← catalogue

Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 59, No. 364, February 1846

by Various · English · Gutenberg #29938 · 550,938 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 59, No. 364, February 1846
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 59, No. 364, February 1846

Author: Various


        
Release date: September 8, 2009 [eBook #29938]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29938

Credits: Produced by Brendan OConnor, Jonathan Ingram and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
        file was produced from images generously made available
        by The Internet Library of Early Journals.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE, VOLUME 59, NO. 364, FEBRUARY 1846 ***




Produced by Brendan OConnor, Jonathan Ingram and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Library of Early Journals.)











BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.


  NO. CCCLXIV.          FEBRUARY, 1846.          VOL. LIX.




  CONTENTS.

  SERVIA AND THE "SERVIAN QUESTION,"                          129

  THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. PART IV.,                         149

  SOMETHING MORE ABOUT MUSIC,                                 169

  MARTHA BROWN,                                               184

  MARLBOROUGH. NO. III.,                                      195

  RECOLLECTIONS OF A LOVER OF SOCIETY,                        215

  IT'S ALL FOR THE BEST,                                      231

  A PEEP INTO THE WHIG PENNY POST-BAG,                        247

  EAST AND WEST,                                              248

  AN APOLOGY FOR A REVIEW,                                    249




  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 BALLANTYNE AND HUGHES, EDINBURGH.




  BLACKWOOD'S
  EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.



  NO. CCCLXIV.   FEBRUARY, 1846.   VOL. LIX.




SERVIA AND THE "SERVIAN QUESTION."


The principality of Servia was, a few years since, scarcely known to the
English public except as an obscure province of the Ottoman empire, into
which few travellers had penetrated; and of the population, internal
resources, &c., of which, little information existed, and little
curiosity was felt. But the singular political drama of which it has
lately been the theatre, and the patriotic resolution by which its
people, though deprived of support from their legitimate suzerain, the
Sultan, menaced by the power of Russia, and abandoned to their fate by
the other great powers of Europe, have yet succeeded in establishing
their independence, and maintaining in his place the ruler whom they had
chosen, has invested Servia with a degree of interest in the eyes of
Europe, which gives value to whatever tends to dispel our ignorance of a
country, which, by the new position it has assumed, has shown good title
to take rank as "the youngest member of the European family." A work,
therefore, which should give the same clear insight, even to a limited
extent, into the present condition and future prospects of Servia, as
was given some years since in regard to Hungary and Transylvania, by the
well-known volumes of Mr Paget, would at this time be a valuable
addition to our literature; but we are compelled to say, that this
desideratum is far from being adequately supplied by the publication now
before us. The author's descriptive powers are by no means of a high
order;--mountain and valley, castle and river, pass before us, in his
pages, without any definite impression being produced of their features
or scenery; and while page after page is filled with criticisms of the
accommodations and _cuisine_ at his different halting-places, and
verbatim reports of dialogues, on trivial subjects, between _Author_, on
the one part, and _Renegade_, _Cadi_, _Dervish_, _President_, and other
_dramatis personæ_, on the other, we look in vain for that extent and
accuracy of information which we might have expected from a traveller
who has enjoyed more than ordinary opportunities of mixing familiarly
with Servians of all ranks and degrees, from the prince to the peasant
and making himself acquainted with their feelings and national
character. The deficiency of political information would appear even
more remarkable. Though the author was personally acquainted with M.
Petronevich, one of the leaders of the National party, whom he visited
in his exile at Widdin; and though he was subsequently resident at
Belgrade for some time after the restoration of this able minister and
his colleague, M. Wucicz, to their country, scarcely an allusion escapes
him throughout, to the political movements which led either to their
banishment or their recall. As various circumstances and expressions,
however, lead us to suppose that Mr Paton's tour may have had reference
to objects which do not appear on the surface of the narrative, this
mysterious silence may not be without good reasons; and we shall deal
with him, accordingly, simply as a traveller in a hitherto untrodden
track, which we hope, erelong, to see more fully explored. Mr Paget, we
believe, is now a naturalized denizen of Transylvania: cannot he find
leisure for an excursion across the Save?

Mr Paton announces himself, in the title-page, as the author of a work
entitled "The Modern Syrians," with which it has not been our good
fortune to meet; but from the conclusion of which we presume the thread
of the present narrative is to be taken up, as he presents himself,
_sans ceremonie_, on the pier of Beyrout, preparing to embark on board
an Austrian steamer for Constantinople:--"I have been four years in the
East, and feel that I have had quite enough of it for the present." On
the third day they touched at Rhodes, "a perfectly preserved city and
fortress of the middle ages, with every variety of mediæval
battlement--so perfect is the illusion, that one wonders the warder's
horn should be mute, and the walls devoid of bowman, knight, and
squire." Though these ancient bulwarks of Christendom, within which the
White-Cross chivalry, under d'Aubusson and L'Isle-Adam, so long
withstood the might of the Osmanli, are thus briefly dismissed, Mr Paton
immediately after devotes five pages to some choice flowers of
Transatlantic rhetoric, culled from the small-talk of one of his
fellow-passengers, whom he calls "an American Presbyterian
_clergyman_"--though we grievously suspect him to have been a boatswain,
who had jumped from the forecastle to the pulpit by one of those
free-and-easy transitions not unusual in the "free and enlightened
republic." At Smyrna, he signalized his return to the "land of the
Franks," (which we had always imagined to be Europe,) by ordering a
beefsteak and a bottle of porter, and bespeaking the paper of a
Manchester traveller in drab leggings--and we at last find him safe in
Constantinople. For all that concerns the city of the Sultan, he
contents himself with referring his readers to the volumes of Mr
White--and certainly they could not have been left in better hands; and
so, "after a week of delightful repose," during which he was greatly
indebted to the hospitality of the embassy, "I embarked on board a
steamer, skirted the western coast of the Black Sea, and landed on the
following morning in Varna."

We may pass over the "delightfully keen impressions" which Mr Paton
records as produced by the contrast between the shores of Bulgaria and
the Syrian climes he had lately left; the practical result of which was,
that "a rattling blast from the Black Sea, more welcome than all the
balmy spices of Arabia," made it advisable to don a pea-jacket! The
fortifications of Varna, we are informed, were thoroughly repaired in
1843; "and from Varna to Roustchouk is three days' journey--the latter
half of the road being agreeably diversified with wood, corn, and
pasture, and many of the fields enclosed." A reference to the map will
show that this "agreeably diversified" road passes under the famous
lines of Shumla, and through many fields of fierce and stubborn fight
between Turk and Russ, in the days before the Sultan was delivered over
by his allies to his enemy, on the faith of a _military_ report from a
man who had never seen a regiment of regular troops under arms![1]--but
Mr Paton appears to consider such matters as exclusively the province
of _militaires_, and passes on at once to Roustchouk, which he found "a
fortress of vast extent; but, as it is commanded by the heights from
which I was descending, it appeared to want strength if approached from
the south. The ramparts were built with great solidity; but rusty old
dismounted cannon, obliterated embrasures, and palisades rotten from
exposure to the weather, showed that to stand a siege it must undergo a
considerable repair." Several days were devoted to a general
reconnoissance of the place; but the result was not satisfactory--"I
must say that Roustchouk pleased me less than any town of its size I had
seen in the East. The streets are dirty and badly paved, without a
single good bazar or café to kill time in, or a single respectable
edifice of any description to look at." A dinner with a Bulgarian family
led us to expect some details of domestic economy; but, in place of
this, we are regaled with the bad French of a hybrid Frank, who assured
_Author_ that Bukarest was equal to Paris or London; and when forced to
admit that he had never seen either of those capitals, covered his
retreat by maintaining that it was at least far superior to Galate and
Braila! Hearing, however, that the Defterdar, an Egyptian Turk, had
resided many years in England, and spole English fluently, Mr Paton
sought an interview; and after "taking a series of short and rapid
whiffs from my pipe," while considering the best way of breaking the
ice, opened his battery by telling the Defterdar, "that few Orientals
could draw a distinction between politics and geography; but that with a
man of his calibre and experience I was safe from misconstruction--that
I was collecting materials for a work on the Danubian provinces, and
that for any information which he might give me, consistently with his
official position, I should feel much indebted, as I thought I was least
likely to be misunderstood by stating clearly the object of ny journey,
while information derived from the fountain-head was most valuable. The
Defterdar, after commending my openness, said, 'I suspect that you will
find very little to remark in the pashalik of Silistria. It is an
agricultural country, and the majority of the inhabitants are Turks. The
Rayahs are very peaceable, and pay few taxes, considering the
agricultural wealth of the country. You may rest assured that there is
not a province of the empire better governed than the pashalik of
Silistria. We have no malcontents within the province; but there are a
few Hetarist scoundrels at Braila, who wish to disturb the tranquillity
of Bulgaria; but the Walachian government has taken measures to prevent
them from carrying their projects into execution.'"

Having thus put his readers in possession of this full, true, and
particular account, derived from exclusive official sources, of all that
is to be learned of the pashalik of Silistria, we next find Mr Paton,
after two days steaming on the Danube, at Widdin, where the exiled
Servian minister, M. Petronovich, was then resident, under the
protection of the Pasha, whose name is known to all the world as the
destroyer of the Janissaries and the defender of Shumla, the once
formidable Hussein. To this redoubted personage, now apparently verging
on eighty, Mr Paton was introduced by M. Petronevich at an evening
audience, it being contrary to etiquette to receive visits by day during
the Ramadan--and found him "sitting in the corner of the divan at his
ease, being afflicted with gout, in the old ample Turkish costume. The
white beard, the dress of the Pasha, the rich but faded carpet, the roof
of elaborate but dingy wooden arabesque, were all in perfect keeping;
and the dubious light of two thick wax candles rising two or three feet
from the floor, but seemed to bring out the picture, which carried me a
generation back to the pashas of the old school." Hussein has since
retired from his government, to enjoy the immense fortune which he has
accumulated by commercial speculations--the last specimen of the
"malignant and turbaned Turk" of former days, whose war shout was heard
under the walls of Vienna; and who will now be replaced by a
smooth-faced hybrid in fez and frock-coat, waging a paper war with the
ambassadors of the _protecting_ powers in defence of the few sovereign
rights still permitted to the Porte--such is the Pasha of the present
day! The town of Widdin found even less favour in our traveller's eyes
than Roustchouk. "Lying so nicely on the bank of the Danube, which here
makes such beautiful curves, and marked on the map with capital letters,
it ought (such was my notion) to be a place having at least one
well-built and well-stocked bazar, a handsome seraglio, and some
good-looking mosques. Nothing of the sort;"--and thus, sorely
disappointed in his reasonable expectations, he proceeded on his way in
a car drawn by two horses, which in six hours brought him to the banks
of the Timok, the river which separates Servia from Bulgaria. The
Servian population, among whom he now first found himself, struck him as
a superior race, both physically and morally, compared with those whom
he had just left, possessing a manliness of address and demeanour
unknown to the serfs of Bulgaria; and, instead of the woolly caps and
frieze clothes of the latter, the peasants wore the red fez, and were
generally dressed in blue cloth. The plough cultivation of Bulgaria was
now exchanged for the innumerable herds of swine, which form the staple
commodity of Servia, fed in the immense oak woods which cover the
country. "They form" (as Mr Paget informs us in his work on Hungary) "a
very important article of trade between Servia and Vienna; and I doubt
if Smithfield could show better shapes or better feeding than the market
of a Servian village." Continuing his route along the banks of the
Danube to New Orsova, where he crossed to the Hungarian bank, he again
posted, with "an enormously stout Wallachian matron" for a travelling
companion, to Drenkova, whence another steamer conveyed him to Semlin,
and half an hour's pull down the Danube and up the Save (the line of the
two rivers being distinctly marked at the confluence by the muddy colour
of the former, and the clearness of the latter) landed him safe at
Belgrade.

We may here mention an amusing anecdote, related in another part of the
volume, in connexion with the town of Panczova below Semlin, where "the
town-major, after swallowing countless boxes of Morison's pills died in
the belief that he had not begun to take them soon enough. The
consumption of these drugs at that time almost surpassed belief. There
was scarcely a sickly or hypochondriac person, from the Hill of Presburg
to the Iron Gates, who had not taken large quantities of them." _Mais
voilà le mot d'enigme._ "'The Anglomania,"' was the answer to a query of
the author, "'is nowhere stronger than in this part of the world.
Whatever comes from England, be it Congreve rockets or vegetable pills,
must needs be perfect. Dr Morison is indebted to his high office (!) for
the enormous consumption of his drugs. It is clear that the President of
the British College must be a man in the enjoyment of the esteem of the
government and the faculty of medicine; and his title is a passport to
his pills in foreign countries.' I laughed heartily, and explained that
the British College of Health, and the College of Physicians, were not
identical." We well remember a statement some years since among the
innumerable puffs of the arch-quack, (now gone, we believe, to that
bourn whither so many of his patients had preceded him,) that in
gratitude for the countless cures of incurable diseases by the
"Universal Vegetable Medicine," a statute of the Hygeist had been
erected in Bukarest, not in his native brass, but 'in his habit as he
lived;' and a woodcut was appended of the _ipsissimus_ Morison, with his
mustached phiz and tight frock-coat. As Bukarest is a long way off, we
held this at the time for a pious fraud; but Mr Paton's anecdote gives
it at least probability. _Vive la charlatanerie!_

The hospitality of Mr Consul-general Fonblanque, and the attentions of
the numerous friends of M. Petronevich, soon made Mr Paton quite at home
at Belgrade, where he remained till the end of the year 1843, having
arrived some time in the autumn, since the re-election of Prince
Alexander, and the exile of Petronevich, and his colleague Wucziz, took
place in July of that year. He found Belgrade much Europeanized since a
previous visit which he had paid it in 1839,--"It was then quite an
Oriental town; but now the haughty _parvenu_ spire of the cathedral, a
new and large, but tasteless structure, with a profusely gilt bell-tower
in the Russian manner, throws into the shade the minarets of the
mosques, graceful even in decay. Many of the bazar shops have been
fronted and glazed; the Oriental dress has become much rarer; and
houses, several stories high, in the German fashion, are springing up
every where." The Turkish governor was at this time Hafiz Pasha, the
unsuccessful commander at Nezib, lately appointed in the room of Kiamil,
who had been displaced at the mandate of Russia for the share he had
taken in the first election of Prince Alexander; but his jurisdiction is
now confined to the fortress and the Turkish quarter, which lies along
the Danube; the remainder of the town, lying piled street upon street up
the steep bank of the Save, being under the Servian authorities. During
his stay, Mr Paton paid frequent visits to the Pasha, whom he generally
found in an audience room overlooking the precipitous descent to the
Danube, "studying _at_ the maps: he seemed to think that nothing would
be so useful to Turkey as good roads, made to run from the principal
ports of Asia Minor, up to the depôts of the interior, so as to connect
Sivas, Tokat, Angora, Koniah, Kaiserieh, &c., with Samsoon, Tersoos, and
other ports." The ramparts of the fortress are said to be in good
condition, though "very unlike the magnificent towers it the last scene
of the _Siege of Belgrade_ at Drury-Lane,"--a piece of useful
information for play-going Cockneys--and the _Lange Gasse_, or main
street, with the palace of Prince Eugene, built during the Austrian
occupation of Servia from 1717 to 1789, is still standing, though half
choked up with bazar shops and Turkish houses. The Prince holds no
formal levees; but Mr Paton was present at a dinner given to the _corps
diplomatique_ in the palace, and was received in a saloon "with inlaid
and polished parquet; the chairs and sofas covered with crimson and
white satin damask, which is an unusual luxury in these regions; the
roof admirably painted in subdued colours, in the best Vienna style.
High white porcelain urn-like stoves heated the suite of rooms. The
Prince, a muscular, middle-sized, dark-complexioned man, with a serious
composed air, wore a plain blue military uniform;[2] the Princess, and
her _dames de compagnie_, wore the graceful native Servian costume; the
Pasha the Nizam dress, and the _Nishan Iftihar_, (diamond decoration of
his rank;) Baron Lieven, the Russian Commissioner, in the uniform of a
general, glittered with innumerable orders;[3] Colonel Philippovich, a
man of distinguished talents, represented Austria; the Archbishop, in
his black velvet cap, a large enamelled cross hanging by a massive gold
chain from his neck, sat in stately isolation; and the six feet four
inches high Garashanin, minister of the interior, conversed with Stojan
Simitch, the president of the senate, one of the few Servians in high
office who retains his old Turkish costume, and has a frame that reminds
one of the Farnese Hercules. Then what a medley of languages--Servian,
German, Russian, Turkish, and French, all in full buzz! We proceeded to
the dining-room, where the _cuisine_ was in every respect in the German
manner. When the dessert appeared, the Prince rose with a creaming glass
of champagne in his hand, and proposed the health of the Sultan,
acknowledged by the Pasha; and then, after a short pause, the health of
Czar Nicolay Paulovich, acknowledged by Baron Lieven; then came the
health of other crowned heads. Baron Lieven now rose, and proposed the
health of the Prince. The Pasha and the Princess were toasted in turn;
and then Mr Wastchenko, the Russian Consul-general, rose, and in
animated terms drank to the prosperity of Servia. The entertainment,
which commenced at one o'clock, was prolonged to an advanced period of
the afternoon, and closed with coffee, liqueurs, and chibouques, in the
drawing-room: the Princess and the ladies having previously withdrawn to
the private apartments."

At the end of the year, Mr Paton returned to England; and after an
absence of six months, returned in August 1844 to the banks of the Save,
reaching Belgrade at the moment when preparations were being made for
the triumphal reception of the patriot ministers Wuczicz and
Petronevich, who had at length been restored to their country by the
tardy intervention of England. The day of their arrival was celebrated
by a universal jubilee. Surrounded by an immense cavalcade, the exiles
paraded the streets, amid the rapturous acclamations of the multitude,
to the great portal of the cathedral, where they were received by the
Archbishop and clergy:--"They kissed the cross and the gospels, which
the Archbishop presented to them, and, kneeling down, returned thanks
for their safe restoration. The Archbishop then advanced to the edge of
the platform and began a discourse, describing the grief the nation had
experienced at their departure, the universal joy for their return, and
the hope that they would ever keep peace and union in view in all
matters of state, and that in their duties to the state they must never
forget their responsibility to the Most High. Wuczicz, dressed in the
coarse frieze jacket and boots of a Servian peasant, heard, with a
reverential inclination of the head, the discourse of the prelate, but
nought relaxed one muscle of that adamantine visage: the finer but more
luminous features of Petronevich were under the control of a less
powerful will. At certain passages his intelligent eye was moistened
with tears. Two deacons then prayed successively for the Sultan, the
Emperor of Russia, and the Prince,--and now uprose from every tongue,
and every heart, a hymn for the longevity of Wuczicz and Petronevich.
'The Solemn Song for Many Days' is the title of this sublime chant,
which is so old that its origin is lost in the obscure dawn of
Christianity in the East, and so massive, so nobly simple, as to be
beyond the ravages of time, and the caprices of convention." The town
was illuminated in the evening; and a ball was given at the new Konak or
palace, built by the exiled Prince Michael, which was attended "by all
the rank and fashion of Belgrade--senators of the old school, in their
benishes and shalwars, and senators of the new school, in pantaloons and
stiff cravats," which we agree with Mr Paton in considering as no
improvement on the graceful costume of the East. The Servian ladies,
however, have in general the good taste to retain the old national
costume; and "no head-dress that I have seen in the Levant is better
calculated to set off beauty. From a small Greek fez they suspend a gold
tassel, which contrasts with the black and glossy hair, which is laid
smooth and flat down the temple. The sister of the Princess, who was
admitted to be the handsomest woman in the room, with her tunic of
crimson velvet, embroidered in gold, and faced with sable, would have
been, in her strictly indigenous costume, the queen of any fancy ball in
old Europe."

While occupied by his preparations for a tour into the interior, Mr
Paton one day encountered "a strange figure, with a long white beard,
and a Spanish cap, mounted on a sorry horse"--this was no other than
Holman, the well-known blind traveller, whom he had last seen at Aleppo,
and who, having passed in safety, under the safeguard of his infirmity,
through the most dangerous parts of Bosnia, was now on his way to
Walachia. He instantly recognised Mr Paton's voice, and mentioned his
name on being told where he had last seen him; and after a walk on the
esplanade, in which the objects in view were described to him, while
turning his face to the different points of the compass, he appeared to
have acquired a tolerably clear idea of Belgrade. Another visitor of Mr
Paton, Milutinovich, the best living poet of Servia, on hearing the name
of Holman, (of whose wanderings in the four quarters of the globe he had
read in the _Augsburg Gazette_,) was so awe-struck at finding himself in
the presence of even a greater traveller than Robinson Crusoe, (whose
adventures Mr Paton found regarded as an authentic narrative by the
monks of Manasia,) that he reverentially kissed his beard, praying aloud
that he might return home in safety. When the day of departure
approached, "orders were sent by the minister of the interior to all
governors and employés, enjoining them to furnish me with every
assistance, and with whatever information I might require;" and all
preparations being completed, Mr Paton and his man Paul set off
horseback, like Dr Syntax and Patrick, for the highlands and woodlands
of Servia.

