Chapter III (3)

"You enter an immense court, with his stables on one side and his harem on the other. A regiment of guards was drawn up at the entrance, and two companies were stationed at the lower court. The staircase was filled with soldiers, slaves, and attendants of different nations. I saw Greeks, Armenians, Sclavonians, Georgians, all in their native costume; and dark as were the corridors and entrance, by the flashes of my flambeaux through the mist, the scene struck me as much more grand and imposing than the others. The Seraskier is a robust, soldier-like man, with a fierce look and beard, and an agreeable smile." The Minister was peculiarly polite, and showed him through the rooms and the war department, exhibiting, amongst the rest, his military council, composed of twenty-four officers, sitting at that moment. They were of all ranks, and chosen, as it was said, without any reference as to qualification, but simply by favour. The Turks still act as oddly as ever. A friend of the Marquis told him, that he had lately applied to the Seraskier to promote a young Turkish officer. A few days after, the officer came to thank him, and said, that though the Seraskier had not given him the command of a regiment, he had given him "the command of a ship." The true wonder is, that the Turks have either ships or regiments. But there is a fine quantity of patronage in this department--the number of clerks alone being reckoned at between seven and eight hundred.

The opinions of the Marquis on Mediterranean politics are worth regarding, because he has had much political experience in the highest ranks of foreign life--because from that experience he is enabled to give the opinions of many men of high name and living influence, and because he is an honest man, speaking sincerely, and speaking intelligibly. He regards the preservation of Turkey as the first principle of all English diplomacy in the east of Europe, and considers our successive attempts to make a Greek kingdom, and our sufferance of an Egyptian dynasty, as sins against the common peace of the world. Thus, within a few years, Greece has been taken away; Egypt has not merely been taken away, but rendered dangerous to the Porte; the great Danubian provinces, Moldavia and Wallachia, have been taken away, and thus Russia has been brought to the banks of the Danube. Servia, a vast and powerful province, has followed, and is now more Russian than Turkish; and while those limbs have been torn from the great trunk, and that trunk is still bleeding from the wounds of the late war, it is forced to more exhausting efforts, the less power it retains. But, with respect to Russia, he does not look upon her force and her ambition with the alarm generally entertained of that encroaching and immense power. He even thinks that, even if she possessed Constantinople, she could not long retain it. As all this is future, and of course conjectural, we may legitimately express our doubts of any authority on the subject. That Russia does not think with the Marquis is evident, for all her real movements for the last fifty years have been but preliminaries to the seizure of Turkey. Her exhibitions in all other quarters have been mere disguises. She at one time displays a large fleet in the Baltic, or at another sends an army across Tartary; but she never attempts any thing with either, except the excitement of alarm. But it is in the direction of Turkey that all the solid advances are made. There she always finishes her hostility by making some solid acquisition. She is now carrying on a wasteful war in the Caucasus; its difficulty has probably surprised herself, but she still carries it on; and let the loss of life and the expenditure of money be what they will, she will think them well encountered if they end in giving her the full possession of the northern road into Asia Minor. Russia, in possession of Constantinople, would have the power of inflicting dreadful injuries on Europe. If she possessed a responsible government, her ambition might be restrained by public opinion; or the necessity of appealing to the national representatives for money--of all checks on war the most powerful, and in fact the grand operative check, at this moment, on the most restless of European governments, France. But with her whole power, her revenues, and her military means completely at the disposal of a single mind, her movements, for either good or evil, are wholly dependent on the caprice, the ambition, or the absurdity of the individual on the throne. The idea that Russia would weaken her power by the possession of Constantinople, seems to us utterly incapable of proof. She has been able to maintain her power at once on the Black Sea, seven hundred miles from her capital; on the Danube, at nearly the same distance, and on the Vistula, pressing on the Prussian frontier. In Constantinople she would have the most magnificent fortress in the world, the command of the head of the Mediterranean, Syria, and inevitably Egypt. By the Dardanelles, she would be wholly inaccessible; for no fleet could pass, if the batteries on shore were well manned. The Black Sea would be simply her wet-dock, in which she might build ships while there was oak or iron in the north, and build them in complete security from all disturbance; for all the fleets of Europe could not reach them through the Bosphorus, even if they had forced the Dardanelles--that must be the operation of an army in the field. On the north, Russia is almost wholly invulnerable. The Czar might retreat until his pursuers perished of fatigue and hunger. The unquestionable result of the whole is, that Russia is the real terror of Europe. France is dangerous, and madly prone to hostilities; but France is open on every side, and experience shows that she never can resist the combined power of England and Germany. It is strong evidence of our position, that she has never _ultimately_ triumphed in any war against England; and the experience of the last war, which showed her, with all the advantages of her great military chief, her whole population thrown into the current of war, and her banner followed by vassal kings, only the more consummately overthrown, should be a lesson to her for all ages. But Russia has never been effectually checked since the reign of Peter the Great, when she first began to move. Even disastrous wars have only hastened her advance; keen intrigue has assisted military violence, and when we see even the destruction of Moscow followed by the final subjugation of Poland, we may estimate the sudden and fearful superiority which she would be enabled to assume, with her foot standing on Constantinople, and her arm stretching at will over Europe and Asia. Against this tremendous result there are but two checks, the preservation of the Osmanli government by the jealousy of the European states, and the establishment of a Greek empire at Constantinople: the former, the only expedient which can be adopted for the moment, but in its nature temporary, imperfect, and liable to intrigue: the latter, natural, secure, and lasting. It is to this event that all the rational hopes of European politicians should be finally directed. Yet, while the Turk retains possession we must adhere to him; for treaties must be rigidly observed, and no policy is safe that is not strictly honest. But if the dynasty should fail, or any of those unexpected changes occur which leave great questions open, the formation of a Greek empire ought to be contemplated as the true, and the only, mode of effectually rescuing Europe from the most formidable struggle that she has ever seen. But the first measure, even of temporary defence, ought to be the fortification of Constantinople. It is computed that the expense would not exceed a million and a half sterling.

