Chapter XII: “Bring the light nearer,” said John Burley—“nearer still.” (2)

Saturday—and the week’s inspection has come to a close. A cold east wind is howling along Oxford Street, evidently in search of snow, and rather disappointed at not finding the Serpentine covered with ice. The Almanac tells us it is April; but our extremities have private information that it is December. As we go shivering home, we will diverge for a moment into the most curious repository of nick-nacks the world contains—being the gatherings of thirty years, at a cost of thirty thousand pounds. We call in Argyll Street, and are civilly received by Mr Hertz, the proprietor of the collection. He is a little, round, oily-faced German, evidently of the Jewish persuasion, and remarkably fond of tobacco. His room is like a pawnbroker’s shop; only all his customers must have been possessors of picture galleries, and have brought themselves into difficulties by cultivating a “taste.” There are wardrobes richly inlaid, with a genealogy as carefully kept as the pedigree of a race-horse. He will tell you how it came into the hands of Louis XIV., and how it ornamented a chamber in the Tuileries during the Empire; or a ring will be shown you, with the hair of Julius Cæsar under the glass. Beautiful miniatures are pointed out, of great value as works of art, but far more valuable from their being undoubted likenesses of their fair and famous originals. Beauties of the reign of Francis; eyes that looked kindly on Henry IV.; cheeks that flushed in vain to win a transient smile from the Grand Monarque, are all there. Then there are little ivory cabinets, and screens magnificently embroidered, all with their respective stories—there being no article that depends entirely on its intrinsic merits, but borrows a great part of its interest from the adventures it has gone through. Finally, he gives you a key, and sends you off, under the guardianship of his maid, to a house in Great Marlborough Street, which you find filled, from cellar to garret, with works of a still more valuable description. We have only time to mention some very fine cartoons by Correggio, and a splendid statue in black marble of a Roman prizefighter. This is a very fine specimen of ancient skill. Mr Hertz’s object is to sell the entire collection, and we believe he declines to dispose of it piecemeal. Were this not the case, it would be indispensable for the country to secure some of the treasures here contained, though it would perhaps be asking too much of the Chancellor of the Exchequer to endow the British Museum with the miscellaneous articles by which the statue and cartoons are accompanied. Colder, colder still, and fast and furious we hurry towards our chambers. What do blockheads and poetasters of all ages mean by the balmy breath of April?—the sunny showers of April?—the “smiles and tears together” characteristic of that hopeful and delicious month? We believe it is a cuckoo note, continued by imitative mediocrity from the days of Theocritus. All very well for him in the beautiful climate of Sicily to cover the head of Spring with fresh flowers, and lie upon the grass playing his Pandean pipes. But where are flowers to be seen, at this most uncheering season, here? Or who can lie down on the grass before the end of July without the certainty of cold and rheumatism? Here has the cold wind been blowing for two months—sneezes and snufflings loading every breeze; and yet you turn to a pastoral poem, an eclogue or rhapsody, about the beauties of nature, and you read whole passages in praise of April! With our hat clenched over our brow, and a handkerchief held to our mouth, we career madly through Leicester Square. On the steps of Miss Linwood’s old exhibition, a man is standing enveloped in ancient armour. He might as well be cased in ice. But utterly unconscious seems he of the absurdity of his appearance, or of the cold that must be shot through him from steel cuirass and iron greaves. In a gentle voice he addresses the passer by. “It is useless to observe,” he says, “that all intelligent individuals will be gratified by a sight of the strongest man in the world.” This is so different from the usual style of those touters, that we involuntarily slacken our pace. “It is scarcely necessary,” he proceeds, “to remark that Professor Crosso is decidedly at the head of his profession, and that the entrance money is only one shilling.” We are won by the smooth volubility of the knightly orator. Who is Professor Crosso?—and what is his profession? We ascended the steps, traversed a gallery, deposited a shilling, and entered a large apartment with a number of wooden benches, a small gallery at the back, and a green curtain door, hiding for a time the wonders of the stage. Three fiddlers strung their instruments with most unholy discord; the company gradually dropped in, principally foreigners; the gas gave a leap of increased light; a tune began, and the curtain rose. Oh, earth and sky! what is this we behold? A _tableau-vivant_ of the death of Hector. Old Priam, venerable from the length of his beard, is the central figure; around him sit the maids and matrons of Troy. Hector lies dead in front; and to slow music, the stage on which they stand is whirled round so as to give a variety of views of the same group, and great applause rewards the display. There is certainly a great scarcity of drapery about the principal figures, but nothing to be found fault with on the score of decorum or propriety; but we read in a small hand-bill that the _artistes_ are all German, and we gaze with great curiosity on the development of the Teutonic form. The round hilarious faces, the flat noses, and prominent chins, would prove, to the entire satisfaction of Professor Owen, that our Bavarian friends were lineal descendants of the Caffres at the Cape. There was not a single one of the Trojan ladies who did not look well practised in asking the inhabitants to buy a broom. The sons of Priam seemed waiters from the foreign _restaurants_ in Lisle Street; and the dead Hector had a strong resemblance to the owner of a small cigar-shop, where there is a card in the window with the words, “Hier sprecht Mann Deutsch.” There were other subjects illustrated, but all by the same _artistes_. The figures were very tastefully disposed; but a little more beauty, and a closer approximation to the outlines of the Canova Venus, would be a great improvement. However, the patriotic audience were highly gratified, and the Dutch ideal evidently fulfilled. Performances then began, where there was a display of strength which would be incredible if there was no trick in some of the displays. The professor tossed weights about which were more fit for waggons than human arms. An immense iron bar was laid upon the floor, which he first lifted by the middle with unanimous approbation; he then raised it, keeping it horizontal by a hold about one-third from the end. He then laid it down, and grasping one end of it, certainly succeeded in raising the other end from the ground, while the minutest observation could detect no hair suspended from the ceiling, nor other means by which he could be assisted in the feat. But the crowning performance, which was preceded by a long pause, to enable “the yellow-haired and blue-eyed Saxons” to recover from their surprise, was called the Harmless Guillotine, and consisted in cutting off a girl’s head, without doing her any harm. The professor walked in leading his victim by the hand. She was probably one of the Trojan maidens, and by no means so favourable a specimen of female charms as the Argive Helen. With a vast amount of guttural and other splutter, the professor addressed the audience in German; and was interpreted by one of the fiddlers for the benefit of any untravelled Englishman who might be present. The object of the speech was to beg the ladies not to be alarmed at what they are about to see; for though the head appeared to be cut off, he assured them, on his own word as a gentleman and a Christian, that it was mere deception, and that he was by no means the murderer he appeared. He then led away his victim, and placed her on a kind of sofa-bed at the back of the stage, and drew the curtains round her. He next advanced, and asked whether the company would have the execution done behind the curtain or in front? There was a unanimous answer to this, that we wished to see the operation; whereupon he drew the curtain, waved a sword two or three times, and appeared to saw away at the girl’s neck, till finally the head came off, and in a triumphant manner he held it up for popular applause. It was a failure. The stage was so dark, the figure so indistinct, the preparation so clumsy, that we could not by any means entertain the feelings of horror and astonishment he intended to produce. The fiddler, in a feeble voice, invited any of the ladies or gentlemen present to go on the stage and examine more nearly the separated head and its marks of reality. But nobody responded to the invitation; and again we fixed our hat desperately over our brows, and faced once more the pitiless blowings of the April breeze.

