Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol 58, No. 357, July 1845
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Title: Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol 58, No. 357, July 1845
Author: Various
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BLACKWOOD'S
Edinburgh
MAGAZINE
VOL. LVIII.
JULY-DECEMBER, 1845.
* * * * *
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, EDINBURGH,
AND
37, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.
* * * * *
1845. BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCCLVII. JULY, 1845. Vol. LVIII.
CONTENTS.
MARLBOROUGH, NO. I., 1
PÚSHKIN, THE RUSSIAN POET. NO. II., 28
SUSPIRIA DE PROFUNDIS: BEING A SEQUEL TO THE CONFESSIONS
OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER, PART II., 43
NORTHERN LIGHTS, 56
HOUSE-HUNTING IN WALES, 74
THE TORQUATO TASSO OF GOETHE, 87
DAVID THE "TELYNWR," OR THE DAUGHTER'S TRIAL;
A TALE OF WALES, 96
NORTH'S SPECIMENS OF THE BRITISH CRITICS.
NO. VI.--SUPPLEMENT TO DRYDEN ON CHAUCER, 114
* * * * *
EDINBURGH:
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, 45, GEORGE STREET;
AND 37, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.
_To whom all Communications (post paid) must be addressed._
SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.
PRINTED BY BALLANTINE AND HUGHES, EDINBURGH.
BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCCLVII. JULY, 1845. VOL. LVIII.
MARLBOROUGH.
No. I.
Alexander the Great said, when he approached the tomb of Achilles, "Oh!
fortunate youth, who had a Homer to be the herald of your fame!" "And
well did he say so," says the Roman historian: "for, unless the _Iliad_
had been written, the same earth which covered his body would have
buried his name." Never was the truth of these words more clearly
evinced than in the case of the Duke of MARLBOROUGH. Consummate as were
the abilities, unbroken the success, immense the services of this great
commander, he can scarcely be said to be known to the vast majority of
his countrymen. They have heard the distant echo of his fame as they
have that of the exploits of Timour, of Bajazet, and of Genghis Khan;
the names of Blenheim and Ramillies, of Malplaquet and Oudenarde, awaken
a transient feeling of exultation in their bosoms; but as to the
particulars of these events, the difficulties with which their general
had to struggle, the objects for which he contended, even the places
where they occurred, they are, for the most part, as ignorant as they
are of similar details in the campaigns of Baber or Aurengzebe. What
they do know, is derived chiefly, if not entirely, from the histories of
their enemies. Marlborough's exploits have made a prodigious impression
on the Continent. The French, who felt the edge of his flaming sword,
and saw the glories of the _Grande Monarque_ torn from the long
triumphant brow of Louis XIV.; the Dutch, who found in his conquering
arm the stay of their sinking republic, and their salvation from slavery
and persecution; the Germans, who saw the flames of the Palatinate
avenged by his resistless power, and the ravages of war rolled back from
the Rhine into the territory of the state which had provoked them; the
Lutherans, who beheld in him the appointed instrument of divine
vengeance, to punish the abominable perfidy and cruelty of the
revocation of the edict of Nantes--have concurred in celebrating his
exploits. The French nurses frightened their children with stories of
"Marlbrook," as the Orientals say, when their horses start, they see the
shadow of Richard Coeur-de-Lion crossing their path. Napoleon hummed
the well-known air, "Marlbrook s'en va à la guerre," when he crossed
the Niemen to commence the Moscow campaign. But in England, the country
which he has made illustrious, the nation he has saved, the land of his
birth, he is comparatively forgotten; and were it not for the popular
pages of Voltaire, and the shadow which a great name throws over the
stream of time in spite of every neglect, he would be virtually unknown
at this moment to nineteen-twentieths of the British people.
It is the fault of the national historians which has occasioned this
singular injustice to one of the greatest of British heroes--certainly
the most consummate, if we except Wellington, of British military
commanders. No man has yet appeared who has done any thing like justice
to the exploits of Marlborough. Smollett, whose unpretending narrative,
compiled for the bookseller, has obtained a passing popularity by being
the only existing sequel to Hume, had none of the qualities necessary to
write a military history, or make the narrative of heroic exploits
interesting. His talents for humour, as all the world knows, were
great--for private adventure, or the delineation of common life in
novels, considerable. But he had none of the higher qualities necessary
to form a great historian; he had neither dramatic nor descriptive
power; he was entirely destitute of philosophic views or power of
general argument. In the delineation of individual character, he is
often happy; his talents as a novelist, and as the narrator of private
events, there appear to advantage. But he was neither a poet nor a
painter, a statesman nor a philosopher. He neither saw whence the stream
of events had come, nor whither it was going. We look in vain in his
pages for the lucid arguments and rhetorical power with which Hume
illustrated, and brought, as it were, under the mind's eye, the general
arguments urged, or rather which might be urged by ability equal to his
own, for and against every great change in British history. As little do
we find the captivating colours with which Robertson has painted the
discovery and wonders of America, or the luminous glance which he has
thrown over the progress of society in the first volume of Charles V.
Gibbon's incomparable powers of classification and description are
wholly awanting. The fire of Napier's military pictures need not be
looked for. What is usually complained of in Smollett, especially by his
young readers, is, that he is so dull--the most fatal of all defects,
and the most inexcusable in an historian. His heart was not in history,
his hand was not trained to it; it is in "Roderick Random" or "Peregrine
Pickle," not the continuation of Hume, that his powers are to be seen.
Lord Mahon has brought to the subject of the history of England from the
treaty of Utrecht to that of Aix-la-Chapelle, talents of a kind much
better adapted for doing justice to Marlborough's campaigns. He has
remarkable power for individual narrative. His account of the gallant
attempt, and subsequent hair-breadth escapes of the Pretender in 1745,
is full of interest, and is justly praised by Sismondi as by far the
best account extant of that romantic adventure. He possesses also a fair
and equitable judgment, much discrimination, evident talent for drawing
characters, and that upright and honourable heart, which is the first
requisite for success in the delineation, as it is for success in the
conduct of events. His industry in examining and collecting authorities
is great; he is a scholar, a statesman, and a gentleman--no small
requisites for the just delineation of noble and generous achievements.
But notwithstanding all this, his work is not the one to rescue
Marlborough's fame from the unworthy obscurity into which, in this
country, it has fallen. He takes up the thread of events where
Marlborough left them: he begins only at the peace of Utrecht. Besides
this, he is not by nature a military historian, and if he had begun at
the Revolution, the case would probably have been the same. Lord Mahon's
attention has been mainly fixed on domestic story; it is in illustrating
parliamentary contests or court intrigues, not military events, that his
powers have been put forth. He has given a clear, judicious, and elegant
narrative of British history, as regards these, so far as it is embraced
by his accomplished pen; but the historian of Marlborough must treat him
as second to none, not even to Louis XIV. or William III. Justice will
never be done to the hero of the English revolution, till his Life is
the subject of a separate work in every schoolboy's hands. We must have
a memoir of him to be the companion of Southey's Life of Nelson, and
Napier's Peninsular War.
Voltaire, in his "Siècle de Louis XIV.," could not avoid giving a sketch
of the exploits of the British hero; and his natural impartiality has
led him, so far as it goes, to give a tolerably fair one. It need hardly
be said, that coming from the pen of such a writer, it is lively,
animated, and distinct. But Voltaire was not a military historian; he
had none of the feelings or associations which constitute one. War, when
he wrote, had been for above half a century, with a few brilliant
exceptions, a losing game to the French. In the War of the Succession
they had lost their ascendancy in continental Europe; in that of the
Seven Years, nearly their whole colonial dominions. The hard-won glories
of Fontenoy, the doubtful success of Laffelt, were a poor compensation
for these disasters. It was the fashion of his day to decry war as the
game of kings, or flowing from the ambition of priests; if superstition
was abolished, and popular virtue let into government, one eternal reign
of peace and justice would commence. With these writers the great object
was, to carry the cabinets of kings by assault, and introduce
philosophers into government through the antechambers of mistresses.
Peter the Great was their hero, Catharine of Russia their divinity, for
they placed philosophers at the head of affairs. It was not to be
supposed that in France, the vanquished country, in such an age justice
should be done to the English conqueror. Yet such were the talents of
Voltaire, especially for making a subject popular, that it is on his
work, such as it is, that the fame of Marlborough mainly rests, even in
his own country.
Marlborough, as might be expected, has not wanted biographers who have
devoted themselves, expressly and exclusively, to transmit his fame and
deeds to posterity. They have for the most part failed, from the faults
most fatal, and yet most common to biographers--undue partiality in
some, dulness and want of genius in others. They began at an early
period after his death, and are distinguished at first by that rancour
on the one side, and exaggeration on the other, by which such
contemporary narratives are generally, and in that age were in a
peculiar manner, distinguished. I. An abridged account of his life,
dedicated to the Duke of Montague, his son-in-law, appeared at Amsterdam
in 12mo; but it is nothing but an anonymous panegyric. II. Not many
years after, a life of Marlborough was published, in three volumes
quarto, by Thomas Ledyard, who had accompanied him in many of his later
travels, and had been the spectator of some of the last of his military
exploits. This is a work of much higher authority, and contains much
valuable information; but it is prolix, long-winded, and diffuse, filled
with immaterial documents, and written throughout in a tone of inflated
panegyric. III. Another life of Marlborough, written with more ability,
appeared at Paris in 1806, in three volumes octavo, by Dutems. The
author had the advantage of all the resources for throwing light on his
history which the archives of France, then at the disposal of Napoleon,
who had a high admiration for the English general, could afford; but it
could hardly be expected that, till national historians of adequate
capacity for the task had appeared, it was to be properly discharged by
foreigners. Yet such is the partiality which an author naturally
contracts for the hero of his biography, that the work of Dutems, though
the author has shown himself by no means blind to his hero's faults, is
perhaps chiefly blameable for being too much of a panegyric. IV. By far
the fullest and most complete history of Marlborough, however, is that
which was published at London in 1818, by Archdeacon Coxe, in five
volumes octavo. This learned author had access to all the official
documents on the subject then known to be in existence, particularly the
Blenheim Papers, and he has made good use of the ample materials placed
at his disposal; but it cannot be said that he has made an interesting,
though he certainly has a valuable, work. It has reached a second
edition, but it is now little heard of: a certain proof, if the
importance of his subject, and value of his materials is taken into
account, that it labours under some insurmountable defects in
composition. Nor is it difficult to see what these defects are. The
venerable Archdeacon, respectable for his industry, his learning, his
researches, had not a ray of genius, and genius is the soul of history.
He gives every thing with equal minuteness, makes no attempt at
digesting or compression, and fills his pages with letters and
state-papers at full length; the certain way, if not connected by
ability, to send them to the bottom.
Dean Swift's history of the four last years of Queen Anne, and his
Apology for the same sovereign, contain much valuable information
concerning Marlborough's life; but it is so mixed up with the gall and
party spirit which formed so essential a part of the Dean of St
Patrick's character, that it cannot be relied on as impartial or
authentic.[2] The life of James II. by Clarke contains a great variety
of valuable and curious details drawn from the Stuart Papers sent to the
Prince Regent on the demise of the Cardinal York; and it would be well
for the reputation of Marlborough, as well as many other eminent men of
the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, if some of them could be
buried in oblivion. But by far the best life of Marlborough, in a
military point of view, is that recently published by Mr Gleig, in his
"Military Commanders of Great Britain,"--a sketch characterized by all
the scientific knowledge, practical acquaintance with war, and brilliant
power of description, by which the other writings of that gifted author
are distinguished. If he would make as good use of the vast collection
of papers which, under the able auspices of Sir George Murray, have now
issued from the press, as he has of the more scanty materials at his
disposal when he wrote his account of Marlborough, he would write _the_
history of that hero, and supersede the wish even for any other.
The fortunate accident is generally known by which the great collection
of papers now in course of publication in London has been brought to
light. That this collection should at length have become known is less
surprising than that it should so long have remained forgotten, and have
eluded the searches of so many persons interested in the subject. It
embraces, as Sir George Murray's lucid preface mentions, a complete
series of the correspondence of the great duke from 1702 to 1712, the
ten years of his most important public services. In addition to the
despatches of the duke himself, the letters, almost equally numerous, of
his private secretary, M. Cardonnell, and a journal written by his
grace's chaplain, Dr Hare, afterwards Bishop of Chichester, are
contained in the eighteen manuscript volumes which were discovered in
the record-room of Hensington, near Woodstock, in October 1842, and are
now given to the public. They are of essential service, especially in
rendering intelligible the details of the correspondence, which would
otherwise in great part be uninteresting, and scarce understood, at
least by the ordinary reader. Some of the most valuable parts of the
work, particularly a full detail of the battle of Blenheim, are drawn
from Dr Hare's journal. In addition to this, the bulletins of most of
the events, issued by government at the time, are to be found in notes
at the proper places; and in the text are occasionally contained short,
but correct and luminous notices, of the preceding or contemporaneous
political and military events which are alluded to, but not described,
in the despatches, and which are necessary to understand many of their
particulars. Nothing, in a word, has been omitted by the accomplished
editor which could illustrate or render intelligible the valuable
collection of materials placed at his disposal; and yet, with all his
pains and ability, it is often very difficult to follow the detail of
events, or understand the matter alluded to in the despatches:--so
great is the lack of information on the eventful War of the Succession
which prevails, from the want of a popular historian to record it, even
among well-informed persons in this country; and so true was the
observation of Alexander the Great, that but for the genius of Homer,
the exploits of Achilles would have been buried under the tumulus which
covered his remains! And what should we have known of Alexander himself
more than of Attila or Genghis Khan, but for the fascinating pages of
Quintus Curtius and Arrian?
To the historian who is to go minutely into the details of Marlborough's
campaigns and negotiations, and to whom accurate and authentic
information is of inestimable importance, it need hardly be said that
these papers are of the utmost value. But, to the general reader, all
such voluminous publications and despatches must, as a matter of
necessity, be comparatively uninteresting. They always contain a great
deal of repetition, in consequence of the necessity under which the
commander lay, of communicating the same event to those with whom he was
in correspondence in many different quarters. Great part of them relate
to details of discipline, furnishing supplies, getting up stores, and
other necessary matters, of little value even to the historian, except
in so far as they illustrate the industry, energy, and difficulties of
the commander. The general reader who plunges into the midst of the
Marlborough despatches in this age, or into those of Wellington in the
next, when contemporary recollection is lost, will find it impossible to
understand the greater part of the matters referred to, and will soon
lay aside the volumes in despair. Such works are highly valuable, but
they are so to the annalist or historian rather than the ordinary
reader. They are the materials of history, not history itself. They bear
the same relation to the works of Livy or Gibbon which the rude blocks
in the quarry do to the temples of St Peter's or the Parthenon. Ordinary
readers are not aware of this when they take up a volume of despatches;
they expect to be as much fascinated by it as they are by the
correspondence of Madame de Sevigné, Cowper, Gibbon, or Arnold. They
will soon find their mistake: the book-sellers will erelong find it in
the sale of such works. The matter-of-fact men in ordinary life, and the
compilers and drudges in literature--that is, nine-tenths of the readers
and writers in the world--are never weary of descanting on the
inestimable importance of authentic documents for history; and without
doubt they are right so far as the collecting of materials goes. There
must be quarriers before there can be architects: the hewers of wood and
drawers of water are the basis of all civilization. But they are not
civilization itself, they are its pioneers. Truth is essential to an
estimable character: but many a man is insupportably dull who never told
a falsehood. The pioneers of Marlborough, however, have now gone before,
and it will be the fault of English genius if the divine artist does not
erelong make the proper use of the materials at length placed in his
hands.
John Churchill, afterwards Duke of Marlborough, was born on the 5th July
1650, (new style,) at Ash, in the county of Devon. His father was Sir
Winston Churchill, a gallant cavalier who had drawn his sword in behalf
of Charles I., and had in consequence been deprived of his fortune and
driven into exile by Cromwell. His paternal family was very ancient, and
boasted its descent from the _Courcils_ de Poitou, who came into England
with the Conqueror. His mother was Elizabeth Drake, who claimed a
collateral connexion with the descendants of the illustrious Sir Francis
Drake, the great navigator. Young Churchill received the rudiments of
his education from the parish clergyman in Devonshire, from whom he
imbibed that firm attachment to the Protestant faith by which he was
ever afterwards distinguished, and which determined his conduct in the
most important crisis of his life. He was afterwards placed at the
school of St Paul's; and it was there that he first discovered, on
reading Vegetius, that his bent of mind was decidedly for the military
life. Like many other men destined for future distinction, he made no
great figure as a scholar, a circumstance easily explained, if we
recollect that it is on the knowledge of words that the reputation of a
schoolboy, of things that of a man, is founded. But the despatches now
published demonstrate that, before he attained middle life, he was a
proficient at least in Latin, French, and English composition; for
letters in each, written in a very pure style, are to be found in all
parts of his correspondence.
From early youth, young Churchill was distinguished by the elegance of
his manners and the beauty of his countenance and figure--advantages
which, coupled with the known loyal principles of his father, and the
sufferings he had undergone in the royal cause, procured for him, at the
early age of fifteen, the situation of page in the household of the Duke
of York, afterwards James II. His inclination for arms was then so
decided, that that prince procured for him a commission in one of the
regiments of guards when he was only sixteen years old. His uncommonly
handsome figure then attracted no small share of notice from the
beauties of the court of Charles II., and even awakened a passion in one
of the royal mistresses herself. Impatient to signalize himself,
however, he left their seductions, and embarked as a volunteer in the
expedition against Tangiers in 1766. Thus his first essay in arms was
made in actions against the Moors. Having returned to Great Britain, he
attracted the notice of the Countess of Castlemaine, afterwards Duchess
of Cleveland, then the favorite mistress of Charles II., who had
distinguished him by her regard before he embarked for Africa, and who
made him a present of £5000, with which the young soldier bought an
annuity of £500 a-year, which laid the foundation, says Chesterfield, of
all his subsequent fortunes. Charles, to remove a dangerous rival in her
unsteady affections, gave him a company in the guards, and sent him to
the Continent with the auxiliary force which, in those days of English
humiliation, the cabinet of St James's furnished to Louis XIV. to aid
him in subduing the United Provinces. Thus, by a singular coincidence,
it was under Turenne, Condé, and Vauban that the future conqueror of the
Bourbons first learned the art of scientific warfare. Wellington went
through the same discipline, but in the inverse order: his first
campaigns were made against the French in Flanders, his next against the
bastions of Tippoo and the Mahratta horse in Hindostan.
Churchill had not been long in Flanders, before his talents and
gallantry won for him deserved distinction. The campaign of 1672, which
brought the French armies to the gates of Amsterdam, and placed the
United States within a hair's-breadth of destruction, was to him
fruitful in valuable lessons. He distinguished himself afterwards so
much at the siege of Nimeguen, that Turenne, who constantly called him
by his _sobriquet_ of "the handsome Englishman," predicted that he would
one day be a great man. In the following year he had the good fortune to
save the life of his colonel, the Duke of Monmouth; and distinguished
himself so much at the siege of Maestricht, that Louis XIV. publicly
thanked him at the head of his army, and promised him his powerful
influence with Charles II. for future promotion. He little thought what
a formidable enemy he was then fostering at the court of his obsequious
brother sovereign. The result of Louis XIV.'s intercession was, that
Churchill was made lieutenant-colonel; and he continued to serve with
the English auxiliary force in Flanders, under the French generals, till
1677, when he returned with his regiment to London. Beyond all doubt it
was these five years' service under the great masters of the military
art, who then sustained the power and cast a halo round the crown of
Louis XIV., which rendered Marlborough the consummate commander that,
from the moment he was placed at the head of the Allied armies, he
showed himself to have become. One of the most interesting and
instructive lessons to be learned from biography is the long steps, the
vast amount of previous preparation, the numerous changes, some
prosperous, others adverse, by which the mind of a great man is formed,
and he is prepared for playing the important part he is intended to
perform on the theatre of the world. Providence does nothing in vain,
and when it has selected a particular mind for great achievement, the
events which happen to it all seem to conspire in a mysterious way for
its development. Were any one omitted, some essential quality in the
character of the future hero, statesman, or philosopher would be found
to be awanting.