The Marquis, by a fortunate chance for a looker-on, happened to be in the Turkish capital at the time when the populace were all exulting at the capture of Acre. It was admitted that the British squadron had done more in rapidity of action, and in effect of firing, than it was supposed possible for ships to accomplish, and all was popular admiration and ministerial gratitude. In addition to the lighting of the mosques for the Ramazan, Pera and Constantinople were lighted up, and the whole scene was brilliant. Constant salvoes were fired from the ships and batteries during the day, and at night, of course, all was splendour on the seven hills of the great city.

On the "Seraskier's Square," two of the Egyptian regiments taken at Beyrout defiled before the commander-in-chief. The Turkish bands in garrison moved at their head. The prisoners marched in file; and, having but just landed from their prison-ships, looked wretchedly. Having a red woollen bonnet, white jackets, and large white trowsers, they looked like an assemblage of "cricketers." The men were universally young, slight made, and active, with sallow cheeks, many nearly yellow, orange, and even black; still, if well fed and clothed, they would make by no means bad light troops. The Turks armed and clothed then forthwith, and scattered them among their regiments; a proceeding which shows that even the Turk is sharing the general improvement of mankind. Once he would have thrown them all into the Bosphorus.

From this professional display, the Marquis adjourned to the "Grand Promenade," where the sultanas see the world, unseen themselves, in their carriages. "Though," as he writes, "I never had an opportunity of _verifying_ any thing like Miss Pardoe's anecdote of the 'sentries being ordered to face about when presenting arms,' rather than be permitted to gaze on the _tempting_ and _forbidden_ fruit; but, on the contrary, witnessed soldiers escorting all the sultanas' carriages: it is nevertheless true, that a gruff attendant attacked and found fault with me for daring to raise my eyes to a beautiful Turkish woman, whom it was quite impossible I could admire beyond her forehead and two large black eyes, eyebrows, and lashes, which glanced from under her yashmack." But the Marquis has no mercy on the performances of poor Miss Pardoe.