Shabatz (more correctly Czabacz,) a town on the Save, between forty and
fifty miles above Belgrade, and one of the few garrisons still retained
by the Turks, was the first point of destination; and reaching it on the
second day, he was hospitably received by _Gospody_ (Monsieur) Ninitch,
the government collector, to whom he had an introductory letter from the
minister Garashanin. Before the revolution, Shabatz numbered 20,000
Osmanlis, the sites of whose kiosks and gardens are still pointed out on
the _Polje_, or open space between the town and the fortress,--at
present the only Moslems are the garrison of Bosniak _Redif_ or militia,
occupying the dilapidated fortifications. It is the episcopal seat of
one of the Archbishop's three suffragans; and the author, accompanied by
his friend the collector, paid his respects to the Bishop, whom he had
previously met at Belgrade. The conversation turned principally on the
system of national education, by which, in a few years, reading and
writing will be universal among the peasantry, while the sons of the
better classes are prepared, by instruction in German, &c., for a
further course of study in the Gymnasium of Belgrade, the germ of a
future university. A proof of the taste now spreading for general
literature was afforded by the library of the Archpriest, "Jowan
Paulovich, a self-taught ecclesiastic: the room in which he received us
was filled with books, mostly Servian, but among them I perceived German
translations of Shakspeare, Young's _Night Thoughts_, and a novel of
Bulwer's." The son of this priest was studying mining engineering at the
expense of government, at Schemnitz in Hungary, a capacity in which he
may one day do good service to his country, as the great mineral riches
believed to exist in Servia are hitherto wholly unexplored. Having
completed the circuit of all the notables in Shabatz, including Luka
Lasaravich, a once redoubted lieutenant of Kara-George, and now an
octagenarian merchant, with thirteen wounds on his body, Mr Paton
prepared for a fresh start, drinking health and long life to his kind
host and hostess in a glass of _slivovitsa_, or plum brandy, the
national liqueur. But his good wishes were not destined to be fulfilled;
for within a month an abortive attempt at a rising was made by the
partisans of the exiled Obrenovich family, a troop of whom, disguised as
Austrian hussars, entered Shabatz, and shot the good collector dead as
he issued from his house to enquire the cause of the disturbance. The
attempt, however, was futile, and the whole party were taken and
executed.

The road to Losnitza, whither our traveller was now bending his way, lay
through the Banat of Matchva, a rich tract of land, with a "charmingly
accidented" chain of mountains, the Gutchevo range, in the distance.
"Even the brutes bespoke the harmony of creation; for, singular to say,
we saw several crows perched on the backs of swine!" Towards evening we
entered a region of cottages among gardens inclosed by bushes, trees,
and verdant fences, with the rural quiet and cleanliness of an English
village in the last century lighted by an Italian sunset. "In this
sylvan paradise he was encountered by a pandour, who conducted him to
the house of the _Natchalnik_, or governor of the province, a gaunt,
greyheaded follower of Kara-George, who had been selected for this post
from his courage and military experience, since the hostile
neighbourhood of the Bosniaks, on the other side the Drina, between whom
and the Servians a deadly religious and national hatred exists, rendered
it necessary to be always on the alert." But before pursuing his route
to Sokol,[4] a sky-threatening fortress, respecting which his curiosity
had been excited by the account given of it by M. Ninitch, he was
persuaded by the Natchalnik to attend a peasant festival held at the
monastery of Tronosha, to celebrate the anniversary of its consecration.
The next day, accordingly, he set off with the Natchalnik and his
companions, all gallantly armed and mounted, and in gala dresses covered
with gold embroidery; and, dashing up hill and down dale, through the
majestic forests which covered the ascent of the mountains, they arrived
in due time at Tronosha, "an edifice with strong walls, towers, and
posterns, more like a secluded and fortified manor-house in the
seventeenth century than a convent; for such establishments, in former
times, were often subject to the unwelcome visits of minor marauders."
After returning thanks for their safe arrival, according to custom, in a
chapel with paintings in the old Byzantine style, "crimson-faced saints
looking up to a golden sky," they proceeded to inspect the preparations
for the approaching fête, in a green glade running up to the foot of the
hill on which stood the monastery, and dined with the Igoumen, ([Greek:
Êgoumenoz],) or Superior, and the monks, in the refectory. The healths
of the Prince, and of Wuczicz and Petronevich, were given after dinner
as toasts--a laudable custom, which appears to be in orthodox observance
in Servia--after which a song was sung in their honour by one of the
monks, to whom Mr Paton (whose special aversion he seems to have
incurred, for some reason not exactly apparent) applies the epithet of a
"clerical Lumpacivagabundus," which we quote for the benefit of such of
our friends as may chance to be skilled in the unknown tongue. Meanwhile
the assembled peasantry outside were in the full tide of merriment; and,
on the following morning, Mr Paton was roused from slumbers, in which "I
dreamed I know not what absurdities," by a chorus of countless voices,
and, hurrying out, found the peasants he had seen the evening before,
with a large accession to their numbers, on their knees in the avenue
leading to the church, and following "the chant of a noble old hymn. The
whole pit of this theatre of verdure appeared covered with a carpet of
crimson and white; for such were the prevailing colours of the costumes.
The upper tunic of the women was a species of surtout of undyed cloth,
bordered with a design of red cloth of a finer description. The
stockings, in colour and texture, resembled those of Persia (?), but
were generally embroidered at the ankle with gold and silver thread.
When I thought of the trackless solitude of the sylvan ridges around me,
I seemed to witness one of the early communions of Christianity, in
those ages when incense ascended to the Olympic deities in gorgeous
temples, while praise to the true God rose from the haunts of the wolf,
the lonely cavern, or the subterranean vault."

After witnessing this interesting reunion of a regenerated and Christian
nation, Mr Paton took leave of the Superior, who parted from him with
the words--"God be praised that Servia has at length seen the day when
strangers come from afar to see and know the people!" and, passing
through the double ranks of the peasantry, who took leave of him with
the valediction of _Srentnj poot!_ (a good journey,) repeated by a
thousand voices, he rode on through the never-ceasing oak-forests,
broken here and there by plantations of every variety of tree, to
Krupena. Here he was received by the captain of the district at the
head of a small troop of irregular cavalry, and hospitably entertained
for the night. On the following day he started, "toiling upwards through
woods and wilds of a more rocky character than on the previous day," to
the ridge of the Gutchevo range, whence he looked down on Sokol, a
fortress still held by the Turks, and which, on its inaccessible
position, "built" (as described by M. Ninitch) "on the capital of a
column of rock," was the only one never taken by the Servians; while the
background was formed by the mountains of Bosnia, rising range over
range in the distance. They reached the valley by a narrow winding path
on the face of a precipitous descent, and entered the town; but their
visit was ill-timed. It was Ramadan; the Disdar Aga was, or was said to
be, asleep, and the castle could not be seen in his absence; and Mr
Paton's enquiries from the Mutsellim, who acted as their cicerone, as to
the height of the rock on which the citadel was built above the valley,
only made him suspected of being an engineer surveying the stronghold
with a view to its capture. After climbing up a pinnacle of rock which
overlooked the abyss, he was compelled to return _re infectâ_; "and when
we got a little way along the valley, I looked back; Sokol looked like a
little castle of Edinburgh placed in the clouds; and a precipice on the
other side of the valley presented a perpendicular stature of not less
than five hundred feet."

A few hours travelling from Sokol brought Mr Paton to Liuhovia on the
Drina, the precipitous banks of which, covered with wood, present
numerous points of picturesque beauty; but at a short distance above
this town, which is the quarantine station on the road between Belgrade
and Seraievo it ceases to form the boundary of Servia and Bosnia, being
entirely within the latter frontier. Thence ascending the valley of the
Rogaschitza, a small stream tributary to the Drina, and crossing a ridge
which parts the waters flowing into the Drina and into the Morava, he
descended into the tract watered by the Morava, the national river of
Servia; the first town in which was Ushitza, one of the fortresses still
garrisoned by the Turks, and the scene of desperate conflicts during the
war of independence. In past times it was a place of great importance,
and contained sixty thousand inhabitants, being the entrepôt of the
trade between Servia and Bosnia; but this commerce has been almost
ruined by the establishment of the quarantine; and most of the Servian
inhabitants, in consequence of a bloody affray with the Turks, have
transferred themselves to Poshega, a town at two hours' distance, and
formerly a Roman colony, of which Mr. Paton found a relic in a fragment
of a Latin inscription built into the wall of the church. From Poshega
Mr P. continued his route down the rich valley of the Morava, here
several miles wide, to Csatsak, the residence of a bishop and a
_Natchalnik_; where the old Turkish town is in process of being
superseded by a new foundation, which, "like Poshega and all these new
places, consists of a circular or square market-place, with bazar shops
in the Turkish manner, and straight streets diverging from it." Mr Paton
waited on the bishop, "a fine specimen of the church-militant; a stout
fiery man of sixty, in full furred robes, and black velvet cap," who had
been, during the rule of Milosh, an energetic denouncer of his
extortions and monopolies, and was consequently in high favour since the
change of dynasty. The cathedral (we are informed) was "a most ancient
edifice of Byzantine architecture," of which we should have been glad to
have had some particulars; but Mr Paton's remarks are confined to
complaints of the wearisome length of the mass, at which the bishop
presided, "dressed in crimson velvet and white satin, embroidered with
gold, which had cost £300 at Vienna; and as he sat in his chair, with
mitre on head and crosier in hand, looked, with his bushy white beard,
an imposing representative of spiritual authority." Taking leave of this
formidable prelate, Mr Paton proceeded to Karanovatz, in the rich plain
round which, surrounded by hills which are compared to the last
picturesque undulations of the Alps near Vicenz or Verona, the river
Ybar falls into the Morava, not far fron the ancient convent of
Zhitchka Jicha, where seven Servian kings of the Neman dynasty were
crowned, a door being broken in the wall for the entrance of each
monarch, and built up again on his departure: and here our traveller,
turning to the right, and ascending the course of the Ybar, struck
southwards into the highlands

The character of the mountains among which he now found himself, was
widely different from the picturesque oak forests of the Gutchevo range,
which he had traversed in the early part of his tour. "Tall cedars
replaced the oak and beech; the scanty herbage was covered with
hoar-frost; the clear brooks murmured chillingly down the unshaded
gullies; and a grand line of sterile peaks to the south showed me that I
was approaching the backbone of the Balkan. There is a total want of
arable land in this part of Servia, and the pasture is neither good nor
abundant; but the Ybar is the most celebrated stream in Servia for large
quantities of trout." Still ascending the steep mountain-paths, while
the scenery became wilder and wilder, they at length reached the convent
of Studenitza, one of the most ancient foundations in Servia, having
been built by Neman, the first monarch of the dynasty bearing his name,
who died in 1195. Like most monastic edifices in Servia, it is a
castellated building, with walls whose massive strength is well
calculated to resist an attack not supported by artillery; and, on
entering the wicket, Mr Paton was received "by a fat, feeble-voiced,
lymphatic-faced superior, leaning on a long staff"--from whom he could
get no other reply to all his inquiries than "_Blagodarim_, (I thank
you.") The magnificent church of white marble, one of the finest
specimens now existing of Byzantine architecture, was built in 1314 (as
an inscription imports) by Stephen Vrosh; but it had suffered severely
at different times from the bigotry of the Turks. "The curiously twisted
pillars of the outer door were sadly chipped, while noseless angels, and
fearfully mutilated lions, guarded the inner portal. Passing through a
vestibule, we saw the remains of the font, which must have been
magnificent; and, covered with a cupola, the stumps of the white marble
columns which support it are still visible. Entering the church, I saw
on the right the tomb of St Simeon, the sainted king of Servia; beside
it hung his banner with the half-moon on it, the insigni_um_(!) of the
South Slavonic nation from the dawn of heraldry; and near the altar was
the body of his son, St Stephen, the patron saint of Servia." Another
day's journey through the same rugged and sterile scenery, in a
direction due south, during which they passed the Demir-kapu, on Iron
Gate, on the bank of the Ybar, where there is only room for a single led
horse in a passage cut through the rock, brought them to the quarantine
station on the river Raska, two hours' distance from Novibazar in
Bosnia, which it was Mr Paton's intention to visit, attended by a
Servian quarantine officer.

The conversion of the Bosniaks to Islam was effected by force, on the
conquest of the country in 1463, by Mohammed II., the only instance in
the career of Turkish conquest in which the injunction of the Prophet
against compulsory proselytism has been violated; but they have always
held the faith, thus forced on them, with the zeal of renegades, and are
now the most fanatic and bigoted Moslems in the empire. The Christians
resident in their territory are subject to every species of tyranny and
maltreatment, several instances of which, related by refugees in Servia,
are given in the work before us. A Frank traveller is a sight scarcely
known; and Mr Paton soon had abundant evidence, on his approach to
Novibazar, which lies in a fertile plain about a mile and a half in
diameter, surrounded by low hills, that his visit here would be even
less favourably received than at Sokol. The gipsies, whose tents covered
the plain, and who here profess Islamism, cried furiously after them,
"See, how the Royal Servians now-a-days have the audacity to enter
Novibazar on horseback!" Youssouf Bey, the governor, was said to be
asleep in his harem, (the usual Not-at-home of an Oriental,) but, as
they afterwards ascertained, was actually afraid to receive them; and
while they were sauntering round the town, a savage-looking Bosniak
starting up, exclaimed, "Giaours, kafirs, spies! I know what you come
for!--Do you expect to see your cross one day planted on the castle?"
The threat of a complaint to the Bey only provoked fresh insolence; and,
warned by a Christian bystander that the whole town would soon be in
commotion, they prudently beat a retreat, and reached the Servian
frontier in safety.

After this narrow escape from Bosniak hospitality, Mr Paton's next
object was the Kopaunik mountain, lying a little to the south, and from
the top of which (as he had been informed at Csatsak) a panoramic view
of all Servia might be obtained; and having prevailed on the captain of
the district to accompany him, they crossed the Ybar, and reached the
summit with little difficulty, if (as seems to be implied) the whole
ascent was accomplished on horseback. "The Kopaunik is not much above
6000 English feet above the level of the sea. But it is so placed in the
Servian basin, that the eye embraces the whole breadth from Bosnia to
Bulgaria, and very nearly the whole length from Macedonia to Hungary.
When at length I stood on the highest peak, the prospect was literally
gorgeous. Servia lay rolled out at my feet. There lay the field of
Kossovo, where Amurath defeated Lasar, and entombed the ancient empire
of Servia. I mused an instant on this great landmark of European
history, and following the finger of an old peasant who accompanied us,
I looked eastwards, and saw Deligrad, the scene of one of the bloodiest
fights that preceded the resurrection of Servia as a principality. The
Morava glistened in its wide valley like a silver thread in a carpet of
green, beyond which the dark mountains of Rudnik rose to the north;
while the frontiers of Bosnia, Albania, Macedonia, and Bulgaria, walled
in the prospect."

After luxuriating to his heart's content in the contemplation of this
magnificent panorama, and taking leave of his companion, Mr Paton
descended the north-eastern slope of the mountain; and lodging for the
night in a shepherd's hut, where he found an officer sent by the
Natchalnik of Krushevatz to meet him, arrived next day at Zhupa. "Here
the aspect of the country changed--the verdant hills became chalky, and
covered with vineyards, which, before the fall of the empire, were
celebrated;" and after partaking of a repast, in which choice grapes and
clotted cream (a national dish in Turkey) formed the dessert, they
pushed on in all haste, and reached Krushevatz (often marked in the maps
by its Turkish name of Aladja-Hissar) late at night. He was hospitably
received by the Natchalnik, whose wife kissed the visitor's hand on his
arrival, in compliance with the old Servian customs, now fast wearing
out, which assign to woman a social position intermediate between the
seclusion of eastern manners and the graceful precedence which she
enjoys in the west. The next morning, they walked out to inspect the
town, which was the metropolis of the Servian kingdom immediately before
its overthrow by the Turks; and which, lying as it does in the midst of
the rich vale of the Morava, which here expands into a wide and fertile
plain, extending from the foot of the mountains by which it is flanked
to the river, occupies a site well adapted for all inland capital. The
author here introduces a dissertation on the history, laws, and customs
of the ancient monarchy; but as our own business is rather with Servia
as it is, than Servia as it was, we shall pass unnoticed the glories of
the house of Neman--the warlike trophies of Stephan Dushan the Powerful,
at whose approach the Greek Emperor trembled within the walls of
Constantinople--and the tragical fate of Knes Lasar, with whom Servian
independence fell on the fatal plain of Kossovo, June 15, 1389. Of the
palace of Lasar in Krushevatz, only the gateway and the ruined walls are
now remaining; but the chapel, having been converted by the Turks into
an arsenal, is still in perfect preservation. "It is a curious monument
of the period, in a Byzantine sort of style, but not for a moment to be
compared in beauty to the church of Studenitza. Above one of the doors
is carved the double eagle, the insigni_um_ (!!) of empire; but instead
of having body to body, and wings and beaks pointed outwards, as in the
arms of Austria and Russia, the bodies are separated, and beak looks
inward to beak. The late governor had the Vandalism to whitewash the
exterior; but the Natchalnik told me, that under the whitewash fine
bricks were disposed in diamond figures between the stones. This antique
principle of tessellation, applied by the Byzantines to perpendicular
walls, and occasionally adopted and varied _ad infinitum_ by the
Saracens, is magnificently illustrated in the upper exterior of the
ducal palace of Venice."

A grand field-day against the bears and boars in the forest, with a
couple of hundred peasants as beaters, had been arranged by the
Natchalnik for his guest's amusement; but their plans were frustrated by
the unpropitious state of the weather; and as soon as it became
favourable, we find Mr Paton again in motion, ascending the eastern
branch of the Morava to Alexinate, the quarantine station on the
Bulgarian frontier, where the British govermnent has established a
_konak_ or residence for the Queen's messengers, who here await, on the
extreme verge of the sanatory system, the return of the Tartars with
despatches from Constantinople. He found it tenanted by Captain W----,
whose guest he became for several days, to his infinite
satisfaction:--"It seemed so odd, and yet was so very comfortable, to
have roast-beef, plum-pudding, sherry, brown stout, Stilton cheese, and
other insular groceries, at the foot of the Balkan. There was, moreover,
a small library, with which the temporary occupants of the konak killed
the month's interval between arrival and departure." He was compelled,
however, to tear himself from the delights of an English cuisine; and on
arriving at Tiupria, (more properly Kiupri-Ravenatz,) where he first
heard tidings of the emeute at Shabatz, and the murder of his friend the
collector Ninitch, he diverged from his route to visit the monasteries
of Ravanitza and Manasia, the former of which was the burial-place of
Lasar. But as his reminiscences of these saintly retreats are rather
convivial than antiquarian, we shall pass on at once to Svilainitza,
(the place of silk,) where he was entertained in the chateau of M.
Ressavatz, the richest man in Servia; the only chateau-residence as he
tells us, which he saw in the country. This part of Servia appears
indeed to be, as Mr Paton says--"Ressavatz quà, Ressavatz là"--since to
the patriotism and command of capital of this enlightened family, it
owes not only the introduction of the growth of silk as above-mentioned,
but the construction of an excellent macadamized road, by which Mr Paton
travelled on the following day, through a country richly cultivated and
interspersed with lofty oaks, to Posharevatz, (commonly written
Passarowitz,) where he was welcomed on his arrival by another of the
name of Ressavatz, the Natchalnik of the place. Posharevatz is
celebrated in history for the treaty there concluded in 1718, by which,
in consequence of the victories of Prince Eugene, Bosnia and Servia
passed under the dominion of Austria for twenty years, till restored to
the Porte at the peace of Belgrade in 1739: in the present day it is a
place of considerable importance, both as the capital of a province of
ninety thousand inhabitants, and the seat of a court of judicial appeal
for Eastern Servia. By the president of this court Mr Paton was
entertained at dinner, where he met all the élite of Posharevatz; "and
the president having made some punch, which showed profound acquaintance
eith the jurisprudence of conviviality, the best amateurs of Posharevatz
sung their best songs, which pleased me somewhat, for my ears had
gradually been broken into the habits of the Servian muse. Being pressed
myself to sing an English national song, I gratified their curiosity
with 'God save the Queen,' and 'Rule Britannia,' explaining that these
two songs contained the essence of English nationality; the one
expressive of our unbounded loyalty, the other of our equally unbounded
dominion." And now having extracted, to the best of our ability, the
plums from the pudding of Mr Paton's _gastronomic_ circuit of Servia, in
which, (as he cordially admits,) "by inter-_larding_ my discourse with
sundry apophthegms of _Bacon_, and stale paradoxes of Rochefaucault, I
passed current considerably above my real value," we shall here leave
him to find his way by the beaten track through Semendria, Belgrade, and
Vienna, to England. But before proceeding to the consideration of the
"Servian Question," a point scarcely touched on in the volume before us,
it will not be amiss to give a brief summary of the social condition and
internal organization of the Servian nation, on which Mr Paton gives
some valuable information in his concluding chapters.

