LIBRARY THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SANTA BARBARA PRESENTED BY LEO U. LOMBARD ^ .^ ^'<^ xy" 's» ^n^/^ THE M J K 1 i\ BRITISH ESSAYISTS. VOL. II. ARCHIBALD ALISON. PHILADELPHIA: A. HART, LATE CAREY & HART. 18 52. MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. BY ARCHIBALD ALISON, F. R. S. AUTUOR OF "history OF EUROPE DURING THE FRENCH REVOLUTION." Ucpviutci) from tl)e (Cnglisl) (Diigiuals, WITH THE AUTHOR'S CORRECTIONS FOR THIS EDITION. PHILADELPHIA : A. HART, LATE CAREY & IIAllT, No. 126 CUESTXUT STREET. 18 52. ^^>^ Primed by T. K. i P G Ci)Il!n<. PREFACE. A WISH having been expressed by the publishers of this work to have a collection of my Miscellaneous Essays, published at different times and in different periodical works in Great Britain, made for reprints in America, and selected and arranged by myself, I have willingly assented to so flattering a proposal. I have endeavoured in making the selection to choose such as discuss subjects possessing, as far as possible, a general and durable interest ; and to admi*" those only, relating to matters of social contest or national policy in Great Britain, which are likely, from the importance of the questions involved in them, to excite some interest as contemporary compositions among future generations of men. And I should be ungrateful if, in making my first appear- ance before the American pubUc, and in a work hitherto published in a col- lected form only in this country, I did not make my warmest acknowledgments for the liberal spirit in which they have received my writings, and the indul- gence they have manifested towards their imperfections ; and express at the same time the pride which I feel, as an EngUsh author, at the vast and boundless field for British literary exertion which is afforded by the extension of the Anglo-Saxon race on the other side of the Atlantic. If there is any wish I entertain more cordially than another, it is that this strong though unseen mental bond may unite the British family in every part of the world, and cause them all to feel as brothers, even when the time arrives, as arrive it will, that they have obtained the dominion of half the globe. A. ALISON Possel House, Glasgow, ^ Sept. 1, 1844. 5 CONTENTS. CHATEAUBRIAND NAPOLEON . POLAND Page > 7 27 BOSSUET 42 52 MADAME DE STAEL . . . (54 73 84 NATIONAL MONUMENTS MARSHAL NEY ROBERT BRUCE •••••...... 94 PARIS IN 1814 100 THE LOUVRE IN 1814 .109 TYROL , . . .117 FRANCE IN 1833 125 ITALY . . ., 154 SCOTT, CAMPBELL, AND BYRON ••...... 160 THE COPYRIGHT QUESTION ......... 173 MICHELET'S FRANCE 184 MILITARY TREASON AND CIVIC SOLDIERS 195 ARNOLD'S ROME 203 MIRABEAC 212 BULWER'S ATHENS 223 THE REIGN OF TERROR oji THE FRENCH REVOLUTION OF 1830 253 THE FALL OF TURKEY 266 THE SPANISH REVOLUTION OF 1820 . . . . , . .279 PARTITION OF THE KINGDOM OF THE NETHERLANDS . . . . .239 EARAMSIN'S RUSSIA ••......,. 299 EFFECTS OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION OF 1830 . . , . . ,309 DESERTION OF PORTUGAL 321 CARLIST STRUGGLE IN SPAIN ......... 325 WELLINGTON 346 THE AFFGHANISTAUN EXPEDITION . . . , . . , . 3H THE FUTURE 357 GUIZOT 367 HOMER, DANTE, AND MICHAEL ANGELO ....... 380 A 2 5 ALISON'S ESSAYS. CHATEAUBRIAND. [Blackwood's Magazine, M^rch, 1832.] It is one of the worst effects of the vehe- mence of faction, which has recently agitated the nation, that it tends to withdraw the atten- tion altogether from works of permanent lite- rary .merit, and by presenting nothing to the mind but a constant succession of party dis- cussions, both to disqualify it for enjoying the sober pleasure of rational information, and render the great works which are calculated to delight and improve the species known only to a limited class of readers. The conceit and prejudice of a large portion of the public, in- crease just in proportion to the diminution of their real information. By incessantly studying journals where the advantage of the spread of knowledge is sedulously inculcated, they imagine that they have attained that know- ledge, because they have read these journals, and by constantly abusing those Avhom they stigmatize as offering the light of truth, they come to forget that none oppose it so effectually as those who substitute for its steady ray the lurid flame of democratic flattery. It is, therefore, with sincere and heartfelt joy, that we turn from the turbid and impassioned stream of political discussion, to the pure foun- tains of literarj' genius ; from the vehemence of party strife to the calmness of philosophic investigation ; from works of ephemeral cele- brity to the productions of immortal genius. When we consider the vast number of these which have issued from the European press during the last fifteen years, and the small extent to which they are as yet known to the British public, we are struck with astonish- ment ; and confirmed in the opinion, that those who are loudest in praise of the spread of in- formation, are not unfrequently those who possess least of it for any useful piirpose. It has long been a settled opinion in France, that the seams of English literature are wrought out; that while we imagine we are advancing, wc are in fact only moving round in a circle, and that it is in vain to expect any thing new on human affairs from a writer under the English constitution. This they ascribe to the want of the boulcverscmmt of ideas, and the ex- trication of original thought, which a revolu- tion produces ; and they coolly calculate on the catastrophe which is to overturn the English government, as likely to open new veins of thought among its inhabitants, and pour new streams of eloquence into its writers. Without acquiescing in the justice of this observation in all its parts, and strenuously asserting for the age of Scott and Byron a decided superiority over any other in British history since the days of Shakspear.e and Mil- ton, at least in poetry and romance, we must admit that the observation, in many depart- ments of literature, is but too well founded. No one will accuse us of undue partiality for the French Revolution, a convulsion whose principles we have so long and so vigorously opposed, and whose horrors we have en- deavoured, sedulously, though inadequately, to impress upon our readers. It is therefore with a firm conviction of impartialit}^ and a consciousness of yielding only to the tone of truth, that we are obliged to confess, that in historical and political compositions the French of our age are greatly superior to the writers of this country. We are not insensible to the merits of our modern English historians. We fully appreciate the learned research of Turner, the acute and valuable narrative of Lingard, the elegant language and antiquarian industry of Tytler, the vigour and originality of M'Crie, and the philosophic wisdom of Mackintosh. But still we feel the justice of the French observation, that there is something "English" in all their ideas. Their thoughts seem formed on the even tenor of political events prior to 1789: and in reading their works we can hardly persuade ourselves that they have been ushered into the world since the French Revolution advanced a thousand years the materials of political investigation. Chateaubriand is universally allowed by the French, of all parties, to be their first writer. His merits, however, are but little understood in this country. He is known as once a minis- ter of Louis XVIII., and ambassador of thai monarch in London, as the writer of many celebrated political pamphlets, ami the victim, since the Revolution of 1830, ( f his noble and ill-requited devotion to that unfortunate family. Few are aware that he is, without one single exception, the most eloquent writer of the pre- sent age; that independent of politics, he has produced many works on morals, religion, and history, destined fi>r lasting endurance; that his writings combine the strongest love of rational freedom, with the warmest inspir.ition of Christian devotion ; that he is, ns it were, the link between the feudal and the rcvolu- 7 8 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. Uonary ages; retaining from the former its generous and elevated feeling, and inhaling from the latter its acute and fearless investi- gation. The last pilgrim, with devout feelings, to the holy sepulchre, he was the first supporter of constitutional freedom in France; discard- ing thus from former times their bigoted fury, and from modern, their infidel spirit; blending all that was noble in the ardour of the Crusades, with all that is generous in the enthusiasm of freedom. It is the glory of the Conservative Party throughout the world, and by this party we mean all who are desirous in every country to uphold the religion, the institutions, and the liberties of their fathers, that the two greatest w-riters of the age have devoted their talents to the support of their principles. Sir Walter Scott and Chateaubriand are beyond all ques- tion, and by the consent of both nations, at the head of the literature of France and England since the Revolution; and they will both leave names at which the latest posterity will feel proud, when the multitudes who have sought to rival them on the revolutionary side are buried in the waves of forgotten time. It is no small triumph to the cause of order in these trying days, that these mighty spirits, destined to instruct and bless mankind through every succeeding age, should have proved so true to the principles of virtue ; and the patriot may well rejoice that generations yet unborn, while they approach their immortal shrines, or share in the enjo5rments derived from the legacies they have bequeathed to mankind, will inhale only a holy spirit, and derive from the pleasures of imagination nothing but ad- ditional inducements to the performance of duty. Both these great men are now under an eclipse, too likely, in one at least, to terminate in earthly extinction. The first lies on the bed, if not of material, at least, it is to be feared, of intellectual death ; and the second, arrested by the military despotism which he so long strove to avert from his country, has lately awaited in the solitude of a prison the fate destined for him by revolutionary violence.* But " Stone walls do not a prison make, \or iron bars a case ; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage." It is in such moments of gloom and depres- sion, when the fortune of the world seems most adverse, when the ties of mortality are about to be dissolved, or the career of virtue is on the point of being terminated, that the immortal superiority of genius and virtue most strongly appear. In vain was the Scottish bard ex- tended on the bed of sickness, or the French patriot confined to the gloom of a dungeon; their works remain to perpetuate their lasting sway over the minds of men ; and while their mortal frames are sinking beneath the suffer- ings of the world, their immortal souls rise into the region of spirits, to witness a triumph more glorious, an ascendency more enduring, * .Sir Waller Scott, at this period, was on his deathbed, and Chateaubriand imprisoned by order of Louis Philippe. than ever attended the arms of Caesar or Alex- ander. Though pursuing the same pure and en- nobling career ; though gifted with the same ardent imagination, and steeped in the same fountains of ancient lore, no two writers were ever more different than Chateaubriand and Sir Walter Scott. The great characteristic of the French author, is the impassioned and enthusiastic turn of his mind. Master of im- mense information, thoroughly imbued at once with the learning of classical and catholic times ; gifted with a retentive memory, a poeti- cal fancy, and a painter's eye, he brings to bear upon every subject the force of erudition, the images of poetry, the charm of varied scenery, and the eloquence of impassioned feeling. Hence his writings display a reach and variety of imagery, a depth of light and shadow, a vigour of thought, and an extent of illustration, to which there is nothing comparable in any other writer, ancient or modern, with whom we are acquainted. All that he has seen, or read, or heard, seem present to his mind, what- ever he does, or wherever he is. He illustrates the genius of Christianity by the beauties of classical learning, inhales the spirit of ancient prophecy on the shores of the Jordan, dreams on the banks of the Eurotas of the solitude and gloom of the American forests; visits the Holy Sepulchre with a mind alternately de- voted to the devotion of a pilgrim, the curiosity of an antiquary, and the enthusiasm of a crusa- der, and combines, in his romances, with the tender feelings of chivalrous love, the heroism of Roman virtue, and the sublimity of Chris- tian martyrdom. His writings are less a faithful portrait of any particular age or coun- try, than an assemblage of all that is grand, and generous, and elevated in human nature. He drinks deep of inspiration at all the foun- tains where it has ever been poured forth to mankind, and delights us less by the accuracy of any particular picture, than the traits of genius which he has combined from every quarter where its footsteps have trod. His style seems formed on the lofty strains of Isaiah, or the beautiful images of the Book of Job, more than all the classical or modern literature with which his mind is so amply stored. He is admitted by all Frenchmen, of whatever party, to be the most perfect living master of their language, and to have gained for it beauties unknown to the age of Bossuet and Fenelon. Less polished in his periods, less sonorous in his diction, less melodious in his rhythm, than these illustrious writers, he is incomparably more varied, rapid, and en- ergetic; his ideas flow in quicker succession, his words follow in more striking antithesis; the past, the present, and the future rise \xf> at once before us; and we see how strongly the stream of genius, instead of gliding down the smooth current of ordinar)' life, has been broken and agitated by the cataract of revolution. With far less classical learning, fewer images derived from travelling, inferior in- formation on many historical subjects, and a mind of a less impassioned and energetic cast, our own Sir Walter is far more deeply read m that book which is ever the same — the huuia CHATEAUBRIAND. 9 heart. This is his unequalled excellence — there he stands, since the daj's of Shakspeare, M'ithout a rival. It is to this cause that his astonishing success has been owing. We feel in his characters that it is not romance, but real life which is represented. Every word that is said, especially in the Scotch novels, is nature itself. Homer, Cervantes, Shakspeare, and Scott, alone have penetrated to the deep substratum of character, which, however dis- guised by the varieties of climate and govern- ment, is at bottom everywhere the same; and thence they have found a responsive echo in every human heart. Every man who reads these admirable works, from the North Cape to Cape Horn, feels that what the characters they contain are made to say, is just what would have occurred to themselves, or what they have heard said by others as long as they lived. Nor is it only in the delineation of character, and the knowledge of human nature, that the Scottish Novelist, like his great pre- decessors, is but for them without a rival. Powerful in the pathetic, admirable in dialogue, unmatched in description, his writings capti- vate the mind as much by the varied excel- lencies which they exhibit, as the powerful interest which they maintain. He has carried romance out of the region of imagination and sensibility into the walks of actual life. We feel interested in his characters, not because they are ideal lieings with whom we have be- come acquainted for the first time when we began the book, but because they are the very persons we have lived with from our infancy. His descriptions of scenery are not luxuriant and glowing pictures of imaginary beauty, like those of Mrs. Radclitfe, having no resemblance to actual nature, but faithful and graphic por- traits of real scenes, drawn with the eye of a poet, but the fidelity of a consummate draughts- man. He has combined historical accuracy and romantic adventure with the interest of tragic events ; we live with the heroes, and princes, and palailins of former times, as with our awn contemporaries; and acquire from the splendid colouring of his pencil such a vivid conception of the manners and pomp of the feudal ages, that we confound them, in our recollections, with the scenes which we our- selves have witnessed. The splendour of their tournaments, the magnificence of their dress, the glancing of their arms ; their haughty manners, daring courage, and knightly cour- tesy; the shock of their battlesteeds, the splin- tering of their lances, the conflagration of their castles,, are brought before our eyes in such vivid colours, that we are at once transported to the age of Richard and Saladin, of Bruce and Mannion, of Charles tlie Bold and Philip Augustus. Disdaining to flatter the passions, or pander to the ambition of the populace, he has done more than any man alive to elevate their character ; to fill their minds with the noble sentiments which dignify alike the cot- tage and liie palace; to exhibit the triumph of virtue in ilie humblest stations over all that the world calls great; and without ever in- dulging a sentiment which might turn them from the scenes of their real usefulness, bring home to every mind the "might that slumbers in a peasant's arm." Above all, he has uni- formly, in all his vajied and extensive produc- tions, shown himself true to the cause of virtue. Amidst all the inauraerable combinations of character, event, and dialogue, which he has formed, he has ever proved faithful to the polar star of duty ; and alone, perhaps, of the great romance-writers of the world, has not left a line which on his death-bed he would wish recalled. Of such men France and England may well be proud; shining, as they already do, through the clouds and the passions of a fleeting ex- istence, they are. destined soQn to illuminate the world with a purer lustre, and ascend to that elevated station in the higher heavens where the fixed stars shed a splendid and im- perishable light. The writers whom parly has elevated — the genius which vice has seduced, are destmed to decline with the interestii to which they were devoted, or the passions by which they were misled. The rise of new poli- tical struggles will consign to oblivion the vast talent which was engulfed in its conten- tion ; the accession of a more virtuous age bury in the dust the fancy which was enlisted in the cause of corruption ; while these illus- trious men, whose writings have struck root in the inmost recesses of the human heart, and been watered by the streams of imperish- able feeling, will for ever continue to elevate and bless a grateful world. To form a just conception of the importance of Chateaubriand's Genius of Christianit}-, we must recollect the period when it was pub- lished, the character of the works it was in- tended to combat, and the state of society in v/hich it was destined to appear. For half a century before it appeared, the whole genius of France had been incessantly directed to undermine the principles of religion. The days of Pascal and Fenelon, of .Saurin and Bourdaloue, of Bossuet and Massillon, had passed away; the splendid talent of the seven- teenth century was no longer arrayed in the support of virtue — the supremacy of the church had ceased to be exerted to thunder in tire ear of princes the awful truths of judgment to come. Borne away in the torrent of corrup- tion^the church itself had yielded to the in- creasing vices of the age; its hierarcliy had become involved in the passions they were destined to combat, and the cardinal's purple covered the shoulders of an associate in the midnight orgies of the Regent Orleans. Such was the audacity of vice, the recklessness of fashion, and the supineness of religion, that Madame Roland tells us, what astonished her in her youthful days was, that the heaven it- self did not open, U) rain down upon the gnilly metropolis, as on the cities of the Joxdan, a tempest of consuming fire. While such was theprofligacy of power and the audacity of crime, philosophic talent lent its aid to overwhelm the remaining safeguards of religious belief. The middle and the lower orders" could not, indeed, participate in the luxurious vices of their wealthy snpcriors; but they could well be persuaded that the faith which permitted such enonnitios, the religion which was stained bv such crimes, wa? a sys- 10 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. tem of h}'pocrisy and deceit. The passion for innovation, •which more than any other feature characterized that period in France, invaded the precincts of religion as -n-ell as the bul- warks of the state — the throne and the altar; the restraints of this world and the next, as is ever the case, crnmbled together. For half a century, all the genius of France had been incessantly directed to overturn the sanctity of Christianity; its corruptions were repre- sented as its very essence ; its abuses part of its necessarj' effects. Ridicule, ever more powerful than reason with a frivolous age, lent its aid to overturn the defenceless fabric; and for more than one generation, not one writer of note had appeared to maintain the hopeless cause. Voltaire and Diderot, D'Alem- bert and Raynal, Laplace and Lagrange, had lent the weight of their illustrious names, or the powers of their versatile minds, to carry on the war. The Encyclopedic was a vast battery of infidelity incessantly directed against Christianity; while the crowd of licentious novelists, with which the age abounded — Louvet, Crebillon, Laclos, and a host of others — insinuated the poison, mixed up with the strongest allurements to the passions, and the most voluptuous seductions to the senses. This inundation of infidelity was soon fol- lowed by sterner days ; to the unrestrained in- dulgence of passion succeeded the unfettered march of crime. With the destruction of all the bonds which held society together ; with the removal of all the restraints on vice or guilt, the fabric of civilization and religion speedily was dissolved. To the licentious orgies of the Regent Orleans succeeded the infernal furies of the Revolution : from the same Palais Royal from whence had sprung those fountains of courtly corruption, soon issued forth the fiery streams of democracy. Enveloped in this burning torrent, the institutions, the faith, the nobles, the throne, were destroyed; the worst instruments of the supreme justice, the pas- sions and ambition of men, were suflTered to work their unresisted way : and in a few years the religion of eighteen hundred j-ears was abolished, its priests slain or exiled, its Sab- bath abolished, its rites proscribed, its faith unknown. Infancy came into the world with- out a blessing, age left it without a hope ; marriage no longer received a benediction, sickness was left without consolation ; the village bell ceased to call the poor to their weekly day of sanctity and repose ; the village churchyard to witness the weeping train of mourners attending their rude forefathers to their last home. The grass grew in the churches of every parish in France ; the dead without a blessing were thrust into vast charnel-houses ; marriage was contracted be- fore a civil magistrate ; and infancy, untaught to pronounce the name of God, longed only for the period when the passions and indul- gencies of life were to commence. It was in these disastrous days that Chateau- V»riand arose, and bent the force of his lofty mind to restore the fallen but imperishable faith of his fathers. In early youth, he was at first carried away by the fashionable infidelity of his times ; and in his " Essais Historiques," ! which he published in 1792, in London, while the principles of virtue and natural religion are unceasingly maintained, he seems to have doubted whether the Christian religion was not crumbling with the institutions of society, and speculated what faith was to be established on its ruins. But misfortune, that great cor- rector of the vices of the world, soon changed these faulty views. In the days of exile and adversit}', when, by the waters of Babylon, he sat down and wept, he reverted to the faith and the belief of his fathers, and inhaled in the school of adversity those noble maxims of devotion and duty which have ever since regulated his conduct in life. Undaunted, though alone, he placed himself on the ruins of the Christian faith ; renewed, with Hercu- lean strength, a contest which the talents and vices of half a century had to all appearance rendered hopeless ; and, speaking to the hearts of men, now purified by sufiering, and cleansed by the agonizing ordeal of revolution, scattered far and wide the seeds of a rational and a manly piety. Other writers have followed in the same noble career: Salvandy and Guizot have traced the beneficial effects of religion upon modern society, and drawn from the last results of revolutionary experience just and sublime conclusions as to the adaptation of Christianity to the wants of humanity; but it is the glory of Chateaubriand alone to have come forth the foremost in the fight; to have planted himself on the breach, when it was strewed only with the dead and the dying, and, strongin the consciousness of gigantic powers, stood undismayed against a nation in arms. To be successful in the contest, it was indis- pensable that the weapons of warfare should be totally changed. When the ideas of men were set adrift by revolutionary changes, when the authority of ages was set at nought, and from centuries of experience appeals were made to weeks of innovation, it Mas in vain to refer to the -great or the wise of former ages. Perceiving at once the immense change which had taken place in the world whom he ad- dressed, Chateaubriand saw, that he must alter altogether the means by which the)^ were to be influenced. Disregarding, therefore, entirely the weight of authority, laying aside almost every thing which had been advanced in sup- port of religion by its professed disciples, he applied himself to accumulate the conclusions in its favour which arose from its internal beauty; fropi its beneficent eflfect upon society ; from the changes it had wrought upon the civilization, the happiness, and destinies of mankind; from its analogy with the sublimest tenets of natural religion; from its unceasing progress, its indefinite extension, and undecay- ing youth. He observed, that it drew its sup- port from such hidden recesses of the human heart, that it flourished most in periods of dis- aster and calamity; derived strength from the fountains of suffering, and, banished in all but form from the palaces of princes, spread its roots far and wide in the cottages of the poor. From the intensity of suffering produced by the Re^-olution, therefore, he conceived the hope, that the feelings of religion would ulti- mately resum« their sway : when the waters CHATEAUBRIAND. 11 of bitterness were let loose, the consolations of devotion would again be felt to be indispen- sable; and the spirit of the gospel, banished during the sunshine of corrupt prosperity, re- turn to the repentant human heart with the tears and the storms of adversity. Proceeding on these just and sublime prin- ciples, this great author availed himself of every engine which fancy, experience, or poe- try could suggest, to sway the hearts of his readers. He knew well that he was address- ing an impassioned and volatile generation, upon whom reason would be thrown away, if not enforced with eloquence, and argument lost, if not clothed in the garb of fancj'. To effect his purpose, therefore, of re-opening in the hearts of his readers the all but extin- guished fountains of religious feeling, he sum- moned to his aid the whole aid which learn- ing, or travelling, or poetry, or fancy, could supply; and scrupled not to employ his powers as a writer of romance, an historian, a descriptive traveller, and a poet, to forward the great work of Christian renovation. Of his object in doing this, he has himself given the following account.* "There can be no doubt that the Genius of Christianity would have been a work entirely out of place in the age of Louis XIV.; and the critic who observed that Massillon would never have published such a book, spoke an un- doubted truth. Most certainly the author would never have thought of writing such a work if there had not existed a host of poems, romances, and books of all sorts, where Christianity was exposed to every species of derision. But since these poems, romances, and books exist, and are in every one's hands, it becomes in- dispensable to extricate religion from the sar- casms of impiety ; when it has been written on all sides that Christianity is 'barbarous, ridiculous, the eternal enemy of the arts and of genius ,' it is necessary to prove that it is neither barbarous, nor ridiculous, nor the enemy of arts or of genius; and that that which is made by the pen of ridicule to appear diminutive, ignoble, in bad taste, without either charms or tenderness, may be made to appear grand, noble, simple, impressive, and divine, in the hands of a man of religious feeling. " If it is not permitted to defend religion on what may be called* its terrestrial side, if no effort is to be made to prevent ridicule from attaching to its sublime institutions, there will always remain a weak and undefended quarter. There all the strokes at it will be aimed ; there you will be caught without defence; from thence you will receive your death-wound. Is not that what has already arrived 1 Was it not by ridicule and pleasantry that Voltaire succeeded in shaking the foundations of faith? Will you attempt to answer by theological arguments, or the forms of the syllogism, licen- tious novels or irreligious epigrams! W^ill formal disquisitions ever prevent an infidel generation from being carried away by clever verses, or deterred from the altar by the fear of ridicule 1 Does not every one know that in ♦ All the passaees cited are translator! by oursolvos. There ia an English version, we believe, but we have never seen it. the French nation a happy bon-mot, impiety clothed in a felicitous expression, a.felix culpa, produce a greater effect than volumes of reasoning or metaphysics 1 Persuade young men that an honest man can be a Christian without being a fool; convince him that he is in error when he believes that none but capu- chins and old women believe in religion, and your cause is gained; it will be time enough to complete the victory to present yourself armed with theological reasons, but what you must begin with is an inducement to read your book. What is most needed is a popular work on religion ; those who have hitherto written on it have too often fallen into the error of the traveller who tries to get his com- panion at one ascent to the summit of a rugged mountain when he can hardly crawl at its foot — 3'ou must show him at every step varied and agreeable objects; allow him to stop to gather the flowers which are scattered along his path, and from one resting-place to another he will at length gain the summit. "The author has not intended this work merely for scholars, priests, or doctors ; what he wrote for was the me^i of the world, and what he aimed at chiefly were the considerar tions calculated to affect their minds. If you do not keep steadily in view that principle, if you forget for a moment the class of readers for whom the Genius of Christianity was in- tended, you will understand nothing of this work. It was intended to be read by the most incredulous man of letters, the most volatile youth of pleasure, with the same facility as the first turns over a work of impiety, or the second devours a corrupting novel. Do you intend then, exclaim the well-meaning ad- vocates for Christianity, to render religion a matter of fashion ! Would to God, I reply, that that divine rebgion was really in fashion, in the sense that what is fashionable indicates the prevailing opinion of the world ! Individual hypocrisy, indeed, might be increased by such a change, but public morality would unques- tionably be a gainer. The rich would no longer make it a point of vanity to corrupt the poor, the master to pervert the mind of his domestic, the fathers of families to pour lessons of athe- ism into their children; the practice of piety would lead to a belief in its truths, and with the devotion we should see revive the manners and the virtues of the best ages of the world. "Voltaire, when he attacked Christianitj', knew mankind well enough not to seek to avail himself of what is called the opinwn of the xcorld, and with that view he employed his talents to bring impiety into fashion. He suc- ceeded by rendering religion ridiculou-; in the eyes of a frivolous generation. It is this ridi- cule which the author of the Genius of Chris- tianity has, beyond every thing, sought to efface; that was the object of his work. He may have failed in the execution, but the ob- ject surely was highly important. To con- sider Christianity in its relation with human society; to trace the changes which it has effected in the reason and the passions of man; to show how it has modified the genius of arts and of letters, moulded the spirit of modern nations ; in a -word, le unfold all the 12 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. marvels ■which religion has wrought in the regions of poetry, morality, politics, history, and public charity, must always be esteemed a noble undertaking. As to its execution, he abandons himself, with submission, to the criticisms of those who appreciate the spirit of the design. " Take, for example, a picture, professedly of ai^ impious tendency, and place beside it another picture on the same subject from the Genius of Christianity, and I will venture to affirm that the latter picture, however feebly executed, will weaken the impression of the first, so powerful is the effect of simple truth when compared to the most brilliant sophisms. Voltaire has frequently turned the religious orders into ridicule ; well, put beside one of his burlesque representations the chapter on the Missions, that where the order of the Hospitallers is depicted as succouring the travellers in the desert, or the monks relieving the sick in the hospitals, attending those dying of the plague in the lazarettos, or accompany- ing the criminal to the scaffold, what irony will not be disarmed — what malicious smile will not be converted into tears 1 Answer the reproaches made to the worship of the Chris- tians for their ignorance, by appealing to the immense labours of the ecclesiastics who saved from destruction the manuscripts of antiquity. Reply to the accusations of bad taste and barbarity, by referring to the works of Bossuet and Fenelon. Oppose to the carica- tures of saints and of angels, the sublime effects of Christianity on the dramatic part of poetry, on eloquence, and the fine arts, and say whether the impression of ridicule will long maintain its ground! Should the author have no other success than that of having displayed before the e3'es of an infidel age a long series of religious pictures Muthout exciting disgust, he would deem his labours not useless to the cause of humanity."— in. 263—266. These observations appear to us as just as they are profound, and they are the reflections not merely of a sincere Christian, but a man practically acquainted with the state of the world. It is of the utmost importance, no doubt, that there should exist works on the Christian faith, in which the arguments of the skeptic should be combated, and to which the Christian disciple might refer with confidence for a refutation of the objections which have been urged against his religion. But great as is the merit of such productions, their bene- ficial effects are limited in their operation com- pared with those which are produced by such writings as we are considering. The hardened sceptic will never turn to a work on divinity for a solution of his paradoxes ; and men of the world can never be persuaded to enter on serious arguments even on the most moment- ous subject of human belief. It is the indiffer- ence, not the skepticism of such men, which is chiefly to be dreaded: the danger to be appre- " liended is not that they will say there is no God, but that they will live altogether without God in the world. It has happened but too frequently that divines, in their zeal for the progress of Christianity among such men, have augmented the very eviUthey intended to remove. They have addressed themselves in general to them as if they were combatants drawn out in a theological dispute ; they have urged a mass of arguments which they were unable to refute, but which were too uninterest- ing to be even examined, and while they flat- tered themselves that they had effectually silenced their opponents' objections, those whom they addressed have silently passed by on the other side. It is, therefore, of incalcu- lable importance that some writings should exist which should lead men imperceplibly into the ways of truth, which should insinuate themselves into the tastes, and blend them- selves with the refinements of ordinary life, and perpetually recur to the cultivated mind with all that it admires, or loves, or venerates, in the world. Nor let it be imagined that reflections such as these are not the appropriate theme of re- ligious instruction — that they do not form the fit theme of Christian meditation. Whatever leads our minds habitually to the Author of the Universe; — whatever mingles the voice of nature with the revelation of the gospel ; — whatever teaches us to see, in all the changes of the world, the varied goodness of him, in whom "we live, and move, and have our being," — brings us nearer to the spirit of the Saviour of mankind. But it is not only as encouraging a sincere devotion, that these re- flections are favourable to Christianity; there is something, moreover, peculiarly allied to its spirit in such observations of external nature. When our Saviour prepared himself for his temptation, his agony, and death, he retired to the wilderness of Judgea, to inhale, we may venture to believe, a holier spirit amidst its solitary scenes, and to approach to a nearer communion with his Father, amidst the sub- limest of his works. It is with similar feelings, and to M^orship the same Father, that the Christian is permitted to enter the temple of nature ; and by the spirit of his religion, there is a language infused into the objects which she presents, unknown to the worshipper of former times. To all indeed the same objects appear — the same sun shines — the same hea- vens are open: but to the Christian alone it is permitted to know the Author of these things ; to see his spirit " irfove in the breeze and blossom in the spring," and to read, in the changes which occur in the material world, the varied expression of eternal love. It is from the influence of Christianity accordingly that the key has been given to the signs of nature. It was only when the Spirit of God moved on the face of the deep, that order and beauty was seen in the world. It is accordingly peculiarly well worthy of observation, that the beauty of nature, as felt in modern times, seems to have been almost un- known to the writers of antiquity. They de- scribed occasionally the scenes in M'hich they dwelt; but, if we except Virgil, whose gentle mind seems to have anticipated, in this in- stance, the influence of the gospel, never with any deep feeling of their beauty. Then, as now, the citadel of Athens looked 'upon the evening sun, and her temples flamed in his setting beam; but what Athenian writer ever CHATEAUBRIAND. 13 described the matchless glories of the scene 1 Then, as now, the silvery clouds of the ^gean sea rolled round her verdant isles, and sported in the azure vault of heaven ; but what Gre- cian poet has been inspired by the sight 1 The Italian lakes spread their waves beneath a cloudless sk)^ and all that is lovely in nature was gathered around them ; yet even Eustace tells us, that a few detached lines is all that is left in regard to them by the Roman poets. The Alps themselves, "The palaces of nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalpa. And throned eternity in icy halls Of cold suhliinity, where forms and falls The avalanche — the tliunderbults of snow." Even these, the most glorious objects which the eye of man can behold, were regarded by the ancients with sentiments only of dismay or horror; as a barrier from hostile nations, or as the dwelling of barbarous tribes. The torch of religion had not then lightened the face of nature ; they knew not the language which she spoke, nor felt that holy spirit, which to the Christian gives the sublimity of these scenes. Chateaubriand divides his great work into four parts. The first treats of the doctrinal parts of religion : the second and the third, the relations of that religion with poetry, litera- ture, and the arts. The fourth, the ceremonies of public worship, and the services rendered to mankind by the clergy, regular and secular. On the mysteries of faith he commences with these fine observations. " There is nothing beautiful, sweet, or grand in life, but in its mysteries. The sentiments which agitate us most strongly are enveloped in obscurity; modesty, virtuous love, sincere frindship, have all their secrets, with which the world must not be made acquainted. Hearts which love understand each other by a word ; half of each is at all times open to the other. Innocence itself is but a holy ignorance, and the most ineffable of mysteries. Infancy is only happy, because it as j'et knows nothing; age miserable, because it has nothing more to learn. Happily for it, when the mysteries of life are ending, those of immortality commence. " If it is thus with the sentiments, it is as- suredly not less so with the virtues ; the most angelic are those which, emanating directly from the Deity, such as charity, love to with- draw themselves from all regards, as if fear- ful to betray their celestial origin. "If we turn to the understanding, we shall find that the pleasures of thought also have a certain connection with the mysterious. To what sciences do we unceasingly return 7 To those which always leave something still to be discovered, and fix our regards on a per- spective which is never to terminate. If we wander in the desert, a sort of instinct leads us to shun the plains where the eye embraces at once the whole circumference of nature, to plunge into forests, those forests the cradle of religion, whose shades and solirudes are filled with the recollections of prodigies, where the ravens and the doves nourished the prophets and fathers of the church. If we visit a modern monument, whose origin or destination is known, it excites no attention; but if we meet on a desert isle, in the midst of the ocean, with a mutilated statue pointing to the west, with its pedestal covered with hieroglyphics, and worn by the winds, what a subject of meditation is presented to the traveller ! Every thing is concealed, every thing is hidden m the universe. Man himself is the greatest mystery of the whole. Whence comes the spark which we call existence, and m what obscurity is it to be extinguished! The Eter- nal has placed our birth, and our death, under the form of two veiled phantoms, at the two extremities of our career; the one produces the inconceivable gift of life, which the other is ever ready to devour. "It is not surprising, then, considering the passion of the human mind for the mysterious, that the religions of every country should have had their impenetrable secrets. God forbid! that I should compare their mysteries to those of the true faith, or the unfathomable depths of the Sovereign in the heavens, to the changing obscurities of those gods which are the work of human hands. All that I observe is, that there is no religion without mysteries, and that it is they with the sanifice which every where constitute the essence of the worship. God is the great secret of nature, the Deity was veiled in Egypt, and the Sphynx was seated at the entrance of his temples." — I. 13, 14. On the three great sacraments of the Church, Baptism, Confession, and the Communion, he makes the following beautiful observations : — "Baptism, the first of the sacraments which religion confers upon man, clothes him, in the words of the Apostle, with Jesus Christ. That sacrament reveals at once the corruption in which we were bom, the agonizing pains which attended our birth, and the tribulations which follow us into the world; it tells us that our faults will descend upon our children, and that we are all jointly responsible ; a terrible truth, which, if duly considered, would alone sutfice to render the reign of virtue universal in the world. " Behold the infant in the midst of the waters of the Jordan ; the man of the wilderness pours the purifying stream on his head ; the river of the Patriarchs, the camels on its banks, the Temple of Jerusalem, the cedars of Lebanon, seem to regard with interest the mighty spec- tacle. Behold in mortal life that infant near the sacred fountain ; afamily filled with thank- fulness surround it; renounce in its name the sins of the world ; bestow on it with joy the name of its grandfather, which seems thus to become immortal, in its perpetual renovar tion by the fruits of love from generation to generation. Even now the father is im- patient to take his infant in his arms, to re- place it in its mother's bosom, who listens be- hind the curtains to all the thrilling sounds of the sacred ceremony. The whole family sur- round the maternal bed ; tears of joy, mingh-d with the transports of ndigion. tall from everv eye ; the new name of the infant, the old name of its ancestor, is repeated by every moulli, and every one mingling the recollections f>t the past with the joys of the pres.mi. thinks, that he sees the veuerahle grandfather revivv the sound of Turkish music, the following beautiful de- proceeding from the summits of the Propyleum. At the same moment a Mussulman priest from one of the mosques called the faithful to pray in the city of Minerva. I cannot describe •what I felt at the sound; that Iman had no need to remind one of the lapse of time ; his voice alone in these scenes announced the revoluti(jn of ages. "This lluctuation in human affairs is the more remarkable frcmi the contrast which it aflbrds to the unchangeableness of nature. As if to insult the instability of human affairs, the animals and the birds experience no change in their empires, nor alterations in their habits. I saw, when sitting on the hill of the Muses, the storks form themselves into a wedge, and wing their flight towards the shores of Africa. For two thousand years they have made the same voj^age — they have remained free and happy in the city of Solon, as in that of the chief of the black evinuchs. From the height of iheir nests, which the revolutions below have not been able to reach, they have seen the races of men disappear; while impious generations have arisen on the tombs of their religious parents, the young stork has never ceased to nourish its aged parent. I involun- tarily fell into these reflections, for the stork is the friend of the traveller: 'it knows the seasons of heaven.' These birds were fre- quently my companions in the solitudes of America : I have often seen them perched on the wigwams of the savage ; and when I saw them rise from another species of desert, from the ruins of the Parthenon, I could not avoid feelingacompanion in the desolation of empires. " The first thing which strikes a traveller in the monuments of Athens, is their lovely colour. In our climate, where the heavens are charged with smoke and rain, the whitest stone soon becomes tinged with black and green. It is not thus with the atmosphere of the city of Theseus. The clear sky and bril- liant sun of Greece have shed over the marble of Paros and Pentilicus a golden hue, com- parable only to the finest and most fleeting tints of autumn. " Before I saw these splendid rpmains I had fallen into the ordinary error concerning them. I conceived they were perfect in their details, but that they wanted grandeur. But the first glance at the originals is sufficient to show that the genius of the architects has supplied in the magnitude of proportion what was wanting in size; and Athens is accordingly filled with stupendous edifices. The Athenians, a people far from rich, few in number, have succeeded in moving gigantic masses ; the blocks of stone in the Pnyx and the Propyleum are literally quarters of rock. The slabs, which stretch from pillar to pillar are of enormous dimensions : the columns of the Temple of Jupiter Olympius are above sixty feet in height, and the walls of Athens, including those winch stretched to the Pirceus, extended over nine leagues, and were so broad that two chariots could drive on them abreast. The Romans nev^er erected more extensive fortifications. " By what strange fatality has it happened that the chefs d'oeuvre of antiquity, which the moderns go so far to admire, have owed their CHATEAUBRIAND. 21 destniction chiefly to the moderns themselves 1 The Parthenon was entire in 1687; the Chris- tians at first converted it into a church, and the Turks into a mosque. The Venetians, in the middle of the light of the seventeenth centur}-, bombarded the Acropolis with red-hot shot; a shell fell on the Parthenon, pierced the roof, communicated to a few barrels of powder, and blew into the air great part of the edifice, which did less honour to the gods of antiquity than the genius of man. No sooner was the town captured, than Morosini, in the design of embellishing Venice with its spoils, took down the statues from the front of the Temple ; and another modern has completed, from love for the arts, that which the Venetian had begun. The invention of fire-arms has been fatal to the monuments of antiquity. Had the bar- barians been acquainted with the use of gun- powder, not a Greek or Roman edifice would have sui-vived their invasion; they would have blown up even the Pyramids in the search for hidden treasures. One year of war in our tinacs will destroy more than a century of combats among the ancients. Every thing among the moderns seems opposed to the per- fection of art; theircountry, their manners, their dress ; even their discoveries." — 1. 136, 145. These observations are perfectly well found- ed. No one can have visited the Grecian monu- ments on the shores of the Mediterranean, without perceiving that they were thoroughly masters of an element of grandeur, hitherto but little understood among the moderns, that arising from gigantic masses of stone. The feeling of sublimity which they produce is in- describable : it equals that of Gothic edifices of a thousand times the size. Every traveller must have felt this upon looking at the im- mense masses which rise in solitary magnifi- cence on the plains at Stonehenge. The great block in the tomb of Agamemnon at Argos ; those in the Cyclopean Walls of Volterra, and in the ruins of Agrigentum in Sicily, strike the beholder with a degree of astonishment' bordering an awe. 'I'o have moved such enormous masses seems the work of a race of mortals superior in thought and power to this degenerate age; it is impossible, in visiting them, to avoid the feeling that you are beholding the work of giants. It is to this cause, we are persuaded, that the extraordina- ry impression produced by the pyramids, and all the works of the Cyclopean age in archi- tecture, is to be ascribed ; and as it is an element of sublimity within the reach of all who have considerable funds at their com- mand, it is earnestly to be hoped that it will not be overlooked by our architects. Strange that so powerful an ingredient in the sublime should have been lost sight orf'in proportion to the ability of the age to produce it. and that the monuments raised in the infancy of the mechanical art, should still be those in which alone it is to be seen to perfection ! We willingly translate the description of the unrivalled scene viewed from the Acropolis by the same 'poetical hand ; a description so glowing, and yet so true, that it almost recalls, after the lapse of years, the fading tints of the original on the memory. "To understand the view from the Acropolis, you must figure to yourself all the plain at its foot ; bare and clothed in a dusky heath, mter- sected here and there by woods of olives, squares of barley, and ridges of vines ; you must conceive the heaxls of columns, and the ends of ancient ruins, emerging from the midst of that cultivation ; Albanian women washing their clothes at the fountain or the scanty streams; peasants leading their asses, laden with provisions, into the modern city: those ruins so celebrated, those isles, those seas, whose names are engraven on the memory, illumined by a resplendent light. I have seen from the rock of the Acropolis the sun rise between the two summits of Mount Hymettus : the ravens, which nestle round the citadel, but never fly over its summit, floating in the air beneath, their glossy wings reflecting the rosy lints of the morning: columns of light smoke ascending from the villages on the sides of the neighbouring mountains marked the colonies of bees on the far-famed Hymettus ; and the ruins of the Parthenon were illuminated by the finest tints of pink and violet. The sculp- tures of Phidias, struck by a horizontal ray of gold, seemed to start from their marbled bed by the depth and mobility of their shadows : in the distance, the sea and the Pira;us were resplendent with light, while on the verge of the western horizon, the citadel of Corinth, glittering in the rays of the rising sun, shone like a rock of purple and fire." — I. 149. These are the colours tif poetry; but beside this brilliant passage of French description, we willingly place the equally correct and still more thrilling lines of our own poet. " Slow sinks mnrc t)pauteniis erR his race be run Aloiii.' Mi>re;i's lilils Die seUiii!! sun. Not as in uorlliirn (lime olisi iiroly t)riclil, But one iincloiulcd hla/.p of livinL' lijihl ; O'er the hushed deep the yellow lieuuis he throws. Gilds the areen wave that treuiiiles as it glows; On old j^^jiiiia"s rock ntid I( 22 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. time, and the cell of a hermit has remained undecayed on its ruins. A niiscrable cabin is borne aloft on two columns of marble, as if fortune had wished to exhibit, on that magni- ficent pedestal, a monument of its triumph and its caprice. "These columns, though twenty feet higher than those of the Parthenon, are far from pos- sessing their beauty. The degeneracy of taste is apparent in their construction ; but isolated and dispersed as they are, on a naked and desert plain, their effect is iinposing in the highest degree. I stopped at their feet to hear the wind whistle through the Corinthian foliage on their summits : like the solitary palms which rise here and there amidst the ruins of Alexandria. When the Turks are threatened by any calamity, they bring a lamb into this place, and constrain it to bleat, with its face turned to heaven. Being unable to find the voice of innocence among men, they have re- course to the new-born lamb to mitigate the anger of heaven." — I. 152, 153. He followed the footsteps of Chandler along the Long Walls to the Pirpeus, and found that profound solitude in that once busy and ani- mated scene, which is felt to be so impressive by every traveller. "If Chandler was astonished at the solitude of the Pirmus, I can safely assert that I was not less astonished than he. We had made the circuit of that desert shore ; three harbours had met our eyes, and in all that space we had not seen a single vessel ! The only spectacle to be seen was the ruins and the rocks on the shore — the only sounds that could be heard were the cry of the seafowl, and the murmur of the wave, which, breaking on the tomb of Themistocles, drew forth a perpetual sigh from the abode of eternal silence. Borne away by the sea, the ashes of the conqueror of Xerxes repose beneath the waves, side by side with the bones of the Persians. In vain I sought the Temple of Venus, the long gallery, and the S3'mbolical statue which represented the Athenian people; the image of that implacable democracy was for ever fallen, beside the walls, where the exiled citizens came to im- plore a return to their country. Instead of those superb arsenals, of those Agorae resound- ing with the voice of the sailors ; of those edifices which rivalled the beauty of the city of Rhodes, I saw nothing but a ruined convent and a solitary magazine. A single Turkish sentinel is perpetually seated on the coast; months and years revolve without a bark pre- senting itself to his sight. Such is the deplora- ble state into which these ports, once so famous, have now fallen — Who have over- turned so many monuments of gods and men? The hidden power which overthrows everj' thing, and is itself subject to the Unknown God whose altar St. Paul beheld at Phalera." — L 157. 158. The fruitful theme of the decay of Greece has called forth many of the finest apostrophes of our moralists and poets. On this subject Chateaubriand offers the following striking observations : — " One would imagine that Greece itself an- BouEced, by its mourning, the misfortunes of its children. In general, the cotintry is uncul- tivated, the soil bare, rough, savage, of a brown and withered aspect. There are no rivers, properly so called, but little streams and tor- rents, which become dry in summer. No farm-houses are to be seen on the farms, no labourers, no chariots, no oxen, or horses of agriculture. Nothing can be figured so melan- choly as to see the track of a modern wheel, where you can still trace in the worn parts of the rock the track of ancient wheels. Coast along that shore, bordered by a sea hardly more desolate — place on the summit of a rock a ruined tower, an abandoned convent — figure a minaret rising up in the midst of the solitude as a badge of slavery — a solitary flock feeding on a cape, surmounted by ruined columns — the turban of a Turk scaring the few goats which browze on the hills, and you will obtain a just idea of modern Greece. " On the eve of leaving Greece, at the Cape of Sunium, I did not abandon myself alone to the romantic ideas which the beauty of the scene was fitted to inspire. I retraced in my mind the history of that country ; I strove to discover in the ancient prosperity of Athens and Sparta the cause of their present misfor- tunes, and in their present situation the germ of future glory. The breaking of the sea, which insensibly increased against the rocks at the foot of the Cape, at length reminded me that the wind had risen, and that it was time to resume my voj'age. We descended to the vessel, and found the sailors already prepared for our departure. We pushed out to sea, and the breeze, which blew fresh from the land, bore us rapidly towards Zea. As we receded from the shore, the columns of Sunium rose more beautiful above the waves : their pure white appeared well defined in the dark azure of the distant sky. We were alread)^ far from the Cape ; but we still heard the murmur of the waves, which broke on the cliffs at its foot, the whistle of the winds through its solitary pillars, and the cr)' of the sea-birds which wheel round the stormy promontory : they were the last sounds which I heard on the shores of Greece."— LI 96. " The Greeks did not excel less in the choice of the site of their edifices than in the forms and proportions. The greater part of the pro- montories of Peloponnesus, Attica, and Ionia, and the Islands of the Archipelago, are marked by temples, trophies, or tombs. These monu- ments, surrounded as they generally are with woods and rocks, beheld in all the changes of light and shadow, sometimes in the midst of clouds and lightning, sometimes by the light of the moon, sometimes gilded by the rising sun, sometimes flaming in his setting beams, throw an indescribable charm over the shores of Greece. The earth, thus decorated, re- sembles the old Cybele, who, crowned and seated on the shore, commanded her son Neptune to spread the waves beneath her feet. " Christianity, to which we owe the sole architecture in unison with our manners, has also taught how to place our true monuments : our chapels, our abbeys, our monasteries, are dispersed on the summits of hills — not that the CHATEAUBRIAND. 23 choice of the site was always the work of the architect, but that an art which is in unison with the feelings of the people, seldom errs far in what is really beautiful. Observe, on the other hand, how' wretchedly almost all our edifices copied from the antique are placed. Not one of the hei^^hts around Paris is orna- mented with any of the splendid edifices with ■which the city is filled. The modern Greek edifices resemble the corrupted language which they speak at Sparta and Athens ; it is in vain to maintain that it is the language of Homer and Plato; a mixture of uncouth words, and of foreign constructions, betrays at every in- stant the invasion of the barbarians. "To the loveliest sunset in nature, suc- ceeded a serene night. The firmament, re- flected in the waves, seemed to sleep in the midst of the sea. The evening star, my faith- ful companion in my journey, was ready to sink beneath the horizon; its place could only be distinguished by the rays of light which it occasionally shed upon the water, like a d3nng taper in the distance. At intervals, the per- fumed breeze from the islands which we pass- ed entranced the senses, and agitated on the surface of the ocean the glassy image of the heavens."— I. 182, 183. The appearance of morning in the sea of Marmora is described in not less glowing colours. "At four in the morning we weighed an- chor, and as the wind was fair, we found our- selves in less than an hour at the extremity of the waters of the river. The scene was worthy of being described. On the right, Aurora rose above the headlands of Asia; on the left, was extended the sea of Marmora; the heavens in the east were of a fiery red, which grew paler in proportion as the morning advanced; the morning star still shone in that empurpled light; and above it you could barely descry the pale circle of the moon. The picture changed Avhile I still contemplated it; soon a blended glory of rays of rose and gold, diverg- ing from a common centre, mounted to the zenith; these columns were effaced, revived, and effaced anew, until the £un rose above the horizon, and confounded all the lesser shades in one imiversal blaze of light." — I. 2.36. His journey into the Holy Land awakened a new and not less interesting train of ideas, throughout the whole of which we recognise the peculiar features of M. de Chateaubriand's mind : a strong and poetical sense of the beauties of nature, a memory fraught with historical recollections ; a deep sense of reli- gion, illustrated, however, rather as it affects the imagination and the passions, than the judgment. It is a mere chimera to suppose that such aids are to be rejected by the friends of Christianit)^ or that truth may with safety discard the aid of fancy, cither in subduing the passions or aflT;cting the heart. On the contrary, every day's experience must con- viDCe us, that for one who can understand an argument, hundreds can enjoy a romance; and that truth, to affect multitudes, must con- descend to wear the gnrb of fancy. It is no doubt of vast importance that works should exist in which the truths of religion are un- folded M-ith lucid precision, and its principles defined with the force of reason: but it is at least of equal moment, that others should be found in which the graces of eloquence and the fervour of enthusiasm form an attraction to those who are insensible to graver considera- tions ; where the reader is tempted to follow a path which he finds only strewed with flowers, and he unconsciously inhales the breath of eternal life. Cosi all Epro fanriiil porsriamo asperst Di soave lioor cli ursi (l(jl vato, SiiccMi aiiiari ineaiinato intanto ei beve, E dal ingaiino sua vita riceve. " On nearing the coast of Judea, the first visitors we received were three swallows. They were perhaps on their way from France, and pursuing their course to Syria. I was strongly templed to ask them what news they brought from that paternal roof which I had so long quitted. I recollect that in years of in- fancy, I spent entire hours in watching with an indescribable pleasure the course of swal- lows in autumn, when assembling in crowds previous to their annual migration: a secret instinct told me that I too should be a travel- ler. They assembled in the end of autumn around a great fishpond; there, amidst a thou- sand evolutions and flights in air, they seemed to try their wings, and prepare for their long pilgrimage. Whence is it that of all the re- collections in existence, we prefer those which are connected with our cradle ? The illusions of self-love, the pleasures of youth, do not recur with the same charm to the memory ; we find in them, on the contrary, frequent bit- terness and pain ; but the slightest circum- stances revive in the heart the recollections of infancy, and always with a fresh chann. On the shores of the lakes in America, in an unknown desert, which was sublime only from the effect of solitude, a swallow has frequently recalled to my recollection the first years of my life ; as here on the coast of Syria they recalled them in sight of an ancient land re- sounding Avith the traditions of history and the voice of ages. " The air was so fresh and so balmy that all the passengers remained on deck during the night. At six in the morning I was awa- kened by a confused hum; I opened my eyes, and saw all the pilgrims crowding towards the prow of the vessel. I asked what it was ? they all replied, 'Signer, il Carmelo.' I in- stantly rose from the plank on which I was stretched, and eagerly looked out for the sacred mountain. Every one strove to show it to me, but I could see nothing by reason of the daz- zling of the sun, which now rose above the horizon. The moment had something in it that was august and impressive; all the pil- grims, with their chaplets in thfir hands, remained in silence, watching for the appear- ance of the Holy Land; the captain prayed aloud, and not a sound was to be heard but that prayer and the rush of the vessel, as it ploughed with a fair wind through the azure sea. From time to time the cry arose, from those in elevated parts of the vessel, that they saw Mount Carmel, and at length I myself perceived it like a round globe under the rays 24 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. of the sun. I then fell on my knees, after the manner of the Latin pilgrims. My first im- pression -was not the kind of agitation which I experienced cm approaching the coast of Greece, but the sight of the cradle of the Israel- ites, and of the country of Christ, filled me with awe and veneration. I was about to descend on the land of miracles — on the birth- place of the sublimcst poetry that has ever appeared on earth — on the spot where, speak- ing only as it has aftected human histor}', the most wonderful event has occurred which ever changed the destinies of the species. I was about to visit the scenes which had been seen before me by Godfrey of Bouillon, Ray- mond of Toulouse, Tancred the Brave, Richard CoDur de Lion, and Saint Louis, whose virtues even the infidels respected. How could an obscure pilgrim like myself dare to tread a soil ennobled by such recollections!" — I. 263 —265. Nothing is more striking in the whole work than the description of the Dead Sea, and the Valley of Jordan. He has contrived to bring the features of that extraordinary scene more completely bel'ore us than any of the numerous English travellers who have preceded or fol- lowed him on the same route. "We quitted the convent at three in the afternoon, ascended the torrent of Cedron, and at length, crossing the ravine, rejoined our route to the east. An opening in the mountain gave us a passing view of Jerusalem. I hardly recognised the city; it seemed a mass of broken rocks ; the sudden appearance of that city of desolation in the midst of the wil- derness had something in it almost terrifying. She was, in truth, the Queen of the Desert. "As we advanced, the aspect of the moun- tains continued constantly the same, that is, a powdery white — without shade, a tree, or even moss. At half past four, we descended from the lofty chain we had hitherto traversed, and w^ound along another of inferior elevation. At length we arrived at the last of the chain of heights, which close in on the west the Valley of Jordan and the Dead Sea. The sun w^as nearly setting ; we dismounted from our hoj.5es, and I lay down to contemplate at lei- sure the lake, the valley, and the river. " When you speak in general of a valley, you conceive it either cultivated or unculti- vated ; if the former, it is filled with villages, corn-fields, vineyards, and flocks ; if the latter, it presents grass or forests ; if it is watered by a river, that river has windings, and the sinu- osities or projecting points afford agreeable and varied landscapes. But here there is no- thing of the kind. Conceive two long chains of mountains running parallel from north to south, without projections, without recesses, without vegetation. The ridge on the east, called the Mountains of Arabia, is the most elevated; viewed at the distance of eight or ten leagues, it resembles a vast wall, extremely similar to the Jura, as seen from the Lake of Geneva, from its form and azure tint. You can perceive neither summits nor the smallest peaks ; only here and there slight inequalities, as if the hand of the painter who traced the long ii\ies on the sky had occasionally trembled. " The chain on the eastern side forms part of the mountains of Judea — less elevated and more uneven than the ridge on the west: it difi'ers also in its character ; it exhibits great masses of rock and sand, which occasionally present all the varieties of ruined fortifications, armed men, and floating banners. On the side of Arabia, on the other hand, black rocks, with perpendicular Jlanks, spread from afar their shadoAvs over the waters of the Dead Sea. 