The sultana-mother was a personage of high importance at this time, from her supposed influence over her son. Her equipage was somewhat European--a chariot, with hammer-cloth, (apparently lately received from Long-Acre.) The coachman drove four large bay horses, with a plurality of reins. There were attendants, running Turks, and guards before to clear the way. Two open barouches, ornamented after the manner of the country, followed, and the rear of the sultanas' procession was closed by arebas (or covered and gilded vans) full of women and slaves.

But the most characteristic display of all is the "Cabinet." "On the side of this drive is a long colonnade of shops; and, at the bottom of it, a _barber's_, in which all the ministers of the divan and the pasha assemble! They sit on cushions in grand conclave and conference; and, while affecting to discuss the affairs of the state, the direction of their eyes, and their signs to the recumbent houris in the carriages, show their thoughts to be directed to other objects."

What should we think of the chancellor, the premier, and the three secretaries of state, sitting in council at a fruiterer's in Regent Street, and nodding to the ladies as they pass? But this is not all. The sultan, in his kiosk, sits at one end of the drive, inspecting the whole panorama. Still, it is not yet complete; at the lower end of the colonnade there is a woman-market, where each slave, attended by a duenna, passes and parades, casting her languishing eyes through the files of lounging officers and merchants, who crowd this part of the promenade. All this is essentially Turkish, and probably without any thing like it in the world besides.

The beauty of the Turkish women is still a matter of dispute. When beauty is an object of unlimited purchase, its frequency will be probably found a safe admission. But Turkish women occasionally unveil, and it is then generally discovered that the veil is one of their principal charms. They have even been described as merely good-humoured looking "fatties"--a sufficiently humble panegyric. Lord Londonderry gives it as his opinion, that they are "not generally handsome, but all well-built and well-grown, strong, and apparently healthy. Their eyes and eyebrows are invariably fine and expressive; and their hair is, beyond measure, superior to that of other nations. The thickness of its braidings and plaits, and the masses that are occasionally to be seen, leave no doubt of this."

Long and luxuriant tresses belong to all the southern nations of Europe, and seem to be the results of heat of climate; and there are few facts in physiology more singular than the sudden check given to this luxuriance on the confines of Negroland. There, with all predisposing causes for its growth, it is coarse, curled, and never attains to length or fineness of any kind. The Georgians and Circassians were once the boast of the harem; but the war and the predominance of the Russian power in the Caucasus, have much restricted this detestable national traffic--a circumstance said to be much to the regret of both parents and daughters; the former losing the price, and the latter losing the preferment, to which the young beauties looked forward as to a certain fortune. But later experience has told the world, that the charms of those Armidas were desperately exaggerated by Turkish romance and European credulity; that the general style of Circassian features, though fair, is Tartarish, and that the Georgian is frequently coarse and of the deepest brown, though with larger eyes than the Circassian, which are small, and like those of the Chinese. The accounts written by ladies visiting the harems are to be taken with the allowance due to showy dress, jewels, cosmetics, and the general effect of a prepared exhibition, scarcely less than theatrical. It is scarcely possible that either the human face or form can long preserve symmetry of any kind in a life almost wholly destitute of exercise, in the confined air of their prison, and in the full indulgence of their meals. Activity, animation, and grace--the great constituents of all true beauty--must soon perish in the harem.

The Marquis (an excellent judge of a horse) did not much admire the steeds of the pashas. On a visit to the Seraskier's stables, the head groom brought out fourteen, with light Tartars on them to show their points. Their stables were miserable. The horses were without stalls or litter, in a dark, ill-paved barn. They were heavily covered with rugs. Three or four were very fine Arabs; but the rest were of Turkish blood, with large heads, lopped ears, and thick necks, of indifferent action, and by no means desirable in any shape.