Here also, as in every other period of history, we may see how
unprincipled ambition overvaults itself, and the measures which seem at
first sight most securely to establish its oppressive reign, are the
unseen means by which an overruling power works out its destruction.
Doubtless the other ministers of Louis XIV. deemed their master's power
secure when this English alliance was concluded; when the English
monarch had become a state pensioner of the court of Versailles; when a
secret treaty had united them by apparently indissoluble bonds; when the
ministers equally and the patriots of England were corrupted by his
bribes; when the dreaded fleets of Britain were to be seen in union with
those of France, to break down the squadrons of an inconsiderable
republic; when the descendants of the conquerors of Cressy, Poitiers,
and Azincour stood side by side with the successors of the vanquished in
those disastrous fields, to achieve the conquest of Flanders and
Holland. Without doubt, so far as human foresight could go, Louvois and
Colbert were right. Nothing could appear so decidedly calculated to fix
the power of Louis XIV. on an immovable foundation. But how vain are the
calculations of the greatest human intellects, when put in opposition to
the overruling will of Omnipotence! It was that very English alliance
which ruined Louis XIV., as the Austrian alliance and marriage, which
seemed to put the keystone in the arch of his greatness, afterwards
ruined Napoleon. By the effect, and one of the most desired effects, of
the English alliance, a strong body of British auxiliaries were sent to
Flanders; the English officers learned the theory and practice of war in
the best of all schools, and under the best of all teachers; that
ignorance of the military art, the result in every age of our insular
situation, and which generally causes the four or five first years of
every war to terminate in disaster, was for the time removed, and that
mighty genius was developed under the eye of Louis XIV., and by the
example of Turenne, which was destined to hurl back to their own
frontiers the tide of Gallic invasion, and close in mourning the reign
of the _Grande Monarque_. "Les hommes agissent," says Bossuet, "mais
Dieu les mène."
Upon Churchill's return to London, the brilliant reputation which had
preceded, and the even augmented personal advantages which accompanied
him, immediately rendered him the idol of beauty and fashion. The ladies
of the palace vied for his homage--the nobles of the land hastened to
cultivate his society. Like Julius Caesar, he was carried away by the
stream, and plunged into the vortex of courtly dissipation with the
ardour which marks an energetic character in the pursuit whether of good
or evil. The elegance of his person and manners, and charms of his
conversation, prevailed so far with Charles II. and the Duke of York,
that soon after, though not yet thirty years of age, he obtained a
regiment. In 1680 he married the celebrated Sarah Jennings, the
favourite lady in attendance on the Princess Anne, second daughter of
the Duke of York, one of the most admired beauties of the court, and
this alliance increased his influence, already great, with that Prince,
and laid the foundation of the future grandeur of his fortunes. Shortly
after his marriage he accompanied the Duke of York to Scotland, in the
course of which they both were nearly shipwrecked on the coast of Fife.
On this occasion the Duke made the greatest efforts to preserve his
favourite's life, and succeeded in doing so, although the danger was
such that many of the Scottish nobles perished under his eye. On his
return to London in 1682, he was presented by his patron to the King,
who made him colonel of the third regiment of guards. When the Duke of
York ascended the throne in 1685, on the demise of his brother,
Churchill kept his place as one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber, and
was raised to the rank of brigadier-general. He was sent by his
sovereign to Paris to notify his accession to Louis XIV., and on his
return he was created a peer by the title of Baron Churchill of
Sandbridge in the county of Hertford--a title which he took from an
estate there which he had acquired in right of his wife. On the revolt
of the Duke of Monmouth, he had an opportunity of showing at once his
military ability, and, by a signal service, his gratitude to his
benefactor. Lord Feversham had the command of the royal forces, and
Churchill was his major-general. The general-in-chief, however, kept so
bad a look-out, that he was on the point of being surprised and cut to
pieces by the rebel forces, who, on this occasion at least, were
conducted with ability. The general and almost all his officers were in
their beds, and sound asleep, when Monmouth, at the head of all his
forces, silently debouched out of his camp, and suddenly fell on the
royal army. The rout would have been complete, and probably James II.
dethroned, had not Churchill, whose vigilant eye nothing escaped,
observed the movement, and hastily collected a handful of men, with whom
he made so vigorous a resistance as gave time for the remainder of the
army to form, and repel this well-conceived enterprise.
Churchill's mind was too sagacious, and his knowledge of the feelings of
the nation too extensive, not to be aware of the perilous nature of the
course upon which James had adventured, in endeavouring to bring about,
if not the absolute re-establishment of the Catholic religion, at least
such a quasi-establishment of it as the people deemed, and probably with
reason, was, with so aspiring a body of ecclesiastics, in effect the
same thing. When he saw the headstrong monarch break through all bounds,
and openly trample on the liberties, while he shocked the religious
feelings, of his people, he wrote to him to point out, in firm but
respectful terms, the danger of his conduct. He declared to Lord Galway,
when James's innovations began, that if he persisted in his design of
overturning the constitution and religion of his country, he would leave
his service. So far his conduct was perfectly unexceptionable. Our first
duty is to our country, our second only to our benefactor. If they are
brought into collision, as they often are during the melancholy
vicissitudes of a civil war, an honourable man, whatever it may cost
him, has but one part to take. He must not abandon his public duty for
his private feelings, but he must never betray official duty. If
Churchill, perceiving the frantic course of his master, had withdrawn
from his service, and then either taken no part in the revolution which
followed, or even appeared in arms against him, the most scrupulous
moralist could have discovered nothing reprehensible in his conduct.
History has in every age applauded the virtue, while it has commiserated
the anguish, of the elder Brutus, who sacrificed his sons to the perhaps
too rigorous laws of his country.
But Churchill did not do this, and thence has arisen an ineffaceable
blot on his memory. He did not relinquish the service of the infatuated
monarch; he retained his office and commands; but he employed the
influence and authority thence derived, to ruin his benefactor. So far
were the representations of Churchill from having inspired any doubts of
his fidelity, that James, when the Prince of Orange landed, confided to
him the command of a corps of five thousand men, destined to oppose his
progress. At the very time that he accepted that command, he had, if we
may believe his panegyrist Ledyard, signed a letter, along with several
other peers, addressed to the Prince of Orange, inviting him to come
over, and had actually concluded with Major-General Kirk, who commanded
at Axminster, a convention, for the seizure of the king and giving him
up to his hostile son-in-law. James was secretly warned that Churchill
was about to betray him, but he refused to believe it of one from whom
he had hitherto experienced such devotion, and was only wakened from his
dream of security by learning that his favourite had gone over with the
five thousand men whom he commanded to the Prince of Orange. Not content
with this, it was Churchill's influence, joined to that of his wife,
which is said to have induced James's own daughter, the Princess Anne,
and Prince George of Denmark, to detach themselves from the cause of the
falling monarch; and drew from that unhappy sovereign the mournful
exclamation, "My God! my very children have forsaken me." In what does
this conduct differ from that of Labedoyere, who, at the head of the
garrison of Grenoble, deserted to Napoleon when sent out to oppose
him?--or Lavalette, who employed his influence, as postmaster under
Louis XVIII., to forward the Imperial conspiracy?--or Marshal Ney, who,
after promising at the court of the Tuileries to bring the ex-emperor
back in an iron cage, no sooner reached the royal camp at Melun, than he
issued a proclamation calling on the troops to desert the Bourbons, and
mount the tricolor cockade? Nay, is not Churchill's conduct, in a moral
point of view, worse than that of Ney; for the latter abandoned the
trust reposed in him by a new master, forced upon an unwilling nation,
to rejoin his old benefactor and companion in arms; but the former
abandoned the trust reposed in him by his old master and benefactor, to
range himself under the banner of a competitor for the throne, to whom
he was bound neither by duty nor obligation. And yet such is often the
inequality of crimes and punishments in this world, that Churchill was
raised to the pinnacle of greatness by the very conduct which consigned
Ney, with justice, so far as his conduct is concerned, to an ignominious
death.
"Treason ne'er prospers; for when it does,
None dare call it treason."
History forgets its first and noblest duty when it fails, by its
distribution of praise and blame, to counterbalance, so far as its
verdict can, this inequality, which, for inscrutable but doubtless wise
purposes, Providence has permitted in this transient scene. Charity
forbids us to scrutinize such conduct too severely. It is the deplorable
effect of a successful revolution, even when commenced for the most
necessary purposes, to obliterate the ideas of man on right and wrong,
and leave no other test in the general case for public conduct but
success. It is its first effect to place them in such trying
circumstances that none but the most confirmed and resolute virtue can
pass unscathed through the ordeal. He knew the human heart well, who
commanded us in our daily prayers to supplicate not to be led into
temptation, even before asking for deliverance from evil. Let no man be
sure, however much, on a calm survey, he may condemn the conduct of
Marlborough and Ney, that in similar circumstances he would not have
done the same.
The magnitude of the service rendered by Churchill to the Prince of
Orange, immediately appeared in the commands conferred upon him. Hardly
was he settled at William's headquarters when he was dispatched to
London to assume the command of the Horse Guards; and, while there, he
signed, on the 20th December 1688, the famous Act of Association in
favour of the Prince of Orange. Shortly after, he was named
lieutenant-general of the armies of William, and immediately made a new
organization of the troops, under officers whom he could trust, which
proved of the utmost service to William on the unstable throne on which
he was soon after seated. He was present at most of the long and
momentous debates which took place in the House of Peers on the question
on whom the crown should be conferred, and at first is said to have
inclined to a regency; but with a commendable delicacy he absented
himself on the night of the decisive vote on the vacancy of the throne.
He voted, however, on the 6th of February for the resolution which
settled the crown on William and Mary; and he assisted at their
coronation, under the title of Earl of Marlborough, to which he had
shortly before been elevated by William. England having, on the
accession of the new monarch, joined the continental league against
France, Marlborough received the command of the British auxiliary force
in the Netherlands, and by his courage and ability contributed in a
remarkable manner to the victory of Walcourt. In 1690 he received orders
to return from Flanders in order to assume a command in Ireland, then
agitated by a general insurrection in favour of James; but, actuated by
some remnant of attachment to his old benefactor, he eluded on various
pretences complying with the order, till the battle of the Boyne had
extinguished the hopes of the dethroned monarch, when he came over and
made himself master of Cork and Kinsale. In 1691 he was sent again into
Flanders, in order to act under the immediate orders of William, who was
then, with heroic constancy, contending with the still superior forces
of France; but hardly had he landed there when he was arrested, deprived
of all his commands, and sent to the Tower of London, along with
several of the noblemen of distinction in the British senate.
Upon this part of the history of Marlborough there hangs a veil of
mystery, which all the papers brought to light in more recent times have
not entirely removed. At the time, his disgrace was by many attributed
to some cutting sarcasms in which he had indulged on the predilection of
William for the continental troops, and especially the Dutch; by others,
to intrigues conducted by Lady Marlborough and him, to obtain for the
Princess Anne a larger pension than the king was disposed to allow her.
But neither of these causes are sufficient to explain the fall and
arrest of so eminent a man as Marlborough, and who had rendered such
important services to the newly-established monarch. It would appear
from what has transpired in later times, that a much more serious cause
had produced the rupture between him and William. The charge brought
against him at the time, but which was not prosecuted, as it was found
to rest on false or insufficient evidence, was that of having, along
with Lords Salisbury, Cornbury, the Bishop of Rochester, and Sir Basil
Ferebrace, signed the scheme of an association for the restoration of
James. Sir John Fenwick, who was executed for a treasonable
correspondence with James II. shortly after Marlborough's arrest,
declared in the course of his trial that he was privy to the design, had
received the pardon of the exiled monarch, and had engaged to procure
for him the adhesion of the army. The Papers, published in Coxe, rather
corroborate the view that he was privy to it; and it is supported by
those found at Rome in the possession of Cardinal York.[3] That
Marlborough, disgusted with the partiality of William for his Dutch
troops, and irritated at the open severity of his Government, should
have repented of his abandonment of his former sovereign and benefactor,
is highly probable. But it can scarcely be taken as an apology for one
act of treason, that he meditated the commission of another. It only
shows how perilous, in public as in private life, is any deviation from
the path of integrity, that it impelled such a man into so tortuous and
disreputable a path.
Marlborough, however, was a man whose services were too valuable to the
newly-established dynasty, for him to be permitted to remain long in
disgrace. He was soon liberated, indeed, from the Tower, as no
sufficient evidence of his alleged accession to the conspiracy had been
obtained. Several years elapsed, however, before he emerged from the
privacy into which he prudently retired on his liberation from
confinement. Queen Mary having been carried off by the smallpox on the
17th of January 1696, Marlborough wisely abstained from even taking part
in the debates which followed in Parliament, during which some of the
malcontents dropped hints as to the propriety of conferring the crown on
his immediate patroness, the Princess Anne. This prudent reserve,
together with the absence of any decided proofs at the time of
Marlborough's correspondence with James, seems to have at length
weakened William's resentment, and by degrees he was taken back into
favour. The peace of Ryswick, signed on the 20th of September 1697,
having consolidated the power of that monarch, Marlborough was, on the
19th of June 1698, made preceptor of the young Duke of Gloucester, his
nephew, son of the Princess Anne, and heir-presumptive to the throne;
and this appointment, which at once restored his credit at court, was
accompanied by the gracious expression--"My lord, make my nephew to
resemble yourself, and he will be every thing which I can desire." On
the same day he was re-appointed to his rank as a privy councillor, and
took the oaths and his seat accordingly. So fully had he now regained
the confidence of William, that he was three times named one of the nine
lords justiciars to whom the administration of affairs in Great Britain
was subsequently entrusted, during the temporary absence of William in
Holland; and the War of the Succession having become certain in the year
1700, that monarch, who was preparing to take an active part in it,
appointed Marlborough, on 1st June 1701, his ambassador-extraordinary at
the Hague, and commander-in-chief of the Allied forces in Flanders. This
double appointment in effect invested Marlborough with the entire
direction of affairs civil and military, so far as England was
concerned, on the Continent. William, who was highly indignant at the
recognition of the Chevalier St George as King of England, on the death
of his father James II., in September 1701, was preparing to prosecute
the war with the vigour and perseverance which so eminently
distinguished his character, when he was carried off by the effects of a
fall from his horse, on the 19th March 1702. But that event made no
alteration in the part which England took in the war which was
commencing, and it augmented rather than diminished the influence which
Marlborough had in its direction. The Princess Anne, with whom, both
individually and through Lady Marlborough, he was so intimately
connected, mounted the throne without opposition; and one of her first
acts was to bestow on Marlborough the order of the Garter, confirm him
in his former offices, and appoint him, in addition, her plenipotentiary
at the Hague. War was declared on the 15th May 1702, and Marlborough
immediately went over to the Netherlands to take the command of the
Allied army, sixty thousand strong, then lying before Nimeguen, which
was threatened by a superior force on the part of the French.
It is at this period--time 1702--that the great and memorable, and
withal blameless period of Marlborough's life commenced; the next ten
years were one unbroken series of efforts, victories, and glory. He
arrived in the camp at Nimeguen on the evening of the 2d July, having
been a few weeks before at the Hague; and immediately assumed the
command. Lord Athlone, who had previously enjoyed that situation, at
first laid claim to an equal authority with him; but this ruinous
division, which never is safe, save with men so great as he and Eugene,
and would unquestionably have proved ruinous to the common cause if
shared with Athlone, was prevented by the States-General, who insisted
upon the undivided direction being conferred on Marlborough. Most
fortunately it is precisely at this period that the correspondence now
published commences, which, in the three volumes already published,
presents an unbroken series of his letters to persons of every
description down to May, 1708. They thus embrace the early successes in
Flanders, the cross march into Bavaria and battle of Blenheim, the
expulsion of the French from Germany, the battle of Ramillies, and
taking of Brussels and Antwerp, the mission to the King of Sweden at
Dresden, the battle of Almanza, in Spain, and all the important events
of the first six years of the war. More weighty and momentous materials
for history never were presented to the public; and their importance
will not be properly appreciated, if the previous condition of Europe,
and imminent hazard to the independence of all the adjoining states,
from the unmeasured ambition, and vast power of Louis XIV., is not taken
into consideration.
Accustomed as we are to regard the Bourbons as a fallen and unfortunate
race, the objects rather of commiseration than apprehension, and
Napoleon as the only sovereign who has really threatened our
independence, and all but effected the subjugation of the Continent, we
can scarcely conceive the terror with which a century and a half ago
they, with reason, inspired all Europe, or the narrow escape which the
continental states, at least, then made from being all reduced to the
condition of provinces of France. The forces of that monarchy, at all
times formidable to its neighbours, from the warlike spirit of its
inhabitants, and their rapacious disposition, conspicuous alike in the
earliest and the latest times;[4] its central situation, forming, as it
were, the salient angle of a bastion projecting into the centre of
Germany; and its numerous population--were then, in a peculiar manner,
to be dreaded, from their concentration in the hands of an able and
ambitious monarch, who had succeeded for the first time, for two hundred
years, in healing the divisions and stilling the feuds of its nobles,
and turned their buoyant energy into the channel of foreign conquest.
Immense was the force which, by this able policy, was found to exist in
France, and terrible the danger which it at once brought upon the
neighbouring states. It was rendered the more formidable in the time of
Louis XIV., from the extraordinary concentration of talent which his
discernment or good fortune had collected around his throne, and the
consummate talent, civil and military, with which affairs were directed.
Turenne, Boufflers, and Condé, were his generals; Vauban was his
engineer, Louvois and Torcy were his statesmen. The lustre of the
exploits of these illustrious men, in itself great, was much enhanced by
the still greater blaze of fame which encircled his throne, from the
genius of the literary men who have given such immortal celebrity to his
reign. Corneille and Racine were his tragedians; Molière wrote his
comedies; Bossuet, Fénélon, and Bourdaloue were his theologians;
Massillon his preacher, Boileau his critic; Le Notre laid out his
gardens; Le Brun painted his halls. Greatness had come upon France, as,
in truth, it does to most other states, in all departments at the same
time; and the adjoining nations, alike intimidated by a power which they
could not resist, and dazzled by a glory which they could not emulate,
had come almost to despair of maintaining their independence; and were
sinking into that state of apathy, which is at once the consequence and
the cause of extraordinary reverses.
The influence of these causes had distinctly appeared in the
extraordinary good fortune which had attended the enterprises of Louis,
and the numerous conquests he had made since he had launched into the
career of foreign aggrandizement. Nothing could resist his victorious
arms. At the head of an army of an hundred thousand men, directed by
Turenne, he speedily overran Flanders. Its fortified cities yielded to
the science of Vauban, or the terrors of his name. The boasted barrier
of the Netherlands was passed in a few weeks; hardly any of its
far-famed fortresses made any resistance. The passage of the Rhine was
achieved under the eyes of the monarch with little loss, and
melodramatic effect. One half of Holland was soon overrun, and the
presence of the French army at the gates of Amsterdam seemed to presage
immediate destruction to the United Provinces; and but for the firmness
of their leaders, and a fortunate combination of circumstances,
unquestionably would have done so. The alliance with England, in the
early part of his reign, and the junction of the fleets of Britain and
France to ruin their fleets and blockade their harbours, seemed to
deprive them of their last resource, derived from their energetic
industry. Nor were substantial fruits awanting from these conquests.
