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The American Quarterly Review, No. 17, March 1831

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Title: The American Quarterly Review, No. 17, March 1831

Author: Various

Editor: Robert Walsh


        
Release date: February 6, 2009 [eBook #28012]

Language: English

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THE AMERICAN QUARTERLY REVIEW.

No. XVII.

MARCH, 1831.

_Philadelphia:_
CAREY & LEA.

SOLD IN PHILADELPHIA BY E. L. CAREY & A. HART.
NEW-YORK, BY G. & C. & H. CARVILL.

_LONDON:_--R. J. KENNETT, 59 GREAT QUEEN STREET.
_PARIS:_--A. & W. GALIGNANI, RUE VIVIENNE.




AMERICAN QUARTERLY REVIEW.

No. XVII.

MARCH, 1831.




ART. I.--_France in 1829-30._ By LADY MORGAN. _Author of_ "_France in
1816_," "_Italy_," _&c. &c. &c._ 2 vols. J. & J. Harper: New-York.


It was that solemn hour of the night, when, in the words of the poet,
"creation sleeps;"--a silence as of the dead reigned amid the streets
and alleys of the great city of Dublin, interrupted, ever and anon, only
by the solitary voice of the watchman, announcing the time, and the
prospects of fair or foul weather for the ensuing day. Even the noise of
carriages returning from revels and festive scenes of various kinds, was
no longer heard--

    "The diligence of trades and noiseful gain,
    And luxury more late, asleep were laid:
    All was the night's:"

All! save the inhabitants of one mansion, situated in Kildare street,
who were still invading nature's rest. Why were they alone up and
stirring? Why were they debarred from taking their needful repose, and
obliged to employ the time which should have been devoted to it, in
active occupation? The reason is easily understood. Early in the
morning, the master and mistress were to set off on a trip to Paris, and
there was no small quantity of "packing up" yet to be done. Trunks
innumerable lay scattered about a romantically furnished bed-chamber;
some were partly filled with different articles of female habiliment;
others seemed to be appropriated to literary purposes, and books without
number, and of all descriptions, were lying around them--here was a pile
of novels, amongst which, the titles of "The Novice of St. Dominick,"
"Ida of Athens," "The Wild Irish Girl," &c. &c. could be
discerned--there was a heap of "Travels," composed of "Italy," "France
in 1816," and others:--a couple of volumes, entitled "Life and Times of
Salvator Rosa," were reposing in graceful dignity on the open lid of a
portmanteau. Several maids were exerting all their activity to get every
thing properly arranged; all was bustle and preparation.

Adjoining the chamber was a boudoir, furnished likewise in the most
romantic manner, in which sat a lady of even a more romantic appearance
than that of either of the apartments. How shall we describe her? She
certainly (we must tell the truth, and shame you know whom) did not seem
to be of that delightful age, in which a due regard to veracity would
allow us to apply to her the line of the poet, "Le printemps dans sa
fleur sur son visage est peint." Her cheeks, to be sure, were deeply
tinged with a roseate hue, but it was not that with which nature loves
to paint the face of spring; the colour proved too palpably, that it had
been placed there by the exercise of those "curious arts" with which the
sex are enabled to revive dim charms, "and triumph in the bloom of
fifty-five." Her dress was romantic in the extreme. Of the unity of
_time_, at all events, it was in direct violation, for its "gay rainbow
colours," and modish arrangement, were out of all keeping with her
matronly age. One would easily have inferred from it that she was fully
impressed with the conviction, that the years which had glided over her
head, were not of the old-fashioned kind that contain twelve months, or
at least, that she did not consider the lapse of time as at all
calculated to impair the attractions of her physiognomy, however
prejudicial its effect might be upon the faces of the rest of the female
part of the creation. In her countenance there was such an expression of
blended affectation and self-complacency, that it was impossible to look
upon it without feeling an inclination to smile. She was sitting near a
prettily ornamented writing-desk, surmounted by a mirror (in which, by
the way, she always found her greatest admirer), with her head reclining
on her open hand, her elbow resting on a volume which bore on its back
the appropriate title of "The Book of the Boudoir," and her eyes
directed, we need hardly say where,--for who does not love to be
admired? Her _reflections_ were suddenly disturbed by a knock at the
door, which she answered by an "Entrez!" "_Ah, Sir Charles, c'est
vous_," she lisped, as the door opened, and a person in male attire
entered, "_eh bien_, is every thing _pret_ for our _voyage_?" "Yes, my
dear"--we presume, from this appellation, that the gentleman was her
_caro sposo_, as she might say,--"or at least every thing will be ready
shortly; but let me essay again to dissuade you from this foolish
expedition"--"_de grace_, Sir Charles, _ayez pitie de moi_; do not
pester me with your _betises_; I am determined to _faire une autre
visite_ to my _cher_ Paris, so that all you may say will be _tout a
fait inutile_." "Well," sighed the _caro sposo_, "just as you please,"
and he returned to direct the "packing up," while she began to revel in
the anticipations of triumphs, both personal and intellectual, which she
intended to gain in the fashionable and literary capital of the world.
Alas! "oft expectation fails, and most oft there where most it
promises."

Who is this lady? Had she lived in the days of Juvenal, it might have
been supposed that he had her in his eye, when he drew, in his sixth
satire, the picture of the "greatest of all plagues"--had her existence
been cast in the time of the prince of French comic writers, she would
undoubtedly have been presumed to be the prototype of the heroine in one
of his most exquisite comedies; we need hardly say, therefore, that she
is, in the words of Boileau, "_une precieuse_,

    "Reste de ces esprits jadis si renommes
    Que d'un coup de son art Moliere a diffames."

Pity, then, kind reader, pity the lot of the unfortunate gentleman whom
we have just introduced to your acquaintance. A further account of this
dame may prove not unacceptable.

Her father was an honest actor, accustomed to afford great delight to
those deities who inhabit the one shilling galleries of English and
Irish theatres, and to receive, himself, vast gratification from
worshipping at the shrine of Bacchus. The daughter having given early
indications of quickness and pertness, came to be considered quite a
genius by her family and friends, whose natural partiality soon induced
her to entertain the same opinion. Determined, accordingly, not to hide
her light under a bushel, she made her appearance before the world as an
authoress, from which it may very reasonably be inferred that she had
not yet attained the years of discretion. Her _debut_, of course, was as
a wanderer in the realms of imagination, alias, a novel-writer, and in
this capacity she continued to make the public stare for a series of
years. We say stare, for we can find no more appropriate word for
expressing the feelings which her fictions are calculated to excite.
With plots of almost incomprehensible absurdity, they combine a style
more inflated than any balloon in which Madame Blanchard ever sailed
through the regions of air--a language, or rather jargon, composed of
the pickings of nearly every idiom that ever did live, or is at present
in existence, and sentiments which would be often of a highly
mischievous tendency, if they were not rendered ridiculous by the manner
in which they are expressed. The singularity of these productions
excited a good deal of sensation, and, if we believe her own words, she
was placed by them "in a _definite_ rank among authors, and in no
undistinguished circle of society." In some of the principal journals,
however, the lady was severely taken to task, at the same time that she
was counselled to obtain for herself a partner in weal and wo, by which
she might be brought down from her foolish vagaries, to the sober
realities of domestic duty. Wonderful to relate, she followed the advice
of those whom her vanity must have taught her to consider as her
bitterest foes, namely critics,--and as

    "Nought but a genius can a genius fit,
    A wit herself, Amelia weds a wit."

This wit was a regular knight of the pestle and mortar--a physician,
whose pills and draughts had acquired for him the enviable right of
placing that dignified appellation, Sir, before his Christian name, by
which our authoress became entitled to be addressed as "Your Ladyship,"
as much as if she had married an Earl or a Marquis. Oh! how delighted
the ci-devant plain "Miss" must have been at hearing the servants say to
her, "Yes, my lady,"--"No, my lady."--The year in which the ceremony was
performed that gave her a lord and master, we cannot precisely
ascertain; but as the happy pair favoured the capital of France with
their presence in 1816, it may not be unreasonable to suppose, that they
went there to spend the honeymoon. Miraculous as are the changes which
matrimony sometimes operates, it was powerless in its influence upon her
Ladyship's propensities, and, consequently, not very long after
returning to her "_maison bijou_" in Dublin, she put forth a quarto!
with the magnificent title of "France." There are phenomena in the
physical world, in the moral world, in the intellectual world, but this
book was a phenomenon that beat them all. It was absolutely wonderful
how so much ignorance, nonsense, vanity, and folly, could be compressed
within the compass even of a quarto. All the sense that could be
discerned in it, was contained in four or five essays, upon Love, Law
and Physic, and Politics, contributed by Sir the husband. Being anxious
that "France" should have a companion, she subsequently made an
expedition to the land of the Dilettanti, in company with the dear man
who had made her, "she _trusts_, a respectable, and she is _sure_, a
happy mistress of a family," and forthwith "Italy" appeared to sustain
her well-earned reputation for qualities, which she has the singular
felicity of possessing without exciting envy. But her "never ending,
still beginning" pen, was not satisfied with two volumes as the fruits
of her Italian campaigning, especially as there happened to be a goodly
quantity of memoranda in the "diary" which had not yet been turned to
any use. Some subject, therefore, was to be hit upon for another
publication, in which they could be inserted, when beat out into a
sizeable shape; and what could be better adapted for that purpose than
the biography of a great Italian artist? The life of poor Salvator Rosa
was, in consequence, attempted. Just think of making one of the
greatest geniuses that ever lived, a peg to hang notes upon! The next
offspring of her Ladyship's brain, was, we believe, another novel, which
was as like its predecessors as possible. In the period that elapsed
between this birth, and the moment in which we have had the honour of
introducing her to our readers, her literary family was increased by
another child, with the delightful name of "The Book of the Boudoir."

We hope we have not been understood as meaning to insinuate, that
because her Ladyship is the mother of a couple of dozen of volumes, she
is on that account a _precieuse ridicule_. This was far, very far from
our intention. None can take more pleasure than ourselves in rendering
all homage to genuine female talent, employed for useful and honourable
purposes, or be more willing to acknowledge the peculiar excellence by
which its productions are frequently marked. Were it our pleasant duty
at present to notice the works of an Edgeworth, a Hemans, a Mitford, a
Sedgwick, or of any others of that fair and brilliant assemblage, who
reflect so great a lustre upon the literature of this age, we should use
language as eulogistic as their warmest admirers could desire. But we
have to do now with a person of a very different description from those
bright ornaments of their sex--with one in whose mind, whatever flowers
Nature may originally have planted, have been almost completely choked
by the rank weeds of ignorance, presumption, frivolity, and vanity
beyond measurement--who, in a list of works as long, to use one of her
own delicate illustrations, as "Leporello's catalogue of Don Juan's
mistresses," has given little or no aid to the cause of virtue
generally, or evinced the slightest anxiety to improve and benefit her
sex, but has devoted all her faculties to the erection of an altar on
which she might worship herself, and only herself--who has even afforded
cause, by the frequently extreme levity of her expressions, for the
charge of lending countenance to licentiousness and impiety--whose
writings, in fine, are calculated to inflict serious injury upon the
tastes, the understandings, and the hearts of her youthful female
readers, by accustoming them to a vicious and ridiculous style, by
filling their minds with false and perverted sentiments and wrong
impressions upon some of the most important matters, and by setting
before them the example of a woman who boasts of being a member of no
undistinguished circle of society, and yet constantly violates those
laws of delicacy and refinement, the full observance of which is
indispensable for every female who aspires to the name and character of
a lady.

Pale Aurora began now to appear, "_Tiphoni croceum linquens cubile_," in
vulgar parlance, day began to break. Behold our couple setting forth on
their Parisian expedition. Some months afterwards, the "_maison
bijou_," in Kildare street, again was illumined by the presence of our
fair traveller, whose pen was soon mended, dipped in ink, and busily
employed. In due time its labours were brought to a termination, and two
goodly volumes were ushered into the light of day, purporting to contain
an account of "France in 1829-30." These are the identical volumes which
it is our design in this article to notice.

"_Facit indignatio versus_," exclaimed the old Roman satirist, and
"indignation makes us write," would we exclaim, in assigning our motives
for devoting a number of our pages to "France in 1829-30," could we for
a moment be persuaded that our readers would credit the assertion. It
seems to us, that we already behold every one of them smiling in
derision, and giving an incredulous shake of the head, at the bare idea
of a cold-blooded reviewer being actuated by indignant feelings to place
his critical lance in rest, and run a course against an unfortunate
author. We must, nevertheless, be permitted to protest, that we do feel
a considerable quantity of very honest and virtuous indignation against
the trash last put forth by _Miladi_--quite as much, we are sure, as
impelled Juvenal to the composition of his searing satires. We may be
told, however, that we are waging battle with a lady, and that we should
be upon our guard not to give fresh cause for the exclamation, that "the
age of chivalry is gone." A lady, true; but, when in your boasted "age
of chivalry," persons of her sex buckled on armour and rushed into the
_melee_, were they spared by the courteous knights with whom they
measured swords? Did not Clorinda receive her death wound from the hand
of Tancred? And why should the Amazon who wields the pen, be more gently
dealt with than she who meddles with cold iron? In literature, as in
war, there is no distinction of sex. We hope, therefore, we shall not be
accused of ungallant, or anti-chivalric bearing, on account of the blows
we may inflict upon the literary person of a most daring Thalestris,
especially as her vanity is a panoply of proof.

In her preface, Lady M. says, that a second work on France from her pen
could only be justified by the novelty of its matter, or by the merit of
its execution. Then do we pronounce this second work, this "France in
1829-30," to be the most unjustifiable imposition on the good nature of
the reading community that ever was practised. Its matter is nothing
more nor less than Miladi herself; and is she a novelty? Something less
than half a century ago, her Ladyship undoubtedly was a novelty, and one
too of an extraordinary kind. As to the "merit of its execution," it is
quite sufficient to know that it is the work of Lady Morgan, to form an
idea of that requisite for its "justification." Out of thine own mouth
have we condemned thee. The fact is, that "France in 1829-30," is
almost, the counterpart of "France in 1816," and the same remarks may
be made concerning it which we have already applied to the latter. All
the information we could discover we had obtained from it on finishing
its perusal, was that its author had improved in neither wisdom,
knowledge, nor modesty, since her first visit to the land after which
both of these productions have been christened. France! and what right
have they to that name? Would it not induce one to suppose, that their
author had at least travelled through the greater portion of that
beautiful country, and eked out a number of her pages from the notes,
such as they might be, made during the tour? And yet her Ladyship, on
both occasions, went to Paris by the high road of Calais, remained in
the capital a few months, and then returned by another high road. Even
"Paris in 1816," "Paris in 1829-30," would be titles with which these
publications would possess scarcely more affinity, than that by which
children, on whom the preposterous fondness of their parents has
bestowed the high-sounding appellations of warriors and monarchs, are
connected with those worthies. Their only appropriate names would be,
"Lady Morgan in 1816," "Lady Morgan in 1829-30;" for what information do
they give about France or Paris, and what information do they _not_ give
about Lady Morgan? they even let us into the secrets of her Ladyship's
wardrobe. It was Paris that saw Lady Morgan, and not Lady Morgan that
saw Paris, in the same way as, according to Dr. Franklin, it was
Philadelphia that took Sir William Howe, and not Sir William Howe that
took Philadelphia.

To collect materials for a book of travels, it is necessary to be all
eyes and ears with regard to every thing but one's self. Her Ladyship,
however, was just the reverse throughout the whole period of her absence
from Kildare street,--it seems always to have been her object to
attract, and not to bestow, attention. In the volumes before us, it is
her perpetual endeavour to win admiration by making known the admiration
she entertains for herself, as well as that which she supposes she
excites in others. They are consequently, in great measure, filled with
what was said to Lady Morgan, and what Lady Morgan did and said during
her last visit to Paris. While discoursing about anything else than
herself, she appears to be on thorns until she gets back to that all
absorbing subject, and no matter what is the title of the chapter, she
generally contrives, by hook or by crook, to bring herself into it as
the main object of interest. The poor reader is thus often sadly
disappointed in the expectations he may form of deriving pleasure or
information from various parts of her work, in consequence of the
promises held out by their "headings." He almost always eventually
discovers, that however he may have been induced to anticipate a meeting
with other persons or matters, it is still "Monsieur Tonson come
again." We must confess, that it is rather too bad to be _Morbleued_ in
this way; though it is but fair to acknowledge, that her Ladyship is not
an intentional tormentor, like the malicious wags by whom the
unfortunate Frenchman was teased out of house and home. On the contrary,
her design is one altogether consonant to the general benevolence of her
character. It is to give pleasure; and as her greatest delight arises
from the contemplation of herself, she has presumed, naturally enough if
we may believe the philosophers, that the same cause will produce the
same effect upon the rest of the world. All her pictures, therefore,
like those of the painter who doated upon his mistress to such a degree
as to introduce her face into every one of his works, contain the object
of her idolatry, either prominently in the foreground, or so ingeniously
placed in the background, as to be quite as well fitted to draw
attention.--But it is time to follow her in some of her peregrinations.

On a certain day of the year 1829, which she has not had the goodness to
designate, she arrived at Calais. She was accompanied by an Irish
footman,--not, we presume, the "_illiterate literatus_," whom she has
immortalized in her first "France,"--and by a person whom she once or
twice alludes to in her volumes; first, by acknowledging her obligations
to a "Sir C. M." for some articles which had been contributed by him to
swell the dimensions of her work; and, secondly, by mentioning that
somebody sent a "flask of genuine _potteen_," to her Ladyship's great
delight, "with Mr. Somebody's compliments to Sir C. M." As there is an
individual designated once or twice also as "my husband," we have shrewd
suspicions that he and this Sir C. M. are one and the same being. The
first thing that Miladi does at Calais, is to experience a "burst of
agreeable sensations;" and the next, to feel a considerable degree of
surprise at being delighted again with that renowned place--renowned for
having been several times visited by Lady Morgan, besides other minor
causes of celebrity, such as its sieges, and its having been the place
where Yorick commenced his sentimental journey; but these have been
completely forgotten since the year 1816. After her "little heart" had
been fluttered by those agreeable and wonderful sensations, the nature
of its palpitations was unfortunately changed by the indignation with
which it was filled on her discovering "how English" every thing
appeared. "English carpets, and English cleanliness; English delf and
English damask," with various other _Englishiana_, gave such a John Bull
aspect to the room of the hotel into which she was ushered, that she was
on the point of swooning, when her ears were suddenly assailed by a loud
sound--Gracious heavens! What noise is that? Her delicate little head
is in a twinkling thrust out of the window, and she beholds,--oh horror
of horrors--she beholds a mail-coach, built on the regular English plan,
cantering into the yard, with all its concomitants completely _a
l'Anglaise_--"horses curvetting, and not a hair turned--a whip that
'tips the silk' like a feather--'ribbons,' not ropes--a coachman, all
capes and castor--a guard that cries 'all right,'" and who was at that
moment puffing most manfully into a "reg'lar mail-coach horn." This was
too much, and her Ladyship would inevitably have been driven distracted,
or, at least, have gone into hysterics, had not a most delicious idea
interposed its aid, and she exclaimed, "What luck to have written _my_
France, while France was still so French!"--and what luck, say we, to
have so commodious a safety-valve as vanity, by means of which to let
off the superabundant steam of one's ire!

Now, as to her Ladyship's having written her "France," while _France_
was still "so French," this we do not deny; but we do deny that _her_
France itself is "so French." It would be an affair of some considerable
difficulty, in our humble opinion, to find any thing French either about
it or the "France" we are now reviewing, except their titles, and
innumerable scraps of the French language, not unfrequently so expressed
and so applied that they would do honour to Mrs. Malaprop herself.