Thus have we attempted to give a clear and dispassionate view of some of the amusements offered to the millions of London. The list we have chosen is very limited; for, in this communication we have omitted all mention of the great majority of the theatres, the operas, the _salles de danse_, the panoramas, the dioramas, and other pictorial exhibitions. What we wish to impress on the intelligent reader is the absolute necessity of improving, and turning to as beneficial purpose as possible, the means of entertainment which already exist. The theatre, we maintain, has in itself the material most fitted for this purpose; not the theatre of show and spectacle, of burlesque and buffoonery, but the theatre of life and poetry. The machinery is already there, the actors capable of improvement, the drama ready to spring into fresh existence, and all that is wanted is the fostering presence of good and benevolent men—wise enough to see the immense engine, for good or for evil, which it is in their power to direct, and brave enough, in the confidence of a good cause, to despise the sneers of the ignorant. The amusements of the people, properly considered, are as important as their ability to spell, or even as the comfort of their houses; and the philanthropic economist who spreads the light of education into desolate lanes, and brightens, with cleanliness and convenience, the poor man’s room, only half executes his task if he does not afford intellectual recreation to the mechanic who has a shilling or two to spare, but leaves him to the false encitement of the melodrama, or the leer and vulgarity of the tea-garden.

But this is Sunday morning, and we are at Woolwich in time for changing guard. Here are four or five thousand artillery, and a regiment or two of dragoons; and what with cadets and engineers, the fighting population must be close on seven thousand men. The heath spreads its smooth hard surface in front of the parade-ground, and scattered all over the place are cannons and carriages, and mortars and implements of warfare enough to exterminate the human race in half-an-hour. There are no such fine intelligent-looking men as the artillery in the British service. Great care is taken in the selection of recruits; for the duties even of a private need both bodily and mental activity. Their pay is higher than that of the line, and their conduct so good, that out of that immense body only four have made their appearance before a magistrate for the last two years.

The quiet of the town is wonderful. There is not a uniform anywhere to be seen, except where the sentry, with drawn sword, guards the heath gates. On this great expanse there is no motion. A flag here and there sways to and fro in the breeze, and occasionally the burst of a bugle-call rises into the air from some distant barrack-yard. But now a few officers and their wives and families move silently about—fine handsome lads come down by twos and threes from the college of cadets—white-haired generals, and majors and captains scarcely less white-haired, pace solemnly along the gravel—and, finally, we all arrive at the door of the barrack chapel, which is guarded by sentinels, and devoted entirely to the garrison. On entering on the ground line we are surprised to find ourselves in the gallery. On the different pew doors the ranks and designations of the occupants are written—general officers, field-officers, officers, &c. &c.; and on going forward to the front of the seat, and looking down into the body of the building, we see already assembled the men of the 4th Dragoons on the cross-benches in front of the pulpit, and artillerymen on the seats under the gallery. A beautiful sight—above a thousand gallant fellows in their blue trousers with red or yellow stripes, their belts crossed, their side-arms on, and all exhibiting any medals or decorations they may possess. A corporal in full uniform acted as clerk, and the band played the anthems, while some military choristers sang the hymns and responses. Better behaviour it is impossible to see in a church. It was a calm, observant, and very attentive congregation. After the prayers, the clergyman, who rejoices in a very fine voice, commenced his sermon amid the hushed attention of his audience. He was very plain, very straightforward, and spoke to them as men who had duties which were by no means inconsistent with the Christian character. Their temptations he touched upon, and gave them warnings and advice. In about a quarter of an hour, having seen that his admonition had had its effect—for he preached without book, and kept his eye on his congregation the whole time—he dismissed them with their faculties unfatigued, and what he had told them fresh upon their minds. On standing up or kneeling down, the clash of their swords upon the pavement was very fine; the jingle of spurs also was heard whenever they moved; and not the less gallantly will they press their horses’ flanks, and sway their sabres in some deathful charge, that they heard and treasured the lessons of their friend the chaplain. We intend, on some future occasion, to devote a whole paper to a day at Woolwich, but we have already seen enough to take off the edge of our fear of a French invasion. With Hardinge at the head of our Ordnance, and the great name of Wellington still sounding in the hearts of his countrymen—with rifle corps innumerable, and the whole empire ready to rise at the first beacon that flares on Beachy Head—we shall only observe to the whole world in arms, that if by some miracle it finds its way to English ground, it will receive the most tremendous thrashing that ever a world in arms, or out of them, received since history began. We therefore solemnly advise all foreign nations, kings, princes, adventurers, bullies, and personages whatsoever, to keep a civil tongue in their heads, and stay quietly at home.

