FOUR YEARS GREAT BRITAIN CALVIN COLTON. NEW AND IMPROVED EDITION. NEW-YORK: PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NO. 82 CLIFF-STREET* 1 8 3 6\ [Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1836, by Harper & Brothers, in the ClerK's Office of the Southern District of New-York.] RECENTLY PUBLISHED Thoughts on the Religious State of the Country; with Reasons for preferring Epis- copacy. By the Rev. Calvin Colton. 12mo. PREFACE THE NEW EDITION. The author would be very ungrateful, if he did not highly appreciate, and if he should not acknowledge, the favour with which the public have been pleased to receive his work on Great Britain. He now submits the second edition, in a form more economical, and thus better adapted for a wider circulation, with corrections of discovered faults, and some additions. C. Colton. New-York, April, 1836. INTRODUCTION. There are three capital and leading principles, not to speak of more, which distinguish American society from British and European. These are, an abjuration of mon- archy, of an aristocracy, and of a union of religion with the arm of secular power. Each of these topics will be found prominent on these pages in their place. In regard to the last, I have done little else than to ex- hibit a chapter of facts, showing the operation, the ten- dency, and the results of a union of church and state. Hav- ing submitted that chapter to some friends, since it was too late to profit by their hints, they have said to me, " This is, indeed, a sad picture, and yet a suitable disclosure ; but we should like also if you had shown us more of that bright side which pure Christianity leads to, and if you had done more to secure all minds against a tendency to the conclu- sion, that religion is identified with such abuses." I am glad that this suggestion affords me an opportunity of saying a word here on this point. Perhaps I am wrong ; but I believe, from all the observation I have been able to make, that Christianity is fully established in the respect and affections of the mass of the people of Christendom, and that, too, notwithstanding all its corruptions, and all the terrible tragedies that have been enacted on the credit of its name, and under the sanctions of its authority. By consequence, and in the natural course of things, Christi- anity may be regarded as established in the favourable opinion of the world. I believe that this respect and affec- tion can never again be shaken or disturbed. Infidelity has seen the worst on the one side, and done the worst on its own. It was itself the child of a corrupt religion, and has already, by a direct and indirect influence, nearly strangled its own parent. Pure Christianity it cannot in- jure. Christianity may injure itself, and has done so in 2 14 INTRODUCTION. no small degree, by not having been divorced more thor- oughly from its unhallowed connexions. Christianity owes it to itself publicly to enter its disclaimer, and to maintain its solemn protest, against all those connexions, which have ever proved the means of perverting its institutions, and of superstition to its doctrine and ordinances ; which have been a scandal to its name, the blighting of its influence, and caused the hand of Jehovah's providence to write upon its falling temples — " Their glory is departed !" The world is made up of so many elements, that no ef» ficient measures of reforming and improving society can possibly be put in operation, but that, while the mass is made better, some minor portions will be made worse, by an indirect influence of the very means necessary for the greatest good. We cannot strike an effectual blow on the corruptions of Christianity, but, peradventure, we shall have some, who have no respect for religion, cheering us on, and saying, " Ay, that is good ; that is well deserved ;'* and not unlikely they will be confirmed in their Deism, and die in it. They are beyond our redeeming influence. Do what we will, they are lost. It is for the benefit of society generally, for the good of the world, that we do this. Besides, the scandal of being supposed to have such a connexion is a far greater evil than the shock of break- ing down and withdrawing the rotten material from the building. I have shown, by a simple statement of facts, without note or comment, or with very little, that a union of church and state is treason to religion ; and there I have stopped. And does the world need me to tell them that unadulter- ated Christianity is worthy of their respect ? If so, I here- by discharge myself of that office ; if they want me to prove it, though I think it quite a superfluity, I must have leave to write another book. " But you might have told us more about the actual state and prospects of religion in Great Britain." That is a delicate and obnoxious theme, because it sets up a comparison. I write for readers in general, and not for any particular class. I can, however, express myself on that point in this place, and in one sen- tence : I think both are necessarily very discouraging, till the disadvantages of a connexion of religion with the state shall be removed. It is easier to tell what a book should be than to make it ; what should be put in and what should he kept out, INTRODUCTION. 15 than to be an author that shall steer a course to the satis- faction of all. For my own part, I never think it out of place to say — corruption is corruption — vice is vice — with- out apology. I never fear that Christianity will be injured by exposing those who assume its name, and avail them- selves of its sanctions, for political and worldly advantage. It is the only way to rescue Christianity from the respon- sibility of their enormities. There are good things in Great Britain, and there are also bad things. For nearly four years I have been a looker-on in that land. While I abjure all espionage, or any motives or modes of observation which the strictest delicacy would eschew, it has ever been a principle with me, as a spectator of men and things in that country, not to be obliged for a hospitality that should silence my tongue or embarrass my pen as an American. It is as true that " a gift destroyeth the heart," as that " oppression maketh a wise man mad ;" and it is remarkable that inspi- ration has put these sayings together. It will be in vain that our fathers made such sacrifices for a religion un- shackled and for civil liberty, if, in visiting our mother- country, and witnessing the same influences, to a great ex- tent, operating still, we fail to cherish the principles which have procured our privileges, and to warn our countrymen against the danger of reverting to a like condition. Eng- lishmen expect that we shall be Americans ; they would think meanly of us if we did not show ourselves such. Our country expects it ; and if we are so, conscience ought to prompt us to our duty. And yet there are Amer- icans who, while visiting England, allow themselves to be dined and toasted out of their character. There are radi- cal principles of society yet at stake in the world to be contended for, if not on the field of blood — which God for- bid — yet in that field of influence which the pen and the press have opened before us, and into which so many are rushing with reckless spirit and ruthless adventure. If an American who goes abroad finds reason to satisfy himself for becoming less an American than he was before, he may keep his opinion, or betray it, or publish it, as he shall see fit. If, on the contrary, he is confirmed in his character as an American, and conscientiously believes that American principles are best, he ought doubtless to be permitted, on his own native soil, to use his influence in their favour. 16 INTRODUCTION. The abundant materials in my hands, not less impor- tant or less interesting than what is here offered to the pub- lic — so far as these pages may have any thing of that char- acter — would have swelled the work to twice its present dimensions, if I could have presumed that so large a book would be acceptable, as well for its price as for its matter. But my publishers and others, together with my own con- victions of the proper extent of works of this kind, have advised me to dispense with what would make a small volume of statistical information on various subjects, as also with a notice of many journeys made and places visited, and the discussion of numerous topics of practical impor- tance. London, which was my home while in England, is a world by itself. I have been obliged to content myself with general and brief notices of that great metropolis, and to reserve the particulars of this field of observation for an- other work now in hand, to appear — as I can think of noth- ing better or more pertinent — under the title of its own notable name — LONDON. C. Colton. New- York, July, 1835. CONTENTS. Page CROSSING THE ATLANTIC 21 Feelings on leaving one's Country — The Lightning-cloud at Night on the Ocean— Style of Packet-ships — William IV. and George Washing- ton — Character of Passengers — An Irishman going to America for Gold — Ship's Letter-bag, and an Incident — A Sermon, and Conscience — Re- markable Celestial Phenomena— A Funeral at Sea — The Shipboy asleep on the Mast — A Wreck — Arrival. FIRST IMPRESSIONS 33 Dr. Raffles and the Rothsay Castle— The sombre Aspect of English Towns — Comparison of English and American Shipping, Steamers, &c. — Comparative Commercial Importance of London and Liverpool — A Paradox in English Character — The Liverpool Slave-trade— Docks — Customs and Shipping of London and Liverpool — Also of the United Kingdom. LIVERPOOL AND MANCHESTER RAILROAD 43 The Trains— A Disaster — An Incident. TRAVELLING IN ENGLAND 53 English and American Stagecoaches — The high state of English Agri- culture and Horticulture— The artificial Beauties of English Land- scape — Journey from Manchester to London — Curious Names of Inns in England — Warren's Blacking — Profits of Empiricism. BEST APPROACH TO LONDON 64 CORONATION OF WILLIAM IV 69 Comparison with that of George IV.— The Pageant without and within — The Regalia — The Ceremonies and Coronation — Festivities and Illu- minations^ — Queen Caroline's Disgrace and Death — A Coronation Ban- quet—The King's Champion, and his Challenge. TOPOGRAPHY AND GENERAL VIEW OF LONDON ... 81 SOME THINGS IN LONDON The Coffee and Dining rooms— The Swedenborgians— London Charity- Schools and their Singing in Churches— A Scene at St. Andrew's— The Bad System of Hackney-Coaches, &c— Sin in the Law. 2* 18 CONTENTS. Page CRIME AND POLICE OF LONDON 99 London Dining-hours — A Night Encounter of a suspicious Personage on Waterloo Bridge — Another less grave — Crime in London — London Police— Thames Tunnel. NEWGATE 117 THE TONGUES, AND A MIRACLE 126 THE BRITISH PARLIAMENT 132 Westminster Hall and Parliament Houses — Certain Points of Comparison between the British Parliament and the American Congress — Uses of the Purse and Mace— The Woolsack— Ministerial and Opposition Sides — The Right Reverend Bench both right and wrong — The Com- position of the two Houses of Parliament — Parts of the day occupied in Session. THE MONARCHY AND ARISTOCRACY 143 The principal and controlling elements of English Society — A European Monarchist and an American Republican — British Law above the King — History of the British Monarchy — Its Social Influence in connexion with the Court — Courts corrupt — They corrupt Society — Expense of the British Monarchy — List of the Royal Family — The Aristocracy. CHAPEL ROYAL OF ST. JAMES 163 THE TEMPLE OF BUDDHA 167 EXTORTIONS OF MENIALS 170 STONEHENGE 175 TRAGICAL DEATH OF COLONEL BRERETON .... 177 FUNERAL OF CLEMENTI 180 EXCURSION IN SCOTLAND 183 First impressions on entering Scotland — Scotch national character — Holyrood House — Charles X. — Duke de Bordeaux — Dutchess de Berri — Queen Mary — Edinburgh — Stirling— Castle Campbell— Rumbling Bridge and Devil's Mill— Affecting death of a Brother and Sister — Perth — Dunsinane Hill and Birnam Wood — Dunkeld — Grampian Hills — The Highlanders — Bagpipes— Inverness — Caledonian Canal — Nep- tune's Staircase — Ben Nevis — Staffa and Fingal's Cave — Ben Lomond — Loch Lomond — Loch Katrine— and the Trosachs— New Lanark — Falls of the Clyde. EXCURSION IN IRELAND 222 A narrow Escape — Dunluce Castle— Giant's Causeway— A Husband's Tears— Dublin. LONDON BEGGARS 230 CONTENTS. 19 Page THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND 238 The King, head of the Church— Episcopal prerogative merged in the State — Wealth of the Church of England — Controverted— Difficult to be determined — Modes of estimating it— The probable amount— Com- pared with the Revenues of States — Comparative expenses of Chris- tianity in different Nations — Revenues of the Roman Catholic Church — Ecclesiastical Statistics and Revenues of Spain — Ditto of France — The English Church aggrandized by a Separation from Rome— Distri- bution of the Revenues of the English Church — Church Patronage — Enormous Wealth of the English and Irish Bishops— Wealth of the Irish Church — Compared with others — The Church and the Army to- gether — Tithe Litigations — Lord John Russell's opinion of the Church of Ireland — Tithe slaughter of Rathcormac — The sick widow oppress- ed — The Rector imposing Tithes on a Dissenting Clergyman's Garden — Burden of Tithes on the Poor — A case of Tithe augmentation near London — Sale of Church Livings by Public Auction — A remarkable Advertisement — The Last Wish of a Dying Woman— Injustice to Dis- senters — A Redeeming Feature. OXFORD AND CAMBRIDGE 265 RUINS OF ANCIENT ABBEYS 272 Kirkstall— Bolton — and Fountain's. FOUR BRITISH STATESMEN " . 281 Earl Grey — Lord Brougham — Daniel O'Connell — and Thomas Babbing- ton Macauley. THE WELSH 306 Welsh Character — Poetry— Preaching — The Martyr Dog. BURDENS OF THE ENGLISH 313 STEINBERG, THE MURDERER AND SUICIDE 314 TWO FAULTS OF THE ENGLISH 317 WINDSOR CASTLE "321 Kenilworth— Warwick — York Minster — Salisbury Steeple. ISLE OF WIGHT 331 THE ROYAL MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT WESTMINSTER ABBEY 339 THE KING'S LEVEE AND QUEEN'S DRAWING-ROOM . . 345 FOUR YEARS IN GREAT BRITAIN. CROSSING THE ATLANTIC. Feelings on leaving one's country— The Lightning-cloud at Night on the Ocean— Style of Packet-ships— William IV. and George Washington- Character of Passengers — An Irishman going to America for Gold — Ship's Letter-bag, and an Incident— A Sermon, and Conscience— Re- markable Celestial Phenomena— A Funeral at Sea— The Shipboy asleep on the Mast— A Wreck— Arrival. On Tuesday, the 9th of August, 1831, we put to sea from New- York, with a favourable wind, in the packet-ship Silas Richards, for Liverpool. The pilot, having kept the helm till we had passed the limit of his jurisdiction, promised us, as he dropped down the side of the vessel into his boat, a passage of twenty-three days, bade us good-by in fine spirits, exhilarating ours, and bore away for another job. The first night we found ourselves in a dead calm, drifting with the tide on the Long Island shore. A slight breeze, however, sprung up in season to save us the necessity of throwing out an anchor, and we dropped all traces of land be- neath the horizon before the break of day. Let those who have left their native shores for the first time judge of the thoughts and feelings of some of us, being of that number, as we rose to behold naught but heaven and the sea, and to think of our rapidly-changing geographical relations. From that moment, the wide expanse of waters, the blue arch above, clouds, winds, perhaps a tempest, stars, and an occa- sional sail, were destined for many days to be our only fa- miliar objects. On the 12th, between two and four in the morning, as I walked the deck — for I often rose to enjoy the night at sea — I had the pleasure of witnessing one of the finest exhibitions of the lightning-cloud which I ever beheld, without the anx- iety of expecting its approach. It rested in distant and solemn repose over the Gulf Stream, as the wind bore us along in a parallel line with that mysterious current ; and there played off its splendours of blazing fire in the quick- est and most lively succession all along the eastern horizon, as if to please the stars and me, and welcome in the coming day. Had the same cloud displayed itself in the west, I should have suffered apprehension ; but being advised of the 22 PACKET-SHIPS. fitful and stormy regions impending over the Gulf Stream, and feeling the steady and majestic march of our ship under a cool and refreshing breeze from the northwest, I had nothing to fear, and every thing appropriate to enjoy, by such a vision. It was the first scene of the kind, under like cir- cumstances, that I had ever witnessed — indescribably grand, and differing from similar exhibitions on land, not only by the more incessant and more earnest coruscations, but es- pecially by their red and angry hues. In the midst of this demonstration, the fiery car of day came rushing in, side by side, on the left of his rival, and there seemed an actual contest between these powers of nature — the first occupant to retain its dominion, and the intruder to gain his rightful ascendency. Nor was it doubtful. Before the steady and increasing blaze of the latter, the darting fires of the cloud grew pale and feeble, gradually relaxed their ardour, and were at length immersed and quenched in the sea. I ob- served on this occasion, as on others, that the twilight of the ocean is much more attractive — principally, perhaps, as being more ardent — than the twilight of the land. New- York and Liverpool packets, as all know who have sailed in them, are very commodious and perfect things of the kind. No expense is spared in their building, in the finishing of the cabins, in their furniture or provisions. Every new ship put upon the line is in some sort and particulars an improvement on every former one. Some of them are indeed superb enough to make a passenger proud, though sick, at sea. The tables, too, are most sumptuously sup- plied, though they may not, perhaps, in all cases, and in every item, be served to the taste of a London or Paris gourmand. The sea, however, is often a more offensive medicine to these nice and fastidious appetites. " What care these roarers for the name of king ?" As little do they seek to please the palate. The Silas Richards was a ship of excellent proof, though not the most elegant on the line in the workmanship and furniture of her cabins. But her captain (Holdridge) is a public favourite, and well deserving such esteem for his good temper, his kindness, and his professional skill. It is amusing and interesting to observe the sympathy of a sailor with his ship. " Well, captain," said I, one pleasant day, as he sat in a chair on the quarter-deck, and was apparently absorbed in watching the steady and majestic careering of his vessel before a fine breeze, " a penny for your thoughts." — " She all but talks," said he ; " she does every thing I bid her." The captain, however, was then making his last voy- age in the Silas Richards. A new ship was in building for him at New-Bedford, Massachusetts, which, he said, was to be called William IV. Her name, however, is the George THE PASSENGERS. 23 Washington, in which I returned to New- York, The cap- tain informed me, that when William IV. behaved badly in itime during the pending of the Reform Bill, it was resolved that he should not have the honour intended ; and Washing- ion, who had plucked the brightest jewel from his father's irown, superseded the son in the christening of one of the inest ships that sail on the ocean. Washington was con- sistent : he might have been a king ; but he would not tar- lish his reputation. Our cabin-passengers were fifteen, — all civil, and seeking o please throughout the voyage, — an enviable privilege, if i may trust the accounts I have received from persons who lave had little but annoyance and vexation in crossing the Atlantic, in consequence of bad tempers, viciously-disposed characters, profane swearers, and gamblers, on board. The dose and intimate contact of a ship's cabin renders civility md other expressions of good-breeding and habitual kind- less indispensable to comfort. To be imprisoned in such a )lace with vile persons, for the time necessary to cross a vide ocean,,is a great calamity. I have the pleasure to say, '. do not recollect a single violation of that law of politeness, vhich was defined to me in early life, and which I shall lever forget — " a wakeful regard to the feelings of others in he intercourse of life." The presence of four ladies of ex- emplary manners was itself sufficient to impose restraint md decorum on any collection of gentlemen, although such nfluence was quite unnecessary to secure the object. We had a Philadelphia merchant, his wife, and wife's sis- er ; an English lady, resident in America, returning to visit ler mother and family connexions in Yorkshire, with a inarming little boy; the captain's excellent ] r ady ; a civil scotch merchant, who had spent many years in South Amer- ca, and seen enough of the rough-and-tumble of life to ap- preciate the advantages of civility ; a sprig of English no- )ility, as was understood, who was prudent enough to say ittle, whatever might have been his thoughts ; a cross-eyed lute-blower, of London, who occasionally entertained us vith the melodies of his instrument ; a young commercial igent, of Bristol, companion of my state-room, with whom [ never quarrelled ; a hypochondriac, of London, who scarce- y left his berth during the passage ; and some other persons, whose characteristics were quite agreeable, but not particu- arly important to be specified. We breakfasted, lunched, lined, and tea-ed (as the English say) in good fellowship, md very regularly ; seldom having a cup of coffee, or bowl }f soup, or platter of roast-beef or fowl, or any other dish, fall into our lap by a sudden lurch of the ship. The dead- lights were not fastened in for once, though for want of it i\e had a dash or two of the sea into the stern windows. 24 THE IRISHMAN. Of the steerage-passengers there were some forty to fifty, j most of whom were disappointed and homesick English and | Irish emigrants, returning from America, to love their native i country better than they did before, and to be satisfied to [ lay their bones in it. There was one of these poor fellows, I an Irishman, who attracted much attention, and excited noi little interest in the ship, on account of the simple story he | told of his motives in going to America, and of the result. [ It is too instructive to be omitted. He said he went to New- j York to dig for gold in Gold-street, where he had understood there was a great plenty. He declared that he went to the j place, and tried a long time with his spade and pickaxe — but J found no gold ! So thoroughly, however, was he possessed I of the impression, under the influence of which he had gone j to America, that he got the notion in his head, after our ship i had sailed, that he had made a mistake in the street, and had been digging in the wrong place ! " And will you go back again V he Avas asked. He was not sure whether he would ; but he thought he should advise his brothers to go ! This, I think, may be set down for faith with a witness. He was perfectly grave, and seemed as honest as any other man that ever came from Ireland. Notwithstanding all the disap- pointments of our English, Irish, and Scotch friends, who have come to seek their fortunes among us, and notwith- standing all the discouraging reports that have gone back, the faith of the first impression seems to stick by them ; and they will at least advise their brothers to go. One of the most interesting features of present civiliza- tion is the secure and rapid transmission of letters by post over the same country, and more especially in passing the boundary between one nation and another, where, if we please to imagine so, no law exists, and where, it might moreover be supposed at first sight, improper meddling and depredation might be committed with impunity. But a sec- ond consideration will suggest to us, that nations in amity, and having commercial intercourse, find urgent reasons of public and private interest to maintain a mutual and rigid in- ternational jurisdiction to protect the lines of a frontier and the highway of the seas. Every vessel that sails on the ocean is made responsible somewhere ; and the letter-bag of a ship is ordinarily as secure in passing from continent to continent, as the mail from London to Liverpool, or from New- York to Philadelphia. I have been in England four years, have maintained a weekly correspondence with America, and yet I have never known a letter in which I was interested to fail of the most speedy arrival. I have conversed with many commercial and public men in regard to this point, whose foreign correspondence has been of long continuance, and very extensive, as well as important ; but LETTERS CROSSING THE OCEAN. 25 I never heard of a disappointment from this cause. I once had a letter from Cincinnati, Ohio, addressed to me at No. 9 Amelia-place, London, which might almost as well have been directed to No. 9 Amelia-place among the stars ; and yet it found me out the third day after its arrival in the me- tropolis, having been sent by the twopenny post, as appeared by the marks thereon, to nearly every part and suburb of that immense city. The master of every packet-ship between the ports of the United States and those of Great Britain, and I believe of every other vessel that floats upon the high seas, is in fact, or at least in the construction of law, a sworn postoffice agent of the nation to which he owes allegiance.* The American packets from New- York to London and Liverpool, respectively, carry probably the largest mails of any ships in the world — nearly all the correspondence between the two countries passing through their letter-bags. In the ship George Washington, on my return to New- York, the letters were counted, and the number exceeded 3000. The parcels, or small packets, are of great bulk, filling several large bags. After our ship had been at sea some three or four days, the weather being pleasant, the captain opened the letter- bags in the.round-house, to discharge his duty as postmaster in sorting the letters and parcels for consignment on his arrival in port. He turned upon the floor about a cartload of parcels, and some bushels of letters — a striking index of the amount of correspondence between the United States and Great Britain, when it is considered that, besides all the merchant-ships, there is a Liverpool packet from and to New- York once a week, and one every two weeks between London and New- York — all and each sustaining their own proportionate share in this transportation. Suppose, then, that while the captain is sorting the pack- ages and letters, he allows it not improper to amuse the passengers sitting and standing round, by reading to them the remarkable superscriptions and directions as they hap- pen to turn up ; among which are to be found not a few genuine Irish bulls from the sons of the Emerald Isle in America to their friends at home, as well as many other comical things. By-and-by a letter turns up, the seal ot which, impressed in wax, reads thus : " Mizpah, Gen. xxxi. 49." — " This is for you to expound," said the captain, turn- ing pleasantly to me. Not being able on the instant to recite the passage without book — by which, I suppose, I lost some credit — I ran below, and returning with the Bible open at the place, read, " Mizpah : the Lord watch between * No vessel of Great Britain is called a packet except it belongs to the king, or is especially chartered for the transportation of the mail. This name indicates its character in this particular as much as the royal mail- ccach on the land. B 3 26 A SERMON. me and thee, when^we are absent one from another." — " Beau- tiful !" said one. " Beautiful !" responded another. " A gem! a gem!" exclaimed a third. "A gem!" all responded. And surely, the brightest, most precious gem of all, was to find in such a place and circle these prompt and full-souled expressions of sympathy on the announcement of this sen- timent of religion and Christian piety. There were, indeed, powerful tendencies to such sympathy in the circumstances of us all. For who present, whether going to or from his home, did not feel himself separated from those he loved, and loved most dear? And who, with a wide and fitful ocean pefore him, tossing on its heaving bosom, would not feel his dependance, and, looking back or forward to home and friends, lift up his aspirations to that high Providence who sits enthroned in heaven, and rules the land and sea, and breathe to him the sweet and holy prayer — " The Lord watch between me and mine, while we are absent one from another]" And whose was the hand that fixed this stamp of piety on this winged messenger of love — of love that grows more ardent and more holy, as it is distant and long away from its object] The first postmark was Quebec, and directed to a quartermaster of the army in London. Was it, then, from a wife to a husband \ or from a sister to a brother I or what was the relation'? The chirographic style made this question dubious, and it remained unsettled ; and of course left more scope for the play of imagination, and the agreeable waste of much conjecture. But the incident itself, and the conversation exhausted upon it, furnished all the colloquists of the occasion with a text of frequent ref- erence, and I hope imprinted on their hearts more indel- ibly a very practical and an ennobling sentiment of piety. " Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark untathomed caves of ocean bear ; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its fragrance on the desert air." This flower diffused its fragrance far and wide ; This gem is borne along on ocean's tide, And sheds its best effulgence to the eye, As swift on wings of love it passes by. On Sunday, August 14th, while sitting at breakfast in the morning, a gentleman much esteemed, and of prominent influence in the cabin, addressed himself to another gentle- man, a clergyman, at table, and said, " Sir, we have been several days aboard, and this is the Sabbath, and a pleasant day. I have consulted our fellow-passengers, and I believe I express their common sentiment in requesting from you to-day the favour of a sermon, if agreeable to yourself;" at the same time turning to the captain and to the company CONSCIENCE. 27 for an expression of their assent, which was immediately and unanimously rendered. The service was therefore instantly concluded on, notice published through the ship, and the bell rung at half past ten o'clock. The place of assembly was the round-house, with its windows and doors thrown open, so that those who could not get in could hear from without. The number of souls on board, including cabin-passengers, steerage-passengers, and crew, was about seventy. It was gratifying to observe how easy such a service can be arranged, and with what decorum it can be sustained, even on board a packet-ship. It was still more interesting to see the feeling manifested in view of religious truths, in such circumstances. As the preacher of this day hung over the stern of the ship towards the going down of the sun, and was meditating alone on that grand object, now about to plunge in the ocean, and observing also that ever-attractive scene, the wake of the ship, as she dashes onward through the foaming deep, leaving a momentary trace of bubbling and whirling eddies, breaking the mountain-wave, and seeming to rebuke its march and to enforce a pause in its career — els if to express astonishment at the temerity of such an intruder, and at the violence done to the rights of the sea. In this thoughtful mood, one of the cabin-passengers, a young man, approach- ed him, begging pardon for interrupting his meditations, and began to say, " that he owed an apology in his own behalf, and that he was suffering an injustice in the preacher's esti- mation." " I pray you, sir," said the preacher, " explain yourself." He still went on, regardless of this demand, and added, much to the surprise of the clergyman, " I bought those books at an auction-room. They were struck off to me in one parcel the night before I left New- York. I was igno- rant of what they were." " What books ?" interrupted the clergyman. " I intend to destroy them," continued the young gentle- man ; " and I should suffer injustice if I allowed you to suppose that I had not been better educated, or that I can relish such vile trash." It turned out, after the parties in this colloquy had come to a more perfect understanding, that the books in question were of an infidel and otherwise base character. On the second or third day of the voyage, while overhauling and sorting his luggage in presence of the clergyman, the young gentleman had civilly offered him the use of any of his books that might please him — of which he had availed him- self. As it happened, however, the clergyman's hand had not lighted on the bad books. To explain this dialogue, it had also happened that the clergyman, in his sermon of that day, had taken occasion to make some remarks on the B2 28 REMARKABLE PHENOMENA. absurdities of infidelity, and the necessarily vicious state of the moral affections that could relish it. The young man felt mortified — abased — supposing himself to be di- rectly aimed at in these remarks ; and took the opportunity, as above, to vindicate himself. " Conscience needs no ac- cuser." It was, however, a mutually pleasant interview. The clergyman permitted the young gentleman to remain under the conviction he had so deeply felt, that the lecture was intended expressly for him : first, because it seemed to operate so well ; next, because the young man would not have believed him, if he had disclosed all the truth ; or, if he had believed, being of a lively turn, he would have laughed outright, and probably failed to profit by it. As we came up from dinner on Sabbath, the 14th, " Look at the sun !" — n Look at the sun !" was the instantaneous exclamation of numerous voices, every one lifting up hands with amazement and turning pale with apprehension. The day had been perfectly clear ; not a cloud in the heavens ! nor was there one at this moment. Neither had there been, nor was there now, any fog; no mist; no floating shadow of any of the suspended vapours ; but all the region above, even down to the horizon, was entirely vacant of these ordinary phenomena. And yet there was a darkness ! Nature herself — all nature was eclipsed ! The sun presented his dark purple disk to our eye — so darkened as almost to unveil the stars. All looked alternately at the sun, and then at each other, with a wondering, inquisitive, and fear- stricken gaze, seeming to say, " What ! what doth this portend ?" It was impossible not to feel that Nature was out of her healthful condition — diseased — in distress — in pain and agony. So deep was the obscurity over the face of the sun, that the eye could gaze upon it steadily without blink- ing. The dark spots which have often been observed upon his disk were distinctly visible to the naked eye ; and one dark, gloomy, evil-boding shade mantled the entire vault above and around, as if the day of final doom were about to break upon creation ! We, who had been unused to the sea, asked the captain if these appearances were common. He answered, with evident seriousness, that he had never seen the like. It was strange to the oldest sailor — to every one on board. It was now about five o'clock P. M„ as near as I recollect. The cabin-passengers had all been below for two or three hours. The mate on duty informed us that these unusual symptoms began to appear some two hours before, and had been gradually increasing. The face of every one looked serious, as if about to be summoned to his last account. The wind carried us pleasantly onward, as the sun de- clined and disappeared under the same general appearances ; FUNERAL AT SEA. 29 the dark spots upon his disk being visible to the last, with- out a single ray of his wonted effulgence to inflict pain upon the fixed and open eye. The moon was nearly at her full, and came forth under the same mantle which had covered the sun in the day. But over her face the veil was blue, and most dismally dark. The stars laboured to shine, and could scarcely peep out. The night was even more gloomy than the day — as all its lights seemed just ready to be extinguished. Monday, the 15th, was very much the same, more espe- cially in the afternoon ; when, for a while, so far as I re- member, it was even darker than the day before. And so again on Monday night ; and it was not till the third or fourth day that the heavens began to wear their natural appear- ances. I have since incidentally learned by American papers that the same phenomena, at the same time, were exhibited over all the American seas, and nearly, or quite, over the continent. I think that we were on the Banks of New- foundland, or in the neighbourhood. It will be remembered, that the terrible West India hurri- canes happened at this time, when Barbadoes was nearly made desolate. I have not the date of these calamities ; but they occurred either on one of these days, or imme- diately afterward. The phenomena were owing no doubt to the state of the atmosphere ; and it was natural to expect that nature, thus wrapped, and apparently constrained and distressed, would obtain relief by some violent effort. It is only remarkable that the violence was not more extensive, and more commensurate in its effects with the wide-spread suffering in the elements above us, than seemed to be experienced. The least that we expected was a share in such a consequence ; but it did not overtake us. On Sabbath morning, August 21st, the ship's bell rang at nine o'clock for a funeral, of which the passengers and crew had been previously apprized. The morning was pleasant, and the ship under easy sail. The corpse, being that of a tall man, having been suitably wrapped in a sack, was lashed to a plank so tightly as to develop the entire contour or profile of the human form, from head to foot, as it rested on supports a little superior to the railing of the ship, with feet towards the sea, ready to be plunged into the deep, after the appropriate rites of religion should be performed. All assembled on deck in presence of the dead, with heads un- covered ; the clergyman read a portion of the Scriptures, spoke a few words on the occasion, and offered a prayer to Heaven; immediately after which, the captain beckoned with his hand, and the body was caused to slide gently over the side of the vessel ; and down it went into the sea, send- .30 SHIPBOY ASLEEP ON THE MAST. ing back to our ears the noise of a plunge, which, in the circumstances, seemed all funereal — a sound which, me- thinks, all who heard must hear a long, long time — a sound not to be forgotten. All stood motionless for a moment, in silence contemplating the scene, as if bound to the specta- cle by thoughts higher than the earth and the sea. Then, one by one, each moved away to his post of duty or to his place of retirement. But the noise of that plunge, four years since, even now rings in my ears ; I hear it when my thoughts turn that way — I cannot cease to hear it. To be buried in the ocean ! — to sink down and lie on the bottom of the mighty deep, till " the sea" shall be bidden to " de- liver up the dead that are in it !" Nature shrinks, though religion may whisper, 'tis all the same. Who would not prefer, if it might be the will of Heaven, to lie down with his kindred, where he might be wept by his friends 1 The man we buried was one of the steerage-passengers, an Irishman, about forty years old, who came on board far gone with consumption, and friendless, hoping once more to see his native land and those he had left behind. The com- mon influence of a sea voyage, in aggravating the tenden- cies and hastening the termination of this insidious com- plaint, anticipated all his calculations, and imposed on us the solemn and affecting office of consigning his body to the ocean's bed, till the morning of the resurrection. A funeral at sea has in it a peculiar solemnity. The body of this man was dropped upon a bank, in the middle of the Atlantic, the name of which I forget, and of the existence of which I was not before apprized. These banks in the ocean, like those of Newfoundland, are always indicated by the colour of the water — it being rather turbid, and wanting the ap- propriate blue of the deep salt sea. As the body was weighed down by stone in a sack at the feet, and being de- posited over such a bank, it soon found a place of rest, and in a few hours we had left it far behind. At eleven o'clock this day there was again public worship on the deck of the ship, as on the previous Sabbath. On Saturday, the 27th, we found ourselves becalmed in St. George's Channel, off Kinsale, in sight of land. But in the evening the wind sprung up, and by the help of tide we made rapid flight towards Liverpool. As if the bard of Avon had been a prophet, and we destined to certify the truth of his record by finding history in poetry, it is a curi- ous fact that, at twelve at night, our shipboy Jack, about fifteen years of age, who had shown all the agility of a monkey during the voyage, in going aloft and running about the rigging, having been perched on the main-topsail yard to keep watch for a light, actually fell asleep in that high place, nearly opposite the mouth of the river associated with th# HOLYHEAD. 