'J"hc smallest bird could not find in those crevices of rock a morsel of food; every thing announces a country which has fallen under the divine wrath ; every thing inspires the horror at the incest from whence sprung Am- nion and Moab. " The valley which lies between these moun- tains resembles the bottom of a sea, from which the waves have long ago withdrawn : banks of gravel, a dried bottom — rocks covered with salt, deserts of moving sand — here and there stunted arbutus shrubs grow with diffi- culty on that arid soil ; their leaves are co- vered with the salt which had nourished their roots, while their bark has the scent and taste of smoke. Instead of villages, nothing but the ruins of towers are to be seen. Through the midst of the valley flows a discoloured stream, which seems to drag its lazy course unwill- ingly towards the lake. Its course is not to be discerned by the water, but by the willows and shrubs which skirt its banks — the Arab conceals himself in these thickets to waylay and rob the pilgrim. " Such are the places rendered famous by the maledictions of Heaven : that river is the Jordan : that lake is the Dead Sea. It appears with a serene surface; but the guilty cities which are embosomed in its waves have poi- soned its waters. Its solitary abysses can sustain the life of no living thing; no vessel ever ploughed its bosom ; — its shores are with- out trees, without birds, without verdure; its water, frightfully salt, is so heavy that the highest wind can hardly raise it. "In travelling in Judea, an extreme feeling of ennui frequently seizes the mind, from the sterile and monotonous aspect of the objects which are presented to the eye : but when journeying on through these pathless deserts, the expanse seems to spread out to infinity before you, the ennui disappears, and a secret terror is experienced, which, far from lower- ing the soul, elevates and inflames the genius. These extraordinary scenes reveal the land desolated by miracles; — that burning sun, the impetuous eagle, the barren fig-tree; all the poetry, all the pictures of Scripture are there. Every name recalls amyster}^; every grotto speaks of the life to come ; every peak re-echoes the 'voice of a prophet. God him- self has spoken on these shores: these dried- up torrents, these cleft rocks, these tombs rent asunder, attest his resistless hand : the desert appears mute with terror; and you feel that it has never ventured to break silence since it heard the voice of the Eternal." — L 317. "I employed two complete hours in wan- dering on the shores of the Dead Sea, notwith- standing the remonstrances of the Bedouins, who pressed me to quit that dangerous region. CHATEAUBRIAND, 25 I was desirous of seeing the Jordan, at the place where it discharges itself into the lake; but the Arabs refused to lead me thither, be- cause the river, at a league Irom its mouth, makes a detour to the left, and approaches the mountains of Arabia. It was necessary, there- fore, to direct our steps towards the curve which was nearest us. We struck our tents, and travelled for an hour and a half with ex- cessive difficulty, through a fine and silvery sand. We were moving towards a lutle wood of willows and tamarinds ; which, to my great surprise, I perceived growing in the midst of the desert. All of a sudden the Bethlemites stopped, and pointed to something at the bottom of a ravine, which had not yet attracted my at- tention. Without being able to say what it was, I perceived a sort of sand rolling on through the fixed banks which surrounded it. I approached it, and saw a yellow stream which could hardly be distinguished from the sand of its two banks. It was deeply furrowed through the rocks, and with difficulty rolled on, a stream surcharged with sand : it was the Jordan. " I had seen the great rivers of America, with the pleasure which is inspired by the magnificent works of nature. I had hailed the Tiber with ardour, and sought with the same interest the Eurotas and the Cephisus; but on none of these occasions did I expe- rience the intense emotion which I felt on ap- proaching the Jordan. Not only did that river recall the earliest antiquit)', and a name ren- dered immortal in the finest poetry, but its banks were the theatre of the miracles of our religion. Judea is the only country which recalls at once the earliest recollections of man, and our first impressions of heaven; and thence arises a mixture of feeling in the mind, which no other part of the world can produce."— I. 327, 328. The peculiar turn of his mind renders our author, in an especial manner, partial to the description of sad and solitary scenes. The following description of the Valley of Jehosha- phat is in his best style. " The Valley of Jehoshaphat has in all ages served as the burying-place to Jerusalem : you meet there, side by side, monuments of the most distant times and of the present century. The Jews still come there to die, from all the corners of the earth. A stranger sells to them, for almost its weight in gold, the land which contains the bones of their fathers. Solomon planted that valley: the shadow of the Temple by which it was overhung — the torrent, called after grief, which traversed it — the Psalms which David there composed — the Lamenta- tions of Jeremiah, which its rocks re-echoed, render it the fitting abode of the tomb. Jesus Christ commenced his Passion in the same place : that innocent David there shed, for the expiation of our sins, those tears which the guilty David let fall for his own transgressions. Few names awaken in our minds recollections so solemn as the Valley of Jehoshaphat. It is so full of mysteries, that, according to the Prophet Joel, all mankind will be assembled there before the Eternal Judge. "The aspect of this celebrated valley is desolate; the western side is bounded by a ridge of lofty rocks which support the walls of Jerusalem, above which the towers of the city appear. The eastern is formed by the Mount of Olives, and another eminence called the Mount of Scandal, from the idolatry of Solomon. These two mountains, which adjoin each other, are almost bare, and of a red and sombre hue; on their desert side you see here and there some black and withered vineyards, some wild olives, some ploughed land, covered with hyssop, and a few ruined chapels. At the bottom of the valley, you perceive a tor rent, traversed by a single arch, which appears of great antiquity. The stones of the Jewish cemeterj^ appear like a mass of ruins at the foot of the mountain of Scandal, under the village of Siloam. You can hardly distin- guish the buildings of the village from the ruins with which they are surrounded. Three ancient monuments are particularly conspicu- ous : those of Zachariah, Josaphat, and Ab- salom. The sadness of Jerusalem, from which no smoke ascends, and in which no sound is to be heard; the solitude of the surrounding mountains, where not a living creature is to be seen; the disorder of those tombs, ruined, ransacked, and half-exposed to view, would almost induce one to believ« that the last trump had been heard, and that the dead were about to rise in the Valley of Jehoshaphat." — II. 31, 35. Chateaubriand, after visiting with the devo- tion of a pilgrim the Holy Sepulchre, and all the scenes of our Saviour's sufferings, spent a day in examining the scenes of the Crusaders* triumphs, and comparing the descriptions in Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered with the places where the events which they recorded actually occurred. He found them in general so ex- tremely exact, that it was difficult to avoid the conviction that the poet had been on the spot. He even fancied he discovered the scene of the Flight of Erminia, and the inimitable com- bat and death of Clorinda. From the Holy Land, he sailed to Egypt; and we have the following graphic picture of the approach to that cradle of art and civili- zation. " On the 20th October, at five in the morn- ing, I perceived on the green and ruffled sur- face of the water a line of foam, and beyond it a pale and still ocean. The captain clapped me on the shoulder, and said in French, 'Nilo;' and soon we entered and glided through those celebrated waters. A few palm-trees and a minaret announce tlie situation of Rosetta, but the town itself is invisible. These shores re- semble those of the coast of Florida ; they are totally diflerent from those of Italy or Greece, every thing recalls the tropical regions. "At ten o'clock we at length discovered, beneath the palm-trees, a line of sand'which extended westward to the promontory of Aboukir, before which we were obliged to pass before arriving opposite to Alexandria. At five in the evening, the shore suddenly changed its aspect. The palm-trees seemed planted in lines along the shore, like the elms along the roads in France. Nature appears to lake a pleasure in thus recalling the ideas X)f 26 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. civilization in a country where that civiliza- tion first arose, and barbarity has now resumed its sway. It wa« eleven o'clock when we cast anchor before the city, and as it was some time before we could get ashore, I had full leisure to follow out the contemplation which ^he scene awakened. "I saw on my right several vessels, and the castle, M'iiich stands on the site of the Tower of Pharos. On my left, the horizon seemed shut in by sand-hills, ruins, and obelisks ; im- mediately in front, extended a long wall, with a few houses appearing above it ; not a light was to be seen on shore, and not a sound came from the city. This, nevertheless, was Alex- andria, the rival of Memphis and Thebes, which once contained three millions of inhabit- ants, which was the sanctuary of the Muses, and the atode of science amidst a benighted world. Here were heard the orgies of Antony and Cleopatra, and here was Ccesar received with more than regal splendour by the Queen of the East. But in vain I listened. A fatal talisman had plunged the people into a hope- less calm : that talisman is the despotism which extinguishes every joy, which stifles even the cry of suffering. And what sound could arise in a city of which at least a third is abandoned; another third of which is sur- rounded only by the tombs of its former in- habitants; and of which the third, which still survives between those dead extremities, is a species of breathing trunk, destitute of the force even to shake off its chains in the middle between ruins and the tomb?" — II. 163. It is to be regretted that Chateaubriand did not visit Upper Egypt. His ardent and learned mind woyld have found ample room for elo- quent declamation, amidst the gigantic ruins of Luxor, and the Sphynx avenues of Thebes. The inundation of the Nile, however, pre- vented him from seeing even the Pyramids nearer than Grand Cairo ; and when on the verge of that interesting region, he was com- pelled unwillingly to retrace his steps to the French shores. After a tempestuous voyage, along the coast of Lybia, he cast anchor off the ruins of Carthage; and thus describes his feelings on surveying those venerable remains : "From the summit of Byrsa, the eye em- braces the ruins of Carthage, which are more considerable than are generally imagined; they resemble those of Sparta, having nothing well preserved, but embracing a considerable space. I saw them in the middle of February : the olives, the fig-trees, were already bursting into leaf: large bushes of angelica and acan- thus formed tufts of verdure, amidst the re- mains of marble of every colour. In the dis- tance, I cast my eyes over the Isthmus, the double sea, the distant isles, a cerulean sea, a smiling plain, and azure mountains. I saw forests, and vessels, and aqueducts ; moorish villages, and Mahometan hermitages; glitter- ing minarets, and the white buildings of Tunis. Surrounded with the most touching recollec- tions, I thought alternately of Dido, Sophonis- ba, and the noble wife of Asdrubal; I contem- plated the vast plains where the legions of Annibal, Scipio, and Csesar were buried: My eyes sought for the site of Utica. Alas ! The remains of the palace of Tiberius still remain in the island of Capri, and you search in vain at Utica for the house of Cato. Finally, the terrible Vandals, the rajiid Moors, passed be- fore my recollection, which terminated at last on Saint Louis, expiring on that inhospitable shore. May the story of the death of that prince terminate this itinerary; fortunate to re-enter, as it were, into my country by the ancient monument of his virtues, and to closes at the sepulchre of that King of holy memory my long pilgrimage to the tombs of illustrious men."— II. 257, 258. "As long as his strength permitted, the dying monarch gave instructions to his son Philip; and when his voice failed him, he wrote with a faltering hand these precepts, which no Frenchman, Avorlhy of the name, will ever be able to read without emotion. ' My son, the first thing which I enjoin you is to love God with all your heart; for without that no man can be saved. Beware of vio- lating his laws ; rather endure the worst tor- ments, than sin against his commandments. Should he send you adversity, receive it with humility, and bless the hand which chastens you ; and believe that you have well deserved it, and that it will turn to your weal. Should he try you with prosperity, thank him with humility of heart, and be not elated by his goodness. Do justice to every one, as well the poor as the rich. Be liberal, free, and courteous to your servants, and cause them to love as well as fear you. Should any contro- versy or tumult arise, sift it to the bottom, whether the result be favourable or unfavour- able to your interests. Take care, in an espe- cial manner, that your subjects live in peace and tranquillity imder your reign. Respec* and preserve their privileges, such as the_^ have received them from their ancestors, and preserve them with care and love. — And now, I give you every blessing which a father can bestow on his child; praying the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, that they may defend you from all adversities ; and that we may again, after this mortal life is ended, be united before God, and adore his Majesty for ever !' " — II. 264. "The style of Chateaubriand," says Napo- leon, "is not that of Racine, it is that of a prophet; he has received from nature the sacred flame ; it breathes in all his works."* It is of no common man — being apolitical oppo- nent — that Napoleon would have said these words. Chateaubriand had done nothing to gain favour with the French Emperor; on the contrary, he irritated him by throwing up his employment and leaving his countiyupon the assassination of the Duke d'Enghien. In truth, nothing is more remarkable amidst the selfish- ness of political apostasy in France, than the uniform consistence and disinterestedness of this great man's opinions. His principles, indeed, were not all the same at fifty as at twenty-five ; we should be glad to know whose are, excepting those who are so obtuse as to derive no light from the extension of know- ledge and the acquisitions of experience ? ♦ Memoirs of Napoleon, iv. 342. NAPOLEON. 27 Change is so far from being despicable, that it is highly honourable in itself, and when it proceeds from the natural modification of the mind, from the progress of years, or the lessons of more extended experience. It becomes contemptible only when it arises on the sug- gestions of interest, or the desires of ambition. Now, Chateaubriand's changesof opinion have all been in opposition to his interest ; and he has suffered at different periods of his life from his resistance to the mandates of authority, and his rejection of the calls of ambition. In early life, he was exiled from France, and shared in all the hardships of the emigrants, from his attachment to Royalist principles. At the earnest request of Napoleon, he accepted of- fice under the Imperial Government, but he relinquished it, and agrain became an exile upon the murder of the Duke d'Enghien. The influence of his writings was so powerful in favour of the Bourbons, at the period of the Restoration, that Louis XVIII. truly said, they were worth more than an army. He followed the dethroned Monarch to (ihent, and con- tributed much, by his powerful genius, to con- solidate the feeble elements of his power, after the fall of Napoleon. Called to the helm of affairs in 1824, he laboured to accommodate the temper of the monarchy to the increasing spirit of freedom in the country, and fell into disgrace with the Court, and was distrusted by the Royal Family, because he strove to intro- duce those popular modifications into the ad- ministration of affairs, which might have pre- vented the revolution of July; and finally, he has resisted all the efforts of the Citizen-King to engage his great talents in defence of the throne of the Barricades. True to his princi- ples, he has exiled himself from France, to preserve his independence; and consecrated in a foreign land his illustrious name, to the defence of the child of misfortune. Chateaubriand is not only an eloquent and beautiful writer, he is also a profound scholar, and an enlightened thinker. His knowledge of history and classical literature is equalled only by his intimate acquaintance with the early annals of the church, and the fathers of the Catholic faith; while in his speeches deli- vered in the Chamber of Peers since the restoration, will be found not only the most eloquent but the most complete and satisfac- tory dissertations on the political state of France during that period, which is anywhere to be met with. It is a singular circumstance, that an author of such great and varied ac- quirements, who is universally allowed by all parties in France to be their greatest living writer, should be hardly known except by name to the great body of- readers in this country. His greatest work, that on which his fame will rest with posterity, is the "Genius of Christianity," from which such ample quota- tions have already been given. The next is the "Martyrs," a romance, in which he has introduced an exemplification of the principles of Christianity, in the early sufferings of the primitive church, and enriched the narrative by the splendid description of the scenery in Egypt, Greece, and Palestine, M'hich he had visited during his pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and all the stores of learning which a life spent in classical and ecclesiastical lore could accumu- late. The last of his considerable publications is the " Etudes Hisloriques," a work eminently characteristic of that superiority in historical composition, which we have allowed to the French modern writers over their contempo- raries in this country; and which, we fear, another generation, instructed when too late by the blood and the tears of a Revolution, will be alone able fully to appreciate. Its ob- ject is to trace the influence of Christianity from its first spread in the Roman empire to the rise of civilization in the Western world; a field in which he goes over the ground trod by Gibbon, and demonstrates the unbounded benefits derived from religion in all the institu-. tions of modern times. In this noble under- taking he has been aided, with a still more philosophical mind, though inferior fire and eloquence, by Guizot; a writer, who, equally with his lUustrous rival, is as yet unknown, save by report, in this countr)'; but from whose joint labours is to be dated the spring of a pure and philosophical system of religious inquiry in PVance, and the commencement of that revival of manly devotion, in which the antidote, and the only antidote, to the fanati- cism of infidelity is to be found. Ts^APOLEON.* TuE age of Napoleon is one, of the delinea- tion of which history and biography will never be weary. Such is the variety of incidents which it exhibits — the splendid and heart-stir- ring events which it records — the immortal characters which it portrays — and the import- ant consequences Avhich have followed from it, that the interest felt in its delineation, so ♦ Memniros dp la Diichfisso D' Alirantrs, 2 vols. Cnlbiirn. London. Tin; translations ar« cxi'iiited by ourselves, as we have not seen the EnL'lish versiun. far from diminishing, seems rather to increase with the lapse of time, and will continue through all succeeding ages, like the eras of Themistocles, Ca;sar, and the Crusades, to form the noblest and most favourite subjects of historical descripticn. Numerous as have been the Memoirs which have issued from the French press during the last fifteen years, in relation to this eventful era, the public passion for information on it is still undimiMi^hed. Every new srI of memoirs which is ushered into the world with an hisKv 28 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. rical name, or any pretensions to authenticitv, is eagerly read by all classes on the continent. English translations generally appear in due time, but they are, in general, so extremely ill executed, as to give no ccmccption whatever of the spirit of the original; and as there is not one reader out of a hundred who can read French with such facility as to make it a matter of pleasure, the consequence is, that these delightful works are siill but imperfectly known to the British public. Every person iutimately acquainted with their composition, must have perceived in what an extremely unfavourable aspect they appear in our ordi- nary translations ; and in the utter ignorance of the principles of revolution •which pervades the great bulk of the best informed classes in this country, compared to what obtains on the other side of the Channel, is to be found the best evidence, that the great historical works which have recently appeared on the events of the last forty years in France, have had no share whatever in the formation of public opinion in this country. The Duchess of Abrantes undertakes the work of Memoirs of her own Times with sin- gular and almost peculiar advantages. Her mother, Madame Permon, a Corsican lady of high rank, was extremely intimate with the family of Napoleon. She rocked the future emperor on her knee from the day of his birth, and the intimacy of tlie families continued till he was removed to the command of the army of Italy, in April, 1796. The authoress herself, though then a child, recounts Avith admirable esprit, and all the air of truth, a number of early anecdotes of Napoleon ; and after his return from Egvpt she was married to Junot, then Governor of Paris, and subsequently ad- mitted as an habitual guest in the court circle of the First Consul. In her Memoirs, we have thus a picture of the private and domestic life of Napoleon from his cradle to his grave; we trace him through all the gradations of the Ecole Militaire, the artillery service, the cam- paigns of Italy, the return from Egypt, the Consulate, and the Empire, and live with those who have filled the world with their renown, as we would do with our most intimate ac- quaintances and friends. It has alwa3'S struck us as a singular proof of the practical sagacity and just discrimina- tion of character in Sir Walter Scott, that though his Life of Napoleon was published before the Memoirs of Bourienne, the view vvhic-h he gives of Napoleon's character is ■ substantially the same as that drawn by his confidential secretary, his school companion, and the depositary of his inmost thoughts. This is very remarkable. The French are never weary of declaiming on the inaccuracies of the Scottish biographer, and declare that he wrote history in romance, and romance in history; but they have never been able to point out an}' serious or important error in his narrative. The true reproach against Sir Walter's work is of a different kind, and con- sists in this, not that he has incorrectly stated facts, but unjustly coloured opinions; that he has not done justice to any of the parties whose conflicts desolated France during the revolution, and has written rather in the spirit of an English observer, than one participant in the feelings of the actors in those mighty events. There is but one way in which this defect can be avoided by a native of this country, and that is, by devoting himself for a long course of years to the study of the me- moirs and historians of the Revolution, and by acquiring, by incessant converse with the writings, somewhat of the spirit which ani- mates the people of the continent. The object to be attained by this, is not to imbibe their prejudices, or become infatuated by their errors, but to know and appreciate their ideas, and do that justice to passions directed against this country, which we willingly award to those excited in its favour. The character of Napoleon has been drawn by his contemporaries with more graphic power than any other conqueror in history; and yet so varied and singular is the combina- tion of qualities which it exhibits, and so much at variance with what we usually observe in human nature around us, that there is no man can say he has a clear perception of what it actually was : — Brave, without being chival- rous ; sometimes humane, seldom generous ; insatiable in ambition ; inexhaustible in re- sources ; without a thirst for blood, but totally indifferent to it when his interests were con- cerned ; without any fixed ideas on religion, but a strong perception of its necessity as a part of the mechanism of government ; a great general with a small army, a mighty conqueror with a large one ; gifted with extraordinary powers of perception, and the clearest insight into every subject connected with mankind ; without extensive information derived from study ; but the rarest aptitude for making him- self master of every subject from actual ob- servation ; ardently devoted to glory, and yet incapable of the self-sacrifice which consti- tutes its highest honours ; he exhibited a mix- ture of great and selfish qualities, such as perhaps never were before combined in any single individual. His greatest defect was the constant and systematic disregard of truth which pervaded all his thoughts. He was totally without the droiturc, or honesty, which forms the best and most dignified feature in the Gothic or German character. The maxim, Magna est Veritas et pravalebit, never seems to have crossed his mind. His intellect was the perfection of that of the Celt or Greek ; with- out a shadow of the magnanimity and honesty which has ever characterized the Roman and Gothic races of mankind. Devoted as he was to the captivating idol of posthumous fame ; deeming, as he did, that to live in the recollec- tion and admiration of future ages " constituted the true immortality of the soul," he never seems to have been aware that truth is essen- tial to the purest and most lasting celebrity; and that the veil which artifice or flattery draws over falsehood during the prevalence of power, will be borne away with a merciless hand on its termination. In the Memoirs of Napoleon and of the Archduke Charles, the opposite character of their minds, and of the races to which they belonged, is singularly portrayed. Tnose of \ NAPOLEON. 29 the latter are written with a probity, an integ- rity, and an impartiality above all praise; he censures himself tor his faults with a severity unknown to Cnesar or Frederick, and touches with a light hand on those glorious successes which justly gained for him the title of Saviour of Germany. Cautious, judicious, and reason- able, his arguments convince the understand- ing, but neither kindle the imagination nor inspire the fancy. In the Memoirs of Napo- leon, on the other hand, dictated to Montholon and Gourgaud, there are to be seen in every page symptoms of the clearest and most for- cible intellect ; a roup d'ail over every subject of matchless vigour and reach; an ardent and vehement imagination ; passions which have ripened under a southern sun, and conceptions which have shared in the luxuriant growth of tropical climates. Yet amidst all these varied excellencies, we often regret the simple hoti- homie of the German narrative. We admire the clearness of the division, the lucid view of every subject, the graphic power of the pic- tures, and the forcible perspicuity of the lan- guage ; but we have a total want of confidence in the veracity of the narrative. In every page we discover something suppressed or coloured, to magnify the importance of the writer in the estimation of those who study his work; and while we incessantly recur to it for striking political views, or consummate military criti- cism, we must consult works of far inferior celebrity for the smallest details in which his fame was personally concerned. We may trust him in speculations on the future destiny of nations, the march of revolutions, or the cause of military success ; but we cannot rely on the numbers stated to have been engaged, or the killed and wounded in a single engage- ment. The character of Napoleon has mainly rest- ed, since the publication of his work, on Bou- rienne's Memoirs. The peculiar opportunities which he had of becoming acquainted with the inmost thoughts of the First Consul, and the ability and graphic powers of his narrative, have justly secured for it an immense reputa- tion. It is probable that the private character and hidden motives of Napoleon will mainly rest with posterity on that celebrated work. Every day brings out something to support its Veracity; and the concurring testimony of the most intelligent of the contemporary writers tends to show, that his narrative is, upon the whole, the most faithful that has yet been pub- lished. Still it is obvious that there is a secret rankling at the bottom of Bouricnne's heart against his old schoolfellow. He could hardly be expected to forgive the extraordinary' rise and matchless celebrity of one who had so long been his equal. He evinces the highest admi- ration for the Emperor, and, upon the whole, has probably done him justice; yet, upon par- ticular points, a secret spleen is apparent; and though there seems no ground for discrediting most of his facts, yet we must not in every in- stance adopt implicitly the colouring in which he has painted them. It is quite plain that Bourienne was involved in some money trans- actions, ill which Napoleon conceived that he made an improper use of the stale secrets which came to his knowledge, in his official situation of private secretary; and tliat to this cause his exile into honourable and lucrolive banishment at Hamburgh is to be ascribed. Whether this banishment was justly or un- justly inflicted, is immaterial in considering the credit due to the narrative. If he was hard- ly dealt with, while our opinion of his indivi- dual integrity must rise, the weight of the feelings of exasperation Avith which he was animated must receive a proportional augmen- tation. The Memoirs of the Duchess of Abrantes are well qualified to correct the bias, and sup- ply the deficiencies of those of his private se- cretary. As a woman, she had no personal rivalry with Napoleon, and could not feel her- self mortified by his transccndant success. As the wife of one of his favourite and most pros- perous generals, she had no secret reasons of animosity against the author of her husband's elevation. Her intimate acquaintance also with Napoleon, from his very infancy, and be- fore flattery or power had aggravated the faults of his character, renders her peculiarly well qualified to portray its original tendenc)-. Many new lights, accordingly, have been thrown upon the eventful period of his reign, as well as his real character, by her Memoirs. His disposition appears in a more amiable light — his motives are of a higher kind, than fron preceding accounts; and we rise from the pe- rusal of her fascinating volumes with the im pression, which the more extensively we studj human nature we shall find to be the more correct, that men are generally more amiable at bottom than we should be inclined to ima- gine from their public conduct ; that their faults are fully as much the result of the circum- stances in which they are placed, as of any inherent depravity of disposition ; and that dealing gently with those who are carried along on the stream of revolution, we should reserve the weight of our indignation for those who put the perilous torrent in motion. But leaving these general speculations, it is lime to lay before our readers a few extracts from these volumes themselves, and to com- municate some portion of the pleasure which we have derived from their perusal. In doing so we shall adopt our usual plan of translating the passages ourselves ; for it is impossible to convey the least idea of the original in the circumlocutions of the ordinary London ver- sions. Of the early vouth of Napoleon at the Ecole Mililaire of JParis, with the management of which he was in the highest degree dissatisfied, we have the following interesting account: — " When we got into the carriage. Napoleon, who had contained himself before his sister, broke out into the most violent invectives a£;ainst the administration of such places as the Maison St. Cyr. for youn? ladies, and the Ecole Militaire for cadets. My uncle, who was ex- tremely quick in hij; temper, at last got out of all patience at the tone of cutting bitterness which appeared in his language, and told him so without reserve. Napoleon was then silent, for enough of good breeding still remained to make youth respect the voice of those advanceii c2 30 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. in years. But his heart was so full as to he almost bursting. Shortly after he led back the conversation to the subject, and at last his ex- pressions became so offensive that my father said to him rudely, ' Be silent ; it ill becomes you, who are educated at the expense of the King, to speak in that manner.' " My mother has often since told me, she was afraid Napoleon would be suffocated at these words. In an instant he became pale and inarticulate. When he recovered his voice, he exclaimed in a voice trembling with emo- tion, ' I am not an eleve of the King, but of the State' " ' A fine distinction, truly,' replied my un- cle. ' Whether you are an eleve of the King, or of the State, is of no consequence; besides, is not the King the State] I desire that you will not speak in such terms of your benefactor in my presence.' "'I will do nothing to displease you, M. Comnene,' replied the young man. ' Permit me only to add, that if I was the master, and had the power to alter these regulations, they should be very different, and for the good of the whole.' " I have recounted that scene only to remark these words — ' If I was the master.' He has since become so, and all the world knows what he has done for the administration of the Ecole Militaire. I am convinced that he long enter- tained a painful sense of the humiliation he underwent at that establishment. At our ar- rival in Paris, he had been a year there, and that whole period was one of contradiction and disgust. He was not loved by his companions. Many persons who were acquainted with my father, declared to him that Napoleon's charac- ter was such as could not be rendered sociable. He was discontented with every thing, and ex- pressed his censure aloud in such decided terms, as made him pass with these old wor- thies for a young firebrand. The result of this conduct was, that his removal into a regiment was unanimously demanded by every one at the school, and thus it advanced the period of his promotion. He obtained a sub-lieutenancy, which was stationed at Grenoble. Before his departure, he came to live some time with us; my sister was at a convent, but she came fre- quently home during the period of her vacation. I recollect that the day when he first put on his uniform, he was as joyous as young men gene- rally are on such an occasion: but his boots gave a singularly ridiculous appearance to his figure : they were of such enormous dimensions, that his Utile thin legs quite disappeared with- in them. Everybody knows that nothing has so quick an eye for the ridiculous as childhood, so the moment that my sister and I saw him come into the room with these enormous boots, we burst out into immoderate fits of laughter. Then, as subsequently, he could not endure pleasantry, when he was its object: my sister, who was considerably older than I, answered, that as he had girded on his sword, he should consider himself as the Chevalier of Dames, and be highly flattered by their joking with liira " ' It is easy to see,' said Napoleon wdth a haughty air, 'that you are a little miss just let loose from school.' "My sister was then thirteen years old: it may easily be imagined how such an expres- sion hurt her. She was of a very gentle dis- position, — but neither she nor any other wo- man, whatever her age or disposition may be, can bear a direct insult to her vanity — that of Cecile was keenly offended at the expression of little miss escaped from school. "'And you,' said she, ' are nothing but a Puss IN Boots.' " Everyone burst out a laughing: the stroke had told most effectually. I cannot describe the wrath of Napoleon ; he answered nothing, and it was as well he did not. My mother thought the epithet so well applied, that she laughed with all her heart. Napoleon, though Utile accustomed at that time to the usage of the world, had a mind too fine, too strong an instinctive perception, not to see that it was necessary to be silent when his adversary was a woman, and personalities were dealt in: whatever her age was, she was entitled to re- spect. At least, such was then the code of po- liteness in those who dined at table. Noiu that utility and personal interest alone are the order of the day, the consumption of time in such pieces of politeness is complained of: and every one grudges the sacrifices necessary to carry into the world his UtUe conUngent of so- ciability. " Bonaparte, though grievously piqued at the unfortunate epithet applied to him by my sister, affected to disregard it, and began to laugh like the rest; and to prove that he bore her no ill will on that account, he bought a little present, on which was engraved a Puss in Boots, running before the carriage of the Marquis of Carabus. This present cost him a good deal, which assorted ill with the strait- ened state of his finances. He added a beau- Uful edition of 'Puss in Boots,' for my sister, telling her that it was a Souvenir v^hich. he beg- ged her to keep for his sake. " ' The story-book,' said my mother, ' is too much : if there had only been the engraving, it was all well ; but the book for Cecile, shows you were piqued against her.' " He gave his word to the contrary. But I sUU think with my mother, that he was piqued, and bitterly so: the whole story was of no small service to me at a future time, as will appear in the sequel to these memoirs." — I. 52, 5.3. Several interesting anecdotes are preserved of the Reign of Terror, singularly characteris- tic of the horrors of that eventful period. The following picture is evidently drawn from the life :— " On the following day, my brother Albert was obliged to remain a considerable time at home, to put in order the papers which my father had directed to be burnt. He went out at three o'clock to see us: he found on the I'oad groups of men in a state of horrible and bloody drunkenness. Many were naked down to the waist ; their arms, their breasts bathed in blood. At the end of their pikes, they bore fragments of clothes and bloody remnants : their looks were haggard; their eyes inflamed. As he ad- vanced, these groups became more frequent and hideous. My brother, mortally alarmed as to our fate, and determined at all hazards NAPOLEON. 31 to rejoin us, pushed on his horse along the Boulevard where he then was, and arrived in front of the Palace Beaumarchais. There he was arrested by an immense crowd, composed of the same naked and bloody men, but with an expression of countenance altogether infer- nal. They set up hideous cries: they sung, they danced ; the Saturnalia of Hell were be- fore him. No sooner did they see the cabriolet of Albert, than they raised still louder yells : an aristocrat ! an aristocrat ! and in a moment the cabriolet was surrounded by a raging mul- titude, in the midst of M'hich an object was elevated and presented to his view. Troubled as the sight of my brother was, he could dis- tinguish long white hair, clotted with blood, and a face beautiful even in death. The figure is brought nearer, and its lips placed on his. The unhappy wretch set up a frightful cry. He knew the head: it was that of the Princess Lamballe. "The coachman whipped the horse with all his strength ; and the generous animal, with that aversion for blood which cliaracterizes its race, rushed from that spectacle of horror with redoubled speed. The frightful trophy was overturned, with the cannibals who bore it, by the wheels of the carriage, and a thousand imprecations followed my brother, who lay stretched out insensible in the bottom of the cabriolet. " Serious consequences resulted to my bro- ther from that scene of horror. He was car- ried to a physician, where he was soon taken seriously ill of a burning fever. Inhis delirium, the frightful figure was ever present to his ima- gination. He never ceased, for days together, to see that livid head and those fair tresses bathed in blood. For years after, he could not recall the recollection of that horrible event without falling into a swoon, nor think of those days of wo without the most vivid emotion. " A singular circumstance concluded this tale of horror. My brother, in 1802, when Commissary General of Police at Marseilles, received secret instructions to watch, with peculiar care, over a man named Raymonet, but whose real name was different. He lived in a small cottage on the banks of the sea; ap- peared in comfortable circumstances, but had no relation nor friend; he lived alone in his solitary cabin, and received every morning his provisions from an old woman, who brought them to his gate. The secret instructions of the police revealed the fact, that this person had been one of the principal assassins at the Abbaye and La Force, in September, 1792, and was in an especial manner noted as the most cruel of the assassins of the Princess Lam- balle. " One morning my brother received intelli- gence that this man was at the point of death; and, gracious God! what a death! For three daj's he had endured all the torments of hell. The accident which had befallen him was per- fectly natural in its origin, but it had made him suffer the most excruciating pains. He was alone in his habitation; he was obliged to drag himself to the nearest surgeon to obtain assist- ance, but it was too late : an operation was im- possible, and would not even have assuaged the pains of the dying wretch. He refused alike religious succour and words of consola- tion. His deathbed was a chair of torture in- comparably more agonizing than the martyr- dom of a Christian. He died with blasphemies in his mouth, like the Reprobate in Dante's Inferno."— L 95. The French, who have gone through the Revolution, frequently complain that there are no descriptions given in any historical works which convey the least idea of the Reign of Terror; so infinitely did the reality of that dreadful period exceed all that description can convey of the terrible. There might, however, we are persuaded, be extracted from the con- temporary Memoirs (for in no other quarter can the materials be found) a picture of that memorable era, which would exceed all that Shakspeare or Dante had figured of human atrocit\% and take its place beside the plague in Thucydides, and the Annals of Tacitus, as a lasting beacon to the human race, of the un- heard of horrors following in the train of de- mocratic ascendancy. One of the most curious parts of the Duch-. ess's work is that which relates to the arrest of Napoleon after the fall of Robespierre, in consequence of the suspicions that attached to him, from his mission to Genoa with the bro- ther of that tyrant. It appears, that whatever he may have become afterwards. Napoleon was at that period an ardent republican: not pro- bably because the principles of democracy were suited to his inclinations, but because he found in the favour of that faction, then the ruling power in France, the only means of gra- tifying his ambition. Salicetti, one of the de- puties from Corsica, occasioned his arrest after the fall of Robespierre, and he was actually a few days in custody. Subsequently, Salicetti himself was denounced by the Convention, and concealed in the house of Madame Permon, mother to the Duchess of Abranles. The whole details which follow this event are highly inte- resting; and as they afi^ord one of the few really generous traits of Napoleon's character, we willingly give them a place. " The retreat of Salicetti in our house was admirably contrived. His little cabinet was so stuffed with cushions and tapestry, that the smallest sound could not be heard. No one could have imagined where he was concealed. " On the following morning at eleven o'clock, Napoleon arrived. He was dressed in his usual costume ; a gray great-coat buttoned up to the throat, — a black neckcloth, — round hat, which came down over the eyes. To say the truth, at that period no one was elegantly dressed, and the personal appearance of Napoleon did not appear so singular as it now does, upon looking back to the period. He had in his hand a bouquet of violets, which he presented to my mother. That piece of gallantry was sr unusual in him, that we immediately began to laugh. " It appears,' said he, ' I am not an fan at my new duties of Cavaliere Servente.' Then changing the subject, he added, ' Well, Madame Permon, Salicetti has, in his turn, reaped the bitter fruits of arrest. They must be the more difficult to swallow, that he ami his associates have planted the trees on which 32 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. they grow.' 'What!' said mj' mother, with an air of surprise, and making asi^n to me at the same time to shut tlie door, ' is Salicetti arrest- ed]' 'Do you not know,' replied Napoleon, ' that his arrest was yesterday decreed at the Assembly? I thought j'ou knew it so well, that he was concealed in your house.' ' In my house !' replied my mother, with a well-feigned air of surprise ; ' Napoleon, my dear child, you are mad! In my house ! That implies that I have one, which unfortunately is not the case. My dear General, I beg you will not repeat such nonsense. What have I done to entitle you thus to sport with me as if I were deranged, for I can call it nothing elsel' , "At these words Napoleon rose up; he Di'ossed his arms, advanced immediately op- posite to my mother, where he stood for some time without saying a word. M3' mother bore, without flinching, his piercing look, and did not so much as drop her eyelid under that eagle's eye. 'Madame Permon,' said he at length, 'Salicetti is concealed in your house: nay, do not interrupt me. I do not know it for certain, but I have no doubt of it, because yesterday at five o'clock he was seen on the Boulevard, coming in this direction, after he had received intelligence of the decree of the Assembly. He has no friend in this quarter who would risk life and liberty to save him but yourself; there can be no doubt, therefore, where he is concealed.' "This long harangue gave my mother time to regain her assurance. ' What title could Salicetti have to demand an asylum from me? He knows that our sentiments are not the same. I was on the point of setting out, and had it not been for an accidental letter from my hus- band, I would have been now far advanced on my road to Gascony.' " ' What title had he to seek an asylum in your house?' replied Napoleon, 'that is the justest observation you have yet made, Madame Permon. To take refuge with a lonely woman, who might be compromised for a few hours of concealment to a proscribed culprit, is an act that no one else would be capable of. You are indeed his debtor; are you not, Mademoiselle Loulou?' said he, turning to me, who had hitherto remained silent in the window. " I feigned to be engaged with flower-pots in a window, where there were several bushes of arbutus, and did not answer him. Mj' mother, who understood my motive, said to me, ' Ge- neral Bonaparte speaks to you, my dear.' I then turned to him ; the remains of my trouble might show him what had passed in the mind of a girl of fifteen, who was compelled, in spite of herself, to do an unpolite thing. He took my hand, pressed it between his two, and, turning to my mother, exclaimed, 'I ask your pardon; I have been in the wrong; j'our daughter has given me a lesson.' ' You give Laurette more merit than she really has,' re- plied my mother. ' She has not given you a lesson, iaecause she does not know wherefore she should do so; but I will do so immediatelv, if you persist in believing a thing which has no foundation, but might do me irreparable mischief if it were spread abroad.' "Bonaparte said, with a voice full of emo- tion 'Madame Permon, you are an uncom- ! monly generous woman, and that man is a wicked man. You could not have clcised your door upon him, and he knew it ; and yet you expose ycmrself and that child for such a man. Formerly I hated him ; now I despise him. He has done me a great deal of harm ; yes, he has done me a great deal of harm, and you know it. He has had the malice to take advantage of his motnentary ascendency to strive to sink me below the water. He has accused me of crimes ; for what crime can be so great as to be a traitor to your country? Salicetti con- ducted himself in that affair of Loano, and my arrest, like a miserable wretch. Junot was going to have killed him, if I had not prevented him. That young man, full of fire and friend- ship for me, was anxious to have fought him in single combat ; he declared that if he would not fight, he would have thrown him over the window. Now he is proscribed ; Salicetti, in his turn, can now appreciate the full extent of what it is to have one's destiny shattered, ruined by an accusation.' " ' Napoleon,' said my mother, stretching out her hand to him, ' Salicetti is not here. I swear he is not. And must I tell you all ?' ' Tell it; tell it,' said he, with extreme impatience. ' Well, Salicetti was here yesterday at six o'clock, but he went out at half-past eight. I convinced him of the impossibility of his remaining concealed in furnished lodgings. He admitted it, and went away.' " While my mother spoke, the eyes of Na- poleon continued fixed upon her with an eager- ness of which it is impossible to convey an idea. Immediately after, he moved aside, and walked rapidly through the chamber. ' I was right, then, after all,' he exclaimed. ' He had then the cowardice to say to a generous woman, Give your life for me. But did he who thus contrived to interest you in his fate, tell j-ou that he had just assassinated one of his col- leagues ? Did he wash his hands before he touched yours to implore mercy?' " 'Napoleon, Napoleon !' exclaimed my mo- ther in Italian, and with great emotion, ' this is too much. Be silent, or I must be gone. If they have murdered this man after he left me, at least it is no fault of mine.' Napoleon at this time was not less moved. He sought about everywhere like a hound after its prey. He constantly listened to hear him, but could make out nothing. My mother was in despair. Salicetti heard every thing. A single plank separated him from us ; and I, in my inexpe- rience, trembled lest he should issue from his retreat and betray us all. At length, after a fruitless search of two hours, he rose and went away. It was full time ; my mother was worn out with mortal disquietude. ' A thousand thanks,' said he, as he left the room; 'and above all, Madame Permon, forgive me. But if you had ever been injured as I have been by that man ! Adieu !' "— L 147, 148. A few days after, Madame Permon set out for Gascony, with Salicetti, disguised as a foot- man, seated behind the carriage. Hardly had they arrived at the first post, when a man ar- rived on horseback, with a letter for Madame Permon. They were all in despair, conceiv- ing they were discovered, but upon opening it, NAPOLEON. 33 their apprehensions were dispelled ; it was from Bonaparte, who had received certain in- telligence from his servant that Salicetti, his mortal enemy, was in the carriage with her, and had been concealed in her house. He had 1 .arned it from his servant, who became acquainted with it from Madame Permon's maid, who, though faithful to misfortune, could not conceal the secret from love. It was in the following terms : — " I never wished to pass for a hypocrite. I would be so, if I did not declare that for more than twenty days I have known for certain that Salicetti was concealed in your house. Recol- lect my words on the Lst Prairial ; I was then almost sure of it, now I know it beyond a doubt. Salicetti, you see I could repay you the injury you have done me ; in doing so, I should only have requited the evil which you did to me, whilst you gratuitously injured one who had never ofl'ended you. Which is the nobler part at this moment — yours or mine 1 I have it in my power to revenge myself, but I will not do it. — Perhaps you will say that your benefac- tress serves as your shield, and I own that that consideration is powerful. But though you were alone, unarmed, and proscribed, your head would be safe from my hands. Go — seek in peace an asylum where you may become animated with nobler sentiments towards your country. My mouth is closed on your name, and will never open more on that subject. Repent, and appreciate my motives. I deserve it. for they are noble and generous. — Madame Permon — My warmest wishes attend )-ou and your daughter. You are two helpless beings, without defence. May Providence and the prayers of a friend be ever with you ! Be prudent, and do not stop in the great towns. Adieu! receive my kindest regards. — N. Bo- naparte." — I. 160. We regard this letter and the previous transaction to which it refers, if it shall be deemed by those intimately acquainted with the parties as perfectly authentic, as by far the most important trait in the character of Na- poleon during his early life which has yet ap- peared. It demonstrates that at that period at least his heart was accessible to generous sen- timents, and that he was capable of perform- ing a noble action. Admitting that he was, in a great degree, swayed in this proceeding by his regard for Madame Pennon, who appears to have been a woman of great attractions, and for whom, as we shall presently see, he con- ceived warmer feelings than those of mere friendship, still it is not an ordinary character, and still less not an ordinary Italian character, which, from such motives, would forego the fiendish luxury of revenge. This trait, there- fore, demonstrates that Napoleon's character originally was not destitute of generosity; and the more charitable, and probably the more just, inference is, that the selfishness and ego- tism by which he was afterwards so strongly characterized, arose from that uninterrupted and extraordinary' flow of prosperity which befell him, and which experience everywhere proves is more fatal to generosity or interest in others than any thing else in the course of man here below. ! On the voyage along the charming banks of the Garonne from Bordeaux to Toulouse, our authoress gives the following just and in- teresting account: — j "That mind must be really disquieted or in suffering, which does not derive the highest pleasure from the voyage by water from Bor- , deaux to Toulouse. I have seen since the ^ shores of the Arno, those of the Po, the Tagus, I and the Brenta; I have seen the Arno in its , thundering cascade, and in its placid waters; ; ail traverse fertile plains, and exhibit ravish- 1 ing points of view: but none of them recall the magical illusion of the voyage from Bor- deaux to Toulouse. Mannande, Agen, Lan- gon. La Reole, — all those towns whose names are associated with our most interesting recol- lections, are there associated with natural scenery prodigal of beauty, and illuminated by a resplendent sun and a jiure atmosphere. I can conceive nothing more beautilul than those enchanted banks from Reole to Ageu. Groups of trees, Gothic towers, old castles, venerable steeples, which then, alas! no longer called the Catholics to prayer. Alas ! at that time, even the bells were absent, — they no longer called the faithful to the house of God. Every thing was sad and deserted around that antique porch. The grass was growing between the stones of the tombs in the nave; and the shepherd was afar off, preaching the word of God in distant lands, while his tlock, deprived of the Bread of Life, beheld their infanLs springing up around them, without any more religious instruction than the savages of the desert."— L 166. The fact here mentioned of the total want of religious instruction in the people of the country in France, is by far the most serious consequence which has followed the tempests of the Revolution. The thread of religious in- struction from parent to child, has, for the first time since the introduction of Christianity in the western world, been broken over nearly a whole nation. A whole generation has not only been born, but educated and bred up to manhood, without any other religious impres- sions than what they received from the tradi- tions of their parents. Lavalette has recorded, that during the campaigns of Napoleon in Italy, the soldiers never once entered a church, and looked upon the ceremonies of the Catho- lics in the same way as they would have done on the superstition of Hindostan or Mexico. So utterly ignorant were they of the elements even of religious knowledge, that when iher crossed from Egypt into Syria, they knew not that they were near the places celebrated in Holy Writ; they drank without consciousne.ss at the fountains of Moses, wound without emotion round the foot of Mount Sinai. and quartered at Bethlehem and on Mount Carmel. ignorant alike of the cradle of Christianity, or of the glorious eftorts of their ancestors in those scenes to regain possession of the Holy Sepulchre. I What the ultimate consequences of ihis 'universal and unparalleled break in religious instruction must lie, it is not dilhcnlt to fore- tell. The restoration of the Christian worship i by Napoleon, the efforts of the Bourdons during 34 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. fifteen years to restore its sway, have proved in a great degree nusratory : Christianity, re- appearing in the garb of political power, has lost its original and destined hold of the peo- ple ; it is regarded by all the ardent and impe- tuous part of the nation, as a mere collection of antiquated prejndices or nursery tales, adopted by government for political purposes, and fitted only to enslave and fetter the human ?nind. The consequence has been, an univer- sal emancipation of the nation, in towns at /east, from the fetters of religion, — a dissolu- tion of manners pervading the middling and lower orders to a degree unparalleled in mo- dern Europe, — and an universal inclination in the higher to adopt selfish maxims in life, and act upon the principles of individual interest and elevation. This is the great feature of modern society in France, — the distinguishing characteristic which is alike deplored by their •writers, and observed by the strangers who visit their coun.ry. They are fast descending into the selfishness and egotism which, in ancient times, were the invariable forerunners of political decline. This character has be- come incapable of sustaining genuine freedom; from the fountains of selfishness its noble streams never yet flowed. The tempests of democracy will for a time agitate France, because the people will long strive to shake off the restraints of government and religion, in order that no fetters may be imposed on their passions ; when they have discovered, as they will soon do, that this leads only to universal suffering, they will sink down quietly and for ever under the shadow of des- potism. And this will be the consequence and the punishment of their abandonment of that which constitutes the sole basis of lasting or general freedom — the Christian religion and private virtue. One of the convulsions attended with the least suffering in the whole course of the Re- volution, was the 13th Vendemiare, 1795, when Napoleon, at the head of the troops of the Convention, 5000 strong, defeated 40,000 of the National Guard of Paris, on the very ground at the Tuileries, which was rendered famous, thirty-five years after, by the over- throw of Charles X. and the dynasty of the Bourbons. The following description, how- ever, conveys a lively picture of what civil war is, even in its least horrible forms. "During some hours, we flattered ourselves That matters would be arranged between the National Guards and the Convention ; but suddenlj^ at half-past four the cannon began to discharge. Hardly was the first report heard, when the reply began on all sides. The effect was immediate and terrible on my poor father; he uttered a piercing cry, and calling for succour, was soon seized with a A'iolent delirium. In vain we gave him the soothing draughts which had been prescribed by M. Duchesnois. All the terrific scenes of the Re- volution passed before his eyes, and every new discharge which was heard pierced him to the heart. What a day ! what anight! Our ■windows were broken to pieces ; towards the evening the section retired, and they fought under our eyes ; but M-hen they came to the church of St. Roch, and the theatre of the Re- public, it seemed as if the house would fall to pieces. " My father was in agony ; he cried, he wept. Never shall I forget the horrors of that terrible time. Our terrors rose to the highest pitch, when we heard that barricades were erected in the Rue de la Loi. Every hour of that dreadful night was to me like the hour of the damned, of which Father Bridagne speaks, Tonjours jamaia. I loved my father with the sincerest affection, and I adored my mother. I saw the one dying with the discharges of can- nOn, which resounded in his ears, while the other, stretched at the foot of that bed of death, seemed ready to follow him. There are some recollections which are eternal ; never will the remembrance of that dreadful night, and. of those two days, be effaced from my memory; they are engraven on my mind with a burning iron."— L p. 190. Salicetti fell ill in their house, from anxiety on account of the fate of Rome and his accom- plices, who were brought to trial for a con- spiracy to restore the Reign of Terror. The picture she gives of his state of mind when on the bed of sickness, is finely descriptive of the whirl of agony which infidelity and democracy produce. '■.^ ',.