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Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 59, No. 368, June 1846

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Title: Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 59, No. 368, June 1846

Author: Various


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









  BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

  NO. CCCLXVIII.   JUNE, 1846.   VOL. LIX.




THE LITERATURE OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.[1]


Lord Brougham has resumed his memoirs of the eminent writers of England;
and every lover of literature will feel gratified by this employment of
his active research and of his vigorous pen.

One of the most striking distinctions of English public life from that
of the Continent, is in the condition of statesmen after their casual
retirement from power. The Foreign statesman seems to exist only in
office. The moment that sees him "out of place," sees him extinguished.
He is lost as suddenly to the public eye, as if he were carried to the
tomb of his ancestors. He retires to his country-seat, and there
subsides into the garrulous complainant against the caprices of fortune,
or buries his calamities in the quiet indulgence of his appetites;
smokes away his term of years, subsides into the lean and slippered
pantaloon, occupies his studies with the _Court Gazette_, and his
faculties with cards; and is finally deposited in the family vault, to
continue the process of mouldering which had been begun in his
arm-chair, to be remembered only in an epitaph. France, at the present
day, alone seems to form an exception. Her legislature affords a new
element in which statesmanship in abeyance can still float: the little
vessel is there at least kept in view of mankind; if it makes no
progress, it at least keeps above water; and, however incapable of
reaching the port by its own means, the fluctuations of the national
surge, sometimes so powerful, and always so contemptuous of calculation,
may at some time or other carry the craziest craft into harbour. But the
general order of continental ministers, even of the highest rank, when
abandoned by the monarch, are like men consigned to the dungeon. They go
to their place of sentence at once. The man who to-day figured in the
highest robe of power, to-morrow wears the prison costume. His rise was
the work of the royal will--his fall is equally the work of the royal
will. Having no connexion with the national mind, he has no resource in
the national sympathies. He has been a royal instrument: when his edge
becomes dull, or the royal artificer finds a tool whose fashion he likes
better, the old tool is flung by to rust, and no man asks where or why,
his use is at an end, and the world and the workman, alike, "knoweth it
no more."

But, in England, the condition of public life is wholly different. The
statesman is the creation of the national will, and neither in office,
nor in opposition, does the nation forget the product of its will. The
minister is no offspring of slavery, no official negro, made to be sold,
and, when sold, separated from his parentage once and for ever. If he
sins in power, he is at worst but the Prodigal Son, watched in his
career, and willingly welcomed when he has abjured his wanderings.
Instead of being extinguished by the loss of power, he often more than
compensates the change, by the revival of popularity. Disencumbered of
the laced and embroidered drapery of office, he often exhibits the
natural vigour and proportion of his faculties to higher advantage;
cultivates his intellectual distinctions with more palpable success;
refreshes his strength for nobler purposes than even those of ambition;
and, if he should not exert his renewed popularity for a new conquest of
power, only substitutes for place the more generous and exalted
determination of deserving those tributes which men naturally offer to
great abilities exerted for the good of present and future generations.

We must allude, for the national honour, to this characteristic of
English feeling, in the changes of public men. On the Continent, the
hour which deprived a statesman of office, at once deprived him of every
thing. All the world ran away from him, as they would from a falling
house. The crowded antechamber of yesterday, exhibited nothing to-day
but utter solitude. The fallen minister was a leper; men shrank from his
touch; the contagion of ill-luck was upon him; and every one dreaded to
catch the disease. It was sometimes even worse. The loss of power was
the ruin of fortune. The Dives had been suddenly transformed into the
Lazarus; the purple and fine linen were "shreds and patches," and not
even the dogs came to administer to his malady. But, among us, the
breaking up of a cabinet often only gives rise to a bold and brilliant
opposition. It is not like the breaking up of a ship, where the wreck is
irreparable, and the timbers are shattered and scattered, and good for
nothing; it is often more like the breaking up of a regiment in one of
our colonies, where the once compact mass of force, which knew nothing
but the command of its colonel, now takes, each man his own way,
exhibits his own style of cleverness; instead of the one manual exercise
of musket and bayonet, each individual takes the axe or the spade, the
tool or the ploughshare, and works a new fertility out of the soil,
according to his own "thews and sinews."

The moral of all this is, that the distinguished author of these Memoirs
is now devoting himself to a career of literature, to which even his
political services may have been of inferior utility. He is recalling
the public memory to those eminent achievements, which have so
powerfully advanced the mental grandeur of our era; and, while he thus
gives due honour to the labours of the past, he is at once encouraging
and illustrating the nobleness of the course which opens to posterity.
But Lord Brougham's influence cannot be contented, we should hope, with
merely speculative benefits; it is for him, and for men like him, to
look with interest on the struggles of literary existence at the hour;
to call the attention of government and the nation to the neglects, the
narrowness, and the caprices of national patronage; to demand protection
for genius depressed by the worldliness of the crowd; to point out to
men of rank and wealth a path of service infinitely more honourable to
their own taste, and infinitely more productive to their country, than
ribands and stars; than the tinkling of a name, than pompous palaces, or
picture galleries of royal price; to excite our nobles to constitute
themselves the true patrons of the living genius of the land, and
disdain to be content with either the offering of weak regrets or the
tribute of worthless honours to the slumberers in the grave. A tenth
part of the sums employed in raising obelisks to Burns, would have
rescued one half of his life from poverty, and the other half from
despair. The single sum which raised the monument to Sir Walter Scott in
Edinburgh, would have saved him from the final pressure which broke his
heart, elastic as it was, and dimmed his intellect, capable as he still
was of throwing a splendour over his native soil.

This neglect is known and suffered in no other province of public
service. The soldier, the sailor, the architect, the painter, are all
within sight of the most lavish prizes of public liberality. Parliament
has just given titles and superb pensions to the conquerors of the
Sikhs. The India Company has followed its example. We applaud this
munificent liberality in both instances. Two general officers have thus
obtained the peerage, with L7000 and L5000 a-year. They deserved those
rewards. But the whole literary encouragement of the British empire,
with a revenue of fifty-two millions sterling, is L1200, little more
than the tenth part of the pensions allotted to those two gallant men.
L1200 for the whole literary encouragement of England! There can be no
greater scandal to the intellectual honour of the country. The pettiest
German principality scarcely limits its literary encouragement to this
sum. We doubt whether Weimar, between literary offices and pensions, did
not give twice the sum annually. But named in competition with the
liberality of the leading sovereigns, it is utterly mean. Louis XIV.,
two hundred years ago, allotted 80,000 francs a-year to his forty
members of the Academy, a sum equivalent in _that day_, and in _France_,
to little less than L5000 a-year in our day, and in England. Frederic
II. gave pensions and appointments to a whole corps of literary men. At
this moment, there is scarcely a man of any literary distinction in
Paris, who has not a share in the liberal and wise patronage of
government, either in office or public pension.

But if we are to be answered by a class, plethoric with wealth and rank;
that literature ought to be content with living on its own means; must
not the obvious answer be--Is the author to be an author, down to his
grave? Is there to be no relaxation of his toil? is there to be no
allowance for the exhaustion of his overworked faculties? for the
natural infirmities of years? for the vexations of a noble spirit
compelled to submit to the caprices of public change? and with its full
share of the common calamities of life, increasing their pressure at
once by an inevitable sense of wrong, and by a feeling that the delight
of his youth must be the drudgery of his age? When the great Dryden, in
his seventieth year, was forced, in the bitterness of his heart, to
exclaim, "Must I die in the harness!" his language was a brand on the
common sense, as well as on the just generosity, of his country. We now
abandon the topic with one remark. This want of the higher liberality of
the nation has already produced the most injurious effects on our
literature.

All the great works of our ancestral literature were the works of
leisure and comparative competence. All the great dramatic poetry of
France was the work of comparative competence. Its writers were not
compelled to hurry after the popular tastes; they followed their own,
and impressed its character upon the mind of the nation. The plays of
Racine, Corneille, Moliere, and Voltaire, are nobler trophies to the
greatness of France than all the victories of Louis the XIV., than
Versailles, than all the pomps of his splendid reign. Louis Philippe has
adopted the same munificent policy, and it will be followed by the same
honour with posterity. But, in England, the keeping of a stud of
racehorses, the building of a dog-kennel, or the purchase of a foreign
picture, is ignominiously and selfishly suffered to absorb a larger sum
than the whole literary patronage of the most opulent empire that the
sun ever shone upon. We recommend these considerations to Lord Brougham:
they are nobler than politics; they are fitter for his combined
character of statesman and philosopher; they will also combine with that
character another which alone can give permanency to the fame of any
public man--that of the philanthropist. His ability, his knowledge of
human nature, and his passion for public service--qualities in which his
merits are known to Europe--designate him as the founder of a great
system of public liberality to the enterprise of genius. And when party
is forgotten, and cabinets have perished; when, perhaps, even the
boundaries of empire may have been changed, and new nations rise to
claim the supremacy of arts and arms; the services of the protector of
literature will stand out before the eye with increased honour, and his
name be rescued from the common ruin which envelopes the memory of
ostentatious conquerors and idle kings.

The present volume contains biographies of Johnson, Adam Smith,
Lavoisier, Gibbon, Sir Joseph Banks, D'Alembert. We shall commence with
the lives less known to the generality of readers than those of our
great moralist and great political economist, reserving ourselves for
sketches of their career, as our space may allow.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lord Brougham commences his life of Sir Joseph Banks by a species of
apology, for placing in the ranks of philosophers a man who had never
written a book. But no one has ever doubted that a man may be a
philosopher, without being an author. Some of the greatest inventions of
philosophy, of science, and of practical power, have been the work of
men who never wrote a book. In fact, the inventor is generally a man of
few words; his disciples, or rivals, or imitators, are the men of
description. The inventor gives the idea, the follower gives the
treatise; but the inventor is the philosopher after all. The question,
however, with Sir Joseph Banks is, whether he was any more an inventor
than a writer. It does not appear that he was either. Of course, he has
no right to rank among men of science. But he had merits of his own, and
on those his distinctions ought to have been placed. He was a zealous,
active, and influential friend of philosophers. He gave them his time,
he received them in his house, and he assisted their progress. He
volunteered to be the protector of their class; he sympathised with
their pursuits; and, while adding little or nothing to their
discoveries, he assisted in bringing those discoveries before the world.
He loved to be thought the patriarch of British science; and, like the
patriarch, he retained his authority even when he was past his labour.
If he filled the throne of science feebly, none could deny that he
filled it zealously. The true definition of him was, an English
gentleman occupying his leisure with philosophical pursuits, and
encouraging others of more powerful understanding to do the same.

Sir Joseph Banks was of an old and wealthy family, dating so far back as
Edward III.; first settled in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and
afterwards in the county of Lincoln. He was born in London in January
1743. At the age of nine he was sent to Harrow, and at thirteen to Eton,
where the tutors observed, as has happened in many other instances, that
he was fonder of play than of books. In about a twelvemonth, however, he
became studious, though not to the taste of his schoolmasters. The
origin of this change was described by himself, in a letter to Sir
Everard Home, as accidental. One afternoon he had been bathing with some
of the Eton boys, and, on returning to dress himself, found that they
had left him alone. Walking down a green lane, whose sides exhibited the
wild-flowers of the season, the thought occurred to him, how much more
natural and useful would be the knowledge of plants, than of Greek and
Latin. From this time he devoted himself to the study of botany, though
still continuing that of the classics. On returning to his father's
house, he found a copy of Gerard's _Herbal_, which fixed his taste. He
now added to his collecting of plants that of butterflies and other
insects. Lord Brougham mentions that his father was one of Banks's
associates at this period, and that they employed themselves together in
natural history.

Natural history has been so frequently the pursuit of studious triflers,
that it is difficult to exempt it from the charge of trifling. To gather
plants which have been gathered a thousand times before, to ascertain
their names from an herbal, and classify them according to its list,
seems to be little more than a grave apology for playing the fool. A
determination to gather all the butterflies and blue-bottles within the
limits of the realm, certainly has nothing that can dignify it with the
name of scientific pursuit. The collecting of pebbles and shells, or
even the arranging of animals in the cases of a museum, are
accomplishments of so easy an order, and of so little actual use, that
they serve for little else than to wile away the time. But this trifling
assumes a more important shape when it rises to the acquisition of
actual knowledge; when, instead of classifying plants, it develops their
medicinal virtues, and, instead of embalming animals, it examines their
structure, as throwing light on the conformation or diseases of man.

But Sir Joseph Banks was fortunately relieved from subsiding into this
foppery, by circumstances which forced him into vigorous and useful
exertion. An approaching transit of Venus had been long looked to, as
giving an opportunity for ascertaining the distance of the sun from the
earth. It was recommended, that observations on this phenomenon should
be made from different stations on the globe. Accordingly, in 1761, the
British government sent out two observers, one to the Cape and the other
to St Helena. The French government at the same time sent out three--to
Pondicherry, Siberia, and the Mauritius. But the weather was
unfavourable, and the observations were to be regarded as a failure. But
there was a second transit in 1769, and the leading powers of Europe
sent out observers; England sending a vessel to the South Seas, an
observer to India, and two to Hudson's Bay. Captain Wallace having
lately made several discoveries in the Pacific, public attention had
been strongly drawn to that hitherto scarcely known portion of the
globe. The celebrated Captain Cook was appointed commander, and Sir
Joseph Banks, stimulated by an honourable zeal and a rational desire of
knowledge, obtained leave from his friend, Lord Sandwich, to join the
expedition. He took with him Dr Solander the botanist, and two
draughtsmen.

On the 25th of August 1768, Cook's vessel, the Endeavour, sailed from
Plymouth Sound, and the first point of land at which they touched was
the Terra del Fuego, the southern extremity of the American continent.
There they encountered such severity of cold, that, although it was the
summer of those regions, Banks and Solander, in one of their botanical
excursions, had nearly shared the fate of three of their attendants, who
perished from the intensity of the cold. The effect of this excess of
low temperature has been often felt and often described. It was a
general torpor of the frame, producing an almost irresistible propensity
to sleep. Every exertion was painful, and the strongest desire was to
lie down in the snow and give way to slumber. Solander, who had acquired
his experience in botanizing among the Swedish mountains, warned the
party of their danger. "Whoever," said he, "sits down, will sleep;
whoever sleeps, will wake no more." Yet he himself was one of the first
to yield; he insisted on lying down, fell asleep before he could be
brought to the fire which Banks had kindled, and was restored with
difficulty. His companion had felt a similar inclination, but resisted
it, by the greater energy of youth, and probably of a more vigorous
mind.

Cook then sailed for Otaheite, which he reached in April. The contrast
of the luxurious climate with the inclement region which they had left
behind them, was doubly striking to men who, for upwards of half a year,
had seen nothing but the ocean or the deserts of Cape Horn. They now
proceeded vigorously to the chief purposes of their voyage. The captain
and his officers prepared their instruments to observe the transit,
while Banks and his botanical attendants ranged the island, made
themselves acquainted with its natural productions, and conciliated the
natives. The effect of his intelligence and intrepidity was conspicuous
on an occasion which might have involved the scientific fate of the
expedition. The quadrant, though under charge of a sentinel, had been
stolen by the adroitness of some of the natives. But without it no
observation could be taken. Banks volunteered to go in search of it into
the woods, made himself master of it, and conveyed it in safety to the
observatory; though followed by parties of the natives, and occasionally
compelled to keep them at bay by exhibiting his pistols.

The transit was successfully observed, but it took six hours for the
operation. As the period approached, even the crew had felt the
strongest anxiety for its success. The state of the sky was reported
every half hour during the night before, and their spirits rose and fell
as the report gave its answer, clear or cloudy. But at dawn the sky was
brilliant, and the day passed without a cloud. Four other observations
had been simultaneously made, in Siberia, Lapland, Hudson's Bay, and
California. The general result gave the sun's distance at nearly
ninety-four millions of miles.

The next object of the voyage was a search for the great southern
continent, which the philosophers of the day had conceived to exist, as
a "necessary balance" to the mass of land in the northern hemisphere.
But conjectural philosophy is often at fault, and necessary as this
terrestrial balance was asserted to be, no "great" southern continent
has yet been found. For a while, even Cook's sagacity seems to have been
deceived by the mountains of New Zealand, which had been discovered, in
1620, by Tasman. Cook sailed round it, and explored its shores for six
months. He then, on his homeward voyage, examined the east coast of New
Holland. Of course, it is not the intention of this paper to trace a
career so well known as that of the celebrated navigator. We refer to
its incidents, merely as connected with Sir Joseph Banks. They had run
about thirteen hundred miles of the coast, when, after having received
some alarm from the neighbourhood of coral reefs, the vessel suddenly
struck. It was Cook's sagacious habit, nightly, to give all his orders
and precautions before he went to rest; and thus, after having done all
that prudence could do, he undressed, went to bed, and such was the
composure of his mind that he instantly fell asleep. But immediately on
the vessel's striking, the captain was on deck, and giving his orders
with his characteristic coolness. The light of the moon showed the
sheathing boards of the ship floating all round, and at last her false
keel. Their fate appeared imminent, but it was only when the day broke,
that they became fully sensible of their forlorn condition. The land was
at eight leagues' distance. There were no intermediate islets on which
the crew might be saved, and the boats were wholly insufficient to take
them all at once. To lighten the ship was their first object. Guns,
ballast, stores, every thing was thrown over. After two tides they were
enabled to get the ship afloat. To their great relief, the leak did not
seem to gain upon them, though to keep it down required the labour of
the men night and day. At length a midshipman fortunately suggested an
expedient which he had once seen adopted at sea. This was to draw under
the ship's bottom a sail, to which were fastened oakum, flax, and other
light substances. The sail thus covered the leak, and enabled the ship
to swim. On pursuing their voyage, and reaching a river, in which they
attempted to repair the ship, they found that her preservation, in the
first instance, was owing to the extraordinary circumstance of a large
fragment of rock which had stuck into the vessel, and thus partially
stopped up the leak. In this most anxious emergency Sir Joseph Banks and
his party exhibited all the coolness and intrepidity which were
required; and in the subsequent account of the voyage, received from
Cook himself well-merited praises.

Another peril likely to be attended with still more certain ruin, now
assailed the crew. The scurvy began to make its appearance. The
devastations of this dreadful disease, in the early history of our
navigation, fortunately now appear almost fabulous. It was a real
plague; it seemed almost to dissolve the whole frame; teeth fell out,
limbs dropped off, and the sufferer sank into a rapid, and, as it was
once thought, an inevitable grave. It is a remarkable instance of the
powers which man possesses to counteract the most formidable evils, that
this terrible disease is now scarcely known. It has been overpowered
solely by such simple means as fresh meat and vegetables, and a drink
medicated with lemon-juice. Simple as those expedients are, they have
saved the lives of thousands and tens of thousands of the sea-going
population of England.

But new hazards, arising alike from the imperfect condition of the
vessel and their ignorance of the coast, continued to pursue them. Never
was a voyage attempted with greater difficulties to surmount, or
achieved with more triumphant success; after having explored two
thousand miles of this perilous coast, Cook took possession of it in the
name of his king, giving it the title of New South Wales.

At length he arrived at Batavia, where, on laying up his ship to repair,
it was discovered that their preservation throughout this long voyage
had been little less than miraculous, her planks having been in many
instances worn "as thin as the sole of a shoe." But their trials were
not yet over: the marsh fever quickly laid up the crew; the captain,
Banks, and Solander, were taken seriously ill. They set sail from this
pestilential island as soon as possible; but before they reached the
Cape, three-and-twenty had died, including Green the astronomer, and the
midshipman whose suggestion had saved the ship. At length, on the 12th
of July 1771, they cast anchor in the Downs, and Cook and his companions
were received with national acclamation.

The triumph of the navigation was naturally due to Cook, but the most
important part of the knowledge which had been communicated to the
empire was due to the labours of Banks. It was from his journals, that
the chief details of the habits, manners, and resources of the natives
were derived. The vegetable, mineral, and animal products of the Society
Islands, and of New Holland, New Zealand, and New Guinea, had been
explored, and a vast quantity of general intelligence was obtained
relative to countries, which now form an essential portion of the
British empire. The novelty of those possessions has now worn off, their
value has made them familiar. We are fully acquainted with their
products, however we may be still ignorant of their powers. But, at the
period of this memorable voyage, the Southern Hemisphere was scarcely
more known than the hemisphere of the moon. Every league of the coasts
of New Holland, and the islands of the Great Southern Ocean, abounded
with natural perils, heightened by the necessary ignorance of the
navigator. Even to this day, many a fearful catastrophe attests the
difficulties of the navigation; the coral rocks were a phenomenon wholly
new to nautical experience; and, in all the modern improvements of
nautical science, full room is left for wonder, at the skill, the
intelligence, and the daring, which carried Cook and his companions safe
through the perils of this gigantic navigation.