31 poet's name, as having been honoured by his birth upon its banks. The sea had risen, and the ship rolled and pitched, enough to demand wakefulness in those on duty. "Jack, do you see the light?" said the watch. Jack made no answer. The call was repeated, and with in- creased earnestness, a second and a third time; but Jack was still silent! The sailors sprang aloft, and found him snoring aloud, as an accompaniment of the winds ! " Sleep ! gentle sleep ! Wilt thou upon a high and giddy mast Seal up the shipboy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge — And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deafening clamours in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly, death itself awakes ? Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose To the wet seaboy in an hour so rude ; And in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king ?" Sabbath morning, the 28th, at sunrise, we nearly brushed the naked and rocky bluffs of Holyhead, shooting by them like a vision of enchantment, on the wings of a stiff north- west breeze ; seeming to turn a corner there, as was indeed the fact, buffeting with lusty endeavour a mad and foaming tide, as it rushed from the northern to the southern seas between England and Ireland. And every mile we gained in such a conflict laid before the eye some new aspects of rock, and shore, and landscape, and hill and mountain pro- file. Nothing can be more beautiful, or bolder and more formidable, than the front of Holyhead. Then came the Skerry rocks, one group of which is like a range of battle- ments, the central one resembling a church, and the light- house perched upon it, a steeple in perfection; then the opening harbour of Holyhead, and its beautiful little town ; then the highly-cultivated hills and plains of Anglesea, with numberless fields of grain, just cut and gathered into heaps, and resting for the Sabbath before it was gathered in ; the hedges, distinctly defining every separate enclosure, greater and smaller, regular and irregular ; the lanes of access ; the little white cottages and more imposing farmhouses; the windmills; small villages and hamlets here and there; churches; now a copse of wood, and now another; and beyond this checkered vision the irregular and fantastic profiles of mountains, the loftier points merged in the clouds ; — all, land and sea. lighted up with one of the bright- est mornings that ever shone, and the entire and variegated jscene rapidly changing appearances, as we were borne along the sixty miles from Holyhead to Liverpool, Th0 32 A WRECK. day before, as we lay in St. George's Channel, we saw, but indistinctly, through the mist and s:\ioke, and low in the distant horizon, some of the elevated portions of the Eme- rald Isle. But this morning, the shores, ' plains, hills, and mountains of England and Wales burst upon us in their loveliest features, and under the hues imparted by the brightest sun, after a shoreless vision of eighteen days. We often sailed so near the shore as to be able to trace with the naked eye the fissures and crude prominences of the rocks. A little from Holyhead we took a pilot. And then the news ! what news 1 Great events were expected from the new Parliament and from Poland. But Poland and Parlia- ment were soon lost sight of, in the announcement of the mournful wreck of the Rothsay Castle, which went to pieces some ten days before, at twelve o'clock at night, directly in sight of where we were then sailing, and about ninety souls of one hundred were supposed to have perished ! Nothing of the kind, since the destruction of the Albion, had pro- duced so great a sensation. And there was a peculiar ag- gravation attending the wreck of the Rothsay Castle which can never be healed. We bow in submission to the awful providence of God, when his hand is single and alone in af- flicting us ; but when the recklessness of man is seen to have bereaved us of our friends and dear ones, and in the most awful manner, the heart will bleed, and bleed while memory lasts, and never be comforted. And so will it be in the present instance. That ruthless pushing of opposition in the running of stagecoaches and steamers, which rages equally in England and in the United States, is burdened with no small share of the responsibility of this never-to-be- forgotten calamity. And, more aggravating still, that fiend, and fitter tenant of a darker world, the unpitying soul of brutal intoxication, comes in here to perfect the anguish of the recollections of that dreadful night. To lie upon the ocean, lashed to fury by the pitiless and maddened winds of heaven, under the guidance of the most accomplished and best-directed skill of man, in the best craft, is terrible enough. But to be obliged to ask mercy of a drunkard in that hour — to beseech him to do his duty, and he shall growl, and curse, and refuse to act — ! who can depict the anxieties of the innocent souls that lie at his feet ! When I think of this, I thank God, and I love and respect the man who guided our bark across the Atlantic, not only for his personal virtues and nautical skill, but that he had reduced his whole crew to a total abstinence from ardent spirits, and resolved never to allow its use again. We came to anchor in the Mersey, before Liverpool, at two o'clock P. M., just nineteen days from port to port ; and found lodgings in town before four o'clock. FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 33 FIRST IMPRESSIONS. Dr. Raffles and the Rothsay Castle— The sombre Aspect of English Towns — Comparison of English and American Shipping, Steamers, &c. — Comparative Commercial Importance of London and Liverpool — A Paradox in English Character — The Liverpool Slave-trade — Docks — Custom-house Duties and Shipping of London and Liverpool — Also of the United Kingdom. Arrived at Liverpool ; my foot planted on the soil once dear to our fathers, and associated with a thousand recol- lections, scarcely less full of romance than grave and event- ful in history ; an ocean passed without a storm, or an anx- ious moment, excepting only as occasioned by the extraor- dinary celestial phenomena which hung over us for a day or two ; lodged comfortably in an English hotel ; and the Sab- bath bell summoning a dense population to the worship of God ; my mind was easily composed to a state not unlike the hallowed peace of a quiet domestic scene. The leaving of one's native country is full of interest, and touching to a thousand of the better feelings of our nature. The friends we love are behind us ; and a sublime and fitful ocean rolls before. The first sight of a foreign shore, after many days of exposure on the deep, with the prospect of soon gaining the shelter of a port, repays in part the sacrifice experienced by the recession of the last line of one's own hills. But England to an American is not foreign ; it is the land of his ancestry; the institutions, the virtue, and the piety which have made his country dear were transplanted from this soil. Landing upon these shores, he comes to salute that which it would be unnatural not to esteem — not to revere. Here he finds the same language, the same religion, the same modes and customs of society, and like sympathies, opera- ting in a like manner, in all the kindlier relations of life. He cannot feel that he is abroad ; he is at home. We had landed on the Sabbath ; the dawn of the morning had espied us from over the rocks of Holyhead; a brisk wind, bearing us swiftly into port, admonished the sailors of the preparations required for coming to anchor at the end of a voyage, and the passengers to collect and arrange their scattered luggage for debarkation. All was confusion and expectation. The quiet retirement of an inn, in a well- ordered town, on the evening of the Christian Sabbath, after the active and bustling scene of such a morning, was suffi- ciently grateful. I remembered Thomas Spencer. The impression of his untimely and lamented death was scarcely less in America B3 34 DR. RAFFLES. than in England. A wide circle in both countries felt the greatness and severity of the bereavement. In America we felt it through the hand of his biographer and successor, the Rev. Dr. Raffles ; in England the public felt it for what they had seen and heard, and they wept again at the recital of the story. A stranger at Liverpool, my choice of a place of public worship on the evening of this day of my arrival was controlled by these recollections of Spencer and Dr. Raffles. At six o'clock I wended my way alone and un- guided to Great George-street Chapel. As the hour of com- mencing worship was half after six, I was in season to obtain a good seat by the kind offices of a pew-opener. Soon, however, the people began to pour in, in dense columns, till I found myself, before the services commenced, standing in the aisle with a multitude of gentlemen, to accommodate the ladies. After remaining a little in this posture, I re- ceived a beck from a venerable gentleman near me, to take a seat in his pew, already crammed with a range of fine- looking young men and youth, who appeared as if they might be his twelve sons, and he the patriarch. " Have you room, sir ?" said I. " O yes ; come in." On my right, half way the pew, a full-souled-looking young man of twenty-five showed me much civility when I first sat down and during the service. It was a grateful hour, and grateful every circumstance, after the scenes of a sea-voyage, and after such an unsab- bath-like day, to find myself seated in a modest but spacious church, and one of a congregation of two thousand in a foreign land ; to hear my native tongue in its purest forms ; to have opened and read the same Bible, to listen to the same hymns and the same music, as in my own country ; the dress and manners of the people the same, and with no circumstance to admonish me of a change of place from one part of the globe to another. It was like a dream ; for that day three weeks (and far less time in seeming) I was worshipping with a Christian congregation in New- York. At the appointed hour a clergyman ascended the pulpit, knelt, and offered his silent prayer — a custom most befitting and impressive, but not practised in America, except by two denominations ; and then opening the Bible, he read the twenty-fourth chapter of Matthew with great pertinency and pathos of expression, in silvery and subduing tones. From the first opening of his lips, he seemed moved from his inmost soul. I could have imagined, though ignorant of the cause, that the deep fountains of feeling were opened within him, and that some mighty sympathies were work- ing there. And I thought, too, that the congregation were ready to be with him in feeling ; but still I knew not the occasion. " Is that Dr. Raffles ?" said I in a whisper to the gentleman on my right, as the preacher began to read. A FUNERAL SERMON. 35 " Yes, sir," was the answer. After the usual introductory services, and a prayer, which breathed the soul, and seemed communion with the skies, a fellowship with heaven, and fitted well to raise the heart that wished to be with God, the following text was announced : — " Therefore, be ye also ready ; for in such an hour as ye think not the Son of Man cometh." " Nearly twenty years have rolled away since I have had the pastoral charge of this congregation," said the preacher (and these were his first words after reading the text), "and never have I been called to mingle my tears with the be- reaved of my charge, in any instance, for a work of death so astounding to private and public sympathy, as in the late and ill-fated doom of the Rothsay Castle." And here, at the end of the first sentence, the secret was all opened to me, and I felt myself at once a mourner with the mourning, and was ready to claim a full part in the deploring enact- ment of that solemn hour. For I had passed in full view of the scene of death, and heard the story for the first time that very day. Three members of Dr. Raffles's church, Mr. Joseph Lucas, his wife, and their daughter, were of the number who perished ; and that evening it had devolved on the pastor to stand up before a sympathizing people to tell the story, and tiy to impress them with the practical lesson of the awful event ; and he did tell the story in the outset — the simple story. He did not begin a great way off, and deliver a lecture on abstract truths, till his hearers were tired of a discussion, as is too apt to be the fashion on such occasions ; but he told the simple story, as the exordium of his sermon. He briefly noticed the character of those whose sudden and awful death they lamented ; traced the pathway of their spirits, through the stormy waves of the ocean to the haven of eternal rest, and then applied himself to the proper theme of his text, in application to his hearers, and in view of the mournful event which had suggested it — " Be ye also ready." I had heard of Dr. Raffles, and entertained a high opinion of his powers. He is unquestionably an eloquent man ; and a man of good sterling sense, of pure taste, and sound dis- cretion. He is sure to be pertinent ; and in these attributes, and others akin to them, great. He demonstrates a perfect honesty. It is his full soul that speaks out, and no one doubts it — all feel it ; and this is eloquence. Take, then, a theme like the fate of the Rothsay Castle, and give it such a man, before an audience whose acquaintances and dear ones perished there ; and let him bring heaven and earth, time and eternity, probation and the judgment, all together, as they stand connected with such a scone, in the light of Christianity — and none who hear can be indifferent. And there were none indifferent on that occasion, I dare to say. 36 FUNERAL SERMON. It was not the voice of man alone. Man only gave a pal- pable utterance to the voice of God. In the midst of the sermon, and at a moment when the minds and hearts of the audience were entirely captive, un- der the guidance of the preacher, and with him meditating on death, judgment, and eternity — abstracted from earth, and rapt in thought of a coming world — a sudden, protracted, and apparently an expiring groan came from a distant part of the galleries, reaching every part of the house, and penetra- ting every heart. It was a startling, thrilling expression of distress, augmented a thousand-fold by the circumstances. The self-possession of the preacher, however, in a measure quieted the apprehensions of the audience, by stating that it was a person taken in a fit ; and the individual having been carried out, after a pause of two or three minutes the doctor proceeded. What was the real cause of suffering I know not. But the shock at such a moment — when the feelings of the audience were under the highest excitement, and borne away by the most powerful sympathies for the dying and the dead, and forced to think of future and eternal scenes — was absolutely appalling. Occasionally in the progress of the sermon the doctor was exceedingly powerful — his thoughts and manner, and the tones of his voice, all befitting each other. The interest of the occasion was itself intense ; and when the Amen was pronounced, that perfect stillness which had reigned for the hour, excepting only the speaker's voice, was succeeded by that singular bustle, which an instantaneous change of posi- tion in every individual of a great congregation, after having been long chained by eloquence in fixed and motionless at- titudes, produces. " Did you ever hear Dr. Raffles before ?" said the young man on my right, as we rose to leave the chapel. " I am only this day in England, sir," said I : " I passed this morn- ing the scene of the wreck of the Rothsay Castle." — " Is it possible !" he replied. " I think, then, this discourse and the occasion must have been especially interesting to you." — " Deeply, intensely so. And is Dr. Raffles ordinarily as interesting as this evening, may I ask ?" — " He is very apt to be interesting ; indeed, he is always so. But the occasion, as you perceive, was special this evening, and his feelings Avere uncommonly excited." The acquaintance I seemed to have formed with this young man, by his polite attentions while I sat by his side, and by this little dialogue which oc- curred on leaving the chapel, imboldened me to ask of him the favour of directing me to the " Talbot Inn," as it was now night, and I had made a crooked course in finding the place. He offered and insisted on accompanying me. Find- ing, however, that his lodgings were in an opposite direc- tion, I could not consent. He then conducted me to the EXTERNAL OF ENGLISH TOWNS. 37 head of a principal street, and having put me in my way, took my hand, and bid me an affectionate good-night — as much so as if we had been friends for years. The first appearance of Liverpool, as a town, in its exter- nal features, was not agreeable to me. Its general aspects, as I passed along the streets, were sombre, even dismal. Such is very generally the character of English towns ; such throughout is the character of London, compared with New- York and other American cities. There are two principal causes which make this difference : — the absence of paint, and the settling of soot, dust, and smoke on the exter- nal surface of the houses. Oils and paints are too expen- sive in Great Britain to be applied profusely on brick walls. They are rarely painted. Besides, the mortar with which the bricks are cemented is charged in the mixture with cer- tain ingredients, which destroy the natural colour of unal- loyed clay as it is turned out of the kiln, and leave a dead surface, like that of clay unburnt. I suppose, though I never asked, that this composition, as it ill answers the purpose of beauty, is designed to supply the office of paint in closing the pores, and excluding dampness from the walls. When time has covered these dead and cheerless walls with that sooty vestment which the burning of coal deposites every- where, the external features of a large town in England present a dismal contrast to the rich furniture and comfort that abound within. A man naturally, or accidentally, dis- posed, might die of ennui, or be provoked to go and hang himself, by the mere effect of this exhibition, if he were doomed to encounter it habitually, without hope of that re- lief which the internal comforts of English houses afford. The princely mansions of the great and the palace of the king are alike in this particular with the ordinary habitations of the humble. Even St. Paul's in London, originally pure and white when it came from the hand of Christopher Wren, is wrapped in a drapery of blackness, as if the night and smoke of Erebus had enveloped it for centuries. But a Londoner does not see it — does not know it. Indeed, in his eyes, this dismal feature, as I suppose, constitutes one of the beauties of architecture ; especially as it indicates antiquity. If St. Paul's could be Avashed, or its original light colour in any way restored — if the dark side of those columns could be made as white as the other, and the black drapery with- drawn from the walls — that magnificent edifice, the pride of London, would be spoiled. Time and custom make us con- tent with all things that are not positively vicious and a torment. I had almost forgotten this accident myself, till the writing of these pages has recalled it. An American town is light and airy compared with the feature of which I have been speaking. Every brick house 4 38 APPEARANCE OF BRITISH SHIPPING. is painted and pointed, till the surface is polished and gla- zed with oil. It is first a matter of economy; and the second consideration is to execute it in good taste, accord- ing to the standard of the country. An Englishman says, it is fine ; and there is, perhaps, some reason for it. It is, however, a matter of choice ; whereas the sooty com- plexion of an English town is a thing which cannot be helped, and it argues at leztst the virtue of resignation to be content with it. As an American is struck with the first appearance of an English town for the reasons above specified, so is he also with the first sight of English shipping. When he arrives in the British seas, he observes in all the various craft afloat a hulk disproportionate to the rigging, as would seem to him. The Americans raise one fourth or one third more canvass over the same amount of tonnage, for the reason, perhaps, that they are less prudent, and have less fear of going to the bottom. They like high-pressure engines, and blow up every now and then ; but it is seldom we hear of an English steamer bursting her boiler. The build (if it be lawful to use such a term) of an English vessel is ordinarily shaped for burden rather than fast sail- ing. Her head rises from the water like the circle of a pumpkin. Whether this difference of construction be the reason, or whether the fact asserted be true, I cannot aver ; but I have heard it said, since I have been in England, that an American ship will ride safe at anchor through a gale in the same roadstead where an English vessel will be driven ashore or to sea. The former mounts the sea as it ap- proaches, while the latter ships it over her bows. I am constrained, however, in justice to say, that the English yachts, on which the greatest skill and pains of building and rigging have been bestowed, for the purpose of fast sailing, are the prettiest things I have ever seen afloat ; and I question whether any thing of the kind in the world has ever equalled in lightness and swiftness the little row- boats of the Thames. The Indian bark canoe of North America may be lighter, but the rapidity of its flight, under the application of an equal force, bears no comparison. Another point of difference is the snow-white canvass on the American waters — to an American a grateful sight, and naturally agreeable to anybody. He who has been used to the sight of the steamers connected with New- York, and who has observed their beauty and majesty, as they dash away on the bosom of the Hudson for Albany, or on the East River for Providence, and other places, will be sadly disappointed when he comes to observe the low, sable, plodding things in the British seas, called by the same name, and affecting to advance by the power of steam. When, however, he comes to be more acquainted, he will IMPORTANCE OF LIVERPOOL. 39 be reconciled to them, as he will find them adapted to the voyages they have to make ; in all respects comfortable and well provided, if of the best class ; and accomplishing their trips with great certainty and security. To object to their blackness would be puerile. Every thing in British ports must be black, or become so, as every port has more or less to do with Newcastle. Some of the best steamers between London and Scotland are probably not surpassed, nor equalled, by any in the world, for all those things most desirable in vessels of this kind, and in the same service. They are large ; they are magnificent ; they are commo- dious ; they are well provided ; and they are safe. Eng- lish steamers, and other vessels generally, have a better inside than outside, like English houses. That things with which we have to do, and which we may have occasion to use, should be better than their looks promise, is by no means an endictable fault, — it is not a cheat. Liverpool is remarkable principally for its commercial importance. In this particular it is second only to London, compared with other towns of the British empire, and it is fast gaining even upon the metropolis. Whether its pros- perity, which is now so steadily advancing, will one day blight the commerce even of London, and compel the latter to be content as the seat of the court, the leader of fash- ions, and the great centre of political influence, is less proble- matical, perhaps, than superficial observers are wont to imagine. London, from causes which can never be con- trolled, is exceedingly and vexatiousiy difficult of access to its commercial connexions. First, there is the wide and not very comfortable mouth of the English Channel, stretch- ing on the one side from Dover to Land's End, and on the other from Boulogne to Brest, always dreaded by the mari- ner, whether going out or coming in. The wind which has brought him to the Downs may keep him there for many days before he can double the Foreland and enter the Thames ; and then he has eighty miles of a crooked and difficult channel between him and the docks of London. The same difficulties present themselves from London to the Atlantic. I have received letters at London by a New- York and London packet, mailed at Portsmouth, where the vessel touched, advising me of some little interest I had in the arrival of the ship, and have waited three weeks before she was laid in the dock. Early in the winter of 1834-35, the Samuel Robertson, a New- York packet, put into Ply- mouth in distress, eight weeks after she had left London, without ever having got far out of the Channel, if she had even fairly left it. She was also at Portsmouth five weeks after leaving London. Liverpool is almost immediately open to the Atlantic, affording a very sure ingress and egress without delay. All 40 A PARADOX IN ENGLISH CHARACTER. men of business in London find that their correspondence with foreign parts, which must go upon the Atlantic seas, especially their business with America, can be accomplished most expeditiously by way of Liverpool. All government despatches between the court of St. James and Washington city go and come invariably by that channel. Even now the connexion by post between London and Liverpool, two hundred and six miles, is only about twenty hours; and when a railway shall have been opened between them, which is now in rapid progress, the distance will be reduced to some ten or twelve hours. It is very certain that the foreign commercial connexions with nearly all parts of the British empire, even for the transportation of goods and heavy articles of merchandise, by the growing facilities of internal communication, will ultimately be, and that at no distant period, several days earlier by the way of Liverpool than of London ; a state of things which must inevitably give an advantage to the former, with which no power but that of a despot could compete. A free trade with India is already opened, which has even now given a fresh and vigorous impulse to the ever-wakeful spirit and elastic power of this commercial rival of London. The human mind is intent on looking out for the shortest way ; and in no country more so than in Great Britain — the drudgery of her agricultural operations, and the ordinary employments of her peasantry only excepted, in which occupations all things go on, from generation to generation, in the same old way. There is this strange anomaly in the English character — that every thing connected with com- merce, manufactures, and politics, develops the greatest activity and invention of mind ; while the husbandry of the earth, and all the domestic occupations of " the lower or- ders,"* look as if the spirit that presides over them, if spirit it be, were irrecoverably stultified. The difference between America and Great Britain in these particulars is precisely that which a traveller on the Continent and in Great Britain must have observed between an English stagecoach and a French or Dutch diligence : the former lacks nothing which human invention and skill could supply for convenience and despatch ; while every appearance and symptom of the lat- ter makes one vexed at the dulness and stupidity of his race. A furrow which in America would be turned up with the greatest ease by two horses, and the service of one man with a light plough — which he who follows can throw about with one hand, while he guides his quick-stepping cattle with the other — employs in England from four to six lazy horses, and two to three men, dragging a machine so great * A phrase peculiar to the English ; at least not so often heard in our land of republican equality. LIVERPOOL SLAVE-TRADE. 41 and heavy, with tackle so abundant and complicated, as to remind one not accustomed to such a needless expenditure of a man-of-war with its various furniture. All the peas- antry of England unconnected with the circle of manufac- turing and commercial interests, one would imagine, are at work with the same instruments, and after the same modes, which were employed by their Saxon ancestors ; and how much older they are even than that, it may be difficult to say. Strange that there is no more sympathy between the mind that drives the plough, shears the grass, dresses the hedge, and manages a donkey, and that spirit which has raised manufactures to the highest perfection that the world can boast of, and economized manual labour almost to a miracle ; which spreads the wings of its commerce over all seas, and protects its trade by the sleeping thunders of its navy. It would not be true to deny, that agriculture is car- ried to the highest perfection in England. I only mean to speak of the great disadvantage and waste in the application of labour. The population of Liverpool in 1831 was 165,175 ; that of New-York, at the present moment, is 265,000. These two great commercial cities are therefore nearly equal in this par- ticular ; and they are not very far from being equal in their commercial connexions and transactions. They are also nearly equal in the dates of their comparative importance. In 1669, Liverpool was separated from Walton, a village three miles distant, and erected into a parish. In 1700 its popu- lation was 5000 ; in 1720, a little more than 10,000 ; in 1740, it was 18,000; in 1770, about 30,000; in 1790, it is stated at 56,000 ; in 1812, it was 94,376 ; and in 1820, it reckoned only 1 10,000. Since the last-mentioned date its increase has been almost unexampled, and its population is now probably about 200,000. It is melancholy to be obliged to remember, that the Afri- can slave-trade has been one of the principal means of the growth, and one of the great sources of the wealth, of Liverpool. During the ten years from 1783 to 1793, it employed in that trade, in all, 878 ships ; imported to the West Indies 303,737 slaves, the price of whom averaged £50 each; making £15,186,850, or $62,796,880.* Deduct- ing allowance to factors, &c, the actual revenue to the town was £12,294,116, or $59,011,756. An abatement should be made from the number of ships as stated here, the sum being made by adding those registered in each successive year; as the same ship, in some cases, might * In reducing sterling money to Federal money throughout this work, I allow $4 80 to the pound ; which is about the medium commercial value in the rate of exchange. 4* 42 LIVERPOOL DOCKS. have been employed for half the period, more or less. Say 300 ships. , As this estimate comprehends only a minor fraction of the period during which this traffic was tolerated by Great Britain, it may, perhaps, fairly be supposed, that the number of slaves actually made by the Liverpool trade alone was considerably more than double this number, and the additional income to the town, from that source, propor- tionate. The history of Liverpool, published in 1795, from which this statement is abridged, has given the items with great particularity, apparently as if it were a part of the honest and lawful trade of the town — no more discreditable or improper than trade in logwood and ivory ! How great and interesting the change in public feeling in forty years ! Great Britain has been shocked at her own deeds, and atoned her fault before heaven and the world. It was well said by an American gentleman, who, while in England, was publicly taunted for American slavery — " It was the sin of our common parent that introduced it among us. If you will enact the part of Japheth, I will fill the place of Shem. Take you one corner of the garment, and I will take the other, and we will both walk backwards, and cover the shame of our parent's nakedness." One of the most remarkable things attracting the attention of an American, as he steps ashore on his arrival at Liver- pool, are its magnificent docks and basins, which occupy about 111 acres. They are stupendous works of solid ma- sonry, laid apparently as firm as the natural rocky base of the hills. At low water, the walls constituting the quays are sublime objects of artificial structure. The tide in the Mer- sey ebbs and flows twenty-five feet, more or less, making a great difference in the appearance of the river between low and high water. Whether the want of bridges over the Mersey at Liverpool is owing to the rapidity and height of the tides, and an exposure to a swell from the estuary, or to the necessity of keeping the river open to navigation, I am unable to say. The ferrying, which is immense, is for the most part performed by small steamers, which are difficult of access at low water. The quays afford pleasant prome- nades, and are often thronged by multitudes of well-dressed people, especially when anything a little extraordinary is to be seen on the river. The shipping doing business with the town, as it comes and goes, passes through the locks at high water to and from the basins, which maintain a permanent level, and where, at low tide, the forest of masts, locking their yard-arms, appears high above the craft that floats in the river below. The perfection, the beauty, and, I may add, the magnifi- cence of the masonry constituting the quays, docks, and ba- sins of Liverpool, present a striking contrast to the wooden, LIVERPOOL AND MANCHESTER RAILROAD. 