Lady M.'s fondness for generalizing, has led her to relate this
apparition of the "Bang-up" in such a way as would induce any one who
did not know better, to suppose that the "Coach" had entirely superseded
the "Diligence" upon the French roads. Truly would such a change be a
cause of regret; for the traveller in France would thus be deprived of a
fruitful source of amusement. But we have the pleasure of announcing,
for the satisfaction of such of our readers as may entertain the design
of paying a visit to that country, that the coach which Lady Morgan saw,
was the only vehicle of the kind with which her eyes could have been
annoyed. We speak _understandingly_ on the subject, as we happened to be
in France about the same time as her Ladyship. This coach, which, if we
recollect aright, was called the Telegraph, and not the "Bang-up," was a
speculation of some Englishman, who ran it for a short time between
Boulogne and Calais, but without much success. The old national vehicle
had too strong a hold upon the affections of the most national people in
the world, to be pushed from the field by any foreign opponent, and the
slow, sure, and comfortable Diligence kept on the even tenor of its way,
while the dashing, rapid Telegraph arrived prematurely at the end of its
journeying.

We do not deem ourselves competent to decide upon so momentous a subject
as the respective merits of the English and French stages, to give them
our technical appellation; but it may be remarked as perhaps somewhat
singular, that with regard to comfort--a matter respecting which the
French are as noted for their general heedlessness as the English are
for their almost uniform concern--the Diligence can lay claim to
unquestionable superiority over the coach. On the other hand, the coach
is constructed in such a way as to possess far greater facilities for
rapidity of locomotion,--a quality which it might be supposed the quick
vivacious temperament of the French would especially prize in their
conveyances. As to appearance also, the English vehicle is certainly a
good deal better off than the French. Nothing, indeed, that a stranger
may have heard or read about the latter, can prepare him for it
sufficiently, to prevent him on first beholding it from giving way to
something more than a smile. It is not, however, so much the mere
machine itself that operates upon his risible faculties, as the whole
equipage, or _atalage_,--the scare-crow horses, that seem to have been
once the property of the keeper of some museum by whom their bones have
been linked together and covered with skin as well as they might be,
without inserting something between as a substitute for flesh; the
non-descript gear by which these living anatomies are kept together and
attached to the vehicle, composed of rope, leather, iron, steel, brass,
and every thing else that could by any possibility be used for the
purpose; the queer-looking postillion, with his long cue, huge boots,
and pipe, all combine with the grotesque appearance of the Diligence
itself, to form an _ensemble_ irresistibly ludicrous.

What a difference, too, there is in the facility with which they get
"under weigh." One crack of the coachman's whip, causes his fine animals
to give "a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull together," and away you
whirl in an instant. But the traveller in France does not find starting
so easy a matter. He gets into the Diligence; every thing seems ready.
The passengers are all in their places, and have saluted each other with
true French politeness, except some gruff John Bull sitting in a corner
seat and eyeing his associates with mingled scorn and distrust--the five
or six apologies for horses are standing in an attitude of the greatest
patience, waiting for the signal to make an attempt at putting one foot
before the other--the _conducteur_, a person who has the supreme
direction of the movements of the Diligence, is in his place on the
top--the boots in which the legs of the postillion are buried, are
dangling on both sides of the wheel horse on the left--crack! goes his
whip--a jingling sound responds, caused by the endeavours of the
"cattle" to advance--"mais que diable"--crack! crack! crack!--something
like motion is experienced, when there is a sudden stop, and the
conducteur is seen descending from his eminence, muttering sundry
expressions of no very gentle nature--"what the devil's the matter now,"
growls a more than bass voice out of one window--"qu'est ce que c'est,
conducteur," simultaneously demand a treble and a tenor from another
window--"rien, Madame," the answer is always addressed to the lady,
"rien du tout," he replies whilst endeavouring to repair some part of
the "rigging" that could not stand the efforts of the poor beasts to
move from their position. At length, however, you get fairly under
weigh, with about a four knot breeze, and continue to make some progress
for an hour or two amidst a noise caused by the rumbling of the vehicle,
the creaking, jingling, rattling, and clanking, of the _atalage_, the
unceasing crack of the whip, and the chattering of your companions, to
which the sounds at Babel were music. The movement then becomes
_adagio_, and soon afterwards the conducteur's voice is heard, begging
the passengers in all parts of the vehicle to descend. Wondering what is
the matter, you get out with the rest, and find the cause of this
commotion to be a _grande Montagne_--anglice, a little hill--in mounting
which, the tender care that is taken of the animals upon the road,
however much the state of their flesh shows it is diminished in the
stable, renders it indispensable that they should be relieved of every
possible weight. To this inconvenience you are subjected on approaching
almost every little elevation, the like of which in England or the
United States, would not cause the slightest diminution of speed. But it
must be confessed, that occasionally, a hill is to be passed of a
magnitude which the steeds could never surmount without diminishing
their load, and then the notice that is said to have been affixed to one
of the Diligences, may very well be appended to all. "MM. les voyageurs,
sont pries, quand ils descendent, de ne pas aller plus vite que la
voiture:" passengers are requested, when they descend, not to go faster
than the vehicle. A most necessary request! La Fontaine, when he wrote
the fable in which he gives an account of a vehicle ascending a steep
eminence, and the exertions of a fly to assist the horses, must have
just returned from some excursion in a Diligence, during which he was
witness to the creeping, toiling, panting of the animals pulling it up a
hill. Pauvres diables! as the women are constantly exclaiming, a fly
might really lend them some aid in their efforts. About every eight
miles, fresh horses are in readiness, but the change is rarely for the
better,--for the worse it cannot be.

It is only on the road that the postillions drive slowly; when they
enter a town it is a sort of signal for them to dash on at a furious
rate, notwithstanding the danger of going rapidly through streets which
are little better than alleys, and in which there are no side-pavements
to mark the limits for pedestrians. We never before experienced such
philanthropic alarm for the safety of our fellow-mortals, as on the
evening of our arrival in Paris, whilst whirling at a furious rate
through its narrow streets, which were thronged with people, when it was
so dark that their ears alone could give them warning to get out of the
way. No accident, however, occurred. The French drivers, it must be
confessed, though not very elegant or stylish "whips," are very sure;
they contrive to guide the immense Diligences through the crowded
labyrinths of a large city with wonderful safety, notwithstanding the
swiftness with which they generally pass through them, and the loose
manner in which the horses are linked together.

But where did we leave our Ladyship? Oh, with her head out of the window
of the hotel, saying something about _her_ France and the other France.
We really beg her pardon for keeping her so long in such a situation,
and hasten to relieve her from it, by placing her, together with Sir C.
M. and the Irish footman, in a,--but here again we are at fault. She has
not had the kindness to inform us what was the species of conveyance
that she consecrated to eternal veneration by employing for her journey
to Paris, and as we have neither time nor space for an adequate
investigation of this important point, we must leave it to be mooted by
other commentators, contenting ourselves with the knowledge that the
illustrious trio arrived safely at the capital.

On reaching the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli, which she had resolved upon
immortalizing by residing in it during her sojourn in Paris, she was
again fearfully agitated by that dreadful fondness for things English,
in France, by which her nervous system had before been so greatly
discomposed. Woful to relate, she was received by "a smart, dapper,
English-innkeeper-looking landlord," and conducted to apartments "which
were a box of boudoirs, as compact as a Chinese toy." "There were
carpets on every floor, chairs that were moveable, mirrors that
reflected, sofas to sink on, footstools to stumble over; in a word, all
the incommodious commodities of my own cabin in Kildare street." Poor
Miladi! this was really too provoking, to have all the trouble and
expense of journeying from Dublin to see just what was to be seen there;
but no matter, it will serve for the subject of some twenty pages in
your intended book. But then the change, so trying to the nerves of a
romantic lady, which had taken place since 1816. In that year, she
remembered, on driving into the paved court of the hotel d'Orleans, she
had seen "an elderly gentleman, sitting under the shelter of a vine, and
looking like a specimen of the restored emigration. His white hair,
powdered and dressed _a l'oiseau royale_; his Persian slippers and _robe
de chambre, a grand ramage_, (we hope, reader, you have a French
dictionary near you) spoke of principles as old as his toilet. He was
reading, too, a loyal paper, loyal, at least, in those days,--the
_Journal des Debats._ Bowing, as we passed, he consigned us, with a
graceful wave of the hand, to the care of Pierre, the _frotteur_. I took
him for some fragment of a _duc et pair_ of the old school; but, on
putting the question to _the frotteur_, who himself might have passed
for a _figurante_ at the opera, he informed us that he was '_Notre
bourgeois_,' the master of the hotel." It is quite wonderful to us how
Miladi could have survived to relate so shocking a metamorphosis. Ovid
has nothing half so strange and heart-rending.

The instances we have mentioned are far from being the only ones in
which her Ladyship was "put out of sorts" by the Anglomania, which, she
would make us believe, is operating at present as great a revolution in
the social, as was effected in '98 in the political condition of France.
All along the road from Calais to Paris, she sees nothing but "youths
galloping their horses in the cavalry costume of Hyde Park," "smart gigs
and natty dennets," "cottages of gentility, with white walls and green
shutters, and neat offices, rivalling the diversified orders of the
Wyatvilles of Islington and Highgate," in short, nothing but "English
neatness and propriety on every side," with one terrible exception,
however, "an Irish jaunting car!" of which she chanced, to her infinite
dismay, to catch a glimpse. The second appearance that she makes in the
streets of Paris, is for the purpose of buying some "_bonbons_,
_diablotins en papillotes_, _Pastilles de Nantes_, and other sugared
prettinesses," for which Parisian confectioners are so renowned.
Accordingly, she goes into a shop where she supposes that "fanciful
idealities, sweet nothings, candied epics and eclogues in spun sugar, so
light, and so perfumed as to resemble (was there ever such nonsense)
congealed odours, or a crystallization of the essence of sweet flowers,"
are to be sold, but on inquiry she is told by a "demoiselle behind the
counter, as neat as English muslin and French (what a wonder it wasn't
English) _tournure_ could make her," that 'we sell no such a ting,' but
that she might have 'de cracker, de bun, de plom-cake, de spice
gingerbread, de mutton and de mince pye, de crompet and de muffin, de
gelee of de calves foot, and de apple dumplin.' Reader, Lady Morgan "was
struck dumb!" She purchased a bundle of crackers, "hard enough to
_crack_ the teeth of an elephant," and hurried from the shop. But
misfortunes never come single, and her ladyship, though an exception to
most other general rules, was not destined to prove the correctness of
that one in this instance, for just as she was escaping from the place
where she had experienced the serious inconvenience of being "struck
dumb," she was struck in another way--viz. on the left cheek, by the
explosion of a bottle of "Whitbread's entire," the consequence of which
was, that the exterior of her head became covered with precisely the
same thing with which its interior is filled--"froth."--

Foaming with rage and brown-stout, her Ladyship was hastening home as
fast as her "little feet" could carry her, when a perfumer's shop
"caught the most acute of all her senses."--What a delightful mode, by
the way, her ladyship has, of imparting knowledge _en passant_, as it
were; here we have the important information communicated to us, that
her "acutest sense" is situated in her nose, just because she happened
to pass by a perfumery store; but what a nose her ladyship's nose must
be, since it is endowed with more wonderful faculties than her eyes,
which possess such miraculous powers as to enable her to see things in
France perceptible by no other mortal optics! But to proceed with our
dismal story. Her ladyship's olfactory nerves, as we have already
mentioned, having made her aware of the proximity of a perfumer's shop,
she was induced to go into it by the desire of procuring something which
might relieve them from the torture produced by the exhalations of
'Whitbread's entire.' But here again she was doomed to disappointment.
She asked for various "_eaux_, _essences_, and _extraits_," and was
presented with bottles of "_lavendre vatre_, _honey vatre_, and _tief
his vinaigre_;" she asked for _savons_, and was shown cakes of "_Vindsor
soap_," and "_de Regent's vashball_." In an agony of despair, she rushes
from the shop, first taking care, however, to "gather up her purse and
reticule," and soon arrives at her--alas! English furnished apartments.
After stumbling over a footstool, and being incommoded by other
"incommodious commodities," she at length sinks exhausted upon a sofa,
just opposite to a "mirror that reflected." But what other singular
looking object, besides Miladi's face, is it that forms a subject of
that glass's reflections, and is lying on a table just behind her? It is
a little basket, the contents of which her ladyship soon begins to
investigate,--and what do you suppose she finds?--"A flask of _genuine
potteen_!!" This time she is struck loquacious, and she shrieks out,
"this is too much! was it for this we left the snugness and economical
comfort of our Irish home, and encountered the expensive inconveniencies
of a foreign journey, in the hope of seeing nothing British, 'till the
threshold of that home should be passed by our feet;'--to meet at every
step with all that taste, health, and civilization (exemplified by
'lavendre vatre,' 'vindsor soap,' and 'a flask of _potteen_,') we cry
down at home, as cheap and as abundant abroad," &c. &c. The piercing key
on which her Ladyship pitched her voice while declaiming this
magnificent soliloquy, brought Sir C. M., the Irish footman, and the
English-looking landlord into the room, in a terrible flurry. "My
dearest dear what is the matter?"--"Och! my leddy, what is it now that
ails you?"--"_Ah! madame, mille pardons, qu'est ce que c'est?_"
simultaneously issue from the mouths of the three worthies. "Avaunt! get
out of my sight, you _maudit imitateur_; and you Sir Charles, _et vous_,
Patrick, see that _tout est prepare_ for returning to Dublin _dans
l'heure meme_," meekly responds Miladi. But a sudden change comes over
her countenance--sudden as that which took place in the aspect of Juno
when she beheld the waves raised to the very heavens by the power of
Neptune, and supposed that they had overwhelmed the bark which carried
AEneas and his companions, the objects of her eternal hatred. She smiled,
as the face of Nature smiles when the clouds that have long covered it
with gloom, have disappeared before the potent influence of the
"glorious orb that gives the day," and at length she rapturously cried
out, "How lucky to have written _my_ France, while France was still so
French!"--Lady Morgan was herself again.

Now we beg leave to observe, that this Anglomania bugbear, by which her
ladyship pretends to have been so much distressed, is the merest piece
of nonsense and affectation in the world. We will not be so ungallant as
to suppose that Lady Morgan has intentionally related what is not
altogether so true as might be, but she has been accustomed for such a
length of time to roam about the varied realms of fancy, that it would
be impossible for her ever to descend to the flat regions of fact.
Besides, as we have already stated, she has been gifted with powers of
vision more surprising than those of the lynx or the seer--the first can
only see through a stone, the second can only see things which may exist
at a future day, when they will be visible to every one else--but she
sees things existing at present, that defy the ken of all other animals,
rational and irrational. While reading her account of the English
vehicles, English cottages, &c. &c. which she observed in her journey
from Calais to Paris, we could not help asking ourselves, where were our
eyes during the time we travelled that road? We are satisfied, however,
that they were in their right place, and tolerably well employed; and
that if they did not encounter the signs of Anglomania mentioned by her
Ladyship, it was because these were to be perceived by no one but
herself. Wide indeed is the difference between travelling in France and
England! The poet Grey, in one of his charming letters, affirms, that in
the former country it would be the finest in the world, were it not for
the terrible state of the inns; but it must have greatly deteriorated
there, or have improved in his native isle since his time, for there can
not be the slightest question as to the superior delights of journeying
in the latter at present. The inns in France are still bad enough, in
all conscience, and offer but a dreary welcome to one who has been
accustomed to the neatness and comforts of English hostels. There are,
however, various other particulars of importance for a traveller's
enjoyment, which Shakspeare's "sea-walled garden" furnishes in by far
the greater abundance. In France the roads are comparatively much
inferior, and the general appearance of the country is less pleasing.
You meet there with few or none of those detached farm-houses, with
their little dependencies of cottages, which everywhere greet the eye in
England, bespeaking the honest and well-conditioned yeoman, and
presenting a picture of prosperity and contentment,--the villages
through which you pass, mostly wear a decayed and squalid
appearance--the magnificent country-seats, with their parks and other
appurtenances, whose frequent recurrence in England constitutes so rich
a feast for the gaze of the stranger, are rarely rivalled in France--the
landscape here, also, is much seldomer able to borrow that venerable
grace and romantic charm which the remains of feudal ages alone can
lend. This last circumstance is one greatly to be regretted; for perhaps
the most exquisite gratification to be derived from travelling through a
country, where for centuries civilization in a greater or less degree
has exercised sway, arises from the contemplation of the various
monuments of by-gone days, some slowly mouldering into dust, others
still proudly defying the assaults of the great destroyer. The mind
dwells upon them with a species of pensive delight, and that peculiar
charm which their association with the fictions and annals of times past
inspires. It would seem, that France should be especially rich in the
relics of that feudalism of which for a long time it was the chief seat,
but a reason for their scantiness may be found in the policy which
caused Louis XI., and which was subsequently pursued by Richelieu, and
completed by Louis le Grand, to call the nobles from their estates,
where they exercised almost sovereign authority, to the capital, and
convert them into mere hangers on of the court--in the destructive
hostilities which have almost incessantly desolated the kingdom--and
especially in the determined war that was made upon castles by the
patriots of the Revolution. These, at all events, are the causes which
Sir Walter Scott, in his "Paul's Letters to his Kinsfolk," assigns for
the circumstance we are lamenting. The first one of them had also been
previously intimated by that worthy personage, the father of Tristram
Shandy,--"Why are there so few palaces and gentlemen's seats, (he would
ask with some emotion, as he walked across the room,) throughout so many
delicious provinces in France? Whence is it that the few remaining
_chateaux_ amongst them are so dismantled, so unfurnished, and in so
ruinous and desolate a condition?--Because, sir, (he would say,) in that
kingdom no man has any country-interest to support:--the little interest
of any kind which any man has anywhere in it, is concentrated in the
court, and the looks of the Grand Monarch; by the sunshine of whose
countenance, or the clouds which pass across it, every Frenchman lives
or dies." This, however, is certainly not the case with Frenchmen of the
present day.

But the principal drawback upon the pleasure of travelling in France, is
decidedly the multitude of mendicants by whom you are continually
annoyed, and whose miserable appearance offends the eye, while it
sickens the heart. Scarcely ever does the vehicle stop without being
immediately surrounded by the most distressing objects that the mind can
conceive, in such numbers as to render it impossible for any one except
the possessor of Fortunatus's or Rothschild's purse, to bestow alms,
however inconsiderable, upon them all. A humane individual, who should
attempt to do it, with a pocket of but moderate dimensions, would soon
be reduced to the necessity of enrolling himself in the mendicant band,
and crying out with the rest of them, in their peculiar tone, "_Donnez
un sous, a un pauvre malheureux, pour l'amour de Dieu, et de la Sainte
Vierge_." "Give a sous to a poor unfortunate, for the love of God and of
the Holy Virgin." The crowds of these beggars upon the French roads,
lead the stranger to apprehend that in Paris they will swarm to such an
extent as to mar in a degree the pleasure of his residence there; he is,
however, agreeably disappointed at finding in his perambulations through
its streets, that they are completely free from them, in consequence of
the admirable regulations of the police. It is worthy of remark, that
the reverse of this is the case in England. There the roads and villages
rarely afford cause for the tear of compassion, or the exclamation of
disgust, elicited by scenes of misery; but in walking about London, one
must be made of sterner stuff than was sentimental Yorick, who can avoid
endeavouring to repeat "Psha! with an air of carelessness," at almost
every step, after being obliged to refuse infinitely stronger claims
upon charity than those which were advanced by the poor Franciscan.

We have thus enumerated most of the reasons why travelling in England is
preferable to that in France, yet there is one circumstance to be
remarked in favour of the latter, which almost counterbalances every
consideration of an unfavourable kind. We allude to the facility with
which a stranger can make acquaintance with his fellow passengers, in
the "gay, smiling land of social mirth and ease." In England he may
journey from Plymouth to Berwick without speaking more than ten words to
any persons who chance to be his companions in the coach, or hearing ten
words spoken by them if they happen not to know each other; but in a
French public conveyance, only a short time elapses before all its
occupants are as much at ease, and upon as good terms with each other,
as if they were familiar acquaintances. Many a pleasant hour have we
spent in a diligence, in consequence of the conversations we have fallen
into with individuals whom we have there encountered, some of which were
of a highly ludicrous character. We shall never forget a series of
interrogatories put to us by a loquacious fellow next to whom we were
seated in the diligence in going from Rouen to Paris, and who was about
as ignorant as he was garrulous. Hearing us say, in answer to a question
of another person, that we were from the United States, he asked us how
we liked Italy; and on our telling him we had never been there, inquired
with a face of great surprise, whether the United States was not on the
other side of Italy? After endeavouring to give him an idea of the
situation of our country, he asked successively, if we had crossed the
ocean in a steam-boat, if the United States belonged to England or to
France, and if Philadelphia was not the place where the great revolt of
the Negroes took place. But we must return to her Ladyship, with the
wish that she would contrive to render her company more agreeable, that
we might have less temptation to wander from her at this rate.