•'' " We had soon a new torment to undergo ; Salicetti fell ill. Nothing can equal the hor- rors of his situation ; he was in a high fever, and delirious ; but what he said, what he saw, exceeds any thing that can be conceived. I have read many romances which portrayed a similar situation. Alas! how tiieir description falls short of the truth ! Never have I read any thing which approached it — Salicetti had no religion ; that added to the horrors of these dreadful scenes. He did not utter complaints ; blasphemies were eternallv poured forth. The death of Rome and his friends produced the most terrible effect on his mind; their tragic fate was incessantly present to his thoughts. One, in particular, seenned never to quit his bedside ; he spoke to him, he listened, he answered ; the dialogues between them, for he answered for his dead friend, were enough to turn our brains. Sometimes he fancied him- self in a chamber red with blood. But what caused me more terror than all the rest, was the low and modulated tone of his voice during his delirium ; it would appear that terror had mastered all his other faculties, even the acutest sufferings. No words can convey an idea of the horror inspired by that pale and extenuated man, uttering, on a bed of death, blasphemies and anathemas in a voice modu- lated and subdued by terror. I am at a loss to convey the impression of what I felt, for, though so vividly engraven on my memory, I know not how to give it a name." — I. p. 156. It is well sometimes to follow the irreligious and the Jacobins to their latter end. How desperately do these men of blood then quail under the prospect of the calamities they have inflicted on others; how terribly does the evil they have committed return on their own heads ; how infinitely does the scene draAvn from the life, exceed all that the imagination of Dante could conceive of the terrible! NAPOLEOX. 35 It is well known what a dreadful famine prevailed in Paris for some time after the sup- pression of the revolt of the 13th Vendemiare. Our authoress supplies us with several anec- dotes, highl}'^ characteristic of the period, and which place Bonaparte's character in a very favourable light. " At that period famine prevailed in Paris, with more severity than anywhere else in Jrance ; the people were literally suffering under want of bread ; the other necessaries of life were not less deficient. What an epoch ! Great God ! the misery was frightful — the depreciation of the assignats went on aug- menting with the public suffering — the poor, totally without work, died in their hovels, or issuing forth in desperation, joined the rob- bers, who infested all the roads in the country. "Bonaparte was then of great service to us. We had white bread for our own consump- tion; but our servants had only the black bread of the Sections, which was unwholesome and hardly eatable. Bonaparte sent us every day some rolls for breakfast, which he came to eat with us with the greatest satisfaction. .^At that period, I can afRrm with confidence, since he associated me in his acts of benefi- cence, that Napoleon saved the lives of above a hundred families. He made domiciliary dis- tributions of bread and wood, which his situa- tion as military commander enabled him to do. I was intrusted with the division of these gifts among ten families, who were dying of famine. The greater part of them lodged in the Rue St. Nicholas, close to our house. That street was inhabited at that time by the poorest class. No one who has not ascended one of its crowded stairs, has an idea of what real misery is. " One day Bonaparte, coming to dine at my mother's, was stopped in alighting from his carriage by a woman, who bore the dead body of an infant in her arms. It was the youngest of six children. Misery and famine had dried up her milk. Her little child had just died — it was not yet cold. Seeing every day an officer with a splendid uniform alight at our house, she came to beg bread from him, 'in order,' as she expressed it, 'that her other infants should not share the fate of the youngest — and if I get nothing, I will take the wiiole five, and we will throw ourselves together into the river.' "This was no vain threat on the part of that unhappy woman, for at that period suicides succeeded each other every day. Nothing wa» talked of but the tragic end of some family. Bonaparte entered the room with the expres- sion of melancholy, which did not leave him during the whole of dinner. He had at the moment given a few assignats to that unhappy woman ; but after we rose from table, he begged my mother to make some inquiries concerning her. She did so, and found that her story was all true, and that she was of good character. Napoleon paid her the wages due to her deceased husband by the govern- ment, and got for her a small pension. She succeeded in bringing up her children, who ever after retained the most lively .sense of gratitude towards ' the General,' as they called their benefactor." — I. 195. The Duchess gives a striking picture of the difference in the fashions and habits of living which has resulted from the Revolution. Be- ing on a subject where a woman's observations are more likely to be accurate than those of a man, we willingly give a place to her observa- tions. " Transported from Corsica to Paris at the close of the reign of Louis XV., my mother had imbibed a second natuie in the midst of the luxuries and excellencies of that period. We flatter ourselves that we have gained much by our changes in that particular ; but we are quite wrong. Forty thousand livres a year, fifty )-ears ago, would have commanded more luxury than two hundred thousand now. The elegancies that at that period surrounded a woman of fashion cannot be numbered; a profusion of luxuries were in common use, of which even the name is now forgotten. The furniture of her sleeping apartment — the bath in daily use — the ample folds of silk and velvet which covered the windows — the perfumes . which filled the room ; the rich laces and dresses which adorned the wardrobe, were widely dif- ferent from the ephemeral and insufficient articles by which they have been replaced. My opinion is daily receiving confirmation; for every thing belonging to the last age is daily coming again into fashion, and I hope soon to see totally expelled all those fashions of Greece and Rome, which did admirably well under the climate of Rome or Messina^ but are ill adapted for our vent du iize and cloudv atmosphere. A piece of muslin suspended on a gilt rod, is really of no other use but to let a spectator see that he is behind the cur- tain. It is the same with the imitation tapestry — the walls, six inches thick, which neither keep out the heat in summer, nor the cold in winter. All the other parts of modern dress and furniture are comprised in my anathema, and will always continue to be so. " It is said that every thing is simplified, and brought down to the reach of the most moderate fortunes. That is true in one sense ; that is to say, our confectioner has muslin curtains and gilt rods at his windows, and his wife has a silk cloak as well as ourselves, be- cause it is become so thin that it is indeed accessible to every one, but it keeps no one warm. It is the same with all the othpr stuffs. We must not deceive ourselves ; we have gained nothing by all these changes. Do not say, 'So much "the better, this is equality.' By no means; equality is not to be found here, any more than it is in England, or America, or anywhere, since it cannot exist. The conse- quence of attempting it is, that you will have bad silks, bad satins, bad velvets, and that is all. "The throne of fashion has encountered during the Revolution another throne, and it has been shattered in consequence. The French people, amidst their dreams of equali- ty, have lost their own hands. The large and soft arm-chairs, the full and ample draperies, thecushionsof eider down, all the other deli- cacies which we alone understood of all tho 36 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. European famil)-, led only to the imprison- ment of their possessors ; and if you had the misfortune to inhabit a spacious hotel, within a court, to void the odious noise and smells of the street, you had your throat cut. That mode of treating elegant manners put them out of fashion ; they were speedily abandoned, and the barbarity of their successors still so lingers amongst us, that every day you see put into the lumber-room an elegant Grecian chair •W'hich has broken your arm, and canopies which smell of the stable, because they are stuffed with hay. " I growl because I am growing old. If I saw that the world was going the way it should, I would say nothing, and would perhaps adopt the custom of our politicians, which is, to em- brace the last revolution with alacrity, what- ever it may be. See how comfortable this is, say our 3'oung men, who espouse the cause of the last easy chair which their upholsterer has made for them, as of the last of the thirteen or fifteen constitutions which have been manu- factured for them during the last forty years. I will follow their example ; I will applaud every thing, even the new government of Louis Philippe ; though, it must be confessed, that to do so requires a strong tlisposition to see every thing in the most favourable colours." — I. 197, 198. The authoress apologizes frequently for these and similar passages, containing details on the manners, habits, and fashions during the period in which she lived ; but no excuse is required for their insertion. Details of ball- dresses, saloons, operas, and theatres, may appear extremely trifling to those who have only to cross the street to witness them ; but they become very different when they are read after the lapse of centuries, and the accession of a totally different set of manners. They are the materials from which alone a graphic and interesting history of the period can be framed. "What would we give for details of this sort on the era of Ccesar and Pompey] with what eagerness do we turn to the faithful pages of Froissart and Monstrellet for similar informa- tion concerning the chivalrous ages ; and with what delight do we read the glowing pictures in Ivanhoe and the Crusaders, in Quentin Durward and Kenilworth, of the manners, customs, and habits of those periods'? To all appearance, the world is changing so rapidly under the pressure of the revolutionary tem- pest, that, before the lapse of many genera- tions, the habits of our times will be as much ihe object of research to the antiquary, and of interest to the historian, as those of Richard Cceur de Lion or the Black Prince are to our age. We have mentioned above, that Napoleon's interest in Madame Permon appeared to have been stronger than that of mere friendship. . The following passage contains the account of a declaration and refusal, which never pro- bably before were equalled since the beginning of the world: — " Napoleon came one day to my mother, a considerable time after the death of my father, and proposed a marriage between his sister Pauline and my brother Permon. ' Permon has some fortune,' said he; 'my sister has nothing: but I am in a situation to do much for my connections, and I could procure an advantageous place for her husband. That alliance would render me happy. You know how beautiful my sister is : My mother is your friend : Come, say Yes, and all will be settled.' "My mother answered, that her son must answer for himself; and that she would make no attempt to influence his choice. " Bonaparte admitted that my brother was a young man so remarkable, that, though he was only twenty-five years of age, he had judgment and talents adequate to any situa- tion. What Bonaparte proposed was extreme- ly natural. He contemplated a marriage be- tween a girl of sixteen and a young man of twenty-five, who had L.500 a year, with a handsome exterior ; who drew as well as his master, Vernet ; played on the harp much better than his master, Kromphultz ; spoke English, Italian, and modern Greek, as well as a native, and had such talents as had made his oflicial duties in the army of the south a matter of remark. Such was the person whom Napoleon asked for his sister; a ravishing beauty and good daughter, it is true ; but that was all. "To this proposal Napoleon added another ; that of a union between myself and Joseph or Jerome. 'Jerome is younger than Laurette,' said my mother, laughing. 'In truth, my dear Napoleon, you have become a high-priest to- day; you must needs marry all the world, even children.' Bonaparte laughed also, but with an embarrassed air. He admitted that that morning, in rising, a gale of marriage had blown over him, ' and to prove it,' said he, taking the hand of my mother, and kissing it,, ' I am resolved to commence the union of our families by asking you to marry myself as soon as the forms of society will permit.' " My mother has frequently told me that ex- traordinary scene, which I know as if I had been present at it. She looked at Bonaparte for some seconds with an astonishment bor- dering on stupefaction ; then she began to laugh so immoderately that we all heard it, though we were in the next room. " Napoleon was highly offended at the mode in which a proposal, which appeared to him perfectly natural, was received. My mother, who perceived what he felt, hastened to ex- plain herself, and to show that it was at the thoughts of the ridiculous figure which she herself would make in such an event, that she was so much amused. ' My dear Napoleon,' said she, when she had done laughing, ' let us speak seriously. You imagine you know my age, but you really do not : I will not tell you, for I have a slight weakness in that respect : I will only say, I am old enough, not only to be your mother, but the mother of Joseph. Let us put an end to this pleasantry; it grieves me when coming from you.' "Bonaparte told her that he was quite se- rious; that the age of his wife was to him a matter of no importance, provided she had not the look, like her, of being above thirty years old; that he had deliberately considered what NAPOLEON. 37 1 believe he was right.' he had just said ; and he added these remark- able words : — ' I wish to marry. My friends wish me to marry a lady of the Fauxbourg St. Germain, who is charming and agreeable. My old friends are averse to this connection, and the one I now propose suits me better in many respects. Reflect.' My mother interrupted the conversation by saying, that her mind was made up as to herself; and that as to her son, she would give him an answer in a day or two. She gave him her hand at parting, and said, smiling, that, though she had not entirely given up the idea of conquests, she could not go just so far as to think of subduing a heart of six-and-twenty; and that she hoped their friendship would not be disturbed by this little incident. 'But at all events,' said Napoleon, ' consider it well.' — ' Well, I will consider it,' said she, smiling in her sweetest manner, and so they parted. " After I was married to Junot, and he heard it, he declared that it appeared less surprising to him than it did to us. Bonaparte, at the epoch of the 13th Vendemiare, was attached to the war committee. His projects, his plans, all had one object, and that was the East. My mother's name of Comnene, with her Grecian descent, had a great interest in his imagination. The name of Calomeros, united with Comnene, might have powerfully served his ambition in that quarter. ' The great secret of all these marriages,' said Junot, ' was in that idea, I. pp. 202, 203. All the proposed marriages came to nothing; the duchess's brother refused Pauline, and she herself Joseph. They little thought, that the one was refusing the throne of Charlemagne, ,the other that of Charles V., and the third, the most beautiful princess in Europe. The following picture of three of the most celebrated women in the Revolution, one of whom evidently contributed by her influence to the fall of Robespierre, shows that the fair authoress is not less a master of the subject more peculiarly belonging to her sex. "Madame D. arrived late in the ball-room. The great saloon was completely filled. Ma- dame D., who was AvcU accustomed to such situations, looked around her to see if she could discover a seat, when her eyes were arrested by the figure of a young and charm- ing person, with a profusion of light tresses, looking around her with her fine blue eyes, with a timid air, and offering the most perfect image of a young sylph. She was in the act of being led to her seat by M. de Trenis, which showed that she was a beautiful dancer ; for he honoured no one with his hand, but those who might receive the title of la belle (hmseusc. The young lady, after having boweJ blushing to the Vestris of the room, sat down beside a lady who had the appearance of being her elder sister, and whose extremely elegant dress was attracting the attention of all around her. 'Who are these ladies!' said Madame D. to the Count de Haulefort, on whose arm she was leaning. 'Do you not know the Vis- countess Beauharnais and her daughter Hor- tense V "'MvGod!' said the Count, 'who is that beautiful woman?' who at that moment en- tered the room, and towards whom all eyes were immediately turned. That lady was of a stature above the ordinary ; but the per- fect harmony in her proportions prevented you from perceiving that she was above the ordinary size. It was the Venus of the Capi- tol, but more beautiful than the work of Phi- dias. You saw the same perfection in the arms, neck, and feet, and the whole figure animated by an expression of benevolence, which told at once, that all that beauty was but the magic reflection of a mind animated only by the most benevolent and generous feelings. Her dress had no share in contri- buting to her beauty; fur it was a simple robe of Indian muslin arranged in drapery like the antique, and held together on the shoulders by two splendid cameos ; a girdle of gold, which encircled her figure, was ele- gantly clasped in the same way; a large gold- en bracelet ornamented her arm ; her hair, black and luxuriant, was dressed without tresses, a la Titus ; over her white and beauti- ful shoulders was thrown a superb shawl of red cachemere, a dress at that period extremely rare, and highly in request. It was thrown round her in the most elegant and picturesque manner, forming thus a picture of the most ravishing beauty. It was Madame Tallien, so well known for her generous efforts at the time of the fall of Robespierre." — I. 222. This description suggests one observation, which must strike every one who is at all fami- liar with the numerous French female memoirs which have issued from the Parisian press within these few years. This is the extraor- dinary accuracy with which, at any distance of time, they seem to have the power of re- calling, not only the whole particulars of a ball-room or opera, but even the dresses worn by the ladies on these occasions. Thus the ball here described took place in 1797. Yet the duchess has no sort of difficulty in re- counting the whole particulars both of the people and dresses in 1830, three-and-thirty years after. We doubt extremely whether any woman in England could give as accu- rate an account within a month after the event. Nor does there seem to be any ground for the obvious remark that these descriptions are all got up ex post farto, without any foun- dation in real life; for the variety and accu- racy with which they are given evidently demonstrates, that however much the colours may have been subsequently added, the out- lines of the sketch were taken from nature. .\s little is there any ground fur the suspicion, that the attention of the French women is ex- clusively occupied with these matters, to the exclusion of more serious consiileratums ; lor these pages are full of able and soineiimeN profound remarks on politics, events, and characters, such as would have done credit ti the clearest head in Britain. We can only suppose that the vanity which, amiilst many excellencies, is the undoubted characl<'risiic both of the men and women in France, is the cause of this extraordinary power in their female writers, and that the same disposition which induces their statesmen and heroes U: D 38 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. record dailv the victories of their diplomacy and arms, leads their lively and intelligent ladies to commit to paper all that is particu- larly remarKable in private life, or descriptive of their triumphs in the field of love. Some imeresting details are preserved, as to the reception of Napoleon in Paris by the Directory after the Revolution of the 18th Fructidor. The following quotations exhibit the talent of the author, both for the lighter and more serious subjects of narrative in the best light; " Junot entered at first into the famous bat- talion of volunteers of the Cote d'or. After the surrender of Longw)^ they w'ere moved to Toulon ; it was the most terrific period of the Revolution. Junot was then a sergeant of grenadiers, an honour which he received from the voluntary election of his comrades on the field of battle. Often, in recounting to me the first years of his adventurous life, he has de- clared that nothing ever gave him such a de- lirium of joy, as when his comrades, all, he said, as brave as himself, named him sergeant on the field of battle, and he was elevated on a seat formed of crossed bayonets, still reek- ing with the blood of their enemies." It was at that time that, being one day, during the siege of Toulon, at his post at the battery of St. Culottes, an officer of artillery, who had recently come from Paris to direct the operations of the siege, asked from the officer who commanded the post for a young non-commissioned otficer who had at once in- telligence and boldness. The officer immedi- ately called for Junot; the officer surveyed him with that eye which already began to take the measure of human capacity. " 'You will change your dress,' said the commander, ' and you will go there to bear this order.' He showed him with his hand a spot at a distance on the same side. The young sergeant bhished up to the eyes ; his eyes kindled with fire. ' I am not a spy,' said he, 'to execute their orders; seek another to bear them.' 'Do you refuse to obey ?' said the superior officer ; ' do you know to what punish- ment you expose yourself in so doing?' 'I am ready to obey,' said Junot, ' but 1 will go in my uniform, or not at all.' The comman- der smiled, and looked at him attentively. ' But if you do, they will kill you.' ' What does that signify]' said Junot; 'you know me little to imagine I would be pained at such an occurrence, and, as for me, it is all one — come, I go as I am ; is it not so V And he set off singing. "Alter he was gone, the superior officer asked, ' What is the name of that young manl' 'Junot,' replied the other. The commanding officer then wrote his name in his pocket-book. 'He will make his way,' he replied. This judgment was already of decisive importance to Junot, for the reader must readily have divined that the officer of artillery was Na- poleon. "A few days after, being on his rounds at the same battery, Bonaparte asked for some one who could write well. Junot stepped out of the ranks and presented himself. Bona- part' recognised him as the sergeant who had already fixed his attention. He expressed his satisfaction at seeing him, and desired him to place himself so as to write under his dicta- tion. Hardly was the letter done, when a bomb, projected from the English batteries, fell at the distance of ten yards, and, exploding, covered all present with gravel and dust. ' Well,' said Junot, laughing, ' we shall at least not require sand to dry the ink.' " Bonaparte fixed his eyes on the young ser- geant ; he was calm, and had not even quivered at the explosion. That event decided his for- tune. He remained attached to the com- mander of artillery, and returned no more to his corps. At a subsequent time, when the town surrendered, and Bonaparte was ap- pointed General, Junot asked no other recom- pense for his brave conduct during the siege, but to be named his aid-de-camp. He and Muiron were the first who served him in that capacity."— I. 268. A singular incident, which is stated as hav- ing happened to Junot at the battle of Lonato, in Italy, is recorded in the following curious manner: — "The evening before the battle of Lonato, Junot having been on horseback all the day, and rode above 20 leagues in carrying the orders of the General-in-Chief, lay down over- whelmed with fatigue, without undressing, and ready to start up at the smallest signal. Hardly was he asleep, when he dreamed he was on a field of battle, surrounded by the dead and the dying. Before him was a horse- man, clad in armour, with whom he was en- gaged ; that cavalier, instead of a lance, was armed with a scythe, with which he struck Junot several blows, particularly one on the left temple. The combat was long, and at length they seized each other by the middle. In the struggle the vizor, the casque of the horseman, fell off", and Junot perceived that he was fighting with a skeleton; soon the armour fell off, and death stood before him armed with his scythe. ' I have not been able to take you,' said he, ' but I will seize one of your best friends. — Beware of me !' " Junot awoke, bathed with sweat. The morning was beginning to dawn, and he could not sleep from the impression he had received. He felt convinced that one of his brother aid- de-camps, Muiron or Marmont, would be slain in the approaching fight. In effect it was so : Junot received two wounds — one on the left temple, which he bore to his grave, and the other on the breast ; but Muiron was shot through the heart."— L 270. The two last volumes of this interesting work, published a few weeks ago, are hardly equal in point of importance to those which contained the earlier history of Napoleon, but still they abound with interesting and curious details. The following picture of the religion which grew up in France on the ruins of Christianity, is singularly instructive: — " It is well known, that during the revolu- tionary troubles of France, not only all the churches were closed, but the Catholic and Protestant worship entirely forbidden; and, after the Constitution of 1795, it was at the hazard of one's life that either the mass was NAPOLEON. 39 heard, or any religious duty performed. It is evident that Robespierre, who unquestionably had a design which is now generally under- stood, was desirous, on the day of the fete of the Supreme Being, to bring back public opinion to the worship of the Deity. Eight* months before, we had seen the Bishop of Paris, accompanied by his clergy, appear vo- luntarily at the bar of the Convention, to abjure the Christian faith and the Catholic religion. But it is not as generally known, that at that period Robespierre was not omnipotent, and could not carry his desires into etiect. Nu- merous factions then disputed with him the supreme authority. It was not till the end of 1793, and the beginning of 1794. tliat his power was so completely established that he could venture to act up to his intentions. "Robespierre was then desirous to establish the worship of the Supreme Being, and the belief of the immortality of the soul. He felt that irreligion is the soul of anarchy, and it was not anarchy but despotism which he de- sired ; and yet the very day after that magnifi- cent fete in honour of the Supreme Being, a man of the highest celebrity in science, and as distinguished for virtue and probity as philosophic genius, Lavoisier, was led out to the scaffold. On the day following that, Madame Elizabeth, that princess whom the executioners could not guillotine, till they had turned aside their eyes from the sight of her angelic visage, stained the same axe with her blood! — And a month after, Robespierre, who wished to restore order for his own purposes — who wished to still the bloody waves which fin- years had inundated the state, felt that all his efforts would be in vain if the masses who supported his power were not restrained and directed, because without order nothing but ravages and destruction can prevail. To en- sure the government of the masses, it was in- dispensable that morality, religion, and belief should be established — and, to affect the mul- titude, that religion should be clothed in ex- ternal forms. ' My friend,' said Voltaire, to the atheist Damilaville, 'after you have supped on well-dressed partridges, drank your spark- ling champagne, and slept cm cushions of down in the arms of your mistress, I have no fear of you, though you do not believe in God. But if you are perishing of hunger, and I meet you in the corner of a wood, I would rather dispense with your company.' But when Robespierre wished to bring back to some- thing like discipline the crew of the vessel which was fast driving on the breakers, he found the thing was not so easy as he ima- gined. To destroy is easy — to rebuild is the difficulty. He was omnipotent to do evil; but the day that he gave the first sign of a disposi- tion to return to order, the hands which he himself had stained with blood, marked his forehead with the fatal sign of destructicm." — VI. 34, 3o. After the fall of Robespierre, a IV'phle attempt was made, under the Directory, to establish a religions system founded on pure Deism. To the faithful believer in Revelation, it is inte- resting to trace the rise and fall of the first attempt in the history of the world to es- tablish such a faith as the basis of national religion. " Under the Directory, that bnef and deplora- ble government, a new sect established itself in France. Its system was rather morality than religion ; it affected the utmost tolerance, recognised all religions, and had no other faiili than a belief in God. Its votaries were termed the Theophilantliropists. It was during the year 1797 that this sect arose. I was once tempted to go to one of their meetings. Lare- veilliere Lepaux, chief grand priest and pro- tector of the sect, was to deliver a discourse. The first thing that struck me in the place of assembly, was a basket filled with the most magnificent flowers of July, which was then the season, and another loaded with the most splendid fruits. Every one knows the grand altar of the church of St. Nicholas in the Fields, with its rich Corinthian freize. I sus- pect the Theophilanthropists had chosen that church on that account for the theatre of their exploits, in a spirit of religious coquetry. la truth, their basket of flowers produced an ad- mirable efl^ect on that altar of the finest Grecian form, and mingled in perfect hannony with the figures of angels which adorned the walls. The chief pronounced a discourse, in which he spoke so well, that, in truth, if the Gospel had not said the same things infinitely belter, some seventeen hundred and ninety-seven years be- fore, it would have been decidedly preferable either to the Paganism of antiquity, or the mythology of Egypt or India. "Napoleon had the strongest prejudice against that sect. 'They are comedians,' said he; and when some one replied that nothing could be more admirable than the conduct of some of their chiefs, that Lareveilliere Lepaux was one of the most virtuous men in Paris ; in fine, that their morality consisted in nothing but virtue, good faith, and charity, he replied — " ' To what purpose is all that ? Every sys- tem of morality is admirable. Apart from certain dogmas, more or less absurd, which were necessary to bring them down to the level of the age in which they were produced, what do you see in the morality of the Wid- ham, the Koran, the Old Testament, or Confu- cius ] Everywhere a pure s^•stcm of morality, that is to say, you see protection to the weak, respect to the laws, gratitude to God, recom- mended and enforced. But the evangelists alone exhibit the union of all the principles of morality, detached from every kind of ab- surdity. There is something admirable, and not your common-place seniimenis put into bad verse. Do you wish to see what is sub- lime, you and your friends the Theophilan- thropists 1 Rcjunt thi' Lt of the passions and cruelty of that blood-stained tyrant, the up- right prelate preached a sermon in his pre- sence at the Chapel-Royal, condemning, in the strongest terms, the very crimes to which every one knew the monarch was peculiarly addicted. Enraged beyond measure at the re- buke thus openly administered to his *' plea- sant vices," Henry sent for Latimer, and threatened him with instant death if he did not on the next occasion retract all his cen- sures as openly as he had made them. The reproof got wind, and on the next Sunday the Royal Chapel was crowded with the courtiers, eager to hear the terms in which the inflexi- ble prelate was to recant his censures on the voluptuous tyrant. But Latimer ascended the pulpit, and after a long pause, fixing his eyes steadily on Henry, exclaimed, in the quaint language of the time, to which its inherent dignity has communicated eloquence — " Be- think thee, Hugh Latimer! that thou art in the presence of thy worldly sovereign, who hath power to terminate thy earthly life, and cast all thy worldly goods into the flames . But 46 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. bethink thee also, Hugh Latimer ! that thou art in the presence of thy Heavenly Father, whose right hand is mighty to destroy as to save, and who can cast thy soul into hell fire ;" and immediately began, in terms even severer and more cutting than before, to castigate the favourite vices and crimes of his indignant sovereign. The issue of the tale was diflerent from what the cruel character of the tyrant might have led us to expect. Henry, who, with all his atrocity, was not on some occa- sions destitute of generous sentiments, was penetrated by the heroic constancy of the venerable prelate, and instead of loading him with chains, and sending him, as every one expected, to the scaffold, openly expressed his admiration of his courage, and took him more into favour than ever. The philosophical work of Bossuet, which has attained to most general celebrity, is his " Histoire Universelle ;" and Chateaubriand has repeatedly, in his later writings, held it up as an unequalled mode! of religious general- ization. We cannot concur in these eulogiums; and in nothing perhaps does the vast progress of the human mind, during the last hundred and fifty years, appear more conspicuous than in comparing this celebrated treatise with the works on similar subjects of many men of in- ferior intellects in later times. The design of the work was grand and imposing; nothing less than a sketch of the divine government of the world in past ages, and an elucidation of the hidden designs of Providence in all the past revolutions of mankind. In this magnifi- cent attempt he has exhibited a surprising extent of erudition, and cast over the com- plicated thread of human affairs the eagle glance of genius and piety ; but he has not, in our humble apprehension, caught the spirit, or traced the real thread of divine administra- tion. He was too deeply read in the Old Testa- ment, too strongly imbued with the Fathers of the Church, to apprehend the manner in which Supreme Wisdom, without any special or mi- raculous interposition, works out the moral government of the world, and develops the objects of eternal foresight by the agency of human passions, virtues, and vices. His His- toric Theology is all tinged with the character of the Old Testament; it is the God of Battles whom he ever sees giving the victory to His chosen ; it is His Almighty Arm which he dis- cerns operating directly in the rise and the fall of nations. Voltaire said with truth that his " Universal History" is little more than the History of the Jews. It was reserved for a future age to discern, in the complicated thread of human affairs, the operation not less certain, but more impartial, of general laws ; to see in human passions the moving springs of social improvement, and the hidden instruments of human punishment; to discern, in the rise and fall of nations, the operation, nat so much of the active interposition, as of the general tendency of Divine power ; and in the efforts which the wicked make for their own aggran- dizement, or the scope which they afl^ord to their own passions, the certain causes of ap- proaching retribution. That Providence ex- ercises an unceasing superintendence of human aflfairs, and that the cousequences of public actions are subjected to permanent laws, the tendency of which in national, as in private life, is to make the virtues or vices of men as instruments of their own reward or punishment, is obvious upon the most cursory survey of history, as well as private life; and though it cannot be affirmed that the sequence is invariable, yet it is sufficiently frequent to Avarrant certain inferences as to the general character of the laws. We cannot affirm that ev^ery day in summer is to be warm, and every day in winter cold ; but nevertheless, the gen- eral character of those periods is such as to warrant the conclusion that the rotation of the season was intended, and in general does pro- duce that variation on temperature, and the consequent checking and development of the fruits of the earth. But, as far as we can dis- cern, the intentions of the Supreme Being are here, as elsewhere, manifested by general laws ; the agents employed are the virtues, vices, and passions of men ; and the general plan of divine administration is to be gathered rather from an attentive consideration of the experi- enced consequences of human actions, than any occasional interposition to check or sus- pend the natural course of events. As a specimen of the mode in which Bossuet regards the course of events, we subjoin the concluding passage of his Universal History: — "This long chain of causes and efl^ects, on which the fate of empires depends, springs at once from the secrets of Divine Providence. God holds on high the balance of all kingdoms — all hearts are in his hands ; sometimes he lets loose the passions — sometimes he re- strains them; by these means he moves the whole human race. Does he wish to raise up a conqueror — he spreads terror before his arms, and inspires his soldiers with invincible courage. Does he wish to raise up legislators — he pours into their minds the spirit of fore- sight and wisdom. He causes them to fore- see the evils which menace the state, and lay deep in wisdom the foundations of public tran- quillity. He knows that human intellect is ever contracted in some particulars. He then draws the film from its eyes, extends its views, and afterwards abandons it to itself — blinds it, precipitates it to destruction. Its precautions become the snare which entraps ; its foresight the subtlety which destroys it. It is in this way that God exercises his redoubtable judg- ments according to the immutable laws of eternal justice. It is his invisible hand which prepares, effects in their most remote causes, and strikes the fatal blows, the very rebound of which involves nations in destruction. When he wishes to pour out the vials of his wrath, and overturn empires, all becomes weak and vacillating in their conduct. Egypt, once so wise, became intoxicated, and faltered at every step, because the Most High had poured the spirit of madness into its counsels. It no longer knew what step to take ; it faltered, it perished. But let us not deceive ourselves ; God can restore when he pleases the blinded vision; and he who insulted the blind- ness of others, himself falls into the most pro- found darkness, without any other cause being BOSSUET. 47 carried into operation to overthrow the longest course of prosperity. " It is thus that God reigns over all people. Let us no longer speak of hazard or fortune, or speak of it only as a veil to our weakness — an excuse to our ignorance. That which ap- pears chance to our uncertain vision is the effect of intelligence and design on the part of the Most High — of the deliberations of that Supreme Council which disposes of all human affairs. " It is for this reason that the rulers of man- kind are ever subjected to a superior force which they cannot control. Their actions pro- duce greater or lesser effects than they in- tended; their counsels have never failed to be attended by unforeseen consequences. Neither could they control the effect which the conse- quences of former revolutions produced upon their actions, nor foresee the course of events destined to follow the measures in which they themselves were actors. He alone who held the thread of human affairs — who knows what was, and is, and is to come — foresaw and pre- destined the whole in his immutable council. "Alexander, in his mighty conquests, in- tended neither to labour for liis generals, nor to ruin his royal house by his conquests. When the elder Brutus inspired the Roman people with an unbounded passion for free- dom, he little thought that he was implanting in tlieir minds the seeds of that unbridled li- cense, destined one day to induce a tyranny more grievous than that of the Tarquins. When the Ctesars flattered the soldiers with a view to their immediate elevation, they had no intention of rearing up a militia of tyrants for their successors and the empire. In a word, there is no human power which has* not con- tributed, in spite of itself, to other designs than its own. God alone is able to reduce all things to his own will. Hence it is that every thing appears surprising when we regard only secon- dary causes; and, nevertheless, all things ad- vance with a regulated pace. Innumerable unforeseen results of human councils con- ducted the fortunes of Rome from Romulus to Charlemagne." — Discours sur I'Hisi. Univ. ad fin. it is impossible to dispute the grandeur of the glance which the Eagle of Meaux has cast over hnman affairs in the ancient world. But without contesting many of his propositions, and. in particular, fully conceding the truth of the important observation, that almost all the greater public actions of men have been at- tended in the end by consequences different from, often the reverse of, those which they intended, we apprehend that the mw/e of Di- vine superintendence and agency will be found to be more correctly portrayed in the following passage from Blair — an author, the elegance and simplicity of whose diction frequently dis- guises the profoundness of his thoughts, and the correctness of his observations of human aflairs : — " The system upon which the Divine Government at present proceeds plainly is, that men's own weakness should be appointed to correct tliem ; that sinners should be snared in the work of their own hand, and sunk in the pit which themselves have digged ; that the backslider in heart should be filled with his own ways. Of all the plans which could be devised for the government of the world, this approves itself to reason as the wisest and most worthy of God; so to frame the constitu- tion of things, that the Divine laws should in a manner execute tlumselves, and carry their sanctions in their own bosom. When the vices of men require punishment to be in- flicted, the Almighty is at no loss for ministers of justice. A thousand instruments of ven- geance are at his command; innumerable arrows are alwa3's in his quiver. But such is the profound wisdom of his plan, that no pe- culiar interposals of power are requisite. He has no occasion to step from his throne, and to interrupt the order of nature. With the majesty and solemnity which befits Omnipo- tence, he pronounces, 'Ephraim has gone to his idols: let him alone.' He leaves trans- gressors to their own guilt, and punishment follows of course. Their sins do the work of justice. Thej lift the scourge ; and with every stroke which they inflict on the criminal, they mix this severe admonition, that as he is only reaping the fruit of his own actions, he de- serves all that he sufl'ers." — Blaiii, iv. 268, i'trni. 14. The most eloquent and original of Bossuet's writings is his funeral oration on Henrietta, Queen of England, wife of the unfortunate Charles I. It was natural that such an occa- sion should call forth all his powers, pro- nounced as it was on a princess of the blood- royal of France, who had undergone unpa- ralleled calamities with heroic resignation, the fruit of the great religious revolution of the age, aeraiiist which the French prelate had exerted all the force of his talents. It exhibits accordingly a splendid specimen of genius and capacity; and imbued as we are in this Protestant land with the most favourable im- pressions of the consequences of this convul- sion, it is perhaps not altogether uninstructive to observe in what light it was regarded by the greatest intellects of the Catholic world, — that between the two we may form some estimate of the light in which it will be viewed by an impartial posterity. "Christians!" says he, in the exordium of his discourse; "it is not surprising that the memory of a great Queen, the daughter, the wife, the mother of monarchs, should attract you from all quarters to this melancholy cere- mony; it will bring forcibly before your eyes one of those awful examples which demon- strate to the world the vanity of which it is composed. You will see in her single life the extremes of human things; felicity without bounds, miseries without parallel; a long and peaceable enjoyment of one of the most noble crowns in the universe, all that birth and gran- deur could confer that was glorious, all thai adversity and suffering could accumulate that was disastrous; the good cau'^c, attended at first with some success, then involved in the most dreadful disasters. Rcvolulions unheard of, rebellion long restrained— at length reign- ing triumphant; no curb there to license, no laws in force. Majesty itself violated by blootly hand-s, usurpation, and tyranny, under the name 48 ALISOiX'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. of liberty — a fugitive Queen, who can find no retreat in her three kingdoms, and was forced to seek in her native country a melancholy exile. Nine sea vo}'ages undertaken against her will by a Queen, in spke of wintry tem- pests — a throne unworthily overturned, and miraculously re-established. Behold the les- son which God has given to kings ! thus does He manifest to the world the nothingness of its pomps and its grandeur ! If our words fail, if language sinks beneath the grandeur of such a subject, the simple narrative is more touching than aught that words can convey. The heart of a great Queen, formerly elevated by so long a course of prosperity, then steeped in all the bitterness of affliction, will speak in sutlicienlly touching language; and if it is not given to a private individual to teach the proper lessons from so mournful a catastrophe, the King of Israel has supplied the words — ' Hear ! Oh ye Great of the Earth !— Take les- sons, ye Rulers of the World !' "But the wise and devout Princess, whose obsequies we celebrate, has not merely been a spectacle exhibited to the world in order that men might learn the counsels of Divine Pro- vidence, and the fatal revolutions of monar- chies. She took counsel herself from the ca- lamities in which she was involved, while God was instructing kings by her example. It is by giving and withdrawing power that God communicates his lessons to kings. The Queen we mourn has equally listened to the voice of these two opposite monitors. She has made use, like a Christian, alike of pros- perous and adverse fortune. In the first she was beneficent, in the last invincible; as long as she was fortunate, she let her power be felt only by her unbounded deeds of goodness ; when wrapt in misery, she enriched herself more than ever by the heroic virtues befitting misfortune. For her own good, she has lost that sovereign power which she formerly ex- ercised only for the blessings of her subjects ; and if her friends — if the universal church have profited by her prosperities, she herself has profited more from her calamities than from all her previous grandeur. That is the great lesson to be drawn from the ever-memo- rable life of Henrietta Maria of Fi"ance, Queen of Great Britain. " I need not dwell on the illustrious birth of that Princess; no rank on earth equals it in lustre. Her virtues have been not less re- markable than her descent. She was endowed with a generosity truly royal; of a truth, it might be said, that she deemed every thing lost which was not given away. Nor were her other virtues less admirable. The faithful depositary of many important complaints and secrets — it was her favourite maxim that princes should observe the same silence as confessors, and exercise the same discretion. In the utmost fury of the Civil Wars never was her word doubted, or her clemency called in question. Who has so nobly exercised that winning art which humbles without lowering Itself, and confers so graciously liberty, while it commands respect ■? At once mild yet firm — condescending, yet dignified — she knew at the same time how to convince and persuade, and to support by reason, rather than enforce by authority. With what prudence did she con- duct herself in circumstances the most ar- duous ; if a skilful hand could have saved the state, hers was the one to have done it. Her magnanimity can never be sulHciently extolled. Fortune had no power over her; neither the evils which she foresaw, nor those by which she was surprised, could lower her courage. What shall I say to her immovable fidelity to the religion of her ancestors T She knew well that that attachment constituted the glory of her house, as well as of the whole of France, sole nation in the world which, during the twelve centuries of its existence, has never seen on the throne but the faithful children of the church. Uniformly she declared that no- thing should detach her from the faith of St. Louis. The King, her husband, has pro- nounced upon her the noblest of all eulogiums, that their hearts were in union in all but the matter of religion ; and confirming by his tes- timony the piety of the Queen, that enlightened Prince has made known to all the world at once his tenderness, his conjugal attachment, and the sacred, inviolable fidelity of his in- comparable spouse." All the world must admire the sustained dignity of this noble eulogium ; but touching as were the misfortunes, heroic the character, of the unfortunate Henrietta, it more nearly concerTis us to attend to the opinion of Bossuet on the great theological convulsion, in the throes of which she was swallowed up. " When God permits the smoke to arise from the pits of the abyss which darkens the face of Heaven — that is, when he sufl^ers heresy to arise — when, to punish the scandals of the church, or awaken the piety of the people and their pastors, He permits the darkness of error to deceive the most elevated minds, and to spread abroad throughout the world a haughty chagrin, a disquieted curiosity, a spirit of re- volt. He determines, in his infinite wisdom, the limits which are to be imposed to the pro- gress of error, the stay which is to be put to the sufferings of the church. I do not pretend to announce to you, Christians, the destiny of the heresies of our times, nor to be able to assign the fatal boundary by which God has restrained their course. But if my judgment does not deceive me; if, recurring to the his- tory of past ages, I rightly apply their experi- ence to the present, I am led to the opinion, and the wisest of men concur in the sentiment, that the days of blindness are past, and that the time is approaching ichen the true light will return. " When Henry VIII., a prince in other re- spects so accomplished, was seduced by the passions which blinded Solomon and so many other kings, and began to shake the authority of the Church, the wise warned him, that if he stirred that one point, he would throw the whole fabric of government into peril, and in- fuse, in opposition to his wishes, a frightful license into future ages. The wise forewarned him ; but when is passion controlled by wis- dom ; when does not folly smile at its predic- tions ■? That, however, which a prudent fore- sight could not persuade to men, a ruder in- structor, experience, has compelled them to BOSSUET. 49 believe. All that religion has that is most sa- cred has been sacrificed ; England has changed so far that it no longer can recognise itself; and, more agitated in its bosom and on its o\\-n soil than even the ocean which surrounds it, . it has been overwhelmed by a frightful inun- '"dation of innumerable absurd sects. Who can ■'..predict but what, repenting of its enormous ■ -errors concerning Government, it may not ex- ' jend its reflections still farther, and look back ' with fond regret to the tranquil condition of re- ligious thought which preceded the convul- .SIODS?" Amidst all this pomp of language, and this ." /sagacious intermixture of political foresight with religious prepossession, there is one re- flection which necessarily forces itself upon the mind. Bossuet conceived, and conceived justly, that the frightful atrocities into which religious dissension had precipitated the Eng- lish people would produce a general reaction against the theological fervour from which they had originated; and that the days of ex- travagant fervour were numbered, from the very extent of the general suffering which its aberrations had occasioned. In arriving at this conclusion, he correctly reasoned tVom , the past to the present; and foretold a decline in false opinion, from the woful consequences which Providence had attached to its continu- ance. Yet how widely did he err when he ; imagined that the days of the Reformation were numbered, or that England, relapsing into the quiet despotism of former days, was t'l fall back again into the arms of the Eternal Church ! At that very moment the broad and ieep foundations of British freedom were in ■'the act of being laid, and that power was aris- ..iufi;' destined in future ages to be the bulwark of the Protestant faith, the vehicle of pure un- defiled religion to the remotest corners of the earth. The great theological convulsions of the sixteenth century were working out their - . jEtppropriate fruits; a new world was peopling • 'ty its energy, and rising into existence from •its spirit; and from the oppressed and dis- tracted shores of England those hosts of emi- grants were embarking for distant regions, who were destined, at no remote period, to spread the Church of England and the Pro- testant faith through the countless millions of the American race. The errors, indeed the passions, the absurdities of that unhappy pe- riod, as Bossuet rightly conjectured, have passed away ; the Fifth Monarchy men no longer disturb the plains of England; the chants of the Covenanters are no longer heard on the mountains of Scotland; transferred to the faithful record of history or the classic pages of romance, these relics of the olden time only furnish a heart-stirring subject for the talents of the historian or the genius of the novelist. But the human mind never falls back, though it often halts in its course. Vis- ti^ia nvUa rcirorsinn is the law of social affairs not less than of the fabled descent to the shades below; the descendants of the Puritans and the Covenanters have abjured the absur- dities of their fathers, hut they have not re- lapsed into the chains of Popery. Purified of its corruptions by the indignant voice of in- 7 surgcnt reason, freed from its absurdities by the experience of the calamities with which they were attended, the fair form of Catholic Christianity has arisen in the British Isles; imbued with the spirit of the universal Church, but destitute of the rancour of its deluded sec- taries; borrowing from the religion of Rome its charity, adopting from the Lutheran Church its morality; sharing with reason its intellec- tual triumphs, inheriting from faith its spiri- tual constancy, not disdaining the support of ages, and )'et not excluding the light of time; glorying in the antiquity of its descent, and, at the same time, admitting the necessity of recent reformation; it has approached as near as the weakness of humanity, and the limited extent of our present vision will permit, to that model of ideal perfection which, veiled in the silver robes of innocence, the faithful trust is one day to pervade the earth. And if pre- sent appearances justify any presentiments as to future events, the destinies of this church are worthy of the mighty collision of antiqui- ty with revolution, of the independence of thought with the reverence for authority, from- which it arose, and the vast part assigned to it in human affairs. The glories of ihe Eng- lish nation, the triumphs of the English navy, have been the pioneers of its progress ; the in- fidel triumphs of the French Revolution, the victorious career of Napoleon, have minister- ed to its success; it is indissolubly wound up with the progress of the Anglo-American race; it is spreading over the wilds of Australia; slowly but steadily it is invading the primeval deserts of Africa. It shares the destmy of the language of Milton, Shakspeare, and Scott; il must grow with the growth of a colonial em- pire which encircles the earth ; the invention of printing, the discovery of steam navigation, are the vehicles of its mercies to mankind ! "I have spoken," says Bossuet, "of the license into which the human mind is thrown, when once the foundations of religion are shaken, and the ancient landmarks are re- moved. " But as the subject of the present discourse affords so unique and memorable an example for the instruction of all ages of the lengths to which such furious passions will lead the peo- ple, I must, in justice to my subject, recur to the original sources of error, and conduct you, step by step, from the first contempt and dis- regard of the church to the final atrocities in which it has plunged mankind. " The fountain of the whole evil is to be found in those in the last century, who at- tempted reformation by means of schism ; finding the church an invincible barrier asainst all their innovations, they fell lliemselves under the necessity of overturning it. Thus the decrees of the Councils, ihe doctrines of the fathers, the traditions of the Holy See, and of the Catholic Church, have been no longer con- sidered as sacred and inviolable. Every one has made for himself a tribunal, where he rendered himself Ihe arbiter of his own belief; and yet the innovators did impose some limits to the changes of thought by restraining them within the bounds of holy writ, as if ih*' niu- raent that the principle is once admitted that 50 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. every believer may pnt what interpretations upon its passages he pleases, and buoy him- self up with the belief that the Holy Spirit has dictated to him his own peculiar explanation, there is no individual who may not at once conceive himself authorized to worship his own inventions, to consecrate his thoughts, and call the Avanderings of his imagination divine inspiration. From the moment this fatal doctrine was introduced, it was distinctly foreseen by the wise that license of thought being now emancipated from all control, sects would multiply a(l infinitum: obstinacy become invincible; disputes interminable; and that, while some would give to their reveries the name of inspiration, others, disgusted with such extravagant visions, and not being able to reconcile the majesty of religion with a faith torn by so many divisions, would seek a fatal repose in the indifference of irreligion, or the hardihood of atheism. "Such, and more fatal still, have been the natural effects of the new doctrine. But, in like manner, as a stream which has burst its banks does not everywhere produce the same ravages, because its rapidity does not find everywhere the same inclinations and open- ings, thus, although that spirit of indocility and independence was generally diffused through all the heresies of latter times, it has not produced universally the same effects; it has in many quarters been i-estrained by fear, worldly interests, and the particular humour of nations, or by the Supreme Power, which can impose, where it seems good, effectual limits even to the utmost extravagance of hu- man passion. If it has appeared in undis- guised malignity in England — if its malignity has declared itself without reserve — if its kings have perished under its fury, it is because its kings have been the primary causes of the catastrophe. They have yielded too much to the popular delusion that the ancient religion was susceptible of improvement. Their sub- jects have in consequence ceased to revere its maxims; they could have no respect for it when they saw them daily giving place to the passions and caprices of princes. The earth, too frequently moved, has become incapable of consistence ; the mountains, once so stable, have fallen on all sides, and ghastly preci- pices have started forth from their bared sides. I apply these remarks to all the fright- ful aberrations which we daily see rising up around us. Be not deluded with the idea that they are only a quarrel of the Episcopacy, or some disputes of the English Church, which have so profoundly moved the Commons. These disputes were nothing but the feeble lommencement, slight essays by which the turbulent spirits made trial of their liberty. Something much more violent was stirring their hearts ; a secret disgust at all authority — an insatiable craving at>er innovation, after they had once tasted its delicious sweets. " Thus the Calvinists, more bold than the Lutherans, have paved the way for the Soci- nians, whose numbers increase every day. From the same source have sprung the infinite sects of the Anabaptists, and from their opi- nions, mingled with the tenets of Calvinism, have sprung the Independents, to whose ex- travagances it was thought no parallel could be found till there emerged out of their bosom a still more fanatic race, the Tremblers, who believe that all their reveries are Divine in- spiration ; and the Seekers, who, seventeen hundred years after Christ, still look for the Saviour, Avhom they have never yet been able to find. It is thus, that when the earth was once stirred, ruins fell on ruins; when opinion was once shaken, sect multiplied upon sect. In vain the kings of England flattered them- selves that they would be able to arrest the human mind on this perilous declivity b}' pre- serving the Episcopacy; for what could the bishops do, when they had themselves under- mined their own authority, and all the reve- rence due to the power which they derived by succession from the apostolic ages, by openly condeinning their predecessors, even as far back as the origin of their spiritual authority, in the person of St. Gregory and his disciple St. Augustin, the first apostle of the English nation 1 What is Episcopacy, when it is severed from the Church, which is its main stay, to attach itself, contrary to its divine na- ture, to royalty as its supreme head] Thus two powers, of a character so essentially dif- ferent, can never properly unite ; their func- tions are so different that they mutually impede each; and the majesty of the kings of Eng- land would have remained inviolable, if. con- tent with its sacred rights, it had not endea- voured to draw to itself the privileges and prerogatives of the Church. Thus nothing has arrested the violence of the spirit, so fruit- ful is error; and God, to punish the irreligious irritability of his people, has delivered them over to the intemperance of their own vain curiosity, so that the ardour of their insensate disputes has become the most dangerous of their maladies. " Can we be surprised if they lost all respect for majesty and the laws, if they became fac- tious, rebellious, and obstinate, when such principles were instilled into their minds 1 Re- ligion is fatally enervated when it is changed; the weight is taken away which can alone restrain mankind. There is in the bottom of every heart a rebellious spirit, which never fails to escape if the necessary restraint is taken away ; no curb is left when men are once taught that they may dispose at pleasure of religion. Thence has sprung that pretended reign of Christ, heretofore unknown to Christ- endom, which was destined to annihilate roy- alty, and render all men equal, under the name of Independents; a seditious dream, an impious and sacrilegious chimera; but valu- able as a proof of the eternal truth, that every thing turns to sedition and treason, when once the authority of religion is destroyed. But why seek for proofs of a truth, while the Divine Spirit has pronounced upon the subject an unalterable sentence ? God has himself de- clared that he will withdraw from the people who alter the religion which he has establish- ed, and deliver them over to the scourge of civil war. Hear the prophet Zacharias ! ' Their souls, saith the Lord, have swerved from me, and I have said I will no longer be BOSSUET. U your shepherd; let him who is to 'die prepare for death ; let he who is to be cut off perish, and the remainder shall prey on each other's flesh.'"