A new expedition was soon demanded at once by the curiosity of the
people and the interests of science. The dream of a great southern
continent was still the favourite topic of all who regarded themselves
as philosophers in England, although Cook had sailed over an
unfathomable ocean, in the very tract where he ought, according to this
adventurous theory, to have found a continent. Sir Joseph Banks again
gallantly volunteered to join the expedition which was equipped for the
discovery. His large fortune enabled him to make unusual preparations;
but such was his zeal, that he even raised a loan for the purpose. He
engaged Zoffani, the painter, with three assistant draughtsmen. He
selected two secretaries and nine attendants, instructed in the art of
preserving plants and animals; he also provided books, drawings, and
instruments. But his natural ambition was suddenly thwarted by the
opposition of Sir Hugh Palliser, controller of the navy. For whatever
reason--and it is now difficult to imagine any, except some jealousy too
contemptible to name--so many obstructions were thrown in the way, that
Banks relinquished the pursuit, and turned his attention to a voyage to
Iceland. His suite, seamen and all, amounting to forty persons, reached
the island in 1772, examined its chief natural phenomena, Hecla and its
hot springs, and furnished its historian, Von Troil, with the materials
for the most accurate history of this outpost of the northern world.

On his return to England, he commenced the career, natural to an opulent
man of a cultivated mind, but yet so seldom followed in England by
individuals of even higher means than his own. He fitted up a large
house in Soho Square with all the preparatives for a life of literary
association--a copious library, collections of natural history, and
philosophical instruments. He held frequent conversaziones, gave
dinners, and easily and naturally constituted himself the leader of the
men of science in London. In Lincolnshire, where his chief property
lay, he performed the part of the liberal and hospitable country
gentleman on a large scale; while in London, he was the first person to
whom scientific foreigners were introduced, and the principal patron and
protector of ingenious men.

On the resignation of Sir John Pringle as President of the Royal
Society, Sir Joseph Banks was placed in the chair, in 1778, almost by
acclamation. He had some obvious qualifications for the office, but he
as obviously wanted others. His opulence, his hospitality, and his zeal
for science, were valuable, and are nearly indispensable in the
president of a body which concentrates the chief intellectual force of
the community. But his favourite pursuit, botany, has never deserved the
name of a science, and inevitably bears a character of triviality in the
eyes of the mathematician and the philosopher. The distinction given to
a comparatively young man, known to the world only as a voyager, and a
collector of plants and animals, not unnaturally tended to breed
scoffing among the professors of the severe sciences. The feeling
spread, and the opportunity for its expression was soon found. Dr
Hutton, the mathematical professor at Woolwich, happened to be secretary
for foreign correspondence. His residence at Woolwich was said to
produce some inconvenience in his intercourse with the president; and
the council passed a resolution, in 1783, recommending that "the foreign
secretary should reside in London." The secret history of this
transaction is, that Hutton was one of the mathematical party; though we
cannot distinctly ascertain whether he had actually gone so far as to
sneer at the president. Upon this Hutton resigned the office; to accept
which, the emolument could not have been his object, the salary being
but L.20 a-year--a sum that cannot be mentioned without a sense of
disgrace to a society reckoning among its members some of the wealthiest
men of England.

Hutton's resignation, or rather dismissal, produced an open war in the
society. The mathematicians ranged themselves on the Huttonian side; the
cultivators of natural history, and the cultivators of nothing, ranged
themselves on the side of the president. The mathematicians were headed
by Horsley, afterwards the bishop--a man whom Lord Brougham
characterizes as extremely arrogant, of violent temper, and intoxicated
with an extravagant sense of his own scientific merits, which his noble
biographer pronounces to be altogether insignificant, heading this
charge with the unkindest cut of all, namely, that he was "a priest."
Horsley was certainly no great mathematician, as his publication of the
_Principia_ unluckily shows; but the picture is high coloured, which
represents him as a hot-tempered, loud-tongued, bustling personage--a
sort of bravo of science and theology, who took up the first opinion
which occurred to him, scorned to rectify it by any after-thought, and
plunged from one absurdity into another, for the sake of consistency.
The eloquence of his attacks upon the chair, of whose possession he was
supposed to be foolishly ambitious, was vaunted a good deal by his
partisans. But, as the only evidence of his rhetoric in these squabbles
ever quoted, is one sentence, it is like the pretension to wit on the
strength of a single pun, and may be easily cast aside. This boasted
sentence was uttered, in threatening the secession of the mathematical
party. "The president will then be left with his train of feeble
amateurs, and that toy (the mace) upon the table--the ghost of the
Society in which Philosophy once reigned, and Newton officiated as her
minister."

Horsley's theology was too nearly on a par with his mathematics--he
_was_ harsh and headlong. The fortunate folly of Priestley in
challenging the English clergy to a trial of strength in the old arena
of Unitarianism, gained him an opportunity of crushing an antagonist
whose presumption was in proportion to his ignorance. Accordingly, the
Unitarian was speedily put _hors-de-combat_, and Horsley was rewarded
with a mitre.

The president had long felt that the purpose of this violent lover of
parallelograms was, to unseat him. The question was therefore brought to
a decision, in the shape of a resolution "approving of Sir Joseph Banks
as president, and resolving to support him in his office." This
resolution was carried by 119 to 43.

Honours began now to gather upon him. In 1788 he had been made a
baronet. In 1795 he received the order of the Bath, then generally
restricted to soldiers and diplomatists. In two years after, he was
called to the Privy Council. On the death of the Duke of Ancaster he was
chosen recorder of Boston; but, though often solicited to stand an
election, he was never a member of Parliament. Though professing himself
a Tory, he seems never to have taken any active part in politics,
preserving a curious practical neutrality in Lincolnshire, and giving
his interest to Mr Pelham, a Whig, and Mr Chaplin, a Tory. This, which
his noble biographer curiously seems to consider as a happy proof of the
absence of all party feelings, we should be apt to look upon as a proof
of a degenerate wish to consult his own ease, and of a sluggish
neutrality discreditable to the character of an Englishman.

However, he had more honourable distinctions. In the furious
Revolutionary war--a war of principles and passions, not less than of
public interests, the president of the Royal Society largely exerted his
interest with both governments, to alleviate the sufferings of
scientific men who happened to fall into the hands of the belligerents,
and to effect the restoration of scientific property captured by our
ships of war. In 1802 he was chosen one of the foreign members of the
Institute of France; and his letter of thanks, a little too ardent in
its gratitude, was said to have involved the baronet in some vexations
peculiarly felt by his courtly temperament. He was instantly attacked
for his Gallican panegyric, by a portion of the Royal Society. Cobbett,
who was then looking out for a victim, and whose loyalty was at that
period peculiarly glowing, flew at him like a tiger-cat; and, last and
most dreaded of all, he was said to have received at Windsor some of
those frowns, which to a courtier are a total eclipse of the sun. But
the nation soon had higher things to think of than a slip of the
President's pen, or a little betrayal of his vanity. Napoleon ascended
the throne; and, when the thunderbolts began to fall, the squibs and
crackers flung from hand to hand of little men are of necessity
forgotten.

His latter years were signalized by acts of unequivocal public service.
He is designated by Lord Brougham, and no one can have a better right to
be informed of the fact, as the real founder of the African
Association.--His lordship also regards him as the real founder of the
colony of Botany Bay.--He was the first to suggest the transfer of the
tropical fruits to the West India islands.--British horticulture owed
him great services.--And the British Museum, during forty-two years of
his trusteeship, was the object of his peculiar care, and finally
received the bequest of his excellent library and of all his
collections.

His career, however, was now, by the course of nature, drawing to its
close. Yet, he had lived seventy-eight years in this anxious and
disappointing world, in opulence, in peace, and in public estimation.
But his lot had been singularly fortunate. Few men are without their
share of those troubles which characterize the general condition of
human nature. Sir Joseph Banks had _his_ trial, in physical suffering.
In the first portion of his life he had been remarkable for robust
health and activity; but, from about his fortieth year, he suffered
severely from attacks of gout, which increased so much, that for his
last fourteen years he was scarcely able to walk. His robust mind,
however, enabled him to encounter his disease by increased and extreme
temperance. He gave up all fermented liquors and animal food. He seems
to have derived considerable benefit from D'Huisson's medicine. But his
hour was come; and on the 19th of June 1820, in the seventy-eighth year
of his age, he died--just one year after his honoured and royal friend,
George III.

Thus passed through the world one of those men who are among the most
useful in their generation. It would be idle to pronounce him a genius,
a discoverer, or a profound philosopher. But he served an important
purpose in society; he suggested philosophical enterprise, he protected
the honourable ambition of men whose career, without that protection,
might have closed in obscure suffering: he gave the philosophy and
literature of his time a leader, and formed it into a substantial shape.
In this spirit he employed his life; and he accomplished his purpose
with the constancy and determination of a sagacious and systematic mind.
He might not be a pillar of the philosophical temple of his country, nor
its architrave; but he performed the office of the clamp--he bound
together the materials of both pillar and architrave, and sustained the
edifice alike in its stateliness and in its security.

Lord Brougham's biography of D'Alembert commences with a brief
dissertation on the interest which the mind takes in the study of
mathematics. This study he regards as superior in gratification to every
other, from its independence of external circumstances. In all other
studies, he observes truly, that a large portion of the researches must
depend upon facts imperfectly ascertained from the reports of others,
and upon knowledge impeded by the capricious chances of things; while in
pure science, the principles, the premises, and the conclusions, are
wholly within our own power.

In a passage exhibiting the affluence of the noble lord's language, he
says, "The life of a geometrician may well be supposed an uninterrupted
calm, and the gratification which is derived from its researches, is of
a pure and also of a lively kind--whether he contemplates the truths
discovered by others, with the demonstrative evidence on which they
rest, or carries the science further, and himself adds to the number of
the interesting truths before known. He may be often stopt in his
researches by the difficulties that beset his path; he may be frustrated
in his attempts to discover relations, depending on complicated data,
which he cannot unravel or reconcile; but his study is wholly
independent of accident, his reliance is on his own powers. Contestation
and uncertainty he never can know; a stranger to all controversy, above
all mystery, he possesses his mind in unruffled peace. Bound by no
authority, regardless of all consequences as of all opposition, he is
entire master of his conclusions as of his operations, and feels even
perfect indifference to the acceptance or objection of his doctrines,
because he confidently looks forward to their universal and immediate
admission the moment they are comprehended."

All this is strikingly expressed, yet it is after all but a showy
hypothesis. That pure mathematics have nothing to do with external
existence, may be easily granted; but that mathematicians are exempt
from controversy, is no more a matter of experience than that all
mathematical assertions are self-evident. The history of science is a
direct contradiction of this halcyon hypothesis. The bitterest
controversies, and the most ridiculous too, have been raised on
mathematical opinions. Universal experience tends strongly to the proof,
that no exclusive exertion of the mind is more fatal to its general
vigour, more apt to narrow its range of conception; more distinctly
operative, by its very exclusiveness, and by its making minute truths
the especial object of the mind, in rendering it incapable of those
loftier and broader truths on which depend all the great concerns of
society, all the efficient progress of civilisation, and all the nobler
growth of human powers--than the mere study of mathematics. A spider
drawing his web out of his own fibres, and constructing his little lines
and circles in his dusty corner, is the fittest emblem of the mere
mathematician. In this language, we acknowledge the use of the science;
we protest only against its pretence of superiority. Every man's
experience of college studies may supply him with examples; but we have
room but for one, and that of a sufficiently high order.

When Napoleon assumed the French throne, in his ambition of being
regarded as the universal patron of science he appointed the author of
the _Mechanique Celeste_ a member of his privy council. But La Place,
then and since, the first scientific name of France, was found utterly
inadequate to even the almost sinecure duties of his office. Napoleon
soon found that he could make no use of him. He accordingly consulted
him no longer. "I found his mind," said he, "like his book, full of
_infiniments petits_." Or if we look for further illustration among the
French geometers--the only men among whom the trial can be made, from
their opportunities of power in the Revolution--there was not one of
them who exhibited any qualification for the higher duties of public
life. Bailly, Condorcet, and their tribe, proved themselves utterly
feeble, helpless, and trifling, where manliness, activity, and
intelligence of mind were required. The Savans were swept away like a
swarm of mice, or crushed like musquitoes, when they dared to buzz in
the presence of the public. That they were first-rate mathematicians
there can be no question; that they quarrelled about their mathematical
theories with the bitterness, and not a little in the style of village
gossips, is equally certain; and that, though the Encyclopedists had
chiefly died off before the Revolution, their successors and imitators
were extinguished by their preposterous combination of an avarice of
power, and of an inadequacy to exertion, is a fact written unanswerably
in the history of their trifling career, and of their early scaffolds.
The ridiculous figure made in politics by the first astronomer of
France, at this moment, only strengthens the conclusion.

The life of D'Alembert is, however, one of the happiest illustrations of
the use to which science may be applied, in raising an obscure
individual into public fame. Yet, it is not to be forgotten, that
D'Alembert's European celebrity commenced only when he had laid aside
the exclusive study of mathematics, and devoted himself to general
literature, and, shaking off the dust of his closet, he became a man of
the world.

Jean le Rond d'Alembert was born in November 1717, and was exposed as a
foundling near the church of St Jean le Rond in Paris, and thus called
by the name of the parish. The commissary of the district, taking pity
upon the infant's apparently dying condition, instead of sending it to
the hospital, where it would have inevitably died, gave it to be nursed
by the wife of a poor glazier. In a few days, however, a person named
D'Estouches, a commissary of artillery, came forward, acknowledged the
child, and made provision for its support. The habits of foreign life
are generally so scandalous, that they can scarcely be alluded to
without offending our sense of delicacy. The mother of this infant was
an unmarried woman, living in the very highest circles of Paris, the
sister of Cardinal Tencin, archbishop of Lyons. This woman thus added to
her vice the cruelty of exposing her unfortunate offspring to die of
cold and hunger in the streets. It does not appear that her profligacy,
though notorious, ever affected her position in society. Her coteries
were as gay, her circle was as complete, and her rank as high, as ever.
In the Paris of those days, "throwing the first stone" was unheard of;
its reaction would have been an avalanche; there was no scandal where
there was no concealment; there was no crime where there was no
conscience; and thus danced the world away, until the scourge of a
higher power swept the whole noblesse of France into beggary and exile.

D'Alembert seems to have taken his surname from that of his nurse, and
was sent, when twelve years old, to the College of La Nation, then in
the possession of the Jansenists. There he learned mathematics. On
leaving the college, he returned to the glazier's house, there had one
room for his bedroom and study, lived on the family fare, supported
himself on a pension of L50 a-year left to him by his father, and in
that house lived for forty years. He once made an abortive attempt to
study the law and medicine, but soon grew weary of both, and returned to
mathematics, for which he had a decided predilection. His application to
this study, however, by no means pleased the homely sense of his old
nurse. "You will never be any thing better than a philosopher," was her
usual saying. "And what's a philosopher?--a fool, who wears out his
life, to be spoken of after he is dead."

But D'Alembert had evidently a passion for science; and in his
twenty-third year he sent to the Academy of Sciences an analytical
paper, which attracted general notice. This was followed by his
admission into the society, at the unusually early age of twenty-four.
From this period, he proceeded for eighteen years, constantly furnishing
the Academy with papers, which added greatly to its reputation and his
own. In a note on the presumed discovery of Taylor's Theorem by
D'Alembert, the noble biographer alludes to what he regards as a similar
event, the discovery of the "Binomial Theorem" by himself. We must
acknowledge, that we cannot easily comprehend how any student, within
the last hundred years, could have had this "discovery" to make--the
Binomial Theorem being one of the very first which meets the eye of the
algebraist, in Newton's, and every other treatise on analysis. It seems
to us very like an English reader's "discovery" of the alphabet, or, at
least, of the recondite art of spelling words of two syllables. But
D'Alembert was at length to find, that if he was to obtain either fame
or fortune, he must seek them in some other road. At this period,
infidelity had become the distinction of all who arrogated to themselves
intellectual accomplishment. The power of the crown, and the power of
the clergy, had hitherto made its expression dangerous; but the new
liberalism of the throne having enfeebled its power, the reign of the
libeller, the rebel, and the sceptic openly commenced. The opulence of
the clergy increased the bitterness of their enemies; and the blow which
was intended to lay the throne in the dust, was nominally aimed at
religion. Voltaire had commenced this crusade half a century before; but
the arch-infidel lived beyond the dominion of France, possessed an
independent income, had acquired the reputation of the wittiest man in
Europe, and had established a species of impunity by the pungency of his
perpetual sneers. During this period, French infidelity had been silent
through fear, but it was not the less virulent, active, and general. It
appeared in the result, that almost the whole of the French higher
orders were either deists or total unbelievers. All the literary men of
France followed the example of Voltaire, and a scoff at religion was
always accepted as an evidence of wit. France loves extremes; and, as
the poplar literature of Paris is now plunged in impurity, fifty years
ago it was characterized by outrageous blasphemy. The only religion
which France knew, was certainly not calculated to repress the evil. Its
fantastic exhibitions and grim formalities, were equally obnoxious to
the human understanding. Its persecuting spirit insulted the growing
passion of the people for liberty; while its fierce dogmas, contrasting
with its ridiculous traditions, supplied the largest materials at once
for horror and ridicule.

At length the storm broke forth. The infidelity which had danced and
smiled, and made _calembourgs_ and scoffed, in the full-dress circles of
the nobles; made its appearance in the streets and highways, in rags and
riot, with the axe for the pen, and blood for the ink, and trampled the
whole polished race of scoffers in the mire of Revolution.

The _Encyclopedie_ was the great text-book of the literary faction, and
Diderot and D'Alembert were the editors of its first seven
volumes--D'Alembert writing the preliminary discourse upon the progress
of the sciences. But the latter mixed caution with his courage; for on
the issue of the government prohibition of the work, he abandoned the
editorship and left it to Diderot.

At length, in 1752, the King of Prussia, who, with all his fame, had the
weakness of being emulous of French flattery, offered him an appointment
at Berlin, with an allowance of five hundred pounds a-year, and the
reversionary office of president of the academy. But this royal offer he
refused, on the ground of his reluctance to quit Paris, and the fear
that the employment would be inconsistent with his freedom. At this
period his fixed income seemed to be about seventy pounds a-year; yet,
when we suffer ourselves to be astonished at the apparent magnanimity of
the refusal, we are to remember that this sum, a hundred years ago, and
in Paris, would be about equivalent to two hundred pounds a-year in
England at the present day; that, like all Frenchmen, he hated Germany;
that Frederic's dealings with Voltaire gave by no means a favourable
specimen of his friendships; and that, to a Frenchman of that day,
Paris was all the world. But, ten years after, the Empress Catharine
made him the much more tempting offer of the tutorship of her son,
afterwards the unfortunate Emperor Paul. The salary was to be
magnificent, no less than four thousand pounds a-year; still he refused
the offer, and preferred remaining in Paris.

Whether we are to applaud his magnanimity, or blame his habits, on this
occasion, may fairly be a question. The possession of the four thousand
pounds a-year, even if it were limited to the period of tuition, would
have made him opulent; and his opulence would undoubtedly have given him
the means of extensive benevolence, of relieving private distress, of
assisting his less fortunate literary brethren, of promoting public
objects, and ultimately, perhaps, of founding some valuable institution
which might last for ages. But D'Alembert, and men like him, seem to
live only for themselves. It would have cost him an absence from Paris
for a certain period to have obtained this power of public good; and he
preferred living without it, and haunting, night after night, the
coteries of the old blue-stockings who kept open house for the evening
gossipry of the capital.

