BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CCCLXXII.
OCTOBER, 1846.
Vol. LX

CONTENTS.

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

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

SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.

PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND HUGHES, EDINBURGH.

[389]

BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CCCLXXII.
OCTOBER, 1846.
Vol. LX

WILD SPORTS AND NATURAL HISTORY OF THE HIGHLANDS.[1]

This year we have been a defaulter
on the Moors. Not that our eye has
become more dim, our aim less sure,
or our understanding weaker than of
yore; but we are no longer subject to
the same keen and burning impulses
which used periodically to beset us
towards the beginning of our departed
Augusts, inflaming our destructive
organs, and driving us to the heather,
as the stag is said to be driven by
instinct to the shores of the sea.
Somehow or other, we now take
things much more coolly. We no
longer haunt the shop of Dickson—that
most excellent and unassuming
of gunmakers—for weeks before the
shooting-season, discussing the comparative
excellences of cartridge and
plain shot, or refitting our battered
apparatus with the last ingenuities of
Sykes. Our talk is not of pointers
or of setters; neither do we think it
incumbent upon us to perambulate
Princes Street in a shooting-jacket,
or with the dissonance of hobnailed
shoes. We can even look upon the
northern steamers, surcharged with
all manner of ammunition, crammed
from stem to stern with Cockney
tourists and sportsmen, carriages and
cars, hampers, havresacks, and hair
trunks, steering their way from our
noble frith towards the Highlands,
without the slightest wish to become
one of that gay and gallant crew. Incredible
as it may appear, we actually
wrote an article upon the twelfth of
August last; nor was the calm, even
tenor of our thoughts for a moment
interrupted by the imaginary whirr of
the gor-cock. For the life of us, we
cannot recollect what sort of a day it
was. To be sure, we were early up and
at work—that is, as early as we ever
are, somewhere about ten: we wrote
on steadily until dinner-time, with
no more intermission than was necessary
for the discussion of a couple of
glasses of Madeira. After a slight
and salubrious meal, we again tackled
to the foolscap, and by nine o’clock
dismissed the printer’s devil to his
den with a quarter of a ream of
manuscript. We then strolled up to
our club, where, for the first time,
we were reminded of the nature of
the anniversary, by the savour of
roasted grouse. So, with a kind of
melancholy sigh for the impairment
of our blunted energies, we sat down
to supper, and leisurely explored the
pungent pepper about the backbone
of the bird of the mountain.

But empty streets, hot sun, and
dust like that of the Sahara, are combined
nuisances too formidable for
the most tranquil or indolent nature.
It is not good for any one to be the
last man left in town. You become
an object of suspicion to the porters—that
is, the more superannuated portion
of them, for the rest are all gone
to carry bags upon the moors—who,
[390]
seeing you continue from day to day
sidling along the deserted streets, begin
to entertain strange doubts as to
the real probity of your character, or,
at all events, as to your absolute
sanity. If you are a lawyer, and remain
in town throughout August and
September, your own conscience will
tell you at once that you are nothing
short of an arrant sneak. Are there
not ten other months in the year
throughout which you may cobble
condescendences, without emulating
the endurance of Chibert, and confining
yourself in an oven, to the manifest
endangerment of your liver, for the
few paltry guineas which may occasionally
come tumbling in? Will
any agent of sense consider you a
better counsel, or a more estimable
plodder, because you affect an exaggerated
passion for Morrison’s Decisions,
and refuse to be divorced even
for a week from your dalliance with
Shaw and Dunlop? Is that unfortunate
Lord Ordinary on the Bills to
be harassed day and night, deprived
of his morning drive, and deranged
in his digestive organs, on account of
your unhallowed lust for fees? Is
your unhappy clerk, whose wife and
children have long since been dismissed
to cheap bathing-quarters on
the coast of Fife, where at this moment
they are bobbing up and down among
the tangled rocks, skirling as the waves
come in, or hunting for diminutive
crabs and cavies in the sea-worn
pools—is that most oppressed and
martyred of all mankind to be kept,
by your relentless fiat, or rather wicked
obstinacy, from participating in the
same sanatory amusements with Bill,
and Harry, and Phemie, and the rest
of his curly-headed weans? Think
you that the complaints of Mrs Screever
will not be heard and registered
against you in heaven, as, mateless
and disconsolate, she cheapens haddocks
in the market, or plucks sea-pinks
along the cliffs of hoary Anstruther
or of Crail? Shame upon
you! Recollect, for the sake of others,
if not for your own, that you call
yourself a gentleman and a Christian.
Shut up your house from top to bottom—fee
the policeman to watch it—wafer
a ticket on the window, directing
all parcels to be sent to the grocer
with whom you have deposited the
key—give poor Girzy a holiday to
visit her friends at Carnwath—and
be off yourself, as fast as you can,
wherever your impulses may lead you,
either to the Highlands with rod and
gun, or, if you are no sportsman, to
Largs, or Ardrossan, or Dunoon, pleasant
places all, where you may saunter
along the shore undisturbed from morn
until dewy eve, hire a boat at a shilling
the hour, and purvey your own
whitings; or haply, if you are in good
luck, take a prominent part in the
proceedings of a regatta, and make
nautical speeches after dinner to the
intense amusement of your audience.

But you say you are a physician.
Well, then, cannot you leave your
patients to die in peace? It is six
months since you were called in to
attend that old lady, who has a large
jointure and a predisposition to jaundice.
You have visited her regularly
once a day—sometimes twice—prescribed
for her a whole pharmacopeia
of drugs—blistered her, bled
her, leeched her—curtailed her of
wholesome diet, forbidden cordial
waters, and denounced the needful
cinnamon. Dare you lay your hand
on your heart and say that you think
her better? Not you. Why not, then,
give the poor old woman, who is not
only harmless, but an excellent subscriber
to several Tract societies, one
chance more of a slightly protracted
existence? Restore to her her natural
food and adventitious comforts. Send
her away to Cheltenham or Harrowgate,
or some such other vale of Avoca,
where, at all events, she may get fresh
air, clean lodgings, and lots of mineral
water. So shall you escape the pangs
of an awakened conscience, and your
deathbed be haunted by the thoughts
of at least one homicide the less.

What we say to one we say to all.
Stockbroker! you are a good fellow
in the main, and you never meant to
ruin your clients. It was not your
fault that they went so largely into
Glenmutchkins, and made such unfortunate
attempts to bear the Biggleswade
Junction. But why should you
continue to tempt the poor devils at
this flat season of the year, and with
a glutted market, into any further
purchases of scrip? You know very
well, that until November, at the earliest,
there is not the most distant[391]
prospect of a rise, and you have
already pocketed, believe us, a remarkably
handsome commission. Do
not be in too great a hurry to kill the
goose with the golden eggs. A rest
for a month or so will make them all
the keener for speculation afterwards,
and nurse their appetite for premiums.
We foresee a stirring winter, if you
will but take things quietly in the
interim. Assemble your brethren together—shut
up the Exchange by
common consent during the dog-days—convert
your lists into wadding,
and let Mammon have a momentary
respite.—Writer to the Signet! is it
fair to be penning letters, each of
which costs your employer three and
fourpence, when they are certain to
remain unanswered? Do not do it.
This is capital time for taking infeftments,
and those instruments of
sasine may well suffice to plump out
the interior of a game-bag. No better
witnesses in the world than a shepherd
and an illicit distiller; and sweet will
be your crowning caulker as you take
instruments of earth and stone, peat
and divot, and the like, in the hands
of Angus and Donald, by the side of
the spring, far up in the solitary mountain.
Therefore, again we say, be off
as speedily as you can to the moors,
and leave the Deserted City to sun
and dust, and the vigilance of a perspiring
Town Council.

Example, they say, is better than
precept—we might demur to the
doctrine, but we are not in a disputatious
humour. For we too are bound,
though late, to the land of grouse—indeed
we have already accomplished
the greater part of our journey, and
are writing this article in a pleasant
burgh of the west, separated only by
an arm of the sea, across which the
bright-sailed yachts are skimming,
from a long range of heathery hills,
whereon we hope, if it pleases fortune,
to do some execution on the
morrow. Our three pointers, Orleans,
Tours, and Bordeaux—so named
after the speculation that enabled us
to purchase them—are basking in the
sun on the little green beneath our
window; whilst Scrip, our terrier and
constant companion, is perched upon
the sill, barking with all his might at
a peripatetic miscreant of a minstrel,
who for the last half hour has been
grinding Gentle Zitella to shreds in
his barrel organ. We have tried in
vain to move him with coppers
dexterously shied so as to hit him if
possible on the head, but the nuisance
will not abate. We must follow the
example of the Covenanters, and put
an end to him at the expenditure of a
silver shot. “There, our good fellow,
is a shilling for you—have the kindness
to move on a few doors further;
there are some sick folks in this
house. At the end of the row you
will find a family remarkably addicted
to music—the house with the
green blinds—you understand us?
Thank you!” And in a few moments
we hear his infernal instrument, now
not unpleasantly remote, doling out
the popular air of the Glasgow Chappie,
for the edification of the intolerable
Gorbalier who poisoned our passage
down the Clyde by constituting
himself our Cicerone, and explaining
the method by which one might discriminate
the Railway boats from
those of the Castle Company, by the
peculiar ochreing of their funnels.

Did we intend to remain here
much longer, we should be compelled
in self-defence to clear the neighbourhood.
This is not so impracticable as
at first sight may appear. We have
made acquaintance with a very
pleasant fellow of a Bauldy—quite a
genius in his way—who has a natural
talent for the French horn. To him
an old key-bugle would be an inestimable
treasure, and we doubt not that
with a few instructions he would become
such a proficient as to serenade
the suburb day and night. Nor
would our conscience reproach us for
having made one human creature
supremely happy, even at the cost of
the emigration of a few dozen others.
But fortunately we have no need to
recur to any such experiment. To-morrow
we shall enact the part of
Macgregor with our foot upon our
native heather; and for one evening,
wherever the locality, we could not
find a more apt or pleasant companion
than Mr Charles St John, whose
sporting journals are at last published
in the Home and Colonial Library.

We make this preliminary statement
the more readily, because for
divers reasons we had hardly expected
to find the work so truly excellent[392]
of its kind; and had there been any
shortcomings, assuredly we should
have been foul of St John. In the
first place, we entertained, and do
still entertain, the opinion that very
few English sportsmen are capable
of writing a work which shall treat
not only of the Wild Sports, but of the
Natural History of the Highlands.
They belong to a migratory class,
and seldom exchange the comforts of
their clubs for the inconveniences of
northern rustication, at least before
the month of June. Now and then,
indeed, you may meet with some of
them, whose passion for angling
amounts to a mania, by the side of the
Tweed or the Shin, long before the
mavis has hatched her young. But
these are usually elderly grey-coated
men, whose whole faculties are bent
upon hackles—the patriarchs of a far
nobler school than that of Walton—magnificent
throwers of the fly—salmonicides
of the first water—yet
in our humble estimation not very
conversant with any other subject
under heaven. Their sporting error—rather
let us call it misfortune—is
that they do not generalise. By the
middle of September their occupation
for the year is over. Shortly afterwards
they assemble, like swallows
about to leave our shores, on the
banks of the Tweed, which river is
permitted by the mercy of the British
Parliament to remain open for a short
time longer. There they angle on,
kill their penultimate and ultimate
fish; and finally, at the approach of
winter, retreat to warmer quarters,
and recapitulate the campaigns of the
summer over port of the most generous
vintage. These are clearly not
the men to indite the Wild Sports and
Natural History of the North.

The other section of English sportsmen
come later and depart a little
earlier. They are the renters of moors,
crack sportsmen in every sense of the
word, who resort to Ross-shire as regularly
as they afterwards emigrate
to Melton. Now, as to their slaughtering
powers, we entertain not the
shadow of a doubt. Steady shots
and deadly are they from their youth
upwards—trained, it may be, upon
level ground, but still unerring in
their aim. If not so wiry-sinewed,
and sound of wind as the Caledonian,
their pluck is undeniable, and their
perseverance praiseworthy in the extreme.
Show them the birds, and
they will bring them to bag—give
them a fair chance at a red-deer, and
the odds are that next minute he shall
be rolling in blood upon the heather.
But this, let it be observed, is after
all a mere matter of tooling. To be
a good shot is only one branch of the
finished sportsman’s accomplishment,
and it enters not at all into the conformation
of the naturalist. We
would not give a brace of widgeons
for the best description ever written
of a week’s sport in the Highlands,
or indeed any where else, provided it
contained nothing more than an account
of the killed and wounded,
some facetious anecdotes regarding
the lives of the gillies, and a narrative
of the manner in which the author
encountered and overcame a hart.
Even the adventures of a night in a
still will hardly make the book go
down. We want an eye accustomed
to look to other things beyond the
sight of a gun-barrel—we want to
know more about the quarry than the
mere fact that it was flushed, fired at,
and killed. Death can come but once
to the black-cock as to the warrior,
but are their lives to be accounted as
nothing? Ponto we allow to be a
beautiful brute—a little too thin-skinned,
perhaps, for the moors, and
apt, in case of mist, to lapse into a
state of ague—yet, notwithstanding,
punctual at his points, and cheap at
twenty guineas of the current money
of the realm. Howbeit we care not
for his biography. To us it is matter
of the smallest moment from what
breed he is descended, by whose gamekeeper
he was broken, neither are we
covetous as to statistics of the number
of his brothers and sisters uterine.
It is of course gratifying to know that
our southern acquaintance approves
of the sport he has met with in a particular
district; and that on the
twelfth, not only the bags but the
ponies were exuberantly loaded with
a superfluity of fud and feather.
Such intelligence would have been
listened to most benignly had it been
accompanied by a box of game duly
addressed to us at Ambrose’s—as it
is, we accept the fact without any
spasm of extraordinary pleasure.[393]

There are, we allow, some sporting
tours from which we have derived
both profit and gratification; but the
locality of these is usually remote and
unexplored. We like to hear of
salmon-fishing in the Naamsen, and
of forty and fifty pounders captured
in its brimful rapids—of bear-skalls
in Sweden, buffalo-hunting in the
prairies, or the chase of the majestic
lion in Caffreland or Morocco. Such
narratives have the charm of novelty;
and if, now and then, they border a
little upon the marvellous or miraculous,
we do our best to summon up
faith sufficient to bolt them all. We
by no means objected to Monsieur
Violet’s account of the estampades in
California, or of the snapping turtles
in the cane-brakes of the Red River.
He was, at all events, graphic in his
descriptions; and the zoology to which
he introduced us, if not genuine, was
of a gigantic and original kind. In
fact, no sort of voyage or travel is
readable unless it be strewn thickly
with incident and adventure, and
these of a startling character. Nobody
cares now-a-days about meteorological
observations, or dates, or
distances, or names of places; we
have been tired with these things
from the days of Dampier downwards.
Nor need any navigator hope to draw
the public attention to his facts unless
he possesses besides a deal of
the talent of the novelist. If incident
does not lie in his path, he must go
out of his way to seek it—if even then
it should not appear, there is an absolute
necessity for inventing it. What
a book of travels in Central Africa
could we not write, if any one would
be kind enough to furnish us with
a mere outline of the route, and the
authentic soundings of the Niger!

Scotland, however, is tolerably well
known to the educated people of the
sister country, and her productions
have ceased to be a marvel. Grouse
are common as howtowdies in the
London market; and even red-deer
venison, if asked for, may be had for
a price. There is no great mystery
in the staple commodity of our sports.
Something, it is true, may still be
said with effect regarding deer-stalking—a
branch of the art venatory
which few have the opportunity to
study, and of those few a small
fraction only can attain to a high
degree. Grouse are to be found
on every hill, black-game in almost
every correi; few are the woods, at
the present day, unhaunted by the
roe; but the red-deer—the stag of
ten—he of the branches and the tines—is,
in most parts of the country save
in the great forests, a casual and a
wandering visitor; and many a summer’s
day you may clamber over cairn
and crag, inspect every scaur and
glen, and sweep the horizon around
with your telescope, without discovering
the waving of an antler, or the
impress of a transitory footprint. But
this subject is soon exhausted. Scrope
has done ample justice to it, and left
but a small field untrodden to any
literary successor. The Penny Magazine,
if we mistake not, disposed several
years ago of otter-hunting, and
the chase of the fox as practised in
the rocky regions; and finally, Colquhoun—he
of the Moor and the Loch—with
more practical knowledge and
acute observation than any of his predecessors,
reduced Highland sporting
to a science, and became the Encyclopedist
of the feræ naturæ of the
hills. With these authorities already
before us, it was not unnatural that
we should have entertained doubts as
to the capabilities of any new writer,
not native nor to the custom born.

Neither did the puff preliminary,
which heralded the appearance of this
volume, prepossess us strongly in its
favour. What mattered it to the
sensible reader whether or no “the
attention of the public has already
been called to this journal by the
Quarterly Review of December 1845?”
The book was not published, had not
an existence, until seven or eight
months after that article—a reasonably
indifferent one, by the way—was
penned; and yet we are asked to take
that sort of pre-Adamite notice as
a verdict in its favour! Now, we
object altogether to this species of side-winded
commendation, this reviewing,
or noticing, or extracting from
manuscripts before publication, more
especially in the pages of a great and
influential Review. It is always injudicious,
because it looks like the work
of a coterie. In the present case it
was doubly unwise, because this volume
really required no adventitious[394]
aid whatever, and certainly no artifice,
to recommend it to the public
favour.

Whilst, however, we consider it
our duty to say thus much, let it not
be supposed that we are detracting
from the merits of the extracts contained
in that article of the Quarterly.
On the contrary, they impressed us
at the time with a high idea of the
graphic power of the writer, and presented
an agreeable contrast to the
general prolixity of the paper. It is
even possible that we are inclined to
underrate the efforts of the critic on
account of his having forestalled us
by printing The Muckle Hart of Benmore—a
chapter which we should
otherwise have certainly enshrined
within the columns of Maga.—At all
events it is now full time that we
should address ourselves more seriously
to the contents of the volume.

Mr St John, we are delighted to
observe, is not a sportsman belonging
to either class which we have above
attempted to describe. He is not the
man whose exploits will be selected
to swell the lists of slaughtered game
in the pages of the provincial newspapers;
for he has the eye and the
heart of a naturalist, and, as he tells
us himself, after a pleasant description
of the wild animals which he has
succeeded in domesticating—”though
naturally all men are carnivorous,
and, therefore, animals of prey, and
inclined by nature to hunt and destroy
other creatures, and, although I share
in this our natural instinct to a great
extent, I have far more pleasure in
seeing these different animals enjoying
themselves about me, and in observing
their different habits, than I
have in hunting down and destroying
them.”

Most devoutly do we wish that
there were many more sportsmen of
the same stamp! For ourselves, we
confess to an organ of destructiveness
not of the minimum degree. We
never pass a pool, and hear the sullen
plunge of the salmon, without a bitter
imprecation upon our evil destiny if
we chance to have forgotten our rod;
and a covey rising around us, when
unarmed, is a plea for suicide. But
this feeling, as Mr St John very properly
expresses it, is mere natural instinct—part
of our original Adam,
which it is utterly impossible to subdue.
But give us rod or gun. Let
us rise and strike some three or four
fresh-run fish, at intervals of half-an-hour—let
us play, land, and deposit
them on the bank, in all the glory of
their glittering scales, and it is a hundred
to one if we shall be tempted to
try another cast, although the cruives
are open, the water in rarest trim,
and several hours must elapse ere the
advent of the cock-a-leekie. In like
manner, we prefer a moor where the
game is sparse and wild, to one from
which the birds are rising at every
twenty yards; nor care we ever to
slaughter more than may suffice for
our own wants and those of our immediate
friends. And why should
we? There is something not only
despicable, but, in our opinion, absolutely
brutal, in the accounts which
we sometimes read of wholesale massacres
committed on the moors, in
sheer wanton lust for blood. Fancy
a great hulking Saxon, attended by
some half-dozen gamekeepers, with a
larger retinue of gillies, sallying forth
at early morning upon ground where
the grouse are lying as thick and tame
as chickens in a poultry-yard—loosing
four or five dogs at a time, each of
which has found his bird or his covey
before he has been freed two minutes
from the couples—marching up in
succession to each stationary quadruped—kicking
up the unfortunate pouts,
scarce half-grown, from the heather
before his feet—banging right and left
into the middle of them, and—for the
butcher shoots well—bringing down
one, and sometimes two, at each discharge.
The red-whiskered keeper
behind him, who narrowly escaped
transportation, a few years ago, for a
bloody and ferocious assault, hands
him another gun, ready-loaded; and
so on he goes, for hour after hour, depopulating
God’s creatures, of every
species, without mercy, until his
shoulder is blue with the recoil, and
his brow black as Cain’s, with the
stain of the powder left, as he wipes
away the sweat with his stiff and discoloured
hand. At evening, the pyramid
is counted, and lo, there are two
hundred brace!

Is this sporting, or is it murder?
Not the first certainly, unless the
term can be appropriately applied to[395]
the hideous work of the shambles.
Indeed, between knocking down stots
or grouse in this wholesale manner,
we can see very little distinction;
except that, in the one case, there is
more exertion of the muscles, and in
the other a clearer atmosphere to
nerve the operator to his task. Murder
is a strong term, so we shall not
venture to apply it; but cruelty is a
word which we may use without
compunction; and from that charge,
at least, it is impossible for the glutton
of the moors to go free.

Great humanity and utter absence
of wantonness in the prosecution of
his sport, is a most pleasing characteristic
of Mr St John. He well
understands the meaning of Wordsworth’s
noble maxim,—

and can act upon it without cant,
without cruelty, and, above all, without
hypocrisy. And truly, when we
consider where he has been located
for the last few years, in a district
which offers a greater variety of game
to the sportsman than any other in
Great Britain, his moderation becomes
matter of legitimate praise.
Here is his own description of the
locality wherein he has pitched his
tent:—

“I have lived for several years in the
northern counties of Scotland, and during
the last four or five in the province
of Moray, a part of the country peculiarly
adapted for collecting facts in
Natural History, and for becoming intimate
with the habits of many of our British
wild birds and quadrupeds. Having
been in the habit of keeping an irregular
kind of journal, and of making notes
of any incidents which have fallen under
my observation connected with the zoology
of the country, I have now endeavoured,
by dint of cutting and pruning
those rough sketches, to put them into a
shape calculated to amuse, and perhaps,
in some slight degree, to instruct some of
my fellow-lovers of Nature. From my
earliest childhood I have been more
addicted to the investigation of the
habits and manners of every kind of
living animal than to any more useful
avocation, and have in consequence
made myself tolerably well acquainted
with the domestic economy of most of
our British feræ naturæ, from the field-mouse
and wheatear, which I stalked
and trapped in the plains and downs of
Wiltshire during my boyhood, to the
red-deer and eagle, whose territory I
have invaded in later years on the mountains
of Scotland. My present abode
in Morayshire is surrounded by as great
a variety of beautiful scenery as can be
found in any district in Britain; and no
part of the country can produce a
greater variety of objects of interest
either to the naturalist or to the lover
of the picturesque. The rapid and
glorious Findhorn, the very perfection
of a Highland river, here passes through
one of the most fertile plains in Scotland,
or indeed in the world; and though
a few miles higher up it rages through
the wildest and most rugged rocks, and
through the romantic and shaded glens
of the forests of Darnaway and Altyre,
the stream, as if exhausted, empties itself
peaceably and quietly into the Bay
of Findhorn—a salt-water loch of some
four or five miles in length, entirely
shut out by different points of land from
the storms which are so frequent in the
Moray Frith, of which it forms a kind
of creek. At low-water this bay becomes
an extent of wet sand, with the
river Findhorn and one or two smaller
streams winding through it, till they
meet in the deeper part of the basin
near the town of Findhorn, where there
is always a considerable depth of water,
and a harbour for shipping.

“From its sheltered situation and the
quantity of food left on the sands at
low-water, the Bay of Findhorn is always
a great resort of wild-fowl of all
kinds, from the swan to the teal, and
also of innumerable waders of every
species; while occasionally a seal ventures
into the mouth of the river in
pursuit of salmon. The bay is separated
from the main water of the Frith
by that most extraordinary and peculiar
range of country called the Sandhills
of Moray—a long, low range of hills
formed of the purest sand, with scarcely
any herbage, excepting here and there
patches of bent or broom, which are
inhabited by hares, rabbits, and foxes.
At the extreme point of this range is a
farm of forty or fifty acres of arable
land, where the tenant endeavours to
grow a scanty crop of grain and turnips,
in spite of the rabbits and the
drifting sands. From the inland side
of the bay stretch the fertile plains of
Moray, extending from the Findhorn to
near Elgin in a continuous flat of the[396]
richest soil, and comprising districts of
the very best partridge-shooting that
can be found in Scotland, while the
streams and swamps that intersect it
afford a constant supply of wild-fowl.
As we advance inland we are sheltered
by the wide-extending woods of Altyre,
abounding with roe and game; and beyond
these woods again is a very extensive
range of a most excellent grouse-shooting
country, reaching for many
miles over a succession of moderately-sized
hills which reach as far as the
Spey.

“On the west of the Findhorn is a
country beautifully dotted with woods,
principally of oak and birch, and intersected
by a dark, winding burn, full of
fine trout, and the constant haunt of the
otter. Between this part of the country
and the sea-coast is a continuation of
the Sandhills, interspersed with lakes,
swamps, and tracts of fir-wood and
heather. On the whole, I do not know
so varied or interesting a district in
Great Britain, or one so well adapted
to the amusement and instruction of a
naturalist or sportsman. In the space
of a morning’s walk you may be either
in the most fertile or the most barren
spot of the country. In my own garden
every kind of wall-fruit ripens to perfection,
and yet at the distance of only
two hours’ walk you may either be in
the midst of heather and grouse, or in
the sandy deserts beyond the bay, where
one wonders how even the rabbits can
find their living.

“I hope that my readers will be indulgent
enough to make allowances for
the unfinished style of these sketches,
and the copious use of the first person
singular, which I have found it impossible
to avoid whilst describing the adventures
which I have met with in this
wild country, either when toiling up the
rocky heights of our most lofty mountains,
or cruising in a boat along the
shores, where rocks and caves give a
chance of finding sea-fowl and otters;
at one time wandering over the desert
sand-hills of Moray, where, on windy
days, the light particles of drifting sand,
driven like snow along the surface of
the ground, are perpetually changing
the outline and appearance of the district;
at another, among the swamps,
in pursuit of wild-ducks, or attacking
fish in the rivers, or the grouse on the
heather.

“For a naturalist, whether he be a
scientific dissector and preserver of
birds, or simply a lover and observer of
the habits and customs of the different
feræ naturæ, large and small, this district
is a very desirable location, as
there are very few birds or quadrupeds
to be found in any part of Great Britain
who do not visit us during the
course of the year, or, at any rate, are
to be met with in a few hours’ drive.
The bays and rivers attract all the
migratory water-fowl, while the hills,
woods, and corn-lands afford shelter
and food to all the native wild birds and
beasts. The vicinity, too, of the coast
to the wild western countries of Europe
is the cause of our being often visited
by birds which are not strictly natives,
nor regular visitors, but are driven by
continued east winds from the fastnesses
of the Swedish and Norwegian forests
and mountains.

“To the collector of stuffed birds
this county affords a greater variety of
specimens than any other district in the
kingdom; whilst the excellence of the
climate and the variety of scenery make
it inferior to none as a residence for
the unoccupied person or the sportsman.

“Having thus described that part of
the globe which at present is my resting-place,
I may as well add a few lines
to enable my reader to become acquainted
with myself, and that part of my
belongings which will come into question
in my descriptions of sporting, &c.
To begin with myself, I am one of the
unproductive class of the genus homo,
who, having passed a few years amidst
the active turmoil of cities, and in places
where people do most delight to congregate,
have at last settled down to
live a busy kind of idle life. Communing
much with the wild birds and beasts
of our country, a hardy constitution and
much leisure have enabled me to visit
them in their own haunts, and to follow
my sporting propensities without fear
of the penalties which are apt to follow
a careless exposure of one’s-self to cold
and heat, at all hours of night and day.
Though by habit and repute a being
strongly endowed with the organ of
destructiveness, I take equal delight in
collecting round me all living animals,
and watching their habits and instincts;
my abode is, in short, a miniature
menagerie. My dogs learn to respect
the persons of domesticated wild
animals of all kinds, and my pointers
live in amity with tame partridges and
pheasants; my retrievers lounge about
amidst my wild-fowl, and my terriers
and beagles strike up friendship with[397]
the animals of different kinds, whose
capture they have assisted in, and with
whose relatives they are ready to wage
war to the death. A common and well-kept
truce exists with one and all. My
boys, who are of the most bird-nesting
age (eight and nine years old), instead
of disturbing the numberless birds who
breed in the garden and shrubberies, in
full confidence of protection and immunity
from all danger of gun or snare,
strike up an acquaintance with every
family of chaffinches or blackbirds who
breed in the place, visiting every nest,
and watching over the eggs and young
with a most parental care.”