* — Bossuet's Orais. Funeb. de la Heine dC^ngleterre. The character and the career of the triumph of Cromwell are thus sketched out by the same master-hand : — " Contempt of the unity of the Church was doubtless the cause of the divisions of Eng- land. If it is asked how it happened that so many opposite and irreconcilable sects should have united themselves to overthrow the royal authority] the answer is plain — a man arose of an incredible depth of thought ; as profound a hypocrite as he was a skilful politician ; capable alike of undertaking and concealing every thing; active and indefatigable equally in peace as war; so vigilant and active, that he has never proved awanting to any opi)or- tunity which presented itself to his elevation ; in fine, one of those stirring and audacious spirits which seem born to overturn the world. How hazardous the fate of such persons is, sufhciently appears from the history of all ages. But also what can they not accomplish when it pleases God to make use of them for his purposes 1 ' It was given to him to deceive the people, and to prevail against kings.'f Perceiving that in that infinite assembly of sects, who were destitute of all certain rules, the pleasure of indulging in their own dogmas was the secret charm which fascinated all minds, he contrived to j)lay upon that mon- strous propensity so as to render that monstrous assembly a most formidable body. When once the secret is discovered of leadins; the muluhtde by the attractions of liberty, it follows blindly, be- cause it hears only that name. The people, oc- cupied with the first object which had trans- ported them, go blindfold on, without perceiving that they are on the high road to servitude ; and their subtle conductor, at once a soldier, a preacher, a combatant, and a dogmatizer, so enchanted the world, that he came to be re- garded as a chief sent by God to work out the triumph of the cause of independence. He was so ; but it was for its punishment. The design of the Almighty was to instruct kings, by this great example, in the dan?er of leaving his church: He wished to unfold to men to what lengths, both in temporal and spiritual matters, the rebellious spirit of schism can lead ; and when, in order to accomplish this end, he has made choice of an instrument, nothing can arrest his course. ' I am the Lord,' said he, by the mouth of his prophet Jeremiah ; ' I made the earth, and all that therein is : I place it in the hands of whom I will.' "—Ibid. It is curious to those who reflect on the pro • Zech. xi. 9. t Rev. xiii. 5. gress of the human mind from one age to another, to observe the large intermixture of error with truth that pervades this remarkable passage. It is clear that the powerful and sagacious mind of the Bishop of Meaux had penetrated the real nature of the revolutionary spirit, whether in religion or politics; and, ac- cordingly, there is a great deal of truth in his observations on the English Revolution. But he narrows too much the view which he look of it. He ascribes more than its due to the secession from the Church of Rome. No one can doubt, indeed, that religious fervour was the great lever which then moved mankind; and that Bossuet was correct in holding that it was the fervour of the Reformation running into fanaticism, which, spreading from spiritual to temporal concerns, produced the horrors of the Great Rebellion. But, on the other hand, the event has proved that it was no part of the design of Providence to compel the English, by the experience of suffering, to fall again into the arms of the Church of Rome. An hundred and seventy years have elapsed since Bossuet composed these splendid passages, and the Church of England is not only still undecayed, but it is flourishing now in reno- vated youth, and has spread its colonial de- scendants through every part of the earth. The Church of Rome still holds its ground in more than half of old Europe; but Protestant- ism has spread with the eflbrts of colonial en- terprise, and the Bible and the hatchet have gone hand in hand in exploring the wilds of the New World. And the hand of Providence is equally clear in both. Catholicism is suited to the stately monarchies, antiquated civiliza- tion, and slavish habits of Southern Europe; but it is totally unfit to animate the exertions and inspire the spirit of the dauntless emi- grants who are to spread the seeds of civiliza- tion through the wilderness of nature. And one thing is very remarkable, and affords a striking illustration of that subjection of human affairs to an overruling Providence which Bos- suet has so eloquently asserted in all parts of his writings. Mr. Hume has observed that the marriage of Queen Henrietta to Charles I., by the partiality for the Catholic faith which it infused into his descendants, is the principal reason of their being at this moment exiles from the British throne! It was deemed at the time a masterpiece of the Court of Rome to place a Catholic Queen on the throne of England; and the conversion of that bright jewel to the tiara of St. Peter was confidently anticipated from its eflects ; and its ultimate results have been not only to confirm the Pro- testant faith in the British isles, but diiru^e its seed, by the distraction and sulfering of the Civil Wars, through the boundless colonial empire of Great Britain. 62 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. POLAND; The recent events in Poland have awakened the old and but hall-extinguished interest of the British people in the fate of that unhappy country. The French may regard the Polish legions as the vanguard only of revolutionary movement: the Radicals may hail their strug- gle as the first fruits of political regeneration: the great majority of observeis in this country think of them only as a gallant people, bravely combating for their independence, and forget the shades of political difference in the great cause of national freedom. The sympathy ■\vith the Poles, accordingly, is universal. It is as strong with the Tories as the Whigs, with the supporters of antiquated abuse as the aspi- rants after modern improvement. Political considerations combine with generous feeling in this general interest. And numbers who legard with aversion any approach towards revolutionary warfare, yet view it with com- placency when it seems destined to interpose Sarmatian valour between European indepen- dence and Muscovite ambition. The history of Poland, however, contains more subjects of interest than this. It is fraught with political instruction as well as romantic adventure, and exhibits on a great scale the consequences of that democratic equality which, with uninformed politicians, is so much the object of eulogium. The French revolu- tionists, who sympathize so vehemently with the Poles in their contest with Russian despot- ism, little imagine that the misfortunes of that country are the result of that very equality which they have made such sacrifices to at- tain; and that in the weakness of Poland may be discerned the consequences of the political system which they consider as the perfection of society. Poland, in ancient, possessed very much the extent and dominion of Russia in Europe in modern times. It stretched from the Baltic to the Euxine ; from Smolensko to Bohemia ; and embraced within its bosom the whole Scythia of antiquity — the storehouse of nations, from whence the hordes issued who so long pressed upon and at last overthrew the Roman empire. Its inhabitants have in every age been cele- brated for their heroic valour: they twice, in conjunction with the Tartars, captured the ancient capital of Russia, and the conflagration of Moscow, and retreat of Napoleon, were but the repetition of what had resulted five centu- ries before from the appearance of the Polish eagles on the banks of the Moskwa. Placed on the frontiers of European civilization, they long formed its barrier against barbarian inva- sion : and the most desperate wars they ever maintained were those which they had to carry on with their own subjects, the Cossacks of the Ukraine, whose roving habits and pre- * Sa!vanrtj''s JJistoire de la Pologne, 3 vols. Paris. 1830. Reviewed in Blickvvond's Magazine, Aug. IS31. Writ- sen during the Tolish war. datory life disdained the restraints of regular government. When we read the accounts of the terrible struggles they maintained with the great insurrection of these formidable hordes under Bogdan, in the 17th century, we are transported to the days of Scythian warfare, and recognise the features of that dreadful invasion of the Sarmatian tribes, which the genius of Marius averted from the Roman republic. Nor has the military spirit of the people de- clined in modern times. The victories of Sobieski, the deliverance of Vienna, seem rather the fiction of romance than the records of real achievement. No victory so glorious as that of Kotzim had been gained by Chris- tendom over the Saracens since the triumphs of Richard on the field of Ascalon : And the tide of Mahommedan conquest would have rolled resistlessly over the plains of Germany, even in the reign of Louis XIV., if it had not been arrested by the Polish hero under the walls of Vienna. Napoleon said it was the peculiar qnality of the Polanders to form sol- diers more rapidly than any other people. And their exploits in the Italian and Spanish campaigns justified the high eulogium and avowed partiality of that great commander. No swords cut deeper than theirs in the Rus- sian ranks during the campaign of 1812, and alone, amidst universal defection, they main- tained their faith inviolate in the rout at Leip- sic. But for the hesitation of the French em- peror in restoring their independence, the whole strength of the kingdom would have been roused on the invasion of Russia; and had this been done, had the Polish monarchy formed the support of French ambition, the history of the world might have been changed; "From Fate's dark book one leaf been torn. And Flodden had been Bannockburn." How, then, has it happened that a country of such immense extent, inhabited by so martial a people, whose strength on great occasions was equal to such achievements, should in every age have been so unfortunate, that their victories should have led to no result, and their valour so often proved inadequate to save their country from dismemberment 1 The plaintive motto, Qiwmodo Lapsus; Quid feci, may with still more justice be applied to the fortunes of Poland than the fall of the Court- enays. " Always combating," says Salvandy, " frequently victorious, they never gained an accession of territory, and were generally glad to terminate a gloi-ious contest by a cession of the ancient provinces of the re- public." Superficial observers will answer, that it was the elective form of government; their unfortunate situation in the midst of military powers, and the absence of any chain of moun- tains to form the refuge of unfortunate patriot- POLAND. 53 ism. But a closer exatninafion Xrill demon- strate that these causes were not suthcient to explain the phenomenon ; and that the series of disasters which have so long overwhelmed the monarchy, have arisen from a more per- manent and lasting cause than either their physical situation or elective government. The Polish crown has not always been elective. For two hundred and twenty years they were governed by the race of the Jagellons with as much regularity as the Plantagenets of England; and yet, during that dynasty, the losses of the republic were fully as great as in the subsequent periods. Prussia is as flat, and incomparably more sterile than Poland, and, with not a third of the territory, it is equally exposed to the ambition of its neigh- bours : Yet Prussia, so far from being the subject of partition, has steadily increased in territory and population, and now numbers fifteen millions of souls in her dominion. The fields of Poland, as rich and fertile as those of Flanders, seem the prey of every invader, while the patriotism of the Flemings has studded their plains with defensive fortresses which have secured their independence, not- withstanding the vicinity of the most ambitious and powerful monarchy in Europe. The real cause of the never-ending disasters of Poland, is to be found in the dnnorratir equality, which, from the remotest ages, has prevailed in the country. The elective form of government was the consequence of this principle in their constitution, which has de- scended to them from Scythian freedom, and has entailed upon the state disasters worse than the whirlwmd of Scythian invasion. "It is a mistake," says Salvandy, " to sup- pose that the representative form of govern- ment was found in the woods of Germany. What was found in the woods was Polish equality, which has descended unimpaired in all the parts of that vast monarchy to the present times.* It was not to our Scythian ancestors, but the early councils of the Christian church, that we are indebted for the first example of representative assemblies." In these words of great and philosophic importance is to be found the real origin of the disasters of Poland. The principle of government, from the earli- est times in Poland, was, that every free man had an equal right to the administration of public aO'airs, and that he was entitled to ex- ercise this right, not by representation, but in person. The result of this was, that the whole freemen of the country constituted the real government; and the diets were attended by an hundred thousand horsemen ; the great ma- jority of whom were, of course, isrnorant, and in necessitous circumstances, while all were penetrated with an equal sense of their im- portance as members of the Polish state. The convocation of these tumultuous assemblies was almost invariably the signal for murder and disorder. Thirty or forty thousand lackeys, in the service of the nobles, but still possess- ing the rights of freemen, followed their mas- ters to the place of meeting, and were ever ready to support their ambition by military ♦ Salvindy, vol. i. Tableau Hislorlque. violence, while the unfortunate natives, eat up by such an enormous assemblage of armed men, regarded the convocation of the citizens in the same light as the inhabitants of the Grecian city did the invasion of Xerxes, whose hordes had consumed every thing eatable m their lerritory at breaklast, when they re- turned thanks to the gods that he had not dined in their neighbourhood, or ever}' living creature would have perished. So far did the Poles carry this equality among all the free citizens, that bj-an original and fundamental law, called the LiOcrum Veto, any one member of the diet, by simply inter- posing his negative, could stop the election of the sovereign, or any other measure the most essential to the public welfare. Of course, in so immense a multitude, some were always to be found fractious or venal enough to exercise this dangerous power, either from individual perversity, the influence of external corrup- tion, or internal ambition; and hence the numerous occasions on which diets, assembled for the most important purposes, were broken up without having come to any determination, and the Republic left a prey to anarchy, at the time when it stood most in need of the unani- mous support of its members. It is a striking proof how easily men are deluded by this phantom of general equality, when it is re- collected that this ruinous privilege has, not only in every age, been clung to as the Magna Charta of Poland, but that the native historians, recounting distant events, speak of anj"^ in- fringement upon it as the most fatal measure that could possibly be figured, to the liberties and welfare of the country. All human institutions, however, must be subject to some check, which renders it practicable to get through business on urgent occasions, in spite of individual opposition. The Poles held it utterly at variance with every principle of freedom to bind any free man by a law to which he had not consented. The principle, that the majority could bind the minority, seemed to them inconsistent with the most elementary ideas of liberty. To get quit of the dilhculty, they commonly massacred the rcnmant ; and this appeared, in their eyes, a much less serious violation of freedom than out-voting him; because, said they, instances of violence are few, and do not go beyond the individual sutferers; but when once the rulers establish that the majority can compel the minority to yield, no man has any security against the violation of his freedom. Extremes meet. It is curious to observe how exactly the violation of freedom by po- pular folly coincides in its elTect with its ex- tinction by despotic power. The bow-strins in the Seraglio, and assassination at St. Peters- burg, are the limitations on arbitrary power in these despotic states. Popular murders were the means of restraining the exorbitant liheriy of the Poles within the limits necessary for the maintenance of the forms even of regular government. Strange, as Salvandy has well observed, that the nation the most jealons of its liberty, should, at the same time adhere to a custom of all others the nn)s» drsuurtive tn freedom; and that, to avoid thr government e2 54 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. of one, they should submit to the despotism of all ! It was this original and fatal passion for equality, which has in every age proved fatal to Polish independence — which has paralyzed all the valour of her people, and all the en- thusiasm of her character — and rendered the most warlike nation in Europe the most un- fortunate. The measures of its government partook of the unstable and vacillating cha- racter of all popular assemblages. Bursts of patriotism were succeeded by periods of dejec- tion ; and the endless changes in the objects of popular inclination, rendered it impracti- cable to pursue any steady object, or adhere, through all the varieties of fortune, to one uni- form system for the good of the state. Their wars exactly resembled the contests in La Vendee, where, a week after the most glorious successes, the victorious army was dissolved, and the leaders wandering with a few fol- lowers in the woods. At the battle of Kotzim, Sobieski commanded 40,000 men, the most regular army which for centuries Poland had sent into the field ; at their head, he stormed the Turkish entrenchments, though defended by 80,000 veterans, and 300 pieces of cannon ; he routed that mighty host, slew 50,000 men, and carried the Polish ensigns in triumph to the banks of the Danube. But while Europe resounded with his praises, and expected the deliverance of the Greek empire from his exertions, his army dissolved — the troops re- turned to their homes — and the invincible conqueror was barely able, with a few thou- sand men, to keep the field. Placed on the frontiers of Europe and Asia, the Polish character and history have partaken largelv of the efiects of the institutions of both these quarters of the globe. Their passion for equality, their spirit of freedom, their na- tional assemblages, unite them to European independence; their unstable fortune, per- petual vacillation, and chequered annals, par- take of the character of Asiatic adventuj-e. While the states by whom they are surrounded, have shared in the steady progress of Euro- pean civilization, the Polish monarchy has been distinguished by the extraordinary vicis- situdes of Eastern story. Elevated to the clouds during periods of heroic adventure, it has sunk to nothing upon the death of a single chief; the republic which had recently carried its arms in triumph to the neighbouring capi- tals, was soon struggling for its existence with a contemptible enemy ; and the bulwark of Christendom in one age, was in the next razed from the book of nations. Would we discover the cause of this vacil- lation, of which the deplorable consequences are now so strongly exemplified, we shall find it in the passion for equality which appears in every stage of their history, and of which M. Salvandy, a liberal historian, has given a pow- erful picture : — "The proscription of their greatest princes," says he, " and, after their death, the calumnies of posteritjs faithfully echoing the follies of contemporaries, have destroyed all those who in diflerent ages have endeavoured, in Poland, 10 create a solid or protecting power. Nothing is more extraordinary than to hear the modem annalists of that unfortunate people, whatever their country or doctrine may be, mechanically repeat all the national outcry against what they call their despotic tyrants. Facts speak in vain against such prejudices. In the eyes of the Poles, nothing was worthy of preservation in their country hut liberty and equality ; — a high- sounding expression, which the French Revo- lution had not the glory of inventing, nor its authors the wisdom to apply more judiciously. " Contrary to what has occurred everj'where else in the world, the Poles have never been at rest but under the rule of feeble monarchs. Great and vigorous kings were uniformly the first to perish ; they have always sunk under vain attempts to accustom an independent no- bility to the restraints of authority, or soften to their slaves the yoke of bondage. Thus the royal authority, which elsewhere expanded on the ruins of the feudal system, has in Poland only become weaker with the progress of time. All the efforts of its monarchs to enlarge their prerogative have been shattered against a compact, independent, courageous body of freemen, who, in resisting such attempts, have never either been weakened by division nor intimidated by menace. In their passion for equality, in their jealous independence, they were unwilling even to admit any distinction between each other; they long and haughtily rejected the titles of honour of foreign states, and even till the last age, refused to recognise those hereditary distinctions and oppressive privileges, which are now so fast disappear- ing from the face of society. They even went so lar as to insist that one, in matters of de- liberation, should be equal to all. The crown was thus constantly at war with a democracy of nobles. The dynasty of the Piasts strove with much ability to create, in the midst of that democracy, a few leading families ; by the side of those nobles, a body of burghers. These things, difficult in all states, were there impossible. An hereditary dynasty, always stormy and often interrupted, was unfit for the persevering efforts requisite for such a revolu- tion. In other states the monarchs pursued an uniform policy, and their subjects were va- cillating; there the people were stead)-, and the crown changeable." — I. 71. " In other states, time had everywhere in- troduced the hereditary descent of honours and power. Hereditary succession was established from the throne to the smallest fief, from the reciprocal necessity of subduing the van- quished people, and securing to each his share in the conquests. In Poland, on the other hand, the waywoods, or warlike chieftains, the magistrates and civil authorities, the governors of castles and provinces, so far from founding an aristocracy by establishing the descent of their honours or offices in their families, were seldom even nominated by the king. Their authority, especially that of the Palatins, ex- cited equal umbrage in the sovereign who should have ruled, as the nobles who should have obeyed them. There was thus authority and order nowhere in the state. " It is not surprising that such men should unite to the pride which could bear nothing POLAND. 55 above, the tyranny which could spare nothing' below them. In the dread of being compelled to share their power with their inferiors ele- vated by riches or intelligence, they affixed a stigma on every useful profession as a mark of servitude. Their maxim was, that nobility of blood was not lost by indigence or domestic service, but totally extinguished by commerce or industry. This policy perpetually Avilhheld from the great body of serfs the use of arms, both because they had learned to fear, but still continued to despise them. In fine, jealous of every species of superiority as a personal out- rage, of every authority as an usurpation, of every labour as a degradation, this society was at variance with every principle of human prosperity. " Weakened in this manner in their external contests, by their equality not less than their tyranny, inferior to their neighbours in number and discipline, the Poles were the only warlike people in the world to whom victory never gave either peace or conquest. Incessant con- tests with the Germans, the Hungarians, the pirates of the north, the Cossacks of the Ukraine, the Osmanlis, occupy their whole annals; but never did the Polish eagles ad- vance the frontiers of the republic. Poland saw Moravia, Brandenburg, Pomerania, es- cape from its rule, as Bohemia and Mecklen- burg had formerly done, Mathout ever being awakened to the necessityof establishing a cen- tral government sufficiently strong to coerce and protect so many discordant materials. She was destined to drink to the last dregs the bitter consequences of a pitiless aristocracy and a senseless equality. "Vainly did Time, whose ceaseless course, by breaking through that fierce and oppressive equality, had succeeded where its monarchs had failed, strive to introduce a better order of things. Poland was destined, in all the ages of its history, to ditTer from all the other European states. With the progress of wealth, a race of burghers at length sprang up — an aristocracj' of wealth and possessions arose ; but both, contrary to the genius of the peo])le, perished before they arrived at maturity. The ' first was speedily overthrown ; in the convul- sion consequent upon the establishment of the last, the national independence was de- stroyed." — I. V4. Of the practical consequences of this fatal passion for equality in the legislature and the form of government, our author gives the fol- lowing curious account: — "The extreme difficulty of providing food for their roinitin of an hundred thousand citi- zens on horseback, obliged the members of the diet to terminate their deliberations in a lew days, or rather to separate, after having devoured all the food in the country, com- menced a civil war, and determined nothing. The constant recurrence of such disasters at length led to an attempt to introduce territorial deputies, invested with full power to carry on the ordinary and routine business of the state. But so adverse was any delegation of authority to the original nature of Polish independence, that this beneficial institution never was es- 'ablished in Poland but m the most incom- plete manner. Its introduction corrected none of the ancient abuses. The king was still the president of tumultuous assemblies ; sur- rountled by obstacles on every side ; controlled by generals and ministers not of his own se- lection ; obliged to defend the acts of a cabinet which he could not control, against the cries of a furious diet. And these diets, M'hich united, sabre in hand, under the eye t)f the sovereign, and stilt treated of all the important afl'airs of the state — of war and peace, the election of a sovereign, the formation of laws — which gave audience to ambassadors, and administered justice in important cases — were still the Champs de Mars of the northern tribes, and partook to the very last of all the vices of the savage character. There was the same confusion of powers, the same ele- ments of disorder, the same license to then>- selvcs, the same tyranny over others. "This attempt at a representative govern- ment was destructive to the last shadow of the royal authority; the meetings of the deputies became fixed and frequent; the power of the sovereign was lost without any permanent body arising to receive it in his room. l"he system of deputations made slow progress; and in several provinces was never admitted. General diets, where the whole nation as- sembled, became more rare, and therefore more perilous; and as they were convoked only on great occasions, and to discuss weighty interests, the fervour of passion was superadded to the inexperience of business. " Speedily the representative assemblies be- came the object of jealousy on the part of this democratic race ; and the citizens of the re- public sought only to limit the powers which they had conferred on their representatives. Often the jealous multitude, terrified at the powers with which they had invested the de- puties, were seized with a sudden panic, and hastened together from all quarters with their arms in their hands to watch over their pro- ceedings. Such assemblies were styled ' Diets under the Buckler.' But generally they re- stricted and qualified their powers at the mo- ment of election. The electors confined their parliaments to a circle of limited questions: gave than obligatory directions; and held, after every session, what they called post-romxtial diets; the object of which wus to exact from every de}mfy a rigid account of the execution of his maiidatc. Thus cvci-y question of importance uas, in effect, derided in the provinces before it was debated in the national assembly. And as unanimity was still considered essential to a decision, the passing of any legislative act became impossible when there was any variance between the instruc- tions to the deputies. Thus the majority were compelled to disregard the protestations of the minority ; and, to guard against that tyranny, the only remedy seemed to establish, in favour I of the outvoted minority, the ri?ht of civil I war. Confederations were establishfd ; armed I leagues, formed of discontented nobles, who I elected a marshal or president, and opposed ! decrees to decrees, force to force, diet to diet, tribune to tribune; and had alternately the king for its leader and its captive. What de- plorable iustitulions, which opened to all ^he 56 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. discontented a legal channel for spreading anarchy through their country ! The oiil}' as- tonishing thing is, that the valour of the Polish nobility so long succeeded in concealing these mortal defects in their institutions. One would have imagined that a nation, under such customs, could not exist a year; and yet it seemed never Aveary either of victories or folly."— I. 116. IVo apology is necessary for the length of these quotations; for they are not only illus- trative of the causes of the uniform disasters of Pi)!and, but eminently instructive as to the tendency of democratic institutions all over the world. There is no danger that the inhabitants of England or France will flock in person to the opening of Parliament, and establish diets of two or three hundred thousand freemen, with sabres by their sides ; but there is a very great danger, that they will adopt the democratic jealousy of their representatives, and fix them down by fixed instructions to a course of con- duct which will both render nugatoiy all the advantages of a deliberative assembl}^ and sow the seeds of dissension, jealousy, and civil Avar between the different members of the state. This is the more to be apprehended, because this evil was felt in the strongest manner in France during the progress of the Revolution, and has appeared in America most remarkably even during the brief period of its political existence. The legislators of America are not in any sense statesmen ; they are merely delegates, bound to obey the directions of their constitu- ents, and sent there to forward the individual interest of the province, district, or borough which they represent. Their debates are lan- guid and uninteresting; conducted with no idea whatever of convincing, but merely of showing the constituents of each member what he had done for his daily hire of seven dollars. The Constituents Assembly met, with cahiers or instructions to the deputies from all the electors ; and so much did this jealousy of the legislature increase with the progress of the movements in France, that the surest road to popularity with the electors was soon found to be, the most abject professions of submis- sion to their will. Every one knows how long and vehemently annual parliaments have been demanded by the English radicals, in order to give them an opportunity of constantly exer- cising this surveillance over their representa- tives ; and how many members of the present House of Commons are under a positive pledge to their constituents on more than one momentous question. It is interesting to ob- serve how much mankind, under all varieties of climate, situation, and circumstances, are governed by the same principles ; and to trace the working of the same causes in Polish an- archy, French revolutions, American selfish- ness, and British democracy. Whoever considers the matter dispassion- ately, and attends to the lessons of history, must arrive at the conclusion, that this demo- (iratic spirit cannot co-exist with regular go- vernment or national independence in ancient states ; and that Polish anarchy is the neces- sary prelude in all such communities to Mos- covite oppression. The reason is eternal, and being founded in the nature of things, must be the same in all ages. When the true demo- cratic spirit is once generally difi"used, men invariably acquire such an inordinate jealousy of ti.eir riders, that they thwart all measures, even of the most obvious and undeniable utili- ty; and by a perpetual change of governors, gratify their own equalizing spirit, at the ex- pense of the best interests of the state. This disposition appears at present in France, and England, in the rapid changes of administra- tion which have taken place within the last few years, to the total destruction of any uni- formity of government, or the prosecution of any systematic plan for the public good: it appears in America in the execrable system of rotation of office, in other words, of the ex- pulsion of every man from official situations, the moment he becomes qualified to hold them, which a recent able observer has so well ex- posed;* it appeared in Poland in the uniform weakness of the executive, and periodical re- turns of anarchy, which rendered them, in despite of their native valour, unfortunate in every contest, and at last led to the partition of the republic. Never was there a truer observation, than that wherever the tendency of prevailing in- stitutions is hurtful, there is an under-current perpetually flowing, destined to correct them. As this equalising and democratic spirit is utterly destructive to the best interests of so- ciet}', and the happiness of the very people who indulge in it, so by the wisdom of nature, it leads rapidly and certainly to its own de- struction. The moment that it became para- mount in the Roman Republic, it led to the civil convulsions which brought on the despo- tism of the Ccesars ; its career was rapidly cut short in France by the sword of Napoleon ; it exterminated Poland from the book of nations ; it threatens to close the long line of British greatness; it will convulse or subjugate Ame- rica, the moment that growing republic is brought in contact with warlike neighbours, or finds the safety-valve of the back settle- ments closed against the escape of turbulent multitudes. The father of John Sobieski, Avhose estates lay in the Ukraine, has left a curious account of the manners and habits of the Cossacks in his time, which was about 200 years ago. "The great majority," said he, " of these wan- dering tribes, think of nothing but the affairs of their little families, and encamp, as it were, in the midst of the towns Avhich belong to the crown or the noblesse. They interrupt the ennui of i-epose by frequent assemblies, and their comilia are generally civil wars, often at- tended by profuse bloodshed. It is there that they choose their hetman, or chief, by accla- mation, followed by throwing their bearskin caps in the air. Such is the inconstancy in the multitude, that they frequently destroy their own work ; but as long as the hetman remains in power, he has the right of life and death. The town of Tretchmiron, in Kiovia, is the * Captain Hull. POL.\ND. 57 arsenal of their -w^arlike implements and their treasure. There is deposited the booty taken by their pirates in Romelia and Asia Minor; and there are also preserved, with religious care, the immunities granted to their nation by the republic. There are displayed the standards which the king sends them, when- ever they take up arras for the service of the republic. It is round this royal standard that the nation assemble in their comi/ia. The het- man there does not presume to address the multitude but with his head uncovered, with a respectful air, ready to exculpate himself from all the charges brought against him, and to solicit humbly his share of the spoils taken from the enemies. These fierce peasants are passionately fond of war; few are acquainted with the use of the musket ; the pistol and sabre are their ordinary weapons. Thanks to their light and courageous squadrons, Poland can face the infantry of the most powerful na- tions on earth. They are as serviceable in re- treat as in success ; when discomfited, they form, with their chariots ranged in several lines in a circular form, an entrenched camp, to which no other fortifications can be com- pared. Behind that tabor, they defy the at- tacks of the most formidable enemy." Of the species of troops who composed the Polish army, our author gives the following curious account, — a striking proof of the na- tional weakness which follows the fatal pas- sion for equality, which formed their grand national characteristic : " Five different kinds of soldiers composed the Polish army. There was, in the first place, the mercenaries, composed of Hungarians, Wallachians, Cossacks, Tartars, and Germans, who would have formed the strength and nucleus of the arm3% had it not been that on the least delay in their payments, they invari- ably turned their arms against the govern- ment : the national troops, to A\hose mainte- nance a fourth of the national revenue was devoted : the volunteers, under which name were included the levies of the great nobles, and the ordinary guards which they maintained in time of peace: the Pofpoliie, that is, the array of the whole free citizens, who, after three summonses from the king, were obliged to come forth under the banners of their re- spective palatines, but only to rensain a fcM' months in the field, and could not be ordered beyond the frontiers. This last unwieldy body, however brave, was totally deficient in discipline, and in general served only to mani- fest the weakness of the republic. It was seldom called forth but in c^vil wars. The legions of valets, grooms, and drivers, who encumbered the other force, may be termed a fifth branch of the military force of Poland ; but these fierce retainers, naturally warlike and irascible, injured the army more by their pillacre and dissensions tlian they assisted it by their numbers. "All these different troops were deficient in equipment ; obliged to provide themselves with every thing, and to collect their subsist- ence by their own authority, they wer*^ encum- bered with an incredible quantity of baggage- wagons, destined, for the most part, less to convey provisions than carry off plunder. They had no corps of engineers; the artillery, composed of a few pieces of small calibre, had no other oflicers than a handful of French adventurers, upon whose adherence to the republic implicit reliance could not be placed. The infantry were few in number, composed entirely of the mercenary and royal troops ; but this arm was regarded with contempt by the haughty nobility. The foot soldiers were employed in digging ditches, throwing bridges, and cutting down forests, rather than actual warfare. Sobieski was exceedingly desirous of having in his camp a considerable force of infantry ; but two invincible obstacles pre- vented it, — the prejudices of the country, and the penury of the royal treasury. " The whole body of the Pospolite, the vo- lunteers, the valets Warmde, and a large part of the mercenaries and national troops, served on horseback. The heavy cavalry, in particu- lar, constituted the strength of the armies ; there were to be found united, riches, splen- dour, and number. They were divided into cuirassiers and hussars ; the former clothed in steel, man and horse bearing casque and cuirass, lance and sabre, bows and carabines; the latter defended only by a twisted hauberk, which descended from the head, over the shoulders and breast, and armed with a sabre and pistol. Both were distinguished by the splendour of their dress and equipage, and the number and costly array of their mounted ser- vants, accoutred in the most bizarre manner, with huge black plumes, and skins of bears and other wild beasts. It was the boast of this body, that they were composed of men, all measured, as they expressed it, by the same standard; that is, equal in nobility, equally enjoying the rights to obey only their God and their swords, and equally destined, perhaps, to step one day into the throne of the Piasts and the Jagellons. The hussars and cuirassiers were called Towarzirz, that is, companions; they called each other by that name, and they were designated in the same way by the sove- reign, whose chief boast would be Prinms iiUer pares, the first among equals." — I. l-'.t. With so motley and discordaat a force, it is not surprising that Poland was unable to make head against the steady ambition and regular forces of the military monarchies with which it was surrounded. Its history accordingly exhibits the usual feature of all democratic societies — occasional bursts of patriotism, aud splendid efforts followed by dejection, anarchy, and misrule. It is a stormy night illuminated by occasional flashes of lightning, never by the steady radiance of the morning sun. One of the most glorious of thoe (ia.slies is the victory of Kotzim, the first great achieve- ment of John Sobieski. " Kotzim is a strong castle, situated funr leagues from Kamaniek. on a rocky projectii>ii which runs into the Dneiper, impn^giiahle from the river, and surroumled on the other side by deep and rocky ravines. A bruige thrown over one of them, united il to the en- trenched camp, where Hussein Parha iiad posted his army. That camp. defect of fancy, probability, and story, and will bear no comparison either with the great novels of Sir Walter Scott, or the secondary productions of his numerous imitators. The real view in which to regard it is as a picture of Italy; its inhabitants, feelings, and recollec- tions; its cloudless skies and glassy seas; its forest-clad hills and sunny vales ; its umbra- geous groves and mouldering forms ; its heart- inspiring ruins and deathless scenes. As such it is superior to any work on that subject which has appeared in anyEiu'opean language. No- where else shall we find so rich and glowing an intermixture of sentiment with description ; of deep feeling for the beauty of art, with a correct perception of its leading principles; of historical lore with poetical fancy; of ar- dour in the cause of social amelioration, with charity to the individuals who, under unfortu- nate institutions, are chained to a life of indo- lence and pleasure. Beneath the glowing sun and azure skies of Italy she has imbibed the real modern Italian spirit: she exhibits in the mouth of her heroine all that devotion to art, that rapturous regard to antiquity, that insou- ciance in ordinary life, and constant besoin of fresh excitement by which that remarkable people are distinguished from any other at present in Europe. She paints them as they really are ; living on the recollection of the past, feeding on the glories of their double set of illustrious ancestors; at times exulting in the recollection of the legions which subdued the world, at others recurring with pride to the glorious though brief days of modern art; mingling the names of Caesar, Pompe)% Cicero, and Virgil with those of Michael Angelo, Ra- phael, Buonarotti, and Correggio ; repeating with admiration the stanzas of Tasso as they glide through the deserted palaces of Venice, and storing their minds with the rich creations of Ariosto's fancy as they gaze on the stately monuments of Rome. Not less vividly has she portrayed, in the language, feelings, and character of her he- roine, the singular intermixture with these animating recollections of all the frivolity which has rendered impossible, without a tresh impregnation of northern vigour, the regeneration of Italian society. We see in her pages, as we witness in real life, talents the most commanding, beauty the most fasci- nating, graces the most captivating, devoted to no other object but the excitement of a transient passion; infidelity itself subjected to certain restraints, and boasting of its fidelity ui one attachment ; whole -classes of society incessantly occupied with no other object but the gratification of vanity, the thraldom of at- tachment, or the imperious demands of beauty, and the strongest propensity of cultivated life, the besoin d'aintcr, influencing, for the best part of their lives, the higher classes of both sexes. In such representation there would probably be nothing in the hands of an ordinary writer but frivolous or possibly pernicious details ; but by Madame de Stael it is touched on so gently, so strongly intermingled with senti- ment, and traced so naturally to its ultimate and disastrous effects, that the picture be- comes not merely characteristic of manners, but purifying in its tendency. The Dix Annees t'Exil, though abounding with fewer splendid and enchanting passages, is written in a higher strain, and devoted to more elevated objects than the Italian novel. It exhibits the Imperial Government of Napo- leon in the palmy days of his greatness ; when all the Continent had bowed the neck to his power, and from the rock of Gibraltar to the Frozen Ocean, not a voice dared to be lifted against his commands. It shows the internal tyranny and vexations of this formidable power; its despicable jealousies and con- temptible vanity ; its odious restrictions and tyrannizing tendency. W^e see the censorship chaining the human mind to the night of the tenth in the opening of the nineteenth century; the commands of the police fettering every etfort of independent thought and free discus- sion ; forty millions of men slavishly following the car of a victor, Avho, in exchange for all the advantages of freedom., hoped but never obtained from the Revolution, dazzled them with the glitter only of gilded chains. In her subsequent migrations through Tyrol, Poland, Russia, and Sweden, to avoid his persecution during the years Avhich preceded the Russian war, we have the noblest picture of the ele- vated feelings which, during this period of general oppression, were rising up in the na- tions which yet preserved a shadow of inde- pendence, as well as of the heroic stand made by Alexander and his brave subjects against the memorable invasion which ultimately proved their oppressor's ruin. These are animating themes ; and though not in general inclined to dwell on description, or enrich her work with picturesque narrative, the scenery of the north had wakened profound emotions in her heart which appear in many touches and reflections of no ordinary sublimity. Chateaubriand addresses himself much more habitually and systematically to the eye. He paints what he has seen, whether in nature, snciet}', manners, or art, with the graphic skill of a consummate draughtsman •, and produces the emotion he is desirous of awakening, not by direct words calculated to arouse it, but by enabling the imagination to depict to itself the objects which in nature, by their felicitous com- bination, produced the impression. Madame de Stael does not paint the features of the scene, but in a few words she portrays the emotion which she experienced on beholding it, and contrives by these few words to awaken it in her readers ; Chateaubriand enumerates with a painter's power all the features of the MADAME DE STAEL. 67 scene, and by the vividness of description succeeds not merely in painting it on the retina of the mind, but in awakening there the precise emotion which he himself felt on beholding it. The one speaks to the heart through the eye, the other to the eye through the heart. As we travel with the illustrious pilgrim of the Revolution, we see rising before us in successive clearness the lonely temples, and glittering valleys, and storied capes of Greece ; the desert plains and rocky ridges and sepulchral hollows of Judca; the solitary palms and stately monuments of Egypt ; the isolated remains of Carthage, the deep solitudes of America, the sounding cataracts, and still lakes, and boundless forests of the New World. Not less vivid is his description of human scenes and actions, of which, during his event- ful career, he has seen such an extraordinary variety; the Janissary, the Tartar, the Turk; the Bedouins of the desert places, the Numi- dians of the torrid zone; the cruel revolution- ists of France ; the independent savages of America; the ardent mind of Napoleon, the dauntless intrepidity of Pitt. Nothing can exceed the variety and brilliancy of the pictures which he leaves engraven on the imagination of his reader; but he has neither touched the heart nor convinced the judgment like the profound hand of his female rival. To illustrate these observations we have selected two of the most brilliant descriptions from Chateaubriand's Genie de Christianisme, and placed beside these two of the most in- spired of Madame de Stael's passages on Roman scenery. We shall subjoin two of the most admirable descriptions by Sir Walter Scott, that the reader may at once have pre- sented to his view the masterpieces, in the descriptive line, of the three greatest authors of the age. All the passages are translated by ourselves ; we have neither translations at hand, nor inclination to mar so much elo- quence by the slovenly dress in which it usual- ly appears in an English version. " There is a God ! The herbs of the valley, the cedars of the mountain, bless him — the insect sports in his beams — the elephant salutes him with the rising orb of day — the bird sings him in the foliage — the thunder proclaims him in the heavens — the ocean de- clares his immensity — man alone has said, •There is no God!' " Unite in thought, at the same instant, the most beautiful objects in nature ; suppose that you see at once all the hours of the da}', and all the seasons of the year; a morning of spring and a morning of autumn ; a night be- spangled with stars, and a night covered with clouds ; meadows enamelled with flowers, forests hoary with snow; fields gilded by the tints of autumn; then alone you will have a just conception of the universe. While you are gazing on that sun which is plunging under the vault of the west, another observer admires him emerging from the gilded gates of the east. By what unconceivable magic docs that aged star, which is sinking fatigued and burning in the shades of the evening, reappear at the same instant fresh and humid with the rosy dew of the morning T At every instant of the day the glorious orb is at once rising — resplendent at noonday, and setting in the west ; or rather our senses deceive us, and there is, properly speaking, no east, or south, or west, in the world. Every thing reduces itself to one single point, irom whence the King of Day sends forth at once a triple light in one single bub- stance. The bright splendour is perhaps that which nature can present that is most beauti- ful ; for while it gives us an idea of the per- petual magnificence and resistless power of God, it exhibits, at the same time, a shining image of the glorious Trinity." Human eloquence probably cannot, in de- scription, go beyond this inimitable passage; but it is equalled in the pictures left us by the same author of two scenes in the New World. " One evening, when it was a profound calm, we were sailing through those lovely seas which bathe the coast of Virginia, — all the sails were furled — I was occupied below when I heard the bell which called the mariner! upon deck to prayers — I hastened to join my orisons to those of the rest of the crew. The oflicers were on the forecastle, with the passen- gers; the priest, with his prayer-book in his iiand, stood a little in advance ; the sailors were scattered here and there on the deck ; we were all above, with our faces turned towards the prow of the vessel, which looked to the west. "The globe of the sun, ready to plunge into the waves, appeared between the ropes of the vessel in the midst of boundless space. You would have imagined, from the balancing of the poop, that the glorious luminary changed at every instant its horizon. A lew light clouds were scattered without order in the east, where the moon was slowly ascending; all the rest of the sky was unclouded. Towards the north, forming a glorious triangle with the star of day and that of night, a glittering cloud arose from the sea, resplendent with the colours of the prism, like a crystal pile supporting the vault of heaven. "He is much to be pitied who could have witnessed this scene, without feeling the beau- ty of God. Tears involuntarily Ho wed from my eyes, when my companions, taking ofl' their hats, began to sing, in their hoarse strains, the simple hymn of Our Lady of Succour. How touching was that prayer of men, who, on a fragile plank, in the midst of the ocean, contemplated the sun setting in the midst of the waves! How that simple invocation of the mariners to the mother of woes, went to the heart ! The consciousness of our littleness in the sight of Intinity — our chants prolonged afar over the waves — night approaching with Its sable wings — a whole crew of a vessel filled with admiration and a holy fear — God bending over the abyss, with one hand retain- ing the sun at the gates of the west, with the other raising the moon in the east, and yel lending an attentive ear to the voice of prayer ascending from a speck in the immcn-sity— all combined to form an assemblage which can- not be described, and of which the humaa heart could hardly bear the weight. "The scene at land was not less ravishing One evening I had lost my way in a forest, at a short distance from the falls of Niagara. 68 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. Soon the day expired around me, and I tasted, in all its solitude, the lovely spectacle of a uight in the deserts of the New World. " An hour after sunset the moon showed it- self above the branches, on the opposite side of the horizon. An embalmed breeze, which the Queen of Night seemed to bring with her from the East, preceded her with its freshen- ing gales. The solitary star ascended by de- grees in the heavens ; sometimes she followed peaceably her azure course, sometimes she reposed on the groups of clouds, which re- sembled the summits of lofty mountains covered with snow. These clouds, opening and clos- ing their sails, now spread themselves out in transparent zones of white satin, now dis- persed into light bubbles of foam, or formed in the heavens bars of white so dazzling and sweet, that you could almost believe you felt their snowy surface. " The scene on the earth was of equal beau- ty ; the declining day, and the light of the moon, descended into the intervals of the trees, and spread a faint gleam even in the profoundest part of the darkness. The river which flowed at my feet, alternately lost itself in the woods, and reappeared brilliant with the constella- tions of night which reposed on its bosom. In a savanna on the other side of the river, the moonbeams slept without movement on the verdant turf. A few birches, agitated by the breeze, and dispersed here and there, formed isles of floating shadow on that motionless sea of light. All would have been in profound repose, but for the fall of a few leaves, the breath of a transient breeze, and the moaning of the owl ; while, in the distance, at intervals the deep roar of Niagara was heard, which, prolonged from desert to desert in the calm of the night, expired at length in the endless solitude of the forest. "The grandeur, the surpassing melancholy of that scene, can be expressed by no human tongue — the finest nights of Europe can give no conception of it. In vain, amidst our cul- tivated fields, does the imagination seek to ex- pand — it meets on all sides the habitations of men ; but in those savage regions the soul loves to shroud itself in the ocean of forests, to hang over the gulf of cataracts, to meditate on the shores of lakes and rivers, and feel itself alone as it were with God. 'Prtpsentiorem conspicimus Deum, Fera per juea, clivosque pripruptos, Sonantes inter aquas nemorunique noctem.' " We doubt if any passages ever were written of more thrilling descriptive eloquence than these ; hereafter we shall contrast them with some of the finest of Lamartine, which have equalled but not exceeded them. But now mark the different style with which Madame de SiafJl treats the heart-stirring monuments of Roman greatness. " At this moment St. Peter arose to their view; the greatest edifice which man has ever raised, for the Pyramids themselves are of less considerable elevation. I would perhaps have done better, said Corinne, to have taken you to the most beautiful of our edifices last; but that ijS not my system. I am convinced that, to render one alive to the charm of the fine arts, we should commence with those objects which awaken a lively and profound admira- tion. When once that sentiment has been experienced, a new sphere of ideas is awaken- ed, which renders us susceptible of the im- pression produced by beauties of an inferior order; they revive, though in a lesser degree, the first impression which has been received. All these gradations in producing emotion are contrary to my opinion ; you do not arrive at the sublime by successive steps; infinite de- grees separate it from the beautiful. " Oswald experienced an extraordinary emo- tion on arriving in front of the fa5ade of St. Peter's. It was the first occasion on which a work of human hands produced on him the efi!ects of one of the marvels of nature. It is the only efl["ort of human industry which has the grandeur which characterizes the imme- diate works of the Creator. Corinne rejoiced in the astonishment of Oswald. * I have chosen,' said she, 'a day when the sun was shining in all its eclat to show you this monu- ment for the first time. I reserve for you a more sacred religious enjoyment, to contem- plate it by the light of the moon ; but at this moment it was necessary to obtain your pre- sence at the most brilliant of our fetes, the genius of man decorated by the magnificence of nature.' " The Place of St. Peter is surrounded by columns, which appear light at a distance, but massy when seen near. The earth, which rises gently to the gate of the church, adds to the effect it produces. An obelisk of eighty feet in height, which appears as nothing in presence of the cupola of St. Peter's, is in the middle of the place. The form of obelisks has something in it which is singularly pleas- ing to the imagination ; their summit loses itself in the clouds, and seems even to elevate to the Heavens a great thought of man. That monument, which was brought from Egypt to adorn the baths of Caracalla, and which Sex- tus v. subsequently transported to the foot of the Temple of St. Peter ; that contemporary of so many ages which have sought in vain to decay its solid frame, inspires respect ; man feels himself so fleeting, that he always expe- riences emotion in presence of that which has passed unchanged through many ages. At a little distance, on each side of the obelisk, are two fountains, the waters of which perpetually are projected up and fall down in cascades through the air. That murmur of waters, which is usually heard only in the field, pro- duces in such a situation a new sensation; but one in harmony with that which arises from the aspect of so majestic a temple. " Painting or sculpture, imitating in general the human figure, or some object in external nature, awaken in our minds distinct and posi- tive ideas ; but a beautiful monument of archi- tecture has not any determinate expression, and the spectator is seized, on contemplating it, with that reverie, without any definite ob- ject, which leads the thoughts so far off. The sound of the waters adds to these vague and profound impressions ; it is uniform, as the edifice is regular. ' Eternal movement and eternal repose' MADAME DE STAEL. 69 are thus brought to combine with each other. It is here, in an especial manner, that Time is without power; it never dries up those spark- ling streams ; it never shakes those immovable pillars. The waters, which spring up in fan- like luxuriance from these fountains, are so light and vapoury, that, in a fine day, the rays of the sun produce little rainbows of the most beautiful colour. " Slop a moment here, said Corinne to Lord Nelvil, as he stood under the portico of the church ; pause before drawing aside the cur- tain which covers the entrance of the Temple. Does not your heart beat at the threshold of that sanctuary] Do you not feel, on entering it, the emotion consequent on a solemn event ? At these words Corinne herself drew aside the curtain, and held it so as to let Lord Nelvil enter. Her attitude was so beautiful in doiti^ so, that for a moment it ivithdrcw the eyes of her luvcr even from the majestic interior of the Tcinplc. But as he advanced, its greatness burst upon his mind, and the impression which he received under its lofty arches was so profound, that the sentiment of love was for a time effaced. He walked slowly beside Corinne ; both were silent. Every thing enjoined contemplation ; the slightest sound resounded so far, that no word appeared worthy of being repeated in those eternal mansions. Prayer alone, the voice of misfortune was heard at intervals in their vast vaults. And, when under those stupendous domes, you hear from afar the voice of an old man, whose trembling steps totter along those beautiful marbles, watered with so many tears, you feel that man is ren- dered more dignified by that very infirmity of his nature which exposes his divine spirit to so many kinds of suffering, and that Chris- tianity, the worship of grief, contains the true secret of man's sojourn upon earth. "Corinne interrupted the reverie of Oswald, and said to him, 'You have seen the Gothic churches of England and Germany, and must have observ^ed that they are distinguished by a much more sombre character than this cathe- dral. There is something mystical in the Ca- tholicism of these Northern people ; ours speaks to the imagination by exterior objects. Michael Angelo s^id, on beholding the cupola of the Pantheon, 'I will place it in the air;' and, in truth, St. Peter's is a temple raised on the basement of a church. There is a certain alliance of the ancient worship with Christi- anity in the effect which the interior of that church produces: I often go to walk here alone, in order to restore to my mind the tran- quillity it may have lost. The sight of such a monument is like a continual and fixed music, awaiting you to pour its balm into your mind, whenever you approach it ; and certainly, among the many titles of this nation to glory, we must number the patience, courage, and disinterestedness of the chiefs of the church, who consecrated, during a hundred and fifty years, such vast treasures and boundless labour to the prosecution of a work, of which none of them could hope to enjoy the fruits.'" — Coriiuie, vol. i. c. 3. In this magnificent passage, the words un- derlined are an obvious blemish. The idea of Oswald turning aside at the entrance of St. Peter's from the gaze of the matchless interior of the temple, a spectacle unique in the world, to feast his eye by admiration of his inamorata, is more than we, in the frigid latitudes of the north, can altogether understand. But Ma- dame de Stael was a woman, and a French- woman ; and apparently she could not resist the opportunity of signalizing the triumph of her sex, by portraying the superiority of female beauty to the grandest and most imposing ob- ject that the hands of man have ever reared. Abstracting from this feminme weakness, the passage is one of almost uniform beauty, and well illustrates the peculiar descriptive style of the author; not painting objects, but touch- ing the cords which cause emotions to vibrate. She has unconsciously characterized her own style, as compared with that of Chateaubriand, in describing the different characters of the cathedrals of the North and South. — " There is something mystical in the Catholicism of the Northern people ; ours speaks to the imagina- tion by exterior objects." As another specimen of Madame de Siael's descriptive powers, take her picture of the Appian Way, with its long lines of tombs on either side, on the southern quarter of Rome. "She conducted Lord Nelvil beyond the gates of the city, on the ancient traces of the Appian Way. These traces are marked in the middle of the Campagna of Rome by tombs, on the right and left of which the ruins extend as far as the eye can reach for several miles be3-ond the walls. Cicero says that, on leaving the gate, the first tombs you meet are those of Metellus, the Scipios, and Servillius. The tomb of the Scipios has been discovered in the very place which he describes, and transported to the Vatican. Yet it was, in some sort, a sacrilege to displace these illus- trious ashes ; imagination is more nearly allied than is generally imagined to morality; we must beware of shocking it. Some of these tombs are so large, that the houses of peasants have been worked out in them, for the Romans consecrated a large space to the last remains of their friends and their relatives. They were strangers to that and principle of utility M-hich fertilizes a few corners of earth, the more by devastating the vast domain of senti- ment and thought. " You see at a little distance from the Ap- pian Way a temple raised by the Republic to Honour and Virtue ; another to the God which compelled Hannibal to remeasure his steps; the Temple of Egeria, where Numa went to consult his tutelar deity, is at a little distance on the left hand. Around those tombs the traces of vir>B^ alone are to be found. No monument of Cie long ages of crime which disgraced the empire are to be met with be- side the places where these illustrious dead repose ; they rest amongst the relics of the republic. "The aspect of the Campagna around Rome has something in it singularly remarkable. Doubtless it is a desert; there are neither trees nor habitations; but the earth is covered with a profusion of natural flowers, which the energy of vegetation renews incessantly 70 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. These creeping plants insinuate themselves among the tombs, decorate the ruins, and seem to grow solely to do honour to the dead. You would suppose that nature was too proud there to suffer the labours of man, since Cin- cinnatus no longer holds the plough which furrows its bosom; it produces flowers in wild profusion, which are of no sort of use to the existing generation. These vast unculti- vated planes will doubtless have few attrac- tions for the agriculturist, administrators, and all those who speculate on the earth, with a view to extract fjom it the riches it is capable of affording ; but the thoughtful minds, whom death occupies as much as life, are singularly attracted by the aspect of that Campagna, M'here the present times have left no trace ; that earth which cherishes only the dead, and covers them in its love with useless flowers — plants which creep along the surface, and never acquire sufficient strength to separate themselves from the ashes, which they have the appearance of caressing." — Corinne, 1. v. c. 1. How many travellers have traversed the Appian Way, but how few have felt the deep impressions which these words are fitted to produce ! " The churches of modern Rome," continues the same author, " are decorated with the mag- nificence of antiquity, but there is something sombre and striking in the intermingling of these beautiful marbles with the ornaments stripped from the Pagan temples. The columns of porphyry and granite were so numerous at Rome that they ceased to have any value. At St. John Lateran, that church, so famous from the councils of which it was the theatre, there were such a quantity of marble columns that many of them were covered with plaster to be converted into pilasters — so completely had the multitude of riches rendered men indiffer- ent to them. Some of these columns came from the tomb of Adrian, and bear 3'et upon their capitals the mark of the geese which saved the Roman people. These columns support the ornaments of Gothic churches, and some rich sculptures in the arabesque order. The urn of Agrippa has received the ashes of a pc.pe, for the dead themselves have yielded their place to other dead, and the tombs have changed tenants nearly as often as the mansions of the living. " Near to St. John Lateran is the holy stair, transported from Jerusalem. No one is per- mitted to go up it but on his knees. In like manner Ctesar and Claudius ascended on their knees the stair which led to the temple of Ju- piter Capitolinos. Beside St. John Lateran is the Baptistery, where Constantine was bap- tized — in the middle of the place before the church is an obelisk, perhaps the most ancient monument which exists in the world — an obe- lisk contemporary of the War of Troy — an obelisk which the barbarian Cambyses re- spected so much as to stop for its beauty the conflagration of a city — an obelisk for which a king put in pledge the life of his only son. The Romans in a surprising manner got it conveyed from the extremity of Egypt to Italy — they turned aside the course of the Nile to bring its waters so as to convey it to the sea. Even then that obelisk was covered with hieroglyphics whose secrets have been kept for so many ages, and which still withstand the researches of our most learned scholars. Possibly the Indians, the Egyptians, the anti- quity of antiquity, might be revealed to us in these mysterious signs. The wonderful charm of Rome consists, not merely in the beauty of its monuments, but in the interest which they all awaken, and that species of charm increases daily with every fresh study." — Ibid. c. 3. We add only a feeble prosaic translation of the splendid improvisatore efl'usion of Corinne on the Cape of Mesinum, surrounded by the marvels of the shore of Baiae and the Phleg- rian fields. " Poetry, nature, history, here rival each other in grandeur — here you can embrace in a single glance all the revolutions of time and all its prodigies. "I see the Lake of Avemus, the extin- guished crater of a volcano, whose waters formerly inspired so much terror — Acheron, Phlegeton, which a subterraneous flame caused to boil, are the rivers of the infernals visited by ^neas. " Fire, that devouring element which created the world, and is destined to consume it, was formerly an object of the greater terror that its laws were unknown. Nature, in the olden times, revealed its secrets to poetry alone. " The city of Cumse, the Cave of the Sibylle, the Temple of Apollo, were placed on that height. There grew the Avood whence was gathered the golden branch. The country of ^neas is around you, and the fictions conse- crated by genius have become recollections of which we still seek the traces. "A Triton plunged into these waves the presumptive Trojan who dared to defy the di- vinities of the deep by his songs — these water- worn and sonorous rocks have still the cha- racter which Virgil gave them. Imjiginatioa was faithful even in the midst of its omnipo- tence. The genius of man is creative when he feels Nature — imitative when he fancies he " In the midst of these terrible masses, gray witnesses of the creation, we see a new moun- tain which the volcano has produced. Here the earth is stormy as the ocean, and does not, like it, re-enter peaceably into its limits. The heavy element, elevated by subterraneous fire, fills up valleys, 'rains mountains.' and its petrified waves attest the tempests which once tore its entrails. "If you strike on this hill the subterraneous vault resounds — you would say that the in- habited earth is nothing but a crust ready to open and swallow us up. The Campagna of Naples is the image of human passion — sul- phurous, but fruitful, its dangers and its plea- sures appear to grow out of those glowing volcanoes which give to the air so many charms, and cause the thunder to roll benealii our feet. "Pliny boasted that his country was the most beautiful in existence — he studied nature to be able to appreciate its charms. Seeking the inspiration of science as a warrior does conquest, he set forth from this promontory to MADAME DE STAEL, 71 observe Vesuvius athwart the flames, and those flames consumed him. "Cicero lost his life near the promontory of Gaeta, which is seen in the distance. The Tnumvirs, regardless of posterity, bereaved it of the thoughts which that great man had conceived — it was on us that his murder was committed. "Cicero sunk beneath the poniards of ty- rants — Scipio, more unfortunate, was banished by his fellow-citizens while still in the enjoy- ment of freedom. He terminated his days near that shore, and the ruins of his tomb are still called the 'Tower of our Country.' What a touching allusion to the last thought of that great spirit! " Marius fled into those marshes not far from the last home of Scipio. Thus in all ages the people have persecuted the really great; but they are avenged by their apotheosis, and the Roman who conceived their power extended even unto Heaven, placed Romulus, Numa, and Cassar in the firmament — new stars which confound in our eyes the rays of glory and the celestial radiance. " Oh, memory! uoble power! thy empire is in these scenes ! From age to age, strange destiny ! man is incessantly bewailing what he has lost ! These remote ages are the de- positaries in their turn of a greatness which is no more, and while the pride of thought, glory- ing in its progress, darts into futurity, our soul seems still to regret an ancient country to which the past in some degree brings it back." — Lib. xii. c. 4. Enough has now been given to give the un- lettered reader a conception of the descriptive character of these two great continental writers — to recall to the learned one some of the most delightful moments of his life. To complete the parallel, we shall now present three of the finest passages of a similar cha- racter from Sir Walter Scott, that our readers may be able to appreciate at a single sitting the varied excellences of the greatest masters of poetic prose who have appeared in modern times. The first is the well-known opening scene of Ivanhoe. " The sun was setting upon one of the rich grassy glades of that forest, which we have mentioned in the beginning of the chapter. Hundreds of broad-headed, short-stemmed, wide-branched oaks, which had witnessed per- haps the stately march of the Roman soldiery, flung their gnarled arms over a thick carpet of the most delicious green sward ; in some places they were intermingled with beeches, hollies, and copse wood of various descrip- tions, so closely as totally to intercept the level beams of the sinking sun; in others they re- ceded from each other, forming those long sweeping vistas, in the intricacy of which the eye delights to lose itself, while imagination considers them as the paths to yet wilder scenes of silvan solitude. Here the red rays of the sun shot a broken and discoloured light, that partially hung upon the shattered boughs and mossy trunks of the trees, and there they illuminated in brilliant patches the portions of turf to which they made their way. A con- siderable open space, in the midst of this glade, seemed formerly to have been dedicated to the rites of Druidical superstition ; for, on the sum- mit of a hillock, so regular as to seem artificial, there still remained part of a circle of rough unhewn stones, of large dimensions. Seven stood upright; the rest had been dislodged from their places, probably by the zeal of some convert to Christianity, and lay, some prostrate near their former site, and others on the side of the hill. One large stone only had found its Avay to the bottom, and in stopping the course of a small brook, which glided smoothly round the foot of the eminence, gave, by its opposition, a feeble voice of murmur to the placid and elsewhere silent streamlet."