THE GOLD-FINDER.

I.

To travellers by the seas, or on long plains,
The distant objects, on the horizon’s verge,
Show but their highest summits; so with Time.
Time orbs so silently beneath our feet,
We look around, and know not that we move,
Or that the point whereon we stand, to-day,
This moment, is our culminating point;
The Past and Future dip as they recede,
And only give to view the tops of things.
Therefore, be happy now; the mental eye
May take his pleasure, pleasure if it be,
In gazing on the Cottage, or the Church;
The Heart may fondly dwell upon the one,
And think of days of piety, to be;
And on the other, till the breath of Home
Waft to the soul more pleasant memories
Than the West stealing o’er a field of hay;—
Blest in our ignorance, we cannot see
That, underneath the rose-grown eaves of Home
Lurk fire and sickness, bickering and want;
Or, where the steeple-cross shines in the sun,
That damp, cold graves are nestling dark beneath.
All Nature cries, “Be happy now.” The Bee,
Whose angry labours wound the ear of Noon,
Finds in the winter, from his garnered store,
Quick spoliation, and a bitter death;
The light-winged Butterfly, with truer scope,
Ranges, all summer, through the garden-beds,
And, ignorant of darker days to come,
Enjoys a life-long holiday; the Man
Who spake as never man did, bade us view
The untended lilies of the desert-plain:
“They toil not,” said he, “neither do they spin;
And yet I say to you that Solomon,
In all his glory, was not clad like these.”
Michael De Mas knew not this holy truth;
Alas! _his_ thought was ever of the morrow:
And yet he was no foolish homesick swain,
Such as, amid the perils of the strife,
The conflict of existence, pine and sigh
To flee to some ideal resting-place,
To feed on contemplation, or to woo
Some simple Thestylis in beechen groves.
To him the cry of subjugate despair
Rang, like a trumpet of encouragement;
And brave resistance did but seem to him
Another step that led him to the heights.
Ten years had poured their various gifts on earth
Of death and life, of sunshine and of shade,
Since Michael left his little school disgraced
By acts of lawless violence; and went
Back to a ruined parent’s ruined home,
To feed his heart on innutritious dreams
And idle scorn of those he would not know.
Once when the lights of English Autumn time,
Clear, vigorous, spirit-cheering, morning lights,
Were dancing on a thousand thousand trees,
Were streaming on a thousand fertile fields,
And smoking on a hundred cottage tops,
He felt that these, once his, were his no more:
A stranger ploughed his very garden plots;
The Halls, where his forefathers fed the shire,
Were fallen, and the stones and timbers sold;
One-tenth of all the house, one-hundredth part
Of the broad lands, and how much less part still
Of the respect and power that graced the name,
Would cleave to him the heir. So slow had been
The gradual alienation, that till now
He had not felt it fully; but that morn
(’Twas Sabbath) they had been to worship God,
And even in the very Church, where once
The service staid for them, and bells rang on
Till good Sir Marmaduke, in coach of state,
Drawn by six solemn Flanders steeds, and girt
By a full score of stalwart serving men,
Approaching, gave the signal to begin,
Even there a London Scrivener, with his brood
Of pale and purse-proud children of the fog,
Sate in their ancient place, beneath the crest
Which Black Sir Walter wore at Agincourt;
Ay, over the cold stones, where lies at peace
The knight who fell at Naseby, by his King,
There sate his steward’s grandson.
“Ah,” thought Michael,
“The desolate abomination stands
Most proudly where it ought not; ’tis not these
I blame, but gold, the cursed cause of all,
Gold that o’erthrew my fathers, and raised these,
These—and why not me also?” till he swore
That gold, and gold alone, should be his god,
As who alone rewards its worshippers.
“Therefore,” he said, “dear Idol, I to thee
From henceforth pay my vows; thou who dost raise
The Beggar, till the Princes of the Earth
Bow low to kiss his stirrup; who dost give
Power and distinction, virtue and renown.
My name shall be among the fortunate,
For I am of those whose will is Destiny.
And then, perhaps, when Victory shall be mine,
My Margaret will not turn away from me,
As now, methinks, even she must wish to do.”
The thought was inspiration: all on fire,
He wrote to one, their noble house’s chief,
Whose voice was heard at Eastern council boards;
And with the ardour of a youthful heart,
He urged his claim: “His Lordship knew him well,
The soldier’s spirit He felt; for He was strong;—
The influence of wind, or sun, or rain,
Could never sap His sinews: were it his
To draw a sword in yonder golden land,
He promised them no niggard of himself,
No slothful wearer of a scarlet coat,
Most terrible to women.”
Marvel not
That Michael took the final step alone;
His Mother never knew a wish but his;
His Father, ah, the sorrows of decay,
And sorrow-taught indulgence, made him cold,
Cold as the inmate of an idiot’s cell.