With regard to the English furniture of her Ladyship's apartments, and
the English confectionaries and perfumeries which gave rise to the
memorable adventures we have related above, we may remark that it may
have been so ordained by fate that she should light upon one of the very
few hotels, one of the very few confectionary shops, and one of the very
few perfumery stores in Paris, in which matters are ordered in the
English style; but to give us to understand, in consequence, that all
the hotels are furnished in the same way, and that _bonbons_,
_extraits_, &c. are not to be procured, is like the proceeding of the
Hon. Frederick de Roos, R. N. who affirms, in his sapient work on the
United States, that all the inhabitants in Philadelphia take tea on the
steps before their doors in summer evenings, because, forsooth, he saw a
family sitting on those of the house in which they lived, in order to
enjoy a July twilight.

One of the first things that her Ladyship does on the morning subsequent
to her arrival, is to give notice to her friends of that important
event,--a gratuitous piece of kindness altogether, as it seems to us,
for it must doubtless have been announced by as many portentous signs as
accompanied the birth of Owen Glendower. Nevertheless, in order to make
assurance doubly sure, she despatched 'cards to some, and notes to
others, after the Parisian fashion,' but previously indulged in a very
pretty sentimental fit. This was caused by the first name that met her
eye as she opened her 'old Paris visiting book for 1818'--that of Denon,
"the page, minister, and _gentilhomme de la chambre_ of Louis XV., the
friend of Voltaire, the intimate of Napoleon, the traveller and
historian of Modern Egypt, the director of the _Musee_ of France," &c.
&c., who, we are informed, used always to be so particularly delighted
with her Ladyship's visits to Paris, that he was wont to hail them with
his hand, and welcome them with a cordial smile. Alas! death had
overtaken him, notwithstanding his friendship with Lady Morgan; and she
could no longer expect his salutations. "Other hands were now extended,
other smiles beamed now as brightly; but his were dimmed for ever!" How
kind her Ladyship is! Fearing her readers might be distressed by the
idea, that, in consequence of the decease of Denon, she might have been
in some want of welcoming, she has taken the precaution of setting them
at ease upon that point, by the above ingenious sentence. In mentioning
the reasons of her intimacy with Denon, she employs language of a very
singular kind, which, if maliciously interpreted to the letter, might
subject her to uncomfortable remarks, though we are sure it is nothing
but an effusion of gurgling vanity. It is an instance, however, to what
a degree that sentiment, when extreme, gets the better of all sense of
propriety and decorum. She says, that even if Denon had not been such a
person as she describes him, "still, _he suited me, I suited him_. There
was between us that sympathy, in spite of the disparity of years and
talents, which, whether in trifles or essentials,--between the frivolous
or the profound,--makes the true basis of _those ties, so sweet to bind,
so bitter to break_!" It is well for Sir Charles Morgan's peace of mind,
that he is acquainted, as he must be, with his wife's frivolity and
egotism. How, indeed, he could have allowed her to come before the world
with such phraseology in her mouth, we cannot imagine, unless on the
supposition that he is such a husband as La Bruyere has described. "_Il
ne sert dans sa famille qu' a montrer l'exemple, d'un silence timide et
d'une parfaite soumission. Il ne lui est du ni douaire ni conventions;
mais a cela pres, et qu'il n'accouche pas, il est la femme, et elle le
mari._"

After her Ladyship had "shuddered," and "felt as if she was throwing
earth upon Denon's grave whilst drawing her pen across his precious and
historical name," she spent about half an hour in weeping, "like a fair
flower surcharged with dew," over the names of others of her departed
friends, Guinguene, Talma, Langlois, Lanjuinais, &c., until she
fortunately recollected that the climate of Paris is one that "developes
a sensibility prompt, not deep." Lucky thought! She immediately threw
down the visiting-book, threw up the window to let in the climate, wiped
from her eyes the tears "which parted thence, as pearls from diamonds
dropp'd," and began to think of "all that death had left her, of the
'greater still behind,'--of friends, each in his way, a specimen of that
genius and virtue, which, in all regions, and in all ages, make the _ne
plus ultra_ of human excellence." Admire the delicacy of the method by
which Miladi lets us into the secret of her being a _ne plus ultra_; it
is not by a bold assertion, but by a modest inuendo. She keeps company
with _ne plus ultras_--birds of the same feather flock together--ergo,
she is a _ne plus ultra_ herself. And so she is, but in her own way.
"_Il y a malheureusement_," observes a French writer of the present day
"_plus d'une maniere de se rendre celebre_,"--"there is, unfortunately,
more than one method of becoming celebrated,"--and as this writer is an
acquaintance of Lady Morgan, we are half inclined to think he committed
that sentence to paper after returning from a visit to _her_
Celebrityship.

We may as well cite here a few more instances of her ingenuity in
communicating, obliquely, how distinguished a personage she is,--a
quality she possesses in a degree that we do not recollect ever to have
seen rivalled. We copy _verbatim_.

     "The other day I dined in the Chaussee d'Antin, in that house
     where it is always such a privilege to dine; where the wit of
     the host, like the _menus_ of his table, combines all that is
     best in French or Irish peculiarity; _and where the society is
     chosen with reference to no other qualities than merit and
     agreeability_."

Speaking of the weekly assemblies at an eminent individual's house, at
which she was a constant attendant, she says, they

     "Are among the most select and remarkable in Paris.
     Inaccessible to _commonplace mediocrity and pushing
     pretension_, their visitor must be _ticketted_ in some way or
     another" (by writing a "France," or an "Italy," for instance,)
     "to obtain a presentation."

With regard to another circle of which she was a large segment, she
observes,--

     "It is sufficient to have merit, agreeability, or the claims of
     old acquaintance to belong to it, but, truth to tell, it is
     still so far exclusive, that what Madame Roland calls
     _l'universelle mediocrite_, gains no admission there."

Again:--

     "I happened one night at Gen. La Fayette's to say that I should
     remain at home on the following morning, and the information
     brought us a numerous circle of morning visitors; others
     dropped in by chance, and some by appointment. From twelve till
     four, my little salon was a congress composed of the
     representatives of every vocation of arts, letters, science,
     _bon ton_," (the Congress of Vienna was nothing to this,) "and
     philosophy, in which, as in the Italian opera-boxes of Milan
     and Naples, the comers and goers succeeded each other, as the
     narrow limits of the space required that the earliest visitor
     should make room for the last arrival."

We might fill pages with similar specimens of her modesty, but we must
proceed.

The notes and cards being all despatched, authentic intelligence is at
length diffused throughout Paris of her arrival, and such a commotion is
forthwith excited as had never been seen even in that city of
commotions, since the time the Giraffe made her entree into it, and said
to the gaping multitude, "_Mes amis, il n'y a qu'une bete de plus._"
Perhaps the sensation might be excepted which was created by "Messieurs
les Osages," the American deputation whose "France" has not yet, we
believe, appeared in either hemisphere. The Rue de Rivoli was instantly
crowded with "old friends" and "intimate acquaintances," _ne plus
ultras_ included, besides various others anxious for the honour of an
introduction, all striving who should get first into the "_Hotel de la
Terrasse_;" and such was the press of visits, dinner-parties, suppers,
balls, &c. &c. that for a period her Ladyship could not, as she says,
"find leisure to register a single impression for her own amusement, or
haply for that of a world, which, it must be allowed, is not very
difficult to amuse." In this sentiment we request leave, before going
further, to record our unqualified concurrence, and also to state, that
we know of no one from whom it could proceed with more propriety and
weight than from Miladi. It has been, doubtless, expressed before, by
various other book-makers, but never, we feel confident, by one whose
career affords fuller evidence of its correctness, or who could adduce
more forcible proofs in support of it, should they be required. In such
case, the simple fact need only be cited, that "France in 1830" is the
work of the same hand which indited "Ida of Athens," some twenty years
previous, and which, during that interval, has furnished the world
almost annually, with quartos, octavos, or duodecimos.

The accounts that her Ladyship gives of the various festive
entertainments of which she partook, constitute the matter of a large
number of her pages. If it be true, however, that in order to observe
well, one ought to screen one's self from observation, she could have
had little opportunity of obtaining acquaintance with the constitution
of French society; for, if we believe her own story, there was no social
assemblage of any kind to which she went, where she was not the observed
of every one, the centre of attraction, the nucleus of excellence. And
what information is to be derived from her relation of a ball here, or a
_soiree_ there, beyond the very interesting, highly important, and most
credible intelligence, that as soon as the announcement of Lady Morgan's
name falls upon the ears of the company, everything else is forgotten; a
dead silence instantaneously takes place of the conversational hum that
before prevailed; all eyes are directed towards the door; LADY MORGAN
ENTERS; a buzz of admiration succeeds; she advances with a dignified air
towards the hostess, or rather the hostess runs eagerly forward to meet
her; she drops a romantic curtesy; she sits down; and thenceforward
nothing is thought of by any of the guests but Miladi, and the pearls
that fall from her lips. As the French are fond of forming _queues_, or
files, for the purpose of avoiding confusion, when there is any great
earnestness among a large collection of persons with regard to any
object of curiosity, we can imagine the whole assemblage falling into
one as soon as she takes her seat, and thus enjoying, each in turn, the
coveted delight.--But we mistake; other information respecting French
society is communicated, unwittingly however, by her Ladyship. It is
this: that they are as fond of ridicule in 1830, as they were in 1816,
and as they have ever been. We have little difficulty in believing, that
her Ladyship received a vast deal of attention in Paris; still, we must
confess, that it appears to us impossible not to be convinced, from her
own story, that it was owing to a very different reason from the one to
which it is attributed by her self-love. If there is any feature in the
French character peculiarly salient or prominent, it is the love of
ridicule. "Take care," said a lady to her son, who was on the eve of
departure for his travels, "of the Inquisition at Madrid, of the mob at
London, and of ridicule at Paris." Nothing that is at all calculated to
excite an ironical smile or a sarcastic remark, escapes a "fasting
Monsieur's" observation, and even the greatest virtues and genius, if
combined with any quality which can afford matter for a joke, will
scarcely prevent their possessor from being made a laughing-stock.
Napoleon was so well aware of this propensity of his subjects, that he
was prevented by it from placing his own figure in the car which
surmounts the triumphal arch erected between the Court of the Tuileries
and the Place du Carousal, being apprehensive that the wags would avail
themselves of the opportunity thus afforded of punning at his
expense--_le char le tient_--_le charlatan_. What a delectable tit-bit,
consequently, for this appetite of the Parisians, must be a darling
little philosopher in petticoats, (not quite sexagenary,) who dabbles in
all sciences and arts, and is at the same time a pretender to the pretty
affectations and hoydenish manners of a youthful belle! Such a person,
especially if she possess that happy opinion of herself, which prevents
her from having the slightest suspicion that she can be the object of
anything but admiration with all, is regarded by them as a legitimate
subject for a _mystification,_ which, in our vernacular, means
_hoax_,--_elle se prete au ridicule_, as they say, she lends herself, as
it were, to ridicule; and to be convinced that they know how to take
consummate advantage of the loan, it is only necessary to glance over
"France in 1830." Every one who does so will, we feel confident,
understand in the same manner as ourselves, the meaning of that
"brilliant welcome," which Miladi, with so much complacency, informs us
she received "in the capital of European intellect." From beginning to
end, these volumes afford almost continued specimens of perfection in
the art of "quizzing," and may therefore be particularly indicated to
such as are anxious to acquire proficiency in that way. We are glad
that we have at length discovered a description of persons to whom we
can conscientiously recommend the work we are reviewing, as calculated
to afford desirable information.

There is another cause, besides this fondness for ridicule, to which the
_mystification_ of her Ladyship may be attributed. Whoever is at all
acquainted with her writings, must be aware that she pretends to be a
great republican, and to entertain a most orthodox horror of royalism
and the appendages thereof, and that she has called the royalist party
in France all the hard names she could find in the most approved
collection of opprobrious epithets. This circumstance, it is easy to
imagine, may have excited a slight desire of revenge in the breasts of
some of the younger members of that party.

In her very preface, we have an evidence of her having been the victim
of as well concerted and admirably conducted a hoax, as was ever played
off upon any one--it surpasses that which was put upon poor Malvolio in
"Twelfth Night." After making the remark upon which we have already
commented, that a second work on France from her pen could "alone be
justified by the novelty of its matter, or by the merit of its
execution," she says--

     "It may serve, however, as an excuse, and an authentication of
     the attempt, that I was called to the task by some of the most
     influential organs of public opinion, in that great country.
     They relied upon my impartiality (for I had proved it, at the
     expense of proscription abroad, and persecution at home); and,
     desiring only to be represented as they are, they deemed even
     my humble talents not wholly inadequate to an enterprise whose
     first requisite was the honesty that tells the truth, the whole
     truth, and nothing but the truth."

Oh you wicked wags! If the abolition of capital punishment be effected
in France, we hope you will be specially excepted as unworthy of mercy
for this cruel plot to make Miladi Morgan expose herself thus to the
sneers of an ill-natured world. We think we see you in conclave,
laughing and joking over an epistle you have just concocted and signed
with the names of half a dozen of the leaders of the liberals, in which
her Ladyship is earnestly conjured to cross the Irish and the English
channels and hasten to Paris, in order to dispel by the effulgence of
her intellectual rays, the mists and darkness that the fiend of ultraism
had spread over the political horizon. Seriously speaking, we cannot
divine any other than this or a similar manner of accounting for her
Ladyship's assertion, that "she was called to the task by some of the
most influential organs of public opinion in France;"--she would not
certainly affirm what she knew to be false, and the idea that she did
receive a bona fide request of the above purport from such individuals,
is too absurd to command belief for a moment. Would any one in his
senses, who is "desirous of being represented as he is," put in
requisition the pencil of an artist by which he would be sure to be
caricatured?

The "persecution at home," that her Ladyship affects to have suffered,
refers, we suppose, to sundry articles in the Quarterly Review and other
Journals, in which she was rather roughly handled. We all know, however,
what a pleasant thing it is to deem ourselves the objects of
persecution, when it does not interfere with our profit--it is a
flattering unction we love to lay to the soul, as it seems to augment
our importance--and Miladi appears to have been highly delighted with
the persecutions she has encountered. She is continually alluding to the
attacks of the Quarterly, and whenever an opportunity occurs, favours us
with extracts from them, and now and then she slips in some satirical
observation concerning herself from the _Journal des Debats_. The
different manner in which she has been treated by the Edinburgh and
Quarterly Reviews, is an exemplification of the potent influence which
party spirit exercises over those journals. In the latter, one or two of
her works have been criticised with overwhelming power, and in a tone
and spirit superlatively bitter. In the former, on the contrary, she is
spoken of with studied lenity, although the Reviewer is obliged to
confess that he is not one of her particular admirers, and seems to be
perpetually restraining himself from indulging in the language of
raillery and sarcasm. We need hardly add that the political principles
which her Ladyship professes to entertain, are the main cause of this
discrepancy. For our own part, we conscientiously believe that the
English journal has not gone half so far beyond the truth as its Scotch
rival has fallen short of it, in their respective strictures. With
regard to the republican bursts of Lady Morgan, we cannot help
suspecting that there is more affectation and cant in them than
sincerity:--she is too anxious to let it be known that she is caressed
every where by the _ne plus ultras_ of aristocracy and rank, as well as
by those of intellect, and, at the same time, there is too much parade
and ostentatious vehemence in her explosions against the royalist party.

As to the other article which her Ladyship says she has received in
exchange for her _impartiality!_--"proscription abroad,"--we feel pretty
confident that it exists no where but in her own imagination. There it
has, doubtless, been engendered by the malice of some ultra in disguise,
who has made her Ladyship believe, that the Emperor of Austria, the
Grand Signior, the King of Owyhee, and the other despots of the earth,
have forbidden, on pain of racking, roasting, and every kind of torture,
the importation of her books into their dominions, lest these should be
revolutionized by them forthwith. Heaven defend us! we are very much
afraid that Lady Morgan will set this world of ours on fire, somewhere
about the time when it comes in contact with the comet. It is not mere
supposition on our part that her Ladyship deems herself an object of
dread to the Austrian government at least;--read what she says apropos
of the entree of its ambassador into a ball-room where she was making
all the lamps and candles hide their diminished heads. "When his
Austrian excellence was announced, how I started, with all the weight of
Aulic proscription on my head! The representative of the long-armed
monarch of Hapsburg so near me,--of him, who, could he only once get his
fidgetty fingers on my _little_ neck, would give it a twist, that would
save his custom-house officers all future trouble of breaking carriages
and harassing travellers, in search of the pestilent writings of 'Ladi
Morgan.' I did not breathe freely, till his excellency had passed on
with his glittering train, into the illumined conservatory, and was lost
in a wilderness of flowering shrubs and orange trees." Ought not this
ambassador to be recalled for his negligence, his want of loyalty, in
not attempting to get his fingers about Miladi's 'little neck,' in order
to restore his Imperial master to peace and tranquillity of mind? Poor
Francis! still are you doomed to be _fidgetty_ on your throne. We think
we see you receiving intelligence of the appearance of this last
emanation from Ladi Morgan's untiring pen--a mortal paleness overspreads
your face, as Metternich rushes into your presence with terror depicted
in his countenance, articulating only "Ladi Morgan, Ladi Morgan," having
just obtained himself a knowledge of the dreadful fact from an almost
breathless courier--in an agony of suspense you gaze wildly at your
faithful counsellor, until he has recovered composure sufficient to
unfold to you the whole tale of horror. It is told! The monarch in whose
hands are the lives of fifty millions of subjects, lies himself, to all
appearance, deprived of existence. But see! he revives--his lips
move--what are the words which fall faintly upon the ears of the
bewildered attendants who have been called into the apartment by the
cries of the prime minister? They are words of malediction, of the same
purport as those which Henry II. of England uttered against his
servants, for their want of zeal in allowing him to be so long tormented
by Thomas a Becket, and which caused that prelate's death. But alas! for
your repose, Imperial Caesar, it is not so easy at the present day, as in
former times, for de Luces and de Morevilles to gratify the vengeful
wishes of their masters, and Lady Morgan yet breathes the breath of life
(although it is true she did not do it "freely," according to her own
account, while in the vicinity of your ambassador in Paris,) to keep
your nervous system in disorder, and for the continued vexation of the
rational part of the reading world.

Multifarious are the other instances we might cite of the manner in
which her simple Ladyship was _mystified_ by the ironical propensities
of some, and the malicious ultraism of others, during her visit to Paris
in 1829-30. "There are certain characters," observes M. Jouy, "who may
be considered as the scourges of whatever is ridiculous (_les fleaux du
ridicule_;) they discover it under whatever form it may be hid, and
pitilessly immolate it with the weapon of irony," and into the hands of
persons of this merciless tribe she seems to have been perpetually
falling. We must content ourselves, however, with referring to but one
example more; a conversation between herself and a young Frenchman,
about Romanticism and Classicism, which she has detailed in her first
volume. This is a subject, which, as every one must know, has set all
Paris by the ears, and attracts almost as much attention there as the
overthrow of one dynasty and the creation of another. Lady Morgan, of
course, is a thorough-going _romantique_, and demonstrates the greater
excellence of the school of which she deems herself the chief support
and brightest ornament, in pretty much the same way as the superiority
of modern writers over the ancients used to be proved by the advocates
of the former, viz. by two methods, reason and example, the first of
which they derived from their own taste, and the second from their own
works. At the time she was delivered of her quarto about France in 1810,
Paris was still immersed in classical darkness, and it may therefore be
fairly inferred that the romantic light with which it has since been
illumined, radiated from that same tome. What can be more natural? When
she left France, "the word '_Romanticism_' was unknown (or nearly so) in
the circles of Paris; the writers _a la mode_, whether ultra or liberal,
were, or thought themselves to be, supporters and practisers of the old
school of literature;" in the interval of her absence she published a
work in which she told the Parisians that Racine was no poet, and gave
them other valuable information of the kind, calculated to dispel their
classical infatuation:--when she returned, every thing was changed;
poets and prosers were vieing with each other in gloriously offending
against all rules and canons; Romanticism, in short, was, as she
asserts, completely the order of the day. The classical wrath of one man
was the source of unnumbered woes to ancient Greece, and why may not the
romantic wrath of one woman--a woman too, who keeps autocrats and
sultans _fidgetty_ on their thrones, be the cause of a change in the
literature of a country? This change, at all events, however it may have
been operated, seems to have inspired her with additional courage in her
assaults, and additional fury in her anathemas upon the poor French
authors whom the ignorant world has hitherto been in the habit of
regarding as objects of admiration. She now asserts, in "France in
1829-30," that the whole classic literature of that country is "feeble
and unuseful," nay, even fitted to "enervate and degrade;" and in a
wonderfully luminous chapter about modern literature, she has shown as
clearly as Hudibras could have proved by "force of argument" that "a
man's no horse," that Classicism is the ally of despotism, and that it
was the policy of arbitrary power to encourage a fondness for the
ancient authors!