Nothing can form a stronger contrast to the general passion of the
French character for change, than its devotion to the same coterie for
half a century together. In the middle of the eighteenth century two
houses in Paris were especially the rendezvous of the talkers, idlers,
and philosophers of Paris. That some of those visitants were men of
remarkable ability, there can be no doubt. But this perpetual haunting
of the same coffee-cups, this regularity of trifling, this wretched
inability to remain at home for a single evening, is so wholly
irreconcilable with our English sense of domestic duties, of the
attachment of parents to their families, and of the exercise of the
natural affections, that we find it utterly impossible to attach any
degree of respect to the perpetual lounger at another's fire-side.
Madame Geoffrin had now succeeded to Madame de Tencin, as the receiver
of the coterie. Madame du Deffand held a kind of rival, but inferior,
coterie. The former had a house, the latter had only a lodging; the
former was good-humoured, amiable, and kind--the latter satirical and
cold; but both were clever, and, at all events, both received the
gossips, wise and foolish, of Paris. At the lodging of Madame du
Deffand, D'Alembert met Mademoiselle de l'Espinasse, a species of
companion to Madame. She was the illegitimate daughter of a woman of
fashion, as D'Alembert was the son. The circumstance was too common in
Parisian high life, to involve any censure on the parents, or any
disgrace on the children; but it may have produced a degree of sympathy,
which suddenly rose to its height by their taking a lodging together!
Those things, too, were so frequent in France, that, except the laugh of
the moment, no one seems to have taken notice of the connexion; and they
continued to carry it on, as well received as ever, and holding their
evening coterie with undiminished applause.

"No one," observes the noble biographer, "whispered a syllable of
suspicion, respecting a connexion which all were fully convinced could
be only of the most innocent kind." This French credulity is too simple
for our credence. That a he and she philosophic pair should have lived
in the same apartments for a dozen years with perfect innocency, may
have been the case in Paris; but the story would not be believed in any
less immaculate region on the face of the earth. The plain truth seems
to be, that the general looseness of Parisian society saw nothing gross
in the grossest connexion. Even where they affected virtue, they
palpably preferred their having an evening lounge open to them, to any
consideration grounded on common propriety and a sense of shame.

But the philosopher was a dirty fellow after all, and it only does
credit to his noble biographer's sense of propriety to admit, that "his
conduct must seem strange to all men of right and honourable feelings."
In fact, the philosopher seems to have lent his aid very zealously to a
correspondence carried on by his sensitive fellow-lodger! with a view to
a marriage with a Spanish Marquis Mora. Among other proofs, he went
every morning to the post-office to receive the Spaniard's letters for
the lady. "I confess," says Lord Brougham, "I am driven, how reluctantly
soever, to the painful conclusion, that he lent himself to the plan of
her _inveigling_ the Spaniard into a marriage." And this was not the
only instance of his by-play. Mademoiselle professed also to have fallen
in love with a M. Guibert, known as a military writer. Guibert exhibited
his best tactics, in keeping clear of the lady. "All this time, she
continued," says his lordship, "to make D'Alembert believe, that she had
no real passion for any one but himself." No one can easily suppose that
they were not connected in a plan of obtaining for her a settlement in
life by marriage. But, if this marriage-intrigue was in every sense, and
on all sides, contemptible; what are we to think of the nature of the
connexion existing between this sensitive lady and D'Alembert, living
for years under the same roof? The whole matter would be too repulsive
for the decorums of biography, if it were not among the evidences of
that utter corruption of morals, and callousness of feeling, which were
finally avenged in the havoc of the Revolution.

D'Alembert's income had been increased by his appointment to the office
of secretary to the Academy, in 1772. Unfortunately for his literary
fame, it became a part of his duty to write the _eloges_ of the deceased
members, an office which he fulfilled with equal diligence and
unproductiveness; for, of those unfortunate performances he wrote no
less than eighty-three. But the French are fond of fooleries of this
kind; a few sounding sentences with them are biography; a few rambling
sketches fill up the outline to their taste; and the whole forms a
specimen of that eloquence which men are content to admire on the other
side of the Channel.

At length his career drew to a close. Towards his sixty-fourth year, his
health began to decline. It had never been robust, though his habits had
been temperate; but feebleness of stomach, and an organic disease,
predicted the approach of his dissolution. He died on the 29th of
October 1783, in the sixty-seventh year of his age. Notwithstanding his
feebleness of body, his intellectual vigour remained--thus adding one to
the many proofs of the distinct natures of mind and body. In his
intervals of ease, he continued to occupy himself with mathematical
investigations. With a deplorable want of feeling, he talked with levity
of his approaching departure--an event awful to the best, and, to the
wisest, solemn in proportion to their wisdom. He died in the fulness of
that scientific reputation which he deserved, and of that literary
reputation which he did not deserve; but, by the combination of both,
ranking as the most distinguished intellectual name of Europe in his
day.

The life of a later philosopher, the unfortunate Lavoisier, gives Lord
Brougham an opportunity of rendering justice to an eminent foreigner,
and of vindicating the claims of his own still more memorable
countrymen, Black and Watt. Chemistry is especially the science of the
eighteenth century, as geometry was of the seventeenth. It is a
characteristic of that great, however slow, change, which is now
evidently in progress through Europe, that those sciences which most
promote the comforts, the powers, and the progress of the multitude,
obviously occupy the largest share of mental illustration. Of all the
sciences, chemistry is that one which contributes most largely to the
dominion of man over nature. It is the very handmaid of Wisdom,
instructing us in the properties of things, and continually developing
more and more the secrets of those vast and beneficent processes by
which the physical frame of creation is rendered productive to man. It
must thus be regarded as the most essential instrument of our physical
well-being. It takes a part in all that administers to our wants and
enjoyments. Our clothing, our medicine, our food; the cultivation of the
ground, the salubrity of the atmosphere; the very blood, bone, and
muscle of man, all depend on chemical evolutions. But it has its still
loftier secrets; and the experimental philosopher is constantly
stimulated and delighted by his approach to at least the borders of
discoveries which promise to give a nobler insight into the laws of
matter; to exhibit more fully the mechanism formed and moved by the
Divine hand; and to develop the glories of the universe on a scale
continually enlarging, and continually more luminous.

A matchless source of interest in this most effective and essential of
all the sciences, is, that it seems capable of an infinite progress. The
chemical philosopher cannot even conceive any limit to its variety,
multitude, or utility of purpose. The more he discovers, the more he
finds is still to be discovered. Every new property awakens him to the
existence of some other property, more capacious and more profound.
Every difficulty mastered, only leads him towards some deeper and more
tempting problem. And, in addition to the ardour derived from this
triumph of our intellectual ambition--as if all the incentives that can
act upon man were expressly accumulated upon this pursuit--there is no
science in which the actual triumphs are more directly connected with
personal opulence. The invention of a new acid or alkali might create
unbounded wealth. The discovery of a new principle of the most vulgar
use--for tanning leather, for extracting oils, for strengthening soap,
for purifying tallow, might place the discoverer in possession of wealth
beyond the dreams of avarice. But a loftier ambition may still find its
field in this science. A chemical discovery might change the face of the
world. Gunpowder had already changed the whole form of European society.
A chemical discovery might give us the power of managing at our will the
storm and the lightning, of averting the pestilence, or of ensuring the
fertility of the soil, and the regularity of the seasons. The Divine
intention in placing us here, was evidently the perpetual exercise of
the human understanding. For that purpose were given the wants, and the
remedies of the wants, of man; for that purpose all sciences are perhaps
inexhaustible; but of all, the most palpably inexhaustible, the most
teeming with immediate results, and the most remedial as to human
necessities, is Chemistry--fitted by its extent to supply the largest
proportion of human objects, by its power to excite the most eager
inquiry, and by its richness to reward the intelligent labour of man, to
the last ages of the world.

Antoine Laurent Lavoisier was born in Paris in 1743, the son of one of
the "farmers-general." As the office was nearly hereditary, and was
proverbially connected with great opulence, the son of the rich
functionary was highly educated. But science soon attracted all his
study, and, devoting himself especially to chemistry, he made himself
conspicuous among the leading philosophers of his time.

At the age of twenty-two, he presented to the Academy of Sciences an
analysis of gypsum. At twenty-five he was admitted a member of the
Academy, an unusually early age. In his next year he succeeded his
father in his lucrative office. He then married the daughter of another
farmer-general, and having made this provision for a life of luxury or
public employment, with all that political ambition might offer in the
old _regime_ of France, he collected his books about him, shut himself
up in his study, and gave up his time, fortune, and energy to the
advancement of science.

After occupying himself for a brief period with geology, he commenced
his chemical career by refuting the theories alike of Margraff and Stahl
on the conversion of water into earth. The chemistry of the gases had
made rapid progress in England; and the names of Black, Priestley, and
Cavendish, had already attracted the attention of scientific Europe.
Lavoisier followed in their track by a series of experiments in the
calcination of metals, pursued with remarkable intelligence and
industry. The biographer observes that he was now on the verge of two
dazzling discoveries--the composition of the atmosphere, and the
identity of the diamond with carbon. But he stopped short, and left the
glory to more fortunate investigators.

We hasten from the controversies to which the claim of priority in those
distinguished discoveries gave rise, and come to the more authentic
services of Lavoisier. He was appointed by the minister to superintend
the royal manufacture of gunpowder, which his chemical knowledge enabled
him greatly to improve. He next, by appointment of the National
Assembly, drew up his laborious and valuable memoir on the _Territorial
Wealth of France_. He was now appointed one of the commissioners of the
treasury, and introduced an unexampled regularity into the public
accounts. He aided the formation of the metrical system, the security of
the assignats against forgery, and seems to have borne an active part in
every public matter in which practical science was concerned. In the
mean time he employed himself in scientific agriculture, and set apart a
tract of land on his estate for experimental farming. His style of
living in Paris was at once rational and splendid. His house was open
twice a-week for the reception of distinguished persons, both foreigners
and natives, and especially if they brought with them the recommendation
of scientific ability. With the finest philosophical apparatus in the
possession of any individual in France, he was constantly carrying on
experiments on his own account, or performing them for others whose
means could not meet their expense. This conduct, united to remarkable
amiability of manners, made him popular, and placed him at the head of
French science in his day. But the evil time had come when opulence was
to be a crime, and virtue was to be no longer a safe-guard. The
democratic triumvirate of 1794 issued an order for the seizure of
twenty-seven individuals who had been farmers-general before the
Revolution. The true charge was the crime of being opulent. The popular
and ridiculous charge was, their having mixed deleterious ingredients
with the tobacco. Lavoisier having received information that the order
was about to be executed, fled, and remained for some days in
concealment. On understanding that his flight might injure the other
prisoners, and as his father-in-law was among them, he, with a rash
reliance on the public justice, yet with manly generosity, returned to
Paris, and gave himself up to his oppressors. The course of the
Revolution had been so palpably that of general plunder, that he had
long expected the loss of fortune, and proposed, in case of ruin, to
begin the world again, and live by the profession of medicine.

But, by a furious act of violence, he was condemned to die. He asked
only a few days to complete some experiments which were going on during
his imprisonment. The scoffing answer of this merciless tribunal was,
that the Republic had no need of philosophers; and on the day after this
sentence, the 8th of May 1794, he was hurried to the guillotine with no
less than one hundred and twenty-three other victims, who all died
within a few hours.

On this melancholy and desperate atrocity of republicanism, Lord
Brougham makes the following remark, which, though natural in the lips
of any human being, has double force as coming from one who has seen the
operation of the revolutionary spirit on so large a scale, and during so
extended a portion of his public career.

"The lustre," he observes, "which the labours of Lavoisier had shed over
the scientific renown of France, the valuable services which he had
rendered her in so many important departments of her affairs, the
virtues which adorned his character and made his philosophy beloved as
well as revered, were all destined to meet the reward with which the
tyranny of _vulgar faction_ is sure to recompense the good and the wise,
as often as the _base unlettered multitude_ are permitted to bear sway,
and to place in the seat of dominion their idols, who _dupe_ to
_betray_, and finally punish them."

Lord Brougham justly reprobates the suspicious silence of the celebrated
Carnot on this occasion, and the still more scandalous apathy of
Fourcroix, who had been the pupil and panegyrist of the great chemist
during many years. He acquits him of the deadly imputation, that he had
even been instrumental in sending his master to the guillotine. But he
praises, in contradistinction, M. Halle, who had the honest courage to
proclaim Lavoisier's public services before the dreadful tribunal,
while he consigns the pupil to perpetual scorn. He was murdered in his
fifty-first year.

Lord Brougham's French predilections do credit to his sense of
cosmopolitism; but he appears to us somewhat more disposed to conciliate
the jealousy of his very irritable French _confreres_, than to deal
rigorous justice. No man deserves the reputation of science but a
discoverer. To know all that has been hitherto known on a subject,
deserves the character of diligence; to promote the progress of a
science by largeness of expenditure, or steadiness of exertion, deserves
the praise of liberality and labour; but the man who adds to the science
by original invention, who enlarges its boundaries, and detects new
principles, is the man alone to whom the name of genius can be applied.
Lavoisier was, unquestionably, an important minister of science; he
possessed singular assiduity, unwearied zeal, and remarkable sagacity.
What these could do, he did; what knowledge could accomplish, he
performed; but the inventors were of another country, and of a higher
order, and he must be content with the honours due to imitation. Yet he
had considerable happiness in the difficult art of communicating his
knowledge. His _Treatise on Chemistry_, though now superseded by
subsequent arrangements, is singularly clear; and no great teacher of
chemistry has hitherto given the world a more striking example of
exactness in detail, and clearness in conception.

His cruel death, too, may be almost said to have continued his services
to society. It proved, with irresistible force, the true character of
Infidel Revolution. It showed a noble-minded and benevolent man the
victim of revolutionary rage; an intelligent, studious, and retired man,
obnoxious to the rabble love of ruin; a mild, generous, and patriotic
man, the instant prey of revolutionary government, which boasted of its
superiority to the vices of kings, of its homage to intellect, and of
its supreme value for the virtues of private life. Yet it murdered
Lavoisier without a moment's hesitation, or a moment's remorse, and
flung the first philosopher of France into a felon's grave.

The biography of Adam Smith gives Lord Brougham an opportunity of
pouring out, at the distance of nearly half a century, that knowledge of
Political Economy which first brought him into notice. His _Colonial
Policy_, a remarkable performance for a student of eighteen, exhibited
in miniature the principles and propensities which his long career has
been expended in maturing and moulding. Adam Smith was the idol of all
Scottish worship in the last century; and his originality of conception,
the weight of his subject, and the clearness of his judgment, made him
worthy of the elevation.

Adam Smith's birth was of a higher order than is often to be found in
the instance of men destined to literary eminence. He was the son of a
comptroller of the customs, who had been private secretary to Lord
Loudoun, secretary of state, and keeper of the great seal.

An accident in infancy had nearly deprived the age of its first
philosopher, even if it had not trained him to be hanged. At three years
of age he was stolen by travelling tinkers, a race resembling the
gipsies, and which in that day formed a numerous population in Scotland.
But a pursuit being speedily set on foot, he was fortunately recovered.
He was well educated, and, after the routine of school, was sent to
Glasgow for three years, where he obtained an Exhibition to Baliol
College. At Oxford he remained for seven years, chiefly addicted to
mathematics--a study, however, which he subsequently wholly abandoned.
He had been intended for the Church of England; but whether from dislike
of its discipline, or from disappointment in his views, he retired to
Scotland, to take his chance of employment in its colleges. In 1748 he
settled in Edinburgh, and, for three years, read a course of lectures on
rhetoric. His contemporaries, then obscure, became, in some instances,
conspicuous; for among them were Hume, Robertson, and Wedderburne. In
1751, Smith was elected to the professorship of Logic in the University
of Glasgow, which he soon after exchanged for that of Moral Philosophy.

Thus far we run on smoothly with Lord Brougham; but when he comes to
discuss religion, we must occasionally doubt his guidance. For example,
in speaking of Smith's lectures on Natural Theology, he denounces the
jealousy of those who regard it as other than "the very foundation
essential to support its fabric." From this opinion we totally dissent.
It is perfectly true that natural religion and revelation are consistent
with each other, as must be presumed from their being the work of the
same Divine wisdom. But their foundations are wholly distinct. Why did
the Jew believe the Mosaic revelation? Simply and solely, because it was
delivered to him with such evidences of supernatural origin, in the
thunders of Sinai, and substantiated at subsequent periods by miracle
and prophecy, that he must receive it as divine. Why did the early
converts receive Christianity? Simply on the same direct evidence
supplied to their senses. No apostle sent them to examine their notions
of the Godhead, or left them to inculcate the doctrines of the gospel by
their reason. But he declared his doctrine as a new truth, and gave
proof of its truth being divine, by working wonders palpably beyond the
power of man. Of course, unless man knew what was meant by the power of
the Deity, he could not have comprehended the simplest communication of
the apostle. But we are speaking of the foundation of a belief--not the
intelligibility of a language. We are entitled to go further still, and
say, that the first idea of the being of a God was itself a
revelation--a much plainer solution of the extraordinary circumstance,
that so lofty and recondite a conception should have existed in the
earliest and rudest ages of society; than to suppose that the
antediluvian shepherd, or the postdiluvian hunter, should have ever
thought of tracing effects and causes up to that extreme elevation,
where a pure and supreme Spirit creates and governs the whole. We are
entitled even to doubt whether the idea of Spirit was ever _naturally_
conceived in the mind of any human being, difficult as is the conception
to a creature surrounded with materiality, with every thought derived
from his senses, and with the total incapacity of defining to this hour,
or even imagining, the nature of Spirit. It will be fully admitted, that
when the idea was once communicated, its reality was substantiated by
the frame of nature, by the regularity, the extent, and the beneficence
of the great physical system. But the origin was revelation. Lord
Brougham quotes Tillotson; but the archbishop had earned his mitre by
other means than the vigour of his understanding, and often trifles like
other men.

In 1759, Smith published his _Theory of Moral Sentiments_--a work of
skill and invention, but which has long since fallen into disuse with
the intelligent world. It, however, had the rare good fortune of
attracting the notice of an individual, possessed at once of the taste
to honour, and the will to befriend, a man of original ability. This
volume fell into the hands of the celebrated Charles Townsend, who
proposed that the author should take charge of the young Duke of
Buccleuch, whose mother, the dowager-duchess, he had married. Nothing in
the life of Townsend was more honourable to him than this choice, not
only for its judgment but for its rarity. The generality of men in
possession of affluence think only of themselves, and would value the
most common-place gratification more highly than the encouragement of
the obscure genius, which wanted only that encouragement to shed a new
lustre on its generation. The man of power in general feels its
possession the primary object of his patronage, and sees no purpose in
the immense opportunity given to him by his rank, but to obtain
adherents, and make his power impregnable. Though there may be
exceptions, such is the rule; and with this recollection of the
established course of things, we give all honour to the memory of the
man, without whose patronage the world would probably have lost the
ablest work of its century, the immortal _Wealth of Nations_.

In 1763, Smith was appointed tutor to the young nobleman, resigned his
professorship, and went with his pupil to France. After a residence of a
year and a half at Toulouse, he travelled in Switzerland, and then,
returning to Paris, spent ten months there. His French residence was
peculiarly fortunate. It rubbed off the rust of his seclusion; it
introduced him to the best society of courtly life; and it brought him
into direct intercourse with that whole circle of active intellect and
novel philosophy, which made the Parisian coteries at once the most
bustling and brilliant of Europe. However the horrid profligacy of the
court, and the contemptuous infidelity of high life, might have either
disgusted the morals, or startled even the scepticism of the stranger,
there can be no doubt of the interest which he felt in the society of
such men as Turgot, Necker, D'Alembert, and Quesnay. Smith, some fifteen
or twenty years before, had drawn up a sketch of the principles which he
afterwards developed in his _Wealth of Nations_. Political economy was
then beginning to take a form in French science. Whether it ever
deserved the name of science, or will ever deserve it, may be a grave
question. It depends upon such a multitude of facts, and the facts
themselves vary so perpetually, the "principles" derived from those
facts are so feeble and fluctuating, and common experience so
provokingly contradicts, from day to day, the most laboured conclusions,
that every new professor has a new theory, and every new theory turns
the former into ridicule, itself to be burlesqued by the next that
follows. This at least is known, that Fox declared his suspicion of the
whole, saying, that it was at once too daring to be intelligible, and
too indefinite to be reducible to practice. Even in our day, no two
authors on the subject agree; all the successful measures of revenue and
finance have been adopted in utter defiance of its dogmas; while all the
modern attempts to act upon what are called its principles, have only
convulsed commerce, shaken public credit, and substituted fantastic
visions of prosperity for the old substantial wealth of England. No
occupation could have been fitter for the half-frivolous, half-factious
spirit of France. A revolution in revenue was openly regarded as the
first step to revolution in power; the political economists indulged
themselves in a philosophic conspiracy, and vented their sneers against
the government, under pretext of recognising the rights of trade. It
took but a little more than twenty years to mature this dexterous
contrivance, and the meek friends of free trade had the happiness of
seeing France in a blaze.