43 feeble, and perishable docks and wharves of our American ports. I have never yet seen any of these structures laid with stone in the United States ; but this material will doubt- less begin to be used for that purpose as the country grows older. In the ports of Europe it is generally a matter of economy ; and as economy is in fact the governing considera- tion that controls all expenditures on public conveniences for business, whenever this principle shall demand it, this mode of building docks among ourselves will prevail. At present we have plenty of wood ; and when that shall grow scarce, we shall still have plenty of stone. Liverpool is estimated to engross a fourth part of the for- eign trade of Britain, a sixth of its general trade, and to fur- nish one twelfth of the shipping. Its customs amount to about .£4,000,000 annually, and its exports exceed those of London. The exact gross customs of Liverpool in 1832 were £3,925,062. The gross customs of London in 1832 were £9,434,854. The gross customs of the United King- dom for the year ending March 25, 1833, were £19,684,654. Net produce of the same was £18,467,881, or $88,645,828. The registered shipping for the port of London in 1832, be- sides boats and other craft not registered, was 2,669 vessels, of 565,174 tons burden, manned by 32,786 men and boys. The registered vessels of Liverpool for the same year were 853 ; burden, 166,028 tons ; employing 9,329 men and boys. LIVERPOOL AND MANCHESTER RAILROAD. The Trains — A Disaster — An Incident. On the 1st of September I took my place, at 10 o'clock A. M., in one of the cars of the first class of the railway trains for Manchester. This is a fine sight to stand and look at when under its greatest speed. It is sublime ; it is gid- dy ; it creates anxiety when one estimates the momentum, and thinks of the possible results of an accident — such, for example, as coming unexpectedly in contact with another train from an opposite direction, in a fog, or in the darkness of night, when both are on the same line of rails. The con- cussion would be tremendous, and the disaster frightful ! One would not covet to be a tenant either of one or the other of such conflicting powers. Or, suppose a train, go- ing at the rate of thirty miles an hour, should meet with some little obstacle negligently left on the rails, be thrown off, and precipitated down some one of the stupendous ele- vations, which are not unfrequently created in building these structures across deep ravines — it would plunge like an ar- row shot from a bowstring — and what would become of the passengers ! Or, suppose the checking-lever should become 44 RAILWAY DISASTER. deranged, and refuse to obey the power applied to it, just as the train is flying to its goal, and is already within a few rods of it, at the greatest speed, joyously sporting, as if un- der the usual command, and hundreds of spectators are waiting its arrival — when, lo ! instead of that gradual de- crease of its velocity which is customarily witnessed at the end of the race, it dashes wildly and furiously onward, and rushes with destruction on all opposing obstacles, in a single moment creating a frightful heap of ruins, and scattering death among those who waited its approach, as well as among those whom it has brought along with itself to such a catastrophe ! That these suppositions are not without reason, but suggested by fact, let the following story demon- strate : — The time allotted for the first class to go through, the dis- tance being thirty-two miles, was one hour and thirty min- utes, a small fraction more than twenty miles an hour — fare five shillings. The second class of open cars seems for some reason to be less active, and is allowed two hours — fare three shillings and sixpence. I advise all to go in it, for more reasons than one. Whether our engineer had dif- ficulty in the outset I know not ; but for the first half way there was great irregularity in the degree of speed — some- times slow as a horse would walk ; then nearly at rest ; then dashing on at a velocity to make one giddy. As the time was limited, the slow movements were of necessity to be made up by a proportionate increase of speed at other times. It seemed like a frolic : now slow ; now upon a gallop ; now racing — yea, even flying. I say with propriety — upon a gal- lop ; and, I may add, a racing gallop ; for such is the seem- ing of the rapid motion of a railway train, while one is shut up in the car. There is a regular mechanical jerk, not unlike that felt in a two-wheel cart, drawn by a horse with loose rein at full speed. It is difficult not to imagine that one is being run away with. At the greatest speed of the train one cannot look at near objects without becoming instantly dizzy. The head whirls like a top ; but to turn the eye at the distance of a mile or two, it is very pleasant to observe the rapidly-changing relative position of trees, houses, and other objects : all seem to be in a race, going one way or the other, according as they are nearer or more remote. Sometimes a train of cars coming from the opposite direc- tion on the other line of rails might be seen ahead ; and the next moment it would brush by us at the distance of a yard with such velocity that, pent up as we were, we could no more count the number of cars than the spokes of a wom- an's spinning-wheel when buzzing at its swiftest whirl. The rear of the train seemed to present itself almost at the same instant with the front. All we - could perceive was— jt is here -Ht is gone ! RAILWAY DISASTER. 45 I had frequently put my head out at the window to look backward, and forward, and abroad — to make such observa- tions as curiosity and the novel interest of the scene invited ; for it was the first time I had ever tried that method of con- veyance. I should judge we were running at the rate of thirty miles an hour, some few minutes after we had left the Half-way House, or place of stopping, when I looked out at the window, casting my eye forward, and, to my utter horror, I saw the engine off the rails, staggering, pitching, and plun- ging down the bank ! — reluctantly, indeed, as if conscious of its charge and responsibility. I drew in my head, and, as my friend who sat opposite to me afterward said, though I had no recollection of it, exclaimed three times, "We are gone ! we are gone ! we are gone !" And surely I had good reason to make the inference ; for what could the train of six or eight cars, and a hundred of souls or more in them, do but follow ? I had no sooner uttered these exclamations, to the great affright of my fellow-passengers, than crash ! crash ! crash ! went the whole concern — one car against the other — with tremendous violence, and we were all at rest in a heap !. The force of the concussion may in part be im- agined, as it could be estimated by the track of the engine after it was thrown from the rails, and its position in the heap of ruin : that, notwithstanding we were proceeding at so great a velocity when the accident occurred, we were all brought up in the distance of three or four rods after the engine had plunged from the rails. Nor was the connexion of the train broken. The engine, as it descended the bank — which, most fortunately, was not more than six feet high, and gently inclined — ploughed and pitched as the momentum from behind urged it on ; and by the time all was at rest — and time scarcely could it be called, the arrest was so sud- den — the entire train lay in a circle, the engine bottom up- wards, half way down the bank, the luggage-car upset, the first car containing passengers also upset, the second nearly over, the third and fourth manifesting the same disposition, and each having plunged with all the force of its headway into the back of its predecessor. The relative position of the parts may be nearly conceived from the fact, that the engine lay directly at our door, car No. 5 from the first, pouring in upon us all the steam that could escape from the safety-valve, which by the shock had been opened, favour- ing us gratuitously with all the benefit of a bath most un- comfortably hot. My impression at the moment was, from the quantity of steam pouring out, that the boiler had col- lapsed in the concussion, and let out all its contents. It was far from being inviting to escape by the door that looked that way ; it was more like plunging into the jaws of death. The opposite door was so wrenched that we could not open it ; besides that, the car was partly upset, rendering it next 46 RAILWAY DISASTER. to impossible; and, withal, our heads enveloped in such ai cloud of steam that we could not see. My friend led the! way by jumping through the window. There were two la- 1 dies, a gentleman, and a boy still remaining with me in the I same apartment ; and how we all got out I could not after- ward recollect, such was the confusion and affright of the | moment. Each and all, impelled by the instinct of self- preservation, vacated their undesirable places within the cars i the best way they could, and began to show their heads i without. Those who found themselves alive began next to look after the dead and wounded. Having seen my own ! apartment cleared of its tenants, which was more than all exposed to the steam, I reconnoitred the circle, and the first object of distress that attracted my attention was the engi- neer, being dragged out by several hands from underneath the engine, where he was found completely buried and en- tangled in its fragments. He rose, covered with blood and dust. Some one took him by the hand, and congratulated him for the preservation of his life. He smiled with an ex- pression of wildness, then fainted, and was carried away. How the engine should have turned bottom upwards, and himself caught underneath it, without instant death, was in- deed marvellous. As it mercifully happened, not another individual was seriously injured, though a few carried away some slight contusions. I have never heard whether the engineer lived or died. He was sadly bruised. Immedi- ately the peasantry from the adjoining farms, who saw the accident, poured in upon us, and offered their assistance. The disabled cars were drawn off; the engine was left in its position, a perfect wreck, with its wheels in the air. I ob- served that one of its axles was broken, and was told that was the occasion of the disaster. That, however, was a point by no means obvious, as the violence of its upsetting might have broken the axle, as well as many other of its parts, that had suffered equally. The shock had thrown the whole train into a circle. Not one of the cars retained its position on the rails on which we came, the rails themselves having been wrenched and in part dislocated from their fast- enings ; and a portion of the train was thrown over on the rails of the other line, and completely obstructed the entire road, so that other trains which came up in the meantime were obliged to wait till the way could be cleared for them to pass. Three of our cars, viz., those in the rear, were found, upon examination, comparatively uninjured. They were replaced on the way, ourselves and luggage stowed in heaps on board of them, and by the aid of an engine which happened along without a train, we arrived at Manchester about two hours after the regular time. To us, who were passengers, this accident was not a very trivial matter ; and we might naturally expect that it would RAILWAY DISASTER. 47 make quite a report — that it would at least be a topic of conversation at Manchester and Liverpool for the remain- der of the day, and that somewhat of the particulars of the disaster would be detailed in the Liverpool and Manchester journals. "Well," said I to a fellow-passenger from New- York, who came on the railway to Manchester on the evening of the same day, and who, I thought, was a little wanting in sympathy, that he did not congratulate us for our merciful preservation, on the first salutation as we met at the Star Inn— "what do they say at Liverpool?" — "Nothing new, sir." A little vexed at his apparent insensibility, I said, " I do not ask for the news ; but what do they say of our upset this morning '?" — " What upset ?" He had spent the day at Liverpool, in the busy world, had come to Manchester by the same conveyance, but had not heard a syllable of our disaster. I asked if he did not see the wreck. " No." That, however, might easily have been overlooked, when one was not expecting it, and coming on at such an amazing rate, shut up in a close carriage. In- deed, it could not be expected that he would see it, except by mere accident. I had supposed, however, as the rails at the point of our arrest appeared to be wrenched, and in one or two places nearly or quite torn up, that there would have been an interruption of the passing for repairs. But as there are two ways all through, and crossing-places from Diie to the other at short intervals, that section, with due notice to the engineers, might easily be avoided till the necessary repairs could be effected. That the Manchester and Liverpool journals are not dis- posed to give any unnecessary alarm to the public by a de- tailed recital of such accidents, the very slight notice of our misfortune, which appeared in them the next day, was suf- ficient proof. The world would scarcely know that it was any thing worthy of record. There seems to be a sym- pathy between all adjunct interests, which happen to be in some degree mutually dependant. Liverpool and Manches- ter are justly proud of this stupendous work of art, and this amazing facility of intercourse, and transportation of their wares and merchandise. They are deeply interested in maintaining its good reputation as a safe conveyance for passengers; and notwithstanding there have been some frightful and destructive disasters now and then, on railways and in steam conveyances by water, it is yet gravely main- tained that the invention is a great saving of life and prop- erty foi my given amount of business and travelling; and I am inclined to the belief that such is the fact. On this assumption, any unnecessary alarm is rather an evil than a benefit to the public. Still, I suppose a traveller, who has 48 A FLIGHT FOR SAFETY. met with an accident of this kind, has a right to tell his story without being liable to the charge of malevolence. All the passengers by that train were not a little discom- posed for the time, as may be imagined. Their senses were half driven out of them by the shock; particularly was it so with the females. The remainder of the distance, about twelve miles, was passed in a very nervous state of feeling, every one seeming to anticipate the renewal of a like scene ; and, to tell truth, the best judgment and the strongest minds could not very well approve such overburdening of the three less injured cars, into which we were crowded ; constantly suffering the apprehension that they might fall down under us, from the failure of parts that must have been weakened by the shock and wrenching they had suf- fered. Some of the most timid could hardly persuade themselves that they had escaped alive ; and continued pale and trembling till we got through — the ladies clinging to their friends, and imploring protection. My friend, who had been a fellow-passenger in the ship, and who had darted out at the window of the car to escape from the steam, had plunged down the opposite bank, leaped a fence, and run for his life at right angles with the railroad, through a low and wet morass, I know not how far, till he thought himself safe. I looked for him in vain, till some ten or fifteen minutes he returned, puffing and out of breath, and made report of the travels he had accomplished in the meantime. It was not till he became more composed that he discovered he had received a severe contusion in one of his legs ; nor could he divine how it happened, but rather conjectured that it was by jumping out of the window, or perhaps by leaping the fence when he ran down into the morass. It was the steam that frightened him and sent him out in that direction. Being an American, and having heard much of the sad effects of steam let loose in our country, he was resolved to make sure and get out of the way of it. And, indeed, any one would allow there was some apology, if he could conceive how it blew away at us, directly into our apartment of the car, when first we came into a heap. I had several times gone out at Liverpool to see the rail- way trains come in and go out, and had enjoyed it much. I had even walked out some two or three miles, and taken my station upon a bridge, to espy their first appearance at a distance, in coming from Manchester, to observe their rapid approach, led on by the little, quick, and spiteful engine, spitting a volume of steam at every breath, as if vexed and goaded by its task; or rather snorting like a high- mettled steed, that takes the bit in his teeth, dashing forward in spite of his rider, and running- away with him. Now it is in sight — now it is here — and now away it hies to NEW CUSTOMS. 49 the goal ; and all as soon as one can write— almost as soon as one can speak it. I have stood upon a bridge twenty feet across, as a long train came up at full speed, on the side of its approach, and gazed at it till the engine came directly under my feet, all braced for a spring to the other side, and before I could reach it, with my utmost agility, the whole train, twelve or fifteen rods long, would be gone from under me, and flying away like a bird on the wing ! All this was very amusing and delightful, as well as astonishing, before the accident. It impresses one with some sense of the grandeur of the possible achievements of human art, and with awe in the contemplation of the yet unascertained powers of the human mind. But after our disaster, on the same day, I went out from Manchester and perched myself on a bridge, to witness these movements again. But how different my thoughts and emotions ! The opportunities of observation there are better than at the end towards Liverpool, as the trains can be seen approaching at the distance of two or three miles, perhaps more. But instead of pleasure, it was all anxiety. My mind was occupied solely in calculating the chances of an accident, and the consequences that might result. I could imagine scores and hundreds of possible and not very improbable things, that might occasion a disaster. Instead of welcoming the approach of this shooting train, I trem- bled ; the nearer it came, the more uneasy I felt ; I pitied those on board of it ; I blamed the presumption of the en- gineer for flying at such a rate, when so near the end of his race ; and imagined it possible that he would not be able to stop it in season to save them from rushing headlong into the town and streets of Manchester. But still no accident occurred, except in my creative imagination, where, indeed, and in spite of all my sounder logic, they rushed in throngs upon each other's heels. A foreigner in a strange land will naturally and very pru- dently endeavour to acquaint himself with such manners and customs as he may have been unaccustomed to ; so far at least as may be convenient to himself, or necessary to save him from being troublesome or unacceptable to others. All travellers will probably agree, that a first breaking-in of this kind, in passing from one country to another, is more or less embarrassing. Do the best any one can — be he ever so conscientious in his efforts to conform to innocent customs — he will notwithstanding be doomed to mistakes, annoy- ing to himself or to others, and sometimes ludicrous. From Liverpool I began to travel in England, and to acquire by experience what I had failed to learn from other sources, of that knowledge which is essential to a traveller's com- fort. In all countries one has need to be vigilant against C 5 50 AN IMPOSITION. the tricks and impositions of the agents and contractors of public conveyances; and in England an American has to learn how to satisfy the servants of inns and hotels, the coachman and guard, and such other subsidiaries to his comfort (or, as it often happens, subsidiaries to his annoy- ance) as may happen to fall in his way. In America, servants of all public conveyances and houses of entertain- ment are paid by their employers ; and no traveller, or guest, is ever obliged to put his hand in his pocket for any thing but a single and general bill, wherever he is indebted for conveyance, or lodgings, or other services — excepting only for the porter, who is always his own man, and the shoeblack, or, as in England they call him, the boots. This is generally true in the Northern States, except in some of the largest establishments in the principal cities ; and in some places of public resort, gratuities, in latter years, are in vogue. This is an unworthy aping of European custom. In the Southern States, from the similarity of the relation between the master and slave to that between the old Euro- pean lord and serf— where the custom doubtless originated to secure the affection and purchase the fidelity of the ser- vant — gratuities to slaves and coloured servants are also expected. In England there is more or less of the ancient servility and debasing obsequiousness in the character of servants, which makes them willing to depend on the law of " what you please, sir ;" but it is notwithstanding a rec- ognised law of society, and stands up in the shape of a legalized and just demand. For the most part, I believe, servants of all public conveyances and houses depend on their gratuities for their wages in whole or in part; and where travelling is great, and guests are constantly chan- ging, the proprietors and masters of these establishments sell the places of their servants to those who fill them, according to their value. To the article of imposition: — What traveller has not a full budget of this kind? The first step I made out of Liverpool and in England, I was doomed to suffer vex- atiously in this particular; which, in justice, I must put down to the credit of Brotherton's coach-office, where they were guilty, first, of the impropriety of taking my fare to Birmingham by the railway ; and next, of the shameful in- justice of signifying to me, when I arrived at Manchester too late for the coach of that day on account of the accident, that they had no interest or responsibility in the railway ; that they were glad the accident had happened ; that I had forfeited my passage to Birmingham by not being at Man- chester in proper time, the coach having been gone two hours ; that it was good enough for me for having patroni- sed the railway ; and they refused to enter my name for the next day, without payment in full from Manchester to Bir- AN INCIDENT. 51 mingham, which they had received once that morning at Liverpool ! For the railway they had purchased and given me a ticket, which I afterward discovered was their prac- tice, for the sake of securing passengers by their own coach. But to the more amusing part of servants, porters, &c. — Having made diligent inquiry at Liverpool what class of servants were to be " remembered," and by what consider- ation, I believe I succeeded tolerably well in rendering satisfaction, as I left my lodgings at the Talbot Inn. A little extraordinary in England, the servants and porters connected with the Manchester railway, who help us on and off at the extremities, are not permitted, as was under- stood, to accept of gratuities. The getting on, therefore, as we passed from the omnibus to the railway cars, was easily and pleasantly accomplished. But as we did not get through in the ordinary way, it was natural enough, per- haps, that the getting off should also be signalized by some out-of-the-way incidents. We came to the Manchester extremity of the railway out of time and out of order : but as I had. never been there before, it was not for me to know that every thing else in that place was out of order ; that our upset and consequent delay had deranged these remote affairs, and collected an unusual crowd to see what the matter might be. I had understood that we should be carried off in the same manner and style as we were brought on, by the servants and coaches connected with the railway, and dropped in town at a definite place ; in short, that the beginning and end of the railway were at the offices in Liverpool and Manchester, and that we had nothing to do but to remain passive, till we had used up our purchased and assigned privileges. Of course I obey- ed instructions, and kept in the passive state ; but being out of time, and anxious lest I should lose my seat in the coach for Birmingham, I was willing to be carried into town by whatever hands should first offer for that service. Instantly as we arrived, a mob of porters presented them- selves, touching their hats, with — " A coach, sir V — " A coach, sir?" — "Yes." — "Any luggage, sir?" — "Yes, here it is." Immediately myself and friend, with our several articles of luggage, were stowed away in a hackney-coach by as many hands as could find a hold at both ends of each portmanteau, of the umbrellas, great-coats, travelling-desks, &c. ; for, still passive, we gratefully accepted of any and all assistance that was offered, imagining that the abun- dance of it was kindly owing to the sympathy felt in our misfortunes. Well, being in the coach, and having given directions where to drive, and not a little impatient even for the least unnecessary delay, it seemed to us rather un- accountable that all remained at a stand, and this half- C2 52 JUSTICE EXTORTED. score of kind hands, who had helped us with our luggage off the railway into our then present place, and whom we had already thanked, standing without, gazing at us through the window, lifting their hands to their heads, bowing, .mts, of ■ -. . § son's i si - . > in s< - M IB ess prices; . SOOM sof i - tots n IV., kind i - s « inch fc ps < rhis takes ...-.; the .. IV, w ... - - tan s — um) iii fsof Ins s:rich squires . :ers, . > s « Ore S I . s being s of tables - lOttd ^. - — •• I f toy pets IN . - king . > the * A v rw««a is rwc. it* dtMwt. LOME 81 same here i bis champion, who with that be lieth and is a f.ii .<: traitor — being ready in person to combat vritli him, and m thia quarrel will adventure his life against trim on what day soever he shall be appoint* Whereupon thechampion threw down his gauntlet. ,; whs done three times al the entrance, at the middle of the hall, and at the foot of th< : the throne. At the end of which the king drank the health of the champion in a gold cup with a cover \ lent it filled to the champion, who also drank the health of the king, exclaiming with a loud voice, "Long live his majesty, George the IV. ;" and then backing his way out — an awkward movement for I troop in that place, but a subject may not turn his back upon the prince — he retired from the hall, bearing away the . cup as ifee. It was not a little unexpected and startling in the cham- pion of George III. to find, when in the perfoi )i this ceremony ho threw down his gauntlet, that it was actually and instantly taken up! An old woman, in service there, and looking on, hut, as it would seem, not rightly interpret- ing the meaning of the affair. tW the glove thrown down, thinking it a pity that it should be trampled under foot of the horses, and lost or spoiled, sprang forward and snatch- ing it tip, appropriated it to herself! My the terms of the champion^ challenge, he was hound "to adventure his life in a quarrel against" this old woman! It is not recorded what was the result of the meeting. William IV. and Queen Adelaide were crowned on the 8th of September, 1831. TOPOGRAPHY AND GENERAL VJfiW OF LONDON. When I have read of a notable town or place, without expectation of being able to visit it. I have wished it so described that I might see it; hut too often have been dis- appointed. I do not presume to promise to do tins of Lon- don ; hut assuming, that some of my countrymen may pos- sibly look into these pages, who will never think of crossing the Atlantic, I will try to give them a little sketch of the topographical features of that great metropolis, and of the relative situation of some of it> mo-: notable parts. It is understood, that London is situated on the River Thames, about sixty miles from the sea on the. east — or from the waters of that channel, winch separates Great Britain from the continent of Europe. The rivers of so small an island as this are not expected to compare with D3 82 TOPOGRAPHY OF those of a continent in magnitude ; but the Thames is beau- tiful, and the depth of its channel, as made by a full tide, is sufficient to float the largest merchant ships to London. The sinuous course of the Thames is a great physical beauty, through the entire vale that is marked by its line. Having passed Windsor and Richmond, and much classic ground, it comes into London at Old Chelsea from the west, bending towards the north, and ontinues in this direction for two miles or more, till it hat passed the notable point of Whitehall in Westminster on the north bank; a little beyond which it turns towards the east, and pursues nearly that direction through the heart of the metropolis, till the bulk of the town is passed, for a distance of about four miles ; and then bends suddenly to the south about two miles, as if to salute Greenwich Hospital, after passing which it wheels again to the north, creating a tongue of land called the Isle of Dogs — which is made an island by means of an artificial channel, or channels, constituting the West India Docks. Running by Blackwall, the extreme point of London harbour, natural and artificial, the Thames finds itself at large again, and continues to play its gambols by seeking the greatest distance to the sea — passing in the meantime Woolwich and Gravesend, the former a great naval and military depot, and the latter a port of entry and embarcation. The following lines by Sir John Denham, in praise of this notable river, were marked by Dr. Johnson as one of the purest specimens of poetry ever written. If they did not commend themselves to all who love the melodies of the muses, Johnson's recommendation might possibly have been set down to such a feeling of his, as that which so characteristically betrayed itself, when, being on an eminence commanding great beauties of nature in Scot- land, he was asked which prospect before him he liked best, he petulantly replied — " The Road to London." An English- man may be pardoned if he feels that what graces London must be a grace. Certainly no one will deny that these lines are a beauty. " ! could I flow like thee, and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme : Though deep, yet clear ; though gentle, yet not dull ; Strong without rage ; without o'erflowing, full." The Thames, in passing through London, divides it, not into so nearly equal parts as the Seine does Paris, but yet sufficiently so to make one feel, who is frequently traversing the town,"that the very heart of it is cut by the line. By far the greater portion of the metropolis, however, is on the north side of the river, as much, I should think, as three to one. It is understood, that unless we are speaking particu- larly of the City of London, we use London and the metrop- LONDON. 83 olis as synonymous terms, intending by either of them to comprehend that vast concentration of human beings, lying for the most part within a circle described by a radius of four miles around St. Paul's. Maitland, in his history of London, 1739, says, in its growth "it has ingulfed one city, one borough, and 43 villages." But London since then has been immensely ex- tended on all sides, and swallowed up other villages, and entirely covered large districts before vacant, such for ex- ample as the parishes of Mary-le-bone and St. Panchras, on which now stand some of the best and most substantial parts of the metropolis. That vast portion of London called the " West End" is of modern growth. The Earl of Burlington, whose house is in the heart of that district, was asked, " why he built his house in Piccadilly, so far out of town?" His answer was, "Because I was deter- mined to have no building beyond me." It is now in the very heart of the metropolis. Westminster and Chelsea on the west are swallowed up in London, or in what is com- monly called the metropolis ; also Stepney and Hackney on the east; Islington on the north; all the districts in the neighbourhood of the new and principal docks ; Walworth, Camberwell, Kennington, on the south ; and many other places that might be named in all directions, which used to be entirely separate. " The extent of the metropolis from east to west, or from Poplar to Knightsbridge, is seven miles and a half; its breadth from north to south, or from Isling- ton to Newington Butts, is nearly five miles ; with a zigzag circumference of almost thirty miles." The square miles within these limits are about thirty-six; and after deducting the superficies of the river, of streets, squares, parks, gar- dens, and all vacant places, it is estimated, that nearly half this ground is covered with houses — probably not less than fifteen square miles. The city of London proper comprehends only a small dis- trict (I have seen no exact measurement of it), somewhat less than two miles, as I should judge, from west to east, and less than one mile in breadth, on the north bank of the Thames, and nearly in the midst of the metropolis. The old walls of the city not being in existence, the boundaries are not obvious to strangers. The only relics of them I have ever seen are Temple Bar, a gate still standing on the west, stretching across one of the greatest thoroughfares of the metropolis, a very ugly thing to look at, and cramping the passage, as well as obstructing the prospect ; another is a very perfect gate at St. John's Square, near Smithfield ; and a third, a piece of the old wall, still standing near the tower. The latter is very interesting, and is not commonly known, being out of sight of the public. I was shown it by a friend, with whom I was dining one day. It is the 84 TOPOGRAPHY OF rear wall of his garden ; and, as near as I can recollect, from thirty to forty feet high. It is a genuine fragment of the old city. But the city of London, although under a distinct municipal government, having valuable immunities and cer- tain great and independent powers of its own, is yet appa- rently merged and lost in the great metropolis. I have un- derstood, and suppose it to be a fact, that the city of Lon- don has 50,000 less inhabitants now than it had 100 years ago. The reason is obvious : the increase of business has turned large districts into shops and warehouses, which were once tenanted as dwelling-houses, and driven out many rookeries and nests of the poor to find a place in other and distant parts of the metropolis of less value. Besides, it is more the fashion of late years for men of business, who can afford it, and many who cannot afford it, to live out of town, or somewhere on its borders, instead of occupying the first and second floors over their counting-rooms and shops, or living anywhere pent up in the city. Hence, as one reason, the unceasing run of omnibuses, stagecoaches, and other carriages, between the city and the skirts of the metropolis. There are 114 parishes in the city of London; and as very many of the churches are deserted by this change in the modes of life and business, it has been gravely proposed by those who better understood the value of pounds, shillings, and pence, than the insurmountable diffi- culty of desecrating a church, that those churches not want- ed should be pulled down, and the ground appropriated to some profitable use. A formal correspondence lately passed between the municipal authorities of London and the bishop of the diocess on this subject ; but the bishop, who regards those edifices as holy, and not knowing how to desecrate them, discouraged their petition. For those who never expect to see London, let it be un- derstood, then, that the principal parts, of which they occa- sionally hear, are situated relatively, as follows : Mainly the business parts are on the east, and the genteel parts on the west. Beginning on the west, Chelsea, Brompton, and Knightsbridge comprehend a large district west of Westmin- ster and its liberties. Immediately on the north of this dis- trict is Hyde Park, having Kensington gardens and palace on the west, and the northwestern regions of the metropolis on the north — a part of which is Paddington, where so many of the business men of the city reside, having a like rela- tion to London as Greenwich to New- York. Westminster and its liberties embrace a large district, having Hyde Park, Knightsbridge, and Chelsea on the west ; the Thames on the east and south, as far as Temple Bar, which is on the western border of the city of London ; and Oxford-street, which corresponds with the north line of Hyde Park, on the north. Immediately on the northern bor- LONDON. 