BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CCCCXXXIV.     DECEMBER, 1851.     Vol. LXX.

CONTENTS.

——————

EDINBURGH:
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, 45 GEORGE STREET;
AND 37 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.

To whom all communications (post paid) must be addressed.

SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.

———

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.

BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CCCCXXXIV.     DECEMBER, 1851.     Vol. LXX.

TO THE SHOPKEEPERS OF GREAT BRITAIN.

Gentlemen,—As it is customary
for most men about this season of the
year, when accounts are balanced and
squared, to take a serious survey of
the posture of their affairs, and to
examine into their business prospects,
perhaps you may not consider a few
observations, touching the welfare
and position of that important class
of the community to which you belong,
either impertinent or ill-timed.
You are aware that, for the last year
or two, Her Majesty’s Ministers have
been in the habit of opening Parliament
with a congratulatory assurance
of the continued, and even augmented,
prosperity of the country. The
reason why such statements were
made, altogether irrespective of their
truth or falsehood, is obvious enough.
In a political point of view, they
were necessary for the vindication of
the measures which Government
either originated or adopted. To have
admitted that the country was not
prospering under the new commercial
system, would have been considered
by the public as tantamount to an
acknowledgment that the policy which
dictated those measures was vicious;
and that the Whig ministry, if not
deficient in duty, had at least erred
sorely in judgment. In private life,
we rarely meet with that degree of
candour which amounts to an unequivocal
admission of error in point of
judgment—in public life, such an
admission is altogether unknown.
Failure may indeed be acknowledged
when the fact becomes too evident to
admit of further denial; but the
causes of that failure are never
attributed to their real source. Not
only the purity of the motive, but the
wisdom of the conception, is vindicated
to the last. In this case, however,
failure is totally denied. So far
from being put upon their defence,
the Whigs maintain that they have
achieved a triumph. Their averment
is, that, with the exception of the
agricultural producers, among whom
they allow that a certain degree of
distress prevails, all other classes of
the community are prosperous. Even
for the agriculturists there is balm in
store. The prosperity of the other
classes is to react upon them; so
that, within some indefinite period of
time, we shall all find ourselves in
circumstances of ease and comfort
which have hitherto been unknown in
our land.

With you the benefit is represented,
not as prospective, but as present.
The agriculturist may have to wait a
little longer, but you are already provided
for. Your cake is baked; and
we are assured that you are eating it
in thankfulness and joy. If this is
really the case, there is no more to be
said on the subject. If the harvest
of Free Trade has actually yielded
you such a large measure of profit, it
would be madness in anyone to decry
that line of policy in your hearing.[630]
You constitute the class which, from
its peculiar position and vocation, is
better qualified than any other to
judge accurately, and from experience,
of the degree of prosperity which is
actually known in the country. The
verdict of twelve shopkeepers, given
after an inspection of their books for
an average of years, ought to be of
more weight, in settling the merits of
any disputed commercial question,
than the random assurances of a
dozen cabinet ministers whose reputation
and official existence are bound
up in the vindication of their own
policy. The reason of this is perfectly
obvious. Your profit is simply
a commission upon your sales. You
do not produce or manufacture
articles of consumption—you simply
retail them. Your profit depends
upon the briskness of trade, that is,
the amount of demand. It rises or
falls according to the general circumstances
of your customers. In good
times you make large profits; in bad
times those profits decrease. One
while your stock sells off rapidly; at
another, it remains upon your hands.
Your interest is inseparable from that
of the great body of consumers by
whom you live. You have little or
nothing to do with the foreign trade;
for, whatever be the nature, of the
articles in which you deal, you sell
them in the home market. You have,
therefore, the best opportunity of
estimating the real condition of your
customers. The state of your own
books, and the comparative degree of
ease or difficulty which you experience
in the collection of your accounts,
furnish you with a sure index of the
purchasing power of the community.
Compared with this criterion, which
is common to every man among you,
tables of exports and imports, statements
of bank bullion, and such like
artificial implements as have been
invented by the political impostors
and economists, are absolutely worthless.
When our sapient Chancellor
of the Exchequer, or Mr Labouchere,
tell you, with an air of unbounded
triumph, that the exportation of
calicoes to China or Peru has mightily
increased—and therefore argue,
without condescending to inquire
whether such exportation has been
attended with any profit at all to the
manufacturers, that the prosperity of
the country is advancing at a railway
pace—you may indeed be gratified by
the statistical information, but you
will fail to discover in what way the
public are benefited thereby. It is
pleasant to know that there are fifteen
millions of gold in the vaults of
the Bank of England, and that, so
long as this hoard remains undiminished,
there is little chance of a commercial
crisis, or a violent contraction
of credit. But we take it you would
be infinitely better pleased to know
that sovereigns were circulating freely
from hand to hand amongst the people,
and that your customers had their
pockets so well filled as to enable
them to purchase largely, and to pay
their accounts when due. To you
any depression whatever is a serious
matter—a depression which assumes
a permanent appearance cannot be
much short of ruin. Therefore you
ought most especially to take care
that no false representation is made
regarding your circumstances, which
may be the means of perpetuating
a system that has already proved
detrimental to a large body of your
customers.

Were we to take for granted the
ministerial statement of prosperity—which
no doubt will be repeated next
February—your Whig minister being
an incorrigible cuckoo—this paper
would certainly not have been written.
But, having had occasion early
to doubt the truthfulness of this
vernal note, and having taken some
pains to examine the statements
which from time to time are issued
by the great houses engaged in commercial
and manufacturing industry,
as also the accounts of the present
condition of the poor, which have excited
so much public interest, we
have really been unable to discover
any one influential class, beyond the
money-lenders and creditors, or any
one large and important branch of
industry, which can, with truth, be
described as prospering, or will confess
to the existence of such prosperity.
Shipmasters, manufacturers,
merchants, iron-masters, and agriculturists,
all tell the same tale. This
is very strange. You may possibly
remember that Mr M’Gregor, once
Secretary to the Board of Trade, and[631]
now member for Glasgow, the great
commercial city of Scotland, estimated
the additional amount of wealth which
was to accrue to Great Britain, in
consequence of the repeal of the Corn
Laws, at two millions sterling per
week! Upon what data that profound
gentleman, who thus enunciated
the prophecy and assumed the
mask of Midas, proceeded in his calculation,
we know not, and perhaps
it would be superfluous to inquire. It
certainly was a good round sum; for,
by this time, without insisting upon
compound, or even simple interest, it
should have amounted to rather more
than one-half of the national debt;
but unfortunately nobody will own to
having fingered a farthing of the
money. In recalling to your memory
this little circumstance, it is by no
means our intention to offer any disrespect
to the intellectual powers of
M’Gregor, for whom, indeed, we entertain
a high degree of veneration,
similar to that which is manifested
by the Mussulman when he finds
himself in the company of a howling
derveesh. We merely wish to reproduce
to you one phantom of the
golden dream, which, five or six
years ago, when the fever of gain was
epidemical, possessed the slumbers of
so many; and having done so, to ask
you, now that the fever is gone,
whether it was not indeed a phantom?
We are wiser now—at all events, we
have had more experience—and the
producing classes tell us very distinctly,
and quite unanimously, that
they have derived no benefit whatever
from the commercial changes
which have taken place. Capital,
whether invested in ships, factories,
mines, or land, is less profitable, and
therefore less valuable, than it was
before; and in some instances, where
the depression has been most heavy,
it has been almost annihilated.

These are not our statements, but
the statements of the several interests,
as put forward by their own
representatives. They are statements
which emanate alike from the
Free-Trader and the Protectionist.
Men may differ as to the cause, but
they all agree as to the grand fact of
the depression. So that, when we
hear ministers congratulating themselves
and the country upon its general
prosperity, and, pari passu with
this congratulation, find the accredited
organs of each of the great branches
of productive industry vehemently
asserting that they are exceptions
from the general rule, an anxious
believer in the probity of all parties
has his faith somewhat rudely shaken.

We believe that, collectively, you
are the best judges as to this disputed
matter. As the real wealth of
the country depends upon the amount
and value of its yearly produce—as
from that annual creation, when measured
by the monetary standard, and
circulated through a thousand channels,
all our incomes are derived—you,
who supply the whole population
with the necessaries and luxuries of
life, (fabricated by others, but passing
through your hands,) must necessarily
have the best means of
knowing whether the circumstances
of that population have, on the aggregate,
been bettered or made worse.
When Napoleon in the bitterness of
his heart declared that we were a
nation of shopkeepers, he uttered no
terms of reproach, though he intended
to convey a taunt. Your position
in the community is such that you
cannot flourish independent of its
general prosperity. The exporting
manufacturer, and even the foreign
merchant, may multiply their gains,
and realise fortunes, whilst other
classes, whose wellbeing is far more
important to the stability of the
empire, are hastening to decay. Such
phenomena are common in old states,
when the process of dissolution has
begun. The parasite lives and thrives,
while the tree round which it has
wound its tendrils is crumbling into
rottenness. But such is not your
case. Your interests are identical
with those of the productive classes,
for without them you could not exist.
Ill-remunerated labour—unproductive
capital—lessened means—deteriorated
property—are things which
affect you as deeply as though you
were the direct sufferers or losers.
Upon the wealth of your customers
depends your own. And therefore,
in such an important crisis as the
present, when the existing commercial
system of the country is vigorously
assailed by one party, and as
obstinately defended by another—when[632]
facts and statements apparently
of much weight are adduced on either
side, to serve as arguments for the
overthrow or the maintenance of that
system—when some cite statistical
tables to prove that the country
must be prosperous, and others adduce
real evidence to show that the
reverse is the case—you cannot afford
to sit idly by, without throwing the
weight of your testimony and experience
into one or other of the scales.
You have had admirable opportunities
of noticing the working of the
Free-Trade system. It matters not
what were the original prepossessions
of any of you, or what might have
been your opinion with regard to the
merits of this or that scheme, while it
was still in embryo and untried. A
more complex question than that of
Free Trade, as affecting the importation
of corn, probably never was presented
to the public consideration.
Many excellent, judicious, and thoroughly
patriotic men, relying upon
the truth of statements which were
regarded by others as mere plausible
theories, were willing to submit to
the experiment. And when, by the
grossest act of political perfidy that
was ever perpetrated—an act which
future times, if not the present, will
stigmatise with deserved opprobrium—the
last and most important change,
save that which subsequently assailed
our maritime interest, was suddenly
effected, it was the declared opinion
of the majority that the new system
must at least have a trial, until its
real results were developed, and until
it became apparent to the nation
whether or not Free Trade would
operate for the advantage of the
people, as its advocates and promoters
had predicted.

Here we must, for a moment or
two, however unwillingly, digress.
The later measures of Free Trade
have assailed interests so important
and so strong, that its former and
earlier advances, stealthily and cautiously
made, have almost faded from
the public view. Free Trade, as a
political system, did not alone strike
at the agricultural or the shipping
interest. Since the days of Mr Huskisson,
who brought with him into
active life the principles which he
had imbibed in youth from his associates
in French Jacobinism, the
principles of Free Trade have been
gradually but cautiously applied to
various branches of British industry.
The slow and insidious nature of the
movement on the part of the statesmen,
who, even then, were yielding
to the influence of the modern economical
school, showed their distrust
of the system, which, if true, ought
at once to have been openly promulgated.
Like the late Sir Robert Peel,
Huskisson was destitute of that manly
courage which scorns concealment or
deceit, and walks steadfastly to its
goal. Cunning was an ingredient of
his nature: whatever he did was
accomplished by tortuous methods,
and vindicated upon false pretences.
The tendency of that policy which
he commenced was to maintain by
all means, at all hazards, and at the
sacrifice, if needful, of every other
interest, the manufacturing supremacy,
of England in the foreign
market—an object for which we still
are striving, though at the imminent
risk of the dismemberment of the
British empire. It is due, however, to
the memory of Mr Huskisson, to remark,
that, although the originator of
this policy, he does not seem to have
contemplated the extent to which it
would be carried out by his successors.
His opinions upon the subject
of protection to agriculture were
clear and decided: “There is no
effectual security, either in peace
or war, against the frequent return
of scarcity, but in making ourselves
independent of foreign supply. Let
the bread we eat be the produce of
corn grown among ourselves; and, for
one, I care not how cheap it is—the
cheaper the better. It is cheap now,
and I rejoice at it, because it is altogether
owing to a sufficiency of corn
of our own growth; but, to insure a
continuance of that cheapness, and that
sufficiency, we must insure to our own
growers protection against foreign importation,
which has produced those
blessings, and by which alone they can
be permanently maintained.” The
time, however, was fast approaching
when the reins of government were to
fall into the hands of a scion of the
manufacturing body, in whose eyes
the momentary supremacy of party was
of more importance than any principle[633]
of national policy. There is no
more curious page in history than
that which records the rise of British
manufactures towards the close of
last century. Invention after invention,
whereby manual labour was
superseded by machinery, and the
power of production almost indefinitely
multiplied, paved the way for
that monopoly which our manufacturers
enjoyed for at least a quarter
of a century, during which time every
other country in Europe except our
own was devastated by war, and the
peaceful arts forgotten or overthrown.
It was during that period that the
gigantic fortunes of the Arkwrights
and the Peels were made, and that
influence secured to the manufacturing
body in the British House of
Commons which it never possessed
before. But with the return of peace
the monopoly disappeared. By invention
in mechanical appliances,
Britain had the start of other
nations in the creation of manufactures;
by war, she was enabled
long to enjoy the undivided benefits.
But inventions are not the property
of a single nation; they pass from
one to another with the rapidity
of lightning; they are available
by the foreign, even more
easily than by the domestic, rival.
Hence it very soon became apparent
that other states were preparing to
compete with us in those branches
of industry which had proved so
exceedingly profitable. France, Belgium,
Germany, Russia, Switzerland,
and America, all entered keenly into
the contest; and then commenced
that decline of prices which has
continued, almost without intermission,
to the present hour. Reciprocity
treaties were tried, but were in
fact of little avail; for the great bulk
of the English exports consisted of
those very textile fabrics which it
was the object of each country to
produce for its own consumption,
if not to export to others. During
the war, both the expenses of government
and the interest of the
National Debt had doubled in amount,
and the monetary changes effected
in 1819 added at least one-third to
the weight of that augmented burden.
In order to make this taxation
bearable, the industry of the people
was protected in their own market
by a scale of customs duties, which
prevented the influx of foreign produce
at rates which must have
annihilated the British workman.
Protection is a clear necessity which
arises out of taxation. If the
tobacco, tea, coffee, sugar, beer, soap,
and other articles of the labourer’s
consumption, are taxed in order to
maintain an expensive establishment,
and to defray the interest
of an enormous debt, he must have
a compensation of some kind. The
only kind of compensation which
can be granted, and which the wit
of man can devise, is to be found
in an equitable scale of duties, by
means of which all produce imported
into Britain shall be taxed as heavily
as though it had been reared, grown,
or made up on British ground by
British labourers. Unless this be
done, there is no fair competition.
The less burdened foreigner must
ultimately carry the day against
the heavily-taxed Englishman. And
when we consider that all taxes must
be paid out of produce, there being
no other source whatever from which
they can be drawn, the importance
of maintaining the market value of
our produce at a point equal to the
pressure of our taxation will at once
become apparent.

There are, however, plausible,
though in reality most fallacious
grounds, upon which the Protective
System may be assailed. In this,
as in every other country, the first
and most important branch of industry
is that which provides food
for the population. To that all
others are subordinate. It is impossible
to estimate the amount of
capital which has been laid out
upon the soil of Britain, first in
reclaiming it from a state of nature,
and, since then, in maturing and
increasing its fruitfulness. But some
idea may be formed of its magnitude
from the fact that, in 1846,
the annual agricultural produce of
the United Kingdom was valued,
according to the prices then current,
at £250,000,000. Whatever imperial
taxation is imposed on other
classes of the community is shared
equally by the agriculturists; and
they are, moreover, exposed to[634]
heavy local rates, from which the
others are comparatively free. It is
a received maxim in political economy—we
ought rather to say a
rule of common sense—that all taxes
and charges paid by the producer,
over and above his necessary profit,
fail ultimately to be defrayed by
the consumer—that is, that such
taxes and charges form a component
part of the selling price of the article.
There is no specialty whatever in
the case of corn or provisions to
exempt them from the general rule.
But all restrictions which tend to
enhance the price of the first necessaries
of life are obnoxious to that
section of the people who, from
ignorance or incapacity, cannot understand
why bread should be dear
in one country and cheap in another.
They, too, are subjected to their
share of indirect taxation, and the
knowledge that they are so taxed
in the consumption of articles which
constitute their only luxuries, renders
them doubly impatient of a system
which, on the authority of wicked
and designing demagogues, they are
led to believe was invented by the
landlords solely for their own benefit.
Thus heavy taxation, however engendered,
must always be fraught
with great peril to the permanency
of a state. The burden of such
taxation falls most heavily upon
the land, and yet the agriculturist
is expected to provide food for the
people as cheaply as though he were
altogether exempt from the burden.

The reason why the exporting
manufacturers, and those politicians
who entered thoroughly into their
views, were so bent upon the destruction
of the Corn Laws, was twofold.
In the first place, the competition
in foreign markets threatened to
become so strong, owing to the rapid
development of textile industry on
the Continent, that it was necessary
to lower prices. England had given
machinery and models to the Continent,
and the Continent was now
fighting her with her own weapons,
and at a cheaper cost, as labour
abroad is less expensive than it is
here. In order to bring down the value
of labour in England, for the purpose
of protracting this grand manufacturing
contest, it was necessary to
lower, in some way or other, the
price of food in England, and this
could only be accomplished by free
admission of foreign supplies. In
short, their object was to bring down
wages. On this point we have the
testimony of Mr Muntz, M.P. for
Birmingham, as early as February
1842. He wrote as follows:—”Say
what you will, the object of the
measure is to reduce wages, and
the intention is to reduce them to
the Continental level. I repeat it,
the Corn Laws very materially support
labour in this country….
Why, the professed object of the
repeal is to enable the English merchant
to compete with the foreigner,
and how can he do that unless by a
reduction of wages, which reduction
will be upon all trade, home and
foreign?” Mr John Bright was not
less clear as to the necessity of
such reduction of wages in order to
maintain our exports: “If the tariff
in Russia imposed a heavy duty on
English yarn, and if English yarn
went there and had to be sold at
the same rate as the yarn of the
Russian spinner, he (that is, the
Russian spinner) not paying the
heavy duty, it followed that we
must, by some means or other, make
our goods cheaper by the amount
of duty which we paid, and to do
that it was absolutely necessary that
the wages of the operatives in this
country should be reduced.” And Mr
Greg of Manchester, a leading member
of the Anti-Corn Law League,
wrote as follows:—”In the only
remaining item of the cost of production—that
is, the wages of labour—foreign
nations have a decided advantage;
and although a free trade in
provisions, by lowering them here,
and raising them abroad, might regulate
the difference, I doubt if it ever
could be entirely removed. Better
education, more sober habits, more
frugality, and general forethought,
together with cheaper food, will no
doubt enable our people to live in
much greater comfort than at present
UPON CONSIDERABLY SMALLER
EARNINGS.” These extracts sufficiently
disclose the designs of the
Free-Traders against the wages of
the workman. In the second place,
it was believed by many of them,[635]
that, by sacrificing the agriculturists,
they would be able to turn the
attention of other countries, especially
America, from the prosecution
of their rising manufactures. They
argued, that if we were to surrender
and secure our provision market to
foreign states, they would return
the compliment by allowing us to
manufacture for them—in other
words, that the foreigners were to feed
England, and England was to clothe
the foreigners! This precious scheme
has since been avowed, seriously and
gravely, by men who have seats in
the present House of Commons; and,
so far as we can understand their
language, the philosophers of the
Edinburgh Review consider this a
most sensible arrangement!

The agricultural interest, however,
was of too great magnitude to be
attacked at once. Several outworks
were to be gained before the citadel
was summoned to surrender. Accordingly
Mr Huskisson began, and
Sir Robert Peel continued, that system
of commercial relaxations, (which,
some five-and-twenty years ago, was
exposed and denounced in this Magazine,)
annihilating some branches of
industry and depressing others—pauperising
whole districts, as in the
Highlands, and merging the villages
in the towns—until the time seemed
ripe, and the opportunity propitious,
for the accomplishment of the grand
design. It is not now necessary to
dwell upon the circumstances which
attended the change in the Corn and
Navigation Laws—these are still fresh
in the memory of all of us, and will
not soon be forgotten. Our object
in this digression was simply to remind
you that Free Trade, in its
insidious and stealthy progress, has
warred with other interests than those
which belong to the agricultural and
the maritime classes.

Neither is it necessary at present
to advert to the gross inconsistencies
of the system—to the restrictions
which it still continues upon that
very branch of industry which it has
laid bare to foreign competition.
Let us take the system as it is, of
which you have had now nearly three
years’ experience, dating from the
time when the ports were opened.

Three years constitute a long period
for the endurance of a commercial
experiment. During that time
you have had ample opportunity of
observing how the system has worked.
Are you richer or poorer than you
were before the experiment began?
If the former, Free Trade has worked
well; if the latter, it is a mischievous
delusion.

This is a question which you alone
can answer—or rather, every man
must answer it for himself. But this
much we may be allowed to say, that,
from what information we can gather
regarding the state of general trade—from
the sentiments which we have
heard expressed by many of the most
respectable of your own body—the
experiences of the last year have not
been such as to give you much encouragement
for the future. If it is so,
then you will do well to consider
whether or not you ought to lend that
great political influence which you undoubtedly
possess, in support of a
system which has not only failed to
realise the anticipations of its founders,
but has actually diminished in a
great degree the power of purchase of
the community.

This is no trivial matter to any of
us, least of all is it trivial to you. The
next general election will be, in its
results, by far the most important of
any which has taken place for centuries.
If, in the new Parliament,
all idea of a return to the Protective
System is abandoned, we may prepare
ourselves for that most dismal
conflict which can convulse a country—a
war against taxation, and ultimately
against property. For—rely
upon this—heavy taxation and cheap
produce are things which never can
be reconciled. You may, if you
please, hand over the home market of
Britain to the foreigner, and allow
him, without toll or custom, to supply
our wants with produce of his own
rearing; but, if you do so, what is to
become of our own population, and
their labour?—and how are you to
levy those taxes which labour alone
can supply? That manufacturing interest,
for which such desperate sacrifices
have been made, is daily losing
ground in the markets of the world.
The fact will brook no denial, and it
is admitted even by its own members.
America has refused the bait offered[636]
to her by the Free-Traders, and is
engaged heart and soul in the cotton
manufacture, for which she possesses
within herself the command of the
raw material. To those countries
which supply us with corn, our exports
of manufactures have alarmingly
decreased. We may continue
to glut (for that is what we are
doing at present) the markets of India
and China, and our export tables
may exhibit a cheering increase in
the amount of yards of calico sent out;
but, unless the trade circulars are
utterly mendacious, the speculation
has been, and will continue to be for
a long tract of time, unprofitable.
The fact is, that the extent and value
of our foreign trade in manufactures
is little understood by most of us, and
grossly exaggerated by others. It
constitutes, after all, a mere fraction
of the national production. The consumption
of manufactures at home is,
or was, before the late changes were
made, twice as great as the whole
amount of our annual exports. The
prosperity of this country does not
depend upon the amount of wares
which it sends or forces abroad,
though that is the doctrine which is
constantly clamoured in our ears by
the political economists—a generation
of ridiculous pretenders, of whom it is
only necessary to know one, in order
to form an accurate estimate of the
mental capabilities of his tribe. It
depends on our own labour, on our
own internal arrangements, and on
that reciprocity between man and
man, and between class and class of
our fellow-subjects, which is the only
real security for the peace and tranquillity
of a kingdom. Those exporting
manufacturers, who rummage foreign
markets, are no better than so
many buccaneers. Their object is to
evade the burden of taxation at home,
and, wherever they can with advantage
to themselves, to bring in foreign
labour, untaxed and untolled, to supersede
that of the British workman.

You cannot have failed to remark
that the arguments which are now
put forward by the Free-Traders, in
support of their system, are totally
different from those which they advanced
while recommending it for the
adoption of the country. How often
were we told, during the struggle
which preceded the repeal of the
Corn Laws, that all the apprehensions
expressed of a permanent fall in the
value of produce, and of overwhelming
importations from abroad, were
purely visionary! Learned statists
undertook to prove by figures that
the whole quantity of grain which
could be brought into this country
was absolutely insignificant, and that
it could not disturb prices. Mr James
Wilson of the Economist, in his valuable
tractate entitled Influences of the
Corn Laws, which was published eleven
years ago, thus favoured the
public with his anticipations for the
future, in the event of the repeal of
the Corn Laws:—

“Our belief is,” says the sage of
Westbury, “that the whole of these
generally received opinions are erroneous;
that if we had had a free trade
in corn since 1815, the average price
of the whole period, actually received
by the British grower, would have
been higher than it has been; that
little or no more foreign grain would
have been imported; and that if, for
the next twenty years, the whole
protective system shall be abandoned,
the average price of wheat will be
higher than it has been for the last
seven years, (52s. 2d.,) or than it
would be in the future with a continuance
of the present system;—but
with this great difference, that prices
would be nearly uniform and unaltering
from year to year; that the disastrous
fluctuations would be greatly
avoided, which we have shown, in
the first proposition, to be so ruinous
under the present system.”

For this very notable sentiment, Mr
Wilson was clapped on the back by
the Manchester men, and commended
thus in the seventh circular of the
League:—”We are much indebted to
Mr Ibbotson of Sheffield, Mr James
Wilson, and our esteemed correspondent,
for labouring to prove to the
landlords that they may safely do
justice to others, without endangering
their own interests. And we think
very much has been done towards
justifying their opinions, that the money
price of grain would not be lowered
even by the total repeal of the Corn
Laws!” Sir Robert Peel, in the memorable
debates of 1846, attempted to
justify his experiment on the ground[637]
that previous commercial relaxations
had been found beneficial to the parties
who were directly engaged in the
trade, his inference being, that the
same result would follow in the case
of the agriculturists. Unfortunately
the data upon which he proceeded
were altogether fallacious; for, notwithstanding
his dexterity in selecting
figures, and bringing out balances
which were apparently favourable, it
was clearly demonstrated by Lord
George Bentinck, that in no one instance
whatever had those relaxations
proved favourable to the British
producer, and that many of them had
moreover occasioned a large loss to
the public revenue. But the language
held by Sir Robert Peel, upon that
occasion, cannot be construed otherwise
than as the expression of an
opinion that, by the repeal of the
Corn Laws, prices would not be materially
disturbed—at all events, that
they would not be lowered so as to
fall below the remunerative point.

The immense influx of foreign grain
which followed the opening of the
ports in 1849, and the immediate fall
of price, were calculated to alarm not
only the farmers, but even that section
of the Free-Traders who believed
conscientiously that the productive
powers of Europe and America were
unequal to the supply of so very considerable
a surplus. It is no wonder
that the farmers were frightened,
when they saw grain coming in at
the rate of a million of quarters per
month! They were, however, told by
the highest Free-trading authorities in
both Houses of Parliament, and the
same view was violently maintained
by the Liberal press, that their fears
were altogether groundless; that such
importations could not possibly be
maintained; and that the first inundation
was simply caused by an accumulation
of corn at the foreign ports,
stored up in readiness for the opening
of the English market—a contingency
which could not happen again. The
utmost pains were taken, by those who
had consented to the repeal of the Corn
Laws, to persuade the farmers that the
low prices of 1849 were attributable
principally to the superabundance of
the harvest at home; and they were
exhorted to wait patiently, but hopefully,
for the advent of better times.
In short, every means were taken to
persuade the agriculturists that they
were labouring under a temporary but
not a permanent difficulty, and that a
very short time would suffice to restore
them to their former condition.
But no one attempted to maintain, in
1849, that, if wheat continued to sell
at or about 40s. per quarter, its cultivation
could be profitable in Britain;
and when, at a later period, one or
two rash theorists attempted to broach
that doctrine, they were instantly put
to silence by the overwhelming nature
of the proof which was brought against
them—not the least instructive part of
it being the admissions of the leading
Free-Traders as to what really was, on
an average of years, the remunerative
price of wheat to the British grower.