The interview with the Sultan was the last, and was interesting and characteristic. The Marquis had naturally expected to find him in the midst of pomp. Instead of all this, on entering a common French carpeted room, he perceived, on an ordinary little French sofa, the sovereign crosslegged, and alone; two small sofas, half-a-dozen chairs, and several wax-lights, were all the ornaments of this very plain saloon. But the Sultan was diamonded all over, and fully made amends for the plainness of his reception-room. As to his person, Abdul-Mehjid is a tall sallow youth of nineteen or twenty, with a long visage, but possessing fine eyes and eyebrows, so that, when his face is lighted up, it is agreeable and spiritual.

We must now close our sketch of those diversified and pleasant volumes. We regret to hear that their distinguished and active author has lately met with a severe accident in following the sports of his country; but we are gratified with the hope of his recovery, and the hope, too, of seeing him undertake more excursions, and narrate them with equal interest, truth, and animation.

* * * * *

THE CURSE OF GLENCOE.[12]

BY B. SIMMONS.

[12] The tale that follows is founded upon an incident that
occurred some little time before the American War, to Colonel
Campbell of Glenlyon, whose grandfather, the Laird of Glenlyon,
was the officer in King William's service who commanded at the
slaughter of the Macdonalds of Glencoe. The anecdote is told in
Colonel David Stewart's valuable history of the Highland
Regiments. Edin 1822.

The fair calm eve on wood and wold
Shone down with softest ray,
Beneath the sycamore's red leaf
The mavis trill'd her lay,
Murmur'd the Tweed afar, as if
Complaining for the day.

And evening's light, and wild-bird's song,
And Tweed's complaining tune;
And far-off hills, whose restless pines
Were beckoning up the moon--
Beheld and heard, shed silence through
A lofty dim saloon.

The fruits of mellow autumn glow'd
Upon the ebon board;
The blood that grape of Burgundy
In other days had pour'd,
Gleam'd from its crystal vase--but all
Untasted stood the hoard.

Two guests alone sat listlessly
That lavish board beside;
The one a fair-haired stripling, tall,
Blithe-brow'd and eager-ey'd,
Caressing still two hounds in leash,
That by his chair abide.

Right opposite, in musing mood,
A stalwart man was placed,
With veteran aspect, like a tower
By war, not time, defaced,
Whose shatter'd walls exhibit Power
Contending still with Waste.

And as the ivy's sudden veil
Will round the fortress spring,
Some grief unfading o'er that brow
Its shadow seemed to fling,
And made that stalwart man's whole air
A sad and solemn thing.

And so they sat, both Youth and Years,
An hour without a word--
The pines that beckon'd up the moon
Their arms no longer stirr'd,
And through the open windows wide
The Tweed alone was heard.

The elder's mood gave way at last,
Perhaps some sudden whine
Of the lithe quest-hounds startled him,
Or timepiece striking nine;
"Fill for thyself, forgotten Boy,"
He said, "and pass the wine."

"A churlish host I ween am I
To thee, who, day by day,
Thus comest to cheer my solitude
With converse frank and gay,
Or tempt me with thy dogs to course
The moorlands far away.

"But still the fit returns"--he paused,
Then with a sigh resumed,
"Remember'st thou how once beneath,
Yon chestnut, when it bloom'd,
Thou ask'd'st me why I wore the air
Of spirit disentomb'd;

"And why, apart from man, I chose
This mansion grim and hoary,
Nor in my ancient lineage seem'd,
Nor ancient name, to glory?
I shunn'd thy questions then--now list,
And thou shalt hear the story--

"With a brief preface, and thro' life
Believe its warning true--
That they who (save in righteous cause)
Their hands with blood imbrue--
Man's sacred blood--avenging heaven
Will long in wrath pursue.

"A curse has fallen upon my race;
The Law once given in fire,
While Sinai trembled to its base,
That curse inflicted dire,
TO VISIT STILL UPON THE SON,
THE OFFENCES OF THE SIRE.