85 der of St. James's Park is St. James's Palace, the royal resi- dence ; at the west end of this park is the new palace, for- merly Buckingham House, now called Pimlico Palace, oc- cupied by the royal family. It is one of the extravagant projects of George the Fourth, and will have cost the nation, when finished and furnished, about one million sterling. The front entrance and enclosure alone have cost j£70,000, or 336,000 dollars. The Parliament Houses are on the bank of the Thames, less than a half mile distant and southeast of Pimlico and St. James's palaces. Immediately across the street, and by the side of the Parliament Houses, stands the ancient and venerable pile of Westminster Abbey. Milbank Penitentiary is up the river from this point about half a mile, near Vauxhall Bridge. Whitehall is directly on the Thames a little below the Parliament Houses. Opposite Whitehall on the same street are the treasury buildings, and Downing- street at right angles with Whitehall-street. Above the treasury buildings are the Horse Guards, so called from be- ing a permanent station for that corps. At the head of Whitehall-street is the noted point of Charing Cross ; and immediately above it lately opened Trafalgar Square, where is to be erected a splendid naval monument ; and the new national gallery of the fine arts, now in building, is on the north side of the square, and in front of St. Martin's Church, called St. Martin's-in-the-fields, though far from being in the fields at present. As Charing Cross is a notable place in the topography of London, and frequently seen in type, and not less often heard pronounced, it may be worthy to observe in passing — that Charing is supposed to have been the name of a village there, where Edward I. erected a cross in memory of his queen, Eleanor. Some suppose, and not without reason, that Charing is a corruption of chere regne, or reine, as there is no record of such a village — the version of which would be — The cross of the dear queen. The stranger, however, looks in vain for the cross, and wonders how the equestrian statue of Charles I. can answer to that name. The cross was demolished as an obnoxious relic of popery ; and the statue itself, which had been put in its place, was sold, after the king was no more, to one John River, a brasier in Hol- born, with orders to break it up ; but he, speculating in poli- tics, chose to keep it till a change of times ; and there it ' stands again, and to this day, the first equestrian statue that was ever erected in Great Britain. At Charing Cross begins the Strand, one of the greatest thoroughfares leading to the city, and extending to Temple Bar under that name, whence it takes successively the names of Fleet-street, Ludgate Hill, and Cheapside, to the bank and Royal Exchange. West of Charing Cross lies Pall Mall, a spacious and fine street, leading to the Palace 8 86 TOPOGRAPHY OF LONDON. of St. James, on which, besides several magnificent club- houses and some unostentatious galleries for the exhibition of specimens of the fine arts, is the Italian Opera House, or King's Theatre. St. James's Palace is at the foot of the street of the same name, and about midway of the northern border of St. James's Park. It is a mean building to look upon — but princely within. " The West End" of London is an indefinite region, and, as I need not say, indicates the atmosphere of the court. It is commonly reckoned to begin at Temple Bar. Fifty years ago I suppose it did ; but I think it has been gradually travelling westward. Still, however, the principal and most popular theatres, Drury Lane, Covent Garden, and the Adel- phi, are supposed to be comprehended in these limits. For the most part, at present, there is not much of the spirit of West End to be found on the east of Regent-street, except by the way of Pall Mall, Charing Cross, and Whitehall, on the route to Westminster Hall. But all who live between Regent-street and Hyde Park, and between St. James's Park on the south and Regent's Park on the north, doubt- less imagine that they are breathing the purest air of nobility. Regent's-street is a modern cut through London, from Carlton House, that was — now Duke of York's monument — to Oxford-street, on a line towards Regent's Park ; and it is one of the finest streets of London, including the two cir- cuses and the quadrant. Langham-street and Portland Place, which make the continuation of Regent's-street towards the park, exhibit their own quiet grandeur, and seem a sort of introduction to the splendid Park-crescent and Park- square, and to the still more magnificent lines and terraces, which encircle Regent's Park nearly to its northern ex- tremity — where are to be found, in a most enchanting re- treat, the Zoological Gardens. The Colosseum is on the east line of Regent's Park — a mountain of a building — where, besides many other things worth seeing, is exhibited a Panorama of London, the original sketches of which were taken minutely from the top of St. Paul's, in 1821, by Mr. Horner, while the cross was taken down and being re- placed. The buildings on the borders of all the parks of London are generally in a style of great magnificence. Regent's Park is quite on the northern border of the me- tropolis, and is a new creation — having been projected and built since 1814. It is the largest of the parks, having four hundred and fifty acres, which is fifty-five in excess of Hyde Park. It is in form circular, supported on the south, east, and west borders, by ranges of magnificent houses and ter- races, many of which are fit for palaces, but opening on the north to a pure country scene, with a range of hills,~em~ THE BRIDGES ON THE THAMES. 87 bracing Hampstead, which is from four hundred to five hun- dred feet above the level of the Thames. This park is encircled by one of the finest drives in the vicinity of London, and may also be penetrated to a car- riage-road circus of about half a mile in circumference in the heart of it. The gardens of this park are not yet opened to the public, on account of the tenderness of the shrubbery. With all its attractions it has not withdrawn the public in any perceptible degree from Hyde Park; although it is probably destined to become a favourite resort. There is a most enchanting water scene in Regent's Park, beyond any thing that has been created about the metropolis. " The parks are the lungs of London." Having taken a glance of the court end of London, we will proceed by way of the river to the denser smoke and greater bustle of its business and commercial parts. Be- ginning at Battersea Bridge and Chelsea old church, some four or five miles up the river from St. Paul's, we descend on the tide, passing under Vauxhall Bridge, a light cast-iron structure, of nine arches, each 78 feet in span and 29 in the height of the arch, making a length of bridge, including the piers, of 860 feet; completed in 1816; cost £150,000 (720,000 dollars). This bridge is about three quarters of a mile above Westminster Abbey. After passing Vauxhall Bridge, immediately on the left is Milbank Penitentiary, en- closing 18 acres within its walls ; cost somewhat less than j£500,000 ; is capable of accommodating 1,000 convicts, 500 of each sex ; established in 1820, and is an experiment. Before arriving at Westminster Bridge, we leave Lambeth Palace on the right, the town residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury, who is the chief hierarch of England ; that is, in settling the precedency between him and the Arch- bishop of York, it was determined that the latter should be styled " Primate of England," and the former " Primate of all England." Westminster Bridge is thrown across the Thames at the Parliament House and Abbey, is built of stone on 15 arches, in length 1,223 feet; was begun 1739 and completed 1750 ; cost £389,000 ($1,867,200). It is a grand structure. From Westminster to Waterloo Bridge by the river is about half a mile, passing Whitehall, Hungerford market, and the Adelphi buildings on the left ; and Lambeth water- works and the shot-tower on the right. These are the most remarkable objects immediately on the banks of the river. The river also turns from a northerly course to the east in this distance. Waterloo Bridge, except the New London, I should rank as the grandest on the Thames; is built of granite ; has nine arches ; in length is 1,242 feet ; was com- menced in 1811, and opened June 18th, 1817, the anniver- 88 THE BRIDGES ON THE THAMES. sary of the battle of Waterloo, in the presence of the Princfe Regent and the Duke of Wellington. In another half mile from Waterloo to Blackfriars' Bridge, we pass the quadrangle of buildings called Somerset House, once a palace, now appropriated as public offices, connected with the government, &c. The Temple Gardens and Inns of Court also present themselves on the same bank, and are the first buildings within the city of London going down. Blackfriars' Bridge is about a quarter of a mile east of the present west boundary of the city ; is stone ; was built between 1760 and 1768, at an expense of .£152,840, or $733,632. It is 995 feet long, and has nine arches. It is now undergoing very considerable repairs. Southwark Bridge is a magnificent work of cast iron of three arches, built between 1814 and 1819. The middle arch is 240 feet in span, and the side arches each 210. The distance between the abutments is 708 feet. Many single castings weigh 10 tons each ; and the whole weight of iron exceeds 5,308 tons. This bridge is directly oppo- site Guildhall, the centre of the city; cost £800,000, or 3,840,000 dollars. The new London Bridge is the best on the Thames, and altogether the most magnificent. It was opened by the king with great pomp and ceremony in August, 1831, hav- ing been six years in building. It is composed of granite from Scotland, and rests upon five arches. The span of the centre arch is 152 feet, rise 32 ; span of the two arches next the centre 140 feet, rise 30 ; span of the extreme arches 130 feet, rise 25 ; length of bridge including the abutments 950 feet. This bridge stands at the foot of the London Monument, erected to commemorate the great fire of 1666, and nearly opposite the Royal Exchange, Bank of England, and Mansion House ; cost £l, 500,000. It is the separation between river and sea navigation, as no vessel of standing masts can go above it. Yet it is but a little below the cen- tre of the metropolis, the lower parts of the river being left open for a harbour, which is constantly crowded with a forest of masts. Of the six bridges we have noticed, those of Westmin- ster, Blackfriars, and London, are not only on the lines of the greatest thoroughfares, but they are free of toll ; and therefore naturally draw the greatest current of passengers. The average daily crossing of foot-passengers at Westmin- ster and Blackfriars' Bridges was ascertained about 20 years ago to be 32,000 for the former and 48,000 for the latter, taking six weeks of summer and six of winter for the count- ing. In July, 1811, there passed over Blackfriars' Bridge in one day, 61,069 foot-passengers; 533 wagons; 1,502 carts and drays ; 999 coaches ; 500 gigs and taxed carts ; and 822 horses. On the same day there crossed over London CHURCHES. 89 Bridge 89,640 foot-passengers; 1,240 coaches; 485 gigs and taxed carts ; 769 wagons ; 2,924 carts and drays ; and 764 horses. It has been stated, though somewhat loosely perhaps, that 125,000 persons in all daily pass over Lon- don Bridge at present. The bridges over the Thames at London are doubtless among the most magnificent structures of the kind in the world. In passing through the metropolis on the river above Lon- don Bridge, we find the shores lined with coal-barges, many deep, for a great portion of the way ; and on the middle of the river, in every direction, are darting and playing the light, sharp-built, and rapid wherries of the watermen, with an occasional heavy-loaded barge floating on the tide. Small steamers are also running up and down the river. Below London Bridge are all the appearances, symptoms, and din of foreign commerce. There one plunges into the midst of shipping, and can hardly make way through it for miles, besides the liability in a wherry of being run down by the steamers that are dashing up and down the river, and occupying the narrow channel left open for a common highway. The steeples and towers of London are less numerous than might be supposed. They cluster somewhat in the city indeed, but in other portions of the metropolis they are rarely seen. I have never been in a situation to count them, when the atmosphere was sufficiently clear to allow me to do it, nor have I ever seen the number of them pub- lished. The highest estimate of churches and chapels of all denominations in the metropolis, which I have seen, is 459. The dissenting chapels are generally plain buildings, scarcely any of which have a tower or steeple. Not being permitted to ring a bell, they have no occasion for a place to put it in. Many of them, indeed, that were built in times of great religious intolerance, were purposely placed out of sight to escape unpleasant visitation from public authorities and the mob. In these days they are more bold, and show their fronts on the streets ; but they are so modest, that a foreigner, not knowing the features by which they are dis- tinguished, might pass by scores of them without observing their character. The steeples of London are not particularly attractive. St. Bride's, Fleet-street, is one of Sir Christopher Wren's best. It was originally two hundred and thirty-four feet high ; but was lowered a little after having been injured by lightning. Bow Church steeple, Cheapside, is more admired than that of St. Bride's. It is over two hundred feet high. The lantern of St. Dunstan's (new), Fleet-street, is satisfac- 8* 90 :-:t. Paul':-;. tory of its kind. St dement Danes and St. Mary's, in the ■.A. are fine mo- \n's-m-the-Fiek-. i bees .one. will be looked at. AH Souls, Lang- ham 1 rkableforil t conical form, coming to a point without a vane. St. Luke's, Chelsea, as a Gothic edifice, must be a P ras, in the North of airily attractive al Church, Reg are, built for Mr. taring, from which he was B. In •-on to these some twenty or more of an ordinary class of towers and steeples are rver the metropolis, looking at, if one had nothing else to do. Westminstei Abb | to be treated of by H and cannot be named hot with great r< a piece of ancient and magnificent r J; u froi the eye can overlook the town, there is St. Panics, a moun- tain'- very thing around, which in itself might owing with its •; mighty world beneath it, and seeming, with great -on, day after if console 1 the nun.' od of And yet, I this building, and imposing as i and thought of by itself, standing in th< it might be conve- nient! within the and tmdei of 8t P< Rome. Tl I rf : all con- for the : n 50 ; and many • :i below t: oi Lon- of the Ths r j e circle of mils on the norl four miles from St. Paul's, is not far short of 410 feet high. Jack Castle, H the highest point, is '< '.'■'. 6 the Thames. T [Is, in x to ten n probably about 500 or 550 feet above the 1 I offer ■ tnre, 1 1 1 great - on, or principal avenues, otng tl f Bank of England and the R I - ■ central position, Vi point, Chea] throat, through winch every thing going and west by th< ue of bl than half a mile long. There is probably no other avenue in the city through wfueh an equal numb' .< the e of a day. At the end of Cheapsjde the current GREAT THOROUGHFARES. 91 divides into two principal streets, one leading in the line of Ludgate Hill, Fleet-street, and Strand, towards Charing Cross and Piccadilly; the other passes through Newgate- street and Holborn. to Oxford-street. The great thorough- fare from the hank to the north is the City-road, branching at the Angel Inn into the New-road towards Paddington, on the loft: and on the right, through Islington to Birmingham, York, &c. On the east from the bank, the two great thoroughfares into the country are by Rishopsgate-street and Shoreditch, through Kingsland and Hackney; and by Whitechapel and Mile-end-road; both towards Cambridge and Essex. There is another great thoroughfare, the Com- mercial-road, branching off at Whitechapel, and leading to the West and East India Doeks. as well as to other places on the river. The first five bridges over the Thames, in- cluding Westminster, lead directly from the northern re- gions oi the metropolis to two central points, on the south side, viz., the Elephant and Castle and Bricklayers 1 Arms, both about a mile from the river, where every thing passing that way between London and the country meet. In eross- ing the river, the three bridges that are "free oi toll. West- minster, Blackfriars, and London, draw the great currents, which are in motion in these directions. These are some oi the principal avenues of the metrop- olis, through which immense tides oi population are con- stantly rolling on foot and m vehicles oi all descriptions. They have the same relation and discharge the same otliees to the innumerable other channels oi circulation, as the principal arteries to the smaller ones and to the \ ems of the human body. 1 had almost forgotten to mention, that the Thames itself is a grand thoroughfare oi its own kind, bearing on its tides oi ebb and tlood more than could con- veniently be counted. The Tower o( London is at the extreme and lower point oi the city on the river. Immediately beyond it are St. Catharine's Peeks, next the London Uoeks. then the New Dock. These doeks are large artificial basins, inland from the river, crowded with shipping from all parts oi the world. The two great West India Uoeks. one for lading and the Other for unlading, are some two or three miles below. The Bast India Uoeks are still beyond, at Ulaekwall ; the latter bemg about 10 miles from London Bridge by the chan- nel of the river, and from three to four by laud. There are also several spacious and important doeks on the opposite side of the river. The shipping that lies m the river is mostly engaged in coasting ami the channel trade; that engaged in foreign commerce more generally lades and Unlades in the doeks. The bustle of the eity and the heavy drudgery o( those parts of the metropolis connected with the shipping, present 92 SOME THINGS IN LONDON. a very different scene from the holyday aspects of the court end of the town, from day to day, the year out and in. In the former is toil ; in the latter is pleasure, where, for about half the year, from midwinter to midsummer, the most splendid equipages roll along in never-ending currents in the latter part of the day. The other half of the year the west end is deserted, while the city and the eastern parts of the metropolis present the same busy scene from the beginning to the end of the year. A dead silence reigns throughout the west end in the early hours of morning, even when the town is most crowded. The fashionable world, who dissipate during the night, do not get in motion again before the public till the latter part of the day. They go to bed about the crowing of the cock. SOME THINGS IN LONDON. The Coffee and Dining rooms — The Swedenborgians— London Charity- Schools and their Singing in Churches — A Scene at St. Andrew's — The bad system of Hackney Coaches, &c. — Sin in the Law. To go back a little, the first morning I awoke in London, and went below to order breakfast, I found myself in a room divided into stalls some six feet deep from the walls and four broad, with a narrow board for a table as a fixture in each, with wooden benches for the length thereof, and par- titions rising as high as one's head while sitting, and above these corresponding scarlet stuff-curtains run on a brass wire, supported at the extremities by small brass posts about an inch in diameter — the whole apparatus constitu- ting a line of recesses entirely round the room, into which any one, two, three, or four persons may retreat, and par- take of a breakfast, dinner, tea, or supper, without any con- nexion with other persons in the apartment. This descrip- tion, with little variation, may answer for most of the cof- fee and dining rooms of London, kept for the ins and outs of transient persons, who have occasion to visit them for the purpose of refreshment. Nobody is supposed to know his neighbour in an adjoining stall, or to have any thing to do with him. There may be two, fifty, or a hundred at the tables at the same time, all strangers to each other — some going out, while others are coming in — some in the middle, while others are in any supposable stage of their repast ; servants being always ready to serve breakfast at any hour of the morning at the shortest notice ; dinner at any hour, or between certain specific hours of the afternoon, such as maybe notified; and tea and supper, as maybe ordered ; AN UNFAIR CUSTOM. 93 the bills of fare for the most part, especially at coffee and dining rooms not connected with hotels, having the price of each item of the provisions for the time marked, so that any one may know the amount of his own bill while he is ordering it. There is no ceremony in these rooms. People come in and go out at their own convenience ; sit and eat with their hats on or off; often, perhaps, in the majority of instances, with hats on. In the better houses, indeed, stalls are wanting, and tables are set for individuals, or small parties, in a common room, where private apartments are not preferred. If travellers, lodging at inns and hotels, choose to order separate rooms for their meals and for sitting, they expect, as is reasonable, to pay for them. The common room is often called the commercial room, especially in country towns. At hotels a common table is sometimes set, where single individuals, not otherwise connected with parties, make a party for the time by consent, though strangers to each other. It is not pleasant, however, as one cannot know what company he will fall into. I remember I was once asked by the^head waiter in one of the principal hotels at Glasgow on the Sabbath, if I would dine at the common table. Supposing it would be less trouble for the servants, as indeed it would, I said yes. I found myself at table with some half dozen gentlemen of good manners, but more disposed to sit and drink wine after dinner than to go to church. For myself I asked to be ex- cused, as soon as I could find a fit place. On leaving next morning I discovered in my bill an enormous item for wine the previous evening. I remonstrated ; but the waiter said, it was customary to divide the bill for wine drank at a com- mon table equally among those who had sat there. I said, " it was matter of conscience with me : I would not be sup- posed to be connected with company who drank so much wine on Sundays, or any other day. I had neither ordered nor drank it, and was no more concerned in it than a man in the moon. Why did you put me there !" The waiter felt the force of my reasoning, as a stranger to the custom, but no doubt had law on his side if I had been disposed to car- ry the matter to an extremity. A magistrate would un- doubtedly have decided that he could not interfere in such a case, although he might have been sorry for my ignorance. The waiter said, " that whatever abatement he should make in my bill, as rendered, would be so much loss to himself, as a servant in the house, he being responsible for it, which would be a hard case." I therefore paid the bill. I suppose a man might be an habitual visiter of the same coffee and dining rooms in London for months and years, and no one, not even the waiter, would be able to know his name, place of abode, or his business, if he were disposed 94 CHURCH OF MR. IRVING. to conceal himself. Unless he were impertinent, or had learned by accident, he would oi' course he ignorant. Nei- ther is there in Great Britain any apparent prying into a guest's history, or after his name, at inns and taverns. The most scrupulous delicacy is observed in this particular. I know not why it should happen m the United States, the moment a traveller arrives at an inn, before he can be as- signed to his rooms, that the bar album is uniformly produ- ced, and a pen put into his hand to record his name and res- idence ! Certainly it is not a police regulation. The following piece of pleasantry, if all of whom this de- mand is made were gifted with as ready wit, might serve as a pattern, and perchance answer a good purpose. It is an extract from a tavern album in the north of England, said to have been inserted at request by the second person named therein : — " Two poets, one Wordsworth, The other Sam Rogers, Came here to-day, They're both queer codgers." My first day in London was the Sabbath. I had my reasons for asking the waiter to direct my way to the Rev. Edward Irving's Church. This gentleman was not so no- torious then, as sirrce, for certain remarkable doings ; at least. 1 was not at the moment aware how far he had ad- vanced in that way. He had indeed acquired a sufficient notoriety before the world to induce me to wish to hear him. The waiter sent me to a small street, running out of Hatton Garden, where Mr. Irving began his career in Lon- don, but which, however, he had long before abandoned for the new and fine church, which had been built for him in Regent's Square, in a distant quarter of the town. I was not undeceived, till I had taken my seat in the chapel, to which I had been directed, and the service had commenced. Decency forbade my going out. although I was disappointed. It proved to be a Swedenborgian or New Jerusalem con- gregation, whose doctrine is not exactly the transcendent- alism of Germany ; etymologieally it is not perhaps inaptly described, as being somewhat hyper-super-transcendental. It is a religion demanding more philosophy in order to be inducted into its mysteries, than ordinary minds can at- tain to. Having passed a large church on my left in the ascent of Holborn Hill, in front of Hatton Garden, and doomed as a stranger for that day to take all things at hazard, it being one of the nearest, I turned my feet that way at the ringing of the bells in the afternoon. ' The congregation was small for so large a church. I have since had occasion to observe, that in London churches and chapels of all denominations CHARITY-SCHOOLS. 95 are usually left nearly vacant in the afternoon, it being the opportunity assigned to servants and the lower orders. I was particularly struck with the appearance of some hundreds of boys and girls in the front galleries, planted as near the organ as they could be placed, plainly but neatly dressed ; the girls being distinguished by caps, capes, and aprons of pure white ; and the boys by garments of their own kind of equal uniformity. These children were trained to accompany the organ, and were in fact the choir for the occasion. These cherub voices, however, are not ordinarily celestial. But at the Foundling Hospital, Brunswick Square, and Christ Church, Newgate-street, they are drilled inces- santly. At the Foundling they are assisted by a corps of professional performers ; at Christ's Church, the singing boys and girls are selected from the very large schools be- longing to the parish ; and being accompanied by a powerful organ, are themselves a most powerful, and sometimes overwhelming choir of the kind. There is a perfect pecu- liarity in the music which they make : an immense and overpowering volume of infant voices melted into one, re- minds us most impressively of the Scripture declaration — " Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hast thou per- fected praise." The stranger in London, who can appreci- ate such performances, and whose feelings are susceptible of their appropriate and elevating influence, ought not to deny himself the pleasure of enjoying them ; above all, if he happens to be in the British metropolis at the time of the great assemblage of the charity-school children at St. Paul's in June, when ten or twelve thousand voices of these sweet cherubs mingle together under that vast and lofty dome, supported and borne on high by the peals of the loud organ, drowning all discordancy, if any there be, as if heaven were opened, and the united anthems of its innumerable hosts had burst upon this nether world — let him not fail to be there. I lingered in the church of St. Andrew — for that is its name — after the congregation had retired, and my attention was attracted to a bustle about the altar, which I now dis- covered to be the assembling of a number of poor people for the baptizing of their children. Many were going to and fro, and the church was quite a scene of confusion, loud talking, and a want of reverential demeanour being ob- servable, as if it were in the street. This state of things continued during the ceremonies of baptism, no endeavours being made to repress these disorders. The administrator seemed not to observe them ; or if so, not to regard them as out of character. I had never seen baptism performed be- fore, but in the midst of the most solemn stillness and at- tention ; and generally in my own country, in the presence of a full congregation. But here it seemed like a matter 96 THE BAD SYSTEM OF of business, as if it were in a market-place, and all turned off as fast as possible. I must confess it was to me a novel, and by no means an edifying sight. But what added to the general confusion, and turned it into a complete riot, was the breaking out of an angry and boisterous dispute in the middle of the church, which appeared to me to be carried on between a beadle (for he wore the church livery, and held in his hand the symbol of his office), and the father of a child, which the father assumed had been beaten by the church officer : " You did strike him." — " I didn't." — " I say you did." — " I say I didn't." And this affirmation and denial were maintained in the most spirited style, and at the top of the lungs of the two parties, for a time, which, in such a place and in such circumstances, seemed very long, till finally they rushed in great fury, and with a continued clamour, past 4he altar to the vestry, shutting to the door, to settle the matter, as I supposed, before some higher author- ity, where the excited father seemed to be resolved to pre- fer his complaint. I speak simply of the facts, as they im- pressed me at the time. On Monday, having breakfasted, I went into the street, and took a cab (cabriolet), a one-horse and two-wheel chaise, or gig, or calash, and ordered the man to drive me to the Exchange, for which he had the conscience to take one shilling and sixpence. He was entitled to eightpence. The system of the licensed public vehicles of London is worthy of a passing notice. They are a necessary conve- nience, and in that sense a necessary evil ; for that they are an evil, in being most admirably contrived to injure the good temper of all who have to do with them, I think will not be contested. They are far more profitable to the government, than pleasant to those who have occasion to use them, the licenses of which for the metropolis bring in the no trifling annual revenue of .£52,000 ; or about $249,600. Besides supporting the wear and tear of the vehicles and horses, paying the drivers, and rendering a satisfactory profit to the owners of these establishments, the aggregate of the fares paid by the public for the use of these run-about town con- veyances, must of course produce this revenue. It were curious to know the whole account : but I have not the re- quisite data. The first evil to the public is, that the vehicles themselves are the most wretched and offensive imaginable, leaving out of view the omnibuses, the latter of which, indeed, are gen- erally excellent, and of the kind as convenient and pleasant as could be. Of course, those who ride in omnibuses must expect to meet with omnibus company — all sorts. The other classes are almost exclusively hackney-coaches and cabriolets, vulgarly called cabs. The former, without ex- ception, I believe, are the worn-out and cast-by carriages HACKNEY-COACHES. 97 of gentlemen, some of which, indeed, when first brought upon the stands, are decent to look at ; and but for the dis- gust excited by imagining what creatures may possibly have been in them last, they would be decent to use. Generally, however, they have been in this particular service apparently for generations, and are kept running just so long as they do not fall down from the rottenness of age ; and as much longer, as the addition of some other old wheel, or of any extra parts that have failed, drawn out from a hopeless wreck, can support them. The cabs cannot last long, because they are forced into a severer service, and are the Jehu-drivers of the town. They are a sort of vehicle con- structed originally for this purpose, with low and strong wheels, a calash top, and an outside seat on the right for the driver, being licensed to carry two passengers within. Their rapid driving, however, soon defaces and cripples them, as they are liable to come in frequent contact with other street furniture, in consequence of the fury with which they are driven. The hackneys are slow, snail-like creepers, on account of the poor, pitiable, and often blind horses, by which they are drawn. A horse that is completely done for every other imaginable use, is brought to Smithfield, or to some other horse-market, and sold for hackney-coach service. A large portion of the cabs are drawn by the same miserable brutes, and most cruelly forced into the extra- ordinary momentum, under which they rush through the streets, by the goad and the whip. I have often got into a cab with a limited time to arrive at a certain place, requiring speed, having been assured by the driver that his horse was fleet, but every application of the whip failing to fulfil the promise, I have been obliged to discharge him at the next stand, and after obtaining a like solemn assurance from another of the class, have found myself worse off than before. I once employed a hackney-coach to take myself and some friends from Fleet-street, by the nearest route, to the Zoo- logical Gardens. We went round Regent's Park, called at the Colosseum, and returned by Regent-street, Pall Mall, and the Strand. The coachman had his prerogative by law to charge by the hour or by the distance ; he chose the latter, and brought in a bill of twelve shillings. Knowing well that the demand was exorbitant, I told him, if he took one six- pence more than what was due to him, I would treat him with the utmost rigour of the law. He took eight shillings. In London and the world over, for this and other matters of the kind, wherever imposition can be practised, the cheap- est and most comfortable way is to make up one's mind always to pay a tax of 25 per cent, over and above all law- ful demands, for the sake of preserving an unruffled temper. The watermen on the Thames are no less vicious, and in E 9 9S national revenue. mail} - - are even more accomplished in their tricks at imposition, as it is more easy for them to evade the laws enacted to control them. Scarcely a daily paper issues from the press, without a report of offences oi these two classes, and yet not a thousandth part oi them is brought, under the cognizance of law. The truth is. the laws themselves are in a great measure iisible for these offences. The imposts on licenses are so grievously ruinous, that decent men will not engage in the business; and they can no more afford to be honest, than to furnish good carriages and good horses. A cab with one horse is r - ur for a license. and in addition to this £% for every month, all in advance, or in all 139 dollars a year: and coaches with two horses, is 1 suppose, in proportion. This tax is paid by the owner of the vehicle. But the driver is not commonly the owner. He engages to pay his master so much per day. whether he finds employment or not : and if he is not employed, he is ruined. His temptation to exorbitancy, therefore, is great. The same is the case with watermen on the river. Both classes are poor, ignorant, and depraved. To increase the .ue the authorities multiply licenses; and this in turn tes the evil. Livery stables are of another class, and horses and car- riages hired from them are always good. But if for a ride of pleasure, and to take a little airing in the country, a man chooses to expend a guinea, half of it. more or less, is a tax to government : and this is the reason why pleasures of this kind are so dear. All pleasures and luxuries in England are taxed most enormously to answer the necessities of govern- ment. Forty-six millions sterling, or 220,800,000 dollars, must be raised annually, from one source and another, to pay the nueresi of the national debt, to support the Army and Navy, to defray expenses of the civil list, &c. &c. LONDON DINING-HOURS. 