The Servian territory extends about one hundred and seventy miles from
east to west, along the Danube and Save, the boundaries being the rivers
Timok and Drina; and one hundred miles in extreme breadth from Belgrade
to the frontier of Albania. The population, after the expulsion of the
Turks, was roughly estimated, under Milosh, as somewhat exceeding half a
million; but, from the internal peace which the country has since
enjoyed, and the plenty and prosperity which prevails among the
peasantry, there can be little doubt that it has since greatly
increased. As not more than one-sixth of the soil is supposed to be in
cultivation, there is abundance of excellent land undisposed of; as
every man, therefore, with ordinary industry can support himself and his
family, abject want and pauperism are almost unknown. The innumerable
herds of swine, which form the staple commodity of the country, both for
home consumption and export, rove freely through the oak and beech
forests which cover great part of Servia, and in which every one is at
liberty to cut as much timber as he pleases, only an inconsiderable
portion being reserved as state property for the public service. There
are no indirect taxes; and as the _poresa_, or capitation tax, paid by
each head of a family, the maximum of which is six dollars a-year, is
the only impost (except a trifling quit-rent for the land) levied by the
government, "it must be admitted," (as Mr Paton observes,) "that the
peasantry of Servia have drawn a high prize in the lottery of
existence." The harvest is a period of general festivity; all labour in
common in getting in the corn, the proprietor providing entertainment
for his industrious guests; "but in the vale of the lower Morava, where
there is less pasture and more corn, this is not sufficient, and hired
Bulgarians assist." Though in a comparatively southern latitude, the
vegetable productions are those of a more northern climate; Mr Paton
never saw an olive-tree, and the grapes and melons, though abundant, are
inferior to those of Hungary; but the plum, from which the national
liqueur, _slivovitsa_, is made, every where abounds, almost every
village having its plum-orchard. With all these means and appliances for
good living close at hand, it is evident that there is not much prospect
of a famine in Servia, till the productions of the soil fall short of
the demands of the population--a consummation which cannot happen for
many generations to come.

The national character of the Servian is compared by Mr Paton to that of
the Scotch Highlander; and it is not without strong points of
resemblance. "He is brave in battle, highly hospitable; delights in
simple and plaintive music and poetry, his favourite instruments being
the bagpipe and fiddle; unlike the Greek, he shows little aptitude for
trade; and, unlike the Bulgarian, he is very lazy in agricultural
pursuits."

In the cleanliness of their persons and houses, they present a
favourable contrast to most of the other Slavic populations; and their
personal appearance is also advantageous. "They are a remarkably tall
and robust race of men; in form and feature they bespeak strength of
body and energy of mind; but one seldom sees that thoroughbred look, so
frequently found in the poorest peasants of Italy and Greece. The women
I think very pretty. They are not so well-shaped as the Greeks; but
their complexions are fine, their hair generally black and glossy, and
their head-dress particularly graceful; and not being addicted to the
bath, like other eastern women, they prolong their beauty beyond the
average period." The spirit of nationality, and zeal for national
improvement, which pervades the population almost as one man, is
strongly marked by many incidents related in Mr Paton's pages, and one
is so remarkable that we cannot forbear quoting it. An idiot boy, to
whom he had given a glass of _slivovitza_, "taking off his greasy fez,
said, 'I drink to our prince Kara-Georgovich, and the progress and
enlightenment of the nation.' He was too stupid to entertain these
sentiments himself; but if the determination to rise were not in the
minds of the people, it would not be on the lips of an oaf in an
insignificant hamlet." Nor is the progress of intellectual development
behind this patriotic zeal for national independence in the march of
regeneration. "In the whole range of the Slavic family, no nation
possesses so extensive a collection of excellent popular poetry," with
which the British public has been in some measure made acquainted by the
translations of Dr Bowring. "The romantic beauty of their country--the
relics of a wild mythology, which has some resemblance to that of Greece
and Scandinavia--the adventurous character of the population--the
vicissitudes of guerilla warfare--are all given in a dialect which for
musical sweetness is to other Slavonic tongues what the Italian is to
the languages of Western Europe." The Servian Anthology has been
collected by Dr Wuk Stephanovich, the author of several works on
national topics; and there are several living poets, among whom,
Milutinovich, already mentioned, is reputed _facile princeps_. The only
newspaper now printed at Belgrade is the _State Gazette_, which
prudently avoids all remarks on Austrian or Russian policy; and the only
annual is the _Golubitza_, (Dove,) a miscellany in prose and verse,
neatly got up in imitation of the German Taschenbücher, and edited by M.
Hadschitch, the framer of the code of laws. In the Lyceum, lectures on
law are delivered by M. Simonovich, bred an Hungarian advocate, and
formerly editor of the _Courier_, a newspaper now discontinued; but the
study of law, as well as its practitioners, is said to be unpopular in
Servia at present; and Professor John Shafarik is an able and popular
lecturer on Slavic history, literature, and antiquities; of the latter,
there is a collection in the museum of the institution, as well as a
rich mineralogical cabinet collected by Baron Herder, and including
specimens of silver, lead, and copper ore, as well as marble, white as
that of Carrara. A Literary Society has also been formed for the
encouragement of popular literature, and the formation of a complete
dictionary of the language--the seal of which represents an uncultivated
field, with the rising sun shining on a monument bearing the arms of
Servia.

The administrative senate consists of twenty-one members, named by the
Prince for life; four of whom are ministers. Stojan Simitch, who has
been before mentioned, the present vice-president (the presidency being
an imaginary office,) is a Servian of the old school, in whom talent and
shrewdness have supplied the place of education; but the most remarkable
member of the cabinet is M. Petronevich, now minister for foreign
affairs. He was at one time in a commercial house at Trieste, and
subsequently for nine years a hostage for Servia at Constantinople--"he
is astute by nature and education, but has a good heart and a capacious
intellect; and, in the course of a very tortuous political career, has
kept the advancement of Servia constantly in view. He is one of the very
few public men in Servia, in whom the Christian and Western love of
_community_ has triumphed over the Oriental allegiance to _self_; and
this disinterestedness, in spite of his defects, is the secret of his
popularity." His partner in exile, M. Wuczicz, is now commander of the
military force and minister of the interior, in which latter office he
succeeded Garashanin; the standing army is a mere skeleton force; but
every Servian is a soldier, and bound to provide himself with arms, thus
forming a national militia, of which the effective strength is estimated
at little less than 100,000 men. The military command of each of the
seventeen provinces is vested in the Natchalnik, under whom are the
captains of the several cantons, usually three in each province; these
officers superintend the police, and report to the minister at war. As
minister of the interior, he is charged also with the superintendence of
ecclesiastical affairs, the spiritual head of which, the Archbishop of
Belgrade, though acknowledging the supremacy of the Greek Patriarch, is
virtually independent within the province; his salary, as well as that
of the three bishops and the inferior clergy, is paid by the state, that
of the primate being about £800 a-year, and of his suffragans half as
much. The administration of justice (as settled by the Sultan's _hatti
shereef_ of 1838, which may be regarded as the Servian constitution) is
vested in local courts in each province, consisting of a president and
three members, from which an appeal lies to the supreme courts of
Belgrade and Posharevatz; but reference is always made in the first
instance, in minor cases, to the _Courts of Peace_ (as they are called,)
consisting of the village magnates, with whose patriarchal arbitration
the litigants are usually satisfied, law and lawyers not being held in
high estimation. "The courts of law have something of the promptitude of
Oriental justice, without its flagrant venality;" but the salaries of
the judges are small, that of the president of the appeal court at
Belgrade not exceeding £300 a-year. But it is the financial department
that presents the most striking contrast to other European states, in
the unheard-of phenomenon of a national debt due not _from_ but _to_ the
government; the revenue so much exceeding the expenditure, that a sum of
a hundred thousand ducats has been lent to the people at six per cent,
and forms an item on the credit side of the budget! The total annual
outlay, according to the financial returns, including the tribute to the
Porte and the civil list of the Prince, (the latter equivalent to about
£20,000 English,) is 830,000 dollars; while the income reaches 887,000,
principally derived from the _poresa_, or capitation-tax paid by heads
of families, a separate tax being levied on bachelors. Such is at
present the flourishing state of the principality of Servia, "the
youngest member of the European family," the views of Russia on which,
somewhat prematurely developed by the famous "Servian question," will be
more clearly understood by a preliminary sketch of its previous history.

The political existence of modern Servia may be considered to date from
1804, in February of which year a general rising took place of the
Christian population against the Moslems, provoked by the massacres and
atrocities committed by the spahis, who held lands in the province by
military tenure, and whose chiefs had thrown off the authority of the
Pasha of Belgrade, and embraced the party of the famous Paswan-Oghlu,
Pasha of Widdin, who was then in open revolt against Selim III., as the
champion of the janissaries and the _ancien regime_, against the civil
and military reforms which the Sultan was striving to introduce. The
principal leaders of the Servians were Slavatz, (or as Mr Paton calls
him, if the same person is intended, Glavash,) and George Petrovich,
surnamed _Kara_ or _Czerni_, (black,) the son of a peasant in the
district of Kragejewatz, who afterwards migrated to Topola, which has
therefore been held by the Servians as the place whence sprung their
liberator,[5] and where an annual festival is held in his honour. He was
in his youth a _Hayduk_ or klepht; and having been forced to fly from
Servia for taking part in an unsuccessful insurrection, had served
several years in the Austrian army. His successes were at first viewed
with satisfaction by the Porte; and the obnoxious chiefs, driven to take
refuge in Belgrade, were there seized and put to death by the Pasha; but
it soon became evident that the Servians, once in arms and victorious,
would not be satisfied without complete independence. Semendria and
other fortresses fell into their hands; and Kara George, by the
unanimous voice of his countrymen, was declared _hospodar_ or prince.
The Porte now directed an invasion of Servia by a mingled force of forty
thousand Turks and Bosniaks; but the Moslem army was totally overthrown
near Shabatz, Aug. 8, 1806, by seven thousand foot and two thousand
horse under Kara George, and driven across the Drina with the loss of
their commander and many other chiefs. It was now apparent that Servia
was not to be reduced by force of arms; and conferences were opened, by
which the Sultan engaged to grant them a local and national government,
with free exercise of their religion. But the negotiation failed, from
the demands of the Porte that they should surrender their arms, and
leave the fortresses in the hands of the Turks; and while it was yet
pending, Kara George carried Belgrade with great slaughter, by a
_coup-de-main_, on the night of Dec. 13, 1806, thus completing the
expulsion of the Turks from Servia, with the exception of Szoko, (Mr
Paton's Sokol,) and a few other strongholds which still remained in
their hands.

The war which broke out in the following year between Russia and the
Porte, secured Servia against any further attacks from the Turks; and
Kara George, thus freed from apprehensions of invasion, endeavoured to
introduce some degree of order and civil organization into the country.
A sort of federal senate, to which each of the twelve districts into
which the principality was then divided sent a member, met annually at
Belgrade to regulate the finances and internal affairs of the country;
and though the freedom of their deliberations was impeded by the
presence of the _wayvodes_ or military governors, at the head of their
armed retainers, whom even the authority of Kara George was unable to
coerce, the success of their efforts to establish schools and promote
the interests of civilization, indicated a degree of enlightened policy
little to have been expected from a people but half emancipated from
Turkish bondage. Kara George, meanwhile, who had received from the
Emperor Alexander the rank of lieutenant-general, did good service to
his Russian allies; and though signally defeated in an invasion of
Bosnia, repulsed with triumphant success every attempt of the Turks to
enter Servia. But his energies were paralysed by the disaffection of the
subordinate chiefs; and when Russia, pressed by the advance of Napoleon,
concluded in 1812 the peace of Bukarest, there was only a nugatory
stipulation, in the eighth clause of the treaty, that the internal
administration should be left with the Servians, "as to the subjects of
the Sublime Porte in the islands of the Archipelago;" the fortresses to
remain in the hands of the Turks. But no sooner was the Porte relieved
from the presence of the enemy, than an overwhelming force was poured
into Servia; and Kara George, unable to resist, fled into Hungary, and
afterwards took refuge in Russia.

The character of this remarkable man is well portrayed in a despatch,
quoted by Mr Paton, of the afterwards well-known Diebitsch, who was the
confidential agent of Russia in Servia, in 1810-11:--"His countenance
shows a greatness of mind not to be mistaken; and when we consider times
and circumstances, and his want of education, we must admit that his
mind is of a masculine and commanding order. The imputation of cruelty
appears to be unjust. When the country was without the shadow of a
constitution, and when he commanded an unorganized and uncultivated
nation, he was compelled to be severe; he dared not relax his
discipline; but now that there are courts of law and legal forms, he
hands every thing over to the tribunals. He has very little to say for
himself, and is rude in his manners; but his judgments in civil affairs
are promptly and soundly formed, and to great talents he joins unwearied
industry. As a soldier, there is but one opinion of his talents,
bravery, and enduring firmness." The portrait prefixed to the present
volume, from a painting in the possession of the reigning Prince, the
duplicate of one executed for the Emperor Alexander, bears out the
character thus given of the Servian hero:--"The countenance expressed
not only intelligence, but a certain refinement, which one would
scarcely expect in a warrior peasant; but all his contemporaries agree
in representing him to have possessed an inherent superiority and
nobility of nature, which, in any station, would have raised him above
his equals."

At this juncture, when Servia lay at the mercy of the Turks, Milosh
Obrenovich appeared on the scene. He had originally been a swineherd,
and afterwards an officer of Kara George; but he now sided with the
Turks, to whom he rendered efficient aid in cutting off the other
popular leaders who still continued in arms. But the execution of
Slavatz, and other chiefs who had also made their submission, by order
of Soliman Pasha of Belgrade, showed him that his own fate was only
deferred; and, escaping into his native district of Rudnik, he once more
raised the standard of freedom. The peasantry rose _en masse_, and the
campaign was generally to the advantage of Milosh, who displayed great
bravery and military skill; but Soliman Pasha was at length recalled,
and an accommodation effected, by which Milosh became hospodar, under
the suzerainté of the Sultan, Belgrade and a few fortresses only
remaining in the hands of the Turks. As the resident Turkish population
had almost wholly disappeared during the war, Milosh was now absolute
master of the country, and was delivered from all fears of a rival, by
the death of Kara George, who, in 1817, misled by false representations,
had returned from Petersburg to Servia; but was betrayed by Milosh, and
put to death by the Turks.[6] Though unable to read or write, his rule
was marked by ability and vigour. He repressed robberies and offences
against property with merciless severity, frequently causing malefactors
to be hung to the next tree, without form of trial;--and improved the
internal communications by the formation of an excellent road through
the forests, from the Turkish frontier at Nissa to Belgrade. In his
political relations with Russia and the Porte, he steered a middle
course with consummate dexterity, constantly maintaining a good
understanding with the cabinet of St Petersburg; while, in 1830, he
succeeded in obtaining from the Sultan a firman, by which the dignity of
prince was declared hereditary in his family; and it was further
provided, that such Turks as still retained land in Servia should
dispose of their estates within a limited period, and quit the province.
Another firman, in 1833, released the Servians from the payment of
_kharaj_ (the capitation tax paid by rayahs) and all other dues and
imposts, in consideration of an annual tribute of 2,300,000 piastres
(£23,000) to be paid to the Porte; the right of levying taxes was
conceded to the Servian government, and all fortresses erected by the
Turks, since the commencement of the war in 1804, were to be rased.[7]
These concessions, which rendered the dependence of Servia on the Porte
little more than nominal, were doubtless granted through the secret
influence of Russia, whose obvious interest it was to weaken the
connexion between her destined prey and its titular suzerain; but the
despotic power thus placed in the hands of Milosh, was exercised with a
degree of arrogance and contempt of vested rights, which soon rendered
him highly unpopular. No carriage but his was allowed to appear in the
streets of Belgrade; and, while all political rights were withheld from
the people, he amassed immense wealth by arbitrary confiscations, by
levying heavy taxes and import duties, and by establishing oppressive
monopolies of articles of necessary consumption, particularly salt,
veins of which, discovered by Baron Herder near the Kopaunik mountain,
he forbade to be worked under severe penalties, in order to keep in his
own hands the importation from Walachia. The discontent of the national
party, headed by the _primates_ (as they are called) of the
municipalities, at length broke out into flame--fomented (as it was then
believed) by Russia, who was jealous of the influence acquired over
Milosh by Colonel Hodges, appointed in 1836 consul-general for England,
and with whom he was on the point of concluding a commercial treaty. A
_hatti-shereef_ at this juncture (December 1838) arrived from the Porte,
obtained (as it is said) through the advice of Colonel Hodges, and
containing a form of constitution for Servia, regulating the legal
tribunals, the functions of the ministry, &c., and ordaining the
formation of a legislative council of seventeen members, as a check on
the despotism of the Prince. But the crisis had already arrived. The
senate took the initiative, by charging Milosh with embezzlement of the
public property, and calling him to account; and, after a vain attempt
to make a stand against the popular indignation, he fled with his
treasures into Hungary. An attempt to recover his power having proved
ineffectual, he at length abdicated in favour of his son, Milan; who,
dying soon after, was succeeded by his brother, Michael, under the
guardianship of his mother, Liubitza. But the same system still
continued; and all efforts to procure any redress of grievances proving
fruitless, a general outbreak took place in September 1842, the prime
movers in which were Wucicz and Petronevich, who for several years had
been the recognised heads of the popular party. As it was found that the
few troops round the Prince were not to be depended upon, he quitted
Belgrade, accompanied by his mother and the French and English consuls,
and repaired to Semlin; and after some fruitless negotiation, the
sovereignty was declared vacant by the representatives of the nation,
with the concurrence of the Turkish governor, Kiamil Pasha.

As it was well known that the Obrenovich family had been for some time
in bad odour at Petersburg, this movement was at first universally
attributed to Russian influence; but it soon became apparent that its
only motive was the spontaneous assertion by the Servians of the rights
and liberties withheld from them; and the steps for a fresh election, in
pursuance of the provisions of the _hatti-shereefs_ were taken with
perfect order and unanimity. A firman was issued by the Sultan, in right
of his suzerainté; and the unanimous and enthusiastic choice of the
nation fell on Alexander, son of the well-remembered Kara George, who
was forthwith inaugurated in the cathedral of Belgrade, by the
Archbishop, and received from the Porte the _berat_ or patent, necessary
for his confirmation in his new dignity. His accession was officially
notified by the Ottoman ministers, to the Russian envoy at
Constantinople but this evidence of good understanding and unity of
interest between the Porte and her vassal, was a formidable and
unexpected obstacle to the sinister designs of Russia which was to be
counteracted at all hazards; and the course adopted for this purpose,
unparalleled perhaps in the annals of diplomacy, cannot be better
understood than from the able and lucid statement of Lord Beaumont in
his place in parliament, on the 5th of May following. [It must first be
well remembered that neither in the treaty of Bukarest, nor in any
subsequent convention, was a shadow of a right of _veto_, or
interference in any way in the election of a prince of Servia, conveyed
to Russia, (as in the joint nomination with the Porte of the hospodars
of the Trans-Danubian principalities,) and the only ground on which such
interference could rest, was that enunciated by Baron Lieven, with
somewhat remarkable frankness in a Russ diplomatist, to Mr Paton, that
"Servia owed her political existence solely to Russia, which gave the
latter a moral right of intervention over and above the stipulations of
treaties, to which no other power could pretend"--a statement false both
in fact and inference, since it was by their own good swords, unaided by
Russia or any other European power with either men or money,[8] that the
Servians won their freedom; and the nugatory stipulation in the treaty
of Bukarest, had been all along left a dead letter.] "Russia, neglecting
all international law, sent an agent of her own into Servia, to
investigate the internal proceedings of an independent state, and, on
receiving his report, directed that agent to state his complaints,
without consulting any other power, to the Divan. Now, he would venture
to say, that a greater or more direct insult than this, was never
offered to an independent state, and he could not conceive any act that
could be a more gross and positive violation of the treaties of
Bukarest, Akerman, and Adrianople, under which alone she could set up a
right to be informed of what passed in Servia. Though Georgevich was
elected by the people, according to the constitution of the province,
and though the validity of his election was acknowledged by the Divan,
and confirmed by the Porte, Russia demanded that the election should be
set aside; and this demand was made by that power in such an overbearing
manner, as to show to the world that Turkey was under the control of
Russia, and must act in conformity with the dictates of the Czar."