"My fathers strong, of iron hand,
Had hearts as iron hard,
That never love nor pity's touch,
From ruthless deeds bebarr'd.
And well they held their Highland glen,
Whatever factions warr'd.

"When Stuart's great but godless race
Dissolved like thinnest snow
Before bright Freedom's face, my clan,
The Campbells, served their foe.
--Boy--'twas my grandsire" (soft he said)
"Commanded at Glencoe."

The stripling shrank, nor quite suppress'd
His startled bosom's groan;
Forward and back the casements huge
By sudden gust were blown,
And at the sound one dreaming hound
Awaken'd with a moan.

"_Glencoe_--ay, well the word may stir,
The stoutest heart with fear,
Or burn with monstrous shame the face
Of man from year to year,
As long as Scotland's girdling rocks
The roar of seas shall hear.

"Enough--Glenlyon redly earn'd
The curse he won that night,
When rising from the social hearth
He gave the word to smite,
And all was shriek and helplessness,
And massacre and flight.

"And such a flight!--O, outraged Heaven,
How could'st thou, since, have smiled?
A fathom deep the frozen snow
Lay horrid on the wild,
Where fled to perish youth and age,
And wife and feeble child.

"My couch is soft--yet dreams will still
Convert that couch to snow,
And in my slumbers shot and shout
Are ringing from Glencoe."
That stalwart man arose and paced
The chamber to and fro,
While to his brow the sweat-drop sprung
Like one in mortal throe.

* * * * *

"Glenlyon died, be sure, as die
All desperate men of blood,
And from my sire (his son) our lands
Departed sod by sod,
Till the sole wealth bequeathed me was
A mother fearing God.

"She rear'd me in that holy fear,
In stainless honour's love,
And from the past she warned me,
Whate'er my fate should prove,
To shrink from bloodshed as a sin.
All human sins above.

"I kept the precept;--by the sword
Compell'd to win me bread,
A soldier's life of storm and strife
For forty years I led,
Yet ne'er by this reluctant arm
Has friend or foeman bled.

"But still I felt Glencoe's dark curse
My head suspended o'er,
--Look, this reluctant hand, for all,
Is red with human gore!"
Again that white-lipp'd man arose
And strode the echoing floor.

* * * * *

"A prosperous course through life was mine
On rampart, field, and wave,
Though more my warrior skill than deeds,
Command and fortune gave.
Years roll'd away, and I prepared
To drop the weary glaive.

"'Twas when beyond th' Atlantic foam,
To check encroaching France,
Our war spread wide, and, on his tide,
In many a martial glance,
St Lawrence saw grey Albyn's plumes
And Highland pennons dance.

"E'en while I waited for the Chief,
By whom relieved at last,
Heart-young, though time-worn, I was free
To hail my country's blast--
That on a sentry, absent found,
The doom of death was pass'd.

"POOR RONALD BLAIR! a fleeter foot
Ne'er track'd through Morvern moss
The wind-hoof'd deer; nor swimmer's arm
More wide the surge could toss
Than his, for whom dishonour's hand
Now dug the griesly fosse.

"Suspicion of those hunter tribes,
Along whose giant screen
Of shadowy woods our host encamp'd,
The early cause had been
Of rule, that none of Indian race
Should come our lines within.

"The law was kept, yet, far away,
Amid the forests' glade,
The fair-hair'd warriors of the North
Woo'd many a dusky maid,
Who charm'd, perhaps, not less because
In Nature's garb array'd.

"And warm and bright as southern night,
When all is stars and dew,
Was that dark girl, who, to the banks,
Where lay her light canoe,
Lured Ronald's footsteps, day by day,
What time the sun withdrew.

"Far down the stream she dwelt, 'twould seem,
Yet stream nor breeze could bar
Her little boat, that to a nook,
Dark with the pine-tree's spar,
Each evening Ronald saw shoot up
As constant as a star.