II.

Michael had gained his end, and India’s Sun
Now ruled his eager blood; some of his hopes
Were crowned with triumph; he got store of gold,
But lost his sense of honour.
In days like those,
Deceit and violence gave the rule of life
To men once wise and generous; they were poor,
And they had power: Opinion, far away
Raved, like the idle murmurs of the Sea,
Heard, in still summer evenings, from a hill.
Blame them not over harshly; skill and valour
Give power, which, even when marred and mixed with wrong,
May bless those who abide its visitings.
When Autumn nights are moonless, and thick clouds
Have hid the friendly faces of the stars,
The storm may bring keen lightnings: here and there
Some wretch, whose hour was come, may gain by them
Immunity from other lingering deaths,
And that may seem an Evil; yet the air,
Purged by those very bolts, grows sweet and clear,
And feeds the corn, the oil, the parched vine,
And gives to men, for many and many a day,
Prosperity and pleasure: so with these,
God’s chosen messengers to work his will;
They purify the poisoned moral gale,
Cause peace and plenty wheresoe’er they go,
And lead in happiness on a path of thorns.
Among the foes of the English settlers, one
Was ever foremost; he—by what arts won
Boots not to trace—had made a friend of Michael,
Who grew in power and riches day by day.
But purer times were coming; there were heard
Deserved, though little looked for then from those,
Themselves not pure who raised them, murmurings;
Surmise grew into knowledge; Michael’s friends
Were few; men stained as he pronounced his doom.
Still there was hope; he never knew despair:
The Rajah he had served should shelter him,
And he would lead his Armies; he foresaw
More wealth, more power, more means of growing great.

III.

He passed from low Bengal’s unbroken green,
That, like a harlot, smiles but to betray,
And with a troop of chosen cavaliers,
Came to the Holy Land of Hindostan,
Wearily wandering, whether the strong sun
Parched the wide champaign, and the furnace blasts
Came howling, hot and dry, whirling the sand
In dense and overwhelming canopy,
So that, for hours, the dark was palpable;
Or whether, under the moist star of Eve,
The village slumbered peaceful, great old trees
Intensely still, and immemorial pools
Silently shining, save where, now and then,
The Alligator glided from the bank,
Warned by the chill of evening, or the girls
With tinkling bangles, and the ringing laugh
Of youth, and happiness, and unrestraint,
In coming down for water, scared away
The timid monster of two elements.
Once, as they halted in an ancient grove,
Set by some hospitable hand, of old,
And consecrate to travellers, now too near
The fortress of a wild Mahratta Prince,
The weary band were throwing by their arms,
And, gathered in their separate brotherhoods,
Prepared for evening’s rest; some made in earth
Their simple ovens, some set up the tents,
Some slew the bleating kid, some kneeling, turned
Their faces to the West, their Prophet’s shrine,
And with much prostrate bending, prayed to Him
Who made the morning and the even-tide.
Suddenly came upon them, unawares,
The soldiers of the castle, bound their arms,
And drove them, harshly, o’er the plain, on foot,
Weary and terror-stricken, through the gate,
Into the presence hall, where sate their chief.
Sternly he questioned Michael of his wealth,
And with what hope he, from a foreign land,
Was wandering, thus attended; who, in scorn,
Answered him nothing; till “Away with him!
Bind him there on the house-top, that the moon
Shed curses on his face, pale as her own,
And our strong Sun burn up his alien blood;
And straitly search, and bring me all his gold.”
They laid him on a low, unfurnished couch,
And left him, bound, alone; he could but look
Up to the sky, his head so fast was set,
And so he lay, and strove to rest himself,
But vainly; the sharp cords entered his flesh,
The dews sank on his shuddering skin; the Moon
Rose, like a fire, among the mango boughs,
And, slowly wending on her westward way,
Smote him with deadly influence: so night passed,
A night as long as three; the chilly dawn
Came, grey, and weakly struggling with the Moon,
Then threw a red flush over all the East,
Whereat the Moon turned white, and hid herself,
While the great Orb that is her lord arose,
And swiftly mounted high: his pain increased,
His body streamed, his brain was agonised,
His sense was reeling; suddenly there came
A tingling stillness on his ears; his eyes
Closed; and he scarcely knew of one who said,
“Let be; unbind him; ’tis a warrior good.”
Long days the fever lasted, but his strength,
Nursed by the breezes of a hardier clime,
Would not desert him; so that he arose,
A bold, refreshed young giant: then the Chief
Spoke soothing words; and Michael hid his wrath,
And answered calmly; till they made them terms,
That Michael gave the service of his skill
To tame those wild Mahrattas, ruling them
To discipline, that they might grow more fierce,
Like dogs, that wreak on foes their masters’ will.

IV.