Smith, on his return, shut himself up in his study in Kirkcaldy for ten
years. His friends in vain attempted to draw him from his solitude to
Edinburgh: he steadily, we may almost say magnanimously, refused; and at
the end of the tenth year, in 1776, he explained the mystery, by the
publication of the two quarto volumes of his _Enquiry into the Nature
and Causes of the Wealth of Nations_. The work was received with general
congratulation; it was regarded as a new science, although it is
well-known, as stated in the introduction to the biography, that many
others had previously discussed the same subjects. Smith's views,
however, were so much more comprehensive, his division so much more
distinct, and his remarks so much more practical, that he deserved all
the credit of the architect who combines in beauty and utility the beams
and pillars which he finds scattered on the ground. And here we advert
to the obvious benefit of that patronage which had been extended to this
very able man by Townsend. The annuity which had been settled on him as
tutor, had enabled Smith to give up the whole of his time, and the whole
powers of his mind, during those ten years, to this great work. During
nearly twenty years of lecturing, on the other hand, in which his pen
was necessarily employed without ceasing, he seems to have published but
one work, _The Theory of Moral Sentiment_. That he constantly formed
ingenious conceptions, may be easily admitted; but that he wanted either
time or inclination to complete them, is evident from the fact, that he
never suffered them to appear in print, and that one of his dying
directions was, that they should be destroyed by his executors.

He was now a man of fame, and to enjoy it came up to London, where he
resided for two years in the midst of the best society, political and
literary, to be found in England. He was now to be a man of fortune as
well as of fame; he was appointed a commissioner of the customs in
Scotland. He returned to Edinburgh, and commenced the agreeable life of
a man at once distinguished, and opulent to the full extent of his
simple desires, in a society whose names are still regarded as the
lights of Scotland. He lived hospitably, and entertained good society,
but he wrote no more; he was growing old, and Lord Brougham evidently
thinks that the duties of his office exhausted his spirits and occupied
his time. But those duties always partook largely of the nature of a
sinecure; and there is every reason to doubt whether they could have
worn down a man of regular habits, and who had been trained to the
routine of daily business by an apprenticeship of a quarter of a
century. The greater probability is, that Smith felt that he had done
enough for fame; that, knowing the world, he was unwilling to expose
himself to the caprices of critical applause; and that he even felt how
inadequate the early theories which found admirers in the lecture-room,
might be to sustain a character already brought into full publicity by
his own volumes. The fact is certain, that he produced nothing more. In
July 1790, he died, at the age of sixty-seven. It was his custom to give
a supper on the Sunday evening to a numerous circle of friends. How far
this entertainment, which was more consistent with the latitude of his
Paris recollections, was reconcilable with the decorums of Scotland, we
cannot say. But on one evening, after having destroyed his manuscripts,
finding himself not so well as usual, he retired to bed before supper,
and as he went, said to his friends, "I believe we must adjourn this
meeting to some other place." He died in a very few days afterwards.

Lord Brougham has obviously expended his chief labour on the life of
this favourite philosopher, of whom, fifty years ago, every Scottish
economist was a devoted pupil. Times are changed, yet this intelligent
biographer has given a very ample and accurate, so far as we can judge,
analysis of the _Enquiry_. But he would have greatly increased the
obligations of the reader, by giving some portion of his treatise to the
questions which modern artifice has devised, and modern infatuation has
adopted.

An interesting "memoir" of Johnson commences the volume; but the topic
would lead us too far. The biographer gives that literary Samson full
applause for the strength of his understanding, the boldness of his
morality, and the pungency of his wit. Rather to our surprise, he pours
out an eloquent panegyric on Boswell. That we are indebted to this
versatile personage for one of the most amusing and instructive
collections of reminiscences in the history of authorship, will be
readily conceded. But this is the first time of our hearing a demand
that we should pay him any more peculiar homage. But Lord Brougham is
himself the head of a school: his _ipse dixit_ demands acquiescence, and
none can doubt that, if he is singular in his dogmas, he deserves
attention for the vigour of his advocacy.




REYNARD THE FOX.[2]


The natural history of the Cockney has been frequently illustrated, and
never so successfully as in time past in the pages of Maga. But nature
is inexhaustible in all her creations. You might study a lifetime, and
yet not fully master the properties of one of those little Infusoria
that wriggle or spin about in a phial of foul or fair water, and a still
wider subject of study is of course supplied by any larger animal, such
as a Cockney, placed as he is a little lower than the angels, and
half-way down, or there abouts, between a man and a chimpanzee.

Upon careful inquiry it would probably be found, that in most nations
the population, though all purporting to be men and women, consists in a
good measure of beings that stand several degrees below the point of
humanity. France, among several specimens of a higher order, has
occasionally shown that a considerable proportion of its inhabitants was
a hideous cross between the tiger and the baboon. Holland has had its
Grotius and its Erasmus, but the otter and the beaver breed make up the
mass of those who go by the name of Dutchmen. There has been no want in
Germany of clear-sighted men, but the mole, the bat, and the owl furnish
a large contingent to the ranks of its _literati_. In other nations we
see a greater or less preponderance of the wolf or the bear, the goat or
the goose, the ass, the hog, or the hippopotamus. Such being the
universal condition of the world, we should rather be proud than
otherwise, that, in England, we can boast of a secondary tribe, made,
perhaps, by some of nature's journeymen, but that yet imitate humanity
so respectably, so amiably, and so amusingly, as the Cockney must be
admitted to do.

A Cockney is by locality very much what a tailor is by trade. Though a
remote sub-multiple of a man, he is enterprising, indefatigable, cutting
his way to his object through every thing with a ready tongue and a
quick wit. Yet he is deficient in some qualities indispensable to the
species _homo_. Courage the Cockney undoubtedly possesses, because he is
always among those who are said to rush in where others fear to tread.
But veneration is utterly wanting in his composition; and here the
resemblance to the tailor is conspicuous; as we never knew a single snip
that had the slightest reverence for any thing under heaven--if, indeed,
the assertion should not be made in still broader terms. In the tailor
this effect, defective, comes by an obvious cause. The intolerable
liberties which the vulgar fraction is permitted to take with people's
persons, divesting the best and bravest of us of the halo of heroism
that surrounds us at a distance; and the fact that the great mysteries
of dress, the paraphernalia of our dignity and decency, and the chief
emblems of our manhood and domestic authority, emerge exclusively from
the hands of this insignificant but indispensable maker of men, are
enough to extinguish within him all sentiment of respect for any thing
human or divine. The Cockney arrives at a similar state of easy and
impudent _non-chalance_ by a different process. Littered in London, and
living there all his life, he is proud of its position among cites; and
he comes, by a natural process of reasoning, to ascribe its importance
to its connexion with his own person and people, and to see nothing
better or greater in the universe than himself and what belongs to him.
The feeling grows with his growth, and is fed by a full indulgence in
all the good things with which the land of Cockayne abounds, and which
the most morose of mortals must admit to be eminently conducive to
self-complacency.

The Cockney, thus devoid of all diffidence in himself, is prepared for
every thing in the scale of human thought or action; pleasuring or
politics, theatricals or theology, an Epping hunt or an Epic poem. In
literature we may say of him, nearly in the words applied by Dr Johnson
to Goldsmith, that there is scarcely any kind of composition that he
does not handle, and none that he handles which he does not adorn with
graces all his own.

It is wonderful, however, to see with what success a Cockney can
sometimes disguise himself. He will write you a book, in which, several
pages on end, you think you are reading the thoughts of some ordinary
mortal. But the cloven foot always appears before you are done with him.
In poetry, indeed, you can go but a short way till the cat is let out of
the bag. That unfortunate letter R! No lessons in elocution, no change
of climate, can eradicate the deep-seated mischief of its
mispronunciation in a Cockney whose years of pupilarity have been passed
on the spot of his birth.

These remarks have been elicited by a disappointment we have recently
suffered, in being led to purchase the book referred to at the
commencement of this article. We saw it advertised by an alluring
title--"REYNARD THE FOX--a renowned Apologue of the Middle Ages
reproduced in Rhyme." We bought the book, and were delighted with its
appearance. A quaint, antique, cream-coloured binding--a golden vignette
on the outside, of the fox making his obeisance to Noble the king of the
beasts, and the lioness his spouse--a beautiful paper and type within,
with red and blue illuminations interspersed at the heads of chapters
and paragraphs;--all this combined to whet our appetite for a delicious
treat. We read the preface and introduction, if not with pleasure, at
least with patience, and with wonderfully few misgivings as to the
truth, the worst feature in them being the tendency to Carlyleism, to
which, however offensive in itself, custom has made us somewhat callous.
But we had not perused a page or two of the reproduction in rhyme
itself, when we discovered that we were wandering in the regions of
Cockneyland, with one of its most distinguished natives for our guide.

Our immediate purpose is to offer an exposition, not of the old Reynard,
but of its present "reproduction." We may say, however, that we think
the original work is one peculiarly ill-suited to be appreciated or
reproduced by one of Mr Naylor's compatriots. It is a product of true
genius, humour, and sagacity. The author must have looked at beasts and
men with a keen eye, and from the vantage ground of a contemplative
mind; and he has worked out his thoughts in a plain and simple style of
illustration, and embodied them in easy and natural language. There is
much merriment in his work, but no straining after wit. There is all the
knowledge of the day that an accomplished man could be expected to
possess, but no parade of learning. There is no quaintness in the style,
and no effort in the verse. The age of _Hudibras_ had not come; and that
of the _Ingoldsby Legends_, or _Miss Kilmansegg_, was still further off.
The old Flemish writers of Reynard exhibit judgment as well as talent,
and their Low Saxon successor, though himself a reproducer, has asserted
a claim both to freedom and originality. The quiet, sensible, unaffected
treatment of their subject, which these old versifiers exhibit, where
the topics offered so much temptation to burlesque and extravagance, is
the thing of all others least likely to be comprehended or relished in
the meridian of Bow Bells.

But, then, Goethe has successfully translated the book; and, therefore,
Mr Naylor must do the same. This is a common mode of syllogising in
Cockayne. Homer, Dante, Milton, Goethe, Wordsworth, have done such and
such things, and therefore a Cockney is to do them also. Whatever may be
the precise minor premise involved in this argument, we venture to
suggest a doubt of its soundness. Mr Naylor tells us he has followed
Alkmar's and Goethe's example, "mindful ever of the requisitions
insisted on by Novalis in all paraphrastic translations, that they
should convey accurately an idea of the first type, whilst, at the same
time, the translator made his author speak after that appreciation of
his work which exists in his own mind, no less than according to the
poet's original conception." Mr Naylor may have succeeded in making his
author speak after that appreciation of his work which exists in his own
mind; but if the "first type" of Reynard had been no better than the
reproduction gives us an idea of, the shapeless and sickly cub would not
have lived an hour into the thirteenth century.

Before Mr Naylor resolved on reproducing Reynard in English rhyme, he
should have inquired whether it was not already as well done as he was
likely to do it. In his elaborate enumeration of his predecessors in the
task of translation, he thus writes:--"There is also _said_ to be a
translation of Reynard into English _doggerel_, by _one_ Soltau, a
German"--"known," as he adds in a note, "as the translator of _Hudibras_
into German." We have now before us the translation so slightingly
alluded to, published at Hamburg in 1826. In all external and physical
recommendations, this homely volume is far inferior to the London
reproduction; but we shall immediately give our readers an opportunity
of judging whether the doggerel of "one Soltau, a German," is not at
least as good as that of "one Naylor, a Cockney."

Take the opening of the poem, which, in the original, is full of
freshness and spirit, with all the joyousness of a holiday scene.

SOLTAU.

    "It happen'd on a Whitsunday,
  When woods and fields look'd green and gay,
  When balmy flow'rs and herbs were springing,
  And feather'd folks were sweetly singing;
  The morn was fine, the weather clear,
  And fragrant odours fill'd the air,
  When Noble, sov'reign king of beasts,
  Proclaim'd a court and public feasts.
  His loyal subjects, lords and commons,
  Obey'd their master's royal summons;
  And many a valiant knight and squire
  To court repair'd in grand attire,
  With their attendants, great and small--
  'Twas difficult to count them all."

NAYLOR.

    "Now Pentecost, the feast, by some
  Call'd 'merry Whitsuntide,' was come!
  The fields show'd brave, with kingcups dight,
  And hawthorns kercheft were in white:
  Her low-breathed lute the fresh'ning rill
  Unto the waken'd woods 'gan trill;
  Whilst, hid in leafy bower remote,
  The cuckoo tuned his herald-note;
  The meads were prankt in gold and green,
  And 'leetel fowles' of liveried sheen,
  Their pipes with JUBILATE! swelling,
  From bush and spray were philomelling--
  The breeze came balmy from the west,
  And April, harness'd in her best,
  The laughing sun led forth to see--
  When Noble (lion-king was he,
  And sceptre sway'd o'er bird and beast,)
  Held ancient ways, and kept the feast,
  The trumpets clang'd loud proclamation--
  The couriers coursed throughout the nation--
  Full many a Brave and many a Bold
  Came hastening in troops untold."

The German translator here keeps precisely within the same compass of
fourteen lines with his "first type," while the Londoner has one-half
more. But this is not the main difference. The German is neater and more
natural, and nearer the spirit as well as the letter of his model. All
the trash in the new reproduction about hawthorns "kercheft in white,"
the low-breathed lute of the rill trilling, the cuckoo and his herald
note, the 'leetel fowles' swelling and philomelling, and April harnessed
in her best, are mere frippery sewed on by the reproducer, to make the
venerable old garment look finer in the eyes of his co-Cockneys.

We next give the two translations of that part of the poem which
represents the Cock's complaints against Reynard, for killing his
daughter, and which is supposed to give so accurate a representation of
the form of process in the Middle Ages in an accusation of murder.

SOLTAU.

    "Gray scarce had done, when Chanticleer
  The Cock in mourning did appear;
  Two sons accompanied their sire,
  Like him in funeral attire,
  With hoods of crape and torches lighted,
  And doleful lays they both recited.
  Two others follow'd with a bier;
  Mournful and slowly they drew near,
  With heartfelt sighs and deepest groan,
  Their fav'rite sister to bemoan.
    "The Cock in tears the throne approach'd,
  And thus his sad harangue he broach'd:
  'My Liege, have pity on a man,
  The most distressed of his clan,
  Who, with his children here before You,
  Is come, for vengeance to implore You
  On Reynard, who, with fell design,
  Hath done great harm to me and mine.
  When hoary Winter left the plain,
  And Spring smiled on the world again,
  When leaves were budding, daisies springing,
  And tuneful birds in thickets singing,
  The sun at dawn of morning found me
  With my young family around me;
  Ten sons and fourteen daughters fair,
  Breathing with joy the genial air,
  All of one breed, and full of life,
  Brought up by my good prudent wife.
  Protected by a massy wall
  And six bold mastiffs, stout and tall,
  They lived, in spite of Reynard crafty,
  Within a cloister-yard in safety.
    "But lo! our enemy contrived
  Our joy, alas! should be short-lived.
  In hermit's garb the traitor came,
  With letters, written in your name,
  Where strictest orders were express'd,
  To keep peace between bird and beast.
  He said, he scorn'd the joys of sense,
  And led a life of penitence,
  To expiate his former guilt,
  And streams of blood, which he had spilt;
  He vow'd, in future he would eat
  No poultry, nor forbidden meat.
    "All joyful, to my little crew,
  To tell the happy news I flew,
  That Reynard friar's garments wore,
  And was our enemy no more.
  Now for the first time we did venture
  Out of our gate. A dire adventure
  Awaited us; for whilst we stray'd
  And sported on a sunny glade,
  Reynard, conceal'd below a bush,
  Upon us suddenly did rush;
  One of my hopeful sons he slew,
  And of my fairest daughters two.--
  Five only out of twenty-four
  Are left; the rest he did devour.
  My daughter Rake-up, on this bier,
  Slain by the murderer, lies here;
  He bit her neck off yesterday--
  Revenge her death, my liege, I pray.'
    "'Sir Gray,(quoth Noble,) did you hear?
  Fine things of th' hermit-fox appear.
  Was't thus, that with his fasts he meant it?
  Sure as I live he shall repent it!
    "'Good Cock, we've heard your mournful tale,
  And we your daughter's fate bewail;
  Thus, first of all, we'll see the honour
  Of funeral rites bestow'd upon her;
  Next with our Council we shall further
  Consult, how to revenge this murther.'"

NAYLOR.

    "He ceased; and scarce a sand had run
  When Chanticleer and all his clan
  Appear'd in court: right in the van
  A pullet's corse accompanied,
  'Clept Dem'selle Scratchclaw ere she died;
  By Reynard's bite decapitated--
  This wise the tidings were related.
  Close to the throne the Cock drew nigh:
  Deep anguish dimm'd his upturn'd eye:
  Two little Bantams, right and left,
  Wept bitter tears, as birds bereft.
  Sir Flapwing was of high degree,
  As fine a bantling as you'd see
  'Twixt Amsterdam and Paris, he.
  Sir Strain-neck was the other 'clept,
  And, like the first one, proudly stept.
  Before them each a torch they bear,
  Alike the same; for twins they were.
  Young Cocks yet twain bare up the pall,
  And help'd the wail with voices small.
  Then Chanticleer, before the King
  Commenced, in tones deep harrowing:
  'Ah, gracious Lord and King! give ear
  To my disastrous tale! The tear
  Of pity shed on us who stand
  For justice, suppliants at your hand.
  Sire! thus it chanced;--The frosted beard
  Of Winter scarce had disappear'd;
  Scarce had the thorny brake put by
  Its hosiery of fleece, and I
  As happy felt as though a chicken;
  About me, strutting, crowing, picking,
  In comeliness my little ones:
  I counted up ten stalwart sons;
  Of daughters, too, a wondrous store,--
  Plump Ortolans, and full a score.
  My dame, the thoughtful prudent Hen,
  Had train'd their youth beneath her ken
  All virtues cardinal to practise,
  Best learned from mothers, as the fact is.
  Our house was in the convent yard,
  High wall'd around: six dogs stood guard;--
  All kept for our peculiar care,
  By night and day to shield us there.
  Now, gracious Liege! mark what I tell.
  Reynard, (the knave!) with cockle-shell
  And pilgrim's staff, wellworn, appears,
  Bearing a packet: as he nears,
  I note your royal seal, and read
  Announcement of the truce decreed:
  No more, he said, he played the royster,
  But sought repentance in a cloister:
  Observed the rule o' th' strictest sect,
  His sins to purge with sure effect;
  Whereby myself might to the end
  My life secure and fearless spend.
  Said he, 'flesh diet I have sworn
  Never to touch from night to morn.'--
  Unto my children all, I stated
  The royal message, then related
  How Reynard had assumed the cowl,
  And left off hankering after fowl.
  Myself I led them far and wide,
  When lo! the Fox's guile defied
  My anxious cares: in that same hour
  He'd mark'd a victim for his power!
  Perdu behind a bush he lay,
  And took, before mine eyes, his prey!
  The best of all my brood he seized,
  And ate her up. The morsel pleased
  His scoundrel maw--'twas dainty meat--
  And soon he sought another treat.--
  Full four-and twenty hopeful chicks
  As e'er peck'd corn from out fresh ricks
  Were mine,--and now, as I'm alive,
  The villain's kill'd them all but five!
  Pity, O King! my sorrowing tale:
  Grant succour in this hour of wail!
  But yesterday, the huntsman's cry
  Surprised him in the act to fly
  With Scratchclaw's body, which you see
  Kill'd by his murd'rous tooth--ah me!
  'Tis here as witness of my woe--
  Oh that my hardhap to your heart may go!'
  Enraged, the King: 'Sir Badger, ho!
  The monk your uncle (troth!) doth know
  To keep his fast,--the holy man!--
  Match me the like of this who can?
  What need of further question here?
  Draw nigh and listen, Chanticleer!
  Ourself your daughter dead will see
  Entomb'd with all solemnity
  Of dirge and mass, in her last slumber,
  And vigils also without number.
  This done, from these our lieges true
  We'll crave their help and counsel too,
  Touching the murder and the vengeance due.'
  To Bruin then the King thus spake:
  'Bruin! look well you undertake
  This journey with dispatch--'Tis I,
  Your Sov'reign, calls upon you--fly!
  Be wise and wary: Reynard's guile
  Is practised in each crafty wile.'"

Neither of the translators is here very good, and Naylor is perhaps as
near hitting the nail on the point (to use the phrase of a friend of
ours of the Fogie Club) as his competitor. He still gives us, however, a
great many silly superfluities, though some of them we have ventured to
cut out.

Finally, as our readers may begin to think they have enough of this, we
shall close our comparative view by some quotations from the Wager of
Battle, by which the Wolf and the Fox ultimately terminate their
disputes.