Alsace and Franche Comté were overrun, and, with Lorraine, permanently
annexed to the French monarchy; and although, by the peace of Nimeguen,
part of his acquisitions in Flanders was abandoned, enough was retained
by the devouring monarchy to deprive the Dutch of the barrier they had
so ardently desired, and render their situation to the last degree
precarious, in the neighbourhood of so formidable a power. The heroic
William, indeed, had not struggled in vain for the independence of his
country. The distant powers of Europe, at length wakened to a sense of
their danger, had made strenuous efforts to coerce the ambition of
France; the revolution of 1688 had restored England to its natural
place in the van of the contest for continental freedom; and the peace
of Ryswick in 1697 had in some degree seen the trophies of conquests
more equally balanced between the contending parties. But still it was
with difficulty that the alliance kept its ground against Louis--any
untoward event, the defection of any considerable power, would at once,
it was felt, cast the balance in his favour; and all history had
demonstrated how many are the chances against any considerable
confederacy keeping for any length of time together, when the immediate
danger which had stilled their jealousies, and bound together their
separate interests, is in appearance removed. Such was the dubious and
anxious state of Europe, when the death of Charles II. at Madrid, on the
1st November 1700, and the bequest of his vast territories to Philip
Duke of Anjou, second son of the Dauphin, and grandson of Louis XIV.,
threatened at once to place the immense resources of the Castilian
monarchy at the disposal of the ambitious monarch of France, whose
passion for glory had not diminished with his advanced years, and whose
want of moderation was soon evinced by his accepting, after an affected
hesitation, the splendid bequest.
Threatened with so serious a danger, it is not surprising that the
powers of Europe were in the utmost alarm, and erelong took steps to
endeavour to avert it. Such, however, was the terror inspired by the
name of Louis XIV., and the magnitude of the addition made by this
bequest to his power, that the new monarch, in the first instance,
ascended the throne of Spain and the Indies without any opposition. The
Spanish Netherlands, so important both from their intrinsic riches,
their situation as the certain theatre of war, and the numerous
fortified towns with which they were studded, had been early secured for
the young Bourbon prince by the Elector of Bavaria, who was at that time
the governor of those valuable possessions. Sardinia, Naples, Sicily,
the Milanese, and the other Spanish possessions in Italy, speedily
followed the example. The distant colonies of the crown of Castile, in
America and the Indies, sent in their adhesion. The young Prince of
Anjou made his formal entry into Spain in the beginning of 1701, and was
crowned at Madrid under the title of Philip V. The principal continental
powers, with the exception of the Emperor, acknowledged his title to the
throne. The Dutch were in despair: they beheld the power of Louis XIV.
brought to their very gates. Flanders, instead of being the barrier of
Europe against France, had become the outwork of France against Europe.
The flag of Louis XIV. floated on Antwerp, Brussels, and Ghent. Italy,
France, Spain, and Flanders, were united in one close league, and in
fact formed but one dominion. It was the empire of Charlemagne over
again, directed with equal ability, founded on greater power, and backed
by the boundless treasures of the Indies. Spain had threatened the
liberties of Europe in the end of the sixteenth century: France had all
but proved fatal to them in the close of the seventeenth. What hope was
there of being able to make head against them both, united under such a
head as Louis XIV.?
Great as these dangers were, however, they had no effect in daunting the
heroic spirit of William III. In concert with the Emperor, and the
United Provinces, who were too nearly threatened to be backward in
falling into his views, he laboured for the formation of a great
confederacy, which might prevent the union of the crowns of France and
Castile in one family, and prevent, before it was too late, the
consolidation of a power which threatened to be so formidable to the
liberties of Europe. The death of that intrepid monarch in March 1702,
which, had it taken place earlier, might have prevented the formation of
the confederacy, as it was, proved no impediment, but rather the
reverse. His measures had been so well taken, his resolute spirit had
laboured with such effect, that the alliance, offensive and defensive,
between the Emperor, England, and Holland, had been already signed. The
accession of the Princess Anne, without weakening its bonds, added
another power, of no mean importance, to its ranks. Her husband, Prince
George of Denmark, brought the forces of that kingdom to aid the common
cause. Prussia soon after followed the example. On the other hand,
Bavaria, closely connected with the French and Spanish monarchies, both
by jealousy of Austria, and the government of the Netherlands, which its
Elector held, adhered to France. Thus the forces of Europe were mutually
arrayed and divided, much as they afterwards were in the coalition
against Napoleon in 1813. It might already be foreseen, that Flanders,
the Bavarian plains, Spain, and Lombardy, would, as in the great contest
which followed a century after, be the theatre of war. But the forces of
France and Spain possessed this advantage, unknown in former wars, but
immense in a military point of view, that they were in possession of the
whole of the Netherlands, the numerous fortresses of which were alike
valuable as a basis of offensive operations, and as affording asylums
all but impregnable in cases of disaster. The Allied generals, whether
they commenced their operations in Flanders or on the side of Germany,
had to begin on the Rhine, and cut their way through the long barrier of
fortresses with which the genius of Vauban and Cohorn had encircled the
frontiers of the monarchy.
War having been resolved on, the first step was taken by the Emperor,
who laid claim to Milan as a fief of the empire, and supported his
pretensions by moving an army into Italy under the command of Prince
Eugene of Savoy, who afterwards became so celebrated as the brother and
worthy rival of Marlborough in arms. The French and Spaniards assembled
an army in the Milanese to resist his advance; and the Duke of Mantua
having joined the cause, that important city was garrisoned by the
French troops. But Prince Eugene erelong obliged them to fall back from
the banks of the Adige to the line of the Oglio, on which they made a
stand. But though hostilities had thus commenced in Italy, negotiations
were still carried on at the Hague; though unhappily the pretensions of
the French king were found to be of so exorbitant a character, that an
accommodation was impossible. Marlborough's first mission to the
Continent, however, after the accession of Anne, was of a diplomatic
character; and it was by his unwearied efforts, suavity of manner, and
singular talents for negotiation, that the difficulties which attend the
formation of all such extensive confederacies were overcome. And it was
not till war was declared, on 4th May 1702, that he first took the
command as commander-in-chief of the Allied armies.
The first operation of the Allies was an attack on the small fort of
Kaiserworth, on the right bank of the Rhine, which belonged to the
Elector of Cologne, which surrendered on the 15th May. The main French
army, nominally under the direction of the Duke of Burgundy, really of
Marshal Boufflers, entered the Duchy of Cleves in the end of the same
month, and soon became engaged with the Allied forces, which at first,
being inferior in numbers, fell back. Marlborough reached headquarters
when the French lay before Nimeguen; and the Dutch trembled for that
frontier town. Reinforcements, however, rapidly came in from all
quarters to join the Allied army; and Marlborough, finding himself at
the head of a gallant force sixty thousand strong, resolved to commence
offensive operations. His first operation was the siege of Venloo, which
was carried by storm on the 18th September, after various actions in the
course of the siege. "My Lord Cutts," says Marlborough, "commanded at
one of the breaches; and the English grenadiers had the honour of being
the first that entered the fort."[5] Ruremonde was next besieged; and
the Allies, steadily advancing, opened the navigation of the Meuse as
far as Maestricht. Stevenswart was taken on the 1st October; and, on the
6th, Ruremonde surrendered. Liege was the next object of attack; and the
breaches of the citadel were, by the skilful operations of Cohorn, who
commanded the Allied engineers and artillery, declared practicable on
the 23d of the same month. The assault was immediately ordered; and "by
the extraordinary bravery," says Marlborough, "of the officers and
soldiers, the citadel was carried by storm; and, for the honour of her
Majesty's subjects, the English were the first that got upon the
breach."[6] So early in this, as in every other war where ignorance and
infatuation has not led them into the field, did the native-born valour
of the Anglo-Saxon race make itself known! Seven battalions and a half
were made prisoners on this occasion; and so disheartened was the enemy
by the fall of the citadel, that the castle of the Chartreuse, with its
garrison of 1500 men, capitulated a few days afterwards. This last
success gave the Allies the entire command of Liege, and concluded this
short but glorious campaign, in the course of which they had made
themselves masters by main force, in presence of the French army, of
four fortified towns, conquered all Spanish Guelderland, opened the
Meuse as far as Maestricht, carried the strong castles of Liege by
storm, advanced their standards from the Rhine far into Flanders, and
become enabled to take up their winter quarters in the enemy's
territory, amidst its fertile fields.
The campaign being now concluded, and both parties having gone into
winter quarters, Marlborough embarked on the Meuse to return to London,
where his presence was much required to steady the authority and direct
the cabinet of the Queen, who had so recently taken her seat on the
throne. When dropping down the Meuse, in company of the Dutch
commissioners, he was made prisoner by a French partisan, who had made
an incursion into those parts; and owed his escape to the presence of
mind of a servant named Gill, who, unperceived, put into his master's
hands an old passport in the name of General Churchill. The Frenchman,
intent only on plunder, seized all the plate and valuables in the boat,
and made prisoners the small detachment of soldiers who accompanied
them; but, ignorant of the inestimable prize within his grasp, allowed
the remainder of the party, including Marlborough, to proceed on their
way. On this occasion, it may truly be said, the boat carried Caesar and
his fortunes. He arrived in safety at the Hague, where the people, who
regarded him as their guardian angel, and had heard of his narrow
escape, received him with the most enthusiastic acclamations. From
thence, having concerted the plan with the Dutch government for the
ensuing campaign, he crossed over to London, where his reception by the
Queen and nation was of the most gratifying description. Her Majesty
conferred on him the title of Duke of Marlborough and Marquis of
Blandford, and sent a message to the House of Commons, suggesting a
pension to him of £5000 a-year, secured on the revenue of the
post-office; but that House refused to consent to the alienation of so
considerable a part of the public revenue. He was amply compensated,
however, for this disappointment, by the enthusiastic reception he met
with from all classes of the nation, which, long unaccustomed to
military success, at least in any cause in which it could sympathize,
hailed with transports of joy this first revival of triumph in support
of the Protestant faith, and over that power with whom, for centuries,
they had maintained so constant a rivalry.
The campaign of 1703 was not fruitful of great events. Taught, by the
untoward issue of the preceding one, the quality of the general and army
with whom he had to contend, the French general cautiously remained on
the defensive; and so skilfully were the measures of Marshal Boufflers
taken, that all the efforts of Marlborough were unable to force him to a
general action. The war in Flanders was thus limited to one of posts and
sieges; but in that the superiority of the Allied arms was successfully
asserted, Parliament having been prevailed on to consent to an
augmentation of the British contingent. But a treaty having been
concluded with Sweden, and various reinforcements having been received
from the lesser powers, preparations were made for the siege of Bonn, on
the Rhine, a frontier town of Flanders, of great importance from its
commanding the passage of that artery of Germany, and stopping, while in
the enemy's hands, all transit of military stores or provisions for the
use of the armies in Bavaria, or on the Upper Rhine. The batteries
opened with seventy heavy guns and English mortars on the 14th May 1704;
a vigorous sortie with a thousand foot was repulsed, after having at
first gained some success, on the following day, and on the 16th two
breaches having been declared practicable, the garrison surrendered at
discretion. After this success, the army moved against Huys, and it was
taken with its garrison of 900 men on the 23d August. Marlborough and
the English generals, after this success, were decidedly of opinion that
it would be advisable at all hazard to attempt forcing the French lines,
which were strongly fortified between Mehaigne and Leuwe, and a strong
opinion to that effect was transmitted to the Hague on the very day
after the fall of Huys.[7] They alleged with reason, that the Allies
being superior in Flanders, and the French having the upper hand in
Germany and Italy, it was of the utmost importance to follow up the
present tide of success in the only quarter where it flowed in their
favour, and counterbalance disasters elsewhere, by decisive events in
the quarter where it was most material to obtain it. The Dutch
government, however, set on getting a barrier for themselves, could not
be brought to agree to this course, how great soever the advantages
which it promised, and insisted instead, that he should undertake the
siege of Limbourg, which lay open to attack. This was accordingly done;
the trenches were commenced in the middle of September, and the garrison
capitulated on the 27th of the same month: a poor compensation for the
total defeat of the French army, which would in all probability have
ensued if the bolder plan of operation he had so earnestly counselled
had been adopted.[8] This terminated the campaign of 1703, which, though
successful, had led to very different results from what might have been
anticipated if Marlborough's advice had been followed, and an earlier
victory of Ramillies laid open the whole Flemish plains. Having
dispatched eight battalions to reinforce the Prince of Hesse, who had
sustained serious disaster on the Moselle, he had an interview with the
Archduke Charles, whom the Allies had acknowledged as King of Spain, who
presented him with a magnificent sword set with diamonds, and set out
for the Hague, from whence he again returned to London to concert
measures for the ensuing campaign, and stimulate the British government
to the efforts necessary for its successful prosecution.
But while success had thus attended all the operations of the Allies in
Flanders, where the English contingent acted, and Marlborough had the
command, affairs had assumed a very different aspect in Germany and
Italy. The French were there superior alike in the number and quality of
their troops, and, in Germany at least, in the skill with which they
were commanded. Early in June, Marshal Tallard assumed the command of
the French forces in Alsace, passed the Rhine at Strasburg on the 16th
July, took Brissac on the 7th September, and invested Landau on the 16th
October. The Allies, under the Prince of Hesse, attempted to raise the
siege, but were defeated with considerable loss; and, soon after, Landau
surrendered, thus terminating with disaster the campaign on the Upper
Rhine. Still more considerable were the disasters sustained in Bavaria.
Marshal Villars there commanded, and at the head of the French and
Bavarians, defeated General Stirum, who headed the Imperialists, on the
20th September. In December, Marshal Marsin, who had succeeded Villars
in the command, made himself master of the important city of Augsburg,
and in January 1704 the Bavarians got possession of Passau. Meanwhile, a
formidable insurrection had broken out in Hungary, which so distracted
the cabinet of Vienna, that that capital itself seemed to be threatened
by the combined forces of the French and Bavarians after the fall of
Passau. No event of importance took place in Italy during the campaign;
Count Strahremberg, who commanded the Imperial forces, having with great
ability forced the Duke de Vendôme, who was at the head of a superior
body of French troops, to retire. But in Bavaria and on the Danube, it
was evident that the Allies were overmatched; and to the restoration of
the balance in that quarter, the anxious attention of the confederates
was turned during the winter of 1703-4. The dangerous state of the
Emperor and the empire awakened the greatest solicitude at the Hague, as
well as unbounded terror at Vienna, from whence the most urgent
representations were made on the necessity of reinforcements being sent
from Marlborough to their support. But though this was agreed to by
England and Holland, so straitened were the Dutch finances, that they
were wholly unable to form the necessary magazines to enable the Allies
to commence operations. Marlborough, during the whole of January and
February 1704, was indefatigable in his efforts to overcome these
difficulties; and the preparations having at length been completed, it
was agreed by the States, according to a plan of the campaign laid down
by Marlborough, that he himself should proceed into Bavaria with the
great body of the Allied army in Flanders, leaving only an army of
observation there, to restrain any incursion which the French troops
might attempt during his absence.
Marlborough began his march with the great body of his forces on the 8th
May, and crossing the Meuse at Maestricht, proceeded with the utmost
expedition towards the Rhine by Bedbourg and Kirpen, and arrived at Bonn
on the 22d May. Meanwhile, the French were also powerfully reinforcing
their army on the Danube. Early in the same month 26,000 men joined the
Elector of Bavaria, while Villeroi with the army of Flanders was
hastening in the same direction. Marlborough having obtained
intelligence of these great additions to the enemy's forces in the vital
quarter, wrote to the States-General, that unless they promptly sent him
succour, the Emperor would be entirely ruined.[9] Meanwhile, however,
relying chiefly on himself, he redoubled his activity and diligence.
Continuing his march up the Rhine by Coblentz and Cassel, opposite
Mayence, he crossed the Necker near Ladenbourg on the 3d June. From
thence he pursued his march without intermission by Mundelshene, where
he had, on the 10th June, his first interview with Prince Eugene, who
had been called from Italy to co-operate in stemming the torrent of
disaster in Germany. From thence he advanced by Great Heppach to
Langenau, and first came in contact with the enemy on the 2d July, on
the Schullenberg, near Donawert. Marlborough, at the head of the
advanced guard of nine thousand men, there attacked the French and
Bavarians, 12,000 strong, in their intrenched camp, which was extremely
strong, and after a desperate resistance, aided by an opportune attack
by the Prince of Baden, who commanded the Emperor's forces, carried the
intrenchments, with the whole artillery which they mounted, and the loss
of 7000 men and thirteen standards to the vanquished. He was inclined to
venture upon this hazardous attempt by having received intelligence on
the same day from Prince Eugene, that Marshals Villeroi and Tallard, at
the head of fifty battalions, and sixty squadrons of their best troops,
had arrived at Strasburg, and were using the utmost diligence to reach
the Bavarian forces through the defiles of the Black Forest.
This brilliant opening of the German campaign was soon followed by
substantial results. A few days after Rain surrendered, Aicha was
carried by assault; and, following up his career of success, Marlborough
advanced to within a league of Augsburg, under the cannon of which the
Elector of Bavaria was placed with the remnant of his forces, in a
situation too strong to admit of its being forced. He here made several
attempts to detach the Elector, who was now reduced to the greatest
straits, from the French alliance; but that prince, relying on the great
army, forty-five thousand strong, which Marshal Tallard was bringing up
to his support from the Rhine, adhered with honourable fidelity to his
engagements. Upon this, Marlborough took post near Friburg, in such a
situation as to cut him off from all communication with his dominions;
and ravaged the country with his light troops, levying contributions
wherever they went, and burning the villages with savage ferocity as far
as the gates of Munich. Thus was avenged the barbarous desolation of the
Palatinate, thirty years before, by the French army under the orders of
Marshal Turenne. Overcome by the cries of his suffering subjects, the
Elector at length consented to enter into a negotiation, which made some
progress; but the rapid approach of Marshal Tallard with the French army
through the Black Forest, caused him to break it off, and hazard all on
the fortune of war. Unable to induce the Elector, by the barbarities
unhappily, at that time, too frequent on all sides in war, either to
quit his intrenched camp under the cannon of Augsburg, or abandon the
French alliance, the English general undertook the siege of Ingolstadt;
he himself with the main body of the army covering the siege, and Prince
Louis of Baden conducting the operations in the trenches. Upon this, the
Elector of Bavaria broke up from his strong position, and, abandoning
with heroic resolution his own country, marched to Biberbach, where he
effected his junction with Marshal Tallard, who now threatened Prince
Eugene with an immediate attack. No sooner had he received intelligence
of this, than Marlborough, on the 10th of August, sent the Duke of
Wirtemburg with twenty-seven squadrons of horse to reinforce the prince;
and early next morning detached General Churchill with twenty battalions
across the Danube, to be in a situation to support him in case of need.
He himself immediately after followed, and joined the Prince with his
whole army on the 11th. Every thing now presaged decisive events. The
Elector had boldly quitted Bavaria, leaving his whole dominions at the
mercy of the enemy, except the fortified cities of Munich and Augsburg,
and periled his crown upon the issue of war at the French headquarters;
while Marlborough and Eugene had united their forces, with a
determination to give battle in the heart of Germany, in the enemy's
territory, with their communications exposed to the utmost hazard, under
circumstances where defeat could be attended with nothing short of total
ruin.
The French and Bavarian army consisted of fifty-five thousand men, of
whom nearly forty-five thousand were French troops, the very best which
the monarchy could produce. Marlborough and Eugene had sixty-six
battalions and one hundred and sixty squadrons, which, with the
artillery, might be about fifty thousand combatants. The forces on the
opposite sides were thus nearly equal in point of numerical amount; but
there was a wide difference in their composition. Four-fifths of the
French army were national troops, speaking the same language, animated
by the same feelings, accustomed to the same discipline, and the most of
whom had been accustomed to act together. The Allies, on the other hand,
were a motley assemblage, like Hannibal's at Cannæ, or Wellington's at
Waterloo, composed of the troops of many different nations, speaking
different languages, trained to different discipline, but recently
assembled together, and under the orders of a stranger general, one of
those haughty islanders, little in general inured to war, but whose cold
or supercilious manners had so often caused jealousies to arise in the
best cemented confederacies. English, Prussians, Danes, Wirtemburgers,
Dutch, Hanoverians, and Hessians, were blended in such nearly equal
proportions, that the arms of no one state could be said by its
numerical preponderance to be entitled to the precedence. But the
consummate address, splendid talents, and conciliatory manners of
Marlborough, as well as the brilliant valour which the English auxiliary
force had displayed on many occasions, had won for them the lead, as
they had formerly done when in no greater force among the confederates
under Richard Coeur-de-Lion in the Holy War. It was universally felt
that upon them, as the Tenth Legion of Caesar, or the Old Guard of
Napoleon, the weight of the contest at the decisive moment would fall.