It is now clearly established, that,
under Free Trade, 40s. per quarter is a
price which the British farmer cannot
calculate on receiving. The averages
of England are now about 36s. per
quarter, being 20s. lower than the
sum which Sir Robert Peel considered
as the lowest which could remunerate
the grower. Therefore, taking the
average yield of good wheat-land at
four quarters per acre, it appears that,
by continuing to grow that kind of
grain which is convertible into ordinary
bread, the farmer must be a
positive loser to the extent of four
pounds per acre! In other words,
even suppose no rent at all were taken
for the land, wheat cannot continue
to be grown at a profit in Great Britain,
so long as the averages remain
below 40s.; and we leave a large
margin to the credit of improved husbandry
and strict economy, exercised,
as it must be, at the expense of the
labourer’s wages. That such is the
present condition of the British farmers—a
hopeless one, unless a legislative
remedy is applied—will brook
no denial. Last year we were told of
farms letting at an increase of rent,
and of other symptoms of agricultural
prosperity, whereof nothing now is
heard. The fact of the depression—if
we may use so mild a term in respect
to a branch of industry which is
now merely existing upon capital, not
by income—is beyond all possibility
of doubt or cavil. The causes of it
are obvious; and it now only remains
to be seen whether we can afford to[638]
allow agriculture to be extinguished
from among us, or at best raised to
that point which will afford a bare
subsistence to the grower, without
the risk of involving the rest of us
in a like calamity.

You may have heard it said—for it
has been often written—that it signifies
little to the people of this country
from what source they receive their
bread. It is worth your while to
examine into this. That a loaf baked
of American flour, grown in the valley
of the Mississippi, may taste quite as
well in the mouth of the consumer as
a loaf of English material is a circumstance
which we can readily believe;
but is this all that is to be considered?
Does the American bear any part of
our national taxation? Does he contribute,
directly or indirectly, to the
burdens which are common to the
British producer? Does he deal with
any of you, and can you call him a
customer? These are the questions
which you ought to ask yourselves,
in making up your minds on this
matter; and if you will only examine
the subject patiently and dispassionately,
your own common sense will
lead you to a just conclusion. Let
us suppose that all the food which
you purchase and consume was grown
on a foreign soil, and admitted free of
duty. You might then have cheap
bread, but, as a necessary consequence,
you would lose more than half your
customers. Unless people have money
they cannot buy; and if agricultural
production were to be abandoned in
the British islands, all those who derive
their incomes—not only directly,
but indirectly—from the soil, would
necessarily be stripped of their means.
Are you aware of the fact that, on a
minute analysis of the census of 1841,
it appeared that the relative numbers
of the population of Great Britain and
Ireland, supported and maintained by
the two great sources of production,
agriculture and manufactures, were
as 18,734,468, dependent on the first,
to 8,091,621, dependent on the second?
Do you believe that the country can
remain prosperous, if you strike a
deathblow at the produce which maintains
more than two-thirds of its
inhabitants?

Let us go a little farther, and suppose—what
may hereafter be the case—that
other countries could undersell
us in the home market in the article
of manufactures—that America,
France, or Germany could send us
cotton and woollen stuffs, and other
ware, cheaper than we could make
them at home. In that case, where
would be the sources of our income?
All industry would be prostrated—for
you know very well that a losing
trade will not and cannot be carried
on long, and that the time will soon
arrive when, through the failure of
capital, it must be abandoned. In
such an event, what would become of
our population, with their labour entirely
destroyed? How could the
taxes be levied, and the expenses of
government paid, to say nothing of
the interest of the National Debt?
Great cheapness you would have, no
doubt, but nobody would be able to
buy.

If cheapness is a blessing in food,
it is a blessing in clothing and in
everything else. The rule admits of
no exception. It is as advantageous
for any of us to save a pound on the
price of his coat as a penny on the price
of his loaf. Bread is, no doubt, the
most important article of the workingman’s
consumption, but at the same
time it is no less a fact that the raising
of food is the most important part
of the production of the labouring-classes.
Without home labour, all
capital in this country would be annihilated,
or at least would depart
from it. Labour depends entirely
upon wages, and wages upon the
market price of the article produced.
If from the introduction of foreign
labour, in the shape of products, the
price of any article is forced down
below the cost of production, then
wages begin to fall, and in the end
production is extinguished. Why is
it that foreign countries have imposed
heavy duties upon our exported articles
of manufacture? Simply for this
object—that their own manufacturers,
who give employment to large numbers
of their population, may not be
undersold by ours, nor those means
of employment annihilated. In acting
thus, these governments perform a
paternal duty to the people—shielding
them against the competition of an
older manufacturing power, and preparing
them hereafter, when skill and[639]
capital are acquired, to enter neutral
markets, with a fair chance of ultimately
overcoming the other.

It stands to reason that, with an
equal degree of energy on the part of
its inhabitants, the country which is
the least heavily burdened must distance
others in all branches of industry,
where nature does not oppose
a barrier, or place it at a disadvantage.
The mineral wealth of England, and
our priority in manufacturing invention,
gave us for a long time an
advantage over all other nations.
America was not advanced enough to
enter into the lists of manufacturing
competition; the distracted state of the
Continent, and the perpetual presence
or apprehension of war, effectually
prevented the European states from
attempting to rival Britain. But since
that time vast changes have taken
place. The mineral resources of
other countries have been developed.
Some idea of the manufacturing
power which America now possesses
may be formed from the enormous
increase of her domestic production of
iron and coal. In 1829, the amount
of iron manufactured in the United
States was 90,000 tons; in 1848, it
had risen to 800,000 tons. The coal
raised in 1829 was 37,000 tons; in
1849 it was 3,200,000 tons. In the
article of cotton, which is our great
manufacturing staple, America has
the inestimable advantage of growing
the raw material—an advantage which
never can be counterbalanced, as,
even if we were to obtain our supplies
from some other quarter, the expenses
of freightage must still continue to
be great. In fact, to all appearance,
our supremacy in the conversion of
cotton is already doomed. That
branch of industry rests upon no substantial
basis. It rose like an exhalation,
and so it will disappear. These
are not merely our opinions, but those
of the most shrewd and calculating of
the Free-Traders. Hear Mr Greg of
Manchester on this subject, previous
to the repeal of the Corn Laws:—

“At present we are undersold by
foreigners in neutral markets in all the
staple articles of English manufacture.
In the articles of cotton, hosiery, and
cutlery, which amount altogether to three-fourths
of our exports, this is notoriously
the case. In cotton fabrics the Swiss
undersell us in several markets. In
cutlery Sheffeld is immensely undersold
by the Alsace, and our exports are yearly
decreasing. In hosiery, the case is still
worse. Saxon hosiery, after paying a
duty of 20 per cent, is sold in London
25 to 30 per cent cheaper than the produce
of the Leicester and Nottingham
looms. In Leicester the stocking frames
have diminished from 16,000 in 1815 to
14,000 in 1840; whilst in Saxony, in the
same time, they have increased from 4590
to 25,000. The English manufacturer
pays 2s. 6d. for the same work that the
French manufacturer gets done for 2½d.
The American cutlery market (the most
important of all) has been wrested from
us, and our exports of that article to all
the world have fallen from £1,620,000
in 1831 to £1,325,000 in 1841. How far
with cheaper food, no taxes on the raw
material, and no duties but for the sake of
revenue, we might yet recover our lost
superiority, is a matter for grave consideration.
I do not believe we could either in
woollens or hosiery; and even in the
cutlery or cotton trade I think it very
doubtful. Now, under a free commercial
system, the raw material would be nearly
the same in all countries, and the advantage,
where there was one, would be
generally on the side of foreigners.
France and Italy would have an advantage
in silk, and America in cotton; the
current expenses would also be nearly
equal. The machinery of foreign nations
even now is not very inferior to our
own, and is daily and rapidly improving;
their capital is fast accumulating, and
the yearly interest of it approximating to
our own rate.”

Here, you see, is a confession of
opinion by a leading Free-Trader, that
even the cheapening of food, by which
he means the reduction of the wages
of labour, will not suffice ultimately to
secure us the supremacy of the foreign
markets. He is perfectly right.
In this insane, and we believe almost
entirely unprofitable competition with
the rest of the world, we must infallibly
be overcome. No cheapness
of food can countervail the pressure
of our heavy taxation. The cotton-lords,
if they could, would fain bring
down the price of labour to the Continental
level, which doubtless would
enable them, for a long time, to prolong
the contest; but this they cannot
do, if our national engagements are
to be fulfilled, and our most valuable
institutions maintained. So long as
the revenue duties exist, labour cannot[640]
be forced down to that point.
But, in the mean time, agriculture may
be ruined, and the home trade, by
which alone you subsist, be palsied.
In fact, the present struggle lies between
the home trade and the foreign
trade. One or other of these must
ultimately succumb. The effect of
our present commercial system is to
paralyse the home trade, by decreasing
the value of all kinds of domestic
produce; by lowering all incomes,
and consequently reducing the amount
of the internal business of the country.
It has enabled our manufacturers, for
the time, to make a show of larger
exports than before; but it has not,
according to their own acknowledgement,
at all enhanced their profits.
It may have enabled them to lower
their prices, but it has not increased
their returns.

And no wonder that it should be so.
Except in the most miserable and
unimportant quarters, our relaxations
have been met by augmented tariffs
instead of eager reciprocity. The
nations of the world have refused to
sacrifice their advantages, to renounce
their prospects, and to become Free-Traders
at the call of Britain. Their
statesmen thoroughly understood the
motive of the ingenuous offer: they
were not to be cozened even by the
plausibility of Sir Robert Peel. It is
almost melancholy now, when we remember
what has actually taken place,
to revert to the peroration of that
statesman’s speech delivered on 16th
February 1846. A more lamentable
instance of delusion, as to the true
feeling and position of other countries,
was never perhaps exhibited. Mark
his words:—

“Many countries are watching with
anxiety the selection you may make.
Determine for ‘Advance,’ and it will be
the watchword which will animate and
encourage in every state the friends of
liberal commercial policy. Sardinia has
taken the lead. Naples is relaxing her
protective duties, and favouring British
produce. Prussia is shaken in her adherence
to restriction. The government
of France will be strengthened; and,
backed by the intelligence of the reflecting,
and by conviction of the real welfare
of the great body of the community, will
perhaps ultimately prevail over the self-interest
of the commercial and manufacturing
aristocracy which now predominates
in her Chambers. Can you doubt
that the United States will soon relax
her hostile tariff, and that the friends of
a freer commercial intercourse—the
friends of peace between the two countries—will
hail with satisfaction the example
of England?”

How strangely did this remarkable
man, whose career in all time coming
will be a warning to the aspiring
statesman, misunderstand the true
nature of his country’s position! In
order to tempt reciprocity he opened
the British ports—that is, he conceded
gratuitously the only condition
by which we ever could have hoped
to insure it! At the expense of the
British agriculturist he opened the
British market to the foreigner, in
the expectation, as he expressly declared,
that the boon would be repaid
by measures which would prevent
the rise of manufactures abroad, and
restrain other nations from employing
capital profitably, from entering into
rivalry with Britain, and from using
those natural advantages which were
ready to their hand; and which, if
used, could not fail to add to their
wealth, and to furnish employment
for millions of their increasing population!
Most egregious was the
blunder, and terrible is the penalty
which we are certain to pay for it, if
we do not retrace our steps.

It is always useful to know what
intelligent men of other countries
think of our system. They survey
and examine it without those prejudices
which are apt to beset all of us,
and are better able than ourselves to
determine with what degree of favour
it will be received, or is received, by
those who are removed beyond the
scope of our immediate observation.
Certainly, of all others, from their
affinity to ourselves, and their proverbially
shrewd acuteness in all
matters of commercial detail, the
Americans are most likely to form
an accurate estimate both of our position
and our prospects in regard to
foreign trade. It is well worth our
while to read and consider the following
opinion of Mr Carey, the most
distinguished Transatlantic writer on
points of political economy. It occurs
in his work entitled The Harmony
of Interests, published in America so
late as December 1849.

[641]

“Men are everywhere flying from
British commerce, which everywhere
pursues them. Having exhausted the
people of the lower lands of India, it
follows them as they retreat towards the
fastnesses of the Himalaya. Affghanistan
is attempted, while Scinde and the
Punjaub are subjugated. Siamese provinces
are added to the empire of Free
Trade, and war and desolation are carried
into China, in order that the Chinese
may be compelled to pay for the
use of ships, instead of making looms.
The Irishman flies to Canada; but there
the system follows him, and he feels himself
insecure until within the Union.
The Englishman and the Scotchman try
Southern Africa, and thence they fly to
the more distant New Holland, Van Diemen’s
Land, or New Zealand. The farther
they fly, the more they use ships and other
perishable machinery, the less steadily
can their efforts be applied, the less must
be the power of production, and the fewer
must be the equivalents to be exchanged;
and yet in the growth of ships caused by
such circumstances, we are told to look
for evidence of prosperous commerce!

“The British system is built upon cheap
labour, by which is meant low-priced and
worthless labour. Its effect is to cause it
to become from day to day more low-priced
and worthless; and thus to destroy
production upon which commerce
must be based. The object of protection
is to produce dear labour—that is, high-priced
and valuable labour, and its effect
is to cause it to increase in value from
day to day, and to increase the equivalents
to be exchanged, to the great increase
of commerce.

“The object of what is now called
Free Trade, is that of securing to the
people of England the further existence
of the monopoly of machinery, by aid of
which Ireland and India have been
ruined, and commerce prostrated. Protection
seeks to break down this monopoly,
and to cause the loom and the anvil to
take their natural places by the side of
the food and the cotton, that production
may be increased, and that commerce
may revive.”

In short, the harmony of interests
is regarded in America as the grand
point of aim for the statesman. With
us, our most important home interests,
on which depend the welfare of by
far the greater part of our population,
are sacrificed to prolong a struggle in
which our exporting manufacturers
cannot possibly be the victors, and
from which, even at present, they
derive little or no profit.

Now, let us ask you to consider for
one moment, what is the natural
effect, upon the whole of us, of a
forcible diminution of prices, and depreciation
of produce. Here we shall
borrow an illustration and argument
from our adversaries, referring to a
point which is in the recollection of
all of you, and about which there can
be no possible mistake. You will
recollect that the Liberal and Free-trading
journals, almost without exception,
as well as most of the defenders
of the Peel policy in the House
of Commons, attributed much of that
general depression and stagnation of
trade which followed the repeal of the
Corn Laws to the losses sustained by
the failure of the potato-crop in
1845-6. Was there a general want
of confidence visible—were the shopkeepers
scant of custom—was there a
less demand than usual within the
country for home manufactures—was
there a decline in the price of iron—all
was laid at the door of the unfortunate
potato. Since Cobbett uttered
his anathema against the root, it
never was in such bad odour. To
every complaint, remonstrance, or
lamentation, the reply was ready—”How
can we remedy a calamity of
this kind? The potato has done it
all!” At that time it was very convenient,
nay, absolutely necessary,
for the Free-Traders to discover some
tangible cause for the gross failure of
their predictions. They looked about
them in every direction, and they
could discover nothing except the
potato which could endure the blame.
Now, although we believe that this
esculent has been unduly reviled, and
made to bear a greater burden than
was its due for political misfortune,
we nevertheless accept the illustration
at the hands of our opponents,
and we beg you to mark its significance.
The loss of the potato-crop
in Great Britain and Ireland, during
the year in question, has been variously
estimated, but if we assume it
to have been £20,000,000 we are
making a very large calculation indeed.
So then, according to the Free-Traders,
the loss of twenty millions of
agricultural produce was sufficient to
bring down profits, embarrass trade,
and cause a stagnation in home
manufactures! And yet, when Mr[642]
Villiers came forward in the beginning
of 1850, and told you, in his
capacity of proposer of the Address
to the Crown, that £91,000,000
were annually taken from the value
of the agricultural produce of the
country, you were expected, and
directed, to clap your hands with
joy, and to congratulate one another
on this symptom of the national prosperity!

The sum of twenty millions lost by
the failure of the potato-crop—a single
event, not one of annual occurrence—was
taken from the country’s power
of produce; and therefore, said the
Free-Traders, there was stagnation.
But they, of course, could not help it.
Of course they could not; but what
about the ninety-one millions of annual
loss, which is equally deducted from
the internal expenditure of the country?
About that we do not hear a
word. And yet ask yourselves, and that
most seriously—for it is time that we
should get rid of all such pitiful paltering—whether
there is any difference
whatever between the two
cases, except that the one was an
isolated casualty, and that the other
is an annual infliction to which we
are subjected by statute? Weigh the
matter as you will, you cannot, we
are satisfied, be able to detect any
difference. If the grower of grain at
present prices has no remuneration
for his toil, or return for his capital,
he cannot buy from you, any more
than could the farmer whose crop
perished by the potato disease. What
caused the stagnation? The failure
of the power to purchase, because
there was no return for produce.
What causes the stagnation? Precisely
the same thing perpetrated by
Act of Parliament.

Do not, we beseech you, allow
yourselves to be fooled any longer by
the jesuitry of these political economists,
but apply your own reason to
discover the cause of the present depression.
Do not believe them when
they talk about exceptional causes,
affecting temporarily the industry
of the nation, but certain immediately
to disappear. If you were
to live as long as Methusaleh, no
one year would elapse without furnishing
those gentlemen with a special
and exceptional cause. One year
it is the potato disease; another
the French Revolution; another the
Great Exhibition. Heaven only
knows what will be their excuse next
year—perhaps the new Reform Bill,
or some other similar godsend. You
are the particular class upon whom
the deception is to be played, and for
whose especial benefit the fraud is
concocted. The producers know very
well how they stand, and what they
have to expect. They can be no
longer cajoled by assurances of higher
prices, by vague promises of profit
after the disappearance of “the transition
state,” or by impudent averments
that, by an entire change of
system and the expenditure of more
capital, they will be able to maintain
themselves in affluence. To do the
Free-Traders justice, they have for
some time desisted from such attempts.
They now address their
victims, through their organs, in a
fine tone of desperado indifference,
telling them that, if they do not like
the present arrangement, the sooner
they go elsewhere the better. And
the people are taking them at their
word and going. Hundreds of thousands
of tax-payers are leaving the
country as fast as possible, carrying
with them the fragments of their property,
and bequeathing to those who
remain behind their share of the national
burdens. But in your case,
the Free-Traders cannot yet afford to
pull off the mask. They are apprehensive
that you should see them in
their real character; and therefore, so
long as you are likely to be amused
with “specialties” and “exceptional
causes,” these will be furnished to
you gratis, and in great variety.
There seems, however, to be an apprehension
among their camp that
you are beginning to evince suspicion.
Recent elections have not been quite
as they should be; and in the seaport
and large commercial towns there
are evident symptoms of mutiny. So,
by way of diverting your attention,
you are likely to have a measure
of Reform next year, possibly as
satisfactory in its result as the Ecclesiastical
Titles Bill, upon which Ministers
cleverly managed to concentrate
the whole public attention
throughout last session, and then,
having carried it, allowed its provisions[643]
to become a dead letter,
almost before the ink, which made
the measure complete, was dry! We
say this, not as opponents of an
extension of the suffrage—for on that
point we reserve our opinion until
the details are fully before us—but
as enemies and loathers of a miserable
system of chicane and deception which
has now crept into the public counsels,
and which threatens very speedily
to destroy the independence of public
opinion, by opposing state obstacles
to its free and legitimate expression.
We ask any of you, fearlessly, to
look back at the records of last
session, and then say whether the
country was not degraded and stultified
by the act of the Prime Minister?
Right or wrong, at his invitation and
call, the Protestants of Great Britain
demanded a security against what
they considered an intolerable instance
of Romish insolence and aggression.
They received it from
Parliament; and the moment it
passed into the hands of the executive
power, it became as worthless as the
paper upon which it was written!
And why was this? Simply because
the object was gained—you had been
amused for a whole session. If nothing
was intended to be done in the
way of repelling aggression, and if
Ministers durst have told you so a
year ago, there were many points affecting
your more immediate interests
which would have been forced upon
their attention. But they were very
glad to escape from such discussions
under cover of a Protestantism which
they did not feel, and an affected
indignation of Papal claims, which
they had done everything in their
power, by diplomatic agency, to encourage;
and, having escaped the
perils of one session upon that ground,
they will strain every effort to turn
your attention from your own position,
during the next, by bringing forward
some measure which they hope may
enlist your sympathies, or provoke
controversy, so far as to render you
indifferent to the real nature of your
position. The selection of the battlefield
is the oldest trick in strategy.
Get up the appearance of a battle,
and people will flock from any distance
to witness it, regardless of their
own interest. Lord John Russell is
famous for bloodless fields, which
resolve themselves into reviews—shall
we have another such in the course of
the approaching session?

That manufactures are now exceedingly
depressed, and have been
so for a long time, notwithstanding
the reduction in the price of food
consequent upon foreign importations,
is an admitted and notorious fact.
We have from time to time kept this
before the public view by quoting
from the trade circulars; and though
further evidence may be unnecessary,
we shall subjoin extracts from the
last accounts received from three
seats of industry, two of which are
represented in Parliament by Colonel
Peyronnet Thompson and Mr Feargus
O’Connor. Gloomy as they are,
they are by no means the worst
which we have had occasion to cite
during the last two years.

“Bradford, November 6.—The market
here does not show any symptom of improvement
in the demand for any kind of
combing wools. All seem in wonder and
anxiety as to what may be next expected,
for to buy none are willing, whether with
stock or without. The staplers appeared
to expect that the spirited buying of
colonial wools would give a tone of confidence,
but that appears to have no
effect. The spinners pause when they
contrast the comparative high prices of
English wool, especially those of the finer
class, with what they were in 1848, when
yarns were at the present prices, and will
not buy with the certainty of making so
great a loss as a purchase would entail.
The supply of Noils and Brokes was
never so limited as at present, and the
small quantity making brings full prices.
The business doing in yarns is certainly
small, and the transactions confined to
immediate delivery. No one seems inclined
to enter into engagements for
distant delivery. For to go on at the
present prices of yarns is worse than madness,
the price for low numbers of good
spinning and standing having reached 8s.
per gross, and those of a secondary class
sold, if reeled, for what may be the instructions
to the commission houses, who
have needy parties pressing sales. The
quantity so offering is not so great, but
the sacrifices which have now for so long
been made render the position of the
trade exceedingly embarrassing. The
production continues to be daily curtailed,
and from the whole district the same cheerless
tidings are received. Some large
houses, who have never reduced their operations[644]
before, have adopted it, their loss
being so immense, and the whole condition
of the trade so thoroughly disjointed. In
pieces the business during the week has
not shown any feature of increased activity,
and the stocks in the manufacturers’
hands are somewhat increasing,
but not so fast as last year at this period,
and especially in Coburgs and fancy goods:
the former are chiefly made in this district,
and not in Lancashire, for the ruinous
price has driven them on to other
classes of goods adaptable to their looms;
and for some months several large houses
have been engaged in making Bareges
for the American market. This has prevented
mousselines-de-laine being made
to stock, and, perhaps for many years,
this branch of the trade has not opened
with so small a stock on hand.

“Nottingham, November 6.—In lace
we have no improvement to notice this
week in the general sale of goods, and,
with very few exceptions, there is a great
falling off in demand; but, as many of
the manufacturers are wisely lessening
their production, we do not anticipate
any serious losses resulting from the present
temporary stagnation. Many are
stopping their frames to make fresh designs
altogether; which, if done with
good taste, some advantage may result
from present difficulties. In hosiery our
trade is not so much depressed as we had
reason to anticipate. There is still a fair
business doing in wrought hose, and a
little increased demand for ‘cut-ups,’ as
well as gloves made of thread and spun
silk. The price of yarn is low, which is
in favour both of the manufacturer and
merchant.

“Leicester, November 6.—The unsettled
state of the price of workmanship
for straight-down hose has caused a
great depression in that branch, and led
to nearly a total cessation of work, many
hosiers declining to give out until prices
are settled. In wrought hose a better
business is doing, though not so good as
usual at this season. Yarns continue
dull of sale.”

Now, why do we insist upon these
things? For two reasons. In the
first place, we wish you to observe
that the cheapness of manufacturing
products does not of itself induce consumption.
There must be buyers as
well as sellers in order to constitute
a market, and the tendency of our
late legislation has been to diminish
the means of the former. It by no
means follows that, if we have cheap
food and cheap manufactures, the
relative position of all classes can be
maintained. Never forget that our
burdens all the while remain at a fixed
money rate, and that, as the value of
produce is lowered, the weight of
those burdens is aggravated. This
consideration, which is now well understood,
is beginning to tell strongly
against the doctrines of the Free-Traders,
even with some of those,
who were once their ardent supporters.
Mr James Harvey of Liverpool,
late a member of the Anti-Corn-Law
League, but now a strenuous
opponent of their system, thus chronicles
the leading cause of his conversion.
We quote from his pamphlet
just published, Remunerative Price
the Desideratum, not Cheapness. He
says:—”My suspicions were first
awakened by the blind devotion of
the Manchester school of political
economy to the doctrine of CHEAPNESS;
for it struck me as a self-evident
proposition, that to buy cheap
is to sell cheap, in which case there
can be no possible gain, but a positive
loss, arising from the necessary aggravation
of all fixed charges.” In
order to place the producers of this
country in the same position as before,
it would be necessary to reduce all
fixed charges, the interest of debt
both public and private, the expenses
of government, and all salaries and
annuities, to an amount corresponding
to the forced decline of prices. This
would be called a war against property;
but, in reality, the war against
property began when the Legislature
admitted foreign untaxed produce to
compete with the produce and labour
of our tax-paying population at home.

Our second reason for drawing
your attention to the cheerless prospect
of manufactures, has reference
to the sacrifices, not only indirect
but direct, which the other classes of
the community were called upon to
make in order to prop them up. In the
first place, the Property and Income
Tax, which we are still called upon to
pay, was imposed by Sir Robert Peel
expressly for the object of effecting
“such an improvement in the manufacturing
interests as will react on
every other interest in the country.”
He admitted that it was an unjust
and partial impost, and therefore
promised that it should be only temporary—however,
we have endured[645]
it for ten years, and the Whigs will
no doubt make an effort to continue
it still longer. Here, then, you have
a sum of five millions and a half
annually confiscated for the benefit of
the manufacturers, who were relieved
from taxation to that amount. So
far for sacrifice the first. Then came
sacrifice the second, in the shape of
Free Trade, mulcting the productive
classes of this country to the extent
of at least five-and-thirty per cent of
their annual returns. Then came
sacrifice the third, which handed over
the carrying trade to the foreigner.

Now, considering that all these
sacrifices have been made for the
encouragement of manufactures, or at
least with that professed object, is it
not, to say the least of it, extraordinary
that they have not thriven?
How are we to account for a result
so wholly contrary to the avowed
anticipations of our statesmen? The
explanation is, after all, not very
difficult. All these sacrifices have
been made, not for the great body of
the manufacturers, but for a mere
section of them. We possess no
authentic official information as to the
amount of manufactures consumed at
home; but we have records, more or
less trustworthy, of the amount of
our exports, and these are used to
mislead the minds of the multitude as
to the actual extent and relative importance
of our trade. England has
no more title than France has to the
character of the workshop of the
world. We are driven from the
markets of civilised countries by the
protective duties imposed by their
governments for the righteous and
prudent purpose of fostering native
industry, and we are compelled to
seek our marts among people who
are not yet so far advanced in political
economy as to detect the enormous
discrepancy between our principles
and our practice. Listen to Mr Harvey’s
sketch of our foreign trade:—

“From the theories and systems I
turned my attention to passing events
and recorded facts: I saw the West Indies
prostrated; Canada thrown into a
state of revolt, succeeded by a smothered
feeling of discontent; Ireland depopulated;
the magnificent resources of India
undeveloped; and the British farmer reduced
to the dire necessity of paying rent
out of capital. I also perceived that the
change in our commercial policy had substituted
a cosmopolitan cant in the place
of patriotism and nationality. To become
the friend of every country but his own
had become the pride and the glory of
statesmanship. Foreign goods were admitted,
duty free, into our ports, in the
vain hope of reciprocity being established;
but our manufactures were subjected
to heavy imposts on the Continent of
Europe, and in the United States. China,
unversed in the mysteries of political economy,
only levies five per cent upon our
goods, whilst, in direct contravention of
our pet notions of Free Trade and reciprocity,
we impose a tax of 300 per cent
upon her teas. Our hopes have been
disappointed, our calculations falsified.
We are the dupes of our own
fantastic ideas and Quixotic concessions.
We are the laughing-stock of the
Old and the New Worlds. The Germanic
Zollverein shuns our overtures; the American
excludes our ships from his seaboard.”

