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Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 54, No. 333, July 1843

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Title: Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 54, No. 333, July 1843

Author: Various


        
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE — VOLUME 54, NO. 333, JULY 1843 ***

BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE


No. CCCXXXIII. JULY, 1843. VOL. LIV.



CONTENTS.


MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN. PART II.
ENGLISH MUSIC AND ENGLISH MUSICIANS.
PHILHELLENIC DRINKING-SONG. BY B. SIMMONS.
THE PRAIRIE AND THE SWAMP. AN ADVENTURE IN LOUISIANA.
THE ARISTOCRACY OF ENGLAND.
JACK STUART'S BET ON THE DERBY, AND HOW HE PAID HIS LOSSES.
SCROPE ON SALMON FISHING.
THE WHIPPIAD, A SATIRICAL POEM. BY REGINALD HEBER.
CHARLES EDWARD AT VERSAILLES.
EARLY GREEK ROMANCES--THE ETHIOPICS OF HELIODORUS.
PAST AND PRESENT, BY CARLYLE.


WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, EDINBURGH AND 22, PALL-MALL, LONDON.

       *       *       *       *       *




MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN.

PART II.

    "Have I not in my time heard lions roar?
     Have I not heard the sea, puft up with wind,
     Rage like all angry boar chafed with sweat?
     Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,
     And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies?
     Have I not in the pitched battle heard
     Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang?"

SHAKSPEARE.


My entertainer received me with more civility than I had expected. He
was almost fashionably dressed; his grim features were smoothed into an
elaborate smile; and he repeated his gratification at seeing me, in such
variety of tones that I began to doubt the cordiality of my reception.
But I could have no doubt of the elegance of the apartment into which I
was shown. All was foreign, even to the flowers in the vases that filled
the windows. A few bas-reliefs in the most finished style; a few
alabasters as bright as if they had been brought at the moment from
Carrara; a few paintings of the Italian masters, if not original and of
the highest value, at least first-rate copies--caught the eye at once:
the not _too_ much, the not _too_ little, that exact point which it
requires so much skill to touch, showed that the eye of taste had been
every where; and I again thought of the dungeon in the city, and asked
myself whether it was possible that Mordecai could be the worker of the
miracle.

Naturally making him some acknowledgment for his invitation, and saying
some civil thing of his taste, he laughed, and said, "I have but little
merit in the matter. All this is my daughter's. Moorfields is _my_
house; this house is Mariamne's. As our origin and connexions are
foreign, we make use of our opportunities to indulge ourselves in these
foreign trifles. But we have a little 'réunion' of our neighbours this
evening, and I must first make you known to the lady of the _fête_." He
rang the bell.

"Neighbours!" said I; "all round me, as I came, seemed solitude; and
yours is so beautiful, that I almost think society would injure its
beauty."

"Well, well, Mr Marston, you shall see. But this I advise you, take care
of your heart if you are susceptible."

A servant announced that his mistress would attend us in a few minutes,
and I remained examining the pictures and the prospect; when a gay
voice, and the opening of a door, made me turn round to pay my homage to
the lady. I had made up my mind to see one of the stately figures and
magnificent countenances which are often to be found in the higher
orders of the daughters of Israel. I saw, on the contrary, one of the
gayest countenances and lightest figures imaginable--the _petit nez
retroussé_, and altogether much more the air of a pretty Parisian than
one of the superb race of Zion. Her manner was as animated as her eyes,
and with the ease of foreign life she entered into conversation; and in
a few minutes we laughed and talked together, as if we had been
acquaintances from our cradles.

The history of the house was simply, that "she hated town and loved the
country; that she loved the sea better than the land, and loved society
of her own selection better than society forced upon her.--On the
sea-shore she found all that she liked, and escaped all that she hated.
She therefore lived on the sea-shore.--She had persuaded her father to
build that house, and they had furnished it according to their own
recollections, and even their own whims.--Caprice was liberty, and
liberty was essential to the enjoyment of every thing. Thus, she loved
caprice, and laid herself open to the charge of being fantastic with
those who did not understand her."

In this sportive way she ran on, saying all kinds of lively nothings;
while we drank our coffee out of Saxon porcelain which would have shone
on the table of a crowned head.

The windows were thrown open, and we sat enjoying the noblest of all
scenes, a glorious sunset, to full advantage. The fragrance of the
garden stole in, a "steam of rich distilled perfumes;" the son of the
birds, in those faint and interrupted notes which come with such
sweetness in the parting day; the distant hum of the village, and the
low solemn sound of the waves subsiding on the beach, made a harmony of
their own, perhaps more soothing and subduing than the most refined
touches of human skill. We wanted nothing but an Italian moon to realize
the loveliness of the scene in Belmont.

    "The moon shines bright. In such a night as this,
    When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,
    And they did make no noise--in such a night
    Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs
    That did renew old Jason."

As I glanced on the little, superbly dressed Jewess, sitting between her
father and myself, I thought of the possibilities to come.

                    ----"In such a night
    Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew,
    And, with an unthrift love, did run from Venice."

We soon after had the moon herself, rising broad and bright from the
ocean; and all was romance, until a party were seen coming up the
avenue, laughing and talking very sportively.

"I beg a thousand apologies; but I had forgotten to mention that we have
a small dance this evening, chiefly foreign, and, as you may perceive,
they keep early hours," said Jessica, rising to receive them.

"They are French, and emigrants," added Mordecai. "All is over with them
and theirs in France, and they have made the best of their way to
England, therein acting more wisely than those who have stayed behind. I
know France well; the '_tigre-singe_,' as their countryman described
them. These unfortunates have been consigned to me by my correspondents,
like so many bales of silks, or barrels of Medoc. But here they come."

I certainly was not prepared for the names which I now heard
successively announced. Instead of the moderate condition from which I
had supposed Mordecai and his pretty daughter, aspiring as she was, to
have chosen their society, I found myself in a circle of names of which
the world had been talking since I was in my cradle, if not for a dozen
centuries before. I was in the midst of dukes, counts, and chevaliers,
maréchals and marchionesses, the patrons and patronesses of the
Marmontels and D'Alemberts, the charm of the Du Deffand _soirées_, and
the originals for the charming piquancies and exquisite impertinences of
L'Espinasse, and the _coterieisme_ of Paris.

All that I had seen of the peerage of our haughty country was dim and
dull to the gay glitter of the crowd around me. Nature never moulded two
national characters so distinct in all points, but the French exterior
carries all before it. Diamonds and decorations sparkled on every side.
The dresses of the women were as superb as if they had never known fear
or flight; and the conversation was as light, sportive, and _badinant_,
as if we were all waiting in the antechamber of Versailles till the
chamberlain of Marie Antoinette should signify the royal pleasure to
receive us. Here was stateliness to the very summit of human pride, but
it was softened by the taste of its display; the most easy familiarity,
yet guarded by the most refined distinctions The _bon-mot_ was uttered
with such natural avoidance of offence, and the arch allusion was so
gracefully applied, that the whole gave me the idea of a new use of
language. They were _artistes_ of conversation, professors of a study of
society, as much as painters might be of the style of the Bolognese or
the Venetian school.

I was delighted, but I was still more deeply interested; for the chief
topics of the evening were those on which public curiosity was most
anxiously alive at the moment--the hazards of the revolutionary tempest,
which they had left raging on the opposite shore. Yet, "Vive la France!"
we had our cotillon, and our songs to harp and piano, notwithstanding
the shock of governments.

But we had scarcely sat down to the supper which Mordecai's hospitality
and his daughter's taste had provided for us--and a most costly display
of plate and pine-apples it was--when our entertainer was called out of
the room by a new arrival. After some delay, he returned, bringing in
with him a middle-aged officer, a fine soldierly-looking figure, in the
uniform of the royal guard. He had just arrived from France with letters
for some of the party, and with an introduction to the Jew, whom I now
began to regard as an agent of the French princes. The officer was known
to the whole table; and the enquiries for the fate of their friends and
France were incessant and innumerable. He evidently suppressed much, to
avoid "a scene;" yet what he had to tell was sufficiently alarming. The
ominous shake of the Jew's head, and the changes of his sagacious
visage, showed me that he at least thought the evil day on the point of
completion.

"Living," said he, "at this distance from the place of events which
succeed each other with such strange rapidity, we can scarcely judge of
any thing. But, if the king would rely more on his peasantry and less on
his populace, and more on his army than either, he might be king of
France still."

"True!--true!" was the general acclamation.

"He should have clung to his noblesse, like Henri Quatre," said a duke.

"He should have made common cause with his clergy," said a prelate, with
the physiognomy of one of Titian's cardinals.

"Any thing but the Tiers Etat," was uttered by all, with a general voice
of horror.

"My letters of this evening," said Mordecai, "tell me that the _fête_ at
Versailles has had dangerous consequences."

"_Ciel_!" exclaimed a remarkably handsome woman of middle age, with the
"air noble" in every feature. "Pardon me, it must be an error. I was
present. It was the most brilliant of all possible réunions. It was a
pledge to the salvation of France. I hear the sound of 'Richard, O mon
Roi!' in my ear at this moment. When, oh when, shall I hear it again!"
She burst into a passion of tears.

The name was electric. All began that very charming air at the moment.
Sobs and sighs stole in between the pauses of the harmony. Their rich
and practised voices gave it the sweetness and solemnity of a hymn. Fine
eyes were lifted to heaven; fine faces were buried in their clasped
hands; and the whole finished like the subsidence of a prayer.

But madame la duchesse was full of her subject, and we were full of
curiosity. We implored her to give us some idea of a scene, of which all
Europe was thinking and talking. She required no importunity, but told
her tale with the majesty of a Clairon. It was at first all exclamation.
"O my king!--O my unhappy but noble queen!--O my beloved but noble
France! _O Richard! O mon Roi!--Le monde vous abandonné!_" She again
wept, and we again sympathized.

"For weeks," said she, "we had been tortured at Versailles with reports
from the capital. We lived in a perpetual fever. The fury of the
populace was terrible. The wretches who inflamed it constantly
threatened to lead the armed multitude to the palace. We were almost
without defence. The ministers could not be prevailed on to order the
advance of the troops, and we felt our lives from hour to hour dependent
on chance."

"It was my month of waiting as lady of honour. I found the queen always
firm; or, if she ever trembled, it was at the want of firmness in
others. She had made up her mind for the worst long before. She often
said to me, in those revolutionary nights when we sat listening for the
sound of the cannon or the tocsin from Paris--'France is an abyss, in
which the throne must sink. But sovereigns may be undone--they must not
be disgraced.' The world never possessed a more royal mind.

"At length an opportunity seemed to offer of showing the true feeling of
the court to the army. The regiment of Flanders had come to take its
tour of service at the palace, and the _garde du corps_ had sent them an
invitation to a grand military banquet. There was nothing new, and could
have been nothing suspicious, in the invitation; for it was the custom
of the _garde_, on the arrival of any regiment at Versailles, as a
commencement of mutual civility. The regiment of Flanders was a
distinguished corps--but the whole army had been tampered with; and the
experiment was for the first time a doubtful one. As if to make it still
more doubtful, the invitation was extended to the national guard of
Versailles."

Every eye was now fixed on the narrator, as she went on with increasing
animation.

"Never was there a day of greater anxiety. We were sure of the _garde du
corps_; but treachery was roving through France, and the banquet might
only produce a collision. The entertainment, by being in the opera
salon, was actually within the palace, and all the royal suite remained
in the royal apartments, in fear and trembling, during the entire day.

"But as the night advanced, the intelligence, which was brought to us
every five minutes from the salon, became more tranquillizing. The
coldness which had existed in the beginning between the _garde_ and the
troops of the line had vanished, and loyal healths, gay speeches, and
charming songs succeeded. At length a gallant young lieutenant of the
_garde_, in a fit of noble enthusiasm, cried--'We all are the soldiers
of France--we all are loyal, all are happy--Why shall not our king
witness our loyalty and our happiness?' The tidings were instantly
conveyed to the royal apartments. The king rose--the court followed. We
entered the salon. Oh, that sight!--so new, so touching, so
indescribable!"

Her voice sank for a moment. She recovered herself, and proceeded--

"The queen leaned on the arm of the king, the dauphin and dauphiness
followed; Madame Elizabeth, that saint on earth if ever there was one,
headed the ladies of the court. All rose at our entrance; we were
received with one acclamation. The sight is still before me. I had seen
all that was brilliant in the courts of Europe. But this moment effaced
them all. The most splendid _salle_ on earth, crowded with uniforms, all
swords drawn and waving in the light, all countenances turned on the
king, all one shout of triumph, loyalty, and joy! Alas! alas! was it to
be the last beat of the national heart? Alas! alas! was it to be the
last flash of the splendour of France; the dazzling illumination of the
_catafalque_ of the Bourbons; the bright burst of flame from the funeral
pile of the monarchy?"

Her voice sank into silence; for the first time unbroken throughout the
room.

At length, to relieve the pause, Mordecai expressed something of a hope
that the royal family slept in peace, for that one night at least.

"I really cannot tell," briskly said the fair narrator. "But I know that
the ladies of the court did not. As the king retired, and we remained in
the opera boxes to amuse ourselves a little with the display, we heard,
to our astonishment, a proposal that the tables should be cleared away,
and the ladies invited to a dance upon the spot. The proposal was
instantly followed by the officers climbing into the boxes, and by our
tearing up our pocket-handkerchiefs to make them cockades. We descended,
and danced loyally till daybreak."

"With nothing less than field-officers, I hope?" said a superb cavalier,
with a superb smile.

"I hope so too," laughed the lady; "though really I can answer for
nothing but that the cotillon was excessively gay--that our partners, if
not the best dancers upon earth--I always honour the _garde du
corps_,"--and she bowed to the captain; "were the most obliged persons
possible."

"Ah, but roturiers, madame!" said a stiff old duke, with a scorn worthy
of ten generations of ribands of St Louis.

"True; it was most melancholy, when one comes to reflect upon it," said
the lady, with an elevation of her alabaster shoulders to the very tips
of her ears. "But on that evening roturiers were in demand--popularity
was every thing; the _bourgeoisie_ of Versailles were polished by their
friction against the _garde du corps_. And I am sure, that if the same
experiment, distressing as it might be, were tried in every opera salon
in the provinces, and we had longer dances and shorter harangues, more
fiddles and fewer patriots, all would be well again in our 'belle
France.'"

"But--your news, monsieur le capitaine," was the demand all round the
table.

"I almost dread to allude to it," said the captain, "as it may seem to
contradict the opinion of madame la duchesse; yet I am afraid that we
shall have to regret this fête as one of the most disastrous events to
the king." He stopped. But the interest of the time overcame all other
considerations. "Ah, gallantry apart, let us hear!" was the general
voice; and, with every eye instantly fixed on him, and in the midst of
lips breathless with anxiety, and bosoms beating with terror at every
turn of the tale, the captain gave us his fearful narrative:--

"The banquet of the 1st of October," said he, "had delighted us all; but
its consequences, which, I quite agree with madame, ought to have
restored peace, were fatal. It lulled Versailles into a false security,
at the moment when it roused Paris into open rebellion. The leaders of
the populace, dreading the return of the national attachment to our good
king, resolved to strike a blow which should shake the monarchy.
Happening to be sent to Paris on duty next day, I was astonished to find
every thing in agitation--The workmen all in the streets; the orators of
the Palais Royal all on their benches, declaiming in the most furious
manner. Crowds of women rushing along the Boulevards, singing their
barbarous revolutionary songs; some even brandishing knives and carrying
pikes, and all frantic against the fête. As I passed down the Rue St
Honoré, I stopped to listen to the harangue of a half-naked ruffian, who
had made a rostrum of the shoulders of two of the porters of the Halle,
and, from this moving tribune, harangued the multitude as he went along.
Every falsehood, calumny, and abomination that could come from the lips
of man, were poured out by the wretch before me. The sounds of 'Vive
Marat!' told me his name. I afterwards heard that he lived on the
profits of a low journal, in a cellar, with a gang of wretches
constantly drunk, and thus was only the fitter for the rabble. He told
them that there was a conspiracy on foot to massacre the patriots of
Paris; that the troops from the provinces were coming, by order of the
king, to put man, woman, and child to the sword; that the fête at
Marseilles was given to the vanguard of the army to pledge them to this
terrible purpose; that the governors of the provinces were all in the
league of blood; and that the bakers of Paris had received an order from
Versailles to put poison in all their loaves within the next twenty-four
hours. 'Frenchmen,' exclaimed this livid villain, tearing his hair, and
howling with the wildness of a demoniac, 'do you love your wives and
children? Will you suffer them to die in agonies before your eyes? Wait,
and you will have nothing to do but dig their graves. Advance, and you
will have nothing to do but drive the tyrant, with his horde of priests
and nobles, into the Seine. Pause, and you are massacred. Arm, and you
are invincible.' He was answered by shouts of vengeance.

"I remained that night at the headquarters of the staff of Paris, the
Hotel de Ville. I was awakened before daybreak by the sound of a drum;
and, on opening my eyes, was startled by lights flashing across the
ceiling of the room where I slept. Shots followed; and it was evident
that there was a conflict in the streets. I buckled on my sabre hastily,
and, taking my pistols, went to join the staff. I found them in the
balcony in front of the building, maintaining a feeble fire against the
multitude. The night was dark as pitch, cold and stormy, and except for
the sparkle of the muskets from below, and the blaze of the torches in
the hands of our assailants, we could scarcely have conjectured by whom
we were attacked. This continued until daylight; when we at last got
sight of our enemy. Never was there a more tremendous view. Every avenue
to the Place de Grève seemed pouring in its thousands and tens of
thousands. Pikes, bayonets on poles, and rusty muskets, filled the eye
as far as it could reach. Flags, with all kinds of atrocious
inscriptions against the king and queen, were waving in the blast;
drums, horns, and every uncouth noise of the raging million filled the
air. And in front of this innumerable mass pressed on a column of
desperadoes, headed by a woman, or a man disguised as a woman, beating a
drum, and crying out, in the intervals of every roar, 'Bread, bread!'

"To resist was evidently hopeless, or only to provoke massacre; but I
had already dispatched an express to the officer in command at the
Tuileries, to come and save the arms and ammunition deposited at the
Hotel de Ville; and we expected the reinforcement from minute to minute.
While my eyes turned, in this fever of life and death, towards the
quarter from which the troops were to come, a sudden shout from the
multitude made me look round; a fellow, perhaps one of the _funambules_
of the Fauxbourg theatres, was climbing up to the belfry by a rope, with
the agility of a monkey. His purpose was seen by us at once, and seen
with fresh alarm; for, if he had been able to reach the great bell, the
terrible 'tocsin' would have aroused the country for ten leagues round,
and have poured a hundred thousand armed peasantry into Paris. I pointed
him out to the guard, and they fired a volley at him as he swung above
their heads. They missed him, the populace shouted, and the fellow,
taking off his cap and waving it in triumph, still climbed on. I next
fired both my pistols at him; which was the luckier of the two I cannot
tell, but I saw him stagger just as he planted his foot on the
battlement; he was evidently hit, and a general yell from the multitude
told that they saw it too; he made a convulsive spring to secure
himself, fell back, lost his hold, and plunged headlong from a height of
a hundred and fifty feet to the ground! Another tried the same
adventure, and with the same fate; three in succession were shot; but
enthusiasm or madness gave them courage, and at length half a dozen
making the attempt together, the belfry was reached, and the tocsin was
rung. Its effect _was_ terrible. The multitude seemed to be inspired
with a new spirit of rage as they heard its clang. Every bell in Paris
soon began to clang in succession. The din was deafening; the populace
seemed to become more daring and desperate every moment; all was uproar.
I could soon see the effect of the tocsin in the new crowds which
recruited our assailants from all sides. Their fire became heavier;
still, in the spirit of men fighting for their lives, we kept them at
bay till the last cartridge was in our muskets. But, at the moment of
despair, we saw the distant approach of the reinforcement from the
Tuileries; and breathed for an instant. Yet, judge of our astonishment,
when it had no sooner entered the crowd, than, instead of driving the
wretches before them, we saw the soldiers scatter, mix, and actually
fraternize with the _canaille_; a general scene of embracing and
huzzaing followed, the shakos were placed on the heads of the rabble,
the hats and caps of the rabble were hoisted on the soldiers' bayonets;
and to our horror alike at their treachery and our inevitable
destruction, the troops wearing the king's uniform, pushed forward,
heading the column of insurrection. We fired our last volley, and all
was over. The multitude burst into the hotel like a torrent. All our
party were either killed or wounded. For the last half hour we had not a
hundred men able to pull a trigger against a fire from the streets, from
windows, and from house tops, on every side of the squares. That any one
of us escaped from the showers of bullets is a miracle. My own escape
was the merest chance. On the first rush of the crowd into the hall, I
happened to come in contact with one of the leaders of the party, a
horrid-looking ruffian in a red cap, who roared out that he had marked
me for bringing down the citizen climber up the belfry. The fellow fired
his pistol so close to my face that it scorched me. In the agony of the
pain I rushed on him; he drew his sabre and attempted to cut me down;
but my sword was already out, and I anticipated him by a blow which
finished his patriotism, at least in this world. In the next moment, I
was trampled down, and we fell together."

