; another time it panted and heaved
and lashed, like a hundred orators arousing the nations with their ire.
Anon it swelled and roared, like an assailing host or an infuriated people;
and again it thundered responsive to the heavens, flashing back flash for
flash, reflecting an infernal blackness upon the chaos of the falling sky.
6
ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.
Its variety of expressions were as many as the days of the year, and far
more; but always it was moved from its very inmost, and always it moved
to the impulse that stirred it, whatever that might be. It never lay still;
it could not be at rest; it could not get away from itself. In vain it threw
up spray and vapour and clouds; they returned to its unresting bosom
through unerring channels. They went and they came as surely as it ebbed
and flowed. They and it were always one; and all nature was penetrated
by the unity. Wherever it touched, living things sprang into being:
plants, animals, and man; only to be resolved again into the mighty
organism of the waters when their lives were done. The ocean, reaching
down to Hades, and stretching beyond the clouds, was the very blood of
nature-'the blood which is the life.' Blind to sun, moon, and stars, insen-
sible to the firm earth on which we stood, and deaf to the solicitation of the
air and all its winds, we were lost in the contemplation of what seemed
more alive than they; and then we understood how the first-born of the
Wise Men of old pronounced the great deep to be at once the womb and
the grave, the beginning and the end, of all created things !
Nor is it difficult to comprehend how Anaximenes, one of the earliest of
the successors of Thales in what has been called the physiological school
of Greek philosophy, should modify the doctrine of his predecessor, and
assign the foremost place in the theory of nature to air. The ingenious
reader will easily place himself in this new point of view, with the help of
that imaginative sympathy which has just been extended to the earlier
tenet. It is to be particularly noticed, however, that air was not the
same kind of thing to those primitive doctrinaries as it is to us. Thales
and Anaximenes, in fact, did not fix their eye upon the actual ocean and
atmosphere, so much as upon an abstract conception which they had
formed for themselves of the interior essence of these elements. It must
not be forgotten, that in the childhood of human thought, as in the child-
hood of the human individual, there is no unmistakable distinction yet
drawn between the world of sensation and the world of consciousness.
The external world is still little more than a wondrous procession of per-
ceptions, thought as sensation not being yet differentiated in the mind
from thought as knowledge. The universe is still a passing scheme of
shows and shifting modes of the perceiving spirit. Thales and Anaximenes
beheld the green tree, the blue sea, the brown earth; and not, like Bacon
and Locke, not merely a tree (or a somewhat) so propertied as to produce
the image of a green tree in the mind, through means of the laws of light
and the retina of the eye; not merely an earth (or another somewhat)
which optics and physiology make into a brown earth; not merely a sea
uniting with the eye to produce a blue sea between them; and so forth.
In one word, those sagacious children of thought, the ancestors of Plato
and Aristotle, were natural idealists: they were born idealists, not know-
ing that they were so; for they had never reached the point of scientific
scepticism even for a moment.
Hence Anaximenes is represented as discoursing concerning air as the
equivalent of intelligence or soul. It was his god-one, eternal, and
unchangeable in essence; so that he stood at no great distance from that
ancient and public spirit of poetry which fashioned the languages of man-
kind. The grand difference, indeed, between Orpheus and Hesiod on the
7
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
one hand, and the first teachers of philosophy on the other, consists in the
circumstance, that the latter had developed for themselves and for all
succeeding ages the idea of methodical investigation; a fact which con-
stitutes them the fathers of science, notwithstanding that their specific
doctrines are now of little use. The conception of one aboriginal source of
all visible things, common to the schemes of Anaximenes and Thales, is a
scientific statement of the poetic myth which pictures Proteus as the soli-
tary and god-begotten shepherd, eternally driving innumerable herds and
flocks of all kinds of creatures before him. It is remarkable, in connection
with the Thalesian form of this idea, that all those subordinate deities
which regulate the affairs of nature are figured, in the orphic theogony, as
the children of Oceanus and Thetis: Oceanus the monarch of the sea, and
Thetis the ocean-bride; Oceanus the male energy of essential water, and
Thetis the female; Oceanus the positive, and Thetis the negative forces,
which constitute the visible unity of that omnipresent radical moisture,
from whose exhaustless bosom all other things proceed. It is impossible
for the imagination of 1851 not to descry the subtle thread of thought
which seems to associate this venerable pair, Oceanus and his Thetis,
with the oxygen and hydrogen of our own chemistry; especially when it is
remembered that chemists so thoroughly accomplished as Davy and Prout
have seen nothing repugnant to the genius of modern research in the con-
jecture that oxygen and hydrogen, the married coefficients of water, may
prove to be the original elements of the whole world!
It may be mentioned, in passing, that in all the cosmogonical myths of
the Greek mind there flickers the idea of polarity, the law of the
inevitable dualism of things, the fact of the universal chemistry of nature :
two in one, active and passive, positive and negative, male and female, and
the unity of such mutually-conditioned pairs in this single creature and in
that. We say the universal chemistry of nature; for it is the essential
aim of chemistry to discover two constituents in every one thing: sul-
phuric acid and soda in the wonderful salt of Glauber; sulphur and oxygen
in sulphuric acid; sodium and oxygen in soda :—and what pairs in sodium,
oxygen, and sulphur? Nor is it necessary, in the present connection, to do
more than state the fact, that this very idea of the bipolar unity of all
sensible phenomena, generalised to the utmost, is at once the deepest and.
the widest of the grand principles fairly established by the genius and
industry of recent science.
Diogenes Laertius asserts that the illustrious doctrine of the Four
Elements, with the unspent echo of which we have all been familiar since.
the Christmas-games of childhood, was first promulgated by Pythagoras;
one of those gigantic spirits of antiquity whose personality history can
scarcely catch a steady glimpse of, but whose shadow lies large and long
upon the world of old. If this report be true, it were probable that the
Quaternion was filched from Egypt; and that might be the ground of the
tenacious conviction of the alchemists, that their mystery descended from
that land of wonders and the Nile. It seems, however, to have been
Empedocles who not only gained the dogma a footing in the world, but
also elaborated it into a consistent hypothesis of nature. Empedocles, a
man of condition, a legislator, a theologue and a poet, belonged, as a
philosopher, to the second movement of Grecian science, Thales and his
8
ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.
schoolmen had attempted to solve the nature of the universe, including
under that significant epithet the all-embracing unity which results from
the three worlds of sensation, consciousness and conscience turned into
one; a comprehensive definition implied in the very word itself. They
approached and contemplated that universe as one and divine: they
aspired to the solution of absolute being. Heraclitus, Anaxagoras, Empe-
docles and Democritus, on the other hand, were content to fly a lower pitch.
They investigated the theory of nature, properly so called; and also, like
Descartes and Bacon, the origin and methodology of science. If we had to
discuss the great discoveries of Dalton and his compeers in chemistry,
we should have occasion to adduce the atomic theory of Anaxagoras and
Democritus; but at present it is only the doctrine of the Four Elements
that falls in our way.
That famous dogma may be considered from two several points of view.
It may be taken as a concrete proposition, or as an abstract one.
It may
be studied as a particular or as a general tenet. It has indeed been pre-
sented under both these aspects, since the days of its origin down to the
period of its adoption by Oken, a contemporary of our own. Viewed as
a particular proposition, the theory of Empedocles was simply this :-
A handful of wood, or of any other ordinary combustible, is kindled and
burned upon the surface of some cool body: the experimentalist observes
that, while it burns, there rises smoke or air; the smoke is followed by
flame or fire; moisture or water is deposited on the settle, or any other
cold substance in the way; and ash or earth remains. The wood has
been resolved into its coefficients, factors, or elements; and these are
four-fire, air, earth, and water. But the burning of some wood had never
been a scientific experiment before. It was not a chemical experiment;
and from the very nature of the subject it could not become so, until such
time as it was intentionally observed with a view to the determination
of the composition of wood. A thunderbolt was not an electrical expe-
riment until Franklin conceived of it as such, and varied it at will. An
initiative idea must always accompany, if not precede, some natural
phenomenon, in order to render that phenomenon an experiment or scien-
tific observation. The intention, the observation, and the conclusion of
Empedocles concerning the world-old process of combustion, then, con-
stitute the first methodical or consciously scientific reflection ever made
upon a chemical transformation. It is therefore nothing less than the
long-sought origin of chemical science! For what is a science? It is
the body of methodical or consciously scientific reflection on the observed
phenomena of any one department of nature. Is it necessary to the nature
of a science that it be all true, and that it contain no admixture of error?
By no means: else chemistry was no science during the reign of Phlogiston;
optics no science during the predominance of the materialistic theory of
light; the Lavoisierian chemistry no science as long as oxygen was taken
for the principle of acidity; ay, and the chemistry of to-day might very
easily be proved to be no science any more than the rest. We have put
our finger on the very fountain-head of all succeeding chemistries at last.
The Greek mind, however, could never hold exclusively by the concrete.
It did not delight in details: it hastened to generalise: it loved particular
nature indeed, but it never rested until it had glorified the particulars of
No. 66.
9
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
nature into types of the universal. Hence their sculpture, their drama,
their philosophy; and hence their want of a self-fulfilling science of nature
like ours. Fire, air, earth, and water were not only chronicled as the
constituents of wood or common combustibles, as they would have been
had it been possible for Empedocles to have sat at the feet of either Roger
or Francis Bacon. The four elements were at once canonised as the
sufficient and indispensable components of the whole of nature. There
was, accordingly, an end of chemistry proper among the Greeks at once
and for ever.
The first step nobly taken, they never took another. On
the contrary, they soon refined upon the elements they had discovered.
Demetrius of Abelæa fell back upon the Thalesian notion, that there is
necessarily only one true and primitive substance; and he represented the
four elements of Empedocles as its visible representatives. Plato seems
to have followed Demetrius in this conception to a certain extent, com-
plicating it with speculations concerning the shapes of fire-atoms, air-atoms,
and so forth; and maintaining, on the strength of apparent observation,
that fire, air, and water are transmutable into one another, but not earth.
There therefore remained only two permanent elements in the Platonic
scheme. One of these was the common principle of fire, air and water,
mobile, penetrating and quickening; the other, the earthy principle of
things, was fixed, penetrable, and capable of being vivified. Plato, in fact,
reduced the analysis of Empedocles to a shadowy doctrine of dualism.
Aristotle, on the other hand, rejected the Platonic tenets concerning both
ideas and matter, as well as the numerical idealism of Pythagoras. He
held by the Demetrian idea of one underlying substance as the ground of
all natural phenomena. He believed in the one radical matter of the
universe, and argued that the four so-called elements are not such in
reality, seeing they can be converted into one another. What subtle-
ties and mysticism men are sometimes led into when they leave the
path of observation! But every nation has its function. It was that of
Greece, in so far as knowledge is concerned, to furnish the rest of time
with nothing more than clews to the arcana of nature. But it was still
more emphatically the mission of the Greeks, as philosophers, to discover
those laws of investigation according to which alone such threads could be
followed into the labyrinths of creation with advantage. The great result
of all their centuries of striving was accordingly the invention of the
inductive method by Aristotle; that mighty organon which, almost redis-
covered, and certainly restated in a more practicable form by Bacon, has
made us what we now undoubtedly are-the entering heirs of nature and
all her inexhaustible wealth.
Such is the doctrine of the four elements. It has been domesticated
with literature for more than two thousand years: it has been sung in
the poetry of every land: it has been attacked, overthrown, and proscribed
by modern science; yet it has actually been revived in our own days as
the basis of the philosophy of nature! There is only one thing more to
be said of it, considered as a particular proposition. That primitive
analysis of wood by Empedocles, viewed as a chemical experiment, was
actually a good one so far as it went. Wood is in reality composed of
fire, air, earth, and water. They are its proximate constituents in a
Only modern analysis has gone farther still it has divided
manner.
10
ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.
the phenomenon of fire into the phenomena of heat and light: it has
found smoke to contain carbon, oxygen and hydrogen, not to be too
minute it has resolved water into oxygen and hydrogen. The ash or
earth has been decomposed into several other substances by its more
relentless methods.
The four elements, however, were also regarded in a more abstract and
classific light in the Grecian schools, as has already been observed and
slightly exemplified. Each of them was a type; each of them stood for a
vast class of things. Air represented gasiformity; water, liquidity; earth,
solidity; and fire, the imponderable forces of nature. Fire, air, water, and
earth were frequently used as the philosophical symbols of what we now
denominate the imponderables-gases, liquids, and solids respectively.
They became abstract terms, and were constantly losing their chemical or
particular significance in the besetting tendency of the Hellenic mind to
excessive abstraction. It is scarcely necessary to add that, in this abstract
phraseology, three of the four elements are at length demonstrated to be
actually convertible into one another. When a solid body is heated, it
swells and swells until it falls down liquid. On the elevation of its tempe-
rature, the liquid swells in the same way, and is finally converted into a
steam, dry gas, or air. The atmosphere we breathe is the steam of a liquid
or water, which boils at an incredibly low heat; and that liquid is a melted
solid. There is a temperature at which gold itself would be changed into
a thin dry air, fit for the breath of some imaginable creature. The
experiments of Faraday and Thilorier on the liquefaction and solidification
of the gases warrant such conclusions. The relationship of those three
generic forms of matter, in truth, is now understood to be unexceptionable
and sure; and the consideration of it casts not a little light on the prattle
of Plato and Aristotle about the mutual convertibility of the elements.
Nor will this twofold meaning of the doctrine of Empedocles be without its
importance in the elaboration of a just conception of alchemy and the
alchemists, as will soon be seen. In the meantime, we cannot proceed to
that department of the subject in hand without quoting the opinion of
Professor Necker of Berlin, as translated by Dr Babington for the Syden-
ham Society. 'No medieval author,' says he, 'omits an opportunity of
representing conjunctions of the planets as among the general prognostics of
great plagues; nor can we, for our parts, regard the astrology of the middle
ages as a mere offspring of imposition. It has not only, in common with
all ideas which inspire and guide mankind, a high historical importance,
entirely independent of its truth or error; but there are also contained in
it, as in alchemy, grand thoughts of antiquity which modern natural philo-
sophy is so little ashamed of, that she claims them as her property.'
A good deal has already been said about the substantive root of the word
alchemy, and it has thereby been made apparent how little that is certain
can be said about the matter. It seems that we must be content to accept
it at the hand of one or other of the veiled figures of antiquity, of whom
we can see and say nothing. The reader has likewise glanced into the
structure of certain doctrines concerning the theory of nature entertained
by the Greeks. It has been found that Empedocles's canon of the four
elements must be considered as the veritable origin of the science of
chemistry, although the science was not known under any such name till
11
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
many hundred years after the days of that early speculator. Chemistry,
in fact, did not advance among the Greeks beyond its illustrious first
experiment, and the broad but unwarrantable generalisation that was
erected on it; a thing quite intelligible, when viewed in connection with
the intellectual proclivities of the national mind. There was a more
urgent task before them than the working out of particular sciences;
namely, the discovery and the exposition of the science of sciences--the
science of method. Before they could invent sciences, they had to invent
an intellectual organ, or conscious instrumentation, according to the laws
of which the sciences were to be invented. Before discovering chemistry,
they had to discover the art of discovering chemistry, to use a strong
expression. Their progress in positive knowledge was accordingly small
in extent, and great only in depth; while the successive schools, with or
without a very distinct consciousness of what they were accomplishing,
lavished all the energies of the most wonderful national intellect the world
ever saw on the excogitation of the principles of discovery, the methodo-
logy of science, and the laws of thought. The consummation of the whole
movement has been represented as having transpired in the person and the
works of Aristotle; that is to say, its consummation in so far as the inte-
rests of physical, and indeed all positive science, were concerned. It would
be more catholic to say, the intellectual career of those schools found its apo-
theosis in Plato and Aristotle, viewed as the opposite terms of one result, and
actually embodied as one, with some degree of development in Socrates their
predecessor. Philosophy is the true Janus and keeper of peace. It has an
eye for the earth, and an eye for the heavens: an eye for the sensuous,
and all that arises from it by intellectual transformation and exaltation; and
an eye for the ideal, and all that descends therefrom upon the daily life
of man: an eye for nature, and an eye for God. Aristotle was the per-
fection of the one, Plato of the other, of those philosophic functions; and the
union of these master-spirits in the person of one sage would make a com-
plete philosopher, in so far as methodology could render him complete.
Were such an imaginary and perhaps impossible being as complete in mere
panoply as Pallas when fresh from the brain of Jove, however, he would
have to live and labour for ever and ever ere he should become a completed
philosopher in the larger sense of the phrase; for the sphere of objective
truth is as unbounded as the empyrean. That is to say, there is only one
complete philosopher-even the Spirit of Omniscience, of whom Plato has
said it is perhaps better not to name Him, in case we should degrade his
idea. As it is, Plato was the greater philosopher, for philosophy is pri-
marily conversant with ideas; and Aristotle was the greater man of science,
for science has its dealings with the concrete in the first instance. To use
a chemical figure of speech, less appropriate than in character, philosophy
and the Platos of the world are occupied with the process of distillation by
descent, while science and the Aristotles are engaged with that of subli-
mation. At the same time, Aristotle could not escape the habit of mind
which distinguished his countrymen--namely, an overweening tendency
towards excessive abstraction; and he philosophised upon science more
than he invented sciences, amazing though the amount of his information
and knowledge undoubtedly was. That is one of the reasons why the
methodology of Aristotle, essentially practicable although it was, was so
12
ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.
unproductive in the hands of his disciples. The methodology of science.
did nothing but degenerate after its great development in the philosophy
of Aristotle, and that more especially in the department of physics. We
have seen that, in so far as a possible chemistry was concerned, the pro-
spect of anything like advancement was at once foreclosed by the vast
over-generalisation made by Empedocles and his critics upon the analysis
of common combustibles by fire. It was nearly the same in every other
direction, always excepting those purely mechanical subjects which were
susceptible of illustration by geometry. Unable to use the Organon
invented for the use of thinkers by Aristotle-namely, that inductive philo-
sophy which Lord Bacon has taught us the art of bringing to bear upon
the castellated secrets of nature-they were content to make it the object
of endless and unprofitable discussions. Unequal to the task of carrying
out the intellectual life of Aristotle into the amplitudes of an external and
a victorious development (as Locke, Newton, La Place and Lavoisier,
Herschel and Dalton, have carried out that of Bacon), they were reduced
to the alternative of setting him up as an infallible authority, the monarch
of their thoughts, and the idol of their hearts. Long, too, did he reign, in
spite of many an indignant protest by the masters in alchemy, as we shall
find, until the final overthrow of the scholastic philosophy by Descartes
and Bacon. Nor would the world have suffered greatly from this protracted
domination, if it had really been Aristotle that reigned. But it was not.
It was Aristotle misunderstood and perverted. It was an Aristotle scarcely
read, known only by transmission, and distorted by the vision of the
schools. It was not the sun of Aristotle that these scholastics beheld and
adored: it was only his zodiacal light. They did not study his great
principles of investigation: they merely adopted his opinions regarding a
host of special points; a thing which, done now-a-days to Bacon, would
reduce him as low as ever Aristotle was degraded by his mistaken fol-
lowers. The true Aristoteles, that best ending or greatest and last
representative of the most illustrious line of royal thinkers this world
has yet produced, remains intact. In reality, the methodologies of Aris-
totle and of Bacon are substantially the same. They are one method or
doctrine of knowledge stated in two several ways. The Greek stated the
inductive method subjectively; the Briton puts it objectively. The
Greek developed it from within outwards, like the growth of palms;
the Briton grows it from without inwards, like an oak. The Greek con-
structed the telescope, leaving it in the workshop of the mind where it was
put together; and no man was strong enough to move it from the tressles,
until the chancellor of Great Britain wheeled it to the air, and directed its
resistless eye upon the heavens.
One has simply to understand, then, in the present connection, that
during those centuries in which alchemy shall be found to have been work-
ing in the mind of Europe, the dogma of the four elements, the vague idea of
their mutual convertibility, and the supposition of some fifth element com-
mon to the four, or rather the very soul of all the four, were predominant
among the learned. This, indeed, is one of the undeniable origins of
alchemy; but there is another, for alchemy has two historical sources:
this one in old Europe, and another in Asia. The attention of the reader
must now be directed to the latter.
13
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
It was during the caliphates of the Abassides, and apparently under
their patronage, that the school of polypharmacy flourished in Arabia.
The earliest work connected with that movement which is now known in
Europe is the Summa Perfectionis, or 'Summit of Perfection,' composed
by Gebir. It is consequently the oldest veritable book on chemistry proper
in the world, although it dates no farther back than the eighth century.
Nor does the science derive much credit from this performance, when
judged from one point of view; for it contains so much of what sounds
very like jargon in our ears, that, according to Dr Johnson, the name
of its compiler has been transmuted into gibberish for the use of indig-
nant English tongues. Viewed under its legitimate aspect, however, it is
a wonderful thing. It is a kind of text-book, or collection of all that was
then and there known and believed for nobody knows how long back. It
appears that those Arabian polypharmists had long been engaged in firing
and boiling, dissolving and precipitating, subliming and coagulating, che-
mical substances. They worked with gold and mercury, arsenic and
sulphur, salts and acids. They had, in short, become familiar with a
goodly number of what we call chemicals in ordinary parlance; although
there is in reality no such thing as a chemical, for everything is one.
To these Arabians, however, chemistry was by no means a theory of all
nature, considered under the chemical point of view, as it is to us.
It was
only the theory of a laboratory full of curious, rare, and aristocratical
substances. Nor were they without their deep-reaching conjectures or
dogmas respecting these strange things. Gebir taught the principle that
there are three elemental chemicals-mercury, sulphur, and arsenic. The
penetrating and victorious qualities of these bodies fascinated his thoughts.
Even gold itself, which its weight, its beauty, and its incorruptibility by
the fire united to signalise as the most perfect of matters, is dissolved by
quicksilver almost as easily as sugar is dissolved in water. Brimstone
pierces iron like a spirit the moment they touch one another, if the metal
be white-hot from the furnace; and they run down together in a shower of
solid drops, a new and remarkable substance, possessed of properties
belonging neither to iron nor to sulphur.
But they had their alchemical theory as well as this chemical one.
They inculcated the proposition that all the metals are compound bodies.
This was a very natural opinion, and it prevailed during the whole of the
long subsequent reign of Phlogiston. It not only lasted, indeed, till the
time of Lavoisier, but neither Cavendish nor Priestley ever gave it fairly
up. The metals are for the most part extracted from what are called
calxes, on account of their resemblance to so many chalks of different
colours. These calxes, rusts, or earthy ores are endowed with neither the
weight nor the lustre of metals. They are as unlike iron, lead, or gold as
things could be. Yet it is easy to change them into metals: iron rust
into iron, lead calx into lead, and so forth. They are heated along with
carbonaceous materials in exclusion from the air, whereupon the respective
metals are melted out, and flow to the bottom of the apparatus. Thanks to
the Lavoisierian chemistry, we know the meaning of this operation. It is
the carbon that carries away oxygen from the ores, and leaves the metals
free; for those ores or rusts are composed of that oxygen and the metals
respectively. But at first sight, it must have looked as if the ores got
•
14
ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.
something in the furnace, instead of giving away anything: it must have
seemed that they took some principle from the furnace, and so became
metals. It required many a long and weary day's work, alas! to make it
even possible for Lavoisier to discover that it was exactly the reverse.
According to Gebir and his successors, however, the metals were not
only compound creatures, but they were also all composed of the same
two substances. Now both Prout and Davy have lent their names to
ideas not unlike this. 'The improvements,' says the latter, 'taking place
in the methods of examining bodies, are constantly changing the opinions
of chemists with respect to their nature; and there is no reason to suppose
Matter
that any real indestructible principle has yet been discovered.
may ultimately be found to be the same in essence, differing only in the
arrangement of its particles; or two or three simple substances may pro-
duce all the varieties of compound bodies.' Those ancient ideas, therefore,
of Demetrius the Greek physicist, and of Gebir the Arabian polypharmist,
are still hovering about the horizon of the most recent system of chemistry.
The Arabians taught, in the third place, that the metals are composed
of mercury and sulphur in different proportions. It was at one time a
favourite hypothesis of Davy's, that the metallic and other elements are
the compounds of hydrogen (a kind of gaseous mercury) with a yet
unknown base, in different proportions. He tugged hard at more than
one of the elements to prove it. The fact is, that both the polypharmists
and he are in error. Mercury and sulphur are just as much (and as little)
elementary bodies as silver and gold, lead or tin, copper or iron, on one
hand; and on the other, the hydrogen extracted from certain so-called
simple substances, by the British chemist, was only hydrogen mechanically
condensed within their pores, as he discovered in good time. The oldest
and the youngest schools of chemistry, then, are equally at fault in this
particular; and this brings us to the remark, that Gebir, Phazes, Avicenna,
Mesuè, Averröes, and their compeers, did no more bestow their principal
attention upon those speculations anent mercury and sulphur, than Davy
or Berzelius expended his labour on analogous hypotheses. They were,
in truth, genuine polypharmists; neither more nor less than is implied in
that business-like denomination. They toiled away at the art of making
many medicines out of the various mixtures and reactions of the few
chemicals at their command. They believed in transmutation, but they
did not strive to effect it. It belonged to their creed rather than to their
practice. They were simply a race of hard-working, scientific artizans,
with their pestles and mortars, their crucibles and furnaces, their alembics
and aludels, their vessels for infusion, for decoction, for cohobation, sub-
limation, fixation, lixiviation, filtration, coagulation, and botherations of
every sort. Many a new body they found; many a useful process they
invented; many a good thing they did. The chief and remarkable differ-
ence between these excellent doctors and the young men at work in the
officinum of a reputable chemist and druggist consisted, perhaps, in the
circumstance, that they had a kind of scientific religion over their sweating
heads. They believed in transmutation, in the first matter, and in the
correspondence of the metals with the planets, to say nothing of potable
gold; whereas their modern counterparts see through every species of
humbug-carbon and silicon, homoeopathy, et hoc genus omne!
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
Whence the Arabians derived the sublimer articles of their scientific
faith, is not known to any European historian. Perhaps they were the
conjectures of their ancestors according to the flesh. Perhaps they had
them from the Fatimites of Northern Africa, among whose local prede-
cessors it has been seen that it is just possible the doctrine of the four
elements and their mutual convertibility may have arisen. Perhaps they
drew them from Greece; modifying and adapting them to their own
specific forms of matter, mercury, sulphur, and arsenic. But be those high
dogmas the direct produce of Arabian thought, or be they a cross between
Greek ideas and Arabian facts (an opinion to which we incline), there
they are; and they must now be traced into European alchemy.
Partly carried by the Moors by way of Africa, and partly borne by the
currents of returning Crusaders, this Arabian chemistry was brought to
Europe; and it speedily became inextricably entangled with the fantastic
subtleties of the scholastic philosophy. It was in Spain that it found its
earliest opportunities of this new and not uncongenial development. It
flourished there, in an unprogressive way, under the patronage of the
Ommiades; but not until the tenth century. It spread from Spain to
England, Germany, France, and Italy successively, from the eleventh to
the sixteenth centuries inclusive. It is interesting to learn that the earliest
authentic works of European alchemy now extant are those of our won-
derful countryman Roger Bacon; or, as the name imports, Roger Beacon,
a word which is pronounced Bacon in some districts of England yet. In
fact, he is the foremost man in all the school; the first in substantial know-
ledge, and the greatest in faculty. He was born in the county of Somerset,
in the year 1214, and he lived seventy years. Having studied at Oxford
and Paris, he became a Franciscan friar. Little is now known about his
outward life and conversation. The people suspected, dreaded, and slan-
dered him. He was accused of having fabricated a brazen head, according
to the rules of the occult philosophy and judicial astrology, which uttered
oracles to him when consulted by magical incantation; he was imprisoned
more than once; and at last he was poisoned by his monastic brethren. A
man of vigorous and erected intellect, he saw far before his age. In a book
concerning 'The Wonderful Power of Art,' he condemns magic, necro-
mancy, the doctrine of charms, and all such things. Acquainted with the
Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and Arabic tongues, he exhausted all the real phy-
sical knowledge of the day. So passionate an instinct had he for what
positive in science, that, in the department of nature, he actually claimed
an equal rank for observation with reason; a claim which was advanced
again, and achieved, nearly 400 years after, by his more illustrious but not
more sagacious namesake, Francis Bacon, the liberator of the sciences.
To say nothing of his philosophical ideas and his other information, in
chemistry he was acquainted with gunpowder. In giving the récipé for its
preparation, however, he expresses charcoal by a word of his own-luruvo-
povircanutriet; either with the view of hindering so perilous a substance
from being made by the vulgar, or for the purpose of slurring over his own
ignorance of the ingredient in question. In fact, gunpowder seems to have
been known to the Chinese before the Christian era. Bacon asserts that
the thunder, lightning and magic, witnessed by the Macedonians at Oxy-
16
'ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.
drakes, when besieged by Alexander, were nothing but the fulminations of
that mixture. It was not introduced into Spain by the Moors, however,
until 1343; and it is therefore probable that the friar derived his incomplete
acquaintance with it from his Oriental readings. He believed in the con-
vertibility of the inferior metals into gold; but, like his Eastern teachers,
He was
he does not profess to have ever effected the conversion.
eminently practical in the tendencies of his mind, although he retained
some of those speculative views, which we have seen to be deficient neither
in sublimity nor in a species of truth. His faith in the elixir of life was
somewhat deeper rooted than his confidence in gold-making. He followed
Gebir in regarding potable gold-that is, gold dissolved in nitro-hydro-
chloric acid or aqua-regia-as nothing less than that terrestrial hypocrene.
Urging it on the attention of Pope Nicholas IV., he informs his holiness of
an old man who found some yellow liquor (the solution of gold is yellow)
in a golden phial, when ploughing one day in Sicily. Supposing it to be
dew, he drank it off. He was thereupon transformed into a hale, robust,
and highly-accomplished youth. Having abandoned his day-labouring, he
was received into the service of the Sicilian king, and served the court
some eighty years. The philosopher, it is to be presumed, must assuredly
have taken many a dose of this golden water himself, and, if the Gray Friars
had not made away with him, he might therefore have been alive at this
moment, as stout a positivist as Monsieur Conte! At all events, it is
curious to think that Descartes, the father of psychology, regarded by
many as the inventor of the inductive philosophy, and the rival of Bacon
the Second, should have been as credulous as Bacon the First about long
life. Descartes also believed he had attained to the art of living a few
hundred years, and so did some of his friends. When he died before
reaching the climacteric of sixty, nothing would convince one of his most
intimate associates that he had not been poisoned! In truth, we should
never look at the little particular beliefs and notions of great spirits in the
history of science, but to their great ideas; otherwise we shall run the risk
of despising men so exalted in character as to remain for ever incapable of
despising us. But, some thoroughgoing Baconian will perhaps observe, it is
important to take notice of the ridiculous opinions to which their wrong
method was able to conduct such men. Well, one might reply, be just, and
apply the same scrutiny to the second Bacon and ourselves: for the day
will soon enough be here when posterity will smile at the Baconians of the
eighteenth century, who brought themselves to think of the Bible, for
example, as nothing more than an organon of priest craft; at the positivists
of the nineteenth, who discovered that thought, emotion, passion, and will
are but the imponderable products of chemical or other physical actions in the
brain; at the physicists of to-day, who have entertained such images of the
materialising fancy as the matter of light, caloric, electric fluids, and what
not! Perhaps the time is not distant when young children will wonder at not
a few things, belonging to the truth of ingenuous observation, which we are
yet slow to receive; for credulity of temper is even more strikingly exem-
plified in bigoted unbelief of the credible, than in too great a facility of
conviction. In fine, there is probably as much nonsense believed, and as
much truth rejected, in these our own times, as at any other period. But
it must never be forgotten, that there has also been accomplished a vast
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
increase of real and positive knowledge in the progress of these centuries;
that increase being quite as much owing to Roger Bacon and his compeers
as to us; for their part of the task was a far harder one to perform than
ours. There is indeed no room for national or epochal vanity in the study
of the history of science: there is rather occasion for humility and emula-
tion; for those old men worked with grand ideals and small means, upon
an obdurate and an unbroken soil; while we stand on fields which they
have ploughed, armed with an elaborate instrumentation, and too often
guided by ideals which savour more of the shop than of the universe.
The next great name in the authentic history of alchemy is a German
one. Albrecht Groot, or Albertus Magnus, was born at Bollstadt of Suabia
in 1193, some twenty-one years before Roger Bacon; and he died two years
before him; but he was rather later than the friar as an author. Remark-
able for his early appearance of stupidity, he studied medicine at Padua, and
taught it at Cologne and Paris. He then travelled all Germany as provin-
cial to the fraternity of Dominicans, and sojourned at Rome some time in
all the odour of renown. He was finally appointed to the bishopric of
Ratisbon. A theologian, a physician, an astronomer, a magician, a necro-
mancer, and not a little of the man of the world, he addressed himself with
particular emphasis to the study of the polypharmacy of the times, and
wrote many works on that and other cognate subjects. He describes the
chemical waterbath, the alembec, the aludel, and various lutes; and shews
himself acquainted with alum, caustic alkali, the purification of the royal
metals by means of lead, and the purging of gold by cementation, to say
nothing of his knowing how to determine the purity of gold. Red lead,
arsenic, and liver of sulphur, are among the chemicals on which he multi-
plied experiments. His style of exposition is generally plain and intelli-
gible. In addition to the sulphur-and-mercury theory of the metals, drawn
from Gebir, he regarded the element water as still nearer to the soul of
nature than either of these bodies. He appears, indeed, to have thought
it the radical source of all things, along with Thales, the father of Greek
speculation. Like all the true masters, however, he was more of a work-
man than a visionary.
Thomas Aquinas, the Dominican, was a pupil of Albrecht's. A divine
and a scholar, that canonized personage wrote several obscure treatises of
alchemy. He is chiefly notable here, however, as having first employed
the word amalgam. Quicksilver penetrates tin, lead, silver, and some
other metals; opens them up, and makes a homogeneous paste or liquid
with them. Aquinas denominated the resulting compound in such cases
an amalgam, little weeting how much his good word should be abused in
the days of English railways.
Raymond Lully is said to have been a pupil of Friar Bacon's. He was
born at Majorca in 1235. Ilis father was seneschal to James I. of Arragon.
He entered the army very early in life, whence he soon passed to court.
Being yet young, and having subsequently studied at Paris, he became
not only a doctor, but likewise a member of the order of Minorites; and
he persuaded King James to found a cloister of his ecclesiastical brethren
in Majorca. He journeyed through Italy, Germany, England; visiting
kings' courts and rich abbeys, for the purpose of rousing Europe to one
grand missionary effort for the salvation of the heathen. It is said that he
18
ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.
was never a whole year in one place, from his youth upwards. He visited
Cyprus, Armenia, and Palestine in the character of an impassioned preacher
of Christianity. According to one account, he was stoned to death on the
coast of Africa in the course of a scrmon; but according to another, he
died at home in 1315, at eighty years of age, having sunk into fatuity
before that event; and he was buried in his native isle. Notwithstanding
of this impassioned and erratic career, he dabbled industriously among
the chemicals of the time; and produced more than sixteen chemical
works. They are much disfigured by unintelligible jargon, and present a
powerful contrast to Roger and Albrecht in respect of vigour and common-
sense. Yet he was the first to introduce the use of chemical symbols, his
system consisting of a scheme of arbitrary hieroglyphs. Nor are his books
deficient in observation. They contain many observations on the distilla-
tion of cream of tartar; the deliquescence of the alkalis; the separation of
an aqua-fortis from saltpetre by means of the oil of vitriol; the preparation
of aqua-regia by mixing nitric acid with sal-ammoniac or common salt; the
volatile alcali; alum; marcasite of some sort; white and red mercurial preci-
pitates; and other things. He made much of the spirit of wine, imposing
on it the name of aqua vita ardens, which it retains to the present time in
some quarters. In his enthusiasm he pronounced it the very elixir of life,
an opinion which is still a favourite among our countrymen in the north.
In a word, he was a restless, intelligent, inventive, and somewhat fanatical
busybody in the affairs of the church, of science, and of life: an ardent
and generous spirit withal; probably not unlike our own Priestley, and
not without a great degree of utility in his day and generation.
Arnaldus de Villa Nova was not a churchman like his predecessors.
On the contrary, he was condemned as a heretic, but the pope protected
him from the extreme penalty; as the pope of his day would have con-
sented to protect Galileo, if the impetuous Tuscan would only have suffered
himself to be advised. Born in Provence, somewhere about 1240, and
educated under the famous John Casamilla at Barcelona, he had to fly to
Paris through Italy for forecasting the deathday of Peter of Arragon. He
afterwards taught in the university of Montpelier, and was consulted far
and wide by kings and popes. Guided by the rules of judicial astrology,
he discovered that the world was to have been blown up in 1335; a dis-
covery which is surpassed by soothsayers of another species, almost every
month of every year, in these more illuminated days of ours. Unable,
however, to await the fulfilment of the horoscope he had drawn out for the
Mighty Mother, he died in 1313, on his way to visit Clement V., who was
lying sick at Avignon. He wrote twenty-one works; of which the 'Rosa-
rium,' a compend of alchemy, is the most curious, if not instructive. The
theory of the author is very plain, but his practical directions are far
from lucid now. Mercury is an element of all the metals. Gold and
gold-water are the most precious of medicines. Bismuth is called marcasite.
The preparation of the essential oil of turpentine, the oil of rosemary, the
spirit of rosemary, long known as Hungary-water, and many other gentle
distillations, are all to be traced to this heretical experimentalist.
A couple of Dutchmen are the next to figure in this alchemical calendar—
Isaacus Hollandus, and either his brother or his son. These Hollanders
belong to the thirteenth century, later in the day than Arnaldus, whom
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
they quote with reverence. Their treatises are remarkable for clearness
and precision. They were the first to give figures of apparatus, a thing
which renders them memorable in the history of physics. Writing mostly
in Latin, they sometimes used the German tongue, being probably the
earliest vernacular authors in European science-another claim to dis-
tinguished remembrance. With all their plain dealing and plain speaking,
however, they cannot be said to have advanced chemistry otherwise than
as honest, sagacious, and penetrating compilers. It is curious that your
clear, cautious, ultra-sensible men do so very little that is new and great.
It would appear that vigorous impulses, and a certain poetical extravagance
of character, are quite as characteristic of the Keplers, the Hunters, the
Herschels, and the Davys of science, as even that cardinal faculty of the
soul, that first and last of the intellectual virtues, common-sense itself.
These qualities were combined in an excellent proportion in the person
of Basil Valentine, one of the most celebrated of all the alchemists. Born
at Erfurd, a Saxon town, in 1394, he became a Benedictine monk. He
bestowed the larger part of his attention upon the preparation of chemical
medicines. It was he who introduced antimony into medical use; the 'anti-
monk metal,' the name assigned it, one might surmise without uncharity,
after some wicked experiments on the stomachs of his monastic brethren.
He made a vast deal of that curious metal. All he writes about it is as
clear as glass, and quite abreast of our knowledge in the present century,
so far as it goes. He makes no mistakes so long as he treats the chemis-
try of the subject. The Currus Triumphalis Antimonii,' or 'Triumphal
Chariot of Antimony,' were almost a model of positive observation, if it
were stripped of its chemico-medical speculations. Drawing a beautiful
but fallacious analogy between gold-making and the restoration of health,
he maintains that antimony is the best for both! He followed the Hol-
landuses in regarding salt, sulphur, and mercury as the three bodies
contained in the metals. He inferred that the philosophers' stone, or
peristrophè, must be the same sort of combination—a compound, namely, of
mercury, sulphur, and salt; so pure that its projection on the baser metals
should be able to work them up into greater and greater purity, bringing
them at last to the state of silver and gold. But Basil Valentine, the
steady-eyed charioteer, knew something more substantial than these things.
He knew arsenic and its red sulphuret, zinc, bismuth, manganese ores,
nitrate of mercury, corrosive sublimate, red mercury, nearly all the anti-
monials in the pharmacopeias of 1851, litharge, sugar of lead, white lead,
and many things besides, under these or other names. He precipitated
iron from solution by potash. He was aware that tin sometimes contains
copper, and that Hungarian silver contains gold. He knew how to extract
gold from the red elixir by means of quicksilver, and he makes mention
of fulminating gold. In fine, he may be characterised as the founder
of analytical chemistry, that inevitable art which now leaves nothing
untouched; which is furnishing new wonders every year; which resolves the
food of nations into water and air, and suggests the possibility of air and
water being some day made into food; which is drawing nigh the very
threshold of vitality with fearless hands; and which is undoubtedly destined
to change the whole economy of the outward life of man.
Roger Bacon having thus set the example of enormous industry, and
20
ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.
6
6
great and
having exalted experiment to its legitimate rank in the logic of chemistry;
Albrecht Groot having supported the dignity of the science by the univer-
sality of his accomplishments and the elegance of his style; Arnauld having
applied the art of common distillation to chemical research; Raymond Lully
having summoned the attention of the adepts to the products of destructive
distillation; and Basil Valentine having opened up the science of metal-
lurgy and analysis, there came upon the field a gigantic creature more cele-
brated than them all: it was Paracelsus. As strong-headed as Bacon, as in-
ventive as Albrecht and Arnauld, as indomitable as Lully, and as mighty an
enthusiast as Basil Valentine, this remarkable man wanted the truthfulness
of character which animated all his predecessors; and he fell. He was born
near Zurich, at the beginning of the sixteenth century, his name being
Theophrastus Bombastes; and it is from that surname that the word
bombast is derived-so arrogant, so insulting, and withal so
swelling' were the words of vanity' he uttered, when little Theophrast
grew a famous revolutionist under the far-sounding title of Theophrastus
Aureolus Bombastes Paracelsus! His boyhood and youth appear to have
been engaging, though impassioned and ambitious. He began life as a
purist, having drunk nothing but water, and eaten little else than bread,
until he was appointed to the first professorship of chemistry at Bâle in
1527, the earliest chair of chemistry ever established. As a physician,
early famous like Simpson, he was amazingly successful and amazingly
presumptuous, having been as unlike the great Edinburgh doctor in every
other respect as he was like him in unresting enterprise. As a professor,
he was eloquent, learned, and insolent in the extreme. He burned the
books of many of the authorities before his hustling crowds of students;
poured his contempt upon both the Arabian shop-doctors and the scholastic
pedants; sounded anew the praises of Hippocrates; magnified his proper
self even more than the sagacious Greek; played all sorts of mad pranks;
surcharged his fascinated disciples with his overweening spirit; and kept
up such a storm in poor little Bâle, that the magistrates had to banish him
from his chair. After many alternations of fortune, and after having aban-
doned himself to debauchery, this 'erring and extravagant spirit,' this
man of extremes, this mighty agitator, actually died in an obscure tavern
at Salzburg, at forty-eight years of age. We may lament his ungracious
life and his miserable end; but there is no denying that he was a great
reformer; and he is certainly an important figure in the history of chemistry
and medicine. He descried the utter hollowness of the prevalent scholas-
ticism, as respected physical investigation, with an eye as clear as Francis
Bacon's. On the other hand, he looked with the contempt of a Carus or an
Oken on the bootless ploddings of the mere pharmaceutical chemists of the
day. He also perceived the value of the long-neglected descriptions and
practical rules of Hippocrates, with the sagacity almost of a Sydenham or
a Cullen. In truth, if he had been content to do these three things, and to
do them well, he might have become the father of modern science; but Old
Legion was in him, and he could not govern his noble intellect. Ambition,
vanity, the love of opposition and destruction, and all unkindliness would not
let him be. He would amaze as well as instruct the world forsooth! He
would put it under everlasting obligations to him, while he despised its
gratitude! Athirst for true glory in his earlier years, he early became the
21
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
He
victim of a lowlived hunger for power and reputation. The great positive
aim of his efforts was to pluck the panacea or elixir from the secret-
keeping heart of nature, and thereby shew how omnipotent he was.
did not succeed of course; but he was too proud to own his failure, and
so he talked 'an infinite deal of nothing.' What with private brawling,
public haranguing, and ceaseless publication, the student feels as if this
magnifico had only talked and talked, and died in ignominy. Yet he
was a vigorous thinker, and actually originated a practical movement in
our science, while he certainly brought mere alchemy to an end. Holding
by Basil Valentine's principles of mixts or elements of compound bodies,
salt, sulphur, and mercury (representing respectively earth, air, and water,
fire being already regarded as an imponderable), he generalised the pro-
perties of those four first principles of nature with great breadth. They
were purely representative in his system of doctrine, as their counterparts
had soon become in the systems of the Greeks. All kinds of matter were
reducible under one or other of those typical forms: everything was
either a salt, a sulphur, or a mercury; or, like the metals, it was a mixt.
There was one element, however, common to the four; a fifth element,
the quintessence of creation; an unknown and only true element, of which
the four generic principles were nothing but derivative forms or embodi-
ments. In other words, he inculcated the dogma that there is only one
real elementary matter-nobody knows what; a dogma like that of
Demetrius and Aristotle, which is metachemical rather than chemical, and
therefore of little or no practical importance. It gave his experimental pur-
suits a useful bias however. It set him upon the search after the essences
and quintessences of things. By a natural, but no less sophistical slip in
his logic, he considered alcohol as the quintessence of wines; and blue as
the quintessence of blue stuffs and stones! It was in this way, however,
that he set agoing that prosecution of the active principles of mixed or
complex medicaments, which has ended in the extraction of quinine, mor-
phia, veratria, thëine, and a multitude of valuable proximates. It was
Paracelsus, also, who began that tendency to mingle chemical considera-
tions with the physiology of the human body in health, with its pathology
in disease, and with the practice of the art of healing; a tendency which is
still far from being exhausted. The works of Dumas and Liebig, and of
the whole school which they represent, may be described as the very con-
summation of this iatro-chemistry, as it has been styled. It was likewise
our present hero who introduced the word alcahest into alchemy, the term
usually applied to the universal solvent; a word supposed by some to
mean alcali est, is it an alcali?—but sometimes said to be composed of the
two German vocables, alle geist, all spirit. It does not appear that
Bombastes was a seeker of this universal solvent himself; but the name
perhaps imports his idea that the one prime element of things, or fontal
matter, was also the veritable alcahest. High above his practice of physic,
his criticism of the predominant methods of inquiry, and his multifarious
manipulations, there seems to have flitted the sublime conception of an
unattained, perhaps an unattainable, quintessence or fifth element of
things, which should prove to be at once the philosophers' stone, the
universal medicine, and the irresistible solvent. In order to seize this
triple aureola of existence, and put it on his heavy-laden head, as a crown
22
ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.
of joy, he knew that it behoved him, at the very least, to lead the
natural life of a child in the intellectual life of a free man; but he paltered
with his idea of his mission, sank into infamy, and died unannealed. Yet
something that is charitable and thankful, and even affectionate, is surely
to be pronounced over the squalid public-house where so magnificent, so
outspoken, so effective, so celebrated, and withal so wretched a Protestant
fell asleep at last. But that is a task for the orator or the poet rather
than for the man of science; and the reader is therefore referred to
Browning's philosophical drama, entitled 'Paracelsus,' for the emotions
with which it becomes us to pronounce his motley but splendid name,
and to remember his stormy but beneficent career.
We have now considered the ideas of the Greek physiologists concern-
ing the world of matter, in so far as they are capable of being represented
as standing in connection with the history of early chemistry; having
omitted taking any notice of the atomic theory of Democritus, because
it has no relation to that history until the time of Dalton, our own con-
temporary. We have also glanced at the nature of Gebir and the Arabian
polypharmists, and seen as far into them as Sprengel and other authors
have enabled us to do. We have likewise spoken briefly about the series
of grand-masters. in that dim and somewhat free-masonic department of
scientific history, that of European alchemy, from that proto-martyr of
science in Christendom, Roger Bacon, down to Paracelsus, the magnificent
victim of his own presumption and the hatred of his age; and found them
to be for the most part a race of brawny inquisitors, inspired by ideas
great enough to enable them to live aside from the world, if not above it,
on one hand, and to do a good day's work for the world, on the other.
To take the ludicrous view of the character of these Arabian, English,
Spanish, German, French, and Dutch enthusiasts for a moment, it was of
such men that the fantastical Becher exclaimed-'De gustibus non dis-
putandum est-There is no disputing about tastes;' a proverb which
agrees with reason and experience. Some folks will have sweet food,
others like sour better, and a third prefers what is bitter. Some delight
in gaiety, some in sadness. Some love music, others have no pleasure
in it at all. But who would have thought that there is a taste to which
you must sacrifice honour, health, fortune, time, and even life? You
say that those who are addicted to it must be madmen. No! They are
only men of an eccentric, heteroclitic, heterogeneous, abnormal turn of
mind. They are chemists-
'Nasty, soaking, greasy fellows,
Knaves would brain you with their bellows;
Hapless, sapless, crusty sticks,
Blind as smoke can make the bricks !'
Chemists of lively parts and wide views, such as Joachim Becher was,
must sometimes make a pause in the toilsome career of their life in the
laboratory, and smile at the grim earnestness with which they hang over
their furnaces, batteries, mercurial troughs, Bohemian tubes, thermometers,
and balances, denying themselves the freedoms of nature, and many of the
dearer interests of other men. There are poets who wonder at the spec-
23
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
tacle of such keen spirits as Humphry Davy, for example, labouring with
might and main at the dry births of stone and iron, when they might well
be abroad among the strong and the beautiful, stirring the life of man in
its auguster depths. But a man must work where he is placed; and he
must also obey the hint of his peculiar talent, else he will never do the
most he can for the race and for himself. These are two of the great
rules of duty. There is little matter what a man finds to be his proper
task, so he rest not until he have won all it can teach him; so he relax
not until he have made the most of it for the world; so he relent not
before he has adorned it with his proper virtue, and ennobled it by his
proper genius. Truth is a globe like the world; and it is of small moment
where you begin to dig, for you will come as near the centre as another
if you dig deep enough. It is at the same time an important, though a
secondary duty of the industrious miner, to ascend every now and then
from his particular shaft, both to see what others are about, in case he
should become the egotist of a single pursuit, and to refresh himself with
the inexhaustible variety of nature and of life.
To return to the alchemists, who were wiser in this very respect than
their successors in these days of the extreme division of labour, the histo-
rian finds that soon after Paracelsus the adepts of Europe spontaneously
fell into two classes. One of these comprised a multitude of weak men,
who rode the hobby of the older school; and that very hobbihorsically
too, to quote a whimsical adverb of Sterne's for the purpose of charac-
terising a set of whimsical fellows. The other class was composed of men
of diligence and sense, who devoted themselves with infinite labour to the
discovery of new compounds and reactions. The two constituent elements
of the genuine alchemist, in fact, fell asunder after Paracelsus; and both
of them suffered from the separation. The fantastical element found a
host of foolish representatives, and the practical one incarnated itself in
a company of plain and painstaking men. The celebrated Van Helmont
was an alchemist of the first water in his youth, and a very practical
chemist in his old age. Nor can it have been an easy thing for such as
him to renounce the sublimities of alchemical ideal, and content themselves
with the practicable aims of common chemistry. Van Helmont had
actually convinced himself that not only gold-that sun-bright and almost
beatified body of the soul of matter-but everything else, consists essen-
tially of nothing but water, as had been told the ancients by Thales, the
eldest of the seven wise men of Greece. He had planted a sprig of willow
in a vesselful of such a soil as appeared incapable of yielding it any
nutriment; suspended the little willow and its pot in the air; fed it on pure
water; and yet the creature had grown apace, stretching forth its branches,
and covering itself with leaves! What was to be inferred from this
seemingly crucial experiment? Why, surely that wood, and bark, and
foliage, and acids, and salts, and earths, and all things do lie folded up
in some mysterious but not inscrutable manner within the elemental
substance of water. Alas, the experiment was fallacious! The experi-
mentalist did not know that the air around his expanding plant contains
both carbon and nitrogen; that water results from the union of oxygen
and hydrogen; and that these three gases, and that one solid body, are
in reality the essential constituents of the vegetable tissue. Van Helmont,
24
ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.
however, must on the whole be regarded as belonging distinctly to the
new school of practical chemists, and not to the post-paracelsian brother-
hoods of degenerated alchemy. It must be confessed, at the same time,
that the chief circumstance which lent any dignity to the pursuits of him
and his companions in arms, was the stupendous chaos of phenomena in
which they had to work. Libavius, Cassius, Glauber, Agricola, and the
rest of them, deserve to be remembered for their indefatigable zeal, and
for the multitude of single facts they managed to quarry out of nature.
It has also to be recorded of them that, although they were a race of
pedantic artisans rather than men of science, it was more particularly in
their persons that the metaphysical era of scientific history was aspiring
towards a more exalted stage of development; namely, towards the epoch
of positivism, the era of Descartes and Bacon, the day of experimental
observation under the guidance of the inductive syllogism.
It is unnecessary to trace the alchemists so-called after this decom-
position of the old alchemical character. They are no longer historical;
they are no longer with their age: they are behind it. The vitality is
gone from them: they merely drivel on in a kind of questionable exist-
ence. They are poor ghosts, being restants that cannot get away; not
revenants come back with some important secret. The life of the time is
all on the side of the practical chemists after Paracelsus. The misnamed
alchemists are mere inanities after that period. They can do no one
useful thing: they can only compile mystical trash into books, and father
them on Hermes, Aristotle, Albertus Magnus, Paracelsus, and other
potentates that never wrote such nonsense in their lives. They can only
form themselves into secret associations, Rosicrucian fraternities, and what
not! Their anonymous gabble is all about suns and moons, kings and
queens, red bridegrooms and lily brides, flying birds, green dragons, ruby
lions, virginal fountains, royal baths, waters of life, salts of wisdom. The
seven metals correspond with the seven planets, the seven cosmical angels ;
and with the seven openings of the head, the eyes, the ears, the nostrils,
and the mouth. Silver was Diana, gold was Apollo, iron was Mars, tin
was Jupiter, lead was Saturn, and so forth. They had essential spirits
so fine, that drop after drop let fall from the phial's lip did never one of
them reach the ground. They prated for ever concerning the powder of
attraction, which drew all men and women after the possessor; the
alcahest; and the grand elixir, which was destined to confer immortal youth
apon the student who should approve himself pure and brave enough
to kiss and quaff the golden wavelet as it mantled over the cup of life,
the fortunate Endymion of their fantastical mythology. There was the
great mystery, the mother of the elements, the grandmother of the stars.
There was the philosophers' stone, and there was the philosophical stone :
the philosophical stone was younger than the elements, yet at her virgin
touch the grossest calx among them all would blush before her into perfect
gold. The philosophers' stone, on the other hand, was the first-born of
nature, and older than the king of metals. In the famous dialogue of the
'Ancient War of the Knights,' he exclaims with fond remonstrance, 'Good
God, my dear gold, I am older than you!'
Yet it was this wretched remnant of a great school that gave the earlier
men of the present age its impression of alchemy! Now, visionaries of this
25
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
caste exist in 1851. There are actually a number of as genuine scientific
fanatics as these, possessed by the very same fantasies, and using the
self-same phraseology, astrological and pseudo-alchemical, in the Europe
of the present day; but no one would ever think of according any historical
significance to such a second nursery of innocents as that. Yet the sole
difference between these poor creatures and the post-paracelsians of the
seventeenth century, is to be found in the circumstance, that the latter
had many temptations and opportunities to play the Dousterswivel; and
accordingly many a queer imposture was then practised in the name of
Aristotle, Gebir, or Raymond Lully. One might relate innumerable stories
of that sort; but it is impossible to see how such narratives could be of
the slightest use towards the right understanding of true and historical
alchemy, from Friar Bacon to Paracelsus inclusive.
It is enough to notice the fact, that, after Paracelsus's protest against the
intellectual methods of old alchemy, a multitude of weaklings continued to
dream away their lives among the verbiage of an exhausted movement in
all countries; while a race of sturdy, positive chemists were living to some
useful purpose, and finding out all sorts of new chemical substances in
preparation for the unpretending logic of a better day. The two streams,
like the unmingling waters of the Soane and the Rhone, ran together a
space side by side before dividing for ever: one of them to sink into the
sands, like Arethusa, and be lost; the other to gather a hundred tributary
streams, and come flowing right onwards. Alchemy has, accordingly, be
it repeated, no historical meaning-one might almost say, no historical
existence, after Paracelsus; just as the critical doctrine of Voltaire and the
encyclopædists cannot boast of anything like a historical life in Europe
after the close of the last century, although there are still men in Paris,
Berlin, or London, who will swear by it to the last. Nor would the
historian ever dream of illustrating the scepticism of the senses from the
timid and feeble performances of those fond and lingering disciples of
that inverted psychological alchemy of the eighteenth century: inverted
alchemy, for its 'grand projection,' consisted in the attempt to transmute
everything into nothing; reminding one of that unhappy votary of Rosi-
crucian vanity, who chronicled the sad result of all his life in one melan-
choly couplet-
'From out of nothing God fetched everything,
But out of all poor I can nothing bring!'
Yet it appears, as has just been said, that the current notions of alchemy
are drawn from the etiolated and partycoloured literary remains of those
posthumous votaries of the spagiric mystery. It is from that too-question-
able epoch, for example, that we have the story of a venerable stranger
entering the famous city of Nobody-cares-what at eventide, in the gray
month of November in the memorable year of 1600; of his inveigling the
ingenuous son of his landlord into recondite talk anent the stone; about
their going privily to a great rich goldsmith, and making a huge dollop of
gold out of tin and lead with his utensils; of their selling it at a just price
to the hospitable jeweller; and of the venerable rascal stealing out of the
city before cock-crow with all the good money in his pocket. It was during
the same period, in fact, that quackery and imposture abounded in con-
26
ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.
nection with mock-alchemy. It was then that ape-headed, nut-hearted, sly
knaves easily found their dupes among fools in high places, as avaricious and
ignoble as they were credulous. It was then, to take an instance, that the
former scamps made up large nails, half of iron and half of gold, well joined
together, and varnished with lacker, so as to pass for veritable tenpennies;
and then that the latter equally wretched creatures opened their eyes with
amazement, and their hands with greed, when they saw a good golden ingot
extracted from plain pig-iron!
It was then, also, that the majority of the accessible alchemical tracts
and treatises were compiled. The miserable anonymities who put them
together generally inscribed the name of some grand authority upon these
inane productions, to give them currency. They consisted for the most part
of the wilder passages of the old masters, unaccompanied by any of their
real knowledge and practical remark, mangled, inflated beyond bearing,
and maddened by the poor cross-lights of the actual editors. The reader
accordingly comes upon striking and even beautiful passages in some of
those vile performances, which are frequently just so coherent, and no
more, as to suggest the perception that there is a 'method in their
madness.' For example, one of some score of masquerading Paracelsuses
opens his creed with these words:- All composed things are of a frail
and perishing nature, and had at first but one only principle. In this all
things under the cope of heaven were enclosed, and there they lay hid;
which is thus to be understood that all things proceeded out of one
matter, and not every particular thing out of its own private matter by
itself. This common matter of all things is the great mystery, which
no certain essence or prefigurated idea could comprehend. Nor could it
comply with any property, it being altogether void of colour and elementary
nature. The scope of this great mystery is as large as the firmament.
And this great mystery is the mother of all the elements; the grand-
mother of all the stars, trees, and carnal creatures.'
Such is the preamble of the book; but nothing follows; for the sub-
stance of the treatise is just this same preamble, with variations over and
over again. The penman's science is like a street-organ of old and even
elaborate construction; but all its tunes are gone dumb except this one;
and for the life of him he can grind nothing out of it but the overture!
The only supposable method, of course, in which this common matter or
great mystery could produce all the other bodies in nature, was a species
of self-involution; a rolling of itself into this shape and that, so as to pass
from the unity and monotony of chaos into the multiplicity and harmo-
niousness of creation. Such is probably the meaning of those passages in
the later Hermetics, where it is said to kill itself to espouse itself—to
impregnate itself—to engender itself—to be born again of itself—to make
itself red-to make itself white;' and so forth. Says the Stone to Gold in
the 'Ancient War:''Aristotle says of me-We add nothing more to it, and
we change nothing in it: Oh, how admirable is this thing which contains
all things in itself!'
The modern chemist cannot escape the sense of surprise when, in con-
nection with such extracts, he bethinks himself of the transformations
of isomeric substances and the action of catalysis-two of the latest
discoveries of importance in the science. For example, the gas cyanogen
27
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
is transmuted in certain circumstances into the solid substance paracy-
anogen. Nobody knows precisely the difference between them, considered
from the chemical point of view. The colourless pungent gas and the
tasteless brown solid, cyanogen and paracyanogen, are of the same chemical
composition, notwithstanding of the fact, that their sensible and chemical
properties are as distinct as possible. They both contain carbon and
nitrogen in the proportion of 6 to 7. Cyanogen can be made into para-
cyanogen, and paracyanogen into cyanogen again. Cyanogen can literally
be transmuted into paracyanogen, without either addition to or subtraction
from its substance; for we add nothing more to it, we change nothing in
it: Oh, how admirable is this thing (cyanogen) which contains that thing
(paracyanogen) in itself!' Cyanogen in becoming paracyanogen ‘kills
itself, espouses itself, engenders itself, impregnates itself, is born again of
itself, and makes itself' brown. Cyanogen may also be said to be con-
vertible into at least other two substances. Cyanogen, the radical of
fulminic acid, the radical of cyanuric acid, and paracyanogen are all com-
posed of carbon and nitrogen in the ratio of 6 to 7. Yet these four bodies
produce, by combination with oxygen, four acids as different from one
another as they well could be, although they all contain carbon, nitrogen,
and the newly-added oxygen in the same proportion-namely, carbon 6,
nitrogen 7, and oxygen 4. In fact, these three things, the radicals of the
fulminic and cyanuric acids, and paracyanogen, are only three of any
possible number of isomeric forms of cyanogen; the resultants, that is, of
the self-involution of that gaseous body. Cyanogen is the 'one only prin-
ciple,' at all events, of those three quasi-elements or compound radicals.
In cyanogen they were 'enclosed, and there they lay hid;' which is thus
to be understood, that (these three) things proceeded out of one matter
(cyanogen), and not' each of them out of its own private matter by itself.'
Cyanogen, in short, is 'the great mystery' in relation to these three radicals,
and in relation to all similar ones which may yet be discovered. And this
great mystery, cyanogen, is the mother of those quasi-elements, fulminigen,
cyanuren, and paracyanogen; the grandmother of fulminic, cyanuric, and
paracyanic acids; of the fulminates, cyanurates, and paracyanates; and of
all the thousand-and-one compounds proceeding from this great stock!
We could entertain the reader with such new glosses on old texts by the
sheet; but space forbids. We must also omit all reference to the Roman de
la Rose, the Chanon of Brydlington, and other Rosicrucian rhymes, although
we have made some notes on both subjects, which are not without interest.
It is now time to say a few decided words concerning alchemy proper,
considered as one great movement of the human mind in Europe, by way
of bringing these excursions to an end.
The true alchemists, then, while they were also diligent experimentalists
in pharmaceutical and other practical chemistry, cherished three sacred
beliefs and objects of enthusiastic hope, which we shall now arrange not in
their historical, but in a convenient order.
I. They believed in the alcahest, or universal solvent. Taking that
epithet, even in its most literal signification, it has simply to be stated, that
modern chemistry has actually realised it. The element fluorine is nothing
less than the alcahest. Lavoisier once expressed his surprise that it should
28
ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.
never have occurred to the masters that no vessel on earth could hold the
universal solvent, because it would solve the vessel too! That is precisely
the difficulty to contend with in the attempt to isolate fluorine. It is a
good many years now that it has been well understood by chemists that
Derbyshire spar is composed of calcium—the metal of which quicklime is
the rust or oxide-and of fluorine, another element, the latter of which
ingredients could not be presented separate, just because no substance
could withstand the intensity of its chemical action. No one doubted the
existence of fluorine-thanks to Davy's discovery of iodine, and the sagacity
of Ampère-notwithstanding of the circumstance that it could not be
handled and seen, owing to its irresistible powers of solution. It at
length occurred to two brothers of the name of Knox, that vessels cut out
of fluor-spar itself, seeing it is a substance already saturated with fluorine,
might serve the purpose of catching some fluorine in; and their experi-
ments have been in a great degree successful. Faraday has also experi-
mented on this subject. Fluorine seems to be an orange-coloured gas;
chlorine is a green gas; iodine is a solid at ordinary temperatures, but a
gentle heat converts it into a deep purple vapour. Bromine is liquid, and
resembles iodine vapour when in the gaseous state; but it is more ruddy
than purple. These four elements are deeply connected with one another;
but be that connection what it may, and even suppose that fluorine has not
yet been separated in the state of absolute chemical purity, it cannot be
denied that there lies the alcahest of old alchemy.
II. They believed in the transmutability of the metals; it has already
been seen on what kind of grounds. The idea of transmutation, stripped of
all particularity of form, is as old as Thales and recent as Davy, to profane
this
page with no meaner name. In one shape or another, it is ineradicable
from the instincts of the science. It is hardly necessary to add, that if any
one element were satisfactorily converted into any other, this the second
problem of alchemy were solved as well as the first. It is enough to
observe that such a thing is being prosecuted with ardour and conviction
in the present day. Festina lentè!
III. Those European alchemists also believed in the elixir of life, or
universal medicine, capable of curing all curable diseases, and of prolonging
life long beyond its present average of duration. It was not till the dotage
of alchemy that the conception of an elixir of immortality amused the world.
In connection with this unattainable ideal of theirs, it has just to be men-
tioned that Lord Bacon and Descartes, who are always regarded as the
Castor and Pollux of that luminous epoch of science which extinguished
the medieval schools, were quite as much bent upon the invention of
means for the prolongation of life as any alchemist of them all. We have
already seen that the French methodologist actually supposed himself to
have added a few hundred years to existence; and anybody that has
read Bacon's precepts on the subject, will testify that the elixir-hunters
could not exceed him either in the largeness of his expectations or in the
absurdity of his plans. Neither is it very easy at first sight to perceive
the practical superiority of the successive medical schemes of Stahl, Boer-
haave, Cullen, Broussais, and the rest of the modern doctrinaries, over
those equally successful and more poetical dreamers. If a scientific spec-
tator may judge from the recent writings of certain of our own physicians—
29
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
from the articles and letters, for example, of Dr Forbes, the editor of the
'British and Foreign Medical Review,' of the late Dr Andrew Combe, and
of a host of anonymous abettors of these able men, the predominant school
of physic appears to be coming to the conclusion, that it can scarcely do
better than go back to the time of Hippocrates, sit a while at his feet, and
begin afresh. It is the very counsel which poor Paracelsus thundered into
the astonished and insulted ears of his contemporaries.
Such, then, was alchemy; such the heaven, the horizon, and the neigh-
bourhood of the third of the ancestors of the modern chemist. To the man
of the nineteenth century, it must always be interesting to grope away back
into those dim and spectral regions of scientific development. Were cir-
cumstances favourable, we should be glad to accompany the student into
some of the more quaint and questionable of those recesses of the past.
We should visit the weak as well as the strong; for there were the weaker
brethren in those religious days of science as well as now. What buried
figures we should descry, intent with sweating brains upon the last projec-
tion; what minglings of the glare of the furnace with the unearthly glow
of a magnificent, but misdirected spirit of enthusiasm; what perilous
balancings of the spirit between the dread extremes of imposture and
insanity; what thin lights and solid shadows we should behold in the
murkier hours of that merely starlit night of history; what agonies of
mind and heart! Ideals how sublime, realities how paltry! It was their
lifelong struggle, to bring a lofty but imperfect theory of nature into effec-
tive unison with the inflexible phenomena of the world of facts. They
did not succeed, and they have passed away. Peace be with them; for
alas! the life of the visionary is the same feverish, uncalculating, unsatis-
fying, weary, and maddening discipline in all ages; and there are as
many of those not unlovely maniacs in the epoch of Chancellor Bacon
and Humboldt as ever there were in that of Friar Bacon and Paracelsus.
The history of chemistry, subsequently to the apotheosis of the alchemi-
cal epoch, was not without its extravagances; but it became remarkable
for the unprecedented rapidity with which the accumulation of facts
proceeded. In the hands of the practical chemists, who have already been
alluded to as the legitimate successors of the alchemists-proper, the science
became more unreservedly directed to the positive labours of the labora-
tory; and there rapidly ensued a very remarkable extension of the
boundaries of concrete or practical chemistry. Hence the great multipli-
cation of chemical substances, experimental apparatuses, and new processes,
that succeeded the euthanasy of alchemy. Stones and rocks, earths and
ashes, ores and meteors and lavas of every species, were triturated, lixi-
viated, roasted, ignited, dissolved in acids, crystallised, precipitated. It
was soon perceived that there is one not only salt, one elemental salt, but
an endless variety of salts: oil-of-vitriol salts, aqua-fortis salts, spirit-of-
salt salts, earthy salts, alkaline salts, metallic salts, and so forth. There
were forthwith found to be more metals than seven, the seven planets and
holes in the human head notwithstanding. These were discriminated the
mineral, the vegetable, and the volatile alkalis. At length a great chemical
principle began to dawn in the midst of all these gathering and crowding
details, like the gleam of untouched phosphorus in the dark. In short, the
30
ALCHEMY AND THE ALCHEMISTS.
new chemists began to surmise that the chemical act of burning, or the pro-
cess of combustion, as it is now called, is a process of first-rate importance
and significance in the science of chemistry. They descried that the right
explanation of the burning of wood, of brimstone, of anything, in fine, that
is susceptible of combustion, would reveal a critical secret of this depart-
ment of knowledge. It was the distinct perception of this, and the
invention of a hypothesis or theory of combustion, that constituted, or
rather consummated, the new movement, and fairly consolidated a new
epoch of chemical development. Beccher and Stahl were the patriarchs of
this great school-the former as the inventor, the latter as the illustrator
of the doctrine of phlogiston; a doctrine which sufficed for the needs of the
growing science nearly a hundred years. They observed that the common
phenomenon of combustion concealed within its glowing bosom one of
those central or fontal facts, on the discovery of which the history of
science is continually turning. Pursuing this clew, which the reader of this
outline will now recognise as older than the time of Aristotle, although
never laid firmly hold of until that of Beccher, they generalised the phe-
nomenon itself in the first place. Their metals, with the quite intelligible
exceptions of gold and silver, were changed into rusts or calces, or artificial
ores, resembling chalk-powder or brick-dust when heated in exposure to
the air of the fire; and this change they perceived to be identical with
what is passed upon brimstone, phosphorus, or any other ordinary com-
bustible when it burns with flame. Indeed, the metal tin burns with a
surrounding glow, which resembles flame so closely as to have hinted the
rest of the secret; no secret now-a-days, since we have metals which take
fire when thrown into water, and since we burn iron-wire in oxygen like a
wax-match in the air; but a great attainment for the day, or rather the
morning twilight, in which it was first made. Thus, then, in brief, was
the whole science of chemistry, as it then stood, classified under two distinct
and intelligible parts: the study of bodies before combustion, and that of
bodies after combustion, implying of course the study of the vital act of
combustion itself; a very true and useful division so far as it reached, and
certainly most important for the exigencies of the epoch. The chaos of
chemical fact was, thereby reduced to intellectual order, and made to
revolve round one great phenomenon as a centre. Similar things were
brought together in spite of apparent dissimilarity, while unlike things
were duly separated, notwithstanding of superficial resemblances, and a
genuine reformation or new creation was fairly begun, with amazing
sagacity and intelligence. It is surely difficult to understand how men
like Dumas and Liebig (to name no smaller names) can content themselves
with asserting that chemistry began with Lavoisier, except by supposing
them wholly destitute of the historical sense, and incapable of seeing that
their own rockfast-Lavoisierianism is also doomed; not indeed to be over-
thrown (for nothing that is partly true can ever be wholly overthrown),
but superseded just as completely as phlogiston, alchemy, or polypharmacy.
It would be quite as rational for a geologist to date the origin of the
visible world from the tertiary series, or the diluvial beds of Paris and
London, as to trace the rise of chemistry no farther back than the great
Parisian lawgiver of the science.
But the old chemists of whom we now speak were of course not satisfied
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
with the discovery of the true analogy that exists between the metallic
calces and the acids, and their consequent new classification of bodies; but
they proceeded to interpret the phenomenon of combustion itself, that
seemingly sole and singular agent of chemical transformations. Nor was
an interpretation far to seek, although it required astonishing ingenuity to
apply it right and left, so as to compact the rude and disjected members of
a growing chemistry into one luminous body of scientific thought. It has
already been hinted that Greece has ever been the Ariadnè to furnish our
sturdy, erratic, and triumphant European Theseus with the clew to the
labyrinth it behoves him from time to time to penetrate. The notion that
fire is an actual and substantial, though subtile element of nature, was first
kindled by Empedocles long centuries before Christ: before it was handed
over to the Arabians, it had begun to flicker, and it played a very small
part in their doctrine: brought back to Europe, and fanned by the scho-
lastic philosophy, it shot up its flames once more; but it was now destined
to quicken the whole mass of chemistry; and impart that callida junctura,
or glowing unity to all its parts, of which they again stood more in need
than ever.
The matter of fire was at length set apart and consecrated
under the illustrious name of phlogiston.
It is impossible to prosecute this interesting subject any further in the
present connection. Having fairly traversed the epoch of chemical history
ostensibly under consideration, and having even crossed the boundary
which separates it from its immediate successor, we leave the greater part
of the story untouched. Suffice it that an affectionate yet critical study of
the successive schools, and their respective leaders, would certainly prove
as interesting as that of the Greeks, the Arabians, and the European alche-
mists; while it might be still more instructive. The phlogistians, the
pneumatic chemists, the Lavoisieriaus, the atomicians, the electro-chemists,
and the votaries of the new organic chemistry, have all brought us their
proper trophies and treasures; and the investigation of their several his-
tories and characteristics could not fail to be fraught with the noblest
lessons of courage, perseverance, and devotion.
THE LOST LAIRD.
A TALE OF '45.
MOR
ORE than four months had passed since the fatal day of Culloden ;
not only had the disaffected districts been treated with merciless
severity by the commanders of the English army, but atrocities had been
perpetrated, which had long been unheard of in civilised warfare, by the
parties of soldiers despatched in all directions to disarm and lay waste
every part of the country in which the Prince's cause had been espoused.
'Before the 10th of June, the task of desolation was complete throughout
all the western parts of Inverness-shire; and the curse which had been
denounced upon Scotland by the religious enthusiasts of the preceding
century, was at length so entirely fulfilled, that it would have been literally
possible to travel for days through the depopulated glens without seeing a
chimney smoke or hearing a cock crow.' The continual escape of Charles
Edward, which seemed little short of miraculous, doubtless tended to exas-
perate the feelings of his pursuers, and to add cruelty to their conduct, when
every fresh disappointment proved the inadequacy of their best-concerted
plans against the determination of the clansmen to protect him.
'After the escape of the Prince through the cordon between Loch Hourn
and Loch Shiel in the latter part of July, the military powers at Fort-
Augustus seem scarcely ever to have got a ray of genuine intelligence
respecting his motions; and his friends, all excepting the few who attended
him, were equally at a loss to imagine where he was, or how he concealed
himself.' The forest of Badenoch, in the wildest and most rugged part of
the Highlands, meanwhile had given him shelter, in the company of his
friends Lochiel and Cluny, to visit whom he had undertaken so toilsome
and dangerous a journey.
Amongst those in the neighbourhood of the glens in which he now
wandered, none were less aware of his retreat than the family of Mr
Morrison of Dalcairdie: they had hitherto enjoyed comparative peace,
although living on the extreme verge of Forfarshire, not far from the
roads leading from Inverness to Perth and to Dundee. This had been owing
to Mr Morrison's steadfast refusal to bear arms in a cause which he, in
common with many other Highland gentlemen of established character and
prudence, had predicted would end disastrously both for Scotland and for
the House of Stuart. He had thus often been enabled to gain some mitiga-
tion of the cruelties practised by Duke William's emissaries; and his wife,
building her hopes on the same foundation, had with great difficulty ob-
No. 67.
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
tained his consent to her undertaking a journey to Perth, to solicit from
the Earl of Loudoun a pardon for her brother, who had been taken
prisoner, and was there in jail awaiting his fate. The duke had some time
before her arrival passed through the city, so closely surrounded by his
officers as to preclude all chance of his receiving the petitions even of
those who, desperate in their love and their fear, had thrown themselves
on their knees almost beneath the horses' feet; and he had left behind
him spirits as reckless of suffering as himself. Mrs Morrison failed in the
object of her journey; but she obtained a protection for her husband's
tenantry, with which she trusted to return home in safety during the first
week of September. The autumn day was unusually bright and balmy on
which she was expected back, under the escort of her faithful servant Allan
Maxwell; and the spot she loved best on earth had never looked more
calm and beautiful than it did when her husband and their only child, a
boy of five years old, stood together on the terrace of the small French
garden to the south of their dwelling, anxiously looking out for some
notice of her approach. It was natural that, under such circumstances,
Mr Morrison should feel unable to apply himself to business of importance
which lay before him; and he determined, after writing a letter in his
study, to proceed at once on horseback, in hopes of meeting her. He
accordingly summoned Janet Maxwell, Allan's wife, to take his child, who
clung perseveringly to him in spite of her promise to go with him to the
bonnie burnie dub,' as he was wont to call a pool, in a sequestered dingle
at some little distance from the house. It was formed by one of those
innumerable mountain streams which fertilise the valleys embosomed in
the
spurs of the Grampians; and there his mother often took him to swim
his nutshell fleet upon its deep and sparkling water. The long tract of
fir-wood which darkened the hill at the back of the massive and irregular
mansion, lent the charm of contrast to this spot; for it was overhung by
a group of graceful forest-trees, whose shade kept the grass there always
green, and whose gnarled trunks were garlanded with climbing shrubs,
which Mrs Morrison had planted. Here and there the water had worn
away the earth from their roots, and fretted them into mimic caves, in
which Kenneth harboured his boats. He had once more launched them
on the pool, and was busily engaged in his sport, when his quick ear
detected a slight rustling in the thicket, which rose abruptly on the oppo-
site side of the dell.
'Oh! minnie, minnie; is it you?' he cried; and at the same moment
his nurse, with instinctive precaution, caught him in her arms. Scarcely
had she done so, when two strangers emerged from the wood, and stood
on the narrow ledge just before her. Both were travel-soiled and meanly
clad; the one who addressed her, and asked if Mr Morrison was then
within, spoke in Gaelic, thick and hurriedly, as if breathless from exertion.
His companion was a young and handsome man, whose air of distinction,
in spite of his attire, struck her practised eye; and she felt assured they
were some of the skulking gentlemen, whose whereabouts she had heard
of from the country people in the fastnesses of Benalder. She answered
in the affirmative; and they immediately disappeared.
Janet was about to follow them to the house with Kenneth, whose won-
dering eyes were still scanning the place where they had stood, when a
2
THE LOST LAIRD.
clang of armed men, and the sound of English oaths, was heard in the
wood, the matted branches of which opposed a considerable barrier to an
approach from the west. Janet's determination to give no assistance to
any in search of the fugitives she had just spoken with, was strengthened
by the uncertainty which attended the concealment of the Prince, to betray
whom would have been, in her estimation, a crime of the deepest dye.
The resemblance of the youngest of the strangers, in the short brown coat
and clouted shoes, to the gallant young commander whom she had seen,
some months before, leading his army towards Inverness, with his glittering
star shining on bis breast, and his light hair floating on the breeze, as
graceful a hero as ever won favour in woman's eyes, had flashed on her
recollection the moment he turned from her. As these thoughts passed
through her mind, several of the soldiers issued from the thicket; one of
them missed his footing as he scrambled over the broken ground, and fell
at the edge of the pool. This accident attracted the attention of his com-
rades, who now observed her, and demanded rudely of her whether she
had seen any one pass through the grounds. To their inquiries she only
answered in Gaelic, and they were too hotly in pursuit of their prey to
waste many words upon her. A few minutes had now elapsed since the
appearance of the fugitives, who meanwhile had gained the house, and
entered the room in which Mr Morrison was writing. None ever heard
the particulars of that brief interview; it was only known afterwards that
he led those who sought his protection through a back-door, and along a
short path which led to the fir-wood: from it was a continuous tract of
wood and fell, reaching far towards the heights of Ben Uarn, where no
footsteps but those of the Gael might follow theirs. As Mr Morrison
re-entered his house, he heard the brutal voices of the dragoons, who, with
determined purpose, were closing round it. He went out to them with a
calm and authoritative air, which for a moment awed men accustomed to
discipline, and demanded whom they sought, and what they meant by
behaving in so outrageous a manner in a peaceful dwelling?
'We want no warrant,' answered one, 'for searching a house which is a
harbour for rebels; and find them we will, if we burn it down, and smoke
them out like rats.'
'If the Pretender is not here,' said another, 'I'll never believe my eyes
again; for as sure as my name's Jem Short, I saw him, and no other, go
round the hill on the other side of the wood, and make for this place.'
'Ay, ay!' shouted his companions; 'why do we stand palavering here
with a Scotchman while they may be getting off: come, fair play or foul,
set to work!'
'Set to work, and welcome!' said Mr Morrison: 'my loyalty never yet
has been questioned; my people have not one of them joined the insur-
gents; nor is my house a shelter for them. I will myself give you every
help in searching it, and direct my servants to shew you the way through
the woods.' So saying, the laird, with the assistance of a dozen retainers
of all ages, commenced an active search, not only through every hole and
corner of his rambling dwelling, but likewise in the grounds, taking especial
care of course to make it most energetic in the direction most contrary to
that pursued by his late visitors.
The small party of Hawley's dragoons who had first surrounded the
3
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
house was speedily augmented by a larger detachment, who came straggling
up, as they were able, on horseback, over the uneven ground-their long,
loose skirts flying behind them as they rode, armed with huge holster-
pistols and carbines, and their appearance giving altogether an impression
of resistless force to the little band of servants and labourers who witnessed
their approach. At first, the certainty of success, and some respect for the
Laird of Dalcairdie's character, induced them to proceed with tolerable
decency; but by degrees, as it became evident that their intended prisoners
had escaped them, their indignation knew no bounds, and the most savage
threats resounded on all sides. They insisted on his accompanying them to
head-quarters; and on the passionate protestations of their comrades, that
they had tracked the Prince to the very borders of the estate, two of the
most ferocious amongst them bound Mr Morrison by his long hair to the
tail of one of the horses, and set off with him at full speed from his hall
door. Past the trim garden, down the hill-side, close by the dingle where
his child remained hidden amongst the trees, rushed the frantic rout of
men and horses, dragging to his horrible death one of the gentlest and
bravest hearts in all that desolate land. Long afterwards, the track
was shewn which had been marked by Alexander Morrison's blood. It
broke off at the door of a farm-house, whose master had brought out all his
money to induce the soldiers to set his laird on horseback, dead or dying
as he was they took his pouch of gold, and raised the disfigured body
before them. They were becoming calmer, like madmen when blood has
been shed, when they entered the long straggling street of Blairgowrie late
in the evening. Here the road from Perth joined that which led south-
ward to Dundee, whither they intended to carry their victim; and here
they met a cavalcade, consisting of a lady riding on a pillion behind a well-
armed and athletic man, and four servants who followed her.
'Let us turn aside, good Allan,' said the lady, 'while these soldiers pass.
I cannot look on arms and disorder now as I did before I had secured my
husband's safety: my courage seems to fail as I get nearer home, and have
less need for it.'
'Nay, madam,' answered the servant, 'you have now nothing to fear:
any insolence offered to you would meet with military punishment.'
'Alas!' replied his mistress, 'consider the scenes we have witnessed,
and the more frightful ones we have heard of! What warrant or semblance
of justice do the English troops require, when once their passions are let
loose?'
They are coming from Dalcairdie,' said Allan; there are some of our
people in the rear.'
Heaven grant,' cried Mrs Morrison, for she it was, 'that no distur-
bance may have happened there!' As she spoke, her pale face became
livid with terror, her blue eyes were distended with the intensity of her
gaze, as she fixed them upon an object partially covered with a plaid,
which Allan could scarcely comprehend.
'It is a wounded man,' he said, 'whom they are bringing along.'
'Dead!' cried the lady. And it seemed as though the word had frozen
her lips as it passed them, for she then remained speechless, steadfastly
looking forwards.
Allan dismounted to help her, but she urged on the horse, and was
4
THE LOST LAIRD.
instantly surrounded by the soldiery. Her only thought was to reach her
husband's corpse, to see if human help was indeed no longer of avail.
And the ruffians whose hands were red with murder felt her agony; they
suffered her to draw near, and one covered the face, which even they
were unwilling the wife should look upon, telling her at the same moment
that all hope was over. Their conduct towards Allan and his comrades
was, however, very different; and as the tumult increased in the little town?
through which they were passing, Mrs Morrison roused herself from her
trancelike grief, and spoke in accents of mingled entreaty and command-
'Let no more blood be shed: enough cries out to Heaven for vengeance
to-day! Only give me a place where the dead may be laid--I have no more
to ask.'
Her prayer was granted; and men who would have scorned an hour
before to have been thought accessible to pity, now bore Mr Morrison's
corpse into the nearest house, and rode on, leaving her alone with her own
servants and its inhabitants, taking, however, Allan Maxwell with them, as
a suspected person, to Dundee. Scarcely had they departed, before the
throes of bodily suffering were added to the unhappy lady's affliction; and
then there followed a struggle with whose mortal agonies no hope was
mingled; and as the chill gray morning dawned, it revealed the shades of
death upon her face as clearly as on that of the still-born infant lying by
her side.
It was a smothered howl of rage and sorrow that rose that morning at
Blairgowrie, and was echoed at Dalcairdie, where, towards noon, the corpses
were borne with as little show as possible, and laid in lowly state in the
dining-room, with a large sheet thrown over them, which fell round the
tressels upon the floor.
Janet Maxwell's anxieties, meanwhile, were divided between her care
for the dead and her fears for the living. With a fidelity not uncommon
in her class in Scotland, she determined to sacrifice every other object to
the safety of her nursling, young Kenneth Morrison. She had heard that
the soldiers, in their disappointed rage, had vowed destruction to all belong-
ing to the family and the House of Dalcairdie, and she now apprehended
their return, both to ransack or burn down the dwelling, and to carry off
the child. Nor were her fears ungrounded; for the day had scarcely
closed in before a number of the dreaded dragoons arrived. They found
the house empty, and proceeded to regale themselves on the provisions
they met with, to tear down the hangings, and pack up the stores of fine
damask on which the mistress was wont to pride herself, and to carry off
the massive picture-frames. None the less peacefully for the tumult that
filled the house, slept its infant heir in the arms of his nurse. She had
given him a sleeping-draught; and then, strange as the expedient appears,
had crept with him under the cloth which covered the remains of his
parents, and the infant on its mother's arm, arranging it, however, so as
to leave their forms visible. The funereal tapers burnt round them, but
there was nothing left in the apartment that could excite cupidity; and
although the door was rudely opened more than once, the unlooked-for
solemnity of the scene had so powerful an influence, that it was immedi-
ately closed again; and all that long night, Janet's retreat remained sacred
and unsuspected. At last she heard the welcome sounds of the departure
5
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
of the soldiers; and then she tarried no longer, not even to see the dust of
those for whom she would have laid down her life committed to the grave;
but tying up a bundle of linen, and hiding some money about her, she set
forth on foot, leading Kenneth, whom she had dressed as a peasant's child,
by the hand. They had a long and weary journey to Edinburgh, cheered,
however, by the glad tidings of Charles Edward's escape to France, soon
after his perilous visit to Badenoch.
It may be that Janet's alarm for the safety of her charge was exag-
gerated; but being a woman of strong determination, as well as of warm
fancy, she succeeded in impressing it on the mind of his only near relation,
a maiden lady living at Edinburgh, Miss Grizel Morrison, and persuading
her that his only chance of reaching man's estate would lie in his being
unknown during his short stay under her roof, and his being educated in
France. Miss Morrison accordingly undertook the charge of conveying
her nephew to St Germains, where she placed him in the family of Lady
Lucan, an Englishwoman, possessed of some fortune, whose parents had
gone into exile with their sovereign; and whose own interest in Kenneth
was fully awakened by his father's tragic fate. All connected with him
seemed destined to share somewhat of the same horrors. His aunt having
seen him happily settled with his new protectress, was returning to Scot-
land with the papers she had had drawn up at St Germains, duly attesting
his right to his family estate, when the diligence in which she travelled
was attacked by highwaymen near Abbeville. Some of the passengers
were killed, and all their property was carried off or scattered. Poor Miss
Grizel Morrison received only a slight wound, but it proved fatal after a
few days' illness; and by her death Kenneth was left, with no legal proofs
of his identity as the Laird of Dalcairdie's son, to the charitable care of
Lady Lucan.
Allan Maxwell had been set at liberty after eight months of captivity in
the crowded prison of Dundee; he then sought his old home at Dalcairdie,
expecting to find only a ruin where he had left peace and abundance. How
much was he astonished to see new faces in the familiar place; to hear a
new language; to find, in short, the estate transferred in that brief space to
other owners, and a distant cousin of his master's, James Morrison, mer-
chant of London, installed in full possession of the family property. Few
of the former tenants were left; but in a cabin belonging to one of these
he found his faithful Janet, whose presence beneath his prison walls had
cheered and assisted him from the time she had provided for the young
laird's safety till within a few days of his release. Her tale was told in
few words, and consisted chiefly of the relation of the ravages of Hawley's
brigade in that part of the country. Under pretence of avenging the
escape of the Prince, they had dismantled the village of Dalcairdie, turning
out its defenceless inhabitants to the shelter of the wintry hills; many had
been shot on the mountain-side in mere wantonness; the cattle and pro-
visions of all sorts had been carried off to the camp, and numbers had
perished for hunger. Under such circumstances, it was scarcely a sub-
ject of regret to the unfortunate tenantry of the late laird, that one of
his name, Englishman though he was by birth and education, should
come to the estate; for they hoped to gain from him something of the
6
THE LOST LAIRD.
protection to which they had been accustomed from the lords of the
soil: nor were they wholly disappointed. Janet Maxwell, who had re-
mained hidden in the remote hut to which she had betaken herself,
speedily induced her husband to go with her into the neighbourhood of
Dunkeld, to the house of a friend of her master's, Mr Lindsay of
Kincaldrum, in whom alone she thought she could trust. By slow
degrees quiet was restored in the neighbourhood under the auspices of
Mr James Morrison, who was a stanch Hanoverian; and his ignorance
of the language and habits of his people assisted him in the comfortable
assurance, that no lurking suspicion of the justice of his claim was left
amongst them. In a time so troubled and sanguinary as that we have
described, the strange fate of Miss Grizel Morrison excited little interest
beyond the circle of her friends at Edinburgh, who had all more immediate
subjects of anxiety or sorrow; and as the object of her journey to France
had been unknown, the whole story, united with that of her unfortunate
relatives, was soon mixed up with a mass of false statements, and in a few
years almost forgotten.
Kenneth meanwhile grew up to man's estate, under the watchful care of
Lady Lucan, and that of an old Episcopalian clergyman named Ross, who
performed the duties of a domestic chaplain amongst some of the English
families resident at St Germains. His pupil acquired an education which
was far more suited to polish the manners, and to give elegance and activity
to the mind, than any he could have obtained in either the English or the
Scottish schools. He was a noble and high-spirited youth; but from the
time in which he heard the tale of his father's murder, and of his mother's
broken heart, a shade of melancholy came over him; and the uncertainty
of his future lot inclined him more and more to indulge in those romantic
dreams which shed so fair a colouring upon the morning of life, and fade
away so soon into the common light of the work-day world. Janet Max-
well had long become a widow, and still lived in the family of Mr Lindsay,
who had immediately given her a home in his house on hearing the portion
of her story which she chose to disclose, and intrusted his only child to her
care—a beautiful little girl named Marion, who was then only two years
old. Janet had set her heart on Kenneth's existence remaining unknown
at Dalcairdie until he was of an age to enter on the possession of his
birthright; but she occasionally dropped mysterious hints to Marion of the
certainty of his return from some foreign land (and France and Persia
seemed about equally distant to her) to claim the estate of his forefathers,
and with it, like the enchanted prince of a fairy tale, the hand of her
Snowdrop-her sweet Marion Lindsay. At nineteen, Marion's affections
were free; and it was but natural that her imagination should be captivated,
for there were none of the young men who frequented her father's house
who could bear a moment's comparison with the picture she had formed
in her own mind of the lost Laird of Dalcairdie. When she chanced to
hear an allusion to his supposed death or mysterious disappearance on the
night of the murder (for Janet had invariably protested her ignorance of
his fate), she felt personally aggrieved; and though in her childhood she
had often spoken of him and of his return home, she now preserved a
silence on the subject, at which she sometimes blushed and smiled alone.
Little did she imagine that the eventful moment had arrived in which her
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
vision was to be realised or for ever dispelled, when a servant came to her,
one evening in August, to say that a strange gentleman was in the oak
parlour waiting to see Mr Lindsay. She had been flitting backwards and
forwards amongst her flowers in her own favourite parterre, and she now
went in through the open window of the sitting-room, where her mother
sat at work, and roused her father from a gentle doze into which he had
just fallen over an old number of The Lyon in Mourning,' in his huge
arm-chair; and having discharged her duty of sending him to his visitor,
she resumed her occupation without more than a passing thought of who
that guest was likely to be. The room into which the stranger had been
shewn was a long, low apartment, raftered with black oak, and lighted at
the farther end by a latticed bay-window. As he stood by the casement,
with his head half-turned towards it, and his graceful figure outlined
against the golden western light, Mr Lindsay entered, still in a dreamy
mood; and the first sound which arrested the attention of his guest was
one between a groan and an ejaculation, uttered from the recess of an
Indian screen which stood before the door: he beheld Mr Lindsay holding
on to it with one hand, while he held out the other in a deprecating atti-
tude. Thus made aware of his presence, he advanced towards the centre
of the room, with his native ease of manner somewhat embarrassed by the
singularity of his reception; but scarcely had he spoken, when his host
exclaimed in a voice husky with emotion, 'Stand where ye are, man, and
tell me your name!'
'I presume,' he replied, in tones that were certainly of this living world,
'that I am addressing Mr Lindsay ?'
Ay, ye know it well,' answered the latter.
'Then to you, my father's oldest and dearest friend, I reply that my
name is Kenneth Morrison of Dalcairdie; and that I am come to you to
claim your hospitality and assistance for his sake.'
'There is not a son of James Morrison living,' replied Mr Lindsay
doubtfully; and if there were, he is no friend of mine.' But as if con-
vinced that his visitor was at least not a ghost, he also came forward
a few steps.
'No,' said Kenneth; 'my father has long slept in a bloody grave. I
have been only a few days in Scotland; but I bring letters from Lady
Lucan-whose name at least you know-at St Germains, and from the
Rev. Mr Ross, once an Episcopalian minister at Perth, which must serve
as my credentials."
'You have need of none to me, I think,' cried Mr Lindsay. 'If I had
not proved myself a fool already, I would say, Trust in me you may!
Your hand, my boy! Let me look in your face. Who shall tell me
after this that Alexander Morrison's son does not stand here before me,
with his mother's two blue eyes looking out at me? Surely, I thought,
if the grave might give up the dead, it was himself come in the gloaming
to the old room in which we parted last!'
'Mr Lindsay,' he said, 'I must not for a moment mislead you. Strange
as the fact may appear, I am informed that I have no legal proof of my
own identity: such is the opinion of Mr Ross, in whose judgment I have
reason to confide; such will probably be your own when you have heard
my history.'
8
THE LOST LAIRD.
too.
A fig for lawyers!' exclaimed Mr Lindsay. 'But, my dear boy, you
shall tell it to us all. My wife and Marion must hear it; ay, and old Janet
Janet!-I might have thought of her before! So saying, and
scarcely apologising for his abrupt departure, the Laird of Kincaldrum
left the room; and being left once more alone, Kenneth-after glancing
along the book-shelves near the window, as every lover of reading must
mechanically do—occupied himself in scanning the features of the view
which spread before it. But once
But once more his meditations were inter-
rupted by an unusual greeting. He had scarcely turned his head, on
hearing footsteps approaching, when he saw with Mr Lindsay an old
woman of low stature bending forwards with her keen eyes rivetted
upon him, under the shade of the tartan which she wore over her snow-
white cap. In another moment she gave a piercing cry, and then sprang
towards him as a dog would fawn upon a long-absent master.
'Janet!' cried Kenneth, throwing his arms round her, and stooping to
kiss her pale forehead: many years have passed since you watched over
me; but I feel it is indeed like coming home to find you here!'
'Who shall doubt now,' cried Kincaldrum triumphantly, 'that our ain
bairn has come back to us? Come, come, Janet; we must have no tears!
All should look bright upon him, and you most of all; for was it not to
you he owed his safety? Woman, you have trifled with us over-long!
But I had always some suspicion of the truth that you had a knowledge
you did not choose to declare!
'The time is come to declare it,' said Janet; 'but first let me see him
better for myself.' She drew him towards the fading light, as gently as
if he had been a child still, and made him sit down on the low window
seat, while she passed her withered hand through his luxuriant hair and
over his face. 'I could swear to him now,' she cried, 'were I blind!
The righteous fell, but he was not forsaken; and lo! his son is raised up in
his stead! Oh, blessings on the day which has brought Kenneth Morrison
back to wed the Snowdrop of Kincaldrum !'
'I desire, Janet,' said Mr Lindsay, 'that you will utter no more of your
fancies on this subject: I warn you that they are most displeasing to
Marion, as well as to her mother and myself.'
In perfect ignorance of what sort of damsel his destined bride might
be, Kenneth could not avoid smiling at the whimsical turn Janet's thanks-
giving had taken; especially as Mr Lindsay appeared exceedingly annoyed,
and as the old woman kept muttering, 'What is decreed maun come to
pass, let wha will try to hinder!' But she was now hastily dismissed,
with injunctions not to spread the news through the house-a caution
which greatly offended her, having, as she said, 'Kept the secret of her
bairn's very existence close enough for many a weary year already.'
'Not so closely as she thinks, poor old body,' observed Mr Lindsay;
‘though, to be sure, I was rather taken aback by the unlooked-for resem-
blance to your father when I first entered the room. Now that will be a
good proof to the lawyers, I think, when we come to the point. We may
as well keep our own counsel now, and not set James Morrison on the
scent too soon; for he is as wary as a fox, and will require canny dealing.'
On reaching the room in which we left Marion and her mother, Kenneth
perceived at a glance that they were already informed of his name, and
No. 67.
9
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
were awaiting his appearance with some agitation. Mrs Lindsay, whose
heart was always open to every motherly feeling, was ready to welcome
him with overflowing eyes, and to give him full credit for all Janet's
praises. Marion neither blushed nor looked conscious when he turned
from her mother's greeting to address himself to her, for she had suddenly
felt her day-dream vanish into thin air in his actual presence; not because
he was less handsome or pleasing in manner than she had expected, but
because it was a very different thing to form a picture in her own mind
from all ideal excellences, and to behold before her a young man who
bore the impress of good sense and good breeding in every tone and
gesture, but who, she instantly felt, might very probably never think of
her at all. She was surprised at the ease with which she now conversed
with this hero of her fancy. And Kenneth, in his turn, thought her
frank and simple manner as winning as the sweetness of her countenance.
During the hospitable supper, which was soon set before the young guest,
the conversation naturally turned on the scenes in which he had passed
the greater part of his life; and he described the little English and Irish
colony at St Germains, with all the peculiarities of their situation, and
dwelt on the chivalrous feelings which had led to it, in language that went
straight to Mr Lindsay's heart.
'Ay,' he said, 'I knew almost all who are living there now in poverty
and exile, when their youth was full of hope and enterprise: gallant hearts
they were as ever beat; and age cannot much have changed them.'
'It is touching,' said Kenneth, 'to see how little they have altered; how
deep their love is still for their own country; and how proudly they cherish
the memory of their prince, as he once appeared among them, though
report speaks gloòmily of his present life'
'I'll not believe it!' interrupted Mrs Lindsay: 'he has borne his weird
many a year, with misfortune and disappointment for his companions; but
he is our own king's son--a true Scottish prince in heart, I'll answer for
him; and time will shew that we've no call to sorrow for one drop of the
blood that has been shed, one spell of the suffering that has been borne,
for his sake!' Here the Lady of Kincaldrum, overcome by her own warmth,
burst into tears; and Marion, rising, went to her small harpsichord, and
struck a few notes of the well-known air, 'Charlie is my darling!'
The words-the words, my lassie !' cried her father; and she sung them
with a mixture of enthusiasm and of thrilling pathos which Kenneth never
afterwards forgot.
'You spoke just now of Duncan Ross,' said Mr Lindsay, as she con-
cluded; 'his testimony will carry great weight with it to all who knew
him.'
'To none will it seem weightier, I imagine,' replied his wife, 'than to
our excellent friends, Mr Grant and his sister Miss Isobel: they were
too great friends once, ever to have forgotten him. That was one of the
many stories of sore tribulation that belonged to the rising of '45: you'll
have heard of it, Mr Kenneth?'
'No, indeed,' answered Kenneth; 'I know little of Mr Ross's early
history.'
'It is an old-world tale now,' continued his hostess; 'but Duncan Ross
was a young minister most highly thought of, with prospects of advance-
10
THE LOST LAIRD.
ment second to none of his age, when first he won the heart of bonnie
Lilian Grant-that was Miss Isobel's younger sister. Well, they just
waited year after year for a presentation, as young folk must often do, till
about the time the Prince came to Scotland, and then Mr Grant was
appointed to the Old Church at Perth. There was much rejoicing that
day; but it soon came to an end; for there was not the heart in him that
he could have read the Duke of Cumberland's proclamation, threatening
with death all who concealed the poor fugitives from Culloden; and so, by
reason of his silence, he was led away a prisoner the very Monday he should
have been married. Lilian saw him as they took him past her father's
house, and there was a glint in her eye, as if she triumphed because of his
honour: but she never smiled again. He was put into an awful prison-ship
in the Thames; and when at last he did escape to Holland, the first news
that reached him was, that she was dead. You'll not wonder after this
that a letter from him will reach the hearts of Mr Grant and his sister.'
'It is a story,' replied Kenneth warmly, 'to make his word sacred for
ever; but he cannot give them such information as you might naturally
expect. Lady Lucan invited him over from Holland, chiefly, I believe, to
take charge of my education, whom she had so generously befriended;
and when he arrived, I was nearly six years old. Here, however, is my
honoured tutor's letter, as well as one from Lady Lucan.' So saying,
Kenneth gave to Mr Lindsay two large letters, each secured by a thread,
and also by double seals: he took them in silence, and began to study
their contents with the air of a man whose mind is made up. Meanwhile
Marion spoke in a low voice to her mother-'If, as you suppose, the
recollections of past days have much weight with Mr and Miss Grant,
surely their affection for Gertrude Morrison will have yet greater. They
will be most reluctant to believe that she is no longer the rich heiress she
has been thought, and to see her turned out of her beautiful home where
she is so justly beloved. Poor Gertrude, how little she thinks what lies
before her!' Marion at the moment felt as if she could have wished
Kenneth safe back at St Germains, and turned her dark-gray eyes almost
reproachfully towards him.
May I ask, Miss Lindsay,' he said, 'of whom you are speaking? I could
not avoid hearing your words, and they have made me fear that I shall
be beset with even more difficulties than I had apprehended, though of a
different kind. I confess that Mr Morrison's probable objection never
appeared to me a very formidable one, seeing that he has enjoyed my
property now about sixteen years.'
'You must know, then,' replied Marion, with her cheek glowing as she
spoke, 'that he has one daughter left out of a large family, and that his
affection for her is at least a redeeming feature in his otherwise cold and
selfish character. So we used to think of him; but even there we may have
been unjust'
'Your father was never unjust to any one, my bairn,' interrupted her
mother with an accent of mild reproof.
'Never willingly,' continued Marion; 'but surely we knew neither him
nor Gertrude till last summer, and then did we not all judge more favour-
ably of him for her sake? At three-and-twenty she was left alone in the
world with her father; one sister after another, to whom she had supplied
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
a mother's care, died by her side: at last her only brother went too; and
yet I ought not to say that even then Gertrude was left quite alone, for
she is surrounded by people who owe her everything, and love her as she
deserves; and she has one friend who would lay down her life for her;
and that is Miss Grant. You will think, Mr Morrison, that I am going to
describe a perfect heroine of romance, from whom to claim your own would
be unworthy of all knightly honour; but on one important point I can set
your imagination at rest-Gertrude is not beautiful.' Kenneth smiled in
answer to Marion's smile, which softened the glow of enthusiasm with
which she had spoken. Was it so, that the consciousness of his eye being
fixed on her own eloquent features, made her heart beat quicker, and her
cheek flush again? If so, the emotion passed as rapidly as it had arisen;
for a new thought had taken possession of her active mind; and it lent a
softer light to her countenance as she repeated, bending her head over
some work she had taken up from the table, 'Gertrude is not beautiful:
who that knew her would ever think of that?'
'I like, of all things,' said Kenneth gaily, 'to hear one lady describe
another. Tell me what she is like? Did you see her at Dalcairdie?'
'No,' replied Marion: 'that is the last place in Scotland my father would
have wished me to go to; though, indeed, Gertrude did most kindly ask
me there. I only saw her with her friends the Grants. As to her face, I
cannot describe it; no one would think of painting such a one: but if an
artist ever did give a correct idea of it, I should say he deserved a place
with those grand old masters who painted the spirit shining through the
material part.'
'Bless the bairn!' exclaimed Mrs Lindsay, 'what is she after? You
have a most pleasant voice, Marion, my dear; but what your words signify
I know not; and you are not used to talk with so little meaning.'
Kenneth looked, however, as if he quite understood her. Mr Lindsay
had by this time completely studied the letters he had given him, and now
looked up with a puzzled expression which did not escape his daughter's
observation. 'I should certainly prefer,' he said, 'consulting Mr Grant
before we take any decided step in this business. He is as great a friend
of the Morrisons as if he were sib to them; but there is not a man for all
that whom I would sooner trust, for he always sees straight into the heart
of any matter that is set before him. It appears that there is legal proof
wanting, that you, Kenneth Morrison, whom Lady Lucan testifies to having
received from the hands of Janet, are the same who three months pre-
viously disappeared from Dalcairdie; and therefore it behoves us to have
recourse to one who knows the law, and yet can discern more than what
law-books can tell.'
'Such is the judge I would choose,' replied Kenneth; and I commit
myself to your guidance most willingly.'
'We should set out in good time to-morrow,' said Kincaldrum; 'but
before we separate to-night, give us one more song, Marion, and let it be
the one you used to be so fond of—
"I hae nae kith, I hae nae kin,
Nor ane that's dear to me.”
Marion sung as she was requested, but her voice faltered for a minute,
12
THE LOST LAIRD.
till the exquisite melody seemed to inspire her; and then as she went on,
Kenneth asked himself whether it had happened to him, as in an Eastern
tale, that he had dreamed of the lovely form which now for the first time
was near him. He had indeed been haunted by a vision of beauty and of
grace; for he remembered his mother, and all that was most noble and
purest in the character of woman had woven itself in his mind round
that dim soft image, till it had become a spell to guard him from every
unworthy passion. Strangely it rose before him while Marion sung, and
surrounded her with its sanctity. Where had he heard her voice before?
When she ceased, he drew a long breath, but no words of compliment
would come to his lips.
'You doubtless know that song?' said Mr Lindsay, trying to look
perfectly unconcerned.
'I have often heard it,' replied Kenneth, amongst the English in
France; but as Miss Lindsay sung it now, a recollection of home, of my
father's house, came over me with wonderful distinctness. I could almost
have fancied myself a child again, playing by an open window that looked
out over a broad valley, in which gleamed distant waters. Yes! the sun
was sinking behind a group of dark trees to the left, and I was told of the
blood that was poured out in Scotland like water. The river looked blood-
red while Janet-for she I believe it was-spoke to me. Miss Lindsay,
you are a sorceress from my native glens; and your power has been
exerted to-night to bring the long-forgotten past before me!
'Accuse Janet, then, of witchcraft, rather than me,' replied Marion.
'She taught me that melody almost as soon as I could speak; and I have
no doubt given it the peculiar character of her singing, which used to be
wild and plaintive in no ordinary degree.'
At that moment the door opened, and Janet made her appearance.
'I was coming ben,' she said, 'when I heard Miss Marion singing, and I
stopped on the stairhead to hearken. It was just my own sweet leddy's
song that she lo'ed sae weel, and that I taught my Lily because she lo’ed
it, and for anither reason too. But the weird in a' things maun come to
pass that has begun this night. But eh, Kincaldrum, I wonder at you
keeping up the bairns this late, and that puir lad sae weary wi' his lang
travel!'
'Confess now, Janet,' said Mrs Lindsay kindly, 'that you are longing to
have him all to yourself in his own chamber.'
'I'll no deny it,' answered Janet.
But here Mr Lindsay interfered. He explained briefly to the old
woman his purpose of accompanying Kenneth on the morrow to Dunkeld,
to consult Mr Grant; and then exacted a promise from her that she would
not again speak to Kenneth until their return, which she gave somewhat
reluctantly. When at last Kenneth sunk to sleep on his snow-white
pillows, he was startled at seeing her once more bend over him with her
finger on her lips.
The following morning, after a substantial breakfast, which Mr Lindsay
intimated might precede a long ride, Kenneth set off with his host to the
neighbouring town of Dunkeld, from whence, indeed, he had come on the
previous evening. They dismounted at the door of a large old house near
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
the cathedral, and found Mr Grant in the garden, taking his usual morning
exercise up and down a trim gravel walk, which, being at the back of the
house, overlooked the magnificent terrace on the east bank of the Tay.
He was a little spare man, remarkably alert in all his movements, with a
twinkle in his eyes, and a good-humoured expression about his mouth,
which gave a peculiarly cordial character to the greeting with which he
hastened forward to meet his visitors. Mr Lindsay had his business too
much at heart to make any long introduction to the story he had come to
tell, and the old lawyer was speedily put in possession of every fact with
which he was himself acquainted. They had continued pacing up and
down the garden, and Kenneth observed the effect of the communication
on Mr Grant's cautious countenance, without being able clearly to decipher
its expression. At length he stopped short in his walk, and looking full
at Kenneth, he said- Mr Morrison (for so I willingly address you), the
subject on which my friend Kincaldrum has done me the honour to consult
me is one more interesting to my sister and myself than you would readily
suppose. It involves, at least to a great degree, the fortunes and future
prospects of highly-esteemed friends. Such I reckon James Morrison, now
of Dalcairdie, and the young lady his daughter. He begs me to inform
him what I consider the surest means of turning them out of house and
home, and I answer boldly-prove your right to the inheritance, and they
will surrender it to you without hesitation, whether any mere law-quibbles
interfere or not.'
'On no other grounds,' replied Kenneth, 'than such as may fully satisfy
a candid and clear-sighted man, would I wish to stand for my right.
Would it not be well that I should communicate at once with Mr James
Morrison, which strikes me as the most straightforward course to pursue?
I should then explain the singular promise exacted by Janet from my aunt,
and considered binding by Lady Lucan and Mr Ross. This alone can
account for the silence preserved with regard to me, and for my being
known in France by no other name than Kenneth Lucan—a distant relation,
as was supposed, of the husband of my benefactress.'
Mr Grant mused for a minute, still keeping his eye fixed on Kenneth's
open countenance, and then answered-' No: I think the first thing to be
done is to ascertain the degree of evidence that can be afforded by the
people still living, with whom, according to Janet's account, those weeks
were passed which intervened between the day you were carried from your
father's house, and that on which you were placed under Miss Grizel's care.
I am well assured that your cousin will yield only to such proof as will
stand the clearest daylight; but to that, believe me, he will give up the
broad lands he now holds as fairly as you could desire.'
'Then I entreat of you,' said Kenneth eagerly, 'let me set off this very
day to obtain it! I feel that if only my claim were allowed, and my father's
name borne in that place in which he died so foul a death, I could even be
content to go into poverty and exile once more with a light heart'
'No need for that, my boy!' interrupted Mr Lindsay. I entirely
approve of our friend's suggestion, and I will myself accompany you to the
Highlands, where'
'I beg your pardon, Kincaldrum,' said Mr Grant; 'but before the journey
is arranged, let me speak a word to you in private. Mr Morrison, I will
14
THE LOST LAIRD.
consign you to my sister's care for half an hour; she will be glad to hear of
our friends over the water; and we, meanwhile, will consider the letters
you have brought with you.' So saying, Mr Grant led the way into an
old-fashioned parlour, which reminded Kenneth not a little of some he
remembered at St Germains. It was rich in two beautiful Indian cabinets,
on the tops of which were ranged strange Eastern monsters, and rare old
china; the oaken floor was covered only in the centre by a Turkey carpet;
and from beneath the tall, slender-legged tables, rose large jars, which
exhaled the perfume of a long summer of roses. This was Miss Grant's
favourite sitting-room, and her brother did not venture to take his guests
Kenneth was then
into it without special permission asked and received.
formally introduced to her as Mr Lucan, just arrived from St Germains;
and he observed the quick flush which passed over her faded features as
she heard the name of the place which was associated with all her youth
had held dearest, and all that was still most sacred to her feelings. She
soon discovered Kenneth's connection with Mr Ross, from which moment
he evidently gained great favour in her eyes; and the conversation passed
rapidly over his long abode in France, his friends, and his pursuits, until,
being somewhat careless himself as to whether his gentle hostess became
aware of the object of his visit to Scotland or not, he perceived without
uneasiness that she more than half suspected his parentage; but her abrupt
reference to Miss Grizel Morrison was cut short by the entrance of her
brother and Mr Lindsay.
'You will be surprised, sister,' said the former, 'to hear that I have
accepted Kincaldrum's proposal to make a short journey with him, and
with our young friend, to whom he is anxious to shew some of the beauties
of our northern glens.'
'And how long do you mean to be absent?' asked the lady. 'Surely
you have had rambling enough about those awsome lone places in your
day to abide quiet now, like any other douce man at your time of life. I
have heard tell, too, that there are threatenings of a flood through the glens.'
'We will aye hope for the best,' answered her brother cheerfully; 'only
do you, Isobel, hasten our dinner hour. I have already sent to Mrs Lindsay
for her husband's valise, and yours, Mr Lucan, I know is here; so that
with stout ponies, and Donald for our man-at-arms, we shall return home-
let me see, this is Tuesday-by Saturday at the farthest.'
Miss Grant was probably accustomed to peremptory decisions on her
brother's part, for she made no farther objections; and within three hours
of that time Kenneth had the infinite satisfaction of seeing all prepared for
a journey which, Mr Lindsay informed him, would take him amongst some
of his father's most faithful friends. The glorious sun of August was
shedding its full tide of splendour on the woods and mountain scenery with
which Dunkeld is encircled, when they set out on their proposed expedi-
tion. Miss Grant, having watched the little cavalcade-consisting of them-
selves and a couple of servants, well armed with hunting weapons-turn the
corner of the street which led from her dwelling, sat down at her desk
to console herself for her brother's unwonted taciturnity by inditing a
long letter to Gertrude Morrison, containing, amongst other particulars
of her domestic history, a full account of the young stranger, with a
venture of a surmise as to his errand to the Highlands, which she
15
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
would willingly have retracted after the epistle had been despatched that
same evening.
It was not long before the travellers found themselves at the entrance of
the Pass of Killiecrankie; and as Kenneth looked up to the line of naked
precipices, with the hanging birchwoods beneath, clothing the terraced
sides of the lower hills, he thought no more fitting place could be imagined
for those to hide in who sought to escape pursuit or detection.
'How many,' he said to Mr Lindsay, who was riding near him, 'have
given thanks to God for the mountains during the troubled years that have
passed over this poor country!
'You may well say so,' he replied: 'there are safe enough corners here,
no doubt, to play at hide-and-seek in; but they are not to equal those we
shall see to-morrow. I did not "go out " myself, any more than my friend
Grant; but I'll not deny my predilections were in favour of those who did;
and many a queer visit have I paid before the affair was well blown over,
in the country we are now coming to.'
'You have already led me to suppose,' said Kenneth, 'that I shall soon
see some of my father's friends; but surely it is not in concealment that we
are to look for them?'
'Scarcely in concealment,' answered Mr Grant from behind: 'but the
man whom I wish first to speak to on this business leads a life which has
exposed him to sundry perils from the magistracy; and yet I'll not say
but that he is an honest man for all that. He is a cattle-dealer, and, as
such, has need of more than one lodging amongst the mountains. It is much
to his credit that, although he has been suspected many times of disloyal
practices, no deed of violence or of fraud has ever been laid at his door 4
and partly from his skill in keeping out of the way in bad times, partly
from his character for general integrity, Ewen Cameron has weathered the
storm better than any one of his class; and though he himself is not often
met with at fair or mart, his sons carry on business openly, and nothing is
heard to his dispraise. We shall find him to-morrow somewhere on the
lower hills of Benuarn.'
We e may not linger on the road pursued by Kenneth and his companions:
it was late before they reached the little inn above Clachag, at the northern
extremity of Glen Tilt; and after the fatigues of the day, they easily con-
tented themselves with such refreshments as it offered. Kenneth soon fell
asleep, wrapped in his plaid; and the following morning they were again
early on their way, fortified with some slices of dried venison and a draught
of whisky. They now left the high road, and struck across the tracts to
the east, which Donald, Mr Grant's favourite servant, was remarkably
expert at finding: he was a kinsman of Cameron's, having married one of
his daughters, who was now dead, and could generally tell his whereabouts.
As they approached Benuarn, Donald hastened on to acquaint his father-
in-law with their purpose, and returned in due time with a fine-looking
young man, one of Cameron's sons, who delivered a courteous message
from him, and led them to a narrow platform some little way up the moun-
tain, where the old man stood ready to welcome them. He was dressed
in the Lowland fashion: his snow-white hair formed a singular contrast to
his weather-beaten complexion and keen dark eye, and he looked as if he
might yet breast many a storm uninjured. He approached Mr Grant with
16
THE LOST LAIRD.
a friendly salutation in Gaelic, offering at the same time his broad muscular
hand, which was cordially accepted.
'We are come, Ewen,' said Mr Grant, 'to speak with you on some
matters connected with your past history; but I have no doubt your
memory will serve easily to recall them.'
'You are welcome, Mr Grant,' answered Cameron, 'to any information I
can give; and you and I have known each other too long not to know what
bounds there are to confidence between us.'
As he spoke, there was a quick glance towards Kenneth, which was in
a moment averted; and he pressed the travellers to accept some refresh-
ments in the bothie he had near at hand. Two or three gillies now made
their appearance, to whose care Cameron committed his guests' ponies, and
then led them along a narrow path, which seemed to run into the very
depths of the mountain. It turned suddenly round a huge boulder-stone,
which served as a door to a small ravine, screened at the farther end by
thickets of alder, birch, and holly, and enclosing a knoll of the softest
verdure, on which stood a substantial mountain dairy. Some milch-cows
were grazing near it, and the sound of falling waters was heard before they
themselves appeared in sight, throwing upwards a shower of foam from
the chasm which divided this fairy glen from the opposite heights. The
greater part of it was cast into shadow by the overhanging portion of the
mountain; but the sunlight fell full on the wooded bank on the other side
of the torrent, and on the masses of blood-red granite which rose above it,
affording here and there a footing to some fantastic pine, whose roots
scarcely clung to the soil. A table was already spread with abundance of
Highland cheer near the bothie, and Cameron's daughters, two rosy-cheeked
lasses in holiday attire, waited on the guests.
After a little preliminary conversation, Mr Grant turned to the subject
of his chief interest; but they found Ewen slow to speak of the events
connected with the rising of '45. He continued to look from time to time
towards Kenneth with evident curiosity, but refrained from asking any
direct question concerning him.
One object of our expedition,' observed Mr Grant, 'has been to shew
our young friend the scenery of these mountains; for he has lived abroad
nearly all his life, and it is all new to him.'
'He had best take a good walk with one of my long-legged boys,' replied
Cameron, with a slight expression of incredulity.
'There is nothing I should like better!' exclaimed Kenneth eagerly.
'This place recalls a thousand confused recollections of my journey when a
child, through a wild country of heath and wood. I could almost think I
knew a cave somewhere along this track, where I slept upon a cloak
thrown over the heather, and watched the morning light glimmering
through a hole in the roof.'
Eh, sirs!' exclaimed one of the girls, 'that must have been our first
place here!?
Peace, Effie!' said her father. 'Are you not ashamed of speaking
before strangers when none spoke to you?' He fixed his eye more
earnestly on Kenneth, and continued-'It must have been an unusual bed
to you, sir, or you would not have remembered it so well. Should you
recollect the names of any who were with you then?'
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
'No,' replied Kenneth: 'with one exception, I remember none.'
'And that one was?'
Janet Maxwell,' he answered.
A glow of satisfaction lighted up Ewen's features at the words; but
shewing only slight emotion, he rose from the table, and withdrew into the
bothie, from whence he speedily returned, with his blue bonnet drawn over
his brow, his plaid adjusted in a peculiar manner round him, and his whole
appearance altered by the Highland dress he had assumed. Kenneth
started to his feet as he approached.
'You were one who sheltered me then!' he cried; and it was not by
your present name I knew you.' He put his hand across his eyes.
Smith,' he thought; 'an English name, not likely; yet I cannot be
mistaken.'
'James Smith,' he said aloud; and Cameron lifted his bonnet from his
head, and took Kenneth's hand in both of his, with such reverence as he
might have shewn to a native prince, saying-You are the son of Morrison
of Dalcairdie. I almost knew it from the time I saw you come up the
strath; but I know it now by this token, that Smith was the name I was
known by when I lived upon your father's lands, a peaceful man, with wife
and bairns about me.'
'You have given the proof we wanted,' said Mr Grant, with some
huskiness in his voice, but in his most deliberate manner, ' of Kenneth
Morrison's claim to his father's property. Once more he owes you a great
debt; but not so great a one, Kenneth,' he continued, 'as you have already
owed.
That man gave up all that was wealth to him, for your father's
sake: he could not save his life; but as he was dragged a bleeding corpse
past his door, he saved his body from farther insult, and thus at least gained
for it Christian burial.'
Kenneth covered his face with his hands, and groaned aloud.
'Let the past alone, Grant,' said Mr Lindsay: 'we have long known all
these things; but they press overhard upon him.'
'Nay,' said Kenneth, looking up: 'I thank you rather for recalling it !
Such a scene as you have described, though it makes me feel still more
deeply the sacredness of my claim, takes so much of the brightness from
the world, that the path before me seems higher and less selfish than it has
ever done. If wealth and influence become mine, they shall be used for the
welfare of all who have suffered in my father's cause; and first,' he added,
grasping Cameron's hand, 'I will endeavour to shew my gratitude to you.'
'Speak not of it, Dalcairdie!' said the old man. 'My time on earth will
have been long enough when I see you in your father's house, and think
that I helped to save you for that day.'
'We ought now,' said Mr Grant, 'to lose no time in proceeding on our
journey, for much lies before us that should be done before to-morrow
night.'
'I'll not let you go down the mountain alone,' said Cameron. My son
shall accompany the young laird'
'Not so!' interrupted Mr Grant: 'the less observation we attract the
better, and Donald knows the road as well as themselves.'
'Go, then,' said Cameron; 'it may be you will not have been wholly
unlooked for!'
18
THE LOST LAIRD.
In a few minutes more the ravine and its inhabitants, who had received
with unbounded joy Cameron's news, were left behind, and the long tract
of moor and fell stretched again before our travellers. In the course of the
evening they reached a lonely farmhouse, where they rested for the night;
and there they heard that some fears had been excited by the rise of the
mountain-streams, and other appearances, which betokened an approaching
flood. It was not, however, considered to be near at hand, and the alarm
had only just arisen; so that although the little party determined on press-
ing forward as quickly as possible the following day, they had no fear of
not arriving in safety at their destination. What that might be, Kenneth
of course suspected; but as his friends did not explain the route they were
taking, he resolved to ask no questions concerning their future movements.
There was a thick mist over the face of the whole country when they again
set forward; heavy masses of vapour seemed hurrying from the coast
towards the inland mountain-ranges; and though, as the morning wore on,
the sun now and then gleamed out upon the nearer rocks that bounded
their road, or revealed the recesses of some deep birchen glade, it was soon
curtained again, and a strange reddish light was spread over the landscape.
Through mist and sunshine, passing doubt and exulting anticipation, one
sweet face smiled on Kenneth as he drew near his father's home: those
earnest, trustful eyes of Marion's seemed to give him assurance that truth
would prevail in his cause; the music of her voice blended with all the sounds
of nature around him; and he felt as if he was passing over enchanted ground.
His friends, when the rugged path they were pursuing permitted them to
ride abreast, appeared engrossed by their own conversation; and although
it was occasionally rendered more difficult by the rise of the mountain-
streams which crossed it, and obliged them to choose higher and more
circuitous ways, they went on a considerable distance without meeting any
decided check to their farther progress. They had halted at about twelve
o'clock, to partake of the provisions with which their servants had been
provided by Cameron, when Kenneth's attention was arrested by a low,
distant sound, resembling the confused hum of a multitude coming towards
them from the other side of the hill. He observed almost at the same
instant that Donald stole quietly away; and as the rest of the party
remained unconcerned, he speedily followed his example, under the pretext
of examining a curious group of stones at some little distance; and after
a quarter of an hour's active climbing, he gained a point from which he
looked down on the strath into which they were about to descend.
Wild and terrible was the scene which lay before him: for onwards, from
the north, came the waters which had collected in the Grampian chain,
overflowing the rivers fed by those tributary streams, which rise in its
hollows, till they now rushed with resistless violence along the valleys;
breaking through every embankment, filling up the course of every wintry
torrent, and bearing desolation on their way. Below him spread a fertile
tract of pasture-ground, which ran up into many defiles formed by the
spurs of the mountains, somewhere in whose neighbouring recesses he knew
that Dalcairdie lay embosomed. He could see through the rain, which now
began to descend in sheets, summer bothies swept away from the hill-side,
and cattle struggling with the water. Above every other sound rose at
intervals the loud cry of human anguish and fear; for close beneath him,
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
nestled down under a firwood which skirted the base of the height on
which he stood, lay a small hamlet, two or three houses of which were
separated from the rest by a stream, which now rushed past it swollen to a
mighty torrent. Had Kenneth followed his first impulse, on beholding
this unexpected scene, he would have made all speed to gain the valley, and
to give what help he might to its bewildered inhabitants; but remembering
the unprotected situation in which he had left his friends, he determined
to return first to them, and to see what shelter could be found from the
storm, which was every moment increasing in violence. On regaining the
group of stunted oak-trees under which he had left them, he saw them at
some distance close to a cottage they had passed on their way: he rapidly
explained the scene to which he had been a witness, and begged they would
remain in the cabin, while he himself returned to the hamlet. To this they
unwillingly agreed, and in another minute he was on his way back.
By the time Kenneth had reached the valley, the danger on all sides
had frightfully increased: the river was every moment widening its banks,
and had already borne away several cottages, and threatened the rest.
The feelings of all were wound up to the highest pitch; but there was a
steadfastness of purpose, and a calmness in the energy with which the
people worked in removing their goods, and in assisting the oldest and
weakest to escape from the most exposed parts of the valley, which told
impressively in their favour. Kenneth's eager help was first given to a
poor woman whose little habitation was already undermined; her children
were safe on a ledge of rock above it; but just as the roof fell in, he helped
her to drag from it a chest containing all the Sabbath clothes of the family;
and then he lent his well-nerved arm to an old man, who had been in vain
attempting to move it. And when both were placed beyond the reach of
the waters, he was just turning towards another group, when a rumbling
noise on the opposite side of the channel made all pause at their work: the
mist was still so thick that objects at a short distance could only be imper-
fectly seen, but the old grandfather guessed at once what calamity had
taken place.
There it is at last!' he cried: 'mony and mony's the time I have said
that bonny homestead stood on slippery ground! The spring behind it
was aye rushing strong when the burn was full, and the crack in the rock
was widening; but Elspeth wad tak nae heed to my warning; and to say
truth, I had e'en forgot it mysel the day. Archie! Willie !-a' of ye!
ye maun just go and help the wee auld bodie; for she'll run a puir chance
if she has nae present deliverance.'
'Ay,' answered one of the young men thus addressed; 'but wha is to
cross the water? Wi' sic a whirl and a skirling, what boat wad escape
being broken to pieces in a minute? Naething human could swim against
the tide, and the brig is a guid four miles off.'
'Not cross the water!' screamed Menie, the woman Kenneth had been
helping, who now ran distractedly towards them. 'Is it my ain blood I hear
saying that? I tell you Miss Gertrude Morrison is in that place ye are
looking on, that is just doomed to fa' to destruction! Robin met her this
morning on her black pony going to old Elspeth: she wad fain have had
her to go up to the big house long ago, and now she is there keeping her
lane wi' death before her!'
20
THE LOST LAIRD.
'Alas, the puir young leddy!' replied Archie sorrowfully, 'that the like
of her should perish!'
'She shall not perish!' cried Kenneth impetuously: 'tell me, is Dal-
cairdie so near?'
On the other side o' the hill yonder,' said Archie.
In a moment Kenneth had sprung to the point exactly opposite the falling
hut, which he could now plainly see; for a sudden gust of wind, which
had swollen the river with fresh spoils, had also raised the curtain of mist,
and he perceived the full extent of the catastrophe. The dwelling had
slipped, with a portion of rock to which its walls still adhered, down to the
very edge of the river: behind it foamed a waterfall-in front was a mass
of ruins; and to these clung a young woman dressed in black, supporting
a crouching figure, so small as to appear almost that of a dwarf. As he
stood gazing horror-struck on the sight, for human help seemed vain, he
heard a voice close to him, in a whisper of agony-'There-there, did you
say? my daughter!' He turned, and saw an old man whom he had seen
approach on horseback from the northern extremity of the fir-wood stand-
ing by his side, with such an expression of terror in his face, of unutter-
able anguish, as he had never before imagined. He knew in a moment
that it was Mr Morrison of Dalcairdie. His ready wit had already suggested
the only possible means of escape; for within these few moments more
than one desperate attempt had already been made to cross the river; and
he saw the boat, which with great difficulty had been launched, whirled
round like a nutshell, and broken against the huge fragments of stone
which had been swallowed up by the waters. Mr Morrison (for he it was)
seemed to catch a ray of hope from Kenneth's steady eye and dauntless
bearing. 'Save her!' he cried; 'you are young and bold! What!-do
you hesitate? Life-ay, more than a thousand lives, depends upon you!'
'There is a chance,' said Kenneth; a poor one, it may be, but the only
If I perish, few will grieve for me.'
one.
'I tell you,' exclaimed the old man, 'we know your errand! It was but
this morning we heard of it; and it did not keep her from venturing here
to persuade that old woman to leave her miserable hut for a place of safety.
If my daughter is drowned before my eyes, what will this world be to me?
Save her, and take all we have!'
An instant before, Kenneth's soul had been all on fire to attempt a
rescue, though he died in the venture. He now drew back with a glance
of scorn; but the evil feeling was instantly suppressed, and without one
word to tell the strife that rose within his breast, he called on Archie
to help him to effect his object. His eye was fixed on a huge pine-tree
which had been uprooted at some distance, and was now borne onwards
by the current; its branching head, he trusted, might be caught in the
mass of rubbish collected round the fallen cottage, and thus it might
form something of a raft over part at least of the river. He was not
disappointed; and the moment he saw its progress arrested, he leaped
into the tide. For one instant he disappeared under the boiling waters-
in another he had clung to the roots of the tree, and raised himself upon it;
slowly, half-swimming, half-supporting himself by its stem-now thrown
back by the violence of the currents, now again able to give directions to
Archie and Donald, he first secured the rope they threw to him, to the
21
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
tree, and then succeeded in reaching the opposite shore. Gertrude,
meanwhile, had roused her companion from her stupor, and placed her
among the branches, which afforded a scarcely less solid footing than the
crumbling heap on which she had lately stood; and now, as Kenneth
approached her, he heard her entreating that the aged woman should be
taken over first. The force of the waters threatened every minute to
dislodge the head of the pine from its restingplace; Kenneth obeyed her,
therefore, and succeeded in placing poor Elspeth's light weight in the
stalwart arms of Donald, who had followed him by means of the rope.
'Let me go on, sir!' said the brave fellow: 'you have done enough; and
we 'll hand over the puir old body to Archie Bean.'
.
'I have not done my work!' answered Kenneth. Keep the woman's
head above water, and do not let her catch hold of you, and you will
carry her safely.' He was already on his way back, but it was a more
difficult task to afford equal assistance to Gertrude. Trust yourself to
the rope,' he said, as he again approached her: 'it is your best chance;
and do not fear, even if you lose hold of the tree; there are those at hand
who would die to save you.'
'I trust myself to Heaven and to you!' answered Gertrude; and she
resolutely withdrew her arms from the branch to which she had been
clinging, keeping hold of the rope which Kenneth fastened round her
waist. It was drawn by strong hands and loving hearts from the shore:
but he upheld her; he spoke a word of hope and of faith as life seemed
departing; he raised her head; and when a tremendous rush, as of a fresh
cataract, poured over them, with one
with the other he grasped her firmly.
trunk floated on, Kenneth, with a last
Gertrude was restored to her father.
arm he held on to the pine-tree,
And when it passed, and the huge
effort, had reached the shore, and
He did not see it, for he had fainted.
The morning light was streaming through the half-open curtains in a
pleasant room at Dalcairdie when Kenneth again woke to consciousness.
How he had come there, whether hours or weeks had passed since the
events which he now slowly and dimly remembered, he knew not, nor
much cared to comprehend: his first feelings were the pleasant ones of
returning health, clouded over by such langour as made it almost too
great an effort to consider the probabilities of his situation. The silence
around him was broken only by sounds that seemed rather to increase
than to disturb the exceeding quiet; such as the singing of birds in the
boughs, whose flickering shadows against the wall he had been watching
for two or three minutes; the ticking of a watch near his bed; and the
turning of the leaves of a book. He drew aside the curtain with unsteady
hand, and saw Mr Morrison reading by the fireside in his dressing-gown
and slippers: his worn and furrowed face expressed anxiety indeed, but
yet more of patient determination; his forehead was high and narrow,
his lips thin and closely compressed. But it was not a countenance to
look upon with dislike; and there was a mournful softness in it, as he
now laid down his volume, and came to Kenneth's bedside. He gently
laid back his head upon the pillow, and took his hand to count his pulse.
'Is she safe, sir?' asked the invalid. 'The water was icy cold!'
"You were in it longer than my daughter,' replied Mr Morrison, gazing
22
THE LOST LAIRD.
into his face, and speaking slowly and distinctly, as if to ascertain whether
Kenneth understood him. 'She is well, and longs to express her thanks
to you; but we must keep you quiet at present, and not talk of all you
have done for us.'
'One word more!' said Kenneth eagerly. This house-is it yours?'
'Yes,' replied Mr Morrison; 'you are at Dalcairdie. Where else
should the preserver of my only child have been brought?'
Kenneth turned away his head; but no longer for sleep. In a few
minutes more Mr Lindsay stood by his side with overflowing eyes, and
broken exclamations of thankfulness and joy.
Come,' said Mr Morrison, 'we shall be bad nurses now; we must call
Gertrude to our help.'
'I am here, father,' said a low sweet voice, which had made the music
of Kenneth's long dreams; and he took the refreshing draught which
she held to his lips with a strange feeling that he had done the same thing
often before. 'You are our prisoner, Mr Kenneth,' said Gertrude, 'and
if I give you liberty of speech, you must give me your parole not to use
it longer than I approve of.'
'You have a right to dictate to me,' replied Kenneth, smiling faintly.
'I have only a few questions to ask-How I came here without any
knowledge of mine?-how long I have been in this strange state of forget-
fulness?'
'You were stunned by a blow you received in the river,' she answered
quietly. You have been in great danger; but now it is over; and all
you require is perfect quiet for a few days to restore you to health.'
'And then, my dear boy,' continued Mr Lindsay, 'we will talk of busi-
ness not before remember-not before.'
Kenneth
A flush passed over Gertrude's pale cheek at the words.
perceived it, for she was just arranging his pillows with the readiness
of an experienced nurse. And he, too, felt the painfulness of the silence
which followed; but his head was so confused, that he knew not how to
break it.
'Dr Selwyn will soon be here,' said Mr Morrison, looking at his watch:
'he only left us for a couple of hours.' And at the same moment the
person named entered the room, and advancing to Kenneth's bedside, soon
made himself thoroughly acquainted with the state of the case.
He was
a striking-looking man, in the prime of life, with a keen, dark eye that
seemed at once to see what he had to do, and a manner which inspired
perfect confidence in his judgment-two most important points in the pro-
fessional career he had so successfully pursued. He decided that Gertrude's
recommendation of silence and quiet should first be enforced; but he
thought so well of the change which had taken place in his patient's con-
dition, that he assured him his confinement to his room would be of very
short duration. 'I may safely leave you,' he said, 'under Miss Morrison's
care: if I could secure any like it for all my invalids, they would require.
much less of mine; you may be sure there is nothing I can do now that
can compare with it.' And so Gertrude, with the assistance of an elderly
servant called Judith, who was as anxious as the rest of the family about
the young stranger, continued her attendance upon him; and her manner
was so sisterly, and there was such an air of repose about her, that it
23
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
seemed to impart quiet to his own nerves to feel her near him. He found
that Mr Grant had been suddenly called away the very day after the acci-
dent which had so nearly proved fatal to him, by an account of his sister's
dangerous illness; and as Gertrude told him this, he asked eagerly
whether Miss Grant had written to her before it came on.
'Yes,' answered Gertrude, raising her soft expressive eyes to his; 'she
told me of your visit to Dunkeld, and of her suspicions regarding your
arrival in this neighbourhood. I wish I could think that her anxiety
regarding this very letter had had nothing to do with her present state.'
'Then you expected me?' said Kenneth, raising himself on his pillow.
'Yes, I remember now: you knew that I was coming to claim for myself
all you care for most. What a contemptible opinion your father must
have formed of me, as I stood by his side on the river-bank, when he
offered to give up all for your sake!'
'No, indeed,' said Gertrude soothingly. 'You do us injustice: what-
ever your claim may be, neither my father nor myself would desire
otherwise than that the most impartial examination should be made of it.
What is past cannot be recalled; but the future, I trust and believe, lies
bright and clear before you. Only let health and strength return before we
talk over these things, and all will be well.'
From that moment the subject was never brought forward by any one
near him. He slept and woke in his own old home, the place he had
learned to look upon with veneration-to possess which was the object
of his most ardent hope; and he recognised nothing, he knew nothing of
it, beyond the two rooms in which he lived; and the restraint, as he found
himself able to move from one to the other, became unbearable. Mr
Morrison's manner was cold and courteous, with an occasional gleam of
warmer feeling; Gertrude's was ever kind and composed: and as Kenneth
drew her into conversation, and learned something more of her past history
than Marion Lindsay had told him, he fully appreciated the high and
solid principle, the unselfish care for the good of others, and the well-
directed exertion, which had won such love and reverence alike from her
friends and her dependents. He saw that to her, life was simply a path of
trial, though brightened, indeed, by the gladness she diffused around her,
and by the hope that lay calm and full within her; and he thought how
many in her circumstances, with little to amuse her fancy and to excite her
intellect, and with evidently failing health, would have sunk into indolence
and apathy. Was he come, then, to darken that path ?to drive her
father and herself forth from their home?-to break up all the work she
was so wisely doing? He recoiled in bitterness of spirit from the picture,
and felt as if the confidence which all Gertrude's conduct towards him
expressed, added to his self-accusations. Yet how tell her anything of
this, while, so far as her father was concerned, any right he had to the
estate depended solely on a promise made in the agony of despair, and
which he earnestly wished might be for ever forgotten?
Dr Selwyn meanwhile brought occasional tidings of the world without.
The floods had done terrible mischief through the neighbouring straths;
but they had now abated, and no lives had been lost; even poor old
Elspeth had recovered her terror and her dangers, and only regretted that
her cottage could not be rebuilt on its former site. A week had elapsed
نا
24
THE LOST LAIRD.
since Kenneth had become an inmate of Dalcairdie; and from the morning
on which he regained his consciousness, his host appeared indefatigable
in making arrangements for the comfort and renewed prosperity of his
dependents. What conversation passed in his room bore entirely on this
subject; but he was constantly interested by the manner in which Dr
Selwyn brought forward Gertrude's views-often expanding them, now
and then slightly differing from her opinion, yet always proving very
clearly that he remembered all she had ever thought, and knew exactly
what she was most likely to wish for. There was a brightness and
buoyancy in his spirits, that seemed to bring an atmosphere of health
where he came: no wonder that she felt its influence, and smiled almost
gaily under it; but her cheerfulness, young as she still was, no more
resembled that which Marion Lindsay shed over her home, than the soft,
mild light of an autumn day does that, which dances over the earth in May.
'Dr Selwyn,' said Gertrude one evening, as she sat working, 'was
with us through our greatest trials: he attended my brother through his
last illness, and did much to comfort my father; he is so firm and deter-
mined where firmness is required, that one can always lean upon his
opinion; and so kind''that one must love him' seemed to hover upon
her lips; but she bent her head over her work, and while a feeling of
great relief passed over Kenneth's mind, they both remained silent. She
might have told more of her reasons for feeling happy in Dr Selwyn's
society, had she been as unreserved as Marion; but she left him to learn
by slow degrees how great a share his high religious principles, united
with his acknowledged talents, had had in raising her father's hope and
aim in life from the objects of mere worldly ambition to those a Christian
may rejoice to live for, even through sorrow or poverty.
On the fourth day of his convalescence, Kenneth could endure this quiet
state of things no longer.
'I must breathe the fresh air again,' he said to Mr Lindsay; 'the weight
of this silence oppresses me like the stillness of death itself!'
I should have thought,' said Mr Morrison in answer, 'that the view
from these windows might in itself have been interesting enough for your
present amusement.'
'No,' replied Kenneth with feverish impatience; 'there is no charm of
old acquaintanceship in it.'
I will not affect to misunderstand you,' he replied in his low distinct
tones; 'you wish to see more of Dalcairdie: there is no reasonable objec-
tion now,
I think, to your being gratified. Gertrude shall drive you in her
pony carriage, and Mr Lindsay and I will accompany you.'
'Such an afternoon as this,' said Gertrude, 'might well tempt us all out,
with no other inducement than its own beauty.'
'There is no need for hurry, my love,' said her father, glancing anxiously
towards her as she left the room to prepare for her drive; but in a very
few minutes she was ready, and Kenneth, leaning on Mr Morrison's arm,
slowly descended the great staircase. All was different from the faint
recollections he had cherished. He crossed a large hall with a few fine
pieces of statuary ranged on the marble floor, and some flowering shrubs
in the tall windows; the flood of mellow sunshine streamed upon them
through the columns of a stately portico; and before him lay a beautiful
25
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
parklike scene. Was this indeed Dalcairdie? Mr Morrison observed his
bewildered look with a smile, but offered no comment upon it, as they
joined Gertrude, who was already seated in her low garden-chair. There
was no hurry in her manner; her face was paler and graver than usual,
but her large lustrous eyes were lighted up as from the very depths of her
soul;
and when she spoke, there was a tone of excitement in her low,
musical voice, which again she seemed to master by the mere force of her
will. The sleek white pony stepped soberly along through a beautiful
plantation, which skirted the base of the hill at the foot of which the
mansion stood. Beyond it were groups of stately trees, beneath which the
cattle lay grouped in the lazy enjoyment of the golden afternoon.
My father,' said Gertrude, 'has employed many years in making alte-
rations in this place: the old Hall has assumed a Grecian exterior; indeed,
so much has been added along the front of the building, that none could
recognise it.
'You have made an English park,' said Kenneth, 'of a Highland tract
of moor and wood.'
'Do you, then, remember so well what it used to be?' asked Mr
Morrison.
'No,' replied Kenneth with some emotion; 'I remember nothing here.'
'I must take you out of the drive,' said Gertrude, 'to shew you my
favourite spot. Do you feel equal to walking with me some way along
that path we just see, opening now to the left? I perceive Dr Selwyn
coming towards us; he will give you his arm if you find a scrambling
walk too much for you.'
'Indeed,' answered Kenneth gaily, 'you do injustice to your own care:
there is nothing I should enjoy half so much as a ramble along the hill-
side with you.'
Here Mr Lindsay called to him to point out the peculiar beauty
of some English cows; and as Kenneth handed Gertrude from the
carriage, and then joined Mr Morrison and himself, they walked back a
little way to see them to greater advantage, and Gertrude went on quickly
to meet Dr Selwyn. Their conversation did not reach Kenneth's ear; but
when he shook hands with the latter, he observed that it had warmly
interested his companion; and now, as she led the way along the steep
winding path, his step grew firmer, and the youthful elasticity of his frame
returned with every breath he drew. They soon again descended the
spur of the hill on the other side, and came to a nook, altogether unlike
any portion he had yet seen of Dalcairdie. It was a small dingle traversed
by a mountain-stream, which formed a deep clear pool at the foot of a
group of old beech-trees. There was a ledge of gray rock opposite, over-
hung by a rowan thicket, and garlanded with wild flowers, which, with
every autumn tint upon the foliage, were reflected in the water; but its
chief charm lay in its air of perfect wildness and seclusion.
'We have outstripped Mr Lindsay and my father,' said Gertrude, 'but
I was impatient to bring you to my own favourite haunt: is it not a fit
place to sit down and dream in?'
'So fit a place,' answered Kenneth slowly, 'that a dream seems to hover
round me already—a strangely vivid one.' He paused; and the glow that
exercise had brought over his cheek faded to a hue of ashy whiteness.
26
THE LOST LAIRD.
His eye was fixed on the opposite bank, but his lips were firmly closed,
and Gertrude's countenance expressed the deepest anxiety. She sat down
by his side on a fragment of rock, and laid her hand gently on his, and
the very touch had a calming influence.
(
Speak to me!' she said. 'Think of us as your friends; of me as of
one who owes life to you, and whom you have saved wellnigh by the
sacrifice of your own: tell me what this vision is which affects you so
strongly ?'
Mr Lindsay and Mr Morrison stood near them with Dr Selwyn; but
Kenneth was utterly unconscious of their presence as he rose, and point-
ing to the gray rock jutting out of the copsewood, answered-' They stood
there-two men-for a moment, and a rout of soldiers followed them:
yonder was the way they went; and then all was still, and I was left alone
with Janet by the bonnie burnie dub.'
'He has told it !' shrieked a voice from the thicket as wild and shrill as
the cry of a sea-bird.
Kenneth started in amazement; for in another moment there, where his
memory
had conjured up the apparition of the fugitives, stood a group of
three persons-Mr Grant, Cameron, and Janet Maxwell; the last throw-
ing her shrivelled arms over her head in a fit of uncontrollable excitement.
They had just stepped out of the tangled copse, where, in the deep silence.
that reigned around, they had been near enough to hear every word that
had been spoken. Mr Lindsay grasped Kenneth's hand, and shook it
violently. Mr Morrison's manner, as he laid his hand upon Gertrude's
arm, had the quiet and decision of a resolution that had long been taken.
'Kenneth Morrison,' he said, 'you have been brought into a well-laid
snare; but, before the witnesses whom we have here assembled, I pronounce
that the test my daughter proposed has fully succeeded, and that your
claim is good, and your right to all your father held unimpeachable. And
now, my friends, let us welcome home the long-lost laird!' As he spoke,
he took Kenneth's hand in both of his, and his example was rapidly fol-
lowed by Mr Grant and Ewen Cameron; but none shook it more cordially
than Dr Selwyn, whose joy on the occasion seemed utterly incompatible
with the interest he usually evinced in all that concerned Gertrude.
'I tauld you how it was ordered,' whispered Janet, as she crept close up
to Kenneth's ear. 'The bonnie Snowdrop of Kincaldrum shall bloom at
Dalcairdie yet!'
Kenneth could have hugged the old woman on the spot; but turning
from her with a few hearty words of greeting, he said to Mr Morrison—' I
had no distinct recollection of this place, nor had I ever linked the story
of Prince Charles with its peculiar features: you know that I remembered
nothing in your house-how is it that all are so suddenly satisfied with my
imperfect evidence?’
'Not imperfect,' said Mr Morrison. 'Gertrude and Dr Selwyn arranged
a plan whereby every difficulty was to be removed; and I must say that,
although it was somewhat too theatrical for my taste, I think it could not
have been better, judging from the results.'
'We are all satisfied,' said Mr Grant. 'I consider the chain of evidence
perfect in every part.'
'Evidence!' cried Janet, breaking in upon the lawyer's argument: 'is
27
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
that the name ye ca' what gives Kenneth Morrison a right till his ain?
Ye have a' known what I tauld ye. Mr Lindsay, and the doctor, and a',
ken weel that he ca'd it the bonnie burnie dub when he was a wee bit bairn
by my side; and so he has named it now in the broad sunshine, as I prayed
and believed he wad.'
'Gently, my good woman,' resumed Mr Grant; 'that is precisely what
I was going to say. Your account, coupled with your kinsman Cameron's
and with Lady Lucan's, left little ground for legal objection; but to
remove any feeling on Kenneth's part that a promise made in a father's
bitterest sorrow formed the motive of Mr Morrison's very handsome con-
duct, Miss Morrison herself sent for old Janet, and devised from her story
such a test as all parties might consider final.'
'Let me, then, now congratulate the Laird of Dalcairdie on his restora-
tion to his family honours, and wish him, with all my heart, long life and
happiness!'
As Gertrude spoke, Kenneth raised the soft white hand she gave him to
his lips; but Mr Lindsay cried out, 'Her cheek, man!—her cheek! You
forget you are cousins!' And acting on the words, he kissed her as he
would have done a beloved elder sister.
'All that I have hitherto lived for,' he said, 'is now attained. Your
father and yourself have done far more for this place and its people than
any one else could have done through the years of my boyhood. If Janet
had never framed her plan of concealment, no better arrangements could
have been made for my welfare than have been carried into effect; and now,
if you will once more receive me for a few days as your guest, you shall
see that I am not ungrateful.'
And the whole party returned to the Hall, of which Kenneth was now
undisputed master, with feelings more easily imagined than described. His
were sobered in their first passionate rush by the earnestness of his purpose
to secure Gertrude and her father from whatever pain it might be in his
power to spare them; he had wonderfully recovered his strength during
the last half hour, and now he seemed to drink in health and elasticity of
spirit with every breath of his native air. As the long lines of the house
came again in sight, Mr Morrison pointed out to him the older portion of
the building, which rose in a heavy but not unpicturesque mass behind
them the richest ivy mantled round the high chimneys and over the
turrets, which were once the pride of the country-side; and the group of
stately cedars which he remembered, threw their dark shadows along the
Grecian colonnade: it was a strange harmony of the past and the present.
Little, indeed,' said Kenneth, ‘of all this wealth and beauty belonged
to my father: nor can I consider myself for a moment entitled to any part
of what is most justly yours.'
(
'No,' replied Mr Morrison, with a smile of peculiar meaning playing
over his thin expressive features; 'I do not intend to burthen your young
and generous spirit with a sense of obligations you cannot repay-we will
leave our good friends, Grant and Kincaldrum, to settle what is yours and
what is mine; but as we become better acquainted, you shall learn the
reasons which induced me to lay out large sums of money on this estate,
and to build so extensively that, in fact, the house in which you were born
is now scarcely inhabited: we are, indeed, become few to live here.'
28
THE LOST LAIRD.
That evening, which all principally interested in the events of the day
seemed equally anxious should draw to a close, was ended by prayers read
by Mr Morrison, according to the form of the Episcopalian Church, in the
oratory or small chapel attached to the house. It was a short but most
solemn service; and though many eager, and not a few reproachful glances
were directed towards Kenneth, when first he entered and took his place
with the rest of the family, there were none that did not sink reverently
before Mr Morrison's clear eye and noble manner, when, prayers being
over, he in few and simple words introduced him to his household as the
Laird of Dalcairdie.
'Not willingly have I done this wrong,' he said, 'in keeping back the
inheritance of the orphan; and yet, God knows! most joyfully do I now
restore it fourfold. A kind and open-handed master I am sure I shall
leave in my place; but those who wish it may follow my daughter and
myself to the Grange, where we intend soon to take up our abode.'
There was a fervent 'Amen,' as Mr Morrison ended, from Janet, who
sat in one corner, half-hidden by a pillar from sight, with her glittering
eyes fixed upon Kenneth, and her whole soul apparently absorbed in the
feeling of his presence. Thereupon ensued a startled look among the
servants, and a half-suppressed movement towards the door, as if some
supernatural sight had been expected; but nothing more awful followed
than that Ewen Cameron, who had been standing by Janet, stepped
respectfully forwards, and addressing Mr Morrison, he said-'If I might
speak in sic a solemn place, I also would fain say one word, and ask pardon
from you, sir, whom I have hated many is the year with a sore hatred;
and for an unchristian act, I fear me now, that I have done'-
Speak boldly, my friend,' replied Mr Morrison; 'a faithful servant such
as you have been shall never want honour from me. So far as I know, we
have not met before this day, unless, indeed, it has been in the dark, and
under circumstances which a brave man should never have placed himself
in. I would rather,' continued he with a tone of authority, 'that our con-
versation should be in private.'
'As you please, sir,' answered Ewen carelessly; 'but I would have you
remember that I was the laird's foster-brother, and not his servant, and that
the honour of a gentleman may sometimes consist with skulking in times
like those that are past.'
'We will not prolong the subject,' replied Mr Morrison, still standing
near the lectern at which he had read. This is not an hour or a place
suited to it; but to-morrow, in the laird's study, we will enter into it as
fully as you please, and in the meantime most cordially do I give any
pardon you may think it needful to ask.' So saying, Mr Morrison slightly
inclined his head to the assembled household; and with many blank looks
of disappointment they slowly withdrew without another word being
spoken, excepting a low mutter from Janet, to the effect that a Southron
could no more change his nature than a leopard his spots.
As they left the oratory, Gertrude said to Kenneth, with a degree of
bashfulness that added to the softness of her manner, in itself always so
composed and dignified—‘I cannot yet give up my charge of you, and must
positively enjoin more rest upon you to-morrow than I imagine you will be
inclined to allow yourself. I shall be ready, however, to walk with you if
29
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
you wish it early, and to shew you all that we have done during the years
we have lived here. We may find that your memory serves you even
better than you are now aware of.'
'I am your guest, if no longer your prisoner,' replied Kenneth gaily;
and could not wish for greater pleasure than to obey your commands.'
Always adhere to those words, my dear fellow,' said Mr Grant to him
as they directly afterwards parted for the night at Kenneth's door. 'Ger-
trude Morrison lays her command upon us all to love her, and serve her
well, even without saying a word; and who should have better opportuni-
ties of knowing her worth than yourself? Come, come! a pleasanter
arrangement may be made yet than her betaking herself for the rest of her
life to the Grange, which is but a dull old place compared to this; though
her father, with his great English fortune, and his taste for Grecian archi-
tecture, may make it habitable for himself.'
'She would do any man honour by becoming his wife,' replied Kenneth
gravely. 'Have you not observed that Dr Selwyn thinks so too?'
'Whew! sits the wind in that quarter?' answered the old lawyer,
shrugging his shoulders. 'There is no accounting for a woman's taste,
though she be the wisest of her sex; but there may be a remedy.'
'Pray, do not undertake to find one on my account,' said Kenneth,
unable to suppress his amusement at the sudden destruction of Mr Grant's
airy castle, and his evident annoyance thereat. 'My own plan, so far as I
have formed any, is to return almost immediately to France, for an inde-
finite time, so as to allow Mr Morrison and his daughter to arrange theirs
without the slightest interruption from my presence.'
'And leave Kincaldrum and myself to look after your interests? Well,
you will not be so far wrong in that respect, for you are over-young to care
much for them yourself.'
That night Kenneth wandered in dreams with Marion Lindsay through
the woods and by the burn at Dalcairdie; and when he woke, and the
bright sunshine brought him back to the realities of life, they seemed
scarcely less delightful than his sleeping fancies. He found the family at
breakfast when he left his apartment; and as soon as the meal was over
he reminded Gertrude of her promise. They went out together, and she
led the way round the cedars, through a wicket, which admitted them into
a garden, laid out in the formal French taste, under the gray walls of the
old hall; and in a moment they had passed into so different a scene from
the one which by this time had become most familiar to Kenneth, that it
seemed scarcely possible so slight a boundary should have divided them
from it. There was, however, no air of desolation round them; the place
simply looked as if a spell had fallen upon it, in all its summer beauty,
twenty years before; and no mortal had trodden there since. The pears
were ripening round a low bay-window, which opened nearly to the ground,
amongst large clusters of red roses, and a profusion of trailing flowers fell
from the stone vases with which the terrace was adorned; the parterre
beneath was as gay as if fairy fingers had tended it; the sound of 'the
golden bees' was heard; and now and then the notes of birds from the
thick branches of the trees which spread over the low outer-wall. Even
the little Triton, who was blowing his conch-shell in the fountain in the
centre of the garden, threw a bright shower of water into the stilly air.
30
THE LOST LAIRD.
'My mother's garden!' said Kenneth almost in a whisper. 'How
beautiful it is!"
'Yes,' said Gertrude, 'we have cherished it for her sake. My sisters
and myself tried to keep every plant, and even to sow again every flower
we found here. It had all the charm of mystery to us, for we scarcely
allowed any one to come here but ourselves; and as we grew older there
was a strange superstition attached to the place, which, while it determined
my father to close the old rooms by degrees, because he feared its effect on
our spirits, only made us the fonder of this garden, where no ghost was
supposed to lurk, or at least not in the daytime.'
(
What appearance,' asked Kenneth eagerly,' was ever seen here?'
One,' replied Gertrude, 'which I imagine will not be very long unex-
plained: it was that of a tall Highlander in the prohibited plaid, and full
accoutrements of the northern clans. There had been rumours more than
once among the servants of mysterious footsteps, and of a shadowy form,
which glided through rooms which were safely locked, and passages of
which every outlet was known; but we attended little to them till about
the time of the death of my eldest brother, when my father, sitting alone
late in the evening in that bay-windowed room, which is still called the
Laird's Study, was startled by the appearance of an armed Highlander, who
suddenly stepped before him, with finger pointing in the direction of the
room in which our poor Edward lay, and in a whisper bid him seek for the
rightful heir of Dalcairdie. My father was the last man in the world to
believe in the supernatural character of his visitor; but although he
instantly rose, the figure managed to elude his grasp, and, strange to say,
disappeared, as if it had sunk through the earth. From that time we have
seldom been disturbed, but the servants have more than once assured us
the place was haunted; and certainly unaccountable noises have been heard,
which, echoing through the long-deserted rooms, have not been without
their effect upon our nerves.'
'You remember Ewen Cameron's confession last night?' said Kenneth.
'My own conviction is, that during the years in which he was obliged to
seek safety in concealment, he found his knowledge of the intricacies of this
old dwelling his best chance of insuring it: you may depend upon it, he
was the mysterious personage who drove you from these apartments.'
'I can scarcely say he did that,' said Gertrude smiling sadly. 'My father
found constant employment and amusement in building; for a long time he
trusted that it was for his son; and then when that hope failed, he still
liked the work he had done himself better than that of his predecessors.
But my delight has always been here.' She checked herself, as if she feared
to say too much of her love for the place she was so soon about to leave :
and at the same moment the casement of the bay-window was thrown up,
and Mr Morrison and Cameron appeared at it. The story of the nocturnal
visitant had been told exactly as Kenneth had predicted it would be, but
Gertrude and himself heard now with deeper interest than ever the tale of
the escape of those fugitives whom Alexander Morrison had died to save.
'Here,' said Ewen Cameron, addressing them as they stood in the small
panelled room, lined with bookshelves, to which he had retired to write
his last letter—'here is the passage by which, I make no doubt, the laird
led them forth to the fir-wood; and by which I found my way easily into
31
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
the house whenever I had a mind to get a quiet night's lodging.' As he
spoke, he touched a spring, which instantly opened a trap-door, so artfully
contrived in the massive mouldings of the wall that no human being could
have discovered it. 'There are many such hiding-places as this,' he con-
tinued, in the old houses in Scotland; I could tell you many a prank
that has been played among them you would scarcely believe; but sorry
I am that ever I should have caused alarm to those who have behaved so
handsomely as you, sir, and as you, gentle lady, have done now: for all that
my heart is big with joy that our lost laird is come back to his own.'
'And most cordially do we rejoice with you,' said Mr Morrison firmly.
Now, Kenneth, let us ride down to the glen, and see what can be done to
repair more completely the devastation caused by the flood: Dr Selwyn is
to meet us there. Gertrude, will you be of the party?'
It was towards the end of October, when a promise of prosperity was
again smiling through the valley, that Gertrude and Marion Lindsay, who,
with her parents, had arrived on the preceding evening at Dalcairdie, were
passing together through a small churchyard not very far from the house.
It lay around a gray tower, whose spire shewed that it had once formed
part of a church, the ruins of which might still be seen shrouded with
ivy. The friends paused by a tomb half raised above the heather, which
bore the names of Alexander Morrison and of Margaret his wife. 'How
often I have felt,' said Gertrude, 'as if, from this lonely grave, sad voices
reproached us for possessing wealth not justly ours! It was only an over-
strung fancy working upon a sorely-tried heart, I know; yet the eyes of
that poor murdered mother have seemed fixed upon me while I sat night
after night by the side of my dying brothers, as though they asked me
what had become of her child! You may now imagine something of the
relief it was to me when all was made clear!'
'Surely, dear Gertrude,' replied Marion, 'no blame ever rested upon you
or yours; and your father has acted so nobly'
(
Say justly rather,' answered Gertrude: 'Kenneth alone has had a right
to be generous.'
His praises brought a bright blush to Marion's cheek, as she said—‘I
am so glad you are to be married from your old home! But tell me how
it was, that having known Dr Selwyn so long, you never thought of this
before?'
'It may have been thought of,' said Gertrude, in her turn blushing;
but perhaps he never would have spoken if he had not seen me poorer
than I was, and believed we wanted a home. But we shall not live far off,
Marion. When the church-bells ring out their welcome to the lost laird
and his bride, we shall hear them by our Christmas fireside. My father
feels already that sons are given to him again in Charles Selwyn and in
Kenneth Morrison."
'And I, who never knew a sister, have found one in you, dear Gertrude !
Oh, how often good may come out of seeming evil, if only we have trust
in one another!'
GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.
A
N attempt to compress within the limits of this Paper anything like a
history of the poetical literature of Germany, would only make our
pages a catalogue of names and dates; yet we may give, in connection
with a few specimens of German poetry, such outlines of its history and
characteristics as may afford some guidance to those who wish to read more
than our brief review.
If disposed to be critical, we might begin with the question so often
asked-'What is poetry?' but we shall take the word in its widest and
most popular sense. As the people understand this word 'poetry,' in
Germany as in England, it comprehends all writings in verse which display
imagination or invention; it embraces, therefore, such widely - different
productions as the homely tales of Hans Sachs and the noble ballads of
Schiller; the marvellous dramas of Shakspeare and the rude 'Corn-Law
Rhymes' of Ebenezer Elliott; and we are not aware that any critic has
authority to alter this wide definition. According to the general decision
of readers, Homer and Horace, Hans Sachs and Goethe, Shakspeare and
Pope, Burns and Wordsworth, must all be received as 'poets;' yet how
widely and clearly distinct are the minds thus named together! Two
poets, both allowed to be great, may have little resemblance to each other,
excepting in the fact, that both have written inventively in verse. How
wide, for instance, is the interval between Shakspeare, the creator of a
dramatic world crowded with strongly-marked characters, and Words-
worth, whose verses give us scarcely the outlines of any character,
excepting his own! In this respect, the latter resembles Byron-from
whom he is clearly distinguished on all other points-another instance of
the manifold varieties of genius comprehended under the name of 'poet.'
These prefatory remarks are by no means intended to depreciate criti-
cism (though criticism in England ranks very low in our estimation), nor
to suggest an inference that all judgment on the comparative value of
various classes of poetry must be left to individual taste: this is far from
our meaning. On the other side, we believe that true criticism or analysis
may estimate the value of poetry as truly as we can judge of distances by
our recognised standards of measurement. For granting-in accordance
with the public decision-that Homer, Horace, Sachs, Goethe, Shakspeare,
Pope, Burns, and Wordsworth, must all be classed together as 'poets,' the
questions still remain to be determined by criticism: 'How must we recog-
No. 68.
1
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
nise the great poet?'-'How much did he invent?'-and 'What qualities are
there of moral truth, spiritual greatness, or human interest, or fine senti-
ment, or rich humour, or pathos, to impart additional or peculiar value to
his poetry?' In short, we would reject as arbitrary all that style of criti-
cism which once attempted to prove that Alexander Pope was 'no poet;'
while we would honour that analysis which shews the distance between
such a drama as 'Hamlet' and a poem like the 'Rape of the Lock.'
(
(
The application of the above remarks to German literature will be very
plain when we state, that the comparative estimates of German poets, even
by their own countrymen, are by no means clear and certain. It cannot
be said that the reputations of even the most celebrated poetical writers of
Germany are as unmistakably established as the characters of our Shak-
speare and Milton, or even our Pope and Goldsmith. To prove this, we
might quote long passages of enthusiastic praises bestowed upon Goethe,
and then contrast them with the low estimates of the same poet given by
such writers as Görres and Novalis; or we might quote A. W. Schlegel
when he denies the truth or reality of Schiller's dramatic characters;' or
other writers who have ventured to affirm that Schiller was no born poet,
but only a man of talent, who, by great industry, acquired a certain facility
in the use of poetical phraseology;' or another hardy writer (named Riemer,
if we remember well), who says that 'Schiller stole all that was good in his
poems from Goethe' (!) If opinions can thus differ respecting men of the
highest note, then we shall not be surprised to find contradictory assertions
with regard to the merits of inferior men-for instance, when we find
Wieland, a man widely celebrated in his day, now declared to have been
no poet at all.' We have briefly noticed these varieties of opinion to
shew the necessity of a wide definition of poetry, and also of toleration in
our judgments. When 'doctors disagree,' smaller men should not pro-
nounce their censures as oracles. We must beg the critical reader of this
Paper to extend toleration to our opinions if they should happen to be
opposed to his own. If, for instance, he finds that we speak in very
moderate terms of some writer-say Wieland-whose name has filled a
considerable space in German poetical literature, we must respectfully beg
that he the critical reader-will not attribute our comparative neglect of
such a writer to ignorance. These remarks will not be thought unnecessary
by those who know the vagueness of many English criticisms on German
writers, especially if they consider that we must, in this brief review, make
several statements for which we cannot assign all our reasons.
(
Without more preface, we proceed to estimate, as fairly as we can, the
value and significance of German poetry: perhaps our best way will be
to give some outlines of the history of poetical literature in Germany, and
then to attempt something like a classification of its productions.
Of the oldest period, or the times preceding the outburst of chivalrous
and romantic poetry in the thirteenth century, we shall say little; for
although German antiquaries have indulged in many interesting specula-
tions regarding the poetry of that period, its remains, which have been
preserved down to our own times, are few. Yet from these it has been con-
jectured, and with great probability, that ballads, or fragments of the oral
poetry of very early times, must have been preserved by tradition, until
2
GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.
they were collected and reproduced in the form of the 'Nibelungen-Lied,'
by some unknown writer of the twelfth or thirteenth century. Of this
singular and interesting old epic we need say no more here; for anything
like a fair account of it-such as may be found elsewhere *-would occupy
too much of our space. But another, and one of the most precious remains
of this early time, must at least be briefly mentioned here: it is the 'Life
of Christ,' or a versification of the Gospel narrative, and was written by
Otfried, a monk, in A. D. 863. This was the first German work composed
in rhymes, as the more ancient ballads to which we have alluded were
marked by alliteration without rhyme. It is very interesting to trace in
this venerable relic the roots of the Teutonic words which we, as well as
our German neighbours, are now employing every hour-
6
'In days of yore how fortunately fared
The minstrel, wandering on from court to court,
Baronial hall or royal.'
These lines are strictly applicable to the poet's profession in Germany in
the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries-the times of the 'Minnesingers.'
So far remote are those times from our modern thoughts and ways—espe-
cially in hard-working England-that it is difficult to make their facts
appear otherwise than as dreams.
The very life of those old times,
'wandering on from court to court,' devoted to minstrelsy, chivalry, and
the praise of fair ladies, was exactly what we in these modern days call
romance;' while our actual life, our journeys through hills instead of over
them, and at the rate of some forty miles per hour, our gas-lighted cities,
our commonplace crossings of the Atlantic, our Manchester mills, and,
perhaps more than all, our telegraph wires, which carry thoughts with
something like the speed of thought-would have presented to a minstrel
or romancist of the thirteenth century glorious materials with which he
would surely have constructed a tale far more wonderful, and, for his contem-
poraries, a thousand times more improbable than 'Prince Arthur.' This
consideration may perhaps enable the reader now to look upon the life of
one of the old minstrels as a reality.
The name of Walter von der Vogelweide may mark the characteristics
of this age; for Walter was, like many others, a knight and a minstrel—
one whose life was a romance, and whose verses remain to give us some
glimpses of the times in which he lived. Sometimes we find him hailing
the reappearance of spring after a long winter, and almost imitating the
carollings of birds in his praise of nature; at another time he celebrates,
in chaste and melodious verses, the beauty and grace of the lady to whom
he devotes his songs, but whom he never names; then suddenly, on
turning over a page, we are surprised to find the gentle Minnesinger
suddenly changed into a stern satirist, denouncing the political _and
religious corruptions of his times, even venturing to rebuke the 'Pope
of Rome,' and predicting, as many other earnest reformers have done, a
speedy ruin of the world. These didactic and satirical verses shew that
Walter lived beyond the most flourishing times of chivalry and minstrelsy,
*An analysis of the Nibelungen-Lied,' with translated specimens of its style,
will be found in the volume on 'German Literature' in 'Chambers's Instructive and
Entertaining Library.'
3
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
and saw the coming of that cloud which passed over both politics and
poetry in Germany in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. To speak
of the lays of the Minnesingers generally-we might select from them
a few which would please even now; but, to tell the whole truth, a fair
translation of the greater part would not please modern readers; for both
the love-songs and the lyrics in praise of nature would be considered tame.
The true characteristics of these old poems are youthfulness of feeling,
melodious language, and an almost feminine gentleness. There is hardly
anything like passion even in the love-songs-indeed minne, the word by
which they were named, does not strictly mean 'love,' though we can find
no other English word for it. In one respect, however, we must commend
these lyrics: they served the true purpose of poetry; they were united
with the real lives of the Minnesingers; they were written not to be read
in solitude, but to be delivered with the living voice; to be sung to the
lute, or some other stringed instrument of the guitar kind, in the presence
of song-loving men and ladies,
whose bright eyes
Rained influence and adjudged the prize.'
This was a natural use of poetry, and it is necessary now to refer back
to such primitive practice that we may learn what poetry ought to be.
Nothing but long conventional usage could lead us to tolerate such an
artificial thing as a long poem, filling a closely-printed volume, and in-
tended to be read and enjoyed in solitude and silence. The most genuine
and natural use of poetry in our modern days is when some friend recites
to another some flowing song or lyrical ballad, or when a company unite
to listen to readings or recitations from our best poets. If poetry is not
to be musical, if the ear as well as the mind is not to be gratified, why do
we not turn it into prose at once? We must go back to the origin, the
natural history of poetry, to find the best criticism upon it. Through
forgetfulness of this, many long, prosy, so-called poems have been written
during the last half century, which will certainly be forgotten before A.D.
1900. One word more on this interesting point: it may be said that we
have still many songs set to music and sung; but we think it might be
proved, if we had space here, that the modern style of music is not adapted
to bring out and interpret the spirit and meaning of the highest poetry.
We believe that fine recitation, or, in other words, the melodious, im-
passioned, and expressive speaking of poetry, is the highest and purest
music to which we can listen!
Into this digression we have been led by the Minnesingers. We must
now leave them, and turn from the lays of chivalry to popular versification—
from poetry to doggrel. Of course this change did not take place in reality
so suddenly as we here represent it on paper; but, in sober truth, the
fourteenth and fifteenth centuries were as prolific in doggrel or low versifi-
cation as the thirteenth century had been in poetry. This change in litera-
ture was indicative of important changes in society, to which we must now
allude. The code of ethics which characterised the institution of chivalry
was too conventional, too much the creature of imagination, to bear the
tests of time and the rude assaults of ridicule. We may trace, even to its
palmiest days, that tendency to present itself in extravagant contrast to the
4
GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.
dictates of sober sense which ultimately made it the butt of popular
ridicule. The splendour of the institution under Frederick was so attractive,
that a crowd of imitators sprung up, deficient in the inward calling, the true
enthusiasm necessary to sustain the knighterrant at his proper degree of
dignity. Hence we find the original profession of high devotion to honour-
able ladies lapsing into licence, and the vocation of the chivalrous minstrel
degenerating in the hands of mechanical composers of monotonous stanzas.
Indeed minstrelsy became a trade, and, like other trades, was injured by
overabundant success.
"The decline of morals aroused some minds to express their censures
freely on clergy and laity in satirical and didactic poems; and among these
the best of minstrel-reformers was Walter, whose verses are full of sound
proverbs on the affairs of public and private life. The didactic tendency
which he gave to the lays of the Minnesingers appeared afterwards in the
"Walsche Gäst," a system of lay morals. By degrees it descended to the
lower classes. Poetry turned away from courtly to popular audiences; and
the conventional morality of the Minnesingers was changed for a popular
didactic and satiric style, often coarse enough. Hans Rosenplut, in 1460,
was one of the most popular poets of this class; and was followed by
Michael Beheim, whose style was very rude. As the knightly school of
poetry had left out of its consideration, as unworthy of celebration, the
lives and doings of the people, these could not be expected to remain satis-
fied with a strain of poetry which never appealed to their feelings. They
revenged themselves for this neglect by producing a poetry of their own, in
the shape of satirical fables, on the hypocrisies and mummeries of courtly
life. In the fourteenth century this style of poetry, if we may so cheaply
employ the name, prevailed over the decaying school of chivalry. Thus a
false and conventional refinement lapsed into the tone of vulgar satire. So
every covering thrown over the surface of society, unaccompanied by a true
general improvement of the minds and dispositions of the people, is sure to
be torn away by some rude outbreak of the real popular character.'
Of German poetry, or rather versification, in the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries, we can hardly speak, except in a style which to English readers
may look like caricature. Surely the Muses never had so great a number
of unworthy worshippers as during these times in Germany! Never, else-
where, were such a number of hopeless subjects simultaneously afflicted
with the cacoëthes scribendi. Versification was now, indeed, the favourite
popular amusement. The ropemakers, the smiths, barbers, bakers, potters,
weavers, butchers, coopers, wheelwrights, and tailors, all had their songs
celebrating their several occupations. There is something very good,
though sometimes comical, in the spirit of these homely productions. We
should well like to see such a fashion revived, but in a better style, so that
life and its interests might be once more linked with song. By the by, we
have heard some very prosaic persons condemn all notions of spreading
such influences as poetry and music among the people, calling them ' dreamy,'
'Utopian,' and 'fantastic;' yet we find that such 'dreamy notions' were
facts, realities, and so long ago as in the fifteenth century. "Tis true we
cannot say much for the quality of the poetry then current; but it was a
poetry for the people; it had a living interest; it was a moving power in
(
5
CHAMBERS's PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
society; and we must leave the reader to consider if such a poetry has not
more import than a great part of the printed verse of modern times, which
fills the pages of neat foolscap octavo volumes, and, escaping the notice of
the public, falls into the hands of some 'stale, flat, and unprofitable' critic,
to be manufactured into a stinging article. We must say something more
of the curious productions of the fifteenth century; but, as we have already
noticed, our statements here are so much in danger of seeming like exag-
gerations, that we shall prudently take shelter under a quotation from a
German literary historian and critic, Gervinus, whose authority on this
point will not be disputed:-'If we would understand the coarse and low
style in which poetry was written in these times, we must remember with
what a strange medley of topics versification was connected in the fifteenth
and also in the sixteenth century. There was, in fact, hardly any class or
calling in society which did not meddle with poetry; [so-called] and the
lowest and most vulgar topics were now thought worthy of illustration in
verse. The doctors gave their regimina sanitatis and their rules of diet, &c.
in Latin and German verses; astrology and physiognomy were explained
in rhymes; artists described their paintings and carvings in rhyme; topo-
graphy and histories of towns were given in yerse; the pious man had his
book of prayers and confessions done into rhyme, and the hypochondriac
carried about with him his little book of rules of eating and drinking, with
prescriptions of physic, all neatly done up in verse. The peasant had his
rules for foretelling the weather put into verse to assist his memory, and
verses for the same purpose were written on all the sciences. One Jacob
Mennel gave an analysis of the game of chess in rhyme; Hans Folz wrote a
poem on "Crockery," describing carefully the important uses of jugs, mugs,
basins, plates, spoons, and pewter-dishes; the same writer also gave essays
in rhyme on the use of "Warm Baths," and the "Rise of the Roman
Empire;" one Jacob Kobel wrote a poem (?) on “Good Behaviour at Meals
Martin Agricola gave in rhyme a treatise on "Instrumental Music;" the
military art was put into rhyme; fencing-masters explained in verses the
use of the sword; falconers made stanzas on the proper mode of cramming
and training young birds; farriers prescribed in common metre; confec-
tioners extolled in rhymes their own pie-crust; and lastly, one named
Schaller wrote a whole "Natural History" in rhyme!'
•
Said we not truly that a fair account of the poetry (!) of these times
must read like a caricature? Yet, the above paragraph is simply, a fair
statement of facts, of which abundant evidences have been preserved.
Nay, we have more than all this to tell: the art of rhyming was not left in
these times to individual cultivation; it was not a solitary occupation
pursued in the lonely garret, but, like other handicrafts, had its guilds
and unions, and was taught like shoemaking. In fact, joint-stock com-
panies were formed to produce rhymes! But now we will put away the
tone of ridicule; for really there was something very good in these said
companies, or, to call them by their proper name, Singing and Versifying
Clubs. They afforded some intellectual recreation to the people in times
when it was greatly needed; and even we in England, in the nineteenth
century, when we consider what are the prevailing popular amusements of
our own day, must confess that we do not find ourselves in a condition to
laugh fairly at these honest German citizens and handworkers of the
6
GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.
fifteenth century, who united themselves to serve the Muses as well as
they could-who met together, when their daily tasks were done, and
forgot all their toil and care while the evening hours were devoted to the
recitation and singing of verses. The example is so pleasing that our
readers will perhaps like to see some of its details. Improbable as it may
appear to an English reader, it is a fact that versification was the favourite
amusement of many of the respectable citizens and handworkers; and
meetings for the composition and recitation of verse were established and
well attended in Mayence, Ulm, Nuremberg, and other places. Indeed,
the 'Singing School' (or Sängerzunft) at Nuremberg was maintained until
the year 1770; while the ancient club of the same kind at Ulm has been
formally dissolved even in our own times, or in the year 1839.
tone of these societies was generally, but not exclusively, religious;
while their influence in affording a moral and intellectual recreation in the
place of the coarse physical pleasures of the times was undoubtedly very
commendable.
The
We will endeavour to give a slight sketch of the manners of the times
in connection with one of these singing schools. At Ulm the weavers
united to form a singing school. Let us imagine one of these good men
preparing for the meeting a copy of verses. All day, while he is employed
in his loom, he beguiles the hours of labour by conning over his verses on
some scriptural topic; and now and then, perhaps, he sings over the
melody which he has composed to fit his stanzas. In this he flatters him-
self that the merker (or umpire) will not find any four consecutive notes
borrowed from any melody hitherto known in the school: such originality
is demanded by the rules of the Sängerzunft. But now the time of work
is over: the weaver puts aside his shuttle, covers up the good cloth,
leaves the loom, and repairs (not to the 'Jolly Sailor,' or the noted
'Cordial Gin Establishment') but to the house of some good brother singer,
to converse on the topics which will be brought forward at the next
meeting on Sunday evening. And now the Sunday comes. In the church
a board is suspended (something like the board with the number of the
psalm to be sung in English churches) announcing that 'the singing-school
will meet in the evening, when verses and sacred melodies on several
topics will be recited and sung.' Sometimes the meeting is held in the
parish church at the close of the afternoon service. In other cases, the
members and their friends assemble in the town-hall. Here we find the
makers of verses and the composers of sacred melodies, with their friends
and pupils, and a considerable audience formed of respectable citizens with
their wives. All the proceedings are conducted with great order and
solemnity. In the most prominent seat we find the chief officer of the
society, named the Gemerk, and beside him sit three or four other solemn
and official persons, for whose respective offices we can hardly find suitable
English names: among them, however, is the Merker, whom we may
represent as the umpire. The society has also its 'properties.' In that
large oaken chest beside the Merker are deposited chains of gold and
silver, with suspended jewels, which have been worn by successful candi-
dates for metrical honours. And now the solemn president, or Gemerk
(who is, in fact, a good honest weaver of broadcloth), opens the ponderous
folio Bible which lies on the desk before him, and opens at the same time
7
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
·
the proceedings of the meeting by beginning to read the passages whichr
have been selected for versification. Various copies of verses are now
recited and sung; faults are noticed by the Merker; sometimes (in a tune,
for instance) a plagiarism is suspected, and on this perhaps some little
discussion arises; but this is soon put to rest by an appeal to a heavy and
strongly-clasped volume containing the notation of tunes which have
gained prizes or honours. Here is discovered the exact sequence of notes
on which the present candidate has founded his melody, either by acci-
dental coincidence or by unconscious memory. Of course he withdraws
his tune, determined to be more careful another time, and to trust in
nothing less than strict originality. At last, after several recitations and
criticisms, one is declared to be the victorious candidate. Now the Merker
opens the great oaken chest, takes out a chaplet, which he places on the
head of the victor, and puts round his neck a silver chain, from which a.
jewel is suspended. These articles still remain the property of the Zunft,
or club; but the master-singer is allowed to wear them publicly on great
occasions. Such a coronation was of course a source of triumph for the
wife, the family, and all the relatives of the victor. Glorious with these
decorations, he now secretly determines that he will go and recite his
verses at the next meeting in the neighbouring town, and vanquish all the
versifying shoemakers there. We may add that, at the close of a meeting,
the best verses were carefully copied in a large volume, which was strictly
preserved as the common property of the Zunft. In this way many pro-
ductions of the master-singers have been left to our time.
เ
Such,' says Dr Vilmar, 'were the recreations on Sunday evenings and
saints' days of our honest working forefathers in the olden time; and
those who, like myself, have sprung from the working-classes, may now
look back upon those quiet and innocent pastimes without being ashamed
of their ancestors.' We have dwelt rather long upon this pleasing picture
of olden times, because we think it carries a good and wholesome moral for
our own times. Of course we do not think of anything like reviving such
institutions as those old singing and versifying schools; but it is encou-
raging for all who would endeavour to spread any intellectual recreations
among the people, to reflect that they are not aiming at an object which is
imaginary and unattainable, but at one which has been a reality, and may
be so again.
Apart from any of the schools of versification just described, this period
was remarkable for the simple but often pathetic lyrics or secular songs
which arose, as if spontaneously, among the people. Some of these have
been preserved to our day: no writer's name is affixed to them; all we
know of their origin is, that they sprung from the people in a time when
all the feelings of the heart and the most affecting events of life seemed
naturally to find expression in songs. Many of them were linked to
melodies so well loved by the people, that Luther or his friends found it
expedient to set their new hymns to the old song-tunes. As a specimen
of their simplicity, we translate an old ‘farewell' song.
Many sheep together lie
Many stars are in the sky;
In the quiet meadow;
Many birds about us fly,
And as many times I'll sigh,
Fare you well, my treasure!'
8
GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.
Shall we, after long dull years,
Many sorrows, many fears,
Meet again, my treasure?
Every morn, while you're away,
Soon as I awake I'll say,
'Oh return, my treasure!'
At the close of every day,
Ere I shut my eyes I'll pray,
Heaven preserve my treasure!
If it must be so, when lying
On my deathbed, I'll, when dying,
Think of thee, my treasure!
We must not leave the fifteenth century without some notice of the low
and coarse satires which formed, indeed, the most prominent features in the
versification of these times. The favourite objects of these satires were
the clergy and the aristocracy; and the popularity gained by the most
wretched productions can only be explained on the supposition that such
satires truly indicated the state of popular feeling, and were received as
indirect but effectual organs of the democratic principles which were now
rapidly spreading. We can hardly give any quotations from these singular
remains of old times, though they might furnish rich materials for 'curio-
sities of literature.' In one, Parson Amis, a beneficed clergyman, is
represented as gaining his livelihood by a series of scandalous impositions
on public credulity. Parson Kalenberg is no better: on one occasion he
finds all the good ale in his cellar turned sour, and instantly devises a
plan for selling it at a good price to his parishioners. He announces that
on a certain day he will take a flight from the top of the steeple. Of
course the peasantry collect in great numbers to witness the feat: it
is a sultry summer afternoon; and as the parson keeps the spectators
long waiting while he is preparing to fly, they are glad to refresh them-
selves even with sour ale, and pay for it the extortionate price demanded.
In another popular tale, a parish priest is represented as so fatuous that
he could not remember the days in a week. To remedy this defect he
adopts a curious expedient: every day he 'makes a birch-broom,' and by
placing the six brooms in a row, and sedulously counting them, he knows
when Sunday comes, and prepares for reading mass. But some wag, aware
of the priest's stratagem, steals the broom that should mark Saturday, and,
consequently, on Sunday morning the poor priest is found making another
broom instead of going to church. These are very mild and comparatively
harmless specimens of the satires current in this period. The most pointed
and severe are exactly those which, for obvious reasons, we cannot quote.
We have seen nothing in Dean Swift more truculent than some of the
stories which might be selected from the popular books of this period.
The knight had been the hero of romances in the preceding times, and
the common people-the boors, as they were called-were hardly men-
tioned in aristocratic poetry. But now the people, having acquired the
art of versification, employed it to be revenged upon their superiors. The
favourite hero of the most popular tales was now generally represented as
a boor, an illiterate peasant, a professed fool, but with a strong taint of
the rogue in his character-one who, by the mere force of his native wit,
could refute all the clergy, answer the queries of the most learned doctor
or lawyer, and reduce a bishop to silence. The coming times of insurrec-
tion and revolution were thus foreshadowed in popular literature; and we
may safely assert that the very spirit which afterwards found an outlet in
the terrible 'Peasants' War' may be distinctly recognised in the familiar
No. 68.
9
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
and comic versification of the fifteenth century. For what were the marks
of the 'Volks-bücher' (the 'People's Books') of this time? Satire, wild
and coarse, expressing a contempt of all authority, ridicule of the preten-
sions of the scholastic or educated class, and mockery of everything repre-
sented as high and sacred. We may go so far as to say, that any reflective
reader, after a fair perusal of such a series of satires, might venture to assert,
even if we suppose him to be quite ignorant of the historical facts of the
case, that some great revolution, political or religious, must have followed
such a popular literature. Here is surely a good comment on the old text
about making ballads for the people, and also a warning for those who
neglect to employ the proper means of diffusing good information and
intellectual recreation--who refuse, indeed, to give to a wholesome and
improving literature a fair chance in its contest with the low and vile pro-
ductions of the press which are the disgrace of our times. Thus speaks
the fifteenth century in Germany to the nineteenth in England.
We must now leave this interesting part of our topic, and hasten to
notice the progress of German poetry in the times of Luther. Of poetry,
in the higher or more exclusive sense of the word, we have still little to
say. Luther holds a place in the annals of poetical literature on account
of the hymns he wrote in connection with the movement of the Reforma-
tion. His bold and stirring version of the psalm-'Ein' feste Burg ist
unser Gott'-
'A safe stronghold our God is still,
A trusty shield and weapon!'
is well known, but cannot be fairly translated. This may, indeed, be said
of many other popular hymns written by Luther and his friends. Their
merit does not consist merely in the sentiments they convey, but rather
in the union of style and purport; in the force, directness, and euphony
of language; and also in the music of their rhymes, for which we could
find no equivalents in English. To attempt to translate such hymns would
only prove that we did not truly understand their character. A German
must be the best judge of their merits, and therefore we quote the fol-
lowing description from Dr Vilmar's 'Lectures on German Poetry :-
'It must be especially noticed that these hymns, like our secular popular
songs, were not composed to be read, but to be sung; and so closely is
their melody inwoven with their meaning, that if we would judge them
fairly, we must have their spirit, their metre, and their music given at
once, as when they are sung by the congregation. They were indeed the
sacred popular songs of the Lutheran times, and were founded in many
instances on the secular melodies dear to the people from old remembrance.
Thus we account for their rapid and marvellous effect in spreading the
Lutheran faith. A hymn in these times was scarcely composed before
its echoes were heard in every street. The people crowded around the
itinerant singer (who now, in accordance with the spirit of the times, sang
Luther's hymn instead of ballads), and as soon as they had heard a new
hymn sung once, they would heartily take up the last verse as a chorus.
Thus these sacred melodies found their way into every church and every
private house; yea, and whole towns were won over to the new faith, as
by a single blow, by the sound of a hymn. Such lyrics as those of Luther
10
GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.
Rejoice my Brother Christians all!' and 'From depths of wo to thee
I call!' or that by Paul Speratus, 'Salvation now has come for all!' or
that by Nicolaus Decius, 'To God on high be thanks and praise !'--flew,
as on the wings of the wind, from one side of Germany to another: they
were not read merely, but, in the strongest sense of the words, were learned
by heart; and so deeply printed in the memories and affections of the
people, that their impression remains in the present day.'
We now turn to the secular poetry of the Lutheran times, and here we
find Hans Sachs, a rhyming shoemaker, busily engaged in writing a
voluminous series of familiar tales and fables in verse. Sachs has been
too much despised. His name was once covered with ridicule, on account
of the homely characteristics of his writings; but Goethe and other critics
have restored to the honest rhymer the honour due to him in connection
with the national literature of Germany. Though we can discover nothing
like poetry in its highest meaning in his verses, he wrote with remarkable
facility, could tell a story well, had a rich fund of genial unaffected humour,
and often conveyed a deep and good moral under the disguise of a gro-
tesque narrative. Indeed the incidents in many of his stories are so
grotesque, that, although we should like to give some specimen of his
verse, we have turned over many pages of his tales, vainly endeavouring
to find one which would be relished by a modern taste. There is an
apparent irreverence in many of them which, in Luther's times, was
regarded as not inconsistent with piety. Hans sometimes directed his
homely and good-humoured satire against the soldiery. In one tale, for
instance, he tells us that the Prince of Darkness had despatched a demon
to bring away some half-dozen of the foot-soldiers, who were notorious
for their profane conversation; but the demon himself was so terrified by
their talk, and gave to his master such a description of their mode of life,
that it was resolved they should be excluded even from Pandemonium.
In another tale on the same subject, St Peter, the gatekeeper of Paradise,
exercising charity rather than good judgment, admits a few of these
‘land-soldiers' (lands-Inechten) into the abode of happiness, where they
soon prove the truth of the old saying, that a change of place does not
insure a change of mind. Unable to enjoy any of the pleasures of the place,
they soon collected their pence, and began their old amusement of gambling,
which ended as usually in a violent quarrel.' After some difficulty, St
Peter contrives to eject these unpleasant guests. Such were the stories
with which Hans Sachs filled so many pages. His verses may be regarded
as giving a summary of the characteristics of many familiar and humorous
versifiers before his times; while in ease and fluency of style, combined
with not inconsiderable power of invention, he surpassed them all.
Leaving the times of Luther and Hans Sachs, we must pass very briefly
over a period in national literature marked by the tame, cold, and artificial
character of its so-called poetry.' Style and language were now the almost
exclusive objects regarded by German writers in verse. Martin Opitz
(1597–1639) was the most celebrated versifier of his times, and with the
aid of several compeers, contributed something towards the refinement of
his native tongue, but left little or nothing worthy of notice for its poetical
merits. Paul Flemming and Paul Gerhard, the writers of devotional
11
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
hymns which still hold a place in German psalmody, are the two chief
exceptions to the prevailing rule of dulness in the poetical literature of
the seventeenth century.
The former part of the eighteenth century produced a crowd of inferior
poets or versifiers, of whom we can give no particular notices. In many
respects they were superior to Opitz and his followers, but as poets they
were soon lost in the superior lustre of Goethe and Schiller. Perhaps the
most noticeable feature in their poems was their didactic purport... Among
the writers of moral fables in verse, Christian Gellert may be distinguished
on account of the surprising celebrity which his fables once enjoyed.
These fables being simply the results and maxims of common sense, given
in a clear, familiar, and pleasing style, were suited for a large audience;
but this fact alone can hardly account for all the favour bestowed upon
them. To explain it we must refer to the high popular esteem in which
the personal character of Gellert was held during his lifetime, and long
afterwards. He was admired and revered as a moral teacher by men of
every station. The king's physician was sent to attend this writer when
dying; and his death produced in Germany a general mourning, such as
has seldom or never attended the fate of any other literary man. The
tale of the poor countryman who took to the house of Gellert a cartload
of firewood, as a grateful acknowledgment of the enjoyment he had found
in reading the 'Fables,' is a fair instance of the admiration with which
even the lower classes regarded the amiable moralist. In all the higher
qualities of poetry, the didactic versification of Gellert was totally wanting.
This judgment is equally applicable to the fables written by Hagedorn,
Lichtwer, and others in this period.
·
(
Among these inferior poets (the followers of Bodmer, Gottsched, and
Gellert) Friedrich Klopstock (1724-1803) arose; and when, inspired by
recollections of Milton's great work, he produced in 1748 the first three
cantos of the Messiah,' all Germany. believed that at last a great epic
poet had appeared. As, when we would understand the effect of a light
in painting, we must consider the shade with which it forms a contrast;
so, to explain the admiration of Klopstock's poem, we must fairly estimate
the contemporaneous minor poetry. Above this it arose as a cedar over
shrubs and brambles. It was indeed a great poem when compared with
the productions of Opitz, Gottsched, Gellert, and a crowd of other
versifiers. We can scarcely imagine that any future poet, however great,
can enjoy such enthusiastic praises as were lavished on Klopstock; for
the estimation of the poet was in a great measure the result of the cir-
cumstances amid which he came forth. A critic says of Klopstock: 'He
was like the morning star, hardly foretold by the faintest dawn, but arising
almost suddenly out of darkness.' And he adds, very truly, 'It must
again be deep, dark night in the world of poetry before any other star can
by its appearance awaken the enthusiasm which hailed the "Messiah !"'
Apart from these favourable circumstances, the qualities which recom-
mended Klopstock's epic and other poems-especially the odes--were
warmth and depth of feeling, a flowing and sometimes eloquent style,
with considerable power of description. But, taken as a whole, the
'Messiah' must be regarded as heavy, prolix, and unworthy of a place
among epic poems, on account of its poverty of action and progress. It
12
GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.
has now fallen to that rank in literature where lie the works occasionally
named, but seldom or never read. The fame of Klopstock is traditional,
telling what the poet was for his contemporaries, rather than what he is
for modern readers. Yet his name must ever hold a distinguished place
in the history of his country's literature, and will always be associated
with remembrance of his amiable character and happy life; for Klopstock
was one who found in literature, especially in poetry, something better
than fame-happiness.
:
The next important epoch in the annals of German poetry is marked
These four
by the names of Lessing, Herder, Goethe, and Schiller.
writers, unlike in other respects, may be here associated, as their united
influence produced a great change in the character of poetical literature.
Lessing, an able critic, prepared a path for genius by sweeping aside old
pedantries; Herder enlarged the views of his contemporaries by his trans-
lations of Popular Ballads;' and Goethe, with Schiller, began to cultivate
the new field of poetry now opened for them. These latter names have
such a prominence in German literature, that we must not attempt to
discuss their merits within the limits of this Paper. Their contemporaries
are more easily described. Among these were many weak sentimental
writers, whose names are now remembered rather on account of their
connection with a great era in national literature than on account of their
individual merits. It is curious that in Germany, during the latter half
of the eighteenth century, or from 1767 to the time of the French Revo-
lution, something which we may style an intellectual epidemic of a senti-
mental and romantic character pervaded the literary world, and produced
as its symptoms a mass of wild and crude poetry and romances. The
dissatisfaction, restlessness, and longing for novelty which in France was
manifested in political theories, was in Germany chiefly confined to lite-
rature; and its results here were rather absurd than alarming. Goethe
and Schiller suffered for a time under the prevailing disease: in the former
it found a vent in the 'Sorrows of Werter;' in the latter it produced
a crude drama-The Robbers.' But these, being strong men, shook off
the malady, which in others assumed the form of a chronic complaint.
'What is the position of Goethe as a poet?' is a question more easily
asked than answered. Goethe, compared with many other German writers,
is as clear as noonday; but surrounded as his works are now with endless
criticisms and commentaries of the misty style, their light seems struggling
through a fog. On no writer, ancient or modern, has such a vast amount
of weak, mystical admiration, and vague, cloudy criticism been expended.
His name is well known by English readers; yet not one in five hun-
dred would be able to reply, in a clear and concise style, to the ques-
tion, Why is the name of Goethe so prominent in German literature?
Is it because he wrote 'Faust?' Nay; for the best critics say that this
poem displays only a part of the writer's character and genius. Is it on
account of his lyrics and other short poems? These are very good in
their kind, but surely not sufficient to make a European reputation. We
need not ask, Did his greatness consist in his dramatic powers? for his
'Tasso,' 'Egmont,' and 'Natural Daughter,' when regarded as dramas,
are very deficient. Or was he a great artist in the construction of his
13
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
novels? No; it must be confessed by every one who is not a blind
admirer that, when seen in an artistic point of view, the 'Wilhelm Meister'
and the other novel are very imperfect. Then why is Goethe so widely
celebrated? Or why have his character and his works called forth volu-
minous comments equal in number to those upon Shakspeare? Who can
answer this question as clearly and concisely as we could reply to a query
about any celebrated English author? For instance, if asked for the
characteristics of such poets as Pope, Cowper, and Crabbe, how easily we
refer to the pointed wit and happy language of the first, the pleasant
didactic verse of the second, and the graphic details of human character
by the third! But as soon as we ask for an explanation of Goethe's
greatness, we are lost amid clouds of German mysticism; and, to mend
the matter, some English and American authors increase the confusion by
trying to write like Germans, and only producing what honest Sir Hugh
Evans would have called 'affectations.' We believe indeed that affec-
tation, especially what we may call 'the affectation of profundity,' has con-
tributed greatly to the confused heap of verbiage about Goethe; and, to
explain how this has been done, one instance may be given. The most
mysterious of all Goethe's writings is the second part of 'Faust,' which
was the latest of the writer's poetical productions. At first sight, to any
English reader, it would appear to be an extremely fantastic production,
as it is full of the talk of such personages as the Sirens, the Oreads,
Proteus, Nereus, and Mephistopheles. On this work, which has an alle-
gorical character, the most confused and mystical criticisms have been
written. Some have regarded it as a most profoundly-significant poem:
others have honestly confessed that they do not see much in it beyond
good versification. To give instances: one English writer says 'The
second part of "Faust" is remarkable only as a specimen of varied and
harmonious versification, of which a considerable part was written when`
the poet was more than eighty years old.' On this a writer in an English
review, supposed to be conversant with German literature, expresses a
very contemptuous opinion of such a shallow judgment pronounced on
such a profound work. Emerson, the American writer and lecturer, speaks
of the same work in the following terms: The Helena, or the second
part of "Faust," is a philosophy of literature set in poetry; the work of
one who found himself the master of histories, mythologies, philosophies,
sciences, and national literatures in the encyclopædical manner of modern
erudition.' 'This reflective and critical wisdom makes the poem more
truly the flower of this time.' 'The wonder of the book is its intelli-
gence,' &c. Now, as a curiosity in literature, let the reader contrast all
this mystical admiration of a very cloudy book with the following clear
and fair statement by an able critic-a German-and one of the most
sincere and enthusiastic of all Goethe's admirers :-Dr Vilmar says 'The
allegory in this second part of "Faust" is so imperfect, that it affords
not in many parts a proper veil for the figures intended to be covered by
it. Already many passages in this second part have become riddles, for
the hopeless solution of which we may vainly strive until we lose our
temper! Others may indeed be very easily guessed; but not without
the vexation of finding, under a great array of symbols, nothing more than
a small, insignificant, and trivial result! So we may conclude, that in the
14
GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.
course of some fifty years the whole of this second part will be almost entirely
destitute of meaning, and consequently of interest.'
Is there not something very curious here? The accomplished and sound
German critic, with an enthusiastic admiration of Goethe (having also a Ger-
man's peculiar patience in solving riddles and explaining mysteries), still
gives the above very unfavourable judgment of a book in which the English
reviewer sees true profundity; while the American lecturer, with a clair-
voyance almost peculiar to himself, sees through the work at once, makes
no complaint of its mystery, but finds in it 'critical wisdom' and 'the
results of eighty years of observation.' Such writing is, as Charles Lamb
said jocosely of the Germans,' very profound indeed!' We are tempted
to explain the puzzle by an anecdote. On one occasion we heard an
eloquent lecture on one of Goethe's works; but some of the praise bestowed
did not seem to us fairly applicable to the book. So we carried the said
book to the lecturer; and, when we expressed our dissent from some of his
statements, he, in a very good-humoured style, confessed that he had never
read through the work in question!
The preceding remarks will not be understood to imply any depreciation
of Goethe as an author. We have been speaking of his critics and com-
mentators, and not of himself. It is obvious, after the specimens of contra-
dictory views given above, that some considerable space would be required
for a fair analysis of Goethe's character. At present, we may, however,
notice that the interest excited by his works in Germany is not to be ex-
plained simply by reference to his poetical works. The catalogue of his
writings might shew that he must not be regarded solely as a poet. He
wrote, beside his lyrical or occasional poems and his dramas, novels,
memoirs, criticisms on literature and art, autobiography, essays on natural
history and physical science, and a multitude of letters. Throughout all
these multifarious writings we may trace the influence of a peculiar, indivi-
dual, refined, and yet practical philosophy, which is implied rather than dis-
tinctly or formally inculcated; and it is partly this philosophy, as we think,
which has attracted so much attention, and called forth so many comments.
For ourselves, we readily confess that Goethe is more interesting as a prac-
tical philosopher than as a poet.
No such obscurity attends the characteristics of Schiller. His poetical
works may be divided into two chief sections—the ballads and the dramas.
In the heroic ballads, 'the Cranes of Ibycus,' the 'Fight with the Dragon,'
and others, we find noble purport united with graphic narration. In other
poems we see a tendency to abstract thought, which is injurious to a poet.
In his dramas, which contain powerful scenes and fine sentimental passages,
we often find the didactic purport brought forward in too direct a style. We
are inclined to agree with A. W. Schlegel when he questions the 'reality'
of Schiller's dramatic characters-to these the poet often gave either an
ideal virtue or an unredeemed propensity to vice; thus making them im-
personations rather than men. But our limits will not admit a full descrip-
tion of Schiller as a poet and a dramatist.
We have purposely omitted, in its chronological order, the name of
Christoph Martin Wieland, an elder contemporary of Goethe, and one of the
most prolific poetical writers of the eighteenth century; but we may now
pay some attention to this writer, who affords us a very remarkable instance
15
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
of that uncertainty of some reputations in German literature to which we
have alluded in the beginning of this Paper. Wieland was a man most
widely celebrated in his day (1733-1813), though he is now virtually for-
gotten. He wrote numerous romances and poems, which were loudly
applauded, and are now seldom or never read. Yet such is the influence of
a traditional reputation, that it might now seem presumptuous to some
English readers if we said that Wieland was hardly worthy of the name of
a poet, or that his writings, taken altogether, are almost worthless. Yet
we will venture to say, that in our opinion he was an artificial maker of
verses rather than a true-born poet, and that we cannot even see sufficient
reason for all that has been said in commendation of his prose style. To
confirm this judgment, it may be well to quote the remarks of an able
German critic, Dr. Vilmar-the strongest part of his censure of Wieland's
writings we leave untranslated. -'Wieland,' says Dr Vilmar,' was the man
of his day, especially for the higher classes of society; for people infected by
the fine and sweet poison of French literature, people to whom thought was
tedious, and all enthusiasm was ridiculous. To such readers Wieland
introduced a suitable German literature; and it is almost solely by this
interest in the materials or subjects of his books that we can now compre-
hend how he could have been so lauded and celebrated during his life.
After his death he was soon forgotten. Of the materials of his works,
modern French levity in a masquerade dress, or the most insipid philosophy
of the day, given à-la-Shaftesbury or à-la-Voltaire, as we find it in
Agathon," or "Peregrinus Proteus," or "Aristippus"-what can we call
them but mummeries, destitute of both moral meaning and artistic taste? But
what must be said of such contents as we find in the "Nadine," in " Diana
and Endymion," in the "New Amadis," or the truly abominable “Komba-
bus;" not to mention so many other pieces in the same vein, regarding which
pieces Wieland was quite pleased with himself, because he had been able
to say in plain German so many things which, as people had believed, could
be fitly expressed only in French-these are matters in which none save a
most degraded mind could have found pleasure, and such as could not have
found readers except in a very dissolute state of society.. Yea, and even
in his better subjects, say rather in the only good subject (excepting the
"Abderites") on which he ever wrote-I mean in his poem of “ Oberon”
how deficient is the style-how arbitrary, artificial, and fantastical, and, at
the same time, how flat and dull!'
Such is the severe censure passed upon a poetical writer who was once
numbered among the great men of his age. And if such a judgment is
pronounced on Wieland by a very fair critic, we may venture to say that
many other names in the literature of this period are now remembered
merely on account of the celebrity which they once enjoyed, and not on
account of their intrinsic merits. With this remark we may pass over a
crowd of names which, in German works of literary history, are found
around the more significant names of Goethe and Schiller. In comparison
with these writers, all the other versifiers of their period must be regarded
as, at best, poetical writers of mediocrity.
We can only mention, in the most cursory style, the names of a few
poets among the contemporaries and followers of Goethe and Schiller. Voss
deserves to be remembered rather as an able translator of Homer and
16
GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.
1
Virgil than as a poet.
Schubart will be remembered for his singular
history rather than on account of his poems. This writer was a very
unfortunate and ill-regulated man. After he had published some frivolous
satires, he was seized in the most despotic manner by the Duke of Wür-
temberg, and imprisoned for ten years in the fortress of Asperg. His
poems are curious instances of that taste for the horrible, which had its
day in Germany, and is still found among the lowest classes of society.
His ballads, decorated with such lines as, 'See you the blood-stain on the
wall?' or, 'Ha! here's one bone, and here's another!' were once read
with thrilling interest. Matthison and Gaudenz were both descriptive
poets and writers of pleasing sentimental verses.
Holderlin and Schulze
resembled each other in the melody of their language: the latter affords a
remarkable instance of misdirected talent. After losing, by early death,
the young lady whom he loved, he devoted his genius to celebrate her
name, ' Cecilia,' in a poem of twenty cantos! Platen was one of the most
polished and correct of poetical writers; but his poems want life and
interest. A similar opinion may be expressed with regard to Rückert,
who has written a great number of poems. He is a fine master of versifi-
cation, and has put many good sentiments in sweet metres; but is deficient
in dramatic power and narrative interest. Chamisso was by birth a
Frenchman, but gained a place in German literature by his tale of 'Peter
Schlemihl' and several poems, which shew a partiality for gloomy topics.
Uhland holds a very high place among the modern poets, chiefly on account
of his popular and national ballads. Schwab in some respects resembles
Uhland as a writer of ballads. The name of Theodor Körner is well
known. After writing several poems and dramatic pieces of considerable
promise, he joined a troop of volunteers to defend his country, and fell in
a skirmish with an ambuscade. His character, and the circumstances of
his death, have doubtless contributed some part of the interest attending
his poems. Since the days of Schiller, poetical writers have been nume-
rous; but we are not able to trace any sure progress in poetry. Indivi-
duality, power, and originality are wanting in a great number of productions.
For every one original poet we have a crowd of imitators. This indeed is
the case everywhere; but, as it appears to us, the names of such imitators
are soon forgotten in England, while in Germany they are preserved too
carefully in literary memoirs. It would surely improve several German
works of literary history, if many insignificant names were thrown aside
and forgotten. An author, of whom we can mention no one clear and
strong characteristic or original trait, can hardly be worthy of remem-
brance. We pass over, therefore, many followers or imitators of Lessing,
Wieland, and Goethe, and many others who have written poems which we
cannot clearly characterise. It must be confessed that the reading public
of Germany have been far too indulgent toward indifferent and imitative
versifiers. Next to Goethe and Schiller, who are, in a sense of which an
English reader hardly comprehends the force, the great poets of Germany,
we would class, not the writers of long and ambitious poems, but the
authors of songs and ballads which are among the most genuine and
pleasing productions of German literature. Excepting the works of her
two leading poets, of which we may speak in another Paper, Germany has
produced little that can be called great in poetry. It is hardly necessary
17
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
to state that there never was a German Shakspeare; and for names having
equal significance with such as Milton, Dryden, Pope, Cowper, Burns,
Crabbe, Wordsworth, or Byron, we may look in vain through the roll of
German poets. Pleasing and popular songs and romantic ballads are the
best features of the poetical literature of our neighbours. In didactic
purport, in mastery of real life, in vigorous narrative, stern satire, or,
briefly, in strength and variety of character, it is immeasurably inferior to
our English poetry.
We may now look at poetry in another way, by dividing it into several
classes; and, in accordance with our belief concerning its origin, we must
give the first place to lyrical productions, sacred and secular. In hymns,
full of devotional feeling and powerful expression, Germany is rich; but,
as we have said, these lyrics will not bear translation; for to represent
them truly, meaning, metre, rhyme, and melody must be kept united: to
alter their form is to destroy their character. Luther was the leader of
German hymnology, and was worthily followed by such hymn-writers as
Flemming and Gerhard. By other composers of sacred lyrics, a mystical
and sentimental style was introduced, which was carried to its highest
degree in the hymns of the 'Brüdergemeinde,' or United Brethren.
In secular songs-not merely so-called lyrics, but songs that may be
sung-Germany has been rich ever since the times of the Minnesingers.
Here we have songs celebrating the changes of nature, especially the
revival of the year-full of fresh interest, such as nature alone can inspire.
The first notes of the nightingale, the opening of the rose, the unfolding
of the glossy green foliage in the woods; these were the darling topics of
the old minstrels, and are still the themes of poetry. Here is monotony;
but it is one of which the healthy mind never tires. We might endeavour
to translate a specimen of these songs; for instance, an old lyric by Walter
von der Vogelweide-
'Fresh flowers are springing through the grass,
And laughing at the sun ;'
or a song by Philip Harsdörffer-
The frosty old winter has hurried away,
The hillocks of snow
Have melted beneath the warm breathing of May,
And the sweet flowers blow ;'
or that by Philip von Zesen-
'Awake, happy thoughts! be forgotten all sorrow!
For winter is passing away!'
But it would not be easy to preserve both the spirit and the form of such
songs; and we like them too well to hurt them. The same observation
may be applied to a great number of popular lyrics, such as may be found
in that true German volume, to which we have no counterpart in English,
'Fincke's Household Treasury of Popular Songs;' including 'Student Songs,'
Workmen's Songs,' 'Soldiers' Songs,' 'Lyrics for Children,' and a host
of others which we cannot specify. Of one of the Bacchanalian songs, the
famous 'Rhine-Wine Lied, we give two or three versés; but this, we
think, could not be fairly translated entirely :-
18
GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.
RHINE-WINE SONG.
Deck with green leaves the bright, o'erflowing goblet,
And drain the cup of bliss!
In all the lands of Europe, jovial comrades,
You'll find no wine like this!
The Rhine! the Rhine! 'tis there our grapes are growing;
Upon its banks the vine
Spreads out her purple clusters, richly glowing;
Be blessings on the Rhine!
Drink and sing gladly while the cup is shining,
'Be blessing on the Rhine!"
And if you know where some sick man is pining,
Go; give to him this wine!
Next to songs, we may rank odes, elegies, and sonnets; but these we
regard as generally cold and artificial. The sonnets written by Goethe and
Platen are among the best of their kind, and Goethe's elegies, 'Alexis and
Dora' and 'Euphrosyne,' are full of poetic beauty. But passing thus
briefly over this section, we find a more fruitful field in Narrative Poetry.
This includes a wide range of topics and modes of treatment-fables,
legends, ballads, romances, and epics. Of German epic poems we will say
little; for, as we have already confessed, the notion of a long, long poem
covering, with verses all in one metre, some five or six hundred octavo
pages, appears to us unreasonable, even after the great works of Homer,
Virgil, and Milton; and the German epics by Klopstock, Bodmer, Zacharia,
Wieland, Sonnenberg, and Krug von Nidda, have only confirmed our opi-
nion. These are certainly 'great works,' when measured as we measure
cloth; but in truth, nature, and genial inspiration, they may be inferior to
many short poems in our next section-Romances and Ballads. These
form one of the most interesting departments of German poetry. Between
the romance and the ballad we can find hardly any distinction except in
the shorter form of the romance. Both give poetical narratives, inter-
spersed with sentiment; and have for their topics either events of history,
or legendary lore (sometimes supernatural), or private anecdotes, or even
facts of common life. Herder may be regarded as the introducer of a
new style in this department by his 'Popular Ballads of many Nations.'
Bürger, having gained an acquaintance with the true, popular tone of
English and Scottish ballads, imitated it very successfully in several metri-
cal tales. The success of Bürger was chiefly due to his spirited and fluent
versification, which sometimes reminds us of the melody of Burns; a far
greater poet in other respects. In the topics of his poems, and their mode
of treatment, Bürger is often low, coarse, and trivial. Goethe and Schiller
wrote ballads which may be described in another Paper: at present, we
can only notice that the latter gave to the heroic or historical ballad its
highest character, as we see in his 'Fight with the Dragon,' and other
similar pieces. To notice here all the names of writers who have contri-
buted to modern poetical literature in the form of ballads and romances
would be impossible; for in this fertile department writers are very nume-
rous, and many good productions are from names of little celebrity. The
19
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
name of Bürger reminds us of that long series of goblin legends to which
so many ballads have been devoted. Bürger's story of 'Leonora,' who is
carried away by her spectre-lover to the charnel-house, is recommended
by a vivid style of narrative and force of versification, and may represent
a large class of such legends which have been received with favour in
Germany. At the close of some such legend of the 'Erl-King,' or the
'Goblin of the Harz Mountains,' an English reader is disposed to ask:
'But what does it all mean?' or, 'What is the purport?' while the con-
tented German simply enjoys the supernatural imagery without troubling
himself about its human interest. There is here a very strong distinction
between the tastes of the two nations. We may even say that some
favourite pieces of this kind would be condemned by an English taste as
weak and meaningless.
We may now give translations of a few poems culled from a large collec-
tion; but it should be premised, that our choice does not always imply
that the poem has the highest degree of merit: general interest, facility of
translation, and other circumstances, partly direct our selection. Many
very popular ballads are founded on old legends familiar as household
words in German memories, but which would fail to exercise their pecu-
liar charm on English readers. Others are purely imaginary. To these
we prefer tales having some human interest, such as we find in the follow-
ing noble ballad of 'Hans Euler.' The writer, J. G. Seidl, is a native of
Vienna, where he lived, some two or three years ago, as keeper of the
Cabinet of Coins and Antiquities:-
HANS EULER.
"Ha! listen, Martha! heard you not that knocking at the door?
Open, and call the pilgrim in, that he may share our store;
Ha! 'tis a soldier. Welcome, sir! partake our homely fare;
Our wine and bread are good; thank God! we have enough to spare!'
'I want no food; I want no wine!' the stranger sternly said;
'Hans Euler, I have come to pay my duty to the dead :
I had a well-loved brother once, a brother whom you slew
The threat I uttered when he fell, I come to prove it true!'
;
Said Euler then, Your brother fell in fair and open fight,
And, when I struck, my arm was raised to guard my country's right;
But if you must revenge his death-this is no place for strife-
Walk out with me.
Farewell awhile, my true and loving wife!'
So saying, Euler took his sword, and o'er the hilly road,
Which ended on a rocky mount, he onward boldly strode.
Without a word, the stranger followed Euler on the way;
And now the night was vanishing before the break of day.
And as they walked on silently, the sun was rising higher,
Till all the mountain-ridges green were touched with golden fire;
Soon as they reached the chosen place, the night-mist o'er them curled,
And there, spread out below them, lay the glorious Alpine world;
20
GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.
With hamlets in the valleys, flocks and herds upon the hills,
Green hollows, rocky chasms deep, bright waterfalls and rills;
And, deeply felt, although unseen, the true pervading soul,
The spirit of old Switzerland was breathing from the whole.
The stranger stood and sternly gazed-his sword was in his hand-
While Euler pointed down upon his well-loved Fatherland:
It is for that I've fought,' said he; for that dear land I've bled,
And, when he would have hurt that land, I smote thy brother dead.
'And now that death must be revenged, and this must be the place.'
But here the stranger dropt his sword, and looked in Euler's face:
Said he, ‘I do forgive thee—it was done for Fatherland-
And now, if thou canst pardon me, brave Euler, here's my hand!'
This, though it may be injured in our translation, seems to us a very
favourable specimen of the romantic ballad, and far preferable to others
telling of strange sprites rising from waters, or dwelling in the forests, or of
the nymph of the glacier falling in love with the Alpine shepherd-boy.'
There is a national taste, founded on local traditions and associations,
which give a charm to many legends. Some of the legends of Germany
are suited to this local or national taste; while others, like the short ballad
which follows, have a true universal interest.
The tale of 'Count Eberhard' of Würtemberg, who boasted that he
could safely fall asleep in his own forests in a time when other nobles
lived in enmity with their dependents, has been versified, if we remember
well, by several hands.
The following graphic version is by Zimmer-
mann :-
COUNT EBERHARD.
Four counts together sat to dine,
And when the feast was done,
Each, pushing round the rosy wine,
To praise his land begun.
The Margrave talked of healthful
springs,
Another praised his vines;
Bohemia spoke of precious things
In many darksome mines.
Count Eberhard sat silent there-
'Now, Würtemberg, begin!
'And there I dreamed that I was dead,
And funeral lamps were shining
With solemn lustre round my head,
Within a vault reclining.
'And men and women stood beside
My cold, sepulchral bed;
And, shedding many tears, they
cried,
66
Count Eberhard is dead !”
'A tear upon my face fell down,
And, waking with a start,
There must be something good and fair, I found my head was resting on
Your pleasant country in!'
In healthful springs and purple wine,
Count Eberhard replied;
'In costly gems and gold to shine,
I cannot match your pride.
But you shall hear a simple tale :-
One night I lost my way
Within a wood, along a vale,
And down to sleep I lay.
A Würtembergian heart!
A woodman, 'mid the forest-shade,
Had found me in my rest,
Had lifted up my head, and laid
It softly on his breast!'
The princes sat, and wondering heard,
Then said, as closed the story,
'Long live the good Count Eberhard-
His people's love his glory!'
21
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
If we have omitted to notice at length the ballads of Uhland, it is not
because we are insensible to their merits. Several of them have been
fairly translated into English; and as the faithful version of such poems is
certainly no easy task, we will not attempt to mend what has been well
done. It will be better to introduce a few pieces by writers less celebrated
than Uhland. A few years ago we heard loud praise and severe censure
bestowed on a young poet, Ferdinand Freiligrath, who since then has
lived in London as correspondent of a foreign mercantile house. On the
same day we read in an English review the praise of Freiligrath, as one of
the greatest modern poets; and in a German review a bitter article,
deriding the sudden reputation of the new poet, and representing him as
little more than a writer of pompous and affected phraseology. Guessing
that the truth might lie somewhere between these extremes, we read the
poems in question, and were pleased to find that, among many poems
merely descriptive of foreign scenery, and marked by a tone of exaggera-
tion, there were others, such as the lines on 'German Emigrants,' the
'Pictured Bible,' and the poem quoted below, which evinced true poetical
genius. As a favourable specimen of Freiligrath's style, we quote the
3
DEATH OF THE EMIGRANT LEADER.
'In the fog the sails are dripping,
Mist lies thickly o'er the bay.
On the masts suspend the lanterns-
Sea and sky are leaden-gray.
Deadly weather! sickness breathing-
Come to prayers with covered head,
Women, come and bring your children-
In the cabin see the dead.'
And the German peasant-people,
With the Boston seaman, go
Down the ladder, bow their heads
In the cabin small and low:
There the pilgrims, new homes seeking,
Sailing o'er the western sea,
Find, in burial-garments lying,
The leader of their company.
He had built of German firs
The raft which all their chattels bore
Along the Neckar to the Rhine,
And down the Rhine to the seashore.
The old man, with a heavy heart,
Torn loose from his paternal ground,
Had said to them, 'We must depart-
Another country must be found:
'In the west our day is breaking-
Westward lies our morning-red-
Let us raise our log-huts yonder
Where freedom lives within a shed.
Let us sow our sweat-drops yonder
Where they will not idly sleep—
Yonder let us turn the clods
Where he who ploughs may dare to reap!
22
GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.
'To the old, unbroken forest,
Let us all our households bear,
Plant them 'mid the wide savannas—
I will be your patriarch there.
From our land, like those old shepherds,
Famed in Bible-story, going,
Let our guiding, fiery pillar,
Be the light for ever glowing.
'In that constant light confiding,
I will lead you to your rest:
Happy, for my children seeing
New homes rising in the West.
Children, 'tis for you I travel-
(Home would give these limbs a grave)
'Tis for you I bind my girdle,
And nerve my heart to cross the ware.
Up! away! your Goshen leaving,
Like the men of olden day.'
Ah, he only saw, like Moses,
Canaan's pastures far away!
On the sea the old man died—
He and all his wishes rest :
Nor success nor disappointment
More shall move his quiet breast!
Now the men without a leader
Come to give him to the deep:
Children hide themselves in terror,
While their mothers come to weep.
And the men, with earnest faces,
Gaze upon the foreign shore,
Where the patriarch, old and saintly,
Guides their pilgrimage no more.
In the fog the sails are dripping,
Sleeps the bay in misty gloom.
Breathe a prayer-the ropes are slipping-
Give him to his watery tomb.'
Tears are flowing, waves are plashing,
Sea-birds scream above the dead.
For fifty years he ploughed the ground
But 'neath the billows rests his head !
As a specimen of Freiligrath's more melodious versification, we give the
'ictured Bible,' a remembrance of childhood. The last verse appears to
to be full of genuine pathos :-
Friend of my early days,
THE PICTURED BIBLE.
Thou old, brown, folio tome,
Oft opened with amaze
Within my childhood's home;
Thy many-pictured pages,
Beheld with glad surprise,
Would lure me from my playmates/
To Oriental skies.
Of foreign zones the portals
Thy magic keys unfolding-
In thee, as in a mirror,
The eastern lands beholding,
I saw before me spreading
A world of new delight-
Palms, deserts, camels, shepherds,
And tents of snowy white.
23
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE,
I found in thee, for friends,
The wise and valiant men
Of Israel, whose heroic deeds
Are writ with holy pen;
And dark-brown Jewish maidens
With festive dance and song,
Or fairly dressed for bridal,
Thy pictured leaves among.
The old life patriarchal
Did beautifully shine
With angels hovering over
The good old men divine.
Their long, long pilgrimages
I traced through all the way,
While on the stool before me
Thy pages open lay.
I feel as if thy covers
Were opened for me now,
Again to see thy wonders,
I bend my eager brow;
Again behold thy pictures,
With rapt and earnest gaze,
In fresh and shining colours,
As in my early days.
The borders of grotesque,
With figures strange and wild,
I see their subtle tracery,
Admiring, as a child.
The flowers and branches cunningly
Round every picture twined,
In every curious leaf and bloom
Some meaning for the mind!
And my mother, as she taught me,
When questioning, I came,
Tells every picture's story,
Gives every place its name,
Fills with old songs and sayings
My memory all the while-
My father sits beside us
And listens with a smile.
Oh childhood! lost for ever!
Gone like a vision by—
The pictured Bible's splendour,
The young, believing eye;
The father and the mother,
The still, contented mind,
The love and joy of childhood—
All, all are left behind!
The following simple but pathetic little romance, by a poet named
Reichenau, has an interest like that of the 'Emigrant-Leader.' The style
of the original is so melodious that it might well be set to music as a glee
for four voices :-
THE BANISHED LITHUANIANS.
Son. Why, oh my father, must you break
From the green ash this sturdy stake?
Father. 'Tis to prop my worn limbs on our long, long way-
We must leave our dear land at the break of day!
Daughter. And, mother, why must you put away
My cap and frock and boddice gay?
Mother. My daughter, here we no more must stay-
We must leave our dear home in the morning gray !