Can these things be controverted?
We defy the ingenuity of mankind to
do it.

So much for the foreign trade; but
there still remains the home trade, in
which by far the largest portion of our
manufacturing capital is embarked,
and which furnishes a much greater
amount of employment to British
labour than the other. You see what
is the state of that trade, notwithstanding
the savings which may have
been effected by the lowered price
of food, and also notwithstanding
that partial protection which several
branches of it are still allowed to retain.
One word as to that incidental
point. Mr Cobden is reported to have
said, that he did not care how soon
these remnants of protection were
abolished. Let him be as good as his
word, and, IF HE DARES, rise up in his
place in the House of Commons, and
make a motion to that effect. We
shall then have an opportunity of
testing the exact nature of his principles.
To what cause can such a
depression as this, so long and continuous,
be attributed, except to a
general curtailment of demand on the
part of the consumers, arising from
the insufficiency of their means to make
purchases as before? You are probably
aware that what is called strict economy
in families is not favourable to
the interests of manufacture or of[646]
trade. Of manufactures of all kinds
there must be a certain yearly consumption,
based upon the necessities
of the people. Besides food, men require
clothes to cover them, and
houses in which to dwell, and those
houses must be more or less furnished.
But between the bare supply
of such necessities, and that point
which is considered by persons,
according to their tastes, education,
or habits, as constituting comfort,
there is a wide interval. Nothing is
a more sure criterion of the wealth
and income of a people than the ordering
of their homes, and the manner
of their living; and the traveller who
passes from one country into another
can at once form an estimate, from
such appearances, of their respective
wealth or poverty. Diminish income,
and a reduction is immediately made.
All superfluities are lopped off and
renounced. The broker, who deals in
second-hand articles, drives a larger
business than the man who is the
vendor of new ones; and even in
domestic labour there is a large economy
practised, by reducing establishments.
That this must be so, will be
evident on the slightest reflection.
Reduce a man’s income from £1000
to £800 or £600, and he will, if he
has any wisdom or prudence, cut
down his expenses to meet the fall.
It is upon the home manufacturer in
the first place, and upon the shopkeeper
secondly, that these reductions
tell. The one finds that his amount
of production is much greater than
the demand; the other does not turn
over his capital nearly so rapidly as
before. Add to this that the home
manufacturer, in many branches, is
exposed to strong foreign competition.
Sir Robert Peel, in his last alterations
of the tariff, did indeed continue Protection—more
largely than is generally
understood, for the mere amount
of revenue-duty drawn from importations
of foreign articles, adapted to
compete with ours in the home, is no
criterion of the Protective value—to
some branches of industry; but others
were exposed without shelter, and
have since suffered accordingly. It
is undeniable that a very large amount
of foreign manufactures, which have
paid no duty at all, or merely an
elusory one, are consumed within this
country—thereby inflicting extreme
injury upon British labour, and depressing
trades which, though severally
not important, give in the
aggregate, or ought to give, the
means of employment to thousands.
Regard the subject in any light you
will, this cheapness, of which we have
heard so much, just amounts to a
diminution of the income of every
class, except the annuitants and fund-holders,
while it consequently renders
the payment of the fixed burdens
more grievous to every one of us.

You, gentlemen, to whom we have
ventured to submit these remarks,
have a very great deal in your power.
You can, by your decision, either
confirm the present policy, or cause
it to be reversed; and your own
experience will suffice to show you in
what manner the system has worked.
Statists may parade their figures, economists
may puff their plans, statesmen
may indulge in high-coloured
pictures of the success which they expect
to follow their measures—but the
true test of every measure which has
a practical tendency will be found in
the effect which it produces upon the
circumstances of the people, and especially
upon those of the middle classes.
We, who have, from the very first,
anticipated the baneful effects of this
attack upon British industry—we,
who have no more connection than
any of yourselves with territorial aristocracy,
and who consider the welfare
of the people as the grand object
which it is the duty of the Government
to promote—ask you to apply
your own reason to the facts which
are before you and in your reach, and
to decide and act accordingly. It
was, we knew from the very beginning
of this struggle, impossible that
you could decide until the effects of
the Free-Trade experiment became
visible and palpable among yourselves.
We foresaw that it was only
through the suffering and impoverishment
of the producers that the practical
lesson could reach you, and that,
until this took place, it was of little
use to invoke your aid, or even to
entreat your judgment. Probably, by
this time, you will have formed an
accurate estimate of the value of the
doctrines promulgated by the babblers
on political economy—a sect[647]
which has never yet been allowed to
interfere with the internal affairs of
any nation, without producing the
most disastrous results. To them we
are indebted for that change of the
currency which has added fully one-third
to our fixed burdens, and for
those complex monetary arrangements
which insure periodically the
return of a commercial crisis. But
whatever you may think of them, do
not allow yourselves to be influenced
by their representations, or by those
of their accredited organs. The time
for theory is over. You have now to
deal with facts, regarding which every
man of you is competent to form an
opinion. We do not ask you to accept
our statements implicitly, any more
than those of our opponents—though,
if we did so, we might hold ourselves
justified on this ground, that the
greater part of our evidence is taken
from the admissions of our adversaries.
We appeal to your own
experience, and upon that we leave
you to decide.

And do not be afraid to give free
utterance to your opinion. There
exists not in this land—there exists
not in all the world, the power which
can rise up against you. The British
producer on the one hand, and the
exporting manufacturer on the other,
may have conflicting interests not
altogether reconcilable with the public
good, for isolated interest always
begets selfishness; and where individual
or class profit is concerned,
principle is apt to be overlooked.
But you are, eminently, THE CLASS
to pronounce upon conflicting opinions.
Your interest is that of the
nation whose pulse is beneath your
finger. You can tell, with greater
accuracy than others, whether any
political prescription has stimulated
the circulation of the blood, or caused
it to run torpidly in the national
veins. You can mark the changes in
the circumstances of your customers,
and from these you can form an estimate
whether or not the late experiment
has been successful.

If, judging by that test, you should
think it has been successful, our case
is lost. We, who have advocated the
Protective Principle in legislation,
cannot continue to maintain it, if
those whose incomes depend mainly
upon British custom find themselves
advantaged by measures which have
reduced the value of British produce.
In matters of this kind there is no
abstract dogma involved, on the
strength of which any man could
make himself a creditable martyr.
Men have died for their faith or for
their allegiance, believing either to be
their highest duty; but no one in his
senses will spend a lifetime, or any
considerable portion of it, in combating
absolute facts. The reason why
Protection is still a living principle—the
reason why it finds so many supporters
among the learned and the
thoughtful—the reason why it is progressing
step by step towards triumph—is
because, in the minds of
those who advocate it, there is a
strong and deep-rooted conviction that
you already know that the opposite
system has entirely failed to realise
the predictions of its advocates, and
that you feel that its permanency is
contrary to your interest, and to that
of the great body of the people. If
we are right in this conviction, then
we are entitled not only to solicit,
but to demand, your earnest co-operation.
These are not times for political
cowardice, or weak suppression
of opinion. Liberty of thought, and
liberty of the expression of sentiment,
are our unalienable prerogative; but
of late years, and in the hands of a
certain party, that prerogative has
been scandalously overstretched. We
now hear men—even members of the
Legislature—threatening the country,
and you, with hints of insurrection,
in case you exercise your undoubted
right of pronouncing a free and unbiassed
judgment upon any point of
commercial policy. Let the caitiffs
bluster! They know, from the bottom
of their ignoble souls—for none save
an ignoble soul would have dared to
conceive that such threats would intimidate
any man of British birth or
blood—that their menace is as meaningless
and vain as their miserable
motives are apparent. Let them
bluster! They, the advocates of
lowered wages—they, the combatants
for lengthened labour—they, the
crushers of the infants, have no large
margin of operative sympathy upon
which they can afford to trade. Had
John Fielden been alive, he could[648]
have told you what these men
were, and what sympathy they were
likely to command. Well do the
workmen know with whom they have
to deal!

Let us not be misunderstood. We
never have underrated the difficulty
of a change such as we contemplate;
but no difficulty attending that, is for
a moment to be put into the balance
against the general welfare of the
country, if, on reflection, and on considering
your own position, you shall
be of opinion that the interests of the
country demand that change. But,
at any hazard, we cannot afford to go
down-hill. To bring us, as the Manchester
men contemplate, to the Continental
level in point of wages as
well as expenditure, is to seal the
ruin of the British empire, burdened
as it is; or, in the least dangerous
view, to necessitate repudiation. That
matter is, as we have said before, for
you to decide; and the period for
your decision is rapidly drawing near.
On the next general election depends
the fate of the country, and—without
saying one syllable more upon the
merits of the systems at issue—the
decision or inclination of your body
will form the most important, because
it must be considered, as between
conflicting interests, the most impartial
element, of the expression of
British opinion.

THE JEW’S LEGACY.

A TALE OF THE SIEGE OF GIBRALTAR.

CHAPTER I.

The note-book of my grandfather,
Major Flinders, contains much matter
relative to the famous siege of Gibraltar,
and he seems to have kept an
accurate and minute journal of such
of its incidents as came under his own
observation. Indeed, I suspect the
historian Drinkwater must have had
access to it, as I frequently find the
same notabilia chronicled in pretty
much the same terms by both these
learned Thebans. But while Drinkwater
confines himself mostly to professional
matters—the state of the
fortifications, nature of the enemy’s
fire, casualties to the soldiery, and the
like—and seldom introduces an anecdote
interesting to the generality of
readers without apologising for such
levity, my grandfather’s sympathies
seem to have been engrossed by the
sufferings of the inhabitants deprived
of shelter, as well as of sufficient food,
and helplessly witnessing the destruction
of their property. Consequently,
his journal, though quite below the
dignity of history, affords, now and
then, a tolerably graphic glimpse of
the beleagured town.

From the discursive and desultory
nature of the old gentleman’s style,
as before hinted, it would be vain to
look for a continuous narrative in his
journal, even if it contained materials
for such. But here and there a literary
Jack Horner might extract a
plum or two from the vast quantity
of dough—of reflections, quotations,
and all manner of irrelevant observations,
surrounding them. The following
incidents, which occurred at
the most interesting period of the
long and tedious siege, appear to me
to give a fair idea of some of the characteristics
of the time, and of the
personages who figured in it; and
accordingly, after subjecting them to
a process analogous to gold-washing,
I present them to the reader.

After a strict blockade of six
months, reducing the garrison to great
extremity for want of provisions,
Gibraltar was relieved by Sir George
Rodney, who landed a large quantity
of stores. But about a year after his
departure, no further relief having
reached them except casual supplies
from trading vessels that came at a
great risk to the Rock, their exigencies
were even worse than before.
The issue of provisions was limited in
quantity, and their price so high, that
the families, even of officers, were frequently
in dismal straits. This has
given rise to a wooden joke of my
grandfather’s, who, although he seldom
ventures on any deliberate facetiousness,
has entitled the volume of[649]
his journal relating to this period of
the siege, The Straits of Gibraltar.
He seems to have estimated the
worth of his wit by its rarity, for the
words appear at the top of every
page.

The 11th of April 1781 being Carlota’s
birthday, the Major had invited
Owen (now Lieutenant Owen) to dine
with them in honour of the occasion.
Owen was once more, for the time, a
single man; for Juana, having gone
to visit her friends in Tarifa just before
the commencement of the siege,
had been unable to rejoin her husband.
In vain had Carlota requested
that the celebration might be postponed
till the arrival of supplies from
England should afford them a banquet
worthy of the anniversary—the Major,
a great stickler for ancient customs,
insisted on its taking place forthwith.
Luckily, a merchantman from Minorca
had succeeded in landing a cargo of
sheep, poultry, vegetables, and fruit
the day before, so that the provision
for the feast, though by no means
sumptuous, was far better than any
they had been accustomed to for
many months past. The Major’s
note-book enables me to set the materials
for the dinner, and also its cost,
before the reader—viz. a sheep’s head,
price sixteen shillings, (my grandfather
was too late to secure any of
the body, which was rent in pieces,
and the fragments carried off as if by
wolves, ere the breath was well out
of it)—a couple of fowls, twenty
shillings, (scraggy creatures, says my
ancestor in a parenthesis)—a ham,
two guineas—raisins and flour for a
pudding, five shillings—eggs, (how
many the deponent sayeth not,) sixpence
each—vegetables, nine and sixpence—and
fruit for dessert, seven and
tenpence. Then, for wine, a Spanish
merchant, a friend of Carlota’s, had
sent them two bottles of champagne
and one of amontillado, a present as
generous then as a hogshead would
have been in ordinary times; and
there was, moreover, some old rum,
and two lemons for punch. Altogether,
there was probably no dinner
half so good that day in Gibraltar.

At the appointed hour, the Major
was reading in his quarters (a tolerably
commodious house near the
South Barracks, and at some distance
outside the town) when Owen appeared.

“You’re punctual, my boy; and
punctuality’s a cardinal virtue about
dinner-time,” said my grandfather,
looking at his watch; “three o’clock
exactly. And now we’ll have dinner.
I only hope the new cook is a tolerable
proficient.”

“What’s become of Mrs Grigson?”
asked Owen. “You haven’t parted
with that disciple of Apicius, I should
hope?”

“She’s confined again,” said my
grandfather, sighing; “a most prolific
woman that! It certainly can’t
be above half-a-year since her last
child was born, and she’s just going
to have another. ‘Tis certainly not
longer ago than last autumn,” he
added musingly.

“A wonderful woman,” said Owen;
“she ought to be purchased by the
Government, and sent out to some of
our thinly-populated colonies. And
who fills her place?”

“Why, I’ll tell you,” responded
the Major. “Joe Trigg, my old servant,
is confined too—in the guardroom,
I mean, for getting drunk—and
I’ve taken a man of the regiment,
one Private Bags, for a day or two,
who recommended his wife as an
excellent cook. She says the same
of herself; but this is her first trial,
and I’m a little nervous about it.”

“Shocking rascal that Bags,” said
Owen.

“Indeed!” said my grandfather;
“I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t
inquire about his character. He offered
his services, saying he came from the
same part of England as myself,
though I don’t recollect him.”

“Terrible work this blockade,” said
the Major after a pause. “Do you
know, if I was a general in command
of a besieging army, I don’t think I
could find it in my heart to starve out
the garrison. Consider now, my dear
boy,” (laying his forefinger on Owen’s
arm,)—”consider, now, several thousand
men, with strong appetites,
never having a full meal for months
together. And just, too, as my digestion
was getting all right—for I never
get a nightmare now, though I frequently
have the most delicious
dreams of banquets that I try to eat,
but wake before I get a mouthful.[650]
‘Tis enough to provoke a saint. And,
as if this was not enough, the supply
of books is cut off. The Weekly
Entertainer isn’t even an annual entertainer
to me. The last number I
got was in ’79, and I’ve been a regular
subscriber these twelve years.
There’s the Gentleman’s Magazine,
too. The last one reached me a year
since, with a capital story in it, only
half-finished, that I’m anxious to know
the end of; and also a rebus that I’ve
been longing to see the answer to.
‘The answer in our next,’ says the
tantalising editor. It’s a capital rebus—just
listen now. ‘Two-thirds
of the name of an old novelist, one-sixth
of what we all do in the morning,
and a heathen deity, make together
a morsel fit for a king.’ I’ve
been working at it for upwards of a
year, and I can’t guess it. Can
you?”

“Roast pig with stuffing answers
the general description,” said Owen.
“That, you’ll admit, is a morsel fit
for a king.”

“Pooh!” said my grandfather.
“But you must really try now. I’ve
run through the mythology, all that I
know of it, and tried all the old novelists’
names, even Boccaccio and Cervantes.
Never were such combinations
as I’ve made—but can’t compound
anything edible out of them. Again,
as to what we do in the morning: we
all shave, (that is, all who have
beards)—and we yawn, too; at least
I do, on waking; but it must be a
word of six letters. Then, who can
the heathen deity be?”

“Pan is the only heathen deity
that has anything to do with cookery,”
said Owen. “Frying-pan, you know,
and stew-pan.”

My grandfather caught at the idea,
but had not succeeded in making anything
of it, or in approximating to the
solution of the riddle, when Carlota
entered from an inner room.

“I wish, my dear, you would see
about the dinner,” said the Major;
“’tis a quarter past three.”

“Si, mi vida,” (yes, my life,) said
Carlota, who was in the habit of bestowing
lavishly on my grandfather
the most endearing epithets in the
Spanish language, some of them, perhaps,
not particularly applicable—niño
de mi alma, (child of my soul,)
luz de mis ojos, (light of my eyes,) and
the like; none of which appeared to
have any more effect on the object of
them than if they had been addressed
to somebody else.

Carlota rung the bell, which nobody
answered. “Nurse is busy with de
niña,” she said, when nobody answered
it; “I go myself to de cocina,”
(kitchen,)—she spoke English as yet
but imperfectly.

“There’s one comfort in delay,”
said the Major; “’tis better to boil a
ham too much than too little—and yet
I shouldn’t like it overdone either.”

Here they were alarmed by an exclamation
from Carlota. “Ah Dios!
Caramba! Ven, ven, mi niño!” cried
she from the kitchen.

The Major and Owen hastened to
the kitchen, which was so close at
hand that the smell of the dinner
sometimes anticipated its appearance
in the dining-room. Mrs Bags, the
new cook, was seated before the fire.
On the table beside her was an empty
champagne bottle, the fellow to which
protruded its neck from a pail in one
corner, where the Major had put it to
cool; and another bottle of more
robust build, about half-full, was also
beside her. The countenance of Mrs
Bags wore a pleasant and satisfied,
though not very intelligent smile, as
she gazed steadfastly on the ham that
was roasting on a spit before the fire—at
least one side of it was done
quite black, while the other oozed
with warm greese; for the machinery
which should have turned it was not
in motion.

“Caramba!” exclaimed Carlota,
with uplifted hands. “Que picarilla!“—(What
a knave of a woman!)

“Gracious heavens!” said my
grandfather, “she’s roasting it! Who
ever heard of a roast ham?”

“A many years,” remarked Mrs
Bags, without turning her head, and
still smiling pleasantly, “have I lived
in gentlemen’s families—” Here this
fragment of autobiography was terminated
by a hiccup.

“And the champagne bottle is
empty,” said Owen, handling it. “A
nice sort of cook this of yours, Major.
She seems to have constituted herself
butler, too.”

My grandfather advanced and
lifted the other bottle to his nose.[651]
“‘Tis the old rum,” he ejaculated
with a groan. “But if the woman
has drunk all this ’twill be the death
of her. Bags,” he called, “come
here.”

The spouse of Mrs Bags emerged
from a sort of scullery behind the
kitchen—a tall bony man, of an ugliness
quite remarkable, and with a
very red face. He was better known
by his comrades as Tongs, in allusion
probably to personal peculiarities; for
the length of his legs, the width of
his bony hips, and the smallness of
his head, gave him some distant resemblance
to that article of domestic
ironmongery; but as his wife called
herself Mrs Bags, and he was entered
in the regimental books by that name,
it was probably his real appellation.

“Run directly to Dr Fagan,” said
the Major, “and request him to come
here. Your wife has poisoned herself
with rum.”

“‘Tisn’t rum,” said Bags, somewhat
thickly—”’tis fits.”

“Fits!” said my grandfather.

“Fits,” doggedly replied Mr Bags,
who seemed by no means disturbed
at the alleged indisposition of his
wife—”she often gets them.”

“Don’t alarm yourself, Major,”
said Owen, “I’ll answer for it she
hasn’t drunk all the rum. The
scoundrel is half-drunk himself, and
smells like a spirit-vault. You’d
better take your wife away,” he said
to Bags.

“She can leave if she ain’t wanted,”
said Private Bags, with dignity: “we
never comes where we ain’t wanted.”
And he advanced to remove the lady.
Mrs Bags at first resisted this measure,
proceeding to deliver a eulogium
on her own excellent qualities, moral
and culinary. She had, she said, the
best of characters, in proof of which
she made reference to several persons
in various parts of the United Kingdom,
and, as she spoke, she smiled
more affably than ever.

“La picarilla no tiene verguenza,”
(the wretch is perfectly shameless,)
cried Carlota, who, having hastily
removed the ham from the fire, was
now looking after the rest of the
dinner. The fowls, cut up in small
pieces, were boiling along with the
sheep’s head, and, probably to save
time, the estimable Mrs Bags had put
the rice and raisins destined for a
pudding into the pot along with them—certainly,
as Owen remarked, a
bold innovation in cookery.

Still continuing to afford them
glimpses of her personal history, Mrs
Bags was at length persuaded to
retire along with her helpmate.

“What astonishing impudence,” said
the Major, shutting the door upon her,
“to pretend to be a cook, and yet
know no better than to roast a ham!”

Carlota, meanwhile, was busy in
remedying the disaster as far as she
could; cutting the ham into slices
and frying it, making a fricassee of the
fowls, and fishing the raisins out of
the pot, exclaiming bitterly all the
while, in English and Spanish, against
the tunanta (equivalent to female
scoundrel or scamp) who had spoilt
the only nice dinner her pobrecito,
her niño, her querido, (meaning my
grandfather,) had been likely to enjoy
for a long time, stopping occasionally
in her occupations to give him a consolatory
kiss. However, my grandfather
did not keep up the character
of a martyr at all well: he took the
matter really very patiently; and
when the excellent Carlota had set
the dinner on the table, and he tasted
the fine flavour of the maltreated
ham, he speedily regained his accustomed
good-humour.

“It is very strange,” he said presently,
while searching with a fork in
the dish before him, “that a pair of
fowls should have only three wings,
two legs, and one breast between
them.”

It certainly was not according to
the order of nature; nevertheless the
fact was so, all my grandfather’s
researches in the dish failing to bring
to light the missing members. This
however, was subsequently explained
by the discovery of the remains of
these portions of the birds in the
scullery, where they appeared to have
been eaten after being grilled; and
Mrs Bags’ reason for adopting this
mode of cooking them was also rendered
apparent—viz., that she might
secure a share for herself without immediate
detection.

However, all this did not prevent
them from making the best of what
was left, and the Major’s face beamed
as he drank Carlota’s health in a glass[652]
of the remaining bottle of champagne,
as brightly as if the dinner had been
completely successful.

“It is partly my fault, Owen,”
said the Major, “that you haven’t a
joint of mutton instead of this sheep’s
head. I ought to have been sharper.
The animal was actually sold in parts
before he was killed. Old Clutterbuck
had secured a haunch, and he a
single man you know—’tis thrown
away upon him. I offered him something
handsome for his bargain, but
he wouldn’t part with it.”

“We’re lucky to get any,” returned
Owen. “Never was such a scramble.
Old Fiskin, the commissary, and Mrs
O’Regan, the Major’s wife, both
swore the left leg was knocked down
to them; neither would give in, and
it was put up again, when the staff
doctor, Pursum, who had just arrived
in a great hurry, carried it off by
bidding eightpence more than either.
Not one of the three has spoken to
either of the others since; and people
say,” added Owen, “Mrs O’Regan
avers openly that Fiskin didn’t behave
like a gentleman.”

“God knows!” said my grandfather,
“’tis a difficult thing in such a
case to decide between politeness and
a consciousness of being in the right.
Fiskin likes a good dinner.”

The dinner having been done justice
to, Carlota removed the remains to a
side-table, and the Major was in the
act of compounding a bowl of punch,
when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” cried Carlota.

A light and timid step crossed the
narrow passage separating the outer
door from that of the room they sat
in, and there was another hesitating
tap at this latter. “Come in,” again
cried Carlota, and a young girl entered
with a basket on her arm.

“‘Tis Esther Lazaro,” said Carlota
in Spanish. “Come in, child; sit
here and tell me what you want.”

Esther Lazaro was the daughter of
a Jew in the town, whose occupations
were multifarious, and connected him
closely with the garrison. He discounted
officers’ bills, furnished their
rooms, sold them everything they
wanted—all at most exorbitant rates.
Still, as is customary with military
men, while perfectly aware that they
could have procured what he supplied
them with elsewhere at less expense,
they continued to patronise and abuse
him rather than take the trouble of
looking out for a more liberal dealer.
As the difficulties of the garrison increased,
he had not failed to take
advantage of them, and it was even
said he was keeping back large stores
of provisions and necessaries till the
increasing scarcity should enable
him to demand his own terms for
them.

His daughter was about fifteen
years old—a pretty girl, with hair of
the unusual colour of chestnut, plaited
into thick masses on the crown of her
head. Her skin was fairer than is
customary with her race—her eyes
brown and soft in expression, her
face oval, and her figure, even at this
early age, very graceful, being somewhat
more precocious than an English
girl’s at those years. She was a
favourite with the ladies of the garrison,
who often employed her to procure
feminine matters for them. Carlota,
particularly, had always treated
her with great kindness—and hence
the present visit. She had come, she
said timidly, to ask a favour—a great
favour. She had a little dog that she
loved. (Here a great commotion in the
basket seemed to say she had brought
her protégé with her.) He had been
given to her by a young school friend
who was dead, and her father would
no longer let her keep it, because, he
said, these were no times to keep
such creatures, when provisions, even
those fit for a dog, were so dear. He
was a very good little dog—would the
Señora take him?

“Let us look at him, Esther,”
said Owen—”I see you have brought
him with you.”

“He is not pretty,” said Esther,
blushing as she produced him from
the basket. He certainly was not,
being a small cur, marked with black
and white, like a magpie, with a tall
curling over his back. He did not
appear at all at his ease in society,
for he tried to shrink back again into
the basket.

“He was frightened,” she said,
“for he had been shut up for more
than a month. She had tried to keep
him in her bedroom, unknown to her
father, feeding him with part of her
own meals; but he had found it out,[653]
and had beaten her, and threatened
to kill the dog if ever he saw it
again.”

“Pobrecito!” (poor little thing,)
said the good Carlota—”we shall take
good care of it. Toma,” (take this,)
offering him a bit of meat. But he
crept under her chair, with his tail so
depressed, in his extreme bashfulness,
that the point of it came out between
his forelegs.

Carlota would have made the young
Jewess dine there forthwith, at the
side-table still spread with the remains
of the dinner; but she refused
to take anything, only sipping once
from a glass of wine that Carlota insisted
on making her drink of. Then
she rose, and, having tied the end of
a string that was fastened to the dog’s
collar to the leg of the table, to prevent
his following her, took her leave,
thanking Carlota very prettily.

“A Dios, Sancho!” she said to
the little dog, who wagged his tail
and gave her a piteous look as she
turned to go away—”A Dios,
Sancho,” she repeated, taking him up
and kissing him very affectionately.
The poor child was ready to cry.

“Come and see him every day,
my child,” said Carlota, “and when
better times come you shall have him
again.”

CHAPTER II.

Lazaro the Jew was seated towards
dusk that evening in a sort of office
partitioned off by an open railing
from a great store filled with a most
motley collection of articles. Sofas,
looking-glasses, washing-stands—bales
of goods in corded canvass—rows
of old boots purchased from officers’
servants—window curtains lying on
heaps of carpeting and matting—bedsteads
of wood and iron—crockery
and glass—were all piled indiscriminately.
Similar articles had also
overflowed along the passage down
the wooden steps leading to the
square stone court below, which was
lumbered with barrels, packing-cases,
and pieces of old iron. This court
was entered from the street, and an
arched door on one side of it, barred
and padlocked, opened on a large
warehouse, which nobody except the
Jew had set foot in for many months.

The Jew himself was a spare,
rather small man, with a thin eager
face, small sharp features, and a
scanty beard. Being by descent a
Barbary Jew, he wore the costume
peculiar to that branch of his race—a
black skull-cap; a long-skirted, collarless,
cloth coat, buttoned close, the
waist fastened with a belt; loose
light-coloured trousers and yellow
slippers—altogether he looked somewhat
like an overgrown scholar of
Christ’s Hospital. He was busied in
turning over old parchment-covered
ledgers, when an officer entered.

Von Dessel was a captain in Hardenberg’s
regiment. He was a square,
strong-built man, about forty, with
very light hair, as was apparent since
the governor’s order had forbidden the
use of powder to the troops, in consequence
of the scarcity of flour.
His thick, white, overhanging eyebrows,
close lips, and projecting under
jaw gave sternness to his countenance.