* The next is the equally celebrated descrip- tion of the churchyard in the introductory chapter of Old Mortality. "Farther up the narrow valley, and in a re- cess which seems scooped out of the side of the steep heathy bank, there is a deserted burial-ground which the little cowards are fearful of approaching in the twilight. To me, however, the place has an inexpressible charm. It has been long the favourite termi- nation of my walks, and, if my kind patron forgets not his promise, will (and probably at no very distant day) be my final resting-place after my mortal pilgrimage. "It is a spot which possesses all the solem- nity of feeling attached to a burial-ground, without exciting those of a more unpleasing description. Having been verj* little used for many years, the few hillocks which rise above the level plain are covered with the same short velvet turf. The monuments, of which there are not above seven or eight, are half sunk in the ground and overgrown with moss. No newly-erected tomb disturbs the sober se- renity of our reflections, by reminding us of recent calamity, and no rank springing grass forces upon our imagination the recollection, that It owes its dark luxuriance to the foul and festering remnants of mortality which ferment beneath. The daisy which sprinkles the sod, and the hair-bell which hangs over it, derive theirpure nourishmentfrom thedewof Heaven, and their growth impresses us with no degrad- ing or disgusting recollections. Death has in- deed been here, and its traces are before us ; but they are softened and deprived of their horror by our distance from the period when they have been first impressed. Those who sleep beneath are only connected with us by the reflection, that they have once been what we now are, and that, as their relics are now identified with their mother earth, ours shall, at some future period, undergo the same trans- formation." The third is a passage equally well known, but hardly less beautiful, from the Antiquary. "The sun was now resting his huge disk upon the edge of the level ocean, and gilded the accumulation of towering clouds through which he had travelled the livelong day, and which now assembled on all sides, like mis- fortunes and disasters around a sinking em- pire, and falling monarch. Still, however, his dying splendour gave a sombre magnificence to the massive congregation of vapours, form 72 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. ing out of their unsubstantial gloom, the show of pyramids and towers, some touched with gold, some with purple, some with a hue of deep and dark red. The distant sea, stretched beneath this varied and gorgeous canopy, lay almost portentously still,' reflecting back the dazzling and level beams of the descending luminary, and the splendid colouring of the clouds amidst which he was sitting. Nearer to the beach, the tide rippled onward in waves of sparkling silver, that imperceptibly, yet ra- pidly, gained upon the sand. " With a mind employed in admiration of the romantic scene, or perhaps on some more agitating topic. Miss Wardour advanced in sil^ce by her father's side, whose recently otfended dignity did not stoop to open any conversation. Following the windings of the beach, they passed one projecting point or headland of rock after another, and now found themselves under a huge and continued extent of the precipices by which that iron-bound coast is in most places defended. Long pro- jecting reefs of rock, extending under water, and only evincing their existence by here and there a peak entirely bare, or by the breakers which foamed over those that were partially covered, rendered Knockwinnock bay dreaded by pilots and ship-masters. The crags which rose between the beach and the mainland, to the height of two or three hundred feet, af- forded in their crevices shelter for unnum- bered sea-fowl, in situations seemingly secured by their dizzy height from the rapacity of man. Many of these wild tribes, with the instinct which sends them to seek the land before a storm arises, were now winging towards their nests with the shrill and dissonant clang which announces disquietude and fear. The disk of the sun became almost totally obscured ere he had altogether sunk below the horizon, and an early and lurid shade of darkness blotted the serene twilight of a summer evening. The wind began next to arise; but its wild and moaning sound was heard for some time, and its elfects became visible on the bosom of the sea, before the gale was felt on shore. The mass of waters, now dark and threatening, began to lift itself in larger ridges, and sink in deeper furrows, forming waves that rose high in foam upon the breakers, or bursting upon the beach with a sound resembling distant thunder." Few objects are less beautiful than a bare sheet of water in heathy hills, but see what it becomes under the inspiration of genius. " It was a mild summer day ; the beams of the sun, as is not uncommon in Zetland, were moderated and shaded by a silvery haze, which filled the atmosphere, and, destroying the strong contrast of light and shade, gave even to noon the sober livery of the evening twilight. The little lake, not three-quarters of a mile in cir- cuit, lay in profound quiet; its surface un- dimpled, save when one of the numerous water-fowl, which glided on its surface, dived for an instant under it. The depth of the water gave the whole that cerulean tint of bluish green, which occasioned its being called the Green Loch; and at piesent, it formed so per feet a mirror to the bleak hills by which it was surrounded, and which lay reflected on its bosom, that it was ditficult to distinguish the water from the land ; nay, in the shadowy uncertainty occasioned by the thin haze, a stranger could scarce have been sensible that a sheet of water lay before him. A scene of more complete solitude, having all its pecu- liarities heightened by the extreme serenity of the weather, the quiet gray composed tone of the atmospliere, and the perfect silence of the elements, could hardly be imagined. The very aquatic birds, who frequented the spot in great numbers, forbore their usual flight and screams, and floated in profound tranquillity upon the silent water." It is hard to say to which of these mighty masters of description the palm should be awarded. Scott is more simple in his lan- guage, more graphic in his details, more thoroughly imbued with the character of the place he is desirous of portraying : Chateau- briand is more resplendent in the images which he selects, more fastidious in the fea- tures he draws, more gorgeous from the mag- nificence with which he is surrounded : Ma- dame de Stael, inferior to both in the power of delineating nature, is superior to either in rousing the varied emotions dependent on his- torical recollections or melancholy impres- sions. It is remarkable that, though she is a southern writer, and has thrown into Corinne all her own rapture at the sun and the recol- lections of Italy, yet it is with a northern eye that she views the scenes it presents — it is not with the living, but the mighty dead, that she holds communion — the chords she loves to strike are those melancholy ones which vi- brate more strongly in a northern than a southern heart. Chateaubriand is imbued more largely with the genuine spirit of the south : albeit a Frank by origin, he is filled with the spirit of Oriental poetry. His soul is steeped in the cloudless skies, and desultory life, and boundless recollections of the East. Scott has no decided locality. He has struck his roots into the human heart — he has de- scribed Nature with a master's hand, iinder whatever aspects she is to be seen ; but his associations are of Gothic origin ; his spirit is of chivalrous descent; the nature which he has in general drawn is the sweet gleam of sunshine in a northern climate. NATIONAL MONUMENTS 73 NATIONAL monuments; The history of mankind, from its earliest period to the present moment, is fraught with proofs of one general truth, that it is in small states, and in consequence of the emulation and ardent spirit which they develop, that the human mind arrives at its greatest perfection, and that the freest scope is atlbrded both to the grandeur of moral, and the brilliancy of intel- lectual character. It is to the citizens of small republics that we are indebted both for the greatest discoveries which have improved the condition or elevated the character of man- kind, and for the noblest examples of private and public virtue with which the page of his- tory is adorned. It was in the republics of ancient Greece, and in consequence of the emulation which was excited among her rival cities, that the beautiful arts of poetr}% sculpture, and architecture were first brought to perfection; and while the genius of the hu- man race was slumbering among the innume- rable multitudes of the Persian and Indian monarchies, the single city of Athens produced a succession of great men, whose works have improved and delighted the world in every succeeding age. While the vast feudal mo- narchies of Europe were buried in ignorance and barbarism, the little states of Florence, Bologna, Rome, and Venice were far advanced in the career of arts and in the acquisition of knowledge; and at this moment, the traveller neglects the boundless but unknown tracts of Germany and France, to visit the tombs of Raphael, and Michael Angelo, and Tasso, to dwell in a country where every city and every landscape reminds him of the greatness of human genius, or the perfection of human taste. It is from the same cause that the earlier history of the Swiss confederacy exhi- bits a firmness and grandeur of political cha- racter which we search for in vain in the annals of the great monarchies by which they are surrounded, that the classical pilgrim pauses awhile in his journey to the Eternal City to do homage to the spirit of its early re- publics, and sees not in the ruins which, at the termination of his pilgrimage, surround him, the remains of imperial Rome, the mistress and the capital of the world; but of Rome, when struggling with Corioli and Veil ; of Rome, when governed by Regulus and Cincin- natus — and traces the scene of her infant wars with the Latian tribes, with a pious interest, which all the pomp and magnificence of her subsequent history has not been able to excite. Examples of this kind have often led histo- rians to consider the situation of small re- publics as that of all others most adapted to the exaltation and improvement of mankind. • Blackwond's Magazine, .Inly 1R19, and EJinluirsh Review, Aiijust IH2.').— Written whrn llii' Nalionnl .Mo- nument.' in London and KdiiilnirL'li lo Ihe lale war were inconteinplalion. and in reviiw ol'llie Earl of Aberdeen's Essay on Grecian arcliitectiire. 10 To minds of an ardent and enthusiastic cast, who delight in the contemplation of human genius, or in the progress of public improve- ment, the brilliancy and splendour of such little states form the most delightful of all ob- jects ; and accordingly, the greatest of living historians, in his history of the Italian republics, has expressed a decided opinion that in no other situation is such scope aflbrdcd to the expansion of the human mind, or such facility afforded to the progressive improvement of our species. On the other hand, it is not to be concealed, that such little dynasties are accompanied by many circumstances of continued and aggra- vated distress. Their small dimensions, and the jealousies which subsist betwixt them, not only furnish the subject of continual disputes, but aggravate to an incredible degree the miseries and devastations of war. Between such states, it is not conducted with the dig- nity and in the spirit which characterizes the efforts of great monarchies, but rather with the asperity and rancour which belong to a civil contest. While the frontiers only of a great monarchy suffer from the calamities of war, its devastations extend to the very heart of smaller states. Insecurity and instability fre- quently mark the internal condition of these republics; and the activity which the histo- rian admires in their citizens, is too often em- ployed in mutually destroying and pillaging each other, or in disturbing the tranquillity of the state. It is hence that the sunny slopes of the Apennines are everywhere crowned by castellated villages, indicating the universality of the ravages of war among the Italian States in former times; and that the architecture of Florence and Genoa still bears the character of that massy strength Mhich befitted the period when every noble palace was an independent fortress, and when war, tumult, and violence, reigned for centuries within their walls ; while the open villages and stragglins: cottages of England bespeak the security with which her peasants have reposed under the shadow of her redoubted power. The universality of this fact has led many wise and good men to regard small states as the prolific source of human suffering; and to conclude that all the splendour, whether in arts or in science, with which they are surrounded, is dearly bought at the expense of the peace and tranquillity of the great body of the peo- ple. To such men it appears, that the periods of history on which the historian dwells, or which have been marked by extraordinary genius, are not those in which the greatest public happiness has been enjoyed; but that it is to be found rather under the quiet and inglorious government of a great and pacific empire. Without pretending to determine -which of these opinions is the best founded, it is morf 74 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. important for our present purpose to observe, that the union of the three kingdoms in the British Empire, promises to combine for this country the advantages of both these forms of government without the evils to which either is exposed. While her insular situation, and the union and energy of her people, secure for Great Britain peace and tranquillity within her own bounds, the rivalry of the different nations of whom the empire is composed, pro- mises, if properly directed, to animate her people with the ardour and enterprise which have hitherto been supposed to spring only from the collision of smaller states. Towards the accomplishment of this most desirable object, however, it is indispensable that each nation should preserve the remem- brance of its own distinct origin, and look to the glory of its awn people, with an anxious and peculiar care. It is quite right that the Scotch should glory with their aged sovereign in the name of Britain : and that, when considered with reference to foreign states, Britain should exhibit a united whole, intent only upon up- holding and extending the glory of that empire which her united forces have formed. But it is equally important that her ancient metro- polis should not degenerate into a provincial town; and that an independent nation, once the rival of England, should remember, with pride, the peculiar glories by which her people have been distinguished. Without this, the whole good effects of the rivalry of the two nations will be entirely lost ; and the genius of her different people, in place of emulating and improving each other, will be drawn into one centre, where all that is original and cha- racteristic will be lost in the overwhelming influence of prejudice and fashion. Such an event would be an incalculable calamity to the metropolis, and to the genius of this country. It is this catastrophe which Fletcher of Salton so eloquently foretold, when he opposed the union Avith England in the Scottish Parliament. Edinburgh would then become like Lyons, or Toulouse, or Venice, a provincial town, supported only by the occa- sional influx of the gentlemen in its neighbour- hood, and the business of the courts of law which have their seat within its walls. The city and the nation which have produced or been adorned by David Hume, Adam Smith, Robert Burns, Dugald Stewart, Principal Ro- bertson, and Walter Scott, would cease to exist ; and the traveller would repair to her classical scenes, as he now does to Venice or Ferrara, to lament the decay of human genius Avhich follows the union of independent states. Nor would such an event be less injurious to the general progress of science and arts throughout the empire. It is impossible to doubt, that the circumstance of Scotland being a separate kingdom, and maintaining a rival- ship with England, has done incalculable good to both countries — that it has given rise to a succession of great men, whose labours have enlightened and improved mankind, who "would not otherwise have acted upon the career of knowledge. Who can say what would have been the present condition of England in philosophy or science, if she had not been stimulated by the splendid progress which Scotland was making 1 and who can calculate the encouragement which Scottish genius has derived from the generous applause which England has always lavished upon her works? As Scotchmen, we rejoice in the ex- altation and eminence of our own country; but we rejoice not less sincerely in the literary celebrity of our sister kingdom ; not only from the interest which, as citizens of the united empire, we feel in the celebrity of any of its members, but as affording the secret pledges of the continued and progressive splendour of our own country. It is impossible, however, to contemplate the effects of the union of the two kingdoms, from which this country has derived such incalculable benefits in its national wealth and domestic industry, without perceiving that in time, at least, a corresponding decay may take place in its literary and philosophic acquire- ments. There are few examples in the history of mankind, of an independent kingdom being incorporated with another of greater magni- tude, without losing, in process of time, the national eminence, whether in arts or in arms, to which it had formerly arrived. A rare suc- cession of great men in our universities, in- deed, and an extraordinary combination of talents in the works of imagination, has hitherto prevented this effect from taking place. But who can insure a continuance of men of such extraordinary genius, to keep alive the torch of science in our northern regions 1 Is it not to be apprehended that the attractions of wealth, of power, and of fashion, which have so long drawn our nobles and higher classes to the seat of government, may, ere long, exercise a similar inlluence upon our national genius, and that the melancholy ca- tastrophe which Fletcher of Salton described, with all its fatal consequences, may be, even now, approaching to its accomplishment ] Whatever can arrest this lamentable pro- gress, and fix down, in a permanent manner, the genius of Scotland to its own shores, con- fers not only an incalculable benefit upon this country, but upon the united empire of which it forms a part. The erection of Nalionnl Mo- nmmnts in London, Dublin, and Edinburgh, seems calculated, in a most remarkable man- ner, to accomplish this most desirable object. To those, indeed, who have not been in the habit of attending to the influence of animating recollections upon the development of every thing that is great or generous in human cha- racter, it may appear that the effects we anti- cipate from such structures are visionary and chimerical. But when a train is ready laid, a spark will set it in flames. The Scotch have always been a proud and an ardent people; and the spirit which animated their forefathers, in this respect, is not yet extinct. The Irish have genius, which, if properly directed, is equal to any thing. England is the centre of the intellectual progress of the earth. Upon people so disposed, it is difiicult to estimate the effects which splendid edifices filled with monuments to the greatest men whom their respective countries can boast, may ultimately produce. — It will give stability and consistence NATIONAL MONUMENTS. 75 to the national pride, a feeling which, when properly directed, is the surest foundalion of national eminence. — It will perpetuate tlie re- membrance of the brave and independent Scottish nation — a feeling, of all others, the best suited to animate the exertions of her remotest descendants. — It will teach her inha- bitants to look to their own country for the scene of their real glory ; and while Ireland laments the absence of a nobility insensible to her fame, and unworthy of the land of Burke and Goldsmith, it will be the boast of this country, to have erected on her own shores a monument worthy of her people's glory, and to have disdained to follow merely the triumphs of that nation, whose ancestors they have ere now vanquished in the field. Who has not felt the Sublime impression which the interior of Westminster Aiibey pro- duces, where the poets, the philosophers, and the statesmen of England, " sleep with her kings, and dignify the scene 1" Who has viewed the church of St. Croce at Florence, and seen the tombs of Galileo, and Machiavelli, Michael Angelo, and Alfieri, under one sacred roof, without feeling their hearts swell with the remembrance of her ancient glory; and, among the multitudes who will visit the sacred pile that is to perpetuate the memory of Scot- tish or Irish greatness, how many may there be whom so sublime a spectacle may rouse to a sense of their native powers, and animate with the pride of their country's renown ; and in whom the remembrance of the "illustrious of ancient days" may awaken the noble feeling of Correggio, when he contemplated the works of the Roman masters ; " I too am a Painter." Nor do we think that such monuments could produce eflects of less importance upon the military character and martial spirit of the Scottish people in future ages. The memory of the glorious achievements of our age, in- deed, will never die, and the page of history will perpetuate, to the higher orders, the recol- lection of the events which have cast so unri- valled a splendour over the British nation, in the commencement of the nineteenth century- But the study of history has been, hitherto at least, confined to few, comparatively speaking, of the population of a country ; and the know- ledge which it imparts can never extend uni- versally to the poorer class, from whom the materials of an army are to be drawn. In the ruder and earlier periods of society, indeed, the traditions of warlike events are preserved for a series of years, by the romantic ballads, which are cherished by a simple and primitive people. The nature of the occupations m which they are principally engaged, is favour- able to the preservation of such heroic recol- lections. But in the state of society in which we live, it is impossible that the record of past events can be thus engraven on the hearts of a nation. The uniformity of employments in whicli the lower orders are engasied — the se- vere and unremitting toil to which they are exposed — the division of labour which fixes them down to one limited and unchanging oc- cupation, the prodigious numbers in which they are drawn to certain centres of attrac- tion far from the recollections of their early years, all contribute to destroy those ancient traditions, on the preservation of which so much of the martial spirit of a people depends. The peasantry in the remoter parts of Scotland can still recount some of the exploits, and dwell with enthusiasm on the adventures of Bruce or Wallace; but you will search in vain among the English poor for any record of the victories of Cressy or Azincour, of Blenheim or Kamillies. And even among the higher orders, the experience of every day is sutficient to convince us that the remembrance of ancient glory, though not forgotten, may cease to possess any material inlluence on the character of our people. The historian, in- deed, may recount the glorious victories of Vittoria, Trafalgar, and Waterloo; and their names may be familiar to every ear; but the name may be remembered when the heart- stirring spirit which they should awaken is no longer felt. For a time, and during the life- time of the persons who were distinguished in these events, they form a leading subject of the public attention; but when a new genera- ti(m succeeds, and dilferent cares and fashions and events occupy the attention of the nation, the practical effects of these triumphs is lost, how indelibly soever they may be recorded in the pages of history. The victories of Poic- tiers, and Blenheim, and Minden had long ago demonstrated the superiority of the English over the French troops ; but though this fact appeared unquestionable to those who studied the history of past events, everybody knows with what serious apprehension a French in- vasion was contemplated in this country, within our own recollection. It is of incalculable importance, therefore, that some means should be taken to preserve alive the martial spirit which the recent triumphs have awakened; and to do this, in so prominent a way as may attract the atten- tion of the most thoughtless, and force them on the observation of the most inconsiderate. It is from men of this description — from the young, the gay, and the active, that our armies are filled; and it is on the spirit with which they are animated that the national safety de- pends. Unless they are impressed with the recollection of past achievements, and a sense of the glories of that country which they are to defend, it will little avail us in the moment of danger, that the victories on which every one now dwells with exultation, are faithfully recorded in history, and well known to the sedentary and pacific part of our population. It is upon the preservation of this spirit that the safety of every nation must depend. — It is in vain that it may be encircled with fortresses, or defended by mountains, or bi-giit by the ocean; its real security is to be found in the spirit and the valour of its people. The army which enters the field in the conviction that it is to conquer, has already i,'ained the day. The people, who recollect wiiii pride the achieve inents of their forefathers, will not prove un worthy of them in the field of battle. The remembrance of their heroic actions preserved the independence ofthe Swiss republics, amidst the powerful empires by which they were sur- rounded ; and the glory of her armies, joined 76 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. to the terror of her name, upheld the Roman empire for centuries after the warlike spirit of the people was extinct. It is this which constitutes the strength and multiplies the triumphs of veteran soldiers; and it is this which renders the qualities of military valour and prowess hereditary in a nation. Every people, accordingly, whose achieve- ments are memorable in past historj% have felt the influence of these national recollec- tions, and received them as the most valuable inheritance from their forefathers. The states- men of Athens, when they wished to rouse that fickle people to any great or heroic action, re- minded them of the national glory of their ancestors, and pointed to the Acropolis crown- ed with the monuments of their valour; De- mosthenes in the most heart-stirring apostro- phe of antiquity invoked the shades of those who died at Marathon and Plataja, to sanctify the cause in which they were to be engaged. The Swiss peasants, for five hundred years after the establishment of their independence, assembled on the fields of Morgarten and Lau- pen, and spread garlands over the graves of the fallen warriors, and praj^ed for the souls of those who had died for their country's free- dom. The Romans attached a superstitious reverence to the rock of the capitol, and loaded its temples with the spoils of the world, and looked back with a mixture of veneration and pride, to the struggles which it had witnessed, and the triumphs which it had won. "Capitoli immobile saxum." So long as Manlius remained in sight of the capitol, his enemies found it impossible to ob- tain a conviction of the charges against him. When Scipio Africanus was accused by a fac- tion in the fonim, in place of answering the charge, he turned to the capitol, and invited the people to accompany him to the temple of Jupiter, and return thanks for the defeat of the Carthagenians. Such was the influence of local associations on that severe people ; and so natural is it for the human mind to imbody its recollections in some external object ; and so important an efl^ect are these recollections fitted to have, when they are perpetually brought back to the public mind by the sight of the objects to which they have been attached. The erection of a national monument, on a scale suited to the greatness of the events it is intended to commemorate, seems better calcu- lated than any other measure to perpetuate the spirit which the events of our times have awakened in this country. It will force itself on the observation of the most thoughtless, and recall the recollection of danger and glory, during the slumber of peaceful life. Thousands who never would otherwise have cast a thought upon the glory of their country, will by it be awakened to a sense of what befits the de- scendants of those great men who have died in the cause of national freedom. While it will testify the gratitude of the nation to de- parted worth, it will serve at the same time to mark the distinction which similar victories may win. Like the Roman capitol, it will stand at once the monument of former great- ness, and the pledge of future glory. Nor is it to be imagined that the national monument in London is sufficient for this pur- pose, and that the commencement of a similar undertaking in Edinburgh or Dublin is an un- necessary or superfluous proceeding. It is quite proper, that in the metropolis of the United Empire, the trophies of its common triumphs should be found, and that the na- tional funds should there be devoted to the formation of a monument, worthy of the splendid achievements which her united forces have performed. But the whole benefits of the emulation between the two nations, from which our armies have already derived such signal advantage, would be lost, if Scotland were to participate only in the triumphs of her sister kingdom, without distinctly mark- ing its own peculiaf and national pride, in the glory of her own people. The valour of the Scottish regiments is known and celebrated from one end of Europe to the other; and this circumstance, joined to the celebrity of the poems of Ossian, has given a distinction to our soldiers, to which, for so small a body of men, there is no parallel in the history of the present age. Would it not be a subject of re- proach to this country, if the only land in which no record of their gallantry is to be found, was the land which gave them birth ; and that the traveller who has seen the tartan hailed with enthusiasm on every theatre of Europe, should find it forgotten only in the metropolis of that kingdom which owes its salvation to the bravery by which it has been distinguished ] The animating eflects, moreover, which the sight of a national trophy is fitted to have on a martial people, would be entirely lost in this country, if no other monument to Scottish or Irish valour existed than the monument in London. — There is not a hundredth part of our population who have ever an opportunity of going to that city; or to whom the existence even of such a record of their triumph could be known. Even upon those who may see it, the peculiar and salutary effect of a national monument would be entirely lost. It would be regarded as a trophy of English glory ; and however much it might animate our descend- ants to maintain the character of Britain on the field of European warfare, it would leave wholly untouched those feelings of generous emulation by which the rival nations of Eng- land and Scotland have hitherto been animated towards each other, and to the existence of which, so much of their common triumphs have been owing. It is in the preservation of this feeling of rivalry that we anticipate the most important effects of a national monument in this me- tropolis. There is no danger that the ancient animosity of the two nations will ever revive, or that the emulation of our armies will lead them to prove unfaithful to the common cause in which they must hereafter be engaged. The stern feelings of feudal hatred with which the armies of England and Scotland formerly met at Flodden or Bannockburn, have now 3'ielded to the emulation and friendship which form the surest basis of their common prosperity. But it is of the last importance that these feel- NATIONAL MONUMENTS. 77 ings of national rivalry should not be extin- guished. In every part of the world the good effects of this emulation have been expe- rienced. It is recorded, that at the siege of Namur, when the German troops were re- pulsed from the breach, King William ordered his English guards to advance ; and the veteran warrior was so much aflected with the devoted gallantry with which they pressed on to the assault, that, bursting into tears, he exclaimed, "See how my brave English fight." At the storm of Bhurtpoor, when one of the British regiments was forced back by the dreadful fire that played on the breach, one of the na- tive regiments was ordered to advance, and these brave men cheered as they passed the British troops, who lay trembling in the trenches. Everybody knows the distinguished gallantry with which the Scottish and Irish re- giments, in all the actions of the present war, have sought to maintain their ancient reputa- tion ; and it is not to be forgotten, that the first occasion on which the steady columns of France were broken by a charge of cavalry, when the leading regiments of England, Scot- land, and Ireland, bore down with rival valour ou their columns; and in the enthusiastic cry of the Grays, "Scotland for ever," we may perceive the value of those national recollec- tions which it is the object of the present edi- fice to reward and perpetuate. If this spirit shall live in her armies ; if the rival valour which was formerly excited in their fatal wars against each other, shall thus continue to animate them when fighting against their common enemies, and if the remem- brance of former division is preserved only to cement the bond of present union, Britain and Ireland may well, like the Douglas and Percy, both together "be confident against the world in arms." Fnrcien fon or false besuilin?. Shall our union ne'er divide. Hand in hand, while peace 13 smiling, And in battle side by side. There is no fact more certain than that a due appreciation of the grand or the beautiful in architectural design is not inherent in any individual or in any people ; and that towards the formation of a correct public taste, the ex- istence of fine models is absolutely essential. It is this which gives men who have travelled in Italy or Greece so evident a superiority in considering the merits of the works of art in this country over those who have not had similar advantages; andit is this which renders taste hereditary among a people who have the models of ancient excellence continually be- fore their eyes. The taste of Athens continued to distinguish its people long after they had ceased to be remarkable for any other and more honourable quality; and Rome itself, in the days of its imperial splendour, was com- pelled to borrow, from a people whom she had vanquished, the trophies by which her victories were to be commemorated. To this day the lovers of art flock from the most distant parts of the world to the Acropolis, and dwell with rapture on its unrivalled beauties, and seek to inhale, amid the ruins that surround them, a portion of (he spirit by which they were con- ceived. The remains of ancient Rome still serve as the model of every thing that is great in the designs of modern architects ; and ia the Parthenon and the Coliseum we find the originals on which the dome of St. Peter's and the piazza St. Marco have been formed. It is a matter of general observation, accordingljs that the inhabitants of Italy possess a degree of taste both in sculpture, architecture, and painting, which few persons of the most culti- vated understanding in transalpine countries can acquire. So true it is, that the existence of fine models lays the only foundation of a correct public taste ; and that the transference of the model of ancient excellence to this country is the only means of giving to our people the taste by which similar excellence is to be produced. Now it has unfortunately happened that the Doric architecture, to which so much of the beauty of Greece a^d Italy is owing, has been hitherto little understood, and still less put in practice in this country. We meet with few persons who have not visited the remains of classical antiquit}', who can conceive the matchless beauties of the temples of Minerva at Athens, or of Neptune at Pa^stum. And, indeed, if our conceptions of the Doric betaken from the few attempts at imitation of it which are here to be met with, they would fall very far short, indeed, of what the originals are fitted to excite. We are far from underrating the genius of modern architects, and it would be ungrateful to insinuate, that sufficient ability for the formation of an original design is not to be found. But in the choice of designs for a building which is to stand for centuries, and from which the taste of the metropolis in future ages is in a greater measure to be formed, it is absolutely essential to fix upon some model of known and approved excellence. The erection of a monument in bad taste, or even of doubtful beautj-, might destroy the just conceptions on this subject, which are beginning to prevail, and throw the national taste a century back at the time when it is making the most rapid advances towards per- fection. It is in vain to expect that human genius can ever make any thing more beauti- ful than the Parthenon. It is folly, therefore, to tempt fortune, when certainty is in our hands. There are many reasons besides, which seem in a peculiar manner to recommend the Doric temple for the proposed monuments. By the habits of modern times, a dilicrent species of architecture has been devoted to the ditJer- ent purposes to which buildings may be ap- plied ; and it is difficult to avoid believing, that there is something in the separate styles which is peculiarly adapted to the diflerent emotions they are intended to ejccite. The light tracery, and lofty roof, and airy pillars of the Gothic, seem to accord well with the sublime feelings and spiritual fenour of re- ligion. The massy wall, and gloomy character of the castle, bespeak the abode of feudal power and the paccantry^of barbaric magni- ficence. The beautiful porticoes, antl columns, and rich cornices of the Ionic or Corinthian, g2 78 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. seem well adapted for the public edifices in a great city ; for those which are destined for amusement, or to serve for the purpose of public ornament. The Palladian style is that of all others best adapted for the magnificence of private dwellings, and overwhelms the spectator by a flood of beauty, against which the rules of criticism are unable to withstand. If any of these styles of architecture were to be transferred from buildings destined for one purpose to those destined for another, the im- propriety of the change would appear very conspicuous. The gorgeous splendour of the Palladian front would be entirely misplaced, in an edifice destined for the purpose of re- ligion ; and the rich pinnacles and gloomy aisles of the Gothic, would accord ill with the scene of modern amusement or festivity. Now a National Monument is an edifice of a very singular kind, and such as to require a style of architecture peculiar to itself. The Grecian Doric, as it is exhibited in the Par- thenon, appears singularly well adapted for this purpose. Its form and character is asso- ciated in ever}"^ cultivated mind with the re- collections of classical history ; and it recalls the brilliant conceptions of national glory as they were received during the ardent and enthusiastic period of youth; while its stern and massy form befits an edifice destined to commemorate the severe virtues and manly character of war. The efl^ect of such a build- ing, and the influence it would have on the public taste, would be increased to an in- definite degree, by the interest of the purpose to which it is destined. An edifice which re- called at once the interest of classical associa- tion, and commemorated the splendour of our own achievements, would impress itself in the most indelible manner on the public mind, and force the beauty of its design on the most careless observer. And there can be no doubt that this impression would be far greater, just because it arose from a style of building hitherto unknown in this country, and pro- duced an effect as dissimilar from that of any other architectural design, as the national emotions which it is intended to awaken are from those to which ordinary edifices are des- tined. We cannot help considering this as a matter of great importance to this city, and to the taste of the age in which we live. It is no inconsiderable matter to have one building of faultless design erected, and to have the youth of our people accustomed from their infancy to behold the work of Phidias. But the ulti- mate effect which such a circumstance might produce on the taste of the nation, and the celebrity of this metropolis, is far more im- portant. It is in vain to conceal, that the wealth and the fashion of England is every day attracting the higher part of our society to another capital ; and that Edinburgh can never possess attractions of the same descrip- tion with London, sufficient to enable her to stand an instant in the struggle. But while London must always eclipse this city in all that depends on we^ilth, power, or fashionable elegance, nature has given to it the means of establishing a superiority of a higher and a more permanent kind. The matchless beauty of its situation, the superb cliffs by which it is surrounded, the magnificent prospects of the bay, which it commands, have given to Edinburgh the means of becoming the most biHiuttfvl town that exists in the world. And the inexhaustible quarries of free-stone, which lie in the immediate vicinity, have rendered architectural embellishment an easier object in this city than in any other in the empire. It cannot be denied, however, that much still remains to be done in this respect, and that every stranger observes the striking contrast between the beauty of its private houses, and the deplorable scantiness of its public build- ings. The establishment of a taste for edifices of an ornamental description, and the gradual purification of the popular taste, which may fairly be expected from the influence of so perfect a model as the Parthenon of Athens, would ultimately, in all probability, render this city the favourite residence of the fine arts ; the spot to which strangers would re- sort, both as the place where the rules of taste are to be studied, and the models of art are to be found. And thus, while London is the Rome of the empire, to which the young, and the ambitious, and the gay, resort for the pur- suit of pleasure, of fortune, or of ambition, Edinburgh might become another Athens, in which the arts and the sciences flourished, under the shade of her ancient fame, and established a dominion over the minds of men more permanent than even that which the Roman arms were able to effect. The Greeks always fixed on an eminence for the situation of their temples, and what- ever was the practice of a people of such ex- quisite taste is well worthy of imitation. The Acropolis of Athens, the Acrocorinthus of Corinth, the temple of Jupiter Panhelleiiius, in ^■Egina, are instances of the beauty of these edifices when placed on such conspicuous situations. At Athens, in particular, the tem- ples of Jupiter Olympius and of Theseus are situated in the plain; but although the former is built in a style of magnificence to which there is no parallel, and is double the size of the Parthenon, its effect is infinitely less strik- ing than that of the temple of Minerva, which crowns the Acropolis, and meets the eye from every part of the adjacent country. The tem- ple of Jupiter Panhelleiiius, in the island of iEgina, is neither so large nor so beautiful as the temple of Theseus; but there is no one who ever thought of comparing the effect which the former produces, crowning a rich and wooded hill, to that which is felt on view- ing the latter standing in the plain of Attica. The temple of Neptune, at Ptestum, has a sublime efl^ect from the desolation that sur- rounds it, and from the circumstance of there being no eminence for many miles to interfere with its stern and venerable form ; but there is no one who must not have felt that the grandeur of this edifice would be entirely lost if it was placed in a modern city, and over- topped by buildings destined for the most or- dinary purposes. The temple of Vesta, at Tivoli, perched on the crag which overhangs the cataract, is admired by all the world; but NATIONAL MONUMENTS. 79 the temple to the same goddess, on the banks of the Tiber, at Rome, is passed over without notice, though the intrinsic beauty of the one is nearly as great as that of the other. In the landscapes too of Claude and Poussin, who knew so well the situation in which every building appears to most advantage, the ruins of temples are almost always placed on pro- minent fronts, or on the summit of small hills; in such a situation, in short, as the Cal- ton Hill of Edinburgh presents. The practice of the ancient Greeks, in the choice of situa- tions for their temples, joined to that of the modern Italian painters in their ideal repre- sentations of the same objects, leaving no room to doubt that the course which they fol- lowed was that which the peculiar nature of the building required. But all objects of local interest sink into insignificance compared wirii the vast effect which a restoration of so perfect a relic of antiquity as the Parthenon of Athens would have on the national taste, and ultimately on the spread of refined and elevating feelings among the mhabitants of the country. As this is a subject of the very highest import- ance, and which is not generally so well understood as it should be, we crave the in- dulgence of our readers to a few observations, conceived in the warmest feeling of interest in modern art, but a strong sense of the only means by which it can be brought to the ex- cellence of which it is susceptible. It is observed by Madame de Stael, " that architecture is the only art which approaches, in its effects, to the works of nature," and there are few, we believe, who have not, at some period of their lives, felt the truth of the oteervation. The Cathedral of York, the Dome of St. Paul's, or the interior of St. Peter's, are scarcely eclipsed in our recollec- tion with the glories of human creation; and the impression which they produce is less akin to admiration of the talent of an artist, than to the awe and veneration which the tra- veller feels when he first enters the defiles of the Alps. It has often been a matter of regret to per- sons of taste in this country, that an art so magnificent in its monuments, and so power- ful in its effect, has been so little the object of popular cultivation; nor is it perhaps easy to understand, how a people so much alive to the grand and beautiful in the other departments of taste, should so long have re- mained insensible to the attractions of one of its most interesting branches. Many causes have, doubtless, conspired to produce this effect; but among these, the principal, we are persuaded, is to be found in the absence of any monumenta of approved exrcllenrc to form the taste, and excite the admiration of the public. And, in this respect, there is an important dis- tinction, which is often overlooked, between architecture and the other departments of art or literature. In poetr)% painting, or sculpture, the great works of former times are in everybody's hands; and the public taste has long ago been formed on the study of those remains of an- cient genius, which still continue, notwith- standing the destruction of the people who gave them birth, to govern the imagination of succeeding ages. The poetry of Virgil, and the eloquence of Cicero, form the first objects to which the education of the young is di- rected ; the designs of Raphael and Correggio have been muUiplied by the art of engraving, to almost as great an extent as the classical authors ; and casts, at least, of the Apollo and the Venus, are familiar to every person who has paid the smallest attention to the beauty of the human form. It is on the habitual study of these works that the public taste has been formed ; and the facility of engraving and painting has extended our acquaintance with their excellencies, almost as far as knowledge or education have extended in the world. But with architecture the case is widely different. PubUc edifices cannot be published and circulated with the same facility as an edition of Virgil, or a print of Claude Lorraine. To copy or restore such monuments, requires an expenditure of capital, and an exertion of skill, almost as great as their original con- struction. Nations must be far advanced in wealth and attainment before such costiy un- dertakings can be attempted. And if the su- perstition of an earlier age has produced structures of astonishing magnitude and ge- nius, they are of a kind which, however venerable or imposing, are not calculated to have the same effect in chastening the public taste, with those that arose in that auspicious period when all the finer powers of the mind had attained their highest exaltation. It thus unfortunately happens, that architecture can- not share in the progress which the other fine arts are continually making from the circula- tion and study of the works of antiquity ; and successive nations are often obliged to begin anew the career which their predecessors have run, and fall inevitably into the errors which they had learned to avoid. The possibility of multiplying drawings or engravings of the edifices of antiquity, or of informing distant nations of their proportions and dimensions, has but little tendency to obviate this disadvantage. Experience has shown that the best drawings convey a most inadequate conception of architectural gran- deur, or of the means by which it is produced. To those, indeed, who have seen the originals, such engravings are highly valuable, because they awaken and renew the impression which the edifices themselves have made; but to those who have not had this advantage, they speak an unknown language. This is matter of common observation ; and there is no tra- veller who has returned from Greece or Italy, who will not confirm its truth. It is as im- possible to convey a conception of the exterior of the Parthenon, or the interior of St. Peter's, by the finest drawings accompanied by the most accurate statement of their dimensions, as to give the inhabitants of a level country a true sense of the sublimity of the .\lps, by exhibiting a drawing of the snowy peaks of Mint Blanc, and informing him of its altitude according to the latest trigonometrical obscr vations. 80 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. Evfn if drawings could convey a concep- tion of the original structures, the taste for this art is so extremely limited that it could have but little elfect in obviating the disadvan- tage of their remote situation. There is not one person in a hundred who ever looks at a drawing, or, if he does, is capable of deriving the smallest pleasure from the finest produc- tions of that branch of art. To be reduced to turn over a portfolio of engravings, is prover- bially spoken of as the most wretched of all occupations in a drawing-room ; and it is no uncommon thing to see the productions of Claude, or Poussin, or Williams, abounding in all the riches of architectural ornament, passed over without the slightest indication of emotion, by persons of acknowledged taste in other respects. And yet the same individuals, who are utterly insensible to architectural ex- cellence in this form, could not avoid acquiring a certain taste for its beauties, if they were the subject of habitual observation, in edifices at home, or obtruded upon their attention in the course of foreign travelling. Besides this, the architect is exposed to in- surmountable difficulties, if the cultivation of those around him has not kept pace with his ov.ai, and if they are incapable of feeling the beauty of the edifices on which his taste has been formed. It is to no purpose that his own taste may have been improved by studying the ruins of Athens or Rome, unless the taste of his eniploycrs has undergone a similar ameliora- tion, his genius will remain dormant, and his architectural drawings be suffered to lie in unnoticed obscurity in the recesses of his portfolio. The architect, it should always be remembered, cannot erect edifices, as the poet writes verses, or the painter covers his can- vas, without an}'- external assistance. A great expenditure of capital is absolutely essential to the production of any considerable specimen of his art: and, therefore, unless he can com- municate his own enthusiasm to the wealthy, and unless a growing desire for architectural embellishments is sufficient to overcome the inherent principle of parsimony, or the inte- rested views of individuals, or the jealousy of public bodies, he will never have an opportu- nity of displaying his genius, or all his at- tempts will be thwarted by persons incapable of appreciating it. And unfortunately the talents of no artist, how great soever, can effect such a revolution; it can be brought about only by the contimied observation of beauti- ful edifices, and the diffusion of a taste for the art among all the well-educated classes of the people. The states of antiquity lay so immediately ' in the vicinity of each other, that the progress of architecture was uninterrupted; and thus people of each nation formed their taste by the study of the structures of those to whom they lay adjacent. The Athenians, in particular, in raising the beautiful edifices which have so long been the admiration of the world, pro- ceeded entirely upon the model of the build- ings by which they were surrounded, and the temple of Jupiter Panhellenius, in the island of ^gina, which is said to have been built by ./Eacus before the Trojan War, remains to this day to testify the species of edifices on which their national taste was formed. The Ionic order, as its name denotes, arose in the wealthy regions of Asia Minor; and when the Athe- nians turned their attention to the embellish- ment of their city, they had, in their immediate vicinity, edifices capable of pointing out the excellencies of that beautiful st3'le. The Ro- mans formed their taste upon the architecture of the people whom they had subdued, and adopted all their orders from the Grecian structures. Their early temples were exactly similar to those of their masters in the art of design; and when the national taste was formed upon that model, they combined them, as real genius will, into different forms, and left the Coliseum and the baths of Dioclesian as monuments of the grandeur and originality of their conceptions. In modern times, the restoration of taste first began around the edifices of antiquity. "On the revival of the art in Italy," says Lord Aber- deen, "during the fifteenth and sixteenth cen- turies, the great architects who adorned that covintry naturally looked for instruction to the monuments with which they were surrounde4-: the wrecks and fragments of Imperial Rome. These were not only successfully imitated, but sometimes even surpassed by the Italian art- ists; for Bramante and Michael Angelo, Pal- ladio and Bernini, designed and executed works which, although of unequal merit, may fairly challenge a comparison with the boasted productions of the Augustan age." Italy and France, accordingly, have reaped the full ad- vantage of their local proximity to the monu-' ments of former genius ; and the character of their buildings evinces a decided superiority to the works of architects in other states. In the south of Europe, therefore, the pro- gress of architecture has been uninterrupted, and each successive age has reaped the full benefit which the works of those which pre- ceded it was fitted to confer. But the remote- ness of their situation has deprived the in- habitants of the north of Europe of this advan- tage ; and, while the revival of letters and the arts has developed the taste of the people of this country in other respects, to a very great degree, their knowledge of architecture is yet in its infancy. In this city the most remarka- ble proofs of this deficiency were annually exhibited till a very recent period. The same age which was illustrated by the genius of Sir Walter Scott, and Campbell, and Dugald Stewart, witnessed the erection of Nelson's monument and St. George's church. The extraordinary improvement in the publi^k. taste, which has taken place since the peace of 1814, opened the Continent to so large a pro- portion of our population, evinces, in the most unequivocal manner, the influence of the actual sight of fine models in training the mind to the perception of architectural beauty. That archi- tecture is greatly more an object both of study and interest than it was ten years ago, is matter of common observation ; and the most convincing proof of the extension of a taste for its excellencies is to be found in the rapid increase and extensive circulation of en- gravings of the most interesting ruins on the NATIONAL MONUMENTS. 