?
S. Iyon new land are the meadows green
Are the trout in the clear, swift rivers seen?
F. My boy, you must rove in the fields no more,
Nor throw out your line from the pebbled shore.
D. In yon new lar nl are the flax-fields blue?
Will the roses shine in the morning dew?
M. Such joys, oh my daughter, no more must be ours ;
We must say farewell to the fields and flowers!
S. Then, father, how long sadly must we roam ?
Ah, when shall we once ore come to our home?
ǹ
D. And, mother, when may we return and see
Our flax-field and garden, so dear to me?
2-1
GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.
All. When backward the river Niemen flows-
When on the salt sea blooms the rose-
When fruit on the barren rocks we find-
Or, when our rulers are just and kind!
The above simple verses confirm the opinion given by a German critic,
that the only way in which the poet can serve the people is by seizing on
the poetical features of real life. Young poets recently have written
directly on social and political topics, but have generally fallen into mere
declamation, and degraded the character of poetry, which, when true, is
always sure to be useful, though indirectly. Burns's familiar tale of the
'Twa Dogs' has perhaps done more to awaken kindly feelings toward the
poor than any essay or sermon written formally for that purpose.
The above have been given as specimens of the ballad having connection
with the interests of real life. We must pass over very briefly a number
of romances founded on supernatural legends. Some of the ballads of
Ludwig Uhland, one of the best modern poets, have this character. The
water-nymph, the erl-king, the wood-nymph, Lorelei, and many other
creatures of German fiction, play their parts in these romances.
as a superior specimen of the imaginative ballad, we may select one by
Joseph Matzerath, a poet of whom we only know that a short time ago he
was living at Cologne. These verses, though vague, present to us a fine
ideal; and the scenery, though slightly touched, is grand
But,
THE KING OF THE SEVEN HILLS.
In ancient times, beside the Rhine, a king sat on his throne,
And all his people called him 'good'-no other name is known.
Seven hills and seven old castles marked the land beneath his
His children all were beautiful and cheerful as the day.
Oft, clad in simple garments, he travelled through the land,
And to the poorest subject there he gave a friendly hand.
sway.
Now when this good old king believed his latest hour was nigh,
He bade his servants bear him to a neighbouring mountain high :
Below he saw the pleasant fields in cloudless sunlight shine,
While through the valleys, brightly green, flowed peacefully the Rhine;
And pastures, gaily decked with flowers, extended far away;
While round them stood the mighty hills in darkly-blue array;
And on the hills along the Rhine seven noble castles frown,
Stern guardians! on their charge below for ever looking down.
Long gazed the king upon that land; his eyes with tears o'erflow-
He cries, My own loved country! I must bless thee ere I go !—
'Oh fairest of all rivers! my own beloved Rhine!
How beauteous are the pastures all that on thy margin shine.
'To leave thee, oh my land! wakes my bosom's latest sigh,
Let me spend my breath in blessing thee, and so, contented, die.
25
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
C
'My good and loving people all! my land! farewell for ever!
May sorrow and oppression come within your borders never!
May people, land, and river all, in sure protection lie
For ever 'neath the guardianship of the Almighty's eye.'
Soon as the blessing was pronounced, the good old king was dead,
And the halo of the setting sun shone all around his head.
That king was always called 'the good'-no other name is known;
But his blessing still is resting on the land he called his own.
Other ballads are rather sentimental than narrative, and give us traits of
individual character and feeling. As a brief specimen of this class, the
following verses by Robert Reinick, who is a painter as well as a poet,
may be given:-