SOLTAU.

    "The trumpets then began to sound,
  And next the wardens did appear,
  And call'd the champions forth, to swear.
  Growler advanced, his oath to take;
  He swore, that Reynard was a rake,
  A murd'rer, and a treach'rous wight,
  For which assertion he would fight.
    "Then Reynard in his turn did swear,
  That Growler was a perjurer;
  To prove his charge, he did defy him,
  Because he basely did belie him.
    "The wardens then admonish'd both,
  To fight with honour and good troth.
  This being done, the lists were clear'd,
  Where both the combatants appear'd.
    "The combatants with equal rage
  And fury now began t'engage.
  The Wolf, by dint of strength and art,
  Attack'd the Fox with leap and start;
  But Reynard, being shrewd and light,
  Avoided him by cunning flight,
  And while he ran, he did not fail
  To water well his rugged tail.
  When Growler meant to hold him fast,
  He nimbly veer'd about at last,
  And with his tail the dust and dirt
  He full into his face did flirt.
  Whilst Growler rubb'd his eyes with pain,
  Reynard his flirts renew'd again,
  Till Growler was quite spent at last,
  And by the throat he held him fast.
  'Sir Wolf,(he said,)if heretofore
  Poor lambs and kids you oft have tore,
  It is high time now to repent,
  Before your last breath you have spent,
  And with contrition to behave,
  If you would wish your soul to save.'
    "In this provoking style he spoke,
  Striving his enemy to choke;
  But Growler was for him too strong,
  And broke loose from his hold erelong;
  Though ere he got out of his jaws,
  Reynard gall'd him with teeth and claws;
  One of his eyes was almost out,
  And streams of blood ran down his snout.
    "As soon as he his blood did view,
  At Reynard in a rage he flew;
  He got him under, and his paw
  He seized, and held it in his jaw.
  'You caitiff, your last hour has come,
  (Said he,) and you'll meet with your doom.
  'T shall not avail you now, to shear,
  To flirt, kick up a dust, and smear.
  I'll make you pay for all your lies,
  And for the damage of my eyes.'
    "Whilst Growler kept hold of the paw,
  Sly Reynard with his other claw
  Seiz'd him in such a tender part,
  That it made Growler howl with smart,
  And forced him soon to ope his jaw,
  And to let go the imprison'd paw.
  Reynard now tugg'd, and pull'd, and tore,
  And made the Wolf spit blood and gore;
  He brought him senseless to the ground,
  And dragg'd him through the lists around.
    "When this his wife and friends perceived,
  They were much terrified and grieved.
  Then pray'd the king to use his right,
  And to suspend the bloody fight.
    "The king took their request to heart,
  And bade the champions straight to part,
  To whom the leopard and the ounce,
  As wardens, did his will announce.
  "Reynard," they said, "the king has sent
  To let you know 'tis his intent
  To put an end to all your strife.
  He bids you to spare Growler's life;
  For 'twould be a pity after all,
  If either of you both should fall.
  Meantime all, who are present, say
  That you at last have won the day.'"

NAYLOR.

  "Hark! hark! the tuckets sound on high!
  'He comes! Sir Isengrim!' they cry.
  The Wolf and all his kith and kin
  Approach in long array! The din
  Their multitudinous trampling made
  Resounded like a cavalcade
  Of mailed warriors on the march,
  Or winds that, through a wood of larch,
  The groaning branches swing and sway,
  And thunder out and roar alway.
  Still forward they their course observe,
  Neither to right nor left they swerve;
  But onward to the lists the band
  March up, then halt, and take their stand.
  When first the Wolf--'I here repeat
  The Fox a villain is, and cheat!
  I brand him murderer to boot!
  Adulterer! with heart, as soot
  Is, black! that solemn truth do I
  Wager on hazard of this die!'
  Then Reynard--'What the Wolf alleges
  Are lies! I'll prove it! and my pledge is
  The victory, which I by battle,
  This day will gain o'er yon _base cattle_!'
  The marshal of the lists then cried:
  'The right shall by the might be tried,
  What fair and fetis is, that do!
  The god of battles prosper you!'
  He said, then towards the side withdrew.
  The rest soon follow'd; save the two,
  Who occupied alone the space,
  And stood for action face to face!
  The marshal now, with plumed hat on,
  Beside the barrier stood; his baton
  Of office thrice he whirled aloft;
  And not a soul or spake or _cough'd_.
  'Oyez! oyez! oyez!' he cried,
  'Will each of ye the issue bide?'
  'We will!' they answer. 'Are ye ready?'
  'Yes!' 'Yes!'--'Then LAISSEZ ALLER!' said he.
  Reynard address'd him then to fight;
  And Isengrim commenced to bite
  The air, and show'd his teeth, by way
  Of prelude to the coming fray;
  Next, rear'd his snout, and brought the jowl
  To Reynard's level; one loud howl
  He utter'd, ere he crouch'd, then bounded
  To where the Fox, no whit astounded
  By noises so unknightly, stood;
  For raising lofty as he could
  His voice, the foe the terms defied.
  'Come on,' he resolutely cried.
  The struggle was commenced! The sternest
  There present felt it was right earnest;
  The Fox, as smaller of the two,
  Was favourite; and when he drew
  '_First claret_,' at that _tapping_ action
  The mob express'd their satisfaction;
  Exclaiming, '_go it! ten to one
  Upon the varmint little 'un!'_
  By this time had Dan Phoebus clomb
  The summit of his glowing dome,
  And Isengrim his power to feel
  Began, which made the Wolf to reel.
  He mourn'd his hapless want of claws,
  His teeth, too, batter'd by the paws
  Of Reynard, woefully he miss'd;
  For grasp'd within his well-clench'd fist,
  The Fox a flint stone firmly held,
  With which he deftly aim'd and fell'd
  One after t'other every fang,
  Till down his weasand, at each bang,
  Successively they flew. This thing
  To Isengrim _so punishing_,
  Set him forthwith to calculate
  The odds on his _superior weight_,
  How best it might the foeman tell on--
  Which done, he threw himself pele-mele on
  The Fox, to bear him down intending.
  But Reynard saw: instead of spending
  His strength in any vain endeavour
  'Gainst Isengrim, he waited ever
  Upon the Wolf--so this time he
  Perceived the rushing enemy,
  And as he near'd him slipp'd aside.
  The Wolf came on with awful stride,
  But meeting not with Reynard there,
  He buffeted the yielding air
  Instead, found no impediment,
  His force him to the barrier sent,
  Where toppling heels o'er head he went
  With emphasis--a heavy _flop_,
  '_My eyes,' the mob cry, 'what a whop!_'
  Then Reynard to the Wolf stepp'd close,
  And said aloud, 'How lik'st the dose?
  Friend Isengrim, there yet may be
  For pardon opportunity
  Ere thou departest, only speed ye,
  Or else the wandering ghosts, I rede ye,
  Of all the lambs and kids thou'st slain
  Will haunt thee through the wide champain
  Whither thou'rt ebbing fast, down yonder;
  But softly, is he kill'd I wonder?'
  For so it seem'd. Through that vast crowd
  A pin drop had resounded loud.
  Thought Reynard, he has got it now!
  I'll rest awhile, for any how
  If he the fight again begin
  I'll try the trick upon his shin.
  Stunn'd lay the prostrate Wolf quite still
  And stiff, nor moved a peg until
  His squires, much fearing for his life,
  Rush'd in, preceded by his wife;
  And lifting him upon their knees,
  They gave him _salts to make him sneeze_,
  Which thirteen times he did repeat,
  Then started lively to his feet.
  A feeling of relief ran through
  The crowd, whose visages look'd rue,
  To think their fun forestall'd and spent
  By that untoward accident.
  Again the tuckets sound--again
  The dauntless heroes give the rein
  To their revenge. The Fox now charges
  The Wolf, and both his eyes enlarges,
  With _right and lefters planted well_,
  And _punches on the nob that tell_;
  So hard and fast the bangs and thumps,
  You'd thought that firemen at their pumps
  Were working--
          ----crafty Reynard quick
  Deliver'd him a villain kick
  Right in the midriff--down he dropp'd!
  Like some tall forester when lopp'd
  By stroke of woodman's axe. 'Twas all
  He spake, not groaned in his fall,
  Outstretch'd upon the ground there lay
  The Wolf--he'd fainted clean away.
  No herald's voice, no tucket's cheer,
  The noble Isengrim could hear;
  An all but victor lately, now
  Prostrated, palsied by one blow;
  Nay, not so, by a kick unknightly,
  Foul aim'd, yet for the mark too rightly,
  Alas, its only merit that!
  But what cared Reynard, it was pat,
  And told, and did its business well;
  'Twas every thing desirable.
  The fight was o'er--the Wolf dragg'd out
  More dead than living, 'mid the shout
  Of rabble, whilst the heralds cry
  'Largesse,' the others 'Victory.'
  The air with noise and din resounded.
  The friends of Isengrim, confounded,
  Slunk off, whilst Reynard's stay'd; indeed
  The very people who agreed
  The Fox's death a public good
  Had been, now 'mong the foremost stood,
  By acclamations to attest
  Regard outheroding the rest!"

We have not the heart to criticise this last and greatest effort of the
reproducer. Its slang speaks for itself, and certainly carries along
with it an undeniable "certificate of origin".

A good translation of any thing is perhaps an impossibility. But it must
be confessed, that the attempt of the German foreigner is highly
creditable to him, and, with a little amendment, would probably afford
our countrymen as fair an idea of the original as they are ever likely
to see. Certain it is, that Mr Naylor has not improved upon it.

If our readers think, that in the samples we have given of Mr Naylor's
beauties, we have not sufficiently brought forward some of the more
striking peculiarities of the Cockney school, we shall meet this
complaint by presenting them with the subjoined anthology, the fragrance
of which we think will satisfy their highest anticipations.

  "The first in consequence at _court_,
  As foremost in the public _thought_."

  "Your cap and gloves you've left in _pawn_,
  Thus adding ribaldry to _scorn_."

  "What visitors had been? they _tell her_
  How Reynard call'd, and said, 'nice _fellow_.'"

  "Malkin should fall! and now the _fork_
  By Martin turn'd to toma_hawk_."

  "No sooner had the foe with_drawn_
  To howl around the priest for_lorn_."

  "Besides, he must have more than _thought once_
  Upon the very vast _importance_."

  "Of solemn asses half-a-_score_,
  Who kick, when tickled with a _straw_!"

  "I left him trapp'd, and then made _sheer off_:
  His sufferings you can't form _idea of_."

  "From underneath the frame I _draw_
  The pin that propp'd it: with a _roar_."

  "Their eggs upon a heap of _straw_,
  Then loitering hindermost, the _more_."

  "When it was bruited round the _court_
  How Reynard was by greybeard _brought_."

  "Grimalkin there one eye had _lost_,
  His scalp from Bruin's head been _forced_."

  "With any thing, in short, to _fasten_
  Guilt on him--burglary--e'en _arson_!"

  "Than at the words the Queen, _alarm'd_,
  Nigh swoon'd before her fears were _calm'd_."

  "The son dishonour'd: not a _straw_
  It weigh'd with him, to think how _sore_."

  "There dwelt my father; him they _sought_,
  And plotted, whilst they soak'd his _port_."

  "To practise after my pa_pa_--
  Through life my light and exem_plar_!"

  "Another life to lead he's _sworn_:
  And will to-morrow at the _dawn_."

  "Then, turning to the Queen, _besought_
  Her majesty in merry _sport_."

  "Quoth Reynard, as with sudden _thought_
  Before the portal stopping _short_."

  "We have so many a sally-_port_,
  And _cul-de-sac_, we can't be _caught_."

  "Send far and near the heralds _forth_,
  By blast of trump to tell my _wrath_."

  "At Rome, I on our banker _draw_,
  And when that's gone, I send for _more_."

  "That none dared venture! This he _saw_
  And felt his pluck return once _more_."

                  "But I've no _claws_
  And therefore am not fit for _wars_."

  "By envy eaten up, they _saw_
  Me prosper; looking all _before_."

  "And ever, when they walk'd _abroad_
  Each arm'd with hunting-whip and _cord_."

If any of our readers doubt the authenticity of some of the rhymes above
set down, we are willing that they should buy the book, as we have done,
and ascertain for themselves.

Merciful as we are by nature, and growing more and more so every day by
age, we yet feel that the enormities we have now denounced are beyond
endurance. Such poetry as this, neither gods, men, nor booksellers
should tolerate; and with the highest respect for the very excellent
publishers who have assisted in the birth of this production, and to
whom we owe so many useful and admirable contributions to knowledge and
literature, we do venture humbly to submit, that their peculiar duty
makes them somewhat more responsible for what is thus brought forth,
than ordinary obstetrical practitioners can be for what they may help
into the world. There is no reason that such a bantling should be born
at all, and at least we would recommend the continuance of gestation for
nine times the Horatian period. Seriously speaking, we always regret to
miss the general security which the title-page should give us, that in
what we buy, we shall have something for our money. A bad or inferior
book may, inadvertently, issue from the most respectable quarter. But
when a work is ushered into the light with such pomp and pageantry of
paper, printing, and getting up, as are here lavished, we hold that the
public have a right to expect that it has received the imprimatur of
some discerning judge, and to enforce the implied warranty that the
inside, as well as the outside, is a merchantable commodity in the
market of Parnassus.

But the publisher's part of it is the least of the evil. It is obvious
that the natives of Cockneyland are forgetting themselves. A new
generation has sprung up that do not remember the castigations bestowed
on their fathers of yore, and which for a time kept them in tolerable
subjection. A young Londoner, who happens to have enthusiasm, or
industry, or information, on a particular subject, may deserve
commendation for the laudable direction of his private studies; but is
he, therefore, entitled to _haspire_ to write, and not to write merely,
but to write poetry, and to disfigure a venerable old poem under
pretence of reproducing it? That is a different question, which needs to
be seriously and decidedly dealt with. This is not the first time,
within a brief period, that we have been compelled to make an example of
similar delinquencies; and, as sure as the crutch is in yonder corner,
it shall not be the last, if the nuisance be not speedily and completely
abated.




THE AMERICANS AND THE ABORIGINES

A TALE OF THE SHORT WAR. PART II.


The conclusion of our first notice of "The Americans and the
Aborigines," saw Hodges, the midshipman, on his way to the Mississippi,
and, if he could find it, to his ship; whilst Tokeah and his Indians
returned to their village upon the banks of the Natchez. There, upon the
day after the arrival of the warriors, we find the Indians assembled and
deliberating in their council-house. Some important matter is evidently
in agitation: an ominous gloom hangs over the village; and Canondah, to
whom her father has not spoken since his return, and who is in complete
ignorance of what passed between him and Hodges, is shut up in her
wigwam with Rosa. The absence of one of the Indians, sent as a guide
with the Englishman, the silence of Tokeah, and their state of
semi-captivity, render the two girls sad and anxious, and they busy
themselves with a thousand conjectures as to what has occurred, when a
shrill whistle attracts them to the window. The sight that there
presents itself chases the blood from the cheeks of Rosa, and causes her
to sink, terrified and half-fainting, into the arms of her friend.

A large boat, of similar build to the one in which Hodges had arrived,
ascended the river, impelled by the strokes of six vigorous rowers.
Besides these, two other men were seated in the skiff, which now entered
the creek where the canoes were moored. The Englishman's boat was
amongst the latter, and seemed to attract the particular notice of one
of the two men; he glanced sharply at it, and then made a remark to his
companion, who nodded his head, as if assenting to his observation. The
man who had spoken stepped on shore. He was of the middle height and
slightly made, with a sunburnt complexion, hollow cheeks, in which the
smallpox had left black, unpleasant-looking scars, and a pointed and
rather red nose. The expression of his eyes, which were sunken and of a
dark-grey colour, and his enormous whiskers and mustaches, gave him any
thing but an agreeable physiognomy. There was an air about him as if he
strove to appear natural and unassuming, but at times his false
side-glances and malicious smile more than neutralized all his efforts.
His dress was a short blue frock, buttoned up to the chin, trousers of
the same colour, and a cap. After addressing a few words to his
companion, who had also come ashore, he walked with a quick step and
military gait towards the Miko's wigwam. Just then the Indian council
broke up; the old chief strode slowly and gravely towards his dwelling;
whilst the warriors hurried in various directions to their respective
wigwams. It seemed as if they avoided the new-comer; for not one of them
crossed his path, although he evidently expected them so to do. He gazed
silently after the receding groups, shook his head, and entered the
Miko's hut.

"Here I am, friend Tokeah!" cried he, with a forced smile, stretching
out his hand to the Miko, who was seated upon his couch, calm, and with
his head bowed upon his breast. "I'm a man of my word, you see. Arrived
only last night in the bay; but the devil take me if I could keep quiet:
started off again, and rowed all night and all day; and here you see me,
old friend, as hungry as a sea-lawyer, and as dry as a dolphin." He
spoke in English, fluently enough, but with a strong French accent.

Tokeah knocked with his finger upon the table, and Canondah came out of
her room.

"Canondah!" cried the man, stepping forward with an air of gallantry to
salute her. The young girl avoided his embrace, and with the single
word, "Welcome!" slipped out at the door. Our guest appeared
thunderstruck.

"What does this mean, friend Miko?" cried he. "Am I in disgrace? Should
really be sorry for it. As I came across the meadow, your people made
all sail from me, as if I had been a privateer; and now you are as cold
as a nor'-wester, and your daughter as stiff as a frozen cable.
Apropos--you have had a visit. The young Englishman, I see, has been
amongst you."

As he spoke these last words, the stranger cast a lowering glance at the
old man.

"Of whom does my brother speak?" said the chief.

"Of a prisoner--a young fellow who escaped whilst I was at sea."

"My young brother has been here and is gone," replied Tokeah, dryly.

"Gone!" repeated the other; "you probably did not know that he had
escaped from me. But it matters not," added he, indifferently.

"The Miko knew," replied the old man in a firm tone, "that his young
brother had escaped from the chief of the Salt Lake. My brother ought
not to have made him prisoner."

"What! would not the Miko of the Oconees seize the Yankee who came as a
spy into his wigwam?"

"And was my young brother a Yankee?" inquired Tokeah, with a penetrating
glance.

"Not exactly; but an enemy"--

"My brother," interrupted the Miko, "has too many enemies--the Yankees,
and the warriors of the great father of the Canadas."

The man bit his lips. "Pshaw!" said he; "you have the Americans on the
wrong side of your heart, and I have both. That's all the difference."

"The Miko," said the old chief, "lifts the war-hatchet to protect his
people against the palefaces, and to avenge his slain brethren. But my
brother has lifted the tomahawk against every one, and, like a thief,
steals women and children."

A burning crimson overspread the countenance of Tokeah's visitor, and
his teeth chattered with rage. "Truly, Miko," said he, "you say things
which I can hardly stomach;" and with gleaming eye he measured the old
man from head to foot. Suddenly, however, resuming his former
smile--"Nonsense," said he; "we won't quarrel about trifles. Let every
man do what he likes, and answer for what he does."

"When the Miko of the Oconees gave his right hand to the chief of the
Salt Lake, and welcomed him to his wigwam, he held him for a friend and
a brother, who had declared war against the Yengheese. Had he known that
he was a thief"----

"Monsieur Miko!" interrupted the pirate, threateningly.

"He would not have taken him for his friend. Tokeah," continued the
Indian with dignity, "lifted the tomahawk against the palefaces as the
Miko of his people, but the chief of the Salt Lake has made him a
robber. What shall he, the chief of the Oconees, say to the Yengheese
warriors when he falls into their snares? They will hang him on a tree."

The truth, thus fearlessly and decidedly spoken, made an impression upon
the pirate. He walked several times hastily up and down the room, and
then again stopped opposite to the old man.

"We'll say no more about that, friend Tokeah," said he. "I do not count
the scalps that you have stripped from the skulls of the Yankees, and
you must not reckon too severely with me. What is done is done; but the
future will be very different. I am fully decided to abandon my wild
course of life, and then we'll sit down quietly, and live together in a
little paradise, half a l'Indienne, half a la Franccaise. Jovial and
joyous."

"The Miko of the Oconees," replied Tokeah, "has never stained his hand
with the blood of his friends. He is poor, but his hand has never
touched what belonged not to him. His fathers would look down on him
with grief, if he lived in friendship with a thief; the Great Spirit
would hide his face, if he disgraced his people by an alliance with the
robber."

The Frenchman had listened to these words more tranquilly than might
have been expected, but with a slight twitching of his features, that
showed they touched him to the quick. Suddenly he turned away.