81 Continent, -^vhich has taken place of late 5'ears. These engravings, ho^vever incapable of con- ve)ing an adequate idea of the originals, to those who have never left this countrj^ j^ct serve as an admirable auxiliar)' to the memo- ry, in retaining the impression which the}' had produced on those who have had that advantage; and, accordingly, their sale is almost entirely confined to persons of that de- scription. Nor is the improvement less gratifying in the style of the edifices, and the genius of the architects who have arisen during that period. The churches of Marybone and St. Pancras, in London, notwithstanding some striking defects. are by far the finest buildings which have been raised in the metropolis since the days of Sir Christopher Wren. The new street in front of Carlton House, including the Quadrant, contains some most beautiful specimens cf architecture; although the absurd rage for novelty has disfigured it by other structures of extraordinary deformity. The buildings which adjoin, and look into the Regent Park, are the most chaste and elegant examples of the application of the Grecian architecture to private edifices which the metropolis can boast. Nor is the improvement less conspicuous in our own capital, where the vicinity of free- ftone quarries of uncommon beauty, and the advantages of unrivalled situation, have ex- cited a very strong desire for architectural embellishment. It is hardly possible to believe that Waterloo Place, the Royal Terrace, Leo- pold Place, and the Melville Monument, have been vected in the same age which witnessed the building of Lord Nelson's monument on the Calton Hill, or the recent edifices in the Parliament Square. The remarkable start which the genius as well as the taste of our architects has taken since the public attention was drawn to this art, alTords a striking proof of the influence of popular encouragement in fostering the conceptions of native genius, and illustrates the hopelessness of expecting that our artists will ever attain to excellence, when the taste of the people does not keep pace with their exertions. But the causes which have recently given So remarkable a stimulus to architectural ex- ertion are temporary in their nature. It is impossible to expect that the Continent will always be open to our youth, or that the public attention can be permanently directed to the arts of peace, with the interest which is so remarkable at this time. Other wars may arise which will shut us out from the south of Europe; the interest of politics may again witiidraw the national attention from the fine arts; or the war of extermination, of which Greece is now the theatre, may utterly destroy those monuments which have so long survived to direct and improve the world. From the present aspect of aflliirs on the Continent, there seems every reason to apprehend that one or both of these effects may very soon take place. These circumstances render it the more desirable, that some steps should be taken to fix m this island the fleeting percep- tion of architectural beauty which is now prevalent; and, if possible, render our people 11 j independent of foreign travelling, or of the borrowed aid of foreign edifices. Lord Aberdeen, like all other travellers of taste, speaks in the highest terms of the im- pression produced by the unrivalled edifices of ancient Greece; and contrasts the pure and faultless taste by which they are distinguished, with the ephemeral productions which in modern times have arisen, in the vain attempt to improve upon their proportions. If we seek for the manifestation of pure taste in the monuments which surround us, our search will but too often prove fruitless. We must turn our eyes towards those regions. Where on the Egean shore a city stands. Built nobly! Here, — it has been little understood, for it has been rarely felt; its country is Greece, — its throne the Acropolis of Athens. " By a person writing on the subject of architecture, the name of Athens can scaicely be pronounced without emotion, and, in the mind of one who has had the good fortune to examine at leisure its glorious remains, im- pressions are revived which time and distance can never obliterate. It is difficult to resist the desire of fondly dwelling on the descriptions of monuments, to the beauty of which, although they have been long well known, and accu- rately described, we feel that no language can do full justice. But, as it is not the purpose of this inquiry to give those practical or de- tailed instructions in the art, which may be so much better attained from other sources, I v/ill only observe in this place, what it is of con- sequence to keep in view, because no descrip- tions or representations, however accurate, can give adequate notions of the eflfcct of the originals, that, notwithstanding the lapse of ages, the injuries of barbarism, and fanatical violence, Athens still presents to the student the most faultless models of ornamental archi- tecture; and is still, therefore, the best school for the acquisition of the highest attributes of his art."— pp. 35, 36. Speaking of the numerous attempts at no- velty, which have been made in modern times, he observes : " It may be observed in general, that few of those numerous changes of taste which an in- satiable desire of novelty, or the caprice of fashion, may have sanctioned for a time, have been ultimately successful ; for these ephe- meral productions, however warmly sup- ported, have been found successively to vanish before the steady and permanent attractions of Grecian beauty, and we shall probably feel dis- posed to admit, that the ornamental details of the standard models of antit]uity. combined and modified by discretion and judi;-ment, ap- pear to oflcr a suflicient variet}' for the exer- cise of invention and genius in this province of the art."— p. 30. And comparing these with the remains of Grecian architecture, he observes: "The precious remains of Grecian art were long neglected, and the most beautiful were, in truth, nearly inaccessible to the Christian world. It is almost in our own time, that ob- stacles, formerly insurmountable, have been since vanquished; and that the treasures of 82 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. art, still unfortnnatclj^ in the custody of igno- rance and barbarism, have not only been visited, but have been accurately measured and delineated. Henceforth, therefore, these exquisite remains should form the chief study of the architect vho aspires to permanent reputation; other modes are transitory and uncertain, but the essential qualities of Gre- cian excellence, as they are founded on reason, and are consistent with fitness and propriety, will ever continue to deserve his first care." — pp. 215, 216. The argument which is most commonly tirged against the restoration of an ancient Mnicture, is, that it is degrading to copy the arcliitecture of another people. It is both hu- miliating to our artists, it is said, and inju- rious to the progress of art, to imitate what has been already done. The Romans never copied; but, borrowing merely the general forms of the Grecian architecture, moulded them into different combinations, which gave a different character to their style of building. Such also should be the course which we should adopt. This very plausible argument proceeds upon an inattention to the successive steps by which excellence in the fine arts is attained, and a mistaken conception of the height to which we have already ascended in our taste or knowledge of architecture. It is quite true that the Romans did not cop)' the Grecian tem- ples; and that the modern Italians have not thought of attempting a restoration of the Coli- seum or the Pantheon. But it is to be recol- lected that the origitials icere within their reach, and had ahcady exercised their salutary influence upon the public taste. The ancient Romans had only to go to Psestum, Agrigentum, or Syracuse, to behold the finest Grecian temples; and their warlike youth, in the course of the military expeditions to which all the citizens were liable, had perpetually, in their eastern dominions, the Grecian edifices placed before their eyes. Michael Angelo, Poussin, and Claude Lorraine, lived amidst the ruins of an- cient Rome, and formed their taste from their earliest youth, upon the Iiobilval contemplation of those monuments. For them to have co- pied these buildings, with a view to the re- storation of the public taste, would have been as absurd as for us to copy York or Lincoln Ca- thedrals, in order t*) revive an admiration for the Gothic architecture. But is there no difference between the situ- ation of a people, who, like the ancient Romans and modern Italians, had the great models of antiquity continually before their eyes, and that of a people, who, like the inhabitants of this island, have no jnodels in the Doric style, either to form their taste, or guide their exer- tions, and who have no means of reaching the remains of that order which exist, but by a journey of many thousand miles? Of the in- fluence of the study of ancient excellence in improving the taste, both of architects and peo- ple, no one acquainted with the subject can have the smallest doubt; and it is stated in the strongest terms, by the author whose obser- vations have just been mentioned. "Amidst Ihe ruins of Rome, the great Italian architects formed their taste. They studied the relics of ancient grandeur, with all the diligence of en- thusiasm. They measured the proportions, and drew the details, and modelled the members But when their artists were employed by the piety or magnificence of the age, they never re • stored the examples by which they were sur rounded, and which were the objects of theii habitual study. The architects did not linger in contemplation of their predecessors ; former generations had advanced and they proceeded." Now such being the influence of the remains of antiquit)' in guiding the inventions, and chastening the taste of modern artists, is there no advantage in putting our architects in this particular on a level with those of Italy, and com- pensating, in some degree, by the restoration of the finest monuments of ancient genius, the local disadvantages with which a residence in this remote part of the world is necessarily at- tended 1 By doing this, we are not precluding the development of modern invention ; we are, on the contrary, laying the surest foundation •for it, by bringing our artists to the point from which the Italian artists took their departure. When this is done, the inventive genius of the two nations will be able to commence their career with equal advantages. Till it is attempt- ed, we can hardly hope that we shall overtake them in the race. Suppose, that instead of possessing the Coliseum and the Pantheon within their walls, and having made their pro- portions the continual subject of their study, the Roman artists had been obliged to travel into the interior of Asia to visit their ruins, and that this journey, from the expense with which it was attended, had been witlfin the reach only of a few of the most opulent and adventurous of their nobility ; can there be the slightest doubt that the fine arts in that city would have been greatly indebted to any Ro- man pontifi" who restored those beautiful mo- numents in his own dominions 1 and yet this benefit is seriously made a matter of doubt, when the restoration of the Parthenon is pro- posed, in a part of the world where the remains of ancient genius are placed at the distance of two thousand miles. The greatest exertions of original genius, both in literature and arts, by which modem Europe has been distinguished, have been made in an age when the wealth of ancient times was thoroughly understood. The age of Tasso andMachiavel/o//o((Tf/ the restoration of letters in Italy. If we compare their writings with those which preceded that great event, the difierence appears almost incalculable. It was on the stu- dy of Grecian and Roman eloquence, that Mil- ton trained himself to those sublime concep- tions which have immortalized his name. Raphael and Michael Angelo gave but slight indications of original genius till their pow- ers were awakened and their taste refined by the study of the Grecian sculpture. Statuary, in modern times, has nowhere been cultivated with such success as at Rome, amidst the works of former ages; and Chantry has declared that the arrival of the Elgin marbles in the British Museum is to be regarded as an era in the pro- gress of art in this country. Architecture has attained its greatest perfection in France and NATIONAL MONUMENTS. 83 Italy, where the study of the remains of anti- quity which those countries contain, has had so powerful an influence upon the public taste. Those who doubt the influence of the restoration of the Partlienon, in improving the efibrts of original genius in this country, reason in op- position not only to the experience of past times, in all th& other departments of literature and art, but to all that we know of the causes to which the improvement of architecture itself has been owing. It is no answer to this to say that drawings and prints of these edifices are open to all the world; and that an architect may study the proportions of the Parthenon as well in Stuart's Athens, as on the Calton Hill of Edin- burgh. An acquaintance with drawings is limited to a small number, even in the most polished classes of society, and to the middling and lower orders is almost unknown ; where- as, public edifices are seen by all the world, and obtruda themselves on the attention of the most inconsiderate. There are few persons who return from Greece or Italy, without a considerable taste for architectural beauty ; but during the war, when travelling was im- possible, the existence of Stuart's Athens and Piranesi's Rome produced no such efllsct. Our architects, during the war, had these ad- mirable engravings constantly at their com- mand: but how wretched were their concep- tions before the peace had afli)rded them the means of studying the originals ! The extra- ordinary improvement which both the style of our buildings, and the taste of our people have received, since the edifices of France and Italy were laid open to so large a proportion of the country, demonstrates the superior efficacy of actual observation, to the study of prints, in improving the public taste for architectural beauty. The engravings never become an object of interest till the originals have been seen. The recent attempts to introduce a new order of architecture in this island, demon- strate, that we have not as yet arrived at the point where the study of ancient models can be dispensed with. In the new street in front of Carlton House, every thing, which, if form- ed on the model of the antique, is beautiful; every thing in which novelty has been at- tended is a deformit}'. It is evident, that more than one generation must pass away, before architecture is so thoroughly understood as to admit of the former landmarks being disre- garded. The belief that a Grecian temple cannot look beautiful, but in the climate and under the sun of Athens, is a total mistake. The clear atmosphere which prevails during the frosts of winter, or in the autumnal months, in Scotland, is as favourable to the display of architectural splendour, as the warm atmo- sphere of Greece. The Melville monument in St. Andrew's Square appears nowise inferior to the original in the Rt)man capitol. The gray and time-worn temples of Prestura are pcriiaps more sublime that the Grecian struc- tures which still retain the brightness and lustre Iv which they were originally charac- terized. Of all the edifices which the genius of man rvcr conceived, the Doric temple is most independent of the adventitious advantages of light and shade, and rests most securely on the intrinsic grandeur and solidity of its con- struction. To say, that every people have an archi- tecture of their own, and that the Gothic is irretrievably fixed down upon this island, is a position unwarranted either by reason or authority. A nation is not bound to adhere to barbarous manners, because their ancestors were barbarous; nor is the character of their literature to be fixed by the productions of its earliest writers. It is by its works in the period of its meridian splendour, that the opi- nion of posterity is formed. The bow was once the national weapon of England, and to the skill with which it was used, our greatest victories have been owing; but that is no reason why it should be adhered to as the means of national defence after fire-arms have been introduced. If we must make something peculiar in the National Monument, let it be the peculiarity which distinguishes the period when architecture and the other fine arts have attained to their highest perfection, and not the period of their infancy. But the feudal and castellated forms arose during an age of ignorance and civil dissension. To compel us to continue that style as the national archi- tecture, would be as absurd as to consider Chaucer as the standard of English literature, or Duns Scotus as the perfection of Scotch eloquence. We do not consider the writers in the time of the Jameses as the model of our national literature. Why then should we con- fer that distinction on the architecture which arose out of the circumstances of the barba- rous periodi For these reasons, we are compelled to dif- fer from the noble author, whose very inte- resting essay on Grecian architecture has done so much to awaken the world to a sense of its excellencies, in regard to the expediency of restoring the Parthenon in the National Monument of Scotland. From the taste which his work exhibits, and from the obvious supe- riority which he possesses over ourselves in estimating the beauties of Grecian architec- ture, we drew the strongest argument in favour of such a measure. It was from a study of the ruins of ancient Greece, that Lord Aber- deen acquired the information and taste which he possesses on this subject, and gained the superiority Avhich he enjoys over his untra- velled countrymen. If they had the same means of visiting and studying the originals which he has possessed, we should agree with him in thinking, that the genius of the age should be directed to new combinations. But when this is not the case, we must be con- tent to proceed by slower degrees; and while ninetecn-twentieths of our people do not know what the Parthenon is, and can perceive no- thing remarkable in the finest models of archi- tectural excellence, we must not think of forming new orders. It is enough if we can make them acquainted with those which already exist. The first step towards national excellence in the fine arts, is to feel the beauty of that which has already been done; the se- cond, is to excel it. We must lake the first 84 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. step, before we attempt the second. Having laid the foundation of national taste in archi- tecture, by restoring the finest model of anti- quity on the situation of all others the best adapted for making its excellencies known, we shall be prepared to form new edifices, and possibly to surpass those which antiquity has left. But till this is done, there is every rea- son to apprehend, that the efforts of our artists will be as inefi'ectual in obtaining true beauty, as the genius of our writers was in obtaining real excellence, until the restoration of the classic authors gave talent its true direction, and public taste an unexceptionable standard. MAESIIAL NET. The memoirs connected with the French Revolution furnish an inexhaustible source of interesting discussion. We shall look in vain in any other period of history for the same splendid succession of events ; for a phantasmagoria in which characters so illus- trious are passed before the view ; or for in- dividuals whose passions or ambition have exercised an equally important influence on human affairs. When we enter upon the era of Napoleon, biography assumes the dignity of history ; the virtues and vices of individuals become inseparably blended with public mea- sures ; and in the memoirs of contemporary writers, we turn for the secret springs of those great events which have determined the fate of nations. From the extraordinary interest, however, connected with this species of composition, has arisen an evil of no ordinary kind. Not France only, but Europe at large, being in- satiable for works of this kind, an immense number have sprung up of spurious origin, or doubtful authorit)'. Writing of memoirs has become a separate profession. A crowd of able young men devote themselves to this fas- cinating species of composition, which pos- sesses the interest of history without its dry- ness, and culls from the book of Time only the most brilliant of its flowers. Booksellers engage in the wholesale manufacture, as a mercantile speculation ; an attractive name, an interesting theme, is selected ; the relations of the individuals whose memoirs are pro- fessed to be given to the world, are besought to furnish a few original documents or au- thentic anecdotes, to give an air of veracity to the composition ; and at length the memoirs are ushered forth to the world as the work of one who never wrote one syllable of them himself. Of this description are the soi-disant Memoirs of Fouche, Robespierre, Une Femme de Qualite, Louis the Eighteenth, and many others, which are now admitted to be the work of the manufacturers for the Parisian book- sellers, but are nevertheless interspersed with many authentic and interesting anecdotes, derived from genuine sources, and contain in consequence much valuable matter for future history. In considering the credit due to any set of memoirs, one main point, of course, is, whe- ther they are published by a living author of * Memoires du Marechal Ney, publics par sa Famille. Paris, Fournier ; Londres, E. Bull, 1833. Blackwood's Magazine, Oct. 1833. character and station in society. If they are, there is at least the safeguard against impos- ture, which arises from the facility with which they may be disavowed, and the certainty that no man of character would permit a spurious composition to be palmed upon the world as his writing. The Memoirs, therefore, of Bour- rienne, Madame Junot, Savary, and many others, may be relied on as at least the ad- mitted work of the persons whose names they bear, and as ushered into the world under the sanction and on the responsibility of living persons of rank or station in society. There are other memoirs, again, of such ex- traordinary ability as at once to bear the stamp of originality and veracity on their very face. Of this description are Napoleon's memoirs, dictated to Montholon and Gourgaud ; a work which bears in every page decisive marks of the clear conceptions, lucid ideas, and tranch- ant sagacity of the Conqueror of Austerlitz and Rivoli. Judging from internal evidence, we are disposed to rank these invaluable Me- moirs much higher than the rambling and dis- cursive, though interesting work of Las Casas. They are not nearly so impassioned or ran- corous ; facts are not so obviously distorted; party spirit is not so painfully conspicuous. With regret, we must add, that even these genuine memoirs, dictated by Napoleon him- self, as the groundwork for the history of his achievements, contain the marks of the weak- nesses as well as the greatness of his mind; an incessant jealousy of every rival who ap- proached even to his glory ; an insatiable passion for magnifying his own exploits ; a disregard of truth so remarkable in a person gifted with such extraordinary natural sagaci- ty, that it can be ascribed only to the poison- ous moral atmosphere which a revolution pro- duces. The Memoirs of Thibaudeau perhaps exhibit the most valuable and correct, as well as favourable picture of the emperor's miud. In the discussions on the great public mea- sures which were submitted to the Council of State at Paris, and, above all, in the clear and luminous speeches of Napoleon on every sub- ject, whether of civil or military administra- tion, that occurred during his consulship, is to be found the clearest proof of the vast grasp and great capacity of his mind ; and in their superiority to those of the other speakers, and, above all, of Thibaudeau himself, the best evidence of the fidelity of his reports. Next in value to those of Napoleon and Thibaudeau, we are inclined to place those of MARSHAL NEY. 85 Bourrienne and the Duchess of Abrantes. The first of these writers, in addition to consider- able natural talents, enjoyed the inestimable ad- vantage of having been the school-fellow of Napoleon, and his private secretary during the most interesting period of his life ; that which elapsed from the opening of his Italian Campaign, in 1796, to his accession to the throne in 1804. If Bourrienne could be entire- ly relied on, his Memoirs, with such sources of information, would be invaluable ; but un- fortunately, it is evident that he labours under a feeling of irritation at his former school- fellow, which renders it necessary to take his statements with some grains of allowance. Few men can forgive the extraordinary and unlooked-for elevation of their former equals ; and, in addition to this common source of pre- judice, it is evident that Bourrienne labours under another and a less excusable feeling. It is plain, even from his own admission, that he had been engaged in some money transac- tions of a doubtful character with M. Ouvrard, which rendered his continuing in the highly confidential situation of private secretary to the emperor improper ; and his dismissal from it has evidently tinged his whole narrative with a certain feeling of acrimony, which, if it has not made him actually distort facts, has at least caused them to appear in his hands through a medium coloured to a certain de- gree. The Duchess of Abrantes, like most of the other annalists of Napoleon, labours under prepossessions of a dilTerent kind. She was intimate with Napoleon from his childhood ; her mother had the future emperor on her knee from the day of his birth ; and the in- timacy between the two families continued so great, that when Napoleon arrived at the age of twenty-six, and felt, as he expresses it, the " besoin de se fixer," he actually proposed for the duchess's mother himself, who was a per- son of great natural attractions, while he wished at the same time to arrange a mar- riage between Joseph and the duchess, and Pauline and her brother. It may readily be imagined that, though these proposals were all declined, they left no unfavourable impres- sion on the duchess's mind; and this, coupled with her subsequent marriage to Junot, and his rapid advancement by the emperor, has filled her mind with an admiration of his cha- racter almost approaching to idolatry. She sees every thing, in consequence, in the con- sular and imperial government, in the most favourable colours. Napoleon is worshipped with all a woman's fervour, and the days of triumph for the Grand Army looked back to as a dream of glory, which has rendered all the remainder of life worthless and insipid. The Memoirs of Marshal Ney appear under different auspices from any others which have yet appeared regarding this eventful era. They do not profess to have been written by him- self; and, indeed, the warlike habits, and sudden and tragic death of the marshal, pre- clude the possibility of their being ushered forth to the world under that character. But, on the other hand, they are unqufsiionably published by his family, from the documents i and papers in their possession ; and the anec- dotes with which they are interspersed have plainly been collected with great pains from all the early friends of that illustrious warrior. If they are not published, therefore, under the sanction of personal, they are under that of family responsibility, and may be regarded, as we would say in England, as " the Ney Pa- pers," connected together by an interesting biography of the character to whom they refer. In such a production, historical impartiality cannot be reasonably expected. To those of his family who still mourn the tragic end of the bravest of French heroes, his character must still be the object of veneration. Fail- ings which would have been acknowledged, defects which would have been pointed out, if he had descended to an honoured tomb, are forgotten in his melancholy fate ; and his famil}', with hearts ulcerated at the supposed injustice and perhaps real illegality of his condemnation, are rather disposed to magnify his character into that of a martyr, than ac- knowledge its alliance with any of the weak- nesses or faults of mortality. In such feel- ings, there is not only every thing that is natural, but much that is commendable ; and the impartial foreigner, in reviewing the his- tory of his achievements, will not forget the painful sense of duty under which the British government acted at the close of his career, or the mournful feelings with which the axe of justice was permitted to descend on one of the bravest of the human race, under the feel- ing — whether right or not it is the province of history to inquire — of imperious state necessity. Marshal Ney was born at Sarrelouis, on the 10th Januar}', 1769; consequently, he was twenty years old when the Revolution first broke out. His father was an old soldier, who had served with distinction at the battle of Rosbach ; but after his discharge, he conti- nued the profession of a cooper, to which he had been early educated. At school, his son, the young Ney, evinced the turbulent vigour of his disposition, and the future general was incessantly occupied in drilling and directing his comrades. Napoleon gave tokens of the same disposition at an equally early period : there is no turn of mind which so early evinces itself as a taste for militar}' achieve- ments. He was at first destined for a notary's office; but in spite of the earnest entreaties of his parents, he resolved to change his profes- sion. At the age of fifteen, our author gives the following interesting account of the cir- cumstances which led to his embracing the profession of arms. "So early as when he was fiflecn, Ney had a presentiment of his future destiny. His father, incapable alike of estimating his pow- ers, or sharing his hopes, in vain endeavoured to restrain him. The mines of Assenwider at that period were in full activity; he sent his son there, to endeavour to give a new direc- tion to his thoughts. It had quite an opposite effect. His imagination soon resumed its wonted courses. He dreamed only of fields of battle, combats and gloiy. The counsels H 86 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. of his father, the tears of his mother, were alike ineffectual : they lacerated without mov- ing his heart. Two years passed away in this manner; but his taste for arras became every day more decided. The places where he dwelt, contributed to strengthen the natural bent of his genius. Almost all the towns on the Rhine are fortified; wherever he went, he saw garrisons, uniforms, and artillery. Ney could withstand it no longer; he resigned his humble functions, and set out for Metz, where a regiment of hussars was stationed, with the intention of enlisting. The grief which he well knew that sudden determination would cause to his mother, the chagrin which it would occasion to his father, agitated his mind; he hesitated long what to do, but at length filial piety prevailed over fear, and he returned to Sarrelouis to embrace his parents, and bid them adieu. "The interview was painful, his reception stormy ; reproaches, tears, prayers, menaces, alternately tore his heart. At length he tore himself from their arms, and flying in haste, without either baggage, linen, or money, he regained the route of Metz, from which he had turned. He walked on foot; his feet were soon blistered, his shoes were stained with blood. Sad, harassed, and worn out ■with fatigue, he nevertheless continued his inarch without flinching; and in his very first debut, gave proof of that invincible determi- nation which no subsequent obstacles were able to overcome. " At an after period, when fortune had smiled on his path, he returned to Sarrelouis. The artillery sounded; the troops were under arms ; all the citizens crowded to see their compatriot of whom they were so proud. Re- cognising then the road which thirteen years before he had traversed on foot, the marshal recounted with emotion his first fatigues to the officers who surrounded him." — I. 5, 6. It has frequently been observed, that those who rise from humble beginnings are ashamed in subsequent life of their commencement, and degrade themselves by a puerile endea- vour to trace their origin to a family of dis- tinction. Ney, equally with Napoleon, was above that meanness. "Never in subsequent life did the marshal forget the point from which he had started. After he had arrived at the highest point of his fortune, he took a pleasure in recurring to his humble origin. When some persons were declaiming in his presence on their connection with the noblesse, and what they had obtained from their rich families: — 'You were more fortunate than I,' said he, interrupting them ; ' I received nothing from my family, and deemed myself rich when, at Metz, I had two pieces of bread on the board.' "After he was named a marshal of the em- pire, he held a splendid levee: every one offered his congratulations, and hastened to present his compliments. He interrupted the adulatory strain by addressing himself to an old officer who kept at a distance. ' Do you recollect, captain, the time when you said to me, on occasion of my presenting my report, Well done, Ney ; I am well pleaised with you ; go on as you have begun, you will make your fortune.' 'Perfectly, marshal,' replied his old commander; 'I had the honour to command a man infinitely my superior. Such good for- tune is not easily forgotten.' " The satisfaction which he experienced at recurring to his origin, arose not merely from the noble pride of having been the sole archi- tect of his fortune, but also from the warm affection which he ever felt for his family. He loved nothing so much as to recount the tenderness which he had experienced from his mother, and the good counsels which he had received from his father. Thus, when he was abandoning himself to all the dangers arising from an impetuous courage, he carefully con- cealed his perils from his parents and rela- tions, to save them from useless anxiety. On one occasion, he commanded the advanced guard of General Colaud, and was engaged in a serious action. Overwhelmed with fatigue, he returned and recounted to his comrades the events of the day. One of his friends blamed him for his imprudence. 'It is very true,' replied Ney, ' I have had singular good for- tune to-day; four different times I found my- self alone in the midst of the Austrians. Nothing but the most extraordinary good for- tune extricated me out of their hands.' 'You have been more fortunate than your brother.' ' What,' replied Ney, impetuously, and fixing his eyes anxiously on his friend, ' is my bro- ther dead 1 Ah ! my poor mother !' At length he learned the mournful news, that in a serious affair in Italy, Pierre Ney, his elder brother, had been killed. He burst into tears, and exclaimed, ' What would have become of my mother and sister, if I too had fallen ! Write to them, I pray you; but conceal the dangers to which I am exposed, that they may not fear also for my life.' The father of the marshal died a few years ago, at the age of nearly a hundred years. He loved his son with tenderness mingled with respect, and al- though of a singularly robust habit of body, his family feared the effect of the shock which the sad events of 1815 might produce upon him. He was never informed of them : the mourning of his daughter, with whom he lived, and of his grandchildren, only made him aware that some dreadful calamity had befallen the family. He ventured to ask no questions, and ever since, sad and melancholy, pronouncing but rarely the name of his son, he lingered on till 1826, when he died without having learned his tragic fate." — I. 9, 10. The great characteristic of Marshal Ney was his impetuous courage, which gained for him, even among the giants of the era of Na- poleon, the surname of the Bravest of the Brave. This remarkable characteristic is thus described in these Memoirs : — "It is well known with what power and energy he could rouse the masses of the sol- diers, and precipitate them upon the enemy. Vehement and impetuous when heading a charge, he was gifted with the most imper- turbable sang froid when it became necessary to sustain its movements. Dazzled by the lustre of that brilliant valour, many persons have imagined that it was the only illustrious MARSHAL NEY. 87 quality -which the marshal possessed ; but those who were nearer his person, and better acquainted with his character, will concede to him greater qualities than the enthusiasm which captivates and subjugates the soldier. Calm in the midst of a storm of grape-shot — imperturbable amid a shower of balls and shells, Ney seemed to be ignorant of danger; to have nothing to fear from death. This rashness, which twenty years of perils have not diminished, gave to his mind the liberty, the promptitude of judgment and execution, so necessary in the midst of the complicated movements of war. This quality astonished those who surrounded him, more even than the courage in action which is more or less felt by all who are habituated to the dangers of war. One of his officers, whose courage had repeatedly been put to the proof, asked him one day if he had never felt fear. Re- gaining instantly that profound indiflerence for danger, that forgetiulness of death, that elasticity of mind, which distinguished him on the field of battle, ' I have never had time,' replied the marshal with simplicity. "Nevertheless, this extraordinary coolness in danger did not prevent his perceiving those slight shades of weakness, from which it is so rarely that a soldier is to be found entirely exempted. On one occasion, an officer was giving an account of a mission on which he had been sent: while he spoke, a bullet passed so near him that he involuntarily lowered his head, but nevertheless continued his narrative without exhibiting emotion — ' You have done extremely well,' said the marshal, 'but next time do not bow quite so low.' "The marshal loved courage, and took the greatest pleasure in producing it in others. If he had witnessed it in a great degree in any one on the field of battle ; if he had discovered vigour, capacity, or military genius, he never rested till he had obtained their promotion ; and the army resounded for long with the efl^orts which he made for this purpose." — I. 21. But it was not mere valour or capacity on the field of battle, which distinguished Ney; he was attentive also to the minutest wants of his soldiers, and indefatigable in his endea- vours to procure for them those accommoda- tions, of which, from having risen from the humblest rank himself, he so well knew how to appreciate the value. Of his efforts in this respect we have the following interesting ac- count: — "Quick in repressing excesses, the marshal omitted nothing to prevent them. A private soldier in early life, he had himself felt the suH'crings endured by the private soldier, and when elevated to a higher station he did his utmost to assuage them in others. He knew that the soldier, naturally just and grateful to those who watched over his interests, was difficult to manage when his complaints were neglected, and it was evident that iiis superiors had no sympathy for his fatigues or his priva- tions. Ney was sincerely attached to those great masses, which, though composed of men of such different characters, were equally leady eve y day to meet dangers and death in the discharge of duty. At that period our troops, worn out with the fatigues of war, ac- customed to make light of dangers, were much ruder in their manners, and haughty in their ideas, than those of these times, who lead a pacific life in great cities and garrisons. The marshal was incessant in his endeavours to discover and correct the abuses which affected them. He ever endeavoured to prevent their wishes, and to convince the officers who com- manded them, that by elevating the soldier in his own eyes, and treating him with the respect which he deserves, but without any diminiUion of the necessary firmness, it was alone possible to obtain that forgetfulness of himself, that abandonment of military discipline, which constitutes so large a portion of military force. "Avoiding, therefore, in the most careful wa}', the imposition of unnecessary burdens upon the soldiers, he was equally careful to abstain from that vain ostentation of author- ity, that useless prodigality of escort, which generals of inferior calibre are so fond of dis- playing. His constant object was to spare the troops engaged in that fatiguing service, and not to diminish, but from absolute necessity, by such detachments, the numerical strength of the regiments under his orders. That soli- citude did not escape the soldiers ; and among their many subjects of gratitude, they ranked in the foremost place the continual care and perseverance with which their general secured for them the means of subsistence. The pro- digies he effected in that particular will be found fully detailed in the campaign of Portu- gal, where he succeeded, in a country repeat- edly devastated, in providing, by incredible exertions, not only provisions for his own corps, but the y-hole army, during the six months that it remained in Portugal. Con- stantly in motion on the Mondego, inces- santly pushing columns in every direction, he contrived to procure bread, clothes, provi- sions, in fine, every thing which was required. The recollection of these things remainei engraven on the minds of his soldiers, and when his division with Massena caused him to resign the command of his corps^ the grief of the soldiers, the murmurs, the first symp- toms of an insurrection ready to break forth, and which a single word from their chief would have blown into a flame, were sufficient to prove that his cares had not been thrown away on ungrateful hearts, and that his multi- plied attentions had won all their aflections. " But his careful attention to his soldiers did not prevent him from maintaining the most rigorous discipline, and punishing severely any considerable excess on the pari of the troops under his command. An instance of this occurred in the country of Darmstadt. The Austrians had been defeated, and retired near to Swigemberg, where they were broken anew. The action was warmly contested, and our soldiers, irritated by so much resistance, broke open several houses and plundered them. The circumstances in which it occurred might excuse the transgression, but Ney resolved to make a signal example of reparation. While he proceeded with the utmost severity against the offenders, he published a proclamation, in which he directed that the damage should b« 83 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. estimated ; and in order that it should not be fixed at an elusory sum, he charged the Laud- grave himself with the valuation. " When Governor of Galliciaaiul Salamanca, these provinces, notwithstanding tlieir hatred at the yoke of the stranger, cheerfully acknow- ledged the justice of his administration. One only object of spoil has been left by the mar- shal to his family, a relic of St. James of Com- poslella, which the monks of the convent of St. Jago presented to him, in gratitude for the humanity with which he treated them. He did not limit his care to the protection of property from pillage ; he knew that there are yet dearer interests to which honour is more nearl}^ allied, and he never ceased to cause them to be respected. The English army will bear testimony to his solicitude in that parti- cular. Obliged, after the battle of Corunna, to embark in haste, they were unable to place on board the women by whom they were followed, and in consequence, fifty were left on the shore, where they were wandering about without pro- tection, exposed to the insults of the soldiers. No sooner was Ney informed of their situa- tion, than he hastened to come to their suc- cour; he assembled them, assured them of his protection, and directed that they should be placed in a female convent. But the Superior refused to admit them ; she positively refused to have any thing to do with heretics ; no en- treaties could persuade her to extend to these unfortunates the rites of hospitalit)-. " ' Be it so,' replied the marshal ; ' I under- stand your scruples ; and, therefore, instead of these Protestants, you shall furnish lodgings to two companies of Catholic grenadiers.' Ne- cessit}^, at length, bent the hard-hearted Abbess; and these unhappy women, for the most part the wives or daughters of officers or non-com- missioned officers, whose bravery we had ex- perienced in the field, were received into the convent, where they were protected from every species of injury." — I. 39 — 41. We have no doubt of the truth of this last anecdote, and we may add that Ne}' not only respected the remains of Sir John Moore, interred ill the ramparts of Corunna, but erected a monument to his memory. It is soothing to see the Freemasonry of generous feeling, which subsists between the really brave and elevated, under all the varieties of national rivalry or animosity, in every part of the world. It is a pleasing task to record traits of gene- rosity in an enemy; but war is not composed entirely of such actions; and, as a specimen of the mode in which the Republican troops, in the first years of their triumphs, oppressed the people whom they professed to deliver, we subjoin the following account of the mode in which they levied their requisitions, taken from the report of one of the Envoys of Go- vernment to the Convention. « Cologne, 8th October, 1794. "The agents sent to make requisitions, my dear colleagues, act in such a manner as to revolt all the world. The moment they arrive in a town, they lay a requisition on every thing ; literally every thing. No one thereafter can either buy or sell. Thus we see com- merce paralyzed, and for how long? For au indefinite time ; for there are many requisi- tions which have been laid on a month ago, and on which nothing has yet been demanded; and during that whole period the inhabitants were unable to purehasc any articles even of ths first ncressity. If such measures are not cal- culated to produce a counter-revolutionary reaction ; if they are not likely to rouse against us the indignation of all mankind, I ask you what are 1 " Safety and fraternity. — Gellit." I. 53. Contrast this conduct on the part of the Friends of the People, as detailed by one of tlieir own representatives to his democratic rulers, with the conduct of the Duke of Wel- lington, paying high prices for every article required by the English army in the south of France, and we have the best proof of the dif- ference between the actions of a Conservative and Revolutionary Government. The life of a soldier who spent twenty years in camps, of course furnishes abundant ma- terials for the description of military adventure. We select, almost at random, the following de- scription of the passage of the Rhine, opposite Ehrenbreitzin, by the corps of Kleber, in 1795. "The fort of Ehrenbreitzin commanded the mouth of Moselle; the batteries of the right bank swept all the shores of the Rhine. The enemy were quite aware of our design ; the moon shone bright; and his soldiers, with anxious eyes and listening ears, waited the moment when our boats might come within reach of his cannon. The danger was great; but that of hesitation was still greater ; we abandoned ourselves to our fate, and pushed; . across towards Neuwied. Instantly the forts, and the batteries thundered with unexampled " violence ; a shower of grape-shot fell in our boats. But there is something in great danger which elevates the mind. Our pontonniers made a sport of death, as of the batteries which were successively unmasked, and join- ing their efforts to the current which swept them along, at length reached the dikes on the opposite shore. Neuwied also opened its fire. That delicious town, embellished by all the arts of peace, now transformed into a warlike stronghold, overwhelmed us by the fire of its batteries. We replied with vigour, but for long felt a repugnance to direct our fire against that charming city. At length, however, necessity compelled us to make the attack, and in a few hours Neuwied was re- duced to ashes. " The difficulties of the enterprise neverthe- less remained. It was necessary to overcome a series of redoubts, covered by chevaux-de- frize, palisades, and covered ways. We had at once to carry Dusseldorf and beat the Count d'Hirbauch, who awaited our approach at the head of 20,000 men. Kleber alone did not des- pair ; the batteries on the left shore were ready, and the troops impatiently awaited the signal to land. The dispositions were soon made. Lefebvre attacked the left, Championnet the centre, Grenier the right. Such leaders could not but inspire confidence in the men. Soldiers and officers leapt ashore. We braved the storm of grape-shot ; and on the 5th September, at MARSHAL NEY. 89 break of day, we were established on the Ger- man bank of the river.'' — I. 99 — 101. These Memoirs abound with passages of .this description; and if implicit faith is to be given to them, it appears certain that Ney from ^e very first was distinguished by a degree of personal gallantry, as well as military con- duct, which has been rarely paralleled, and never exceeded. The descriptitm of his ele- vation to the rank of General Brigade, and the action which preceded it, is singularly de- scriptive of the character of the French armies at that period. " Meanwhile Mortier made himself master of Ebermanstadt, Collaud advanced upon For- chiers. His orders were to drive back every opponent whom he found in the plain, and disperse every force which attempted to cover the place. The task was diflicult; the avenues leading to it, the heights around it, were equally guarded; and Wartensleben, in the midst of his soldiers, was exhorting them not to per- mit their impregnable position to be carried. It presented, in truth, every obstacle that could well be imagined; they were abrupt, covered with woods, surrounded by deep ravines. To these obstacles of nature were joined all the resources of art ; on this height were placed masses of soldiers, that was crowned with ar- tillery; infrintr}" was stationed at the summit of the defiles, cavalry at their mouths; on every side the resistance promised to be of the most formidable description. Ney, however, was not to be deterred by such obstacles ; he advanced at the head of a handful of heroes, and opened his fire. He had only two pieces of artiller)'-; the enemy speedily unmasked fourteen. His troop was for a moment shaken by the violence of the fire ; but it was ac- customed to all the chances of war. It speedily re-formed, continued the attack, and succeeded, after an obstinate struggle, in throwing the ene- my's ranks into disorder. Some reinforcements soon afterwards arrived ; the ' melee grew warmer; and at length the Austrians, over- whelmed and broken, evacuated the position, which they found themselves unable to defend. " Klcber, charmed with that brilliant achieve- ment, testified the warmest satisfaction with it to the 3'oung officer. He addressed to him, at the head of his troop, the most flattering ex- pressions upon his activity, skill, and courage, and concluded with these words, 'I will no longer hurt )-our modesty by continuing my praises! My line is taken; you are a Gene- ral of Brigade.' The chasseurs clapped their hands, and the officers loudly testified their satisfaction. Ney alone remained pensive ; he even seemed to hesitate whether he should ac- cept the rank, and did not utter a single word. •Well,' continued Kleber, in the kindest man- ner, 'you seem very confused; but the Aus- trians are those who will speedily malce you forget your ennui; as for me, I will forthwith report your promotion to the Directory.' He di«l so in effect, and it was confirmed by return of post."— I. 186. It is still a question undecided, whether Na- poleon int'-nded seriously to invade Euijland. or whether his great preparations in the Chan- nel were a f&int merely to give emploj-ment 12 to his troops, and cover other designs. Bour- rienne maintains that he never in reality in- tended to attempt the descent; and that, un- known to every one, he was organizing his expedition into the heart of Germany at the time when all around him imagined that he was studying only the banks of the Thames. Napoleon himself affirms the contrary. He asserts that he was quite serious in his inten- tion of invading England; that he was fully aware of the risks with which the attempt would have been attended, but was willing to have braved them for so great an object; and that the defeat of the combined squadron by Sir Robert Caldcr, frustrated the best combined plan he had ever laid during his whole career. His plan, as detailed in the instructions given to Villeneuve, printed in the appendix to his Memoirs, was to have sent the combined fleet to the West Indies, in order to draw after it Lord Nelson's squadron ; and to have immedi- ately brought it back, raised the blockade of Ferrol and Corunna, and proceeded with the combined fleet to join the squadrons of Rochelle and Brest, where twenty sail of the line were ready for sea, and brought the combined squad- ron into the Channel to cover the embarkation of the army. In this way, by a sudden con- centration of all his naval force, he calculated upon having seventy sail of the line in the Channel; a much greater force than, in the ab- sence of Lord Nelson, the British could have at once assembled to meet him. When we recollect that Lord Nelson fell into the snare, and actually pursued the combined fleets to the West Indies; that in pursuance of Na- poleon's design, Villeneuve reached Ferrol, and that it was in consequence only of his un- successful action with Sir Robert Calder, that he was induced to fall back to Cadiz, and there- by cause the whole plan to miscarry; it is evident that the fate of Britain then hung upon a thread, and that if the English admiral had been defeated, and the combined fleet had pro- ceeded up the Channel, the invasion might have been effected, and the fate of the civilized world been changed. It is a singular proof of the sagacity of Lord CoUingwood. that at the very time when this well-combined plan was in progress on Napoleon's side, he divined the enemy's intentions, and in a memorial address- ed to the Admirahy, and published in his Me- moirs, pointed out the danger arising from the precise plan which his great antagonist was adopting; and it is a still more singular in- stance of the injustice and precipitance of public opinion, that the British govertimenf were compelled to bring the admiral to a court-martial, and dismiss him from the ser- vice, because, with fifteen ships of the line, he had maintained a glorious combat with twenty- seven, captured two of their line, and defeated the greatest and best combined project ever formed by the Emperor Napoleon. As every thing relatnig to this critical pe- riod of the war is of the vcr}- highest interest in Great Britain, we shall translate the pas- sages of Ney's Memoirs, which throw light upnu the vast preparations tlien made on the other side of the Channel. "Meanwhile time pa^ssed on, and Enjjland, u 2 90 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. ■- t. a little recovered from its consternation, but nevertheless the real place of attack, always escaped its government. Four thousand gun- boats covered the coast; the construction of praams and rafts went on without intermission ; every thing announced that the invasion was to be effected by main force, and by means of the flotillawhich made so much noise. If the strife was doubtful, it at least had its chance of success ; but while England was daily be- coming more confident of success in repelling that aggression, the preparations for the real attack were approaching to maturity. Napoleon never seriously intended to traverse the Chan- nel under cover of a fog, by the aid of a favour- able wind, or by the force of such frail vessels of war as gun-boats. His arrangements were better made; and all that splendid display of gun-boats was only intended to deceive the enemy. He wished to disperse the force which he could not combat when assembled together. In pursuance of this plan, his fleets were to have assembled from Toulon, Rochfort, Cadiz, Brest, and Ferrol, draw after them to the West Indies the British blockading squadrons, and return rapidly on their steps, and present them- selves in the Channel before the English were "well aware that they had crossed the Line. Master in this way of a preponderating force, riding irresistibly in the Channel, he would have embarked on board his flotilla the troops with "which he would have made himself master of London, and revolutionized England, before that immense marine, which he could never have faced when assembled together, could have collected for its defence. These different expeditions, long retained in their different har- bours, had at length set sail; the troops had received orders to be ready to put themselves instantly on board; the instructions to the general had foreseen every thing, pro-vided for gygj-y pjiiergenc}^; the vessels assigned to each troop, the order in which they were to fall out of the harbour, were all fixed. Arms, horses, artillery, combatants, camp-followers, all had received their place, all were arranged accord- ing to their orders. " Marshal Ney had nothing to do but follow out literally his instructions; they were so luminous and precise as to provide for every contingency. He distributed the powder, the tools, the projectiles, which were to accompany his corps on board the transports provided for that purpose. He divided that portion of the flotilla assigned to him into subdivisions; every regiment, every battalion, ever}' com- pany, received the praams destined for their use ; every one, down to the very last man, ■was ready to embark at the first signal. He did more ; rapidity of movement requires com- bined exertions, and he resolved to habituate the troops to embarkation. The divisions were successively brought down to the quay, and embarked in the finest order; but it was possi- ble that when assembled hurriedly together, they might be less calm and orderly. The Marshal resolved to put it to the proof. "Infantry, cavalry, artillery, "were at once put under arms, and ranged opposite to the vessels on which they were to embark. The whole were formed in platoons for embarka- tion, at small distances from each other. A cannon was discharged; the field-officers and stafl-officers immediately dismounted, and placed themselves each at the head of the troop he was destined to command. The drums had ceased to beat; the soldiers had unfixed their bayonets ; a second discharge louder than tlic first was heard; the generals of divisions pass the order to the colonels. 'Make ready to embark.' Instantly a calm succeeds to the tumult; everyone listens attentively, eagerly watching for the next order, on which so much depended. A third cannon is heard, and the command 'Colonels, forward,' is heard with indescribable anxiety along the line. In fine a last discharge resounds, and is instantly fol- lowed by the order, ' March !' — Universal ac- clamations instantly broke forth; the soldiers hurried on board ; in ten minutes and a half twenty-five thousand men "were embarked. The soldiers never entertained a doubt that they were about to set sail. They arranged themselves, and each took quarters for him- self; when the cannon again sounded, the drums beat to arms, they formed ready for action on the decks. A last gun is discharged ; every one believed it was the signal to weigh anchor, and shouts of Vive V Empcrc^n- rent the air, but it was the signal for debarkation, which was effected silently and with deep re- gret. It was completed, however, as rapidly as the embarkation, and in thirteen minutes from the time when the soldiers were on board, they were arranged in battle array on the shore. " Meanwhile the English had completely fallen into the snare. The fleet which cruised before Rochfort had no sooner seen Admiral Missiessy running down before the wind, than it set sail in pursuit. Villeneuve, who started from Toulon in the middle of a violent tem- pest, was obliged to return to the harbour; but such Avas Nelson's anxiety to meet him, that he set sail first for Egypt, then for the West In- dies. The Mediterranean was speedily cleared of English vessels; their fleets wandered through the Atlantic, without knowing where to find the enemy ; the moment to strike a decisive stroke had arrived. "The unlooked for return of Missiessy frus- trated all these calculations. He had sailed like an arrow to Martinique, and returned still more rapidly: but the English now retained at home the squadrons which they had original- ly intended to have sent for the defence of Jamaica. Our situation in consequence was less favourable than we had expected ; but, nevertheless, there was nothing to excite un- easiness. We had fifteen ships of the line at Ferrol, six at Cadiz, five at Rochfort, twenty- one at Brest. Villeneuve was destined to rally them, join them to the twenty which he had under his orders, and advancing at the head of an overwhelming force, make himself mas- ter of the Channel. He left Toulon on the 30th March, and on the 23d June he was at the Azores, on his return to Europe, leaving Nelson still in the West Indies. But at the very mo- ment when every one flattered himself that our vessels would speedily arrive to protect the embarkation of the army, we learnt that. MARSHAL NEY. 91 deterred by a cannonade of a few hours, and 1 the loss of two ships, (Sir R. Calder's battle,) 1 he had taken refuge in Ferrol. A mournful feeling took possession of our minds ; every one complained that a man should be so im- measurably beneath his destiny. " All hope, however, was not lost; the em- peror still retained it. He continued his dis- positions, and incessantly urged the advance of the marine. Every one tlattere.d himself that Villeneuve, penetrated with the greatness of his mission, would at length put to sea, jom Gautheame, disperse the fleet of Cornwallis, and at length make his appearance in the Channel. But an unhappy fatality drew him on. He only left Ferrol to throw himself into Cadiz. It was no longer possible to count on the support of his squadron. The emperor in vain attempted other expedients, and made repeated attempts to embark. Nothing could succeed for want of the covering squadron ; and soon the Battle of Trafalgar and the Austrian war postponed the conquest of Eng- land to another age." — U. 259 — 2G2. This passage, as well as all the others in Napoleon's Memoirs, which are of a similar import, are calulated, in our opinion, to excite the most singular feelings. They demonstrate, beyond a doubt, of what incalculable import- ance Sir Robert Calder's action was ; and that, more than even the triumph of Ti-afalgar, it fixed the destinies of Britain. The great victory of Nelson did not occur till the 21st October, and months before that the armies of Napo- leon had been transported from the shores of Boulogne to the heart of Germany, and were irrevocably engaged in a contest with Austria and Russia. It was Sir Robert Calder's action which broke the course of Napoleon's designs, and chained his armies to the shore, at the very time when they were ready to have passed over, with a second Caesar, to the shores of Britain. It is melancholy to think of the fate of the gallant officer, under the dictation of that impartial judge, the popular voice, whose skill and bravery achieved these great results. It is a curious speculation, now that the event is over, what would have been the fate of England, if Napoleon, with one hundred and fifty thousand men, had, in consequence of the success of these combinations, landed on the shores of Sussex. We are now com- pelled, with shame and sorrow, to doubt the doctrine which, till the last three years, we held on this subject. We fear, there is a great probability that he would have achieved the overthrow of the British empire. Not that the mere force of Napoleon's army, great as it was, could have in the end subjugated the de- scendants of the conquerors of Cressy and Azicour. The examples of Vimiera, Maida, Alexandria, Corunna, and Waterloo, where English troops, who had never seen a shot fired in anger, at once defeated the veterans of France, even when commanded by the ablest officers, is sufficient to prove the reverse. England was invincible, if she remained faith- ful to herself. But would she nave remained faithful to herself! That is the question. The events of the last three years have awalcened us to the mournful fear, that she would not. It is now proved, by sad experience, that we possess within ourselves a numerous, power- ful, and energetic faction, insatiable in am- bition, unextinguishable in resources, deaf to every call of patriotism, dead to every feeling of hereditary glory. To them national triumph is an object of regret, because it was achieved under the banners of their opponents ; national humiliation an object of indiffisrence, provided they are elevated by it to the reins of power. With burning hearts and longing eyes they watched the career of the French Revolution, ever eulogizing its principles, palliating its excesses, vituperating its adversaries. Mr. Fox pronounced in Parliament the Constitu- tion framed by the Constituent Assembly, to be "the most astonishing fabric of wisdom and virtue which patriotism had reared in any age or country, on the ruins of ignorance and superstition." And when this astonishing fabric produced Danton and Robespierre, and hatched the Reign of Terror, he showed no disposition to retract the opinion. Two hun- dred and fifty thousand Irishmen, we are told by Wolfe Tone, were united, drilled, regimented and organized, to effect the separation of Ire- land from Great Britain ; and if we may be- lieve Mr. Moore, in his Life of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, Mr. Fox was no stranger to their treasonable intentions at the very time when he earnestly supported their demand for Parlia- mentary Reform. During the last three years we have seen this party systematically undo every think which their predecessors had effected during half a century of unexampled glory; abandon, one by one, all the objects of our continental policy, the Dutch barrier, the protection of Portugal, the independence of Holland, the integrity of Turkey ; unite the leopard and the tricolor in an inglorious crusade against the independence of the sur- rounding states ; beat down Holland by open force, and subvert Portugal by feigned neutrali- ty and real hostility ; force the despots of Northern Europe into a dangerous defensive combination, and unite the arms of constitu- tional freedom with those of democratic am- bition in the South; and, to gain a deceitful popularity for a few years, sacrifice the Con- stitution, which had for two hundred years conferred unexampled prosperity on their country. The men M'ho have done these things, could not have been relied on when assailed by the insidious arts and deceiUul promises of Napoleon. Napoleon has told us, in his Memoirs, how he proposed to have subjugated En^dand. He would have overcome it, as he overcame Swit- zerland, Venice, and all the states which did not meet him with uncompromising hostility. He would instantly, on landing, have pub- lished a proclamation, in which he declared that he came to deliver the English from the oligarchy under which they had groaned for three centuries; and for this end he would have promised annual parliaments, universal suffrage, vote by ballot, the confiscation of the Church property, the abolition of the r.