“Good afternoon, captain,” said
the Jew; “what I do for you to-day,
sare?”

“Do for me! By Gott, you have
done for me already, with your cursed
Hebrew tricks,” said the captain.
The German and the Jew met on a
neutral ground of broken English.

“I always treat every gentleman
fair, sare,” said the Jew. “I tell you,
captain, I lose by that last bill of
yours.”

“Der teufel! who gains, then?”
said Von Dessel, “for you cut me off
thirty per cent.”

The Jew shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t make it so, sare; the siege
makes it so. When the port is open,
you shall have more better exchange.”

“Well, money must be had,” said
the German. “What will you give
now for my bill for twenty pounds?”

The Jew consulted a book of
figures—then made some calculations
on paper—then appeared to consider
intently.

“Curse you, speak!” said the
choleric captain. “You have made up[654]
your mind about how much roguery
long ago.”

“Captain, sare, I give you feefty
dallars,” said the Jew.

The captain burst forth with a
volley of German execrations.

“Captain,” said the Jew presently,
“I like to please a gentleman if I
can. I give you one box of cigars
besides—real Cubas—one hundred
and feefty in a box.”

The captain at this broke forth
again, but checked himself presently
on the entrance of the Jew’s daughter,
who now returned from the Major’s.
She advanced quietly into the room,
made a little bow to the captain, took
off and laid aside her shawl, and,
taking up some work, sat down and
began to sew.

Von Dessel resumed his expostulation
in a milder tone. The Jew,
however, knew the money was necessary
to him, and only yielded so far
as to increase his box of cigars to
two hundred; and the captain, finding
he could get no better terms from
him, was forced to agree. While the
Jew was drawing out the bills, the
German gazed attentively at Esther,
with a good deal of admiration expressed
in his countenance.

“I can’t take the money now,”
said he, after signing the bills. “I
am going on duty. Bring it to
me to-morrow morning, at nine
o’clock.”

“I’m afraid I can’t, sare,” said
Lazaro; “too moch business.
Couldn’t you send for it, captain?”

“Not possible,” said the German;
“but you must surely have somebody
that might bring it—some trustworthy
person you know.” And his
eye rested on Esther.

“There’s my dater, sare,” said the
Jew—”I shall send her, if that will
do.”

“Good,” said the captain, “do not
forget,” and quitted the room forthwith.

He was scarcely gone when a pair
with whom the reader is already
slightly acquainted, Mr and Mrs
Bags, presented themselves. The
effects of their morning conviviality
had in a great measure disappeared.

“Your servant, sir,” said Bags.
The Jew nodded.

“We’ve got a few articles to dispose
of,” pursued Mr Bags, looking
round the room cautiously. “They
was left us,” he added in a low tone,
“by a diseased friend.”

“Ah!” said the Jew, “never
mind where you got ’em. Be quick—show
them.”

Mrs Bags produced from under her
cloak, first a tin teakettle, then a brass
saucepan; and Mr Bags, unbuttoning
his coat, laid on the table three knives
and a silver fork. Esther, passing
near the table at the time, glanced
accidentally at the fork, and recognised
the Flinders crest—a talbot, or
old English bloodhound.

“Father,” said she hastily, in
Spanish, “don’t have anything to do
with that—it must be stolen.” But
the Jew turned so sharply on her,
telling her to mind her work, that
she retreated.

The Jew took up the tea-kettle, and
examined the bottom to see that it
was sound—did the same with the
saucepan—looked at the knives narrowly,
and still closer at the fork—then
ranged them before him on the
table.

“For dis,” said he, laying his hand
on the tea-kettle, “we will say one
pound of rice; for dis (the saucepan)
two pounds of corned beef; for de
knives, a bottle of rum; and for de
fork, seex ounces of the best tea.”

“Curse your tea!” said Mr Bags.

“Yes!” said Mrs Bags, who had
with difficulty restrained herself during
the process of valuation, “we
doesn’t want no tea. And the things
is worth a much more than what you
say: the saucepan’s as good as new,
and the fork’s silver—”

“Plated,” said the Jew, weighing
it across his finger.

“A many years,” said Mrs Bags,
“have I lived in gentlemen’s families,
and well do I know plate from silver.
I’ve lived with Mrs Milson of Pidding
Hill, where everything was silver,
and nothing plated, even to the
handles of the doors; and a dear good
lady she was to me; many’s the gown,
she giv me. And I’ve lived with—”

Here the Jew unceremoniously interrupted
the train of her recollections
by pushing the things from before
him. “Take what I offer, or else
take your things away,” said he,
shortly.

[655]

Mr and Mrs Bags grumbled considerably.
The tea they positively refused
at any price: Mr Bags didn’t
like it, and Mrs Bags said it disagreed
with her. So the Jew agreed to give
them instead another bottle of rum,
a pound of onions, and two pounds of
beef; and with these terms they at
length closed, and departed with the
results of their barter.

During the altercation, a soldier of
another regiment had entered, and
stood silently awaiting his turn to be
attended to. He was a gaunt man,
with want written legibly in the hollows
of his face and the dismal eagerness
of his eye. He now came forward,
and with trembling hands unfolded
an old gown, and handed it to the
Jew.

“‘Tis no good to me,” said the
latter, giving it back, after holding it
against the light; “nothing but
holes.”

“But my wife has no other,” said
the man: “’tis her last stitch of
clothes, except her petticoat and a
blanket. I’ve brought everything else
to you.”

The Jew shrugged his shoulders
and spread out his hands, in token
that he could not help it.

“I swear ’tis her last!” reiterated
the man, as if he really fancied this
fact must give the garment as much
value in the Jew’s eyes as in his
own.

“I tell you I won’t have it!” said
the Jew, testily.

“Give me only a loaf for it, or but
one pound of potatoes,” said the soldier:
“’tis more than my wife and
four children have had among them
for two days. Half-rations for one,
among six of us, is too hard to live.”

“A pound of potatoes,” said the
Jew, “is worth four reals and a-half—eighteenpence;
your wife’s gown is
worth—nothing!”

“Then take this,” said the man,
beginning frantically to pull off his
uniform coat; “anything is better
than starving.”

The Jew laughed. “What!” said
he, “you think I don’t know better
than to buy a soldier’s necessaries,
eh? Ah, ah! no such a fool, I think,
my friend. What your captain say?—eh?”

The man struck his hand violently
on the table. “Then give me—or
lend me,” said he, “some food, much
or little, and I’ll work for you every
hour I’m off duty till you’re satisfied.
I will, Mr Lazaro, so help me
God!”

“I got plenty of men to work for
me,” said Lazaro; “don’t want any
more. Come again, when you’ve got
something to sell, my friend.”

The man rolled up the gown without
speaking, then lifted it over his
head, and dashed it into the furthest
corner of the store. He was hurrying
from the place, when, as if unwilling
to throw away his last chance, he
turned back, gathered it up, and,
thrusting it under his arm, quitted
the store with lingering steps, as if
he even yet hoped to be called back.
No such summons reached him, however;
but, immediately after he was
gone, Esther rose and stole softly
down the stairs. She overtook him
at the street-door opening from the
court before mentioned, and laid her
hand on his arm. The man turned
and glared on her. “What!—he’ll
buy it, will he?” said he.

“Hush!” said Esther—”keep it
for your poor wife. Look; I have no
money, but take these,” and she
placed in his hand two earrings
hastily detached from her ears.

The man stood looking at her for a
space, as if stupified, without closing
his hand on the trinkets that lay on
the palm; then, suddenly rousing
himself, he swore, with tears in his
eyes, that for this service he would
do for her anything on earth she
should require from him; but she
only begged him to go away at once,
and say nothing, lest her father should
overhear the transaction, who would
certainly be angry with her for it.

Bags and his wife had stopt in a
corner of the court, to pack up their
property in a commodious form for
conveyance, and had witnessed this
scene in silence. As soon as the
soldier had, in compliance with Esther’s
entreaties, disappeared, Bags
came forward.

“And your father would be angry,
would he, my dear?” said he.

“Oh, very—oh, so angry! Please
don’t stop me,” she said, trying to
pass him.

“And what’ll ye give me not to tell[656]
him, now?” asked Mr Bags. “Ain’t
ye got nothing for me?”

“No—oh, no—indeed, nothing. Do
let me pass.”

“Yes, you have; you’ve got this,
I think,” said Bags, snatching at a
silver-mounted comb glistening in her
hair, which, thus loosened, all fell
down on her shoulders as she darted
past him. “And now,” said Mr
Bags, inspecting his prize, “I think
me and that ‘ere cheating Jew is quits
for the silver fork. I’ll allow it’s
plated now.”

CHAPTER III.

Early the next morning (the 12th of
April) a rumour went through the
town that an English fleet was signalled
as in sight. The news roused
the starving people like electricity.
The pale spectres of men that, on the
previous day, had stalked so gauntly
through the dreary streets—the
wretched, sinking women, and children
careworn as grandfathers—poured
forth, with something like a
natural light in their hollow eyes, to
witness the joyful spectacle. The
sea-wall of the city was, like the margin
of a vast pool of Bethesda, thronged
with hopeful wretches awaiting
the coming of the angel.

The streets were instantly deserted.
Those who could not leave their
homes got on the housetops, but the
great mass of the population spread
itself along the line-wall, the Grand
Parade and Alameda, and the heights
skirting the chief slopes of the
Rock. Moors and Jews, Spaniards
and English, citizens and soldiers,
men, women, and children, of all
ages, grades, and nations, ranged
themselves indiscriminately wherever
they could obtain a view of the sea.

For some time the wished-for sight
was delayed by a thick fog that
spread itself across the Straits and
the entrance of the bay. A murmur
rose from each successive rank of
people that forced itself into a front
place on the line-wall. Terrible
doubts flew about, originating no one
knew where, but gaining strength and
confirmation as they passed from
mouth to mouth. On the summit of
the Rock behind them the signal for
a fleet flew steadily from the mast at
Middle Hill; but still in this, as in
all crowds, were some of little faith,
who were full of misgivings. Many
rushed up to the signal station, unable
to bear the pain of the delay. My
grandfather noticed the Jew Lazaro
among the throng, watching the event
with an anxious eye, though his anxiety
was from the opposite cause to
that of most of the spectators. The
arrival of supplies would at once
bring down the price of provisions,
and rob him, for the present, of his
expected profits; and as each successive
rumour obtained credence with
the crowd, his countenance brightened
as their hopes fell, and sank as they
again emerged from despondency.

Not far from him was an old
Genoese woman, wearing the quaint
red cloak, trimmed with black velvet,
that old Genoese women usually wear
in Gibraltar. She hovered round the
skirts of the crowd, occasionally
peering beneath an uplifted arm,
or thrusting it between two obstructing
figures, to catch a glimpse, though
it was evident that her dim eyes
would fail to discern the fleet when
it should come in view. Her thin
shrivelled features, relieved against
her black hood, were positively wolfish
from starvation. She frequently drew
one hand from beneath her cloak, and
gazed at something she held in it—then,
muttering, she would again conceal
it. My grandfather’s curiosity
was roused. He drew near and watched
for the reappearance of the object
that so engrossed her. It was a blue
mouldy crust of bread.

The wished-for spectacle was at
length revealed. “As the sun became
more powerful,” says Drinkwater,
rising into positive poetry
with the occasion, “the fog gradually
rose, like the curtain of a vast theatre,
discovering to the anxious garrison
one of the most beautiful and pleasing
scenes it is possible to conceive. The
convoy, consisting of near a hundred
vessels, were in a compact body, led
by several men-of-war—their sails
just filled enough for steerage, while
the majority of the line-of-battle[657]
ships lay to under the Barbary shore,
having orders not to enter the bay,
lest the enemy should molest them
with their fireships.”

Then rose a great shout—at once
the casting-off of long-pressing anxiety
and the utterance of delight. Happy
tears streamed down haggard faces
overgrown with hair, and presently
men turned to one another, smiling
in the face of a stranger neighbour
as in that of an old friend, while a
joyful murmur, distilled from many
languages, rose upward. Assuredly,
if blessings are of any avail, the soul
of Admiral Darby, who commanded
the relieving fleet, is at this moment
in Paradise.

Friends and relations now began
to search for one another in the
crowd, which broke quickly into
knots, each contriving how to enjoy
together the plenty that was to
descend upon them. My grandfather’s
eye at this juncture was
again attracted by the old Genoese
woman. When the crowd shouted,
she screened her eyes with her
withered hand, and, with her nostril
spread, her chin fallen, in her eagerness
gazed towards the sea—but
presently shook her head, discerning
nothing. Then she plucked by the
arm a joyful Spaniard.

“Es verdad? Por Dios, es verdad?”
she cried; “jura! jura!“—(Is it
true? Swear by Heaven it is
true.)

“Si, si,” said the Spaniard, pointing;
“es verdad,” (’tis true.) “You
may see them yourself.”

Instantly the old woman, for the
last time, drew forth her treasured
crust, and began to devour it, muttering,
as she tore away each mouthful,
“Mas mañana! mas mañana!”
(I shall have more to-morrow—more
to-morrow!)

After the crowd had partially dispersed,
Owen was returning to his
quarters to breakfast, when, as he
paused to open the door, he heard
a voice he thought he knew crying
out in affright in the rooms opposite,
where Von Dessel resided. Presently
the door of the quarters was opened,
and the flushed and frightened face
of Esther Lazaro appeared, as she
struggled to escape from Von Dessel,
who held her arm.

“Señor, señor, speak to the gentleman!”
she cried to Owen.

“Leetle foolish girl,” said Von
Dessel, grinning a smile on seeing
him; “she frightens at nothing.
Come in, child”—trying to shut the
door.

“Why don’t you let her alone?”
said Owen; “don’t you see she
doesn’t like you?”

“Pouf!” said the captain. “We
all have trouble with them sometimes—you
must know that well.”

“No, by Jupiter!” cried Frank
Owen. “If I couldn’t gain them
willingly, they might go to the
devil for me. But you hurt her—pray
let her go—you must indeed.”

“Do you mind your own affair,”
said the captain, “and don’t
meddle;” and, exerting his strength,
he drew Esther in, and partially
succeeded in shutting the door—she
calling the while again on Owen
to help her. Frank stepped forward,
and, putting his foot against the
door, sent it into the room, causing
Captain Von Dessel, who was behind
it, to stagger back with some
violence, and to quit his hold of
Esther, who ran down stairs.

“Very good, sir,” said the captain,
stalking grimly out of his room, pale
with rage. “You have thought
right to interfere with me, and to
insult me. By Gott! I will teach
you better, young man. Shall we
say in one hour, sir, in the Fives’
Court?”

Owen nodded. “At your pleasure,”
said he, and, entering his own quarters,
shut the door.

Meanwhile my grandfather walked
about with the telescope he had
brought with him to look after the
fleet under his arm, enjoying the
unusual sight of happy faces around
him. And he has remarked it as a
singular feature of humanity, that
this prospect of relief from physical
want inspired a far more deep and
universal joy than he had witnessed
in any public rejoicings arising from
such causes as loyalty or patriotism
evinced at a coronation or the
news of a great victory; and hence
my grandfather takes occasion to
express a fear that human nature, as
well as other nature, is, except
among the rarer class of souls, more[658]
powerfully and generally influenced
by its animal propensities than by
more refined causes.

He was so engrossed with the
philanthropic pursuit of enjoying the
joy of the multitude, and the philosophic
one of extracting moral reflections
therefrom, that he quite forgot
he had not breakfasted. He was
just beginning to be reminded of the
circumstance by a feeling of hollowness
in the region of the stomach,
and to turn his steps homeward, when
a light hand was laid on his arm.
My grandfather turned, and beheld
the face of the young Jewess looking
wistfully in his.

She began at first to address him
in Spanish—the language she spoke
most naturally; but, quickly perceiving
her mistake on hearing the
extraordinary jargon in which he
replied, (for it is a singular fact that
nobody but Carlota, who taught
him, could understand my grandfather’s
Spanish,) she exchanged it
for his own tongue. She told him
in a few hurried words of the quarrel
Owen had incurred on her account
with Von Dessel, and of the challenge
she had overheard given by
the latter, beseeching the major to
hasten to prevent the result.

“In the Fives’ Court! in an
hour!” said my grandfather. “When
did this happen?”

Esther thought nearly an hour
ago—she had been almost so long
seeking my grandfather.

“I’ll go, child—I’ll go at once,”
said the Major. “With Von Dessel,
too, as if he could find nobody else
to quarrel with but the best swordsman
in the garrison. ‘Souls and
bodies’ quoted my grandfather,
‘hath he divorced three.'”

With every stride he took, the
Major’s uneasiness was augmented.
At any time his anxiety would have
been extreme while peril threatened
Frank; but now, when he was calculating
on him as a companion at
many a well-spread table, when they
might forget their past miseries, it
peculiarly affected him.

“To think,” muttered my grandfather,
“that these two madmen
should choose a time when everybody
is going to be made so happy,
by getting plenty to eat, to show
their gratitude to Providence by
cutting one another’s throats!”

The danger to Owen was really
formidable; for, though a respectable
swordsman, he was no unusual proficient
in the graceful art, while his
opponent was not only, as my grandfather
had said, the best swordsman
in the garrison, but perhaps the
best at that time in the army. As
a student in Germany he had distinguished
himself in some sanguinary
duels; and since his arrival in Gibraltar,
a Spanish gentleman, a very
able fencer, had fallen beneath his
arm.

“God grant,” said my grandfather
to himself, as he neared the
Fives’ Court, “that we may settle
this without the perdition of souls.
Frank, my dear boy, we could better
spare a better man!”

On attempting to enter the Fives’
Court he was stopped by the master,
posted at the door. “It was engaged,”
he said, “for a private
match.”

“Ay, ay,” said my grandfather,
pushing past him; “a pretty match,
indeed! Ay, ay—pray God we can
stop it!”

Finding the inner door locked, the
Major, who was well acquainted
with the locality—for, when he had
nothing else particular to do, he
would sometimes mark for the
players for a rubber or two—ascended
the stairs to the gallery.

About the centre of the court
stood the combatants. All preliminaries
had been gone through—for
they were stripped to their shirts—and
the seconds (one a German, the
adjutant of Hardenberg’s regiment—the
other, one Lieutenant Rushton,
an old hand at these affairs, and
himself a fire-eater) stood by, each
with a spare sword in his hand. In
a corner was the German regimental
surgeon, his apparatus displayed on
the floor, ready for an emergency.
Rushton fully expected Owen to
fall, and only hoped he might
escape without a mortal wound.
Von Dessel himself seemed of the
same opinion, standing square and
firm as a tower, scarcely troubling
himself to assume an attitude, but
easy and masterly withal. Both contempt
and malice were expressed for[659]
his antagonist in his half-shut eyes
and sardonic twist of the corners of
his mouth.

“Owen, Owen, my boy!” shouted
my grandfather, rushing to the front
of the gallery, and leaning over, as
the swords crossed—”stop, for God’s
sake. You mustn’t fight that swashbuckler!
They say he hath been fencer
to the Sophy,” roared the Major, in
the words of Sir Toby Belch.

The combatants just turned their
heads for a moment to look at the
interrupter, and again crossed swords.

Immediately on finding his remonstrance
disregarded, the Major descended
personally into the arena—not
by the ordinary route of the stairs,
but the shorter one of a perpendicular
drop from the gallery, not effected
with the lightness of a feathered Mercury.
But the clatter of his descent
was lost in the concussion of a discharge
of artillery that shook the
walls. Instantly the air was alive
with shot and hissing shells; and before
the echoes of the first discharge
had ceased, the successive explosion
of the shells in the air, and the crashing
of chimneys, shattered doors, and
falling masonry, increased the uproar.
One shell burst in the court, filling
it with smoke. My grandfather felt,
for a minute, rather dizzy with the
shock. When the smoke cleared, by
which time he had partially recovered
himself, the first object that caught
his eye was Von Dessel lying on the
pavement, and the doctor stooping
over him. The only other person
hurt was Rushton, a great piece of
the skin of whose forehead, detached
by a splinter, was hanging over his
right eye. Von Dessel had sustained
a compound fracture of the thigh,
while the loss of two fingers from his
right hand had spoiled his thrust in
tierce for ever.

“What can be the matter?” said
my grandfather, looking upward, as
a second flight of missiles hurtled overhead.

“Matter enough,” quoth Rushton,
mopping the blood from his eye with
his handkerchief; “those cursed
devils of Spaniards are bombarding
the town.”

The Major went up to Owen, and
squeezed his hand. “We won’t abuse
the Spaniards for all that,” said
he—”they’ve saved your life, my
boy.”

CHAPTER IV.

Enraged at seeing their blockade
evaded by the arrival of Darby’s fleet,
the Spaniards revenged themselves
by directing such a fire upon Gibraltar,
from their batteries in the Neutral
Ground, as in a short time reduced
the town to a mass of ruins. This
misfortune was rendered the more intolerable
to the besieged, as it came in
the moment of exultation and general
thanksgiving. While words of congratulation
were passing from mouth
to mouth, the blow descended, and
“turned to groans their roundelay.”

The contrast between the elation
of the inhabitants when my grandfather
entered the Fives’ Court, and
their universal consternation and despair
when he quitted it, was terrible.
The crowd that had a few minutes
before so smilingly and hopefully entered
their homes, now fled from them
in terror. Again the streets were
thronged by the unhappy people, who
began to believe themselves the sport
of some powerful and malevolent demon.
Whole families, parents, children,
and servants, rushed together
into the streets, making their way to
the south to escape the missiles that
pursued them. Some bore pieces of
furniture snatched up in haste, and
apparently seized because they came
first to hand; some took the chairs
they had been sitting on; one man
my grandfather noticed bearing away
with difficulty the leaf of a mahogany
table, leaving behind the legs which
should have supported it; and a
woman had a crying child in one
hand, and in the other a gridiron, still
reeking with the fat of some meat she
had been cooking. Rubbish from the
houses began to strew the streets;
and here and there a ragged breach
in a wall rent by the cannon afforded
a strange incongruous glimpse of the
room inside, with its mirrors, tables,
and drapery, just as the inhabitants
left them. Armed soldiers were hastening[660]
to their different points of
assembly, summoned by bugles that
resounded shrilly amid the din, and
thrusting their way unceremoniously
through the impeding masses of fugitives.

The house of the Jew Lazaro was
one of the first that was seriously injured.
The blank wall of the great
warehouse before mentioned, that
faced the street, had, either from age
or bad masonry, long before exhibited
several cracks. A large segment,
bounded by two of these cracks, had
been knocked away by a shot, and
the superincumbent mass falling in
consequence, the great store, and all its
hoarded treasures, appeared through
the chasm.

The Jew’s instincts had, at first,
led him to save himself by flight.
But, on returning timorously to look
after his property, the sight of the
ruined wall, and the unprotected
hoards on which he had so securely
reckoned as the source of wealth,
obliterated in his mind, for the time,
all sense of personal danger. Seeing
a party of soldiers issuing from a wine-house
near, he eagerly besought them
to assist him in removing his property
to a place of safety, promising to reward
them largely for their risk and
trouble.

One of the soldiers thus appealed
to was Mr Bags.

“Ho, ho!” said Mr Bags; “here’s
a chance—here’s a pleasure, comrades.
We can help Mr Lazaro, who
is always so good to us—this here
Jewish gentleman, that gives such
liberal prices for our things. Certainly—we’ll
remove ’em all, and not
charge him nothing. Oh—oh—ah!”
And, to give point to his irony, Mr
Bags distorted his face hideously, and
winked upon his friends.

The idea of giving Lazaro any
assistance was considered a capital
joke, and caused a great deal of mirth
as they walked towards the store, to
which the Jew eagerly led the way.

“If there’s anything good to eat
or drink in the store, we may remove
some of it, though it won’t be on our
backs, eh, boys?” said Bags, as he
stept in advance, over a heap of rubbish,
into the store.

“These first—these, my friends,”
cried the Jew, going up to a row of
barrels, standing a little apart from
the crowded masses of articles.

“Oh, these first, eh?” said Bags;
“they’re the best, be they? Thank
you, Mr Lazaro; we’ll see what’s in
’em;” and, taking up a gimlet that
lay near, he proceeded to bore a hole
in one of the barrels, desiring a friend,
whom he addressed as Tim, to tap
the next one.

“Thieves!” screamed the Jew, on
witnessing this proceeding, seizing
Bags’ arm, “leave my store—go out—let
my goods alone!” Bags lent
him a shove that sent him into a corner,
and perceiving liquor flowing
from the hole he had drilled, applied
his mouth to the orifice.

“Brandy,” said he, as he paused
for breath, “real Cognac. Comrades,
here’s luck to that ‘ere shot that
showed us the way in;” and he took
another diligent pull at the hole.

Meantime his comrades had not
been idle; other barrels were opened,
and their contents submitted to a critical
inspection.

The Jew tried various modes to
induce them to relinquish their booty:
first threats—then offers of reward—then
cajolery; and, at last, attempted
to interpose and thrust them from
their spoil. A shot from the enemy
entering the store, enfiladed a long
line of barrels, scattering the staves
and their contents. The place was
instantly flooded with liquor—wine,
molasses, spirits, and oil, ran in a
mingled stream, soaking the débris of
biscuit and salt provisions that strewed
the floor. One soldier was struck
dead, and Mr Bags only escaped destruction
by the lucky accident of
having his head at that moment apart
from the barrel which had engrossed
his attention, and which was knocked
to pieces.

The Jew, partly stunned by a
wound in the forehead from the
splinter of a barrel, and partly in
despair at the destruction of his property,
came to the entrance of the
store, seating himself among the
rubbish. Other plunderers speedily
followed the example of the marauding
soldiers, but he made no attempt
to stop them as they walked past him.
My grandfather, passing at the time
on his way home, was horrified at the
sight of him. Flour from a splintered[661]
barrel had been scattered over his
face, and blood from the wound in
his forehead, trickling down, had
clotted it on his cheeks and scanty
beard, giving him an aspect at
once appalling and disgusting. His
daughter had waited at the door of the
Fives’ Court till she saw Owen come
forth in safety, and had then availed
herself of the protection of the Major
as far as her own home. Shrieking
at the dismal sight, she sprang forward
and threw herself before the
Jew, casting her arms around him.
This seemed to rouse him. He arose—looked
back into the store; and
then, as if goaded by the sight of the
wreck into intolerable anguish, he
lifted his clenched hands above his
head, uttering a sentence of such
fearful blasphemy, that a devout
Spaniard, who was emerging from
the store with some plunder, struck
him on the mouth. He never heeded
the blow, but continued to rave, till,
suddenly overcome by loss of blood
and impotent rage, he dropt senseless
on the ground.

My grandfather, calling some soldiers
of his regiment who were passing,
desired them to convey him to
the hospital at the South Barracks,
and, again taking the terrified and
weeping Esther under his protection,
followed to see the unfortunate
Jew cared for.

At the various parades that day
Mr Bags was reported absent, being
in fact engaged in pursuits of a much
more interesting nature than his military
duties. A vast field of interprise
was opened to him and other
adventurous spirits, of which they
did not fail to avail themselves, in the
quantity of property of all kinds
abandoned by the owners, in houses
and shops where locks and bolts were
no longer a protection; and although
the firing, which ceased for an hour
or two in the middle of the day, was
renewed towards evening and continued
with great fury, the ardour of
acquisition by no means abated.

About midnight a sentry on the
heights of Rosia (the name given to
a portion of the rugged cliffs towards
the south and near the hospital)
observed, in the gloom, a figure lurking
about one of the batteries, and
challenged it. Receiving no answer,
he threatened to fire, when Bags came
forward reluctantly, with a bundle in
his hand.

“Hush, Bill,” said Bags, on finding
the sentry was a personal friend—”don’t
make a row: it’s only me,
Bags—Tongs, you know,” he added,
to insure his recognition.

“What the devil are you doing
there, you fool?” asked his friend in
a surly tone—”don’t you know the
picquet’s after you?”

“I’ve got some little things here
that I want to lay by, where nobody
won’t see ’em, in case I’m catched,”
returned Bags. “Don’t you take no
notice of me, Bill, and I’ll be off
directly.”

“What have ye got?” asked Bill,
whose curiosity was awakened by the
proceedings of his friend.