THE RETURN.
When one returns, with hopeful tread,
From travel to his place of birth,
And finds his dearest maiden dead-
That is the greatest wo on earth!
One bright and early Sabbath-day,
I came into my native place;
Long had I carried, far away,
The memory of one lovely face.
I stepped into the church to see
The spot where first that face I saw ;
The organ's solemn harmony
Pour'd thrilling tones of love and
awe.
'And here,' I whispered, 'kneels in prayer
That maiden, and for me she prays;'
I moved with silent footstep there,
And hardly dared around to gaze.
Then suddenly (I did not know
Why seem'd the church so sad and
dim)
The choir began, with voices low,
To sing an old funereal hymn.
Amid the mourners on I press'd,
And to the burial-chancel came:
There stood the bier, with roses dress'd,
And on the coffin was her name!
In the following short poem by Franz Gaudy, who died in 1840, the
vein of sentiment is truly German :
MUSIC FOR THE DYING.
In the darkly-curtained chamber,
The lamp's flame glimmers low,
And throws a trembling lustre
On the old man's pallid brow.
His children stand together
In silence round his bed,
And strive to dry their tears,
But more will still be shed.
They press each other's hand,
Their anguish to conceal;
No human words can tell
How sorrowful they feel!
But hark! some blithe companions
Come, singing, down the street :
The tones come nearer, nearer,
In concord full and sweet.
The old man lifts his eyelids;
His soul is deeply stirr'd-
He listens to the music,
And catches every word.
'My son's songs they are singing!'
Says he, as life's strings sever;
Then down he lays his head,
And shuts his eyes for ever.
་།
We should be pleased to find among these ballads a greater number
descriptive of national life and manners; but in this style of writing many
German poets are remarkably deficient. Platen, for instance, who was one
26
GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.
of the greatest masters of poetical diction, devoted nearly all his poems to
foreign topics. His best productions are his odes and sonnets, which are
very chaste and beautiful in style. From his miscellaneous verses we may
cull the following ballad on an incident in Oriental history :-
HARMOSAN.
The throne of the Sassanides was shatter'd on the ground,
The Moslem hand thy hoard of wealth, O Ctesiphon, had found,
When Omar to the Oxus came, through many a bloody day,
And Jesdegerd, the Persian king, among the corpses lay.
And as the Arabian caliph to count the spoil began,
Before him came a satrap, bound-his name was Harmosan:
The last was he to quit the field, where many fell in vain,
Or yield his sword; but now his hands were fastened with a chain.
Then Omar darkly frowned on him, and thus the victor said:-
'Know you how crimson is the hand that faithful blood hath shed?"
My doom awaits your pleasure now-the power is on your side-
A victor's word is always right!'-so Harmason replied.
'I have but one request to make, whatever fate be mine—
For these three days I have not drunk-bring me a cup of wine!'
Then Omar nodded, and his slaves brought presently the cup,
But, fearing fraud, suspiciously the captive held it up.
Why drink you not? the Mussulman will ne'er deceive a guest:
You shall not die till you have drunk that wine-Tis of the best.'
The Persian seized the cup at once, and cast a smile around,
Then dash'd the goblet down-the wine ran streaming o'er the ground.
As Omar's chieftains saw the trick, they drew with savage frown,
Out from their sheaths the scimitars to cut the Persian down;
But Omar cried-'So let him live! Faithful, put up the sword!
If aught on earth is holy still, it is a hero's word!'
Many of the short poems classed among romances and ballads are only
remarkable for the melody and force of language with which they relate
some tale or anecdote. Such is the character of the following lines by
Leitner, telling the well-known story of our King Canute :-
KING CANUTE.
On the strand at Southampton King Canute sat down,
Clad in purple array, and with sceptre and crown-
And the waves are loudly roaring.
At the nod of his brow his vassals all bow,
And he looks, in his pride, o'er the foaming tide,
Where the waves were loudly roaring.
Said he, 'On my throne, I am ruler alone
Over all the dry ground, far, far all around'-
(And the waves are loudly roaring.)
'And now, swelling sea! I will rule over thee;
I will master thy waves-they shall serve me as slaves,
Though blustering now so loudly!'
27
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
But a wave, with a roar, threw itself on the shore,
And cast its salt spray o'er the monarch's array,
And curled round his footstool proudly.
Then Canute laid down his sceptre and crown;
For the voice of the tide had astounded his pride,
While the billows were round him roaring;
And he said, 'What is man! Let all worship be paid
To IIIM who the sea and the dry land inade,
And who ruleth the billows roaring!'
It might be supposed that a people so famous for their metaphysical
speculations would make even poetry itself a vehicle for abstract thought;
but this is not the case with the Germans. They have no contemplative
poot, like our lately-deceased Wordsworth; nor have they received with
any marked favour didactic poetry, like that of Young and Cowper. With
some few exceptions, their didactic verse may be described as very poor.
Among the exceptions we may mention the poems of Leopold Schefer, who
may be styled the poet of German philosophy, as his verses give, in bold
and often very eloquent language, the results of Schelling and Hegel's
systems. Interspersed among such verses we find many ethical lessons,
which are made poetical by the imagery used to illustrate them. The fol-
lowing pieces may serve as specimens of his style :-
A LESSON FROM A FOUNTAIN.
'What one can never do for me again,
That I'll not do for him. To none I owe
What he ne'er did for me, and ne'er can do.'
And thus will you live justly, well and nobly?
Then first of all, grant not your child a grave;
For sure your child can never bury you!
Follow no friend to his last resting-place;
For he can never rise to follow you!
Give no poor wanderer a crust of bread,
Lest he should never meet you and return it!
Clothe not the poor till he can so clothe you!
And bind not up your house-dog's broken limb:
He'll ne'er return that self-same benefit;
The hound can only bark and keep your door.
The beggar only says, ' May God reward you!'
But I say Whatsoever thing you do,
None other can do that for you again.
Either that same thing you may never need,
Or if you need it, it may not be found.
Humanity will always be around you;
Hear, then, my counsel-hear the word divine:
To every man give that which most he needs,
Do that which he can never do for you!
Thus live you like the spring that gives you water,
And like the grape that sheds for you its blood,
And like the rose that perfume sheds for you,
And like the bread that satisfies your need.
*
नै
X
*
28
GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.
THANKSGIVING FOR SORROWS.
To care for others, that they may not suffer
What we have suffered, is divine well-doing-
The noblest vote of thanks for all our sorrows!
And daily thus the good man giveth thanks
To God, and also to humanity,
Which hourly is in need of aid and guidance.
And who has not known misery? Dear soul!
Who would not thank God for his sorrows all,
When in their working they become so sweet!
Good for ourselves and for humanity!
'Tis thus the roots of the aloe-tree are bitter,
But cast upon the glowing coals, how sweet,
How lasting and diffusive is their fragrance!
Yea, I have seen a lame and halting child
Prop up most tenderly a broken plant;
And a poor mother, whose own child was burnt,
Snatch from the flame the children of another.
So, generous man, return thou constant thanks
For all thy griefs to God and to mankind,
And ending grief will make unending joy!
Or, if it end not, it will be pure blessing
While in the trying furnace, thou dost good.
And if from wo released, and happy, spread,
Thy happiness all round thee. So doth God.
Suffering or happy, inan, be always thankful!
Of recent poetical productions it would not be easy to speak with perfect
fairness. As some interval of space is required, that we may see and judge
well the proportions of the town in which we dwell, so an interval of time
seems necessary to form a fair judgment of the works of our contemporaries.
As an instance of this-how much better can we now estimate Wordsworth
than in the time when he was regarded, even by the acute and excellent
Francis Jeffrey, as a writer of mere puerile verses! The most remarkable
feature in recent German poetry is, perhaps, its tendency to meddle with
political and social questions. We allude to the poems of Hoffmann von
Fallersleben and the war-lyrics of Herwegh. Hoffmann is a satirist of
considerable humour, but has not improved his poetry by devoting it to
politics--the 'king of Prussia,' the Zollverein,' 'the constitution,' and
'German unity,' not forgetting that equally dreamy affair, the German
fleet' these may be good things to fill newspapers, but are very dry and
dreary topics for poetry. Herwegh is a very terrible poet. For every
evil he has one remedy-the sword; and he seems to have forgotten that
this nostrum has been tried frequently, but generally with such bad effect
as to make wise men ask for another mode of treatment. 'It is now the
time for hate!' cries Herwegh-meaning, we suppose, for party rancour,
as if that time had not lasted long enough. In another lyric he
exclaims-
Tear the crosses from the earth,
And turn them into swords!'
On this a very cool critic observes, that 'it would be a mere waste of time,
as iron crosses are very rare in Germany, while iron in other shapes is
29
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
plentiful enough.' Another recent poet, Geibel, one who is not smitten
with the war-mania, addresses to Herwegh a poetical remonstrance, from
which we translate one verse :
TO GEORGE HERWEGH.
Like Peter, then, 'put up thy sword,'
And close at once your martial rhymes;
Or look at Paris now and learn,
1
Freedom is not the child of crimes!
With earnest minds and patient labour
The world's truc battle must be fought;
Better than musket, pike, and sabre,
The spirit's power-the power of thought!
The name of Geibel affords an instance of the uncertainty of a great
part of contemporary criticism. We have read several of Geibel's poems,
and have found in them no signs of great creative genius, but melody of
language and poetical taste; yet an able German critic gives the following
contemptuous estimate of this young poet, who happens to enjoy a small
pension from the king of Prussia :-'The task of appreciating Herr
Geibel's value as a poet is very easy, as he is annually credited by the
state to the extent of 300 dollars. This, at the rate of three and a half
per cent., makes the nominal capital value of Herr G. not less than 8571
dollars, 12 groschen, and 10% pfennige-a very high estimate of a young
poet in these times!' Surely Jeremy Bentham himself could not have
desired a more utilitarian style of poetical criticism than this! We append
a translation of one of Emanuel Geibel's poems :-
SPRING'S REVELATION.
Come to the forests, sceptics, leave your poring,
List to its thousand voices, all combining;
See its live columns, twined with roses, soaring,
See its bright roof green boughs with boughs entwining.
Like incense, perfumes from all flowers abounding,
Like golden tapers see the sunbeams quiver;
And jubilate to the heavens are sounding
Voices from birds, green boughs, and flowing river,
And heaven itself, in love, is lowly bowing
To fold the earth, its bride, in dalliance new;
All creatures thrill, with love's fire inly glowing,
Your hearts, however cold, must tremble too!
Now say you 'Nay, 'tis all a hollow show,
A mere machine, and nothing more we trace;'
Now say 'Tis nought' to all love's overflow,
And from your lips dash off the cup of grace!
In vain-you cannot-if you did the wrong,
Creation's voice would hush your wretched nay;
Unheard amid the thousand-voiced song
Of all glad creatures loudly uttering-yea!
!
30
GERMAN POETS AND POETRY.
The preceding remarks on Herwegh, and other recent writers of political
verses, by no means imply that poetry must be confined to imagination,
and must have no relation to the interests of real life. We would rather
urge that a poetry of true living interest is wanting in our day; but it
must treat the questions of practical life in a truly poetical, and not a
mere declamatory style. With this condition we would welcome the
lowliest verses of true human interest rather than more ambitious poems
of a purely imaginative cast. No poetry can long delight which is alto-
gether alien to our real life. The poet may transcend our real life, he may
exalt it by imagination, but he must not leave it behind him. And in
our day, when the life-breath of an elevating, philanthropic poetry ought
to be infused throughout our social institutions, pervading the dwellings
of the poor, and sanctifying the low by bringing it into communion with
the lofty; when men are waiting to know themselves that they may fulfil
their mission upon earth; when they feel
6
How small of all the ills which hearts endure,
That part which kings or laws can cause or cure;'
when we peculiarly need a sincere union between our literature and our
life; when we want books that we may take to ourselves as bosom-friends
-books that we may not only read, but believe and love; at such a time,
the poet who would treat us with another epic about Prince Arthur, or
any similar composition, would be very much like the comforters of
Job, who attempted to cure his sorrows by studied orations, very sublime,
but very unseasonable.
It is a common opinion among literary men in Germany, that the pre-
sent age is marked with a decline of poetry; and some speak even of its
extinction. Gervinus, a well-known critic, advises all his poetical young
friends to shun verses, and devote themselves to practical life. We do
not see clearly why poetry and real life should be separated. It is true
that the age for long poems, for reading verses by the thousand, seems
to have passed away, and the present day, vexed with its political and
social questions, is certainly not favourable to that studious and exclusive
devotion to poetry which we have seen in other times; but let us reform
the world as we will, external changes or amended realities will never
make us independent of imaginative pleasures. After all that is done for
us abroad, we shall be poor and barren unless we can say with the writer
of the fine old song-
'My mind to me a kingdom is!'
But it would be idle to discuss such a question as the extinction of poetry :
it will take place in that time, perhaps, when, as Jean Paul prophesies,
all men (and of course all women) will be authors, and newspapers will be
edited at the North Pole. In short, so far as poetry is an essential part
of our mental nature, it will endure. Many artificial kinds will vanish,
long epics made to measure, and other heavy pieces of verse, containing
some nine parts of dry mechanism for every one of inspiration, will pro-
bably pass away and be forgotten; but the true song, the romantic ballad,
the vividly-told story in verse, will continue to charm the future gene-
31
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
rations; sorrows and joys, hopes and memories, will demand poetic utter-
ance; nature will claim her tribute of praise; and poets will doubtless
hail the flowers of spring when the grandchildren of the present age will
have passed away. So says Count Auersperg, a modern Austrian poet,
whose verses on this topic form here a suitable conclusion :-
THE LAST POET.
• When will be poets weary,
And throw their harps away?
When will be sung and ended
The oft-repeated lay?'
As long as the sun's chariot
Rolls in the heavenly blue,
As long as human faces
Are gladdened with the view;
Long as the sky's loud thunder
Is echoed from the hill,
And, touched with dread and won-
der,
A human heart can thrill;
And while, through melting tem-
pest,
The rainbow spans the air,
And gladdened human bosoms
Can hail the token fair;
And long as night the ether
With stars and planets sows,
And man can read the meaning
That in golden letters glows;
As long as shines the moon
Upon our nightly rest,
And the forest waves its branches
Above the weary breast;
As long as blooms the spring
And while the roses blow,
While smiles can dimple cheeks,
And eyes with joy o'erflow;
And while the cypress dark,
O'er the grave its head can shake,
And while an eye can weep,
And while a heart can break;
So long on earth shall live
True poesy divine,
And make our earthly life
In heavenly colours shine.
And singing, all alone,
The last of living men,
Upon earth's garden green,
Shall be a poet then.
God holds his fair creation
In his hand, a blooming rose,
IIe smiles on it with pleasure,
And in his smile it glows:
But when the giant-flower
For ever dies away,
And earth and sun, its blossoms,
Like blooms of spring decay;
Then ask the poet-then-
If you live to see the day--
'When will be sung and ended
The oft-repeated lay ?'
THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.
I.
Geography of the Deserts-Physical Structure and Leading Features-Vegetable and Animal
Productions-Conjectures as to the Origin of the Deserts.
THE
HE northern coast of Africa has long been known to the civilised
world, and once formed no unimportant part of its political and
social system. But though Egypt took the lead in science, and Carthage
in commercial enterprise, yet the progress of civilisation does not appear
to have extended at any time beyond the tracts of land immediately bor-
dering on the Nile and the Mediterranean. A few days' journey into the
interior placed the traveller on apparently endless plains of shifting sand;
a boundary which arrested the victorious career of Cambyses and Alex-
ander, and which has, in all subsequent ages, baffled every attempt at
colonisation and improvement. Till within the last few years, the immense
region which extends from the fertile shores of the Mediterranean to the
country called Soudan, or Nigritia, has been left a blank or dotted space
on our maps, marked in large letters 'Sahara, or the Great Desert;' as
though nature, departing from her usual diversity of operations, had here
adopted the rule of monotony and uniformity, and had spread in every
direction a sheet of burning sand. The imagination of poets has availed
itself of the silence of geographers, and represented this as a region without
a blade of grass, and traversed by no living thing, except wild beasts of
prey, and here and there a tribe of savages, ignorant of the primary
wants of individual life which attach man to the soil, as well as of the first
elements of social existence which unite him to his fellow-men.
Travellers from England have from time to time ventured into the
mysterious abyss; and the few who have returned to tell what they saw,
have furnished some interesting particulars concerning the route they pur-
sued, and the people they encountered. Their aim, however, was rather
to get through the, Desert than to become acquainted with it, the great
object of curiosity being the Negro country which lies beyond. But since
the French assumed the sovereignty of Algeria in 1830, they have felt,
like all preceding conquerors of this territory, the impossibility of colo-
nising and civilising it, without exercising a corresponding influence on
the adjoining desert; and thus the Sahara itself has become an object
No. 69.
1
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
of deep attention. They have laboured assiduously to understand
its resources, the social condition of its tribes, and the relation which
subsists between them and the inhabitants of the surrounding countries.
It must be added, that they have made attempts as futile as unwarrant-
able, to compel the Saharians to receive law and civilisation at their hands.
Their utmost success in this respect has been, to obtain a scanty tribute
from some of the Oases; to plunder and devastate others whose inhabitants
fled before them; and to drive the streams of commerce from their own
province to the neighbouring states of Morocco and Tripoli. Meanwhile,
a vast body of information has been collected, chiefly with reference to
the northern and western parts of Sahara; while our own countryman, Mr
Richardson, who penetrated the Desert farther towards the east in the
year 1846, has made us acquainted with a portion which the French could
know only by hearsay. Recent discoveries in Central Africa have thrown
new interest around the deserts which form its northern boundary; and
the more so, as it is the present opinion that the most eligible route to
Nigritia is across the wastes of Sahara from the Mediterranean shores,
rather than through the pestilential forests and savage populations which
are found between the Senegal and the Niger.
The desert region which we propose now to describe is bounded on the
north by the states of Barbary, on the west by the Atlantic Ocean, on the
south by Soudan, or Nigritia, and the river Senegal, and on the east by
Egypt and Nubia. Adopting the ancient classical figure, we should call
this vast expanse an ocean, dividing the continent of the black race from
the abodes of white men: as such, it is traversed by powerful fleets, in-
fested with daring freebooters, and studded here and there with single
islands or numerous archipelagoes. It is difficult to assign its precise limits
to the north, on account of the interruptions to which it is subject in that
direction. It has been usual to consider the Great Sahara as reaching from
about the 16th to the 29th parallels, and to call by various names-
as the
Little Desert, the Desert of Anghad, the Desert of Shott, &c.—those gulfs
of the sandy ocean which project farther north; while the region of nume-
rous oases, which form the northern skirting of the Sahara, have been
denominated Beled-el-Jerid, or the Date-Country.
The French have taken great pains to distinguish the last-named region,
with its numerous, intelligent, and industrious population, from what they
call the Central Desert, or Falat. Nay, they have made up their minds that,
in consequence of its commercial dependence on the Tell for some of the
first necessaries of life, it cannot possibly exist under a separate régime. In
the maps, therefore, which were published by order of the government in
1844, Algeria is made to comprise the whole tract of country southward to
the 32d degree of north latitude in the west, and about the 34th degree at
the eastern extremity. At the same time, these geographers have been
considerate enough to suppose that their neighbours would like a slice as
well as themselves; and they have allotted to the other Barbary states
respectively all the oases which lie scattered on their southern frontiers.
Thus have the Little Desert and the Date-Country completely disappeared;
having become the Sahara Marocain, Sahara Algerien, and Sahara Tuni-
sien. The partition and appropriation have been made prospectively on
2
THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.
paper, than which nothing is more easy-our friends in France having
never, in all probability, seen the recipe of our shrewd countrywoman,
Meg Dods, commencing with 'First catch the hare.' It is certainly con-
venient to have a general name for these comparatively fertile portions
of the Desert. The term Date-Country is in many respects ineligible,
as it conveys the idea of great fertility; and by no means suggests the
fact that it is, as a whole, a desert region, absolutely barren and unin-
habitable in many places, though abounding towards the east in the fertile
spots called oases, which are generally, but not universally, congenial to
the date. The fact is, that this fruit attains its greatest perfection in some
of those verdant spots which are found in the very heart of the Central
Desert; and were it only on this ground, the appellation Date-Country is
unsuitable for distinguishing the region of numerous oases in the north
from the more thinly-sown portion in the centre. We may therefore so
far adopt the French nomenclature, as to call this interesting, and now
pretty well-known country, 'the Northern Sahara,' in contradistinction to
the Central, which it might confuse the English reader to denominate the
Falat, as the term Sahara is retained in our best maps.
The inhabitants of the Desert know no other division of their country
than that of tribes and oases-the very names of which were long unknown
in Europe, but are now to some extent ascertained and defined. Instead,
however, of burdening the reader's memory with a large number of names
which he might find in no map within his reach, and perhaps might never
again meet in the course of his reading, we shall merely point out the
oases which are most important from their external relations, and which
we may have occasion afterwards to mention.
Beginning from the west, and proceeding along the northern border, the
first fertile spots to be noted are El-Harib, important as a resting-place on
the direct route from the city of Morocco to Timbuctoo; and Tafilet, the
capital of the Shereef tribe, and the centre of an extensive commerce with
the negro country, the interior of Morocco, and the East. Tafilet is not a
single oasis, but a cluster; for fertile spots are both few and small west of
the second degree of east longitude, owing, it is believed, to the circum-
stance that the wind blows from the east nine months in the year, rushing
into a hurricane at certain seasons, and that, in the course of time, it has
accumulated the sand towards the west. In the Algerian Sahara, the most
southern oases are El-Abied-Sidi-Sheik, Wad-Miab, Wad-Reklah, Wad-
Reer, and Wad-Soof,† forming a chain of fertile spots, south of which all is
sterility, and not even a village is to be seen during several days' journey.
The fertile belt which stretches along the shores of the Mediterranean, and
by the natives called the Tell, is from 50 to 120 miles broad in the pro-
vince of Algiers, but it becomes a very narrow strip in the regency of
*The Sahara,' says a writer in the Edinburgh Review, is now ascertained to
consist of a vast archipelago of oases; each of them peopled by a tribe of the Moorish
race or its offsets, more civilised, and more capable of receiving the lessons of civi-
lisation, than the houseless Arabs of the Tell.' We shall sadly mistake if we under-
stand such a passage as this with respect to the Central Desert of Africa; whereas
it refers only to that portion which we have been accustomed to call the Date-
Country, but to which the French have now not only appropriated, but restricted
the name Sahara.
+ Better known by their towns, Metili, Gardeai, Tuggurt, and Temacin.
3
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
Tripoli; and an English traveller remarks here, that the distinction between
Great and Little Deserts is quite fictitious: it is all Sahara, and the sands
reach the very walls of Tripoli. Two great oases, or rather archipelagoes,
facilitate the intercourse between the above-named points and the interior
of Africa: they are Fezzan, of which the capital is Mourzouk, and Twât,
whose chief towns are Ain-salah, Agabli, and Timimoom.
The space,
however, between these and the nearest of the northern oases is very
formidable, and would be almost impassable if nature had not placed two
resting-places on the two principal routes. El-Golea lies between Algeria
and Twât; Ghadamis* between Tunis and Fezzan. Timbuctoo and
Kashna are the great marts in the negro country with which commercial
relations are maintained in a manner we shall hereafter describe.
The eastern part of the Desert, sometimes distinguished as the Libyan,
offers no points of similar interest, except Bilna, the chief town, famous for
its immense salt beds, whence large quantities are annually exported to
Nigritia. But we must not overlook the line of oases which is found
running north and south near the extreme eastern limit of these dreary
wastes. Here are Darfoor, Selimeh, the Great and Little Oases of Thebes,
the natron lakes, and the Baha-bela-ma, or dry river. The Great Oasis is
120 miles long and 4 or 5 broad; the lesser, separated from it by 40 miles
of desert, is similar in form. In the Valley of Nitrium is another beautiful
spot, which was a favourite retreat of Christian monks in the second cen-
tury. Here remain four out of 360 convents, and from them some valuable
manuscripts of ancient date have recently been obtained. Another oasis
in this direction contains splendid ruins, supposed to be those of the famous
temple of Jupiter Ammon.
Returning from the ancient to the modern, from the poetical to the
useful, we remark that the route almost directly south from Ghadamis to
Kashna has, since the adventures of Lyon, Richardson, and others, become
pretty well known, and is ascertained to be a line of great commercial
activity, and abounding with towns and villages. Of the former, Ghat† is
celebrated as a market or fair, and Agades as the capital of the Targhee
tribes in this district. Aheer is another important town, as it is on the way
from Morocco (by Twât) to Kashna; and also as it maintains commerce
with Bilna, Ghat, and Mourzouk. We know little of the tracts which lie
west of Aheer, but on the line from Twât to Timbuctoo we find Mabrook,
thrice welcome to the traveller who has met with no water for ten days
before reaching it. Tishet, Toudeni, and Wadan‡ are generally marked
on modern maps on account of their salt beds, which form a valuable article
of commerce.
The knowledge which we possess of the physical structure of the Desert
is still very incomplete. We may, however, add some general views of the
nature and aspect of its surface, and notice some of its most remarkable
features. If we begin our examination with the western portion, a journey
along the coast offers nothing but low sandy tracts, broken here and there
by rocky headlands, neither bold nor lofty; the land is not perceived at
sea beyond a very short distance, which is doubtless the principal reason
*Written by French geographers R'Dames.
+ Or Rât.
Or Hoden.
4
THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.
of the numerous shipwrecks that have occurred on this inhospitable shore.
Leaving the coast, the shifting sand extends but a few days' journey at
most, and we arrive at a somewhat elevated plain, which appears very
extensive. It is close, uniform, stony, and arid in the extreme, but here
and there interrupted by a hollow or large ravine, 150 or 200 feet deep,
whose steeps afford occasional springs of water. That part of the Desert
which lies between El-Harib and Timbuctoo is extremely arid, and desti-
tute of wells, indicating that in this space there must be some point of
culmination, or a line of rising-ground to separate the waters, for we find
much sand on the route of Caillié; and it is well known that sand and
springs abound chiefly in low grounds, and that it is especially near the
lines that divide the waters that there appear few inducements to bore. A
similar swelling has been remarked between Twât and Timbuctoo. On
leaving Agabli, the most southern point of the former, the route lies over
sand for a few days, and then occurs a tract of stiff red earth, and the utter
absence of water for eight or ten days. This does not extend far to the
west, for in that direction it is bounded by a sandy waste.
The central part of the Desert seems to be considerably more moun-
tainous than the eastern or western portions of it. Between Algiers and
Twât is an uninhabitable desert of sand without water, separated by a
hilly district from another similarly dreary waste between Algeria and
Ghadamis. The country which lies between Twât and Ghat is all hilly,
but its particular topography is quite unknown, on account of the deadly
enmity which we shall afterwards have occasion to notice as existing
between the populations whose territories it separates, and which renders
its exploration perilous in the extreme. The Targhee country abounds in
hills and stony plains. Mr Richardson describes himself as travelling six
days southward from Ghadamis without meeting fifty yards of sand; the
route lay over hard-baked earth and huge blocks of stone, but chiefly beds
of very small pebbles. Afterwards he met sand in abundance-masses of
it quite loose, and 400 feet high. Towards Ghat it was heap upon heap,
pile upon pile, every succeeding feature of the landscape appearing more
hideous than the former, and the whole presenting 'a mass of blank exist-
ence, having no apparent object but to terrify the hapless traveller, who,
with his faithful camel, pursues his weary way through the waste.' The
country about Ghat is intersected in every direction with dark gloomy moun-
tains. Here, it is said, that spirits of the air live in harmonious alliance
with the tribes of the Desert, in consequence of a kind of Magna Charta, a
treaty offensive and defensive, made between them ages ago. The jenoum
(demons or genii) who had chosen to build their palaces in these mountains,
offered their friendship and protection to the sons of men, on condition of
being allowed to remain unmolested, promising especially to endue their
human allies with vision and tact, during the hours of darkness, to surprise
and overcome their enemies. And the Targhee fathers alone of mortals
vowed them eternal and inviolable friendship on these conditions, swearing
that they never would employ Maraboot, holy Koran, or any other means,
to dislodge them from the black turret-shaped hills. The treaty has never
been violated; the demons dwell unmolested in their lofty castles; and
many an unfortunate traveller or hapless negro family witnesses the fearful
efficacy of the powers which they have conferred upon the Touarik.
5
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
Standing out conspicuously among the private dwellings of the demons is
an immense rock: this is their council-hall; and here, from thousands of
miles round, do the spirits of the air meet to deliberate on the affairs of
their social polity. Here, too, are their public treasuries-caverns full of
gold, silver, and diamonds-all, we presume, of a spiritual nature, like
their possessors, or we doubt if they would remain inviolable. Nor must
we omit to mention a rocking or logging-stone, about fifty feet high, and
exceedingly like our own in Cornwall. It was the spot on which a wealthy
Maraboot of great sanctity met a violent death. The murderer, seized
with remorse for his deed of blood, entreated the genii to cover up the
body from sight, as he had not courage himself to bury it. They listened
to his prayer, and detached this piece of rock from their great palace to
form a sepulchral stone; and here it has rested, occasionally rocking, say
the people, to this day. The murderer then begged that the genii would
accept some of the spoil in token of his gratitude; but they refused to
touch the bloodstained gold, and pelted the wretch to death.
The topography of Fezzan presents a mixture of mountains and plains;
and the soil is sterile enough except in the oases, which are said to be
about one hundred in number. The most remarkable feature of this part
of Sahara is the chain which separates it from Tripoli, and which runs from
east-south-east to west-north-west, like the coast from Benghazi to Khabs.
The whole country south of Fezzan consists likewise of hills and stony
plains, sandy tracts being met with only here and there. A long range of
black basaltic mountains forms the western boundary of the Tiboo country
or Libyan Desert, where the continent shelves down towards the Mediter-
ranean in a series of sandy or gravelly terraces, divided by low rocky
ridges. This shelving country is cut transversely by the deep furrow in
which is the long line of oases to which we have adverted as of ancient
classic celebrity. A hideous flinty plain, several days' journey across, lies
between it and the parallel valley of the Nile, which forms the eastern
boundary of the great Deserts of Africa.
It appears thus, that insulated hills, or groups of them, generally of
naked sandstone or granite, are by no means uncommon throughout the
Sahara, where they appear like islands in the vast expanse. The stony
plains also are somewhat elevated, as are those of stiff clay; the sandy
tracts lie lower; and deeper still are the ravines and basins which con-
stitute the most peculiar and interesting features of the Saharian landscape.
The Desert boasts of no permanent river; but the winter rains give rise to
temporary streams, which fill these hollows, and then sink to some unknown
depth in the sand, or evaporate in the scorching heat of the summer sun.
Ouad or Wady is the term used to designate the channels of these tem-
porary streams, which sometimes acquire, on account of the rapidity of
their fall, a velocity which uproots trees and spreads desolation everywhere
in its course. This is especially the case in the northern oases.
that of Mzab, for instance, when the sky darkens towards the north, a
number of horsemen set out in that direction, and station themselves at
regular distances on the highest points of land. If the torrent appears,
the farthest of them fires a gun; the telegraphic signal is repeated from
post to post, and reaches the town in a few minutes. The inhabitants run
immediately to the gardens, to awake the men who may be sleeping there,
At
1
6
THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.
and in haste they carry away every object of value that might become the
prey of the devastating flood. Presently a dreadful noise announces the
irruption of the torrent; the soil of the gardens disappears beneath the
water; and the Saharian city seems transported, as if by magic, to the banks
of a broad and rapid river, whence arise, like little isles of verdure, innu-
merable heads of palm-trees-an ephemeral ornament, which disappears in a
few days.
Some of the basins are very extensive, and contain beds of salt consi-
derable enough to be worked: such are the famous Traza, Toudeni, and
Tishet. In latitude, about 34 degrees north, and nearly on the meridian
of London, are two large basins, called Shott, situated in a frightful desert,
and divided from each other by an isthmus from 25 to 30 miles broad.
They present a very singular formation, which would open an interesting
field of geological inquiry. The eastern basin is about 120 miles long,
and the western about 85, the mean breadth of each being about 6 miles.
These basins exhibit a fall of the earth from 35 to 60 feet deep, nearly
vertical, and so perfectly clean and smooth that they appear as if wrought
out with a chisel. Dr Jacquot, who examined them minutely in 1847,
asserts that they could not have been produced by any gradual action of
water; that they are evidently cratères de soulèvement, and bear the appear-
ance of having been torn open by the convulsion which upheaved the
Atlas, their greater axis being parallel to that chain, like most of the
accidents of the Northern Sahara. Several pluvial streams flow into these
basins, and various small plants are found in them; but they become per-
fectly dry in summer. The local tradition of the origin of the Shott is,
that at a remote period of antiquity, the Saharians, jealous of the fine
sheet of water which forms the boundary of the Tell, resolved to have a
sea of their own. With immense labour they excavated the two basins,
and then the question was how to get them filled. A numerous caravan
was equipped for the shores of the Mediterranean, with skins to bring
water for their artificial sea. Allah, incensed at their presumptuous en-
terprise, destroyed them all by the way, and let loose a fearful tempest
on the splendid city which they had built for a port on the sea which
they contemplated. The ravages of time have effaced the last ves-
tiges of the unfortunate city; but the basins of the Shott, long, dreary,
sterile craters, remain a witness of the power of God and the vanity of
man. If this explanation of the origin of the Shott affords little satis-
faction to the geologist, it is fraught with interest to the lover of Scripture
truth, who finds here, as in almost every country under heaven, a tradi-
tionary record, however imperfect, of the events which took place at
Babel.
Many of the depressions of the Sahara, whether in the form of wads or
basins, enjoy a constant supply of water by means of natural or artificial
wells, and have consequently been planted and inhabited: these are the
oases of the Desert; not to the eye of the geologist like islands which rise
above the surrounding expanse, but hollows affording to animal and vege-
table life not only the vivifying moisture, but the no less needful shelter
from the storms of the Desert. These verdant spots, which are often
hundreds of miles apart, present considerable encouragement to the labours
of the husbandman, and are in general most favourable to the cultivation
7
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
of the date-palm and other fruit trees. Onions, with various herbs and
vegetables, also find a congenial soil; but grain does not appear to yield
abundant crops.
The wide wastes abroad furnish for the most part a
scanty supply of coarse grass and small shrubs, serving as pasturage for
the cattle of many a nomade tribe; but there are also extensive tracts
where not a morsel of verdure is to be seen. Nothing can exceed the
desolation of these regions: where there is no vegetable there can of
course be no animal life; day after day the traveller wends his way
without seeing bird, beast, or insect; no sound, no stir, breaks the dread-
ful silence; the dry heated air is like the breath of a furnace, and the
setting sun like a volcanic fire. The desert plains that are much exposed
to storms present an equally terrific scene, but somewhat different: the
sand is blown into clouds that fill the atmosphere, darken the sun at noon-
day, and almost suffocate the traveller. Now the whirlwinds form it into
columns; and one of the most magnificent and appalling sights in nature is
presented. In the vast expanse of desert,' says Bruce, 'we saw towards
the north a number of prodigious pillars of sand at various distances, some-
times moving with great velocity, sometimes stalking on with majestic
slowness. At intervals we thought they were coming in a very few
minutes to overwhelm us, and small quantities of sand did actually reach
us more than once again they would retreat so as to be almost out of
sight, their tops reaching to the very clouds; then the summits often
separated from the bodies, and these once disjoined, dispersed in air,
and did not appear more; sometimes they were broken in the middle,
as if struck with large cannon-shot. At noon they began to advance
with considerable swiftness upon us, the wind being very strong at north.
Eleven ranged alongside of us about the distance of three miles; the
greatest diameter of the largest appeared to me as if it would measure ten
feet. They retired from us with a wind at south-east, leaving an impres-
sion on my mind to which I can give no name, though surely one ingredient
in it was fear, with a considerable deal of wonder and astonishment. It
was in vain to think of fleeing; the swiftest horse could be of no use to
carry us out of the danger, and the full conviction of this rivetted me to
the spot.' Another traveller had an opportunity of seeing one of these
pillars crossing the River Gambia from the Great Desert. 'It passed,' he
says, 'within eighteen or twenty fathoms of the stern of the vessel, and
seemed to be about 250 feet in height; its heat was sensibly felt at the
distance of 100 feet, and it left a strong smell, more like that of saltpetre
than sulphur, which remained a long time.'
Downs or sandhills form a prominent and remarkable feature of the
Saharian landscape. They are rounded elevations, smooth as the cupola
of polished marble, sterile as the rock of naked granite, and of so uniform
a colour that they never appear to blend or confuse with surrounding
objects. During the day, they wear the sombre hue of a landscape at
sunset; but by moonlight one would think them phosphorescent, from
the brightness of the light sparkling in the bosom of the shadows. In
some situations, the sandhills seem to be at the mercy of the wind, travel-
ling at its bidding, and settling here or there to rise and wander forth
again. Others seem to have found a permanent resting-place; and this is
generally, if not always, in the shelter of a mountain-chain. Yet strange
1
8
THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.
to say, the sands are not, in such a case, heaped against the mountain
sides, nor yet gathered into the hollows; they form a distinct, secondary
chain of themselves, corresponding in form and direction with the primary,
and separated from it by a broad valley, which is covered here with pebbles,
there with sand; now with herbage, and again with barrenness itself.
The camel, the sheep, and the goat, are the domestic animals of the
Sahara; few wild ones of any kind are to be found in the open Desert.
When the natives are asked about the lions which the learned of Europe
have given them for companions, they answer with imperturbable gravity,
that 'perhaps in Christian countries there are lions which browse on herbage
and drink the air, but in Africa they require running water and living
flesh; consequently they never appear in the Sahara.' The wooded moun-
tains are infested with them, but they have no inducement to descend into
the sandy plains. The only formidable creatures are of the viper and
scorpion kinds. Few else except timid and inoffensive species are natural
guests here: the principal are the gazelle, the ostrich, the antelope, and the
wild ass; but even these seem to venture little beyond the skirts of the
Desert, except in the neighbourhood of mountains. The chameleon is
common in the gardens of the central oases, where it is allowed to roam
unmolested, being rather a favourite than otherwise. It is described as a
most unsightly creature, changing its colour continually, but never exhibit-
ing a handsome one. Its hues are dunnish red or yellow, and sometimes
a blackish brown; it is often varied with spots or stripes, but frequently
without either. The construction of the eyes is remarkable: they seem to
turn on a swivel, and are directed every way in a moment. The Saharian
traveller has frequent occasion to admire the facility with which the camel
turns its head and neck completely round, and looks north, south, east,
and west, without pausing, or even slackening its pace for an instant;
but he ceases to wonder if he has ever observed the rapidity of the
chameleon's eye.
Another singular creature is the thob (perhaps Monitor pulchra), a
large species of lizard not unlike a miniature alligator. It is sometimes
twenty inches long, and ten round the thickest part of the body. It is
covered with scaly mail, shining, and of a dark-gray colour, and has a
tail four inches long, composed of a series of broad, thick, and sharp bones.
The head is large and tortoise-shaped, the mouth small. It has four feet
or rather hands, on which it runs awkwardly enough, owing apparently to
its bulky tail. It hides in the dry sandy holes of the Desert, and the
Arabs say that a single drop of water kills it. The traveller is glad to
make a meal of the thob; and, prejudice apart, it is palatable food, not
unlike the kid of the goat.
Nor must we omit to mention the ouadad, or waden, an animal described
as between the goat and bullock in appearance. It is hunted in the sands
of the Central Desert, and its flavour is said to resemble that of coarse
venison. Three or four of these animals were sent to the Royal Zoological
Gardens of London a few years ago.
The geology of the Desert is still involved in much obscurity. Hum-
boldt proposes the question: 'Has this once been a region of arable land
whose soil and plants have been swept away by some extraordinary re-
volution? Or is the reason of its nakedness that the germs of vegetable life
No. 69.
9
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
have not yet been fully and generally developed?' The most recent opinion
seems to be, that the latter is the true state of the case; that this expanse
of desert has risen from the bosom of the ocean at a very recent period,
subsequent even to the throes which gave birth to the regions of the Atlas
and Soudan. The present aspect of its surface is exactly that which it
must have had while as yet submarine. The rocks hid beneath the ocean,
and continually swept by its waters, must tend to become even; the loose
materials of the mountains being detached and precipitated into the
hollows till the culminating points present only so many masses of smooth
and solid rock. Travellers have remarked this feature of the desert moun-
tains as contrasted with those of Morocco: the latter exhibit wooded
craggy heights, bared by winds, bitten by frosts, and hoary with age,
though they are considered to have appeared after the formation of the
tertiary strata that is, while the crust of the earth was in its present
state of development; but the hills of the Sahara are quite naked, dull,
and dead, smooth as velvet, and exhibiting a black or purple hue of pain-
ful uniformity. This is Mr Richardson's report of those he met in his
route south from Tripoli; and he mentions what is yet more important,
their disposition north and south, which, if a general rule of distribution,
would go far to decide that they were not coeval with the Atlas range.
The immense quantities of sea-shells found not only in the limestone-
rocks, but in the sandy and pebbly plains, and the salt which prevails
everywhere, seem to favour the view that the sea has, till very lately,
covered the whole of the space now under consideration. Diodorus
Siculus mentions a lake of Hesperides in the interior of Africa, which,
according to ancient tradition, was suddenly dried up by a fearful convul-
sion of the earth; and Malte Brun conjectures that this lake could be no
other than that which once covered the Sahara. If we were to accept
this hypothesis, we could at once find the long lost isle of Atlantides,
without supposing the submergence of a country whose summits only
remain in the Canaries and Azores. The region of the Atlas Mountains,
including the fertile shores of the Mediterranean, still wear the appearance
of a great island, washed on the south by the Sahara-belama (sea without
water), whose sands reach from the ocean to the Gulf of Syrtis. If, how-
ever, the Atlantides of Plato must be placed in the Atlantic, and beyond
the Pillars of Hercules, might not such a convulsion as submerged this
country have been sufficient to upheave the Sahara?
II.
Inhabitants of the Desert-Berbers and Arabs-their Habits, Occupations, and Migrations. The
Targhee and his Meharee-The Tibboos-The Maraboot Tribes.
Many portions of this singular region are, as we have seen, uninhabited
and uninhabitable; but by far the greater part is scantily peopled by
various tribes of two distinct nations. The aboriginal race is that which
has been denominated the Atlas Family, said to have arisen from the mix-
ture of the two primitive nations which occupied Northern Africa in the
earliest ages—that is to say, the Libyans in the East, and the Getulians in
the West. The Romans, and after them the Vandals, mingled themselves
10
THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.
with this race; and in the Berber branch it now presents various elements
which the succession of generations and multiplicity of crosses have com-
bined into a homogeneous people. The other nation is the Arabs, who are
obviously invaders. Negroes are seldom to be met with in the Desert except
as slaves or occasional immigrants; they are not found as a population
attached to the soil; and Jews have crept all round its borders, but seem
never to have ventured into its mysterious depths.
The Arab invasion of the Sahara seems to have commenced in the West
by Morocco or the shores of the Atlantic, and to have advanced eastward
to the interior. All along the coast from the Senegal to the frontiers of
Morocco, and thence to the neighbourhood of the Joliba,* they seem to
have utterly expelled the ancient possessors of the soil. Proceeding east-
ward, we find them mingled with Berbers, but occupying a distinct social
position, in the tract which lies between the route from Harib to Timbuctoo,
and that from Agabli to the same place. Still farther in the same direction,
some are found in the country about Mabrook; but beyond this the nomades
of the Arab race disappear, and are not met with again till we reach
Darfoor. In all the towns, however-such as Agades, Kashna, &c.-there
are resident Arabs. A very powerful tribe of them, called Shanbah, are
the principal possessors of some of the oases of Twât, and traverse the
desert wastes north and west of these.†
Of the above-mentioned tribes, those about the north and east banks of
the Senegal occupy certain limited districts, having no occasion to change
their locality; the most numerous of them is the Ouled-Amer, whose
territory is very considerable. It is otherwise with those who live farther
north: they are subject to annual migrations, from the failure of pasture
and water during the summer months. The great tribe of the Ouled-
Deleim, who in winter occupy the country round Hoden, migrate in
summer to the neighbourhood of Noon, where they possess wells and oases.
A great number both of Arab and Berber tribes of this part of the Sahara
pass the summer in the empire of Morocco: such are the Harib, who inha-
bit the town so called, and at the approach of winter disperse southward
to a distance of a hundred miles or more. So far are these nomades from
wandering at hap-hazard, as many suppose, with their flocks and herds, and
sojourning for a time wherever they chance to meet with herbage and
water, each tribe has its own region of pasturage when the rains of winter
have spread a scanty verdure on the Desert, and its retreat in some well-
watered spot during the parching heat of the summer months.
Such are the pastoral tribes of the West, and the same character seems
to apply throughout the Desert to those who follow similar avocations.
But the Shanbah above mentioned, and several other tribes having their
location about the commercial routes which connect Morocco with Twât,
and Twât with Tunis and Timbuctoo, seem to combine the mercantile and
piratical character in the highest perfection, conducting and defending the
caravans that engage their protection by paying a sufficiently heavy tribute
for passing through their territories, while they plunder all others without
* The Niger.
In some maps this district is marked as the residence of the Twâts, which
seems to be another designation for the Shanbah, but less correct.
Often corrupted into Ludamar.
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
mercy. Their great rivals in both these branches of industry are the
Touarik, whose singular character and habits will merit a more particular
description when we come to notice the more central tribes.
Throughout the whole extent of the Northern Sahara, where the oases
are numerous, we find the Berber and Arab races united by ties of mutual
dependence; yet not more distinct in feature and language than in their
social position and employment. The Arabs, true to their vagabond in-
stincts, traverse the open country with flocks and herds; undertake the
transport of merchandise; engage in the convoy or pillage of caravans; and
carry on, in short, all that may be termed the external relations of the
community. They are the more numerous and wealthy, of course also the
dominant people. In the palmy days of the Hamian-garabas, a single in-
dividual has been known to possess 2000 camels, and four times as many
sheep. The Berbers, on the other hand, are the sedentary population:
they inhabit the oases, where the men employ themselves in cultivating the
gardens, and the women conduct the manufactures. In their continual
wanderings, the nomades cannot carry all their property with them, and
the ksour* become the depositories of their goods. Many of them,
besides, have purchased land in the oases, and are obliged to employ the
sedentary inhabitants to cultivate it. On the other hand, as soon as the
modest accumulations of the ksourian permit, he buys a sheep, which he
confides to the pastoral care of the nomade tribe. Thus the two nations,
who seem to have nothing in common but their religion, and between whom
there is anything but cordiality of feeling, are closely bound together by a
reciprocity of interest, and peace is the necessary result.
The French, who have been labouring these twenty years to subjugate
these people, say that the Arab submits, revolts, and submits again, again
to commence the same alternation of rebellion and obedience, according to
the impulse he receives from his own interest or caprice, or from the insti-
gation of the Maraboots; the Berber loves his independence, but when
once he has been made to feel a mightier power, he respects the oath that
he has sworn. The Arab escapes the punishment of his perfidy by
plunging with his tents and flocks into deserts where no army can follow;
but the Berber is confined to his ksar and his gardens.
Dr Jacquot describes the first oasis he saw in Sahara as 'a little green
corner, fresh and shady, cheered with the song of birds, and enlivened by
the murmur of waters. The dates waved their elegant plumes high in
the air; the pomegranates and fig-trees crowded between the columns of
the palms; the wheat and barley clothed the soil with verdure; the water
flowed in every direction, and the humid vapours vivified the foliage. One
could not help trembling for the little spot, it seemed such a feeble thing
in the immensity of the Desert, surrounded by desolate plains, and menaced
by moving sandhills.'
This little oasis is about five-eighths of an English mile in length, and a
little less in breadth. It occupies the bottom of a narrow ravine, which
shelters it in almost every direction. It is enclosed by a mud-wall from
7 to 10 feet high, and from 8 to 12 inches thick, flanked with about five-
* Ksar is the village of an oasis; Ksour is the plural; and Ksourian the inhabi-
tant.
1
12
THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.
and-twenty round towers, generally built of stone. These are the sentry-
boxes, on the flat roofs of which are stationed nightly guards to protect
the gardens from pillage. The gardens of the oasis lie against the general
wall, and are divided into a number of small enclosures, each of which is a
separate property. Next to the gardens, towards the centre, are the fields
of corn, barley, and onions, likewise divided into small squares, which are
watered and tended like our favourite flower-beds, and through the midst
runs the Wady, which flows from four springs a little above the ksar.
Such an oasis does not at all correspond with our preconceived
European notions of these islands of the sandy ocean. It is not the
immense wild garden, which supplies in a day what will support its
inhabitants for a year; it is not a spot where numerous species of fruits
and flowers crowd and mingle in luxuriant confusion; it is not, in short, the
wild primitive oasis. It is niggardly nature, cultivated even to torture by
human industry; it is wise, modest, economical husbandry, which rejects
the ostentation of useless foliage, and the empty show of unproductive
blossoms; which refuses space for a single tree or flower that is merely
ornamental, and makes room for those only which yield food for the sus-
tenance of human life. The ksar is built of stone, and presents the appear-
ance of a single building, or rather a mass of heavy masonry, perforated here
and there with a small window, and diversified with jutting and retiring
angles. The flat roofs rise above each other in irregular terraces, and none
of the streets are open to the exterior; they are closed up with masonry,
affording no entrance but by four narrow doors. In fact, there is no such
thing as we should call a street, none being open to the heavens above;
they are narrow, dark, often uneven passages winding under the buildings.
The main object in the construction seems to have been to pile the houses
compactly together, avoiding exterior openings, which might serve for the
admission of an enemy, and crowding as many human beings as possible
into a given space. About 300 men, women, and children, a lymphatic,
sickly, scrofulous generation, are huddled together in this ksar.
Some oases are considerably larger than the one we have described, and
some of the buildings are much more extensive; but this general plan, both
as to the gardens and the dwellings, seems to obtain throughout the northern
and western portions of Sahara, where the Berber race are in general
the architects and husbandmen.
The most interesting structures, however, are not the ksour, but the
marabets, or sepulchral chapels, which stand outside the walls. These are
generally square, and surmounted by a cupola, the whole being of stone or
brickwork, executed by artisans brought from Morocco for the express
purpose. Sometimes the principal cupola is flanked by four secondary
ones, the interior presenting a court, surrounded by a gallery, supported
by Moorish arcades. The ostrich egg, instead of a stone or metal ball,
crowns the summit of these pyramids. The ksourians choose to reserve
all the luxury and magnificence of their architecture to adorn the little
temples around which they excavate their last resting-places. These are
not, like the habitations of the living, subject to the ravages of invading
foes, for they are universally held sacred; and the conqueror, covered with
blood, approaches here with reverence, and prostrates himself in lowly
worship. Life is so ephemeral when the elements of nature and the arms
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
of the enemy continually threaten its existence, that the ksourian cares not
to lavish his wealth on the dwelling in which he may remain but for a
day: he reserves all his solicitude for that which will shelter him for ever
from the storms of life.
The camel and the date are to the inhabitants of the African deserts what
the reindeer and the lichen are to those of the polar regions; and while
many of the less enterprising nomades live at least two-thirds of the year
on camels' milk, so in the oases dates are the staple article of food, and
aged ksourians may be found who have never tasted bread.
The tree which produces this valuable fruit is the palm which gives so
peculiar and imposing an aspect to the verdant spots of the Desert. Its
straight and lofty trunk, fifty, sixty, or even one hundred feet high, is
crowned by a tuft of large radiating leaves or fronds. The calyx has six
divisions, and the fruit is a drupe, considerably larger than an acorn; of a
full red colour when ripe, and enclosing a hard kernel, from which it is
easily separated. It is pulpy, firm, esculent, and sweet, with slight astrin-
gency. The trees are raised from shoots, which arrive at maturity in
thirty years, and continue in full bearing for seventy longer, producing
yearly fifteen or twenty clusters, which may weigh from fifteen to twenty
pounds each.
When any one wishes to make a date plantation, or to form a garden, as
the natives say, he summons the neighbouring proprietors to his assistance,
and thus accomplishes his work with economy as well as dispatch; for their
services cost him nothing but the obligation to return the like when
demanded: the only auxiliaries who receive wages are those who are not
proprietors. The whole of the sand requires to be removed to the depth
of several feet, in order that the roots may reach the water; besides, a
trench is dug round every stem at a proper distance, and into this, when
necessary, water is poured, in order that, sinking through the soil, it may
effectually reach those fibres that chiefly require it. This irrigation is
generally committed to the women and children by those who have no
slaves; and the precious fluid is carried in skins of animals, or baskets of
halfa, plaited so closely as to be water-tight. In most cases canals are cut
in every direction, communicating with the springs which supply the oasis;
and where restriction is necessary, each proprietor pays so much an hour
for the flow of a stream into his garden. In some of the oases, each has
the prescriptive right of an hour or two, according to the title-deeds of his
estate. The time is measured by a rude chronometer held by the officer
who opens and shuts the conduit.
The mode of preserving dates is very simple. They are merely pressed
closely together in large woollen bags, and thus form compact masses,
which keep for several years. Sometimes a large white worm is engen-
dered in these, but it seems to occasion no disgust. Every species of
domestic animal in the Desert, even dogs and horses, can make a meal of
dates. But this fruit, however valuable, is, as an aliment, very inferior to
the cereals; it is capable of less variety of culinary preparation, and through
time it produces painful satiety and fatigue of the digestive organs. Where
little else is to be had, the ksourian employs various devices to alleviate
the monotony of his fare: he cooks his dates with oil or butter, or mingles
them with onions and other vegetables, which are usually cultivated in the
14
THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.
date gardens. But the favourite ragout, especially in the north, consists of
locusts boiled in salt and water. At certain seasons these creatures traverse
the air in dense clouds, and fall in numbers to the earth; they are collected
with care, and those which are not used immediately, are dried and reduced
to powder, which is kept for times of scarcity.
The sap of the date-palm furnishes a highly-esteemed beverage, called
lagmi. To obtain this, it is necessary to cut off the higher branches, and
bore a lateral hole in the stem thus tonsured; into this the end of a reed is
introduced, and the liquor flows through it rapidly, especially in the morn-
ing and evening. It is said that a single tree will yield fourteen or fifteen
quarts daily for two successive years, but it would perish in the third if
the bleeding were continued. The taste of the lagmi is not unlike sweet
barley-water, and by fermentation it may be transformed into an excellent
drink resembling cider.
The wood of the palm-tree is used for building: the trunk, sawn in two
along the grain, furnishes the joists and rafters; the palm or jerid is placed
on these to form the lathing, and sometimes above all is placed a layer of
sāāf or palm-leaf. All articles of carpentry are made of this wood, and
where it is very abundant it is even used for fuel; but more generally the
latter consists of the withered bushes which cover the sandy plains, where
they are gathered by the nomade tribes of the locality, and carried to the
oases.
Every part of this valuable tree is turned to account. The fibrous net-
work which surrounds the branches where they attach themselves to the
stem is twisted into strong tough ropes, with which the camels are tethered;
the branches, besides the use we have mentioned, are made into baskets of
various kinds, and the stones are pounded, and used to fatten sheep and
camels. Thus the date-palm appears to be in Africa what the cocoa-nut is
in the islands of the Pacific: the native derives from it food, drink, habi-
tation, and almost every utensil he employs. In those places where money
is scarce, a certain measure of dates, called a hatia, serves as a kind of cur-
rency; it is at least a usual term of comparison by which the value of vari-
ous articles of merchandise is estimated, even though the measure varies in
different places, and the price of dates rises and falls with the seasons.
The woollen fabrics, which, with the cultivation of dates, forms the princi-
pal object of Saharian industry, are chiefly burnooses, haïks, and gandouras.
The burnoose is the Arab cloak, which is furnished with a hood; the haïk
is a long rectangular piece of cloth, which the men wrap round their heads,
allowing the ends to fall down over the body, while the women use it as a
shawl, covering the head and face with it, especially in cold weather. The
gandoura is a kind of blouse, which reaches down to the feet. Throughout
the Desert the manufacture of these fabrics is devolved entirely on the
females, the men considering it enough if they attend, and that but partially,
to the husbandry; the produce of the two occupations proves in the market
of about equal value; and it is certain that the merit of a wife in the Sahara
is estimated by her dexterity in weaving rather than by her personal charms.
The northern oases produce the finest goods; but in every part of the Desert
the women make some attempt at manufacturing; even those of the nomade
tribes weave the coarse stuff which forms their tents and the sacks for
loading their camels. The material used is a mixture, variously propor-
15
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
tioned, of the hair of camels and goats; the former raises the price, as it is
considered more impervious to rain. The colour of the tents is that by
which the great nomade tribes, when encamped, distinguish each other
from afar, the darkest being the most aristocratic.
The Arab dress is used both by nomades and ksourians. They shave
the head, preserving only the lock of which the Angel of Death is to lay
hold and carry them up to paradise. This religious belief has set a
peculiar stamp on all the nations of Islamism; and if the disciple of
Mohammed makes a point of decapitating his already lifeless foe, it is not
for the sake of committing a wanton outrage on the corpse, but in order to
make him feel, even in another world, the weight of his vengeance; for a
headless body is doomed to rot on the ground, and the soul that animated
it to wander for ever far from the happy gardens promised in the Koran as
the eternal residence of the faithful.
A white woollen haïk, a kind of frock without sleeves, Morocco slip-
pers, and a silk girdle, compose the dress of the wealthier female Saharians.
Necklaces, bracelets, and rings, complete the toilet of a woman of quality,
who besides stains her eyelashes black, and gives a yellow colour to her
nails, the palms of her hands, and the instep of her foot, with a decoction
of lausonia inermis. Tattooing, the indelible and economical adornment
both of rich and poor, consists only of small and scattered designs-the
Saharian population being in this respect far behind the great artists of
New Zealand. They go unveiled, and seem under less restriction than is
usual in most other communities of Islamism. Polygamy is freely indulged
within the limits prescribed by the Koran.
Indolence seems to be the besetting sin of all the tribes of the Sahara:
when not travelling, they will sleep in the open air twenty hours out of the
twenty-four; yet when excited by any serious occurrence or important in-
terest, they are capable of acting with considerable energy, and sustaining
great fatigue. On the whole, however, they seem better adapted for patient
toil and endurance than for vigorous and enterprising activity. Pride and
ostentation are distinguishing features of their character; and on the other
hand are the patriarchal virtues of reverence for parents, obedience to all
constituted authority, and cordial hospitality towards strangers. That,
however, which strikes a stranger perhaps most of all, is their unparalleled
resignation to what they believe to be the divine will; that 'it is decreed,'
seems to reconcile them to the severest sufferings, and not a murmur
escapes from their lips. Nor must we omit to mention the fertile imagi-
nation, of which the Arab has lost nothing by being translated from the
deserts of Asia to those of Africa: every spot has its legend, every rock its
marvellous tale; a good storyteller is welcomed and feasted under every
tent, where the family, squatting in a circle, listen with avidity to tales, in
which the Deity is continually represented as revealing himself to man by
miraculous interferences.
Within the last few years considerable light has been thrown on the
social condition of the northern tribes, and interesting particulars have
been collected respecting their periodical migrations. The nomades pass
the winter and spring in the open Desert, where, during this part of the
year, they find both water and vegetation; but they sojourn only three or
four days in one spot, and strike their tents as soon as the pasture is con- '
16
THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.
sumed. Towards the end of spring they visit the oases where their goods
are deposited, load their camels with dates and woollen cloth, and proceed
northward, taking with them the whole nomade city, including women,
children, dogs, flocks, and tents. Now, the waters of Sahara are drying
up, and the plants are withering, while in the Tell the grain is ripening.
They arrive in the season of harvest, when the price of corn is low, and the
juncture is doubly favourable for abandoning the now sterile Sahara, and
finding the markets of the Tell overflowing with cereals. Here, then, they
spend the summer months in the activities of commerce, exchanging their
dates and woollen goods for barley, raw wool, sheep, and butter. Now
also, the lands of the Tell are vacant, the harvest having been gathered in;
and the soil is improved rather than injured by their cattle, which are
permitted freely to browse upon it. The close of summer is the signal for
departure a summons hailed with joy, as announcing the time for returning
to their native country. Again loading their camels and striking their
tents, the moving cities turn towards the south, and make their way into
the Desert by short journeys as they came. They arrive at the oases just
when the dates are ripe-that is, toward the end of October; a month is
required, even with their assistance, to gather and house them; another is
spent in exchanging their corn, barley, raw wool, &c. for the dates which
have been gathered, and the woollen fabrics which have been produced
during the year by female industry. These are now carefully deposited in
the magazines, and the nomade tribes retire from the oases, conducting
their flocks from pasture to pasture in the open country, till the return of
summer demands a repetition of the same journeyings and the same labours.
During the date-harvest, a load of corn in the Desert is worth two of dates;
while in the Tell, at the corn-harvest, a load of dates is worth two of grain.
This general rule is subject to little variation; so that if a grower conducts
his traffic without any intermediate agent, he realises a profit of three
hundred per cent.
The extensive tract of country which lies between the line from Agabli
to Timbuctoo, and that from Gadamis to Kashna, is the principal though
not the only range of the Touarik. They constitute not a tribe merely,
but a great nation, divided into several sections, of which each has its
sultan and subordinate chiefs. It is impossible to form any correct estimate
of their numbers. A large proportion are pastoral tribes, feeding their flocks
in the desert wastes; the rest are engaged in commerce and piracy. Several
large towns and numerous villages along the frontiers of Soudan and in
the Hogger Mountains serve them as depôts. The Touarik are a white-
skinned race, and supposed to be a branch of the Atlas family, older and
purer than the Berber: their language is a dialect of that spoken by the
Berbers of the Tell and the northern oases, but characterised by a rough-
ness which has led to its being called by Europeans the 'German of the
Desert:' it seems to approximate most to the language of the Gouanches,
the aborigines of the Canary Islands.
Placed between the white race and the black, the Touarik are the terror
of both, and appear now with savage ferocity to avenge themselves on the
descendants of those who drove their fathers into the Deserts. That
*The singular is Targhee.
17
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
section of them which is found along the borders of Soudan is said to be
in the highest degree sanguinary and faithless. To ambush in the neigh-
bourhood of the little towns inhabited by negroes-to rush upon them at
dead of night-to seize them, throw them on their meharees, and fly with
the swiftness of the wind-such is the principal branch of industry pursued
by these formidable robbers. When they have formed a sufficient collection
of hapless victims, they repair to the market of Ghat or Ghadamis, and
sell them to the merchants of the north who frequent those towns. Some-
times, after having delivered to the purchasers all that they obtained in the
'razia,' as negro-hunting or stealing is called, they set out again, waylay the
caravan of their customers, and bear away the slaves whom they have so
recently sold. The merchants may, if they please, return to the market,
purchase them a second time, and take care to hire a strong enough escort
before undertaking the journey again.
Along the route from Demergon and Kashna to Ghadamis, the various
Touarik act as convoys to merchant-caravans; but in every other direction,
and especially on the frequented lines between Timbuctoo and the oases of
Twât, they plunder without mercy. Though they wander through every
part of Central Africa and the Desert, none of them can be prevailed on to
visit the coast; and the inhabitants of Morocco, Algeria, and Tripoli, know
them only by the report of the Arab tribes who traverse the northern
portions of Sahara.
It is worth while here to remark the errors that attach to hearing only
one side of a story, especially with reference to regions so imperfectly
known. Our more recent English travellers, as Andney, Clapperton, and
Richardson, having entered the Desert by Tripoli, and pursued the route
which the Touarik keep under their exclusive control, found them much
less formidable than they had anticipated; but they speak of the Shanbah
as banditti of the most ruthless and reckless character, who, having no stake
like the Touarag in the commerce of the Desert, have been celebrated from
time immemorial as the robbers and assassins of Sahara. 'To be a
brigand,' says Mr Richardson, 'is with them a hereditary honour; and
they are the dread of the people of Wad-reklah, as well as of foreign mer-
chants and caravans. They have a well scooped out in the sandy regions
where their tents are pitched; and here they live in horrid security, defying
all law and authority, human and divine. Around them is an immensity
of sandy wastes, and none dare pursue them into their dens. Horses
would be useless, and it would require, says the Ghadamsee Rais, 200 men,
with 400 camels, 800 water-skins, and provisions for two months, to make
the least impression on them. Their numbers are recruited from various
other Arab tribes, whose outlaws join their ranks.'
The French writers, on the other hand, represent the Shanbah, or
Cha'ambi, whom it is their interest to conciliate, from their proximity to
Algeria, as the most industrious and enterprising merchants of the Desert,
and the Touarag as the parasites, the corsairs—in fact, the only redoubtable
enemies to be feared in the sandy ocean. The truth is, that the Touarag
and the Shanbah are neighbours, and at the same time deadly, irrecon-
cilable, and national foes; the latter being pure Arabs, and the former the
aboriginal race of the country. Generally, there remains a considerable,
space between them; but if the nomade tribes reach at the same time the
18
THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.
furthest limits of their respective territories, a collision is inevitable.
Plunder is the main object of the Shanbah, and their preparations include
means of transport as well as weapons of war. The principal objects of
their desire are meharees and slaves, or if they can get nothing better, camels
and sheep. Sometimes, however, they carry off nothing but the killed and
wounded: such are the chances of war. Vengeance for these assaults, and
a deep-settled abhorrence of the Shanbah tribe, seem to be the great excite-
ments to warfare on the part of the chivalrous Touarag; and the recital of
their adventures is carried by each party to their homes the French
nation receiving the Arab story, with embellishments, through their tribu-
taries, while those who pass by Ghat and Ghadamis hear the other side.
In the Deserts of Africa, as well as in those of Asia, the hand of the
Arab is against every man, and every man's hand against him; and it is to
be feared that throughout the Sahara a stranger and an enemy, a merchant
and a robber, are terms nearly synonymous; that hostile tribes seldom
meet without collision; and that pillage is the unquestioned right of the
victor. Yet in the Targhee towns theft is said to be quite unknown, except
as occasionally practised by the tributaries or slaves. Fidelity and hos-
pitality seem also to distinguish these rovers: those who commit them-
selves to their protection will be defended with the last drop of their blood,
and nothing is so offensive to the high-minded Targhee as to be distrusted.
The reader smiles, perhaps, at the very mention of chivalry, high-minded-
ness, and the demand of confidence in connection with the freebooters of
the Sahara; but let him know that throughout the length and breadth of
the Desert they carry the letters of the merchants unsealed, yet sacredly
inviolable. If an inquisitive European asks to see them, he is peremptorily
informed that it is haram (prohibited) to read these documents. We ven-
ture to inquire, what would the haute-police do with open letters, if such
passed through the post-offices of La Belle France? Or nearer home, how
have sealed ones been treated in England? Might not some of the minis-
ters of our gracious Queen have passed a few months with advantage among
the Touarag, taking lessons in honour and integrity?
Besides their revengeful and piratical habits, which are indeed legitimate
causes of dread, the singularity of their appearance and manners combine
to render the Touarag objects of terror throughout the Desert. They are
tall, some of them even gigantic, and generally slender and nimble; hence
the Arabs give them the appellation of lath or beam-beams which become
transformed into living catapults when they are animated by the desire
either of pillage or vengeance. While the Arab dress is used by all the
other inhabitants of the Desert, the Touarag maintain a peculiar costume.
It consists of wide pantaloons, and a variable number of vestments, in the
form of loose gowns or blouses, with wide sleeves. These are made of a
cotton cloth called saie, which is brought from the negro country; it is
only a few inches broad, generally of different shades of blue, and variously
striped. Whether in the town or tent, they generally wear at least three
of these garments, the outermost of which is ornamented with rich em-
broidery in gold, forming irregular designs, and particularly heavy on the
left breast and the right shoulder-blade. When they betake themselves to
the open country, they add other two blouses of a dark blue colour, and
the haïk or barracan, which is a long woollen scarf, worn over the shoulders.
19
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
But the great distinguishing feature of the male Targhee dress is the litham;
a thin piece of cloth wound round the head, and then covering the forehead,
the eyes partially, and the mouth and chin. The stuff of which this is com-
posed is varnished with gum, to prevent the adhesion of the sand: thus
are the mouth and eyes defended from cutting winds and drifting sands,
and the wearer can travel several days longer without feeling parched in
the absence of water. The Touarag pluck out the beard, contrary to the
usage of the Berbers and Arabs, among whom this is a sacred ornament. A
huge spear is carried in the right hand, the dagger is fastened under the
left arm, and the sword swings behind. We must not omit to mention,
also, that a profusion of talismans are strung round the neck; and so great
is the confidence attached to them, that similar charms are hung round
their meharees, to preserve them from the mange, and even on the date-
trees, to save them from blight.
'Though professing the Moslem faith,' say our French informants, 'the
Touarag are not considered by any means very scrupulous in the perform-
ance of its duties.' It seems that those who live in or near the negro
country mingle the idolatrous rites of Fetichism with the observances of
the Koran; but the Arabs look upon the whole race as heretics, from the
singularity of their language and costume, and especially from the fact that
in the shape of their weapons and the designs of their ornaments they
manifest a decided predilection for the form of the cross, so abhorrent to
those Mussulmans that recognise in it the emblem of the Christian faith.
The handle of the Targhee sabre and the front of the saddle take this shape,
and the cross is the favourite pattern of the embroidery on his dress. It is
doubtless with indignant reference to these departures from orthodoxy that
the Arabs of Sahara denominate the Touarag the 'Christians of the Desert.'
Yet our English travellers describe them as spiteful in their religious
bigotry, if not scrupulous in their practice. Children scarcely two years
old would run out of their dwellings, spitting and crying, ' Kafer! Kafer!'
(infidel!) The wonderful descriptions which these gentlemen gave of
European arts, for the entertainment of the natives, were constantly
answered by the remark-' Christians know everything but God.' As Mr
Richardson sat one day in the open court of his house, about an hour and
a half before sunset, during the great feast called Ramadan, a Targhee
entered, and standing before him in an erect posture, with his long spear
in the right hand, he stretched the left towards heaven, looked upwards,
and addressed him in a solemn, measured tone: 'And-thou—Christian!
thou-fastest-thus! Thy father-knoweth-not-God! Thou art a
Kafer-he is a Kafer—and the fire will devour you both at last!'
The female Touarag are said to be 'fair as Christian women,' pretty,
coquettish, and saucy. Their dress is very simple, consisting merely of a
chemise and short-sleeved frock, with a haïk. They wear bracelets, anklets,
&c. of painted wood, if they cannot afford the precious metals; and round
their necks are hung talismans, pieces of coral, and occasionally small
mirrors. They go unveiled, and seem at perfect liberty; for here, again,
the Targhee character differs from the Arab in the absence of that conjugal
jealousy which marks the Mussulman of the East. The perfection of Targhee
beauty is not embonpoint, like the Mooresses and Negresses; but, as the
Arabs say or sing, 'Slender as the bending rush, or taper lance of Yemen.'
20
THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.
?
Another point of civilisation in which this race are in advance of both
the Moors and Arabs is, that spoons are in very general use among them.
These are made of wood, and exceedingly neat-a negro manufacture, as
we remarked of the cotton cloth.
Of all the tribes of Africa, the Touarag alone have an indigenous alphabet,
and most of them read and write their own characters-not indeed on paper
or parchment, but on the sand and the dark rocks with which their country
abounds.
Their principal market is Ghat, and their capital Agades. The latter
is a fine town, built like Tunis: it is the residence of the sultan of one
section of the Touarag. The subordinate chiefs exercise much authority;
and, on the whole, the government seems to be a kind of irregular oli-
garchy. That which renders travelling so dangerous here, as in every part
of the Desert, is, that the stranger may place himself under the protection of
a convoy at Agades, for example, but his way may be through the territory
of a different or even a hostile tribe of the same nation; and he has no
security in case of meeting with a stronger party belonging to it. Timbuc-
too is the goal which the European adventurer generally wishes to attain;
but the Touarag who command the route south from Ghadames will not
undertake to protect him westward, because those who surround, and in-
deed blockade Timbuctoo, are not amenable to the government at Agades.
Aheer is another important oasis of the Touarag. Its houses, unlike
those of the Berbers, are circular, and stand far asunder, so that they spread
over a considerable space. They are built of small stones mixed with
red earth; a dome of thatch forms the roofing; and as a security against
the wind, each dwelling has four doors, one looking to each point of the
compass. The wells are constantly supplied with water, and there are
cisterns to receive that which falls from the clouds. This neighbourhood
is the favourite soil of the senna-plant. Its flowers are yellow, the leaves
very large, and, except at the edges, of a dark purple colour. Large
quantities of it are sent northward, packed in sacks of palm-leaves, which
require to be renewed at Ghat. The natives wonder what we do with so
much medicine: they have no idea of the millions of European population ;
still less of the quantity and variety of eatables and drinkables with which
we overload and disorder the digestive system. The people of the Sahara
use very little physic; their principal demands on the healing art are
occasioned by external injuries, for which burning, bleeding, and charms,
are their favourite remedies. To these some add manipulation, and after a
severe fall every muscle is stretched, rubbed, and coaxed, with the utmost
assiduity.
In all his expeditions, whether honest or dishonest, the meharee is the
inseparable companion of the Targhee. It seems to bear the same relation
to the common camel that the racer does to the draught-horse; but of ali
animals it is perhaps that which, from the nature of the country it inhabits,
and of the service it is doomed to perform, has been the least made an
object of observation and study. The only country that agrees with it is
the Central Desert: it cannot live either in the northern part of Africa or
in the mountainous country of Nigritia. Even every part of the Desert
does not seem to agree equally well with it; for the Shanbah and the
Ommadi, though very covetous of these animals, rear few if any for them-
21
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
selves. Nature seems to have appropriated them to the special service of
the Targhee: they are the affectionate companions of his roving life, the
docile, intelligent, and disinterested instrument of his piracies. The
servant and the master seem to have been cast in the same mould: the
meharee is very tall, and from being of light and slender make, appears to
stand considerably higher than the camel. His neck is remarkably long,
his legs thin and delicate, and his bunch projects but little. His counte-
nance, like that of the camel, is careless and imperturbable; but under this
sorry aspect and seeming indolence, he conceals qualities which might
almost make him the king of beasts-a fidelity and gentleness which is
proof against every trial, a sagacity resembling that of the dog, and a
swiftness far superior to that of the horse. Like his master, he has a
physical organisation adapted to the region in which his lot is cast-in the
midst of immense plains, between an arid soil and a burning sun, compelled
to travel great distances in search of food, and continually exposed to the
sultry breath of the south wind, he is endowed with singular powers of
resistance to all these elements of destruction. Accustomed to the scanty
herbage afforded by his native sands, the meharee does not seem to feel it
any luxury to browse on the richer pastures of the coast; he is made for
the Desert, sterile and ungracious as it is, and can live nowhere else. The
Arabs attribute the danger of his expatriation to a poisonous little plant
called drias, which does not grow in the Targhee country, but is so like
a wholesome one on which the animal is accustomed to feed, that he
crops it without perceiving the difference, and perishes the victim of his
mistake. However this may be, meharees seldom appear even in the
northern oases, except at Metili and Wad-reklah, whither they are occa-
sionally brought by the Shanbah, who have purchased or stolen them
from their natural masters.
As the transport of goods rarely demands great speed, the common camel
is almost exclusively used for this purpose, the meharee being reserved for
services requiring expedition. He renders valuable assistance to caravans
which, when preparing to set out, generally despatch avant-couriers, mounted
on swift coursers, to reconnoitre the route, and ascertain whether it is
supplied with water, and whether beset with any danger. But it appears
that the meharee cannot and does not make any companionship with the
coast camel. If the two incidentally meet, both shew agitation and alarm;
but the camel confesses its inferiority by scampering off as fast as possible.
The natives divide their mehareh or meharees into ten classes, according
to their swiftness: the lowest comprehends those which can make about
twenty-five of our miles in a day, and the highest those which clear eight
or nine times that space. It is confidently asserted that a good meharee
can travel seventy or eighty miles, day after day continuously; and that,
in an extreme case, one of them made the journey from Ghadamis to
Tripoli, a distance of above 260 of our miles, in one day; but the rider
expired from exhaustion immediately on his arrival.
The mode of rearing this favourite animal is curious. As soon as he is
born, he is plunged to the neck in fine shifting sand, lest his soft and
slender limbs should be bent by supporting the weight of his body; and
for fourteen days he is fed on a diet chiefly of butter and milk, the com-
position and quantity of which varies every day, according to established
22
THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.
↓
and well-known rules. At the end of a month he is allowed to run; an
iron ring is then passed through his nose, and his education commences.
When well trained, the meharee displays remarkable sagacity. If his rider
chooses to plant his spear in the ground in the midst of a rapid course,
the animal, attentive to the slightest intimation of his wishes, turns round
the weapon, to enable him to regain it, and resumes the course without
slackening his pace for a moment. When the warrior falls in battle, the
faithful charger stretches himself on the ground, as if inviting him again
to mount his back. If he is able to do so, he bears him gently but swiftly
from the scene of carnage; but if the Targhee remains silent and motion-
less, the meharee hastens to the town or douar* of his habitation, exhibit-
ing the empty saddle to the bereaved family. The women now commence
the death-dirge-the children set up piercing cries-the whole community
is thrown into excitement and alarm, and the horizon is watched with
anxious solicitude. Some spots appear they increase they approach ;
they are other meharees without their riders-mute but truthful messengers
of sorrow, confirming the intelligence that the troop has been defeated, and
the loved ones are no more. The animals seldom all return, however—the
victors generally succeed in capturing some of them; and they bring a
high price when exposed for sale. A good meharee cannot be had for less
than 720 boujous (about £30 sterling), whereas a common camel costs
about 50 (£3, 15s.) It is, therefore, among all the tribes except the Touarik,
an unusual and aristocratic means of locomotion.
Eastward of the route between Fezzan and Bornoo commences a black
population denominated Tibboos, and supposed to number 150,000. This
is a native race, probably of great antiquity, and enumerated by geographers
as one of the branches of the Atlas family. Though black, the style of
their features is strikingly dissimilar to the negro. They are described as
a gay, lively, thoughtless race, with all the African passion for the song
and the dance, which last they practise with considerable grace. Their occu-
pations are chiefly pastoral, and their principal subsistence is derived from
the milk of their camels. Besides, they carry on a small traffic with the
north in slaves, which they kidnap in the negro country; and with the
south in the natron and salt, which their country produces in abundance.
Bilma is their capital-a mean collection of mud hovels, but surrounded by
lakes containing the purest salt. A predatory warfare is kept up between'
the Tibboos and their powerful neighbours the Touarik. In open fight the
Tibboos have no chance; when invaded, they climb the rocks in the
shelter of which their villages are always built, carrying with them what-
ever they can remove. The Touarik sweep away all that is left, and load
their camels with the salt which is so valuable as an article of trade. In
return, the Tibboos give considerable annoyance by frequent and stealthy
incursions into the Targhee country.
A singular feature in the social character of the Tibboos is said to be
the dominance of the female sex in the hut and the tent. The man may be
the lord of creation in the open country, where, indeed, he passes two-
thirds of his time, but at home he is knocked about at the pleasure of
* A village of tents.
23
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
his managing spouse. When a caravan for salt is coming from Aheer,
the men turn out and betake themselves to the mountains with provision
for a month, leaving the women to transact the business.
Throughout the Saharian Desert, an aristocracy seems to attach to the
blood of the saints, and some of the Maraboot tribes are among the most
wealthy and powerful to be met with. Such are the Shereefs, who, in
1516, overthrew the dynasty of Morocco, and placed on the throne one of
their own sheiks, by whose family it is still occupied. By this tribe is
conducted most of the commerce of Morocco eastward through the northern
states, which they supply with their own and European manufactures;
and also to Twât, where they command several oases. The Oulad-sidi-
Sheiks are another venerable tribe, who claim descent from a favourite
caliph of the Prophet; and who, by their numbers, nobility, wealth, and
sanctity, exercise a powerful influence throughout the date country. In
token of their aristocracy, they dwell under tents of black woollen fabric,
surmounted with ostrich-plumes, of which the size varies according to the
rank and fortune of each family. By this token they are distinguished
from the vulgar population of the Algerine Sahara, which is the land of
their habitation.
"
Still more remarkable for this incongruous union of the sacerdotal and
mercantile professions are the inhabitants of Gadamis. To a religious
scrupulosity that would tremble at a drop of prohibited medicine falling
on their garments, they add a spirit of commerce which is arrested by no
difficulty, and daunted by no peril. They plunge into the Desert, eager in
pursuit of gain, even when it is known to be infested with cut-throats; 'it
is decreed,' the moment of their death is registered in the book of fate,
and no recklessness on their part can antedate the record. With scrupu-
lous exactitude, and with apparent earnestness too, they pray five times
daily while en route, the laws of the Koran allowing them to choose their
own time under these circumstances; yet they make no scruple about
buying and selling the unfortunate negro; and this traffic in human flesh
is the most lucrative branch of their commerce. The elder men, who have
retired from the activities of life, and indeed all the resident inhabitants
of Gadamis, seem to pass their whole time in formal devotional exercises.
Even the women here are admitted to have souls, and are carefully in-
structed in the Koran, besides being taught to repeat the usual prayers
and traditionary legends.
Unhappily the Turks, having incurred considerable expense in estab-
lishing their sovereignty at Tripoli, cast their eyes on this spot as an El
Dorado for the replenishment of their exhausted coffers. A pretext was
found for levying a heavy tribute; and though the holy Maraboot city of
the Desert had taken no part in the turmoils of the coast, and though the
pacific character of its inhabitants might well have exempted them from
interference, yet a Turkish garrison was placed within their walls, the
women and children were stripped of their gold and silver ornaments,
private dwellings were ransacked to meet the exorbitant demands of the
Ottoman Porte, and the city, which had flourished for ages in the pursuit
of its peaceful commerce, is now groaning under oppression, and threat-
ened with utter ruin: the Turkish rule has fallen like the lightning's
blast, to wither one of the fairest palms of the African Desert.
24
THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.
III.
The Commerce of the Desert-Various Modes of Travelling-Best Mode of Exploring these
Regions.
Besides the traffic which we have had occasion to mention as carried on
by some of the nomade tribes for the supply of their immediate wants,
there is a regular and extensive system of commerce across the Sahara,
by which the civilised states of Europe are brought into communication
with the Negroland of Interior Africa. This commercial system is suffi-
ciently complicated on account of the difficulties attending the transit, and
the various and even hostile interests that are engaged in it. The produc-
tions of Europe cannot be transmitted, as is commonly imagined, into the
populous regions of Central Africa by caravans equipped in Morocco,
Algiers, Tunis, or Tripoli: the commerce of Sahara is by no means so
simple a matter. For instance, a bale of goods from Tunis, destined for
the south, is carried by native merchants to Khabs, the most southern
oasis of the Tunisian Sahara. Here it is purchased by merchants from
Ghadamis, who convey it to their own city, where it becomes associated
with commodities from Tripoli, Algiers, and Egypt. It proceeds, generally
after changing hands at Ghadames, by the great annual caravan to Ghat,
and is there exchanged for the productions of Soudan. Now, under the
care of the Touarik, it finds its way to the country of the blacks; but we
have no certain details of their mode of doing business. This is the
eastern route. Towards the west, the progress is somewhat similar.
Goods from the various towns of Morocco and Algeria are carried by
native tribes to Tafilet, Metili, &c. They are poured into the market of
El-Golea by the redoubtable Shanha, or the sacerdotal Shereefs. Thence,
by the same tribes and the Ommadi, they are conveyed to their respective
markets in the oases of Twât; but from Twât to Timbuctoo they must
be in charge of the Khensafa, or the all-powerful Touarik. There are
some few individuals who accompany their goods through all their wander-
ings; these are generally the merchants of Gadamis, who can travel the
whole of the eastern route under Targhee protection; or the Shanbah, who
may succeed in fighting their way on the western. The commerce pre-
sents different characters in these two directions. Tunis and Tripoli export
chiefly objects of luxury from Europe-as silk, and other articles of mer-
cery; pearls, cloves, cinnamon, perfumery, paper, cloth, &c. Morocco, on
the other hand, furnishes objects of more immediate necessity-such as
grain, sheep, and wool. Placed between the two, Algiers might partake
of both, but the ravages of war have turned aside the caravans from her
oases. The staple commodities brought back from Soudan are negro
slaves, gold-dust, elephants' teeth, senna, ostrich-feathers, buffalo-hides,
the blue cotton made in the negro country, gour-nuts for staining the
teeth, &c. The two last articles do not reach the northern states, but are
disposed of among the inhabitants of the Desert; and it is to be noted
that the oases are places of consumption and production, as well as of
exchange; they absorb a large portion of the merchandise, both of the
north and south, on its way; while to the former they add salt and
natrona, to the latter dates and fine woollen cloth.
25
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
Each considerable town of the Desert becomes periodically a sook or fair.
An English traveller who witnessed that of Ghat four or five years ago,
states the number of merchants who arrived from various parts to have
been about 500; the camels 1050; the slaves 1000. The value of the
slaves, elephants' teeth, and senna, which were the staple commodities from
the south, was estimated at about £60,000, which would be doubled on
their arrival at European markets. Besides these, there were ostrich-
feathers, hides, utensils of Soudan manufacture used in the Sahara, and
the dark blue calico which clothes half the inhabitants of the Desert. From
Europe there were bracelets, beads, looking-glasses, razors, sword-blades,
needles, paper, silks and cottons of gay colours; but everything of the
poorest quality. During the sook the place was supplied with provisions
by frequent caravans from the oases of Fezzan. Very little gold was to
be seen.
What does come this way is chiefly in the form of female orna-
ments, rudely fashioned, but of the purest material. These are tied up in
filthy pieces of rag, and deposited, during their journeyings, in the bosom
or turban of the merchant. But most of the gold which is found in the
interior of Africa is carried either to Morocco or to the European factories
on the west coast.
Most of the traffic of the Desert is effected by barter, and very little
specie is used. That which is most circulated in the north is the money of
Tunis, which is current as far as the oases of Twât and Fezzan. Further
south there is some Spanish money transmitted through Morocco, and a
few Turkish coins, which naturally find their way from Tripoli; but the
latter are generally disliked. The reason alleged is, that God taught Chris-
tians to make money, because it is a thing accursed, though necessary in
the present world; therefore Mussulmans ought not to engage in this work.
In the future state, they say the faithful will have all good things to enjoy
without money; whereas Christians will have melted coin poured down
their throats as their torment for ever. Among the negro tribes a shell
currency is used, known to us under the vulgar name of cowries. Every
year the English pour into this country, by Guinea, nearly a hundred
tons of cowries from Bengal, where they bear about one-tenth part of the
value that they do in Soudan.
The means of travelling in this part of the world are utterly different
from those which nature and civilisation have bestowed on Europe. The
largest rivers are unnavigable at a few miles from their mouths; the high-
way and the canal, to say nothing of the railway, are things unknown, as
are the vehicles of which they imply the use. The Arab roads in the north
are mere tracks marked on the sod by the naked foot of man, and the tread
of horse or mule. They are so narrow that two persons cannot walk on
them abreast; consequently, if travellers or caravans meet, the one takes to
the right and the other to the left, so that two tracks are formed; and the
more any particular route is frequented, the more paths may be found,
sometimes running parallel and sometimes crossing each other. If an Arab
is turned out of his track for a time, he hastens back to it as soon as pos-
sible; hence the intersections. On the other hand, if a caravan is very
large, it divides into two or three files, preserving equal distances; and
hence the parallel paths. As the custom of proceeding in single file has
produced these narrow tracks, so have these in turn perpetuated the
26
THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.
custom; in the Tell the natives may be seen travelling in single-file on
roads forty-eight feet broad, constructed by their European conquerors,
the traces of the national locomotion being thus impressed on the high-
ways opened by civilisation.
But when we come to the sands of the open Desert, even these pathways
disappear; the wind soon effaces the footprints of the passenger, and we
seek in vain for the long white track which guides the traveller through
many parts of Northern Africa. The tuft of a pistachio, a lotus-plant, the
white top of a sandhill, the summit of a distant mountain-these are the
waymarks which guide him across the solitudes. In some of the most
monotonous plains, the inhabitants have taken the precaution to raise
pyramids of stones, whose sharp projections contrast with the smooth and
rounded features of the Saharian landscape. These waymarks are called
kerkors, and are especially employed to indicate the position of wells.
Another kind of monument also is frequently met with. 'Travelling one
day,' says M. Carette, 'in company with several Arabs, I was astonished
to see them stop, one after another, while each lifted a stone, and still more
surprised when they offered one to me. On asking the reason, I was
informed that we were going to pass the nza of Bel-gacem! Though
very little the wiser, I took the stone, and in a few minutes afterwards we
came to a pile of pebbles about five feet high. Each of my companions
cast his stone upon it, exclaiming "To the nza of Bel-gacem!" Of course
I added mine when my turn came. This is the Arab mode of raising a
monument on the spot where any tragic event has taken place, and it
sometimes attains the height of twelve or fifteen feet. Dr Jacquot
He
obtained the following history of one which he had occasion to pass in the
Atlas Mountains:-The Ouled-Balaghr occupied the country to the west,
while the Thouamas fed their flocks to the east. The latter were a pacific
tribe, who desired nothing of their neighbours but to be let alone—their
women to weave, their children to tend the flocks, and the men to doze all
day, crouching on the threshold of the tent, or stretching themselves on a
grassy mound. But, alas! the ferocious sheik of the Ouled-Balaghr con-
tinually interrupted their enjoyments, and harassed them with war.
delighted in finding the oily coucous ready-baked, and the red piquant
sauce smoking in the dwellings of his neighbours; he preferred the yellow
streams of honey which filled the trunks excavated by the Thouamas to
those which he might himself obtain by patient industry. Besides, he had
other tastes which still more deeply aggrieved the husbands and fathers of
this inoffensive tribe. Mohammed espoused their cause; and in clear weather
the guardian fairies might be distinctly seen surrounding their protégées in
seasons of extreme danger. One day, when the terrible sheik crossed the
boundary, longing after coucous, honey, and female beauty, he was met by
a holy maraboot, bent with age, and leaning on a staff. Raising his decrepit
form for an instant, 'There is no god but Allah,' said he, 'and Mohammed
is his prophet. Hadst thou the wings of our mountain eagles, or the fleet
limbs of the antelope of the plain, thou shouldst proceed no farther.
Return to thy douar, rear bees for thyself, make thy women grind corn and
barley, and meditate thou in the Koran; but let the Thouamas alone, if
thou wouldst not perish on this spot as the scorpion which thy beast is
treading under foot.' But the courser of the sheik was no such pusillani-
27
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
mous animal as Balaam's ass of ancient fame: urged by his master's
shabeers,* he dashed past the holy man, tossed his mane, and broke into a
gallop. He had not gone many paces when he fell; both the horse and
his rider dashed their heads on a jutting angle of rock; the little Attila
became food for the crows and jackals, but burial was given to the less
guilty horse. Every Arab that passes adds a stone to the heap, and
exclaims, 'It is decreed!'
Level and sandy tracts are always chosen for travelling when this is
possible, which is perhaps the reason that some travellers have supposed
the whole Desert to be a sandy plain. The most dreaded part of the route
from Twât to Timbuctoo is over the tanezroufle, a plain of stiff red earth,
which cannot be crossed in less than ten or twelve days, and throughout
which not a drop of water is to be found. In the sand there is at least
always a soft dry bed, even after the heaviest rains, where the wanderer
may repose his wearied limbs. Here, too, he is more likely to find springs
of water than in the clayey or stony tracts. The wells in the neighbour-
hood of oases are covered with skins, to preserve them from the intrusion
of the sand, and furnished with a bucket of plaited halfa, and a cord to
reach the water. If this simple apparatus gets out of order, it must be the
result of long use or unforeseen accident; for it is guaranteed against
wanton injury by the respect which all native travellers entertain for these
little monuments of public utility. Any misadventure that occurs to them
is immediately reported to the chief of the oasis, who loses no time in
repairing it.
The European adventurer most commonly joins the gafala, or merchant
caravan, as it is not only the most expeditious, but the most secure and
economical mode of performing a journey, the expense of an escort being
saved. In all the northern oases of any importance, there are fourdouks
or caravanserails corresponding with the principal points of commercial
intercourse; and these serve not only as resting-places and hotels, but as
rendezvous and starting-points for the caravans which frequent them. If
the escorting towns are pretty considerable, the departures are periodical ;
but in all cases the day and hour of starting is intimated beforehand by
the chief driver; and in order to ascertain it, one has only to apply at the
proper fourdouk, where all particulars may be obtained.
The muleteers and camel-drivers form the nucleus of the caravan, and
regulate its movements. The length of a day's journey is variable, depending
on the strength of the company, in connection with the nature of the route
and the degree of security anticipated. The usual distance is from twenty
to twenty-five miles, but it may extend to forty in regions destitute of water
or infested by robbers. Travellers who join a caravan are not obliged to
submit to any discipline; there is no community except that of dangers to
be escaped, and an end to be attained. If they sustain an attack, each one
consults his own courage, and does independently what in him lies to repel
or escape the enemy: it rarely happens that any regular disposition of force
is made either for the attack or the defence; and occurrences of this nature
always produce considerable disorder. The gafalas are almost entirely
composed of men whose principal occupation is commerce, but women are
* A kind of spur.
28
THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.
not excluded; and it is no uncommon thing to see widows, having no other
means of support, carrying on the traffic of their deceased husbands.
Another species of caravan is the neja, or migration of a tribe; and this
presents a much more lively scene than a gafala. The latter is a concourse
of men who have little acquaintance with each other; its march is grave,
and often silent and monotonous. The neja, on the contrary, is the tribe
with its women, its dogs, its cattle, its tents, and all the apparatus of
nomade life. It is not composed of isolated individuals, but of families;
or rather it is one great family on the tramp. There is, therefore, nothing
more lively and pleasant than to join a neja: 'the barking of the dogs,
the bleating of the sheep, the shouting of the men in charge of them, the
crowing of the fowls, and the squalling of the children; all this variety of
noises,' says M. Carette, 'forms a rural harmony which is quite charming
in the otherwise lonely and silent wastes; and the traveller finds a novel
source of amusement in witnessing the private labours of domestic eco-
nomy, simple enough, but wearing a strange character when it is remem-
bered that they are all conducted on the back of the camel.'
Suddenly this noisy march becomes silent and pensive-the cavaliers
of the advanced guard perceive in the horizon the approach of another
tribe; they give notice of it to the sheik, and immediately the ranks close ·
in. The gafala carries no standard, for it fears no enemy save the free-
booter; but each neja is in alliance with one or other of the great parties
that divide the Desert, and regard as enemies all the tribes that favour the
opposite cause. As the two companies near each other, conjectures are
forming as to whether this is to be a greeting of friends or a collision of
foes. When they come within reach of the voice, the demand is made,
'Who are you?' If they prove to be allies, they continue their journey
apart, on exchanging a salam; but if the name uttered is that of a hostile
tribe, they reply by blows, and a conflict ensues. The battle never con-
tinues beyond sunset, which is the signal for the suspension of hostilities.
If one of the parties is confessedly worsted, it avails itself of the night to
disappear; but if the issue is doubtful, the belligerents encamp on the field
of battle, and renew the conflict in the morning. The Arabs manifest much
more animosity in these collisions than in any skirmishes they have with
their European invaders, as none are more exasperated than brothers if
they happen to be enemies. In war against the infidels, they make pri-
soners; but no such thing is known in the mutual warfare of the tribes.
In the latter case, if an Arab becomes master of a living foe, he slays him
without mercy, and hastens to lay the gory head at the feet of his wives,
who welcome it with insults and imprecations.
The only exception to these barbarous usages is in favour of three
classes of people: maraboots are spared out of respect for their sacred
character; Jews and blacksmiths from mere contempt. We have not
been able to learn the origin of this feeling towards the trade of a black-
smith; but certain it is, that if a man be surrounded by enemies, and
despairing of escape, he has only to wrap his head in the hood of his
burnoose, and work with his arms, as if beating iron: they will not stain
their hands with the blood of so abject a wretch.
It rarely happens that a traveller joining a neja has occasion to carry
his own tent and provisions. If he has any acquaintance in the tribe, he
29
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
receives hospitality as a guest, and shares the tent and koukous* of his host.
This position secures to him all the respect and protection to which the
family entertaining him are entitled. Among the strangers who join either
a gafala or neja there are generally found some destitute creatures who,
on the day of departure, know not how the bread of to-morrow is to be
obtained; but they are under no disquietude-they trust in Providence,
and not in vain. Scarcely has the cavalcade started, but they find oppor-
tunities of making themselves useful, either in loading or guiding the camels,
for which little services they receive their daily food; and it is all they
desire. Thus they accomplish a long journey without either expense on
the one hand or privation on the other. It is in this way that numbers of
poor husbandmen and labourers, not finding their toil sufficiently remune-
rated in the oases, make their way to the coast, where they form the most
intelligent, the most industrious, and the best-conducted portion of the
community.
One cannot compare the habits and the wants of one of these camel-
drivers of the Desert with those of a European wagoner, without being
struck with the contrast. The latter requires, as every night closes in, a
roof to shelter him, should it be only that of a hovel, and a bed, though
but of straw; he needs nourishing food to support his strength, and this
necessity is rendered more imperious by the use of alcoholic liquors. But
the Arab camel-driver asks no bed but the sand, no roof but the sky; a
fountain of pure water is his most luxurious tavern; his sustenance is
moistened meal; and for these he offers thanks to Heaven. Five times
a day he prostrates himself on the ground, laying his forehead on the sharp
stones of the Desert, if such be the paving of his route, and pours out his
prayers to his heavenly Guide, Protector, and Provider. What an example
for the well-fed bishops of Christendom!
Neither merchant-caravans nor those of migrating tribes travel at all
times or in all directions, so that isolated journeying is frequently neces-
sary. It is generally unsafe for a stranger to attempt this without the
protection of either a professional or amateur guide, belonging to the tribe
whose territory is to be crossed. He is acquainted with the safe hiding-
places and the good springs; he knows when it is necessary to remain con-
cealed, and when he may proceed by daylight; and he has friends along
the route from whom he obtains for his companion the same hospitality
that is extended to himself.
The provision for a journey consists of rouina, dates, and butter, if one`
is desirous of luxury; otherwise, the only article of food is rouina. This
is simply grain (generally barley) roasted, ground, and pressed into a
mezoued, which is a sheep's skin tanned and dyed red. Another skin
called a shenna is required for water: it preserves its hair outside, and
receives a coat of tar within; water may be carried in it for ten days with-
out becoming the least spoiled. With the mezoued slung like a wallet on one
shoulder, and the shenna on the other, the Arab often travels immense
plains alone and on foot, without meeting human habitation for days
together, and this at the rate sometimes of forty miles a day; for he walks
* Cakes made of meal mixed with various ingredients, according to the circum-
stances of the eater.
30
THE DESERTS OF AFRICA.
from the rising till the setting of the sun. When he wishes for a repast, the
table is soon spread: he sits down beside a spring of water, if the place
affords one, and lays on the ground a flap of his burnoose, which serves
both as dish and tablecloth. He throws into it a handful of rouina, which
he moistens with water, makes into a paste, and eats without further
culinary process. He then puts his hands together to form a cup, drinks,
and pursues his way. A mezoued full of rouina will support him twenty-
four days.
It must be confessed that our knowledge of the deserts, as well as of the
interior of Africa, is still very imperfect; and while we render due homage
to the courage of those martyrs to science who have from time to time
ventured into the trackless wastes, and have in few instances lived to
return, it must be admitted that the field is too wide and too ungenial
to be explored by any such individual and partial researches as have
yet taken place. It is to be apprehended that in some-perhaps in many
cases-general inferences have been drawn hastily and incorrectly from
particular facts; and the sufferings which Europeans have undergone in
their venturous excursions may have led them to view things through a
distorted medium, and to represent them in such a manner as rather to
magnify than diminish the distance which divides us from them. It is not
enough to be courageous; we should endeavour to turn our courage to
good account by directing it in wisdom; and before throwing ourselves
into a region where so many lives have been sacrificed, it would be well to
know so much about it as to make our progress safe, and our observations.
intelligent and useful. It has been suggested by some who have become
personally and intimately acquainted with the Northern Sahara, or Land of
Dates, that among the natives themselves might be found useful explorers
to prepare the way for European adventure. In Tunis, Tripoli, and Alex-
andria, the points in which terminate three of the great commercial arteries
of Interior Africa, there are always to be found Arabs who have traversed
in every direction the whole country between Egypt and Guinea. We
might send such as these into the heart of Africa, to collect all the particu-
lars which it is desirable to obtain: they are naturally enterprising travel-
lers and acute observers of natural phenomena; and their native instincts,
properly directed, might yield us an immense fund of information at a very
trifling cost. They might be commissioned to bring specimens of all the
natural productions, first of the Northern Sahara, then of the Central, and,
lastly, of Interior Africa; of the plants, the grain, the shells, the stones,
the fruit of different kinds, and stuffs of various fabric. They might be
instructed to count the houses of a town, the tents of a tribe, the camels of
a caravan; and thus should we have accurate data on the strength of the
population and the progress of commerce. They might be directed to
count the paces from one oasis to another, to follow the course of a
stream, to measure a basin; and thus we should have geographical details.
'I was curious,' says M. Carette, 'to ascertain by experiment how far
these rovers of the Desert might be transformed into deputy travellers,
and the result even surpassed my expectations. I gave a scientific com-
mission for a distant part of the Date-Country to an intelligent but illi-
terate Arab belonging to one of those Saharian tribes which make the
most extensive circuit in their annual migrations. His instructions were
31
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
confined to objects of natural history, geography, commerce, and statistics;
but the child of the Desert spontaneously became an archeologist: having
met with a Roman inscription, he copied it as faithfully as he could, sup-
posing, according to the traditions of his country, that it contained some
important revelation which I should be able to expound.'
If it be asked whether the veracity of such agents could be depended
upon, it is answered that they would at least be as worthy of credence as
the generality of European travellers; that is, quite as little prone to per-
version or exaggeration, and somewhat less liable to mistake or deception;
but we could easily verify their testimony by despatching two successively
on a similar mission. If Europeans who understand the language of the
Arabs, and know how to humour their peculiarities, would take up their
position about the skirts of the Desert, and employ themselves in directing
native explorers, and then collecting and comparing their reports, instead
of plunging themselves into the pathless wastes, where their religion is
abhorred, their motives suspected, and their lives considered fair game,
we might soon have such a programme as would open a well-defined field
for European enterprise, whether commercial, scientific, or religious.
SIGISMUND TEMPLE.
THE
HE pale, anxious face of a dying man, scarcely past the prime of life,
looked forth from the casement of a homestead on the sea-skirted
shore of Devonshire, just as the evening of a stormy day was falling
silently and sadly upon the fading landscape and the vast perturbed
Atlantic, over whose distant horizon the sunset clouds still threw a wintry
effulgence. A fair young girl stood near the sofa upon which the invalid
reclined, vainly striving to dissipate, with broken words of love, the dark
fancies of a spirit which stubbornly rebelled against the decree that he
knew had irrevocably gone forth. 'Nearer-nearer to me!' he faintly
murmured, after a long and wistful gaze at the drear and melancholy scene
without. 'Let me, whilst yet I may, feel your sweet breath upon my
cheek, the warm pressure of your gentle hand in mine. Darkness is falling
upon all things, as upon me; but the earth will reawaken in the smile of
the new dawn, and again put on her robe of light and flowers, whilst I can
scarcely dare to hope that I shall safely ferry over the dark waters which
roll between me and the retreating light of life!' As he spoke, a strong
gleam of parting sunlight burst upon the wintry view, suddenly and briefly
illumining the thick woods and darkening ocean.
'There is still light in Heaven,' whispered the weeping girl, as she
stooped to kiss the pale forehead of her parent; and always hope.' The
dying man gazed with silent earnestness upon the changing scene. The
sun set, and a cold, gray tint succeeded; then darkness fell: but presently
the solemn stars looked forth, and soon the full, clear moon rose high
above the trees, shedding a silver glory over the earth, and throwing a
radiant bridge across the dark and troubled waste of waters.
'Truly there is light in Heaven!' murmured the invalid, with a faint
smile; ‘and it may be as you say, Lucy-hope, even for me who have so
thoughtlessly, so guiltily misused and squandered the high and precious
gift of this brief but great existence!' Presently he added: 'But for your
sake, dear child, I must no longer dally with the fleeting moments yet
remaining to me. Wheel me closer to the fire, and after listening to a
confession I have, I almost fear, too long delayed, pity, and, if you can,
forgive me.' Lucy Gaston silently obeyed her father's command; and then,
kneeling on an ottoman by his side, and taking his wasted hands in hers,
looked up with patient attention and tenderest compassion in his face.
The apartment in which they sat was evidently an artist's working-room.
No. 70.
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
There were numerous finished and unfinished paintings on the walls; and
on an easel there was one that, in the imperfect state in which the failing
hand of the limner had left it a fortnight previously, was easily seen, even
by the imperfect light which now reached it, to be a portrait of Lucy
Gaston. The sunny eyes of blue, the wavy, golden hair, the dazzling
purity of complexion, the sweet, almost infantine smile which parted the
coral lips, were unmistakably hers, transferred in a felicitous moment to
the canvas by the artist, to whom it had evidently been a labour of love.
He was now about to paint himself: let us hope as faithfully.
'Forty-seven years,' he began, 'will have passed on the 8th of February
next since your father, the first and only surviving child of William and
Rachel Gaston, was born at Leeds in Yorkshire. My parents carried on a
respectable retail business in that city. I was not only deemed a remark-
ably handsome boy, but I early displayed extraordinary precocity of intel-
lect; and my proud and indulgent father and mother, with well-meant but
injudicious, hurtful kindness, stimulated, instead of checking, the naturally
vain, impulsive, and, as I cannot now conceal from myself, utterly selfish
instincts and disposition of the son of their doting love. I was held to
possess genius; and that my parents, and the foolish people who counselled
them, believed all-sufficient in itself to build up greatness, and would only
be dwarfed and crippled by the discipline of strict study and close applica-
tion. Strange, but too common error! As if weeds would not take root
in a rich untended soil, and absorb in their rank luxuriance the energy
which, wisely and vigorously directed, might bring forth fruits of worth,
and usefulness, and beauty. Especially in drawing and painting I was
held to manifest great capacity. I submitted with impatience, and this for
no great length of time, to the dry study of the rudimentary rules of art,
quite satisfied that being admittedly a genius-ill-understood word!—I
needed none of the mechanical aids and appliances necessary only for the
dull plodders whose feeble powers required such crutches. My libertine
and unguided pencil was held to be especially successful in caricature—in
seizing upon the ridiculous, the awkward and absurd, and gibbeting those
weaknesses for the amusement of the fools and dastards of our acquaint-
ance. Nothing, as I have sadly proved, is so fatal to the generous deve-
lopment of youth as the habit of satire-of indulgence in puny, malicious
sarcasm. It generates a feeling of sneering superiority; a disposition to
search out and dwell upon the failings and weaknesses of people; and
gradually induces a disbelief in the existence of either nobleness or talent
out of self. It was thus I wasted the golden days of life, and at twenty-
one found myself the idol indeed of my parents, but contemned, slighted,
shunned, and—my evil disposition exulted in knowing-feared, by all the
good, the wise, the amiable, to whom the exercise of my reputed talents
had made me known. In reality, I was as ignorant and unskilful as I was
offensive and vain. A picture on a serious subject, which I had the pre-
sumption to send to London for exhibition, was returned with a criticism
so humiliating, and yet I felt so entirely, so mercilessly true, as almost to
drive me mad. A sharp but brief illness followed, and when I recovered,
the counsel of a man of sense-to whose advice I had previously listened
with lofty contempt-induced me to recommence the study of the rules
2
SIGISMUND TEMPLE.
and principles of art. My father of course yielded to this new caprice. I
was sent to the metropolis, and placed in the studio of an eminent master,
uncontrolled, save during the hours of instruction and practice, by any
other guide than my own fierce will and unbridled passions. My parents,
whose faith in my coming and not far-off greatness was illimitable as ever,
supplied me freely with money; and the consequence to a vain, impulsive
young man thus thrown into that vortex of folly and dissipation, may be
easily divined by men of the world, but not to be dreamed of or guessed
at by you, my pure and gentle child. I worked,' continued Mr Gaston,
after moistening his lips with lemonade 'I worked earnestly, but only by
fits and starts, and I advanced but slowly in knowledge of my art, com-
pared with the proficiency I speedily acquired in the usages and maxims
of a depraved society. Incessant applications for money, under one lying
pretext or another-nay, Lucy, it is the right, the only word to use-were
received by my parents, and always complied with, though latterly the
simple confiding creatures hinted at difficulties in supplying my increasing
wants. This had gone on for several years, till at last a crisis in my life.
arrived. I was introduced by a well-connected fellow-student, who knew
little of my habits, to the house of Captain Austin of the Royal Navy,
who, with his unmarried daughter, resided at a pleasant habitation about
a mile beyond Hampstead. Caroline, another daughter, had been some
months previously married to a Mr Fanshawe, the presumptive heir to a
barony, though not one of the richest in the peerage. I never saw her, but
she was reputed to possess the too often fatal gift of beauty in a still
higher degree than her sister, your mother, sweet one. You remember
your mother, Lucy?'
Faintly, imperfectly. You know I was not five years old when she was
taken from me. Yet often in my dreams I hear a gentle voice, which I
know to be hers, calling me by name, and see again her pale, marble face,
and beautiful but mournful eyes, bending over me with watchful tender-
ness'
'It was I who quenched the joyous light of those sad eyes, and chilled
the warm current of eloquent blood that once mantled those pale cheeks;'
interrupted Mr Gaston with sad emphasis. 'I who- But I must
check this flood of bitter memories, or what I have to say will, I fear,
remain unspoken. I fell desperately in love with Lucy Austin; the feeling
was mutual; and I ultimately succeeded, well knowing as I did that her
father had higher, more ambitious views for her, in inducing her to consent
tó a private marriage. A few weeks of bewildering happiness fled past on
lightning wings; then the thunder burst, and the brief dream was dissolved
for ever! Suspicion of what had occurred was communicated to Captain
Austin by the student who had introduced me to his house, who at the
same time placed in his hands intelligence as yet unknown to me concern-
ing my father. In an agony of apprehension, Captain Austin flew to his
daughter's room, broke open her writing-desk, and speedily convinced
himself of the truth of his informant's report. His dismay and rage were
extreme. Your mother was from home; and upon me, who entered the
house a short time after the discovery was made, the first burst of the
tempest fell. Every epithet of opprobrium that contempt could invent and
hate express was hurled at me. I replied only by a disdainful smile, till
3
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
news.
Captain Austin threw a newspaper he was holding in his hand towards me,
accompanying the act by a few rageful, startling words. I glanced over it:
"William Gaston of Leeds, ironmonger, bankrupt." The words swam
before my eyes; my brain reeled, and I staggered blindly out of the house,
still pursued by the maledictions of the enraged father. I procured a
coach, hastened home, and there found a letter which confirmed the fatal
William Gaston, whom I had represented to my wife and others
as a wealthy merchant, was hopelessly insolvent, unless, indeed, the still
deceived, still confiding old man wrote, "I could sell two or three of the
great pictures I had painted;" in which case an arrangement might, he
thought, be effected! I raved with frantic passion and remorse, and
an impulse to rid myself of shameful life was only checked by the arrival
of your mother. Her father had thrust his disobedient child from his door;
and she, poor, stricken dove, hastened at once to the haven of her husband's
arms, and, deceived as she had been, still whispered in his ears her woman's
spells of home, and peace, and love.
'A bleak future was before us,' resumed the sick man, as soon as the
choking grief which his narrative excited in Lucy Gaston had subsided to
a calmer sorrow; but with persevering, steady effort it would soon have
brightened, and every difficulty have been overcome. I, alas! was only
capable of fitful, spasmodic exertion: the slightest failure or disappointment
chilled and disheartened me. I struggled feebly, because without hope or
confidence, and soon abandoned the contest in despair. My father, by
the kindness of his creditors, who greatly respected him, and justly
imputed his insolvency to my criminal extravagance, was enabled to
recommence business in a small way. He, therefore, and my mother, were
so far provided for; but how could I, whispered my selfish heart, burdened
by a wife, and soon, possibly, by a numerous family, hope to retrieve the
wasted years, and emerge from the slough of poverty in which I was
plunged? An unexpected communication enabled me to effect the purpose
I brooded over with some show of human feeling. Captain Austin, wearied
by the remonstrances of his eldest daughter, who had some time previously
become Lady Fanshawe, and mother of the Honourable Caroline Fanshawe,
your cousin, caused it to be intimated to us that he would allow my wife
two hundred and fifty pounds a year, on condition that she separated from
me. Neither he nor Lord Fanshawe, who I believe contributed the largest
portion of the money, would hear of assistance being rendered to us on any
other terms. I insisted that the offer should be accepted; your mother
yielded a compelled assent, and I never saw her more. It is useless,' con-
tinued Mr Gaston after a painful interval of silence, 'to dwell upon my
afterlife. Ultimately I reached Italy-Rome; and after a time succeeded
in attaining a sufficient degree of excellence as a painter, to insure myself a
comfortable, or I might say, a handsome subsistence. I was liberally
patronised by British visitors to the Eternal City; and had I known that
any one belonging to me would have been spared me-that you, Lucy,
lived to cheer and bless existence, I might perhaps have in some degree
retrieved the crimes and follies of the past, or at all events, the bitter
thought that I am leaving you unprovided for, friendless-your fine nature
uncultivated, undeveloped, and exposed, with the rare beauty you in-
herit from your mother, to a thousand perils you would not, but for that
4
SIGISMUND TEMPLE.
perilous gift, encounter. But I knew it not. I had left no trace of my
whereabout; and it was only through the newspapers which I have shewn
you that I learned the deaths of father, mother, wife, long after they
occurred. Your death, in childhood, was, as you know, by some unintelligible
mistake, recorded in the same paragraph that announced your mother's:
this I believe is still Lord Fanshawe's impression, for Captain Austin sur-
vived his daughters, who died within a short time of each other, by a few
weeks only. Success had come too late-even for self: my heart was
withered, and gradually but surely the springs of life gave way. Weari-
ness of all things beneath the sun had worked itself into the warp and woof
of my being, and a melancholy which nothing could cheer or lighten settled
heavily upon both heart and brain. In my despair, I sought relief from the
discipline and expiatory penances of the Roman Catholic Church—vainly
sought it. The pious homilies and exhortations with which my ghostly
counsellors sought to reanimate my bruised and wearied spirit, were profit-
less as bread placed in a dead man's mouth. I was dying, lingeringly and
hopelessly, when eight months since a chance-meeting with a relative of
Captain Austin revealed the probability of your existence. He at least
had seen you months after the date of the newspaper paragraph. It was a
gleam from Paradise! I hastened home with frantic speed; found, clasped
you in my arms, and read the holy and blessed letter of forgiveness, pity,
love, which your sainted mother requested should be placed in the wan-
derer's hands the instant he returned to his abandoned home! But those
divine ministerings to a mind diseased came too late; and yet but a few
days, hours rather, and I shall have passed to my long home, and you————
Alas! alas!'
The agitation of the invalid drowned his feeble utterance, and for many
minutes no sound was heard in the apartment but the quick sobs of the
parent and child weeping in each other's arms.
These worthy people,' at length resumed Mr Gaston; 'these Whistons
-Susan, as you call her, especially, and her cousin, Mary Crawford-are
very kind to you; and with them I think it probable you may always find
a home.'
'Fear not for that, dear father. Susan and her cousin Mary have been
sisters to me; fond, proud, anxious sisters from my earliest remem-
brance.'
'Ay! He has tempered the wind to the shorn lamb. But still the
time may come when even Susan's friendship will fail or
'Never!' exclaimed Lucy Gaston.
:
'Or not suffice, I should rather say. For this reason it is that I request
your heedful attention to what I am now about to say. Your cousin, the
Honourable Caroline Fanshawe, bears a gentle reputation, and holds, I
have heard, her mother's memory in great reverence. Several of that
mother's kind, sympathising letters to her less fortunate sister, you will
find in my writing-desk, enclosed with an explanatory note from me, in
an envelope directed to Lord Fanshawe. You will, should you need counsel
or assistance, forward that parcel to its address-or indeed immediately I
am gone; for the society of these Whistons, kind and worthy as
A gentle knock at the door interrupted him. It was Mrs Whiston,
Susan, to say that a priest-a Roman, hesitated the young woman, as if
5
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
announcing some terrific personage, was below. 'He came,' she added,
'on horseback, and says he was sent for.'
'Quite right,' said Mr Gaston with a sad, feeble smile. 'Ask him to
walk up. Kiss me, Lucy. I will ring for you soon after this visitor is
gone.'
The priest had left Vale Farm, after a long interview with his penitent,
for more than half an hour, when Lucy Gaston, surprised and impatient
at not being summoned, softly entered her father's apartment, who, she
concluded, must have fallen asleep. His attitude, and the long wicks of
the candles, placed on a low table by his side, confirmed this impression.
The light of the candles shining full upon the sleeper's face, as he lay
calmly reclined upon the couch, gave it, she thought, an unearthly pallor,
and she noiselessly approached to remove them. Gently she bent down
over that erring, but oh! how fondly, freely-forgiven parent! Her warm
lip touched his; instantly a piercing scream ran through the house, and
Lucy Gaston was found a minute afterwards by Mrs Whiston and Mary
Crawford, fainting, and almost insensible, upon the dead body of her
father, which she wildly clasped.
Mr Gaston, in compliance with his own earnest request, was buried in
the Catholic chapel of the neighbouring town, in a tomb excavated in
front of the sanctuary. The funeral, perhaps for effect, took place on the
evening of the sixth day after his decease, and the building was crowded
by persons attracted by the unusual ceremony. The novel and imposing
service, the profusion of lights, the perfume of the incense, the deep tones
of the organ, fitfully broken and relieved by the choral wailings, the
exulting bursts, of the mass of requiem, and at intervals by the lone,
solemn voice of the officiating priest, combined with the heat of the atmo-
sphere, proved too much for Lucy Gaston, and she would have fainted
but for the pungent essences which Mary Crawford, who, with Mr and
Mrs Whiston, accompanied her, plentifully administered. Her bonnet
and veil had been removed, and she had partially recovered, when the
lowering of the coffin to its final resting-place caught her attention. She
sprang impulsively forward, threw herself on her knees beside the grave,
and with clasped hands and streaming eyes ejaculated a fervent prayer to
God, quite unconscious of the profound sympathy and admiration which
her attitude and seraph countenance, strongly illumined by the lights of
the sanctuary, and mantled with a profusion of golden hair, excited in the
hushed and crowded auditory. Mary Crawford recalled her by a whisper
to a sense of her position. She rose hurriedly to her feet, shrank back out
of sight behind her friends; and the ceremony soon afterwards terminated.
Amongst the number of the curious whom the pomp of the service had
attracted to the chapel, were two gentlemen, whose dress and carriage
marked them to be persons of condition. One, the eldest, might be about
six-and-twenty years of age; the other was perhaps three years younger.
They were brothers; but there was a striking difference in their personal
appearance. The eldest was fair-complexioned and light-haired; and,
though handsome, had somewhat of an effeminate look. The younger
gentleman's complexion, cast of features, and dark, brilliant eyes, intimated
a mixture of more southern blood; and his figure, though elegantly formed
as that of his brother, was more vigorously knit together.
6
SIGISMUND TEMPLE.
'She is the daughter of the man to whom they have been paying such
extraordinary funeral honours,' said the youngest of these gentlemen,
rejoining his brother, whom he had quitted for a few minutes on leaving
the chapel. 'Miss Lucy Gayton, or Gaston: her father was a painter, and
her abode is at Vale Farm, distant from this town about five miles.'
'Did you ever, Sigismund, see so angelic a countenance?' asked the elder
brother as they walked on.
'Humph! Yes, Arthur: that of the superb Caroline is, I think, supe-
rior, though certainly of quite another order of beauty.'
Quite. And what a softening charm the eloquent sorrow of the eyes
threw over that beautiful face!'
'True,' replied the gentleman addressed as Sigismund, in a tone slightly
moqueur. 'An effect similar to that produced on the Queen of Flowers-
When o'er the rose
A veil of moss the angel throws.'
But come, here is the carriage; let us away, or Marion will wonder what
has become of us.'
These young men, brothers of Sir Edward Temple, Baronet, of Grosvenor
Square, and Temple House, Somersetshire, were on a visit to their sister,
Marion Temple, who usually resided during the winter months in Devon-
shire for the benefit its mild climate and temperature afforded her delicate
health. She was staying with the family of the Rev. John Benton, and an
hour's smart drive brought them to the venerable rector's door. They
both returned to London a few days after Mr Gaston's funeral; and any
further inquiries Mr Arthur Temple might feel disposed to make respecting
the beautiful vision of the chapel, were necessarily postponed to a future and
more convenient time.
The seasons in their change flew past. Spring had once more strewed
the earth with flowers; summer laughed amidst the streams, and fields, and
woods; autumn yielded her rich harvests to the sickle; and rough honest
winter, with his no less genial frosts and snows, was again rapidly
approaching. No incident of any importance had occurred during this
varied miracle at Vale Farm. Lucy Gaston still dwelt with her attached
friends. How, indeed, was it possible she could think of leaving Susan!
Susan, who had been her playmate, protectress, friend from childhood—
Susan, who had positively refused to marry honest, good-tempered, excel-
lent John Whiston, the owner of more than three hundred acres of arable
and pasture land, amply stocked, and in high cultivation, unless it was dis-
tinctly understood that dear Lucy should be considered as absolutely one
of the family. Leave her and Mary Crawford for her grand cousin, the
Honourable Caroline Fanshawe, even supposing, which was not at all likely,
she would be willing to receive her-impossible! All parties concurred in
this view of the case; and it was unanimously agreed that the notion of
Lucy Gaston leaving Vale Farm, except, indeed, as the wife of a nobleman,
or rich squire at the very least, was altogether ridiculous and absurd.
The marriage of the beautiful orphan, if not with a positive nobleman or
landed squire, with a young, handsome, rich, fashionable gentleman, became,
as the year waned, a settled conclusion. Mr Arthur Smythe, who had been
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
TA.
•
lingering for several weeks about the farm, under the pretence of shooting,
and whose manners were so elegant and gentlemanly, had at last proposed
for Lucy's hand, and been blushingly accepted. Honest John Whiston
satisfied himself that Mr Smythe possessed an income of fifteen hundred a
year, derived from the funds; no possible objection could therefore, he
thought, be made to the match; and preparations for the wedding imme-
diately commenced. It was also agreed, although Mr Smythe had yielded
the point with manifest reluctance, that Mary Crawford should accompany
Lucy, and live with her as companion for, at all events, the first twelvemonth;
and Lucy promised to visit Vale Farm at least twice a year; so that the
separation would, after all, Mrs Whiston strove to persuade herself, be only
partial; a hope her more keen-sighted cousin did not share. Mr Smythe
would, she believed, gradually withdraw his wife from all intercourse with
her country friends. Mary Crawford, however, kept her opinions to her-
self. Mr Smythe was beloved of Lucy, and her own perhaps unreasonable
suspicions and half-dislike of the bridegroom went for nothing, and ought
not, she felt, to be expressed.
Yes, the graceful manners, the refined homage, the honied accents of the
youthful and handsome sportsman, had kindled into life and form the
hidden mystery of love, sleeping till then in the pure depths of Lucy's
calm and gentle spirit. Was he capable of appreciating the priceless.
treasure thus revealed, and awaiting his acceptance; or would he, with
man's careless vanity and disdainful caprice, look with indifference upon
the prize which perchance the eagerness and fervour of pursuit had merely
invested with an adventitious and temporary charm? Momentous questions
these that would have instantly arisen in the minds of a father or mother,
quicksighted to the workings of human passion, and conversant with the
ways of men and of the world! Lucy Gaston had lost those guides; and
she had no other counsellor or guardian than her native purity of heart,
her gentle dignity of unsuspecting innocence, her innate pride of maidenly
reserve―celestial visitants! and all-potent, too—on the one perilous con-
dition that they are so intimately associated with, and regardful of their
votary and exemplar, as never to be careless of their charge, or slumber
for an instant at their posts! It proved so with Lucy Gaston; and however
light or trivial the motive which first induced Mr Arthur Smythe to while
away the unheeded hours in the society of the young rustic beauty, he
ultimately became enthralled to a degree he had not perhaps imagined to
be possible; and the result, as I have stated, was the offer of his hand to
the humble, unportioned maiden, and its grateful, blushing acceptance.
Marion Temple had returned with the fall of the year to Devonshire, and
again taken up her abode at the Rev. Mr Benton's, distant about eleven
miles from Vale Farm. Her brother, Mr Arthur Temple, accompanied her;
and about a week previous to the day named for Lucy Gaston's union with
Mr Smythe, Mr Sigismund Temple arrived on a flying visit to his relatives.
After a sojourn of two days only, the new-comer announced his intention
of returning at once to London. He was, Marion Temple saw, deeply
offended with his brother Arthur, who, for some reason studiously concealed
from her, had peremptorily refused Sigismund's earnest request that he
would accompany him back to town.
'Idiot!' mentally soliloquised Sigismund Temple, whilst waiting on the
8
SIGISMUND TEMPLE.
morning of his departure for his brother's appearance in the breakfast-room
of the rectory-Idiot! And yet his headstrong folly concerns me but in
a remote, improbable contingency. I would, however, he did not marry just
yet. The fatal taint which Sir Edward has, it is thought, inherited from
their mother-Marion, too, I fear is doomed-lurks very probably in his
veins; but should he have issue by this marriage, my hopes-hopes did I
say
?' continued the young man, with an audible outburst of remorseful
grief, as he rose from his chair, and paced agitatedly to and fro the apart-
ment-'hopes! Is Nature's milk so turned to gall within me that I hope
for the deaths of brothers whom I loved so well, till I knew that the unjust
and cruel laws of entail and primogeniture had beggared me to enrich them—
in succession enrich them-for Edward, I think, already stands on the verge
of the grave! Alas! it is but too true. I should lie to my own heart if I
denied it; but is the blame mine? After all,' he presently added in a calmer
mood,' they are but my half-brothers: they have no share in the vigorous
maternal life which'
A distant step arrested the current of his thoughts, and when Arthur
Temple entered, he had resumed the listless, sardonic attitude and expres-
sion which he usually exhibited. After a few words on indifferent subjects,
Sigismund Temple again endeavoured to dissuade his brother from the rash
step he was contemplating. It was labour thrown away: he could not
make the slightest impression with all his subtlety and sarcasm.
'Well,' he said, 'if Wilful must to water, Wilful must drench; but I
again repeat, that if I were Arthur Temple, with only one frail life between
me and an ancient and wealthy baronetcy, it should be something more
than a pretty face that would tempt me into the noose of matrimony.'
'Pretty face! I tell you, Sigismund, that Lucy Gaston is one of the
gentlest, purest, most charming and beautiful of women, and no more
ambitious of wealth or station than of a convent. She would have
accepted my offer had I been poor and dependent as joyfully as now.'
Arthur, you are a But I forbear; it is, I know, useless arguing
with a man labouring under the insanity of passion. You are preparing
a future of misery not only for yourself but this poor girl. Before twelve
months are past the refined elegance and courtly grace of such women as
Lady Alice Merivale will return upon your imagination with a brilliancy
and power infinitely heightened by contrast with the mindless rustic who
has temporarily caught your fancy; and you will bitterly as vainly repent
your present mad infatuation.'
'That woman, Sigismund, is an incarnation of mere worldliness. She
has neither heart nor soul.'
'As you please; but she has at least a charming person, and a sparkling,
cultivated wit; and to me it appears rather a proof of good sense than
necessarily of heartlessness that she some two years since looked coldly
upon the advances of a young gentleman who, unless his elder brother dies
without male issue, is condemned to vegetate upon a poor fifteen hundred
a year. Perhaps,' added the speaker, looking keenly in his brother's face,
and speaking in a low and meaning tone-'perhaps had Sir Edward's
health been at that time in the fragile state in which it is now feared to be,
the lady would have been less reserved and cruel.'
'It is useless, Sigismund, to recall such memories; they have died
No. 70.
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
within me, and so have the pulses of ambition. With the beautiful and
ductile creature with whom my fate will shortly be united I shall calmly
glide down the stream of life, undisturbed by and heedless of the jostlings,
the puerile distinctions of a world for which I feel neither sympathy nor
respect.'
'A dream, Arthur-a silly, womanish dream, to be followed, be sure of
it, by a very bitter awakening. But enough: we part friends, I hope?'
'You persist in not remaining then?'
'Certainly. I should only involve myself, without in the slightest
degree serving you, were I present at the ceremony.'
'I do not comprehend your meaning.'
'It is nevertheless plain enough, if not to you, whose head is amongst
the stars, or rather clouds, to me, whose attention is necessarily fixed on
mundane things. You, at least, are independent of Sir Edward Temple to
the extent of fifteen hundred a year; and if the elder obstacle were to
precede you to the world of shadows'
'Shame on you, Sigismund!'
'Be it so I am at all events no hypocrite; and this system of beggaring
every child but one in order to maintain what is called family dignity, is
scarcely one adapted to cultivate fraternal affection. You, I repeat, have
a revenue, though perhaps an insufficient one, whilst I unfortunately have
no dependence save on the parliamentary and social influence of the present
head of the House of Temple to quarter me in an eligible manner upon the
public revenues. You know Sir Edward's pride of birth and ancestry, and
cannot therefore be blind to the folly I should commit by in any manner
appearing to forward or countenance a mésalliance, the discovery of which
will so terribly enrage him; and he may, spite of appearances, live many
years yet. Besides,' added Sigismund Temple, after a few moments'
silence, and with an exaggeration of his usual sardonic sneer, 'the fewer
the witnesses to the ceremony the better, perhaps; and it may be so
esteemed by you some of these days. The retention of the name of
Smythe, too, will be well.'
'The assumption of the name of Smythe was an accident—a caprice with-
out motive; and I shall probably reassume my own'
"You had better not. Take my advice in this, at least.'
'Sigismund, envy and discontent have not only soured your once frank
and joyous temper, but perverted your sense of right and wrong.'
Say rather, brother mine, that they have in a slight degree sharpened
my wits. Younger brothers are necessarily somewhat precocious. It
is only your elder born who can afford to remain fools en permanence !
Good-by; I shall at all events keep your secret.' The brothers shook
hands, and Sigismund Temple was soon on his way back to London.
Arthur Temple remained for a considerable time after his brother had
left the apartment where the foregoing colloquy took place in a state of
profound meditation. 'Smythe!—Temple!' he at last audibly murmured—
What is there, after all, in a name? The one will do to conjure with as
well as the other; and after all, as Sigismund says-
At all events, I
am very slightly indebted, and owe but scant allegiance to the proud
family name. The fifteen hundred a year which I inherit descends from
my mother; and yet I have often thought how delightful it would be to
10
SIGISMUND TEMPLE.
witness Lucy's sweet, artless expression of grateful wonderment when
informed that she was about to marry into the distinguished family of the
Temples-to be sister-in-law to the magnificent Sir Edward Temple, whose
grand fêtes and splendid entertainments sometimes afford a paragraph to
the county paper! Yet that would not be prudent! We must, as we
value peace of mind, contentment of heart, shun comparisons of our state
with his. Better to draw a veil before the grandeur, be it even that of a
brother, that would but mock our own comparatively poor means of life.
Yes! I will certainly take Sigismund's advice in this one instance: the
name of Smythe, which I carelessly, capriciously assumed, shall be re-
tained, unless, indeed'
The young man's face flushed crimson; he
hurriedly rose and walked to and fro the room, as if the quick pulsation
of his veins forbade for the moment repose or immobility of body—'unless,
indeed, Sigismund's insinuation, that Sir Edward's health is fatally under-
mined should prove well founded: then, indeed, to salute my beautiful
Lucy as Lady Temple-as the mistress of Temple House-of the mansion
in Grosvenor Square-as the wife of a baronet of ancient descent and
princely wealth-that indeed were a proud moment in both our lives-that
would be- God of Heaven!' added the conscience-struck young
man, his voice suddenly falling to a trembling whisper-' am I, too, an
eager speculator in the chances of a dear brother's death? do I count
grudgingly the sands of life allotted to a son born of the same mother as
myself? have the words of Sigismund but wakened an echo slumbering in
my own heart-but swept away the illusive colouring from the mirror
in which I before glassed myself, and shewn me my true self? Terrible
questions, which I know not how to answer!' He ceased to speak, and
shudderingly covered his face with his hands, as if he would shut out the
appalling, self-revealing spectre which dimly flitted past. It was some
time before he perfectly recovered his usual calmness: when he had done
so, his thoughts appeared to gradually fall into the channel they had first
taken on his brother Sigismund's departure; and by the slight interjectional
comments which escaped him, he was evidently again pondering the
expediency of revealing his true name and condition to his promised bride.
The decision arrived at was that suggested by his brother; for, as he left the
apartment to rejoin his sister Marion, he muttered: Yes; Smythe let it be
-for the present at all events. I can, should occasion arise, easily reas-
sume my proper designation; whereas But au jour le jour.'
On the appointed day Arthur Temple was accordingly married to Lucy
Gaston in the name of Smythe. Immediately after the ceremony the
newly-wedded pair set off for Holly Lodge, three or four miles out of
Bath, accompanied by Mary Crawford and John Robson, Mr Temple's
groom, who, with Mr and Mrs Whiston, had witnessed the ceremony.
Sigismund Temple arrived in Grosvenor Square in barely sufficient time
for dinner, to which a small but distinguished party had been invited. The
Honourable Caroline Fanshawe, young, amiable, and of dazzling beauty and
imperial presence, was there, accompanied by her father Lord Fanshawe.
The queenly head, set magnificently upon brilliant shoulders from which the
Roman purple might be fitly draped, the exquisitely chiselled nose and
mouth, the lustrous purity of her complexion, the splendour of her fine
11
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
dark eyes, the wavy luxuriance of her glossy hair, her finely-moulded person
and regal carriage, formed a royalty of beauty which compelled the homage
of the surprised beholder as to a being of diviner attributes than belong to
earth. This lady Sigismund Temple had frequently met, but had lately
resolved to shun, as a person dangerous to his peace-he, a younger brother,
and she, highly connected, but by no means rich-for the Fanshawe estates,
strictly entailed on heirs-male, went, at her father's death, to a nephew—and,
as he thought, as aspiringly ambitious as himself. On this evening, how-
ever, she, on his appearance in the drawing-room considerably before the
other gentlemen, manifested a graciousness of demeanour, before which
his prudent resolves vanished like morning mist before the sun. Fas-
cinated, intoxicated by smiles which played like summer lightning about
his heart and brain, and the rich caressing tones of her magical voice, he
yielded unresistingly to the witching influence he had wisely determined
to avoid; and it was with a feeling almost of resentment that he found
himself interrupted in his perilous tête-à-tête by the entrance of Sir
Edward Temple, Lord Fanshawe, and other gentlemen from the dining-
room.
Sir Edward, who, I may remark, was an eminently handsome, as well as
a very honourable, well-meaning man, appeared in jocund spirits. He
looked somewhat pale and delicate, but he had been for several weeks free
from pain; and his physician had not only pronounced him convalescent, but
had intimated a rather positive opinion, that should no untoward change
occur, which he did not anticipate, the tendency which had been feared
towards consumption was effectually arrested. Agitation must, however,
he declared, be strictly avoided, or fatal and immediate consequences would
in all probability result. The character of Sir Edward's illness was known
only to his medical adviser, and partially by his brothers. The outer world
only knew that he had been ailing somewhat, and was now essentially
recovered. Sir Edward, who, as much as possible, closed his own eyes to
the danger in which he stood, would have resented as an unpardonable '
offence, any report that he inherited his mother's fatal malady.
The baronet approached Miss Fanshawe, and the pulsation of Sigismund
Temple's heart was momently arrested, as he observed the smiles which he
had for the last half hour monopolised, bestowed with even yet more play-
fully caressing charm upon his elder brother. Sir Edward felt their
influence, and his countenance lightened with unusual gaiety and joy.
'I do not know,' he said, 'when I have felt so light of heart. One-
certainly not the especial reason which lifts me above the earth'-the brief
glance of mutual intelligence did not escape Sigismund Temple-' but one
cause of the exultation I feel is the excellent report Sigismund gives of
Marion's health. It is a foolish fancy, or superstition, certainly,' added the
baronet in a slightly disturbed tone, 'but the belief clings to me—partly
perhaps, because we are thought to so much resemble each other, or because
we have been till lately so constantly together-that our lives are bound up
with each other, and will end together.'
Surely a very absurd fancy,' remarked Miss Fanshawe.
'Yes; one cannot reason upon it. You remember the German astrologer,
Sigismund?'
'The German cheat and swindler, you mean.'
12
SIGISMUND TEMPLE.
'It may be so. And yet for all that reason or philosophy may urge, I
cannot help feeling rejoiced, for my own sake as well as that of Marion,
that she is recovering.'
The lady glanced towards Sigismund, and he thought a faintly ironical
smile curled her beautiful lip, as she said: 'And, pray, what may have been
the precise text of the astrologer or cheat's prediction?'
'The usual jargon,' replied Sigismund Temple, rising as he spoke. 'The
lines of life in Marion and Sir Edward resembled each other, ending I think
in the same house, or some such gibberish.'
'That is a prophecy which, under certain circumstances, might realise
itself,' observed Miss Fanshawe; and a shade of anxiety or concern passed
over her brilliant countenance.
'I trust not,' said Sir Edward Temple, with a proud and grateful smile;
'but this is not a time for such themes. Shall we have a little music?
Perhaps you, Caroline, will again favour us with the charming melody you
sang the other evening?'
Miss Fanshawe rose in compliance with the baronet's request, and Sir
Edward led her to the piano.
'Caroline!' muttered Sigismund Temple, with white quivering lips--
'Caroline! This, then, is the meaning of her condescending graciousness.
Everything is his-imperial beauty, princely wealth, whilst I'-
The tones of the singer's fine contr'alto voice broke in upon his bitter
musings. He permitted himself to drink in a few bars of the entrancing
strain; and then, as if fearful of trusting himself longer there, hastily left
the apartment, and did not return during the evening.
The brothers again met on the following day at dinner. They were
alone;
and when the servants had retired, Sir Edward, breaking a pause of
some duration, said abruptly: 'Caroline-
What is the matter, Sigis-
mund? You quite startle one.'
'Nothing-nothing! A slight spasm; nothing more.'
Where, dear Sigismund?' inquired the baronet anxiously. On the
left side? It is there I frequently-not now, but some time ago-felt such
attacks, and Dr Bailey thought gravely of them. You should consult him :
he will be here in the morning.'
"It is nothing, Edward; proceed.'
'Caroline-Miss Fanshawe, I was about to say, felt surprised at your
abrupt departure yesterday evening.'
'Indeed!'
'And still more so that I had not informed you of our engagement.
That pain again, Sigismund? you are suffering terribly. I will instantly
send for Dr Bailey.' The baronet rose to touch the bell.
No, no; do not. It is passed already; go on.'
'She imagined you had known of my proposal and its acceptance. But
you have been absent during the last week, and I saw you but for a few
minutes before dinner yesterday. The marriage will not take place just
yet: about May or June next, Lord Fanshawe suggests; and by that
time, I doubt not, all fear of a relapse of ill health will be past.'
Damnation! how hot and close the room is!' fiercely exclaimed Sigis-
mund Temple, abruptly rising and throwing up one of the sashes.
can scarcely breathe in it.'
One
13
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
'Hot and close in January!' said Sir Edward. 'What are you talking
about?'
His brother muttered an unintelligible reply, and left the room.
He is certainly ill,' thought the baronet; and if not better in the
morning, Bailey shall see him.'
Holly Lodge, which Arthur Temple had prepared for the reception of
his wife, was a convenient and pleasantly-situated house; and its equipment
and embellishments, though excessively plain and simple in the eyes of the
husband, accustomed to the gorgeous furniture and decorations of his
paternal home, were magnificent in the estimation of the delighted bride,
who saw, in the various articles of elegance and luxury with which the
miniature drawing-room and her sleeping and dressing chambers were
profusely filled, new proofs of the devoted affection which had raised her
to such an unimagined height of grandeur. The simplest child, not only
in knowledge of the world, but in the arts by which beauty enhances its
value and secures its conquests, was this singularly beautiful girl. Her
almost infantine delight in the novelty of her position, in the fairy treasures
by which she was surrounded, and in the presence of her almost idolised
husband, was intense, unbounded; and it was many days before a shadow,
a light, evanescent shadow, flitted past and for a moment dimmed the
young morning of her joy. One afternoon Mary Crawford found her
standing before a high cheval mirror, which reflected her charming person
at full length.
'Do you think, Mary,' she said, and there was a tone of inexpressible
sadness in the gentle voice, 'that Arthur, my husband, will one day love
me less than he does now?'
The question struck a painful chord in the more observant Mary Crawford's
bosom, and the sudden vibration prevented her from instantly replying.
Lucy looked anxiously in her face. You do not speak?' she said.
'Is not that a sufficient answer?' said Mary Crawford, recovering her
presence of mind, and pointing to the image in the glass.
'I was just then thinking, Mary,' was the reply, as the young wife
redirected her glance to the mirror, 'that he must always love me.'
There was not the slightest conceit or vanity in the thought which
suggested this remark. Poor girl! she was but examining the strength and
brightness of the chain by which alone she felt she had compelled her
husband's affections, and could alone hope to retain them. Mary Craw-
ford kissed the blushing cheek, led her beloved friend and protégée to a
chair, took a seat beside her, and passing with old familiarity one arm round
her waist, said: 'And what, dear Lucy, has occurred to put such strange
thoughts in your head?'
'Nothing-nothing, Mary, dear,' was the reply, though a faint sigh
bubbled up and exhaled with the words. 'Nothing of moment; Arthur
has been reading to me, and—and '-
'What, dearest?'
'I do not, you know, Mary, quite understand the grand poetry he so
delights to read; but I love to listen to his voice; and to-day especially, it
seemed a silver, lulling melody, like the murmured music of a brook amidst
the trees, and with its harmony I-I fell asleep.'
14
SIGISMUND TEMPLE.
'And your husband was angry?'
'No, Mary, not angry-vexed, that's all; and he is gone out alone.'
Mary Crawford, with an affectation of cheerfulness she did not feel,
strove to laugh off the half-formed apprehensions of the ill-mated wife, and
for the time succeeded.
The golden dawn, the purple light of love, which, in the imagination of
Mr Temple, had for a brief space transformed the charming, gentle, but
untutored country girl into a divinity, before which he would be well
content to sacrifice the pleasures, honours, and rewards of the world in
which he was born, and a high place in which he believed himself, with the
aid of his influential relatives, able easily to attain, had gradually vanished
before the chilling influence of familiarity, the sober teachings of disen-
chanting. possession. His brother's prophecy had been accomplished even
before the time he had assigned for its fulfilment. As unjust now as
blindly infatuated before, Arthur Temple could find no charm, no solace,
in the meek gentleness, the patient submission, the devoted affection, of the
trusting woman he had sworn to love and cherish. Her simplicity wearied
-her ignorance disgusted-her silent reproaches irritated and enraged
him. He execrated the fetters in which he had madly bound himself, and
each succeeding day but added to their galling, maddening pressure. His
unfortunate wife had not been long able to conceal from herself that she
was already, in the first blush and prime of wedded life, a widow in the
saddest, most grievous acceptation of the word-estranged from her hus-
band's affections, divorced from his future and his hopes, and her heart
sank within her. But for the blushing hope, the tremulous vision, daily
more intense and vivid, of a beauteous pledge of renewed love and peace,
she must, she thought, have died. It came; and with it joy and hope,
rekindling the faded roses of her cheeks, and rendering back her old gaiety.
of heart, her trustful tenderness for the father, forgiven in his son.
Temple seemed at first moved, softened, by the divine gift; but a few days
sufficed to weaken, a few weeks to obliterate, the impression, and his manner
to his wife became cold, disdainful, repulsive as before.
Mr
I will not dwell further on the cruel incidents of this most unhappy
marriage. A year had passed; it was once more January, when Mr
Temple received a letter from his brother Sigismund, written at Sir Edward
Temple's instance, to request his presence at the celebration of the baronet's
nuptials, so long delayed, with the Honourable Caroline Fanshawe. The
note was brief and curt, and appeared to have been hurriedly and negli-
gently scrawled. A postscriptum stated that Sir Edward was still ignorant
of the mésalliance he, Arthur Temple, had formed.
The resolution long meditated by Mr Temple was, upon the receipt of
this intelligence, at once adopted. An hour after it had been received, Mary
Crawford, who for a long time had been the medium through which the
wishes and commands of the husband had been conveyed to his wife, was
summoned to attend Mr Temple in the front apartment of the groundfloor.
'I am about to leave this place,' began Mr Temple, and it is not likely
that I shall very soon return.'
'Will your absence be much longer than usual?' inquired his auditor,
observing that he hesitated. Mr Temple's very frequent absences at Bath
and other places had usually averaged about ten days.
15
CHAMBERS's PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
'Much longer indeed I intend breaking up this establishment, and it is
extremely improbable, therefore, that I shall ever return.'
'Merciful God! Why, what do you mean, Mr Smythe? You cannot
intend to desert your wife-your child? No, no; it is impossible. You
cannot be so base!'
'Have the goodness to remember to whom you are addressing yourself,'
said Mr Temple in his haughtiest tone and manner. He presently added:
It must have been for a long time clearly apparent to you that your friend
Lucy and I are not suited to each other; that our tastes, feelings, associa-
tions, render us totally unfit for each other's society. This at least I have
long and bitterly felt, and I have therefore determined, and as much for her
happiness as my own, to leave her, and for ever.'
'Oh say not so say not so!' exclaimed Mary Crawford with passionate
entreaty. The blow will kill her. Be patient but for a few months,
perhaps weeks: her health is gone, and she will not, I fear, trouble any one
long. Be merciful-patient-till the grave has received her body, and the
blighted spirit has returned to Him who gave it!'
Whatever emotion of remorse the husband might have felt, he effectually
mastered and concealed. 'It is useless to waste words,' he said; 'my pur-
pose cannot be shaken'
'Hark!' suddenly exclaimed Mary Crawford: 'I surely heard Lucy's
step! And yet I left her asleep-such broken sleep, at least, as lately has
been hers.' She took a candle from the table, and stepped swiftly but
softly to the door. There was no one on the stairs, nor in the passage.
She did not think of looking into the adjoining room, separated only from
the front apartment by slight folding-doors.
'I was mistaken,' said Mary Crawford, re-entering the room, and placing
the candle on the table. 'Now, sir, proceed; and speak, if you please, as
softly as may suffice for the due enforcement of your brave and honest
purpose.'
'There need little more be said at present,' rejoined Mr Temple. 'I shall
write in a day or two, and fully explain my views and intentions. In the
meantime and this is the most painful part of the affair-you must pre-
pare Mrs Smythe as gently as you can to give up my son, who
What's that? Did you hear nothing?'
Ha!
'I thought I did: a stifled scream or sob it seemed.' Mary Craw-
ford stepped once more to the door, and looked out. Nobody was there.
'Go on,' she said; 'no one hears you-but God!'
'I have nothing more to observe,' he replied. A properly-authorised
agent will be here in a few days, who will wind up and dispose of this
establishment. Mrs Smythe will reside where she pleases, and of course
will receive a sufficient sum to support her comfortably.'
'You carry this matter with a high hand, Mr Smythe; and your unfortu-
nate wife must, I suppose, resign herself as she best can to your cruel will.
But at least you will, I trust, inform us whom and what are the family
into which Lucy Gaston has so unhappily intruded-a subject you have
always carefully avoided? This, in common justice, you are bound to do,
else death overtaking you, your wife will be without resource, or claim, or
kindred.'
Mr Temple smiled, and said so very improbable a contingency would be
16
SIGISMUND TEMPLE.
duly provided for. 'I have no further time to spare,' he added, 'as I
wish to leave Bath by the mail-train, and must therefore bid you at once
good-by.'
'Then go, sir!' replied Mary Crawford with wrathful vehemence; 'and
may He, in whose temple you uttered the vows you have wantonly and
infamously broken, avenge
'No-no-no!' burst convulsively from the lips of the abandoned wife,
who, clad in her night-dress, and pale as marble, tottered through the
'Do not--
folding-doors, and threw herself upon Mary Crawford's neck.
do not curse him, Mary, for my sake!'
Mr Temple was painfully affected. He hoped to have avoided an inter-
view with his wife, whom he could not but pity and respect, cold and dead
towards her as his selfish affections had become. He knew not what to
say; and a silence, save for the suffocating sobs of the two females, pre-
vailed for several minutes. At length Mr Temple said: 'I was anxious,
Lucy'
Leave me—leave me, sir!' hurriedly, almost fiercely interrupted his
wife, her face still averted from him. Go-begone! We are true and
honest people, sir; and remember we do not want your money. Go-go!
I would not that she cursed you, but begone!' And without turning her
head, she waved him impatiently with her hand towards the door.
Mr Temple hesitated for an instant; and then resolutely nerving himself
to go through with his predetermined purpose, left the apartment, and a
few minutes afterwards the house.
'He is gone!' exclaimed the wife, erecting herself from the bent, listen-
ing attitude she had assumed. 'He is gone; and now to bed. We may
be overheard here. You heard him say,' she added, sinking her voice to
a deep whisper, 'that he would have my child. We will disappoint him,
Mary! God has just shewn me how! Come-come-come!'
A terrible suspicion of Lucy's sanity, as these words, accompanied by
a wild, triumphant expression of countenance, fell from her, arose in Mary
Crawford's mind. She, however, yielded to the bereaved wife's example
and earnestly-whispered injunction, and softly, softly ascended the carpeted
stairs on tiptoe. Whatever project had glanced across the mother's brain
remained undivulged, or at least unfulfilled, for delirium rapidly super-
vened; and before a physician, hastily summoned from Bath, arrived, Mrs
Smythe-Temple, I should say—was in a raging fever.
Mr Arthur Temple had quite recovered his equanimity when he stepped,
at the Bath station, into a first-class carriage of the mail-train; and as he
was whirled along, he amused himself by calculating the chances and
probabilities of the new life he had marked out for himself—one of poli-
tics, of active ambition, resulting in office, honours, substantial rewards—
when a sudden crash, a cry of terror and despair, an overwhelming sense.
of dismay and horror, flashed upon him; and he remembered nothing more
till he found himself in one of the gorgeous bedrooms of his brother's
house in Grosvenor Square. The collision of the train with a luggage-
truck near the Reading station had resulted in the instantaneous loss of
several lives, and such severe internal injuries to Mr Temple, that saving
his life was out of the question. Robson, who travelled with him, was
unhurt, and had caused his master to be brought immediately to London.
17
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
Fortunately Dr Bailey happened to be in Grosvenor Square when the
sufferer arrived; and the intelligence was consequently broken gradually
and skilfully to Sir Edward Temple. Even thus communicated, it produced
a very distressing effect, and but for prompt appliances might have proved
fatal. The baronet was immediately confined to his bed, and never saw
his brother again in life, communicating only with him through Sigismund
Temple.
The first thought of the younger brother, on ascertaining the fatal nature
of the accident that had befallen Arthur Temple, was that Sir Edward's
marriage would be necessarily deferred-he hoped for ever. A natural
emotion of compassion succeeded, soon chased away by the thronging
hopes his eager imagination conjured up. The dazzling Caroline! abun-
dant wealth!--all this might now be his! Who knew?
For several days Arthur Temple writhed and tossed upon his bed of
down-the mild eyes, the kind voice, the gentle, sympathising hand-
pressure of his abandoned wife revisiting him in his troubled, fevered
dreams, only to mock him as with the mirage. At last the grim Tyrant
passed through the closed and muffled portals of the splendid mansion,
glided up the grand staircase, and entered the gorgeous chamber. Dr Bailey
and Sigismund Temple were in the room when the shadow of the view-
less victor fell upon the sick man's face. The physician observed the sign,
and knew its meaning. He placed his fingers on the patient's pulse: it
fluttered-sank-stopped; then came a brief rally, and all was over!
A few hours after this solemn event, Sigismund Temple was sitting alone
in his dressing-room, with a foolscap sheet of paper closely written upon,
held loosely and carelessly in his right hand. His dark eyes were un-
usually vivid, and on his pale expressive face a practised observer might
have read strange matters. 'Deathbed repentances!' exclaimed the ex-
cited young man in a strange, low, beating voice-' deathbed repentances,
I have heard bishops preach, are seldom of any value-rarely do much to
repair the errors, sins, or crimes of a life. It would not be seemly,' he
added, whilst a bitter sneer curled his white, finely-chiselled lips—' it would
not be seemly that Arthur's tardy generosity or justice-exercised at my
expense, too, which makes it all the more pleasant-so suddenly resusci-
tated by the near view of a tomb yawning for himself, should, through my
instrumentality especially, be made to give the lie to so salutary and grave
a maxim. This paper now,' he resumed, after a brief pause, 'written by
me at his dictation, not only deprives me of fifteen hundred pounds per
annum which I else inherit-that, however, were nothing, should another
frail life fall in-and reveals the existence of the now widowed wife, but
that of the son, the presumptive heir to the baronetcy, with its attendant
wealth. It is therein the serpent-danger lies, which I must crush-crush-
crush-at any hazard'. as he thus spoke, he fiercely crumpled up the
paper in his hands, as if at the moment he grasped the menaced peril by
the throat' at any sacrifice! It was fortunate,' he soon more calmly con-
tinued—' it was fortunate Bailey came in too late to witness the signing of
the paper, or even to hear it spoken of. My good brother evidently, at the
last moment-thank Fortune, not before-doubted my good faith; but
Bailey could not read aright, as I plainly did, that last glance of agonizing
remorse, doubt, and entreaty. So far, then, I am safe. Let me again,'
18
SIGISMUND TEMPLE.
said he, smoothing the paper carefully out—‘let me again peruse the pre-
cious document:-"In the name of God, Amen." It is really wonderful,'
continued Sigismund Temple with a mocking laugh-' it is really wonderful
how the illusions and dreams of childhood revisit men in their last hours!
The bishops are quite right. The only valid faith is that of the pious
believer, who recognises God in life. In death, he is, if there be one, sure
to be self-revealed, and acknowledgment is puerile-absurd-not to say
impious. This name,' went on the sneering scoffer-' this name, thus used,
confers then no character of sacredness upon the paper! But let me read
Beloved wife!
on:-"I give and bequeath unto my beloved wife"-
Why, this is mockery upon mockery! He surprised her affections-stole,
as it were, her heart away, to toy and sport with for a time; and, his pride
and fancy sated, cast and trampled it beneath his feet as a thing of naught
-and then, forsooth, when the world for which he abandoned her is
vanishing from his sight, she is his "beloved wife" again! Out upon such
hypocrisy!' he added, rising from his chair, deliberately tearing the paper
into strips, and consuming each strip at a taper which stood lighted on the
table. 'Out upon it! And that he should think, too, that I would be a
party to it! That assuredly is not the least amazing or amusing part of
the affair. He could scarcely, I think, have read my character so per-
fectly as I did his: it is certainly nothing new to find men indulging in
excessive liberality when the cost thereof is to be defrayed by others:
albeit I must, however regrettingly, decline honouring this draft on my
generosity, and instead dispose of it thus-and thus ;-and so a long good-
night to Marmion!'
Sigismund Temple reseated himself as soon as the last shred of paper
was consumed, and remained for several minutes in silent cogitation. 'Well
remembered!' he exclaimed, again rising and ringing the bell; 'that rascal
Robson must be spoken with. Send Robson, my late brother's servant, to
me immediately,' he said to the footman who answered the summons. 'For
the present,' he muttered, when the door had closed, 'if, as I think I know
the man, a slight hint will suffice; hereafter I can, if necessary, proportion
the reward to the service.' A tap came to the door, and on receiving per-
mission, Robson entered.
'You will continue to observe the strictest secrecy with respect to the
unfortunate marriage you witnessed,' observed Mr Sigismund Temple,
addressing the discreet, taciturn groom. 'I intend taking you into my
own service; but your remaining in it will of course depend upon your
own behaviour and discretion. I shall make all proper arrangements, you
may be sure; but the less so absurd an alliance is talked about the better
for our honour and your interest.' Robson acquiesced by a respectful bow;
and no more was said upon the subject.
(
'It is your opinion, then,' remarked Sigismund Temple to Dr Bailey a
few days after his brother's funeral, that Sir Edward has fairly outlived
the tendency to pulmonary disease which so alarmingly displayed itself
some time since ?"
Nay, my young friend, I do not go so far as that: besides, the chief
danger is from an affection of the heart, which both he and his sister Marion
suffer under, and which may carry either of them off at a moment's warning.
19
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
I have merely said that if Sir Edward adopts a strict regimen, and, above
all, is careful to avoid any sudden and painful shock or agitation, he may
live many happy years.'
"This is not precisely the report I understood you made to Lord
Fanshawe. But that, I daresay,' he added bitterly, 'is of slight con-
sequence. The lady no doubt marries the brilliant fortune, not its ailing
possessor.'
'You greatly misapprehend Miss Fanshawe's character,' replied the
physician. 'There are few persons, I believe, less mercenary in any
objectionable sense of the term. Quite true that she would not unite
herself that it would never glance across her mind to unite herself with a
man who was not rich and occupying a distinguished position. Situated
as she is with regard to fortune-for the estates, you know, are entailed on
the heirs-male, and Lord Fanshawe lives quite up to his income-and with
her habits, tastes, and requirements, to do so would be to commit an act of
mere suicidal folly. She would as soon think of marrying one of her
father's footmen. But I am at the same time equally sure that no estab-
lishment, however splendid, would for a moment tempt her to a union with
either decrepitude, vice, or folly.'
'You speak warmly, Dr Bailey.'
'Because I feel warmly, Mr Temple. There is no one for whom I have
a higher respect than for Miss Fanshawe. She is a thoroughly well-
principled, admirable young woman. Conscious of course she must be of
the divine gift of beauty the Creator has bestowed on her; but there is not
a particle of silly vanity, or of a desire to test its power by the infliction
of pain, in her composition. You, Mr Temple,' added the physician in a
more indifferent tone, and Caroline Fanshawe are very similarly circum-
stanced, and from the same causes. The wealth which might, and perhaps
should have been divided with something like equality between your
families, has been diverted and confined to maintaining the representative
of each house in dignified splendour; and in accommodating yourselves to
your positions, you are both justified in availing yourselves of every means
in your power, not involving meanness or dishonour, to improve your
fortunes.'
'An evil system,' said Sigismund Temple; 'the prolific parent of every
species of hypocrisy and fraud.'
'Well, I do not know. There is pour et contre.
There is pour et contre. One does not clearly
see how else a powerful class of landlord nobles could be permanently
maintained; and that has long been held in this country to be a matter of
prime necessity. Misery enough it involves, I grant you, especially to
highly-born females, few indeed of whom are so personally gifted as Lord
Fanshawe's daughter. She will always be able to command an eligible
establishment, even should Sir Edward's health, which is quite possible,
shew symptoms of relapse before the expiration of the new delay which
your brother's death has thrown in the way of the contemplated marriage.
But younger brothers, such as you, who have peer or parliamentary
influence to back them, will always be pretty safe in this rich and indus-
trious country. You, for instance, are quite sure of getting your head into
the national manger to the tune of two or three thousand a year, irrespec-
tive of any or whatever talents you may be found to possess. Your
20
SIGISMUND TEMPLE.
relatives are bound in honour and conscience to see you provided for to
that extent, if not more.'
'It may be as you say. You think, then, that a relapse would be fatal
to Sir Edward?'
'I have not the slightest doubt that in that case I should have the
honour of saluting Sir Sigismund Temple, Baronet,' rejoined the physician,
with a meaning, half-ironical expression of eye and voice.
The ringing of the dinner-bell interrupted the colloquy. Dr Bailey took
his leave, and Sigismund Temple, after a few minutes' silent cogitation,
descended to the dining-room. The next day he set off for Somerset-
shire.
Mrs Temple, as we must now call her, was but partially recovered from
the sharp illness by which she had been attacked, when Sigismund Temple
arrived at Holly Lodge with the intelligence of her husband's premature
and shocking death. His real name he still, of course, carefully concealed.
The sudden announcement caused a renewal of her disorder; and several
weeks passed before Dr Bainbridge pronounced her convalescent. Her
little boy, too, pined, and seemed falling into a bad way; and Sigismund
Temple half-hoped that the widow and child would, after no great delay,
follow the husband and father. He rejoiced to find that neither Mrs
Temple, nor her companion Mary Crawford, had the slightest suspicion of
the true rank or position of his deceased brother; and he smiled to think
that, other obstacles in his path to high fortune removed, the claims of
Mrs Arthur Temple and her son need not disturb him much, as he would
manage. He remained several days at the Lodge-affected the greatest
sympathy for the suffering widow-was very liberal of present pecuniary
aid and future promises-and very gracious and condescending towards Mary
Crawford, to whom, at parting, he made a munificent present. Mary being a
sharp-witted person, and just then naturally mistrustful of the honour and
good faith of any one bearing the name of Smythe, it is no wonder that a
vague distrust of the motives which could prompt such a gift glanced
dimly across her mind. She took care, however, that no outward indica-
tion of this feeling should escape her; and Mr Temple, after receiving her
promise to write to him should anything of importance occur, directing her
letter to Mr James Smythe, Post-Office, St Martin's-le-Grand, to lie till
called for, he departed for London, well satisfied with the result of his
visit to Somersetshire.
Obscuring clouds soon gathered over his brilliant hopes. The health of
Sir Edward Temple continued obstinately to improve; and at the end of
four months from the death of Arthur Temple, a day was again fixed for
the celebration of his nuptials with Miss Fanshawe. A few days pre-
viously to the one named for that purpose, there was a somewhat numerous
dinner-party in Grosvenor Square, at which Sir Edward presided in appa-
rently florid health and in jubilant spirits. Sigismund Temple, in whose
bosom a hell of envy, hatred, and despair was raging, left the apartment,
soon after the company had assembled in the drawing-room, under the plea
of headache.
'I wonder,' remarked the baronet, 'how it happens that Marion is not
arrived. She should have been here two hours ago, according to her letter
received yesterday.'
21
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
'This is about her usual time for leaving Devonshire, is it not?' Miss
Fanshawe remarked.
'Yes;
and her non-arrival is the more surprising, as her letter states
that her health seems quite re-established.'
'Something may have occurred to delay her departure,' said Dr Bailey.
'By the way, Sir Edward,' the physician added sotto voce, and drawing the
baronet quietly apart, 'you are very much and dangerously excited. You
drank, I observed, two or three glasses of wine at dinner more than you
have accustomed yourself to take; and what with that, the expectation of
your sister's arrival, and Miss Fanshawe's presence, your pulse is beating,
I know, at a fever pace. Pray endeavour to calm yourself.'
Sir Edward promised that he would do so; and returning to the ladies,
took a chair beside his beautiful betrothed, and resumed a topic upon
which they had been previously conversing.
Sigismund Temple paced up and down the conservatory at the back of
the house with wild disordered steps, and it was long before he succeeded
in mastering the outward signs of the tempest which raged within him.
When he had done so, he determined on returning to the drawing-room.
His absence might, he thought, be remarked upon; for he had a strong
suspicion that Dr Bailey, if not Caroline Fanshawe herself, had penetrated
his secret. He had reached the foot of the stairs, when a double, and by
no means fashionable knock, was heard at the outer door. On its being
opened, an elderly person, having the appearance of a country clergyman,
entered, and offering a card, desired to speak with Sir Edward Temple or
his brother. The servant presented the card to Sigismund Temple, who,
glancing at it by the dim light of the hall lamp, read the name of the
Rev. Mr Benton, whom he had not, in the partial obscurity, for the
moment recognised.
'You are the bearer of ill news, I fear, respecting my sister Marion ?’
he said hastily.
'Alas! yes, sir. That amiable young lady, I grieve to say, suddenly
expired yesterday afternoon.'
Good God! is it possible?'
Sigismund Temple was greatly shocked. He had long since ceased to
feel any affection for his half-brothers; but Marion was a meek, gentle
creature, and almost as ill-used by fortune as himself. He led the way to
the library, invited the Rev. Mr Benton by a gesture to be seated, and
whilst that worthy divine ran over the commonplaces usually uttered at
such times, remained standing with his back to the speaker, gazing out
upon the dark, starless night. It was some time after the pious clergy-
man had concluded his stock of homilies, that Sigismund Temple turned
suddenly round and faced him; and then his countenance wore so strange,
so wild an expression, that the reverend gentleman was quite startled
by it.
'Ah, sir, you loved your sister fervently! But death, as I have before
remarked, has his sad preferences, and does not always choose'
'Yes-yes!' interrupted the good man's impatient auditor in a shaking,
husky voice-'yes, yes; of course; no doubt; but there are others besides
me to whom I suppose you wish to break this intelligence?'
'Certainly to Sir Edward Temple especially. A personally-delivered
22
SIGISMUND TEMPLE.
message was, I thought, desirable, in order that the melancholy announce-
ment might be more tenderly-less abruptly made than by letter."
:
'Precisely this way, then, if you please. Yonder,' continued Sigis-
mund Temple, standing at the foot of the stairs, and speaking in the same
low, quivering tone-' yonder is the door of the drawing-room. Go in and
deliver your message: Sir Edward is there.'
The clergyman bowed, and ascended the stairs. The younger brother
remained standing in the partially-lighted hall, every faculty strained in
eager expectation of what might follow.
Sir Edward Temple was still conversing in a low tone with Miss Fan-
shawe, when the door opened, and admitted the short, plump figure of the
Devonshire rector. The sudden blaze of light seemed for an instant to
dazzle and bewilder the new-comer; but quickly recognising the baronet,
he stepped briskly forward, and ceremoniously accosted him. The recog-
nition was mutual. Sir Edward started to his feet with an exclamation of
surprise and alarm, and Miss Fanshawe remarked that a deathly pallor
instantly overspread his previously flushed and animated countenance.
'Do not unnecessarily alarm yourself, Sir Edward,' began the flurried
clergyman; and then plunging at once into his preparatory exordium, he
said: 'Death, my dear sir, has his sad likings, and '-
'Death!-death!' echoed the baronet with a scared look, and his chest
heaving convulsively—' death! who speaks here of death?'
Speak to Dr Bailey,' whispered Caroline Fanshawe to a young lady by
her side. The physician was talking vehement politics with Lord Fan-
shawe at the further end of the apartment, and had not observed the
clergyman's entrance. 'For Heaven's sake, Sir Edward,' she added, taking
his hand,' strive to be calm!'
'Death !—death!' repeated the baronet, his wild, glaring eyes still fixed
on the countenance of the intruder. 'What has he to say of death?'
'Death, I was saying,' resumed the clergyman,' has his strange caprices,
and does not always wait till our blood is cold, and our hair gray, before
he strikes. Your amiable sister Marion'
A spasmodic scream burst from Sir Edward Temple, and his right hand
at the same moment grasped his left side with convulsive force.
'Your sister Marion, I deeply grieve to say, expired suddenly yesterday
afternoon.'
The sudden shriek, terminated by a convulsive sob, was feebly repeated;
the stricken man half turned towards his beloved Caroline; his nerveless
hands strove to grasp hers, but missed their hold; a slight tremor shook
his frame, and he fell back in the arms of Dr Bailey-stone-dead!
'You need not remain,' said Sigismund Temple, who had hurried into
the apartment, addressing the terrified and bewildered clergyman, ‘I will
see you in the morning.' The reverend gentleman gladly complied with
the intimation; and early the next day set off on his return to Devonshire,
after a brief business interview with Sigismund Temple, much discomposed
by the unhappy result of his well-intended mission.
About a month subsequent to the baronet's decease, Sir Sigismund
Temple's dressing-room bell rang for the third or fourth time with great
violence. He had just returned from Bath, and appeared to be in a state
of great and pleasurable excitement. 'Is Robson returned yet he began,
23
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
as the door opened. 'Oh, there you are at last! And pray, sir,' continued
the young baronet, drawing himself haughtily up to his full height, and
beating down with his confident, contemptuous stare, the at first insolent
look of the groom, 'how dare you absent yourself from my service without
leave?'
'Without leave! You forget, Sir Sigismund Temple - rejoined the
man, with returning confidence.
'I forget nothing,' interrupted the baronet, and am blind to nothing.
'Hark'ye, rascal! you believed me to be in your power, and to a certain
extent I was, and you might perhaps have made your own terms. Your
day is, however, past; and without the slightest apprehension of anything
you could do or say, I might this instant order you to be turned into the
street, without a character, to beg, steal, or starve, as your fancy dictated.
Look here,' added Sir Sigismund, taking a newspaper from his pocket, and
pointing to a particular paragraph. 'Do you see that?'
The man's countenance fell, and he stammered out some apologetic sen-
tences. 'Leave the room,' was the curt answer. 'Yet stay: you may
yet deserve my favour. I am still unwilling, for certain reasons of my own,
that my deceased brother's degrading though abortive alliance should be
published to the world. You may, therefore, retain your situation, upon
the precedent conditions of silence and discretion, although anything you
could say would, as you well know, be, as matters have fortunately turned
out, of no importance. Now go, and send Edwards to me.'
On the third day after this scene occurred, John Whiston had set
out early in the morning on horseback, to attend a sale of farming-stock at
some considerable distance from his home. The weather was warm, the
ride fatiguing, and on his return he made a halt at Plymouth to refresh
himself with a glass or two of brandy and water, and talk over the news;
for Master Whiston was a warm politician, and regularly took in 'Bell's
Messenger,' which he generally contrived to get through during the week
from title to imprint. Corn-law-repeal politics were just then in the
ascendant; and the interesting subject induced Mr Whiston to prolong
his stay considerably beyond his usual hour. He had exhibited no sign of
departure, when the stout landlady of the Nag's Head informed him that
William Carter demanded speech of him. Carter, by the way, was not the
name of the man, but of his vocation-a custom in those parts. Honest
John hastened out to inquire the motive of so unusual a summons; for
Susan, satisfied with domestic supremacy, had always scrupulously
abstained from interfering with or disturbing her husband's hours of social
enjoyment.
Be anything the matter, William?' he anxiously inquired.
'I doant rightly know,' was William's reply; 'but missus have been in
a terrible flustration from soon after you went this morning.'
'Baby beant come-but no, that wont be this month or so.
is well?'
The missus
'Not particular so in temper. We've all, men and maids, had a terrible
hurrying time of it since the postman called; so we've set it down, 'spe-
cially as butter is well up in the market jest now-to some crossish news
brought in a letter.'
24
SIGISMUND TEMPLE.
Master Whiston was soon mounted, and gallopping sharply homewards,
followed by William Carter. On his arrival at Vale Farm, a few words
from his wife, who appeared much excited-greatly to the alarm of her
mother, who had not ceased to insist during the day upon the primary duty
of looking to one's own health and welfare before other people's-explained
everything. The letter was from Mary Crawford. Lucy was still very ill,
she feared dying, and circumstances, which she would hereafter explain,
had determined them to return to Vale Farm at once, and Mary Crawford
hoped that Susan's husband would come to them immediately.
(
'You must set off at once, John,' said Mrs Whiston.
Surely-surely; but where will ye put them, now mother is with us?'
Susan's father, a small farmer of the neighbourhood, had died not long
before, and the widow had of course taken up her abode at Vale Farm.
'Oh, Susan has settled all that!' said Mrs Durnford angrily. All the
first floor, bless you-and the large front bedroom-and the four-post bed-
stead, with the best chintz hangings-and fires blazing away enough to roast
an ox, as if there could be any damp in this weather. I suppose Susan
herself will have to put up with a back-room, or perhaps a garret, for aught
I know.'
'God bless thee, Susy!' said the honest yeoman as he kissed his wife.
'Thee be always right, and kind, and good, and sensible. And God will bless
her, mother, whether she lies down to rest in a garret or a palace.' Susan
had prepared everything for her husband's departure; and he was soon
gallopping back to Plymouth, from whence he started per mail.
Exactly a week elapsed before Master Whiston and party returned, so
slowly did Mrs Temple's weak state compel them to travel. Once, how-
ever, restored to her old apa true friends, and the familiar haunts and
genial air amidst which she passed her youth, a speedy change for the
better took place: little Arthur, too, improved marvellously in health and
appearance, and Mrs Temple's spirits gradually regained their old tone.
Brighter and brighter gleamed the lately sorrowful and downcast eyes; more
and more vivid grew the flush of health and hope upon the lately pallid
cheeks; and autumn had hardly passed away before the thin and wasted
form had recovered its flowing, graceful outline, and Lucy was herself
again!
'You never rightly told me, though you have often been going to do so,
Mary,' said Mrs Whiston, late one evening in the ensuing winter, as she
and her cousin were sitting up waiting for John Whiston, who had gone
to an agricultural dinner, 'about what that fellow, that James Smythe,
wanted you to do for all the money he gave you. Suppose you tell me
now: Lucy and mother are both asleep, so that nobody but I shall hear
you?'
'I am almost afraid to talk of it,' said Mary Crawford, turning quite
pale; and, perhaps, I may have wronged him--have misunderstood his
dark hints-and yet'-
'Why he did not surely wish you to' Mrs Whiston's tongue re-
fused to utter the terrible words her imagination suggested.
'I will only say this,' said Mary Crawford in a more composed tone than
before, that I was so terrified by his hints, and half sayings, and strange
looks, and constant gifts of money, that I discharged the servants; and the
25
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
next time he came to Bath on one of his flying visits-latterly he always
sent for me to meet him there-I told him-I had written a day or two
before to say the child was very ill-that Arthur was dead!
'Gracious Heaven!'
'You should have seen the look, Susan, which flashed out of his large dark
eyes. It was enough to blind one; and yet I thought there was remorse
and regret as well as triumph in it. Over and over again he made me
repeat the story; how, where, and at what hour the child died. He fully
believed it, and had it put in the Bath paper. God forgive me, if I wrong
him, but it is my firm belief that he believes to this day I made away with
the child, in return for his bribes! He made me a larger present than
ever,' continued Mary Crawford, 'which I freely accepted, believing, as I
did and do, that the money rightfully belonged to Lucy. He thinks she is
gone to live with a distant relative in Sussex; but he will not cast about
to do her any harm, now that he believes her son is gone. The furniture
of Holly Lodge was to be sold; and he told me the proceeds should be paid
over to me, for Mrs Arthur Smythe's use, whenever I chose to apply for it,
directing to him as usual. He also, I must say this, for him, said he was
anxious to provide handsomely for his brother's widow, and hoped that no
scruple would be felt in applying to him for any sums, no matter how
large, in reason of course he meant, which she may require.'
Why, what can be the meaning of it all, Mary?' said Mrs Whiston, who
had listened with pale affright.
'That is a question I have thought a good deal of lately,' replied Mary
Crawford. 'I would not, I am sure, willingly misjudge the man; but I do
think little Arthur is entitled to some large property in right of his father,
which that man is determined to keep him out of by any means, how-
ever desperate and wicked; and I think s ne inquiry ought to be made
without further delay.'
$
'Inquiry!' exclaimed Mrs Whiston, 'and so endanger the poor child's
life, and perhaps Lucy's, without probably doing any good whatever.'
'I will tell you, Susan, how I have been thinking we may set about it
with perfect security. You remember what Lucy told us her father said to
her about Lord Fanshawe's daughter, who, I see by the paper, is to be
shortly married to Sir Sigismund Temple, a great baronet ?'
'To be sure I do: what then ?'
'Well, why not forward that parcel of letters to her? She will perhaps
get her father, the lord, as Lucy is her first-cousin-just as nearly related
to her as you are to me-to employ a clever London lawyer in the business.
If he could only ferret out that Robson, something might be discovered.'
The more this purpose was debated, the more likely and feasible it
seemed; and by the time John Whiston reached home, it was agreed that
Lucy should be induced to forward the parcel as directed, with an explana-
tory letter from herself. Mrs Temple readily agreed, and the important
missive was despatched.
The reply was prompt and gracious. A letter arrived by the earliest
possible post from Lord Fanshawe, enclosing another from his daughter,
expressing the liveliest sympathy for their relative, and a good deal blaming
her for not having made herself known to them before. Both Lord Fan-
shawe and his daughter had been, it was very apparent, greatly moved by
26
SIGISMUND TEMPLE.
Lady Fanshawe and Mrs Gaston's letters, Caroline especially; and she
vehemently insisted that Lucy, Mrs Smythe, should immediately take up
her abode in Cavendish Square. Lord Fanshawe's solicitor was to have
immediate orders to prosecute a vigorous inquiry respecting the family and
property of her late husband; and it was announced, in conclusion, that his
lordship's butler would arrive at Vale Farm on the day following that of
the delivery of the letter, in order to escort Lucy and her son to London.
This was much more than the Whistons or Lucy herself either expected
or desired. They were as unwilling to part with her as she was to leave
them again. Still, refusal was out of the question, if only for Arthur's
sake; and Lucy with her son, and indispensable Mary Crawford, departed
amidst a shower of tears and blessings, on the day after the morrow, under
the charge of Lord Fanshawe's butler.
Lucy and her little one received the warmest welcome from her brilliant
cousin; Lord Fanshawe also was kind and patronising. Both father and
'daughter were evidently alike surprised and pleased by the remarkable
beauty of their newly-found relative. Caroline Fanshawe saw in a moment
that Lucy's natural elegance and grace required but little conventional
polish to render her not only fit to mix with, but to shine, a bright par-
ticular star, in the world of fashion. Masters were immediately engaged to
supply the deficiencies of her neglected education, and Miss Fanshawe pre-
dicted a brilliant future for her, irrespective of any fortune to which she or
her son might be entitled from those odious Smythes. That, however, was
a matter not to be neglected; and Mr Rushton, Lord Fanshawe's solicitor,
received inmediate instructions upon the subject.
The position of Sir Sigismund Temple had, in the meantime, become a
dazzling one. He had not onl succeeded to one of the richest and most
ancient baronetcies in England, but infinitely higher fortune, as he thought—
the beautiful, magnificent Caroline Fanshawe would, there was little doubt,
be his wife before many days were past! His passion for that lady
amounted almost to idolatry; and without her he felt that station, wealth,
honours, would be for him mere dross and rags, foully as he had ventured
for them. His anxious assiduities had long since been marked and unmis-
takable; but the requirements of decorum, and the usages of society, neces-
sitated that many months should elapse after Sir Edward Temple's death
before he could appear as an ostensible suitor for the hand of the lady once
destined to be that brother's wife. At length, just about three weeks pre-
vious to Lucy's arrival in Cavendish Square, Sir Sigismund had been urged
to a yet somewhat precipitate declaration by the pointed and well-received
attentions of a young and wealthy viscount. On the same day, and nearly
at the same hour, a similar proposal reached Caroline Fanshawe from the
viscount; and there was some doubt and hesitation as to which should be
accepted. She gave interviews to both suitors, cold, somewhat formal
ones, in the presence of her father; and with the proud candour which dis-
tinguished her, promised each of them that she would seriously weigh and
consider all they had urged, and that Lord Fanshawe would communicate
her decision in a month from that time. From a hint afforded Sir Sigis-
mund by his lordship, in a subsequent private conversation, that gentleman
felt little doubt as to whom the choice would fall upon. To cheat the lazy-
27
CHIAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
footed time, as well as to somewhat calm the tumult of emotion by which
he was shaken, the young baronet passed the agitating interval in hurrying
from place to place, accompanied only by his servant Robson: He crossed
over to France; returned; was off to the Highlands; back again, and away
to Wales as if he thought rapidity of motion and change of scene would
hasten on the creeping hours.
Was this wild fleeing to and fro, it may be asked, caused solely by the
feverish restlessness, the morbid impatience, of a consuming passion? We
may be sure it was not that the beckoning shapes, the calling shadows,
which he vainly endeavoured to outstrip and banish from his sight by
frequent and rapid change of scene, were not forins of light and loveliness,
not the brilliant exhalations of a lover's fervid fancy. The wild force, the
burning intensity of his passion for Miss Fanshawe, but gave articulate
significance to the suggestions of an excited conscience-to the else con-
fused spectre - whisperings which menaced the bright Future with the
dark Past. If it were true that the Avenger of Blood walked the earth to
visit deeds unseen of men with retribution, would He permit him to clutch
the prize remorselessly played for, and for which he, Sigismund Temple,
would again play, on the same evil and desperate chance, a thousand times
over? How vulnerable he was!-how dark, fathomless, and terrible the
gulph which stretched beneath the lofty and dazzling pinnacle upon which
he trembled--ever shuddering with undefined apprehension lest the unseen
hand, which his morbid imagination pictured as extended over him with
menacing gestures, should suddenly hurl him into the black void! The
night vision only more distinctly shadowed forth the fearful day-phantasy!
Ever when about to clasp that form of unmatched beauty, it changed to
the stern likeness of one of his dead brother of Sir Edward oftenest, with
his pale solemnity of face and outstretch finger, ever pointing to the
splendid mausoleum of the Temples, where the dreamer always perceived
that another richly-decorated coffin had been placed since he last stood
there, but the inscription upon which he could not read. His union, then,
he mentally argued, with Miss Fanshawe could alone dissipate these fancies,
by proving them to be the mere idle coinage of an excited brain-phan-
tasms which, till that great hope were consummated, might have power
over him, but not one moment longer.
The seemingly interminable period of suspense and fear was at length all
but passed, and the day before it expired, Robson arrived at the mansion
in Cavendish Square, with a letter from Sir Sigismund, whom he had left at
Bath. The reply was an invitation to the baronet from Lord Fanshawe to
dine with him the next evening en famille, when he would be received as
his lordship's future son-in-law. Robson was to remain in London, but the
letter he had strict orders to forward by a special messenger to Bath, the
instant it reached his hands.
Mr Rushton, the solicitor, was in the library when Robson called, where
he had been for a considerable time engaged in listening to Mary Crawford's
account of Lucy's marriage, desertion, the death of her husband, and sub-
sequent strange and suspicious conduct of the deceased's brother, Mr James
Smythe. He was sitting alone, silently pondering the matter, when Lord
Fanshawe entered, and after a few minutes' conversation relative to the
'Smythe' affair, said: 'You will be wanted in a day or two, Rushton, to
28
SIGISMUND TEMPLE.
receive instructions relative to a marriage-settlement, of which you must
prepare a draft for counsel's approval. There will be no great difficulty,
as Sir Sigismund Temple gives me carte blanche to insert what sums and
conditions I please.'
'Sir Sigismund Temple! Then the lying jade Rumour has spoken truth
for once.'
'Yes: Robson has just now received an acceptance of the baronet's pro-
posals. Sir Sigismund is at Bath.'
'Robson!--Robson!' ejaculated the solicitor, with a sudden flush of his
pale face. What is he?"
'Sir Sigismund Temple's favourite groom. Why do you ask?'
'Oh nothing, nothing,' replied Mr Rushton, as carelessly as he could. 'I
thought I knew the name, that's all. When do you expect Sir Sigismund
will arrive in town?'
'He will dine here to-morrow evening at seven, and I expect will come
up two or three hours before by the express train."
Shortly afterwards Lord Fanshawe went away, and the solicitor, imme-
diately he was alone, took down a Baronetage from one of the shelves, and
eagerly turned over the leaves. Very odd coincidences,' he muttered,
after a few minutes' perusal of one of its pages; at all events, Mr Arthur
Temple died at the same time, and by the same accident as this reputed
Arthur Smythe. The woman's description, too, of the brother, remarkably
corresponds to- Then the groom Robson- This must be looked
to at once.'
Amongst the persons awaiting on the following day the arrival of the
express train at the Paddington station were Mary Crawford, closely muffled
up and veiled, and Mr Rushton. They kept back out of view as much as
possible; and the solicitor, uon the signal being made that the train was
at hand, whispered to his companion: Now mind and look sharp at the
passengers, and tell me if you see Mr James Smythe.'
That is he!' exclaimed Mary Crawford, with repressed anger, and
pointing to a fashionably-attired gentleman hastily alighting from one of
the carriages. That is Mr James Smythe!'
เ
'I thought so,' said the solicitor, 'from Robson's silence and confusion :
he will speak out now probably. That gentleman,' he added, 'whom you
call Smythe, calls himself Sir Sigismund Temple.'
A carriage was in waiting for the baronet, in which he immediately drove
off homewards; and the cab which conveyed Mr Rushton and Mary Craw-
ford was a few minutes afterwards tearing along in the direction of Caven-
dish Square.
The triumphant lover trod on air as he ascended to his dressing-room to
prepare for his visit to Lord Fanshawe. There was an admirable portrait
of the beautiful Caroline in the apartment, which had been painted for his
brother Sir Edward. Sir Sigismund's dark eyes lightened with rapture as
he gazed upon it. 'Mine--minc-mine-beyond the power of chance!'
he exclaimed. 'Oh, what are kings or emperors to me!' and his stormy
joy laughed out in a wild burst of mirth. It was, however, necessary to
calm himself somewhat, and by a strong effort he did so. 'Send Robson
to me,' he said to a valet who answered his bell: 'I wish to speak with
him.'
29
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'He was sent for by some one about two o'clock to-day, and has not
since returned,' replied the man.
That is strange behaviour. But come; it is time that I should dress.'
His toilet was accomplished; but it was yet much too early to proceed
to Cavendish Square. He intended arriving there half an hour before the
time appointed for dinner, in the assured expectation of then finding Miss
Fanshawe alone in the drawing-room. It was still only half-past five,
albeit evening had long closed in. Restless, perturbed, excited as he was,
immobility, quiet, inaction was impossible. A fancy seized him; he would
while away the lingering interval by a gallop. Saddle-horses for himself and
groom were immediately ordered round: he mounted, and in his flurry and
excitation of spirit dashed with fierce speed towards Oxford Street, and
then on in the direction of Bayswater. He rode on for between four and
five miles, turned, came back at the same pace, and arrived, flushed with
the exercise, in Cavendish Square.
There were lights in the drawing-room, and he discerned a female figure
there, and only one. He eagerly alighted, threw the bridle to his groom,
but without pausing to give him any order to stay or return home, and the
next minute was bounding up the stairs, his pulse throbbing, and his eyes
on fire with excess of emotion.
The lady he had indistinctly discerned through the muslin curtains of
the drawing-room was bending over some object hidden by her figure,
which he could alone see, her head, from the stooping attitude, being in-
visible to him. The thick carpets prevented his steps from being heard;
and he, nothing doubting that Caroline Fanshawe was before him, rushed
forwards, and threw himself at her feet, exclaiming, in the broken, vehe-
ment tones of passion, 'Caroline-beloved-adored!'
A cry of alarm escaped the lady as she turned, and disclosed to the
thunder-stricken man at her feet the well-remembered features of Mrs
Temple of his dead brother's wife! And there, too, he recognised in-
stinctively, was her son, whom he had believed dead—hers and his brother's
son, over whom she had been leaning.
A fierce, irrepressible cry burst from him as he sprang up, white with
terror, and staggered back from before the appalling vision by which he
was so suddenly confronted. 'Merciful God! Speak-when-for what
purpose-how-why is this?' he gasped with wild incoherence.
A door at the further side of the spacious apartment was thrown sharply
open, and Lord Fanshawe and his daughter hurried in, followed by Dr
Bailey, Mr Rushton, and Mary Crawford. Robson, too, was there, but he
remained in the doorway, as if uncertain whether or not he was expected
to follow. The completeness of his ruin flashed at the sight instantly upon
Sigismund Temple: he comprehended everything; and although a tempest
was sounding in his ears, he could discern through all the still small voice
proclaiming that judgment, fatal and irreversible, had fallen upon him.
His fiery look became almost immediately rivetted upon the countenance
of Miss Fanshawe. He there read painful emotion-regret-compassion,
but also disdain-resolve. 'Miss Fanshawe,' he cried with a choking voice,
as he sprang forward and caught her dress, for she had turned to leave the
apartment-' Caroline-hear me but one word-but one!'
The lady turned half round, looked fixedly at him for a moment with a
30
SIGISMUND TEMPLE.
mingled expression of sorrow and contempt, then gently but firmly disen-
gaged her robe, and with a sad but peremptory gesture of farewell, passed
on.
'My note, which must have been delivered in Grosvenor Square nearly
an hour ago, should have prevented this unpleasant scene. I little expected
to see you here, Mr Temple, after its perusal,' said Lord Fanshawe, in his
coldest, haughtiest tones.
'It is also right,' said Dr Bailey, 'I should inform Mr Temple, that, in
addition to what his lordship has discovered relative to this lady and her
child, I have thought it my duty, under present circumstances, to acquaint
him with a fact which sometime ago came to my knowledge relative to Sir
Edward Temple's death. My informant was the Rev. Mr Benton.
Temple will not be at a loss to understand my meaning.'
Mr
Sigismund Temple replied not to these taunts by word, or look, or
gesture. His eyes remained fixed upon the door through which Caroline
Fanshawe had passed, as if expecting her return. Presently a new and
frightful expression passed over his face; he seized his hat, which had
fallen on the floor, and staggered out of the apartment. Arrived at the
head of the stairs, he turned round, steadied himself by the balustrade,
hurled a burst of passionate defiance and invective at Lord Fanshawe and
the physician, and then sprang with the speed and fury of a maniac down
the stairs. His horse was still at the door; he vaulted into the saddle,
struck the high-blooded animal repeatedly with a whip he snatched from the
groom, and was carried off at a fearful pace. The terrified horse had got
the bit between his teeth, and was unmanageable; but this the unfortunate
rider neither knew nor recked of. The universe seemed crashing, whirling
round him as he dashed madly by the zig-zag lines of light, and along the
roaring streets, followed by the shoutings and execrations of the people
whose lives he was endangering. Just as he neared the entrance of Duke
Street, Grosvenor Square, a loaded van came sharply out of it into Oxford
Street. He could not if he would have checked the maddened horse in
time to avoid a collision. He did not probably attempt it, and the animal's
head came with the force of a cannon-shot against the hindwheel of the
van. Mr Temple was hurled with tremendous force upon the foot-pave-
ment, and by the time his groom came up, it had been discovered that he
must have died instantaneously. The horse was also killed.
The play is over-the story told; but it may be necessary, as the curtain
slowly descends, to subjoin a few particulars relative to the surviving
actors in this perhaps too-easily-recognised domestic drama.
An attempt was made by a Mr Camelford, who, had neither of the
Temples left male issue, would have been heir-at-law to the title and
estates, to dispute the validity of Mrs Temple's marriage, or, more cor-
rectly speaking, that Arthur Smythe was really Arthur Temple. This,
however, Robson's evidence, supported by several letters addressed to
Arthur Temple by his brother Sigismund relative to his ill-advised union
with Lucy Gaston, found amongst Sigismund Temple's private papers-
though why preserved it seems difficult to say-established beyond doubt
or question, and the suit was ultimately abandoned.
Sir Arthur Temple is now in his sixth year, and continues in the enjoy-
31
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
ment of excellent health, watched over with prideful tenderness by his
mother, the still very beautiful Lucy of our story. Although it is said
frequently tempted, and no wonder, to enter again into the bonds of holy
matrimony, she has hitherto resolutely declined every offer of the sort,
however dazzling. In truth, Mrs Temple does not appear to be greatly ena-
moured of state and splendour, for she never seems so thoroughly delighted
and happy as when she can escape from Grosvenor Square or Temple House,
with her son, and, of course, Mary Crawford, to Vale Farm, and be again
the Lucy of her young days, with her trusty and now rejoicing friends, the
Whistons, to every one of whose children, and they are already rather
numerous, she is the bountiful and loving godmother.
Lord Fanshawe still survives, and in excellent preservation, much to the
chagrin of the heir-expectant, whose locks are already gray with age and
the hope still deferred of title and estate. His lordship's daughter, the
brilliant Caroline, married, six months after Sigismund Temple's death,
the viscount she had refused a few days previous to that event. She is
now the star and cynosure of the British court; and adepts in the histories
and mysteries of the peerage will, in all probability, find little difficulty
in divining the title of the beautiful viscountess-a piece of information
which we, for various reasons, decline recording here.
ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.
ONE
NE of the most striking phenomena presented to the mind of the
student of Nature, is the principle of unity which pervades all her
multiplied workings and productions. To refer to the fact that the past
is linked to the present, and the present to the future that correlations
exist between every department of the organic and inorganic worlds-that
the connections become clearer the more they are investigated-is to call
The sym-
attention to what are now received as philosophical truisms.
pathies which filiate through geology to botany, chemistry, magnetism,
zoology, and astronomy, are no less admirable when contemplated in their
relation to animated creation d in the universal desire and ability for
communication in the latter, perhaps have their most remarkable
display. Naturalists tell us gnats and several minor members of
the insect race possess the po of making their sensations known to
their companions equally with laborious bee or sagacious elephant.
Indeed, the endowing with the faculty to communicate appears to be one
of the essential aims of nature. And if so, with what is often termed
the subordinate or instinctive part of creation, how much more so in
regard to man, who claims supremacy over all! Besides the gift of
speech, man, by reason of his intelligence, finds means to convey his
thoughts to distant places with an energy and comprehensiveness unknown
to the quadrupedal tribes, and thus completes the unity which, starting
from the inorganic molecule, is finally exemplified in him.
In the world's younger days, and for long afterwards, smoke and
flame were the most obvious and available means for communicating
signals to long distances. From the beacon-fires of the Scriptural ages
to that which flashed from 'Ida's height,' and the stirring night when
'From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay,
The time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day!'
and also to the period of threatened invasion within the memory of many
now living, fire has been made a messenger of news. From the lighthouse
top it warns and guides the mariner not less surely than the stars of heaven
reveal his position on the trackless waters.
Of old, watchmen stood on the hills and cried aloud; trumpeters blew a
blast from hill to hill; or legionaries, with elevated flags or spears, sent

No. 71.
1
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
tidings afar. 'Swift as a post' was not an inappropriate simile even in
primeval days: Egypt's learned priesthood knew how to avail themselves
of mysterious vocal tubes; the monarchs of Mexico and Peru maintained
a corps of runners, who bore despatches to all parts of their empire with
singular celerity. Another generation conveyed their wishes in the flashes
of mirrors, the pealing of bells, the thunder of cannon, or flight of pigeons.
Then came the mail-coach, with its fleet officials and fleeter steeds; to be
in turn superseded by that triumph of steam, the locomotive and express train,
speeding across a county in shorter time than the mail would have traversed
a parish, seeming, in its career of seventy miles an hour, to have reached
the limit of human possibility. But a new invention came to light, before
which the wildest dreams of romance-the flying horse that carried off
Prince Firouz, or Prince Houssain's travelling carpet-seem to become
sober realities; and all former methods for the transmission of intelligence
have been for ever excelled by the Electric Telegraph. With this man has
achieved an entire and absolute unity.
The establishment of a telegraph necessarily involves a certain degree
of civilisation—there must be fixed habits and steady policy; and we
cannot better appreciate the advantages of the present system than by
contrasting it with the past. To do this we need not go back to the time
of the Greeks or Romans; our purpose will be effectually answered by
a retrospect to the last two centuries. One science or art helps on another:
to distinguish objects afar off there must be the possibility of seeing
at a distance; and thus the study of optics and the invention of
telescopes and reflectors would natur suggest new applications of

utility.
(
The Marquis of Worcester alludes telegraph in his famous Cen-
tury of Inventions.' After him we ma lace Robert Hooke, one of the
most notable philosophers of his age, who, in 1684, presented a paper to
the Royal Society, 'Shewing a way how to communicate one's mind at
great distances.' He had conceived the project long before; but the then
recent siege of Vienna by the Turks had caused him to take up again
with his plan for discoursing at a distance, not by sound, but by sight.'
The principle involved the use of telescopes, but it was less simple and
ingenious than that which afterwards came into use.
Guillaume Amontons, a Frenchman, appears to have been the first to
render a telegraph available for practical purposes about 1690, by' a means
which,' as recorded by Fontenelle, 'he invented to make known all that
was wished to a very great distance-for example, from Paris to Rome-
in a very short time, three or four hours, and even without the news becom-
ing known in all the intervening space. This proposition, so paradoxical
and chimerical in appearance, was executed over a small extent of country,
once in presence of Monseigneur, and afterwards before Madame. The
secret consisted in placing in several consecutive stations persons who, by
means of telescopes, having perceived certain signals at the preceding
station, transmitted them to the next, and so on in succession, and these
different signals were so many letters of our alphabet, of which the key
was known only at Paris and Rome. The greatest reach of the telescopes
determined the distance of the stations, of which the number was to be the
2
ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.
fewest possible; and as the second station made signals to the third as fast
as they were seen at the first, the news was carried from Paris to Rome
in almost as little time as it took to form the signals at Paris.' For this
public exhibition of his apparatus, Amontons was indebted to the intrigues
of Mademoiselle Chouin, a princely favourite; but the dauphin was too
indolent to make an effort towards encouraging the invention, and it shared
the fate of many others—neglect.
Another projector, named Marcel, followed with no better fortune than
his predecessor. Wearied with attendance on a dilatory government, he
broke his machine and burnt his drawings, and died without revealing his
secret. Next, Linguet, who had been for some years a prisoner in the
Bastille, claimed the merit of the invention, and offered to construct a tele-
graph in exchange for his liberty. History is silent as to his offer being
accepted. In course of time a private attempt was made: Monsieur Dupuis
of Belleville constructed a telegraph, by means of which he communicated
with his friend Fortin, who lived a few leagues off at Bayeux. Meantime
Mr Edgeworth had published his plans in Ireland; Bergstrasser of Hanau
had investigated every branch of telegraphy: flame, smoke, reflection,
rockets, detonations, torches, bells, trumpets, flags, and mirrors; and atten-
tion being drawn to the subject in other quarters, shewed that the time for
realising a speedy-transmission project was at hand.
(
It came at last with its man. Claude Chappe, when a youth in a religious
establishment at Angers, had contrived an apparatus, a post, bearing a revolv-
ing beam, and circulatory arms, with which he conveyed signals to three of
his brothers who were at a school about half a league distant, and read them
off with a telescope. Keeping the idea in view for several years, he even-
tually laid his plans before the legislature in 1792, assuring them that the
speed of the correspondence would be such, that the legislative body would
be able to send their orders to the frontiers, and receive an answer back,
during the continuance of a single sitting.' After much vexatious delay,
the sum of 6000 francs was granted to enable him to make an experiment
near Paris; but his first apparatus was stolen by a party of men in masks,
and no sooner was it reconstructed, than the populace burnt the work to
the ground, stupidly imagining that certain direful machinations were in-
volved in the signals. A third trial was more successful; the authorities
approved the plan, and Chappe, with the title of Ingénieur Télégraphe, was
appointed to erect a telegraph from Paris to Lille. The French armies
were on foot, and speedy intelligence of their successes or reverses was most
desirable.
The line, with its apparatus, which admitted the formation of 192
different signals, was completed in two years. Its first announcement
was a victory. On the last day of November 1794, Carnot entered the
Assembly with the news, 'Condé is given up to the Republic! The
surrender took place this morning at six.' The Chamber voted that 'the
Army of the North had deserved well of the country,' and caused their
approval to be sent to head-quarters; and before the legislators broke up,
they were informed that their orders had been transmitted to Lille, and the
receipt acknowledged. Such an incident in the infancy of the new art was
hailed with enthusiastic acclamations.
This successful result led to the immediate formation of the other lines
3
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
which radiated from Paris to all the frontiers of the kingdom. The signals
were conveyed with great rapidity; and to avoid confusion, the movable
arms on the right of the central post were kept exclusively for government
messages, those on the left being employed in the service of the line. Thus
accidents or delays could be reported without detriment to the official de-
spatch. From Paris to Calais, 152 miles, there were thirty-three stations,
and a message could be sent from one extremity to the other in three
minutes; to Strasburg, 255 miles, and forty-four stations, in six and a half
minutes; to Toulon, 317 miles, and one hundred stations, in twenty minutes.
The longest lines were to Brest and Bayonne; the former 325 miles, the
latter 425; and altogether there were 519 stations, the annual cost of which
amounted to £40,000. It has happened, sometimes, when one part of the
country was obscured by fogs, that information has been conveyed to the
capital by the longer route; on one occasion news from Lyons travelled to
Paris by way of Bordeaux. The last of the brothers Chappe was in office
until 1830, when the July revolution deprived him of his post and its
emoluments.
The new mode of correspondence was speedily adopted by the other
governments of Europe, and numerous forms of apparatus were proposed
by enterprising inventors, some of them remarkable for the infinite multi-
plicity of their signals. The first line of telegraph established in England,
in 1796, extended from London to Dover, speedy transmission of Channel
news being then of prime importance. Portsmouth and the Admiralty
were afterwards brought into communication by a system of signals not
before adopted-a vertical post with two movable arms, that could be
placed in forty-eight different positions. The maintenance of this line,
seventy-two miles, involved a charge of more than £3000 yearly. It was
given up in 1847.
With all its advantages, however, the aërial telegraph, as it was called,
was a necessarily imperfect contrivance, being altogether useless at night,
and during fogs or gloomy and rainy weather. For three-fourths of the
year the Admiralty telegraph stood idle: 1600 hours in the twelvemonth
were reckoned as its available capability. A foul-weather telegraph was
conceived to be an impossibility, and the system of night-signals by means
of lamps and reflectors was far from perfect, notwithstanding the endea-
vours after improvement. One of the most satisfactory, by the Rev. J.
Bremner of Shetland, gained the gold medal of the Society of Arts in 1816.
Couriers, mail-coaches, and dispatch-boats, were still the grand resource.
We turn now to another part of the general subject under consideration,
not less interesting than important-that of electricity. Its history carries
us back to the age of conjecture and the dawn of philosophy. Six hundred
years before the birth of Christ, Thales had observed that amber, or elektron,
as the Greeks called it, exhibited, when rubbed, certain properties of attrac-
tion which it did not otherwise possess. Besides giving us the word in
which our term electricity originates, the early philosophers left behind
them several accounts of electrical phenomena. Aristotle, Theophrastus,
Pliny, Cæsar, and Plutarch, all mention them. Singular flames were
sometimes seen on the tops of the masts of ships in the Mediterranean, or
quivering on the heads of the wondering mariners; and on several occasions
Roman troops, while on a march, had observed similar luminous appearances
4
ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.
on the points of their lances. And coming down to a later period, we find
Eustathius, in his commentaries on Homer, relating the case of Walimer,
father of Theodoric the Goth, whose body gave out sparks; and of another
individual who, on drawing off his clothes, saw flames or scintillations leap
from his skin with a crackling noise. From Thales to the twelfth century
is a long period, yet scanty as is the record of facts, it is sufficient to shew
that electrical phenomena had not passed without notice; but, as far as we
know, no attempt was made to reason upon them, or define their nature.
The first approach towards such a result was the treatise 'De Magnete,'
published by Gilbert, an Englishman, at the end of the sixteenth century.
He classifies all the then known electric substances, and enters into some
discussion on the electricity of the air and the earth. The latter subject,
in particular, engaged the attention of philosophers whose names are yet
famous-Father Kircher, Descartes, Halley, and others. According to some
theorists, iron crept about or grew within the body of the earth, and its
transmission along deeply-buried tubes, provided by nature, was the cause
of magnetic variation at the surface. Within the next fifty years the
Prussian, Otto Guericke, produced the first electrical machine—a globe of
sulphur made to rotate by means of a winch, while the friction of a piece of
cloth held against it excited the electrical influence. He discovered one or
two of the principles of the science, particularly that of the electric fluid
passing from one body to another without actual contact, but missed the
deduction of consequences from a fact since recognised as essential.
The eighteenth century came, and opened the most famous page in the
history of electricity. For Guericke's ball of sulphur, Hauksbee substi-
tuted a globe of glass, while other experimentalists used straight glass tubes
rubbed with the hand. Stephen Gray found that all substances might be
classified as electrics and non-electrics; and, by means of packthreads more
than a hundred feet in length, was the first to prove that the electric
impulse could be transmitted to a considerable distance. In company with
his friend Wheeler, he discovered also the insulating properties of glass,
silk, hair, and resin, besides some other bodies. In France, Dufaye and
Nollet were labouring diligently at the same pursuit. By wetting a cord,
they observed that Gray's experiment could be greatly extended. They sent
a current through thirteen hundred feet; and following up the reasoning of
their English contemporary, 'Dufaye suspended his own person by silk
lines, and being electrified, the Abbé Nollet, who assisted him in these
experiments, presented his hand to his body, when immediately a spark of
fire issued from the person of the one philosopher and entered the body of
the other. Although such a result had been predicted as a consequence of
the arrangement, the astonishment was not the less great at its occurrence.
Nollet states, that he can never forget the surprise of both Dufaye and him-
self when they witnessed the first explosion from the body of the former.'
To Dufaye belongs the merit of discovering the two kinds of electricit
which he named vitreous and resinous, or, according to the present t
nology, positive and negative. To call them two different manifesta
one and the same grand natural agency, would perhaps be a bet
pretation of the phenomena. Germany next added a few
growing science. A Scottish monk at Erfurt, by adopting
gave to the electrical machine almost its present form, and

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
were produced. In 1746, the three philosophers of Leyden produced the
jar which still in name perpetuates the place of its discovery. The power
of the shock, probably owing to its novelty, appears at that time to have
been greatly exaggerated. Muschenbroek, writing an account of the experi-
ments to Réaumur, states that he felt himself struck in his arms, shoulders,
and breast, so that he lost his breath, and was two days before he recovered
from the effects of the blow and the terror;' and adds, that 'he would not
take a second shock for the whole kingdom of France.'
But leaving particulars, the investigations which most claim our atten-
tion are those which relate to the transmission of electricity to long distances.
With lengths of wire held by human hands, Nollet formed a chain more
than 5000 feet long, and found that the passage of the shock through the
whole number of individuals was instantaneous. The same fact was still
more satisfactorily demonstrated in England by Dr Watson, an eminent
Fellow of the Royal Society. He carried a wire across the Thames at
Westminster Bridge, one end being in contact with a charged jar, the other
held by a person on the opposite shore. A second individual was placed
in communication with the jar, and on a given signal the two dipped into
the river an iron rod which they held in their hands, on which the shock
travelled from one side of the stream to the other by means of the wire,
and came back through the water to complete the circuit. This was an
important discovery, inasmuch as it involved the principle on which depended
all subsequent experiments on transmission to a distance. Watson repeated
his experiments on several occasions, the last time near Shooter's Hill, with
two miles of wire; and the now familiar fact that observers, however far
apart, feel the shock at the same instant, then excited a degree of astonish-
ment bordering on incredulity. Franklin's famous kite-experiment, which
proved the identity of lightning and electricity, may be regarded as the
climax of electrical discovery in the past century. No sooner had the
general nature of the new and startling phenomena become known, than
the idea immediately sprang up of employing the mysterious agency in the
conveyance of signals. Maunoir relates, that in 1773 Odier wrote to a lady
of his acquaintance--I shall amuse you, perhaps, in telling you that I have
in my head certain experiments by which to enter into conversation with
the emperor of Mogol or of China, the English, the French, or any other
people of Europe, in a way that without inconveniencing yourself, you may
intercommunicate all that you wish, at a distance of four or five thousand
leagues in less than half an hour! Will that suffice you for glory? There
is nothing more real. Whatever be the course of those experiments, they
must necessarily lead to some grand discovery; but I have not the courage
to undertake them this winter. What gave me the idea was a word which
I heard spoken casually the other day at Sir John Pringle's table, where I
had the pleasure of dining with Franklin, Priestley, and other great
niuses.'
short time previously, according to Maunoir, who adds that Odier was
voting much attention to electricity, the latter wrote to the same
it not astonishing that the movement of a morsel of straw,
a piece of amber, should have suggested to Franklin the
the lightning-conductor? Franklin was the first to discover
isoning the electric fluid in a bottle.'

ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.
Other minds were also occupied with the subject: in 1774 Lesage, a
Frenchman at Geneva, published a plan for an electric telegraph, which he
submitted to Frederick of Prussia, conceiving that monarch best capable
of realising it. He proposed to arrange twenty-four metal wires in some
insulating substance, each connected with an electrometer, from which a
pith ball was suspended. On exciting the wires by means of an electrifying
machine, the movements of the twenty-four balls represented the letters of
the alphabet, as might have been agreed on. The project, though inge-
nious, was never carried into execution, and would have failed at great
distances, owing to an essential defect to be presently noticed.
Arthur Young, in his 'Travels in France,' gives us an account of a some-
what similar contrivance, which affords further evidence of the interest felt
in the subject of electric communications. Under the date September 16,
1787, he writes :-'In the evening to Monsieur Lomond, a very ingenious
and inventive mechanic. In electricity he has made a remarkable dis-
covery: you write two or three words on a paper; he takes it with him
into a room, and turns a machine enclosed in a cylindrical case, at the top
of which is an electrometer, a small fine pith ball; a wire connects with a
similar cylinder and electrometer in a distant apartment; and his wife, by
remarking the corresponding motions of the ball, writes down the words
they indicate, from which it appears that he has formed an alphabet of
motions. As the length of the wire makes no difference in the effect, a
correspondence might be carried on at any distance: within and without a
besieged town, for instance; or for a purpose much more worthy, and a
thousand times more harmless-between two lovers prohibited or prevented
from any better connection. Whatever the use may be, the invention is
beautiful.'
A method proposed by Reiser in Germany, in 1794, exhibited illuminated
signals. Plates of glass partially covered with tinfoil were connected by
wires with a machine, and sparks of light became visible on the uncovered
parts of the glass when the electric current was passing. Cavallo, again,
în his treatise on electricity, published in 1795, suggests the explosion of a
Leyden jar as a means of arousing the attention of the distant operator. In
the following year Salva, a Spanish physician, who in defiance of the opposi-
tion of bigoted monks and popular ignorance, had earnestly promoted the
cause of vaccination-constructed an electric telegraph, and described it in
a memoir which he laid before the Academy of Sciences of Madrid. The
Infant Don Antonio was so much interested in the invention, that he caused
a telegraph to be erected, and turned it to practical use. Shortly after-
wards a more extensive attempt was made by Betancourt, who stretched
wires from Aranjuez to Madrid, a distance of forty-five miles, and conveyed
his signals in the discharge of jars. One after another, however, the
schemes failed in subordinating the element of electricity to their purposes;
the human mind had to be tasked to yet greater efforts, and the period of
their realisation was not far distant. Of all the projects for establishing a
telegraph with frictional electricity as its active principle, the most complete
was that published by Mr Francis Ronalds in 1823.
There is something eminently gratifying in the consideration of science
pursuing its even course undisturbed by political convulsions. While
England was losing her right to the American colonies in the wanton
7
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
1
exercise of might, and while the social clements were fermenting on the
continent, to break out in the agonies and horrors of the French Revolution,
philosophers were quietly penetrating the secrets of nature, and searching
for fuller and clearer knowledge. They had their reward.
The telegraphs here brought under notice failed, because they were
worked by statical electricity-that is, clectricity obtained by friction, or
from Leyden jars. This kind of electricity is remarkable for what is called
its tension, or tendency to fly off from its conductors. It is an agent not to
be depended on or held in control, and proves itself often capricious, from
various causes, some of them inappreciable: among the known, damp is
one of the most influential. Hence the realisation of electric telegraphs on
a large scale was essentially impracticable. Signals, it is true, might have
been transmitted within a building, but not for miles out of doors, in all
weathers. For the further development of telegraphy, we are indebted to
dynamic electricity, or electricity without tension; that is, without a ten-
dency to abandon the conductors along which it travels. Its phenomena,
when compared with those of statical electricity, are much more striking
and interesting.
In the whole history of accidental discovery, there is no event more
remarkable than that by which that other form of clectricity, known as
galvanism, was brought to light. To quote M. Arago: 'It may be proved
that this immortal discovery arose in the most immediate and direct manner
from a slight cold with which a Bolognese lady was attacked in 1790, for
which her physician prescribed the use of frog broth.'
In accordance with the medical advice, a number of frogs were prepared
for stewing, and by some chance a few of them were laid on a table near
an electrical machine, in the laboratory of Galvani, professor of anatomy at
Bologna, and husband of the lady in question. An assistant working in
the apartment had occasion to draw sparks from the machine, and each
time that he did so, Signora Galvani observed that the limbs of the dead
frogs moved as though alive. She called the professor's attention to the
fact; he repeated the experiment, and with the same result. But without
intending it, he went farther than this, and found that the limbs of frogs
could be excited as well by means of good conductors as by a machine.
The power was present, and required only an efficient cause to develop its
action. Galvani, it is said, having prepared the hinder halves of several
frogs for anatomical investigation, 'passed copper hooks through part of
the dorsal column which remained above the junction of the thighs, for the
convenience of hanging them up till they might be required for the purposes
of experiment. In this manner he happened to suspend several upon the
iron balcony in front of his laboratory, when, to his inexpressible astonish-
ment, the limbs were thrown into strong convulsions. On examining
further into the phenomenon, he ascertained that it could be produced at
pleasure by touching the surface of a nerve and of a muscle at the same
time with a metallic conductor; and arguing from the whole body of facts
that came within his experience, he propounded a theory of animal electri-
city which for some time dazzled the imaginations and stimulated the
enthusiasm of a host of partisans, according to whom the existence of a
nervous fluid' had been demonstrated by the experiments.
8
ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.
A new explanation was soon to appear. Volta, professor of natural
philosophy at Pavia, reasoning upon Sulzer's experiment, in which the
placing of a piece of lead and another of zinc, above and below the tongue,
produced a peculiar effect on bringing the edges of the two pieces of metal
into contact, and on the fact that a similar taste is perceived on applying
the tongue to a charged electrical conductor, came to the conclusion that
electricity was the cause of the phenomena witnessed by Galvani, and
considered by that philosopher as due to some property inherent in the
nerve or muscle. Volta had observed also that the excitement of the
organism was greater when touched with two different metals than when
only one was used, and from this result deduced the fact that the electricity
resided in the metals, not in the nerves, and that bringing them together
was the cause of the phenomenon. By pursuing the inquiry, further
conclusions were arrived at; and Fabroni, another Italian, in a memoir
which he communicated to the Florentine Academy, ascribed the electrical
effects to chemical action.
After continued application, Volta at length discovered the instrument
now known as the Voltaic pile. At first it was a circle of small cups
partially filled with salt water, and containing plates of zinc and silver
connected by wires. It was subsequently modified into its present form--a
pile of alternate disks of zinc and copper kept separate by the interposition
of disks of pasteboard moistened in an acid solution. He announced this
discovery in a letter to Sir Joseph Banks, president of the Royal Society,
in March 1800, and won for himself a reputation in the foremost ranks of
science. He had found the means of accumulating and rendering con-
tinuous the power which had baffled Galvani.
At Napoleon's invitation, Volta visited Paris in 1801, and explained and
illustrated his theory of contact of metals and electro-motive action to the
members of the Academy of Sciences. The First Consul was one of the
audience; and 'when the report of the committec on the subject was read,
he proposed that the rules of the Academy, which produced some delay in
conferring its honours, should be suspended, and the gold medal imme-
diately awarded to Volta, as a testimony of the gratitude of the philoso-
phers of France for his discovery. This proposition being carried by
acclamation, the hero of a hundred fields, who never did things by halves,
and who was filled with a prophetic enthusiasm as to the powers of the
pile, ordered two thousand crowns to be sent to Volta the same day from
the public treasury, to defray the expenses of his journey.'
The terms galvanism, or voltaic electricity, were applied to the newly-
developed principle in honour of the two discoverers. Familiarity with
their effects has scarcely divested them of their wonder-compelling cha-
racter. The tongue-experiment is a household sport with many persons;
and numbers besides know that an action is produced by leaning a strip of
zinc against a strip of copper in a tumbler of muriatic acid. This action
is, however, the most subtle, and as yet the most extraordinary of nature's
manifold agencies. With two sorts of metal and an acid the current imme-
diately begins to flow. In some of its effects it resembles electricity, yet
there are essential differences. Galvanism must have a continuous con-
ductor; electricity will leap over short distances from one to another.
The one is steady, the other uncertain. Iron can be magnetised by gal-
No. 71.
9
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
vanism, not by electricity.. Thus we appear to have two forces, alike yet
unlike; both mysterious, and peculiarly inciting to philosophical inves-
tigation.
The announcement of Volta's discovery drew the attention of many
inquiring minds to the subject all over Europe. In chemical researches
more particularly the powers of the pile were made largely available.
Ritter of Munich, in 1805, found that pieces of metal could be magnetised
by the voltaic current; and in 1807 the famous Danish physicist,
Oersted—whose recent decease is a great loss to science-made cer-
tain observations on the same phenomenon, which he diligently pursued
and reconsidered, until he arrived at his celebrated discovery in 1819.
It consisted in the capital fact that the needle of a compass, when
placed above or below a voltaic wire stretched from north to south, and
forming a complete circuit, deviated from its normal position, and shewed
a tendency to place itself at right angles with the current.
There was,
besides, the remarkable phenomenon, that when the needle was below the
wire, its south pole diverged to the west, if the current were passing from
south to north, and to the east when flowing in the reverse direction:
with the needle above the wire, directly opposite effects were produced.
This was a discovery scarcely less important than that of the voltaic
current, being, at the same time, the result of patient and long-continued
inductive research, and the immediate cause of further application. Oersted
first made it public in 1820, in a Latin memoir, in which he demonstrates
the laws of the phenomenon, and states that by the meeting of two electric
currents, a new development of power takes place, which attracts or repels
the north pole of the needle, according as it is positive or negative; that
the direction of this power is not in a right line, but a spiral—a view
remarkable for its sagacity, and which subsequent experience has affirmed.
Oersted's discovery excited an admiration and activity among the learned
not inferior to that which had greeted Volta and his pile. Among the
foremost to elucidate the subject and extend the inquiry, Ampère stands
prominent. In less than three months after the publication of the Danish
philosopher's researches, he laid a paper on electro-magnetism before the
Academy of Sciences at Paris, demonstrating the dynamical laws of the
science from experiment and mathematical calculation. He considers that
the battery calls into play two currents in the wire, moving in opposite
directions, and thereby producing magnetic action; and shews that similar
currents circulate about the poles of a magnet. The two currents exert a
dynamic action on each other, varying according to direction. 'Two
straight wires, along which currents are transmitted, will attract or repel
each other, according to the direction of the currents. Let a line be
imagined intersecting both wires at right angles. If both currents move
towards this perpendicular, or both from it, the wires will attract each
other; but if, while one of the currents moves towards this perpendicular,
the other moves from it, then they will repel each other.' In proof of
his statements, Ampère produced various contrivances, made chiefly of
wire, to illustrate the phenomena; among them were small helices, which
behaved as magnets while a current was passing through them. In the same
year, too, Arago found that on plunging the wires of a battery into steel
filings, the latter attached themselves to the wires, and remained adherent
1
10
ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.
as long as the circuit was complete, but fell off on the instant of breaking
contact. Here was another important step in advance: a wire could be
magnetised at pleasure. It led to the discovery by Mr Sturgeon, a few
years later, of magnets of almost inconceivable power, by placing a bar of
soft iron within a helix of copper wire, connected with a battery. As in
the case of the steel filings, it became a magnet, or ceased to be such,
every time that contact was made or broken. The straight bar was after-
wards bent in the form of a horse-shoe, and its attractive power so much
increased in consequence, that in some instances from two thousand to
three thousand pounds have been sustained. The new power partook
somewhat of the tremendous, and every fact that threw light upon it served
but to stimulate the ardour of inquiry. Faraday's researches have ren-
dered signal service to the progress of electro-magnetism, particularly his
discovery of induction, which he describes as 'the effect of the actions of
contiguous particles.' He tested it by an extensive series of experiments
on various solid and aëriform substances, under different pressure and
temperature. The late Professor Daniell states, as an explanation of the
theory, that 'as every electric current is accompanied by a corresponding
intensity of magnetic action at right angles to the current, good conductors
of electricity, when placed within the sphere of this action, should have a
current induced through them, or some sensible effect produced, equivalent
in force to such a current."
To enumerate the names only of those who have advanced the science of
electro-magnetism, apart from any mention of their labours, would fill a
long list. At the period more immediately under notice, Schweigger, De la
Rive, Moll, Cumming, Barlow, and Christie, were multiplying facts, or
deducing laws from those already known. Besides these, Ohm of Nurem-
berg rendered distinguished service, by establishing the mathematical laws
of electric currents, and demonstrating the values really attaching to the
terms 'quantity' and 'intensity;' at the same time giving formulæ on
which the various actions and effects might be calculated. Electricians,
wherever employed, have been highly indebted to his labours, which have
so greatly facilitated the application of the science.
Prior to Oersted's discovery of the deflection of the needle, several
attempts had been made to apply voltaic electricity to telegraphic pur-
poses. The first was by Soemmerring of Munich in 1811. But here we
may pause a moment to consider the singular account recorded in the
Spectator.' The author referred to by Addison is the Jesuit Famiano
Strada, who was master of rhetoric at Rome, and published his 'Prolu-
siones Academica' in 1617. This work contains the account in question,
the purport being, that correspondence might be carried on between two
individuals widely separated by means of a certain magnetic agency.
According to Strada, it was not a new idea; he ascribes it to Cardinal
Bembo, who died at Rome in 1547, and explains that it came to him by
hearsay from several eminent persons, through whom it could be traced
back to its reputed originator. Without attaching undue importance to
this statement, it seems nevertheless to carry us back to a date earlier than
any yet recorded for the inception of a project for rapid communication
to long distances.
Strada's version, as a recent translation shews, differs from the sum-
11
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
mary given in the 'Spectator.' He says in commencing: 'Magneti
genus est lapidis mirabile;' and after describing the properties of the load-
stone, proceeds: 'Now, then, if you wish your distant friend, to whom no
letter can come, to know anything, take a disk (or dial), then write round
the edge of it the letters of the alphabet, in the order in which children
learn them, and in the centre place horizontally a rod which has touched
the magnet, movable, so that it can touch whatever letter you wish.' A
similar instrument is to be made, which 'disk let the friend about to
depart take with him, and agree beforehand at what time, and on what
days he will examine whether the rod trembles, and what letter it points to
with its index. These matters being thus arranged, if you desire privately
to speak to the friend whom some shore of the earth holds far from
you, lay your hand on the globe, turn the movable iron-there you see
disposed along the margin all the letters which are required for words;
hither turn the indicator, and the letters, now this one, now that one,
touch with the style; and while you are turning the iron through them
again and again, you separately compose all the ideas in your mind.
Wonderful to relate, the far-distant friend sees the voluble iron tremble
without the touch of any person, and run now hither, now thither; con-
scious he bends over it, and marks the teaching of the rod, and follows,
reading here and there the letters which are put together into words; he
perceives what is needed, and learns it by the teaching of the iron. And
moreover, when he sees the rod stand still, he, in his turn, if he thinks
there is anything to be answered, in like manner, by touching the various
letters, writes it back to his friend.' Here Strada becomes impressed
with the importance of his subject, for he breaks out 'Oh may this
mode of writing prove useful! Safer and quicker thus would a letter
speed, nor have to encounter the snares of robbers or impediments of
retarding rivers. A prince might do the whole business (correspon-
dence) for himself with his own hands. We children of scribes, emerg-
ing from the inky flood, would then hang up our pens in votive offering
on the shores of the magnet.'
Without stopping to inquire whether in this Strada wished to perpetuate
the history of a lost art, or was merely giving play to his imagination, we
return to Soemmerring, who, in the year mentioned, proposed a scheme
for a voltaic telegraph to the Academy of Sciences at Munich. It compre-
hended as many wires as the letters of the German alphabet, and the
numerals 0 to 9, which terminated in thirty-five gold points in a vessel of
water. When the current passed from the pile, decomposition of the fluid
took place, and a bubble of oxygen or hydrogen appeared at the point or
letter to which attention was desired. Soemmerring appears to have been
aware that the motion of electricity was swifter than that of light; and in
his memoir he sets forth the advantages to be derived from such a form of
telegraph-its availability by night or by day, in fog or in cloud, and its
invisibility while en route. The contrivance, although ingenious, failed in
one particular there was nothing to arouse the attention of the corre-
spondent. A means for this purpose was subsequently added by Schweigger,
who shewed also that two wires would be more effectual than the greater
number, and that it would not be impossible to print the communications
from one end of the wire to the other-thus anticipating two of the
12
ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.
most remarkable peculiarities belonging to the present form of electric
telegraph.
The deflection of the needle-that proof of magnetic action at right
angles to the current'-appears to have been most studied as a medium
for signals, and became the subject of eager experiment. The current,
however, when passed along any considerable length of wire, was found
This defect was reme-
insufficient to produce a well-defined movement.
died by Schweigger, in an instrument which he invented, and called the
multiplier—a name expressive of its essential principle. It is astonishingly
sensitive, and has proved most valuable in the study of electro-dynamics.
The construction is based on the fact, that a current returning upon itself,
acts in all its parts, and causes a powerful deviation in a magnetic needle
placed within it. As described by Moigno: 'A conducting wire twisted
upon itself, and forming a hundred turns, will, when traversed by the same
current, produce an effect a hundred times greater than a wire with a single
turn; provided always that the electric fluid pass through the circumvolu-
tions of the wire without passing laterally from one contour to another.
This is a condition easy to fulfil. To make a multiplier, you take a silver
or copper wire of any length or size, closely enveloped in silk thread, and
wind it round a small frame, within which the needle is suspended on a
pivot, and leaving a few inches free at each extremity. These are called
the two wires of the multiplier, and when in work, the current enters by
one end and passes off at the other.' With this contrivance, of which more
remains to be said, a great difficulty was overcome.
The discovery of thermo-electricity by Seebeck of Berlin is so far
related to our subject as to claim a brief notice. He found that by
applying heat to one extremity, or to any part of pieces of metal, they
could be made to give out electric currents. One end of a short bar being
raised in temperature, a circulation of a current is produced through the
whole mass. Here is a phenomenon singularly illustrative of the mag-
netism of the earth, and corroborated by Faraday's recent discoveries.
The sun,' it is said, 'would thus become the exciting agent, whose uniform
tide of heat, sweeping the tropical zone, would be productive of an immense
westerly circumflowing electric flood, and thus convert the terrestrial ball
into a grand thermo-electric magnet.'
The new science was gradually assuming a definite combination: two
French savans, in the course of their investigations, found that a long
extent of the iron of a railway could be used to complete a circuit, and
bring back the reverse current. Becquerel had shewn, too, in carrying out
Volta's researches, that a pile might be constructed with a constant though
feeble current; and the finding of a stronger power became of importance.
The pile was replaced by batteries of various form, among which the con-
stant battery constructed by Professor Daniell supplied the long-sought
desideratum. The zinc was plunged into a solution of chloride of sodium,
and the copper into a solution of sulphate of copper. The products of
decomposition were disposed of by an ingenious contrivance, and loss of
power provided against, so that the action maintained its full force for
a considerable period. Batteries still more powerful have since been
invented: the liquids employed have been varied, and charcoal and pla-
tinum substituted for copper. One by Wheatstone required but a single
13
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
liquid, sulphate of copper, in which was plunged a porous vase filled with
a pasty amalgam of zinc, producing a constant action. Thus by degrees
the elements of telegraphing were prepared: there needed but the mind to
combine them.
This distinction is claimed by Professor Morse, an American, having, as
he says, invented the first electro-magnetic telegraph while on his passage
from Havre to New York in 1832. His contrivance included a pen at one
end of a wire, which, as contact was made or broken, produced an arbi-
trary alphabet of dots and strokes, which might represent definite charac-
ters. An experiment with a circuit of ten miles was tried before several
scientific men well known in the United States, and members of Congress;
and the result being favourable, a sum of money was voted by the govern-
ment for a trial on a larger scale. The account of these proceedings
appears not to have been published earlier than 1837; meantime Baron
Schilling of St Petersburg had constructed an electric telegraph, but died
before its complete development. By his method, movements were
imparted to five needles, out of which a code of signals was formed.
Gauss and Weber's experiments and deductions, published in 1834,
brought the possibility of electro-telegraphy still more within reach. To
these two philosophers the theory of the science is materially indebted.
The first-mentioned, the venerable professor of Göttingen, has been called
its father, such are the sagacity and insight which he has brought to bear
on so intricate a subject.
We come now to 1837, the year in which the projects of electro-tele-
graphy became available realities. Steinheil of Munich succeeded in
sending a current from one end to the other of a wire 36,000 feet in length,
the action of which caused two needles to vibrate from side to side, and
strike a bell at each movement. The beils were made to differ in tone, so
as to indicate distinctly right and left signals; at the same time, to combine
a phonic and a written alphabet, certain points tipped with ink impressed
dots upon a band of paper, and recorded the desired message. In the
course of his researches Steinheil proved a fact, the most interesting per-
haps in telegraphic science-that instead of using two wires, the earth
would serve to complete the circuit. This verification of a phenomenon
so extraordinary in its nature-one which is still to be explained-has been
attended with the most important results in the economy of telegraphs,
and will tend more to keep Steinheil's name in memory than his mechanical
apparatus, which was said to be too complicated and tedious in operation
for any one but a German.
It was in 1837 also, that Wheatstone, whose name is so intimately
associated with telegraphic progress in England, took out his first patent
for an electric telegraph. He had been led to the invention by his experi-
ments to determine the velocity of electricity in 1834, and proposed a
system of five conducting wires in connection with as many needles, which
indicated the letters of the alphabet at the rate of twenty a minute.
Attention was to be drawn to the signals by the stroke of a bell, forming
part of the apparatus.
It would be supposed that when the eye and the ear had been addressed,
telegraphic communication had achieved all that was required of it;
but Mr Vorsselman de Heer of Deventer invented an apparatus which
14/
ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.
imparted its signals through the sense of touch, and was based on the
principle that to produce an effect by this medium demands a much
smaller power of electricity than to deflect a needle. He employed
ten wires, and obtained forty-five different combinations, which were felt
by placing the finger-tops on the keys of the instrument, and attracted the
notice of the attendant by a wire attached to his person night and day:
even if in bed he was to be aroused by the shock. The cost would have
been about one-eighth of the usual expense of telegraphic apparatus at
that period. Much ingenuity was displayed in the whole arrangement,
which, under certain conditions, would be more useful and available than
any other.
In 1840 Wheatstone had made improvements which greatly simplified
his first methods; the number of wires was reduced to two, while the
power of the instrument was increased, for thirty letters could be indicated
in a minute. Besides this, the same inventor shewed that the passage of
a current afforded means for other spheres of observation. Travelling at a
speed that would circumvolate the globe seven or eight times in a second,
it might measure the rate of motion of projectiles, or regulate the move-
ment of all the clocks in a country; and by an additional contrivance the
place of fracture in a wire could be ascertained without the necessity of
examining its whole length. A telegraphic wire was to bring down from
a balloon, stationary at a considerable height, the readings of a set of
philosophical instruments; to record the state of fluctuations of a baro-
meter, thermometer, hygrometer, and magnetometer. The apparatus for a
series of experiments of this nature was actually prepared, and is still kept
in readiness for a fitting opportunity. This principle has since been
reduced to practice by Mr Smee :—
'Behind my house,' he observes, 'is a small hothouse; and I conceived
the idea of constructing a simple telegraph which should inform me of the
temperature. Now my plants would be injured if the heat fell below 50°
or rose above 90°, and I therefore wished to have some contrivance
which should inform me in my own study whether the temperature were
remaining or not within these limits. For this purpose a thermometer
was made for me, into which two platinum wires were inserted, which
came in contact respectively with the mercury at those two points. By
this contrivance, when the heat either fell below or rose above those
two points, the mercury and platinum were not in contact, and a voltaic
current could not be maintained. Telegraphic communications were laid
down from these two platinum wires to my dwelling-house; and a large
pair of zinc and copper plates were sunk into the ground for a battery.
By attaching the wires to a galvanometer we can always ask how the
temperature is; and by attaching an alarum, a gardener might be warned
of any accident at any time of the night.' Then in the same way that the
catch of the telegraph alarum is liberated, so might the stop of ponderous
machinery be released, regardless of distance, and effects of commensurate
importance be produced. With a proper combination of machinery, a lady,
seated in her drawing-room in London, might play Beethoven's symphonies
on the piano of her friend at Edinburgh; or a ringer in St Paul's belfry might
entertain the frequenters of the Parliament Square with a lively carillon
from the tower of old St Giles's. Still more remarkable is the applica-
15
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
tion of electro-magnetism as a motive agent. If, as appears from experi-
ments recently made in America, it can be made to move a ton weight of
iron, it is not easy to define the limits of its power.
The employment of the printing apparatus in 1843 gave to the electric
telegraph a wider and completer efficiency. This contrivance, when
attached to the telegraph machinery, and set in motion by wheelwork,
caused a ribbon of chemically-prepared paper to pass under a fine steel
point, which imprinted a series of arbitrary characters—dots and strokes—
simultaneously with their transmission from the other end of the telegraph,
however distant. Although seventy or eighty characters could be produced
in a minute, the whole process was tedious, as the message had first to
be punched in a strip of paper, and then written off after its delivery. In
America the preliminary punching was avoided by making the operator
open or close the galvanic circuit for longer or shorter intervals, by press-
ing on the spring-key of the telegraph: according to the duration, strokes
or dots were produced. Since that time improvements have been made
which print the message in the Roman character, and accelerate the rate
of transmission. The latter, there is reason to hope, will shortly become
still more rapid, should Mr Wheatstone succeed in his endeavour to com-
municate 180 distinct signals in a minute. Already Bakewell's copying
telegraph is a great advance upon that of the arbitrary signs. When
this means of correspondence is in operation,' as is stated, instead of
dropping a letter in the post-office box, and waiting days for an answer, we
may apply directly to the copying telegraph, have it copied at the distant
town in a minute or less, and receive a reply in our correspondent's hand-
writing almost as soon as the ink is dry with which it was penned. There
are various means, too, for preserving the secrecy of correspondence; the
most curious of which is, that the writing may be rendered nearly invisible
in all parts but the direction, until its delivery to the person for whom it
was designed.'
The success that has attended the progress of electro-telegraphy has, as
is usual in such cases, called up a host of claimants to the various inven-
tions or discoveries. More than sixty have been enumerated. We are,
however, too apt to overlook the fact, that discovery is rather the conse-
quence of tendencies of thought and progress on the part of numbers,
than of sudden individual conception. The elaboration of a great moral
or scientific truth, and its application to the wellbeing and advancement of
society, are results not less honourable to those who have assisted in pro-
ducing them than to the prime originator-if such there be remembering
always that but for the thought and travail of previous generations, our
own achievements would be slender indeed.
:
The first application of the electric telegraph was made on the Blackwall
Railway, from the station in the Minories to Brunswick Pier. On this line
the trains start every quarter of an hour, and the stopping places are so
numerous, that it is not easy to conceive how the service could have been
performed without such aid as the new mode of telegraphing was calcu-
lated to afford. The announcements of departures, of stoppages, of
the number of carriages attached to the wire rope, accidents, or other
causes of delay, were regularly transmitted, and the business thereby main-
16
ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.
tained in full vigour and discipline. After this, other railway companies
availed themselves of the same indispensable agency, and telegraphs
were gradually stretched along the London and North-Western, South-
Western, South-Eastern, and Eastern Counties lines. On the Great
Western the wires at first were placed inside a continuous tube, fixed a few
inches above the ground at one side of the way, but were afterwards
strained on posts, as on other railways—an arrangement, with slight excep-
tions, now prevalent throughout Britain. This line had not long been
complete when a striking instance occurred of the service which the tele-
graph might render to society. A man of respectable exterior took his
seat in a first-class carriage at the Slough station, eighteen miles from
London: he was a murderer hurrying away from the yet warm body of his
victim; the panting engine nears its destination; the eager criminal be-
lieves his escape certain; but the alarm has been given at the fatal spot,
and quick as lightning the telegraph transmits it to Paddington, with a
description of the suspected individual. In three minutes an answer
announces the arrival of the train, the identification of the fugitive, and
the certainty of his capture. There are few persons who will not remember
the impression made on the public mind by this victory of science and
justice over crime. Again: a communication transmitted from Paddington
immediately that the year 1845 commenced, was received at Slough in
1844, the clock at that place not having struck midnight. Though so short
a distance, the difference of longitude was sufficient to mark the incon-
ceivable velocity of the electro-magnetic current. Swift-footed Time was
henceforward to be beaten in the race. A still more remarkable instance
of the same nature occurred in America: a message flashed from Washing-
ton when the New Year was a quarter-hour old, was read off at New Orleans
with half an hour of the old year yet to run.
The wire commonly used for telegraphs is about one-sixth of an inch
diameter, covered with a thin coating of zinc, or, as it is called, ' galvan-
ised,' to prevent oxidation. Besides this, it is found that the deposit from
damp and dust and other causes affords a very efficient protection. Four
miles of such wire weigh a ton. The posts to which it is attached are
fixed at from fifty to sixty yards apart-thirty or thirty-two to the mile.
To insure perfect insulation the wires are not permitted to touch the posts,
otherwise the current would be diverted downwards through the wood,
particularly in wet weather. Insulators of various forms, 'rings, collars,
and double cones,' are made of brown stoneware, which of all substances
yet tried throws off the wet most readily. A stone-pitcher, after being
plunged into water, is seen to retain scarcely a trace of the immersion
beyond a few drops on the surface. Even with this material it is some-
times difficult, during dense fogs or heavy rains, to preserve the integrity of
the current.
Besides the supporting-posts, there are others called 'winding-posts,' four
to the mile, to which the wires are connected in alternate half-mile lengths,
and stretched by means of a screwing apparatus. It is on these posts that
the stone collars are used; a sufficient number being attached to each
side, the wire is passed through the eye and drawn tight, while to maintain
the communication uninterrupted, a loop of wire is affixed to the main
lengths at a short distance on either side of the post, round the front of
•
17
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
which it passes in a slight curve. To protect the insulators as much as
possible from wet, they are sheltered by a sloping wooden roof. The
pointed wire seen rising a few inches above the tops of the posts on some
lines is a lightning-conductor with its lower extremity buried in the earth.
A precaution not unnecessary, as thunder-storms produce singular effects
on the lines of telegraph.
One wire only will suffice for the transmission of correspondence between
any two places; the making use of a greater number, six, eight, or ten, as
may be seen on some railways, is merely for the sake of economy or con-
venience. It is found better in practice to keep one or two wires distinct
for the main termini or points of correspondence-say from London to
Derby--than to make them serve at the same time all the intermediate
stations. It is an arrangement which helps to simplify the working duties
of the office, and to facilitate them also, for with but one or two wires there
would be constantly-recurring delays and confusion, since while any two
places were intercommunicating all the others would have to wait. One of
the wires is sometimes employed exclusively for the alarums-that is, to
ring the bell at any station with which it may be desired to 'speak.'
Wherever connection is made with an intermediate office, the main wire is
cut, and a shackle inserted, and from either side of this a short wire is
stretched to the instrument; thus affording means for the passage of a cur-
rent up or down the line. The same contrivance would be adopted were
there but one wire to connect the two extremes of the line; and it is within
the bounds of possibility that some invention or adaptation will shew that
all the required services may be performed by a single conductor.
The wires, when in their place, are connected with the batteries and
telegraphic instruments at the respective stations; and here it becomes
necessary to consider the construction and mode of action of a battery.
The latter may be familiarly described as a wooden trough, from two to
three feet long and about six inches wide, divided crosswise into twenty-
four compartments or cells-more or fewer according to circumstances--by
partitions of slate. Two plates of metal, copper and zinc alternately, are
placed in each cell, in such an order that all the plates of one kind face
towards one end of the trough, and all of the other kind to the other end.
A small strip or ribbon of copper unites each pair at the centre of their
upper edges, forming, as it were, so many curved handles, by which they
can be lifted in and out. As soon, then, as the remaining vacant space in
each cell is filled with an acidulated fluid the action commences; the acid
begins to act on the zinc by dissolving it, the water contained in the solu̟-
tion is decomposed, and hydrogen thrown off from the surface of the
copper plates; while by a combination of oxygen, oxide of zinc is formed,
and this, dissolving in the acid-which is commonly sulphuric-sulphate of
zinc is produced. These effects are the consequence of the general law
established in relation to voltaic electricity, 'that by the simple contact of
dissimilar metallic bodies, a partial transfer of the electric fluid from one
to the other invariably takes place.' A positive current is generated at
the zinc, and passes to the copper through the intervening fluid in all the
series of cells; and continues to flow as long as contact is maintained
between the wires which depart from either end, whatever be their length.
There are various contrivances for increasing and rendering continuous the
18
ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.
power of batteries, and for checking deterioration in the metal or acid,
which we need not stay to consider, as they do not affect the main
question.
The cells of telegraph batteries, instead of a fluid, are filled with pure
sand—a material chemically inert, moistened by pouring in the dilute
sulphuric acid—an arrangement which admits of the apparatus being
removed from place to place without risk of spilling the contents, while
it diminishes waste of the plates without diminishing their power. The
zinc is most liable to dissolution, and would be rapidly exhausted were
it not for the protective influence discovered by Mr Sturgeon. Having
washed the plates clean, he dipped them into mercury, and the thin ad-
herent coat of the rarer metal is found to prevent effervescence of the
surface. Those which are known as amalgamated plates consequently last
longer than others left in their native state; and after a turn of service
they may be again washed and redipped. A well-prepared battery, with
occasional renewals of the acid, will maintain an effective working condition
during twelve or fifteen months. According to Mr C. V. Walker, to
whose work we are indebted for the substance of some of our details: The
telegraphs on the South-Eastern Railway, of 180 miles and forty-seven
stations, are worked with 2200 pairs of such plates; and the whole tele-
graph system in the United Kingdom employs about 20,000 pairs.'
6
In preparing the batteries, it is possible to determine mathematically
beforehand the amount of resistance, and the force necessary to overcome
it; and thus to proportion the number of plates to the distance to which
the wires extend. Large wires are better conductors than small ones.
Iron is a better conductor than copper, and copper than silver. The
several conditions may be calculated from the formulæ laid down by Ohm.
The wires of the battery meet those of the telegraph in what is called
the electro-magnetic machine, which externally resembles a cabinet clock,
having a square dial-plate inscribed with the letters of the alphabet, and
certain arbitrary characters, and two hands placed side by side near its
centre. These hands are the needles which are the tongues of the appa-
ratus; in their vibrations to the right and left, their starts and pauses,
the whole correspondence is conveyed. For each needle visible on the
face of the instrument there is a corresponding one inside, the two being
so placed that the north pole of the one and the south pole of the other
are in the same position, so as to neutralise their magnetism, or rather
the action of magnetism upon them. They are thus kept in a perpen-
dicular position, and obedient to the slightest impulse from the battery.
The inner needle is suspended within a coil or multiplier, which intensifies
the power of the current at this particular spot, and is deflected to either
side at pleasure by movement of the levers or handles which close or open
the electro-magnetic circuit.
The telegraph wires finish in two terminals, which form part of the
mechanism, and are in connection with the magnet and the multiplier.
The battery wires are brought to two other terminals, connected also with
the same apparatus; so that in order to reach the telegraph wires, the
current must first excite the magriet and the needles. This action takes
place only when work is to be done; at other times the circuit is left
open. Instantaneously, however, on making contact, the signals exhibited
19
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
at one end of the line are reproduced at the other; such is the astonishing
power of the magnet when rendered active. Messages of business or
friendship, congratulation or anxiety, may be sent from one end of the
kingdom to the other with the velocity of lightning; on which Arago
observes, 'the most extended and brilliant flashes of the first and second
order, those even which appear to develop their fires over the whole scope
of the visible horizon, are not equal in duration to the thousandth part of
a second.'
With all this speed, however, there is no actual motion, no absolute
passage of a fluid. It is only that, by a law of polarity, one molecule
affects the other next to it; and so on ad infinitum, and with almost inap-
preciable celerity, as long as the exciting cause remains. To demonstrate
the invisible by the visible, we may compare it to the great tidal wave
which comes up from the South Atlantic at the rate of a thousand miles
an hour. Such a mass with such rapidity, it is evident, would instantly
overwhelm and destroy the mightiest barriers, and continents would be
swept away as fragile mounds. But it is not the water that moves; the
original impulse or motion, travelling from particle to particle, alone pro-
duces the phenomenon. So with what is called a current of electricity
along a conducting body.
When a message is to be sent, the clerk whose duty it is to work the
instrument, places the written document before him; and after striking
the 'ringing key,' to call the attention of his correspondent, takes one of
the levers which project from the base of the machine in each hand, and
moving them from side to side produces corresponding and simultaneous
movements of the needles on his own and the distant dial-plate, and the
words are spelt off with great facility. Such is the quickness of appre-
hension acquired by practice, that the clerks can write the message as fast
as the needles deliver it; and it is said that some of the more expert
would be able to read it without error from a blank dial.
To expedite transmission, the communications are made as brief as
possible, by the elision of letters, and syllables, and sometimes of half a
word; besides which, many conventional signs are made use of. 'We
have,' says Mr Walker, 'a signal for the period or full stop, and for para-
graphs; and we have one for underlining words. And we have many
very valuable special signals. There is also a signal among the clerks for
laughing, and one for the whistle of astonishment.' Where secrecy is
desired, any two parties have only to agree to employ numerals as letters,
or to reverse or transpose the alphabet at pleasure, in order to form a code
of signals which none but themselves shall be able to interpret. The
messages transmitted on the Admiralty service are based on a private
system, of which the chiefs alone understand the import.
With respect to communications of greater length, the writer just quoted
observes: 'The rates at which newspaper dispatches are transmitted from
Dover to London, is a good illustration of the perfect state to which the
needle-telegraph has attained, and of the apt manipulation of the officers in
charge. The mail, which leaves Paris about mid-day, conveys to England
dispatches containing the latest news, which are intended to appear in the
whole impression of the morning paper, To this end it is necessary that a
copy be delivered to the editor i London about three o'clock in the morning.