I can of course offer but an imperfect transcript of the brave
guardsman's narrative; seconded as it was by an intelligent countenance,
and that national vividness of voice and gesture which often tell so
much more than words. But, to describe its effect on his auditory is
impossible. Every countenance was riveted on him, every change of those
extraordinary scenes was marked by a new expression of every face round
the table. Sighs and tears, wringing hands, and eyes turned on heaven,
were universal evidences of the interest excited by his fearful detail.
Yet, unused as I was to this quick emotion among my own sober
countrymen, I could scarcely wonder even at its wildness. They were
listening to the fate of all that belonged to them by affection,
loyalty, hope, and possession, on this side of the grave. Every hour was
big with the destinies of their king, their relations, and their
country. On the events happening, even at the moment, depended, whether
a deluge of blood might not roll over France, whether flame might not be
devouring their ancient castles, whether they might not be doomed to
mendicancy in a strange land, wanderers through the earth, without a
spot whereon to lay their head, fugitives forever. Yet the anxiety for
those left behind was of a still deeper dye; the loved, the familiar,
the honoured, all involved in a tide of calamity, irresistible by human
strength or skill.--All so near, yet all so lost; like the crew of some
noble ship hopelessly struggling with the winds and waves, within sight
of the shore, within reach almost of the very voices of their friends,
yet at the mercy of a tremendous element which forbade their ever
treading on firm ground.

But there was still much to tell; the fate of the royal family was the
general question; and the remainder of the melancholy tale was given
with manly sensibility.

"When I recovered my senses it was late in the day; and I found myself
in humble room, with only an old woman for my attendant; but my wounds
bandaged, and every appearance of my having fallen into friendly hands.
The conjecture was true. I was in the house of one of my father's
_gardes de chasse_, who, having commenced tavern-keeper in the Fauxbourg
St Antoine some years back, and being a thriving man, had become a
'personage' in his section, and was now a captain in the Fédérés.
Forced, _malgré_, to join the march to the Hotel de Ville, he had seen
me in the mêlée, and dragged me from under a heap of killed and wounded.
To his recollection I probably owed my life; for the patriots mingled
plunder with their principles, stripped all the fallen, and the pike and
dagger finished the career of many of the wounded. It happened, too,
that I could not have fallen into a better spot for information. My
_cidevant garde de chasse_ was loyal to the midriff; but his position as
the master of a tavern, made his house a rendezvous of the leading
patriots of his section. Immediately after their victory of the morning,
a sort of council was held on what they were to do next; and the room
where I lay being separated from their place of meeting only by a slight
partition, I could hear every syllable of their speeches, which, indeed,
they took no pains to whisper; they clearly thought that Paris was their
own. Lying on my bed, I learned that the attack on the Hotel de Ville
was only a part of a grand scheme of operations; that an insurrection
was to be organized throughout France; that the king was to be deposed,
and a 'lieutenant of the kingdom' appointed, until the sovereign people
had declared their will; and that the first movement was to be a march
of all the Parisian sections to Versailles. I should have started from
my pillow, to spring sabre in hand among the traitors; but I was held
down by my wounds, and perhaps still more by the entreaties of my old
attendant, who protested against my stirring, as it would be instantly
followed by her murder and that of every inmate of the house. The club
now proceeded to enjoy themselves after the labours of the day. They had
a republican carouse. Their revels were horrible. They speedily became
intoxicated, sang, danced, embraced, fought, and were reconciled again.
Then came the harangues; each orator exceeding his predecessor in
blasphemy, till all was execration, cries of vengeance against kings and
priests, and roars of massacre. I there heard the names of men long
suspected, but of whom they now spoke openly as the true leaders of the
national movement; and of others marked for assassination. They drank
toasts to Death, to Queen Poissarde, and to Goddess Guillotine. It was a
pandemonium.

"A drum at length beat the 'Alarme' in the streets; the orgie was at an
end, and amid a crash of bottles and glasses, they staggered, as well as
their feet could carry them, out of the house. They were received by the
mob with shouts of laughter. But the column moved forward; to the amount
of thousands, as I could judge by their trampling, and the clashing of
their arms. When the sound had died away in the distance, my humble
friend entered my room, thanking his stars that 'he had contrived to
escape this march.'

"'Where are they gone?' I asked.

"'To Versailles,' was his shuddering answer.

"Nothing could now detain me. After one or two helpless efforts to rise
from my bed, and an hour or two of almost despair, I succeeded in
getting on my feet, and procuring a horse. Versailles was now my only
object. I knew all the importance of arriving at the palace at the
earliest moment; I knew the unprotected state of the king, and knew that
it was my place to be near his person in all chances. I was on the point
of sallying forth in my uniform, when the precaution of my friend forced
me back; telling me, truly enough, that, in the ferment of the public
mind, it would be impossible for me to reach Versailles as a _garde du
corps_, and that my being killed or taken, would effectually prevent me
from bearing any information of the state of the capital. This decided
me; and, disguised as a courier, I set out by a cross-road in hope to
arrive before the multitude.

"But I had not gone above a league when I fell in with a scattered
platoon of the mob, who were rambling along as if on a party of
pleasure; tossing their pikes and clashing their sabres to all kinds of
revolutionary songs. I was instantly seized, as a 'courier of the
Aristocrats.' Their sagacity, once at work, found out a hundred names
for me:--I was a 'spy of Pitt,' an 'agent of the Austrians,' a
'disguised priest,' and an 'emigrant noble;' my protestations were in
vain, and they held a court-martial, on me and my horse, on the road;
and ordered me to deliver up my despatches, on pain of being piked on
the spot. But I could give up none; for the best of all possible
reasons. Every fold of my drapery was searched, and then I was to be
piked for _not_ having despatches; it being clear that I was more than a
courier, and that my message was too important to be trusted to pen and
ink. I was now in real peril; for the party had continued to sing and
drink until they had nearly made themselves frantic; and as Versailles
was still a dozen miles off, and they were unlikely to annihilate the
garrison before nightfall, they prepared to render their share of
service to their country by annihilating me. In this real dilemma, my
good genius interposed, in the shape of an enormous _poissarde_; who,
rushing through the crowd, which she smote with much the same effect as
an elephant would with his trunk, threw her huge arms round me, called
me her _cher Jacques_, poured out a volley of professional eloquence on
the shrinking heroes, and proclaimed me her son returning from the army!
All now was sentiment. The _poissarde_ was probably in earnest, for her
faculties were in nearly the same condition with those of her fellow
patriots. I was honoured with a general embrace, and shared the
privilege of the travelling bottle. As the night was now rapidly
falling, an orator proposed that the overthrow of the monarchy should be
deferred till the next day. A Fédéré uniform was provided for me; I was
hailed as a brother; we pitched a tent, lighted fires, cooked a supper,
and bivouacked for the night. This was, I acknowledge, the first night
of my seeing actual service since the commencement of my soldiership.

"In ten minutes the whole party were asleep. I arose, stole away, left
my newly found mother to lament her lost son again, and with a heavy
heart took the road to Versailles. The night had changed to sudden
tempest, and the sky grown dark as death. It was a night for the fall of
a dynasty. But there was a lurid blaze in the distant horizon, and from
time to time a shout, or a sound of musketry, which told me only too
well where Versailles lay. I need not say what my feelings were while I
was traversing that solitary road, yet within hearing of this tremendous
mass of revolt; or what I imagined in every roar, as it came mingled
with the bellowing of the thunder. The attack might be commencing at the
moment; the blaze that I saw might be the conflagration of the palace;
the roar might be the battle over the bodies of the royal family. I
never passed three hours in such real anxiety of mind, and they were
deepened by the total loneliness of the whole road. I did not meet a
single human being; for the inhabitants of the few cottages had fled, or
put out all their lights, and shut themselves up in their houses. The
multitude had rushed on, leaving nothing but silence and terror behind.

"The church clocks were striking three in the morning when I arrived at
Versailles, after the most exhausting journey that I had ever made. But
there, what a scene met my eye! It was beyond all that I had ever
imagined of ferocity and rabble triumph. Though it was still night, the
multitude thronged the streets; the windows were all lighted up, huge
fires were blazing in all directions, torches were carried about at the
head of every troop of the banditti; it was the bivouac of a hundred
thousand bedlamites. It was now that I owned the lucky chance which had
made me a Fédéré. In any other dress I should have been a suspicious
person, and have probably been put to death; but in the brown coat,
sabre, and red cap of the Sectionaire, I was fraternized with in all
quarters. My first object was to approach the palace, if possible. But
there I found a _cordon_ of the national guard drawn up, who had no
faith even in my mob costume; and was repelled. I could only see at a
distance, drawn up in front of the palace, a strong line of troops--the
regiment of Flanders and the Swiss battalion. All in the palace was
darkness. It struck me as the most funereal sight that I had ever
beheld.

"In my disappointment I wandered through the town. The night was rainy,
and gusts of wind tore every thing before them, yet the armed populace
remained carousing in the streets--all was shouting, oaths, and
execrations against the royal family. Some groups were feasting on the
plunder of the houses of entertainment, others were dancing and roaring
the 'Carmagnole.' One party had broken into the theatre, and dressed
themselves in the spoils of the wardrobe; others were drilling, and
exhibiting their skill by firing at the king's arms hung over the shops
of the restaurateurs. Those shops were crowded with hundreds eating and
drinking at free cost. All the _cafés_ and gaming-houses were lighted
from top to bottom. The streets were a solid throng, and almost as
bright as at noonday, and the jangling of all the Savoyard organs,
horns, and voices, the riot and roar of the multitude, and the frequent
and desperate quarrels of the different sections, who challenged each
other to fight during this lingering period, were absolutely
distracting. Versailles looked alternately like one vast masquerade,
like an encampment of savages, and like a city taken by storm. Wild
work, too, had been done during the day.

"As, wearied to death, I threw myself down to rest on the steps of one
of the churches, a procession of patriots happened to fix its quarters
on the spot. Its leader, an old grotesque-looking fellow, dressed in a
priest's vestments--doubtless a part of the plunder of the night--and
seated on a barrel on wheels, like a Silenus, from which, at their
several halts, he harangued his followers, and drank to the 'downfal of
the Bourbons,' soon let me into the history of the last twelve hours.
'Brave Frenchmen,' exclaimed the ruffian, 'the eyes of the world are
fixed upon you; and this night you have done what the world has never
rivalled. You have shaken the throne of the tyrant. What cared you for
the satellites of the Bourbon? You scorned their bayonets; you laughed
at their bullets. Nothing can resist the energy of Frenchmen.' This
flourish was, of course, received with a roar. The orator now produced a
scarf which he had wrapped round his waist, and waved it in the light
before them. 'Look here, citizen soldiers,' he cried; 'brave Fédérés,
see this gore. It is the blood of the monsters who would extinguish the
liberty of France. Yesterday I headed a battalion of our heroes in the
attack of the palace. One of the slaves of the tyrant Capet rushed on me
sword in hand; I sent a bullet through his heart, and, as he fell, I
tore this scarf from his body. See the marks of his blood.' It may be
conceived with what feelings I heard this narrative.--The palace had
been sacked, the queen insulted, my friends and comrades murdered. I
gave an involuntary groan; his fierce eye fell upon me as I endeavoured
to make my escape from this horrible neighbourhood, and he ordered me to
approach him. The fifty pikes which were brandished at his word made
obedience necessary. He whispered, 'I know you well; you are at my
mercy; I have often played the barrel organ outside the walls of your
_corps-de-garde_; you are acquainted with the secret ways of the palace,
and you must lead us in, or die upon the spot.' He probably took my
astonishment and silence for acquiescence; for he put a musket into my
hand. 'This night,' said he, aloud, 'will settle every thing. The whole
race of the Bourbons are doomed. The fry may have escaped, but we have
netted all the best fish. We have friends, too, in high quarters;' and
he shook a purse of louis-d'ors at my ear. 'We are to storm the palace
an hour before daybreak; the troops must either join us or be put to
death; the king and his tribe will be sent to a dungeon, and France,
before to-morrow night, will have at her head, if not the greatest man,
the richest fool, in Europe.' He burst out into an irrestrainable laugh,
in which the whole party joined; but the sound of cannon broke off his
speech; all shouldered pike or musket; I was placed under the especial
surveillance of a pair with drawn sabres, which had probably seem some
savage service during the night, for they were clotted with blood; and
with me for their guide, the horde of savages rushed forward, shouting,
to join the grand attack on the defenders of our unfortunate king.

"My situation had grown more trying at every moment, but escape was
impossible, and my next thought was to make the best of my misfortune,
enter the palace along with the crowd, and, when once there, die by the
side of my old comrades. I had, however, expected a sanguinary struggle.
What was my astonishment when I saw the massive gates, which might have
been so easily defended, broken open at once--a few random shots the
only resistance, and the staircases and ante-rooms in possession of the
multitude within a quarter of an hour. 'Where is La Fayette?' in wrath
and indignation, I cried to one of the wounded _garde-du-corps_, whom I
had rescued from the knives of my _sans-culotte_ companions. 'He is
asleep,' answered the dying man, with a bitter smile. 'Where are the
National Guard whom he brought with him last night from Paris?' I asked,
in astonishment. 'They are asleep, too,' was the contemptuous answer. I
rushed on, and at length reached my friends; tore off my Fédéré uniform,
and used, with what strength was left me, my bayonet, until it was
broken.

"I shall say no more of that night of horrors. The palace was completely
stormed. The splendid rooms, now the scene of battle hand to hand; the
royal furniture, statues, pictures, tossed and trampled in heaps;
wounded and dead men lying every where; the constant discharge of
muskets and pistols; the breaking open of doors with the blows of
hatchets and hammers; the shrieks of women flying for their lives, or
hanging over their wounded sons and husbands; and the huzzas of the
rabble, at every fresh entrance which they forced into the suites of
apartments, were indescribable. I pass over the other transactions of
those terrible hours; but some unaccountable chance saved the royal
family--I fear, for deeper sufferings; for the next step was
degradation.

"The rabble leaders insisted that the king should go with them to Paris.
Monsieur La Fayette was now awake; and he gave it as his opinion that
this was the only mode of pleasing the populace. When a king submits to
popular will, he is disgraced; and a disgraced king is undone. It was
now broad day; the struggle was at an end; the royal carriages were
ordered, and the _garde-du-corps_ were drawn up to follow them. At this
moment, the barrel-organ man, my leader of the night, passed me by with
a grimace, and whispered, 'Brother Fédéré, did I not tell you how it
would be? The play is only beginning; all that we have seen is the
farce.' He laughed, and disappeared among the crowd.

"There was one misery to come, and it was the worst; the procession to
Paris lasted almost twelve hours. It was like the march of American
savages, with their scalps and prisoners, to their wigwams. The crowd
had been largely increased by the national guards of the neighbouring
villages, and by thousands flocking from Paris on the intelligence of
the rabble victory. Our escort was useless; we ourselves were prisoners.
Surrounding the carriage of the king, thousands of the most profligate
refuse of Paris, men and women, railed and revelled, sang and shouted
the most furious insults to their majesties. And in front of this mass
were carried on pikes, as standards, the heads of two of our corps, who
had fallen fighting at the door of the queen's chamber. Loaves, borne on
pikes, and dipped in blood, formed others of their standards. Huge
placards, with the words, 'Down with the tyrant! Down with the priests!
Down with the nobles!' waved above the heads of the multitude. 'Make way
for the baker, his wife, and the little apprentice,' was shouted, with
every addition of obloquy and insolence; and in this agony we were
forced to drag on our weary steps till midnight. One abomination more
was to signalize the inhuman spirit of the time. Within about a league
of Paris, the royal equipages were ordered to halt; and for what
inconceivable purpose? It was, that the bleeding heads of our
unfortunate comrades might be dressed and powdered by the village
barber--to render them fit to enter Paris. The heads were then brought
to the carriage windows, for the approval of the royal prisoners; and
the huge procession moved onward with all its old bellowings again.

"We entered the city by torchlight, amid the firing of cannon; the
streets were all illuminated, and the mob and the multitude maddened
with brandy. Yet the scene was unlike that of the night before. There
was something in the extravagances of Versailles wholly different from
the sullen and frowning aspect of Paris. The one had the look of a
melodrame; the other the look of an execution. All was funereal. We
marched with the king to the Place du Carrousel, and when the gates of
the palace closed on him, I felt as if they were the gates of the tomb.
Perhaps it would be best that they were; that a king of France should
never suffer such another day; that he should never look on the face of
man again. He had drained the cup of agony; he had tasted all the
bitterness of death; human nature could not sustain such another day;
and, loyal as I was, I wished that the descendant of so many kings
should rather die by the hand of nature than by the hand of traitors and
villains; or should rather mingle his ashes with the last flame of the
Tuileries, than glut the thirst of rebellion with his blood on the
scaffold."

The story left us all melancholy for a while; bright eyes again
overflowed, as well they might; and stately bosoms heaved with evident
emotion. Yet, after all, the night was wound up with a capital cotillon,
danced with as much grace, and as much gaiety too, as if it had been in
the Salle d'Opera.

       *       *       *       *       *

I rose early next morning, and felt the spirit-stirring power of the sea
breeze. In those days, Brighton covered but the borders of the shore. It
was scarcely more than a little line of fishermen's cottages, fenced
against the surge by the remaining timbers of boats which had long seen
their last adventure. Scattered at distances of at least a quarter of a
mile from each other, lay some houses of a better description, a few
deeply embosomed in trees, or rather in such thickets as could grow in
the perpetual exposure to the rough winds and saline exhalations of the
Channel. Of those, the one in which I had taken up my present residence
was amongst the best; though its exterior was so unpresuming, that I was
inclined to give Mordecai, or rather his gay heiress, credit for
humility, or perhaps for the refinement of striking their visiters with
the contrast between its simplicity of exterior and richness of
decoration within.

It was a brisk, bright morning, and the waves were curling before a
lively breeze, the sun was glowing above, and clusters of vessels,
floating down the Channel, spread their sails like masses of summer
cloud in the sunshine. It was my first sight of the ocean, and that
first sight is always a new idea. Alexander the Great, standing on the
shores of the Persian Gulf, said, "That he then first felt what the
world was." Often as I have seen the ocean since, the same conception
has always forced itself on me.

In what a magnificent world do we live! What power, what depth, what
expanse, lay before me! How singular, too, that while the grandeur of
the land arises from bold irregularity and incessant change of aspect,
from the endless variety of forest, vale, and mountain; the same effect
should be produced on the ocean by an absence of all irregularity and
all change! A simple, level horizon, perfectly unbroken, a line of
almost complete uniformity, compose a grandeur that impresses and fills
the soul as powerfully as the most cloud-piercing Alp, or the Andes
clothed with thunder.