Why, this is the very Eden of a
sportsman! Flesh, fowl, and fish of
every description in abundance, and
such endless variety, that no month of
the year can pass over without affording
its quota of fair and legitimate
recreation. But to a man of Mr St
John’s accomplishment and observant
habits, the mere prey is a matter of
far less moment than the insight which
such a locality affords, into the habits
and instincts of the creatures which
either permanently inhabit or casually
visit our shores. His journal is far
more than a sportsman’s book. It
contains shrewd and minute observations
on the whole of our northern
fauna—the results of many a lonely
but happy day spent in the woods,
the glens, the sand-tracts, by river
and on sea. His range is wider than
that which has been taken either by
White of Selborne, or by Waterton;
and we are certain that he will hold
it to be no mean compliment when
we say, that in our unbiased opinion,
he is not surpassed by either of them
in fidelity, and in point of picturesqueness
of description, is even the
superior of both. The truth is, that
Mr St John would have made a first-rate
trapper. We should not have
the slightest objections to lose ourselves
in his company for several
weeks in the prairies of North America;
being satisfied that we should
return with a better cargo of beaver-skins
and peltry than ever fell to the
lot of two adventurers in the service
of the Company of Hudson’s Bay.

It is totally impossible to follow our
author through any thing like his
range of subjects, extending from the
hart to the seal and otter, from the eagle
and wild swan to the ouzel. One or
two specimens we shall give, in order
that you, our dear and sporting reader,
may judge whether these encomiums
of ours are exaggerated or misplaced.
We are, so say our enemies,
but little given to laudation, and far
too ready when occasion offers, and
sometimes when it does not, to clutch
hastily at the knout. You, who know
us better, and whom indeed we have
partially trained up in the wicked
ways of criticism, must long ago have
been aware, that if we err at all, it is
upon the safer side. But be that as
it may, you will not, we are sure, refuse
to join with us in admiring the
beauty of the following description;—it
is of the heronry on the Findhorn—a
river of peculiar beauty, even in this
land of lake, of mountain, and of
flood.

“I observe that the herons in the
heronry on the Findhorn are now busily
employed in sitting on their eggs—the
heron being one of the first birds to
commence breeding in this country. A
more curious and interesting sight than
the Findhorn heronry I do not know:
from the top of the high rocks on the
east side of the river you look down into
every nest—the herons breeding on the
opposite side of the river, which is here
very narrow. The cliffs and rocks are
studded with splendid pines and larch,
and fringed with all the more lowly but
not less beautiful underwood which
abounds in this country. Conspicuous
amongst these are the bird-cherry and
mountain-ash, the holly, and the wild
rose; while the golden blossoms of
furze and broom enliven every crevice
and corner in the rock. Opposite to
you is a wood of larch and oak, on the
latter of which trees are crowded a vast
number of the nests of the heron. The
foliage and small branches of the oaks
that they breed on seem entirely destroyed,
leaving nothing but the naked
arms and branches of the trees on which
the nests are placed. The same nests,
slightly repaired, are used year after
year. Looking down at them from the
high banks of the Altyre side of the
river, you can see directly into their
nests, and can become acquainted
with the whole of their domestic
economy. You can plainly see the
green eggs, and also the young herons,
who fearlessly, and conscious of the
security they are left in, are constantly
passing backwards and forwards, and
alighting on the topmost branches of[398]
the larch or oak trees; whilst the still
younger birds sit bolt upright in the
nest, snapping their beaks together with
a curious sound. Occasionally a grave-looking
heron is seen balancing himself
by some incomprehensible feat of gymnastics
on the very topmost twig of a
larch-tree, where he swings about in an
unsteady manner, quite unbecoming so
sage-looking a bird. Occasionally a
thievish jackdaw dashes out from the
cliffs opposite the heronry, and flies
straight into some unguarded nest,
seizes one of the large green eggs, and
flies back to his own side of the river,
the rightful owner of the eggs pursuing
the active little robber with loud cries
and the most awkward attempts at
catching him.

“The heron is a noble and picturesque-looking
bird, as she sails quietly through
the air with outstretched wings and
slow flight; but nothing is more ridiculous
and undignified than her appearance
as she vainly chases the jackdaw
or hooded crow who is carrying off her
egg, and darting rapidly round the
angles and corners of the rocks. Now
and then every heron raises its head
and looks on the alert as the peregrine
falcon, with rapid and direct flight,
passes their crowded dominion; but
intent on his own nest, built on the rock
some little way further on, the hawk
takes no notice of his long-legged
neighbours, who soon settle down again
into their attitudes of rest. The kestrel-hawk
frequents the same part of the
river, and lives in amity with the wood-pigeons
that breed in every cluster of
ivy which clings to the rocks. Even
that bold and fearless enemy of all the
pigeon race, the sparrowhawk, frequently
has her nest within a few yards of
the wood-pigeon; and you see these
birds (at all other seasons such deadly
enemies) passing each other in their
way to and fro from their respective
nests in perfect peace and amity. It
has seemed to me that the sparrowhawk
and wood-pigeon during the breeding
season frequently enter into a mutual
compact against the crows and jackdaws,
who are constantly on the look-out
for the eggs of all other birds.
The hawk appears to depend on the
vigilance of the wood-pigeon to warn
him of the approach of these marauders;
and then the brave little warrior sallies
out, and is not satisfied till he has driven
the crow to a safe distance from the
nests of himself and his more peaceable
ally. At least in no other way can I
account for these two birds so very
frequently breeding not only in the
same range of rock, but within two or
three yards of each other.”

Now for the wild swan. You will
observe that it is now well on in October,
and that the weather is peculiarly
cold. There is snow already
lying on the tops of the nearer hills—the
further mountains have assumed
a coat of white, which, with
additions, will last them until the beginning
of next summer; and those
long black streaks which rise upwards,
and appear to us at this distance so
narrow, are, in reality, the great ravines
in which two months ago we were
cautiously stalking the deer. The bay
is now crowded with every kind of
aquatic fowl. Day after day strange
visitants have been arriving from the
north; and at nightfall, you may hear
them quacking and screaming and gabbling
for many miles along the shore.
Every moonlight night the woodcock
and snipe are dropping into the thickets,
panting and exhausted by their flight
from rugged Norway, a voyage during
which they can find no resting-place
for the sole of their foot. In stormy
weather the light-houses are beset
with flocks of birds, who, their reckoning
lost, are attracted by the blaze of
the beacon, dash wildly towards it,
as to some place of refuge, and perish
from the violence of the shock. As
yet, however, all is calm; and lo, in
the moonlight, a great flight of birds
stooping down towards the bay!—noiselessly
at first, but presently, as
they begin to sweep lower, trumpeting
and calling to each other; and then,
with a mighty rustling of their pinions,
and a dash as of a vessel launched
into the waters, the white wild-swans
settle down into the centre of the
glittering bay! To your tents, ye
sportsmen! for ball and cartridge; and
now circumvent them if you can.

“My old garde-chasse insisted on my
starting early this morning, nolens volens,
to certain lochs six or seven miles
off, in order, as he termed it, to take our
‘satisfaction’ of the swans. I must say
that it was a matter of very small satisfaction
to me, the tramping off in a
sleety, rainy morning, through a most
forlorn and hopeless-looking country,
for the chance, and that a bad one, of
killing a wild swan or two. However,
after a weary walk, we arrived at these[399]
desolate-looking lochs: they consist of
three pieces of water, the largest about
three miles in length and one in width;
the other two, which communicate with
the largest, are much smaller and narrower,
indeed scarcely two gunshots in
width; for miles around them, the
country is flat, and intersected with a
mixture of swamp and sandy hillocks.
In one direction the sea is only half a
mile from the lochs, and in calm winter
weather the wild-fowl pass the daytime
on the salt water, coming inland in the
evenings to feed. As soon as we were
within sight of the lochs we saw the
swans on one of the smaller pieces of
water, some standing high and dry on
the grassy islands, trimming their feathers
after their long journey, and
others feeding on the grass and weeds
at the bottom of the loch, which in some
parts was shallow enough to allow of
their pulling up the plants which they
feed on as they swam about; while
numbers of wild-ducks of different
kinds, particularly widgeons, swarmed
round them and often snatched the
pieces of grass from the swans as soon
as they had brought them to the surface,
to the great annoyance of the
noble birds, who endeavoured in vain to
drive away these more active little depredators,
who seemed determined to
profit by their labours. Our next step
was to drive the swans away from the
loch they were on; it seemed a curious
way of getting a shot, but as the old
man seemed confident of the success of
his plan, I very submissively acted according
to his orders. As soon as we
moved them, they all made straight for
the sea. ‘This won’t do,’ was my remark,
‘Yes, it will, though; they’ll
no stop there long to-day with this
great wind, but will all be back before
the clock chaps two.’ ‘Faith, I should
like to see any building that could contain
a clock, and where we might take
shelter,’ was my inward cogitation. The
old man, however, having delivered this
prophecy, set to work making a small
ambuscade by the edge of the loch which
the birds had just left, and pointed it
out to me as my place of refuge from
one o’clock to the hour when the birds
would arrive.

“In the mean time we moved about in
order to keep ourselves warm, as a more
wintry day never disgraced the month
of October. In less than half an hour
we heard the signal cries of the swans,
and soon saw them in a long undulating
line fly over the low sand-hills which
divided the sea from the largest loch,
where they alighted. My commander
for the time being, then explained
to me, that the water in this loch was
every where too deep for the swans to
reach the bottom even with their long
necks, in order to pull up the weeds on
which they fed, and that at their feeding-time,
that is about two o’clock, they
would, without doubt, fly over to the
smaller lochs, and probably to the same
one from which we had originally disturbed
them. I was accordingly placed
in my ambuscade, leaving the keeper at
some distance, to help me as opportunity
offered—a cold comfortless time of
it we (i. e. my retriever and myself)
had. About two o’clock, however, I
heard the swans rise from the upper
loch, and in a few moments they all
passed high over my head, and after
taking a short survey of our loch
(luckily without seeing me), they alighted
at the end of it furthest from the
place where I was ensconced, and quite
out of shot, and they seemed more inclined
to move away from me than come
towards me. It was very curious to
watch these wild birds as they swam
about, quite unconscious of danger, and
looking like so many domestic fowls.
Now came the able generalship of my
keeper, who seeing that they were inclined
to feed at the other end of the
loch, began to drive them towards me,
at the same time taking great care not to
alarm them enough to make them take
flight. This he did by appearing at a
long distance off, and moving about
without approaching the birds, but as if
he was pulling grass or engaged in
some other piece of labour. When the
birds first saw him, they all collected in
a cluster, and giving a general low cry
of alarm, appeared ready to take flight;
this was the ticklish moment, but soon,
outwitted by his manœuvres, they dispersed
again, and busied themselves in
feeding. I observed that frequently all
their heads were under the water at
once, excepting one—but invariably one
bird kept his head and neck perfectly
erect, and carefully watched on every
side to prevent their being taken by
surprise; when he wanted to feed, he
touched any passer-by, who immediately
relieved him in his guard, and he in
his turn called on some other swan to
take his place as sentinel.

“After watching some little time, and
closely watching the birds in all their[400]
graceful movements, sometimes having
a swan within half a shot of me, but
never getting two or three together, I
thought of some of my assistant’s instruction
which he had given me en
route in the morning, and I imitated, as
well as I could, the bark of a dog: immediately
all the swans collected in a
body, and looked round to see where
the sound came from. I was not above
forty yards from them, so, gently raising
myself on my elbow, I pulled the
trigger, aiming at a forest of necks.
To my dismay, the gun did not go off,
the wet or something else having spoilt
the cap. The birds were slow in rising,
so without pulling the other trigger,
I put on another cap, and standing
up, fired right and left at two of the
largest swans as they rose from the
loch. The cartridge told well on one,
who fell dead into the water; the other
flew off after the rest of the flock, but
presently turned back, and after making
two or three graceful sweeps over
the body of his companion, fell headlong,
perfectly dead, almost upon her
body. The rest of the birds, after flying
a short distance away, also returned,
and flew for a minute or two in a
confused flock over the two dead swans,
uttering their bugle-like and harmonious
cries; but finding that they were
not joined by their companions, presently
fell into their usual single rank,
and went undulating off towards the
sea, where I heard them for a long time
trumpeting and calling.

“Handsome as he is, the wild swan
is certainly not so graceful on the water
as a tame one. He has not the same
proud and elegant arch of the neck,
nor does he put up his wings while
swimming, like two snow-white sails.
On the land a wild swan when winged
makes such good way, that if he gets
much start it requires good running, to
overtake him.”

Confound that Regatta! What on
earth had we to do on board that
yacht, racing against the Meteor, unconquered
winger of the western
seas? Two days ago we could have
sworn that no possible temptation
could divorce us from our unfinished
article; and yet here we are with unsullied
pen, under imminent danger
of bartering our reputation and plighted
faith to Ebony, for some undescribable
nautical evolutions, a sack race,
and the skeleton of a ball! After all,
it must be confessed that we never
spent two more pleasant days. Bright
eyes, grouse-pie, and the joyousness
of happy youth, were all combined
together; and if, with a fair breeze
and a sunny sky, there can be fun in
a smack or a steamer, how is it possible
with such company to be dull
on board of the prettiest craft that
ever cleaved her way, like a wild
swan, up the windings of a Highland
loch? But we must make up for lost
time. As we live, there are Donald
and Ian with the boat at the rocks!
and we now remember with a shudder
that we trysted them for this
morning to convey us across to the
Moors! Here is a pretty business!
Let us see—the month is rapidly on
the wane—we have hardly, in sporting
phrase, broken the back of this
the leading article. Shall we give up
the moors, and celebrate this day as
another Eve of St John? There is a
light mist lying on the opposite hill,
but in an hour or two it will be drawn
up like a curtain by the sunbeams,
and then every bush of heather will
be sparkling with dewdrops, far
brighter than a carcanet of diamonds.
What a fine elasticity and freshness
there is in the morning air! A hundred
to one the grouse will sit like
stones. Donald, my man, are there
many birds on the hill? Plenty, did
you say, and a fair sprinkling of black-cock?
This breeze will carry us
over in fifty minutes—will it? That
settles the question. Off with your
caulker, and take down the dogs to the
boat. We shall be with you in the
snapping of a copper-cap.

This article, if finished at all, must
be written with the keelavine pen on
the backs of old letters—whereof,
thank heaven! we have scores unanswered—by
fits and snatches, as we
repose from our labours on the greensward;
so we shall even take up our
gun, and trust for inspiration to the
noble scenery around us. Is every
thing in? Well, then, push off, and
for a time let us get rid of care.

What sort of fishing have they had
at the salmon-nets, Ian? Very bad,
for they’re sair fashed wi’ the sealghs.
In that case it may be advisable to
drop a ball into our dexter barrel, in
case one of these oleaginous depredators
should show his head above[401]
water. We have not had a tussle
with a phoca since, some ten years
ago, we surprised one basking on the
sands of the bay of Cromarty. No,
Donald, we did not kill him. We
and a dear friend, now in New Zealand,
who was with us, were armed
with no better weapon than our fishing-rods,
and the sealgh, after standing
two or three thumps with tolerable
philosophy, fairly turned upon us, and
exhibited such tusks that we were
glad to let him make his way without
further molestation to the water.
The seal is indeed a greedy fellow,
and ten times worse than his fresh-water
cousin the otter, who, it seems,
is considered by the poor people in
the north country as rather a benefactor
than otherwise. The latter is
a dainty epicure—a gourmand who
despises to take more than one steak
from the sappy shoulder of the salmon;
and he has usually the benevolence
to leave the fish, little the worse for
his company, on some scarp or ledge
of rock, where it can be picked up
and converted into savoury kipper.
He is, moreover, a sly and timid creature,
without the impudence of the
seal, who will think nothing of swimming
into the nets, and actually taking
out the salmon before the eyes of the
fishermen. Strong must be the twine
that would hold an entangled seal.
An aquatic Samson, he snaps the
meshes like thread, and laughs at the
discomfiture of the tacksman, who is
dancing like a demoniac on the shore;
and no wonder, for nets are expensive,
and the rent in that one is wide
enough to admit a bullock.

Mr St John—a capital sportsman,
Donald—has had many an adventure
with the seals; and I shall read you
what he says about them, in a clever
little book which he has published—What
the deuce! We surely have not
been ass enough to forget the volume!
No—here it is at the bottom of our
pocket, concealed and covered by the
powder-flask:—

“Sometimes at high-water, and when
the river is swollen, a seal comes in pursuit
of salmon into the Findhorn, notwithstanding
the smallness of the stream
and its rapidity. I was one day, in November,
looking for wild-ducks near the
river, when I was called to by a man
who was at work near the water, and
who told me that some ‘muckle beast’
was playing most extraordinary tricks
in the river. He could not tell me what
beast it was, but only that it was something
‘no that canny.’ After waiting a
short time, the riddle was solved by the
appearance of a good-sized seal, into
whose head I instantly sent a cartridge,
having no balls with me. The seal immediately
plunged and splashed about
in the water at a most furious rate, and
then began swimming round and round
in a circle, upon which I gave him the
other barrel, also loaded with one of
Eley’s cartridges, which quite settled
the business, and he floated rapidly away
down the stream. I sent my retriever
after him, but the dog, being very young
and not come to his full strength, was
baffled by the weight of the animal and
the strength of the current, and could not
land him; indeed, he was very near getting
drowned himself, in consequence of
his attempts to bring in the seal, who
was still struggling. I called the dog
away, and the seal immediately sank.
The next day I found him dead on the
shore of the bay, with (as the man who
skinned him expressed himself) ‘twenty-three
pellets of large hail in his craig.’

“Another day, in the month of July,
when shooting rabbits on the sand-hills,
a messenger came from the fishermen at
the stake-nets, asking me to come in
that direction, as the ‘muckle sealgh’
was swimming about, waiting for the
fish to be caught in the nets, in order to
commence his devastation.

“I accordingly went to them, and
having taken my observations of the
locality and the most feasible points of
attack, I got the men to row me out to
the end of the stake-net, where there
was a kind of platform of netting, on
which I stretched myself, with a bullet
in one barrel and a cartridge in the
other. I then directed the men to row
the boat away, as if they had left the
nets. They had scarcely gone three
hundred yards from the place when I
saw the seal, who had been floating, apparently
unconcerned, at some distance,
swim quietly and fearlessly up to the
net. I had made a kind of breastwork
of old netting before me, which quite
concealed me on the side from which he
came. He approached the net, and began
examining it leisurely and carefully
to see if any fish were in it; sometimes
he was under and sometimes above the
water. I was much struck by his activity
while underneath, where I could
most plainly see him, particularly as he
twice dived almost below my station,
and the water was clear and smooth as
glass.[402]

“I could not get a good shot at him
for some time; at last, however, he put
up his head at about fifteen or twenty
yards’ distance from me; and while he
was intent on watching the boat, which
was hovering about waiting to see the
result of my plan of attack, I fired at
him, sending the ball through his brain.
He instantly sank without a struggle,
and a perfect torrent of blood came up,
making the water red for some feet round
the spot where he lay stretched out at
the bottom. The men immediately rowed
up, and taking me into the boat, we
managed to bring him up with a boat-hook
to the surface of the water, and
then, as he was too heavy to lift into the
boat (his weight being 378 lbs.) we put
a rope round his flippers, and towed him
ashore. A seal of this size is worth
some money, as, independently of the
value of his skin, the blubber (which lies
under the skin, like that of a whale)
produces a large quantity of excellent
oil. This seal had been for several years
the dread of the fishermen at the stake-nets,
and the head man at the place was
profuse in his thanks for the destruction
of a beast upon whom he had expended
a most amazing quantity of lead. He
assured me that L.100 would not repay
the damage the animal had done. Scarcely
any two seals are exactly of the same
colour or marked quite alike; and seals,
frequenting a particular part of the coast,
become easily known and distinguished
from each other.”

But what is Scrip youffing at from
the bow? A seal? No, it is a shoal
of porpoises. There they go with
their great black fins above the water
in pursuit of the herring, which ought
to be very plenty on this coast. Yonder,
where the gulls are screaming
and diving, with here and there a
solan goose and a cormorant in the
midst of the flock, must be a patch of
the smaller fry. The water is absolutely
boiling as the quick-eyed creatures
dart down upon their prey; and
though, on an ordinary day, you will
hardly see a single seagull in this
part of the loch, for the shores are
neither steep nor rocky, yet there they
are in myriads, attracted to the spot
by that unerring and inexplicable instinct
which seems to guide all wild
animals to their booty, and that from
distances where neither sight nor
scent could possibly avail them. This
peculiarity has not escaped the observant
eye of our author.

“How curiously quick is the instinct
of birds in finding out their food. Where
peas or other favourite grain is sown,
wood pigeons and tame pigeons immediately
congregate. It is not easy to
ascertain from whence the former come,
but the house pigeons have often been
known to arrive in numbers on a new
sown field the very morning after the
grain is laid down, although no pigeon-house,
from which they could come,
exists within several miles of the place.

“Put down a handful or two of unthrashed
oat-straw in almost any situation
near the sea-coast, where there are
wild-ducks, and they are sure to find it
out the first or second night after it has
been left there.

“There are many almost incredible
stories of the acuteness of the raven’s
instinct in guiding it to the dead carcass
of any large animal, or even in leading
it to the neighbourhood on the near approach
of death. I myself have known
several instances of the raven finding
out dead bodies of animals in a very
short space of time. One instance struck
me very much. I had wounded a stag
on a Wednesday. The following Friday,
I was crossing the hills at some distance
from the place, but in the direction towards
which the deer had gone. Two
ravens passed me, flying in a steady
straight course. Soon again two more
flew by, and two others followed, all
coming from different directions, but
making direct for the same point. ”Deed,
sir,’ said the Highlander with me, ‘the
corbies have just found the staig; he
will be lying dead about the head of the
muckle burn.’ By tracing the course of
the birds, we found that the man’s conjecture
was correct, as the deer was lying
within a mile of us, and the ravens were
making for its carcass. The animal had
evidently only died the day before, but
the birds had already made their breakfast
upon him, and were now on their
way to their evening meal. Though
occasionally we had seen a pair of ravens
soaring high overhead in that district,
we never saw more than that number;
but now there were some six or seven
pairs already collected, where from we
knew not. When a whale, or other large
fish, is driven ashore on the coast of any
of the northern islands, the ravens collect
in amazing numbers, almost immediately
coming from all directions and from all
distances, led by the unerring instinct
which tells them that a feast is to be
found in a particular spot.”

We should not wonder if the ancient
augurs, who, no doubt, were consummate
scoundrels, had an inkling of
this extraordinary fact. If so, it[403]
would have been obviously easy, at
the simple expenditure of a few pounds
of bullock’s liver, to get up any kind
of ornithological vaticination. A dead
ram, dexterously hidden from the
sight of the spectators behind the Aventine,
would speedily have brought birds
enough to have justified any amount
of warlike expeditions to the Peloponesus;
while a defunct goat to the left
of the Esquiline, would collect sooties
by scores, and forebode the death of
Cæsar. We own that formerly we
ourselves were not altogether exempt
from superstitious notions touching
the mission of magpies; but henceforward
we shall cease to consider
them, even when they appear by
threes, as bound up in some mysterious
manner with our destiny, and
shall rather attribute their apparition
to the unexpected deposit of an egg.

But here we are at the shore, and
not a mile from the margin of the
moor. Ian, our fine fellow, look after
the dogs; and now tell us, Donald,
as we walk along, whether there are
many poachers in this neighbourhood
besides yourself? Atweel no, forbye
muckle Sandy, that whiles taks a shot
at a time.—We thought so. In these
quiet braes there can be little systematic
poaching. Now and then, to
be sure, a hare is killed on a moonlight
night among the cabbages behind
the shieling; or a blackcock, too
conspicuous of a misty morning on a
corn-stook, pays the penalty of his
depredations with his life. But these
little acts of delinquency are of no
earthly moment; and hard must be
the heart of the proprietor who, for
such petty doings, would have recourse
to the vengeance of the law.
But were you ever in Lochaber, Donald?—Oo
ay, and Badenoch too.—And
are you aware that in those districts
where the deer are plenty, there
exist, at the present day, gangs of
organised poachers—fellows who follow
no other calling—true Sons of the
Mist, who prey upon the red-deer of
the mountain without troubling the
herds of the Sassenach; and who,
though perfectly well known by head-mark
to keeper and constable, are
still permitted with impunity to continue
their depredations from year to
year?—I never heard tell of it.

No more have we. Notwithstanding
Mr St John’s usual accuracy and
great means of information, he has
given, in the fifth chapter of his book,
an account of the Highland poachers
which we cannot admit to be correct.
In every thinly-populated country,
where there is abundance of game,
poaching must take place to a considerable
extent, and indeed it is impossible
to prevent it. You never
can convince the people, that the
statutory sin is a moral one; or that,
in taking for their own sustenance
that which avowedly belongs to no
one, they are acting in opposition to a
just or a salutary law. The question
of whence the game is taken, is a
subtilty too nice for their comprehension.
They see the stag running
wild among the mountains, to-day on
one laird’s land, and away to-morrow
to another’s, bearing with him, as it
were, his own transference of property;
and they very naturally conclude
that they have an abstract
right to attempt his capture, if they
can. The shepherd, who has thousands
of acres under his sole superintendence,
and whose dwelling is situated
far away on the hills, at the
head, perhaps, of some lonely stream,
where no strange foot ever penetrates,
is very often, it must be confessed,
a bit of a poacher. Small
blame to him. He has a gun—for
the eagle, and the fox, and the raven,
must be kept from the lambs; and if,
when prowling about with his weapon,
in search of vermin, he should chance
to put up, as he is sure to do, a
covey of grouse, and recollecting at
the moment that there is nothing in
the house beyond a peas-bannock
and a diseased potato, should let
fly, and bring down a gor-cock, who
will venture to assert that, under
such circumstances, he would hesitate
to do the same? For every grouse
so slaughtered, the shepherd frees the
country from a brace of vermin more
dangerous than fifty human poachers;
for every day in the year they breakfast,
dine, and sup exclusively upon
game.

Let the shepherd, then, take his pittance
from the midst of your plenty
unmolested, if he does no worse.
Why should his hut be searched by
some big brute of a Yorkshire keeper,
for fud or feather, when you know[404]
that, in all essentials, the man is as
honest as steel—nay, that even in
this matter of game, he is attentive
to your interests, watches the young
broods, protects the nests, and will
tell you, when you come up the glen,
where the finest coveys are to be
found? It is, however, quite another
thing if you detect him beginning to
drive a contraband trade. Home
consumption may be winked at—foreign
exportation is most decidedly
an unpardonable offence. The moment
you find that he has entered
into a league with the poulterer or
the coachman, give warning to the
offending Melibœus, and let him seek
a livelihood elsewhere. He is no
longer safe. His instinct is depraved.
He has ceased to be a creature of
impulse, and has become the slave
of a corrupted traffic. He is a
noxious member of the Anti-game-law
League.

This sort of poaching we believe to
be common enough in Scotland, and
there is also another kind more formidable,
which, a few years ago, was
rather extensively practised. Parties
of four or five strong, able-bodied
rascals, principally inmates of some
of the smaller burghs in the north,
used to make their way to another
district of country, taking care, of
course, that it was far enough from
home to render any chance of identification
almost a nullity, and would
there begin to shoot, in absolute defiance
of the keepers. Their method
was not to diverge, but to traverse
the country as nearly as possible in a
straight line; so that very often they
had left the lands of the most extensive
proprietors even before the alarm
was given. These men neither courted
nor shunned a scuffle. They were
confident in their strength of numbers,
but never abused it; nor, so far
as we recollect, have any fatal results
attended this illegal practice. Be
that as it may, the misdemeanour is
a very serious one, and the perpetrators
of it, if discovered, would be
subjected to a severe punishment.

But Mr St John asserts the existence
of a different class of poachers,
whose exploits, if real, are a deep reproach
to the vigilance of our respected
friends the Sheriffs of Inverness,
Ross, and Moray, as also to the Substitutes
and their Fiscals. According
to the accounts which have reached
him, and which he seems implicitly
to believe, there are, at this moment,
gangs of caterans existing among the
mountains, who follow no other occupation
whatever than that of poaching.
This they do not even affect to
disguise. They make a good income
by the sale of game, and by breaking
dogs—they take the crown of the
causeway in the country towns, where
they are perfectly well known, and
where the men give them “plenty of
walking-room.” On such occasions,
they are accompanied with a couple
of magnificent stag-hounds, and in
this guise they venture undauntedly
beneath the very nose of “ta Phuscal!”
The Highland poacher, says
Mr St John, “is a bold fearless fellow,
shooting openly by daylight,
taking his sport in the same manner
as the laird, or the Sassenach who
rents the ground.” That is to say,
this outlaw, who has a sheiling or a
bothy on the laird’s ground—for a
man cannot live in the Highlands
without a roof to shelter him—shoots
as openly on these grounds as the laird
himself, or the party who has rented
them for the season! If this be the
case, the breed of Highland proprietors—ay,
and of Highland keepers—must
have degenerated sadly during
the last few years. The idea that
any such character would be permitted
by even the tamest Dumbiedykes
to continue a permanent resident
upon his lands, is perfectly preposterous.
Game is not considered as a
matter of such slight import in any
part of the Highlands; neither is the
arm of the law so weak, that it does
not interfere with most rapid and
salutary effect. No professed poacher,
we aver, dare shoot openly upon the
lands of the laird by whose tenure or
sufferance he maintains a roof above
his head; and it would be a libel
upon those high-minded gentlemen to
suppose, that they knowingly gave
countenance to any such character,
on the tacit understanding that their
property should be spared while that
of their neighbours was invaded. In
less than a week after the information
was given, the ruffian would be
without any covering to his head,
save that which would be afforded[405]
him by the arches of the Inverness or
Fort-William jail.