Fiercely romantic, however, as her Ladyship is, she is mild as a cooing
dove in comparison with the male interlocutor in the famous conversation
to which we have alluded. This personage completely out-herods Herod;
but that he was an ultra in disguise, endeavouring to make her Ladyship
write down absurdities, is a conviction which 'fire and water could not
drive out of' us;--even she, herself, at one period of the dialogue, can
not help doubting whether she "is or is not the subject of what in
England is called a hoax, and in France a _mystification_," and when
_she_ doubts upon such a point, it would be extremely difficult for any
one else not to deem it a matter of certainty. Had we space sufficient,
we should transcribe the whole of this colloquy, as it deserves
repetition; but we can only give a small specimen of it for the
amusement of our readers. The gentleman having informed Miladi, that
Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire, are "dethroned monarchs," and no longer
tolerated at the Theatre, she asks him what is to be seen or heard
there, to which he answers:--

     "'Our great historic dramas, written not in pompous
     Alexandrines, but in prose, the style of truth, the language of
     life and nature, and composed boldly, in defiance of Aristotle
     and Boileau. Their plot may run to any number of acts, and the
     time to any number of nights, months, or years; or if the
     author pleases, it may take in a century, or a millennium: and
     then, for the place, the first scene may be laid in Paris, and
     the last in Kamschatka. In short, France has recovered her
     literary liberty, and makes free use of it.'

     "'_Oui da!_' I rejoined, a little bothered, and not knowing
     well what to say, but still looking very wise, 'In fact, then,
     you take some of those liberties, that you used to laugh at, in
     our poor Shakspeare?'

     "'Your _poor_ Shakspeare! your divine, immortal Shakspeare, the
     idol of new France!--you must see him played _textuellement_ at
     the _Francais_, and not in the diffuse and feeble parodies of
     Ducis.'

     "'Shakspeare played _textuellement_ at the _Francais_!" I
     exclaimed--'_O, par exemple!_'

     "'Yes, certainly. Othello is now in preparation; and Hamlet and
     Macbeth are stock pieces. But even your Shakspeare was far from
     the truth, the great truth, that the drama should represent the
     progress, development, and accomplishment of the natural and
     moral world, without reference to time or locality. Unknown to
     himself, his mighty genius was mastered by the fatal prejudices
     and unnatural restrictions of the _perruques_ of antiquity.
     Does nature unfold her plots in five acts? or confine her
     operations to three hours by the parish clock?'

     "'Certainly not, Monsieur; but still....'

     "'_Mais, mais, un moment, chere Miladi._ The drama is one great
     illusion of the senses, founded on facts admitted by the
     understanding, and presented in real life, past or present.
     When you give yourself up to believe that Talma was Nero, or
     Lafont Britannicus, or that the Rue Richelieu is the palace of
     the Caesars, you admit all that at first appears to outrage
     possibility. Starting, then, from that point, I see no
     absurdity in the tragedy, which my friend Albert de S---- says
     he has written for the express purpose of trying how far the
     neglect of the unities may be carried. The title and subject of
     this piece is "the Creation," beginning from Chaos (and what
     scenery and machinery it will admit!) and ending with the
     French revolution; the scene, infinite space; and the time,
     according to the Mosaic account, some 6000 years.'

     "'And the protagonist, Monsieur? Surely you don't mean to
     revive the allegorical personages in the mysteries of the
     middle ages?'

     "'_Ah ca! pour le protagoniste, c'est le diable._ He is the
     only contemporaneous person in the universe that we know of,
     whom in these days of _cagoterie_ we can venture to bring on
     the stage, and who could be perpetually before the scene, as a
     protagonist should be. He is particularly suited, by our
     received ideas of his energy and restlessness, for the
     principal character. The devil of the German patriarch's
     _Faust_ is, after all, but a profligate casuist; and the high
     poetical tone of sublimity of Milton's Satan is no less to be
     avoided in a delineation that has truth and nature for its
     inspiration. In short, the devil, the true romantic devil, must
     speak, as the devil would naturally speak, under the various
     circumstances in which his immortal ambition and ceaseless
     malignity may place him. In the first act, he should assume the
     tone of the fallen hero, which would by no means become him
     when in corporal possession of a Jewish epileptic, and
     bargaining for his _pis aller_ in a herd of swine. Then again,
     as a leader of the army of St. Dominick, he should have a
     fiercer tone of bigotry, and less political _finesse_, than as
     a privy councillor in the cabinet of the Cardinal de Richelieu.
     At the end of the fourth act, as a guest at the table of Baron
     Holbach, he may even be witty; while as a minister of police,
     he should be precisely the devil of the schoolmen, leading his
     victim into temptation, and triumphing in all the petty
     artifices and verbal sophistries of a bachelor of the Sorbonne.
     But as the march of intellect advances, this would by no means
     be appropriate; and before the play is over, he must by turns
     imitate the _patelinage_ of a Jesuit _a robe courte_, the
     pleading of a procureur general, the splendid bile of a deputy
     of the _cote droit_, and should even talk political economy
     like an article in the 'Globe.' But the author shall read you
     his piece--'_La Creation! drame Historique et Romantique_, in
     six acts, allowing a thousand years to each act. _C'est l'homme
     marquant de son siecle._''

     "'But,' said I, 'I shall remain in Paris only a few weeks, and
     he will never get through it in so short a time.'

     "'_Pardonnez moi, madame_, he will get through it in six
     nights--the time to be actually occupied by the performance; an
     act a night, to be distributed among the different theatres in
     succession, beginning at the _Francais_ and ending at the
     _Ambigu_.'"

It is here that her Ladyship begins to doubt whether this romantic
gentleman was not hoaxing her, and certes it was time; but 'melt and
disperse ye spectre doubts!' an attempt to hoax Lady Morgan, impossible!
They do quickly pass away, and the conversation is pursued in the same
strain, until "Monsieur de ---- one of the conscript fathers of
classicism" is announced. No sooner has his name passed the lips of the
servant, than the romantic gentleman snatches up his hat, and endeavours
to make an exit from the room, in as much consternation as if the
"protagonist" himself were about to appear. But Monsieur de ---- the
classicist, enters before he can escape; "he draws up." The two then
"glanced cold looks at each other, bowed formally, and the romanticist
retired, roughing his wild locks, and panting like a hero of a tragedy."
What a picture! We venture to affirm, however, that had an attentive
observer been present, he would have seen something like a wink or a
covert glance passing between the two worthies as they enacted the above
scene, which might have led him to suspect that they knew each other
better than Miladi supposed: it was only on the previous evening, be it
stated, on her own authority, that she had made the acquaintance of the
romanticist, whom she describes as having "something of an exalte in his
air, in his open shirt collar, black head, and wild and melancholy
look." The dialogue that ensues with the classicist after the
disappearance of the other, is quite as ridiculous as the foregoing one,
and quite as well calculated to give her Ladyship a fit of the "doubts,"
though it does not appear that she suffered by them a second time. We
may mention, before leaving this subject, that when the romanticist told
her, in the extract we have just made, that Othello was in preparation
for the _Theatre Francais_, he told her truth; but, if we are not very
much mistaken, the other piece of information he communicated--that
Hamlet and Macbeth are stock-tragedies at that theatre--could only have
been related by a gentleman of great fertility of imagination. Othello,
we know, was actually performed, and went off tolerably well until the
final scene, but then the nerves of the Frenchmen were put to a trial
they could not by any possibility endure. The sight of a Moor and an
Infidel, endeavouring to smother a lady and a Christian, so completely
aroused all the gallant and religious sensibilities of the audience,
that shouts of _terrible, abominable_, resounded from every part of the
house, and Monsieur Othello was (theatrically) damned for his
wickedness. As far as we know, he never showed his copper-coloured
visage again at the _Theatre Francais_, but contented himself
thenceforward with running after poor Desdemona, and stabbing her behind
the scene at the opera, where this minor exhibition of cruelty is
tolerated in consideration of the _roulades_, with which he smooths her
passage into the other world.

Speaking of theatres puts us in mind, as the story-tellers say, of a
remark made by her Ladyship in the chapter she has devoted to the
theatres of Paris, which we wish to notice. She says, "it is strange,
that among the many men of genius who have treated the subject of the
unities, none should have clearly laid it down, that the great object of
dramatic composition is the satisfaction of the audience, no matter by
what means." What a fine thing it is to be endowed with uncommon powers
of original thought! It is so delightful to be able to belie the
assertion, that it is too late now to think of propounding any new idea,
every thing having already been said that can be said about any thing!
Here, ye croakers about modern degeneracy, here is something that should
cover you with confusion and shame. Lady Morgan, after having read all,
aye, all, that has been written about a certain subject by all the
"many men of genius" who have treated it--which it would only require
the lifetime of a Methuselah to do--has discovered an idea relating to
it, which is to be found in none of the works of those "many men of
genius," and this she has revealed for the edification and astonishment
of the world, in the sentence we have quoted above. How every lover of
new ideas now living, should bless his stars for having cast his
existence in the same period as that of her Ladyship! It is, however,
our melancholy duty, to be obliged to deprive our generation of the
glory which would be shed upon it by such an intellectual invention as
the foregoing. Though it has undoubtedly never been adverted to in any
way, since she so asserts the fact, by any of the "many men of genius"
who have exercised their minds upon the topic of the unities, yet by a
singular chance we have fallen upon something very much like it in the
petty effusions of two or three subordinate scribblers, who have
presumed to hint at what was not excogitated by their betters. One of
those effusions is a paper called a "Preface to Shakspeare," written
about fifty years ago, as we have discovered, after long research and a
great deal of trouble, by a certain Samuel Johnson, who dubbed himself
Doctor, and published likewise, if our investigations have informed us
rightly, other works, under the titles of "The Rambler," "Rasselas,"
"Biographies of the British Poets," &c., and tradition even says that he
attempted a dictionary of the English language. Another of those
effusions is an "Essay upon the Drama," by a person called Walter Scott,
who, it is affirmed, is still in the land of the living, but where he
dwelleth, and what other productions he hath printed, we have been able
to obtain no clue for finding out. It must indeed be confessed, that
neither of those individuals has so "clearly laid it down" as her
Ladyship, that the audience should be pleased, "_no matter by what
means_," though they certainly have intimated that its gratification
ought to be one of the principal objects of a dramatic author. They were
foolish enough to think, that to pander to the tastes of an audience, if
corrupt and vitiated, is paltry, is despicable; that to consult its
inclinations when at war with sound taste or proper decorum, is to do
the work of those who are influenced only by a love of sordid gain,
reckless of every pure and elevated feeling--that "the end of all
writing is to instruct, the end of all poetry, _to instruct by
pleasing_." This is the difference between the sentiment of the authors
and that of the authoress; but were that same Samuel Johnson now alive,
sooner than maintain an opinion in any the slightest manner at variance
with one expressed by her Ladyship, he would,--as he was ready to do,
according to his own avowal, when asserting something that was denied by
persons scarcely more important than himself,--"sink down in
reverential silence, as AEneas withdrew from the defence of Troy, when he
saw Neptune shaking the wall, and Juno heading the besiegers."

We do not wish to insinuate that her Ladyship has derived any advantage
from consulting the pages of either the Preface or the Essay to which we
have alluded. By no means. Nothing would be more unjust; for how could
she be indebted for any thing to what may be contained in a couple of
insignificant pamphlets, whose scarcity is such, that we might almost
suppose our copies of them to be the only ones in existence? How they
came into our hands, is a point we leave for elucidation to those who
find pleasure or profit in unravelling mysteries. There is, to be sure,
a wonderful similitude throughout, between her reflections upon the
classical and romantic drama, and those which may be read in the Essay;
but this circumstance must unquestionably be considered one of those
"remarkable coincidences" that every now and then prompt the cry of "a
miracle!" It must, else, be accounted for, by supposing that the author
of the Essay is gifted with a power over future operations of mind,
similar to that which was possessed over future events, by the wizard
who warned Lochiel against the fatal day at Culloden, and that he is
thus enabled, by his "mystical lore," to make

    "Coming _ideas_ cast their shadow before."

Seriously, however, the observations of her Ladyship on this head,
furnish as nice an instance of plagiarism as we recollect. The best of
the matter is, that after filling nearly a couple of pages with remarks,
amongst which not a single original idea is to be found, save perhaps
the rather novel one, that "in Macbeth the interest is suspended at the
death of Duncan, and does not revive until that of the tyrant is at
hand;" she winds up with saying, "obvious as this train of reasoning
appears, _it has been overlooked equally by the opponents and the
sticklers for the old canons of criticism_; a lamentable instance of the
influence of authority, and of the spirit of party, on the judgments of
the most cultivated minds." This is a sample of modest assurance in
perfection. There is another "remarkable coincidence" in these volumes,
between the biography they contain of General Lafayette, and an article
about "the Nation's Guest" in a number of the North American Review for
1825. But we leave it to our contemporary to take her Ladyship to task
for this appropriation of his property.

In our foregoing remarks we have confined ourselves, in great measure,
to some of those portions of the volumes before us, which are most
susceptible of ridicule, though we have adverted to only a few even of
those--there are others, however, that would require a graver tone. The
sickly sentimentalism about Ninon de l'Enclos, La Valliere, Madame
d'Houdetot, and other strumpets--such "free" conversations as those
which are detailed at page 138, in the first volume, and page 108, in
the second; especially as they were held in the presence of a young
girl, her Ladyship's niece, who was doubtless one of the chief causes
why so many gentlemen came "_pour faire leurs hommages_" to the
aunt--and various expressions upon matters appertaining to religion,
deserve reprehension in no measured terms. But we have not space enough
at our disposal to bestow any further notice upon these, or to glance at
other parts of "France in 1829-30," although we have reaped but a small
portion of the harvest which it contains.

And this is the writer who pretends to enlighten the world upon the
"state of society" in one of the greatest countries of the earth! This
is the work by means of which she flatters herself that such an object
is to be effected,--and this too, (_proh pudor!_) is the kind of work
that can be republished in our country with a certainty of success!
Should the fact come to the knowledge of posterity, what will be thought
of the literary taste of this generation? We have, however, a cause for
consolation--if that can be termed consolation which ministers only to
selfish vanity, and is a source of pain to every better feeling--in the
assurance that the literary history of future times, judging from the
experience of the past, will present similar instances of depravity of
intellectual appetite. We wonder now, how our ancestors could have
relished what we regard with indifference if not with disgust, in the
same way that our taste in some respects will be a matter of surprise
with our descendants, and as theirs will be with those by whom they may
be succeeded on the stage of life. Every age, since books have been
written and books have been read, has furnished, and we may therefore
assert, every age will furnish, reason upon reason for making the remark
of the philosophic author of the "Caracteres," that not to hazard
sometimes a great deal of nonsense, is to manifest ignorance of the
public taste--"_c'est ignorer le gout du peuple, que de ne pas hasarder
quelquefois de grandes fadaises_." We do not wish to deny that Lady
Morgan has been gifted with a modicum of talent; even in the work before
us, there is occasional evidence of natural ability, which, had it been
properly cultivated and modestly employed, might have earned for her
honourable fame. But what advantage--we speak, of course, with reference
to reputation; as to pecuniary profit we have no doubt that she has
found her account in her '_fadaises_,' or else they would not have been
multiplied to such an extent--what advantage, we ask, has she derived
from her faculty of scribbling, except that she has made herself pretty
widely known, and ridiculed wherever she is known? Presumptuous
ignorance, and overweening conceit, have, in her case, completely
_nullified_, nay worse, have converted into a curse, in some respects,
what was intended every way for a blessing. If Lady Morgan would forego
her mongrel idiom, and use the English language; if she would confine
herself to subjects with which she has some acquaintance; if she would
substitute a simple in the stead of her inflated style; and above all,
if she could forget herself, she might write tolerably well; but there
are too many _ifs_ to render it probable, or even possible, that the
defects to which they relate will ever be overcome. This being the case,
we take leave of you, Miladi, not with the _au revoir_ of which you are
so fond, but with the parting salutation of Louis the Fourteenth to
James the Second, when sending him with an army to recover his forfeited
crown, "Adieu, and may we never meet again."




ART. II.--_Physiologie des Passions, ou nouvelle Doctrine des Sentimens
Moraux_; par J. L. ALIBERT. Chapitre XI. de l'Ennui. _Physiology of the
Passions; or a New Theory of Moral Sentiments._ Chap. XI. of Ennui.


This book is neither exact nor eloquent. The thoughts are not precise;
the expressions are vague; and, of consequence, the reasonings of no
value. The attempts at rich displays of imaginative power are contrasted
with a want of invention; and illustrative stories, of feeble execution,
are lavished abundantly in lieu of physiological facts. The volumes are
too insipid to cheat an idle hour of its weariness; they rather engender
fatigue than relieve it. The author will never enter the true elysium of
glory; he has not substance enough to proceed straight up the ascent;
but will certainly be "blown transverse into the devious air." Like most
of the literature of the day, this new Theory of Moral Sentiments is
essentially transient. It will pass, like anti-masonry, without
producing an era.

Yet the chapter on Ennui is tolerably sensible. It is neither brilliant
nor acute; but gives a superficial sketch of that state of being with
considerable accuracy. To be sure, it is not from a Frenchman, that the
best account of ennui should be expected. Of all nations of Europe, the
French have the least of it, though they invented the word; while the
Turks, with their untiring gravity, their lethargic dignity, their blind
fatalism, their opium-eating, and midnight profligacies, have
undoubtedly the largest share. But the Turks are only philosophers in
practice; the theory they leave to others. Now next to the Turks, the
English suffer most from ennui. Do but hear the account which their
finest poetical genius of the present century gives of himself, when he
was hardly of age.

    "With pleasure drugged he almost longed for wo,
    And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below."

The complaints of a young man in the bloom of life and the vigour of
early hope, cannot excite much sympathy. But he interests all our
feelings, when in the fullest maturity to which Lord Byron was permitted
to attain, he still draws from his own bosom the appalling picture of
unalleviated feelings, and describes the horrors of permanent ennui, in
language that was doubtless but the mournful echo of an unhappy mind.

    "'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
    Since others it has ceased to move;
    Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
              Still let me love.

    My days are in the yellow leaf;
    The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
    The worm, the canker, and the grief,
              Are mine alone.

    The fire that in my bosom preys
    Is like to some volcanic isle;
    No torch is kindled at his blaze--
              A funeral pile.

    The hope, the fears, the jealous care,
    The exalted portion of the pain
    And power of love I cannot share,
              But wear the chain."

Such was the harassed state of Lord Byron's mind, at the epoch of his
life which seemed to promise a crowded abundance of exciting sensations.
He had hastened to the consecrated haunts of classic associations; he
was struggling for honour on the parent soil of glory; he was surrounded
by the stir and tumult of barbarous warfare; he had the consciousness,
that the eyes of the civilized world were fixed upon his actions; he
professed to feel the impulse of enthusiasm in behalf of liberty; and
yet there was not irritation enough in the new and busy life of a
soldier, to overcome his apathy, and restore him to happy activity. He
only sought to give away his breath on the field, and to take his rest
in a soldier's grave.