This was the ocean in calm; but how glorious, too, in tempest! The storm
that sweeps the land is simply a destroyer or a renovator; it smites the
surface, and is gone. But the ocean is the seat of its power, the scene
of its majesty, the element in which it sports, lives, and
rules--penetrating to its depths, rolling its surface in thunder on the
shore--changing its whole motion, its aspect, its uses, and, grand as it
is in its serenity, giving it another and a more awful grandeur in its
convulsion. Then, how strangely, yet how admirably, does it fulfil its
great human object! Its depth and extent seem to render it the very
element of separation; all the armies of the earth might be swallowed up
between the shores of the Channel. Yet it is this element which actually
combines the remotest regions of the earth. Divisions and barriers are
essential to the protection of kingdoms from each other; yet what height
of mountain range, or what depth of precipice could be so secure as the
defence so simply and perpetually supplied by a surrounding sea? While
this protecting element at the same time pours the wealth of the globe
into the bosom of a nation.

Even all this is only the ocean as referred to man. How much more
magnificent is it in itself! Thrice the magnitude of the land, the world
of waters! its depth unfathomable, its mountains loftier than the
loftiest of the land, its valleys more profound, the pinnacles of its
hills islands! What immense shapes of animal and vegetable life may fill
those boundless pastures and plains on which man shall never look! What
herds, by thousands and millions, of those mighty creatures whose
skeletons we discover, from time to time, in the wreck of the
antediluvian globe! What secrets of form and power, of capacity and
enjoyment, may exist under the cover of that mighty expanse of waves
which fills the bed of the ocean, and spreads round the globe!

While those and similar ramblings were passing through my mind, as I sat
gazing on the bright and beautiful expanse before me, I was aroused by a
step on the shingle. I turned, and saw the gallant guardsman, who had so
much interested our party on the night before. But he received my
salutation with a gravity which instantly put an end to my good-humour;
and I waited for the _dénouement_, at his pleasure. He produced a small
billet from his pocket, which I opened, and which, on glancing my eye
over it, appeared to me a complete rhapsody. I begged of him to read it,
and indulge me with an explanation. He read it, and smiled.

"It is, I own, not perfectly intelligible," said he; "but some allowance
must be made for a man deeply injured, and inflamed by a sense of
wrong."

I read the signature--Lafontaine, _Capitaine des Chasseurs legers_. I
had never heard the name before. I begged to know "the nature of his
business with me, as it was altogether beyond my conjecture."

"It is perfectly probable, sir," was the reply; "for I understand that
you had never seen each other till last night, at the house of your
friend. The case is simply this:--Lafontaine, who is one of the finest
fellows breathing, has been for some time deeply smitten by the various
charms of your host's very pretty daughter, and, so far as I comprehend,
the lady has acknowledged his merits. But your arrival here has a good
deal deranged the matter. He conceives your attentions to his fair one
to be of so marked a nature, that it is impossible for him to overlook
them."

I laughed, and answered,

"Sir, you may make your friend quite at his ease on the subject, for I
have not known her existence till within these twenty-four hours."

"You danced with her half the evening--you sat beside her at supper. She
listened to you with evident attention--of this last I myself was
witness; and the report in the neighbourhood is, that you have come to
this place by an express arrangement with her father," gravely retorted
the guardsman.

All this exactness of requisition appeared to me to be going rather too
far; and I exhibited my feeling on the subject, in the tone in which I
replied, that I had stated every thing that was necessary for the
satisfaction of a "man of sense, but that I had neither the faculty nor
the inclination to indulge the captiousness of any man."

His colour mounted, and I seemed as if I was likely to have a couple of
heroes on my hands. But he compressed his lip, evidently strangled a
chivalric speech, and, after a pause to recover his calmness, said--

"Sir, I have not come here to decide punctilios on either side. I
heartily wish that this affair had not occurred, or could be reconciled;
my countrymen here, I know, stand on a delicate footing, and I am
perfectly aware of the character that will be fastened on them by the
occurrence of such rencontres. Can you suggest any means by which this
difference may be settled at once?"

"None in the world, sir," was my answer. "I have told you the fact, that
I have no pretension whatever to the lady--that I am wholly unacquainted
even with the person of your friend--that the idea of intentional injury
on my part, therefore, is ridiculous; and let me add, for the benefit of
your friend, that to expect an apology for imaginary injuries, would be
the most ridiculous part of the entire transaction."

"What, then, am I to do?" asked the gallant captain, evidently
perplexed. "I really wish that the affair could be got over without
_fracas_. In fact, though the Jewess is pretty, Lafontaine's choice does
not much gratify any of us."

"What you ought to do, sir, is sufficiently plain," said I. "Go to your
friend; if he has brains enough remaining to comprehend the nature of
the case, he will send you back with his apology. If he has not, I shall
remain half an hour on the sands until he has made up his mind."

The captain made me a low bow, and slowly paced back to the lodging of
his fiery compatriot.

When I was left alone, I, for the first time, felt the whole ill-luck of
my situation. So long as I was heated by our little dialogue, I thought
only of retorting the impertinent interference of a stranger with my
motives or actions. But, now, the whole truth flashed on me with the
force of a new faculty. I saw myself involved in a contest with a fool
or a lunatic, in which either of our lives, or both, might be
sacrificed--and for nothing. Hope, fortune, reputation, perhaps renown,
all the prospects of life were opening before me, and I was about to
shut the gate with my own hand. In these thoughts I was still too young
for what is called personal peril to intervene. The graver precaution of
more advanced years was entirely out of the question. I was a soldier,
or about to be one; and I would have rejoiced, if the opportunity had
been given to me, in heading a forlorn hope, or doing any other of those
showy things which make a name. The war, too, was beginning--my future
regiment was ordered for foreign service--every heart in England was
beating with hope or fear--every eye of Europe was fixed upon England
and Englishmen; and, in the midst of all this high excitement, to fall
in a pitiful private quarrel, struck me with a sudden sense of
self-contempt and wilful absurdity, that made me almost loathe my being.
I acknowledge that the higher thoughts, which place those rencontres in
their most criminal point of view, had then but little influence with
me. But to think that, within the next hour, or the next five minutes, I
might be but like the sleepers in the rude resting-place of the
fishermen; with my name unknown, and all the associations of life
extinguished--

    "This sensible warm motion to become
     A kneaded clod"--

was an absolute pang. I could have died a martyr, and despised the
flame, or rather rejoiced in it, as a security that I should not perish
forgotten. But a fancied wrong, an obscure dispute, the whole future of
an existence flung away for the jealous dreams of a mad Frenchman, or
the Sport of a coquette, of whom I knew as little as of her fantastic
lover, threw me into a fever of scorn for the solemn follies of mankind.

The captain returned. I had not stirred from the spot.

"I regret," said he, "that my friend is wholly intractable. He has
convinced himself, if he can convince no one else, that he has wholly
lost the good opinion of his fair one, and that you are the cause. Some
communication which he had from London, informed him of your frequent
intercourse with her father. This rendered him suspicious, and the
peculiar attention with which you were treated last night, produced a
demand for an explanation; which, of course, heightened the quarrel. The
inamorata, probably not displeased to have more suitors than one,
whether in amusement or triumph, appears to have assisted his error, if
such it be; and he returned home, stung to madness by what he terms her
infidelity. He now demands your formal abandonment of the pursuit."

All my former feelings of offence recurred at the words, and I hotly
asked--"Well, sir, to whom must I kneel--to the lady or the gentleman?
Take my answer back--that I shall do neither. Where is your friend to be
found?"

He pointed to a clump of frees within a few hundred yards, and I
followed him. I there saw my antagonist; a tall, handsome young man, but
with a countenance of such dejection that he might have sat for the
picture of despair. It was clear that his case was one for which there
was no tonic, but what the wits of the day called a course of steel.
Beside him stood a greyhaired old figure, of a remarkably intelligent
countenance, though stooped slightly with age. He was introduced to me
as General Deschamps; and in a few well-expressed words, he mentioned
that he attended, from respect to the British, to offer his services to
me on an occasion "which he deeply regretted, but which circumstances
unfortunately rendered necessary, and which all parties were doubtless
anxious to conclude before it should produce any irritation in the
neighbourhood."

To the offer of choice of weapons, I returned an answer of perfect
indifference. It had happened, that as my father had destined me for
diplomacy, and had conceived the science to have but two essentials,
French and fencing, I was tolerably expert in both. Swords were chosen.
We were placed on the ground, and the conflict began. My antagonist was
evidently a master of his art; but there is no weapon whose use depends
so much upon the mind of the moment as the sword. He was evidently
resolved to kill or be killed; and the desperation with which he rushed
on me exposed him to my very inferior skill. At the third pass I ran him
through the sword arm. He staggered back with the twinge; but at the
instant when he was about to bound on me, and perhaps take his revenge,
a scream stopped us all; a female, wrapped in cloak and veil, rushed
forward, and threw herself into Lafontaine's arms in a passion of sobs.
An attendant, who soon came up, explained the circumstance; and it
finally turned out, that the fair Mariamne, whatever her coquetry might
have intended at night, repented at morn; recollected some of the
ominous expressions of her lover; and on hearing that he had been seen
with a group entering the grove, and that I, too, was absent, had
conjectured the truth at once, and flown, with her _femme de chambre,_
to the rendezvous. She had come just in time.

The reconciliation was complete. I was now not only forgiven by the
lover, but was the "very best friend he had in the world;--a man of
honour, a paragon, a _chevalier sans peur et sans reproche_." The wound
of the gallant chasseur was bound up, like an ancient knight's, with his
mistress's scarf. She upbraided me, with her glistening eyes, for having
had the audacity to quarrel with her hero; and then, with the same eyes,
thanked me for the opportunity of proving her faith to _cher et
malheureux Charles_. Her little heart poured out its full abundance in
her voluble tongue; and for a quarter of an hour, and it is a long life
for happiness, we were the happiest half dozen in Christendom.

How Mordecai would admire all this, was yet to be told; but my casual
mention of his name broke up the rapture at once. Mariamne suddenly
became sensible of the irregularity of alternately fainting and smiling
in the arms of a handsome young soldier; and in the presence, too, of so
many spectators, all admirers of her black eyes and blooming
sensibilities. She certainly looked to me much prettier than in her
full-dress charms of the evening before, and I almost began to think
that the prize was worth contending for; but the guardsman and the old
general had felt the effects of the morning air, and were
unsentimentally hungry. Mariamne and her attendant were escorted to the
edge of the plantation by her restored knight; and I accepted the
general's invitation to breakfast, instead of drowning myself in the
next pond.

The general was lodged in the first floor of a fisherman's dwelling,
which, in more polished parts of the land, would have been pronounced a
hovel; but in Brighton, as it then was, bore the name of a house. We
entered it through an apartment filled with matters of the fisherman's
trade,--nets, barrels, and grapnels; and in a corner a musket or two,
which had evidently seen service, though probably _not_ in his Majesty's
pay. The walls were covered with engravings of British sea-fights and
favourite admirals, from the days of Elizabeth; patriotic in the highest
degree, and most intolerable specimens of the arts; the floor, too, had
its covering, but it was of nearly a dozen children of all sizes, from
the bluff companion of his father down to the crier in the cradle; yet
all fine bold specimens of the brood of sea and fresh air, British
bull-dogs, that were yet to pin down the game all round the world; or
rather cubs of the British lion, whose roar was to be the future terror
of the foreigner.

The general welcomed us to his little domicile with as much grace as if
he had been ushering us into the throne-room of the Tuileries. I
afterwards understood that he had been governor of the "Invalides;" and
the change from the stately halls of that military palace must have
severely taxed the philosophy of any man; yet it had no appearance of
having even ruffled the temperament of the gallant veteran. He smiled,
talked, and did the honours of his apartment with as much urbanity as if
he had been surrounded by all the glittering furniture, and all the
liveried attendance, of his governorship. I have always delighted in an
old Frenchman, especially if he has served. Experience has made me a
cosmopolite, and yet to this hour a young Frenchman is my instinctive
aversion. He is born in coxcombry, cradled in coxcombry, and educated in
coxcombry. It is only after his coxcombry is rubbed off by the changes
and chances of the world, that the really valuable material of the
national character is to be seen. He always reminds me of the
mother-of-pearl shell, rude and unpromising on the outside, but by
friction exhibiting a fine interior. However it may be thought a paradox
to pronounce the Frenchman unpolished, I hold to my assertion. If the
whole of "jeune France" sprang on their feet and clapped their hands to
the hilts of their swords, or more probably to their daggers, to avenge
the desecration of the only shrine at which nine-tenths of them worship,
I should still pronounce the Frenchman the most unpolished of Europeans.
What is his look of conscious superiority to all that exist besides in
this round world? The toss of his nostril, the glare of his eye, the
contempt of his gathered lip? Give me the homeliest manners of the
homeliest corner of Europe--nay, give me the honest rudeness of the
American savage, in preference to this arrogant assumption of an empty
superiority. Why, the very tone in which every Frenchman, from fifteen
to five-and-forty, utters the words "la France," is enough to raise the
laugh, or make the blood boil, of all mankind.

Nearly twenty years after this, I happened to be sitting one day with
Gentz, the most memorable practical philosopher of his age and country.
Germany was then in the most deplorable depression, overrun with French
armies; and with Napoleon at Erfurth, in the pride of that "bad
eminence" on which he stood in such Titanic grandeur, and from which he
was so soon to be flung with such Titanic ruin. Our conversation
naturally turned on the melancholy state of things.

"I think," said the great politician, "that this supremacy must fall. I
might not think so if any other nation were the masters of Europe; but
France, though often a conqueror, has never been a possessor. The
insolence of the individual Frenchman has been the grand obstacle to the
solidity of her empire."

To my remark, that her central position, her vast population, the
undaunted bravery of her troops, and the military propensities of her
people, fitted her to be the disturber of Europe.

"Yes," was the sage's answer; "but to be no more than the disturber. Her
power is the whirlwind; for purposes which man may never be able fully
to define, suffered, or sent forth, to sweep the Continent; perhaps,
like the tempest, to punish, nay, perhaps in the end to purify; but the
tempest is scarcely more transitory, or more different from the dew that
invisibly descends and silently refreshes the land."

"But Napoleon," said I, "with an army of a million recruited from thirty
millions, opposed to the worn-down force and exhausted treasures of the
Continent! What an iron wedge driven in among their dilapidated
combinations! What a mountain of granite, with the cloud and the thunder
for its crown, domineering over the plain!"

"True--perfectly true," he replied, throwing back the long locks from a
broad forehead which reminded me of a bust of Plato. "True. Man may be
as little able to decide on the means by which the power of France will
fall, as on the purposes for which that tremendous fabric of splendid
iniquity first rose. But, look into that street."

It happened that a French regiment of cuirassiers, with the fine
clangour of its drums and trumpets, was passing under the window at the
moment.

"You see there," said he, "the kind of feeling which that really
striking show produces; not a window is open but our own. The blinds of
every window have been let down, not an eye looks at these troops. Yet
the public of Vienna are extravagantly fond of display in all its
shapes; and punchinello, or a dance of dogs, would bring a head to every
pane of glass, from the roof to the ground. The French are individually
shrunk from, hated, abhorred.

"Naturally enough, as conquerors," I observed; chiefly from a desire to
hear more of the sentiments of the celebrated German.

"No--no!" said he, almost in a tone of vexation. "The Germans are as
much alive to the merits of their enemies in the field, as any other
nation in the world. They acknowledge the soldiership of the French. I
even believe that the talents of their extraordinary emperor are more
sincerely acknowledged in Vienna than in Paris. But it is the
intolerable insolence of the national character, that makes its bravery,
its gaiety, and even its genius detested. Trust me; this feeling will
not be unfruitful. Out of the hut of the peasant will come the avengers,
whom the cabinet has never been able to find in the camp. Out of the
swamp and the thicket will rise the tree that will at once overshadow
the fallen fortunes of Germany, and bring down the lightning on her
aggressors. In this hope alone I live."

I once more asked him, "From what quarter is the restoration to come?"

"I know not--I care not--I ask not," said he, starting from his chair,
and traversing the room with huge strides. "The topic feels to me as if
a sword was now griding its way through my frame. But France will never
keep Austria, nor Prussia, nor the Rhenish Provinces, nor Holland, nor
any spot on earth beyond the land inhabited by Frenchmen. It is true,"
said he, with a stern smile, "that she may keep her West India islands,
if your ships will let her. The negroes are her natural subjects. They
have backs accustomed to the lash, and black cheeks that will not redden
at her insolence."

"Are the German sovereigns of your opinion?"

"To a man. It is but this morning that I was honoured with a reception
by our good emperor. His conviction was complete. But you will not see
Austria stir a single step, until war is the outcry, not of her court,
but of her people. The trumpet that leads the march will be blown not
from the parade of Vienna or Berlin, but from the village, the pasture,
the forest, and the mountain. The army will be the peasant, the weaver,
the trader, the student, the whole of the pacific multitude of life
turned into the materials of war; the ten thousand rills that silently
water the plain of society suddenly united into one inundation; the eyes
of every man looking only for the enemy; the feet of every man pursuing
him; the hands of every man slaying him. The insolence of the Frenchman
has contrived to convey a sting of the bitterness of conquest into every
heart of our millions, and our millions will return it with resistless
retribution."

"You have cheered and convinced me," said I, as I rose to take my leave.
"It certainly is rather strange, that France, always mad with the love
of seizure, has been able to acquire nothing during the last hundred
years."

"You will find my theory true," said Gentz. "The individual insolence of
her people has been the real impediment to the increase of her
dominions. She is not the only ambitious power on the face of the earth.
Russia has doubled her empire within those hundred years, yet she has
kept possession of every league. Prussia has doubled her territory
within the same time, yet she has added the new solidly to the old. I am
not an advocate for the principle or the means by which those conquests
have been accomplished; but they have been retained. Austria has been
for the same time nearly mistress of Italy, and though the French arms
have partially shaken her authority, it was never shaken by popular
revolt. And why is all this contradistinction to the flighty conquest
and ephemeral possession of France? The obvious reason is, that however
the governments might be disliked, neither the Austrian soldier, nor the
Prussian, nor even the Russian, made himself abhorred, employed his
study in vexing the feelings of the people, had a perpetual sneer on his
visage, or exhibited in his habits a perpetual affectation of that
coxcomb superiority to all other human beings, that pert supremacy, that
grotesque and yet irritating caricature, which makes the _Moi, je suis
Français_, a demand for universal adoration, the concentrated essence of
absurdity, the poison-drop of scorn.

"When will this great consummation arrive?"

"When the tyranny can be endured no longer; when the people find that
they must depend upon themselves for its redress; when a just Providence
finds the vindication of its laws required by the necessities of man."

"From what quarter will the grand effort first come?"

"From the nation most aggrieved."

"What will be its result?"

To this moment I remember the sudden light which flashed into his cold
grey eye, the gasping lip, and the elevation which even his stooped form
assumed; as he answered with a tone and gesture which might have been
imagined for one of the prophets of the Sistine Chapel--

"The result," said he, "will be the fall of the French empire, for it is
a house built on the sand;--the extinction of Napoleon, for it is his
creation, and the one cannot survive the other;--the liberation of
Europe, for its united strength can be chained no longer;--perhaps the
liberty of man, for the next step for nations which have crushed foreign
dominion is to extinguish domestic despotism. Europe once free, what is
to come? A new era, a new shape of society, a new discovery of the
mighty faculties of nations, of the wonders of mind, of matter, and of
man; a vast shaking of the earth and its institutions; and out of this
chaos, a new moral creation, _fiat lux et fugient tenebræ_."

The prediction has been partly realized. Much is yet to be fulfilled.
But, like Gentz, I live in hope, and think that I see an approach to the
consummation.

But the party to whom I was now introduced were of a different order
from the generality of their country. Originally of the first education
and first society of France, the strictness of the military service had
produced on the the most valuable effect of years. The natural vividness
of their temperament was smoothed down, their experience of English
kindness had diminished their prejudices; and adversity--and no men bear
the frowns of fortune better than their nation--gave them almost the
manly calmness of the English gentleman. I found the old general all
courtesy, and his friends all good-humour. My conduct in the affair of
the morning was after their own hearts; I had, by common consent, earned
their good graces; and they gave me on the spot half a dozen invitations
to the regiments and chateaus of themselves and their friends, with as
much hospitable sincerity as if they had only to recross the Channel to
take possession of them again. Lafontaine was still moody, but he was in
love; and, by this fact, unlike every body else, and unlike himself,
from one half hour to another.