“Some little matters that I picked
up in the town,” returned Bags.
“Pity you should be on guard to-day,
Bill—there was some pretty pickings.
I’ll save something for you, Bill,”
added Bags, in an unaccountable
access of generosity.

The sentry, however, who was a
person in every way worthy of the
friendship of Mr Bags, expressed no
gratitude for the considerate offer,
but began poking at the bundle with
his bayonet.

“Hands off, Bill,” said Bags,
“they won’t abear touching.”

“Let’s see ’em,” said Bill.

“Not a bit on it,” said Bags;
“they ain’t aworth looking at.”

“Suppose I was to call the sergeant
of the guard,” said Bill.

“You wouldn’t do such a action?”
said Bags, in a tone strongly expressive
of disgust at such baseness.
“No, no, Bill, you ain’t that sort of
fellow, I’m sure.”

“It’s my dooty,” said the sentry,
placing the butt of his musket on the
ground, and leaning his elbow on the
muzzle. “You see that what you
said, Tongs, was very true, about its
being hard upon me to be carrying
about this here damnable weppin”
(slapping the barrel of the musket)
“all day for fourpence ha’penny,
while you are making your fortin.
It is, Tongs, d—d hard.”

“Never mind; there’ll be plenty
left to-morrow,” said Bags in a consolatory
tone.

[662]

“What shall we say, now, if I lets
ye hide it?” said Bill, pointing to the
bundle. “Half-shares?”

“This ain’t like a friend, Bill,”
returned Tongs, highly disgusted
with this ungenerous proposal. “Nobody
ever knowed me interfere with
a comrade when I was on sentry.
How long ago is it since I let ye stay
in my box an hour, till ye was sober
enough to walk into barracks, when
I was sentry at the gate? Why, the
whole bundle ain’t worth eighteenpence—and
I’ve worked hard for
it.”

“Half-shares?” reiterated Bill, not
melted in the least by the memory of
ancient benefits.

“No, by G—!” said Bags in great
wrath.

“Serg——,” began Bill in an elevated
voice, porting his arms at the
same time.

“Stop!” said Bags; “don’t call
the sergeant. Half is better nor
nothing, if ye’re going to behave like
that. We’ll say half, then.”

“Ah,” said Bill, returning to his
former position—”I thought we
should agree. And now let’s see
’em, Tongs.”

Muttering still his disapprobation
of this unworthy treatment, Bags
put his bundle on the stone embrasure
of the battery, and began to
unfold it.

Eighteenpence was certainly a low
valuation. Bags appeared to have
visited a jeweller’s shop. Watches,
rings, bracelets, gold chains, and
brooches glittered on the dingy surface
of the handkerchief.

“My eye!” said Bill, unable to
repress a low laugh of delight—”why,
we’ll turn bankers when we’ve
sold ’em. Tongs and Co., eh?” said
Bill with considerable humour.

Bags, however, told him he was
altogether mistaken in his estimate—most
of the things were pinchbeck,
he said, and the stones all glass;
and, to save Bill any trouble, he
offered to dispose of them himself to
the best possible advantage, and
bring his partner his share of the
proceeds, which would certainly be
at least ninepence, and might perhaps
be half-a-dollar. This arrangement
did not, however, meet the approbation
of the astute William, who
insisted on dividing the spoils by lot.
But here, again, there was a slight
misunderstanding, for both fixed
their affections on a gigantic watch,
which never could have been got into
any modern pocket, and whose face
was ornamented with paintings from
the heathen mythology. Both of
them supposed, from the size and the
brilliancy of the colours, that this
must be of immense value. Finding
they were not likely to come to a
speedy arrangement on this point,
they agreed to postpone the division
of the spoils till morning.

“I’ll tell ye where to put it, Bags,”
said Bill. “These here guns in this
battery haven’t been fired for years,
nor ain’t likely to be, though they
loaded ’em the other day. Take out the
wad of this one, and put in the bundle.”

Bags approved of the idea, withdrew
the wad from the muzzle of the
gun, put in the bundle as far as his
arm would reach, and then replaced
the wad.

“Honour bright?” said Bags, preparing
to depart.

“Honour bright,” returned Bill;
and Bags disappeared.

Nevertheless he did not feel sufficient
confidence in his confederate’s
integrity to justify his quitting the
place and leaving him to his own
devices. He thought Bill might
perhaps avail himself of his absence
to remove the treasure, or be guilty
of some other treachery. He therefore
crept back again softly, till he
got behind a crag from whence he
had a full view of the battery.

For some time Bill walked sternly
to and fro on his post. Bags observed,
however, that he always included the
gun where the deposit lay in his perambulations,
which became shorter
and shorter. At last he halted close
to it, laid down his musket against
the parapet, and, approaching the
muzzle of the gun, took out the wad.

At this moment a neighbouring
sentry gave an alarm. The guard
turned out, and Bill, hastily replacing
the wad, resumed his arms and
looked about for the cause of the
alarm. About a mile out in the bay
several red sparks were visible. As
he looked there were a corresponding
number of flashes, and then a whistling
of shot high overhead told that[663]
the guns from which they had been
discharged had been laid too high.
The Spanish gunboats were attacking
the south.

The drums beat to arms, and in a
few minutes the battery was manned
with artillerymen. To the inconceivable
horror of Bags and Bill, the
whole of the guns in the battery were
altered in position, and a gunner took
post at the rear of each with a lighted
portfire. Then a flushed face might
be seen, by the blue light of the portfires,
rising from behind a neighbouring
piece of rock, the eyes staring, the
mouth open in agonised expectation.

“Number one—fire!” said the
officer in command, to the gunner in
rear of the gun in which Mr Bags
had invested his capital.

“No, no!” shouted Bags, rising
wildly from behind the rock.

The portfire touched the vent—there
was a discharge that seemed
to rend Mr Bags’s heartstrings and
blow off the roof of his skull—and
the clever speculation on which he
had counted for making his fortune
ended, like many others, in smoke.
He gazed for a moment out in the
direction of the flash, as if he expected
to see the watches and rings
gleaming in the air; then he turned
and disappeared in the darkness.

After a few ineffectual discharges,
the Spaniards seemed to become
aware of the badness of their aim,
and to take measures to amend it.
Several shot struck the hospital; and
some shells falling through the roof,
exploded in the very wards where
the sick lay. The unhappy Jew,
Lazaro, lying in a feverish and semi-delirious
state from his former hurt
and agitation, was again struck by a
splinter of a shell which burst in the
ward where the Major’s care had
seen him deposited, blowing up the
ceiling and part of the wall. In the
midst of the confusion, the Jew,
frantic with terror, rushed unrestrained
from the building, followed
only by his daughter, who was
watching by his bed. He was not
missed for some time, and the attempts
to discover him, made after
his disappearance became known,
were of no avail. A neighbouring
sentry had seen a white figure, followed
by another crying after it,
dash across the road and disappear
in the bushes; but the search made
about the vicinity of the spot failed
in detecting any traces of them, and
those who troubled themselves to
think of the matter at all, surmised
that they had fallen into the
sea.

CHAPTER V.

For some pages, my grandfather’s
note-book is filled with memoranda of
singular casualties from the enemy’s
shot, wonderful escapes, and hasty
moments of quietude and attempted
comfort snatched “even in the cannon’s
mouth.” The fire from the
Spanish batteries shortly reduced the
town to ruins, and the gunboats at
night precluded all hope of peace and
oblivion after the horrors of the day.
Dreams, in which these horrors were
reproduced, were interrupted by still
more frightful nocturnal realities. One
of the curious minor evils that my
grandfather notices, as resulting from
an incessant cannonade, to those not
engaged in it actively enough to withdraw
their attention from the noise,
is the extreme irritation produced by
its long continuance, amounting, in
persons of nervous and excitable
temperament, to positive exasperation.

Some of the numerous incidents he
chronicles are also recorded by Drinkwater,
especially that of a man who
recovered after being almost knocked
to pieces by the bursting of a shell.
“His head was terribly fractured, his
left arm broken in two places, one of
his legs shattered, the skin and
muscles torn off his right hand, the
middle finger broken to pieces, and
his whole body most severely bruised
and marked with gunpowder. He
presented so horrid an object to the
surgeons, that they had not the
smallest hopes of saving his life, and
were at a loss what part to attend
to first. He was that evening trepanned;
a few days afterwards his
leg was amputated, and other wounds
and fractures dressed. Being possessed[664]
of a most excellent constitution,
nature performed wonders in his
favour, and in eleven weeks the cure
was completely effected. His name,”
continues Mr Drinkwater, with what
might be deemed irony—if the worthy
historian ever indulged in that figure
of rhetoric—”is Donald Ross, and
he” (i. e. the remaining fragment of
the said Donald Ross) “now enjoys
his sovereign’s bounty in a pension
of ninepence a-day for life.” One
might almost suppose that Mr Hume
had some hand in affixing the gratuity;
but in those days there was a
king who knew not Joseph.

My grandfather appears to have
had also an adventure of his own.
During a cessation of the cannonade,
he was sitting one morning on a fragment
of rock, in the garden behind
his quarters, reading his favourite
author. The firing suddenly recommenced,
and a long-ranged shell,
striking the ground at some distance,
rolled towards him. He glanced
half-absently at the hissing missile;
and whether he actually did not for
a moment recollect its character, or
whether, as was often the case on
such occasions, the imminence of the
danger paralysed him, he sat immovably
watching it as it fizzed within a
couple of yards of him. Unquestionably
in another three seconds my
grandfather’s earthly tabernacle would
have been resolved into its original
atoms, had not the intrepid Carlota
(who was standing near gathering
flowers to stick in her hair) darted on
him, and, seizing him by the arm,
dragged him behind a wall. They were
scarce under shelter when the shell
exploded—the shock laying them both
prostrate, though unhurt but for a
few bruises—while the stone on which
the Major had been sitting was
shivered to atoms. To the description
of this incident in the Major’s
journal are appended a pious reflection
and a short thanksgiving, which,
being entirely of a personal nature, I
omit.

The stores landed from the fleet
were in a very precarious position.
Owing to the destruction of the
buildings, there were no means of
placing them where they might be
sheltered at once from the fire of the
enemy and from rain. Some were
piled under sails spread out as a sort
of roof to protect them, and some,
that were not likely to sustain immediate
injury from the damp air of
such a depository, were ordered to be
conveyed to St Michael’s Cave.

This cave is one of the most curious
features of the Rock. Its mouth—an
inconsiderable opening in the slope of
the mountain—is situated many hundred
feet above the sea. Within, it
expands into a spacious hall, the roof,
invisible in the gloom, supported by
thick pillars formed by the petrified
droppings of the rock. From this
principal cavern numerous smaller
ones branch off, leading, by dark,
broken, and precipitous passages, to
unknown depths. Along one of
these, according to tradition, Governor
O’Hara advanced farther than
ever man had gone before, and left
his sword in the inmost recess to be
recovered by the next explorer who
should be equally adventurous. But
whether it is that the tradition is unfounded,
or that the weapon has been
carried off by some gnome, or that
the governor’s exploit is as yet unrivalled,
the sword has never been
brought to light.

For the duty of placing the stores
here, the name of Lieutenant Owen
appeared in the garrison orders. My
grandfather having nothing particular
to do, and being anxious to escape as
much as possible for a short time from
the din of the bombardment, offered
to accompany Frank in the execution
of this duty.

The day was dark and gloomy, and
the steep path slippery from rain, so
that the mules bearing the stores
toiled with difficulty up the ascent.
At first, my grandfather and Owen
indulged in cheerful conversation; but
shortness of breath soon reduced the
Major to monosyllables, and the latter
part of the journey was accomplished
in silence. Frequently the Major
paused and faced about, at once to
look at the prospect and to take
breath. Far below, on his right, was
seen the southern end of the town,
consisting partly of a heap of ruins,
with here and there a rafter sticking
out of the mass, partly of roofless
walls, among which was occasionally
heard the crashing of shot; but the
guns that discharged them, as well as[665]
those that replied from the town, were
invisible from this point. Directly
beneath him the ground afforded a
curious spectacle, being covered with
tents, huts, and sheds, of all sorts
and sizes, where the outcast population
of the ruined town obtained a
precarious and insufficient shelter.
The only building visible which still
retained its former appearance was
the convent—the governor’s residence—which
was protected by bomb-proofs,
and where working-parties
were constantly engaged in repairing
the injuries. The bay, once thickly
wooded with masts and dotted with
sails, was now blank and cheerless;
only the enemy’s cruisers were visible,
lying under the opposite shore of
Spain.

Owen and my grandfather arrived
at the mouth of the cave somewhat
in advance of the convoy. To their
surprise a smoke was issuing from it;
and, as they approached nearer, their
nostrils were greeted by an odour at
once savoury and spicy. Going softly
up they looked in.

Mr Bags and a couple of friends
were seated round a fire, over which
was roasting a small pig, scientifically
butchered and deprived of his hair,
and hung up by the heels. The fire,
in the absence of other fuel, (of which
there was an extreme scarcity in
Gibraltar,) was supplied by bundles
of cinnamon plundered from the store
of some grocer, and, as the flame
waxed low, Mr Bags took a fresh
bundle from a heap of that fragrant
spice by his side, and laid it on the
embers. Mrs Bags was occupied in
basting the pig with lard, which she
administered from time to time with
an iron ladle.

Presently Mr Bags tapped on the
pig’s back with his knife. It sent
forth a crisp crackling sound, that
made my grandfather’s mouth water,
and caused Mr Bags to become impatient.

“Polly,” said he, “it’s my opinion
it’s been done these three minutes.
I can’t wait much longer.”

And he cast a glance at the other
two soldiers, (in whom, as well as in
Bags, Owen recognised men of his
company who had been reported absent
for some days, and were supposed
to have gone over to the enemy,)
to ascertain if their opinions tallied
with his own on this point.

“It can’t be no better,” said one,
taking hold of the pig’s neck between
his finger and thumb, which he afterwards
applied to his mouth.

“I can’t abear my meat overdone,”
said the third. “What I say is, let
them that likes to wait, wait, and let
them that wants to begin, begin.” So
saying, he rose, and was about to attack
the ribs of the porker with his
knife.

“Do stop a minute—that’s a dear,”
said Mrs Bags; “another bundle of
cinnament will make it parfect. I’ll
give ye something to stay your
stomach;” and stepping to a nook
in the wall of the cavern, where stood
a large barrel, she filled a pewter
measure, and handed it to the impatient
advocate for underdone pork,
who took a considerable dram, and
passed it to his companions.

“Cinnament’s better with pork
nor with most things,” said Bags.
“It spoils goose, because it don’t
agree with the inions, and it makes
fowls wishy-washy; but it goes excellent
with pig.”

“What’s left in the larder?” asked
one of the party.

“There’s a week’s good eating yet,”
said Mrs Bags, “and we might make
it do ten days or a fortnight.”

“Well!” said the other, “they
may say what they like about sieges,
but this is the jolliest time ever I had.”

“It’s very well by day,” said Bags,
“but the nights is cold, and the company
of that ghost ain’t agreeable—I
seed it again last night.”

“Ah!” said his friend, “what
was it like, Tongs?”

“Something white,” returned Bags
in an awful whisper, “with a ghost’s
eyes. You may allays know a ghost
by the eyes. I was just rising up,
and thinking about getting a drink,
for my coppers was hot, when it
comes gliding up from that end of the
cave. I spoke to you, and then I
couldn’t see it no more, because it
was varnished.”

“Ghosts always varnishes if you
speak,” said Mrs Bags. “But never
mind the spirit now—let’s look after
the flesh,” added the lady, who possessed
a fund of native pleasantry:
“the pig’s done to a turn.”

[666]

At this interesting juncture, and
just as they were about to fall to, the
footsteps of the approaching mules
struck on their ears. Owen went to
meet the party, and hastily selecting
six men from it, advanced, and desired
them to secure the astounded
convivialists.

On recovering from their first astonishment,
Bags begged Owen would
overlook the offence; they were only,
he pleaded, having a little spree—times
had been hard lately. Mrs
Bags, as usual, displayed great eloquence,
though not much to the purpose.
She seemed to have some idea
that an enumeration of the gentlemen’s
families she had lived in, and
the high estimation in which she had
been held in all, would really tell
powerfully in favour of the delinquents,
and persevered accordingly,
till they were marched off in custody
of the escort, when she made a final
appeal to my grandfather, as the last
gentleman whose family she had lived
in—with what advantage to the
household the reader knows. The
Major, who could not forgive the
roasting of his ham, called her, in reply,
a “horrible woman,” but, at the
same time, whispered to Owen that
he hoped the fellows would not be
severely punished. “If we had
caught them after dinner,” said he, “I
shouldn’t have pitied them so much.”

“Never mind them,” said Owen;
“let us proceed to business. We
must select the driest spot we can find
to put the stores in.”

[Here, by way of taking leave of
Mr Bags, I may remark, that he narrowly
escaped being hanged as a
plunderer—failing which, he was sentenced
by a court-martial to receive
a number of lashes, which I refrain
from specifying, because it would certainly
make the hair of a modern
humanitarian turn white with horror.]

“Come along, Major,” said Owen;
“perhaps we may find more of these
scoundrels in the course of our researches.”

The Major did not move; he was
earnestly regarding the carcase of the
pig, that steamed hissing above the
embers.

“Queer idea that of the cinnamon
fire,” said he. “I wonder how the
meat tastes.”

Owen did not hear him, having
walked forward.

“Have you got a knife about you,
Frank?” said the Major. “Do you
know I have a curious desire to ascertain
the flavour. It may be a feature
in cookery worth knowing.”

Owen had not a knife, nor had
any of the men, but one of them suggested
that the Major’s sword would
answer the purpose.

“To be sure,” said the Major. “A
good idea! I don’t see why swords
shouldn’t be turned into carving-knives
as well as into pruning-hooks.”
So saying, he drew it from the sheath,
and, straddling across the fire, detached
a crisp brown mouthful from
the pig’s ribs, and putting a little
salt on it, he conveyed it to his
mouth.

“Excellent!” cried the Major.
“I give you my word of honour,
Owen, ’tis excellent! The cinnamon
gives it a sort of a ——”

Here a second and larger mouthful
interrupted the criticism.

“It must be very near lunch-time,”
said the Major, pausing, sword in
hand, when he had swallowed it;
then, pretending to look at his watch—”Bless
me, it only wants half-an-hour
of it. Do you think this business
will take you long, Owen?”

“About a couple of hours,” said
Owen.

“Ah, why, there you see,” returned
the Major, “we shan’t get home till
long past lunch-time. I really don’t
see why we shouldn’t take a snack
now. Nothing can be better than
that pig. I only wish the woman
had dressed my dinner half as well.
Corporal Hodson, would you oblige
me with a piece of that biscuit near
you?” And, detaching a large fragment
of pork, he placed it on the
biscuit, and sprinkling it with pepper
and salt, which condiments had not
been forgotten in the gastronomic arrangements
of Mr Bags, he proceeded
to follow Owen into the interior of
the cave, taking huge bites as he
went.

The path slopes at first steeply
downward from the mouth to the interior
of the cavern, where it becomes
more level. Light being admitted
only at the entrance, the gloom of the
interior is almost impenetrable to the[667]
eye. The men had brought torches
to assist them in their work, and, a
suitable spot having been selected,
these were stuck on different points
and abutments of the rocky wall,
when the party proceeded to unload
the mules at the entrance, conveying
their burdens into the cave.

In the midst of the bustle and noise
attending the operation, the little dog
given by Esther to Carlota, which
had that morning followed the Major,
to whom it had speedily attached itself,
began barking and howling dismally
in a dark recess behind one of
the great natural pillars before spoken
of. As the noise continued, intermixed
with piteous whinings, one of
the men took a torch from the wall,
and stepped forward into the darkness,
to see what ailed the animal.
Presently he cried out that “there
was a man there.”

My grandfather, who was next
him, immediately followed, and five
paces brought him to the spot. The
soldier who held the torch was stooping,
and holding it over a figure that
lay on the ground on its back. In the
unshaven, blood-stained countenance,
my grandfather, at first, had some
difficulty in recognising Lazaro the
Jew. Some fiery splashes of pitch
from the torch dropping at the moment
on his bare throat, produced no
movement, though, had he been living,
they must have scorched him to
the quick.

On the body was nothing but the
shirt he wore the night of his flight
from the hospital, but his legs were
wrapt in a woman’s dress. Across
his breast, on her face, lay Esther, in
her white under-garments—for the
gown that wrapt the Jew’s legs was
hers. The glare of the torch was
bright and red on the two prostrate
figures, and on the staring appalled
countenance of the man who held it—the
group forming a glowing spot in
the vast, sombre, vaulted space, where
dim gleams of light were caught and
repeated on projecting masses of rock,
more and more faintly, till all was
bounded by darkness.

Years afterwards my grandfather
would sometimes complain of having
been revisited, in dreams of the night,
by that ghastly piece of Rembrandt
painting.

The rest quickly flocked to the spot,
and Esther was lifted and found to
breathe, though the Jew was stiff and
cold. Some diluted spirit, from the
cellar of Bags, being poured down her
throat she revived a little, when my
grandfather caused two of the men to
bear her carefully to his house; and
the body of the Jew being wrapt in a
piece of canvass, was placed on a
mule and conveyed to the hospital
for interment.

Medical aid restored Esther to consciousness,
and she told how they
came to be found in the cave.

Her father, on leaving the hospital,
had fled by chance, as she thought,
to this cave, for he did not reach it by
the usual path, but climbed, in his
delirious fear, up the face of the rock,
and she had followed him as well as
she could, keeping his white figure in
sight. They had both lain exhausted
in the cave till morning, when, finding
that her father slept, she was on the
point of leaving him to seek assistance.
But, unhappily, before she
could quit the place, Bags and his
associates entered from their plundering
expedition into the town, and,
frightened at their drunken language,
and recognising in Bags the man who
had robbed her, she had crept back to
her concealment. The party of marauders
never quitted the cavern from
the moment of establishing themselves
in it. They spent the day in eating,
drinking, singing songs, and sometimes
quarrelling. Twice, at night,
she ventured forth; but she always
found one of them asleep across the
entrance, so that she could not pass
without waking him, and once one of
them started up, and seemed about to
pursue her—doubtless Bags, on the
occasion when he thought he saw a
ghost. Nevertheless, she had mustered
courage twice to take some fragments
of food that were lying near
the fire, leaving each time a piece of
money in payment; and she had also
taken a lighted candle, the better to
ascertain her father’s situation. He
had never spoken to her since the first
night of their coming, and, during all
those dark and weary hours, (for they
were three nights and two days in
the cavern,) she had remained by
him listening to his incoherent mutterings
and moans. The candle had[668]
showed her that he had lost much
blood, from the wound in his forehead
breaking out afresh, as well as
from the other received in the hospital,
though the latter was but a flesh
wound. These she had bandaged with
shreds of her dress, and had tried to
give him some of the nourishment she
had procured, but could force nothing
on him except some water. Some
hours, however—how long she did not
know, but it was during the night—before
Owen’s party found her, the
Jew had become sensible. He told
her he was dying; and, unconscious of
where he was, desired her to fetch a
light. This she had procured in the
same way as before, lighting the
candle at the embers of the fire round
which Bags and his friends reposed.
Then the Jew, who seemed to imagine
himself still in the hospital, bid her
say whom, among those she knew in
Gibraltar, she would wish to have
charge of her when he was no more;
and, on her mentioning Carlota, had
desired her to take pen and paper and
write his will as he should dictate it.
Pen she had none, but she had a
pencil and a scrap of paper in her
pocket, and with these she wrote,
leaning over to catch the whispered
syllables that he with difficulty articulated.

From this paper it would appear
that the Jew had some fatherly feelings
for Esther concealed beneath his
harsh deportment towards her. I can
describe the will, for I have often seen
it. It is written on a piece of crumpled
writing-paper, about the size of a bank-note,
very stained and dirty. It is
written in Spanish; and in it the Jew
entreats “the Señora, the wife of Sr.
Don Flinder, English officer, to take
charge of his orphan child, in requital
whereof he leaves her the half of whatsoever
property he dies possessed of,
the other half to be disposed of for the
benefit of his daughter.” Then follows
a second paragraph, inserted at Esther’s
own desire, to the effect that,
should she not survive, the whole was
to be inherited by the aforesaid Señora.
It is dated “Abril 1781,” and signed
in a faint, straggling hand, quite
different from the clear writing of the
rest—”José Lazaro.”

Esther would now have gone, at all
hazards, to obtain assistance, but the
Jew clutched her arm, and would not
permit her to quit him. He breathed
his last shortly after, and Esther
remembered nothing more till she
came to herself in the Major’s house.
The paper was found in her bosom.

Some days after this event my
grandfather went with Owen into the
town, during a temporary lull in the
enemy’s firing, to visit the house of
Lazaro, in order to ascertain whether
anything valuable was left that might
be converted to Esther’s benefit.
They had some difficulty in finding
the exact locality, owing to the utter
destruction of all the landmarks. The
place was a mass of ruins. Some
provisions and goods had been left by
the plunderers, but so mixed with
rubbish, and overflowed with the
contents of the casks of liquor and
molasses, as to be of no value even in
these times of dearth.

Owen, poking about among the
wreck, observed an open space in the
middle of one of the shattered walls,
as if something had been built into it.
With the assistance of my grandfather’s
cane, he succeeded in dislodging
the surrounding masonry, already
loosened by shot, and they discovered
it to be a recess made in the
thickness of the wall, and closed by a
small iron door. At the bottom was
lying a small box, also of iron, which
they raised, not without difficulty, for
its weight was extraordinary in proportion
to its dimensions. This being
conveyed to my grandfather’s, and
opened, was found to contain more
than six hundred doubloons, (a sum
in value about two thousand pounds,)
and many bills of exchange and promissory
notes, mostly those of officers.
The latest was that of Von Dessel.
These the Major, by Esther’s desire,
returned to the persons whose signatures
they bore.

Esther never completely recovered
from the effects of her sojourn in the
cave, but remained always pale and
of weak health. My grandfather took
good care of her inheritance for her,
and on leaving Gibraltar, at the conclusion
of the siege, invested the
whole of it safely for her benefit,
placing her, at the same time, in the
family of some respectable persons of
her own religion. She afterwards
married a wealthy Hebrew; and, in[669]
whatever part of the world the Major
chanced to be serving, so long as she
lived, valuable presents would constantly
arrive from Gibraltar—mantillas
and ornaments of jewellery for
Carlota, and butts of delicious sherry
for my grandfather. These, however,
ceased with her death, about twenty
years afterwards.

This is, I believe, the most connected
and interesting episode to be
found in the Major’s note-book; and
it is, I think, the last specimen I shall
offer of these new “Tales of my
Grandfather.”

As a child I used to listen, with
interest ever new, to the tale of the
young Jewess, which the narrator
had often heard from the lips of Carlota
and her husband. St Michael’s
Cave took rank in my mind with those
other subterranean abodes where Cassim,
the brother of Ali Baba, who
forgot the word “Open Sesame,”
was murdered by the Forty Thieves;
where Aladdin was shut by the magician
in the enchanted garden; and
where Robinson Crusoe discovered
the dying he-goat. And when, at the
conclusion of the tale, the scrap of
paper containing the Jew’s will was
produced from a certain desk, and
carefully unfolded, I seemed to be connected
by some awful and mysterious
link with these departed actors in the
scenes I had so breathlessly listened to.

LIFE AMONGST THE LOGGERS.

Forest Life and Forest Trees. By John S. Springer. New York: Harper.
London: Sampson Low. 1851.

The northern and elder States of
the great American Union have ceased
to be associated in our minds with
those ideas of wild and romantic adventure
which are inseparably connected
with some of their younger
brethren far west and south. There
is nothing suggestive of romance in
such names as New York, Maine,
and Pennsylvania: cotton bales, keen
traders and repudiated debts, drab
coats, wooden clocks, and counterfeit
nutmegs, compose the equivocal and
unpoetical visions they conjure up to
European imaginations. But drop we
our eyes down the map to lawless
Arkansas, feverish Louisiana, and
debateable Texas, or westwards to
the still newer State of California, and
a host of stirring and picturesque associations
throng upon our memory.
Strange scenes and a motley array
pass before us. Bands of hunters and
trappers, scarce more civilised than
the Indians with whom they war, or
gentler than the buffalo which yields
them sport and food; predatory armies,
for Mexico bound, keen for spoil and
regardless of right; caravans of adventurous
gold-seekers braving the
perilous passage of the Rocky Mountains;
hardy squatters, axe in hand,
hewing themselves a home in the heart
of the wilderness; innumerable traits
of courage and endurance—incredible
sufferings and countless crimes—make
up a picture-gallery unrivalled of its
kind. In those districts, not a league
of prairie, not a mountain or stream,
not a bayou or barranca, but has
derived recent and vivid interest from
the animated sketches of Sealsfield,
Ruxton, Wise, and a host of other
graphic and vigorous delineators.