"Is that your way of thinking?" said he. "You fancy you can get on
better without Lafitte? I've no objection. If I had known it sooner, I
would have spared myself the trouble of listening to your insolence, and
you that of uttering it. Adieu! Monsieur Miko."

"My brother is hungry," said the Indian, starting up, and greatly
shocked. "He must eat. Canondah has prepared his favourite repast."

"And after he has eaten, he may make himself scarce?" said the pirate,
surlily.

"My brother is welcome in the wigwam of the Miko. His hand never closes
when it has once been opened," said the old nan, soothingly.

"Come, that sounds like reason. I thought my old friend had only caught
a fit of spleen from the Englishman. I trust it will soon be over.
Meanwhile, we'll see what the ladies are doing."

He stepped up to the curtain, and tried to open it, but in vain.

"Is it not allowed?" said he to the old man.

"My brother must seek another squaw. Rosa shall not enter his wigwam."

In the adjoining chamber a sound was heard. It resembled a cry of joy,
but presently subsided into a gentle murmur, of one in prayer.

The pirate stood stupefied opposite to the curtain. "Our alliance broken
off, the door shut in my face!" muttered he. "_Eh bien! nous verrons._"
And so saying, he left the hut. The next minute he again put his head in
at the door.

"I suppose I may make use of my own boat?" said he. "It is likely that I
may have unwelcome visitors during my absence."

"When the chief of the Salt Lake is on the war-path, he knows how to
meet his foes."

"Sensibly spoken for once," said the pirate.

"My brother is hungry," said the Miko, pointing to his daughter, who now
entered the room with several dishes.

"We'll come directly. Duty before pleasure."

And so saying, the bucanier hurried down to the shore, and approached
his companion, a short square-built man, who was walking up and down
with folded arms, and whose dark olive countenance was so buried in an
enormous beard, that scarcely any part of it, except a long fiery
Bardolphian nose was visible. This man, so soon as he saw the pirate,
assumed a less _nonchalant_ attitude, and his hands fell by his side
into the position proper to a subordinate.

"Nothing happened, lieutenant?" said Lafitte.

"So little, that I should almost doubt this to be the Miko's village,
did not my eyes convince me of it. Beg pardon, captain, but what does it
all mean?"

"I might ask you the same question," replied the other, sulkily.

"On our former visits," continued the lieutenant, "it was like a fair;
but to-day not a creature comes near us. The squaws and girls seemed
inclined to come down, but the men prevented them."

The lieutenant paused, for his commanding-officer was evidently getting
more and more out of humour.

"How many hands have we below on Lake Sabine?"

"Thirty," was the reply. "To-morrow, the others will have finished
clearing out."

"Giacomo and George," said the pirate, in a sharp peremptory tone, "will
go back and take them orders to come up here. Let every man bring his
musket and bayonet, pistols and hanger, and let them wait instructions
in the great bend of the river, two miles below this place. Don't look
down stream, and then at me," said he angrily to the lieutenant, who had
cast a glance down the river. "The young Englishman has been here, and
the old savage has let him go."

"That's what you did with his companions, captain. I wouldn't have done
it."

"There are many things that Monsieur Cloraud would not have done,"
replied the pirate, sarcastically. "But this younker has made an
infernal confusion."

"Any thing else happened, captain?"

"Nothing particular, except that the old man is tired of our alliance."

"Pshaw! we don't want him any more, and may well indulge the people with
a merry hour."

The bucanier glanced at his subordinate with unspeakable scorn.

"And therefore, as Monsieur Cloraud thinks, do I send for the men. The
hour's pleasure would be dearly bought. I hate such folly. You shall
learn my intentions hereafter."

The lieutenant's low bow showed that the lawless pirate was on no very
familiar footing even with his first officer, and that he well knew how
to make his captain's dignity respected. Monsieur Cloraud now turned to
the rowers, and communicated to them the orders he had received. In a
few seconds, the boat, in which the Englishman had come, was pushed off,
and glided swiftly down the stream.

"Now then, to dinner. Have some wine brought up, lieutenant."

The person addressed made a sign to one of the sailors; the man took up
several bottles, and followed his officers to the wigwam of the chief.

"Take no notice, lieutenant," said Lafitte; "be as cheerful and natural
as possible. We must try and find out what the old fellow has got upon
his mind."

The two men entered the wigwam, and took their places at the table. A
buffalo hump, that most delicious of all roast-beef, which Canondah had
carefully cooked under the embers, was smoking upon it.

"You won't refuse to drink with me?" said the pirate, filling three
glasses, and offering one to the chief.

"Tokeah is not thirsty," was the reply.

"Well, then, rum?" said Lafitte. "Have a bottle brought, lieutenant."

"Tokeah is not thirsty," repeated the chief in a louder tone.

"As you please," said the pirate, carelessly. "Isn't it strange,"
continued he to his lieutenant, "that the whole juice and strength of
the beast should centre in this hump? If this is to be the food of the
Indians in their happy hunting-grounds, it would be almost worth while
turning Indian. Enjoyments of this kind are rather more substantial than
the lies of our hungry priests."

As in duty bound, the lieutenant laughed heartily at the facetiousness
of his commander. The Miko, who was sitting in his usual attitude, his
head sunk upon his breast, looked up, gazed for a few seconds at the
pirate, and then relapsed into his previous brooding mood.

"Make the most of it, lieutenant," said the pirate. "We shall not enjoy
many more such tit-bits. The Great Spirit would hide his face from us if
we despised his gifts. But come, friend Miko, you must empty a glass to
the health of your guests, unless you wish to see them depart this very
night. I like a little pride, but too much is unwholesome."

"My brother," said the Miko, "is welcome. Tokeah has never raised his
tomahawk against the stranger whom he received in his hut, nor has he
counted the suns that he dwelt with him."

"I am certain," said the Frenchman, "that Tokeah is my friend; and, if
an evil tongue has sown discord on the path between us, the wise Miko
will know how to step over it."

"The Oconees are men and warriors," said the chief; "they listen to the
words of the Miko, but their hands are free."

"Yes, yes, I know that. Yours is a sort of republic, of which you are
hereditary consul. Well, for to-night let the matter rest. To-morrow we
will discuss it further."

The lieutenant had left the wigwam; night had come on, and the moon's
slender crescent sank behind the summits of the western trees. The old
Indian arose, and with his guest stepped silently out before the door.

"My brother," said he, with emotion in his voice, "is no longer young;
but his words are more silly than those of a foolish girl, who for the
first time hangs glass beads around her neck. My brother has foes
sufficient; he needs not to make an enemy of the Great Spirit."

"Oh!" said the pirate laughing, "we won't bother our heads about him."

"My brother," continued the Indian, "has long deceived the eyes of the
Miko; but the Great Spirit has at last opened them, that he may warn his
people. See," said he, and his long meagre form seemed to increase to a
gigantic stature as he pointed to the moon swimming behind the topmost
branches of the trees; "that great light shines on the shores of the
Natchez, and it shines in the villages of the whites; neither the chief
of the Salt Lake nor the Miko of the Oconees made it; it is the Great
Spirit who gave it brightness. Here," said he, pointing to the palmetto
field, whose soft rustle came murmuring across the meadow, "here is
heard the sighing of the Miko's fathers; in the forest where he was born
it howls in the storm; both are the breath of the Great Spirit, the
winds which he places in the mouths of the departed, who are his
messengers. Listen!" he continued, again drawing up his weather-beaten
form to its utmost height; "the Miko has read your book of life; when
yet a young man he learned your letters, for he saw that the cunning of
the palefaces came from their dead friends. That book says, what the
wise men of his people have also told him, that there is one Great
Spirit, one great father. The Miko," he resumed, after a moment's pause,
"was sent from his people to the great father of the palefaces, and when
he came with the other chiefs to the villages where the whites worship
the Great Spirit in the lofty council wigwams, he found them very good,
and they received him and his as brothers. Tokeah spoke with the great
father--see, this is from him"--he showed a silver medal with the head
of Washington. "He asked the great father, who was a wise father and a
very great warrior, if he believed in the Great Spirit of his book, and
he answered that he did believe, and that his Great Spirit was the same
whom the Red men worship. When the Miko returned to his wigwam and came
towards the setting sun, his soul remembered the words of the great
father, and his eyes were wide open. So long as he saw the high walls of
the council wigwams, where the palefaces pray to their Great Spirit, the
Red men were treated as brothers; but when they approached their own
forests, the countenances of the white men grew dark, because the Great
Spirit no longer lighted them up. Tokeah saw that the men who did not
worship the Great Spirit were not good men. And my brother scoffs at the
Great Spirit, and yet would be a friend of the Oconees? He would be a
friend of the Miko, who would already have sunk under his burden had not
his fathers beckoned to him from the happy hunting-grounds! Go," said
the old man, turning away from the pirate with a gesture of disgust;
"you would rob the Miko and his people of their last hope."

"Good-night," said Lafitte, yawning. "There's been a good Methodist
parson spoilt in you." And so saying he turned towards the council
wigwam, his usual dwelling when at the village. Tokeah stepped back into
his hut. No night-song soothed the oppressed spirit of the old chief;
and only the shrill whistle of the watch, repeated every two hours from
the shore and before the wigwam of the pirate, told of the presence of
living creatures in the village.

Upon the following morning Lafitte's lieutenant rouses him from his
sleep, and informs him that there is an unusual stir and bustle amongst
the Indians. The pirate hastily dresses, and repairs to the wigwam of
the Miko, whom he finds restless and excited. The cause of this soon
becomes apparent.

On a sudden the village resounded with a long joyous shout, which,
spreading like wildfire from hut to hut, swelled at last into one wild
and universal chorus, in which men, women, and children united their
voices. The Miko had betaken himself in haste to the council wigwam, and
the whole village was in an uproar. From behind each hedge, from out of
every hut, the Oconees emerged and rushed towards the council-house;
even the presence of Tokeah was insufficient to keep them within bounds.
On the further side of the Natchez was seen a party of thirty Indians,
all on horseback. Some of them were seeking a ford; but presently a
young man, impatient of the delay, plunged with his horse into the
water, and all thirty followed him, in the same order in which they had
approached the river. The breadth of the stream, opposite to the wigwam,
was about five hundred feet, and the depth considerable. Nevertheless
the gallant little troop seemed in their element, and, almost without
breaking their ranks, they swam their steeds across. Meanwhile the
pirate stood upon the shore, watching their approach with the most
uncontrolled fury depicted on his countenance.

"Had we but ten good marksmen," muttered he to the lieutenant.

"_Pardon, capitaine_, they are not Oconees, but those devils of
Comanches. I made their acquaintance in my Mexican campaigns."

The little squadron had now reached the creek. Swinging their legs over
their horses, they sprang upon shore, drew the animals after them, and
again flung themselves upon their backs with a swiftness and dexterity
that recalled the fable of the centaur. The foremost of the strangers
had arrived within a few paces of the Oconees, who, with the Miko at
their head, were assembled in front of the council-house, when the
circle opened, and Tokeah stepped forward, his hand outstretched.

"The great chief of the mighty Comanches, and of the Pawnees of the
Toyask, is welcome," said he, gravely.

The young Indian to whom these words were addressed, halted and listened
attentively, and with head reverently bowed, to the greeting. When the
old chief had spoken, he sprang from his horse and advanced towards him,
his right hand extended. Coming close up to Tokeah, he again bowed
himself, took the Miko's hand, and placed it upon his own head. The
interchange of greetings was remarkable for dignity, and derived a
peculiar interest from the contrast between the two chiefs. Nothing
could be in stronger opposition than the gaunt meagre form of the Miko,
who stood like the weather-beaten trunk of some gigantic tree, stiff,
mute, and melancholy, and the open, manly, dignified and yet gentle
aspect of the young chief of the Comanches. His oval-shaped head was
covered with a picturesque head-dress of fur and feathers; his high,
arched forehead, and blooming complexion of a light copper colour,
scorned the wild war-paint of his companions; the expressive black eyes
and aquiline nose were in admirable harmony with the manly contour of
his person, which his style of dress and equipment showed off to the
greatest advantage. A doublet of blue fox fur covered his breast, and
from his shoulders, on which it was fastened by golden clasps, hung the
skin of a panther, draping a form that would have enchanted Thorwaldsen
or Canova. It was a magnificent model of manly beauty, that had grown up
untrammelled and without blemish in the enchanting prairies of Mexico,
and in the midst of a mighty people owning no master but the Great
Spirit. A dagger, with a hilt of wrought gold, a short rifle, and a
lance nine feet long, decorated with a horse-tail, completed an
equipment which for richness and utility combined could scarcely be
surpassed. The young chief's horse, of extraordinary beauty, was almost
covered with a panther skin, secured on its back and shoulders by four
golden buckles. It had neither saddle nor stirrups, but on either side,
at the end of a strap, hung a small leathern bucket, in which the muzzle
of the rifle and butt of the lance reposed.

Similar to those above described were the dress and arms of other four
of the warriors, also belonging to the powerful Indian tribe of the
Comanches. They wore their hair combed back on either side of the
forehead; their complexion was a mixture of olive and copper-colour.
Their bearing was proud, and they seemed almost to look down upon the
Pawnees who accompanied them. Round the necks of their steeds hung the
lasso, that terrible weapon with which the Mexican riders capture, with
wonderful skill and dexterity, the horse, the buffalo, or a human foe.

The remainder of the troop were Pawnees of the Toyask tribe. Their heads
were clean shaven, excepting of one carefully plaited tuft upon the
crown. Upon their shoulders were buffalo skins, the leather dyed red,
the hair worn inwards; and similar hides served them for saddles. They
wore broad girdles, to which their calico under-garment was fastened.
About half of them were armed with muskets and rifles, but all had
lances, a long knife, or rather hanger, and the tomahawk. They were
well-made and powerful men, compared with whom the thin-armed,
narrow-shouldered Oconees had the appearance of children.

"My brother is thrice welcome," repeated the Miko after a pause, during
which his eyes dwelt with an expression of the purest satisfaction upon
his stately guest and his companions. "Has the great El Sol reflected on
the words which Tokeah sent him through his runners?"

"His ears are open and his heart large," replied the young chief
gravely. "Are the words of the great Miko for El Sol alone, or may the
warriors of the Comanches and Pawnees also hear them?"

"The chiefs and warriors of the Comanches and Pawnees are welcome in the
council wigwam of the Oconees. They are their brothers."

When the Miko had spoken these words, the four Comanches and a like
number of Pawnees dismounted from their horses, and followed the chiefs
to the council wigwam. The others also dismounted, and forming a
semi-circle, stood leaning against their horses' shoulders. Nearer to
the council-house were ranged the Oconee warriors, armed only with their
long scalping-knives; and behind them, at a respectful distance, the
young men of the village had stationed themselves, also in a half
circle. Again, far behind these, were the squaws and children, to whom
the strict rules of Indian etiquette did not allow a nearer approach.
The village had gradually assumed the appearance of a little camp, with
various corps of troops formed up in it. On the shore stood the four
pirates leaning on their muskets, whilst their captain and lieutenant
paced up and down among the bushes. With the exception of a sharp quick
glance occasionally cast towards the groups of Indians, they appeared to
take no particular interest in what was passing.

El Sol, the young chief of the Comanches, is the affianced husband of
Canondah, whom he has come to make his bride. In the council now held,
it is decided that the alliance between Tokeah and the pirate shall be
broken off, and that the remnant of the Oconees shall be incorporated
with the powerful tribes of the Comanches and Pawnees. The former part
of this decision is communicated to Lafitte who makes violent but
unsuccessful claim upon the hand of Rosa, and finally enters his boat
and descends the stream. El Sol, who greatly distrusts him, advises
Tokeah to be on his guard against treachery; but the Miko denies the
possibility of danger, on account of the distance of the pirate's haunt,
and because, on the following morning, the village is to be abandoned,
and the Oconees and their visitors are to proceed together to the
country of the Comanches. He either forgets that the pirate had sent off
a boat on the preceding morning, or thinks it unnecessary to increase
the uneasiness of his guest by adverting to so unimportant a
circumstance. In spite of what he has recently learned, he still
entertains a feeling of kindness for Lafitte, with whom he has so long
been on terms of friendship, and thinks him incapable of acting towards
him in a base or hostile manner.

That evening the nuptials of Canondah and El Sol are celebrated; but the
Indian maiden, although fondly attached to the young chief, is weighed
down by a foreboding of evil which she finds it impossible to shake off.
On her marriage day she is sad and in tears.

"And does Canondah," said the bridegroom mildly, "enter the wigwam of El
Sol with a sorrowful heart?"

"El Sol," replied the maiden, "is dearer to Canondah than her own life;
his voice is music in her ears, and his love the limit of her wishes;
but Canondah's heart is heavy to bursting. The Great Spirit whispers to
her, and she has no words to express his whisperings." She clasped Rosa
in her arms, and pressed a long and feverish kiss upon her lips. "Rosa,"
said she, in a stifled voice, "will you be a daughter to the Miko when
Canondah is no more?"

"I will," sobbed Rosa.

"Will you promise, by the Great Spirit, not to forsake him?"

"I promise it," replied Rosa, her tears flowing fast.

The Miko, who stood silent, and sunk in thought, now made a sign; El Sol
threw his arm round Canondah, and led her away in the direction of the
council wigwam.

The wedding has been celebrated with great rejoicings; the Indians, who
have indulged largely, many of them to excess, in the fire-water of the
palefaces, retire to their huts, to sleep off the effects of their
libations, and soon the village is sunk in silence and repose. We
extract the chapter that follows:--

It was past midnight, and the village and its environs were buried in
profound repose, when a man, carrying a naked sabre under his arm,
advanced with stealthy steps from the shore, towards the Miko's wigwam.
He reached the trees in front of the dwelling; and after casting a
cautious and searching glance around him, was about to retrace his
steps, when, with the quickness of light, a noose of buffalo hide
encircled his neck, and he was thrown to the ground with a shock so
sudden and irresistible, that it seemed caused by a supernatural rather
than a human power. His sabre fell from his hand, before he had time to
raise it to his neck and sever the noose; and so rapidly and silently
did all this take place, that a group of armed men, stationed between
the creek and the cottage, at scarcely forty paces from the latter, were
perfectly unaware of what occurred. Now, however, a yell that might have
roused the dead from their graves was heard; the door of the council
wigwam, in which the bridal-bed of Canondah and El Sol had been spread
was burst furiously open; and by the flash of several muskets, just then
fired from the shore, a powerful figure, bearing something heavy in its
arms, was seen to rush out and plunge into the neighbouring thicket.
Other cries, proceeding apparently from a thousand throats, multiplied
themselves in every direction, behind hedge and bush, over land and
water, in accents as wild and fierce as if the demons of hell had been
unchained, and were rejoicing in a nocturnal revel. Simultaneously with
this uproar, a regular platoon fire commenced upon the shore, and blue
flames issued from various cottages of the peaceful Indian hamlet,
rapidly increasing till they burst out into a bright red blaze, that
spread hissing and crackling over wall and roof. In the midst of this
frightful tumult another shout was uttered, resembling the roar of the
lion when he rages in his utmost fury. It was the war-whoop of El Sol.

The noble Mexican had been lulled to sleep by the night-song of his
bride, when the well-known yell of his tribe awakened him. Clasping his
beloved wife with one arm, he grasped his knife and rifle, and darted
through the door of the wigwam. A discharge of musketry greeted his
appearance. The chief felt his left arm pierced by a ball; he trembled,
and a slight shudder came over him. "Canondah!" cried he, in a hoarse
tone, leaping the hedges like a wounded deer, and hurrying towards the
forest; "Canondah, fear nothing--you are in the arms of El Sol!"

She answered not; her head had sunk upon her breast, her body writhed
with a convulsive spasm, and then again stretched itself out. For one
moment a horrible thought paralysed the very soul of her husband;--but
no--it was impossible; his arm had received the bullet, her silence was
the result of sudden terror, the blood that flowed over him was from his
own wound. He was still flying from his treacherous and invisible foe,
when his howling warriors came almost instinctively to join him; and,
before he reached the forest, he found himself surrounded by the most
trusty of his followers. "It is the pirate," he whispered to his wife;
and then, pressing a kiss upon her lips, he laid her softly upon the
grass, stepped forward into the midst of his warriors, and uttered his
terrible war-cry. "Behold," cried he, pointing to the blazing cottages,
"the faith of the white thief!"