The army was divided into two _corps-d'armée_; the first commanded by
the duke in person, being by far the strongest, destined to bear the
weight of the contest, and carry in front the enemy's position. These
two corps, though co-operating, were at such a distance from each other,
that they were much in the situation of the English and Prussians at
Waterloo, or Napoleon and Ney's corps at Bautzen. The second, under
Prince Eugene, which consisted chiefly of cavalry, was much weaker in
point of numerical amount, and was intended for a subordinate attack, to
distract the enemy's attention from the principal onset in front under
Marlborough.[10] With ordinary officers, or even eminent generals of a
second order, a dangerous rivalry for the supreme command would
unquestionably have arisen, and added to the many seeds of division and
causes of weakness which already existed in so multifarious an array.
But these great men were superior to all such petty jealousies. Each,
conscious of powers to do great things, and proud of fame already
acquired, was willing to yield what was necessary for the common good to
the other. They had no rivalry, save a noble emulation who should do
most for the common cause in which they were jointly engaged. From the
moment of their junction it was agreed that they should take the command
of the whole army day about; and so perfectly did their views on all
points coincide, and so entirely did their noble hearts beat in unison,
that during eight subsequent campaigns that they for the most part acted
together, there was never the slightest division between them, nor any
interruption of the harmony with which the operations of the Allies were
conducted.
The French position was in places strong, and their disposition for
resistance at each point where they were threatened by attack from the
Allied forces, judicious; but there was a fatal defect in its general
conception. Marshal Tallard was on the right, resting on the Danube,
which secured him from being turned in that quarter, having the village
of BLENHEIM in his front, which was strongly garrisoned by twenty-six
battalions and twelve squadrons, all native French troops. In the centre
was the village of Oberglau, which was occupied by fourteen battalions,
among whom were three Irish corps of celebrated veterans. The
communication between Blenheim and Oberglau was kept up by a screen
consisting of eighty squadrons, in two lines, having two brigades of
foot, consisting of seven battalions, in its centre. The left, opposite
Prince Eugene, was under the orders of Marshal Marsin, and consisted of
twenty-two battalions of infantry and thirty-six squadrons, consisting
for the most part of Bavarians and Marshal Marsin's men, posted in front
of the village of Lutzingen. Thus the French consisted of sixty-nine
battalions and a hundred and thirty-four squadrons, and were posted in a
line strongly supported at each extremity, but weak in the centre, and
with the wings, where the great body of the infantry was placed, at such
a distance from each other, that, if the centre was broken through, each
ran the risk of being enveloped by the enemy, without the other being
able to render them any assistance. This danger as to the troops in
Blenheim, the flower of their army, was much augmented by the
circumstance, that if their centre was forced where it was formed of
cavalry only, and the victors turned sharp round towards Blenheim, the
horse would be driven headlong into the Danube, and the foot in that
village would run the hazard of being surrounded or pushed into that
river, which was not fordable, even for horse, in any part. But though
these circumstances would, to a far-seeing general, have presaged
serious disaster in the event of defeat, yet the position was strong in
itself, and the French generals, long accustomed to victory, had some
excuse for not having taken sufficiently into view the contingencies
likely to occur in the event of defeat. Both the villages at the
extremity of their line had been strengthened, not only with
intrenchments hastily thrown up around them, thickly mounted with heavy
cannon, but with barricades at all their principal entrances, formed of
overturned carts and all the furniture of the houses, which they had
seized upon, as the insurgents did at Paris in 1830, for that purpose.
The army stood upon a hill or gentle eminence, the guns from which
commanded the whole plain by which alone it could be approached; and
this plain was low, and intersected on the right, in front of Blenheim,
by a rivulet which flows down by a gentle descent to the Danube, and in
front of Oberglau by another rivulet, which runs in two branches till
within a few paces of the Danube; into which it also empties itself.
These rivulets had bridges over them at the points where they flowed
through villages; but they were difficult of passage in the other places
for cavalry and artillery, and, with the ditches cut in the swampy
meadows through which they flowed, proved no small impediment to the
advance of the Allied army.
The Duke of Marlborough, before the action began, in person visited each
important battery, in order to ascertain the range of the guns. The
troops under his command were drawn up in four lines; the infantry being
in front, and the cavalry behind, in each line. This arrangement was
adopted in order that the infantry, which would get easiest through the
streams, might form on the other side, and cover the formation of the
cavalry, who might be more impeded. The fire of cannon soon became very
animated on both sides, and the infantry advanced to the edge of the
rivulets with that cheerful air and confident step which is so often the
forerunner of success. On Prince Eugene's side the impediments, however,
proved serious; the beds of the rivulets were so broad, that they
required to be filled up with fascines before they could be passed by
the guns; and when they did get across, they replied without much effect
to the French cannon thundering from the heights, which commanded the
whole field. At half-past twelve, however, these difficulties were, by
great efforts on the part of Prince Eugene and his wing, overcome, and
he sent word to Marlborough that he was ready. The English general
instantly called for his horse; the troops every where stood to their
arms, and the signal was given to advance. The rivulets and marshy
ground in front of Blenheim and Unterglau were passed by the first line
without much difficulty, though under a heavy fire of artillery from the
French batteries; and the firm ground on the slope being reached, the
first line advanced in the finest order to the attack--the cavalry in
front having now defiled to a side, so as to let the English infantry
take the lead. The attack must be given in the words of Dr Hare's
Journal.
"Lord Cutts made the first attack upon Blenheim, with the English
grenadiers. Brigadier-general Rowe led up his brigade, which formed
the first line, and was sustained in the second by a brigade of
Hessians. Rowe was within thirty paces of the palisades about
Blenheim when the enemy gave their first fire, by which a great
many officers and men fell; but notwithstanding this, that brave
officer marched direct up to the pales, on which he struck his
sword before he allowed his men to fire. His orders were to enter
at the point of the bayonet; but the superiority of the enemy, and
the strength of their post, rendered this impossible. The first
line was therefore forced to retire; Rowe was struck down badly
wounded at the foot of the pales; his lieut.-colonel and major were
killed in endeavouring to bring him off, and some squadrons of
French gens-d'armes having charged the brigade while retiring in
disorder, it was partially broken, and one of the colours of Rowe's
regiment was taken. The Hessians in the second line upon this
advanced briskly forward, charged the squadrons, retook the colour,
and repulsed them. Lord Cutts, however, seeing fresh squadrons
coming down upon him, sent to request some cavalry should be sent
to cover his flank. Five British squadrons accordingly were moved
up, and speedily charged by eight of the enemy; the French gave
their fire at a little distance, but the English charged sword in
hand, and put them to the rout. Being overpowered, however, by
fresh squadrons, and galled by the fire which issued from the
enclosures of Blenheim, our horse were driven back in their turn,
and recoiled in disorder.
"Marlborough, foreseeing that the enemy would pursue this
advantage, resolved to bring his whole cavalry across the rivulets.
The operation was begun by the English horse. It proved more
difficult, however, than was expected, especially to the English
squadrons; as they had to cross the rivulet where it was divided,
and the meadows were very soft. However, they surmounted those
difficulties, and got over; but when they advanced, they were so
severely galled by the infantry in Blenheim firing upon their
flank, while the cavalry charged them in front, that they were
forced to retire, which they did, under cover of Bulow and
Bothmer's German dragoons, who succeeded them in the passage.
Marlborough, seeing the enemy resolute to maintain the ground
occupied by his cavalry, gave orders for the whole remainder of his
cavalry to pass wherever they could get across. There was very
great difficulty and danger in defiling over the rivulet in the
face of an enemy, already formed and supported by several batteries
of cannon; yet by the brave examples and intrepidity of the
officers, they were at length got over, and kept their ground on
the other side. Bulow stretched across, opposite to Oberglau, with
the Danish and Hanoverian horse; but near that village they were so
vigorously charged by the French cavalry, that they were driven
back. Rallying, they were again led to the charge, and again routed
with great slaughter by the charges of the horse in front, and the
dreadful fire from the inclosures of Blenheim. Nor did the attack
on Oberglau to the British right, under Prince Holstein, succeed
better; no sooner had he passed the rivulet, than the Irish
veterans, posted there, came pouring down upon them, took the
prince prisoner, and threw the whole into confusion. Upon this,
Marlborough galloped to the spot at the head of some squadrons,
followed by three battalions, which had not yet been engaged. With
the horse he charged the Irish battalions in flank, and forced them
back; the foot he posted himself, and having re-established affairs
at that point, returned rapidly to the left, where he found the
whole of his corps passed over the streams, and on firm ground on
the other side. The horse were drawn up in two lines fronting the
enemy; the foot in two lines behind them; and some guns, under
Colonel Blood, having been hurried across by means of pontoons,
were brought to bear upon some battalions of foot which were
intermingled with the enemy's horse, and made great havoc in their
ranks.
"It was now past three, and the Duke, having got his whole men
ready for the attack, sent to Prince Eugene to know if he was ready
to support him. But the efforts of that gallant prince had not been
attended with the same success. In the first onset, indeed, his
Danish and Prussian infantry had gained considerable success, and
taken six guns, and the Imperial cavalry had, by a vigorous charge,
broken the first line of the enemy's horse; but they failed in
their attack on the second line, and were driven back to their
original ground; whereupon the Bavarian cavalry, rushing forward,
enveloped Eugene's foot, who were forced to retire, and with
difficulty regained their original ground. Half an hour afterwards,
Prince Eugene made a second attack with his horse; but they were
again repulsed by the bravery of the Bavarian cavalry, and driven
for refuge into the wood, in the rear of their original position.
Nothing daunted by this bad success, the Prince formed his troops
for a third attack, and himself led his cavalry to the charge; but
so vigorous was the defence, that they were again repulsed to the
wood, and the victorious enemy's dragoons with loud cheers charged
the Prussian foot in flank, and were only repelled by the admirable
steadiness with which they delivered their fire, and stood their
ground with fixed bayonets in front.
"About five the general forward movement was made which determined
the issue of this great battle, which till then had seemed
doubtful. The Duke of Marlborough, having ridden along the front,
gave orders to sound the charge, when all at once our lines of
horse moved on, sword in hand, to the attack. Those of the enemy
presented their carbines at some distance and fired; but they had
no sooner done so than they wheeled about, broke, and fled. The
gens-d'armes fled towards Hochstedt, which was about two miles in
the rear; the other squadrons towards the village of Sondersheim,
which was nearer, and on the bank of the Danube. The Duke ordered
General Hompesch, with thirty squadrons, to pursue those who fled
to Hochstedt; while he himself, with Prince Hesse and the whole
remainder of the cavalry, drove thirty of the enemy's squadrons
headlong down the banks of the Danube, which, being very steep,
occasioned the destruction of the greater part. Vast numbers
endeavoured to save themselves by swimming, and perished miserably.
Among the prisoners taken here were Marshal Tallard and his suite,
who surrendered to M. Beinenbourg, aid-de-camp to the Prince of
Hesse. Marlborough immediately desired him to be accommodated with
his coach, and sent a pencil note to the duchess[11] to say the
victory was gained. Others, seeing the fate of their comrades in
the water, endeavoured to save themselves by defiling to the right,
along its margin, towards Hochstedt, but they were met and
intercepted by some English squadrons; upon seeing which they fled
in utter confusion towards Morselingen, and did not again attempt
to engage. The victorious horse upon this fell upon several of the
enemy's battalions, who had nearly reached Hochstedt, and cut them
to pieces.
"Meanwhile Prince Eugene, by a fourth attack, succeeded in driving
the Elector of Bavaria from his position; and the Duke, seeing
this, sent orders to the squadrons in pursuit, towards Morselingen,
to wheel about and join him. All this while the troops in Blenheim
had been incessantly attacked, but it still held out and gave
employment to the Duke's infantry. The moment the cavalry had
beaten off that of the enemy, and cleared the field between the two
villages of them, General Churchill moved both lines of foot upon
the village of Blenheim, and it was soon surrounded so as to cut
off all possibility of escape except on the side next the Danube.
To prevent the possibility of their escape that way, Webb, with the
Queen's regiment, took possession of a barrier the enemy had
constructed to cover their retreat, and, having posted his men
across the street which led to the Danube, several hundreds of the
enemy, who were attempting to make their escape that way, were made
prisoners. The other issue to the Danube was occupied in the same
manner by Prince George's regiment: all who came out that way were
made prisoners or driven into the Danube. Some endeavoured to break
out at other places, but General Wood, with Lord John Hay's
regiment of _grey_ dragoons (Scots Greys) immediately advanced
towards them, and, cantering up to the top of a rising ground, made
them believe they had a larger force behind them, and stopped them
on that side. When Churchill saw the defeat of the enemy's horse
decided, he sent to request Lord Cutts to attack them in front,
while he himself attacked them in flank. This was accordingly done;
the Earl of Orkney and General Ingoldesby entering the village at
the same time, at two different places, at the head of their
respective regiments. But so vigorous was the resistance made by
the enemy, especially at the churchyard, that they were forced to
retire. The vehement fire, however, of the cannon and howitzers,
which set fire to several barns and houses, added to the
circumstance of their commander, M. Clerambault, having fled, and
their retreat on all sides being cut off, led to their surrendering
at discretion, to the number of six-and-twenty battalions. Thus
concluded this great battle, in which the enemy had 5900 more than
the Allies,[12] and the advantage of a very strong position,
difficult of attack."[13]
In this battle Marlborough's wing lost 3000 men, and Eugene's the same
number, in all 6000. The French lost 13,000 prisoners, including 1200
officers, almost all taken by Marlborough's wing, besides 34 pieces of
cannon, 26 standards, and 90 colours; Eugene took 13 pieces. The killed
and wounded were 14,000 more. But the total loss of the French and
Bavarians, including those who deserted during their calamitous retreat
through the Black Forest, was not less than 40,000 men,[14] a number
greater than any which they sustained till the still more disastrous day
of Waterloo.
This account of the battle, which is by far the best and most
intelligible which has ever yet been published, makes it quite evident
to what cause the overwhelming magnitude of this defeat to the French
army was owing. The strength of the position consisted solely in the
rivulets and marshy grounds in its front; when they were passed, the
error of Marshal Tallard's disposition of his troops was at once
apparent. The infantry was accumulated in useless numbers in the
villages. Of the twenty-six battalions in Blenheim, twenty were useless,
and could not get into action, while the long line of cavalry from
thence to Oberglau was sustained only by a few battalions of foot,
incapable of making any effective resistance. This was the more
inexcusable, as the French, having sixteen battalions of infantry more
than the Allies, should at no point have shown themselves inferior in
foot soldiers to their opponents. When the curtain of horse which
stretched from Blenheim to Oberglau was broken through and driven off
the field, the 13,000 infantry accumulated in the former of these
villages could not avoid falling into the enemy's hands; for they were
pressed between Marlborough's victorious foot and horse on the one side,
and the unfordable stream of the Danube on the other. But Marlborough,
it is evident, evinced the capacity of a great general in the manner in
which he surmounted these obstacles, and took advantage of these faulty
dispositions; resolutely, in the first instance, overcoming the numerous
impediments which opposed the passage of the rivulets, and then
accumulating his horse and foot for a grand attack on the enemy's
centre, which, besides destroying above half the troops assembled there,
and driving thirty squadrons into the Danube, cut off, and isolated the
powerful body of infantry now uselessly crowded together in Blenheim,
and compelled them to surrender.
Immense were the results of this transcendent victory. The French army,
lately so confident in its numbers and prowess, retreated "or rather
fled," as Marlborough says, through the Black Forest; abandoning the
Elector of Bavaria and all the fortresses on the Danube to their fate.
In the deepest dejection, and the utmost disorder, they reached the
Rhine, scarce twelve thousand strong, on the 25th August, and
immediately began defiling over by the bridge of Strasburg. How
different from the triumphant army, which with drums beating, and
colours flying, had crossed at the same place six weeks before!
Marlborough, having detached part of his force to besiege Ulm, drew near
with the bulk of his army to the Rhine, which he passed near Philipsburg
on the 6th September, and soon after commenced the siege of Landau, on
the French side; Prince Louis with 20,000 men forming the besieging
force, and Eugene and Marlborough with 30,000 the covering army. Ulm
surrendered on the 16th September, with 250 pieces of cannon, and 1200
barrels of powder, which gave the Allies a solid foundation on the
Danube, and effectually crushed the power of the Elector of Bavaria,
who, isolated now in the midst of his enemies, had no alternative but to
abandon his dominions, and seek refuge in Brussels, where he arrived in
the end of September. Meanwhile, as the siege of Landau was found to
require more time than had been anticipated, owing to the extraordinary
difficulties experienced in getting up supplies and forage for the
troops; Marlborough repaired to Hanover and Berlin to stimulate the
Prussian and Hanoverian cabinets to greater exertions in the common
cause, and he succeeded in making arrangements for the addition of 8000
more Prussian troops to their valuable auxiliary force, to be added to
the army of the Imperialists in Italy, which stood much in need of
reinforcement. The Electress of Bavaria, who had been left Regent of
that State in the absence of the Elector in Flanders, had now no
resource left but submission; and a treaty was accordingly concluded in
the beginning of November, by which she agreed to disband all her
troops. Trarbach was taken in the end of December; the Hungarian
insurrection was appeased; Landau capitulated in the beginning of the
same month; a diversion which the enemy attempted on Trêves was defeated
by Marlborough's activity and vigilance, and that city put in a
sufficient posture of defence; and the campaign being now finished, that
accomplished commander returned to the Hague, and London, to receive the
honour due for his past services, and urge their respective cabinets to
the efforts necessary to turn them to good account.
Thus by the operations of one single campaign was Bavaria crushed,
Austria and Germany delivered. Marlborough's cross-march from Flanders
to the Danube, had extricated the Imperialists from a state of the
utmost peril, and elevated them at once to security, victory, and
conquest. The decisive blow struck at Blenheim, resounded through every
part of Europe; it at once destroyed the vast fabric of power which it
had taken Louis XIV., aided by the talents of Turenne, and the genius of
Vauban, so long to construct. Instead of proudly descending the valley
of the Danube, and threatening Vienna, as Napoleon afterwards did in
1805 and 1809, the French were driven in the utmost disorder across the
Rhine. The surrender of Trarbach and Landau gave the Allies a firm
footing on the left bank of that river. The submission of Bavaria
deprived the French of that great outwork, of which they have made such
good use in their German wars, the Hungarian insurrection, deprived of
the hoped-for aid from the armies on the Rhine, was pacified. Prussia
was induced by this great triumph to co-operate in a more efficient
manner in the common cause; the parsimony of the Dutch gave way before
the tumult of success; and the empire, delivered from invasion, was
preparing to carry its victorious arms into the heart of France. Such
results require no comment; they speak for themselves, and deservedly
place Marlborough in the very highest rank of military commanders. The
campaigns of Napoleon exhibit no more decisive or glorious results.
Honours and emoluments of every description were showered on the English
hero for this glorious success. He was created a prince of the Holy
Roman empire,[15] and a tract of land in Germany erected into a
principality in his favour. His reception at the courts of Berlin and
Hanover resembled that of a sovereign prince; the acclamations of the
people, in all the towns through which he passed, rent the air; at the
Hague his influence was such that he was regarded as the real
Stadtholder. More substantial rewards awaited him in his own country.
The munificence of the queen and the gratitude of Parliament conferred
upon him the extensive honour and manor of Woodstock, long a royal
palace, and once the scene of the loves of Henry II. and the fair
Rosamond. By order of the Queen, not only was this noble estate settled
on the duke and his heirs, but the royal comptroller commenced a
magnificent palace for the duke on a scale worthy of his services and
England's gratitude. From this origin the superb palace of Blenheim has
taken its rise; which, although not built in the purest taste, or after
the most approved models, remains, and will long remain, a splendid
monument of a nation's gratitude, and of the genius of Vanbrugh.