20
ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.
The dispatches are given in charge to us at Dover soon after the arrival of
the boat, which of course depends on the wind and the weather. The
officer on duty at Dover, having first hastily glanced through the manu-
script, to see that all is clear to him and legible, calls 'London,' and com-
mences the transmission. The nature of these dispatches may be daily
seen by reference to the 'Times.' The miscellaneous character of the
intelligence therein contained, and the continual fresh names of persons
and places, make them a fair sample for illustrating the capabilities of the
electric telegraph as it now is. The clerk, who is all alone, placing the
paper before him in a good light, and seated at the instrument, delivers the
dispatch, letter by letter, and word by word, to his correspondent in Lon-
don; and although the eye is transferred rapidly from the manuscript copy
to the telegraph instrument, and both hands are occupied at the latter, he
very rarely has cause to pause in his progress, and as rarely also does he
commit an error. And, on account of the extremely limited time in which
the whole operation must be compressed, he is not able, like the printer, to
correct his copy.
'At London there are two clerks on duty-one to read the signals as they
come, and the other to write. They have previously arranged their books
and papers; and as soon as the signal for preparation is given, the writer
sits before his manifold book, and the reader gives him distinctly word for
word as it arrives; meanwhile a messenger has been despatched for a cab,
which now waits in readiness. When the dispatch is completed, the clerk
who has received it reads through the manuscript of the other, in order to
see that he has not misunderstood him in any word. The hours and
minutes of commencing and ending are noted; and the copy being signed, is
sent under official seal to its destination, the manifold fac simile being
retained as our office copy, to authenticate verbatim what we have delivered.'
'On 11th December 1849, to the great astonishment of the merchants
and bankers of Paris, three gentlemen appeared on 'Change in that city, at
half-past one P.M., having with them 150 copies of the 'Times,' printed and
published in London on the morning of the self-same day; and not only did
the 'Times' contain the Paris news up to noon of the previous day, but
actually the closing prices of the Paris Bourse of the previous evening.
'The electric telegraph contributed in no small degree towards the
accomplishment of this feat. At eight minutes past one A.M., the dispatch
of 321 words, and the Bourse prices, equal to 55 words, were delivered
into our charge at Dover, having been conveyed ither from Calais in the
ordinary mail-boat. In exactly thirty-two m Pites-namely, at forty
minutes past one—a correct copy of both theseist ocuments was handed in
by us to the Times Office in London. The disatch occupied us eighteen
minutes, being at the rate of 17 words per minute; the Bourse prices, two
minutes. In respect to the latter, the rate is high, because the larger por-
tion is anticipated, the mere fluctuations being/all that is new. There was
nothing extraordinary to us in this, quickly as it was accomplished; indeed,
on the following morning the writer in London was fairly beaten by the
telegraph—the words were read off faster than he could make a clean copy
of them.'
An idea of the amount of telegraphic correspondence on a railway may.
be formed from the fact, that on the South-Eastern line, 'during the three
21
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
months ending October 17, 1850, 4831 service messages were entered in the
Tonbridge books, and 5235 in those at Ashford.' And in six months of
the same year the profits arising from the telegraph were £776, being at
the rate of 5 per cent. per annum, and an increase of 11 per cent. over the
corresponding six months of 1849.
The proprietors of telegraphs inform us that the communications intrusted
to them for delivery comprise the whole catalogue of human wants and
wishes, business and pleasure, joy and sorrow, friendship and law. On
some occasions they have been asked to send a sum of money, or a small
parcel along the wire, by individuals, too, whose surprise shewed the sin-
cerity of their belief that the instrument could perform what was desired.
Games of chess have been played between parties in distant towns-South-
ampton and London-the moves being flashed from place to place alter-
nately, as fast as they were made. Then the security which the telegraph
lends to railway travelling is not the least of its merits: accident and
obstruction can at once be made known, and the remedy provided. 'On
New-Year's Day 1850, a catastrophe, which it is fearful to contemplate, was
averted by the aid of the telegraph. A collision had occurred to an empty
train at Gravesend; and the driver having leaped from his engine, the latter
started alone at full speed to London. Notice was immediately given by
telegraph to London and other stations; and while the line was kept clear,
an engine and other arrangements were prepared as a buttress to receive
the runaway. The superintendent of the railway also started down the
line on an engine; and on passing the runaway he reversed his engine, and
had it transferred at the next crossing to the up-line, so as to be in the
rear of the fugitive. He then started in chase, and on overtaking the other
he ran into it at speed, and the driver of his engine took possession of the
fugitive, and all danger was at an end. Twelve stations were passed in
safety; it went by Woolwich at fifteen miles an hour, and was within a
couple of miles of London before it was arrested. Had its approach been
unknown, the mere money-value of the damage it would have caused might
have equalled the cost of the whole line of telegraph.'
The promptitude with which detection has followed fraud by the agency
of the telegraph is sometimes rather amusing. Mr Smee relates an instance:
'One Friday night, at ten o'clock, the chief cashier of the bank received a
notice from Liverpool, by electric telegraph, to stop certain notes. The
next morning the descriptions were placed upon a card and given to the
proper officer, to watch that no person exchanged them for gold. Within
ten minutes they were sented at the counter by an apparent foreigner,
who pretended not to sp a word of English. A clerk in the office who
spoke German interrogat him, when he declared that he had received
them on the Exchange at Antwerp six weeks before. Upon reference to
the books, however, it appeared that the notes had only been issued from
the bank about fourteen days, and therefore he was at once detected as
the utterer of a falsehood. The terrible Forrester was sent for, who forth-
with locked him up, and the \notes were detained. A letter was at once
written to Liverpool, and the real owner of the notes came up to town on
Monday morning. He stated that he was about to sail for America, and
that whilst at an hotel he had exhibited the notes. The person in custody
advised him to stow the valuables in his portmanteau, as Liverpool was a
1

22
ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.
very dangerous place for a man to walk about with so much money in his
pocket. The owner of the property had no sooner left the house than his
adviser broke open the portmanteau and stole the property. The thief was
taken to the Mansion-House, and could not make any defence. The Sessions
were then at the Old Bailey. Though no one who attends that court can
doubt that impartial justice and leniency are administered to the prisoners,
yet there is no one who does not marvel at the truly railway-speed with
which the trials are conducted. By a little after ten the next morning-
such was the speed-not only was a true bill found, but the trial by petty-
jury was concluded, and the thief sentenced to expiate his offence by ten
years' exile from his native country.'
The Electric Telegraph Company, incorporated in 1846, whose central
establishment is in Lothbury, behind the Bank of England, hold a patent
right for a term, in part expired, of fourteen years; their charge for the
use of it is £20 per mile. The building is amply furnished with all
the requisites for telegraph service; and by means of wires laid in
tubes under the surface of the streets, is connected with all but one or
two of the metropolitan railway stations, the post-office, the head police
station in Scotland Yard, the Admiralty, the new Houses of Parliament,
Buckingham Palace, and the latter, by a further extension, are now
placed in communication with the Great Exhibition Building in Hyde
Park. Besides these, communications are complete with eighty different
places in the provinces, including the chief towns and outports. Electric
telegraphs, according to the parliamentary enactment, shall be open for
the sending and receiving of messages by all persons alike, without favour
or preference, subject to a prior right of use thereof for the service of Her
Majesty, and for the purposes of the company.' A proviso is also made
in favour of the secretary of state, who may, on extraordinary occasions,
take possession of all the telegraph stations, and hold them for a week, with
power to continue the occupation should the common-weal require it.
There have now,' so runs the company's official circular, 'been estab-
lished in Edinburgh, Manchester, Liverpool, Glasgow, Hull, and Newcastle,
Subscription News Rooms, for the accommodation of the mercantile and
professional interests, to which is transmitted by electric telegraph the
latest intelligence, including domestic and foreign news; shipping news;
the stock, share corn, and other markets; parliamentary intelligence;
London Gazette; state of the wind and weather from above forty places in
England; and the earliest possible notices of all important occurrences.'
The 'rate of charges for twenty words is-1d. per mile for the first 50
miles; d. for the second 50; and 1d. for any distance beyond 100 miles.'
The lowest charge made is half-a-crown. From London to York for
twenty words, the cost would be 9s. ; to Edinburgh, 13s. ; to Glasgow, 14s.;
and to other places in proportion. The number of miles of telegraph in
Great Britain at the present time is about 3000, which leaves about 4000
miles of railway unprovided for.
During the last session of parliament a second association was incor-
porated, to be known as the British Electric Telegraph Company, for the
purpose of telegraphic communication upon a more economical scale
throughout the country, and for tes, purchase and use of patents.' The
company's central office is at the Royal Exchange; they propose to con-
23
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
form to the American tariff of charges for the delivery of messages; to sell
licences; and establish lines to all the chief towns in the kingdom. One of
their projects is to connect Dublin with Belfast, and to cross the Channel
from the latter town to Scotland: when completed, the capitals of the three
kingdoms will be able to intercommunicate at any moment. And the
reduction of charge which may be anticipated from the competition will, it
is to be presumed, bring the telegraph more than at present within the
means of the general public.
The spread of electric telegraphs in France has been extremely slow:
for a long time the government refused to abandon their well-developed
system of aerial telegraphs; and when with much reluctance they were
induced to avail themselves of the infinitely superior agency of electro-
magnetism, they stipulated that the signals should still be produced by
small instruments, counterparts on a diminutive scale of the apparatus con-
trived by Chappe. There were, however, too many practical difficulties in
the way, and ultimately the absurd condition was withdrawn in favour of
machinery similar to that used in this country, the government reserving to
itself the exclusive use and control of the lines. In 1845 and two following
years, the telegraphs extending from Paris to Orleans, to Rouen, to Lille
and Calais, and the Belgian frontier, and to Versailles, were commenced,
and brought into operation. The results were such, that in January 1850
a commission was appointed to inquire further into the subject.
They drew up a favourable report, recommending the formation of addi-
tional lines, and the plan of stretching the wires on posts in preference to
placing them in tubes underground, and that the telegraphs should be open
to the use of the public. Among other economical advantages to result
from the further extension, was the saving of locomotive power on rail-
ways; for, in accordance with the practice on the French lines, whenever a
train was twenty minutes late an assistant-engine was despatched to its
relief from one station after another all along the route-an arrangement
which not only involved considerable expense, but liability to accident also.
The construction of seven telegraphic lines was recommended; five of the
number have been officially authorised-from Paris to Tonnerre, Rouen to
Havre, Paris to Angers, Orleans to Châteauroux, and from the same city to
Nevers; and by a vote of the Assembly, 717,095 francs are set apart to
defray the expenses of the necessary works. To afford the fullest facilities
to the government, wires are led from the respective stations in Paris
to the hotel of the Minister of the Interior, where the office is now open to
the public from 8 A. M. to 9 P. M. every day without exception. Three
hundred and one dispatches were transmitted in March, the first month
of opening. According to the scale of charges to send a message
of twenty words 62 miles will cost 3s. 34d., and 12s. for 620 miles.
Two hundred words for the same distances respectively will be 16s. 5d. and
58s. 9d. At this rate, to send a message of 300 words from Paris to Calais
(185 miles) would cost more than 35s. The commission state, that from
seventy-five to eighty letters may be transmitted per minute. In the
course of their report they suggest, that as the line from the capital to
Dunkerque is on the meridian of Pari and one of the points of the great
survey for the measurement of an arc of the meridian some fifty years ago,
די
24
ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.
the establishment of an electric telegraph will afford an excellent opportu-
nity for testing the former by remeasurement. The telegraphs complete
and in progress in France are about 1500 miles in length.
In Belgium, a commission was also appointed at the close of 1849 to
consider the same subject: the individuals named—one of them being
M. Quetelet-were eminently qualified for their duties. After a careful
examination of the systems of electro-telegraphic communication employed
in other countries-the burying of the wires under ground, as in Prussia,
and the stretching of them on posts, as in England and the United States-
the liability to accident from premeditated mischief, atmospheric or other
causes-they have decided in favour of wires above rather than below the
earth. They shew that the disturbances to which the apparatus is liable
from electricity of the air is nowhere so effectually guarded against as in
England, where conductors are attached to the posts and to the machinery
in the offices, and recommend the adoption of similar means of protection
on the Belgian lines, which they propose to establish from Brussels to
Quiévrain and to the Prussian frontier; from Malines to Ostend by way of
Ghent-and to Antwerp-the several distances amounting to about 300
miles. They estimate the annual receipts and savings from these various
sources at 86,000 francs; and acting on their report, the government has
granted a credit of 250,000 francs for carrying the projects into execution.
The central situation of Belgium with regard to other countries renders
the formation of these lines of essential importance in continental com-
munications.
Already the ramifications of electro-telegraphs extend from one end of
Europe to the other: the lines to connect Petersburg with Moscow, and
with the Russian ports on the Black Sea and the Baltic, are in progress ;
other wires stretch from the capital of the czar to Vienna and Berlin,
taking Cracow, Warsaw, and Posen on the way. Two lines, by different
routes-Olmutz and Brunn-unite Vienna with Prague, from whence an
offset leads to Dresden; a third enables the Austrian government to send
messages to Trieste-their outport on the Adriatic-325 miles distant; a
fourth communicates with the metropolis of Bavaria; and 'since the 10th
January (1850), the "Gazette d'Augsburg" has published the course of
exchange in Munich twenty minutes after it has been declared in Vienna.'
Calais may send news to the city of the Magyar on the Danube; and ere-
long intelligence will be flashed without interruption from St Petersburg to
the Pyrenees. Tuscany has 100 miles of telegraph under the direction of
Signor Matteucci; and a single wire, traversing the level surface of the
Netherlands, unites Rotterdam with Amsterdam. Communities are learning
that the electric telegraph is an essential of good government; that police
without it is inefficient; that by it the better interests of humanity are
promoted. There is talk also of introducing the thought-flasher into that
land of wonders-Egypt; to stretch a wire from Cairo to Suez for the
service of the overland mail. Who shall say that before the present
generation passes away, Downing Street may not be placed in telegraphic
rapport with Calcutta?
In Austria there are about 3000 miles of telegraph, one-fourth being
gutta-percha-coated wire laid underground. Germany has 2500 miles
complete, and 1200 more in process of construction. The Austrian govern-
25
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
ment steamboats are fitted with an electric telegraph for communications
from the captain on deck to the engine-room.
In a time when mechanical science scarcely admits the signification of
'impossible,' the insular position of England would not long shut her out
from a union with those continental ramifications which we have briefly
noticed. The possibility of establishing the connection was satisfactorily
proved in August 1850, when a telegraph-wire was sunk across the Channel
from Dover to Cape Grisnez, on the French coast. On the 28th of that
month, after certain preliminary experiments had been tried, the Goliah
steamer started with a huge reel containing 25 miles of wire, coated with
gutta percha, on her deck, which was slowly unwound and submerged as
she left the land. A horse-box was set up on the beach, to serve as a
temporary office for the instruments and operators; from which the wire
was led through a lead pipe to some distance beyond low-water mark, as
a measure of protection in a part the most exposed. A line of buoys
marked the track of the steamer; she travelled about four miles an hour,
and the wire was gradually sunk at the same rate by means of heavy
weights attached at regular intervals. A powerful set of batteries had
been provided, as one of the objects was, if possible, to work Brett's
printing telegraph; and when the steamer had made good a portion of her
voyage, the communication was established, and words were printed at the
instrument on board the vessel-imperfectly, it is true; but the fact once
verified, the perfecting becomes matter of detail. The needle instrument
played freely, and in the evening its signals shewed that the voyage had
terminated successfully. A message flashed from under the sea by the
opposite party announced, 'We are all safe at Cape Grisnez,' with the
inquiry added, 'How are you?' Thus the international communication
was complete; but soon after interrupted by the breaking of the wire,
which was too weak to withstand the action of the water and friction on a
rocky bottom.
As before observed, the possibility having been proved, the Submarine
Telegraph Company, whose patent embraces England, France, and Belgium,
set about preparations to re-establish the connection, on a scale calculated
to obviate the risk of accident. The wires, four or five in number, are to
be enclosed in cables several inches in thickness, and from twenty to
twenty-five miles in length, each weighing 400 tons. It is proposed to
have three or four such cables, to be anchored to the bottom two or more
miles apart, so that if one should fail, communication may still be main-
tained by the others. Expectations are held out that the line may again
be brought into working order during the present year (1851.)
It is in the United States of America that the electric telegraph has
been most extensively developed and applied. Growing coincidently
with the system so successfully worked in our own country, an almost
limitless breadth of territory has necessitated a proportionate extension of
the wires, amounting at present to more than 11,000 miles, under the manage-
ment of twenty-two companies. The lines in many instances are carried
across the country, regardless of travelled thoroughfares; over tracts of
sand and swamp; through the wild primeval forest, where man has not yet
begun his contest with nature-where even the rudiments of civilisation
26
ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.
are yet to be learned. Away it stretches, the metallic indicator of intel-
lectual supremacy, traversing regions haunted by the rattlesnake and the
alligator-solitudes that re-echo with nocturnal howlings of the wolf and
bear. Economy and rapidity of construction are prime desiderata in
America; and to insure the proper working of the telegraph in its direct
course across the country, the settlers who live near the line are permitted
to make use of it on condition that they keep it in repair. By this means
communications are maintained from north to south, east and west, through
all the length and breadth of the mighty Union, and with a frequency and
social purpose exceeding that of any other nation. From the frontiers of
Canada at Burlington, and from Halifax in Nova Scotia, a line passes to
Boston, and thence in a southerly direction till it reaches the Gulf of
Mexico at New Orleans-a distance of 2600 miles. It connects all the
great cities of the Atlantic coast-New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore,
Washington, Richmond in Virginia, Raleigh and Columbia in South Caro-
lina, Augusta in Georgia, and Mobile in Alabama. In one stretch Maine
and Vermont, where winter with deepest snows and arctic temperature
usurps six months of the year, are united with the lands of the tropics,
where the magnolia blooms and palm-trees grow in perpetual summer.
From New Orleans another nerve of wire, more than 1000 miles long,
threads the valleys of the Mississippi and Ohio to Louisville and Cin-
cinnati; and subordinate lines bring the great lakes-the inland seas-
into direct communication with the ocean-ports on the eastern shore.
In some instances the rivers are spanned by wires stretched on tall poles,
or laid in tubes of gutta percha along the bottom of the wider channels
or estuaries. Nothing stops the restless, enterprising spirit of the people;
and their project for uniting the Atlantic with the Pacific, New York with
San Francisco, may be considered as far from visionary.
The scale of charges in the United States is much lower than in this
country: the electric telegraph is consequently more available to the
greater part of the population engaged in commercial affairs. A message
of ten words may be flashed from New York to St Louis, Missouri, for 1
dollar and 40 cents-each additional word being charged 3 cents; to
Cincinnati, 75 cents; to Buffalo, 500 miles, 40 cents; to Boston, 220 miles,
20 cents; to New Orleans, 2 dollars; and other places in proportion.
The transmitting apparatus used on the different lines is that severally
invented or contrived by Morse, House, and Bain; it prints the dispatches
as fast as they are delivered. On the meeting of the legislature at Albany
in 1847, the governor's message, 25,000 letters, was flashed to New York,
150 miles distant, and printed at the same time in two hours and a half.
The president's message, too, on the war with Mexico, was transmitted
from Washingtor to Baltimore, 40 miles, and permanently recorded at the
rate of ninety-nine letters a minute. Mr Morse in his Reports to Congress
mentions several instances of the utility of the telegraph. During the
popular disturbances at Philadelphia in 1844, 'sealed dispatches were sent
by express from the mayor of Philadelphia to the president of the United
States. On the arrival of the express at Baltimore, the purport of the
dispatches transpired; and while the express train was in preparation, the
intelligence was sent on to Washington by telegraph, accompanied by an
order from the president of the railroad company to prevent the burden-
27
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
train from leaving until the express should arrive. The order was given
and complied with. The express had a clear track, and the president and
cabinet (being in council) had notice both of the fact, that important
dispatches were on the way to them, and of the nature of those dispatches;
so that when the express arrived, the answer was in readiness for the
messenger.' Again: 'When the Hibernia steamer arrived at Boston in
January 1847, with news of the scarcity in Great Britain, Ireland, and
other parts of Europe, and with heavy orders for agricultural produce, the
farmers in the interior of the state of New York, informed of the facts by
magnetic telegraph, were thronging the streets of Albany with innumer-
able team-loads of grain almost as quickly after the arrival of the steamer
at Boston as the news of that arrival could ordinarily have reached them.'
Apart from business and politics, the Americans have made the electric
telegraph subservient to other uses: medical practitioners in distant towns
have been consulted, and their prescriptions transmitted along the wire; and
a short time since a gallant gentleman in Boston married a lady in New York
by telegraph—a process which may supersede the necessity for elopement,
provided the law hold the ceremony valid. Music, or at least the rhythm
of music, has been conveyed by the same wonderful agency. The observer
of the fact in New York tells us: 'We were in the Hanover Street office
when there was a pause in business operations. Mr W. Porter of the
office at Boston asked what tune we would have. We replied 'Yankee
Doodle,' and to our surprise he immediately complied with our request.
The instrument commenced drumming the notes of the tune as perfectly
and distinctly as a skilful drummer could have made them at the head of a
regiment; and many will be astonished to hear that 'Yankee Doodle' can
travel by lightning. We then asked for 'Hail Columbia !' when the notes
of that national air were distinctly beat off. We then asked for 'Auld
lang syne,' which was given, and 'Old Dan Tucker,' when Mr Porter also
sent that tune, and, if possible, in a more perfect manner than the others.
So perfectly and distinctly were the sounds of the tunes transmitted, that
good instrumental performers could have had no difficulty in keeping time
with the instruments at this end of the wires.'
A favourable idea of the immediate practical utility of the telegraph
may be gathered from a communication to the present writer by a friend
in New York:-'The telegraph,' he writes, 'is used in this country by all
classes, except the very poorest-the same as the mail. A man leaves his
family for a week or a month; he telegraphs them of his health and
whereabouts from time to time. If returning home, on reaching Albany or
Philadelphia, he sends word the hour that he will arrive. In the towns
about New York the most ordinary messages are sent in this way: a joke,
an invitation to a party, an inquiry about health, &c. In our business we
use it continually. The other day two different men from Montreal
wanted credit, and had no references; we said: "Very well; look out the
goods, and we will see about it." Meanwhile we asked our friends in
Montreal" Are Pump and Proser good for one hundred dollars each?"
The answer was immediately returned, and we acted accordingly; probably
much to our customers' surprise. The charge was a dollar for each
message, distance about 500 miles, but much further by telegraph, as it has
to go a round to avoid the water. If my brother goes to Philadelphia, he
28
ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.
I answer: "All
telegraphs, "How is the family?" "What is doing?"
well".
"Sales so much;" and so on to the end of the chapter.
'A good deal of our telegraph was put up slightly at first, and was often
destroyed by storms. Now it is made with heavier wire, on posts from eight
to twelve inches diameter. The lines cross the North River (the Hudson),
suspended from the top of a very high pole on each side, placed on the top
of the hills. The wire goes over at one stretch; the distance about a mile,
but still hanging high enough in the centre to allow the tallest ships to
pass under it. At the offices they are accommodating, and will inquire
about messages that have miscarried, or have not been answered, without
extra charge.'
The electric clock was an obvious result of the electric telegraph: a plate
of zinc and another of copper buried in the earth, and connected by wires
with the wheelwork, develop sufficient natural magnetism to keep a time-
keeper going with the strictest regularity for several years. As the
pendulum swings, contact is alternately made and broken, and this action
will continue until the plates are exhausted. With currents supplied from a
battery, it is clear that the movement may become perpetual; and by means
of telegraphic communications, any number of clocks may be made to move
synchronously with one central clock regulated by astronomical observa-
tion; each would advance a second or portion of a second at one and the
same beat. The invention of this remarkable machine is due to Mr
Wheatstone, who proposed it to the Astronomical Society ten years ago,
when the wide applicability of the principle gave rise to the remark, that
it would soon become as possible to have time 'laid on' to our houses as
water or gas. One possibility suggests another, and presently we find the
Americans making use of the electric telegraph to determine differences of
longitude. Supposing the time-keeper of the Greenwich Observatory in
communication with a clock at Edinburgh, the latter would beat Greenwich
time, whereby the difference between the two places would be determined
to the fraction of a second. The means of intercommunication being so
rapid, comparisons can be instituted to any extent, and the severest tests
applied to insure accuracy; and by the aid of the printing apparatus, the
observations are recorded at the precise instant of their occurrence. The
first experiment was tried along the telegraph from Cincinnati to Pittsburg,
by Dr Locke of the former city, who contrived some ingenious machinery
for the purpose. We are informed that 'it was eminently successful, and
the registering of the seconds of time on the running fillet of paper was
continued for two hours at all the offices along the line, much to the
astonishment of the operators.' The officer of the United States Coast
Survey regards 'the value of a night's work with a transit instrument by
the printing method, as about ten times greate: than by the method now
in use among astronomers.' In the Report for 1848 we read: 'This year
we made abundant experiments on the line from Philadelphia to Louisville,
a distance in the air of 900 miles, and in circuit of 1800 miles. The per-
formance of this long line was better than that of any of the shorter lines
has hitherto been.
'Not more than two or three good astronomical nights, at Cincinnati and
Philadelphia, were lost, by failure of any part of the line, in the period of
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
two months nearly of our stay at Cincinnati. I learn from an authentic
source that the same success attends the work from Philadelphia to
St Louis, a distance of circuit one-twelfth of the earth's circum-
ference.' Great as this distance is, an attempt is to be made to exceed it
as soon as circumstances permit, on the line from Halifax to New Orleans,
in determinations of longitude.
This method of observing is regarded by the astronomer-royal as of so
much importance, that he proposes to introduce it at Greenwich. In dis-
cussing the subject before the Astronomical Society, he explained that:
In ordinary transit observations, the observer listens to the beat of a
clock while he views the heavenly bodies passing across the wires of the
telescope; and he combines the two senses of hearing and sight (usually
by noticing the place of the body at each beat of the clock) in such a
manner as to be enabled to compute mentally the fraction of the second
when the object passes each wire, and he then writes down the time in an
observing-book. In these new methods he has no clock near him, or at
least none to which he listens: he observes with his eye the appulse of the
object to the wire, and at that instant he touches an index, or key, with
his finger; and this touch makes, by means of a galvanic current, an im-
pression upon some recording apparatus (perhaps at a great distance), by
which the fact and the time of the observation are registered. He writes
nothing, except perhaps the name of the object observed.'
The experience hitherto obtained of the new method shews that in what
are termed ‘irregularities' in observation, the amount is only about one-
fourth' of that which occurs in the old method; whether because the
sympathy between the eye and the finger is more lively than between the
eye and the ear, remains to be determined. The astronomer-royal pro-
poses to use the 'centrifugal or conical-pendulum clock' as an instrument
superior in every way to those used in America; and 'considering,' as he
states, 'the problem of smooth and accurate motion as being now much
nearer to its solution than it had formerly been, it might be a question
whether, supposing a sidereal clock made on these principles to be mounted
at the Royal Observatory, it should be used in communicating motion to
a solar clock. It might by some persons be thought advantageous, even
now, that the drop of the signal-ball (at one hour Greenwich mean solar
time) should be effected by clock machinery; and it is quite within possi-
bility that a time-signal may be sent from the Royal Observatory to diffe-
rent parts of the kingdom at certain mean solar hours every day, by a
galvanic current regulated by clock machinery.' We may add that at
Boston, U. S., the true time is received every day from the Cambridge ob-
servatory, four miles distant, for the service of the shipping in the harbour.
Meteorological, as well as astronomical science, is also to be promoted
by means of the telegraph, and with benefit to life and property. Vessels
about to sail from the northern to the southern ports of the United States
are now detained when news arrives of a storm or tornado having broken
out in the lower latitudes; and in our own country the state of the weather
is communicated every day from stations in all parts of the kingdom to one
central office, where the returns are published. Many valuable results
have already been obtained; and with further experience in working out
the system, it will prove directly and practically advantageous.
30
ELECTRIC COMMUNICATIONS.
1.
6
The disturbances to which the electric telegraph is liable from atmo-
spheric and other causes, present several phenomena of interest to the
scientific observer. During thunder-storms the needles are sometimes
violently agitated, or altogether deprived of their electricity; and the
influence of the earth's magnetism is frequently such as to cause consider-
able deflections, even where the wires are under ground. Mr Barlow of
Derby, in an account of his experiments on this latter subject, published
in the 'Philosophical Transactions,' states that a regular diurnal action
of the needles is produced, independently of the batteries, on telegraph
wires connected with the earth in two places: where not so connected,
no deflection is observable. He considers, that this motion is due to
electric currents passing from the northern to the southern extremities of
the telegraph wires, and returning in the opposite direction; and that,
exclusive of the irregular disturbances, the currents flow in a southerly
direction from about 8 or 9 A. M. until the evening, and in a northerly
direction during the remainder of the twenty-four hours.' Sometimes the
perturbations are coincident all over the kingdom, as was the case on Sep-
tember 24, 1847, when sudden deflections of the needles occurred from Devon-
shire to Scotland, and were also observed in other parts of the world at
the same time. The aurora, too, is another exciting cause. Mr Barlow
believes that he can predict this phenomenon from the movements of the
needles, and is supported in his views by other observers. According to
De la Rive: The remarkable effect which M. Matteucci observed in the
apparatus of the electric telegraph between Ravenna and Pisa, during the
magnificent aurora of November last, shews clearly the existence of a
current circulating upon the surface of the earth; and which, rising by
the telegraph wire, passed partly by this better conductor. The sounds
which are given in certain meteorological circumstances by long iron wires
stretched in a north and south direction, are clear evidence that they are
traversed by a current which probably arises from those which circulate
upon the surface of the earth from north to south in our hemisphere. It
would be very interesting to take advantage of telegraph wires having a
direction more or less coincident with that of the declination of the needle,
for the purpose of making, when they are not in use for their usual pur-
poses, some observations to detect and measure the electric currents which
probably traverse them—which could be easily done by completing the
communication of these wires with the ground at one of their extremities
by means of a multiplying galvanometer. The comparison of results thus
obtained, with those of simultaneous observations of the diurnal variations
of the magnetic needle, would certainly present much interest, and might
lead to meteorological conclusions of a remarkable kind.' It is said that
when telegraph lines are erected in India, some particularly interesting
phenomena of terrestrial magnetism will be witnessed.
Our brief historical sketch offers another exemplification-and not
among the least interesting—of the onward workings of the human mind.
From timid and uncertain beginnings the electric telegraph hadvanced
to a high state of usefulness and perfection. Available
for the
humblest of social purposes, and the daring endeavours
ence, it
reaches a supereminent point when the measured flight of time, the
movements of stars and planets, and investigations of atmospheric and
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magnetic mysteries, become the subject of its transcendental powers. In
contemplating the nature and scope of the phenomena, we may say
without irreverence that the sublime inquiry—' Canst thou send lightnings,
that they may go, and say unto thee, Here we are ?'-has, in one grand
sense, been answered in the affirmative.
-
THE ELECTRIC TELEGRAPH.
Hark! the warning needles click,
Hither thither-clear and quick.
Swinging lightly to and fro,
Tidings from afar they shew,
While the patient watcher reads
As the rapid movement leads.
He who guides their speaking play
Stands a thousand miles away.
Sing who will of Orphean lyre,
Ours the wonder-working wire !
Eloquent, though all unheard,
Swiftly speeds the secret word,
Light or dark, or foul or fair,
Still a message prompt to bear:
None can read it on the way,
None its unseen transit stay.
Now it comes in sentence brief,
Now it tells of loss and grief,
Now of sorrow, now of mirth,
Now a wedding, now a birth,
Now of cunning, now of crime,
Now of trade in wane or prime,
Now of safe or sunken ships,
Now the murderer outstrips,
Now it warns of failing breath,
Strikes or stays the stroke of death.
Sing who will of Orphean lyre,
Ours the wonder-working wire !
Now what stirring news it brings,
Plots of emperors and kings;
Or of people grown to strength
Rising from their knees at length:
These to win a state-or school;
Those for flight or stronger rule.
All that nations dare or feel,
All that serves the commonweal,
All that tells of government,
On the wondrous impulse sent,
Marks how bold Invention's flight
Makes the widest realms unite.
It can fetters break or bind,
Foster or betray the mind,
Urge to war, incite to peace,
Toil impel, or bid it cease.
Sing who will of Orphean lyre,
Ours the wonder-working wire !
Speak the word, and think the thought,
Quick 'tis as with lightning caught,
Over-under-lands or seas,
To the far antipodes.
Now o'er cities thronged with men,
Forest now or lonely glen;
Now where busy Commerce broods,
Now in wildest solitudes;
Now where Christian temples stand,
Now afar in Pagan land.
Here again as soon as gone,
Making all the earth as one.
Moscow speaks at twelve o'clock,
London reads ere noon the shock;
Seems it not a feat sublime,
Intellect hath conquered Time!
Sing who will of Orphean lyre,
Ours the wonder-working wire!
Flash all ignorance away,
Knowledge seeks for freest play;
Flash sincerity of speech,
Noblest aims to all who teach;
Flash till bigotry be dumb,
Deed instead of doctrine come;
Flash to all who truly strive,
Hopes that keep the heart alive;
Flash real sentiments of worth,
Merit claims to rank with Birth;
Flash till Power shall learn the Right,
Flash till Reason conquer Might;
Flash resolve to every mind,
Manhood flash to all mankind.
Sing who will of Orphean lyre,
Ours the wonder-working wire!
FICHTE: A BIOGRAPHY.
IN
a
the middle of the eighteenth century, at the village of Rammenau,
near Pulsnitz, in Upper Lusatia, there lived and worked among his
contemporaries a certain manufacturer of ribbons, named Christian Fichte.
He, recently married, and reputably established in trade there, paying rates
and taxes, and other like dues and imposts, cheerfully fronted the world,
and took thankfully from fortune whatever benefits she sent him.
Among the most memorable of these was a first-born son, who struggled
into existence on the 19th of May 1762. This is he who, being sub-
sequently baptised according to orthodox prescription, was thereafter
called by the name of Johann Gottlieb Fichte—a name since considerably
well known, and not indifferently respected, by all persons who are anywise
acquainted with German Transcendentalism.
As the boy grew up he shewed signs of extraordinary capacity, and
waxed steadily in favour with all who were interested in his welfare. Long
before he was old enough to be sent to school his father had taught him to
read; taught him also a number of pious songs and proverbs, and initiated
him somewhat into the higher mysteries of Bible-history and the Catechism.
Often, by way of entertaining his curiosity, the father would relate to him
the story of his personal wanderings in Saxony and Franconia, whither, in
conformity with a well-known German usage, he had gone in former years
for improvement in his calling. To these recitals young Gottlieb listened
with exceeding interest, and was thereby awakened into some vague sym-
pathy with the existing outward world. The wonder and manifold train
of feelings thus excited fostered in the boy a fondness for solitary rambles,
and often impelled him forth into the lonely and quiet fields, where for
many hours he would hold a still communion with his thoughts. A quiet,
pensive child, he was already receiving influences and forming habits which
were afterwards to grow to great results.
Among the persons whose attention young Fichte very soon attracted
was the clergyman of the village, who, perceiving his talents, often assisted
him with instruction. Happening one day to ask him how much he thought
he could remember of the last Sunday's sermon, the boy astonished the
good pastor by giving a very correct account of the course of argument
pursued in the discourse, and also of the several texts of Scripture quoted
in illustration. This circumstance was subsequently mentioned incidentally
to a nobleman residing in the village; and when, a short time afterwards,
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a certain Baron von Miltitz, who was on a visit at the castle, chanced to
express his regret at having arrived too late for sermon on the Sunday
morning, he was half-jestingly apprised that it was of very little conse-
quence, as there was a boy in the neighbourhood who was capable of
repeating it from memory, and might easily be sent for, if desired, to
reproduce it for the baron's edification. A messenger was presently des-
patched for little Gottlieb, who very soon appeared, dressed in a clean
smock-frock, and bearing in his hand a most enormous nosegay, as a token
of respect from his mother to the mistress of the castle. He answered all
questions put to him with a quiet and natural simplicity; and on being
requested to repeat as much as he could recollect of the morning's sermon,
he proceeded to deliver a long and eloquent discourse, which, from its grave
and impressive tendency, threatened rather to discompose the gaiety of the
company. Desiring to escape this consummation, the count thought it
necessary to interrupt him, signifying doubtless that, of an admirable
memory and good natural powers of elocution, a sufficient proof had been
exhibited. The young preacher, however, interested his auditory greatly,
and more especially the baron, who, after making some inquiries of the
clergyman, which were favourably answered, determined to undertake the
charge of the boy's education. The consent of the parents having been
with difficulty obtained, young Fichte was shortly consigned to the care
of his new patron, and departed with him, as it seemed, for foreign parts.
His destination was the castle of Siebeneichen, a country seat of the
baron, situated on the Elbe, near Meissen. Here the heart of the poor boy
sank within him, as he daily contemplated the gloomy grandeur of the
baronial hall, and the mountains and dark forests by which it was surrounded.
His first sorrow, his earliest trial, had come to him in the shape of what a
misjudging world might regard as a singular piece of good fortune; and so
deep a dejection fell on him, as seriously endangered his health. His kind
fosterfather, entering into the feelings of the child, prudently removed him
from the lordly mansion to the residence of a country clergyman in the
neighbourhood, who, though himself without family, was greatly attached
to children. Under the care of this worthy pastor and his wife, Fichte
passed some of the happiest years of his life, and ever afterwards looked
back upon them with tenderness and gratitude. Here he received his
first instruction in the ancient languages, in which, however, he was left
pretty much to his own efforts, seldom receiving what might be called a
regular lesson from his teacher. This plan, though it might invigorate and
sharpen his faculties, left him imperfectly acquainted with grammatical
principles, and retarded to some extent his subsequent progress. He,
nevertheless, made rapid advances; and his preceptor soon perceived the
insufficiency of his own attainments for furthering the studies of a pupil
so promising, and therefore urged upon his patron the desirability of
sending him to some public school. He was accordingly sent, first to the
town school of Meissen, and afterwards to a higher seminary at Pforta,
near Raumburg.
This latter establishment retained many traces of a monkish origin: the
teachers and pupils lived in cells, and the boys were permitted to leave the
interior only once a week, and then under inspection, to visit a particular
play-ground in the neighbourhood. The stiffest formality pervaded the
2
FICHTE A BIOGRAPHY.
whole economy of the place; the living spirit of knowledge was unrecog-
nised in its antiquated routine, and the generous desire of excellence
excluded by the petty artifices of jealousy. The system of fagging existed
in full force, and with it the usual consequences—tyranny on the one side,
and cunning and dissimulation on the other. Fichte's native strength of
character guarded him somewhat from the evil influences around him, yet
he confessed that his life at Pforta was anything but favourable to his
integrity. He found himself gradually reconciled to the constraint of
ruling his conduct by the opinion of his companions, and compelled to
practise occasionally the same artifices as others.
Fichte was scarcely thirteen years of age when he entered this seminary.
Most painful was the transition to its gloomy monastic buildings from the
joyous freedom of fields and woods, where he had been accustomed to wander
at will; but still more painful were the solitude and aridity of the moral
desert into which he was introduced. His sadness and tears exposed him
to the derision of his schoolfellows; and he, shy and retiring, shrunk
within himself, restrained his tears, or suffered them to flow only in secret.
Here, however, he learned the useful lesson of self-reliance—so well, though
so bitterly taught, by the absence of sympathy in those around us; and from
this time to the close of his life it was never forgotten. The wretched-
ness of his situation, meanwhile, led him to contemplate escape. He had
met with a copy of 'Robinson Crusoe,' and his imagination was so fascinated
by the wild solitary life therein depicted, that he conceived the project of
seeking out some similar seclusion. On some far-off island of the ocean,
beyond the reach of men and pedagogues, and of the sneering students that
mocked at his distress, he would fix his solitary dwelling-place, and live
golden days of happiness and freedom! The manner in which he attempted
to carry his notion into execution favourably illustrates the bent of his
character. Nothing could have been easier for him than to have departed
unperceived on one of the days when the scholars went out to the play-
ground; but he scorned to steal away in secret; he wished to make it
evident that his departure was occasioned by necessity, and was taken with
deliberate determination. He therefore made a formal declaration to his
superior, a lad who had made a cruel and oppressive use of the brief autho-
rity intrusted to him, that he would no longer endure the treatment he
received, and that if not amended, he would leave the school on the first
opportunity. This announcement, as may be supposed, was received with
laughter and contempt, and Fichte thenceforth considered himself in honour
free to fulfil his resolution.
Accordingly, one morning he departs, having previously studied his
intended route upon the map. He is off on the highway to Raumburg: the
world is all before him, and the desert island in the distance. But now, as
he walks along, he remembers a saying of his dear old friend the pastor,
that one should never begin an important undertaking without a prayer for
Divine assistance. He turns, therefore, and kneeling down on a hillock
by the side of the road, in the innocent sincerity of his heart he implores
the blessing of Heaven on his wanderings. As he prayed it occurred to
him that his disappearance must occasion great grief to his parents:
never, perhaps, might he see them again!' This terrible thought over-
came him; the joy which he had felt in his emancipation was changed into
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contrition; and he resolved to return, and meet all the punishments that
might be in reserve for him, so that he should be able to look once more
on the face of his mother.' On his way back he met those who had been
sent in pursuit of him; for as soon as he had been missed, the conversation
between him and his superior had been reported to the authorities. When
taken before the rector, Fichte immediately admitted that it had been his
intention to run away, but at the same time related the whole story of his
persecutions, and of the motives which had influenced him in taking the
step, with such straightforward simplicity and openness, that the rector
became interested in his behalf, and not only remitted his punishment, but
selected for him, from among the elder scholars, another senior, who treated
him with the greatest kindness, and to whom he became warmly attached,
the two being subsequently friends at the same university.
From this time Fichte's residence at Pforta was rendered gradually more
tolerable to him. He entered zealously upon his studies, and by continued
industry supplied the defects of his previous education. In 1780, at the
age of eighteen, he entered the university of Jena. He attached himself
to the theological faculty, his inclinations at this time being towards the
calling of a clergyman. Subsequently he removed to Leipsic, and there
attended a course of dogmatic lectures, though, as it afterwards appeared,
with little satisfaction. In attempting to obtain a clear, comprehension
of the theological doctrine of the Divine attributes, the creation, freedom
of the will, and other like questions, he encountered unexpected difficul-
ties, which led him into a wider circle of inquiry, and finally resulted
in his abandoning theology for philosophy. Some hints of the early
direction of his philosophical studies may be gathered from his letters
written at this period. The question which chiefly engaged his atten-
tion appears to have been the very common one of Liberty and Neces-
sity; in regard to which he seems to have rejected the doctrine of free-will,
considered as absolute indifferent self-determination, and to have adopted
the view which, to distinguish it from Fatalism, has been named Determinism.
According to this, every complete and consistent philosophy exhibits a
deterministic side; the idea of an ultimate and all-directing Unity being
the beginning and end of metaphysical investigation. Thus while Fatalism
sees in this highest unity only an unconscious and mechanical necessity,
Determinism recognises it as the highest disposing reason-the infinite
originative influence to which the determination of each living being
is not only to be referred, but in which it is fundamentally subsistent.
On communicating his opinions to a Saxon preacher who had consider-
able reputation for his philosophical attainments, Fichte was told that he
had adopted Spinozism. Up to this time he was unacquainted with
Spinoza's writings, and his first knowledge of them was subsequently
derived through Wolff's refutation. His attention being turned in this
direction, he applied himself to the study of Spinoza's Ethics, which made
a powerful impression upon his mind, and confirmed him for a time in the
opinions he had adopted. In afteryears, however, the deterministic theory
left him dissatisfied; the indestructible feeling of independence and freedom
of which he was inwardly conscious, and which was also powerfully con-
firmed by the energy of his own character, not being explainable on
exclusively deterministic principles, he was constrained to abandon that
4
FICHTE: A BIOGRAPHY.
point of view, and accept the doctrine of free self-determination as the
only true and intelligible basis of being. This is the ground-principle of
his philosophic creed, which so far stands opposed to the doctrine of
Spinoza, although a general harmony of details is observable in the two
systems; both, nevertheless, shewing marks of individual character, and
each being properly the 'scientific expression of the spiritual life of its
originator.'
·
Whilst engaged in these lofty speculations, Fichte received intelligence
of the death of his benefactor, and found himself thrown upon his own
resources. These, unhappily, were of the most unpromising description.
Nevertheless he adjusted himself to his fortunes, and for four years earned
a precarious livelihood as an occasional tutor in various houses in Saxony.
His studies were desultory, and subject to continual interruption; he had
no means for procuring books, no opportunities of intercourse with
persons of cultivated and matured mind: his life was daily little better
than a sacrifice to the mere necessity of living. He had, however, a very
sufficient fund of courage, an iron resolution, and a hopeful elasticity of
disposition, that would not readily yield to disappointment. He learned to
regard the privilege of existence apart from its contingencies, and manfully
determined to live obediently to the high and imperative law of his con-
science, and abide by the result. 'It is our business,' said he, 'to be true
to ourselves; the consequence is altogether in the hands of Providence.'
Diligent in business, fervent in spirit, he went on his way doing what came
to hand; thankful for the day of small things, and trustful for the
future.
His favourite plan of life at this period, and for some time afterwards,
was to become a village clergyman in Saxony, and amid the leisure which
such an occupation would afford him, to prosecute without disturbance his
own intellectual culture. But this scheme could not be carried into prac-
tice, inasmuch as he had not completed his theological studies, and was
without the means required for continuing them. With a view to supply
his deficiencies in this respect, he, in 1787, addressed a letter to the presi-
dent of the Consistory of Leipsic, requesting to be allowed a share of the
support often granted to poor students at the Saxon universities, until the
following Easter, at which time he promised to present himself before the
Consistory for examination. 'Without this,' said he, 'my residence at
Leipsic is of no avail to me, for I am compelled to give all my time to
extraneous pursuits, in order to obtain a livelihood.' No notice, however,
was taken of his request: that blissful Saxon parsonage, with its abundant
leisure for cultivating literature, so pleasant to contemplate, remained,
unhappily, or perhaps happily, incapable of being realised.
Put not your trust in princes, nor in any president of Consistory, for,
as thou perceivest, dear Fichte, there is no help in them! That selfsame
'poverty' of thine, which thou sayest can be so clearly proved,' is, as
matters go, no recommendation to preferment. For the present thou must
continue to make that thin resource of private teaching serve thee, and
crush into annihilation all thy prouder aspirations. Fichte contrives to
make it serve him for a time; but alas! that also, like every feeble soil
that is much wrought in, runs more and more into barrenness. The 'pre-
carious subsistence' which he had for some time gained in this way
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went on gradually diminishing, and ultimately failed altogether. In
May 1788 every prospect had closed around him, and every honourable
means of advancement seemed to be exhausted. The present was utterly
barren, and there was no hope in the future.'
It is the eve of his birthday, in this same month of May. The pensive'
fancy figures him walking disconsolately about the environs of Leipsic,
the balmy evening air blowing fresh upon his cheek; birds of various note
warbling softly their May-night vespers, or nestling with placid murmurings,
in the fields. He walks, as we said, disconsolately; pondering with unavail-
ing anxiety all the projects which it has entered into his mind to devise,
and finds them all alike hopeless. The world has cast him out—his country
has refused him bread; this approaching birthday, for aught he can tell,
may prove to be his last. Doubtless people have died of starvation-why
not he? Full of bitter thoughts, he returns, as it appears likely for the
last time, to his solitary and uncheerful lodging.
Can this be really a letter lying on the table? Yes, Fichte, even so;
or say rather, a hastily-written note-a note from friend Weisse, the tax-
collector, requesting thee to step over to his house without delay. What
can so peremptory a summons signify? It turns out that friend Weisse
is authorised to make him the offer of a tutorship in a private family at
Zurich. Here is fortune returning to shake hands with us after having
resentfully bidden adieu: or call it, if you will, a friendly rope thrown
to us by an unknown Providence, at the very moment when we were in the
extremity of sinking. The sad, disconsolate face brightens up into a joy-
ous smile; the bitterness of despondency is past; warm-hearted thanks
ensue, and confidential explanations. The offer is straightway accepted-the
worthy tax-collector undertaking to advance the needful for the journey.
How Fichte lived in the interval does not appear; but behold him now
in August setting out for Switzerland. His scanty finances compel him to
travel on foot; but his heart is as light as his purse, and fresh youthful
hopes, mingling with the harvest sunbeams, shine brightly on his path.
Disappointment and privation seem left behind him, morose companions of
his foregone pilgrimage; for yonder in Liberty's own mountain fastnesses,
which Tell has consecrated by the light of bravery and of genius for ever-
more, he is now to find a welcome and a home. So feels and muses our
incipient philosopher, journeying on foot to that private tutorship at
Zurich.
Thither he arrived on the 1st of September, and was immediately installed
into his office. His duties occupying him the greater part of the day, his
philosophical studies were necessarily laid aside, but he nevertheless found
time for some minor literary pursuits. He preached occasionally in
Zurich, and at several places in the neighbourhood, as it is said, with very
distinguished acceptance and success. During his residence here he became
acquainted with Lavater and several other literary men; through some of
whom he was introduced to a local notability named Rahn, whose house is
said to have been 'in a manner the centre of the society of Zurich.' This
Rahn had married a sister of Klopstock, who, however, was at this time
dead, having left behind her, among other representatives, a rather inte-
resting eldest daughter.
Fichte has already tolerable skill in languages; but now, for his behoof
6
FICHTE A BIOGRAPHY.
he is about to learn another. He gets to understand the alphabet of
bright eyes, and is shortly qualified to construe the fine Delectus of a
woman's love. His teacher in this case, as the reader is probably prepared
to hear, was this same 'interesting eldest daughter' of collateral-poetical
relationship—Johanna Maria Rahn. She seeing him, and hearing him
speak oftentimes manfully at her father's table, cast kind glances on him,
as one worthy of a maiden's blessing. Her generous pure-mindedness
gave her assurance here of the presence of a man such as in moments of
maidenly meditation she might perchance have fancied she could rather
love than otherwise. He, truly, is but a poor tutor, and somewhat proud
withal, with a dash of blunt honesty and impetuosity; very unlike the
'nice young men' of ordinary tea-parties, whom, it would seem, the good
Johanna persisted in keeping at a distance; for we are authentically
informed that she, in her time, had refused a moderate number of 'very
excellent offers.' Fichte, however, belongs to quite another category.
Accordingly, from glances it gets to smiles and signs of welcome recogni-
tion, and so onwards to a more perfect understanding. We suspect that
Father Rahn did not at first perceive the turn things were taking in his
household; nevertheless, we are prepared to justify Fichte and his fair
beloved before any manner of tribunal, if needs be, for the decided
fashion in which they set about loving each other (being thereto
inwardly necessitated) without leave asked of any one. If our Othello
had gone, cap in hand, to the old burgher, and respectfully ex-
plained his intentions in the beginning-Fichte being, as we know, a
poor, unprovided tutor, and his Desdemona the daughter of a Zurich
notability with expectations-it is highly probable that he would have
been refused, and he must thereby have lost a very admirable wife; as,
on the other hand, the lady herself would have also lost an extremely
desirable husband; which, according to our notions, would have been a
great misfortune for both parties. As it was, however, the affair went on
agreeably, and ultimately prospered. There seems to have been a good
deal of correspondence between them, even while Fichte remained in
Zurich; which circumstance leads us to suppose that opportunities for
private interview were far from being frequent. As love-letters, distin-
guished by genuine common sense, warmth of feeling, and the absence of
absurdity, are held to be extremely rare, and might with certain persons
be matters of curiosity, we regret that lack of space prevents us from
inserting here some few select passages from these epistles of Fichte to
Johanna. Let readers of sentiment be nevertheless assured that here, in
old Zurich, went on and unfolded itself, in pleasing sequence and variety,
an actual and beautiful romance; which romance also was destined to be
chequered by a few unwelcome shades of anxiety and disappointment.
For now, at the end of two years, Fichte's engagement reaches its termi-
nation. There is consequently a painful, regretful parting, sorrowful pro-
fessions of heart-anguish, earnest and solemn interchange of vows, an
unspeakable immutable attachment on both sides passionately declared;
and so they are separated for a time. For the rest, Fichte's tutorship,
besides being distinguished by his zealous performance of its duties, had
also been remarkable for a rigorous moral supervision extending to all
parties concerned in it. The parents of his pupils, although neither per-
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fectly comprehending his plans, nor approving of that part which they did
comprehend, were nevertheless such admirers of his character, and stood in
such respectful awe of him, that they were induced to submit their own
conduct towards their children to his judgment. In furtherance of his
object, Fichte kept a journal, which he laid before them every week, and in
which he had noted the faults of conduct whereof he conceived them to
have been guilty. Of course such a domestic censorship could not last
long; and that it should have lasted so long as it did, has been justly con-
sidered sufficient evidence of the respect in which his character was held.
In less than two years, however, it had become irksome, insupportable, and
ended at length in mutual dissatisfaction. Rahn, to whom the attachment
between Fichte and his daughter had been in due time communicated,
endeavoured to obtain for him a superior situation through certain of his
connections in Denmark, but appears to have been unsuccessful in the
attempt: Fichte was therefore thrown once more upon the world, his
outward prospects as uncertain as when he first entered Switzerland.
Towards the close of March 1790 he left Zurich on his return to his
own country, bearing with him some letters of introduction to persons of
influence at the courts of Weimar and Wirtemberg. As formerly, he per-
formed the greater part of his journey on foot. He reached Stuttgard in
the beginning of April; but not finding his recommendations to the Wirt-
emberg court of much advantage, he shook off the dust from his feet, and
trudged on to Saxony. Visiting Weimar, he expected to see Herder,
Goethe, and Schiller, but here again was disappointed; Herder was ill, Goethe
in Italy, and Schiller too much engaged with his historical professorship at
Jena to receive visitors. About the middle of May he is once more in
Leipzic, his small stock of money exhausted by the expenses of his
journey. Friend Weisse receives him kindly, but for the rest he meets
with little welcome. The old practice of private teaching is resorted to
-unhappily with small success. Meanwhile the natural cravings and
unspeakable necessity for bread and cheese get rather pressing. What is
there that an honest incipient philosopher can turn his brains to and live
thereby?
Fichte has long had a secret turn for authorship, and has by him even
now certain miscellaneous essays, which the kind Johanna, with charac-
teristic simplicity, had desired him to publish while at Zurich, and thereby
create a sensation. He, with profounder judgment, had answered that
such a publication could not have the wonderful effect which she expected—
that same capacity for producing a 'sensation' being neither in him nor
his compositions. But now the need of provender growing paramount, he
seriously applies himself to literature, that being, as all the world knows,
a universal refuge for the destitute. He conceived the plan of a monthly
literary journal, 'the principal objects of which should be to expose the
dangerous tendencies of the prevalent literature of the day; to shew the
mutual influence of correct taste and pure morality, and to direct its
readers to the best authors, both of past and present times.' This pro-
jected undertaking was considered excellent by all to whom it was com-
municated, and even admitted to be a decided requirement of the times,
but was nevertheless held to be liable to one grave objection-he would
never find a publisher. The thing was too much opposed to the interests
8
FICHTE A BIOGRAPHY.
of the booksellers to meet with any countenance from them. 'I have
therefore,' said Fichte, 'out of sorrow, communicated my plan to no book.
seller, and I must now write-not pernicious writings, that I will never
do, but something that is neither good nor bad, in order to earn a little
money. I am at present engaged upon a tragedy, a business which, of all
possible occupations, least belongs to me, and of which I shall certainly
make nothing; and upon novels, small romantic stories, a kind of reading
which is good for nothing but to kill time; this, however, it seems, is what
the booksellers will accept and pay for.'
Fancy Isaac Newton, with the confused elements of a 'Principia' circu-
lating in his brain, constrained to write installation odes or opera criti-
cisms for the Morning Post;' or fancy, if you will, some impetuous
rhinoceros set to draw water from the well at Carisbrook Castle, in the
place of the celebrated donkey so long accustomed to it; and you will have
some notion of Fichte's tragical labour of writing tragedies and short
romantic stories, adaptable for purposes of temporicide. It was sufficiently
intolerable while it lasted, and utterly fruitless in results. Moreover, the
difficulty of obtaining regular employment at it put him upon the necessity
of trying other schemes; his life was one of continual shifts and expedients,
whereby, with his utmost efforts, he could scarcely realise the scantiest sub-
sistence. Once he writes: 'In regard to authorship, I have been able to
do little or nothing, for I am so distracted and tossed about by constant
schemes and undertakings, that I have had few quiet days.' Finally, by
way of abandonment of the whole despicable business, he determines that
if ever he becomes an author, it shall be on his own account. 'Author-
ship, as a trade,' says he, 'is unfit for me. It is incredible how much
labour it costs me to accomplish something with which, after all, I am but
half satisfied. The more I write, the more difficult does it become. I
perceive that I want the living fire.'
เ
6
(
With regard to his other schemes and occupations, we can gather no very
clear account. At one time he gives a lesson in Greek to a young man
between eleven and twelve o'clock,' and spends the remainder of the day
' in study and starvation.' A lady at Weimar had a plan for obtaining him
a good situation;' but speaking of this, Fichte said: 'It must certainly
have failed, for I have not heard from her for the last two months.' Of
other prospects which he had reckoned on as almost certain,' he thinks it
at length the best course to be silent.' Contemplating his affairs in the
month of August, he says: 'Providence either has something else in store
for me, and hence will give me nothing to do here, as indeed has been the
case; or intends by these troubles to exercise and invigorate me still
farther. I have lost almost everything except my courage.' Then we
hear of a distant prospect of going to Vienna, to prosecute some new
literary plans, and thus being nearer to Zurich, and even visiting it on his
way. Subsequently he writes: 'This week seems to be a critical time
with me; every one of my prospects, even the last, has vanished.' In
respect to a project for engaging him in the ministry, he expresses himself
in terms of strong disgust at the 'cringing' and 'dissembling' which would
be required to get him forward, and declares at last, 'I will be no preacher
in Saxony.'
Thus Fichte, like Gulliver among the Lilliputians, is painfully entangled
72
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with a complexity of mean embarrassments, and can make no progress. A
strong man, in most ignoble captivity, whose every struggle towards free voli-
tion brings down upon him sharp puny arrows, vexing and irritating him at
every pore. His case is by no means an uncommon one, but his spirit and
deportment under it are far beyond the average manifestations of that kind.
In the midst of destitution, anxiety, and neglect, he approves himself a
man, nowise debasing the faculty within him, sinking neither into syco-
phancy, pusillanimity, nor stormful indignation against fate. The brave
Fichte! how like a colossal statue he stands uprightly, with his bosom
bared to the weather, majestic and unflinching, with a proud insensibility
to cold and rain, and, when the sun shines out again, looking refreshed and
brighter for the showers. Misery and want press hard upon him, but
engender no envy in his heart; he entertains no hatred, cherishes no
resentment, complains of no neglect. He braves his misfortunes as he
can, soliciting neither pity nor admiration, sustaining himself by the
strength of his own integrity. A right healthful self-sufficient man ;
patient under evil, trustful in the good; in faithful endeavouring and
endurance manfully holding on his way.
But now, in the winter of 1790, his private teaching operations appear
to have become a trifle more successful; whereby his outward circumstances
were in some degree improved, and his mind left at greater ease and liberty
for engaging in intellectual pursuits. The critical philosophy of Kant was
at this time the subject of much discussion in Germany, and to it Fichte's
attention was now accidentally directed. The system of deterministic
necessity before alluded to was never in much harmony with his personal
character; and if we are at liberty to regard certain passages of his work
on the 'Destination of Man' as the expression of his own earlier state of
mind, it would appear that the theory which had satisfied his understanding
had long stood in opposition to his feelings. His introduction to the
writings of Kant produced a complete revolution in his opinions. Many
of his former doubts vanished, and the purpose of man's life, his faculties
and endowments, acquired a new and nobler significance in his belief.
This event was probably more important, and exercised a greater influence
upon him than any other that occurred in connection with his spiritual
culture. The terms in which he speaks of it sufficiently testify the high
estimation in which it was regarded by himself. Writing to Johanna, he
says:-
My scheming spirit has now found rest, and I thank Providence that
shortly before all my hopes were frustrated, I was placed in a position
which enabled me to bear the disappointment with cheerfulness. A cir-
cumstance, which seemed dependent on mere chance, led me to give myself
up to the study of the Kantean philosophy—a philosophy that restrains
the imagination (which in my case was always too powerful), gives reason
the dominion, and raises the soul to an elevation above earthly concerns.
I have accepted a new and nobler morality; and instead of occupying my-
self with outward things, I am employed more exclusively with my own
being. This has given me a peace such as I have never before experienced;
for amid uncertain worldly prospects I have spent my happiest days. I
propose to devote some years of my life to this philosophy; and all that
I write, at least for some time to come, shall have reference to it. It is
10
FICHTE: A BIOGRAPHY.
difficult beyond conception, and stands greatly in need of simplification. . . .
The principles indeed are hard speculations, having no direct bearing on
human life, but their consequences are extremely important to an age
whose morality is corrupted at the very fountain; and to set these conse-
quences before the world in a clear light would, I believe, be doing it good
service. . . . I am now thoroughly convinced that the human will is free,
and that to be happy is not the purpose of our being, but rather to deserve
happiness.'
Under the influence of this new inspiration, Fichte addressed himself
once more to literary composition. He commenced an explanatory abridg-
ment of Kant's 'Critical Inquiry into the Faculty of Judgment,' designed
to further and facilitate the study of the new philosophy, and obviating
somewhat the repulsive terminology in which it was involved. This under-
taking, however, he did not complete, and the portion which he wrote was
never published, owing chiefly to the pre-appearance of other similar publi-
cations, which, as he anticipated, had been rapidly vamped up to profit by the
excitement which the new doctrines had occasioned. In regard to German
literature in general, he believed that its golden age was at hand, dis-
cerning intimations of a promise in Goethe, Schiller, and others, which
has now in good part been fulfilled. In the wondrous revolutions of the
new school, the critical philosophy operated with considerable effect; and
in this department, first by way of exposition, and subsequently in further
development and new investigation, Fichte was destined to be distin-
guished.
As yet, however, he is biding his time, and has a variety of fortunes to
undergo in the interim. Early in the year 1791, without any perceptible
improvement in his circumstances, preparations are in progress for his
marriage. The generous Johanna, bethinking her that she was 'a person
with expectations,' and duly or unduly considering the applicability of
these to the ordinary requirements of domestic economy, and discerning,
as she believed, no difficulty which faith and a good purpose might not
overcome, resolved within herself that, Fichte being willing, they two
should, without further dalliance or delay, try the unspeakable possibilities
of wedlock, and commit the consequences to the gracious concern and
kindly interpretation of the Higher Powers. By this arrangement
Fichte would be enabled to pursue his own literary projects peacefully,
free from the immediate necessity of wasting his time and energies in the
distressing struggle for a scanty subsistence from day to day, and with
the ultimate prospect of acquiring some settled provision through his
unimpeded activity in the provinces of philosophy and letters. Whatever
scruples he might entertain respecting the propriety of marrying without
having first secured an independence for himself, appear to have been over-
ruled. Father Rahn had consented to the alliance; Fichte was of course
eagerly inclined to it; and thus, all obstacles being seemingly removed, he
awaited the event with pleasurable anticipation.
And so at length, as he believes, all his brightest dreams are to be ful-
filled; his cup is brimming with delight; the draught of unutterable joy is
sparkling at his lips. Alas for the stability of human expectations! Here
is the hand that is to dash his anticipated pleasures to the ground. The
day of his departure was already fixed, when the bankruptcy of a mercantile
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house, to which Rahn had intrusted his property, threw his affairs into dis-
order, threatening even to reduce him to indigence. There was an end to all
plans founded in reference to his prosperity. The shock brought upon the
old man a lingering illness, whereby his life was for some time endangered;
but by the unremitting attention and tenderness of his daughter, he was
finally restored to his accustomed state of health. She, with that noble
devotion which bears suffering without a murmur, and merges every element
of self in the generous offices of affection, ministered to the good old
father's helplessness, cheering and consoling him under the visitations of
calamity, and crushing meanwhile the withered blossoms of her own hopes
into the silent places of her memory.
As for Fichte, he must out again upon the bleak wilderness of life, and
adjust himself to such weather as shall befall. The world, with its diffi-
culties and obstructions, is again before him; but his is the indomitable spirit
which shall rise superior to them all. For the present, he obtained a private
tutorship in the house of a Polish nobleman at Warsaw; and having
announced the circumstance to Johanna, bidding her at the same time to be
of courage, and assuring her of his continued faithfulness, he resumed his
staff, and quitted Leipzic. In the course of the journey he halted at
Rammenau, to pay a visit to his parents. 'The good, honest, kind father!'
said Fichte, 'his look, his tone, his reasoning, how much good they always
do me! Take away all my learning, and make me such a worthy, true, and
faithful man, how much should I gain by the exchange!'
On the 7th of June he arrived at Warsaw, and immediately waited upon
his employer, a certain Count Von P, a good easy man, though
suffering immoderately from henpeck. Here, it seems, the gray mare is
the better horse: in other words, the countess leads the orchestra; nay, as
it turns out, is the sole fiddler in the establishment. Fichte finds her music
unpleasantly discordant, and herself, withal, 'a vain, haughty, and whimsical
woman.' The elect tutor perceives himself regarded as a mere appendage
to the supreme petticoats; no respect is paid to the dignity of his pro-
fession; his pronunciation of the French language proves unsatisfactory;
and his German bluntness of demeanour tells not the less to his disad-
vantage. What shall the proud Fichte do but resign his office without
having entered upon its duties; constrain the countess, with some difficulty,
to grant him a slight compensation of travel-money, sufficient for his main-
tenance for the two succeeding months; and with this limited supply once
more journey homewards?
First, however, he resolves to visit Konigsberg: there lives the much
renowned Immanuel Kant, the master of the new philosophy; him would
Fichte see visibly in the flesh, and reverently take counsel of. With that
intent he departs from Warsaw on the 25th of June.
On his arrival at Konigsberg, he, with all the ardour of a pilgrim of
knowledge, straightway presents himself to Kant; finds the critical philo-
sopher less enthusiastic than he had supposed; meets with only a formal
reception; and retires deeply disappointed. Unwilling, however, to aban-
don his purpose, he reflects a little how he may obtain a more free and
earnest interview;' but for some time does not perceive in what way it can
be effected. At last he determines to write a 'Critique of all Revelation,"
with which, as a battering-ram, he will storm the philosophic citadel, and
12
FICHTE A BIOGRAPHY.
gain, if possible, some inspection of its wonders. The work is finished by
the 18th of August, and submitted to the transcendentalist for judgment.
The philosopher unbends a little, even praises the performance; but neither
by it does Fichte attain his object, which, it seems, was the establishment
between himself and Kant of a 'free scientific confidence.' In regard to
his many philosophic doubts, he receives little in the way of answer-for
solution of these Kant merely refers him to the 'Critique of Pure Reason: '
is it not all written there, so that whosoever runs, and has a touch of philo-
sophic capacity, may read to satisfaction?
Fichte now meditates publication; but on revising his production, thinks
it does not fitly express his profoundest thoughts on the subject, and there-
fore he undertakes to remodel it, and give it some further graces of compo-
sition. But here once more arises a grave difficulty. He, like here and
there a Chancellor of Exchequer, as well as many a private person, is in a
dilemma of ways and means. Counting his meagre stock of money, and
distributing it prospectively over such a space of time as with utmost
attenuation it is capable of covering, he finds that it will not last him
beyond a fortnight. Whereupon come no small perplexity and serious
questionings as to what is to be done. He strives to obtain some employ-
ment through certain of Kant's friends to whom he had been introduced;
but the friends are wanting either in influence or zeal : nothing can Fichte
get to do. Alone, and in a strange country, what shall he resolve upon?
It occurs to him that the great transcendentalist is doubtless a man of
kindly and enlarged sympathies; for does not greatness of intellect always
imply abundant generosity? He writes a manly, noble letter to Kant,
highly characteristic of himself, and therein reveals to him the nakedness
of his circumstances, discloses somewhat of his personal history, and, with
delicate frankness, requests the loan of a small sum of money to defray the
expenses of his journey to the humble roof yet open to him in Fatherland.
For security and guarantee of subsequent repayment, Fichte offers all he
has to give in such a case-his honour and integrity as a man. He feels
the singularity of the pledge, and admits its inadmissibility as an ordinary
bond. 'I know no one,' says he, 'except yourself, to whom I could offer
this security without fear of being laughed at to my face.' However, he
proceeds: 'It is my maxim never to ask anything from another without
having first of all examined whether I myself, were the circumstances
inverted, would do the same thing for some one else. In the present case I
have found that, supposing I had it in my power, I would do this for any
person whom I believed to be animated by the principles by which I know
that I myself am now governed.' It is not without a sense of humiliation,
that the proud noble heart of the man is thus reduced to mortgage its
sincerity. 'I am so convinced,' he continues, of a certain sacrifice of
honour in thus placing it in pledge, that the very necessity of giving you
this assurance seems to deprive me of a part of it myself. . . .. So far,
however, I can rely upon my principles, that were I capable of forfeiting
my word pledged to you, I should despise myself for ever afterwards, and
could never again venture to cast a glance into my own soul-principles
which constantly reminded me of you, and of my own dishonour, must
need be cast aside altogether, in order to free me from this most painful
self-reproach.' For the tone of mental independence and manly self-
13
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
respect which predominates in the letter, Fichte solicits no pardon: he
even declares that he cannot ask it, alleging that 'it is one of the distinctions
of sages, that he who speaks to them speaks as a man to men.' The letter
being written and transmitted, he awaits the issue with composure. This
memorable day was the 2d of September 1791..
Next morning there comes from Kant an invitation to dinner. He
receives his needy visitor with his usual cordiality. A magnanimous reader
anticipates that now, of a surety, Fichte's pressing necessities will be suit-
ably provided for. Alas, no! A critical philosopher is in no condition to
lend money; for indeed, however celebrated, transcendentalism brings but
little grist to the household mill. Philosophy is profitable for much, but
for want of its long-sought, and as yet undiscoverable stone, cannot coin
dollars. The intangible idea of dollars is all that philosophy can take note
of; and as Kant said on another occasion, and in reference to quite another
question, 'there is considerable difference between thinking we possess a
hundred dollars, and really possessing them!' Hegel's declaration, that
'philosophy does not concern itself with such things as a hundred dollars,'
though no sufficient answer to Kant's remark, is nevertheless, in an un-
transcendental sense, very obviously true. Kant, as we said, cannot lend
money, at least he is in no possibility of doing so for the next fortnight—
then perhaps he may. Meanwhile Fichte shall be welcome to occasional
pot-luck.
In his own hired attic, however, things are getting daily more cheerless;
the image of grim Scarcity sits before him in his lonely room all day long;
the autumn evenings are growing chill, and on his hearth are only the
ashes of extinguished fires. The spirit of despondency overshadows him,
and his brave heart is sick from hope so long deferred. Visions of the
parental fireside, and its cheerful evening faces, far away in nativeland,
visit him at intervals, making him to feel, by contrast, more keenly the
hardships of his lot. Neither is the image of his fair Johanna Rahn ever
absent from him long; but as a serene angel of consolation shines beckon-
ing in the distance, and does at least partially illuminate his melancholy.
thoughts. Nevertheless the present time is pressing; Fichte has fallen
into painful extremity. But why not sell the manuscript of that 'Critique
of all Revelation?' Kant says it is admirably written, and does not need to
be reconstructed. Truly, nothing shall hinder, provided one can get a
publisher. Kant recommends him to offer it to Hartung, a Konigsberg
bookseller of some distinction; but unhappily the worthy Hartung is
from home. With him, therefore, at present, there is no dealing. Fichte
tries to dispose of the work elsewhere, but utterly without success; no
publisher to whom he applies is disposed to undertake any article of that
description. On the 12th of September Fichte writes down this passage
in his journal:-'I wanted to work to-day, but could do nothing. How
will this end? What will become of me a week hence? Then all my
money will be gone.'
L
The darkness is gathering thick around Fichte's prospects-no star is
visible in the whole heaven of his observation. Fichte, however, is not to
die of destitution. Fortune has tried him hardly; and now, if no star, she
reveals at least a comfortable show of candlelight. An invitation reaches
him, through court-preacher Schulz, to repair into the neighbourhood of
14
FICHTE A BIOGRAPHY.
Dantzic; there, in the family of the Count of Krokow, a tutorship awaits
him. Tutorships are Fichte's abomination, and his views were now
directed to a life of literary exertion; nevertheless, as necessity consults
no man's convenience, he accepts the proposal. Whence he obtained
money for the journey does not appear; but at anyrate the journey
is performed. Fichte meets with the most friendly reception; and
entering on his new employment, experiences the kindest attentions
therein. This countess proves herself from the first a woman of
' amiable character and excellent abilities,' and she renders Fichte's
residence in her family not only happy, but interesting and instruc-
tive.' The kindly Countess Krokow! blessings on her fair, noble head,
though, alas! that is long since laid at rest!
6
This fortunate appointment was the beginning of many years of unin-
terrupted prosperity. Very shortly, through the agency of his friends at
Konigsberg, Fichte is enabled to make arrangements with Hartung for
publishing the 'Critique of all Revelation.' The terms are settled, and
the process of type-setting is going on. But who is this solemn incarna-
tion of pomposity, stopping the printing-presses at Halle, and vociferously
announcing the discovery of a cloven foot? This is the dean of the
Theological Faculty, who refuses his sanction to the publication, on
account of certain principles contained in the book, which he, in his
straitlacedness, conceives to be unorthodox. Fichte has to urge that his
book is not theological, but philosophical, and therefore does not properly
come under the cognisance of the Theological Faculty; but this plea is
held to be irrelevant. Friends advise him to withdraw the obnoxious
passages; but Fichte is inflexible: having written nothing which he does not
solemnly believe, and can give some show of reason for, he is determined
that the book shall be printed entire, or printed not at all. Kant is con-
sulted on the subject, as a man whose judgment is of the highest authority
in such matters; and Kant confirms the soundness of the principles in dis-
pute. Abiding by his position, Fichte has to wait awhile and see what
may become of it. As it chances, he has not to wait long; the difficulty
is happily got rid of by a change in the censorship. The new dean, not
partaking in the scruples of his predecessor, gave his consent to the
publication, and the work accordingly appeared in the spring of 1792.
A new era now opens upon Fichte. All journals devoted to the criti-
cal philosophy are loud in their praises of his work. Would a curious
reading public know wherefore, let them take note of this one circumstance:
Certain editors of ability have got an impression that this is a new book
by Kant, which he, for reasons of his own, chooses to publish anonymously.
What, therefore, is so becoming for all able editors and indiscriminating
sucklings of the Critical Philosophy, as to chant a stave, according to
ability, in honour of the great master? The book was not of a nature to
force itself immediately into notice, and it probably owes not a little of its
first success to this mistake respecting its paternity. Kant, however,
publicly disclaims the authorship, and discloses the name of the writer.
Fichte, as it turns out, can bear to stand on his own basis; and the sounder
heads among his countrymen soon fail not to welcome him as one of the
profoundest of German thinkers.
Any analysis or adequate description of this remarkable book cannot be
!
15
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
attempted here. Such an account of it as we could render by a brief
allusion to its principles would almost certainly create a false impression
of its purpose. Whoever would know it as Fichte designed it to be
known, let him bring with him a clear head, a mind open to conviction, and a
resolution strong enough to abide by the truth when he has learned it. Let
6
us take, however, one sentence from the preface, and mark in what spirit
Fichte approaches the inquiry: To truth,' says he, 'I solemnly devote
myself, at my first entrance into public life. Without respect of party or
of reputation, I shall always acknowledge that to be truth which I recognise
as such, come whence it may; and never acknowledge that which I do not
believe. It may be of little importance to the world to receive this
assurance, but it is of importance to me to call upon it to bear witness to
this my solemn vow.' A noble vow, nobly fulfilled, and one which the
humblest of the sons of Adam might enjoin upon himself, and abide by to
advantage.
Glancing back a little, we now perceive with satisfaction that the pro-
spective father-in-law's affairs have got somewhat righted. Fichte is
already a rising man, so the time has come when he may safely wed.
Accordingly, in March 1793, he writes to the fair Johanna that he shall be
with her in June, or at latest in July, with a view to that agreeable con-
summation. He contemplates the event with deepest pleasure, but also
with much solemnity of feeling. An overflowing thankfulness fills his
heart; the magnitude of the happiness which awaits him seems too great
for his unworthiness. The strong, stern soul of the thinker, with its rock-
like stability and earnestness, touched by affection's gentle rod, gushes out
in streams of tenderness. Then there are kindly leave-takings, half-sorrow-
ful, with his worthy friends at Dantzic, 'who are unwilling to let him go;'
plans and preparations for the future; above all, a visit to his well-
beloved parents, and his 'seven sisters,' who have heard somewhat of his
honours in authorship, and now give him their blessing and approval of
the course on which he is about to enter. Fichte, doubtless, tells them
something of his wanderings and endurances, and how a benignant Provi-
dence had helped him in his extremity; nor, amidst his many wondrous
relations, can that grand interview with Kant fail to be spoken of. There,
in the old Lusatian home, they are gathered, speaking and listening by
turns, happy as this world can make them; and as they speak and listen,
the proud old father's eyes are glistening with tears. The patient mother,
too, feels well rewarded for all her care and many anxieties for this noble
son; and the assiduous sisters are bountiful of all kindly ministrations.
Far into the night they sit, parting at length with sad, yet happy faces,
and silent prayers for mutual welfare.
Early in the month of June he takes his leave of them, and journeys to
the bride-home in the land of mountains. On the 16th he is drawing nigh
to the very spot. Pleasantly glance the rays of the summer sun about
the old walls of Zurich; there, in her father's house, is the long-beloved,
waiting with expectation to become his wife. The echo of his footsteps
through the rather silent summer streets is unheard by him, for before him
is the bride-father's house; and his entrance there is one of pleasant
greetings.
But what means this new vexation coming upon us unexpectedly, and
16
FICHTE: A BIOGRAPHY.
!
positively putting off the marriage? It arises simply out of certain 'laws of
the state affecting foreigners,' which happily will only occasion a few months'
delay. On the 22d of October the marriage takes place, and Fichte is
away with the bride to enjoy a short 'tour in Switzerland.' Returning
home, he takes up his residence in the good father-in-law's house: here in
friendly Zurich, with the distant mountains frowning down on him with a
grand benignity, he will rest for a time, and gain a livelihood by his pen.
For several months he enjoyed 'a life of undisturbed repose,' sweetened
by the society of her whose love had been his stay in times of adversity,
and now gave a holier living purpose to the prosperous hour.
In the peaceful Swiss canton all is yet happiness and security; but the
rest of Europe is shaken with a new-born terror; and tidings are abroad
of that grand convulsion called the French Revolution. Old Feudal
Europe, with its obsolete usages, and establishments of ancient power
grown intolerable, has fallen into distraction and decadence. Folly and
oppression have ruled it long, but now has come the dawn of a world's
deliverance. France has spoken forth a word of terrific prophecy, which
the assembled nations have quailed to hear, though all have long been
struggling to utter it; everywhere is promise and expectancy; the new-
born giant of democracy is chanting loud his daring hymns to freedom;
the genius of humanity, so long discomfited and trodden down, has mounted
a pinnacle of unheard-of glory, whence, as from a throne, she shall dis-
pense the bounties of a golden age. Alas! these prospects are all delusive,
and the struggle proves no deliverance, but only a bewildered agony and
madness—a convulsive irregular tumult of unconsecrated indignation; like
the mournful catastrophe of a blind Samson's strength, when he threw down
the pavilion of the Philistines, and buried himself and his oppressors in
the ruins.
Yet, doubt it not, the French Revolution had a meaning in it of great
significance, which is going on even now unto fulfilment. Read it truly, it
is, as one has said, a reproclamation, as amidst 'infernal splendours,' of the
everlasting majesty of Justice, whose divine right of government had been
foully overthrown. Whosoever will look may perceive that the old feudal
incarnation of humanity is abolished and dead, and men are now burying
its remains; the new development towards which we are progressing is
the dominion and supremacy of Industry, which, however, is not likely to
be founded without difficulty. Nevertheless, courage to brave hearts!
What is dead need not be lamented; in the conflict of principles and
institutions the new spirit proves ever triumphant; for humanity is as a
phoenix, from the ashes of whose despair springs a nobler birth of hope.
Fichte, looking on at this revolutionary procedure from his Swiss retire-
ment, conceived that there was much misunderstanding respecting it, and
accordingly wrote and published his 'Contributions to the Correction of
Public Opinion' thereupon. Instead of execrating or eulogising the Revo-
lution, Fichte adopts a far preferable course, and endeavours to understand
it, which, indeed, was strictly his business as a philosopher. And this is
the leading principle of his work :-'That there is, and can be, no abso-
lutely unchangeable political constitution, because none absolutely perfect
can be realised; the relatively best constitution must therefore carry within
itself the principle of change and improvement. And if it be asked from
17
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
whom this improvement should proceed, it is replied that all parties to the
political contract ought equally to possess this right. And by this political
contract is to be understood, not any actual and recorded agreement-for
both the old and the new opponents of this view think they can destroy it
at once by the easy remark, that we have no historical proof of the exist-
ence of such a contract-but the abstract idea of a state, which, as the
peculiar foundation of all rights, should lie at the bottom of every political
fabric.' This book subjected Fichte to the charge of being a democrat,
which, however, in the popular English sense of the term, he really never
was, as from his work on the 'Principles of Natural Law ' may sufficiently
be seen.
(
These political speculations, however, were not the most important upon
which Fichte was engaged during the period of his residence in Zurich.
We are told of 'several powerful and searching criticisms' which appeared
in a leading philosophical journal, and in which discerning eyes had dis-
covered the hand that wrote the Critique of Revelation.' Furthermore,
at the instigation of venerable Parson Lavater, he prepared a short course
of lectures, a sort of critical philosophy made easy, by means whereof,
since the fame of Kant's achievement had reached Switzerland, the
worthy pastor proposed to indoctrinate his friends, that they, as well as
others, might be enabled to discuss the same whenever thrown into
philosophical society. It need not surprise us, that 'this excellent
man retained the warmest feelings of friendship towards the philo-
sopher,' inasmuch as Fichte was right worthy of anybody's friendship, be
he who he might. For the rest, it seems Fichte lived in close retirement;
the manners of the Zurich burghers not pleasing him, he 'seldom went out
into society.' His own wife, his father-in-law, the unexceptionable
Lavater, and certain indefinite people, described as a few others,' made
up the circle of his acquaintance. He had considerable correspondence,
however, with several distinguished persons, amongst whom prominently
appears Reinhold, then professor of philosophy at Jena, and recognised
leading Kantist of the day-known also for certain fanciful modifica-
tions of the original doctrine, and by him called "philosophy without
nickname.'
6
But apart from these secondary occupations, Fichte was to some extent
engaged in planning the philosophical system upon which his reputation
mainly rests. Further meditation has convinced him that even the sage of
Konigsberg is not infallible; and that indeed much remains to be done before
the cycle of philosophy is complete. In this very month of October 1793,
whether before marriage or afterwards the present writer knoweth not, he
writes to a friend thus significantly :-My conviction is that Kant has only
indicated the truth, but neither unfolded nor proved it.' Subsequently he
announces: 'I have discovered a new principle, from which all philosophy
can be easily deduced;' and he even has the audacity to prophesy that 'in
a couple of years we shall have a system distinguished by all the clearness
of geometrical evidence.' Fichte of course is to produce it, and is even
now devoting all the energies of his intellect to that end. His intellect is
of the subtlest, and he works in his vocation with the zealous energy of
one who loves the truth with undivided earnestness; but alas for the pro-
mised philosophy with the clearness of geometric evidence-that, we
18
FICHTE A BIOGRAPHY.
believe, is still waited for, and perhaps need scarcely be expected before
doomsday rather late in the evening!
However, Fichte for the present believes otherwise, and, so believing,
will intrepidly pursue his speculations, and see what may become of them.
He is invited to undertake the education of the Prince of Mecklenburg-
Strelitz, a tutorship with good appointments and prospects of court
patronage, all of which Fichte firmly and modestly declines. 'I desire
nothing,' says he, 'but leisure to execute my plan—then fortune may do
with me what it will.' Here is a man, evidently, who will not compromise
philosophy for pudding. Nevertheless his studies are interrupted. Without
solicitation of his, he is appointed Professor Supernumerarius of Philosophy
at the university of Jena, in room of friend Reinhold, who, it seems, has
removed to Kiel, there to edify a new set of students by that fanciful
'philosophy without nickname.' Court tutorships may he declined
without compunction, but not a professorship of philosophy; Fichte
accordingly accepts it, on condition that he shall be allowed to devote the
greater portion of the first year to study.
The university of Jena was at this time the most distinguished university
in Germany. Its contiguity to the court at Weimar connected it with the
highest literary names of the age. The Grand Duke Charles Augustus,
having an eye and reverence for talent, had adorned his little Saxon court
by the presence of such men as Wieland, Herder, Goethe, and Schiller,
and, as one might reasonably suppose, found them very tolerable company.
Indeed the intellectual brilliancy of the Weimar circle seems to have had in
modern times no parallel elsewhere; so that it might stand in quite envious
comparison with the courts of many a larger state, some of which can boast
of nothing higher than an occasional 'apothesis of a Beau Brummel.' To
this brilliant and busy scene was Fichte translated from his Swiss retire-
ment-to the society of the greatest living men-to the office of instructor
to a thronging crowd of students 'from all surrounding nations.'
Mark, however, the supremacy of genius, and how a man possessed of
that does not fail to acquit himself right nobly. His already considerable
reputation, and the bold originality of his philosophic system, as displayed
in the published programme of his lectures, had raised the public expec-
tation to the utmost; so that his position was one of no little difficulty,
inasmuch as he might possibly prove unequal to what had been expected
of him. Arrived at Jena on the 18th of May 1794, he was received with
great kindness by his colleagues at the university. On the 23d he
delivered his first lecture-to an audience so numerous, that the largest
hall in Jena, although crowded to the roof, proved insufficient to contain
all who had assembled. The impression which he made even exceeded all
prior expectation. His singular and commanding address, his fervid,
impetuous eloquence, the profoundness and rich profusion of his thoughts,
poured forth in the most convincing sequence, and, fashioned with a
wondrous precision, astonished and delighted his hearers. The rugged,
earnest force of his uncommon character, strengthened by long silence,
and perfected by inward struggle, burst forth with the first occasion in a
grandeur of originality not to be otherwise attained; resembling that vol-
canic vehemence which, from the central depths of the earth, darts upwards
through barriers of perennial ice, and flames forth aloft an object of asto-
19
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
nishment. Fichte's first appearance in his new capacity was quite
triumphant: we are told that 'he left the hall the most popular professor
of the greatest university of Germany.'
Of that astonishing popularity we do not account much; happily for
himself, Fichte also knew what estimate to put upon it. Not for popu-
larity, or breath of vain applause did he live; but that out of the unshaped
possibilities of his life, he might build up a pillar of completed duty. What
else, indeed, does every true man live for, if not for this? What else,
except this, is all men's mission and prescribed destiny in this fluctuating
life of time!
Fichte's residence at Jena was nowise distinguished for its peacefulness.
German students are proverbially obstreperous. Then, as now, they were
united in certain irregular orders or unions, known by the name of Lands-
mannschaften, their proceedings being marked by great turbulence and
licence. In Fichte's time, riots of the most violent description were of
common occurrence; houses were broken into and robbed, either by way
of a pleasant excitement, or for the purpose of obtaining means of sensual
indulgence. Legal authority was impotent to restrain these excesses; so
bold indeed had the unionists become, that on one occasion, when the house
of a professor had been ransacked, five hundred students openly demanded
from the duke an amnesty for the offence. It seems to have been con-
sidered a highly commendable and interesting achievement to plunder a
professor. The academical authorities had made frequent efforts to suppress
these societies; but on such occasions the students uniformly broke out
into more frightful irregularities. For, indeed, is not 'Liberty for ever'
the undeniable right of men and students? Whosoever, therefore, would
restrain established Burschen privileges, immemorial rights of 'academical
freedom,' let him look out for broken windows, and deem himself happy if
he can hide his wine!
But now, cannot an indomitable Fichte, with his manifest strength of
character, do something in the way of reforming this unpleasant state of
things? Most willingly would he do it; but the question is, how can it be
done? Try logic. German students have a certain share of understanding,
and perhaps they possess some kind of succedaneum for conscience—who
knows? On this flattering hypothesis, Fichte commences a course of
public lectures on 'Academical Morality;' in which proceeding he appears
to prosper almost beyond his hopes. These lectures, and his own personal
influence among the students, are attended with the happiest effects. The
three orders then existing at Jena are smitten with penitence; and express
their willingness to dissolve their union, on condition that the past should
be forgotten. To Fichte they delivered over the books and papers of their
society, for the purpose of being destroyed as soon as he can make their
peace with the court at Weimar, and receive commission to administer to
them the oath of renunciation,' which, however, they will receive from
no one but himself. Fichte seems to have accomplished, by the sole force
of his individual character, what the university authorities, armed with the
rigour of the law and implements of punishment, had been unable to effect.
And yet it would seem that every reformation can be only partial. A
very Luther, with his strong battle-voice,' and defiant, lifelong warfare
against principalities and powers, cannot make a whole Europe Protestant.
(
20
FICHTE A BIOGRAPHY.
So too it happens with the reformer Fichte. That expected commission
from Weimar is somewhat tardy in arriving. It is even whispered that
the university authorities, jealous of the success of an individual professor,
who had done by himself what they could not do in their collective
capacity, are enviously raising obstacles. Whereupon arise suspicions,
stupid rumours of all sorts, and dissatisfaction on account of the delay;
and, by way of practical consequence, one of the three orders withdraws
from the engagement, turning with great virulence against Fichte, as a
man suspected of deceiving them.
The success, as we said, is only partial. Still, two orders gained over is
some encouragement. Were it not well, therefore, to put on an extra
pressure of logic, with a view to reduce likewise the rebellious third?
Fichte accordingly determines to deliver, during the winter session of 1794,
another course of lectures, 'calculated to arouse and sustain a spirit of
honour and morality among the students.' To accomplish his purpose
thoroughly, it was necessary that these lectures should take place at a time
not devoted to any other course, so that he might assemble an audience
from among all the several classes. But every hour from eight o'clock in
the morning till seven in the evening, of every six days in the week, was
already occupied by other lectures. No way seemed open to him but to
deliver these moral discourses on the Sunday. Before adopting this plan,
however, he made diligent inquiry whether any law, either of the state or
the university, forbade such a proceeding. Discovering no such prohibi-
tion, he examined into the practice of other universities, and found many
precedents to justify Sunday lectures. Finally, he asked the opinion of some
of the oldest professors, none of whom saw any objection to his proposal,
provided he did not encroach upon the time set apart for divine service.
'If plays are permitted on Sundays,' said Schütz, 'why not moral lectures?'
Fichte, therefore, fixed upon nine in the morning as the hour, and commenced
his course under favourable prospects. A large concourse of students from
all the different classes attended, together with several of the professors,
who willingly acknowledged that they derived great benefit from the dis-
courses.
(
Fichte believes himself to be in the way of duty. Nevertheless the
best-laid schemes of mice and men,' not to say professors,' gang aft agley;'
and Fichte finds that the worthiest intentions, and conduct the most pru-
dent, are no protection against calumny. A political print, of the anony-
mous slanderous description, 'distinguished by crawling sycophancy towards
power,' directs its wondrous sagacity to the consideration of this phenome-
non, and traces a very intimate connection between the Sunday lectures
and the French Revolution! If a discerning public will believe this anony-
mous slanderous publication, here is a‘formal attempt to overturn the
established religious services of Christianity, and to erect the worship of
Reason in their stead!' A stupid, undiscerning public to some extent
believes it, and the Consistory of Jena conceive it to be their duty to
forward a complaint on the subject to the High Consistory at Weimar.
Finally, an assembly lodges an accusation before the duke and privy
council against Professor Fichte, for 'a deliberate attempt to overthrow the
public religious services of the country.' Inquiry is thereupon directed to
be made; meantime let Professor Fichte suspend his lectures.
21
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
Fichte suspends, but will in the interim take occasion to defend himself.
The best way of doing so is to give a 'simple narrative of the real facts,'
and to make government acquainted with his projects for the moral improve-
ment of the students. This done, the charge is effectually demolished.
The duke forthwith gives judgment,' dated 25th January 1795,' whereby
Fichte is freely acquitted of the utterly-groundless suspicion which had
been attached to him;' his wisdom and prudence are mentioned with
approbation; and he receives assurances of the 'continued good opinion'
of the prince. The Sunday lectures, accordingly, are resumed, avoiding, as
heretofore, the hours of divine service.
Meanwhile, that outstanding third union, or Belial - fraternity, proves
utterly invincible by logic, and its outrageous proceedings are beginning to
render Fichte's residence at Jena not only uncomfortable, but even danger-
ous. The good wife Johanna has been several times insulted on the
public streets; his own person is not always safe; and his property has
been subjected to repeated outrages. Obviously the town of Jena is in great
want of new police. In lack of such desirable force, Fichte is constrained
to apply to the senate of the university for protection. The senate declares
it can do nothing more than authorise self-defence, in case of necessity;
except remind him that he has brought his difficulties upon himself, by
bringing the conduct of the orders under the notice of the state, without
the senatorial sanction. If more protection than the academy can afford
him be desirable, Fichte is at liberty to apply to his friends at court. Such
is the position of affairs till towards the close of the winter session. Then
we have a crisis. "In the middle of the night (date unknown) a party of
the Belial-fraternity made an attack upon Fichte's house, perpetrated con-
siderable damage, and caused much alarm, the worthy father-in-law, who
it seems was now living with our professor, narrowly escaping with his
life. It appears high time for the household to be moving. Accord-
ingly Fichte applied to the duke for permission to leave Jena, which
being granted, he took up his residence at Osmanstadt, a village about
two miles from Weimar.
About this time, if we mistake not, Fichte completed his speculations
which were begun at Zurich, and published them under the title of 'Wis-
senschaftslehre,' which, being interpreted into our vernacular, signifies
'Doctrine of Science.' This is the scientific development of his philoso-
phical system-the systematic co-ordination of those 'materials for a
science,' which he conceived Kant to have discovered but not developed.
In this he endeavoured to construct à priori the whole system of human
knowledge upon the original basis of consciousness; as from the funda-
mental principles here evolved, he designed to construct a complete system
of morals.
It has been said that the peculiarities of Fichte's philosophy are so inti-
mately bound up with the personal character of its author, that both lose
something of their completeness when considered apart from the other.
So far, at least, as ideal and actual may approximate, the one is the idea
whereof the other is the visible realisation. The two mutually illustrate
each other. Nevertheless, to attempt any sufficient exposition of the
system in this place would be futile. It were easy to bewilder uninitiated
readers with the transcendental phraseology—but what profit? The
22
FICHTE A BIOGRAPHY.
But Fichte
thing solely essential in the case were to make it understood.
is not to be understood without much sedulous and patient study. His is
nowise what the Germans call a 'parlour-fire philosophy;' but a rugged
obstinate element, which one must contend with lustily before it will yield
us any result. Whoever has courage and opportunity for such an enter-
prise will probably find himself ultimately rewarded for the pains be-
stowed upon it; whatever may be his conclusions as to the value or truth
of the opinions he will here encounter, a due consideration of them will of
itself be an admirable discipline of his understanding.
Here, however, it is curious to observe how any new system, or im-
portant modification of an old one, is uniformly met with outcry and dis-
trust. Let a man, or any number of men, be settled down into any given
habitude, either of thought or of mere material arrangement, and how
difficult and unpleasant it is to move out of it. It has often occurred to us
that our numerous railways must have many times proved marvellous
annoyances in this respect. Fancy a retired burgher, who has built for
himself a quiet snuggery, a little way out of town, all precisely accordant
with his own notions of a private residence, thinking to dwell there unmo-
lested for the rest of his lifetime. Lo, suddenly, some cosy afternoon,
when he is perhaps congratulating himself on the quietude of his retreat,
he receives the astounding intimation, that it is proposed to carry the
Donner and Blitz Railway slap through his drawing-room! Here is a
touch of unexpected electricity for him! What does he do but straightway
begin to anathematise the project, and predict all manner of evil concern-
ing it?
Just so is it with that whole class of thinkers who have com-
placently settled all that appertains to man and the universe according to
some quiet life-theory of their own. That there should be anything in
heaven or earth not 'dreamt of in their philosophy' is what they cannot be
prevailed upon to admit. Many at this period were the self-satisfied retired
thinkers, inhabiting suburban boxes in the vicinity of the capital city of
Transcendentalism. How very uncomfortable now to be dispossessed, with
no better prospect for some time to come than that of furnished lodgings!
Really it is difficult for any retired individual, man of business or philoso-
pher, to reconcile himself to so unpleasant a predicament. Accordingly,
one need not wonder greatly at the many attacks which the Wissenschafts-
lehre sustained from some of the philosophical journals of the day. To
these for some time Fichte paid little or no regard; but becoming at length
more frequent and importunate, he was in a manner constrained to reply
to them. He did this in a very decided fashion. Take, for instance, a
glance at the measure dealt out to a certain Herr Schmidt, a very stolid
and troublesome antagonist. My philosophy,' says Fichte, 'is nothing to
Herr Schmidt from incapacity; his is nothing to me from insight. From
this time forth I look upon all that Herr Schmidt may say, either directly
or indirectly about my philosophy, as something which, so far as I am
concerned, has no meaning, and upon Herr Schmidt himself as a philoso-
pher who, in relation to me, is non-existent.' Here at anyrate is no lack
of emphasis, whatever one may think about courtesy. A perfectly fair
mind might regret the tone of contemptuousness and asperity here and else-
where observable in Fichte's treatment of his opponents; nevertheless, in
judging of it, it were well to consider the specific circumstances under
(
23
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
which it was adopted. He himself was never the assailant, but desired
if possible to avoid controversy, and entered into it only when he seemed
impelled by persecution and abuse. Besides, he always professed himself
to contend, not for distinction, but for truth. 'With him to whom truth
is not above all other things'-said he, 'above his own petty personality—
the Wissenschaftslehre can have nothing to do.' And again: 'It fills me
with scorn which I cannot describe, when I look on the present want of
any truthfulness of vision, on the deep darkness, entanglement, and per-
version, which now prevail.' He admits that he had not handled Herr
Schmidt very tenderly; but says that every just person, knowing many
things that were not before the public, would give him credit for the
'mildness of an angel.' Fichte complains of nothing more distinctly than
that his system was misapprehended; that his opponents would not take the
trouble to understand it, or admit their inability if they could not: above
all, that they would not refrain from pronouncing against it, even when
they knew that it was not understood by them. Nothing more natural
than that he should consider such conduct foolish and unreasonable, and
treat it accordingly. 'It is surely to be expected,' said he, 'from every
scholar-not that he should understand everything-but that he should at
least know whether he does understand it or not; and of every honest
man, that he should not pass judgment on anything before he is conscious
of understanding it.'
While, however, the Wissenschaftslehre was indifferently received, and
indifferently comprehended by many of his philosophic brethren, it was
not without success in other quarters. Men of genius, not so exclusively
devoted to metaphysical speculation, accepted it with much avidity and
welcome, as considerably the most serviceable philosophy they had met
with. Foremost amongst these, as foremost among all German men, was
the poet Goethe. Knowing Fichte well, and entertaining a high opinion of
his character and ability, he requested that the work might be sent to him,
sheet by sheet, as it went through the press; and he afterwards acknow-
ledged that the study of it had been of essential service to his culture.
The disturbances which had driven Fichte out of residence at Jena
gradually subsiding, his academical life went on for some time unmolested,
and he appears to have devoted himself assiduously to literary exertion.
His contributions to the 'Philosophical Journal,' of which he became joint-
editor with his friend Niethammer, in 1795, form an important part of his
works, and are directed chiefly to the further scientific development of his
system. In 1796 appeared his Doctrine of Law,' and in 1798 his ' Doc-
trine of Morals,' wherein the fundamental principles of the Wissenschafts-
lehre are applied to practical departments of knowledge.
Meanwhile two events had transpired in connection with his domestic
relations: the death of the good father-in-law in September 1795, and
subsequently the birth of a son, who, we believe, is at this present writ-
ing a professor of philosophy in the university of Tubingen. Fichte's
household life throughout appears to have been distinguished by peaceful
simplicity and general uniformity of happiness, varied only by such solici-
tudes and trivial infelicities as are understood to chequer the most favour-
able matrimonial alliances.
Now, however, diligent literary exertion, domestic comfort, academical
24
FICHTE: A BIOGRAPHY.
reputation, and even the future prospects of his life, are about to be blasted
by an unexpected blow. Fichte, who has already suffered much, must
adjust himself to a greater calamity than has hitherto befallen him. He
may nerve his strong heart, and shield him well in his integrity, for the
powers of malice and stupidity are coming down upon him from the high
places, to lay waste the little garden of his peace! This man, whose life
has been a continual adoration of the Infinite, to whom the immeasurable
universe has been but as a vast and solemn temple, wherein his earnest
spirit has mused and worshipped; whose heroic sentiments and lofty con-
templations tend pre-eminently to inculcate and exalt a faith in the God-
like, and to make it manifest in the consciences and visible activities of
men—this man of steadfast virtue, and of humble, trustful piety, is now to
stand publicly accused of atheism!
This is a charge which has been oftentimes preferred against philoso-
phers, whose speculations, from their novelty and the imperfections of
language, have on their first announcement been generally misunderstood.
The popular mind in all ages has been apt to misconstrue the discoveries
and further developments of truth, which new and greater intellects
occasionally reveal, into a profane interference with established opinions.
It is ever the lot of the man who outstrips his contemporaries in spi-
ritual discernment, to be first misinterpreted, and then denounced. The
catalogue of noble names who have thus suffered would be comparatively
endless. Accusations of atheism and infidelity swell everywhere the re-
cords of history and of literature; a reader of any compass of comprehen-
sion comes gradually to regard them as only sorrowful instances of that
mental and moral perversion which inevitably results from imperfect culti-
vation. For, really, atheism as a faith is manifestly incredible. Who
ever knew an atheist from conviction-a man who, using his senses and
understanding, yet believed there was no God? It is only the fool that
hath said so in his heart, and wished it might be true.
The accusation against Fichte was founded upon an article which he
published in the 'Philosophical Journal' for 1798, 'On the Grounds of our
Faith in a Divine Government of the World.' In this he examines the
true foundations of our belief in regard to a moral government of the
universe; not, indeed, for the purpose of establishing faith by demon-
stration, but to shew the fundamental elements of a faith already subsistent
in man, and indestructibly rooted in his nature. The absurd charge of
atheism must have originated from an utter misapprehension of the writer's
purpose; which, so far from controverting the existence and superinten-
dency of a moral ruler, was solely directed to inculcate clearer and more
comprehensive conceptions respecting his attributes and supremacy. Into
further particulars of the calumny we have here no space to enter, and can
only mention that the matter was brought before the court at Weimar for
investigation, and that the proceedings terminated with a decision suffi,
ciently exonerating Fichte from the charge preferred against him, thoug
a strong disapprobation was expressed in regard to the impruder
whereof he was considered chargeable in giving publicity to his doct
in terms offensive to the popular understanding. Dissatisfied wit
qualified character of the decision, Fichte resigned his professorship
university, and indignantly quitted Jena.

(
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
In the summer of 1799 we find him in Berlin, writing his book on the
'Destiny of Man.' In the progress of this work he took a deeper glance
into religion than he had ever done before. In allusion to it he says:
'In me the emotions of the heart proceed only from perfect intellectual
clearness; it cannot be but that the clearness I have now attained on this
subject shall also take possession of my heart. To this disposition is to
be ascribed in a great measure my steadfast cheerfulness, and the mildness
with which I look upon the injustice of my opponents. I do not believe
that without this dispute, and its evil consequences, I should ever have
come to this clear insight and this disposition of heart which I now enjoy;
and so the violence we have experienced has had a result which neither
you nor I can reasonably regret.' So writes he to the good frau Johanna,
still left behind at Jena. Fichte seems to have understood what Shak-
speare meant when he said: "There is a soul of goodness in things evil,
would men observingly distil it out.'
His economical circumstances, meanwhile, were none of the brightest.
Towards the end of the year, however, he succeeded in removing his
family to Berlin, in which place he thenceforth continued to reside. Here,
surrounded by a 'small circle of friends worthy of his attachment and
esteem,' he appears to have lived for some time privately and happily,
cultivating literature upon a little oatmeal'—like the illustrious projectors
of the 'Edinburgh Review.' Uninterrupted by public duties, he applied
himself diligently to the perfecting of his philosophy. At the close of
1799 he published his 'Destiny of Man;' and during the two following
years he was occupied with certain preliminary treatises, designed to pre-
pare the public mind for the complete reception of his doctrines, by shew-
ing their application to subjects of general interest. These introductory
writings he intended to follow up with a more strict and complete exposi-
tion of his scientific method, designed solely for the philosophic reader.
This purpose, however, was for a time postponed, owing partly, it would
seem, to the doubts which he entertained respecting the best mode of com-
municating with the public, and partly, it is said, to his personal dissatis-
faction with the reception which his works had hitherto received. For
one reason or another, he refrained from publishing anything for the space
of six years, with the exception of one or two minor works of a contro-
versial character which appeared in 1801.
Fichte, nevertheless, could not remain altogether inactive, nor restrict
himself wholly to a contemplative life. Shut out, as he conceived, from
the reading public, he sought to collect around him a listening one, to
whom he might verbally impart such message as he had. This, indeed, is
said to have always been his favourite mode of communication; as in the
lecture-room he found a freer scope for his peculiar powers than the form
of a literary work would admit of. A circle of pupils was gradually
gathered about him in Berlin, to whom from time to time he delivered
rivate lectures. Many distinguished scholars and statesmen were also
ong his auditory, it being soon generally understood that Fichte was a
worth going to hear. There, accordingly, for awhile, in his own
lecture-room, he addressed fit audiences on some of the toughest
s that could engage the understanding.
04, through the influence of certain ministerial friends, he was

FICHTE: A BIOGRAPHY.
appointed professor of philosophy at the university of Erlangen, with pri-
vilege to return to Berlin during winter to continue his lectures in that
city; and in this new appointment he achieved as brilliant a success as he
had formerly gained at Jena. Here he addressed, to all the students of
the university, his memorable lectures on the Nature of the Scholar.'
These he subsequently published as an amended edition of a former course
on the same subject which he had given to the public, twelve years before,
whilst resident at Jena. In these singular disquisitions the characteristics
and duties of the scholar are deduced with a rigorous scientific precision,
and presented, as Carlyle has said, 'in all their sacredness and grandeur,
with an austere brevity more impressive than any rhetoric.'
Fichte's outward history is now for some time undistinguished by any-
thing of general interest: we accordingly pass over a number of minor
details, to contemplate his attitude and behaviour under new circumstances
of trouble and privation. In 1806, the dominion of Napoleon had become
extended over nearly the whole of Germany; and Prussia, which alone
maintained its independence, was surrounded on all sides by his armies or
auxiliaries. While preparations were in progress to oppose the advances
of the enemy, Fichte made an application to the king to be permitted to
accompany the troops in the capacity of patriotic orator-thinking he
might, by force of eloquence, inspire his fighting countrymen with some
additional courage and a resolute invincibility of resistance. The pro-
posal was honourably received, but declined as incompatible with military
arrangements. The impending struggle, moreover, was very briefly settled:
the invader marching successfully from Auerstadt and Jena, and so onward
to a triumphant occupation of Berlin. This event rendered it necessary
for all who had identified themselves with the interests of their country
to seek refuge in flight or concealment. Fichte resolved not to tender
submission to the conqueror, and seeing no especial beauty in remaining to
be shot as a rebellious partisan of a vanquished cause, timeously betook
himself to cover. Leaving his wife to take charge of his household, he with
his friend Hufeland fled beyond the Oder. Awaiting the issue of the war,
the two took up their residence at Konigsberg, where Fichte was so far
fortunate as to get appointed provisional professor of philosophy during
his stay.
In Konigsberg University he accordingly lectures throughout
the winter with his usual ability and zeal.
As was natural in the case, the good wife Johanna many times entreats
him to return home to Berlin; the French soldiery proving nowise trouble-
some to quietly-disposed people, but being, on the whole, and especially
the officers, rather amiable fellows. Fichte, notwithstanding, cannot be
prevailed on to return, but obstinately declares it to be his duty to submit
to every privation and discomfort rather than give an indirect sanction to
the presence of the enemy by sitting down quietly under their dominion,
even could he do so with perfect safety to himself. Such a returning,'
said he, 'would be directly contradictory of the declarations made in my
addresses to the king, out of which my present circumstances have resulted.
And if no other keep me to my word, it is just so much the more impera-
tive on me to hold myself to it. It is precisely when other scholars of
note in our country are wavering that he who has been hitherto true should
stand firmer in his uprightness.'
}
27
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
This was bravely spoken. But now, on the 8th of February 1807,
the battle of Eylau rendered Konigsberg no longer safe as a residence:
were it not, therefore, well to quit quarters there, and repair to others
somewhat more remote? Fichte thinks so, and accordingly removes to
Copenhagen. Thither he arrives on the 9th of July, 'having been detained
for several weeks at Memel and at sea by unfavourable winds.' It is
ordained, however, that he shall not long remain there; for peace between
Fatherland and the enemy is shortly afterwards concluded, Berlin evacuated,
the gallantries of French soldiers suddenly cut short, and towards the
end of August the philosopher is again stationed under his hired roof-
tree, with his family, in the Prussian capital.
With the establishment of peace, the Prussian government sought to
repair the loss of political significance by fostering among its citizens the
desire of intellectual distinction and a spirit of freer speculation. It seemed
needful to 'rebuild the temple of German independence' on altogether new
foundations. The liberty which had been swept away must be succeeded
by a fresh manifestation proceeding from a deeper principle, and nurtured
by a nobler means of culture. One of the first modes which suggested
itself for the attainment of this end was the establishment at Berlin of 'a
new school of higher education, free from the imperfections of the old
universities, from whence, as from the spiritual heart of the community, a
current of life and energy might be poured through all its members.'
Fichte was chosen as the man best fitted for the work, and unlimited power
was given him to frame for the proposed university a constitution. No
employment could have been more congenial to Fichte's inclinations.
Here, indeed, had arrived at last the long-desired opportunity of developing
a systematic plan of instruction founded on the spiritual elements of
humanity. He entered with ardour upon the undertaking; and by the
end of 1807 his plan, well digested and arranged, was ready for adoption :
though the university was not actually established until 1810. Then,
however, Fichte was elected rector; and it is said that during the two
years in which he held the office, he laid for the institution the foundation
of the character which it still maintains-that of being the best regulated,
as well as one of the most efficient schools in Germany.
The course of events brings us down to the year of 1812, when the
commotions and contentions of the European continent are working out
a series of new and significant results. Napoleon the Grand, hitherto
conceived to be invincible, has become at length Napoleon overthrown :
Russian snows and Moscow conflagrations contributing to that unantici-
pated consummation. Now, it seems, the time has come when, by the
blessing of Providence, and a seasonable use of gunpowder, the Germans
may recover their lamented independence. Wise in his generation, the
king of Prussia enters into an alliance with the Russian emperor, and
straightway from Breslau sends forth a proclamation, calling upon the
young and active men of the country to arm themselves for the restora-
tion of its liberty. The Germans aforetime have suffered much defeat,
in spite of skilful and experienced commanders; nevertheless they do
not hesitate to answer to the summons, but with grim consent march
forwards to fight for freedom, or in default thereof, to get themselves
patriotically shot!
28
FICHTE: A BIOGRAPHY.
An earnest Fichte shall now assuredly have a chance of exhibiting his
mettle. He renews his application to be appointed military orator, that so
he might share the dangers and animate the courage of the army of
liberation.' But there are difficulties of the insuperable sort which exclude
him from any such appointment. It seems that of all that warlike oratory
with which he is inwardly and so intensely burning, he cannot get himself
satisfactorily delivered. In which exigency it appears best to remain
stationary in Berlin, and there lecture 'On the Idea of a True War.' Mean-
time he and other patriot professors can organise an army of reserve of the
volunteer description, and announce its readiness to contribute personally,
when called for, to the defence of Fatherland. Professors and literati also
institute, on novel principles, a sort of impromptu life-assurance society,
whereby the widows and children of such as may fall in battle shall be
provided for by the amenities of survivors.
But who is this stealing upon us in the solemn night-time with moody,
sinister aspect, and air of affrightened courage, like one who had recently
killed a brother sinner in a duel, and needed absolution? Him we discern,
after due scrutiny, to be a veritable Captain Swing, or untimely resurrec-
tion of Guy Faux-student of philosophy notwithstanding-who, taking
counsel of the powers of darkness, has conceived a plan for firing the
magazine of the enemy by stealth, and thus blowing them compendiously
out of the planet. Fichte, to whom the scheme is revealed, will be no
partner in such atrocity. With cool alacrity he is off by break of day to
the superintendent of police, and has the whole abominable business
timeously prevented. If the powers on high are indifferent to interfere in
the defence of right, the devil shall in no case be invited to condescend
with his assistance! The sacred cause of freedom shall not be sullied by
that kind of partnership.
Captain Swing retires with his tinder-box to the subterranean shades of
an ignominious obscurity, and Fichte meantime continues lecturing on the
perils and disasters of the times. 'With a clearness and energy of thought
which seemed to increase with the difficulties and danger of his country,'
he keeps alive in the people an unquenchable animosity to the compromise
of liberty, or to any terms or conditions of peace which did not recognise
the unlimited independence of the German kingdoms. Austria, it is true,
mediates, and persuades to "compromise, whereby ensues only a nominal
independence; but a 'brave and earnest people,' seeking for 'true freedom,'
express unanimous dissatisfaction with the counterfeit, and are obviously
inclined towards violation of the amnesty. Hostilities are accordingly
recommenced, and go on through the autumn and winter months of 1813.
It was at the commencement of this campaign that the multitudinous
students of Berlin were one day assembled to hear Professor Fichte lecture
on the imposing topic of 'Duty.' There is breathless waiting and expecta-
tion; whispered prurient criticisms on the great master, whom all are never-
theless met reverently to hear; interchange of college gossip, reminiscences
of Burschen jollity, small talk and scandal, wrath and effervescence of
independency, vapid jests and commonplace solemnities, with a marvellous
redolence of stale tobacco; here and there a flash of native wit of charac-
teristic brilliancy, but oftener only an involuntary parody of some loftier
speculation, stated in a phraseology so vague as to make the speaker seem
29
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
profound, and like one who would probably understand his subject but for
the impediment of stupidity. Such, as near as we can guess, is the scene
and the occasion. Behold, however, Fichte has arrived, calm and modest
as a lion, standing in unconscious lordliness under the shade of forest-
trees. There is hush of miscellaneous tongues, and a simultaneous pre-
paration for listening—as when the sun shines forth upon the hemisphere,
provident householders disperse their candle-lights. He lectures with his
usual dignity and calmness, rising at intervals into fiery bursts of elo-
quence, but governed always by a wondrous tact of logic, such as few men
could equal.
From the topic of Duty in the abstract he leads his
audience to the present state of national affairs. On them he glows and
expands with animation; the rolling of drums without meanwhile fre-
quently drowning his voice, but inspiring him with fresh spirit to proceed.
He paints the desolation of his country-the withering hideousness of
usurpation—the boundless ravages and ambition of the foe; he swells with
a sublime hatred and indignation against oppressors; and passionately
enforces it as the duty of every one before him to consecrate his individual
strength and faculty to the rescue of his native land. 'Gentlemen,' he
exclaims finally, 'this course of lectures will be suspended till the end of
the campaign. We will resume them in a free country, or die in the
attempt to recover her liberties!' The hall reverberates with loud responsive
shoutings; the rolling of the outward drums is answered by the clapping
of innumerable hands, and the stampings of a thousand feet; every German
heart there present is moved to resolution, and pants for conquest or for
martyrdom. The orator, like the fabled Orpheus, by the impassioned
melody of his words has achieved the miracle of moving stones-stones
reputed to have been quarried out of Harzgebirge rock, and shaped by
supreme powers into Saxon men. Fichte descends from his place, passes
through the crowd, and places himself in the ranks of a corps of volunteers
then departing for the army.
The war went on in the neighbourhood of Berlin. The victories of
Grossbeer and Dennewiz secured the capital from danger; but from its
nearness to the scene of action it became a general hospital for the sick and
wounded. The public institutions for their reception were speedily
crowded, and soon entirely unequal to the demands made upon their means
of relief. The authorities, therefore, called upon the inhabitants to come to
their assistance with extraordinary contributions, and solicited the women
to take charge of the sick. Foremost among those that devoted themselves
to this amiable ministry was the wife of Fichte, who, as a patient nurse
and dispensing angel of gruel and consolation, exerted herself sedulously
for the space of five months. In the distribution of clothes, and food, and
medicine-in the exercise of pious offices around the beds of the dying and
unknown, by generous and womanly solicitude in many ways-she day by
day contributed to the alleviation of no inconsiderable suffering and sorrow.
As a consequence of her long uninterrupted exertions in the hospitals,
she began at length to feel alarming symptoms of illness. In January
1814 she was attacked by a violent nervous fever, which had been preva-
lent among the wounded. It shortly became so dangerous as to leave
hardly a hope of her recovery. On the very day when she was in greatest
peril, Fichte, who had been engaged in close and assiduous attendance
30
FICHTE: A BIOGRAPHY.
upon her from the commencement of her illness, was compelled to leave
her, to deliver the first of a course of lectures which he had previously
announced. With wondrous self-command he spoke for two hours on the
most abstract subjects, scarcely hoping to find, on his return, his beloved
companion still alive. This, as it happened, was the crisis of her disorder.
With transports of gratitude and joy he hailed the indications of recovery;
those who witnessed the excess of his delight were alone able to estimate
the almost superhuman power of control which he had exercised while
engaged in his academical vocation.
Beautiful are the tremblings of affection, and the graceful tenderness
of those who, after danger or anxiety, look thankfully in each other's
faces on delivery from fear. Beautiful the new-born flowerage of love
that springs from past calamity. Yet often does it happen, in our
world of vicissitude and care, that at the very time when we have been
graciously relieved from apprehension, then does some new and terrible
distress befall us. Even so it was fated to be now.
As his wife was being
restored to him with health, Fichte himself caught the infection. Its first
symptom was a nervous sleeplessness, which resisted the effect of baths
and the ordinary remedies applied for its relief. Then he was attacked
by a wild delirium, in which the memories of past activity mingled
confusedly with the phantasma of present pain. The valiant soul in
its bewilderment held conflict with imaginary enemies, and struggled with
deadly passion against the invisible furies of a distempered fancy. At
times he conceived that only will and resolution were required to conquer
the disease, and would strive desperately to resist the insidious agonies
which were vanquishing his strength. In one of his lucid intervals, which
were brief and seldom, he was told of Blucher's passage of the Rhine, and
the final expulsion of the French from Germany. Then rose before him
resplendent visions of future blessedness for Fatherland, and he imagined
himself to be contending in the fray for the restoration of its liberties. All
this feverish excitement and restlessness wore away his life. Once when
his son was approaching him with medicine, he said, with a look of much
affection, 'Leave it alone; I need no more of that: I feel that I am well.'
He passed some hours in profound and unbroken sleep; nevertheless, on
the eleventh day of his illness, during the night of the 27th of January
1814, he died. He died in his fifty-second year, while his bodily and
mental faculties were as yet unimpaired by age; his fine black hair
unshaded by any signs of gray; his step still firm, and his whole ap-
pearance vigorous and well sustained. 'So robust an intellect-a soul so
calm, so lofty, massive, and commanding,' the world shall not see again for
many days.
And so, reader, we have come abruptly to the strong man's end. We
have followed him—not without a sympathising admiration—through the
changes and chances of his life; and now we must pause in reverence over
the untimely grave of his mortality. His life has been 'a battle and a
march' against the principalities of evil and temptation-a conflict with
error and insincerity, in others and in himself; and now the valiant soul
has attained to its rest, the strong courageous fighter goes home with
victory. The doctrine which he taught, and practically asserted by his
life, is a justification of that higher hope which dawns in all times upon
31
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
earnest and enthusiastic souls-that lofty and commanding faith in the
integrity of the moral principle in man, which seeks to transform the world
into the image of the ideal. If it be true, as has been said, that the whole
value of history and biography is to increase our self-trust, by demonstrat-
ing what is possible to man, then shall the life of this man be an encourage-
ment and indication to them who would strive to fashion their own in
accordance with the eternal realities of things. In severe rectitude, in
endurance that would not shrink, in energy, and perseverance, and resolu-
tion, in incorruptible integrity and devout heroism of character, he is
admirable for ever: 'as a man approved by action and suffering, in his
life and in his death, he ranks with a class of men who were common only
in better ages than ours,' but who were needed in no age more imperatively
than now.
The grand moral of his life, did any one still need to ask it, is
to shew the possibilities of worth and virtue which are yet open to other
men. Farewell, thou brave Fichte! and may the love of good men every-
where embalm thee in their memory!
*
* The facts related in this Paper are principally derived from a Life of Fichte by
his son.
The writer has been partly aided in shaping them to the present result by
an English Memoir' by William Smith; whose excellent translations of several of
Fichte's writings he takes the opportunity of recommending to the attention of
studious and intelligent readers.
END OF VOL. IX.

CHAMBERS'S
PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE
VOLUME X
WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS,
LONDON AND EDINBURGH.
1854.
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY W. AND R. CHAMBERS.
CONTENTS.
ANCIENT RITES AND MYSTERIES,
•
SIBERIA AND THE RUSSIAN PENAL SETTLEMENTS,
HARRIETTE; OR THE RASH REPLY-A TALE,
1
CHILDHOOD OF EXPERIMENTAL PHILOSOPHY,
CONFUCIUS,
THE TEMPTATION-A TALE,
SIAM AND THE SIAMESE,
•
THOMAS MOORE,
No.
73
74
75
76
: 77
78
79
80

CHAMBERS'S
PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
ANCIENT RITES AND MYSTERIES.
I.
THE various mythological creeds of the ancient world, different as
they were in the forms and ceremonies pertaining to each, may all
be traced to a common origin in the constitution of the human mind.
Natural religion is the manifestation of the sentiments of wonder and
veneration, and the powerful manner in which these organs were acted
upon in the early ages of the world led, in a manner perfectly natural and
easily understood, to the formation of the mythologies which arose on
the shores of the Ganges and the Nile, in the sunny vales of Greece, and
among the snowy ridges of the Dofrefeld. The mind of man, in these
ages, must be regarded as the mind of a child—infantile, undeveloped,
untrained, and finding food for its wonder in everything of which it took
cognisance, and objects for its veneration in everything which it could not
comprehend. The wonders of the starry heavens, the continual succession
of day and night, the phenomena of the revolving seasons, eclipses of the
sun and moon; all made the same impression upon men's minds in those
early ages as they do now upon the ductile and unformed mind of a child.
To the first dwellers upon the earth all these things were as novel and as
wondrous as they are to the child of two years old who beholds them for
the first time, and they were as little able to understand them. Before
they could do so in a correct and philosophical manner, mankind had to
pass through the same phases of varying belief as the mind of the indivi-
dual does in its progressive development from infancy to mature age.
Those objects which most excited their wonder they soon came to regard
No. 73. VOL. X.
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
with a kind of religious veneration; and in this manner the sun and moon
came to be regarded as divinities, and whatever object on earth, animate
or inanimate, inspired them with wonder or awe, was adopted by some
tribe or nation as the sacred representative of the mysterious power which
had called all things into being, and which they could not comprehend.
Hence we find the sun and moon among the earliest objects of religious
adoration-the latter luminary being invariably placed in a subordinate
position with regard to the former, probably on account of its inferior
magnitude, and its lesser influence upon the earth. Thus the moon was
worshipped by the Scandinavians on the second day of the week, while the
worship of the sun was celebrated on the first; the moon was represented by
the ancient Egyptians and Greeks as the sister of the sun; and in India,
Persia, and Syria, in all of which countries the sun had its representative
in the national mythology, the moon does not appear to have been
honoured in a like manner. An infinite variety of natural objects, some
animate and others inanimate, were likewise regarded with reverence; and
this system of religious worship, which is called Fetichism, is that which is
invariably found among tribes the lowest in the scale of intellectual
development, as those of Africa and Polynesia. The negroes of Benin
regard with superstitious reverence a curious insect called the 'walking
leaf,' from its resemblance to a leaf in colour and form; the pagan Lap-
landers set up stones of remarkable form, and adore them; and in every
country in the world there is some river, or fountain, or rock, which was
once an object of veneration and worship.
The phenomena of the universe at length became the subjects of rational
study and philosophic investigation with a few minds more advanced than
the rest, and it can scarcely be doubted that the Chaldeans, the Magi, and
the Gymnosophists soon perceived the absurdities of Fetichism. For the
esoteric doctrines of these early philosophers the reader is referred to the
Paper on 'Ancient Philosophic Sects.' In this place we have only to shew
how the superstructure of the ancient mythologies was raised upon the pan-
theistic foundation laid by the Gymnosophists, and probably by the Magi,
the Chaldeans, and the Egyptian priests likewise. The great error of the
Indian sages was in permitting reverence to be offered by the unenlightened
masses, who were unable to comprehend their esoteric doctrines, to any
object which the worshipper chose to regard as the visible representative
of the great and mysterious Om. The Magi, on the contrary, only per-
mitted the adoration of the sun, as the grandest object which could pos-
sibly be selected to serve as a symbol of divinity; and from this circum-
stance arose the great difference which afterwards came to exist between
the religious systems of India and Persia; for while there arose in the
former country the most cumbrous mythology that the imagination of man
has ever conceived, the Persians, though they at length fell into the error
of regarding the sun as a deity, never became image-worshippers, even in
the period of the greatest corruption of the national creed. To give a full
account of the various mythologies of the ancient world does not come
within the design of the present Paper; but it is necessary to the under-
standing of the rites and mysteries which rose out of them, that the prin-
cipal deities should be briefly described, with the origin of their worship,
and the manner in which it passed from one country to another.
2
ANCIENT RITES AND MYSTERIES.
Om, the Sanscrit name of the infinite, eternal, and incomprehensible
Power of the Vedas, is a compound word, expressing at once creation,
preservation, and destruction; and hence the first step in the popular
construction of the Indian mythology was to separate the three ideas, the
great attributes of Om, and represent each as a distinct divinity. This
Indian trinity consists of Brahma, the Creator; Vishnu, the Preserver;
and Sheva, the Destroyer; and on certain occasions the three, called col-
lectively Trimarti, are worshipped together. In the celebrated cavern-
temple of Elephanta, and in other parts of India, the Trimarti are sculp-
tured in the same mass of stone; but separately, Vishnu and Sheva are
more worshipped than Brahma. The last is represented as a gold-
coloured figure, with four heads and four arms; Vishnu of a blue colour,
with blue eyes and four arms, a crescent upon his forehead, a neck-
lace of skulls, and a club in each right hand; and Sheva as a black
figure, with a very terrible countenance. There is so much confusion
in the wild tales of the Indian mythology, that it is sometimes difficult to
identify the divinities who figure in them; and Sheva and Vishnu are often
found exercising the attributes of each other. Crishna is supposed by
some to be the same as Vishnu; but we are inclined to believe that this
deity originally personified the sun. Muhadev seems identical with Sheva,
to whom the mythologists have given a wife in the person of Doorga or
Kalee, who occupies a prominent place in the stories of the conflicts
between the gods and the giants, the latter figuring as conspicuously in
the early myths of India as in those of Greece and Scandinavia. She is
represented black, 'like her husband, with four arms, and with eyebrows
dripping blood; she wears a necklace of skulls, like Vishnu; her earrings
are human bodies; and the hands of the giants whom she has slain hang
at her girdle. The other divinities of India are innumerable, and are
probably, for the most part, deified heroes of the earliest ages.
The religious observances which form the worship of these gods are
numerous and burdensome, and if performed strictly, would engross the
entire time of the worshipper; but they are necessarily abridged, though
they still encroach too much upon the moral and social duties. They
commence with ablutions and prayers, then the worshipper prostrates him-
self before the rising sun, and proceeds to the inaudible recitation of certain
texts of the Shasters, or commentaries upon the Vedas. Other observances
required are offering cakes and water to the gods, and feeding animals
reputed sacred—as oxen, monkeys, &c. The fruits and cakes offered are
allowed to remain upon the altars a certain time, after which they are eaten
by the attendants. Animal oblations are offered only upon the altars of
the terrible Doorga, to whom existing records prove human victims to
have been sacrificed in ancient times. The offerings are most abundant
at the annual festivals of the gods, when immense numbers assemble in
the open areas before the temples, and after making their offerings, amuse
themselves with dancing and singing. The festival of Doorga is the Satur-
nalia of the East, and the dances and songs are of the most indecent descrip-
tion. That of Juggernaut, which, we are happy to say, is not celebrated
with half the zeal that it used to be, is marked by the self-immolation of
many of the god's infatuated worshippers. The image of the god, with
those of his brother and sister, Bala-rama and Soobhadra, is placed in a
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
colossal car, ornamented with mythological paintings of the most demoralis-
ing tendency; and the car is then dragged through the streets by the mul-
titude, many of whom voluntarily throw themselves under the wheels, and
are either crushed to death or horribly mangled. Religious pilgrimages to
the sources of the Ganges and the Junna, to the junction of these rivers at
Allahabad, to the holy city of Benares, and other places, are also frequently
performed; and at Allahabad half a lac of rupees (£5000 sterling) has been
received in one year for permission to bathe at the junction of the sacred
rivers.
The sun appears to have been in all countries the first object deified-in
India as Crishna, in Persia as Mithra, in Syria as Baal, and in Assyria and
Babylonia as Belus. The remains of a large and beautiful temple of the
sun still exist at Balbec or Baalbec, and the temple of Belus at Babylon is
described by classic historians as the oldest and most magnificent in the
world. Its towers were remarkably lofty, and among its riches were several
images of massive gold, one of which is said to have been forty feet high.
In a chamber at the summit of the highest tower was a magnificent bed, to
which the priests nightly conducted a female to remain in the society of
the god. The Syrians, besides Baal, had a female divinity named Astarte,
who is considered to be the same as the Venus of the Greeks, and in whose
grand temple at Hieropolis three hundred priests were daily engaged in
offering sacrifices upon her altars.
In Egypt, the sun was personified by Osiris, and the moon by Isis, who
is represented as his sister and wife. Typhon, who holds the same place
in the Egyptian mythology as Sheva does in the Indian, and Ahrimanes in
the Persian, was called the brother of Osiris, and is the same as the
Typhoeus of the Greeks. Ilis introduction into the Egyptian pantheon,
however, is probably of much later date than those of Osiris and Isis. The
worship of the two latter was universal in Egypt, and the people were
taught by the priests that the annual inundations of the Nile were caused
by the tears which the goddess shed on the anniversary of the murder of
Osiris by their brother Typhon. Serapis is supposed by some authors to
have been the same as Osiris, and Apollodorus asserts that this god was
the same as Apis; but Herodotus, though he gives a very minute account
of the Egyptian divinities, does not mention him at all. Certain mysteries
were connected with the worship of this god, which, with those of Isis, will
be described hereafter. The most magnificent temples of Serapis were at
Memphis, Alexandria, and Canopus. Apis was worshipped under the form
of a black bull, into which the soul of Osiris was believed to have entered,
the two gods being the same under different names; the temple of this
brute-worship was at Memphis; but a bull was also worshipped at Helio-
polis, under the name Mnevis, and the latter is supposed to have been
sacred to Isis. Anubis is described by the mythologists as the son of
Osiris, and was represented with the head of a dog.
The annual festival observed in honour of Isis lasted nine days, and was
made the occasion of much licentiousness. The priests walked in procession,
barefooted, and clothed in garments of white linen; and vessels of wheat
and barley were borne, from a mythical tradition that the goddess had first
taught the Egyptians to cultivate the earth. During the night the priests
were engaged in the performance of various rites in the temples, the sacred
4
ANCIENT RITES AND MYSTERIES.
birds were regaled with delicacies, and hymns were sung by young female
choristers. The worship of Isis was introduced into Italy, but was sup-
pressed by a decree of the senate in the reign of Augustus, on account of the
licentiousness which accompanied the celebration of the Isiac festivals.
Those of Osiris were of the same character, which applies also to those of
Apis-the name given to the sacred bull of Memphis. The latter festival
lasted seven days, during which the sacred bull was led in solemn pro-
cession through the streets by the priests, the people running by the
animal's side, with every demonstration of joy, stroking him, prostrating
themselves before him, or presenting him with food. The sacred bull was
only permitted to attain a certain age, when he was led by the priests, with
many solemn ceremonies, to the Nile, in the waters of which he was
drowned; the carcass was then embalmed, and buried with much ceremony
by the priests. When the last rites had been offered to the deceased, the
priests shaved their heads, as a sign of the deepest mourning, and the people
of Memphis uttered mournful cries and lamentations, as if Osiris were
just dead for the first time. Another bull had to be sought for the temple;
and in order that the animal in which the spirit of the god had incarnated
itself might be more readily discovered, there were certain marks by which
it was always distinguished. Its colour was always black; on its forehead
was a square white spot; on its back the figure of an eagle; and on its right
side a white crescent, in allusion to Isis; the hairs of its tail were double;
and under its tongue was a protuberance in the form of a beetle. A very
precise and fanciful description; but it is probable that artificial means
were resorted to by the wily priests to give to the animal these distin-
guishing and indispensable characteristics. When a bull possessing them
was found, the mourning for his predecessor was changed for demonstra-
tions of the most exuberant joy, with which his appearance was everywhere
hailed. The animal was not lodged in the temple at Memphis until the
expiration of forty days, and during this period only women were permitted
to approach it. Auguries were drawn from his cating or rejecting the food
offered him the former case being regarded as a favourable omen, and
the latter as one of evil. Germanicus, when he visited Egypt, consulted
the sacred bull of Memphis in this manner. The festival of Apis was being
celebrated when Cambyses invaded Egypt, and the conqueror ordered the
priests to appear before him, and bring the god with them. On seeing the
sacred bull, he was so enraged at their idolatrous and superstitious practice,
that he wounded it with his sword, ordered the priests to be flogged, and
forbade the continuance of the festival under the penalty of death. Ou
account of the tradition respecting Osiris, oxen generally were regarded with
a feeling of veneration by the Egyptians; but their superstitious reverence
for the crocodile, the serpent, the cat, the ibis, and the beetle, for onions
and for the lotus-flower, was probably a relic of the Fetichism of their
ancestors. The festival of Adonis was introduced into Egypt from Pho-
nicia, in which country it lasted two days; but the Egyptians prolonged
its celebration during eight days. During the first half of the period, the
death of Adonis was mourned with a frightful howling and wild lamenta-
tions; but during the latter days of the festival, no sounds save those of
the most extravagant joy were heard. Men and women ran about the
streets, wearing garlands of flowers, crying: 'Our Adonis lives! Adonis is
5
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
returned to us!' and all the young women who neglected to join in the
general rejoicing were compelled to submit to an odious alternative during
one day. No business was transacted during the celebration of this
festival, from a belief that it was unlucky to do so; and the disasters
which attended the expedition of Nicias to Sicily were ascribed to the
circumstance of the fleet having sailed from Athens while the people were
mourning for Adonis.
II.
The mythology of the Greeks was a work of the same gradual construc-
tion as that of the Hindoos and the Egyptians; but being less ancient, its
divinities were not entirely indigenous to the country. The gods of Greece
were probably more numerous than those of India, though the lapse of
time has since swelled the number of the Eastern deities to such a degree
that they now exceed in number those of the ancient Greeks. They may
be classed in four divisions, according to the manner of their introduction
into the national pantheon: the first including those which arose from the
early Fetichism; the second, those which personified certain passions and
emotions of the mind; the third, those whose worship was introduced from
Egypt; and the fourth, those supernumerary deities who appear to have
been adopted at a later period, to make out a complete genealogy and
history of the divine personages whom the national imagination had
enthroned upon Olympus. To the first class belong Apollo, Diana, Nep-
tune, and Vulcan, among the primary divinities, and a number of secondary
ones, personifications of the winds, the stars, rivers, fountains, &c.; but
among these there is evidently an order of time, and Apollo and Diana
must be considered as the earliest personifications of the Greek mythology.
Though it has been disputed whether Helios, the sun, Apollo, and Phœbus,
were the same, the point has not been satisfactorily determined; and from
the manner in which they are confounded by the ancients themselves, it
seems evident that they were regarded as the same in the popular belief.
At the same time it may be fairly admitted that the worship of the sun
preceded that of the imaginary deity in whose person it was represented,
as we know that the sun was the object of adoration among the Persians
long before that luminary was personified in the god Mithra. The sun was
among the first objects of religious veneration in all parts of the world-in
Mexico and Peru as well as in the East-and hence we may reasonably
conclude that it was the first object of Fetichist worship personified by the
Greeks as well as by other nations. When
When it is considered that the Greek
mythology was not the growth of one epoch, but required centuries for its
progressive development, and that even the Apollo of one time differs in
many respects from the Apollo of an earlier or later date, it is easy to
understand how doubts should at length have arisen respecting his original
deification. The worship of this deity was the most ancient in Greece, and
the most widely diffused through all the Grecian states and colonies. He
was represented as a handsome young man, with a glory of rays, like the
beams of the sun, round his head; in later times the Grecian sculptors
represented him with a bow in one hand and a lyre in the other, and a
crown of laurel upon his head. Diana personified the moon, and was
6
ANCIENT RITES AND MYSTERIES.
represented in the garb of a huntress, with a crescent upon her forehead
and a quiver of arrows at her back. She was said by the poets to be the
twin-sister of Apollo; and from the similarity of their characters, and the
mythical traditions respecting them to those of Osiris and Isis, their
worship has been supposed by some to have been introduced from Egypt.
A common origin is sufficient to account for the resemblance, and in
reference to this Apollo is as identical with Belus, Mithra, and Crishna, as
with Osiris. The other divinities of the first division were the creations of
the same emotions which led the ancestors of those by whom they were
personified as divine beings first to fall down in wonder and awe before the
stars, the elements, the fountains, and every object in nature that excited
their admiration or surpassed their comprehension. Polytheism is the
natural growth of Fetichism, and when Olympus came to be peopled by
the active imaginations of the Greeks, the personification of the sun and
moon was doubtless soon followed by that of the elements--the winds, the
rivers, and the fountains. In this manner arose a number of divinities,
which imagination depicted in different forms, and invested with appro-
priate attributes-as Neptune, god of the ocean; Vulcan, god of fire;
Æolus, god of the winds; Boreas and Eurus, gods respectively of the north
and south winds; and the Nereides, Naiads, and Dryads, nymphs, or female
divinities of an inferior grade, not possessed of immortality, and presiding
respectively over the ocean, the rivers and fountains, and the woods.
The second compartment into which we have divided the Greek pan-
theon comprised the deities who personified human passions and emotions
-as Venus, the goddess of love; Mars, the god of war; Ate, the goddess
of revenge, &c. The Greeks were a peculiarly imaginative people, prone
to enthusiasm, and restless when in ignorance or doubt of the cause of any
one of the vast collection of material and moral phenomena of which philo-
sophy afterwards came to take cognisance. Unable to account for them in
a natural and scientific manner, they imagined everything—trees, rocks,
fountains, rivers-to act in the same manner as themselves-by per-
sonal volition; and when these Fetichistic conceptions had at length given
place to the idea of personal deities presiding over these natural objects,
there was nothing strange or unnatural to the mind of an ancient Greek in
the supposition of deities presiding over the emotions of the mind. In the
same manner as Neptune was supposed to rule the ocean, and Æolus the
winds, Venus moved the heart to the soft and tender passion of love, Mars
inspired it with courage, and Ate incited to hatred and revenge.
The third division is occupied by the divinities whom the Greeks
imported from Egypt, in which category must be placed Jupiter and his
sister-wife Juno, Ceres and her daughter Proserpine, Bacchus, &c. The
fourth division comprised the deities who were afterwards introduced to
perfect the genealogy of the gods, and to fill up the gaps in the first or
mythical period of Grecian history, and who, from the relationship to the
divinities of longer standing, were honoured with a share of the national
veneration and worship. Among the more prominent divinities of this
class were Minerva, Mercury, Vesta, Saturn, Pan, and Hercules; but the
demigods and imaginary heroes thrown up in the effervescence of the
national intellect in this period are almost innumerable. The strange
reveries and crude speculations of the pre-Socratic philosophers-the
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
most enlightened of the Greeks at a period much later a period, indeed,
when time had long since fused the wondrous mass of Hellenic myths and
legends into a regular narrative of events, which every Greek regarded as
the early history of his country, may be taken as an index to that restless-
ness and activity of the national mind, which, in the exuberant fertility of
its imaginative powers, had conferred personality on the stars, the winds,
the elements, the rivers, and even the passions and emotions by which the
heart of man is swayed, and invented a thousand myths and legends to
connect these ideal personifications together by human ties. With the
accomplishment of this last step the Greek mythology became complete,
and assumed the form in which it has been handed down to modern times.
Though the Greeks, in the mythopæic era, made Jupiter king of heaven,
he does not appear to have been so generally popular as his sister-wife
Juno, who was worshipped with great solemnity not only throughout
Greece, particularly at Argos and Samos, but also at Carthage, and after-
wards at Rome. A ewe lamb and a sow were offered upon her altars on
the first day of each month, and the peacock, the hawk, and the goose were
considered sacred to her. At Rome no woman of immoral character was
permitted to enter her temples; and the consuls, when they entered upon
their office, were accustomed to offer sacrifices to her in a very solemn
manner. The chief festival of the goddess was the Heræa, observed at
Argos, Samos, and Ægina, in which the inhabitants went in solemn pro-
cession to the temple, which, at the first-named place, stood in a grove
without the walls, in the direction of Mycena. The procession was a double
one: the men went first, arrayed in their war panoply; and the women
formed a second procession, accompanying the priestess, who was always a
woman of the first quality, and was drawn in a chariot by milk-white oxen.
When the temple was reached a hundred oxen were sacrificed at the
altar, the flesh of which was afterwards distributed among the indigent
citizens; and at Argos the procession and sacrifice were followed by public
games, in which the prize was a crown of myrtle and a brazen shield. At
Elis there was another festival in honour of this goddess, presided over by
sixteen matrons and the same number of virgins, in which races were run
by young girls, divided into classes according to age. The fair competitors
were attired uniformly in garments reaching only to the knees; their hair
flowed loose upon their shoulders, streaming in the breeze as they sped
over the course; and the right shoulder of each was bared as low as the
bosom. The youngest maidens contended first, and the victor in each race
received a crown of olive, a portion of the ox that had been previously
sacrificed to Juno, and permission to dedicate her portrait to the goddess.
The worship of Apollo was universal in Greece, and the festivals in
honour of him were numerous, and celebrated with much solemnity and
magnificence. The island of Delos, from being the reputed birthplace of
this deity and his sister-goddess Diana, was considered sacred ground,
and their principal festivals were accordingly celebrated there. No dogs
were permitted in this island; the dead were not allowed to be interred.
there, and the sick were removed on the first symptoms of disease to the
adjacent islet of Rhane. The altar of Apollo at Delos, which was reli-
giously kept pure from the stain of blood, was made of the horns of goats,
8
ANCIENT RITES AND MYSTERIES.
and was considered one of the seven wonders of the world. The Delians
celebrated a festival every fifth year, when they went in procession to the
temple, crowned the statue of the deity with a garland of flowers, and sang
hymns in his praise; on retiring from the temple, they diverted themselves
with horse-races and dancing. The Athenians also celebrated an annual
festival at Delos, the institution of which was attributed to their mythic
hero Theseus, who, when about to make a voyage to Crete, is said to have
vowed to sacrifice annually at Delos, in the event of his returning safe.
The ship which bore the official worshippers to the island was reputed to
be the same in which Theseus had sailed to Crete, and when about to
proceed on its voyage to Delos, was decorated with garlands by the hand
of the Athenian priest of Apollo. On the arrival of the ship at the sacred
island, the official worshippers, called Theori, went in procession to the
After
temple, crowned with laurel, and preceded by men bearing axes.
sacrificing to Apollo with much solemnity, they returned to their vessel, and
sailed back to Athens, when they were received with every demonstration of
joy. The people ran in crowds to meet them, prostrating themselves before
the Theori as they walked in procession from the port, and the greatest
festivity prevailed throughout the city. During the absence of the vessel
it was unlawful to put any criminal to death; and it was owing to his
condemnation on the eve of its departure from Athens that the philosopher
Socrates obtilled a respite of thirty days. The Boeotians celebrated every
ninth year
a festival called the Daphnephoria in honour of this god, in
which an
dive bough, adorned with wreaths of laurel, garlands of flowers,
and brazen glos of various sizes, emblematical of the sun, moon, and
stars, was'
a solemn procession by a handsome youth of illustrious
parentage, clad in ich saffron-coloured robes trailing upon the ground, and
wearing
lowing locks a crown of gold. He was preceded in the
procession by one of his nearest relations, bearing a rod, to which were
attached garlands of flowers, and followed by a numerous train of young
virgins, carrying branches of palm in their hands. In this order the pro-
cession wound through the streets of Thebes to the temple of Apollo, the
tutelary divinity of the country, where supplicatory hymns were sung by
the choir of virgins. At Amycle, in Laconia, Apollo and Hyacinthus--the
latter a youth represented by the mythologists as having been accidentally
slain by the god with a quoit-were jointly honoured with an annual solem-
nity which lasted three days. The first day was one of fasting and mourn-
ing for the death of Hyacinthus, but on the second the youths of the
town appeared in the streets, some singing hymns in honour of Apollo,
while others accompanied their voices with the strains of the flute and the
lyre. Young girls appeared in richly-decorated chariots, attended by
youths mounted on gaily-paparisoned steeds, and followed by others on
foot, singing and dancing. On the third day wolves and hawks were
sacrificed, after which the worshippers sumptuously entertained their
friends, their slaves were allowed a holiday, chariot-races were run, and
the city became a scene of general rejoicing and festivity.
borne in

above his

The worship of Diana was almost as universal as that of her twin-brother
Apollo. Her temple at Ephesus was one of the seven wonders of the
ancient world, and the festivals in honour of her were numerous. The
inhabitants of Taunea were accustomed to sacrifice upon her altars all the
No. 73.
9
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
#
strangers who were cast away upon their shores; and the Lacedæmonians
likewise offered human victims to her, until Lycurgus substituted for these
horrid sacrifices the ceremony of flogging boys before her altars — the
sufferers being originally the sons of free Spartans, but in latter times those
of their helots. The Athenians generally offered a white goat upon her
altars. There was a festival called the Artemisia celebrated in her honour
throughout Greece, but with the greatest solemnity and magnificence at
Delphi; and in Attica another festival was held every fifth year, called the
Brauronia, from a town in which the goddess had a temple. A goat was
sacrificed; hymns were sung; and all the female children between the ages
of five and ten years attended, attired in yellow garments, to be conse-
crated to Diana-a ceremony to which much importance was attached by
their sex.
The
The worship of Minerva came in time to be almost as universal as that
of her sister-goddess, and she had magnificent temples in all parts of
Greece and the Greek colonies. Her worship was performed with much
solemnity and splendour, particularly at Athens, which, as the seat of
learning and the sciences, could not refuse its adoration to the blue-eyed
divinity who presided over wisdom, reason, and intellectual taste.
grand quinquennial festival of the Panathena which was there celebrated
having, however, been described in another Paper ("Religion of the
Greeks'), we shall pass on to the rites of Venus, who, as the goddess of
love and beauty, could not fail of receiving homage and adoration from a
people so sensuous and so enthusiastic in their worship of ideal beauty as
the ancient Greeks. A passion which exercises so great an influence over
the hearts and minds of both sexes as that of love, we may easily conceive
to have been among the first emotions personified by the wondrous mytho-
pæic propensity of the old Greeks; and the polytheistic nations of anti-
quity being accustomed to derive their divinities from each other, it ought
not to surprise us to find the personification as a deity of a passion so
powerful obtaining adoration in other countries. The Syrians had their
Astarte, the Armenians their Anaitis, and the, Scandinavians their Freya.
The priestesses of Anaitis were courtesans, and the most illustrious females
of the country did not scruple to become so in honour of the divinity on
the occasion of her festivals, during the continuance of which the greatest
licentiousness prevailed. The rites of the Scandinavian Venus were
attended with the same immoralities; and in all parts of Greece the
festivals of this goddess were similarly characterised. The love, the swan,
and the sparrow, were sacred to her; as also the myrtle, the rose, and the
apple; but no victims were offered upon her altars. Vulcan, as the
husband of Venus and god of fire, received a share of the national worship
-particularly at Athens, where a calf and a boar were the sacrifices offered
to him. His festival was celebrated in the month of August, when the
streets were illuminated and bonfires kindled, into which calves and pigs
were thrown as a sacrifice. At Athens there was another festival, on
which occasion three young men successively an a course, holding a
lighted torch, which each delivered to his successor in turn, and a prize
was given to him who succeeded in carrying it to the end of the course
without its being extinguished. In the works of ancient authors there are
many allusions to this torch-race, comparing the vicissitudes of human life

10
ANCIENT RITES AND MYSTERIES.
to the fluctuations of the flame as it was borne rapidly over the course,
and its frequent extinction in the midst of the competitor's career.
Ceres, the goddess of corn and the harvest, as the patroness of agricul-
ture, was as universally worshipped by the Greeks and Italians as Isis was
for the same reason in Egypt. Nearly every city in Greece observed the
annual rites called Thesmophoria in her honour; but nowhere were they
celebrated with so much solemnity as in Athens. With the exception of
the priest, who wore a crown on his head, only the wives of freeborn
Athenians were admitted to her worship; and the expenses of the solem-
nity were borne by their husbands. The fair votaries wore white robes, as
emblematical of purity, and were required strictly to observe the dictates
of chastity during three days before the solemnity, and the four days of its
continuance. The third day was observed as a solemn fast, and the worship-
pers sat on the ground in sign of mourning and humiliation; prayers were
addressed to the goddess, to her fair daughter Proserpine, to the grim
Pluto, and to Calligenia, the favourite attendant of Ceres; and all the rites
were performed with the utmost gravity and decorum. The office of high
priest was hereditary, and the virgins who assisted in the ceremonies of
the temple were maintained at the public expense.
The rites of Bacchus were of an entirely different character, and his
festivals were numerous; but as the procession and orgies of the Dionysia
have been elsewhere described, it will be sufficient here to give a brief
account of the Anthesteria. This festival was celebrated in the month of
February (Anthesterion)—whence its name and lasted three days. The
Greeks were accustomed to broach their wine on the first day, and on the
second the votaries rode through the streets in chariots, with garlands of
ivy on their heads, ridiculing those whom they passed, like the modern
charioteers of the Carnival. He who was able to drink the most wine
without exhibiting its inebriating effects in unseemly behaviour, received
a cask of wine, and was crowned with a chaplet of gold leaves. The
Anthesteria was the holiday of the slaves, who indulged freely in the
festivity of the occasion; but at the close of the third day a herald went
through the streets proclaiming the end of the festival, and admonishing
the slaves to return to the houses of their masters. The Athenians
celebrated another festival, called the Aloa, in honour of Bacchus and Ceres
conjointly, when bunches of grapes and ears of corn were offered upon
their altars. The husbandmen of Attica celebrated a festival, called the
Ascolia, in honour of Bacchus, when a goat was sacrificed, and a bottle
made of the skin, which, being filled with wine, they jumped upon, and
he who could first stand upon it was rewarded with it.
Vesta and Mercury, among the superior gods of Greece, and Saturn and
Pan, among those of the second grade, received a smaller share of the
public worship in that country than among the Romans, by whom they were
adopted, as were likewise Jupiter, Mars, Venus, Ceres, Bacchus, Hercules, &c.
The worship of Vesta, the goddess who presided over fire, was introduced
at Rome by Numa, who appointed four priestesses to tend the sacred fire,
which was kept constantly burning upon her altar. Tarquin increased the
number of priestesses to six, who were required to be of illustrious family,
and without personal blemish. They were chosen between the ages of six
11
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
and ten, and the period of their office was thirty years, during which they
were required strictly to observe the dictates of chastity. The first ten
years were passed in learning their sacred duties, the ten following in
performing them, and the latter years in instructing the vestal virgins who
were in their novitiate. At the expiration of the thirty years they were
permitted to marry, and leave the service of the temple; but incontinence
during that term was severely punished. Under Numa they were stoned
to death; but the elder Tarquin substituted for this punishment the horrible
one of immurement in a vault, to which the wretched victim was dragged
in a solemn procession, and where she perished miserably by starvation.
It was seldom, however, that the vestals violated their vow of chastity; for
it appears that, from the time of Numa to that of Theodosius, by whom the
order was abolished, and the sacred fire extinguished-a period of a thou-
sand years-only eighteen incurred the dreadful penalty described. Their
costume was a white vest bordered with purple, a surplice of white linen, a
flowing purple mantle, and a peculiar close cap, with hanging ribbons.
Their principal duty was to watch in turn the sacred fire, the extinction of
which was held to forbode some dire calamity to the Roman state; and the
vestal who permitted it to expire was severely scourged by the high priest.
When this happened, the sacred fire was rekindled from the sun by means
of a burning lens. The vestals were maintained at the public expense, fared
sumptuously, and enjoyed great privileges; they rode in chariots when
they appeared in public, a lictor preceding them with the fasces; they had
the first seats in the circus; they had the power of pardoning criminals on
their way to execution, if the meeting was accidental; their evidence was
received in the courts of law without the preliminary formality of an oath;
and even the consuls made way for them, and the fasces were lowered as
they passed by. Any offence against them was punished with death, and
they were among the few to whom was accorded the privilege of being
buried within the walls of the city. On the annual festival of Vesta, which
was observed on the 9th June, the Roman ladies walked in procession
barefooted to the temple of the goddess; millstones were decked with
garlands, and the asses that turned them were led through the streets
ornamented with flowers.
Saturn, though reputed to be the son of Colus and Terra, and the father
of the gods, was less worshipped in Greece than by the Phoenicians, Cartha-
ginians, and Italians, By the two former nations human victims were
sacrificed upon his altars, and Apollodorus and others assert that the same
horrid custom prevailed in Greece until abolished by Hercules, who is said
to have substituted figures of clay. At Carthage children of the first
families in the state were the victims, which hideous sacrifice probably
originated in the myth of Saturn devouring the male children which Rhea
bore him prior to the birth of Jupiter. The worship of the god, but
without the sanguinary rites with which it was celebrated by the Cartha-
ginians, was introduced very carly into Italy; and his festivals, called the
Saturnalia, were held, according to some writers, long before the founding
of Rome, in commemoration of the Golden Age-a period of peace and
plenty supposed to have existed under his rule. The Saturnalia was
originally celebrated on one day only, but its duration was gradually
extended to seven days, during which the schools were closed, the slaves
12
ANCIENT RITES AND MYSTERIES.
enjoyed a holiday, and mirth and jollity prevailed without restraint,
frequently growing into riot and licentiousness. The worship of Mars and
Mercury was also adopted by the Romans: to the former they sacrificed
horses; and in honour of the latter they held an annual festival on the 15th
May, when tongues were offered, because he was supposed to preside over
eloquence, and sometimes a sow or a calf. In honour of the god Pan they
celebrated yearly the festival called Lupercalia, held on the 15th February,
when two goats and a dog were sacrificed, and the ensanguined knife of
the officiating priest was first applied to the foreheads of two noble youths,
who were always obliged to smile on the occasion, and then wiped with
wool dipped in milk. The skins of the animals sacrificed were afterwards
cut into thongs, and given to boys, who ran through the streets in a state
of semi-nudity, applying the whips to all whom they met. It was accounted
fortunate to receive their stripes, particularly by married women, from a
belief that they were efficacious in removing sterility, and alleviating the
pangs of parturition. This custom was abolished by Augustus.
In addition to the deities whose worship was derived from Greece, the
Romans had several others-as Flora, Janus, Anna, Vertumnus, Autum-
nus, Fortuna, &c. Flora, supposed by some to have been a beautiful
courtesan, deified after death for her generosity and patriotism, was
reputed to preside over flowers and gardens, and received adoration among
the Sabines long before the era of Romulus. Her annual festival was the
occasion of much licentiousness, women appearing in the circus almost in a
state of nudity, and reproducing in Rome the scenes which characterised
the rites of Anaitis in Armenia, and of Venus at Cyprus and Corinth. In
honour of Janus, who presided over the year, the Romans sacrificed a ram
three times in the year; and in memory of Anna, the deified sister of
Dido, sometimes called Maia, they celebrated an annual festival on the
15th March, the rejoicings on which occasion too often degenerated into
licentiousness.
III.
We have reserved for particular consideration the secret mysterics of the
ancient worship of the Egyptians and Greeks, and of the nations of the
south-west of Asia, both because less is generally known concerning them
than of the public rites, and because many important and highly-inte-
resting questions are involved in their consideration. Owing to the
inviolable secrecy required to be observed by those who were initiated into
these mysteries, and the loss of the works of the ancient writers who
treated of them, as Melanthius, Menander, Ilicesius, Sotades, and others,
all that we know concerning them has had to be searched for in detached
passages of classic historians, and brief and often obscure allusions in
classic poetry and fiction; and the information which has thus been labo-
riously gathered has never yet been presented to the public in a generally
accessible form. The elaborate work of St Croix upon the subject has not
yet been honoured with an English translation; the more condensed but
very valuable article of Dr Doig is inaccessible to the mass of readers on
account of the bulk and high price of the work-The Encyclopædia Britan-
13
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
nicà'-in which it appeared; and even second-hand copies of those works of
Warburton, Cudworth, and Leland, in which some account is given of the
mysteries, are not to be procured cheaply, in the sense in which cheapness
is understood by the mechanic and the artisan. We shall, therefore,
endeavour to condense within the compass of the following pages all that
is known upon the subject, and thus supply a desideratum, as well to those
who have not the leisure or inclination to peruse larger works, as to those
whose limited pecuniary means place such works beyond their reach.
Most of the pagan divinities had their secret rites in addition to those
which were performed commonly and in public, and these were called Mys-
teries, because none were admitted to participation in them without a previous
initiation and an engagement to secrecy, and also on account of the garb of
mystery in which the secrets of religion were presented by the presiding
hierophant. The secret rites were not performed in all places, but only in
such as were especially sacred to the god of whose worship they appeared
to form a part; and when the divinities of one nation were adopted by the
people of another, according to that intercommunity of worship which
prevailed among most nations in the middle and latter ages of polytheism,
the mysteries were not always adopted along with the public rites. Thus
the public worship of Bacchus prevailed in Rome long before the intro-
duction of his mysteries; but in the case of Isis, the public rites seem
to have been introduced only for the sake of those which were celebrated
in secret. The first mysteries of which any account has been preserved
were those of Isis, which were first celebrated in Egypt, in the holy city of
Memphis; and it is probable that they had their origin in that country, and
were invented by the priesthood, as a means of preserving their esoteric
doctrines, at the time when polytheism and philosophy began to rise
side by side as the old Fetichist worship faded out. Hence the secrecy
required among a people so deeply imbued with ignorance and super-
stition, and the solemnities and allusions so well calculated to make a deep
impression upon the minds of the initiated. Hence also the circumspection
exercised in the admission of aspirants, and the exclusion of all who were
not freeborn citizens of the state, and of irreproachable character. Those
who, like the writer, have been engaged in the study of the secret societies
that have prevailed in Europe from the middle ages down to our own time,
will be able to trace a resemblance in the initiated of Memphis and Eleusis to
the Rosicrusians and the Illuminatists; and it is remarkable that a discourse
found upon one of the Carbonaro conspirators of Macerata, and printed in
the official report of their trial, connects the secret societies with the pagan
mysteries: The mysteries of Mithra in Persia, of Isis in Egypt, of Eleusis
in Greece, and of the temples yet to be rebuilt, and the light that is yet to
be spread,' says the discourse, are all so many rays proceeding from the
same centre, moving in an orbit whose field is the immensity of wisdom.'
It is easy to understand that the Magi of Persia and the Egyptian hiero-
phants should desire to preserve and transmit to posterity their philosophic
doctrines, and our knowledge of the origin of the Rosicrusians prepares us
for the course which they adopted in order to do so. A few wise and good
men,' says the discourse just quoted, 'who still cherished in their hearts
that morality whose principles are unalterable, either by change of time or
14
ANCIENT RITES AND MYSTERIES.
the succession of generations, while they wept in secret, ruminated on the
means of preserving untainted some sentiment of sound morality. They
secretly imparted their knowledge and their views to a few persons worthy
of the distinction. Thus transmitted from generation to generation, their
maxims became the fountain of that true philosophy which can never be
corrupted nor altered in its appearance.'
Herodotus, Diodorus Siculus, and Plutarch, are unanimous in ascribing
the origin of the mysteries to the Egyptian priests; and the disputes of
the Greeks as to their origin are an additional support to that opinion.
The Cretans, the Athenians, and the Thracians contended that their respec-
tive countries had the honour of introducing them; and when their intro-
duction from Egypt had long been forgotten, it was natural for each of
these states, knowing that it had not derived the mysteries from its neigh-
bours, to conclude, from the similitude between the secret rites of the
various divinities, that they had borrowed them from it. The hypothesis
of a common origin in Egypt explains the difficulty which the different
states of Greece had in determining this point. The mysteries are said to
have been introduced into Persia by Zoroaster, into Cyprus by Cinyras,
into Crete by Minos, into Boeotia by Trophonius, into Argos by Melampus,
and into Thrace by Orpheus; but as many of the characters mentioned are
now believed to be mythical, this acconnt, which is derived from the poets,
is not to be depended on. In each state the institutor placed them under
the protection of the tutelary divinity which best suited his purpose, as
giving them a greater importance and sanctity: thus, in Persia they were
grafted upon the worship of Mithra; in Cyprus, upon that of Venus; in
Crete, of Jupiter; in Lemnos, of Vulcan; in Phoenicia, of the Cabiri; in
Samothracia, of Cybele; in Boeotia, of Bacchus; in Delphi, of Semele;
and in Athens, of Ceres. Those of Egypt were the most celebrated until
they were eclipsed by those of Eleusis; and so similar do all the pagan
mysteries appear to have been, as well in the secrets revealed as in the
manner of their revelation, that it will be sufficient to glance cursorily at
those of Isis, Serapis, Mithra, the Cabiri, and Semele, and then give a
particular account of those of Ceres, concerning which we possess the
greatest amount of knowledge.
Concerning the mysteries of Isis much may be gathered from the 'Meta-
morphosis' of Apuleius, a Platonist philosopher of Madaura in Africa, who
lived in the reign of Severus, and who states in his apology before the
proconsul of Africa, that he had been initiated into almost all the paron
mysteries, and in the celebration of some of them had borne the
distinguished offices. The mysteries had in his time become muc
verted and corrupted from their original foundation and intentio
they were growing into discredit in proportion as the Christian
became more widely diffused. The initiated were accused of the
of magic, and the perpetration of the grossest immorality in thei
assemblies for the purpose of celebrating the mysteries; and
particular had been charged with sorcery before the proconsu
Whether the 'Metamorphosis' was written after or before the
not certainly known; but the hypothesis that it was writt
receives a strong support from the circumstance that his

CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
6
once alluded to it, which, from the many passages they might have quoted
from it in support of their charges, they would scarcely have failed to
have done had it then been written. The Metamorphosis' appears to
have been written for the vindication of his character and the support of
paganism, and particularly of the mysteries; and with this view the author
represents the hero of his fiction as a young man addicted to sensual
excesses and the practice of magic, and led on by them to the perpetration
of crimes, the enormity of which caused his transformation into an ass.
In relating this change the author displays great ingenuity and art; for
debauchery and magic, which had produced the metamorphosis, were the
corruptions charged against those initiated into the pagan mysteries, which
Apuleius wished to defend; and while he drew attention to the degrading
and brutalising tendencies of vice, he conformed to the vulgar belief in
punishing his hero by actual transformation. In the subsequent adventures
of his hero he shews the miseries which attend a career of vice and
depravity; and his account of the enormities of the mendicant priests of
Cybele, seem designed for after contrast with the mysteries of Ísis. His
hero falls deeper and deeper into vice; but assailed at length by the stings
of remorse, he flies to the sea-shore, and addresses himself in solitude to
the moon; then he falls asleep, and has a dream, in which Isis appears to
him in the resplendent form under which she was represented in her grand
temple at Memphis. The goddess acquaints him with the means by which
he may be restored to the human form: on the following day there is to
be a procession in her honour, and the priest who leads it will carry a
garland of roses, which possesses the power to retransform him. On eating
the roses as the priest of Isis passes him, he becomes a man again; the
priest throws a linen cloth over him as a garment, and invites him to
become initiated in the mysteries of the goddess; and he is initiated
accordingly. That a virtuous life was imperatively required from the
aspirant as a condition of admission, is shewn by the doubts and fears
which beset him at the moment of presenting himself for admission; and
this is one of the many points in which the pagan mysteries agree with
each other. Having been initiated with much ceremony and solemnity, he
is afterwards counselled by Isis to obtain admission to the secret rites of
Osiris likewise, which he does; and concludes with relating the prosperity
and happiness which attended his future life.
i
The
Epicurean' of Moore the poet contains a beautifully-written
description of the mysteries of Isis, which may be perused with equal
pleasure and advantage, as it appears to give a tolerably correct account of
atter, though not a complete one. Alciphron, a young Athenian of the
of Epicurus, penetrates into the subterraneans of the temple of Isis
phis, in quest of a beautiful young priestess whom he has seen
in the temple, and feeding the sacred birds at the Isiac festival;
gyptian priests, being desirous of effecting his conversion, draw
d by a series of illusions, wonders, and apparent dangers, which
hey attract. He descends a well, involved in pitchy darkness,
an iron ladder; passes through gates inscribed with characters
ses a subterranean passage, in which he has to rush through
ing pine-trees, while fiery serpents pursue each other among
d burning brands and myriads of sparks fall on every side;