>rn Laws, and all tlie objects of Whig or Radical ambition. Bv these offers he would have 92 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. thrown the apple of eternal discord and divi- sion into Great Britain. Tlie republican trans- ports which broke out with such vehemence on the announcement of the Reform Bill in 1831, would have been instantly heard on the landing of the tricolor-flag on the throne of England: and the divisions now so irreco\-er- ably established amongsi us, would have at once arisen in presence of a gigantic and en- terprising enemy. There can be little doubt, we fear, what a considerable portion of the Movement party in England, and the whole of it in Ireland, would have done. They would, heart and hand, have joined the enemy of their country. Conceiving that they were doing what was best for its inhabitants — they would have established a republic in close alliance with France, and directed the whole resources of England to support the cause of democracy all over the world. Meanwhile, Napoleon, little solicitous about their political dogmas, would have steadily fixed his iron grasp on the great warlike establishments of the coun- try ; Portsmouth, Plymouth, Woolwich, Chat- ham, Sheerness, Deptford, and Carron, would have fallen into his hands ; the army would have been exiled or disbanded; and if his new democratical allies proved at all trouble- some in the House of Commons, he would have dispersed them with as little ceremon}', by a file of grenadiers, as he did the Council of Five Hundred in the Orangery of St. Cloud. It is with pain and humiliation that we make this confession. Five years ago we should have held an}' man a foul libeller on the English character who should have de- clared such conduct as probable in any part of the English opposition ; and we should have relied with as much confidence on the whole liberal party to resist the aggressions of France, as we should on the warmest ad- herents of government. It is their own conduce, since they came into power, which has unde- ceived us, and opened our e5'es to the immen- sity of the danger to which the country was exposed, when her firm patriots at the helm nailed her colors to the mast. But regarding, as we do, with perfect sincerity, the Reform Bill as the parent of a much greater change in our national institutions than a conquest by France would have been, and the passing of that measure as a far more perilous, because more irremediable leap in the dark, than if we had thrown ourselves into the arms of Napoleon, we cannot but consider the subse- quent events as singularly illustrative of the prior dangers, and regard the expulsion of the Whigs from the ministry by the firmness of George III., in 1807, as a delivery from greater danger than the country had known since the Saxon arms were overthrown by William on the field of Hastmgs. One of the most brilliant acts of Napoleon was his astonishing march from Boulogne to Swabia, in 1805, and the admirable skill with which he accumulated his forces, converging from so many different points round the un- fortunate Mack, who lay bewildered at Ulm. — In this able undertaking, as well as in the combat at Elchingen, which contributed in so essential a manner to its success, and from which his title of duke was taken, Ncy bore a conspicuous part. The previous situation of the contending powers is thus described by our author : " The troops which the emperor had under his command did not exceed 180,000 men. — This was little enough for the strife which was about to commence, for the coalition did not now merely oppose to us the troops which they had in the first line. The allied sove- reigns already addressed themselves to the multitude, and loudly called on them to take up arms in defence of liberty, they turned against us the principles which they professed their desire to destroy. They roused in Ger- many national antipathies : flattered in Italy the spirit of independence, scattered every where the seeds of insurrection. The masses of the people were slow to swallow the bait. They appreciated our institutions, and did not behold without distrust this sudden burst of enthusiasm in sovereigns in favour of the po- pular cause : but they readily took fire at the recital of the sacrifices which we had imposed on them, the promised advantages which we had not permitted them to enjoy. The Coali- tion prepared to attack us on all the vast line which we occupied. Russians, Swedes, Eng- lish, Hanoverians, hastened to take a part in the strife. The approach of such a mass of enemies might have occasioned dangerous results ; a single reverse might have involved us in a strife with warlike and impatient nar tions; but the Austrians had imprudently spread themselves through Bavaria, at a time when the Russians had hardly as yet passed Poland. The emperor did not despair of an- ticipating the one and overwhelming the other, and thus dissipating that formidable league of sovereigns before they were in a situation to deploy their forces on the field of battle. The blow, according to these calculations, was to be struck in Swabia. But from that country to Boulogne, where our troops were stationed, the distance was nearly the same as to Podo- lia, where the Russians had arrived. He sought to steal a march upon them to conceal for some days the great manosuvre which he meditated. For this purpose, Marmont, whose troops were on the coast, when he set out for Germany, received orders to give out that he was about to take merely other quarters ; and Bernadotte, who was stationed in Hanover, to encourage the opinion that he was about to spend the winter in that country. Meanwhile all had orders to hasten their march ; all ad- vanced with the same celerity ; and when our enemies still believed us on the shores of the Channel, we were far advanced towards the Rhine. The first and second corps had reached Mayence ; the third was grouped around Manheim ; the fourth had halted iii the environs of Spire ; the fifth was estab- lished at Strasbourg, and the sixth, which had started from Montreuil on the 28th August, had reached Lauterbourg on the 24th September. In that short interval, it had traversed three hun- dred leagues, being at the rate of above ten leagues a-day. History has nothing to show comparable to such celerity." — II. 268 — 270. From a soldier of such ability and expert- MARSHAL NEY. 93 ence much may be expected of value on the science of -n-ar. In the " Reflections" of the marshal, at the end of the second volume, the reader will find much interesting matter of that description. We select one example : — " The defensive system accords ill with the disposition of the French soldier, at least if it is not to be maintained by successive diver- sions and excursions ; — in a word, if 3'ou are not constantly occupied in that little warfare, inactivity destroys the force of troops who rest constantly on the defensive. They are obliged to be constantly on the alert, night and day; while, on the other hand, offensive expeditions, wisely combined, raise the spirit of the soldier, and prevent him from having time to ponder on the real cause of his dan- gerous situation. "It IS in the offensive that you find in the French soldier inexhaustible resources. His active disposition, and valour in assaults, double his power. A general should never hesitate to march with the bayonet against the enemy, if the ground is favourable for the use of that weapon. It is in the attack, in fine, that you accustom the French soldier to everj' species of warfare, — alike to brave the ene- my's fire, which is generally little hurtful, and to leave the field open to the develop- ment of his intelligence and courage. " One of the greatest difficulties in war is to accustom the soldier to the fatigues of marching. The other powers of Europe will attain with difficulty in this respect the degree of perfection which the French soldier pos- sesses. His sobriety and physical constitu- tion are the real causes of the marked superi- ority he has acquired over the Austrians in that particular. " Rapidity of march, or rather an able com- bination of marches, almost invariably deter- mine the fate of war. Colonels of infantry, therefore, should be indefatigable in their en- deavours to train their soldiers progressively to ordinary and forced marches. To attain that object, so essential in war, it is indispensable to oblige the soldier to carry his knapsack on his back from the outset of the campaign, in order to accustom him to the fatigues which in the course of it he must undergo. The health of the soldier depends on this being habitual ; the men are economized by it ; the continual loss by partial and frequently useless combats is avoided, as well as the considerable expenses of hospitals to govern- ment."— II. 410, 411. We have room for no more extracts: those which have been already given will convey a clear idea of the character of this work. It possesses the merits, and exhibits the defects, of all the memoirs by the leaders of the ambitious or war party in France, re- garding that period. Abounding in anecdote, full of patriotic spirit and military adventure, it at the same time presents all the prejudices and errors of that party, — a profound and unreasonable hatred of this country — an im- passioned enthusiasm for the glory of France — a deliberate and apparently sincere belief, that whatever opposes its elevation is to be looked upon with instinctive and unconquer- able aversion. In this respect, the opinions of this party in France are utterly extravagant, and not a little amusing. They make no allowances for the differences of national feeling — yield nothing to national rivalrj' — never transport themselves into the breasts of their antagonists in the strife, or of the people they are oppressing, but take for granted, as a matter concerning which there can be no dis- pute, that whatever resists the glory of France is an enemy of the human race. There are many writers of intelligence and ability in whom we cannot pardon this weakness ; but, recollecting the tragic fate of Marshal Ne)', and pitying the ulcerated hearts of his rela- tions, we find more excuse for it in his bio- grapher, an* look forward with interest to the concluding volumes of this work, which will contain still more interesting matter — the Peninsular campaigns, the Russian retreat, the rout of Waterloo. 94 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. ROBEUT BRUCE.* A Freedome is a noble thing ; Freedome tn-ikes man to liave liking ; Freedome all solace to men L'ives ; He lives at ease that freely lives. iJAnBouK's Bruce. The discovery of the bones of Robert Bruce, among the ruins of Dunfermline ab- bey, calls for some observations in a journal intended to record the most remarkable events, whether of a public or a domestic nature, which occur during the period to which it refers; and it will never, perhaps, be our good fortune to direct the attention of our readers to an event more interesting to the antiquary or the patriot of Scotland, than the discovery and reinterment of the remains of her greatest hero. It is satisfactory, in the first place, to know that no doubt can exist about the remains which were discovered being really the bones of Robert Bruce. Historians had recorded that he was interred " debito cum honore in medio Ecclesiae de Dunfermline ;" but the ruin of the abbey at the time of the Reforma- tion, and the subsequent neglect of the monu- ments which it contained, had rendered it dithcult to ascertain where this central spot really was. Attempts had been made to ex- plore among the ruins for the tomb ; but so entirely was the form of cathedral churches forgotten in this northern part of the island, that the researches were made in a totally dilTerent place from the centre of the edifice. At length, in digging the foundations of the new church, the workmen came to a tomb, arched over with masonry, and bearing the marks of more than usual care i»'its construc- tion. Curiosity being attracted by this cir- cumstance, it was suspected that it might contain the remains of the illustrious hero ; and persons of more skill having examined the spot discovered that it stood precisely in the centre of the church, as its form was indicated by the existing ruins. The tomb having been opened in the presence of the Barons of Exchequer, the discovery of the name of King Robert on an iron plate among the rubbish, and the cloth of gold in which the bones were shrouded, left no room to doubt that the long wished-for grave had at last been discovered ; while the appearance of the skeleton, in which the breast-bone was sawed asunder, afforded a still more interesting proof of its really being the remains of that illustrious hero, whose heart was committed to his faith- ful associate in arms, and thrown by him, on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, amidst the ranks of the enemy, with the sublime expression, " Onwards, as thou wast wont, thou fearless heart." Such an event demands a temporary pause in the avocations and amusements of life. We feel called on to go back, in imagination, ♦Blackwood's Magazine, Dec. 1819. Written at ihe time of the discovery of the remains of Robert Bruce in the church of Dunfermline. to the distant and barbarous period when the independence of our country was secured by a valour and ability that has never since been equalled; and in returning from his recent grave to take a nearer view of the difficulties which he had to encounter, and the beneficial effects which his unshaken patriot- ism has confirmed upon its people. — Had we lived in the period when his heroic achieve- ments were fresh in the public recollection, and when the arms of England yet trembled at ihe name of Bannockburn, we would have dwelt with enthusiasm on his glorious ex- ploits. A nation's gratitude should not relax, when the lapse of five subsequent centuries has not produced a rival to his patriotism and valour ; and when this long period has served only to develope the blessings which they have conferred upon his country. Towards a due understanding, however, of the extraordinary merits of Robert Bruce, it is necessary to take a cursory view of the power with which he had to contend, and of the resources of that kingdom, which, at that critical juncture, providence committed to his arms. The power of England, against which it was his lot incessantly to struggle, was, per- haps, the most formidable which then existed in Europe. The native valour of her people, distinguished even under the weakest reign, was then led on and animated by a numerous and valiant feudal nobility. That bold and romantic spirit of enterprise which led the Norman arms to the throne of England, and enabled Roger de Hauteville, Avith thirty fol- lowers, to win the crown of the two Sicilies, still animated the English nobles; and to this hereditary spirit was added the remembrance of the matchless glories which their arms had acquired in the wars of Palestine. The barons, who were arrayed against Robert Bruce, were the descendants of those iron warriors who combated for Christendom under the wall of Acre, and defeated the whole Saracen strength in the battle of Ascalon ; the banners that were unfurled for the conquest of Scotland, were those which had waved victorious over the arms of Saladin ; and the sovereign who led them, bore the crown that had been worn by Richard in the Holy Wars, and wielded in his sword the terror of that mighty name, at which even the accumu- lated hosts of Asia were appalled. Nor were the resources of England less formidable for maintaining and nourishing the war. The prosperity which had grown up with the equal laws of our Saxon ances- tors, and which the tyranny of the early Nor- man kings had never completely extinguished, had revived and spread under the wise and ROBERT BRUCE. 9S beneficent reigns of Henry II. and Edward I. The legislative wisdom of the last monarch had given to the English law greater improve- ments than it had ever received in any subse- quent reigns, while his heroic valour had subdued the rebellious spirit of his barons, and trained their united strength to submis- sion to the throne. The acquisition of Wales had removed the only weak point of his wide dominion, and added a cruel and savage race to the already formidable mass of his armies. The navy of England already ruled the seas, and was prepared to carry ravage and desola- tion over the wide and defenceless Scottish coast ; while a hundred thousand men, armed in the magnificent array of feudal war, and led on by the ambition of a feudal nobility, poured into a country which seemed destined only to be their prey. But most of all, in the ranks of this army, were found the intrepid Yeomamit of Eng- land ; that peculiar and valuable body of men which has in every age contributed as much to the stability of the English character, as the celebrity of the English arms, and which then composed those terrible archers, whose prowess rendered them so formidable to all the armies of Europe. These men, whose valour was warmed by the consciousness of personal freedom, and whose strength was nursed among the enclosed fields and green pastures of English liberty, conferred, till the discovery of fire-arms rendered personal ac- quirements of no avail, a matchless advan- tage on the English armies. The troops of no other nation could produce a body of men in the least comparable to them either in strength, discipline, or individual valour; and such was the dreadful etiicacy with which they used their weapons, that not only did they mainly contribute to the subsequent tri- umphs of Cressy and Azincour, but at Poitiers and Hamildon Hill they alone gained the vic- tory, with hardly any assistance from the feudal tenantry. These troops were well known to the Scottish soldiers, and had estalilished their superiorit}' over them in many bloody battles, io which the utmost efforts of undisciplined valour had been found unavailing against their practised discipline and superior equip- ment. The very names of the barons who i headed them were associated with an un- broken career of conquest and renown, and can hardly be read yet without a feeling of national exultation. Names ttiat to fear were never known, Roll] Norfolk's Earl de Ilrntlierton, And Oxford's famed di: Vfre ; Ros;;, Montague, and Manly came, And Courtney's pride, and Percy's fame. Names known too well in Scotland's war At Falkirk, Mctliven, and Dunbar, Blazed broader yet in afier years. At Cressy red, and fell Poitiers. Against this terrible force, before which, in the succeeding reign, the military power of France was compelled to bow, Bruce had to arra)'' the scanty troops of a barren land, and the divided forces of a turbulent nobility. Scotland was, in his time, fallen low indeed from that state of peace and prosperity in which she was found at the first invasion of Edward I., and on which so much light has been thrown by the industrious research of our times.* The disputed succession had sown the seeds of unextinguishable jealousies among the nobles ; the gold of England had corrupted many to betray their country's cause; and the latal ravages of English inva- sion naa desolated the whole plains from which resources for carrying on the war could be drawn. All the heroic valour, the devoted patriotism, and the personal prowess of Wallace, had been unable to stem the torrent of English invasion ; and, when he died, the whole nation seemed to sink under the load against which his unexampled forti- tude had long enabled it to struggle. These unhappy jealousies among the nobles, to which his downfall was owing, still continued, and almost rendered hopeless any attempt to combine their forces ; while the thinned popu- lation and ruined husbandry of the country seemed to prognosticate nothing but utter extirpation from a continuance of the war. Nor was the prospect less melanchoiy from a consideration of the combats which had taken place. The short spear and light shield of the Scotch had been found utterly unavailing against the iron panoply and powerful horses of the English barons; while the hardy and courageous mountaineers perished in vain under the dreadful tempest of the English archery. What then must have been the courage of that youthful prince, who after having been driven for shelter to an island on the north of Ireland, could venture, with only forty fol- lowers, to raise the standard of independence in the west of Scotland, against the accumu- lated force of this mighty power? — what the resources of that understanding, which, though intimately acquainted, from personal service, with the tried superiority of the English arms, could foresee, in his barren and exhausted country, the means of combating them ] — what the ability of that political conduct which could re-unite the jaring interests, and smother the deadly feuds, of the Scottish nobles'! — and what the capacity of tha;t noble warrior, who, in the words of the contemporary historian.-t" could " unite the prowess of the first knight to the conduct of the greatest general of his age," and was able, in the space of six years, to raise the Scottish arms from the lowest point of depression to such a pitch of glory, that even the redoubted archers and haughty chivalry of England fled at the sight of the Scottish banner ] t Nor was it only in the field that the great and patriotic conduct of Robert Bruce was dis- plaj'ed. In the endeavour to restore the almost ruined fortunes of his country, and to heal the wounds which a war of unparalleled severity had brought unon its people, he exhibited the same wise anfl beneficent policy. Under his auspicious rule, husbandry revived, arts were encouraged, and the turbulent barons were awed into subjection. Scotland recovered, during his administration, in a great measure, • Chalmers's Palednni.-i, vol. i. + Froissarl. X Walsing. p. 100. Mon. Malnia. p. IW, 133. 96 ALISOIv^'a MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. from the devastation that had preceeded it ; and the peasants, forgetting the stem warrior in the beneficent monarch, long remembered his sway, under the name of the "good King Robert's reign." But the greatness of his character appeared most of all from the events that occurred after his death. When the capacity Mith M'hich he and his worthy associates, Randolph and Pouglas, had counterbalanced the superiority of the English arms, was withdrawn, the fabric which they had supported fell to the ground. In the very first battle which was fought after his death, at Hamildon Hill, a larger army than that which conquered at Bannockburn was overthrown by the archers of England, without a single knight couching his spear. Never, at any subsequent period, was Scotland able to withstand the more powerful arms of the English yeomanry. Thenceforward, her military history is little more than a melancholy catalogue of continued defeats, occasioned rather by treachery on the part of her nobles, or incapacity in her generals, than any defect of valour in her soldiers ; and the independence of the monarchy was maintained rather by the terror which the name of Bruce and the re- membrance of Bannockburn had inspired, than by the achievements of any of the suc- cessors to his throne.* The merits of Roben Bruce, as a warrior, are verj^ generally acknowledged; and the eyes Df Scottish patriotism turn with the greater ixultaticn to his triumphs, from the contrast w^hich their splendour affords to the barren and humiliq.ting annals of the subsequent reigns. But the important coxsEavExcKs of nis victories are not sufficiently appreciated. While all admit the purity of the motives by v\'hich he was actuated, there are many who lament the consequences of his success, and perceive in it the source of those continued hostilities between England and Scotland which have brought such incalculable calami- ties upon both countries, and from which the latter has only within half a century begun to recover. Better would it have been, it is said for the prosperity of this countiy, if, like Wales, she had passed at once under the dominion of the English government, and received, five centuries ago, the present of that liberty which she so entirely lost during her struggles for national independence, and which nothing but her subsequent union with a free people has enabled her to obtain. There is something, we think, a priori, im- probable in this supposition, that, from the assertion of her independence under Robert Bruce, Scotland has received any injury. The instinct to maintain the national independence, and resist aggression from foreign powers, is so universally implanted among mankind, that it may well be doubted whether an obedience to its impulse is likely in any case to pro- duce injurious effects. In fact, subjugation by a foreign power is itself, in general, a greater calamity than any benefits with which it is accompanied can ever compensate; because, in the very act of receiving them hy force, there ♦ Henry's Britain, vol. vii. is implied an entire dereliction of all that i,^ valuable in political blessings, — a security that they will remain permanent. There is no ex- ample, perhaps, to be found in the history of mankind, of political freedom being either effectually conferred by a sovereign in gift, or communicated by the force of foreign arms ; but as liberty is the greatest blessing which man can enjoy, so it seems to be the law of nature that it should be the reward of intre- pidity and energy alone ; and that it is by the labour of his hands, and the sweat of his brow, that he is to earn his freedom as well as his subsistence. Least of all are such advantages to be an- ticipated from the conquest of a. free people. That the dominion of free states over con- quered countries is always more tyrannical than that of any other form of government, has been observed ever since the birth of liberty in the Grecian states, by all who have been so unfortunate as to be subjected to their rule. If we except the Roman republic, whose wise and beneficent policy is so entirely at variance with every thing else which we ob- serve in human affairs, that we are almost dis- posed to impute it to a special interposition of divine providence, there is no free state in ancient or modern times, whose government towards the countries whom it subdued has not been of the most oppressive description. We are accustomed to speak of the maternal government of free governments, but towards their subject provinces, it is generally the cruel tyranny of the step-mother, who oppresses her acquired children to favour her own off- spring. Nor is it difficult to perceive the reason why a popular government is naturally in- clined, in the general case, to severity towards its dependencies. A single monarch looks to the revenue alone of the countries whom he has subdued, and as it necessarily rises with the prosperity which they enjoy, his obvious interest is to pursue the measures best calcu- lated to secure it. But in republics, or in those free governments where the popular voice ex- ercises a decided control, the leading men of the state themselves look to the property of the subject country as the means of their in- dividual exaltation. Confiscations according- ly are multiplied, with a view to gratify the people or nobles of the victorious country with grants of the confiscated lands. Hatred and animosity are thus engendered between the ruling government and their subject provinces; and this, in its time, gives rise to new confiscations, by which the breach be- tween the higher and lower orders is rendered irreparable. Whoever is aco^^ainted with the history of the dominion which the Athenian and Syracusan populace held over their subject cities; with the governmentof Genoa, Venice, and Florence, in modern times ; or with the sanguinary rule which England exercised over Ireland during the three centuries which followed her subjugation, will know that this statement is not overcharged. On principle, therefore, and judging by the experience of past times, there is no room to doubt, that Bruce, in opposing the conquest of ROBERT BRLX*E. 97 Scotland by the English arms, doin? what the real interest of his country required ; and that how incalculable soever may be the blessings which she has since received by a union, on equal terma, with her southern neighbour, the result would have been very different had she entered into that government on the footing of involuntary nihjvgation. lu fact, it is not diffi- cult to perceive what would have been the policy which England would have pursued to- wards this country, had she prevailed in the contest for the Scottish throne ; and it is by following out the consequences of such an event, and tracing its probable influence on the condition of our population at this day, that we can alone appreciate the immense obli- gations we owe to our forefathers, who fought and died on the field of Bannockburn. Had the English then prevailed in the war with Robert Bruce, and finally succeeded in establishing their long wished-for dominion in this country, it cannot be doubted, that their first measure would have been to dispossess a large portion of the nobles who had so obsti- nately maintained the war against them, and substitute their own barons in their room. The pretended rebellion of Scotland against the legitimate authority of Edward, would have furnished a plausible pretext for such a pro- ceeding, while policy would of course have suggested it as the most efficacious means, both of restraining the turbulent and hostile spirit of the natives, and of gratifying the great barons by whose force they had been subdued. In fact, many such confiscations and grants of the lands to English nobles actually took place, during the time that Edward I. maintained his authority within the Scottish territory. The consequences of such a measure are very obvious. The dispossessed proprietors would have nourished the most violent and inveterate animosity against their oppressors; and the tenantry on their estates, attached by feudal and clanish affection to their ancient masters, would have joined in any scheme for their restoration. The seeds of continual dis- cord and hatred would thus have been sown between the lower orders and the existing proprietors of the soil. On the other hand, the great English barons, to whom the con- fiscated lands were assigned, would naturally prefer the society of their own country, and the security of their native castles, to the unpro- ductive soil and barbarous tribes on their northern estates. They would in consequence have relinquished these estates to factors or agents, and, without ever thinking of residing among a people by whom they were detested, have sought only to increase, by rigorous ex- actions, the revenue which they could derive from their labour. In progress of time, however, the natural fen^our of the Scottish people, their hereditary animosities against England, the exertions of the dispossessed proprietors, and the oppression of the English authorities, would have occa- sioned a revolt in Scotland. They would na- turally have chosen for such an undertaking the moment when the Enijlish forces were en- gaged in the wars of France, and when the entire desertion of the nothern frontier pro- mised successful rapine to their arms. In such circumstances, it is not to be doubted that they would have been unable to withstand the seeds of resistance to the English arms, which the French emissaries would have sedulously spread through the country. And if the au- thority of England was again re-established, new and more extensive confiscations would of course have followed; the English nobles would have been gratified by grants of the most considerable estates on the north of the Tweed, and the bonds of military subjection would have been tightened on the unfortunate people who were subdued. The continuance ofthe wars between France and Engla,nd, by presenting favourable op- portunities to the Scotch to revolt, combined with the temptation which the remoteness of their situation and the strength of their coun- try afforded, would have induced continual civil wars between the peasantry and their foreign masters, until the resources of the coun- try were entirely exhausted, and the people sunk in hopeless submission under the power that oppressed them. But in the progress of these wars, an evil of a far greater and more permanent descrip- tion would naturally arise, than either the loss of lives or the devastation of property which they occasioned. In the course of the pro- tracted contest, the la'ndf.d phopehty of the COUNTKY VTOULD ENTIRELY HAVE CHAKGEI) MAS- TERS ; and in place of being possessed by na- tives of the countrj' permanently settled on their estates, and attached by habit and com- mon interest to the labourers of the ground, it would have come into the hands of foreign noblemen, forced upon the country by military power, hated by the natives, residing always on their English estates, and regarding the people of Scotland as barbarians, whom it was alike impolitic to approach, and necessary to curb by despotic power. But while such would be the feelings and policy ofthe English proprietors, the stewards whom they appointed to manage their Scotch estates, at a distance from home, and surround- ed by a fierce and hostile population, would have felt the necessity of some assistance, to enable them to maintain iheir authority, or turn to any account the estates that were com- mitted to their care. Unable to procure mili- tary assistance, to enforce the submission of every district, or collect the rents of ever)' pro- perty, they would, of necessity, have looked to some method of conciliating the people of th-:- country; and such a method would naturally suggest itself in the attachment wnich the pec»- ple bore to the families of original landlords. and the consequent means which they posse^sed of swaying their refractor}- dispositions. These unhappy men, on the other hand, despairing of the recovery of their whole estates, wouW be glad of an opportunity of regaining any pai t of them, and eacerly embrace any proposal by which such a compromise might be effected. The sense of mutal dependence, in short, would have led to an arrangement, by which the es- tates of the English nobles were to bt auhnet to the Scottish prnjinctors fm- n fixed yrnrty rent, and they would lake upon themselves the task to I 98 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. which they alone were competent, of recovering the rents from the actnal cultivators of the soil. As the numbers of the people increased, however, and the value of the immense farms which had been thus granted to the descendants of their original proprietors was enhanced, the task of collecting rents over so extensive a district would have become too great for any individual, and the increased wealth which he had acquired from the growth of his tenantry, would have led him to dislike the personal la- bour with which it would be attcn(led. These great tenants, in consequence, would have sub- set their vast possessions to an inferior set of occupiers, who might each superintend the collection of the rents within his own farm, and hav^e an opportunity of acquiring a per- sonal acquaintance with the labourers by whom it was to be cultivated. As the number of the people increased, the same process would be repeated by the different tenants on their re- spective farms ; and thus there would have sprung up universally in Scotland a class of MIDDLE MEN bctwccn thc proprietor and the ac- tual cultivator of the soil. While these changes went on, the condition of the people, oppressed by a series of suc- cessive masters, each of whom required to live by their labour, and wholly debarred from ob- taining any legal redress for their grievances, would have gradually sunk. Struggling with a barren soil, and a host of insatiable oppres- sors, they could never have acquired any ideas of comfort, or indulged in any hopes of rising in the world. They would, in consequence, have adopted that species of food which pro- mised to afford the greatest nourishment for a family from the smallest space of ground ; and from the universality of this cause, the Potato would have become the staple food of the country. The landed proprietors, on the other hand, who are the natural protectors, and ought al- ways to be the best encouragers of the people on their estates, would have shrunk from the idea of' leaving their English possessions, where they were sun-ounded by an affectionate and comfortable tenantry, where riches and plenty sprung from the natural fertility of the soil, and where power and security were de- rived from their equal law, to settle in a north- ern climate, amongst a people by whom they were abhorred, and where law was unable to restrain the licentiousness, or reform the bar- barity of the inhabitants. — They would in con- sequence have universally become absentee PKOPEiETons ; and not only denied to the Scot- tish people the incalculable advantages of a resident body of landed gentlemen ; but, by their influence in Parliament, and their animo- sity towards their northern tenantry, prevented any legislative measure being pursiied for their relief. In such circumstances, it seems hardly con- ceivable that arts or manufactures should have made any progress in this country. But, if in spite of the obstacles which the unfavourable climate, and unhappy political circumstances of the country presented, manufactures should have begun to spring up amongst us, they would speedily have been checked by the com- mercial jealousy of their more powerful south- ern rivals. Bills would have been brought into parliament, as was actually done in re- gard to a neighbouring island, proceeding on the preamble, " that it is expedient that the Scottish manufactures should be discou- raged ;" and the prohibition of sending their goods into the richer market of England, whither the whole wealth of the country were already drawn, would have annihilated the in- fant efforts of manufacturing industry. Nor would the Reformation, Avhich, as mat- ters stand, has been of such essential service to this country, have been, on the hypothesis which we are pursuing, a lesser source of suf- fering, or a greater bar to the improvement of the people. From being embraced by their English landlords, the Reformed Religion would have been hateful to the peasants of Scotland ; the Catholic priests would have sought refuge among them, from the persecu- tion to which they were exposed in their native seats ; and both would have been strengthened in their hatred to those persons to whom their common misfortune was owing. Religious hatred would thus have combined with all the previous circumstances of irritation, to in- crease the rancour between the proprietors of the soil, and the labouring classes in this country; and from the circumstance of the latter adhering to the proscribed religion, they would have been rendered yet more incapable of procuring a redress for their grievances in a legislative form. Had the English, therefore, succeeded in subduing Scotland in the time of Robert Bruce, and in maintaining their authority from that period, we think it not going too far to assert, that the people of this country would have been now in an unhappy and distracted condition: that religious discussion and civil rancour would have mutually exasperated the higher and lower orders against each other; that the landed proprietors would have been permanently settled in the victorious country; that everywhere a class of middlemen would have been established to grind and ruin the labours of the poor; that manufactures would have been scanty, and the country covered with a numerous and indigent population, idle in their habits, ignorant in their ideas, ferocious in their manners, professing a reli- gion which held them in bondage, and cling- ing to prejudices from which their ruin must ensue. Is it said, that this is mere conjecture, and that nothing in the history of English govern- ment warrants us in concluding, that such would have been the consequence of the esta- blishment of their dominion in this country ? Alas ! it is not conjecture. The history of Ire- land affords too melancholy a confirmation of the truth of the positions which we have advanced, and of the reality of the deduction which we have pursued. In that deduction we have not reasoned on h3'pothesis or con- jecture. Every step which we have hinted at, has there been taken : every consequence which we have suggested, has there ensued. Those acquainted with the history of that unhappy country, or who have studied its present coa» ROBERT BRUCE. 99 dition, will recognise in the conjectural history which we have sketched, of what would have followed the annexation of this country to England in the time of Edward II., the real history of what has foli.owbd its subjugation in the time of Henry II., and perceive in the causes which we have pointed out, as what would have operated upon our people, the real causes of the misery and wretchedness in which its population is involved. Nor is the example of the peaceful submis- sion of Wales to the dominion of England, any authority against this view of the subject. Wales is so inconsiderable in comparison to England, it comes so completely in contact with its richest provinces, and is so enveloped by its power, that when once subdued, all thought of resistance or revolt became hope- less. That mountainous region, therefore, fell as quietly and as completely into the arms of England, as if it had been one of the Hept- archy, which in process of time was incor- porated with the English monarchy. Very different is the situation of Scotland, where the comparative size of the country, the fervid spirit of the inhabitants, the remoteness of its situation, and the strength of its mountains, continually must have suggested the hope of successful revolt, and as necessarily occa- sioned the calamitous consequences which we have detailed. The rebellion of Owen Glen- dower is sufficient to convince us, that nothing but the utter insignificance of Wales, compared to England, prevented the continual revolt of the Welsh people, and the consequent intro- duction of all those horrors which have fol- lowed the establishment of English dominion among the inhabitants of Ireland. Do we then rejoice in the prosperity of our countr}''] Do we exult at the celebrity which it has acquired in arts and in arms! Do we duly estimate the blessings which it has long enjoyed from equal law and personal freedom 1 — Do we feel grateful for the intelligence, the virtue, and the frugality of our peasantry, and acknowledge, with thankfulness, the practical beneficence and energetic spirit of our landed proprietors 1 Let us turn to the grave of Ro- bert Bruce, and feel as we ought the inex- pressible gratitude due to him as the remote author of all these blessings. But for his bold and unconquerable spirit, Scotland might have shared with Ireland the severity of English conquest; and, instead of exulting now in the prosperity of our country, the energy of our peasantry, and the patriotic spirit of our resi- dent landed proprietors, we might have been deploring with her an absent nobility, an oppressive tenantry, a bigotted and mined people. It was therefore, in truth, a memorable day for this country when the remains of this great prince were rediscovered amidst the ruins in which they had so long been hid; when the arms which slew Henry de Bohun were reinterred in the land which they had saved from slavery ; and the head which had beheld the triumph of Bannockburn was con- signed to the dust, after five centuries of grate- ful remembrance and experienced obligation. It is by thus appreciating the merits of depart- ed worth, that similar virtues in future are to be called forth ; and by duly feeling the conse- quences of heroic resistance in time past, that the spirit is to be excited by which the future fortunes of the state are to be maintained. In these observations we have no intention, as truly we have no desire, to depreciate the incalculable blessings which this country has derived from her union with England. We feel, as strongly as any can do, the immense advantage which this measure brought to the wealth, the industry, and the spirit of Scotland. We are proud to acknowledge, that it is to the eiTorts of English patriotism that we owe the establishment of liberty in our civil code ; and to the influence of English example, the diflTu- sion of a free spirit among our people. But it is just because we are duly impressed with these feelings that we recur, with such grate- ful pride, to the patriotic resistance of Robert Bruce; it is because we feel that we should be unworthy of sharing in English liberty, un- less we had struggled for our own indepen- dence, and incapable of participating in its benefits, unless we had shown that we were capable of acquiring it. Nor are we ashamed to own, that it is the spirit which English free- dom has awakened that first enabled us fully to appreciate the importance of the efi^orts which our ancestors made in resisting their dominion ; and that but for the Union on equal terms with that power, we would have been ignorant of the debt which we owed to those who saved us from its subjugation. In our national fondness, therefore, for the memory of Robert Bruce, the English should perceive the growth of those principles from which their own unequalled greatness has arisen ; nor should they envy the glory of the field of Bannockburn, when we appeal to it as our best title to be quartered in their arms. Yet mourn not, land of Fame, Tlumgli ne'er the leopards on thy ehield Retreated from so sad a field Since Norman William came. Oft may thine annals justly boast, Of hatties there by Scotland lost, fJrudire not her victory ; When for her freeborn rishts she strove, Kiehts dear to all who (Vuedoin love, To none so dear a^j tbee. 100 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. PAEIS IN 1814.* With M'hatever sentiments a stranger may- enter Paris, his feelings must be the same with regard to the monuments of ancient mag- nificence, or of modern taste, which it contains. All that the vanity or patriotism of a long series of sovereigns could effect for the em- bellishment of the capital in which they resided ; all that the conquests of an ambitious and unprincipled army could accumulate from the spoils of the nations whom they had sub- dued, are there presented to the eye of the stranger with a profusion which obliterates ev^ery former prejudice, and stifles the feelings of national emulation in exultation at the greatness of human genius. The ordinary buildings of Paris, as every traveller has observed, and as all the world knows, are in general mean and uncomfort- able. The height and gloomy aspect of the houses ; the narrowness of the streets, and the want of pavement for foot passengers, convey an idea of antiquity, which ill accords with what the imagination had anticipated of the modern capital of the French empire. This cii-cumstance renders the admiration of the spectator greater when he first comes in sight of its public edifices : when he is conducted to the Place Louis Quinze or the Pont Neuf, from whence he has a general view of the principal buildings of this celebrated capital. With the single exception of the view of Lon- don from the terrace of the Adelphi, there is no point in Britain where the effect of archi- tectural design is so great as in the situations which have now been mentioned. The view from the former of these, combines many of the most striking objects which Paris has to present. To the east, the long front of the Tuileries rises over the dark mass of foliage which cover its gardens ; to the south, the picturesque aspect of the town is broken by the varied objects which the river presents, and the fine perspective of the Bridge of Peace, terminating in the noble front of the palace of the Legislative Body; to the west, the long avenues of the Elysian Fields are closed by the pillars of a triumphal arch which Napo- leon had commenced; while, to the north, the beautiful facade of the Place itself, leaves the spectator only room to discover at a greater distance the foundation of the Temple of Glory, which he had commenced, and in the execution of which he was interrupted by those ambitious enterprises to which his sub- sequent downfall was owing.f To a painter's * Written in May and June, 1814, durin? a residence at Paris, when the allied arjnies occupied the city, and the great museum of the Louvre was untouched; and published in "Travels in France in 1814—15," which issued from the press in Edinburgh in 1815, to the first volume of which the author contributed a few Njiapters. + Since comjileted, and forming the beautiful peristyle of the Madeleine. eye, the effect of the whole scene is increased by the rich and varied fore-ground, which everywhere presents itself, composed of the shrubs with which the skirts of the square are adorned, and the lofty poplars which rise amidst the splendour of architectural beauty: while recent events give a greater interest to the spot from which this beauty is surveyed, by the remembrance, that it was here that Louis XVI. fell a martyr to the revolutionary principles, and that it was here that the Em- peror Alexander and the other princes of Europe took their station when their armies passed in triumph through the walls of Paris. The view from the Pont Neuf, though not striking upon the whole, embraces objects of greater individual beauty. The gay and ani- mated quays of the city covered with foot pas- sengers, and, with all the varied exhibitions of industrious occupation, which, from the warm- ness of the climate, are carried on in the open air ; — the long and splendid front of the Louvre, and the Tuileries ; — the bold projections of the Palais des Arts, of the Hotel de la Monnaie, and other public buildings on the opposite side of the river; — the beautiful perspective of the bridges, adorned by the magnificent colonnade which fronts the Palace of the Legislative Body ; — and the lofty picturesque buildings of the centre of Paris, surrounding the more ele- vated towers of Notre Dame, form a scene, which, though less perfect, is more striking, and more characteristic than the scene from the centre of the Place Louis Quinze. It con- veys at once a general idea of the French capital; of that mixture of poverty and splen- dour by which it is so remarkably distinguish- ed; of that grandeur of national power, and that degradation of individual importance which marked the ancient dynasty of the French nation. It marks too, in an historical view, the changes of public feeling which the people of this country have undergone, from the distant period when the towers of Notre Dame rose amidst the austerity of Gothic taste, and were loaded with the riches of Catholic superstition, to that boasted ajra, when the loyalty of the French people exhausted the wealth and the genius of the country, to deco- rate with classic taste the residence of their sovereigns ; and lastly, to those later days, when the names of religion and of loyalty have alike been forgotten ; when the national exulta- tion reposed only on the trophies of military greatness, and the iron yoke of imperial power was forgotten in the monuments which record the deeds of imperial glory. To the general observation on the inferiority of the common buildings in Paris, there are some remarkable exceptions. The Boulevards, which are the remains of the ancient ramparts which surrounded the city at a former period, are, in general, beautiful, both from the circu- PARIS IN 1814. 101 lar form in which thej-^ are built, which pre- vents the view from being ever too extensive for the objects which it contains, and presents them in the most picturesque aspect; Irora the breadth which they everywhere preserve, and which affords room for the spectator to observe the majinificence of the detached palaces with which they abound; and from the rows of trees with which they are shaded, and which com- bine singularly well with the irregular cha- racter of the building which they generally present. In the skirts of the town, and more especially iu the Fauxbourg St. Germain, the beauty of the streets is greatly increased by the detached hotels or villas, surrounded by gardens, which are everywhere to be met with, in which the lilac, the laburnum, the Bois de Judee, and the acacia, grow in the most luxu- riant manner, and on the green foliage of which, the eye reposes with singular delight, amidst the bright and dazzling whiteness of the stone with which they are surrounded. The Hotel des Invalides, the Chelsea Hospital of France, is one of the objects on which the Parisians principally pride themselves, and to which a stranger is conducted immediately after his arrival in that capital. The institu- tion itself appears to be well conducted, and to give general satisfaction to the wounded men, who have there found an asylum from the miseries of war. These men live in habits of perfect harmony among each other ; a state of things widely different from that of our veterans in Greenwich Hospital, and which is probably chiefly owing to the cheerfulness and equanimity of temper which form the best feature iu the French cliaracter. There is something in the style of the architecture of this building, which accords well with the object to which it is devoted. The front is distinguished by a simple manly portico, and a dome of the finest proportion rises above its centre, which is visible from all parts of the city. This dome was gilded by order of Bona- parte: and however much a fastidious taste may regret the addition, it certainly gave an air of splendour to the whole, which was in perfect unison with the feelings of exultation which the sight of this monument of military glory was then fitted to awaken among the French people. The exterior of this edifice was formerly surrounded by cannon captured by the armies of France at different periods: and ten thousand standards, the trophies of victory during the wars of two centuries, waved under its splendid dome, and enveloped the sword of Frederic the Great, which hung from the centre, until the 31st of March, 1814, when they were all burnt by order of Maria Louisa, to prevent their falling into the vic- torious hands of the allied powers. If the character of the architecture of the Hotel des Invalides accords well with the object to which that building is destined; the character of the Louvre is not less in unison with the spirit of the fine arts, to which it is consecrated. It is impossible for language to convey any adequate idea of the impression which this exquisite building awakens in the mind of a stranger. The beautiful proportions, and the fine symmetry of the great fajade, give an air of simplicity to the distant view of this edifice, which is not diminished, on nearer ap- proach, by the unrivalled beauty of its orna- ments and detail ; but when you cross the threshold of the portico, ahd pass under its noble archway into the inner court, all consi- derations are absorbed in the throb of admira- tion, which is excited by the sudden display of all that is lovely and harmonious in Grecian architecture. You find yourself in the midst of the noblest and yet chastest display of archi- tectural beauty, where every ornament pos- sesses the character by which the whole is distinguished, and where the whole possesses the grace and elegance which every ornament presents: — You find yourself on the spot, where all the monuments of ancient art are deposited — where the greatest exertions of mortal genius are preserved — and where a palace has at last been raised worthy of being the depository of the collected genius of the human race. — It bears a higher character than that of being the residence of imperial power; it seems destined to loftier purposes than to be the abode of earthly greatness ; and the only forms by which its halls would not be degraded, are those models of ideal perfection which the genius of ancient Greece created to exalt the character of a heathen world. Placed in a more elevated spot, and destined to a still higher object, the Pantheon bears in its front the traces of the noble purpose for which it was intended. — It was intended to be the cemetery of all the great men who had deserved well of their country; and it bears the inscription, above its entrance, ^ux grands ^imes La Patrie reconnoixsanlc. The character of its architeccure is well adapted to the impression it is intended to convey, and suits the simplicity of the noble inscription which its portico presents. Its situation has been selected with singular taste, to aid the effect which was thus intended. It is placed at the top of an eminence, which shelves in a declivity on every side ; and the immediate approach is by an immense flight of steps, which form the base of the building, and in- crease the effect which its magnitude produces. Over the entrance rises a portico of lofty pil- lars, finely proportioned, supporting a magni- ficent entablature of the Corinthian order; and the whole terminates in a dome of vast dimensions, forming the highest object in the whole city. The impression which every one must feel in crossing its threshold, is that of religious awe ; the individual is lost in the great- ness of the objects with which he is surrounded, and he dreads to enter what seems the abode of a crreater power, and to liave been framed for the purposes of more elevated worship. The Louvre might have been fitted for the gay scenes of ancient sacrifice ; it suits the brilliant conceptions of heathen mythology; and seems the fit abode of those ideal forms, in which the imagination of ancient times imbodicJ their conceptions of divine perfection; but the Pan- theon is adapted for a holier worship, and accords with the character of a purer belief; and the vastncss and solitude of its untrodden chambers awaken those feelings of human weakness, and that .sentiment of human im- 102 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. mortality which befit the temple of a spiritual faith. 'I'he spectator is led, h}' the sight of this great monument of sacred architecture in the Grecian style, to compare it with the Gothic churches of France, and, in particular, with the Cathedral of Beauvais, the interior of which is finished with greater delicacy, and in finer proportions, than any other edifice of a similar kind in that country. The impression which the inimitable choir of Beauvais pro- duces is widely difl'ercnt from that which we felt on entering the lofty dome of the Pantheon at Paris. The light pinnacles, the fretted roof, the aspiring form of the Gothic edifice, seemed to have been framed by the hands of aerial beings ; and produced, even from a distance, that impression of grace and airiness which it was the peciiliar object of this species of Gothic architecture to excite. On passing the high archway which covers the western door, and entering the immense aisles of the Cathe- dral, the sanctity of the place produces a deeper impression, and the grandeur of the forms awakens profounder feelings. The light of day is excluded, the rays of the sun come mel- lowed through the splendid colours with which the windows are stained, and cast a religious light over the marble pavement which covers the floor; while the eye reposes on the har- monious forms of the lancet windows, or is bewildered in the profusion of ornament with which the roof is adorned, or is lost in the deep perspective of its aisles. The impres- sion which the whole produces, is that of reli- gious emotion, singularly suited to the genius of Christianity ; it is seen in that obscure light which fits the solemnity of religious duty, and awakens those feelings of intense delight, which prepare the mind for the high strain of religious praise. But it is not the deep feeling of humility and weakness which is produced by the dark chambers and massy pillars of the Pantheon at Paris ; it is not in the mausoleum of the dead that you seem to wander, nor on the thoughts of the great that have gone before you, that the mind revolves ; it is in the scene of thanksgiving that your admiration is fixed; it is with the emblems of hope that your devo- tion is awakened, and with the eiithusiasm of gratitude that the mind is filled. Beneath the gloomy roof of the Grecian temple, the spirit is concentrated within itself; it seeks the re- pose which solitude aflTords, and meditates on the fate of the immortal soul ; but it loves to follow the multitude into the Gothic cathedral, to join in the song of grateful praise which peals through its lengthened aisles, and to share in the enthusiasm which belongs to the exercise of common devotion. The Cathedral of Notre Dame is the only Gothic building of note in Paris, and it is by no means equal to ihe expectations that are naturally formed of it. The style of its archi- tf.cture is not that of the finest Gothic ; it has neither the exquisite lightness of ornament which distinguish the summit of Gloucester Cathedral, nor the fine lancet windows which give so unrivalled a beauty to the interior of Beauvais, nor the richness of roof which covers the tombs of Westminster Abbey. Its character is that of massy greatness ; its orna ments are rich rather than elegant, and its in- terior striking, more from its immense size than the beauty of the proportion in which it is formed. In spite of all these circumstances, however, the Cathedral of Notre Dame pro- duces a deep impression on the mind of the beholder: its towers rise to a stupendous height above all the buildings which surround them ; while the stone of every other edifice is of a light colour, they alone are black with the smoke of centuries; and exhibit a venera- ble aspect of ancient greatness in the midst of the brilliancy of modern decoration with which the city is filled. Even the crowd of ornaments with which they are loaded, and the heavy proportion in which they are built, are forgot- ten in the effect which their magnitude pro- duces ; they suit the gloomy character of the building they adorn, and accord with the ex- pression of antiquated power by which its aged forms are now distinguished. To those who have been accustomed to the form of worship which is established in Pro- testant countries, there is nothing so striking in the Catholic churches as the complete oblivion of rank, or any of the distinctions of estab- lished society which there universally prevails. There are no divisions of seats, nor any places fixed for any particular classes of society. All, of whatever rank or station, kneel alike upon the marble pavement; and the whole extent of the church is open for the devotion of all classes of the people. You frequently see the poorest citizens with their children kneeling on the stone, close to those of the highest rank, or the most extensive fortunes. This custom may appear painful to those who have been habituated to the forms of devotion in the English churches ; but it produces an impression on the mind of the spectator which nothing in our service is capable of eflecting. To see the individual form lost in the im- mensity of the objects Math which he is sur- rounded ; to see all ranks and ages blended in the exercise of common devotion; to see all distinction forgotten in the sense of common infirmity, suits the spirit of that religion which was addressed to the poor as well as to the rich, and fits the presence of that being before whom all ranks are equal. Nor is it without a good efl^ect upon the feel- ings of mankind, that this custom has formed a part of the Catholic service. Amidst that degradation of the great body of the people, which marks the greater part of the Catholic countries — amidst the insolence of aristocratic power, which the doctrines of the Catholic faith are so well suited to support, it is fitting there should be some occasions on which the distinctions of the world should be forgotten ; some moments in which the rich as well as the poor should be humbled before a greater power — in which they should be reminded of the common faith in which they have been baptized, of the common duties to which they are called, and the common hopes which they have been permitted to form. High Mass was performed in Notre Dame, with all the pomp of the Catholic service, for the souls of Louis XVI., Marie Antoinette and PARIS IN 1814. 