It was a wildly beautiful, almost an awful sight. Already more than
thirty huts were converted into blazing piles, lighting up the whole of
that glorious shore, reflected in ruddy brilliancy from the still
surface of the water, and illuminating the avenues of cypress and
mangroves with long streaks of flame. Scattered shots were still heard,
and after each report another hut began to blaze. In the group of
Indians assembled round El Sol a deep silence now reigned, only broken
by the tardy arrival of some yelling Pawnee or Oconee, who, roused out
of his drunken slumber, was scarcely even yet aware of the cause of the
uproar.

"Where is the Miko?" fifty voices suddenly demanded.

There was no reply. Just then a woman's scream was heard, proceeding
from the brink of the water. El Sol had stood silent, his eyes fixed
upon the burning huts, beyond which, near to the crest of the shore, the
polished musket-barrels of the pirates gleamed in the firelight. Not
more than five minutes had elapsed since the first yell proclaimed the
presence of a foe, but already the young warrior had combined his plan,
and he now gave his orders in a short decided tone, betraying the habit
of command, and the certainty of prompt and implicit obedience. One of
the Comanches, followed by the majority of the Pawnees and Oconees,
glided away through the thick bushes; whilst El Sol himself, with the
three remaining Comanches, and a troop of chosen Pawnees, hurried
rapidly along the skirt of the forest.

The broad belt of land over which the village was scattered, rose near
the shore, as already mentioned, into a sort of crest overgrown with
mangroves and myrtle bushes, through the middle of which ran a broad
footpath. The elevation of this ridge was about twenty feet, and it
continued along the whole length of the hamlet, excepting opposite to
the creek, where nature had broken it down into a small harbour. Near
this the glitter of arms betrayed the presence of a strong picket,
placed there doubtless to guard the boats. This picket was each moment
strengthened by the return of one or other of the pirates who had been
detached to fire the wigwams. Along the bush-crowned ridge several
advanced posts were stationed, intended to maintain the communication
between the picket at the creek, and a second party which had pressed
forward to the habitation of the Miko, and to support either, as need
might be. From the whole arrangement, it was evident that the pirate had
planned the carrying off the Miko and his adopted daughter; and this he
might possibly have accomplished before creating an alarm, had not two
of the Comanches taken upon themselves, according to the custom of their
nation, to keep guard during the bridal night in front of the wigwam of
their chief. These warriors, it is true, had partaken largely of the
Miko's extravagant hospitality; but their senses, although duller than
usual, were not sufficiently deadened to prevent their overhearing the
step of the white men, a sound so easily recognised by Indian ears.

During his two years' intercourse with the Oconees, the pirate had
become too well acquainted with their habits, not to appreciate the
danger of attacking them in broad daylight, when each of his men would
furnish an easy target for the Indians, who, on their side, would be
sheltered behind trees and in the brushwood. He had therefore chosen the
night for his attack; and, in order to ensure himself as much as
possible against a counter-surprise in the darkness, and at the same
time to spread terror amongst the assailed, he had caused the huts to be
fired. Three practised marksmen were posted at a short distance from the
council wigwam, for the express purpose of shooting the young Mexican
chief, whom Lafitte justly deemed the most formidable of his opponents.
The pirate himself, with a party of picked men, pressed forward to the
Miko's dwelling, surrounded it, and seized its two inmates. Tokeah,
usually so abstemious, had probably upon this festive occasion
overstepped the bounds of sobriety, and he fell unresisting into the
hands of his foe. So well arranged, indeed, and rapid had all the
movements been, that the first call to arms had hardly died away, when
the Miko and Rosa were in the power of the bucaniers. Lafitte then
formed his men into a small square, and retreated steadily but in double
quick time towards the shore. Not an Indian was to be seen. The little
phalanx was already in the neighbourhood of the creek, and at only a few
yards from the picket; another dozen paces and they would be in their
boats, which a very few strokes of the oar would send into the middle of
the stream, and out of bullet range. A pursuit by canoes, in which each
Indian would offer an easy mark, was not to be thought of. Such had been
the pirate's calculation, and his plans seemed likely to be crowned with
complete success. He was within a step of the shore, when suddenly there
was a movement in the bushes immediately opposite to him, and glimpses
were caught of the copper-coloured forms of the Indians, glowing redly
in the firelight.

"Steady!" cried the pirate to his men, who marched firmly and calmly
onwards, gazing in a sort of wonderment at the bushes, which waved to
and fro as if hundreds of anacondas had been winding their way through
them. The pirates joined the picket and opened their square.

Lafitte threw Rosa into the arms of a sailor, and then pushed the Miko
over the edge of the bank into the boat. The old man sank down like a
lifeless mass in the bottom of the skiff, and Lafitte again turned to
his men. The picket had already retired behind the ridge, where they
were sheltered from the enemy's fire; the square alone was stationary,
and seemed destined to observe the movements of the Indians, and to
cover the retreat. It was a small but desperate looking band of about
four-and-twenty-men, to the composition of which nearly every nation and
quarter of the globe, every colour and language, contributed its quota.
Thirst of blood gleamed in their eyes as they stood formed in column, in
deep silence, and with fixed bayonets, waiting the signal to fire.

Suddenly the Indian warwhoop burst from a hundred throats. A second time
the frightful yell was repeated, rendered more hideous by the shrill
tones of the squaws and maidens, who struck up the death-song, and were
seen running and dancing like demons round the blazing huts. The next
instant, with brandished arms and shouts of fury, the Indians rushed
towards the creek.

A malicious smile played over the hard features of the pirate as the Red
men came charging down upon his band.

"Reserve, forward!" cried he, turning to the picket. The order was
obeyed. In profound silence Lafitte allowed the howling Indians to
advance to within ten paces of the musket muzzles, and then uttered a
hoarse "Fire!" A deadly volley was poured in, and the first rank of the
assailants fell to a man. Their comrades started back, but instantly
returning to the charge, threw themselves with a desperate leap upon the
pirates. The latter coolly tossed their muskets into the hollow of their
left arms, and drew their pistols; a second volley in which the fire of
the reserve picket mingled, threw the Red men into utter confusion. The
slope of the shore was covered with killed and wounded, and the
survivors fled howling to the cover of the thicket.

"March!" commanded Lafitte. The picket again approached the boat,
followed by the main body.

At that moment, when to all appearance the retreat of the pirates was
ensured, four heavy splashes in the water were heard, and Lafitte saw
the four men who had been in charge of the boats, rise to the surface of
the water and then disappear for ever. At the same time the boats
themselves, impelled by some invisible power, shot, with the swiftness
of an arrow, into the centre of the stream.

"'Tis the Mexican!" exclaimed the pirate, gnashing his teeth with fury,
and firing a brace of pistols at the boat. A hollow laugh replied to the
shots. The pirates looked around them, saw that their boats had
disappeared, and for a moment stood thunderstruck, but speedily
recovering themselves, they reloaded their muskets, and, firm as rocks,
awaited a fresh assault. They had not long to wait. A volley from the
river warned them of the proximity of a new foe; a second, still better
directed, stretched a third of them upon the ground. And now once more
the terrible war-cry resounded along the shore, and the Indians, roused
to madness by their previous repulses, rushed for a third time upon
their enemy. Another volley from the boats, and then the Mexican and his
companions sprang like tigers upon the terrified pirates. The struggle
was short. Unable to resist the furious attack upon their front and
rear, the pirates threw away their weapons, and flung themselves
headlong into the river to escape the tomahawks of their raging foes.

Lafitte was the only one who stood firm, and seemed determined to sell
his life dearly. His back against the bank, his sabre in his right hand,
a pistol in his left, he parried a blow dealt him by an Oconee, who
fell, the next instant, with his head nearly severed from his shoulders.
A bullet finished another of his assailants, and he was raising his
sabre for the second time, when a lasso was flung over his head, and he
fell helpless to the ground. The long and terrible yell that now rang
along the shore, and was re-echoed from the adjacent forest, proclaimed
the complete and bloody triumph of the Red men.

The bullet that grazed the arm of El Sol pierced the heart of Canondah,
and the day subsequent to the sanguinary conflict above described,
witnesses her interment, and that of the Indians who fell in the fight.
At the funeral a difference of opinion arises between the Oconees and
Comanches. The number of slain pirates is insufficient to furnish a
scalp to be buried with each of the dead Indians, and, to supply the
deficiency, the Oconees are anxious to immolate Lafitte and twelve of
his companions who have fallen alive into their hands. To this El Sol
and his warriors, free from many of the barbarous prejudices of their
new brethren, object. Two of the pirates are sacrificed to an outbreak
of Indian fury, but the others are saved by El Sol, and it then becomes
a question how they are to be disposed of. It is proposed to deliver
them over to the Americans, that they may deal with them according to
their laws; but Tokeah, with a refinement of hatred towards the white
men, devises an amendment upon this plan. Sooner or later, he says, they
will come to the tree upon which they are to hang. Meanwhile let them go
at large, and cause the blood of the palefaces to flow, as that of the
Oconees has done.

This singular proposition at first startles the vindictive and
bloodthirsty Oconees, but when they fully understand it, they receive it
with a burst of applause. Lafitte and his companions are unbound, and
allowed to depart.

The funeral over, the Indians set out for the hunting-grounds of the
Comanches, but Tokeah does not accompany them. He has had a dream,
enjoining him to disinter his father's bones, which lie buried several
hundred miles within the limits of the United States, in a district
formerly possessed by the Oconees. He wishes Rosa to accompany the tribe
to their new residence; but the young girl, mindful of her promise to
Canondah, insists upon encountering with him the perils of the long and
wearisome journey he is about to undertake. Whilst the main body of the
Indians set off in a westerly direction, Rosa, a young Indian girl,
Tokeah, El Sol, and four warriors, turn their steps towards the country
of the white men. Thither we will now precede them.

It was a bright cool December morning, and the sunbeams had just
sufficient power to disperse the fog and mist which at that season
frequently hang for a week together over the rivers and lakes of
Louisiana. In the county town of Opelousas there was a great and unusual
crowd. It seemed astonishing how so many people could have been got
together in that thinly populated neighbourhood, and a person who had
suddenly arrived in the midst of the concourse would have been sorely
puzzled to conjecture its occasion. To judge from the drinking, dancing,
fighting, and pranks of all sorts that went on, a sort of festival was
celebrating; but weapons were also to be seen; men were formed up by
companies and nearly every body had something more or less military in
his equipment. Some wore uniforms that had served in the revolutionary
war, and were consequently more than thirty years old; others, armed
with rifles, ranged themselves in rank and file, and, by a lieutenant of
their own election, were manoeuvred into a corner, out of which no
word of command that he was acquainted with was sufficient to bring
them. Another corps had got a band of music, consisting of one fiddler,
who marched along at the side of the captain, sawing his catgut with
might and main. Those individuals who had not yet attached themselves to
any particular corps, shouldered rifles, fowling-pieces, or, in some
instances, an old horse-pistol, with nothing wanting but the lock; and
the few who had no fire-arms, had provided themselves with stout
bludgeons.

These, however, were merely the outposts. In the centre of the town the
flower of the citizens was assembled, divided into two groups. One of
them, consisting of the younger men, had fixed its headquarters in front
of a tavern, the destination of which was indicated by a sign, whose
hieroglyphics, according to our firm belief, neither Denon nor
Champollion could have deciphered. Under these was written, for those
who could read it, the customary announcement of "Entertainment for Man
and Beast." In the interior of the establishment a second fiddle was to
be heard; the performer upon which, of a less martial turn than his
rival, was performing a lively jig for the benefit of a crowd of
dancers.

The other group, more gravely disposed, had chosen a more respectable
parade-ground, and established itself in front of a store, containing a
miscellany of earthen jugs, rolls of chewing tobacco, felt hats, shoes,
knives, forks, and spoons, and (the most essential of all) a cask of
whisky and a keg of lead and powder. Above the door was a board, with
the inscription, "New Shop--Cheap for Cash;" and on the wall of the
crazy frame-house was written in chalk--"Whisky, Brandy, Tobacco,
Post-office."

On the stump of a tree stood a man who, to judge from his new beaver
hat, clean shirt-collar, and bran-new coat and breeches of a pompadour
red, was a candidate for some one of the offices in the gift of the
sovereign people. Near him were several other men of equally elegant
exterior, to all appearance also aspirants to the vacant post, and who
seemed to wait with some impatience for the termination of his harangue.
Comparatively speaking, tranquillity and order reigned here, only
excepting the noise of the dancers, and the occasional bellowing of some
noisy toper stumbling about through the mud, with which the single
street of the little town was covered knee-deep. Such interruptions,
however, the orator seemed totally to disregard, and he continued in
stentorian tones to inform his auditors how he would whip them damned
British, whom he hated worse than skunks. This he was setting forth in
the clearest possible manner, when the attention of his hearers was in
some degree distracted by a loud "Hallo!" proceeding from two boon
companions, who, after having for some time floundered about the street,
had at last rambled towards the edge of the forest, and now suddenly
began to shout violently, and to run as fast as their unsteady condition
would allow. Amongst their vociferations, the words, "Stop, you cussed
Redskin!" were clearly distinguishable--sounds far too interesting not
to create a sensation amongst backwoodsmen. A dozen of the orator's
audience slipped away, just to see "what was the matter with the d----d
fools, and why they made such a devil of a row." The example found
imitators, and presently not above thirty listeners remained collected
round the speaker. Insubordination also broke out in the different corps
that were exercising, and a full third of the men left their ranks and
scampered towards the wood. Only the group in front of the chandler's
store remained grave and steady in the midst of the general excitement.

From out of the dark cypress forest that stretches southwards from the
shore of the Atchafalaya, a figure had emerged which judging from its
dress, belonged to the Indian race. The savage had crept along the edge
of the forest in order to get near the town; but alarmed perhaps by the
crowd and noise in the latter, he had not ventured to take the road
leading to it, but had struck into a side-path across a cotton field. He
was about to climb over the fence, when he was descried by the two
idlers already mentioned, who no sooner saw him than, although their
heads were tolerably full of whisky, they commenced a rapid pursuit. One
of the first took the precaution to place his pint glass in safety
behind a hedge, and then followed his companion, a swift-footed son of
the west, who already had the Indian in his clutches. The Redskin was so
exhausted that he would evidently not have been able to proceed much
further. The staggering and unsteady state of his captor, however, did
not escape him, and he gave him a sudden push, which stretched him at
full length in the mud.

"Stop!" shouted the backwoodsman, no way disconcerted by his fall;
"Stop! or I will so maul your ugly face that you sha'n't be able to eat
for a week."

The Indian seemed to understand, and stopped accordingly, at the same
time assuming an attitude indicative of a firm resolution to defend
himself. He grasped his knife, and boldly confronted his pursuers, who
on their part examined him with looks of curiosity and of some
suspicion. The appearance of an Indian in this neighbourhood was nothing
very unusual, seeing that they had a village scarcely a hundred miles
off to the north-west, and that they continually made excursions of
several hundred miles into the States in all directions, and even to the
capital. For a long time past their diminished numbers had not allowed
then to attempt any thing hostile against their white neighbours, who
each year drew nearer to them: and their increasing wants, particularly
their insatiable greed after the precious fire-water, had reduced them
to be, _de facto_, little better than slaves to fur-dealers and
storekeepers, for whom they hunted, and who paid the poor wretches in
whisky scarcely the tenth part of the value of their skins.

In the present instance the two backwoodsmen had no evil intention
against the Indian; all they wanted was to give him a glass of
Monongahela, and to amuse themselves a little at his expense. So at
least it appeared from the words of the one who had been knocked down,
and who, without taking his tumble at all in ill part, now roared out,
that "he must drink a half-pint of whisky with him, or he would put him
in his pocket."

"Come, young Redskin," cried the other; "come along. You shall help us
to fight the cussed Britishers, and drink, ay, drink like a fish."

By this time the little group was surrounded by deserters from the
parade-ground, examining the Indian with a rude and unceremonious, but
not an ill-natured, curiosity. Without permission or apology they
inspected his wardrobe, tried the edge of his scalping-knife, examined
his mocassins, and one of them even made an attempt to remove the cap
from his head. By these various investigations the stranger seemed more
surprised than gratified. His exterior was, it must be confessed,
somewhat singular. A foxskin cap covered his head and extended down over
his ears, concealing his light brown hair, an attempt at disguise which
the long fair down upon his upper lip rendered tolerably unsuccessful.
His deerskin doublet denoted the Indian, but his trousers were those of
a white man. One of his mocassins--the other he had left in some
swamp--was of Indian workmanship; one of his cheeks was still daubed
with the red and black war-paint, which had been nearly rubbed off the
other; his hands, although burnt brown by the sun, were those of a white
man. If any doubt could have remained, his features would have settled
it; the bold blue eye could no more have belonged to an Indian than
could the full rosy cheek and the well-formed mouth. The crowd stared at
him with the same sort of stupefaction which they might have shown had
they entered a thicket expecting to find a fat deer, and encountered in
its stead a growling bear.

"I should think you've looked at me enough," said the stranger at last,
in good English, and in a sort of half-humorous, half-petulant tone; at
the same time delivering a blow, with the flat of his knife, upon the
horny hand of a backwoodsman, who had again attempted to lift his cap
with a view to examine his hair.

It was, as the reader will already have conjectured, our young
Englishman, who, having been guided by the Indian runner into the path
to the Coshattoes, had at last succeeded in making his way over and
through the innumerable swamps, rivers, and forests with which that
district is so superabundantly blessed. The comparative coolness of the
season, and the shallowness of the swamps and rivers, of the former of
which many were entirely dried up and converted into meadows, had
favoured his journey, or else he would scarcely have succeeded in
reaching the banks of the Atchafalaya. For the preceding three weeks he
had lived upon wild-geese and ducks, which he had killed and roasted as
the Indians had taught him. He had now just emerged from the wilderness,
and, however great his wish undoubtedly was to find himself once more in
civilized society, the grim aspect of the Goliath-like backwoodsmen,
their keen eyes and sunburnt visages, and long horn-handled knives, were
so uninviting, that he was almost tempted to wish himself back again.
Nevertheless, he seemed rather amused than disconcerted by the frank,
forward familiarity of the people he had come amongst.

"And d--n it!" exclaimed one of the men after a long pause, during which
Hodges had been the observed of all eyes, "who, in the devil's name, are
you? You are no Redskin?"

"No, that I'm not," replied the young man, laughing; "I am an
Englishman."

He spoke the last words in the short decided tone, and with all the
importance of a baron or count, who, having condescended to arrive in
disguise amongst his dependents, on a sudden thinks proper to lay aside
his incognito. There was in his look and manner, as he glanced over the
crowd, a degree of self-satisfaction, and a curiosity to see the
impression made by the announcement, mingled with the feeling of
superiority which John Bull willingly entertains, and which he at that
time was wont to display towards Brother Jonathan, but which has since
entirely disappeared, and given place to a sort of envious uneasiness--a
certain proof, in spite of the scorn in which it disguises itself, of
his consciousness of the superiority of the detested Brother Jonathan,
aforesaid.

"An Englishman!" repeated twenty voices.

"A Britisher!" vociferated fifty more, and amongst these a young man in
a grass-green coat, who had just come up with an air of peculiar haste
and importance.

"A Britisher!" repeated the gentleman in green; "that's not your only
recommendation, is it?"

The person addressed glanced slightly at the speaker, who was measuring
him with a pair of lobster-eyes of no very friendly expression, and then
carelessly replied--

"For the present, it is my only one."

"And d--n it, what has brought you to Opelousas?" demanded the green
man.

"My legs!" replied Hodges. But the joke was not well taken.

"Young man," said an elderly American, "you are in Louisiana state, and
see before you citizens of the United States of America. That man
there"--he pointed to green-coat--"is the constable. Jokin' is out of
place here."

"I come from on board my ship, if you must know."

"From on board his ship!" repeated every body, and every brow visibly
knit, and a low murmur ran through the crowd.

The news of the landing of British troops had just reached the town, and
the same courier had brought the unwelcome intelligence of the capture
of the American gunboats on the Mississippi. Trifling as this disaster
was, compared with the brilliant victories achieved on Lakes Champlain
and Erie, and on the ocean, at every meeting, by American ships over
British, it had, nevertheless, produced a general feeling of
exasperation.

The constable stepped aside with several other men, and talked with them
in a low voice. When they returned, and again surrounded the Englishman,
their conference had produced a marked change in their manner. Their
rough familiarity and friendly inquisitiveness had given place to a
repulsive coldness; the humorous cheerfulness of their countenances was
exchanged for a proud, cold earnestness, and they measured Hodges with
keen distrustful glances.

"Stranger," said the constable, in a tone of command, "you are a
suspicious person, and must follow me."

"And who may you be, who take upon yourself to show me the way?"
demanded the midshipman.