The conversation soon turned on a topic, on which the emigrants every
where were peculiarly anxious to be set right with English feeling,
namely, their acquittance from the charge of having fled unnecessarily.

"Men of honour," observed the general, "understand each other in all
countries. I therefore always think it due, to both Englishmen and
Frenchmen, to explain, that we are not here in the light of fugitives;
that we have not given up the cause of our country; and that we are on
English ground in express obedience to the commands of our sovereign. I
am at this moment, in this spot, on the king's duty, waiting, like my
gallant friends here, merely the order to join the first expedition
which can be formed for the release of our monarch, and the rescue of
France from the horde of villains who have filled it with rebellion."
All fully accorded with the sentiment. "The captivity of the king," said
he, "is the result of errors which none could have anticipated ten days
since. The plan decided on by the council of officers, of which I was
one, was the formation of a camp on the frontier, to which his majesty
and the princes should repair, summon the chief authorities of the
kingdom, and there provide for the general safety with a deliberation
which was impossible in Paris. I was sent off at midnight to take the
command of the District of the Loire. I found myself there at the head
of ten regiments, in the highest order, and, as I thought, of the
highest loyalty. I addressed them and was received with shouts of _Vive
le Roi_! I gave an addition of pay to the troops, and a banquet to the
officers. A note was handed to me, as I took my seats at the head of the
table. It simply contained the words, 'You are betrayed.' I read it
aloud in contempt, and was again answered by shouts of _Vive le Roi_!
While we were in the midst of our conviviality, a volley was fired in at
the windows, and the streets of Nantz were in uproar--the whole garrison
had mutinied. The officers were still loyal: but what was to be done? We
rushed out with drawn swords. On our first appearance in the porch of
the hotel, a platoon posted in front, evidently for our massacre,
levelled by word of command, and fired deliberately into the midst of
us. Several were killed on the spot, and many wounded. Some rushed
forward, and some retreated into the house. I was among those who forced
their way through the crowd, and before I had struggled to the end of
the long street, the cry of 'fire' made me look round--the hotel was in
a blaze. The rabble had set it on flame. It was this, probably that
saved me, by distracting their attention. I made my way to the chateau
of the Count de Travancour, whose son had been on my staff at the
Invalides. But the family were in Paris, and the only inhabitants were
servants. I had received a musket-ball in my arm, and was faint with
loss of blood. Still, I was determined to remain at my post, and not
quit my district as long as any thing could be done. But I had scarcely
thrown myself, in weariness and vexation, on a sofa, when a servant
rushed into the room with the intelligence, that a band of men with
torches were approaching the chateau. To defend it with a garrison of
screaming women was hopeless; and while I stood considering what to do
next, we heard the crash of the gates. The whole circle instantly fell
on their knees before me, and implored that I should save their lives
and my own, by making my escape. A courageous Breton girl undertook to
be my guide to the stables, and we set out under a shower of prayers for
our safety. But, as we wound our way along the last corridor, I saw the
crowd of soldiers and populace rushing up the staircase at the opposite
side of the court, and calling out my name joined to a hundred atrocious
epithets. My situation now obviously became difficult; for our advance
would be met at the next minute by the assassins. The girl's presence of
mind saved me; she flew back to the end of the gallery, threw open a
small door which led to the roof; and I was in the open air, with the
stars bright above me, and a prodigious extent of the country, including
Nantz, beneath.

"Yet you may believe that the landscape was not among my principal
contemplations at the moment, though my eyes involuntarily turned on the
town; where, from the blazes springing up in various quarters, I
concluded that a general pillage had begun. That pillage was the order
of the day much nearer to me, I could fully conceive, from the opening
and shutting of doors, and the general tumult immediately under the
leads where I stood. "Situation, gentlemen," said the old general,
smiling, "is something, but circumstances are necessary to make it
valuable. There never was a finer night for an investigation of the
stars, if I had been an astronomer; and I dare say that the spot which
formed my position would have been capital for an observatory; but the
torches which danced up and down through the old and very dingy
casements of the mansion, were a matter of much more curious remark to
me than if I had discovered a new constellation.

"At length I was chased even out of this spot--my door had been found
out. I have too much gallantry left to suppose that my Breton had
betrayed me; though a dagger at her heart and a purse in her hand might
be powerful arguments against saving the life of an old soldier who had
reached his grand climacteric. At all events, as I saw torch after torch
rising along the roofs, I moved into the darkness.

"I had here a new adventure. I saw a feeble light gleaming through the
roof. An incautious step brought me upon a skylight, and I went through;
my fall, however, being deadened by bursting my way through the canopy
of a bed. I had fallen into the hospital of the chateau. A old Beguine
was reading her breviary in an adjoining room. She rushed in with a
scream. But those women are so much accustomed to casualties that I had
no sooner acquainted her with the reasons of my flight, than she offered
to assist my escape. She had been for some days in attendance on a sick
servant. She led me down to the entrance of a subterranean communication
between the mansion and the river, one of the old works which had
probably been of serious service in the days when every chateau in the
West was a fortress. The boat which had brought her from the convent was
at the mouth of the subterranean; there, the Loire was open. If you ask,
why I did not prefer throwing myself before the pursuers, and dying like
a soldier, my reason was, that I should have been numbered merely among
those who had fallen obscurely in the various skirmishes of the country;
and besides, that if I escaped, I should have one chance more of
preserving the province.

"But, at the moment when I thought myself most secure, I was in reality
in the greatest peril. The Loire had long since broken into the work,
which had probably never seen a mason since the wars of the League. I
had made no calculation for this, and I had descended but a few steps,
when I found my feet in water. I went on, however, till it reached my
sword-belt. I then thought it time to pause; but just then, I heard a
shout at the top of the passage--on the other hand I felt that the tide
was rushing in, and to stay where I was would be impossible. The
perplexity of that quarter of an hour would satisfy me for my whole
life. I pretend to no philosophy, and have never desired to die before
my time. But it was absolutely not so much the dread of finishing my
career, as of the manner in which it must be finished there, which made
the desperate anxiety of a struggle which I would not undergo again for
the throne of the Mogul. Still, even with the roar of the water on one
side, and of the rabble on the other, I had some presentiment that I
should yet live to hang some of my pursuers. At all events I determined
not to give my body to be torn to pieces by savages, and my name to be
branded as a runaway and a poltron."

A strong suffusion overspread the veteran's face as he pronounced the
words; he was evidently overcome by the possibility of the stigma.

"I have never spoken of this night before," said he, "and I allude to it
even now, merely to tell this English gentleman and his friends how
groundless would be the conception that the soldiers and nobles of an
unfortunate country made their escape, before they had both suffered and
done a good deal. My condition was probably not more trying than that of
thousands less accustomed to meet difficulties than the officers of
France: and I can assure him, that no country is more capable of a bold
endurance of evils, or a chivalric attachment to a cause."

I gave my full belief to a proposition in which I had already full
faith, and of which the brave and intelligent old man before me was so
stately an example.

"But I must not detain you," said he, "any longer with an adventure
which had not the common merit of a Boulevard spectacle; for it ended in
neither the blowing up of a castle, nor, as you may perceive, the fall
of the principal performer. As the tide rushed up through the works, I,
of course receded, until at length I was caught sight of by the rabble.
They poured down, and were now within a hundred yards of me, while I
could not move. At that moment a strong light flashed along the cavern
from the river, and I discovered for the first time that it too was not
above a hundred yards from me. I had been a good swimmer in early life:
I plunged in, soon reached the stream, and found that the light came
from one of the boats that fish the Loire at night, and which had
accidentally moored in front of my den. I got on board; the fisherman
carried me to the other side; I made my way across the country, reached
one of my garrisons, found the troops, fortunately, indignant at the
treatment which the king's colours had received; marched at the head of
two thousand men by daybreak, and by noon was in the Grande Place of
Nantz; proceeded to try a dozen of the ringleaders of the riot, who had
not been merely rebels, but robbers and murderers; and amid the
acclamations of the honest citizens, gave them over to the fate which
villains in every country deserve, and which is the only remedy for
rebellion in any. But my example was not followed; its style did not
please the ministers whom our king had been compelled to choose by the
voice of the Palais Royal; and as his majesty would not consent to bring
me to the scaffold for doing my duty, he compromised the matter, by an
order to travel for a year, and a passport for England."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Toutes les belles dames sont, plus ou moins, coquettes," says that
gayest of all old gentlemen, the Prince de Ligne, who loved every body,
amused every body, and laughed at every body. It is not for me to
dispute the authority of one who contrived to charm, at once, the
imperial severity of Maria Theresa and the imperial pride of Catharine;
to baffle the keen investigation of the keenest of mankind, the
eccentric Kaunitz; and rival the profusion of the most magnifique and
oriental of all prime ministers, Potemkin.

Mariamne was a "belle dame," and a remarkably pretty one. She was
therefore intitled to all the privileges of prettiness; and, it must be
acknowledged, that she enjoyed them to a very animated extent. In the
curious memoirs of French private life, from _Plessis Les Tours_ down to
St Evremond and Marmontel--and certainly--more amusing and dexterous
dissections of human nature, at least as it is in France, never
existed--our cooler countrymen often wonder at the strange attachments,
subsisting for half a century between the old, who were nothing but
simple fireside friends after all; and even between the old and the
young. The story of Ninon and her Abbé--the unfortunate relationship,
and the unfortunate catastrophe excepted--was the story of hundreds or
thousands in every city of France fifty years ago. It arises from the
vividness of the national mind, the quick susceptibility to being
pleased, and the natural return which the heart makes in gratitude. If
it sometimes led to error--it was the more to be regretted. But I do not
touch on such views.

As the Jew's daughter had been rendered by her late adventure all but
the affianced bride of Lafontaine, she immediately assumed all the
rights of a bride, treated her slave as slaves are treated every where,
received his friends at her villa with animation, and opened her heart
to them all, from the old general downwards, even to me. I never had
seen a creature so joyous, with all her soul so speaking on her lips,
and all her happiness so sparkling in her eyes. She was the most
restless, too, of human beings; but it was the restlessness of a glow of
enjoyment, of a bird in the first sunshine, of a butterfly in the first
glitter of its wings. She was now continually forming some party, some
ingenious surprise of pleasure, some little sportive excursion, some
half theatric scene, to keep all our hearts and eyes as much alive as
her own. Lafontaine obviously did not like all this; and some keen
encounters of their wits took place, on the pleasure which, as he
averred, "she took in all society but his own."

"If the charge be true," said she one day, "why am I in fault? It is so
natural to try to be happy."

"But, to be happy without me, Mariamne."

"Ah, what an impossibility!" laughed the little foreigner.

"But, to receive the attentions even of the general, old enough to have
married your grandmother."

"Well, does it not show his taste, even in your own opinion, to follow
your example, and admire what you tell me _you_ worship?"

"You are changed; you are a _girouette_, Mariamne."

"Well, nothing in the world is so melancholy as one who lets all the
world pass by it, without a thought, a feeling, or a wish. One might as
well be one of the pictures in the Louvre, pretty and charming, and
gazed at by all the passers-by, without a glance for any of them, in
return. I have no kind of envy for being a mummy, covered with cloth of
gold, and standing in a niche of cedar, yet with all its sensations
vanished some thousand years ago."

"Was this the language you held to me when first we met, Mariamne?"

"Was this the language _you_ held to me, when first we met, Charles? But
I shall lose my spirits if I talk to you. What a sweet evening! What a
delicious breeze! _Bon soir_!" And forth she went, tripping it among the
beds of flowers like a sylph, followed by Lafontaine, moody and
miserable, yet unable to resist the spell. Of those scenes I saw a
hundred, regularly ending in the same conclusion; the lady always, as
ladies ought, gaining the day, and the gentleman vexed, yet vanquished.
But evil days were at hand; many a trial more severe than the pretty
arguments of lovers awaited them; and Lafontaine was to prove himself a
hero in more senses than one, before they met again.

It happened, that I was somewhat a favourite with Mariamne. Yet I was
the only one of whom Lafontaine never exhibited a suspicion. His nature
was chivalrous, the rencounter between us he regarded as in the
strongest degree a pledge of brotherhood; and he allowed me to bask in
the full sunshine of his fair one's smiles, without a thought of my
intercepting one of their beams. In fact, he almost formally gave his
wild bird into my charge. Accordingly, whenever he was called to London,
which was not unfrequently the case, as the business of the emigrants
with Government grew more serious, I was her chosen companion; and as
she delighted in galloping over the hills and vales of Sussex, I was
honoured by being her chief equerry; she repaying the service by acting
as my cicerone.

"Come," said she one day, at the end of an excursion, or rather a race
of some miles along the shore, which put our blood-horses in a foam,
"have you ever seen Les Interieurs?"

"No."

"I saw you," she remarked, "admiring the Duchesse de Saint Alainville at
our little ball the other night."

"It was impossible to refuse admiration. She is the noblest looking
woman I ever saw."

"_One_ of the noblest, sir, if you please. But, as I disdain the superb
in every thing"----She fixed her bright eyes on me.

"The fascinating is certainly much superior." A slight blush touched her
cheek, she bowed, and all was good-humour again.

"Well, then," said she, "since you _have_ shown yourself rational at
last, I shall present you to this superb beauty in her own palace. You
shall see your idol in her morning costume, her French reality."

She touched the pane of a window with her whip, and a bowing domestic
appeared. "Is her Grace at home?" was the question. "Her Grace receives
to-day," was the answer. My companion looked surprised, but there was no
retreating. We alighted from our horses to attend the "reception."

The cottage was simply a cottage, roofed with thatch; and furnished in
the homeliest style of the peasants to whom it had belonged. We went up
stairs. A few objects of higher taste were to be seen in the apartment
to which we were now ushered--a pendule, a piano, and one or two
portraits superbly framed, and with ducal coronets above them. But, to
my great embarrassment, the room was full, and full of the first names
of France. Yet the whole assemblage were female, and the glance which
the Duchess cast from her fauteuil, as I followed my rather startled
guide into the room, showed me that I had committed some terrible
solecism, in intruding on the party. On what mysteries had I ventured,
and what was to be the punishment of my temerity in the very shrine of
the Bona Dea? My pretty guide, on finding herself with all those dark
eyes fixed on her, and all those stately features looking something
between sorrow and surprise, faltered, and grew alternately red and
pale. We were both on the point of retiring; when the Duchess, after a
brief consultation with some of the surrounding matronage, made a sign
to Mariamne to approach. Her hospitality to all the emigrant families
had undoubtedly given her a claim on their attentions. The result was a
most gracious smile from Madame la Presidente, and I took my seat in
silence and submission.

"Is France a country of female beauty?" is a question which I have often
heard, and which I have always answered by a recollection of this scene.
I never saw so many handsome women together, before or since. All were
not Venuses, it is true; but there was an expression, almost a mould of
feature, universal, which struck the eye more than beauty. It was
impossible to doubt that I was among a high _caste_; there was a general
look of nobleness, a lofty yet feminine grace of countenance, a stately
sweetness, which are involuntarily connected with high birth, high
manners, and high history.

There were some whose fine regularity of feature might have served as
the model for a Greek sculptor. Yet those were not the faces on which
the eye rested with the long and deep delight that "drinks in beauty." I
saw some worthy or the sublime spell of Vandyke, more with the
magnificence of style which Reynolds loved, and still more with the
subdued dignity and touching elegance of which Lawrence was so charming
a master.

On my return to French society in after years, I was absolutely
astonished at the change which seemed to me to have taken place in the
beauty of high life. I shall not hazard my reputation for gallantry, by
tracing the contrast more closely. But evil times had singularly acted
upon the physiognomy even of the nobles. The age of the _roturier_ had
been the climacteric of France. Generals from the ranks, countesses from
the canaille, legislators from the dregs of the populace, and
proprietors from the mingled stock of the parasite and the plunderer,
naturally gave the countenance, formed by their habits, to the nation
formed by their example.

Still there were, and are, examples of this original beauty to be found
among the _élite_ of the noble families; but they are rare, and to be
looked on as one looks on a statue of Praxiteles found in the darkness
and wrecks of Herculaneum. In the words of the old song, slightly
changed--

    "I roam'd through France's sanguine sand,
      At beauty's altar to adore,
    But there the sword had spoil'd the land,
      And Beauty's daughters were no more."

       *       *       *       *       *




ENGLISH MUSIC AND ENGLISH MUSICIANS.


Musical taste, as we observed in a former article, has undergone fewer
mutations in England, than in most other countries where the art has
been cultivated and esteemed. In order, therefore, to acquire an
accurate knowledge of the state of musical taste and science which now
prevails among us, it will be necessary to take a brief retrospect; and
as much of the music still popular was composed during the earliest
period of the art in England, we shall rapidly trace its history from
the times of those early masters, whose names are still held in
remembrance and repute, down to the present century.

When England threw off the Papal yoke, music was little known beyond the
services of the church. Though the secular music of this period was
barbarous in the extreme, yet masses were universally sung, and music
had long formed a necessary element in the due performance of the
services of the Romish church. During the reign of Henry VIII. few
alterations were made in public worship; and the service continued to be
sung and carried on in the Latin language, as before. From Strype's
account of the funeral of this monarch, it appears that all the old
ceremonies were observed, and that the rupture with Rome had caused no
alteration in the obsequies performed on such occasions. In the reign of
his successor, the church service was entirely changed, and the
Protestant liturgy was first published for general use. Four years after
this event, on the accession of Mary, the "old worship" was again
restored. But when, at length, the reformed religion was firmly
established by Elizabeth, and the ritual permanently changed, the music
of the old masses, suited to the genius and structure of the Romish
service, was no longer available for the simpler forms of worship by
which it was replaced. During the holiest and most solemn portions of
the ancient worship, the organ had for centuries been heard in the
cathedrals, while the choruses of praise and adoration resounded through
the aisles. Men's opinions may undergo a change, but the feelings and
ideas created by early association, and fostered by habit, are far more
lasting and enduring. The poet must have lamented the loss of the music,
which, in the stern ascetic spirit of Puritanism prevailing at a later
period of our history, he assisted to banish from our churches, as he
sang--

    "But let my due feet never fail
    To walk the studious cloisters pale,
    And love the high embowed roof,
    With antique pillars, massy proof,
    And storied windows richly dight,
    Casting a dim religious light,
    There let the pealing organ blow
    To the full-voiced choir below,
    In service high, and anthem clear,
    As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
    Dissolve me into extasies,
    And bring all heav'n before mine eyes."

At the period of which we speak, the want of music in the services of
the church seems to have been severely felt, though perhaps the simpler
forms of the new ritual were comparatively but little adapted for
musical display. Great exertions were made throughout the kingdom by the
deans and chapters to restore the efficiency of the choirs; and
Elizabeth, in the exercise of what then appeared an undoubted
prerogative of the crown, issued her warrant for the impressment of
singing men and boys for the castle of Windsor. The churches and
cathedrals still, indeed, retained their organs; "the choirs and places
where they sing" were still in being; all the _matériel_ was at hand;
but, with the exception of the production of John Marbeck, called "The
Book of Common Prayer Noted," which was printed in 1550, there was as
yet no music for the new services in the English language. Two years
after the accession of Elizabeth, and one year after the bill for the
uniformity of common prayer had passed the legislature, a choral work,
"very necessarie for the church of Christ to be frequented and used,"
was published, among the authors of which the name of Tallis appeared.
The musical necessities of the newly established church appear to have
stimulated or developed talents which, under other circumstances, might
perhaps have been less prominently brought forward: at all events, the
demand for this music would seem a principal reason why the early
English masters should have devoted themselves so exclusively to sacred
composition. Tallis and his pupil Byrd, both men of original genius,
produced many compositions for the newly introduced ritual, which, by
their intrinsic merit and comparative superiority, aided also by a
constant demand for new music of the same character, gave a permanent
direction to the exercise of musical talent; and the services of Tallis
and Byrd became the classic objects of emulation and imitation, and
sacred music became, in a peculiar manner, the national music of
England. The compositions of these "fathers of our genuine and national
sacred music," are still preserved, the latter of whom, Byrd, died in
1623, at the age of probably near eighty years.