Time held his course; the strong-willed man of blood
Prospered in all he undertook, and throve,
And gathered stores, and seemed to casual eyes
A happy child of Fortune; yet there burned
Two unextinguished furnaces of woe
Within him—lust of gold and of revenge:
For his was not a spirit that e’er could yield,
Or ever cease to think upon its wrongs.
And therefore watched he, many days and years,
How he might compass his employer’s ruin,
And yet not risk his fortunes; the last spark
Of holier fire, his love for that fair girl,
That cottage-flower of purity and truth,
Margaret, the sister of his boyhood’s friend—
That spark still smouldered in some inmost nook
Of his sin-darkened bosom, for the fumes
Of thought debased, rose ever, like a smoke,
Dimming the smiles of Nature; the carouse,
The fierce extremes of dalliance and of blood,
Had almost made him something less than Man.
At length came round the time he waited for;
The fraud and rapine of the prince he served
Rose to such height, as seemed, to the English chiefs
A source of fear, if not at once abridged;
And thereupon, they issued words of War.
Full long the Rajah treated, hoping still,
By terms, to pacify the alien power
Which, even then, was growing terrible;
But each concession, made a day too late,
Drew forth fresh claims of power, and land, and gold;
For, in those days, the illusion of the East
Had not yet vanished; like the peasant boy
Who deems that London streets are paved with gold,
Men, old in all the arts of peace and war,
Dreamed that a land whose poverty they saw,
Might harbour still the treasures of romance.
At last, grown desperate, he stood at bay,
And, hoping that the neighbouring potentates,
(Whose crooked policy still left in doubt
Which side they meant to favour) when they saw
Their countryman but once victorious,
Would join to drive the usurper to the Sea,
Resolved to stand the hazard of a fight.

V.

The season was the later Indian rains;
The sorrowing sky, bereaved of her Lord,
Was dark and full of weeping, and the heart
Of Michael, though a bold one, had been trained
In its cold native Island, to a love
Of the bright beams of Summer; and the Sun
Even when it dealt destruction, gave him joy:
And now he drooped, and felt an inward dread,
Such as the priests of old Jerusalem
Felt, when they heard the sighing gust that swept,
From the dark shrine to the gate Beautiful,
Upon the fatal night before the storm,
When the Shechinah left them audibly.
Long mused he, while the chill damp night came on,
And starting, after dark, trooped with sad thoughts,
Felt fear and wonder that he was alone.
Around his tent he heard the mighty waters
Plash in the wet, and hiss upon the dry;
Within, the congregated insect life
Monotonously hummed; he made two turns,
Then, calling for his torch, took an old book,
Brass-bound and weather wasted, the last gift
Of a dear mother, given to him with sobs,
And murmured blessings, when he left his home.
He opened it, and face to face arose
The dead old years he thought to have escaped,
All chronicled in letters; there he saw
Answers to some of his, containing doubts
Long since become negations, some again
Encouraging resolves of his, long broke,
And, as he thought, forgotten; not a leaf
But marked some downward step: Oh, in our life
There are no hours so full of speechless woe,
As those in which we read, through misty eyes,
Letters from those who loved us once; of whom
Some have long ceased to love at all; the hand
That traced the fond warm records still and cold;
The spirit that turned to ours, long lost to all
That moves and mourns and sins upon the earth;
And some, oh! sadder! that, by us estranged,
Still live, still love, but live for us no more.
He sate and gazed, till through the tent was heard
That sound the coldest cannot hear unmoved,
The strong spasmodic weeping of a man.
And all that night in Michael’s tent there burned,
Though foul with smoke, and swayed by gusty winds,
A strong bright torch, fit emblem of his soul,
That keen lamp of God’s lighting bright and strong.
While, looking on a tress of golden hair
That lay before him, all night long he sate;
This was the man who left in days gone by,
A friend, and a friend’s sister, dear as he—
A most kind mother, sinking with her cares—
An apathetic father, worn with woe—
A home in ruins—and a noble name,
To be renewed, or ended, by himself.

VI.

All things had now combined; they were to march
Against the English army; thoughts long nursed
Had taken form, to ripen into deeds.
The rains were ended; and the army met
In an old city where he marshalled them;
And, as he walked at evening, on the terrace
Of the high castle where his dwelling was,
He looked through fretted arches to the plain,
And saw their tents dropped white and countless there,
Like sheep without a shepherd—like poor sheep
Marked for the slaughter—and he pitied them.
Ere long, the dying despot of the day
Sank softly down, drowned in a sea of blood—
Like the old Roman Wolf in Capreæ.
Michael prepared for action: dark night fell,
The tents were lost to sight, the shouting sank,
The drums were silent, all the plain was dark;
Only against the far horizon loomed
The uneven outline of the distant hills.
He called his trusty troopers, and stole forth,
Hoping to pass the camp all unobserved;
But with that Host was one who loved him not,
His own Lieutenant, nephew to the King,
And higher in the soldiers’ hearts than he—
This man had dogged his path for many a day—
And when they came to the town’s outer gate,
They found it strictly guarded; Michael rode,
In anger, at the densest, shouting loud,
“Smite, smite them, spare not, each man for his life.”
His Arab Horse, that stood with gathered limbs,
And head reined to his chest, sprang at the cry,
And leaping, like a flame, plunged in the crowd;
The rest was one confusion, without sight,
Or sound—a breathless dream of ecstasy—
Till he, and half a hundred mounted men,
Were pouring o’er the plain, as pour the floods,
When the dams burst, and winter drowns the fields.
On came the fierce Lieutenant, and behind
Thundered a motley rabble, whose lean steeds
Could ill sustain that violent career,
And soon there were not left who followed him
Five hundred horsemen; still the chase was hot;—
Hot was the chase, and long—o’er scorched sands,
And open cornfields, till the spent pursuers
Began to drop behind;—some, rolled on earth,
Saw their girths broken, or their horses slain.
Then Michael’s men drew bridle and stood still,
Waiting the onset of the exhausted crew,
Whose numbers now were scarce the double of theirs.
First came the bold Foujdar. “Forward!” he cried;
“Down with the false Feringhi” his last word;—
A pistol flash, a groan, a drop of blood
On the white drapery he wore—his horse
Was riderless for ever. Michael turned
Fierce on the cowed pursuers, “Get you back,
And tell your master he is now to pay
My long-held forfeit for foul injuries,
Who dared to fling on me, when I was weak,
The childish insults of a childish mind.”
That night he was within the British lines;
But his dear gold was gone; for at the gate
His waggon-bullocks and their driver slain,
And half his guard cut off, he had but saved
His life alone, and some few jewels, stored
Upon his person: once more, all his toil,
His guilt, was foiled; he was a beggar still.