As if to vindicate the claims to interest
of the northern American provinces,
a Down-easter, Springer by
name, who hails from the State of
Maine, has exhibited, in a curious little
volume, the adventurous side of life in
his part of the Union. At a first
glance, there would appear to be few
created things whose history was
likely to be less interesting than that
of a Yankee pine-log. Get astride it
with Springer, and paddle up the
Penobscot, clearing rapids and other
impediments as best you may on so
unpromising a float—and, before
reaching the place where it grew, you
shall marvel at the skill and daring
expended, and at the risks run to
procure it. Springer, who was reared
amongst the pine forests, which his
axe afterwards helped to thin, is an
enthusiastic woodsman, and feels
“kinder jealous” that whilst the
habits and adventures of many classes[670]
of his countrymen have occupied skilful
writers and public attention, no
chronicler should have been found for
the deeds and perils of that numerous
class to which he for some years
belonged. To supply this deficiency,
he himself, although more used to
handle axe than goose-quill, has written
a plain and unpretending account
of scenes and incidents which he
shared in and witnessed. The freshness
of the subject, and the honest
earnestness of the man, would atone
for clumsier treatment than it has
met with at his hands.

The second title of Mr Springer’s
book gives a clearer idea of its contents
than the primary one. The
volume comprises, says the title-page,
“Winter camp-life, among the Loggers,
and wild-wood adventure, with descriptions
of lumbering operations on
the various rivers of Maine and New
Brunswick.” It is divided into three
parts; the first and shortest being a
dissertation on forest trees, with particular
reference to those of America;
the second, entitled “The Pine Tree,
or Forest Life,” giving an account of
wood-cutting operations; the third,
“River Life,” detailing the progress
of the timber from the forest to the
“boom,” or depôt. The chief interest
of the book begins with the second
chapter of the second part, wherein is
described the commencement of the
labours of a gang of “loggers,” or
woodcutters. In the hunt after
timber, as after certain animals, the
first thing to be done is to mark the
whereabout of your game preparatory
to starting in its pursuit. On the eve
of the chase the keeper reconnoitres
the retreat of the wild-boar. Before
a party of loggers proceed to establish
a camp and pass the winter woodcutting,
they send out scouts to ascertain
where timber is plenty.
Thirty years since, this was scarcely
necessary—the pine, that forest king
of the northern States, abounded on
every side. Fifty years hence—so it
is estimated by those best qualified to
judge—the vast pine forests, through
which the Penobscot flows, will be on
the eve of extinction. Now is the
intermediate stage. A man cannot,
as he formerly could, step from his
house to his day’s work; but research
and labour still command a rich
timber harvest. Exploring expeditions
may be made at any period of
the year, but autumn is the favourite
season. They consist generally of
only two or three men, accustomed to
the business, who, provided with the
necessary provisions, with a coffee-pot
and a blanket, axe, rifle, and
ammunition, embark on skiff or
bateau, and pole and paddle their way
two hundred miles or more up the
Penobscot or the St Croix, and their
numerous tributaries. On reaching
the district it is proposed to explore,
the boat is hauled ashore and turned
bottom upwards, the load of stores is
divided amongst the party, and they
strike into the forest, rousing, on their
passage, the stately moose, the timid
deer, the roaming black bear, and
many an inferior denizen of the lonesome
wilderness. They now begin
“prospecting.” Often the thickness
of the forest and the uneven surface
of the country prevent their obtaining
a sufficiently extensive view, and
compel them to climb trees in order
to look around them.

“When an ascent is to be made, the
spruce tree is generally selected, principally
for the superior facilities which its
numerous limbs afford the climber. To
gain the first limbs of this tree, which are
from twenty to forty feet from the ground,
a smaller tree is undercut and lodged
against it, clambering up which the top
of the spruce is reached. Sometimes,
when a very elevated position is desired,
the spruce tree is lodged against the
trunk of some lofty pine, up which we
ascend to a height twice that of the
surrounding forest. From such a tree-top,
like a mariner at the mast-head upon
the look-out for whales, (and indeed the
pine is the whale of the forest,) large
‘clumps’ and ‘veins’ of pine are discovered,
whose towering tops may be
seen for miles around. Such views fill
the bosom of timber-hunters with an
intense interest. They are the object of his
search—his treasure, his Eldorado; and
they are beheld with peculiar and thrilling
emotions. To detail the process more
minutely, we should observe, that the
man in the tree-top points out the direction
in which the pines are seen; or, if
hid from the view of those below by the
surrounding foliage, he breaks a small
limb, and throws it in the direction in
which they appear, whilst a man at the
base marks the direction indicated by the
falling limb by means of a compass which[671]
he holds in his hand, the compass being
quite as necessary in the wilderness as on
the pathless ocean. In fair weather the
sun serves as an important guide; and in
cloudy weather the close observation of
an experienced woodman will enable him
to steer a tolerably correct course by the
moss which grows on the trunks of most
hardwood trees, the north sides of which
are covered with a much larger share
than the other portions of the trunk.
This Indian compass, however, is not very
convenient or safe, particularly in passing
through swampy lands, which are of
frequent occurrence.”

Two reflections are suggested by
the paragraph we have just copied.
The substance of one of them is noted
in the Preface. “This volume,” says
the modest and sensible Springer,
“makes no pretensions to literary
merit; sooner would it claim kindred
with the wild and uncultivated scenes
of which it is but a simple relation.”
The second reflection is, that our
wood-cutter is an enthusiast in his
craft; for wood-cutting in Maine is a
craft, and no common log-chopping.
To Springer, a towering grove of
timber is as exciting a sight as is to
the hunter that of a herd of antlered
deer or shaggy buffalo. The pine
especially is the object of his love and
admiration. He abounds in anecdotes
and arguments to prove its good
qualities, and labours hard to establish
its superiority to the oak. Reared
amongst the noble pines of Maine, he
says, even as a child, he could never
hear, without feelings of jealousy,
the oak extolled as monarch of the
forest. Admitting it to excel in
strength, he vaunts, upon the other
hand, the superior grandeur and girth
of the pine, its value in building, the
breadth of its planks, their clearness,
beauty, and freedom from knots, the
numerous uses to which it is applicable,
its excellence as fuel, its perfect adaptation
to all the joiner’s purposes.
He extols in turn each of its varieties;
the red pine, remarkable for its tall
trunk, which sometimes rises eighty
feet from the ground before putting
out a limb; the pitch pine, inferior in
size, but preferable to any other wood
for generating steam in engines; the
white pine, superior to all in value
and dimensions. He tells us of pines,
of which he has read or heard, of
extraordinary grandeur and diameter:
of one, two hundred and sixty-four
feet long; and of another which, at
three feet from the ground, was fifty-seven
feet nine inches in circumference.
These extraordinary specimens were
cut some years ago. Trees of such
dimensions are now rare.

“I have worked in the forests among
this timber several years,” says Springer,
“have cut many hundreds of trees, and
seen many thousands, but I never found
one larger than one I felled on a little
stream which empties into Jackson Lake,
near the head of Baskahegan stream, in
eastern Maine. This was a pumpkin
pine, (a variety of the white pine.) Its
trunk was as straight and handsomely
grown as a moulded candle, and measured
six feet in diameter four feet from the
ground, without the aid of spur roots.
It was about nine rods in length, or one
hundred and forty-four feet, about sixty-five
feet of which was free of limbs, and
retained its diameter remarkably well.
I was employed about one hour and a
quarter in felling it. The afternoon was
beautiful; everything was calm, and to
me the circumstances were deeply interesting.
After chopping an hour or so,
the mighty giant, the growth of centuries,
which had withstood the hurricane, and
raised itself in peerless majesty above all
around, began to tremble under the
strokes of a mere insect, as I might appear
in comparison with it. My heart palpitated
as I occasionally raised my eye to
its pinnacle to catch the first indications
of its fall. It came down at length with
a crash, which seemed to shake a hundred
acres, whilst the loud echo rang through
the forest, dying away amongst the distant
hills. It had a hollow in the butt about the
size of a barrel, and the surface of the
stump was sufficiently spacious to allow
a yoke of oxen to stand upon it. It made
five logs, and loaded a six-ox team three
times. The butt-log was so large, that
the stream did not float it in the spring;
and when the drive was taken down, we
were obliged to leave it behind, much to
our regret and loss. At the boom, that
log would have been worth fifty dollars.”

The pine tracts ascertained, the
quality of the trees examined, the
distance the timber will have to be
hauled duly calculated, and the ground
inspected, through which logging
roads must be cut, the exploring
party retrace their steps to the place
where they left their boat. Foot-sore
with their forest roamings, they gladly
look forward to the quick, gliding[672]
passage down stream. A grievous
disappointment sometimes awaits
them. In the fall of the year, the
black bear is seized with a violent
longing for pitch and resinous substances,
and frequently strips fir trees
of their bark for the sake of the exudations.
Occasionally he stumbles
over a timber-hunter’s bateau, and
tears it to pieces in the course of the
rough process he employs to extract
the tar from its planks. If it is injured
beyond possibility of repair,
the unlucky pioneers have to perform
their homeward journey on foot, unless
indeed they are so fortunate as to
fall in with some Indian trapper,
whose canoe they can charter for a
portion of the way. Once at home,
the next step is to obtain permits
from the State or proprietors, securing,
at a stipulated price of so much per
thousand feet, the exclusive right to
cut timber within certain bounds.
Then comes haymaking—a most
important part of the loggers’ duty;
for on nothing does the success of the
wood-cutting campaign depend more
than on the good working condition of
the sturdy teams of oxen which drag the
logs from the snow-covered forest to
the river’s brink. Hard by the forest
extensive strips of meadow-land are
commonly found, covered with a
heavy growth of grass, and thither
large bands of men repair to make
and stalk the hay for the ensuing
winter’s consumption. The labour of
haymaking in these upland meadows
of Maine is rendered intolerably
painful by the assaults of flies and
mosquitoes, and especially by the insidious
attacks of millions of midges,
so small as to be scarcely perceptible
to the naked eye, and which get between
the clothes and the skin, causing
a smarting and irritation so great as
to impede the progress of the work.
The torment of these insect attacks
is hardly compensated by the pastimes
and adventures incidental to the
occupation. Now and then a shot is
to be had at a stray deer; the streams
swarm with beautiful trout and
pickerel; skirmishes with black bears
are of frequent occurrence. Mr
Springer’s volume abounds with stories
of encounters with bears, wolves, and
“Indian devils”—a formidable species
of catamount, of which the Indians
stand in particular dread. Although
the bear rarely shows himself pugnacious
unless assailed, his meddlesome,
thievish propensities render
him particularly obnoxious to the
hay-makers and wood-cutters; and
when they meet him, they never can
abstain from the aggressive, however
civilly Bruin may be disposed to pass
them by.

“On one occasion,” says Mr Springer,
“two men, crossing a small lake in
skiff, on their return from putting up hay,
discovered a bear swimming from a point
of land for the opposite shore. As usual
in such cases, temptation silenced prudence—they
changed their course, and
gave chase. The craft being light, they
gained fast upon the bear, who exerted
himself to the utmost to gain the shore;
but, finding himself an unequal match in
the race, he turned upon his pursuers,
and swam to meet them. One of the
men, a short, thick-set, dare-devil fellow,
seized an axe, and, the moment the bear
came up, inflicted a blow upon his head.
It seemed to make but a slight impression,
and before it could be repeated the
bear clambered into the boat. He instantly
grappled the man who struck
him, firmly setting his teeth in his thigh;
then, settling back upon his haunches, he
raised his victim in the air, and shook him
as a dog would a wood-chuck. The man at
the helm stood for a moment in amazement,
without knowing how to act, and fearing
that the bear might spring overboard and
drown his companion; but, recollecting
the effect of a blow upon the end of a
bear’s snout, he struck him with a short
setting-pole. The bear dropped his victim
into the bottom of the boat, sallied
and fell overboard, and swam again for
the shore. The man bled freely from the
bite, and, as the wound proved too serious
to allow a renewal of the encounter,
they made for the shore. But one thing
saved them from being upset: the water
proved sufficiently shoal to admit of the
bear’s getting bottom, from which he
sprang into the boat. Had the water
been deep, the consequences might have
been more serious.”

From its first to its last stage, the
logger’s occupation is one of severe
toil and frequent peril. When the
pioneer’s duty is accomplished, and
when the hay is made, there is still
hard work to be done before he can
begin to level the forest giants. No
kind of labour, Mr Springer assures
us, tests a man’s physical abilities
and powers of endurance more than[673]
boating supplies up river. The wood-cutters
come to a fall, and have to
land their implements and provisions,
and to carry them past it. Their
boats, too, must be carried, and that
over rocks and fallen trees, through
thickets and pathless swamps. Then
they come to rapids, up which they
have to pole their heavy-laden
bateaux. For this work, prodigious
skill, nerve, and strength are requisite.
Then come the long portages
from lake to lake, and the danger
of being swamped, when traversing
these, by sudden gusts of wind lashing
the lake, in a few minutes’ time,
into foaming waves, in which the
deeply-loaded boats could not for a
moment live.

“Our frail skiff was about eighteen
feet long, and four feet across the top of
the gunwale amidships, tapering to a
point at either end, constructed of thin
slips of pine boards, nailed to some half-dozen
pair of slender knees, about two
inches in diameter. On board were fifteen
hundred pounds of provisions, with seven
men, which pressed her into the water
nearly to the gunwale; three inches
from the position of a level, and she
would fill with water.”

In such an overburthened cockle-shell
as this did Mr Springer once
find himself in company with a
drunken man, who was only withheld
from capsizing the boat by the threat
of having his skull split with a paddle;
for an inordinate addiction to rum is
the loggers’ chief vice, a vice palliated
by the hardship and exposure they
endure. Drinking, however, is on
the decline amongst them of late
years, since “it has been fully demonstrated
that men can endure the
chilling hardships of river-driving
quite as well, and indeed far better,
without the stimulus of ardent spirits,
and perform more and better-directed
labour.” Black pepper tea is drunk
on cold nights when camping in the
open air, and is found a warming and
comfortable beverage. Both in drink
and diet the loggers look more to
strength than to delicacy. Salt pork,
ship bread, and molasses, compose the
staple of their consumption. The
drippings from a slice of pork, roasted
before the fire, are allowed to fall on
the bread, which is then dignified by
the name of buttered toast. Sometimes
the salt pork is eaten raw,
dipped in molasses,—a mixture unequalled
for nastiness, we should
imagine, excepting by that of oysters
and brown sugar. “The recital may
cause,” says honest Springer in his
comical English, “in delicate and
pampered stomachs some qualms, yet
we can assure the uninitiated that,
from these gross samples, the hungry
woodsman makes many a delicious
meal.” An assurance which gives us
a most exalted idea of the appetite
and digestion of the loggers of
Maine.

Once in the forest with their stores,
the woodmen carefully select a suitable
spot, clear the ground, build
their “camp” and “hovel,” and
commence their winter’s work. The
“camp” and “hovel” are two log-houses,
the former being for the men,
the latter for the oxen. In some
respects the beasts are better treated
than their masters, for their hovel is
floored with small poles, a luxury
unknown in the camp, where the men
sleep on branches strewn upon the
bare earth. “Having completed our
winter residences, next in order comes
the business of looking out and cutting
the ‘main’ and some of the
principal ‘branch roads.’ These
roads, like the veins in the human
body, ramify the wilderness to all the
principal ‘clumps’ and ‘groves’ of
pine embraced in the permit.” Mr
Springer expatiates on the graceful
curves of the roads, whose inequalities
soon become filled with snow,
and their surface hard-beaten and
glassy, polished by the sled and logs
which are continually passing over it,
whilst overhead the trees interlace
their spreading branches. “Along
this roadside, on the way to the landing,
runs a serpentine path for the
‘knight of the goad,’ whose deviations
are marked now outside this
tree, then behind that ‘windfall,’ now
again intercepting the main road,
skipping along like a dog at one’s
side.” The teamster, if he does his
duty, works harder than any man in
camp. Under a good teamster, the
oxen receive care almost as tender as
though they were race-horses with
thousands depending on their health
and condition. With proper attention
and management, they should be in[674]
as good flesh in the spring as when
they began hauling early in winter.

“The last thing at night before ‘turning
in,’ the teamster lights his lantern
and repairs to the ox-hovel. In the
morning, by peep of day, and often before,
his visits are repeated, to hay and
provender, and card, and yoke up. While
the rest of the hands are sitting or lounging
around the liberal fire, shifting for
their comfort, after exposure to the winter
frosts through the day, he must repeatedly
go out to look after the comfort
of the sturdy, faithful ox. And then, for
an hour or two in the morning again,
whilst all, save the cook, are closing up
the sweet and unbroken slumbers of the
night, so welcome and necessary to the
labourer, he is out amid the early frost
with, I had almost said, the care of a
mother, to see if ‘old Turk’ is not loose,
whether ‘Bright’ favours the near fore-foot,
(which felt a little hot the day before,)
as he stands up on the hard floor,
and then to inspect ‘Swan’s’ provender-trough,
to see if he has eaten his meal,
for it was carefully noted that at the
‘watering-place’ last night he drank but
little; whilst at the further end of the
‘tie-up’ he thinks he hears a little clattering
noise, and presently ‘little Star’
is having his shins gently rapped, as a
token of his master’s wish to raise his
foot to see if some nail has not given way
in the loosened shoe; and this not for
once, but every day, with numberless
other cares connected with his charge.”

The oxen are taken out to the forest
by the last detachment of wood-cutters,
when winter fairly sets in. This
is the hardest trip of any. Both man
and beast experience much inconvenience
from the cold. Often, when
driving a boat up rapids, ice forms
upon the poles in the men’s hands,
which are already so cold and stiff
that they can scarcely retain their
grasp; yet an instant’s cessation of
exertion would be fraught with imminent
peril to life and goods. The
oxen, attached to long lightly-loaded
sleds, are driven over rough miry
tracks. “In crossing large streams,
we unyoke the oxen and swim them
over. If we have no boat, a raft is
constructed, upon which our effects
are transported, when we reyoke and
pursue our route as before. Our
cattle are often very reluctant to
enter the water whilst the anchor-ice
runs, and the cold has already begun
to congeal its surface.” Lakes are
crossed upon the ice, which not unfrequently
breaks in. Mr Springer
gives an account of a journey he
made, when this misfortune happened,
and ten oxen at one time
were struggling in the chilling waters
of Baskahegan Lake. They were all
got out, he tells us, although rescue
under such circumstances would appear
almost hopeless.

“Standing upon the edge of the ice, a
man was placed by the side of each ox to
keep his head out of the water. We unyoked
one at a time, and throwing a rope
round the roots of his horns, the warp
was carried forward and attached to the
little oxen, (a pair that had not broken
in,) whose services on this occasion were
very necessary. A strong man was
placed on the ice at the edge, so that,
lifting the ox by his horns, he was able
to press the ice down and raise his
shoulder up on the edge, when the warp-oxen
would pull them out. For half-an-hour
we had a lively time of it, and in an
almost incredibly short time we had them
all safely out, and drove them back upon
the point nearly a mile. It was now
very dark. We left our sleds in the
water with the hay, pulling out a few
armsful, which we carried to the shore
to rub the oxen down with. Poor fellows!
they seemed nearly chilled to
death, and shook as if they would fall to
pieces.”

So great is the labour of taking oxen
to the forest every Fall—often to a distance
of two hundred miles into the
interior—that the wood-cutters sometimes
leave them, when they go down
stream in the spring to get their own
living in the wilderness, and hunt
them up again in autumn. They
thrive finely in the interval, and get
very wild and difficult to catch; but
when at last subjugated, they evidently
recognise their masters, and
are pleased to see them. Occasionally
they disappear in the course of the
summer, and are heard of no more;
they are then supposed to have got
“mired or cast,” or to have been
devoured by wolves—or by bears,
which also are known to attack oxen.

“An individual who owned a very fine
‘six-ox team’ turned them into the
woods to brouse, in a new region of
country. Late in the evening, his attention
was arrested by the bellowing of one
of them. It continued for an hour or[675]
two, then ceased altogether. The night
was very dark, and as the ox was supposed
to be more than a mile distant, it
was thought not advisable to venture in
search of him until morning. As soon as
daylight appeared, the owner started, in
company with another man, to investigate
the cause of the uproar. Passing
on about a mile, he found one of his best
oxen prostrate, and, on examination,
there was found a hole eaten into the
thickest part of his hind quarter nearly
as large as a hat; not less than six or
eight pounds of flesh were gone. He
had bled profusely. The ground was
torn up for rods around where the encounter
occurred; the tracks indicated
the assailant to be a very large bear,
who had probably worried the ox out,
and then satiated his ravenous appetite,
feasting upon him while yet alive. A
road was bushed out to the spot where
the poor creature lay, and he was got
upon a sled and hauled home by a yoke
of his companions, where the wound was
dressed. It never, however, entirely
healed, though it was so far improved as
to allow of its being fattened, after which
he was slaughtered for food.”

In cold weather in those forests
the bears and wolves are exceedingly
audacious. The latter have a curious
habit of accompanying the teams on
their journeys between the forest and
the river to which they drag the logs.
This has only occurred of late years,
and the manner in which they thus
volunteer their services as assistant
drivers is exceedingly curious.

“Three teams,” says Springer, “in the
winter of 1844, all in the same neighbourhood,
were beset with these ravenous
animals. They were of unusually large
size, manifesting a most singular boldness,
and even familiarity, without the
usual appearance of ferocity so characteristic
of the animal. Sometimes one,
and in another instance three, in a most
unwelcome manner, volunteered their
attendance, accompanying the teamster
a long distance on his way. They would
even jump on the log and ride, and approach
very near the oxen. One of them
actually jumped upon the sled, and down
between the bars, while the sled was in
motion. Some of the teamsters were
much alarmed, keeping close to the oxen,
and driving on as fast as possible.
Others, more courageous, would run forward
and strike at them with their goad-sticks;
but the wolves sprang out of the
way in an instant. But, although they
seemed to act without a motive, there
was something so cool and impudent in
their conduct that it was trying to the
nerves—even more so than an active encounter.
For some time after this, firearms
were a constant part of the teamster’s
equipage.”

The distant howling and screaming
of the wolves, compared by an old
Yankee hunter to the screeching of
forty pair of old cart-wheels, is particularly
ominous and disagreeable.
Springer has collected a number of
curious anecdotes concerning them.
One night a pack of the prowling
marauders were seen trailing down
Mattawamkeag River on the ice.
The dwellers in a log-house hard
by soaked some meat in poison and
threw it out. Next morning the
meat was gone, and six wolves lay
dead, all within sight of each other.
“Every one of them had dug a hole
down through the snow into the
frozen earth, in which they had
thrust their noses, either for water
to quench the burning thirst produced
by the poison, or to snuff some
antidote to the fatal drug. A bounty
was obtained on each of ten dollars,
besides their hides, making a fair job
of it, as well as ridding the neighbourhood
of an annoying enemy.”
Several of Mr Springer’s logging and
lumbering friends have contributed
to his book the results of their experience,
and narratives of their adventures,
some of which he gives in
their own words. Amongst these is
an ill-written, but yet a very exciting,
account of a wolf-chase, or we should
perhaps rather say a man-chase, the
wolves in this instance being the pursuers,
and Springer’s neighbour the
pursued. The person in question was
passionately fond of skating, and one
night he left a friend’s house to skate
a short distance up the frozen Kennebeck,
which flowed before the door.
It was a bright still evening; the new
moon silvered the frosty pines. After
gliding a couple of miles up the river,
the skater turned off into a little
tributary stream, over which fir
and hemlock twined their evergreen
branches. The archway beneath was
dark, but he fearlessly entered it,
unsuspicious of peril, with a joyous
laugh and hurra—an involuntary expression
of exhilaration, elicited by
the bracing crispness of the atmosphere,[676]
and glow of pleasant exercise.
What followed is worth extracting.

“All of a sudden a sound arose, it
seemed from the very ice beneath my
feet. It was loud and tremendous at
first, until it ended in one long yell. I
was appalled. Never before had such
a noise met my ears. I thought it more
than mortal—so fierce, and amid such
an unbroken solitude, that it seemed a
fiend from hell had blown a blast from
an infernal trumpet. Presently I heard
the twigs on the shore snap as if from
the tread of some animal, and the blood
rushed back to my forehead with a bound
that made my skin burn. My energies
returned, and I looked around me for
some means of defence. The moon shone
through the opening by which I had
entered the forest, and, considering this
the best means of escape, I darted towards
it like an arrow. It was hardly
a hundred yards distant, and the swallow
could scarcely outstrip my desperate
flight; yet as I turned my eyes to the
shore, I could see two dark objects
dashing through the underbrush at a
pace nearly double mine. By their great
speed, and the short yells which they
occasionally gave, I knew at once that
they were the much dreaded grey wolf.”

Here Springer interposes a vignette
of a wolf—a most formidable and unwholesome-looking
quadruped—grinning
over the well-picked bone of
some unlucky victim. The logger’s
pages are enlivened by a number of
illustrations—woodcuts of course—rough
enough in execution, but giving
an excellent notion of the scenery,
animals, and logging operations
spoken of in the text. Grey wolves
are of untameable fierceness, great
strength and speed, and pursue their
prey to the death with frightful tenacity,
unwearyingly following the
trail—

A more dangerous foe a benighted
traveller could hardly fall in with.

“The bushes that skirted the shore,”
continues the hunted of wolves, “flew
past with the velocity of light as I
dashed on in my flight. The outlet was
nearly gained; one second more and I
should be comparatively safe; when my
pursuers appeared on the bank, directly
above me, which rose to the height of
some ten feet. There was no time for
thought; I bent my head, and dashed
wildly forward. The wolves sprang,
but, miscalculating my speed, sprang
behind, whilst their intended prey glided
out into the river.

“Nature turned me towards home.
The light flakes of snow spun from the
iron of my skates, and I was now some
distance from my pursuers, when their
fierce howl told me that I was again the
fugitive. I did not look back; I did not
feel sorry or glad; one thought of home,
of the bright faces awaiting my return,
of their tears if they should never see me
again, and then every energy of body and
mind was exerted for my escape. I was
perfectly at home on the ice. Many were
the days I spent on my skates, never
thinking that at one time they would be
my only means of safety. Every half
minute an alternate yelp from my pursuers
made me but too certain they were
close at my heels. Nearer and nearer
they came; I heard their feet pattering
on the ice nearer still, until I fancied I
could hear their deep breathing. Every
nerve and muscle in my frame was
stretched to the utmost tension. The
trees along the shore seemed to dance in
the uncertain light, and my brain turned
with my own breathless speed, when an
involuntary motion turned me out of my
course. The wolves close behind, unable
to stop and as unable to turn, slipped,
fell, still going on far ahead, their tongues
lolling out, their white tusks gleaming
from their bloody mouths, their dark
shaggy breasts freckled with foam; and
as they passed me their eyes glared, and
they howled with rage and fury. The
thought flashed on my mind that by this
means I could avoid them—viz., by turning
aside whenever they came too near; for
they, by the formation of their feet, are
unable to run on ice except in a right
line.

“I immediately acted on this plan.
The wolves, having regained their feet,
sprang directly towards me. The race
was renewed for twenty yards up the
stream; they were already close on my
back, when I glided round and dashed
past them. A fierce howl greeted my
evolution, and the wolves slipped upon
their haunches, and sailed onward, presenting
a perfect picture of helplessness
and baffled rage. Thus I gained nearly
a hundred yards each turning. This was
repeated two or three times, every moment
the wolves getting more excited
and baffled, until, coming opposite the
house, a couple of staghounds, aroused by
the noise, bayed furiously from their
kennels. The wolves, taking the hint,
stopped in their mad career, and, after a[677]
moment’s consideration, turned and fled.
I watched them till their dusky forms
disappeared over a neighbouring hill;
then, taking off my skates, I wended my
way to the house.”