The year 1588 forms an epoch in our musical history. An Italian
merchant, who, by his mercantile connection with the Mediterranean, had
opportunities of obtaining the newest and best compositions of his
native country, had, for some years, been in the frequent habit of
procuring the best singers of the day, to perform them, privately, at
his house in London. This gentleman had at length the spirit and
enterprise to publish a volume of Italian madrigals, entituled, "Musica
Transalpina, Madrigales translated of four, five, and six parts, chosen
out of divers excellent authors; with the first and second parts of La
Virginella, made by Maister Byrd, upon two stanzas of Ariosto, and
brought to speak English with the rest." These pieces seem to have given
birth to that passion for madrigals which was afterwards so prevalent,
and thus became the models of contemporary musicians. The next composer
of any note was Orlando Gibbons. He died at an early age, soon after the
accession of Charles I., to whom he had been appointed organist. This
master composed several madrigals, but, like his predecessors, he
devoted himself principally to sacred composition. The secular
productions of Tallis, Byrd, and Gibbons, together with those of
contemporary composers of inferior note, are, for the most part, now
forgotten; but the sacred music of these three masters still forms a
part of every collection of church music. Canons and fugues were the
favourite modes of that early period; vain substitutes for melody,
rhythm, and correct accentuation, in which particulars music was then
greatly deficient. The merits of the compositions of the Elizabethan
age, vaunted by the lovers of antiquity as the golden age of English
music, are thus summed up by Dr Burney: "It is, therefore, upon the
church music, madrigals, and songs in parts, of our countrymen during
the reign of Elizabeth, that we must rest their reputation; and these,
in point of harmony and contrivance, the chief excellencies of such
compositions, appear in nothing inferior to those of the best
contemporary compositions of the Continent. Taste, rhythm, accent, and
grace, must not be sought for in this kind of music; indeed, we might as
well censure the ancient Greeks for not writing in English, as the
composers of the sixteenth century for their deficiency in these
particulars, which having then no existence, even in idea, could not be
wanted or expected; and it is necessarily the business of artists to
cultivate or refine what is in the greatest esteem among the best judges
of their own nation and times. And these, at this period, unanimously
thought every species of musical composition below criticism except
canons and fugues. Indeed, what is generally understood by taste in
music, must ever be an abomination in the church; for, as it consists of
new refinements or arrangements of notes, it would be construed into
innovation, however meritorious, unless sanctioned by age. Thus the
favourite points and passages in the madrigals of the sixteenth century,
were in the seventeenth received as orthodox in the church; and those of
the opera songs and cantatas of the seventeenth century, are used by the
gravest and most pious ecclesiastical composers of the eighteenth." Of
the skill of the performers, for whom this music, still listened to and
admired, was written, he also observes, "that the art of singing,
further than was necessary to keep a performer in tune, and time, must
have been unknown;" and that "if £500 had been offered to any individual
to perform a solo, fewer candidates would have entered the lists than if
the like premium had been offered for flying from Salisbury steeple over
Old Sarum without a balloon." For ourselves, we do not hesitate to
acknowledge that, in our opinion, the services of these patriarchs of
the English school surpass the great majority of similar productions by
our later masters. They may, indeed, suffer when compared with the
masses of the great continental masters; but they nevertheless possess a
certain degree of simple majesty, well suited to the primitive character
of the ritual of that church which disdains the use of ornament, and on
_principle_ declines to avail herself of any appeal to the senses as an
auxiliary to devotion. We have been the more particular in our notice of
these early masters, because, long without any rivals, their church
music even now stamps the public taste, and is still held in the highest
esteem by many among whom their names alone suffice to hold the judgment
captive.

It is needless to advert to Humphrey and other composers, some of whose
productions are still in vogue; enough has been said to show with what
reason the _absolute_ correctness of English taste in sacred music, in
which we suppose ourselves so peculiarly to excel, may be called in
question.

We proceed to sketch the history of the other branches of the art in
England, and commence at once with Henry Purcell, the greatest of our
native masters, previously to whom music is said to have been manifestly
on the decline during the seventeenth century. It has been often
remarked of Purcell, that he had "devancé son siêcle." Many of his
faults, defects, or crudities, may undoubtedly be attributed to the age
which he adorned. The tide of public approbation has of late set
strongly in his favour; and could the fulsome panegyrics, of which he
has been the object, be implicitly received, Purcell would be considered
as nothing less than a prodigy of genius. Several attempts at dramatic
music had been made before Purcell's time. Matthew Lock had already set
the songs of _Macbeth_ and the _Tempest,_ and had also given to the
world "The English Opera, or the vocal music in Psyche," in close
imitation of Lulli, the long famed composer of Louis XIV. Purcell
followed in the new track, taking for his models the productions of the
first Italian composers. The fact, that Purcell was under obligations to
the Italians, may startle many of his modern admirers; but with a
candour worthy of himself, in the dedication of his _Dioclesian_ to
Charles Duke of Somerset, he says, that "music is yet but in its nonage,
a forward child. 'Tis now learning Italian, which is its best master."
And in the preface to his Sonatas, he tells us that he "faithfully
endeavoured at a just imitation of the most famed Italian masters." An
able critic has also remarked, that he thinks he can perceive the
obligations which Purcell had to Carissimi in his recitative, and to
Lulli both in recitative and melody; and also that it appears that he
was fond of Stradella's _manner_, though he seems never to have pillaged
his passages. Many of our readers are doubtless aware, that Purcell's
opera of _King Arthur_ has been lately revived at Drury-Lane, where it
has had a considerable _run_. The public prints have been loud in its
praise; and this work has been styled "the perfect model of the lyric
drama of England." The intervention of spoken dialogue, by many in their
innocence hitherto supposed to be a defect in the construction of a
musical drama, is strangely metamorphosed into a beauty in _King
Arthur_. In short, from some of these _critiques_, _King Arthur_ would
appear to be the only perfect drama or opera which the world has ever
seen. To show the real value of these criticisms, we may mention the
fact, that in an elaborate article of a journal now before us, in which
many of the pieces of this opera are enumerated and highly commended,
the writer has curiously enough passed by in silence two airs, of which
Dr Burney observes that they contain not a single passage which the best
composers of his time, if it presented itself to their imagination,
would reject; and on one of which he also remarks, that it is "one of
the few airs that time has not the power to injure; it is of all ages
and all countries." There is doubtless much in Purcell, which, though
quaint and antiquated, the musician may nevertheless admire; but
excellence of this kind is necessarily lost upon a general audience.
Melody in his day was rude and unpolished; for there were no singers to
execute, even if the composer had the ability to conceive. Thus
Percell's melody, though often original and expressive, is nevertheless
more often rude and ungraceful. In the words of a recent writer on this
subject, "We are often surprised to find elegance and coarseness,
symmetry and clumsiness, mixed in a way that would be unaccountable, did
we not consider that, in all the arts, the taste is a faculty which is
slowly formed, even in the most highly gifted minds." We suspect that
the pageant saved _King Arthur_; the scenic illusions by which
contending armies were brought upon an extended plain, together with the
numerous transformations, continually commanded that applause which the
music alone failed to elicit. With many, however, the mere _spectacle_
was not all-sufficient; but Opinion was written down, and independently
of the _prestige_ attached to the name of Purcell, the press would have
effectually put down all exhibition of disapprobation. The theatre might
be seen to become gradually deserted, and party after party, stunned by
the noise and blinded by the glare, might be observed to glide
noiselessly away as the performance proceeded, while an air of fatigued
endurance, and disappointment, was plainly visible on the countenances
of those that remained behind. This opera has been frequently revived;
how much of the success which it has met with may be attributed to what
Rousseau, when speaking of the operas of that period, terms "a false air
of magnificence, fairyism, and enchantment, which, like flowers in a
field before the harvest, betokens an _apparent_ richness," may be
matter of speculation; but it is recorded that even on its _first_
introduction on the stage, it caused a heavy loss to the patentees, in
consequence of which their affairs were thrown into Chancery, where they
remained some twenty years. Even Purcell's fame is confined to our own
shores, and we are not aware that his music was ever known upon the
Continent.

Arne, who established his reputation as a lyric composer by the music of
_Comus_ in 1738, is the next composer whom we think it necessary to
mention. To this master belongs the singular glory of having composed an
English opera--a term by which, as will be seen hereafter, we mean a
musical drama in which the whole of the plot is carried on without the
intervention of spoken dialogue. _Artaxerxes_, the only work of the kind
which we possess, was first produced in the year 1762. Though the music
is of a form now obsolete, this opera has seldom been long a stranger to
our stage, having been from time to time revived for the debut of new
and ambitious singers. One of these revivals has recently taken place;
the piece, however, was performed for a few nights only, and perhaps
popularity may be, at length, deserting _Artaxerxes_. This "standard
work of the English school" appears to be of more than doubtful
parentage. Arne is stated to have crowded the airs, those of Mandane in
particular, with all the Italian divisions and difficulties of the day,
and to have incorporated with his own property all the best passages of
the Italian and English composers of his time. With the exception of
_Comus_ and _Artaxerxes_, none of his pieces or operas met with great
success; and he seems to be principally remembered by those compositions
which were the least original. "Rule Britannia," by the combined effect
of the sentiment of the words and the spirit and vivacity of the music,
now become a national song, does not possess the merit of originality.
Long before it was _nationalized_--if one may use such a word--by
Englishmen, it was observed that in an Italian song, which may be seen
at page 25 of Walsh's collection, the idea--nay, almost all the
passages--of this melody might be found. In the well-known song, "Where
the bee sucks, there lurk I," passages occur taken almost note for note
from a _cantabile_ by Lampugnani. According to Dr Burney, Arne may also
claim the glory of having, by his compositions and instructions, formed
an era in the musical history of his country. The former relates that
music, which had previously stood still for near half a century, was
greatly improved by Arne in his endeavours "to refine our melody and
singing from the Italian;" and that English "taste and judgment, both in
composition and performance, even at the playhouses, differed as much
from those of twenty or thirty years ago, as the manners of a civilized
people from those of savages." Dr Busby, on the other hand, remarks,
that "it is a curious fact that the very father of a style, more natural
and unaffected, more truly English, than that of any other master,
should have been the first to deviate into foreign finery and finesse,
and desert the native simplicity of his country." But it is by the
compositions in which this degeneracy may be most particularly remarked,
that Arne's name as a musician has been preserved. This fact has
undoubtedly a double aspect. We may therefore, indeed, be permitted to
ask,

     "Who shall decide when _doctors_ disagree?"

Either the public taste has erred, or the bastard Italian was superior
to the genuine English. Either way there is something wrong, and it
matters little whether we elevate the composer at the expense of the
public, or whether we commend the national taste while we depreciate and
decry the excellence of the music or the merit of the musician.

To Arne succeed several masters, many of whose compositions are still
popular. Arnold, Boyce, Battishall, Shield, Horsley, Webbe, and Calcott,
are the leading names of a numerous class who are chiefly remembered for
their anthems and glees, amongst which may be found the
_chefs-d'oeuvres_ of a school of which we shall more particularly speak
hereafter. The dramatic compositions of these masters are, for the most
part, consigned to oblivion; nor has any permanent impression been made
upon the public, by a native opera, for many years. While our national
school has been thus barren, the Italian opera has been long cultivated
and esteemed. The first opera, performed wholly in Italian, was given at
the Haymarket theatre in 1710. Handel began to write for this theatre in
1712, and continued to produce operas for many years. The Italian opera
appears to have been in the most flourishing state about the years 1735
and 1736. London then possessed two lyric theatres, each managed by
foreign composers, carrying on a bitter rivalry, and each backed by all
the vocal and instrumental talent that could be found in Europe.
Porpora, by Rousseau styled the immortal, at the Haymarket, and Handel
at Covent-Garden--the former boasting the celebrated Farinelli and
Cuzzoni among his performers, the latter supported by Caustini and
Gizziello. The public, however, appears to have been surfeited by such
prodigality; for Dr Burney observes, "at this time"--about 1737--"the
rage for operas seems to have been very much diminished in our country;
the fact was, that public curiosity being satisfied as to new
compositions and singers, the English returned to their homely food, the
_Begger's Opera_ and ballad farces on the same plan, with eagerness and
comfort." In 1741, Handel, after producing thirty-nine Italian lyric
dramas, and after struggling against adversity, with a reduced
establishment in a smaller theatre, was compelled by ruin to retire for
ever from the direction of the Italian stage. The opera then passed into
other hands, and was continued, with various success and few
intermissions, down to the present time. It has been the means of
introducing to our countrymen the works of an almost innumerable host of
foreign composers. Bach, the first composer who observed the laws of
contrast as a principle, Pergolisi, Gluck, Piccini, Paesiello, Cimarosa,
Mozart, Rossini, and Bellini, are the principal names, among a long list
of masters, of whom we might otherwise have remained in utter ignorance.
Performers of every kind, singers of the highest excellence, have come
among us; the powers and performances of Farinelli, Caffarelli,
Pachierotti, Gabrielli, Mara, and others, are handed down by tradition,
while all remember the great artists of still later times. These have
been our preceptors in the art of song, and to them, and them alone, are
we indebted for our knowledge of the singer's, powers; and but for their
guidance and instruction, our native home-taught professors would have
been centuries instead of years behind. It may, however, be some
consolation to reflect, that we have not been alone in our pupilage; for
Italy, herself the pupil of ancient Greece, has in her turn become the
preceptress of the modern world in music, as well as the other branches
of the fine arts, in all of which her supremacy has been universally
acknowledged. Besides the native musicians whose names we have
enumerated, many _ephemeræ_ of the genus have fluttered their short
hour, and been forgotten. On turning over the popular music of the early
years of the present century, or the music which may, perhaps, have
formed the delight and amusement of the last generation, the musician
will marvel that such productions should have been ever tolerated.
Native skill has undoubtedly advanced since this period; and however
worthless much of our present music may be considered, it is
nevertheless superior to most of the like productions of our immediate
predecessors. We have some living composers whose works are not without
some merit; but they can scarcely be placed even in the second class.
Their compositions, when compared with the works of the great
continental masters, are tame, spiritless, and insipid; we find in them
no flashes of real genius, no harmonies that thrill the nerves, no
melodies that ravish the sense, as they steal upon the ear. Effort is
discernible throughout this music, the best of which is formed
confessedly upon Italian models; and nowhere is the universal law, of
the inferiority of all imitation, more apparent.

These observations apply with especial force to the _dramatic_ music, or
compositions of the English school. The term opera, is incorrectly used
in England. The proper meaning of the word is, a musical drama,
consisting of recitative airs and concerted pieces; without the
intervention of spoken dialogue, it should consist of music, and music
alone, from the beginning to the end. With us it has been popularly
applied to what has been well characterized as "a jargon of alternate
speech and song," outraging probability in a far higher degree than the
opera properly so called, and singularly destructive of that illusion or
deception in which the pleasure derived from dramatic representations
principally consists. Music is in itself no mean vehicle of expression;
but, when connected with speech or language, it gives a vast additional
force and power to the expression of the particular passion or feeling
which the words themselves contain. It appears, as one listens to an
opera, as if the music were but a portion, or a necessary component part
of the language of the beings who move before us on the scene. We learn
to deem it part of their very nature and constitution; and it appears,
that, through any other than the combined medium of speech and song, the
passions, we see exhibited in such intensity, could not be adequately
expressed. The breaking up of this illusion by the intervention of mere
dialogue, is absolutely painful; there is a sudden sinking from the
ideal to the real, which shocks the sense, and at once destroys the
fabric of the imagination. Rousseau says of the lyric drama, that "the
melodies must be separated by speech, but speech must be modified by
music; the ideas should vary, but the _language_ should remain the same.
This language once adopted, if changed in the course of a piece, would
be like speaking half in French and half in German. There is too great a
dissimilarity between conversation and music, to pass at once from one
to the other; it shocks both the ear and probability. Two characters in
dialogue ought either to speak or sing; they cannot do alternately one
and the other. Now, recitative is the means of union between melody and
speech by whose aid, that which is merely dialogue becomes recital or
narrative in the drama, and may be rendered without disturbing the
course of melody." Recitative is peculiarly adapted to the expression of
strong and violent emotion. The language of the passions is short,
vivid, broken, and impetuous; the most abrupt transitions and
modulations which are observed in nature, may be noted down in
recitative. Writing recitative is but committing to paper the accent and
intonation, in short, the _reading_ of the language to be delivered by
the performer; and the composer may almost be considered as a master of
elocution, writing down that reading of a passage which he thinks may
best express the passion or the sentiment of the words. The effect of
this reading or intonation is often aided and increased by the sound of
instruments, sometimes, expressing the harmonies of the passages or
transitions noted for the voice, at other times, perhaps, performing a
graceful independent melody or harmony, in which case it is said to be
"accompanied:" It may be easily conceived, how powerful an instrument of
dramatic effect, this species of composition may become in the hands of
a skillful composer. We have already given two examples of its power,
one, of recitative in its simplest form, the other, of accompanied
recitative.[1] It would seem scarcely credible that so powerful an agent
of the lyric drama should be utterly neglected, among a people who
undoubtedly _claim_ to be considered a musical nation, and whose
composers certainly esteem themselves among those to whom musical fame
might be justly awarded. But such is nevertheless the fact, and we are
not aware of any modern composer of the English school who has fully
availed himself of its powers and capabilities. It has been said of
_Artaxerxes_, that the attempt then made to apply recitative to the
English language is unsuccessful; but it may be asked, whether the long
continued popularity of this work may not, in _some_ degree at least, be
owing to the absence of the incongruous mixture of speech and song.
However this may be, it is at least a singular coincidence, that the
single opera of our language, in which dialogue does not break and
interrupt the unity and consistent action of the drama, should be the
only musical work which has been distinguished by such constant and
enduring marks of popular favour and approbation. Another species of
dramatic music, the _cantabile_ of the Italians, is equally neglected
among us. The _cantabile_ includes much of the most exquisite music of
the Italian masters, and we know of nothing more touchingly beautiful,
throughout the whole range of musical composition, than many of the
_andante cantabili_ of this school. This, also, has been rarely
attempted by the English masters, and their puny efforts will bear no
comparison with the rich, graceful, flowing measure of the true Italian.

[Footnote 1: No. cccxxvii, p. 137.]

All music is, in a greater or less degree, essentially dramatic. Its
beauty often depends, entirely, upon the fidelity and truth with which
nature is followed. Even instrumental music aims at dramatic effect, and
fanciful incidents, and catastrophes are often suggested by the melodies
and harmonies of a symphony, or concerto. These creations of the
imagination are in themselves a source of interest and delight, wholly
different, in their nature, from the pleasure conferred by mere sounds.
How beautiful are the scenes, about to follow, depicted in the overtures
to _Der Freyschutz_ and _Oberon_; what wild _diableries_ are not
suggested by those wonderful compositions! There are sounds of awful
mystery, proceeding, as it were, now, from the dread rites of dark
malignant beings of another world, now, from the mad frolics of
mischievous and reckless imps; in the midst of which a stream of
beauteous, gentle melody--like a minister of grace--breaks forth; now,
gliding smoothly along, now, rushing on impetuously, or, broken and
interrupted in its course, as though the powers of good and evil were
striving for the mastery; and at length, as if the former were
victorious in the strife, that melody again bursts forth, loud and
expanded in the bold exulting tones of triumph, with which the imaginary
scene is closed.