In this extremity, the Porte appealed for support to Great Britain and
Austria, two of the powers who were parties to the quintuple treaty
signed at London, July 15, 1840, for the express object of ensuring the
integrity and independence of the Ottoman Empire; and the appeal was
backed by strong representations from Sir Stratford Canning, the British
ambassador at Constantinople, to his home government. But the British
government was (as Lord Palmerston observed, with much sarcastic truth,
in the House of Commons on August 15) "in the same condition in which
they had too often of late been found in foreign affairs, without any
opinion of their own on the subject, (hear;) and determined to act with
Austria, thereby risking the sacrifice of our own interests for a remote
Austrian interest in which we had no concern. Austria at first
determined to support Servia; but there came an _urgent appeal_ from
Russia; and Austria recommended Servia to yield." The nature of this
"urgent appeal" will be well understood by those who are aware of the
morbid fear entertained by Austria of Russian extension among the Slavic
populations in Hungary; and of which Russia availing herself, (as
remarked by Mr Paget,) "by exerting the influence which similarity of
language, and, in some parts, of religion, gives her over them, has
hitherto frightened Austria into doing almost any thing she likes." "The
Sultan" (continued Lord Palmerston) "was now forced to submit. He
annulled the election of Prince Georgevich; he consented to a popular
election; he recalled the two popular leaders, Wucicz and Petronevich,
to Constantinople; and even appointed a Russian general, Baron Lieven,
his commissioner, in conjunction with a Turkish officer, to go into
Servia to see his orders carried into execution."

So far Lord Palmerston; and the accuracy of the information possessed by
the British Cabinet to combat these strong facts, may be estimated, from
Sir Robert Peel's calling Prince Alexander, a man of thirty-five, and
the worthy inheritor of his father's great qualities, "an infatuated
youth"--on the authority (it is said) of a letter from Mr Fonblanque!
But we must return from the English debates to the progress of the drama
in Servia, where the commissioners found the Servians, in defiance of
the great powers, and in spite of the hopelessness of aid from
Constantinople, preparing for national resistance. The Prince refused to
abdicate, alleging that the firman by which he had been appointed had
never been revoked, and that universal anarchy would result from his
resigning the reins of government, since no _kaimakams_, or regents _pro
tempore_, had been named by the Porte--an omission which is supposed not
to have been altogether unintentional; and the whole nation rose in
commotion at the bare mention of the recall of Wucicz and Petronevich;
the crowd exclaiming, when Wucicz told them that 'the Servian forests
would not be less green were two old trees cut down, "No! a thousand
times no!" and rushing with arms in their hands to the presence of
Hafiz-Pasha, (who had been appointed on Kiamil's recall on the mandate
of Russia for his share in the revolution,) announced their
determination to maintain their prince and his counsellors; to which
Hafiz assented, no doubt, with secret gratification. While the
proceedings were thus stayed by the unexpected resolution shown by the
Servians, Russian emissaries were traversing the country in all
directions, striving in vain to stir up a revolt in favour of the
Obrenovich family, whose former partisans, it was found, were now their
strongest opponents; and inciting the Christians in Bosnia and Bulgaria
to rise against the Moslems, by the hope of obtaining independent
governments under hospodars of their own, like the other principalities.
On the other hand, the Servian population was ready to rise _en masse_
in defence of its liberties, and was further cheered by the report that
thirty thousand of the Slavic races under Austrian dominion were ready
to join them in the struggle for national freedom; while the Porte,
roused to unexpected energy by the accumulation of wrong heaped upon it,
reinforced the garrison of Belgrade with three thousand fresh troops,
and formed encampments to the amount of near one hundred thousand men at
Constantinople and Adrianople, for the ostensible purpose of overawing
the spirit of revolt among the Bulgarians. The National Assembly, which
had in the mean time met at Belgrade, declared the election of Prince
Alexander legal and valid, and refused to abrogate it; and as the agents
of Russia found that their original object could only be effected by an
invasion, an act which (even had the season left time to march an army
to the Danube) might have exceeded even the long-suffering of the other
powers who were parties to the treaty of 1840, it was resolved, for the
sake of appearances, to repair the false step as far as possible by a
show of moderation. It was accordingly announced that the principal
objections of Russia to the late election arose from the informality
with which the proceedings had been conducted; that Prince Alexander
would be admitted as a candidate, (a concession very distasteful to
Austria, who apprehended that the talent and popularity of the prince
might attract her own Slavic subjects under his rule;) and that the late
prince, Michael, should be excluded from competition. This could only
lead to one result; and Alexander, having _pro formâ_ resigned his
authority, a _hatti-shereef_ was sent from the Porte, and he was again
elected with even greater enthusiasm than before.

But Russia, though foiled in her main object, had still another move in
reserve. The _berat_, or letter-patent of the Sultan, was still
necessary for the confirmation of the new prince; and July 27, M. Titoff
(who had succeeded M. Boutenieff as Russian envoy to the Porte)
announced to the Divan the will of his master, that this important
document should be withheld till Wucicz and Petronevich, "the authors of
the late disturbances," had left the country. The ministers of the
Porte, unsupported by the ambassadors of France and England, who
remained passive, had no alternative but to yield to this audacious act
of intervention, which was communicated by Baron Lieven to the Servian
kaimakams appointed during the interregnum. "As soon as the intelligence
was spread among the people, the universal exclamation was--'We will not
suffer them to be taken from us--they are our protectors, our
benefactors;'" but submission was inevitable, and, in the middle of
August, the two ministers repaired to Widdin, where they were received
with high distinction by Hussein Pasha. They remained in exile a year,
when the interdict was withdrawn by Russia, as it is said in consequence
of British intervention, but more probably from finding, that,
notwithstanding their absence, it was impossible to stir up faction
against Prince Alexander. The circumstances of their return have been
already given from Mr Paton's account; and we can little doubt, that on
his next interview with the Prince, after his faithful counsellors had
been restored to him, "he showed no trace of that reserve and timidity
which foreigners had remarked in him a year before."

Such is the plain unvarnished account of the late transactions in
Servia, in which the true character of Russian policy, and the means by
which it is carried out, have been unveiled before the eyes of Europe in
a manner sufficient to enlighten those which are not closed in wilful
blindness. "Europe has been apprised, if she wishes to be so," (says the
_Journal des Debats_,) "that there is in the East, independent of
Turkey, a point of resistance against the encroachments of Russia;" and
this _great fact_ derives double value from that point being found in
one of those Slavic populations which it is the grand object and aim of
Russia to unite under her iron sceptre. But (in the eloquent language of
Mr Paget) "we knew that if Europe did awake, the progress of Russia was
stopped; we knew that her gigantic power would crumble away, and nothing
remain but the hatred of the world, of the injustice and cruelty by
which it had been raised."

  F. H.

     _Servia, the Youngest Member of the European Family; or, a
     Residence in Belgrade, and Travels in the Highlands and Woodlands
     of the Interior, during the Years 1843 and 1844._ By ANDREW
     ARCHIBALD PATON, Esq., Author of the "Modern Syrians."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This was the explanation actually given by Develuz, our consul at
Adrianople, of his exaggerated account of the strength of Diebitsch's
army, at the moment when Diebitsch's best hope was, that he might effect
his retreat across the Balkan with the shattered and debilitated remnant
of his troops! Yet on this authority the Sultan was recommended to yield
at discretion, and the treaty of Adrianople was signed!

[2] The present Prince, on public occasions, always wears the fez with
an aigrette of diamonds, as a recognition of the suzerainté of the
Porte; his predecessor, Michel Obrenovich, gave great offence by wearing
a cocked hat.

[3] The old Emperor, Francis of Austria, when a Russian general was to
be presented, would say, "Now bring in the northern firmament, and all
its stars."

[4] Sokol must here be a slip of the pen for Szoko. Sokol, the
birth-place of the famous Mohammed Sokolli, vizier of Soliman the
Magnificent and his two successors, is in the heart of Bosnia, near
Gradachatz.

[5] In the supplement to the _Biographie Universelle_, vol. lxi., a
strange tale is told, that Czerni George was a native of Nanci, who fled
in his youth to Servia--but this is a mere romance.

[6] Lamartine (_Voyage en Orient_) and other writers represent Kara
George as having died in confinement in an Austrian fortress, soon after
his flight in 1813-an error which has probably arisen from a confusion
between his fate and that of Alexander Hypsilantis, who headed the
insurrection in Walachia in 1821, and died in Mongatz, after three
years' imprisonment.

[7] These firmans, with the _hatti-shereef_ of 1838, &c., were printed
and laid before the House of Commons in May 1843.

[8] The contrast in this respect, between the progress and results of
the Servian and Greek revolutions, is forcibly stated in an extract from
a MS. document by Wuk Stephanovich, author of the Servian Anthology, in
Parish's _Diplomatic History of the Monarchy of Greece_.--Pp. 387-90.




THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA.

PART IV.

     "Y asi entre otras razones le dijo que no tuviese pena del suceso
     de Camila, porque sín duda la herida era ligera."--CERVANTES. _El
     Curioso Impertinente._


The unexpected and opportune appearance of Mariano Torres, at the moment
of Herrera's escape, requires a few words of explanation. When Rodil, on
the morrow of the skirmish with Zumalacarregui in the Lower Amezcoa,
evacuated that valley, he proceeded to distribute a portion of his army
amongst various garrisons; and then, with the remainder, marched to
Biscay in pursuit of Don Carlos, who, having as yet no place of security
from his enemies, was wandering about attended by a handful of
followers. Amongst the troops left in Navarre by the Christino general,
was the cavalry regiment to which Herrera and Torres belonged, and this
was ordered to the plains of the Ebro. The day after its arrival at the
town of Viana, a battalion marched in from Pampeluna, and with it came
Sergeant Velasquez, who, after his escape from the Carlists, had taken
refuge in that fortress. Great was the consternation of Torres on
learning the surprise of the escort and capture of his friend, and his
grief was warmly sympathized in by the other officers of the regiment,
with whom Herrera was a universal favourite. But Torres was not the man
to content himself with idle regrets and unavailing lamentations, and he
resolved to rescue Herrera, if it were possible, even at the hazard of
his own life. He confided his project to the colonel of his regiment,
who, with some difficulty, was induced to acquiesce in it, and to grant
him leave of absence. This obtained, he disguised himself as a private
soldier, and boldly plunged into the centre of Navarre in quest of
Zumalacarregui and his army. He had little difficulty in finding them:
he announced himself as a deserter from the Christinos, and, without
attracting unusual notice or suspicion, was enrolled in a Navarrese
battaline, which, a day or two afterwards, marched to the village where
Herrera was kept prisoner. Although by the interference of Count
Villabuena, and the dexterity of Paco and the gipsy, Mariano's daring
self-devotion was rendered superfluous, it had its uses, inasmuch as his
disappearance with Herrera prevented the slightest suspicion from
falling upon those who had really contrived and effected the escape. The
gipsy, after guiding the two friends to Salvatierra, and receiving an
ample reward from Herrera, performed the secret service with which
Zumalacarregui had charged him, returned to that general with a ready
framed excuse for the slight delay in its execution, and pocketed the
ten additional onzas promised him by Paco. The muleteer, still weak from
his wound, was the last man to be suspected; and of the Count's
participation in the affair, no one, excepting Major Villabuena, for a
moment dreamed. Don Baltasar, remembering his cousin's anxiety
concerning Herrera, certainly entertained a notion that he had in some
way or other facilitated his escape; but of this he could obtain no
proof, nor, had he been able to do so, would it have been for his own
interest to expose the Count, whom he was desirous, on the contrary, to
conciliate. It was a vague and undefined apprehension of some attempt at
a rescue, that had led him, at so late an hour on the night of the
escape, to prowl in the vicinity of Herrera's prison.

The autumn and winter of 1834 passed away without any material change in
the position of the personages of our narrative. The war continued with
constantly increasing spirit and ferocity, and each month was marked by
new and important successes on the part of the Carlists. The plains of
Vittoria, the banks of the Ebro, the mountains of central and northern
Navarre, were alternately the scene of encounters, in which the skill of
Zumalacarregui, and the zeal and intrepidity of his troops, proved an
overmatch for the superior numbers of the Christinos. In vain did the
government of the Queen Regent, persevering in spite of its many
reverses, send its best troops and most experienced generals to that
corner of the peninsula where civil strife raged: it was only that the
troops might be decimated, and the generals forfeit their former
reputation in repeated and disastrous defeats. Although the country and
climate were such as to render temporary repose in winter quarters most
desirable for the contending armies, the idea of such an indulgence was
scarcely for a moment entertained, and the winter campaign proved as
active as the summer one. The arrival of Mina to take the chief command
of the Queen's forces, and the severity of the measures he adopted,
rendered the character of the war more sanguinary and cruel than it had
been since its commencement; and although, in numerous instances, the
nearest relatives and dearest friends were fighting on contrary sides,
it became impossible for them to obtain intelligence of each other's
welfare. It was by no means surprising, therefore, that eight months
elapsed, and the spring arrived, without Herrera hearing any thing of
Count Villabuena or his daughter; and that the Count, on the other hand,
remained ignorant of the proceedings of the young man whose life he had
saved, and in whose fate he could not but feel interested, save through
the occasional rumour of some dashing exploit, by which Herrera
maintained and increased the high reputation he had early acquired in
the ranks of the Christinos. His gallantry did not go unrewarded, and
the opening of the spring campaign found him in command of a squadron,
and on the high-road to further promotion.

Whilst Herrera was thus gaining fame and honour, his rival, Major
Villabuena, had no reason to complain of his services being overlooked.
His courage was undoubted, his military skill by no means contemptible,
and these qualities had procured him a colonel's commission and a staff
appointment. But, in spite of these advantages, Don Baltasar was
dissatisfied and unhappy. His object in joining the Carlists had not
been promotion, still less a zeal for the cause, but the appropriation
to himself of the fair hand and broad lands of Rita de Villabuena. His
prospect of obtaining these, however, seemed each day to diminish. The
favour with which the Count regarded him had lasted but during the first
days of their acquaintance, and had since been materially impaired by
the discovery of various unpleasing traits in Don Baltasar's character,
and particularly by his endeavours to urge the death of Herrera in
opposition to the wishes of his kinsman. Moreover, there could be little
sympathy or durable friendship between men of such opposite qualities
and dispositions. Count Villabuena had the feelings and instincts of a
nobleman, in the real, not the conventional sense of the term: he was
proud to a fault, stern, and unyielding, but frank, generous, and
upright. Don Baltasar was treacherous, selfish, and unscrupulous. He
felt himself cowed and humbled by the superiority of the Count, whom he
began secretly to detest; and who, whilst still keeping on good, or at
least courteous, terms with his cousin, became daily more averse to his
alliance, and more decided to support Rita in her rejection of his suit.

As a natural consequence of Zumalacarregui's successes, they of the
absolutist party in Spain who had openly declared for Don Carlos, and
who, during the first year of the war, had been hunted from post to
pillar, and frequently compelled to seek concealment in caves and
forests from the pursuit of the foe, found themselves, in the spring of
1835, in possession of a considerable tract of country, including a few
fortified places. _El Lobo Caño_, the Grey-haired Wolf, as his followers
had styled Don Carlos, in allusion to his hair having become bleached on
the mountain and in the bivouac, began to collect around him the
semblance of a court; and various ladies, the wives and daughters of his
partisans, who had been in temporary exile in France, recrossed the
frontier and hazarded themselves in the immediate vicinity of the scene
of war. Amongst others, Rita de Villabuena, who had been residing with
some friends at the French town of Pau, implored, and with difficulty
obtained, her father's permission to rejoin him. A house was prepared
for her reception in the small town of Segura in Guipuzcoa, whence, in
case of need, a speedy retreat might be made to the adjacent sierras of
Mutiloa and Aralar, and here she arrived, under her father's escort,
towards the commencement of the month of May.

One of the first who hastened to pay court to the young and beautiful
heiress, was, as might be expected, Colonel Baltasar de Villabuena. But
his reception was in the highest degree discouraging, and he was able to
assure himself, that if any variation had taken place in Rita's
sentiments, it was by no means in his favour. His only remaining hope,
therefore, was in an appeal to the Count, whom he still believed to be,
for the family reasons already adverted to, desirous of a union between
Rita and himself. This appeal he resolved to take an early opportunity
of making. A valuable estate, which Rita had inherited from her mother,
lay within the tract of country already conquered by the Carlists; and
although the revenue it yielded was greatly diminished by the disturbed
state of Navarre, and the contributions levied for the carrying on of
the war, it was still sufficiently important to excite the cupidity of
Don Baltasar, and to render him doubly anxious to obtain, on any terms,
the hand of his cousin.

It was on a bright May morning, three days subsequently to Rita's
arrival at Segura, that a small train of horsemen was seen winding along
the declivitous paths that lead across the sierra of Elgua, a part of
the northern boundary of the province of Alava. The snows with which,
during the long winter, the upper portion of these mountains had been
covered, had disappeared in the warm rays of the spring sun, and
disclosed peaks of grey rock, and patches of table-land strewn with
flints, producing little besides a few Alpine plants, which, in defiance
of the scanty nourishment they found, and of the keen air that blew over
those elevated summits, boldly expanded their blossoms in the pleasant
sunshine. Lower down, and on that part of the southern side of the
mountain over which the cavalcade now proceeded, masses of forest-trees
sprang out of the more plentiful soil, and overshadowed the rocky path
that rang under the horses' feet; the dusky foliage of the fir-tree, the
brighter green of the oak, and the broad angular leaves of the sycamore,
mingling in rich variety. Now the path lay through some dried-up
water-course, half filled with loose stones, whose elevated sides, over
the edges of which the tendrils of innumerable creeping plants dangled
and swung, bounded the view on either hand; whilst overhead the
interwoven branches afforded, through their thick leafage, but scanty
glimpses of the bright blue sky. Presently, emerging from the ravine,
the road, if such it might be called, ran along the shelf of a
precipice, below which successive ranges of luxuriant foliage, varied
here and there by a projecting crag, or enlivened by the dash and
sparkle of a waterfall, continued to the level below. From the foot of
the mountains, an extensive plain stretched out to a distance of several
leagues, its smiling and fertile fields thickly sprinkled with villages
and farm-houses. To the left front rose the old Moorish castle of
Guevara; and at a greater distance, more to the westward, and near the
centre of the plain, were seen the imperfect fortifications and lofty
church-towers of the city of Vittoria.

The foremost of the horsemen, who, on the day referred to, were thus
scrambling, to the great discomfort of their steeds, down the steep and
rugged sides of the sierra, avoiding, for reasons of safety, the
high-road from Salinas to Vittoria, which lay at a league or two on
their right, was a man of middle age and tawny complexion, mounted on a
lean and uncomely, but surefooted horse, whose long tail, which, if
allowed to flow at will, would have swept the ground, was doubled up
into a sort of club, about a foot long, and tightly bound with worsted
ribands of bright and varied colours. The thick and abundant mane had
been carefully plaited, with the exception of the foremost tuft, left
hanging down between the ears, and from beneath which the wild eyes of
the animal glanced shyly at the different objects he passed, pretty much
as did those of the rider from under his bushy and projecting eye-brows.
The horseman was dressed in a loose jacket of black sheep-skin, the wool
rubbed off in many places, fastened down the front by copper clasps and
chains that had once boasted a gilding, and bound at edges with coarse
crimson velvet, which, from time and dirt, had become as dark as the
principal material of the garment. Between the loose short trousers and
the clumsy half-boots, replacing the sandals that were the customary
wear of the person described, several inches of lean and sinewy leg were
visible. A coloured handkerchief, tied round the head, and from beneath
which a quantity of shaggy black hair escaped, rusty iron spurs, with
huge jingling rowels, and a well-stuffed leathern wallet slung across
his body, completed the equipment of the horseman, in whom the reader
will perhaps already have recognised Jaime, the gipsy esquilador, now
acting as guide to the persons who followed. These consisted of Count
Villabuena and his cousin, Don Baltasar, both well mounted on powerful
chargers, and cloaked from chin to heel; for they had been early in the
saddle, and, although now in the month of May, the morning air upon the
mountains was keen and searching. They were followed, at a short
distance, by an escort of forty Carlist cavalry, strange, wild-looking
figures, whose scanty equipment, and the little uniformity of their
clothing, might have excited the derision of better provided troops; but
whose muscular forms and hardy aspect, as well as the serviceable state
of their carbines and lances, gave promise of their proving efficient
defenders and formidable foes.