Long tracts of country there are,
comparatively unvisited—for example,
the district around Lochs Ericht
and Lydoch, and the deserts towards
the head of the Spey. Yet, even there,
the poacher is a marked man. The
necessity of finding a market for the
produce of his spoil, lays him open
immediately to observation. If he
chooses to burrow with the badger,
he may be said to have deserted his
trade. He cannot by any possibility,
let him do what he will, elude the
vigilance of the keeper; and, if known,
he is within the clutches of the law
without the necessity of immediate
apprehension.

The truth of the matter is, that the
poachers have no longer to deal directly
with the lairds. The number
of moors which are rented to Englishmen
is now very great; and it is
principally from these that the depredators
reap their harvest. Accordingly,
no pains are spared to
impress the Sassenach with an exaggerated
idea of the lawlessness of the
Gael, in every thing relating to the
game-laws and the statutes of the
excise. The right of the people to
poach is asserted as a kind of indefeasible
servitude which the law
winks at, because it cannot control;
and we fear that, in some cases, the
keepers, who care nothing for the
new-comers, indirectly lend themselves
to the delusion. The Englishman,
on arriving at the moor which
he has rented, is informed that he
must either compromise with the
poachers, or submit to the loss of his
game—a kind of treaty which, we
believe, is pretty often made in the
manner related by Mr St John.

“Some proprietors, or lessees of
shooting-grounds, make a kind of
half compromise with the poachers,
by allowing them to kill grouse as
long as they do not touch the deer;
others, who are grouse-shooters, let
them kill the deer to save their birds.
I have known an instance where a
prosecution was stopped by the aggrieved
party being quietly made to
understand, that if it was carried on,
a score of lads from the hills would
shoot over his ground for the rest of
the season.”

Utterly devoid of pluck must the
said aggrieved party have been! Had
he carried on the prosecution firmly,
and given notice to the authorities of
the audacious and impudent threat,
with the names of the parties who
conveyed it, not a trigger would have
been drawn upon his ground, or a
head of game destroyed. If the
lessees of shooting-grounds are idiots
enough to enter into any such compromise,
they will of course find
abundance of poachers to take advantage
of it. Every shepherd on
the property will take regularly to
the hill; for by such an arrangement
the market is virtually thrown open,
and absolute impunity is promised.
But we venture to say that there is
not one instance on record where a
Highland proprietor, of Scottish birth
and breeding, has condescended to
make any such terms—indeed, we
should like to see the ruffian who
would venture openly to propose
them.

As to Mr St John’s assertion, that
“in Edinburgh there are numbers of
men who work as porters, &c., during
the winter, and poach in the Highlands
during the autumn,” we can
assure him that he is labouring under
a total delusion. A more respectable
set of men in their way than the
Edinburgh chairmen, is not to be
found on the face of the civilised
globe. Not a man of those excellent
creatures, who periodically play at
drafts at the corners of Hanover and
Castle Street, ever went out in an
illicit manner to the moors: nor shall
we except from this vindication our
old acquaintances at the Tron. Their
worst vices are a strong predilection
for snuff and whisky; otherwise they
are nearly faultless, and they run
beautifully in harness between the
springy shafts of a sedan. If they
ever set foot upon the heather, it is in
the capacity of gillies, for which service
they receive excellent wages,
and capital hands they are for looking
after the comforts of the dogs. Does
Mr St John mean to insinuate that
the twin stalwart tylers of the lodge
Canongate Kilwinning—whose fine
features are so similar that it is almost
impossible to distinguish them—go
out systematically in autumn to
the Highlands for the purpose of[406]
poaching? Why, to our own knowledge,
they are both most praiseworthy
fathers of families, exemplary
husbands, well to do in the world,
and, were they to die to-morrow, there
would not be a drop of black-cock’s
blood upon their souls. Like testimony
could we bear in favour of a
hundred others, whom you might
trust with untold gold, not to speak
of a wilderness of hares; but to any
one who knows them, it is unnecessary
to plead further in the cause of
the caddies.

We fear, therefore, that in this particular
of Highland poaching, Mr St
John has been slightly humbugged;
and we cannot help thinking, that in
this work of mystification, his prime
favourite and hero, Mr Ronald, has
had no inconsiderable share. As to
the feats of this handsome desperado,
as related by himself, we accept them
with a mental reservation. Notwithstanding
the acknowledged fact that
the Grants existed simultaneously
with the sons of Anak, we doubt extremely
whether any one individual of
that clan, or of any other, could, more
especially when in bed, and fatigued
with a long day’s exertion, overcome
five sturdy assailants. If so, the fellow
would make money by hiring a
caravan, and exhibiting himself as a
peripatetic Hercules: or, if such an
exhibition should be deemed derogatory
to a poaching outlaw, he might
enter the pugilistic or wrestling ring,
with the certainty of walking the
course. The man who, without taking
the trouble to rise out of bed,
could put two big hulking Highlanders
under him, breaking the ribs of
one of them, and keeping them down
with one knee, and who in that posture
could successfully foil the attack
of other three, is an ugly customer,
and we venture to say that his match
is not to be found within the four seas
of Great Britain. The story of his
tearing down the rafter, bestowing
breakfast upon his opponents, and
afterwards pitching the keeper deliberately
into the burn, is so eminently
apocryphal, that we cannot help wondering
at Mr St John for honouring it
with a place in his pages.

Did you ever see a badger, Scrip?
That, we suspect, is the vestibule of
one of them at which you are snuffing
and scraping; but you have no chance
of getting at him, for there he is
lying deep beneath the rock; and, to
say the truth, game as you are, we
would rather keep you intact from
the perils of his powerful jaw. He is,
we agree with Mr St John, an ancient
and respectable quadruped, by far too
much maligned in this wicked age;
and—were it for no other reason
than the inimitable adaptation of his
hair for shaving-brushes—we should
sincerely regret his extinction in the
British isles. We like the chivalry
with which our author undertakes the
defence of any libelled and persecuted
animal, and in no instance is he more
happy than in his oration in favour
of the injured badger. Like Harry
Bertram, he is not ashamed “of
caring about a brock.”

“Notwithstanding the persecutions
and indignities that he is unjustly
doomed to suffer, I maintain that he
is far more respectable in his habits
than we generally consider him to be.
‘Dirty as a badger,’ ‘stinking as a badger,’
are two sayings often repeated, but
quite inapplicable to him. As far as
we can learn of the domestic economy
of this animal when in a state of nature,
he is remarkable for his cleanliness—his
extensive burrows are always kept perfectly
clean, and free from all offensive
smell; no filth is ever found about his
abode; every thing likely to offend his
olfactory nerves is carefully removed.
I, once, in the north of Scotland, fell in
with a perfect colony of badgers; they
had taken up their abode in an unfrequented
range of wooded rocks, and appeared
to have been little interrupted
in their possession of them. The footpaths
to and from their numerous holes
were beaten quite hard; and what is
remarkable and worthy of note, they
had different small pits dug at a certain
distance from their abodes, which were
evidently used as receptacles for all offensive
filth; every other part of their
colony was perfectly clean. A solitary
badger’s hole, which I once had dug out,
during the winter season, presented a
curious picture of his domestic and military
arrangements—a hard and long
job it was for two men to achieve, the
passage here and there turned in a sharp
angle round some projecting corners of
rock, which he evidently makes use of
when attacked, as points of defence,
making a stand at any of these angles,
where a dog could not scratch to enlarge
the aperture, and fighting from behind[407]
his stone buttress. After tracing out
a long winding passage, the workmen
came to two branches in the hole, each
leading to good-sized chambers: in one
of these was stored a considerable quantity
of dried grass, rolled up into balls
as large as a man’s fist, and evidently
intended for food; in the other chamber
there was a bed of soft dry grass and
leaves—the sole inhabitant was a peculiarly
large old dog-badger. Besides
coarse grasses, their food consists of
various roots; amongst others, I have
frequently found about their hole the
bulb of the common wild blue hyacinth.
Fruit of all kinds and esculent vegetables
form his repast, and I fear that
he must plead guilty to devouring any
small animal that may come in his way,
alive or dead; though not being adapted
for the chase, or even for any very skilful
strategy of war, I do not suppose that
he can do much in catching an unwounded
bird or beast. Eggs are his delight,
and a partridge’s nest with seventeen or
eighteen eggs must afford him a fine
meal, particularly if he can surprise and
kill the hen-bird also; snails and worms
which he finds above ground during his
nocturnal rambles, are likewise included
in his bill of fare. I was one summer
evening walking home from fishing in
Loch Ness, and having occasion to fasten
up some part of my tackle, and also
expecting to meet my keeper, I sat down
on the shore of the loch. I remained
some time, enjoying the lovely prospect:
the perfectly clear and unruffled loch lay
before me, reflecting the northern shore
in its quiet water. The opposite banks
consisted, in some parts, of bright greensward,
sloping to the water’s edge, and
studded with some of the most beautiful
birch-trees in Scotland; several of
the trees spreading out like the oak, and
with their ragged and ancient-looking
bark resembling the cork-tree of Spain—others
drooping and weeping over the
edge of the water in the most lady-like
and elegant manner. Parts of the loch
were edged in by old lichen-covered
rocks; while farther on a magnificent
scaur of red stone rose perpendicularly
from the water’s edge to a very great
height. So clearly was every object on
the opposite shore reflected in the lake
below, that it was difficult, nay impossible,
to distinguish where the water
ended and the land commenced—the
shadow from the reality. The sun was
already set, but its rays still illuminated
the sky. It is said that from the sublime
to the ridiculous there is but one
step;—and I was just then startled from
my reverie by a kind of grunt close to
me, and the apparition of a small waddling
grey animal, who was busily employed
in hunting about the grass and
stones at the edge of the loch; presently
another, and another, appeared in a little
grassy glade which ran down to the
water’s edge, till at last I saw seven of
them busily at work within a few yards
of me, all coming from one direction. It
at first struck me that they were some
farmer’s pigs taking a distant ramble,
but I shortly saw that they were badgers,
come from their fastnesses rather
earlier than usual, tempted by the
quiet evening, and by a heavy summer
shower that was just over, and which
had brought out an infinity of large
black snails and worms, on which the
badgers were feeding with good appetite.
As I was dressed in grey and sitting
on a grey rock, they did not see
me, but waddled about, sometimes close
to me; only now and then as they
crossed my track they showed a slight
uneasiness, smelling the ground, and
grunting gently. Presently a very large
one, which I took to be the mother of
the rest, stood motionless for a moment
listening with great attention, and then
giving a loud grunt, which seemed perfectly
understood by the others, she
scuttled away, followed by the whole
lot. I was soon joined by my attendant,
whose approach they had heard long before
my less acute ears gave me warning
of his coming. In trapping other vermin
in these woods, we constantly caught
badgers—sometimes several were found
in the traps; I always regretted this, as
my keeper was most unwilling to spare
their lives, and I fancy seldom did so.
His arguments were tolerably cogent, I
must confess. When I tried to persuade
him that they were quite harmless, he
answered me by asking—’Then why,
sir, have they got such teeth, if they
don’t live, like a dog or fox, on flesh?—and
why do they get caught so often in
traps baited with rabbits?’ I could not
but admit that they had most carnivorous-looking
teeth, and well adapted to
act on the offensive as well as defensive,
or to crunch the bones of any young
hare, rabbit, or pheasant that came in
their way.”

But now we have reached the moors,
and for the next few hours we shall
follow out the Wild Sports for ourselves.
Ian, let loose the dogs.

Oh, pleasant—pleasant and cool are
the waters of the mountain well! It
is now past noonday, and we shall
call a halt for a while. Donald, let
us see what is in that bag. Twelve
brace and a half of grouse, three
blackcock, a leash of snipes, two ditto[408]
of golden plovers, three hares, and
the mallard that we raised from the
rushes. Quite enough, we think, for
any rational sportsman’s recreation,
howbeit we have a few hours yet before
us. Somewhere, we think, in the
other bag, there should be a cold fowl,
or some such kickshaw, with, if we
mistake not, a vision of beef, and a
certain pewter flask.—Thank you.
Now, let us all down by the side of
the spring, and to luncheon with what
appetite we may.

Are there any deer on these hills,
Ian? But seldom. Occasionally a
straggler may come over from one
of the upper forests, but there are too
many sheep about; and the deer,
though they will herd sometimes with
black cattle, have a rooted antipathy
to the others. No sight is finer than
that of a stag surrounded by his hinds;
but it is late in the year that the spectacle
becomes most imposing, and we
would have given something to have
been present with Mr St John on the
following occasion:—

“The red deer had just commenced
what is called by the Highlanders roaring,
i. e. uttering their loud cries of defiance
to rival stags, and of warning to
their rival mistresses.

“There had been seen, and reported
to me, a particularly large and fine antlered
stag, whose branching honours I
wished to transfer from the mountain
side to the walls of my own hall. Donald
and myself accordingly, one fine
morning, early in October, started before
daybreak for a distant part of the mountain,
where we expected to find him;
and we resolved to pass the night at a
shepherd’s house far up in the hills, if
we found that our chase led us too far
from home to return the same evening.

“Long was our walk that day before
we saw horn or hoof; many a likely
burn and corrie did we search in vain.
The shepherds had been scouring the
hills the day before for their sheep, to
divide those which were to winter in the
low ground from those which were to remain
on the hills. However, the day was
fine and frosty, and we were in the midst
of some of the most magnificent scenery
in Scotland; so that I, at least, was not
much distressed at our want of luck.
Poor Donald, who had not the same enjoyment
in the beauty of the scene, unless
it were enlivened by a herd of deer
here and there, began to grumble and
lament our hard fate; particularly as
towards evening wild masses of cloud
began to sweep up the glens and along
the sides of the mountain, and every now
and then a storm of cold rain and sleet
added to the discomfort of our position.
There was, however, something so very
desolate and wild in the scene and the
day, that, wrapt in my plaid, I stalked
slowly on, enjoying the whole thing as
much as if the elements had been in better
temper, and the Goddess of Hunting
propitious.

“We came in the afternoon to a rocky
burn, along the course of which was our
line of march. To the left rose an interminable-looking
mountain, over the sides
of which was scattered a wilderness of
grey rock and stone, sometimes forming
immense precipices, and in other places
degenerating into large tracts of loose and
water-worn grey shingle, apparently collected
and heaped together by the winter
floods. Great masses of rock were
scattered about, resting on their angles,
and looking as if the wind, which was
blowing a perfect gale, would hurl them
down on us.

“Amongst all this dreary waste of
rock and stone, there were large patches
of bright green pasture, and rushes on
the level spots, formed by the damming
up of the springs and mountain streams.

“Stretching away to our right was a
great expanse of brown heather and
swampy ground, dotted with innumerable
pools of black-looking water. The
horizon on every side was shut out by
the approaching masses of rain and
drift. The clouds closed round us, and
the rain began to fall in straight hard
torrents; at the same time, however,
completely allaying the wind.

“‘Well, well,’ said Donald, ‘I just
dinna ken what to do.’ Even I began
to think that we might as well have remained
at home; but, putting the best
face on the matter, we got under a projecting
bank of the burn, and took out
our provision of oatcake and cold grouse,
and having demolished that, and made
a considerable vacuum in the whisky
flask, I lit my cigar, and meditated on
the vanity of human pursuits in general,
and of deer-stalking in particular, while
dreamy visions of balls, operas, and the
last pair of blue eyes that I had sworn
everlasting allegiance to, passed before
me.

“Donald was employed in the more
useful employment of bobbing for burn
trout with a line and hook he had produced
out of his bonnet—that wonderful
blue bonnet, which, like the bag in the
fairy tale, contains any thing and every
thing which is required at a moment’s
notice. His bait was the worms which
in a somewhat sulky mood he kicked[409]
out of their damp homes about the edge
of the burn. Presently the ring-ousel
began to whistle on the hill-side, and the
cock-grouse to crow in the valley below
us. Roused by these omens of better
weather, I looked out from our shelter
and saw the face of the sun struggling to
show itself through the masses of cloud,
while the rain fell in larger but more
scattered drops. In a quarter of an hour
the clouds were rapidly disappearing,
and the face of the hill as quickly opening
to our view. We remained under
shelter a few minutes longer, when suddenly,
as if by magic, or like the lifting
of the curtain at a theatre, the whole
hill was perfectly clear from clouds, and
looked more bright and splendidly beautiful
than any thing I had ever seen. No
symptoms were left of the rain, excepting
the drops on the heather, which shone
like diamonds in the evening sun. The
masses of rock came out in every degree
of light and shade, from dazzling white
to the darkest purple, streaked here and
there with the overpourings of the swollen
rills and springs, which danced and
leapt from rock to rock, and from crag
to crag, looking like streams of silver.

“‘How beautiful!’ was both my inward
and outward exclamation. ‘Deed
it’s not just so dour as it was,’ said Donald;
‘but, the Lord guide us! look at yon,’
he continued, fixing his eye on a distant
slope, at the same time slowly winding
up his line and pouching his trout, of
which he had caught a goodly number.
‘Tak your perspective, sir, and look
there,’ he added, pointing with his chin.
I accordingly took my perspective, as
he always called my pocket-telescope,
and saw a long line of deer winding from
amongst the broken granite in single file
down towards us. They kept advancing
one after the other, and had a most
singular appearance as their line followed
the undulations of the ground. They
came slowly on, to the number of more
than sixty (all hinds, not a horn amongst
them), till they arrived at a piece of
table-land four or five hundred yards
from us, when they spread about to
feed, occasionally shaking off the raindrops
from their hides, much in the
same manner as a dog does on coming
out of the water.

“‘They are no that canny,’ said
Donald. ‘Nous verrons,’ said I. ‘What’s
your wull?’ was his answer; ‘I’m no
understanding Latin, though my wife
has a cousin who is a placed minister.’
‘Why, Donald, I meant to say that we
shall soon see whether they are canny
or not: a rifle-ball is a sure remedy
for all witchcraft.’ Certainly there
was something rather startling in the
way they all suddenly appeared as it
were from the bowels of the mountain,
and the deliberate, unconcerned manner
in which they set to work feeding like
so many tame cattle.

“We had but a short distance to stalk.
I kept the course of a small stream
which led through the middle of the
herd; Donald followed me with my
gun. We crept up till we reckoned that
we must be within an easy shot, and
then, looking most cautiously through
the crevices and cuts in the bank, I saw
that we were in the very centre of the
herd: many of the deer were within
twenty or thirty yards, and all feeding
quietly and unconscious of any danger.
Amongst the nearest to me was a remarkably
large hind, which we had
before observed as being the leader and
biggest of the herd, I made a sign to
Donald that I would shoot her, and left
him to take what he liked of the flock
after I fired.

“Taking a deliberate and cool aim at
her shoulder, I pulled the trigger; but,
alas! the wet had got between the cap
and nipple-end. All that followed was
a harmless snap: the deer heard it, and,
starting from their food, rushed together
in a confused heap, as if to give
Donald a fair chance at the entire flock,
a kind of shot he rather rejoiced in.
Before I could get a dry cap on my
gun, snap, snap, went both his barrels;
and when I looked up, it was but to see
the whole herd quietly trotting up the
hill, out of shot, but apparently not very
much frightened, as they had not seen
us, or found out exactly where the sound
came from. ‘We are just twa fules,
begging your honour’s pardon, and only
fit to weave hose by the ingle,’ said
Donald. I could not contradict him.
The mischief was done; so we had nothing
for it but to wipe out our guns as
well as we could, and proceed on our
wandering. We followed the probable
line of the deers’ march, and before
night saw them in a distant valley feeding
again quite unconcernedly.

“‘Hark! what is that?’ said I, as a
hollow roar like an angry bull was heard
not far from us. ‘Kep down, kep down,’
said Donald, suiting the action to the
word, and pressing me down with his
hand; ‘it’s just a big staig.’ All the
hinds looked up, and, following the direction
of their heads, we saw an immense
hart coming over the brow of the hill
three hundred yards from us. He might
easily have seen us, but seemed too
intent on the hinds to think of any thing
else. On the height of the hill he halted,[410]
and, stretching out his neck and lowering
his head, bellowed again. He then
rushed down the hill like a mad beast:
when half-way down he was answered
from a distance by another stag. He
instantly halted, and, looking in that
direction, roared repeatedly, while we
could see in the evening air, which had
become cold and frosty, his breath coming
out of his nostrils like smoke. Presently
he was answered by another and
another stag, and the whole distance
seemed alive with them. A more unearthly
noise I never heard, as it echoed
and re-echoed through the rocky glens
that surrounded us.

“The setting sun threw a strong light
on the first comer, casting a kind of
yellow glare on his horns and head,
while his body was in deep shade, giving
him a most singular appearance, particularly
when combined with his hoarse
and strange bellowing. As the evening
closed in, their cries became almost incessant,
while here and there we heard
the clash of horns as two rival stags
met and fought a few rounds together.
None, however, seemed inclined to try
their strength with the large hart who
had first appeared. The last time we
saw him, in the gloom of the evening,
he was rolling in a small pool of water,
with several of the hinds standing quietly
round him; while the smaller stags
kept passing to and fro near the hinds,
but afraid to approach too close to their
watchful rival, who was always ready to
jump up and dash at any of them who
ventured within a certain distance of his
seraglio. ‘Donald,’ I whispered, ‘I
would not have lost this sight for a
hundred pounds.’ ‘Deed no, its grand,’
said he. ‘In all my travels on the hill
I never saw the like.’ Indeed it is very
seldom that chances combine to enable
a deer-stalker to quietly look on at such
a strange meeting of deer as we had
witnessed that evening. But night was
coming on, and though the moon was
clear and full, we did not like to start off
for the shepherd’s house, through the
swamps and swollen burns among which
we should have had to pass; nor did we
forget that our road would be through
the valley where all this congregation of
deer were. So after consulting, we
turned off to leeward to bivouac amongst
the rocks at the back of the hill, at a
sufficient distance from the deer not to
disturb them by our necessary occupation
of cooking the trout, which our
evening meal was to consist of. Having
hunted out some of the driest of the fir-roots
which were in abundance near us,
we soon made a bright fire out of view
of the deer, and, after eating some fish,
and drying our clothes pretty well, we
found a snug corner in the rocks, where,
wrapped up in our plaids and covered
with heather, we arranged ourselves to
sleep.

“Several times during the night I got
up and listened to the wild bellowing of
the deer: sometimes it sounded close to
us, and at other times far away. To an
unaccustomed ear it might easily have
passed for the roaring of a host of much
more dangerous wild beasts, so loud and
hollow did it sound. I awoke in the
morning cold and stiff, but soon put my
blood into circulation by running two or
three times up and down a steep bit of
the hill. As for Donald, he shook himself,
took a pinch of snuff, and was all
right. The sun was not yet above the
horizon, though the tops of the mountains
to the west were already brightly
gilt by its rays, and the grouse-cocks
were answering each other in every
direction.”

A graphic and most true description!
The same gathering of the
deer, but on a far larger scale, may
be seen in the glens near the centre
of Sutherland, hard by the banks of
Loch Naver. Many hundreds of them
congregate there together at the bleak
season of their love; and the bellowing
of the stags may be heard miles
off among the solitude of the mountain.
Nor is it altogether safe at that
time to cross their path. The hart—a
dangerous brute whenever brought
to bay—then appears to lose all trace
of his customary timidity, and will
advance against the intruder, be he
who he may, with levelled antler and
stamping hoof, as becomes the acknowledged
leader, bashaw, and champion
of the herd. Also among the Coolin
hills, perhaps the wildest of all our
Highland scenery, where the dark
rain-clouds of the Atlantic stretch
from peak to peak of the jagged heights—where
the ghostlike silence strikes
you with unwonted awe, and the echo
of your own footfall rings startlingly
on the ear from the metallic cliffs of
Hyperstein.

What is it, Ian? As we live, Orleans
is pointing in yon correi, and
Bordeaux backing him like a Trojan.
Soho, Tours! Now for it. Black
game, we rather think. Well roaded,
dogs! Bang! An old cock. Ian,
you may pick him up.

[411]

LETTERS AND IMPRESSIONS FROM PARIS.[2]

The gay metropolis of France has
not lacked chroniclers, whether indigenous
or foreign. And no wonder.
The subject is inexhaustible, the mine
can never be worn out. Paris is a
huge kaleidoscope, in which the slightest
movement of the hand of time
produces fantastic changes and still
recurring novelties. Central in position,
it is the rendezvous of Europe.
London is respected for its
size, wealth, and commerce, and as
the capital of the great empire on
which the sun never sets; Paris is
loved for its pleasures and pastimes,
its amusements and dissipations. The
one is the money-getter’s Eldorado,
the other the pleasure-seeker’s paradise.
The former is viewed with
wonder and admiration; for size it is
a province, for population a kingdom.
But Paris, the modern Babel, with its
boulevards and palaces, its five-and-twenty
theatres, its gaudy restaurants
and glittering coffee-houses, its light
and cheerful aspect, so different from
the soot-grimed walls of the English
capital, is the land of promise to truant
gentlemen and erratic ladies, whether
from the Don or the Danube, the Rhine
or the Wolga, from the frozen steppes
of the chilly north, or the orange groves
of the sunny south. A library has been
written to exhibit its physiognomy;
thousands of pens have laboured to
depict the peculiarities of its population,
floating and stationary.

Amongst those who have most recently
attempted the task, Mr Karl
Gutzkow, a dramatist of some fame
in his own land, holds a respectable
place. He has recorded in print the
results of two visits to Paris, paid in
1842 and in the present year. The
self-imposed labour has been creditably
performed; much truth and
sharpness of observation are manifest
in his pages, although here and there
a triviality forces a smile, a far-fetched
idea or a bizarre opinion causes a
start. Mr Gutzkow partakes a fault
common to many of his countrymen—a
tendency to extremes, an aptness
either to trifle or to soar, now playing
on the ground with the children, then
floating in the clouds with mystical
familiars, or on a winged hobbyhorse.
Desultory in style, he neglects the
classification of his subject. Abruptly
passing from the grave to the light,
from the solid to the frothy, he breaks
off a profound disquisition or philosophical
argument to chatter about the
new vaudeville, and glides from a scandalous
anecdote of an actress into the
policy of Louis Philippe. His frequent
and capricious transitions are not disagreeable,
and help one pleasantly
enough through the book, but a methodical
arrangement would be more
favourable to the reader’s memory.
As it is, we lay down the volume with
a perfect jumble in our brains, made
up of the sayings, doings, qualities,
and characteristics of actors, authors,
statesmen, communists, journalists,
and of the various other classes concerning
whom Mr Gutzkow discourses,
introducing them just as they occur
to him, or as he happened to meet
with them, and in some instances returning
three or four times to the
same individual. The first part of
the book, which is the most lengthy
and important, is in the form of letters,
and was perhaps actually written
to friends in Germany. This would
account for its desultoriness and medley
of matter. The second portion,
written during or subsequently to a
recent visit to Paris, serves as an appendix,
and as a rectification of what
came before. The author troubles
himself little about places; he went
to see Parisians rather than to gaze
at Paris, to study men rather than to
admire monuments, and has the good
sense to avoid prattling about things
that have been described and discussed
by more common-place writers
than himself. Well provided with
introductions, he made the acquaintance
of numerous notabilities, both
political and literary, and of them he
[412]
gives abundant details: an eager play-goer,
his theatrical criticisms are bold,
minute, and often exceedingly happy;
an observant man, his remarks on the
social condition of Paris and of France
are both acute and interesting. Let
us follow him page by page through
his fifth letter or chapter, the first that
relates to Paris. Those that precede
contain an account of his journey from
Hanover. On his entrance into France,
he encounters various petty disagreeables,
in the shape of ill-hung vehicles,
sulky conductors, bad dinners, extravagant
prices, and attempts at extortion,
which stir up his bile, accustomed
as he is to the moderate charges, smiling
waiters, and snug although slow
eilwagens of his own country. But he
has resolved neither to grumble at
trifles nor to judge hastily. A visit
to France, and especially to Paris,
has long been his darling project.
His greatest fear is to be disappointed—imagination,
especially that of a German,
is so apt to outrun reality.