From some unassigned reason,
wolves have increased of late years in
the wild forests of north-eastern
Maine. Up to 1840, Mr Springer, who
had been much in that district, logging
in winter and clearing land in summer,
never saw one. Since then they
have frequently been seen in numerous
parties, and of most formidable size.
There would not seem to be much to
choose, as far as the pleasure of the
thing goes, between an encounter
with one of these ravenous brutes and
a tussle with a catamount. Springer,
however, who must be competent to
judge, considers the catamount the
worse customer. He tells an ugly
story, which may serve as a pendant
to that of the bear’s breakfast on live
beef, of what happened to a logger
named Smith, when on his way to
join a timbering party in the woods.
He had nearly reached camp, when
he fell in with a catamount, or
“Indian devil.” Retreat was impossible;
for reflection there was no
time: arms he had none. Acting
from impulse, he sprang up a small
tree—perhaps as sensible a thing as
he could have done. He had scarcely
ascended his length, when the creature,
fierce from hunger, made a bound
and caught him by the heel. Although
badly bitten, Smith managed
to get his foot out of the shoe, in
which the tiger-cat’s teeth were firmly
set, and shoe and savage fell together
to the ground. What then ensued is
so horrible and extraordinary that we
should suspect our wood-cutting friend
of imaginative decoration, but for the
assurance he gives us in his preface,
that “the incidents he has related
are real, and that in no case is the
truth sacrificed to fancy or embellishment.”
He shall finish his yarn
himself.

“The moment he was disengaged,
Smith sprang for a more secure position,
and the animal at the same time leaped
to another large tree, about ten feet distant,
up which he ascended to an elevation
equal to that of his victim, from
which he threw himself upon him, firmly
fixing his teeth in the calf of his leg.
Hanging suspended thus until the flesh,
insufficient to sustain the weight, gave
way, he dropped again to the ground,
carrying a portion of flesh in his mouth.
Having greedily devoured this morsel, he
bounded again up the opposite tree, and
from thence upon Smith, in this manner
renewing his attacks, and tearing away
the flesh in mouthfuls from his legs.
During this agonising operation, Smith
contrived to cut a limb from the tree, to
which he managed to bind his jack-knife,
with which he could now assail his enemy
at every leap. He succeeded thus in
wounding him so badly that at length his
attacks were discontinued, and he disappeared
in the dense forest.”

Smith, who, as Springer coolly
informs us, “had exerted his
voice to the utmost,” whilst the
catamount was devouring him in
detail, (we can perfectly imagine a
man bellowing like twenty bulls under
such circumstances,) was found by
his friends in a state of dreadful
exhaustion and suffering, and was
carried to camp on a litter. He ultimately
recovered, but had sustained
irreparable injuries. “Such desperate
encounters are of rare occurrence,”
Springer quietly adds. We
should think they were. Really these
loggers are cool hands. Encounters
with black bears are much more common,
we are informed. These are
strong fellows, clever at parrying
blows, and at wrenching the weapon
from their assailant’s hand—very
tenacious of life, and confirmed robbers.
Springer and his comrades
were once, whilst ascending a river,
followed by one of them for several
days. He was bent upon plunder,
and one night he walked off with a
bundle containing clothing, boots,
shaving implements, and other things,
for which it might be thought a bear
could have little occasion. He examined
his prize in the neighbourhood
of the camp, tore the clothes to
shreds, and chewed up the cow-hide
boots and the handle of a razor.
From the roof of a log-house, which
the woodmen erected a few miles farther
on, he carried off a ten-gallon keg
of molasses, set it on one end, knocked
the head in or out, and was about to
enjoy the feast, when he was discovered,
pursued, and at last killed.
At page 140 we find a capital account
of a fight between a family of[678]
bears (father, mother, and cubs) and
two foresters; and at page 100 the
stirring-up of a bear’s den is graphically
described.

The pine tree is subject to disease of
more than one kind, the most frequent
being a sort of cancer, known amongst
lumber-men as “Conk” or “Konkus,”
whose sole external manifestation is a
small brown spot, usually at several
feet from the ground, and sometimes no
larger than a shilling. The trees thus
afflicted are noway inferior to the
soundest in size and apparent beauty;
but on cutting into them the rot is at
once evident, the wood being reddish
in colour, and of spungy texture.
“Sometimes it shoots upwards, in
imitation of the streaming light of the
aurora borealis; in others downwards,
and even both ways, preserving the
same appearance.” Unscrupulous loggers
cheat the unwary by driving a
knot or piece of a limb of the same
tree into the plague-spot, and hewing
it off smoothly, so as to give it the
appearance of a natural knot. A
great many pines are hollow at the
base or butt, and these hollows are
the favourite winter-retreats of Bruin
the bear.

“A few rods from the main logging
road where I worked one winter,” said
Mr Johnston, (a logger whom Springer
more than once quotes,) “there stood a
very large pine tree. We had nearly
completed our winter’s work, and it still
stood unmolested, because, from appearances,
it was supposed to be worthless.
Whilst passing it one day, not quite satisfied
with the decision that had been
made upon its quality, I resolved to satisfy
my own mind touching its value; so,
wallowing to it through the snow, which
was nearly up to my middle, I struck it
several blows with the head of my axe,
an experiment to test whether a tree be
hollow or not. When I desisted, my
attention was arrested by a slight scratching
and whining. Suspecting the cause,
I thumped the tree again, listening more
attentively, and heard the same noise as
before. It was a bear’s den. Examining
the tree more closely, I discovered a
small hole in the trunk, near the roots,
with a rim of ice on the edge of the orifice,
made by the freezing of the breath
and vapour from the inmates.”

The logging crew were summoned,
and came scampering down, eager for
the fun. The snow was kicked away
from the root of the tree, exposing
the entrance to the den; and a small
hole was cut in the opposite side,
through which the family of bears
were literally “stirred up with a long
pole;” and when the great she-bear,
annoyed at this treatment, put her
head out at the door, she was cut
over the pate with an axe.

“The cubs, four in number—a thing
unusual by one-half—we took alive, and
carried to camp, kept them a while, and
finally sold them. They were quite
small and harmless, of a most beautiful
lustrous black, and fat as porpoises. The
old dam was uncommonly large—we
judged she might weigh about three hundred
pounds. Her hide, when stretched
out and nailed on to the end of the camp,
appeared quite equal to a cow’s hide in
dimensions.”

The attacks of wild animals are
far from being the sole dangers to
which the wood-cutters of Maine
are exposed in following their toilsome
occupation. Scarcely any phase
of their adventurous existence is
exempt from risk. Bad wounds are
sometimes accidentally received from
the axe whilst felling trees. To heal
these, in the absence of surgeons,
the loggers are thrown upon their
own very insufficient resources. Life
is also constantly endangered in felling
the pine, which comes plunging
down, breaking, splitting, and crushing
all before it. The broken limbs
which are torn from the fallen tree,
and the branches it wrenches from
other trees,

“rendered brittle by the intense frosts,
fly in every direction, like the scattered
fragments of an exploding ship. Often
these wrenched limbs are suspended
directly over the place where our work
requires our presence, and on the
slightest motion, or from a sudden gust of
wind, they slip down with the stealthiness
of a hawk and the velocity of an arrow.
I recollect one in particular, which was
wrenched from a large pine I had just
felled. It lodged in the top of a towering
birch, directly over where it was necessary
for me to stand whilst severing the
top from the trunk. Viewing its position
with some anxiety, I ventured to stand
and work under it, forgetting my danger
in the excitement. Whilst thus engaged,
the limb slipped from its position, and,
falling directly before me, end foremost,
penetrated the frozen earth. It was[679]
about four inches through, and ten
feet long. It just grazed my cap; a
little variation, and it would have dashed
my head to pieces. Attracted on one
occasion, whilst swamping a road, by
the appearance of a large limb which
stuck fast in the ground, curiosity induced
me to extricate it, for the purpose
of seeing how far it had penetrated.
After considerable exertion, I succeeded
in drawing it out, when I was amazed
to find a thick cloth cap on the end of it.
It had penetrated the earth to a considerable
depth. Subsequently I learned
that it [the cap, we presume, but Springer
makes sad work of his pronouns] belonged
to a man who was killed instantly by
its fall, [here our logging friend must be
supposed to refer to the timber,] striking
him on the head, and carrying his
cap into the ground with it.”

This is not impossible, although
it does a little remind us of certain
adventures of the renowned Munchausen.
And Springer is so pleasant
a fellow, that we shall not call his
veracity in question, or even tax
him with that tinting of truth in
which many of his countrymen excel,
but of which he only here and there
lays himself open to suspicion. He
certainly does put our credulity
a little to the strain by an anecdote
of a moose deer, which he gives,
however, between inverted commas,
on the authority of a hunter who
occasionally passed the night at the
logger’s camp. The moose is the
largest species of deer found in the
New-England forests, its size varying
from that of a large pony to that of
a full-grown horse. It has immense
branching antlers, and, judging from
its portrait, which forms the frontispiece
to Forest Life, we readily
believe Springer’s assurance, that
“the taking of moose is sometimes
quite hazardous.” Quite astonishing,
we are sure the reader will say,
is the following ride:—

“Once,” hunter loquitur, “whilst out
on a hunting excursion, I was pursued
by a bull-moose. He approached me
with his muscular neck curved, and
head to the ground, in a manner not
dissimilar to the attitude assumed by
horned cattle when about to encounter
each other. Just as he was about to
make a pass at me, I sprang suddenly
between his wide-spreading antlers, bestride
his neck. Dexterously turning
round, I seized him by the horns, and,
locking my feet together under his neck,
I clung to him like a sloth. With a
mixture of rage and terror, he dashed
wildly about, endeavouring to dislodge
me; but, as my life depended upon
maintaining my position, I clung to him
with a corresponding desperation. After
making a few ineffectual attempts to
disengage me, he threw out his nose,
and, laying his antlers back upon his
shoulders, which formed a screen for my
defence, he sprang forward into a furious
run, still bearing me upon his neck.
Now penetrating dense thickets, then
leaping high ‘windfalls,’ (old fallen
trees,) and struggling through swamp-mires,
he finally fell from exhaustion,
after carrying me about three miles.
Improving the opportunity, I drew my
hunting-knife from its sheath, and instantly
buried it in his neck, cutting the
jugular vein, which put a speedy termination
to the contest and the flight.”

After which we presume that he
spitted the moose on a pine tree,
roasted and ate it, and used its antlers
for toothpicks. The adventure is
worthy of Mazeppa or the Wild
Huntsman. By the antlers forming
a screen for the rider’s defence, we are
reminded of that memorable morning
in the life of the great German Baron,
when his horse, cut in two, just behind
the saddle, by the fall of a portcullis,
was sewn together with laurel-twigs,
which sprouted up into a pleasant
bower, beneath whose appropriate
shade the redoubtable warrior
thenceforward rode to victory. An
awful liar, indeed, must have been
the narrator of this “singular adventure,”
as Springer, who tells this story
quite gravely, artlessly styles it.
Doubtless such yarns are acceptable
enough by the camp-fire, where the
weary logger smokes the pipe of repose
after a hard day’s work; and
they are by no means out of place in
the logger’s book, of which, however,
they occupy but a small portion—by
far the greater number of its chapters
being filled with solid and curious
information. The third and longest
part, “River Life,” upon which we
have not touched, is highly interesting,
and gives thrilling accounts of
the dangers incurred during the progress
down stream of the various
“parcels” of logs, which, each distinguished
like cattle by the owner’s
mark, soon mingle and form one[680]
grand “drive” on the main river.
“Driving” of this kind is a very
hazardous occupation. Sometimes
the logs come to a “jam,” get wedged
together in a narrow part of the river
or amongst rocks, and, whilst the
drivers work with axe and lever to
set the huge floating field of tree-trunks
in motion again, lives are frequently
lost. This is easy to understand.
The removal of a single log,
the keystone of the mass—nay, a
single blow of the axe—often suffices
to liberate acres of timber from their
“dead lock,” and set them furiously
rushing down the rapid current.
Then does woe betide those who are
caught in the hurly-burly. Sometimes,
the key-log being well ascertained,
a man is let down, like a samphire-gatherer,
by a rope from an
adjacent cliff, on to the “jam.”
Then—

“As the place to be operated upon may
in some cases be a little removed from
the shore, he either walks to it with the
rope attached to his body, or, untying the
rope, leaves it where he can readily grasp
it in time to be drawn from his perilous
position. Often, where the pressure is
direct, a few blows only are given with
the axe, when the log snaps in an instant
with a loud report, followed suddenly
by the violent motion of the ‘jam;’ and,
ere our bold river-driver is jerked half
way to the top of the cliff, scores of logs,
in wildest confusion, rush beneath his
feet, whilst he yet dangles in the air
above the trembling mass. If that rope,
on which life and hope hang thus suspended,
should part, worn by the sharp
point of some jutting rock, death, certain
and quick, were inevitable.”

The wood-cutter’s occupation, which,
to European imagination, presents
itself as peaceful, pastoral, and void
of peril, assumes a very different aspect
when pursued in North American
forests. If any doubt this fact, let
them study Springer, who will repay
the trouble, and of whose volume we
have rather skimmed the surface than
meddled with the substance.

[681]

MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.

BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.

CHAPTER VII.

Randal advanced—”I fear, Signior
Riccabocca, that I am guilty of
some want of ceremony.”

“To dispense with ceremony is
the most delicate mode of conferring
a compliment,” replied the urbane
Italian, as he recovered from his first
surprise at Randal’s sudden address,
and extended his hand.

Violante bowed her graceful head
to the young man’s respectful salutation.
“I am on my way to Hazeldean,”
resumed Randal, “and, seeing
you in the garden, could not resist
this intrusion.”

Riccabocca.—”You come from
London? Stirring times for you English,
but I do not ask you the news.
No news can affect us.”

Randal, (softly.)—”Perhaps—yes.”

Riccabocca, (startled.)—”How?”

Violante.—”Surely he speaks of
Italy, and news from that country
affects you still, my father.”

Riccabocca.—”Nay, nay, nothing
affects me like this country; its east
winds might affect a pyramid!
Draw your mantle round you, child,
and go in; the air has suddenly
grown chill.”

Violante smiled on her father,
glanced uneasily towards Randal’s
grave brow, and went slowly towards
the house.

Riccabocca, after waiting some
moments in silence, as if expecting
Randal to speak, said with affected
carelessness, “So you think that you
have news that might affect me?
Corpo di Bacco! I am curious to
learn what!”

“I may be mistaken—that depends
on your answer to one question. Do
you know the Count of Peschiera?”

Riccabocca winced, and turned
pale. He could not baffle the watchful
eye of the questioner.

“Enough,” said Randal; “I see
that I am right. Believe in my sincerity.
I speak but to warn and to
serve you. The Count seeks to discover
the retreat of a countryman
and kinsman of his own.”

“And for what end?” cried Riccabocca,
thrown off his guard, and his
breast dilated, his crest rose, and
his eye flashed; valour and defiance
broke from habitual caution and self-control.
“But pooh,” he added,
striving to regain his ordinary and
half-ironical calm, “it matters not to
me. I grant, sir, that I know the
Count di Peschiera; but what has
Dr Riccabocca to do with the kinsmen
of so grand a personage?”

“Dr Riccabocca—nothing. But—”
here Randal put his lip close to the
Italian’s ear, and whispered a brief
sentence. Then retreating a step,
but laying his hand on the exile’s
shoulder, he added—”Need I say
that your secret is safe with me?”

Riccabocca made no answer. His
eyes rested on the ground musingly.

Randal continued—”And I shall
esteem it the highest honour you
can bestow on me, to be permitted
to assist you in forestalling
danger.”

Riccabocca, (slowly.)—”Sir, I
thank you; you have my secret, and I
feel assured it is safe, for I speak to
an English gentleman. There may
be family reasons why I should avoid
the Count di Peschiera; and, indeed,
He is safest from shoals who steers
clearest of his—relations.”

The poor Italian regained his
caustic smile as he uttered that wise,
villanous Italian maxim.

Randal.—”I know little of the
Count of Peschiera save from the
current talk of the world. He is said
to hold the estates of a kinsman who
took part in a conspiracy against the
Austrian power.”

Riccabocca.—”It is true. Let
that content him; what more does he
desire. You spoke of forestalling
danger; what danger? I am on the
soil of England, and protected by its
laws.”

Randal.—”Allow me to inquire[682]
if, had the kinsman no child, the
Count di Peschiera would be legitimate
and natural heir to the estates
he holds?”

Riccabocca.—”He would. What
then?”

Randal.—”Does that thought
suggest no danger to the child of the
kinsman?”

Riccabocca recoiled, and gasped
forth, “The child! You do not mean
to imply that this man, infamous
though he be, can contemplate the
crime of an assassin?”

Randal paused perplexed. His
ground was delicate. He knew not
what causes of resentment the exile
entertained against the Count. He
knew not whether Riccabocca would
not assent to an alliance that might
restore him to his country—and he
resolved to feel his way with precaution.

“I did not,” said he, smiling
gravely, “mean to insinuate so horrible
a charge against a man whom I
have never seen. He seeks you—that
is all I know. I imagine, from his
general character, that in this search
he consults his interest. Perhaps all
matters might be conciliated by an
interview!”

“An interview!” exclaimed Riccabocca;
“there is but one way we
should meet—foot to foot, and hand
to hand.”

“Is it so? Then you would not
listen to the Count if he proposed
some amicable compromise; if, for instance,
he was a candidate for the
hand of your daughter?”

The poor Italian, so wise and so
subtle in his talk, was as rash and
blind when it came to action, as if he
had been born in Ireland, and nourished
on potatoes and Repeal. He bared
his whole soul to the merciless eye of
Randal.

“My daughter!” he exclaimed.
“Sir, your very question is an insult.”

Randal’s way became clear at once.
“Forgive me,” he said mildly; “I
will tell you frankly all that I know.
I am acquainted with the Count’s
sister. I have some little influence
over her. It was she who informed
me that the Count had come here,
bent upon discovering your refuge,
and resolved to wed your daughter.
This is the danger of which I spoke.
And when I asked your permission to
aid in forestalling it, I only intended
to suggest that it might be wise to
find some securer home, and that I,
if permitted to know that home, and
to visit you, could apprise you from
time to time of the Count’s plans and
movements.”

“Sir, I thank you sincerely,” said
Riccabocca with emotion; “but am I
not safe here?”

“I doubt it. Many people have
visited the Squire in the shooting
season, who will have heard of you—perhaps
seen you, and who are likely
to meet the Count in London. And
Frank Hazeldean, too, who knows
the Count’s sister—”

“True, true,” interrupted Riccabocca.
“I see, I see. I will consider.
I will reflect. Meanwhile you are
going to Hazeldean. Do not say a
word to the Squire. He knows not
the secret you have discovered.”

With those words Riccabocca turned
slightly away, and Randal took
the hint to depart.

“At all times command and rely
on me,” said the young traitor, and
he regained the pale to which he had
fastened his horse.

As he remounted, he cast his
eyes towards the place where he had
left Riccabocca. The Italian was
still standing there. Presently the
form of Jackeymo was seen emerging
from the shrubs. Riccabocca
turned hastily round, recognised his
servant, uttered an exclamation loud
enough to reach Randal’s ear, and
then catching Jackeymo by the arm,
disappeared with him amidst the
deeper recesses of the garden.

“It will be indeed in my favour,”
thought Randal as he rode on, “if I
can get them into the neighbourhood
of London—all occasion there to woo,
and if expedient, to win—the heiress.”

CHAPTER VIII.

“By the Lord Harry!” cried the
Squire, as he stood with his wife in
the park, on a visit of inspection to
some first-rate South-Downs just[683]
added to his stock—”By the Lord,
if that is not Randal Leslie trying
to get into the park at the back
gate! Hollo, Randal! you must come
round by the lodge, my boy,” said he.

“You see this gate is locked to keep
out trespassers.”

“A pity,” said Randal. “I like
short cuts, and you have shut up a
very short one.”

“So the trespassers said,” quoth
the Squire; “but Stirn would not
hear of it;—valuable man, Stirn. But
ride round to the lodge. Put up your
horse, and you’ll join us before we can
get to the house.”

Randal nodded and smiled, and
rode briskly on.

The Squire rejoined his Harry.

“Ah, William,” said she anxiously,
“though certainly Randal Leslie
means well, I always dread his visits.”

“So do I, in one sense,” quoth the
Squire, “for he always carries away
a bank-note for Frank.”

“I hope he is really Frank’s friend,”
said Mrs Hazeldean.

“Whose else can he be? Not his
own, poor fellow, for he will never
accept a shilling from me, though his
grandmother was as good a Hazeldean
as I am. But, zounds! I like his
pride, and his economy too. As for
Frank—”

“Hush, William!” cried Mrs Hazeldean,
and put her fair hand before the
Squire’s mouth. The Squire was
softened, and kissed the fair hand
gallantly—perhaps he kissed the lips
too; at all events, the worthy pair
were walking lovingly arm-in-arm
when Randal joined them.

He did not affect to perceive a certain
coldness in the manner of Mrs
Hazeldean, but began immediately to
talk to her about Frank; praise that
young gentleman’s appearance; expatiate
on his health, his popularity, and
his good gifts, personal and mental;
and this with so much warmth, that
any dim and undeveloped suspicions
Mrs Hazeldean might have formed
soon melted away.

Randal continued to make himself
thus agreeable, until the Squire, persuaded
that his young kinsman was a
first-rate agriculturist, insisted upon
carrying him off to the home farm,
and Harry turned towards the house to
order Randal’s room to be got ready:
“For,” said Randal, “knowing that
you will excuse my morning dress, I
venture to invite myself to dine and
sleep at the Hall.”

On approaching the farm-buildings,
Randal was seized with the terror
of an impostor; for, despite all the
theoretical learning on Bucolics and
Georgics with which he had dazzled
the Squire, poor Frank, so despised,
would have beat him hollow when it
came to judging of the points of an ox
or the show of a crop.

“Ha, ha!” cried the Squire, chuckling,
“I long to see how you’ll astonish
Stirn. Why, you’ll guess in a
moment where we put the top-dressing;
and when you come to handle
my short-horns, I dare swear you’ll
know to a pound how much oilcake
has gone into their sides.”

“Oh, you do me too much honour—indeed
you do. I only know the
general principles of agriculture—the
details are eminently interesting; but
I have not had the opportunity to acquire
them.”

“Stuff!” cried the Squire. “How
can a man know general principles
unless he has first studied the details?
You are too modest, my boy. Ho!
there’s Stirn looking out for us!”

Randal saw the grim visage of Stirn
peering out of a cattle-shed, and felt
undone. He made a desperate rush
towards changing the Squire’s humour.

“Well, sir, perhaps Frank may soon
gratify your wish and turn farmer
himself.”

“Eh!” quoth the Squire, stopping
short. “What now?”

“Suppose he was to marry?”

“I’d give him the two best farms
on the property rent free. Ha, ha!
Has he seen the girl yet? I’d leave
him free to choose, sir. I chose for
myself—every man should. Not but
what Miss Sticktorights is an heiress,
and, I hear, a very decent girl, and
that would join the two properties,
and put an end to that lawsuit about
the right of way, which began in the
reign of King Charles the Second, and
is likely otherwise to last till the day
of judgment. But never mind her;
let Frank choose to please himself.”

“I’ll not fail to tell him so, sir. I
did fear you might have some prejudices.
But here we are at the farm-yard.”

[684]

“Burn the farm-yard! How can
I think of farm-yards when you talk
of Frank’s marriage? Come on—this
way. What were you saying about
prejudices?”

“Why, you might wish him to marry
an Englishwoman, for instance.”

“English! Good heavens, sir, does
he mean to marry a Hindoo?”

“Nay, I don’t know that he means
to marry at all: I am only surmising;
but if he did fall in love with a
foreigner—”

“A foreigner! Ah, then Harry
was—” The Squire stopped short.

“Who might, perhaps,” observed
Randal—not truly if he referred to
Madame di Negra—”who might, perhaps,
speak very little English?”

“Lord ha’ mercy!”

“And a Roman Catholic—”

“Worshipping idols, and roasting
people who don’t worship them.”

“Signior Riccabocca is not so bad
as that.”

“Rickeybockey! Well, if it was
his daughter! But not speak English!
and not go to the parish church! By
George! if Frank thought of such a
thing, I’d cut him off with a shilling.
Don’t talk to me, sir; I would. I’m
a mild man, and an easy man; but
when I say a thing, I say it, Mr. Leslie.
Oh, but it is a jest—you are laughing
at me. There’s no such painted, good-for-nothing
creature in Frank’s eye,
eh?”

“Indeed, sir, if ever I find there is,
I will give you notice in time. At
present I was only trying to ascertain
what you wished for a daughter-in-law.
You said you had no prejudice.”

“No more I have—not a bit of it.”

“You don’t like a foreigner and a
Catholic?”

“Who the devil would?”

“But if she had rank and title?”

“Rank and title! Bubble and
squeak! No, not half so good as
bubble and squeak. English beef and
good cabbage. But foreign rank and
title!—foreign cabbage and beef!—foreign
bubble and foreign squeak!”
And the Squire made a wry face, and
spat forth his disgust and indignation.

“You must have an Englishwoman?”

“Of course.”

“Money?”

“Don’t care, provided she is a tidy,
sensible, active lass, with a good
character for her dower.”

“Character—ah, that is indispensable?”

“I should think so, indeed. A Mrs.
Hazeldean of Hazeldean; you frighten
me. He’s not going to run off with a
divorced woman, or a—”

The Squire stopped, and looked so
red in the face, that Randal feared he
might be seized with apoplexy before
Frank’s crimes had made him alter his
will.

Therefore he hastened to relieve
Mr Hazeldean’s mind, and assured
him that he had been only talking at
random; that Frank was in the habit,
indeed, of seeing foreign ladies occasionally,
as all persons in the London
world were; but that he was sure Frank
would never marry without the full
consent and approval of his parents.
He ended by repeating his assurance,
that he would warn the Squire if ever
it became necessary. Still, however,
he left Mr Hazeldean so disturbed and
uneasy, that that gentleman forgot all
about the farm, and went moodily on
in the opposite direction, re-entering
the park at its farther extremity.
As soon as they approached the house,
the Squire hastened to shut himself
with his wife in full parental consultation;
and Randal, seated upon a
bench on the terrace, revolved the
mischief he had done, and its chances
of success.

While thus seated, and thus thinking,
a footstep approached cautiously,
and a low voice said, in broken English,
“Sare, sare, let me speak vid
you.”

Randal turned in surprise, and beheld
a swarthy saturnine face, with
grizzled hair and marked features. He
recognised the figure that had joined
Riccabocca in the Italian’s garden.

“Speak-a you Italian?” resumed
Jackeymo.

Randal, who had made himself an
excellent linguist, nodded assent;
and Jackeymo, rejoiced, begged him
to withdraw into a more private
part of the grounds.

Randal obeyed, and the two gained
the shade of a stately chestnut avenue.

“Sir,” then said Jackeymo, speaking
in his native tongue, and expressing
himself with a certain simple
pathos, “I am but a poor man; my[685]
name is Giacomo. You have heard
of me;—servant to the Signior
whom you saw to-day—only a servant;
but he honours me with his
confidence. We have known danger
together; and of all his friends and
followers, I alone came with him to
the stranger’s land.”

“Good, faithful fellow,” said
Randal, examining the man’s face,
“say on. Your master confides in
you? He confided that which I told
him this day?”

“He did. Ah, sir! the Padrone
was too proud to ask you to explain
more—too proud to show fear of
another. But he does fear—he ought
to fear—he shall fear,” (continued
Jackeymo, working himself up to
passion)—”for the Padrone has a
daughter, and his enemy is a villain.
Oh, sir, tell me all that you did not
tell to the Padrone. You hinted
that this man might wish to marry
the Signora. Marry her!—I could
cut his throat at the altar!”

“Indeed,” said Randal; “I believe
that such is his object.”

“But why? He is rich—she is
penniless; no, not quite that, for we
have saved—but penniless, compared
to him.”

“My good friend, I know not yet
his motives; but I can easily learn
them. If, however, this Count be
your master’s enemy, it is surely
well to guard against him, whatever
his designs; and, to do so, you
should move into London or its
neighbourhood. I fear that, while
we speak, the Count may get upon
his track.”

“He had better not come here!”
cried the servant menacingly, and
putting his hand where the knife was
not.