The literature of the day is essentially transient. The rapid
circulation of intelligence enriches the public mind by imparting and
diffusing every discovery; and the active spirit of man, quickened by
the easy possession of practical knowledge, rightly claims the instant
distribution of useful truth. But with this is connected a feverish
excitement for novelty. The world, in the earliest days of which
accounts have reached us, followed after the newest strains; and now
the lessons of former ages, though they have a persuasive eloquence for
the tranquil listener, are as blank and as silent as the grave to the
general ear. The voice of the past, all musical as it is with the finest
harmonies of human intelligence, is lost in the jangling din of
temporary discussions. Philosophy steals from the crowd, and hides
herself in retirement, awaiting a better day; true learning is
undervalued, and almost disappears from among men. It would seem, as
though the wise men of old frowned in anger on the turbulence of the
petty passions, and withdrew from the noisy and contentious haunts,
where wisdom has no votaries, and tranquillity no followers. In the days
of ancient liberty, the public places rung with the nervous eloquence of
sublime philosophy; and the streets of Athens offered nothing more
attractive than the keen discussions, the piercing satire, and the calm
philanthropy of Socrates. But now it is politics which rules the city
and the country; the times of deep reflection, of slowly maturing
thought, are past; and now that erudition is a jest, ancient learning an
exploded chimera, and elaborated eloquence known chiefly by
recollection, the ample gazette runs its daily career, and heralds, in
ephemeral language, the deeds of the passing hours. The age of
accumulated learning is past, and every thing is carried along the
rushing current of public economy, or of private business.--Life is
divided between excited passions and morbid apathy.

And is this current so strong, that it cannot be resisted? Are we borne
without hope of rest upon the ebbing tide? Can we never separate
ourselves from the theory, and with the coolness of an observer, watch
the various emotions, motives, and passions by which the human world is
moulded and swayed? Can we not trace the influence of the changes and
chances of this mortal state on the character and minds of mortal men?

Life is a pursuit. The moralists, who utter their heathenish oracles in
the commonplace complaints of a heathenish discontent, tell us, that we
are born but to pursue, and pursue but to be deceived. They say, that
man in his career after earthly honours, is like the child that chases
the gaudy insect; the pursuit idle; the object worthless. They tell us,
that it is but a deceitful though a deceptive star, which beams from the
summit of the distant hill; advance, and its light recedes; ascend, and
a higher hill is seen beyond, and a wider space is yet to be traversed.
And they tell us, that this is vanity; this the worthlessness of human
desire; this the misery and desolation of the human heart. But how
little do they know of the throbbings of that heart! How poorly have
they studied the secrets of the human breast! How imperfectly do they
understand the feebleness and the strength of man's fortitude and will!
If the bright object still gleams in the horizon, if the brilliancy of
glory is still spread on the remotest hill, if the distant sky is still
invested with the delicate hues of promise, and the gentle radiance of
hope, pursuit remains a pleasure; and the pilgrim, ever light-hearted,
passes heedlessly over the barren wastes, and climbs with cheerful
ardour each rugged mountain. But suppose that brilliant star to be
blotted out of the sky; suppose the lustre of the horizon to have faded
into the dank and gloomy shades of a cloudy evening; suppose the pursuit
to be now without an object, and the blood which hope had sent merrily
through the veins, to gather and curdle round the desponding heart. Then
it is, that life is abandoned to persecuting fiends, and the springs of
joy are poisoned by the demons of listlessness.

The scholar and the Christian have theirs guarantied against despair.
The desire for intelligence is never satisfied but with the attainment
of that wisdom which passes all understanding; and the eye discerning
the bright lineaments of its perfect exemplar, can set no limits to the
sacred passion, which recognises the connexion of the human mind with
the divine, and places before itself a career of advancement, to which
time itself can never prescribe bounds. But it is not with these high
questions that we are at present engaged. We have thrown open the book
of human life; we are to read there of this world and its littleness, of
the springs of present action, of the relief of present restlessness.

We have said, that the pursuit of a noble object is in itself a
pleasure. It is to the mind which holds up no definite object to its
wishes, that the universe seems deficient in the means of happiness, and
joy becomes a prey to the fiend of ennui.

Let us develop this principle more accurately. Let us examine into the
nature of _ennui_, and fix with exactness its true signification. Let us
see if it be a principle of action widely diffused. Let us ascertain the
limits of its power; let us trace its influences on individual
character. Perhaps the investigation may lead us to a more intimate
acquaintance with our nature.

_Ennui_ is the desire of activity without the fit means of gratifying
the desire. It presupposes an acknowledgment of exertion as a duty, and
a consciousness of the possession of powers suited to making an
exertion. It is itself a state of idleness, yet of disquiet. It is
inert, yet discontented.

Such is ennui in itself. In its effects, it embraces a large class of
human actions, and its influences are widely spread throughout every
portion of mental or physical effort. To trace these effects, and to
prescribe their limits, will be a part of our object; at present we
would observe, that wherever a course of conduct is the result of
physical want, of a passion for intelligence, a zeal for glory, or to
sum up a great variety of theories in one, of a just and enlightened
self-love, there there is no trace of ennui. But when the primary
motives of human conduct have failed of their effect, and the mind has
become a prey to listlessness, the career, then pursued, let it be what
it may, is to be ascribed to the pain of ennui. When the mind gnaws upon
itself, we have ennui; the course which is pursued to call the mind from
this self-destructive process, is to be ascribed to the influence of
that passion.

Are our definitions indistinct? Let us attempt illustration. When the
several powers and affections of man are, in the usual course of
existence, called into healthy exercise, on objects sufficient to
interest and satisfy them; this is happiness. When those powers and
affections are exercised by objects sufficient to excite them in their
highest degree, but where, being thus excited, there exists no harmony
between the mind and its pursuits, where the affections are aroused
without being soothed, where the chime is rung, but rung discordantly,
there is misery. Where the powers of the mind are vigorous but
unoccupied; where there exist a restless craving, an inquiet mobility,
yet without any definite purpose or commensurate object, there is ennui.

The state of mind is strongly delineated in the language of the sacred
writer.--

     "I looked on all the works that my hands had wrought, and on
     the labour that I had laboured to do; and behold all was vanity
     and vexation of spirit, and there was no profit under the sun.
     And I turned myself to behold wisdom, and madness, and folly;
     for what can the man do that cometh after the king? Even that
     which hath already been done. Then I saw that wisdom excelleth
     folly, as far as light excelleth darkness. The wise man's eyes
     are in his head; but the fool walketh in darkness; and I
     perceived also, that one event happeneth to them all. Then I
     said in my heart, As it happeneth to the fool, so it happeneth
     even to me; and why was I then more wise? Then I said in my
     heart, that this also is vanity. For there is no remembrance of
     the wise more than of the fool for ever; seeing that which now
     is, in the days to come shall all be forgotten. And how dieth
     the wise man? As the fool. Therefore, I hated life; because the
     work that is wrought under the sun is grievous unto me; for all
     is vanity and vexation of spirit."

Or, to take an example from the earliest monument of Grecian genius.
Achilles, in the pride of youth, engaged in his favourite profession of
arms, making his way to an immortality secured to him by the voice of
his goddess mother, sure to gain the victory in any contest, and
selecting for his reward the richest spoils and the fairest maid.
Achilles, the heroic heathen, was then fully and satisfactorily
employed, and according to his semi-barbarous notions of joy and right,
was happy within his own breast, and was happy in the world around him.
When the same youthful warrior was insulted by the leader under whose
banners he had rallied, when the private recesses of his tent were
invaded, and his domestic peace disturbed, his mind was strongly
agitated by love, anger, hatred, the passion for strife, and the intense
effort at forbearance; and though there was here room enough for
activity, there was nothing but pain and misery. But when the dispute
was over, and the pupil of the Centaur, trained for strife, and victory,
and glory, separated from the army, and gave himself up to an inactive
contemplation of the struggle against Troy, his mind was abandoned to
the sentiment of discontent, and his passions were absorbed in the
morbid feeling of ennui. Homer was an exact painter of the human
passions. The picture which he draws of Achilles,[1] receiving the
subsequent deputation from the Greeks, illustrates our subject exactly.
It was in vain for the hero to attempt to sooth his mind with the
melodies of the lyre; his blood kindled only at the music of war; it was
idle for him to seek sufficient pleasure in celebrating the renown of
heroes; this was but a vain effort to quell the burning passion for
surpassing them in glory. He listens to the deputation, not tranquilly,
but peevishly. He charges them with duplicity, and avows that he loathes
their king like the gates of hell.[2] He next reverts to himself: The
warrior has no thanks, he exclaims in the bitterness of
disappointment--"The coward and the brave man are held in equal honour."
Nay, he goes further, and quarrels with providence and fixed
destiny.--"After all, the idler, and the man of many achievements, each
must die."[3] To-morrow, he adds, his vessels shall float on the
Hellespont. The morning dawned; but the ships of Achilles still lingered
near the banks of the Scamander. The notes of battle sounded, and his
mind was still in suspense between the fiery impulse for war and the
haughty reserve of revenge.

When Bruce found himself approaching the sources of the Nile, a thousand
sentiments of pride rushed upon his mind; it seemed to him, that destiny
had marked out for him a more fortunate and more glorious career, than
for any European, kings or warriors, conquerors or travellers, that had
ever attempted to penetrate into the interior of Africa. This was a
moment of exultation and triumphant delight. But when that same
traveller had actually reached the ultimate object of his research, he
has himself recorded the emotions which were awakened within him. At the
fountain-head of the Nile, Bruce was almost a victim to sentimental
ennui.

In this anecdote of the Abyssinian traveller, we have an example of the
rapidity with which ennui treads on the heels of triumph, and banishes
the feelings of exulting joy. We will cite another, where misery was
followed and consummated by ennui. The most eloquent of the Girondists
was Vergniaud. It was he that in the spirit of prophecy compared the
French revolution to Saturn, since it was about to devour successively
all its children, and finally to establish despotism with its attendant
calamities. The rivalship of the Mountain in the Convention, the
unsuccessful attack on Robespierre, the trial and condemnation of Louis
XVI., the defection of Dumourier and its consequences, had doubtless
roused the mind of the fervent but unsuccessful orator to the highest
efforts which the decline of power, and the consciousness of wavering
fortunes, and the menace of utter ruin, patriotism, honour, and love of
life, could call forth. At last came the day, fraught with horrors, when
the clamours of a despotic and inexorable mob, claimed of the convention
Vergniaud and his associates, the little refuse of republican sincerity,
to be the victims of their fiendish avidity for blood. Who will doubt,
that during that fearful session the mind of Vergniaud was agitated in
the extreme, that the highest possible excitement called him into the
highest possible activity? Here there was no room for listlessness, and
quite as little for happiness. The guarantees of order were failing, and
the friends of order were to be buried under the same ruins with the
remains of regular legislative authority. Vergniaud retired from the
scenes where the foulest of the dogs of war were howling for their prey,
and when Gregoire found him out in his hiding-place, the republican
orator, though robbery and massacre were triumphant in the city, was
discovered reading Tacitus. Why? From affectation? Surely not;
Gregoire's visit was unexpected. From cool philosophy? still less, for
it was the season of peril for an irritable man. The studies of
Vergniaud on that day were the studies of one suffering from ennui.

Ennui was the necromancer which conjured up the ghost of Caesar on the
eve of the battle of Philippi. And when Brutus esteemed that battle
lost, which in truth had been won, he had yet to wrestle with that
unseen enemy, and enter on a new contest, where he was sure to be
overthrown. The execution of Madame Roland was a scene, as far as she
was concerned, of intense and unmitigated suffering; but when Brutus
dared to despair of virtue, the atrocious sentiment was dictated, not by
the spirit that had dared to plan the liberties of the world, but by the
demon of ennui, which in an evil hour had possessed himself of the
patriot's soul.

Finally, for we have surely made ourselves intelligible, if it is
possible for us to do so--the timid lover, whose affections are moved,
yet not tranquillized, who gazes with the eyes of fondness on an object
that seems to be of a higher world, and admires as the stars are
admired, which are acknowledged to be beautiful yet are never possessed;
the timid lover, neither wholly doubting, nor wholly hoping, the sport
alternately of joy and of sorrow, full of thought and full of longing,
feeling the sentiment of rapture yield to the faintness of uncertain
hope, is half his time a true personification of ennui.

That ennui is a principle of action widely diffused, will hardly be
denied by any careful observer of human nature. No individual can
conscientiously claim to have been always and wholly free from its
influences, except where there has been a life springing from the purest
sources, sanctified by the early influence of religious motives, and
protected from erroneous judgments by the constant exercise of a
healthful understanding. For the rest, though few are constantly
afflicted with it as an incurable evil, there are still fewer who are
not at times made to suffer from its influence. It stretches its heavy
hand on the man of business and the recluse; it makes its favourite
haunts in the city, but it chases the aspirant after rural felicity,
into the scenes of his rural listlessness; it makes the young
melancholy, and the aged garrulous; it haunts the sailor and the
merchant; it appears to the warrior and to the statesman; it takes its
place in the curule chair, and sits also at the frugal board of old
fashioned simplicity. You cannot flee from it; you cannot hide from it;
it is swifter than the birds of passage, and swifter than the breezes
that scatter clouds. It climbs the ship of the restless who long for the
suns of Europe; it jumps up behind the horseman who scours the woods of
Michigan; it throws its scowling glances on the attempt at present
enjoyment; it scares the epicurean from his voluptuousness, and when the
ascetic has finished his vow, it compels him once more to repeat the
tale of his beads.

To the influence of ennui must be traced the passion for strong
excitement. When life has become almost stagnant, when the ordinary
course of events has been unable to excite any strong interest, ennui
assumes a terrific power over the mind, and clamours for emotion, though
that emotion is to be purchased by scenes of horror and of crime. "What
a magnificent spectacle," said the Parisian mob, "how interesting a
spectacle to see a woman of the wit and courage of Madame Roland on the
scaffold!" And it is precisely the same power, which excites the
sensitive admirer of works of fiction to ransack the shelves of a
library for works of thrilling and "painful" interest.

To the same kind of restless curiosity we have to ascribe the passionate
declamations of the tragic actor, and the splendid music of the opera;
the cunning feats of the village conjuror, and the lascivious pantomime
of the city ballet-dancers; the disgusting varieties of bull-fights, and
the celebrated feats of pugilism; the locomotive zeal of the great
pedestrians, and the perfect quiescence of the "pillar saints."

The habits of ancient Rome illustrate most clearly the extent to which
this passion for strong sensations may hurry the public mind into
extravagances, and repress every sentiment of sympathy and generosity.
Ambition itself is not so reckless of human life as _ennui_; clemency is
the favourite attribute of the former; but ennui has the tastes of a
cannibal, and the sight of human blood, shed for its amusement, makes it
greedy after a renewal of the dreadful indulgence. No one need be
informed, that the shows of ancient gladiators were attended by an
infinitely more numerous throng than is ever gathered by any modern
spectacle. And let it not be supposed, that the life of one of these
combatants was the more safe, because it depended on the interposition
of the Roman fair. The fondness for murderous exhibitions finally raged
with such vehemence, that they were at length introduced as an
attraction at a banquet, and the guests, as they reclined at table in
the luxury of physical ease, have been wet by the life-blood from the
veins of the wounded gladiators.

    Quinetiam exhilarare viris convivia caede
    Mos olim, et miscere epulis spectacula dira
    Certantum ferro, saepe et super ipsa cadentum
    Pocula, _respersis non parco sanguine mensis_.

Time would fail us were we to illustrate the various horrors which
attended these amusements, designed to entertain the most refined
population of Rome. Time would fail us were we to enumerate the various
classifications in the art of murder on the stage, the signals which
were made by the multitude in token of relenting clemency, the more
usual signal, made by virgins and matrons, demanding the continuance of
the combat unto death. Do we not call Titus the delight of the human
race? Do we not praise his commonplace puerility, _perdidi diem_, the
exclamation of conceit, rather than of manliness? And yet it was this
philanthropist, this favourite of humanity, who caused the vast
amphitheatre to be erected, as it were a monument to all ages of the
barbarous civilization of the capital of his empire. And as to the
numbers who appeared on these occasions, do we suppose it was a pair? or
a score? We will not ask after the horrors commended and consummated by
a Tiberius or a Caligula. Was not Trajan a moderate prince? Was he not
disposed to introduce habits of a reasonable industry? Yet the active
Trajan kept up a succession of games to cheat the population of Rome of
ennui, during a hundred and twenty-three days, in which time ten
thousand gladiators were decked for sacrifice.

Thus the vehemence of this passion is evident from the atrocity of the
resources by which its cravings are satisfied. We may also remark, that
superstition itself, interwoven as it is with all the fears and
weaknesses of humanity, subjects the human mind to a bondage less severe
and less permanent than that of the terrific craving after something to
dissipate the weariness of the heart. At Rome the sacrifices to the
heathen deities were abolished before the games of the gladiators were
suppressed; it was less difficult to take from the priests their spoils,
from the altars their victims, from the prejudices of the people their
religious faith, than to rescue from ennui the miserable wretches whose
lives were to be the sport of the idle. The laws already forbade the
offering the bull to Jove, when the poet still had to pray that none
might perish in the city under the condemnation of pleasure,

    Nullus in urbe cadat, cujus sit poena voluptas.

Philosophy itself offers no guarantee against the common infirmities of
listlessness. Many a stoic has resisted the attacks of external evils
with an exemplary fortitude; and has yet failed in his encounters with
time. Strange indeed that time should be an encumbrance to a sage!
Strange indeed, that, when life is so short, and philosophy boundless,
and time a gift of the most precious nature, dealt out to us in
successive moments, a possession which is most coveted, and can the
least be hoarded, which comes, but never returns, which departs as soon
as given, and is lost even in the receiving,--strange indeed that such a
gift, so precious, so transient, so fleeting, should ever press severely
upon a philosopher!

And yet wisdom is no security against ennui. The man who made Europe
ring with his eloquence, and largely contributed to the spirit of
republican enthusiasm, wasted away for months in a state of the most
foolish languor, under the idea that he was dying of a polypus at his
heart.[4] Nay, this philosopher, who presumed to believe himself skilled
in the ways of man, and an adept in the character of women, who dared to
expound religion and proposed to reform Christianity, who committed and
confessed the meanest actions,--and yet, as if in the presence of the
Supreme Arbiter of life and before the tribunal of Eternal Justice,
arrogated to himself an equality with the purest in the innumerable
crowd of immortal souls,--he, the proud one, would so far yield to
ennui, as to put the final and eternal welfare of his soul at issue on
the throw of a stone. La Harpe, no correct writer, nor sound critic,
affirms, that Rousseau undertook to decide the question of a
Superintending Providence by throwing stones at a tree. That would have
been not merely an imbecile but a blasphemous act. As the case stood,
Jean Jacques must be acquitted of any charge worse than that of
excessive and even ridiculous weakness. "_Je m'en vais_," he says to
himself, "_je m'en vais jeter cette pierre contre l'arbre qui est
vis-a-vis de moi: si je le touche, signe de salut; si je le marque,
signe de damnation._"

But Jean Jacques passes for an inspired madman. What shall we say to the
temperate Spinoza, whose life was not variegated by the brightness of
domestic scenes, and who, being cut off from active life and from social
love, necessarily encountered a void within himself. It was his
favourite resource against the visits of ennui, to catch spiders and
teach them to fight; and when he had so far made himself master of the
nature of these animals, that he could get them as angry as game cocks,
he would, all thin and feeble as he was, break out into a roar of
laughter, and chuckle to see his champions engage, as if they, too, were
fighting for honour.

Poor Spinoza! It may indeed be questioned, whether his whole philosophy
was not a sort of pastime with him. It may be, that after all he was
ingenious because he could not be quiet, and wrote his attacks on
religion from a want of something to do. At any rate it has fared
strangely with his works. The world had well nigh become persuaded, that
Spinoza was but a name for a degraded atheism, and now we have him
zealously defended, and in fact we have seen him denominated a saint.[5]
So near are extremes: the ridiculous borders on the sublime; and the
same man is denounced as a parricide of society, and again extolled as a
model of sanctity.