ANCIENT RITES AND MYSTERIES.
swims a river, the waters of which are as dark as those of the fabled Styx,
and over which he sees floating the disembodied spirits of the departed,
whose mournful wailings reach his ears; ascends stairs, of which every step
disappears as he mounts the next, rendering his return impossible; and,
catching at something which he sees above his head as the last step dis-
appears from beneath his feet, he is whirled round and round by the fury
of a blast which resembles the combined force of Boreas and Eurus, until
he nearly loses his senses, and is upon the point of falling from sheer
exhaustion. The dangers of this preliminary passage through the elements
were not wholly imaginary, for Pythagoras, who was initiated at the same
place, recorded to have nearly lost his life. When the young Athenian
recovers, he finds himself in a comfortable bed, where he is served with
wine by two boys clothed in white linen, and a venerable priest addresses
a discourse to him upon the immortality of the soul. He is afterwards
shewn a glimpse of the Elysian fields, where noble-looking youths and
lovely female forms wander through groves of evergreens, and among the
most gorgeous flowers; and in a luminous circle-suggesting the idea of the
Memphian priests having availed themselves of some such apparatus as is
used for the exhibition of dissolving views-he beholds the happy spirits
soaring upward to the glorious throne of the Eternal and the mansions of
the blest. These artistic contrivances for creating an impression upon the
mind of the young philosopher are supported by discourses from the vener-
able hierophant upon the nature of the soul; and the aspirant, alternately
awed and attracted, and led on by the hope of meeting the lovely priestess,
is at last led at night into the sanctuary of the goddess, whose resplendent
image is concealed by a veil reaching from the ceiling to the floor. The
initiation of Alciphron is not completed, for the priestess of whom he is in
search, and who is secretly a Christian, enters the sanctuary before the
curtain rises, and guiding the young Athenian through the subterraneans,
they effect their escape together.
:
The mysteries of Osiris, alluded to by Apuleius, were probably identical
with those of Serapis, which were introduced at Rome in the reign of
Antoninus Pius, A.D. 146. They were celebrated annually on the 6th
May; but so much licentiousness had by that time come to be mixed up
with the mysteries, that they were shortly afterwards abolished by a
decree of the senate. The Isiac mysteries were also introduced into Italy
under the emperors, but those of Mithra were confined to the East. It
appears from the eighth chapter of Ezekiel that both the Isiac and Mithraic
mysteries, as well as the festival of Adonis, had been introduced at Jeru-
salem in the time of that prophet; and the description there given of them
agrees with the accounts which have come down to us from the Greek
writers. The Isiac rites are described as being performed in a secret sub-
terranean within the temple; and Plutarch tells us of the Egyptian temples,
that they 'in one place enlarge and extend into long wings and fair open
aisles; in another, sink into dark and secret subterranean vestries, like the
abdita of the Thebans.' None but princes, generals, and the priests were
admitted to them, save when an exception was made in favour of some
distinguished foreign philosopher or legislator, as in the case of Pythagoras;
and the Jewish prophet says, that they were celebrated in the temple at
17
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
Jerusalem by 'seventy men of the ancients of the house of Israel.' His
description of the figures portrayed upon the walls also agrees with what
the Greek writers relate of the mystic cells of Isis and Osiris, and with
the sculptures on the Bembine Table, supposed to have been used in
these very rites. The Orphic mysteries, celebrated by the Thracians, were
the same as those of Bacchus, subsequently introduced into Italy, but
suppressed on account of their licentiousness. Of this corruption of the
mysteries we shall presently have to speak. The mysteries of Semele,
celebrated every ninth year at Delphi, contained a dramatic representation
of the descent of Bacchus to Hades to bring back his mother Semele, who
was destroyed, as every one acquainted with the Greek mythology knows,
through the machinations of the jealous Juno. In all the pagan mys-
teries, indeed, something of this sort was included in the shows, as will
presently be explained. The mysteries of the Cabiri were, according to
Sanchoniatho, first celebrated by the Phoenicians, and introduced into
Greece by the Pelasgi; they were performed with much solemnity at
Thebes, and also in the islands of Lemnos, Samothracia, and Imbros. The
Cabiri were subordinate divinities, sometimes confounded with the Cory-
bantes; their parentage is ascribed by Herodotus to Vulcan, and their
power in protecting their worshippers from storm and shipwreck was sup-
posed to be very great. As in the mysteries of Isis, so in those of the
Cabiri, none but princes, magistrates, generals, and the priests, were
allowed to be initiated. The mysteries continued to be observed for many
centuries, those of Ceres for a period of 1800 years; but some of them
were more famous and more extensively celebrated than others, the chief
being in Egypt those of Isis, and in Greece those of Ceres. The latter,
commonly called the Eleusinian mysteries, from the name of the place
where they were celebrated, came in time to absorb all the other Grecian
mysteries, which were neglected for those of Ceres; and all the chief inha-
bitants of Greece and Asia Minor were initiated into them. Cicero says
that the initiated were spread all over the Roman Empire, and even beyond
its limits; and Zosimus says, that 'these most holy rites were then so
extensive as to take in the whole race of mankind.' Warburton ascribes
this superior eminence of the Eleusinian mysteries to the fact of Athens
being regarded as the standard in matters of religion to the rest of the
ancient world, and quotes Sophocles, who calls it 'the sacred building of
the gods,' and Aristides, who describes the temple at Eleusis as 'the
common temple of the earth;' but the similarity of the mysteries probably
had some influence in leading to their absorption into those of Ceres, as
well as the religious fame of the city near which the latter were celebrated.
The mysteries of Ceres were celebrated by the Athenians every fifth
year, but by the Lacedæmonians and Cretans every fourth year. They are
believed to have been introduced at Athens about the year B. C. 1356, but
by whom is uncertain; and it was so even to the ancients themselves—some
ascribing their introduction to Eumolpus, a Thracian; some to Erestheus,
king of Athens; a third party to Museus; and a fourth to the goddess
herself. Diodorus Siculus attributes their institution to Erectheus; and
this opinion was adopted by the learned Warburton, who thought that the
Athenians in aftertimes confounded the introducer of the mysteries with
1
18
ANCIENT RITES AND MYSTERIES.
the priests who first officiated at their celebration-Eumolpus and Musæus
-and the goddess upon whose worship they were ingrafted. Persons of
both sexes were admitted to a participation in the mysteries; but in the
first ages of the institution they were required to be citizens of Athens or
their wives; at a later period, all persons who presented themselves for
initiation, except slaves, and those whom the Greeks called barbarians,
were freely admitted. It was believed that the initiated would be happier
in a future state of existence than those who had not participated in these
rites; and that the souls of the latter, clogged with the grossness of earth,
wandered restlessly in Hades, while those of the former winged their way
at once to the realms of eternal blessedness. Not that they believed that
the ceremony of initiation in itself exercised this influence over the future
destiny of the soul, but because it was the chief purpose of the mysteries
to restore the soul to its primal purity, and fit it for its celestial habita-
tion. Plato and Epictetus concur in this view of them. Thus,' says the
latter, the mysteries become useful: thus we seize the true spirit of
them; for everything therein was instituted by the ancients for instruction
and amendment of life.' The beautiful episode of Psyche in the work of
Apuleius, which has been described, supports this view of the mysteries;
and indeed the author bears the same testimony to the moral purpose of
the mysteries of Isis as the philosophers mentioned above do to that of the
Eleusinian rites. Hence the aspirants were required to be of unblemished
reputation, and free from even the suspicion of having committed any
heinous crime; and we learn from Plutarch that they were rigidly inter-
rogated by the presiding priest upon this matter. Suetonius relates
that the execrable Nero, when he made a visit to Greece after the murder
of his mother, wished to be initiated into the mysteries of Ceres, but was
deterred by the voice of conscience telling him that he was a parricide;
and Marcus Antoninus became initiated, to clear himself before the world
of the blood of Avidius Cassius, because it was well known that none were
admitted who were believed to have been guilty of any crime. 'When
you sacrifice or pray,' says Epictetus, 'go with a prepared purity of mind,
and with dispositions so previously disposed as are required of you when
you approach the ancient rites and mysteries.' The longer any one had
been initiated, the more respect and honour he was held in; and not to
have been initiated was regarded as a mark of impiety, or a proof of secret
guilt. It was one of the charges against Socrates, that he had not been
initiated into the secret rites of Ceres; and among other philosophers who
neglected them we may mention Epicurus and Demonax. Warburton
concludes, from two lines of Sophocles, that initiation into these mysteries
was considered as necessary by the pagans as baptism was by the Chris-
tians; and infers from a remark of Apuleius that children were initiated;
but this may be doubted. The ancient writers sometimes spoke of persons
as children who were twenty-five years of age; and the author in question
merely says, that men and women of all ages were initiated. Generally
speaking, no fee was charged for admission to the mysteries; but Aris-
togiton obtained a law, at a time when the public treasury was very low,
that every one should pay a certain sum for his initiation.
·
19
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
IV.
In the celebration of these rites everything was veiled in mystery, and
the most inviolable secrecy was required from those who were initiated.
This mystery stimulated curiosity, and caused the rites to be regarded with
religious awe and profound veneration by the uninitiated. 'Ignorance of
the mysteries,' says Synesius, 'preserves their veneration; for which reason
they are intrusted to the cover of night.' Euripides, in the second act of
his 'Bacchantes,' makes Bacchus say that the rites were celebrated by
night, because there is in darkness a peculiar solemnity which fills the
mind with religious awe. Any one discovered in the temple during the
celebration of the mysteries without having been admitted with the usual
inquiries and preliminary ceremonies, whether through ignorance or from
profane curiosity, was put to death; and the same fate awaited him who,
having been initiated, afterwards revealed the secrets that were set forth
in mystery. Diagoras divulged the mysteries of Bacchus and Ceres, and
dissuaded his friends from being initiated, which swelled the clamour
his atheistic opinions had already raised against him into a cry for
vengeance; and a reward being offered for his head by the Areopagus, he was
forced to fly from the state. Eschylus narrowly escaped the same fate,
from a suspicion that he had dimly shadowed forth something represented
in the mysteries in a scene of one of his tragedies.
The mysteries were divided into the greater and lesser, the latter being
celebrated at Agræ, near the Ilissus: these were said to have been origi-
nally instituted for the purpose of admitting Hercules, but it is probable
that it was the aim of the founder to make them, what they afterwards
became, a kind of preparation for the greater rites. The aspirants for initia-
tion into the lesser mysteries were required to observe nine days of strict
purity, during which they sojourned at Agræ, and bathed in the Ilissus;
at the end of that period they repaired to the temple of Cercs, wearing
garlands of flowers upon their heads, and offered prayers and sacrifices,
standing before the altar upon the skin of some victim which had been
offered to Jupiter. The initiation followed, consisting of certain mystical
rites, the sole design of which appears to have been to excite the curiosity
of the people, and prepare them for the secrets to be afterwards disclosed
in the greater mysteries. According to some of the ancient writers, the
period between the initiation of the aspirant into the lesser mysteries and
his admission to the greater was one year, at the end of which those who
had been initiated at Agræ sacrificed a sow to Ceres; but Tertullian says
that the period of probation was five years.
The greater mysteries were celebrated in September, and lasted nine
days, commencing on the 15th and concluding on the 23d. During this
period it was unlawful to arrest any person or present any petition, the
penalty being the forfeiture of a thousand drachmas, or, according to other
accounts, death. At Sparta, those who rode to the temple of Ceres in
chariots at this time were fined six hundred drachmas, in accordance with
an edict of Lycurgus, designed to level the barriers which artificial distinc-
tions raised between the richer and poorer orders of the citizens. On
20
ANCIENT RITES AND MYSTERIES.
the first day of this festival, the most important in the Pagan calendar, the
candidates for initiation into the higher mysteries first met together at
On the
Athens, where, on the following day, they bathed in the sea.
third day barley and other things were offered to Ceres; and these obla-
tions were considered so sacred, that even the priests, though they were
accustomed to partake of the offerings, were not permitted to do so in
this instance. On the fourth day there was a solemn procession through
the streets of Athens, when the holy basket of Ceres was carried in a
consecrated chariot, followed by women bearing baskets of carded wool,
salt, pomegranates, certain cakes, boughs of ivy, &c., and greeted every-
where with joyful shouts of 'Hail, Ceres!' The next day of the festival
was called the 'torch day,' because the votaries of the goddess ran about
the streets with flaming torches in their hands, in commemoration of her
lighting a torch at the crater of Mount Etna, when searching for her
daughter Proserpine, carried off by Pluto, the grim king of Tartarus. The
pomegranates borne in the procession on the preceding day were likewise
an allusion to this adventure of the fair Proserpine, who was said to have
partaken of that fruit while in the infernal regions. There was much
competition on the torch day, as to who should carry the largest torch,
which was consecrated to Ceres. The sixth day was a grand one, and was
called after Iacchus, the son of Jupiter and Ceres, who was fabled to have
accompanied his mother with a torch in her search after her lost daughter;
the statue of Iacchus, with a torch in the right hand, was carried in proces-
sion from the Ceramicus to Eleusis, the statue and those who bore and
accompanied it being crowned with myrtle, and preceded by choristers and
musicians, playing all kinds of noisy instruments of brass. The road from
Athens to Eleusis, which on this occasion was crowded with persons of
both sexes and all conditions, was called the Sacred Way, and between the
two places there were two resting-spots, at which the procession halted--the
first being near a remarkable fig-tree, and the second on the bridge over
the Cephisus. Eleusis was entered by an avenue called the Mystical Way,
and from this time till the conclusion of the festivities and rites, became
thronged with strangers from all parts of Greece. On the seventh day
various gymnastic sports were celebrated, the victor in each being rewarded
with a measure of barley, from a tradition that that grain had been first sown
in the neighbourhood of Eleusis. The next day was distinguished by the
celebration of the lesser mysteries, which were repeated at that time in
order that those who had not hitherto been initiated into them might be
lawfully admitted to the greater; but the origin of this repetition was
traditionally assigned to the circumstance that Esculapius, returning on
that day from Epidaurus to Athens, was then qualified for initiation into
the higher mysteries by the repetition of the inferior ones. On the ninth
day the solemnities commenced by the priests placing two earthen vessels,
filled with wine, before the temple, one towards the east, the other towards
the west, which, after the priests had pronounced over them certain
mystical words, were thrown down, and the wine, being spilled, was offered
as a libation to the gods.
At night the candidates, crowned with myrtle, were admitted into the
vast temple of the mysteries, and were received by the hierophant and his
three attendants, the officer called Basileus, and ten inferior officers, who
21
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
assisted in these and all other religious ceremonies. The hierophant was
always an Athenian citizen, and held his office for life; he was required to
observe the dictates of pure chastity, and to dedicate himself entirely to
the service of the gods. To this end he anointed his body with the juice
of hemlock, the extreme coldness of which was supposed to extinguish in a
great degree the natural heat of the body. The basileus (king) derived
his title from the supposed institution of the mysteries of Erectheus, king
of Athens: he was one of the archons of the city, and his duties were to
offer prayers and sacrifices; to see that the mysteries were celebrated
conformably to custom; and to repress every tendency to riot, indecency, or
irregularity of any kind during the revelation of the mysteries and the
representation of the peculiar scenic and dramatic shows which formed so
striking a portion of the secret rites. The first thing required of the
candidates for initiation, after entering the temple, was to wash their hands.
in holy water—a ceremony typical of the inward purification required as
an essential preparation, the aspirants being admonished by the hierophant,
that the cleanness of the body would not be accepted by the gods unless
conjoined with the purity of the soul. They were then introduced into the
mystic subterranean hall, where, while they stood absorbed in curiosity,
wonder, and awe, strange and amazing objects were presented to their
sight. The foundations of the temple seemed to quake, and the scene
became suddenly illuminated by flashes of light; then it would become
involved in pitchy darkness, sometimes fitfully relieved by flashes of mimic
lightning, followed by the imitation of thunder, and horrid howlings, as of
a chorus of infernal demons. Then the spell-bound, and perhaps trembling
spectators, were startled by sudden and terror-inspiring apparitions, con-
cerning which Proclus says, that 'the initiated meet many things of multi-
form shapes and species, which prefigure the first generation of the gods."
Apuleius states, that the celestial and infernal deities all passed in review
before the spectators, and that a hymn was sung to each by the hiero-
phant; which hymns have been generally attributed to Orpheus. Pausa-
nias says, that these hymns were sung in the secret rites of Ceres in
preference to those of Homer, though the latter were more elegant,
because they were supposed to be the composition of Orpheus, to whom
was ascribed the introduction of the mysteries into Greece. Warburton is
of opinion that the popular reference of the institution to Orpheus, men-
tioned by Theodoretus, while the Athenians ascribed it to another, could
only have arisen from the use of these hymns. Many allusions may be
found in the works of ancient writers to the spectacles shewn to the
aspirants in the mysteries, as in Dion Chrysostom, who says: 'As when
one leads a Greek or barbarian to be initiated in a certain mystic dome,
excelling in beauty and magnificence, where he sees many mystic sights,
and hears in the same manner a multitude of voices; where darkness and
light alternately affect his senses, and a thousand other uncommon things
present themselves before him.' Claudian also alludes to them, and Pletho,
speaking of the Mithraic mysteries, says: 'It is the custom in the celebra-
tion of the mysteries to present before many of the initiated phantasms of
a canine figure, and other monstrous shapes and appearances.' Celsus
gives a similar description of the shows introduced in the Bacchic mysteries,
and allusions to these spectacles may also be found in Lucian and Themistius.
22
ANCIENT RITES AND MYSTERIES.
The scenes and phantasms represented were explained to the spectators by
the hierophant, who, when they had all passed in review, sang the conclud-
ing hymn, supposed by Warburton to have been one of which a fragment
has been preserved by Clemens Alexandrinus and Eusebius.
The erudite theologian bases his supposition on the several grounds that
the hymn in question is one of those attributed to Orpheus; that the
subjects of the Orphic hymns were the pagan mysteries; that this particular
hymn is addressed to Museus, who was supposed by some to have intro-
duced the mysteries at Athens; that it begins with the formula used by
the hierophant in opening the rites; and that it inculcates doctrines in
accordance with the secrets then revealed to the aspirants. Clemens
Alexandrinus, in introducing the portion of this hymn which he has
preserved, says that Orpheus, ' after he had opened the mysteries, and sung
the whole theology of idols '—by which he is supposed to mean the hymns
sung by the hierophant to the phantasms in the spectacles—' recants all
he had said, and introduceth truth.' The hymn, in the literal prose version,
commences thus: 'I will declare a secret to the initiated; but let the doors
be shut against the profane. But thou, Musæus, offspring of fair Selene,
attend carefully to my song; for I shall speak of important truths. Suffer
not, therefore, the former prepossessions of your mind to deprive you of
that happy life which the knowledge of these mysterious truths will procure
you. But look on the Divine Nature, incessantly contemplate it, and
govern well the mind and heart. Go on in the right way, and see the Sole
Governor of the world. He is One, and of himself alone; and to that One
all things owe their being. He operates through all, and was never seen
by mortal eyes, but does himself see everything.' The secrets were then
read to the initiated by the hierophant from a large book, or rather tablet,
made of two stones cemented together; and Apuleius states that a similar
tablet, covered with hieroglyphics, was used for the same purpose in the
mysteries of Isis. When this revelation had been made, the initiated were
dismissed by the hierophant with two uncouth words which seem to prove
the foreign origin of the mysteries, and which Le Clerc supposed to be a
corruption or bad pronunciation of the Phoenician words, kots and omphets,
which signify watch and abstain from evil. The garments which the
initiated wore at the celebration of the mysteries were held sacred, and
never left off until unfit for wear, when they were either dedicated to Ceres
or adapted for children. It is probable that the former manner of disposing
of them was generally followed by the more affluent citizens, and the latter
by the poorer orders.
V.
What were the secrets revealed in the mysteries? This question natu-
rally suggests itself at this stage of the inquiry, and in the answer are
involved very important considerations. It has been shewn that the
mysteries had their origin in Egypt; and it must be borne in mind that in
that country the priest and the philosopher were united in the same person,
and that the esoteric doctrines which the hierophants retained to them-
selves included the unity of the divine nature and the immortality of the
23
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
(
soul. These are, therefore, the doctrines which we may naturally expect.
to find preserved and taught by them in the mysteries; and Cudworth
expresses himself satisfied by the testimony of the ancients, that the first
of them was actually taught by the Egyptian hierophants in the mysteries
of Isis. Varro says, in a fragment of his 'Book of Religions,' preserved
by St Augustine, that there were many truths which it was not advan-
tageous to the state should be generally known, and many things which,
though false, it was expedient that the people should believe; and there-
fore the Greeks shut up their mysteries in the silence of their sacred
enclosures.' For this reason the legislators who introduced the mysterics
into Europe took such precautions to veil these secret doctrines from the
public eye, by forbidding the initiation of slaves, barbarians, and persons
of disreputable character, and by punishing with death those who surrep-
titiously became possessed of them, or, being initiated, divulged them to
the profane. They were revealed to those who were judged worthy of
receiving them, because their cautious revelation to such proper persons
was deemed a benefit to the state, by promoting the cause of morality,
and giving vigour and elasticity to the mind; and the mystic veil of
secrecy was thrown over them, to guard them from the eyes of those
who were not deemed fitting custodians of secrets so important. It
must have been evident to the Grecian legislators, that the effect of
the licentious stories told of their mythic deities upon the minds of
the people must be demoralising in the extreme; and we know from
passages in the tragedies of Euripides, and the comedies of Terence,
that the examples of the gods were urged whenever an excuse was wanted
for an immoral action. It was therefore their object in the mysteries
to overthrow the whole fabric of the vulgar creed, and strip the gods
of Olympus of the tinsel with which the poets had decked them, as
Euhemerus subsequently did in his 'Panchaia;' and hence those illusions
and phantasms which have been described. That this was done in the
mysteries is proved by the evidence of many of the ancients. Chrysippus
says of them, that 'it is a great prerogative to be admitted to these lectures,
wherein are delivered just and right notions concerning the gods, and
which teach men to comprehend their natures;' and Pythagoras, who was
initiated in the mysteries of Orpheus or Bacchus, as well as in those of
Isis, says, as quoted by Jamblicus, that he was taught in them the unity
of the First Cause. Cicero gives a similar account of the mysteries of
Cybele and of Vulcan; and Plutarch, in condemning the immoral and
absurd stories recorded of the gods by the Greek poets, says that 'they
seemed to do it as if industriously to oppose what was taught and done in
the most holy mysteries.' The purpose of the spectacles represented in
them being to undeceive the initiated, and to expose the errors and
absurdities of polytheism, it is easy to understand the actions recorded by
Plutarch of the great Alcibiades, that he revealed the mysteries of Ceres
to his friends at a banquet, and that he knocked the noses off the statues
of the gods. The biographer does not connect these two actions, both
deemed so irreligious in a city which was to Grecian paganism what Rome
is to Catholicism; but nothing could be more likely than that Alcibiades,
when he had learned in the mysteries of Eleusis the falsity of the national
creed, should rush forth from the banquet, heated with wine, and deface
24
ANCIENT RITES AND MYSTERIES.
the statues, which had ceased to have any other claim to his respect and
admiration than their beauty as works of art.
That the doctrine of the immortality of the soul, and of a future state of
rewards and punishments, was the second part of the secrets revealed by
the hierophant in the mysteries, appears very evident; and that it was
not the commonly-received tenets upon this subject which were taught, is
equally so; because, as all the nations of antiquity held these doctrines in
some form or other, there could have been no motive for veiling them in
mystery and secrecy, and for revealing to some what was believed by all.
Celsus, in replying to Origen, who had contrasted polytheism with Chris-
tianity, and pointed to the superiority of the latter in its doctrine of a
future state, says: 'Just as you believe eternal punishments, so do the
ministers of the sacred rites, and those who initiate into and preside in the
mysteries.' We learn from Apuleius and others that these doctrines were
taught in the mysteries of Isis; and both Cicero and Porphyry bear
similar testimony concerning those of Mithra. Plato says that the initiated
were taught that they would be happier after death, in the future life that
was beyond the grave, than those to whom the mysteries had not been
revealed; and that while the souls of the uninitiated were struggling in
the mire and darkness of the heathen purgatory, those whose mental vision
had been freed from the film of error and delusion in the mystic temple of
Eleusis, would wing their flight at once to the happy islands of eternal
beatitude, and behold the unshrouded glory of the Supreme Being. This
doctrine, its revelation in the mysteries, the inward purity required of the
aspirants, and the engagements into which they entered by their initiation
to commence a new life of usefulness and virtue, led those to whom it had
been disclosed to be regarded as happier, on that account, than any others.
We may gather this from the dramatic poets of Greece, both tragic and
comic, who may be supposed to express the sentiments of the people:
Euripides making Hercules express his happiness at having been intro-
duced to the mysteries; and Aristophanes, in one of his choruses, repre-
senting the people as exulting thus: On us only does the orb of day shine
benignantly; we only receive pleasure from its beams we who are
initiated, and perform towards citizens and strangers all acts of piety and
justice.' Isocrates calls the mysteries the thing that human nature stood
most in need of; and in another passage, says that 'Ceres hath made the
Athenians two presents of the greatest consequence: corn, which brought
us out of a state of barbarism; and the mysteries, which teach the initiated
to entertain the most agreeable expectations touching death and eternity.'
And Cicero, in excepting the Eleusinian mysteries from the general
condemnation which he pronounces upon secret and nocturnal rites in
general, the causes of which condemnation will presently be adverted to,
says still more emphatically: 'For as, in my opinion, Athens has produced
many excellent and even divine inventions, and applied them to the uses
of life, so has she given nothing better than those mysteries, by which we
are drawn from an irrational and savage life, and tamed, as it were, and
broken to humanity. They are truly called Initia, for they are indeed the
beginnings of a life of reason and virtue; from whence we not only receive
the benefits of a more comfortable and refined subsistence here, but are
25
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
taught to hope for and aspire to a better life hereafter.' These extracts
shew not only that great importance was attached to the mysteries, parti-
cularly to those of Ceres, but also that the doctrine of the soul's immor-
tality and its state after its separation from the body, which was taught in
the mysteries, must have differed from that which was publicly and gene-
rally delivered to the people. Could the common doctrine have maintained
any hold upon the minds of those before whose eyes all the dramatis
personce of Olympus, and all the scenery and properties of Tartarus and
Elysium, had passed in review in the mystic temple of Eleusis, only that
their true character might be seen, and all the errors and absurdities
connected with them detected and exposed? Would so many of the most
eminent philosophers of every sect, men eminent alike for virtue and
learning, have given their countenance and support to the mysteries, if the
secret doctrines taught in them were no other than those which were
commonly believed, and which they scouted as idle tales? Could there,
in short, have been anything to reveal if this had been the case?
It must be remembered, moreover, that the mysteries, except in Egypt
(where the priests were philosophers, and taught doctrines in the former
capacity different from those which they revealed in the latter, to those men-
tally capacitated to receive and appreciate them), were not under the
direction and control of the priesthood, but of the state. The priests taught
the people that to obtain admission into the Elysian fields, nothing was
required but prayers, oblations, and sacrifices, but in the mysteries was
inculcated the necessity of a virtuous and holy life.
'The priests,' says
Locke, 'made it not their business to teach the people virtue; if they were
diligent in their observances and ceremonies, punctual in their feasts and
solemnities, and the tricks of religion, the holy tribe assured them that the
gods were pleased, and they looked no further. Few went to the schools
of philosophers to be instructed in their duty, and to know what was good
and evil in their actions; the priests sold the better pennyworth, and
therefore had all the custom; for lustrations and sacrifices were much
easier than a clean conscience and a steady course of virtue, and an expia-
tory sacrifice, that atoned for the want of it, much more convenient than a
strict and holy life.' The mysteries were designed for the support of
a sounder and more elevated morality than could possibly be taught in
connection with the mythological fables of Homer and Hesiod, and hence the
legislators by whom they were introduced into Europe placed them under
secular control. The state was represented in those of Eleusis by the
basileus, who presided over their celebration, and whose assistants were
chosen by the people; the priests only filled offices subordinate to these,
and had no share in the direction of the rites and spectacles. Political
as well as moral considerations may have had some influence in leading
legislators to establish, and rulers who came after them to maintain, the
mysteries; it may have been that the initiated were regarded by them
as a counterpoise to those who were excluded from participating in the
mysteries by the national, social, and moral distinctions which disqualified
for admission. The alien, the enslaved, and the vicious were excluded;
and these must have formed a considerable portion of the population in
states where so many were slaves, and where the tendencies of the religious
teachings and public worship were so demoralising. These the laws kept
26
ANCIENT RITES AND MYSTERIES.
under the influence of the priesthood; the free and the virtuous they intro-
duced to the mystic halls of Eleusis, which were to the many what the
colonnades of the Stoa and the groves of Academus were to the few.
If there were no political considerations involved in the introduction of
the mysteries into Europe from their source on the banks of old Nile-
a soil so fruitful in mysteries of all kinds there seems no reason why
they should not have been free to all who were desirous of being ini-
tiated, or, at anyrate, to all possessing the moral qualification required;
but it was not so. At first only Athenian citizens were initiated; but
when the liberties of Greece were menaced by Persia, and the necessity
of uniting against the common enemy taught the Greeks to regard them-
selves as one people, the Eleusinian mysteries were opened to all who
spoke the Greek language. Authors, ancient as well as modern, have
been at a loss to account for the reason of even this restriction, and
the learned Casaubon ridiculed it as implying that the institutors of the
mysteries imagined that speaking Greek was a proof of piety, and contri-
buted to its advancement. Lucian relates that his friend Devanax once
inquired of the Athenians the reason of their exclusion of aliens from the
mysteries of Eleusis, when they were instituted by Eumolpus, a Thracian ;
but he has not recorded the answer which the philosopher received, and
advances no conjecture of his own upon the subject. We have, therefore,
only such evidence as can be found in the nature of the mysteries them-
selves; and from the fact of their being introduced by legislators, from the
circumstance of their being under the direction of the state, from the anta-
gonism of the secrets revealed in them to the popular creed, and from the
support which they received from philosophers who rejected that creed—the
conclusion seems unavoidable that their founders had a political as well as
a moral end in view, and that they contemplated, in their institution, the
creation of a counterpoise to the priests, and the classes upon whom the
state had the least hold.
VI.
The abuses and corruptions of the pagan mysteries, and the causes
which led to their suppression, must now be described, and we shall then
have placed before the reader the substance of all that is known upon the
subject. We learn from Cicero that their nocturnal celebration had led to
abuses so early as his time, and indirect evidence to the same effect may
be found in the comedies of the same period, in which scenes of intrigue
and illicit indulgence of the passions are frequently introduced in the cele-
bration of the mysteries of Isis or Ceres. What it is that displeases me
in nocturnal rites,' says the philosopher, 'the comic poets will shew you.
Had such liberty of celebration been permitted at Rome, what wickedness
might not have been attempted by him who came with a premeditated
design to gratify his lasciviousness to a sacrifice where even the imprudent
indulgence of the eye was highly criminal!' The individual here hinted at
is supposed to have been his political opponent Clodius, of whom he speaks
in similar terms in one of his orations. The mysteries of Ceres had been
introduced at Rome very early, as appears from Cicero's oration for Balbus,
27
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
and from a passage in his second book on the 'Nature of the Gods;' and
we learn from Suetonius, and other later Roman writers, that they were
incorporated into the national worship, and regulated anew by a decree of
the Emperor Adrian. The mysteries of Isis, and also those of Bacchus,
had likewise been introduced into Italy from Egypt and Greece; and these
appear to have become corrupted long before those of Ceres. Warburton
was of opinion that, 'notwithstanding all occasions and opportunities of
corruption, some of the mysteries, as particularly the Eleusinian, continued
for very many ages pure and undefiled;' and that these were 'the last that
submitted to the common fate of all human institutions.' Le Clerc contends
that the mysteries were never corrupted at all; but the united testimonies
of many writers of the early ages of our era, pagan as well as Christian,
prove him to have been in error. The objection of Cicero does not apply
to the mysteries themselves, but to their nocturnal celebration; and he
expressly excepts those of Ceres from his general condemnation of rites
performed by night. The means which had been adopted in the original
institution of the mysteries to increase their efficiency to accomplish the
end for which they were established, by throwing around them a veil of
solemnity and awe, proved ultimately one of the most potent causes of
their corruption and degeneracy. When, with the decay of Grecian inde-
pendence the standard of morality became lowered, and less precaution was
shewn in the admission of aspirants to the mysteries, men and women of
immoral character availed themselves of the opportunities afforded by the
periods of solemn darkness to give a loose to their passions; and the
inviolable engagement to which all were bound, not to reveal aught that
they saw or heard in the mysteries, not only allowed them to do so with
impunity, but concealed those abuses from the magistrates until they
became so enormous and extensive as to render reform impossible. Abuses
of this kind appear to have been the first to creep into the mysteries both
in Greece and Italy, the clearest proof of which is,' says Warburton,
'that their comic writers very frequently laid the scene of their subject,
such as the violation of a young girl, and the like, at the celebration of a reli-
gious mystery; and from that mystery denominated the comedy.' That
such immoralities should have occurred is not much to be wondered at if
we reflect that, even in the first ages of Christianity, similar abuses existed
in the church, and sprang from the same cause-the nocturnal celebration
of religious rites. The early Christians introduced a custom of celebrating
vigils in the night, perhaps in imitation of the secret rites of paganism ;
and though these nocturnal devotions were at first performed with the
utmost decorum, they soon became occasions of licentious abuse, and it
was found necessary to abolish the custom.
(
If such abuses could creep into the Christian church in the primitive
ages, there is nothing that should surprise us in the fact of their coming at
length to corrupt the mysteries under the assumed patronage of the pagan
deities, who were supposed to inspire irregular passions, and whose public
rites were occasions of the grossest indecency and profligacy. The myste-
ries of Venus, of Cupid, and of Bacchus, were among the first that became
perverted; for it was not unnatural for their worshippers to introduce into
them the indecencies that were enacted in the public rites of those deities,
28
ANCIENT RITES AND MYSTERIES.
and to suppose the deities pleased by them. The hidden doctrines con-
veyed in the spectacles and the secrets revealed by the hierophanti to the
initiated came too late to remedy the evil. That inviolable secrecy which
was deemed the safeguard of the mysteries then became the means of
veiling the most dreadful enormities, and accelerating the ruin of an
institution contrived for the wisest and best purposes, and which for so
many centuries continued to serve in purity the end for which it was
designed. The mysteries of Bacchus were abolished for their corruption
long before those of Ceres, for their suppression in Greece by Diagondas is
mentioned by Cicero, in whose time, and long afterwards, the Eleusinian
mysteries were celebrated in their original purity. Another cause, in
addition to those which have been noticed, operated in the case of the
Bacchic mysteries to open the way to abuses and corruptions, and gradually
to bring them into disrepute. They were introduced into Etruria by a
Greek priest and soothsayer of lowly extraction, who, having borne a
subordinate part in the celebration of these mysteries in his own country,
established them clandestinely, uncommissioned by the civil authorities at
Athens, and without the knowledge of those of Italy. The withdrawal of
the mysteries from the secular administration prepared the way for every
abuse. Livy says that the priest by whom they were thus introduced
possessed no skill or wisdom in mystic rites; but it appears that they were
brought pure into Italy, and received their corruption there. From the
extraordinary confession of Hispala before the Roman consul, it seems that
only women were at first admitted to these mysteries, as in Greece; but
when Paculla became the presiding priestess, she initiated her sons, and
introduced such other innovations in the manner of celebrating the
mysteries as soon led to the most shocking enormities. The detection of
the hidden scene of immoral indulgence which the veil of secrecy and the
mantle of night had long covered, led to the abolition of the mysteries of
Bacchus throughout Italy by a decree of the senate; but the other sacred
rites remained much longer undisturbed.
All the pagan mysteries, with the exception of the Eleusinian, had be-
come corrupt by the time of Severus, when Apuleius undertook the defence
of them, as before noticed, with the view of vindicating paganism, as dis-
played in the mysteries and works of the Platonist philosophers, against the
assaults of the Christian writers, who were increasing in numbers, influence,
and boldness. The mysteries were falling into disrepute, and the zeal and
ability with which Apuleius executed his task were ineffectual to restore
them to their former influence and credit. To the abuses arising from the
facilities which they afforded for the gratification of impure passions was
now added the corruption of magic. Three kinds of the black art are
mentioned as being practised in the mysteries in the days of their dege-
neracy: incantation or necromancy, transformation or metamorphosis,
and theürgy or divine communion. The first sort probably had its origin in
the invocation of the Olympian divinities in the spectacles, and the second
was evidently an imposture in imitation of the metamorphoses of the gods,
when they took refuge in Egypt from the wrath of Typhon, assuming the
forms of various animals, or when they similarly transformed themselves on
various after-occasions for the gratification of their depraved passions.
'The abomination of the two first sorts,' says Warburtor, 'was seen and
29
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
frankly confessed by all; but the espousal of the latter by the later Plato-
nists and Pythagoreans kept it in some credit; so that, as Heliodorus tells
us, the Egyptian priests affected to distinguish between the magic of necro-
mancy and the magic of theürgy, accounting the first infamous and wicked,
but the last very commendable.' Whether the mysteries had at this time
degenerated so much from the end for which they were originally estab-
lished, that those who presided in them made use of the jugglery which
they were intended to expose, or were falsely charged with this corruption
by their Christian opponents, is difficult of decision. There seems most
grounds for the first supposition in the case of the Egyptian mysteries; but
the charge is by no means clearly established against the rest, particularly
those of Eleusis, of which most is known. On the other hand, the testi-
mony of the ancient philosophers and historians proves that the Christian
fathers overstepped the limits of truth in representing the pagan mysteries
as grossly corrupt and immoral in their original institution, some of them
asserting that women conducted themselves in the mysteries as they did
in the public rites of Anaitis and Venus. 'Be he accursed,' says Clemens
Alexandrinus, 'who first infected the world with these impostures! These
I make no scruple to call wicked authors of impious fables; the fathers of
an execrable superstition, who, by this institution, sowed in humanity the
seeds of vice and corruption.' Had this condemnation been pronounced by
the zealous father upon the priests of the prevailing polytheistic worship,
less violence would have been done to truth; but levelled at the founders of
an institution designed to counteract the arts of the priests and the demo-
ralising tendencies of their teachings, it deserves the censure passed upon it
by two of the most erudite men of their time-Warburton and Le Clerc.
The wisest and best men in the pagan world,' says the former,
unanimous in this-that the mysteries were instituted pure, and proposed
the noblest ends by the worthiest means.' That they did ultimately
become so corrupt as to render their suppression a public benefit is
undoubtedly true, but what institution has not experienced the same fate,
or deserved it? And how few have endured for so long a period as
eighteen centuries, as was the case with the mysteries of Eleusis?
(
are
The Emperor Valentinian, when he set about reforming the Roman
laws and institutions, determined upon forbidding the celebration of the
mysteries, and of all nocturnal rites and sacrifices, with the view of prevent-
ing the immoralities which seemed to have become inseparable from them;
but when orders to that effect were sent to the proconsuls, Prætextatus, who
then governed Greece in that capacity, and whom Zosimus describes as 'a
man adorned with every virtue of public and private life,' represented to
the emperor that the Eleusinian mysteries were then extended to all man-
kind, and that if they were included in the provisions of the edict the
Greeks would be driven to despair, and great disorders would be the result.
The abolition of an institution so ancient, so holy, and so comprehensive,
he said, would cause the Greeks henceforth to lead a comfortless,
lifeless life'-a remarkable expression, and tending greatly to support the
view taken of the mysteries in this Paper. In consequence of these
representations, the emperor excepted the mysteries of Ceres from his edict,
on condition that those who regulated and presided over their celebration
30
ANCIENT RITES AND MYSTERIES.
1
should engage that the abuses and corruptions which had crept into them in
the course of centuries should be reformed, and everything reduced to the
purity and order with which they were originally celebrated. The Eleusi-
nian mysteries were now the only secret rites, as they had always been the
most important and most widely diffused; but the difficulty of preserving
them from the abuses and corruptions to which they were liable caused the
reprieve which they had obtained to be only temporary, and in the reign of
the elder Theodosius they shared the fate which had long before overtaken
all the rest, and were formally abolished by an imperial edict.
Having noticed the attacks of early Christian writers upon the pagan
mysteries, it will not be out of place to notice the manner in which the
fathers of the church subsequently sought to turn to their own advantage
the veneration in which the secret rites of Eleusis were held by the people.
The custom which was introduced of nocturnal vigils being celebrated by
both sexes in the churches has been already noticed, and likewise the
licentiousness which resulted from it; it is less generally known, perhaps,
that very much was done by the fathers at this time to destroy the purity
and simplicity of primitive Christianity by the introduction into the church
of the language, formularies, rites, and practices of the secret mysteries of
paganism. 'The fact,' says Warburton, 'is notorious, and the effects are
but too visible.' A full account of this very remarkable corruption of our
religion is given by the learned Casaubon, but it is too long for translation;
for the satisfaction of those who may have an opportunity of consulting
the original, it may be stated that the account will be found in the author's
Sixteenth Exercise against the Annals of Baronius. In proportion as the
pagan mythology lost its hold upon the minds of the people, Christianity
became corrupted by the transference of pagan rites to the new creed,
which was thus sought to be rendered more acceptable to the masses.
Christianity lost by the converts who were made by these artifices, but the
priests of the new creed were gainers.
It is a circumstance which goes far to support the view which has here
been taken of the moral tendencies of the mysteries of Eleusis, and the
superiority of the secret doctrines delivered in them, to the theology based
upon the fables of Hesiod and Homer that, even when, after the lapse of
so long a period as eighteen hundred years, these mysteries had much
degenerated, they were not abolished, like those of Serapis, of Isis, and of
Bacchus, because of the immoralities which they veiled, but because they
were regarded as a part of the religious system which Theodosius had
resolved to entirely abolish. The other mysteries were abolished in the
name of morality and social order; these in the name of the new religion.
It was paganism in general which, in this case, was condemned, and not,
as in preceding cases, the secret rites in particular. Paganism, in its
exoteric form, was dead; in its last struggle with Christianity it was in its
exoteric phase, as seen in the mysteries, that the Platonist and other
philosophers defended it. No one dreamed of vindicating the absurd fables
of the poets; and when none but philosophers, opposed as much to the
exploded mythology as to the new religion, could be found to engage in
controversy with the professors of the latter, no prophet was required to
predict the speedy extinction of the worn-out faith. Christianity had been

31
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
gaining ground during four centuries; and when Theodosius, in 390, made
it the established religion of the empire, the exercise of all the rites and
ceremonies of the abolished polytheism was forbidden, the temples of the
pagan deities were destroyed, their statues were thrown down, and the
Roman world beheld no more sacrifices, no more imposing processions, no
more high festivals. It must be quite evident that the mysteries had per-
formed their mission, and that, as part of a system which was fading out
before the rising sun of Christianity, they must soon have become extinct,
even had the imperial edict spared them. It may be doubted, we think,
whether the Christian religion would not have continued longer in the
purity and simplicity of the apostolic period if Constantine and Theodosius
had not thrown over it the protection of the imperial purple, and paganism
had been left to die a natural death. Zeal for the multiplication of con-
verts led the ministers of the new religion to erect their churches on the
sites of heathen temples, to convert the statues of the gods of Olympus
into those of Christian saints and martyrs, to compromise with pagan pre-
judices by permitting the people to slaughter their cattle for the festivals
near the churches, the spots where they had been wont to offer sacrifices,
and to institute festivals for observance on the days when the people had
been accustomed to celebrate those of paganism. From this source flowed
all the corruptions of our religion in the dark period of the fourth and fifth
centuries.
SIBERIA AND THE RUSSIAN PENAL
SETTLEMENTS.
DRIVE
RIVEN by that love of adventure and of a roving life which is charac-
teristic of their race, a considerable tribe of the Cossacks of the Don,
in the middle of the sixteenth century, left the abode of their people on
the banks of the river from whence their name is derived, and moved
eastward in quest of booty and of new possessions. Their depradatory
inroads on the Russian territories on the banks of the Wolga, and their
daring piracies on the Sea of Azov, soon rendered them formidable enemies
in the eyes of the surrounding nations, and particularly of the Russian
tzar, Ivan II., the first among the predecessors of Peter the Great who
attempted, though by the most cruel and despotic means, to assimilate
his empire to the civilised states of Western Europe. Ivan, bent upon
introducing order and sccurity in the provinces which he had but recently
reconquered from the Tatars, and upon establishing regular commercial
intercourse with the neighbouring Asiatic nations, saw that these wandering
Cossack hordes threatened his plans with destruction, and in consequence
determined to take the most stringent measures for putting an end to their
proceedings. The army and fleet which he assembled in 1577 for this
purpose were, however, not brought into action; for the Cossacks, inspired
with fear, dispersed in all directions. One horde, consisting of from
6000 to 7000 men, headed by their attaman (chief) Jermak Timofejen,
moved along the banks of the rivers Kama and Tschnssowaja, towards the
present government of Perm, and thence penetrated into the Ural Moun-
tains. From the summit of these mountains Jermak beheld spread out
before him the immeasurable plains, to which the name of Siberia was
afterwards given, but which was an unknown land to the European nations
of that period. Nothing daunted by the wild and desolate character of the
country, or by fear of its unknown inhabitants, the Cossack chief conceived
the bold project of founding a new empire in the regions thus opened up
to his view. Upheld by that love of conquest which has achieved so
many marvels, he descended the Asiatic declivities of the Ural with his
handful of followers, overthrew and expelled the Tatar Khan Kutchum,
penetrated beyond the rivers Tobol, Irtysh, and Ob, and subjugated, during
his campaign through these widespread regions, the various populations
No. 74.
1
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
who inhabited them. But though Jermak's and his companions' invin-
cible bravery and perseverance sufficed to win an empire, the small number
of these enterprising men, still further diminished by war and dreadful
hardships, was inadequate for maintaining in subjection a territory
extending over many thousand square miles, and inhabited by various
populations, distinct as to origin and mode of life, and unconnected by
any political ties. But rather than that his newly-acquired empire
should die, as it were, at its birth, and the tale of his heroic achievements
find no place in history, Jermak determined to cede it to a hand strong
enough to retain it, and in 1581 he, in consequence, made a formal cession
of the conquered territory to the very prince whose hostile preparations on
the banks of the Wolga had transformed him from a robber chief into the
founder of an empire. In consideration of the great service thus rendered
to the Russian empire, Ivan not only absolved Jermak from the con-
sequences of his former misdeeds, but even rewarded him for the genius
and valour he had evinced in the plains of Northern Asia. However, if
tradition speak the truth, the monarch's favour brought Jermak evil
fortune; for the death of the latter, which ensued in 1584, is attributed to
a fall into the river Irtysh, where he was drowned, from the weight of the
golden armour which the tzar had bestowed on him as a mark of distinction,
rendering him unable to save himself by swimming.
The possession of the country which Jermak in so great a measure
contributed to bring under the dominion of the Russian crown, opened up for
Russia a commercial route through her own dominions to China, and laid the
foundation of Russian navigation in the Pacific, and eventually led to the
acquisition of territories on the continent of America. Its metallic riches
constitute a great item in the revenues of the state, and its products in
general form the basis of an extensive and important branch of Russian
commerce. This remarkable country had become partially known to the
Russians in the beginning of the fifteenth century, during the military
expeditions of Tzar Ivan I. against the barbarous inhabitants of the
northern districts of the Ural Mountains. But the dangers which, during
the reigns of Ivan and his immediate successor, beset the state on various
points, soon obliterated from the mind of the tzar and his followers the
remembrance of countries which possessed no attractive features to recom-
mend them. It was the curiosity and enterprise of a private individual
which, during the reign of Ivan II., led to the rediscovery, and eventually to
the subjugation, of Siberia. A Russian, by name Stroganow, who possessed
lands situated on the river Wutschegda, on which he had established
a salt-work, was often visited by people belonging to a nation which, as to
feature, language, and costume, was quite unknown to him, and who brought
with them the produce of their own country, among which were costly
furs, to offer in exchange for the salt which they sought from him. Being
curious to obtain further knowledge of the origin and dwelling-place of his
unknown customers, Stroganow induced some of his people to accompany
the strangers to their homes, and thus learned that they dwelt in the vicinity
of the river Ob; he thenceforward entered into a regular commercial con-
nection with the whole tribe, which he did not however divulge until, by
the monopoly thus secured to himself, he had amassed a large fortune, when
he informed the tzar of his discovery. Ivan II., fully alive to the advan-
2
SIBERIA AND THE RUSSIAN PENAL SETTLEMENTS.
*
tages which might accrue to his country from this connection, acted upon the
information given, and in 1556 the Siberian Khan Jediger became a tribu-
tary of the Russian empire. But subsequently Judiger was subjugated by
the Tatar Khan Kutchum; and as Ivan preferred entertaining friendly
relations with the latter, with whose subjects the Russians carried on a
very profitable trade, to making war upon him for the sake of territories
which were as yet but very imperfectly known, all idea of Siberian acquisi-
tions was again abandoned, until Jermak made his peace with the offended
monarch by placing a conquered empire at his feet.
Jermak's sacrifice of his sovereignty, with a view to securing the con-
quered territories, threatened at first to be of no avail, for Ivan sent him
a reinforcement of five hundred men only; and this was neither sufficient
to keep the subjugated populations in submission, nor to follow up the
course of conquest; and the Russians having neglected to build fortresses,
in which they might seek safety in case of need, they were, after Jermak's
death, gradually but so effectually thrown back again towards the Ural,
that to make Siberia a dependence of the Russian crown a second conquest
became necessary.
This was undertaken during the reign of Ivan's
successor; and though the forces then despatched were numerically very
weak, their undertakings were crowned with success, because their leader
was wise enough not to penetrate far into the country before he had
secured himself in the rear by the foundation of the town of Tiumen (1586.)
From that moment their dominion over the neighbouring territories was
secured, and thenceforward the progress of Russian power in Siberia may
be traced in the dates of the foundations of the various towns in that
country.*
Though we have used the word conquest in speaking of the extension of
the Russian dominion in Siberia, this term is not quite appropriate, for the
natural love and capacity of the Russian Slavonians for commerce, which
has played so important a part even in the history of European Russia,
contributed as much to the subjugation of the native tribes as the military
prowess of the Cossacks. Among the Russian Siberians of the present
day there is a word current which in a great measure comprises the history
of the establishment of their forefathers in the land. This word is Promuist,
which, in the Siberian language, denotes every kind of industrial activity
and enterprise, but particularly such undertakings as necessitate distant
expeditions; and it was as Promuischleneki-that is, inventors or suggesters,
a name which they themselves adopted—that the Russian subjugators of
Siberia gradually won their way among the hostile populations, whom their
pacific arts, more than their warlike enterprises, finally brought under their
dominion. The Promuischleneki were, in the first instance, troops of
adventurers from all parts of Russia, who, attracted by the fame of
the costly furs which were said to abound among the natives, followed in
the wake of the Cossacks, in the hope of gaining riches by commerce, where
the latter gained lands by conquest; for the abundance of those wild
animals in Siberia, whose skins were most highly valued among other
*Tobolsk was founded 1587; Pelym, Berezow, and Surgut, 1592; Tara, 1594;
Narym, 1596; Werchoturie, 1598; Tarinsk and Mangasea, 1600; Tomsk, 1604
Turnchansk, 1609; Kusneyk, 1618; Jeneseisk, 1619; Krasnojarsk, 1627; Jakutsk,
1632; Irbit, 1633; Ochotsk, 1639; Nertschinsk, 1658; Irkutsk, 1669.
3
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
nations, is said to have awakened the same avidity among the Russians as
the gold of Mexico and Peru excited among the Spaniards. Dangers and
difficulties of the most appalling character were braved in the search for
riches, and the avarice of the people would make them rush to encounter
hazards before which even the military ardour of the Cossacks quailed.
If a detachment of Cossacks found itself too weak for the subjugation of a
newly-explored territory, it called to its aid a number of these adventurers;
and with their assistance the object was soon accomplished. The Siberian
populations, who were far from comprehending the ultimate views of the
strangers who thus introduced themselves among them in the character of
traders, rarely objected to acknowledge the supremacy of the sovereign of a
people who proved themselves such excellent caterers for their necessities;
but if resistance were attempted, violent means were resorted to, and the
defenceless natives were obliged to submit. When a territory was at too
great a distance from one of the existing towns to be held in subjugation
by the latter, new fortifications, or ostrogs, as they are termed in the
Russian language, were erected, and were garrisoned with Cossacks; and
thus the whole territory, from the Ural to the Pacific, and from the Arctic
Ocean to the confines of China, was brought into dependence on the Russian
crown before the expiration of the seventeenth century. The Cossacks that
accompanied Jermak into Siberia, as well as those that were subsequently
despatched thither, remained in the country; and at first, as has been seen,
formed a kind of militia, whose duty it was to keep the subjugated popu-
lation to their allegiance. Many of them intermarried with the latter;
others brought their families with them; and from these original conquerors
of the land descends the race of Siberian Cossacks, the number of which
now amounts to between 100,000 and 200,000. The great majority have
abandoned their original warlike organisation, and have devoted themselves
to industry and agriculture, while the smaller number still perform military
duties.
The extensive regions, now comprised under the name of Siberia, and
embracing an eighth part of the known world, which was conquered for the
Russian crown in less than eighty years-not in wisely-planned campaigns
by eminent military leaders, but by the perseverance and skill of an
untutored race-was, at the period of the conquest as in the present day,
inhabited by populations as different in their origin as in their modes of
life. Of the Finnish race there are the Surjanes and the Woguls in the
government of Tobolsk, the latter still in a nomade state, and both living
chiefly by the produce of the chase; the Tschuwasches, who, though an
agricultural population, never dwell in towns, and who live chiefly upon
horse flesh; and the Ostjacks of the Ob, living in the vicinity of the river
of that name and of the Irtysh, and forming one of the most numerous
populations of Siberia. The name Ostjack or Oschtjack is of Tatar origin,
and denotes a stranger-one who knows nothing—and was at first applied
indiscriminately to all the natives of Siberia. But since the difference of
race and other distinctions between these populations have become better
known, the name Ostjack has been retained only by the people just
mentioned, and two other tribes dwelling on the rivers Narym and Jenissei,
who differ, however, from each other as well as from the Ostjacks of the
Ob as to origin and language. Of the Tatar race, there are in Siberia the
4
SIBERIA AND THE RUSSIAN PENAL SETTLEMENTS.
Yakuts, who dwell in the government of Irkutsk, on both sides of the river
Lena, up to its very efflux into the Arctic Ocean; the Bokharians in the
governments of Tomsk and Tobolsk, who live chiefly by trade; and the
Teleutes, who are also called White Kalmuks, because of their having dwelt
a long while among that people. Besides these, there are twelve other
Tatar tribes in Siberia, some dwelling in settled villages, but the greater
number leading a nomade life, and subsisting by cattle-breeding and
hunting. In addition to these there are tribes of Mongol race in the
government of Irkutsk, who, in the seventeenth century, voluntarily trans-
ferred their allegiance from the emperor of China to the tzar of Russia,
and who dwell in tents, and lead a nomade life; Tunguses, Lamuts, and
Olenians, belonging to the Mandschu race—the former roving through the
vast territories that extend from the river Jenissei, across the Lena, to the
shores of the Pacific, the Lamuts dwelling on the shores of the sea of
Okhotsk, which in their language is called Lama, and the Olenians in the
government of Irkutsk, on the river Oleneka, which falls into the Arctic
Ocean. Several Samoyedi tribes, also in a nomade and very barbarous state,
live in the same localities as the above-mentioned races, and on friendly terms
with them; and North-Eastern Siberia is inhabited by various tribes equally
low in the scale of civilisation. But however imposing this long enume-
ration of distinct populations, the sum-total of the inhabitants of Siberia, in
comparison to the extent of territory, is very small even in the present day,
when Russian colonisation has added such considerable numbers to the
original population. In 1834 the territorial extent and the population of
Siberia was computed as follows:-
Area in German
Miles.
Inhabitants.
Amount of Population
on Square Mile.
Government of Tobolsk, with
24,900
...
280,000
11/2/20
the province of Omsk,
Government of Tomsk,
60,400
220,000
...
B3 S
Government of Jenesseisk and
Irkutsk, with the provinces
123,300
300,000
2/2/2
of Jakutsk, Okhotsk, and the
peninsula of Kamtchatka,
The whole of Siberia,
260,600
800,000
35 *
The climate of a country extending between 45° 30', and 77° 40′ north
latitude, and 60° and 190° east longitude, cannot of course be uniform; but
excessive cold is predominant. The country may, however, be divided
into three regions—namely, the arctic, the cold, and the temperate. In the
first of these, which embraces all the lands farther north than 67° north
latitude, the winter never lasts less than eight months of the year, and is
so cold that quicksilver freezes, and the sea is generally covered with ice
from the beginning of September till the end of June. In the northern
parts of this region, vegetation, with the exception of some few mosses,
entirely ceases, while in the most southern parts dwarfy bushes begin to
*Schubert; Handbuch der Allgemoinen Staatskunde von Europa. Mr Cottrell, in
his Recollections of Siberia in 1840 and 1841,' page 81, mentions 2,000,000 or
1,500,000 as the relative census of Western and Eastern Siberia. Mr Cottrell does
not name the source whence he has derived his information, but we cannot but
doubt its correctness.
5
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
make their appearance; but the earth produces no vegetables fit for the
food of man. Yet even here man maintains his sway, his chief nourishment
being the fish in which the rivers abound, and his only property flocks of
reindeer and dogs. The cold region embraces the territories between 67°
and 57° north latitude. Here the winter is of shorter duration, being gene-
rally reckoned at six months of the year; and though the cold is still very
great, Réaumur's thermometer marking frequently 36°, it has not so destruc-
tive an influence on vegetation. Large forests in some localities cover the
face of the country, various shrubs bear berries which are much prized by the
inhabitants, and garden vegetables are cultivated with success in the more
southern parts; but corn, which in Europe yields a not unprofitable harvest
in 65° north latitude, cannot in Siberia be cultivated with profit farther
north than 55°, and in Kamtchatka, than 51°. In the region here described,
the hot sun of summer precipitates vegetation; but the transition from heat
to cold and from cold to heat is so abrupt, that the temperate seasons,
spring and autumn, cannot be said to exist. In the temperate region,
between 57° and 50° north latitude, the climate in a great measure
resembles that of Denmark and Northern Russia, though the winter is
longer and much more severe. Here corn yields an abundant harvest;
but the country is too thinly populated, and agriculture, as a science, too
little developed, to allow of any great production. The intensity of the
cold is not, however, by any means equal in the same latitudes throughout
the whole continent, the severity of the climate increasing considerably
with the extension of the territories eastward. Sufficient observations
have been made to establish this phenomenon as an incontestable fact; but
as yet the causes of it have not been demonstrated, nor is it ascertained
whether it be ascribable to a general law or to local circumstances.
Eastern Siberia, where the cold in the same parallels is so much greater,
and where the cold region extends so much farther south than in Western
Siberia, is indeed intersected by mountains which exclude the sea-breezes,
and prevent them from exercising their usual tempering influences on the
air; but this circumstance alone is not sufficient to account for the existing
differences of temperature; and the other features of this division of the
country-such as the immense uncultivated and snow-covered plains, barren of
all vegetation, and presenting none of those variations of surface which might
impede the circulation of the cold currents of air-it has in common with
West Siberia; and therefore, though this may, in a certain measure, account
for the great severity of the climate of Siberia compared with that of
European countries in the same latitudes,* it cannot explain the increase of
cold in the eastern regions of this continent.
As familiar illustrations of the different effects of cold at the various de-
grees which it attains in Siberia, we may quote a passage from Mr Cottrell's
work, 'Recollections of Siberia,' giving the experiences of a gentleman who
had resided many years in the country, and had devoted his time to meteoro-
logical observations :-'At 39° (of Réaumur, a not unusual degree of cold
even at Irkutsk) the breath is heard to issue from the mouth with a sound
like the crackling of very dry hay when crumpled in the hand, and the
* Irkutsk, the capital of East Siberia, and London, are within half a degree of
latitude of each other, and the difference in their mean annual temperature is
nearly 20°.
early
SIBERIA AND THE RUSSIAN PENAL SETTLEMENTS.
traineau (sledge) ceases to glide smoothly over the snow. At 45° (below
which the thermometer not unfrequently falls in Yakutsk), in spitting, the
saliva freezes before it reaches the ground, and you see it form a round solid
ball on the snow.' At Holy Cape, in the Icy Sea, in passing through a gorge
of the mountains, when the thermometer stood at only 30°, he felt a current
of air which burned and pricked the skin like a needle. This wind the
natives call kious; and in order to inure themselves to it, they expose their
faces continually, till the skin becomes hardened and insensible to its effects.
What is very singular, the kious is not felt when the wind is high. Mr
Hedenström threw up a feather in the air when under its influence, and instead
of being carried away, it fell perpendicularly to the ground. He considers
this phenomenon as a sort of parallel, at the utmost distance, to the sirocco,
and that it is not, properly speaking, a current, but a body of air, charged
with the ne plus ultra of cold, which, having considerably greater density
than the ordinary air, communicates itself to it gradually and almost imper-
ceptibly. To this may be added, that Professor Ermann, when travelling in
Siberia, experienced, on imprudently laying hold with his ungloved hand of
a metal instrument which had been exposed to the influences of the atmo-
sphere in the open air, the same sensation and effects as if he had come in
contact with a red-hot iron, the skin of his fingers becoming immediately
blistered, and adhering to the metal. In travelling, it is frequently
necessary to stop on the road to have the congealed breath and blood cleared
out of the horses' nostrils, the excessive cold making the animals bleed
violently at the nose. The earth in Siberia, even in summer, is frozen,
the ground ice beginning a very few feet below the surface, and in some
localities it has been found to extend to a surprising depth. The agent
of the Russian American Company in Yakutsk (62° north latitude), not
content with the usual means of obtaining a supply of water-namely, by
drawing it from the river Lena in summer, and by melting snow in winter
-undertook to have a well bored in his yard. When Ermann visited
Yakutsk in April 1829, a depth of fifty English feet had been attained,
and at this depth Réaumur's thermometer marked 6°. Subsequently the
boring was continued to a depth of 380 feet, the ground being still
frozen. In one locality, near the river Birussa, which forms the boundary
between the governments of Irkutsk and Jeniseisk, and in the 55th parallel
of north latitude, where attempts at gold-washing were made at one
time, the soil was frozen so hard, even during the summer months, that the
workmen were obliged to use pickaxes instead of spades in digging. In
Western Siberia the limit of perpetual ground ice is at Berezov, in Eastern
Siberia, as far south as Nertchynsk. During the heat of summer, which
is as excessive as the cold of winter, the inhabitants of Siberia make holes
in the earth, in which they place their provisions to keep them fresh, as we
do in artificial ice-houses. The bodies of the dead buried in the soil of
that country are in many localities preserved in a state as perfect as could
only in other countries be attained by a costly process of embalming.
The conquest of Siberia opened up a new world to the commerce and
enterprise of the Russians; but many years elapsed before all the natural
riches of the country were fully known and appreciated, and before the
civil organisation introduced by the Russians was so fully established as to
admit of a regular and permanent commercial system. The costly furs
7
CHAMBERS's PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
above alluded to for a long while formed the basis of the commerce of the
country. Many of the heathen and barbarous populations were not only
clad in the skins of sables, which in Europe, and among many of the more
civilised Asiatic nations, were worn only by persons of high rank and great
wealth, but they even made use of these skins as soles to their snow-shoes.
The first tribute exacted from them consisted, therefore, exclusively of the
skins of these animals, and of black and gray foxes and beavers; the
officials charged with gathering the tribute, or yassak, as it is termed in
the language of the country, being forbidden to accept of any other furs.
However, the insatiable rapacity of the Promuischleneki, which had contri-
buted so greatly to the subjugation of the country, soon began to exercise
a baneful influence on this its richest produce. Their impatience of wealth
led them to pursue the chase of the animals whose costly furs were
the great object of their desires, with so much imprudence and intempe-
rance, that even in those regions where they most abounded, and where
they might have continued for ever to exist in the same abundance, their
number was greatly reduced, not only by the havoc committed among them
by the fur-hunters, but by the instinct of the animals, which taught them
to shun localities fraught with so much danger, and led them to seek
safety elsewhere. Unfortunately for the Russians, the chase having
begun in the north, the animals of course fled southwards; and finding no
obstacles to impede their progress, they sought refuge on the banks of the
Amur, and in the Mongolian mountains, where to this day they are found
in greater numbers than in the north of Siberia. Had the chase, on the
contrary, begun in the south, the progress of the fugitives northward
would have been arrested on the shores of the Arctic Ocean, and they
would not have been lost to their pursuers.
The diminution in the amount of tribute collected* was greatly felt by the
Russian exchequer; for the trade in furs being almost exclusively in the
hands of the government, the advantages derived from it flowed immediately
into its coffers; and at that period the gold, silver, copper, iron, lead, and
quicksilver mines, the salt-springs and lakes, and the precious stones of that
highly-gifted country, which now form so rich a source of revenue, were
either quite unknown, or very partially worked. On the other hand, the
agricultural produce of the earth was too insignificant to form a branch of
commerce; for, as we have seen, by far the greater number of populations
inhabiting the country, at the period of the Russian conquest, were nomade
tribes, subsisting by fishing and hunting, and entirely unacquainted with the
art of cultivating the soil. It is the Russians who have introduced this art
in the various localities in Siberia where the rigour of the climate does
not preclude it. In the beginning of the seventeenth century, already
villages for the promotion of agriculture were founded, in addition to those
towns and fortresses which had been erected with a view to the subjuga-
tion of the country and the collecting of tribute. The gradual increase in
the number of Cossacks required to garrison these last-mentioned places,
*In 1608 the tribute paid by the Woguls, in the district of Pelym, had already
decreased from twelve sables per head, as it was originally, to seven sables per head.
The same was the case in the government of Tobolsk ; and it has been observed that
very rarely, if ever, the number of wild animals augments anew in a neighbour-
hood where it has once greatly decreased.
8
SIBERIA AND THE RUSSIAN PENAL SETTLEMENTS.
rendered it exceedingly difficult and expensive to transport the supplies
necessary for their subsistence from Russia; and the government was thus
in a measure obliged to endeavour to raise in the country itself as much
corn and other fruits of the earth as would suffice for the provisioning of
the troops. Encouraged by the government, which gave permission to all
peasants of the crown to emigrate to Siberia, agriculturists soon poured in,
particularly from the northern provinces on the rivers Dwina, Wutschegda,
Iug, and Sochona, the climate and soil of which are such as to render the
change a most desirable one for its inhabitants; and from these descend
the greater number of the present Russian inhabitants of Siberia. So
little were the metallic riches of that country then known, that these first
agricultural immigrants were obliged to carry with them all their imple-
ments of husbandry, even trade with these articles being interdicted by the
government, who feared that if the natives should gain possession of them
the peaceful instruments of industry would be transformed into warlike
weapons, and used for the purpose of regaining their independence.
In the sequel, however, this prohibition was discontinued, as, on nearer
acquaintance, several of the native tribes were found to be in possession of
iron, and of the art of smelting and working it. But though agriculture
was thus early introduced it has never attained any high degree of
development; and this not so much owing to the severity of the climate, as
to that dread of innovation seemingly inherent in all nations or individuals
holding a low place in the scale of enlightenment, which makes them so much
averse to the introduction of improvements, the advantages of which they
can with difficulty be made to understand. The length and severity of
the winters in Siberia are, as has already been observed, compensated by a
corresponding rapidity in the progress of vegetation, the intensity and
power of the sun being proportionate to the shortness of the summer. But
these very circumstances cause difficulties as regards the raising of grain
crops, with which the Russian Siberians, in their ignorance, have not
hitherto been able to cope; while, in other instances, the extreme richness
of the soil stands in their way. In some parts of the country where
manuring would be beneficial, the process is quite unknown; in other
parts, where it acts injuriously, by causing the grain to grow to so great
a height that it has not time to ripen, it is applied; and nowhere is it
customary to allow fields once brought under tillage to lie fallow. In the
south-eastern part of the country, particularly in the vicinity of Nertchynsk,
the soil is naturally so rich as to cause the excessive growth just men-
tioned; but though experiencing the detrimental consequences of it, the
Siberians laugh at those who would teach them to mix up sand or clay
with this mould, or to introduce any other improvements in their mode of
culture. Rye, wheat, buckwheat, oats, hemp, and tobacco are principally
cultivated; but rye being the least liable to suffer from the white frosts
which frequently occur in the middle of summer, affords the most profitable
crop. European vegetables are likewise grown in considerable quantities
in the central and southern parts of the country.
In the mild regions of Siberia cattle-breeding formed the chief means of
support of the nomade tribes; but in the northern, and by far the greater
part of the country, very few domestic animals were known. A disease
which raged among the cattle in the district of Tiumen, from 1603 to 1605,
No. 74.
9
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
•
caused the government not only to order the distribution of a great number
of heads of cattle among the agriculturists of Siberia, but also to abolish
the duties, which had until then impeded the importation; and in this
manner cattle-breeding was encouraged in several districts in which it had
not previously existed. In 1601 the salt springs of the country were first
made available for the production of salt, and in a short time yielded not
only a sufficient supply of this valuable article for home consumption, but
also large quantities for exportation to Russia.
Thus already, in the commencement of the seventeenth century, Russian
enterprise had wrought a great change in many of the inhospitable wilds of
Siberia. The country produced the necessaries of life; the warm and
fertile regions were able to supply the wants of the less-favoured districts;
and by the reciprocal interchange of produce, a lively internal trade was
created, and went on increasing. The external commerce being still
limited to peltry, fossil ivory, castoreum, argaric, and some few more
articles, was not, however, very extensive. In 1632 the first iron ore was
discovered near the river Niza, and the forges which were soon afterwards
erected in this locality proved a great benefit, for thenceforward it was no
longer necessary to bring from Russia the iron required for the consump-
tion of the colonists; but the most important mines of Siberia were not disco-
vered until the end of the seventeenth and the beginning of the eighteenth
century, and the mining operations were carried on with very little
success until Peter the Great, with that energy which characterised all his
proceedings, gave an immense impetus to this branch of industry. The
explorations in the mountains of the Ural and the Altai were continued
during the whole of the eighteenth century; but in consequence of the
management and working of the mines being intrusted to unskilful hands,
they gradually declined, until in 1706 the Scottish general, Gascoigne, who
was invited by the Russian government to undertake the direction of them,
re-established order and prosperity. Among other measures of Peter the
Great which have been differently judged by his admirers and his detractors
-the former attributing them to a wise and far-sighted policy, the latter
to a cruel and vindictive spirit—was one which, whatever the motive, gave
a very great impetus to industry in Siberia. This was the transplanting
thither of a considerable number of the Swedish prisoners who, during his
wars with Charles XII., had fallen into his hands. These unfortunate men,
being left to their own resources, were obliged to exert themselves in
every way to gain a livelihood; and as they were generally greatly superior
to the populations among which they were thrown, their talents and
acquirements soon opened up new fields of industry. According to the
accounts of a contemporary writer* there were in the year 1714 no less than
9000 Swedish officers and non-commissioned officers in Siberia, who earned
their bread by their labour; but as mere manual labour was very badly
paid, those among the exiles who possessed mechanical or other practical
knowledge endeavoured to turn it to account. The amelioration in their
position which they thus obtained acted as a spur upon the others, and
thus superior handicrafts, arts, manufactures, and schools, were established
in the deserts of Siberia. Among the eight hundred Swedish exiles who
* Weber. Das Veränderte Russland.
10
SIBERIA AND THE RUSSIAN PENAL SETTLEMENTS.
were ordered to inhabit the town of Tobolsk, there were gold and silver
smiths, turners, joiners, shoemakers, tailors, and card manufacturers, who
all recommenced their former trades; while some founded manufactories of
gold and silver tissues, and others endeavoured to gain a living as school-
masters and musicians, and also by trade. The articles produced by the
Swedes were in many cases of exquisite workmanship, and were soon
distributed for sale and sought even throughout European Russia; and thus
Siberia, which a few years previously received even the first necessaries of
life from Russia, then already exported articles of luxury to that country.
Being on one side bounded by unnavigable seas, on another by insur-
mountable mountain barriers, Siberia is, by its geographical position, in a
great measure excluded from commercial intercourse with other nations
except through the medium of the Russian territories; and by becoming a
colonial dependency of Russia, she has obtained not only large markets for
her raw produce, but also the many advantages which flow from the exten-
sive transit-trade of Russia with China. In return, the trade and industry
of Siberia, though subjected to the same restrictions as those of Russia, are
not shackled by any of those extraordinary measures which sometimes
impede the development of the resources of the colony for the supposed
benefit of the mother country; and the inhabitants in every respect enjoy
the same social and political rights as those of Russia Proper, with the
additional blessing of being exempt from serfdom, the curse of the latter
country. Indeed the whole of Northern Asia is the theatre of a bustling
and happy commercial and industrial activity, of which those who never
think of Siberia except as the great and dismal prison-house of Russia
have very little conception.
The Siberian trade is chiefly in the hands of natives of Russian extraction,
but is also carried on by Tatars and Bokharians, established in the larger
cities on the Russian frontiers and in Siberia. The greater number of
these merchants travel themselves with their goods through the country,
visiting in succession all the great fairs, and generally exchanging goods
for goods-disposing in one place of what they have obtained in another;
and thus turning their capital perhaps ten times during an absence some-
times of several years spent in dangerous and difficult voyages. In many
cases, however, the merchants of the various towns and provinces meet in
some one of the great commercial marts of the country, there exchange
their goods for others which they can dispose of at home, and then return
thither direct.
The governments of Perm and Orenburg, both intersected by the Ural
Mountains, which form the natural boundary between Europe and Asia,
are as it were the fore-courts to Siberia Proper, their geographical position
and natural features offering immense advantages for the transit-trade
between Europe and Asia. The chief seat of the inland transit-trade is
Irbit, in which place an annual fair is held in spring, which is visited by
an immense concourse of Russian and Tatar merchants from all quarters
of the empire. From the more northern parts of Siberia they bring peltry;
from the smelting-works in the immediate vicinity, copper and iron; from
Moscow, Archangel, and other places, European goods, principally cotton,
woollen, and linen tissues, and coffee, sugar, wine, and spices; from Oren-
burg and Astrakhan they bring the produce of Bokhara, Persia, and India;
11
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
葛
​and from Kiakhta, the produce of China. To enable our readers to form an
idea of the extent of business carried on at this fair, it will suffice to state
that the value of the goods brought to Irbit in 1840 was calculated at
42,813,001 paper rubles.* It is indeed second in importance only to the
fair of Nijni Novgorod, whither the merchants of Siberia also repair, bringing
with them immense quantities of peltry and of the divers articles of trade
obtained at Kiakhta, and where they likewise furnish themselves with
many of the articles of European produce in demand in their country, and
which they transport into the interior on sledges.
Besides Irbit, every town in Siberia has its yearly or half-yearly fair,
between which the merchants are almost constantly in motion. In Tobolsk,
the former capital of Western Siberia, they gather at different periods of
the year, their arrival and departure being regulated by the nature of their
goods, and the ultimate point of their destination. In spring arrive the
merchants from Russia who have visited the fair of Irbit, and await in
Tobolsk the breaking up of the ice, in order to continue, partly by river
navigation, their journey to the more distant parts of the country. The
merchants coming from the interior, and particularly those from Irkutsk,
the capital of Eastern Siberia, and from the Chinese frontier, arrive, on
the contrary, towards the close of summer; while the merchant-caravans
from Bokhara and the land of the Kalmuks make their entry at the
beginning of winter. In Berezov, Jeniseisk, and Yakutsk, the busy scene
of the fair is diversified by the presence of Surjanes, Ostjacks, Woguls,
Yakuts, Samoyedes, and other nomade or half-savage people, who repair
to these cities to exchange the produce of the chase for flour, brandy,
tobacco, tea, and other necessaries of life. In Jeniseisk, situated in the
centre of the country, the merchants from the four quarters of Siberia
meet, and frequently make an exchange of their goods, each party being
thus enabled to return direct homewards. But in most cases these intrepid
men carry their goods from one extremity of this immense continent to
another, braving in the pursuit of their vocation difficulties, dangers, and
fatigues, of which persons living in more favoured climes can have but a
slight conception. In Siberia, indeed, distances are measured by a very
different standard from what we are accustomed to in Europe, even in the
Jands of railway and steam. The merchants travelling between Kiakhta
and Irbit traverse twice a year a distance of 3800 wersts; and a village
situated at a distance of 500 or 600 wersts of a town is spoken of as
being in the vicinity of the latter. In Yakutsk the traders arrive in
summer, and either spend the winter in the town, or disperse among the
villages of the neighbouring nomade hordes. Hence the produce of Europe
and China are distributed to the most eastern parts of Siberia. It is not,
however, usual for the merchants to enter into direct transactions with the
nomade hunting populations, almost the whole of the lucrative trade in furs
being carried on by means of the Siberian Cossacks, who are intrusted with
the levying of the government tribute, and who are better able to encounter
the innumerable difficulties connected with this traffic, as they are acquainted
with the language and habits of the divers races and tribes, and inured to
the hardships and fatigues of journeys, during which they are sometimes
*Reden Das Thaiserreich Russland, &c.
12
SIBERIA AND THE RUSSIAN PENAL SETTLEMENTS.
obliged to traverse hundreds of wersts on foot, dragging after them small
sledges, laden with their provisions and with their stock in trade. There
are, however, instances of Russian merchants who have not feared to
encounter the perils of such journeys, and who have penetrated as far as
Anadurskoi Ostrog, the utmost north-eastern dwelling-place of the nomade
tribes.
In South-Eastern Siberia, the great centre of commercial activity is
Irkutsk-in point of situation, number of inhabitants, and every social
advantage, the first city of the country. Though Kiakhta, on the Chinese
frontier, the place authorised by the Chinese government for the commerce
between China and Russia, is the real seat of this trade, the fact of
Irkutsk being the chief entrepôt for the goods exchanged there gives
rise to a great amount of business, in addition to which the principal trans-
actions of Kiakhta are effected by the merchants of Irkutsk. The non-
resident merchants having business at Kiakhta generally arrive in Irkutsk
in autumn by water, and await there the fall of the snow, which is to
facilitate their further journey. Others arrive in the middle of winter by
way of Tomsk and Krasnojarsk.
The modes of transport for men and goods in Siberia vary according to
the different localities. The large rivers which intersect the country,
and most of which are partially navigable in summer, would, it might be
supposed, be eagerly resorted to as a most desirable means of communication
on so vast a continent. But the natural capabilities of the country in this
respect are but little cultivated; and the river navigation is at present in
so primitive a state, that land-carriage is in general preferred, in spite of
the immense distances to be traversed. In these cases the means of con-
veyance are either carriages or sledges, drawn in some localities by horses,
in others by reindeer, and in others again by dogs. In some parts of the
country camels are used as beasts of burden, and oxen for draught, while
in others the goods are transported on the shoulders of men. It is the
snow which in winter covers the country in its length and breadth that
renders the land-communication, generally speaking, so excellent. But the
snow is not everywhere present in equal quantities, and spread over the
plains in that smooth and uniform manner which is necessary to enable the
sledges to glide over the surface with that ease and swiftness which so
peculiarly facilitate the transport of heavy goods. In some localities,
where the natural features of the country give rise to powerful and
constant currents of air, the snow is swept completely away from the
open plains, and driven together in immense masses in the surrounding
ravines, and up the rocky declivities enclosing the broad valleys. In these
cases, if the road follows the course of a river, the sledges pass along on
its ice-bound waters, and no inconvenience is experienced; but other-
wise they have to be dragged along the frozen earth, to the great discom-
fiture of men and horses. In other places it is the accumulation of
snow, particularly in the early winter, before it has been frozen into so
compact a mass as to offer a smooth and hard surface, which presents the
chief difficulty. Some notion of the difficulties of travelling and transport-
ing goods in Siberia may be formed from Mr Cottrell's description of the
manner in which this impediment is got over on the route from Irkutsk to
Kiakhta, along which the caravans are obliged to pass at those periods of
13
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
the year when the ice of the Baikal Sea is not yet sufficiently strong to
bear the heavily-laden sledges, though passengers may pass in safety
across its bosom :-
'From the beginning of November—that is, for two months-they (the
caravans) are obliged to make this détour, and the expense is much more
considerable, although by no means proportionate to the labour of the
conductors. The snow in the mountains begins to fall in August, and by
November it is generally six feet deep. The mode of clearing it away, it
not being yet sufficiently frozen to make a solid surface to pass over, is
troublesome enough. They first dig out a passage of a certain number of
wersts, and turn their horses into it, and then make them gallop up and
down, backwards and forwards, to consolidate and harden the snow, and then
fasten large branches of fir to an empty sledge, of which they make a sort
of harrow, and with this they clear away the snow from the sides. Having
performed this preliminary operation, they harness a long string of horses
to the machine, which from constantly passing and repassing, by degrees
make a good road, wide enough for their sledges to go easily through.
These, loaded with merchandise, follow in a line, one after the other, to the
end of the road, which has thus been rendered passable. They then
begin afresh with another such passage, and so on till the whole is got over.
Each traineau at this season carries at most fifteen poods. The first of
them does not accomplish more than ten wersts a day; those that follow,
when the road is consolidated as much as in ordinary travelling, about forty
wersts.
'The passage across the Baikal, which is preferred when practicable, has
on the other side its peculiar difficulties, but which are surmounted with
the same intrepidity and perseverance. The passage in sledges on the ice
is agreeable and rapid, the point where it is crossed is not quite sixty
wersts, which is sometimes performed in two hours and a half, and the
view of the surrounding mountains is imposing and majestic. There are
occasionally fissures in the ice, and particularly in the spring, when the
season approaches for its dissolution, which must be formidable to an
unhabituated traveller; but as the horses and their drivers are thoroughly
practised in getting over them, there is no real danger. When the cracks
are small, the horses jump over them without stopping; when they are
large, planks are laid across, so as to form a bridge, which is made and
unmade in an instant-the planks being carried for the purpose, and dragged
behind the sledge. If the fissures are too large even for this, a bridge is
made of large blocks of ice, which they cut off on the side of the opening,
and the driver, with a sort of leaping pole, jumps over the chasm. He
then fastens on other similar blocks from the opposite side. The bridge is
clearly none of the most secure; but the horses are unharnessed, and
passed over first, and then the carriage is pulled over as rapidly as possible
by ropes. Sometimes it occurs that a horse, going at full speed, is all of a
sudden enfoncé in the ice, which, instead of cracking, has become soft and
porous; the driver in that case jumps on his back with great quickness,
crawls over him, disengages him in an instant from the sledge, and as he is
blown, pulls him out by main force before he has time to struggle and sink
deeper in the icy bog. In order to blow him more effectually, he throws a
slip-knot round his neck, and draws it as tight as possible, so as to deprive
14
SIBERIA AND THE RUSSIAN PENAL SETTLEMENTS.
him of the little breath he had remaining. Having lugged him out, he
harnesses him again as quick as lightning, and the whole operation does
not take more time than it does to relate the manner of extracting him.'
The manner in which the corn, brandy, marine stores, &c. for the yearly
provisioning of Okhotsk is conveyed from Yakutsk to this place, is another
striking instance of the indefatigable perseverance with which the diffi-
culties of intercommunication are overcome. The provisions and goods of
all kinds are conveyed in leathern sacks, each containing a certain fixed
weight, and slung pannier-wise across the backs of the hardy Yakut horses,
which are qualified for the journey they have to perform by their strength
of bone and muscle, and by their sagacity in discovering their own pro-
vender in winter, when they scrape away with their hoofs the snow which
covers the ground, and feed upon the grass that grows beneath. Eleven of
these animals, with their burdens, are generally confided to the care of one
man, who mounts the first horse, and drags after him the others marching
in a line, they being attached to one another by a horse-hair rope fastened
round the neck of the leader, and passed under the belly and tied to the tail
of each of the others. In this way the procession moves on very well as long
as it encounters no quagmires; but these are of very frequent occurrence on
the road, and each time one of the horses sinks in the marshy ground, the
conductor is obliged to dismount, to unload all the horses, to seek for them
a path which affords a surer footing, then to fetch the baggage, generally
weighing together 25 hundredweights, and to reload the horses, in order to
repeat, perhaps a few hundred yards off, the same operation; and so on to
the end of a journey, which it takes him a month to perform.
In the cities of Siberia it is not only customary to concentrate the com-
mercial transactions of the year within the short period of time during which
the yearly or half-yearly fairs take place, but the great business of traffic
and barter is further limited to an allotted space: it being usual for all the
merchants of a city to have their shops and warehouses under one and the
same roof. The great annual fairs here, like those of Europe, have origi-
nated in church festivals, which, being held in honour of the patron saints
of the localities, caused great concourses of people, and were taken advan-
tage of by traders for the easy and speedy disposal of their goods. The
custom of concentrating all the traffic within a given space is, however, of
Eastern origin, and was by Russia adopted at a very early period, together
with many other Oriental usages. In the cities of Siberia, as in those
of European Russia, the gostinoi-dvor, as they term what among the
Easterns is called a bazaar or caravanserai, is generally located in the
centre of the town, and formed of four wings, enclosing a large square area
within. On the side facing the street are the shops, opening into a covered
arcade, which runs along the four sides of the building, and protects the
purchasers from rain and sun, while it affords an agreeable lounge for idlers.
Opening into the courtyards are the warehouses for the storing of such
goods as cannot find room in the shops; and perhaps nothing in Siberia
makes a more striking impression on the European traveller than to meet
in these bazaars, in the regions of snow and ice, in so close contact as to
be embraced in one glance of the eye, the natural and industrial produce
of all the varied climes of the globe.
To the great commercial activity of which we have caught a glimpse,
15
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
there are added in Siberia industrial enterprises of still greater interest,
because indicative of a higher and improving state of civilisation. The
number of manufactories throughout the country, exclusively of the
governments of Perm and Orenburg, is calculated at 143, of which fifty-
three are in the government of Tobolsk, fifty in that of Irkutsk, and forty
in the province of Tomsk. These do not, however, represent the whole of
the manufacturing industry of the country; for here, as in other countries
in a similar stage of development, domestic manufacture is to a considerable
extent practised in the houses of the villagers. No isolated farmsteads, or
habitations of other kinds, dot the country in Siberia: the whole of the
population not residing in the cities is gathered in villages, and the inha-
bitants of these devote their time and skill to the various branches of
industry cultivated in the country; for agriculture being so greatly limited
by the nature of the climate, it is far from absorbing the labour of the
whole peasantry. In the neighbourhood of the mines and of the smelting
ovens, the villagers who are not directly employed in these are neverthe-
less indirectly engaged in promoting the operations by woodcutting,
charcoal-burning, the transport of ore from the mouth of the mines to
the furnaces, and other occupations. In some villages the inhabitants
occupy themselves with the manufacture of sledges and wagons, and of
various household and agricultural implements of wood. In others, in the
neighbourhood of the linen factories, the women spin great part of the
thread used in these. In the villages on the banks of the rivers the inha-
bitants live by fishing, and the various processes connected with the salting
and drying of fish; in others they carry on a kind of peddling trade. Some
are inhabited by the people employed in the salt-boiling establishments;
others by the Cossacks, who are exempt from all contributions to the crown,
on condition of their performing certain military duties; and others, again,
by Yemtschiki, or Jamschiki, who are, like the others, crown peasants, but
who, instead of paying the usual obrok or tribute in money, are bound to
furnish the horses required for the service of the post, and for the transport
of goods and travellers, throughout the empire, as also to serve in the
character of postilions and drivers.* Among the Yemtschiki are included
several Tatar populations; and though their dwellings and whole mode of
living are miserable in the extreme, they pride themselves much on their
ancient and noble descent. The Yemtschiki of Russian extraction are a
lively and good-natured race, who follow their vocation as drivers with a
gusto that renders it to them more a pleasure than a labour. With their
horses they live on the most amicable terms, directing them by means of
affectionate and endearing expressions and rhymed sentences instead of
by the whip, which is never used. Even the loud cracking of the whip,
* In Western Siberia, as in Russia Proper, a government or crown posthouse is
generally attached to every station; and here the traveller will always find the
horses and drivers required, ready for his service, the whole being under the super-
intendence of a government employé. In Eastern Siberia, however, the crown post-
houses, which are generally buildings of superior pretensions, are of rarer occurrence,
being only established in the towns. The village posthouses differ little from ordi-
nary peasant houses; and as the government employés are only attached to the crown
posthouses on those stations where none such exist, the starostas, or village elders,
are intrusted with the direction of the Yemtschiki, and of all matters connected
with the conveyance of letters, goods, and passengers.
16
SIBERIA AND THE RUSSIAN PENAL SETTLEMENTS.
which in the north of Europe invariably accompanies sledge-driving, is
not usual in Siberia; but the merry tinkling bells are here, as in the former
countries, attached to the horses, persons of rank and importance being
distinguished by the size of these bells.
Besides being the centres of the commerce and industry of the country,
the cities of Siberia are of course likewise the centres of all the other arts
of civilisation; and European refinement and mental cultivation are here
frequently found in connection with primitive simplicity of manner and
open-hearted hospitality. European luxury reigns in the houses of the
highest and wealthiest officials, and their balls and literary evening parties
are by some travellers described as recalling to the mind the elegance and
animation of Parisian society. But in the dwellings of the citizens in
general the simplicity of the old Russian manners and customs prevails.
Here common wooden chairs and tables, and large presses containing the
household linen, &c. ranged around the room, form the whole ameublement ;
while the pictures of saints stuck on the walls, and the shining brass
samawar* placed on a shelf, form the sole ornaments.
The houses of the wealthier among the Russo-Siberian merchants some-
times consist of one storey, sometimes of two, the lower being raised on a
foundation about eight feet from the ground. The steps on the outside of
the house, leading to the first and also to the second storey, if there be one,
are generally covered over; and under these steps is sometimes a door
leading into a rather dark and partly subterranean chamber, which, being
the warmest in the house, is appropriated by the head of the family. Here
the samawar is steaming away on the table the whole day long-for tea-
drinking is the constant solace of the Siberians of all classes and all nations;
and here other merchants-generally men of much intelligence and varied
knowledge-drop in through the day, to talk over with the host the com-
mercial topics of the moment, or to while away their leisure hours with
relating or listening to the accounts of experiences made and adventures
encountered on the long and perilous journeys so frequently undertaken
by their class. It has been observed by travellers that the unfavourable
conditions of existence against which the Siberians have to contend, far from
rendering them dull and indifferent, on the contrary serve as stimulants to
their intellect; and the men of science who have of late years visited
Siberia have been surprised to find, even in the most desolate regions, a
lively interest in the theoretical objects of their mission, and intelligent.
habits of observation, which proved very useful to them. It has indeed
been suggested, that the intellectual superiority of many of the Russian
Siberians, even in humble life, is perhaps not only owing to the constant
struggles in which they are engaged against the powers of nature, but may
also in some measure be attributed to the blood which flows in their veins;
for among the progenitors of this people may be counted many of the most
distinguished statesmen and generals of Russia, who have expiated in these
dreary regions the short dream of a too-adventurous ambition, or the crime
of having displeased a capricious and all-powerful sovereign, or of having
over-topped rivals of equal pretensions. Such men cannot have remained
without some influence on the populations among which they were thrown;
* A kind of urn, in which the water for the tea is boiled on the table.
17
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
and though, whatever the previous rank of the exile, his offspring born in
Siberia belong to the inferior classes, the superior cultivation of the fathers
must, nevertheless, in some measure influence the minds of the children,
even in spite of the mother being in many instances not only of inferior
rank but of inferior race; for in these regions the blood of the most ancient
nobility of Russia has probably been frequently intermixed with that of the
aborigines.
Towards nightfall the upper rooms in the Siberian houses are heated
to what is by Europeans considered an excessive degree, particularly for
sleeping apartments, and the whole family lie down for their night's rest on
mattresses spread on the floor, having for covering light woollen blankets
only. In the better houses, one bedstead may sometimes be found, which
is then generally reserved for the guest, invited or uninvited. The latter
are in Siberia not of unfrequent occurrence, for the country is still in so
primitive a state that inns do not exist, and the stranger who means to
sojourn for any time in town or village is, if he have no previous connec-
tions on the spot, quartered by the authorities on some one of the inhabi-
tants. He is not, however, the less hospitably treated, nor is he looked
upon otherwise than in the honoured and sacred character of a guest; for
even the poorest among the Siberian hosts would be ashamed to demand
payment, though they do look forward to some small present as compen-
sation for the expenses they incur. The fact of a stranger having once
been hospitably received by a family gives him a claim upon the hospitality
of that family at any future period. For a mere night's lodging it is not
usual to disturb the inmates of private dwellings, and travellers therefore
frequently spend the nights in their kibitkas, or covered sledges, in which
a comfortable bed is spread. But if the stranger present himself at the
hut of the poorest peasant, even in the middle of the night, he is pretty
sure of meeting with a hearty welcome, of being invited to warm himself
upon the large oven, and of being regaled with the best cheer the house
contains. Good-humour, great friendliness of disposition, and much
courtesy of demeanour, seem indeed to be prevalent characteristics among
the Siberians, even of the poorest classes; and these qualities have exercised
an influence on the language of the country, in which peculiar terms of
politeness and endearment abound.
The houses in the towns of Siberia are generally, and those in the villages
universally, of wood-wooden walls being considered best calculated to
keep out the cold. In the towns the timber beams are clothed on the
outside with planks, and painted some light and cheerful colour; in the
peasant houses, on the contrary, no pains are taken to disguise the roughly-
hewn blocks of which they are constructed. In the towns also, several of
which are noted for the width and regularity of their streets, and the state-
liness of their public buildings, glass of native manufacture is generally
used for the windows; but in the villages the transparent mica or talc,
known by the name of Russian glass, and which is principally obtained
from the mines in the government of Jeniseisk, is in general use: in those
farthest north, however, even this is an unusual luxury, and is frequently
superseded by the transparent skins of various fishes, and in some localities
even by blocks of ice. The Russian villages (by which we mean those
inhabited by natives of Russian extraction), and particularly those in the
18
SIBERIA AND THE RUSSIAN PENAL SETTLEMENTS.
Barabinski Steppes, the best cultivated part of Siberia, in many instances
present an appearance of wellbeing most gratifying to the beholder-the
well-built houses, with balconies running round them, and standing in the
midst of enclosed courtyards, affording a picture of much comfort. In the
villages, the inhabitants of which are occupied with mining or charcoal
burning, or other non-agricultural avocations, there are small enclosed
patches of ground attached to the houses, in which vegetables are culti-
vated for the use of the family.
The interior of a Siberian peasant's dwelling rarely contains more than
two rooms, and very frequently only one, divided into two compartments,
an upper and a lower, the former being reached by a kind of primitive
ladder, made of small blocks of wood, placed one above another against the
wall in one corner of the room. The upper compartment, as the warmest,
serves as sleeping apartment for the whole family, who, like those of the
higher classes, lie upon the floor on sheepskins, or on their own fur or
sheepskin pelisses. The lower room is in a great measure occupied by the
huge brick stove or oven, called palata, which serves to heat the house, and
also for cooking, and on which the oldest male inhabitants of the dwelling
are generally, during the hours of rest, found stretched at full length,
enjoying the genial heat. Such a stove and a samawar are always
found even in the poorest hovel. Wooden benches placed along the
walls, together with a kind of stand for the torches of lighted pine or birch
wood, with which these humble dwellings are illuminated at night, constitute
the rest of the furniture, and a bathroom, for the usual Russian steam-bath,
is frequently attached to the dwelling. There are villages, notwithstanding,
which convey the idea of extreme misery and degradation; while the yurtes
or huts of the aborigines of various denominations afford an insight into
the habits of populations but little removed from the savage state. Some
of the villages, particularly such as are situated on the banks of rivers
or brooks, are rendered peculiarly disgusting by heaps of manure, which,
instead of being used to fertilise the fields, is driven together to form a
kind of dike between the village and the river, and in summer breeds such
quantities of vermin, that one must be a Siberian to be able to live under
their attacks. Cleanliness does not indeed belong to the virtues of the
Siberian peasant, and his ideas of the uses of manure seem peculiarly
perverse, it being customary throughout the country to burn manure in
order to purify the air, whenever a locality is threatened with an outbreak
of the epidemic called the Siberian Plague, by which great havoc is made,
particularly in the Barabinski Steppes, the malady attacking alike men
and animals. The Tatar villages, though generally very miserable, are
distinguished by a more attractive feature, there being invariably in the
immediate vicinity of each a small grove, forming the cemetery of the
population.
However low in the scale of civilisation the population may be, yet the
cheerful bustle in the streets of a Siberian village, particularly when the
Yemtschiki are busy with a long train of arriving or departing sledges, and
the songs and dances with which time is wiled away in the sociable evening
meetings, which are always taking place in some house or other, even in
the poorest village, prove that the amount of mere animal gratification
sufficient for the happiness of man in his uncultivated state is not wanting
19
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
there. As regards the Slavonic population of Siberia, their manners and
customs are those of Russia Proper, with this difference only, that in Siberia
they appear more in their primitive purity, having been preserved unmixed
as a legacy from the earliest colonists, while in Russia many of the ancient
customs have been partially superseded, or mixed up with others of foreign
importation. Among the evidences which prove the tenacity with which
the Russian race clings to the past, may be instanced the fact that the
Danish goods sold in the gastinoi-dvor at Tobolsk, are still designated by
the name of Variengian wares--the very name which they bore in the
markets of Russia at the time of Rurik; while the same is also testified by
the strange mixture of ancient heathen and primitive Christian customs
which still prevail among the population. Foremost in importance among
the customs are those connected with the marriage ceremonies, which are
here always preceded by four distinct stages of courtship, if it may so be
termed, in which the swachi—a kind of female deputy suitors, who, through-
out the Russian empire, are employed as matrimonial agents-play a
prominent part. The first ceremony is called swidanie, or the first
meeting, and on this occasion the elected maiden, led by the swacha, is
shewn to the suitor from afar. The next stage is the smotrienie, or nearer
beholding, for which purpose the suitor is introduced by the swacha to the
family of the maiden, by accepting which introduction he does not, however,
bind himself to continue his suit. But if the maiden stand the test of the two
interviews, then follows the rukobotic-literally, the folding of hands, what
we would term the betrothal-and which being performed in the presence
of witnesses, is considered binding. After this comes the diewischnik,
or maiden festival, in which the young friends of the bride are the actors.
Having been regaled with tea, cedar-nuts, and wine, the maidens, under
the leadership of the swacha, sing in chorus certain ancient wedding-songs,
in which the bride is compared to a swan, a goose, a duck, or some other
aquatic bird, about to be torn away from its beloved element, and much
wailing and lamentation at her fate is expressed. The whole day having
been spent in this manner, towards evening ensues the important ceremony
of the loosening of the tresses, which takes place in the presence of the
bridegroom, and by which the cessation of the bride's state of independence
is symbolised; for married women never appear without some kind of head-
gear which entirely conceals their hair, while unmarried women wear theirs
hanging in tresses down the back. During the marriage ceremony, which
takes place in church, the bride and bridegroom each place one foot upon a
piece of carpet spread out between them, while two relatives, chosen for the
occasion, hold over their heads metal crowns. The ceremony is concluded
by the whole party walking in procession round the altar, the crowns being
still held above the heads of bride and bridegroom. When the new-
married pair have returned to the paternal roof, then follows what is
termed 'the blessing with the image of the saint,' which consists in the
parents placing on the head and shoulders of the newly-wedded pair the
image of the saint which is to be installed in their new home. After this
the same ceremony is gone through with a dish of salt and a loaf of bread.
In general society young maidens are expected to maintain a respectful
silence, because of being in the presence of their elders. Seated demurely
round the room—their young and pretty faces being looked upon as forming
20
SIBERIA AND THE RUSSIAN PENAL SETTLEMENTS.
part of its decorations-they are, however, allowed to amuse themselves with
cracking nuts, and for this reason nuts are in some parts of Siberia jocosely
called 'conversations' (rosgowarki.) There are, however, many occasions
besides the one mentioned above when the maidens are the chief actors
in the entertainments. Such are the posedienki, or evening meetings,
particularly much prized among the poorer classes. When the shades of
evening have interrupted all out-door labours, the men repair to their
homes, and having taken up their station on the brick stove, there give
themselves up to the pleasures of rest and idleness, and can very rarely be
induced to stir abroad until midnight, when they are to go out to look
after the horses. In the meanwhile the maidens, with a view to eco-
nomising their torches, and also from a love of sociability, assemble in the
house of some wealthy neighbour, and there spend the evening with working
and singing. The songs which are sung on these and many other occasions
are highly descriptive of the manners and customs of the country. In one
of the posedienki songs, for instance, the maidens complain of the torches
giving so little light that their meeting must come to an end, and express
their suspicions that their inhospitable host has on purpose moistened the
friendly torches; until one of their companions confesses that she is the
guilty one, being impatient to go and meet her lover, who is waiting for her.
There are other evening assemblies called Wetscherinki, which are more
exclusively devoted to pleasure, and which, in winter in particular, are often
substituted for the posedienki. In these the choral songs serve as
accompaniments to pantomimic dances, in which the young men of the
village also take places, while the elders look on from the top of the stove.
On these occasions the maidens, seated on the wooden benches ranged
round the room, sing in chorus, while some of their number standing up,
form a ring round a couple placed in the middle of the room. The maidens
forming the ring first move with slower or quicker steps, according to the
rhythm of the music, around the pair; and then standing still, join in the
chorus, while the maiden and the young man placed in the middle, commence
performing in representing, in a pantomimic dance, the subject treated of
in the song. Thus in one song a postilion is introduced, who having been
repeatedly in the next town, each time brings back with him rich presents,
in the hope of winning by them the heart of his beloved. The dancer then
shews how he has presented each gift on a silver dish, and his partner how
the proud maiden rejects it, and throws it at his feet. The gifts are in the
song named as shoes, rings, ribbons, and other articles of female apparel; but
in the dance a coloured handkerchief, deposited by the young man on the
shoulder of his partner, and by her carried back and thrown on the ground
at his feet, represents them all. Between each act of the performance the
chorus expresses the sympathy of all 'wellmeaning people' with the suffer-
ings of the rejected lover. At length the young postilion returns from a
last visit to the city, and brings with him a silken whip, which he presents
to his beloved, and which, being the symbol of an honourable matrimonial
proposal, is accepted by her and rewarded with a kiss, which is by the
dancing maiden conscientiously bestowed upon her partner. Sometimes
the balalaika, a kind of cithar, much in use among the Russian peasantry,
is also played by some young men, as an accompaniment to the dancing and
singing.
21
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
In Siberia, as elsewhere, it is Christmas in particular that is a time of
rejoicing and social merriment. Then the snow facilitates the meeting of
friends dwelling at a distance from each other (people coming sometimes.
two hundred and fifty wersts to a party), and is made to contribute in
various ways to the enjoyment of the inhabitants. During the twelve days
from Christmas-day to Twelfth Night, town and village are in a turmoil of
amusement. In the morning races in sledges take place, either on the ice
of the river, if there be one in the vicinity, or on the snow-covered streets
of the village-a smooth pathway, bordered by branches of evergreen, being
in each case prepared for the sledges. Within the open sledges are seated
the maidens, clad in their bright-coloured holiday dresses, and singing in
chorus appropriate songs, in which the young men on horseback join while
gallopping their horses alongside the sledges, and urging the drivers to
excite theirs to the utmost speed. Down the village street the procession
moves, with a swiftness which would keep pace with a steam locomotive,
the bells on the horses tinkling merrily, the dogs barking and scampering
after it, the old men and women in the doors cheering and laughing, and
the whole presenting a picture of simple-hearted enjoyment most pleasing
to behold. Another of these winterly amusements are the so-called Russian
mountains, which it is customary to imitate at the fairs and other holiday
makings in Western Europe, but which here bear but a slight resemblance
to the originals. These ice mountains are in preference erected on the frozen
waters of the rivers or streams, and are constructed of boards made to form
an inclined plane, the perpendicular height of which, at the highest point,
is sometimes thirty feet. Upon these boards are then laid blocks of ice,
which, water having been thrown over them, freeze over night into a smooth
and compact mass, inclining gradually till it meets the frozen surface of the
river. The ice-mountain thus erected is hedged in with evergreens, which,
in those parts of the country whither Chinese influences have penetrated,
are further decorated with lamps of coloured paper. The small sledges
used for the purpose of gliding down the plain, and which are so low as to
permit of the persons seated in them touching the ice with their hands, are
carried up to the top of the mountain by steps constructed at the back. The
person who is to descend then seats himself in his vehicle; and the impetus
being given, he endeavours, with his arms thrown, and his hands cased in
thick skin gloves, and pressed against the ice, to keep the sledge in the
middle of the path, so as not to be impeded in his descent. Many a trial is
required before proficiency is attained; but the failures contribute as much
to the amusement as the successful descents, and men and women—for both
sexes take part in the sport-bear their mishaps with equal good-humour.
When great dexterity has been attained in descending in a sledge, then, to
render the matter more difficult, a simple piece of wood or a fox skin is substi-
tuted, and the very ambitious even undertake the descent standing upright.
The evenings at Christmas time are spent in dancing, singing, and with
games of various kinds, among which such as are believed to prognosticate
of the future are particularly in favour. In the villages it is generally in
the house of the richest inhabitant that the party assembles; for here a
large barrel of a beverage, to which the name of beer is given, is broached
on Christmas-day, and placed in the middle of the floor, for each guest who
enters to serve himself. This so-called beer is made expressly for festive
22
·
1
&
SIBERIA AND THE RUSSIAN PENAL SETTLEMENTS.
occasions, and consists of an opaque brown oily fluid, which is rendered still
thicker by a quantity of oat husks swimming about in it. Uninviting
and unpalatable as this beverage seems to Europeans, it is in high repute
among the Siberian peasants, whose potations of this, as well as of the
corn spirit, which they likewise prepare themselves, are deep and long.
Substantial food is not either wanting at these evening meetings, the women
having prepared beforehand cabbage-soup, with balls of force-meat, and
a kind of jelly made partly of the small gristly vertebræ of animals, and
eaten cold, with vinegar and mustard, which are always to be found in a
Siberian ménage. The dessert consisted of ginger-bread and cedar-nuts.
Among the prophesying games, those called Podebliudnie piesni, or dish-
songs, are in particular favour among all classes. The maidens who desire
to question fate deposit rings or other articles of jewellery in a dish, which is
then covered over; the maidens next commence chanting a song consisting
of short strophes, each of which expresses in symbolical terms some
prophecy bearing upon matrimony. While the prophecies are being
chanted, the matrons of the party extract from the dish the articles
deposited therein, and the strophe which accompanies the extraction of
each article foretells the fate of her to whom it belongs. Some of these
games bear a greater resemblance to such as are known in Europe. Such
are those in which the oracles consulted are drops of melted wax allowed
to drop into a vessel with water, or empty earthenware vessels allowed to
swim in a large tub of water, the direction taken by them indicating the
union or separation of the interested parties. Other means taken to
penetrate into the secrets of the future have a stronger local colouring.
Such is the podsluschiwatj or listening, which consists in the interpretation
of certain detached words caught up while listening in darkness and solitude
under the windows of some house. Upon the whole, solitude and stillness
are in many cases considered indispensable, if the voice of fate is to be
heard; and it is therefore not unusual for the peasant maidens to creep at
midnight stealthily into the bathroom, which is considered the favourite
place of resort of the house-sprites, in the hope of seeing the shadowy form
of their future husband pass by them. The maidens also sometimes throw
themselves backwards down upon the snow, and their fate in the coming
year is prognosticated from the greater or less depth of the impression
they make upon the yielding substance.
So great are the sociable propensities of the Siberians, that the twelve
days at the beginning and end of the year particularly devoted to social
meetings are far from satisfying them; and every other church festival-of
which there are a great number in the Greek church serves as a pretext
for feasting in company; and it is even customary in some of the towns
on each Sunday to escort from church the highest personage in the
place, who, in return for the compliment, treats his guests to an excellent
luncheon. On days of particular importance in the calendar of the church
or the state, it is usual in Tobolsk to pay one's respects, after service,
first to the archbishop, and then to all the civil functionaries consecutively
according to their rank. It is on the thrifty Siberian housewives that falls
the greatest burden of these festivals, because for each the church or
custom prescribes a peculiar diet; and in order that it may be perfectly
orthodox, the making of each dish must be superintended by the mistress
23
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
6
of the house. But then she expects her guests to do justice to the cheer;
and her modes of persuasion to those whose appetites begin to fail sound
to European ears most ludicrous. Having passed through all minor forms,
she at last implores her guests to make an effort,'' to conquer their dis-
gust;' expressions which indeed sometimes seem quite appropriate, the
delicacy offered being a bit of raw meat. It is, however, but fair to add,
that this meat is prepared in a peculiar manner, which is said to render it
really very palatable. Large slices of beef are in autumn hung in rows on
a wooden machine made for the purpose, and are during the whole winter
left thus exposed in an airy place to the joint influence of the frost and the
At the beginning of spring the meat is considered in a proper state
for eating, and being cut in very thin slices, is handed round after tea.
The beef thus prepared keeps fresh during the whole summer, and is said
to be much superior to the meats in California and in the Brazils, which are
dried by the summer heat.
sun.
From the sketch given it will be seen that though but thinly populated
and partially cultivated, Siberia is not devoid of attractions even to the
traveller traversing its extensive plains with no scientific object in view,
but merely for the gratification of an intelligent curiosity. To the few
natives of Western Europe who have visited the country, life in Tobolsk,
Berezov, Omsk, Krasnojarsk, Barnoul, and Irkutsk, in particular, has
indeed seemed to present no hardships either in the way of physical or
intellectual privations; but the Russians feel so differently on this subject,
that in order to induce its employés to accept office in these distant parts
of the empire, the government is obliged to have recourse to a peculiar
system of rewards. The moment a Russian official oversteps the river
Irtysh, he ascends one step in rank; and if he dwell three years in the
land of exile, he retains his higher grade on returning to the mother
country. However puerile this inducement may seem in the eyes of
others, on the Russians it acts as a sufficient bribe; for to each grade in
the scale of rank are attached peculiar immunities, which in the higher
grades even become hereditary. The cupidity, venality, and general want
of conscientiousness of Russian officials, have become almost proverbial;
and that these vices most characterise them in Siberia, even more than in
European Russia, cannot be doubted, when we reflect what are their motives
in seeking or accepting office here, and that they rarely, if ever, extend
their period of office beyond the time prescribed for the attainment of the
good desired. Fortunately for Siberia, however, the real business of these
servants of the crown, who, with some honourable exceptions, look upon
their sojourn in the land but as a temporary penance submitted to for the
sake of future advantages, is very limited, the primitive state of society
calling for but little administrative interference; and thus, though deficient
in the desire of effecting any good, they are unable to do much mischief.
Independently of the regular system of convict colonisation which has
been introduced, it was always, and still is, customary in Russia not only to
banish to Siberia such individuals as prove troublesome in any way to those
in high office or influence, but to transplant thither, by an arbitrary exercise of
power, and without consulting the wishes of those concerned, whole masses
of innocent and peaceful subjects. Under a system like that of Russia,
there are few means of tracing the history of such government measures as
24
SIBERIA AND THE RUSSIAN PENAL SETTLEMENTS.
it may be deemed expedient to conceal; but the traditions of the colonists
in various parts of Siberia afford glimpses of the truth. One part of
the Barabinski Steppe was redeemed from its original desert state by a
colony of crown peasants, transplanted thither from the government of
Kasan. Another part of the same steppe was converted from a desolate
wilderness into a fertile corn-producing country by the bright idea of a
governor-general of Siberia, who persuaded the Empress Catherine to allow
him the recruits of one conscription for this purpose. To work the mines
of Nertshijusk, the Emperor Alexander despatched 10,000 peasants from
the interior of Russia; and all these labourers, and many more in like
manner forced to change their domicile, belong, we must remember, to a
people proverbial for their attachment to the place of their birth, and
whom all the advantages offered could not induce to emigrate voluntarily.
The suffering and injustice inflicted in this way does not, however, extend
beyond one generation, and the Siberians are not, as we have seen, a
melancholy and morose, but, on the contrary, a cheerful and sociable race.
Among the compulsory settlers in Siberia, who can neither be reckoned
among the political exiles nor the convict colonists, are also various
sectarian communities, whose religious opinions being at variance with the
state religion, have caused them to be transplanted to this receptacle for all
the divergent minds of the Russian empire, and who rank among the most
respectable individuals in the heterogeneous population.
From the reign of Peter the Great to the present moment, exile to Siberia
as a punishment for political offences has been of constant recurrence, and
most of the romance of Russian history is connected with the frozen
steppes of that country. To enumerate all the illustrious names that have
swelled the list of exiles up to the reign of Alexander, would be to write
the history of the innumerable conspiracies which at various periods have
shaken the throne of Russia, of the cruel caprices of a race of absolute and
unscrupulous despots, and of the various individual passions which, under
governments such as that of Russia, can always find means of making the
public authorities the avengers of private hatreds. From the reign of
Alexander up to the present time, sentence of exile to Siberia for
political offences has perhaps been more frequently pronounced than
before; and as within this period the victims have mostly suffered for
opinions, not for criminal deeds, and in many instances for opinions which,
judged from the point of view of absolute right, must be pronounced to be
noble and generous, though, in opposition to the reigning system in the
country, the fate of these exiles has elicited the sympathy of Europe in a
far higher degree than was ever called forth by the fall of court favourites,
whose change of fortune was generally caused by an inordinate and selfish
ambition. That to the latter, life in Siberia was but a succession of hard-
ships, privations, and humiliations, history affirms; but what may be the
fate of the exiles in the present day there are no more authentic means
of ascertaining than the narratives of the few west Europeans who have
visited Siberia, and the inferences which may be drawn from the general
system of convict colonisation followed in the country, and from the spirit
which pervades society there.
A regular system of convict colonisation was commenced in 1754, during
the reign of the Empress Elizabeth, who was too tender-hearted to sign the
25
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
death-warrant even of the most atrocious criminal, though she tolerated
and countenanced the most barbarous cruelties; but it was carried on
without any attention to the necessities of the various localities, and was
found not to work as favourably as might be desired. The existing irregu-
larities having been brought to light by the census taken in Siberia in 1819,
new regulations were issued in 1822; and these were further improved
upon in 1840, and brought into harmony with the improved penal code of
the country. Notwithstanding the energetic endeavours of Peter the
Great to force European civilisation upon his people, he took little pains
with regard to the necessary preliminary process of humanising the penal
laws of the country, and the most barbarous and degrading punishments
continued, during his and several subsequent reigns, to be inflicted on
persons of all ranks and both sexes. Torture in its most cruel forms was
frequently applied, and the bodies of the criminals mutilated in the most
inhuman manner, their noses and ears being cut off, and their tongues
torn out by the root. Under the reign of Catherine II., mitigations were,
however, introduced: torture was abolished, and the nobles, as also the
burghers of the two first guilds, were exempted from corporeal punishment.
The cruel and capricious Paul I., however, again gave to the world the
sad and degrading spectacle of individuals of high social position and
refined education wincing under the lash of the executioner; and to this
day the knout and the cat-o'-nine-tails are reckoned among the instru-
ments of correction in Russia. The punishments, as regulated by law at
present, consist, according to the nature of the offence committed, in money
fines, restitution, church penitence, loss of office, forfeiture of privileges
and of honour, and in corporeal punishments of various kinds and degrees—
regarding which it is, however, expressly stipulated that the sentence must
not contain a recommendation 'to flog without mercy,' as was formerly the
case—and in banishment to Siberia, which, in cases of heinous offences, is
further sharpened by forced labour in the mines and manufactories.
Capital punishment is reintroduced, but for crimes of high treason only,
and is even in such cases but very rarely applied. From the execution of
the Cossack rebel Pugatscher, which took place in Moscow in 1775, fifty
years elapsed before sentence of death, was again pronounced in Russia,
when five of the leaders of the insurrection of 1826, which had nearly
deprived the Emperor Nicholas of the throne' to which he had just
succeeded, were sentenced to lose their life at the hands of the hangman.
The knout, in addition to hard labour for life in the mines of Siberia, is
the general substitute for capital punishment; and up to 1822, all crimi-
nals under this last sentence were branded on the forehead, though the
practice of slitting up the ears and nostrils, which continued in force until
the reign of Alexander, was discontinued. In cases when the criminals
are condemned to banishment for life, the sentence may be rendered still
more rigorous by condemnation to civil death, in which cases alone the
families of the convicts are not allowed to follow them into exile, and they
are neither allowed to receive nor to write letters.
Kasan, in which city there is a bureau of dispatch for exiles, is the
starting-point of the detachments of convicts and exiles which periodically
leave Russia for Siberia―their halting-places being indicated along the
line of route by large four-winged wooden buildings, with yellow walls

26
SIBERIA AND THE RUSSIAN PENAL SETTLEMENTS.
and red roofs, and surrounded by a stout palisade, erected at every
post-station opposite the crown post-house. According to the improved
regulations of 1840, the convicts condemned to forced labour are not allowed
to travel in company with the criminals of lesser degree destined for imme-
diate colonisation, as was previously the case, but are sent in separate
detachments, care being also taken that several days shall elapse between
the departures of the successive detachments, so as to preclude all possi-
bility of contact on the road. As far as can be judged from the very
imperfect records which are available, the number of convicts transported
to Siberia up to the year 1818 averaged 2500 yearly; but among these
it may be presumed were not numbered the political exiles. In the year
1819, 3141 persons were transported; in 1820, the number swelled to
4051; and from that period until 1823, the annual number was from 4000
to 5000. In 1823 a ukase was issued, ordering that all vagrants who
had until then been subjected to forced labour in the fortresses should in
future be sent to Siberia as colonists. This of course greatly augmented
the number transported; and during the period of six years which
elapsed from the date of this ukase to 1829, 64,035 persons, or 10,067
individuals annually, were sent to people these uncultivated wilds.
Among these, persons convicted of vagrancy only were, however, in a great
majority, the number of criminal offenders condemned to hard labour,
amounting only to one-seventh of the whole number. The number of
women in proportion to that of the men was one to ten. The convicts
travel on foot, all being, on starting, supplied with clothing at the public
expense. The men walk in pairs; but, except in cases of extreme
criminality, are rarely burdened with fetters during the journey. When
passing through towns, however, irons are generally attached to their
ankles, and every attempt at escape is punished with corporeal chastisement,
without any reference to the cause of exile or the former social position of
the individual. To each detachment are generally attached some wagons or
sledges for the women, the aged, and the infirm; and these usually lead the
van, the younger men following, and the whole party, commonly numbering
from fifty to sixty individuals, being escorted from station to station by a
detachment of the Cossacks stationed in the villages. That a journey of
several thousand wersts on foot, and through such a country as Siberia,
must cause much suffering, cannot be doubted; but the stations are not at
very great distances from each other, and travellers agree in asserting that
the ostrogs—that is, fortified places-in which the convicts rest from their
fatigues, afford as comfortable accommodation as any post-house throughout
Siberia; besides which the inhabitants of the towns and villages through
which they pass, either from that perverse sympathy which so frequently
leads the unthinking masses to look upon a doomed felon as upon a victim
of oppression, or from a knowledge of how many sufferers for mere opinion
may be mixed up with the really guilty individuals in the troop, contribute
in every way in their power to mitigate the hardships of their position.
The officer commanding the escort is intrusted with the sum stipulated by
law for the daily subsistence of each convict, and this must never, under
any pretence, pass into the hands of the latter. Many tales are told of the
barbarous treatment to which the exiles are subjected during their passage
to their various places of destination; but this, it would seem, must be
27
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
attributed to the general brutality of the men forming the escort, and not
to any desire in the government to render in an indirect way the punish-
ment of the condemned more severe than expressed in the terms of the
sentence; though in these cases, as in all others, it is of course the
despotic character of the government in Russia which prevents the com-
plaints of the oppressed from being heard, and thus perpetuates all abuses.
The convicts who have committed heinous offences, such as murder,
burglary, highway robbery, or who have been judged guilty of high
treason, and are banished for life and condemned to forced labour, are
chiefly under the superintendence of the governor of Irkutsk, who deter-
mines whether they are to be employed in the mines and salt-works, or in
the distilleries or other manufactories of the crown. For each of these
convicts government allows thirty-six paper rubles yearly; but the price
of the necessaries of life being in Siberia so very low that the half of this
suffices for the support of the convict, the other half goes to form a fund
which, in case, after a lapse of four or six years, he gives proofs of reform,
is given to him to begin life with in some part of the wide-spread steppes
which admits of cultivation, and where a certain portion of land and
materials for building a house are assigned to him. The house must,
however, be erected by his own labour, and the money laid by for him
be applied to the purchasing of the necessary utensils and implements for
commencing housekeeping and agricultural pursuits. From this moment
the convicts become glebæ adscripti in the strictest sense of the term, as
they are, under no pretence whatsoever, allowed to quit the lands assigned
to them, or to change their condition; thenceforward also they pay the
capitation tax and other imposts in like manner as the other crown
peasants of Siberia, and enjoy in return the same rights, such as they are.
The children of these convicts, born during the parents' period of punish-
ment, are bound to the soil; but their names are not enrolled among those
of the exiles, and the law orders that they shall be treated in the same
manner as the overseers of the works.
The second class of convicts is subdivided into five classes-namely,
1. Exiles sentenced to labour in the manufactories; 2. Those sentenced to
form part of the labour companies engaged on the public works; 3. Those
allowed to work at their respective trades; 4. Those hired out as domestic
servants; and, 5. Those destined to become colonists. The last-men-
tioned of these are at once established on the waste lands allotted to them,
each person obtaining an area of not less than thirty acres, and being
besides furnished with materials for building a house, with a cow, some
sheep, agricultural implements, and seed corn. During the first three years
these settlers are exempted from all imposts; during the next seven years
they pay half the usual amount of taxes, and in addition to this, fifteen
silver copeks annually towards an economical fund erected for their benefit.
After the lapse of these ten years they take their rank among the other
crown peasants, and are subjected to the same burdens. Except when
especially pardoned, these colonists are not either allowed to change their
condition, or arbitrarily to quit the lands allotted to them. Colonisation,
according to this system, being found excessively expensive, and at the
same time very precarious, on account of the frequent desertion of the
colonists, who, living without families, were bound by no ties, was given up in
28
SIBERIA AND THE RUSSIAN PENAL SETTLEMENTS.
1822, but has since been resumed. In order to promote the speedy amalga-
mation of the convict population with the free population, the government
bestows on every free woman who marries one of these colonists a donation
of fifty silver rubles; while the free man who takes to wife a female convict
receives a donation of fifteen rubles. Persons enjoying the privilege of col-
lecting gold from the sands of the government of Tomsk, and who employ
convicts for the washings, are bound to pay, in addition to the daily wages,
one ruble and fifteen copeks in silver towards the economical fund. The
convicts employed as domestic servants are fed by their employers, and
receive in wages one silver ruble and a half per month. After eight years
of such compulsory service, these exiles may also become colonists, and be
enrolled among the peasants of the crown. Convict colonists may,
should the authorities deem it expedient, be allowed to work at trades
in the towns, but they must not become members of corporations or
guilds, and must never be considered as being withdrawn from their
condition of colonists.
The convicts condemned to forced labour, and employed in the manufac-
tories, are the most leniently dealt with of this class, their position being,
indeed, such as to render the sentence a reward rather than a punishment.
In the manufactories of Telma more than eight hundred convicts are
employed, who receive in wages, according to the work executed by them,
from six to fifty rubles per month, besides bread flour; and their wives,
who dwell in the village, earn from two and a half to five rubles per month
by spinning and weaving hemp. The convicts employed in manufactories,
and receiving wages, are, however, generally such as have previously been
under stricter discipline, and are in a state of transition towards the
position of liberated colonists. In several of the towns of Siberia there
are establishments for them during the first stage of their punishment. In
these establishments, called Remeslenui Dom, or the House of Trades, the
convicts are employed as joiners, turners, saddlers, wheelwrights, smiths,
&c. and are housed, clothed, and fed at the public expense, but do not
receive wages, their wives and children finding employment in other ways.
All orders must be addressed to the officers intrusted with the superin-
tendence of the establishments; but persons having work executed there
are at liberty to enter the workshops, and to communicate directly with
the different craftsmen, who are not chained, but are guarded by military.
In winter the hours of labour are eight, in summer, twelve. The proceeds
of the labour of the convicts go to pay the expenses of the establishment,
and the surplus is applied to charitable purposes, such as the building and
maintenance of hospitals. The convict labourers in the mines of the
Ural, as well as those of Nertchynsk, dwell together in large barrack-like
buildings, the worst criminals among them being alone chained; but owing
to the unhealthy nature of the mines, particularly those of Nertchynsk,
their existence is a very miserable one. The usual term of compulsory
labour in the mines is twenty years, at the expiration of which the convicts
are generally established as colonists in the vicinity of the mines, and
continue to labour in them, but as free labourers, receiving wages. In case
there be at any time a scarcity of mining labourers, the authorities are
at liberty to apply to this purpose exiles who have not been especially
sentenced to this punishment; but in such cases the exiles are paid for their
29
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
{
labour, and are not confined to the mines for more than one year, which
counts, besides, for two years of exile. Upon the whole, great latitude is
allowed the central and local authorities in Siberia with regard to the
employment and allocation of the convicts and exiles, it being merely laid
down as a general rule that agricultural settlements shall always be made
in the least populous districts of the localities capable of cultivation. It
seems also to be the plan, as far as possible, to put each man to the work
which he is most competent to execute; and the exiles belonging to the
labouring - classes are therefore, in preference, established as agricultural
colonists, while those belonging to the higher classes, who are unaccustomed
to manual labour, are generally located in the towns, where it is easier for
them to find some means of subsistence, which may relieve the govern-
ment from the burden of their support. Even independently of the poli-
tical exiles, the number of the latter is great, for exile is the punishment
which usually follows the detection of those peculations and abuses of
power of which the Russian officials are so frequently guilty. On their
first arrival, it seems, the exiles of this class are made to do penance in the
churches, under the guardianship of the police, but after a time they are
allowed to go about unguarded; and it is said that, when exiled for life,
the Russians even of high birth bear the change of fortune with extraor-
dinary equanimity, assimilating in a very short time, and without any
apparent struggle, to the Cossacks and peasants among whom they are
thrown. When, as is frequently the case, they marry Siberian women,
their children in no way differ from the people among whom they live.
In the city of Tobolsk, in particular, there are a great many exiles belong-
ing to the class of unfaithful employés, the sentence being considered less
rigorous the nearer the place of exile to the frontiers of Russia Proper.
Political exiles are, on the contrary, sent farther north and east, where the
nature of the surrounding country is such as to make an attempt at flight
impossible, or at least very difficult. The hardships to which these exiles
are subjected seem, in by far the greater number of cases, to be exclusively
such as are necessarily connected with their being torn away from all they
hold dear, and transplanted from the luxurious life of European society
(for these exiles mostly belong to the higher classes) to the uncultivated
wilds and rigorous climate of a country but very partially redeemed from
the state of nature; but the tenderest sympathies of the natives of all
races seem, by all accounts, to be readily bestowed upon the exiles, who,
whatever be the nature of the offence of which they have been guilty, are
never named by a harsher term than that of 'unfortunates.' In many
cases the lot of the political exiles is also mitigated by the kindness of the
local authorities, who allow them the use of books and other indulgences,
and even receive them as friends in their houses, when this can be done
without risk of giving offence at St Petersburg.
As in Russia nothing with which the government is concerned can be
commented on by the press without especial permission, it is difficult to
ascertain correctly how far the system followed in Siberia works bene-
ficially as regards the moral reformation of the criminals, and their relations
to society in general. The accounts of travellers are very conflicting-
some extolling the extreme leniency with which even the worst offenders
are treated, as the ne plus ultra of social policy, and dwelling with delight
30
SIBERIA AND THE RUSSIAN PENAL SETTLEMENTS.
on its happy results; while others consider it disastrous in its conse-
quences, and relate instances of the most atrocious crimes committed by
the convicts, and of whole tracts of country in which life and property
have been rendered insecure by their presence. The statistics of Siberia,
however, prove the country to be improving; and all travellers agree as to
the freedom from molestation which they have experienced while traversing
its immeasurable steppes; and it is therefore but fair to conclude, that
though the attempt at moral reformation may be unsuccessful in many
instances, in general convict colonisation has here borne good fruits. That
great severity in the chastisement of new transgressions has been found
necessary, is on the other side proved by the penal laws bearing exclu-
sively on Siberia. According to these laws, drunkenness, fighting, idleness,
theft of articles of small value, unallowed absence from the place of
detention, are considered venial offences, and are punished with from ten
to forty lashes with the cat-o'-nine-tails; while desertion among the colo-
nists is punished, the first time with simple flogging, the second and third
time with the cat-o'-nine-tails. If the offence be persisted in after this,
sentence is to be pronounced by the local tribunals, and often consists in
temporary removement to some distant and thinly-populated district, or
incorporation in one of the penal labour companies. Convicts condemned
to hard labour who attempt to escape are punished with the knout, and
are branded on the forehead, in case this mark of ignominy have not
previously been inflicted on them. Repeated thefts, robberies, and other like
offences, are punished in the same way as desertion; but in these cases
the value of the objects stolen is not so much taken into consideration as
the motives by which the criminals are actuated, and the number of times
the offence has been repeated. A fourth repetition by an exile of a crime
previously punished renders him liable to forty lashes with the knout, and
to being placed in the category of the convicts condemned to forced labour.
Murder, highway robbery, and incendiarism are, if the offender be a simple
exile, punished with from thirty- five to fifty lashes with the knout, in
addition to branding on the forehead, and forced labour in irons for a
period of not less than three years-the term beyond this being left to the
judgment of the local tribunals. The convict condemned to forced labour
who renders himself guilty of similar crimes receives fifty-five lashes of
the knout, is branded on the forehead, and is chained to the wall of a
prison for five years, after which period he is allowed to move about, but
must continue to wear fetters during his life. Criminals of this class are
never to be employed beyond the prison walls, and are not even in illness
to be taken into the open air beyond the prison-yard, or to be relieved
from their chains, except by especial permission of the superior authorities,
which can only be granted in consequence of a medical certificate.
The river Irtysh is the Styx of the Siberian Hades: from the moment
they cross the ferry in the neighbourhood of the city of Tobolsk, the
Russian employés appointed to offices in Siberia are placed in the enjoy-
ment of the higher grade of rank which they so much covet; and from
the moment they cross this same ferry commences the extinction of the
political life of the exiles. Here they exchange the name by which, until
then, they have been known in the world, for one bestowed upon them bý
the authorities, and any change of the latter is punished with five years'
31
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
compulsory labour over and above the original sentence. At Tobolsk sits
the board which decides the final destination of each culprit or each
martyr. It consists of a president and assessors, having under them a
chancellerie divided into two sections, and has offices of dispatch in several
of the towns of Siberia. Before their arrival at Tobolsk the convicts are,
however, liable to be detained by the authorities of Kasan or Perm, for
the public works in their respective governments.
It is as the land of political exile that Siberia is generally known, and
that it has gained so unenviable a reputation among the liberty-loving
nations of Europe, whose imagination pictures it to them as a vast unre-
deemable desert, whose icy atmosphere chills the breath of life, and petrifies
the soul. Yet the truly benevolent should rejoice in circumstances which
have led a government that punishes a dissentient word as severely as
the direst crime, to select exile as, the extreme penalty of the law. Siberia
is, it is true, the great prison-house of Russia; but it is a prison-house
through which the blessed light of the sun shines, through which the free
air of plain and mountain plays, and in which the prisoner, though he may
not labour in a self-elected field, may still devote his faculties to the benefit
of his fellow-creatures, and continue the great task of moral and intellectual
progress. How different his lot from that of the Austrian prisoner of state,
doomed to drag on long years of a miserable existence in the dungeons
of Spielberg, or some other fortress, severed from all intercourse with
the world beyond his prison-walls, deprived even of the light of day, and
left in solitude and forced idleness to brood over his dark and despairing
thoughts!
HARRIET TE;
OR THE RASH REPLY.
G
I.
EORGE WILLIAM BERTRAM, Esq., of Fernielee, was the repre-
sentative of an old family in one of the southern counties of Scotland.
The Bertrams had never occupied a distinguished place among the gentry
of the country: they had never done anything to benefit others or to
aggrandise themselves; they had never been heard of beyond the limits of
their own district; their name was unknown to history alike for deeds of
honour and infamy; but they could count I cannot tell how many
generations, and they possessed a landed property which, thanks to the
entail, had never passed out of the family. They were thus undeniably
respectable, and were known and visited by everybody, although not much
sought after by any-at least of the class to which they belonged; for
though perfectly unexceptionable, their society could convey little dis-
tinction.
The present laird of Fernielee was placed in peculiarly trying circum-
stances. While fortune had denied him a son and heir, she had lavishly
bestowed upon him six daughters, all grown up, and all unmarried. This
was a compound evil; for the property being entailed in the male line,
passed to a distant branch of the family, and the income it yielded not
being large, there seemed no possibility of providing suitably for the girls
save by marriage; and though the eldest was now twenty-seven, no eligible
admirer had yet presented himself to any of them. True, Miss Susan, the
second daughter, had, when at the age of nineteen, imprudently con-
tracted an engagement with a young man she had met when on a
visit from home; but as this youth was neither rich nor wellborn, the
engagement was summarily broken off by Mr Bertram, and poor Susan,
from a laughing girl with rosy cheeks and merry blue eyes, became pale,
and silent, and fretful, and almost as uncomfortably anxious to be well-
married as her plain and commonplace elder sister. At one time great
hopes had been entertained that a neighbouring laird would propose to the
third daughter, Harriette; but after a time the flattering prospect seemed
to vanish, and the gentleman in question, after a sojourn of six months at
No. 75.
1
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
Cheltenham, returned home with an English bride. The laird and his
family in general were much chagrined. Harriette, indeed, bore it wonder-
fully well. The world believed her to be disappointed, but gave her credit
for being a girl of spirit, who would not wear the willow. The world,
however, gave Miss Harriette Bertram more credit than she deserved; for
she was not a slighted maiden, but, on the contrary, Mr Johnstone of the
Grange was her rejected suitor. As little, however, as the world did her
own family guess the real state of the matter. She knew that it would
have been in vain to plead to her father that Mr Johnstone was vulgar
in manners and person, and mean and illiterate in mind, and she therefore
studiously concealed her rejection of his suit-a rejection which he himself
took good care not to publish, and which he had never forgiven. As for
Jane, Ellen, and Anne, the three younger Miss Bertrams, they belonged
to the everyday class of young ladies. They did worsted work and
crochet; doted on sentimental verses, the more meaningless the better; were
devoted to waltzes and polkas; conversed chiefly about beaux and dress;
always spoke in the hyperbolical vein; were perpetually imagining them-
selves in love, and were occasionally slightly jealous of each other, though
more frequently on perfectly amicable terms. Their eldest sister, Marianne,
they considered '
a downright old maid, and far too plain to be married;'
Susan they thought might still have a chance; while Harriette's establish-
ment was certain, if she would only give a little more encouragement to
her admirers. But I must now make my readers acquainted with Mr and
Mrs Bertram.
The former was a little, foolish, fussy, important-looking man, with dark
features, a long nose, and quick black eyes, which seemed to bespeak rest-
lessness of disposition rather than activity of mind. As to the rest, he had
a querulous, jealous temper, an insatiable craving after personal and social
consequence, was fond of gossip, and totally devoid of anything resembling
dignity of character. His wife had been a beauty in her youth, but her
tall elegant figure was prematurely bent from ill health, the light of her
glancing eyes dimmed with care, and her once gay spirit broken by the
incessant worry of her daily life. Originally possessed of a fair share of
abilities, her mind, ever since her marriage, had lain fallow, for she
had neither aim nor hope in cultivating it. Poor Mrs Bertram! gentle,
quiet, and subdued, she lived alone in the world, and endeavoured to find,
in the hope of a better, consolation for her cheerless lot in the present.
Even in her children's love, though passionately fond of them, she found
but little sympathy. She shrank from their mirth and their gaiety, haunted
by a feeling that her presence must be a check to their joy; while they,
accustomed to see her all their lives plodding silently and uncomplainingly
on amid her household cares, guessed not that it had ever been different
with her, or that their confidence would have added to her happiness.
She, too, wished her daughters were married, as she saw no other prospect
of their being provided for, having endeavoured in vain to persuade her
husband to insure his life. It was her proposal, her idea, and therefore
could not be entertained. Was he not capable of judging for himself?
Did he not know that these rascally offices made money by their transac-
tions? Where, then, could be the economy in having anything to do with
them? Mrs Bertram shrank, however, from the idea of her daughters
1
2
HARRIETTE; OR THE RASH REPLY.
marrying from mercenary motives, and looked forward to their future with
that melancholy resignation which characterised all her anticipations of a
temporal naturę.
Fernielee was an old-fashioned place, sweetly situated in one of the wilder
districts in the south of Scotland. When I say old-fashioned, I do not
mean, however, that the mansion was rendered picturesque by gable-ends
and turrets, and innumerable stacks of quaint chimneys; nor do I mean
that it was covered with ivy, or had a hall, with 'storied windows richly
dight.' There are few such mansions in Scotland, and Fernielee assuredly
was not one of them. On the contrary, it was one of the very plainest
edifices one could imagine. It was built of rough gray stone, with a long
plain front, and long rows of small windows, with a very steep roof of gray
slates, or rather slabs, in many places overgrown with moss and lichens.
The door, which was in the middle of the house, was approached by a long
flight of moss-grown steps, with long thin gray iron railings, round which
some creeping plants made an ineffectual attempt to climb. The house was
situated at the top of a gentle acclivity, which might have been made a
pretty lawn but for the grass-covering, which was generally rough and un-
shaven. At the foot of this bank flowed a stream, here and there overhung
by low alders and birches, and dwarf-trees of various descriptions. Behind
the house rose a green hill, used as pasture-ground for sheep; while on the
right and left stretched away to some little distance plantations of various
kinds of wood, conspicuous among which at present was the mountain ash,
with its clusters of coral berries. In front there was a view of some heathy
hills, not high, but wild, interspersed with green knolls, and ferny or
broomy glens, down which generally tumbled and sparkled a little streamlet.
Although a very pretty place, there was about it a certain air of desolation.
The trees wanted pruning, and the walks weeding. Within, though neat
and tidy, and full of young and blooming girls, it was dull too: and to-day,
when I am about to introduce you to its interior, it was unusually so.
Mr Bertram and five of his daughters had gone to the races, which were to
be held near a town a few miles from Fernielee; Mrs Bertram was busy at
work in the breakfast parlour; and Harriette was reading in her own room
--for Harriette did not care for races, and had remained at home.
•
Harriette Bertram was generally allowed to be a pretty girl, and not
without some reason. Her well-proportioned figure was light, active, and
graceful; her movements easy, quiet, and natural. Her complexion, though
pale, was remarkably fresh and clear; her eyes large and beaming, and
full of an ever-changeful expression; and her rich, dark hair singularly soft
and luxuriant. What she wanted in regularity of feature and brilliancy of
colour was amply, atoned for by the vivacity and intelligence of her
expression, the sweetness of her ready smile, and the spirit of her manner
and bearing. There was nothing insipid in her appearance—it everywhere
bespoke what we call character, and was, besides, pre-eminently ladylike.
And in truth her appearance belied her not. A warm sensibility, generous,
and even noble impulses, with a refined sensitiveness of disposition almost
approaching to fastidiousness, and a spirited, though sweet, affectionate
temper, were among her most distinguishing characteristics. The faults of
her character grew, as it were, out of its beauties. The warmth of her
feelings, and the glow of an imagination, ever, ere reflection came to her
3
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
aid, prone to paint in brighter or in darker colours, as the case might be,
each incident which befell her, obscured the clearness of her judgment,
and led her to act from the impulse of the moment rather than from the
good sense she really possessed. In short, she needed the teaching of
life, and a touch, perchance, of the discipline of sorrow, to give regular
beauty to a mind which was yet but a wilderness of flowers.
Harriette, I have said, was reading-one of those noble books which
warm and elevate the heart while they expand the mind. She raised her
eyes from time to time, and looked up in thought, her countenance full of
a lofty gladness. At last her glance fell on a ball-dress, which, with its
various accessories, lay spread out on a bed before her. 'Ah!' she
thought, as the sight of it recalled her to everyday cares-'I wish I were
not going. I may enjoy it perhaps, but not as I enjoy this quiet morning.
Everybody seems so commonplace. I wonder if I shall ever meet any one
different. There must surely be many, and yet I never met one. But
now I must go down to mamma.'
At dinner, Mr Bertram and his daughters were full of the races; the
former was in unusual glee. Had a bow from the marquis, Mrs Bertram!
indeed his lordship was uncommonly gracious; said, when he passed me
the second time: "A fine autumn day, Mr Bertram; but rather windy."
The marchioness, too, shook hands with Marianne on the stand, and bowed
to the rest of the girls. There was a Mr Hartley of Sandilands Hall in
Hampshire there, who paid a good deal of attention to Susan, so I asked
him here to dinner to-morrow after the races. It would be an excellent
match for her. Be sure, Mrs Bertram, that you have everything in
good style.'
'What sort of person is Mr Hartley ?' faintly inquired Mrs Bertram.
'Person! Mrs Bertram? Of course he is a proper person, otherwise I
should not think of encouraging him to address one of my daughters.
Really, Mrs Bertram, you surprise me. You might have a little depend-
ence on my judgment, I think. No doubt it is vastly inferior to your own;
still, madam, I would have you know I am not an absolute fool.' Mrs
Bertram returned no answer, but bent her head over her plate.
Susan said in a kind tone to her mother: 'He is not very handsome,
mamma, and not very young either; but so very agreeable, and scientific,
and all that; and everybody speaks well of him.'
'But oh,' cried Ellen, 'there was such a charming young man there! a
cousin of Mr Hartley's-and they are both staying at the Grange—a Mr
Clavering, a London barrister, exquisitely good-looking, and amazingly
clever, they say. I hope he may dance with me to-night; and, by the by
that reminds me I have the pink flowers to fasten in my dress.'
II.
The Bertrams were, as usual, among the first in the ball-room: th
were all, with the exception of Marianne, who had a cold, looki
uncommonly well to - night. Susan's complexion looked, by gaslig
dazzlingly fair, while excitement had lent a glow to her cheek and a li
to her eyes. She danced the first dance with Mr Hartley. Harrie
4
HARRIETTE; OR THE RASH REPLY.
not having an interesting partner, and being a little tired, sat down as soon
as the dance was over. The seat she had chosen was under the music-
gallery, which was supported by pillars. Seated near one of those, she
was completely concealed by it from the observation of two gentlemen on
the other side, whose conversation she was thus unintentionally obliged to
overhear. One of them inquired who her sister Susan was.
The other,
who was Harriette's rejected suitor, replied: 'One of the Bertrams of
Fernielee-the greatest husband-hunters in the country.'
'Ah! I have heard of them since I came to the Grange. They are
quite notorious, I suppose?'
'Oh, quite! So you had better take care of yourself. Your friend
Hartley seems quite captivated.' The gentleman laughed.
Oh, but I am not very easily caught.'
'I should recommend you, however, to beware of Mr Bertram's traps.
The speakers then walked away.
Harriette remained with flushed cheeks and a mortified spirit; for while
she despised Mr Johnstone and the petty revenge to which he had con-
descended, she was deeply annoyed by what she had heard of the repu-
tation of her family, and all the more that she felt it was not undeserved.
She was yet brooding over the disagreeable idea, when a partner was
introduced to her as Mr Clavering. The name she recognised as that of
the London gentleman of whom her sisters had been speaking in the
morning; while the tone of his voice, as he invited her to dance, convinced
her at once that he was Mr Jolinstone's companion behind the pillar. In
the present state of her feelings she would have declined dancing with
him, if it had been possible; but it was not. The dance was a quadrille,
and Mr Clavering exerted himself to be agreeable, or rather he was
agreeable without exertion. By degrees Harriette's uncomfortable feel-
ings began to vanish under the influence of his conversat
evident, at all events, that he was not afraid of her society
several times with her, and engaged her as his partner at t
In her limited circle and secluded nook of the world
certainly never before met so agreeable a person, and th
fly during their animated conversation.
Mr Clavering was a young man not much above thi
had already opened for him at the bar a career full of pr
he was about the middle height, gentlemanly and unobt
strikingly elegant in manner. His features were g
large, more especially the mouth, which was, howe
expressed at once firmness and good temper. Hi
large, and full of thought and animation; while
smoothly parted over a square, solid, open for
altogether was manly and intelligent; while his
characterised by that air of ease and decis
extensive intercourse with the world, mingled
thing which, without being conceit, yet seem
of superior abilities; and, in fact, such wa
A younger son, he was the cleverest of
successful at school and college, and prof
to smile upon him; consequently, he co

was
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
own talents and attractions, while at the same time he had too much good
sense and good feeling to be guilty of the folly and presumption of conceit.
He was rather conscious of ability than vain of it: his manner, though
bespeaking confidence in himself, was perfectly free from assumption, and
possessed all that respect towards those whom he addressed without which
no manner can be agreeable. He had been attracted by Harriette's beauty,
which was of a style to charm a mind of an intellectual cast. On inquiring
her name, he had been disappointed to find that she was one of the
husband-hunting Miss Bertrams. Notwithstanding, however, he requested
to be introduced to her, and was agreeably surprised to find her quite free
from the manners of the class to which she was said to belong. He was
surprised not only by the vivacity of her conversation, but by the
uncommon amount of intellectual cultivation which, without any effort,
any appearance of the littleness and vulgarity of shewing off, it displayed.
In truth, Harriette had never before found herself in society so congenial.
Never had she been more charming; never had she looked more beautiful.
As Mr Clavering handed her to the carriage, she was mortified to hear her
father, in obsequious terms, invite him to join their party at dinner the
following day, adding as an inducement: 'And you shall hear my daughter
Harriette sing. She is allowed to have a fine voice, and I am sure will be
delighted to exert it for you.'
Mr Clavering turned towards Harriette, but the dimness of the light
prevented him from seeing her look of annoyance. 'May I count on the
pleasure Mr Bertram promises me?' he asked.
'By no means,' she replied. 'I am often too much fatigued after a ball
to be able to sing, so pray do not count upon me.' She spoke with a smile
on her lips but with inward vexation.
He then bade her good-night, saying to himself: 'If that girl be a
husba ter, she is the most consummate adept that ever existed!'
drove home, she mused over the evening. It had certainly
se the most agreeable she had ever spent at last she had
se of that mental superiority she had so longed to find; at
to be herself, with the pleasurable consciousness that
od, and was all the more agreeable for being so.
But
l evening had had its drawbacks, its moments of morti-
too, which had left a sting behind. What would Mr
her father? What might he not even suppose of
and again, with an interest which surprised her, would
tions intrude.
s in great delight. It was astonishing to perceive
d made in her appearance and spirits. She had
with Mr Hartley, and he had testified very un-
for her. A source of interest had arisen for
ithout an aim. Susan had not the mental re-
te, neither had she the strength of character
and when her early love-affair was termi-
the victim of ennui, and consequent low
t of occupation for her thoughts, rather
was at the bottom of her melancholy ;
d girl, Susan had not sufficient inten-

HARRIETTE; OR THE RASH REPLY.
sity of character to be capable of feeling a deep or fervent affection.
Thus she could very easily persuade herself she was in love, when in
fact she was only flattered. In short, Susan belonged to that numerous
class of women--a class, however, which is far from containing all, or the
best part of the sex-to whom marriage is the sole aim of life. The
reason for this over-anxiety respecting marriage—always so deteriorating
to the female character-is, we think, to be found chiefly in two causes,
both operating in poor Susan's case: the one we have already alluded to-
want of mental occupation, and a necessity implanted in human nature for
having an object in life to hope for and to strive after; the other, that
marriage is often the sole alternative of a life of poverty and neglect.
There can be nothing more cruel than to educate women so as to fit them
only for a life of ease and luxury, and then leave them destitute of all
means of indulging it. Can we wonder that girls thus educated, and seeing
in single life only the pinching struggle and the cold neglect, or at best the
patronising kindness which is too often the portion of the poor old maid,
should eagerly endeavour to avert such a fate, even by rushing perchance
into a worse? No: we cannot wonder, when we consider how dear to
human beings is the respect and consideration of their kind, and how com-
paratively few there are who, through depression and exaltation, through
good report and evil report, can alike preserve a calm possession of soul
and an unruffled dignity of temper.
'What a charming evening we have had, Harry !—have we not?' cried
Susan, when the two sisters had withdrawn to the apartment they shared
between them.
'Delightful indeed, in some respects!
'Oh! in every respect. Mr Hartley is an excessively clever man-so
scientific, so fond of chemistry, and electricity, and geology, and all these
things.'
'I thought you did not care for these things.'
'Neither I do; but still I like a man who does. How superior he is,
after all, to poor George Maclaren. After all, I daresay papa was right,
and George, poor fellow, would not have been a very suitable match for
me, How much Mr Clavering seemed to admire you, Harriette! Mr
Hartley says he is very clever; so I daresay he would be just the thing for
you. How I should like it, my dear Harriette !'
'Like what, Susan?-that Mr Clavering should marry me, do you
mean? I have no design on Mr Clavering's heart or hand. On further
acquaintance he might turn out very different from what he appears. Oh!
my dear sister Susan, let us not degrade ourselves in our own eyes or in
the eyes of others by scheming for an establishment. It makes me feel
miserable to think that any one should say we do.'
'Dear me, Harriette! I would be above minding what people say; and
as to refusing a good offer on that account, it would be very foolish. Not that
I would marry anybody that I did not like, I can assure you. You have
uch odd notions, Harry, that though you are the prettiest, and the cleverest,
nd the best too, I should not wonder if you were an old maid after all.'
'And if I were, it would not much signify. No: let me keep my self-
spect, let me feel that I have acted with a single purpose, truthfully and
rightly, and I can bear any lot however lowly.'