99 CRIME AND POLICE OF LONDON. London dining-hours — A night encounter of a suspicious personage on Waterloo Bridge — Another less grave — Crime in London — London Police — Thames Tunnel. Among the gravest, most Christian people of London, the common time specified in cards of invitation to dinner is five o'clock. If there be a party, and punctuality be request- ed, the company may possibly be prepared to sit down at half past five ; but an hour's grace is a more general allow- ance. It is making extraordinary despatch, if the hostess feels at liberty to retire with the ladies to the drawing-room in two hours after sitting down. It would be crowding busi- ness quite hard, if the gentlemen should be prepared at the end of another hour to obey the summons from the drawing- room to tea and coffee, and to mingle again in the society of the ladies. And if a guest have any reasons of con- science or convenience for getting home before morning, he may think himself well off if he can find a place to say " good night" by twelve o'clock, without seeming to break in by violence on the social enjoyments of the company to which he has the honour to be admitted. Not unlikely he will be obliged to whisper his apology to whom it is due, and slip away unperceived. For the most fashionable din- ners, in the highest circles, company does not arrive till nine, ten, and eleven o'clock ; and all the ceremonies of the oc- casion are expeditiously done, if they get home to sleep by the time when the sun rises on the world to light and to bless it. The stillest portion of the twenty-four hours at the west end is in the morning, when the world of fashion and of feasting have got snugly fixed in their nests, and when in the city the shops are opening, and the business parts of the population are moving to their various tasks. His majesty, the King of Great Britain, and the Queen, are more exemplary. While I was being shown the Pavil- ion, which is the royal residence at Brighton, I asked my attendant, one of the chief of the household, as we were in the dining-room, " How many servants commonly wait here at dinner V — "About three times the number of guests. First is the range of pages nearest the table ; next, the foot- men ; and along by the sideboards is another set of waiters ; each of these three classes of a nearly equal number." — "And what are the common hours of eating V — "Their majesties breakfast at nine, lunch at two, and dine at seven in the evening." I did not make a minute of these answers, E 2 100 A MIDNIGHT SCENE IN LONDON. and depend upon my memory ; but I believe they are right. " And how long do they sit at dinner V — " Her majesty and the ladies generally retire soon after eight o'clock ; and the king with his company soon afterward joins the queen, and coffee is ordinarily served by nine o'clock, all in the course of two hours. After which, besides that the queen's band is in attendance during dinner, the evening is principally de- voted to music, in the music saloon where you saw the or- gan," &c. I understood that the royal family generally dis- persed before midnight. This was represented to me as the ordinary routine of the day, by which it appeared that the king and queen were regular in their habits, and not very late in retiring at night or in rising in the morning. It was on a day of December, 1831, when I had lodgings in the Adelphi, Strand, that I accepted an invitation to dine with a small party in Stamford-street, on the opposite side of the river. Not being very fond of late hours, I succeed- ed in getting away, though I was the first to leave, a little before twelve o'clock. The nearest and most direct road to my lodgings was across Waterloo Bridge, the whole distance being a little more than half a mile. If any one is bound to make an apology for using his legs to get home from a party at such an hour, it may perhaps partly suffice to observe, that coaches do not stand just in that neighbourhood. At any rate, being able-bodied, and possessed of tolerable agil- ity, I bolted into the street without sense of impropriety or fear of peril, and making the best of my way, soon found myself past the turnstile at the south end of the bridge. Even in the daytime, as is well known to Londoners, this bridge is little frequented ; in the evening less ; at the still and solemn hour of midnight, and near the shortest days of winter, scarcely at all. The stars were concealed by smoke and clouds ; the lamps of that vast metropolis, beaming faintly up towards heaven, made the darkness visible ; on the left, all along the shore towards Whitehall, the full glare of an occasional lamp down upon the glassy bosom of the Thames, threw up its sheet of scattered rays ; the arched and regular lines of light across Westminster Bridge pre- sented a beautiful vision ; and down the river the lamps of Blackfriars' and Southwark bridges rivalled each other to give enchantment to the scene, in the midst of the twink- lings which darted from the confused mele of lights from either shore. But the prettiest of all was the scene directly before me, created by the perspective of the two ranges of lamps on the sides of Waterloo Bridge, drawing nearer to- gether as the vista extended and approached the Strand. This bridge is a dead level. I could see distinctly from one gate to the other, and not a human being was upon it. I passed the turnstile on the right, after giving the keeper his penny, and hearing the tick of the clockwork, which forces A SURPRISE. 101 him to be honest. This contrivance is admirable, as it ena- bles an overseer at the end of a week, by his key, to open a secret chamber of machinery, and count the number of pennies which the keeper has received during that period — an ingenious check on his dishonest propensity, but some- what of a libel on the character of the lower orders, as must be confessed. As was natural, I kept the side to which I was thus intro- duced, and walked on at peace with myself, and I hope with Heaven, admiring the stillness with which I was immedi- ately surrounded at that dead hour of night, in the midst of such a world of human beings. The distant rumbling of carnages, however, along the pavements of the streets, and that peculiar hum which accompanies it, when heard at a little distance, and occasioned by the street-talk and night- rioting of so great a city, admonished me that the world were not all asleep. But the twinkling lamps, everywhere to be seen, like the stars in an open sky, and the regular ap- proaching lines immediately before me, were most attractive of all. It may be observed, that over each end of the piers of this bridge, as of most of the others, the jutting out of the balus- trade forms a recess, in which are seats for passengers to stop and rest, if they please ; or to loiter for any purpose that may best suit themselves ; and the balusters are sufficiently high to conceal persons seated there from those who are coming and going, till the moving passengers get directly opposite the recess, in which those at rest happen to have their place. Without suspecting, or imagining, that any person could find reason for being lodged in one of these recesses at such a time of night, I carelessly walked along, musing upon the strange vision that surrounded me, and was thoroughly absorbed in my own thoughts. As I came near the middle of the bridge, opposite one of the recesses above described, a man suddenly leaped out, planted himself be- fore me, and in a plaintive, beseeching tone, implored my arm to help him home, as he was in great distress. Thoughts at such a moment are quick. That he should have kept himself invisible till that moment — that he could spring out from his ambush with an agility, indicating full vigour and the greatest sprightliness of body — and the evident affecta- tion of his whole manner and voice, aping distress, without being able to demonstrate it — (for nature in such a matter never deceives) all told the whole story, as quick as one thought can succeed another under such quickening occa- sions. I reasonably expected the next moment a more vio- lent assault. I made as if I would pass — the fellow inter- rupted me. I felt a horror at the idea of a close brush, to which he himself seemed in no wise disinclined. For one unpleasant moment we stood face to face — to me unpleasant 9* 102 NARROW ESCAPE. — for by this time no doubt could remain of his design. To my ineffable satisfaction, however, he suddenly and unex- pectedly withdrew, and allowed me to pass. As I left him behind, apprehending his advance upon me in rear, I turned my head over my shoulder, and saw the secret of my de- liverance : two men had just entered upon the bridge, and were coming fast upon us. I know not why I did not stop to demand assistance to secure the arrest of the individual who had just interrupted me. I was indeed for the moment quite unmanned, and pushed directly to clear the bridge, which being accomplished, and finding myself safe in the Strand, and the street full of passengers, I must confess, that I felt the perspiration trickling down my whole frame, by the violent reaction of a sense of relief, after such a sense of danger. Even if I had been sufficiently self-possessed to under- take by calling help to secure the fellow who had stopped me, and had I succeeded, still he had committed no assault ; he had done me no harm ; he had only implored my assist- ance in his pretended distress ; and of course nothing crimi- nal could have been proved against him. Never before or since in London, during nearly four years' residence, did I meet with any thing of the kind to startle me. Such is the ubiquity and vigilance of the police, that there is no danger to be apprehended in passing through any of the principal streets at any hour of night, unless it be in one of those fogs, which not unfrequently in winter settle upon London, and render a walk in any street, without com- pany, absolutely appalling. I have been lost on ground as familiar to me as the room which I occupy ; and when half way between two lamps at the ordinary distance from each other, I could not know that either of them was lighted. Persons caught out at such times, if alone, are very much exposed to thieves and robbers, who are always on the alert to improve their opportunities. I should not perhaps say, that I have never since been startled from a like cause. I lodged for many months at No. 9, Amelia-place, Brompton ; and in passing to and from the city, was accustomed to turn the right angle at the north end of Brompton Crescent, where for a long time, and till within a few months, there was no lamp) — I mean none im- mediately at the corner. On that account I never consid- ered it exactly a safe place at a late hour. One can never know, till he arrives at the very point of the angle, who he may meet on turning it — and it is a very retired place. 1 had engaged a hackney-coach to call for me at six o'clock precisely one morning in the winter, to take me to the city for a stagecoach going into the country. Six o'clock came, but not the man. Being impatient, and afraid of losing my seat, I threw on my cloak, took my umbrella and carpet-bag ANOTHER ENCOUNTER. 10'3 under my arms, and started off on foot, to rouse the hackney- coach at a stable just around the said angle of the Crescent. I met the lamplighter extinguishing his lamps in a cloudy morning, and before a beam of day had appeared, leaving all darkness behind himself and before me. " Why do you put out the lamps before daylight ?" I said. " I am ordered to do it," was the sullen reply. It was to lighten the taxes, that I was left without light at an hour when it was most needed. Not a lamp was burning in the whole line of Brompton Crescent, or in the neighbourhood ; and yet I was doomed by this accident to pass the very corner, which I had always dreaded, in total darkness, at an hour when honest folks were all asleep, except for some such reason as called me out. I could not see any thing two rods before me, while, in the stillness of the hour, my own steps might be heard for a quarter of a mile. I was "bundled up in my cloak, with my bag under one arm and umbrella in another, and thus disabled, not only for flight, but for the least resist- ance, if assaulted. By this time the lamplighter — rather the lamp-extinguisher, was half a mile off, and all darkness between him and me, and before me. I approached the corner — and to my utter horror a man stood at the very point, facing me, and awaiting my approach ! I could not retreat, for there was not twelve feet between us when the darkness first permitted me to see him. He stood on the kerb of the sideway, about six feet from the wall, and my course lay between the wall and him. There was no time to make an election, as I was altogether in his power. I affected not to regard him, and attempted to pass. He remained motionless, staring at me, as if he had a right to scrutinize and examine me from top to toe. A reflection from his glazed hat showed me that he was a policeman. " Well,*' said I, " it's very wrong to put out the lamps at this hour." — " Very wrong," said he. " But" — approaching and feeling after my bundle — " what have you got under your arm here V At that moment the coach I was in pur- suit of drove out of the yard about two rods before us, and the interview which took place between me and the coach- man, and my getting into the coach, convinced the police- man that he had less reason to suspect me, than I had to fear him, when we first met. As to the case on Waterloo Bridge, all to whom I men- tioned the circumstances concurred with my own impres- sion at the moment of the encounter, as to the assailant's purpose. The manner of the villain could not be mistaken. Had it been a case of real and urgent distress, as he affected, he would naturally have called for assistance from the place where he lay, and not have sprung like a lion on his prey, and planted himself at my feet, and danced around, and so circumvented me that I could not pass. I was walk- 104 CRIME IN LONDON. ing leisurely with an undisturbed, and I may add, unsus- pecting sense of security ; and though I might have been surprised at an unexpected appeal, by a plaint of distress, from one of those recesses, I do not think I should have been startled. Had I been doubtful, I should have crossed the bridge, and returned with a policeman. The only prob- able way, for a person in real distress, in such a situation to obtain assistance, was to remain, as was natural, in his re- cumbent or sitting posture. It was on the whole a tempting place for an experiment of the kind. The passengers on that bridge in the dead of night are known to be few. A fellow with such designs might remain upon it all night waiting his opportunities, without being known to the gate-keepers to be there ; for one of them must necessarily be ignorant of his admission, and the other that he had not gone off. If the unsuspecting passenger, being assaulted, should raise a cry of alarm, assistance must necessarily be tardy, and the robber, having accomplished his object, would have nineteen chances, if not ninety-nine, to one of escape, by declaring himself to be the assaulted, and running off the bridge to rouse the police ; and being off, he would be out of reach, even though he might have stabbed and thrown his victim into the river; all which might be done in a moment, if there was great inequality in the physical strength and preparation of the parties — a thing to be discovered, and a question first to be settled, by the assailant Murder would undoubtedly be the safest plan, as the person robbed, if not otherwise injured in his person, would naturally be upon the robber's heels at the gate ; if only wounded or knocked down, he might be a witness on the spot to prevent the escape, or afterward to ensure conviction of the criminal. " Dead men tell no tales." I know not that I shall have a fitter place than this, as the subject is now up, to attempt a brief development of the system of vice and crime in London. '" Inconsequence of the number of criminals and frequency of crime, which have been voluminously dwelt upon by various writers, the un- investigating inhabitant, or the inconsiderate visiter of the metropolis, might be tempted to conclude that within its limits there was no safety for property or life. But although there certainly are numerous classes of persons, consisting of plunderers in every shape, from the midnight robber and murderer to the poor perpetrators of petty pillage, — from the cultivated swindler and sharper to the daring street pickpocket ; and although thousands of men and women, following the occupation of roguery ,and prostitution, daily rise scarcely knowing how they are to procure subsistence for the passing hour, yet, when the extent of the population, merchandise, and commerce is considered, it is matter of surprise that so little open and daring inroad is made upon our persons .and property. There are thousands of persons in this metropolis CRIME IN LONDON. 105 (which may be said, from the night and day work necessarily pursued in so trading a city, never to sleep), who have for years passed along the streets at all hours, without ever being robbed or seriously molested. Robbers lay wait for the timid and unwary, the dissolute and the drunken ; they seldom intercept the man who is steadily pursuing his course, without intermingling with suspicious company, or passing along by-streets. At night, persons should always prefer the leading public streets ; in them there are few lurking-holes ; and besides, in case of at- tack, there are almost sure to be passengers who will render assistance when they hear calls for help. Much, of course, depends on a per- son's own resolution and discretion. "Mr. Colquhoun very justly traces the origin of much of the crime that exists to the prevalence of public houses, bad education of appren- tices, servants out of place, Jews, receivers of stolen goods, pawnbro- kers, low gaming-houses, smuggling, associations in prison, and pros- titution. Not fewer than 30,000 prostitutes are supposed by Mr. C. to live in London, and it is presumed that eight tenths of these die pre- maturely of disease and misery, having previously corrupted twice their own number of young girls and young men. According to details fur- nished by the Guardian Society, and noticed in the Commons' Police Report, ' out of three parishes consisting of 9,924 houses, and 50,050 inhabitants, there are 360 brothels, and 2,000 common prostitutes.' " One of the chief encouragements of crime undoubtedly is the re- ceiving of stolen property. In the metropolis Mr. C. believes there are upwards of 3,000 receivers of various kinds of stolen goods, and an equal proportion all over the country, who keep open shops for the pur- pose of purchasing at an under price, often for a mere trifle, every kind of property brought to them, and this without asking a single question. He further supposes that the property purloined and pilfered in and about the metropolis, may amount to 700,000/. in one year. There ex- ists in the metropolis a class of dealers extremely numerous, who keep open shops for the purchase of rags, old iron, and other metals. These are divided into wholesale and retail dealers. The retail dealers are the immediate purchasers, in the first instance, from the pilferers or their agents, and as soon as they collect a sufficient quantity of iron, brass, or other metals, worthy the notice of a large dealer, they dispose of it for ready money. Others are employed in the collection of old rags, and other articles purloined in the country. " Robbery and theft have, in many instances, been reduced to a reg- ular system. Houses intended to be entered during the night are pre- viously reconnoitred and examined for days preceding. If one or more of the servants are not already associated with the depredators, the most artful means are used to obtain their assistance, and when every previous arrangement is made, the mere operation of robbing a house becomes a matter of little difficulty. Night coaches promote, in many instances, the perpetration of burglaries and other felonies. Bribed by a high reward, the coachmen enter into the pay of nocturnal depre- dators, and wait in the neighbourhood untd the robbery is completed, and then draw up at the moment the policemen are going their rounds, or otf their stands, for the purpose of conveying the plunder to the house of the receiver, who is generally waiting for the issue of the enterprise. " The sharpers, swindlers, and rogues of various descriptions have undergone something like a classification by different writers ; and al- XJ o 106 CRIME IN LONDON. though such an effort must be necessarily imperfect, partially to follow the example in this place may not be without its use. The following is a list of some of the species of cloaked marauders that beset the un- wary in this great metropolis — they deceive few but the ignorant and unthinking ; those, however, afford too rich a harvest. " 1. Sharpers who obtain licenses as pawnbrokers, and are uni- formly receivers ef stolen goods. " 2. Swindlers who obtain licenses to act as hawkers and pedlers, and establish fraudulent raffles, substitute plated goods for silver, sell and utter base coin, deal in smuggled goods, and receive stolen goods, with a view to dispose of them in the country. " 3. Swindlers who take out licenses as auctioneers. These open shops in different parts of the metropolis, with persons at the doors usu- ally denominated barkers, to invite strangers to walk in to attend the mock auctions. In these places various articles of silver plate and household goods are offered for sale, made up slightly, and of little in- trinsic value. Associates, called puffers, are in waiting to raise the article beyond its value, when on the first bidding of a stranger it is immediately knocked down to him, and, when it is too late, he discov- ers the snare he has fallen into. In addition to the price at which the article may be knocked down, they add certain sums for expenses, duty, &c. " 4. Swindlers who raise money by pretending to be discounters of bills and money-brokers. These chiefly prey upon young men of prop- erty, who have lost their money by gambling, or spent it in extrava- gant amusements. " 5. Jews who, under the pretence of purchasing old clothes and metals of various sorts, prowl about the houses of men of rank and for- tune, holding out temptations to their servants to pilfer and steal small articles, which they purchase at a trifling portion of their value. It is calculated that 1,500 of these people have their daily rounds. "6. Swindlers who associate together for the purpose of defrauding tradesmen of their goods. One assumes the character of a merchant, hires a genteel house, with a counting-house, and every appearance of business ; one or two of his associates take upon them the appearance of clerks, while others occasionally wear a livery ; and sometimes a carriage is set up, in which the ladies of the party visit the shops, in the style of persons of fashion, ordering goods to their apartments. " 7. Sharpers who take elegant lodgings, dress fashionably, and as- sume false names. These men pretend to be related to persons of real credit and fashion, produce letters familiarly written to prove intimacy, and when they have secured their good graces, purchase wearing ap- parel and other articles, and then disappear with the booty. " Besides these descriptions of rogues ' who live by their wits,' there are villains who associate systematically together for the purpose of discovering and preying upon persons from the country, or any ignorant person who is supposed to have money, or who has visited London with the view of selling goods, who prowl about the streets where shop- men and boys are carrying parcels, and who attend inns at the time that coaches and wagons are loading and unloading. These have re- course to a variety of stratagems, according to the peculiar circumstan- ces of the case, and in a multitude of instances succeed. Cheats, called duffers, go about the streets offering bargains, and attend public nouses, inns, and fairs, pretending to sell smuggled goods of India and other CRIME IN LONDON. 107 foreign manufacture. In offering their goods for sale, they discover, by long-exercised acuteness, the proper objects to practise upon, and seldom fail to deceive the unwary purchaser, and to pass off forged country bank-notes, or base coin, in the course of dealings of any extent. " There are many female sharpers, who dress elegantly, personate women of fashion, attend masquerades, and instances have been known in which, by extraordinary effrontery, they have forced themselves into the circle of St. James's. One is said to have appeared in a stvie of peculiar elegance on the king's birthday in 1795, and to have pilfered, in conjunction with her husband, who was dressed as a clergyman, to the amount of 1,700/. without discovery or suspicion. Houses are kept where female cheats dress and undress for public places. Thirty or forty of these generally attend masquerades in different characters, where they realize a considerable booty. " In addition to this detail of swindlers and cheats may be mentioned gamblers. The principal gambling-houses are situated in St. James- street, Pall Mall, Bury-street, the Quadrant, and their vicinity. Some of them are supported by subscriptions, such as Crockford's in St. James-street, and others are the property of ruined gamblers and pet- tifogging attorneys. The principal houses, or ' hells,' as they have been characteristically termed, are only open when the town is full. Play is there carried on every day from one o'clock in the afternoon throughout the night. The games most in vogue are rouge et noir, un deux cinque, roulette, and hazard, at which sums of all amounts, from one shilling upwards, are staked. Splendid suppers and choice wines are given at these establishments, and luxuries of every description are lavished in order to attract the inexperienced. The profits of a well- known hell, for one season, have been calculated at 150,000/. In one night a million of money is said to have changed hands at this place. "As to the extent of crime, some few particulars may not be here out of place. Mr. Colquhoun estimates that, in the metropolis and its environs, there are 6,000 licensed ale-houses, constantly hold- ing out seductive lures to the labouring classes. To dram-drinking he, and most writers on the subject who speak from experience, attrib- ute the origin of much calamity and crime among the poor and indi- gent ; indeed, it appears that the very scenes of idle and unprincipled dissipation often witness the commencement of dishonest practices, as the publicans of London stated to the House of Commons, on applying for relief on the subject, that they were robbed of pewter pots to the amount of 100,000/. annually. 14 When it is recollected that the splendid ' gin-shops' rise in mag- nificence on the increasing depravity of the lower orders, we are com- pelled with sorrow to denounce that improvidence which expends in liquid poison a fund of sufficient magnitude to establish a temple of comfort and enjoyment for the working classes. " According to the returns made to Parliament, we look in vain for the proofs of the decrease of crime. The number of committals to the jails of London and Middlesex, from 1811 to 1817, amounted to 13,415; and in an equal period from 1821 to 1827, to 19,883; being an increase of 48 per cent., although the population has not increased more than 19 per cent. The number of persons committed in 1828 amounted to 3,560. The entire number committed in 1832 was 3,739. The number of executions has greatly diminished since 1829, 108 CRIME IN LONDON. only one twentieth of the whole number sentenced haying suffered death." Since Colquhoim was at the head of the police, to whom we are indebted for the substance of the information con- tained in this extract, some changes have taken place. First, the number of prostitutes is supposed to have in- creased largely, and is commonly believed to range from 40,000 to 50,000. In 1831, the number was stated at " nearly 60,000," in " an appeal to the clergy, addressed more par- ticularly to the bishops and dignitaries of the Church of England, on the state of religion, morals, and manners in the British Metropolis." It was stated by the same author- ity, that there was " at least an equal number of thieves, coiners, and pickpockets, living by the daily depredations they commit on the property of the people." The number of licensed ale-houses and gin-shops, and consequently intemperance, together with the vices it gen- erates, have increased immensely. It would appear, however, from the official reports of criminal proceedings in the metropolis, that overt crime has diminished ; which is attributed to the greater efficiency of the police establishment. It is stated by the authority above named — "An Appeal," &c. — as " a well-known fact, that in the West End of the town, there are no less than forty gambling-houses of the first order, which have long been desecrated in the public journals, under the dark but appropriate appellation of ' hells.' 1 .... The Sabbath is the high day of these estab- lishments. ( ! ) The sums won and lost in these resorts of fashionable dissipation have been stated at the annual amount of £7,000,000 (!) There are no fewer than 8,000 lords and right honourable gentlemen and ladies, who regu- larly pay their visits to these abodes, where, upon an aver- age, the sum of £7,000 is lost and won every night these houses are open for play. . . (!) That which strikes the mind of the beholder with the most appalling feelings, is the immense sums staked by females of distinction." (!) This average of £7,000,000 a year and £7,000 a day, for the forty hells at the West End, is manifestly on a much smaller scale of gambling, than the £1,000,000 stated by Leigh, in the previous extracts, to have exchanged hands " in one night" at one house ! There is one mode of crime (indeed there are many) not adverted to in the previous specifications, viz., that of rob- bing banks. I will mention two instances : First, the case of the Bank of Swansea, South Wales. This account I received second-hand, and in a way not pretending to minute accuracy. It is sufficient, however, ROBBING OF BANKS. 109 as I suppose, to illustrate the mode or system. It is a dis- tinct calling of a privileged and high order of thieves — or has been so. I believe it is not so successful of late years. London is of course the hiding-place of the band, and the business requires the entire devotion of associated and various talent, as well as capital. When they have got well a-going, it may be supposed they have capital enough. One essential part of the art consists in the manufacture of false keys ; and another in obtaining such facilities of doing business with the bank selected to be robbed, and showing such address in managing them, as to obtain ex- act patterns of all its modes of access to the vaults and chests of money without being suspected. Of course it must take time. The false keys are manufactured in London, and a constant and protracted intercourse must be kept up between headquarters and the point of assault. In the case of the Bank of Swansea, when all the prepar- ations had been made, it was entered on Sabbath evening, when people were at church, robbed, and left otherwise as it was found, with every lock fast and uninjured. It was not discovered till Monday morning, and the thieves arrived and were secreted in London before they could be over- taken. Besides a vast amount of available funds, they had carri- ed away important papers, which could be of no use to anybody but the bank. For the restoration of these a regular negotiation was opened through an attorney, who, by appointment, met one of the gang in London ; they dined together, amicably arranged the price to be paid by the bank ; the attorney advanced the money, and took the word of the thief for the delivery of the papers at a time and place agreed on. The papers were restored accord- ingly ; but the thieves were never apprehended. I under- stand that one or more of them, having been since con- victed and brought to justice for other crimes, have confes- sed to that robbery. The other case is the robbery of the Bank of Paisley at Glasgow, in 1811, by Mackcoull and his associates, which by similar means, and after occupying several months, was completely successful, and the robbers arrived safe in Lon- don with their booty. In 1820, Mackcoull had the astonish- ing boldness to prosecute the bank for the payment of some of the notes of which he himself had robbed it, and was detected, tried, and convicted. " The Life and Trial of James Mackcoull 1 ' was published at Edinburgh in 1822, as developing a remarkable series of daring and desperate ad- ventures, exceeding any of the accounts in "Johnson's Lives of Highwaymen." It is remarkable, I believe, that the most successful rob- beries of banks in the United States have been done by 10 110 LONDON POLICE. pupils directly or mediately connected with the London school. When they cannot find enough to do there, or are circumvented, they come to America ; and from their igno- rance of the country, they are much sooner brought to jus- tice here than in England. In connexion with crime in London, the interesting sys- tem of the London police establishment may be considered worthy of a brief notice. " The police of such a metropolis as that of London cannot fail to excite interest in the minds of inhabitants as well as of visiters ; for next to the blessings which a nation may derive from an excellent con- stitution and system of general laws, are those advantages which result from a well-regulated and energetic police, conducted and enforced with purity, activity, vigilance, and discretion. " The City of London, as already stated, is under the control of its own magistracy, consisting of the lord mayor and aldermen. There are two police-offices : one in the Mansion-house, where the lord mayor presides ; and the other at Guildhall, where the aldermen sit in rotation. All cases which occur east of King-street are taken to the Mansion-house, and those west of King-street to Guildhall. Both offices usually commence business at 12 o'clock. " The principal police officers under the lord mayor and aldermen, are two marshals, under whom are eight marshalmen, whose business it is to attend the lord mayor on all state occasions, to attend the courts of aldermen and common council, the Old Bailey sessions, and to superintend the management of the inferior officers of police. The city has also day and night patrol ; and Smithfield patrol, who attend on market-days to keep order. " Besides the general police of the city, similar to that of Westmin- ster, each ward appoints beadles, constables, patrol, watchmen, and street-keepers, according to its size. " The Metropolitan Police, established by Sir R. Peel, comprises all parts of the metropolis and its vicinity out of the jurisdiction of the city, and within twelve miles of Charing Cross. These are placed under the control of a board of police, consisting of three commission- ers. This new police was commenced in several of the parishes in Westminster, Sept 29, 1829, and gradually extended to the other districts. The old watch-rates were abolished, and a general police tax substituted instead of them. The metropolitan police district is formed into divisions, varying in size, but having the same number of men and officers. In each is a station or watch-house, from which point the duty is carried on. Every division is designated by a local name, and a letter of the alphabet. Each division is again divided into eight sections, and each section into eight beats, the limits of which are clearly defined. " The police force consists of as many companies as there are divis- ions. Each company comprises one superintendent, four inspectors, sixteen sergeants, and 144 police constables. The company is divided into sixteen parties, each consisting of one sergeant and nine men. Four sergeants' parties, or one fourth of the company, form an inspec- tor's party. The whole is under the command of the superintendent. Each man is marked on the collar of his coat with the letter of his LONDON POLICE. Ill division, and a number corresponding with his name in the books of the office, so that he may at all times be recognised. The first six- teen numbers in each division denote the sergeants. All the police- men are dressed in blue uniform, and at night wear dark brQwn great- coats. Each man is furnished with a rattle, a staff, and a lantern. " The policemen are on duty at all hours, but of course a greater number are employed at night than in the day. One part of the force continues on duty from the evening till midnight, and the other from midnight till morning. The day police is also relieved in the