VII.

His ill-gained wealth was gone, but not his heart;
And gain it seemed to that impatient spirit
That now he should not go, a man disgraced,
To build his fallen ancestral home, long bare
To the invading scorn of low-born men.
He would sail eastward, with what yet remained,
Touch at some island of the Tropic seas,
And take a freight of spices; thence set sail
For the rich ports of China, there to trade,
And see the wonders of that unknown land;
Thence o’er the broad Pacific, and so down
By Panama, and Valparaiso, home
By the cold Land of Fire: thus would he voyage,
And gain more wealth, and win himself a name
For riches and adventure, courage bold,
And knowledge of strange countries. Then no more
Would cleave to him the brand of his disgrace;—
All bow the knee to him whom Fortune serves,
And he would be her master: he would rise
Higher and brighter o’er the heads of men,
Blaze in their sight—no meteor, shortlived, vain,
But rule them like the Day-God; then to him
The Senate and the Court should open their gates,
The mammon-loving City name his name,
His old ancestral mansion rear its head,
And he would dwell at ease, for all abroad
He should behold the lands his fathers held,
And breathe again his genial native air.
Nature and he should both their youth renew,
And all things have a beauty not their own.
There, on the upland, shall a milder sun
Smite the white cottage and the glistening vane;
And nestle in the balmy stack, and float,
A fruitful flood upon the southern wall;—
There the great oak shall stir his solemn head,
The lime-tree shed her blossoms sweetly faint,
The poplar tremble, like the heart of man,
Whose darkest thoughts have under-lights of hope;—
The beech shall spread his venerable shade,
The stately elms’ procession guard his walks,
The birch-bark gleam through foliage, and the ash
Wave ruddy clusters;—willows there shall weep,
And the wet alder shall delight to wade
Knee-deep in sluggish waters, where the kine
Take the whole meadow with contented eye,
Philosophers of nature.
One dark thought
Alone can mar these visions;—he must die,
And leave the dear possessions: in this land
Where men are struck down in their hour of strength,
That thought will oft intrude;—by day it flies
Before the excitement that his life affords—
The chase, the goblet, and the battle-field.
In sleep it haunts him; once he dreamed a dream:
Fifty unspeakable ones had borne his soul,
(For he was dead) with sounds of writhing laughter,
Into a sideless, roofless, bottomless place,
And left him there alone;—there was no pain;
But a sense that all was lost for evermore,
That this was now, and worse might be to come,
Made the stagnation misery; till, behold,
The sad and silent years wore on;—at length
His musing Spirit said within herself:—
“Oh! for one breath of life; a day, an hour,
Before the irrevocable change;—how great
My power was, had I used it; now ’tis gone.
Where is my wealth? a heap of rotten leaves
Blown to the shores of folly, where it grew;
My cherished body gone, perchance, for ever,
Perhaps reserved to torment.” With the thought
He strove to utter such a cry, as, heard
Echoing beyond the hollow halls of Hell,
Upon the confines of the orbed Earth,
Might warn the guilty, ere it was too late;—
And with that cry he woke: the dawning day
Saw him confused with horror; when it set,
He was carousing to the lips in sin.
Now was no hope! save that domestic joys
Might give him pause, and win him from his sins—
Sins not now pleasant, but so strong of growth,
That, like old Ivy, they had hid the tree,
And threatened its destruction.
There was one,
(Although he dared not name her) who had been
A cottage light, still seen, though far away,
In the dark, stormy wilderness of life;
Her love should win him yet;—for he had heard
That she was still unwedded; and he knew
Her woman’s heart, in blessed ignorance,
Might still be true to that which he had been.

VIII.