7
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
'But I could not, Harriette. If I am ever married, I shall, I trust, try
to do my duty; but I could not bear to be an old maid. Only fancy how
dreadful it would be to be like Miss Margaret Watson, or even our own
Marianne!'
'But we need not be like anybody but ourselves. Good people and
sensible people will love and respect us all the same, whether we are
married or single.'
'Perhaps; but still, as I said before, I could not bear it.'
Harriette sighed, but said no more.
At dinner the following day, besides the two strangers, there were a few
of the neighbours, including Mr and Mrs Johnstone of the Grange, with
whom the gentlemen in question were staying, being relations of the latter.
Mr and Mrs Johnstone were a strangely-matched couple. The former was
a tall, stupid-looking man, about forty, well-meaning enough within the
limits of an understanding bounded to the consideration of crops and cattle.
Nor had he any expansiveness of heart to atone for the narrowness of his
mind. He was not bad hearted, he was not cruel; but his sympathies
were not larger than his understanding. He would not really have injured
Harriette, but he bore her a grudge for her rejection of his suit. He
would probably have forgiven a man cordially enough who had attempted
to murder him; but his nature was not sufficiently magnanimous to pardon
what he had taken in the light of a personal affront. His wife was a
woman about thirty, handsome, but formal-looking, acute, clever, and well-
informed. But though often sensible, amusing, and even agreeable enough
in conversation, she occasionally seemed to take a sort of pleasure in say-
ing, in the kindest manner, things which she must have known her listeners
could hardly like to hear. Thus if there had been a party at which one
had happened not to be present, Mrs Johnstone was certain to inform him
that she was 'so sorry:' it was the most agreeable party she had been at
for an age; quite grievous to think you had missed it. Or if you were
shewing her your greenhouse, she had seen Mrs -'s the other day, and
her geraniums were exquisite: she would have given the world to have
been able to carry off some for you. She had had a long conversation that
very morning with Mr Hartley and Mr Clavering, in which, having re-
marked the direction of their flirtations the preceding night, she had given
them a sketch of the Bertram family, with anecdotes, many of them very
amusing, and graphically told, of Mr Bertram's fruitless attempts to get
matches for his daughters, and his various disappointments: they were, she
said, the laughing-stock of the whole country round. The result of this
conversation was, that Arthur Clavering thought his cousin a less agree-
able woman than he had supposed; but at the same time he determined
to be on his guard with Harriette Bertram. But Mr Hartley had known
Mrs Johnstone longer, and what she said made little or no impression upon
him; he had, in fact, nearly made up his mind to marry Susan Bertram.
Mr Hartley was certainly rather a clever man, with a good share of com-
mon sense, and a will of his own, but good-tempered in the main. His
notions with regard to marriage were much more commonplace than those
of his cousin. Good-humour and good looks were all he sought for, and
were indeed the sole qualities of which in a woman he had any apprecia-
tion. As it was not in his own nature to love with romantic ardour, he did
8
HARRIETTE; OR THE RASH REPLY.
not care about inspiring such an attachment. He had been much pleased
with Susan's manners and appearance: she was just the sort of pleasant,
commonplace girl to take his fancy. Possibly she did wish to be married;
but what then? It was very natural, and in her conduct there was nothing
forward or indecorous. Her father certainly was a drawback; but as he
lived at so great a distance from him, perhaps he was a drawback of little
consequence. In short, Mr Hartley was a man who valued himself on
thinking for himself. He would watch Susan during the six weeks he was
to remain at the Grange, and if at the end of that period he should find
her what she appeared, he would make her an offer of his hand.
At dinner, half to her annoyance, half to her satisfaction, Mr Clavering
was assigned to Harriette. He had come to Fernielee with the intention of
being very prudent; but he had not been there half an hour ere he com-
pletely lost sight of this wise resolution. He and his fair companion fell
into an even more animated strain of discourse than on the preceding
evening. Inspired by Harriette's approving glance and animated recipro-
cation, from music and poetry he was led to speak of the sentiments and
qualities of which these are but the expression-of sympathy, of generosity,
faith, constancy, magnanimity, of natural and moral beauty, till at last, as
he drew a picture of happiness with the true, unforced eloquence of feeling,
forgetting all the littleness and meanness of life, Harriette's heart echoed
his sentiments, and her eyes shone with the enthusiasm his words had
kindled. And once more Arthur Clavering said to himself: 'I am sure
she is perfectly single-minded, and so beautiful, and so fresh in her ideas-
so unlike the hackneyed, commonplace, stereotyped agreeableness even
of intellectual women in London society. Meanwhile Harriette would have
been perfectly happy had it not been for the fulsome attention her father
paid to Mr Clavering. After dinner he led him up and down the drawing-
room, exhibiting to him the family pictures with which this apartment, as
well as the dining-room, was hung, descanting on the marriages and inter-
marriages of the family; and finally, telling him that his grandmother, 'a
very handsome woman, and one of Lord -'s family, was considered very
like his daughter Harriette. Harriette is the belle of my family—indeed
of the neighbourhood, it is generally allowed; and she is a very fine singer
also. I am certain she will be delighted to sing for you, as you are quite
a favourite of hers. Harriette, my dear, sing to Mr Clavering.' Harriette
blushed scarlet.
+
'I am quite out of voice to-night,' she replied; 'I cannot sing. I trust
our guests will excuse me.'
Ask her to sing, Mr Clavering. I am sure,' continued Mr Bertram,
with a frown at the recusant, she will not refuse you.'
'I cannot flatter myself that I am likely to prevail where you do not.
I can only say, nothing would afford me so much pleasure as to hear Miss
Harriette sing.'
Mr Clavering spoke gravely, for he saw that Harriette's feelings were
wounded, and yet he could not help fancying that he was a favourite of
hers the extreme mortification she could not conceal only helping to
confirm him in the flattering idea. She answered somewhat pointedly: 'I
trust I am always happy to oblige any one.'
(
'Nonsense, Harriette!' cried her father; she shall sing to you to-night,
No. 75.
9
CIIAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
Mr Clavering. I have desired you to sing-are my wishes nothing? Am
I nobody in my own family? I suppose you think my wishes of no conse-
quence; but I beg you to understand they are not quite so insignificant as
you suppose!'
Harriette now hurriedly rose and approached the piano. She felt ready
to sink into the earth with shame, and hastily opening a music-book, began
to play and sing. Never had she sung so ill before; but, even hoarse and
agitated though her voice was, there was in it a deep pathos-a perfect
expression of the music such as Clavering had rarely heard.
He was
more and more charmed, but he forbore to say more than "Thank you!'
adding, loud enough to be heard by Mr Bertram-'We must not trespass
on your kindness again to-night. It would give me pain to hear you sing
again, for I see it is quite an effort to you.' He then led her from the
piano, and seemed to endeavour, by every sort of soothing attention, and
by the most sprightly conversation, to obliterate from her memory the
annoyance she had suffered. At last his efforts were successful. Harriette
became once more her natural, lively self. Arthur Clavering left Fernielee
that night perfectly convinced that Harriette Bertram, whatever her father
might be, was no schemer for a husband, but a creature possessed of more
beauty, sensibility, and mind, than any woman he had ever known. He was
not ignorant of the danger he ran. He felt that he was fast falling in love;
but now he had begun to think, not so much whether he ought to fall in
love with her, as whether there was a probability of her loving him. Of
this, however, he did not quite despair. As for Harriette, she lay awake
half the night thinking of Arthur Clavering. At last her imagination was
excited; at last her feelings were touched; at last she had met a man who
at once excited her sympathy and respect-one who, she felt, could draw out
her better self; in whose company she seemed to become a superior being.
But then came the recollection of Mr Johnstone's speech: 'The Bertrams
of Fernielee the greatest husband-hunters in the country!' and the remem-
brance of all her father's too-pointed attentions, to poison all the pleasure
of her reflections. She felt that, though too polite to shew it, she was
perchance an object of contempt to Arthur Clavering. In the feelings
produced by this idea she was almost tempted to wish she might never see
him again. The next minute, however, her heart reproached her, and she
was forced to confess to herself the intense delight she experienced in his
society.
III.
Thus days and weeks rolled on; and long ere the six weeks had passed
Mr Hartley was Susan's accepted lover. He was now a daily visitor at
Fernielee, and he rarely came unaccompanied by Arthur Clavering. The
latter had now become Harriette's constant companion in her walks.
Together they climbed the wild, heathery braes; together they admired
the foxglove, the scarlet poppy, and the tiny blue harebell, growing among
the long, wild grass on the top of rock or scaur, or peeping out amid the
tangled growth which bordered the 'wimpling burnie;' together they
moralised over the fading woods and the falling leaves; together they
10
HARRIETTE; OR THE RASH REPLY.
thought and felt; and though no word of love had been spoken, there
seemed to be a sort of tacit understanding between them that they were all
to each other. Meanwhile the grand drawback to Harriette's felicity was
the obsequious and unremitting attention her father paid to her lover. At
times she felt certain that it was impossible he could believe her a party
to her father's evident scheming; but often her heart was filled with appre-
hension lest such might be his belief. Refined, sensitive, and with even
an exaggerated sense of the dignity of her sex, Harriette was wretched as
she brooded over such thoughts. It was only in the presence of Arthur
Clavering that she ever entirely forgot them: they were her constant com-
panions during his absence. Her mind was distracted between love and
doubt. Meanwhile it was within a few days of his departure, and if he
felt love, he had not yet declared it. Could it be,' thought Harriette,
'that he imagined a husband-hunting girl was a fair subject for an
idle flirtation?' Arthur Clavering was a man of the world, and in that
great and gay world of which he was a denizen she had heard that such
proceedings were not uncommon; and her cheek burned and her spirit
rose as she thought of herself made the subject of such an indignity. But
then came the image of Arthur Clavering; the recollection of his manly,
honourable, and even noble sentiments; and her heart was soft towards
him once more, and she felt that she had wronged him by her suspicions,
Meanwhile Mr Bertram fretted and fumed that Mr Clavering did not pro-
pose. Not a day elapsed that he did not ask Harriette: 'Has he not made
you an offer yet?' 'No, sir,' with a trembling lip, was Harriette's in-
variable reply.
At last one day, after the usual response, Mr Bertram remarked, with
an air of wisdom: 'I have been thinking over the matter, and I have come
to the conclusion that Mr Clavering is probably waiting till I break the
affair to him. I shall therefore take the earliest opportunity of speaking
to him on the subject, as he leaves the country in a few days.'
'I entreat, papa,' cried Harriette in an agony of distress, 'that you will
not do so. It will be of no avail, I can assure you. Mr Clavering is not
a man to be forced into marrying any one, nor should I accept him unless
his offer were spontaneous.'
Almost for the first time Mrs Bertram ventured to oppose her husband.
'Oh, Mr Bertram!' she cried, suddenly roused from her gentle, apparently
apathetic sadness, 'I beg and pray you will not so far compromise our
daughter's dignity. I hope Harriette may marry Mr Clavering; but in-
deed you take the wrong way.'
'The wrong way, madam! Very pretty indeed, madam! Is this your
respect for me? Is this the way you teach your daughters a proper defe-
rence for my opinion? Of course you and Miss Harriette know a great
deal better than I do. Of course I am a fool, and have seen nothing of
the usages of society. Of course I ought to allow myself to be governed
by my wife and daughters; but I will not, Mrs Bertram! And allow me to
tell you both, I intend to take my own way with regard to Mr Clavering,
imagining myself quite competent to judge in the affair.' To such a speech
mother and daughter alike felt that it would be useless to reply. After
Mr Bertram's indignation had cooled a little, he inquired of Susan: 'Does
Mr Hartley ever say anything to you about Mr Clavering?'
11
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
:
*
Yes; he has said several times that he hoped Arthur would marry
Harriette; that he was very fastidious, but that he had never seen him so
much taken with any one before; and that he thought he would marry her.'
'He thought he would!' cried Harriette; and does he imagine that
it depends solely upon Mr Clavering?' This speech was the signal of
another from Mr Bertram, which sent poor Harriette to weep alone in her
bedroom, where Susan followed her to comfort her, while Marianne agreed
with her father that Harriette was a fool, and the three younger girls
made up their minds that she was utterly incomprehensible. Mrs Bertram,
according to her custom after such domestic scenes, took a religious book,
and withdrew to the quiet of her own dressing-room, till she was summoned
back by her husband. 'What was she always read, reading about?—a
parcel of such canting nonsense too! She preferred her books to his
society, that was very evident.'
•
The following morning brought Mrs Johnstone to call. She was received
by Susan and Harriette, the rest being out. As she was an intelligent
woman, half an hour passed away agreeably enough in conversation on
general topics. She then began to allude to subjects of a more personal
nature; hinted at the prospect of having Susan for a relative; and finding
herself encouraged by the blushes and smiles of the latter, began to grow
quite confidential. You will find Mr Hartley a very excellent man
little peculiar in the temper perhaps, and with a will of his own; but, my
dear Miss Susan, it is always the way. He is not worse than other men,
and, take my word for it, matrimony is not the sort of heaven young ladies
expect when they are in love. But I must not say any more on the subject,
in case I should frighten your sister from following your example, which I
should not wonder if she did erelong. Hey! Miss Harriette!' Harriette
returned no answer; but Susan looked encouraging. Mrs Johnstone con-
tinued: 'Another cousin of mine is very often here; and I know'-
'What do you know, my dear Mrs Johnstone?'
6
Oh, I know a certain person who thinks Miss Harriette Bertram has
the finest voice he ever heard, &c. &c. In short, I wonder it has not been
all settled before now; but I have always remarked that men like to be
tantalising.'
Tantalising!' cried Harriette.
'Of course it is very wrong,' continued Mrs Johnstone; if they read
their Bibles they would see that it is not doing as they would be done by;
but I fear there is little religion in the world.'
I
'Yes,' cried Harriette; but we are also told to think no evil; and'
'Oh, my dear Miss Harriette, I really beg your pardon for interrupting
you, but your simplicity, though very charming, quite amuses me.
really envy you your good opinion of mankind. I am sorry to say I know
them better, and I could tell you a very different story even about my good
Cousin Arthur himself; but perhaps I had better not.'
'As you please, Mrs Johnstone. It does not concern me at all.'
Nay, but it does concern you; indeed, in one sense it is quite flattering
to you, while at the same time it shews the conceit of the young man.
And as it is much better that you should know what you are to expect,
that you may not be disappointed, I shall tell you at once.
As we were
all sitting together over the fire the other afternoon, we began to talk of
12
HARRIETTE; OR THE RASH REPLY.
your family, as one occasionally does of one's neighbours you know, my
dear Miss Harriette, and canvassing the various charms of you young
ladies, when Arthur said: "I think Miss Harriette the prettiest, as well as
the pleasantest; and if I were to take one of them, I should take her.”
“That is, supposing she would have you,” said I. Upon which he laughed,
and said, he supposed "there could be little doubt on that point." Only
fancy, the saucy creature!'
Harriette answered not a word. She maintained a calm exterior, while
her heart was ready to burst. This was the man she had so loved, so
admired, who had been to her so full of respect, devotion, tenderness.
And he would speak of her thus to a stranger! This was the style of the
attachment he entertained for her, if indeed he entertained any at all. She
was wounded beyond all expression; and no sooner had Mrs Johnstone,
smilingly and almost affectionately, taken leave, than she hastened to her
own room, to give relief to those feelings, all sign of which she had been
able to repress in the presence of their visitor. But she had not been
alone many minutes ere her door was opened by one of her younger sisters.
Papa has come in, and wishes to see you immediately, Harriette, in the
breakfast parlour.'
Wondering what could be coming next, Harriette ran down stairs, and in
the above-mentioned apartment found the whole family assembled in con-
clave, with an air of expectation, while her father paced up and down the
room with a more than ordinarily consequential bearing. Be seated,
Miss. Harriette Bertram,' he said with an ill-assumed air of dignity, which
was far from concealing a sort of fussy, delighted excitement, expressed in
every feature and gesture. Harriette took a seat on a sofa beside her
mother, who looked nervous and anxious. 'In former times,' continued
Mr Bertram, it was considered the duty of a father to provide suitable
matches for his daughters. I am well aware that in the present degenerate
days such wholesome and proper customs have fallen much into disuse, and
that it is now too often the fashion to allow young persons to manage such
affairs for themselves—a fashion which I cannot but consider derogatory to
feminine delicacy and the dignity of an ancient family. But I always have
made and always shall make it my practice to set my face against modern
innovations. I consider it my duty as the representative of one of the
oldest families in Scotland, and therefore I have followed the ancient prac-
tice with regard to the marriages of my children. Two or three weeks ago
I had the satisfaction of concluding a treaty of alliance for my second
daughter, Susan, with John Hartley, Esquire, of Sandilands Hall, in the
county of Hants; and now I have had the further satisfaction of being
able to arrange a matrimonial engagement for my third daughter, Harriette,
with Arthur Clavering, Esquire, of the Middle Temple, barrister-at-law,
and third son of William Clavering, Esquire, of Somerton Park, in the
county of Derby. I had an interview with Mr Clavering this morning,
when I stated to him that I conceived it my duty not to allow him to quit
the country without coming to some definite arrangement with regard to
my daughter Harriette, whom it was clear to me, as well as to the rest of
my family and the world in general, that he greatly admired. I then told
him that although in some points of view, such as wealth, my daughter might
probably have done better, I considered him, in point of birth and position,
13
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
quite unexceptionable, and that he had my permission to address her for-
mally. To this he replied that he thanked me, and that he would take an
early opportunity of assuring Miss Harriette personally of his attachment.
And now, madam,' continued Mr Bertram, turning to his wife, 'I hope you
are satisfied that I did not take the wrong way.'
Poor Mrs Bertram only answered by a scarcely audible sigh, while her
husband, content with the victory he had gained, strutted out of the room.
He was at that moment in too good a humour with himself and his success
to be very touchy, and therefore his wife's silence passed unnoticed. A
minute or two afterwards he might have been seen in the garden, descant-
ing volubly to the gardener on the marriages of his daughters, and collecting
from that functionary the on dits of the neighbourhood on the subject.
In Mr Bertram's opinion, it was a fine thing to be talked about.
As soon as he was gone, Harriette flew back to her own room in an
agony of mind inconceivable. She was sunk in her own eyes, and felt that
she must be degraded for ever in those of Arthur Clavering. He had been
solicited to marry her: she had been actually offered to him! True, he
had consented-consented! And was she to submit to this? Never-never!
Rather would she lose him for ever, even dearly as she loved him, than he
should take-take her his own words--as a thing he might accept or reject
at his pleasure. And then the idea of seeing him! What would she not
give to avoid being in his presence again, distracted as her mind was with
mingled love, resentment, and shame! In the feverish restlessness caused
by such emotions, and hardly knowing what she did, she hastily threw on
a shawl and bonnet, and wandered out into the open air.
IV.
It was now late in the season-a stormy, cloudy, autumn day. The
leaves were now thinner on the trees, and their tints less brilliant; and
though the scarlet fruit of the mountain-ash still gleamed here and there
beside some dark pine or shining holly, it was fast dropping from the
boughs. The purple of the moorlands was fading away, and the ferny
braes, so lately tinted like the woods, were becoming of one uniform brown.
The stream seemed to have a hoarser murmur-a sadder fall, as it bore
rapidly on its tiny waves many a sere leaf and withered stalk which the
wind blew down in showers from the copse which lined its banks. The
wild gale hurried the clouds over the face of the heavens, blew up the
piles of withered leaves in rustling eddies, and roared sadly through the
dying woods, as if it bemoaned itself its work of devastation.
•
Harriette ran hurriedly on. The melancholy excitement of the scene and
day was in harmony with her feelings. There was no calm to mock her
agitation—no joy to embitter her misery. She bounded over the fields and
through the woods till she was exhausted, and then, seating herself on a
rock half moss-grown, which overhung the stream, and was shaded by a
few superannuated ivy-covered elms, she leaned upon her hand, and began
to brood over her grievances. In such a frame of mind as hers, evils become
magnified, the understanding yields her supremacy to the imagination, which,
working on the feelings, seems for the time to deprive the former of the
14
HARRIETTE; OR THE RASH REPLY.
•
power of discriminating the relative value of circumstances. A harshness
and stubbornness foreign to her real nature seemed to grow round Har-
She
riette's heart. Her better angel seemed to have forsaken her.
had been thus seated for a brief space, when her attention was
aroused by the sound of a voice close beside her, which whispered softly
yet distinctly: 'Harriette.' Her heart gave a tremendous bound; she
looked up and saw Arthur Clavering. Instantly the blood rushed over her
cheeks and forehead. In the present state of her feelings it seemed that
he had taken a liberty in calling her Harriette. It helped to steel her
heart against him. Her confusion did not escape unnoticed by Clavering.
He too was agitated; for though he hoped more than he feared, still, now
But Har-
that the decisive moment was come, he felt terribly nervous.
riette's blushes reassured him; and throwing himself on the turf beside
her, he took her hand, while he said: 'Beloved Harriette! tell me, dearest,
that I am not indifferent to you!'
But Harriette drew away her hand; and hastily rising, said, haughtily
and with difficulty, for she felt as if the words would choke her: 'You
mistake, Mr Clavering!'
For a second he felt quite confounded; but seeing her turn as if to leave
him, he too sprang upon his feet, while he cried: 'Do not go! Wait but
a moment, Miss Bertram, and hear me! Oh, Harriette, I love you!-I
love you passionately!'
Her heart was fast melting; but still the stubborn, wounded spirit would
not yield. 'Excuse me, Mr Clavering,' she said with a coldness she was
obliged to feign to conceal her excessive agitation.
'Do you reject me then?' he asked, his voice faltering with disappointment
and mortification, while with his eyes he made another appeal to her feelings.
But she saw it not, for hers were resolutely turned in an opposite direc-
tion; and in a low tone she answered: 'I do.'
And then Arthur Clavering, in all the bitterness of a wounded heart,
replied: 'Oh, Harriette, I have not deserved-I did not expect such
unkindness from you! But pardon me, madam, I will not longer intrude
upon you. Farewell!' He had gone a step or two, when he turned again
to say, in a softer tone: 'I wish you all happiness!' And in a minute he
was out of sight.
The whole scene had passed so rapidly, that it seemed like some strange
illusion; but no sooner was he gone than the spell seemed broken, and
the resentment vanished which had supported Harriette throughout. She
threw herself once more on the ground, and burst into tears. Yes, they
were parted for ever! She wept as if her heart would break; and
now that it was all over, doubts of the justice of her own motives, of
the propriety of her conduct, would intrude. She remembered his
parting glance, and she felt that he had loved her. Thoughts of her
father's anger, her mother's sorrow, the disappointment of all her family,
the storm which awaited her at home, all contributed to distract her. The
excitement had completely passed away, and as she cast a glance on the
life which lay before her, and thought what life might have been with
Arthur Clavering, her spirit felt dreary indeed. She durst not return
home, but sat cold, weary, and weeping; while the gray autumn twilight
grew deeper and deeper, the blast wailed louder and more piteously,
15
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
blowing against her on every side the fallen leaves-emblems, she sadly
thought, of her perished hopes, her cheerless destiny.
Here she was found at last by Susan, who had wandered out to search
for her but she could not communicate her sorrows to Susan; for, kind as
her sister was, she knew that of such sorrows as hers she would have no
appreciation; that it was only her compassion, not her sympathy, she
could hope for; and it was for sympathy poor Harriette yearned. But we
must now return to Clavering.
As has been already mentioned, Clavering's hopes had considerably outrun
his fears. For the last few weeks he and Harriette had been almost
constantly together, and it seemed to him that in her frank manners-in
her ready sympathy-in the way in which she had received certain words and
glances, meant to tell a tenderer tale than a mere passing desire to be
agreeable, he had read feelings and wishes responsive to those he himself
entertained. There was about Harriette altogether a freshness-a spon-
taneousness—a sort of transparency-through which every feeling and
emotion became visible, and which gave the idea that though hers was
not a common character, it was one which might easily be understood.
Arthur Clavering believed that he had read it thoroughly. Harriette
would never have unfolded herself as she had done-would never have
displayed such marked and conscious cordiality, after the unequivocal
testimonies he had given her of his attachment, had she not returned it.
The truthfulness and intelligence of her character alike forbade the suppo-
sition. Then, too, Clavering was conscious that his own claims were not
inconsiderable. He felt that he was superior to all the other men by
whom she was surrounded, and he knew that she would appreciate this
superiority. Clavering was not conceited in the sense of being puffed up
with a vast and disproportioned idea of his own merit and consequence ;
but his common sense, his practical clear-sightedness, and his experience,
made him perfectly aware of the advantages he possessed over the mass;
while the self-possession and energy of his character enabled him to act
upon this knowledge. All his calculations were baffled, therefore, as well as
his feelings cruelly wounded, by Harriette's rejection. He had rushed
madly home to the Grange, hardly able to realise the misfortune which
had befallen him. Shut up in his own room, he strove to be calm-to
collect his thoughts; and summoning to his aid all his pride and all his
self-command, he endeavoured to conquer the pain and the mortification
which almost seemed as if it would drive him to distraction. When he
recollected the warmth, the respect, the confiding tenderness with which
he had addressed her, and the cold, haughty, unfeeling manner in which
he had been repulsed, he felt angry and bitter; but when he remembered
her as he had most frequently seen her her lively softness, her artless
cordiality, her ready susceptibility-his anger was lost in the remembrance.
The conviction was strong upon him of the reality of these things. All
that had passed within the last hour or two seemed some strange delusion
—some impossible dream. And yet it was true—actually true. Oh, it
was a bitter disappointment!
We are not to suppose, however, that Clavering's distress was perceptible
to the family at the Grange. He possessed an even unusual share of self-
control, and no one would have guessed that evening, from his self-possessed
16
HARRIETTE ; OR THE RASH REPLY.
manner and his easy conversation, the heart-burning within. But the effort
was great; and when he was once more alone, he sat down, and, hiding his
face on his folded arms, remained long wrestling with his grief. When he
raised his head, one might have seen that his eye-lashes were heavy with a
few briny drops, the first tears he had shed since childhood. He dashed
them hastily away, saying half-aloud, and with a sort of melancholy deter-
mination: The worst is over now!'
V.
Nothing could exceed the consternation of the whole family at Fernielee
when Mr Clavering left the country without appearing to claim Harriette
as his bride-without even taking leave of any of them. Not one of them,
She had
however, except Susan, was aware of the real state of the case.
learned it from Mr Hartley; but her own dread of the consequences of a
disclosure, together with Harriette's entreaties, combined to secure her
silence. Meanwhile Mr Bertram was wellnigh beside himself. His will
was thwarted, his vanity wounded, his dignity offended. He chafed with
rage, and kept the whole establishment in hot water for a fortnight. In
his indignation he threatened to prosecute Mr Clavering for breach of
promise; and it was only by dint of the most skilful humouring and
management, together with a gentle representation from Susan-who, now
that her own marriage was so near, had become the most important and
influential member of the family-touching the detrimental effect so public
an exposure might have on the chances of Harriette's future establishment,
that he was prevented from carrying this threat into execution. Fortunate it
was that Susan's wedding was to take place in December, for the arrangements
and gossip attendant upon that event, together with the additional importance
it reflected upon himself and his family, had the happy effect of enabling
Mr Bertram to overcome his disappointment, and recover his ordinary
frame of mind-certainly never the most complacent at any time. The
business and the bustle now going forward had also a salutary effect upon
poor Harriette, the constant occupation helping to engage her thoughts,
while the prospect of losing her favourite sister in a measure diverted her
feelings from the one subject which had at first engrossed them almost to
madness. The perpetual whirl of the present prevented her from being
able to dwell long on the past.
But at last it was all over. Mr Hartley and Susan were married: the
wedding guests were gone: the congratulatory visits were paid: Fernielee
was restored to its usual quiet monotony. It was the dead of winter: the
days were at their briefest, the weather at its gloomiest. It was cold, but
not cold enough for snow. From the sullen, lowering sky the rain
descended in torrents, while the damp, chill blast swept over hill and moor,
and through the naked woods, whose summer leaves now mouldered away
on the dank soil beneath. The cheerless gloom, the unbroken stillness
and sadness, the absence of all company, occupation, or necessity for exer-
tion, either mental or bodily, had the natural effect on poor Harriette.
Morning, noon, and night-the long, long night-she thought only of
Arthur Clavering. It was in vain that she strove to banish his image.
17
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
Her mind was alternately filled with vain regrets and bitter self-reproaches,
while a dull despondency or a restless misery by turns took possession of
her. Her gay spirits were gone; her temper, formerly so sweet, had
become almost irritable; she could not eat, she could not sleep; her
youth and her beauty seemed vanishing away. Week by week she became
worse; her health seemed ready to break down altogether; a low fever
preyed upon her life. At last she became so very ill that she was unable
to quit her bed.
It was a winter afternoon. Harriette lay in her own little bed. The
shutters were shut, but the rain splashed upon the window-panes, and the
wind blew loud and tempestuous, roaring in the chimney-top, while the
large heavy drops fell hissing and bubbling on the small fire in the grate.
There was no light in the room save that afforded by the red glow between
the bars, which only served to throw a faint reddish lustre beyond the
great shadow of the chimney-piece, and then faded again into total dark-
ness. Harriette had been sleeping, but uneasily-her restless slumber dis-
turbed by worrying dreams and images of pain. Suddenly she awoke with
a start and a shiver. It was a second or two ere she could separate her
waking from her sleeping impressions. Then she looked round on the
darkness; then she listened to the wild turmoil of the outer world. A sense
of profound sadness took possession of her; and believing herself alone, out
of the fulness of a heart surcharged with sorrow she began to weep aloud.
'Tell me the cause of your distress, my darling,' said a gentle voice; and
Harriette, in that moment of weakness, could reply only by another burst
of tears as she flung her arms round her mother. ‘My dearest,' said Mrs
Bertram, 'if he could leave you as he did, he was not worthy of you.'
'Leave me! Oh, mother, he did not leave me!' and then Harriette
poured into her mother's ear the story of the grief which filled her heart.
That interview made the mother and daughter better known to each
other than they had ever been; and as they mingled their tears together,
Harriette resolved to devote her life, if it was indeed spared, to that dear
parent, and breathed a prayer to her Father in heaven that she might be
given the power to perform her task, and that she might find her reward
in her mother's added happiness.
Harriette recovered. A new impulse had been given to her feelings, a
new motive to her life. The mother and daughter were now constant com-
panions; and while the latter learned from the former the lesson of resig-
nation, she in her turn opened to her mother a new source of interest in
those mental occupations which had once been the charm of her own life,
and now become its solace. Thus passed away months, years, in a sort of
gentle serenity, which, if not positively happiness, had certainly in it nothing
of misery. Not that Harriette had forgotten Arthur Clavering. She had
never seen another to be compared with him; but she had learned to look
back on the brief period of their intercourse as but a romantic episode in
the sober tale of life.
Five years have elapsed since that eventful autumn morning on which
Harriette Bertram had parted with Arthur Clavering. Harriette is changed
since we saw her last. She looks more than five years older, yet she is
beautiful still. She is thinner and paler: a more pensive grace sits on her
·
18
HARRIETTE; OR THE RASH REPLY.
smooth brow-a more chastened spirit looks out from her clear, dark eyes.
She is changed, too, in character. The sensitive, impulsive girl has become
developed into the tender, thoughtful woman. If her early vivacity has in
a measure forsaken her, she is as much alive as in former days to every
object of interest; while her playful fancy sheds a grace around every sub-
ject it touches. With as much both of mind and heart as ever, her feelings
and her thoughts are better regulated, while at the same time they are
deepened and enlarged. While her mother bends meekly beneath her
trials, Harriette seems to have risen above hers. What is resignation in
the one is fortitude in the other. Harriette has discovered that
To bear is to conquer our fate.'
About this time Mrs Bertram's health began to fail. She had no com-
plaint; but an increasing debility, and a general decay of the bodily powers,
afforded ample room for anxiety. She had been confined to her room the
greater part of the winter and spring; but as the summer drew on, she.
seemed to rally, and her medical attendant was of opinion that a change to
the milder air of the south of England might restore her to health, or at
least enable her to get through the succeeding winter. It was determined,
therefore, that, in company with Harriette, she should pay a visit to Susan
at Sandilands Hall, on the Hampshire coast. Mr Bertram, who had
throughout his wife's illness shewn a good deal of concern, after a fussy,
troublesome fashion, agreed to the measure at once.
'No place so proper for your mother to go to, Harriette, as to her mar-
ried daughter's. I suggested it some time ago, and now the doctor and all
of you have come round to my opinion. I am well aware that my opinions
never meet with proper deference. Dr is an insolent upstart; and if
it had not been that your poor mother seemed to have some unaccountable
whim in his favour, I should have dismissed him long ago. By the by, the
marchioness sent to inquire for your mother to-day-very polite of her-
very unlike the neglect of that upsetting woman, Lady King; but these
Kings are nobodies. The idea of her fancying herself superior to the
Bertrams of Fernielee! I shall let her see that I will not submit to such
insolence.'
Mrs Bertram bore her long journey pretty well. The travellers were
most affectionately received by Susan and her husband, and every accom-
modation prepared for the invalid. Sandilands Hall was a tolerably large
modern mansion, built in imitation of the Elizabethan style of architec-
ture. The grounds possessed little natural advantage of situation, except
that in some places they commanded a view of the sea, but were nicely
laid out and beautifully kept-a striking contrast, in their newness and
trimness, with the slovenly wildness and old-fashioned dulness of Fernie-
lee. All within the house looked the very quintessence of cheerfulness
and comfort—as comfortable and cheerful as Susan herself. Susan was
now fatter, fairer, and rosier than she had ever been before. An air of
extreme satisfaction with herself and with everything that belonged to her
was diffused over her whole face and person, and seemed to be expressed
in every word and gesture. She and Mr Hartley were the most comfort-
able couple in the world. He was a clever man, tried experiments, and
contributed to scientific journals: she spent her time in working ottoman
19
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
after ottoman, and chair after chair, in paying visits, playing with her
children, and superintending the gardener. They had few ideas in com-
mon, and spent very little of their time together; still they had a strong
mutual respect and regard, and an entire mutual confidence. Both were
perfectly satisfied that they had drawn a prize in the matrimonial lottery,
and neither wished for more sympathy than the other gave. Susan had
since her marriage become very sage and proper in all her notions. She
had very decided opinions upon all the common affairs of life, and had
at command an abundance of truisms and trite pieces of wisdom. She
had a horror of flirting young men and women, and was constantly
lecturing upon this subject to a ward of Mr Hartley's, a very pretty, lively
girl, who was at present an inmate of Sandilands Hall. Harriette could not
avoid occasionally smiling at these lectures, for she well remembered the
time when no one enjoyed a flirtation more than Susan herself. But times
were changed now. Secure in her own position, she seemed to possess an
entire oblivion of her former actions and motives, and to have no sympathy
with them. And yet Susan was a kind-hearted woman: nor is such for-
getfulness in any situation a phenomenon of very rare occurrence.
Mrs Bertram's health seeming to improve with the change of air and
scene, Harriette began to indulge in the hope that her life might be
spared; and her spirits rising in consequence, she also found considerable
amusement and enjoyment in the scenes by which she was surrounded.
Some share of this amusement was contributed by Clara Norris, the young
lady mentioned above. Clara was a young girl between eighteen and nine-
teen, with the prettiest, fairylike figure, the rosiest cheeks, the most
roguish blue eyes, and the softest, most luxuriant gold-brown hair that ever
was seen. She was an heiress and a spoiled child, wayward, whimsical, and
capricious, and yet not without a certain fitful goodness of disposition, and
some glimpses of right and truth. Without being either clever or intellectual,
she was much too lively and amusing to be called either stupid or silly.
She was excessively fond of flirting, and to Susan's horror, made no hesita-
tion of declaring that she preferred the society of gentlemen to that of her
own sex. At present she had no one to flirt with but a certain Mr Charles
Crawford, the younger son of a neighbour, a young man about twenty-five,
of a rather gentlemanly and agreeable appearance, but with nothing de-
cidedly handsome either in face or person. Mr Charles Crawford had been
educated for the bar, and had kept the necessary terms; but somehow or
other he had got tired of the profession, and did not care to be 'called.'
He was now doing nothing, and seemed to be quite contented with the
occupation. He was quite a lady's man, and would spend whole forenoons
in criticising work, and trying over polkas and songs; for he both played
the piano and sung himself. He was also a tolerable draughtsman, and
sometimes hit off a caricature very cleverly. He had an abundance of
small talk, literary, theatrical, operatic, musical, complimentary, senti-
mental, and gossipping. He was a great favourite of Mrs Hartley, with
whom he frequently passed the morning either at the greenhouse, or sitting
upon a footstool (his favourite position), playing with the children, or telling
her the news while she worked. She was more tolerant of Clara's flirta-
tions with him than with any other person, for she considered him a 'very
safe young man.' 'People who are so ready to pay attention to anybody
20
HARRIETTE; OR THE RASH REPLY.
never fall in love. Charles Crawford will never marry anybody, but will
go on being everybody's beau to the end of his life.' And so Susan was
tolerably content that he should talk less to her, and play polkas and
romp in the garden instead with Clara Norris, as it kept her out of
greater mischief.' And now that Mrs Hartley had her mother and sister
to occupy her, Clara Norris and Charles Crawford were more together
than ever.
On the very night of Harriette's arrival, Clara, with her usual frankness,
announced to her that she had taken a fancy to her.
6
Why, may I ask?' said Harriette, a little amused.
Oh, because you are so tall and graceful, and have such beautiful long
dark ringlets, and you sing so sweetly. I like music, and I like a
gentlewoman; and you are a gentlewoman all over, and you must let me
call you Harriette, because I love you.'
'My dear Clara,' said Susan, 'there is nothing more foolish than to take
sudden fancies. People often turn out very differently from what they
appear. In the present instance, indeed, with my sister Harriette you are
quite safe; but often it might be dangerous.'
'So you have often told me, and Arthur Clavering laughs at me for it;
but I don't care whether it is sensible or not, for I cannot help it, and I am
not going to give it up. By the by, I wonder when Arthur Clavering is
coming.'
At the first mention of that long-unspoken name Harriette's heart beat
violently, but she contrived to ask: 'Is Mr Clavering expected here ?’
Ere Susan had time to reply, Clara exclaimed: 'Do you know Arthur
Clavering? How odd he should never have spoken of you to me!'
(
·
'It is a long time since I met Mr Clavering.
'Oh, but he could not have forgotten you! I wonder he did not fall in
love with you! I shall attack him for his want of taste.'
'Indeed, Clara,' cried Susan, 'you shall do nothing so indelicate and
improper! I can assure you Arthur Clavering will be much displeased!'
'I don't care if he is! I shall do what I please till we are married at
anyrate! And to do Arthur justice, he is not half so straitlaced as you
If he only would not insist on lending me horrid histories and poems
to read, and always asking me if I have read them, I should have no fault
to find with him.'
are.
Married! then Arthur Clavering was going to be married, and to Clara
Norris! Harriette thought that she had quite overcome her love for him;
but she could not hear of his marriage without unwonted perturbation. As
soon as she and Susan were alone, the latter said: 'I have only waited, my
dearest Harriette, till I knew whether it would be agreeable to you for us to
have Arthur Clavering down. He and Clara are to be married next spring;
but I would rather do anything, Harry, than make you uncomfortable.'
'You are ever kind, my dear Susan,' said Harriette, embracing her sister;
'but I can have no objection to meet the affianced husband of another
woman.'
'Are you sure, Harriette ?' said Susan, for she felt a hot drop up on her
cheek.
'It is but the remembrance of past pain, dear Susan. Do not fear that
I shall disgrace you.'
21
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
'Disgrace me! No, that I am sure you never will! All I mean is, do
not try yourself too much.'
'I trust it will be no trial, my kind Susan. If it should, the sooner I
school myself to bear it the better.'
VI.
It was a few mornings after this conversation, as Harriette hastily opened
a door leading from a passage which conducted from the breakfast parlour
into the entrance-hall, that in the most awkward manner she nearly ran
against a gentleman who was entering. She looked up. It was Arthur
Clavering. As their eyes met, an expression of some kind of emotion
flitted rapidly over his face, but so rapidly, so instantaneously, that one
could hardly have said it had been there; and in a calm tone, and with a
manner perfectly self-possessed, he said: 'Miss Bertram! I beg your
pardon;' and then, after a second's pause, 'I hope you are well.' His
self-possession restored Harriette to hers, though it could not so instantly
chase the bright flush from her usually pale cheek. She returned his salu-
tation, and, as if by mutual consent, they shook hands, coldly and formally,
like common acquaintance. In the same ceremonious style Mr Clavering
inquired for her mother and the family at Fernielee; and they passed on in
opposite directions.
As their intercourse had begun, so it continued. Ever perfectly polite,
yet never too polite, neither familiar nor distant, Arthur Clavering's man-
ner convinced Harriette that he had not only forgiven, but in a sense for-
gotten their former intercourse. So perfect appeared his indifference, that
as far as he was concerned the past seemed as if it had never been. She
had ceased to interest him in any way; and thus it was best-far best. So
she said to herself; and she strove to repress all regretful musings, and
sought to divert her mind by busying herself in cares for her mother. To
the latter Arthur Clavering shewed a gentle, unobtrusive attention. They
often chatted together on general topics, while Susan and Harriette worked,
and Clara rode with Charles Crawford; for Clavering was no equestrian,
and Clara 'could not do without her ride on the downs.' In the evening
Clavering was generally occupied with his betrothed at the piano, while
after breakfast they strolled together in the grounds. It was on one of these
latter occasions that Clara put in execution her threat of asking Arthur Cla-
vering why he had not fallen in love with Harriette Bertram. They had
been talking-rather sensibly for a few minutes, Arthur having been making
an endeavour to lead the volatile Clara into something like a sober train
of thought. He had just begun to hope he had succeeded in arresting
her attention, for she had asked one or two pertinent questions, when
all at once she exclaimed: 'Oh, Arthur! I am tired of being wise. If
you wanted a sensible wife, you should have married Harriette Bertram.'
As Clara spoke, a shade of displeasure stole over her companion's
countenance. Really, Clara, you get more and more childish. It seems
to me as if you could not fix your attention for five minutes.'
'I know I cannot. My thoughts are like those butterflies, wandering
about from one pretty flower to another, and never resting upon anything
disagreeable.'
22
HARRIETTE; OR THE RASH REPLY.
'But, my dearest Clara, though this is all very well and very charming
at present, yet as there are some scenes in every life where there are no
flowers'
'I beg your pardon, Arthur; but why did you never tell me that you
knew Harriette Bertram? Why did you never describe her to me? You
could not have had the bad taste not to think her beautiful.'
'You forget that it is five years since I saw Miss Bertram; and besides,
my dearest Clara, it is not in the presence of one beautiful woman that
one has the most vivid remembrance of the charms of another.'
'A very fine compliment, Mr Arthur; but don't suppose you are to get
off in that way. I think Harriette the most beautiful woman I ever saw
and her singing is exquisite; and then she is good, and witty, and wise;
and I cannot conceive why you did not fall in love with her; and I am
determined to find out'
Come, Clara! do not talk any more nonsense. I am quite tired of it,'
said Arthur almost angrily.
'What, Arthur, you are not really angry?' and Clara's bright, merry
face was raised to his half roguishly, half deprecatingly.
He smiled, and stroked her bright hair.
'And so you will not tell me,' she whispered coaxingly, and with that
pertinacity which frequently distinguished her in the pursuit of her
whims.
'Yes, Clara, I will,' he answered gravely. 'Perhaps I ought to have
told you before. I did love Harriette Bertram. She was my first love.'
'And why were you not married?' asked Clara, suddenly sobered.
'Because she did not return my love; at least I suppose so, as she
rejected me. And now, Clara, are you mortified that your betrothed is the
rejected of another woman?'
'No; I don't care the least in the world about that. But I am surprised
she rejected you.'
'Why so? Do you think that because you have been so good as to
be pleased with me, every other woman must necessarily have been the
same?'
'No; but I should have thought Harriette would. Indeed it seems
even stranger to me that she should not have accepted you than that I
should.'
'How, then?'
'Oh! I can never explain things; but it is. Do look at that butterfly.
I must have a chase after it!' And with a merry, provoking laugh, she ran
away.
'She is very pretty and very lively, certainly,' thought Arthur Clavering;
'but I wish, I wish she were not quite so frivolous. Harriette used to be
lively; but her liveliness seemed to proceed from happy and ready thought,
not from levity. She is grave now. Yet '- And Arthur sighed; and
then suddenly starting from the reverie into which he had fallen, he began
with unusual ardour to gather a bouquet for Clara.
Some little time after this conversation, Charles Crawford dined one day
at Sandilands Hall. After dinner, seated together on a tête-à-tête chair, a
little apart from the rest of the party, he and Clara amused themselves with
playing at cat's cradle, and at various tricks with a piece of cord. Clara was
t
23
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
as happy as a child, and laughed with delight at every new exhibition of
Mr Crawford's dexterity. Mrs Bertram soon became tired, and withdrew
to her own room. Susan accompanied her, saying she wished to have a
private chat with her mother, and would take Harriette's place for one
night. No sooner were they gone, than Mr Hartley betook himself to his
study to write letters; and thus Harriette was left virtually tête-à-tête
with Arthur Clavering.
Once or twice it had happened thus before, and they had always con-
trived to converse in a formal sort of way about the passing events of the
day. To-night, however, it seemed as if they could not get on. Harriette
made one or two remarks, but Arthur barely answered them. At last he
said: 'I wish we had some music. Clara, I should be much obliged to
you if you would give us a little.'
'Oh! I cannot sing now; we are in the midst of a delightful puzzle.
My best, sweetest Harriette, do you sing for me! You sing so charm-
ingly that no one can find fault with you as my substitute—your perform-
ance is a million times better than mine.'
'If you please, Miss Bertram,' said Mr Crawford. Arthur said nothing.
Harriette knew not very well what to do; but the polite Mr Crawford
saved her the trouble of a decision, for, rising, and with an 'Excuse me
for a minute' to Clara, he opened the piano, and produced her music.
'Sing my favourite, like a darling, Harriette,' cried Clara. Now Clara's
favourite chanced in former days to have been Arthur's favourite likewise.
Harriette would much rather not have sung it; but she felt somehow or
other that it was better not to refuse. She therefore looked out the
music, and placed it before. her on the piano. And now, Arthur!' cried
Clara, 'turn over Harriette's leaves for her, and then we shall all be com-
fortable.' To refuse was impossible; and with a sort of grave politeness,
yet without alacrity, he complied. It was a great trial to poor Harriette.
As she sung, thoughts of other days, other scenes, other feelings, crowded
fast upon her mind. She was transported back to the old-fashioned draw-
ing-room at Fernielee, with its wainscoted walls and faded portraits.
Again she seemed to see Mr Hartley and Susan seated together whisper-
ing on the old-fashioned sofa, while Marianne made signs to the younger
girls to hold their tongues. Once more she beheld her father standing on
the hearth-rug with his back to the fire, keeping time to the music with
a complacent shake of the head, and a self-gratulatory smile playing
about the corners of his mouth, while her mother suspended her knitting,
and raised her soft dark eyes as if absorbed by the music. Arthur Claver-
ing had stood beside her then too; he had turned over the leaves for her
then as now; and yet all else was changed. She was far away from Fernie-
lee; Susan was now a happy wife and a happy mother; and her own
beloved mother lay sick of a wasting disease, while Arthur and she were
as strangers. Harriette had a brave spirit, and had moreover schooled
herself to support moments like these; but though more under her control,
her sensibility was as great as in former days; and the recollections, the
associations of the moment lent a more impassioned tremulousness to
her voice, and a deeper pathos to her expression. As the rich, soft
melody, so sweet yet so sad, floated and quivered on the air, Charles Craw-
ford and Clara dropped their play to listen; and when it was ended, the
HARRIETTE; OR THE RASH REPLY.
Not a
'It is
latter rose, and throwing her arms round the musician, kissed her while she
wept. Arthur meanwhile stood by with an unmoved countenance.
look, not a word betrayed that he had ever heard the song before.
certainly very beautiful,' he said in a cold, composed tone, as if he admired
the music rather than felt it; and we are all much obliged to Miss Ber-
tram.' Charles Crawford, who, if he did not possess that poetry of mind
without which none of the fine arts can be felt in their essential spirit and
beauty, had a fine ear and a cultivated taste, now began to compliment
Harriette in his own good-natured, graceful style. Ere he had finished his
speech, Clavering had abruptly, almost unpolitely, quitted the room.
Harriette's heart seemed suddenly to grow chill; she felt a choking sensa-
tion in her throat; her eyes filled with tears, and she leant over the music-
stand as if in search of another piece, to conceal the emotion she could
not repress.
'What a fool she was! What was it to her, or rather was
it not far better, now that he had chosen a younger and fairer bride, that
he should have lost all recollection of the days of his first love? And
if her life seemed faded and sad in comparison with that of the young
and blooming girl before her, was it not her own fault?
Then away
with these vain reminiscences, these worse than weak regrets. Had she
not still her mother-still, but how long?' And with a feeling of self-
reproach that this her best friend on earth should have been, even for a
few minutes, so entirely absent from her thoughts, she rose, saying that
she must now change places with Susan.
As she crossed the hall on her way to her mother's apartment, she
perceived that the door was open, and the next instant she beheld, in the
broad moonlight, Arthur Clavering, with folded arms, standing motionless
on the lawn, as if in deep thought. What could this mean? Could he be
jealous of Clara's flirtation with Charles Crawford?
i
VII.
Let us follow Arthur Clavering out into the light of the glorious harvest
moon, which, undimmed by a vapour, hung out a perfect globe of light from
the serene and fathomless blue of the sky. Dark masses of shadow from
the shrubs and trees, interspersed with streams of silvery sheen, lay softly
on the lawn. Every angle, and buttress, and coping of the mansion was
strictly defined in light and shade, and the marble vases ranged along the
margin of the greensward gleamed unearthly white in the pallid brightness.
No sound smote the ear save the sound of the waves as they broke on the
distant beach. Not a breath of wind stirred the dark motionless woods.
But the beauty of the scene seemed lost on Arthur Clavering. His
thoughts appeared to be all concentrated within. No sooner had he
quitted the drawing-room, than, changing his deliberate step to a rapid
stride, he hurriedly left the house, audibly exclaiming: 'I can bear
no more.' This was all he spoke aloud, for Arthur Clavering was not in
the habit of soliloquising. But for the benefit of my readers, I shall
explain his thoughts; and to enable me to do so, it will, first be necessary
to cast a retrospective glance upon his history, since we last saw him at
the Grange, determined, even in the hour of anguish and disappointment, to
25
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
master the grief which pierced his soul, and to forget the woman whose
heartless coquetry had caused it. Clavering was a man of resolution, he
was, moreover, a man of industrious habits, and able from custom to
concentrate his thoughts and faculties according to the determination of his
will. And now that he had lost Harriette, he determined to direct all his
energies to the pursuit of his profession, in which, for so young a man,
he already stood high. Success, reputation, riches began to pour in upon
him. In a year he believed he had ceased to regret Harriette Bertram.
In another year he thought of marrying. With this end in view he went
a good deal into society. He met many women whom he could not but
acknowledge were pretty, and amiable, and sensible; but somehow, in
spite of his own wishes and even endeavours, he could not fall in love.
In every woman he saw there was wanting an indefinable charm, and this
charm he could not but remember Harriette Bertram possessed. And yet,
probably, if he were to see her now, he thought he should find himself
disenchanted. Thus nearly five years had passed, when, during a visit to
Sandilands Hall, he met Clara Norris. He was much struck by her
beauty, grace, and extreme liveliness. Like Harriette, there was some-
thing uncommon, something fresh about her. He was amused, aroused,
interested, and believed himself in love once more. He offered his heart
and hand to the wild, volatile Clara, who, pleased and flattered at having
made a conquest of a man so clever, so much esteemed, and so highly
spoken of by everybody, and also influenced by the Hartleys, who both
impressed upon her her extreme good fortune, accepted him at once. They
had now been engaged for some time. A more intimate acquaintance had
made Arthur Clavering aware of various mental deficiencies in his fair
betrothed-such as an utter want of purpose, and a carelessness about
everything but amusement. But to counterbalance these faults, she was,
though excessively wilful, quite free from selfishness, kind-hearted, and
without the smallest taint either of malice or deceit. 'When she is
married,' thought Clavering, 'she will become steadier. I shall have her
of my own educating.' Misgivings of his power to effect a change would
however occasionally intrude. But he turned a deaf ear to them. The
die was cast-Clara was to be his wife. He would cure her of her faults;
but, like a wise man, he would not begin by drawing the reins too tight.
Far, therefore, from rivalling what Clara denominated Mrs Hartley's
'prudishness,' or taking part in the lectures of the latter, he sometimes took
Clara's part, and sought to win rather than to control the wayward girl. And
in truth Clara was by no means insensible to his kindness; for while she
delight to tease Mrs Hartley, she would frequently suffer herself to be
influence Arthur.

ד'
bto
V
tha
the Sa
nuch
"e
Such w
posture of ful's Wh
en Clavering found himself domesti-
cated unde
me roof with Harri
ette Bertram. At first sight he had
thought her
changed both in aphearance and manners. He said to
charm was dissolved; that Harriette Bertram, though a
himself that
fine-looking woman, was still but an ord;
inary mortal, and moreover un peu
passée, and not nearly so lively as in
former days. He had not been a
week in the house, however, ere he beca
me aware that the mental qualities
he had attributed to her, the refined i
aste, the lively imagination, the
ready apprehension of all that is lovely, nature or noble in conduct, were
26
HARRIETTE; OR THE RASH REPLY.
no part of his delusion. Harriette was less vivacious, less demonstrative,
less impassioned than in past times; but in the tones of her flexible voice,
in the light of her expressive eyes, might still be read, deepened, if subdued,
the same earnestness and enthusiasm of character which had formerly
distinguished her. In her affection for and devotion to her dying mother
there was something, too, inexpressibly touching. Let her character be what
it might, there could be no doubt she was fascinating. She was a complete
riddle to him. In vain he tried to solve it. Thus she came to occupy
much of his thoughts; and then occasionally, when Clara was indulging in
a fit of more than ordinary frivolity, the wish, scarce consciously to himself,
would flit across his mind, that she were in some things more like Harriette.
Such comparisons became more and more frequent; and it was with some-
thing like remorse that he discovered that his old love was more frequently
in his thoughts than his new. He explained this, however, to himself by
saying that he understood Clara, and thought of Harriette merely as an
interesting psychological study. Still he felt instinctively that there was
danger in thinking so much of her, and he increased his attention to Clara,
seeking to occupy himself in cares for her.
On the evening, the events of which I have described above, he had been
more than usually displeased with Clara. Her frivolity seemed to him to
have reached a climax, while her refusal to sing had seriously annoyed him.
Then she had increased her offence by asking Harriette. How could she
be so thoughtless when she knew the past?—but he rejoiced that she did not
know his feelings. It was not, however, till he heard Harriette sing once
more again his favourite song, till her voice, so full, so sweet, so replete
with feeling, seemed to awaken old associations, and recall in their pristine
freshness old times, old hopes, old happiness, that his eyes were opened,
and that he felt the entire and terrible conviction that he was engaged to
one woman while he loved another. Yes, he loved her.
The true love once disclosed,
Long since rejected,'
was true love still. This it was which had caused him to wrap himself up
in external coldness and impassibility; this it was which had sent him out
to meditate alone in the moonlight, that he might regain his self-command,
that he might think of and resolve upon the future. And now it seemed
to him as if he had been led upon an unknown path in a mist, which,
suddenly clearing away, had disclosed to him a horrible abyss, on the very
brink of which he stood. What was he to do? To marry Clara while he
loved Harriette, or to break off his engagement with the former? He felt
like a true man, that in such a case as this Clara was the first person to be
considered. Was it better to marry her without love, or to wound her
feelings and mortify her pride by breaking off their projected union? Or
ought he to tell her the whole? This last course, however, he felt was
equivalent to dissolving the engagement, as no woman of feeling or spirit,
however much she might suffer, could wish to continue it after such a
disclosure. The result of Arthur Clavering's deliberations was, that he
must marry Clara. He was brought to this determination by the very
motive which might have deterred many other men. Conscious that his
feelings were all on the other side, and aware how apt the judgment, even
27
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
of the most upright men, is to be swayed by the inclinations, he thought it
best to adhere to a promise solemnly given, cost what it might to himself.
Clara should never know the sacrifice he had made, nor should she ever
feel that she was not loved. This resolution once taken, with the decision of
character and promptness of action conspicuous in everything he did, he
determined to leave Sandilands Hall the next day. In his case he felt that
true courage lay in flight. No longer exposed daily and hourly to the dange-
rous influence of Harriette's fascinating presence, this fever of the heart
would subside. He had forgotten her once before: he might—he might
perhaps forget her again!
The following morning he made an excuse to the Hartleys and Clara
for quitting Sandilands Hall the same afternoon. Of the latter he took
a kind farewell. His adieus to the Hartleys and Mrs Bertram were also of
the most cordial and friendly description. And now he must shake hands
with Harriette; hers was extended with composure, yet kindness. Her
face, shaded by the 'long beautiful ringlets,' as Clara called them, though
calm, was not indifferent, and was tinged by a slight ingenuous blush.
She wished that they might part as friends, and she felt that from her
heart she wished him happiness with Clara. He gave one glance at her
eloquent face-the last-for he was never to see her again. Then hardly
touching her offered hand, he turned quickly to repeat his farewell to
Clara. Harriette believed she was utterly unheeded-quite forgotten.
She deserved it; but when her heart had been so full of kindness, it was
very bitter. Again, as on the previous night, she felt her eyes filling.
She turned her head to conceal her emotion. As she did so, she caught
Clara's eye fixed upon her. Clavering was now gone; and Clara, rushing
up to Harriette, threw her arms round her neck, and burst into tears.
'What is the matter?' cried the latter in alarm.
(
Oh, nothing-nothing at all. I felt inclined to cry somehow; some-
thing came into my head; but you need not ask, for I am not going to tell
one of you. And, by the by, I must practise that duet I promised to play
with Charles Crawford to-morrow morning.'
'He must wind those worsteds for me first,' said Susan; ' and there is
also a recipe which he promised to copy for me, that must not be forgotten.
And, Clara, you and he must not ramble about upon the downs as you do;
it looks ill, though Charles Crawford is a very gentlemanly young man;
and as he pays attention to everybody, it does not so much signify; still,
engaged young ladies cannot be too circumspect. Be advised, Clara, by a
person who has had more experience than yourself, and who has only your
good at heart.'
Susan delivered this speech with an air of extreme sagacity, while an
expression of good-natured self-satisfaction beamed from her face. Clara
returned no answer, but skipped away to feed the peacock.
VIII.
After the departure of Arthur Clavering things fell into the old routine
at Sandilands Hall. Clara was as incorrigible as ever in her flirtations with
Charles Crawford. One day, after the lapse of about a fortnight, she
28
HARRIETTE; OR THE RASH REPLY.
announced that she had received an invitation to spend two or three weeks
with some cousins who resided at Portsmouth, one of whom was the
widow of an officer in the navy. Portsmouth! Susan demurred, for
visions of pic-nics, and balls, and Clara flirting furiously with dozens of
officers, led her to doubt the propriety of the step. But Clara was deter-
mined to go, and finally carried her point.
It was a fine morning on which she was to set out. Mr Hartley was to
accompany her in the carriage to the nearest railway station. She had
been unusually excitable and fidgety all the morning, having talked and
laughed incessantly, and never having sat still for a single minute. After
she had bid them all good-by in the drawing-room, she requested Har-
riette to accompany her into the hall. When there, she threw her arms
round her neck and kissed her, half-crying, half-laughing as she did so.
Then disengaging herself, she ran down the steps into the porch; but ere
Harriette could return to the drawing-room, flew back again to embrace
her once more, crying: 'Good-by, my dearest, sweetest Harriette: I hope
you will be happy.'
'Happy! my dear girl,' cried Harriette smiling;
that I was unhappy.'
( one would suppose
'No, not exactly unhappy. But are you quite, quite happy?'
'All wise people, you know, Clara, tell us that there is no such thing
as perfect felicity in this world, and I have no right to expect that mine
should be an exception to the common lot; but if mamma were only well
again I should be happy-enough.' To this speech Clara only replied
by a look, half-doubtful, half-perplexed, and another and another kiss.
'You wont quite forget me, IIarriette? Though I am such a wild.
foolish, silly thing, you will love me a little bit in spite of it all?'
'Dear, kind Clara! I love you very dearly.' Here Mr Hartley, who had
been standing at the door all this time, called out in an impatient tone that
he would wait no longer, and Clara ran off, laughing and exclaiming: 'We
can drive all the quicker. Oh, I do so like to drive quick!'
'We shall meet again in a fortnight,' cried Harriette, with a cheerful
nod. Clara only replied by a laugh—an odd-sounding laugh it seemed to
Harrictte; but the impression was only momentary, and passed entirely
away from her thoughts.
The day after Clara's departure Mrs Bertram became much worse than
she had ever been since she left home. She was now again confined to bed.
Susan and Harriette were both much distressed; but the former had her
husband, and her children, and her house, and her comforts, and was,
besides, of a less anxious disposition. Poor Harriette felt that in losing
her mother she should lose her all; but for the sake of that beloved one
she bore up bravely. In everything Harriette felt or did there was an
ardour, an enthusiasm, the natural effect of a warm heart united with a
susceptible imagination and great strength of character. Thus she
would not allow herself to despond for her own future, while her whole
time and cares were for the present devoted to the invalid, for whose sake
all her labours were labours of love. Still there were moments when an
inexpressible sadness would suddenly steal over her spirits, and a settled
gloom, without a glimmer on the horizon, would seem to darken over the
perspective of her life. This generally happened when she was weary or
29
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
unemployed, and at such times she wisely shunned solitude, as a fit of
musing was generally succeeded by a fit of weeping. One afternoon, a day
or two before Clara's expected return, Mrs Bertram having fallen asleep,
Harriette took the opportunity to go into the garden to gather a bouquet,
and snatch a breath of the fresh air. Neither Susan nor Mr Hartley
was at home, having taken advantage of the fine day to pay a round of
visits.
The flower-garden at Sandilands Hall was a very pretty one. It branched
off from the lawn, from which it was only separated by a low wire-fence
covered with fuchsias and China roses, and was sheltered on the north by
a row of lime-trees, through which walks led into a wood behind. A pretty
conservatory stood on a sort of terrace, while beds of beautiful flowers
were separated by walks bordered by hollyhocks and dahlias, which
formed miniature avenues in every direction. The trees were in their
autumn glory. There was no scarlet mountain ash, no purple heather, no
long fern, as at Harriette's home; but elm and ash, and chestnut and oak,
such as Scotland never saw, stretched away before her in rich and varie-
gated luxuriance, while the sun setting red in the west threw an additional
splendour over their melancholy pomp. Away, far along the horizon
stretched the sea, bright, and calm, and cold, and blue. There was a clear-
ness and a brightness about everything which seemed almost spiritual, but
was the reverse of joyous. Harriette sat down ou a garden seat, and fell
into a reverie. The strange sadness which like a spell mingled with the
sunshine, and brooded over the beauty, reminded her of the sadness which
had come over her fading youth and once gay spirits. The temptation to
muse over the past was too strong to be resisted; and Harriette recalled
image after image, and feeling after feeling, till it all rose before her a per-
fect picture; and then, as she remembered that the vision she had conjured
up was but a vision after all, she felt the tears rush to her eyes. Reproach-
ing herself for her weakness and folly, she started up quickly for the pur-
pose of returning to the house. She had not proceeded many steps when
she heard some one pronounce her name, and turning round, was surprised
and confused to perceive that it was Arthur Clavering. She stammered,
and said something about not having expected him.
'I hope I have not intruded. The servant told me that your sister and
Mr Hartley were not at home, but that I should find you in the garden.'
He had come voluntarily to seek her then. More surprised than ever,
but in a degree recovering her self-possession, she replied: 'Oh no; not
at all. I am going to gather a bouquet.'
'May I help you?'
'Thank you.' IIarriette knew not what to make of all this, and she
feared to speak lest she should betray her surprise and agitation. What
could possibly be the meaning of the change which had come over Arthur
Clavering-and why was he here?
After having given her several flowers of different kinds, he gathered at
last a sprig of rosemary, and presenting it to her with greater discomposure
and awkwardness than she had ever seen him display, he quoted part of
Ophelia's speech: 'There's rosemary; that's for remembrance.'
Harriette, we have said, had learned in a great measure to control her
feelings, but at this moment she was not mistress of herself, and exclaimed,
30
HARRIETTE; OR THE RASH REPLY.
in her natural spontaneous and unguarded manner: 'Rather give me some-
thing which means forgetfulness.'
He looked at her inquiringly. 'Surely, Miss Bertram, there can be no
part of your past so painful that you should wish to forget it altogether.
It is I, not you, the burden of whose song should be "Teach me to forget.'
This last sentence was spoken in a low voice. Harriette was more than
amazed. If his words had any meaning at all, they meant something very
different from anything she had ever expected to hear from the lips of
Arthur Clavering. There was a silence of some seconds. 'Do you re-
member the walks, Miss Bertram, we used to take long ago over the hill
among the long heather to the heronry ?'
Harriette's heart swelled: she had been thinking of them a few minutes
before. She felt ready to weep, but she answered calmly: 'Yes; that
was a very nice walk, and the weather was fine, if I remember rightly.'
An expression of pain and disappointment passed over Clavering's features.
He turned away almost angrily. Harriette remarked in a tone of assumed
carelessness: 'Clara, I suppose, is to be home to-morrow?'
Arthur Clavering started. 'Clara!' he exclaimed, as if some forgotten
idea had suddenly recurred to him. 'You do not know then-indeed how
could you?—Clara is married!'
'Married!' Harriette almost screamed.
'Yes; she was married two days ago to Charles Crawford!' Harriette
looked up in amazement. Arthur continued in an accelerated tone: 'Per-
haps you are surprised that I am not in despair at her desertion; but Clara
read me more truly. Clara has set me free-free at least to wish.' He
looked at Harriette. The blood mounted to her temples; she trembled
all over. He spoke again. 'Harriette, when I asked Clara to marry me,
I believed I loved her, I believed I had forgotten; but the presence of
the only woman I ever really loved dispelled the illusion. Harriette, my
only love, I am free to offer you again the heart and hand you once
rejected. Should you should you reject them again—oh, I beseech you,
do it less unkindly!' and his voice as he finished speaking sank into a
passionate whisper. Harriette had been standing for some time with
her face towards the sea, looking on it, on the blue sky, on the gay
flowers, and the bright tinted woods, as if all around her was some unearthly
dream called up by the reminiscences in which she had been indulging.
Could it be that Arthur Clavering stood by her side once more?—that he
asked her love?—that no barrier lay between them? She turned round.
His eyes sought hers. He had resolved to learn his fate at once, and to
bear it; and with the anxious, impassioned glance of the lover was mingled
the stern fortitude of the man prepared for disappointment. Harriette
was a woman, and a proud one—but she was not so strong. All impulses
of soul and sense' had swept upon her heart like a tempest; and if Arthur
had not caught her in his arms she would have fallen to the ground. It
was with a burst of hysterical tears, as she leaned her head upon his
shoulder, that the rash reply she had given to his former suit was with-
drawn.
Great was the amazement of the circle at Sandilands Hall at the news
which awaited them. Mrs Hartley's indignation by degrees became sub-
31
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
dued into a sort of compassionate consciousness of the necessity of teaching
Clara how to manage her house. Mr Hartley remarked that if Clara and
her husband never did anything better, they would probably never do
anything worse than play at cat's cradle, and thump upon the piano. All
were much pleased at the prospect of the approaching marriage, and poor
Mrs Bertram declared that all she now wished was to return to Fernielee.
In due course of time Arthur Clavering received a letter from Mr Bertram,
containing an answer to one he had written soliciting his consent to his
marriage with his daughter. This letter Arthur declared to be very satis-
factory; but he never shewed it to any one, not even to Harriette.
Mrs Bertram's wish was granted: she lived to return to Fernielee, and
then sank gradually, and died in the arms of her weak husband, whom the
solemn scene appeared for the time to elevate as well as subdue. The
third day after her mother's death Harriette sat alone in the embrasurc
of one of the drawing-room windows. It was a grim November day;
the hills were shrouded in a cold gray mist, which crept ever nearer and
nearer, gradually obliterating tree, and shrub, and stream, and even the
lawn itself, till all between earth and sky was a blank and a desolation.
Life, too, seemed blank and desolate; and Harriette wept in loneliness of
heart as she remembered that she had now no mother to comfort her.
Suddenly she became aware that she was not alone. Arthur Clavering
had silently seated himself beside her: his manner was grave, but full of
tenderness. 'Why do you weep alone, my Harriette?' he said. 'Ought
not the severing of one tie to make us cling more closely to those which
remain?' As he spoke he drew her gently towards him, and laid her
head upon his breast. Harriette felt that to weep there was consolation
and happiness.
CHILDHOOD OF EXPERIMENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
THE
THE philosophy of the present day wears a pre-eminently prospective
character. Its dealings are more with the future than with the
past. Its title is onward, its character progressive, its aspirations are
for to-morrow rather than for to-day. A very little acquaintance with the
temper of the philosophic mind of our time teaches us this; and such is in
truth the natural consequence of events. Men are not satisfied with their
present attainments, and the eye of the scientific is ever on the stretch—
gazing into the clouded futurity. Every fresh disclosure of the before-
hidden wonders of the natural world is an incentive to fresh investigation.
Science is ever adding to the height of her watch-tower, and as she stands
upon a higher point of observation, is ever revealing some new and hitherto
unknown object for inquiry. It might be thought that the development
of natural knowledge-for such is the object of science-would leave
continually less and less for discovery. The marvel is, that it is precisely
the reverse. Because we know, we come to know more; and the more we
come to know, the more remains to be known. Our philosophers are not
men who stop to comment upon what is past, or who are satisfied with
what is present. They are men who stretch towards things before them,
and whose sympathies are all in one direction, and that of advance. Do
we ask why? Then the reply must be, because philosophy has ceased
to be a system of abstractions and speculations; because it is inductive
and experimental. These very terms imply progress. No man can be an
experimenter and not advance, provided that his experiments are based upon
sound principles, and have a right object in view. And experiment leads to
induction, and induction anew to experiment, and both to progress. While
such is the character of the scientific mind, it is little to be expected that
it will patiently sit down to the study of things gone by. There was a
time when philosophy consisted in little else than a blind system of
adoration for antiquity. After the first great achievements,' to quote the
just and elegant language of Professor Whewell, 'of the founders of sound
speculation, in the different departments of human knowledge, had attracted
the interest and admiration which those who became acquainted with them
could not but give to them, there appeared a disposition among men to lean
on the authority of some of these teachers; to study the opinions of others
as the only mode of forming their own; to read nature through books; to
attend to what had been already thought and said, rather than to what
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
really is and happens. This tendency of men's minds gave a peculiar bias
and direction to the intellectual activity of many centuries; and the kind
of labour with which speculative men were occupied in consequence of this
bias took the place of that examination of realities which must be their
employment in order that real knowledge may make any decided progress.'
Yet while it may no longer form a part of our duty as men of science to
deal with the fabulous lore and imperfect views of truth which obscure the
past history of philosophy, the attempt to do so will not prove unprofitable.
We must not adore, but we should not contemn antiquity. There may
not be anything that is new in the past, but there is much that is both
interesting and instructive. To some gleanings from the history of philo-
sophy which appear to bear this character, the subject in hand invites our
attention. In the history of an eminent individual, biographers delight
to trace indications of his future talents and excellences during childhood.
His boyish feats, his aspirations, his early masteries of difficulty, have all a
peculiar interest, as evidence of the germs of qualities which in afterlife
became so highly developed. If such the interest attaching to the early
history of one philosopher, that which appertains to the history of
philosophy itself is surely greater. We have undertaken, then, to speak of
philosophy when, like music,
The heavenly maid was young;'
to narrate some anecdotes of her childish freaks, some of her frolics, and
some of those early traces of excellency and accuracy which we now behold
displayed in such admirable proportions in the full-grown science. Let
the reader pay attention to our account of the childhood of philosophy, if
he would learn how the child was 'father to the man.' The time preceding
the birth, if we may term it, of experimental and inductive philosophy
deserves, however, a passing notice at our hands.
Had philosophy no existence during the middle ages? for to this dark
interval in history our thoughts are to be directed. It existed but in
a commentatorial, not an experimental form. There is a distinction now
drawn between a learned man and a philosopher: the latter is an experi-
mentalist, the former a man of books. But at the time of which we speak,
learned men, in our present sense of the term, were the only philosophers,
and philosophy was consequently learning rather than experiment-doctrine
rather than fact. Lord Bacon, in the following pithy sentence, gives us
an admirable account of the state of knowledge and of its character during
this period: 'It is barren in effects, fruitful in questions, slow and languid
in its improvement-exhibiting in its generality the counterfeit of perfec-
tion, but ill-fitted up in its details-popular in its choice, but suspected by
its very promoters, and therefore bolstered up and countenanced with
artifices.' A large number of books existed, but an attentive examination
of them will shew that they were entirely fabricated out of other books.
Everywhere are innumerable repetitions of the same statements, adopted
without hesitation, and without a moment's inquiry into their truth. So
that, as the great founder of experimental philosophy has well observed,
although at first sight they appear numerous, they are found upon exami-
nation to be but scanty.' Bacon set a right estimate upon them in speak-
ing thus severely; for a book that is a copy of another is but the same
2
CHILDHOOD OF EXPERIMENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
1
book after all. Philosophy and the intellectual sciences were compared to
statues they were adored and celebrated, but were not made to advance.
In truth, the necessity for advance had not appeared to have entered into
the conceptions of men. It is little less than extraordinary to remark upon
the blind idolatry with which received opinions were regarded. That man
was a bold one who dared to question what Aristotle had said or Plato
taught, and little less than a maniac he who would attempt to overturn the
fables of those time-honoured founders of philosophy by an appeal to living
nature or demonstrable fact. Philosophy, such as it was, had no self-
reliance, but leaned entirely upon authorities whose day had long gone
by. The range of discovery was consequently extremely limited, and
consisted only of a few minor improvements in things already known. As
in former ages (says Bacon), when men at sea had only to steer by their
observation of the stars, they were indeed enabled to coast the shores of
the continent or some small and inland seas; but before they could traverse
the ocean and discover the regions of a new world it was necessary that the
use of the compass-a more sure and certain guide on their voyage-should
be first known; even so the present discoveries in the arts and sciences are
such as might be found out by meditation, observation, and discussion, as
being more open to the senses, and lying immediately beneath our common
notions; but before we are allowed to enter the more remote and hidden
parts of nature, it is necessary that a better and more perfect use and
application of the human mind and understanding should be introduced.
The natural effect of such a method of pursuing philosophical studies may
be readily anticipated. Men's minds became poor, servile, imitative, and
large thoughts and searching inquiries became exchanged for a narrow-
spirited adherence to ancient opinions and ideas. In physical science
this was most conspicuously evident; for this is a science dependent
upon experiment and induction-upon observation rather than memory.
Experimenters, remarks an able writer, were replaced by commentators;
criticism took the place of induction; and instead of great discoverers, we
had learned men. An admirable illustration of the temper then charac-
terising the philosophic mind is given in the following sentences which form
the conclusion of a lecture-one of a course upon Euclid, delivered at
Oxford: 'Gentlemen hearers, I have performed my promise, I have
redeemed my pledge, I have explained according to my ability the defini-
tions, postulates, axioms, and first eight propositions of the Elements
of Euclid. Here, sinking under the weight of years, I lay down my art
and instruments.' As if all that could be known were attained, and that
the occupation of the student were rather the laborious investigation of
the discoveries of the ancients than the search after new objects of study
and revelations of truth. Aristotle was natural history, Plato philosophy,
Euclid mathematics.
Such was the philosophy of the middle ages—a system of comments,
compilations, imitations, abstracts, and epitomes. But this was not all.
This philosophy was dogmatic and mystical. This was the result proper
to a system such as we have described it to be. None can lend themselves
to be servants to other men's opinions in matters of science, and to regard
such opinions as infallible, without receiving the ultimate impress of
mysticism and dogmatism upon their own minds. The servility, remarks
3
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
Professor Whewell, which had yielded itself to the yoke insisted upon
forcing it on the necks of others; the subtlety which found all truth in
certain accredited (philosophical) writings, resolved that no one should find
there, or in any other region, any other truths. Speculative men became
tyrants without ceasing to be slaves; to their character of commentators
they added that of dogmatists. To their dogmatism we may add-mysti-
cism. When men receive their views of truth not directly from the
external world, but exclusively through other men, what result more cer-
tain than an indistinctness of mental vision? And such an indistinctness
of ideas is closely allied to mysticism. The mystic element had long tinged
the speculations of philosophy, and now lent its colour to every department
of science. External things were not viewed, as happily they are now
viewed, as simple, intelligible, natural things, influenced, under the divine
guidance and control, by certain causes and producing certain results. " All
was wrapped in mystery. The creatures of an imaginary mythology were
not confined to the fields and woods, to the air and water; they were pre-
sumed to have to do with the operations of the study and laboratory.
The chemist looked at his results through this mystical atmosphere, and
lost himself in a maze of unreal speculations. Physical science became
magic, and the simple interpretation of nature was exchanged for a method
of regarding things full of mystical vagaries. It was a time of darkness
without, and men peopled the gloom with innumerable spiritual beings who
were thought to be more or less connected with the everyday operations
of the external world. It was the ghost-time of philosophy, and nature
was wrapped in a portentous but impenetrable haze.
This notice of philosophy antecedent to the time of which we are to
speak could not be omitted. It has a close and intimate connection with
the childhood of experimental science. The commentatorial, dogmatic, and
mystical philosophy of the middle ages can scarcely be said to have been
the parent of the philosophy which took its place, and the blessings and
light of which we are now privileged to enjoy. It was contrary to the
course of things to suppose that experimental philosophy could have
sprung full-grown into the world, and that her predecessor should have
departed, leaving no trace behind. The system was about to undergo a
great and vital change, but the men were the same. Old notions are not
soon changed for new ones, and no revolution, however complete, can
entirely efface the long-enduring traces of a former time. Therefore,
though it may not be allowed that the half-blind and superstitious philoso-
phy of the middle ages was the parent of the clear-sighted and intellectual
philosophy which has succeeded it, because we find, as we shall find, traces
of the features of the former in the childish traits of the latter, yet its
evident connection with it is sufficiently well marked and interesting to
deserve our consideration.
We have described the period preceding the birth of experimental philo-
sophy as a time of darkness; but it was not the darkness of the evening:
it was that darkness which precedes the dawn. The early part of the
seventeenth century may be taken as the period in question. We should
do grievous wrong, however, to a far-seeing and thoroughly philosophical
mind, were we to omit to mention that, even in the darkness of the night
now about to be dissipated, no ray of light had existed. As early as 1214
4
CHILDHOOD OF EXPERIMENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
Roger Bacon first pointed out the path into which the investigator after
natural knowledge ought to direct his steps. There are two methods of
knowing, he says-that by argument, and that by experiment. Of these
argument is dogmatic, but does not assure the mind or remove its doubts,
so that it may rest in full assurance of the truth, unless it is confirmed by
experience. And he proceeds by an illustration to shew the impossibility
of mere talk to convince and settle the mind as to physical truth. But the
efforts of this philosopher, for such in reality he was, were barren of fruit.
Others existed after Bacon into whose minds gleams of truth darted; yet
down to the time in question, in spite of all the efforts of those thus
illuminated,
We are able only to survey
Dawnings of beams and promises of day.'
About the middle of the previous century-the sixteenth-evidences of
a struggling after the development of scientific knowledge were afforded by
the establishment of various academies, among the earliest of which was
one instituted by Porta. This academy held its meetings at Porta's own
house at Naples, and its title sufficiently manifests the spirit of its members.
Its name was Academia Secretorum Naturæ; its object the interpreta-
tion of the so-called secrets of the natural world. The date of the estab-
lishment of this association for the advancement of science was 1560. In
the following year Porta, benefiting perhaps by the communications of
his visitors, published a work entitled 'De Miraculis rerum Naturalium.'
None were admitted to the meetings of this Academy di Secreti who were
not celebrated for some attainment, or discoverers of some secrets. What
was the nature of these meetings-what the subjects for their discussion-
may sometimes be gathered from Porta's own works. Unquestionably
they were full of the marvellous. Whether it was the title of the academy,
or rumours of the extraordinary experiments exhibited by Porta to his
assembled guests that attracted the notice of the Romish powers, we are
unable to state. It was soon, however, made evident to Porta and his
fellow-philosophers that such studies would not be allowed, and the
Academy di Secreti was formally abolished by the pope. In Sicily also,
academies for the advancement of learning were beginning to be formed at
the same time, under the whimsical titles of The Drunken, The Rekindled,
The Grieved, The Sympathetic, The Intrepid, and others. In a short time
a number of other places caught the infection, and in many cities and towns
several academies were quickly formed. Tiraboschi has given a list of no
fewer than 171 academies instituted about this time for the cultivation of
literature and science, independent of the universities. The titles of some
of these societies,' writes Mr Weld,* are extremely curious, and in many
instances ludicrous. Thus we have: The Inflammable, The Pensive, The In-
trepid, The Humorists, The Unripe, The Drowsy, The Rough, The Dispirited,
The Solitary, The Fiery, The Lyncean (of which Galileo was a member),
and the Della Crusca-literally, of the bran or chaff, in allusion to its great
object, which was to sift the flour of language from the bran. This cele-
brated academy, founded at Florence in 1582 for the purpose of purifying
the national tongue, and which published the first edition of its well-known
'
* History of the Royal Society.
5
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
7
dictionary in 1612, adopted for its device a sieve, with the motto: Il pici
bel fior ne coglia; and the Lyncean used as their symbol, rain dropping from
a cloud, with the motto: Redit aquiine dulci. The strange desire that
was manifested to give many of these institutions, avowedly established for
noble purposes, absurd names, was not long in meeting with appropriate
ridicule.' The Academy della Crusca still assembles, to tie present day,
in the Palazzo Ricardi, for the formalities of holding meetings and granting
diplomas. The backs of their arm-chairs are in the shape of winnowing
shovels, the seats represent sacks; every member takes a name allusive to
the miller's calling, and receives a grant of an estate, properly described by
metes and bounds-in Arcadia. Italy appears beyond question to have
been first in this revival of literature, art, and science. In other countries
no records exist to shew the institution of any such academies or societies
as those described. In England, indeed, a society of antiquaries-the
antecedent, not the progenitor of the present society with that name—had
been instituted. But a society with such objects in view could do little for
the advancement of physical science; rather the contrary, for the science of
the day was already only a learned and elaborate imitation of the science
of the past. This society, as Mr Hallam informs us, was dissolved by
James I. about the year 1604. About the middle of the seventeenth an
academy was founded at Florence, which formed the first whose fundamental
principle was, truth from experiment, not from authority. The name of
this academy was Del Cimento. Its title, observes Mr Hallam in his intro-
duction to the 'Literature of Europe,' gave promise of their fundamental
rule-the investigation of truth by experiment alone. The number of
academicians was unlimited, and all that was required as an article of faith
was the abjuration of all faith (in matters of philosophy), and a resolution
to inquire into truth without regard to any previous sect of philosophy.
This academy lasted, unfortunately, but ten years in its vigour. It was
established at Florence in 1657 under the distinguished patronage of the
Grand Duke Ferdinand II., and by desire of his brother Leopold. The
latter became a cardinal, and was thus withdrawn from Florence; after
this the Florentine academy dwindled away into insignificance. The records
of its labours yet exist, and we may learn from them how fresh and valuable
are the truths to which the finger of experimental philosophy points. The
celebrated experiment on the compressibility of water was of their insti-
tution. They took a sphere of gold, which they filled with water, and then
applied pressure to the fluid until it oozed out of the walls of the recep-
tacle; and they thought that evidence was thus given that water was
altogether incompressible. This result, though entirely erroneous, was
creditable to these early philosophers. The inquiry had been conceived
in a right spirit, and the failure must be ascribed rather to the imperfec-
tion of their instruments than to any defect in the principles of that philo-
sophy at whose bidding the experiment was undertaken.
This experiment long passed for authority among subsequent philoso-
phers, and has been repeated up to our own day in various treatises. It
becomes interesting, therefore, to notice that it was one of the earliest results
obtained in the childhood of experimental philosophy. Other experiments
were instituted which proved the property of electrical substances, the
universal gravity of bodies, &c. Its individual members also remarkably
6
CHILDHOOD OF EXPERIMENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
distinguished themselves. Torricelli, who was one of them, has left a name
as lasting as the beautiful truth he established. The engineers of the Grand-
Duke, requiring to make some pumps of forty or fifty feet long, were
astonished that, though nature abhorred a vacuum, they were unable to
raise water from this depth. Galileo, Torricelli's master, investigated this
curious phenomenon; and though not clearly establishing the cause, he
became convinced of its connection with atmospheric pressure, which
he had discovered some time previously. Torricelli in 1643 experimented
upon the same subject; and wishing to find in a more convenient manner
the weight of the quantity of fluid which could be supported above its
general level, thought of employing mercury in the place of water. He
filled a glass tube, one end of which was hermetically closed, with this
metal. Inverting it, he saw to his delight the column fall until it reached
a height of only thirty inches or thereabouts. Such was the first barometer
-the first fluid - measurer of the weight of a column of our atmosphere.
To this day the vacuum left at the top of the barometric tube is known by
its discoverer's name. Pascal some years afterwards employed the instru-
ment thus discovered in a series of experiments upon atmospheric pressure
carried on at different heights; and by observations of the rise and fall of the
mercurial column, incontestably established the fact that the fluid was kept
within the tube because pressed upon by an equivalent weight of thin air.
It is curious that Galileo never thought of Torricelli's experiment; nor less
curious that Torricelli never thought of Pascal's. It is, however, not an
uncommon occurrence in science for one discoverer to develop an idea and
for others to exhibit its actual results. This was a specimen of the ore, if
so we may speak, which the mine fresh opened afforded, and into whose
apparently exhaustless resources philosophers are now penetrating. How
encouraging to those who advocated the new philosophy, who had cast
aside traditional scientific knowledge, and applied themselves to the
unfolding of the truths of the real and visible world! To what a rich
future could they now look forward!
England, long behind Italy in the race, at length caught the spirit of
the age, and endeavours were made to found a Royal Academy by King
James, to be entitled the College of Honour. This was, however, chiefly
an educational and antiquarian institution, and never appears to have
attained a definite shape. The attempt was finally abandoned on the death
of the king. About the year 1635 another effort was made for the
establishment of a scientific institution under the patronage of Charles I.
This also wore the character of an academy for the instruction of the sons
of aristocracy. It was called Minerva's Museum. Its professors taught
physiology, anatomy, physic, astronomy, mathematics, languages—' skill
at all weapons, and wrestling; also riding, dancing, and behaviour.' This,
too, together with similar institutions in Germany, passed away, leaving
only a record of its existence, without any result from its operations.
France was more fortunate, and about the same period the French Academy
was established. It sprang from a small beginning. A little knot of literary
men at Paris agreed to meet once a week for conversations and discus-
sions, chiefly upon literary subjects. At these meetings authors used to
communicate their works for the benefit of criticism. For three or four
years they were kept up with great harmony and mutual satisfaction.
7
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
They at first consisted only of nine members. Richelieu hearing of the
institution, patronised it, and proposed to incorporate it; and this, after
some unwillingness on the part of the members, and opposition on that of
the parliament, was finally done, and they became an incorporate body
royally instituted. The name of French Academy was chosen after some
deliberation. Their professed objects were at first purely literary, and
their labours were confined to the purification of the French language from
vulgar, technical, or ignorant usages, and to establish a fixed standard. As
yet in Italy alone there existed an academy for the advancement of experi-
mental and physical science. The French Academy of Sciences was not
yet established. It can scarcely appear strange, after what has already
been observed as to the philosophic temper of the period, that literature
came to be rather an object for study and discussion than science. It was
hard to disengage the minds of men from the past-to take them from
books to nature-from the study to the laboratory. But the time was at
hand when both in England and France institutions for the advancement
of science were about to be founded-institutions contributing in no small
degree to the furtherance and attainment of philosophic truth.
But let us take a step back, in order that we may approach the subject
with a better acquaintance with the means which unquestionably combined
to bring about the establishment of such associations, and the introduction
of a new system of philosophy. Francis Bacon, living in the age of which
we have written, dwelt like a prophet rather in the future than the present.
'In the midst of a rising career of professional, political, and literary
effort, he was moulding and shaping his great work, "Novum Organon ;"
listening with an anxious ear to the remarks of the learned of his times
and at the height and maturity of his genius, when, possessing all the
highest honours which talent and learning could give him in his native
land, we find this "servant of posterity" committing to its slow but
infallible tribunal a work which, in reference to science, has been universally
pronounced the judgment of reason and experience, in this rare instance
confirming the boastings of youth-the greatest birth of time.' This work
was the gradual formation of a creating spirit. It was wrought up and
polished with the sedulous industry of an artist who labours for posterity.
Like the 'Analogy' of Butler, and all the greater productions of thought,
the Organon' of Bacon was the result of painstaking labour spread
through many years. He copied his work twelve times, revising, correct-
ing, and altering it year by year, before it was reduced to that form in
which it was committed to the press. On his sixtieth birthday, surrounded
by earthly splendour, Bacon conceived the time for the publication of this
work, which he constantly affirms to be only a part of a much larger and
more important one. The Novum Organon' commences with these
remarkable words: Francis of Verulam-thought thus.' It was shortly
afterwards printed; copies of the work were sent to the king, the university
of Cambridge, and elsewhere. But what was its reception? The king
said it was past understanding; another said it was a book which a fool
could not write, and a wise man would not. Under a device on the title-
page, of a ship passing the pillars of Hercules, Sir Edward Coke wrote:-
'It deserveth not to be read in schools,
But to be freighted in the ship of fools.'
6
8
CHILDHOOD OF EXPERIMENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
Yet by some in his own time Bacon was understood. Sir Henry Wotton
wrote to him, on receiving the work, in the following terms:-'Your lord-
ship hath done a great and everliving benefit to all the children of nature,
and to nature herself in her uttermost extent of latitude, who never had
before so noble nor so true an interpreter, never so inward a secretary of
her cabinet.' And on the continent the book was received with favour by
many who justly regarded it as one of the most important accessions ever
made to philosophy. This work cannot be characterised in a few sentences.
The guide-light to the whole is experiment in place of argument-the
interpretation of real nature to the neglect of previous authorities. Bacon's
grand object was to point out a new method of obtaining the knowledge of
things, and to destroy the false notions, or, as he calls them, the Idols,
which beset the human mind. Secure in the ultimate victory of truth, he
was anxious to avoid a contentious philosophy. Alexander Borgia, he
observed, said of the expedition of the French into Italy, 'that they came
with chalk in their hands to mark up their lodgings, and not with weapons
to force their passage. Even so do we wish our philosophy to make its
way quietly into those minds that are fit for it, and of good capacity.'
Bacon has been appropriately called the father of experimental and induc-
tive philosophy, and it is in this aspect that we desire to represent him in
these pages. Not that inductive philosophy, or indeed experimental inves-
tigation, had not existed prior to Bacon's era. All the first great founders
of human philosophy were men who, by induction and experiment, arrived
at most of the truths taught in their books. But in the lapse of time these
men came to take the place of nature itself; induction and experiment were
abandoned for the study of their books; and it was just when the age was
thoroughly blinded with this false and erroneous system of study that
Bacon arose an instrument in the Divine hand to break open again the
sealed doors of nature, and to pour new light upon mankind.
The influence of Bacon's work remained long unfelt, but at length men
began to inquire for themselves. The period was arrived when experi-
mental philosophy, to which Bacon had held the torch, and which had
already made considerable progress, especially in Italy, was finally estab-
lished on the ruins of arbitrary figments and partial inductions.' England
justly claims the honour of being the first country after Italy to establish a
society for the investigation and advancement of physical science. The
connection of Bacon's work with the origin and establishment of our own
Royal Society appears in the following extract from the life of Dr
Wallis, quoted in Mr Weld's recent history of that body:-'About the
year 1645, while I lived in London, at a time when, by our civil wars,
academical studies were much interrupted in both our universities, beside
the conversation of divers eminent divines as to matters theological, I had
the opportunity of being acquainted with divers worthy persons, inquisitive
into natural philosophy and other parts of human learning, and particularly
of what hath been called the New Philosophy, or Experimental Philosophy.
We did by arguments divers of us, meet weekly in London on a certain
day, to treat and discourse of such affairs; of which number were Dr John
Wilkins, afterwards bishop of Chester, Dr Jonathan Goddard, Dr George
Ent, &c. and many others. These meetings were held sometimes at Dr
Goddard's lodgings in Wood Street, or some convenient place near, on
76
9
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
occasion of his keeping an operator in his house for grinding glasses for
telescopes and microscopes; sometimes at a convenient place in Cheapside;
and sometimes at Gresham College, or some place near adjoining our
business was (precluding matters of theology and state affairs) to discourse
and consider of philosophical inquiries, and such as related thereunto—such
as physick, anatomy, geometry, astronomy, navigation, staticks, magne-
ticks, chymicks, mechanicks, and natural experiments; with the state of
these studies as then cultivated at home and abroad. We then discoursed
of the circulation of the blood, the valves in the veins, the venoe lacteae, the
lymphatic vessels, the Copernican hypothesis, the nature of comets and new
stars, the satellites of Jupiter, the oval shape of Saturn, the spots in the
sun, and its turning on its own axis, the inequalities and selenography of
the moon, the several places of Venus and Mercury, the improvement of
telescopes, and grinding of glasses for that purpose, the weight of air, the
possibility or impossibility of vacuities, and nature's abhorrence thereof, the
Torricellian experiment in quicksilver, the descent of heavy bodies, and the
degrees of acceleration therein; and divers other things of like nature;
some of which were then new discoveries, and others not so generally
known and imbraced as now they are, with other things appertaining to
what hath been called the New Philosophy, which from the times of
Galileo at Florence, and Sir Francis Bacon (Lord Verulam) in England,
hath been much cultivated in Italy, France, and Germany, and other parts
abroad as well as with us in England.' Soon after, several influential
members of this hopeful little association went to Oxford. Of these
one of the most eminent was the learned, ingenious, and eccentric
Bishop Wilkins. Of him Aubrey states that he was the principal
reviver of experimental philosophy, after Bacon's system, at Oxford,
where he had a weekly experimental club, which began in 1649, and
was the nucleus from which the Royal Society was formed. Returning
again to London, the Society continued its old meetings at Cheapside,
and thence removed to Gresham College. The society at Oxford still
met in the lodgings of a certain Dr Petty, who lived with an apothecary—
'because of the convenience of inspecting drugs, and the like.' The Oxford
Society became ultimately a powerful auxiliary to the Royal Society; but
after the year 1690 it was given up. After a time, the unsettled state of
public affairs retarded the incorporation and permanent institution of the
London Society. A great number of talented and inquiring men then
existed in England: it appears to have been only the troubled condition
of society that delayed their union and amalgamation into one body. This
was, however, finally accomplished in the wonderful pacific year 1660. It
was formed by Sir Robert Moray, Lord Brouncker, and Dr Ward. 'But
he who laboured most,' says Bishop Burnet, at the greatest charge, and
with the most success at experiments, was the Hon. Robert Boyle. He
was a very devout Christian, humble and modest almost to a fault, of a most
spotless and exemplary life in all respects. The society for philosophy
grew so considerably, that they thought fit to take out a patent, which
constituted them a body, by the name of the Royal Society.' Soon after
the French Academy of Sciences was formed, and was united with that
already existing for literary studies. Thus, thirty-six years after the
death of Lord Bacon, the first fruit of his great work was gathered,
10
CHILDHOOD OF EXPERIMENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
(
and the touching expression in his last will and testament confirmed, in
which 'he bequeaths his name to posterity after some time be past over.'
The influence of the academies we have been describing, and the absolute
necessity of their formation in order to further the real progress of philo-
sophy, cannot now be questioned. It is in vain that one philosopher thinks
to labour with success when he relies on himself alone. Association is a
law of our nature imposed upon us by the Great Author of our being, and
indispensably necessary to our progress in civilisation. Nor less in the
attainment of scientific truth. It has been well remarked by no less an
authority than Laplace, that the principal advantage of such academies is
the philosophic spirit which they introduce, and which from them over-
spreads the entire nation, and extends in every direction.' Since the origin
of these academies true philosophy has become widely prevalent. In
furnishing an example of submitting every fact to the test of a severe
examination, they have caused to disappear the preconceived notions
which had long oppressed science. Their influence on the public mind has
been such that rising errors are continually dissipated and scattered to the
winds. Laplace classes such academies as among the chief causes of the
glory and prosperity of empires. But while such is now their position, let
us again revert to the child-time of philosophy, when these academies were
only in their infancy.
The Hon. Robert Boyle, in a letter inserted in his life, gives us an
interesting view of the character of the philosophers of his day, and from it
may be gathered some idea of his own. 'Men,' he says, ' of so capacious
and searching spirits, that the school-philosophy is but the lowest region
of their knowledge. And yet, though ambitious to lead the way to any
generous design, of so humble and teachable a genius as they disdain not
to be directed to the meanest, so he can plead reason for his opinion.' It is
evident from this that the philosophers of the period in question were like
children just awakened. The morning dimness had not passed from their
eyes; they were willing to believe anything-teachable, humble, possessed
of much knowledge, but sensible only of their own ignorance. Such were
the new philosophers, and as such they present an agreeable contrast to the
dogmatic and self-conceited followers of the old system. Yet withal, they
were like all children-full of a spirit which led them to behold unheard-of
curiosities in everything. Mechanical puzzles and inventions were their
toy, and optical deceptions their constant amusement. Experiments were
made, but the spirit of mysticism could not be at once banished away, and
the early results of such experiments were all overhung with a veil of the
marvellous. Philosophers were then, in the words of an elegant writer,
a blissful race of children, rambling here and there in a golden age of
innocence and ignorance, where at every step each gifted discoverer
whispered to the few some half-concealed secret of nature, or played with
some toy of art, some invention which with great difficulty performed what
without it might have been done with great ease. The king himself became
an experimental philosopher. Charles II., whom no one would have
suspected to have had much to do with science, is said to have had ingenious
mechanics at work at Whitehall; to have kept chemical operators in the
palace; to have planted a physic garden; and to have made astronomical
observations in St James's Park! Science was now walking in her silver
11
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
slippers, and was pursued as much for the value of the truths she disclosed
as for the romantic attractiveness of the garb in which she appeared.
Dr Sprat is, however, it may be, a little too complimentary to the royal
patron of the Royal Society.
An extraordinary accumulation of error had been gathered by the
labours of the learned, and offered to the public mind at the period of which
we are writing. Erroneous opinions and ideas in natural philosophy were
more common than correct views. The most marvellous tales were circu-
lated by travellers, and publicly accredited, and until now they never appear
to have been questioned. To have travelled as Kircher did into China was
to be in possession of a licence to relate anything of a marvellous kind with
a certainty of its reception for truth. All the errors of astrology, alchemy,
and magic existed, and were scarcely doubted even by the learned. A
belief in witchcraft was universal. James I. in his 'Demonology' declares
that witches and enchanters abounded in the country to a fearful extent.
Bacon himself, as may be gathered from his works, had a fibre of the
web of superstition clinging to his garment. He had a wart cured
by magic. The time had come when light must be shed upon the minds
of the people, and it is a high evidence of the good sense of the Royal
Society, now the representative of the philosophic body in England, that
their early labours were not only the elimination of truth, but the demo-
lition of error.
Let us look at a knot of these children-philosophers at one of their early
meetings.
The
At Gresham College the meeting was held; the day was Wednesday in
each week; and the time, after the lecture of the astronomy professor.
Dr Wilkins would occupy the chair.' After the usual formalities, which
were very brief-for the philosophers considered that for them to be
straitened by many strict punctualities would be a great encumbrance to
them in their labours of painful digging and toiling into nature, as much
'as it would be to an artificer to be loaded with many clothes while he is
labouring in his shop '-they proposed the subject for discussion, or the
experiments previously agreed upon were commenced. The king had sent
five little glass bubbles by the hand of Sir Paul Neill, in order to have the
opinion of these men of science relative to them. These bubbles were
probably similar to those since called Prince Rupert's Drops.
assembled philosophers speculated awhile on their nature, and their
curiosity was much excited by the explosive phenomena they exhibited.
Some suggestions of the method by which similar ones could be prepared
were thrown out; and the amanuensis-a gentleman with a salary of £4 a
year-was ordered to prepare similar ones-if he could. This he succeeded
in doing; and at the next meeting they were produced, greatly to the
gratification of the assembled philosophers. These cracked equally well
with the others; and in high spirits at their success, the philosophers sent
some of their toys to the king in exchange for those sent by him to them.
It appears, however, that they were not quite satisfied that they had hit
upon the right mode of preparing these bubbles; for in an entry of the
journal kept at their command, we find that the matter was considered of
sufficient importance to justify the appointment of a committee of investi-
gation; and accordingly 'a committee was appointed to go to the glass-house
12
CHILDHOOD OF EXPERIMENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
at Woolwich, to inquire into the experiment of those solid bubbles sent by
the king-namely, Sir Paul Neill, my Lord Brouncker, Mr Slingsby, Mr
Bruce.' On another occasion of their assembly the philosophers were
engaged in an interesting physiological investigation. Sir Robert Moray
laid before the society a poisoned dagger, sent by the king, who had received
it from the East Indies. It was resolved to make an immediate experiment
upon a kitten. The poor little victim was produced, the murderous weapon
was warmed, and the animal wounded thereby. The kitten, however,
seemed to justify the proverb relating to older members of its family,
and obstinately retained its vitality. Not dying while the philosophers
remained together, the operator was appointed to observe what should
become of it. At the next meeting the kitten was produced alive, and
contempt fell on the dagger, whose virtues seemed to have departed.
The extracts from their own minutes give us a curious picture of the state
of philosophy at this time:-
March 25. Dr Henshaw was desired to inquire of his brother concern-
ing the boat that will not sink.
'Mr Boyle was desired to bring in the name of the place in Brazil
where that wood is that attracts fishes; and also of the fish that turns to the
wind when suspended by a thread!
' March 27. To inquire whether the flakes of snow are bigger or less
in Teneriffe than here.
(
'That adders be provided to try the experiment of the stone.
May 8. Proposed that the society write to Mr Wren, and charge him
from the king to make a globe of the moone.
'Sir Robert Moray was desired to write to the Jesuits at Liege about
the making of copperas there.
'Dr Clarke was intreated to lay before the society Mr Pellin's relation
of the production of young vipers from the powder of the liver and lungs
of vipers. Sir Kenelm Digby promised such another under my Lord
-'s hand. Dr Clarke and Mr Boyle were intreated to procure an history
of vipers.
May 22. Mr Ponez was intreated to send to Bantam for that poyson
related to be so quick as to turne a man's blood suddenly to gelly.
My Lord Northampton was intreated to make inquiry for Mr Marshall's
book of insects.
'The amanuensis was ordered to go to-morrow to Rosemary Lane, to
bespeak two or three hundred more solid glasse balls!
'June 5. Col. Juke related the manner of the rain-like corn at Norwich;
and Mr Boyle and Mr Evelyn were intreated to sow some of those rained
seeds to try their product.
'Magnetical cures were then discoursed of. Sir Gilbert Talbot promised
to bring in what he knew of sympatheticall cures.
Those that had any
powder of sympathy were desired to bring some
meeting.
of it at the next
!
'Mr Boyle related of a gentleman who, having made some experiments
of the ayre, essayed the quicksilver experiment at the top and bottom of
a hill, when there was found three inches difference.
1
'Dr Charleton promised to bring in that white powder which, put into
water, heats it.
13
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
'The Duke of Buckingham promised to cause charcoal to be distilled
by his chymist.
'His Grace promised to bring in to the society a piece of a unicorne`s
horne.
'Sir Kenelm Digby related that the calcined powder of toades rever-
berated, applyed in bagges upon the stomach of a pestiferate body, it cures
it by severall applications.
'June 13. Col. Juke brought in the history of the rained seeds, which
were reported to have fallen down from heaven in Warwickshire and
Shropshire.' (These 'grains of wheat' turned out to be ivy-berries,
deposited by starlings; and thus, says Mr Weld, one popular superstition
was destroyed.)
'That the dyving engine be goeing forward with all speed, and the
treasurer to procure the lead and moneys. Ordered that Friday next the
engine be tried at Deptford.' (The diving-bell was accordingly tried in the
Water Dock at Deptford. It appears, however, that the experimenters
were so cautious as not to trust themselves in it. The poor curator stopped
half an hour in it under water. It was made of cast lead, let down by a
strong cable.)
'June 26. Dr Ent, Dr Clarke, Dr Goddard, and Dr Whistler were
appointed curators of the proposition made by Sir G. Talbot, to torment a
man presently with the sympatheticall powder. Sir G. Talbot brought in
his experiments of sympatheticall cures.' The register of the Royal
Society contains a full account of these, which strongly indicate the super-
stition of the times. As this account, together with the other extracts
from the early transactions of this little gathering of philosophers, is not
accessible to general readers, we shall still hold ourselves indebted to Mr.
Weld's History, which contains much instructive and interesting matter
relative to the childhood of experimental philosophy, drawn from the
journals and registers of this body. Sir Gilbert Talbot is the narrator of
the following extraordinary 'sympatheticall cure' effected by him :-' An
English mariner was wounded at Venice in four several places soe mortally,
that the murderer took sanctuary: the wounded bled three days without
intermission; fell into frequent convulsions and swoonings; the chirurgeons,
despayring of his recovery, forsook him. His comrade came to me, and
desired me to demand justice from the duke upon the murderer (as sup-
posing him already dead); I sent for his blood, and dressed it, and bade
his comrade haste back and swathe up his wounds with clean linnen. He
lay a mile distant from my house, yet before he could gette to him all
his wounds were closed, and he began visibly to be comforted. The second
day the mariner came to me, and told me his friend was perfectly well,
but his spirits soe exhausted he durst not adventure so long a walke.
The third day the patient came himself to give me thanks, but he appeared
like a ghost; noe bload left in his body.'
In an entry in May 14, 1661, a great horn was produced before the
society,' said to be a unicorn's.' In the previous year the philosophers
had, however, shaken the faith in unicorn's horn-not in the existence of
this mythical member of the zoological kingdom, but in its reputed powers.
'A circle was made with powder of unicorn's horne, and a spider set in the
middle of it, but it immediately ran out several times repeated.' It is,
14
CHILDHOOD OF EXPERIMENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
however, recorded as a noticeable fact, that 'the spider once made some
stay upon the powder.' There was a little stone which in those days
greatly puzzled philosophers, and had obtained a reputation not far removed
from the magical. This is partly intimated by its name-Oculus Mundi,
the Eye of the World. That which gave to this stone its wonderful repu-
tation was the fact, that when put into water it became transparent from
having been cloudy and opaque. Dr Goddard had his attention par-
ticularly drawn to this wonderful stone, and communicated to the Royal
Society the result of his labours. The account is a very sensible one, and
he shews that the transparency was simply due to the fact of its having
absorbed a certain quantity of water. Thus was another mystery unravelled,
and the oculus mundi dethroned from its false position.
6
Where precluded themselves from making the experiments or obtaining
the information they desired, these zealous inquirers after truth sent letters
of inquiry to persons of reputation in distant countries. It appears that
they were resolved in pursuing their high task of destroying the reign of
falsehood, and bringing in that of fact, to put to the test some of the
voyagers' tales which appeared the most marvellous, but which they could
not positively disprove. Dr Sprat, in his record of their early transactions,
gives in full a letter, from which we shall select a few extracts strongly
demonstrative of the state of information as to foreign marvels which then
existed even in the philosophic world. The respondent to the following
inquiries was Sir Philberto Vernetti, 'resident in Batavia in Java Major.'
Query 1. Whether diamonds and other precious stones grow again
after three or four years, in the same places where they have been digged
out?' To this inquiry the very sensible answer was returned-‘Never; or
at least as the memory of man can attain to.' Query 4th was- What river
is that in Java Major that turns wood into stone?' 'There is none such,'
replied Sir Philberto, 'to our knowledge; yet I have seen a piece of wood
with a stone at the end of it which was told me that was turned into stone
by a river in Pegu; but I took it but for a foppery, for diverse arbusta grow
in rocks, which, being appropriated curiously, may easily deceive a too
hasty believer.' It is observed throughout these inquiries that the
inquirers appear generally to take the things stated for granted, in which
their spirit of childlike faith is evidenced-yet to be also solicitous to
have certain knowledge on the subjects—an evidence of the strivings of the
spirit of the new philosophy within them. Sir Philberto evinces great
sobriety of judgment, and a willingness to do his best to put the marvellous
aside, and to bring forth the true facts of the case. None of the queries
sent to him for resolution equal the following:-'Whether, in the island of
Sumbero, which lyeth northward of Sumatra about eight degrees, northern
latitude, there be found such a vegetable as Mr James Lancaster relates to
have seen, which grows up to a tree, shrinks down, when one offers to pluck
it up, into the ground, and would quite shrink unless held very hard? And
whether the same, being forcibly plucked up, hath a worm for its root,
diminishing more and more, according as the tree growth in greatness; and
as soon as the worm is wholly turned into the tree, rooting in the ground,
and so growing great? And whether the same, plucked up young, turns
by the time it is dry into a hard stone, much like to white coral?' We
may well wonder at the conscience of that Mr James Lancaster who could
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
declare to his confiding countrymen at home such natural history marvels
as these. Sir Philberto puts him to the blush in the dignified reply: 'I
cannot meet with any that ever have heard of such a vegetable.'
At all their meetings this band of philosophers encouraged the commu-
nications of the learned in any station in life. Animated only by a desire
to bring truth to light, they appear to have paid no regard to the circum-
stances of the men of learning who communicated with them; and it is to
the king's royal credit that he gave them an express direction not only to
admit to the fellowship a certain clever shopkeeper, but that he begged of
them to find out as many more as they could, and admit them without more
ado. Their entry-books teem with communications on the most extraordi-
nary variety of subjects. It will present us with a pleasing view of their
eagerness in receiving information, and their anxiety in the elimination of
truth, to subjoin a few gleanings from this book for the benefit of the
reader. Accounts were read of a spring in Lancashire that would presently
catch fire on the approach of a flame; of burning-glasses performing extra-
ordinary effects; of burning-glasses made of ice; of fireballs for fuel; of a
more convenient way of using wax-candles; of the kindling of certain
stones by their being moistened with water; of using ordinary fuel to the
best advantage. Other accounts related to the fitness and unfitness of
some waters for the making of beer or ale; and of brewing beer with
ginger instead of hops. The next accounts speak of tides and currents;
of petrifying springs; of the water-plants of Tivoli; of floating islands
of ice; of the shining of dew in a common of Lancashire and else-
where; of divers and diving-their habits, their long holding their breath,
and of other notable things observed by them. In natural history their
accounts were generally of some marvellous character. Relations were
sent in of the growth, breeding, feeding, and ordering of oysters; of a
sturgeon kept alive in St James's Park; of the movable teeth of pikes; of
young eels cut alive out of the old ones; of the transporting of fish-spawn
and carps alive from one place to another; of the strange increase of carps
so transported; of snake-stones and other antidotes; of frogs, toads,
newts, vipers, snakes, rattlesnakes; of swallows living after they had been
frozen under water. But the most marvellous of these accounts was one
sent in by Sir Robert Moray, their president, and actually published by
them in their 'Philosophical Transactions.' In this extraordinary produc-
tion the author declares that when he was in the Western Islands of Scot-
land he saw multitudes of little shells adhering to the trees, having with
them little birds, perfectly shaped.
The experiments which were tried by them during the first ten years of
the existence of this zealous association of philosophers surprise us by
their number, and in many instances by their magnitude and difficulty.
Their results as to the nature of what from all antiquity, or at anyrate
since the days of Peripatetic Philosophy, had been regarded as an element
—namely, fire-are admirable. They proved that fire was a state or condi-
tion of bodies, not itself an element, or having existence as such. Fire,
say they, is only the act of the dissolution of heated combustible bodies
by the air as a menstruum, and that heat and light are two inseparable
effects of this dissolution; that flame is a dissolution of smoke, which con-
sists of combustible particles carried upward by the heat of rarefied air;
16
CHILDHOOD OF EXPERIMENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
and that ashes are a part of the combustible body not dissoluble by the
air. Their experiments to determine this point, upon the construction of
various bodies, are equally good; and although oxygen was unknown to
them, they shewed that combustion depended on some ingredient in the air
which was removed from it by the burning body. They obtained the
excellent result that high temperature applied to combustible bodies,
though it might cause their destruction, would not cause them to take fire
and burn if deprived of air. Their investigations into the comparative
heat of the flames of different combustibles are also good; and their
attempts to determine the melting points of lead, tin, and other metals,
valuable. A number of other investigations were carried on at a high
temperature, the objects and design of which would have done no discredit
to our own experimental era. Their experiments upon the air, in which
Boyle greatly distinguished himself, have supplied science with facts, fresh
and forcible at the present day. A number of experiments were made with
the barometer on mountains, on the surface of the earth, and at the bottom
The
of very deep pits, and at places far removed from each other.
machine called the air-gun was frequently in their hands. Though the
invention of the balloon dates long subsequent to this period, the germ of
the idea appears to have come to light in some of their researches, for we
find in one of their entries an account of glass-balls or bubbles rising in a
heavy or condensed air, and falling in a lighter or more rarefied. The
production of various gases was a frequent experiment, and they obtained
among others the valuable result that water actually dissolves air, which is
expelled by heat, or by Mr Boyle's instrument for the exhaustion of air-
the air-pump. A number of excellent experiments on artificial respiration
were successfully performed. The necessity of pure air for respiration
was also shewn, and the fact that respiration can be carried on without
inconvenience in air much more condensed than is the ordinary air we
breathe. They endeavoured also to ascertain the capacity of the human
lungs for air, and the expulsive power of the muscles of respiration. Dr
Wilkins performed some curious experiments before them, blowing up large
weights by his breath. Their attention was likewise directed to meteor-
ology; and an ingenious and excellent anemometer, or measurer of the
force of the wind, was constructed, and its indications carefully studied.
They performed a number of experiments also upon fluids. The solution
of various salts, the temperature, pressure, expansion, and condensation
of water in its various states, engaged their attention. They constructed
several barometers forty feet high, with water, oil, &c. for the fluids. They
also obtained interesting results upon the phenomena of capillary attraction.
Among other of their experiments, it is interesting to record that ‘of
forcing water out of a vessel by its own vapour:' one of the early evi-
dences of the motive power of steam. Magnetic experiments were also tried
by them. The variation and dip of the magnetic needle, and the lifting
force of natural and artificial magnets, were all inquired into.
A number
of botanical experiments were also performed. They proved the neces-
sity of air to the germination of seeds, and tried whether plants would
grow topsy-turvy, in order to find whether there were any valves in
the pores of the wood, which opened only one way. A number of inte-
resting physiological experiments were also made by them. Eggs were
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
!
hatched; animals strangled and brought to life again by artificial respira-
tion; the fable of the spontaneous origin of life exposed; the effects of
poisons on various creatures were noted; transfusion was tried; and a
variety of experiments, which of late years have been repeated, of
injecting various liquids into the veins of animals. A number of experi-
ments were also made upon the phenomena of light, sound, colours, the
laws of motion, &c. Their chemical experiments, consisting chiefly of
distillation, evaporation, solution, and crystallisation, were instructive.
Among other notable things examined, was 'the vaucilaginous matter called
star-shoot.' Optical experiments were also made. A variety of anatomical
discoveries were communicated. It is unnecessary to swell the list; but
it is apparent from this succinct account of their experimental labours,
that if children in knowledge, our philosophers were men in energy and
perseverance. In the short time that the New Philosophy had been at
work, a greater mass of facts had been collected together than in a whole
century prior to this era. Some of their experiments appear, and in truth
they were childish, but others have yielded both sound and solid infor-
mation to succeeding inquirers. It appears that even in their day the
utilitarian was accustomed to utter his provoking inquiry-cui boni? But
the philosophers, remembering the advice of Lord Bacon, that there ought
to be experiments of light as well as of fruit, disregarded the inquiry, and
set themselves manfully to the task they had begun.
For a considerable time after their union into a body corporate, this
association of philosophers had no public organ for the publishing of its
scientific intelligence. At the beginning of March 1664, the first number
of the most important scientific work ever published in this country made
its appearance. Its title is curious. It is called: 'Philosophical Transac-
tions, giving some Accompt of the Present Undertakings, Studies, and
Labours of the Ingenious in many considerable Parts of the World.' It
was edited and published under the care of Mr Henry Oldenburg, who
to this society of philosophers was what Boswell was to Johnson—a
thoroughly bustling, active, nay, indefatigable gatherer of scientific intel-
ligence, full of zeal in his work, and of method in its accomplishment.
It will form an amusing contrast if we select the table of contents of
one of these early numbers, and set it by the side of one of the recent
parts of the same work :-
Some Observations and Experiments
upon May-dew.-The Motion of the
Second Comet Predicted by the same
Person who Predicted that of the for-
mer.-A Relation of the Advice given by
a French Gentleman touching the Con-
junction of the Ocean and the Mediter-
ranean. Of the way of killing Rattle-
snakes used in Virginia.-A Relation
of Persons Killed with Subterraneous
Damps. Of the Mineral of Liege,
yielding both Brimstone and Vitriol,
and the way of Extracting them out
of it, used at Liege.-An Account of
Mr Boyle's Experimental History of
Cold.
1. The Bakerian Lecture.-On the Dif-
fusion of Liquids.
2. On the Nitrogenated Principles of
Vegetables as the Sources of Artificial
Alkaloids.
3. On the Mechanical Equivalent of
Heat.
4. On the Automatic Registration of
Magnetometers, and Meteorological In-
struments, by Photography.
5. Researches regarding the Molecular
Constitution of the Volatile Organic
Bases.
6. On the Development of the Great
Anterior Veins in Man, &c.
7. Experimental Researches in Elec-
tricity.
18
CHILDHOOD OF EXPERIMENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
•
The alphabetical table for the third volume, or indeed for any of the
early volumes of this work, well repays perusal. It differs from ordinary
tables of contents in the concise notes appended to each subject; and
instead of being, like other indices, wholly unreadable per se, its perusal is
both interesting, and furnishes an excellent idea of the contents of the
volume and of the state of science. This statement may be justified by
a few of these notes which we shall draw from thence, running through
them in their alphabetical order :-'Aches healed by the feet of Birds called
Fregati in Jamaica.-Anatomical remarks on Thomas Parre, who dyed in
the 153rd year of his age.—A probable way of preventing and curing
Sea-sickness in Sea - Voyages.-Answers from Bermuda concerning the
tydes there, Whales, Sperma-ceti, Strange Spiders' Webbs, Rare Vege-
tables, and Longevity of the Inhabitants.' Every line of these alphabetical
tables, as active Mr Oldenburg calls them, manifests the state of his own
mind and that of his brother philosophers, and shews how, amid more
serious inquiries, it was their delight to wander now and then amid the
flower-bestrewed fields of fable and romance, and to lend a willing ear to
relations of things new and strange.
To this end they were accustomed to invite the attendance of travelled
persons at their meetings, that they might tell some of the wonders beheld
in their voyages.
M. Monconys, a Frenchman, gives us the following
interesting peep at the little philosophic band during one of their meetings:
'I went,' he says, 'to the Academy of Gresien (Gresham), where the
learned assemble every Wednesday for the purpose of performing an
infinite number of experiments. The president, who is always a person of
condition, is seated at a large table, and the secretary at the other side of
it. The academicians are seated on benches around the room. The
president was my Lord Brunker (Brouncker), and the secretary M.
Oldenbourg. The president has a little wooden hammer, with which he
raps the table in order to procure silence when one of the members is
about to speak. Thus there is no confusion nor uproar. The secretary
recorded the result of the experiments, whether successful or otherwise, in
order that they might not only profit by the success, but also learn wisdom
from their failures.' Evelyn relates of one of these visitors, a Monsieur
Jardine, who had been thrice in the East Indies and Persia, that he was a
very handsome person, extremely affable, and not inclined to 'talke wonders.'
At these meetings, in addition to experiments performed and accounts
received, curious objects from various parts of the world were exhibited.
In the MS. minutes of the Oxford Philosophical Society occurs the following
interesting account of the remarkable mineral asbestos, which was exhibited
at one of the meetings in question :-The curiosity consisted of a handker-
chief brought by a merchant lately come from China, 'made of salamander's
wool, or Linum asbesti, which, to try whether it was genuine or no, was put
into a strong charcoal fire, in which, not being injured, it was taken out, oiled,
and put in again. The oil being burnt off, the handkerchief was taken out
again, and was altered only in two respects-it lost two drachms and five
grains of its weight, and was more brittle than ordinary; for which reason it
was not handled until it was grown cold, by which means it had recovered
its former tenacity, and in a great measure its weight. The merchant who
obliged the society with the sight of so great a rarity, acquainted them that
!
1
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
he had received it from a Tartar, who told him that the Tartars, among
whom this sort of cloth is, sold it at £80 sterling the China ell, which is
less than our ell; and that they greatly use this cloth in burning the
bodyes (to preserve the ashes) of great persons; and that in Tartary it is
affirmed to be made of the root of a tree!'
Among other things connected with these meetings, our notice is attracted
by the name of the famous Dr Denis Papin, the inventor of the celebrated
'bone-digester.' This machine, which perhaps first exhibited the power of
steam, was exhibited at these meetings, and Evelyn gives us a most amusing
account of our philosopher-children supping together upon a meal prepared
by the assistance of Dr Papin's digesters. Evelyn's remarks deserve
transcribing. 'Went,' he says, 'this afternoon with severall of the R. S.
to a supper, which was all dressed, both fish and flesh, in M. Papin's
digesters, by which the hardest bones of beef itselfe and mutton were made
as softe as cheese, without water or other liquor, and with less than eight
ounces of coales, producing an incredible quantity of gravy; and for close
of all, a jelly made of the bones of beef, the best for clearness and good
relish, and the most delicious that I have ever seen or tasted. We eat pike
and other fish-bones, and all without impediment; but nothing exceeded
the pigeons, which tasted just as if baked in a pie; all these being stewed
in their own juice, without any addition of water save what swam about in
the digester, as in balneo; the natural juice of all these provisions acting
on the grosser substances reduced the hardest bones to tendernesse.
This philosophical supper caused much mirth amongst us, and exceedingly
pleased all the company. I sent a glasse of the jelly to my wife, to the
reproach of all that the ladies ever made of the best hart's horn.' How
delightful was science then, when her children met to hear about wonderful
things, and to cook suppers by high-pressure steam! It appears that
Dr Papin made a public exhibition weekly of the powers of his new
invention. At a later meeting, soon after the birth of that iron giant
which has helped to revolutionise the world, Savery exhibited his engine for
raising water by the force of fire. The model worked well, and its inventor
received a certificate of its success, which enabled him to obtain a patent
shortly afterwards. A small engine made by this inventor was exhibited in
Lambeth, and drove a stream of water a considerable height. The Marquis
of Worcester had already made his steam-engine, and it was in operation
at Vauxhall. At a still later meeting Dr Papin brought before the philo-
sophers a proposition about a boat, to be rowed by oars moved with heat.
He evidently conceived the idea of employing steam for the purposes of
navigation; and in another paper he distinctly states, that without doubt
oars fixed to an axis could be most conveniently made to revolve by our
tubes. It would only be necessary to furnish the piston-rod with teeth,
which might act on a toothed-wheel properly fitted to it, and which, being
fitted on the axis to which the oars were attached, would communicate a
rotary motion to it.' The expense of making the necessary experiments,
although not exceeding £15, was too great to enable the ingenious inventor
to carry out his idea.
6
6
The formation of museums full of unheard of curiosities' also distin-
guishes the period we have designated as the Childhood of Experimental
Philosophy; and it is as natural to the taste of men in the condition we
20
CHILDHOOD OF EXPERIMENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
have described as that of the collections of glittering baubles by children,
and their preservation in baby-houses. The most famous in London was
at South Lambeth, and formed by the Tradescants. This museum was
bequeathed to Ashmole, who bequeathed it to the University of Oxford,
where it forms a portion of what is still called the Ashmolean Museum.
Its collectors were in many respects remarkable men, having an extraor-
dinary passion for the preservation and accumulation of 'rarities' of all
kinds, and every place in Christendom and abroad was ransacked to supply
its quota of things wonderful to the collection; and assuredly the museum
contained rarities of no common order. 'The head of the dodo, that
mysterious extinct bird, is contained therein; divers sortes of egges from
Turkie-one given for a dragon's egge; two feathers of the Phoenix tayle;
the claw of the bird rocke, who, as authors report, is able to trusse an
elephant; dodar from the island of Mauritius-it is not able to flie, being
so big; birds of paradise, some with, some without legges. Among animal
wonders were a hippopotamus, a salamander, a natural dragon, about two
inches long, and—a cowe's tayle from Arabia! Perhaps the most remark-
able and interesting entry next to that of the dodo is the following:- 'The
plyable mazar-wood, being warmed in water, will work to any form.' There
can scarcely be a question that this was in reality a small specimen of
gutta percha, whose discovery and introduction into our own country is
generally considered to have taken place within the last five or six
years. Another famous museum was one collected by a Mr Robert
Hubert, and dayly to be seen at the place called the Minster-house at
the Mitre, near the west end of St Paul's Church.' Bishop Wilkins had
also a museum full of curiosities. Several coffeehouses and places of enter-
tainment in London had museums of a similar kind. One of the most
celebrated of this kind was Don Salter's Museum. This don had been a
ci-devant servant of Sir Hans Sloane, who furnished his museum with many
of its most attractive curiosities. The following is the whimsical title of
his catalogue:-'A Catalogue of Rarities. To be seen at Don Salter's
Coffee-house in Chelsea; to which is added a complete list of the donors
thereof. Price Twopence. O RARE!' The Royal Society now also began
to form its museum. In a little time a very handsome collection of natural
things was got together, and fresh accessions to the museum were continually
being made. A separate apartment in Gresham College was dedicated to
the reception and preservation of these curiosities. Some of these are
extremely curious. Sir Robert Moray presented the stones taken out of
Lord Balcarres's heart in a silver box, and a bottle full of stag's tears!
Great curiosity was excited by the arrival of the tooth of a giant, with a
consignment of a few of his bones, from America! The tooth had been
sold for a gill of rum, and the bones had been procured by digging near
the place where the former was found. This notice has its interest to the
geologist, shewing how little was known of the study of fossil comparative
anatomy.
6
It may appear trifling to advert to such a circumstance as the formation
of these museums; but it will not be so considered when we view the dis-
position to their collection as evidencing the spirit of the times. Such
museums were an indispensable element in favouring the progress of the
new philosophy. They afforded a perpetual standing testimony to which
21
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
authority might appeal and the inquirer proceed for the satisfaction of his
mind as to truth. Just as the old philosophy dealt with names, the new
philosophy dealt with things; and it was necessary to preserve things
described as a test of the truth and accuracy of their description. And it
is unquestionable that such museums have assisted much in the instruction
of all inquirers into natural knowledge-in giving stability to legitimate
authority, and in communicating a state of decision to the mind respecting
the things inquired after, in which it might safely repose. The value of
museums in our own day is not similar, but it is equal to that of these
early collections. By their means book-knowledge is confirmed, and indeed
exchanged for thing-knowledge; and this may be perhaps taken as a summary
of the utility of such collections. The perusal of these accounts of the
museum also furnishes the best conception of the half-in-earnest half-at-
play temper of mind possessed by the philosophers of this period. The
same feature was also ludicrously manifest at their respective dwellings,
some of which were almost turned into enchanted houses. The following
extract from a talented writer before quoted corroborates the view we
have thus taken of the state of matters during the childhood of experi-
mental philosophy:-'The arts as well as the sciences, at the first institu-
tion of the Royal Society, were of the most amusing class. The famous
Sir Samuel Moreland had turned his house into an enchanted palace.
Everything was full of devices which shewed art and mechanism in perfec-
tion: his coach carried a travelling kitchen, for it had a fireplace and grate,
with which he could make soup, boil cutlets, and roast an egg'-(M. Soyer
will perceive that his magic stove was anticipated some two centuries ago)
-'and he dressed his meat by clockwork. Another of these virtuosi,
who is described as a gentleman of superior order, and whose home was a
knick-knackaltory, valued himself on his multifarious inventions, but most
in sowing salads in the morning to be cut for dinner. The house of Win-
stanley, who afterwards raised the first Eddystone lighthouse, must have
been the wonder of the age. If you kicked aside an old slipper, purposely
lying in your way, up-started a ghost before you; or if you sat down in a
certain chair, a couple of gigantic arms would immediately clasp you in.
There was an arbour in the garden by the side of a canal: you had
scarcely seated yourself when you were sent out afloat to the middle of the
canal, from whence you could not escape till this man of art and science
wound you up to the arbour. What was passing at the Royal Society was
also occurring at the Académie des Sciences at Paris. A great and gouty
member of that philosophical body, on the departure of a stranger, would
point to his legs, to shew the impossibility of conducting him to the door;
yet the astonished visitor never failed finding the virtuoso waiting for him
on the outside to make his final bow! While the visitor was going down
stairs, this inventive genius was descending with great velocity in a
machine from the window; so that he found that if a man of science
cannot hire nature to walk down stairs, he may drive her out at the
window!' And in Italy the same oddities were perpetrated. Evelyn in
his Diary records the several wonders which he beheld during his tour in
that country. One of the most celebrated villas of the time-that of the
Cardinal Aldrobrendini-was replete with curiosities of this kind. In one
room the spectator beheld a copper ball suspended about a yard from the
22
CHILDHOOD OF EXPERIMENTAL PHILOSOPIIY.
floor, in the air, and dancing about in it without any cord attached to it.
Underneath was a powerful blast of wind which kept it suspended. In the
garden were an infinite number of contrivances of various kinds for playing
hydraulic tricks. This was an extremely favourite practical joke of the
time. In some of the gardens of the French philosophers were fusiliers, of
wood, who were accustomed to shoot visitors with a stream of water from
their gun-barrels. In fact, in every direction, in the gardens and pleasure-
houses of the learned at this period, some fantastic tricks were sure to be
played upon the visitors, which they were of course expected to endure
with the utmost good-humour. It was a time when philosophers played at
being wise, and found matter of amusement in the marvels of science and the
arts. The attraction thus given to scientific pursuits unquestionably fur-
nished a powerful stimulus to their prosecution. Philosophy was not all work
and no play! And for men just emerging from a time of superstition and uni-
versal belief in supernaturalities, it may well be imagined how charming an
occupation it must have proved to have displayed to others those marvels
of natural magic which science laid open to them. Scientific enthusiasm
was high in these early days, and the fresh powers which experimental
knowledge conferred upon men constituted without question one of its chief
attractions. In other countries a similar state of matters was being arrived
at: in France next in time to England, and in other continental states
subsequently. Italy alone, however, endures comparison with England in
the first time of which we have spoken. Experimental science flourished
in both countries much more vigorously than elsewhere, although in a little
while the Academy of Sciences at Paris began its long and vigorous
career. The Royal Society of our own land, in its commencement, in the
bright visions of its early members, in their enthusiasm and devotion to the
cause they espoused, affords perhaps the best model and type of the early
developments of experimental knowledge. Its subsequent career and high
present position, together with those of its French compeer, speak highly
for the countries which cherished the new philosophy in its days of infancy;
while in Italy, where it may almost be said to have had its birth-where
at least its first manifestations of life were displayed-the Academy del
Cimento, its nurse, was, after a brief existence, similarly abandoned; and
other institutions following, sustained the same fate.
In our studies of the childhood of experimental philosophy we have been
occupied hitherto chiefly with philosophers-their sayings and doings in
the aggregate. While the information thus afforded as to the system pur-
sued in the quest for knowledge has its value and importance in enabling
the reader to form a judgment of the state of science at the time, not less
valuable nor less interesting is that attainable from the study of individual
characters of this period. There is truth in the general proposition, that
one man is often the representative of his age; and the same may be said
of philosophy, and perhaps with greater justice. Yet there are mer who
lived at this period who could not be appropriately said to belong to it—
who were as giants among children. Such a man was Bacon himself; such
was Newton, the efforts of whose mighty intellectual powers carried them
to a point of observation which some of our own day have scarcely attained.
Would we, therefore, judge of the children of philosophy, we must draw
aside one of the group for separate consideration, whose character and
:
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
attainments assimilates most closely to those of the others. Perhaps it
is scarcely fair to say that such a one was Sir Kenelm Digby, seeing that
the element of superstitious credulity formed too large a part of his
character; yet he may be instructively considered as typical of some of the
philosophers of the first commencement of the revival of knowledge,
belonging, as he does, partly to a preceding and partly to the then present
period. Sir Kenelm was born in 1603, received a liberal education, and at
an early age went to Oxford to complete his studies. There he distin-
guished himself so much by his great abilities and comprehensive mind,
that his career excited the highest anticipations of a brilliant future. He
then went abroad, and was dignified with the honour of knighthood on
his return. His political career was chequered with various reverses, for
he lived, as did many of the young philosophers of the day, in a tempes-
tuous time, and died in 1665. His appearance was that of a man of
intellect, but beclouded with a heavy and superstitious look. Thus much
for the external man. His mind offers the most curious study. The one
darling project of Sir Kenelm's intellectual existence was what he calls the
Doctrine of Sympathy. By this doctrine it was held that, in consequence
of some mysterious sympathy subsisting between men and things, a curative
influence could be transmitted to a person at a distance from the supposed
curer. It is difficult to assign a distinct origin to this remarkable delusion,
unless perhaps it be referred to a recollection of the miracles performed by
our Lord when at a distance from the person benefited, and to an insane
and indeed impious attempt to exercise a similar power. It appears to
have been a notion acquired by Sir Kenelm during his travels, and on his
return to England he made great noise thereabout, and attracted both to
himself and his doctrine a degree of attention which otherwise they might
not have claimed. In a German edition of his work on the 'Powder of
Sympathy,' is a frontispiece representing some of the cures effected by
sympathy, and some of the natural effects of this mysterious agency.
Among the latter Sir Kenelm was disposed to attribute the phenomenon
of one gaping individual setting others all agape after his example, and
this is represented by an appropriate drawing! It appears to be the
natural result of any course of imposture, and unquestionably such must
this have been, that in time its author becomes the dupe of his own
deception; and such was Sir Kenelm Digby's case. In time he came to
believe what probably at first he only half credited, and would make
others give their full assent to. Sir Kenelm became at home what he
professed to be abroad. He married a most beautiful lady, and in order
to preserve her beauty he dieted her upon capons fatted with the flesh of
vipers. He also invented a number of cosmetics for her use. Whether it
was in consequence of these experiments or not can now scarcely be said,
but his beautiful wife died at an early age. Sir Kenelm Digby's connection
with experimental philosophy lies chiefly in his association from the first
with the Royal Society. At the early meetings of philosophers, few of
whom were as superstitious as himself, he astonished the assemblies with
narrations of the effects of his wonderful powders. Of his attachment
to science there can be no question; but what has history left as the
result of his labours? What truth developed ?-what fact discovered?—
what useful experiment successfully performed? Not one. And if we ask
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CHILDHOOD OF EXPERIMENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
(
why?-simply because he loved science and experimental philosophy
rather for their effects than for themselves; because his ambition was to
astonish and perplex-not to enlighten and instruct mankind. Yet, as
already observed, Sir Kenelm Digby was a type of many in his day: a man
of vigorous intellect, skilled in six tongues,' attached to science and
experiment, favouring the progress of the new philosophy, yet having
enough of the perverse spirit of the old to make his labours fruitless, and
to consign his name to posterity merely to point a moral or adorn a tale.
While Sir Kenelm Digby affords an instructive type of the superstitious
philosopher of the birth-time of true philosophy, the learned Bishop
Wilkins gives an excellent illustration of the ingenious and imaginative.
Bishop Wilkins was born in 1614 and died in 1672. From its first institu-
tion he took a most active part in the society of philosophers whose
youthful transactions we have described. 'He has been described as a
noted theologist and preacher, a curious critic in several matters, an excel-
lent mathematician and experimentist, and one as well seen in mechanisms
and new philosophy, of which he was a great promoter, as any man of his
time.' Wilkins appears to have been a man too really pious to have been
superstitious. His distinguishing trait of character is his ingenuity,
apparent as it is alike in his works and in the experiments he conducted
and directed. Although Sir Kenelm Digby was as profound an alchemist
as he professed to be a sympathetic operator, we have considered his views
on the latter subject typical of his character without reference to his other
pursuits. In like manner may be taken the excellent Bishop Wilkins's
grand project of a 'Journey to the Moon.' This, his first work, sheds light
upon the whole of his mental character, displaying as it does both his
learning, attainments, imagination, and ingenuity. The title is: 'The
Discovery of a New Worlde; or a Discourse tending to prove that it is
probable there may be another habitable World in the Moon; with a Dis-
course concerning the probability of a Passage thither.' What would have
been this worthy philosopher's joy had he lived in Montgolfier's time, and
made the first trial of the way to the moon in the balloon? The conside-
ration of one little circumstance lays the whole project in the dust. After
the first forty-five miles of the journey-since philosophy teaches that to
be the limit of our atmosphere-what would become of the breath of our
philosophic travellers? A famous lady attempted to defeat Bishop Wilkins
by propounding another difficulty, which was this-the want of baiting-
places in the way; when the ingenious inventor replied by expressing his
surprise that this objection should be made by a lady who had been all
her life employed in building castles in the air. Bishop Wilkins was,
however, a true experimental philosopher. With what ardour he watched
over the early gropings after truth of the little band of philosophers with
whom he connected himself! With what patience and zeal he laboured
himself therein! Out of his desire to facilitate the progress of knowledge,
he composed his celebrated essay upon a 'Real Character and a Philoso-
phical Language;' a work held in great estimation by the early members
of the Royal Society, but the fruit of which has not endured to the present
day. The contents of his museum were very curious, their greatest
attractions consisting in the mechanical toys and engines there treasured
up. The ingenuity and imaginativeness which distinguished this philoso-
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pher, and led him away from earnest investigation to trifles, proved inimical
to his success in experimental philosophy, in which he has left behind him
the name of a zealous follower and promoter, but not the lasting reputation
of a real discoverer.
The great type of the era, the true experimentalist, philosopher, and
ingenuous inquirer into truth, was Robert Boyle, emphatically and justly
entitled the Great Christian Philosopher. It has been remarked of this
philosopher that he was born in the very year of Bacon's death, as though
the natural successor of that great man. This, however, may place Boyle
in too high a position-the character he fulfilled being rather that of a
disciple of the Baconian philosophy than a master therein. Viewed in
such a light, Boyle appears before us as one of the most laborious, patient,
and perhaps one of the most successful of the early experimental philoso-
phers. With his outward history we have nothing to do beyond to place
on record the simple facts that he was born in 1627 and died in 1691.
At Oxford, where Boyle associated with many of the professors of the
colleges, and particularly with Dr Wilkins—a kindred spirit with his own—
regular meetings were held for experiment and discussion. The knot of
philosophers thus formed became convinced that a satisfactory knowledge of
physical philosophy could only be gained by experiment; and accordingly
all addicted themselves to practical research, communicating their dis-
coveries to one another. Boyle perhaps, more than all the rest, proved his
value for experimental investigation, and his contempt for the Aristotelian
Philosophy in its application to natural objects. It is said that he would
not even study the Cartesian Philosophy for many years, although it was
become a general object of attention, lest he should be so biassed by any
theory as to lose sight of his great principle-that nature will never be
understood without a long series of experiments. In giving himself up
to such inquiries, Boyle also indulged the benevolent hope that experi-
mental philosophy might become attractive to men generally, and thus
withdraw their attention from frivolous amusements, and the hateful con-
tentions that at his period agitated the whole framework of society. The
air was Boyle's great subject for investigation; and though other studies
occupied much of his time and thoughts, yet this furnishes both the earliest
and the latest evidences of the true experimental spirit which animated
this philosopher. It appears that Otto Guericke had already performed
several experiments upon the exsuction of air from glass vessels, and
observed the rise of water into them. These experiments greatly interested
Boyle, and he gives the correct interpretation of the rise of water in such
vessels as being due to the pressure of the atmosphere. These experiments
appear to have been carried on by means of a pump; so that Boyle was not
the inventor of the instrument commonly attributed to him—the air-pump.
He himself describes the apparatus employed for such experiments as very
imperfect, and in the following terms :-"The wind-pump, as somebody not
inappropriately calls it, is so contrived that to evacuate the vessel there is
required the continual labour of two strong men for divers hours; and
next (which is an imperfection of much greater moment), the receiver or
glass to be emptied, consisting of one entire and uninterrupted globe and
neck of glass; the whole engine is so made that things cannot be conveyed
into it whereon to try experiments.' In a word, Otto Guericke's 'wind-
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CHILDHOOD OF EXPERIMENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
pump' was a clumsy, ill-made philosophical toy. Boyle, by his attention to
the subject, and with the assistance of Hook, turned it into an excellent
apparatus for the experimentalist. It is due, however, to Boyle to
state, that several years before his attention had been turned to the
subject, and a series of experiments upon the vacuum left by the removal
of air had been made. The improvement and perfection of the air-pump
were not accomplished, however, without difficulty, and this of various
kinds. Boyle himself confesses that after innumerable trials, and all the
improvements he could devise, he found it so exceeding and inconceivably
difficult a matter to keep out the air from getting at all in, that in spite
of all his care and diligence he was never able totally to exhaust the
receiver, or keep it, when almost empty, any considerable time from leak-
ing, more or less. He had, however, perfected it sufficiently to enable him
to discover hitherto unobserved phenomena of nature.
The instrument thus completed furnished Boyle with experimental
occupation for half his lifetime, and was a great attraction to the learned
of the day. It was a wonder of inexhaustible freshness to pump out the
air from this machine, and request a bystander to lift the brass plug held
down by the presence of the invisible column of air above. When a bladder
was substituted for this stopper, and the air moderately exhausted, ‘it is
pleasant,' writes Boyle, 'to see how men will marvel that so light a body
should forcibly draw down their hand as if it were filled with some
ponderous thing.' Not only wonder, but perplexity was created by many
of these simple experiments performed by Boyle in the presence of
many mathematical and philosophical spectators of his engine.' It
was to them incomprehensible how the air contained within the receiver,
separated as it is by the glass wall of the vessel from that without, should
be considered to have a pressure equal to that without. Boyle explained
this over and over again to these philosophers, and to their satisfaction
proved that such was the case, and that the pressure of the interior air in
hollow bodies balancing the pressure of the external prevents the injury to
the walls of the vessel that would otherwise ensue. All the experiments
which are now adopted by lecturers on natural philosophy in illustrating
this subject were originated by Boyle. He laboured hard to establish
what he denominates the spring of the air '-in other words, its elasticity
and pressure—in opposition to the schoolmen who, quietly folding their
arms, referred all the phenomena they beheld to the old dogma—nature's
abhorrency of a vacuum; whereas, as Boyle justly observes, such effects
seem to be more fitly ascribable to the spring and weight of the air.' By
a variety of illustrations Boyle shewed the elasticity of the air. He took
a flaccid bladder, tightly tying its neck, and placed in the receiver of his
air-pump-on exhausting the latter, the bladder plumped up until it
became fully distended, shrinking back again to its original size on the
readmission of the air. He observed that the bladder could even be burst
by continuing the exhaustion. He also made the interesting and homely
experiment of strongly tying a bladder moderately filled with air; and
holding it near the fire, it not only 'grew exceedingly turgid and hard, but
afterwards being brought nearer to the fire, it suddenly broke into so loud
and vehement a noise as stunned those that were by, and made us for
awhile almost deaf.' Both these effects Boyle justly ascribed to the expan-
เ
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sibility of the air: in the one case, by the removal of the compressing
force the pressure of the external air; in the other, by the influence
of heat in 'separating or stretching out' the aërial particles. He also
assiduously endeavoured to ascertain the limits to which the air could
be dilated; and his experiments led him to the conclusion-an incorrect
one, yet apparently justified by his investigations-that it could expand
almost indefinitely.
Boyle's experiments did not end with the mechanical properties of the
air-with the determination of its elasticity, density, weight, and pressure.
He performed a series of highly-interesting and important investigations
upon its chemical properties-its relation to respiration and life, to com-
bustion and flame. That 'famous mechanician and chymist, Cornelius
Drebbel,' is related to have contrived for the learned King James a vessel
to go under water, of which a trial was made in the Thames, the vessel
carrying twelve rowers besides passengers; 'one of which,' relates Boyle,
'is yet alive, and related it to an excellent mathematician that informed me
of it.' Boyle, dissatisfied with the account, yet fully believing in its
credibility, made further inquiries, which disclose to us a very remarkable
fact-no less than that oxygen gas must have been discovered by this
Drebbel. We may take the account of his submarine navigation as a
myth, for such unquestionably it was. But, like all myths, it had a
nucleus of fact, around which the fabulous concretion had formed. One
of his earliest, in fact the earliest, work of this great philosopher's com-
position related to the air; and death removed him before he could com-
plete his last still on the same subject—which had engaged so large a
portion of his time and so lavish an outlay of his fortune.
幕
​Yet Boyle was not without the infirmities characteristic of the philoso-
phers of his time, and this renders him the truer type, as he is the best
model of them. He firmly believed in the efficacy of the touch of one
Valentine Greatrix, who went by the name of Valentine the Stroker, from
the asserted fact of his being able, in common with royalty at that privileged
period, to cure scrofulous diseases, and, it is said, even after the royal touch
had failed. Numberless other examples of his readiness to believe might be
collected out of his little tract called 'Strange Reports,' and from his other
writings. But with all this Boyle was a great man and a true philosopher.
Seeking after truth for its own sake, he has left a reputation for philoso-
phical attainments and discoveries equalled by none of those who were his
contemporaries in that inquiring period. Boerhaave has said of him:
'Which of Mr Boyle's writings shall I commend? All of them. To him
we owe the secrets of fire, air, water, animals, vegetables, fossils; so that
from his works may be deduced the whole system of natural knowledge.'
And Dr Johnson pays him the following tribute in the Rambler: 'It
is well known how much of our philosophy is derived from Boyle's dis-
coveries, yet very few have read the detail of his experiments. His name
is indeed reverenced, but his works are neglected; we are contented to
know that he conquered his opponents without inquiring what cavils were
produced against him, or by what proofs they were confuted.'
There were others living in those days whose connection with philosophy
especially with the experimental philosophy-is interesting, though less
important than that of the virtuosi we have alluded to. These were men
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CHILDHOOD OF EXPERIMENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
'
full of ardour for science, and possessed of considerable attainments in
various studies, but not themselves so much experimentalists as narrators
and collectors of the experiments of others. To the indefatigable exertions
of one of these is due the existence of the Philosophical Transactions'
the busy, hard-working Mr Henry Oldenburg, who, out of a common
piece of wit in the day, was accustomed not unfrequently to call himself
by the curious name of Grubendol, reversing the letters of his name. It
would be scarcely doing justice to his labours, considering his intimate
connection with science in his infancy, were we to pass him by without a
more direct allusion than has hitherto been made. Mr Oldenburg was
early associated with the prosecution of scientific experiments at Oxford,
and subsequently at London. He was also early admitted a Fellow of
the Royal Society, and in a short time he began to act as secretary to that
philosophical association. At first this appears to have been purely a
labour of love; but subsequently he was elected secretary, and was of all
others most diligent in the record of experiments, and in carrying on the
scientific business of the society. His occupation in this capacity may be
judged of by the account he has given of the 'business of the Sec. of the
R. S. He attends constantly the meetings both of the Society and
Councill, noteth the observables said and done there; digesteth them in pri-
vate; takes care to have them entered in the journal and registry-books;
reads over and corrects all entrys; sollicites the proformances of taskes,
recommended and undertaken; writes all letters abroad, and answers the
returns made to them, entertaining a correspondence with at least fifty
persons; employs a great deal of time, and takes much pains in satisfying
foreign demands about philosophical matters; disperseth farr and nearre
stores of directions and enquiries, and sees them well recommended.'
No secretary could have been more assiduous than was Mr Oldenburg; but
he soon began to entertain the thought that it was a pity that all this
scientific information should be contained in a private form. And in a
little while it was decided that selections of the scientific communications
made to the society of philosophers should be published under Mr Olden-
burg's care. To this fresh undertaking the zealous amateur philosopher
applied himself with all the powers of his mind, and with the method of a
man of business. His scientific correspondence now increased enormously.
It is said that at one time he, without any assistance, corresponded with
seventy different philosophers on various scientific subjects, and in diffe-
rent parts of the world. The labour was immense, and the contents of
the 'Philosophical Transactions' shew the assiduity with which philoso-
phical information was cuiled from all quarters. His plan of getting
through this vast amount of work was admirable: the moment he received
a letter he perused it, and immediately wrote back the answer. Thus his
work never grew upon him, and though great and burdensome, never
became insupportable. He alone, greatly to his credit, bore the respon-
sibility of the expense connected with this undertaking, which was his
own, and had no official connection with the Royal Society. In virtue of his
diligence, the 'Philosophical Transactions' assumed an important position,
but as yet only in the form of a scientific miscellany; for such in reality
the earlier volumes are. Yet the sale of them at first only averaged about
three hundred copies, and Mr Oldenburg complains of receiving a very
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heavy letter from the printer upon the subject. In spite, however, of all
discouragements, Oldenburg pursued his task. During the terrible visita-
tion of the plague in London, he never quitted his post. He lived
in Pall Mall, and carried on his customary correspondence on scientific
matters uninterruptedly. At length death closed the career of this un-
wearied though humble servant of the new philosophy, and his editorial pen
passed into other hands. During his lifetime he was once imprisoned in
the Tower. Oldenburg was a man indispensable to experimental science
in its infancy, although not directly connected with its advance. No doubt
his zeal and enthusiastic devotion to the cause of the philosophy now
being made trial of, stimulated and quickened those of others who were
more successful labourers in the laboratory and workshop than himself.
He was born to fulfil the office to which he was elected, and which he so
long honourably maintained. And no one who admits the necessity of the
interchange of thought and knowledge among philosophers to the ulti-
mate advancement of philosophy, will refuse to Henry Oldenburg, with
all his credulity and childlike simplicity, a place and name in the records
of experimental science. Another celebrated personage who was much
connected with early philosophy and its followers was John Aubrey. This
gentleman found vast delight in the experiments of the infant philosophic
associations, and from his incessant bustle and insatiable curiosity received
the naine of the 'Carrier of Conceptions of the Royal Society.' Not a
philosopher himself, but much attached to the sciences, and especially
enchanted with any mysterious things connected with them, he was one
of the busybodies of the time, doing little or nothing, directly or indi-
rectly, to further the progress of the philosophy he admired, but perhaps
often did not comprehend.
The records of experimental philosophy in England have presented us
with a sufficient number and variety of instances illustrative of the state of
the scientific mind of the period; and those of other countries are rich in
similar illustrations, to which, as they all indicate the same general
features, it has been thought unnecessary to refer. The names of Schottus,
Porta, and, above all, of the clever but credulous and superstitious Jesuit,
Athanasius Kircher the best type of an Italian child-philosopher-appear
prominent in the history of this period, and may form useful references to
those who would inquire into the condition of experimental philosophy
abroad as well as at home. It is sufficient for us here to state that the
same love of toys and trifles, the same eagerness of inquiry and simplicity
of belief, and the same or even a greater degree of superstition prevailed,
and gave to the philosophy of the period its childish aspect.
In reviewing the state of science at this period, confining our attention
chiefly to our own country, it is highly remarkable to find the persistance
with which philosophers clung to their determination to interpret nature
solely by means of experiment. The results soon became apparent. The
records of philosophy began to teem with new discoveries-' facts multiplied,
leading phenomena became prominent, laws began to emerge, and generali-
sations to commence.' Although the labourers were few the harvest was
ripe, and only awaited the ingathering of the philosophical husbandmen. It
is worthy our notice to glance over the memorabilia of this time. Imme-
diately prior to it Galileo Galilei discovered the true motion of the earth,
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CHILDHOOD OF EXPERIMENTAL PHILOSOPHY.
applied the telescope to the heavens, ascertained the pressure of the atmo-
sphere; Bacon wrote the 'Novum Organon ;' Torricelli invented the baro-
meter; Pascal proved it; the scientific academies of Italy, England, and
France were founded; experiments were commenced, and the dogmatism
of the schools scattered to the winds; Newton discovered and applied the
laws of gravitation, wrote the 'Principia,' constructed a reflecting telescope;
Harvey discovered the circulation of the blood; Boyle improved the
air-pump to its present form, and developed a variety of facts connected
with the air; Hooke published his discoveries with the microscope; Halley
prosecuted his researches in terrestrial magnetism; Leibnitz lived; Des-
cartes lived; the steam-engine was invented; electricity was developed as
a science, and many chemical discoveries made. This list might be much
extended; but enough has been mentioned to shew that the time in question
constitutes almost a new era in the history of mankind, as it unquestion-
ably does in that of philosophy; and enough also to shew the nature and
number of those valuable truths which were only waiting to be gathered
by the first adventurous person who, leaving behind the fables of a past
age, would stretch out his hand to the things really presented before him
in nature.
In approaching the conclusion of this sketch of philosophy in her child-
hood, we part with regret from our consideration of the early inquirers into
the mysteries of nature. They felt that peculiar charm in the study of
science which is lost to ourselves-the freshness of a first-love. They were
the first to apply the principle of interrogation to the world around them, and
the first to catch the half-obscure replies returned by the things of nature
with which they dealt. The things which to them were great discoveries
are matters of everyday with us. Boyle, Wilkins, Digby, and the young
Royal Society, with all the new marvels that enchanted them, and
invited fresh pursuit into the untrodden ways of experimental science,
are forgotten now, and the world rolls on, for ever turning up wondrous
things of science to the contemplation of philosophers who are but little
prone to dwell on the past. One remarkable feature distinguishes the
time of which we have spoken and no other before or since-and that
the humility of the philosophers, their diffidence in the present and in
themselves, and their confidence in the future and in the coming men.
They appeared to feel all the feebleness of their infancy in science, all the
imperfections which characterised their attempts, and had ever a watchful
eye on the future, reliant upon the ultimate success of the investigations
they had commenced and their method of pursuing them. And such is
the true spirit of an experimental philosopher. The very fact of his seek-
ing truth by experiment implies a consciousness of his ignorance of results,
and inculcates a deep reliance on the laws instituted by the Creator among
natural things, and humility in observing their operations. Yet this is very
opposite to the natural impulses of the human mind. 'Excited,' writes
Humboldt, by the brilliant manifestation of new discoveries, and nourish-
ing hopes, the fallacy of which often continues long undetected, each age
dreams that it has approximated closely to the culminating point of the
recognition and comprehension of nature.' Of this fault, however, the time
of which we have written was less guilty than any before it, or than any
subsequent period. Experimental philosophy began with a confession of its
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ignorance; and Newton touchingly professed himself to be but a little child
gathering pebbles by the ocean side.
What the philosophers of the time in question sowed we now reap the
fruits of. In setting the example of separating certain knowledge from
mere conjectures founded on analogy, and subjecting every portion of
natural knowledge to the strict criticism of measure, weight, and experi-
ment, they have done mankind at large, and the cause of natural philosophy
in particular, the most essential service. The weakness and unsatisfactory
nature of those studies in which 'unfounded opinions take the place of
certain facts, and symbolical myths manifest themselves under ancient
semblances as grave theories,' has been demonstrated by them, and con-
trasted with the lasting and solid results attainable by research begun in the
right spirit, and pursued in the true direction. The philosophic enthusiasm
they awakened has never gone out. Its influence pervades society in our
own time. Experimental investigation is not confined to the philosophic
few among whose ranks it first had origin. The humblest student of
nature whose knowledge is gleaned from things, not books, resembles the
experimentalists of the time in question, and is seeking truth by the same
route. At the same time the most arduous experimental researches —
witness those of Faraday in electricity—are being carried on. Philosophers
are in every direction knocking at the portals of truth, and daily evidences
of their success surround us. The momentum of that wonderful mode of
developing truth set in movement by these children of science is now
carrying us forward daily to higher and still higher discoveries. 'Who
knows,' says an animated philosopher of our day, 'what may yet be in
store for our use; what new discovery may again change the tide of human
affairs; what hidden treasures may yet be brought to light in the air or in
the ocean, of which we know so little; or what virtues there may be in
the herbs of the field and in the treasures of the earth; how far its hidden
fires or stores of ice may yet become available? Ages can never exhaust
the treasures of nature.' Let us learn to imitate the humility of the child-
philosophers, and with them learn, too, our grateful dependence upon Him
from whom every good and perfect gift proceeds-not the least of His
gifts, through man to man, being that experimental philosophy which now
forms the foundation of every department of natural knowledge.
CONFUCIUS.
THE
HE most instructive chapter in the comprehensive records of philosophy
is example. There its principles are illustrated in action; its spirit
typified in life. By this agency has the Divine Being most perfectly
revealed himself; and by it, in the moral economy of his universe, are
the virtuous energies of humanity continually renewed. The happiest
inspiration of which society is the source is the influence diffused through
it in various attractive forms by its most distinguished members. Cole-
ridge has beautifully, and with his accustomed significance, remarked that
it is only by celestial observations that even terrestrial charts can be
constructed scientifically.' To gaze steadfastly at the intellectual and
moral lights of the world is at once the criterion and pledge of our own
advancement; and in that constellation there are for all of us some bright
particular stars, which, on account of the brilliancy with which they have
shone forth upon mankind under the most peculiar circumstances, should
be most earnestly and studiously regarded. Such a one was Confucius:
a man who, to use the language of a distinguished living writer, 'six
centuries before Christ, considered the outward economy of an empire a
worthier object of study than all hidden and abstracted lore; who prized
maxims of life and conduct more than all speculations regarding the
Divinity; who had actually anticipated some of the most modern propo-
sitions respecting the governor and the governed. This man was not a
mere name for a set of opinions: he had a distinct, marked personality.
And his words and acts have not been limited to a narrow circle or to one
or two centuries. He has left an impression of himself upon the most
populous empire in the world. After two thousand years his authority is
still sacred among the people, the mandarins, the emperors of China; his
influence is felt in every portion of that vast and complicated society.' Of
this man it is our intention here to give some account.
Koong-foo-tse, or Confucius, as his name has been Latinised by the
Jesuits, was born in the autumn of the year 551 B.C. at Shang-Ping, in
the kingdom of Loo, within the district now called Keo-fow Hiew, just to
the eastward of the great canal, in Shan-tung province. It will be observed
from the date that he was a contemporary of Pythagoras. Various pro-
digies, as in other instances, were, we are told, the forerunners of his
birth. On the eve of his appearance upon earth, two dragons encircled
the house, five celestial sages entered it at the moment of the portentous
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6
birth, and vocal and instrumental music filled the air. When he was born
this inscription appeared on his breast: The maker of a rule for settling
the world.' His pedigree is traced back in a summary manner to the my-
thological monarch Hoang-hj, who is said to have lived more than two
thousand years before Christ. His father was a magistrate in his native
kingdom; for China was then divided into a number of small feudal states,
nominally dependent on one head, but each ruled by its own laws. Con-
fucius, therefore, undoubtedly belonged to the literary class from which the
mandarins are chosen; and it is said that from his infancy he distinguished
himself by his remarkable progress in philosophy. Certain it is that he
made those advances in rank and dignity which in China could not be
made without much study and an acquaintance with the works of his
predecessors in different branches of learning; for he became, say his bio-
graphers, one of the first mandarins in the kingdom of Loo.
The early part of his life, as recorded by his followers, presents some
curious traits. He was but three years old, says the tale, when his father,
Shuh-Leang-Ho, died in a state of honourable poverty, leaving young Con-
fucius to the care of his wife Yan-She. The young philosopher, we are
told, took no delight in playing like other boys-a very bad symptom,
as we should have apprehended, of the vigour of his intellectual facul-
ties, but which is, of course, recorded to his honour. He was remarkably
grave and serious in his deportment, and endeavoured in all things to
imitate his grandfather. For this old gentleman he entertained an ex-
traordinary degree of veneration, but nevertheless he one day ventured to
reprove him with much philosophic dignity. The occasion was as follows:
the grandfather was sitting absorbed in a melancholy reverie, in the
course of which he frequently sighed deeply. The child observing him,
after some time approached him, and, with many bows and formal reve-
rences, spoke thus: 'If I may presume, without violating the respect
which I owe you, sir, to inquire into the cause of your grief, I would gladly
do so. Perhaps you fear that I, who am descended from you, may reflect
discredit on your memory by failing to imitate your virtues.' His grand-
father, astonished, asked him from whom he had learned to speak in such a
manner. 'From yourself, sir,' replied the boy. 'I listen attentively to
your words, and I often hear you say that a son who does not imitate the
virtues of his forefathers is not worthy to bear their name.' The result of
this sage discourse is not mentioned, but it is evidently a story fabricated
to hold him up to admiration among a people whose distinguishing
character is that of filial respect for their parents. Another tale is told to
exemplify his veneration for the ancients. After the death of his grand-
father, which happened when Confucius was a mere child, the latter pur-
sued his studies under a learned doctor, who was likewise a magistrate and
governor, although a teacher in a public school, by whose instruction he was
soon enabled to read and comprehend many ancient works long since lost.
This progress he had made at the age of sixteen, when he fell into company
with a person of high rank, and more than twice as old as himself. The
great man, who did not entertain so high a respect as Confucius for the
works in question, declared that they were obscure, and not worth the
trouble of studying. Whereupon our young student sharply reproved
him, saying: 'The books which you despise are full of profound knowledge,
2
CONFUCIUS.
and their obscurity is a recommendation to them. In consequence of this
they can only be understood by the wise and learned. If they were plain
and intelligible to the people in general, the people would despise them.
It is very necessary to the subordination and tranquillity of society that
there should be degrees of knowledge, to render the ignorant dependent on
the wise. As society could not exist with equality of power, so it could as
little exist with equality of knowledge; for every one would wish to govern,
and no one would be willing to obey. I have heard from a low, ignorant
person, the same observation which you now make, and it did not surprise
me from him, but I am astonished to hear it from a person of your rank
and dignity, who ought to be so much better informed.' The story goes on
to say that the mandarin, incensed at the rebuke, and unable to reply to it
by reasoning, would have fallen upon the young logician, and given him a
sound beating, if he had not been prevented by those who stood by.
He was now made a subordinate magistrate, with the duty of inspecting
the sale and distribution of corn, and distinguished himself by his industry
and energy in repressing fraud and introducing order and integrity into the
whole business. This led to a higher appointment-that of inspector-
general of pastures and flocks-which he entered upon when in his twenty-
first year; and the result of his judicious measures, we are told, was a
general improvement in the cultivation of the country and the condition
of the people. Before this he had entered into the holy estate of matri-
mony. Early marriages are common in China; and Confucius, who seems
to have had a peculiar aptitude for conforming to established customs,
took to himself a wife at the age of nineteen. The lady was Ke-Kwan-She,
of an ancient family in Sung, and by her he had one son, named Pe-Yu,
who died before his father at the age of fifty, but left a son, named Tsu-
Tse, who grew up in the paths pointed out to him by his grandfather,
became very learned, and attained to the highest honours of the state.
Confucius, who appears to have entertained no great regard for the fair
sex, divorced his wife four years after marriage, for no other reason than
that he might attend the better to his books, and be able to discharge more
efficiently his duties as a mandarin and superintendent of the agriculture
of the province.
The death of his mother, which happened when he was twenty-three years
of age, interrupted his administrative functions. According to the
ancient and almost forgotten laws of China, children were obliged to resign
all public employments on the death of either of their parents; and Con-
fucius, desirous of renewing the observance in his native land of all the
practices of venerable antiquity, did not fail to conform to this enactment.
He further resolved that instead of consigning the dead, as was now cus-
tomary in China, to any piece of waste ground at hand, the obsequies of
his mother should be celebrated with a decorum and magnificence which
should be an example to the whole country. This spectacle, in which
pomp united with propriety, struck his fellow-citizens with astonishment,
and inspired them with such touching recollections, that they determined
to restore the observance of what were supposed to be the ancient funeral
rites, and to bury their dead in future with all the honours of antiquity.
This example was soon followed by the inhabitants of the neighbouring
states, and the whole nation, excepting the poorest class, has continued
3
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
the practice to the present day. Confucius, however, was not satisfied
with a splendid ceremony, which might be forgotten before the funeral
baked meats' were cold. He inculcated the necessity of repeating acts of
homage and respect at stated times, either at the grave, or in a part of the
dwelling-house consecrated for the purpose. Hence the 'hall of ancestors'
and anniversary feasts of the dead which now distinguish China as a nation,
and in which, unfortunately, the Confucian testimonials of affection and
respect have degenerated into idolatrous worship. Delighted at the success
of his experiment, Confucius shut himself up in his house, to pass in
solitude the three years of mourning for his mother.
This period of retirement was not lost to philosophy, for he devoted
the whole of it to study. He reflected deeply on the eternal laws of
morality, traced them to their source, imbued his mind with a sense of
the duties which they impose indiscriminately on all men, and determined
to make them the immutable rules of all his actions. Renouncing the
repose, fortune, and honours to which his birth and talents entitled him
to aspire, he magnanimously resolved to devote his life to the instruction
of his countrymen. He undertook to revive amongst them respect and
attachment to those ancient rites and usages, with the performance of
which, in his view, all social and political virtues were connected. Not
content with explaining to all classes of his fellow-citizens the invariable
precepts of morality, he proposed to found a school, and train up disciples
to aid him in disseminating his doctrines through all parts of the empire,
and to continue to teach them after his death. He further intended to
compose a series of books which should serve as depositories for his
maxims, and hand down his doctrines to after-ages, in the same form in
which he had himself promulgated them.
(
At this time the most eminent of his contemporaries in philosophy was
Laou-tze, who was born B. C. 604, and enjoyed a great reputation. He
was the 'prince of the doctrine of the Taou;' a word which, according to
some, means Reason, and to others, Knowledge, and bears a certain resem-
blance to the contemporaneous Logos of the Platonic school. His father
and mother were poor peasants, the former seventy and the latter fifty
years of age at the time of his birth, which tradition ascribes to the agency
of a falling star. However this may be, the expectant mother seems to
have forsaken or been thrust forth from her dwelling; and while wander-
ing in the fields, when the critical time arrived she lay down beneath a
pear-tree, and there the wonderful child was born. The Book of Reason
and Virtue,' the gospel of the Taou, has never been translated; and it is so
obscure, both in style and matter, as to be imperfectly known even to
Chinese scholars. The general account of it, however, is, that it presents a
scheme of morals of too transcendental and mystical a character to be of
any practical use. Laou-tze, during the greater part of his life, was a
visionary recluse, wrapped up in metaphysical speculations, and treating
with contempt the things of the external world. The darkness of his
thoughts was made still deeper by an extraordinary compression of style;
and hence the dreamers of succeeding times found in his writings a warrant
for their wildest imaginations. He was a believer in the original goodness
of human nature, and ascribed its vitiation to the circumstances by which
men are surrounded in the world. Above all things, therefore, he insisted
4
CONFUCIUS.
upon the importance of self-knowledge and self-subjection; holding that
he alone is truly enlightened who knows himself, and he alone truly power-
ful who is able to conquer himself. It is difficult in the present state of
our acquaintance with the 'Book of Reason and Virtue' to understand
how it could have been made the foundation for a system of demonology-
but so it is: the sect of the Taou are the demon-worshippers of China.
'If we imagine,' says a recent writer, 'the hermits and other ascetics of the
earlier ages of Christianity bringing with them into the desert, together
with their ignorant superstitions and fevered imaginations, the pure
morality of the Gospel, we shall be able to form some idea of the disciples
of Laou-tze. The national love of order had originated, from an early
period, a classification of the spirits which haunt and infest the material
world; and this philosopher, or more probably his disciples, is supposed to
have been the first who systematised the whole, beginning with the doctrine
of the Divine Logos. These spirits are said to have been originally men;
but in the pantheism which runs through the whole of Chinese faith, it
would be equally proper to say that men were originally these spirits.
Some are lords and rulers of the upper world; some are genii and hobgob-
lins, wandering among groves and caverns; and some are demons of the
abyss, whose business on earth is mischief, and whose fate is hell and
torment. Laou-tze gave himself out to be one of the genii who preside
over the destinies of men; and he is still supposed by his worshippers to
be engaged in this supreme office. His followers were retired and studious
men. They were the high chemists of China, who supposed that the
process of analysis would discover something more than physical elements;
and, believing in the spiritual world, they invested with mystic qualities
the world of matter, and devoted their lives to the search after the elixir
of immortality and the philosopher's stone. They were originally virtuous
recluses, and by means of their ignorant experiments acquired eventually
some knowledge of medicine; but the body, as might be expected, was at
all times vitiated by quacks and intriguers; and as their doctrines came
but little home to the common business and bosoms of men, they could not
make any permanent head against the more practical Confucians.
'Like the state religionists, they worship idols representing the innumer-
able spirits which haunt the world; but their priests are not merely
enthusiasts, but being without any general allowance, and depending
solely upon the people, they work upon their fears as well as hopes, and,
by means of animal magnetism and other mystic secrets, pass frequently
for soothsayers and magicians.
'At present they have a high priest who never dies, possessing the same
kind of immortality as the Lama of Thibet; and who presides over deities
and devils alike. He grants patents for worship, and defines the jurisdic-
tion of the new gods; and, like his inferior clergy, derives a revenue from
the sale of amulets to preserve men from the influence of the demons.'
The chief of the new sect, it may be supposed, was curious to see his
great rival; and we may mention here, although interrupting the chrono-
logy, a highly characteristic interview which took place between them when
Laou-tze was in his eighty-seventh and Confucius in his thirty-fifth year.
The latter philosopher appeared in all the pomp of office, with a tribe of
followers behind him; and the old ascetic began his discourse by
5
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
reproaching him with his vanity and worldly-mindedness. 'The wise
man,' he said, 'loves obscurity; and so far from courting employments, he
shuns them. He studies the times: if they be favourable, he speaks; if
corrupt, he yields to the storm. He who is truly virtuous makes no
parade of his virtue: he does not proclaim to all the world that he is a
sage. This is all I have to say to you: make the best of it you can.'
Confucius listened in respectful silence; and his replies afterwards to the
eager questions of his disciples were brief and obscure. I know the
habits of birds, beasts, and fishes,' he said; 'but as to the dragon'-the
type of the celestial genii-' I cannot understand how he can raise himself
into the heavens.'
His
When Confucius determined to supersede the dreams of the mystics and
solitaries by a practical system of morals, he at first, after his three years'
mourning were expired, shut himself up to study and meditate.
professed object was to acquire the 'wisdom of the ancients;' but we
entertain a strong suspicion that his famous golden age of virtue, under
the rule of the early kings, was merely a figment of his own, invented by
way of obtaining a warrant for his maxims which should pass unquestioned
with a people so devoted as the Chinese to antiquity and the authority of
the past.
However this may be, when his studies or his meditations
were over, he determined to travel, and correct the lessons of wisdom by
those of experience and observation. He visited the state of Kin, where
he perfected himself in music, and then traversed Tse and Wei. He
returned to Tse in the employment of the prince, as a public reformer;
but his efforts, though continued for a year, do not appear to have been
attended with any beneficial result. He was now invited to the imperial
court, where he remained for several months, inspecting the historical
records, and lamenting the degeneracy of the time. It was while here he
visited Laou-tze at Seih-tae. He at length returned to Loo, where
disciples began to flock to him in such great numbers, that in a short
space of time they amounted, it is said, to three thousand, of whom
five hundred were mandarins, holding the highest offices in that and
the neighbouring states. Some extravagant fictions have been related
of the school of Confucius. It has been said that all his followers formed
a society, among whom a community of goods was established; and that,
in order to detach their minds from the affairs of the world, they appointed
one of their number to purchase their food and clothing, and to manage
their funds for the good of the whole association. Nothing of this has
any foundation. Confucius, like Socrates, seems to have wished to fit
men for conducting themselves honourably and usefully in those stations
which the public good required that they should fill. His disciples were
for the most part men of full age, who lived in their own families, and
followed their separate pursuits, resorting to him to propose their doubts,
or to collect his opinions and instruction, and oftentimes accompanying
him in the different journeys which he thought fit to undertake. He
divided his scholars into four classes: to the first he taught morals; to the
second, rhetoric; to the third, politics; and to the fourth, the perfection of
their style in written compositions. The first was the necessary introduc-
tion to the others. Confucius was well aware, that without a distinct
perception of moral excellence there was no such thing as good taste in
6
CONFUCIUS.
eloquence or in writing, nor any practical skill to be attained in the direc-
tion of political affairs. He therefore directed his first care to the formation
of the mind for the attainment of this perception; and in order to do so
he taught that it was necessary to clear the intellect from those mists and
obscurities which prevent its distinguishing truth from falsehood. These,
he said, arise from vices early sown, or springing up in the heart, which it
must therefore be our primary care to eradicate; as the good husbandman
begins by rooting out weeds and noxious plants before he commits to the
earth the hope of a future harvest.
This residence at Loo was an important time for Confucius and for the
Chinese world. Here the philosopher revelled in music, which was not to
him, as he declares, a passing recreation, which gratifies the ear without
leaving a trace upon the mind, but the originator of distinct images and
ideas, which remained after the sounds had ceased. He was likewise a
mighty hunter, for which he found warrant in ancient prescription—the chase
having been inculcated under the early kings as a duty, and enforced by
legal penalties. During the same period he worked industriously—often
night and day-upon the historical works, wearing out by frequent use no
less than three sets of the bamboo bundles, which were then the form of
Chinese volumes. He abridged the 'She-king' and the 'Shoo-king,' and
restored the 'Yeh-king' from the obscurity into which it had sunk, and by
his comments placed it in that supremacy to which it was entitled both by
its purity and wisdom. He had accepted a petty magistracy, which, on
an unworthy change of magistrates, he threw up in disgust; and at length
he determined to resume his travels.
He first proceeded to Chen, where his reception was indifferent; and he
then revisited, with better success, the state of Tze. Here the prince,
surrounded with all the pomp and circumstance of royalty, received the
philosopher as his superior, and would insist upon his taking precedence,
urging that a 'sage is higher than a king.' Confucius, however, though
not questioning so reasonable a proposition, was the last man in China to
submit to so unheard of a solecism in ceremony; and he flatly refused to
indulge his majesty. He was made one of the ministers, however, but
kept his appointment only for a short time. The intrigues of the court
were too strong for his wisdom, and our philosopher returned again to his
native country.
The reputation of Confucius was now so widely spread that the king of
Loo offered him no longer an inferior magistracy, but the post of ‘governor
of the people' in the capital. Confucius, in this office, testified in a remark-
able manner his great abilities, so that even in a few months the change in
public morals excited the astonishment of the king. He was now ordered
into the royal presence, and invested with the dignity of Sze-kaon, which
placed him at the head of the magistracy, both civil and criminal, through-
out the kingdom, and conferred upon him an authority only second to that
of the king himself. In this high office he commenced his career by an
act-which indeed he had informed the king, previously to his investiture,
was a stern necessity of the time-of surprising vigour and daring, the
public execution of one of the chief ministers, whose villanies had been the
principal cause of the evils which afflicted the kingdom. This proceeding
terrified the king, and astounded even the disciples of the philosopher:
7
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
but the event shewed he was right in his calculation—that such a criminal
might have adherents while he was in life and in power, but could have no
friends to deplore or avenge him. The execution was conducted with all
the terrors of the law, and the inexorable magistrate attended in person,
and ordered the exposure of the body for three days.
During the administration of Confucius the affairs of the kingdom
flourished; and at one time he had the satisfaction of preserving his
prince from a snare set for him by a rival king of Tze.
The latter,
however, at length succeeded in counteracting the effect of the philoso-
pher's counsels, and in a way highly characteristic of such courts. He
selected eighty beautiful young ladies, accomplished singers and dancers,
and sent this formidable host against the refined court of Loo; where they
were not only able to resist the powerful impression of the Confucian
precepts, and the general example of the whole kingdom, but to dislodge
the philosopher from his stronghold, to overturn the edifice of morality
which he had constructed, and to drive him in utter despair from the
scene of his most splendid triumph. The most beautiful and accom-
plished of these females fastened on the king, while the others, in the
regular gradation of their charms, attached themselves to the grandees
in proportion to their rank. The result was such as we believe never
happened in any other country from a sudden importation of ladies
-namely, that from an extraordinary austerity of morals the whole
nation was at once dissolved in luxury and pleasure; the business of the
state stood still; the courtiers occupied themselves only in feasting, danc-
ing, shows, and dissipation; and the shopkeepers consoled themselves for
the wickedness of their superiors by cutting off part of their reformed
measures, filing down their weights, and making one scale an ounce heavier
than the other.
Confucius, who had first protested against admitting into the kingdom
the insidious visitors, employed his eloquence for some time after their
arrival in endeavouring to persuade the old grandees to have nothing to
do with these lovely foreigners; but his harangues, which a few weeks
before had been omnipotent against the charms of the women of Loo, were
wholly ineffectual against those of the Tzean ladies. Vexed, therefore, as
a philosopher naturally would be at such a discovery, he soon resigned in
disgust, and went abroad in search of disciples less vacillating than his
countrymen of Loo.
He now tried several of the Chinese states, one after another, but in
vain. All were satisfied with their anarchy and demoralisation; and the
answer of the king of Wei to the more refined nobles, who besought him
to give employment to the wandering sage, may be taken as characteristic
of the whole. We are now quiet,' said he; 'but if the philosopher of
Loo once gets a finger in the government, under the plausible pretext of
reform, all will be thrown into confusion. I am old: I do not love change:
let things go on as usual: my successor can do as he pleases.' Confucius
passed on his way, consoling himself with the idea, that 'the wise man is
everywhere at home-the whole earth is his.' But each home was as
turbulent and as hostile as the last. Sometimes the people received his
doctrines with acclamation; but this only drew upon him the persecution of
the authorities, and occasionally the meetings of his followers were dis-
8
CONFUCIUS.
persed at the point of the sword. Once he was placed in confinement, and
himself and disciples even straitened for food. Confucius was now in his
sixty-sixth year; and hearing of the death of his wife, he seems to have
regarded it as a warning of his own.
He had the misfortune to live in times when men were ambitious,
avaricious, and voluptuous; when rebellions, wars, and tumults every-
where prevailed; and though he was fortunate enough to make a vast
number of proselytes among the most eminent persons wherever he went,
yet he fell into extreme poverty, and was greatly oppressed and perse-
cuted. At length, finding that a public life to him was beset with dangers
and trials, he retired to Loo, and in the company of his chosen disciples,
employed himself in composing or compiling those celebrated works which
have handed down his reputation to posterity, and become the sacred
books of China. When seventy years of age, his favourite disciple died.
Confucius being greatly concerned for the continuance and propagation of
his doctrines, and having entertained great hopes of this person, was
inconsolable for his loss, and wept bitterly, exclaiming: 'Heaven has
destroyed-Heaven has destroyed me!' In his seventy-third year, a few
days before his death, he moved about, leaning on his staff, and sighed
as he exclaimed—
'The mountain is crumbling,
The strong beam is yielding,
The sage is withering like a plant.'
He observed to a disciple that the empire had long been in a state of
anarchy, and mentioned a dream of the previous night, which he regarded
as the presage of his own departure; and so it came to pass, for, after seven
days of lethargy, he expired in the year 479 B.C. The eighteenth day
of the second moon is kept sacred by the Chinese as the anniversary of
their sage's death.
The eyes of the deceased were closed by two of his disciples, who, after
putting three pinches of rice into the mouth, arrayed the body in the robes
of a minister of state. It was laid, with all the ceremonies so dear to the
philosopher when living, in a piece of ground purchased for the purpose
to the north of the city; and, to mark the spot, three mounds of earth were
raised, and a tree planted, which is said to exist at this day. The disciple
who had acted the part of chief mourner extended his period of mourning
to six years, residing constantly near the tomb. Crowds came to the place
with their families, and erected habitations, till a village arose, which gra-
dually waxed to a city of the third order, called Kea-foo-heen.
Notwithstanding the general demoralisation of his contemporaries, he
was no sooner dead than men of all sorts began to venerate his memory.
Upon hearing of the event, the king of Loo burst into tears, exclaiming :
'Heaven is displeased with me, since He has taken from me the most
precious treasure of my kingdom.' The same sentiments prevailed through
all the surrounding countries; which, from that very moment, say the
historians, began to honour him as a saint. In the Han dynasty, long
subsequent to his death, he was dignified with the highest title of
honour; and he was subsequently styled The Sovereign Teacher. The
Ming, or Chinese dynasty, which succeeded the Mongols, called him The
No. 77.
9
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
most holy teacher of ancient times—a title which the present Tartar family
has continued.
Though only a single descendant (his grandson) survived Confucius, the
succession has continued through sixty-seven or sixty-eight generations to
the present day, in the very district where their great ancestor was born.
Various honours and privileges have always distinguished the family, and
its heads have enjoyed the rank of nobility. In every city, down to those
of the third order, there is a temple dedicated to Confucius. In the most
honourable place of this temple,' says D'Avity, 'is seen his statue, or at
least his name, in letters a cubit long. By his side are seen the statues of
some of his disciples, whom the Chinese esteem as saints or divinities of a
lower rank. All the magistrates of the cities assemble, together with those
who are proclaimed bachelors, in each full and new moon in the temple, and
offer a kind of adoration to their master with inclinations of the head, and
bendings of the knee, and with burning of incense and torches. They also
present to him food on his birthday, and at some other periods, thanking
him for his doctrines, but neither making a prayer to him nor asking
anything from him.' Other writers say that there are no statues to Con-
fucius, but simply tablets with his name. The number of temples dedicated
to him in China is stated to be 1560, in which are sacrificed annually 62,000
victims (chiefly pigs and rabbits), besides other offerings. Time has but
added to the reputation which he left behind him; and he is now, at the
distance of more than two thousand years, held in universal veneration
throughout China by all persons, even by those who reject his doctrines.
'Confucius,' says Professor Maurice, 'could not have produced the effect
which he has produced upon the empire of China; could not be recognised
in the character in which he has been recognised for so many ages, if his
mind had not been the very highest type of the Chinese mind; that in
which we may read what it was aiming at both before and after he appeared
to enlighten it. We may, therefore, acquiesce without difficulty in the
opinion, that the Chinese religion was from the first of a much less high
and mysterious quality than that of almost any people upon the earth; that
the belief of the eternal, as distinct from and opposed to the temporal,
existed very dimly and imperfectly in it, and was supplied only by a
reverence for the past; that the sense of connection or communion with any
invisible powers, though not absent, must have been weak and slightly
developed; that the emperor must have been regarded always as the
highest utterer of the divine mind; that the priest must have been chiefly
valued as a minister of the ceremonial of the court; that rites and
ceremonies must have had in this land a substantive value independent of
all significance, which they have scarcely ever possessed elsewhere; that
there was united with this tendency one which to some may seem incom-
patible with it—an attachment to whatever is useful and practical; that the
Chinese must have entertained a profound respect for family relationships;
that the relationship of father and son will, however, have so overshadowed
all the rest, that they will have been regarded merely as different forms of
it, or as to be sacrificed for the sake of it; that implicit obedience to
authority will have been the virtue which every institution existed to
enforce, which was to be their only preserver. If we suppose the reverence
10
CONFUCIUS.
for the shades of ancestors, for the person of the emperor, for the dignity
of the father, to have been joined with something of a Sabæan worship,
with some astrology and speculation about the future, we shall perhaps
arrive at a tolerably near conception of China as it may have existed under
the old emperors, to whom the sage continually refers with admiration and
regret.'
These old institutions and this old creed of his country Confucius had
studied most profoundly, and was most earnestly desirous to preserve. No
one aspired less to be an innovator: his main object was to remove
innovations. 'I teach you nothing,' he often repeated, but what you
might learn yourselves, if you made a proper use of your faculties. What
can be more simple and natural than the principles of that moral code, the
maxims of which I inculcate? All I tell you, our ancient sages have
practised before us in the remotest times—namely, the observance of the
three fundamental laws of relation between sovereign and subject, father
and child, husband and wife; and the five capital virtues-namely, univer-
sal charity, impartial justice, conformity to ceremonies and established
usages, rectitude of heart and mind, and pure sincerity.' 'This,' says
Mr Thornton in his laboriously-accurate 'History of China,' to which we
have been indebted for various details, 'is a concise summary of the whole
moral system of Confucius.' We are told by another writer, that the
Confucian theory has preserved its influence because it was precisely
adapted to the singularly practical mind of the Chinese: To understand
Confucius is to understand China. He had no idiosyncrasy. He was an
incarnation of the national character, a mouthpiece of the national feelings;
and he was only greater than the rest of his countrymen by being imbued
with that genius which gives vitality and energy to thoughts that lie
dormant, though existing, in the minds of meaner men. He was the mental
light which touches, as Dryden expresses it, "the sleeping images of
things;" and at his appearance all became visible that before was obscure,
all distinct that before was unintelligible, and the tumultuous ideas
of a great nation fell gradually into peace, and order, and harmony.
He appealed to no general passions, to no principles that are
catholic in man. He allured the intellectual by no metaphysical subtleties,
the ignorant by no splendour of imagination, the credulous by no super-
natural pretensions: in point of fact, his ethical system, with the exception
of the golden rule, "Do unto others as you would they should do unto
you,” reproduced in Christianity five hundred years later, never soars
beyond the most obvious commonplace. Confucius, notwithstanding, was
hailed as the Messiah of the Chinese; the national mind rested, as it were,
upon his writings; and from that day to this it has never advanced a step
beyond them.' A summary view of the original works or compilations
which have come down from the age of Confucius and his disciples,
will best enable us to form some judgment respecting that school of
philosophy and literature of which he was the head, and which con-
stitutes at this day the standard of Chinese orthodoxy. These classical
or sacred works consist in all of nine-that is to say, the 'Four Books,'
and the 'Five Canonical Works.' In the course of a regular education,
the former of these are the first studied and committed to memory,
being subsequently followed up by the others; and a complete know-
!
11
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
ledge of the whole of them, as well as of the standard notes and
criticisms by which they are elucidated, is an indispensable condition
towards the attainment of the higher grades of literary and official rank.
The original text of these works is comprised within a very moderate
compass; but the numerous commentaries which from time to time have
been added contribute to swell the whole to a formidable bulk. The art
of printing, however, which gives the Chinese such an advantage over
other Asiatic nations, together with the extreme cheapness of paper, has
contributed to multiply the copies ad infinitum, and to bring these and
most other books of the country within the reach of almost everybody.
I. The first of the four books is the 'Ta-heo,' or 'Great Study.' This
little work consists of a brief text by Confucius, with an explanation by
his disciple Theng-tsen. Though very brief (containing less than two
thousand words), it may, in one point of view, be regarded as the most
precious of all the writings of our philosopher, as it exhibits in the
highest degree the employment of a logical method; which shews that its
author, although unacquainted with the profound syllogistic proceedings
taught and practised by the Greek and Hindoo philosophers, had at least
reduced his philosophy to a scientific state, and was not confined to the
aphoristic expression of moral ideas. The 'Ta-heo' is intended to shew
that in the knowledge and government of one's self the economy and govern-
ment of a family must originate; and going on thence to extend the
principle of domestic rule to the administration of a province, it deduces
from this last the rules and maxims which should prevail in the ordering of
the whole empire. The end and aim of the work is evidently political;
and in this instance, as in others, the philosopher and statesman of China
commences with morals as the foundation of politics; with the conduct of
an individual father in his family as the prototype of a sovereign's sway
over his people.
In the sixth section of this work the 'beauty of virtue' is inculcated
somewhat in the manner of the Stoics, and its practice recommended as a
species of enjoyment. Much wisdom also is shewn in pointing out the
importance and utility of rectifying 'the motives of action.' In the tenth
section good advice is given to kings and statesmen, as in these sentences:
'He who gains the hearts of the people secures the throne; and he who
loses the people's hearts loses the throne.' 'Let those who produce
revenue be many, and those who consume it few; let the producers have
every facility, and let the consumers practise economy; thus there will
be constantly a sufficiency of revenue'-and he might have added, no
national debts.
This
II. The second sacred book is the Chung-yung,' or 'The Invariable
in the Mean.' It is an application of the Greek maxim― de μscorns sv Taoi
ή δε μεσοτης εν πασιν
arpaλsorsga, that 'the middle is in all things the safest course.'
doctrine of the mean, in the opinion of the Chinese, contains the very
essence of all philosophy. It has been thus explained by Professor
Maurice Each duty involves another. What is the first duty from
which all derive their sanction-the performance of which makes the
performance of the others possible? It is difficult to find; often we seem
to be moving in a circle. But evidently all duties involve a rule. To be
right is to be regular. Irregularity must be the common expression for the
:
12
CONFUCIUS.
violation of all relations. But irregularity is clearly the effect of some bias
determining us to one side or another. The law of rectitude, then, must be
the law of the mean. All study and discipline must be for the preservation
mean.
of this.' In continuation of this explanation he quotes the following passage
from the Chung-yung: 'Before joy, satisfaction, anger, sorrow, have
been produced in the soul, the state in which we are found is called the
When once they have been produced in the soul, and they have
not transgressed certain limits, the state in which we are is called Harmonic.
This mean is the great foundation of the world. Harmony is the universal
and permanent law of it. When the Mean and the Harmony have been
carried to the point of perfection, heaven and earth are in a state of perfect
tranquillity, and all beings receive their full development. Confucius
said: The man of superior virtue perseveres invariably in the mean; the
vulgar or unprincipled man is constantly in opposition to this invariable
Few men are there, he cried at another time, who know how to
keep long in the right way; I know the reason: cultivated men pass beyond
it; ignorant men do not attain it; men of strong virtue go too far; men of
feeble virtue stop short.'
mean.
C
Here,' continues Mr Maurice, we have the very marrow of Chinese
life, Chinese morals, Chinese politics. Hence we may explain that
passion for minute ceremony which seems to western people so ridiculous.
and intolerable. Hence it arises that the most affectionate disciples of a
man really so honest and simple as Confucius was, should spend whole
pages in informing us that if he had to salute persons who presented them-
selves to him either on the right or the left, his robe behind and before
always fell straight and well-arranged; that his step was quickened when
he introduced guests, and that he held his arms extended like the wings of
a bird; that when he entered under the gate of the palace, he bent his
body as if the gate had not been sufficiently high to let him pass; that in
passing before the throne, his countenance changed all at once, his step
being grave and measured, as if he had fetters on, and his words being as
embarrassed as his feet; that, taking his robe with his two hands, he
ascended into the hall of the palace, his body bent and holding his breath,
as if he had not dared to breathe; that his night-dress was always half as
long again as his body; that he never ate meat which was not cut in
straight lines; that if a meat had not the sauce which belonged to it, he
never touched it: with a thousand other particulars, of which these are
fair specimens, and which we willingly omit, lest we should diminish our
readers' respect for a really remarkable man, when our intention is only to
throw light upon the national character, and to shew how entirely the
philosophy of Confucius grew out of it, and was determined by it. That
philosophy is not a mere collection of dry formalities: it is based upon a
large experience; brings out the idea of duty as it was never brought out
in the west till Greek philosophy was remoulded by the Latin mind. It
suggests very deep thoughts respecting the connection of social and indivi-
dual life; it may help us as much by that which it fails to recognise as by
that which it actually proclaims. But the blanks which are so significant
to us have been filled up in China, as they could only be filled up, by new
maxims, a more rigid ceremonial, an intense self-conceit and self-satis-
faction. The true Confucian clings to his classical books, learns them by
13
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
heart, dwells on the rules of equity, the contempt of money, the reverence
for antiquity which they enforce; and shews by the contradictions of his
acts and life what truth there is in these maxims, and what powerlessness;
how faithfully they foretell the decline of a country in which they are not
obeyed; and how utterly unable they are to produce obedience.'
The following passages, extracted from the " Chung-yung,' will give
some idea of the political philosophy of Confucius. He thus explains his
notions of good government: 'Koong-foo-tse was questioned on the
constitutive principles of a good government. The philosopher said:
The laws of the ancient kings were consigned to bamboo tablets; if
their ministers were living now their laws would be in vigour; their
ministers have ceased to be, and their principles of good government are
no longer followed. The combined virtues and qualities of the ministers
of a prince make the administration of a state good, as the fertile virtue
of the earth, uniting the moist and the dry, produces and makes to grow
the plants which cover its surface. This good administration resembles
the reeds which are on the borders of rivers: it springs up naturally on a
soil that is suitable to it. Thus the good administration of a state depends
upon the ministers who are set over it. A prince who wishes to imitate
the excellent government of the ancient kings must choose his ministers
according to his own sentiments, which must always be inspired by the
public good. That his sentiments may always have the public good for
their moving principle, he must conform himself to the great law of duty;
and this great law of duty must be sought for in humanity, that fine virtue
of the heart which is the principle of love for all men. This humanity is
man himself: regard for relations is its first duty.'
He next describes what is necessary in a prince: The prince can never
cease to correct himself and bring himself to perfection. With the inten-
tion of correcting and perfecting himself, he cannot dispense with rendering
to his relations that which is their due. Having the intention to render to
his relations their due, he cannot dispense with the acquaintance of wise
men, that he may honour them, and that they may instruct him in his
duties. Having the intention to become acquainted with wise men, he
cannot dispense with the knowledge of Heaven, nor with the law which
directs in the practice of prescribed duties.'
(
The various duties of man are then enumerated. 'The most universal
duties for the human race are five in number, and man possesses three
natural faculties for practising them. These five duties are—the relations
which subsist between the prince and his ministers, the father and his
children, the husband and his wife, the elder and younger brothers, and
those of friends among themselves. Conscience, which is the light of
intelligence to distinguish good and evil; humanity, which is the equity of
the heart; moral courage, which is the strength of the soul—these are the
three grand and universal moral faculties of man.'
Results he considers to be more important than the method of arriving
at them. 'Whether nature is sufficient for the knowledge of these universal
duties; whether study is necessary to apprehend them; whether the know-
ledge is arrived at with great difficulty or not-when one has got the know-
ledge, the result is the same. Whether we practise these duties naturally
and without effort, or whether we practise them for the sake of getting
14
CONFUCIUS.
profit and personal advantage from them—when we have succeeded in
accomplishing meritorious works, the result is the same.'
'He who
He then goes on to teach that practice leads to knowledge.
loves study, or the application of his intelligence to the search of the law
of duty, is very near the acquirement of moral science. He who devotes
all his efforts to practise his moral duties, is near that devotion to the
happiness of men which is called humanity. He who knows how to
blush for his weakness in the practice of his duties, is very near acquiring
the force of mind necessary to their accomplishment.'
Rulers are next informed how they may make the condition of an empire
blessed and enviable. So soon as the prince shall have well regulated
and improved himself, straightway the universal duties will be accomplished
towards him. So soon as he shall have learned to revere wise men, straight-
way he will no longer have any doubt about the principles of truth and
falsehood, of good and evil. So soon as his parents shall be the objects of
the affection which is due to them, straightway there will be no more dis-
sensions between his uncles, his elder brother, and his younger brothers.
So soon as he shall treat with fitting respect all public functionaries and
secondary magistrates, the doctors and literary men will zealously acquit
themselves of their duties in the ceremonies. So soon as he shall love and
treat the people as his son, the people will be drawn to imitate their
superior. So soon as he shall have collected about him all the learned men
and artists, his wealth will be advantageously spent. So soon as he shall
entertain agreeably persons who come from a distance, straightway will men
from the four ends of the empire flock in crowds to his state, to share in
the benefits he bestows. So soon as he shall treat his great vassals with
kindness, straightway he will be respected throughout the whole empire.'
We must not separate these political axioms from the following, which
are more purely moral. Resolutions, he says, is the greatest element of
action: 'All virtuous deeds, all duties which have been resolved on before-
hand, are thereby accomplished; if they are not resolved on, they are
thereby in a state of infraction. If we have determined beforehand the
words which we must speak, we shall experience no hesitation. If we
have predetermined our affairs and occupations in the world, they will
thereby be easily accomplished. If we have predetermined on moral
conduct in life, we shall feel no anguish of soul. If we resolve beforehand
to obey the law of duty, it will never fail us.'
The
He thus distinguishes between the saint and the sage. 'The perfect, the
true, disengaged from all mixture, is the law of Heaven. The process of
perfection, which consists in using all one's efforts to discover the celestial
law, the true principle of the mandate of Heaven, is the law of man.
perfect man attains this law without help from without; he has no need of
meditation or long reflection to obtain it; he arrives at it with calmness and
tranquillity. This is the holy man. He who is continually tending towards
perfection; who chooses the good and attaches himself strongly to it for
fear of losing it, is the sage. He must study much to learn all that is good;
he must inquire with discernment, to seek information about all that is
good; he must watch carefully over all that is good, for fear of losing it,
and meditate upon it in his soul; he must continually strive to become
acquainted with all that is good, and take great care to distinguish it
15
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
from all that is evil; and then he must firmly and constantly practise this
good.'
We conclude our notice of this book with the following testimony to
perseverance :—'He who shall truly follow the rule of perseverance,
however ignorant he may be, he will necessarily become enlightened ;
however feeble he may be, he will necessarily become strong.'
เ
III. The third of the Chinese classical books is the 'Lun-yu,' or 'Philoso-
phical Dialogues.' We have here the recorded sayings of Confucius, which
bear far more internal evidence of genuineness than those which are com-
monly attributed to the founders of the Greek schools. We have also the
testimonies of affectionate disciples respecting him, which, if they are not
wholly to be trusted, at least give us different impressions of his character,
out of which we may form one for ourselves. Sir J. F. Davis calls the
Lun-yu a complete Chinese Boswell;' M. Panthier, who has recently
translated it into French, compares its dialogues to those in which Socrates
is the hero. It is, in truth, in these Philosophical Dialogues that we
become best acquainted with the lofty mind of Confucius-his passion for
virtue, his ardent love of humanity, and desire for the happiness of all men.
No sentiment of vanity or pride, of menace or fear, tarnishes the purity and
authority of his words. 'I was not born endowed with knowledge,' he says;
'I am a man who loved the ancients, and made all exertions to acquire their
information.' His disciples said of him: 'He was a man exempt from four
faults: self-love, prejudice, egotism, and obstinacy. He was mild, yet firm;
majestic, though not harsh; grave, yet agreeable.'
Study—that is, the search after the good, the true, and the virtuous—was,
in his view, the surest means of attaining perfection. 'I have passed,' he
said, 'whole days without food, and entire nights without sleep, that I
might give myself up to meditation, but it was no use: study is far prefer-
able.' He soon added: 'The superior cares only about the right way, and
does not think about eating and drinking. If you cultivate the earth,
hunger often presents itself in your midst; if you study, felicity is your
constant companion. The superior man is anxious only to keep in the
right way; he does not trouble himself about poverty.' With what admi-
ration he speaks of one of his disciples, who, in the midst of the greatest
privations, devoted himself to the study of wisdom with unabated perse-
verance! Oh! how wise was Hoei! he had a dish of bamboo to eat
from, and a common cup to drink from, and he lived in a humble hovel in
a narrow and deserted street; any other man but himself would have sunk
under his privations and sufferings. But nothing could affect the serenity
of Hoei; oh! what a wise man was Hoei!' But if he could thus honour
poverty, he was no less energetic in denouncing a material, idle, and useless
life. Those,' he said, 'who do nothing but eat and drink during the whole
day, without employing their intellects in some worthy occupation, excite
my pity. Is there not the trade of bargemen? Let them practise it;
then they will be sages in comparison with what they are now.'
(
It is a well-known fact that many of the ancient Greek philosophers had
two doctrines—one public and the other secret; one for the vulgar, the other
for the initiated. Such was not the case with Confucius; he plainly
declared that he had no esoterical doctrine. 'Do you fancy, my disciples,
that I have any doctrines that I conceal from you? I have none: I have
16
CONFUCIUS.
done nothing that I have not communicated to you, oh my disciples!' He
appears, indeed, according to Mr Thornton, to have been particularly
anxious not to appear anything higher than he really was. Amongst the
anecdotes related respecting Confucius at this period, there is one which
evinces his desire to disclaim supernatural knowledge. In one of their
walks he advised his disciples to provide themselves with umbrellas, since,
although the sky was perfectly fair, there would soon be rain. The event,
contrary to their expectation, corresponded with his prediction, and one of
them inquired what spirit had revealed to him this secret.
"There is no
(
spirit in the matter,” said Confucius ingenuously; "a verse in the She-king
says, that when the moon rises in the constellation pe, great rain may be
expected.' Last night I saw the moon in that constellation. This is the
whole secret."
That our readers may not be unacquainted with the form, such as it is, of
this Chinese book, through our desire to cull choice sentences that fell from
the lips of Confucius, we will give the substance of one or two of the chapters
which seem best to explain his character and manner of thinking, putting
headings of our own to each paragraph for convenience of reference.
1. Pleasures of Study.-' The philosopher said: He who devotes himself
to the study of the true and the good, with perseverance and without
relaxation, derives therefrom great satisfaction.'
2. External Appearances.-' Khoong-tseu said: Ornate and flowery
expressions, an exterior that is carefully got up and full of affectation, arc
rarely allied with sincere virtue.'
3. Thorough Knowledge. The philosopher said: Make yourself com-
pletely master of what you have learned, and be always learning something
new; you may then become an instructor of men.'
4. A superior Man.-'Tseu-Koong asked who was a superior man; the
philosopher said: He is a man who first puts his words into practice, and
then speaks conformably to his actions. The superior man is one who
entertains an equal feeling of benevolence towards all men, and has no
egotism or partiality. The vulgar man is he who has none but sentiments
of egotism, without any benevolent disposition towards all men in general.'
5. Rules of Conduct.-' Tseu-chang studied with the view of obtaining
the functions of a governor. The philosopher said to him: Listen much,
so as to diminish your doubts; be attentive to what you say, that you may
say nothing superfluous-then you will rarely commit faults. Look much,
that you may diminish the dangers into which you might run through not
being informed of what is passing. Watch attentively over your actions,
and you will rarely have cause to repent. If in your words you seldom
commit faults, and if your actions seldom give you cause to repent, you
possess already the charge to which you aspire.'
6. Sincerity and Fidelity. The philosopher said: A man devoid of
sincerity and fidelity is an incomprehensible being in my eyes: he is a
great chariot without an axle, a little chariot without a pole; how can he
guide himself along the road of life?'
7. Country Life.-The philosopher said: Humanity, or sentiments of
benevolence towards others, is admirably practised in the country; he who,
in selecting a residence, refuses to dwell in the country, cannot be con-
sidered wise.'
17
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
8. Honesty.—The philosopher said: Riches and honour are the objects
of human desire; if they cannot be obtained by honest and right means,
they must be renounced. Poverty, and a humble or vile condition, are
the objects of human hatred and contempt; if you cannot escape therefrom
by honest and right means, you must remain in them.'
9. Preparation for Death. The philosopher said: If in the morning
you have heard the voice of celestial reason, in the evening you will be fit
to die.'
10. Consequences of Avarice.—'The philosopher said: Apply yourself
solely to gains and profits, and your actions will make you many enemies.'
11. Actions and Words.-' The philosopher said: At the commencement
of my relations with men, I listened to their words, and I thought that
their actions would be in conformity to them. Now, in my relations with
men, I listen to their words, but I look to their actions.'
12. Love for the Past.-' The philosopher said: I illustrate and comment
upon the old books, but I do not compose new ones. I have faith in the
ancients-I love them; I have the highest respect for our Lao-pang' (a sage
of the Chang dynasty.)
13. Ideal of a Great Man.-'The philosopher said: To meditate in
silence, and to recall to one's memory the objects of one's meditations; to
devote one's self to study and not to be discouraged; to instruct men and
not to suffer one's self to be cast down-how shall I attain to the possession
of these virtues?'
14. Lamentations over the Age.-'The philosopher said: Virtue is not
cultivated—study is not manfully pursued: if the principles of justice and
equity are professed, they are not followed; the wicked and the perverse
will not amend that is the cause of my sorrow.'
15. Self-Education necessary. The philosopher said: If a man makes
no efforts to develop his own mind, I shall not develop it for him. If a
man does not choose to make use of his faculty of speech (so as to make
himself intelligible), I shall not penetrate the sense of his expressions. If,
after having enabled him to know one angle of a square, he does not dis-
cover the measure of the other three, I do not repeat the demonstration.'
16. Mere Courage no Virtue.-'Tseu-lou said: If you were leading three
bodies of troops of 12,500 men each, which of us would you take for a
lieutenant ? The philosopher answered: The man who with his own
hands would engage us in a combat with a tiger; who without any motive
would wish us to ford a river; who would throw away his life without
reason or remorse-I certainly would not take for my lieutenant. I
should want a man who would maintain a steady vigilance in the direction
of affairs; who was capable of forming plans and of executing them.'
17. Riches better than Respectability.—The philosopher said: To get
riches in a fair way, I would certainly engage in a low occupation, if it were
necessary; but if the means were not honest, I would prefer to apply
myself to that which I love.'
18. Love of Music.-'The philosopher being in the kingdom of Tsi,
heard the music which is called Tchao, and was so much affected by it that
for three months he did not know the taste of his food. He said: I do not
fancy that, since the composition of that music, so high a point of perfec-
tion has ever been attained.'
18
CONFUCIUS.
19. Independence of the Wise Man.-'The philosopher said: To feed
upon a little rice, to drink water, to have nothing but one's bent arm to
lean upon, is a state which has its own satisfaction. To get riches and
honours by unfair means seems to me like a cloud driven along by the
wind.'
20. Study of Books.-' The philosopher said: If it were granted to me to
add a number of years to my life, I would ask fifty to study the Y-King,
that I might free myself from great faults.'
21. Confucius's Account of Himself. Ye-Kong questioned Tseu-loo about
Koong-foo-tse. Tseu-loo did not answer him. The philosopher said: Why
have you not answered him? Koong is a man who in his eagerness to
acquire knowledge often forgets to take nourishment; who in the joy which
he feels at having acquired it, forgets the pains which it has cost him; and
who is not disquieted at the approach of old age. Now you know about
him.'
22. All Men are Teachers.-' The philosopher said: If three of us were
journeying together, I should necessarily find two instructors (in my travel-
ling companions); I would choose the good man for imitation, and the bad
man for correction.'
23. Virtue is Strength. The philosopher said: Heaven has planted
virtue in me; what, then, can Hoan-loui do to me?'
(
24. Hypocrisy Difficult. The philosopher said: To want everything,
and to act as if one had abundance of possessions; to be empty, and shew
one's self full; to be small, and shew one's self great-is a part very difficult
to support steadily.'
25. Action must follow Reflection.—'The philosopher said: How is it that
there are men who act without knowing what they do? I should not wish
to behave myself so. We must hear the advice of many people; choose what
is good in their counsels, and follow it; see much, and reflect maturely upon
what we have seen: this is the second step in knowledge.'
26. Exclusiveness reproved. 'The inhabitants of a city were hard
to teach; one of their young men came to visit the disciples of the philo-
sopher, and they deliberated whether or not they should receive him
amongst them. The philosopher said: I have admitted him into the
number of my disciples; I have not admitted him to go away. Whence
comes this opposition on your part? This man has purified and renewed
himself in order to enter my school. Praise him for having done this; I
cannot answer for his past or future actions.'
(
27. Humility of Confucius. The philosopher said: In literature I am
not the equal of other men. If I think of a man who unites holiness to the
virtue of humanity, how could I dare to compare myself to him? All I
know is, that I force myself to practise these virtues, and to teach them to
others, without being disheartened.'
28. Devotion of Confucius.-' The philosopher being very ill, Tseu-loo
begged him to allow his disciples to address prayers for him to the spirits
and genii. The philosopher said: Is it right to do so? Tseu-loo answered
respectfully: It is right; it is said in the book called Loui, " Address your
prayers to the spirits and genii above and below." The philosopher
answered: The prayer of Koong-foo-tse is constant.'
29. Disobedience. The philosopher said: If a man is prodigal and
19
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
addicted to luxury, he is not submissive. If he is too parsimonious, he is
vile and abject. Baseness is, however, far better than disobedience.'
30. Sovereign Virtue. The philosopher said: Tai-pe might be called
sovereignly virtuous! I know not how anything could be added to his
virtue thrice he refused the empire, and the people saw nothing admirable
in his conduct.'
31. How Virtues become Mischievous.-"The philosopher said: If deference
and respect towards others are not regulated by the rites or by education,
they are mere gratifications of our own fancy. If vigilance and carefulness
are not regulated by education, they are only other names for extravagant
cowardice. If manly courage is not regulated by education, it means only
insubordination. If rectitude is not regulated by education, it entails the
greatest confusion.'
32. Limits of Power.-' The philosopher said: We may force the people
to follow the principles of justice and reason, but we cannot force them to
comprehend them.'
33. How to be Virtuous.-The philosopher said: He who has an unalter-
able faith in truth, and who is passionately fond of study, preserves to his
death the principles of virtue, which are the consequences of this faith and
love.'
34. Causes of Shame.-' The philosopher said: If a state is governed by
the principles of reason, poverty and misery are a cause of shame. If a
state is not governed by the principles of reason, riches and honours are
then the subjects of shame.'
35. Qualities of a Great Man.—'The philosopher said: I see no defect in
Yu; he was sober in eating and drinking, and devoutly pious towards the
spirits and genii. His ordinary clothing was poor and mean; but how
beautiful and glorious his robes were at the ceremonies! He inhabited a
humble dwelling; but he directed all his energies to the making of
trenches and cutting canals for the conveyance of water.'
36. Good Ministers.-The philosopher said: Those whom I call great
ministers are men who serve their prince according to the principles of
reason and justice, and not according to the wishes of the prince: if they
cannot do so, they retire.'
37. Anti-Capital Punishments.-' Ki-kang-tseu questioned Koong-foo-tse
with regard to the method of governing, and said: If I put to death those
who respect no law to favour those who observe the laws, what will be
the result? Koong replied with deference: What need have you, who are
at the head of public affairs, to employ punishments? Love virtue, and
the people will be virtuous. The virtues of a superior man are like the
wind, and those of a vulgar man, like the grass; when the wind passes
over the grass, the latter bends before it.'
38. How to Govern.—' Tseu-loo put a question regarding the method of
governing rightly. The philosopher said: Be the first to give the people
an example of virtue in your own person; be the first to give the people an
example of industry in your own person.'
39. Use of Speech.-The philosopher said: If the state is governed by
the principles of reason and justice, speak boldly and worthily, act nobly
and honourably. If the state is not governed by justice and reason, still
act nobly and honourably, but speak moderately and with precaution.'
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CONFUCIUS.
40. Difficulties of Poverty. The philosopher said: It is difficult to be
poor, and to feel no resentments; it is easy in comparison to be rich, and
not to be proud.'
41. Modesty.—'The philosopher said: The superior man blushes with
fear lest his words should exceed his actions.'
42. Good People are Scarce.-'The philosopher said: Yeou, those who
are acquainted with virtue are very rare!'
43. Love of Beauty.—' The philosopher said: Alas! hitherto I have seen
no one who preferred virtue to personal beauty.'
44. The Way to Please.-The philosopher said: Be severe in your
judgment of yourselves, and indulgent towards others; thus you will avoid
ill-will.'
45. Education should be General. The philosopher said: Provide
instruction for all, without distinction of class or rank.'
46. Friends. -Koong-foo-tse said: There are three sorts of friends who
are useful, and three sorts who are hurtful. Straightforward and truth-
telling friends, faithful and virtuous friends, educated and intelligent friends,
are useful; friends who outwardly affect a gravity which they do not pos-
sess, friends who are lavish of praises and hollow flatteries, friends who
are loquacious without being intelligent, are hurtful.'
47. Sources of Pleasure.-' Koong-foo-tse said: There are three sorts
of joys or satisfactions which are useful, and three sorts which are hurtful.
The satisfaction of becoming thoroughly acquainted with the rites and
with music, the satisfaction of instructing men in the principles of virtue,
the satisfaction of possessing the friendship of a large number of wise men
-these are useful. The satisfaction derived from vanity or pride, the
satisfaction imparted by laziness and sloth, the satisfaction caused by good
cheer and pleasures-these are injurious.'
48. Useless Lives.-'Tseu-chang said: Those who embrace virtue with-
out giving it any development; who have acquired a knowledge of the
principles of justice and reason without putting them into practice ;
what difference would it have made to the world if these men had never
existed?'
49. Self-Examination.-' Thseng-tseu said: I examine myself daily on
three principal points: Have I attended to the business of others with as
much zeal and integrity as to my own? Have I been sincere in my rela-
tions with my friends and fellow-disciples? Have I carefully preserved
and practised the doctrines imparted to me by my instructors?'
50. A Retrospect. 'The philosopher said: At the age of fifteen, my
mind was continually occupied with study; at thirty, my principles were
solid and unchangeable; at forty, I felt no more doubts or hesitation; at
fifty, I was acquainted with the law of Heaven (that is, the constitutional
law conferred by Heaven on each being of nature for the regular accom-
plishment of its destiny); at sixty, I easily discerned the causes of
events; at seventy, I satisfied the desires of my heart, without, however,
exceeding moderation.'
We conclude these maxims with some observations by Professor Maurice
upon a very remarkable one, but which Mr Thornton refers to the Chung-
yung:-'There is a passage,' says the professor, 'in which one of the
disciples of Confucius declares that the doctrine of his master consists
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simply in having rectitude of heart, and in loving our neighbour as our-
selves. M. Pauthier apologises for giving this form to his translation,
but says he could find no other so accurate. Till some greater scholar
contradicts him, we are bound to accept his statement. If he supposes
that those who believe that these words proceeded from higher lips will
be scandalised by it, we think he mistakes the matter altogether. Those
who attach the most awful significance to the utterances of these lips, and
to the person from whom they fell, will be the least disposed to look
upon him as the propounder of great maxims, and not rather as the
giver of a new life; will be the least likely to grudge a Chinese teacher
any glimpses which may have been vouchsafed to him of that which the
true regenerator of humanity should effect for it.' In Mr Thornton's work
the passage is given in the original Chinese; then a Latin translation,
which retains a very close resemblance; and then the meaning in English
in the following words :-' He who is conscientious, and who feels towards
others the same sentiments he has for himself, is not far from the taou:
what he does not wish should be done to him, let him not himself do to
others.'
IV. We should do great injustice to China if we said nothing of the
fourth of the classical books, which bears another name than that of the
great teacher and reformer; of a man, however, who was a teacher and
reformer, who considered Confucius the great legislator of the world,
and laboured in a society which had become again degenerated to
restore his precepts and his practice. Mang-tze, or Mencius, was born
between the years B. C. 374 and 372. His birth was, as usual, said to have
been attended with prodigies; but the less fabulous part of the legend
attributes his virtues and learning to the excellent precepts and example
which he received from his mother. Such was her care of the boy, that
she thrice changed her residence on account of some fault in the neigh-
bourhood. Satisfied at length on this point, she sent her son to school,
while she, a poor widow, remained at home to spin and weave for a subsist-
ence. Not pleased with his progress, she learned, on inquiry, that he was
wayward and idle; upon which she rent the web which she was weaving
asunder, partly from vexation, and partly as a figurative expression of what
she wished him to remember; for when the affrighted boy asked the reason
of her conduct, she made him understand that, without diligence and effort,
his attending school would be as useless to his progress in learning as
her beginning a web, and destroying it when half done, would be to the
procuring of food and clothing. He took the hint, applied himself to study
with unwearied perseverance, and eventually became a sage, second only
to Confucius himself. One anecdote of the mother of Mencius deserves
notice. The boy, on seeing some animals killed, asked her what was going
to be done with them. She in jest said: "They are killed to feed you;' but
on recollecting herself, she repented of this, because it might teach him to
lie: so she bought some of the meat, and gave it to him, that the fact might
agree with what she had uttered. The Chinese hold her up as the pattern
of mothers.
The life of Mencius was spent in travelling about with his disciples, teaching
all ranks and conditions of men, speaking as freely in the palace of the
king as in the hut of the peasant. There was a greater boldness and
22
CONFUCIUS.
(6
decision in the character of Mang-tze than in that of Confucius, qualities
which are visible in his writings. In a parallel between these two per-
sonages, drawn by Chang-tze, it is said: Confucius, through prudence
or modesty, often dissimulated: he did not always say what he might have
said. Mang-tze, on the contrary, was incapable of constraining himself:
he spoke what he thought, and without the least fear or reserve. He
resembles ice of the purest water, through which we can see distinctly all
its defects as well as its beauties: Confucius, on the other hand, is like a
precious gem, which, though not so pellucid as ice, has more strength and
solidity." He died at the age of eighty-four, and his memory remained
without any particular marks of honour, until an emperor of the Sung
dynasty, about A.D. 1005, reared a temple to him in Shan-tung province,
where his remains had been interred. He then obtained a niche in the
temple of Confucius, to whom, however, in the opinion of the Chinese, he
was far inferior. Inferior he probably was-inferior in quietness and self-
control, and in perfect adaptation to the habits of the people with whom
he conversed. We can quite imagine that he never would have been a
great legislator, or have left any deep impression upon the mind of his
country, if Confucius had not led the way. But in place of the solemnity
and general dryness of his master, there appears to have been in Mencius
real humour, a very earnest dislike of oppression, a courage in telling dis-
agreeable truths to the highest personages, and a power of perceiving the
practical application of sound maxims to the details of government, which
cannot be contemplated without admiration and profit.
The contents of the book of Mencius exceed the aggregate of the other
three, and the main object of the work is to inculcate that great principle
of Confucius-philanthropic government. To our taste it is by far the best
of the whole; and while it must be confessed to contain a great deal that is
obscure and perhaps worthless, there are passages in it which would not
disgrace the productions of more modern and enlightened times. It opens
with a conversation between Mencius and the prince of the town of Seang.
The latter had invited the worthies and philosophers of the day to his
court, and Mencius went among the rest. On his entering, the king
accosted him, saying: 'Venerable sage, I suppose you come to increase the
gains of my country?' To which he replied: 'King, what need is there to
speak of gain? Benevolence and justice are all in all.' And he illustrated
this by shewing that if a spirit of selfish avarice went abroad among all
ranks, from the prince downwards, mutual strife` and anarchy must be the
result: upon which the king, as if convinced, repeated his words, saying:
'Benevolence and justice are all in all.'
We commend the following conversation to the notice of disputants
respecting the game-laws :-'Siouan-wang, king of Tze, interrogated Mang-
tze in these terms: I have been told that the park of the king Wen-wang
was seven leagues in circumference; was that the case ?-Mang-tze answered
respectfully: History tells us so. The king said: If so, was not its extent
excessive ?-Mang-tze said: The people considered it too small. The king
continued: My insignificance has a park only four leagues in circumference,
and the people consider it too large; whence this difference?- Mang-
tze answered: The park of Wen-wang was seven leagues in circuit, but
thither resorted all those who wanted to cut grass or wood: thither went
23
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
all who wanted to catch pheasants or hares. As the king had his park in
common with the people, the people thought it small, though it was seven
leagues round; was not that natural? I, your servant, when I was about
to cross the frontier, took care to inform myself of what was especially
forbidden in your kingdom before I dared to venture further. Your servant
learned that there was within your line of customs a park four leagues round,
and that the man who killed a stag there was punished with death, as if he
had murdered a human being. So that there is an actual pit of death, of
four leagues in circumference, opened in the very midst of your kingdom.
Are not the people right in thinking that park too large?'
From a very long conversation with the same prince, all of which well
deserves to be extracted, we take a passage which is not so illustrative of
the talent of Mencius as many others, but it will at least prove that his
philosophy is not obsolete, as it explains how the crimes of the poor are
connected with their poverty. To want things necessary for life, and yet
to preserve an equal and virtuous mind, is only possible for men whose
cultivated intellect raises them above the multitude. As for the common
people, when they want the necessaries of life, they want also an equal
and virtuous mind. Then follow violation of justice, depravity of heart,
licentiousness of vice, excess of debauchery; indeed there is nothing which
they are not capable of doing. If they go so far as to violate the law, you
prosecute them, and they suffer punishments; so you catch the people in
a net. If a man truly endowed with the virtue of humanity occupied the
throne, could he commit this criminal action of thus catching the people
in a snare?'
He then draws the following picture of the condition of China at that
time: At present, the constitution of the private property of the people
is such, that the children have not wherewithal to minister to their fathers
and mothers, and the fathers have not wherewithal to supply their wives
and children. In years of abundance, the people suffer to the end of life
pain and misery; in years of calamity, they are not preserved from famine
and death. In such extremities the people think only of escaping from
death. What time can they have to study moral doctrines, that they may
learn therefrom how to conduct themselves according to the principles of
equity and justice?' He concludes by suggesting various remedies—such
as improved cultivation of the land, plantation of trees, rearing of animals,
the manufacture of silk, and above all, education.
One of his great maxims is, that the monarch should always share his
pleasures with his people. If a prince rejoices in the joy of his people,
the people also rejoice in his joy. If a prince sorrows at the sorrows of his
people, the people also grieve at his grief. Let a prince rejoice with every-
body and sorrow with everybody; in so doing, it is impossible for him to
find any difficulty in reigning.'
Mencius one day quoted the following passage from the Book of Verses :-
We may be rich and powerful, but we should have compassion on unhappy
widowers, widows, and orphans. 'King Siouan-wang said: How admirable
are the words which I have just heard.-Mang-tze replied: O king! if
you find them so admirable, why do you not practise them? The
king answered: My insignificance has a defect; my insignificance loves
riches.-Meng-tseu answered respectfully: Formerly Kong-Sieou loved
24
CONFUCIUS.
riches, but he shared them with his people. O king! if you love riches,
use them as he did; what difficulty will you then find in reigning? The
king said: My insignificance has another defect-my insignificance loves
pleasure. Meng-tseu answered respectfully: Formerly Tai-wang loved
pleasure he cherished his wife; so he contrived that in his whole kingdom
there should be no celibates. O king! if you love pleasure, love it as Tai-
wang did: render it common to the whole population.'
The following is still more pointed; it is a conversation with the same
patient prince :-'Suppose a servant of the king has sufficient confidence
in a friend to intrust to his care his wife and children, just as he is about
to set out for a journey; if on his return he finds that his wife and children
have suffered cold and hunger, what must he do?-The king said: He must
break with his friend entirely. Mang-tze added: If the chief judge
cannot govern the magistrates who are subordinate to him, what course
must be pursued respecting him?—The king said: He must be deposed.
Mang-tze went on: If the provinces situated at the extreme limits of the
kingdom are not well governed, what must be done?—The king, feigning
not to understand him, looked to the right and left, and turned the
conversation."
Speaking of the ambition of the wise man, Mencius said: 'The great
man has three satisfactions: to have his father and mother still living
without any cause of dissatisfaction or dissension between the elder and
the younger brother is the first; to have nothing to blush for in the face
of Heaven or of man is the second; to meet wise and virtuous men among
those of his generation is the third. These are the three causes of
satisfaction to a wise man. To rule an empire is not included among
them.'
Mencius considered a hearty love of good a compensation for the want
of intellectual gifts in a minister. 'When the Prince of Loo desired that
Lo-ching-tze, a disciple of Mang-tze, should undertake the whole admi-
nistration of his kingdom, Mang-tze said: Since I have heard that news, I
cannot sleep for joy. Kung-sun-cheou said: What! has he a great deal
of energy?—Mang-tze answered: Not at all. Has he prudence, and a
mind capable of forming great designs?-Not at all. Has he studied
much, and does he possess very extensive knowledge ?-No. If this is
the case, why do you lie awake for joy at his promotion?-Because he
is a man who loves what is good. Is that enough?—Yes, to love
what is good is more than enough to govern the whole empire, much
more to govern the kingdom of Loo! If a man who is intrusted with the
administration of a state loves that which is good, then the good men who
dwell within the four seas (that is, in China) will think it a slight task to
travel a hundred leagues to come and give him good advice. But if he
does not love that which is good, these men will say to themselves: “He is
a self-satisfied man who answers, 'I knew that a long while ago,' whenever
you give him any counsel." Such a tone and air will drive good counsellors
a hundred leagues away from him. If they go, then calumniators,
flatterers, people whose countenances assent to all he says, will arrive in
crowds. In such company, if he wishes to govern well, how can he?'
The following is in a yet higher strain :-' Chun came to the empire
from the midst of the fields; Fou-youé, originally a mason, was raised to
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the rank of a minister of state; Kiao-he was taken from his fishmonger's
stall to become a councillor of King Wen-wang; Kouan-i-ou became a
minister from a jailor; Sun-cho-ngao rose from obscurity to a high dignity
in the empire; and Pe-li-hi left a workshop to become a councillor of
state. Thus when Heaven wishes to confer a great office or an important
mission upon its chosen men, it begins always by proving their souls and
intellects in the bitterness of days of hardship; their nerves and their
bones are worn out by hard toil; their flesh is tormented with hunger;
their persons are reduced to all the privations of misery and want; their
actions produce results contrary to those which they wish to obtain.
Thus their souls are stimulated, their natures hardened, their strength
augmented by an energy without which they would have been unable to
accomplish their high destiny. Men always begin by committing faults
before they are able to correct themselves. They first experience anguish
of heart, they are hindered in their projects, till at last they come forth.
It is universally true that life comes through pains and trials, death through
pleasures and repose.'
'The hearts of the people' are stated to be the only legitimate foun-
dations of empire or of permanent rule. He who subdues men by force,'
says Mencius, 'is a tyrant; he who subdues them by philanthropy is a
king. Those who subdue by force do not subdue the heart; but those
who subdue men by virtue gain the hearts of the subdued, and their
submission is sincere.' He at the same time explains very well the
necessity for governments, as well as for the inequalities in the conditions
of different orders of society. It may be questioned whether the argument
could be better put than he has put it in the fifth chapter of his book,
where the illustration he makes use of demonstrates at the same time
the advantages resulting from the division of labour. Let it be remem-
bered that this was all written more than two thousand years ago. In
reply to the objection, that one portion of the community is obliged to
produce food for the other, Mencius inquired: 'Does the farmer weave
the cloth, or make the woollen cap which he wears ?-By no means: he
gives grain in exchange for them. Why does he not manufacture them
for himself?—Because it would interfere with his farming operations, and
probably ruin him. Does he make his own cooking-vessels and agricul-
tural implements ?—No; he gives grain in barter for them: it would never
do for him to unite the labour of the artisan with that of the husbandman.
So, then, the government of an empire is, in your opinion, the only
occupation which can advantageously be united with the business of the
farmer? There are employments proper to men of superior station as
well as to those in inferior conditions. Hence it has been observed, some
labour with their minds, and some with their hands. Those who labour
with their minds govern men; those who work with their hands are
governed by men. Those who are governed supply men with food; those
who govern are supplied with food. This is the universal law of the
world.' The dictum of the Chinese philosopher corresponds exactly with
Pope's line:
'And those who think still govern those who toil.' '
V. After the Four Books come the five canonical works called 'King,'
26
CONFUCIUS.
(
of each of which Confucius was either the author or compiler. 1. The
'She-king,' or Book of 'Sacred Songs,' is a collection of about three hundred
short poems, selected by Confucius himself. Every well-educated Chinese
has the most celebrated of these pieces by heart, and constant allusion is
made to them in the works of modern writers. They all have a character
of the most primitive simplicity, and many of them would be utterly
unintelligible but for the minute commentary by which they are accom-
panied. But although without value on the score of poetical merit, they
are eminently interesting as having all been composed at least twenty-three
centuries before our time. 2. The 'Shoo-king' is a history of the deliberations
between the Emperors Yaou and Shun, and other personages who are called
by Confucius the ancient kings, and for whose maxims and actions he
had the highest veneration. Their notions of good government, as here
explained, are founded on excellent principles, which, being observed,
there is order; if abandoned, there is anarchy.' 'It is vain to expect,' they
add, 'that good government can proceed from vicious minds;' and when
the people rise against the tyranny of their ruler, they are justified by the
maxim, that 'the people's hearts and Heaven's decree are the same;' which
is nothing else, in fact, than vox populi vox Dei. 3. The 'Le-king,' or 'Book
of Rites,' which is the next in order, may be considered as the foundation
of the present state of Chinese manners, and one of the causes of their
uniform unchangeableness. The ceremonial usages of the country are
commonly estimated at three thousand, as prescribed in the ritual; and
one of the six tribunals at Peking, called Ly-poo, is especially charged
with the guardianship and interpretation of these important matters, which
really form a portion of the religion of the Chinese. 4. The 'Chun-tsieu' is
a history, by Confucius, of his own times, and of the times which imme-
diately preceded them. It possesses very little intrinsic interest, and was
apparently intended to afford warnings and examples to the rulers of the
country, reproving their misgovernment, and inculcating the maxims of the
ancient kings for their guidance. 5. The last of the canonical works is the
'Ye-king;' a mystical exposition of what some consider to be a very ancient
theory of creation, and of the changes that are perpetually occurring in
nature. This theory may be styled a sexual system of the universe;
indeed this notion pervades every department of knowledge in China.
Some of its developments are curious enough; for instance, even numbers
have their genders-odd numbers being male, and even numbers female;
but on this topic we cannot dwell.
We have now sketched, though briefly, the life of Confucius, and given
a rapid summary of his writings. It remains for us to speak of his views
on religion, morals, and politics, and the effect they have produced upon
his countrymen.
On the first point, his religious feelings, we cannot do better than quote
the remarks of Professor Maurice. Alluding to some remarks of Confucius
respecting sacrifices, he says: 'There appeared to him a mystery in the
sacrifice which he could not penetrate; he was far from wishing to deny it;
he would not for the world abolish the expression of it; but what it meant
he did not know, or probably seek to know. He valued the sacrifice not
for its own sake, not for any benefit which he expected from it, but as
part of an august and awful ceremonial. He worshipped the spirits and
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOple.
the genii because it was the ancient law, the established custom; therein
consisted their sacredness in his eyes; but he did not speak of them, he
had nothing to tell respecting them. It must not be concluded from this
statement that he pretended to a faith, for the sake of the vulgar, which he
secretly disowned, or that he looked upon the worship as a mere invention
to maintain the government. There are evidences of sincerity in his own
conduct which negative the first supposition; his demand for sincerity in
ministers and emperors disproves the second. The main principle of this
eminent teacher seems to be this: ceremonies, formalities, etiquette-in
one word, social customs-embody the principle of reason, the very secret of
order among men. This principle of reason is the divinest thing he knows
of: traditional habits and forms are the most accurate expressions of it.
These are the great restraints upon mere self-will; adherence to them is
the sign of the ruler who desires to be in sympathy with his people. The
perception of what they signify is the great privilege and endowment of
the wise man-that which he is to communicate, so far as he can at least
without any intentional reserve, to his disciples; that which it is the great
business of education to impress upon the minds both of rulers and subjects.
But after all, this wisdom cannot be expressed very much better than in
the forms themselves: it must be attained by observation, practice, habitual
discipline; it must come out in conduct, in gestures, in looks as much as
in words; it must be uttered, so far as it is capable of utterance, in short
maxims and somewhat enigmatical poetry-which will interpret themselves
slowly to the person who combines an honest purpose, diligence, and poli-
tical experience.
'The philosopher, it is said, spoke rarely of destiny or of the command
of Heaven. Perhaps the philosopher did not know precisely what he meant
by heaven; but he did know that he meant something which was real and
not imaginary. It is consistent with the character which we have attri-
buted to the original Chinese worship, and with the character of his own
mind, that he should have been profoundly impressed with the order of the
heavenly bodies-with the evenness, calmness, steadfastness which the
succession of day and night reveals to us. Such an order he desired and
sought for in the transactions of human society. Such an order he believed
that the imperial dignity was intended to represent and uphold. It was
executing the mandate of Heaven when it actually presented the image of
this order; disobeying the mandate of Heaven when it forgot this principle,
and promoted or permitted derangement or confusion.' Mr Thornton is
not exactly of this opinion as regards sacrifices, and in the following sen-
tences we believe he gives the true sentiments of Confucius :-That Confu-
cius believed, or professed to believe, in the existence of super-mundane
beings, subordinate to the Deity, is most true; and so do all Christians. But
the broad distinction between the Confucian and the Taou sects is, that the
latter regard the shin and the kwei as superior, the former as subordinate
agents. In sacrificing to them, he merely complied with a practice prescribed
by the ancients, apparently considering this appendage to the worship of the
Shang-te as harmless in itself, and that an attempt to disturb the estab-
lished faith, or to impair the veneration paid to ancient maxims, might
lead to injurious consequences. Thus we are told that, when his disciple,
Tsze-kung, objected to certain sacrifices called yung, on the return of the
28
CONFUCIUS.
year, Confucius replied that the abolition of an ancient rite might bring
religion into disrepute.'
The Shang-te is the Creator, with the attributes of omnipotence, justice,
providence, wisdom, and goodness; and the Tëen is the visible heavens, the
emblem of the deity. These two are sometimes confounded, as in the fol-
lowing passage; but Confucius states very clearly that the object of all wor-
ship is ultimately the Almighty. ""The Teen," said he, "is the universal
principle and prolific source of all things. Our ancestors, who sprung from
this source, are themselves the source of succeeding generations. The first
duty of mankind is gratitude to Heaven; the second, gratitude to those from
whom we sprung. It was to inculcate, at the same time, this double obliga-
tion, that Fuh-he established the rites in honour of Heaven and of ancestors,
requiring that, immediately after sacrificing to the Shang-te, homage should
be rendered to our progenitors. But as neither the one nor the other was
visible by the bodily organs, he sought emblems of them in the material
heavens. The Shang-te is represented under the general emblem of the visible
firmament, as well as under the particular symbols of the sun, the moon, and
the earth, because by their means we enjoy the gifts of the Shang-te. The
sun is the source of life and light; the moon illuminates the world by
night. By observing the course of these luminaries, mankind are enabled to
distinguish times and seasons. The ancients, with the view of connecting
the act with its object, when they established the practice of sacrificing to
the Shang-te, fixed the day of the winter solstice, because the sun, after
having passed through the twelve palaces assigned apparently by the
Shang-te as its annual residence, began its career anew, to distribute
blessings throughout the earth. After evincing, in some measure, their
obligations to the Shang-te, to whom, as the universal principle of exist-
ence, they owed life and all that sustains it, the hearts of the sacrificers
turned with a natural impulse towards those by whom the life they
enjoyed had been successively transmitted to them; and they founded a
ceremonial of respect to their honour, as the complement of the solemn
worship due to the Shang-te. The Chow princes have added another rite-
a sacrifice to the Shang-te in the spring season, to render thanks to him
for the fruits of the earth, and to implore him to preserve them." After
describing various existing forms of sacrifice, he continued: "Thus, under
whatever denomination our worship is paid, whatever be the apparent
object, and of what kind soever be its external forms, it is invariably the
Shang-te to whom it is addressed: the Shang-te is the direct and chief
object of our veneration.'
We pass from his religion to his moral philosophy. This has been
invested by most writers on the subject with an imaginary purity manifestly
borrowed from Christianity itself. But although many striking moral
verities were enunciated and taught by the Chinese philosopher, his ethics
are characterised by a generally utilitarian and selfish tone.
In some
respects Confucius would sustain a most advantageous comparison with
any other moralist whose speculations have been independent of Christi-
anity. As to most of the virtues essential to the constitution of domestic
and social life, his standard is exceedingly high. But his system (equally
with others which hold with it concurrent jurisdiction) entirely lacks the
heroic element. It admits no motive that addresses the higher nature; it
29
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
ignores disinterestedness, generosity, and self-sacrifice. It recognises only
those forms of goodness which have their reward visibly and at once, and
derives none of its sanctions from aught within, above, or beyond the
external condition and relations of the individual. The case has been far
otherwise with extra-Christian systems in general. Whatever their defects
or vices, they have seldom been merely material in their philosophy.
They have appealed to the spiritual nature of man, and to the whole range
of unobjective sentiments and affections. They have presented posthu-
mous fame, the consciousness of right, or the favour of the immortals, as
motives for deeds which could bring no immediate recompense, and might
be attended with danger or sacrifice. They have often elevated mere
enterprise or hardihood above the less obtrusive but essential virtues of
common life. And Christianity, while it gives the place of honour to such
virtues as may be exercised by all men, and under every posture of circum-
stances, yet cherishes, in all who are endowed beyond mediocrity, the
disposition to make themselves felt, to leave their mark on society, to
enlarge their sphere of effort, to sow for posterity, and trust to the distant
gratitude of the reapers. Now moral enterprise and heroism, more or less
free from base admixtures, create the movements and propagate the
impulses that result in the progress of society. To be sure the earnest,
disinterested spirits are few compared with the selfish and inert; but the
mere willingness to confer unrecompensed benefits, of itself creates power,
and enables individuals, 'unpropped by ancestry' or office, to mould masses
and rule multitudes; so that every stage in the advancement of civilised
man has been but a new verification of the Scriptural maxim: 'If any man
will be great among you, let him be your servant.' Once let a man cast
hunself upon God, on conscience, or on posterity, for whatever of personal
revenue is to accrue to him from invention, discovery, toil, or sacrifice, and
he has planted his lever where he can move the world. Now we can find
in no form or phasis of Chinese theology or ethics any element that can
create or inspire these file-leaders in the 'march of mind.' We doubt
whether there is a nation upon earth (we exclude not the most savage)
where self-seeking is so universal. It is on this principle solely that
Chinese society is organised; and the only reason why order and mutual
subordination are so sacredly observed is, that the intensity of each indi-
vidual selfishness keeps every other in check.
But in order to form a true conception of Confucius we must regard
him as a politician. He began his career as a man of business-a Chinese
official. The affairs of the empire were his study all his life through, and
he trained his disciples to take part in them. To ascertain the ends of
government, and the means of accomplishing those ends, was the one
function of the sage, and to this all was subordinated. He was a strenuous
advocate of general education; but all education was to be for the sake of
government, as in his view the one was essential to the other. Our quota-
tions from the Lun-yu' shew that he was enthusiastically fond of music
but he considered it important only as an instrument of education and
government; and this is the only point in which he bears a resemblance to
Plato. Morals he considered as the foundation of politics; the conduct of
an individual father in his family as the prototype of a sovereign's sway
over his people. The following noble principles seem to form the basis of
"
30
CONFUCIUS.
his political system:-1. That the sovereign should be considered as the
father of his people; 2. That all offices should be given to merit alone; 3.
That the military power should be entirely subject to the civil; and 4. That
the state should not interfere with the religious opinions of the individual.
The application of these principles to practice would have produced an
admirable system of civil polity in the hands of men of deep knowledge
and practical experience, but this could not reasonably have been expected
from the natives of a semi-barbarous state; and the result has been, that
the first two of the principles above stated resolved themselves into pure
despotism, the third into absolute cowardice, and the last into a total
absence of real religious feeling. Such at least is the present state of
China.
It may be interesting to illustrate these remarks by the observations of a
recent traveller in the country :-'A short inspection,' says Mr Williams,
'will shew that the great leading principles by which the present Chinese
government preserves its power over the people consist in a system of
strict surveillance and mutual responsibility among all classes. These are
aided in their efficiency by the geographical isolation of the country, by a
difficult language, and a general system of political education and official
examinations. They are enforced by such a minute gradation of rank and
subordination of officers as to give the government more of a military
character than at first appears; and the whole system is such as to make
it one of the most unmixed despotisms now existing. It is like a network
extending over the whole face of society, each individual being isolated in
his own mesh, and responsibly connected with all around him. The man
who knows that it is almost impossible, except by entire seclusion, to
escape from the company of secret or acknowledged emissaries of govern-
ment, will be cautious of offending the laws of the country, knowing, as
he must, that though he should himself escape, yet his family, his kindred,
or his neighbours, will suffer for his offence; that if unable to recompense
the sufferers, it will probably be dangerous for him to return home; or if
he does, it will be most likely to find his property in the possession of
neighbours or officers of the government, who feel conscious of security in
plundering one whose offences have for ever placed him under the ban of
the implacable law.
'The effect of these two causes upon the mass of the people is to
imbue them with a great fear of the government, both of its officers and
its operations; each man considers that safety is to be found alone in
absolute withdrawal. This mutual surveillance and responsibility, though
only partially extended throughout the people, necessarily undermines
every principle of confidence, and infuses universal distrust; and this
object of complete isolation, though at the expense of justice, truth, honesty,
and natural affection, is what the government strives to accomplish, and
actually does to a wonderful degree. The idea of government in the
minds of the people is like the sword of Damocles; and so far has this
undefined fear of some untoward result, when connected with it, coun-
teracted the real vigour of the Chinese, that much of their indifference to
improvement, contentment with what is already known and possessed, and
submission to petty spoliation of individuals, may be referred to it.
1
'Men are deterred, too, by distrust of each other, as much as by fear of
31
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
the police, from combining in an intelligent manner to resist governmental
exactions because opposed to principles of equity, or joining with their
rulers to uphold good order; no such men, and no such instances as John
Hampden going to prison for refusing to contribute to a loan, or Ezekiel
Williams and his companions throwing the tea overboard in Boston IIarbour,
ever occurred in China or any other Asiatic country. They dread illegal
societies quite as much from the cruelties this same principle induces the
leaders to exercise over recreant or suspected members, as from appre-
hension of arrest and punishment by the regular authorities. Thus with
a state of society sometimes upon the verge of insurrection, this mass of
people is kept in check by the threefold cord of responsibility, fear, and
isolation, each of them strengthening the others, and all of them depend-
ing upon the character of the people for much of their efficiency. Since
all the officers of government received their intellectual training, when
plebeians, under these influences, it is easy to understand why the supreme
powers are so averse to improvement and to foreign intercourse; from both
which causes, in truth, the state has the greatest reason to dread lest the
charm of its power be broken and its sceptre pass away.'
These are results painful to contemplate; but although we must admit
that the value of every political and social system is to be tested by the
effects it produces, yet in this case the fault is not to be laid to the charge
of Confucius. He did but lay a foundation; it was for other men to
complete the edifice. His part of the construction was nobly planned and
executed; the failure was on the part of his successors. We feel no
hesitation, therefore, in assigning to the Chinese philosopher the high niche
in the temple of fame allotted him by l'ope in his well-known lines-
'Superior and alone Confucius stood,
Who taught that noble science-to be good.'
THE TEMPTATION.
I.
THE
HE moon was shining brightly over the beautiful vale of Taunton, and
the simple inhabitants of the neighbouring cottages were sleeping
soundly in their beds, when young Vincent IIalloway crept out of his. He
had no toilet to make, for he had lain down in his clothes, in order to deceive
the vigilance of his father—a substantial farmer, but a severe man and a rigid
religionist, who made it a rule never to rest his own head on the pillow till
he had seen his son's disposed of in the same way; for, as he said, 'he
knew what lads were, and how ready they are to get into mischief: and there
was nothing like looking well after them!' When his less strict friends
laughed, and told him that youth would be youth in spite of him, and that
do what he would Vincent would be like other young men by and by, he
answered by quoting Solomon's proverb of 'training up a child in the way it
should go;' and declaring, that if his son did go wrong, it should not be
through any neglect of his. Come what might hereafter, he would have
nothing to answer for. So, in consequence of this determination, Vincent,
though now nearly two-and-twenty years of age, was permitted to attend
neither fair nor market, neither junketings nor cricket-matches; and
though he had had a good education, he was seldom allowed anything to
read except Bunyan and the Bible, and the 'Whole Duty of Man.' Under
these circumstances it was impossible to enjoy the intimacy of any of the
young people of the village; for during the daytime he was kept pretty
closely employed in the superintendence of his father's farm, and when
work was done, he was expected to be present at supper and prayers;
whilst on Sundays, church and his religious studies and examinations
occupied every hour of the day. It may be presumed, therefore, that
Vincent's life was not a very cheerful one, nor is it at all surprising that
he should rebel in spirit against this rigid domination. Many a lad would
have done more-broken out into open mutiny, or become a hypocrite, and
sought compensation in secret dissipations. But though Vincent often
writhed and fretted, his temperament was not sufficiently excitable to drive
him easily into either of these extremities. Added to which he was
naturally ingenuous, and stood greatly in awe of his father a man
whom it was not easy to defy. His love for his mother also helped to
keep him in the straight but narrow path he was condemned to―an
No. 78.
1
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
indulgent, gentle woman, adoring her son and fearing her husband; and
who always entreated him for her sake, as well as his own, to yield to an
authority she would have thought it both sinful and impossible to resist.
The only friend Vincent had was Joe Jebb, the son of the blacksmith of
the village, whose forge at the extremity of it he necessarily passed
several times in the course of the day, and where he generally contrived to
solace himself with a little gossip, and hear of those sports and pastimes he
was not allowed to partake of. It unfortunately happened that Joe was
not the best companion for him in the world; but, in the first place, he
had no choice, and, in the second, he had necessarily little discernment.
He knew that his father did not like Joe; but who did he like that was
not as stiff and rigid as himself? His reprobation, in his son's opinion,
proved nothing against Joe-it only put Vincent on his guard to conceal
their intimacy. When Jacob Halloway was in sight Vincent passed the
forge with a cold nod of recognition; and though many a one had seen him
chatting and laughing there, nobody would have 'told tales of the poor lad
whose father treated him so harshly.'
This acquaintance had lasted sometime without leading to any conse-
quences; but the time was come that Vincent wanted a helping hand in a
matter Joe could manage better than anybody else, and now Vincent
congratulated himself on having so serviceable a friend.
The merriest season in the year, indeed the only merry season poor
Vincent had, was the harvest-time. There was the fun in the fields, when
the father was too busy to have his eye always on him; the carrying, and
the supper the old man was obliged to give, whether he would or not,
with the light-hearted lads and lasses that had come to help at the reap-
ing. But of all the harvest-homes Vincent had yet enjoyed, the last had
been rendered the pleasantest by the bright black eyes and rosy cheeks of
Bessy Mure, the daughter of a poor widow who had not been long an
inhabitant of the village. It was quite a new sensation to Vincent when
he found his heart begin to stir whenever he caught sight of Bessy's lithe
figure, and the blood rushed through his veins like wildfire if, in binding
up the sheaves, their fingers came in contact. Then Bessy would blush,
and withdraw her little hand; and when she gave him one of her roguish
smiles-for she was a merry creature-her teeth shone like Oriental pearls.
Often when Vincent went home he did not know whether he was walking
on his head or his heels; and instead of sleeping all night till his father
roused him from his unwilling bed in the morning, he lay awake in a sort
of ecstacy through the still hours, and delighted the old man by hastening
to the field with the earliest dawn of light, so that Jacob observed, it was
clear to him that Vincent was getting to be an industrious lad, and to like
his work.
It was about three weeks after this harvest-home, when the bright
September moon was shining in the clear heavens, that Vincent crept out
of bed, as we have said above, and after lifting a corner of the white muslin
curtain that shaded the lattice, either to take a peep at the night, or to see if
the coast was clear, advanced on tiptoe to the door of his room, and gently,
gently opened it. It was a provoking door, for it would creak, although
he had that evening stolen a bit of butter from the tea-table and carefully
greased the hinges. Yes, it creaked still, and Vincent set his teeth and
2
THE TEMPTATION.
grinned with anxiety and vexation, for his father and mother lay in the
adjoining room, with the key of the house door under their pillow. But
they slept the heavy sleep of toil; for though well to do in the world, they
worked on as they had done when they began life, and as if the name of
Jacob Halloway was not inscribed in the ledgers of Threadneedle Street.
They slept, and on crept Vincent stealthily, down the stairs to the front
door, which was bolted and locked; but he had a key in his pocket that
Joe had made for him after the exact pattern of the one on which old
Jacob was sleeping above so soundly. It was a ticklish thing to draw
back those heavy bolts and turn that large key, and Vincent paused between
each operation to breathe and listen. But all was still above; and he
opened the door, and felt the fresh air of the night blowing on his face, and
stepping out, he gently closed it. Then how his heart bounded with
delight! It was his first assignation-his first midnight meeting with
Bessy: he was going to see her face to face for the first time without
witnesses. Since the reaping and the harvest-supper, they had met on the
high road and in the fields-meetings contrived by one or the other; but
momentary, constrained, and perilous-and so unsatisfactory! There was
no bearing it, and one day Vincent said so; and that once, just once, Bessy
must meet him where he could see her alone for a few minutes. He had so
much to say! And Bessy promised, and Joe made the key; and now
Vincent is striding to the haven of his bliss over ditch and dike, instead of
through the village, in order to keep clear of the neighbours' cottages,
watchdogs, and wakeful eyes.
Bessy had fewer difficulties in her way. Her mother, simple and fond,
suspected nothing; and her youngest daughter Nancy, who slept with her,
had not yet dreamed of lovers' midnight meetings. Bessy lay in a little
room alone, and it was easy to slip down stairs with her shoeless feet, and
let herself out. She had not far to go, and she was first at the rendezvous;
for Vincent had not dared to stir till his parents had been long enough in
bed to afford a reasonable hope that they might have fallen asleep.
Who shall paint such a first meeting? A boy and girl, little better-in
the bloom and vigour of health and freshness, and of eager, unconscious
passion! Discourse there was none; only exclamations and interjections,
and wishings, wishings, wishings that Bessy were but his own for ever-his
dear, dear little wife, as assuredly one day she should be! And to insure
this blessed consummation, and defend them from all the perils of accident
or change, what vows were demanded, what promises given!
But wherefore record them? How often has the moon listened to snch
Vows and wishes! How often seen the vows broken and turned into
curses, or the wishes realised to the hopeless misery of the wisher!
But in the meantime, whilst the intoxication lasts, and the heart beats
high, and the eyes dance, and the ground we tread upon seems air, the
unforeseeing visionaries are blest. They are off the earth; they have
inhaled the ethereal breath of love, and are away, floating in far regions
which the sober dwellers on the planet dream not of. They are dancing
with the stars, carousing with the moon; they are robed in sunbeams, bathed
in the perfume of the sweetest flowers; they are men no more, but gods!
But then come the dregs of this inebriating cup; and they, alas! are
poison.
3
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
And so these young lovers met again and again; and it would have been
curious to observe the gradual influence of such stolen interviews on their
characters: how Bessy was at first anxious and conscious, and yet with
an indescribable expression of happiness in her girlish countenance; how
she cared less for her former companions and their sports; how she
liked to sit musing on a stile, her eyes following the pasturing sheep, that
yet she saw not; how she sometimes smiled at her own pleasant thoughts; how
she blushed, and pretended not to hear when Vincent's name was mentioned;
and how, when the young girls of the village remarked how handsome he
was, and how beautifully his brown hair curled over his forehead, and how
he looked in his Sunday clothes as genteel as the squire, she would laugh,
and say, for her part, she saw nothing particular in him. This was at first.
By and by she grew less thoughtful, less fond of solitude, and her blushes
were not so near her cheeks; and when any of the young people hazarded
a jest about Vincent-for slight suspicions of what was going on were
beginning to arise—she grew angry; exclaimed: 'What nonsense!' and
recommended them to mind their own business, and it would be all the
better for them. The expression of her features changed too somewhat:
she no longer looked so very young. Her face became the face of a
woman; before, it had been almost that of a child.
Vincent changed too. At first he was dreamy and absent, but evidently
much happier and more contented than he had previously been; but Joe Jebb
soon got hold of his secret, and quizzed him about it unmercifully. The
key of course had suggested something like the truth to Joe's experienced
mind, and determined to find out who the damsel was who had inspired the
milksop, as he called him, with so much boldness, he watched and discovered.
When he taxed Vincent with it, and laughed at him, the young lover looked
quite shy, and blushed like a girl; but by and by his delicacy grew less suscep-
tible, and he could laugh too. This was a bad sign for poor Bessy. How-
ever, he became more of a man, less boyish, timid, and obedient. The
young girls of the village thought him much improved; his mother grew
prouder of him; but his father said he was afraid Vincent would require 'a
tight hand and a sharp eye yet.'
In process of time the key that Joe Jebb had made was not always used
for the same purpose. The meetings with Bessy continued, but they were
less frequent; and sometimes, on other evenings, Vincent would slip out to
spend a few hours of conviviality with the lads of the village. Still, these
latter hours were harmlessly enough spent. The worst part of them was
the habit of concealment they engendered; but for that he could scarcely
be blamed. Where the legitimate pleasures of youth are denied, they are
not the less desired; and it is demanding a greater sacrifice of another's
will and inclinations to our own than we are entitled to, when we insist
that they should be relinquished in compliance with our opinions and
prejudices.
Well, the winter, spring, and summer had come and gone, and it was
harvest-time again; but by this time things were greatly changed. Bessy
consorted no more with her young companions: the rosy cheek was pale
and thin; the light step heavy, and the bright eye dim; whilst Vincent
seemed more thoughtful and less alert than usual. They addressed each
other seldom; and instead of contriving, as on the previous year, to work
4
THE TEMPTATION.
always near each other, they were together or apart just as chance directed.
Last season Bessy had been the prettiest and merriest girl at the supper,
and had sung the best song: now she was the gravest; and as her beauty
had been much augmented by her gaiety and freshness, there were now
others prettier than she. All who had known her before saw the change,
and some said Bessy Mure was going into a decline. Others looked for
another cause;
but old Jacob surmised nothing, for his son paid her no
attentions: they did not even sit at the same table.
II.
The month of September was come, and the evenings were getting dark
and chill. Elizabeth Mure and her elder daughter were sitting in the dusk,
with no light but what gleamed up fitfully from the bit of fire on the hearth.
Formerly Bessy used to say: 'Oh mother, let's get a light; it's so moping
to sit in the dark so!' But Bessy did not mind moping now: she no
longer wearied of doing nothing, but stared into the fire with a vacant gaze;
and she could sit still with her hands before her an hour at a time without
stirring or speaking. The mother was as silent as the daughter-neither
uttered a word. By and by Nancy, who had been going in and out with
the restlessness of childhood-for she was little more than twelve years of
age—came running in with a letter, which a neighbour, who had been to
Taunton market, had just brought.
'John Stokes says that he saw Uncle Philpots at the market, mother,
and that he 's a-coming over here to see us.'
'Did he say so?' said Bessy.
'He told John Stokes so,' answered Nancy. 'I'm so glad! I wonder
if Aunt Philpots 'll come too.'
'When's he coming?' inquired Mrs Mure.
'I believe to-morrow; but he did not say when,' answered Nancy.
'Perhaps the letter tells. Shall I get a light, mother? '
'Do, child,' said Mrs Mure, turning the letter from side to side, and
examining it by the light of the fire.
People who have letters every day, often more than they want, have no
respect for them: they tear them open rashly, and force themselves into
their confidence without the slightest delicacy or scruple; but it is quite a
different matter with those who only get one now and then. They never
attempt to penetrate into the interior till they have familiarised themselves
with the physiognomy of the stranger. With them wonder seems to take
precedence of curiosity; and they can postpone their desire to learn the
contents of a letter till they have made out the half-effaced post-mark, or
deciphered the motto on the dab of wax.
When Elizabeth Mure had turned the letter from side to side a dozen
times, and held it to the light in every possible position, she at length
broke the seal and began to decipher its contents, whilst Nancy looked over
her shoulder in a state of eager excitement.
'Does uncle say he's coming, mother?' asked Bessy.
Yes; the letter says he will be here to-morrow.'
And is aunt coming too?'
5
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
'He don't say,' answered Mrs Mure. But presently observing the
letters T.O. at the bottom of the page, she turned the leaf and read the
following postscript: 'P.S.-My old woman says she must come along
with me, so I suppose I must let her have her way.'
Oh, I'm so glad,' cried Nancy, jumping for joy.
Bessy?'
'What should I be glad for?' said Bessy.
''Cause uncle and aunt's coming!' answered Nancy.
'Pooh!' said Bessy.
'Ain't you glad,
'La! Bessy, you 're so cross getting-you're never glad at nothing!'
'I wish, mother, you'd send Nancy to bed. I'm sure it's past nine!'
'I shan't go to bed for you!' said Nancy, far from pleased at the
suggestion.
'Go into neighbour Wrightsore's a bit, Nance, and see how she is. I
heard she'd got the rheumatics,' said Mrs Mure.
'Very well! I know you want me to go away, that Bessy and you may
talk secrets about I know who!' said Nancy, ready enough to go
nevertheless.
'I wish aunt wasn't coming!' said Bessy. 'I wouldn't have minded
uncle, but aunt's so prying.'
'It's my opinion, Bessy,' said Mrs Mure, that my brother Philpots
would be the best to advise us, and that we'd as good tell him all about it.'
Oh, mother! how can you say so?' cried Bessy. I'm as certain as I'm
sitting here, that if you do he'll go and tell old Mr Halloway.'
(
Well, let him!' answered her mother: 'it's no more than that young
scapegrace deserves !'
Very well, mother,' said Bessy fretfully; ' I see you'll just be the ruin
of us, you're so obstinate."
'I'm no such thing, Bessy,' said Elizabeth, who was the most gentle and
least obstinate of mortals; and I'm sure if I only thought that he'd make
it all right by and by '-
'And don't he say he will, mother? and havn't I got his hand of write
upon it? What can he do more? He says it's just as binding as if he'd
been to church with me.'
'There's no saying,' answered Mrs Mure. Some says a bit of paper's
binding in law, and some says it isn't; but no doubt my brother Philpots
could tell.'
But poor Bessy would have preferred remaining in ignorance rather than
apply to Uncle Philpots for information. She had not only her honest
shame to contend with, but she dreaded his reproof, and still more that of
his wife; and she looked upon their visit as most unfortunate and ill-timed.
On the following morning she contrived to waylay Vincent, and make
known to him the impending danger.
'How unlucky!' said he; 'but can't you make your mother hold her
tongue ?'
'But even if I could, it wouldn't be of no use I'm afear'd; for Aunt
Philpots is such a ferret, there's no hiding nothing from her.'
It was a terrible crisis; for although Vincent had certainly gained some
confidence, and in a slight degree emancipated himself, yet the idea of his
rigid father's becoming acquainted with this unfortunate connection, and con-
6
THE TEMPTATION.
sequently with the extent to which he had been deceiving him for the last
twelvemonth, filled him with terror. Then there were other considerations
to boot. He apprehended that his father, being a just and religious man,
might perchance insist on his 'making Bessy an honest woman' by marry-
ing her; and Vincent did not want to marry Bessy. He wished her no ill,
but he would have been very well content never to see her face again.
The mirage in which passion had enveloped her had disappeared, and he
saw her as she was-an uneducated, ignorant peasant-girl, who had been
pretty from her youth and freshness, but whose beauty indisposition and
anxiety were beginning already to fade. He did not even do her justice;
for she was in reality still pretty, and to many an eye would have been
interesting; but poor Bessy had no more charms for Vincent Halloway.
Added to all this, some new lights were beginning to dawn upon him--new
ideas of life and the world. These events occurred at the period when all
England was astir about Reform; and to the surprise of everybody, old
Jacob came out quite in a new character. He was found to have strong
opinions on the subject, and, roused by the conflict, he not only attended
several public meetings at Taunton himself, but he had taken his son with
him, in order to add a unit to the party, and to indoctrinate the young man
with right views. And Vincent was delighted: not that he cared much
about the question they were agitating; indeed, to say the truth, he had
rather obscure notions as to the advantages that were to accrue to the
king's lieges from the proposed alterations, but he perfectly understood the
pleasure of finding himself, for the first time in his life, of some importance
as the only son of a man that farmed a good many acres: he liked the
bustle and the crowd, and the thronged streets, and the ribbons and
banners, and processions and bands of music; and, above all, he was in a
state of great excitement at the prospect of a ball which was to be given at
the Castle Inn by the Reformers, and to which most unexpectedly Jacob,
in the glow of his patriotism, had consented he should go, at the entreaty
of Mr Halkelt, the silkmercer, who represented in lively colours the neces-
sity of shewing that they could muster stronger than their adversaries.
Vincent had been present when this discussion took place, and Miss Emily
Halkelt, the mercer's only daughter, was present too, looking very much as
if she thought it would be a sin and a shame to keep so handsome a young
man as Vincent Halloway from the ball. Jacob said with a grim sort of
merriment, that he was afraid his son wouldn't be of much use there, for
he didn't think the boy knew the use of his legs; but Vincent, who could
not submit to such an imputation before the young lady, assured his father
he was mistaken. The fact was, though allowed no lessons, he had picked
up a notion of dancing at school when the other boys took theirs, and in
the course of the last year he had found several opportunities of bettering
his instruction.
Emily Halkelt was not only a very handsome and amiable girl, but she
was really a superior one; possessing the manners and appearance of a
gentlewoman, together with good sense and a good education. She was
even, to a certain degree, accomplished; for she played the pianoforte, and
sang very agreeably, danced well, and knew something of French. When
Vincent ventured to assert that he was not so ill-qualified for a ball as his
father had supposed, adding, however, that he had had very little practice in
7
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
the art of dancing, the hospitable silkmercer invited him to come on the
following Wednesday evening to his house. 'It will be my daughter's
birthday,' he said, 'and we have a parcel of girls and boys coming to make
merry; and as I daresay they'll strike up a hop to the piano, you'll have
an opportunity of getting into training for the ball at the Castle.'
It was two days subsequent to this invitation, and just when Vincent
was in the flutter and excitement of expectation, that poor Bessy waylaid
him with her wan, anxious face, to tell him of Uncle Philpots and his
unlucky visit. How welcome such a piece of intelligence was, and how
far he was disposed to sympathise with and soothe her, may be conceived.
However, it was necessary to keep Uncle Philpots quiet; and when
Bessy suggested that her only hope of doing so lay in the bit of paper,
Vincent consented to her shewing it him, but not without a dreadful twinge
of remorse; for he knew in his heart that however sincere he might have
been when in the flood and whirlwind of passion he gave it her, he had
now no intention of fulfilling the vow it recorded; and he felt ashamed
and conscience-stricken when he saw how undoubtingly the too-confiding
Bessy relied on his hand of write, as she called it. But there was no other
way of staving off the threatened danger but by leaving her in her delu-
sion, and allowing Philpots to fall into it also if he would.
This rencontre with Bessy dashed Vincent's spirits considerably. He
had for some time, under the influence of his growing indifference, been
accustoming himself to think lightly of the affair, and to comfort himself
with the belief that time and a little management would extricate him
from the embarrassment-the more especially as the mother was such a
good, easy soul. But Uncle Philpots, by Bessy's account, might prove a
very different person to deal with; and besides, the other dreaded conse-
quences of the disclosure, if it came now, there would be an end of all
these new delights: the frequent excursions to Taunton, the parties and
the balls, and the hope of dancing with the fascinating Miss Emily
Halkelt.
Bessy, who was in no hurry to meet the curious eyes of Aunt Philpots,
contrived to be out of the way when the visitors arrived; and in answer
to their inquiries, Mrs Mure said she'd 'be in presently; but Bessy
hadn't been very well of late:' but in spite of herself, for she did not
intend to convey any hint of the truth, there was a sort of significance in
her manner of making the announcement that set the acute wits of Aunt
Philpots on the alert at once. Once on the right track, she was not long
of arriving at the fatal secret.
In the meanwhile her spouse, Joss Philpots, as his familiars called him,
all unsuspicious of poor Bessy's misfortune, was in tip-top spirits-glad to
see his sister and his niece, and in high good-humour regarding a little
business he had done at Taunton market the day before. His private
opinion was that 'his old woman was in her tantrums,' and he intimated as
much to the girls by sundry knowing nods and winks; whilst he excru-
ciated Bessy by asking her if it was not love that had made her eyes so
hollow and her cheek so pale. So passed the first afternoon, Bessy seeing
clearly by the demeanour of her aunt that she was suspected if not be-
trayed, and dreading what was to follow. When nine o'clock came Joss,
an ale-fed keeper of a little roadside public-house, grew sleepy, and went to