same manner. The night police is of great utility in cases of fire, as in the watch-house of each division is kept an account of the names of the turncocks, and of the places where engines are kept. Besides the parochial engines, many public bodies are provided with them ; and the principal ensurance-offices have engines stationed in various dis- tricts, with active men and horses. Water is supplied immediately by means of fire-plugs. " Police -Offices. For those parts of the metropolis out of the juris- diction of the city, twenty-seven stipendiary magistrates are appointed. Three at Bow-street, under a jurisdiction long established, and twenty- four by a statute called the ' police act,' passed in 1792. " These twenty-four have eight different offices assigned to them, at different distances in Westminster, Middlesex, and Surrey ; namely, one in each of the following streets : Bow-street, Great Marlborough- street, Hatton Garden, Worship-street, Shoreditch, Lambeth-street, Whitechapel, High-street, Marylebone, Queen Square, Westminster, and Union-street, Southwark. Besides these, there is the Thames police-office, Wapping. " The duty of the magistrates in these offices extends to several im- portant judicial proceedings, which, in a variety of instances, they are empowered and required to hear and determine in a summary way ; particularly in cases relating to the customs, excise, coaches, carts, pawnbrokers, persons unlawfully pawning the property of others, &c. Their duty also extends to the cases of persons charged with being disorderly, or brought for examination under charges of treason, mur- der, felony, fraud, and misdemeanors of every description. At each of these offices there are three magistrates ; two of whom attend every day except Sunday, and one every evening ; two clerks, an office- keeper, &c. Each office has from eight to twelve constables attached to it, who are termed ' police officers.' Their pay from government is only one guinea per week ; and for the rest of their means of exist- ence they depend on the profits arising out of the services of sum- monses, warrants, &c, and portions of penalties. " The office for regulating disputes relating to hackney-coaches has been removed from Essex-street to Bow-street, a circumstance which appears to have rendered the administration of justice in that particular less easy and certain. " The police magistrates are now almost invariably selected from among barristers, according to regulations established by Lord Sid- mouth. They have each an annual salary of 600/., and the resident magistrate has the house in which the office is held to live in. " The Bow-street police-office is upon a more enlarged scale than the rest. It has three magistrates, with salaries of 800/. per annum ; the chief magistrate having 500/. a year in addition, instead of fees. He has also 500/. per annum for superintending the horse-patrol. The 112 LONDON POLICE. expense of this office, for a recent year, was 12,270/., while that of the seven other offices, not including the Thames police, was 24,196/. The whole expense, horse-patrols, Thames police, &c, for the same year, amounted to 51,796/. Besides the usual number of constables, horse-patrols ride every evening and night on the principal roads, to the distance of ten or fifteen miles from town. They have small houses to reside in on their various beats, with tablets bearing the title * Horse-Patrol Station' affixed to each. This body of men is well armed, and is under the direction of chief magistrates of this office. The chief magistrate of the Bow-street office communicates daily with the secretary of state for the home department, as do the magis- trates of the other offices, when matters of deep interest affecting the public tranquillity require such communication. Besides this, all the offices make monthly returns of the informations received, and of per- sons committed and discharged, which return from each office is pre- sented by one of its magistrates, that inquiries may be made if neces- sary. "The Thames Police was established in 1798, for the purpose of re- pressing the numerous depredations on the Thames, which had then become notorious. Its importance will be admitted, when it is recol- lected that in this river are engaged upwards of 13,000 vessels, which annually discharge and receive more than three millions of packages. The superintendence of this department of the police extends from Vauxhall to Woolwich, embracing the quays, docks, wharves, &c, of both banks of the river, with the exception of the space from Tower stairs to the Temple, belonging to the jurisdiction of the city. There are three principal stations : at Somerset House, at Wapping, and at Black- wall ; and between these, three boats are constantly plying at night. The chief office at Wapping is open during the whole night." It will be understood, that the Metropolitan Police is dis- tinct from that of the city of London. The system has operated so well, that the city authorities seem inclined lately to abandon their own and adopt this. It has been shown, that besides being more efficient, it will be a great saving of money. % The next day after my encounter with the suspicious per- sonage on Waterloo Bridge, I took in my head to visit the Thames Tunnel; and being somewhat of a pedestrian, I went on foot and alone. For the benefit of those who may wish to see this subterranean, or rather submarine, work of human enterprise and art, and who have never plunged into the dark and crooked ways and filthy regions of that great city, let me advise them either to take a passage by the river, or inquire well the* farthest way round, that may conduct them most pleasantly, or least disagreeably, to this far and out-of-the-way place. Like an American Indian, who lays his course through the forest in a direct line, and follows it up by the suggestions of instinct, having arrived at London Bridge, thus far and no farther acquainted, I be- gan to inquire the shortest way to the " Thames Tunnel," THAMES TUNNEL. 113 and failed not to receive civil answers in the outset, while among the civilized portion of the metropolis. It was eleven o'clock ; and the morning had showed symptoms of a Lon- don dark day of December. He who has never seen such a day in London itself, cannot understand it. If one hap- pens to be sitting at his table, reading or writing, he per- ceives the shades coming on, not unlike those experienced in fainting, and he doubts, perhaps, whether it be nature without or within. They thicken, and come rolling on like waves; and now he cannot see to read. He rings his bell and calls for candles, and orders the servant to close the blinds, that he may have perfect night, rather than be half way between. In all the shops of the town, the gas-lights are set in full blaze. If it happens to be night, alas ! for the wanderer. The stagecoaches come slowly into town by the aid of link-boys (links are torches), dancing along at the heads of the horses, in expectation of a sixpence from the coachman, if they have come miles enough to have earned it. One of these fogs came over London on the queen's birthday night, and it was not a little amusing to observe the throngs groping about the streets in search of the illumina- tions ! and link-boys leading the way, brandishing their flambeaux, and crying out, " Here is the illumination .'" and then bowing — " Remember the link-boy, sir." The day I went to see the Thames Tunnel was one of these. The waves of darkness rolled over the metropolis. The Tunnel is a good long mile, as I should think, below London Bridge ; and having been begun on the south side of the river, the way to approach the only entrance, most directly from the city, on foot, leads through the lowest, vilest regions of the Borough of Southwark — Bermondsey and Rotherhithe. I wandered on, dodging this way and that way, asking, and as often forgetting my direction. It grew darker, and the lanes I had to thread became narrower, fil- thier, and more intricate. I asked again. " You are going the wrong way, sir. Yonder" — second, or third, or fourth turning, to the right or left, as might be. Where lamps or lights of any kind were to be had, they began to light them up. The ragged and filthy creatures in the streets stared at me, seeming to say within themselves—-" He does not be- long here." Some of them followed me with observing look, till I had turned a corner, or was lost in the fog. Now and then I stumbled on a ruffian, nendly-looking form ; and he, as I thought, was sure to mark me. It was a region of barbarians, and I was bewildered and lost in the midst of them. When I thought it prudent to inquire, some made the distance great, and some little : some said, Go this way, and some that ; and most of them' concluded with, " It is very dark, sir." A decent human being, in whom one could re- pose confidence, was nowhere to be found. 10* 114 THAMES TUNNEL. In spjte of all my philosophy, the remembrance of the enactment of Waterloo Bridge twelve hours before came stealing over me, conjuring up a thousand chances of anoth- er unpleasant rencounter, and exciting strange sensations. There was little choice between returning and going for- ward ; whichever way I strolled, I was dependant on the ad- vice of those beings in the midst of whom I found myself; and by reason of mistakes in gaining my ultimate point, I could not have walked less than two miles for one. At last I arrived under darkness so considerable, that the keeper of the entrance was burning his lamp at mid-day to keep his books. " Are there any visiters here to-day ?'•' I asked. " Two men have just gone down, and you will find a waiter at the extremity of the tunnel." — " Two men .'" I had paid my entrance before I received this answer, and in any other circumstances I should not probably have regard- ed it. But I had been long enough in England to have learned, that English servants are very nice in distinguishing between " men" and " gentlemen," and that they rarely mis- take or call one for the other. It was " two menV It was evident enough that he was not likely to be crowded with company on such a dismal day. I must therefore take my chance with what was before me — "two men," whom I could not avoid encountering at some point. Can any one wonder that I should think of the last night 1 Absolutely, from what I had passed through in a half hour previous, it seemed as if hosts of barbarians were planted between me and the civilized world ; and who could know what these " two mew" might be 1 Besides, what favourable hour and circumstance for a conspiracy ! No one there knew me ; I knew not them ; no friend in the world knew I had gone there ; and the day itself was as dark as the dark- est thoughts. Notwithstanding, having received my instructions, I began to descend the shaft round and round, descending and de- scending, having left the little light of a dark day behind, and meeting only in one place a faint and glimmering taper, just enough to make the darkness visible, After feeling and poking and stumbling along — down the stairs — I found my- self at last at the bottom, which was sixty feet deep. The stairway leading down is a crude framework, and the region around was impenetrable darkness. Arrived at that place, I ought to have been prepared for one of the most imposing and attractive visions which the art and labours of man ever created, especially in such cir- cumstances. The moment I had landed upon the firm earth below, from the winding stairs, and cast my eye upon the perspective of that long and apparently interminable vista of subterranean masonry, finished and vaulted in the most perfect and beautiful .curvilinear forms, and lighted up in the THAMES TUNNEL. 115 whole distance by blazing lamps suspended from the side, and imparting the most enchanting effect to the eye, it seemed another world. I stopped a moment to think of the floods rolling above it, and of the ships floating upon their bosom ; and here, underneath them all, and undisturbed, the one and each unconscious of their relations to the other — here is this peaceful, quiet, incomparable vision ! all existing at the peril of all ! I hesitated — looked — listened. And as I listened, I heard a whisper ! a very whisper ! Again a whisper ! a frequent whisper ! Horrible ! I stood at the moment in the midst of darkness at the bot- tom of the shaft, surrounded, enveloped with darkness! The assault of the previous night was play to this ! Again a whisper ! a tormenting whisper ! It was earnest — impas- sioned ! and it was near enough to lay a hand upon me ! It seemed at my ear! but nothing visible but darkness. A freezing chill ran through all my veins. Backward I could not go, for I could not see the foot of the stairs, which I had left behind. I was buried from the world and from day ; all seemed infernal. And as if the whisper were not enough, there was a whisper laugh ! a burst ! the very laugh of demons ! I sprang forward to the beginning of the tun- nel, and of the row of lamps, and stopped. Still the whis- perings followed me, and the stifled laughter! but I now stood under the lamps ; could look around me ; but I heard no tread — I saw no form of man or demon. In looking forward, however, I saw the forms of men in the farther extremity ; and I hastened to join them, prefer- ring their society and their protection, whatever it might be : and all the way the whispering and laughing voices, louder and more earnest, followed me. As I had been certified, I found the " two men," and the waiter sitting in a recess smoking his pipe. They were at the end of the finished part of the tunnel, under the middle of the river ; the man with the pipe sitting at his ease, and answering such questions as we put to him. While engaged in colloquy with this interpreter of the mysteries, I cast now and then a furtive glance on my society, to satisfy myself whether I should prefer their company out, or again to en- counter those demoniacal salutations alone. I chose the latter, for they proved to be " men" of savage looks ; and turning carelessly on my heel, affecting the airs of indiffer- ence, I walked leisurely back for a little ; then quickened my step, as I observed they did not accompany me ; I has- tened on, and found myself among the whispering voices again ; rushed through the darkness to the foot of the stairs, and most luckily met them at the first touch. In another moment I was at the top. When, however, I found myself safe in the regions of .-day, or where day ought to be, I paused to think of the scene 116 THAMES TUNNEL. I had just witnessed, and of the perils, real or imaginary, which I had there encountered. I philosophized upon the whisperings and voices, and came to this very philosophical conclusion : That the tunnel in its condition at that time was a whispering-gallery, which has been proved to be a fact. Those " men" and the waiter at the further end were little aware of the startling and appalling effect which their talk- ing and bursts of laughter produced on me, as the echoes rolled along, and floated past my ears, while I stood at the base of the shaft, enveloped in darkness. I could not be aware of the impression made on my feelings, by the assault the night previous on Waterloo Bridge, till I came to this place. But having been the subject of that so recently; and now, after such a tedious, dark, loathsome, and exciting way of access, to find myself alone in those infernal regions, with just light enough to make the darkness visible ; to see dark caves (in the second unfinished archway, parallel to the first) opening their yawn- ing mouths, without reporting what might be there ; to hear those voices and whisperings, coming from invisible talkers, and now and then a laugh, horrible and fiendly, as it seemed, all made strange by the strangeness of the circumstances — was not, I confess, particularly agreeable. The emblazoned vista of the tunnel was not a charm sufficient to charm away the effect of these horrible salutations. Having got safely out, I threw myself into a wherry;' and by the aid of oars and a rapid flood tide, shot through the midst of the shipping lying in the Thames, and soon found myself ashore at the London Bridge. I have visited the Thames Tunnel once since in a clear day, and found the shaft light enough from without to observe all its parts. This shaft is 60 feet deep and 50 in diameter. When the river broke into the tunnel by acci- dent, it filled in four and a half minutes within six feet of the top of the shaft, giving only that time for all the work- men to escape, who were caught under the bed of the Thames near its middle, 500 feet from the shore. Six of them were drowned, and two more have perished there by other accidents. The tunnel has already cost something less than .£200,000. Government have lately pledged £250,000, as a loan for its completion, and the work is recommenced. It will probably cost nearly, or quite, £1,000,000. This novel undertaking was projected by Mr. Brunei. It is intended to form a communication between Rotherhithe and Wapping, by means of a passage under the Thames, and will certainly, when completed, be one of the most extraordinary constructions of ancient or modern times. The tunnel consists of two brick archways ; and in order that there may be no obstruction to carriages, those going NEWGATE. 117 from north to south will pass through one, and those from south to north through the other. These passages are paved or macadamized, with convenient sidewalks for foot- passengers. In the centre, between the two archways, and dividing the two roads, is to be a line of arches, spacious enough to admit of persons passing from one road to the other, and in each of these arches a gas-light. The approaches to the entrance of the tunnel are to be formed by circular descents of easy declivity, not exceeding four feet per hundred feet ; one of small dimensions for pedes- trians, and another larger for carriages. The descent is so gradual that there will be no necessity to lock the wheel of the heaviest-laden wagon. The first stone of the descent for pedestrians on the south side of the river near Rother- hithe Church, was laid March 2, 1825. That portion of the tunnel which is completed is open daily to visiters on pay- ment of one shilling each. Dimensions of the Tunnel. — Length 1,300 feet; width 35 feet; height 20 feet; clear width of each archway, including footpath, about 14 feet; thickness of earth beneath the crown of the tunnel and the bed of the river, about 15 feet. In the neighbourhood is a curious specimen of Mr. Bru- nei's ingenuity, being the segment of an arch of 100 feet span, built without centring. The feasibility of this project is demonstrated ; and cer- tainly it is a very sublime one for so low a place. Crowds of people will one day pass through it safely in carriages and on foot, with fleets of shipping floating over their heads ! NEWGATE. A stranger in the city of London, who might happen to be passing up Skinner-street towards Cheapside, and arriving at the cross-ways, in one angle of which stands the Church of St. Sepulchre, near Smithfield, would probably be struck with the appearance of an extraordinary, rough, sombre, heavy, and apparently impregnable wall, which turns the farther corner on his right, running far down the street towards Ludgate Hill, and stretching a few scores of feet along the way himself is pursuing. It is lofty — it is with- out windows and without doors, except in one or two places, which have somewhat the aspect of an entrance to some stronghold. Or if he happen to be going the same way at fifteen minutes past eight o'clock in the morning, looking down on his right, he will perhaps see two, or three, or half a dozen 118 NEWGATE. human beings, hanging by the neck to a beam thrust out for the occasion from this wall ; and many thousands of spec- tators literally crammed and piled into every inch of space, which might afford a view of these suffering victims, as they struggle with death for offences lighter, probably, than the conscious guilt of half the multitude who are looking on. This wall is Newgate Prison ; and the open space in front of it is commonly called the Old Bailey. By the politeness of a friend, I was introduced to the governor of this prison, as an American gentleman, desiring the privilege of admission to inspect the internal forms and economy of the place. " Sir, we have nothing to compare with your prisons in America," said the governor; "but, with great pleasure, we will show you what we have." In a moment a keeper answered the bell-string, and was ordered to show us the prison — a pleasant and intelligent man to look upon, and apparently also of good feeling. He at least understood his duty, and was evidently at home in the place. We passed from the governor's office into the apartment next the street and leading to the prison, through which prisoners are committed, or make their exit for the gallows, or transportation, or being set at large. It happen- ed at the time we passed (and there is probably no hour of the day when something of the kind is not doing there), that two policemen had brought in a fellow to be recognised, as having been there before, being accused of a fresh of- fence of some kind. It was decided that he had been there, but it was doubtful whether he came as a prisoner, or the friend of a prisoner. " Give him the benefit of the doubt, then," said the keeper, who seemed to be appealed to as judge, "and let him go." All this seemed very reasonable, I thought, and humane, if the prisoner was merely suspected. I had afterward occa- sion to remark how much the fate of prisoners, committed for trial, depends on character. To have been there, or in any other prison before, is a bad mark. We passed first into apartments tenanted by females, committed for trial under charge of various offences. The female prisoners, I understood, were most of them from among the bad women of the city. As we entered their rooms, passing from one to another, they were at their meals. They were evidently taken by surprise ; they all rose ; some of them courtesied, and remained standing while we were there. The countenances of some were good — even pleasant. There were old persons, middle- aged, and young. They did not seem particularly anxious not to be seen — and yet they were subdued and chastened in their manners, so much so as to excite a feeling of in- terest and of benevolent compassion. NEWGATE. 119 I was distressed and wished I had not been there, when the keeper went on to say, in a loud voice and careless manner (I do not mean unfeeling, for he was very much of a gentleman), so as to be heard by all the prisoners as well as by us: "These women are here for such and such offences ; committed for trial ; you see how they live ; they are allowed rations so and so; there are twenty in this room, ten in that, and so on ; these are their mats, hanging up, and those their blankets which they take down and spread on this inclined plane (plank floor), bounded by this foot board, where they sleep ; we have some seventy-five of them brought in since the last sessions ; it is uncertain how many of them will be convicted and transported, perhaps four fifths ;" &c. all in the hearing of these poor creatures. Yes, I wished myself away. It was enough that they had sinned; enough that they knew their character ruined; enough that they had fallen into the hands of the law, and been incarcerated; enough that they were cut off from society and disgraced, compelled to think on the past and anticipate the future — without suffering this unnecessary infliction, if they had any feeling left, occasioned by our introduction and this conversation. And evidently they had feeling — they betrayed it. Not unlikely there was the sup- pressed sigh of penitence in some of those wounded spirits, connected with a thousand succeeding, never-ending, and painful regrets for past offences. What and how many re- lations of life had been made to bleed by their fall ; and where whole families had fallen with them, so much the more pitiable. Those who were alone, without parents, or brother, or sister, or friends — what desolation ! They all wore a form that is human, which we always respect, and above all in a condition of suffering. As offenders and when at large, virtue loathed their vileness, and was filled with disgust at the thought of their character; but here they were suffering for their offences, and our feelings towards them in such a condition were changed. We left these apartments for those of female convicts, already doomed to transportation — of whom there were some dozens in this prison, waiting to be taken away. They were all dressed alike, plain, but decent and comforta- ble ; they did not appear particularly unhappy ; they knew their fate, and had probably resigned themselves to it. There also many of them had very good looks. Being at table, like the others, they all rose and waited in like man- ner, till we had passed through and returned ; and similar conversations took place in hearing of these, as before nar- rated, much to my discomfort. It seemed to me that nothing should be said in the hearing of prisoners, but words of kindness, expressive of a sympathy for their con- 120 NEWGATE. dition, calculated to afford them the consolations of religion, and induce amendment of life. I do not think it was un- kindness, but mere want of consideration, and a wish to give information, that dictated these remarks ; more truly, perhaps, a custom in witnessing the scene, and some knowl- edge of facts, which gave these women less credit for feel- ing, than the proprieties of their deportment before us seemed to demonstrate. Especially were my feelings shocked, as we entered one of the smaller rooms, containing three women, one aged, one quite young, the other perhaps thirty-five, with one of the finest countenances, and apparently the most innocent that could be looked upon. She was a woman who, in good society, and of good character, must have been respected and loved by all, as one might believe. They rose as we entered, and kept standing. " These small rooms," said our conductor, " used to be occupied by women under sentence of death." I ventured, though not without effort, to look upon the face of this fair-looking woman, as this cruel remark was made. Her eyes rolled up to heaven, her eyelids dropped to a complete close, exhibiting apparently the submission and meekness of a penitent soul, looking to heaven for her only consolation, and seeming to say, "Oh, is it possible that I am in such a place, and doomed to such trials !" The effect of kindness, of a tender and sympathizing re- gard for such persons, is well illustrated by the following extract from Mrs. Frey's account of her offices in this very prison : — " Our rules have certainly been occasionally broken, but very seldom. Order has been generally observed. I think I may say, we have full power among them ; for one of them said, it was more terrible to be brought before me than before the judge, though we use nothing but kindness. I have never punished a woman during the whole time, or ever proposed a punishment to them ; and yet I think it is impossible, in a well-regulated house, to have rules more strictly attended to, than they are as far as I order them." " Though we use nothing but kindness.'''' Simple-hearted, admirable woman ! An angel of mercy ! Thou shouldst have said, Because we use nothing but kindness. " Abashed the devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely." From these parts of the prison we went among the males. From the bad construction of this place, they are not able to introduce the modern and more perfect modes of prison discipline. Large classes of twenty or thirty are put into the same room — the only rule of classification being to put NEWGATE. 121 the vilest with the vile, and the more decent with those of their own order. It is unnecessary to say, after all that has been revealed on this subject, how much even the best of them must administer to each other's increased corruption in such society. We passed through many rooms and courts well stocked with prisoners, some convicted, and others waiting for trial. In the dispensary, a very comfortable-looking place, a man was sitting on a form, apparently reading a penny magazine, or something of the kind, and who would attract any one's attention from the extraordinary dimensions of his body. He was nearly as thick as long ; and made me think of Lam- bert, and I should suppose was equally worthy of being ex- hibited in show. He was well dressed and clean. He seemed resolved to hide his face from us by his paper, and yet was continually stealing glances of the visiters. I should have taken him for the apothecary, or some other servant. His eye was as unfortunately made as his body, and by no means pleasant to look upon. It was enough to frighten one. As we turned our backs and retired, I asked — " Who is that !" . " It is Mr. , a printseller, from Bond-street, who has been committed for exposing obscene pictures in his shop window." " Ay, I am glad you are looking to that matter in London. It promises well. But I think surely this fat man might have a companion of his own class from the Burlington Ar- cade, who may well deserve to be here." " The committal is a novel case, and an experiment. It is uncertain what will be the issue of the trial." We visited an apartment with fifteen tenants (males) un- der sentence of death. They were permitted to be in one room in the daytime, and were shut up three in a cell at night. They were most of them young men ; some mere youth. " A boy in England," said a foreign traveller, " is independent at eight, and hanged at twelve," — a severe libel, indeed, yet not without facts to have provoked its sugges- tion. Thousands and tens of thousands of children in Lon- don are born and educated in crime. " What proportion of these fifteen men are likely to suf- fer]" I asked. " Two or three of the most aggravated cases probably ; the rest will be transported." " And how long are those doomed to the scaffold permit- ted to live, after the recorder's report has decided the ques- tion V " About a week." " A short time to prepare for death. They do not realize they are to die till the report is made, I suppose?" " Rarely." F 11 122 NEWGATE. We passed next into an apartment containing a dozen juvenile delinquents, a sad spectacle, from eight to fifteen years of age ! The youngest was one of two brothers in the same room, and said to be the most accomplished rogue of the whole class. We asked him what he and his brother were there for \ He told the story, it being some little theft, exculpating themselves principally. " Every word of that story is a lie," said our conductor. "Is it not?" appealing to the elder brother, "Yes, sir." Any one, methinks, of right views, must have been distress- ed at seeing these brothers brought into such a contra- diction. These young offenders, I believe, after conviction, are put into a house of correction, and afterward apprentn od out. An adult prisoner was occupied here as their school- master, who paraded and exhibited them for our inspection, with all the pride and importance of a genuine pedagogue. He seemed to think himself in an honourable place, and the boys, no doubt, were better provided for than ever before. " I want a pair of shoes," said one to the keeper. " And I too," said another. " I want a shirt, sir," said a third ; while two or three others exhibited a tattered coat, or pair of trousers, in no better condition, with a like request. " An English labourer is not so well provided for," says Mr. Bulwer, " as an English pauper ; a pauper receives less for his comfort than a criminal committed for trial ; a con- victed criminal, who is not to be hung, is better off yet ; a convict sentenced to transportation is better provided for than either : so that the English criminal code has set a bounty on crime, and placed the strongest temptation in the way of going from one degree of crime to another." I do not profess to quote Bulwer's language, but this is the sum. And although it is perhaps a slight exaggeration, yet it is substantially true in fact, and in its moral influence. The English poor cannot rise, however industrious ; and ordina- rily their depressions are so great, and their habits so servile, as to destroy that pride of character which aspires after in- dependence. Hence so many covet the privileges of pau- perism, and throw themselves upon the parish. A sturdy and lazy fellow will marry a widow pauper, because she has children, and the more the better. Her children are his fortune, as the parish provisions for the family are in pro- portion to the number of children. And as Bulwer says, to be a criminal, and the higher the grade of offence, short of being capital, the more permanent and independent the pro- vision. " Save me from the gallows," is all they ask for. Few know the recklessness under which the English poor run into crime ; and I know not how large a portion of them are tempted to do it for these reasons. In our country the industrious poor have always the blandishments of hope to PRISONS IN LONDON. 123 excite their ambition ; in England it is not so ; and the more comfortable condition, aside from the loss of character, which has too little influence, is to fall upon the parish, or upon the provisions of the criminal code. While thousands appear to be starving in the streets, and are houseless, the prison is a good home ; and there they have always enough to eat and drink, and wherewithal to cover their nakedness. They have a well-appointed chaplaincy at Newgate, and Bibles, prayer-books, religious books, and tracts in every room and every cell. The chapel is a decent place of public worship, which is regularly attended on the Sabbath, with occasional lectures and prayers in the week time. Directly in front of the pulpit is a pew large enough to seat about fifty under sentence of death, which is all paint- ed black. " Look here," said the conductor, " do you see these de- facements and figures within this enclosure, executed by the hands of these criminals under sentence of death, while kneeling at prayers, as performed by the chaplain, making sport of their doom'?" The figure to which their taste most inclined them, was a gallows, with one, three, or half a dozen hanging upon it by the neck ! and all manner of inventions, especially those obscene ! as vile schoolboys often mark and deface the tables, benches, and ceilings of their place of education. Alas ! what melancholy proofs of our fallen nature ! Within the compass of five days after being thus occupied — nay, the next day, perhaps the next hour, these very men may hang by the neck in the street, not ten yards from this their own handiwork. Newgate prison is the common jail for London and Mid- dlesex. It dates from 1218 — was rebuilt in the early part of the fifteenth century — became a ruin in the great fire of 1666 — was soon reconstructed, but afterward pulled down and rebuilt in 1778 to 1780. In the riots of 1780 the inte- rior was destroyed by fire — after which it received its pres- ent forms, strong enough indeed, but miserably contrived for salutary prison discipline. It will accommodate con- veniently 350, but 900 have been incarcerated here. Besides Newgate there are in London and its environs eleven other prisons, viz. : — Cold-bath-fields, or house of correction ; Tothill-fields Bridewell, Westminster ; Giltspur- street Compter ; New Debtor's ; Clerkenwell ; Fleet ; King's Bench; Borough Compter; Surrey county Jail; New Bridewell ; and Millbank Penitentiary. Giltspur-street pris- on is used principally as a lodgment for vagrants and dis- orderly persons taken up in the night. The number thrown in there annually is upwards of 5,000. Besides the above- F2 124 MENDICITY. named, there are several houses of correction, and sundry lock-up houses, as they are called. As pauperism is the great and fruitful source of low vice and of crime in London, it may be interesting here to give the following comprehensive extract on this subject : — " The number of persons relieved permanently in London on an av- erage of the three years, 1816-18-19, was 36,034 : occasionally, being parishioners, 81,282; total relieved, 117,316; so that the number of persons relieved from the poor-rates appears to have been nearly twelve in each 100 of the resident population — while the number relieved in 1803 was nearly 7£ in each 100 ; and that, while the population has increased about one sixth, the number of parishioners relieved has ad- vanced from 7j to 11§ in each 100. The total of the money raised by the poor-rates was 679,284/., being at the rate of 13s. b\d. per head on the population, or 2s. 5d. in the pound, of the total amount of the sum of 5,603,057/., as assessed to the property-tax in 1815. The amount raised by the same rates in 1813 was 471,938/., being at the rate of 10s. 11^. per head. This, therefore, exhibits an increase of nearly one half in the amount of money raised to relieve paupers, and 2s. 6£d. on the rate per head on the population. This increase of pauperism has been marked by a decrease of friendly societies. The number of persons belonging to such societies appeared to be, for the three years 1817-18-19, nearly five in the 100 of the resident popu- lation ; a decrease, when compared with the abstract of 1803, of nearly 3£ in each 100. " To cure or alleviate the evil of Mendicity and Vagrancy, the House of Commons promoted inquiries by a committee ; and the re- port developed such a body of evidence, as to ascertain, beyond all pos- sibility of doubt, the gross and monstrous frauds practised by mendi- cants in the capital, and in its immediate neighbourhood. "The following facts were ascertained : — That considerable sums of money have been found in the pockets and secreted in the clothes of beggars, when brought before magistrates ; that beggars make great profits by changing their clothes two or three times a day, and receiv- ing money which was intended for others ; and that a blind man with a dog has collected thirty shillings a day, and others from three shil- lings to seven, eight, and even more, per day. There are two houses in St. Giles's which are frequented by considerably more than two hundred beggars. There they have their clubs, and when they meet they drink and feed well, read the papers, and talk politics ! Nobody dares to intrude into their clubs except he is a beggar, or introduced by one ; the singularity of the spectacle would otherwise draw num- bers around them, which would hurt the trade. Their average daily collections amount to from three to five shillings, two shillings and sixpence of which, it is supposed, they each spend at night, besides sixpence for a bed. A negro beggar retired some time ago to the West Indies, with a fortune of 1,500/. Beggars have said they go through forty streets a day, and that it is a poor street that does not yield twopence ; and that it is a bad day that does not yield eight shillings and more. Beggars make great use of children in practising upon the feelings of the humane. Children are sent out with an order MENDICITY. 