“Beware of your own anger,
Giacomo. One act of violence, and
you would be transported from England,
and your master would lose a
friend.”

Jackeymo seemed struck by this
caution.

“And if the Padrone were to meet
him, do you think the Padrone would
meekly say, ‘Come stà sa Signoria?’
The Padrone would strike
him dead!”

“Hush—hush! You speak of
what, in England, is called murder,
and is punished by the gallows. If
you really love your master, for
heaven’s sake get him from this
place—get him from all chance of
such passion and peril. I go to
town to-morrow; I will find him a
house that shall be safe from all
spies—all discovery. And there,
too, my friend, I can do—what I cannot
at this distance—watch over
him, and keep watch also on his
enemy.”

Jackeymo seized Randal’s hand
and lifted it towards his lip; then, as
if struck by a sudden suspicion,
dropped the hand, and said bluntly—”Signior,
I think you have seen
the Padrone twice. Why do you
take this interest in him?”

“Is it so uncommon to take
interest even in a stranger who is
menaced by some peril?”

Jackeymo, who believed little in
general philanthropy, shook his head
sceptically.

“Besides,” continued Randal, suddenly
bethinking himself of a more
plausible reason—”besides, I am
a friend and connection of Mr Egerton;
and Mr Egerton’s most intimate
friend is Lord L’Estrange; and I
have heard that Lord L’Estrange—”

“The good lord! Oh, now I
understand,” interrupted Jackeymo,
and his brow cleared. “Ah, if he
were in England! But you will let
us know when he comes?”

“Certainly. Now, tell me, Giacomo,
is this Count really unprincipled
and dangerous? Remember,
I know him not personally.”

“He has neither heart, head, nor
conscience.”

“That makes him dangerous to
men; but to women, danger comes
from other qualities. Could it be
possible, if he obtained any interview
with the Signora, that he could win
her affections?”

Jackeymo crossed himself rapidly,
and made no answer.

“I have heard that he is still very
handsome.”

Jackeymo groaned.

Randal resumed—”Enough; persuade
the Padrone to come to
town.”

“But if the Count is in town?”

“That makes no difference; the
safest place is always the largest[686]
city. Everywhere else a foreigner
is in himself an object of attention
and curiosity.”

“True.”

“Let your master, then, come to
London. He can reside in one of the
suburbs most remote from the Count’s
haunts. In two days I will have
found him a lodging and write to
him. You trust to me now?”

“I do indeed—I do, Excellency.
Ah, if the Signorina were married,
we would not care!”

“Married! But she looks so high!”

“Alas! not now—not here!”

Randal sighed heavily. Jackeymo’s
eyes sparkled. He thought
he had detected a new motive for
Randal’s interest—a motive to an
Italian the most natural, the most
laudable of all.

“Find the house, Signior—write
to the Padrone. He shall come. I’ll
talk to him. I can manage him.
Holy San Giacomo, bestir thyself
now—’tis long since I troubled
thee!”

Jackeymo strode off through the
fading trees, smiling and muttering
as he went.

The first dinner-bell rang, and, on
entering the drawing-room, Randal
found Parson Dale and his wife, who
had been invited in haste to meet
the unexpected visitor.

The preliminary greetings over,
Mr Dale took the opportunity afforded
by the Squire’s absence to inquire
after the health of Mr Egerton.

“He is always well,” said Randal.
“I believe he is made of iron.”

“His heart is of gold,” said the
Parson.

“Ah!” said Randal, inquisitively,
“you told me you had come in
contact with him once, respecting,
I think, some of your old parishioners
at Lansmere?”

The Parson nodded, and there was
a moment’s silence.

“Do you remember your battle by
the Stocks, Mr Leslie?” said Mr
Dale, with a good-humoured laugh.

“Indeed, yes. By the way, now
you speak of it, I met my old
opponent in London the first year I
went up to it.”

“You did!—where?”

“At a literary scamp’s—a cleverish
man called Burley.”

“Burley! I have seen some burlesque
verses in Greek by a Mr
Burley.”

“No doubt, the same person. He
has disappeared—gone to the dogs,
I dare say. Burlesque Greek is not
a knowledge very much in power
at present.”

“Well, but Leonard Fairfield?—you
have seen him since?”

“No.”

“Nor heard of him?”

“No!—have you?”

“Strange to say, not for a long
time. But I have reason to believe
that he must be doing well.”

“You surprise me! Why?”

“Because, two years ago, he sent
for his mother. She went to him.”

“Is that all?”

“It is enough; for he would not
have sent for her if he could not
maintain her.”

Here the Hazeldeans entered,
arm-in-arm, and the fat butler
announced dinner.

The Squire was unusually taciturn—Mrs
Hazeldean thoughtful—Mrs
Dale languid, and headachy. The
Parson, who seldom enjoyed the
luxury of converse with a scholar,
save when he quarrelled with Dr
Riccabocca, was animated, by Randal’s
repute for ability, into a great
desire for argument.

“A glass of wine, Mr Leslie. You
were saying, before dinner, that burlesque
Greek is not a knowledge very
much in power at present. Pray, sir,
what knowledge is in power?”

Randal, (laconically.)—”Practical
knowledge.”

Parson.—”What of?”

Randal.—”Men.”

Parson, (candidly.)—”Well, I
suppose that is the most available
sort of knowledge, in a worldly point
of view. How does one learn it? Do
books help?”

Randal.—”According as they are
read, they help or injure.”

Parson.—”How should they be
read in order to help?”

Randal.—”Read specially to apply
to purposes that lead to power.”

Parson, (very much struck with
Randal’s pithy and Spartan logic.)—”Upon
my word, sir, you express
yourself very well. I must own that
I began these questions in the hope of[687]
differing from you; for I like an argument.”

“That he does,” growled the Squire;
“the most contradictory creature!”

Parson.—”Argument is the salt
of talk. But now I am afraid I must
agree with you, which I was not at
all prepared for.”

Randal bowed, and answered—”No
two men of our education can
dispute upon the application of knowledge.”

Parson, (pricking up his ears.)—”Eh!
what to?”

Randal.—”Power, of course.”

Parson, (overjoyed.)—”Power!—the
vulgarest application of it, or the
loftiest? But you mean the loftiest?”

Randal, (in his turn interested
and interrogative.)—”What do you
call the loftiest, and what the vulgarest?”

Parson.—”The vulgarest, self-interest;
the loftiest, beneficence.”

Randal suppressed the half disdainful
smile that rose to his lip.

“You speak, sir, as a clergyman
should do. I admire your sentiment,
and adopt it; but I fear that the
knowledge which aims only at beneficence
very rarely in this world gets
any power at all.”

Squire, (seriously.)—”That’s true;
I never get my own way when I want
to do a kindness, and Stirn always
gets his when he insists on something
diabolically brutal and harsh.”

Parson.—”Pray, Mr Leslie, what
does intellectual power refined to the
utmost, but entirely stripped of beneficence,
most resemble?”

Randal.—”Resemble?—I can
hardly say. Some very great man—almost
any very great man—who has
baffled all his foes, and attained all
his ends.”

Parson.—”I doubt if any man
has ever become very great who has
not meant to be beneficent, though he
might err in the means. Cæsar was
naturally beneficent, and so was Alexander.
But intellectual power refined
to the utmost, and wholly void of
beneficence, resembles only one being,
and that, sir, is the Principle of Evil.”

Randal, (startled.)—”Do you
mean the Devil?”

Parson.—”Yes, sir—the Devil;
and even he, sir, did not succeed!
Even he, sir, is what your great men
would call a most decided failure.”

Mrs Dale.—”My dear—my dear.”

Parson.—”Our religion proves it,
my love; he was an angel, and he
fell.”

There was a solemn pause. Randal
was more impressed than he liked to
own to himself. By this time the
dinner was over, and the servants
had retired. Harry glanced at Carry.
Carry smoothed her gown and rose.

The gentlemen remained over their
wine; and the Parson, satisfied with
what he deemed a clencher upon his
favourite subject of discussion, changed
the subject to lighter topics, till happening
to fall upon tithes, the Squire
struck in, and by dint of loudness of
voice, and truculence of brow, fairly
overwhelmed both his guests, and
proved to his own satisfaction that
tithes were an unjust and unchristian-like
usurpation on the part of the
Church generally, and a most especial
and iniquitous infliction upon the
Hazeldean estates in particular.

CHAPTER IX.

On entering the drawing-room,
Randal found the two ladies seated
close together, in a position much more
appropriate to the familiarity of their
school-days than to the politeness of
the friendship now existing between
them. Mrs Hazeldean’s hand hung
affectionately over Carry’s shoulder,
and both those fair English faces were
bent over the same book. It was pretty
to see these sober matrons, so different
from each other in character and aspect,
thus unconsciously restored to
the intimacy of happy maiden youth
by the golden link of some Magician
from the still land of Truth or Fancy—brought
together in heart, as each eye
rested on the same thought;—closer
and closer, as sympathy, lost in the
actual world, grew out of that world
which unites in one bond of feeling
the readers of some gentle book.

“And what work interests you so
much?” said Randal, pausing by the
table.

“One you have read, of course,”[688]
replied Mrs Dale, putting a bookmark
embroidered by herself into
the page, and handing the volume to
Randal. “It has made a great sensation,
I believe.”

Randal glanced at the title of the
work. “True,” said he, “I have
heard much of it in London, but I
have not yet had time to read it.”

Mrs Dale.—”I can lend it to you,
if you like to look over it to-night,
and you can leave it for me with Mrs
Hazeldean.”

Parson, (approaching.)—”Oh!
that book!—yes, you must read it.
I do not know a work more instructive.”

Randal.—”Instructive! Certainly
I will read it then. But I thought it
was a mere work of amusement—of
fancy. It seems so, as I look over it.”

Parson.—”So is the Vicar of
Wakefield; yet what book more instructive?”

Randal.—”I should not have
said that of the Vicar of Wakefield.
A pretty book enough, though the
story is most improbable. But how is
it instructive?”

Parson.—”By its results: it leaves
us happier and better. What can
any instruction do more? Some
works instruct through the head, some
through the heart; the last reach the
widest circle, and often produce the
most genial influence on the character.
This book belongs to the last. You
will grant my proposition when you
have read it.”

Randal smiled and took the volume.

Mrs Dale.—”Is the author known
yet?”

Randal.—”I have heard it ascribed
to many writers, but I believe
no one has claimed it.”

Parson.—”I think it must have
been written by my old college friend,
Professor Moss, the naturalist; its descriptions
of scenery are so accurate.”

Mrs Dale.—”La, Charles dear!
that snuffy, tiresome, prosy professor?
How can you talk such nonsense? I
am sure the author must be young;
there is so much freshness of feeling.”

Mrs Hazeldean, (positively.)—”Yes,
certainly young.”

Parson, (no less positively.)—”I
should say just the contrary. Its
tone is too serene, and its style too
simple for a young man. Besides, I
don’t know any young man who would
send me his book, and this book has
been sent me—very handsomely bound
too, you see. Depend upon it, Moss
is the man—quite his turn of mind.”

Mrs Dale.—”You are too provoking,
Charles dear! Mr Moss is
so remarkably plain, too.”

Randal.—”Must an author be
handsome?”

Parson.—”Ha, ha! Answer that,
if you can, Carry.”

Carry remained mute and disdainful.

Squire, (with great naiveté.)—”Well,
I don’t think there’s much in
the book, whoever wrote it; for I’ve
read it myself, and understand every
word of it.”

Mrs Dale.—”I don’t see why you
should suppose it was written by a
man at all. For my part, I think it
must be a woman.”

Mrs Hazeldean.—”Yes, there’s
a passage about maternal affection,
which only a woman could have
written.”

Parson.—”Pooh, pooh! I should
like to see a woman who could have
written that description of an August
evening before a thunderstorm;
every wildflower in the hedgerow
exactly the flowers of August—every
sign in the air exactly those of
the month. Bless you! a woman
would have filled the hedge with
violets and cowslips. Nobody else
but my friend Moss could have written
that description.”

Squire.—”I don’t know; there’s
a simile about the waste of corn-seed
in hand-sowing, which makes me
think he must be a farmer!”

Mrs Dale, (scornfully.)—”A farmer!
In hob-nailed shoes, I suppose!
I say it is a woman.”

Mrs Hazeldean.—”A WOMAN,
and A MOTHER!”

Parson.—”A middle-aged man,
and a naturalist.”

Squire.—”No, no, Parson; certainly
a young man; for that love-scene
puts me in mind of my own
young days, when I would have given
my ears to tell Harry how handsome
I thought her; and all I could say
was—’Fine weather for the crops,
Miss.’ Yes, a young man, and a
farmer. I should not wonder if he
had held the plough himself.”

[689]

Randal, (who had been turning
over the pages.)—”This sketch of
Night in London comes from a man
who has lived the life, of cities, and
looked at wealth with the eyes of
poverty. Not bad! I will read the
book.”

“Strange,” said the Parson, smiling,
“that this little work should so
have entered into our minds, suggested
to all of us different ideas, yet
equally charmed all—given a new and
fresh current to our dull country life—animated
us as with the sight of
a world in our breasts we had
never seen before, save in dreams;—a
little work like this, by a man we
don’t know, and never may! Well,
that knowledge is power, and a noble
one!”

“A sort of power, certainly, sir,”
said Randal, candidly; and that
night, when Randal retired to his
own room, he suspended his schemes
and projects, and read, as he rarely
did, without an object to gain by the
reading.

The work surprised him by the
pleasure it gave. Its charm lay in
the writer’s calm enjoyment of the
Beautiful. It seemed like some happy
soul sunning itself in the light of
its own thoughts. Its power was so
tranquil and even, that it was only a
critic who could perceive how much
force and vigour were necessary
to sustain the wing that floated aloft
with so imperceptible an effort.
There was no one faculty predominating
tyrannically over the others; all
seemed proportioned in the felicitous
symmetry of a nature rounded, integral,
and complete. And when the
work was closed, it left behind it a
tender warmth that played round the
heart of the reader, and vivified feelings
that seemed unknown before.
Randal laid down the book softly;
and for five minutes the ignoble and
base purposes to which his own knowledge
was applied, stood before him,
naked and unmasked.

“Tut,” said he, wrenching himself
violently away from the benign influence,
“it was not to sympathise with
Hector, but to conquer with Achilles,
that Alexander of Macedon kept
Homer under his pillow. Such should
be the true use of books to him who
has the practical world to subdue; let
parsons and women construe it otherwise
as they may!”

And the Principle of Evil descended
again upon the intellect,
from which the guide of beneficence
was gone.

CHAPTER X.

Randal rose at the sound of the
first breakfast bell, and on the staircase
met Mrs Hazeldean. He gave
her back the book; and as he was
about to speak, she beckoned to him
to follow her into a little morning-room
appropriated to herself. No
boudoir of white and gold, with pictures
by Watteau, but lined with
large walnut-tree presses, that held
the old heirloom linen strewed with
lavender—stores for the housekeeper,
and medicines for the poor.

Seating herself on a large chair in
this sanctum, Mrs Hazeldean looked
formidably at home.

“Pray,” said the lady, coming at
once to the point, with her usual
straightforward candour, “what is
all this you have been saying to my
husband as to the possibility of Frank’s
marrying a foreigner?”

Randal.—”Would you be as
averse to such a notion as Mr Hazeldean
is?”

Mrs Hazeldean.—”You ask me
a question, instead of answering
mine.”

Randal was greatly put out in his
fence by these rude thrusts. For indeed
he had a double purpose to serve—first
thoroughly to know if Frank’s
marriage with a woman like Madame
di Negra would irritate the Squire
sufficiently to endanger the son’s inheritance;
and, secondly, to prevent
Mr and Mrs Hazeldean believing,
seriously that such a marriage was to
be apprehended, lest they should prematurely
address Frank on the subject,
and frustrate the marriage itself. Yet,
withal, he must so express himself,
that he could not be afterwards accused
by the parents of disguising
matters. In his talk to the Squire
the preceding day, he had gone a little[690]
too far—farther than he would have
done but for his desire of escaping the
cattle-shed and short-horns. While
he mused, Mrs Hazeldean observed
him with her honest sensible eyes,
and finally exclaimed—

“Out with it, Mr Leslie!”

“Out with what, my dear madam?
The Squire has sadly exaggerated the
importance of what was said mainly
in jest. But I will own to you plainly,
that Frank has appeared to me a little
smitten with a certain fair Italian.”

“Italian!” cried Mrs Hazeldean.
“Well, I said so from the first. Italian!—that’s
all, is it?” and she
smiled.

Randal was more and more perplexed.
The pupil of his eye contracted,
as it does when we retreat
into ourselves, and think, watch, and
keep guard.

“And perhaps,” resumed Mrs
Hazeldean, with a very sunny expression
of countenance, “you have noticed
this in Frank since he was
here?”

“It is true,” murmured Randal;
“but I think his heart or his fancy
was touched even before.”

“Very natural,” said Mrs Hazeldean;
“how could he help it?—such
a beautiful creature! Well, I must
not ask you to tell Frank’s secrets;
but I guess the object of attraction;
and though she will have no fortune
to speak of—and it is not such a
match as he might form—still she
is so amiable, and has been so well
brought up, and is so little like one’s
general notions of a Roman Catholic,
that I think I could persuade Hazeldean
into giving his consent.”

“Ah!” said Randal, drawing a
long breath, and beginning with his
practised acuteness to detect Mrs
Hazeldean’s error, “I am very much
relieved and rejoiced to hear this; and
I may venture to give Frank some
hope, if I find him disheartened and
desponding, poor fellow!”

“I think you may,” replied Mrs
Hazeldean, laughing pleasantly. “But
you should not have frightened poor
William so, hinting that the lady
knew very little English. She has
an accent, to be sure; but she speaks
our tongue very prettily. I always
forget that she’s not English born!
Ha, ha, poor William!”

Randal.—”Ha, ha!”

Mrs Hazeldean.—”We had once
thought of another match for Frank—a
girl of good English family.”

Randal.—”Miss Sticktorights?”

Mrs Hazeldean.—”No; that’s
an old whim of Hazeldean’s. But
he knows very well that the Sticktorights
would never merge their property
in ours. Bless you, it would
be all off the moment they came to
settlements, and had to give up the
right of way. We thought of a
very different match; but there’s no
dictating to young hearts, Mr Leslie.”

Randal.—”Indeed no, Mrs Hazeldean.
But since we now understand
each other so well, excuse me if I
suggest that you had better leave
things to themselves, and not write
to Frank on the subject. Young
hearts, you know, are often stimulated
by apparent difficulties, and grow
cool when the obstacle vanishes.”

Mrs Hazeldean.—”Very possibly;
it was not so with Hazeldean and
me. But I shall not write to Frank
on the subject, for a different reason—though
I would consent to the match,
and so would William; yet we both
would rather, after all, that Frank
married an Englishwoman, and a
Protestant. We will not, therefore,
do anything to encourage the idea.
But if Frank’s happiness becomes
really at stake, then we will step in.
In short, we would neither encourage
nor oppose. You understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“And, in the meanwhile, it is
quite right that Frank should see
the world, and try to distract his
mind, or at least to know it. And
I dare say it has been some thought
of that kind which has prevented his
coming here.”

Randal, dreading a farther and
plainer éclaircissement, now rose,
and saying, “Pardon me, but I
must hurry over breakfast, and be
back in time to catch the coach”—offered
his arm to his hostess, and
led her into the breakfast-parlour.
Devouring his meal, as if in great
haste, he then mounted his horse,
and, taking cordial leave of his entertainers,
trotted briskly away.

All things favoured his project—even
chance had befriended him in
Mrs Hazeldean’s mistake. She had[691]
not unnaturally supposed Violante to
have captivated Frank on his last
visit to the Hall. Thus, while Randal
had certified his own mind that
nothing could more exasperate the
Squire than an alliance with Madame
di Negra, he could yet assure Frank
that Mrs Hazeldean was all on his
side. And when the error was discovered,
Mrs Hazeldean would only
have to blame herself for it. Still
more successful had his diplomacy
proved with the Riccaboccas; he
had ascertained the secret he had
come to discover; he should induce
the Italian to remove to the neighbourhood
of London; and if Violante
were the great heiress he suspected
her to prove, whom else of her own
age would she see but him? And
the old Leslie domains—to be sold
in two years—a portion of the
dowry might purchase them! Flushed
by the triumph of his craft, all former
vacillations of conscience ceased.
In high and fervent spirits he passed
the Casino, the garden of which was
solitary and deserted, reached his
home, and, telling Oliver to be
studious, and Juliet to be patient,
walked thence to meet the coach and
regain the capital.

CHAPTER XI.

Violante was seated in her own
little room, and looking from the window
on the terrace that stretched
below. The day was warm for the
time of year. The orange-trees had
been removed under shelter for the
approach of winter; but where they
had stood sate Mrs Riccabocca at
work. In the Belvidere, Riccabocca
himself was conversing with
his favourite servant. But the casements
and the door of the Belvidere
were open; and where they sate,
both wife and daughter could see the
Padrone leaning against the wall,
with his arms folded, and his eyes
fixed on the floor; while Jackeymo,
with one finger on his master’s arm,
was talking to him with visible earnestness.
And the daughter from
the window, and the wife from her
work, directed tender anxious eyes
towards the still thoughtful form so
dear to both. For the last day or
two, Riccabocca had been peculiarly
abstracted, even to gloom. Each felt
there was something stirring at his
heart—neither as yet knew what.

Violante’s room silently revealed the
nature of the education by which her
character had been formed. Save
a sketch-book which lay open on a
desk at hand, and which showed
talent exquisitely taught, (for in this
Riccabocca had been her teacher,)
there was nothing that spoke of the
ordinary female accomplishments. No
piano stood open, no harp occupied
yon nook, which seemed made for
one; no broidery frame, nor implements
of work, betrayed the usual
and graceful resources of a girl; but
ranged on shelves against the wall were
the best writers in English, Italian,
and French; and these betokened an
extent of reading, that he who wishes
for a companion to his mind in the
sweet commune of woman, which
softens and refines all it gives and
takes in interchange, will never condemn
as masculine. You had but to
look into Violante’s face to see how
noble was the intelligence that brought
soul to those lovely features. Nothing
hard, nothing dry and stern was there.
Even as you detected knowledge, it
was lost in the gentleness of grace.
In fact, whatever she gained in the
graver kinds of information, became
transmuted, through her heart and
her fancy, into spiritual golden stores.
Give her some tedious and arid history,
her imagination seized upon
beauties other readers had passed by,
and, like the eye of the artist, detected
everywhere the Picturesque.
Something in her mind seemed to
reject all that was mean and commonplace,
and to bring out all that
was rare and elevated in whatever it
received. Living so apart from all
companions of her age, she scarcely
belonged to the Present time. She
dwelt in the Past, as Sabrina, in her
crystal well. Images of chivalry—of
the Beautiful and the Heroic—such
as, in reading the silvery line of
Tasso, rise before us, softening force
and valour into love and song—haunted
the reveries of the fair Italian maid.

[692]

Tell us not that the Past, examined
by cold Philosophy, was no better
and no loftier than the Present; it is
not thus seen by pure and generous
eyes. Let the Past perish, when it
ceases to reflect on its magic mirror
the beautiful Romance which is its
noblest reality, though perchance but
the shadow of Delusion.

Yet Violante was not merely the
dreamer. In her, life was so puissant
and rich, that action seemed necessary
to its glorious development—action,
but still in the woman’s sphere—action
to bless and to refine and to exalt all
around her, and to pour whatever else
of ambition was left unsatisfied into
sympathy with the aspirations of
man. Despite her father’s fears of
the bleak air of England, in that air
she had strengthened the delicate
health of her childhood. Her elastic
step—her eyes full of sweetness and
light—her bloom, at once soft and
luxuriant—all spoke of the vital
powers fit to sustain a mind of such
exquisite mould, and the emotions of
a heart that, once aroused, could ennoble
the passions of the South
with the purity and devotion of the
North.

Solitude makes some natures more
timid, some more bold. Violante was
fearless. When she spoke, her eyes
frankly met your own; and she was
so ignorant of evil, that as yet she
seemed nearly unacquainted with
shame. From this courage, combined
with affluence of idea, came a delightful
flow of happy converse. Though
possessing so imperfectly the accomplishments
ordinarily taught to young
women, and which may be cultured
to the utmost, and yet leave the
thoughts so barren, and the talk so
vapid—she had that accomplishment
which most pleases the taste, and commands
the love, of the man of talent;
especially if his talent be not so actively
employed as to make him desire
only relaxation where he seeks companionship—the
accomplishment of
facility in intellectual interchange—the
charm that clothes in musical
words beautiful womanly ideas.

“I hear him sigh at this distance,”
said Violante softly, as she still
watched her father; “and methinks
this is a new grief, and not for his
country. He spoke twice yesterday
of that dear English friend, and
wished that he were here.”

As she said this, unconsciously the
virgin blushed, her hands drooped on
her knee, and she fell herself into
thought as profound as her father’s,
but less gloomy. From her arrival
in England, Violante had been taught
a grateful interest in the name of
Harley L’Estrange. Her father, preserving
a silence, that seemed disdain,
of all his old Italian intimates,
had been pleased to converse with
open heart of the Englishman who
had saved where countrymen had
betrayed. He spoke of the soldier,
then in the full bloom of youth,
who, unconsoled by fame, had nursed
the memory of some hidden sorrow
amidst the pine-trees that cast their
shadow over the sunny Italian lake;
how Riccabocca, then honoured and
happy, had courted from his seclusion
the English Signor, then the
mourner and the voluntary exile;
how they had grown friends amidst
the landscapes in which her eyes had
opened to the day; how Harley
had vainly warned him from the rash
schemes in which he had sought to reconstruct
in an hour the ruins of weary
ages; how, when abandoned, deserted,
proscribed, pursued, he had fled for
life—the infant Violante clasped to
his bosom—the English soldier had
given him refuge, baffled the pursuers,
armed his servants, accompanied the
fugitive at night towards the defile in
the Apennines, and, when the emissaries
of a perfidious enemy, hot in
the chase, came near, had said, “You
have your child to save! Fly on!
Another league, and you are beyond
the borders. We will delay the foes
with parley; they will not harm us.”
And not till escape was gained did
the father know that the English
friend had delayed the foe, not by
parley, but by the sword, holding the
pass against numbers, with a breast
as dauntless as Bayard’s in the immortal
bridge.

And since then, the same Englishman
had never ceased to vindicate
his name, to urge his cause, and if
hope yet remained of restoration to
land and honours, it was in that
untiring zeal.

Hence, naturally and insensibly,
this secluded and musing girl had[693]
associated all that she read in tales
of romance and chivalry with the
image of the brave and loyal stranger.
He it was who animated her dreams
of the Past, and seemed born to be, in
the destined hour, the deliverer of the
Future. Around this image grouped
all the charms that the fancy of virgin
woman can raise from the enchanted
lore of old Heroic Fable. Once in her
early girlhood, her father (to satisfy
her curiosity, eager for general description)
had drawn from memory a
sketch of the features of the Englishman—drawn
Harley, as he was in
that first youth, flattered and idealised,
no doubt, by art and by partial
gratitude—but still resembling him
as he was then; while the deep
mournfulness of recent sorrow yet
shadowed and concentrated all the
varying expression of his countenance;
and to look on him was to
say,—”So sad, yet so young!” Never
did Violante pause to remember that
the same years which ripened herself
from infancy into woman, were passing
less gently over that smooth
cheek and dreamy brow—that the
world might be altering the nature,
as time the aspect. To her, the hero
of the Ideal remained immortal in
bloom and youth. Bright illusion,
common to us all, where Poetry once
hallows the human form! Who ever
thinks of Petrarch as the old time-worn
man? Who does not see him as when
he first gazed on Laura?—

CHAPTER XII.

And Violante, thus absorbed in
reverie, forgot to keep watch on the
Belvidere. And the Belvidere was
now deserted. The wife, who had no
other ideal to distract her thoughts,
saw Riccabocca pass into the house.

The exile entered his daughter’s
room, and she started to feel his hand
upon her locks and his kiss upon her
brow.

“My child!” cried Riccabocca,
seating himself, “I have resolved to
leave for a time this retreat, and to
seek the neighbourhood of London.”

“Ah, dear father, that, then, was
your thought? But what can be
your reason? Do not turn away; you
know how carefully I have obeyed
your command and kept your secret.
Ah, you will confide in me.”