Not having been bred to the profession of arms, Count Villabuena was, in
a strictly military point of view, of little use to his party; but his
intimate acquaintance with Navarre and the Basque provinces, with the
customs, feelings, and prejudices of their inhabitants, rendered him
invaluable in all administrative arrangements and combinations, and in
these he cheerfully and actively exerted himself. It was on a mission of
this nature that he was now proceeding, having left Oñate early that
morning, to attend a meeting of influential Alavese Carlists, which was
to take place at the village of Gamboa, on the north side of the plain
of Vittoria. Although the country he had to pass through was not then
occupied, and only occasionally visited, by the Christinos, an escort
was necessary; and, besides this escort, Colonel Villabuena had
volunteered to accompany his cousin. His object in so doing was to
obtain an opportunity for an uninterrupted conversation with the Count,
on the subject of his pretensions to the hand of Rita.

This conversation had taken place, and its result had been most
unsatisfactory to Don Baltasar. The Count plainly told him that it was
not his intention to force the inclinations of his daughter; and that,
as she was averse to the proposed alliance, he himself had abandoned the
idea of its taking place. A long and stormy discussion ensued, and
Baltasar accused the Count of having deceived him, and induced him to
join a cause, the ultimate triumph of which was impossible, by holding
out hopes that he never intended to realize. The Count replied by
reminding Don Baltasar, that when he had urged him to serve his rightful
monarch, and not under the banner of a usurper, the only arguments he
had used were those of loyalty and duty; and that the proposed marriage
was a private arrangement entirely contingent upon his daughter's
acquiescence. Sharp retorts and angry words followed, until the
conversation was brought to a close by the Count's checking his horse,
and allowing the escort, which had previously been at some distance
behind, to come up with them. The cousins then rode on, still side by
side, but silent, and as far apart as the narrow path would allow, the
Count haughty and indignant, Don Baltasar sullen and dogged.

Whilst this occurred in the mountains, the persons whom Count Villabuena
came to meet were assembling at the place of rendezvous in the village
of Gamboa. From various country lanes and roads, substantial-looking
men, wrapped in heavy brown cloaks, and riding punchy mountain horses,
were seen to emerge, for the most part singly, and at the careless,
deliberate pace least calculated to excite suspicion of their going to
other than their ordinary avocations. Some of these were alcaldes and
regidores from the neighbouring villages, others landed proprietors in
the vicinity. Now and then a lean, anxious priest, perched upon a high
saddle, his feet encased in clumsy wooden stirrups, his head covered
with an enormous hat, of which the brim, curled up at the sides over the
crown, projected half a yard before and behind him, came ambling into
the village, distributing his _benedicites_ amongst the peasant women
and children, who stood at the doors of the houses bowing reverently to
the _padre cura_. One man, dressed in the coarsest and commonest garb of
a labourer, came up upon an ill-looking mule, and received a loud and
joyful welcome from the persons already assembled. He was a wealthy
proprietor, whose estates lay within the Christino lines, and had been
compelled to adopt this disguise to avoid notice. The arrival of another
person, to all appearance a charcoal-burner, with grimy face and hands,
riding a ragged pony, across which a couple of sacks, black from the
charcoal they had contained, were thrown by way of saddle, was hailed
with similar demonstrations of joy. He was a rich merchant and national
guardsman from Vittoria, secretly well affected to Don Carlos.

The place where the Carlists first assembled was not in a house, but on
a paved platform, extending along one side of the large church, by which
it was masked from the view of persons approaching from the direction of
Vittoria. A sort of cloister, with stone benches beneath it, ran along
the wall of the church, and in front of the platform was a broad
greensward, used as a playground by the village children. Whilst the
Carlists grouped themselves in the cloisters, talking eagerly together,
and waiting the coming of Count Villabuena, their horses and ponies
stood saddled and bridled upon the green, held by peasant boys, and in
readiness for their owners to mount and ride away at a moment's notice,
or on the first signal of alarm. Of the mountain path by which the Count
was expected to arrive, only about a mile was visible from the platform,
after which it disappeared over the brow of a low wood-crowned eminence
that rose to the north, partially intercepting the view of the sierra.
On this eminence a peasant was stationed to watch for the Count; whilst
on the other side of the village, at a short distance upon the road to
Vittoria, another vedette was posted, to give notice of the appearance
of any of the foraging or reconnoitring parties which the Christinos not
unfrequently sent out in this direction.

It was considerably past noon, and the members of the Junta, for such
did the assembly style itself, were beginning to wax impatient for the
arrival of the Count, without whom the business for which they had met
could not be proceeded with, when the watcher upon the hill gave the
concerted signal by waving his cap in the air, uttering at the same time
one of those far-sounding cries, peculiar to the inhabitants of
mountainous regions. Upon this announcement, the Carlists descended from
the platform into the road that ran past one of its extremities, and
took their way, with grave and dignified demeanour, to the dwelling of
the priest, in which the meeting was to be held. This house, according
to custom one of the most spacious and comfortable in the village, was
situated at about musket-shot from the church, and a little detached
from the other buildings. Annexed to it was a long garden, bordering the
road, and divided from it by a low hedge; beyond the garden was a vast
and level field, and, on the eastern side of that, a tract of marshy
ground, thickly covered with a lofty growth of willow and alder trees,
extended to a considerable distance. The Carlists had traversed nearly
the whole length of the garden hedge, and the foremost of them were
close to the door of the house, when they were startled by the loud
blast of a horn, with which the peasant sentry upon the Vittoria road
had been furnished, to give the alarm if needful. They simultaneously
paused, and anxiously listened for a repetition of the sound. It came; a
third and a fourth blast were sounded, and with such hurried vehemence
of tone as denoted pressing danger. Yet the peril could scarcely be so
imminent as the quick repetition of the signal would seem to denote;
for, from the place where the vedette was posted, he would command a
view of any advancing troops nearly half an hour before they could reach
the village, and those who had aught to fear from them would have ample
time to effect their escape. But the horn continued sounding, ever
louder and louder,--the Carlists gazed at each other in dismay, and some
few made a movement towards their horses, as if to mount and fly.
Suddenly a fat and joyous-looking alcalde, whose protuberant paunch and
ruby nose were evidence of his love for the wine-skin, although the
chalky tint that had overspread his features at the first sound of
alarm, did not say much for his intrepidity, burst out into a loud
laugh, which caused his companions to stare at him in some wonder and
displeasure.

"By the blessed St. Jago!" exclaimed he, "the idiot has mistaken our
friends for our enemies. He has been looking over his shoulder instead
of before him, and has caught a sight of the Señor Conde and his escort.
See yonder."

The Carlists looked in the direction pointed out, and on the top of the
hill over which Count Villabuena was expected to approach, they saw
three horsemen standing, one of whom was sweeping the village and the
adjacent country with a field-glass, apparently seeking the cause and
meaning of the violent fanfare that had so much alarmed the respectable
Junta. Behind these three men, who were no others than the Count, his
cousin, and their guide, the lance-flags of the escort were visible,
although the soldiers themselves were still out of sight, having halted
just here arriving on the crest of the hill. The countenances of the
Carlists, which for a moment had contracted with alarm, were beginning
again to expand, as the plausibility of their companion's explanation
occurred to them, when suddenly they saw the Count and his companions
turn their horses in all haste, and disappear behind the hill. At the
same moment, and before they could guess at the meaning of this
manoeuvre, a shout was heard, a troop of Christino dragoons debouched
from behind the willow wood, deployed upon the field, and charged across
it in open order, their lances levelled,[9] and the pennons fluttering
above their horses' ears. In less time than it takes to write it, they
had crossed the field, dashed into the garden, and, breaking through the
hedge, clattered over the rough streets of the village in pursuit, of
the unfortunate priests and alcaldes, who, taken entirely by surprise,
knew not which way to run to avoid the danger that menaced them. Some
few who had time to get on horseback, scampered off, but were pursued
and overtaken by the better-mounted dragoons; others crept into houses
and stables, or flung themselves into ditches; and the majority, seeing
no possibility of escape, threw themselves on their knees, and, in
piteous accents, implored mercy. This was not refused.

"Give quarter, and make prisoners," was the command uttered in the
clear, sonorous tones of Luis Herrera, who led the party; "they are
unarmed--spare their lives."

The order was obeyed, and only one or two of the more desperate, who
produced concealed weapons, and endeavoured to defend themselves,
received trifling sabre-cuts from the exasperated dragoons.

But although Don Baltasar, on first obtaining a view of the Queen's
cavalry, and before he knew what force was approaching the village, had
retired behind the brow of the hill. It was by no means his intention to
make a precipitate retreat without ascertaining the strength of the
enemy, and endeavouring, if possible, to rescue the captive Junta.
Whilst the Count and the escort retraced their steps down the hill, and
halted in the fields upon its north side, whence they had the option of
returning to the mountains by the way they had come, or of striking off
into the high-road to Salinas and Oñate, which ran at a short distance
to their right, Colonel Villabuena and the gipsy, concealed amongst the
trees that clothed the summit of the eminence, noted what passed in the
village. They at once saw how the surprise had occurred. The Junta had
not expected an enemy to approach by any other road than that from
Vittoria, and had consequently stationed sentries in no other direction.
That such would be the case, had been foreseen by the Christinos, who
having received, through their spies, information of the intended
meeting had sent out troops upon the Pampeluna road, with orders, after
proceeding a certain distance, to strike off to the left, and, availing
themselves of the cover afforded by a large tract of wood and swamp, to
take Gamboa in rear or flank. The manoeuvre had been rapidly and
skilfully executed; and Luis Herrera, who, with his squadron, had been
sent upon this duty, arrived with one half of his men within a few
hundred yards of the village before he was perceived by the Carlist
vedette. His other troop he had detached to his right, in order that, by
making a wider sweep, they might get in rear of Gamboa, and prevent the
possible escape of any of the rebels. This detachment, ignorant of the
country, and puzzled by the numerous lanes and paths which crossed each
other in every direction, had lost its way, and was still at some
distance from the village when Herrera charged into it.

When Colonel Villabuena had made his observations, and ascertained that
the number of the enemy but little exceeded that of his own men, he rode
out of the wood and rejoined the escort, resolved to take advantage of
the Christinos being dispersed, and, unexpectant of an attack, to make a
dash at them, which, he doubted not, would be fully successful.
Previously, however, and although the Count had no military rank, it was
a matter of common courtesy, not to say of duty, to communicate with
him, and ask his consent to dispose of an escort which had been sent for
his protection. But here the sullen temper of Don Baltasar, and the
rankling irritation left by his recent altercation with his kinsman,
showed themselves. Followed by the gipsy, he rode to the front of the
lancers, who were drawn up in line, and, without addressing a syllable
to the Count, or appearing to notice his presence, gave, in a sharp
abrupt tone, the necessary words of command. The men moved off to the
left. The Count, highly sensitive on matters of etiquette, and indignant
at being treated by Don Baltasar as a person of no importance, unworthy
of being consulted, allowed the troop to march away without giving any
indication of an intention to follow or accompany it. Don Baltasar
looked round, hesitated for a moment, and then seeing that the Count
remained motionless, and took no notice of the departure of his escort,
he rode back to him.

"The enemy are few," said he, abruptly; "I shall attack them."

Count Villabuena bowed his head coldly.

"Scant measure of courtesy, colonel," said he. "Angry feelings should
not make you forget the conduct of a _caballero_."

On hearing himself thus rebuked, an expression of anger and deadly hate
overspread the sombre countenance of Don Baltasar, and he scowled at the
Count as though about to deal him a stab. But his eye sank beneath the
calm, cold, contemptuous gaze of Count Villabuena. He said nothing: and
again wheeling his charger, galloped furiously back to the head of his
men, followed, at a more deliberate pace, by his cousin. Passing swiftly
over a few fields, the little troop swept round the base of the hill,
dashed across the level, and appeared upon the road at half a mile from
the village. On obtaining a view of the latter, Don Baltasar at once saw
that he was not likely to have so cheap a bargain of the Christinos as
he had anticipated. Herrera had too much experience in this description
of warfare to be easily caught; and although, upon first entering
Gamboa, the dragoons had unavoidably dispersed in pursuit of the
fugitives, he had lost no time in reassembling them; and, whilst a few
men kept the prisoners already made, and searched the houses for others,
he himself had formed upon the road a party fully equal in number to
that commanded by Don Baltasar. Nothing daunted, however, at finding the
enemy on his guard, the Carlist colonel drew his sabre and turned to his
men.

"_A ellos!_" he cried. "At them, boys, for Spain and the King!"

The lancers replied to his words by a loud hurra, and the little party
advanced, at first at a moderate pace, in order not to blow the horses
before the decisive moment should arrive. The Count, forgetting private
animosity in the excitement and exhilaration of the moment, rode
cheerfully at the side of his cousin, and drew the sword which, although
a civilian, the perilous and adventurous life he led induced him
invariably to carry. At the same moment Herrera's trumpeter sounded the
assembly, and those of the dragoons who had dismounted hurried to their
horses. Before, however, the distance between the opposite parties had
been diminished by many yards, the blast of the Christino trumpets was
replied to by another, and, upon looking back, Don Baltasar saw a fresh
party of dragoons just appearing upon the road, about a mile in his
rear. It was the second troop of Herrera's squadron coming to the
support of their leader.

"Curse and confound them!" cried Baltasar, his face darkening with rage
and disappointment. "Halt--files about! And now, boys, legs must do it,
for they are three to one."

And he led the way back into the fields, followed by his men at a rapid
pace, but in good order.

Without a moment's delay, Herrera, leaving a few dragoons to guard the
prisoners, dashed across the country in pursuit of the Carlists. His
example was followed by Torres, who commanded the other detachment. The
fugitives had a good start, and were soon behind the hill; but the
Christino horses were fresher, and although less accustomed to climb the
mountains, in the plain they were swifter of foot. Don Baltasar, now
riding in rear of his men, cast a glance over his shoulder.

"They gain on us," said he, in a low tone, and as if to himself. "It is
impossible to reach the sierra. If we could, we should be safe. There
are positions that we could hold on foot with our carbines, where they
would not dare attack us."

"We shall never reach them," said the Count. "Let us turn and fight
whilst yet there is time."

"The bridge! the bridge!" cried the gipsy, who, notwithstanding the
gaunt appearance of his steed, had kept well up with the soldiers. "If
we gain that, we are safe. A child could pull it down."

"Right, by God!" cried Baltasar glancing in some surprise at the adviser
of an expedient which he had himself overlooked. "Spur, men, spur; but
keep together."

Every rowel was struck into the flanks of the straining, panting horses
and the Carlists rapidly neared a small river, which, rising in some of
the adjacent mountains, flowed in rear of the little hill already
referred to, and parallel to the sierra whence Count Villabuena and his
companions had recently descended. The land, for some distance on either
side of the stream, was uncultivated, covered with furze and yellow
broom, and sprinkled with trees and clumps of high bushes. Across the
river, only a few months previously, a rude but solid stone bridge had
afforded a passage; but the bridge had been broken down soon after the
commencement of the war, and the stream, which, although not more than
seven or eight yards broad, was deep, and had steep high banks was now
traversed by means of four planks, laid side by side, but not fastened
together, and barely wide enough to give passage to a bullock cart. Over
this imperfect and rickety causeway, the retreating Carlists galloped,
the boards bending and creaking beneath their horses' feet. When all had
passed, Don Baltasar flung himself from his saddle, and aided by the
gipsy and by several of his men who had also dismounted, seized the
planks, and strove, by main strength, to tear their extremities from the
clay in which they were embedded. The Christinos, who were within a
couple of hundred yards of the river, set up a shout of fury when they
perceived the intention of their enemies. By the sinewy hands of
Baltasar and his soldiers, three of the boards were torn from the earth
and flung into the stream. The fourth gave way as Herrera came up, the
first man of his party, and, regardless of the narrow footing it
afforded, was about to risk the perilous voyage. Violently curbing his
horse, he but just escaped falling headlong into the stream. A shout of
exultation from the Carlists, and the discharge of several carbines
greeted the disappointed Christinos, who promptly returned the fire;
whilst, as was usual when they came within earshot, the complimentary
epithets of "Sons of Priests," and "_Soldados de la Puta_," accompanied
by volleys of imprecations, were bandied between the soldiers on either
side of the stream.

"Is there any bridge or ford at hand?" said Baltasar hastily to the
gipsy.

"None within a quarter of a league," was the reply.

"Then we will have a shot at them."

Herrera and Count Villabuena were again opposed to each other, and each
acknowledged the other's presence by a brief smile of recognition.

A smart skirmish now began. All was smoke, noise, and confusion. The
Count rode up to his cousin, who was on the right of his men.

"Let us retire," said he. "No advantage is to be gained by this idle
skirmishing. Infantry may be at hand, and delay will endanger our
retreat."

"Not so fast," replied Baltasar; "we will empty a few saddles before we
go."

"The escort was sent for my safety," said the Count, haughtily. "You are
not doing your duty in thus risking it."

"I have not been twenty years a soldier to learn my duty from you, sir,"
said Baltasar, fiercely. "Aim at the officers, men. A doubloon for him
who picks off the captain."

Stimulated by the promised reward, several of the Carlists directed
their fire at Herrera, who was on the left of the dragoons, exactly
opposite to, and within sixty paces of, Don Baltasar. The bullets flew
thick around Luis, but none touched him, and Baltasar himself drew a
pistol from his holster to take aim at his opponent. Disgusted at his
cousin's intemperate speech and imprudent conduct, the Count
contemptuously turned his back upon him and approached the stream,
regardless that by so doing he brought himself into a cross fire of
friends and foes.

"This is useless, Herrera," said he, "draw off your men."

The words had scarcely left his lips, when his hand relinquished its
hold of the bridle, by a convulsive movement he threw himself back in
the saddle, and fell heavily to the ground, struck by a ball. A cry of
horror from Luis was echoed by one of consternation from the Carlists,
on witnessing the fall of a man whom they all loved and respected.

"Where can we cross the stream?" demanded Herrera of one of his men, who
knew the country.

"To our left there is a ford, but at some distance."

"Cease firing," cried Herrera. The trumpet sounded the necessary call,
the Christinos hastily formed up and started at a gallop in the
direction of the ford. Don Baltasar advanced to the spot where his
cousin lay prostrate. Count Villabuena was lying on his back, his teeth
set, his eyes wide open and fixed, his clenched hands full of earth and
grass. Baltasar turned away with a slight shudder.

"He is dead," said he to the subaltern of the escort. "To take the body
with us would but impede our retreat, already difficult enough. The
living must not be endangered for the sake of the dead. Forward, men!"

And, without further delay, the Carlists set off at a brisk pace towards
the mountains, which they reached before the Christinos had found and
passed the distant ford. When the dragoons arrived at the foot of the
sierra, Don Baltasar and his men were already out of sight amongst its
steep and dangerous paths; and Herrera, compelled to abandon the
pursuit, returned mournfully to the river bank, to seek, and, if it
could be found, to convey to Vittoria the body of Count Villabuena.

Leaving Herrera to his mournful duty, let us conduct our readers to an
apartment in a house on the outskirts of the town of Segura. The
interior, which was plainly but commodiously furnished, indicated
feminine tastes and occupations, breathing that perfume of elegance
which the presence of woman ever communicates. Vases of flowers decked
the sideboards; a few books, the works of the best Spanish poets, lay
upon the table; and a guitar, unstrung, it is true, was suspended
against the wall. Two persons occupied the apartment. One of them, who
was seated on a low stool at its inner extremity, near to the folding
doors that separated it from an antichamber, was a robust, ruddy-cheeked
Navarrese girl, whose abundant hair, of which the jet blackness atoned
for the coarse texture, hung in a thick plait down her back, and whose
large red fingers were busily engaged in knitting. At the other end of
the apartment, close to the open window, through which she intently
gazed, was a being of very different mould. On a high-backed elbow-chair
of ancient oak sat Rita de Villabuena, pensive and anxious, her fair
face and golden tresses seeming fairer and brighter from the contrast
with the dark quaint carving against which they reposed. Her cheek was
perhaps paler than when first we made her acquaintance; anxiety for her
lover, and, latterly, for her father, was the cause; but her beauty had
lost nothing by the change, for the shade of melancholy upon her
features seemed, by adding to the interest her expressive countenance
inspired, rather to enhance than diminish its charm. She was now
watching for her father, who had led her to expect his return at about
this time. Over the stone balustrade of her balcony, she commanded a
view of the road along which he was to approach; and upon the farthest
visible point of it, where a bend round a group of trees concealed its
continuation, her gaze was riveted. Although the Count had assured her,
before his departure, that his journey was unattended with risk, Rita's
arrival upon the scene of war was too recent for her to escape
uneasiness during his absence. Some hours before the time at which his
return could reasonably be looked for, she had taken her post at the
window, and although, at the persuasion of her attendant, a simple
country girl, recently installed as her _donçella_, she had more than
once endeavoured to fix her attention on a book, or to distract it by
some of her usual occupations, the effort had each time been made in
vain, and she had again resumed her anxious watch. In every horseman, or
muleteer, who turned the angle of the road, she thought she recognised
the guide, who, two days previously, had accompanied her father from
Segura, and her heart throbbed with a feeling of joyful relief till a
nearer approach convinced her of her error.