8
THE TEMPTATION.
bed, leaving his wife below, who shortly afterwards recommended the girls
to follow his example.
'Go away to bed, Nance-all little girls should be in bed before nine
o'clock; and as for you, Miss Bessy, you're more fit for that place than
any other, I take it, just now; besides, I want to talk over a few matters
with your mother before I go up to my old man.'
Poor Bessy! as she closed the door upon them, and crept up stairs, she
knew full well what the talk was to be about; and whilst Nancy was ratt-
ling on about Uncle and Aunt Philpots, and how they had invited her to go
and see them, she was straining her ears to catch the tones of the speakers
below; but they discoursed in whispers, and no sound reached her till
after the lapse of an hour and a half, her mother, who had relinquished
her own room to her visitors, came up to bed. Nancy was asleep by this
time, and Bessy could ask if Aunt Philpots had 'found out, and what she
said.' Mrs Mure answered that she was in a mortal way about it, and
that she had no doubt Philpots would have Mr Halloway up before the
magistrate the next day.
'But did you tell her that I'd got his hand of write, mother?'
'Yes, sure I did; but she said she didn't know whether it was good in
law or not.'
Bessy never slept that night, and soon after the day began to dawn she
heard her aunt's voice pouring into Joss's sleepy ear the unwelcome tidings.
She had made several vain attempts to rouse him to a comprehension of it
when she went to bed; but she might as well have whispered it to the
bedpost. In the morning, however, he was more impressionable; and he
no sooner understood what was the matter, than he became brisk enough.
Warm-hearted and hot-headed, he was just the man to take up such a
ravelled skein by the wrong end; and when he entered the kitchen where
Bessy was helping her mother to prepare the breakfast, whilst Nance was
gone to fetch the milk, his face was red and his eyes bloodshot with anger
and indignation—not against Bessy, of whom he was exceedingly fond, and
whom he rather pitied than blamed, but against that young jackanapes, as
he called Vincent, who, he swore, should marry her before he was many
days older, or he'd know the reason why.
'Tell uncle about the bit of paper, mother!' whispered Bessy.
But Joss snapped his fingers, exclaiming: 'It wasn't worth that!' whilst
Mrs Philpots nodding her head, said: 'A pretty business you've made of
it, Miss Bessy!'
When the breakfast was over, to which, by the by, Uncle Philpots, in
spite of his indignation, did ample justice-eating and drinking with an air
of spiteful determination, as if he was resolved to be revenged on the bread
and butter till he could get at the real delinquent-he shoved back his
chair and rose; buttoned his coat to the chin, clapped his hat firmly upon
his head, clutched his walking-stick, and moved with a resolute step to the
door. Bessy guessed his intention—he was going to Jacob Halloway to
impeach his son, and demand reparation. At the last moment, just as he
was closing the door, she flew after him, and caught him by the skirts of
his coat: 'Oh, uncle, don't!' she sobbed; 'for my sake don't!'
'Don't what?' said Joss, turning round and striking the ground with his
stick.
No. 78.
9
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
'I know what you're going to do, uncle, but you'll only make it worse.
If you'll leave Vincent alone, it will all come right-indeed it will. If the
bit of paper ain't good in law, he'll keep to it all the same; he told me he
would only yesterday.'
Will keep to it! He shall keep to it!' cried Uncle Philpots with
another thump of his stick.
(
เ
They can all promise fast enough to get their ends!' said Mrs Philpots;
but catch 'em keeping to it.' Upon which remark Joss, planting his stick
once more in the earth, turned resolutely to the door.
Let me go with you, uncle!' said Bessy, hanging herself upon his arm
as he stepped out and closed the door behind him. 'If you'd just see him
first, uncle!' she began in a coaxing tone.
See who?' asked Uncle Philpots sternly.
'Vincent-young Mr Halloway-I'm sure he'd satisfy you about it.'
'Young blackguard!' exclaimed he.
But, uncle, it was just as much my fault as it was his'n,' said Bessy,
with the generosity that under such circumstances so seldom deserts a
woman.
(
'You know, Bessy, you was always my favourite niece,' said Joss; and
it's my place to be a father to you as havn't got none of your own; and
would it be like a father if I was to see you ruined for life, and never see
justice done you?'
But suppose, uncle, Mr Vincent was to say he'd do the justice to me!
Suppose you heard him say so yourself! This way please, uncle!' said
Bessy, conducting Joss by a side-path where she had promised to meet
Vincent that morning in order to communicate the result of Uncle Phil-
pots's visit.
When the young man got a glimpse of her companion-for he readily
guessed who the ruddy-faced stranger was-he turned sharp round, hoping
to avoid so disagreeable an interview; but Bessy ran after him, and having
hastily indoctrinated him with the best way to appease the wrath of her
uncle, he returned.
Be sure say you look upon the bit of paper as good as if Mr Winstanley
had said the words over us in the church,' said Bessy: and Vincent did say
so; and when he was in for it, a great deal more. Uncle Philpots was
resolute, and kept him to the point; and to stave off the immediate peril,
Vincent promised and swore all that was demanded of him. He only
made one condition, and that was, that he should be allowed a little time
to bring round his father, who might, if too hastily informed of his proposed
marriage, turn him and his young wife out of doors without a penny to keep
them from starving; and Uncle Philpots yielded, and Bessy believed.
III.
Kind as Uncle Philpots was, Bessy Mure was very glad when he was
gone, whilst Vincent Halloway heartily wished he might never see his face
again; his thoughts being just then divided betwixt schemes for evading
the fulfilment of an engagement now become odious to him, and the charms
of Miss Emily Halkelt. He had been to the party at her father's house,
10
THE TEMPTATION.
and danced with her; and he had heard her sing and play, and had come
away intoxicated with love. He was pervaded with a very different feeling
now from that which his first passion had inspired. It had never occurred
to him that Bessy was anything but a woman, but Emily Halkelt was an
angel! He wondered how he could ever have cared for Bessy-an ignorant
peasant-girl, who could scarcely speak her own language or read a page in
the New Testament; and he recoiled with horror and disgust from the idea
of making such a woman his wife whilst Emily, who really merited the
admiration he bestowed on her, added fuel to the flame she inspired by all
the encouragement a modest young girl could give. As we have implied,
Vincent's personal endowments were rather remarkable. He had handsome
straight features that would not have disgraced a scion of the aristocracy,
a full dark eye, fine teeth, and an exceedingly well-formed figure. Neither
were his manners clownish, as might have been expected from the forced
retirement in which he had lived. Timid and shy he was; but there was a
certain natural grace about his movements that redeemed any little awkward-
ness consequent on his want of knowledge of society, and which, combined
with his good looks, and the fact of his having a harsh father, rendered him
that very dangerous character to susceptible hearts-' an exceedingly inte-
resting young man;' and when the fair Emily read in those expressive eyes
the love which the lips durst not reveal, she fearlessly opened her bosom to
the charm. She knew of no reason why she should not. There was no
inequality of condition; her lover's father and her own were on terms of
cordiality, and Vincent's reputation was unimpeached—the knowledge of his
unfortunate connection with Bessy Mure not having extended beyond the
humble villagers of the neighbourhood. Indeed Mr Halkelt himself, who
conceived that the only son of so rigid a father must be a model of virtue,
and who was well aware that old Jacob's coffers were not ill lined, gave
every encouragement to the intimacy between the young people by throw-
ing his doors open to Vincent whenever he liked to come; whilst Jacob,
whose preparations for the next world had not taught him to despise the
goods of this, if he did not give his countenance at least shut his eyes to
the fast growing intimacy at the silkmercer's.
Meantime, whilst Vincent was revelling in his new life-a life of ecstatic
happiness but for the one dark spot that threw its gloomy shadow over
every joy-poor Bessy's hour of trial was drawing nigh. He seldom saw
her now, at least as seldom as he could. Business, he told her, took him
much from home-business connected with the Reform Bill, that was
expected to pass in the ensuing session; and Bessy thought it would be
a fine thing to have a husband that was dressed like the squire, and rode
to Taunton on a 'high trotting horse' about such grand matters; for that
he would ultimately make her his wife she still believed in spite of his
growing neglect, never having been able to divest herself of the superstitious
regard entertained by many simple ignorant people for 'the bit of paper
with his hand of write upon it.' To a more delicate and susceptible mind
his coldness would have been agonising, awakening the worst fears and
suspicions: but Bessy's was not of this sort. When she discovered her own
situation, and the consequences of their intimacy, she was both ashamed
and alarmed. Misdemeanours of the kind were rare in the village, the vicar
having taken great pains to impress a more healthy tone on the morals of
11
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
his flock; so that she dreaded the exposure and reproof that awaited her,
whilst the idea of the indignation of Uncle Philpots and the wrath of
old Mr Halloway was terrific. But Uncle Philpots being quieted, and
the promise of marriage reiterated to him, her mind was pretty well at ease
for the present; especially as, whenever she interrogated Vincent regarding
the progress of affairs, he always appeased her by the assurance that his
father' was coming round, but that they must not hurry him, as he was
naturally a good deal disappointed at his son's making such a match;' and
when Uncle Philpots wrote to inquire how matters were going, threatening
not to wait much longer, this was the answer given him by the simple
mother, who added that in poor Bessy's present state it would be cruel to
make a rumpus; and she therefore begged him to do nothing hastily-
only to give the young man time, and she hoped all would be right.
And yet Elizabeth Mure, simple as she was, had her own doubts and
fears too; but gentle and timid, she dreaded the consequences of applying
to Vincent's father, and preferred waiting in hopes all might come right
without proceeding to such extremities. But there was one thing that
would not wait, that could not be deferred-and that was the birth of Bessy's
child. Time was advancing, and Uncle Philpots threatening to break out
again if Vincent Halloway delayed longer to fulfil his promise. He wrote
him a letter to that effect, enclosing it in one to his, sister, bidding her
deliver it herself, 'because he was afraid that little fool Bessy wouldn't
have pluck enough to do it.' Bessy did deliver it, however, at her mother's
request; and Vincent, with ill-concealed vexation, entreated her to keep her
uncle quiet for a little while longer.
He seems to think it's an easy
"Tell him I'm doing all I can!
matter to persuade my father to do a thing he don't like! Tell him that
if he stirs in the business now, he'll spoil all. And I'll tell you what,
Bessy, we should have a much better chance by and by, after this business
of yours is over. Tell your uncle so, Bessy; it would never do for my
father to see you now. It would set him against you, and when once he's
set against anybody, there's no bringing him round do what one will. One
might as well try to move Exeter Cathedral. If you could only persuade
your uncle to wait till this business is over!' And Bessy, who was fright-
ened to death at 'that dreadful old Mr Halloway,' willingly promised what
was asked; and even her mother consented to aid her, from an apprehen-
sion that if anything occurred to cause Bessy much agitation and distress
just now the consequences might be serious.
Joss was not very easily convinced; his suspicions were beginning to be
awakened, or rather to gain strength, for he had never been free from
them. He believed, as he told his wife, 'that that young jackanapes was
trying to slip through their fingers; but he little knew who he had to deal
with. If he, Joss Philpots, followed him from the Land's End to John
o'Groats, he should marry his niece, or he'd know the reason why.'
Nevertheless, being a tender-hearted soul at bottom, he yielded so far to
the entreaties of his niece and her mother as to postpone the decided steps
he meant to take till poor Bessy's confinement was over. He even did more;
and at the instigation of Mrs Philpots, who, although she had spoken
tauntingly to Bessy, was not a bad woman at heart, he invited her to come
and stay with them, where she could have more comforts than in her
12
THE TEMPTATION.
mother's small cottage, as also be removed from the eye of Vincent's
father. And to the great relief of the young man, Bessy went, leaving
him to the joys of love and the fascinations of Emily Halkelt; and good
use he made of his time, for desperation gave him courage. Shy and
unused to society as he had hitherto been, his courtship would probably
have advanced much more slowly had not the agonising apprehension of
losing Emily and being forced to marry Bessy pushed him on. Knowing
little of the world and nothing of law, he was ignorant how far the latter
could reach him; but he felt acutely that he was not sufficiently emanci-
pated from his father's authority to hope to resist it if they came to a
contest; whilst the idea of Emily's becoming acquainted with the affair of
Bessy Mure filled him with dismay, since he did not doubt that she would
instantly banish him her presence for ever.
'But,' thought he, 'if I were once married to my darling Emily, they
could do nothing to me then but make me maintain Bessy's child, which
I'll do with all my heart. They can't unmarry me again; and if Emily
should hear of it after she is my wife, why she can't help herself, and she'll
be obliged to forgive me.'
To hasten on his marriage, therefore, was the object to which he devoted
all his skill and energy; and inspired by the violence of his love, he exerted
a great deal more of both than his acquaintance would have given him
credit for. But having little influence at home, it was not directly, but
indirectly, through Emily and her influence over her father, that he endea-
voured to gain his point; not only by urging his love and impatience to
call her his, but also by working on her fears. It happened that his
mother, who had shewn herself his best friend during his courtship, was
at this time extremely unwell, and threatened with a malady that might
ultimately prove fatal.
'And if my mother dies before we're married,' said he to Emily,
'Heaven knows when we shall be: perhaps never! My father's so
strange in his temper, and so arbitrary that, but for her, I doubt whether
he would even have permitted our intimacy to go this length. If my
mother dies, he won't choose me to leave him; and even if he did consent
to our marriage, he would make it a condition that we should live with
him; and I am sure, Emily, you would not like that. For my part, I had
rather relinquish you altogether, though I broke my heart afterwards, than
take you to a home where I know you'd be miserable, and where I am sure
I should be so too.'
And Emily, who was in love, and very willing to be married, and who,
from Vincent's description, entertained a horror of the rigorous rule and
dull uniformity of old Jacob's ménage, fell into his views, and gave him
her best support in the siege he laid to Mr Halkelt's fond paternal heart,
who, in conjunction with Vincent's mother, undertook to attack and over-
come Jacob—an enterprise which, but for the temporary revolution wrought
in him by political excitement, no man or woman would have ventured to
attempt. But the cause of Reform was advancing favourably; the Refor-
mers were gaining such signal victories over their adversaries, that the
gloomy spirit of the old Puritan rejoiced, and his close heart opened to
more kindly influences. Neither was he insensible to the entreaties of his
faithful Rachel, who, under the apprehension that she should not live long,
13
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
was extremely anxious to see her son married and removed from a dis-
cipline, the rigour of which she saw was odious to him, and more likely to
terminate in strife and rebellion than in harmony and submission. So,
thus beset, and taken in a genial hour, Jacob Halloway consented to his
son's marriage with his friend Halkelt's daughter, and that an early day
should be appointed for the celebration of the wedding.
And now, but for one fell thought, one terrible fear that tugged at his
heartstrings evermore, who would have been so happy as Vincent? No
longer condemned to his father's dull hearth, almost every hour was spent
under the roof of his bride-elect, where Mr Halkelt considerately appro-
priated a chamber to his service, that he might not be obliged to return to
West Green at night. The mornings were passed in long walks and sweet
discourse; and the evenings in cheerful little parties, where Emily shone
the fairest of the fair.
As for Bessy, she was still absent; and all he knew about her was, that
she was the mother of a boy.
It was just three days previous to the one appointed for the wedding
that Mrs Mure beckoned to him, as he rode past her door on his way
to Taunton, to tell him that she had just had a letter from her daughter
Bessy, who was coming home immediately. Vincent said he would call
soon to see her, and rode on; but this intelligence filled him with alarm,
and not without reason, for he knew that she had not been expected so
soon; and he apprehended that in spite of all his precautions the news of
his approaching marriage might have reached her or her uncle, and that
they were coming to put in their protest, and claim his promise.
The progress of his courtship had been so rapid that he had hoped to
outrun rumour—the more especially as beyond Emily's friends, who were
quite unconnected with the humble neighbourhood of West Green, he had
kept his engagement a profound secret from everybody but his parents,
who, in compliance with his request, as well as their own reserved habits,
he knew would communicate it to no one.
There was one person, however, who had penetrated the secret—and that
was his old confidant Joe Jebb. Joe, who was something of a veterinary
surgeon as well as a blacksmith, having been summoned to the vicarage to
inspect one of the clerical horses, there fell in with a groom of Sir Walter
Lidgate's, who had ridden over with a letter, and was lounging about the
stables whilst waiting for the answer. The man having been when a lad
in the service of the vicar, was well enough known to Joe, though they had
not met for some time. They naturally fell into conversation about former
days and old acquaintance, in the course of which the groom made some
allusion to Vincent Halloway's approaching marriage with Miss Halkelt.
Now Joe was a good deal surprised at this intelligence, and rather
displeased than otherwise. Not that he cared anything about Bessy
or her misfortunes, but he felt a twinge of envy at Vincent's good
luck, of which he thought him the less deserving that he had been
for some time past in the gradual process of dropping the young black-
smith's acquaintance; and the reason for his so doing was now plain-
Vincent was getting up in the world, and Joe was not genteel enough for
him. And Joe was perfectly correct in his conclusions. But for the
father's ill-judged restrictions the intimacy would probably have never
14
THE TEMPTATION.
arisen, for Vincent, could he have selected his acquaintances, would
certainly not have chosen Joe; but young people are apt to prefer bad
company to none, and Vincent was glad to fly to any resource that made
a diversion in the dull uniformity of his home life. Joe Jebb could be
no fit society for the fair Emily, and the sooner he could be shaken off the
better.
Very shortly after Joe acquired this information Bessy Mure received an
anonymous epistle, which in her first transport of surprise and indignation
she was about to rush down stairs to shew to her uncle; but it so happened
that when she reached the bar where he usually enjoyed his grog and
meditations, she found nobody there but her aunt. Joss was out, and
knowing that Mrs Philpots's indignation would first find vent in reproaches
heaped upon herself, she forbore to mention the subject. This accident
gave her time for reflection. Bessy was a simple, uneducated girl, but she
wanted neither common sense nor good feeling; and she began to question
the prudence of so hastily rousing the slumbering lion of Uncle Philpots's
wrath, the more especially as she had no certainty of the correctness of the
information the letter conveyed. It occurred to her that it would be
better to see Vincent first, and hear what he had to say before she raised
the storm; and with this view she wrote to her mother, announcing her
immediate return, and by the same post forwarded a few lines to her
faithless lover, which she addressed to the silkmercer's, with whose shop
she was well acquainted.
Joss made no objection to her departure: on the contrary, he thought it
high time she went to look after her slippery swain, to whom he sent a
message, to the effect that if he was not shortly invited to the wedding, he
should pay a visit to West Green without an invitation.
So Bessy departed; and in order to spare her the disgrace of appearing
at home with an infant in her arms, Mrs Philpots undertook the charge of
it till, as a married woman, she could claim it.
IV.
When Mrs Mure stopped Vincent to communicate the news of Bessy's
return he was trotting gaily through the village on his way to his bride.
He had been two days at home for the purpose of making some final
arrangements with his father, and was anticipating with a lover's delight
the reunion with Emily, and the pleasures he expected to enjoy amongst a
party of young people who were to meet at Mr Halkelt's that evening—
pleasures, the freshness of which were not yet dashed by satiety, whilst their
flavour was heightened by long abstinence, and by the peculiar circum-
stances under which they were first presented to him, for they came hand-
in-hand with an ardent and well-placed affection. But the few words
spoken by Elizabeth lowered his tone in a moment. The blood no longer
bounded through his veins, his heart sunk, his limbs grew heavy, and the
features that had been lighted up with joy a minute before were over-
spread with blank dismay. The very horse he rode seemed to participate
in the sudden depression: the brisk trot slackened, and the head that had
been tossing in proud impatience drooped as he jogged sluggishly on.