Notwithstanding the invaluable services thus rendered by Marlborough,
both to the Emperor of Germany and the Queen of England, he was far from
experiencing from either potentate that liberal support for the future
prosecution of the war, which the inestimable opportunity now placed in
their hands, and the formidable power still at the disposal of the enemy
so loudly required. As usual, the English Parliament were exceedingly
backward in voting supplies either of men or money; nor was the cabinet
of Vienna inclined to be more liberal in its exertions. Though the House
of Commons agreed to give £4,670,000 for the service of the ensuing
year; yet the land forces voted were only 40,000 men, although the
population of Great Britain and Ireland could not be at that period
under ten millions, while France, with about twenty millions, had above
two hundred thousand under arms. It is this excessive and invariable
reluctance of the English Parliament ever to make those efforts at the
commencement of a war, which are necessary to turn to a good account the
inherent bravery of its soldiers and frequent skill of its commanders,
that is the cause of the long duration of our Continental wars, and of
three-fourths of the national debt which now oppresses the empire, and,
in its ultimate results, will endanger its existence. The national
forces are, by the cry for economy and reduction which invariably is
raised in peace, reduced to so low an ebb, that it is only by successive
additions, made in many different years, that it can be raised up to any
thing like the amount requisite for successful operations. Thus disaster
generally occurs in the commencement of every war; or if, by the genius
of any extraordinary commander, as by that of Marlborough, unlooked-for
success is achieved in the outset, the nation is unable to follow it up;
the war languishes for want of the requisite support; the enemy gets
time to recover from his consternation; his danger stimulates him to
greater exertions; and many long years of warfare, deeply checkered with
disaster, and attended with an enormous expense, are required to obviate
the effects of previous undue pacific reduction.
How bitterly Marlborough felt this want of support, on the part of the
cabinets both of London and Vienna, which prevented him from following
up the victory of Blenheim with the decisive operations against France
which he would otherwise have undoubtedly commenced, is proved by
various parts of his correspondence. On the 16th of December 1704, he
wrote to Mr Secretary Harley--"I am sorry to see nothing has been
offered yet, _nor any care taken by Parliament for recruiting the army_.
I mean chiefly the foot. It is of that consequence for an early
campaign, that without it _we may run the hazard of losing, in a great
measure, the fruits of the last_; and therefore, pray leave to recommend
it to you to advise with your friends, if any proper method can be
thought of, that may be laid before the House immediately, without
waiting my arrival."[16] Nor was the cabinet of Vienna, notwithstanding
the imminent danger they had recently run, more active in making the
necessary efforts to repair the losses of the campaign--"You cannot,"
says Marlborough, "say more to us of the _supine negligence of the Court
of Vienna_, with reference to your affairs, _than we are sensible of
every where else_; and certainly if the Duke of Savoy's good conduct and
bravery at Verue had not reduced the French to a very low ebb, the game
must have been over before any help could come to you."[17] It is ever
thus, especially with states such as Great Britain, in which the
democratic element is so powerful as to imprint upon the measures of
government that disregard of the future, and aversion to present efforts
or burdens, which is the invariable characteristic of the bulk of
mankind. If Marlborough had been adequately supported and strengthened
after the decisive blow struck at Blenheim; that is, if the governments
of Vienna and London, with that of the Hague, had by a great and timely
effort doubled his effective force when the French were broken and
disheartened by defeat, he would have marched to Paris in the next
campaign, and dictated peace to the _Grand Monarque_ in his gorgeous
halls of Versailles. It was short-sighted economy which entailed upon
the nations the costs and burdens of the next ten years of the War of
the Succession, as it did the still greater costs and burdens of the
Revolutionary War, after the still more decisive success of the Allies
in the summer of 1793, when the iron frontier of the Netherlands was
entirely broken through, and their advanced posts, without any force to
oppose them, were within an hundred and sixty miles of Paris.
This parsimony of the Allied governments, and their invincible
repugnance to the efforts and sacrifices which could alone bring, and
certainly would have brought, the war to an early and glorious issue, is
the cause of the subsequent conversion of the war into one of blockades
and sieges, and of its being transferred to Flanders, where its progress
was necessarily slow, and cost enormous, from the vast number of
strongholds which required to be reduced at every stage of the Allied
advance. It was said at the time, that in attacking Flanders in that
quarter, Marlborough took the bull by the horns; that France on the side
of the Rhine was far more vulnerable, and that the war was fixed in
Flanders, in order by protracting it to augment the profits of the
generals employed. Subsequent writers, not reflecting on the difference
of the circumstances, have observed the successful issue of the
invasions of France from Switzerland and the Upper Rhine in 1814, and
Flanders and the Lower Rhine in 1815, and concluded that a similar
result would have attended a like bold invasion under Marlborough and
Eugene. There never was a greater mistake. The great object of the war
was to wrest Flanders from France; when the lilied standard floated on
Brussels and Antwerp, the United Provinces were constantly in danger of
being swallowed up, and there was no security for the independence
either of England, Holland, or any of the German States. If Marlborough
and Eugene had had two hundred thousand effective men at their disposal,
as Wellington and Blucher had in 1815, or three hundred thousand, as
Schwartzenberg and Blucher had in 1814, they would doubtless have left
half their force behind them to blockade the fortresses, and with the
other half marched direct to Paris. But as they had never had more than
eighty thousand on their muster-rolls, and could not bring at any time
more than sixty thousand effective men into the field, this bold and
decisive course was impossible. The French army in their front was
rarely inferior to theirs, often superior; and how was it possible in
these circumstances to adventure on the perilous course of pushing on
into the heart of the enemy's territory, leaving the frontier
fortresses, yet unsubdued, in their rear? The disastrous issue of the
Blenheim campaign to the French arms, even when supported by the
friendly arms and all the fortresses of Bavaria, in the preceding year,
had shown what was the danger of such a course. The still more
calamitous issue of the Moscow campaign to the army of Napoleon,
demonstrated that even the greatest military talents, and most enormous
accumulation of military force, affords no security against the
incalculable danger of an undue advance beyond the base of military
operations. The greatest generals of the last age, fruitful beyond all
others in military talent, have acted on those principles, whenever they
had not an overwhelming superiority of forces at their command.
Wellington never invaded Spain till he was master of Ciudad Rodrigo and
Badajos; nor France till he had subdued St Sebastian and Pampeluna. The
first use which Napoleon made of his victories at Montenotte and Dego
was to compel the Court of Turin to surrender all their fortresses in
Piedmont; of the victory of Marengo, to force the Imperialists to
abandon the whole strongholds of Lombardy as far as the Adige. The
possession of the single fortress of Mantua in 1796, enabled the
Austrians to stem the flood of Napoleon's victories, and gain time to
assemble four different armies for the defence of the monarchy. The case
of half a million of men, flushed by victory, and led by able and
experienced leaders assailing a single state, is the exception, not the
rule.
Circumstances, therefore, of paramount importance and irresistible
force, compelled Marlborough to fix the war in Flanders, and convert it
into one of sieges and blockades. In entering upon such a system of
hostility, sure, and comparatively free from risk, but slow and
extremely costly, the alliance ran the greatest risk of being
shipwrecked on the numerous discords, jealousies, and separate
interests, which, in almost every instance recorded in history, have
proved fatal to a great confederacy, if it does not obtain decisive
success at the outset, before these seeds of division have had time to
come to maturity. With what admirable skill and incomparable address
Marlborough kept together the unwieldy alliance will hereafter appear.
Never was a man so qualified by nature for such a task. He was courtesy
and grace personified. It was a common saying at the time, that neither
man nor woman could resist him. "Of all the men I ever knew," says no
common man, himself a perfect master of the elegances he so much
admired, "the late Duke of Marlborough possessed the graces in the
highest degree, not to say engrossed them. Indeed he got the most by
them, and contrary to the custom of profound historians, who always
assign deep causes for great events, I ascribe the better half of the
Duke of Marlborough's greatness to those graces. He had no brightness,
nothing shining in his genius. He had most undoubtedly an excellent
plain understanding, and sound judgment. But these qualities alone would
probably have never raised him higher than they found him, which was
page to James the Second's queen. But there the grace protected and
promoted him. His figure was beautiful, but his manner was irresistible,
either by man or woman. It was by this engaging, graceful manner, that
he was enabled, during all his war, to connect the various and jarring
powers of the Grand Alliance, and to carry them on to the main object of
the war, notwithstanding their private and separate views, jealousies,
and wrongheadedness. Whatever court he went to (and he was often obliged
to go to restive and refractory ones) he brought them into his measures.
The pensionary Heinsius, who had governed the United Provinces for forty
years, was absolutely governed by him. He was always cool, and nobody
ever observed the least variation in his countenance; he could refuse
more gracefully than others could grant, and those who went from him the
most dissatisfied as to the substance of their business, were yet
charmed by his manner, and, as it were, comforted by it."[18]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] _Letters and Despatches of John Churchill, First Duke of
Marlborough, from 1702 to 1712._ Edited by SIR GEORGE MURRAY, G.C.B.,
Master-General of the Ordnance, &c. 3 vols. London, 1845.
[2] "Marlborough," says Swift, "is as voracious as hell, and as
ambitious as the devil. What he desires above every thing is to be made
commander-in-chief for life, and it is to satisfy his ambition and his
avarice that he has opposed so many intrigues to the efforts made for
the restoration of peace."
[3] "During the interval between the liberation of Marlborough and the
death of Queen Mary, we find him, in conjunction with Godolphin and many
others, maintaining a clandestine intercourse with the exiled family. On
the 2d May 1694, only a few days before he offered his services to King
William, he communicated to James, through Colonel Sackville,
intelligence of an expedition then fitting out, for the purpose of
destroying the fleet in Brest harbour."--COXE'S _Marlborough_, i. 75.
"Marlborough's conduct to the Stuarts," says Lord Mahon, "was a foul
blot on his memory. To the last he persevered in those deplorable
intrigues. In October 1713, he protested to a Jacobite agent he would
rather have his hands cut off than do any thing to prejudice King
James."--MAHON, i. 21-22.
[4] "Galli turpe esse ducunt frumentum manu quaerere; itaque armati
alienos agros demetunt."--CAESAR.
[5] _Despatches_, 21st September 1702.
[6] _Despatches_, 23d October 1702.
[7] Memorial, 24th August 1703.--_Despatches_, i. 165.
[8] Marlborough was much chagrined at being interrupted in his meditated
decisive operations by the States-General, on this occasion. On the 6th
September, he wrote to them:--"Vos Hautes Puissances jugeront bien par
le camp que nous venons de prendre, qu'on n'a pas voulu se résoudre à
tenter les lignes. J'ai été convaincu de plus en plus, depuis l'honneur
que j'ai eu de vous écrire, par les avis que j'ai reçu journellement de
la situation des ennemis, que cette entreprise n'était pas seulement
practicable, mais même qu'on pourrait en espérer tout le succès que je
m'étais proposé: enfin l'occasion en est perdue, et je souhaite de tout
mon coeur qu'elle n'ait aucune fâcheuse suite, et qu'on n'ait pas lieu
de s'en repentir quand il sera trop tard."--MARLBOROUGH _aux Etats
Généraux_; _6 Septembre 1703. Despatches_, i. 173.
[9] "Ce matin j'ai appris par une estafette que les ennemis avaient
joint l'Electeur de Bavière avec 26,000 hommes, et que M. de Villeroi a
passé la Meuse avec la meilleure partie de l'armée des Pays Bas, et
qu'il poussait sa marche en toute diligence vers la Moselle, de sorte
que, sans un prompt sécours, l'empire court risque d'être entièrement
abimé."--MARLBOROUGH, _aux Etats Généraux; Bonn_, _2 Mai 1704_.
_Despatches_, i. 274.
[10] The following was the composition of these two corps, which will
show of what a motley array the Allied army was composed:--
Left wing, Marlborough.
Batt. Squad.
English, 14 14
Dutch, 14 22
Hessians, 7 7
Hanoverians, 13 25
Danes, 0 22
-- --
48 86
Right wing, Eugene.
Batt. Squad.
Danes, 7 0
Prussians, 11 15
Austrians, 0 24
Of the Empire, 0 35
-- --
18 74
[11] This pencil note is still preserved at Blenheim.
[12] French--Bat. 82. Squad. 146. Allies--Bat. 66. Squad. 160. At 500 to
a battalion, and 150 to a squadron, this gives a superiority of 5900 to
the French.
[13] Marl., _Desp._ i. 402-409.
[14] Cardonnell, Desp. to Lord Harley, 25th Sept. 1704, _Desp._ i. 410.
By intercepted letters it appeared the enemy admitted a loss of 40,000
men before they reached the Rhine. Marlborough to the Duke of
Shrewsbury, 28th Aug. 1704, _Desp._ i. 439.
[15] The holograph letter of the Emperor, announcing this honour, said,
with equal truth and justice--"I am induced to assign to your highness a
place among the princes of the empire, in order that it may universally
appear how much I acknowledge myself and the empire to be indebted to
the Queen of Great Britain, who sent her arms as far as Bavaria at a
time when the affairs of the empire, by the defection of the Bavarians
to the French, most needed that assistance and support:--And to your
Grace, likewise, to whose prudence and courage, together with the
bravery of the forces fighting under your command, the two victories
lately indulged by Providence to the Allies are principally attributed,
not only by the voice of fame, but by the general officers in my army
who had their share in your labour and your glory."--THE EMPEROR LEOPOLD
TO MARLBOROUGH, _28th August 1704_.--_Desp._ i. 538.
[16] Marlborough to Mr Secretary Harley, 16th Dec. 1704.--_Desp._ i.
556.
[17] Marlborough to Mr Hill at Turin, 6th Feb. 1705.--_Desp._ i. 591.
[18] _Lord Chesterfield's Letters_, Lord Mahon's edition, i. 221-222.
PÚSHKIN, THE RUSSIAN POET.
No. II.
SPECIMENS OF HIS LYRICS.
TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL RUSSIAN, BY THOMAS B. SHAW, B.A. OF
CAMBRIDGE, ADJUNCT PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN THE IMPERIAL
ALEXANDER LYCEUM, TRANSLATOR OF "THE HERETIC," &c. &c.
In offering to the public the following specimens of Púshkin's poetry in
an English dress, the translator considers it part of his duty to make a
few remarks. The number and extent of these observations, he will, of
course, confine within the narrowest limits consistent with his
important duty of making his countrymen acquainted with the style and
character of Russia's greatest poet; a duty which he would certainly
betray, were he to omit to explain the chief points indispensable for
the true understanding, not only of the extracts which he has selected
as a sample of his author's productions, but of the general tone and
character of those productions, viewed as a whole.
The translator wishes it therefore to be distinctly understood that he
by no means intends to offer, in the character of a complete poetical
portrait, the few pieces contained in these pages, but rather as an
attempt, however imperfect, to daguerreotype--by means of the most
faithful translation consistent with ease--_one_ of the various
expressions of Púshkin's literary physiognomy; to represent one phase of
his developement.
That physiognomy is a very flexible and a varying one; Púshkin
(considered only as a _poet_) must be allowed to have attained very high
eminence in various walks of his sublime art; his works are very
numerous, and as diverse in their form as in their spirit; he is
sometimes a romantic, sometimes a legendary, sometimes an epic,
sometimes a satiric, and sometimes a dramatic poet;--in most, if not in
all, of these various lines he has attained the highest eminence as yet
recognised by his countrymen; and, consequently, whatever impression may
be made upon our readers by the present essay at a transfusion of his
works into the English language, will be necessarily a very imperfect
one. In the prosecution of the arduous but not unprofitable enterprise
which the translator set before himself three years ago--viz. the
communication to his countrymen of some true ideas of the scope and
peculiar character of Russian literature--he met with so much
discouragement in the unfavourable predictions of such of his friends as
he consulted with respect to the feasibility of his project, that he may
be excused for some degree of timidity in offering the results of his
labours to an English public. So great, indeed, was that timidity, that
not even the very flattering reception given to his two first attempts
at prose translation, has entirely succeeded in destroying it; and he
prefers, on the present occasion, to run the risk of giving only a
partial and imperfect reflection of Púshkin's intellectual features, to
the danger that might attend a more ambitious and elaborate version of
any of the poet's longer works.
Púshkin is here presented solely in his _lyrical_ character; and, it is
trusted, that, in the selection of the compositions to be
translated--selections made from a very large number of highly
meritorious works--due attention has been paid not only to the intrinsic
beauty and merit of the pieces chosen, but also to the important
consideration which renders indispensable (in cases where we find an
_embarras de richesses_, and where the merit is equal) the adoption of
such specimens as would possess the greatest degree of novelty for an
English reader.
The task of translating all Púshkin's poetry is certainly too dignified
a one, not to excite our ambition; and it is meditated, in the event of
the accompanying versions finding in England a degree of approbation
sufficiently marked to indicate a desire for more specimens, to extend
our present labours so far, as to admit passages of the most remarkable
merit from Púshkin's longer works; and, perhaps, even complete versions
of some of the more celebrated. Should, therefore, the British public
give the _fiat_ of its approbation, we would still further contribute to
its knowledge of the great Russian author, by publishing, for example,
some of the more remarkable _places_ in the poem of "Evgénii Oniégin,"
the charming "Gypsies," scenes and passages from the tragedy of "Bóris
Godunóff," the "Prisoner of the Caucasus," "Mazépa," &c. &c.
With respect to the present or _lyrical_ specimens, we shall take the
liberty to make a few remarks, having reference to the principles which
have governed the translator in the execution of the versions; and we
shall afterwards preface each poem with a few words of notice, such as
may appear to be rendered necessary either by the subject or by the form
of the composition itself.
Of the poetical merit of these translations, considered as English
poems, their writer has no very exalted idea; of their _faithfulness as
versions_, on the contrary, he has so deep a conviction, that he regrets
exceedingly the fact, that the universal ignorance prevailing in England
of the Russian language, will prevent the possibility of that important
merit--strict fidelity--being tested by the British reader. Let the
indulgent, therefore, remember, if we have in any case left an air of
stiffness and constraint but too perceptible in our work, that this
fault is to be considered as a sacrifice of grace at the altar of truth.
It would have been not only possible, but easy, to have spun a
collection of easy rhymes, bearing a general resemblance to the vigorous
and passionate poetry of Púshkin; but this would not have been a
_translation_, and a translation it was our object to produce. Bowring's
_Russian Anthology_ (not to speak of his other volumes of translated
poetry) is a melancholy example of the danger of this attractive but
fatal system; while the names of Cary, of Hay, and of Merivale, will
remain as a bright encouragement to those who have sufficient strength
of mind to prefer the "strait and narrow way" of masterly _translation_,
to the "flowery paths of dalliance" so often trodden by the
_paraphraser_.
In all cases, the metre of the original, the musical movement and
modulation, has, as far as the translator's ear enabled him to judge,
been followed with minute exactness, and at no inconsiderable expense,
in some cases, of time and labour. It would be superfluous, therefore,
to state, that the number of lines in the English version is always the
same as in the original. It has been our study, wherever the differences
in the structure of the two languages would permit, to include the same
thoughts in the same number of lines. There is also a peculiarity of the
Russian language which frequently rendered our task still more arduous;
and the conquest of this difficulty has, we trust, conferred upon us the
right to speak of our triumph without incurring the charge of vanity. We
allude to the great abundance in the Russian of double terminations, and
the consequent recurrence of double rhymes, a peculiarity common also to
the Italian and Spanish versification, and one which certainly
communicates to the versification of those countries a character so
marked and peculiar, that no translator would be justified in neglecting
it. As it would be impossible, without the use of Russian types, to give
our readers an example of this from the writings of Púshkin, and as they
would be unable to pronounce such a quotation even if they saw it, we
will give an illustration of what we mean from the Spanish and the
Italian.
The first is from the fourth book of the _Galatea_ of Cervantes--
"Venga á mirar á la pastora mia
Quien quisiere contar de gente en gente
Que vió otro sol, que daba luz al dia
Mas claro, que el que sale del oriente," &c.;
and the second from Chiabrera's sublime _Ode on the Siege of Vienna_--
"E fino a quanto inulti
Sian, Signore, i tuoi servi? E fino a quanto
Dei barbarici insulti
Orgogliosa n'andrà l'empia baldanza?
Dov'è, dov'è, gran Dio, l'antico vanto
Di tua alta possanza?" &c. &c.