He sailed, in search of wealth, from Ganges’ mouth,
But the ship’s prow was never seen again,
Stemming the homeward waters—whether, whelmed
In stormy ocean, half way down she swayed
And swung among the dolphins and the sharks;
Or whether, on some calm Pacific night,
Where on the farthest limits of the dark
There rose and fell the momentary flash
Of lone inland volcanoes, some soft breeze
Had run her slowly on the coral reefs,
And the blue waves had rippled o’er her grave,
There was a nine days’ wonder;—men inquired,
Where was the man, whose wealth, without an heir,
(So lost, so wonderfully won again,
After he left the country, by the faith
Of an old servant, thought to have been slain,)
Was fabulously splendid? And some said
There was a Will; all he might have was left
To strangers—“to a Lady he had loved.”
It was the year that filled the century
From Michael’s birth, when he was seen again.
A venturous band had wandered in the West,
Till far from towns, or any haunt of men,
They came upon a region by the sea.
Rock-bound and bare it lay; and all the storms
That hurled the ancient, white-topped, weary waves
On California, since the world began,
Had, day by day, and year by untold year,
Heaped all their violence on its patient side,
And wasted it unhindered;—such salt herbs,
Such dwarf and barren trees as the keen air
Gave sufferance to, but rendered still more grim
The stony desolation of the place.
Yet was that soil not barren, or the men
Had never sought its distant boundaries;
For they were of the eager Saxon race,
And e’en their rude and weather-wasted garb
Bore mark of civilised life: “No foot of man,”
Said one, “has trode these wastes from everlasting:
Brothers, the land is virgin; part we here,
And in the evening let us meet again,
There, by the mouth of yonder natural cave,
And share the general labours of the day—
See, Edward, even now you tripped on gold.”
They parted: in the evening, when they met,
Their leader wore a sad and solemn look,
And with few words he led them up the rocks,
Into a stern wild scene. Far as they looked,
Cliff heaped on cliff, and stone on fragment stone,
The land’s brown ribs extended: here and there
Steep chasms it had, declining to the sea:—
Some were the beds of streams, that evermore
Washed down the golden grain, and in a year
Paid to the treasury of the insatiate flood
More than the subjects of the richest Kings
Yield to their despots in a century;—
But some of them were dry, and choked with stones
And logs of rotting timber, and deep sand;—
Here, with the lumps of ore heaped high around
They found a human skeleton; hard by,
A rusty cutlass, such as mariners use,
Whereon was rudely graven, and half-effaced,
The words “Michael De Mas;” and underneath,
“I die of want upon a bed of gold.”

THE VINEYARDS OF BORDEAUX.[32]

It is no easy matter now-a-days, for a tourist, whether he travels for pleasure, health, or information, to throw his notes and memoranda into such a shape as shall excite the interest of the reading public. Nothing new is to be picked up by traversing the beaten highways of Europe. We know all about Madrid, and Stockholm, and St Petersburg, and Vienna, and Rome, and Naples. Not only the banks of the Danube and the Rhine, but the coasts of Brittany and the fiords of Norway have been deflowered of all their legends. There exists not as much virgin romance in this quarter of the globe as would furnish a decent excuse for the perpetration of three octavo volumes. Then, as to observations upon men and manners—a line which earnest-minded travellers, who have an eye to the regeneration of the human race, most commonly adopt—we shall fairly confess that we take little interest, and repose less faith, in their fancied discoveries. Your regenerator is almost invariably an ass;—ignorant, garrulous, and as easy to be gulled as the last convert to the Papacy. At every _table d’hôte_ he makes a violent effort to increase his stores of knowledge by inveigling his nearest neighbour into a discussion upon some point of grand social importance; and, in nine cases out of ten, the result is, that he has to pay for the whole of the liquor consumed, without being any wiser than before. And yet, perhaps, even the travelling regenerator is less liable to be humbugged than the travelling collector of statistics. The most truthful people in the world neither think it necessary nor expedient to speak the truth regarding themselves. Individuals are not apt to answer the queries of a stranger touching the state of their own particular finances—neither do men choose to disclose to foreigners the real nature of their national relations. We are all in the habit of fibbing most egregiously, when the honour, the pride, or the interest of our country is in any degree concerned. Why should we scruple to confess that, on various occasions, we made statements to confiding foreigners, under a solemn pledge of secresy, which, when afterwards printed—the inevitable fate of all such confidential statements—have greatly tended to the renown of this portion of the United Kingdom? Our rule has always been to act upon the principle professed by Caleb Balderstone, and never to stick at trifles when the “credit of the family” was involved. We wholly deny that fictions of this kind can be classed in the category of falsehoods. They arise from a just and honourable estimate of the value of national diplomacy; and no one but an arrant idiot would hesitate to contribute his humble quota towards the exaltation of his race.

What right has a Frenchman or any other foreigner to inquire what is going on in the heart of Great Britain? What business is it of his how we cultivate our fields, work our machinery, or clear out the recesses of our mines? Ten to one the fellow is no better than a spy; and if so, it is our bounden duty to mislead him. But patriotism does not belong to one nation only. When the Frenchman or other foreigner beholds an unmistakable Briton, clad, perhaps, in the drab uniform of Manchester, making curious investigations into the value of his crops, and the other sources of his wealth, he most naturally concludes that the child of perfidious Albion is actuated by some sinister motive. The result may be conceived. Figures, more mendacious than any that were ever promulgated by the League, are supplied with amazing liberality to the believing statist. He calculates the product of a province, after the inspection of a single farmyard; commits his observations to the press, and is henceforward quoted as an oracle!

It is not from tourists that we can hope to gather accurate information of the state of other countries. A very great amount of mischief and misconception has arisen from an absurd reliance in the accuracy of men who were absolute strangers to the country in which they sojourned, and necessarily exposed to every sort of imposition; and really, with all deference to our brethren of the daily press, we must be allowed to express our conviction that the system of “Commissionership” has, of late years, been carried a great deal too far. Of the talents of the gentlemen so employed we would wish to speak with the utmost respect. They are, almost all of them, clever fellows, sharp, shrewd, and observing; but it is too much to expect that, at a moment’s notice, they can forget the whole previous antecedents of their lives, and discourse dogmatically and with perfect precision upon subjects of which they knew nothing until they were gazetted for the special service.