"You have already heard who I am. These men are citizens of the United
States, presently at war with your country, as you probably know."

The green-clad functionary spoke these words with a certain emphasis,
and even dignity, which caused the young man to look with rather less
disdain at his shining beaver-hat, and verdant inexpressibles.

"I am ready to follow," said he; "but I trust I am in safety amongst
you."

"That you will soon see," replied the constable, dryly.

And so saying, he, his prisoner, and the crowd, set off in the direction
of the town.

If, as appears from the preceding extract, our author is ready enough to
expose the peculiarities and failings of the English, whose foibles, in
various parts of this book, he sets forth with at least as much severity
as justice, he, on the other hand, and although his sympathies are
evidently American, gives some curious specimens of their deficiency in
military organization and discipline, and of the loose manner in which
public affairs were carried on in the then newly formed state of
Louisiana. The young midshipman is taken before our old acquaintance,
Squire Copeland, who, with the restlessness characteristic of his
countrymen, has emigrated some three years before from Georgia to the
infant town of Opelousas, and holds the double office of justice of the
peace and major of militia. Hodges is examined on suspicion of being an
emissary from the British, sent to stir up the Indian tribes against the
Americans. He scrupulously observes his promise, made to Tokeah and
Canondah, not to reveal their place of abode; and, hampered by this
pledge, is unable to give a clear account of himself. Suspicion is
confirmed by his disguise, and by certain exclamations which he
imprudently allows to escape him on hearing Major Copeland and his wife
make mention of Tokeah, and of Rosa, their foster-child, of whom they
now for seven years have heard nothing. The result of his examination,
of which the good-natured and unsuspicious squire, having his hands full
of business, and being less skilled in the use of the pen than the
rifle, requests the prisoner himself to draw up the report, is, that
Major Copeland, the constable, and Hodges, set off for a town upon the
Mississippi, then the headquarters of the Louisianian militia. What
occurs upon their arrival there, we will relate in a third and final
notice of the book before us.




THE FALL OF ROME.

ITS CAUSES AT WORK IN THE BRITISH EMPIRE.


The Rise and Fall of the Roman empire is by far the most remarkable and
memorable event which has occurred in the whole history of mankind. It
is hard to say whether the Rise or the Fall is most worthy of profound
study and anxious examination. The former has hitherto most strongly
attracted the attention of men, from the extraordinary spectacle it
exhibited of human fortitude triumphing over every obstacle, and human
perseverance at length attaining universal dominion. It was the
spectacle most likely to rivet the attention of strenuous and growing
nations--of men in that stage of existence when national ambition is
strong and the patriotic passions ardent, and the selfish interests have
not yet become so powerful as to have generally extinguished the
generous affections. But it may be doubted whether the events that
occurred in the later stages of the Roman empire, are not fraught with
more valuable and important information than those of its earlier
annals. Less interesting to the soldier, less animating to the citizen,
less heart-stirring to the student, they are more instructive to the
philosopher, more pregnant with warning to the statesman. They contain
the only instance yet exhibited among men of a nation sinking from no
external shock, but from the mere influence of internal decay; and point
alone, of all passages in the annals of the species, to the provision
made by nature, in the passions and selfishness of men, against the
possibility of universal dominion.

To any one who attentively considers this all-important subject, two
things must be apparent, of the very highest consequence in arriving at
correct ideas on it. The first is, that the Roman empire did not sink
under the external violence of the barbarians, but under the weakness
and decline which had arisen in its own bosom. The second, that the
causes hitherto assigned by historians and philosophers for this
internal decay, are either vague generalities, having no definite
meaning, and incapable of any practical application, or can be easily
shown, even to the most superficial reader, not to have been the real
causes of the phenomenon.

There can be no doubt that some of the irruptions of the
barbarians--particularly those of the Goths into Romelia, which led to
the fatal battles of Thessalonica and Adrianople; and of Alaric into
Italy, which terminated in the capture of the Eternal City--were very
formidable inroads, and might, in the best days of the empire, have
taxed its strength and resolution to repel. But a little consideration
must be sufficient to show, that, formidable as these invasions were,
they could without much difficulty have been withstood, if the empire
had possessed the strength which it did in the days of the republic, or
in the first two centuries of the Caesars. The Cimbri and Teutones, whom
Marius combated and destroyed on the Rhone and in the north of Italy,
were at least as formidable a body of barbarians as those which four
centuries afterwards overturned the western empire. The forces whom
Caesar conquered in Gaul, Trajan on the Danube, were to the full as
powerful as those which carried the standards of the Goths and Vandals
to Athens and Carthage. AEtius, in the decline of the empire, and with
the mingled Roman and barbarian force of Gaul alone, defeated Attila in
the plenitude of his power, at the head of three hundred thousand men,
on the field of Chalons.

Belisarius, with fifteen thousand men, recovered Africa from the
Vandals; thirty thousand legionary soldiers did the same by Italy under
Narses, and overthrew the whole power of the Goths. So high did the
Roman soldiers still stand even in the estimation of their enemies, that
Totila, the warlike monarch of the Goths, strove to bribe them into his
service by offers of high pay. None had yet been approved equal to these
legionary soldiers in battle; and the manner in which, with infinitely
inferior forces, they repelled the barbarians on all sides, decisively
demonstrates this superiority. The vigour and ability of Heraclius so
restored the empire, when wellnigh sinking under the might of its
enemies, that for a century it was regarded with awe by the barbarous
nations all round its immense frontier. The five provinces beyond the
Euphrates were conquered by the Romans from the Parthians during the
decline of the empire. Nothing is so remarkable, in the last three
centuries of Roman history, as the _small number_ of the forces which
combated around the Eagles, and the astonishing victories which, when
led by ability, they gained over prodigious bodies of their enemies. The
legions had dwindled into battalions, the battalions into cohorts. The
four hundred and fifty thousand men who under Augustus guarded the
frontiers of the empire, had sunk to one hundred and fifty thousand in
the time of Justinian.[3] But this hundred and fifty thousand upheld the
Eastern empire for a thousand years. So feeble were the assaults of the
barbarians, that for above two centuries of that time the single city of
Constantinople, with the aid of the Greek fire, defended itself with
scarce any territory from which to draw support. It was not the strength
of its enemies, therefore, but the weakness of itself, which, after an
existence in the West and East of _two thousand years_, at length
extinguished the Roman empire.

What, then, were the causes of decay which proved fatal at length to
this immense and enduring dominion? Philosophers in all ages have
pondered on the causes; but those hitherto assigned do not seem adequate
to explain the phenomenon. Not that the causes of weakness are baseless
or imaginary; on the contrary, many of them were most real and
substantial sources of evil. But what renders them inadequate to explain
the fall of Rome is, that they had _all existed, and were in full
operation, at the time when the commonwealth and empire were at their
highest point of elevation_, and centuries before either exhibited any
symptoms of lasting decay. For example, the ancient historians, from
Sallust downwards, are loud in their denunciation of the corruption of
public morals, and the selfish vices of the patrician classes of
society, as being the chief source of the decay which was going forward,
while the growth of the republic had been mainly owing to the
extraordinary virtue and energy of a small number of individuals.[4] But
the very circumstance of these complaints having been made by Sallust in
the time of Augustus, and the fact of the empire of the West having
existed for four hundred, that of the East for fourteen hundred years
afterwards, affords decisive evidence that this cause cannot be
considered as having been mainly instrumental in producing their fall.
How is the unexampled grandeur and prosperity of the empire under Nero,
Adrian, Trajan, and the two Antonines, whose united reigns extended over
eighty years, to be explained, if the seeds of ruin two centuries before
had been sown in the vices and corruption of the rich patricians? In
truth, so far was general luxury or corruption from being the cause of
the ruin of the empire, the cause of its fall was just the reverse. It
was the excessive _poverty_ of its central provinces, and their
inability to pay the taxes, which was the immediate cause of the
catastrophe. The nobles and patricians often were luxurious, but they
were not a thousandth part of the nation. The people was miserably poor,
and got more indigent daily, in the later stages of its decay.

Modern writers, to whom the philosophy of history for the first time in
the annals of mankind has become known, and who were aware of the
important influence of general causes on social prosperity, independent
of the agency of individual men, have assigned a different set of causes
more nearly approaching the truth. Montesquieu says, the decay of the
Roman empire was the natural consequence of its extension. This sounds
well, and looks like an aphorism: but if the matter be considered with
attention, it will be found that it is _vox et praeterea nihil_. Those
who, with so much complacency, rest in the belief that the fall of the
Roman empire was the natural result of its extension, forget that its
_greatest prosperity was coexistent with that very extension_. It is
impossible to hold that the decay of the empire was the consequence of
its magnitude, when the glorious era of the Antonines, during which it
numbered a hundred and twenty millions of inhabitants under its rule,
and embraced nearly the whole known habitable globe within its dominion,
immediately succeeded its greatest extension by the victories, unhappily
to us so little known, of Trajan.

More recent writers, seeing that Montesquieu's aphorism was a vague
proposition which meant nothing, have gone a step further, and
approached much nearer to the real explanation of the phenomenon.
Guizot, Sismondi, and Michelet have concurred in assigning as the real
cause of the decay of the Roman empire, the prevalence of slavery among
its working population, and the great and increasing weight of taxes to
support the imperial government. There can be no doubt that these were
most powerful causes of weakness; and that they stand prominently forth
from the facts recorded by contemporary annalists, as the immediate and
_visible_ causes of the decline of the empire. The history of these
melancholy periods is full of eternal complaints, that men could not be
got to fill the legions, nor taxes to replenish the treasury; that the
army had to be recruited from the semi-barbarous tribes on the frontier;
and that vast tracts of fertile land in the heart of the empire relapsed
into a state of nature, or were devoted only to pasturage, from the
impossibility of finding cultivators who either would till the land, or
could afford to pay the taxes with which it was charged. Doubtless the
large proportion--at least a half, perhaps nearly two-thirds--of the
people who were slaves, must have weakened the elements of strength in
the empire; and the enormous weight of the direct taxes, so grievously
felt and loudly complained of,[5] must have paralysed, to a very great
degree, both the industry of the people and the resources of government.
But a very little consideration must be sufficient to show, that these
were not the real sources of the decline of the empire; or rather, that
if they had not been aided in their operation by other causes, which
truly undermined its strength, it might have been great and flourishing
to this hour.

Slavery, it must be recollected, was _universal_ in antiquity, and is so
over two-thirds of the human race at this hour. Much as we may feel its
evils and deprecate its severities, we ourselves, till within these
three centuries, were entirely fed by serfs; and a few years only have
elapsed since the whole of our colonial produce was raised by slave
labour. America and Russia--the two most rising states in
existence--are, the former in part, the latter wholly, maintained by
slaves. It was an army, in a great measure composed of men originally
serfs, which repelled Napoleon's invasion, survived the horrors of the
Moscow retreat, and carried the Russian standards to Paris, Erivan, and
Adrianople. Alexander the Great conquered Asia with an army of freemen
wholly fed by slaves. The Athenians, in the palmy days of their
prosperity, had only 21,000 freemen, and 400,000 slaves. Rome itself, in
its great and glorious periods, when it vanquished Hannibal, conquered
Gaul, subdued the East--in the days of Scipio, Caesar, and Trajan--was to
the full as dependent on slave labour as it was in those of its
decrepitude under Honorius or Justinian. Cato was a great dealer in
slaves; the Sabine farm was tilled by the arms of slaves; Cincinnatus
and Regulus worked their little freeholds entirely by means of slaves.
Rome was brought to the verge of destruction, nearer ruin than it had
been by the arms of the Carthaginians, by the insurrection of the slaves
shortly after the third Punic contest, so well known under the
appellation of the Servile war. It is perfectly ridiculous, therefore,
to assign as a cause of the destruction of Rome, a circumstance in the
social condition of its people which coexisted with their greatest
prosperity, which has prevailed in all the most renowned nations of the
earth in a certain stage of their progress, and is to be found, in our
own times, in states the most powerful, and the most likely to attain
vast and long-continued dominion.

Equally futile is it to point to the weight of the taxes as the main
cause of the long decline and final overthrow of Rome. Taxes no doubt
are an evil; and if they become excessive, and are levied in a direct
form, they may come in the end to ruin industry, and weaken all the
public resources to such an extent as to render a nation incapable of
defending itself. But a very little consideration must be sufficient to
show that it was not, in the case of Rome, the increase of the taxes
taken as a whole, _but the decline in the resources of those who paid
them_, which rendered them so oppressive. If, indeed, the national
establishment of the Roman empire had gone on increasing as it advanced
in years, until at length their charges became excessive and crushing to
industry, the theory would have been borne out by the fact, and afforded
perhaps satisfactory explanation of the phenomenon. But the fact was
_just the reverse_. The military establishment of the Roman empire was
so much _contracted_ as it advanced in years that whereas it amounted to
450,000 men in the days of Augustus, in those of Justinian it had sunk,
as already noticed to 150,000.[6] So far were the forces of Rome from
being excessive in the later stages of the empire or disproportioned to
an empire still, after all its losses, holding so large and fair a
portion of the earth under its dominion, that on the other hand they
were miserably small; and the disasters it underwent were mainly owing
to the government of the Caesars never being able to equip an adequate
army to repel the attacks of the barbarians. The force with which
Belisarius reconquered Africa and recovered Italy, never mustered
_seventeen thousand men_; and the greater part of his successes were
achieved by _six thousand_ legionary followers. It was not the weight of
the national establishments, therefore, but the diminished resources of
those who were to pay them, which really occasioned the destruction of
the empire.

There are two other facts of vital importance in considering the real
causes of the gradual decay and ultimate ruin of the dominion of the
legions.

The first of these is, that the extent of the decay was, in the latter
stages of Rome, _very unequal_ in the different provinces of the empire;
and that while the central provinces, and those in the neighbourhood of
the metropolis, were in the most wretched state of decrepitude, the
remote districts were _in the highest state of affluence and
prosperity_. This important fact is abundantly proved by unquestionable
authority, and it sheds a flood of light on the real causes of the ruin
which ultimately overtook them all.

The state of agriculture in the Italian plains under the Caesars, is thus
set forth by Gibbon:--

     "Since the age of Tiberius, _the decay of agriculture had been felt
     in Italy_; and it was a just subject of complaint that the life of
     the Roman people depended on the accidents of the winds and the
     waves. In the division and decline of the empire, the _tributary
     harvests of Egypt and Africa_ were withdrawn; the numbers of the
     inhabitants continually diminished with the means of subsistence;
     and the country was exhausted by the irretrievable losses of war,
     pestilence, and famine. Pope Gelasius was a subject of Odoacer, and
     he affirms, with strong exaggeration, that in Emila, Tuscany, and
     the adjacent provinces, the human species was almost
     extirpated."[7]

Of the progress and extent of this decay, Gibbon gives the following
account in another part of his great work:--

     "The agriculture of the Roman provinces was _insensibly ruined_;
     and in the progress of despotism, which tends to disappoint its own
     purpose, the emperors were obliged to derive some merit from the
     forgiveness of debts, or the remission of tributes, which their
     subjects were utterly incapable of paying. According to the new
     division of Italy, the fertile and happy province of Campania, the
     scene of the early victories and of the delicious retirements of
     the citizens of Rome, extended between the sea and the Apennines,
     from the Tiber to the Silarius. Within sixty years after the death
     of Constantine, and on the evidence of an actual survey, an
     exemption was granted in favour of 330,000 English acres _of desert
     and uncultivated land, which amounted to one-eighth of the whole
     surface of the province_. As the footsteps of the barbarians had
     not yet been seen in Italy, the cause of this amazing desolation,
     which is recorded in the laws, (Cod. Theod. lxi. t. 38, l. 2,) can
     be ascribed only to the administration of the Roman emperors."[8]

Michelet observes, in his late profound and able History of France:--

     "The Christian emperors could not remedy the growing depopulation
     of the country, any more than their heathen predecessors. All their
     efforts only showed the impotence of government to arrest that
     dreadful evil. Sometimes, alarmed at the depopulation, they tried
     to mitigate the lot of the farmer, to shield him against the
     landlord; upon this the proprietor exclaimed he could no longer pay
     the taxes. At other times they abandoned the farmer, surrendered
     him to the landlord, and strove to chain him to the soil; but the
     unhappy cultivators perished or fled, _and the land became
     deserted_. Even in the time of Augustus, efforts were made to
     arrest the depopulation at the expense of morals, by encouraging
     concubinage. Pertinax granted an immunity from taxes to those who
     could _occupy the desert lands of Italy, to the cultivators of the
     distant province and the allied kings_. Aurelian did the same.
     Probus was obliged to transport from Germany men and oxen to
     cultivate Gaul.[9] Maximian and Constantius transported the Franks
     and Germans from Picardy and Hainault into Italy; but the
     depopulation in the towns and the country alike continued. The
     people surrendered themselves in the fields to despair, as a beast
     of burden lies down beneath his load and refuses to rise. In vain
     the emperor strove, by offers of immunities and exemptions, to
     recall the cultivator to his deserted fields. Nothing, could do so.
     _The desert extended daily._ At the commencement of the fifth
     century there was, _in the Happy Campania, the most fertile
     province of the empire, 520,000 jugera_ (320,000 acres) in a state
     of nature."[10]

So general, indeed, was the depopulation of the empire in the time of
Justinian, that it suggested to many of the emperors the project of
repeopling those favoured districts by a fresh influx of inhabitants.
"Justinian II. had a great taste for these emigrations. He transported
half the population of Cyprus to a new city near Cyzicus, called
Justinianopolis after its founder. But it was all in vain. The
desolation and ruin of the provinces continued, and up to the very gates
of Constantinople, which was maintained entirely by grain _imported at a
low price from Egypt, and cattle from the Tauric Chersonesus_."[11]

As a natural consequence of this entire or principal dependence of Rome
on foreign or provincial raising of grain, there was, on any
interruption of these foreign supplies, the greatest scarcity and even
famine in the metropolis. All the vigilance of the emperors, which was
constantly directed to this object, could not prevent this from taking
place. Tacitus says, that in the scarcity under Claudius, there only
remained a supply of fifteen days for the city.[12] Famine in Rome was
frequent under Augustus, Tiberius, Claudius, and Nero. Claudian laments,
that after Egypt had been assigned to Constantinople, Rome had come to
derive its subsistence solely from Lybia, and depended on the _double_
chances of the seasons and the winds.

      ----"Nunquam secura futuri,
  Semper inops, ventique fidem poscebat et anni."[13]

"When Africa revolted under Gildo, in the reign of Honorius, Rome," says
Gibbon, "was on _the brink of starvation_, from which she was only saved
by large importations _from Gaul_."[14] She still depended on her
provinces; domestic agriculture was ruined. Claudian represents the
genius of ancient Rome bewailing, in pathetic and eloquent terms, her
dependence for food on the nations she had conquered, in words which all
governments rendering their people dependent on foreign supplies would
do well to bear in mind. "Formerly," says the poet, "my prayers used to
be that my legions might triumph on the banks of the Araxes, or that the
consul might display his eagles at Susa; _now all I ask is a supply of
food to avert the extremities of hunger_. The province of Africa, which
furnishes corn to my people, is under the power of Gildo. _He intercepts
our supplies, and our food is at his mercy._ He sells the harvests which
belong to the descendants of Romulus; he possesses the fields purchased
by my blood. The warrior people which conquered the world, now
dishonoured and in want, endures the miserable punishment of peace;
_blockaded by no enemy, they are like the inhabitants of a besieged
town_. Death impends at every moment; there remain only doubtful
supplies for a few days. _My greatness has been my ruin_; I was safer
when my territory was more limited; would that its boundaries were once
more at my gates! But, if I am doomed to perish, at least let me have a
different fate; let me be conquered by another Porsenna; let my city be
burnt by a second Brennus. All things are more tolerable than
hunger."[15]

Nor was the state of Greece, in the later stages of the empire, more
favourable.

"No description could exaggerate the miseries of Greece in the later
stages of the empire. The slave population, which had formerly laboured
for the wealthy, had then disappeared, and the free labourer had sunk
into a serf. The uncultivated plains were traversed by bands of armed
Sclavonians, who settled in great numbers in Thessaly and Macedonia. The
cities of Greece ceased to receive the usual supplies of agricultural
produce from the country; and even Thessalonica, with _its fertile
territory and abundant pastures, was dependent on foreign importation
for relief from famine_. The smaller cities, destitute of the same
advantages of situation, would naturally be more exposed to
depopulation, and sink more rapidly to decay. The roads, after the
seizure of the local funds of the Greek cities by Justinian, were
allowed to go to ruin,

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