“Every sou upon which I read
‘Republique Française,’ every portrait
of the unhappy Louis upon the
coarse copper money, makes such impression
on me, that I no longer
think of any thing but the historical
ground under my feet; and consoled
for my trifling grievances, upon a fine
spring morning I enter the great Babel
through the Barrière St Denis.

“I am in France, in Paris. I must
reflect, in order to ascertain what was
my first thought. As a boy, I hated
France and loved Paris. My thoughts
clung fast to Germany’s fall and Germany’s
greatness; my feelings, my
fancy, ranged through the French
capital, of which I had early heard
much from my father, who had twice
marched thither as a Prussian soldier
and conqueror.” Then come sundry
reflections on the July revolution, and
its effect on Europe. “These are
chains of thought which hereafter
will occupy us much. I must now
think for a while of the France that
I brought with me, because the one
I have found is likely to lead me astray.
Louis Philippe, Guizot, the armed
peace, the peace at all price, the
chamber of peers, the attempts on the
king’s life, the deputies, the épiciers,
the great men and the little intrigues,
art and science, Véry, Vefour, Musard—I
am really puzzled not to forget
something of what I previously
knew. A hackney-coach horse, lying
dead upon the boulevard, preoccupies
me more than yonder hôtel des Capucins,
where Guizot gives his dinners.
A wood-pavement at the end of the
Rue Richelieu sets me a-thinking
more than the bulletin of to-day’s
Débats. They pave Paris with wood
to deprive revolutions of building
materials. Barricades are not to be
made out of blocks. Better that those
who cannot hear should be run over
than that those who cannot see should
risk to fall from their high estate.”

Considering that, when this was
written, all the wood-pavement in
Paris might have been covered with
a Turkey carpet, and that up to this
day its superficies has very little increased,
Mr Gutzkow’s discovery has
much the appearance of a mare’s nest.
A better antidote to the stone within
Paris is to be found in the stone
around it. The fortifications will
match the barricades. But it would
be unfair to criticise too severely
the crude impressions of a novice,
suddenly set down amidst the turmoil,
bustle, tumult, and fever of the
French capital. From the pavements
we pass to the promenaders.

“Pity that black should this year
be the fashion for ladies’ dresses. The
mourning garments clash with the
freshness of spring. The heavens
are blue, the sun shines, the trees
already burst into leaf, the fountains
round the obelisk throw their countless
diamonds into the air. The
exhibition of pictures has just opened.
Shall I go thither, and exchange this
violet-scented atmosphere for the
odour of the varnish? In Paris the
exhibition comes with the violets—in
Berlin with the asters. I prefer
the autumn show at Berlin to the
spring exhibition in Paris; also intrinsically,
with respect to art. Our
German painters have more poetry.
With us painting is lyric—here all is,
or strives to be, dramatic. Every
picture seems to thrust itself forward
and demand applause. I see great
effects, but little feeling. Religion is
represented by a few gigantic altar-pieces.
They are the offerings of a
devotion which only thinks of the
saints because new churches require[413]
new pictures. New churches consist
of stone, wood, gold, silver, an organ,
an altar-piece. These pictures of
saints belong to the ministry of public
works; it is easy to see that they have
been done to order. Besides them,
the gallery is full of Oriental scenes,
family pictures and portraits. The
first are to inspire enthusiasm for
Algiers, the second illustrate the happiness
of wedded life, the last are
matrimonial advertisements in oil
colour. In the family groups, children
and little dogs are most prominent;
of the male portraits the beard
is the principal part. It is useless to
look for men here; one sees nothing
but hair. Everybody wears a beard
à la mode du moyen âge—flâneurs,
coachmen, marquises, artisans. On
all sides one is surrounded with Vandyke
and Rubens heads, poetical
beards and hair, contrasting strangely
with prosaic eyes, pallid lips, and the
graceless costumes of the nineteenth
century.”

After some more very negative
praise of French art, Mr Gutzkow
gets sick of turpentine and confinement,
and rushes out of the Louvre
into the sunshine and the Champs
Elysées, where the sight of the throng
of dashing equipages, gay cavaliers,
and pretty amazons, instead of causing
him to throw up his hat and bless
his stars for having conducted him
into such ways of pleasantness, renders
him melancholy and metaphysical.
He is moralising on the Parisian ladies,
when a cloud of dust and the clatter
of cavalry give a new turn to his
reflections. “Here,” he exclaims,
“comes an example of earthly happiness.
Louis Philippe, King of the
French, surrounded by a half squadron
of his body-guard; a narrow and
scarcely perceptible window in his
deep six-horse carriage; a King, flying
by, resting not, leaning back in his
coach, not venturing to look out,
breathing with difficulty under the
shirt of mail which, according to
popular belief, he ever wears beneath
his clothes. But of this more hereafter.”
Quite enough as it is, Mr
Gutzkow; and you are right, being in
so gloomy a mood, to run off to the
Theatre Français, and try to dissipate
your vapours by seeing Rachel in Chimène.
An unfavourable criticism of
that actress, retracted at a later period,
closes the chapter. Chimène is one
of Rachel’s worst parts, and her critic
was not in his best humour. He found
her cold, and deficient in voice. Subsequently,
in Joan of Arc, she fully redeemed
herself in his opinion, although
he had seen the best German actresses
in Schiller’s tragedy of that name,
with which the work of Soumet ill
bears comparison. Here, he acknowledges,
she raised herself to an artistical
elevation to which no German
actress of the present day can hope
to attain.

The next actress of whom Mr Gutzkow
records his judgment, is the queen
of the vaudeville, the faded but still
fascinating Dejazet. From the classic
hall of the “Français” to the agreeable
little den of iniquity at the other
end of the Palais Royal, the distance
was not great, but the transition was
very violent. It was passing from a
funeral to an orgie, thus to leave
Phèdre for Frétillon, Rachel for Dejazet.
“She performed in a little piece
called the Fille de Dominique, in which
she represents the daughter of a deceased
royal comedian of the days of
Molière. She comes to Paris to get
admitted into the troop to which her
father belonged. She is to give proofs
of her talents, and has already done
so before any one suspects it. She
has been to Baron, the comedian, and
presented herself alternately as a peasant
girl, a fantastical lady, and as a
young drummer of the Royal Guard.
She is seen by the audience in all
these parts. Her first word, her first
step, convinced me of the great fidelity
of her acting. She is no queen,
no fairy, or great dame out of Scribe’s
comedies, but the peasant girl, the
grisette, the heroine of the vaudeville.
All about her is arch, droll,
true. Her gestures are extraordinarily
correct and steady; and in
spite of her harsh counter-tenor, and
of an organ in which many a wild
night and champagne debauch may
be traced, she sings her couplets with
clearness of intonation, grace of execution,
and not unfrequently with
most touching effect. I am at a loss
fully to explain and define her very
peculiar style of acting.”

Mr Gutzkow thought that the
French public had become careless of[414]
Dejazet, even when he first saw her,
now four years ago. We believe he
is mistaken, and that she is as much
appreciated as ever, in spite of her
five and forty years, soon to be converted
into fifty. Although haggard
from vigils and dissipation, neither
on the stage nor off it does she look
her age. The good heart and joyous
disposition that have endeared her to
her comrades of the buskin, have in
some degree neutralized the effects of
her excesses. On his second visit to
Paris, our author finds her grown
exceedingly old, and depreciates as
much as he before praised her—calls
her a rouged corpse, and makes all
manner of uncivil and unsavoury comments
and comparisons. He goes so
far as to style her acting in 1846,
languid, feeble, and insipid. Qui trop
dit, ne dit rien, and this is palpable
exaggeration. We perceive scarcely
any difference in Dejazet now and
five years ago. Her singing voice
may be a little less sure, her eyes a
trifle hollower—she may need rather
more paint to conceal the inroads of
time on her piquante and spirituelle
physiognomy, but she preserves the
same spirit and vivacity, verve and
vigour. Her appearance this spring
at the Variétés theatre, in the vaudeville
of Gentil Bernard, was a triumph
of talent over time; and crowded
houses, attracted not by the excellence
of the piece, but by the perfection of
the acting, proved that Dejazet is
still, which she long has been, the pet
of the Parisians. She is an extraordinary
actress—so true to nature,
possessed of such perfect judgment,
and grace of gesticulation. Not a
movement of her hand, a turn of her
head, an inflexion of her voice, but
has its signification and produces its
effect. Her performance in the picturesque
and bustling second act of
Gentil Bernard is faultless. The
frequenters of St James’s theatre have
this summer had an opportunity of
appreciating it. At Paris she was
better supported. Lafont makes a
very fair La Tulipe, but not so good
a one as Hoffmann. The inferior
parts, also, were far better filled on
the Boulevard des Italiens, than in
King Street, St James’s, where the
whole weight of the protracted and
not very interesting vaudeville rested
upon the shoulders of Dejazet.

The success of Rachel has roused
the ambition and raised the reputation
of the daughters of Israel, who are now
quite in vogue at the Paris theatres.
Mesdemoiselles Rebecca and Worms,
at the “Français,” are both Jewesses;
at the minor theatre of the “Folies
Dramatiques,” Judith delights a motley
audience by her able enactment of
the grisette. Instances have been
known of very Christian young ladies
feigning themselves of the faith of
Moses, in hope that the fraud might
facilitate their admission to the Thespian
arena.

A severe judgment is passed by Mr
Gutzkow upon the present state of
musical art and representations in the
French capital. The opera, he affirms,
and not without reason, is on its last
legs, sustained only by the ballet, by
the beauty of the scenery and costumes.
Duprez has had his day, Madame
Stolz is among the middlings,
Barroilhet alone may be reckoned a
first-rate singer. Our author saw the
Elísir d’Amore given by a company
which he says would hardly be listened
to in a German provincial town.
Madame Stolz was then absent on a
starring expedition. The ballet of
Paquita was some compensation for
the poorness of the singing. “At the
‘Italiens’ I heard the Barber of Seville,
with Lablache, Ronconi, Tagliafico,
Mario, and Persiani. This opera is
considered the triumph of the Italian
company; but I confess that the magnificence
of the theatre, the high charge
for admission, the Ohs! and Ahs! of
the English women in the boxes, just
arrived from London, and who had
never before heard good music, were
all insufficient to blind me with respect
to the merits of the performance. I
look upon the Italian opera at Paris
as a mystification on the very largest
scale, a thorough classic-Italian swindle.
That a German company, composed
of our best opera singers, would
be infinitely superior to this Italian
one, appears to me to admit of no dispute;
but even at an ordinary theatre
in Germany or Italy, one hears as
good singing, perhaps with the exception
of Lablache in Bartolo—and even
he is cold and careless, devoid of freshness,
and always seems to say to the
audience, ‘You stupid people, take that
for your twelve francs a-seat!’ The
quackery of this theatre becomes the[415]
more intelligible when we reflect that,
in all Paris, there is no other where a
single note of Italian opera music can
be heard, the Italians having the monopoly
of the sweet melodies of their native
country. The Grand Opera, and the
Opera Comique, deal in French music
only; and the pleasure obtainable in
any small German town possessing a
theatre, that, namely, of hearing Norma,
the Somnambula, and other similar
operas, is nowhere to be procured except
by paying extravagant prices to
these half-dozen Italians.” This statement
is not quite correct. The Opera
Comique, it is true, gives nothing but
French music, and poor enough it is. In
this particular, the Parisians are not
difficult to satisfy. A good libretto,
smart scenery, a hard-handed claque,
a few skilful reclames, and laudatory
paragraphs in the newspapers, will
create an enthusiasm even for the insipid
music of Monsieur Halévy, and
sustain the Mousquetaires de la Reine,
or similar mawkish compositions,
through a whole season. But at the
Académie Royale, good operas are to
be heard, although the singing be deficient.
Meyerbeer, Rossini, and Donizetti
are not the names of Frenchmen;
and the operas of these and other
foreign composers are constantly given
in the Rue Lepelletier.

“Several German opera companies
have visited Paris; have begun well,
and finished badly. And here our
most brilliant singers would meet
the same fate, because they would be
allowed to sing nothing but German
music; and German operas are not
listened to in Paris. But if it were
possible, with only a moderately good
German company, to give Norma,
the Barber, Robert the Devil, the
Huguenots, and Mozart’s operas,
(omitting the dialogue,) that company,
supported by a good orchestra,
and performing in a decent theatre,
would carry all before them, and return
to Germany laden with fame and
gold. But that is the difficulty. In
France every one must stick to a speciality.
From the German they will
hear nothing but German music, and
the representation of other operas is
positively forbidden him.”

Without going the lengths that Mr
Gutzkow does, or by any means coinciding
in his sweeping censure of the
artists who now furnish forth the
Italian theatres of London and Paris,
we doubt whether it is not fashion, as
much as the excellence of the music,
that draws the élite of French and
English society to the Haymarket and
the Salle Ventadour, and whether a
German company of equal intrinsic
merit would receive adequate patronage
and encouragement in either
capital, supposing even that they were
allowed their choice of operas, and
had the benefit of a handsome theatre
and an able management. Certainly
they would not get the enormous
salaries which, in combination with
the greediness of managers, and the
manœuvres of ticket-sellers, render
the enjoyment of a good opera, in
London at least, a luxury attainable
but by an exceedingly limited class.

Although the prices of admission
to most of the Paris theatres are moderate,
they are occasionally raised
by illegitimate stratagems. This is
especially the case when a new piece
is performed from which much is expected,
or concerning which, by puffery
or for other reasons, the public curiosity
has been greatly excited. On
such occasions, the first few representations
are sometimes rendered
doubly and even trebly productive.
The prices cannot be raised at the
theatre itself without express permission
from the authorities, and as this
is seldom granted, another plan is resorted
to. The box-office is transferred
de facto from the corridor of
the theatre to the open street. Whoever
applies for tickets is told that
there is not one left to any part of the
house. Nothing then remains but to
have recourse to the ticket-brokers,
who carry on their disreputable commerce
in the streets or at the wine-shops.
In the Rue Montmartre,
within a few doors of the Boulevard,
there is a marchand de vin, whose
establishment is a grand rendezvous
of these gentry. They are the agents
of the managers of the theatres. The
latter sell all the tickets to themselves
a fortnight beforehand, inscribing
on the coupons the names of imaginary
buyers, and then distribute them
amongst the brokers, who sell them
in front of the theatre to eager theatrical
amateurs, as a great favour,
and as the last obtainable tickets, at
two or three times the regulation price.
The theatre pockets the profits, minus[416]
a brokerage. In this manner a first
representation at the large theatre of
the Porte St Martin may be made to
yield ten thousand francs. When a
theatre is out of vogue, and filling
poorly, the same system is adopted;
but in the contrary sense. The marchands
de billets are provided with
tickets which they sell at less than
the established price.

When De Balzac’s drama, Les Expédients
de Quinola, was brought out
at the “Odeon,” he compounded to
receive the proceeds of the first three
nights, in lieu of a share of each
representation whilst the piece should
run. The play had been greatly
talked of, the steam had been got up
in every way, and the public was in
a fever. It is customary enough in
Paris for dramatic authors, in order
at once to get paid for their labours,
to barter their droits d’auteur for the
entire profits of the first representations.
Scribe does it at the Français.
When the tickets are sold at the usual
prices, this financial arrangement is
regular enough, and concerns nobody
but author and manager. But that
would not satisfy Balzac, who is notorious
for his avarice. He set the
brokers to work, and drove the prices
up to the highest possible point,
fifteen francs for a stall, instead of
five, a hundred francs for a box and
so forth. “Under such circumstances,”
says Mr Gutzkow, “it cannot
be wondered if people forgot
Eugenie Grandet and the Père Goriot,
and hissed his play. To-day,
nearly a hundred criticisms of Quinola
have appeared. It is my belief, that,
instead of reading them, Balzac is
counting his five-franc pieces.” The
drama fell from want of merit as well
as from the indignation excited by
the author’s greed. Although Balzac’s
books are read and admired—some of
them at least—personally he is most
unpopular. He is accused, and not
without reason, of arrogance and avarice.
His assumption and conceit are
evident in his works. He has sacrificed
his fame to love of gold; for
one good book he has produced two
that are trash; by speculating on his
reputation, he has undermined and
nearly destroyed it. Moreover, he
has committed the enormous blunder
of affecting to despise the press,
which consequently shows him no
mercy. For a fortnight after the appearance
of Quinola—which, although
defective as a dramatic composition,
was not without its merits—the unlucky
play served as a daily laughing-stock
and whipping-post to the battalion
of Parisian critics. Janin led
the way; a host of minor wasps followed
in his wake, and threw themselves
with deafening hum and sharp
sting against the devoted head of M.
de Balzac. He bore their aggravating
assaults with great apparent
indifference, consoled for want of
friends by well-lined pockets.

At the “Ambigu Comique,” Mr
Gutzkow attended a performance of the
Mousquetaires, a melo-drama founded
on Dumas’s romance of Vingt Ans
Après. Its success was prodigious;
it was performed the whole of last
winter and spring, upwards of one
hundred and fifty nights, always to
crowded houses. The novel was
dramatised by Dumas himself, with
the assistance of one of his literary
subordinates, M. Auguste Maquet.
One or two of the actors at the
“Ambigu” are to form part of the troop
at M. Dumas’s new theatre, now
erecting, and which will open, it is
said, this autumn. It is built by a
company, and Dumas has engaged to
write for it a certain number of plays
yearly. The Duke of Montpensier
gives it his name.

It will be the twenty-third theatre
in Paris. Mr Gutzkow lifts up his
hands and eyes in astonishment and
admiration. “And this is granted,”
he says, “to that same Alexander
Dumas, who, two years ago, publicly
declared, that the stage and modern
literature, in France especially, suffer
from the indifference of the king!”
He proceeds to compare this good-humoured
facility with the scanty
amount of encouragement given to
theatricals in Prussia, with which he
appears as moderately satisfied as
with various other matters in the
Fatherland. In Berlin, he says, although
another theatre is sadly wanted,
there is little chance of its being conceded
either to a dramatic author or
to any one else. But to follow him in
his complaints, would lead us from
Paris.

It is somewhat strange that Mr
Gutzkow, himself a dramatist, and
who tells us that his chief object in[417]
visiting Paris was to see the remarkable
men of France, did not make the
acquaintance of M. Dumas. We infer,
at least, that he did not, for the above
passing reference is all that his book
contains touching the distinguished
author of Angèle and Antony, of Monte
Christo and the Mousquetaires. To
numerous other littérateurs, of greater
and less merit, he sought and obtained
introductions, and of them
gives minute and interesting details.
In Germany, as in England, Dumas
is better known and more popular
than any other French novelist; but,
independently of that circumstance,
as a brother dramatist, we wonder
Mr Gutzkow neglected him. Perhaps,
since he blames Balzac for overproduction,
and speaks with aversion
to the system of bookmaking, he
eschewed the society of Dumas for a
similar reason. Balzac is believed,
at any rate, to write his books himself,
although they suffer from haste; but
Dumas has been openly and repeatedly
accused of having his books
written for him, and of maintaining a
regular establishment of literary aide-de-camps,
perpetually busied in the
fabrication of tale, novel, and romance,
whose productions he copies
and signs, and then gives to the world
as his own. His immense fertility
has been the origin of this charge,
which may be false, although appearances
are really in favour of its truth.
It seems physically impossible that
one man should accomplish the mere
pen and ink work of M. Dumas’s literary
labours; and even if, like Napoleon,
he had the faculty of dictating
to two or three different secretaries at
once, it would scarcely account for the
number of volumes he annually puts
forth. From a clever but violent
pamphlet, published in Paris in the
spring of 1845, under the title of
Fabrique de Romans; Maison Alexander
Dumas & C^ie. we extract the
following statement, which, it cannot
be denied, is plausible enough:—

“It is difficult to assign limits to
the fecundity of writer, and to fix
the number of lines that he shall
write in a given time. Romance-writing
especially, that frivolous style,
has a right to travel post, and to
scatter its volumes in profusion by
the wayside. Nevertheless, time must
be taken to consider a subject, to
arrange a plan, to connect the threads
of a plot, to organize the different
parts of a work; otherwise one proceeds
blindfold, and finishes by getting
into a blind alley, or by meeting insurmountable
obstacles. Allowing for
these needful preparations, supposing
that an author takes no more repose
than is absolutely necessary, eats in
haste, sleeps little, is constantly inspired;
in this hypothesis, the most
skilful writer will produce perhaps
fifteen volumes a-year—fifteen volumes,
do you hear, Monsieur Dumas?
And, even in this case, he
will assuredly not write for fame; we
defy him to chasten and correct his
style, or to find a moment to look
over his proofs. Ask those who work
unassisted; ask our most fertile romance-writers,
George Sand, Balzac,
Eugène Sue, Frédéric Soulié; they
will all tell you, that it is impossible
to reach the limit we have fixed;
that they have never attained it.

“You, M. Dumas, have published
thirty-six volumes in the course of
the year 1844; and for the year 1845,
you announce twice as many.

“Well, we make the following simple
calculation:—The most expert copyist,
writing twelve hours a-day, hardly
achieves 3900 letters in an hour,
which gives, per diem, 46,800 letters,
or sixty ordinary pages of a romance.
At that rate he can copy five octavo
volumes a month, and sixty in a year,
but he must not rest an hour or lose
a second. You, Monsieur Dumas, are
a penman of first-rate ability. From
the 1st of January to the 31st of December
you work regularly twelve
hours a-day, you sleep little, you eat
in haste, you deprive yourself of all
amusements, you hardly travel at all,
you are never seen out of your house:
consequently, if we suppose that your
dramatic compositions, the bringing
out of your plays, your correspondence
with newspapers and theatres, importunate
visitors, a few casual articles—as,
for example, your letters in the
Democratie Pacifique; (a series of five
letters containing a fierce attack on the
Théatre Français, and on its administrator
M. Buloz)—supposing, we
say, that all these various occupations
monopolize only one half of your time,
we understand that you may have
copied thirty volumes in the course
of the year 1844—but only thirty![418]
the six others must have been the result
of your son’s labours. Now, if
you are going to publish twice as much
this year as you did during the last
one, how will you manage? You
must either give up sleeping, and work
the twenty-four hours through, or you
must teach your manufacturers to imitate
your hand-writing. There is no
other plan possible. To deliver your
manuscripts to the printers as they are
delivered to you, would be to furnish
proofs against yourself.”

The author of this pamphlet is himself
a novelist, and allowance must be
made for his jealousy of a successful
rival. But there are grounds for his
attack. M. Dumas is known to work
hard: literary labour has become a
habit and necessity of his life; but he
is not the man to chain himself to the
oar and renounce all the pleasures of
society and of Paris, even to swell
his annual budget to the enormous
sum which it is reported, and which
he has indeed acknowledged it, to
reach. We have seen works published
under his name, whose perusal
convinced us that he had had little or
nothing to do with their composition
or execution. The internal evidence
of others was equally conclusive in
fixing their bona fide authorship upon
their reputed author. Au reste, Dumas
troubles himself very little about
his assailants, but pursues the even
tenor of his way, careless of calumniators.
The most important point
for him is, that his pen, or at least his
name, should preserve its popularity;
and this it certainly does, notwithstanding
that his enemies have more
than once raised a cry that “le Dumas
baisse sur la place.” On the contrary,
the article, whether genuine or
counterfeit, was never more in demand,
both with publishers and consumers.
In Paris, as Mr Gutzkow says, every
thing is a speciality; it requires half
a dozen different shops to sell the
merchandise that in England would
be united in one. One establishment
deals in lucifer-matches and nothing
else; chips and brimstone form its
whole stock in trade: it is the spécialité
des allumettes chimiques. Yonder
we find a spacious magasin appropriated
to glove-clasps; here is another
where clysopompes are the sole commodity.
We were aware of this
peculiarity of French shopkeeping,
but were certainly not prepared to
behold, as we did on our last visit to
Paris, a shop opened upon the Place
de la Bourse, exclusively for the sale
of Monsieur Dumas’s productions.
This, we apprehend, is the ne plus
ultra of literary fertility and popularity.
“Le Dumas” has become a
commercial spécialité. The bookseller
who wishes to have upon his shelves
all the productions of the author of
the Corricolo, must no longer think of
appropriating any part of his space to
the writings of others; or if he persists
in doing so, he had better take
three or four shops, knock down the
partitions, and establish a magasin
monstre, like those of which ambitious
linendrapers have of late years
set the fashion in the Chaussée d’Antin
and Rue Montmartre. Curiosity
prompted us to enter the Dumas shop
and procure a list of its contents.
The number of volumes would have
stocked a circulating library. We
were gratified to find—for we have
always taken a strong interest in
Alexander Dumas, some of whose
bettermost books we have honoured
with a notice in Maga—that several
of his works were out of print.
On the other hand, five or six new
romances, from two to four volumes
each, were, we were informed by the
obliging Dumas-merchant, on the eve
of appearing. It was a small instalment
of the illustrious author’s annual
contribution to the fund of French
belles lettres.

In the Galerie des Contemporains
Illustres, by M. de Lomenie, we find
the following remarks concerning M.
Dumas:—

“He has written masses of romances,
feuilletons by the hundred. In
the year 1840 alone, he published
twenty-two volumes. He has even
written with one hand the history
that he turned over with the other,
and heaven knows what an historian
M. Dumas is! He has published
Impressions de Voyages, containing
every thing, drama, elegy, eclogue,
idyl, politics, gastronomy, statistics,
geography, history, wit—every thing
excepting truth. Never did writer
more intrepidly hoax his readers,
never were readers more indulgent to
an author’s gasconades. Nevertheless,
M. Dumas has abused to such
an extent the credulity of the public,[419]
that the latter begin to be upon
their guard against the discoveries of
the traveller.”

The public, we apprehend, take M.
Dumas’s narratives of travels at their
just value, find them entertaining, but
rely very slightly on their authenticity.
It has been pretty confidently
affirmed and generally believed, that
many of his excursions were performed
by the fireside; that rambles
in distant lands are accomplished by
M. Dumas with his feet on his chenets
in the Chaussée d’Antin, or in his
country retirement at St Germains.
Nor does he, when taxed with being
a stay-at-home traveller, repel the
charge with much violence of indignation.
At the recent trial at Rouen of
a sprig of French journalism, a certain
Monsieur de Beauvallon, (truly the
noble particle was worthily bestowed,)
the accused was stated to be extraordinarily
skilful with the pistol; and in
support of the assertion, a passage
was quoted from a book written by
himself, in which he stated, that in
order to intimidate a bandit, he had
knocked a small bird off a tree with a
single ball. The prisoner declared that
this wonderful shot was to be placed
to the credit of his invention, and not
to his marksmanship. “I introduced
the circumstance,” said he, “in hopes
of amusing the reader, and not because
it really happened. M. Dumas, who
has also written his travelling impressions,
knows that such license is
sometimes taken.” Whereupon Alexander,
who was present in court, did
most heartily and admissively laugh.

Apropos of that trial—and although
it leads us away from Mr Gutzkow,
who makes but a brief reference to the
orgies, revived from the days of the
Regency, which the evidence given
upon it disclosed—M. Dumas certainly
burst upon us on that occasion in an
entirely new character. We had already
inferred from some of his books,
from the knowing gusto with which he
describes a duel, and from his intimacy
with Grisier, the Parisian Angelo, to
whom he often alludes, that he was
cunning of fence and perilous with the
pistol. But we were not aware that
he was looked up to as a duelling dictionary,
or prepared to find him treated
by a whole court of justice—judge,
counsellors, jury, and the rest—as an
oracle in all that pertains to custom
of cartel. We had reason to be
ashamed of our ignorance; of having
remained till the spring of the year
1846 unacquainted with the fact that
in France proficiency with the pen
and skill with the sword march pari
passu. Upon this principle, and as
one of the greatest of penmen, M.
Dumas is also the prime authority
amongst duellists. With our Gallic
neighbours, it appears, a man must
not dream of writing himself down
literary, unless he can fight as well as
scribble. To us peaceable votaries of
letters, whose pistol practice would
scarcely enable us to hit a haystack
across a poultry-yard, and whose entire
knowledge of swordsmanship is
derived from witnessing an occasional
set-to at the minors between one sailor
and five villains, (sailor invariably
victorious,) there was something quite
startling in the new lights that dawned
upon us as to the state of hot water
and pugnacity in which our brethren
beyond the Channel habitually live.
When Hannibal Caracci was challenged
by a brother of the brush,
whose works he had criticised, he replied
that he fought only with his
pencil. The answer was a sensible
one; and we should have thought authors’
squabbles might best be settled
with the goosequill. Such, it would
seem, from recent revelations, is not
the opinion on the other side of Dover
Straits; in France, the aspirant to
literary fame divides his time between
the study and the shooting
gallery, the folio and the foil. There,
duels are plenty as blackberries; and
the editor of a daily paper wings his
friend in the morning, and writes a
premier Paris in the afternoon, with
equal satisfaction and placidity. Not
one of the men of letters who gave
their evidence upon the notable trial
now referred to, but had had his two,
three, or half-dozen duels, or, at any
rate, had fait ses preuves, as the slang
phrase goes, in one poor little encounter.
All had their cases of Devismes’
pistols ready for an emergency; all
were skilled in the rapier, and talked
in Bobadil vein of the “affairs” they
had had and witnessed. And greatest
amongst them all, most versed in the
customs of combat, stood M. Dumas,
quoting the code, (in France there is a
published code of duelling,) laying
down the law, figuring as an umpire,[420]
fixing points of honour and of the
duello, as, at a tourney of old, a veteran
knight.