Could the vision of Rita de Villabuena have penetrated the copse that
bounded her view in that direction, she would have perceived, towards
four of the afternoon, not her father, alas! but another horseman,
attended by the gipsy guide, riding at a rapid pace along the road. On
reaching the trees aforesaid, however, they deviated from the track into
a lane inclosed between hedges, which led round the town, and again
joined the road on its further side. To explain this manoeuvre, it is
necessary to retrace our steps, and to follow the movements of Colonel
Villabuena after his return to Oñate on the preceding evening.

When the first excitement of the skirmish and subsequent flight had
subsided, and the detachment of Carlists, after giving their horses a
moment's breathing-time upon one of the higher levels of the sierra,
resumed their march at a more leisurely pace, the thoughts of Don
Baltasar became concentrated on the one grand object of deriving the
utmost possible advantage from the death of his cousin. By that event
the estates of the Villabuena family were now his own, those, at least,
that lay within the Carlist territory. These, however, were
comparatively of little value; and although the far more extensive ones,
that had been confiscated by the Queen's government, might possibly be
redeemed by a prompt abjuration of the cause of Don Carlos, a measure at
the adoption of which Don Baltasar was by no means so scrupulous as to
hesitate, yet even that would not fully satisfy him. He had other views
and wishes. As far as his selfish nature would admit of the existence of
such a feeling, he was deeply in love with Rita; the coldness with which
she treated him had only served to stimulate his passion; and he was
bent upon making her his at any price, and by any means. He was
sufficiently acquainted with her character to be convinced that his
prospect of obtaining her hand was any thing but improved by her
father's death and that to her the wealthy possessor of her family's
estates would be as unwelcome a wooer as the needy soldier of fortune.
He did not doubt that, after the first violence of her grief should
subside, she would return to France, where some of her mother's
relatives were resident; and that, when next he heard of her, it would
be as the bride of his fortunate rival. The picture thus conjured up
caused him to grind his teeth with fury; and he swore to himself a deep
oath that she should be his at any risk, and if, by the boldest and most
unscrupulous measures, that consummation could be brought about. A plan
occurred to him which he thought could not fail of success, and by which
the obstinacy of the self-willed girl must, he believed, be overcome. It
was a hazardous scheme, even in that unsettled and war-ridden country,
where men were too much occupied in party strife to attend to the strict
administration of justice; but Baltasar did not lack resolution, and the
prize was worth the peril. One thing he wanted; a bold and quick-witted
confederate, and him it was not so easy to find. No man had fewer
friends in his own class than Don Baltasar, and by his inferiors he was
generally detested on account of his harsh and overbearing demeanour. Of
this he was aware; and he vainly racked his brain to find a man in whom
he could confide. The details of his nefarious project were already
arranged in his mind, and only this one difficulty had yet to be
overcome; when, at two hours after dark, he entered the streets of
Oñate. Hopeless of being served for affection's sake, he was meditating
whom he could make his own by bribery, when a light from an open window
flashed across the street, and illuminated the unprepossessing profile
of Jaime the gipsy, who, in his capacity of guide, was riding in front,
and a little on one side of Colonel Villabuena. The sight of those
sinister features, on which rapacity and cunning had set their stamp,
was as a sudden revelation to Don Baltasar, to whom it instantly
occurred that the gitano was the very man he sought. The circumstance of
his belonging to a race despised, and almost persecuted, by the people
amongst whom they dwelt, was an additional guarantee against any
compunctious scruples on his part; his occupation of a spy bespoke him
at once daring and venal, and Colonel Villabuena doubted not that he
should find him a willing and useful instrument.

The soldiers filed off to their quarters; and Baltasar, after desiring
the gipsy to come to him in an hour's time, betook himself to the
posada. When Jaime had given his horse an ample feed, and groomed him
with a care that showed the value he set upon his services, he made a
hasty meal in a neighbouring taberna, and repaired to the Colonel's
quarters. His stealthy tap at the door was replied to by an impatient
"_adelante_," and he entered the room.

A scarcely tasted supper was upon the table, and Don Baltasar was pacing
the apartment, his brow knit and apparently deep in thought. On
beholding the gipsy, he arranged his features into their most amiable
expression, and advanced towards him with an assumed air of frank
good-humour.

"I have to thank you, Jaime," said he, "for your promptness and presence
of mind this morning. Had you not thought of what we all forgot, and
suggested the pulling down of the bridge, few, if any of us, would have
seen Oñate to-night. I shall report your conduct most favourably to the
General, who will doubtless reward it."

The esquilador slightly bowed his head, but, with the exception of that
movement, made no reply; nor did any expression of satisfaction at the
praise bestowed upon him light up his dark countenance.

"Meanwhile," continued Don Baltasar, "I will discharge my personal
obligation to you in a more solid manner than by mere thanks."

And he held out a handful of dollars, which, the next instant,
disappeared in one of Jaime's capacious pockets. This time a muttered
word or two of thanks escaped the lips of the taciturn esquilador.

"Whither do you now proceed?" enquired Baltasar. "Are you to rejoin the
General? What are your orders?"

"I am no man's servant," replied the gipsy, "and have no orders to
obey. When your General requires my services, we make a bargain, I to
act, he to pay. I risk my life for his gold, and if I deceive him I know
the penalty. But the service once rendered, I am my own man again."

"So then," said Baltasar, "you are not bound to Zumalacarregui; and
should any other offer you better pay for lighter service, you are free
to take it?"

"That's it," replied the gipsy.

There was a short pause, during which Colonel Villabuena attentively
scanned the countenance of Jaime, who remained impassive, and with eyes
fixed upon the ground, as though to prevent their expression from being
read. Baltasar resumed--

"Say then that I were to ensure you a large reward for the performance
of services far less dangerous than those you daily render at a less
price, would you accept or refuse the offer?"

"I must know what I am to do, and what to get," said the gipsy, this
time raising his eyes to Don Baltasar's face.

"Can you be silent?" said Baltasar.

"When I am paid for it--as the grave," was the reply.

"In short, if I understand you rightly," said the Colonel with an easy
smile, "you will do any thing at a price."

"Any thing," returned the unabashed gipsy. "It is not a small risk that
will frighten me, if the reward is proportionate."

"We shall suit one another charmingly," said Baltasar; "for what I
require will expose you to little danger, and your reward shall be of
your own fixing."

And, without further preamble, he proceeded to unfold to the gipsy the
outline of a scheme requiring his cooperation, the nature of which will
best be made known to the reader by the march of subsequent events.

The sinking sun and rapidly lengthening shadows proclaimed the approach
of evening, and Rita de Villabuena, still seated at her window, watched
for her father's arrival, when the trot of a horse, which stopped at the
door of the house, caused her to start from her seat, and hurry to the
balcony. Her anxiety was converted into the most lively alarm when she
saw the Count's gipsy guide alighting alone from his horse; a
presentiment of evil came over her, she staggered back into the room,
and sank almost fainting upon a chair. Recovering herself, however, she
was hurrying to the door of the apartment, when it opened, and Paco the
muleteer, who had lately been attached to her father as orderly, and
whom the Count had left as a protection to his daughter, made his
appearance.

"The gipsy is here, Señora," said he; "he brings news of his Excellency
the Conde."

"Admit him instantly," cried Rita, impatiently. "Where did you leave my
father?" she enquired, as the esquilador entered the room. "Is he well?
Why does he not return?"

"I left the Señor Conde at a convent near Lecumberri," replied the
gipsy.

"Near Lecumberri?" repeated Rita; "it was not in that direction he went.
He left this for the plains of Vittoria."

"He did so, Señora," answered the gipsy; "but before we were half-way to
Oñate, we were met by a courier with despatches for the Señor Conde, who
immediately turned bridle, and ordered the escort to do the same. It was
past midnight when we again reached Segura; and, not to cause alarm, we
marched round the town, and continued our route without stopping.

"And your errand now?" exclaimed Rita. The gipsy seemed to hesitate
before replying.

"The Señor Conde is wounded," said he, at last.

"Wounded!" repeated Rita, in the shrill accents of alarm. "You are not
telling truth--they have killed him! Oh, tell me all! Say, is my father
still alive?"

And, clasping her hands together, she seemed about to throw herself at
the feet of Jaime, whilst her anxious glance strove to read the truth
upon his countenance. It was a strange contrast presented by that lovely
and elegant creature and the squalid, tawny gipsy; an angel
supplicating some evil spirit, into whose power she had temporarily
fallen, might so have looked.

"The Señor Conde's wound is severe," said Jaime. "On his way yesterday
afternoon to attend a meeting of the Navarrese Junta in the valley of
Lanz, he fell in with a party of Christino cavalry, and, although his
escort repulsed them, he himself received a hurt in the skirmish."

"My father wounded and suffering!" exclaimed Rita in extreme agitation,
passing her hand over her forehead in the manner of one bewildered by
some stunning and terrible intelligence. "I will go to him instantly.
Quick, Paco, the mules! Micaela, my mantilla! We must set out at once."

The servants hurried away to obey the orders of their mistress, and
prepare for instant departure, and the gipsy was about to follow, when
Rita detained him, and overwhelmed him with questions concerning her
father's state, to all of which Jaime replied in a manner that somewhat
tranquillized her alarm, although it produced no change in her
resolution to set off immediately to join him. This, indeed, the
esquilador informed her, was her father's wish, as he found that he
should be detained some time in his present quarters by the consequences
of his wound.

Although all haste was used in the necessary preparations, the sun was
close to the horizon before Rita and her attendants left Segura, and
took the road to Lecumberri, at about two leagues from which, as Jaime
told them, and in the heart of the sierra, was situated the convent that
was their destination. The distance was not great; but, owing to the
mountains, the travellers could hardly expect to reach the end of their
journey much before daybreak. Paco, who viewed this hasty departure with
any thing but a well-pleased countenance, urged Rita to postpone setting
off till the following morning, alleging the difficult nature of the
roads they must traverse, and which led for a considerable part of the
way over a steep and almost trackless sierra. But Rita's anxiety would
brook no delay, and the little cavalcade set out. It consisted of Rita
and her waiting-maid, mounted upon mules, and of the gipsy and Paco upon
their horses; Paco leading a third mule, upon which, by the care of
Micaela, a hastily packed portmanteau had been strapped. The gipsy rode
in front; thirty paces behind him came the women, and the muleteer
brought up the rear. Jaime had betrayed some surprise, and even
discomposure, when he found that Paco was to accompany them; but he did
not venture to make any objection to so natural an arrangement.

Taking advantage of the goodness of the road, which for the first league
or two was tolerably smooth and level, the travellers pushed on for
nearly two hours at a steady amble, which, had the nature of the ground
allowed them to sustain it, would have brought them to their journey's
end much sooner than was really to be the case. The sun had set, the
moon had not yet risen, and the night was very dark. Jaime, who
continued to maintain a short interval between his horse and the mules
of Rita and her attendant, kept shifting his restless glances from one
side of the road to the other, as though he would fain have penetrated
the surrounding gloom. He was passing a thicket that skirted the road,
when a cautious "Hist!" inaudible to his companions, arrested his
attention. He immediately pulled up his horse, and, dismounting,
unstrapped the surcingle of his saddle. On perceiving this, Rita stopped
to enquire the cause of the delay, but the gipsy requested her to
proceed.

"My horse's girths are loose, Señora," said he in explanation. "Be good
enough to ride on, and I will overtake you immediately."

Rita rode on, and Paco followed, without paying any attention to so
common an occurrence as the slackening of a girth. Scarcely, however,
had he passed the gipsy some fifty paces, when the latter left his
horse, who remained standing motionless in the middle of the road, and
approached the thicket. Just within the shadow of the foremost trees, a
man on horseback, muffled in a cloak, was waiting. It was Colonel
Villabuena.

"All is well," said the gipsy; "and you have only to ride forward and
prepare for our reception."

"Who is with you?" said Don Baltasar, in a dissatisfied tone.

"The lady and her donçella, and Paco, her father's orderly."

"Fool!" cried Baltasar; "why did you let him come? His presence may ruin
my plan."

"How could I help it?" retorted Jaime. "If I had objected he would have
suspected me. He's as cunning as a fox, and did not swallow the story
half as well as his mistress. But her impatience decided it. Nothing
would serve her but setting out immediately."

"He must be disposed of," said Baltasar. "There's many a mountain
precipice between this and our destination," he added meaningly.

Jaime shook his head.

"I might do it," said he; "but if I failed, and he is a wary and active
fellow, the chances are that he would do the same kind office for me,
and return with the lady."

"Humph!" said Baltasar. "Well, he shall be cared for. And now ride on. I
shall be at the convent an hour before you. Remember to take the longest
road."

The gipsy nodded, returned to his horse, and, springing lightly into the
saddle, galloped after his companions. Don Baltasar remained a short
time longer in the thicket, and then emerging upon the road, followed
Rita and her party at a deliberate pace. From time to time he stopped,
and listened for the sound of their horses' footsteps. If he could hear
it, he halted till it became inaudible, and then again moved on. His
object evidently was to keep as near to the travellers as he could
without allowing his proximity to be suspected.

It was nearly midnight, and Rita and her companions had been for some
time amongst the mountains, when they reached a place where the road, or
rather track, they followed, split and branched off in two different
directions. Jaime, who, since they had entered the sierra, had abridged
the distance between himself and his companions, and now rode just in
front of Rita's mule, was taking the right hand path, when Paco called
out to him that the left was the shortest and best.

"You are mistaken," said Jaime abruptly, continuing in the direction he
had first taken.

But Paco would not be put off in so unceremonious a manner, and he rode
up to the gipsy. "I tell you," said he, "that I know this country well,
and the left hand road is the one to take."

"How long is it since you travelled it?" inquired Jaime.

"Only last autumn," was the reply, "and then for the twentieth time."

"Well," said the esquilador, "it may be the shortest; but if you had
ridden along it this morning, as I did, you would hardly call it the
best. The winter rains have washed away the path, and left the bare
rocks so slippery and uneven, that I could scarcely get my horse over
them in daylight, and by night I should make sure of breaking his legs
and my own neck."

"I know nothing of this convent you are taking us to," said Paco, in a
sulky tone; "but if it stands, as you tell me, to the north of
Lecumberri, this road will lengthen our journey an hour or more."

"Scarcely so much," said Jaime. "At any rate," added he doggedly, "it is
I who answer to the Count for the Señora's safety, and I shall therefore
take the road I think best."

Paco was about to make an angry reply, but Rita interfered, and the
discussion terminated in the gipsy having his own way. Three minutes
later Don Baltasar arrived at the division of the roads, paused,
listened, and heard the faint echo of the horses' hoofs upon the right
hand path. With an exclamation of satisfaction, he struck his spurs into
the flanks of his steed, and at as rapid a pace as the uneven ground
would permit, ascended the contrary road, the shortest, and, as Paco had
truly asserted, by far the best to the convent whither Rita de
Villabuena was proceeding.

Over rocks and through ravines, and along the margin of precipices, Don
Baltasar rode, threading, in spite of the darkness, the difficult and
often dangerous mountain-paths, with all the confidence of one well
acquainted with their intricacies. At last, after a long descent, he
entered a narrow valley, or rather a mountain-gorge, which extended in
the form of nearly a semicircle, and for a distance of about three
miles, between two steep and rugged lines of hill. Upon finding himself
on level ground, he spurred his horse, and passing rapidly over the
dew-steeped grass of a few fields, entered a beaten track that ran along
the centre of the valley. The moon was now up, silvering the summits of
the groups of trees with which the narrow plain was sprinkled, and
defining the gloomy peaks of the sierra against the star-spangled sky.
By its light Don Baltasar rode swiftly along, until, arriving near the
further end of the valley, he came in sight of an extensive edifice,
beautifully situated on the platform of a low hill, and sheltered to the
north and east by lofty mountains. The building was of grey stone, and
formed three sides of a square; the side that was at right angles with
the two others being considerably the longest, and the wings connected
by a wall of solid masonry, in the centre of which was an arched portal.
In front, and on one side of the convent, for such, as a single glance
was sufficient to determine, was the purpose to which the roomy
structure was appropriated, the ground was bare and open, until the
platform began to sink towards the plain; and then the sunny southern
slope had been turned to the best account. Luxuriant vineyards, a
plantation of olive-trees, and a large and well-stocked orchard covered
it, whilst the level at its foot was laid out in pasture and
corn-fields. The space between the back of the convent and the mountains
was filled up by a thick wood, affording materials for the blazing fires
which, in the winter months, the keen airs from the hills would render
highly acceptable. The forest also extended round and close up to the
walls of the right wing of the building. From the roof of the left wing
rose a lofty open tower, where was seen hanging the ponderous mass of
bronze by whose sonorous peal the pious inmates were summoned to their
devotions.

Urging his horse up the steep and winding path that led to the front of
the convent, Don Baltasar seized and pulled a chain that hung beside the
gate. The clank of a bell immediately followed, and Baltasar, receding a
little from the door, looked up at the windows. No light was visible at
any of them, and the most profound stillness reigned. After waiting for
about a minute, the Carlist colonel again rang, and he was about to
repeat the summons for a third time, when a faint gleam of light in the
court warned him that some one was afoot. Presently a small wicket in
the centre of the gate was opened, and the pinched and crabbed features
of the lay-sister who acted as portress showed themselves at the
aperture. In a voice rendered unusually shrill and querulous by vexation
at having her rest broken, she demanded who it was thus disturbing the
slumbers of the sisterhood.

"I come," said Baltasar, "to speak with your lady abbess, Doña Carmen de
Forcadell, upon matters of the utmost importance. Admit me instantly,
for my business presses."

"The lady abbess," peevishly returned the portress, "cannot be disturbed
before matins. If you choose to wait till then, I will tell her you are
here, and she will perhaps see you."

"I must see her at once," replied Baltasar, waxing wroth at this delay,
when every moment was of importance to his projects. "Tell her that Don
Baltasar is here, and she will give orders to admit me."

Whilst he spoke, the lay sister raised her glimmering lantern to the
wicket, in order to take a survey of this peremptory applicant for
admission. The view thus obtained of his features apparently did not
greatly impress her in his favour, or at any rate did not render her
more disposed to open the solid barrier between them.

"Baltasar or Benito," cried she, "it is all one to Mariquita. You may
wait till the matin bell rings. Fine times, indeed, when every thieving
guerilla thinks he may find free quarters where he pleases! No, no,
señor, stay where you are; the fresh air will cool your impatience. It
will be daybreak in an hour, and that will be time enough for your
errand, whatever it is."

It was with no small difficulty that Don Baltasar restrained his spleen
during the old woman's harangue. When it came to a close, however, and
he saw that she persisted in leaving him on the outside of the gate till
the usual hour for opening it, he lost all patience. Before the portress
could shut the wicket, close to which she was standing, he thrust his
hand and arm through it, and grasped her by her skinny throat. The lay
sister set up a yell of alarm and pain.

"Jesus Maria! _Al socorro!_ Help, help!" screamed she; the last words
dying away in a gurgling sound, as Don Baltasar tightened his hold upon
her windpipe.

"Silence, you old jade!" cried the fierce soldier in a suppressed tone,
"you will alarm the whole convent. You have the keys in your hand--I
heard them clank. Open the gate instantly, or by all the saints in
heaven, I throttle you where you stand."

The increased pressure of his fingers warned the old woman that he would
keep his word; and, yielding to so novel and convincing a mode of
argument, she made use of the keys whose jingle she had imprudently
allowed to be heard. Two heavy locks shot back, and a massive bar was
withdrawn; and when, by pushing against it, Don Baltasar had convinced
himself that the gate was open, he released the gullet of the trembling
sister, and entered the paved court. In grievous trepidation the
portress was retreating to her lodge, which stood just within the gate,
when an upper window of the convent opened, and a female voice enquired,
in commanding tones, the cause of the uproar. Don Baltasar seemed to
recognise the voice, and he rode up beneath the window whence it
proceeded.