But we have a stronger example than either of these. The very
philosopher, who first declared experience to be the basis of knowledge,
and found his way to truth through the safe places of observation, gives
in his own character some evidences of participation in the common
infirmity. He said very truly, that there is a foolish corner even in
the wise man's brain. Yet, if there has ever appeared on earth, a man
possessed of reason in its highest perfection, it was Aristotle. He had
the gift of seeing the forms of things, undisturbed by the confusing
splendour of colours; his mind, like the art of sculpture, represented
objects with the most precise outlines and exact images; but the world
in his mind was a colourless world. He understood and has explained the
secrets of the human heart, the workings of the human passions; but he
performs all these moral dissections with the coolness of an anatomist,
engaged in a delicate operation. The nicety of his distinctions, and his
deep insight into the nature of man, are displayed without passion,
while his constant effort after the discovery of new truth, never for
one moment betrays him into mysticism, or tempts him to substitute
shadows for realities. One would think, that such a philosopher was the
personification of self-possession; that his unruffled mind would always
dwell in the serene regions of intelligence; that his step would be on
the firm ground of experience; that his progress to the sublime temple
of truth and of fame, would have been ever secure and progressive; that
happiness itself would have blessed him for his tranquil and
dispassionate devotedness to exalted pursuits.

But perhaps the clear perception of the realities of life is not the
secret source of contentment. Many a scholar has shrunk from the contest
of transient interests, and sought happiness rather in the world of
contemplation; and perhaps the studies of antiquity derive a part of
their charm, from their affording us a place of refuge against the
clamours and persecutions which belong to present rivalries. If the view
of human nature, adopted by a large portion of our theologians, is a
just one, the heart must recoil with horror from the true consideration
of the human world in its natural unmitigated depravity, and throw
itself rather into the hopes that belong to the future, and the mercies
that attach to the Supreme Intelligence, for relief against the apathy
which so cold a contemplation of unmingled evil might naturally produce.

In the mouth of Pindar, life might be called a dream, and it would but
pass for the effusion of poetic melancholy. But when the sagacious
philosopher asserts it, that all hope is but the dream of waking man, a
latent discontent broken from the concealment of an unsatisfied
curiosity, a baffled pursuit; when his mind had arrived at that state,
nothing but its remarkable vigour could have preserved him from settled
gloom.

Again the venerable sage examined into the sources of happiness. It does
not consist, he affirms, in voluptuous pleasures, for they are
transient, brutalizing, and injurious to the mind; nor in public
honours, for they depend on those who bestow them, and it is not
felicity to be the recipient of an uncertain bounty; nor yet does
happiness consist in riches, for the care of them is but a toil; and if
they are expended, it is plainly a proof, that contentment is sought for
in the possession of other things. In the view of the Stagyrite,
happiness consists in the pursuit of knowledge, and in the practice of
virtue, under the auspices of mind, and nature, and fortune. He that is
intelligent, and young, and handsome, and vigorous, and rich, is alone
the happy man. Did the world need the sublime wisdom, the high mental
endowment of the Stagyrite, to learn, that neither the poor, nor the
dull, nor the aged, nor the sick, can share in the highest bounty of
the Universal Father? When it is remembered that Aristotle was favoured
above all his contemporaries in intellectual gifts, we ask the reader to
draw an inference as to the state of his mind, which still demanded the
beauties of personal attractions, and the lavish liberality of fortune.

When asked what is the most transient of fleeting things, the
philosopher made but a harsh answer, in naming "gratitude;" but his mind
must have been sadly a prey to ennui, when he could exclaim, "my
friends! there are no friends."

He could not be content to sit or stand, when he gave lessons in moral
science, but walked to and fro in constant restlessness; and, indeed, if
tradition reports rightly, he could not wait the will of Heaven for his
release from weariness, but in spite of all his sublime philosophy, and
all his expansive genius, he was content to die as the fool dieth.

But ennui kills others beside philosophers. It is not without example,
that men have committed suicide, because they have attained their utmost
wishes. The man of business, finding himself possessed of a sufficient
fortune, retires from active life; but the habit of action remains, and
becomes a power of terrific force. In such cases, the sufferer sits away
listless hours of intense suffering; the mind preys upon itself, and
sometimes madness ensues, sometimes suicide is committed.

Saul went out to find his father's asses. With the humble employment he
seems to have been reasonably pleased, and probably made search with a
light heart and an honest one. But, seeking asses, he found a kingdom;
and contentment fled when possession was full. In him, the reproofs of
conscience and discontent with the world produced a morbid melancholy,
and pain itself would have been to him a welcome refuge from ennui.

We detect the same subtle spirit at work, in the slanders in which
gossips find relief. Truth is not exciting enough to those who depend on
the characters and lives of their neighbours for all their amusement;
and if a story is told of more than common interest, ennui is sure to
have its joy in adding a few embellishments. If time did not hang heavy,
what would become of scandal? Time, the common enemy, must be passed, as
the phrase is, and the phrase bears its own commentary; and since the
days of gladiators are passed, where can be the harm of blackening the
reputation of the living? To the pusillanimous and the idle, scandal is
the condiment of life; and while back-biting furnishes their
entertainment abroad, domestic quarrelling fills up the leisure hours at
home. It is a pretty general rule, that the _medisante_ is a termagant
in her household; and, as for our own sex, depend upon it, in nine cases
out of ten, the evil tongue belongs to a disappointed man. In the tenth
case, the man is an _imbecile_.

Fashion, also, in its excess, is but a relief against ennui; and it is
rather strong evidence of the universal prevalence of listlessness, that
a change in dress at Paris, can, within a few months, be imitated in St.
Louis. Yet, in the young and the fair, a milder sentiment influences
conduct. In them, the latent consciousness of beauty, the charm of an
existence that is opening in the fulness of its attractions, the
becoming loveliness of innocence and youth, the simple cheerfulness of
inexperience, lead to a modest and decorous display. Broadway, the
unrivalled Broadway, is not without its loungers; yet the young and the
gay are not discontented ones. They move in the strength of their own
beauty, like the patriot statesman, neither shunning, nor yet courting
admiration; and tripping along the brilliant street, half coveting half
refusing attention,

    "They feel that they are happier than they know."

From Broadway we pass to the crowded haunts of business. Is there ennui
there? Do the money changers grow weary of profits? Is business so dull
that bankers have nothing to do? Are doubtful notes so uncommon, that
there is no latitude for shaving? Have the underwriters nothing at sea
to be anxious about? Do the insurers on life omit to look after those
who have taken out policies, and exhort them to temperance and exercise?
These are all busy enough; too much engaged, and too little romantic to
be much moved by sentimental regrets. But there are those, who plunge
headlong into affairs from the restlessness of their nature, and who
hurry into bold speculations, because they cannot endure to be idle.
Now, business, like poetry, requires a tranquil mind. But there are
those, who venture upon the career of business, under the impulse of
ennui. How shall the young and haughty heirs of large fortunes rid
themselves of their time, and acquit themselves in the eye of the public
of their imagined responsibilities? One writes a tale for the Souvenirs,
another speculates in the stocks. The former is laughed at, yet hoards
an estate; the latter is food for hungry sharks. Then comes bankruptcy;
sober thought repels the fiend that had been making a waste of life, or
the same passion drives its possessor to become a busy body and zealot
in the current excitement of the times; or absolute despair, ennui in
its intensity, leads to insanity.

For the mad house, too, as well as the debtor's gaol, is in part peopled
by the same blighting power, and nature recovers itself from a state of
languid apathy, only by the terrific excitement of frenzy. Or a passion
for suicide ensues; the mind revels in the contemplation of the grave,
and covets the aspect of the countenance of death as the face of a
familiar friend. The mind invests itself in the sombre shades of a
melancholy longing after eternal rest--a longing which is sometimes
connected with unqualified disbelief, and sometimes associates itself
with an undefined desire of a purely spiritual existence.

We might multiply examples of the very extensive prevalence of that
unhappy languor of which we are treating. Let us aim rather at observing
the limit of its power.

It was a foolish philosophy, which believed in ennui as an evidence and
a means of human perfectibility. The only exertions which it is capable
of producing, are of a subordinate character. It may give to passion a
fearful intensity, consequent on a state of moral disease; but human
virtue must be the result of far higher causes. The exercise of
principle, the generous force of purified emotions, cheerful desire, and
willing industry, are the parents of real greatness. If we look through
the various departments of public and of intellectual action, we shall
find the mark of inferiority upon every thing which has sprung from
ennui. In philosophy, it might produce the follies of Cynic oddity, but
not the sublime lessons of Pythagoras or Socrates. In poetry, it may
produce effusions from persons of quality, devoid of wit, but it never
could have pointed the satire of Pope. In the mechanic arts it may
contrive a balloon, but never could invent a steam-boat. In religion, it
stumbles at a thousand knotty points in metaphysical theology, but it
never led the soul to intercourse with heaven, or to the contemplation
of divine truth.

The celebrated son of Philip was a man of exalted genius; and political
wisdom had its share in his career. Ennui could never have produced
Macedonia's madman, but it may well put in its claim to the Swede. Or
let us look rather for a conqueror, who dreamed that he had genius to
rival Achilles, and yet never had a settled plan of action. The famous
king of Epirus has seemed to be an historical puzzle, so uncertain was
his purpose, so wavering his character. Will you know the whole truth
about him? Pyrrhus was an _ennuye_.

When a painter, in the pursuit of his vocation, is obliged to give a
likeness of a person that has neither beauty nor soul, he may perhaps
draw figures in the air, or spoil his picture by an inconsiderate
flourish of his pencil. He dislikes his task, and his work will show it.

When a poet writes a song for hire, or solely to be sung to some
favourite air, it is more than probable his verses will be languid, and
his meaning doubtful. Thus, for example,--

    "The smiles of joy, the tears of wo
    Deceitful shine, deceitful flow."

This is sheer nonsense. Joy smiles in good earnest, and many an aching
heart knows too well the deep truth of distress.

The fervent eloquence of true piety springs from conviction, and reaches
the heart; but we have sometimes listened to a dull sermon, which
proceeded from weariness more than from zeal, and belonged to ennui more
than to the stirring action of eloquent religion. The lawyer, too, is
sometimes overborne in his plea by disgust with his work, and in his
tiresome repetitions you may plainly see how he loathes--

              "To drudge for the dregs of men,
    And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen."

The life of Napoleon, in its busiest period, presents a remarkable
instance of ennui. While the allies were collecting around him in their
utmost strength, he was himself wavering in his purposes, and reluctant
to decide on the retreat to Leipsic. Strange, that at such a time he
should have given way to an overwhelming and almost childish languor.
Yet an eyewitness relates, "I have seen him at that time, seated on a
sofa, beside a table on which lay his charts, totally unemployed, unless
in scribbling mechanically large letters on a sheet of white paper."
Such was the power of ennui over Napoleon, at a time, when, in his own
language, nothing but a thunderbolt could save him.

It is dangerous for a man of superior ability to find himself thrown
upon the world without some regular employment. The restlessness
inherent in genius being thus left undirected by any permanent
influence, frames for itself occupations out of accidents. Moral
integrity sometimes falls a prey to this want of fixed pursuits; and the
man who receives his direction in active life from the fortuitous
impulse of circumstances, will be very apt to receive his principles
likewise from chance. Genius, under such guidance, attains no noble
ends; but resembles rather a copious spring, conveyed in a falling
aqueduct; where the waters continually escape through the frequent
crevices, and waste themselves ineffectually on their passage. The law
of nature is here, as elsewhere, binding; and no powerful results ever
ensue from the trivial exercise of high endowments. The finest mind,
when thus destitute of a fixed purpose, passes away without leaving
permanent traces of its existence; losing its energy by turning aside
from its course, it becomes as harmless and inefficient as the
lightning, which, of itself irresistible, may yet be rendered powerless
by a slight conductor.

These remarks apply perhaps in some measure even to Leibnitz, whose
sublime intelligence and mental activity were the wonder of his age. He
attained a celebrity of reputation, but hardly a contented spirit; at
times he descended to the consideration of magnitudes infinitely small,
and at times rose to the belief that he heard the universal harmony of
nature; for years he was devoted to illustrating the antiquities of the
family of a petty prince; and then again he assumed the sublime office
of defending the perfections of Providence. Yet with all this variety of
pursuit, the great philosopher was hardly to be called a happy man; and
it almost fills us with melancholy to find, that the very theologian who
would have proved this to be absolutely the best of all possible worlds,
died after all of chagrin.

Yet the name of Leibnitz is one which should rather excite unmingled
admiration; for the rich endowments of Heaven distinguished him as one
of the most favoured in that intellectual superiority which is the
choicest gift of God. Our subject is more fully illustrated in the case
of a less gifted, though a notorious man; one whose qualities have been
recently held up to admiration, yet for whom we find it impossible to
conceive sentiments of respect. We mean Lord Bolingbroke.

His talents as a writer have secured to him a very distinguished place
in the literature of England; and his political services, during the
reign of Queen Anne, have rendered him illustrious in English history.
But though he was possessed of wit, eloquence, family, wealth, and
opportunity, he never displayed true dignity of character, nor real
greatness of soul. He seemed to have no fixed principles of action; and
to have loved contest more than victory. Wherever there was strife,
there you might surely expect to meet St. John; and his public career
almost justifies the inference, that apostacy (if indeed a man who has
no principles can be called an apostate) would have seemed to him, after
his defeat, a moderate price for permission to appear again in the
lists. But as he had always coveted power with an insatiable avidity, he
never could rest long enough to acquire it. On the stormy sea of public
life, he was for ever struggling to be on the topmost wave; but the
waves receded as fast as he advanced; and fate seemed to have destined
him to waste his life in fruitless efforts and as fruitless changes.

In early life he sought distinction by his debaucheries; and from the
accounts of his biographer, it would seem, that he succeeded in becoming
the most daring profligate in London. Tired of the excess of
dissipation, he attempted the career of politics, and found his way into
Parliament under the auspices of the whigs. When politics failed, he put
on the mask of a metaphysician. Tired of that costume, he next attempted
to play the farmer. Dissatisfied with farming, he wrote political
pamphlets. Still discontented with his condition in the world, he strove
to undermine the basis of religion.

He began public life as a whig; but as the tories were in the ascendant,
he rapidly ripened into a tory; he ended his political career by
deserting the tories and avowing the doctrines of staunch and
uncompromising whigs. He tried libertinism, married life, politics,
power, exile, restoration, the House of Commons, the House of Lords, the
city, the country, foreign travel, study, authorship, metaphysics,
infidelity, farming, treason, submission, dereliction,--but ennui held
him with a firm grasp all the while, and it was only in the grave that
he ceased from troubling.

To an observer who peruses his writings with this view of his character,
many of his expressions of wise indifference and calm resignation, have
even a ludicrous aspect. The truth breaks forth from all his attempts at
disguise. The philosopher's robes could not hide the stately wrecks of
his political passions. They say, that round Vesuvius, the lava of
former eruptions has so entirely resolved itself into soil, that
vineyards thrive on the black ruins of the volcano; and that the ancient
devastation could hardly be recognised, except for an occasional dark
mass, which, not yet decomposed, frowns here and there over the
surrounding fertility. Something like this was true of St. John; he
believed his ambition extinct, and attempted to gather round its ruins
all the beauties and splendour of contented wisdom; but his nature was
still ungovernably fierce; and to the last, his passions lowered angrily
on the quiet scenes of his literary retirement.

There is no clue to his character, except in supposing him to have been
under the influence of ennui, which was perpetually terrifying him into
the grossest contradictions. He could not be said to have had any
principles, or to have belonged to any party; and to whatever party he
rallied, he was sure to become utterly faithless. He was not less false
to the Pretender than to the King, to Ormond than to Walpole. He was
false to the tories and false to the whigs; he was false to his country,
for he attempted to involve her in civil war; and false to his God, for
he combated religion. He was not swayed by a passion for glory, for he
did not pursue it steadily,--nor by a passion for power, for he
quarrelled with the only man by whose aid he could have maintained it.
He was rather driven to and fro by a wild restlessness, which led him
into gross contradictions "for his sins." Nor was his falsehood without
its punishment. What could be more pitifully degrading, than for one who
had been a successful British minister of state, and had displayed in
the face of Europe his capacity for business and his powers of
eloquence, to have finally stooped to accept a seat in the Pretender's
cabinet, where pimps and prostitutes were the prime agents and
counsellors?

There exists a very pleasant letter from Pope, giving an account of
Bolingbroke's rural occupations, during his country life in England,
after the reversal of his attainder. He insisted on being a farmer; and
to prove himself so, hired a painter to fill the walls of his parlour
with rude pictures of the implements of husbandry. The poet describes
him between two haycocks, watching the clouds with all the apparent
anxiety of a husbandman; but to us it seems, that his mind was at that
time no more in the skies than when he quoted Anaxagoras, and declared
heaven to be the wise man's home. His heart clung to earth, and to
earthly strife; and his uneasiness must at last have become deplorably
wretched, since he could consent to pick up stale arguments against
Christianity, and leave a piece of patchwork, made up of the shreds of
other men's scepticism, as his especial legacy to posterity, in proof of
the masterly independence of his mind.

Thus we have endeavoured to explain the nature of that apathy which is
worse than positive pain, and which impels to greater madness than the
fiercest passions,--which kings and sages have not been able to resist,
nor wealth nor pleasures to subdue. We have described ennui as a power
for evil rather than for good; and we infer, that it was an absurd
philosophy which classed it among the causes of human superiority, and
the means of human improvement. It is the curse pronounced upon
voluptuous indolence and on excessive passion; on those who decline
active exertion, and thus throw away the privileges of existence; and on
those who live a feverish life, in the constant frenzy of stimulated
desires. There is but one cure for it: and that is found in moderation;
the exercise of the human faculties in their natural and healthful
state; the quiet performance of duty, in meek submission to the
controlling Providence, which has set bounds to our achievements in
setting limits to our power. Briefly: our ability is limited by
Heaven--our desires are unlimited, except by ourselves--ennui can be
avoided only by conforming the passions of the human breast to the
conditions of human existence.

In pursuing this investigation, which we now bring to a close, we have
not attempted to exhaust the subject; we refer it rather to the calm
meditations of others, who will find materials enough within themselves.
And lest the impatient should throw aside our essay with the disgust of
satiety, or the persevering should by our prolixity be vexed with the
very spirit which we would rather teach them to exorcise, we here take a
respectful leave, with our sincerest wishes, that life may be to the
reader a succession of pleasant emotions, and death a resting place
neither coveted nor feared.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Iliad, ix. 187-190.

[2] Iliad, ix. 310-320.

[3] Iliad. Pope renders this--Alike regretted in the dust he lies. But
it is an expression of discontent with destiny, which sets a common
limit to life, and not to men, whose regrets may be unequal.

[4] Jean Jacques Rousseau. Confessions, p. 1. l. vi.

[5] We remember perfectly well the beginning of an apostrophe to the
Jewish philosopher; "Du _heiliger_ Spinoza." Herder, too, has a good
deal to say in defence of him.




ART. III.--_Travels in Kamtchatka and Siberia; with a Narrative of a
Residence in China._ By PETER DOBELL. 2 vols. 12mo. 1830.


Mr. Dobell, the author of these volumes, is an American gentleman, who
formerly resided in the city of Philadelphia, where he was known as an
enterprising and intelligent merchant. Commercial business led him to
make several voyages, beyond the Cape of Good Hope; and circumstances at
length induced him to prolong his residence in Asia. He established
himself at Canton, where he lived for some years, and undertook, from
time to time, trading expeditions to various ports on the shore of the
Pacific Ocean. In the course of these, frequent opportunities were
afforded of noticing the manners, country, and state of society in
China, superior to such as occur to ordinary travellers; and much too of
the remote people of Eastern Russia, who are very little known to those
inhabiting the civilized portions of the world. These voyages were
succeeded by more than one journey across the country to St. Petersburg,
in which he observed, with an attentive eye and inquisitive disposition,
the extensive regions forming the _penetralia_ of that vast empire. His
intelligence and exertions were noticed and rewarded by the confidence
of the government, who conferred on him the office of Consul at some
Eastern port, and he was subsequently raised to the post of "Counsellor
of the court" of his Imperial Majesty, a rank which he still retains,
having probably relinquished the intention of returning to his own
country.