Mr Gutzkow is not far wrong in
qualifying the champagne orgies of
the Parisian actresses and newspaper
scribes, as a resuscitation of the
mœurs de Régence. It appears that
these gentlemen journalists live in
a state of polished immorality and
easy profligacy, not unworthy the
days of Philip of Orleans, whom M.
Dumas, be it said en passant, has represented
in one of his books as the
most amiable, excellent, and kind-hearted
of men, instead of as the base,
cold-blooded, and reckless debauchee
which he notoriously was. In France,
to a greater extent than in England,
the success of an actress or dancer depends
upon the manner in which the
press notices her performances. Theatrical
criticisms are a more important
feature in French than in English
newspapers, are more carefully done,
and better paid.

“As an artist,” said Mademoiselle
Lola Montes, the Spanish bailerina,
who formerly attracted crowds to the
Porte St Martin theatre—less, however,
by the grace of her dancing,
than by the brevity of her attire—”I
sought the society of journalists.”

Miss Lola is not the only lady of
her cloth making her chief society of
the men on whose suffrage her reputation,
as an actress, depends. In
Paris, people are apt to pin their faith
on their newspaper, and, finding that
the plan saves a deal of thought,
trouble, and investigation, they see
with the eyes and hear with the ears
of the editor, go to the theatres which
he tells them are amusing, and read
the books that he puffs. Actresses,
especially second-rate ones, thus find
themselves in the dependence of a few
coteries of journalists, whom they
spare no pains to conciliate. We
shall not enter into the details of the
subject, but the result of the system
seems to be a sort of socialist republic
of critics and actresses, having for
its object a reckless dissipation, and
for its ultimate argument the duelling
pistol. “In Paris,” says Mr Gutzkow,
“the critics are often dilettanti,
who seek by their pen to procure admission
into the boudoirs of the pretty
actresses. The theatrical critic is a
petit maître, the analysis of a performance
a declaration of love.” And
favours are bartered for feuilletons.
It does not appear, however, that
these Helens of the foot-lamps often
lead to serious rivalries between the
Greeks and Trojans of the press. A
pungent leading article, or a keen opposition
of interests, is far more likely
to produce duels than the smiles or
caprices even of a Liévenne or an
Alice Ozy. In these days of extinct
chivalry, to fight for a woman is voted
perruque and old style; but to fight for
one’s pocket is correct, and in strict
conformity with the commercial spirit
of the age. A’s newspaper, being
ably directed, rises in circulation and
enriches its proprietors. Journalist B,
whose subscribers fall off, orders a
sub-editor to pick a quarrel with A
and shoot him. The thing is done;
the paper of defunct A is injured by
the loss of its manager, and that of
surviving B improves. The object is
attained. “The history of the Procès
Beauvallon,” we quote from Mr
Gutzkow, “so interesting as a development
of the modern Mysteries
of Paris, arose apparently from a
rivalry about women, but in reality
was to be attributed to one between
newspapers. It is tragical to reflect,
that for the Presse Emile de Girardin
shot Carrel, and that now the manager
of the same paper is in his turn
shot by a new rival, on account of the
Globe or the Epoque. We are reminded
of the poet’s words: Das ist
der Fluch der bösen That!“

It will be remembered that De
Girardin, the founder of the Presse,
killed Armand Carrel, the clever editor
of the National, in a duel. The
Presse was started at forty francs a-year,
at a time when the general price
of newspapers was eighty francs. The
experiment was bold, but it fully succeeded.
The thing was done well and
thoroughly; the paper was in all respects
equal to its contemporaries; in
talent it was superior to most of them,
surpassed by none. De Girardin and
his associates made a fortune, the
majority of the other papers were
compelled to drop their prices, some
of the inferior ones were ruined.
The innovation and its results made
the bold projector a host of enemies,
and he would have found no difficulty
in the world in getting shot, had he
chosen to meet a tithe of those who[421]
were anxious to fire at him. But
after his duel with Carrel he declined
all encounters of the kind, and fought
his battles in the columns of the Presse
instead of in the Bois de Boulogne.
Had he not adopted this course he
would long ago have fallen, probably
by the hand of a member of the democratic
party, who all vowed vengeance
against him for the death of
their idol. As it is, he has had innumerable
insults and mortifications
to endure, but he has retaliated and
borne up against them with immense
energy and spirit. On one occasion
he was assaulted at the opera, and received
a blow, when seated beside his
wife, a lady of great beauty and talent.
The aggressor was condemned
to three years’ imprisonment. The
Presse being a conservative paper,
and a strenuous supporter of the Orleans
dynasty, the opposition and
radical organs of course loudly denounced
the injustice and severity of
the sentence. De Girardin was once
challenged by the editors of the National
en masse. His reply was an
article in his next day’s paper, proving
that the previous character and
conduct of his challengers was such
as to render it impossible for a man
of honour to meet any one of them.
Mr Gutzkow made the acquaintance
of Girardin. “At the sight of the
slender delicate hand which slew the
steadfast and talented editor of the
National, I was seized with an emotion,
the expression of which might
have sounded somewhat too German.
Girardin himself affected me; his daily
struggles, his daily contests before the
tribunals, his daily letters to the National,
his uneasy unsatisfied ambition,
his unpopularity. One may have
shot a man in a duel, but in order to
remember the act with tranquillity,
the deceased should have been the
challenger. One may have received
a blow in the opera house, and yet
not deem it necessary, having already
had one fatal encounter, to engage in
a second, but it is hard that the giver
of the blow must pass three years in
prison. Such events would drive a
German to emigration and the back-woods;
they impel the Frenchman
further forward into the busy crowd.
Bitterness, melancholy, nervous excitement,
and morbid agitation, are
unmistakeably written upon Girardin’s
countenance.”

Himself a clever critic, Mr Gutzkow
was anxious to make the acquaintance
of a king of the craft, the
well-known Jules Janin, the feuilletonist
of the Debats. “Janin has
lived for many years close to the
Luxembourg palace, on a fourth floor.
His habitation is by no means brilliant,
but it is comfortably arranged; and
when he married, shortly before I saw
him, he would not leave it. Le Critique
marié, as they here call him,
lives in the Rue Vaugirard, rather
near to the sky, but enjoying an extensive
view over the gardens, basins,
statues, swans, nurses and children,
of the Luxembourg. ‘I have bought
a chateau for my wife,’ said he, coming
down a staircase which leads from
his sitting-room to his study. ‘I
am married, have been married six
months, am happy, too happy—Pst,
Adèle, Adèle!’

“Adèle, a pretty young Parisian,
came tripping down stairs and joined
us at breakfast. Janin is better-looking
than his caricature at Aubert’s.
Active, notwithstanding his embonpoint,
he is seldom many minutes
quiet. Now stroking his jeune France
beard, then caressing Adèle, or running
to look out of the window, he only
remains at table to write and to eat.
He showed me his apartment, his
arrangements, his books, even his
bed-chamber. ‘I still live in my old
nest,’ said he, ‘but I will buy my
angel—we have been married six
months, and are very happy—I will
buy my angel a little chateau. I earn
a great deal of money with very bad
things. If I were to write good things,
I should get no money for them.’

“It is impossible to write down mere
prattle. Janin, like many authors,
finds intercourse with men a relief
from intercourse with books. The
cleverest people willingly talk nonsense;
but Janin talked, on the contrary,
a great deal of sense, only in a
broken unconnected way, running
after Adèle, threatening to throw her
out of the window, or rambling about
the room with the stem of a little tree
in his hand. ‘Do you see,’ said he,
‘I like you Germans because they
like me—(this by way of parenthesis)—do
you see, I have brought up my[422]
wife for myself; she has read nothing
but my writings, and has grown tall
whilst I have grown fat. She is a
good wife, without pretensions, sometimes
coquettish, a darling wife. It
is not my first love, but my first marriage.
You have been to see George
Sand? We do not smoke, neither I
nor my wife, so that we have no
genius. Pas vrai, Adèle?‘

“Adèle played her part admirably
in this matrimonial idyl. ‘She does
not love me for my reputation,’ said
her husband, ‘but for my heart. I
am a bad author, but a good fellow.
Let’s talk about the theatre.’

“We did so. We spoke of Rachel,
and of Janin’s depreciation of that
actress, whom he had previously supported.
‘It’s all over with her,’ said
he; ‘she has left off study, she revels
the night through, she drinks grog,
smokes tobacco, and intrigues by
wholesale. She gives soirées, where
people appear in their shirt-sleeves.
Since she has come of age, it’s all up
with her. She has become dissipated.
Shocking—is it not, Adèle?’

“‘One has seen instances of
genius developing itself with dissipation.’

“‘They might stand her on her head,
but would get nothing more out of
her,’ replied Janin. ‘Luckily the
French theatre rests on a better foundation
than the tottering feet of Mamsell
Rachel.—Do you know Lewald?
Has he translated me well?’

“‘You have fewer translators than
imitators.’

“‘Can my style be imitated in German?’

“‘Why not? I will give you an
instance.’

“Janin was called away to receive
a visitor, and was absent a considerable
time. He had some contract or
bargain to settle. I took out my
tablets, drank my cup of tea, and
wrote in Janin’s style the following
criticism upon a performance at the
Circus which then had a great run.”

Having previously, it may be presumed,
noted down the suggestive and
curious dialogue of which we have
given an abbreviation. We have our
doubts as to the propriety, or rather
we have no doubts as to the impropriety
and indelicacy, of thus repeating
in print the familiar conversations,
and detailing the most private domestic
habits of individuals, merely
on the ground of their talents or
position having rendered them objects
of curiosity to the mob. Literary
notoriety does not make a man public
property, or justify his visitors in
dragging him before the multitude as
he is in his hours of relaxation, and
of mental and corporeal dishabille.
Mr Gutzkow is unscrupulous in this
respect. Possessing either an excellent
memory, or considerable skill in
clandestine stenography, he carefully
sets down the sayings of all who are
imprudent enough to gossip with him,
and important enough for their gossip
to be interesting. Surely he ought
to have informed Messrs Thiers,
Janin, and various others, who kindly
and hospitably entertained him, that
he was come amongst them to take
notes, and eke to print them. Forewarned,
they would perhaps have
been less confiding and communicative.
The last four years have produced
many instances of this species
of indiscretion. Two prominent ones
at this moment recur to us—a prying,
conceited American, and a clever but
impertinent German prinzlein. The
latter, we have been informed, was
on one occasion called to a severe
account for his tattling propensities.
With respect to Jules Janin, we are
sure that Mr Gutzkow’s revelations
concerning his household economy,
his pretty wife, his morning pastimes
and breakfast-table causeries, will not
in the slightest degree disturb his
peace of mind, spoil his appetite, or
diminish his embonpoint. The good-humoured
and clever critic is proof
against such trifles. Nay, as regards
initiating the public into his private
affairs and most minute actions, he
himself has long since set the example.
The readers of the witty and playful
feuilletons signed J. J., will not have
forgotten one that appeared on the
occasion of M. Janin’s marriage,
having for its subject the courtship
and wedding of that gentleman. The
commencement made us smile; the
continuation rendered us uneasy; and
as we drew near the close, we became
positively alarmed—not knowing how
far the writer was going to take us,
and feeling somewhat pained for
Madame Janin, who might be less
willing than her insouciant husband
that such very copious details of her[423]
commencement of matrimony should
be supplied as pasture to the populace
in the columns of a widely-circulated
newspaper. Janin got a smart lashing
from some of his rival feuilletonists
for his indecent and egotistical
puerility. Doubtless he cared little
for the infliction. Habituated to such
flagellations, his epidermis has grown
tough, and he well knows how to
retaliate them. He has few friends.
Those who have felt his lash hate
him; those whom he has spared envy
him. As a professed critic, he finds
it easier and more piquant to censure
than to praise; and scarcely a French
author, from the highest to the lowest,
but has at one time or other experienced
his pitiless dissection and cutting
persiflage. His feuilletons were
once, and still occasionally are, distinguished
and prized for their graceful
naïveté and playful elegance of
style. His correctness of appreciation,
his adherence to the sound rules
of criticism, his thorough competency
to judge on all the infinite variety of
subjects that he takes up, have not
always been so obvious. And of late
years, his principal charm, his style,
has suffered from inattention, perhaps
also from weariness; chiefly, no doubt,
from his having fallen into that commercial
money-getting vein which is
the bane of the literature of the day.
Still, now and then, one meets with
a feuilleton in his old and better style,
delightfully graceful, and pungent and
witty, concealing want of depth by
brilliancy of surface. He is a journalist,
and a journalist only; he
aspires to no more; books he has not
written, none at least worth the naming—two
or three indifferent novels,
early defunct. His feuilletons are
especially popular in Germany—more
so, perhaps, than in France. His
arch and sparkling paragraphs contrast
agreeably with the heavy solidity
of German critics of the belles
lettres. By the bye, we must not
forget Gutzkow’s attempt at an
imitation of M. Janin’s style. He
was interrupted before he had completed
it, but favours us with the
fragment. It is a notice of the exploits
of a Pyrenean dog then acting
at Paris. Its author had not time to
read it to Janin, who went out to
walk with his wife. “I kept my
paper to myself, exchanged another
joke or two with my whimsical host,
and departed. I have written a
theatrical article, than which Janin
could not write one more childish.
What German newspaper will give
me twenty thousand francs a-year for
articles of this kind?” One, only,
whose proprietor and editor have
taken leave of their senses. The
article à la Janin is childish and
frivolous enough; but childishness
and frivolity would have availed the
Frenchman little had he not united
with them wit and grace. His German
copyist has not been equally
successful in operating that union.
But to attempt in German an imitation
of Janin’s style, so entirely French
as it is, and only to be achieved in
that language, appears to us nearly as
rational as to try to manufacture a
dancing-pump out of elephant hide.

We grieve to hear the bad accounts
of Mademoiselle Rachel’s private propensities
and public prospects given
by Janin, or, at least, by Mr Gutzkow,
who in another place enters into
further details of the fair tragedian’s
irregularities. It is difficult to imagine
Chimène smoking a cigar, Phèdre
sitting over a punch-bowl, the Maid
of Orleans intriguing with a journalist,
even though it be admitted that
the lords of the feuilleton are also
tyrants of the stage, and toss about
their foulards with a tolerable certainty
of their being gratefully and
submissively picked up. We will
hope, however, either that Janin was
pleased to mystify Gutzkow, thinking
it perhaps very allowable to pass a
joke on the curious German who had
ferreted him out in his quatrième, or
that Gutzkow has fathered upon Janin
the floating reports and calumnious
inuendos of the theatrical coffee-houses.

Mr Gutzkow went to see George
Sand. This was his great ambition,
his burning desire. He is an enthusiastic
admirer of her works and of
her genius. It is to be inferred from
what he tells us, that he did not find
it easy to obtain an introduction.
Madame Dudevant lives retired, and
likes not to be trotted out for the entertainment
of the curious. She is
particularly distrustful of tourists.
They have sketched her in grotesque
outline, respecting neither her mysteries
nor her confidence. But Mr[424]
Gutzkow was resolved to see the outside
of her house, pending the time
that he might obtain access to its interior.
So away he went to the Rue
Pigale, No. 16, chattered with the portress,
peeped into the garden, gazed
at the windows which George Sand,
“when exhausted with mental labour,
is wont to open to cool her bosom in
the fresh air.” Considering that this
was in the month of March, some time
had probably elapsed since the lady
had done any thing so imprudent.
From a chapter of Lelia or Mauprat to
an equinoctial breeze! There is a catarrh
in the mere notion of the transition.
However, Mr Gutzkow viewed
the matter with a poet’s eye—the window,
we mean to say—and after gazing
his fill, departed, musing as he
went. A fortnight later he was admitted
to see the jewel whose casket
he had contemplated with so much
veneration. “I have been to see
George Sand. She wrote to me: ‘You
will find me at home any evening.
If, however, I am engaged with a
lawyer or compelled to go out, you
must not impute it to want of courtesy.
I am entangled in a lawsuit in
which you will see a trait of our
French usages, for which my patriotism
must needs blush. I plead against
my publisher, who wants to constrain
me to write a romance according
to his pleasure—that is to say, advocating
his principles. Life passes
away in the saddest necessities, and
is only preserved by anxieties and
sacrifices. You will find a woman of
forty years old, who has employed her
whole life not in pleasing by her amiability,
but in offending by her candour.
If I displease your eyes, I shall,
at any rate, preserve in your heart
the place that you have conceded me.
I owe it to the love of truth, a passion
whose existence you have distinguished
and felt in my literary
attempts.’

“I went to see her in the evening.
In a small room, scarce ten feet square,
she sat sewing by the fire, her daughter
opposite to her. The little apartment
was sparingly lighted by a lamp with
a dark shade. There was no more
light than sufficed to illumine the
work with which mother and daughter
were busied. On a divan in one
corner, and in dark shadow, sat two
men, who, according to French custom,
were not introduced to me.
They kept silence, which increased
the solemn, anxious tension of the
moment. A gentle breathing, an oppressive
heat, a great tightness about
the heart. The flame of the lamp
flickered dimly, in the chimney the
charcoal glowed away into white shimmering
ashes, a ghostlike ticking was
the only sound heard. The ticking
was in my waistcoat pocket. It was
my watch, not my heart.” How intensely
German is all this overwrought
emotion about nothing! Fortunately
a chair was at hand, into which the
impressionable dramatist dropped himself.
His first speech was a blunder,
for it sounded like a preparation.

“‘Pardon my imperfect French.
I have read your works too often, and
Scribe’s comedies too seldom. From
you one learns the mute language of
poetry, from Scribe the language of
conversation.'”

To which compliment Aurora Dudevant
merely replied: “‘How do you
like Paris?’

“‘I find it as I had expected.—A
lawsuit like yours is a novelty. How
does it proceed?’

“A bitter smile for sole reply.

“‘What is understood in France by
contrainte par corps?’

“‘Imprisonment.’

“‘Surely they will not throw a
woman into prison to compel her to
write a romance. What does your
publisher mean by his principles?’

“‘Those which differ from mine.
He finds me too democratic.’

“And mechanics do not buy romances,
thought I. ‘Does the Revue
Indépendante make good progress?’

“‘Very considerable, for a young
periodical.'”

And so on for a couple of pages.
But George Sand was on her guard,
and stuck to generalities. She would
not allow her visitor to draw her out,
as he would gladly have done. She
had been already too much gossiped
about and calumniated in print. She
had an intuitive perception of the
approaching danger. She nosed the
intended book. Nevertheless, and
although reserved, she was very amiable;
talked about the drama—when
Mr Gutzkow, remembering her unsuccessful
play of Cosima, tried to
change the subject—inquired after[425]
Bettina, spoke respectfully of Germany—of
which, however, she does
not profess to know any thing—and
even smoked a cigar.

“George Sand laid aside her work,
arranged the fire, and lighted one of
those innocent cigars which contain
more paper than tobacco, more coquetry
than emancipation. I was
now able, for the first time, to obtain
a good view of her features. She is
like her portraits, but less stout and
round than they make her. She has
a look of Bettina. Since that time
she has grown larger.

“‘Who translates me in Germany?’

“‘Fanny Tarnow, who styles her
translations bearbeitungen.’

“‘Probably she omits the so-called
immoral passages.’

“She spoke this with great irony.
I did not answer, but glanced at her
daughter, who cast down her eyes.
The pause that ensued was of a second,
but it expressed the feelings of
an age.”

Although Mr Gutzkow’s visits to
Paris were each but of a few weeks’
duration, and notwithstanding that he
had much to do, many persons to call
upon and things to see, he now and
then felt himself upon the brink of
ennui. This especially in the evenings,
which, he says, would be insupportable
without the theatres. To
foreigners they certainly would be so,
and to many Parisians. The theatre,
the coffee-house, the reading-room,
the unvarying and at last wearisome
lounge on the boulevards, compose
the resources of the stranger in Paris.
Access to domestic circles he finds
extremely difficult, rarely obtainable.
Many imagine, on this account, that
in Paris there is no such thing as domestic
life, that the quiet evenings
with books, music, and conversation,
the fireside coteries so delightful in
England and Germany, are unknown
in the French metropolis. If not unknown,
they are, at any rate, much
rarer. “The stranger complains especially,”
says Mr Gutzkow, “that
his letters of introduction carry him
little further than the antechamber.
He misses nothing so much as the
opportunity of passing his evenings in
familiar intercourse with some family
who should admit him to their intimacy.”
This want is most perceptible
at the season when Mr Gutzkow
was at Paris, March and April,
treacherous and rainy months, comprising
Lent, during which Paris is
comparatively dull, and when many
persons, either from religious scruples
or from weariness of winter and carnival
gaieties, refuse parties, and cease
to give their weekly or fortnightly
soirées, often more agreeable as an
habitual resort than balls and entertainments
of greater pretensions. Mr
Gutzkow complains bitterly of the
bad weather. The climate of Paris is
certainly the reverse of good. The
heat oppressively great in summer,
rain intolerably abundant for seven or
eight months of the twelve. If London
has its fogs, Paris has its deluge,
and its consequences, oceans of mud,
which, in the narrow streets of the
French capital, are especially obnoxious.
The Boulevards and the
Rues de Rivoli and De la Paix are
really the only places where one is
tolerably secure from the splashing
of coach and scavenger.

“A rainy day,” writes Mr Gutzkow,
on the 22nd March; “the sky grey,
the Seine muddy, the streets filthy
and slippery. You take refuge in
the passages, and in the Palais Royal.
Appointments are made in the passages
and reading-rooms. Dinner at
the Bœuf à la Mode, at the Grand
Vatel or Restaurant Anglais, reserving
Véry, Véfour, the Rocher de Cancale,
for a brighter day and more
cheerful mood.”

“Paris is too large in bad weather,
and too small in fine. Really, when
the sun shines, Paris is very small.
The fashionable part of the Boulevards,
the Rue Vivienne, the Rue Richelieu,
the Palais Royal, in all that region
you are soon so much at home that
your face is known to every shopkeeper.
Always the same impressions.
In the daytime often insipid; more
cheerful at night, when the gas-lights
gleam. The art of false appearances
is here brought to the greatest
perfection. The commonest shops are
so arranged as to deceive the eye.
Mirrors reflect the wares, and give the
establishment an artificial extension,
by lamplight a fantastical grandeur.
You try the different restaurants,
dining sometimes here, sometimes
there, and gradually becoming initiated
in the mysteries of the carte; for[426]
the most part avoiding all complicated
preparations, and confining yourself to
the dishes au naturel, as the surest
means of not eating cat for calf. In
the Palais Royal the shops are very
dear, only the dinners on the first floor
are cheap, and ennui is to be had gratis.
Since so many handsome passages
have been opened through the streets,
the Palais Royal has lost its vogue.
Some say that its decline began with
its morality. The Cabinets particuliers,
formerly of such evil repute, are now
the smoking rooms of the coffeehouses.
The Galerie d’Orleans is still the
most frequented part of the Palais
Royal. Here the loungers pull out
their watches every five minutes;
they all wait either for a friend or
for dinner-time. Meanwhile they
saunter to and fro, and admire the
skill of their tailors in the range of
mirrors on either side of the gallery.

“I followed the boulevards, the
other day, from the Madeleine to the
Column of July—a distance which it
took me almost two hours to accomplish.
From the Portes St Denis
and St Martin, the boulevards lose
their metropolitan aspect. They become
more countrified and homely.
The magnificence of the shops and
coffeehouses diminishes and at last
disappears. The luxurious gives way
to the useful, the comfortable to the
needy. At the Château d’Eau, where
the boulevard turns off at a right
angle, four or five theatres stand
together. Here is the road to the
Père la Chaise. Here fell the victims
of Fieschi’s infernal machine. From
one of these little houses the murderous
discharge was made. From
which, I will not ask. Perhaps no
one could tell me. Paris has forgotten
her revolutions.

“Further on, the Goddess of Liberty
flashes on us from the summit of
the July Column. Why in that dancer-like
attitude? It may show the artist’s
skill, but it is undignified,
and seems to challenge the stormwind
which once already blew down
Freedom’s Goddess from the Pantheon.
Upon the column are engraved the
names of the heroes of July.

“What stood formerly upon this
spot? Upon yonder little house I
read, ‘Tavern of the Bastile.’ This,
then, was the birthplace of French
freedom, of the freedom of the world.
Upon this site, now bare, stood the
fortress-prison, whose gloomy interior
beheld for centuries the crimes of
tyrants, the violence of despotism,
whereof nought but dark rumours
transpired to the world without. On
the 14th July 1789, came the dawn.
The Bastile was destroyed, and not
one stone of it remained upon another.
It is awfully impressive to contemplate
this place, now so naked and empty,
once so gloomily shadowed.

“We enter the suburb of the workmen,
the faubourg St Antoine, the
former ally and reliance of the Jacobins.
Here things have a ruder and more
strongly marked aspect. It is a sort
of Frankfurt Sachsenhausen. By the
Rue St Antoine we again reach the
interior of the city, its most industrious
and busy quarter. I love these working-day
wanderings in the regions of
labour. I prefer them to all the Sunday
promenades upon the broad
pavements of luxury. True that each
of these intricate and dirty streets has
its own particular and often nauseous
odour. Here are the soapboilers,
yonder a slaughter-house, here again,
in the Rue des Lombards, the atmosphere
is laden with the scent of spices
and drugs. In the cellars, men, with
shirt-sleeves rolled up, crush brimstone
and pepper and a hundred other
things in huge iron mortars; a noise
and smell which reminds me of the
treacle-grinders on the Rialto at
Venice. And here, also, in these
narrow alleys and dingy lanes, historical
associations linger. Yonder is
the battered chapel of St Méry, where,
eight years ago, four hundred republicans,
intrenched in the cloisters,
strove against the whole armed
might of Paris, and were overcome
only by artillery. To-day the French
Opposition takes things more easily.
Its demonstrations are dinners, as in
Germany. The popping of champagne
corks causes no bloodshed. Written
speeches, an article in a newspaper, a
toast to the maintenance of order,
another against tentatives insensées;—it
will be long before such an opposition
attains its end.”

Mr Gutzkow, who does not conceal
his ultra-liberal opinions, seems almost
to regret the revolutionary days, and
to pity Paris for the tranquillity which
a firm and judicious government has
at length succeeded in establishing[427]
within its walls. Had a republican
outbreak taken place during his abode
in the French capital, one might have
expected to find him raising impromptu
battalions from the eighty thousand
Germans and Alsatians, who form an
important item of the Parisian population.
His doctrines will hardly gain
him much favour with the powers
that be in his own country. But for
that he evidently cares little. He is
one of the progress; Young Germany
reckons in him a stanch and devoted
partisan. With his democratic tendencies,
and in Paris, where monuments
of revolutions abound, and
where a thousand names and places
recall the struggles between the people
and their rulers, it is not wonderful
that his enthusiasm occasionally boils
over, and that he vents or hints opinions
which maturer reflection would
perhaps induce him to repudiate.

A visit to Michel Chevalier suggests
a comparison between the different
modes of attaining to public honours
and ministerial office in France and
in Germany. “Most delightful to
me was the acquaintance of Chevalier.
Delightful and afflicting. Afflicting
when I contrasted the treatment of
talent in Germany with that which
it meets in France. Michel Chevalier,
the accomplished writer who knows
how to handle so well and agreeably
the dry topics of national economy, of
railways and public works, ten years
ago was a St Simonian. When the
association of Menilmontant was prosecuted
by the French government,
he was condemned to a year’s imprisonment.
But those who persecuted
him for his principles, prized
him for his talents. Instead of letting
him undergo his punishment, as would
have been the case in Germany, they
gave him money and sent him to
North America, commissioned to
make observations upon that country.
Chevalier published, in the Journal
des Debats, his able letters from the
United States, returned to France, became
professor at the University, and,
a year ago, was made counsellor of
state.” In opposition to this example,
Mr Gutzkow traces the progress of
the German candidate for his office;
pipes, beer, and dogs at the university,
plucked in his examination, a place
in an administration, counsellor,
knight of several orders, vice-president
of a province, president of a
province, minister.