"Carmen," said he, "is it you?"

"Who is that?" was the rejoinder, in accents which surprise or alarm
rendered slightly tremulous.

"Baltasar," replied the officer. "I must see you instantly, on a matter
of life or death."

There was a moment's pause. "Remain where you are," said the person at
the window; "I will come down to you."

The portress, finding that the intruder was known to the lady abbess,
for she it was whom Baltasar had addressed as Carmen, now refastened the
gate, and crept grumbling to her cell. Don Baltasar waited. Presently a
door in the right wing of the convent was opened, a tall female form,
clothed in flowing drapery, and carrying a taper in her hand, appeared
at it and beckoned him to enter. Tying his horse to a ring in the wall,
he obeyed the signal.

The room into which, after passing through a corridor, Colonel
Villabuena was now introduced, was one of those appropriated to the
reception of guests and visitors to the convent. The apartment was
plainly furnished with a table and a few wooden chairs; and in a recess
hung a large ebony crucifix, before which was placed a hassock, its
cloth envelope worn threadbare by the knees of the devout. But if the
room of itself offered little worthy of note, the case was far different
with the person who now ushered Don Baltasar into it. This was a woman
about forty years old, possessed of one of those marked and
characteristic physiognomies which painters are fond of attributing to
the inhabitants of southern Europe. Her age was scarcely to be read upon
her face, whose slight furrows seemed traced by violent passions rather
than by the hand of time: she had the remains of great beauty, although
wanting in the intellectual; and the expression of her face, her
compressed lips, and the fixed look of her eyes, went far to neutralize
the charm which her regular features, and the classical oval of her
physiognomy, would otherwise have possessed. The outline of her tall
figure was veiled, but not concealed, by her monastic robe, from the
loose sleeves of which protruded her long thin white hands. After
closing the door, she seated herself beside a table, upon which she
reposed her elbow, and motioned her visiter to a chair. A slight degree
of agitation was perceptible in her manner, as she waited in silence for
Don Baltasar to communicate the motive of his unseasonable arrival. This
he speedily did.

"You must do me a service, Carmen," said he. "My cousin Rita is now
within an hour's ride of this place. She comes hither expecting to find
her father. She must be detained captive."

"What!" exclaimed the abbess, "is your suit so hopeless as to render
such hazardous measures adviseable? What is to be gained by such an act
of violence? Her father will inevitably seek and discover her, and
disgrace and disappointment will be the sole result of your mad scheme."

"Her father," replied Baltasar gloomily, "will give us no trouble."

"How?--no trouble! If all be true that I have heard of Count Villabuena,
and of his affection for his only surviving child, he is capable of
devoting his life to the search for her."

"Count Villabuena," said Baltasar, "now stands before you. The father of
Rita is dead."

"Dead!" exclaimed the abbess with a start. "How and when did he die?"

"He was shot in a skirmish."

"In a skirmish!" repeated Doña Carmen. "He held no military command."

"I was escorting him with a few men to attend a junta. We were attacked
by a superior force, from which we escaped, thanks to an intervening
river. A few shots were exchanged, the Count thrust himself into the
fire, and fell."

The abbess seemed to reflect a moment, and then fixed a keen and
searching look upon the countenance of Baltasar.

"Was your loss in men severe?" said she abruptly.

"No--yes--" replied Baltasar, slightly confused. "I believe there were
several wounded. Why do you ask?"

"And the Count's death gives you the Villabuena estates?"

"It does so," answered Baltasar.

The dark penetrating eyes of the abbess still remained fixed, with a
peculiar expression of enquiry and suspicion, upon the countenance of
Colonel Villabuena. He tried at first to sustain their gaze, but was
unable to do so. He looked down, and a slight paleness came over his
features.

"I have no time to answer questions," said he, with a rough brutality of
manner which seemed assumed to veil embarrassment. "My plan is arranged,
but promptness of execution is essential to its success. Rita must be
detained here, where none will think of seeking her, till she becomes my
wife. Your power in this place is unlimited, and your word law; you will
have no difficulty in secluding her in some corner where none shall see
her but those in whom you can fully confide. Make the necessary
preparations. Each moment she may arrive."

Whilst Baltasar was speaking, Doña Carmen remained with her brow
supported on her hand, silent and sunk in reflection. She now sprang
impetuously from her chair.

"I will have naught to do with it," cried she; "you would entangle me in
a labyrinth of crime, whence the only issue would be ignominy and
punishment. You must find others to aid you in your machinations."

In his turn Baltasar rose from his seat, and, approaching the abbess,
led her back to her chair.

"Carmen," said he, in a suppressed voice, and from between his set
teeth, "is it to me that you say 'I will not?'--Carmen," he continued,
speaking low, and with his face very near to hers, "there was a time
when, for love of you and to do your bidding, I feared no punishment
here or hereafter. Have you already forgotten it? 'I hate him,' were
your words, as I sat at your feet in yon sunny Andalusian bower--'I hate
him, and in proportion to my hatred should be my gratitude to him who
rid me of his odious presence.' That night the _serenos_ found the body
of Don Fernando de Forcadell stiff and cold upon the steps of his villa.
He had had a dispute at the _monté_ table, and two men were sent to
Ceuta on suspicion of the deed. Only two persons knew who had really
done it. Ha! Carmen, only two persons!"

During this terrible recapitulation, the abbess sat motionless as a
statue, for which indeed, in her white robe and with her marble pale
complexion, she might almost have been taken. She covered her face with
her hands, and her bosom heaved so violently, that the loose folds of
drapery which shrouded it rose and fell like the waves of a troubled
ocean. When Baltasar ceased speaking she removed her hands, and
exhibited a countenance livid as that of a corpse. Her almost
preternatural paleness, the dark furrows under her eyes, and the tension
of every feature, added ten years to her apparent age.

"Is that all?" she said, in a hollow voice, to her tormentor.

     "And one of those persons," resumed the pitiless Baltasar, without
     replying to her question, "swore by earth and by heaven, and by the
     God who made them both, never to forget the service that I--that
     the other person, I would say--had rendered her, and to be ready to
     requite it whenever he should point out the way. Years have flown
     by since that day, and the feelings that united those two persons
     have long since changed; but a promise made as that one was--a
     promise sealed with blood--can never pass away till it has been
     redeemed. Carmen, I claim its fulfilment."

Baltasar paused. "Fiend!" exclaimed the abbess, "what would you of me?"

"I have already told you," said Villabuena. "It is no crime, nothing
that need alarm your conscience, recently grown so tender; but a good
deed, rather, since it will prevent the daughter of a noble house from
throwing herself away on an adventurer and a rebel, and give her hand to
him for whom her father destined it. She is as yet unaware of the
Count's death. She will learn it here, and no place fitter. Your pious
consolations will soothe her grief. I shall leave her in your
guardianship, and, when the first violence of her sorrow is over,
return, to find means of overcoming her puerile objections to my suit.
But I am a fool," exclaimed he, interrupting himself, "to lose in idle
talk time that is so precious! They must already be in sight of the
convent. Lead me to a window whence we may observe their approach, and
whilst watching for it we can make our final arrangements."

He took the hand of the abbess, and she led the way, mechanically, to
the door of an inner room. Passing through two other apartments, they
reached one at the extremity of the wing, from the window of which a
view was obtained for a considerable distance down the valley. The
prospect that presented itself to them on pausing before this window,
was so enchantingly beautiful, that it seemed to produce an effect, and
to exercise a softening influence, even upon the depraved and vicious
nature of Don Baltasar. At any rate, a full minute elapsed during which
he stood in silence and contemplation.

The view afforded by the valley in question, upon that pleasant May
morning, was indeed of almost unparalleled loveliness. The sun, which
had already risen behind the eastern hills, but not yet surmounted them,
threw its first rays across their summits, and illuminated the opposite
mountains, bathing their pinnacles in a golden glow, whilst their lower
steeps remained in comparative darkness. In the depths of the valley the
last shades of twilight still seemed to linger, and masses of thin grey
vapour rolled in billows over the rich vegetation and vivid verdure of
the fields. The most fantastic variety of form was exhibited by the
surrounding mountain wall; here it rose in turrets and towers, there
spread out into crags, then again fell in blank abrupt precipices, their
edges fringed with shrubs, the recesses of their sides sheltering
wild-flowers of the most varied hues, whose sprays and blossoms waved in
the sweet breath of morning. Equally varied, and as delicately
beautiful, were the ethereal tints of the mountain tops, to which the
cloudless sky seemed to impart a tinge of its azure. On the edge of a
ravine, midway up a mountain, were seen a few crumbling walls, and a
fragment of a broken tower, sole remains of some ancient stronghold,
which, centuries before, had frowned over the vale. The hut of a
goatherd or charcoal-burner, here and there dotted the hill-side; and at
the southern limit of the valley, just before its change of direction
took it out of sight of the convent, were visible the houses of a small
hamlet, surrounded by plantations, and half buried amidst blossoms of
the tenderest rose-colour and most dazzling white. Masses of beech and
ilex clothed the lower slopes of the mountains, and from out of their
dark setting of foliage the grey walls of the Dominican convent arose
like a pale and shadowy spectre. The fresh brightness of spring was the
characteristic of the whole scene; the year seemed rejoicing in its
youthful vigour, and to express its delight by millions of mute voices,
which spoke out of each leaf and twig that danced in the breeze. Nor
were other and audible voices wanting. The lark was singing in the sky,
the grasshopper had begun its chirp, the rills and rivulets that
splashed or trickled from the hills, gave out their indistinct murmur;
whilst, heard far above these voices of nature, the toll of the matin
bell resounded through the valley, calling the devoutly disposed to
their morning thanksgiving.

The angelus had ceased to ring when Rita and her party came in sight of
the Dominican convent, their horses and mules giving evidence, by their
jaded appearance, of having been ridden far, and over rough and painful
roads. The gipsy rode in front, vigilant and unfatigued--although he had
now been in the saddle, with little intermission, for a whole day and
night--and was followed by Rita, to whose delicate frame the long ride
had been an exertion as unusual as it was trying. But a resolute spirit
had compensated for physical weakness, and, uncomplaining, she had borne
up against the hardships of the preceding ten hours. She was pale and
harassed; her hair, uncurled by the night fogs, hung in dank masses
round her face, and her fragile form was unable to maintain its upright
position. Micaela, the waiting-maid, yawned incessantly, and audibly
groaned at each rough stumble or uncomfortable movement of her mule.
Several times during the drowsy morning hours, she had nearly fallen
from her saddle, and had to thank Paco, who had taken his station beside
her, for saving her from more than one tumble. Paco, either out of
respect to the presence of Rita, or concern for the Count's misfortune,
rode along, contrary to his custom, in profound silence, and without
indulging in any of those snatches of muleteers' songs with which it was
his wont to beguile the tedium of a march.

Upon nearing the place where she expected to find her father, Rita's
impatience to behold him, and to ascertain for herself the exact extent
of the injury he had received, increased to a feverish degree, and on
reaching the convent gate, already open for her reception, she sprang
from her mule without assistance. But she had over-rated her strength;
her limbs, stiffened by the long ride and the cold night air, refused
their service, and she would have fallen to the ground had not Paco, who
was already off his horse, given her the support of his arm. The
portress and another old lay sister were the only persons visible in the
court, and the last of these invited Rita to accompany her into the
convent. Paco held out his horse's bridle and those of the mules to
Jaime, intending to follow his young mistress, but the gipsy hesitated
to take them, and the lay sister, perceiving Paco's intention,
interposed to prevent its execution.

"You must remain here," said she; "I have no orders to admit men into
the convent, nor can I, without express orders from the lady abbess."

Paco obeyed the injunction, and the three women disappeared through a
door of the right wing of the building. They had been gone less than a
minute, when the lay sister again came forth, and, approaching the
gipsy, desired him to follow her. He did so, and Paco remained alone
with the horses.

With eager step, and a heart palpitating with anxiety, Rita followed her
guide into the convent, making, as she went, anxious enquiries
concerning her father's health. To her first question the old woman
replied by an inarticulate mumble; and upon its repetition, a brief "I
do not know; the lady abbess will see you,"--checked any further attempt
upon a person who either could not or would not give the much wished-for
information. Passing through a corridor and up a staircase, the lay
sister ushered Rita into an apartment of comfortable appearance.

"I will inform the abbess of your arrival," said she, as she went out
and closed the door.

Five minutes elapsed, and Rita, to whom this delay was as inexplicable
as her impatience to see her father was great, was about to leave the
room and seek or enquire the way to his apartment, when the abbess made
her appearance.

"Holy mother!" exclaimed Rita, advancing to meet her with clasped hands
and tearful eyes, "is my father doing well? Conduct me to him, I beseech
you."

Struck by the beauty of the fair creature who thus implored her, and
touched, perhaps, by the painful anxiety expressed in her trembling
voice, and pale and interesting countenance, Doña Carmen almost
hesitated to communicate her fatal tidings.

"I have painful intelligence for you, Señora," said she. "The Count,
your father"--

"He is wounded; I know it," interrupted Rita. "Is he worse? Oh, let me
see him!--This instant see him!"

"It is impossible," said the abbess. "The bullet that struck him was too
surely aimed. Your father is dead!"

For an instant Rita gazed at the speaker as though unable fully to
comprehend the terrible announcement, and then, with one shriek of
heartfelt agony, she sank senseless to the ground.

The shrill and thrilling scream uttered by the bereaved daughter, rang
through the chambers and corridors of the convent, and reached the ears
of Paco, who had remained in the court, waiting with some impatience for
the return of the gipsy, and for intelligence concerning the health of
the Count. Abandoning his horse, he rushed instinctively to the door by
which Rita had entered the building. It was closed, but not fastened,
and passing through it he found himself in a long corridor, traversed by
two shorter ones, and at whose extremity, through a grated window, was
visible the foliage of the forest surrounding that side of the convent.
Not a living creature was to be seen; and Paco paused, uncertain in what
direction to proceed. He listened for a repetition of the cry, but none
came. Suddenly a door, close to which he stood, was opened, and before
he could turn his head to ascertain by whom, he was seized from behind,
and thrown violently upon the paved floor of the corridor. The attack
had been so vigorous and unexpected, that Paco had no time for
resistance before he found himself stretched upon his back; but then he
struggled furiously against his assailants, who were no others than Don
Baltasar and the gipsy. So violent were his efforts, that he got the
gipsy under him, and was on the point of regaining his feet, when
Colonel Villabuena drew a pistol from the breast of his coat, and with
its but-end dealt him a severe blow on the head. The unlucky muleteer
again fell stunned upon the ground. In another minute his hands were
tightly bound, and Don Baltasar and his companion carried him swiftly
down one of the transversal corridors. Descending a flight of stone
steps, the two men with their burthen entered a range of subterranean
cloisters, at whose extremity was a low and massive door, which Don
Baltasar opened, and they entered a narrow cell, having a straw pallet
and earthen water-jug for sole furniture. Close to the roof of this
dismal dungeon was an aperture in the wall, through which a strong iron
grating, and the rank grass that grew close up to it, allowed but a
faint glimmer of daylight to enter. Placing their prisoner upon the
straw bed, Don Baltasar and Jaime took away his sabre and the large
knife habitually carried by Spaniards of his class. They then unbound
his hands, and, carefully securing the door behind them, left him to the
gloom and solitude of his dungeon.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] From an early period of the war, the Spanish dragoon regiments, both
light and heavy, were armed with the lance, that weapon being considered
the most efficient for the mountain warfare in which they were
frequently engaged.




SOMETHING MORE ABOUT MUSIC.


We mused on music some while ago; and as the subject still haunts
us--very much after the manner of an obstinate ghost that refuses to be
laid, even by the choicest Latin--we are strongly disposed to try the
effect of giving it full swing for once; and in idle mood, too idle to
oppose ourselves to its tyranny, letting it carry us whither it will, in
the hope that, in return for our complacence, it may in future suffer us
to conduct our meditations according to our own pleasure, and give that
sad and serious thought, which their merits demand, to the gravities of
this life--to corn-laws and _poor_-laws, (of all sorts!) and the Irish
question, and the debates to which all these give occasion, in reading
which we have already worn out we know not how many pairs of spectacles,
and one pair of excellent eyes; and last, not least, to the marchings
and counter-marchings of the House of Commons, in which we are deeply
interested.

With such a course of study before us, we are disposed to make the most
of our holiday; and should we chance to be a little too frisky, it must
be borne in mind that retribution is at hand, and that we shall speedily
become as solemn as ever a fool in the land, as dull as an owl bathing
its eyes in the morning sunshine, which--having overslept itself--it
takes for the full moon, and dismal enough to satisfy the most ardent
advocate of the religious duty of being miserable,--eschewing laughter
as we would the tax-gatherer, and refreshing our oppressed spirits alone
with serious jokes, and such merriment as may be presented to us under
the sanction and recommendation of a college of dissenting divines!

But our harp will be a mingled one, for so is our theme; having a
sympathy alike for our mirthful and sorrowful moments, which it alike
spiritualizes; striking the light, gleesome chord to the one, and
attuning the soul to more ethereal joy; while by its soft influence it
tones down the harshness of bitter, _unavailing_ sorrow, and woos the
heart, misanthropizing under the pangs of grief or unrequited love--pent
up in its own solitude, unpitied and uncared for--and filled with dark
thoughts, and sad sounds, and tones of plaintive winds, sighing through
the cypress and doleful yew with mournful melody around the
resting-place of the loved and lost, to submissive lamentings, and slow
stealing tears that assuage its aching anguish and tranquillize the
spirit, leading it to the hope of a brighter future, in whose dawning
beams it will, ere-long, show like "the tender grass, clear-shining
after rain"--more glistening and beautiful for the invigorating dews of
the cloud which had overhung it, and beneath whose gloom its beauty
faded away--for very trouble!

How often have we found that hard, _bitter_ mood into which the mind
under the pressure of suffering which is irremediable, and which has to
be borne alone, is so apt to decline--feeling the harder and the
bitterer for the careless, galling gaiety of all around--softened,
subdued, yea, utterly broken up by the sweet notes of "some old familiar
strain," that steal on the willing ear, freshening and exhilarating the
spirit like a breezy morning in June, when it seems a sin to be
wretched; the twittering birds on dancing boughs crying shame on us, for
what is not only wrong, but, as we begin to feel, needless--not to say
foolish; and we return from our stroll, wondering what in the world we
have done with that load on our chest with which we began our
walk--ending in a regular ramble--and which it then seemed incumbent on
us, nay, a sacred duty, to pant under for the term of our natural lives;
relieving ourselves by such sighs and groans as appeared to us the
appropriate forms of expression for all human beings under the sun--made
on purpose to be unhappy; we especially, fulfilling the end of our
creation. And as we mark the change that has passed upon us--the
bounding circulation in place of flagging energies--full, calm
breathing, instead of the slow, short respiration of sadness--with
reverent heart we bless nature, and, may we say also, nature's great
Architect, all-merciful, all-loving!

Such on us is frequently the effect of music; the heaviness of heart,
caused by the weary rubs of this rough world, or the result of a
temperament that has a constitutionally jarring string in it, is as it
were _drawn out_, and sweetness and calm-breathing tranquillity infused
in its stead; while our nerves become as the harmonious strings of a
harp, that respond in sympathy with the master chords of one with which
it is in unison, and whereon the fresh breeze of morning lightly plays,
calling forth sounds of joy and gladness. Therefore do we _love_ it,
with a warmth of affection that may perchance appear extravagant to
those whose robust, well-balanced minds, clothed with strong, healthy,
unsusceptible bodies--people who are always in good spirits, unless
there be a reason for the contrary--may render them independent of such
external influences, for we must acknowledge, that we do at times
express this our affection in somewhat unmeasured phrase, as one who
stays not accurately to calculate, and weigh with cool precision, the
virtues of a friend, thus laying ourselves open to the unmitigated
condemnation of those who soar above, (or sink below!) such sympathies.