In the two passages here quoted, it will be observed that all the lines
end with two syllables, in both of which the rhyme is engaged; and an
English version of the above verses, however faithful in other respects,
which should omit to use the same species of double termination, and
content itself with the monosyllable rhyme, would indubitably lose some
of the harmony of the original. These double rhymes are far from
abundant in our monosyllabic language; but we venture to affirm, that
their conscientious employment would be found so valuable, as to amply
repay the labour and difficulty attending their search.
We trust that our readers will pardon the apparent technicality of these
remarks, for the sake of the consideration which induced us to make
them. In all translation, even in the best, there is so great a loss of
spirit and harmony, that the conscientious labourer in this most
difficult and ungrateful art, should never neglect even the most
trifling precaution that tends to hinder a still further depreciation of
the gold of his original; not to mention the principle, that whatever it
is worth our while to do at all, it is assuredly worth our while to do
as well as we can.
* * * * *
The first specimen of Púshkin's lyric productions which we shall present
to our countrymen, "done into English," as Jacob Tonson was wont to
phrase it, "by an eminent hand," is a production considered by the
poet's critics to possess the very highest degree of merit in its
peculiar style. We have mentioned some details respecting the nature and
history of the Imperial Lyceum of Tsarskoë Seló, in which Púshkin was
educated, and we have described the peculiar intensity of feeling with
which all who quitted its walls looked back upon the happy days they had
spent within them, and the singular ardour and permanency of the
friendships contracted beneath its roof. On the anniversary of the
foundation (by the Emperor Alexander) of the institution, it is
customary for all the "old Lyceans" to dine together, in the same way as
the Eton, Harrow, or Rugby men are accustomed to unite once a-year in
honour of their school. On many of these occasions Púshkin contributed
to the due celebration of the event by producing poems of various
lengths, and different degrees of merit; we give here the best of these.
It was written during the poet's residence in the government of Pskoff,
and will be found, we think, a most beautiful and touching embodiment of
such feelings as would be suggested in the mind of one obliged to be
absent from a ceremony of the nature in question. Of the comrades whose
names Púshkin has immortalized in these lines, it is only necessary to
specify that the first, Korsákoff, distinguished among his youthful
comrades for his musical talents, met with an early death in Italy; a
circumstance to which the poet has touchingly alluded. Matiúshkin is now
an admiral of distinction, and is commanding the Russian squadron in the
Black Sea. Of the two whom he mentions as having passed the anniversary
described in this poem (October 19, 1825) in his company, the first was
Pústchin, since dead, and the second the Prince Gortchakóff, whom he met
by accident, travelling in the neighbourhood of his (the poet's)
seclusion. Our readers cannot fail, we think, to be struck with the
beautiful passage consecrated to his friendship with Délvig; and the
only other personal allusion which seems to stand in need of
explanation, is that indicated by the name Wilhelm, towards the end of
the poem. This is the Christian name of his friend Küchelbecher, since
dead, and whose family name was hardly harmonious enough to enter
Púshkin's line, and was therefore omitted on the Horatian
principle--"versu quod dicere nolim." We now hasten to present the
lines.
OCTOBER 19, 1825.
The woods have doff'd their garb of purply gold;
The faded fields with silver frost are steaming;
Through the pale clouds the sun, reluctant gleaming,
Behind the circling hills his disk hath roll'd.
Blaze brightly, hearth! my cell is dark and lonely:
And thou, O Wine, thou friend of Autumn chill,
Pour through my heart a joyous glow--if only
One moment's brief forgetfulness of ill!
Ay, I am very sad; no friend is here
With whom to pledge a long unlooked-for meeting,
To press his hand in eagerness of greeting,
And wish him life and joy for many a year.
I drink alone; and Fancy's spells awaken--
With a vain industry--the voice of friends:
No well-known footstep strikes mine ear forsaken,
No well-beloved face my heart attends.
I drink alone; ev'n now, on Neva's shore,
Haply my name on friendly lips has trembled....
Round that bright board, say, are ye _all_ assembled?
Are there no other names ye count no more?
Has our good custom been betray'd by others?
Whom hath the cold world lured from ye away?
Whose voice is silent in the call of brothers?
Who is not come? Who is not with you? Say!
_He_ is not come, he of the curled hair,
He of the eye of fire and sweet-voiced numbers:
Beneath Italia's myrtle-groves he slumbers;
He slumbers well, although no friend was there,
Above the lonely grave where he is sleeping,
A Russian line to trace with pious hand,
That some sad wanderer might read it, weeping--
Some Russian, wandering in a foreign land.
Art _thou_ too seated in the friendly ring,
O restless Pilgrim? Haply now thou ridest
O'er the long tropic-wave; or now abidest
'Mid seas with ice eternal glimmering!
Thrice happy voyage!... With a jest thou leapedst
From the Lyceum's threshold to thy bark,
Thenceforth thy path aye on the main thou keepedst,
O child beloved of wave and tempest dark!
Well hast thou kept, 'neath many a stranger sky,
The loves, the hopes of Childhood's golden hour:
And old Lyceum scenes, by memory's power,
'Mid lonely waves have ris'n before thine eye;
Thou wav'dst thy hand to us from distant ocean,
Ever thy faithful heart its treasure bore;
"A long farewell!" thou criedst, with fond emotion,
"Unless our fate hath doom'd we meet no more."
The bond that binds us, friends, is fair and true!
Destructless as the soul, and as eternal--
Careless and free, unshakable, fraternal,
Beneath the Muses' friendly shade it grew.
We are the same: wherever Fate may guide us,
Or Fortune lead--wherever we may go,
The world is aye a foreign land beside us;
_Our_ fatherland is Tsárkoë Seló!
From clime to clime, pursued by storm and stress,
In Destiny's dark nets long time I wrestled,
Until on Friendship's lap I fluttering nestled,
And bent my weary head for her caress....
With wistful prayers, with visionary grieving,
With all the trustful hope of early years,
I sought new friends with zeal and new believing;
But bitter was their greeting to mine ears.
And even here, in this lone dwelling-place
Of desert-storm, of cold, and desolation,
There was prepared for me a consolation:
Three of ye here, O friends! did I embrace.
Thou enteredst first the poet's house of sorrow,
O Pústchin! thanks be with thee, thanks, and praise
Ev'n exile's bitter day from thee could borrow
The light and joy of old Lyceum-days.
Thee too, my Gortchakóff; although thy name
Was Fortune's spell, though her cold gleam was on thee,
Yet from thy noble thoughts she never won thee:
To honour and thy fiends thou'rt still the same.
Far different paths of life to us were fated,
Far different roads before our feet were traced,
In a by-road, but for a moment mated,
We met by chance, and brotherly embraced.
When sorrow's flood o'erwhelmd me, like a sea;
And like an orphan, houseless, poor, unfriended,
My head beneath the storm I sadly bended,
Seer of the Aonian maids! I look'd for thee:
Thou camest--lazy child of inspiration,
My Délvig; and thy voice awaken'd straight
In this numb'd heart the glow of consolation;
And I was comforted, and bless'd my fate.
Even in infancy within us burn'd
The light of song--the poet-spell had bound us;
Even in infancy there flitted round us
Two Muses, whose sweet glamour soon we learn'd.
Even then _I_ loved applause--that vain delusion!--
_Thou_ sang'st but for thy Muse, and for thy heart;
_I_ squander'd gifts and life with rash profusion,
_Thou_ cherishedst thy gifts in peace apart.
The worship of the Muse no care beseems;
The Beautiful is calm, and high, and holy;
Youth is a cunning counsellor--of folly!--
Lulling our sense with vain and empty dreams....
Upon the past we gaze--the same, yet other--
And find no trace.--We wake, alas! too late.
Was it not so with us, Délvig, my brother?--
My brother in our Muse as in our fate!
'Tis time, 'tis time! Let us once more be free!
The world's not worth this torturing resistance!
Beneath retirement's shade will glide existence--
Thee, my belated friend--I wait for thee!
Come! with the flame of an enchanted story
Tradition's lore shall wake, our hearts to move;
We'll talk of Caucasus, of war, of glory,
Of Schiller, and of genius, and of love.
'Tis time no less for me ... Friends, feast amain!
Behold, a joyful meeting is before us;
Think of the poet's prophecy; for o'er us
A year shall pass, and we shall meet again!
My vision's covenant shall have fulfilling;
A year--and I shall be with ye once more!
Oh, then, what shouts, what hand-grasps warm and thrilling!
What goblets skyward heaved with merry roar!
Unto our Union consecrated be
The first we drain--fill higher yet, and higher!
Bless it, O Muse, in strains of raptured fire!
Bless it! All hail, Lyceum! hail to thee!--
To those who led our youth with care and praises,
Living and dead! the next we grateful fill;
Let each, as to his lips the cup he raises,
The good remember, and forget the ill.
Feast, then, while we are here, while yet we may:
Hour after hour, alas! Time thins our numbers;
One pines afar, one in the coffin slumbers;
Days fly; Fate looks on us; we fade away;
Bending insensibly to earth, and chilling,
We near our starting-place with many a groan....
Whose lot will be in old age to be filling,
On this Lyceum-day, his cup _alone_?
Unhappy friend! Amid a stranger race,
Like guest intrusive, that superfluous lingers,
He'll think of us that day, with quivering fingers
Hiding the tears that wet his wrinkled face....
O, may he then at least, in mournful gladness,
Pass with his cup this day for ever dear,
As even I, in exile and in sadness,
Yet with a fleeting joy, have pass'd it here!
* * * * *
In the following lines, the poet has endeavoured to reproduce the
impressions made upon his mind by the mountain scenery of the Caucasus;
scenery which he had visited with such rapture, and to which his
imagination returned with undiminished delight. It has been our aim to
endeavour, in our translation, to give an echo, however feeble and
imperfect, of the wild and airy freedom of the versification which
distinguishes these spirited stanzas. The picture which they contain,
rough, sketchy, and unfinished, as it may appear, bears every mark of
being a faithful copy from nature--a study taken on the spot; and will
therefore, we trust, be not unacceptable to our readers, as calculated
to give an idea not only of the vigorous and rapid _handling_ of the
poet's pencil, but also of the wild and sublime region--the Switzerland
of Russia--which he has here essayed to portray. Of the two furious and
picturesque torrents which Púshkin has mentioned in this short poem,
Térek is certainly too well known to our geographical readers to need
any description of its course from the snow-covered peak of Dariál to
the Caspian; and the bold comparison in the last stanza will doubtless
be found, though perhaps somewhat exaggerated, not deficient in a kind
of fierce Æschylean energy, perfectly in character with the violent and
thundering course of the torrent itself:--
CAUCASUS.
Beneath me the peaks of the Caucasus lie,
My gaze from the snow-bordered cliff I am bending;
From her sun-lighted eyry the Eagle ascending
Floats movelessly on in a line with mine eye.
I see the young torrent's first leap towards the ocean,
And the cliff-cradled lawine essay its first motion.
Beneath me the clouds in their silentness go,
The cataract through them in thunder down-dashing,
Far beneath them bare peaks in the sunny ray flashing,
Weak moss and dry shrubs I can mark yet below.
Dark thickets still lower--green meadows are blooming,
Where the throstle is singing, and reindeer are roaming.
Here man, too, has nested his hut, and the flocks
On the long grassy slopes in their quiet are feeding,
And down to the valley the shepherd is speeding,
Where Arágva gleams out from her wood-crested rocks.
And there in his crags the poor robber is hiding,
And Térek in anger is wrestling and chiding.
Like a fierce young Wild Beast, how he bellows and raves,
Like that Beast from his cage when his prey he espieth;
'Gainst the bank, like a Wrestler, he struggleth and plyeth,
And licks at the rock with his ravening waves.
In vain, thou wild River! dumb cliffs are around thee,
And sternly and grimly their bondage hath bound thee.
* * * * *
To those who measure the value of a poem, less by the pretension and
ambitiousness of its form, than by the completeness of its execution and
the skill with which the leading idea is developed, we think that the
graceful little production which we are now about to present to the
reader, will possess very considerable interest. It is, it is true, no
more important a thing than a mere song; but the naturalness and unity
of the fundamental thought, and the happy employment of what is
undoubtedly one of the most effective artifices at the command of the
lyric writer--we mean repetition--render the following lines worthy of
the universal admiration which they have obtained in the original, and
may not be devoid of charm in the translation:--
TO * * *
Yes! I remember well our meeting,
When first thou dawnedst on my sight,
Like some fair phantom past me fleeting,
Some nymph of purity and light.
By weary agonies surrounded,
'Mid toil, 'mid mean and noisy care,
Long in mine ear thy soft voice sounded,
Long dream'd I of thy features fair.
Years flew; Fate's blast blew ever stronger,
Scattering mine early dreams to air,
And thy soft voice I heard no longer--
No longer saw thy features fair.
In exile's silent desolation
Slowly dragg'd on the days for me--
Orphan'd of life, of inspiration,
Of tears, of love, of deity.
I woke--once more my heart was beating--
Once more thou dawnedst on my sight,
Like some fair phantom past me fleeting,
Some nymph of purity and light.
My heart has found its consolation--
All has revived once more for me--
And vanish'd life, and inspiration,
And tears, and love, and deity.
* * * * *
The versification of the following little poem is founded on a system
which Púshkin seems to have looked upon with peculiar favour, as he has
employed the same metrical arrangement in by far the largest proportion
of his poetical works. So gracefully and so easily, indeed, has he
wielded this metre, and with so flexible, so delicate, and so masterly a
hand, that we could not refrain from attempting to imitate it in our
English version; for we considered that it is impossible to say how much
of the peculiar _character_ of a poet's writings depends upon the
colouring, or rather the _touch_--if we may borrow a phrase from the
vocabulary of the critic in painting--of the metre. Undoubtedly a poet
is the best judge not only of the kind, but of the degree of the effect
which he wishes to produce upon his reader; and there may be, between
the thoughts which he desires to embody, and the peculiar harmonies in
which he may determine to clothe those thoughts, analogies and
sympathies too delicate for our grosser ears; or, at least, if not too
subtle and refined for our ears to perceive, yet far too delicate for us
to define, or exactly to appreciate. Moved by this reasoning, we have
always preferred to follow, as nearly as we could, the exact
versification, and even the most minute varieties of tone and metrical
accentuation. Inattention to this point is undoubtedly the
stumbling-block of translators in general; of the dangerous consequences
of such inattention, it is not necessary to give any elaborate proof.
How much, we may ask, does not the poetry of Dante, for instance, lose,
by being despoiled of that great source of its peculiar effect springing
from the employment of the _terza rima_! It is in vain to say, that it
is enormously difficult to produce the _terza rima_ in English. To
translate the "gran padre Alighier" into English _worthily_, the _terza
rima must_ be employed, whatever be the obstacles presented by the
dissimilarities existing between the Italian and English languages.
THE MOB.
"Procul este, profani!"
A Poet o'er his glowing lyre
A wild and careless hand had flung.
The base, cold crowd, that nought admire,
Stood round, responseless to his fire,
With heavy eye and mocking tongue.
"And why so loudly is he singing?"
('Twas thus that idiot mob replied,)
"His music in our ears is ringing;
But whither flows that music's tide?
What doth it teach? His art is madness!
He moves our soul to joy or sadness.
A wayward necromantic spell!
Free as the breeze his music floweth,
But fruitless, too, as breeze that bloweth,
What doth it profit, Poet, tell?"
POET.--Cease, idiot, cease thy loathsome cant!
Day-labourer, slave of toil and want!
I hate thy babble vain and hollow.
Thou art a worm, no child of day:
Thy god is Profit--thou wouldst weigh
By pounds the Belvidere Apollo.
Gain--gain alone to thee is sweet.
The marble is a god! ... what of it
Thou count'st a pie-dish far above it--
A dish wherein to cook thy meat!
MOB.--But, if thou be'st the Elect of Heaven,
The gift that God has largely given,
Thou shouldst then for our good impart,
To purify thy brother's heart.
Yes, we are base, and vile, and hateful,
Cruel, and shameless, and ungrateful--
Impotent and heartless tools,
Slaves, and slanderers, and fools.
Come then, if charity doth sway thee,
Chase from our hearts the viper-brood;
However stern, we will obey thee;
Yes, we will listen, and be good!
POET.--Begone, begone! What common feeling
Can e'er exist 'twixt ye and me?
Go on, your souls in vices steeling;
The lyre's sweet voice is dumb to ye:
Go! foul as reek of charnel-slime,
In every age, in every clime,
Ye aye have felt, and yet ye feel,
Scourge, dungeon, halter, axe, and wheel.
Go, hearts of sin and heads of trifling,
From your vile streets, so foul and stifling,
They sweep the dirt--no useless trade!
But when, their robes with ordure staining,
Altar and sacrifice disdaining,
Did e'er your _priests_ ply broom and spade?
'Twas not for life's base agitation
That _we_ were born--for gain nor care--
No--we were born for inspiration,
For love, for music, and for prayer!
* * * * *
The ballad entitled "The Black Shawl" has obtained a degree of
popularity among the author's countrymen, for which the slightness of
the composition renders it in some measure difficult to account. It may,
perhaps, be explained by the circumstance, that the verses are in the
original exceedingly well adapted to be sung--one of the highest merits
of this class of poetry--for all ancient ballads, in every language
throughout the world, were specifically intended to be sung or chanted;
and all modern productions, therefore, written in imitation of these
ancient compositions--the first lispings of the Muse--can only be
successful in proportion as they possess the essential and
characteristic quality of being capable of being sung. Independently of
the highly musical arrangement of the rhythm, which, in the original,
distinguishes "The Black Shawl," the following verses cannot be denied
the merit of relating, in a few rapid and energetic measures, a simple
and striking story of Oriental love, vengeance, and remorse:--
THE BLACK SHAWL.
Like a madman I gaze on a raven-black shawl;
Remorse, fear, and anguish--this heart knows them all.
When believing and fond, in the spring-time of youth,
I loved a Greek maiden with tenderest truth.
That fair one caress'd me--my life! oh, 'twas bright,
But it set--that fair day--in a hurricane night.
One day I had bidden young guests, a gay crew,
When sudden there knock'd at my gate a vile Jew.
"With guests thou art feasting," he whisperingly said,
"And _she_ hath betray'd thee--thy young Grecian maid."
I cursed him, and gave him good guerdon of gold,
And call'd me a slave that was trusty and bold.
"Ho! my charger--my charger!" we mount, we depart,
And soft pity whisper'd in vain at my heart.
On the Greek maiden's threshold in frenzy I stood--
I was faint--and the sun seem'd as darken'd with blood:
By the maiden's lone window I listen'd, and there
I beheld an Armenian caressing the fair.
The light darken'd round me--then flash'd my good blade....
The minion ne'er finish'd the kiss that betray'd.
On the corse of the minion in fury I danced,
Then silent and pale at the maiden I glanced.
I remember the prayers and the red-bursting stream....
Thus perish'd the maiden--thus perish'd my dream.
This raven-black shawl from her dead brow I tore--
On its fold from my dagger I wiped off the gore.
The mists of the evening arose, and my slave
Hurl'd the corses of both in the Danube's dark wave.
Since then, I kiss never the maid's eyes of light--
Since then, I know never the soft joys of night.
Like a madman I gaze on the raven-black shawl;
Remorse, fear, and anguish--this heart knows them all!
* * * * *
The pretty lines which we are now about to offer, are rather remarkable
as being written in the manner of the ancient national songs of Russia,
than for any thing very new in the ideas, or very striking in the
expression. They possess, however--at least in the original--a certain
charm arising from simplicity and grace.
THE ROSE.
Where is our rose, friends?
Tell if ye may!
Faded the rose, friends,
The Dawn-child of Day.
Ah, do not say,
Such is youth's fleetness!
Ah, do not say,
Thus fades life's sweetness!
No, rather say,
I mourn thee, rose--farewell!
Now to the lily-bell
Flit we away.