Although there are in Paris more
Germans than foreigners of any other
nation, little is seen and heard of
them. They do not hang together,
and form a society of their own, as do
the English, and even the Spaniards
and Italians. They may be classed
under the heads of political refugees,
artisans, men of science and letters,
merchants and bankers. Few of them
are of sufficient rank and importance
to represent their nation with dignity,
or sufficiently wealthy to make themselves
talked of for their lavish expenditure
and magnificent establishments.
They have not, like the
English, colonized and appropriated
to themselves one of the best quarters
of Paris. Mr Gutzkow complains of
the scanty kindness and attention
shown to his countrymen by the
richer class of German residents.
“I was in a drawing-room,” he says,
“whose owner was indebted for his
fortune to a marriage with a German
lady. Yet the Germans there
present were neglected both by host
and hostess. The German artist
or scholar must not reckon on a
Schickler or a Rothschild to introduce
him into the higher circles of Parisian
life. These rich bankers are of the
same breed as the German waiters
in Switzerland and Alsace, who,
even when waiting upon Germans,
pretend to understand only French.
Music is the German’s best passport
to French society. You may
be a great scientific genius, and
find no admission at the renowned
soirées of the Countess Merlin. Do
but offer to take a part in one of the
musical choruses, to strengthen the
bass or the tenor, and you are welcome
without name or fame, and even
without varnished boots.”

We have been diffuse upon the
lighter texts afforded us by Mr
Gutzkow’s work, and must abstain
from touching upon its graver portions.
They will repay perusal. A vein of
satire, sometimes verging on bitterness,
is here and there perceptible in
his pages. It forms no unpleasant
seasoning to a very palatable book.

[428]

VISIT TO THE VLADIKA OF MONTENEGRO.

The people of the old Illyricum
have shown a marvellous consistency
of character through all the changes
that have affected the other nations
of the Roman empire. They exist
now as they did of old, a hardy race
of borderers, not quite civilised, and
not quite barbarous—Christian in fact,
and Turkish to a great extent in appearance.
Living on the borders of
the two empires, they exhibit the
national characteristics of each in
transitu towards the other. Of all
civilised Europe, it is perhaps here
only that the practice of carrying
arms universally and commonly prevails—a
custom which we have very
old historical authority for considering
as the characteristic mark of unsettled,
predatory, and barbarous manners—an
opinion which will be abundantly
confirmed by a glance at the
neighbouring Albanians. Any thing
original is possessed of one element of
interest, especially when it has been
so sturdily preserved; and sturdy,
indeed, have the Illyrians been. In
spite of the polished condition of the
empire of which they form a constituent
part, and of the constant
steamers up and down the Adriatic
promoting intercourse with the world,
they remain much as they used to be,
and so do they seem likely to remain
indefinitely.

Perhaps the secret of their stability
may be, that visitors pass all around
them, but seldom come among them.
People visit the coast to look at Spalatro
for Diocletian’s sake, at Pola for
its magnificent amphitheatre, and for
the memory of Constantine’s unhappy
son, and perhaps at Ragusa. But
this is pretty well all they could do
conveniently, which is the same thing
as to say, it is all that nineteen travellers
out of twenty would do. In
those places where visits are paid by
prescription, the traveller would find,
as is likely, nothing of distinct nationality.
Such places are like well-frequented
inns, where any body and
every body is at home, and where
every body influences the manners
for the time being—there will be found
cafés, carriages, and ciceroni.

But the case is far different in the
more abstruse parts of this region—in
those districts of which some have
subsided into the domain of the Turks,
some remain independent, and a narrow
strip only is reserved—the wreck
of the old Empire. All are defaulters
in the march of civilisation. But the
independent Montenegrini retain in
full force the odour of barbaric romance.
They occupy a small territory,
not noticed in many maps, shut
in by the Turks on all sides, except
where, for a narrow space, they
border on Austria. But they pay
no sort of subjection to either of these
mighty powers. With Austria they
maintain friendly intelligence on the
footing of the proudest sovereignty,
and an unqualified assertion of the
right of nations. With the Turks
their relations are of a ruder and more
interesting kind.

The Montenegrini alone of Europe
follow the political model of modern
Rome. Their political head is their
ecclesiastical superior. The regal and
episcopal offices, conjointly held, are
hereditary in collateral succession,
since the reigning prince is bound to
celibacy. In the consecration of their
bishops, they pay no regard to canonical
age, and the authorities of the
Greek church seem to bend to the
peculiar exigencies of the case. The
reigning Vladika was consecrated at
the age of eighteen. His power is, in
fact, supreme, though formally qualified
by the assessorship of a senate,
who, though entitled to advise, would
outstep their bounds did they attempt
to direct. Indeed, legal authority
among such a clan of barbarians can
only subsist by despotism. Where
every hand is armed, and violent
death a familiar object, the power
that rules must be enabled to act immediately
and without appeal. To
graduate authority among them, except
in the case of military command,[429]
exercised by immediate delegation
from the chief, would be to render it
contemptible.

And such a bishop as now occupies
this throne has not been seen since
the martial days of the fighting Pope
Julius. The old stories of prelates
clad in armour, and fighting at the
head of their troops, astonish us, but
are regarded as altogether antiquated.
Yet among those hills is exhibited
a scene that may realise the wildest
descriptions of romance or history.
That the people are a people of warriors,
is not so surprising when we
consider their locality, their ancestry,
and the circumstances of their life.
If they were merely marauders, we
should be no more struck with the
singularity of their state than we are
with the vagabondism of the Albanians.
A wild country, a wandering
population, and distance from executive
restraints, may, in any case,
bring natural ferocity to a harvest of
violence and rapine. But the Montenegrini
disclaim the name of robbers
and the practice of evil. They consider
themselves to be engaged in a
warfare, not only justifiable, but meritorious,
and over bloodshed they
cast the veil of religious zeal.

It seems to be a fact that their
violence is for the Turks only. So
far as we could gain intelligence, they
do not molest Christians; and experience
enables us to speak with pleasure
of our own hospitable reception.
But against the Turks their hatred
is intense, their valour and rage unquenchable.
It is not to be supposed
that any Turk would be so foolish as
to attempt the passage of their territory,
except under express assurance
of safe conduct; but should one do so,
he would find ineffectual the strongest
escort with which the Sultan could
furnish him. The savage nature of
the district must prevent the combined
action of regular troops, or of
any troops unacquainted with the
localities; and from behind the crags
an unseen enemy would wither the
ranks of the invader. Indeed, it would
appear that the passage is not safe for
a Turk even under the assurance of a
truce. A tragical accident was the
subject of conversation at the time of
our visit. A body of the enemy had
been surprised and cut off, notwithstanding
the subsistence of a truce.
Ignorance on the part of the assaulters
was the ready plea; and a message
had been dispatched to make such
reparation as could be found in apologies
and restitution of effects. But
the thing looked ill. A truce must
soon become notorious throughout so
confined a region, and among a people
of whom, if not every one engaged
personally in the field, every one had
his heart and soul there. It is to be
feared that the obligations of good
faith are qualified in the case of a
Mahomedan; and however we may
lament, we can hardly view with
astonishment so natural a consequence
of their bloody education. “Hates
any man the thing he would not
kill?”—and hatred to the Turks is
the dawning idea of the Montenegrino
child, and the master-passion
of the dying warrior.

With certain saving clauses, we
may compare the position of the
Montenegrini to that of the old
knights of Malta. Rhodes and Malta
are hardly more isolated, and are
more accessible than this mountain
region. If there be a wide difference
between the gentle blood and European
dignities of the knights, and the
rude estate of the mountaineers, there
is between them a brotherhood of
courage, inflexibility, and devoted opposition
to Mahomet. Each company
may stand forth as having discharged a
like office, distinguished by the characteristic
differences of the two branches
of the church. The knights, noble,
polished, and temporally influential,
defended the weak point of Western
Christendom—the sea; the Montenegrini,
unpolished, ignorant, of little
worldly account, but great zeal, have
done their part for Eastern Christendom,
in opposing the continental
power of the Turks. The unpolished
nature of their life and actions has
been in the spirit of the church to
which they belong. They have been
rude but steady, and stand alone in
their strength. They have resisted
not only the power of Mahomedanism
on the one side, but have also refrained
from amalgamation with the
western Christians, remaining firm in
that allegiance to the sec of Constantinople,[430]
which the Sclavonians derived
from their first missionaries.[3]

There is one point of superiority in
the case of these barbarians as compared
with that of the military knights.
They have never been conquered,
never driven from their fastnesses.
The knights defended Rhodes with
valour such as never has been surpassed;
and to this day the recollection
moves the apathetic spirit of the
Turks; and the monstrous burying-grounds
in the suburbs are witnesses
of the slaughter of the assailants.
Yet Rhodes was evacuated, and the
Order obliged to seek another settlement.
But the Montenegrini have never
been conquered. They have withstood
the whole power of the mightiest
sultans, in whose territories they have
been as an ever-present nest of hornets,
always ready to sally forth, losing no
opportunity of destruction. These
Osmanlis, who so lately were the
proudest of nations, have been themselves
baffled and defied by a handful
of Christians. Their enthusiasm,
their numbers, their artillery, their
commanding possession of the lake of
Scutari, all have failed to bring under
their power a handful of some hundred
and fifty thousand men. The cross,
once planted in this rugged soil, has
taken effectual root, and continues
still to flash confusion on the followers
of Islam. It is the symbol of our
faith that is carried before the mountaineers
when they go forth to battle;
and it still inspirits them, as it did
those legions of the faithful who first
learned to reverence its virtue.

We must not carry things too far.
It would be absurd to claim for these
people the general merit of devotion;
to suppose that as a general rule they
are actuated by the love of religion.
Alas! they are undoubtedly very ignorant
of the religion for which they
fight. Yet, so far as knowledge serves
them, they are religious; where error
is the consequence of ignorance, we
may grieve, but should be slow to
condemn. Some are probably led to
heroism by liberal devotion to the
person of the Bishop; some because
they have been nursed in the idea that
Turks are their natural enemies, whom
to destroy is a work of merit. But,
nevertheless, they exhibit the spectacle
of a people who, proceeding on
a principle of religion, however that
principle be obscured, have instituted,
and long have maintained, a crusade
against the religious fanatics who
once made Europe tremble. Their
spirit at least contains the commendable
elements of constancy, simplicity,
and heroism.

It was my fortune to pay a visit to
this extraordinary people under favourable
circumstances. Visits to
them are very rare. Sometimes a
stray soldier’s yacht, from Corfu,
finds its way to Cattaro; but generally
only in its course up the Adriatic.
These military visitants are
commonly more intent on woodcocks
than the picturesque, and game does
not particularly enrich these regions.
For very many years there has been an
account of only one English visiting-party
besides ourselves. We were
led thither by the happy favour of
circumstance. Our party was numerous,
and certainly must have been
the most distinguished that the Vladika
has had the opportunity of entertaining.
It consisted of the captain
and several officers of an English
man-of-war, reinforced by the accession
of a couple of volunteers from the
officers of the Austrian garrison of
Cattaro.

We were all glad to have the opportunity
of satisfying our eyes on the
subject of the marvellous tales whose
confused rumour had reached us. We
were not young travellers, and it was
not a little that would astonish us—but
we felt that if the reality in this
case were at all like the report, we
might all afford to be astonished. It
was a singular thing that so little
should be known about these people
almost in their neighbourhood—for
Corfu is not two hundred miles distant.
But perhaps the reason may
be, that they are not to be seen beyond
their own confined region, and are
easily confounded with the irregular
tribes of Albanians.

The wonders of our visit opened
[431]
upon us before reaching the land of
romance—a wonder of beauty in the
nature of the entrance to Cattaro.
The Bocca di Cattaro is of the same
kind as, and not much inferior to, the
Bosphorus. The man who has seen
neither the one nor the other of these
fairy streams must be content to rest
without the idea. The nearest things
to them, probably, would be found in
the passages of the Eastern Archipelago.
The entrance from the sea is
by a narrow mouth, which seems to
be nothing but a small indentation of
the coast, till you are pretty well arrived
at the inner extremity. You
then pass into another canal, whose
tortuous course shuts out the sight of
the sea, and puts you in the most landlocked
position in which it is possible
to see a ship of war. High hills
rise on either side, beautifully planted,
and verdant to the waters edge.
Villages are not wanting to complete
the effect; and here and there single
houses peep out beautiful in isolation.
Another turn brings into view a point
of divergence in the stream, where,
on a little island, stands a simple devout-looking
chapel. It looks as
though intended to call forth the pious
gratitude of the returning sailor, and
help him to the expression of his
thanks. The whole length of the
channel is something more than twenty
miles—and all of the same beautiful
description—not seen at once,
but opening gradually as the successive
bends of the stream are passed.
The wind failed us, and for a considerable
distance we had to track ship,
which we were easily able to do, as
there is plenty of water close to the
very edge. At the bottom of all lies
Cattaro—occupying a narrow level,
with the sea before, and the frowning
mountains behind.

Our arrival set the little place quite
in a commotion. Indeed, this was
but the second time that a ship of
war had carried our flag up these
waters—the other visitant was, I believe,
from the squadron of Sir W.
Hoste. The whole place turned out
to see us, and the harbour was covered
with boat-loads of the nobility and
gentry. They were like all Austrians
that I have met, exceedingly kind,
and well-disposed to the English name.
We soon made acquaintances, and
exchanged invitations. Their musical
souls were charmed with the performances
of our really fine band, and
we were equally charmed with their
pleasing hospitality. The couple of
days occupied in the interchange of
agreeable civilities were useful in the
promotion of our scheme. From our
friends we learned the prescriptions of
Montenegrino etiquette. An unannounced
visit, in general cases, is by
them regarded as neither friendly nor
courteous: an evidence of habitual
caution that we should expect among
a people against whom open violence
is ineffectual, and only treachery dangerous.
Our friends provided a messenger,
and we awaited his return
amidst the amenities of Cattaro. These
combined so much good taste with
good will, that it was difficult to credit
the stories of barbarism subsisting
within a short day’s journey: stories
that here, in the immediate neighbourhood
of the scene of action, became
more vivid in character.

The appearance of the country was
in keeping with tales of romance.
Almost immediately behind the town
rises the mountain district, very
abruptly, and affording at first view
an appearance of inaccessibility. It
is not till the eye has become somewhat
habituated to the search that
one perceives a means of ascent. A
narrow road of marvellous construction
has been cut up the almost perpendicular
mountain. But the word road
would give a wrong idea of its nature.
It is rather a giant staircase, and like
a staircase it appears from the anchorage.
The lines are so many, and contain
such small angles, that when
considered with the height of the work,
they may aptly be compared to the
steps of a ladder. It is of recent construction,
and how the people used to
manage before this means of communication
existed, it is difficult to say.
Probably this difficulty of intercourse
has mainly tended to the preservation
of barbarism. Now, the route
is open to horses, sure-footed and
carefully ridden. The highlanders
occasionally resort to the town for
traffic in the coarse commodities of
their manufacture. On these occasions
they have to leave their arms in
a guard-house without the gates, as
indeed have all people entering the[432]
town; and a pretty collection is to be
seen in these depots, of the murderous
long guns of which the Albanians
make such good use.

It was on the evening of the second
day that we first saw an accredited
representative of the tribe. A party
of us had strolled out towards the foot
of the mountain, and in the repose of
its shadows were speculating on the
probable adventures of the morrow.
A convenient bridge over a mountain
stream afforded a seat, whence we
looked wistfully up to the heights.
The contrast between the neatness of
the suburb, the hum of the town, the
noisy activity of the peasantry, and
the black desolation of the mountain,
engaged our admiration. This desolation
was presently relieved by the
emerging into view of a descending
group. One figure was on horseback,
with several footmen attending his
steps. The dress of the cavalier would
have served to distinguish him as of
consequence, without the distinction
of position. His dress affected a style
of barbaric magnificence that disdained
the notion of regularity. The original
idea perhaps was Hungarian, to
which was added, according to the
fancy of the wearer, whatever went to
make up the magnificent. His appearance
was very much, but not exactly,
that of a Turk—not the modernised
Turk in frock-coat and trousers, but
him of the old school, who despises, or
only partially adopts, sumptuary reform.
This splendid individual was attended
by several “gillies,” who were
genuine specimens of the tribe. They
are almost, without exception, (an observation
of after experience,) of enormous
stature, swarthy, and thin.
Their dark locks give an air of wildness
to their face. Their long limbs
afford token of the personal activity
induced and rendered necessary by
the circumstances of their life. Their
garments are scanty, and such as very
slightly impede motion. The whole
party were abundantly armed, and a
brave man might confess them to be
formidable. We naturally stared at
these gentry, who, at length on level
ground, approached rapidly. It is not
every thing uncommon that deserves
a stare, and we were accustomed to
strangeness. But we had not met
any thing so striking as the wild figures
of these barbarians, thrown into relief
by the appropriate background of the
mountain. The horseman reciprocated
our stare, as was fit, on the
unusual meeting with the British uniform.
Presently he pulled up his
animal, and, dismounting, invited our
approach. The recognition was soon
complete. He introduced himself as
the aide-de-camp of his highness the
Vladika of the Montenegrini, who received
with pleasure our communication,
and invited our visit. The party
had been sent down as guides and
honourable escort into his territory;
and a led horse that they brought for
the special convenience of the captain,
completed the assurance of the gracious
hospitality of the prince. Now
this was a very propitious beginning
of the enterprise. We had hit upon a
time when a short truce allowed him
to do the honours of his establishment.
One might go, perhaps, fifty
times that way without a similar advantage.
You would hear, probably,
that he was out fighting on one of the
frontiers, or laying an ambuscade, or
perhaps that he had been shot the day
before. The least likely thing of all for
you to hear would be, as we did, that
he was at home, would be happy
to see you, and begged the pleasure
of your company to dinner. We became
at once great friends with our
new acquaintance, and carried him off
to dine on board. He proved not to
be one of the indigenous, a fact we
might have inferred from his comparatively
diminutive stature and fair
complexion. He was a Hungarian
who had taken service under the Vladika.
As it is not probable that this
paper will ever find its way into those
remote fastnesses, it may be permitted
to say, that he exhibited in his person
one of the evils inseparable from
the independent sovereign existence
of uncivilised borderers on civilisation.
In such a position they afford an ever-present
refuge to civilised malefactors.
Any person of Cattaro who offends
against the laws of Austria, has before
him a secure refuge, if he can
manage to obtain half-an-hour’s start
of the police. The pes claudus of human
retribution must halt at the foot
of the mountain, whence the fugitive
may insult justice.

Of this evil we saw further instances[433]
besides that presented in the
person of our visitor. By his own
account, he was a sort of Captain
Dalgetty, who had seen service as
a mercenary under many masters,
and had finally come to dedicate
his sword to the interests of the Vladika.
The account of some of the
Austrian officers deprived him of even
the little respectability attached to
such a character as this. The gallantry
of martial excellence was in
him tarnished by the imputation of
tampering with the military chest;
so that it was either indignant virtue,
(for which they did not give him
credit,) or conscious guilt, that had
driven him to devote his laurels to the
cause of an obscure tribe. Such moral
blemishes are not likely to cloud the
reception of a fugitive to this court:
first, because rumour would hardly
travel so far; and next, because the
arts of civilisation, and especially military
excellence, are such valuable accessions
to the weal of Montenegro,
that their presence almost precludes
the consideration of qualifying defects.
Our Hungarian acquaintance was,
however, notwithstanding his supposed
delinquencies, and barbarous residence,
a polite and courteous person.
We learned from him much concerning
the people we were about to visit.
It was a sad picture of violence that
he drew. Blood and rapine were the
prominent features. War was not an
accidental evil—a sharp remedy for
violent disorder—but a habitual state.
The end and object of their institutions
was the destruction of the Turks;
scarcely coloured in his narrative with
the palliation of religious zeal. Indeed,
it required every allowance for
circumstances to avoid the idea of
downright brigandage. But great, certainly,
are the allowances to be made.
We must consider the many years
during which the little band has been
exposed to the wrath of the Turks,
when that wrath was more efficient
than it is at present. Their present
bitterness of feeling must be ascribed
to long years of struggle, to many
seasons of cruelty, and to the constant
stream of desperate enthusiasm. Their
war has become necessarily one of extinction;
and probably there are few
or none of the people to whom a
slaughtered father or brother has not
bequeathed a debt of revenge. These
personal feelings are aggravated by
the sense that they exist in the midst
of a people who want but the opportunity
to extinguish their name and
their religion; and this feeling is
maintained by bloody feats on every
available occasion.

The conversation of our informant
was all in illustration of this state of
things. Such a horse he rode when
going to battle—such a sabre he wore,
and such pistols. The Vladika took
such a post, and executed such or such
manœuvres. At last we ventured to
enquire—”But is this sort of thing
always going on? have you never
peace by any accident?” “Oh yes!”
replied he, “we have peace sometimes—for
two or three days.” He varied
his narrative with occasional accounts
of service he had seen in Spain; showing
us that he, at any rate, was not
scrupulous in what cause he shed
blood, provided it was for a “consideration.”

But we were now approaching the
moment when our own eyes were to be
our informants. The evening was given
to an entertainment by the Austrian
officers, of whom two, as already
mentioned, volunteered to join our
expedition, and the next morning
assigned to the start. The sun
beamed cheerfully after several days’
rain. In this spot, shut in on all sides,
except seawards, by highlands, the
rains are very frequent. It cleared
up during our visit, but, with the exception
of two days, rained pretty
constantly during the week of our
stay at Cattaro. On the morning
of our start, however, all was bright,
and any defence against the rain was
voted superfluous. Our trysting-place
was on board, and true to their time
our friends appeared. They amused
us much by their astonishment at the
preparation we were making for the
expedition, of which a prominent particular
was the laying in of a good store
of provant, as a contingent security
against deficiencies by the road. Our
breakfast was proceeding in the usual
heavy style of nautical housekeeping,
when the scene was revealed to our
allies. These gentlemen, who are in
the habit of considering a pipe and a
cup of coffee as a very satisfactory
morning meal, could not restrain their[434]
exclamations at the sight of the beef
and mutton with which we were engaged.
The A. D. C. was anxious to
explain that it was no region of famine
into which we were going. We
were to dine with the Vladika, and,
moreover, care had been taken to provide
a repast at a station midway on
the journey. “En route, en route,”
cried the impatient warrior, “we
shall breakfast at twelve o’clock;
what’s the use of all this set-out now?”
But whatever form of argument it
might require to cry back his warlike
self and myrmidons from the Albanian
cohorts, it proved no less difficult
a task to check us in this our
onslaught. We assured him with our
mouths full, that we considered a
meal at mid-day to be lunch; and
that this our breakfast was without
prejudice to the honour we should do
to his hospitable provision by the
way. The Austrians relented under
the force of our arguments and example,
and, turning to, ate like men;
while the inexorable A. D. C. gazed
impatiently, almost pityingly, on the
scene, as though in scorn, that men
wearing arms should so delight to use
knives and forks. But at last we
were mounted, and started with the
rabble of the town at our heels, and
a wilder rabble performing the part
of military escort. There is no such
thing as riding in Cattaro, because
the town is paved with stones smooth
as glass, on which it requires care
even to walk. This is so very singular
a feature of this town that it
deserves remark. The horses have
to be taken without the town, and
must, in their course thither, either
avoid the streets altogether, or be
carefully led. On leaving the town
the ascent begins almost immediately,
and most abruptly. The very singular
road, which has been cut with
immense labour, is the work of the
present Emperor. There was no other
spot which we could perceive to afford
the possibility of ascent, without the
use of hands as well as legs, and by
the road it was no easy matter. At
the commencement almost of the ascent,
and just outside the town, we
passed the last stronghold of Austria
in this direction. It is a fort in a
commanding position, but dismantled,
and allowed to fall into decay. This
is the last building of any pretension,
or of brick, that you see till well into
the Montenegrini territory. We could
not ascertain the exact line of demarcation
between the dominions of the
Emperor of Austria and him of the
mountains; but probably the stoppage
of the road may serve to mark
the point. The barbarians would
neither be able to execute, nor likely
to desire, such a highway into their
region, whose safety consists in its
inaccessibility. It is no other than
a difficult ascent, even so far as the
road extends, which, though of considerable
length on account of its
winding course, reaches no further
than up the face of the first hill.

It was when abreast of this ruined
fort that our guides took a formal
farewell of the city. A general discharge
of musketry expressed their
salutation; which, in this favourite
haunt of echo, made a formidable
din. They do this not only in compliment
to those they leave, but as
a customary and necessary precaution
to those they approach. We soon
turned a point which shut out the
valley, and were in the wilderness
with our wild scouts. Encumbered
with their long and heavy guns, they
easily kept pace with the horses, as
well on occasional levels as during
the ascent. We were much struck
with their vigorous activity, which
seemed to surpass that of the animals;
and subsequently had occasion
to observe that even children are
capable of supporting the toil of this
difficult and rapid march. The two
foreigners in nation, but brothers in
adventure, whom we had adopted
into our fellowship, proved to be
agreeable companions. One was an
Italian, volatile and frivolous; the
other a grave German, clever and
solidly informed; he had been a professor
in one of their military colleges.
The Italian was up to all sorts of fun,
and ready to joke at the expense of
us all. His companion afforded some
mirth by his disastrous experience on
horseback. The continual ascent
which we had to pursue during the
early stages of our journey, had aided
the motion of his horse’s shoulder in
rejecting to the stern-quarters his
saddle, till at length the poor man
was almost holding on by the tail.[435]
The figure that he cut in this position,
dressed in full military costume,
(your Austrian travels in panoply,)
was finely ridiculous, and was enjoyed
by the assistants, civilised and
barbarous.

The country over which we were
passing was of an extraordinary character,
when considered as the nurse
of some hundred and fifty thousand
sons. It well deserves the name of
bleak; for any thing more stepmother-like,
in the list of inhabited countries,
it would be difficult to find. In the
earlier stages, we were content to
think that we were but at the beginning,
and should come down to the
cultivated region. That cultivation
there must be here, we knew; because
the people have to depend on
themselves for supplies, and have very
little money for extra provision. But
we passed on, and still saw nothing
but rugged and barren rocks—a country
from which the very goats might
turn in disgust. We presently observed
certain appearances, which,
but for the general utter want of
verdure, we should scarcely have
noticed. Here and there, the disposition
of the rocks leaves at corners
of the road, or perhaps on shelves
above its level, irregular patches of
more generous soil, but scantily disposed,
and of difficult access. These
are improved by indefatigable industry
into corn-plots. When we consider
with how much trouble the soil
must be conveyed to these places, the
seed bestowed, and the crop gathered,
we feel that land must be
indeed scanty with these barbarians,
who can take so much trouble for the
improvement of so little. It may be
supposed that their resources are not
entirely in lands of this description.
But, excepting one plain, we did not
pass, in our day’s journey, what
might fairly be called arable land,
till we arrived at Zettinié, the capital.
Like many uncivilised tribes,
they behave with much ungentleness
to their women. They are not worse
in this respect than the Albanians,
or perhaps than the Greeks in the
remote parts of Peloponnesus; but
still they appear to lay an undue
burden on the fair sex. Much of the
out-door and agricultural work seems
to be done by the women; perhaps
all may be—since the constant occupations
of war, which demand the attention
of their husbands, induce a
contempt for domestic labour. I
would hope, for the honour of the
Montenegrini, that the labours of their
weaker assistants are confined to the
plain; the detached and rocky plots
must demand patience from even robust
men. The women—I speak by
a short anticipation—are a patient,
strong, and laborious race. As a
consequence, they are hard-featured,
and harsh in bony developments.
Like the men, they are tall and active,
though perhaps ungainly in gesture.
Unlike the men, they have
sacrificed the useful to the ornamental
in their dress. Of this a grand feature
is a belt, composed of many folds
of leather, and, of course, quite inflexible.
This awkward trapping is perhaps
a foot broad. This ornament
must, in spite of custom, be very inconvenient
to the wearer, as well by
its weight as by its inflexibility. It
is, however, thickly embellished with
bright-coloured stones, rudely set in
brass; thus we find the Montenegrini
women obeying the same instinct that
leads the dames of civilisation to
suffer that they may shine. This
belt is the obvious distinction in dress
between the two sexes; and when it
is hidden by the long rug, or scarf,
which is common to both men and
women, there remains between them
no striking difference of costume.
This rug is to the Montenegrino what
the capote is to the Greek and Albanian,
his companion in all weathers—his
shelter against the storm, and
his bed at night. The manufactures
here are of course rude; and, in this
instance, their ingenuity has not ascended
to the device of sleeves. The
article is bona fide a rug, much like
one of our horse-rugs, but very long
and very comfortable, enveloping, on
occasion, nearly the whole person.
It is ornamented by a long and
knotted fringe, and depends from the
shoulders of the natives not without
graceful effect. This light habiliment
constitutes the mountaineers’
house and home, rendering him careless
of weather by day, and independent
of shelter by night. Be it observed
as a note of personal experience,
that as a defence against[436]
weather, this scarf is really excellent,
and will resist rain to an indefinite
extent.