The account of China, which, in the natural order, would form the first
portion of his narrative, is comprised in a sort of supplement to the
travels in Siberia, and contains in a more compendious form, a good
sketch of the manners and state of society in that singular country. The
means of observation, and of obtaining information, are indeed greatly
diminished, by the well known jealousy of the Chinese towards strangers,
and the extreme vanity and exaggeration with which they speak of
themselves and their country; but the pursuits of Mr. Dobell, together
with the recurrence of the opportunities by which he profited, give to
his account a considerable degree of novelty, and certainly entitle it
to more than ordinary confidence.

On his first arrival at Canton, he was struck with the new and
interesting scene that presented itself. Islands, hills, canals, and
rivers, were scattered around. The verdure was lively, the population
excessive, the vegetation and general appearance of the country totally
different from those he had elsewhere beheld, and the waters glittered
with innumerable fleets of boats of various sizes and descriptions. The
boatmen and pilots addressed him in a language which he afterwards
found to prevail extensively at Canton, and which was called English; it
is, in truth, a bad dialect of that language, the composition and
pronunciation of which are so curious and difficult, that a residence of
a year or two is necessary for its acquisition. None of the Chinese,
rich or poor, understand those who speak plain English. The first
intercourse of a foreigner with the natives, displays that imposition
and venality which are more strongly exhibited, during every month of
his residence among them. He is at once surrounded by persons, called
_compradors_, who offer their assistance in supplying him with
provisions of every description; they serve him without wages, although
they are obliged to pay the Mandarins for the privilege of affording
their generous aid to strangers; the consequence is, they take especial
care to remunerate themselves handsomely at the expense of those to whom
they extend their kindness. Besides this, as they bribe the custom-house
officers, they are able to offer many facilities, and to carry on an
extensive contraband commerce. Those officers are sent to a vessel
immediately on her arrival, and their boats, called hoppoo-boats are
constantly attached to her stern while she remains in port; their
consciences, however, are easily satisfied by the liberality of the
comprador, and they pass their time in smoking, sleeping, and playing at
cards; indeed, if any extraordinary smuggling is desired to be
accomplished, they protect the offender against the officious
interference of other officers: they keep shops on board of their boats,
where they exercise their expertness in cheating, and, as every thing is
sold by weight, it is necessary to weigh for yourself what you buy, to
avoid the tricks which they always endeavour to play.

Undoubtedly, the venality of the Chinese has been increased by the
introduction of commerce from beyond the Cape of Good Hope; but there is
no doubt also, that its existence is of very old date, and that it is
owing to the nature and conduct of the government, more than to the
character of the people. There are so many prohibitions and enormous
duties to tempt their prevailing passion, avarice, that vast numbers
engage in the contraband trade, as being the most profitable; moderate
duties, and freedom of importation, would destroy the temptation, and
render smuggling dangerous and unprofitable; at present it has become an
organized system of plunder, protected by the Mandarins themselves.

     "The opium trade," says Mr. Dobell, "with the exception of ten
     chests of that pernicious drug, that are allowed to be imported
     into Macao, for medicinal purposes, is entirely conducted by
     smugglers. In defiance of an annual edict from the Emperor,
     making it death to smuggle opium, the enormous quantity of
     nearly _four thousand chests_ is imported every year to Macao
     and Whampoa; the greater part, however, goes to the former
     place. When I inform my readers that each chest weighs a
     _pecul_, that is to say, 133-1/3 English pounds, and that it
     sells for twelve to fifteen hundred, and sometimes two thousand
     Spanish dollars a chest, they may form some judgment of the
     value and extent of smuggling in China. It is a business that
     all the inferior Mandarins, and some of the higher ones, their
     protectors, are engaged in; so that opium is carried through
     the streets of Macao, in the most bare-faced manner, in the
     open day. The opium dealers at Whampoa, formerly took it away
     by night, but latterly I have seen them go to the ship, with
     the linguist of the Whampoa custom-house officer, and take it
     out in the day time. Sixty Spanish dollars is the bribe paid
     for each chest of opium sold at Macao; and if it goes to
     Canton, it pays sixty more on its arrival there. Large boats
     armed, and having from thirty to forty men, called opium boats,
     ply between Macao and Canton, when that market offers an
     advantage in price. These boats carry this drug, and are
     sanctioned by the custom-house officers, who, of course,
     receive for this business likewise, a good bribe."

The only attempts made to suppress this practice, are on the initiation
into office of new _foo-yunes_, or governors, who have not yet perfectly
learned the established usages, or who have not been propitiated by the
necessary gratuities. In these cases, a terrible revolution occurs in
the peaceful and quiet frauds of the smugglers; their shops are broken
up, their property confiscated without mercy, and all the terrors of the
law invoked upon the persons of such, who indeed are few, as have not
alertness and foresight enough to keep out of the way. This excess of
virtue does not endure long however; and the liberal generosity of the
traders generally contrives, in a month, to overcome the scruples of the
most resolute.

     "During my residence, however," says Mr. Dobell, "a _foo-yune_
     arrived, who proved incorruptible, and he almost destroyed the
     smugglers, as well as the profits of his colleagues; which
     latter, becoming tired of his persecutions, united together,
     and by their intrigues had him advanced to a much higher
     station. Being a man of talent, he got another step again in a
     short time, and at length came back to Canton as Tsan-tuk or
     viceroy. The opium dealers and smugglers were greatly alarmed,
     shut up their shops, and secreted themselves for some time. It
     appeared their fears were groundless. This artful man, who
     formerly persecuted them from political motives, to insure his
     advancement, was now as mild and propitious as possible. Having
     arrived at an elevated station, with the certainty of rising
     still higher, he sought to enrich himself, in order to be more
     sure of gratifying his ambition. Accordingly, he proved kind to
     his colleagues, and polite to Europeans; and by his affability
     of deportment, contrived to amass the largest fortune that ever
     fell to the share of a viceroy of Canton. He was afterwards
     made a member of the emperor's council at Pekin."

The robbery of the government, if conducted with sufficient skill and
boldness, seems to be as successful as smuggling--indeed, it is a maxim
with those in power, never to risk a defeat, and that it is best to
accomplish their ends, by a crafty and cautious delay until a favourable
moment for executing them arrives. The salt trade is one of the most
lucrative, important, and extensive, and is conducted entirely under
special licenses from Mandarins, appointed by the crown. Some years
since, the pirates on the coast intercepted the salt-junks, and
compelled the monopolists to negotiate with them, and pay a certain sum
for the safe passage of every vessel. After a while, this intercourse
led to a regular trade, by which the captains of the salt-junks supplied
the pirates with arms and ammunition, and the government discovering it,
an entire stop was put to the salt trade. The pirates, however, were not
to be so easily frightened or defeated; their admiral, Apo-Tsy,
forthwith commenced an offensive warfare; assembled an immense fleet of
junks and a force of upwards of twenty thousand men, invaded the country
near Macao, cut all the ripe rice, and carried it off, as well as a
great number of women, whom he presented to his followers. In vain did
the viceroy attack the piratical fleet,--he was defeated in every
engagement, and the affair was only terminated by making Apo-Tsy
governor of the province of Fokien, and pardoning all his followers!
Matters however did not stop here; in some of his battles, Apo-Tsy had
taken prisoner an admiral nearly related to the heir to the crown, and
cut off his head; as soon as the relative ascended the throne, he
despatched a polite message to the governor of Fokien, to say, that the
laws of the empire required blood for blood, and that his excellency's
head was therefore required instead of the admiral's. There was no
excuse to be made, and the twenty thousand pirates were no longer at
hand, so that Apo-Tsy's head was conveyed to Pekin.

This salt trade is very extensive; no less than twenty thousand tons of
shipping being occupied in it alone. Indeed the great commerce of the
Chinese appears to be that carried on by their own junks to the
Indo-Chinese islands. One of these vessels will carry a cargo of from
three to five thousand dollars value, in earthenware, silks, nankeens,
ironmongery, tea, and other productions and manufactures of the Chinese.
They have settlements on all these islands, and are certainly invaluable
colonists, as they have sufficiently proved wherever they are
established. They work the mines, plant cotton, make indigo and sugar,
and acquire large fortunes among the slothful and careless Malays.
Though they intermarry with these people, they never adopt their habits
or religion, but remain, as well as their descendants, a distinct race;
and wherever found, their settlements present a complete miniature
picture of China. It is indeed a gross error to consider China a country
wholly agricultural and manufacturing; on the contrary, the Chinese are
one of the most commercial nations of the globe. It is true, they affect
themselves to hold the trade which they carry on with distant nations,
as comparatively unimportant, and assert that with the contiguous
islands to be infinitely more lucrative; yet this is to be ascribed to
their habit of decrying other countries; and it is not to be doubted
that the revenue derived from the commerce they thus contemn, is very
great. The importations into Canton from England, America, Holland,
France, Sweden, Denmark, Manilla, and India, in European and American
ships, in money and merchandise, must be annually from thirty to forty
millions of dollars. The bad policy which occasions the immense
contraband trade in opium, deprives the government of duties, annually,
to the amount of four or five millions of dollars. Their commercial
system with foreigners, shows a great deal of deep cunning, but it is
repulsive to wisdom and good policy, and by no means calculated to
afford them the advantages they might derive from that intercourse.

The highly wrought principles and moral maxims, which abound in the
writings of the lawgivers and philosophers of China, have been sometimes
cited to prove the existence of a superior system of institutions and
laws. Theoretical speculations, vanity, and self adulation, are one
thing; wise administration, and practical justice, are another. The
doctrines of Confucius are worthy to be placed with those of Solon; the
rescripts of the celestial emperor, abound in common-places of unbending
integrity and the sternest equity; but notwithstanding all this, the
morals of the people are debased, the very foundations of virtue are
sapped by bribery and corruption, with all their concomitant vices; the
sword of justice is arrested; and license is widely given to the
violation of public and private rights. Some instances of this
unblushing venality are mentioned by Mr. Dobell.

     "By the law of homicide, life must atone for life; and, if a
     person dies suddenly, the master of the house is treated in the
     same manner as if he had been guilty, until he proves the fact.
     This keeps the Chinese always on their guard, and ready to
     deceive the mandarins, or to bribe them, if necessity should
     require. A person of my acquaintance related to me, that he had
     a large garden, where there were some nice fruits, which were
     often stolen; and although his servants had frequently watched,
     they could not detect the offender. He therefore determined to
     watch with them; and, having armed himself with a pike,
     accompanied his two servants in the night, to try and detect
     the thief. Not long after he had placed himself at his post, he
     saw a naked man approach the trees near where he stood. He
     called to him to stand still or he would kill him. The fellow,
     frightened at this summons, made off with all speed; and the
     master of the house, seeing him about to escape, threw his pike
     at him, which killed him on the spot. He was much alarmed at
     the accident; but recollecting himself, he promised his
     servants a handsome present to keep the affair secret; and with
     their assistance, threw the dead body over the wall, into his
     neighbour's garden. This, too, was managed in so careful
     manner, as to render it impossible to discover whence the body
     came. His neighbour, who was a very rich tea-merchant, felt no
     less alarmed than astonished, on the following morning, when
     his servants informed him that a dead man had been found in the
     garden, who to all appearance had been murdered. The story soon
     reached the mandarin of the district, who proceeded, in all due
     form, to execute the duties of his office, and examine the
     body; not a little delighted to have to deal with such a man as
     the rich tea-merchant. A corpse found in this way cannot be
     touched or removed until the police-mandarin of the district
     comes and inquires into the manner of the person's death; and
     if there is any thing suspicious, he will not suffer the dead
     man to be taken away, before he has had some satisfactory
     proofs of the cause of his death. As none such could be
     elicited from the merchant, who, conscious of his innocence,
     thought the mandarin could do him no harm, the latter
     commenced a regular process, and made him daily visits, besides
     sending for him frequently, and thus perplexed him exceedingly.
     All this time the dead man was left in the garden, which being
     near the house, and the body beginning to putrefy, such an
     odour was caused as became almost insupportable. At length, the
     merchant, overpowered by the bad smell, and alarmed by the
     measures the mandarin was preparing to prove him culpable, was
     happy to compromise the affair, and have the dead body removed,
     on paying the sum of four thousand five hundred Spanish
     dollars!"

Nor was this the end of the adventure, which reminds one of the story of
the Little Hunch-back, in the Arabian Nights Entertainments:--

     "A few years after, the person who put the dead man into the
     merchant's garden, had himself a disagreeable affair, though it
     cost him less trouble and money to get rid of it. In the street
     where he lived, and not far from his house, was an eating house
     for the lower classes. A beggar, who had been half-starved,
     receiving from some compassionate person enough to purchase
     himself a very ample repast, repaired to this eating house, and
     called for several things at the same moment, which he ate most
     voraciously. The owner of the eating house requested him to
     stop a while before he ate again, as he perceived it must have
     been some time since he had satisfied his hunger. The beggar,
     however, would not listen to reason; he demanded food for his
     money till it was all expended, and then dropped down dead.
     This happened towards evening; and when the host perceived that
     it was dark, he and his servants took up the dead mendicant,
     and placed him at the door of the person before mentioned. On
     the following morning, the beggar-mandarin of the district came
     to him, and was very troublesome, declaring the beggar had been
     killed by some of his family, and that he should institute a
     process against him immediately. The accused, however, had the
     good fortune to find a witness, who had seen the keeper of the
     eating house and his servants put the body at his door.
     Although the beggar-mandarin could now do nothing against him
     in law, he refused to take the corpse away; and he was obliged
     to pay him two hundred dollars to have it removed before it
     became offensive. No doubt he got a good fee likewise from the
     master of the eating house."

The accounts we have of the population of China, greatly exaggerate it
in the opinion of Mr. Dobell. The persons by whom these statements are
given, have been generally ambassadors, missionaries and others, who
were, from political motives, as well as convenience of travelling,
conducted in boats on the canals and rivers which intersect the richest,
best cultivated and most populous parts of the empire. But it is
ridiculous to calculate the number of inhabitants, by assuming, as the
basis, the population of a square league so settled, and to imagine that
all the land is equally well cultivated. The truth is, that all the rice
grounds of the empire--and the whole population eats rice--would be
utterly insufficient to afford the necessary quantity, for any thing
approaching to the numbers which it is currently asserted to contain.

The system of husbandry, too, is defective, though the cultivators of
the soil are industrious; about Canton and Macao, they transplant every
stalk of rice by hand with great regularity, and make two crops in the
year; one in July, the other in October. In the cultivation of
vegetables of all sorts, they are not surpassed by any nation of the
globe. Rents are usually paid in cattle, hogs, fowls, rice, and the
various productions of the soil, and the tenure is a species of feudal
one, derived primarily from the emperor, who is considered theoretically
as the actual proprietor of all the soil.[6] Fruits are so plentiful,
that there is less attention paid to them than in colder climates;
almost every month of the year has its peculiar fruits; but those most
esteemed are the oranges, mangoes, and lichees. Of the productions of
the soil, however, that most prized by foreigners, as well as most used
and esteemed in China, is tea. To the history of this celebrated plant,
Mr. Dobell has devoted a whole chapter, but we confess that we have
found it less perspicuous, except as to the commercial value of the
various qualities offered for sale, than we desired or expected, after
the opportunities of observation which he possessed. We infer, that he
agrees with the prevailing opinion, that there is but one species of the
tea plant. He speaks of four _stocks_, by which he seems to mean the
varieties arising from a difference of cultivation, soil, or
temperature. These four stocks are _Bohea_, _Ankay_, _Hyson_, and
_Singlo_--names derived from the places in which they are particularly
cultivated. From the two former are prepared what we call _black_ teas,
from the two latter _green_ teas. According to the season at which the
leaves are gathered, and the manner in which they are subsequently
prepared, is the excellence of each kind. Of _black_ teas, the Bohea
kinds are superior to the Ankay; thus, the simplest or commonest sort of
the first, sells at Canton for twelve to fourteen taels per pecul,[7] of
the other for eight to ten; and the finest sort of the first, Bohea
Pecho, brings from forty to one hundred and twenty taels; but of the
latter, Ankay Pecho, only thirty-two to forty-two taels. In like manner
of _green_ teas, the Hyson kinds are superior to the Singlo; thus the
commonest sort of the first, called Hyson Skin, sells for twenty-six to
thirty taels, while that of the latter, called Singlo Skin, sells at
twenty-two to twenty-five taels; and the finest sort of the first, or
Hyson Gunpowder, brings eighty to one hundred and twenty taels, while
Singlo Gunpowder brings only fifty to eighty taels. As the subject is
one of considerable interest, we have condensed into a short table the
comparative qualities and values of the different kinds of teas, so far
as we can do so from the remarks of Mr. Dobell:--the value is reduced to
our own currency, and the quantity to our own weights; the price is that
of the Canton market.

_Black Teas._

Common Bohea,           21 dollars per 133-1/3 pounds
Bohea Congou,           33    "     "             "
Bohea Campoi,           34    "     "             "
Bohea Souchong,         60    "     "             "
Bohea Pecho,           133    "     "             "
Common Ankay,           15    "     "             "
Ankay Congou,           27    "     "             "
Ankay Campoi,           38    "     "             "
Ankay Souchong,         41    "     "             "
Ankay Pecho,            61    "     "             "

_Green Teas._

Hyson Skin,             46 dollars per 133-1/3 pounds
Hyson Young-hyson,      63    "     "             "
Hyson,                  91    "     "             "
Hyson Gunpowder,       166    "     "             "
Singlo Skin,            39    "     "             "
Singlo Young-hyson,     47    "     "             "
Singlo Hyson,           78    "     "             "
Singlo Gunpowder,      108    "     "             "

Tea is the common beverage of all classes, and is always drunk warm,
even in the hottest weather, and at all hours of the day. It is prepared
by putting a small quantity of the leaves in a fine porcelain cup;
boiling water is then poured on it, and it is covered immediately with
another cup fitting closely: as soon as the flavour of the tea is
slightly extracted, it is sipped hot, as it is, great strength being
avoided; the cup is then filled again with boiling water, until all the
flavour of the herb is exhausted. Mechanics and labourers, who cannot
afford to drink it in this manner, draw it in a large block-tin tea-pot,
cased with wood, and having cotton wool put between the wood and the
vessel to preserve the warmth longer. The extreme heat of the tea, as
preferred by the Chinese, is one of the causes, perhaps, that tend to
produce the relaxation, weakness of digestion, and languor of nerve,
with which they are much afflicted.

The perfection of many of the mechanic arts in China, which cannot be
denied in some instances, results less from any scientific skill, than
from the laboured experience of ages brought slowly to a certain point.
Beyond that, no discoveries of modern knowledge have led them. Thus, the
brightness and permanence of colouring in their silk manufactures, are
not produced by any secret mordents or process, but derived from a very
nice experience of the climate, and certain concurrent circumstances.
For instance, great numbers of persons are employed, so that great
rapidity in the execution of the process is assured. The north wind,
called Pak-fung, is the only period at which the silks are dried. And
when they are packed up for exportation, great care is taken to avoid a
time when there is the slightest dampness.

Nothing has ever been more exaggerated, than the state of civilization
and social advancement among the Chinese. They are, in general, a
frugal, sober, and industrious people; but the accounts of their
government, sciences, religion, public institutions, and improvement in
morals and arts, are both false and ridiculous. The administration of
public affairs, is such as would disgrace any country on the globe; and
the code of laws which is expressed in such high flown metaphors, and
boasts such wonderful wisdom in its doctrines, serves, in truth, but as
a cloak to hide injustice and oppression. In former times, the mandarins
or nobles were said to be chosen from amongst the best of the nation, by
wise men sent for that purpose by the emperor; at present, money wins
its way more easily than talent or virtue, to the hearts of these
electors. The poorer classes live in a state of extreme wretchedness;
their houses are low, confined, and filthy, and they crowd together in
great numbers; on the coasts, those who live in boats,--and they are
stated to amount at Canton to sixty or eighty thousand souls,--have much
cleaner and more commodious habitations. There is said to be more
deformity among them than among any other people; and all classes are
subject to the complaints which result from debauchery and the use of
opium. In the latter, they appear to find an almost inexpressible
delight. The Chinese have no surgeons, and are almost totally ignorant
of anatomy; the first physicians of Canton, have none but the most
confused notions of the circulation of the blood; they believe it flows
differently on the right and left sides of the body, and they therefore
feel both pulses when they visit a patient.