Similar observations might be made of many other pieces of instrumental
music; but these effects depend upon the imagination of the hearer,
there being no words to convey definite ideas to the mind. In vocal
music, where the words express no passion or emotion, the voice becomes
little more than a mere instrument of the composer or the performer.
Now, the national music of our country is for the most part adapted to
words of this description, and the anthem, the madrigal, and glee, are
thus necessarily deficient in dramatic power and expression. The glee
has been described as "_quelque chose bien triste_," and few but the
fanatics of the school who have listened to a succession of glees, will,
we think, deny the accuracy of the description. The oratorio is often
highly dramatic; but we have few, if any, oratorios of merit, of native
production. Our operas we have already designated as plays, with songs
scattered about at random. Thus, music of the highest class is rarely
attempted in this country; and the neglect of the one great requisite of
musical excellence, _may_ have prevented our composers from assuming
that rank, to which they might otherwise have shown themselves entitled.

There is, however, another class of composers whom we must not omit to
notice: we mean the song-writers of the day, the authors of those
ballads and vocal compositions, with knights and ladies fair, houris,
sentimental peasants, or highborn beauties, as the case may be,
lithographed upon the title-page. This class is entitled to notice, not
because of the merit or ability they possess, but because these masters
(!) really produce the popular music of the day, and because at present
we literally possess no other new music. The first object of the
publisher of a song is, or used to be, to have it sung in public by some
popular performer. This is not done without fee and reward; but the
value of the subject of the publisher's speculation, is greatly
increased by the publicity gained by the introduction of the song at the
theatre or the concert-room. When this event takes place, _claqeurs_ are
active, the friends of the singer support them, the playbills announce
"a hit," and a sly newspaper puff aids the delusion; copies of the
ornamented title-page are distributed among the various music-sellers,
to be exhibited in their windows, and the song is popular, and "sells."
Modest merit is unknown among us now. Thus songs and ballads without
number, which would otherwise remain in well-merited obscurity on the
shelves of the publisher, are forced into notice and repute. The trade,
no doubt, benefits by this system, the commercial end of these
speculations may indeed be answered, but the public taste is lowered by
each and every of these transactions.

We may here notice the extravagant price of music of every description
in England. For a piece of four or five pages, the sum of 2s. is
commonly demanded. Even where there has been an outlay in the purchase
of the copyright, this sum can scarcely be considered reasonable; but
when the same price is asked for music which has become common property,
it is out of all reason. The expense of engraving four or five pages of
music, the cost of the plates, together with the expense of paper and
printing a hundred copies of a song of this description, does not amount
to £5; therefore the sale of fifty copies will reimburse the publisher;
while, if the whole hundred are disposed of, he is an actual gainer of
cent per cent upon his original outlay, while the profit upon every copy
subsequently struck off is necessarily enormous. On the Continent, music
may be purchased for about one-third the sum which it would cost in
England. In Paris, Pacini's "partitions," an excellent edition of the
popular Italian operas, are sold for twelve francs each. The whole set
may be purchased at the rate of eleven francs the opera. While in
London, the identical copies purchasable abroad by those not in the
trade for about 8s. 6d. of our money, are sold at two guineas each. The
profits of "the trade" on musical instruments, are also enormous. On the
pianofortes of most of the London makers, a profit of _at least_ thirty
or thirty-five per cent is realized by the retailer; and on a grand
piano, for which the customer pays 130 guineas, "the trade" pockets on
the very lowest calculation upwards of £40.

English performers next claim our notice and attention. In this new
field of observation we find little to commend; defective training is
the great cause of our inferiority in the practical performance of
music, in all its branches. This is especially manifest in the
home-taught singers of the English school. The voice is never perfectly
formed nor developed, and brought out in the correct and scientific
manner possessed by the accomplished artists of other countries. Some of
the most popular of our singers sing with the mouth nearly closed, with
others the voice is forced and strained, proceeding not from the chest,
but from the throat, the muscles of which are necessarily contracted in
the effort. We have, no doubt, many difficulties to overcome in the
structure of our language, in which the accent is thrown on the
consonants rather than on the vowels. Unlike the Italian, which is
thrown out, _ore rotundo_, directly from the chest, the English language
is spoken from the throat, and, in general, also with the mouth nearly
closed. The Italian singer finds no difficulty in bringing out his
voice; but the Englishman has first to conquer the habit of his life,
and to overcome the obstacles his native tongue opposes to his
acquirement of this new but necessary, mode of using the voice. The
difficulty, of laying this only foundation of real sterling excellence
in the vocal art, is very great, and much care and study is
indispensable. Those who have occasion to use the voice loudly in the
open air, insensibly acquire the power of thus eliciting the voice. The
chest tones in which many of the "Cries of London" are often heard in
the streets of the metropolis, are a familiar example of nature's
teaching; another instance of which may probably still be found among
the "_bargees_," of Cambridge, whose voices, in our younger days, we
well remember to have often heard and admired, as they guided or urged
forward their sluggish horses along the banks of the still more sluggish
Cam, in tones proceeding _imo profundo_ of the chest, and magnificent
enough to have made the fortune of many a singer. These men, indeed,
seemed to pride themselves upon their vocal powers; and many of them
could execute a rapid shake, with accuracy and precision. The voice is
nature's instrument, but, like the instruments fashioned by the hand of
man, it will not yield its best tones to the unskilful. There are many
instrumental performers whose chief excellence lies in their tone, and
who could call forth tones, from even an ordinary instrument, far
superior to those which an inferior performer would be able to produce
from the best Straduarius or Amati. To the singer, tone is even of
greater value than to the instrumental performers; for the method of
instruction which improves the qualities of the vocal organ, also
imparts a power and certainty of expression and execution, which cannot
be otherwise acquired. The finest singers are ever found to be those,
who have best studied and developed the powers of the instrument which
nature had bestowed upon them. This is the first grand requisite for the
singer; without it, respectable mediocrity may occasionally be attained,
but real excellence never can be gained. We know of no English-taught
singer who possesses it. So little are the voice and its capabilities
understood in this country, that instances might be mentioned where
basses were mistaken for barytones, barytones for tenors, and contraltos
for sopranos. However incredible this may appear, it is, nevertheless,
strictly and literally true. The consequence of such strange blunders is
what might be naturally expected; the voice, forced out of its natural
compass, prematurely gives way, and at a period of life when the vocal
organ, if properly trained and developed, should have arrived at
maturity and perfection, the singer's powers are gone, and, in the prime
of life, he is compelled to abandon his profession, and subsides into
the mere singing-master, to _mis_instruct the rising generation, and to
mar the prospects of others who succeed him, as his own hopes were
blighted by the errors of his own instructors. To what other cause can
be attributed the constant and mysterious disappearance of new singers?
How many young vocalists appear from time to time; lauded at first to
the skies, for a few seasons listened to and admired, but whose
reputation gradually decays, and who at length disappear from the stage
and are forgotten. There are some who endure for years; but they fulfil
no promise of their early youth. Under these circumstances, we could ill
afford to lose an artist who seemed destined to achieve a lasting
reputation. Our musical stage has but now sustained a heavy loss in one
of the brightest ornaments it ever possessed; the charms of a happy home
have withdrawn her from public life--but the genius of Miss Adelaide
Kemble will not be soon forgotten. Another bright ornament of our stage,
however, still remains. Possessing less physical energy and tragic power
than her contemporary, Mrs Alfred Shaw is, nevertheless, the most pure,
polished, and cultivated English singer we ever heard on the boards of
our national theatre. The finish and refinement of her style, and the
clear distinctness of her enunciation, make her the worthy model for the
imitation of all who are desirous to excel. Were our future _debutanti_
trained on the system which has thus developed the powers and
capabilities of these eminent artists, less frequently would be observed
the musical disappearances of which we have been speaking.

The English tenor is a nondescript animal; singing from some unknown
region, his voice possesses no natural character, but its tones are
forced, strained, and artificial. Our tenors and counter-tenors--a sort
of musical hermaphrodite, almost peculiar to this country, and scarcely
recognized by classical composers--delight in what is called the "pure,"
or, "the good old English" style. This style, coldly correct, tame,
dull, flat, and passionless, requires but little in the singer. The bass
of this school is a saltatory creature; he is, for the most part, either
striding through thirds, or jumping over fifths and octaves, much as he
did a hundred years ago. During this period, the art of singing has made
immense advances elsewhere; the execution of Farinelli, in 1734, thought
so wonderful, would not suffice for even a third-rate singer now; and
the powers of B. Ferri, described by Rousseau, are scarcely more than
would be expected of every singer of the Queen's Theatre. Rossini's
music, replete with difficulties of execution, has compelled even the
unwieldy bass to overcome his reluctance to rapid motion, and he is now
obliged to condescend to runs, arpeggios, and other similar feats of
agility. In an opera buffa at a Neapolitan theatre, called _Il Fondo_,
we once heard Tamburini execute the well-known song "Ma non fia sempre
odiata" in his falsetto, with a taste and expression scarcely surpassed
by Rubini's performance of the air. On another occasion, at the same
theatre, the prima donna was taken suddenly ill in the midst of a
terzetto, in which Tamburini had the bass, and, while supporting her on
the stage, this accomplished musician actually took the soprano in his
falsetto, and performed the part of the indisposed lady in a manner
which drew down universal applause. The English school, "still tardy,"
and "limping after" the Italian, is yet far behind. It has, undoubtedly,
made some advances, but it is still the child, _following_ indeed, but,

     "Haud passibus æquis."

With us, the pupil commonly begins where he should end; songs are placed
before him almost as soon as he has mastered the elements of music. At a
time, when his whole study and endeavour should be to form and cultivate
the voice, and by long, patient, and persevering exercise, to develop
and command its powers, and to acquire flexibility and certainty of
execution, his efforts are expended in learning--as it is called--songs.
This process may be carried on _ad infinitum_; but none of the objects
of the pupil's study can be ever _sung_, in the real acceptation of the
term, on this method of instruction. The well-known anecdote of the
early youth of one of the greatest singers the world has ever known,
who, after the drudgery of a daily practice of exercises alone for seven
years, was bidden by his master to go his way, the first singer in
Europe, is an example of the advantages of the opposite system. The
compass of an ordinary tenor is about two octaves, from C below the
line, to C in alt. Within this compass, the tenor makes use of two
voices; the chest or natural voice--which ranges over the whole of the
lower octave and the lower half of the higher octave--and the head-voice
or falsetto, which is commonly used throughout the whole of the
remainder of the upper octave, the higher notes of which can be reached
only in the falsetto. In passing from one 'voice' to the other,
especially while descending the scale, a break or crack may be observed
in the untutored and uncultivated voice. When this defect has been
overcome, and the student has acquired the power of passing from one
'voice' to the other without this break, the voice is said to be joined.
The soprano also has to contend with a similar difficulty. It often
requires many months of constant and unremitting practice to overcome
this natural defect of the vocal organ, and in some voices it is never
entirely conquered. An acute ear might often detect the faulty joining
of the voice, in both the Grisis, when executing a distant descending
interval. This obstacle meets the student at the very threshold of his
career; but we have met with many English taught amateurs, who were
altogether ignorant even of what was meant by joining the voice. In
fact, the art of singing, or of acquiring a mastery and control over the
voice, of remedying its defects, and developing its latent powers, is
comparatively unknown in England; our professors are for the most part
entirely ignorant of the capabilities of the human voice, as an
_instrument_, in the hands of the performer. Many of these observations
apply to our instrumental performers. With few exceptions, defective
training has, in this branch of the musical art, long prevented us from
producing performers of equal celebrity with those who have visited us
from the Continent. From them we have become acquainted with effects,
which we should have deemed the instruments on which they played wholly
incapable of producing. Our young professors now often follow these men
to their own country, there to learn of them that proficiency which they
would seek in vain to acquire at home.

In the midst of all this ignorance, with our one opera, our anthems,
madrigals, glees, and ballads, we nevertheless esteem ourselves a
musical people, and every one is ready to exclaim with Bottom, "I have a
reasonable good ear in musick!" Music certainly is the fashion now, and
no one would dare to avow that he had no music in his soul. It may be
thought, that none but a people passionately devoted to music, could
produce a succession of patriots ready to sacrifice health and wealth,
rather than their countrymen should fail to possess an Italian opera.
Some one is ever found equal to the emergency; there is seldom any lack
of competitors for the "forlorn hope" of the management of the Italian
opera, and, undismayed by the ruin of his predecessors, the highest
bidder rushes boldly on to the direction of the Queen's theatre. Forty
thousand pounds of debt has been known to have been incurred in a single
season; and it has been calculated that a sum little short of a million
sterling, besides the produce of the subscriptions and admissions, has
been sacrificed to the desire of an Italian opera. Every autumn is rich
in musical festivals, as they are called, by which, though the temples
of God are desecrated, and the church, in common with the theatre and
the concert-room, becomes the scene of gaiety, frivolity, and amusement;
and though the speculation is a charitable one, by which it is _hoped_
that the funds of the benevolent institutions of the town or county may
be increased, a considerable loss is nevertheless often incurred, which
falls upon the committee, or upon the borough or county members,
according to the equity of the case. These gentlemen also furnish
another proof that there are at least some among us who will incur any
risk, and make any sacrifice, rather than forego the indulgence of their
musical tastes and inclinations. Are there not also choral and madrigal
societies, glee-clubs, and concerts innumerable, in every part of the
country? It is surely a mistake to suppose, "_Que les Anglois ont peu
d'aptitude pour la musique_;" we agree that the remainder of the
sentence, "_Ceux-ci le savent et ne s'en soucient guère_," is altogether
inapplicable now, however true it might have been when the lively
Jean-Jacques framed the sentence. Our ambition has been roused, or our
vanity has been piqued, and we are now pretty much in the same condition
with the French, when it was said of them, that they "would renounce a
thousand just rights, and pass condemnation on all other things, rather
than allow that they are not the first musicians of the world." This is
one of the signs of the times, and we hail it as a symptom of better
things.

In the metropolis, music has advanced with far greater rapidity than in
the provinces. This appears the natural and inevitable result of causes
to which we have already alluded. Ten or fifteen years ago, the
street-music of London consisted of such tunes as Tom and Jerry--an
especial favourite--the Copenhagen Waltz, and other _melodies_ of the
same class. Now we have instruments imitating a full orchestra, which
execute elaborate overtures in addition to the best airs of the first
masters of Europe. The better the music the greater the attraction, even
in the streets of London; and the people may be seen daily to crowd
around these instruments, and to listen with attention to Italian and
German melodies. We have, of late, repeatedly heard the juvenile
unwashed, whistling airs learned from these instruments, which, however
humble, thus appear to influence the taste of the poorer classes. During
several weeks of the present year, operas in an English dress were
simultaneously performed at three of our theatres. The very gods in the
galleries now look benignly down upon the Italian strangers, which--to
use a theatrical phrase--draw better houses than any other performances
would command.

In the country, the advancement is less manifest. A provincial musical
party is generally a fearful thing. In the society of the metropolis,
none but the really skilful musician is ever heard; in the country,
these are rare beings; or, if the scientific performer is sometimes
found, like the diamond in the mine, he shines in vain, there are none
to appreciate his excellence. It is truly painful to see a number of
fair young creatures, one after another, brought up to the instrument;
there to exhibit, not taste or skill, but ignorance and inability. It is
even still more painful to be condemned to listen to the performance of
the best specimens, selected from the stock of school-taught pieces,
beyond which many of the fair performers know little or nothing. We beg
pardon of our fair young countrywomen; the fault lies not with them. The
indiscriminate teaching of music cannot make all musicians. Many have no
warm taste for music, and many more, who, under other circumstances,
might have pursued the art as an amusement and recreation, are disgusted
from their earliest youth by its being made a task, the difficulty of
which is immeasurably increased by imperfect instruments. The general
taste of the provincial world has advanced but little, for many years.
There is a certain class of music, which has been respectfully listened
to for upwards of a century; which, having been admired before, is
therefore proper to be admired again. Few would dare to criticize, or
avow a distaste for, music which has so long been popular. Handel and
some others still meet with universal deference, and their very names
alone suffice to silence any one who, more hardy than the rest, should
be disposed to find fault. This music, however, is heard with cold
indifference; it calls forth no feeling, and excites no enthusiasm. It
is, indeed, seldom adequately performed. Many of Handel's songs are
truly dramatic; but the purists of "the good old school," sternly
adhering to their--self-styled classic--insipidity, never condescend to
a meretricious display of dramatic power. The Italian and German schools
are not understood by the "million." We have on many occasions observed
a large audience, who, after having listened with an air of puzzled
stupidity to the performance of the most beautiful _cavatine_ by the
first singers of the day, would the next moment, one and all, be thrown
into apparent ecstasy by a wretched ballad, wound up by the everlasting
ponderous English shake. This mode of conclusion, to which true taste is
an utter stranger, is still considered indispensable; though, in the
Italian school, it has been exploded upwards of a century. Such is the
music which calls forth the latent enthusiasm of an English assembly,
and a very respectable degree of excitement is often thus produced.
There are many, who believe this music to be of the highest class of
excellence, and who affect to despise the music of every other school.
There are also many, who assert that all other music is artificial and
meretricious--who contend that the Italian and German schools are
usurping an undue ascendency over the genuine, but modest, merit of our
native music. That Bishop, Calcott, Webbe, Arne, and the rest, had
reached the perfection of their art, would seem a bold assertion; and
their most enthusiastic admirers would probably hesitate to state it as
their conviction, that the compositions of their favourites contain the
elements of universal popularity. Such, however, is the logical
deduction from these premises, and the necessary conclusion from
opinions, which those who hold them will not easily evade. If the music
of our country does indeed possess the excellence, so fondly asserted by
its numerous admirers, we might naturally expect, amid the general
demand in Europe for musical entertainments, that its beauties should
not be entirely neglected and unknown. But while the Italian opera has
found its way over nearly the whole of Europe, and is absolutely
naturalized in England, France, and Spain, our musical productions are
unknown beyond the limits of their native shores. This, being a negative
proposition, is not capable of direct proof. Michael Kelly gives an
amusing account of the performance of the celebrated hunting song at
Vienna, in which the discordant cries of "Tally-ho, Tally-ho," are said
to have driven the Emperor in indignation from the theatre, a great part
of the audience also following the royal example. "The ladies hid their
faces with the hands, and mothers were heard cautioning daughters never
to repeat the dreadful expression of Tally-ho." We have, ourselves,
heard a no less air than "Drops of Brandy," performed by a military
band, stationed on the balcony of the palace of the King of Naples, on
the evening of the royal birthday. The crowds enjoying the cool air on
the Stª Lucia, exclaimed "Inglese, Inglese!" English, English! as this
odd reminiscence of our countrymen was first heard. We are not aware of
any other instances in which English music has been introduced upon the
Continent. More such instances may undoubtedly exist; but the broad
fact, that our music makes no way among other nations, cannot be
disputed. The judgment of the civilized world can scarcely be in error;
and it is difficult for the most ardent admirer of his country's music,
to account for the fact on any hypothesis which is not founded on the
real inferiority of the English school.