As we proceeded on our road, we
learned fully to comprehend the secret
of their long independence. The
country is of such a nature that it
may be pronounced positively impregnable.
Our thoughts fell back to the
recollection of Affghanistan, and we
felt that we had an illustration of the
difficulties of that warfare. The passage
is throughout a continual defile.
The road, after the first hour or so,
relents somewhat of its abruptness.
But it pursues a course shut in
on both sides by rocks, that assert
the power of annihilating passengers.
The rocks are inaccessible except to
those familiar with the passages,
perhaps except to the aborigines, who
combine the knowledge with the necessary
activity. Behind these barriers,
the natives in security might
sweep the defile, from the numerous
gulleys that branch from it in all directions.
It is difficult to imagine
what conduct and valour could do
against a deadly and unseen enemy.
It is not only here and there that the
road assumes this dangerous character;
it is such throughout, with
scarcely the occasional exception of
some hundred yards, till it opens
into the valley of Zettinié. One
of our Austrian friends was of opinion
that their regiment of Tyrolean
chasseurs would be able to overrun
and subdue the territory. If
such an achievement be possible,
those, of course, would be the men for
the work. But it would be an unequal
struggle that mere activity
would have to maintain against activity
and local knowledge. During
our course, we kept close order; two
of us did attempt an episode, but
were soon warned of the expediency
of keeping with the rest. A couple
of minutes put us out of sight of our
friends, which we did not regain till after
some little suspense. Fogs here seem
ever ready to descend; and one which
at precisely the most awkward moment
enveloped us, obscured all around beyond
the range of a few feet. For our
comfort, we knew that the people would
be expecting visitors to their prince,
and thus be less suspicious of strangers,
if haply they should fall in with us.

Some three hours after our start,
we perceived symptoms of excitement
amongst the foremost of our
band, and hastened to the eminence
from which they were gesticulating.
At our feet was disclosed a plain, not
level nor extensive, but a plain by
comparison. It bore rude signs of
habitation, the first we had met. There
was a single log-hut, much of the
same kind as the inland Turkish
guard-houses, only without the luxury
of a divan. Around this were several
people eagerly looking out for our approach.
They had good notice of our
coming; for as we rose into sight, our
party gave a salute of small arms.
This was returned by their brethren
below, and the whole community (not
an alarming number) hastened to tender
us the offices of hospitality. Our
horses were quickly cared for, seats
of one kind or other were provided,
and we sat down beneath the shade
of the open forest, to partake of their
bounty.

The valley was a shade less wild
than the country we had passed, but
still a melancholy place for human
abode. It must be regarded as merely
a sort of outpost—not professing the
extent of civilisation attained by the
capital; but, with every allowance, it
was a sorry place. It did certainly
afford some verdure; but probably
they do not consider the situation
sufficiently central for secure pasturage.
That their sheep are excellent
we can bear witness, for the repast
provided consisted in that grand
Albanian dish—the sheep roasted
whole. Surely there can be nothing
superior to this dish in civilised cookery.
Common fragmentary presentations
of the same animal are scarcely
to be considered of the same kin—so
different are the juices, the flavour,
and generally, thanks to their skill,
the degree of tenderness. It happens
conveniently, that the proper mode of
treating this dish is without knives,
forks, or plates. It was therefore of
little moment that our retreat afforded
not these luxuries; we were strictly
observant of propriety, when with
our fingers we rent asunder the
morsels, and devoured. The wine
that assisted on this occasion was
quite comparable to the ordinary
country wines to be met, though it[437]
must be far from abundant. We saw
here some of the children. Poor
things, theirs is a strange childhood!
Edged tools are familiar to
their cradles. Sharp anguish, sudden
changes, violent alarms, compose the
discipline of their infancy. I saw one
of them hurt by one of the horses
having trodden on his foot, and, as he
was without shoes, he must have suffered
cruelly. A woman was comforting,
and doubtless tenderly sympathised
with him; but the expression
of feeling was suppressed—she spoke
as by stealth, without looking at him,
and he listened in the same mood,
withholding even looks of gratitude,
as he did cries of pain. He was
young enough, had he been a Frank,
to have cried without disgrace, but
his lesson was learnt. Suffering, he
knew, was a thing too common to
warrant particular complaint, or to
require particular compassion. Expressed
lamentation is the privilege of
those who are accustomed to condolence.
The husband, the son, the
friend, bewail themselves—the lonely
slave suffers in silence. Tears, even
the bitterest of them, have their source
in the spring of joy; when this spring
is dried up, when all is joyless, man
ceases to weep.

While we partook of this entertainment,
the natives were preparing a
grand demonstration in honour of our
arrival. They had made noise enough,
in all conscience, with their muskets,
but small arms would not satisfy
them, now that we were on their territory.
They were preparing a salute
from great guns—and such guns!
They were made of wood, closely
hooped together. Of these they had
four, well crammed with combustibles.
We had not the least idea that they
would go off without being burst into
fragments, and would have given
something to dissuade our zealous
friends from the experiment. But it
was in vain that we hinted our fears—gently,
of course, in deference to their
self-esteem. A bold individual kept
coaxing the touch-hole with a bit of
burning charcoal—so long without
effect that we began to hope the thing
would prove a failure. Most people
will acknowledge it to be a nervous
thing to stand by, expecting an explosion
that threatens, but will not come
off. If it be so with a sound gun, what
must it have been with such artillery
as was here? Nothing less than serious
injury to the life or limbs of the
operator seemed to impend. To mend
matters, our Italian friend, smitten
with sudden zeal, usurped the office
of bombardier; and it is perhaps well
that he did for he had the common
sense to keep as much out of the way
as he could, under the circumstances.
He kept well on one side, and made
a very long arm, then dropped the
fiery particle right into the touch-hole,
and off went the concern, kicking
right over, but neither bursting nor
wounding our friend. It required
minute inspection to satisfy ourselves
that the guns had survived the effort,
and their construction partly explained
the wonder—the vents are nearly as
wide-mouthed as the muzzles.

The interest of our day increased
rapidly during the latter part of our
journey. We were fairly enclosed in
the country, drawing near the capital,
and felt that every step was
bringing us nearer the redoubted presence
of the Vladika. The A. D. C.
was curiously questioned touching the
ceremonies of our reception, and uttered
many speculations as to the
mode in which the great man would
present himself to us—whether with
his tail on, or more unceremoniously.
All that we heard, raised increased
curiosity about the person of this martial
bishop—one so very boldly distinguished
from his fraternity. The
Greek bishops are so singularly reverend
in appearance, with flowing
black robes, and venerable beards,
supporting their grave progress with
a staff, and seldom unattended by
two or three deacons, that it became
difficult to imagine one of their body
charging at the head of warriors, or
adorned with the profane trappings
of a soldier. We kept a bright look-out
as we rode on, our cavalcade being
now attended by a fresh levy
from our last halting-place. The
country through which we passed was
of somewhat mitigated severity, but
still bare, and occasionally dangerous.
There was a hamlet, in our course, of
pretension superior to the first, as behoved—seeing
that it was much nearer
the metropolis, and security. Here
was a picturesque church, a well, and[438]
a wide-spreading tree—the last a
notable object in this district, where
even brushwood becomes respectable.

The road at length became decidedly
and sustainedly better. The rocks
began to assume positions in the distance,
and trotting became possible.
We learned that we were drawing
near the end of our journey, and our
anxious glances ahead followed the
direction of the A. D. C. At last the
cry arose—”Vladika is coming,” and
in high excitement we pressed forward
to the meeting. A body of horsemen
were approaching at a rapid pace,
and in a cloud of dust; and no sooner
were we distinctly in sight than they
set spurs to their horses, and quickly
galloped near enough to be individually
scanned. We could do no less
than manifest an equal impatience
for the meeting. This, to some of us,
poor riders at the best, which sailors
are privileged to be, and just at that
time rather the worse for wear, was
no light undertaking. In some of our
cases it is to be feared that the mists
of personal apprehension dimmed this
our first view of the Vladika. The
confusion incidental to the meeting
of two such bodies of horse, was
aggravated by the zeal of the wretched
barbarians, who poured forth volley
after volley of musketry. They spurred
and kicked their horses, which, seeing
that they had probably all at one
time or an other been stolen from tip-top
Turks, like noble brutes as they were,
showed pluck, and kicked in return.
Happily our animals were peaceful—more
frightened by the noise than excited
by the race, and much tired with
their morning’s work. Had they behaved
as did those of our new friends, the
narrator of this account would hardly
have been in a condition to say much
of the country, for he would probably
have been run away with right
through Montenegro, and have
pulled up somewhere about Herzogovinia.

The confusion had not prevented
our being struck with the one figure
in the group, that we knew must be
the Vladika. He was distinguished
by position and by dress, but more
decidedly by nature. His gigantic
proportions would have humbled the
largest horse-guard in our three regiments;
and when he dismounted we
agreed that he must be upwards of
seven feet in stockings. This was
our judgment, subsequently and deliberately.
Captain —— was of
stature exceeding six feet, and standing
close alongside of Monseigneur
reached about up to his shoulders.
His frame seems enormously strong
and well proportioned, except that
his hand is perhaps too small for the
laws of a just symmetry. This, by
the by, we afterwards perceived to
be a cherished vanity with the
Vladika, who constantly wears gloves,
even in the house. His appearance
bore not the least trace of the clerical;
his very moustache had a military,
instead of an ecclesiastical air; and
though he wore something of a beard,
it was entirely cheated of episcopal
honours. It was merely an exaggeration
of the imperial. His garments
were splendid, and of the world, partly
Turkish, and partly ad libitum.
The ordinary fez adorned his head,
and his trousers were Turkish. The
other particulars were very splendid,
but I suppose hardly to be classed
among the recognised fashions of any
country. One might imagine that a
huge person, and enormous strength,
when fortified with supreme power
among a wild tribe, would produce
savageness of manner. But the
Vladika is decidedly one of nature’s
gentlemen. His manners are such as
men generally acquire only by long
custom of the best society. His voice
had the blandest tones, and the reception
that he gave us might have
beseemed the most graceful of princes.
He was attended more immediately
by a youth some eighteen years of
age, his destined successor, and by
another whom we learned to be his
cousin. The rest of the group were
well dressed and armed, and, indeed,
a respectable troop. The Vladika
himself bore no arms.

We did not waste much time in ceremony,
though during the short interval
of colloquy we must have afforded a
fine subject had an artist been leisurely
observant. All dismounted and
formed about the two chiefs of our
respective parties, and made mutual
recognisances. The confusion was considerable,
and the continual noise of
guns gave our poor beasts, who were
not proof to fire, no quiet. The men,[439]
who were now about us in numbers
sufficient to afford a fair sample of the
stock, were most of them, at a guess,
upwards of six feet high—some considerably
so; and a wild set they seemed,
though they looked kindly upon us.
We were formally presented by our
captain to the prince, and received the
welcome of his smiles. His polite
attention had provided a fresh and
fiery charger for our chief, and the
two headed the cavalcade, which in
order dashed forward to the royal
city. It was a grand progress that
we made through a line of the people,
who turned out to watch and honour
our entry. The discharge of muskets
was sustained almost uninterruptedly
throughout the line. It was not long
before the city of Zettinié opened to
our view, situated in an extensive
valley, quite amphitheatrical in character.
As we turned the corner of
the defile leading into the valley, a
salute was opened from a tower near
the palace, which mounts some respectable
guns. We rode at a great
pace into the town, and dashed into
the inclosure that surrounds the palace,
amidst a grand flourish of three
or four trumpets reserved for the
climax.

To a bad rider like myself it was
the occupation of the first few minutes
to assure myself that I had passed
unscathed through such a scene of
kicking and plunging; one’s first sensation
was that of security in treading
once more the solid earth. When I
looked up I saw the Vladika in
separate conference with the A. D. C.,
and then he passed into the building.
His hospitable will was signified to
us by this functionary. The captain
was invited to sojourn in the palace;
we, whose rank did not qualify for
such a distinction, were to be bestowed
in two locandas; and all were
bidden to dinner in the evening.
Meanwhile the localities were open
to our investigation.

One of the first curiosities was the
locanda itself; curious as existing in
such a place, and expected by us to be
something quite out of the general way
of such establishments. We proceeded
to inspect our quarters, and to
our astonishment found two houses
of a most satisfactory kind. The
rooms were neat, and perfectly clean,
far superior in this respect to many
inns of much higher pretensions. An
honourable particular (almost exception)
in their favour, is, that the
beds contain no vermin. This virtue
will be appreciated by any one
who has travelled in Greece. The
hostesses were not of the aborigines,
they were importations from
Cattaro. One was a widow, tearful
under the recent stroke; the other
was a talkative woman, delighted
with the visit of civilised strangers.
The fare to be obtained at these
places is exceedingly good, and the
solids are relieved by champagne,
no less—and excellent champagne
too. We were much surprised at
the discovery of these places, so distinct
from the popular rudeness, and
puzzled to conceive who were the
guests to support the establishments.
Besides these two we did not observe
any cafés or wine-shops, so probably
they flourish the rather that their custom,
such as it is, is subject but to one
division. The good-will of the landladies
was not the least admirable
part of their economy. Though our
numbers might have alarmed them,
they with the best grace made up beds
for us on the floor, and supplied us with
such helps to the toilette as occurred.

We soon were scattered over the
place, each to collect some contribution
to the general fund of observation.
But one object, conspicuous, and portentous
of horrid barbarism, attracted
us all at first. It was the round
white tower from which the salute
had been fired at our entrance. A
solitary hillock rises in the plain, on
the top of which, clearly defined,
stands this tower. We had heard
something of a custom among the
Montenegrini of cutting off, and exposing
the heads of vanquished enemies;
but the story was one of so
many coloured with blood, that it
made no distinct impression. As we
had ridden into the plain, this tower
had attracted our observation, and we
had perceived its walls to be garnished
with some things that, in the distance,
looked like large drum-sticks—that
is to say, we saw poles each
with some thing round at its end.
These things we were told were
human heads, and our eyes were
now to behold the fact. And we did,[440]
indeed, look upon this spectacle, such
as Europe, except in these wilds,
would abhor. There were heads of
all ages, and of all dates, and of many
expressions; but from all streamed
the single lock that marks the follower
of Mahomet. Some were entire
in feature, and looked even
placid—others were advanced in
decomposition. Of some only fragments
remained, the exterior bones
having fallen away, and left only a
few teeth grinning through impaled
jaws. The ground beneath was strewed
with fragments of humanity, and the
air was tainted with the breath of decomposition.
It was truly a savage
sight, unworthy of Christians; and,
doubtless, such an exhibition tends to
maintain the thirst of blood in which
it originated. This hillock is a good
point of view for the survey of the
place. It looks immediately upon the
palace, and over it upon the town.
Near it stand the church and monastery;
and that monastery affords the
only specimen of a priest in priest’s
garments that I saw here. The palace
is really a commodious, well-built
house, of considerable extent.
Its site occupies three sides of a parallelogram,
and it is completely enclosed
by a wall, furnished at the four
angles of its square with towers. The
part of this inclosure that is towards
the front of the palace is kept clear,
as a sort of parade. In its centre are
some dismounted guns of small calibre.
On the opposite side of the
building are the royal kitchen gardens;
neither large nor well-looking.
The interior of the building is superior
to its outside pretence. The rooms
into which we were more immediately
introduced, may be supposed to be
kept as show-rooms. At any rate
they were worthy of such appliance—lofty,
well built, and highly picturesque
in their appointments. But I
went also into some of the more remote
parts of the building, the room,
for instance, of the A. D. C., and that
was equally unexceptionable. It is
to be presumed that they gave our
captain one of their best bedrooms—and
it might have been a best bedroom
in London or Paris. Indeed, in
so civilized fashion was the place furnished,
that it heightened, by contrast,
the horrors of the scene outside. Barren
rocks, savage caverns, naked barbarian,
should have been associated
with the spectacle on the white tower.
It was caricaturing refinement to
practise it in such a neighbourhood;
the transition was too abrupt from
the urbanities within to the bloody
spectacle that met you if you put your
head out of the window.

The City of Zettinié—it has a double
title to the name, from its bishop and
its prince—consists of little more than
two rows of houses, not disposed in a
street, but angularly. Besides these
there are a few scattered buildings.
The palace, the monastery, and church,
are at the upper end of the plain.
The valley is level to a considerable
extent, and not without cultivation.
It has no artificial fortification, being
abundantly protected by nature. The
hills that shut in the valley terminate
somewhat abruptly, and impart an
air of seclusion. The houses are far
more comfortable than might be expected.
The occupations of the people,
so nearly entirely warlike, are not
among the higher branches of domestic
economy. What industry they
exhibit at home is only by favour of
occasional leisure, and at intervals.
Yet they are not without their manufactures,
rude though they be. Specimens
were exhibited to us of their
doings in the way of coarse cloth.
They manufacture the cloth of which
their large scarfs or rugs are made,
and fashion the same stuff into large
bags for provisions; a useful article
to those who are so constantly on the
march. We also procured one of the
large girdles worn by their women,
to astonish therewith the eyes of
ladies, as, indeed, they might well
astonish any body. They brought to
us, also, some of the elaborately
wrought pipe-bowls peculiar to them.
They are ornamented with fine studs
of brass, in a manner really ingenious;
and so highly esteemed that a single
bowl costs more than a couple of beautiful
Turkish sticks elsewhere. These
articles are the sum of our experience
in their manufactures.

The monastery and church are of
considerable antiquity, and contrast
pleasingly with the general fierceness.
It cannot be said that the
priests generally exhibit much of
the reverential in their appearance.[441]
They follow the example of their warlike
chief, being mostly clad in gay colours,
and armed to the teeth. But in
the monastery we found one reverend
in aspect. He kindly exhibited to us
the treasures of the sanctuary. They
may claim at least one mark of primitive
institution, which is poverty.
Their shrine displays no show of silver
and gold, yet it is not without valued
treasure. A precious relic exists in
the defunct body of the late Vladika,
to which they seem to attach the full
measure of credence prescribed in such
cases. He is exhibited in his robes,
and preserves a marvellously lifelike
appearance. According to their account,
he has conferred signal benefit
on them since his departure, and well
merited his canonisation. His claims
ought to be unusual, since, in his instance,
the salutary rule which requires
the lapse of a considerable interval
between death and canonisation, that
the frailties of the man may be forgotten
in the memory of the saint,
has been superseded. The part of the
monastery which we inspected, little
more than the gallery however, was
kept quite clean—an obvious departure
from the mode of Oriental monasteries
generally, than which few things
can be more piggish.

The Vladika pays great attention to
education, both for his people and himself.
It is much to his praise that he has
acquired the ready use of the French
language, which he speaks fluently and
well. He entertains masters in different
subjects, with whom he daily
studies. His tutor in Italian is a runaway
Austrian, whose previous bad
character does not prevent his honourable
entertainment. For his people
he has a school well attended, and
taught by an intelligent master. It
was not easy to proceed to actual
examination when we had no common
language; but it was pleasing to find
here a school, and apparent studiousness.
They not only read books, but
print them; and a specimen of their
typography was among the memorials
of our visit that we carried away with
us; unhappily we could not guess at
its subject. The Vladika is a great
reader, though his books must be procured
with difficulty. He reads, too,
the ubiquitous Galignani, and thus
keeps himself au fait to the doings of
the world. We were astonished at
the extent and particularity of his
information, when dinner afforded
opportunity for small talk. This was
the grand occasion to which we looked
forward as opportune to personal conclusions;
his conversation and his
cuisine would both afford indicia of
his social grade.

But when this time arrived, it found
us under considerable self-reproach.
We had found our host to be a much
more polished person than we had
expected. In this calculation we had
perhaps, only vindicated our John Bullism,
which assigns to semi-barbarism
all the world beyond the sound of Bow
Bells, and of which feeling, be it observed,
the exhibition so often renders
John Bull ridiculous. The Austrian
officers had come in proper uniform;
the English had brought with them
only undress coats, without epaulettes
or swords, thinking such measure of
ceremony would be quite satisfactory.
We now found that the intelligence
of the Vladika, and the usage of his
reception, demanded a more observant
respect. But this same intelligence
accepted, and even suggested, our
excuses, and, in spite of deficiencies we
were welcomed with gracious smiles.
The strange mixture of the respectable
with the disrespectable, was, however,
maintained in our eyes to the last.
The messenger sent to summon us to
the banquet could hardly be esteemed
worthy of so honourable an office.
“See that man,” said the grave Austrian
to me, “he is a scamp of the
first water—a deserter from my regiment,
a man of education, and an
officer reduced for misconduct to the
ranks—one who, for numerous acts of
misbehaviour and dishonesty, was repeatedly
punished. He at last deserted,
fled over the border, and now beards
me to my face.” He nevertheless
proved a good herald, and led us to an
excellent and most welcome dinner.

The table was perfectly well spread,
somewhat in the modern style, which
eschews the exhibition of dishes, and
presents fruits and flowers. Some
lighter provision was there, in the
shape of plates of sliced sausages and
so forth, but the dishes of resistance
were in reserve. There was an unexceptionable
array of plate, and
crockery, and neatness. The dining-room[442]
was worthy of the occasion. It
is a large and lofty apartment, containing
little more furniture than a
few convenient couches and chairs.
The walls are profusely ornamented
with arms of various kinds, hung
round tastefully, so that it has the
air of a tent or guard-room. There
is a small apartment leading into it,
which contains a really valuable and
curious collection of arms, trophies of
victory, and associated with strange
legends. It contains many guns, with
beautifully inlaid stocks, and several
rare and valuable swords of the most
costly kind, such as you might seek
in vain in the Bezenstein of Constantinople.
Among others was one assumed
to be the sword of Scanderbeg:
strange if the sword, once so fatal to
the Turks in political rebellion, should
be pursuing its work no less truculently
now in religious strife! Our
host was seated, waiting our arrival,
having adapted his dress to the civilities
of life, by rejecting his hussar
pelisse, and assuming another vest:
he still retained his kid gloves. The
waiters were a most formidable group,
and such as could hardly have been
expected to condescend to a servile
office. They were chosen from among
his body guard, and were conspicuous
for their stature. They wore, even in
this hour of security and presumed
relaxation, their weighty cuirasses,
formed of steel plates that shone brilliantly.
Their presence must secure
the Vladika against the treachery to
which the banquets of the great have
been sometimes exposed.

One little trait of the ecclesiastic
peeped out in the disposition of the
table, which showed that our host
had not quite lost the esprit du corps:
a clergyman who was of our party,
and who had been introduced as a
churchman, was placed in the second
place of honour after our captain.
The party generally arranged themselves
at will, and throughout the
affair, though there was all due observance,
we were not oppressed with
ceremony. The dinner went off like
most dinners, and our host did the
honours with unexceptionable grace.
The cookery was in the Turkish style,
both as to composition and quantity—and
we all voted his wines very
good. Champagne flowed abundantly,
and unexpectedly. The Vladika talked
in a gentle manner of the most ungentle
subject. War was the subject
on which he descanted with pleasure
and judgment, and on which those
who sat near him endeavoured to
draw him out. But he also proved
himself conversant with several subjects,
and inquisitive on European affairs.
His hostility to the Turks was
obviously a matter of deep reality—his
hatred was evident in the description
which he gave of them as bad,
wicked men, who observed no faith,
and with whom terms were impossible.
The Albanians especially were marked
by his animadversions. Our clergyman
nearly produced an explosion by
an ill-timed remark. As he listened
open-mouthed to the right reverend
lecturer on war, he was betrayed into
an expression of his sense of the incongruity.
The brow of the Bishop
was for a moment darkened, and his
lip curled in contempt, of which, perhaps,
the social blunder was not undeserving.
“And would not you
fight,” said he, “if you were attacked
by pirates?” The wrath of such a man
was to be deprecated. It would have
been awkward to see the head of our
companion decorating the fatal white
tower, and a nod to one of the martial
waiters would have done the business.
We changed the subject, and asked
what was the Montenegro flag? “The
cross,” said he, “as befits; what else
should Christians carry against infidels?”
We ventured to inquire whether
he, on occasion, wore the robes,
and executed the office of bishop, as we
had seen a portrait of him in the episcopal
robes. “Very seldom,” he told
us: “and that only of necessity.” He
excused the practice of exposing the
heads on the tower by the plea of
necessity. It was necessary for the
people, who were accustomed to the
spectacle, and whose zeal demanded
and was enlivened by the visible incentive.
He gave us the account of
a visit paid to him by the only lady
who has penetrated thus far. He was
at the time in the field, engaged in
active operations against the enemy,
and the lady, for the sake of an interview,
ventured even within range of
the Turkish battery. He expressed
his astonishment that a lady should
venture into such a scene, and asked[443]
her what could have induced her so
to peril her life. “Curiosity,” said
the lady: “I am an Englishwoman;”
and this fact of her nationality seems
quite to have satisfied him. She farther
won his admiration by partaking
of lunch coolly, under only partial
shelter from the surrounding danger.

The most picturesque part of our
day’s experience was the evening assembly.
Between the lights we sallied
forth, headed by the chief, to look
about us. For our amusement he
made the people exhibit their prowess
in jumping, which was something
marvellous. The wonder was enhanced
by the comparison of Frank
activity which our Italian friend insisted
on affording. But Bacchus,
who inspirited to the attempt, could
not invigorate to the execution; and
the good-natured barbarians were
amused at the puny effort which set
off their own achievements. After
showing us the neighbouring lands,
the Vladika conducted us back to the
palace, where we were promised the
spectacle of a Montenegro soirée. It
seems that custom has established a
public reception of evenings, and that
any person may at this time attend
without invitation. The whole thing
put one in mind of Donald Bean
Lean’s cavern, or rather, perhaps, of
Ali Baba. The picturesque ornaments
of the walls waxed romantic in the
lamp-light; and costumes of many
sorts were moving about, or grouped
in the chamber. We were invited to
play at different games that were going
on, but preferred to remain quiet in
corners, where we enjoyed pipes and
coffee, and observed the group. Among
the servants was a Greek, for whom
it might have been supposed that his
own country would have been sufficiently
lawless. The body-guard
who, during dinner, had acted as servants,
were now gentlemen; and very
splendid gentlemen they made. The
universal passion of gaming is not
without a place here; it occupied the
greater part of the company. The
Vladika sat smoking, overlooking the
noisy group, and talking with our
captain. There were some who did
not lay aside their arms even in this
hour and place—one big fellow was
pointed out to me who would not stir
from one room to another unarmed;
so ever present to his fancy was the
idea of the Turks.

Our host throughout the evening
maintained the character of a hospitable
and dignified entertainer; comporting
himself with that due admixture
of conscious dignity and affability,
which seems necessary to the courtesy
of princes. He occasionally addressed
himself to one or other of us,
and always seemed to answer with
pleasure the questions that we ventured
to put to him. It was with reluctance
that we took our leave. The
night passed comfortably at our several
locandas, and not one of us had
to speak in the morning of those
wretched vermin that plague the Mediterranean.
A capital breakfast put
us in condition for an early start, and
the hospitable spirit of the Vladika
was manifested in the refusal of the
landladies to produce any bill. With
difficulty we managed to press on
them a present. The Vladika, attended
by his former suite, accompanied
our departure, which was
honoured with the ceremonies that
had marked our entrance. He did
not leave us till arrived at the spot
where the day before we had met
him.

As we halted here, and dismounted
for a moment, the Vladika took from
an attendant a specimen of their guns,
with inlaid stocks, and with graceful
action presented it to the captain as
a memorial of his visit.

The whole party remounted. The
Vladika waved to us his parting
salute. “Farewell, gentlemen; remember
Montenegro!”

[444]

ELINOR TRAVIS.

A Tale in Three Chapters.

Chapter the Last.

I resolved to seek Rupert Sinclair
no more, and I kept my word with
cruel fidelity. But what could I do?
Had I not seen him with my own eyes—had
I not passed within a few feet
of him, and beheld him, to my indignation
and bitter regret, avoiding his
house, sneaking basely from it, and retreating
into the next street, because
that house contained his wife and her
paramour? Yes—paramour! I disbelieved
the world no longer. There
could be no doubt of the fact. True,
it was incomprehensible—as incomprehensible
as terrible! Rupert Sinclair,
pure, sensitive, high-minded, and incorrupt,
was incapable of any act
branded by dishonour, and yet no
amount of dishonour could be greater
than that attached to the conduct
which I had heard of and then witnessed.
So it was—a frightful anomaly!
a hideous discrepancy! Such as we
hear of from time to time, and are
found within the experience of every
man, unhinging his belief, giving the
lie to virtue, staggering the fixed
notions of the confiding young, and
confirming the dark conclusions of
cold and incredulous age.

I hated London. The very air
impure with the weight of
the wickedness which I knew it to
contain; and I resolved to quit the
scene without delay. As for the
mansion in Grosvenor Square, and its
aristocratic inhabitants, I had never
visited then with my own free will,
or for my own profit and advantage:
I forsook them without a sigh. For
Rupert’s sake I had submitted to
insult from the overbearing lackeys of
Railton House, and suffered the arrogance
of the proud and imbecile lord
himself. Much more I could have
borne gladly and cheerfully to have
secured his happiness, and to have
felt that he was still as pure as I had
known him in his youth.