"Alone she came--she went alone:--
She came with fondest freight
Of maize and milky fruits and furs
Her lover's eyes to greet;
She went--ah, 'twas her bosom then,
Not bark, that bore the weight!

"How fast flew time to hearts like theirs!
The ruddy summer died,
And Arctic frosts must soon enchain
St. Lawrence' mighty tide;
But yet awhile the little boat
Came up the river-side.

"One night while from their northern lair
With intermittent swell,
The keen winds grumbled loud and long,
To Ronald's turn it fell
Close to the shore to keep the lines,
A lonely sentinel.

"'Twas now the hour was wont to bring
His Indian maid; and hark!
As constant as a star it comes,
That small love-laden bark,
It anchors in the cove below--
She calls him through the dark.

"He dared not answer, dared not stir,
Where Discipline had bound him;
Nor was there need--led by her heart
The joyous girl has found him;
She understands it not, nor cares,
Her raptured arms are round him.

"He kiss'd her face--he breathed low
Those brook-like, murmuring words
That, without meaning, speak out all
The heart's impassion'd chords,
The truest language human lip
To human lip affords.

"He pointed towards the distant camp,
Her clasping arms undid,
And show'd that till the morrow's sun
Their meeting was forbid;
She went--her eyes in tears--he call'd,
And kiss'd them from the lid.

"She went--he heard her far below
Unmoor her little boat;
He caught the oars' first dip that sent
It from the bank afloat;
Next moment, down the tempest swept
With an all-deafening throat.

"Loud roar'd the storm, but louder still
The river roar'd and rose,
Tumbling its angry billows, white
And huge as Alpine snows;
Yet clear through all, one piercing cry
His heart with terror froze.

"She shrieks, and calls upon the name
She learn'd to love him by;
The waves have swamp'd her little boat--
She sinks before his eye!
And he must keep his dangerous post,
And leave her there to die!

"One moment's dreadful strife--Love wins;
He plunges in the water;
The moon is out, his strokes are stout,
The swimmer's arm has caught her,
And back he bears, with gasping heart,
The Forest's matchless daughter!

"'Twas but a chance!--her life is gain'd,
And his is gone--for, lo!
The picquet round has come, and found,
Left open to the foe,
The dangerous post that Ronald kept
So short a time ago.

"They met him bearing her--he scorn'd
To palter or to plead:
Arrested--bound--ere beat of drum,
The Judgment-court decreed
That Ronald Blair should with his life
Pay forfeit for his deed.

"He knew it well--that deed involved
Such mischief to the host,
While prowling spy and open foe
Watch'd every jealous post,
That, of a soldier's crimes, it call'd
For punishment the most.

"On me, as senior in command,
The charge I might not shun
Devolved, to see the doom of death
Upon the culprit done.
The place--a league from camp; the hour--
The morrow's evening sun.

"Meanwhile some touches of the tale
That reach'd the distant tent
Of Him who led the war in Chief,
Won justice to relent.
That night, in private, a REPRIEVE
Unto my care was sent,

"With secret orders to pursue
The sentence to the last,
And when the prisoner's prayer was o'er,
And the death-fillet past,
_But not till then_, to read to him
That Pardon for the past.

"The morrow came; the evening sun
Was sinking red and cold,
When Ronald Blair, a league from camp
We led, erect and bold,
To die the soldier's death, while low
The funeral drum was roll'd.

"With arms reversed, our plaided ranks
The distance due retire,
The fatal musqueteers advance
The signal to require:
'_Till I produce this kerchief blue,
Be sure withhold your fire_.'

"His eyes are bound--the prayer is said--
He kneels upon his bier;
So dread a silence sank on all,
You might have heard a tear
Drop to the earth. My heart beat quick
With happiness and fear,

"To feel conceal'd within my vest
A parting soul's relief!
I kept my hand on that REPRIEVE
Another moment brief;
Then drew it forth, but with it drew,
O God! the handkerchief.

"He fell!--and whether He or I
Had died I hardly knew--
But when the gusty forest breeze
Aside the death-smoke blew,
I heard those bearing off the dead,
Proclaim that there were _two_.