15
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
Emily had been watching her lover from the window fully an hour before
he arrived; and when she saw him, after putting up his horse at the Castle,
walk with a slack pace and his eyes fixed upon the ground to her father's
door, she too felt a momentary sinking of the heart-a presentiment that
he was the herald of some evil tidings.
'Is anything the matter, dearest Vincent?' she said, meeting him at the
door of the drawing-room, and flinging her fair arms about his neck.
6
No, darling; why should you think so?' answered he; but her eyes were
peering inquisitively into his face, and his could not meet them.
'I know there is something, Vincent, for all you can say. You cannot
conceal anything from me.'
'You'll make me think myself very ill presently,' said he with the
slightest possible shade of temper. 'You know there's a great deal in
fancy. I believe I am weary of talking of business matters with my
father. I assure you a conversation with my father is not the most
enlivening thing in the world.'
Emily saw she bored him with her questionings, and turned the subject.
'Probably,' she thought, 'his father has not behaved so liberally as he
expected about money, and he is vexed, poor fellow! How needlessly, if
it's on my account!'
(
'By the by, dear Vincent, I've got a letter for you-a love-letter, I'm
certain by the writing; and I assure you I've been quite jealous. Let me
see, where did I put it?'
'What letter?' inquired Vincent.
'A love-letter, I tell you! The postman left it below in the shop.'
'How came the postman to leave my letters here?' asked Vincent with
the ready alarm of an uneasy conscience.
'Because it was directed here,' answered Emily, opening her work-box.
Oh, here it is! Pray what lady do you correspond with at Wellington,
sir?' she asked, examining the post-mark.
6
Nobody; it must be a mistake,' said Vincent, turning pale.
'Give it
me!'
'I've a great mind not,' she answered, for I know it's a love-letter,
because it's stamped with a thimble, and has three large kisses on it in red
sealing-wax!'
'Nonsense, Emily.'
'The address is charming,' said she, reading it, and does great credit to
the lady of your choice:
"To Master
Vicent Holway
care of Mister Halkut
on the Lunnun rode silk mercer
Taunton."
'Pooh! it's some begging-letter, or some of my father's labourers want-
ing a place,' said Vincent, snatching the letter from her and thrusting it
into his pocket unopened. 'Come and play me a tune, Emily!'
She looked at him for a moment with grave surprise, and then moved to
the pianoforte. His confusion, his paleness, his haste to put the letter
out of sight, had converted into certainty what had been but the faintest
suspicion. The letter was evidently that of a woman, but it had occa-
16
THE TEMPTATION.
sioned her no uneasiness-such a correspondent was not likely to be
a dangerous rival; besides, it might relate to fifty things she could not
guess, quite unconnected with affairs of the heart: but Vincent's demea-
nour betrayed him, and stamped the accident with importance. Though
it had been a foolish love-letter, the last flash of some boyish flirtation,
had he but shewn it her she would have shaken her pretty head and
forgiven; but she did not like the concealment. She had no conceal-
ments. She had turned her heart and her memory inside out, and let
him read the whole contents; and when she seated herself at the instru-
ment the tears were starting to her eyes. But she was too wise and
good-tempered to allow these feelings to get the better of her; and
after turning over the leaves of her music-book, in order to gain a little
time to recover herself, she looked round to ask him what she should
sing, and discovered him standing at the other end of the room with his
back towards her and the letter in his hand. She did not see it; but
she was sure, from his attitude, that he was in the act of breaking the
seal when she spoke. On hearing her voice, however, he crushed the
paper in his hand, and coming forward, desired her to sing what she pleased;
but feeling herself too much discomposed to trust her voice, she proposed a
walk, and said she would go and put on her bonnet and shawl; and the door
had no sooner closed on her than he tore open poor Bessy's epistle, which
ran as follows:-
'DERE MASTER HOLWAY-A frend has rote me a letter as your to be
maried to Miss Halkut and if Uncle Philpots heres it he'll be mad so Ime
cumming home by the Bote as passes tomorow and shal go to my cosens
Mrs Wilson Landress whare please call tomorow nite if you get this or nest
mornin or else at home yrs to command
ELIZBETH MURE.'
It was then as he thought; and yet not so bad as his fears had
painted, since Uncle Philpots, that bête noire of his existence, did not
appear to be coming; and if not, he might possibly contrive to keep Bessy
quiet by persuasion, or by denying the report altogether. There were only
two more days to get over, and then he would be safe. Once married,
what could they do? This was what he was always repeating to himself,
and it was this that made every week which had intervened appear a month.
However, on the whole, though he anathematised the officious friend who
had written to Bessy, he felt somewhat relieved. Uncle Philpots he knew
would be unmanageable, but Bessy would be more tractable, more easily
deceived. 'Yes,' he said, as hearing Emily's foot on the stairs he thrust the
letter into his pocket, 'I think I can quiet Bessy.'
Still, in spite of his efforts to appear at ease and converse cheerfully as
they walked, he was more absent than usual. More or less so he always
was; insomuch that Emily had come to the conclusion that this sort of
distraction was the habit of his mind. But all at once, after a silence
some minutes, he started; the movement was almost imperceptible,
but she felt it in the arm she was leaning lovingly upon.
'What's the matter, dear?' she said, casting her eyes about in search of
the object that had occasioned his emotion.
'Why do you keep asking me what's the matter, Emily?' he said
peevishly. There's nothing the matter.'
'I thought you started?'
17
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
'I didn't start that I know of; but you're growing quite fanciful, I
think.'
He had started though, for it had suddenly flashed across his mind that
Bessy had omitted to give him the address of Mrs Wilson, the laundress.
How, then, was he to call on her as she desired, and as he desired too;
since to allow her to go home without seeing him might produce very ill
consequences? This was a most perplexing difficulty; and the more so
because he had so little time at his disposal, for he had no excuse for not
attending Mr Halkelt's dinner-table, as usual, at three o'clock, nor could he
escape being present at the tea-party in the evening. It was only during
the interval betwixt these two repasts that he could hope to accomplish his
object, and it might take him a long time to discover the residence of so
obscure a person as Mrs Wilson. What was to be done? He could not
think; and the question so engrossed his mind that Emily found all attempts
at conversation so ineffectual, that she relinquished the effort, and walked
on in silence, till, drawing out her new watch, a wedding-present from her
father, she observed that they had better turn, as they had no more than
time to get home before dinner.
As lovers are seldom very conversible people in company, Vincent's
abstraction passed unobserved at the dinner-table; and when Mr Halkelt
rose (and being a man of business, he did so immediately the repast was
concluded), he made an excuse for a short absence, promising to be
back to tea.
Vincent was glad to find himself alone in the street, because he could
think uninterruptedly of the one engrossing subject-What should he do?
How find Mrs Wilson? He had not the slightest idea of whom to inquire
her address. He went into a chandler's shop, where a man was engaged
weighing out bacon for a customer, who protested against the price. The
chandler of course said, that for the quality it was the cheapest bacon he
had ever sold, and expatiated on the charms of its colour and streaky beau-
ties. When there was a pause in the argument, and whilst the man was
enveloping the bacon in a bit of brown paper, he turned to Vincent,
and asked him what he should have the pleasure of serving him?
'Did he happen to know where a Mrs Wilson, a laundress, lived?'
'Don't know, sir, I'm sure,' answered the chandler, who thought the
question extremely irrelevant. Vincent felt awkward, and the more so
that the woman who was buying the bacon turned about and stared at him.
His feelings towards Bessy were not improved by this incident, and he
coupled her name with no blessings.
Seeing Mangling Done Here' inscribed over a door below the level of the
street, he thought he would try there. The woman was civil, but she did
not know Mrs Wilson. 'There were a great many people as took in
washing, and there might be one of that name, but she could not tell.' A
girl who had carried a pair of sheets to be mangled said: 'There was a
Mrs Jackson, a laundress, that lived along by the canal;' but that brought
him no nearer Mrs Wilson. Nevertheless this remark was not without its
consequences, for the mention of the canal suggested to Vincent that he
might possibly see something of Bessy by going in that direction. She
had not mentioned what time she should arrive, and the boat might not be
in yet. But what boat was she coming by? There were boats coming up
18
THE TEMPTATION.
all day carrying one thing or another. When he drew near the water he
stopped, and asked a man in a blue jacket and trousers, who was standing
at the door of a public-house, whether there were any passenger-boats; but
the man said he was a stranger in those parts, and could not tell; so he
walked on.
What augmented his difficulty was, that the evening was fast closing in;
for it was yet early in the year, and there had come on within the last
hour a driving mist and a thick atmosphere that made it darker than it
would otherwise have been. He could barely distinguish the boats upon
the water, and he made some inquiries of a man who was standing by some
large bales of goods with respect to any that might have brought a
passenger from Wellington. As he spoke he felt some one pull the skirt
of his coat, and looking round he saw it was Bessy. She had landed about
an hour before, but having forgotten a bundle, had come back to fetch it.
'I knew it was you by your voice,' she said, as he turned and joined her.
'And what has brought you back in such a hurry?' he inquired.
'Uncle Philpots!'
(
6 Is he here with you?'
No; but he's coming to-morrow, or next day at farthest.'
This was an impromptu of Bessy's, not strictly consistent with the truth;
but for the sake of all parties, and as the only means of averting worse
trouble, she believed Vincent should fulfil his engagement, and quite unable
to appreciate his aversion to doing so, or the force with which he was
drawn in a contrary direction, she expected that with a proper exertion
of influence.he would yield. Uncle Philpots was her strong card, and the
question had suggested the answer.
Uncle Philpots is one as never gives up; and he says he's coming
to lay the bit of paper afore the magistrates, and get justice on it.'
This he had said more than once: he had himself threatened Vincent he
would do so if he attempted to back out of the engagement; and as the
young man did not know what power the paper gave them to enforce the
promise it contained, it was a menace full of terror and horror to him—a
terror and horror which seemed to make the black blood of vengeance rush
into his veins. He felt like a victim writhing in the folds of a serpent,
who, whilst he struggles to be free, longs to clutch in his hard gripe the
throat of the hated monster that torments him. His brow was knit, his
fist was clenched, his teeth set hard, and the breath came thick from his
heaving breast; but he did not speak. The imprecations that rose to his
parched lips found no voice: it might have been better if they had. They
only choked him, and then fell back upon his heart, to make his blood boil
faster.
Thus they walked on by the side of the canal. If Bessy could have seen
his face, she might have read something there that would have silenced
her; but it was too dark, and, besides, she did not look at it. Her busi-
ness was to convince him that Uncle Philpots was coming, and that Uncle
Philpots was a person who never desisted, never gave in, till he had
gained his point. Bessy was no philosopher; she did not know that the
most dire tempests of the soul often find no vent in words, as the bitterest
griefs seek no relief from tears. Vincent's patient silence promised well.
From Uncle Philpots she went to the baby: it was so like its father; she
19
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
longed to shew it him; Aunt Philpots was to bring it over with her soon;
she was sure he would love it; and then it must be christened, and its
name should be Vincent. She thought this would touch his heart. Poor
Bessy!
Bessy was walking next the canal when she said this, and Vincent,
who felt his brain begin to waver, suddenly passed behind her, and placed
himself betwixt her and the water. Unfortunately thinking he was going
to escape her, she thrust her arm within his to detain him-a familiarity
that produced such an access of rage and disgust that he impulsively flung
her off with a violence that made her reel.
'What's that for?' she cried with the rudeness of an untutored mind,
and an angry thrust of her vigorous arm.
Then there was an indignant oath-a slight scuffle- —a cry—a splash-
and Vincent stood bending forward with distended eyes and open mouth,
breathless and amazed, staring wildly through the misty dusk into the
deep black water. He saw nothing upon the dim surface, and turned round,
hoping desperately that he was labouring under an illusion, and half expect-
ing to see Bessy on the dry land. But a strangled scream from the canal
recalled his senses; and as he beheld an indistinct object floating far out
from the brink he was about to plunge madly in. The object, however,
sunk; and at the same moment the noise of hasty footsteps approaching,
and the glare of waving lights, appalled him. The horror of his position
overpowered his reasoning faculties. The thousand circumstances of sus-
picion by which he was surrounded—the death-screams of the victim—the
fearful temptation to which he might be supposed to have yielded-all
swept like a tempest across his brain; and with one more glance at the
calm, black, desert waters, he turned and fled from the accursed spot.
V.
There was a gay little party assembled that evening in Mr Halkelt's
drawing-room. The silkmercer was a man well-to-do in the world, and
being exceedingly proud of his daughter, he spared nothing to make his
house agreeable to her young friends; so that betwixt his liberality and
her merits they had contrived to collect a very respectable circle amongst
the middle classes of the neighbourhood. On this eventful night all their
intimate acquaintances, both young and old, are there, as it is to be the last
party before the wedding; and they are all wondering what has become of
the bridegroom, especially the dancers, for there being more ladies than
gentlemen, he is particularly wanted. They quiz Emily on his desertion,
and she threatens to make him expiate his misdemeanour by some heavy
penalty. But though she laughs she is not at ease, and those who are
best acquainted with her fancy the lovers have had a quarrel; others, who
comprehend her less, but still can discern the shadow on her brow, con-
clude her to be more offended at his absence than she chooses to own. For
her own part she connects Vincent's absence with the letter: she feels
certain that he is involved in some painful mystery; and a weight is on
her heart which she does her utmost to conceal, especially from her father,
who, however, suspects nothing, and quizzes her more than anybody else.
20
THE TEMPTATION.
But by and by one of the maids who is assisting Emily at the tea-table
whispers that she has just met Mr Halloway on the stairs, and that he is gone
up to dress. Emily feels the colour rush into her cheeks at this intelligence,
and her ears grow hot as they listen for the opening of the door. The
candidates for tea are standing betwixt her and it, but presently she hears
her father's voice saluting Vincent with a 'Hollo, young gentleman! where
have you been to ?' Others surround him, and repeat the question. What
he answers she does not hear; but as he advances she steals a glance at
his face. Perhaps he never looked so handsome: all the young ladies
think so, for he is as pale as marble; and the dark shadows upon his
brow and about his eyes, and the stern, concentrated expression of his
features, supplying the power in which they are usually deficient, make
them fancy he resembles one of Byron's heroes. The fact is the tension
still continues-the relaxation of fear has not yet come-he is not yet
capable of comprehending his situation-he is stunned-the room and the
party have something strange to him-he scarcely knows where he is he
can hardly part his lips to speak in answer to the inquiries of his merry
persecutors.
'Come!' said Mr Halkelt, dragging him forward,' and try if you can
make your peace with your liege lady here!'
Emily looked up, as if she had not observed him before, smiled, and
nodded; and drawing a chair beside herself, said: 'Come, and I'll give you
some tea!' She was not deceived. What had happened she could not
tell, but she was sure he was in great trouble-more, it appeared to her
now, than any slight female entanglement could account for; and she
began to fancy he must be involved in some terrible pecuniary embar-
rassment which his father had refused to relieve him from. From what-
ever quarter the wind had blown that bore this evil fortune on its wings,
she saw that a storm was about to break over their heads, and she resolved
to stand fast by the husband of her choice, for no mean jealousy racked
her he had probably been faulty, but she did not doubt his love; and
she would like to have whispered to him: 'Fear not-I am yours through
all fortunes; and the errors that others may condemn, I can forgive!'
He sat sipping his tea, while she talked to him in a low voice, asking
him who he would dance with; and whether he thought Miss Jennings,
the young lady that had come to Taunton on a visit to the apothecary's
wife, was pretty; and how he liked Mr Bartlett's grand satin waistcoat. By
this means she relieved him from embarrassment and observation, and kept
other people from troubling him. He penetrated her intention, and whilst
he admired her forbearance and good temper, he wondered what her
thoughts were.
"You had better dance with Miss Cox till I can come,' she whispered:
'she's a quiet little thing. Jane, come here! here's Vincent wants to
dance with you;' and the quadrille being formed, he led her away.
He danced with her and others, but chiefly with Emily, that night; and
often, when his hand met hers, he pressed it with fervid emotion. He had
never been her equal, indeed he was far her inferior; and whilst she was
a woman, he, though older by three years, was but a boy: partly nature,
but still more too rigid training, had kept him so. But though his mind
now was in a sort of maze-although he was blind and deaf, and all his
21
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
senses numbed, so that he had no lively comprehension of anything—
though yet he saw not Bessy where she lay upon that muddy bank, with
her long hair tangled and dripping over the rope that moors a barge,
wherein sit three men playing with a pack of dirty cards by the light of
a dusky lantern-although the dim picture is hidden from him, yet he felt
there was an angel trying to uphold him in that dark sea that was compass-
ing him about. Never were her tones tuned to so much softness! Never
had so much tenderness beamed from that sweet face. As she moved:
round the room, her eye was ever on him, to comfort and sustain; whilst,
with all the tact of a woman, she defended him from the persecutions of
civility, and the inexorable hilarity of her father and his friends.
The evening wore through at last; refreshments had been handed about;
and the company had departed. Whilst the host and hostess were yet
saying 'Good-night,' Vincent went to the sideboard, and drank off a glass
of strong brandy and water which had been mixed by Mr Halkelt, in
the fulness of his hospitality, for somebody who would not take it.
Emily's quick eye perceived what he had been doing, for the draught
brought back the colour to his cheeks; she comprehended the motive too,
and forbore to disturb the oblivion he was seeking. So, as it was late,
and her father was in haste to get everybody to bed, they separated for
the night without any attempt at an explanation.
come.
Vincent undressed himself mechanically, lay down in his bed, and, still
under the influence of the narcotic, fell immediately asleep. But by and
by he awoke, dreaming that he met Bessy in the street carrying a bundle,
which she opened, displaying to him the livid body of a dead infant; and
with a shudder he turned to sleep again. But this time sleep would not
In spite of his efforts to suppress them, memory and consciousness
would start into vigilance, and suddenly the whole dreadful truth was
before him. What truth? Had he done it? He did not know. He
only knew that black thoughts had started up like fiends in his mind, that
in the midst of them they had struggled, and that she was dead. Then he
sat up in bed, and wildly clutched his hair and gnashed his teeth, and
thought of all the damning circumstances arrayed against him. How he
cursed fate, himself, and her! For as yet there was no pity for that young
life lost! No repentance yet for Heaven-no tears for earth. It was all
wrath, and fear, and bitterness. The horrors that awaited him, the
condemnation, the prison, and the scaffold, marshalled themselves in dread
array; and when he heard a noise in the street, he thought it was the
constables coming to seize him.
The night was not long, for they had retired late, and Mr Halkelt was
an early riser. By and by Vincent heard people stirring in the house—the
shutters of the shop were taken down, and the silkmercer's heavy foot
creaked upon the stairs. How often had the young lover leaped joyously
out of bed on hearing these signals announcing that breakfast was at hand,
when he should be greeted with the glad welcome of his mistress! But
now, though weary of the night, he was in no haste to descend. By candle-
light, and with so many objects to divert his attention, Mr Halkelt had
neither remarked the pallor of Vincent's complexion, the altered expression
of his features, nor the distraction of his manner; but these could hardly
escape observation by daylight, with nobody present but himself and Emily.
22
THE TEMPTATION.
In order, therefore, not to encounter his future father-in-law, he lingered
above, laving his face with cold water, till he fancied Mr Halkelt would have
quitted the table, and then went below. Emily was alone, and received
him with a kind greeting. She did not ask him how he had slept his looks
told her that—but she tried by tenderness and gentleness to soothe him and
win his confidence; and she so far succeeded that the hard, fierce agony
of the preceding hours was softened by a burst of tears. Whilst his heart
swelled with unutterable anguish, he laid his head upon her bosom, and
wept.
'I ask no questions,' she whispered; 'but if you could tell me, I might
be of use. You know you can trust me!
What a relief it would have been to tell her! But he could only weep
and sob, and cover his face with his hands.
'Is there nothing I can do?' she asked.
'Nothing,' he said. 'I must go away now to West Green; perhaps to
return at night, perhaps not. If I don't come, make an excuse for me to
your father."
She threw her arms round his neck whilst the tears streamed down her
face. 'My poor, poor Vincent!' she said, 'oh if I could but help you!
He passed hastily through the shop into the street. Luckily Mr Halkelt
was in the counting-house at the back, and did not observe him. He was in
the habit of speaking to the young men, but now he only waved his hand,
like one too much pressed for time to stay for greetings; and so he strided
through the street, his eyes upon the ground, as if engrossed with business
of importance; called roughly for his horse, and instead of lounging at the
inn-door till it was led out, as he was used to do, hurried away, saying he
would be back in five minutes. He filled up the interval by walking
rapidly from street to street, and then returned, mounted, and trotted off.
The landlord was at the door with the 'Western Times' in his hand, and
remarked that the morning was cold; but Vincent only nodded. Who
could tell what might be in that paper?
As soon as he had cleared the town he slackened his pace, and tried to
think and form a plan of action. He saw that if he could not exercise
more command over himself he should be his own accuser. He must
master his agitation, and compose his manner. His mother would observe
any change immediately. He must also call on Mrs Mure. It would be
prudent to inquire if Bessy were arrived. He wished, however, to avoid
going into her house-a word at the door was better; and he was about to
tap his whip against the window, but just at that moment he saw Joe Jebb
leaping over a stile into the road, and to escape him he rode forward,
resolving to defer his visit to Elizabeth till the next time he passed.
When he reached home his father was in the fields. He had not been
expected, and his mother asked him why he had come; adding suddenly,
as she looked at him: You are not well, Vincent?'
'I don't think I am,' he said; for the hint was worthy of adoption.
'We were up very late last night, and late hours don't agree with me.'
'Are you sure that's all? Have you any headache?'
'Yes, I have-I drank some brandy and water, and it was too strong
for me.'
Rachel, however, did not believe this was all, for she observed that he
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
avoided looking her in the face. 'I hope,' she said, 'nothing unpleasant has
happened!
At this he fired.
What should happen unpleasant? Couldn't he have
a headache without its being supposed something extraordinary had hap-
pened?' and so forth. Rachel was only the more convinced that some-
thing had occurred, but she forbore to trouble him farther.
To escape observation he retired to his chamber, and seating himself
near the window, resting his burning brow upon his hand, he looked out
upon his father's fields. With how much distaste he had many a time
surveyed that smiling landscape; for what was its beauties to him who
was panting for freedom and for other scenes? He had pined for the
world and society, and the pleasures that young people delight in, and
despised the measure of peace that contented his parents. What would
he have given for that measure of peace now? The tears ran down his
cheeks as he reflected how happy he had really been when he thought
himself miserable-how calmly he had slept after his day's work-how
healthfully awoke! Would he ever sleep or wake so more? Alas, never!
Like Macbeth, he had murdered sleep.' He knew nothing of Macbeth;
but the truth of the poet is the truth of all times, and the voice that had
cried to the Thane of Glamis, 'Sleep no more!' was as audible to this unhappy
boy as it was to him.
Under the window there lay a dog dozing in a gleam of sunshine, and
not far from him a kitten was playing with a straw. How happy they
were! Everything in the world seemed happy but himself. Absorbed in
his wretchedness he forgot the flight of time, and by and by his mother
looked in to say that dinner was ready.
'I am engaged to dine at Taunton,' he answered. But his distress was too
visible to be denied, and closing the door behind her, she came towards
him, entreating him in the tenderest manner that he would tell her what
had happened: had he had any difference with Emily? He could only
throw himself into her arms and give way to his anguish.
my father you can't
'I can't go down to dinner, mother,' he said. "Tell my
find me.'
'I dare not do that,' she said. 'I'll tell him you are going back to
Taunton; but you must come and see him before you go.'
Vincent promised he would; and she quitted him, persuaded that he had
had some terrible quarrel with his mistress.
As Jacob Halloway generally indulged in a short nap after dinner,
Vincent waited till he was likely to be asleep; and then descending,
gently opened the parlour door. Rachel, who was sitting with her
spectacles on reading the Bible, raised her eyes, and then turned them
on the old man dozing in his easy-chair. Vincent waited a moment :
his father did not stir; his mother nodded assent to the glance which
said: 'Let me go without waking him;' and he was closing the door,
when the old man, roused by the sound said: 'Is that you, boy?'
• Shall we
Yes, father,' answered Vincent, returning and placing himself behind
his father. Jacob held out his hand without looking round.
see you to-morrow?' he asked.
'Yes, father,' answered Vincent, thinking an assent most likely to obtain
his dismissal.
24
THE TEMPTATION.
'Then I'll take my nap now, and keep what I have to say till then. Good-
by, boy; and don't let the love of the world get the better of you, nor
think because the sun shines to-day it'll shine always. Keep yourself
humble in prosperity, d'ye hear? When man forgets the Lord, the Lord's
apt to call to him in a voice of thunder.'
Good-by, sir!' said Vincent; 'I'm afraid I shall be late.'
Jacob groaned reprovingly as he settled himself to sleep, and Rachel
heaved a gentle sigh as she took up her knitting.
To avoid the chance of meeting Joe Jebb, Vincent rode by a byway to
Elizabeth's cottage, and in so doing had to pass the spot that used to be
his trysting-place in the days when he dreamed of no greater happiness than
the midnight meetings with Bessy Mure. Absorbed as he was with his
anxieties and fears, he had not thought of it till his eyes rested on the bank
where many a moonlight night they had sat hand in hand, revelling in the
present, and forming projects for the future. His heart stood still at the
sight of it. Hitherto he had thought of the tragedy only as connected with
himself it was himself he pitied-it was his own peril that engrossed him.
But the sight of this spot awakened other feelings. He saw Bessy as she
had been when first their love began, with the tender roses of girlhood upon
her cheeks, and the bright smile of innocence on her lip; and he recalled
the joys of that first harvest-home when she sat beside him, the fairest
flower of them all-where was she now?
There is certainly nothing stranger in human life than the birth and
death of human passion!
In the midst of all this anguish, however, the instinct of self-preservation
never slept. Not to inquire if Bessy had arrived would appear suspicious ;
and therefore, severe as the trial was, he must call on her mother; so he rode
up to the door and tapped with his whip. Elizabeth opened it herself; but she
no sooner saw who it was, than without saying a word she angrily slammed
it in his face. He had not the courage to ask her why, and rode on with
the addition of a new source of perplexity and trouble. What could have
happened since yesterday to offend her? Was it Bessy's non-appearance ;
and if so, did she connect it with him? Had Bessy told her that she meant
to see him in Taunton? He hoped, however, it was only the news of his
marriage that had reached her; for that which but yesterday he had feared so
much had now become utterly unimportant. They could not make him marry
Bessy now!
He lingered on the road till Mr Halkelt's dinner hour was over, and till it
was dusk, and then entered the town; and after putting up his horse, pro-
ceeded to the silkmercer's. As he approached the house he saw the errand-
boy trotting gaily before him with some parcels strapped over his shoulders;
and as he passed through the shop, he heard one of the young men ask the
lad, in reference to something the latter had mentioned whilst unstrapping
his burthen, Whereabouts was she found?'
'Just close by Billing's Warehouse. A rope caught her, and stopped her
from going farther;' and as Vincent closed the door, he heard some one
inquire if she was anybody belonging to the town.
This must be Bessy!-she had not sunk to the bottom then! Her body
had floated, and erelong her murderer would be sought! He staggered up
stairs in the dark, shut himself in his chamber, and fell upon his knees, for
25
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
hope on earth had forsaken him. He had trusted she might not be found
for a long time, or far from the fatal spot; but Billing's Warehouse was
hard by, and he discerned clearly the chain of evidence that would condemn
him. The letter, his late arrival at the party, his distracted manner—all
coincident with the crime. Then his inquiries for Mrs Wilson. He was sure
that woman who had stared at him so in the chandler's shop would remem-
ber him twenty years hence; and, worse than all, his questions respecting
the Wellington boats! And there could be little doubt that the man to
whom he was speaking when Bessy came up to him would recall the cir-
cumstance, and recognise them both. What should he do? Go and throw
himself at Emily's feet, and tell her all, and entreat her to help him to fly.
He had no doubt that she would; and he quitted his room, softly descended
the stairs, and was just listening at the drawing-room door to ascertain if she
were alone, when Mr Halkelt clapped him on the back with a jolly' hallo!'
and asked him where he had been all day; adding, 'I didn't know you were
here! There was a man just now inquiring for you, and they told me below
they'd seen you pass through the shop; but the maid said she was sure you
were not in the house, and I sent him away.' Vincent had no doubt that
this was an officer come to arrest him; and he firmly resolved, when all the
household were in bed, to steal away, and make the best of his road to Lon-
don, and thence, if possible, across the Channel, even if he begged his way.
For the present, however, he could not escape entering the drawing-room,
where he found one or two of Emily's relations spending the evening with
her-the last but one, as they expected, before her marriage.
Vincent pleaded a violent headache, and Emily, all sympathy and con-
sideration, bore him up as well as she could; and perceiving that it was
almost impossible his agitation should escape remark, she recommended
him to go to bed, that being the best place for aching heads; and although
suffering exceedingly herself from her lover's mysterious distress, she had
the virtue and the strength of mind to conceal her own pain, and affect
a cheerfulness she was far from feeling, in order to shield him from
observation.
After fervently pressing her hand, and looking all the love and thanks
his eyes could convey, Vincent availed himself of her counsel, and retired
to his chamber, but not to bed. His first business was to write a few lines
of farewell to Emily. These he sealed, and laid on his dressing-table. He
gave no reason for his departure: he only bewailed his wretchedness; said
that through his own folly and wickedness he had lost peace and her;
and that though he should love her eternally, she would never see him again.
This done, he tied up a few things in a bundle, and then sat down to wait
till everybody in the house was in bed. He at length gently opened his
door, and listened. Not a sound was to be heard; so he took up his bundle
in one hand and the candle in the other, and descended the stairs. There
were two ways of egress-through the shop, or through a private door, which
last was seldom used except when there was company. It was through
this, however, he hoped to escape, as the other could not be unbarred
without noise. He advanced on tiptoe towards it, and sought the key,
which usually hung at the back of the door; but it was not to be seen,
being at that moment securely deposited in the maid's pocket, who lay
in the garret.
26
THE TEMPTATION.
Here was a dreadful disappointment! He must then try the other way,
and he opened the door that communicated with the shop; but in so doing
his candle blew out, while at the same instant he felt himself clutched by
a powerful hand, and a voice cried: Villain! I've got you, have I?'
Exhausted by suffering, the shock was too great for his nerves, and
instead of the resistance he expected, the porter that guarded the shop,
and who mistook Vincent for a thief carrying away his boots in the
bundle, felt the body of his prisoner slip from his grasp, and sink heavily
on the earth. Whereupon he fetched a light, and perceiving who it was
he had seized, he awakened Mr Halkelt, who assisted him to carry the still
insensible Vincent to his bed. Emily was then roused, and being
informed of her lover's condition, and the strange circumstances under
which he was found, she expressed no surprise. On the contrary, she said:
'It was nothing more than she had been daily apprehending-it having
been evident to her that he had for some time been struggling with severe
illness, which, from an unwillingness to lie up at such a crisis, he had
laboured to conceal.'
VI.
Nine days had elapsed since that eventful night when Vincent Halloway
opened his eyes after what appeared to him a long, long sleep, in which he
had been harassed by the most frightful dreams. He was in the chamber
in which he usually slept when at Mr Halkelt's, and everything was so
quiet that he might have thought himself alone but for a low breathing on
the other side of the bed-curtain, which shaded the glare of the window
from his pillow. He would have drawn it aside to see who was there, but
he found he had no power to raise his arm. The attempt, however, had
not escaped the watchful ear of his nurse, and the curtain being lifted,
Emily's sweet face looked in upon him. When her eyes met his, she gazed
eagerly into them, and then bending down and touching his brow with her
lips, she said: 'How do you feel, dearest ?'
(
'I don't know,' he said. 'I believe I'm very weak. Have I been ill?'
Very ill,' she answered; 'but you have had a good sleep, and now you
are going to get well. Only you must be very obedient, and not talk.'
The command was not difficult to obey, for a few words exhausted him,
and he was content to be silent. Presently his mother came into the room
on tiptoe. Emily whispered her the good news, and she also came to his
bedside, kissed him, and blessed him. He was quite easy, and seemed
to himself to be lying in a sort of Elysium. So he slept and woke, and
sipped things out of a teaspoon which Emily held to his lips, and asked
no questions.
Gradually, however, vague recollections of the circumstances that had
preceded his illness recurred to his memory; but he could not at first
distinguish the real events from the visions of his delirium. Certainly the
dreadful scene at the canal seemed too vivid and distinct to be a dream;
but if Bessy was dead, and her body found, how came he to be left peace-
ably under Mr Halkelt's roof? Perhaps because he was too ill to be
removed; or had he escaped connection with the terrible event? But as
27
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
he gained strength, wonder and perplexity, not unaccompanied by aların,
took possession of him; and in spite of the calm and cheerful demeanour
of those about him, he could not divest himself of the hourly apprehension
that he should be arrested for the murder of Bessy. As time advanced,
however, this fear began to be less urgent, but other anxieties succeeded it.
Could he, knowing his dreadful position, dare to marry Emily? Could he
allow so lovely, so pure, so noble a woman, to ally herself to one who
might yet be doomed to the death of a felon? He felt it was impossible.
But explanation must be deferred till after his visit to his father's, whither
the doctor recommended he should remove for change of air; and Emily,
who took the entire command, consented, provided she went with him, for
she perceived plainly as his bodily health was restored that his mental
disease was returning that he had something on his mind was evident.
What could this grievous secret be?
When the day arrived for his removal, a carriage was engaged to convey
him. Under other circumstances how delightful such a drive would have
been, with the glad feelings of returning health, and Emily by his side!
But there was no gladness for him. He thought only of what he was soon
to lose, and of the grim future that awaited him.
As they passed Mrs Mure's door, Nancy ran out to see the carriage.
She looked as usual, and he observed that she was not in mourning. He
saw some other familiar faces; all nodded and smiled: it was evident that
even there, where his connection with Bessy was known, he was not
suspected of her murder. Nevertheless, his determination to relinquish
Emily remained unshaken.
At first, on his arrival at home, he could not walk farther than the
garden; but as his strength returned, leaning on Emily's arm he extended
his rambles; and when they had a fine spring morning, they often remained
abroad for hours--precious hours!—the last he was ever to taste on earth!
One day when, after a long stroll, they were reposing side by side on a
primrose-covered bank, he saw Nancy Mure coming towards him with a
white jug in her hand. Emily remarked that she was a pretty girl; and
Vincent felt, as she drew near, that he must speak to her. That she
expected it was evident, for she stopped.
6
'How do you do, Nancy?' he faltered out with a husky voice.
Very well, thankye, Mr Halloway. I hope you're better.'
'Rather better,' he answered with a sigh.
'I s'pose you know that Bessy's been very bad, and like to die? I've
been up to the farm to fetch a drop of milk for her. She can't take
nothing but milk now.'
Vincent gasped for breath.
'What has been the matter with her?' kindly inquired Emily.
'She tumbled into the canal at Taunton six weeks agone come Monday,
and she caught a cold, and the doctor says it's settled upon her chest.'
Emily answered that she would call and see her; and as soon as Nancy
was gone, Vincent rose, trembling exceedingly, and said that not feeling very
well he wished to go home and lie down. When he found himself alone, his
first impulse was to pour out his heart's thanksgiving for Bessy's escape.
For a long time he wept and prayed, and as soon as his mind was calmer
he wrote to her to request she would see him. It was evident that she had
28
THE TEMPTATION.
spared him. How could he be grateful enough for so much generosity?
How make her amends for his brutality and ingratitude? In the evening
Nancy brought a note to say that Bessy could not come out, but that she
would be glad to see him if he would call.
He went the next morning, and found her sitting up in bed, pale and
hollow-cheeked, the ghost of her former self. When he entered the room,
she bade her mother and sister leave them. Vincent fell upon his knees,
and covered his face with his hands, whilst the big tears streamed betwixt
his fingers. His heart was rent in twain, and he sobbed like an infant in
grief.
'Never mind,' she said. 'Don't take on so! I haven't told nobody,
nor never will; and, besides, it was as much my fault as yours. Mother
sent for Uncle Philpots when she heard you was agoing to marry Miss
Halkelt, and he com'd just the next day; and when he found I'd been in
the water, he said he knew you had done it; but I turned him off from
it with laughing, and said I fell in when I fetched my bundle, 'cause it was
so dark.'
He thanked her again and again; but how she had escaped he could not
conceive. She said that the second time she rose she had caught hold of a
rope that moored a barge to the shore, and had tried to reach the land, but
that it slipped from her grasp; after which she remembered nothing till she
found herself in bed at a little public-house, whither she had been carried.
The men in the barge, on coming from below to go ashore, had dis-
covered her with her long hair entangled in the hawser, which had kept
her head above water. Her cousin, Mrs Wilson, surprised at her not
returning, had come in search of her, and so learned where she was, and
there also Uncle Philpots had found her. She said she had been ill
ever since from the cold she caught, and that the doctor said she would
need great care.
Vincent answered that she should have great care; for after what had
happened, he should be an ungrateful scoundrel if he did not devote himself
to watch over her health and safety.
But Bessy shook her head and said, that could not be.
'It must be!' Vincent answered. You must be my wife now, Bessy:
I am determined to do what is right, and fulfil my promise.'
C
No, Mr Halloway,' answered Bessy, 'I will never be your wife. It
wouldn't be good for you nor me, I know; and perhaps might sooner or
later lead to worse than what's gone. It would never do; and I wouldn't
say, if we had words, but I might sometime cast up to you about the canal,
and about your running away instead of trying to save me. Uncle
Philpots and I had words about it; but I told him it wasn't no use,
for I wouldn't marry a man as wanted to marry another girl.'
And Bessy adhered to her wise resolution.
Vincent was now free to marry Emily; even the child he was not
burdened with, Uncle and Aunt Philpots having chosen to adopt it. But
was he more worthy to become the husband of a virtuous woman than he
was when he believed Bessy was dead? Were the black thoughts of
that fatal evening-of that fatal moment-more pardonable because the
life he supposed to be sacrificed had been providentially preserved?
The struggle of mind these feelings occasioned became dreadful. Whilst
29
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
he believed Bessy dead there had been no struggle. His path was plain: his
duty was clearly to relinquish Emily; his condition was rather that of
utter despondency and calm despair. But now another element had been
introduced-a small scruple of hope that, setting his mind in a ferment,
robbed him of his sleep, and of what little appetite he had recovered, and
Emily had the pain of seeing that he was daily losing all the ground he had
gained. In short, he became so ill that, for his own part, he thought death
was about to relieve him from all his difficulties; and under this persuasion
he resolved, before he quitted the world, to make a full confession to Emily.
He felt that his own mind would be easier, and also that it was due to her
to give her that last proof of his affection and confidence; but it should not
be till his end was approaching, when pity would silence reproof, and the
horror and aversion she felt she would in mercy forbear to exhibit.
In the meantime Emily had her project too-which was to obtain his
confidence; but he always baffled her till one day, when the doctor had
quitted the room with a grave face, she re-entered it with the traces of
tears on her cheeks.
(
'I see,' said Vincent, what he thinks; but don't grieve, Emily. Depend
on it, it is better I should die.'
'Why is it better?' she said impatiently. 'Why will you persist in
making me miserable, for you can't deceive me, Vincent? I know you
have something on your mind, and you would rather die than trust me
with it.'
'Not from want of confidence, Emily,' he answered; 'but there are
things it's hard to confess. I wish to retain your love as long as I can.'
'True love is not easily extinguished,' she replied.
'But there are things that might extinguish it, Emily. Suppose I had
done something very, very bad?'
'I should be extremely sorry, Vincent-extremely sorry indeed; and I
should insist on your doing everything you could to repair the wrong.'
But wouldn't you cease to love me?'
<
'No,' she answered; for what you may have done, I know not; but I
am witness to what you have suffered. It must be a dreadful fault
indeed that such sufferings would not expiate.'
'I have suffered,' he said, 'God knows!' And the tears coursed each
other down the wasted cheeks. 'But there are crimes that I fear no
sufferings can expiate.'
Emily began to think he must be the victim of some delusion. What
crime of so black a die, and yet so secret, could a youth, situated as
Vincent was, have committed? But she was resolved, having brought
him thus far, not to lose the ground she had gained.
'Upon my word, Vincent,' she said smiling, 'one would think you had
committed a murder to hear you talk!'
'And if I had?' he sobbed, covering his face with his hands.
'Oh God! Vincent,' she cried, clasping hers in anguish, 'don't say that!
You cannot mean it!'
His reply was a relation of the whole circumstances of his acquaintance
with Bessy, from the first awakening of his boyish infatuation to the
frenzied ideas that had beset him at their meeting by the canal, and the
catastrophe which seemed to his affrighted conscience to be their result.
30
THE TEMPTATION.
He concluded by mentioning the offer of reparation he had now made
her, together with the different phases of his own mental struggle; 'And
you will agree with me now,' he said, 'that it is better I should die!'
'No,' answered Emily weeping, 'it is better you should live and repent.
Poor, poor Vincent! How little I guessed the weight that was dragging
you into the grave!'
The ease of mind that followed this confession soon shewed its beneficial
effects upon his health, the more especially as there was no relaxation of
attention on the part of Emily. She continued to tend him with the same
faithful assiduity. Her cheek was paler, her lip was graver, and perhaps
she was a little more reserved; but it was not till he was well enough to
listen calmly to what she had to say, that she disclosed her views and
resolution-a resolution which scarcely surprised him, though a latent
hope he had cherished rendered the blow difficult to bear.
'I think Bessy Mure quite right in refusing to marry you,' she said:
'such a union would be a bond of wretchedness to both. But neither, dear
Vincent, must I marry you.'
'I knew it!' he cried; and yet you said that whatever I might have
done, you had witnessed my sufferings, and could love me still?'
And so I do,' she said. 'Why else am I here? As brother and sister
we may surely love each other. I was the innocent cause of your hallucina-
tion, and, depend on it, I will be faithful to you through life, and help you
to sustain your burden.'
Vincent felt he had no right to complain; but his heart rebelled against
this decision. He was angry with the strength of mind that could form
it. He said he saw she had never loved him, and was irritable and
unjust; thus convincing Emily how wisely she had resolved. But she did
not desert him in his weakness. She never ceased to uphold and to fortify
him, both by precept and example, and by such proofs of devotion, as at
length forced from him the confession that the love that could afford them
must be rich indeed! As this conviction gained on him, he became
happier. He began to appreciate the purity and loftiness of her nature,
and was proud to be the possessor of such a heart. This feeling reacted on
his own character: it elevated him, and made him emulous to render
himself worthy of so true and noble an attachment.
In the meantime the world wondered and talked. 'Let them talk,' she
said, 'they will weary of us by and by, and find another subject.' Of
course Mr Halkelt was surprised and puzzled: he wanted to see her
married.
'Never mind, father!' she said. 'If I don't marry Vincent Halloway,
you will have me always with you; for I shall never marry any one
else.'
Rachel's woman's heart revealed to her some inkling of the truth-that
is, she guessed there had been another love, another engagement; for she
too had witnessed her son's anguish. Jacob looked on severely. The
Reform Bill being carried, his excitement had subsided, and as he rather
despised himself for the relaxations it had won from him, and the follies,
as he considered them, into which he had allowed his son to launch, he
did not condescend to ask questions, but shut himself up in his austere
silence.
31
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
Thus passed seven years. Vincent was nearly thirty, and Emily six-
and-twenty-he a very different being, both morally and intellectually, from
the Vincent of my first chapter. Mrs Mure was dead, Nancy married, and
Bessy keeping house for Uncle Philpots, who was now a widower. Jacob
was as austere, and Rachel as meek as ever; when Mr Halkelt, fancying
he felt symptoms of declining health, told his daughter one day that he
often felt uneasy at the idea of leaving her alone in the world. 'You have
no relations you would like to live with,' he said; and I cannot tell what
you could do if I should die!'
I hope you will live many a day and year too, dear father!' she replied.
'Well, my love, I hope I may, for your sake; but you know I must die
at last, and I want to learn what your plans would be?'
'What do you think of my taking a husband?' she asked.
'I wish to goodness you would!' he answered; 'but you wont marry
Vincent, and you put it out of the power of anybody else to ask you. I
assure you the thought of leaving you unmarried often gives me great
uneasiness.'
'Well, father, as I wouldn't cause you uneasiness for the world,' answered
Emily, 'suppose you ask Vincent if he will forgive me my caprices, and
marry me after all?'
This was the way it came about, and nobody will question what Vincent's
answer was. Emily continued to be his good angel after marriage as she
had been before; and he was blest in knowing that she was so.
SIAM AND THE SIAMESE.
THE
I.
Geography-Population-Botany, Mineralogy, and Zoology.
HE large tract of country lying between Bengal and China is inhabited
by several races of men, resembling each other in all important points
of comparison, but presenting a striking dissimilarity to the other nations
of Asia. With respect to their civilisation and political importance they
may be divided into four classes:-The first comprises the Burmese, the
Peguans, and the Siamese; the second includes the inhabitants of Kamboja,
Lao, and Aracan; the third those of Kassay, Champa, Cachar, and Assam;
while in the fourth rank there is a number of savage or half-savage tribes
whose names are scarcely known in Europe. Of the more important of
these nations, it may be affirmed that their physical conformation is essen-
tially the same; their languages, though distinct, and variously enriched
with accessions from the Sanscrit and Chinese, have a common structure
and idiom; the same form of religion, with scarcely a shade of difference,
prevails in all; and the resemblance extends to their laws, literature,
manners, customs, and institutions: so that in presenting, as we now
propose, a picture of Siam, we give the reader a tolerably correct view of
the whole region of Chin-India. It should be remarked also, that, with
the exception of Assam and Aracan, the social condition of this group of
nations has been subject to very little foreign influence; their natural
barriers seem to have arrested the tide both of conquest and civilisation;
and while from age to age they have lived in a scene of almost perpetual
warfare with each other, they have neither suffered the immediate evils nor
reaped the subsequent benefits that would have accrued from a collision,
even though unsuccessful, with some distant and more enlightened people.
The extreme jealousy of their governments has contributed to keep them
still more isolated, and they have shewn so little disposition to cultivate
either political or commercial relations beyond their own territories, that
they are still very little known to Europeans. The Portuguese, the
French, the Americans, and the English in Bengal, have successively
endeavoured to gain a friendly footing among them, but hitherto with
little result of importance; for they have ever treated Europeans with
distrust, and even with insolence, when this could be done with impunity.
No. 79.
1
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
1
Some of the ambassadors engaged in these negotiations have taken consi-
derable pains to understand the character, manners, and social condition
of the people, as well as to learn the natural resources of the country;
and to their researches chiefly we owe whatever particulars have reached
our shores.
The present Siamese empire is composed of Siam Proper, a large part
of Lao, part of Kamboja, and certain tributary Malay states. In this
wide acceptation it may be said to extend from the 5th to about the
21st degree of north latitude, and from the 98th to about the 105th east
longitude. Its area has been estimated at 190,000 geographical miles.
This territory abounds in small rivers, but possesses only three great
navigable streams-the Menam, the river of Kamboja, and that of Marta-
ban. Menam is a generic word for a river, but is applied par excellence to
the great river of the Siamese. It flows through the whole length of their
territory, and they are in possession of its navigation nearly throughout.
With the exception of Siam Proper the country is mountainous; and one
great primitive chain which stretches from the northern to the southern
boundary is in some places not less than 5000 feet high.
Besides the native races of these regions, the empire includes nume-
rous settlers from Pegu, driven hither by the oppression of the Burman
government; a considerable number from Hindostan, chiefly Mohamme-
dans; a still greater number from China and Cochin-China, who resort to
Siam to better their fortunes by commerce and mechanical arts, and who,
being unaccompanied by their families, usually intermarry with the natives,
and conform to their religious worship. There are also a few of European
descent, who are almost exclusively descendants of the Portuguese settlers
of former times. Each of these classes of foreigners has a chief officer of
its own, to whom all differences are referred. The Portuguese have both
a consul and a bishop; but in their civil condition they are below the
Siamese, and their religious observances differ little from those of the
heathen around them.
The Siamese call themselves Thai, which in their language signifies
'the free.' Seam is said to be the same word in the Peguan language, and
from it is taken the name given to them by the Chinese, Malays, and
Europeans, who probably became first acquainted with them through the
Peguans. There are said to be two races of the Siamese-the Thai Noe, or
Lesser, who inhabit the low country; and the Thai Yai, or Greater, a more
hardy and independent race, who seem to have retired at some distant
period to the mountains to escape from the servitude attaching to the more
favoured parts of the country, as the ancient Britons retreated into Wales
before their Saxon invaders.
Siam Proper, the country of the Lesser Thai, is a vast plain, intersected
by the Menam River, which annually inundates the land, and on the banks
of which all the principal towns are situated. The people, in conse-
quence, are so aquatic in their habits that the houses seldom extend more
than one or two hundred yards from the water. Yuthia, or Siam, the
early capital, was abandoned after the Burman conquest, and Bankok was
chosen as being farther down the river, and more favourably situated for
trade. It may be regarded almost as a city floating in the water; and it
has for some years commanded a more extensive and valuable com-
2
SIAM AND THE SIAMESE.
merce than any other port on the continent of India beyond the Ganges.
Under good management, there is no reason that it should not rival or even
surpass Calcutta.
The chief
The total value of exports is not less than £1,000,000.
articles are sugar, sapan-wood, tin, timber, rice, stick-lac, gum, gamboge,
ivory, pepper, and cotton. The export price of sugar is about twopence a
pound. The principal imports are arms, ammunition, anchors, piece-goods,
cutlery, crockery, and mirrors.
The climate of Siam and its soil within the tract of the inundation are in
the highest degree favourable to vegetation, and it is capable of raising all
the richest productions for which Bengal is celebrated. The rice is of
excellent quality, and cheaper than in any other country in the world, very
seldom rising above two shillings a hundredweight. The cocoa is exten-
sively cultivated, and remarkable for its fecundity, affording a large supply
of oil for exportation at very low prices. The whole neighbourhood of
Bankok is one forest of fruit-trees, and the products are both various and
excellent, surpassing those of Bengal, Bombay, Ceylon, and Java. The
most exquisite are the mango, the mangustin, the orange, the durion, the
lichi, and the pine-apple. Several of these seem to be exotics; and Siam
appears to be indebted to European intercourse for the guava (Psidium
pomiferum) and the Papia fig (Carica papaja), which is here called the
banana of the Franks.
The culture of the sugar-cane originated about forty years ago in the
industry and enterprise of the Chinese settlers, and the export now exceeds
10,000,000 pounds. The cultivators are Siamese, but the manufacturers
of the sugar are invariably Chinese. Black pepper, which seems to be
indigenous, yields an annual produce of about 8,000,000 pounds, of which
two-thirds are delivered to the king of Siam, who pays the cultivator about
£1 sterling for each picul, or about 1333 pounds avoirdupois. Cardamums,
another product of the Malabar coast, occur in the same parts of the country
with pepper; the capsules are three times the size of the finest produced in
Malabar, and the seeds highly aromatic. They are also found in the
adjacent districts of Kamboja, and the forests which produce them are
royal preserves, and strictly guarded. They are in great request in China,
and his Siamese majesty sometimes obtains for them £36 per picul.
Other valuable products are-tobacco, several kinds of cotton, a gum
resembling benzoin, and gamboge. The last is obtained from a species of
Garcinia by making incisions in the bark, whence it exudes freely, and is
collected in vessels suspended from the branches. In these it soon assumes
a concrete form, and no further preparation is necessary.
Another singular and very valuable production is agila, eagle, or aloes-
wood, which is found on a large forest-tree of the hilly countries near the
equator. The late Dr Roxburgh introduced it into the botanical garden
of Calcutta, and described it under the name of Aquillaria agalocha.
It is of the class Decandria and the order Monogynia; has an umbel for
its inflorescence; a lanceolate leaf; and a drupe for its fruit. The porous
scented wood is said to result from disease in the tree, and is more or less
frequent according to soil and climate. From the same causes it differs
materially in quality; but the best is found on the east coast of the Gulf of
Siam, in lat. 13° 30′ and downwards.
3
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
The sapan-tree (Casalpinia sapan), valuable for its red dye, is a very
abundant production of the forests, and in point of bulk, if not of value,
it is the most considerable of all the Siamese exports.
There is also a large tree affording a fine-grained red wood, largely
exported for cabinet-work; and considerable forests of teak, most of which
is used at home.
The geology and mineralogy of Siam are almost as yet unexplored, and
the little that is known concerning them has been derived from the report of
the natives rather than from the personal investigation of scientific visitors.
It is well ascertained, however, that the tin-formation pervades the whole
of the Malay peninsula-the ore, so far as has been ascertained, being
always common tinstone, or oxide of tin, and occurring in alluvial formations,
technically called 'streams.'
Gold appears to have a similar geognostic situation, and at Bang-ta-pan
the ore is said to be above nineteen carats fine. The whole quantity pro-
duced, however, does not suffice for the home consumption, owing to the
immense quantity lavished on the temples and images. Of all the metals,
iron occurs in the greatest relative abundance; and though the mines are
far up the country, yet they are so fertile and so near the river, that cast-
iron at Bankok does not exceed a dollar and a half the picul. Copper,
zinc, lead, and antimony are also found in this country, which, on the
whole, seems as distinguished for its mineral as it confessedly is for its
vegetable resources.
The ordinary and familiar features of Siamese zoology are all that are
satisfactorily known. The bear found here seems to be the same as that of
Borneo and the Malay peninsula; a species of otter, probably the Leutra
septonyx of Dr Horsefield, is found about the rivers; the domestic dog, an
ugly pricked-eared cur, is frequent even to a nuisance, and here, as in
other parts of the East, it goes about unowned and unappropriated—a
very proverb of worthlessness. No other species of the canine family is
known; and of the feline tribe, those only which have been ascertained are
the common cat, the royal tiger, and the leopard. Not only the skins, but
what is remarkable, the bones of the tiger are exported to China, where
they are considered to be possessed of medicinal virtues.
Siam is considered the most genial land of the elephant, and that in which
it attains its highest perfection. Though the use of these animals about
the capital is by law reserved to a few persons of high rank, they are freely
employed in all other parts of the kingdom, both for riding and carrying
burdens. In Lao they are said to be so common as to be used even for
carrying women and firewood.' The white elephant, so highly venerated, is
an occasional variety, in every respect analogous to what occurs in other
orders of animals, and even in the human species. They are, correctly
speaking, albinos, and possessed of all the usual peculiarities of that abnormal
production; but it has been remarked in these elephants that the organs of
sight are apparently sound, natural, and in no way intolerant of light, the
only peculiarity being in the iris, which is white. In 1822 the sovereign
of Siam possessed three of these animals, a circumstance considered
indicative of singular prosperity to the nation. It is supposed that this
animal is the temporary habitation of a soul in a high state of progress
towards perfection; and accordingly every white elephant has a rank and
4
SIAM AND THE SIAMESE.
title little less than regal-it is adorned with jewels, attended by numerous
servants, and exempt from all employment.
Of the ruminating quadrupeds, Siam produces the goat, the ox, the
buffalo, and seven species of deer. The cows give but little milk, which
is chiefly supplied by the buffalo; nor have the natives learned the art of
making it into butter. The goat seems to be turned to little account, and
sheep are quite unknown. Animals of the monkey tribe are numerous,
and similar to those usually described by naturalists as natives of the East
Indian islands. Two white monkeys are kept in the palace of the Siamese
king, and are objects of great curiosity. They are about the size of a small
dog, and perfect albinos in every respect: thickly covered with fur as
white as that of the whitest rabbit; the lips, eyes, and feet distinguished
by the inanimate whiteness observed in the human albino; while the
general appearance of the iris, the eye, and even the countenance—the in-
tolerance of light, the uneasy manner-afford points of resemblance between
them and that unhappy variety of our own species. They have little of
the vivacity and mischief for which the monkey tribe is so remarkable; and
it seems their use in the palace is to keep evil spirits from killing the white
elephants!
.
The reptiles are numerous, and would afford an extensive and interesting
field of inquiry to the naturalist. Tortoises and crocodiles are not so
frequent in the Menam as in the Ganges, but the green turtle is found
abundantly near some of the islands in the Gulf; and their eggs, which are
in great request as an article of food, form a considerable branch of the
royal revenue. The boa-constrictor here attains the enormous size of
twenty and twenty-two feet; the snakes are numerous. Among the many
beautiful species of lizards is that known as 'the gecko of Siam,' though
frequent also in Java and other East Indian islands. Its habits are noc-
turnal, and its loud, harsh, monotonous cry often proves a great annoyance.
The only insect which deserves notice on the ground of its utility, is the
Coccus lacca, which produces the gum called lac, and which has during the
last thirty years become so important in Bengal from the discovery of a
cheap process of obtaining from it a valuable colouring matter. This com-
modity is produced in the forests of Lao, and is very superior to the lac of
Bengal and Pegu. It is said that in some parts of Siam the lac insect is
bred as the coccus cacti of Mexico, and affords a cochineal of similar value.
The white ants are exceedingly troublesome, and the French missionaries
had no mode of preserving their books from their ravages but by varnishing
the edges with the gum called cheyram, which is as clear as glass, and cannot
be eaten through by these animals. Happily the annual inundations of
the river destroy a large number of insects which otherwise would become
almost intolerable.
II.
Persons of the Siamese-their Dress-Habitations-Civil Condition.
The average height of the Siamese is about five feet three inches; the
arms are long, the lower limbs large, and the figure inclining to obesity.
The face is remarkably broad and flat, the great height and breadth of the
5
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
cheek-bones giving it rather a lozenge shape than the oval form of Euro-
pean beauty. The nose is small, the mouth wide, and the thick but not
projecting lips are coarsely painted from the constant chewing of areca
with betel and lime. The eyes are small and black, and the forehead
remarkably low. The complexion is fairer than is usually observed beyond
the Ganges, and inclines to a yellow hue, heightened by the use of a bright
cosmetic, which gives to the smooth, soft, and shining skin a colour almost
like gold.
The general physiognomy, at least in the men, has somewhat
of a gloomy, cheerless, and even sullen aspect; while the personal carriage
and gait are sluggish and ungraceful.
The Siamese of both sexes dress nearly alike, and wear fewer clothes
than any other even partially-civilised people in the East. The principal
garment is a piece of silk or cotton cloth, called a pagne, about three yards
long, passed round the loins and thighs, and secured in front, leaving the
knees and legs entirely bare. Over this the wealthier people often wear a
China crape or Indian shawl; and the only other essential piece of dress is
a narrow scarf, about two yards long, either worn round the waist or
thrown loosely over the shoulders, so that the upper part of the body is at
best but very imperfectly covered. The favourite colours are dark and
sombre, while white is worn only by the Talapoinesses, or religious
recluses, and by the lay-servants of the temple, neither of whom are much
respected. It is also the expression of mourning. Both sexes wear the
hair close, except on the top of the head, from the forehead to the crown,
where it is almost two inches long, and, being stroked back, stands erect.
The rest is kept shaved by the men, and close cut by the women; but as
the shaving is not very regularly performed, it is generally difficult for a
stranger to distinguish a man from a woman. No European can be more
solicitous about white teeth than the Siamese are for black; and at an early
age they use an indelible stain, without however filing or destroying
the enamel, like the Indian islanders. Nor do they disfigure the body
with tattooing, like the Burmans and Peguans. But, like other Orien-
tals, they allow the nails of the fingers to grow to an unnatural and
inconvenient length, and those of the highest rank even put on artificial
ones of metal.
The houses either float in the river on bamboo rafts moored to the shore,
or they are erected on piles driven into the earth. Each dwelling stands
alone, and may be described as a large wooden box of an oblong shape,
thatched with palm-leaves. An outside ladder forms the entrance, and to
every house is attached a small boat for the use of the family. These
floating habitations display the most valuable merchandise of the town, the
goods being arranged in the front on a succession of shelves like stairs,
and the shopmen sitting alongside on the floor. The houses consist of
one storey only, and are divided into several small apartments, of which
the centre one is reserved for the household gods. The furniture is scanty
and simple, consisting chiefly of the mats on which the inmates sleep and
sit; their table, which is without feet, and somewhat like the head of a
drum; a few culinary vessels of iron, copper, or tin; some bowls of porce-
lain or potter's clay, in which food is served, and buckets of bamboo
closely enough woven to contain water. The better classes have a kind of
bedstead, their walls are furnished with cushions to lean against, and various
6
SIAM AND THE SIAMESE.
ornamental pieces of European furniture adorn their apartments—lamps
and mirrors being favourite articles. But of the people in general it may
be said that they are rich in a general poverty, having few wants. Their
food consists principally of rice and fish; and about a farthing's worth of
each is sufficient for a man's daily sustenance.
Here, then, we have a country as rich perhaps in natural resources as
India itself, and most favourably situated for commercial enterprise; yet
inhabited by a people living in what we should deem abject poverty.
Two centuries at least ago the nation had made some progress in civi-
lisation; but the development of its powers has since made such feeble
progress that the descriptions of Siam and the Siamese, furnished by
Loubere and others in the seventeenth century, offer but few points of
difference from those supplied by British visitors in the nineteenth. It is
not a nation roaming through the land in the lawless rudeness of savage
life, nor yet emerging, bold with conscious strength, from the miseries of
barbarism, and seeking the blessings of social order and civilisation; but a
mild, inoffensive, and sufficiently intelligent people, organised into a com-
munity, yet held from generation to generation in a state of childhood,
spending their lives in the veriest puerilities, maintained in good order
through fear of the rod, and never dreaming of the manhood of civil and
intellectual independence which might be their happier lot. It is worth
while to institute some inquiry into the civil and religious institutions by
which this state of things has been maintained, and into the singular
manners and customs which have thus arisen, as well as to examine what
hope there is of these bonds being loosed, and what might be done to
facilitate an emancipation of mind and body so much to be desired.
Such an inquiry will not only present much that is interesting from
its novelty, but it may give us occasion to observe in how many
particulars we are indebted to the civil liberty which we are privileged
to enjoy, and how much a constitutional government has to do with the
everyday happiness of the individual as well as with the greatness of
the community.
III.
Government-Civil Institutions-Commerce-Revenue.
The constitution of Siam is a pure despotism, there being neither a
hereditary aristocracy nor legislative assembly of any kind to circumscribe
the authority or control the actions of the monarch. There is a nobility
indeed; but, with a few exceptions in the distant provinces, it arises only
from the occupation of particular offices during the king's pleasure, and it
expires with the service to which it is attached. There are laws also, but
they are the laws of the king, not of the country; and it not unfrequently
happens that a new sovereign on his accession publishes a new edition
of the code, making such arbitrary changes as he thinks proper. The
monarchy does not exist for the people, but the people for the monarch:
he is absolute master of their property, their liberty, and even their lives.
The inevitable result is the repression of every effort at improvement;
7
A
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
for no man will exert his industry or ingenuity when he knows that a
rapacious government may seize on the results, and himself prove a loser
for his pains. The more obscure a man is, and the less known to his
sovereign, the greater his chance of liberty and wealth.
One of the most odious features of Siamese despotism is the frequent
infliction of corporeal punishment—the bastinado being the grand redresser
of all evils, moral, social, or political; corrector of all faults, whether of
omission or commission. The highest officers of the realm are liable to be
beaten like children at the order of the monarch, and every superior
officer has a similar power over his subordinates. So completely is the
national mind subdued to this, that no disgrace attaches to the punishment
after it is over, and an officer of state will resume his place on the day after
such chastisement as though nothing had occurred.
The person of the Siamese king is peculiarly sacred. We have heard in
other parts of the world of devout persons who never pronounce the name
of the Deity without pausing; but here such reverence is exacted towards
the earthly sovereign that his name may not be spoken at all, and it is
said to be known only to a few of his principal courtiers. Nor must his
health be inquired after; because it must be taken for granted that he is
free from bodily infirmities. No heir to the throne is appointed during his
lifetime; for to 'imagine the death of the king,' even in a literal sense, is
treason. The people prostrate themselves in his presence, and preface
their addresses with these or the like words :- Exalted lord, sovereign of
many princes; let the lord of lives tread upon his slave's head, who here
prostrate, receiving the dust of the golden feet upon the summit of his
head, makes known with all possible humility that he has something to
submit.'
The most important feature in the government is the universal conscrip-
tion, according to which every man above twenty years of age is obliged
to serve the king personally for four months in the year, and this either
in a civil or military capacity. He may be employed even in the most
menial offices about the palace, and there is no redress.
no redress. The persons
exempt are the talapoins, or priests; the whole Chinese population, who
are allowed to pay a poll-tax as commutation; all slaves; and every man
who has three sons of serviceable age. Anciently these forced services
amounted to six instead of four months, and they are so represented by
French writers down to the end of the seventeenth century.
The whole population thus enrolled for the service of the state is
divided into two classes, called the division of the right hand and that
of the left. These are again subdivided into bands of thousands, hundreds,
and tens, each of which has its own officer, who takes his rank and
title from the number of persons under his authority.
It is customary with every king of Siam to give audience to his prin-
cipal officers every morning and evening at ten o'clock. On these occa-
sions he asks each of them a few questions respecting his particular
department, and decides on the spot the few easy and trivial cases that
are brought before him. He sometimes examines them as to their know-
ledge of the book called Pra-Tam-Ra, which describes their official duties,
and orders chastisement to those whose answers are defective. If anything
like a consultation is held, the ministers are much more anxious to dis-
8
´SIAM AND THE SIAMESE.
cover his sentiments than to express their own, for they may be punished
for differing from his majesty.
Every public officer being intrusted with power to inflict summary
punishment on those committed to his care, he is often made responsible
for their faults; and so likewise parents frequently share in the punishments
inflicted on their children, because they should have taught them better.
Loubere saw an officer obliged for three days to wear round his neck the
head of a man who had committed a capital crime-the fault of the officer
being no other than that the criminal was under his jurisdiction, and should
have been more carefully watched.
The odious task of informing is enjoined on all, under severe penalties :
if any one sees a crime committed he must report it in self-defence, for if
another should come to the knowledge of it, and give information, any one
who is found to have concealed it is punished. The king maintains, besides, a
number of secret spies, who are separately interrogated on all they observe.
Still he is often deceived, for the great object of his courtiers is to keep him
pleased, and to this end every unpleasant truth is concealed from him so
far as may be done with any hope of impunity. .
The idea of greatness in a Siamese monarch is not terribleness to his
enemies, but to his subjects; and as a government so arbitrary and unjust
can place no reasonable confidence in its subjects, there seems to be a
constant dread of insurrection and revolution. This is the only explana-
tion that can be given of the feverish alarm and distrust with which the
visits of Europeans have ever been regarded; and not without reason, for
there is little attachment among the people to the person of the sovereign :
they consider him, indeed, as the adopted son of Heaven, and possessed
of a celestial soul; yet if any of his subjects hazard a revolt, the rest
can easily believe that the choice of Heaven has passed from the king
to the rebel. The authority to which they defer seems to rest in the
royal seal, and the people obey whatever bears this impress without
serious concern about the person who holds it. The monarch understands
this, and never allows the important instrument to pass from his hands for
a moment.
The palace has three enclosures, widely distant from each other, and no
arms are admitted within the outermost. Such is the continual distrust
that even the personal guards of the sovereign are disarmed. Except the
hours spent in the council-chamber, as we have mentioned, the king passes
his whole time shut up in his palace between the company of his women
and the priests. All the officers of the private apartments are women
it is they who dress and undress the king, cook his food, and wait'on his
table. There are purveyors without, who bring provisions and deliver
them to the eunuchs, and these hand them over to the women. So also
there are male officers of the wardrobe, the highest being he who touches
the king's bonnet.
The revenue of the Siamese government is derived from the following
sources:—A tax on the consumption of spirits, which are distilled from rice
throughout the country, and which amounts to about £57,500 per annum;
a tax on gaming-houses, which realises at least an equal amount; another
yielding about £8000 on the fisheries of the river Menam; a shop-tax
levied on a rude and summary principle, and producing about £15,235.
No. 79.
9
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
Besides these there are profits on trade; customs; a tax on fruit-trees; &
land-tax; the corvées; a poll-tax on the Chinese; and tributes.
The king is both a monopolist and a trader. To some commodities, such
as tin, ivory, cardamums, eagle-wood, sapan-wood, gamboge, esculent swal-
lows-nests, and the eggs of the green turtle, he claims an exclusive right;
in others, such as sugar and pepper, he exercises an arbitrary influence to
obtain as much as he desires at his own price; while with respect to most
other commodities he is content with a tax or contribution. With respect
to imports, when a vessel arrives, the officers of government select a large
share of the most vendible part of the cargo, and put their own price upon
it. No private merchant, under penalty of a heavy fine or severe corporeal
punishment, is allowed to make an offer for the goods till the agents of the
court are satisfied. A large portion, and often the whole of the export
cargo, is supplied to the foreign merchant upon the same principle. The
officers of government purchase the commodities at a low rate, and sell
them to the exporter at an arbitrary value.* The resident Chinese alone,
from their numbers and influence, have overcome this difficulty, and of
course are carrying on an extensive and valuable trade. The natives
have almost as much dread of the sea as the ancient Persians, and pro-
bably would not, if they could with advantage, enter into foreign spe-
culations. Meanwhile this arbitrary commercial interference of the
government has been the great and indeed only serious obstacle to the
European trade in Siam; for the duties are by no means heavy, the
country abounds in productions suitable for foreign trade, and property
is sufficiently secure.
1
The conscription and corvées form not only the heaviest tax on the
people, but the most considerable branch of the royal revenue. Estimated
even at a very low rate in money, it would amount to £1,200,000 per
annum; but this is rather an index of the waste committed by employing
these forced sources than of the value realised. The composition paid by
the Chinese is supposed to produce above £25,000. The whole public
revenue amounts to somewhat above £3,000,000 sterling, of which about
£550,000 is paid in money, or in produce easily convertible into money——
an inconsiderable and paltry sum for an extensive and fertile country
possessing such natural facilities for internal intercourse, and so favourably
situated for external trade. Presuming that these calculations, which
were made by the British ambassador in 1823, and have been approved
by subsequent visitors, are pretty near the truth, they prove, however,
that a very great advance has been made in public wealth since the
embassy of Loubere, who estimates the royal revenue in money at
£83,000. This must be attributed to the long tranquillity which has
prevailed since the expulsion of the Burmans, and to the great influx of
enterprising and industrious Chinese settlers which has taken place in
consequence of the privileges then conferred on them.
The Siamese government has in general no distinct fiscal establishment.
The commercial department, and the charge of the customs and monopolies,
are under the care of a minister called the Phra-Klang, but the subor-
dinate agents are the same who conduct all other parts of the adminis-
* It is said that the present king declines these commercial speculations.
10
SIAM AND THE SIAMESE.
tration; and in the more distant provinces, the viceroys seem to act on
their own responsibility in these matters, remitting the revenue collected to
the capital. As a remuneration for their trouble they receive a tithe of the
amount, and the services of a certain number of conscripts.
The income and expenditure of the government are said to be nearly
balanced, so that the public treasury seldom contains more than £30,000
in native currency, a few Spanish dollars, and some Chinese silver ingots
ready for coinage.
There are three royal seals, and great importance is attached to them.
That employed in correspondence with foreign powers bears the figure of
a lion. The second, used in home affairs of importance, has a human figure
holding a lotus flower. The third, in request for all daily current business,
bears a lotus flower only. The banner of the kingdom is a white elephant
on a crimson field.
IV.
Buddhist Religion-Priests-Temples-Worship.
Next to the government and civil administration, the dominant religion
of Siam claims our attention as exercising an important influence on the
condition of the people. Buddhism, or Boodhism, is nearly universal in
the regions lying between Bengal and Cochin-China; and it is certainly an
unpromising fact, with reference to this faith, that none of the nations pro-
fessing it has ever attained a primary rank either in arts or arms, or pro-
duced individuals known to the world as legislators, writers, warriors, or
founders of new sects. The Buddhism of farther India appears to be nearly
identical with that of Ceylon, whence it is supposed to have been derived;
but it differs materially from that of Tartary, Hindostan, Anam, China,
and Japan. Its leading doctrine everywhere is the metempsychosis, or
transmigration of souls. It teaches that all nature is not only animated
but sentient; and therefore in lopping off the branch of a tree, there is the
same disturbance given to the general life as in the amputation of a limb
of the human body. The Buddhists believe the material world, as well as
the spiritual, to have existed from eternity, and to be destined to immor-
tality. All soul or spirit is of the same nature, whether dwelling in the
corporeal frame of man, or beast, or vegetable; and its condemnation to
this frame of matter is its sorrow and its curse, the highest felicity being
a state of disembodiment or repose. They suppose that after undergoing
a sufficient number of transmigrations, and exhibiting the prescriptive
virtues in each state, the souls of the good are received into a succession
of heavens, and at length admitted to that state in which they will never
again be subject either to birth or death, and in which they are emanci-
pated from the cares and passions incident to all other conditions of
existence. This repose is usually called Ni-ri-pan, probably a corruption
of the Pali word which signifies all extinguished.'
'all extinguished.' On the other hand,
though they believe in many regions of punishment besides this world,
yet the hell which constitutes the eternal torment of the wicked consists in
enduring never-ending transmigrations, without ever arriving at Ni-ri-pan.
11
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
The Siamese do not believe in any one supreme God, nor can they com-
prehend our refined notions of an infinite and immaterial spirit. They
attribute to every soul a human form and material organisation, though so
subtle as to elude the sight and touch: in short, their highest idea of dis-
embodied spirits seems nearly to correspond with the manes and shades of
the Greeks and Romans, and these are the objects of their worship.
Buddh appears to be the generic term for an incarnation of Deity; but it
probably once was a proper name. There have been four Buddhs in this
world, of whom the last was Gaudama, the great object of veneration,
who is, some thousands of years hence, to be superseded by another
called Areemadayeh. This Gaudama was the son of a king, and had
lived in innumerable states, in which he attained immense merit before
this his last birth. At his death, which occurred 2380 years ago, he desired
that his image and relics should be worshipped, and that temples should
be erected to his memory till the appearance of the next Buddh. He then
entered into eternal rest.
The Siamese look on all prosperity as the reward of some previous virtue,
and on all adversity as the punishment of particular sin; accordingly a
large portion of the veneration attaching to the person of the king is
derived from the presumption that the bare fact of his occupying this
exalted position is irrefragable evidence of the superior merit acquired by
his soul in former conditions of existence, and is indicative of a most
advanced state of migration towards Ni-ri-pan. They believe, however, in
no Supreme Judge who estimates this merit or demerit, and appoints the
corresponding recompense: it is considered to follow in the way of natural
cause and effect.
The leading principles of Buddhism involve theoretically an abhorrence
of the shedding of blood. Yet it does not appear that this peculiarity has
had any great influence in elevating or humanising the character of its
votaries; and it is worth remarking, that the history of the Cingalese, the
Burmans, the Peguans, and the Siamese, abounds in records of cruelty; in
a word, that in no other countries of Asia is human life held so cheap.
This at first sight may seem unaccountable; but when we examine matters
more closely, it will appear but a striking exemplification of the principle
which it would be well if even Christian theologians always kept in view—
that to raise the standard of rectitude too high in theory ever tends to the
confounding of right and wrong in practice. To murder a man is sinful,
according to the faith of Buddha; but to tread on an insect, or to kill a
venomous reptile, is also murder: nay, to reap the waving fields of grain is
to commit hundreds of murders every hour of the harvest. To obey
strictly and uniformly is found impossible to men having to go through
the ordinary business of life; and therefore all attempt at obedience is
foregone. The mode of evading the consequences of transgression will
appear on an inquiry into the nature and uses of the sacerdotal order.
The priests of Siam are called Talapoins; and every man must devote
some part of his life to the sacred office, the usual time for embracing it being
about fourteen years of age. They live together in what may be termed
convents or monasteries, consisting of one or more rows of isolated dwell-
ings within the enclosure of a temple. The whole establishment is called
a Wata, and may include from ten to several hundred priests. There are
12
SIAM AND THE SIAMESE.
no monastic institutions appropriated to females; but aged women are
permitted to retire to the watas, where a range of dwellings is allotted to
them. These recluses are dressed in white, and perform various menial-
offices about the establishment.
When they first enter the sacerdotal order, the talapoins are denominated
Nens, or Novitiates, and are promoted to higher ranks according to their
learning and standing. One, two, or three nens are lodged with each
maturer priest, and perform menial offices for him; and some become aged
men without either renouncing or more fully embracing the priestly office.
Every convent is under the direction of a superior, whom we may call an
abbot; and the larger ones have a dignitary analogous to a prior. Above
all is the san-krat, or high-priest, who is appointed by the king, and always
lives within the walls of the palace. To this person unbounded honour
is paid, and no talapoin can be ordained without licence from him; but
beyond this he has no temporal or spiritual authority. Indeed it may be
remarked that there exists no organised system of subordination and
discipline among the priests of Gaudama in Siam, except the deference
which every talapoin owes to the superior of his convent. They would
be too powerful a body for a despotic government, if organised so as to
be capable of united counsel and action.
The spirit of the institution is to live on alms; to keep themselves from
the sins of the laity; and to atone for the transgressions of those who
bestow alms upon them. They do not eat in common, and one may not share
with a brother what he receives; but they are hospitable to strangers, and
each keeps two beds besides his own for the accommodation of travellers.
Instead of going more than half naked, like the laity of every rank and
degree, the talapoins are always fully and respectably dressed in robes of
yellow silk or cotton, after the same fashion as the Buddhist priests of Ava
and Ceylon. The naked and close-shaved head is sheltered by a small
screen held over it with the hand. The scrip to receive alms is an iron
basin covered with red cloth, and slung over the left shoulder. An hour
before breakfast is appointed for the sacerdotal begging. The priest presents
himself at each door and waits a few minutes. He can receive nothing but
food ready dressed, or clothing, and he must not condescend to thank the
donor. If he receives nothing, he passes on in silence; but this is seldom
the case.
To deliver discourses to the people, to consecrate idols, to assist at
funerals and other ceremonies, are the more occasional duties of the tala-
poins, for which they are generally paid in money by those who avail
themselves of their services, and many of them thus become rich. They
are held in the highest veneration, and are relieved from all bodily labour
by the secular officers and the novitiates belonging to the watas. Secular
persons, whatever be their rank, must make obeisance to them, and
they do not return the salutation: even parents must bow down to
their children who have entered the priesthood. The talapoins cannot be
punished for any offence by the secular arm unless first degraded; and
they are exempt from all taxation, especially the conscription, which is the
heaviest of all. Still the monotony of their lives, the loss of the society
of their relatives and friends, the rigid celibacy and exclusion from all
temporal occupation and aggrandisement, soon appears too dear a rate of
13
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
purchase for these honours and immunities; so that by far the greater
number return to the body of the people after a few years, or even a few
months, which any one may do without reproach; while the more aged and
resident priests are almost exclusively such as, from disappointment in
the world, have assumed the sacerdotal habit a second time, and are not
allowed to quit it.
The Siamese hierarchy has no effect whatever in restraining or balancing
the despotism of the sovereign, but, on the contrary, tends rather to its
stability and support. The king himself is the real head of the national
religion, the talapoins having neither rank nor endowments independent
of his will. They are not a hereditary order, which would attach them
with jealousy to the interests of their own body; nor have they any
powerful tie to unite them to those of the people: so that they are for
the most part ready to use their spiritual weapons to enforce obedience to
the will of the monarch, and to strengthen and aggravate his despotic
authority.
The Buddhists of Siam admit proselytes of all ranks and nations without
discrimination, and are even vain of making converts; but they have not
zeal enough to exert themselves strenuously for this purpose; still less are
they disposed to persecute any for their religious opinions. Their moral
code is comprehended in five negative precepts :-
1. Do not kill anything. This extends to animals, plants, seeds; and
reduces the holy to eating fruit, which is considered not to have life, but
to be that offspring of the living plant which, when quite ripe, may be
removed without occasioning pain. The stone or kernel, however, must
not be eaten. To break a branch off a living tree would hurt a soul, but
they use it for timber or fuel when severed; so also even the talapoins
make no scruple of eating animal food, asking no questions about
who committed the murder. To make any incision whence blood would
flow is deemed a greater sin than to take away life without bloodshed.
2. Do not steal.
3. Commit no impurity. Celibacy is the only holy condition, and
marriage sinful.
4. Lie not. The civil law upholds this precept by leaving the liar in the
hands of the person he deceives, to receive the punishment of the bastinado.
Yet falsehood is frightfully prevalent.
5. Drink no intoxicating liquor. This not only forbids drinking to
inebriation, but using in any degree that which, taken to excess, would
produce this effect.
The breach of any of these commandments is deemed sinful in the laity
as well as in the priests. But the business of seculars is to sin, and of the
talapoins not only to be holy themselves, but by their holiness to expiate
the sins of the people. The priests make no scruple of causing others to sin
for their convenience. They may not boil rice, because it is a seed which
would be killed in the process, but they make the novitiates and secular
servants boil, and they eat. As for the laity, they must sin continually,
and their expiation is to give food and clothing to the talapoins, who main-
tain holiness in their stead. The Siamese are surprised that Christians
invite all persons equally to virtue: this would be impossible according to
their code; and when they are informed in what Christian sanctity consists,
14
SIAM AND THE SIAMESE.
they conclude that all Christians are Cahat (persons appointed to sin), and
their talapoins alone are Creeng (holy.)
Besides the five general moral precepts which are obligatory on all, there
is a special code for the talapoins, which forbids them to eat after twelve
o'clock at noon; to frequent public shows or listen to music; to use per-
fumes or jewels about their persons; to sleep or recline on a couch above
one cubit high; to borrow or be in debt; to look at anything as they pass
along the street; to touch gold or silver; to keep food over night instead
of giving it to the lower animals; to dig the earth; to meddle with state
affairs; to raise the voice in laughing; to make a noise or tread heavily with
their feet; to revile, backbite, or threaten; to cough in order to attract
attention to themselves; to extend their feet as they sit; and a number of
other like prohibitions, amounting to 144, in which the moral and cere-
monial are mingled without distinction as above.
The watas are built in the most elevated situations, and many of them
cover a large extent of ground. They always include a temple, with the
images of Gaudama; an extensive area; one or more sacred spires; a library;
and the dwellings of the talapoins. The style of building is in all more
or less Chinese, and one trace of Egyptian architecture is universally found-
namely, the inclined angle of the doors and windows. The Burmans make
stupendous pagodas and monasteries, while the image-houses are compara-
tively small and often trifling. The Siamese, on the contrary, construct
trifling pagodas and small detached priests' houses, reserving their prin-
cipal wealth and labour for the erection of vast image-houses or temples.
These are made beautiful, according to Siamese taste, by pillars, gilding,
historical paintings, and Chinese tinsel. Most of the buildings are of brick,
plastered on the outside, and wrought into a grotesque Mosaic with Chinese
and Wedgwood cups, plates, and dishes of all sizes and colours, broken
and whole, so set in the plaster as to form flowers and figures. But the
chief labour and expense are bestowed on the gable-ends, eaves, doors,
window-frames, and the inside of the roof, which are all of wood, and exhibit
the most elaborate carving, painting, varnishing, and gilding. The temples
consist either of one spacious hall, containing a gigantic figure of Buddha,
surrounded by innumerable smaller ones, or a central one contains the
principal image, and a number of surrounding apartments are open to the
reception of all that the devotion of the people manufactures. In the
principal wata at Bankok there are said to be 1400 or 1500 images of all
sizes, from one inch to thirty feet high; and it seems they accumulate so
rapidly that the priests are at times obliged to demolish them in great
numbers.
One or more pra-cha-dis, or sacred spires, seem indispensable to every
religious establishment. These are solid pieces of masonry raised on a
base of twelve or eighteen sides, but without aperture of any description.
They are neither objects nor places of worship; and it is supposed that
their original design was sepulchral. The pra-cha-di of the principal
temple of Bankok is about 250 feet high, and presents a light and
elegant appearance.
*They often amass considerable wealth, however, employing their secular servants
to treasure up the money they receive.
15
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
The library of this establishment is as rich in decoration as carving,
gilding, and bright vermilion can make it. In the centre is a sort of ark
or sanctuary surmounted by a spire; and here the sacred volumes, about
fifty in number, are deposited. Like all other Bali books in this country,
these consist of long narrow slips of palm-leaf, filed at each end on a
cord. The edges are richly gilded, and they have, on the whole, a neat and
even handsome appearance.
The outermost range in every wata consists of the dwellings of the
talapoins, and the whole establishment is surrounded with brick walls or
bamboo fences. Although perhaps not less costly than the Hindoo and
Mohammedan temples of India, these Siamese structures are very inferior
to them in grandeur, and are said to be little calculated to inspire feelings
of veneration or solemnity in the European mind. This is easily accounted
for by the mean and perishable nature of the principal materials, the
gaudy and meretricious character of the ornaments, and, above all, the
absence of all associations of antiquity. The alluvial tract of the Menam
affords no materials for durable building, and therefore what would other-
wise have been expended on solid materials is squandered on temporary
embellishments. Nor does the frame of society supply motives for con-
structing lasting monuments. Every wata is built from personal motives
of piety or pride, and from the nature of the government the founder
cannot bequeath secure funds for its maintenance. Many, therefore, of the
splendid edifices described by French writers towards the close of the
seventeenth century are now forsaken and in ruins.
The votaries who frequent the temples on holidays are of all ages and
both sexes: the majority are Siamese, but there are also a good many of
the Chinese race, and others from the neighbouring kingdoms of Lao, Pegu,
Cochin-China, and Camboja. In vain we look here for the decorum
becoming a place of religious worship, in vain expect anything similar to
the prostrate awe which characterises the audience-chamber of the earthly
monarch. The people are noisy and playful; at one moment making
obeisance before the idols, at another singing an idle song or amusing them-
selves with a silly frolic. One man is coolly lighting his cigar at an im-
mense rod just placed by a devotee as an offering to a deity, and another sits
down deliberately before an image, and plays a merry tune on the flageolet,
in the midst of persons who are performing their devotions at the same
shrine. No officiating priest is to be seen; no union of voice is attempted;
no worship of a public or official nature is performed: but the devotees go
about presenting offerings to the idols, and sprinkling them with perfumes.
Their oblations consist of lighted incense-rods, fresh flowers, pieces of
cloth, generally of a yellow colour, and chaplets of artificial flowers.
In the presentation of these their devotional duties seem chiefly if not
entirely to consist; and the women who mix in the crowd, unveiled, and
apparently without restraint, are for the most part a great deal more
assiduous and decorous than the men.
One of the greatest charities performed during high festivals of a
religious nature consists in the liberation of some of the lower animals,
which are purchased for the purpose.
16
SIAM AND THE SIAMESE.
V.
Language-Literature-Laws.
The Siamese language is exceedingly simple in its construction, and is
doubtless an original. It is destitute of terminations to denote gender,
number, person, mood, or tense. A few particles supply the place of these ;
but they are generally omitted, not only in conversation, but by the best
writers. This renders it easy to learn, and foreigners soon acquire it suffi-
ciently for the common purposes of life. But it is proportionally liable to
ambiguity, rendering a very accurate acquaintance with it necessary for
anything like nice discussion. Except as enriched from other tongues, the
Siamese is monosyllabic, and necessarily possesses great variety of intona-
tion and accent. The alphabet consists of thirty-four consonant characters,
and is written from the left hand to the right, like those of all the other
nations between Arabia and China. The vowels are numerous, and, as
in Hebrew, are merely orthographic marks, sometimes placed over the con-
sonant characters, sometimes under, and sometimes preceding or following
them.
The language possesses that sort of redundancy which results from
lengthened rather than useful cultivation; and it is deeply stamped with the
political slavery of the people, abounding in distinct terms, to indicate the
relative positions of the speakers as superior or inferior.
The literature of the Siamese is, from all accounts, meagre and uninte-
resting. It consists of songs, romances, and a few chronicles; but in point
of imagination, force, and correctness, it is said to be far inferior to that of
the Arabs, Persians, or Hindoos. Except for ordinary letters, there is
no such thing as prose composition. There are no regular dramas; but
plays are founded on the romances, the actors being dependent on their
own wits for converting the subject into a suitable dialogue.
It is to sacred literature chiefly that the Siamese attach any importance.
The language consecrated to religion is, as in other Buddhist countries,
the Bali or Pali, sometimes also called the Pasa Magnetha, or language
of Maghada, the birthplace of Gaudama. This language, as it exists
in Ceylon and throughout all the kingdoms of further India, is the
same, and the compositions current in all the Buddhist countries seem
to differ little from each other; but the mode of writing in Ceylon is so
unlike that practised in Siam, that the Bali manuscripts of the one are not
casily deciphered by the priests of the other.
Almost all Bali books, and such in the vernacular as are considered valu-
able, are written with an iron stile on slips of palm-leaf-a black powder
being thrown over the impression, which is thus rendered perfectly legible.
These slips are from twelve to eighteen inches long, and are fastened
together in small bundles, each forming a volume, which is generally richly
gilt, and placed in a silk envelope. For less important works the Siamese
employ a kind of stiff paper, prepared with a black paste, so as to receive
the tracing, which is made with a pencil of soap-stone, and admits of
obliteration, as on a slate. The paper used for correspondence is a very
17
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
poor, soft, uneven fabric, and the writing is executed with a pencil-ink
being a material almost unknown to the Siamese. It is gratifying to
add, that since the establishment of Christian missions from America at
Bankok in 1833, a brighter day has dawned on Siamese literature. For
fifteen years a printing-press has been kept in constant operation, and
several of the natives have been instructed in its use. The object of
these pious labours is to circulate portions of the Holy Scriptures, as
well as educational and other works, in the native tongue. Chow-Fah, the
heir to the throne, has acquired the English language: he has a printing-
press, made by himself in imitation of that on the mission premises, and
types of the Roman alphabet, which of late years has been much used as
the vehicle of Siamese.
There is a pretty general diffusion of elementary knowledge in Siam, as
in most other countries of Asia; but there do not appear to be schools,
properly so called. A knowledge of reading and writing in the vernacular
seems to be casually acquired at home, and every man gains some
acquaintance with the sacred tongue during his residence at the wata. In
other rude states of society the holy order is commonly the depository
of whatever learning or science may exist; but the Buddhist nations are
deprived of this advantage by a law of their religion, which proscribes
secular learning to its priesthood, and denounces all mental acquire-
ments except a knowledge of the Bali books. The consequence is, that
medicine, astronomy, and astrology, the favourite science of semi-bar-
barians, are abandoned to the casual culture of a few foreigners. At
Bankok all the medical practitioners are Chinese or Cochin - Chinese,
while astronomy and divination are in the hands of the Brahmins. The
Siamese, however, have some knowledge of arithmetic, and use the
decimal system of notation. Chow-Fah has read many English books, has
studied Euclid and Newton, and understands the use of the sextant and
chronometer.
Where the government is perfectly despotic, there can be, properly
speaking, no right but might, no law but power. Yet we not unfrequently
find considerable attention theoretically paid to the distribution of justice
on the part of such governments; and the laws are often of a strictly
equitable character, though the administrators of them are too generally
corrupt. An abstract of the Siamese laws, drawn from native docu-
ments, was furnished many years ago to the Royal Asiatic Society by
Captain John Lowe of the Indian Army. Several of these laws are of
great antiquity, one dating as far back as the year 1053 of the Christian
era, and some referring to a code nearly five centuries older.
The penal code bears a strong resemblance to that of China, especially
in the indiscriminate and liberal application which it makes of. the bamboo
for the punishment of almost every kind of offence. Petty larcenies are
punished with thirty blows; more serious cases of theft by ninety blows
and imprisonment; besides which the culprit is obliged not only to restore
the property, but to pay a fine, to support himself in prison, and even to
pay for his lodging there, and light to work by. The legal punishment of
an incendiary is mutilation by the excision of the offending hand; but the
monarchs have latterly commuted this to the severest punishment of theft.
Murder is always punished with death, and the mode is decapitation with
18
SIAM AND THE SIAMESE.
a sword. Sedition and treason are of course unpardonable crimes, and the
written code ordains that in such cases the offenders shall be trodden to
death by elephants or devoured by tigers; but this has seldom been
enforced during the last half-century. Forging the royal signet, or coun-
terfeiting the current coin, is also a capital crime by law; but of late
years imprisonment for life, and the heaviest infliction of the bamboo, have
been substituted. Assault and abusive language are punished by fine; and
if the injury be offered to a superior, corporeal punishment is added.
Except in this particular the Siamese law does not, like that of the
Hindoos, allow the rank of the offender to influence the manner or measure
of his punishment. The talapoins have in this respect no immunities like
the Brahmins-their sacred character being considered, as it ought to be,
rather an aggravation of any offence of which they may be guilty. They
cannot, indeed, be punished as priests, but it is a summary and easy process,
in case of a breach of statute law, to strip them of their sacerdotal gar-
ments, and expose them to all its rigour.
It deserves to be remarked, that neither the law of retaliation nor pecu-
niary composition for crimes is admitted. It would be incompatible with
the spirit of a government which has disarmed the people, and tamed them
down to the lowest state of submission, to leave in their hands so large a
share of free action as would be implied in such provisions.
According to Siamese law, all contracts concerning property ought to be
committed to writing. Wills may be either written or nuncupatory, but
in either case must be made in the presence of four witnesses.
A man
may bequeath his property in what proportions he pleases among his wives
and children, but he cannot pass by these in favour of others. If he dies
intestate, the law provides for an equitable division of his effects; but in
the case of persons of rank all is often confiscated, the king exhibiting
against the estate an account of which he has himself been both framer
and auditor.
Polygamy is legal, but one wife has always the pre-eminence and control
over the rest, and she alone enjoys maternal authority among the children.
The power of the husband is despotic, and he may even sell his children.
and inferior wives; but this power does not extend to his wife-in-chief:
nor is the taking away of life in any case permitted to him. Divorces are
obtained without difficulty on very slight grounds, and are frequent among
the lower classes; only, if the desire for freedom is not reciprocal, the
complaining party must pay a fine for the benefit of the other. In any
case of divorce the wife receives back whatever she contributed to the
common stock, the husband retaining his original share, and also all the
subsequent accumulations. If the children are young, the sons are by law
allotted to the mother, and the daughters to the father; but if grown up,
they may follow their own choice in this respect. As soon as a divorce
has taken place, either party may form a new connection forthwith; but
where there are children this is considered a great evil. Marriages in the
first degree of relationship are forbidden, but the monarchs often dispense
with this law in their own case, and marry their sisters.
A breach of the marriage-vow does not appear to be regarded as a very
great offence. It is punished by a pecuniary fine, according to the condi-
tion of the offender, or the bastinado, if this is not forthcoming. The
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
payment of debts is enforced by shackles and stripes; and as debtors have
for the most part no means of supporting life, they may be seen daily
passing in chains through the bazaar, receiving eleemosynary supplies of
food. If there seem no hope that the debtor will be able to discharge his
liabilities, or if, as is too often the case, his necessities drive him to crime,
he becomes subjected to perpetual slavery. A man may become a slave
by crime, or through the chances of war, as well as by debt; and all
children of a bond-mother are themselves slaves.
*
In suits of a civil nature the delays of the law in Siam are as notorious
as in England. No cause of any consequence is decided within a year,
and sometimes it is prolonged for three or four. Witnesses are examined
upon oath on solemn and important cases only, according to the universal
practice of Oriental nations. The form of this solemn appeal is curious in
itself, and interesting as illustrative of the character and religious opinions
of the people. It is thus translated by Captain Lowe:-'I, who have
been brought here as an evidence in this matter, do now, in the presence
of the divine Pra-Phull'-hi-rop, declare that I am wholly unprejudiced
against either party, and uninfluenced in any way by the opinions or advice
of others, and that no prospects of pecuniary advantage or of advancement
to office have been held out to me: I also declare that I have not received
any bribe on this occasion. If what I have now spoken be false, or if in
my farther averments I should colour or pervert the truth, so as to lead the
judgment of others astray, may the three Holy Existences-namely, Buddha,
the Bali,† and the Talapoins-before whom I now stand, together with the
glorious Dewatas‡ of the twenty-two firmaments, punish me!
'If I have not seen, and yet shall say that I have seen; if I shall say
that I know that which I do not know, then may I be thus punished. Should
innumerable descents of the Deity happen for the regeneration and salvation
of mankind, may my erring and migrating soul be found beyond the pale of
their mercy! Wherever I go, may I be encompassed with dangers, and not
escape from them, whether arising from murderers, robbers, spirits of the
earth, of the woods, of water, or of air, or from all the divinities who adore
Buddha, or from the gods of the four elements, and all other spirits!
6
May blood flow out of every pore of my body, that my crime may be made
manifest to the world!—may all or any of these evils overtake me within
three days, or may I never stir from the spot on which I now stand, or
may the hatsani, or lash of the sky,§ cut me in two, so that I may be exposed
to the derision of the people! Or if I should be walking abroad, may
I be torn to pieces by either of the four supernaturally-endowed lions, or
destroyed by poisonous herbs or venomous snakes! If in the waters of
the rivers or ocean, may supernatural crocodiles or great fishes devour
me, or may the winds and waves overwhelm me, or may the dread of
such evils keep me, during life, a prisoner at home, estranged from
every pleasure, or may I be afflicted by the intolerable oppression of
my superiors, or may a plague cause my death: after which may I be pre-
cipitated into hell, there to go through innumerable stages of torture,
* Buddha.
The Bali personified obviously to represent the holy books, against which the
perjury would be an offence.
‡ Demigods.
§ Lightning.
20
SIAM AND THE SIAMESE.
amongst which may I be condemned to carry water over the flaming regions
in open wicker-baskets, to assuage the heat of Than-Wetsuwan when he
enters the infernal hall of justice, and thereafter may I fall into the lowest
pit of hell; or if these miseries should not ensue, may I after death migrate
into the body of a slave, and suffer all the pain and hardship attending
the worst state of such a being during a period measured by the sand of
four seas; or may I animate the body of an animal or a beast during five
hundred generations, or be born a hermaphrodite five hundred times; or
endure in the body of a deaf, blind, dumb, houseless beggar, every species
of loathsome disease during the same number of generations, and then may
I be hurried to Narak, and there be crucified by Phria-Yam !'*
In important cases of treason or atrocious robbery, torture is sometimes.
employed to extort evidence; and occasionally, where there is difficulty in
deciding between litigating parties, recourse is had to the ordeal of diving
in water, or immersing the hands in boiling oil or melted tin. In the first
case, he who remains longest under water gains his cause; in the second,
he who withdraws his hand unhurt.
VI.
Arts-Divisions of Time-Regulation of Money.
It would be unreasonable to expect either expertness or industry from a
people who are compelled to devote one-third of the labour of their man-
hood to the service of an oppressive government. We are not surprised,
therefore, to find that the Siamese have made but very slender progress in
the useful arts. Besides, if a man is known to have attained any consider-
able degree of mechanical skill, he is immediately made a retainer of the
king, or one of his courtiers, and is obliged to spend his life working for
whatever his majesty chooses to allow him as wages. It is accordingly
very difficult for a private individual to procure the services of even the
most homely mechanic, and the few that may be had are chiefly foreigners.
Even in the fabrication of jewellery, which is often found in considerable
perfection among very rude people, the Siamese have attained little skill-
the only exception being in reference to certain gold and silver vases
which have been made in the palace invariably after the same pattern for
at least one hundred and thirty years, and in the fabrication of which the
artificers have necessarily acquired some dexterity. Almost all utensils of
zinc and brass are brought from China; and the Chinese resident in Siam
have turned to account the iron and tin which are found abundantly in the
country. At present there are several extensive manufactories of cast-
iron vessels wholly conducted by the Chinese, as is the fabrication of tin
vessels, which is very considerable. These articles are often of very hand-
some forms, and highly polished, which might cause a stranger to mis-
take a tinsmith's shop for that of a silversmith, but for the circumstance
of the trade of the currier being almost always united with the former. The
preparation of leather is carried on to a great extent-not to be made into
* The Lord Yama-that is, the Hindoo Pluto.
21
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
shoes, for these are scarcely known, but for covering matresses and
pillows. The skins of leopards, tigers, &c. are dressed with the fur on,
and exported to China, as is also a great deal of leather.
Coarse pottery for common purposes is home-manufactured; but large
importations of the better kinds of porcelain are made from China. The
women are the only manufacturers of silk and cotton fabrics, and these
are coarse and homely, inferior even to those of Java and Celebes. The
art of dyeing is in a similarly backward state, and the printing of silks and
cottons is not attempted at all. All the cutlery and tools of the Siamese
are of the rudest description; and for the better kinds, as well as for
almost all their firearms, they are dependent on their commerce with
Europeans.
Very little progress has been made in useful architecture. Even the
residences of the nobles are for the most part made of the bamboo and the
leaf of the Nipa palm, a few in the capital only being of masonry. So far
as we can learn, there are only two considerable roads in the kingdom, and
at Bankok wheel-carriages are quite unknown. The Siamese seem never
to have attempted the construction of an arch; and we cannot learn that
there are any such public works as wells, tanks, or stone-bridges: even
about the palace the latter consist merely of rough and naked beams laid
across the stream.
Like all other half-civilised nations, this people reserve the best efforts
of their architectural skill for their religious edifices; and it is worth
remarking, that while most of the useful arts in Siam are left in the
hands of foreigners, the natives themselves execute every work connected
with their religion.
Statuary is used exclusively for religious purposes, and is indeed gene-
rally confined to the fabrication of one form-which is the image of Buddha
sitting. The best are made of bronze or brass; and when a large image is
casting, it is the practice of the pious to send contributions of whatever
metal they happen to possess, and no offering, however trifling or incon-
gruous, is rejected.
rejected. The various parts of the figure are cast separately,
and the whole dexterously put together, and richly gilded. Most of the
idols, however, are made of plaster, rosin, oil, and hair; and when the
figure is formed, it is so thickly varnished and gilded as quite to conceal
the baser materials. It is said that the late king, who was a very devout
man in his way, daily gilded an image with his own hands, and presented it
to some temple.
The Siamese seem to have made considerable progress in the cultivation
of music, of which they are passionately fond. Most of their melodies
are of a lively character, and have considerable resemblance to some of
the Scotch and Irish airs. A full Siamese band consists of ten instru-
ments, several of which are quite unlike any used in this country.
The
The following are the principal divisions of time:-Twelve watches are
reckoned from sunrise to sunset, and four from this till sunrise again, the
chronometer being a copper cup with a small hole in the bottom, placed in
a bowl of water, where it sinks at the expiration of each watch.
Siamese week consists of seven days, the month of twenty-nine and thirty
alternately, and the year of twelve months or 354 days. An intercalary
month of thirty days is added every third year. The months are divided
22
SIAM AND THE SIAMESE.
into the bright half and the dark, and the year commences with the first
moon in December. The greater divisions of time are cycles-the larger
containing sixty years and the lesser twelve, which are named after various
animals. There are two epochs-the sacred, which dates from the death
of Gaudama, and is used in all matters connected with religion; and the
vulgar era, which is said to begin from the introduction of Buddhism,
corresponding with the year of our Lord 638. This is used in civil matters
of high importance; but to name the year of the lesser cycle is deemed
sufficient on ordinary occasions. Thus a letter written on the 26th May
1822 was dated 'Angkhan (Tuesday), in the 7th month, on the 8th day of
the bright half of the moon and the year of the horse.'
The currency consists of cowry shells and silver coins, neither gold nor
copper being used as money. Two hundred cowries are equal to the
smallest silver coin, and there are three other denominations between this
and the bat or tical, which is worth about 2s. 6d. sterling. There are also
two higher denominations-the cattic, equal to L.10 sterling, and the picul,
to L.100.
VII.
Manners and Customs.
That which of all things surprises and disgusts a European on visiting
Siam is the extreme servility of their manners. If he is invited to the house
of a great man—a royal minister of the fourth or fifth rank-he finds him
seated cross-legged on a mat or carpet at the upper end of the room, and
those who are privileged to sit in his presence arranged at proper distances
according to their rank, while the attendants lie prostrate on the ground,
resting on their elbows and knees. If he speaks to them, they raise their
heads a little, folding their hands together before their faces, and without
daring to lift their eyes, they answer in a whisper: if they are ordered to
bring refreshments, they crawl in on their elbows and toes, shoving the
dishes before them as they can. In short, crawling upon all fours is the
universal ceremonial of Siam. The premier crawls into the presence
of his sovereign, the secretary crawls before the premier with his black
paper-slate and pencil, the messenger crawls before the secretary, and the
servant crawls before the messenger. One might imagine these distant
Asiatics a species of human crab, especially as they crawl equally well
both forward and backward, always keeping what seems the head steadily
directed towards the liege lord for the time being.
The sacredness attached to a man's head, and the association of degrada-
tion with a position of physical inferiority, meet us at almost every step.
To hold a thing over one's head is to pay it the highest honour; and this
is often practised on the occasion of receiving a present. So lifting the
hand to the head in salutation signifies putting the person saluted on one's
head; and whenever a Siamese passes a superior, he must at once assume
a stooping attitude, and raise his hands. Connected with this is the
horror every man has of allowing another to pass literally over his head,
in consequence of which no dwelling-house has more than one storey.
23
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
When Mr Crawford was at Bankok, his majesty, according to a usual
custom, signified to one of his ministers his pleasure that he should furnish
a European entertainment at the house where the English embassy was
lodged, and himself do the honours of the feast. But this house, having
been intended for a warehouse, had an upper floor, to which the only
access was by an awkward stair and a trap-door. This placed the minister
in a most distressing difficulty, for in the loft the banquet must be. It was
at length obviated by placing a ladder against the side of the house; and
his excellency, though possessing a very unsuitable corporeity for such an
enterprise, effected his ascent with safety at the appointed hour.
Though the Siamese have some scruples about taking away animal life,
they have none whatever about using the flesh if some one else kills it;
and they frequently purchase fish or fowls alive in the market, stipulating
that they are to be put to death before delivery. The Chinese have no
scruple whatever on this subject; and not only slay for the Siamese, but
also and still more abundantly for themselves. Their food is excessively
gross pork is their favourite dish; but they often indulge also in such
delicacies as cats, dogs, rats, and lizards. In fact, the antiquated Jewish
distinctions between clean and unclean have no place in their creed. A
Chinese spends more in a week's eating than a Siamese in two or three
months; and his superior ingenuity and industry enable him to do so.
Marriage is in Siam, as in most Eastern nations, a purely civil rite, accom-
panied with music, dancing, and feasting. The women are not immured
or rigorously excluded from the society of strangers of the other sex;
they are, however, far from profligate, and in this respect are very superior
to the females of Pegu and Cochin-China. Polygamy, though sanctioned
by law, is little indulged in, except among the wealthier class. The wives
of the monarch are often numerous: the late king was said to have three
hundred besides the queen. Whatever their number or rank they are all
under her majesty's control, and their children use the appellation of
'mother' to her alone.
In the humbler walks of life the support of the family devolves
almost entirely on the females, the men being apparently given up to the
most indomitable indolence. The women plough, sow, harrow, row, and
weave, but they do not seem to be subject to anything like harshness or
ill-treatment. On the contrary, the fact that they are invariably the cash-
keepers, and conduct all the buying and selling, gives them a position of
considerable influence.
As the use of elephants and palanquins is, in the low part of the country,
permitted only to great officers of state, the balons, or boats, by which
locomotion is almost exclusively performed, are of some importance. The
river is at once the highway, the exchange, the market, and the pleasure-
ground, having innumerable boats of every size moving about in it continually.
The larger ones are at once boat, shop, and dwelling-house; the smallest
are scarcely so large as a coffin. Hucksters and retailers of all sorts ply
about with their wares, and call them as in the streets of a European town;
while children of five or six years old push about in vessels not much
larger than themselves, with the edge hardly two inches above the water.
Of course there is often a collision and an upset, but it is interesting to
see how a little good-nature prevents confusion and danger. No one
24
SIAM AND THE SIAMESE.
thinks of resenting an upset: he tosses his bark into the air, and it comes
down quite dry; he then gets in, and proceeds as if nothing had happened.
Of course the whole population-men, women, and children—can swim as
easily as walk, and never think of being drowned.
These boats, whatever their size, are hollowed out of a single tree, so
that the largest are never so broad that more than two can sit abreast,
though some are from 30 to 40 feet in length. The royal balons used on
state occasions are from 60 to 80 feet long, and about four broad. A high
prow and poop fastened on the ends cause them to rise boldly to a con-
siderable height, while in the middle they are not more than two feet above
the water. These are highly ornamented with various devices, carved in
the wood, and gilt; and in the centre of the boat there is a canopy hung
with silk curtains, and capable of covering but one or two persons. The
rest of the vessel is entirely occupied by the rowers, often forty or fifty in
number. An eye-witness thus describes the aquatic procession of a Cochin-
Chinese embassy to Siam in these singular conveyances:
'About a week after the ambassador's arrival at Pak-nam, which is at
the mouth of the river, the preparations for conveying him to the capital
were completed by the Siamese government. We had now an opportunity
of seeing those royal barges which so highly excited M. Chaumont's admi-
ration nearly two centuries ago, and the pattern of which seems to have
undergone little change. The weather was particularly calculated to display
a procession of this kind to advantage. First came four long-boats, with
numerous rowers in red jackets and conical caps of the same colour; then
six richly-ornamented barges, each containing forty rowers, and furnished
with gilded canopies, under which the assistants and suite of the ambas-
sador were seated. In the centre of the procession was one with a conical
canopy, magnificently curtained, and this contained the ambassador
bearing the letter of the Cochin-Chinese monarch. Behind were balons
similar in number and appearance to those which went before, making
in all about twenty vessels. The rapidity of their movements, the
regularity with which the numerous rowers raised and lowered their
paddles, guided by the shrill notes of a song that might well be deemed
barbarous, together with the grotesque forms, the brilliant colours, the
gilded canopies, the showy attire of the men, and the loud exclamations
of the spectators, gave to the transient scene an effect not easily
described.'
This, however, was a comparatively small array: at the reception of the
French embassy there were seventy or eighty balons, containing nearly
3000 souls.
When the British government in India sent Mr Crawford as ambassador
to this court he was received with no such honour. It would seem that
his Siamese majesty considered that the Marquis of Hastings, governing
India as the representative of his Britannic Majesty, was a functionary
whose ambassador could not possibly be worthy of the respect due to one
coming directly from a crowned head. The following is in substance
the account given by the gentlemen who composed this mission of their
audience with the king:
'After our arrival at Bankok, several days were spent in negotiating
with the ministers about the ceremonies to be observed at the presentation
25
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
at court, as the feelings of British subjects recoiled from the idea of servile
prostration. It was at length agreed that the ambassador and his prin-
cipal officers should take off their shoes at the door of the hall of audience
and that, on appearing in the royal presence, we should make a bow in the
English manner, after which we were to take the seats pointed out to us,
and make three salutations by folding the hands together, and raising
them to the forehead. Above all, we were to be sure to bend our legs
backwards under us, and take care that no portion of our lower extremities
should meet the sacred view of his Siamese majesty.
'At half-past eight on the morning of the day appointed, a twelve-oared
barge, furnished by the court, with the rowers dressed in scarlet uniforms,
received the gentlemen of the mission to convey them to the palace; another
contained their Indian attendants; and the sepoys of the escort were con-
veyed in the ship's launch. When we landed under the walls of the palace
we found an immense concourse of people assembled to view the spectacle.
The accommodation for conveying us from the boats consisted of palan-
quins, which were simply net-hammocks, furnished with an embroidered
carpet, and hung upon two poles, carried by two men. On entering the
second enclosure of the palace we were obliged to dismiss our military
escort, and part with our side-arms; and at the third we had to put off our
shoes, and leave behind our Indian attendants.
'Immediately within the hall of audience there was an immense Chinese
screen, which concealed the interior of the apartment. On taking a few
steps round it, however, we found ourselves suddenly in the presence of
majesty. The hall was wide, lofty, and well-aired, apparently about sixty
or eighty feet in length, and of proportionate breadth; the ceilings and walls
painted chiefly in the forms of wreaths and festoons of various colours.
The floor was covered with carpets of different hues and patterns. Twenty
handsomely-painted wooden pillars, disposed in two rows, formed a kind
of avenue from the door to the throne, which was at the farther end of
the hall, and was veiled by a pair of very large curtains, extending across
the whole breadth of the apartment, and composed of gilded tissue upon
yellow cloth. In front were to be seen a number of singular ornaments,
each consisting of a series of canopies or umbrellas, decreasing in size
npwards, so as to form a cone, and all richly fringed with gold. Some had
as many as seventeen tiers.
'Every foot of the hall was covered with prostrate courtiers, of whom
every one, from the heir-apparent to the lowest officer, had his place
assigned according to his rank. On our entrance the curtains were drawn
aside, and about two yards behind it we perceived an arched niche about
twelve feet above the floor. An obscure light was cast upon it evidently
for effect; and in this was placed the throne, which was gilded all over, and
had much the appearance of a handsome pulpit. Here sat the king,
immovable as a statue, his eyes directed forwards, and his posture and
general appearance corresponding exactly with the images of Buddha. He
wore a gown or jacket of gold tissue with sleeves, a sceptre was placed
near him, but his head was bare, and there was no appearance of a crown.
The throne was hung round with the same sort of cloth that composed
the curtains in front, but neither about the monarch nor his ministers
did we observe jewels, pearls, or precious stones. On the floor at the
26
SIAM AND THE SIAMESE.
base of the throne large and elegant fans were waving, moved by persons
behind the curtain.
'The whole multitude in the hall lay prostrate on the ground, their
mouths almost touching it; not a limb moved, not an eye was turned
toward us, not a whisper was breathed. The whole scene bespoke a temple
crowded with religious votaries engaged in a solemn act of worship rather
than the audience-chamber of an earthly monarch. Freeborn Britons
naturally viewed it with mingled wonder and indignation.
'Shortly after we had performed our salutations as agreed on, the silence
was broken by a voice behind the curtain reading aloud a list of the pre-
sents which had accompanied our credentials. The more portable part of
these were to be seen on the left of the throne, for it is customary in Siam
to acknowledge the gifts which a visitor has sent before him by exhibiting
them at the first interview.
'The king now put several general questions to the ambassador; they
were addressed in a grave, measured, and oracular tone, and were passed
in whispers from one attendant to another till they reached the interpreter
behind us, who delivered them in the Malay language, and transmitted the
answers in a similar manner. The interview lasted about twenty minutes,
when the king rose and turned as if to depart, and the curtains, moved by
some unseen agency, closed on the throne. This was followed by a flourish
of trumpets, and a wild shout from the people, who immediately knocked
their heads six times on the floor, after which the princes and ministers
assumed a sitting posture.'
The Siamese consider funeral rites of the greatest importance, and the
only honourable mode of disposing of the dead is burning. Malefactors,
persons who die very suddenly, or of smallpox, and females enceinte, are
excluded from this honour, and buried, because the mode of their death
is considered indicative of their being under divine malediction. Children
who die before the period of dentition are deemed of too little conse-
quence to incur so much expense, and the bodies of the very poor are
thrown into the river with little ceremony. Some, who hope for better
times, bury their friends in the meantime, and as soon as they can afford
it they exhume and burn them.
People of rank preserve the bodies of their relations for a longer or
shorter period, according to their station, and embalm them after the
imperfect knowledge they have of this process, bringing the body into
the attitude of devotion; that is, kneeling with the hands folded and
raised to the face. At the end of the allotted time it is carried to
the precincts of a temple, where the pile has been prepared beneath a
lofty shed of a pyramidal form. As the body approaches it is received by
the priests, who conduct it towards the pile, saying: 'The body is mortal;
may thy soul ascend to heaven, even as the flame rises upwards!'
The coffin and bier together,' says Mr Finlayson, describing a funeral
which he witnessed, 'were at least seven feet high, and wore a gay and
lightsome aspect. The bier was covered with white cloth, and a white
canopy, ornamented with fresh jessamine flowers, surmounted the richly-
gilded coffin.
'The first ceremony was the reading of passages from the Bali books,
during which the place was crowded with talapoins of all ages, who appeared
27
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
to pay no attention whatever to the religious solemnities, but flocked around
our party, exhibiting the greatest curiosity and familiarity. The reading
being over, the priests dismantled the coffin and bier, the cloths being their
own perquisites; and the body was washed by one of the secular atten-
dants.
6
The demeanour of the relatives was grave and decorous, but no expres-
sion of grief escaped from any of them, except one, who might well be
called the chief mourner. She was the favourite daughter of the deceased;
dressed in mourning—that is, in white—with her head shaved, and apparently
in real distress, weeping bitterly at the sight of the corpse. The bier was
now covered with wet earth, on which a heap of dry fuel was laid. The
body was replaced in the coffin, and carried three times round the pile by
the male relatives of the deceased, followed by the favourite daughter,
uttering loud lamentations. It was then placed on the pile, a number of
wax-tapers and incense-rods were distributed to the bystanders, and a
priest, ejaculating a prayer, put the first light to the wood. The rest
followed, and ourselves among the number, for we had been offered tapers,
and invited to join in the ceremony. As soon as the first flame ascended
the daughter began to distribute money among the aged female recluses
belonging to the establishment. Meanwhile, the male relations standing on
each side of the pile tied part of their clothes in a bundle, and tossed them
over it six times, taking great care not to let them fall to the ground. We
could not learn the meaning of this fantastic performance, but it closed the
ceremony.'
After the burning is completed, the fragments of bone are carefully
collected, reduced to a paste, and formed into a small image of Buddha,
which, after being gilded and finished by the priests, is either preserved by
the relatives in their own dwelling or placed in one of the temples.
VIII.
Historic Records-Prospects of Siam.
The few leading facts of Siamese history which have been collected by
Europeans are soon told. The earliest is the introduction of the Buddhist
religion from Ceylon, which took place about the year 638. From that
period till the present they reckon sixty-one reigns, which would give
somewhat less than the European estimate for the average length of each
reign. The early seat of government was at Lakoutai, on the borders of
Lao; and Yuthia or Siam, the late capital, was founded in 1350 by the
twenty-seventh king. Early in the sixteenth century we find the first
notice of Siamese affairs by the Portuguese, some adventurers of this
nation having conquered Malacca in 1511, and established friendly relations
with Siam. About a century afterwards the Portuguese viceroy of Goa
sent an embassy to this country, and the Dominican and Franciscan monks
soon afterwards made their way into the kingdom.
About the year 1684 Constantine Phaulcon, one of the inferior servants
of the East India Company, absconded in their debt, and so ingratiated
himself with the Siamese king that he obtained possession of considerable
28
SIAM AND THE SIAMESE.
property belonging to the Company at Siam. Still further, this man, the
son of an innkeeper at Cephalonia, was raised to the office of phra-klang
or foreign minister of state. Probably through his influence, as well as the
tactics of the Jesuits, his Siamese majesty was induced to send an embassy
to Louis XIV., whose vanity was of course flattered, as Voltaire remarks,
by such a compliment from a sovereign who had hitherto been ignorant of
the very existence of France. In the same year Siamese ambassadors
arrived in London, and concluded a commercial treaty with this country.
Soon afterwards Louis XIV. sent the Chevalier Chaumont, at the head of a
splendid embassy, to Siam, instructing him that he was to consider the con-
version of the king to Christianity as the main object in view, and even
urging the subject in his own letter to his majesty. The wily Phaulcon,
in reply, delivered a message as from his royal master, expressing his
thanks for the kind solicitude of the French monarch, but at the same
time declining any change of the national religion as a thing that would be
attended with insuperable difficulties.
Two years later, Louis XIV. sent a second embassy with a small
fleet and five hundred soldiers. This was headed by La Loubere, who
spent several months in Siam, and took much pains to make himself
acquainted with the genius and manners of the people. But the French,
through want of moderation in the beginning of their intercourse, and of
energy, decision, and political courage in the sequel, missed the opportunity
thus opened for establishing an empire in the East. In a revolution which
took place in 1690, the reigning family lost the throne, the minister
Phaulcon his life, and the French were expelled from the country. About
the same time our connection with it was also dissolved. In 1687 there
was a general massacre of the English at the port of Morgin, occasioned
apparently by their own misconduct, and soon afterwards the factory
which had existed for some time at Yuthia was finally abandoned.
From the date of these occurrences till the year 1767 there appears to
have been no diplomatic intercourse between Siam and Europe, and the
commercial negotiations were very inconsiderable. Meanwhile the Burmese
found a pretext for war; they took the capital by assault and ravaged the
country without mercy. The reigning king was slain, and his principal
officers condemned to slavery. Stranger than all, in a people professing
the same religion, the conquerors destroyed the temples, tortured or mur-
dered the priests, and carried off the brazen images. The conquest of the
country might be said to be entire; but the Siamese were not disposed to
submit, and only waited the appearance of a leader to inspire them with
hope and courage to shake off the hateful yoke.
Pe-ya-tai (often written Piatac), the son of a wealthy Chinese by a
Siamese slave, had been brought up as a menial in the palace of the king,
but had afterwards been intrusted with the government of a province,
which he conducted with great credit to himself, at the same time that he
amassed considerable wealth. During the ravages of the Burmans he had
secured his riches in a remote quarter, and when famine supervened among
the people, he fed the starving multitudes, and exhorted them to make an
effort for their own deliverance. They rallied round his standard, and he
led them on from victory to victory till the hostile bands were expelled,
and his grateful followers proclaimed him their king. He chose Bankok
29
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
for his capital, fortified it, and built a palace which still exists. He had
many subsequent encounters with the Burmans, but always succeeded in
repelling them. At length, having vanquished all his enemies, he turned
his attention to the arts of peace, and particularly encouraged the superior
industry of the Chinese, to whom he granted peculiar privileges. Un-
happily the good sense and moderation which characterised the early part
of his reign was superseded in later years by such caprice, superstition,
tyranny, and avarice, as led to a general belief that he was labouring
under insanity.
At length Chakri, one of the chief officers of the state, raised an insur-
rection against the now intolerable monarch, and put him to death. There
is a repugnance in Siam to the shedding of royal blood in a literal sense,
and therefore, though base-born, he was honoured with the death of a king;
that is to say, he was beaten to death on the head with a club of sandal-
wood, and his body was tossed into the river without funeral rites. Chakri
reigned in his stead, and bequeathed the throne to his son, who was the
late king. During his reign the Burmese again made some attempts
against the Siamese dominions, but they were overpowered, the leaders
were beheaded, and the inferior prisoners conducted as slaves to Bankok,
where Mr Crawford and his companions saw them twelve years afterwards
working in chains.
Towards the end of the year 1821, the Marquis of Hastings, being
governor-general of India, commissioned Mr Crawford, accompanied by
two military officers, and Mr Finlayson as surgeon and naturalist, to visit
Siam, and endeavour to improve the commercial relations between that
country and British India. Though the mission was received with great
jealousy, and scarcely treated with due respect, and though little positive
advantage was gained in the negotiation, yet a foundation for friendly
intercourse was laid; and these gentlemen spared no pains to acquire such
a knowledge of the genius and manners of the nation, and the resources of
the country, as tended greatly to facilitate subsequent negotiations. The
king then reigning died in July 1824, and without massacre or bloodshed
was succeeded on the same day by his eldest but illegitimate son, Kroma-
Chiat a rare event in the annals of Siam. The rightful heir retiring to a
monastery, assumed the priestly office to save his life.
The present monarch has pursued a policy in many respects much more
liberal than that of his predecessors. In 1826 a new commercial treaty
was made with England, according to which British vessels might pro-
ceed to any port of Siam, and several vexatious imposts were removed.
A treaty somewhat similar was made with America in 1833; for though
Siam is not Tyre, nor her merchants the honourable of the earth,' yet our
transatlantic cousins would of course like to drive in a wedge wherever an
opening, however small, appeared for enlarging their foreign trade. Besides,
two religious societies in America have sent Christian missionaries to these
distant Asiatics, and for several years they have been prosecuting their
labours with diligence and some measure of success, especially among the
Chinese settlers. A most interesting and important point is, that the prince
mentioned above as having quietly yielded to his brother's usurpation of
the throne has come within the sphere of their influence, and though
not converted to Christianity, has been greatly shaken in his religi-
30
SIAM AND THE SIAMESE.
ous prejudices. He is said to have naturally a very fine mind, which
is now much improved by European intercourse and literature: he candidly
recognises our superiority, and desires to adopt our civil arts. Should
he ever assume the government, Siam must make rapid advances in
civilisation. Pra-Na- Wai, the Pra-Klang's eldest son, is his intimate
friend, and has enjoyed similar advantages: it is hoped that the two will
rise together.
Considering our relations with Siam, and the number and extent of
our possessions in its neighbourhood, it seems more natural that it should
fall both commercially and religiously under our cultivation than that of
the Americans; and it must be deemed a pity that the British nation should
allow this promising season to pass comparatively unimproved. The abun-
dant vegetable and mineral resources of the country, and the facilities
which it enjoys for navigation, offer means and inducements of the highest
character. The great desideratum is to bring forward the native popula-
tion, and encourage them in such useful and industrious habits as may
render the natural wealth of their country available for commercial pur-
poses. It must be confessed that there are considerable difficulties in the
way of an object so desirable. The Siamese are exceedingly averse to
labour, enervated by the climate, accustomed to obtain the necessaries
of life with scarcely an exertion, and discouraged by the despotism and
rapacity of the government from any desire of accumulating wealth.
The king is the monopolist of the soil as well as of everything else,
and it is difficult to obtain such a tenure as to warrant any considerable
expenditure of labour or capital. To this it must be added, that there
is little desire among the natives themselves for a better social system;
their national vanity is overweening and extravagant; so that though
poor, half naked, and enslaved, they look on themselves and their
country as models of perfection. Though revolutions have occurred
among them again and again, the dynasty only has been changed, while
the system has been perpetuated with little or no alteration. But
there is another side of the picture highly encouraging to European
enterprise. The Siamese, though indolent, are highly acquisitive: every
ambassador has remarked their unblushing anxiety about presents, and
every traveller animadverted on the trickery and fraud by which their
covetousness is too often indulged. We must look upon this as the
natural working of the desire of property-an excellent quality in itself,
but diverted from its proper channel by a social system which renders it
impossible to gratify it by an open and honourable acquisition of wealth.
Who will say that it is impossible to make these people work for what
they so greatly long to possess? With respect to the tenure of land, the
king has already seen it to be his interest to forego much of his commercial
monopoly, and there is little doubt that he would relinquish the agricul-
tural also if sufficient inducement were presented. As we are not masters
of Siam, we cannot force the adoption of a better line of policy; but in the
way of commercial intercourse and Christian enterprise much might be
done to awaken the latent energies of the people. Hitherto it has been only
through the stimulus which the Chinese have given to the industry of the
country that its resources have been at all developed; and while they
continue to trade to the east, we might counterbalance their growing
31
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
power, and prevent it from becoming monopolising and oppressive, by
opening a more extensive commerce towards the west. One great advan-
tage presents itself in Siam above the Indian Archipelago—its lands are
not infested by robbers nor its shores by pirates; and the traveller who
has been accustomed to fear the lawlessness which prevails throughout a
great part of Asia, may repose here without dread of outrage either to life
or property. Nor has the Christian any reason to fear persecution either
in the enjoyment of his own creed or in his philanthropic efforts to instruct
a benighted people.
On the whole, the Siamese must be considered as much above the semi-
barbarians of the Malay states and the islands of the adjacent seas; and
under such European cultivation as that to which we have referred,
there seems every reason to hope that they would make steady progress in
freedom and civilisation, and assume at no distant period a position of
high respectability among the nations of the East.
THOMAS MOORE.
TH HOMAS MOORE, a man of brilliant gifts and large acquirements, if
not an inspired poet, was born on the 28th of May 1780, in Augier
Street, Dublin, where his father carried on a respectable business as a
grocer and spirit-dealer. Both his parents were strict Roman Catholics,
and he of course was educated in the same faith; at that time under the
ban not only of penal statutes, but of influential opinion both in Great
Britain and Ireland. Thus humble and unpromising were the birth and
early prospects of an author who-thanks to the possession of great popular
talent, very industriously cultivated and exercised, together with consider-
able tact and prudence, and pleasing social accomplishments-won for
himself not only the general fame which ordinarily attends the successful
display of genius, but the especial sympathy and admiration of his
countrymen and fellow religionists, and the smiles and patronage of a large
and powerful section of the English aristocracy, at whose tables and in
whose drawing-rooms his sparkling wit and melodious patriotism rendered
him an ever-welcome guest. Few men, indeed, have passed more pleasantly
through the world than Thomas Moore. His day of life was one continual
sunshine, just sufficiently tempered and shaded by passing clouds-' mere
crumpling of the rose-leaves-as to soften and enhance its general gaiety
and brightness. With its evening thick shadows came-the crushing loss.
of children—and the gray-haired poet, pressed by his heavy grief, has
turned in his latter years from the gay vanities of brilliant society, and
sought peace and consolation in seclusion, and the zealous observance of
the precepts and discipline of the church to which he is, not only from
early training and association, but by temperament and turn of mind,
devotedly attached.
As a child, Moore was, we are told, remarkable for personal beauty, and
might have sat, says a writer not over-friendly to him, 'as Cupid for a
picture.' This early promise was not fulfilled. Sir Walter Scott, speaking
of him in 1825, says: 'He is a little, very little man-less, I think, than
Lewis, whom he resembles: his countenance is plain, but very animated
when speaking or singing.' The lowness of his stature was a sore subject
with Moore-almost as much, and as absurdly so, as the malformation of
his foot was with Lord Byron. Leigh Hunt, in a work published between
twenty and thirty years ago, gives the following detailed portrait of the
Irish poet:-' His forehead is bony and full of character, with bumps of
No. 80.
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
wit large and radiant enough to transport a phrenologist; his eyes are as
dark and fine as you would wish to see under a set of vine-leaves; his
mouth, generous and good-humoured, with dimples; "his nose, sensual and
prominent, and at the same time the reverse of aquiline: there is a very
peculiar characteristic in it—as if it were looking forward to and scenting a
feast or an orchard." The face, upon the whole, is Irish, not unruffled by
care and passion, but festivity is the predominant expression.' In Mr
Hunt's autobiography, not long since published, this portrait is repeated,
with the exception of the words we have enclosed within double inverted
commas - struck out possibly from a lately - awakened sense of their
injustice; and it is added that 'his (Moore's) manner was as bright as
his talk was full of the wish to please and be pleased.' To these testi-
monials as to the personal appearance and manners of Thomas Moore we
can only add that of Mr Joseph Atkinson, one of the poet's most intimate
and attached friends. This gentleman, when speaking to an acquaintance
of the author of the 'Melodies,' said that to him 'Moore always seemed an
infant sporting on the bosom of Venus.' This somewhat perplexing idea
of the mature author of the songs under discussion was no doubt suggested
by the speaker's recollections of his friend's childhood.
·
Whatever the personal graces or defects of Mr Moore, it is quite certain
at all events that he early exhibited considerable mental power and
imitative faculty. He was placed when very young with Mr Samuel
Whyte, who kept a respectable school in Grafton Street, Dublin. This
was the Mr Whyte who attempted to educate Richard Brinsley Sheridan,
and pronounced him to be 'an incorrigible dunce'
an incorrigible dunce'a verdict in which at
the time the mother of the future author of the 'School for Scandal' fully
concurred. Mr Whyte, it seems, delighted in private theatricals, and his
labours in this mode of diffusing entertaining knowledge were, it appears,
a good deal patronised by the Dublin aristocracy. Master Moore was his
'show-actor,' and played frequently at Lady Borrowes's private theatre.
On one occasion the printed bills announced 'An Epilogue-A Squeeze
at St Paul's, by Master Moore,' in which he is said to have been very
successful. These theatricals were attended by several members of the
ducal family of Leinster, the Latouches of Dublin, with many other Irish
notabilities; and it was probably here that Moore contracted the taste for
aristocratic society which afterwards became a passion with him.
The obstinate exclusion of the Catholics from the common rights of
citizenship naturally excited violent and growing discontent amongst that
body of religionists; and Thomas Moore's parents, albeit prudent, wary
folk, were, like thousands of other naturally sensible and pacific people,
carried away for a moment by the tremendous outburst of the French
Revolution. The meteor-blaze which suddenly leaped forth and dazzled
the astonished world seemed a light from Heaven to the oppressed nations
of Europe; and in Ireland especially it was hailed as the dawn of a great
deliverance by millions whom an unwise legislation had alienated and
almost maddened. Young Moore, when little more than twelve years of
age, sat upon his father's knee at a great banquet in Dublin, where the
toast' May the breezes from France fan our Irish oak into verdure!' was
received with a frantic vehemence which, child as he was, left an impression
upon him that did not pass away with many years. The Day-star of
2
THOMAS MOORE.
i
Liberty, as it was termed, which arose in France, set in blood and tempest;
but the government, alarmed at the ominous aspect of the times, relaxed
(1793) the penal laws, and Catholics for the first time were eligible for
admission to the Dublin University: eligible—that is, to partake of the
instruction conferred at the national seat of learning, but not for its honours
or rewards. These were still jealously reserved for the dominant caste.
Young Moore was immediately entered of Trinity College; and although he
succeeded by his assiduity and ability in extorting an acknowledgment
from the authorities that he had earned a classical degree, he was, for
religion's sake, as a matter of course denied it. Some English verses,
however, which he presented at one of the quarterly examinations in lieu
of the usual Latin metre, were extolled; and he received a well-bound
copy of the 'Travels of Anarchasis' as a reward. The young student's
proficiency in the Greek and Latin languages was also acknowledged,
though not officially.
For several previous years the thunder-cloud which burst so fatally in
1798 had been slowly gathering in Ireland. Moore sympathised with the
object, if not with the mode, of operation contemplated by the opponents of
English rule in that country; and he appears to have been only saved from
serious if not fatal implication in the rebellion by the wise admonitions of
his excellent mother, aided by his own instinctive aversion to the committal
of any act which might compromise his present and future position, by
placing him amongst extreme men in the front and forlorn-hope of the
battle, instead of amidst the wiser respectabilities of liberalism, from whose
ranks a man of wit and genius may, he knew, shoot his diamond-tipt
arrows at the enemy not only without danger, but with almost certain fame
and profit to himself. Moore was intimate with the two Emmets, and an
active member of a debating-club, in which the eldest, the unfortunate
Robert, endeavoured to mature his oratorical powers against the time
when his dream of political regeneration should be realised. Towards the
close of the year 1797, the at the time celebrated newspaper called 'The
Press' was started by Arthur O'Connor, the Emmets, and other chiefs of
the United Irishmen. It was published twice a week, and although,
Mr Moore says, not distinguished at all for talent, had a large circulation
amongst the excited masses. Moore first contributed a poetical effusion-
anonymously of course-and soon growing bolder with impunity, contri-
buted a fiery letter, which had the questionable honour of being afterwards
quoted in the House of Commons by the minister as one of his proofs that
severe repressive measures were required to put down the dangerous spirit
manifested in Ireland. On the evening this letter appeared, young Moore
read it after supper to the assembled family-his heart beating violently all
the while lest the sentiments it contained, and the style in which they were
expressed, should reveal the eloquent author. His fears were groundless:
no one suspected him; and the only remark elicited by the violent
letter was a quiet one from his sister-'that it was rather strong!' Next
day his mother, through the indiscretion of a person connected with the
newspaper, discovered his secret, and commanded him, as he valued her
blessing, to disconnect himself at once from so dangerous a pursuit and
companionship. The young man obeyed, and the storm of 1798 passed
over harmlessly for him. Moore was once slightly questioned upon the
3
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
subject of the apprehended conspiracy by Lord Chancellor Clare, who
insisted upon compelling a disclosure, upon oath, of any knowledge the
students of the university might possess of the persons and plans of the
plotters. Moore at first declined being sworn, alleging in excuse that he
had never taken an oath, and although perfectly unconscious himself of
offence against the government, that he might unwittingly compromise
others. This odd excuse Lord Clare, after consulting with Duigenan,
famous for his anti-papist polemics, declined to receive, and Moore was
sworn. Three or four questions were asked as to his knowledge of any
conspiracy to overthrow the government by violence; and these briefly
answered, the matter ended. This is Mr Moore's own version of a scene
which has been rendered in various amusing and exaggerated forms.
The precocity of Moore's rhyming genius had been also exemplified by a
sonnet, written when he was only fourteen years of age, and inserted in a
Dublin magazine called 'The Anthologia.' Two or three years later he
composed a Masque, which was performed by himself, his elder sister, and
some young friends, in the little drawing-room over the shop in Augier
Street, a friend, afterwards a celebrated musician, enacting orchestra on the
pianoforte. One of the songs of the masque was written to the air of
Haydn's Spirit Song, and obtained great applause. Master Moore belonged,
moreover, to a band of gay spirits who occasionally amused themselves
by a visit to Dalkey, a small island in the Bay of Dublin, electing one
Stephen Armitage, a respectable pawnbroker, and very agreeable singer,'
King of that Ilk. On one of these coronation days King Stephen conferred
the honour of knighthood upon Incledon, with the title of Sir Charles
Melody; and he created Miss Battier, a rhyming lady, Henrietta, Countess
of Laurel, and His Majesty's Poetess-Laureate. The working laureate was,
however, Master Moore, and in that capacity he first tried his hand at
political squibbing, by launching some not very brilliant sarcasms against
governments in general. Lord Clare, we are told, was half alarmed at this
Dalkey court and its poets, and insisted upon an explanation from one of
the mock officials. This is, however, we believe, a fable, though at the
time a current one.
In 1799, being then only in his twentieth year, Thomas Moore arrived
in London for the purpose of entering himself of the Middle Temple, and
publishing his translation of the Odes of Anacreon. He had already
obtained the friendship of Earl Moira, and that nobleman procured him
permission to dedicate the work to the Prince of Wales. His poetical
career may now be said to have fairly commenced. It was a long and
brilliant one, most of his works having rapidly passed through numerous
editions, and been perhaps more extensively read than those of any con-
temporary author, always excepting the romances of Scott. There can be
no reasonable doubt that Moore owed much of this popularity and success
to the accident of his position, and the favouring circumstances of the times
in which he wrote. The enfant gaté of high and influential circles, as well
as the melodious expositor and poet-champion of the wrongs of a nation to
whose glorious music he has happily, for himself, married much of his
sweetest verse, he dwelt in a peculiar and irradiating atmosphere, which
greatly enhanced his real magnitude and brightness. Even now, when the
deceptive medium has lost its influence, it is somewhat difficult, and may
4
THOMAS MOORE.
seem ungracious, to assign his true place in the splendid galaxy of British
poets to a writer who has contributed so largely to the delight of the
reading and musical population of these kingdoms. His verse is so
pleasantly - graceful and melodious, that one hardly likes to shew that it
owes its chief attraction to the elaborate polish and musical flow of its
brilliant fancies, rather than to its intrinsic light and truth and beauty.
Critics desirous of assigning a high place to the poetry of Moore, and
therefore, to avoid testing him by the standard of our great imaginative
poets, have invented a new theory, or rather have revived an old fallacy,
with regard to the qualities and direction of a poet's mind as exhibited in
his works. They say Moore is the poet of fancy, not of imagination—of
artificial life, not of nature; and therefore not to be truly estimated by
comparing him with poets of imagination and of nature. Imagination and
fancy they assert to be two entirely distinct attributes, and that a poet
may be deficient in the first and eminent in the second. This is a manifest
though ingenious error. The difference is one of degree, not of nature.
Fancy is imagination, but imagination of inferior power and range; and
they bear precisely the same relation to each other as the graceful and the
pretty do to the noble and the beautiful. An example will illustrate our
meaning better than many words. Moore thus describes the coming on of
evening :-
''Twas one of those ambrosial eves
A day of storm so often leaves,
At its calm setting, when the West
Opens her golden bowers of rest,
And a moist radiance from the skies
Shoots trembling down, as from the eyes
Of some meek penitent, whose last
Bright hours atone for dark ones past;
And whose sweet tears o'er wrong forgiven,,
Shine as they fall with light from Heaven.'
Milton has the following lines on a sufficiently similar theme:
:
'Now came still Evening on, and Twilight grey,
Had in her sober livery all things clad.
Silence accompanied; for beast and bird
Those to their grassy couch, these to their nests
Were slunk: All but the wakeful nightingale:
She all night long her amorous descant sung.
Silence was pleased. Now glowed the firmament
With living sapphires. Hesperus that led
The starry host rode brightest, till the moon,
Rising in clouded majesty, at length
Apparent Queen, unveiled her peerless light,
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.'
It cannot be seriously denied that imagination is displayed in both these
extracts the difference is, that in the first it is dwarfed and enfeebled to
fancy; in the last, it is exalted and kindled into inspiration. Those
therefore who, abandoning the high ground sometimes claimed for Moore,
content themselves with asserting that he is par excellence the poet of
fancy, in effect say that he is a poet of confined and inferior imaginative
power. The other canon, that he is the poet of artificial life, and there-
fore not to be measured or compared with a poet of nature, is still more
5
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
easily disposed of. By artificial life is of course meant human social
life: it does not imply or contemplate the difference between poetical
descriptions of flowers and shrubs ranged in a conservatory, or the scene-
paintings of a theatre, and poetical transcripts of the natural world, with
its streams and woods and flowers. Well, then, all human life is artificial,
from the highest to the lowest. Burns's simplest maiden is artificial-
highly so there is not one of us but is 'sophisticated.' Perhaps high,
courtly, artificial life is meant. But Rosalind, Beatrice, Juliet, Ophelia,
were court ladies; Constance and Catherine were queens; and are they
not exquisitely natural? and was not he who drew them as much
the poet of nature as when he stamped Aubrey, or a Carrier, or the
Sailor in the 'Tempest,' or Shallow, on his glorious canvas? Choking grief,
and burning indignation, and yearning tenderness, are felt and expressed
in marble palaces as keenly as in the poor man's hut; and there, too,
may be found exuberant mirth, and pleasant wit, and gentlest tears and
smiles.
If indeed be meant by artificial life the masks and wrappings, the
adjuncts of highly-artificial life—that is, the court-dresses and plumes, the
perfume and silk-hangings, the conventional speech before company-the
phrase of 'the poet of artificial life' is intelligible; but to apply it in that
sense to Mr Moore is to lower and insult, not to defend and honour
him. Let us, before subscribing to so depreciatory a judgment, stroll
through the gay parterre of the poet's works, and I think we shall find,
when we compare notes at the close, that although his writings are not
radiant with the divine gems which high poetic genius scatters along
its starry path, they at all events sparkle with beautiful fancies, and
breathe a music which, if not of the spheres, is of the sweetest of earth's
melodies.
The Odes of Anacreon obtained much present popularity at a time when
the moralities of respectable literature were not so strictly enforced by
public opinion as in the present day. Many of them are paraphrases
rather than translations, containing, as Dr Laurence, Burke's friend, re-
marked at the time, 'pretty turns not to be found in Anacreon.' Mr
Moore in his preface battles stoutly for the qualified morality of the Bard
of Teos. 'His morality,' he says, ' was relaxed, not abandoned, and Virtue
with her zone loosened may be an emblem of the character of Anacreon.'
This prettily-expressed nonsense is perhaps the best excuse that can be
offered for the sensuous gaiety, the utterly material philosophy, displayed
and inculcated in the Odes. More attention and respect are due to another
of the prefatorial excuses: To infer,' says the translator, 'the moral dis-
position of a poet from the tone of sentiment which pervades his work, is
sometimes a very fallacious analogy.' This may be so 'sometimes,' and
indeed we are quite willing to admit its truth with regard to Mr Moore
himself, who, in the relations of son, husband, and father, was a very
estimable person, and as different from the compound of Blue-Beard and
Lovelace that his earlier poems especially would imply as light from dark-
ness. But with respect to Anacreon the analogy is not, we apprehend, a
fallacious one. He died at eighty-five, as he had lived, a debauchee, choked
with a grape-stone, as it is recorded—a figurative mode probably of express-
ing that he died under the influence of the wine whose praises he was per-
6
THOMAS MOORE.
petually singing. He was, too, it appears from his own confession, horribly
afraid in his latter years of Pluto's dread abode-a terror that could
scarcely have beset him for mere wine-bibbing under a mythology in
which Bacchus was deified. Be this as it may, there can be no doubt that
the light gaiety and sensuous joyousness of the Odes are more skilfully
rendered by Moore than in any previous English translation of the Teian
Muse. Some, however, of his favourite similes are greatly overdone. Mr
in
Richard Swiveller himself was not fonder of the 'rosy' than the poet
these paraphrastic translations. Couleur de rose pervades the whole series
in overpowering profusion-rosy lips, rosy cheeks, rosy hands, rosy breath,
rosy smiles, we almost think rosy tears and rosy teeth, both of which we
all know should be invariably 'pearly.' But enough of Anacreon, whose
verses are rapidly passing away before the influence of a purer taste and a
manlier, healthier tone of mind than prevailed when he could be either
popular or dangerous. 'Thomas Little's Poems, Songs,' &c. given to the
world by Mr Moore in 1801, are a collection of puerile rhapsodies still more
objectionable than the Anacreontic Odes; and the only excuse for them was
the extreme youth of the writer. Byron thus alluded to the book in his
once famous satire:
'Tis Little, young Catullus of his day,
As sweet but as immoral in his lay.'
Many years afterwards his lordship, in a letter to Moore (1820), reverted,
half in jest half in earnest, to the work in these words: 'I believe all the
mischief I have ever done or sung has been owing to that confounded book
of yours.' The most objectionable of these songs have been omitted from
the recent editions of Moore's works, and we believe no one has more
deplored their original publication than the author himself.
In 1803, thanks to his verses and Lord Moira's patronage, Moore obtained
a place under the government-that of Registrar to the Court of Admiralty
at Bermuda. The unrespective favouritism which in those days governed
nominations in the public service is pleasantly illustrated by this appoint-
ment. 'Il fallut un calculateur: ce fût un danseur qui l'obtint!' was
Beaumarchais's sarcasm on Monsieur de Calonne's nomination. A similar
principle was followed here. An accountant and man of business was
wanted at Bermuda; but as there was a young poet to reward, all vulgar
common-sense considerations were thrust aside, and the youthful translator
of Anacreon received the appointment. Moore sailed in the Phœnix frigate,
and took formal possession of his post; but he soon wearied of the social
monotony of the 'still vexed Bermoothes,' hastily appointed a deputy to
perform all the duties of his office for a share of the income, and betook
himself to America. He was as much out of his proper element there as
in Bermuda. The rugged republicanism of the States disgusted him, and
after a brief glance at Canada he returned to England, having been absent
about fifteen months.
Soon after his return he favoured the world with his impressions of
Bermuda, the United States, and Canada. His sketches of Bermudan
scenery have been pronounced by Captain Basil Hall and others to be
extremely accurate and vivid. On the truthfulness of his American social
and political pictures and prophecies, Time-a much higher authority-has
7.
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
unmistakably delivered judgment. We extract one or two of their minor
beauties:
'While yet upon Columbia's rising brow
The showy smile of young Presumption plays,
Her bloom is poisoned and her heart decays
Even now in dawn of life; her sickly breath
Burns with the taint of empires near their death;
And, like the nymphs of her own withering clime,
She's old in youth, she's blasted in her prime.'
This, it must be confessed, like his gunpowder letter in Arthur O'Connor's
paper, is 'rather strong' than civil. It will also be admitted to be some-
what perplexing that the poet who, but for his mother's interference and
his own wise second-thoughts, would have joined the confederacy of United
Irishmen, and who has since then shed melodious tears over the graves of
Lord Edward Fitzgerald and Robert Emmet, should denounce the errors
and deficiencies of America as-
'The ills, the vices of the land where first
Those rebel fiends that rack the world were nurst.'
But let us pass on to a pleasanter subject. While in Canada Mr Moore
composed the popular 'Boat-song,' the words and air of which were, he says,
inspired by the scenery and circumstances which the verses portray, and
by the measured chant of the Canadian rowers. Captain Hall also testifies
to the fidelity of this descriptive song.
The republication in 1806 of Juvenile Songs, Odes, etcetera, elicited a fierce
and contemptuous denunciation of them from the Edinburgh Review, and
this led to a hostile meeting between the editor of that publication, the late
Lord Jeffrey, and Mr Moore. They met at Chalk Farm, near Hampstead;
but the progress of the duel was interrupted by police-officers, who, on
examining the pistols of the baffled combatants, found that they had been
charged with powder only. This was probably a sénsible device-it was not
at all an uncommon one-on the part of the seconds to prevent mischief; or
it might have been, as is usually believed, that the bullets dropped out of
one or both of the pistols by the jolting of the carriages in which the com-
batants reached the field of expected battle; but of course the discovery
created a great laugh at the time. Moore indignantly denied through
the newspapers that he was cognisant of the innocent state of Mr Jeffrey's
pistol-an assertion there cannot be the slightest reason for doubting.
This droll incident led to his subsequent acquaintance with Lord
Byron, who, unmindful or regardless of Mr Moore's denial of the
'calumny,' repeated it with variations in his 'English Bards and Scotch
Reviewers,' chiefly with a view to annoy Mr Jeffrey. Moore was again
indignant, and demanded an apology or satisfaction. His letter did not,
however, reach the noble lord till many months afterwards, when expla-
nations ensued, and the affair terminated by a dinner at the house of Mr
Rogers, where the four poets, Byron, Campbell, Moore, and Rogers, met
each other for the first time.
The intimacy thus commenced, if we may judge from the biography of
Byron, ripened into a lasting friendship on the part of Moore. This
feeling was but faintly reciprocated by Byron. Indeed, if we are to
believe his own statement, made in one of his latest letters, the noble poet
8
THOMAS MOORE.
was almost incapable of friendship, never having,' he says, 'except
towards Lord Clare, whom he had known from infancy, and perhaps little
Moore,' experienced any such emotion. 'Little Tommy dearly loves
a lord,' was Byron's sneering expression more than once; and perhaps he
believed Moore's loudly-expressed regard for himself to be chiefly based on
that predilection.
Moore had before this married a Miss Dyke, who is described as a lady
of great beauty and amiability, and moreover distinguished for considerable
decision of character and strong common-sense—qualities which more than
once proved of essential service to her husband. They had several
children, the loss of whom, as we have before stated, has darkened and em-
bittered the close of the poet's days.
Two political satires, called 'Corruption' and 'Intolerance,' were next
published, and followed by 'The Sceptic,' described as a philosophical
essay. Neither of them reached a second edition. The aim of 'The Sceptic'
was to set forth in sober seriousness the beauty, true enlightenment, and
amiability of Ignorance, with whom Faith, Hope, Charity, and Patience,
fleeing in disgust from such contradictory sciolists as Newton, Descartes,
Locke, &c. are represented as dwelling in content and love. In his
enthusiasm for the leaden goddess, Moore exclaims-
Hail, modest Ignorance!-the goal and prize,
The last, best knowledge of the simply wise.'
This philosophic ignorance he further opines to be 'the only daughter of
the schools that can safely be selected as the handmaid of Piety.' Figaro's
exclamation-Que les gens d'esprit sont bêtes!' has received frequent
serious confirmation, and never perhaps more so than in this panegyric on
Ignorance by Thomas Moore.
The Intercepted Letters; or the Twopenny Post-Bag, by Thomas
Brown, the Younger,' was Moore's next successful work. It is a collection
of sarcastic jeux d'esprits levelled at the Prince - Regent and the ruling
politicians of the day. They had a great but necessarily transitory success.
Such pièces d'occasion inevitably lose their force and piquancy by the
passing into oblivion of the ephemera against which they were directed.
It may sufficiently indicate the slight permanency and limited range of
such pin-points, however sharp and polished, to state, that of all Moore's
sarcastic verse, excellent in its way, as everybody admits it to be, only one
piece-
'There was a little man,
And he had a little soul,'
has had the honour of translation into a foreign language. Wit which
strikes at individuals dies with the world's remembrance of the crimes or
follies of the persons assailed; and who cares now for the brilliant butter-
flies of Carlton House, or the gilded gadflies, social or political, which
infested the atmosphere of the vain regent's court? It has been frequently
made a reproach to Moore, that in aiming the light arrows of his wit at the
prince, he was ungratefully assailing one who had heaped favours and
benefits upon him. These favours and benefits,' replies Mr Moore, ' are
very easily summed up: I was allowed to dedicate "Anacreon" to his
No. 80.
(
9
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
Royal Highness; I twice dined at Carlton House; and I made one of the
fifteen hundred envied guests at the prince's grand fête in 1815!'
(
In 1811 Moore made a first and last appearance before the world as a
dramatist, by the production at the Lyceum theatre of an operatic piece
called An M.P.; or the Blue Stocking.' It was emphatically damned,
notwithstanding two or three pleasing songs, which somewhat redeemed
its dull and vapid impertinence. The very pretty song of 'Young Love
lived once in an humble shed' occurs in this piece. Moore's acquaintance
with Leigh Hunt dates from the acting of the Blue Stocking.' Mr Hunt
was at the time editor of the 'Examiner' newspaper, in which he had
just before paid some compliments to Moore's poetry; and the nervous dra-
matist, naturally anxious to propitiate a critic whose opinion was esteemed
oracular in certain circles, wrote him a rather fulsome letter, in which he
set forth, as an ad misericordiam plea for lenient judgment, that he had
rashly been induced to promise Arnold a piece for his theatre, in conse-
quence of the state of attenuation to which the purses of poets are prover-
bially liable. The 'M.P.' was, as we have said, condemned, and Esop's dis-
appointed fox received another illustration. 'Writing bad jokes,' quoth Mr
Moore, for the Lyceum to make the galleries laugh is in itself sufficiently
degrading; but to try to make them laugh, and fail to do so, is indeed
deplorable.' In sooth, to make 'galleries' either laugh or weep was never
Mr Moore's aim or vocation. His eye was ever fixed upon the gay company
of the boxes,' occasionally only glancing apprehensively aside from its
flattering homage to scan the faces of the sour critics of the pit. And
yet to make the galleries of the theatre and the world laugh has tasked
and evidenced wit and humour, in comparison with which the gayest
sallies, the most sparkling of Mr Moore's fancies, are vapidity itself.
The mortified dramatist gave up play-writing for ever, or, as he con-
temptuously expressed it,' made a hearty abjuration of the stage and all
its heresies of pun, equivoque, and clap-trap.' He was wise in doing so.
The discretion evinced by the hasty retreat was only exceeded by the
rashness of the venture.
The intimacy of Thomas Moore and Leigh Hunt continued for some
years. Moore, in company with Lord Byron, dined once or twice with
Hunt in prison during his confinement for a pretended libel upon the
regent. A pertinent anecdote, throwing some light on Byron's sneer
respecting Moore's love of lords, is told of one of these visits. The three
friends, Byron, Moore, and Hunt, were walking before dinner in the prison
garden, when a shower of rain came on, and Moore ran into the house,
and up stairs, leaving his companions to follow as they best might.
Consciousness of the discourtesy of such behaviour towards his noble
companion quickly flashed upon him, and he was overwhelmed with con-
fusion. Mr Hunt tried to console him. I quite forgot at the moment,'
said Moore, whom I was walking with; but I was forced to remember it
by his not coming up. I could not in decency go on, and to return was
awkward.' This anxiety-on account of Byron's lameness-Mr Hunt
remarks, appeared to him very amiable.
4
6
This friendship came to an abrupt and unpleasant close. Lord Byron
agreed with Hunt and Shelley to start a new periodical, to be called 'The
Liberal,' the profits of which were to go to Leigh Hunt. Byron's parody
10
THOMAS MOORE.
on Southey's 'Vision of Judgment' appeared in it, and ultimately William
Hazlitt became a contributor. Moore immediately became alarmed for
his noble friend's character, which he thought would be compromised by
his connection with Hunt and Hazlitt, and wrote to entreat him to
withdraw himself from a work which had 'a taint in it,' and from asso-
ciation with men upon whom society 'had set a mark.'
His prayer
was complied with, and the two last-named gentlemen were very angry,
as well they might be. There has been a good deal of crimination and
recrimination between the parties on the subject, not at all worth
reproducing. The truth is that both Hunt and Hazlitt, but especially the
latter, were at the time under the ban of influential society and a then
powerful Tory press; and Moore, with his usual prudence, declining to
be mad-dog'd in their company and for their sakes, deliberately cut two
such extreme Radicals, and induced his noble friend to do likewise. How
could a prudent man who had given hostages to fortune, which Moore
by this time had, in a wife and children, act otherwise?
Moore had long cherished a hope of allying his poetry with the expressive
music of Ireland; of giving appropriate vocal utterance to the strains which
had broken fitfully from out the tumults and tramplings of centuries of
unblest rule. A noble task! in which even partial success demands great
powers and deserves high praise. The execution of the long - meditated
design now commenced; and the 'Melodies,' as they appeared, obtained
immense and well-deserved popularity. It is upon these his fame as a
poet will mainly rest; and no one can deny that, as a whole, they exhibit
great felicity of expression, and much graceful tenderness of thought and
feeling, frequently relieved by flashes of gay and genial wit and humour.
No one could be more keenly aware, or could more gracefully acknowledge
than Moore, the great help to a poet's present reputation of connecting his
verse with national or local associations. He instances in proof of its
value the popularity in Bermuda of a song comparatively valueless in
itself—a popularity owing to its association with a well-known tree growing
near Walsingham in that group of islets-
'Twas there in the shade of the calabash tree,
With a few who could feel and remember like me,' &c.
Mr Dudley Costello brought him home a goblet, the inscription on which
states that it was formed of one of the fruit-shells of the tree which he
had rendered famous, and which now bears his name. But it must be con-
fessed that this kind of appreciative association, however gratifying
to an author's vanity, or decisive of present success, is but a frail, unpro-
mising plank to float down to posterity upon. If the poetry of a song is
only remembered because it recalls local incidents, or objects, or memories,
its power must be a very confined and fleeting one. The man who had
sung or heard Moore's song under the calabash tree, if a sojourner in
distant lands, would dwell upon its words and air with pleasure for no
other reason than because he had so sung or heard them; but not so his
son-not so his descendants: it must for them have a distinct self-existent
beauty of its own, or it will pass from their lips and language. If, there-
fore, Moore's songs are, as we are frequently told, to perpetuate the music
and poetry and romance of Ireland in distant climes, it must be for some
11.
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
a
other reason than because they were once heard on the banks of the Shannon,
or that they allude incidentally to Irish events, or bear Irish names. It is
not from individual local association that the song of the 'Captives of
Israel' awakens a tide of gushing emotions in the Jewish soul. The song
embodies an enduring national sentiment, expresses and enshrines
national lamentation and a national hope, in strains exclusively of Israel.
Do Moore's graceful, and tender, and witty melodies do this? How many
of them are Irish songs in the sense in which those of Béranger are French
--those of Burns Scotch-idiomatic, national, racy of the soil? There
are not very many of them that even allude to Irish topics, and those that
do—'Oh! breathe not his Name!' 'The Harp that once through Tara's
Halls,' and a dozen others are essentially English songs always except-
ing the air, to the magical beauty of which English music has no pretence
-English in their mode of thought and turn of expression. And the
gay, witty melodies-'Wreathe the Bowl,' 'Fill the Bumpers Fair,' and
many others, not even excepting the brilliant song of 'Through Erin's
Isle
are theirs the wit and humour-the Irish wit and humour which
the graphic pens of Edgeworth and others have made familiar to us, and of
which such ballads as 'Rory O'More' give a faithful reflex, though a pale
and faint one? It is just as much English, French, Italian wit and humour
as Irish. Again, what distinctive Irish character, or what distinctive national
sentiment is enshrined in the great mass of the more tender and graceful
melodies—' Flow on, thou Shining River!''Fly not Yet,' 'The Young May
Moon,' 'Go where Glory waits Thee,' or 'Love's Young Dream?' Take,
for instance, the concluding verse of the last song, where a hackneyed
thought--common to all countries-by the aid of the beautiful Irish air
sinks with such a dying fall upon the ear-
'Oh that hallowed form is ne'er forgot,
Which first love traced;
It fondly haunts the greenest spot,
On memory's waste:
'Tis odour fled, as soon as shed-
'Tis morning's winged dream-
'Tis a light that ne'er will shine again
On life's dull stream!'
The melody of these lines glides into the heart and sparkles in the
brain of young and old-harmonising with the fresh romance of youth,
and recalling to the aged the far-off music of their prime; but surely the
sentiment the verses embody is cosmopolitan, not Irish, chiefly or espe-
cially? Moore, whether for good or evil, has, temporarily at least,
divorced Irish music-at all events, in the great majority of instances-from
Irish sentiment; and the national airs, as illustrated and rendered vocal
by him, will recall to the exile and the wayfarer not memories of Ireland,
but of the home where the brother or the lover first heard a sister or a
mistress sing them-be that home in the Green Isle, in Scotland, England,
or wherever else the English race dwell and English song is cultivated. In
his war-melodies Moore fails, not from coldness of national partisanship,
but from want of power. Compare the best of them with the Battle-
Song' of Burns, and the difference between the two men in high poetic
faculty will be at once apparent. The 'Minstrel Boy,' and 'Let Erin
12
THOMAS MOORE.
Remember the Days of Old,' would find appropriate expression from a lady's
voice and a pianoforte accompaniment. Burns's 'War Ode' would most
fitly resound from the lips of valiant men in the very shock and grasp of
battle, accompanied by the flash of swords and the roar of cannon.
Moore is not the poet of strong emotions. Yet is there genuine pathos
in many of his beautiful songs; but it is pathos of the gentle kind, such as
a cambric handkerchief wipes away, to leave the eyes of the fair songstress
only the more radiant for such sweet tears, and revealing an expression,
or rather realising one of the most charming similes Moore himself has
ever penned―
'Her floating eyes! Oh, they resemble
Blue water-lilies, when the breeze
Is making the waves around them tremble !'
It must not, however, be forgotten, in estimating the value of Moore's
ballads, that before his time fashionable English songs were, almost without
exception, as far as words went, mere rubbish. He effected a valuable
reform in this department of poetry and verse, and hosts of imitators
maintain the improvement so well that it is sometimes difficult to distin-
guish between the productions of the master and those of some of his self-
constituted pupils and followers. His wit, however, cannot be so easily
imitated; and there is certainly a wide difference between the classical and
polished fancies of Moore and the tinsel conceits of the mass of our
later song-writers.
In 1812 Moore determined on writing an Eastern tale in verse; and his
friend Mr Perry of the 'Chronicle' accompanied him to Messrs Longman,
the publishers, to arrange for the sale of a work of which the proposed
author had not yet written a line nor even settled the subject. Mr
Perry appears to have been an invaluable intermediary. He proposed at
once, as the basis of the negotiation, that Moore should have the largest
sum ever given for such a work. That,' observed the Messrs Longman,
was three thousand guineas.' And three thousand guineas it was ulti-
mately covenanted the price should be, thanks to Moore's reputation,
and the business abilities of his friend Perry. It was further agreed that
the manuscript should be furnished at whatever time might best suit the
author's convenience, and that Messrs Longman should accept it for better
for worse, and have no power or right to suggest alterations or changes of
any kind. The bargain was altogether a safe one on Moore's side, and
luckily it turned out equally profitable for the publishers.
In order to obtain the necessary leisure and quiet for the composition of
such a work, Moore resolved to retire from the gaieties of Holland and Lans-
downe Houses, and other mansions of his distinguished patrons and friends,
to the seclusion and tranquillity of the country. He made choice of May-
field Cottage, near Ashbourne in Derbyshire, and not far distant from
Donnington Park, Lord Moira's country-seat, where an excellent library
was at his service. It may be as well to mention that when this early and
influential friend of Moore went out to India as governor-general, he
apologised for not being able to present his poetical protégé with anything
worth his acceptance in that country. 'But,' said Lord Moira (Marquis of
Hastings), 'I can perhaps barter a piece of India patronage against some-
thing at home that might suit you.' This offer, which would have gravely
13
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
compromised Moore with his Whig friends, he with some asperity declined.
The governor-general went to India, and Moore retired to Derbyshire,
remaining, with the exception of his Bermudan registrarship, placeless.
This offer and refusal Moore communicated by letter to Leigh Hunt.
Mayfield Cottage, when the poet and his wife arrived to view it, wore
anything but an inviting aspect. 'It was a poor place,' Moore wrote,
'little better than a barn; but we at once took it, and set about making it
habitable and comfortable.' He now commenced the formidable task of
working himself up into a proper Oriental state of mind for the accom-
plishment of his work. The first part of this process consisted in reading
every work of authority that treated of the topography, climate, zoology,
ornithology, entomology, floriculture, horticulture, agriculture, manners,
customs, religion, ceremonies, and languages of the East. Asiatic registers,
D'Herbelot, Jones, Tavernier, Flemming, and a host of other writers, were
industriously consulted; and so perfect did Mr Moore become in these
various branches of knowledge, that a great Eastern traveller, after reading
'Lalla Rookh,' and being assured that the poet had never visited the
scenes in which he placed his stories, remarked that if it were so, a man
might learn as much of those countries by reading books as by riding on
the back of a camel! This, however, was but a part of the requisite
preparation. I am,' says Mr Moore, ' a slow, painstaking workman, and
at once very imaginative and very matter-of-fact;' and he goes on to say
that the slightest exterior interruption or contradiction to the imaginary
state of things he was endeavouring to conjure up in his brain threw all his
ideas into confusion and disarray. It was necessary, therefore, to surround
himself in some way or other with an Eastern atmosphere. How this could
be managed in the face of the snows of three Derbyshire winters, during
which the four stories which compose 'Lalla Rookh' were written, it is
difficult to conceive, and perhaps to the fact that it could not be effectually
done, must be ascribed the ill success which beset the poet during an
entire twelvemonth. Vainly did he string together peris and bulbuls,
and sunny apples of Totkahar: the inspiration would not come.
It was
all 'Double, double, toil and trouble,' to no purpose. Each story, however
trippingly it began, soon flagged, drooped, and, less fortunate than that of
- The bear and fiddle,
Begun and broke off in the middle,'
expired of collapse after a brief career of a few score lines only, frequently
nothing like so many. Some of these fragments have since been published.
One of them, 'The Peri's Daughter,' ran to some length, and is rather pretty
and sparkling.
We subjoin a brief specimen. A peri had married the 'rightful Prince
of Ormuz,' and must be supposed to have left this heir-apparent de jure
to the crown of Ormuz, as after a time she comes floating back to her
husband's bower with a charming present in her care:—
• Within the boat a baby slept,
Like a young pearl within its shell,
While one, who seemed of riper years,
But not of earth or earth-like spheres,
Her watch beside the slumberer kept;
14
THOMAS MOORE.
Gracefully waving in her hand
The feathers of some holy bird,
With which from time to time she stirr'd
The fragrant air, and coolly fann'd
The baby's brow, or brush'd away
The butterflies that bright and blue
As on the mountains of Malay
Around the sleeping infant flew.
And now the fairy boat hath stopp'd
Beside the bank-the nymph has dropp'd
Her golden anchor in the stream.'
Here concluded both the peri's voyage and the 'Peri's Daughter,' both
muse and boat coming alike to a dead stop; and Mr Moore, finding the
'Peri's Daughter'—spite of his most desperate efforts to get on-immovably
aground, abandoned the lady, the child, the ferry-boat, and the golden
anchor, notwithstanding the rightful prince was, and is to this day,
anxiously but vainly expecting his peri-wife and semi-peri child.
This uninspiring state of things seemed interminable-the three thousand
guineas were as far off as ever; and apprehension of the necessity of a
bodily journey to the East, in order to get at the genuine' atmosphere,'
must have suggested itself, when a gleam of light, in the idea of the
'Fire-Worshippers,' broke in upon the poet; the multifarious collection of
Eastern materials deposited in the chambers of his brain arranged them-
selves in flowing numbers, without encountering any further accident; and
at the end of three years 'Lalla Rookh' was ushered before an admiring world.
Its success was immense, and the work ran rapidly through many editions.
'Paradise and the Peri,' the second story, although not so much praised as
the first and third, is, we fancy, much the most read of the four; and from
its light, ringing tone, its delicate and tender sentiment, its graceful and
musical flow, will always be a principal favourite with the admirers of
Thomas Moore's poetry. Amongst the numerous testimonials to the merits
of 'Lalla Rookh' there is one, pridefully recorded by the author, that must
have compensated him a thousandfold for the coarse remark of Hazlitt,
that Moore ought not to have published 'Lalla Rookh' even for three
thousand guineas. Its chief incidents were represented by tableaux vivans
at the Château-Royal, Berlin, in 1822, by, amongst others, the imperial
and royal personages whose names appear in the following extract from a
printed French programme of the entertainments :-
'Fadladin, Grand Nasir,
Aliris, Roi de Bucharie,
Lalla Roûkh,
Arungzebed, le Grand Mogul,
Abdallah, Père d'Aliris,
La Reine, son épouse,
Comte Haach, Maréchale de Cour.
S. A. I. Le Grand Duc Nicholas de Russie.
S. A. I. La Grande Duchesse.
S. A. R. Le Prince Guillaume (Frère du Roi.)
S. A. R. Le Duc de Cumberland.
S. A. R. La Princesse Louise de Radzivil.'
Some portions of the scenery were magnificent, especially the gate of
Eden, with its crystal bar, and occasional glimpses of splendour jetting
through and falling upon the repentant Peri. At the close of the enter-
tainments, Son Altesse Impériale la Grande Duchesse, and now Empress
of all the Russias, made, it is said, the following speech:-'Is it, then, all
over? Are we now at the close of all that has given us so much delight?
15
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
And lives there no poet who will impart to others and to future times some
notion of the happiness we have enjoyed this evening?' In answer to this
irresistible appeal one of the actors, the poetical Baron de la Motte Fouqué,
stepped gallantly forward, and vowed that he would give the poem to the
world in a German dress. On hearing which the Empress Lalla Rookh
graciously smiled.' This story, we beg to observe, rests for its authority
on the preface to Monsieur Le Baron de la Motte Fouqué's translation,
and whether, consequently, the speech of the Grand Duchess is a veritable
imperial speech or a trade puff we cannot take upon ourselves, from internal
evidence alone, to determine.
It has been already remarked that the local descriptions in 'Lalla Rookh'
have been pronounced by excellent authority to be surprisingly accurate.
The trees and the birds are all called by their proper names, the right sort
of perfumes are used, eyelids and finger-nails are stained of the correct
colour, Eastern ceremonial is truly described, and men in these tales wear
turbans and swear by Allah, with many other accuracies of the same kind.
All this is said to constitute their beauty and excellence as Oriental
romances. With all proper deference to the critical authority which thus
pronounces, we beg to demur to such a dictum. The mechanical and
elaborate accuracy so much extolled relates only to the dress, the externals
of Eastern society, and does not touch its life, its peculiar modes of thought,
impulse, action. If to dress people in Eastern clothes, and to take care
that neither they in their speech, nor the author in his descriptions, miscall
anything, nor make any considerable blunder in the conventional language
of ceremony, be to write an Eastern tale, then are Racine's Frenchmen,
with classical tropes and figures in their mouths, and tunics and togas on
their backs-Pyrrhus, Orestes, Britannicus-true Greeks and Romans, and
Shakspeare's Coriolanus, Brutus, Antony, who talk very little mythology,
and utter not a few anachronisms, are not true types-real living incarna-
tions of the Roman character and spirit. Neither is Juliet-in whose glow-
ing, impassioned speech we hear nothing about myrtles, or sunny skies,
or Madonas-a true Italian woman! Surely that which stamps men
and women, Greeks, Italians, Turks, is the character which religion,
manners, usages, climate, institutions, impress upon their minds, giving
to each separate, well-defined nationality its peculiar ideas, expression,
action! Judged by this test, where is the Orientalism of these tales? The
actors in them, so far as they have any individuality, are all Europeans—
chiefly English and Irish. Hafed talks lofty patriotism, just as Captain
Rock would had he the faculty of verse-Al Hassan is the stereotyped
European tyrant. The love of Azib has not a tint of Orientalism about
it; and Zelica, an enthusiastic young lady, cruelly deceived by a monster-
not an uncommon result, we grieve to say here, although not often attended
by such extremely fatal results as in her case-has, much to her credit,
notions of purity and marriage entirely in accordance with those of the
thousands of fair readers who have wept through the twenty editions of her
griefs. The Peri! Well, perhaps we must let the East have the Peri,
although even she looks at times remarkably like a young and gentle Irish
Sister of Mercy. As for Fadladeen, he is a very 'old courtier of the Queen's,'
and Mokanna dates as far back as the invention of minor theatres and blue
flame. No-no; 'Lalla Rookh' sparkles with pretty fancies we admit, and
16
THOMAS MOORE.
contains passages of considerable beauty, but Oriental, in the meaning which
ought to attach to the word, the work is not. Nor do we hold that the
poetic fame of the writer of the 'Melodies' will be at all enhanced by it as
a whole, although Paradise and the Peri will perhaps always be attractive
for innocent and gentle natures. It is in the more impassioned portions of
this series of poems that Moore chiefly fails. The light wings of his lyric
muse are not fitted for either lofty or lengthened flights. A brief, gay
theme, a lively or tender sentiment breathed through a song—these are
Moore's triumphs, and in this varied, if confined, range of composition, he
has no superior, perhaps, taken altogether, no equal; but of highly imagina-
tive or sustained poetry he is hopelessly incapable; and when he does attempt
to scale the lofty heights of human passion, the descent is lamentable. It
were easy to give proofs of this from the tragic portions of 'Lalla Rookh,'
but the task is an ungracious one, and we decline it. Still one may hold
this opinion of the comparative inferiority of these poems without sub-
scribing to Hazlitt's remark-that Moore ought not, for his fame's sake, to
have written them for three thousand guineas. Whatever is vital in his
writings will survive, spite of the earthy matter with which it may be for a
time associated and partially confounded. It is difficult besides to pro-
nounce dogmatically upon what a man who has his bread to earn should
not do for three thousand guineas, if it may be done without moral offence.
Mr Hazlitt could not be entitled to pronounce such a judgment until after
he had himself been similarly tempted, and had not fallen.
An odd anecdote illustrative of Moore's increasing and widely-spread
fame may here be given. He was surprised one day at receiving from
Sweden an offer to be elected a knight of the ancient Order of St Joachim.
This distinction, it was announced in the missive, which purported to come
from the chancellor of the order, was tendered as a mark of the admira-
tion entertained by the honourable fraternity for his very charming poetry.
Moore was puzzled-mystified. He had never before heard of the Order
of St Joachim, and vehemently suspected some kind friend of seeking to
play him a malicious trick. St Joachim! Might it not turn out to be St
Jok'em? He, however, stealthily inquired amongst persons versed in
knightly orders, and was informed that there really was a Swedish
knighthood of the name mentioned, and that several presentable persons
had belonged to it. Still, after due deliberation, he resolved to decline the
generously-proffered honour. It was too hazardous. Sir Joke'm Moore!
He was a man to face the battery of a three-decker cheerfully rather than
risk the possibility of such a sobriquet as that!
The bow so long bent required relaxation, and in the first flush of his
great success, while his ears were still ringing with the applauses, and
his nostrils still titillating with the incense which the press showered upon
‘Lalla Rookh,' pronounced by general consent—' when they do agree, their
unanimity is wonderful '—to be unrivalled as a work of melody, beauty,
and power, Moore set out on a continental tour with his friend and
brother-poet Rogers. On his return to England he published the Fudge
Family'-not a very brilliant performance, and which, with the exception
of its political hits, is but an imitation of 'Les Anglaises Pour Rire.' He
also worked at the 'Melodies,' and wrote articles for the 'Edinburgh
Review.' In 1818 one of the most pleasing incidents in his life occurred.
(
17
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
A public dinner was given in his honour at Dublin, the Earl of Charle-
mont in the chair-the poet's venerable father, Garret Moore, being pre-
sent on the chairman's right hand, the honoured and delighted witness of
the enthusiastic welcome bestowed upon his son by his warm - hearted
fellow-countrymen. Moore made a graceful, cleverly-turned speech; but
he was no orator: few literary men are. He could not think upon his
legs; and you could see by the abstraction of his look that he was not
speaking in the popular sense, but reciting what had previously been care-
fully composed and committed to memory. Such speeches frequently read
well, but if long, they are terrible things to sit and hear.
The following year Moore accompanied Lord John Russell on a conti-
nental tour, taking the road of the Simplon to Italy. Lord John went
on to Genoa, and Moore directed his steps toward Venice, for the purpose
of seeing Byron. It was during this visit that the noble lord made
Moore a present of his personal memoirs, for publication after the writer's
death. Moore gives the following account of the transaction :-' We were
conversing together when Byron rose and went out. In a minute or two he
returned carrying a white leathern bag. "Look here !" he said, holding it
up, "this would be worth something to Murray, though you, I daresay, would
not give sixpence for it." "What is it?" I asked. "My life and adven-
tures," he answered. On hearing this I raised my hands in a gesture.
"It is not a thing that can be published during my life, but you may
have it if you like: then do whatever you please with it." In taking the
bag, and thanking him most warmly, I added: "This will make a nice
legacy for my little Tom, who shall astonish the latter end of the nine-
teenth century with it." He then added: "You may shew it to any of
your friends you think worthy of it." This is as nearly as I can recollect
all that passed.' These memoirs Moore sold to Mr Murray for two thou-
sand guineas, but at Lord Byron's death, his executors and family induced
Moore to repay Mr Murray, and destroy the manuscript. The precise
reasons which decided Moore to yield to the solicitations of the deceased
lord's friends and family are not known, but there can be little doubt that
they were urgent, and in a moral sense irresistible. A man does not
usually throw away two thousand guineas for a caprice, even of his
own, much less for that of others. It is not likely that the world has
lost much by the destruction of these memoirs. Lord Byron's life is
sufficiently written in his published works for all purposes save that of
the gratification of a morbid curiosity and vulgar appetite for scandal.
During the journey to and from Italy, Moore sketched the 'Rhymes on
the Road,' which were soon afterwards published. There is nothing
remarkable about them except his abuse of Rousseau and Madame Warens,
à propos of a visit to Les Charmettes. Moore was violently assailed for
this by writers, who held that as he had himself translated Anacreon, and
written juvenile songs of an immoral tendency, he was thereby incapacitated
from fy, fying naughty people in his maturer and better years. This seems
hardly a reasonable maxim, and would, if strictly interpreted and enforced,
silence much grave and learned eloquence, oral as well as written. His
denunciations of the eccentric and fanciful author of the 'Confessions,' which
twenty years before he would probably have called the enunciations of
'Virtue with her zone loosened,' were certainly violent and unmeasured,
18
THOMAS MOORE.
and not perhaps in the very best taste. The following little bit is genuine
Moore:-
And doubtless 'mong the grave and good,
And gentle of their neighbourhood,
If known at all, they were but known
As strange, low people-low and bad.
Madame herself".
But it is scarcely worth while continuing the quotation. The man in
Goldsmith's play had nothing like the intense horror of anything low which
Moore had, and this with him, if a weakness, was also a safeguard. The
pity and indignation with which, now in his fortieth year of discretion, he
looked upon literary talent if applied to other than pure and holy purposes,
he traces in quite fiery lines-
'Out on the craft! I'd rather be
One of those hinds that round me tread,
With just enough of sense to see
The noonday sun that's o'er my head,
Than thus with high-trust genius curst,
That hath no heart for its foundation,
Be all at once that's brightest, worst,
Sublimest, meanest in creation.'
Poor Jean Jacques had little of the 'sublime' to boast of, and we have met
in our time with much meaner people than the half-mad pauper, as Mr
Moore pleasantly terms him.
During the journey to Italy Lord John Russell hinted to his companion
that he seriously contemplated retiring from public life. Mr Moore was
distressed by the contemplation of such a possibility, and addressed a
miscellaneous poem soon afterwards to his lordship. It is called a
'Remonstrance,' and concludes with the following somewhat bizarre
verse:--
'Like the boughs of that laurel by Delphic decree,
Set apart for the fane and its service divine,
So the branches that spring from the old Russell tree,
Are by Liberty claimed for the use of her shrine.'
This is certainly not one of Moore's most brilliant hits.
Pecuniary difficulties, arising from the misconduct of his deputy in
Bermuda, now threatened Mr Moore, and flight to France-for process
against him had issued from the Court of Admiralty—became immediately
necessary. The deputy-registrar, from whom Mr Moore had exacted no
securities, had made free with the cargoes of several American vessels, and
immediately decamped with the proceeds, leaving his principal liable, it
was feared, to the serious amount of six thousand pounds. Active and
successful efforts were, however, made by Moore's friends to compromise
the claims, and ultimately they were all adjusted by the payment of one
thousand guineas. Three hundred pounds towards this sum were con-
tributed by the delinquent's uncle, a London merchant; so that Moore's
ultimate loss was seven hundred and fifty pounds only. During the progress,
and at the close of these negotiations, numerous offers of pecuniary assist-
ance were addressed to Mr Moore, all of which he gratefully but firmly
declined.
Whilst the matter was pending, Moore resided near Paris at La Butte
19
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
Coaslin, on the road to Belle Vue. This was also the residence of some
agreeable Spanish friends of the poet. Kenny the dramatic writer lived also
in the neighbourhood. Here Moore composed his 'Loves of the Angels,'
passing his days, when they were fine, in walking up and down the park of
Saint Cloud, 'polishing verses and making them run easy,' and the evenings
in singing Italian duets with his Spanish friends. Previous to leaving Paris
at the close of 1822, he attended a banquet got up in his honour by many
of the most distinguished and wealthy of the English residents in that gay
city. His speech on this occasion was a high-flown panegyric upon
England and everything English, and grievously astonished Byron, Shelley,
Hunt, and others, when they read it in Italy. Either they thought the tone
of some of the Irish melodies was wrong, or the speech was. They did not
reflect that a judicious speaker always adapts his speech to his audience.
Apt words in apt places are the essentials of true eloquence.
Moore's publishers' account, delivered in the following June, exhibited a
very pleasing aspect. He was credited with one thousand pounds for the
Loves of the Angels,' and five hundred pounds for 'Fables for the Holy
Alliance.' These were the halcyon days of poetry. There was truth as
well as mirthful jest in Sir Walter Scott's remark a few years afterwards,
in reply to Moore's observation, 'that hardly a magazine is now published
but contains verses which would once have made à reputation.'
'Ecod!'
exclaimed the baronet, 'we were very lucky to come before these fellows!
The 'Loves of the Angels' is throughout but a prolonged, melodious
echo of Mr Moore's previous love-poetry. The angels talk of woman's
eyes, lips, voices, grace, precisely after the manner of his amatory songs.
The opening lines, which are flowing and pretty, seem a kind of peri-
phrasis of the Hebrew verse-'When the morning stars sang together,
and the sons of God shouted for joy '-
"Twas when the world was in its prime,
When the fresh stars had just begun
Their race of glory, and young Time
Told his first birthdays by the sun.'
The three angel-stories, told in very graceful verse, are grounded upon
rabbinical and mythological fables and precedents, and excite but the
faintest interest in the reader. It is difficult to remember anything about
them five minutes after their perusal—the sensation produced resembling
that which one feels after listening for half an hour to the silvery murmur-
ing of a brook in the summer month of June. Just as dreamy and inar-
ticulate as that sound is the musical and cadenced flow of love-verses,
destitute, or nearly so, of interest, true tenderness, or passion. In proof
of our assertion that this poem is but a repetition of Mr Moore's early and
earthly painting of female beauty, we have only to quote the following
lines from the second angel's story :-
"You both remember well the day,
When unto Eden's new-made bowers
Alla invoked the bright array
Of his supreme angelic powers,
To witness the one wonder yet,
Beyond man, angel, star, or sun,
He must achieve, ere he could set
His seal upon the world as done;
20
THOMAS MOORE.
To see that last perfection rise--
That crowning of Creation's birth-
When 'mid the worship and surprise
Of circling angels, Woman's eyes
First opened upon heaven and earth,
And from their lids a thrill was sent,
That through each living spirit went,
Like first light through the firmament.
*
X
*
Can you forget her blush, when round
Through Eden's lone, enchanted ground,
She looked and saw the sea, the skies,
And heard the rush of many a wing
On high behests then vanishing,
And saw the last few angel eyes
Still ling'ring, mine among the rest,
Reluctant leaving scenes so blest?'
In this passage mere jingling exaggeration supplies the place of
poetical enthusiasm; and were it not ungenerous to quote Milton twice
against Moore, we should be tempted to contrast it with the awakening of
the true Eve beside the fountain in the 'Paradise Lost.' But the reader's
mind will have spontaneously referred to it, and that must suffice. As
this is the last of Mr Moore's poetry we shall have to notice, we would
fain take leave of it with a more favourable specimen. The following lines
from the close of the book are pleasing, and, moreover, possess a touch
of human feeling. One of the angels, we should say, is condemned to
waste his immortality on earth; and to console him in his wanderings,
the fair one for whom he has temporarily lost heaven is to be his undying
companion :-
'In what lone region of the earth
These pilgrims now may roam or dwell,
God and his angels, who look forth
To watch their steps, alone can tell.
But should we in our wanderings
Meet a young pair whose beauty wants
But the adornment of bright wings
To look like Heaven's inhabitants;
Who shine where'er they tread, and yet
Are humble in their earthly lot,
As is the wayside violet
That shines unseen, and were it not
For its sweet breath, would be forgot;
Whose hearts in every thought are one,
Whose voices utter the same wills,
Answering as echo doth some tone
Of fairy music 'mong the hills-
So like itself we seek in vain
Which is the echo, which the strain ;
Whose piety is love, whose love,
Though close as 'twere their soul's embrace,
Is not of earth but from above;
Like two fair mirrors face to face,
Whose light from one to the other thrown
Is Heaven's reflection and their own:
Should we e'er meet with aught so fair,
So perfect here, we may be sure
21
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
'Tis Zaraph and his bride we see ;
And call young lovers round to view
The pilgrim pair, as they pursue
Their pathway towards Eternity.'
In 1825 Moore paid a visit to Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford. The
meeting was a cordial one, and the Baronet, Mr Lockhart informs us, pro-
nounced Mr Moore 'to be the prettiest warbler' he ever knew. What
somewhat diminishes the value of this praise is, that, according to the
warbler himself, Sir Walter-but the thing seems incredible-had no
genuine love or taste for music, except indeed for the Jacobite chorus of
Hey tuttie, tattie,' now indissolubly united to 'Scots wha hae wi' Wal-
lace bled!' which, when sung after supper by the company, with hands
clasped across each other, and waving up and down, he hugely delighted
in. Scott accompanied Moore to Edinburgh, and both of them, with
Mr Lockhart and his lady, went to the theatre on the same evening that it
was honoured by the presence of the celebrated Mrs Coutts, afterwards
Duchess of St Albans. Soon after their at first unmarked entrance, the
attention of the audience, which had till then been engrossed by the lady-
millionaire, was directed towards the new-comers, and according to a
newspaper report, copied and published by Mr Moore in one of his last
prefaces, considerable excitement immediately prevailed. 'Eh!' exclaimed
a man in the pit-'eh! yon's Sir Walter, wi' Lockhart and his wife;
and wha's the wee body wi' the pawkie een? Wow, but it's Tam Moore
just!'
'Scott-Scott! Moore-Moore!' immediately resounded through
the house. Scott would not rise: Moore did, and bowed several times
with his hand on his heart. Scott afterwards acknowledged the plaudits
of his countrymen, and the orchestra during the rest of the evening played
alternately Scotch and Irish airs.
At the request of the Marquis of Lansdowne, who was desirous that he
should reside near him, Moore at this period took a journey into Wiltshire,
to look at a house in the village of Bromham, near Bowood, the seat of the
noble Marquis, which it was thought might suit him. He, however, pro-
nounced it to be too large, and declined taking it. On his return he told
his wife there was a cottage in a thickly-wooded lane in the neighbourhood
to let, which he thought might be made to do. Mrs Moore immediately left
town, secured it, and there they shortly afterwards took up their permanent
abode. They have greatly improved and enlarged Sloperton Cottage; and
covered almost as its front and two porches are with roses and clematis,
with the trim miniature lawn and garden in front, along which runs a raised
walk enclosed with evergreens, from which a fine view is obtained, it pre-
sents an entirely satisfactory aspect of well-ordered neatness, prettiness, and
comfort. It is situated within about two miles of Devizes, and is within
easy reach of the country residence of Lord Lansdowne. It was here he
wrote the biographies of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, Lord Byron, and
Richard Brinsley Sheridan, of which we need only remark that they are
industriously compiled and pleasantly written.
In 1824, five years before the passing of the Catholic Relief Act, Moore
published 'The Memoirs of Captain Rock, written by Himself.' It is a
bitter, rhapsodical, and of course one-sided commentary upon the govern-
ment of Ireland by England, not only since the Reformation, but from the
22
THOMAS MOORE.
time of Pope Adrian's famous bull, which is twisted into an exclusively
English grievance and insult. Captain Rock, assisted at the commence-
ment by a sour gentleman in a flaxen wig and green spectacles, is of course
the grim mouthpiece through which Mr Moore pours the amauris liquidus of
his unpent wrath upon the devoted heads of the oppressors of his country.
Truly a terrible fellow, if one were to believe him in serious earnest, is
this tremendous captain-
'Through Connaught, Leinster, Ulster, Munster,
He's the boy to make the fun stir.'
But to take him at his word would be a very great mistake indeed, and
especially, we are sure, annoying, if not alarming to himself. He is not
half such a terrible desperado as he looks, for all his cut-throat-looking beard
and whiskers. They are shams put on for the nonce to hide a decidedly
festive physiognomy-' a mouth good-humoured, with dimples, and a nose
not aquiline, but,' says the literal painter, ' with a character of scenting feasts
and orchards.' These are not the features of men fitted to the pulling
down of strongholds and plucking kings by the beard. In truth, rebellion
was never at all in Mr Moore's line. It lay in his way; he foolishly
stumbled over it; and instantly cut its acquaintance, except in so far as a
pretty song or musical sentiment may be held to constitute the continuance
of a tender and fragile connection. A poet less likely than Moore to
kindle a nation into a blaze never perhaps existed. 'Revolutions,' said
(
Napoleon,' are not made with rose-water.' Nor with rose-verse neither,
fortunately, or the Bard of Erin might have found himself suddenly raised
upon bucklers to a position in which he would have made the strangest
figure, and one too as difficult to get down from as to climb up to.
to. Happily,
much of the injustice of which Captain Rock is made to declaim so
scholarly against has been remedied since the book was written; and as the
irritating memories of the dead and buried past, fade away, we may hope to
see no more editions of a gentleman who, however amiably disposed in
reality, certainly talks in a very fierce and alarming manner. The style of
the book, moreover, proves very clearly that its author, unlike Molière's
Bourgeois Gentilhomme,' had not been talking prose all his life; for
intelligible, honest prose it is not. Neither is it verse; for the lines are not
cut into quantities and rhymed, but it has all the tropes and figures which
are found in certain kinds of poetry. Changes in the personality of the
vice-regal government are said to resemble Penelope's web! The ignoring
the existence of an Irish Catholic-Meres Hibernus-by certain of the
penal statutes, finds a parallel in Milton's devils, who occupied no space in
Pandemonium. The death of Lord Strafford, with which wicked or
righteous deed the Irish certainly had nothing to do, is like the awful
mementos in the Egyptian banqueting-rooms-placed there to chasten
pride and check the exuberance of riot; and throughout the book Cleo-
patra and the Rapparees, Pericles and Irish Grand-Juries, Limerick and
Pharsalia, Orangemen and the Bucentaur of Venice, jostle each other in
the oddest manner conceivable; presenting a partycoloured mélange
which, but for the sad truths it occasionally sets forth, and the vigorous
blows now and then struck at enactments which no longer stain the
statute-book, would be purely ludicrous.
23
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
The next considerable work of Moore's-for his light, Parthian warfare
in the politics of the hour continued as usual, and with about the same
success, as in his younger days-was 'The Travels of an Irish Gentleman
in Search of a Religion'—a perfectly serious and earnest book in defence of
the Roman Catholic faith. There is a vast amount of erudition displayed
in its pages; and remembering how slow and painstaking a workman
Moore declared himself to be, it must, one would suppose, have been the
work of years. The author's object is to prove, from the writings of the
early fathers and other evidence, that the peculiar dogmas and discipline
and practice of the Church of Rome date from the apostolic age, or at least
from the first centuries of the Christian era, and are consequently true.
This the writer does entirely, at least to his own satisfaction, which is the
case, we believe, with controversial writers generally. The book concludes
with the following words, addressed to the Catholic Church, which his
after-life proves to have been earnest and sincere:-'In the shadow of thy
sacred mysteries let my soul henceforth repose, remote alike from the
infidel who scoffs at their darkness, and the rash believer who would pry
into its recesses.'
These imaginary travels were published anonymously, but the book was
always known to be Moore's. Apart from any other evidence, the poetic
translations of portions of the writings of ancient bishops would have
amply sufficed to determine the authorship. Without adverting to the
elegant and tender stanzas addressed to 'A Fallen Virgin' by St Basil,
which the gravest bishop might be proud of, who, let us ask, save the
author of the 'Loves of the Angels,' would have raked amongst the
homilies of St Chrysostom till he lit upon the following one, and who but
Moore would have paraphrased it into such verse? The homily selected
one which is said to have been composed by St Chrysostom in reprobation
of the ladies of Constantinople, who in his day, before the cross had sunk
before the crescent in the Eastern metropolis, were accustomed to go too
finely dressed to church. Moore's version begins thus :-
'Why come ye to the House of Prayer
With jewels in your braided hair?
And wherefore is the House of God
By glittering feet profanely trod ?
As if, vain things, ye came to keep
Some festival, and not to weep.
*
*
*
Vainly to angered Heaven ye raise
Luxurious hands where diamonds blaze,
And she who comes in broidered veil
To weep her frailty, still is frail.'
This is very well, and may likely enough have been fairly rendered from
the venerable bishop's homily; but if the following be not pretty nearly
unadulterated Moore-Chrysostom's prose bearing about the same propor-
tion to the verse as Falstaff's ha'porth of bread to the intolerable quantity of
sack-we have been strangely misled as to the stern and ascetic character of
the celebrated opponent and victim of the Empress Eudoxia. Chrysostom
is made to reply as follows to the supposed excuses of the more plainly-
dressed females of his congregation :–
24
THOMAS MOORE.
'Behold! thou say'st my gown is plain,
My sandals are of texture rude:
Is this like one whose heart is vain,
Like one who dresses to be wooed?
Deceive not thus, young maid, thy heart;
For far more oft in simple gown
Doth beauty play the Tempter's part
Than in brocades of rich renown;
And homeliest garb hath oft been found,
When typed and fitted to the shape,
To deal such shafts of mischief round
As wisest men can scarce escape.'
There is nothing objectionable in these lines in themselves, nor in these
which Mr Moore attributes, though with some hesitation, to St Basil-
'Not charming only when she talks,
Her very silence speaks and shines-
Love gilds her pathway when she walks,
And lights her couch when she reclines.'
But it does startle one to find such words placed in the mouths of the great
bishops of Constantinople and Cesarea, who, according to other authorities,
were hardly conscious of the existence of any beauty save that of holiness,
or that there was any deformity in the world but that of sin. The style
of these travels is a great improvement on the ornate slipshod of Captain
Rock. Great liveliness of manner is exhibited throughout, and some of
the political hits are capital.
The last, and, according to Moore's own authority, one of the most suc-
cessful of his works, as far as a great sale constitutes success, was the prose
romance of 'The Epicurean.' There is much learning displayed in this book,
and it contains some striking descriptions. We also meet occasionally with
passages of simple and natural beauty and eloquence, the more striking and
effective from the contrast they afford to the cumbrous and ambitious
rhetoric through which they are sparsely scattered. It was commenced in
verse, and gradually reached to a considerable length in that form, but ulti-
mately, like the 'Peri's Daughter,' broke down irretrievably. No one who
respects Mr Moore's poetical fame will regret this after reading the fragment
which has been published. 'The Epicurean' is a moral and religious story;
and it has this great merit, that it has very little of the merely sensuous
imagery in which Mr Moore generally indulged. The plot is of the most
commonplace kind, and the conduct of the story so entirely languid and
lulling, that it may be freely indulged in without the slightest fear of ill con-
sequences by the most nervous and impressionable lady-reader in the three
kingdoms. Let us glance it through. The hero is Alciphron, the chief of the
sect of Epicureans established at Athens. Those philosophic votaries of
Pleasure, whilst following out the essential principle of their founder-a
dangerous deceit, if there was ever one, plausibly and ingeniously as it has
been defended, necessarily rejecting, as it does, self-sacrifice, without which
virtue is a mere sound-these votaries, we repeat, whilst adhering strictly to
the principle of their founder, that pleasure is the highest good, had
neglected his subsidiary, and, strictly speaking, inconsequent teachings, that
the highest pleasure must be found in the gratification of the purest and
simplest tastes. Upon that-the goal to be obtained, pleasure, being the
prime end of the philosophy-each disciple would of course have his
25
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
own opinion. Well, Alciphron had drunk deep of 'pleasure,' had drained
the cup of indulgence to its dregs, and was unsatisfied. Man delighted not
him, nor woman neither, and he was weary of all things beneath the sun. A
passionate longing to throw off the burthen of the mystery, which to his
eyes hung like a pall over a world without a purpose, an existence without
an object, possessed and consumed him.
(
The C
perhaps' of Hamlet incarnated, or, more correctly speaking,
shadowed forth in that divine soliloquy, was with Alciphron, as with all of
us who think, 'the question.' Finally, determined by a dream, he journeys
to Egypt, with a view to discover if possible the sacred interior meaning'
of the religion of its priests, and ascertain if therein lay the key to the
riddle of the universe. Alciphron, not long after his arrival in Egypt,
penetrates by accident into the subterranean Elysium of the priests, beneath
the Pyramids. Once there, the thousand-and-one magical deceptions of
heathen priestcraft familiar to most readers are played off upon the dis-
tinguished Greek, whom Orcus, the Egyptian high priest, and an
irredeemable villain of course, is desirous of winning to the faith of the
Pharaohs. His high-flying verbosities, however, produce but slight effect
upon the refined and subtle Epicurean-the dark riddle appears as insoluble
as ever-and of all that surrounds him he believes only in, the beauty of a
young priestess of the moon, Alethe, with whom he falls desperately in
love; which sentiment, we need hardly say, is fervently reciprocated by
Alethe. Even the eager questioning of Alciphron's restless spirit upon
creation, destiny, life, and death, is hushed in the presence of the young
beauty, and the Athenian philosopher is made to rhapsodise thus: "The
future was now but of secondary consideration; the present, and that deity
of the present, woman, were the objects that engrossed my whole soul. It
was indeed for the sake of such beings alone that I considered immortality
desirable; nor without them would eternal life have appeared worth a single
prayer.' The fair priestess of the moon is secretly attached to the religion
of Christ, though as yet but dimly so; a glimpse only of its radiant and con-
soling light and truth having reached her from her mother, who had some
time before her death been instructed in the new and elevating faith then
dawning upon the dark horrors of bewildered and bewildering heathenism.
She bears about with her the emblem of the religion of sorrow, and hope,
and love—a small gold cross, of which Alciphron once or twice obtains a
glimpse. Finally, Alethe, during the progress of one of the gorgeous
illusions got up for the especial edification of Alciphron, contrives her own
and his escape from the subterranean Elysium. They fortunately reach
undiscovered a very curious and convenient carriage, used by the high-
priest in his journeys to the outer world. It runs in grooves, and when
they have comfortably seated themselves, it at once flies down the inclined
plain immediately before it, and by the impetus of its descent climbs up the
next acclivity; and so on, up and down, without pause or intermission.
As there was only one of these surprising carriages in the establishment,
successful pursuit was out of the question. They get clear off, ascend the
Nile, and reach a Christian hermitage. The venerable recluse dwelling
there knew Alethe's mother, and receives her with great joy. Alciphron
is also warmly welcomed. The venerable father discourses to him of the
Christian faith, and supplies him with a copy of the Scriptures, which, read
26
THOMAS MOORE.
by the light of Alethe's eyes, rapidly produce conviction in the mind of the
enamoured Greek. The lovers are ultimately betrothed to each other; and
we seem to be approaching a pleasant, matrimonial catastrophe, when the
bright prospect is suddenly overcast-gloom, thunder, and eclipse succeed,
and continue till the curtain falls. A terrible decree of the Roman
emperor against the Christians is fulminated, and the ferocious edict is as
remorselessly enforced on the banks of the Nile as on those of the Tiber-
the facile polytheism of Rome tolerating and enforcing all religions save
that alone, which not only glides into the cell of the captive, whispering hope
and consolation, but mounts the steps of the loftiest throne to speak of life,
death, and judgment to come. The recluse and Alethe are seized, with
many others-hurried before the Roman governor and Orcus the high-
priest-and commanded, as a proof of their renunciation of Christianity, to
burn incense before idols. They refuse, and the old man is instantly sacri-
ficed. Alethe is about to undergo the same fate, when the Roman governor,
touched by her beauty and gentleness, adjourns her punishment till the
morrow, spite of the opposition of Orcus, who is furious at the thought of
the renegade priestess escaping her terrible doom. The Roman chief ex-
presses a hope that reflection will induce Alethe to save her life by an act
so easy of performance as that of casting a few grains of incense upon the
idol altars, and she is borne away in custody; not, however, till after
Orcus, in mockery of an ornament and ceremony usual with Christian
maidens when about to suffer martyrdom, has caused a fillet of coral-
berries to be fastened round her brows. Alciphron, who in the meanwhile
had been distracted with grief and terror, obtains access to Alethe
through the intervention of a Roman officer whom he had known at Athens,
and finds her resigned, constant, and cheerful, but for a burning, throbbing
pain in her temples. Alciphron fancying the coral-chaplet might be too
tightly bound, unties and endeavours to take it off. It resists his efforts.
It would not come away!' exclaims Alciphron; and he repeats these
passionate, despairing, agonising words, wrung from him by the overwhelming
bitterness and horror of the moment-'It would not come away!' The
berries, it is discovered, had been saturated with a deadly poison by order
of Orcus, in order to insure the destruction of his victim. Alethe, after
smiling placidly upon her betrothed husband, dies. This is the catastrophe
of the Epicurean-melancholy and distressing, no doubt, but so feebly, so
inartistically told, that it merely shocks the reader; and the tumultuous
emotions of pity, love, grief, indignation, which the death of the beautiful,
the innocent, the young, brought about by violence, should excite, are
scarcely more awakened than by a newspaper report of a fatal accident
having befallen a person whom the reader had never seen or heard of
before. The book has already virtually fallen out of the literature of the
country. Fashion and the influence of a popular name may rule for a time,
but in the long-run common-sense and a cultivated taste will pronounce
the irreversible verdict.
On the 30th of June 1827, the day after the publication of 'The Epi-
curean,' Moore was one of the gay and distinguished assemblage at a magni-
ficent fête at Boyle Farm, in the environs of London, the cost of which had
been clubbed by five or six rich young lords. It appears by Mr Moore's
description to have been a very brilliant affair. There were crowds of the
27
CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
élite of society present of both sexes; well-dressed men and groups of fair
women, 'all looking their best;' together with dancing, music, the Tyrolese
minstrels, and Madame Vestris and Fanny Ayton, rowing up and down
the river, singing Moore's 'Oh come to Me when Daylight sets!' and so on.
The author of 'The Epicurean' relates all this for the purpose of intro-
ducing an anecdote concerning his book, and we notice it for the same
reason. During one of the pauses of the music, the Marquis of Palmella-
Moore disguises the name of the Portuguese ambassador in this impene-
trable mode, the Marquis of P-lm- a-approaching the poet, remarked
upon the magnificence of the fête. Moore agreed. The tents,' he
remarked, ‘had a fine effect.' 'Nay,' said the marquis, 'I was thinking
of your fête at Athens. I read it this morning in the newspaper.' 'Confound
the newspaper!' Moore had a great aversion to having his best morceaux
served up without the context in that manner; but worse remained behind.
A Mr D. accosted him a few minutes afterwards, and mentioning the
book, added these flattering words: 'I never read anything so touching as
the death of your heroine.' What!' exclaimed the delighted author, 'have
you got so far as that already?' 'Oh dear, no, I have not seen the book-I
read what I mentioned in the Literary Gazette.' 'Shameful!' says Mr
Moore, 'to anticipate my catastrophe in that manner!' Perhaps so; but
that which we should like especially to know is whether Mr Bm, who is
mentioned as being present at the enunciation of these courtesies, was Mr
Brougham. If so, the flash of the keen gray eyes that followed the com-
pliment on the touching death of Alethe, must, to an observant looker-on,
have been one of the most entertaining incidents of the fête.
6
The smart political squibs, scattered like fireflies through the dreary
waste of journalism during the last active years of Moore's life, are not
obnoxious to criticism. Squire Corn, Famished Cotton, Weeping Chan-
cellors, Salmagundian Kings, and knavish Benthamites, as pencilled by
Moore, have passed from the domain of wit and verse into that of the his-
torian and the antiquary, into the hands of the collector of forgotten trifles;
and there we very willingly leave them, pleasant, piquant, and welcome, as
we fully admit them in their day to have been. Moore has also written
several pieces of religious verse, which, although not of very high merit as
poetry, finely at times bring out and illustrate the Christian spirit in its
most engaging aspect- unalloyed, unclouded by the mists of fanatic
sectarianism. As, for instance, in this verse-
The turf shall be my fragrant shrine,
My temple, Lord! that arch of thine,
My censer's breath, the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.'
The spirit that inspired these lines is infinitely more spiritual and
Christian than that which breathes upon and gives galvanic momentary life
to the dry bones of mouldering controversial bigotry. Such a hymn is
worth the Travels of an Irish Gentleman' a thousand times over, and
Sullivan's replies to them into the bargain.
Our brief passage through the trim gardens, gay with flowers, sparkling
with light, and vocal with melody, of Moore's poetry, verse and prose, here
concludes, and we have now, it may be presumed, the means of forming a
sound judgment upon his pretensions as poet, romancist, and politician.
28
THOMAS MOORE.
First, then, as to his rank as poet. Whilst freely expressing our opinion as
to his deficiency in highly-imaginative, sustained, poetical genius, and his
entire want of dramatic power, we have at the same time done justice to the
point and quickness of his wit, the varied brilliancy of his sparkling fancies,
and the fine harmony and cadenced flow of his verse. That he was not an
inspired creative poet like Shakspeare, Milton, Burns, and a few others, is
true; but beneath those heaven-reaching heights there are many still lofty
eminences upon which gifted spirits sit enthroned, their brows encircled
with coronets bright with gems of purest ray, serene, though pale, indeed,
and dim in presence of the radiant crowns of the kings of poetry and song,
between whom also there are degrees of glory; for immeasurably above
all, far beyond even the constellated splendour
'Of the blind old man of Scio's rocky isle,'
soars Shakspeare, palm-wreathed and diademed with stars. One of
these lesser heights and circlets must unquestionably be awarded to
Thomas Moore. His wing, it must be admitted, is feeble, requiring
artificial stimulants and help to lift him above the ground a sufficient time
for warbling a brief melody. He did not sing as a flower exhales-from the
law and necessity of its nature; still there is at times a grace, and tender-
ness, and music, about his carefully-polished snatches of song, which the
world is not sufficiently rich in to willingly let die. The truly-inspired
poet, we need hardly add, requires no artificial preparations of congenial
atmospheres' to perfect and pour forth the divine thoughts and harmonies
which crowd his brain, inflame his blood, and stir his heart. He sings
because it is a vital condition of his life that he should do so. The
thoughts of Burns kindled into glorious song as he followed his plough
along the level field or mountain-side. The Mary in Heaven' welled up
from his throbbing heart as the sudden inrush of tumultuous memories
brought back the image of the loved and lost, and came forth with stifling
sobs and blinding tears of passionate regret and tenderness; and as the
Poet of all Time lay dreaming in his youth by the silver Avon, the
immortal creations with which he has peopled the world, thronged dimly in
his brain, with a confused murmur of the sorrows, the remorse, the griefs,
the agonies, the mirth, the wit, the joys, the tears, the love, afterwards
incarnated and winged forth from amid the din and drudgery of a play-
house. Who can read the account of Moore's painful three years' incuba-
tion at Mayfield Cottage—which we have given nearly in his own words—
and for another moment believe in his poetic inspiration? Fancy a really
inspired man, possessed of the necessary faculty of verse, coming forth,
after brooding for that long period over his work, and presenting to the
world a pretty, perfumed, spangled lay-figure like 'Lalla Rookh,' as a true,
living creation, radiant with the light and vital with the breath of poetry!
With respect to the somewhat objectionable character of Moore's earlier
productions, much excuse is to be found in the heartless, soulless, meretri-
cious, withered state of society-not in which he was born, that was sound
and healthy, if somewhat perverse, but in which he chiefly passed his
youth and prime of manhood. The debased and debasing tone of 'good'
Irish society, at a time when such men as Toler and others of the same
stamp could rise by dint of unblushing subserviency and hair-trigger
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
pistols to the highest and most dignified offices in the state, and when
corruption in its unveiled loathsomeness was the admitted principle of
government, can only be truly estimated by those who, for their sins
doubtless, have been compelled to rake in the private histories of that
altogether disreputable period. This fetid atmosphere necessarily affected
the imitative and impressionable genius of Moore, and his Juvenile Songs
may be said to have been but a reflex-a refined one too—of the reckless,
debauched, bacchanalian, sensuous tone of sentiment and manners then so
fatally prevalent. The air of the regent's court was scarcely healthier or
more purifying; and exposed to such influences-poor, and ambitious of
applause, intoxicated by the smiles of exclusive fashionable circles, in
which he was not indeed born, but which gradually became a necessity of
his existence, and whose continued favour could only be purchased by
ministering to their tastes-Moore, under such circumstances, should be
forgiven much. As public sentiment acquired a healthier tone, so did his
writings; and his last considerable effort, 'The Epicurean,' is as distin-
guished for the reticence of its language and the purity of its sentiment
as for the absence of the fanciful genius which threw a glittering veil over
the productions of his earlier life. This excusatory suggestion has been
forestalled by Moore himself, and is well expressed in the following verse
of one of his songs:-
'Oh blame not the Bard if he fly to the bowers,
Where Pleasure lies carelessly smiling at Fame:
He was born for much more, and in happier hours
His soul might have burned with a holier flame!'
We very heartily believe it; and in estimating frailties of this nature, so
powerfully influenced by the strong god Circumstance, we should do well,
whilst reading Moore's somewhat boastful excuse, to bear also in mind the
words of a far greater man-
'What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted.'
Turning from Moore the poet to Moore the politician, there is not much
to remark upon; neither certainly is there place for two opinions. Moore
wrote politics at times-pointed, bitter, rankling politics-but he was really
at heart no politician. There was no earnestness in what he did in this
way, and it was early and abundantly evident from his alternate eulogies
and vituperation of democratic institutions, that he had no firmly-based
convictions. His love for Ireland was a sentiment only: it never rose to
the dignity of a passion. Not one of his patriotic songs breathes the fiery
energy, the martyr zeal, the heroic hate and love, which pulsate in the
veins of men who ardently sympathise with a people really oppressed, or
presumed to be so. But let us hasten to say, that if there was little of the
hero or martyr, there was nothing of the renegade or traitor about Thomas
Moore. The pension of three hundred a year obtained for him of the
crown by his influential friends was not the reward of baseness or of
political tergiversation. It was the prize and reward of his eminence as
a writer, and his varied social accomplishments. If he did not feel strongly,
he at all events felt honestly; and although he had no mission to evoke
the lightning of the national spirit, and hurl its consuming fire at the men
30
THOMAS MOORE.
who, had they possessed the power, would have riveted the bondage of
his people, he could and did soothe their angry paroxysms with lulling
words of praise and hope, and, transforming their terribly real, physical, and
moral griefs and ills into picturesque and sentimental sorrows, awakened
a languid admiration, and a passing sympathy for a nation which could
boast such beautiful music, and whose woes were so agreeably, so charm-
ingly sung. Liberal opinions Moore supported by tongue and pen, but
then they were fashionable within a sufficiently-extensive circle of nota-
bilities, and had nothing of the coarseness and downrightness of vulgar
Radicalism about them. The political idiosyncrasy of Moore is developed
in the same essential aspect in his memoir of Lord Edward Fitzgerald as
in his national songs. There is nothing impassioned, nothing which hurries
the pulse or kindles the eye-but a graceful regret, a carefully-guarded
appreciation of the acts and motives of that unfortunate and misguided
nobleman run throughout. Moore was what men call a fair-weather
politician—which means, not that storms do not frequently surround them
but that by a prudent forethought, a happy avoidance of prematurely
committing themselves, they contrive to make fair weather for themselves,
however dark and tempestuous may be the time to other and less sagacious
men, and who, when their sun does at last shine, come out with extreme
effulgence and brilliancy. Moore, therefore, as a politician, was quite
unexceptionable, though not eminent. He was at once a pensioned and
unpurchased, and, we verily believe, unpurchasable partisan; an honest,
sincere, and very mild patriot; a faithful, and at the same time prudent
and circumspect lover of his country, its people, and its faith. There are
very high-sounding names in the list of political celebrities, of whom it
would be well if such real though not highly-flattering praise could be
truly spoken.
Moore's prose works require but little notice at our hands beyond that
incidentally bestowed upon them in our passage through his works. None
of them that we are acquainted with add at all to the reputation for genius
acquired by his poetry. The flow and rhyme of verse are indispensable to
carry the reader through stories without probability or interest, and to
render men and women, not only without originality—that frequently
happens but destitute of individualism, decently tolerable.
We are
ignorant of the contributions to the 'Edinburgh Review;' but they could
scarcely have much enhanced the power and attractiveness of a periodical
which in his time numbered amongst its contributors such names as^
Jeffrey, Brougham, Sidney. Smith, Hallam, Macaulay, and others of that
mint and standard. Moore is assigned by his friends a high rank amongst
the defenders or apologists of the Church of Rome; and we believe his
'Travels,' like Cobbett's 'Reformation,' have been translated by papal
authority and command into most of the languages of Europe. Of his
merits in this department of literature, which is quite out of our way, we
do not presume to offer an opinion. His book unquestionably displays a
vast deal of research and learning; but whether it is so entirely perverse
as its adversaries contend, or so pre-eminently irrefragable and convincing
as its admirers assert, we really cannot say.
It is, after all, in the home-life of individuals that their true character
must be read and studied. The poet and the politician-the latter more
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CHAMBERS'S PAPERS FOR THE PEOPLE.
especially-dwell, as regards their vocations, apart from the household tests
which really measure the worth, the truth, the kindliness of individual men
and women. Moore, we are pleased to be able to repeat, as a son, a
husband, a father, a friend and neighbour, bore, and deservedly, the highest
character. His domestic affections were ardent, tender, and sincere, and
the brilliant accomplishments which caused his society to be courted by the
great ones of the world shed its genial charm over the quiet fireside at
which sat his wife, and in whose light and warmth the children whose loss
have bowed him to the grave grew up only to bloom and perish. There
have been much greater poets, more self-sacrificing, though perhaps no more
sincere lovers of their country; but in the intimate relations of domestic
life, and the discharge of its common, every-day, but sacred obligations,
there are few men who have borne a more unspotted and deservedly-high
reputation than Thomas Moore.
One word as to the music-the airs of the melodies. They were for the
most part, it is well known, arranged, and the accompaniments gene-
rally written, by Sir John Stevenson. The changes in the melody which not
unfrequently occur, whether hurtfully or otherwise individual taste must
determine, were, Moore himself emphatically assures us, invariably his
own.
END OF VOL. X.
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
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