Be it so! We are not about to enter into any vindication of ourselves;
we shall not even attempt to convince these dull souls, that it is
possible for elevated feeling, and repose and tenderness of mind, to be
indebted for their origin to such insignificant and material sources as
catgut and brass wire--and that they are not therefore to be
undervalued; though by way of illustration of the influence of matter
over spirit, we would remind them of their own humane and charitable
feelings _after_ dinner, compared with the fierce, nay, atrocious
sentiments, which their consciences convict them of having entertained,
before the pangs of their raging hunger had been appeased by that
inestimable mollifier of men's hearts and tempers. For the cause of
their insensibility to such impressions--a natural incapacity for
receiving them--it is vain to seek a remedy, however willing we might be
to apply one; but where cure is impracticable, palliatives are
frequently admissible, and we would suggest that one may be found in
this case, in the patients' treating the unhappy privation under which
they labour with greater tenderness than has been their wont, throwing
over it that veil of oblivion and charity with which they so gracefully
conceal their other defects, instead of obtruding it on public
observation, under the singular misconception of its being an admirable
feature in their character, a something of which a man ought to be
proud. Conduct like this, they may rest assured, will not fail of being
appreciated and rewarded by the corresponding delicacy with which all,
who are not utterly barbarous, invariably treat him who, by the
deprecating humility with which he seeks to conceal his deficiencies,
betrays his painful cognisance of their existence.

We are aware that this is a turning of the tables upon them which they
may not be disposed to admire--to be placed at the bar, when they
expected a seat on the Bench, and were just smoothing down their ermine,
and adjusting their wigs, in order to enter on their duties with the
greater impressiveness and dignity; but they must believe us when we
tell them, that we, too, have an opinion on this subject, to which we
must be permitted to attribute as high authority as they possibly can to
their own; and that, tried by this standard, they, being found wanting,
would inevitably have been brought up for judgment, but for a merciful
leaning, (sanctioned by legal precedent,) which prompts us rather to try
the salutary effect of admonition and good counsel, than to proceed at
once to inflict extreme penalties on the offenders--in short, that we
are not in a hanging humour, or they should swing for it!

Grim, rough Luther, laying about him with his ponderous mace, and making
giant Pope tremble in the deepest recesses of his stronghold, lest he
should grow utterly savage with his perpetual warfare--albeit a "Holy
war"--humanized and spiritualized himself with his lute--(who does not
sympathize with his unfailing "Deus noster refugium," that divine stay
of his stout heart that trembled not at men or devils!) Ken, undaunted
opponent of the tyranny of a king--meek sufferer for that monarch's
lawful rights, rose at day-dawn, or so soon as the first brief slumber
had recruited his exhausted frame, to give thanks unto the King of kings
in strains that, handed down to us, yet thrill the heart by their
fervent piety, and plain, vigorous verse, and animate it to a stricter
more manly rectitude. Herbert--saintliest of men and priests--after his
sacred toils, refreshed his spirit with "divine music;" the more
melodious to his ear, that his heart was teeming with the harmony of
that "good-will towards man," which seeks and finds its due expression
in active exertions on their behalf--disdaining not the lowliest
occasion of serving with hearty zeal the lowliest of his neighbours.
Rest assured, then, O reader! whosoever thou art, that it is not for
_thee_ to pretend to despise it!

Ponder the rather on the _power_ of that art, that could soothe the
perturbed soul of Israel's wrath-sent king--mad and moody--and even
expel the evil spirit that goaded him; and on its _dignity_--for
prophets of old, when the Divine inspiration came upon them, revealing
to their purified eyes the "vision of the Almighty," uttered their "dark
sayings upon the harp."

What a plague it sometimes is to be hag-ridden by a tune, racing through
one's head, with a never-ending always-beginningness, as though a
thousand imps were singing it in one's ears. Wherever you may be,
whomsoever with, whatsoever doing, still ring on those incessant tones
of perchance the merriest of all jigs, till--it is Sunday morning, and
you are preparing for church--you leave your house with the entire and
miserable conviction, that, seated in your pew in the very face of the
congregation-genteel sinners in silks, and satins, and feathers--you
will betray your long-concealed suffering by giving vent to that
interminable "Rory O'More," the moment you open your lips for the
emission of "All people that on earth do dwell;" so ensuring your rapid
transfer to the street, under the escort of the man with the
parti-coloured coat and black wand, whose Sabbath duties of jerking the
Sunday scholars, and rapping their heads with that authoritative cane,
are unceremoniously interfered with on your behalf. Misery and disgrace
stare you in the face, and all through an undue titillation of that part
of your sensorium that takes cognisance of musical sounds; a titillation
not to be subdued by endeavouring to direct your attention from it to
the very gravest of all subjects; nor propitiated even by audibly
chanting the offending strain, previously retiring into the furthest
corner of your coal-cellar, to prevent your unwilling profanity on
shocking the strictly conscientious ears of your household. This is
bad--and yet it is but a mild form of this morbid affection, which, in
its most intense degree, torments the sufferer from fever, (or one
stunned by some sudden and violent grief,) when certain sounds, words,
or tunes, accidentally determined, thrill through the head with the
steadiness and vehement action of the piston of a steam-engine--beat,
beat, beat!--every note seeming to fall on the excited brain like the
blow of a hammer; while, as the fever and pain increase, the more
rapidly and heavily do those torturing notes pursue their furious chase.
We well remember, under an attack of disorder in the neighbourhood of
the brain, causing severe suffering, lying--we know not how long, it
might be a thousand years for any thing we knew--singing over and over
again _in our mind_, for we were speechless with pain, the 148th psalm,
which we had just chanced to hear sung, in Brady and Tate's version, to
a new and somewhat peculiar tune. Oh, how those "dreadful whales" and
"glittering scales" did quaver and quiver in our poor head! Lying like a
log--for pain neither permitted us to stir nor groan--still rattled on,
hard and quick, the rumbling bass and shrill tenor of that most
inappropriately jubilant composition--"cherubim and seraphim," "fire,
hail, and snow," succeeding each other with a railway velocity that
there was no resisting; no sooner had we got to "stands ever fast," than
round again we went to the "boundless realms of joy," and so on, on,
on, through each dreary minute of those dreary hours, an infinity, or
perchance but twenty-four, according as time is computed by clocks or by
agonised human beings. It made a capital Purgatory; one which we have
even deemed every way adequate to those slight delinquencies of which we
may have been guilty, and which are appointed, as it is understood, to
be expiated in this way.

At times some simple air, or even a single chord of unusual, but
apparently obvious harmony, will haunt us with a peculiar sweetness,
producing a soothing, gentle sadness, as though we listened to distant
bells, whose music is borne in surges on the breeze that sways the
golden corn on a sunny Sabbath, when our pathway lies through the
undulating fields, already "white unto the harvest;" where the pleasant
rustling of the ripened grain, as it is stirred by the soft wind, is
sweet and soothing; and the gay poppy, and other less obtrusive, though
not less beautiful wild-flowers, bloom at our loitering feet. In the
power of exciting such feeling, what can equal our old English ballads?
There is an inexpressible charm in these, and we would almost give our
fingers to be able to describe that indescribable _something_, which
constitutes their peculiar fascination and power over the imagination.
Most plain, most artless, does their composition appear; like the
natural out-breathing of the heart in its sunny moments; and yet--as
with all earthly brightness--with a trace of cloud on that sunshine.
They are redolent of the "olden time;" and as they fall softly on the
ear, the antique hall, with its groined roof, and mullioned window,
glowing with rich heraldic devices, through which the many-tinted lights
fall tenderly on arch and pillar, and elaborately fretted walls, studded
with ancestral armour, rises up before us; and with the melting tones of
the lute, mingles the low, clear voice of a gentle maiden, whose small
foot and brocaded train are just seen from behind yonder deeply
sculptured oaken screen. What innocence is in that voice! and how
expressive are the chords that accompany it--less elaborate and
fantastic, perchance, than might win favour in our vitiated ears; but
natural, harmonious, full, and in exquisite subordination to the air,
which they fill up and enrich, instead of overpowering with misplaced
beauty.

And now a movement of the singer reveals still more of the quaint,
beautiful costume, with its heavy, yet graceful folds, while--aha! what
else do we see?--a plumed hat thrown carelessly on the ground; the armed
heel, glittering rapier, and slashed sleeve, just visible, betokening
that its owner is not far off, and that the lady fair has not, as we had
thought, been wasting her sweetness, either of voice or countenance, on
that comfortable-looking pet dog or caged linnet. Sing on, pretty one!
for well do gallant knights love to hear their stern deeds sung by
innocent lips; and _right well_, to listen to the strain that tells how
the heart of "lady-bright" is won by noble daring. But what means that
sudden break in the song, and the confused sweep of the strings, as
though the lute had slipped from its owner's grasp; while the masculine
paraphernalia which we had just discovered disappears altogether behind
that most impervious and curiosity-mocking screen? No great harm done,
or that light laugh had not escaped the lips so suddenly silenced; and
the offending cavalier is doubtless forgiven on the spot, as they
amicably retreat to that deep oriel, framed apparently for the express
purpose of excluding _intrusionists_ like ourselves, who would fain
follow, where, it is evident, we are marvellously little wanted! Well,
well!--maidens will be maidens, we trow, and lovemaking in the olden
time is, we suppose, after all, vastly like the same performance by more
modern actors. Leave we them to their light-heartedness:--and yet we
could linger long in this ancient chamber,

     "With quaint oak-carving lined and ceiled;"

so calm, so cool, so repose-breathing,--the shrill twitter of the
swallow the only sound now heard amid its silence; the fleecy clouds,
throwing that rich interior into alternate light and shade, as they sail
lazily along the deep blue sky--the only moving objects, save the long
wreaths of ivy, that, green as the tender buds of spring, tap lightly
against the casement, as they are swayed by the impulses of the summer
breeze. Beyond, is an old-fashioned garden--a _pleasance_, as it would
be called--and truly is it one; with its trim walks, its terraces, and
moss-grown urns, around which luxuriant creepers are entwined--its
impervious hedges--its close-shorn lawn, decked with appropriate
statues, and its yew-trees, clipped into fantastic shapes; while the
ivy-covered walls that bound it, afford a shelter from the blasts that
too often allay the sunshine of our northern climate, and render it a
spot where 'tis sweet to saunter, in idle or quiet contemplative mood,
at glowing sunset; or chaster beauty of summer evening, when the pure,
cold moon mingles her passionless lustre with the gorgeous hues that
still linger around the portals of the west--bright train of the
departing monarch that has passed to the sway of a new hemisphere!

Here could we linger in genial meditation, while from the dark pannelled
walls look down upon us lovely countenances of those who, centuries ago,
have called this _home_--portraits whose calm, meek dignity so far
transcends the more active style in which it too often pleases us
moderns to glare from our gilt frames, "looking delightfully with all
our might, and staring violently at nothing;" costume and truth being
utterly outraged,--the _roturier's_ wife mapped in the ermine of the
duchess, and perchance dandling on her maternal lap what appears to be a
dancing dog in its professional finery, but which, on closer inspection,
turns out to be an imp of a child, made a fool of by its mother and
milliner; and my lady--in inadequate garments, and a pair of wings,
flourishing as some heathen divinity or abstract virtue! Look at those
girlish features, just mantling into fairest womanhood, with their sweet
serious look, exhibiting all the self-possession of simplicity; the
drapery and other accessories natural, and in perfect keeping with the
unpretending character of the whole; and then turn to some recent
"portrait of a lady," with what toleration you may. Contrast for one
moment that fine ancestral face, dignified and unmoved as the mighty
ocean slumbering in his strength, with the eager visage of one of the
latest "batch," (cooked, without much regard to the materials, for some
ministerial exigency,) who would appear to be standing in rampant
defence of his own brand-new coronet, emulative of the well-gilt lion
which supports that miracle of ingenuity rather than research, his
brightly emblazoned coat-of-arms; whose infinitude of charges and
quarterings do honour to the inventive genius of the Herald's Office,
and are enough to make the Rouge Dragon of three centuries ago claw out
the eyes of the modern functionary.

But, oh dear, dear! where are our ballads all this while? Drifted sadly
to leeward, we fear, according to a bad habit of ours, of letting any
breeze, from whatever point of the compass it may chance to blow, fill
our sails, and float us away before it, utterly unmindful of our
original purpose and destination. Thus have we, to the tune of an old
Hall and its garniture, sailed away from that which we were
aiming--trying to find out, and describe the peculiar fascination of our
loved old ballads; flattering ourselves, perhaps, that we were escaping
a difficulty which we feared to meet.

There is a quaint cheerfulness in them, toned down with a shade--the
shadow of a shade--of the most touching melancholy, effected, we can
scarcely tell how, by an exquisitely felicitous, though but slight
introduction of the minor key, perchance but a single note or chord. But
that suffices, and it is as a sudden vision of our home, far off among
the mountains, or in the "happy valley" of our fathers, passing before
us in the gay crowded city, bringing plaintive thoughts of remembered
joys, and quietude, and childish innocence. Old ballads are like April
skies, all smiles and tears, sunshine and swift-flitting clouds, that
serve but to heighten the loveliness they concealed for a while. They
are like,--nay, we despair; none but our own Shakspeare can express what
we should vainly puzzle ourselves to describe, the essence of the "old
and antique song."

  "Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain;
  The spinsters and the knitters in the sun
  And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
  Do use to chaunt it; it is silly sooth,
  And dallies with the innocence of love,
  Like the old age."

Ay! like gray eld fondling sunny childhood, gazing on the wavy hair, and
pure brow, and calm yet kindling eye, with a fond sad pleasure; for in
that young exulting spirit he sees the sure inheritor of his own fading
honours, the usurper of his strength, and influence, and worship,
rapidly passing away from his feeble grasp; and as he gazes, though his
lips pour willing benedictions on the unconscious supplanter, there
lingers in his heart the sorrowful, "He shall increase, but I shall
decrease."

Something akin in their sad soothing effect, are the _waits_, (dear
reader, you do not need to be told what these are? Wordsworth has
immortalized them;) simple, rude, and inharmonious as they would be in
the clear, truth-telling daylight, but strange, witching, and half
unearthly, when heard between the pauses of some fantastic dream in the
deep midnight; when,

            "All around,
  The stars are watching with their thousand eyes;"

those same stars that peered down on this earth, in "earnest gaze," on
the first act of that most awful drama, when, in "the winter wild, the
heaven-born child"--Him in whom all nations of the world were
blessed--was placed in his rude cradle at Bethlehem: in commemoration of
whose advent--and _this_ is one secret of their pathos, waking high
thoughts in the soul, too long brooding over and degrading itself with
the mean cares and hopes of this life--the humble musicians make night
tuneful, "scraping the chords with strenuous hand."

A blessing on them as they go, softening our hard, unloving hearts! In
our childhood it was one of our most cherished pleasures to
lie--half-sleeping, half-waking--listening to them, as the sounds, at
times discordant enough, though of that we recked not, rose and fell in
pleasing cadence, as the winter wind rose and fell, wafting the notes
that, faint and fainter still, at last died away in the distance.

We and our room-companion were under a solemn engagement, each to other,
to waken the little sleepy thing beside him, when the more watchful
became aware of the approach of the itinerant minstrels; and woe to the
one who had forgotten this duty! It would have required no little
"music" to soothe the "savage breast" of the aggrieved one; for--as we
are pathetically reminded by the old song--"Christmas comes but once
a-year," and so often, but no more, did we know that our chance of
hearing this seductive harmony occurred. Hence our wrath, if through the
neglect, the "breach of promise" of another, so solemnly pledged, we
missed it. And even now, dear as is the oblivion of night and dreamless
sleep to the spirit, harassed and world-worn, that in outgrowing its
child-like feelings and happiness, has, alas! also out-grown what its
increase of worldly wisdom can hardly make amends for--the child-like
purity, and intense enjoyment of simple pleasures, which marked its
earlier years--even now, weary and dull-hearted as we are become, we
would not willingly lose this delight of our happier days, although it
fall on the still darkness like wail for a departed friend, unsealing
the fount of mournful memories, whose bitter waters gush from their
stricken rock; sad as are its associations, they are of that sadness
whereby the "heart is made better."

What think ye of the drum as a musical instrument? Is there not
something magnificent in it, albeit suggestive of a distant wheelbarrow
on rough paving-stones, or heavily laden cart in the distance? This
latter, by the way,--we appeal with confidence to any musical soul
present for confirmation of our assertion--being decidedly its equal, in
effect, any day; as in our _happy_ infancy we found out to our sorrow,
from being frequently deceived by its dull booming, which our vivid
imagination at once pronounced to be its parchment representative; as we
writhed and wriggled with agony on our unhonoured bench (selected, and
adhered to, for constancy was our _forte_, chiefly on account of its
being out of the reach of the cane, and commanding a good view of the
street) in a perfect fever, poor little soul, to squirl away books and
slates, and scamper after the soldiers. Scarlet has been said to be like
the sound of a trumpet; surely then a drum must be taken as the exponent
of that ferocious mixture yclept thunder and lightning, erst dear to
country bumpkins, and rendered classical by Master Moses Primrose's
coat. It can scarcely be described as _music_, but rather as sound with
an idea in it--the connecting link between mere noise and musical
expression. Kettle-drums,

      "Whose sullen dub,
  Is like the hooping of a tub,"

we hate; and never see them in a concert-room without heartily wishing
they and their tatooer might tumble, helter-skelter, from their topmost
perch into the very lowest depth, if there be one lower than another, of
the orchestra; and thereby sustain such a compound fracture, attended by
loss of substance, as should put it out of their power, for that night
at least, to torture our fastidious ears. Being of a melancholy
temperament, we are unfortunately, at times, subject to most ludicrous
fancies; and as these ungainly instruments loom on our disgusted eye, we
cannot, for the life of us, help imagining them moulds for a couple of
enormous gooseberry puddings; and we verily pant at the idea of the sea
of melted butter, or yellow cream, requisite to mollify their
acidity--and then we laugh like a hyena at the nightmareish vision, and
so are disgraced, for it is at a "serious opera:" therefore, we repeat
it, do we hate them, cordially and perseveringly. They are horrid
things, and ought to be excommunicated. And when employed in military
bands--why, a horse looks a complete fool between a couple of these
gigantic basins, each with its long tag-rag of unmeaning velvet,
beplastered and bedizened with lace and gold, streaming from it; and the
unlucky performer perched between them, exactly like an old
market-woman, bolstered up between a brace of paniers or
milk-pails;--any thing but a fierce dragoon, or most chivalrous hussar.
But peace be to the kettle-drums,--ay, _peace be to them_, say we! and
may our ears never again be subjected to the torture of hearing Handel's
massive chorus, or Beethoven's fearfully dramatic harmony, disfigured by
their most abominable bangs, or villanous rumble-grumble.

Now all this is rank nonsense--we are fully aware of it; and it is a
most foolish, unjust prejudice of ours against drums--kettle or
otherwise, as it may please Apollo--which are most respectable members
of musical society, and good--very good--in their way; were it only as a
foil to the enchanting, inspiriting, maddening strains of the horn, the
shrill pipe, the regal trumpet, and the various other instruments of our
military music, of which we are more passionate admirers, almost ready
to follow the drum ourselves. Oh, the supreme delight of having one's
arms and legs shot off to such soul-elevating sounds, to the tune of
Rule Britannia, and somebody or other's march! "Britons strike home"
thrills through the air, and you scarcely feel that you are spitted by a
Polish lancer; a flourish of trumpets, and enter a troop of horse, that
trot briskly over you as you lie smashed by a round-shot, but heedless
of the exhibition of their unceremonious heels to your injuries, for are
you not sustained by that "point of war"--mercilessly beaten at your
elbow, without the slightest regard to the effect it may have on your
cracked head, for which you are indebted to the last trooper who spurred
his charger over you: who would care for his vulgar limbs under such
excitement? But if this part of our military economy be intended to
inspire cowards with courage, and string them up to a disregard of all
the chances of warfare, in the way of bullet and sabre, why--_why_ is
not so valuable an idea carried out to the full extent of its
requirement, and a military band instituted for the comfort and
encouragement of the patients (every whit as nervous as if they were
under arms) of Guy's Hospital? Why should not the case of poor bedfast
wretches in cap and gown, and pale faces, meet with as much
consideration as that of your clodpole in scarlet and an 'Albert hat?'
(Heaven forgive the prince for making such simpletons of our handsome
Englishmen!) Look to it, ye governors of such institutions, and look to
it, ye charitable and humane, who empty your purses into the blandly
presented plate to buy shoes and stockings for the kangaroos. Consider
the case of your afflicted countrymen, and relieve the plethora of your
coffers by providing them music, every way equal to that enjoyed by
troops going into action; music so entrancing that an arm or leg whipped
off shall, under its influence, be no object to them; and let them drink
down their odious physic to such masterly compositions of the first
artists as shall sweeten the bitterest potion, and elicit a chorus of
blessings on the taste and liberality of their munificent benefactors.
But we fear that our pleading will be vain--Englishmen, poor, sick, and
suffering, are intolerably uninteresting; not to be named on the same
day with the happy possessors of woolly locks, flat noses, and
copper-coloured skins; thes

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/29938