125 not to return without a certain sum. One man will collect three, four, or five children from different parents, paying sixpence or ninepence for each during the day. Some children have been regularly let out by the day for two shillings and sixpence as the price of their hire ; a child that is shockingly deformed is worth four shillings a day, and even more. Before the Commons' Committee an instance was stated of an old woman who keeps a night school for the purpose of ' in- structing children in the street language.'' "Mr. Martin, a gentleman residing in Westminster, stated, as the result of his inquiries some years ago, the number of beggars about the metropolis to be 15,000. But the committee, from the evidence laid before them, conceived the number to be much larger. " Beggars evade the vagrant act by carrying matches, and articles of little intrinsic value, for sale. There is no form of distress which they do not assume, in order to practise upon the humanity of stran- gers. " In Mr. Martin's calculation, formed thirty years ago, there were, out of 15,000 beggars, 5,300 Irish, but Mr. Martin's estimate of the whole number is much under the facts of the present moment. Much pains were taken in 1815, by a remarkably humane gentleman, to ascertain the number of mendicants in London only, and the result was, that there were 6,876 adults, and 7,288 children, making the iotal of 14,164. " Mr. Martin's estimates of their numbers, and of the sums annu- ally extorted from the public by their importunities, follow : — Parochial individuals, .... 9,297 Non-parochial, - - - - - 5,991 Total (including 9,288 children) 15,288 " The amount of sums gained by them was not estimated at a greater rate than what may be deemed absolutely necessary for the maintenance of such a body of people, although in beggary, and the succeeding low sums were accordingly fixed upon : — For 6,000 grown persons, at 6d. a day each, lodg- ing and clothes inclusive, - 54,750/. For 9,288 children, at 3d. per day, clothes in- clusive, 42,376/. 10 Gross annual expense, - 97,126/. 10 0." A writer in the London Quarterly Review estimates that in Great Britain the paupers compose one sixth part of the whole population ; in Holland and Belgium, one seventh ; in Switzerland, one tenth ; in France and German Confed- eracy, one twentieth ; in Austria, Italy, Sweden, Denmark, and Portugal, one twenty-fifth ; in Prussia and Spain, one thirtieth. The number of paupers in all the poorhouses in the State of New- York on the 1st December, 1834, with a population of over 2,000,000, was only 6,457, including 1,977 in the Almshouse of Ne-wYork City. Public relief was, however, extended in other forms, to 26,331 persons, but in general to a very moderate extent. Of these, more than half resided in the City of New- York. There is probably 11* 126 THE TONGUES. a greater proportion of paupers n the State of New- York than in any other state in the union, owing principally to its being a general rendezvous for foreigners. THE TONGUES AND A MIRACLE. In December, 1832, while I sat attending on divine ser- vice in the church of the Rev. Mr. Blunt, Chelsea, and the clerk was reading one of the lessons of the day, I was startled by what seemed to me a sudden and violent tran- sition of the reader's voice and manner from his previous unimpassioned tones, and not inappropriate elocution, into an elevated, loud, and astounding cry of alarm ! In a mo- ment the whole congregation were upon their feet, myself among the rest — all so quick that I did not observe the mo- tion, nor could I have believed it, but that I saw them and felt myself to be standing. What could be in the man ? — thought I. I looked at him, and his head was turned over his right shoulder, his face lifted towards the ceiling, and a continuous stream of the most startling and alarming excla- mations seemed to be pouring from his lips, in a perfect and overwhelming torrent, in the sharpest explosions of the highest falsette, or scream, and with all the power, of which the vocal organs of man might be supposed capable. All eyes were directed to the same quarter with his. Is it fire 1 thought I. I could see nothing of that, nor did the alarm seem to be of that import. The congregation hustled, the screams of women and children burst upon the scene, and the louder calls of men here and there intermingled and seemed to be demanding no one knew what — the start- ling and alarming voice of the chief speaker still above and distinct from the rest, drowning the general confusion and uproar, sharper and louder still, more earnest and impetu- ous, and still more alarming. What could it be ! I thought he seemed to see a vision — that he imagined the opening of the final judgment scene ! And all this was merely the enactment of the moment, and still continuing. The uproar, and screams, and firmer call from the voices of men, in- creased. W T omen sunk down and fainted in different parts of the church, and some rushed out into the street. The eye of the reader was still fixed in the same direction, and all this while I had imagined the alarming voice was his. But in looking for what he seemed to see, I discovered a man, apparently perched on the seat, with extended and brandishing arms, on the reader's right in the gallery, his visible organs of speech hard at work, and thereby demon- THE TONGUES. 127 strating, that he was taking a conspicuous part, and was not ■unlikely the author of this uproarous scene. As soon as the affrighted gentlemen near him had recovered sufficiently to think what could or ought to be done, a few hands seized upon the noisy stentor, and began to perform the office of ejecting him from the church. But nothing daunted, he screamed and roared the louder, and threw his hands and arms, like a maddened and exasperated pugilist, in every direction, to sweep his circle clean ; still pouring out his astounding cries. He was soon, however, in the hands of some men stouter than himself, who bore him along through the frightened crowd as fast as was convenient; but, by means of his own determination not to obey their motions, that was slow enough. He endangered all the heads and bonnets not a little that lay within the sweep of his arms, in his unwilling progress towards the door, and through the whole length of the church ; still crying out with greater and almost expiring effort. A more frantic madman, I should imagine, hardly ever exhibited a more frantic spec- tacle. And when passing the end of the gallery, where I happened to be, his cry was — " Judgment ! judgment ! judg- ment!" continuously, with all his powers, till he was out of the church, and I heard him in the street. He was a good-looking man, well dressed, and wore spec- tacles. When he was fairly ejected, the congregation be- gan to try to be composed. Some sat down, many went out, and the ladies and children, leaning and hanging on their parents, husbands, or brothers, left the church in no incon- siderable numbers. Some were too weak to go, and water and resuscitating drugs were brought to revive them. As fast as they recovered they retired. The service was re- sumed, every one in fear of faintings and hysterics. And they were not long disappointed, before a genuine and start- ling hysteric cry burst from a woman in the gallery, and she kept it up, though not so loud as the madman, yet scarcely less to the discomposure of the congregation, till she was fairly clear of the church. The sympathies of the assembly by this time were so completely beyond control, that a per- son of weak nerves could hardly endure the state of appre- hension that pervaded the common mass. The least symp- tom of fainting, and they were not unfrequent, became start- ling. In the middle of Mr. Blunt's sermon, another voice suddenly broke out from below. It proved, however, only another case of hysterics, and the woman was carried out. But the effect of it was frightful, when one looked upon the assembly, and saw so many faces whitened with fear. Not five minutes after, a young woman directly behind me fell into hysterics, and was carried out. And really, it seemed for the moment that the whole congregation, men and all, would go into hysterics. There were only three palpable 128 A MIRACLE. cases, however. But there were very many apparent at- tempts at it. In the confusion of the first scene, after the author of this mischief was out, and before the people were seated, I perceived a lady by my side, pale and trembling, whom I thought I ought to know. She seemed to have come to me for protection. But her countenance was so entirely discomposed, although I was well acquainted with her, I was obliged to think hard before I could recognise her. " This is quite frightful, indeed, madam," said I. But the poor thing could not answer. She nodded assent, and tried to smile, but with an ill grace. Next I perceived her brother stood by her side : and I said — " I am glad you have such good company." And what was all this ? Why, it was a very benevolent attempt to edify us with an example of the " Tongues /" He was a clergyman, too, of the Church of England. And the fellow had been so shrewd in his calculations, and knowing the lessons for the day, that he interrupted the reader in the midst of the 23d chapter of the Acts ; so that when order was restored, and the service resumed, what should come first upon us but this : " If a spirit or an angel hath spoken to him, let us not fight against God." And thus this speaker of " unknown tongues" had his seal and " confirmation strong as proofs of holy writ." This poor deluded man was retained in custody, brought to examination on Monday, and being convicted under the statute against brawling in churches, was committed, as I understood, for want of bail. The young man had been attending that morning on the enactments of the Rev. Edward Irving, and as would seem, had become infected. I afterward heard that he proved to be thoroughly deranged, and that the calamity had plunged a respectable family and their connexions into the deepest affliction. A MIRACLE. Akin to this is the following miracle, which I was admit- ted to witness, in 1834 : — I ought perhaps to say, it was signified to me that the par- ties concerned expressed a wish that no pains should be taken to give the matter publicity ; by which I understood that they wished to avoid that kind of notice which would identify them in London with the Irvingites. The matter of course must have had a certain extent of notoriety, even there, as there were many witnesses of different classes, none of whom, I believe, were particularly enjoined to se- crecy. It had already been extensively known, as a period- ical event, although I never heard of it before. I trust I am not violating confidence in the record I here offer for so re- A MIRACLE. 129 mote publication, nor rendering disrespect to the kind friends by whose civilities I was introduced to the scene. I hardly know what order of miracles this belongs to. The subject of it was a female about thirty years old. Some thirteen years ago, as is said, she received an injury which made her a helpless cripple for five years, the last three of which she was unable to move herself in bed. Her spine was irremediably injured, and one of her limbs thrown into such a condition of deformity, that her foot was brought and permanently lodged against her side under the shoulder. During the last year of this helplessness she had a dream, as is averred, accompanied with a supernatural vision and communication, by which she was certified, that if she should have faith to live through the following September, in the midst of extreme and excruciating suffering, she would be thoroughly restored on the 25th of March there- after, precisely at six o'clock P. M. Of course, as she was last year alive, it will be understood that she was enabled to fulfil the condition. And accordingly, on the 25th of March, precisely at six o'clock P. M., she was perfectly re- stored, and was able immediately to walk about, &c. The witnesses of all the facts, and of many details which I need not trouble my readers with, it is said, are abundant and now living, professional men and others. Indeed, I was gravely told by those who were my informers, that one of the professional men, who spoke disrespectfully of the mat- ter at the time, was visited in judgment, and has himself been a cripple ever since. But the most remarkable part of the story is, that on the anniversary of that day of healing, for every succeeding year, precisely at the hour of six o'clock P. M., March 25th, this individual has swooned away, and appeared to be dead ; but in a half an hour or so, exhibited the qjf mptoms of one asleep, with eyes half open, occasionally talking like one in sleep, or in a trance ; and has customarily continued in this condition of a perfect and thorough abstraction from sen- sible objects, conversing every now and then very religious- ly, and seeming to be a guest in heaven. It was averred that the medical profession had exhausted their skill and all their means in vain to rouse her ; and that for eight years suc- cessively she had remained each anniversary twenty-four hours to a minute in this sort of trance, discoursing every few minutes with great propriety, and to the edification of all present. When the clock has made the last stroke of six on the 25th of March, P. M. she swoons, and revives as regularly and precisely at the end of twenty-four hours. She manifests symptoms of approaching stupor an hour or two beforehand, which grows upon her till the moment ar- rives, and she is gone ; a few moments before the twenty- four hours have expired, she begins to show symptoms of F 3 130 A MIRACLE. resuscitation, and at the exact time opens her eyes, and is well again. While I was dining with a friend, he mentioned this ex- traordinary case, said he was going to see it, and invited me to accompany him. We went ; but it happened we were in error as to the day, and instead of being there two hours before the resuscitation, it was two hours before the swoon- ing. Unexpectedly and against our wishes (for we were not prepared to desire it) we were ushered into the room of the lady herself, and introduced. She was at the house of a respectable surgeon, whose wife was her friend, and in whose family my companion was intimate. She was well dressed, and I should not, on an ordinary occasion, have no- ticed any thing remarkable in her appearance. It was hinted to us privately that we might stay and witness the swooning, which was confidently expected to occur in two hours, but we chose to be excused, and retired, promising to call the next day. Neither of us had faith in the matter ; and although we were willing, on account of the respecta- bility of those concerned, to see the woman in her supposed and alleged trance, we had thought her feelings would nat- urally be averse to be introduced to strangers while out of it, and so near the expected event. She was not, however, embarrassed, although she appeared somewhat absent and wandering in mind, from the expressions of her countenance. Not a word was said in the short interview of the subject which most occupied our thoughts. We called the following day in the afternoon, and to be sure, the woman was in her trance. She lay upon a bed, apparently asleep, attended by a sister, the surgeon's wife, her sister, and mother. They were taking notes of her com- munications, which were made regularly irregular, as in for- mer years. We were informed that she had " gone off," as it was called, precisely at the time expected, and had exhib- ited the same symptoms throughout as before. She lay and breathed like one asleep ; her eyes half closed, and winking incessantly ; every muscle in her frame entirely relaxed, so that her hand, lifted and dropped, would fall like that of a person just expired ; and she seemed totally insensible to every thing around. It was said and apparently believed, that no effort, not. even violence, could rouse her ; that in former years very severe, even cruel treatment had been tried by professional men, without producing any effect; that there was an entire cessation of the animal func- tions for the time being ; and that the application of the se- verest blisters had utterly failed of their effect, till after the expiration of the twenty-four hours, so that humanity re- quired that such experiments should not be repeated. It should be observed that in the efforts of making a commu- A MIRACLE. 131 nication, the muscles were obedient to her will, and her hands were employed as well as her vocal organs. We had not been long in before she began to speak, in a soft and faint voice, it being her usual manner, her hands moving gently and slightly. It was something as fol- lows : — " Some are fearful as they approach the river (I imagined she meant the river of death) ; some go in with boldness ; some are filled with consternation ; but Christ is in the ship, and the believer is safe. This, perhaps, is the river of which Bunyan speaks. Some sink in the waves and are lost ; multitudes are lost. But the believer gets safely to the ship. There is the doubting Christian; he fears, he trembles ; but Christ is with him, and will take him in," &c. Her discourse ran upon Scripture, making very rational comments upon death, the judgment, eternity, and heaven. At one time she would seem to be in heaven, " a mortal among immortals," as she expressed herself. She addressed herself to God and Christ, not unbecoming the common forms of praise and adoration used in prayer. I heard her say, " I see Moses and Aaron, and all the prophets ; there is Paul, the persecutor ; and there is Peter, who thrice de- nied his Lord," &c. Once she said, " These are glorious, but thou, Lord, art more glorious than all." Most of the time she would seem to be enjoying visions of heaven, and spoke of it variously, but in simplicity, and without any ap- pearance of ecstatic emotion. Every thing she said is sug- gested in the Bible and in common religious reading ; but the allegorical strains of Bunyan rather prevailed. She had doubtless read the Bible and John Bunyan thoroughly. She was occupied in making her communications perhaps one fourth of the time — was slow and distinct, but used a uni- form and low voice. A medical man of considerable eminence in London, and of exemplary piety, was called in. He applied to the nos- trils a pungent solution of ammonia, which produced a manifest effect, suffused the eyes, and occasioned some muscular spasms ; but it was certainly well endured. The countenance exhibited some anxious expressions ; but still there was no universal shrinking from it. He applied his watch, as I thought, to the ear, and when he withdrew it, rather suddenly, he allowed the seals, which perhaps had some sharp points, to drag rudely over the nose, which oc- casioned a sudden motion of the head, as if to avoid it. He raised her eyelid, and brought a lighted candle suddenly be- fore it, and remarked that the pupil suffered a visible and instant contraction. He made no other experiments, and retired. Thus passed the day, with perhaps a dozen calls, or more, of some respectable individuals, about half of whom were 132 PARLIAMENT HOUSES. Quakers. I and my friend were present, perhaps, in all two hours, at different times, being willing to satisfy ourselves what the thing might be. As the circle sympathizing with this young woman was very respectable, I feel bound to treat them with respect ; and I have no doubt that they fully believe what is told, first, of her physical and incurable in- firmities ; next, of her miraculous cure ; and consequently, believing that, they may easily believe that these periodical trances are unfeigned. I state the facts in substance as they came before me ; at the same time, it is proper for me to say, that I think the business an exceedingly well-planned and well-sustained imposture. And in this view it is as af- fecting as it is interesting. It is a very singular enactment, such a one as rarely takes place in society. The subject is of an obscure family, and has been taken up and cherish- ed by a number of respectable individuals and families who believe in her miraculous story. I had never heard of it be- fore, nor does it seem to make any noise in the world. THE BRITISH PARLIAMENT. Westminster Hall and Parliament Houses— Certain points of comparison between the British Parliament and the American Congress — Uses of the Purse and Mace — The Woolsack — Ministerial and Opposition sides — The Right Reverend Bench both right and wrong — The composition of the two Houses of Parliament— Parts of the day occupied in Ses- sion. And where is the place of the British Senate, in which Chatham, Pitt, Burke, Fox, Sheridan, and Canning delivered their opinions ? where Grey, Brougham, Peel, Stanley, O'Connell, and many others of note in debate, are now seen conspicuous 1 Where is that arena which has drawn to it the attention of the world, and on the decisions of which the fate of empires has depended 1 Surely, if the magnifi- cence of its physical be equal to that of its moral, it must be something worth seeing. Immediately on the north bank of the Thames (at this point it is the west bank, as the course of the river here is nearly north), a stone's throw above Westminster Bridge, and under the shade of Westminster Abbey, across Marga- ret-street — the latter being a continuation of Parliament and Whitehall streets — was situated an ancient pile, a proper heap of buildings, the first and most commanding of which, on the north, being the main body of the whole, is West- minster Hall, originally built by William Rufus in 1097-8, on the site of the Old Palace Yard, and repaired by Richard II. in 1397, making it substantially what it now is. PARLIAMENT HOUSES. 133 This Hall is one of the largest rooms in Europe, unsup- ported by pillars, being 270 feet by 74, and in height 90. The roof is Gothic, adorned with carved angels, supporting the arms of Richard II. or those of Edward the Confessor ; as also is the stone moulding round the Hall. It has been the place of coronation fetes — used last for this purpose on the coronation of George IV. At a Christmas festival held there by Richard II., it is recorded that the number of guests on each day amounted to 10,000, and that it employ- ed 2,000 cooks. Both Houses of Parliament and their adjunct apartments were burnt to the ground on the night of the 17th of Octo- ber, 1834, and are now supplied by temporary structures. But it may not be amiss to notice them as they were. The buildings immediately adjoining Westminster Hall, on the south, were the Old Palace, which constituted the several apartments devoted to the uses of the House of Lords, including that which was more properly the Senate Chamber, and which was called the " House of Lords," as being the place of their meeting and public debates. This chamber was parallel with the great hall. Adjoining the great hall, at right angles, on the east, and running towards the river, was the House of Commons, which was built by King Stephen, as a sacred edifice, and dedicated to his name- sake Stephen, the first martyr — hence to this day called St. Stephen's Chapel. It was built of course in the twelfth century, rebuilt by Edward III. in the fourteenth century, who made it a collegiate church, causing to be installed over it a dean and twelve priests, and desecrated to its present use in the sixteenth century, by Edward VI. Both Houses of Parliament were small apartments, nearly equal in dimen- sions, and the farthest possible from having any show of magnificence. Nothing that I have seen has given me their length and breadth ; but I should judge about sixty feet by thirty-five. The House of Lords was lofty, and lighted by semicircular windows along the upper margin of the ceiling, without galleries, except a small one built in 1832 in the end fronting the throne and woolsack, for reporters, and suffi- cient to accommodate about one hundred spectators. About as many more spectators might possibly crowd around the bar below ; and the platform on which the throne was erect- ed was usually occupied, in a crowded houc>c, by the repre- sentatives of foreign courts and other privileged persons. On great occasions, such as the opening of parliament by the king, &c, temporary galleries were set up along the side walls to accommodate the families of peers and their friends. These galleries, and the seats of the peers below, were all covered with scarlet cloth. The throne was built in 1820, and consisted of a canopy of crimson velvet, surmounted by an imperial crown, and 12 134 PARLIAMENT HOUSES. supported by two columns, richly gilt, which were adorned with spiral wreaths of oak-leaves and acorns. On the ped- estals of the columns were tridents, olive-branches, and other emblems. The walls of this apartment were hung with a richly- wrought tapestry, representing the hostile lieets of England and Spain, at the time of the destruction of the Armada. The heads of the naval heroes who commanded on the oc- casion, formed a border around the work. Hence Chatham's reference in that lofty strain of protest and indignant repro- bation at the proposal in the House of Lords, to employ the native and barbarous tribes of North America in the contest with the colonies : " From the tapestry that adorns these walls, the immortal ancestor of the noble lord frowns with indignation at the disgrace of his country," &c. The floor of the House of Commons occupied by the members in debate was economically arranged with seats, or benches, covered with cushions, rising one above another from the little space left in the centre for the clerks' table and speaker's chair, where the house, when full, was as closely packed as possible. Indeed, I should not think it possible for all the members, 658, to have found seats, even by occupying the side galleries, which were appropriated to their use. The reporters and spectators were admitted only to the front gallery, except by special privilege, when there was room, " strangers," as all who are not members are called, were admitted by an order from the speaker be- hind the bar under the first gallery. The " bar" is a place of promiscuous and general rendezvous for members and strangers, where talking and confusion often arise, and oc- casion the call so frequently made in the house and by the speaker, "bar," " bar," which being interpreted, as I hardly need say, means, " order at the bar." I should not think it possible for either house, even by cramming, to admit more than 800 persons ; and in such case, I apprehend, there was little comfort for those who might have been there. On the west side of Westminster Hall, as part of the same pile, are the Courts of Chancery, Vice Chancery, Common Pleas, Exchequer, and King's Bench, which escaped the conflagration. These are entered from the hall — along the inside of the wall of which are seen over the door of each, the appropriate denomination of the court to which it opens. Indeed, the hall itself is a mere highway, in its common use, to the courts and to the houses of parliament — a lobby, the vestibule of the temple ; and the porch is infinitely greater and more magnificent than was the temple itself, and might almost have received the other parts on its own floor, as so many pieces of furniture. A stranger is struck with the magnificence of this entrance, and has Avondered at its ap- propriation to so vile a use, when he wandered in vain A CONTEMPT OF COURT. 135 through endless labyrinths to find something worthy of such a beginning ; and behold all else was little and mean. Imagine a mountain with a family of shapeless hills thrown around its base — or a magnificent catacomb connecting it- self with a thousand meaner graves — all without form and void — and that is Westminster Hall, with its courts and Houses of Parliament, and committee-rooms, and confec- tionaries, and kitchens, and eating and smoking apartments, and the innumerable and devious channels of communica- tion, &c. &c. as they existed before the fire — all thrown to- gether in a heap, as if it were the only collection of inde- scribables ever put in juxtaposition without plan. And yet, place Westminster Hall by itself, divest it of its shapeless adjuncts, many of which are standing since the conflagra- tion, and it would have been a magnificent edifice ; but with ever so many things stuck on to it, in ever so many ways, for ever so many purposes, it was a vast pile of deformity. w Strangers" may be admitted at any time to the gallery of the House of Commons, while the house is in session, by a fee of half a crown to the doorkeeper, or by an order from a member. The original rules of the house, I believe, sup- pose the legislature always to be sitting with closed doors. The privilege of admission is winked at. The custom of reporting the business of Parliament in newspapers is an open breach of privilege, and is an instance of the silent legislation of public opinion over the sleeping statutes of a community. Reporters, or their employers, the responsible utterers of these fraudulent acquisitions, are not called to account, except for some disrespect to the house, or its members, or for some wilful injustice. Both houses bold the power in terrorem of calling offenders of this kind di- rectly to their bar, and of legislating and adjudicating on the case summarily at their discretion. They do not, however, often take occasion to employ it. The press is allowed to use great liberties, both with Parliament and individual mem- bers, without being noticed. The editor of the Morning Post was brought to the bar of the House of Lords during the session of 1834, for a contempt done to its judicial character in the person of the Lord Chancellor, by misrepresentation of the doings of the court ; and as the examination fully acquitted the house and its high officer before the public, the clemency of the court was extended to the editor by granting his discharge, after he had expressed his regret for the breach of privilege. The editor was supposed to be imposed upon by a secret communication with one of the peers, who had made an improper use of the records of the house, thereby impeach- ing the Lord Chancellor, or leading to his impeachment, in his high judicial functions. The article in the paper was 136 AMERICAN CONGRESS. a tremendous assault, and for the moment created quite a sensation. It was an admirable opportunity for the Lord Chancellor (Brougham) to show his address in getting out of a difficulty, and to inflict a merited chastisement on his defamer. A pro forma record had been taken by the editor for a moral delinquency and a gross violation of official character. Access to the House of Lords can be obtained only by an order from one of the peers, which, however, is always readily granted to the extent of the privilege of members, to respectable persons on a suitable application. While important debates are in progress, it is more difficult to ob- tain admittance, and requires an early attendance. Stran- gers are always required to leave the house on a division — reporters included. The reporters depend upon private in- terviews with members to get what is done in their absence on a division, if it be not improper to be communicated. As in the legislative bodies of the United States, the upper house of the British Parliament is more dignified than the lower. In both Houses of Parliament, however, they are at liberty to sit with their hats on. I have never been in a senate or upper house of any one of the American states where this is practised. The Senate of the American Con- gress is altogether the most dignified body of the kind, whose deliberations I have ever attended ; and the House of Representatives, in some respects, is the farthest in the other extreme. It is true, they are not so uproarous as the British House of Commons. There are obvious reasons for these distinguishing features in both. In the lower House of the American Congress, the busi- ness is done before dinner ; every member has his desk, his stationary, and ample room to work. There he sits with his hat on ; reads his papers ; writes all his letters, seals and despatches them ; — in short, does all his business, as a correspondent and as a statesman, and redeems his time out of the house for society. The members walk about, assemble in groups, chat, and do any sort of business, in a manner as open and careless, as on a merchants' exchange in a commercial emporium — and that, too, while a member is making his speech, if it be not interesting and command- ing enough to claim attention. The speaker's rap on the desk and his call for order are mere matters of ceremony, and all goes on as if he had no authority. As they have no way of putting down a speech-maker in the House of Rep- resentatives of the American Congress, if they do not like him ; in other words, as he has as good a right to go through, whether heard or not, as a preacher has to finish his ser- mon without being interrupted, the grant of this privilege is purchased at the expense of allowing a corresponding right of inattention, if the members think they have any RIOT IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 137 thing better to do. The Senate of Congress have also their desks, stationary, &c. ; but they are more respectful to each other. They take no liberties of associating in groups ; there is no buzz of conversation during a debate ; the mem- bers being few, two for each state, and when all are present cannot exceed forty-eight, and being for the most part men of a high order of talent, they seldom speak without atten- tion. The British House of Commons meet only for debate. Immemorial custom has decided, that he only shall occupy the time of the house who can command general respect. It is impossible to inflict a speech upon that body of any unreasonable length. They have ways of putting down which no man can resist. It is true this part of their duty has a somewhat undignified appearance, and occasionally runs into a complete riot. Take, for example, a part of a debate on motion of Mr. Wood, for the admission of dis- senters to equal privileges in the universities : — "Mr. G. W. Wood rose to reply. (The laughing, jeering, shouting, and coughing, were such as we never before witnessed.) The honour- able gentleman said, it had been declared that the bill in its present stage was essentially different from what it \yas when he had the hon- our to introduce it into the house. (At this moment two hon. members, 1 o'er the ills of life victorious,'' suddenly entered from the smoking- room into the opposition gallery, and stretching themselves at full length on the seats, secure from the observation of the speaker, commenced a row of the most discreditable character.) This he denied. (In the gal- lery — ' / say, can't you crow V — laughter and uproar.') The provisions had not been altered — (' hear htm, how he reads !') the enactments were in every respect unaltered. (Loud cheering, followed by bursts of laughter.) The question was — (' Read it — read it V and great uproar.) the question (just so — read it) — the question (great cheering, and laughter) whether (' that's the question') — whether the universities should be open to all, or be for ever under the control of mere — (' Where's the man that crows V — Laughter, and cries of ' order V from the speaker). Public opinion (' dear ." — and great uproar, during which the speaker, evidently excited, was loudly calling for order. The scene here was indescribable.)" — A London paper. This, indeed, is rather an extraordinary case ; but it can- not be denied that it is a case in point, and a striking illus- tration. Besides the bad appearance and want of dignity in such noisy and riotous proceedings, injustice is often done to individuals. It may even be, in some cases, an insuperable obstacle to the making of men, who, but for this most formidable ordeal, would rise and distinguish themselves in the state ; but being modest and sensitive, they have not the moral courage to encounter and bear down such an onset. But with all its (evils, it may be questionable, at least, whether it is not 12* 138 MANNER OF PUBLIC DEBATES. preferable to that great waste of time, which speeches, made for newspapers and for constituents, cost a nation. It will not be understood that the above specimen is a common mode of putting down a speaker. That was out- rageous — barbarous. The usual methods are— general un- easiness ; moving; coughing; going out; calling for the "question;" and if these hints are not sufficient, an in- crease of tumult, amid cries of " order," &c, until the voice of the speaker is drowned, and he is obliged to stop. If there is a general disposition to put him down, he might as well speak against an ocean tempest. Audible expressions, either of approbation or disappro- bation, are rarely heard in American legislative assemblies during their debates. Public opinion is against it. They sometimes occur at popular meetings of a political charac- ter; but never at the gravest deliberations. In England they are heard at all meetings of a deliberative kind : in Parliament, at the hustings, at public dinners, and even at the anniversaries of benevolent and religious societies — everywhere, and on all occasions open for public discus- sion. Hear ! hear ! yes ! yes ! no ! no ! shame ! shame ! clapping ; stamping ; scraping ; hissing, and antagonist cheering ; groans ; and all manner of modes to express satisfaction or dislike. It is the spontaneous expression of the feelings of the moment. The hearers take part with the speaker, and persons in a remote part of a large assem- bly will not unfrequently cry out, and give utterance to some short sentence, with which there may, or may not, be the manifestation of a general sympathy. When the speaker is universally and loudly cheered, he must pause till it dies away ; if he is generally rebuked, he may be obliged to sit down. All this is witnessed in Parliament, especially in the House of Commons. The House of Lords is a more grave assembly, and it seldom goes beyond monosyllabic expressions, and those not often in a general cry. But cheering and rebuking speakers in deliberative assemblies are the habit of the nation, and are as sure to occur as a man gets up to make a speech. Sometimes it is not very befitting. I once witnessed it when it was absolutely shocking. It was at a meeting of the friends of Sunday Schools at Exeter Hall, when a speaker very properly and eloquently ascribed the prosperity of the institution to the blessing of God, and took occasion to express a high degree of emotion, which he appeared to feel in unison with this idea, by quoting a passage of Scripture, big with the sub- limest sentiments of devotion in a proper doxology — " Not unto us, not unto us, O Lord, but to thy name be all the glory !" and instantly the whole assembly burst into a loud shout of applause ! and that, too, when it was evident the THE SEALS AND MACE WOOLSACK. 