"They said that as the volley ceased,
A low sob call'd them where
They found an Indian maiden dead,
Clasping in death's despair
One feather from a Highland plume
And one bright lock of hair.

"I've long forgot what follow'd, save
That standing by his bier,
I shouted out the words some fiend
Was whispering in my ear--
'My race is run--_the curse of Heaven
And of Glencoe is here_!'[13]

"From that dark hour all hope to me,
All _human_ hope was gone;
I shrank from life a branded man--
I sought my land alone,
And of a stranger's purchased halls
I joy'd to make my own.

"Thou'st known me long as Campbell--now
Thou know'st the Campbell's story,
And why, apart from man, I chose
This mansion grim and hoary,
Nor in my ancient lineage seem'd,
Nor ancient name, to glory.

"Though drear my lot, yet, noble boy,
Not always I repine;
Come, wipe those watery drops away
That in thine eyelids shine;
Fill for thyself," the old man said,
"Once more, and pass the wine."

[13] Such was his exclamation, as repeated in the History
before referred to. Colonel Campbell always imputed the
unfortunate occurrence that clouded the evening of his life to
the share his ancestor had in the disastrous affair of Glencoe.

* * * * *

THE MARTYRS' MONUMENT.

A MONOLOGUE.

Now glory to our Councillors, that true and trusty band--
And glory to each gallant heart that loathes its fatherland;
And glory evermore to those who the battle first began,
For the cause of just fraternity, and the equal rights of man.

Ye citizens of Mary-le-bone! 'twas yours to point the way
How freemen best might mock the laws which none but slaves obey;
How classic fanes should rise to mark the honour that we owe
To all who hated Church and King, and planned their overthrow.

O fresh and bright shone reason's light through superstition's gloom,
When one and all ye heard the call of honest Joseph Hume;
When listening to his flowing words, than honey-dew more sweet,
Ye sate, dissolved in holy tears, at that Gamaliel's feet!

How touchingly he spoke of those now gather'd to their rest,
By knaves and laws upbraided, but by righteous patriots bless'd;
How brightly gleamed his eagle eye, as he poured his ancient grudge
On that foul throng that wrought them wrong--on Jury and on Judge!

Well may ye boast among the host of patriots tried and true,
That to your bold humanity the foremost place is due;
Yet others follow fast behind, though ye have led the van,
In the cause of just fraternity, and the equal rights of man!

Dun-Edin's civic Councillors come closely in your wake,
They, too, can feel for injured truth, and blush for Scotland's sake;
Well have they wiped the stain away, affix'd in former years
Upon the citizens of France, and on their bold compeers.

Let women moan and maunder against the glorious time,
When France arose in all her might, when loyalty was crime;
When prison shambles stream'd with blood, and red the gutters ran,
In the cause of just fraternity, and the equal rights of man!

When piled within the crazy boats, chain'd closely to the beam,
By hundreds the aristocrats sank in the sullen stream;
When age and sex were no respite, and merrily and keen,
From morning until night, rush'd down the clanking guillotine.

'Tis ours to render homage, where homage most is due--
Now glory be to DANTON, and to his valiant crew--
And glory to those mighty shades, who never stoop'd to spare,
The virtuous regicides of France, and the hero, ROBESPIERRE.

But greater glory still to those, who strove within our land,
To hoist the cap of liberty, and bare the British brand,
To drag our ancient Parliament from its place of honour down,
To ride rough-shod upon the Lords, and spit upon the Crown.

What though the bigots of the bench declared their treason vile--
What though they languish'd slowly in the felon's distant isle--
Shall we, the children of Reform, withhold our just applause
From those who loved the people and, of course, despised the laws?

We'll rear a stately monument--we'll build it fair and high,
And on the porch this graven verse shall greet the passers-by--
"IN HONOUR OF THE MARTYRS WHO THE BATTLE FIRST BEGAN
FOR THE CAUSE OF JUST FRATERNITY, AND THE EQUAL RIGHTS OF MAN!"