* * * * *
Among the thousand-and-one compositions, in all languages, founded upon
the sublime theme of the downfall and death of Napoleon, there are, we
think, very few which have surpassed, in weight of thought, in splendour
of diction, and in grandeur of versification, Púshkin's noble lyric upon
this subject. The mighty share which Russia had in overthrowing the
gigantic power of the greatest of modern conquerors, could not fail of
affording to a Russian poet a peculiar source of triumphant yet not too
exulting inspiration; and Púshkin, in that portion of the following ode
in which he is led more particularly to allude to the part played by his
country in the sublime drama, whose catastrophe was the ruin of
Bonaparte's blood-cemented empire, has given undeniable proof of his
possessing that union of magnanimity and patriotism, which is not the
meanest characteristic of elevated genius. While the poet gives full way
to the triumphant feelings so naturally inspired by the exploits of
Russian valour, and by the patient fortitude of Russian policy, he
wisely and nobly abstains on indulging in any of those outbursts of
gratified revenge and national hatred which deform the pages of almost
all--poets, and even historians--who have written on this colossal
subject.
NAPOLEON.
The wondrous destiny is ended,
The mighty light is quench'd and dead;
In storm and darkness hath descended
Napoleon's sun, so bright and dread.
The captive King hath burst his prison--
The petted child of Victory;
And for the Exile hath arisen
The dawning of Posterity.
O thou, of whose immortal story
Earth aye the memory shall keep,
Now, 'neath the shadow of thy glory
Rest, rest, amid the lonely deep!
A grave sublime ... nor nobler ever
Couldst thou have found ... for o'er thine urn
The Nations' hate is quench'd for ever,
And Glory's beacon-ray shall burn.
There was a time thine eagles tower'd
Resistless o'er the humbled world;
There was a time the empires cower'd
Before the bolt thy hand had hurl'd:
The standards, thy proud will obeying,
Flapp'd wrath and woe on every wind--
A few short years, and thou wert laying
Thine iron yoke on human kind.
* * * * *
And France, on glories vain and hollow,
Had fixed her frenzy-glance of flame--
Forgot sublimer hopes, to follow
Thee, Conqueror, thee--her dazzling shame!
Thy legions' swords with blood were drunken--
All sank before thine echoing tread;
And Europe fell--for sleep was sunken,
The sleep of death--upon her head.
* * * * *
Thou mightst have judged us, but thou wouldst not!
What dimm'd thy reason's piercing light,
That Russian hearts thou understoodst not,
From thine heroic spirit's height?
Moscow's immortal conflagration
Foreseeing not, thou deem'dst that we
Would kneel for peace, a conquer'd nation--
Thou knew'st the Russ ... too late for thee!
Up, Russia! Queen of hundred battles,
Remember now thine ancient right!
* * * * *
Blaze, Moscow!--Far shall shine thy light!
Lo! other times are dawning o'er us:
Be blotted out, our short disgrace!
Swell, Russia, swell the battle chorus!
War! is the watchword of our race!
Lo! how the baffled leader seizeth,
With fetter'd hands, his Iron Crown--
A dread abyss his spirit freezeth!
Down, down he goes, to ruin down!
And Europe's armaments are driven,
Like mist, along the blood-stain'd snow--
That snow shall melt 'neath summer's heaven,
With the last footstep of the foe.
'Twas a wild storm of fear and wonder,
When Europe woke and burst her chain;
The accursed race, like scatter'd thunder,
After the tyrant fled amain.
And Nemesis a doom hath spoken,
The Mighty hears that doom with dread:
The wrongs thou'st done shall now be wroken,
Tyrant, upon thy guilty head!
Thou shalt redeem thy usurpation,
Thy long career of war and crime,
In exile's eating desolation,
Beneath a far and stranger clime.
And oft the midnight sail shall wander
By that lone isle, thy prison-place,
And oft a stranger there shall ponder,
And o'er that stone a pardon trace,
Where mused the Exile, oft recalling
The well-known clang of sword and lance,
The yells, Night's icy ear appalling;
His own blue sky--the sky of France;
Where, in his loneliness forgetting
His broken sword, his ruin'd throne,
With bitter grief, with vain regretting,
On his fair Boy he mused alone.
But shame, and curses without number,
Upon that reptile head be laid,
Whose insults now shall vex the slumber
Of him--that sad discrowned shade!
No! for his trump the signal sounded,
Her glorious race when Russia ran;
His hand, 'mid strife and battle, founded
Eternal liberty for man!
* * * * *
The next specimen for which we have to request the indulgence of our
readers, is a little composition of a very different and much less
ambitious character. The idea is simple enough, and not, we think,
entirely devoid of originality--the primary object of every translator
in the selection of the subjects on which he is to exercise his
dexterity.
THE STORM.
See, on yon rock, a maiden's form,
Far o'er the wave a white robe flashing,
Around, before the blackening storm,
On the loud beach the billows dashing;
Along the waves, now red, now pale,
The lightning-glare incessant gleameth;
Whirling and fluttering in the gale,
The snowy robe incessant streameth;
Fair is that sea in blackening storm,
And fair that sky with lightnings riven,
But fairer far that maiden form,
Than wave, or flash, or stormy heaven!
* * * * *
We now come to one of the most remarkable lyric productions of our
Poet's genius, the "General;" and in order that our readers may be
enabled to understand and appreciate this exquisite little poem, we
shall preface it with a few remarks of an explanatory character; as the
_details_, at least, of the events upon which it is founded may not be
so generally known in England as they are in Russia. Our English
readers, however, are doubtless sufficiently familiar with the history
of the great campaign of the year 1812, which led to the burning of
Moscow, and to the consequent annihilation of the mighty army which
Napoleon led to perish in the snows of Russia, to remember one
remarkable episode connected with that most important campaign. They
remember that one of the Russian armies was placed under the command of
Field-marshal Barclay de Tolly, a general descended from an ancient
Scottish family which had been settled for some generations in Russia,
but who was in every respect to be considered as a native Russian, being
born a subject of the Tsar, and having, during a long life of service in
the Russian army, gradually reached the highest military rank, and
acquired a well-earned and universal reputation as an able strategist
and a brave man. The mode of operations determined on at the beginning
of this most momentous struggle, and persevered in throughout by the
Russians, with a patience and steadiness no less admirable than the
wisdom of the combinations on which they were founded, was a purely
defensive system of tactics. The event amply demonstrated the soundness
of the principles upon which those operations were based; for while
Napoleon was gradually attracted into the interior of the country by
armies which perpetually retired before him without giving him the
opportunity of coming to a general action, the autumn was gradually
passing away, and the flames of Moscow only served to light up, for the
French army, the beginning of their hopeless retreat through a country
now totally laid waste, and covered with the snows of a Russian winter.
This mode of operations, however, was by no means likely to please the
population of Russia, infuriated by the long unaccustomed presence of a
hostile army within their sacred frontier, and worked up by all the
circumstances of the invasion to the highest pitch of patriotic
enthusiasm. Unable to appreciate the value of what must have appeared to
them a timid and pusillanimous policy, they overwhelmed Barclay de Tolly
with violent accusations of cowardice, and even of treachery; rendered
the more plausible to the mind of the ignorant, by the circumstance of
their object being a foreigner--or at least of foreign blood. So violent
ultimately became these accusations, that although the Field-marshal
continued to enjoy the highest confidence and esteem of his sovereign,
it was found expedient to allow him to resign the chief command, in
which he was succeeded by Kutúzoff. Barclay de Tolly, during the greater
part of the campaign, fought as a simple general of division, in which
character (as Púshkin describes) he took part in the great battle of
Borodíno.
Barclay must still be considered as one of those distinguished persons
to whose memory justice has never been entirely done; and to do this
justice was Púshkin's generous task in the noble lines which follow
these remarks. No traveller has ever visited the winter palace of St
Petersburg without having been struck with the celebrated "Hall of
Marshals," which forms one of its most imposing features. In this
magnificent room are placed the portraits (chiefly painted by Dawe, an
English artist, who passed the greater part of his life in Russia) of
the Russian generals who figured in that great campaign; and among them
is to be found, of course, the "counterfeit presentment" of Barclay de
Tolly, painted, as the field-marshals are in every case in this gallery
of portraits, at full length. With respect to the versification of this
and several other poems which we have selected, the English reader will
not perhaps at first remark that it is nothing more than the measure
used by old Drayton in the _Polyolbion_, and one in which a great deal
of the earlier English poetry is written. It is very favourite measure
of our Russian poet, who has, however, increased, in some degree, its
difficulty for an English versifier, by introducing a great number of
double terminations. It will be found, indeed, that these double rhymes
are as numerous as the single or monosyllabic ones.
THE GENERAL.
In the Tsar's palace stands a hall right nobly builded;
Its walls are neither carved, nor velvet-hung, nor gilded,
Nor here beneath the glass doth pearl or diamond glow;
But wheresoe'er ye look, around, above, below,
The quick-eyed Painter's hand, now bold, now softly tender,
From his free pencil here hath shed a magic splendour.
Here are no village nymphs, no dewy forest-glades,
No fauns with giddy cups, no snowy-bosom'd maids,
No hunting-scene, no dance; but cloaks, and plumes, and sabres,
And faces sternly still, and dark with hero-labours.
The Painter's art hath here in glittering crowd portray'd
The chiefs who Russia's line to victory array'd;
Chiefs in that great Campaign attired in fadeless glory
Of the year Twelve, that aye shall live in Russian story.
Here oft in musing mood my silent footstep strays,
Before these well-known forms I love to stop and gaze,
And dream I hear their voice, 'mid battle-thunder ringing.
Some of them are no more; and some, with faces flinging
Upon the canvass still Youth's fresh and rosy bloom,
Are wrinkled now and old, and bending to the tomb
The laurel-wreathed brow.
But chiefly One doth win me
'Mid the stern throng. With new thoughts swelling in me
Before that One I stand, and cannot lightly brook
To take mine eye from him. And still, the more I look,
The more within my breast is bitterness awaked.
He's painted at full length. His brow, austere and naked,
Shines like a fleshless skull, and on it ye may mark
A mighty weight of woe. Around him--all is dark;
Behind, a tented field. Tranquil and stern he raises
His mournful eye, and with contemptuous calmness gazes.
Be't that the artist here embodied his own thought,
When on the canvass thus the lineaments he caught,
Or guided and inspired by some unknown Possession--
I know not: Dawe has drawn the man with this expression.
Unhappy chief! Alas, thy cup was full of gall;
Unto a foreign land thou sacrificedst all.
The savage mob's dull glance of hate thou calmly balkedst,
With thy great thoughts alone and silently thou walkedst;
The people could not brook thy foreign-sounding name,
Pursued thee with its yell, and piled thy head with shame,
And by thy very hand though saved from ill and danger,
Mock'd at thy sacred age--thou hoary-headed stranger!
And even _he_, whose soul could read thy noble heart,
To please that idiot mob, blamed thee with cruel art....
And long with patient faith, defying doubt and terror,
Thou heldest on unmoved, spite of a people's error;
And, e'er thy race was run, wert forced at last to yield
The well-earned laurel-wreath of many a bloody field,
Fame, power, and deep-thought plans; and with thy sword beside thee
Within a regiment's ranks, alone, obscure, to hide thee,
And there, a veteran chief, like some young sentinel,
When first upon his ear rings the ball's whistling knell,
Thou rushedst 'mid the fire, a warrior's death desiring--
In vain!--
* * * * *
O men! O wretched race! O worthy tears and laughter!
Priests of the moment's god, ne'er thinking of hereafter!
How oft among ye, men! a mighty one is seen,
Whom the blind age pursues with insults mad and mean,
But gazing on whose face, some future generation
Shall feel, as I do now, regret and admiration!
SUSPIRIA DE PROFUNDIS; BEING A SEQUEL TO THE CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH
OPIUM-EATER.
PART II.
The Oxford visions, of which some have been given, were but
anticipations necessary to illustrate the glimpse opened of childhood,
(as being its reaction.) In this SECOND part, returning from that
anticipation, I retrace an abstract of my boyish and youthful days so
far as they furnished or exposed the germs of later experiences in
worlds more shadowy.
Upon me, as upon others scattered thinly by tens and twenties over every
thousand years, fell too powerfully and too early the vision of life.
The horror of life mixed itself already in earliest youth with the
heavenly sweetness of life; that grief, which one in a hundred has
sensibility enough to gather from the sad retrospect of life in its
closing stage, for me shed its dews as a prelibation upon the fountains
of life whilst yet sparkling to the morning sun. I saw from afar and
from before what I was to see from behind. Is this the description of an
early youth passed in the shades of gloom? No, but of a youth passed in
the divinest happiness. And if the reader has (which so few have) the
passion, without which there is no reading of the legend and
superscription upon man's brow, if he is not (as most are) deafer than
the grave to every _deep_ note that sighs upwards from the Delphic caves
of human life, he will know that the rapture of life (or any thing which
by approach can merit that name) does not arise, unless as perfect music
arises--music of Mozart or Beethoven--by the confluence of the mighty
and terrific discords with the subtle concords. Not by contrast, or as
reciprocal foils do these elements act, which is the feeble conception
of many, but by union. They are the sexual forces in music: "male and
female created he them;" and these mighty antagonists do not put forth
their hostilities by repulsion, but by deepest attraction.
As "in to-day already walks to-morrow," so in the past experience of a
youthful life may be seen dimly the future. The collisions with alien
interests or hostile views, of a child, boy, or very young man, so
insulated as each of these is sure to be,--those aspects of opposition
which such a person _can_ occupy, are limited by the exceedingly few and
trivial lines of connexion along which he is able to radiate any
essential influence whatever upon the fortunes or happiness of others.
Circumstances may magnify his importance for the moment; but, after all,
any cable which he carries out upon other vessels is easily slipped upon
a feud arising. Far otherwise is the state of relations connecting an
adult or responsible man with the circles around him as life advances.
The network of these relations is a thousand times more intricate, the
jarring of these intricate relations a thousand times more frequent, and
the vibrations a thousand times harsher which these jarrings diffuse.
This truth is felt beforehand misgivingly and in troubled vision, by a
young man who stands upon the threshold of manhood. One earliest
instinct of fear and horror would darken his spirit if it could be
revealed to itself and self-questioned at the moment of birth: a second
instinct of the sane nature would again pollute that tremulous mirror,
if the moment were as punctually marked as physical birth is marked,
which dismisses him finally upon the tides of absolute self-control. A
dark ocean would seem the total expanse of life from the first: but far
darker and more appalling would seem that interior and second chamber of
the ocean which called him away for ever on the direct accountability of
others. Dreadful would be the morning which should say--"Be thou a human
child incarnate;" but more dreadful the morning which should say--"Bear
thou henceforth the sceptre of thy self-dominion through life, and the
passion of life!" Yes, dreadful would be both: but without a basis of
the dreadful there is no perfect rapture. It is a part through the
sorrow of life, growing out of its events, that this basis of awe and
solemn darkness slowly accumulates. _That_ I have illustrated. But, as
life expands, it is more through the _strife_ which besets us, strife
from conflicting opinions, positions, passions, interests, that the
funereal ground settles and deposits itself, which sends upward the dark
lustrous brilliancy through the jewel of life--else revealing a pale and
superficial glitter. Either the human being must suffer and struggle as
the price of a more searching vision, or his gaze must be shallow and
without intellectual revelation.
Through accident it was in part, and, where through no accident but my
own nature, not through features of it at all painful to recollect, that
constantly in early life (that is, from boyish days until eighteen, when
by going to Oxford, practically I became my own master) I was engaged in
duels of fierce continual struggle, with some person or body of persons,
that sought, like the Roman _retiarius_, to throw a net of deadly
coercion or constraint over the undoubted rights of my natural freedom.
The steady rebellion upon my part in one-half, was a mere human reaction
of justifiable indignation; but in the other half it was the struggle of
a conscientious nature--disdaining to feel it as any mere right or
discretional privilege--no, feeling it as the noblest of duties to
resist, though it should be mortally, those that would have enslaved me,
and to retort scorn upon those that would have put my head below their
feet. Too much, even in later life, I have perceived in men that pass
for good men, a disposition to degrade (and if possible to degrade
through self-degradation) those in whom unwillingly they feel any weight
of oppression to themselves, by commanding qualities of intellect or
character. They respect you: they are compelled to do so: and they hate
to do so. Next, therefore, they seek to throw off the sense of this
oppression, and to take vengeance for it, by co-operating with any
unhappy accidents in your life, to inflict a sense of humiliation upon
you, and (if possible) to force you into becoming a consenting party to
that humiliation. Oh, wherefore is it that those who presume to call
themselves the "friends" of this man or that woman, are so often those
above all others, whom in the hour of death that man or woman is most
likely to salute with the valediction--Would God I had never seen your
face?
In citing one or two cases of these early struggles, I have chiefly in
view the effect of these upon my subsequent visions under the reign of
opium. And this indulgent reflection should accompany the mature reader
through all such records of boyish inexperience. A good tempered-man,
who is also acquainted with the world, will easily evade, without
needing any artifice of servile obsequiousness, those quarrels which an
upright simplicity, jealous of its own rights, and unpractised in the
science of worldly address, cannot always evade without some loss of
self-respect. Suavity in this manner may, it is true, be reconciled with
firmness in the matter; but not easily by a young person who wants all
the appropriate resources of knowledge, of adroit and guarded language,
for making his good temper available. Men are protected from insult and
wrong, not merely by their own skill, but also in the absence of any
skill at all, by the general spirit of forbearance to which society has
trained all those whom they are likely to meet. But boys meeting with no
such forbearance or training in other boys, must sometimes be thrown
upon feuds in the ratio of their own firmness, much more than in the
ratio of any natural proneness to quarrel. Such a subject, however, will
be best illustrated by a sketch or two of my own principal feuds.
The first, but merely transient and playful, nor worth noticing at all,
but for its subsequent resurrection under other and awful colouring in
my dreams, grew out of an imaginary slight, as I viewed it, put upon me
by one of my guardians. I had four guardians: and the one of these who
had the most knowledge and talent of the whole, a banker, living about a
hundred miles from my home, had invited me when eleven years old to his
house. His eldest daughter, perhaps a year younger than myself, wore at
that time upon her very lovely face the most angelic expression of
character and temper that I have almost ever seen. Naturally, I fell in
love with her. It seems absurd to say so; and the more so, because two
children more absolutely innocent than we were cannot be imagined,
neither of us having ever been at any school;--but the simple truth is,
that in the most chivalrous sense I was in love with her. And the proof
that I was so showed itself in three separate modes: I kissed her glove
on any rare occasion when I found it lying on a table; secondly, I
looked out for some excuse to be jealous of her; and, thirdly, I did my
very best to get up a quarrel. What I wanted the quarrel for was the
luxury of a reconciliation; a hill cannot be had, you know, without
going to the expense of a valley. And though I hated the very thought of
a moment's difference with so truly gentle a girl, yet how, but through
such a purgatory, could one win the paradise of her returning smiles?
All this, however, came to nothing; and simply because she positively
would _not_ quarrel. And the jealousy fell through, because there was no
decent subject for such a passion, unless it had settled upon an old
music-master whom lunacy itself could not adopt as a rival. The quarrel
meantime, which never prospered with the daughter, silently kindled on
my part towards the father. His offence was this. At dinner, I naturally
placed myself by the side of M., and it gave me great pleasure to touch
her hand at intervals. As M. was my cousin, though twice or even three
times removed, I did not feel taking too great a liberty in this little
act of tenderness. No matter if three thousand times removed, I said, my
cousin is my cousin: nor had I ever very much designed to conceal the
act; or if so, rather on her account than my own. One evening, however,
papa observed my manoeuvre. Did he seem displeased? Not at all: he
even condescended to smile. But the next day he placed M. on the side
opposite to myself. In one respect this was really an improvement;
because it gave me a better view of my cousin's sweet countenance. But
then there was the loss of the hand to be considered, and secondly there
was the affront. It was clear that vengeance must be had. Now there was
but one thing in this world that I could do even decently: but _that_ I
could do admirably. This was writing Latin hexameters. Juvenal, though
it was not very much of him that I had then read, seemed to me a divine
model. The inspiration of wrath spoke through him as through a Hebrew
prophet. The same inspiration spoke now in me. _Facit indignatio
versum_, said Juvenal. And it must be owned that Indignation has never
made such good verses since as she did in that day. But still, even to
me this agile passion proved a Muse of genial inspiration for a couple
of paragraphs: and one line I will mention as worthy to have taken its
place in Juvenal himself. I say this without scruple, having not a
shadow of vanity, nor on the other hand a shadow of false modesty
connected with such boyish accomplishments. The poem opened thus--
"Te nimis austerum; sacrae qui foedera mensae
Diruis, insector Satyrae reboante flagello."