To say that my suspicions were
confirmed by public rumour, is to say
nothing. The visits of Lord Minden
were soon spoken of with a sneer and
a grin by every one who could derive
the smallest satisfaction from the
follies and misfortunes of one who
had borne himself too loftily in his
prosperity to be spared in the hour of
his trial. The fact, promulgated,
spread like wildfire. The once fashionable
and envied abode became deserted.
There was a blot upon the door,
which, like the plague-cross, scared
even the most reckless and the boldest.
The ambitious father lost sight
of his ambition in the degradation
that threatened his high name; and
the half-conscientious, half-worldly
mother forgot the instincts of her
nature in the tingling consciousness
of what the world would say. Rupert
was left alone with the wife of his
choice, the woman for whom he had
sacrificed all—fortune, station, reputation—and
for whom he was yet ready
to lay down his life. Cruel fascination!
fearful sorcery!

London was no place for such a
man. Urged as much by the battling
emotions of his own mind as by the
intreaties of his wife, he determined
to leave it for ever. And in truth the
time had arrived. Inextricably involved,
he could no longer remain
with safety within reach of the strong
arm of the law. His debts stared
him in the face at every turn; creditors
were clamorous and threatening;
the horrible fact had been conveyed
from the lips of serving-men to the
ears of hungry tradesmen, who saw in
the announcement nothing but peril
to the accounts which they had been
so anxious to run up, and now were
equally sedulous in keeping down. It
had always been known that Rupert
Sinclair was not a rich man; it soon
was understood that he was also a
forsaken one. One morning three disreputable
ill-looking characters were
seen walking before the house of Mr
Sinclair. When they first approached
it, there was a sort of distant respect
in their air very foreign to their looks[445]
and dress, which might indeed have
been the result of their mysterious
occupation, and no real respect at all.
As they proceeded in their promenade,
became familiar with the place, and
attracted observation, their confidence
increased, their respect retreated, and
their natural hideous vulgarity shone
forth. They whistled, laughed, made
merry with the gentleman out of
livery next door, and established a
confidential communication with the
housemaid over the way. Shortly
one separated from the rest—turned
into the mews at the corner of the
street, and immediately returned with
a bench that he had borrowed at a
public-house. His companions hailed
him with a cheer—the bench was
placed before the door of Sinclair’s
house; the worthies sat and smoked,
sang ribald songs, and uttered filthy
jokes. A crowd collected, and the
tale was told. Rupert had fled the
country; the followers of a sheriff’s
officer had barricadoed his once splendid
home, and, Cerberus-like, were
guarding the entrance into wretchedness
and gloom.

Heaven knows! there was little
feeling in Lord Railton. Some, as I
have already intimated, still existed
in the bosom of his wife, whom providence
had made mother to save
her from an all-engrossing selfishness;
but to do the old lord justice, he was
shaken to the heart by the accumulated
misfortunes of his child—not that
he regarded those misfortunes in any
other light than as bringing discredit
on himself, and blasting the good
name which it had been the boast of
his life to uphold and keep clear of all
attaint. But this bastard sympathy
was sufficient to unman and crush
him. He avoided the society of men,
and disconnected himself from all public
business. Twenty years seemed
added to his life when he walked
abroad with his head turned towards
the earth, as though it were ashamed
to confront the public gaze; the furrows
of eighty winters were suddenly
ploughed into a cheek that no harsh
instrument had ever before impaired
or visited. In his maturity he was
called upon to pay the penalty of a
life spent in royal and luxurious ease.
He had borne no burden in his youth.
It came upon him like an avalanche
in the hour of his decline. It is not
the strong mind that gives way in the
fiery contest of life; the weakest
vessel has the least resistance. About
six months after Rupert had quitted
England, slight eccentricities in the
conduct of Lord Railton attracted the
notice of his lordship’s medical attendant,
who communicated his suspicions
to Lady Railton, and frightened
her beyond all expression with
hints at lunacy. Change of air and
scene were recommended—a visit to
Paris—to the German baths—any
where away from England and the
scene of trouble. The unhappy Lady
Railton made her preparations in a
day. Before any body had time to
suspect the cause of the removal, the
family was off, and the house in Grosvenor
Square shut up.

They travelled to Wiesbaden, two
servants only accompanied them, and
a physician who had charge of his
lordship, and towards whom her ladyship
was far less patronising and condescending
than she had been to the
tutor of her son. If misfortune had
not elevated her character, it had
somewhat chastened her spirit, and
taught her the dependency of man
upon his fellow man, in spite of the
flimsy barriers set up by vanity and
pride. Lord Railton was already
an altered man when he reached the
capital of Nassau. The separation
from every object that could give him
pain had at once dispelled the clouds
that pressed upon his mind; and the
cheerful excitement of the journey
given vigour and elasticity to his
spirit. He enjoyed life again; and his
faculties, mental and physical, were
restored to him uninjured. Lady
Railton would have wept with joy
had she been another woman. As it
was, she rejoiced amazingly.

The first day in Wiesbaden was an
eventful one. Dinner was ordered,
and his lordship was dressing, whilst
Lady Railton amused herself in the
charming gardens of the hotel at
which they stopped. Another visitor
was there—a lady younger than herself,
but far more beautiful, and apparently
of equal rank. One look
proclaimed the stranger for a countrywoman,
a second was sufficient for an
introduction.

“This is a lovely spot,” said Lady[446]
Railton, whose generally silent tongue
was easily betrayed into activity on
this auspicious morning.

“Do you think so?” answered the
stranger, laughing as she spoke; “you
are a new comer, and the loveliness
of the spot is not yet darkened by the
ugliness of the creatures who thrive
upon it. Wait awhile.”

“You have been here some time?”
continued Lady Railton, inquiringly.

“Ja wohl!” replied the other, mimicking
the accent of the German.

“And the loveliness has disappeared?”

“Ja wohl!” repeated the other with
a shrug.

“You speak their language, I perceive?”
said Lady Railton.

“I can say ‘Ja wohl,’ ‘Brod,’ and
‘Guten morgen‘—not another syllable.
I was entrapped into those; but not
another step will I advance. I take
my stand at ‘Guten morgen.'”

Lady Railton smiled.

“‘Tis not a sweet language, I believe,”
she continued.

“As sweet as the people, believe
me, who are the uncleanest race in
Christendom. You will say so when
you have passed three months at
Wiesbaden.”

“I have no hope of so prolonged a
stay—rather, you would have me say
‘no fear.'”

“Oh! pray remain and judge for
yourself. Begin with his Highness
the Duke, who dines every day with
his subjects at the table-d’hôte of this
hotel, and end with that extraordinary
domestic animal, half little boy half
old man, who fidgets like a gnome
about him at the table. Enter into
what they call the gaieties of this
horrid place—eat their food—drink
their wine—look at the gambling—talk
to their greasy aristocracy—listen
to their growl—contemplate the universal
dirt, and form your own conclusions.”

“I presume you are about to quit
this happy valley!”

The lovely stranger shook her head.

“Ah no! Fate and—worse than
fate!—a self-willed husband!”

“I perceive. He likes Germany,
and you”——

“Submit!” said the other, finishing
the sentence with the gentlest sigh
of resignation.

“You have amusements here?”

“Oh, a mine of them! We are
the fiercest gamesters in the world;
we eat like giants; we smoke like
furnaces, and dance like bears.”

The ladies had reached the open
window of the saal that led into the
garden. They stopped. The dinner
of one was about to be served up;
the husband of the other was waiting
to accompany her to the public
gardens. They bowed and parted.
A concert was held at the hotel that
evening. The chief singers of the
opera at Berlin, passing through the
town, had signified their benign intention
to enlighten the worthy denizens
of Nassau, on the subject of
“high art” in music. The applications
for admission were immense.
The chief seats were reserved by mine
host, “as in private duty bound,” for
the visitors at his hotel; and the chiefest,
as politeness and interest dictated,
for the rich and titled foreigners:
every Englishman being rich and
noble in a continental inn.

The young physician recommended
his lordship by all means to visit the
concert. He had recommended nothing
but enjoyment since they quitted
London. His lordship’s case was one,
he said, requiring amusement; he
might have added that his own case
was another—requiring, further, a
noble lord to pay for it. Lord Railton
obeyed his medical adviser always
when he suggested nothing disagreeable.
Lady Railton was not sorry to
have a view of German life, and to
meet again her gay and fascinating
beauty of the morning.

The hall was crowded; and at an
early hour of the evening the lovely
stranger was established in the seat
reserved for her amidst “the favoured
guests.” Her husband was with her,
a tall pale man, troubled with grief or
sickness, very young, very handsome,
but the converse of his wife, who
looked as blooming as a summer’s
morn, as brilliant and as happy. Not
the faintest shadow of a smile swept
across his pallid face. Laughter
beamed eternally from her eyes, and
was enthroned in dimples on her
cheek. He was silent and reserved,
always communing with himself, and
utterly regardless of the doings of
the world about him. She had eyes,[447]
ears, tongue, thought, feeling, sympathy
only for the busy multitude,
and seemed to care to commune with
herself as little—as with her husband.
A movement in the neighbourhood
announced the arrival of fresh comers.
Lord Railton appeared somewhat flustered
and agitated by suddenly finding
himself in a great company, and
all the more nervous from a suspicion
that he was regarded as insane by
every one he passed: then came the
young physician, as if from a bandbox,
with a white cravat, white gloves,
white waistcoat, white face, and a
black suit of clothes, supporting his
lordship, smiling upon him obsequiously,
and giving him professional
encouragement and approval: and
lastly stalked her ladyship herself
with the airs and graces of a fashionable
duchess, fresh as imported, and
looking down upon mankind with
touching superciliousness and most
amiable contempt. She caught sight
of her friend of the morning on her
passage, and they exchanged bland
looks of recognition.

The youthful husband had taken no
notice of the fresh arrival. Absorbed
by his peculiar cares, whatever they
might be, he sat perfectly still, unmoved
by the preparations of the
actors and the busy hum of the spectators.
His head was bent towards
the earth, to which he seemed fast
travelling, and which, to all appearances,
would prove a happier home
for him than that he found upon its
surface. Two or three songs had been
given with wonderful effect. Every
one had been encored, and bouquets
had already been thrown to the prima
donna of the Berlin opera. Never
had Wiesbaden known such delight.
Mine host, who stood at the entrance
of the saal, perspiring with mingled
pride and agitation, contemplated the
scene with a joy that knew no bounds.
He was very happy. Like Sir Giles
Overreach, he was “joy all over.”
The young physician had just put an
eye-glass to an eye that had some
difficulty in screwing it on, with the
intention of killing a young and pretty
vocalist with one irresistible glance,
when he felt his arm clenched by his
patient with a passionate vigour that
not only seriously damaged his intentions
with respect to the young singer,
but fairly threw him from his equilibrium.
He turned round, and saw
the unhappy nobleman, as he believed,
in an epileptic fit. His eyes were
fixed—his lip trembling—his whole
frame quivering. His hand still
grasped the arm of the physician, and
grasped it the firmer the more the
practitioner struggled for release.
There was a shudder, a cry—the old
man fell—and would have dropped to
the floor had he not been caught by
the expert and much alarmed physician.
A scene ensued. The singer
stopped, the audience rose—the fainting
man was raised and carried out.
The noise had attracted the notice of
one who needed an extraordinary provocation
to rouse him from his accustomed
lethargy. As the invalid passed
him, the husband of the merry beauty
cast one glance towards his deathlike
countenance. It was enough. No,
not enough. Another directed to the
unhappy lady who followed the
stricken lord, was far more terrible,
more poignant and acute. It sent a
thousand daggers to his heart, every
one wounding, hacking, killing. He
sunk upon his seat, and covered his
streaming eyes with wan and bloodless
hands.

“Rupert!” said Elinor, whispering
in his ear, “you are ill—let us go.”

“Elinor, it’s he, it’s he!” he stammered
in the same voice.

“Who?”

“My father!”

“And that lady?”

“My mother!”

“Good heaven! Lady Railton!”

“I have killed him,” continued Rupert.
“I have killed him!”

Before the confusion consequent
upon the removal of Lord Railton had
subsided, Elinor, with presence of
mind, rose from her seat, and implored
her husband to do the like. He obeyed,
hardly knowing what he did, and followed
her instinctively. Like a woman
possessed, she ran from the scene,
and did not stop until she reached her
own apartments. Rupert kept at her
side, not daring to look up. When
he arrived at his room, he was not
aware that he had passed his parents
in his progress—that the eyes of his
wife and his mother had again encountered,[448]
and that the sternest scowl
of the latter had been met by the most
indignant scorn of the former. To
this pass had arrived the pleasant acquaintance
established three hours
before in the hotel garden.

Whilst Elinor Sinclair slept that
melancholy night, Rupert watched at
his father’s door. He believed him
to be mortally ill, and he accused himself
in his sorrow of the fearful crime
of parricide. He had made frequent
inquiries, and to all one answer had
been returned. The noble lord was
still unconscious: her ladyship could
not be seen. It was not until the
dawn of morning that a more favourable
bulletin was issued, and
his lordship pronounced once more
sensible and out of danger. Rupert
withdrew—not to rest, but to write a
few hurried lines to his mother—begging
one interview, and conjuring her
to concede it, even if she afterwards
resolved to see him no more. The
interview was granted.

It led to no good result. Another
opportunity for reconciliation and
peace came only to be rejected. It
availed little that Providence provided
the elements of happiness, whilst
obstinacy and wilful pride refused to
combine them for any useful end.
Lady Railton loved her son with the
fondness of a mother. Life, too, had
charms for so worldly a soul as hers;
yet the son could be sacrificed, and
life itself parted with, ere the lofty
spirit bend, and vindictive hatred give
place to meek and gentle mercy. The
meeting was very painful. Lady Railton
wept bitter tears as she beheld
the wreck that stood before her—the
care-worn remains of a form that was
once so fair to look at—so grateful to
admire; but she stood inflexible. She
might have asked every thing of her
son which he might honourably part
with, and still her desires have fallen
short of the sacrifices he was prepared
to offer for the misery he had caused.
She had but ONE request to make—it
was the condition of her pardon—but
it was also the test of his integrity
and manhood.

He must part with the woman he had
made his wife!

The evening of the day found Rupert
Sinclair and his wife on the road
from Wiesbaden, and his parents still
sojourners at the hotel.

Rupert had not told Elinor of the
sum that had been asked for the forgiveness
of a mother he loved—the
friendship of a father at whose bed-side
nature and duty summoned him
with appeals so difficult to resist.
He would not grieve her joyous spirit
by the sad announcement. He had
paid the price of affection, not cheerfully—not
triumphantly—but with a
breaking and a tortured heart. He
knew the treasure to be costly: he
would have secured it had it been
twice as dear. They arrived at Frankfort.

“And whither now?” asked Elinor,
almost as soon as they alighted.

“Here for the present, dearest,”
answered Rupert. “To-morrow whither
you will.”

“Thank heaven for a safe deliverance
from the Duke of Nassau!” exclaimed
the wife. “Well, Rupert,
say no more that I am mistress of
your actions. I have begged for
months to be released from that dungeon,
but ineffectually. This morning
a syllable from the lips of another
has moved you to do what was refused
to my long prayers.”

Rupert answered not.

“To-morrow, then, to Paris?”
coaxingly inquired the wife.

A shadow passed across the countenance
of the husband.

“Wherefore to Paris?” he answered.
“The world is wide enough.
Choose an abiding-place and a home
any where but in Paris.”

“And why not there?” said Elinor,
with vexation. “Any where but
where I wish. It is always so—it has
always been so.”

“No, Elinor,” said Rupert calmly—”not
always. You do us both
injustice.”

“I have no pleasure,” she continued,
“amongst these dull and addle-headed
people—who smoke and
eat themselves into a heaviness that’s
insupportable. But Paris is too gay
for your grave spirit, Rupert; and to
sacrifice your comfort to my happiness
would be more than I have any
right to hope for or to ask.”

Sinclair answered not again. Reproach
had never yet escaped his lips:[449]
it was not suffered to pass now.
How little knew the wife of the sacrifices
which had already been wrung
from that fond and faithful bosom:
and which it was still disposed to
make, could it but have secured the
happiness of one or both!

Is it necessary to add, that within
a week the restless and wandering
pair found themselves in the giddy
capital of France! Sinclair, as in
every thing, gave way before the well-directed
and irresistible attacks of
one whose wishes, on ordinary occasions,
he was too eager to forestall.
His strong objections to a residence
in Paris were as nothing against the
opposition of the wife resolved to gain
her point and vanquish. Paris was
odious to him on many grounds. It
was paradise to a woman created for
pleasure—alive and herself only when
absorbed in the mad pursuit of pleasure.
Sinclair regarded a sojourn in
Paris as fatal to the repose which he
yearned to secure: his wife looked
upon it as a guarantee for the joyous
excitement which her temperament
rendered essential to existence. General
Travis was in Paris; so was
the Earl of Minden; so were many
other stanch allies and friends of the
lady, who had so suddenly found herself
deprived of friends and supporters
in the very height of her dominion
and triumph. Sinclair had no desire
to meet with any of these firm adherents;
but, on the contrary, much
reason to avoid them. He made one
ineffectual struggle, and as usual—submitted
to direction.

If the lady had passed intoxicating
days in London, she led madder ones
in France. Again she became the
heroine and queen of a brilliant circle,
the admired of all admirers, the mistress
of a hundred willing and too
obedient slaves. Nothing could surpass
the witchery of her power: nothing
exceed the art by which she
raised herself to a proud eminence,
and secured her footing. The arch
smile, the clever volubility, the melting
eye, the lovely cheek, the incomparable
form, all united to claim and
to compel the admiration which few
were slow to render. Elinor had been
slighted in England: she revenged
herself in France. She had been deserted—forsaken
by her own: she
was the more intent upon the glowing
praise and worship of the stranger.
Crowds flocked around her, confessing
her supremacy: and whilst women
envied and men admired, Rupert Sinclair
shrunk from publicity with a
heart that was near to breaking—and
a soul oppressed beyond the power of
relief.

A gleam of sunshine stole upon
Rupert Sinclair in the midst of his
gloom and disappointment. Elinor
gave promise of becoming a mother.
He had prayed for this event; for he
looked to it as the only means of restoring
to him affections estranged
and openly transferred to an unfeeling
world. The volatile and inconsiderate
spirit, which no expostulation or entreaties
of his might tame, would
surely be subdued by the new and
tender ties so powerful always in
riveting woman’s heart to duty. His
own character altered as the hour
approached which must confer upon
him a new delight as well as an additional
anxiety. He became a more
cheerful and a happier man: his brow
relaxed; his face no longer bore upon
it the expression of a settled sorrow
and an abiding disappointment. He
walked more erect, less shy, grew
more active, less contemplative and
reserved. Months passed away, quickly,
if not altogether happily, and
Elinor Sinclair gave birth to a daughter.

Rupert had not judged correctly.
However pleasing may be the sacred
influence of a child upon the disposition
and conduct of a mother in the
majority of instances, it was entirely
wanting here. Love of distinction,
of conquest, of admiration, had left
no room in the bosom of Elinor Sinclair
for the love of offspring, which
Rupert fondly hoped would save his
partner from utter worldliness, and
himself from final wretchedness. To
receive the child from heaven, and to
make it over for its earliest nourishment
and care to strange cold hands,
were almost one and the same act. The
pains of nature were not assuaged by
the mother’s rejoicings: the pride of
the father found no response in the
heart of his partner. The bitter trial
of the season past—returning strength
vouchsafed—and the presence of the
stranger was almost forgotten in the[450]
brilliancy of the scene to which the
mother returned with a whettened
appetite and a keener relish.

Far different the father! The fountain
of love which welled in his devoted
breast met with no check as it poured
forth freely and generously towards
the innocent and lovely stranger, that
had come like a promise and a hope to
his heart. Here he might feast his
eyes without a pang: here bestow the
full warmth of his affection, without
the fear of repulse or the torture of
doubt. His home became a temple—one
small but darling room an altar—his
daughter, a divinity. He eschewed
the glittering assemblies in which his
wife still dazzled most, and grew into
a hermit at the cradle of his child. It
was a fond and passionate love that
he indulged there—one that absorbed
and sustained his being—that gave
him energy when his soul was spent,
and administered consolation in the
bitterest hour of his sad loneliness—the
bitterest he had known as yet.

I have said that Lord Minden was
in Paris when Sinclair and his wife
arrived there. The visits of this
nobleman to the house of Rupert in
London, and the strange conduct of
Rupert himself in connexion with
those visits, had helped largely to
drive the unfortunate pair from their
native country. Still those visits were
renewed in the French capital, and
the conduct of Sinclair lost none of
its singularity. The Parisians were
not so scandalized as their neighbours
across the water by the marked attentions
of his lordship to this unrivalled
beauty. Nobody could be blind to
the conduct of Lord Minden, yet
nobody seemed distressed or felt morally
injured by the constant contemplation
of it. If the husband thought
proper to approve, it was surely no
man’s business to be vexed or angry.
Mr Sinclair was a good easy gentleman,
evidently vain of his wife’s
attractions, and of his lordship’s great
appreciation of them. His wife was
worshipped, and the fool was flattered.
But was this all? Did he simply
look on, or was he basely conniving
at his own dishonour? In England
public opinion had decided in favour
of the latter supposition; and public
feeling, outraged by such flagrant
wickedness, had thrust the culprits,
as they deserved, from the soil which
had given them birth, and which they
shamefully polluted.

Nearly two years had elapsed, and
the exiles were still in the fascinating
city to which the ill-fated Elinor had
carried her too easily-led husband.
The time had passed swiftly enough.
Elinor had but one occupation—the
pursuits of pleasure. Sinclair had
only one—the care of his daughter.
He had bestowed a mother’s tenderness
upon the neglected offspring, and
watched its young existence with a
jealous anxiety that knew no rest—and
not in vain. The budding creature
had learned to know its patient
nurse, and to love him better than all
its little world. She could walk, and
prattle in her way, and her throne
was upon her father’s lap. She could
pronounce his name; she loved to
speak it;—she could distinguish his
eager footstep; she loved to hear it.
Rupert was born for this. To love
and to be loved with the truth, simplicity,
and power of childhood, was
the exigency of his being and the
condition of his happiness. Both
were satisfied—yet he was not happy.

It was a winter’s evening. For a
wonder, Elinor was at home: She had
not been well during the day, and had
declared her intention of spending the
evening with her child and husband—rare
indulgence! The sacrifice had
cost her something, for she was out of
spirits and ill at ease in her new character.
Her husband sat lovingly at
her side—his arm about her waist—his
gleeful eye resting upon the lovely
child that played and clung about his
feet.

[And this man was a party to his
own dishonour! a common pandar!
the seller of yonder wife’s virtue, the
destroyer of yonder child’s whole life
of peace! Reader, believe it not!—against
conviction, against the world,
believe it not!]

“To-morrow, Elinor,” said Sinclair
musingly, “is your birthday.
Had you forgotten it?”

Elinor turned pale. Why, I know
not.

“Yes,” she answered hurriedly,
“I had. It is my birthday.”

“We must pass the day together:
we will go into the country. Little
Alice shall be of the party, and shall[451]
be taught to drink her mamma’s
health. Won’t you, Alice?”

The child heard its name spoken
by familiar lips, and laughed.

“Will Lord Minden, dear, be back?
He shall accompany us.”

“He will not,” said Elinor, trembling
with illness.

“More’s the pity,” replied Rupert.
“Alice will hardly be happy for a day
without Lord Minden. She has cried
for him once or twice already. But
you are ill, dearest. Go to rest.”

“Not yet,” said Elinor, “I shall
be better soon. Come, Alice, to mamma.”

It was an unwonted summons, and
the child stared. She had seldom
been invited to her mother’s arms;
and the visits, when made, were generally
of short duration. There seemed
some heart in Elinor to-night. Rupert
observed it. He caught the
child up quickly, placed her in her
mother’s lap, and kissed them both.

In the act, a tear—a mingled drop
of bitterness and joy—started to his
eye and lingered there.

Strange contrast! His face suddenly
beamed with new-born delight:
hers was as pale as death.

“Is she not lovely, Elinor?” asked
Rupert, looking on them both with
pride.

“Very!” was the laconic and scarce
audible answer; and the child was put
aside again.

“Elinor,” said Sinclair, with unusual
animation, “rest assured this precious
gift of Heaven is sent to us for
good; our days of trouble are numbered.
Peace and true enjoyment
are promised in that brow.”

A slight involuntary shudder thrilled
the frame of the wife, as she disengaged
herself from her husband’s
embrace. She rose to retire.

“I will go to my pillow,” she said.
“You are right. I need rest. Good-night!”

Her words were hurried. There
was a wildness about her eye that
denoted malady of the mind rather
than of body. Rupert detained her.

“You shall have advice, dearest,”
said he. “I will go myself”——

“No, no, no,” she exclaimed, interrupting
him; “I beseech you.
Suffer me to retire. In the morning
you will be glad that you have spared
yourself the trouble. I am not worthy
of it; good-night!”

“Not worthy, Elinor!”

“Not ill enough, I mean. Rupert,
good-night.”

Sinclair folded his wife in his arms,
and spoke a few words of comfort and
encouragement. Had he been a quick
observer, he would have marked
how, almost involuntarily, she recoiled
from his embrace, and avoided his
endearments.

She lingered for a moment at the
door.

“Shall Alice go with you?” inquired
the husband.

“No. I will send for her; let
her wait with you. Good-night,
Alice!”

“Nay; why good-night? You will
see her again.”

“Yes,” answered Elinor, still lingering.
The child looked towards
her mother with surprise. Elinor
caught her eye, and suddenly advanced
to her. She took the bewildered
child in her arms, and kissed it
passionately. The next moment she
had quitted the apartment.

New feelings, of joy as much as of
sorrow, possessed the soul of Rupert
Sinclair as he sat with his little
darling, reflecting upon the singular
conduct of the dear one who had
quitted them. It found an easy solution
in his ardent and forgiving
breast. That which he had a thousand
times prophesied, had eventually
come to pass. The mother had
been checked in her giddy career,
when the wife had proved herself unequal
to the sacrifice. In the mental
suffering of his partner, Rupert saw
only sorrow for the past, bitter repentance,
and a blest promise of
amendment. He would not interfere
with her sacred grief; but, from his
heart, he thanked God for the mercy
that had been vouchsafed him, and acknowledged
the justice of the trials
through which he had hitherto passed.
And there he sat and dreamed.
Visions ascended and descended. He
saw himself away from the vice and
dissipation of the city into which he
had been dragged. A quiet cottage
in the heart of England was his
chosen dwelling-place; a happy smiling
mother, happy only in her domestic
paradise, beamed upon him; and[452]
a lovely child, lovelier as she grew to
girlhood, sat at his side, even as the
infant stood whilst he dreamed on;
an aged pair were present, the most
contented of the group, looking upon
the picture with a calm and grateful
satisfaction.

For a full hour he sat lost in his
reverie; his glowing heart relieved
only by his swelling tears.

The child grew impatient to depart.
Why had Elinor not sent for her?

He summoned a servant, and bade
her take the little Alice to her mother’s
room. Thither she was carried—to
the room, not to the mother.

The mother had quitted the room,
the house, the husband—for ever!

A broken-hearted man quitted Paris
at midnight. The damning intelligence
had been conveyed to him by
one who was cognisant of the whole
affair, who had helped to his disgrace,
but whose bribe had not been sufficient
to secure fidelity. Elinor Sinclair
had eloped with the Earl of Minden.
Flattered by his lordship’s
attention, dazzled by his amazing
wealth, impatient of the limits which
her own poverty placed to her extravagance,
dissatisfied with the mild
tenor of her husband’s life, she had
finally broken the link which at any
time had so loosely united her to the
man, not of her heart or her choice,
but of her ambition.

She had fled without remorse, without
a pang, worthy of the name.
Who shall describe the astonishment
of the aggrieved Rupert?—his disappointment,
his torture! He was
thunderstruck, stunned; but his resolution
was quickly formed. The
pair had started southwards. Sinclair
resolved to follow them. For the first
time in his life he was visited with a
desire for vengeance, and he burned
till it was gratified. Blood only could
wash away the stain his honour had
received, the injury his soul had suffered—and
it should be shed. He
grew mad with the idea. He who
had never injured mortal man, who
was all tenderness and meekness,
long-suffering, and patient as woman,
suddenly became, in the depth and by
the power of his affliction, vindictive
and thirsty for his brother’s life.
Within two hours from the period of
the accursed discovery, all his preparations
were made, and he was on
the track. He had called upon a
friend; explained to him his wrong;
and secured him for a companion and
adviser in the pursuit. He took into
his temporary service the creature
who had been in the pay of his lordship,
and promised him as large a
sum as he could ask for one week’s
faithful duty. He paid one hasty,
miserable visit to the bed-side of his
innocent and sleeping child—kissed
her and kissed her in his agony—and
departed like a tiger to his work.