'Twill be a proud memorial, when we have pass'd away,
Of old Dun-Edin's loyalty, and the Civic Council's sway;
And it shall stand while earth is green and skies are summer blue,
Eternal as the sleep of those who fell at Peterloo!

Were I a chosen Councillor--a tetrarch of the town,
I'd drag from off their pedestals these Tory statues down;
I'd make a universal sweep of all that serves to show
How vilely the aristocrats have used us long ago.

The column rear'd to victory in that detested war,
When the Tricolor went down before our flag at Trafalgar,
The column that hath taught our sons to mutter Nelson's name,
I'd level straightway with the dust, and with it sink our shame.

Yes! in that place a classic fane should stand where Nelson's stood,
With new baptismal cognizance from famous THISTLEWOOD;
His bust should in the centre shine, and round it, placed on guard,
The effigies of HATFIELD, INGS, and of the good DESPARD.

There's Pitt, the Lar of Frederick Street--O shame to us and ours!
Was it not he whose policy struck back the Gallic powers?
Was it not he whose iron hand so ruthlessly kept down
The tide of bold democracy, and saved the British crown?

I'd fetch him from his lofty perch; I'd dash him on the stones;
I'd serve the lifeless bronze the same as I'd have served his bones;
And on the empty stance I would in radiant metal show,
A bolder and a braver man--the patriot PAPINEAU.

Down, down, I say, with George the Fourth!--for him there's no delay;
Let all askance direct their glance, for virtue's sake, we pray;
So says our new Pygmalion, the purist of the town,
'Twere shame that he compelled should be, in passing, to look down.

Let's find another statue of the brave old English breed,
A worthy of an earlier age--a champion good at need;
No cause were then to seem ashamed, though slaves might feel afraid,
When emancipated bondsmen bow'd to the image of JACK CADE.

There's room enough where Royal Charles sits stiffly in the Square,
To rear a double effigy--Why not of BURKE and HARE?
Though not in freedom's cause they died, remember'd let it be,
That science has its martyrdom, as well as liberty.

A monument to Walter Scott!--A monument forsooth!
What has that bigot done for us, for freedom, or for truth?
He always back'd the Cavalier against the Puritan,
And sneer'd at just fraternity, and the equal rights of man.

What good to us have ever done his Legends of Montrose,
Of Douglas and of dark Dundee, the fellest of our foes?
What care we for the Border chiefs, or for the Stuart line,
Or the thraldom of the people in "the days of auld langsyne?"

Men dream'd not of equality in days so darkly wild,
Nor was the peasant's bantling _then_ mate for the baron's child;
But we've learn'd another lesson since the golden age drew near,
And working men may keep the wall, and jostle prince and peer.

Ye fools! take down your monument--or rear it, if ye will,
But choose another effigy that lofty niche to fill.
None better, say ye? Pause awhile, and I will tell you one,
Who never bent the servile knee at altar or at throne.

No fond illusions dull'd _his_ eye, no tales of wither'd eld;
No childish faith was _his_ to trust aught save what he beheld;
No sovereignty would he allow save Reason's rightful reign;
No laws save those of Nature's code--and such was THOMAS PAINE.

Place him within your Gothic arch, the only fit compeer
Of those whose martyr monument the Council seek to rear;
Since traitors to the laws of man may boldly look abroad,
Towards the image of their friend who broke the laws of God.

Since anarchy must have its meed, let's leave no statue here,
That might from other lips than ours provoke a cynic sneer:
If temples must be built to crime, we'll worship there alone,
Nor leave a mark of loyalty or honour in the stone.

Then glory to our Councillors, that true and trusty band--
And glory to each gallant heart that loathes its fatherland;
And glory evermore to those who the battle first began,
For the cause of just fraternity, and the equal rights of man!

* * * * *

TASTE AND MUSIC IN ENGLAND.