This inferiority can be no matter of surprise, when we consider the
energy with which the tuneful art is cultivated, and the importance with
which it is invested, by the Italians. In the freedom happily enjoyed by
Englishmen, all pursuits are open to individual enterprise and ambition;
and every path to fame or opulence is thronged with busy eager
aspirants, all running the race of eminence and distinction, with that
strong purpose of the will which leaves but little opportunity for the
indulgence of tastes, which, though they often exist among the
individuals of these classes, are for this reason seldom cultivated. In
Italy, insurmountable barriers are erected across these paths, which, in
England, all are invited to pursue. The jealousy of despotic governments
is ever on the watch to stifle and put down the genius that would busy
itself on the serious affairs of men. Instances might be mentioned in
which this monstrous system has been carried into effect. The smothered
energies of these restless spirits must somewhere find a vent, and
Arteaga has eloquently described one of the effects thus produced upon
the Italians. "The love of pleasure," he remarks, "the only recompense
for the loss of their ancient liberty which the Italians possess, and
which in every nation decreases in proportion as political virtue
diminishes, has caused an excessive frequency of theatrical pageants and
amusements. In every small town, in every village, a theatre may be
found. Subsistence may fail the indigent, the rivers may want bridges,
drainage may be necessary to fertilize the plains, hospitals may be
needful for the sick and infirm, there may even be no provision to meet
a public calamity, but a species of Coliseum is nowhere wanting for the
idle and unemployed." Operas are the national entertainments at these
numerous theatres. The _impresario_, or manager, is generally one of the
most wealthy and considerable personages of the little town which he
inhabits. He forms a company, and he engages a composer to write an
opera for the opening of the season, which generally consists of twenty
or thirty nights, during which period seldom more than two operas are
performed. The first night of one of these seasons is most amusingly
described by the biographer of Rossini. "The theatre overflows, the
people flock from ten leagues' distance; the curious form an encampment
round the theatre in their calashes; all the inns are filled to excess,
where insolence reigns at its height. All occupations have ceased; at
the moment of the performance the town has the aspect of a desert. All
the passions, all the solicitudes, all the life, of a whole population,
is concentrated at the theatre. The overture commences; so intense is
the attention, that the buzzing of a fly could be heard. On its
conclusion, the most tremendous uproar ensues. It is either applauded to
the clouds, or hissed, or rather howled at, without mercy. In an Italian
theatre, they shout, they scream, they stamp, they belabour the backs of
their seats with their canes, with all the violence of persons
possessed. It is thus that they force on others the judgment which they
have formed, and strive to prove it a sound one; for, strange to say,
there is no intolerance equal to that of the eminently sensitive. At the
close of each air the same terrific uproar ensues; the bellowings of an
angry sea could give but a faint idea of its fury. Such, at the same
time, is the taste of an Italian audience, that they at once distinguish
whether the merit of an air belongs to the singer, or composer."

Contrast the scene here described with the appearance presented on
similar occasion by the Queen's Theatre in the Haymarket. There, few are
bold enough either to applaud or disapprove. Many simple, perhaps, but
beautiful and refined, characteristics of the composer or performer, may
pass unnoticed; but some common-place embellishment, which is considered
safe, will command the expression of approbation which the trait of real
genius had failed to elicit. After a few representations, the fear of
applauding _unwisely_ is diminished, but still, as was once said of the
French under similar circumstances, "they affirm with the lips, but with
the eye they interrogate;" and it is not till a sort of prescription has
been established in favour of certain airs and passages, that the
Englishman banishes doubt and distrust, and claps his hands, and shouts
_bravo_--accenting the word strongly on the first syllable--with an air
of confidence and decision. We would, nevertheless, entertain the hope,
that our national reserve, or the _mauvaise honte_, which our countrymen
contrive to exhibit on every possible occasion, is one cause of this
apparent dulness; at all events, it would seem highly probable that a
people among whom music is a necessity, should, in the unbiassed
judgment of contemporary nations, be our superiors in the art.

In the north of England, musical taste is much more widely diffused than
in the south. The Committee of the Privy Council on Education, report
favourably also of the musical attainments of the people of Norfolk. Mr
Hogarth, in his excellent and able work, observes, that "in the densely
peopled manufacturing districts of Yorkshire, Lancashire, and
Derbyshire, music is cultivated among the working classes to an extent
unparalleled in any other part of the kingdom. Every town has its choral
society, supported by the amateurs of the place and its neighbourhood,
where the sacred works of Handel and the more modern masters are
performed, with precision and effect, by a vocal and instrumental
orchestra, consisting of mechanics and work people; and every village
church has its occasional oratorio, where a well-chosen and
well-performed selection of sacred music is listened to by a decent and
attentive audience, of the same class as the performers, mingled with
their employers and their families. Hence, the practice of this music is
an ordinary domestic and social recreation among the working classes of
these districts, and its influence is of the most salutary kind." We can
ourselves bear witness to the truth of many of these remarks. In some of
the more rural portions of the manufacturing districts of Lancashire, we
have often listened to the voices of little bands of happy children,
who, while returning home after the labours of the day were over, were
singing psalms and hymns to tunes learned at the national or Sunday
schools. A highly interesting example of the superior musical capacity
of the inhabitants of this county, came under our observation a few
years ago, at a large and populous village situated on the borders of
one of the extensive fields of industry of which we speak. On the
anniversary of the opening of the school, the children frequenting
it--in number nearly 300--had been long accustomed to march in
procession up to the mansion of the neighbouring squire, the founder and
endower of the school. Ranged upon the lawn in the presence of their
aged benefactor and his family--children, grandchildren, and
great-grandchildren, were among them--led by no instrument, and guided
only by the voices of their teachers, they performed an anthem, in
parts, with an accuracy and precision which was truly wonderful. As
their young voices rose in simple beauty to the skies, tears coursed
down the old man's cheek, and though already bowed by the weight of
nearly ninety years, he bent still lower, to hide the emotion which
overcame him. Six months after this occurrence, those children were
drawn up to pay their last tribute of respect to their benefactor, as
his remains passed to their final resting-place. In the churches of the
north, the school-children may be seen singing with evident delight, not
the mere passive instruments of the masters or teachers, but joining
heart and soul with the congregation. The Lancashire chorus singers have
long enjoyed an extended reputation; at the last festival at Westminster
Abbey, they proved the principal strength of the choral band. In other
parts of the kingdom, far less aptitude for music is shown among the
working classes. The singing in the churches is, for the most part, of
the lowest order. In many parishes considerable pains have, of late,
been taken in order to improve the psalmody, but no corresponding effect
has been produced. In the agricultural districts of the south of
England, no songs are heard lightening the daily toil of the labourer,
and the very plough-boys can hardly raise a whistle. It is impossible to
account for this; but the fact will be acknowledged by all who have had
the opportunity of observation.

In speculating upon the future prospects of music and musical taste and
science in England, the two rival systems of teaching which have been
recently introduced, must necessarily become the subjects of remark and
observation. The names of the teachers of these systems are no doubt
well known to all our readers. Mainzer, who is himself the author, as
well as the teacher, of one system, and Hullah, the teacher of the
system of Wilhelm. Wilhelm's method has been stamped by authority, and
the Committee of the Council on Education, after "carefully examining"
manuals of vocal music collected in Switzerland, Holland, the German
States, Russia, Austria, and France, in order to ascertain the
characteristic differences and general tendency of the respective
methods adopted in these countries, at length decided in favour of
Wilhelm. The accounts received of the success of this system in Paris,
induced the Council to secure the assistance of Mr Hullah, who was known
to have given much attention to the subject, and to have been already
engaged in making trials of the method. The system of Wilhelm has,
therefore, acquired the ascendency, and Mr Hullah has been invested with
the character or office of national instructor, in which capacity he is
said to realize upwards of L.5000 per annum--almost as many pounds,
according to Mr Barnett, as Wilhelm, the inventor of the system,
received francs. The prominent station and the large income realized by
a junior in the profession, has naturally roused the jealousy and
excited the envy of his elder brethren, many of whom, perhaps, found
"their occupation" almost "gone." The vast amount of the bitterness thus
engendered, may be conceived, when the reader is informed, that, in
London alone, it has been computed that music affords a livelihood to
more than 5000 persons. In the midst of such a host of bitter rivals,
the imperfections and defects of this all-engrossing system are sure of
exposure. Many grave and serious charges have been advanced against the
mode in which a superficial and deceptive success has been made to
appear real, sound, and healthy. These charges have been reiterated in a
pamphlet, recently published by one who is, perhaps, the first of our
native living masters--Mr Barnett. Those great exhibitions at Exeter
Hall, in the presence of the magnates of the land, at which none but the
pupils of Mr Hullah were stated to be allowed to attend, have been
declared to be "packed" meetings. There is an _equivoque_ in the terms
pupil and classes; with the public they would naturally be taken to mean
those persons, and those only, who had _commenced_ their musical career
in the classes taught by Mr Hullah: but according to the official
interpretation of the terms, they appear to mean, all who now are or
ever have been receiving instruction in Wilhelm's method. Now, it must
be remembered, that Mr Hullah has instructed in Wilhelm's method many
who had, for years, gained their bread by teaching music; who, having
been induced to abandon their old system, and to adopt the new method
from the superior remuneration it affords, were probably all able to
take as efficient a part in the performance, when they commenced the
nine lessons which entitle them to the certificate of competency, as
when their course of instruction was concluded. Hundreds of such pupils
may, for aught we know, have been judiciously disposed among the
remainder of the 1700 who performed on the grand occasions to which we
allude. But to enable us to judge of the efficiency of a system of
instruction, we must not only witness the performance of the pupil, but
we must also know the point from which he started. Now, these
demonstrations having been got up expressly for the purpose of
exhibiting the skill and progress of Mr Hullah's classes, all,
therefore, that was necessary in order to form a judgment upon the
question thus submitted to the public, though not directly asserted, was
nevertheless necessarily implied. At all events, the public were simple
enough so to understand the matter. But when the mistake was at length
discovered, instead of at once correcting the error, if such indeed it
was, recourse was had to a disingenuous quibble on words, which would,
therefore, seem to have been purposely rendered obscure. It will thus be
seen how fallacious a test these performances afford, either of the real
merits of the system, or of the actual progress or efficiency of those
who have received instruction from no other source. But, besides this
charge, the truth of which is thus virtually admitted, it has also
publicly been charged against the conductors of the Exeter Hall
performances, that many able musicians, who never were the pupils of any
teacher of the Wilhelm method, were surreptitiously introduced among the
classes at these great choral meetings. This is a grave accusation; it
has been made not anonymously nor in the dark, but backed and supported
by the open disclosure of the name and address of the several parties by
whom it has been publicly brought forward. Of the truth or falsehood of
this serious imputation we know nothing more than that it is raised by
facts, which have been stated, but which, so far as we can learn, have
never received any denial or explanation. On one of these occasions we
were present. We can bear testimony to the effect produced by much of
the music then performed. Mr Hullah certainly appeared to possess great
power over the numerous assembly, and the facility with which he hushed
them almost down to silence, or made them raise their voices till there
seemed no limits to their united power, was almost magical. But beyond
this, in the words of an able weekly journalist, "no means of forming
any opinions were before us--the whole affair might be a cheat and a
delusion--we had no test by which to try it. We have hitherto,"
continues the writer, "spoken of these exhibitions at Exeter Hall as
realities, as being what they were affirmed to be. This is no longer
possible. If Mr Hullah has any real confidence in his 'system,' he will
eagerly seek a real scrutiny into its merits; hitherto there has been
none." Our own personal observation does not enable us to be very
enthusiastic in the praise of the Wilhelm system. A few weeks only have
elapsed, since we attended a meeting of a class, whose progress we had
watched, from time to time, from its earliest infancy. This class had
gone through the course of sixty lessons, but continued still to receive
instruction. Their power of singing at sight was tested in our
presence--a piece of music they had never seen before was placed in
their hands. The first attempt to execute this at sight was lame, and
halted terribly; the second was somewhat better, but as we moved about,
from one pupil to another, to ascertain, as far as possible, the
individual accuracy of the class, we heard many voices, in a subdued
tone, making a number of admirable guesses at their part, but the owners
of which could not, by the utmost courtesy, be considered to be singing
at sight. The basses missed many a "distance," the tenors were
interrupted by the master, and worked, in the defective passages,
separately from the rest of the class for a while, _by ear_!! A third
attempt was made with somewhat better success, and the piece was
accomplished in a rambling uncertain manner. During the whole of this
trial, the trebles were led by the master's apprentice, a sharp clever
boy, who retained a voice of peculiar beauty and power to the unusually
late age of sixteen, and who had commenced his musical studies six or
eight years before. We considered this experiment a failure; it may be
said the fault lay in the teacher, not in the method; true, the master
was not Mr Hullah, but he was one of the "certificated," and the
partisans of Mr Hullah, in the language of the lawyers, are _estopped_
from asserting his incompetency. We have known pupils, not deficient in
general ability, who, having attended the greater part of "the course,"
during which they paid great attention to their studies, were unable to
read more than a few bars of the simplest music, beyond which they were
lost and confused. Without naming the notes _Do, Re,_ &c., they were
utterly unable to proceed at all, and it appeared to us that, by seeing
those syllables written on paper, they would have gathered a more
correct idea of the music, than by attempting to read from music written
in the ordinary manner. This is the result of the invariable use of
those syllables in exercising the voice. In the best continental
schools, they have long been obsolete for such a purpose. Still, the
Hullah-Wilhelm mania will, no doubt, produce considerable effect, even
though the system should fall short of the expectations of its friends
and promoters. We have now commenced our first national effort in this
direction; either, the prejudices which so long delayed this effort have
been overcome, or, the "National Society" is now too strong to bow,
entirely, to the opinions or prejudices of one of its earliest and most
influential patrons--one who long resisted the introduction of musical
instruction into the schools of the society; and who, some twenty years
ago, is said, on one occasion, actually to have thrown out of the
windows of the central school some cards and boards on which the
elements of music were printed, and which had been introduced by some of
the committee. But for the influence of this nobleman the effort had,
perhaps, been made many years ago. The "_premier pas_" has, however, at
length been taken. The public mind is roused; all, from the highest to
the lowest, frequent the classes of Mr Hullah. Royalty itself deigns to
listen. "THE DUKE" himself takes delight in the peaceful notes of Exeter
Hall, and the Premier has found leisure, from the business and service
of the State, to scrutinize the performance of "the classes." It must
surely be a pleasant thing to sing to princes, warriors, and
statesmen--all that the country holds most in honour, love, and
reverence. The impulse thus given is felt throughout the land. Classes
are formed in every town, almost in every village; the labourer, the
mechanic, young men and maidens, old men and children, may be seen,
after their daily toil is done, busy with the _do, re, mi, fa_, &c., of
the class-book. Although the system may not prove all that might be
desired, yet much is taught and learned, and the desire of acquiring
more is created. The general standard of music, and musical taste, must
necessarily be raised far above its previous resting-place. It must,
however, be ever borne in mind, that the system professes only to teach
sight-singing, or, in other words, the power of reading music. This
power is wholly distinct from that of singing, as we have above defined
the art; those who having attended, and profited to the utmost by the
course, will be grievously disappointed if they expect at its close to
find themselves accomplished singers. The management of the voice is
still required, and many vicious habits, contracted during the practice
at the class, will have to be forgotten. This, however, cannot be felt
by the million, to whom any musical instruction will be a gift of
unspeakable value, in a social and moral point of view. The Committee of
the Council well observe, that "amusements which wean the people from
vicious indulgences are in themselves a great advantage; they contribute
indirectly to the increase of domestic comfort, and promote the
contentment of the artisan. The songs of any people may be regarded as
important means of forming an industrious, brave, loyal, and religious
working-class." Mr Barnett calls this, "nothing but egregious cant, got
up by the teachers of the Wilhelm plan, both in France and here." In
this we cannot agree with Mr Barnett, and we scarcely understand why he
should be betrayed into so much heat upon the occasion. For ourselves,
we rejoice to see any system at work for the purpose of instructing the
working classes in the elements of music; and it seems to us a monstrous
proposition, and nothing short of an insult to our countrymen, on the
part of the prominent opposer of the Wilhelm system, to assert that the
knowledge or cultivation of an art, which throughout all history has
advanced hand in hand with civilization and refinement, should, among
the labouring classes of England, be productive only of idleness,
drunkenness, or debauchery.

The instruction of the lower classes in vocal music, however beneficial
and important as an element in civilization, or however advantageous as
a means by which the general taste of the people may be elevated and
refined, will not be found all-sufficient, in itself, to raise our
musical reputation as a nation. Native music is at a low ebb at present;
and, while musical entertainments are in such general request as almost
to have excluded the "legitimate" drama from the stage, no attempt to
introduce any English opera has been recently made. Into such oblivion
or disrepute have English composers fallen, that some of the most
eminent have actually left London. One well-known veteran now lives in
honourable retirement in the Modern Athens. Another, once popular and
admired, "disgusted with London and the profession," and "having given
up all thoughts of again appearing before the London public as an
operatic composer," is said to have migrated in the capacity of
singing-master to a fashionable watering-place; while a third, once
equally well known, has left the kingdom altogether, and has settled
himself in Paris. The public ear has learned to appreciate music of a
high class; and, judging from the past, the manager perhaps dare not
incur the risk of bringing out a new native opera. It is certainly much
to be regretted that the existing demand should not be supplied from
native sources, and thus serve the purpose of national advancement in
the art; but English music does not _take_. Does the fault rest with the
public or with the musician? It is easy, and no doubt _convenient_,
contemptuously to apply the epithet, "_hacknied_," to the operas
recently adapted to the English stage; but how is it that the old
"hacknied" music of the Italians should be preferred to the novelties of
our native school? Here again the public taste has advanced too fast,
and, owing to the inferiority of our home productions, the foreigner has
gained possession of the market.[2] Where is the remedy for this
unfortunate state of things? Some master-mind, some musical Napoleon,
_may_ rise up and take the world by storm; but such an event is
particularly unlikely now. The hour generally makes the man, and the
necessities of the moment often call forth talents and energies, the
existence of which was wholly unsuspected by their possessors. For aught
we know, many a hero may be now among the ranks, and many a gallant
officer now before the mast, undistinguished from lack of opportunity,
unknown because circumstances have not developed his dormant powers. How
then can the hour be hastened, and the opportunity of developing our
musical powers be afforded? The answer is, by the establishment of a
National Opera. It has been observed that every nation that has risen to
musical greatness, possesses a musical opera. Even the French, who,
according to Mr Hullah, "have the least possible claim to a high musical
organization," have, nevertheless, long possessed a national opera,
boasting the best orchestra in Europe, and producing masters whose works
have been successfully transplanted, and singers who have met with
universal admiration. At the present moment, Paris has two national
musical theatres, the _Académie Royale_, and the _Opera Comique_: and
the establishment of a third is said to be in contemplation. The
possibility of forming such an establishment at the present time in
England, may be reasonably called in question. The attempt made some ten
years ago, though commended by the minister of the day, was signally
abortive; and the subsequent endeavour of a popular musician to open a
theatre for the performance of English operas, was equally futile and
unsuccessful. One thing of primary importance--the patronage of the
higher classes--was wanting to both these efforts. Were the stamp of
fashion once impressed upon such an undertaking, success would be
certain, did the _fiat_ of the great world once go forth, the thing
would be accomplished. The marvellous impulse recently given to musical
instruction throughout the kingdom, shows the vast power, for good,
possessed by the higher classes of aristocratic England. We have often
lamented the apathy of the fashionable world on this subject, and we can
entertain no hope of aristocratic support and encouragement for the
English opera. There may, however, be some hope, though faint and
distant, for our musicians. In consequence of a national musical
education, a national opera may become a national want; and we can
scarcely conceive it possible, that the wide diffusion of musical taste
and knowledge should fail ultimately, to produce a large and
never-failing demand for dramatic music. Then would our musicians have a
wide, fair field for the development of their resources, success, the
highest and most brilliant, would be within their reach, and would
depend entirely on themselves. If, under such circumstances, the
reputation of our country did not quickly rise, bright and resplendent
in the musical horizon, our hopes of universal excellence would indeed
be crushed for ever.

[Footnote 2: No. cccxxvii. p. 130.]

It might be long before we rivalled either of the great continental
schools, each of which would doubtless long retain its ancient
worshippers. Of these two schools, of a character and style so
different, _we_ confess a preference for the smooth, voluptuous,
peaceful flow of the Italian, rather than the stern, but sublimer,
beauty of the German. The one, like the soft and glowing landscape of
its native land, refreshes the spirit, warms the heart, and kindles the
affections; the latter, like the wild and often savage grandeur of the
scenery of Switzerland, chills, while it awes and subdues the soul.
There is a smiling kindliness about the former, which fascinates and
attracts; the latter often pains and distracts, by an intense and varied
action which admits of no repose. It is as the tranquil elegance of the
Venus of the Tribune, or the calm dignity of the Apollo of the Vatican,
contrasted with the nervous energy of the works of Buonarroti, or the
sublime but fearful agony of the Laocoon.

The more enthusiastic admirers of the productions of the Germans, that
race of musical Michael Angelos, often despise the lamer attributes of
the music of the "sweet south." Such spirits delight in the storm and
the whirlwind; peace and repose have probably no charms for them.