At Canton, during the summer months, the thermometer varies from 82 deg. to
92 deg.. There is but little frost in winter, and not much rain. The streets
are only made for foot passengers. The mandarins ride in sedan-chairs of
large size, with glass windows, carried on the shoulders of four, six,
ten, or twelve men; several fellows run before with whips, which they
apply without mercy to any one obstructing the way; others beat gongs to
warn the crowd; whilst some cry out, with a shrill voice, like the
howling of dogs. The Chinese, indeed, though supposed to be a grave
nation, are remarkably fond of personal display; few countries abound
more with fops. The dress of an exquisite is very expensive, being
composed of the most costly crapes or silks; his boots or shoes are of a
particular shape, and made of the richest black satin of Nankin, with
soles of a certain height; his knee caps are elegantly embroidered; his
cap and button are of the neatest cut; his pipes elegant and
high-priced; his tobacco of the best manufacture of Fokien; an English
gold watch; a tooth-pick hung at his button, with a string of valuable
pearls; and a fan from Nankin, scented with _chulan_ flowers--such are
his personal appointments. He is attended by servants in costly
liveries; and, when he meets an acquaintance, his studied manners and
ceremonial are as carefully displayed, as the airs of the most
accomplished dandy in Christian countries.

All amusements are anxiously sought after. Theatrical exhibitions
constantly take place after dinner in the houses of the rich. Cards and
dice abound every where. Besides these, they have many other sports and
games of chance, peculiar to the country. Cricket fighting and quail
fighting are very common. To make two male crickets fight, they are
placed in an earthen bowl, about five or eight inches in diameter; the
owner of each, tickles his cricket with a feather, which makes them both
run round the bowl different ways, frequently jostling one another as
they pass. After several meetings in this way, they at length become
exasperated, and fight with great fury until they literally tear each
other limb from limb.

Quails for fighting are prepared with great care. Every one has a
separate keeper, who has his bird confined in a small bag, which he
carries with him wherever he goes. The poor prisoner is rarely permitted
to see the light, except when he is fed, or it is deemed necessary for
his health; he is then held by the keeper on his hand, sometimes for
hours. When two quails are brought to fight, they are placed in a thing
like a large sieve, in the centre of a table, round which the spectators
stand to witness the battle and make their bets. Some grains of millet
seed are put into the sieve, and the quails are taken from the bags and
placed near it, opposite to each other. If they are birds of courage,
the moment one begins to eat he is attacked by the other, and they fight
hard for a few minutes. The quail that is beaten flies up, and the
conqueror remains to eat the seed. The best fights seldom last more than
five minutes. Immense sums of money are lost and won on them, for they
are very uncertain; sometimes one quail has been known to win several
hundred battles, and then suddenly to be beaten by a new and untutored
bird.

Next to quail fighting, the flower-boats occupy most of a Chinese
gentleman's leisure hours. They are the residence of women, generally of
agreeable conversation and lively manners, but not of the purest
character. The vessels are so called, from having the sides, windows,
and doors, carved in flowers, and painted green and gilded. They are
divided into rooms, which are well ventilated and fitted up with
verandas, galleries, and all the conveniences of comfort, luxury, and
dissipation. The gentlemen go to them in the afternoon; parties are
formed; they all sit round a large table, well furnished, and eat,
drink, sing, and play, until morning. It is said that from forty to
fifty thousand dollars are spent daily in the flower-boats of Canton. By
an ancient custom, the Hong-merchants there, when making their contracts
for tea, (which is generally done a year in advance,) are obliged to
invite the persons with whom they wish to contract, to partake of a
repast in one of those boats. The bargain is always easy in proportion
to the sumptuousness and splendour of the supper, during which it is
concluded; and although very expensive, is fully repaid by the
advantages gained in the contract.

When a Chinese gives a ceremonious dinner, it is done with great
splendour. Several days before, a large red paper is sent to the guests,
on which the invitation is written in the politest terms of the
language. On the day preceding the party, another invitation is sent on
rose coloured paper, to remind them of it, and to ascertain whether they
are coming. Again, on the next day, a short time before the hour
appointed, the invitation is repeated, to inform them that the feast is
prepared and awaits them. A great number of dishes are served on small
ebony tables, and dressed in the most piquant manner; there are several
courses; and, in addition to various wines, cordials of a fiery nature
are offered from time to time. When two persons wish to pledge one
another, they leave the tables, go into the middle of the room, and take
care to place the cups to their lips exactly at the same instant. They
are not apt to become intoxicated. Between the courses they rise from
the table and walk about. The most expensive delicacy they can offer is
_birds' nest soup,_ with pigeons' or plovers' eggs floating on it. The
birds' nests, so used, are formed of a mucilage supposed to be collected
from certain weeds floating on the sea, by the swallows of the Indian,
Chinese, and Pacific oceans; some of the best come from Batavia and the
Nikobar Islands; they are sold by weight, and a catty (one pound and
three quarters) of the best parts, sells for the enormous price of
forty-five to sixty dollars.

The Chinese do not appear to be governed by fixed and solid principles
of religion, such as the Christian faith, produced by conviction or
reason. They have a superstitious reverence for certain ceremonies,
rights, and ancient customs, which have prevailed for ages; and these
serve, in many respects, to cover various vices and habits which are
prevalent. They seem, however, to believe in a Supreme Being, called the
_Great Joss_, or _Yook-Chee_, represented only to the mind, and not
allowing his image to be made on earth; and they say, should any one be
rash enough to make a statue of him, he would be immediately struck
dead. He is, however, described on paper, holding the little finger of
his right hand across the first joint of the middle finger, the
fore-finger resting on the point of the little finger, and the third
finger bent round it, whilst the thumb is also bent upwards, a very
curious and difficult position to place the fingers in. They believe
that when he opens his hand, the world and mankind are to be destroyed;
and they consider all the other deities and spirits, to whom, however,
they do not pay a very great adoration, as sent by him to the world.
These are supposed to preside over rain, crops, dreams, &c., and have
various attributes, which it would require volumes to explain. The
Chinese have no regular priesthood, supported by the government; it
depends on voluntary contributions and endowments of the rich; it has
its monasteries, where numbers of both sexes devote themselves to
celibacy; but, in general, it seems, as a body, to have less influence
than in most countries. In all rich families, there is a shing-shang, or
astrologer, who is consulted on all occasions; he is the tutor, and
generally the writer; and thus becomes a man of much importance. The
funerals are objects of great attention; and, where it is possible,
great expense is bestowed on them; every care is taken to choose a lucky
spot for interment, and the tombs are made very splendid.

These are a few of the facts we have noted with regard to the Chinese,
in perusing Mr. Dobell's volumes; and but a very few. Those who are
desirous to obtain a fuller account of the country, manners, and state
of society of that singular people, than our limited space will permit
us to give, may turn to them with great profit. He has evidently devoted
much attention to the collection of information; and, resulting as it
does, from the observations of a number of years, with an opportunity of
correcting and comparing accounts and impressions, received at various
times and under various circumstances, we believe that just and great
reliance may be placed on it. We must now leave China, however, and
follow him on his expedition to the north of Asia.

Leaving Canton, and proceeding along the western shore of the Pacific
ocean, he landed at the harbour of St. Peter and St. Paul, on the 25th
of August, 1812. He describes the bay of the Avatcha, which forms the
port, as forty versts in circumference, encompassed by forest-covered
mountains and extensive meadows. It is so capacious and safe, that large
fleets may securely lie there; and it affords a combination of
picturesque beauty, grandeur, and security, rarely equalled in other
parts of the globe. Immense tracts of low ground extend along the outlet
of the river Avatcha, which present the appearance of having been banked
out in former times, to prevent their being overflowed. So numerous,
indeed, are these embankments, and so far beyond the necessities or
ability of such a population as the present, to erect, that they are by
many of the inhabitants supposed to be natural mounds. This conjecture,
however, Mr. Dobell was convinced was incorrect, from repeated
observation.

     "Evident marks remain," he observes, "where the earth has been
     dug out and thrown up; the holes, which were very deep, are now
     ponds, whilst the shallower ones have been filled up with soft
     mud, and have a thick surface of turf upon them, resembling
     what is called a shaking bog. There is no doubt of their being
     the work of man; but when and how it was performed was what I
     could not discover. The Kamtchatdales themselves could have had
     no inducement to undertake such a laborious task; as, when they
     were first known, they had neither horned cattle nor horses.
     They were probably made after the conquest of that country by
     the Russians, when domestic animals were introduced; as they
     are evidently intended to preserve the low lands for hay and
     pasture. This has been so well accomplished, that the greater
     part of them are still actually in good order."

After passing a few days at Avatcha, and gratifying the inhabitants with
a ball on board of his vessel, Mr. Dobell set out, on the first of
September, for Nijna Kamtchatsk, a town seven hundred and fifty miles
distant, the residence of the governor, whom it was necessary for him to
see, in order to make the commercial arrangements he desired. He
ascended the Avatcha river, the banks of which are for the most part
composed of fine meadow land, or hills thickly covered with birch. Early
on the following day, the party left their boats, and proceeded on
horseback over two or three very steep mountains, and amid clouds of
mosquitoes, which tormented them exceedingly. The houses at which they
stopped, from time to time, were in general black, smoky, and dirty, but
the inhabitants kind and hospitable beyond measure, though poor. The
universal food is fish--men, dogs, bears, wolves, and birds of prey, all
live upon them, and indeed they abound, in quantities fully sufficient
to supply all; they are seen in the streams sporting about by thousands,
and even the shores are covered with dead ones thrown up by the current.

The dwelling of the Kamtchatdales is of two kinds--for the summer and
the winter. The former, which is called a _ballagan,_ is a building of a
conical form, composed of poles fourteen or fifteen feet long, laid up
from the edge of a circle, ten or twelve feet in diameter, the tops
meeting at the centre, and tied there by ozier twigs or ropes. The
outside of these is covered with birch or pine bark, over which there is
sometimes a thatching of coarse grass, fastened down by other poles and
oziers. This kind of hut is generally erected in the centre of a square
platform, elevated ten or twelve feet, upon large posts planted deep in
the ground. Poles are again placed in rows under the building and
between the posts, where they dry their fish, which the hut serves to
cover from the weather, as well as to store and preserve them when
dried. The door of the ballagan is always opposite to the water; the
fire-place on a bed of earth outside, at one corner of the platform. A
large piece of timber, with notches cut in it instead of steps, and
placed against the platform at an angle of forty-five degrees, is the
method of ascending and descending, particularly unsafe and inconvenient
for those not accustomed to so uncouth a staircase.

The winter house, or _jourta_, is a sort of subterranean dwelling. It
generally consists of a frame of timber, put into a square hole four or
five feet deep, and within the frame a quantity of stakes are set close
together, inclining a little inwards, and the earth thrown against them.
The stakes are left round on the outside, but hewn within, and the top
is framed over in the same manner and arched and supported by
stanchions. In the centre of the roof is a square hole, which serves the
double purpose of a door and a chimney, the inhabitants passing in or
out by means of a piece of timber with notches cut in it, such as we
have before described. The top and sides of the jourta are covered
outside with a quantity of earth and sodded. At one end, there is a
large hole with a stopper to it, which is opened when the oven is
heating, to force the smoke out at the door. When once heated, and the
stopper closed, jourtas are warm, and, were it not for the smoke, would
be comfortable. The description of such subterranean habitations, and of
the lives led by these rude people during their long and bitter winters,
cannot be read without reviving in the memory those lines of Virgil,
which describe a race similar in all respects--even to the acid liquors
they distil; but dwelling in regions far less remote from the warm skies
of Italy.--

    "Ipsi in defossis specubus secura sub alta
    Otia agunt terra; congestaque robora, totasque
    Advolvere focis ulmos, ignique dedere.
    Hic noctem ludo ducunt, et pocula laeti
    Fermento atque acidis imitantur vitea sorbis.
    Talis hyperboreo septem subjecta trioni
    Gens effraena virum Riphaeo tunditur Euro
    Et pecudum fulvis velantur corpora setis."

The increase of civilization, wealth, and intercourse with other
nations, has however effected a great change in the mode of life among
this remote people. Cottages, made generally of logs, are substituted
for these ruder mansions, especially in the neighbourhood of the
sea-ports; and a traveller occasionally meets with much that reminds him
of fairer climes, and a state of society less primitive.

     "On reaching Sherrom, a cottage was pointed out to us as the
     habitation of the Toyune, the outward appearance of which was
     too engaging not to excite anticipations of good cheer within.
     As it was a low building, I put my head into one of the windows
     that was open, and was quite surprised to see so neat and
     clean a dwelling in that country. The name of the owner, who
     was Toyune of Sherrom, was Conon Merlin. He and his wife were
     absent fishing, but we were not less hospitably received by his
     daughter and daughter-in-law, two clean dressed pretty young
     women, who welcomed us with their smiles, and made us imagine,
     that, instead of Kamtchatka, we had got into the land of
     enchantment. Every thing about them seemed in unison with their
     appearance. The tables and stools were of poplar white as snow;
     no vermin was to be seen on the walls, which were hewn smooth
     and whitened; and the whole presented a picture of neatness,
     cleanliness, and comfort, such as we had not yet seen in
     Kamtchatka. In fifteen minutes after our arrival, a refreshing
     cup of tea was prepared, with fresh butter, cream, and milk;
     and their being served up in so neat a manner, made them taste
     more delicious than usual. Our hostess being a well-behaved
     young woman, we requested her to do the honours of the table,
     which she performed with the utmost cheerfulness and
     politeness, just as if she had been bred in a city. In the
     evening the old Toyune and his wife returned from fishing, and
     seemed quite overjoyed to see us, as such guests, they said,
     were not common; and they certainly took uncommon pains to
     treat and to please us. The old man appeared between sixty and
     seventy years of age, with a long white beard and moustachios,
     which, added to a mild, sensible, and prepossessing
     countenance, gave him a most sage and respectable appearance,
     and personified to my imagination the wise enchanter whose name
     he bore. Conon Merlin had been educated by the famous Mr.
     Evashkin, a Russian nobleman, who was banished to Kamtchatka
     during the reign of Catharine II., and is since dead; but who
     was well known to former travellers in Kamtchatka. Our Toyune,
     therefore, could write and read Russian well, knew most of the
     dialects of Kamtchatka, and was certainly the most intelligent
     man I ever met among the natives."

On the morning of the 13th, soon after leaving the village of Klutchee,
they beheld the majestic volcano of Klootchefsky, rearing its awful and
flaming head far above the clouds. This huge mountain, towering to the
skies, is a perfect cone, decreasing gradually from its enormous base to
the summit; its top is whitened by perpetual snow, and the flame and
smoke, for ever issuing from its crater, are seen shading the sky at the
distance of many miles. Sometimes quantities of ashes are thrown out, so
fine as to impregnate the atmosphere, and be inhaled in breathing; and,
it is said, that occasionally a white clammy substance, resembling,
perhaps, the honey dew elsewhere observed, has flowed from the crater,
sweet to the taste, and very adhesive when touched. Altogether, this
mountain is one of the most picturesque and sublime of the volcanoes
described by travellers, though from its remote situation it has been,
and probably long will be, visited but by few.

Mr. Dobell reached Nijna Kamtchatsk on the 14th of September, and was
most kindly received and treated by the governor, General Petrowsky,
with whom he made all the arrangements he desired, and, after a visit of
six days, returned to St. Peter and St. Paul. He describes the town of
Nijna Kamtchatsk as one of eighty or ninety houses, and between four and
five hundred inhabitants. Its situation is not good, the ground being
low and moist. It is on the bank of the river Kamtchatka, about
thirty-five versts from the sea. Since the period we allude to, the
seat of government has been removed to St. Peter and St. Paul, and the
town has lost nearly all its population, there being but five or six
families left there.

On his way back he again visited his kind host, the Toyune of Sherrom,
whom he found laying in his winter stock of provisions, which offered a
good example of the economy, wants, and supplies of a Kamtchatdale
family. He assured Mr. Dobell that himself and his sons had killed
twelve bears, eleven mountain sheep, several reindeer, a large number of
geese, ducks, and tiel, and a few swans and pheasants. "In November,"
said he, "we shall catch many hares and partridges; and I have one
thousand fresh salmon, lately caught, and now frozen for our winter's
stock. Added to this, in my cellar there is a good supply of cabbages,
turnips, and potatoes, with various sorts of berries, and about thirty
poods of sarannas, the greater part of which we have stolen from the
field mice, who collect them in large quantities for the winter." In the
spring, the Kamtchatdales supply themselves with the skins of the hair
seals and other sea animals, from whose fat also they obtain oil. The
hunting of these is therefore a matter of no small importance, and
carries many of the Kamtchatdales down to the coast. It is accompanied
with great fatigue and occasional risk.

     "The Toyune of Malka," says Mr. Dobell, "related to me a
     curious adventure that occurred to him and two of his friends.
     They repaired in the latter part of April to their usual
     hunting place, where they found the sea still covered with ice
     for a considerable extent. Each had a sledge and five dogs, and
     although the wind blew strongly off shore, they did not
     hesitate to go on the ice in search of seals, as it seemed
     firmly attached to the shore, and they observed some
     Kamtchatdales hunting on it farther up the coast. They
     discovered some seals at a considerable distance out, and
     repaired thither to kill them. Already had they killed two, and
     were preparing to tie them with thongs on their sledges, when
     one of the party, who staid a little behind, came to them of a
     sudden, crying that the ice was moving, and that all the other
     Kamtchatdales had gone to the shore! This news alarmed them so
     much, that they left their seals on the ice, and seating
     themselves on their sankas or sledges, pushed their dogs at
     full speed to regain the shore. Unfortunately they arrived too
     late; the ice had already separated from the land to the extent
     of a hundred yards; and as it began to break into pieces, they
     were obliged to return to the part that appeared to them the
     strongest and thickest. As the wind now blew extremely hard,
     they were soon driven out to sea, where the swell being very
     heavy, the ice began to break again all round them, leaving
     them at last on a solid clump, from forty to fifty feet in
     circumference, that was of great thickness and kept entire.
     They were now out of sight of land, driven before a gale of
     wind and a heavy sea, and their icy vessel rolled so dreadfully
     that they had much difficulty to keep themselves on its
     surface. However, being furnished with ostals, (poles pointed
     with iron,) they made holes and planted them firmly in the ice;
     and then tied themselves, their dogs, and sankas, fast to them.
     Without this precaution, the Toyune said they would all have
     been thrown into the sea. They were sea-sick and disheartened;
     but nevertheless, said Spiridon, (the Toyune,) 'I had hopes,
     and I told my comrades I thought we should be thrown on some
     coast.' It was now two days they had been at sea, and towards
     evening the wind abated a little, the weather cleared off, and
     they saw land not far off, which one of them, who had been
     formerly at the Kurile islands, knew to be Poromochin, and
     they now fully expected to be drifted on its shores. However,
     as the night approached, the wind changed to the very opposite
     direction, and blew even more violently than before. The clump
     of ice was tossed about in a most uneasy manner, and several
     times the ostals and the thongs were in danger of being broken
     by the violent concussion of the waves against the ice.

     "All that night and all the next day the storm continued with
     unceasing violence. On the morning of the fourth day, before
     daylight, they found that their clump had been driven amongst
     other cakes of ice, and was closely surrounded on all sides.
     When the day broke, how great was their joy and astonishment to
     perceive themselves near the land, and within about twenty
     versts of the place whence they had been driven! They had
     suffered much from thirst, as they found the ice salt as well
     as the water. Not having either eaten or drunk during all the
     time, they found themselves so weak that they had the greatest
     difficulty in preparing their sledges, and in getting from the
     ice to the land. The moment they landed, they offered up their
     prayers and thanks to God. Spiridon charged his companions not
     to eat snow or drink much water at a time, although they were
     almost dying with thirst; as they could soon get to an ostrog
     that was only about twenty or thirty versts distant. They had
     not proceeded far before Spiridon saw the tracks of some
     reindeer; h

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