But the line, which I insist upon as of Roman strength, was the closing
one of the next sentence. The general effect of the sentiment was--that
my clamorous wrath should make its way even into ears that were past
hearing:
"----mea saeva querela
Auribus insidet ceratis, auribus etsi
Non audituris hybernâ nocte procellam."
The power, however, which inflated my verse, soon collapsed; having been
soothed from the very first by finding--that except in this one instance
at the dinner-table, which probably had been viewed as an indecorum, no
further restraint of any kind whatever was meditated upon my intercourse
with M. Besides, it was too painful to lock up good verses in one's own
solitary breast. Yet how could I shock the sweet filial heart of my
cousin by a fierce lampoon or _stylites_ against her father, had Latin
even figured amongst her accomplishments? Then it occurred to me that
the verses might be shown to the father. But was there not something
treacherous in gaining a man's approbation under a mask to a satire upon
himself? Or would he have always understood me? For one person a year
after took the _sacrae mensae_ (by which I had meant the sanctities of
hospitality) to mean the sacramental table. And on consideration I began
to suspect, that many people would pronounce myself the party who had
violated the holy ties of hospitality, which are equally binding on
guest as on host. Indolence, which sometimes comes in aid of good
impulses as well as bad, favoured these relenting thoughts; the society
of M. did still more to wean me from further efforts of satire: and,
finally, my Latin poem remained a _torso_. But upon the whole my
guardian had a narrow escape of descending to posterity in a
disadvantageous light, had he rolled down to it through my hexameters.
Here was a case of merely playful feud. But the same talent of Latin
verses soon after connected me with a real feud that harassed my mind
more than would be supposed, and precisely by this agency, viz. that it
arrayed one set of feelings against another. It divided my mind as by
domestic feud against itself. About a year after, returning from the
visit to my guardian's, and when I must have been nearly completing my
twelfth year, I was sent to a great public school. Every man has reason
to rejoice who enjoys so great an advantage. I condemned and _do_
condemn the practice of sometimes sending out into such stormy exposures
those who are as yet too young, too dependent on female gentleness, and
endowed with sensibilities too exquisite. But at nine or ten the
masculine energies of the character are beginning to be developed: or,
if not, no discipline will better aid in their developement than the
bracing intercourse of a great English classical school. Even the
selfish are forced into accommodating themselves to a public standard of
generosity, and the effeminate into conforming to a rule of manliness. I
was myself at two public schools; and I think with gratitude of the
benefit which I reaped from both; as also I think with gratitude of the
upright guardian in whose quiet household I learned Latin so
effectually. But the small private schools which I witnessed for brief
periods, containing thirty to forty boys, were models of ignoble
manners as respected some part of the juniors, and of favouritism
amongst the masters. Nowhere is the sublimity of public justice so
broadly exemplified as in an English school. There is not in the
universe such an areopagus for fair play and abhorrence of all crooked
ways, as an English mob, or one of the English time-honoured public
schools. But my own first introduction to such an establishment was
under peculiar and contradictory circumstances. When my "rating," or
graduation in the school, was to be settled, naturally my altitude (to
speak astronomically) was taken by the proficiency in Greek. But I could
then barely construe books so easy as the Greek Testament and the Iliad.
This was considered quite well enough for my age; but still it caused me
to be placed three steps below the highest rank in the school. Within
one week, however, my talent for Latin verses, which had by this time
gathered strength and expansion, became known. I was honoured as never
was man or boy since Mordecai the Jew. Not properly belonging to the
flock of the head master, but to the leading section of the second, I
was now weekly paraded for distinction at the supreme tribunal of the
school; out of which at first grew nothing but a sunshine of approbation
delightful to my heart, still brooding upon solitude. Within six weeks
this had changed. The approbation indeed continued, and the public
testimony of it. Neither would there, in the ordinary course, have been
any painful reaction from jealousy or fretful resistance to the
soundness of my pretensions; since it was sufficiently known to some of
my schoolfellows, that I, who had no male relatives but military men,
and those in India, could not have benefited by any clandestine aid.
But, unhappily, the head master was at that time dissatisfied with some
points in the progress of his head form; and, as it soon appeared, was
continually throwing in their teeth the brilliancy of my verses at
twelve, by comparison with theirs at seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen.
I had observed him sometimes pointing to myself; and was perplexed at
seeing the gesture followed by gloomy looks, and what French reporters
call "sensation," in these young men, whom naturally I viewed with awe
as my leaders, boys that were called young men, men that were reading
Sophocles--(a name that carried with it the sound of something seraphic
to my ears)--and who never had vouchsafed to waste a word on such a
child as myself. The day was come, however, when all that would be
changed. One of these leaders strode up to me in the public playgrounds,
and delivering a blow on my shoulder, which was not intended to hurt me,
but as a mere formula of introduction, asked me, "What the d--l I meant
by bolting out of the course, and annoying other people in that manner?
Were other people to have no rest for me and my verses, which, after
all, were horribly bad?" There might have been some difficulty in
returning an answer to this address, but none was required. I was
briefly admonished to see that I wrote worse for the future, or
else----At this _aposiopesis_ I looked enquiringly at the speaker, and
he filled up the chasm by saying, that he would "annihilate" me. Could
any person fail to be aghast at such a demand? I was to write worse than
my own standard, which, by his account of my verses, must be difficult;
and I was to write worse than himself, which might be impossible. My
feelings revolted, it may be supposed, against so arrogant a demand,
unless it had been far otherwise expressed; and on the next occasion for
sending up verses, so far from attending to the orders issued, I
double-shotted my guns; double applause descended on myself; but I
remarked with some awe, though not repenting of what I had done, that
double confusion seemed to agitate the ranks of my enemies. Amongst them
loomed out in the distance my "annihilating" friend, who shook his huge
fist at me, but with something like a grim smile about his eyes. He took
an early opportunity of paying his respects to me--saying, "You little
devil, do you call this writing your worst?" "No," I replied; "I call it
writing my best." The annihilator, as it turned out, was really a
good-natured young man; but he soon went off to Cambridge; and with the
rest, or some of them, I continued to wage war for nearly a year. And
yet, for a word spoken with kindness, I would have resigned the
peacock's feather in my cap as the merest of baubles. Undoubtedly,
praise sounded sweet in my ears also. But _that_ was nothing by
comparison with what stood on the other side. I detested distinctions
that were connected with mortification to others. And, even if I could
have got over _that_, the eternal feud fretted and tormented my nature.
Love, that once in childhood had been so mere a necessity to me, _that_
had long been a mere reflected ray from a departed sunset. But peace,
and freedom from strife, if love were no longer possible, (as so rarely
it is in this world,) was the absolute necessity of my heart. To contend
with somebody was still my fate; how to escape the contention I could
not see; and yet for itself, and the deadly passions into which it
forced me, I hated and loathed it more than death. It added to the
distraction and internal feud of my own mind--that I could not
_altogether_ condemn the upper boys. I was made a handle of humiliation
to them. And in the mean time, if I had an advantage in one
accomplishment, which is all a matter of accident, or peculiar taste and
feeling, they, on the other hand, had a great advantage over me in the
more elaborate difficulties of Greek, and of choral Greek poetry. I
could not altogether wonder at their hatred of myself. Yet still, as
they had chosen to adopt this mode of conflict with me, I did not feel
that I had any choice but to resist. The contest was terminated for me
by my removal from the school, in consequence of a very threatening
illness affecting my head; but it lasted nearly a year; and it did not
close before several amongst my public enemies had become my private
friends. They were much older, but they invited me to the houses of
their friends, and showed me a respect which deeply affected me--this
respect having more reference, apparently, to the firmness I had
exhibited than to the splendour of my verses. And, indeed, these had
rather drooped from a natural accident; several persons of my own class
had formed the practice of asking me to write verses for _them_. I could
not refuse. But, as the subjects given out were the same for all of us,
it was not possible to take so many crops off the ground without
starving the quality of all.
Two years and a half from this time, I was again at a public school of
ancient foundation. Now I was myself one of the three who formed the
highest class. Now I myself was familiar with Sophocles, who once had
been so shadowy a name in my ear. But, strange to say, now in my
sixteenth year, I cared nothing at all for the glory of Latin verse. All
the business of school was slight and trivial in my eyes. Costing me not
an effort, it could not engage any part of my attention; that was now
swallowed up altogether by the literature of my native land. I still
reverenced the Grecian drama, as always I must. But else I cared little
then for classical pursuits. A deeper spell had mastered me; and I lived
only in those bowers where deeper passions spoke.
Here, however, it was that began another and more important struggle. I
was drawing near to seventeen, and, in a year after _that_, would arrive
the usual time for going to Oxford. To Oxford my guardians made no
objection; and they readily agreed to make the allowance then
universally regarded as the _minimum_ for an Oxford student, viz. £200
per annum. But they insisted, as a previous condition, that I should
make a positive and definitive choice of a profession. Now I was well
aware that, if I _did_ make such a choice, no law existed, nor could any
obligation be created through deeds or signature, by which I could
finally be compelled into keeping my engagement. But this evasion did
not suit me. Here, again, I felt indignantly that the principle of the
attempt was unjust. The object was certainly to do me service by saving
money, since, if I selected the bar as my profession, it was contended
by some persons, (misinformed, however,) that not Oxford, but a special
pleader's office, would be my proper destination; but I cared not for
arguments of that sort. Oxford I was determined to make my home; and
also to bear my future course utterly untrammeled by promises that I
might repent. Soon came the catastrophe of this struggle. A little
before my seventeenth birthday, I walked off one lovely summer morning
to North Wales--rambled there for months--and, finally, under some
obscure hopes of raising money on my personal security, I went up to
London. Now I was in my eighteenth year; and, during this period it was
that I passed through that trial of severe distress, of which I gave
some account in my former Confessions. Having a motive, however, for
glancing backwards briefly at that period in the present series, I will
do so at this point.
I saw in one journal an insinuation that the incidents in the
_preliminary_ narrative were possibly without foundation. To such an
expression of mere gratuitous malignity, as it happened to be supported
by no one argument except a remark, apparently absurd, but certainly
false, I did not condescend to answer. In reality, the possibility had
never occurred to me that any person of judgment would seriously suspect
me of taking liberties with that part of the work, since, though no one
of the parties concerned but myself stood in so central a position to
the circumstances as to be acquainted with _all_ of them, many were
acquainted with each separate section of the memoir. Relays of witnesses
might have been summoned to mount guard, as it were, upon the accuracy
of each particular in the whole succession of incidents; and some of
these people had an interest, more or less strong, in exposing any
deviation from the strictest _letter_ of the truth, had it been in their
power to do so. It is now twenty-two years since I saw the objection
here alluded to; and, in saying that I did not condescend to notice it,
the reader must not find any reason for taxing me with a blamable
haughtiness. But every man is entitled to be haughty when his veracity
is impeached; and, still more, when it is impeached by a dishonest
objection, or, if not _that_, by an objection which argues a
carelessness of attention almost amounting to dishonesty, in a case
where it was meant to sustain an imputation of falsehood. Let a man read
carelessly if he will, but not where he is meaning to use his reading
for a purpose of wounding another man's honour. Having thus, by
twenty-two years' silence, sufficiently expressed my contempt for the
slander,[19] I now feel myself at liberty to draw it into notice, for
the sake, _inter alia_, of showing in how rash a spirit malignity often
works. In the preliminary account of certain boyish adventures which had
exposed me to suffering of a kind not commonly incident to persons in my
station of life, and leaving behind a temptation to the use of opium
under certain arrears of weakness, I had occasion to notice a
disreputable attorney in London, who showed me some attentions, partly
on my own account as a boy of some expectations, but much more with the
purpose of fastening his professional grappling-hooks upon the young
Earl of A----t, my former companion, and my present correspondent. This
man's house was slightly described, and, with more minuteness, I had
exposed some interesting traits in his household economy. A question,
therefore, naturally arose in several people's curiosity--Where was this
house situated? and the more so because I had pointed a renewed
attention to it by saying, that on that very evening, (viz. the evening
on which that particular page of the Confessions was written,) I had
visited the street, looked up at the windows, and, instead of the gloomy
desolation reigning there when myself and a little girl were the sole
nightly tenants, sleeping in fact (poor freezing creatures that we both
were) on the floor of the attorney's law-chamber, and making a pillow
out of his infernal parchments, I had seen with pleasure the evidences
of comfort, respectability, and domestic animation, in the lights and
stir prevailing through different stories of the house. Upon this the
upright critic told his readers that I had described the house as
standing in Oxford Street, and then appealed to their own knowledge of
that street whether such a house could be _so_ situated. Why not--he
neglected to tell us. The houses at the east end of Oxford Street are
certainly of too small an order to meet my account of the attorney's
house; but why should it be at the east end? Oxford Street is a mile and
a quarter long, and being built continuously on both sides, finds room
for houses of _many_ classes. Meantime it happens that, although the
true house was most obscurely indicated, _any_ house whatever in Oxford
Street was most luminously excluded. In all the immensity of London
there was but one single street that could be challenged by an attentive
reader of the Confessions as peremptorily _not_ the street of the
attorney's house--and _that_ one was Oxford Street; for, in speaking of
my own renewed acquaintance with the outside of this house, I used some
expression implying that, in order to make such a visit of
reconnoissance, I had turned _aside_ from Oxford Street. The matter is a
perfect trifle in itself, but it is no trifle in a question affecting a
writer's accuracy. If in a thing so absolutely impossible to be
forgotten as the true situation of a house painfully memorable to a
man's feelings, from being the scene of boyish distresses the most
exquisite--nights passed in the misery of cold, and hunger preying upon
him both night and day, in a degree which very many would not have
survived,--he, when retracing his schoolboy annals, could have shown
indecision even, far more dreaded inaccuracy, in identifying the house,
not one syllable after _that_, which he could have said on any other
subject, would have won any confidence, or deserved any, from a
judicious reader. I may now mention--the Herod being dead whose
persecutions I had reason to fear--that the house in question stands in
Greek Street on the west, and is the house on that side nearest to
Soho-Square, but without looking into the Square. This it was hardly
safe to mention at the date of the published Confessions. It was my
private opinion, indeed, that there were probably twenty-five chances to
one in favour of my friend the attorney having been by that time hanged.
But then this argued inversely; one chance to twenty-five that my friend
might be _un_hanged, and knocking about the streets of London; in which
case it would have been a perfect god-send to him that here lay an
opening (of _my_ contrivance, not _his_) for requesting the opinion of a
jury on the amount of _solatium_ due to his wounded feelings in an
action on the passage in the Confessions. To have indicated even the
street would have been enough. Because there could surely be but one
such Grecian in Greek Street, or but one that realized the other
conditions of the unknown quantity. There was also a separate danger not
absolutely so laughable as it sounds. Me there was little chance that
the attorney should meet; but my book he might easily have met
(supposing always that the warrant of _Sus. per coll._ had not yet on
_his_ account travelled down to Newgate.) For he was literary; admired
literature; and, as a lawyer, he wrote on some subjects fluently; Might
he not publish _his_ Confessions? Or, which would be worse, a supplement
to mine--printed so as exactly to match? In which case I should have had
the same affliction that Gibbon the historian dreaded so much; viz. that
of seeing a refutation of himself, and his own answer to the refutation,
all bound up in one and the same self-combating volume. Besides, he
would have cross-examined me before the public in Old Bailey style; no
story, the most straightforward that ever was told, could be sure to
stand _that_. And my readers might be left in a state of painful doubt
whether _he_ might not, after all, have been a model of suffering
innocence--I (to say the kindest thing possible) plagued with the
natural treacheries of a schoolboy's memory. In taking leave of this
case and the remembrances connected with it, let me say that, although
really believing in the probability of the attorney's having at least
found his way to Australia, I had no satisfaction in thinking of that
result. I knew my friend to be the very perfection of a scamp. And in
the running account between us, (I mean, in the ordinary sense, as to
money,) the balance could not be in _his_ favour; since I, on receiving
a sum of money, (considerable in the eyes of us both,) had transferred
pretty nearly the whole of it to _him_, for the purpose ostensibly held
out to me (but of course a hoax) of purchasing certain law "stamps;" for
he was then pursuing a diplomatic correspondence with various Jews who
lent money to young heirs, in some trifling proportion on my own
insignificant account, but much more truly on the account of Lord
A----t, my young friend. On the other side, he had given to me simply
the reliques of his breakfast-table, which itself was hardly more than a
relique. But in this he was not to blame. He could not give to me what
he had not for himself, nor sometimes for the poor starving child whom I
now suppose to have been his illegitimate daughter. So desperate was the
running fight, yard-arm to yard-arm, which he maintained with creditors
fierce as famine and hungry as the grave; so deep also was his horror (I
know not for which of the various reasons supposable) against falling
into a prison, that he seldom ventured to sleep twice successively in
the same house. That expense of itself must have pressed heavily in
London, where you pay half-a-crown at least for a bed that would cost
only a shilling in the provinces. In the midst of his knaveries, and
what were even more shocking to my remembrance, his confidential
discoveries in his rambling conversations of knavish _designs_, (not
always pecuniary,) there was a light of wandering misery in his eye at
times, which affected me afterwards at intervals when I recalled it in
the radiant happiness of nineteen, and amidst the solemn tranquillities
of Oxford. That of itself was interesting; the man was worse by far than
he had been meant to be; he had not the mind that reconciles itself to
evil. Besides, he respected scholarship, which appeared by the deference
he generally showed to myself, then about seventeen; he had an interest
in literature; _that_ argues something good; and was pleased at any
time, or even cheerful, when I turned the conversation upon books; nay,
he seemed touched with emotion, when I quoted some sentiment noble and
impassioned from one of the great poets, and would ask me to repeat it.
He would have been a man of memorable energy, and for good purposes, had
it not been for his agony of conflict with pecuniary embarrassments.
These probably had commenced in some fatal compliance with temptation
arising out of funds confided to him by a client. Perhaps he had gained
fifty guineas for a moment of necessity, and had sacrificed for that
trifle _only_ the serenity and the comfort of a life. Feelings of
relenting kindness, it was not in my nature to refuse in such a case;
and I wished to * * * But I never succeeded in tracing his steps through
the wilderness of London until some years back, when I ascertained that
he was dead. Generally speaking, the few people whom I have disliked in
this world were flourishing people of good repute. Whereas the knaves
whom I have known, one and all, and by no means few, I think of with
pleasure and kindness.
Heavens! when I look back to the sufferings which I have witnessed or
heard of even from this one brief London experience, I say if life could
throw open its long suits of chambers to our eyes from some station
_beforehand_, if from some secret stand we could look _by anticipation_
along its vast corridors, and aside into the recesses opening upon them
from either hand, halls of tragedy or chambers of retribution, simply in
that small wing and no more of the great caravanserai which we ourselves
shall haunt, simply in that narrow tract of time and no more where we
ourselves shall range, and confining our gaze to those and no others for
whom personally we shall be interested, what a recoil we should suffer
of horror in our estimate of life! What if those sudden catastrophes, or
those inexpiable afflictions, which _have_ already descended upon the
people within my own knowledge, and almost below my own eyes, all of
them now gone past, and some long past, had been thrown open before me
as a secret exhibition when first I and they stood within the vestibule
of morning hopes; when the calamities themselves had hardly begun to
gather in their elements of possibility, and when some of the parties to
them were as yet no more than infants! The past viewed not _as_ the
past, but by a spectator who steps back ten years deeper into the rear,
in order that he may regard it as a future; the calamity of 1840
contemplated from the station of 1830--the doom that rang the knell of
happiness viewed from a point of time when as yet it was neither feared
nor would even have been intelligible--the name that killed in 1843,
which in 1835 would have struck no vibration upon the heart--the
portrait that on the day of her Majesty's coronation would have been
admired by you with a pure
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