            "Music was ordain'd,
    Was it not, to refresh the mind of man,
    After his studies, or his actual pain?"

Many fly to music to soothe and compose the mind, others seek it as a
means of new and fresh excitement. Neither are now able, in the music of
their country, to find _all_ they seek. We are not, however, without
hope for the future. Never till now has music formed an element in
national education; and the movement now extending throughout the land,
must of necessity be the means of elevating and refining the musical
taste of our countrymen. Improvements, like those already manifest in
the sister arts of painting and sculpture, may be now about to show
themselves in music. Even our _sons_ may wonder at the taste which could
tolerate the music which their fathers had applauded and admired; and
England, long pre-eminent in the useful arts and sciences, and the
serious and more weighty affairs of life, may at length become equally
distinguished in the fine arts, and all those lighter and more elegant
pursuits, which, throughout the history of mankind, have ever formed the
peculiar characteristics of a high degree of civilization and
refinement.

       *       *       *       *       *




PHILHELLENIC DRINKING-SONG.

BY B. SIMMONS.


    Come let us drink their memory,
      Those glorious Greeks of old--
    On shore and sea the Famed, the Free,
      The Beautiful--the Bold!
    The mind or mirth that lights each page,
      Or bowl by which we sit,
    Is sunfire pilfer'd from their age--
      Gems splinter'd from their wit.
        Then drink we to their memory,
          Those glorious Greeks of yore;
        Of great or true, we can but do
          What they have done before!

    We've had with THE GREAT KING to cope--
      What if the scene he saw--
    The modern Xerxes--from the slope
      Of crimson Quatre-bras,
    Was but the fruit we early won
      From tales of Grecian fields
    Such as the swords of Marathon
      Carved on the Median shields
        Oh, honour to those chainless Greeks,
          We drink them one and all,
        Who block'd that day Oppression's way
          As with a brazen wall!

    Theirs was the marble land where, woo'd
      By love-born Taste, the Gods
    Themselves the life of stone endured
      In more divine abodes
    Than blest their own Olympus bright;
      Then in supreme repose,
    Afar star glittering, high and white
      Athenè's shrine arose.
        So the days of Pericles
          The votive goblet fill--
        In fane or mart we but distort
          His grand achievements still!

    Fill to their Matrons' memory--
      The Fair who knew no fear--
    But gave the hero's shield to be
      His bulwark or his bier.[3]
    We boast their dauntless blood----it fills
      That lion-woman's veins,
    Whose praise shall perish when thy hills,
      JELLALABAD, are plains!
        That LADY'S health! who doubts _she_ heard
          Of Greece, and loved to hear?
        The wheat, two thousand years interr'd,
          Will still its harvest bear.[4]

    The lore of Greece--the book still bright
      With Plato's precious thought--
    The Theban's harp--the judging-right
      Stagyra's sophist taught--
    Bard, Critic, Moralist to-day
      Can but their spirit speak,
    The self-same thoughts transfused. Away,
      We are not Gael but Greek.
        Then drink, and dream the red grape weeps
          Those dead but deathless lords,
        Whose influence in our bosom sleeps,
          Like music in the chords.

    Yet 'tis not in the chiming hour
      Of goblets, after all,
    That thoughts of old Hellenic Power
      Upon the heart should fall.
    Go home--and ponder o'er the hoard
      When night makes silent earth:
    The Gods the Roman most adored,
      He worshipp'd at the hearth.
        Then, drink and swear by Greece, that there
          Though Rhenish Huns may hive,
        In Britain we the liberty
          She loved will keep alive.

    CHORUS

        And thus we drink their memory
          Those glorious Greeks of old,
        On shore and sea the Famed and Free--
          The Beautiful--the Bold!

[Footnote 3: "_Return with it or upon it_" was the well-known injunction
of a Greek mother, as she handed her son his shield previous to the
fight.]

[Footnote 4: The mummy-wheat.]

       *       *       *       *       *




THE PRAIRIE AND THE SWAMP.

AN ADVENTURE IN LOUISIANA.


It was a sultry September afternoon in the year 18--. My friend Carleton
and myself had been three days wandering about the prairies, and had
nearly filled our tin boxes and other receptacles with specimens of rare
and curious plants. But we had not escaped paying the penalty of our
zeal as naturalists, in the shape of a perfect roasting from the sun,
which had shot down its rays during the whole time of our ramble, with
an ardour only to be appreciated by those who have visited the
Louisianian prairies. What made matters worse our little store of wine
had been early expended; some Taffia, with which we had replenished our
flasks, had also disappeared; and the water we met with, besides being
rare, contained so much vegetable and animal mater, as to be undrinkable
unless qualified in some manner. In this dilemma, we came to a halt
under a clump of hickory trees, and dispatched Martin, Carleton's
Acadian servant, upon a voyage of discovery. He had assured us that we
must erelong fall in with some party of Americans--or Cochon Yankees, as
he called them--who, in spite of the hatred borne them by the Acadians
and Creoles, were daily becoming more numerous in the country.

After waiting, in anxious expectation of Martin's return, for a full
hour, during which the air seemed to get more and more sultry, my
companion began to wax impatient. "What can the fellow be about?" cried
he. "Give a blast on the horn," he added, handing me the instrument; "I
cannot sound it myself, for my tongue cleaves to my palate from heat and
drought."

I put the horn to my mouth, and gave a blast. But the tones emitted were
not the clear echo-awakening sounds that cheer and strengthen the
hunter. They were dull and short, as though the air had lost all
elasticity and vibration, and by its weight crushed back the sounds into
the horn. It was a warning of some inscrutable danger. We gazed around
us, and saw that others were not wanting.

The spot where we had halted was on the edge of one of those pine
forests that extend, almost without interruption, from the hills of the
Côte Gelée to the Opelousa mountains, and of a vast prairie, sprinkled
here and there with palmetto fields, clumps of trees, and broad patches
of brushwood, which appeared mere dark specks on the immense extent of
plain that lay before us, covered with grass of the brightest green, and
so long, as to reach up to our horses' shoulders. To the right was a
plantation of palmettos, half a mile wide, and bounded by a sort of
creek or gully, the banks of which were covered with gigantic
cypress-trees. Beyond this, more prairie and a wood of evergreen oak. To
the east, an impenetrable thicket of magnolias, papaws, oak and bean
trees--to the north, the pine wood before mentioned.

Such was the rich landscape we had been surrounded by a short hour
before. But now, on looking around, we found the scene changed; and our
horizon became far more limited by rising clouds of bluish grey vapour,
which approached us rapidly from the wind quarter. Each moment this fog
appeared to become thicker; the sun no longer dazzled our eyes when we
gazed on it, but showed through the mist like a pale red moon; the
outlines of the forest disappeared, veiled from our sight by masses of
vapour; and the air, which, during the morning, had been light and
elastic, although hot, became each moment heavier and more difficult to
inhale. The part of the prairie that remained visible, presented the
appearance of a narrow, misty valley, enclosed between two mighty ranges
of grey mountains, which the fog represented. As we gazed around us and
beheld these strange phenomena, our eyes met, and we read in each others
countenance that embarrassment which the bravest and most light-hearted
are apt to feel, when hemmed in by perils of which they cannot
conjecture the nature.

"Fire off your gun," said I to Carleton. I started as I spoke at the
alteration in my own voice. The gun went off, but the report was, as it
were, stifled by the compressed atmosphere. It did not even alarm some
water-fowl that were plashing and floundering in the creek a few hundred
paces from us.

"Look at our horses!" exclaimed Carleton. "They are surely going mad."
The animals were evidently uneasy at something. They pricked up their
ears, turned half round, and gazed with startled eye behind them; then
strained with their heads and necks in the opposite direction to the
vapour, snorting violently, and at last trying to break away from the
trees to which they were tied. A short time previously they had appeared
much fatigued, but now they were all fire and impatience.

"It is impossible to remain here," said Carleton.

"But whither shall we go?"

"Wherever our horses choose to take us."

We untied the animals and sprang upon them. But scarcely were we in the
saddle when they started off at a pace as frantic as if a pack of wolves
had been at their heels; and taking the direction of the creek, which
ran between the palmetto plantation and a cypress wood, continued along
its banks at the same wild gallop. As we advanced, the creek began to
widen; in place of palmettos, clumps of marsh reeds, and rushes showed
themselves here and there. An unearthly stillness prevailed, only broken
now and then by the cry of a wild-goose; and even that appeared strange
and unnatural in its sound.

"What can be the meaning of this?" cried Carleton. "I am burning with
heat, and yet I have not the slightest moisture on my skin. All these
signs are incomprehensible. For God's sake, sound the horn again."

I did so, but this time the sound seemed to be forced back through the
horn, and to die away upon my lips. The air was so hot and parching,
that our horses' coats, which a short time previous had been dripping
with sweat, were now perfectly dry, and the hair plastered upon them;
the animals' tongues hung out of their mouths, and they seemed panting
for cooler air. "Look yonder!" cried Carleton, and he pointed to the
line of the horizon, which had hitherto been of grey, lead-coloured
vapour. It was now becoming reddish in the south-west quarter, and the
vapour had taken the appearance of smoke. At the same time we heard a
sort of distant crackling, like a heavy running-fire of musketry, and
which was repeated at short intervals. Each time it was heard, our
horses appeared scared and trembling.

The creek was getting rapidly wider, and the ground so swampy that it
was impossible to proceed further. Seeing this, we agreed to return to
the prairie, and to try if it were not cooler among the palmettos. But
when we came to the place where we had crossed the creek, our horses
refused to take the leap again, and it was with the greatest difficulty
we at length forced them over. All this time the redness in the horizon
was getting brighter, and the atmosphere hotter and drier; the smoke had
spread itself over prairie, forest, and plantations. We continued
retracing our steps as well as we could to the spot where we had halted.
"See there," said Carleton; "not half an hour ago those reeds were as
fresh and green as if they had just sprung out of the earth, and now
look at them--the leaves are hanging down, parched and curled up by the
heat."

The whole prairie, the whole horizon to the south-west, was now one mass
of dense smoke, through which the sun's disc looked scarcely brighter
than a paper-lantern. Behind the thick curtain which thus concealed
every thing from our view, we heard a loud hissing, like that of a
multitude of snakes. The smoke was stifling and unbearable; our horses
again turned panting round, and tore madly towards the creek. On
reaching it we dismounted, but had the greatest difficulty to prevent
them from leaping into the water. The streaks of red to our right became
brighter and brighter, and gleamed through the huge, dark trunks of the
cypress-trees. The crackling and hissing grew louder than ever. Suddenly
the frightful truth flashed upon us, and at the very same moment
Carleton and I exclaimed, "The prairie is on fire!"

As we uttered the words, there was a loud rustling behind us, and a herd
of deer broke headlong through a thicket of tall reeds and bulrushes,
and dashed up to their necks into the water. There they remained, not
fifty paces from us, little more than their heads above the surface,
gazing at us, as though imploring our help and compassion. We fancied we
could see tears in the poor beasts' eyes.

We looked behind us. On came the pillars of flame, flickering and
threatening through the smoke, licking up all before them; and, at
times, a gust of so hot and blasting a wind as seemed to dry the very
marrow in our bones. The roaring of the fire was now distinctly audible,
mingled with hissing, whistling sounds, and cracking noises, as of
mighty trees falling. Suddenly a bright flame shot up through the
stifling smoke, and immediately afterwards a sea of fire burst upon our
aching eyeballs. The whole palmetto field was in flames.

The heat was so great, that we every moment expected to see our clothes
take fire. Our horses dragged us still nearer to the creek, sprang into
the water, and drew us down the bank after them. Another rustling and
noise in the thicket of reeds. A she-bear, with her cubs at her heels,
came towards us; and at the same time a second herd of deer rushed into
the water not twenty yards from where we were standing. We pointed our
guns at the bears; they moved off towards the deer, who remained
undisturbed at their approach; and there they stood, bears and deer, not
five paces apart, but taking no more notice of each other than if they
had been animals of the same species. More beasts now came flocking to
the river. Deer, wolves, foxes, horses--all came in crowds to seek
shelter in one element from the fury of another. Most of them, however,
went further up the creek, where it took a north-easterly direction, and
widened into a sort of lake. Those that had first arrived began to
follow the new-comers, and we did the same.

Suddenly the baying of hounds was heard. "Hurra! there are dogs; men
must be near." A volley from a dozen rifles was the answer to our
explanation. The shots were fired not two hundred yards from us, yet we
saw nothing of the persons who fired them. The wild beasts around us
trembled and crouched before this new danger, but did not attempt to
move a step. We ourselves were standing in the midst of them up to our
waists in water. "Who goes there?" we shouted. Another volley, and this
time not one hundred yards off. We saw the flashes of the pieces, and
heard voices talking in a dialect compounded of French and Indian. We
perceived that we had to do with Acadians. A third volley, and the
bullets whistled about our ears. It was getting past a joke. "Halt!"
shouted we, "stop firing till you see what you are firing at." There was
a dead silence for a moment, then a burst of savage laughter. "Fire!
fire!" cried two or three voices.

"If you fire," cried I, "look out for yourselves, for we shall do the
same. Have a care what you are about."

"Morbleu! Sacre!" roared half a score of voices. "Who is that who dares
to give us orders? Fire on the dogs!"

"If you do, we return it."

"Sacre!" screamed the savages. "They are gentlemen from the towns. Their
speech betrays them. Shoot them--the dogs, the spies! What do they want
in the prairie?"

"Your blood be on your own heads," cried I. And, with the feelings of
desperate men, we levelled our guns in the direction in which we had
seen the flashes of the last volley. At that moment--"Halt! What is
here?" shouted a stentorian voice close to us.

"Stop firing, or you are dead men," cried five or six other voices.

"_Sacre! ce sont des Americains_," muttered the Acadians.

"Monsieur Carleton!" cried a voice.

"Here!" replied my friend. A boat shot out of the smoke, between us and
our antagonists. Carleton's servant was in it. The next moment we were
surrounded by a score of Acadians and half-a-dozen Americans.

It appeared that the Acadians, so soon as they perceived the prairie to
be on fire, had got into boat and descended a creek that flowed into the
Chicot creek, on which we now were. The beasts of the forest and
prairie, flying to the water, found themselves inclosed in the angle
formed by the two creeks, and their retreat being cut off by the fire,
they fell an easy prey to the Acadians, wild, half savage fellows, who
slaughtered them in a profusion and with a brutality that excited our
disgust, a feeling which the Americans seemed to share.

"Well, stranger!" said one of the latter, an old man, to Carleton, "do
you go with them Acadians or come with us?"

"Who are you, my friends?"

"Friends!" repeated the Yankee, shaking his head, "your friendships are
soon made. Friends, indeed! We ain't that yet; but if you be minded to
come with us, well and good."

"I met these American gentlemen," now put in Martin, "and when they
heard that you had lost your way, and were out of provisions, they were
so good as to come and seek you."

"You be'n't much used to the prairie, I reckon?" observed the American
who had spoken before.

"No, indeed, my friend," said I.

"I told you a'ready," replied the man with some degree of pride, "we
ain't your friends; but if you choose to accept American hospitality,
you're welcome."

We glanced at the Acadians, who were still firing, and dragging the
beasts they slaughtered into their boat and to the shore. They appeared
perfect savages, and there was little temptation to seek guidance or
assistance at their hands.

"If it is agreeable to you, we will accompany you," said I to the
American, making a step towards the boat. We were eager to be off, for
the heat and smoke were unbearable. The Yankee answered neither yes nor
no. His attention seemed taken up by the proceedings of the Acadians.

"They're worse than Injuns," said he to a young man standing by him.
"They shoot more in an hour than they could eat in a year in their
tarnation French wastefulness."

"I've a notion o' makin' 'em leave off," replied the young man.

"The country's theirs, or their masters' at least," rejoined the other.
"I reckon it's no business of ours."

This dialogue was carried on with the greatest possible degree of
drawling deliberation, and under circumstances in which, certainly, none
but a Yankee would have thought of wasting time in words. A prairie
twenty miles long and ten broad, and a couple of miles of palmetto
ground, all in a blaze--the flames drawing nearer every minute, and
having, in some places, already reached up to the shores of the creek.
On the other side a couple of dozen wild Acadians firing right and left,
without paying the least attention where or whom their bullets struck.
Carelton and myself, up to our waists in water, and the Americans,
chatting together as unconcernedly as if they had been sitting under the
roofs of their own blockhouses.

"Do you live far from here?" said I at last to the Yankee, rather
impatiently.

"Not so far as I sometimes wish," answered he, with a contemptuous
glance at the Acadians, "but far enough to get you an appetite for your
supper, if you ain't got one already." And taking a thin roll of tobacco
out of his pocket, he bit off a piece of it, laid his hands upon the
muzzle of his rifle, leant his chin upon his hands, and seemed to have
forgotten all about us.

This apathy became intolerable to men in our situation.

"My good man," said I, "will you put your hospitable offer into
execution, and take----"

I could not continue, for I was literally suffocated with the heat and
smoke. The very water of the creek was getting warm.

"I've a notion," said the yankee, with his usual drawl, and apparently
only just perceiving our distress, "I've a notion we had better be
movin' out o' the way o' the fire. Now, strangers, in with you." And he
helped Carleton and myself into the boat, where we lay down, and became
insensible from heat and exhaustion.

When we recovered our senses, we found ourselves in the bottom of the
boat, and the old Yankee standing by us with a bottle of whisky in his
hand, which he invited us to taste. We felt better for the cordial, and
began to look around us.

Before us lay an apparently interminable cypress swamp, behind us a
sheet of water, formed by the junction of the two creeks, and at present
overhung by a mass of smoke that concealed the horizon from our view.
From time to time there was a burst of flame that lit up the swamp, and
caused the cypress-trees to appear as if they grew out of a sea of fire.

"Come," said the old Yankee, "we must get on. It is near sunset, and we
have far to go."

"And which way does our road lie?" I asked.

"Across the cypress swamp, unless you'd rather go round it."

"The shortest road is the best," said Carleton.

"The shortest road is the best!" repeated the Yankee contemptuously, and
turning to his companions. "Spoken like a Britisher. Well, he shall have
his own way, and the more so as I believe it to be as good a one as the
other. James," added he, turning to one of the men, "you go further
down, through the Snapping Turtle swamp; we will cross here."

"And our horses?" said I.

"They are grazing in the rushes. They'll be took care of. We shall have
rain to-night, and to-morrow they may come round without singeing a
hoof."

I had found myself once or twice upon the borders of the swamp that now
lay before us but had always considered it impenetrable, and I did not
understand, as I gazed into its gloomy depths, how we could possibly
cross it.

"Is there any beaten path or road through the swamp?" enquired I of the
old man.

"Path or road! Do you take it for a gentleman's park? There's the path
that natur' has made." And he sprang upon the trunk of a tree covered
with moss and creepers, which rose out of the vast depth of mud that
formed the swamp.

"_Here's_ the path," said he.

"Then we will wait and come round with our horses," I replied. "Where
shall we find them?"

"As you please, stranger. _We_ shall cross the swamp. Only, if you can't
do like your horses, and sup off bulrushes, you are likely to fast for
the next twenty-four hours.

"And why so? There is game and wild-fowl for the shooting."

"No doubt there is, if you can eat them raw, like the Injuns. Where will
you find, within two miles round, a square foot of dry land to make your
fire on?"

To say the truth, we did not altogether like the company we had fallen
amongst. These Yankee squatters bore in general but an indifferent
character. They were said to fear neither God nor man, to trust entirely
to their axe and their rifle, and to be little scrupulous in questions
of property; in short, to be scarce less wild and dangerous than the
Indians themselves.

The Yankee who had hitherto acted as spokesman, and who seemed to be in
some way or other the chief of the party, was a man apparently near
sixty years of age, upwards of six feet high, thin in person, but with
such bone and muscle as indicated great strength in the possessor. His
features were keen and sharp; his eye like a falcon's; his bearing and
manners bespoke an exalted opinion of himself, and (at least as far as
we were concerned) a tolerable degree of contempt for others. His dress
consisted of a jacket of skins, secured ro

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