Mr Reach, we trust, will do us the kindness to believe that these preliminary remarks have not been elicited by anything contained in his present volume, and also that we intend no insinuation derogatory of his contributions in the capacity of a commissioner. The fact is, that we have not read his papers on the social and agricultural condition of the peasantry of France, being somewhat more deeply interested in the condition of our peasantry at home; but we know quite enough of his talent and ability to make us certain that he has treated the subject both honestly and well. Fortunately we are not called upon now to investigate his statistical budget. He comes before us in the more agreeable character of a traveller in the sunny south of France. Led by a fine natural instinct, he has tarried in the vinous district until he has imbibed the true spirit of the region. His native Caledonian sympathies in favour of claret—a disposition in which we cordially participate, detesting port almost as intensely as Whiggery—were fully developed by a sojourn in the neighbourhood of the Chateau Lafitte. Of Ceres, at so much a quarter, he tells us nothing—of Bacchus, at so much a bottle, he speaks well and eloquently. Endowed by nature with a gay and happy temper, fond of fun, relishing adventure, and with a fine eye for the picturesque, he ranges from the Garonne to the Rhone, from the shores of the Bay of Biscay to the Mediterranean marshes, from the sterile wastes of the Landes, by the splendour of the Pyrenees, to the old Roman city of Nismes—making us wish all the while that we could have made the journey in such agreeable company. As a fellow-traveller, we should be inclined to say that he errs on the score of haste. Assuredly we should have lingered with reverence at some places which he passed with undue precipitancy. He had no right to hurry through Haut-brion as he did—he should have dwelt longer at Leoville. Our matured taste and experience of vintages would have mitigated the rapidity of his career.

Mr Reach has not done justice to himself in the selection of a title for his volume. _Claret and Olives_ are rather apt to be misunderstood in the present day, owing to the practices of previous authors, who have been in the habit of vending the properties of the deceased Joseph Miller under some such after-dinner disguise. _Wine and Walnuts_ was an old title, whereof we have an indistinct recollection; our impression at this moment being, that the wine was corked and the walnuts woefully shrivelled. Then followed _Nuts and Nutcrackers_—maggoty enough, and filled with devil’s-dust that might have choked a member of the League. _Grog and Biscuits_ we presume to have been a feeble sort of production, emanating from a disappointed mind, working on a heritage of wrong. _Sherry and Cheroots_ did not amalgamate. _Alcohol and Anchovies_ gave token of a diseased intellect and a ruined constitution. _Tumblers and Talk_—a Glasgow publication, if we recollect aright—had little circulation except among bibulous members of town-councils, or similar corporations. _Ale and Æsthetics_ was but an unfortunate specimen of alliteration. How many editions of _Beer and ‘Baccy_ have been printed, we know not; but we are not aware as yet that the author has made his fortune. With all these beacons before him, we could wish that Mr Reach had announced his book under some other name. He is not to be confounded, as an author, with the issuers of such catch-pennies. Putting aside even his present work as one of limited interest—though we should be puzzled to name any tourist who writes more pleasantly than our author—his novel of _Leonard Lindsay_ displays a carefulness of composition, and a life-like painting, in the style of Defoe, which contrasts remarkably with the slip-shod trash now forming the staple commodity of the circulating libraries. There is the right stuff in him, visible throughout whatever he attempts; and if at times his taste is liable to exception, we believe that aberration to be solely owing to the exigencies of the times, which leave far too little leisure to most men to revise and consider their productions.

The title, however, is unquestionably appropriate enough, though it may be calculated to mislead the reader. In his wanderings he has visited the home domain both of the vine and the olive—at least he has passed from the sanctuary of the one to the outskirts of the other; but we could really wish that he had not profaned the goodly vintage by reminding us of those lumps of vegetable fatness which sometimes, even now, are served up at an octogenarian symposium, in honour of the goddess Dyspepsia. We honour oil like the Sultan Saladin, and could wish to see it brought into more general use in this country; but there is something revolting to us in the sight and colour of the olive, which has neither the freshness of youth nor the fine hue of maturity. The last man whom we remember to have seen eating olives was an eminent manufacturer of Staleybridge, who helped himself to the fruit of Minerva with his short stubby fingers, descanting all the while on the propriety of the enactment of a bill for augmenting the hours of infant labour. He died, if we recollect aright, about a fortnight afterwards—perhaps in consequence of the olives: if so, we are not disposed to deny that at times they may be served up with advantage.

Mr Reach, however, loathes the olive as much as we do, and therefore there is no difference of opinion between us. We like the fine enthusiasm with which he does justice to the taste of our mother country—a taste which we are certain will not decay so long as Leith flourishes, and the house of Bell and Rannie continues to maintain its pristine ascendancy in claret. With us in the north, we are glad to say there is no recognised medium between Glenlivat and Bordeaux. Either have in the hot water, or produce your ’34; nobody will thank you for that port which you bought last week at an auction, and which you are desirous to represent as having been bottled for your use about the era of the Reform Bill. It may be both “curious” and “crusted,” as you say it is; but you had better have it set aside to make sauce for wild-ducks. Indeed, “curious” port is, for many reasons, a thing to be avoided. We remember once dining at the house of an excellent clergyman in the country, whose palate, however, might have undergone a little more cultivation, with mutual advantage to himself and to his acquaintance. On that occasion we were presented three times with a certain fluid, under three different names; but all of us afterwards agreed that it was the same liquor, varying simply in degree of temperature. First, it came in smoking in a tureen, and was then called hare-soup; secondly, it was poured out cold from a decanter, under the denomination of port; third, and lastly, it came before us tepidly, with the accompaniment of sugar and cream, and the red-armed Hebe who brought the tray had the effrontery to assure us that it was coffee. So much for the curious vintage of Oporto—but we are forgetting Mr Reach.