103 /v, the DaupTiin, on May 9, 1814, soon after the king's arrival in Paris. The cathedral was hung with black in every part; the brilliancy of day wholly excluded, and it was lighted onl)"^ by double rows of wax tapers, which burned round the coffins, placed in the centre of the choir. It was crowded to excess in every part ; all the marshals, peers, and dignitaries of France were stationed with the royal family near the centre of the cathedral, and all the principal officers of the allied armies attended at the celebration of the service. The king was present, though, without being perceived by the vast assembly by M'hom he was surrounded; and the Duchess d'Angou- leme exhibited, in this melancholy duty, that mixture of firmness and sensibility by which her character has always been distinguished. It was said, that there were several persons present at this solemn service who had voted for the death of the king ; and many of those assembled must doubtless have been con- scious, that they had been instrumental in the death of those for whose souls this solemn service was now performing. The greater part, hoAvcver, exhibited the symptoms of ge- nuine sorrow, and seemed t' participate in the solemnity with unfeigned devotion. The Catholic worship was here displayed in its utmost splendour; all the highest prelates of France were assembled to give dignity to the spectacle ; and all that art could devise was exhausted to render the scene impressive in the eyes of the people. To those, however, who had been habituated to the simplicity of the English form, the variety of tmmean- ing ceremony, the endless gestures and un- ceasing bows of the clergy who officiated, destroyed the impression which the solemnit}- of the sen'ice would otherwise have produced. But though the service itself appeared ridi- culous, the effect of the whole scene was sublime in the greatest degree. The black tapestry hung in heavy folds round the sides of the cathedral, and magnified the impres- sion which its vastness produced. The tapers which surrounded the coffins threw a red and gloomy light over the innumerable multitude which thronged the floor; their receding rays faintly illuminated the further recesses, or strained to pierce the obscure gloom in which the summits of the pillars were lost; while the sacred music pealed through the distant aisles, and deepened the effect of the thousands of voices which joined in the strains of re- pentant prayer. Among the exhibitions of art to Avhich a stranger is conducted immediately after his arrival in the French metropolis, there is none which is more characteristic of tiie dis- position of the people than the Musec (ks Monv- vwiis Fraugois, situated in the Rue des Petits Augustins. This is a collection of all the finest sepulchral monuments from different parts of France, particularly from the Cathe- dral of St. Denis, where the cemetery of the royal family had, from time immemorial, been placed. It is said by the French, that the collection of these monuments into one museum was the only means of preserving them from the fury of the people during the Revolution ; and certainly nothing but abso- lute necessity could have justified the bar- barous idea of bringing them from the graves they were intended to adorn, to one spot, where all associations connected with tliem are destroyed. It is not the mere survey of the monuments of the dead that is interesting, — not the examination of the specimens of art by which they may be adonied ; — it is the remembrance of the deeds which they are intended to record, — of the virtues they are destined to perpetuate, — of the pious gratitude of which they are now the only testimony — above all, of the dust they actually cover. They remind us of the great men who formerly filled the theatre of the world, — they carry us back to an age which, by a very natural illu- sion, we conceive to have been both wiser and happier than our own, and present the record of human greatness in that pleas- ing distance when the great features of cha- racter alone are remembered, when time has draw'n its veil over the weaknesses of mor- tality, and its virtues are sanctified by the hand of death. It is a feeling fitted to elevate the soul ; to mingle the thoughts of death with the recollection of the virtues by which life had been dignified, and renovate in every heart those high hopes of religion which spring from the grave of former virtue. All this delightful, this purifying illusion, is destroyed by the way in which the monuments are collected in the museum at Paris. They are there brought together from all parts of France; severed from the ashes of the dead they were intended to cover; and arranged in svstematic order to illustrate the history of the art whose progress they unfold. The tombs of all the kings of France, of all the generals by whom its glory has been extended, of the statesmen by whom its power, and the writers by whom its fame has been established, are crowded together in one collection, and heaped upon each other, without any other connection than that of the time in which they were origi- nally raised. The museum accordingl)' ex- hibits, in the most striking manner, the power of arrangement and classification which the French possess; it is valuable, as containing fine models of the greatest men which France has produced, and exhibits a curious speci- men of the progress of art, from its first commencement, to the period of its greatest perfection ; but it has wholly lost that deep and peculiar interest which belongs to t*^" monuments of the dead in their origmai situation. Adjoining to the museum, is a garden planted with trees, in which many of the finest monuments arc placed; but in whicli the depravity of the French taste appears in the most striking manner. It is surmunded with high houses, and darkened by the shade of lofty buildings: yet in this gloomy situa- tion, they have placed the tomb of Feneion, and the united monument of .\belard and Eloise: profaning thus, by the barbarous affectation of artificial taste, and the still more shocking imitation of ancient superstition, the remains of those whose names are enshrined in every heart which can feel the beauty of iG4 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. moral excellence, or share in the sympathy with youthful sorrow. How ditierent are the feelings with which an Englishman surveys the untouched monu- ments of English greatness ! — and treads the floor of that venerable building which shrouds tiie remains of all who have dignified their native land — in which her patriots, her poets, and her philosopliers "sleep with her kings, and dignify the scene," which the rage of popular fury has never dared to profane, and the liand of victorious power has never been able to violate ; where the ashes of the im- mortal dead still lie in undisturbed repose, under that splendid roof which covered the tombs of its earliest kings, and witnessed, from its first dawn, the infant glory of the English people. — Nor could the remembrance of these national monuments ever excite in the mind of a native of France, the same feeling of heroic devotion which inspired the sublime expression of Nelson, as he boarded the Spanish Admiral's ship at St. Vincent's — " Westminster Abbey or victory !" Thougii the streets in Paris have an aged and uncomfortable appearance, the form of the houses is such, as, at a distance, to present a picturesque aspect. Their height, their sharp and irregular tops, the vast variety of forms which they assume when seen from diiferent quarters, all combine to render a dis- tant view of them more striking than the long rows of uniform houses of which London is composed. The domes and steeples of Paris, however, are greatly inferior, both in number and magniiicence, to those of the English capital. The gardens of the Tuileries and the Luxembourg, of which the Parisians think so highly, and which are constantly filled with all ranks of citizens, are laid out with a singular- ity of taste, of which, in this country, we can scarcely form any conception. The straight walks — the dipt trees — the marble fountains are fast wearing out in all parts of England; they are to be met with only round the man- sions of ancient families, and, even there are kept rather from the influence of ancient prejudice, or from the affection to hereditary forms, than from their coincidence with the present taste of the English people. They are seldom, accordingly, disagreeable, with us, to the eye of the most cultivated taste; their singularity forms a pleasing variety to the continued succession of lawns and shrub- beries which are everywhere to be met with ; and they are regarded rather as the venerable marks of ancient splendour, than as the bar- barous affectation of modern distinction. In France, the native deformity of this taste appears in its real light, without the colouring of any such adventitious circumstances as conceal it in this country. It does not exist under the softening veil of ancient manners ; its avenues do not conduct to the decaying abode of hereditary greatness — its gardens do not mark the scenes of former festivity — its fountains are not covered with the moss which has grown for centuries. It appears as the mo- del of present taste ; it is considered as the indi- cation of existing splendour ; and sought after 1 as the form in which the beauty of nature is now to be admired. All that association blends in the mind with the style of ancient gardening in England is instantly divested by its appearance in France ; and the whole im- portance is then felt of that happy change in the national taste, whereby variety has been made to succeed to uniformit}-, and the imita- tion of nature to come in the place of the exhi- bition of art. The remarkable characteristic of the taste of France is, that this love of artificial beauty continues with undiminished force, at a period when, in other nations, it has given place to a more genuine love for the beauty of nature. In them, the natural progress of refinement has led from the admiration of the art of imita- tion to the love of the subjects imitated. In France, this early prejudice continues in its pristine vigour at the present moment: they never lose sight of the effort of the artist ; their admiration is fixed not on the quality or object in nature, but on the artificial representation of it; not on the thing signified, but the sign. It is hence that they have such exalted ideas of the perfection of their artist David, whose paintings are nothing more than a representa- tion of the human figure in its most extrava- gant and phrenzied attitudes ; that they are insensible to the simple display of real emo- tion, but dwell with delight upon the vehement representation of it which their stage exhibits ; and that, leaving the charming heights of Belle- ville, or the sequestered banks of the Seine almost wholly deserted, they crowd to the stiff alleys of the Elysian Fields, or the artificial beauties of the gardens of Versailles. In the midst of Paris this artificial style of gardening is not altogether unpleasing ; it is in unison, in some measure, with the regular character of the buildings with which it is surrounded ; and the profusion of statues and marble vases continues the impression which the character of their palaces is fitted to pro- duce. But at Versailles, at St. Cloud, and Fontainbleau, amidst the luxuriance of vegeta- tion, and surrounded by the majesty of forest scenery, it destroys altogether the effect which arises from the irregularity of natural beauty. Every one feels straight borders, and square porticoes and broad alleys, to be in unison with the immediate neighbourhood of an anti- quated mansion ; but they become painful when extended to those remoter parts of the grounds, when the character of the scene is determined by the rudeness of uncultivated nature. There are some occasions, nevertheless, on which the gardens of the Tuileries present a beautiful spectacle, in spite of the artificial taste in which they are formed. From the warmth of the climate, the Parisians, of all classes, live much in the open air, and frequent the public gardens in great numbers during the continuance of the fine weather. In the evening especially, they are filled with citi- zens, who repose themselves under the shade of the lofty trees, after the heat and the fa- tigues of the day; and they there present a spectacle of more than ordinary interest and beauty. The disposition of the French suits PARIS IN 1814. 105 (he character of the scene, and harmonizes \vith the impression which the stillness of the evening produces on the mind. There is none of that rioting or confusion by which an assembly of the middling classes ia England is too often disgraced ; no quarrelling or in- toxication even among the poorest ranks, nor any appearance of that degrading want which destroys the pleasing idea of public happiness. The people appear all to enjoy a certain share of individual prosperity ; their intercourse is conducted with unbroken harmony, and they seem to resign themselves to those delightful feelings which steal over the mind during the stillness and serenity of a summer evening. It would seem as if all the angry passions of the breast were soothed by the voice of repos- ing nature — as if the sounds of labour were stilled, lest they should break the harmtmy of the scene — as if vice itself had concealed its deformity from the overpowering influence of natural beauty. Still more beautiful, perhaps, is the appear- ance of this scene during the stillness of the night, when the moon throws her dubious rays over the objects of nature. The gardens of the Tuileries remain crowded with people, who seem to enjoy the repose which univer- sally prevails, and from whom no sound is to be heard which can break the stillness or the serenity of the scene. The regularity of the forms is Avholly lost in the masses of light and shadow that are there displayed ; the foliage throws a checkered shade over the ground beneath, while the distant vistas of the Elysian Fields are seen in that soft and mellow light by which the radiance of the moon is so pecu- liarly distinguished. After passing through the scenes of gaiety and festivity which mark these favourite scenes of the French people, small encampments were frequently to be seen, of the allied troops, in the remote parts of the grounds. The appearance of these bivouacks, composed of Cossack squadrons, Hungarian hussars, and Prussian artillery, in the obscurity of moonlight, and surroimded by the gloom of forest scenery, was beyond measure striking. The picturesque forms of the soldiers, sleeping on their arms under the shade of the trees, or half hid by the rude huts which they had erected for their shelter; the varied attitudes of the horses standing amidst the wagons by which the camp was followed, or sleeping be- side the veterans whom they had borne through all the fortiiries of war ; the dark masses of the artillery, dimly discerned in ihe shades of night, or faintly reflecting the pale light of the moon, presented a scene of the most beautiful description, in which the rude features of war were softened by the tranquillity of peaceful life : and the interest of present repose was enhanced bj^ the remembrance of the wintry storms and bloody fields through which these brave men had passed, during the memorable campaigns in which they had been engaged. The effect of the whole was increased by the perfect stillness which everywhere prevailed, broken only at intervals by the slow step of the sentinel, as he paced his rounds, or the sweeter sounds of those beautiful airs, which, in afar distant country, recalled to the Russian 14 soldier the joys and the happiness of his native land. St. Cloud was the favourite residence of Bonaparte, and, from this circumstance, pos- sesses an interest which does not belong to the other imperial palaces. It stands high, upon a lofty bank overhanging the Seine, which takes a bold sweep in the plain below; and the steep declivity which descends to its banks, is clothed with magnificent woods of aged elms. The character of the scenery is bold and rugged; — the trees are of the wildest forms, and the most stupendous height, and the banks, for the most part, steep and irregu- lar. It is here, accordingly, that the French gardening appears in all its genuine deformity ; and that its straight walks and endless foun- tains display a degree of formality and art, destructive to the peculiar beauty by which the scene is distinguished. These gardens, however, were the favourite and private M'alks of the emperor ; — it was there that he meditated those schemes of ambition which were des- tined to shake the established thrones of Europe ; — it was under the shade of its luxu- riant foliage that he formed the plan of all the mighty projects which he had in contempla- tion ; — it was in the splendid apartments of its palace that the Councils of France assem- bled, to revolve on the means of permanently destroying the English power: — It was here too, by a most remarkable coincidence, that his destruction was finally accomplished; — that the last convention was concluded, by which his second dethronement was com- pleted ; — and that the victorious arms of Eng- land dictated the terms of surrender to his conquered capital. St. Cloud, in 1814, was the head-quarters of Prince Schwartzenberg; and the Austrian grenadiers mounted guard at the gates of the Imperial Palace. The banks of the Seine, below the palace, were covered by an immense bivouac of Austrian troops, and the fires of their encampment twinkled in the obscurity of twilight, amidst the low brushwood with which the sides of the river were clothed. The appearance of this bivouac, dimly discerned through the rugged stems of lofty trees, or half-hid by the luxuriant branches which ob- scured the view — the picturesque and varied aspect of the camp, covered with wagons, and all the accompaniments of military service ; — the columns of smoke rising from the fires with which it was interspersed, and the in- numerable horses crowded amidst the con- i fused multitude of men and carriages, or resf- I ing in more sequestered spots on the sides of I the river, with their forms finely reflected in i its unnifHed waters — presented a spectacle I which exhibited war in its most strikin? aspect, I and cave a character to the scene which would have suited the romantic strain of Salvator's mind. St. Germain, though less picturesquely situ- ated than St. Cloud, presents features, never- theless, of more than ordinary magnificence. The Palace, now converted into a school of militarv education by Napoleon, is a mean I irregular building; though it possesses a cer- 1 tain interest, by having been long the residenc* 106 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. of the exiled honse of Stuart. The situation, however, is truly fitted for au imperial dwell- ing; it stands on the edge of a high hank, overhanging the Seine, at the end of a magnifi- cent terrace, a mile and a half long, built on the projecting heights -which edge the river. The walk along this terrace is the finest spec- tacle which the vicinity of Paris has to present. It is backed along its whole extent by the im- mense forest of St. Germain, the foliage of which overhangs the road, and in the recesses of which you can occasionally discern those beautiful peeps which form the peculiar charac- teristic of forest scener3% The steep bank which descends to the river is clothed with orchards and vineyards in all the luxuriance of a southern climate, and, in front, there is spread beneath your feet the immense plain in which the Seine wanders, whose waters are descried at intervals through the woods and gardens with which its banks are adorned; while, in the farthest distance, the towers of St. Denis, and the heights of Paris, form an irregular outline on the verge of the horizon. It is a scene exhibiting the most beautiful aspect of cultivated nature, and would have been the fit residence for a monarch who loved to survey his subjects' happiness : but it was deserted by the miserable weakness of Louis XIV., because the view terminated in the cemetery of the kings of France, and his en- joyment of it would have been destroyed by the thoughts of mortal decay. Versailles, which that monarch chose as the ordinary abode of his splendid court, is less favourably situate for a royal dwelling, though the view from the great front of the palace is beautifull)'^ clothed with luxuriant woods. The palace itself is a magnificent building of im- mense extent, loaded with the riches of archi- tectural beauty, but destitute of that fine pro- portion and lightness of ornament, which spread so indescribable a charm over the palace of the Louvre. The interior is in a state of lamentable decay, having been pillaged at the commencement of the revolutionary fury, and formed into a barrack for the repub- lican soldiers, the marks of whose violence are still visible in the faded splendour of its magnificent apartments. They still show, how- ever, the favourite apartments of Maria An- toinette, the walls of which are covered with the finest mirrors, and some remains of the furniture are still preserved, which even the licentious fury of the French army seems to have been afraid to violate. The gardens, on which all the riches of France, and all the efforts of art were so long lavished, present a painful monument of the depravity of taste: l)Ut the Petit Trianon, which is a little palace built of marble, and surrounded by shrubberies in the English style, exhibits the genuine beauty of which the imitation of nature is sus- ceptible. This palace contains a suite of splendid apartments, fitted up with singular taste, and adorned with a number of charming pictures ; it was the favourite residence of Maria Louise, and we were there shown the drawing materials which she used, and some unfinished sketches which she left, in which, we Avere informed, she much delighted, and which bore the marks of a cultivated taste. The Empress Maria Louise was everywhere represented as cold, proud, and haughty in her manner, andunconciliating in her ordinary ad- dress. Her time was much spent in private, in the exercise of religious duty, or in needle- work and drawing; and her favourite seat at St. Cloud was between two windows, from one of Avhich she had a view over the beauti- ful woods which clothe the banks of the river, and from the other a distant prospect of the towers and domes of Paris. Very difl^erent was the character which be- longed to the former empress, the first wife of Bonaparte, Josephine. She passed the close of her life at the delightful retreat of Mal- maison, a villa charmingly situated on the banks of the Seine, seven miles from Paris, on the road to St. Germain. This villa had been her favourite residence while she continued empress, and formed her only home after the period of her divorce ; — here she lived in obscurity and retirement, without any of the pomp of a court, or any of the splendour which belonged to her former rank, occupied entirely in the employment of gardening, or in allevi- ating the distresses of those around her. The shrubberies and gardens Avere laid out with singular beauty, in the English taste, and con- tained a vast variety of rare flowers, which she had for a long period befen collecting. These grounds were to her the source of never- failing enjoyment ; she spent many hours in them every day, Avorking herself, or superin- tending the occupations of others ; and in these delightful occupations seemed to return again to all the innocence and happiness of youth. She AA'as beloved, to the greatest degree, by all the poor who inhabited the Aacinity of her retreat, both for the gentleness of her man- ner, and her unwearied attention to their suf- ferings and their wants ; and during the Avhole period of her retirement, she retained the esteem and affection of all classes of French citizens. The Emperor Alexander visited her repeatedly during the stay of the allied armies in Paris ; and her death occasioned an univer- sal feeling of regret, rarely to be met Avith amidst the corruption and selfishness of the French metropolis. There was something singularly striking in the history and character of this remarkable woman : — Born in an humble station, AA-ithout any of the advantages Avhich rank or education could aiford, she Avas early inA-oh-'ed in all the unspeakable miseries of the French reA'olution, and was extricated from her precarious situa- tion only by being united to that extraordinary man Avhose crimes and whose ambition have spread misery through every country of Eu- rope; rising through all the gradations of rank through which he passed, she everywhere commanded the esteem and regard of all Avho had access to admire her private virtues ; and when at length she was raised to the rank of Empress, she graced the imperial throne Avith all the charities and Anrtues of an humbler sta- tion. She bore, with unexampled.magnanimity, the sacrifice of power and of influence which PARIS IN 1814. 107 she was compelled to make : she carried into the obscurity of humble life all the dignity of mind which befitted the character of an em- press of France ; and exercised, in the delight- ful occupations of country life, or in the alle- viation of the severity of individual distress, that firmness of mind and gentleness of dis- position with which she had lightened the weight of imperial dominion, and softened the rigour of despotic power. The Forest of Fontainbleau exhibits scenery of a more picturesque and strikmg character than is to be met M'ith in any other part of the north of France. It is situated forty miles from Paris, on the great road to Rome, and the ap- pearance of the country through which this road runs, is, for the most part, flat and unin- teresting. It runs through a continued plain, in a straight line between tall rows of elm trees, whose lower branches are uniformly cut off for fire-wood to the peasantry ; and exhibits, for the most part, no other feature than the continued riches of agricultural produce. At the distance of seven miles from the town of Fontainbleau, you first discern the forest, covering a vast ridge of rocks, stretching as far as the eye can reach, from right to left, and presenting a dark irregular outline on the sur- face of the horizon. The cultivation continues, with all its uniformity, to the very foot of the ridge ; but the moment you pass the boundaries of the forest, you find yourself surrounded at once with all the wildness and luxuriance of natural scenery. The surface of the ground is broken and irregular, rising at times into vast piles of shapeless rocks, and enclosing at others small valleys, in which the wood grows in luxuriant beauty, unblighted by the chilling blasts of northern climates. In these valleys, the oak, the ash, and the beech, exhibit the peculiar magnificence of forest scenery, while, on the neighbouring hills, the birch waves its airy foliage round the dark masses of rock which terminate the view. Nothing can be conceived more striking than the scenery which this variety of rock and wood produces in every part of this romantic forest. At times you pass through an unbroken mass of aged timber, surrounded by the native grandeur of forest scenery, and undisturbed by any traces of human habitation, except in those rude paths which occasionally open a passing view into the remoter parts of the forest. At others, the path winds through great masses of rock, piled in endless confusion upon each other, in the crevices of which, the fern and the heath grow in all the luxuriance of southern vegetation; while their summits are covered by aged oaks of the wildest forms, whose crossing boughs throw an eternal shade over the ravines below, and afl^ord room only to discern at the farthest distance the summits of those beautiful hills, on which the light foliage of the birch trembles in the ray of an unclouded sun, or waves on the blue of a sum- mer heaven. To those who have had the good fortune to see the beautiful scenery of the Trosachs in Scotland, of Matlock in Derbyshire, or of the wooded Fells in Cumberland, it may aflbrd some idea of the Forest of Fontainbleau, to say that it combines scenery of a similar de- scription with the aged magnificence of Wind- sor Forest. Over its whole extent there are scattered many detached oaks of vast dimen- sions, which seem to be of an older race in the growth of the forest, — whose lowest boughs stretch above the top of the wood which surrounds them, — and whose decayed summits afford a striking contrast to the young and luxuriant foliage with which their stems are enveloped. In May, 1814, it was occupied by the old imperial guard, M'hich still remained in that station after the abdica- tion of Bonaparte ; and parties, or detached stragglers of them, were frequently to be met with wandering in the most solitary parts of the forest. Their warlike and weather-beatea appearance ; their battered arms and worn accoutrements ; the dark feathers of their caps, and the sallow ferocious aspect of their coun- tenances, suited the savage character of the scenery with which they were surrounded, and threw over the gloom and solitude of the forest that wild expression with which the genius of Salvator dignified the features of uncultivated nature. The town and palace of Fontainbleau is sit- uated in a small plain near the centre of the forest, and surrounded on all sides by the rocky ridges with which it is everywhere in- tersected. The palace is a large irregular building, composed of many squares, and fitted up in the inside with the utmost splen- dour of imperial magnificence. The apart- ments in which Napoleon dwell duiing his stay in the palace, after the capture of Paris by the allied troops ; and the desk at which he always wrote, and where his abdication was signed, are there shown. It is covered with white leather, scratched over in every direction, and marked with innumerable wip- ings of the pen, among which his own name, Napoleon, frequently written as in a hur- ried and irregular hand, was to be seen ; and one sentence which began, " Que Dieu, Napoleon, Napoleon." The servants in the palace agreed in stating, that the emperor's gaiety and fortitude of mind never deserted him during the ruin of his fortune ; that he was engaged in his writing-chamber during the greater part of the day, and walked for two hours on the terrace, in ckise conversa- tion with Marshal Ney. Several officers of the imperial guard repeated the speech which he made to his troops on leaving them after his abdication of the throne, which was precise- ly what appeared in the English newspapers. So great was the enthusiasm produced by this speech among the soldiers present, that it was received with shouts and cries of Vive I'Empereur, a Paris, a Paris! and when he departed under the custody of the allied cora« missioners, the whole army wept ; there was not a dry eye in the multitude who were as« sembled to witness his departure. Even the imperial guard, who had been trained in scenes of suffering from their first entry into the service — who had been inured for a long course of years to the daily sight of human miser>', and had constantly made a sport of all the afllictions which arc fitted to move the human 108 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. heart, shared in the general grief; they seemed to forget the degradation in which their com- mander was involved, the hardships to which they had been exposed, and the destruction which he had brought upon their brethren in arms ; they remembered him when he stood victorious on the field of Austerlitz, or passed in triumph through the gates of Moscow, and shed over the fall of their emperor those tears of genuine sorrow which they denied to the deepest scenes of private suffering, or the most aggravated instances of individual distress. The infantry of the old guard was frequently to be seen drawn up in line in the streets of Fontainbleau, and their appearance was such as fully answered the idea we had formed of that body of veteran soldiers, who had borne the French eagles through every capital of Europe. Their aspect was bold and martial ; there was a keenness in their eyes which be- spoke the characteristic intelligence of the French soldiers, and a ferocity in the expres- sion of their countenances which seemed to have been unsubdued even by the unparalleled disasters in which their country had been in- ^-^olved. The people of the town itself com- plained in the bitterest terms of their licen- tious conduct, and repeatedly said that they dreaded them more as friends than the Cos- sacks themselves as enemies. They seemed to harbour the most unbounded resentment against the people of this country ; their coun- tenances bore the expression of the strongest enmity against the English. Whatever the atrocity of their conduct ; however it might have been to the people of their own, as well as every other country, it was impossible not to feel the strongest emotion at the sight of the veteran soldiers whose exploits had so long rivetted the attention of all who felt an interest in the civilized world. These were the men who first raised the glory of the re- publican armies on the plains of Italy ; who survived the burning climate of Egypt, and chained victory to the imperial standards at Jena, at Friedland and Austerlitz — who fol- lowed the career of victory to the walls of the Kremlin, and marched undaunted through the ranks of death amid the snows of Russia ; — who witnessed the ruin of France under the walls of Leipsic, and struggled to save its falling fortune on the heights of Laon ; and who preserved, in the midst of national humi- liation, and when surrounded by the mighty foreign powers, that undaunted air and un- shaken firmness, which, even in the moment of defeat, commanded the respect of their an- tagonists in arms. There is no scenery round Paris so striking as the Forest of Fontainbleau, but the heights of Belleville exhibit nature in a more pleasing aspect, and are distinguished by features of a gentler character. Montmartre, and the ridge of Belleville, form those celebrated heights which command Paris on the northern side, and which were so obstinately contested be- tween the allies and the French, on the 30th March, 1814, previous to the capture of Paris by the allied sovereigns. Montmartre is covered for the most part with houses, and presents Eothing to attract the eye of the observer, ex- cept the extensive view which is to be met with at its summit. The heights of Belleville are varied with wood, with orchards, vine- yards, and gardens, interspersed with cottages and villas, and cultivated with the utmost care. There are few enclosures, but the whole extent of the ground is thickly studded with walnuts, fruit-trees, and forest timber, which, from a distance, give it the appearance of one continued wood. On a nearer approach, how- ever, you find it intersected in every direction by small paths, which wind among the vine- yards, or through the woods with which the hills are covered, and present, at every turn, those charming little scenes which form the peculiar characteristic of woodland scenery. The cottages, half hid by the profusion of fruit-trees, or embosomed in the luxuriant woods, with which they are everywhere sur- rounded, increase the interest which the scene- ry itself is fitted to produce ; they combine the delightful idea of the peasant's enjoyment with the beauty of the spot on which his dwelling is placed; and awaken, in the, midst of the boundless luxuriance of vegetable nature, those deeper feelings of moral delight, which spring from the contemplation of human happi- ness. The eflTect of the charming scenery on the heights of Belleville, is much increased by the distant objects which terminate some parts of the view. To the east, the high and gloomy towers of Vincennes rise over the beautiful woods M^ith which the sides of the hill are adorned ; and give an air of solemnity to the scene, arising from the remembrance of the tragic events of which it was the theatre. To the south, the domes and spires of Paris can occasionally be discovered through the open- ings of the wood with which the foreground is enriched, and present the capital at that pleasing distance, when the minuter parts of the buildings are concealed, when its promi- nent features alone are displa^^ed, and the whole is softened by the obscure light which distance throws over the objects of nature. To an English mind, the effect of the whole is infinitely increased, by the animating asso- ciations with which this scenery is connected ;■ — by the remembrance of the mighty struggle between freedom and slavery, which was here terminated ; — of the heroic deeds which were here performed, and the unequalled magnani- mity which was here displayed. It was here that the expiring efforts of military despotism were overthrown — that the armies of Russia stood triumphant over the power of France, and nobly aA'^enged the ashes of their own ca- pital, by sparing that of their prostrate enemy. At this time the traces of the recent strug- gle were visibly imprinted on the villages and woods with which the hill is covered. The marks of blood were still to be discerned on the chaussee which leads through the village of Pantin ; the elm trees which line the road were cut asunder or bored through with can- non shot, and their stems riddled in many parts, with the incessant fire of the grape shot. The houses in LaVillette, Belleville, and Pantin, were covered with the marks of musket shot ; the windows of many were shattered, or wholly THE LOUVRE L\ 1814. 109 destroyed, and the interior of the rooms broken by the balls which seemed to have pierced every part of the building. So thickly were the houses in some places covered with these ' marks, that it appeared almost incredible how any one could have escaped from so destruc- tive a fire. Even the beautiful gardens with which the slope of the heights are adorned, and the inmost recesses of*the wood of Ro- mainville, bore, throughout, the marks of the desperate struggles which they had lately wit- nessed, and exhibited the symptoms of frac- ture or destruction in the midst of the luxu- riance of natural beauty ; — yet, though they had so recently been the scene of mortal com- bat ; though the ashes of the dead lay yet in heaps on different parts of the field of battle, the prolific powers of nature were undecaj'^ed: the vines clustered round the broken fragments of the instruments of war, — the corn spread a sweeter green over the fields, which were yet wet with human blood, and the trees waved with renovated beauty over the uncoffined re- mains of the departed brave ; emblematic of the decay of man, and of the immortality of nature. The French have often been accused of sel- fishness, and the indifference which they often manifest to the fate of their relations affords too much reason to believe that the social af- fections have little permanent influence on their minds. They exhibit, however, in misfortunes of a different kind — in calamities which really press upon their own enjoyments of life — the same gayety of heart, and the same undisturbed equanimity of disposition. That gayety in misfortune, which is so painful to every ob- server, when it is to be found in the midst of family distress, becomes dehghtful when it exists under the deprivation of the selfish gra- tification to which the individual had been ac- customed. Both here, and in other parts of France, where the houses of the peasants had been wholly destroyed by the allied armies, there was much to admire in the equanimity of mind with which these poor people bore the loss of all their property. For an extent of thirty miles in one direction, towards the north of Champagne, every house near the great road had been burned or pillaged for the firewood which it contained, both by the French and allied armies, and the people were every where compelled to sleep in the open air. Tha men were everyr^'here rebuilding their fallen walls, with a cheerfulness which never would have existed in England under similar circum- stances ; and the little children laboured in the gardens during the day, and slept under the vines at night, without exhibiting an)' signs of distress for their disconsolate situation. In many places we saw groups of these little- children in the midst of the ruined houses, or under the shattered trees, playing with the musket shot, or trying to roll the cannon balls by which the destruction of their dwellings had been effected: — exhibiting a picture of youthful jo}' and native innocence, while sport- ing with the instruments of human destruc- tion, which the genius of Sir Joshua Reynolds would have moulded into the expression of pathetic feeling, or employed as the means of moral improvement. THE LOUVrvE IX 1814; To those who have had the good fortune to see the pictures and statues which are pre- served in the Louvre, all description of these works must appear superfluous ; and to those who have not had this good fortune, such an attempt could convey no adequate idea of the objects which are described. There is nothing more uninteresting than the catalogue of pic- tures which are to be fi)und in the works of many modern travellers ; nor any thing in general more ridiculous than the ravings of admira- tion with which this catalogue is described, and with which the reader in general is little disposed to sympathize. Without attempting, therefore, to enumerate the great works which are there to be met with, it is better to aim at nothing but the delineation of the s^eneral chu- Ttider by which the different schools of paint- ing are distinguished, and the great features in which they all differ fronr the sculpture of ancient times. ♦ Written ilurins a resilience at Paris in May and June, 1811, anil piililitJhed in "Trav.ls in France,"' in 1611-15. lo the first volume of which thf author coii- tributed a few chapters. For an attempt of this kind, the Louvre pre- sents singular advantages, from the unparal- leled collection of paintings of every school and description which are there to be met with, and the facility with which you can there trace the progress of the art from Us first beginning to the period of its greatest perfection. And it is in this view that the collection of these works into one museum, however much to be deplored as the work of unprincipled ambition, and however much it may have diminished the impression which particular objects, from the influence of asso- ciation, produced in their native place, is yet calculated to produce the greatest of all im- provements in the progress of the art; by divesting particular schools and particular works of the unbounded influence which the effect of early association, or the prejudices of national feeling, have given them in their ori- ginal situation, and placiiii: them whore their real nature is to be judged of by a more ex- tended circle, and subjected to the examination of more impartial sentiments. The first hall of the Louvre, in the oicturo K no ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. gallery, is filled with paintings of the French school. The principal artists whose works are here exhibited, are Le Brun, Caspar and Nicolas Poussin, Claude Lorrain, Vernet, and the modern painters Gerard and David. The general character of the school of French his- torical painting, is the expression of passmi mid violent emotion. The colouring is for the most part brilliant; the canvas crowded with figures, and the incident selected, that in which the painter might have the best opportunity of displaying his knowledge of the human frame, or the varied expression of the human counte- nance. In the pictures of the modern school of French painting, this peculiarity is pushed to an extravagant length, and, fortunately for the art, displaj's the false principles on which the system of their composition is founded. The moment seized is uniformlj' that of the strongest and most violent passion ; the principal actors in the piece are represented in a state of phren- zied exertion, and the whole anatomical know- ledge of the artist is displayed in the endless contortions into which the human frame is thrown. In David's celebrated picture of the three Horatii, this peculiarity appears in the most striking light. The works of this artist may excite admiration, but it is the limited and artificial admiration of the schools; of those who have forgot the end of the art in the acquisition of the technical knowledge with which it is accompanied, or the display of the technical powers which its execution in- volves. The paintings of Vernet, in this collection, are perhaps the finest specimens of that beau- tiful master, and they entitle him to a higher place in the estimation of mankind than he seems yet to have obtained from the generality of observers. There is a delicacy of colour- ing, a unity of design, and a harmony of ex- pression in his works, which accord well with the simplicity of the subjects which his taste has selected, and the general effect which it was his object to produce. In the representa- tion of the sun dispelling the mists of a cloudy morning; of his setting rays gilding the waves of a western sea ; or of that undefined beauty which moonlight throws over the objects of nature, the works of this artist are perhaps unrivalled. %The paintings of Claude are by no means equal to what might have been expected, from the celebrity which his name has acquired, or the matchless beauty which the engravings from him possess. They are but eleven in number, and cannot be, in any degree, com- pared with those which are to be found in Mr. Angerstein's collection. To those, however, who have been accustomed to study the de- signs of this great master, through the me- dium of the engraved copies, and above all, in the unrivalled works of Woollet, the sight of the original pictures must, perhaps at all times, create a feeling of disappointment. There is a unity of eifect in the engravings which can never be met with amidst the dis- traction of colouring in the original pictures ; and the imagination clothes the beautiful shades of the copy with finer tints than even the pencil of Claude has been able to supply. "I have shown you," said Corinne to Oswald, " St. Peter's for the first time, when the bril- liancy of its decorations might appear in full splendour, in the rays of the sun : I reserve for you a finer, and a more profound enjoy- ment, to behold it by the light of the moon." Perhaps there is a distinction of the same kind between the gaudy brilliancy of varied colours, and the'chaster simplicity of uniform shadows ; and it is probably for this reason, that on the first view of a picture which you have long admired in the simplicity of en- graved effect, you involuntarily recede from the view, and seek in the obscure light, and uncertain tint, which distance produces, to recover that uniform tone and general charac- ter, which the splendour of colouring is so apt to destroy. It is a feeling similar to that which Lord Byron has so finely described, as arising from the beauty of moonlight scenery: — "Mellow'd to that tender light Which Heaven to gaudy day denies." The Dutch and Flemish school, to which you next advance, possesses merit, and is dis- tinguished by a character of a very difierent description. It was the well-known object of this school, to present an exact and faithful i»ntalio7i of nature : to exaggerate none of its faults, and enhance none of its excellencies, but exhibit it as it really appears to the eye of an ordinary spectator. Its artists selected, in general, some scene of humour or amusement, in the discovery of which, the most ignorant spectators might discover other sources of pleasure from those which the merit of the art itself afforded. They did not pretend to aim at the exhibition of passion or powerful emo- tion: their paintings, therefore, are free from that painful display of theatrical effect, which characterizes the French school ; their object was not to represent those deep scenes of sor- row or suffering, which accord with the pro- found feelings which it was the object of the Italian school to awaken; they want, therefore, the dignity and grandeur which the works of the greater Italian painters possess. Their merit consists in the faithful delineation of those ordinary scenes and common occur- rences which are familiar to the ej^e of the most careless observer. The power of the painter, therefore, could be displayed only in the mi- nuteness of the finishing, or the brilliancy of the effect: and he endeavoured, by the power- ful contrast of light and shade, to give a higher character to his works than the nature of their subjects could otherwise admit. The pictures of Teniers, Ostade, and Gerard Dow, possess these merits, and are distinguished by this character in the highest degree ; but their qualities are so well known in this country, as to render any observations on them super- fluous. There is a very great collection here preserved, of the works of Rembrandt, and their design and effect bear, in general, a higher character than belongs to most of the works of this celebrated master. In one respect, the collection in the Louvre is altogether unrivalled; in the number and beauty of the Wouvermans which are there to be met with ; nor is it possible, without hav- ing seen it, to appreciate, with any degree of THE LOUVKE xN 1814. Ill justice, the variety of design, the accuracy of drawing, or delicacy of finishing, which dis- tinguish his works from those of any other painter of a similar description. There are forty of his pieces there assembled, all in the finest state of preservation, and all displaying the same unrivalled beauty of colouring and execution. In their design, however, they widely differ; and they exhibit, in the most striking manner, the real object to which painting should be applied, and the causes of the errors in which its composition has been involved. His works, for the most part, are crowded with figures; his subjects are in general battle-pieces, or spectacles of military pomp, or the animated scenes which the chase presents; and he seems to have ex- hausted all the ellbrts of his genius, in the variety of incident and richness of execution, which these subjects are fitted to afford. From the confused and indeterminate expression however, which the multitude of their objects exhibit, the spectator turns with delight to those simpler scenes in which his mind seems to have reposed, after the fatigues which it had undergone ; to the representation of a single incident, or the delineation of a certain occurrence — to the rest of the traveller after the fatigues of the day — to the repose of the horse in the intermission of labour — to the re- turn of the soldier, after the dangers of the campaign ; — scenes in which every thing com- bines for the uniform character, and where the genius of the artist has been able to give to the rudest occupations of men, and even to the objects of animal life, the expression of genuine poetical feeling. The pictures of Vandyke and Rubens helong to a much higher school than that which rose out of the wealth and the limited taste of the Dutch people. There are sixty pictures of the latter of these masters in the Louvre, and, combined with the celebrated gallery in the Luxembourg palace, they form the finest as- semblage of them which is to be met with in the world. The character of his works differs essentially from that both of the French and the Dutch schools : he was employed, not in painting cabinet pictures for wealthy mer- chants, but in designing great altar pieces for splendid churches, or commemorating the glory of sovereigns in imperial galleries. The greatness of his genius rendered him fit to attempt the representation of the most com- plicated and difficult objects ; but in the confi- dence of this genius, he seems to have lost sight of the genuine object of composition in his art. He attempts what it is impossible for painting to accomplish. He aims at telling a whole story by the expression of a single pic- ture; and seems to pour forth the profusion of his fancy, by crowding his canvas with a multiplicity of figures, which serve no other purpose than that of siiowing the endless power of creation which the author possessed. In each figure, there is great vigour of concep- tion, and admirable power of execution ; but the whole possesses no general character, and produces no permanent emotion. There is a mixture of allegory and truth in many of his greatest works, which is always painful ; a grossness in his conception of the female form, which destroys the symmetry of female beauty; and a wildness of imagination in his general design, which violates the feelings of ordinary taste. You survey his pictures with astonish- ment — and the power of thought and the bril- liancy of colouring which they display; but they produce no lasting impression on the mind ; they have struck no chord of feeling or emotion, and you leave them with no other feeling, than that of regret, that the confusion of objects destroys the effect which each in itself might be fitted to produce. And if one has made a deeper impression ; if you dweU on it with that delight which it should ever be the object of painting to produce, you find that your pleasure proceeds from a single figure, or the expression of a detached part of the picture; and that in the contemplation of it you have, without being conscious of it, detached your mind from the observation of all that might interfere with its characteristic expression, and thus preserved that unity of emotion which is essential to the existence of the emotion of taste, but which the confusion of incident is so apt to destroy. It is in the Italian school, however, that the collection in the Louvre is most unrivalled, and it is from its character that the general tendency of the modern school of historical painting is principally to be determined. The general object of the Italian school ap- pears to be the expression of pa!:sion. The peculiar subjects which its painters were called on to represent, the sufferings and death of our Saviour, the varied misfortunes to which his disciples were exposed, or the mul- tiplied persecutions which the earlj^ fathers of the church had to sustain, inevitably pre- scribed the object to which their genius was to be directed, and the peculiar character which their works were to assume. They have all, accordingly, aimed at the expression of passion, and endeavoured to excite the pity, or awaken the sympathy of the spectator; though the particular species of passion which they have severally selected has varied with the turn of mind which the artist possessed. The works of Dominichino and of the Ca- raccis, of which there are a very great num- ber, incline, in general, to the representation of what is dark or gloomy in character, or what is terrific and appalling in suffering. The subjects which the first of these masters has in general selected, are the cells of monks, the energy of martyrs, the death of saints, or the sufferings of the crucifixion ; and the dark- blue coldness of his colouring, combined with the depth of his shadows, accord well with the gloomy character which his compositions pos- sess. The Caraccis, amidst the variety of ob- jects which their genius has embraced, have dwelt, in general, upon the expression of sor- row^-of that deep and profound sorrow which the subjects of sacred history were so fitted to afford, and which was so well adajuod to that religious emotion which it was their object to excite. Guido Reni, Carlo Alaratti, and Murillo, are distinguished by a gentler character; by the expression of tenderness and sweetness of dis 112 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. position : and the subjects M-hich they have chosen are, for the most part, those which vere fitted for the display of this predominant expression ; — the Holy Family, the flight into Egypt, the )'outh of St. John, the penitence of the Magdalene. While, in common M'ith all their brethren, they have aimed at the expres- sion of emotion, it was an emotion of a softer kind than that which arose from the energy of passion, or the violence of suffering; it was the emotion produced by more permanent feelings, and less turbulent affections; and from the character of this emotion, their exe- cution has assumed a peculiar cast, and their composition been governed by a peculiar principle. Their colouring is seldom brilliant ; there is a subdued tone pervading the greater part of their pictures; and they have limited themselves, in general, to the delineation of a single figure, or a small group, in which a single character of mind is prevalent. There are only six paintings by Salvator Rosa in this collection, but they bear that wild and original character which is proverbially known to belong to the works of this great artist. One of his pieces is particularly striking, a skirmish of horse, accompanied by all the scenery in \vhich he so peculiarly de- lighted. In the foreground is the ruins of an old temple, with its lofty pillars finely displayed in shadow above the summits of the horizon ; — in the middle distance the battle is dimly discerned through the driving rain, which ob- scures the view; while the back ground is closed by a vast ridge of gloomy rocks, rising into a darlf and tempestuous sky. The cha- racter of the whole is that of sullen magnifi- cence; and it affords a striking instance of the power of great genius, to mould the most varied objects in nature into the expression of one uniform poetical feeling. Very different is the expression which be- longs to the softer pictures of Correggio — of that great master, whose name is associated in every one's mind with all that is gentle or delicate in the imitation of nature. Perhaps it was from the force of this impression that his works seldom completely come up to the expectations which are formed of them. They are but eight in number, and do not compre- hend the finest of his compositions. Their general character is that of tenderness and delicacy: there is a softness in his shading of the human form which is quite unrivalled, and a harmony in the general tone of his colour- ing, which is in perfect unison with the cha- racteristic expression which it was his object to produce. There is a want of unity, how- ever, in the composition of his figures, which does not accord with this harmony of execu- tion ; you dwell rather on the fine expression of individual form, than the combined tendency of the whole group, and leave the picture with the impression of the beauty of a single coun- tenance, rather than the general character of the whole design. He has represented nature m its most engaging aspect, and given to in- dividual figures all the charms of ideal beauty ; but he wants that high strain of spiritual feel- mg, which belongs only to the works of Ra- phael, There is but one picture by Carlo Dolci in the Louvre ; but it alone is sufficient to mark the exquisite genius which its author pos- sessed. It is of small dimensions, and repre- sents the Holy Family, with the Saviour asleep. The finest character of design is here com- bined with the utmost delicacy of execution ; the softness of the shadows exceeds that of Correggio himself; and the dark-blue colour- ing which prevails over the whole, is in perfect unison with the expression of that rest and qTiiet which the subject requires. The sleep of the Infant is perfection itself — it is the deep sleep of youth and of innocence, which no care has disturbed, and no sorrow embittered — and in the unbroken repose of which the features have relaxed into the expression of perfect happiness. All the features of the picture are in unison with this expression, except in the tender anxiety of the virgin's eye ; and all is at rest in the surrounding ob- jects, save where her hand gently removes the veil to contemplate the unrivalled beauty of the Saviour's countenance. Without the softness of shading or the har- mony of colour which Correggio possessed, the works of Raphael possess a higher cha- racter, and aim at the expression of a sublimer feeling than those of an)'' other artist Avhom modern Europe has produced. Like all his brethren, he has often been misled from the real object of his art, and tried, in the energy of passion, or the confused expression of varied figures, to multiply the effect which his composition might produce. Like all the rest, he has failed in effecting what the constitution of the human mind renders impossible, and in this very failure, warned every succeeding age of the vanity of the attempt which his tran- scendent genius was unable to eflfect. It is this fundamental error that destroys the effect, even of his finest pieces; it is this, combined with the unapproachable nature of the presence which it reveals, that has rendered the transfi- guration itself a chaos of genius rather than a model of ideal beauty ; nor will it be deemed a presumptuous excess, if such sentiments are expressed in regard to this great author, since it is from his own works alone that we have derived the means of appreciating his imper- fections. It is in his smaller pieces that the genuine character of Raphael's paintings is to be seen — in the figure of St. Michael subduing the demon ; in the beautiful tenderness of the Virgin and Child; in the unbroken harmony of the Holy Family ; in the Avilduess and piety of the infant St. John; — scenes, in which all the objects of the picture combine for the preservation of one uniform character, and where the native fineness of his mind appears undisturbed by the display of temporary pas- sion, or the painful distraction of varied suf- fering. There are no pictures of the English school in the Louvre, for the arms of France never prevailed in our island. From the splendid character, however, which it early assumed under the distinguished guidance of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and from the high and philosophical principles which he at first laid down for the THE LOUVRE IN 1814. 113 government of the art, there is every reason to believe that it ultimately will rival the cele- brity of foreign genius : And it is in this view that the continuance of the gallery of the Louvre, in its present situation, is principally to be wished by the English nation — that the English artists may possess so near their own country so great a school for composition and design ; that the imperfections of foreign schools may enlighten the views of English genius; and that the conquests of the French arms, by transferring the remains of ancient taste to these northern shores, may throw over its rising art that splendour which has hitherto been confined to the regions of the sun. The great object, therefore, of all the modern schools of historical painting, seems to have been the delineation of an affcctins; scene or iiv- teresting occurrence ; they have endeavoured to tell a story by the variety of incidents in a single picture; and seized, for the most part, the moment when passion was at its greatest height, or suffering appeared in its most ex- cruciating form. The general character, ac- cordingly, of the school, is the expression of passion or violent suffering; and in the pro- secution of this object, they have endeavoured to exhibit it under all its aspects, and display all the effects which it could possibly produce on the human form, by the different figures which they have introduced. While this is the general character of the whole, there are of course numerous exceptions; and many of its greatest painters seem, in the representa- tion of single figures, or in the composition of smaller groups, to have had in view the ex- pression of less turbulent affections; to have aimed at the display of settled emotion or per- manent feeling, and to have excluded every thing from their composition which was not in unison with this predominant expression. The Sculptia-e Gallery, which contains above two hundred remains of ancient statuary, marks in the most decided manner the different ob- jects to which this noble art was applied in ancient times. Unlike the paintings of modern Europe, their figures are almost uniformly at rest; they exclude passion or violent suffering from their design ; and the moment which they select is not that in which a particular or tran- sient emotion may be displayed, but in which the settled character of mind may be expressed. With the two exceptions of the Laocoon and the fighting Gladiator, there are none of the statues in the Louvre which are not the repre- sentation of the human figure in a state of repose ; and the expression which the finest possess, is invariably that permanent expres- sion which has resulted from the habitual frame and character of mind. Their figures seem to belong to a higher class of beings than that in which we are placed; they indicate a state, in which passion, anxiety, and emotion are no more; and where the unruffled repose of mind has moulded the features into the per- fect expression of the mental character. Even the countenance of the Venus de Medicis, the most beautiful which it has ever entered into the mind of man to conceive, and of which no cnpy gives the slightest idea, bears no trace of emotion, and none of the marks of human 15 feeling; it is the settled expression of celestial beauty, and even the smile on her lip is not the fleeting smile of temporary joy, but the lasting expression of that heavenly feeling which sees in all around it the grace and love- liness which belongs to itself alone. It ap- proaches nearer to that character which some- times marks the countenance of female beauty when death has stilled the passions of the world ; but it is not the cold expression of past character which survives the period of mortal dissolution ; it is the living expression of pre- sent existence, radiant with the beams of im- mortal life, and breathing the air of eternal happiness. The paintings of Raphael convey the most perfect idea of earthly beauty; and they de- note the expression of all that is finest and most elevated in the character of the female mind. But there is a " human meaning in their eye," and they bear the marks of that anxiety and tenderness which belong to the relations of present existence. The Venus displays the same beauty, freed from the cares which existence has produced ; and her lifeless eye-balls gaze upon the multitude which sur- round her, as on a scene fraught only with the expression of universal joy. In another view, the Apollo and the Venus appear to have been intended by the genius of antiquity, as expressive of the character of mind which distinguishes the different sexes; and in the expression of this character, they have exhausted all which it is possible f)r human imagination to produce upon the sub- ject. The commanding air, and advanced step of the Apollo, exhibit man in his noblest aspect, as triumphing over the evils of physical na- ture, and restraining the energy of his disp^i- sition, in the consciousness of resistless power : the averted eye, and retiring grace of the Ve- nus, are expressive of the modesty, gentleness and submission, which form the most beauti- ful features of the female character. Not equal, as their sex not equal scomort. For valour He, and conteniphition, formed, For beauty She, and sweet aitnctivo grace, He for God only, She for God in Him. These words were said of our first parents by our greatest poet, after the inllucnce of a pure religion had developed the real nature of the female character, and determined the place which woman was to hold in the scale of na- ture ; but the idea had been expressed in a still finer manner two thousand years before, by the sculptors of antiquity; and amidst all the degradation of ancient manners, the pro- phetic genius of Grecian tasle contemplated that ideal perfection in the character of the sexes, which was destined to form the boun- dary of human progress in the remotest ages of human improvement. The Apollo strikes a stranger with all its grandeur on the first aspect; subsequent exa- mination can add nothing to the force of the impression which is then received. The Ve- nus produces at first less effect, but gains upon the mind at every renewal, till it rivets the affections even more than llie greatness of its unequalled rival. The Dying Gladiator is perhaps, after the 114 ALISON'S MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS. iwo which have been mentioned, the finest stro^'. Tlie poor Russian soldier, whose know- statue which the Louvre contains. The mo- ledge of art was limited to the crucifix which ment chosen is finely adapted for the expres- he had borne in his bosom from his native sion of ideal beauty, from a subject connected j land, still felt the power of ancient beauty, and with painful ideas. It is not the moment of i in the spirit of the Athenians, who erected