139 speaker had not concluded. It was, I suppose, an involun- tary echo of the sentiment expressed; but few, I think, would be prepared to say, it was very suitable. In the House of Commons I have heard long-continued and most deafening cheers, when every voice appeared to join, with all its powers. In such cases of universal and powerful sympathy, uttered in such a manner, the effect is very thrilling and intoxicating. It is the voice of accla- mation, "like the sound of many waters." I question whether there is another assembly in the world where this expression is given so powerfully as in the British House of Commons. And I hardly need say, after the example quoted above, from the scene enacted on that occasion, that they are no less accomplished in doing discordances, and administering most ungracious incivilities on each other, when they happen to be in the humour of it. When the Lord Chancellor enters the House of Lords to open the sitting, he is preceded by the bearer of the seals and mace, who lays them down when his lordship has arrived at the woolsack, and the chaplain reads prayers. In the same manner the mace (" that bawble," as Crom- well called it, when he entered that chamber with his troops, and said, " Take away that bawble") is borne before the Speaker of the Commons, and laid upon the table, as the signal for the chaplain to commence his duty. Like the two houses of the American Congress, the British Par- liament, for the most part, contrive to dispense with the prayers, and come in afterward. "The woolsack 1" — is the moderator's seat. The Lord Chancellor is ex officio president of the House of Lords. His seat, I presume, was originally a sack of wool ; and, for aught I know, it may be so now. An American may have some idea of it, by having his attention directed to a bag of cotton. It is not so large, but very like it ; and is laid across the room in front of the throne, being covered with scarlet cloth, like the other furniture of the room. As moderator of the house the Lord Chancellor occupies this place ; in his judicial capacity he sits in a chair. Among the many representations of Lord Chancellor Brougham exposed in the picture-shops, was a cheap one, exhibiting him in this chair, leaning forward, with his spectacles in one hand, and saying very characteristically to a counsellor, whose argument might often be cut short to the profit of all concerned, " Yes, I see, sir — I see — it comes to this." By general consent in both houses, the ministers and their supporters occupy the side of the house on the right of the speaker, and the opposition on his left. Of course, when there is a change of government, by the ascendency of the opposition to power, the two great parties change 140 COMPOSITION OF THE TWO sides — the party out, being by the change constituted the opposition, go over to the left of the speaker, and the party intrusted with the government, to the right. The minis- ters take the front seat, which for this reason is called the " Treasury Bench." " The Right Reverend Bench" does not change with the change of ministry ; but always remains on the speaker's right— over his shoulder, behind the treasury bench. Why it remains stationary there in the ups and downs of parties, I do not know — unless, being " ministers of peace," they are supposed to be of no party. Until the Reform govern- ment was created, they had generally been ranked politi- cally on the side of the ministry, and of course were in the right, in two senses at. least : first, being on the speaker's right ; and next, in their own society. In a reformed Par- liament, assuming that they think with the opposition on political questions, as they generally do — they are, notwith- standing, and however paradoxical it may seem, both on the right and wrong side, in the view of Reformers. When a boy at school, I used often to recite that favour- ite speech of Chatham — with me a favourite— in which, pleading the cause of the North American colonists against the employment of the Indians in the war, he turns and says, " I appeal to that Right Reverend Bench — those holy min- isters of our religion ;" and I imagined they had some ex- alted place by themselves. When I first entered the House of Lords in session, I looked for " that Right Reverend Bench." There could be no mistake ; and yet it was not ex- alted, as I had imagined, but down upon the same level with all the rest. The white robes and sacerdotal lawn are an indu- bitable mark to the stranger of the place of the lords bishops. Other members, except the Lord Chancellor and the clerks, appear in their usual every-day and out-of-door garb, and sit with their hats on or off, as they please. With this ex- ception in regard to hats, if it must be reckoned one, the dig- nity of the House of Lords, so far as I am a witness, or am otherwise acquainted, is well sustained. This cannot al- ways be said of the House of Commons. The composition, or elements of the two Houses of Par- liament, are as follows : — There are five classes of peers in Great Britain : 1. Peers of England ; 2. Peers of Scotland ; 3. Peers of Ireland ; 4. Peers of the United Kingdom ; and, 5. Peers of the Episco- pal Bench. All Peers of England are entitled to seats in the House of Lords ; so also those of the United Kingdom, though their locality be Irish or Scotch. Every peerage, it should be remarked, has a locality, though the possessor of the dig- nity may belong to another part of the empire. There is a sort of double peerage — that is, Peers of England sometimes ihold an equal or superior rank ;n the peerages of Scotland HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT. 141 and Ireland. If superior, courtesy addresses them by the higher dignity, but they hold their seats in the House of Lords as Peers of England, or under title of the inferior rank. The peerages of Ireland and Scotland are entitled to a place in the House of Lords only by representation, which is limited — for Ireland to twenty-eight ; for Scotland to six- teen. The representatives of the Irish peerages are chosen for life ; those of the Scotch for the duration of the Parlia- ment. The two archbishops and the twenty-four bishops of England are peers in right of certain ancient baronies which they are supposed to hold under the king. The Bishop of Sodor and Man has no seat in Parliament. One of the archbishops and three of the bishops of the Irish Prot- estant Church sit in the House of Lords in annual rotation. The rights of peers by creation do not descend to their pos- terity, unless so specified in the patent : this belongs only to the ancient peerages. The composition of the House of Lords, at the beginning of 1834, stood thus : — Princes of the blood royal (all dukes) Other dukes Marquesses Earls . Viscounts Barons Peers of Scotland . Peers of Ireland English Bishops Irish Bishops Total, 4 21 19 110 18 180 16 28 26 4 426 The number of lay lords may be increased by creation at the will of the king. The number of the House of Commons is the same under the Reform Act as before, viz. 658 ; but the constituency has been very essentially extended. Before the passage of the Reform Bill, this branch of the legislature was constituted as follows : — For 40 Counties in England ... 80 knights 25 Cities ....... 50 citizens 167 Boroughs 334 burgesses 5 do. one each ... 5 do. 2 Universities, Oxford and Cambridge 4 do. 8 Cinque Ports 16 barons 12 Counties in Wales ... 12 knights 12 Boroughs in Wales .... 12 burgesses 12 Counties in Scotland ... 30 knights 142 COMPOSITION OF PARLIAMENT. 12 Boroughs in do. 32 Counties in Ireland 12 Boroughs in do. Total, 15 burgesses 64 knights 36 burgesses 658 The House of Commons, under the Reform Act, is con- stituted as follows : — English County Members Universities Cities and Boroughs Welch County Members Welch Cities and Boroughs Scotch County Members Scotch Cities and Boroughs Irish County Members Irish University of Dublin Irish Cities and Boroughs . ... . 143 . 4 ... . 324 15 . • . . 14 . , 30 . , . . 23 . . 64 • • . . 2 . , 39 Total, 658 Of the House of Commons, as it stood at the beginning of 1834, the members were of the following classes : — Holding Commissions in the Army " do. in the Navy Lawyers Persons in Trade ...... Literary Men Of no Profession Total, 658 The radical change in the principles of the elective fran- chise, and the consequent extension of the constituency to comprehend the middle classes of the community, and leav- ing them free to choose whom they will from whatever rank in society, brought into the reformed House of Com- mons, to a great extent, very different elements from those which composed it under the old regime. It is more dem- ocratic. Notwithstanding, however, such is the influence of the aristocracy of the country, that 186 of the members of the House of Commons in 1834, that is, in the last Par- liament, were immediately connected with the peers. The component parts of the House of Commons are liable to frequent change from death, promotion, and the various fluctuations of society with which they are connected ; and the places vacated are filled by new elections. The House of Lords opens as a court of appeals in the THE MONARCHY. 143 morning, at such hour as the Lord Chancellor appoints, and the business is done principally by him. Five o'clock in the afternoon is the usual hour of assembling for legislative business, and they adjourn at such time of night as may be convenient. When interesting and important debates oc- cur, they are apt to sit late — sometimes till morning. The House of Commons used formerly to meet at four P. M., and be prepared for business and for the admission of strangers at five ; but in 1833 they established a new reg- ulation, to meet and do the lighter business of the house from twelve to three ; to assemble again at five, and adjourn as might be convenient. They more frequently sit late than the House of Lords — the average hour of adjournment is perhaps not far from twelve o'clock ; often at one and two ; sometimes they debate all night. There are eating and coffee rooms connected with the house in adjoining apart- ments, to which members and strangers can retire at any time for refreshments ; and as appears by the extract from a London paper, page 137, there is a smoking-room too. It may seem to a stranger in the gallery of the House of Com- mons, when debate is dull, and no important vote immedi- ately pending, that the members are nearly all absent ; but the moment a clever speaker is up, or a vote of importance is about to be called for, a rush is made from the various adjacent apartments, and in five minutes the house is full. THE MONARCHY AND ARISTOCRACY. The principal and controlling elements of English society— A European Monarchist and an American Republican— British Law above the King — History of the British Monarchy — Its social influence in connexion with the Court — Courts corrupt — They corrupt Society — Expense of the British Monarchy — Listtof the Royal Family— The Aristocracy. I am satisfied, that the state of society in Great Britain cannot be understood by foreigners, without the process of analysis and composition. It is very obvious that the mon- archy stands first in the list of the principal elements. I was going to say, that every Briton is a monarchist ; but I remember, that a Scotchman once told me in London, with a very significant and positive air, " Sir, we are republicans in Scotland,'" I suppose, however, that he meant to say, The reformers of Scotland are republicans ; alias, radicals. If we might judge from the developments of a dinner given to Lord Durham at Glasgow, in 1834, they would seem to be a confirmation of the latter proposition, if not of the former ; and many think there is no great distance between 144 ELEMENTS OF BRITISH SOCIETY. them. Certainly, British radicals are generally believed by their opponents to be republicans ; and since Lord Durham has taken rank among them, they have lost some five sixths or nine tenths of their want of respectability ; and he, at least, is an undoubted lover of monarchy. A little more leaven of this kind will give to that party no mean impor- tance ; and if the Conservatives do not conduct themselves very prudently, some man like Lord Durham, or his lord- ship himself, will not unlikely, ere long, be at the head of the government, and Daniel O'Connell among them for the pacification of Ireland. As a general truth, Britons are stanch monarchists, and are likely to remain so for an indefinite period, if having a chief magistrate under the name of king entitles them to that appellation, and so long as the royal prerogatives are under such popular control, and can be kept in such check, as the present state of the British constitution admits. The King of Great Britain has not at this moment so much power as the President of the United States. There are, however, features and prerogatives of the Brit- ish monarchy of a truly regal character, important to be considered, as an element of society, and without a knowl- edge of which we cannot understand the state of society in Great Britain. Next in importance to the monarchy, or as a collateral and co-ordinate element, is the aristocracy. They are both indispensable to each other ; they are both primary and capital ; they are the oldest, highest, and yet the most in- fluential elements of the British constitution, notwithstand- ing their power has been recently abridged ; they are at the foundation and at the top ; they are the great and principal timbers of the fabric ; they constitute the imposing features of its architecture ; they are the rich and splendid furniture of the house ; they are, in a word, those parts, without which British society would no longer be British. The hierarchy and the church, as established by the state, are as old as the monarchy — yes, older ; as venerable as the aristocracy, and, I had almost said, the parent and protector of both. But the reformation from Popery reduced that mighty and colossal spiritual power, which had been accus- tomed to set its foot on the necks of kings — which forced all earthly princes to do it reverence, and to acknowledge their dependance. But still the Church of England, in her hierarchy, if not the protectress of the monarchy, is its spouse — is wedded to the throne. She gives counsel in the ear of majesty; she superintends the entire pupilage of the princes and princesses of the blood, and has the formation of their character ; she has her chaplains in every noble family ; her bishops are lords, and ex officio legislators ; her clergy are magistrates ; she has control of the universities ; THE MONARCHY. 145 she imposes numerous practical and important civil disabil- ities on all dissentients from her creed ; and withal, she is endowed with great wealth. English society could never be understood, leaving out of view this spiritual and influ- ential element. The Commons of Great Britain, nominally the third es- tate of the realm, their modes of organization and their power in connexion with the people, their recent ascenden- cy and prospective influence, are interesting and important to be considered. The religion of Great Britain — of the established Church of England and Ireland ; of the Kirk of Scotland ; of the dissenting sects in south and north Britain ; of the Roman Church ; and of their separate action and combined influ- ence on the popular mind ; — all these are matters of great practical importance in the constitution of British society. And next in importance to religion is education in the for- mation of national character. The unequal division of property, with its causes and in- fluence ; the vast amount of poverty and wretchedness, and the causes of them ; the commercial spirit and trading char- acter of Great Britain; her political importance and national pride ; her wealth, apparent and real ; her social influence in the world ; customs and manners at court, among the no- bility and gentry, among the common people, and many other things that might be named — all have to do in the con- stitution of society. A subject of any other of the monarchies of Europe, on visiting England, and examining the machinery of society as it exists there, in that part of his inquiries which respects government, has only to compare the monarchy he has left behind with the one he is now looking at, or the latter with such as he may happen to be acquainted with, and to esti- mate the difference. He will not unlikely be amazed that a monarchy can be so mild, and the subjects of it enjoy so much liberty, as in England. There he will find the utmost liberty of speech and of the press ; security of person and property against the encroachments of arbitrary power ; a right to do what a man pleases, if he does not violate the rights of his neighbour, as fixed and defined by law for com- mon good. No one is afraid of the king — not even the poorest. If he has done wrong, he may be afraid of the law ; if he has a good conscience, he knows the law stands between him and the king, and will be his protection. For example : In 1708, a Russian ambassador, then resi- dent at the court of Queen Anne, was arrested in a street of London, and taken out of his coach into custody of the Sheriff of Middlesex, for the sum of £50, which he owed to a tradesman. The czar demanded of the queen, as an G 13 146 THE MONARCHY. atonement for this insult to his ambassador, that the sheriff and all concerned in this arrest should be put to instant death. To which the queen replied — " That she could in- flict no punishment on the meanest of her subjects, unless warranted by the law of the land." It was owing to this incident that an act of parliament was passed to exempt for- eign ministers and their servants from arrests, a copy of which, elegantly engrossed and illuminated, was sent to Moscow by the hand of an extraordinary ambassador, as the only satisfaction that could be rendered. A century and a quarter from that time has only increased the influence and protection of law in Great Britain. But, while the stranger from the continent is surprised at the liberty and privileges enjoyed by the subjects of the British monarchy, the American wonders that Britons should be contented with any monarchy at all. These two indi- viduals approach the same subject from different quarters, and with views and feelings totally different. The European sees the faults got rid of, while the American looks at those which remain. The former wonders how so much of the natural sternness and severity of monarchy could be melted down into such comparative mildness ; while the latter im- agines, that behind the external symbols and pomp of roy- alty there lurks some awful power, that may, perad venture, do mischief. At least the American " calculates''' that these things are unnecessary ; especially, that the annual cost of .£1,428,571, or 6,857,140 dollars, which was the average amount of the civil list from the beginning of the reign of George III. to the end of that of George IV., a period of seventy years, is "pretty considerable''' 1 in comparison of the 25,000 dollars, or .£5,200, which is annually the cost of sup- porting the President of the United States ; and other ex- penses of the two nations in like proportion. If it is indeed true, that the American republican magnifies the undesirable attributes of the British monarchy, and thinks he sees some that have no existence ; it is equally true that the European advocate of monarchy is blind to many of the evils even of the government of Great Britain, and makes too little ac- count of those he actually discerns. The British monarchy was founded by William the Con- queror, in 1066. The other two estates of peers and com- mons were afterward formed, and successively confirmed in their influence, by the resistance of the nobles and people to the power of the monarch, and by their united claims for concession. The stamp which William the Conqueror gave to society in Great Britain, as the effect of that monarchical influence which he established — and which in him, and in some of his successors, was the power of an absolute des- pot — remains to this hour in certain of its essential forms and prerogatives. The monarchy has indeed received vari- THE MONARCHY. 147 ous modifications in the shapes of limitation and constitu- tional restraint ; the king himself has been made the subject of constitutional law; but the original features of monarchy, bating a despotic and absolute sway, are as distinct and vis- ible as is the artificial tracery on any of the relics of anti- quity to be found in those isles. With Britons, for the most part, this is no objection — but rather the object of their com- placency. " It was the excessive power of the king," says De Lolme. " that made England free" — a singular doctrine, but no less true. And he gives his reason — " because it was this very excess that gave rise to the spirit of union, and of concerted resistance." It may be added — It was this very excess which made the United States of North America free and independent — independent of that very monarchy, the praises of which De Lolme had sung before this event occurred. It appears that England could inflict such injustice on her American colonies, notwithstanding that her constitution was so corrected and so guarded against the encroachments and use of arbitrary power. In England the march of freedom, of which De Lolme speaks, had gone no farther than to ef- fect a union between the nobility and the people for the pur- pose of checking and limiting the powers of the monarch at home ; and De Lolme imagined he found — more properly affected* to have found — the consummation of liberty and of all desirable privileges in the British Constitution, as estab- lished and confirmed in the three estates of the realm, king, lords, and commons, in their reciprocal action and popular bearings. After what has recently been done — and as is thought with good reason — to amend the British Constitution, I need not undertake to expose its defects. I have in view only to notice the influence of the British monarchy as a chief and elementary power on British society ; and this is immense. First, by its constitutional bearings. What is a body without a head ? It is like the British Constitution lopped of the monarchy. As the head of the body is above all, sees for all, and guides all, so the British monarchy rests on the shoulders of the body politic, and by its vested authority gives counsel and executes law for the whole frame of so- ciety. It is the represented majesty of the nation ; it is a co-ordinate in the office of legislation, with the additional power of the Veto ; and it holds all law in its hand. Under constitutional limitations, however, its authority is vested * Affected to have found. De Lolme wrote his " Constitution of Eng- land" to secure patronage in high quarters, and his praise is excessive and unqualified. He wrote to support a theory, and not to deduce one. With a knowledge of these facts, and with this abatement, he is worthy of as much praise for his discriminating, thorough, and philosophic observations on the British Constitution, as he has bestowed on that instrument. G 2 148 THE MONARCHY. and responsible, not independent or absolute. The doctrine that the king can do no wrong is a fiction ; practically, how- ever, except in the choice of his advisers, the responsibility of government rests on them, and not on him. The court is at the head of society, itself a society of prescriptive rights and exclusive privileges, enjoying munif- icent provisions at the public expense, and devoting itself to an uninterrupted round of pleasure corresponding with those vast expenditures, which are appropriated for the maintenance of royalty. It is a splendid pageant, always in a glitter within its own circle, making occasional public demonstrations merely for stage effect on the popular mind. The chief influence of the court is, that it is the pattern of manners, and naturally the fountain of morals. The rev- erence for monarchy, which has so long obtained in Great Britain ; the intimate connexions of all parts of the empire with the metropolis ; the ascendency of the court over the latter ; the wealth and independence of a numerous nobility, and other privileged classes, planted in every part of the United Kingdom, and exerting a supremacy of influence in their respective spheres, which comprehend all and every thing ; the nobility themselves, in various ways and by many ties connected with the court and bound to the throne ; all looking with the greatest respect to what is allowed to be the highest region of society in the empire, and forming their manners by the models which are there set up, it cannot be otherwise than that the court and its circles should be a pat- tern for all. London is the centre of the British empire, do- mestic and foreign ; in society the court is the centre of Lon- don ; and all that is imitable there in manners and customs is most assiduously and obsequiously copied among all ranks. In some things the manners of the court may be very good ; in others they are certainly inconvenient ; in many things extravagant, not simply in regard to expense, but propriety ; they are often unnatural, and alike unfriendly to health and morals ; many are ridiculous ; — but there is no resisting their influence. I will give an example of the inconvenient and the ridicu- lous, that becomes so in common society. Fetes or entertain- ments at the table are necessarily so frequent at court and among the higher ranks, and dinners so extravagant and cer- emonious, that in process of time — I know not when — the dejeune a la fourchette, alias a breakfast with meat, alias an apology for a dinner, came into fashion to save the trouble of a regular dinner. When lo ! through all ranks of English society public breakfasts are, perhaps, the most common so- cial entertainments! With the nobility and gentry, who have no demands of business to occupy them, it is a conve- nience, and much better, no doubt, than to have what is called a dinner. It is with them in fact a dinner, though at THE MONARCHY. 149 an earlier hour of the day ; but with common people it is not ; it is taken at the hour of breakfast, and is a breakfast. It has always seemed to me an inconvenient and ridiculous aping of a custom in the higher ranks. The custom, however, is established, and appears to be liked. The copy and the ori- ginal are so unlike, that people who never inquire into such things probably have no idea of their relation to each other. Manners and customs, in which people pride themselves, descend ; and if they are bad, vice goes with them, begetting an innumerable offspring. With the English the authority of example in such matters is Gospel. " High life below stairs 11 is an English proverb, at least in form ; and it may be taken as a figure to illustrate the history of English manners in all the grades of descent from the court down through the various ranks of the nobility, the gentry, and commonalty, to those who are actually " below stairs" in the houses of tradesmen. Every one is studious, not to say conscientious (for sensibility on this subject is almost as tender and quick as conscience), in avoiding the peculi- arities of those who are below him ; and there is no inter- ruption in the scale of this connexion and influence from the menials of the lower menials to the menials of him who occupies the throne. In many particulars the manners of high life in England are exemplary and worthy of imitation. In the higher cir- cles of English society, when it happens to be pure — and it is pleasant to know that this is extensively the case — there is nothing on earth more pure. The order of a well-regu- lated English family in the higher ranks, where wealth has afforded every opportunity of intellectual and moral culture, and where religion presides over the scene, and purifies the atmosphere, presents one of the finest spectacles of the social state which this world can furnish. The refine- ments of civilization in England, take them all in all as the civilization of Christianity, have undoubtedly afforded finer specimens of human society, and on a larger scale, than any other nation ancient or modern. But the peculiar temptations to which the sons of the noble and the wealthy are exposed, by some grand defects in society which as yet have found no remedy, and the cor- rupt manners of the metropolis, and of a pleasure-hunting and venal court, too often bring a dark cloud over the pros- pects of families, and of extensive circles of connexions, which otherwise gave promise of social happiness, that might indeed seem enviable for an earthly state. But not- withstanding these disadvantages, and the consequent sub- tractions from the greatest beauty and happiness of society, civilization in England, under the benign influences of Chris- tianity, has been gradually urging its advances, till all that is most desirable on earth would seem to be brought within 13* 150 THE MONARCHY. reach of the hand of man, and the cup of the highest earthly felicity raised to his lips only to be dashed from the grasp of fruition for want of that pure state of public morals, which is indispensable to such an attainment in general society. The courts of kings have ever been corrupt, and they are still corrupt. The manners and morals of courts are fatal to domestic happiness, and consequently to the happiness of society. How can it be otherwise, so long as they are provisioned by the state only to pursue a perpetual round of pleasure ] George IV. of England claimed to be the first gentleman, and earned the credit of the greatest libertine, in Europe. And notwithstanding his supposed accomplish- ments in the first of these characters, it has been said and is believed, that the allied sovereigns and their suites, while on a visit to England after the overthrow of Napoleon, made themselves sport with the manners of the King of England ; and that the wags of their train called him a clown. The natural sons of William IV. have been raised to the dignities of the peerage, and have officiated in high stations of the royal household ! And one of them, Lord Adolphus Fitzclarence, accompanied the Queen of England to Germany in the summer of 1834, as the chief and imme- diate attendant on her person ! I was in one of the boats that accompanied the queen to the mouth of the river Thames, and saw him in the discharge of these duties during the day. What must be the state of morals at a court, that would not blush at this ! What the sense of morals with a government, that would so exalt and dignify these individu- als, and make them so conspicuous before the public ! What the sense of morals in a community, that would not raise one loud and long note of remonstrance, till it should be heard and make an impression to answer its design! Indeed, it is not unlike the proclamation of a bounty on crime! Such, undoubtedly, is its influence. The public reception of these doings shows, that what originates in a court and is tolerated there, though it be a scandal, is too apt to be tolerated in general society. " Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, That to be hated, needs but to be seen ; But grown too oft famdiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace." But if vice be offered to a people by the example of the highest authority in the community, with a premium to boot, alas ! it is not the only evil, immense and incalculable as it is in such a matter, that the design of society to present motives to virtue is reversed ; but vice, in its nakedness and under its own proper name, is placed in the ascendant — is enthroned, while virtue lies dishonoured, maimed, and bleed- ing under its feet ! In such a case vice is not ".a monster f AND ARISTOCRACY. 151 it has no "frightful mien;" it will not be "hated at the sight ;" but it is decked with charms ; it is legalized ; it is recommended by authority, and by that authority to which all men look for example ! There is a high family now before the British community, and a married daughter of that family, envied of her sex for her charms, as report pro- claims, has been deserted by her husband, who has taken in her place the widow of his wife's father, and appears habitually with her in public ! But this is only an instance. " The numerous adulteries committed in the higher circles of fashionable life," says an appeal to the bishops and digni- taries of the Church of England, on the state of religion, mor- als, and manners, in the British metropolis, published in 1831, " would lead one to suspect, that matrimony among peers was either a mere matter of money, or of political interest ; or else, that this holy relationship was considered by them as a state of legal concubinage, from which the parties, con- nected by no principle of affection and honour, might free themselves without the least apprehension of shame or dis- grace. What the state of morals is among the nobility may fairly be determined by the number of divorce-bills founded upon the crim. con. transactions of this privileged order of society." Can it be imagined, that the known licentiousness of George IV. and of his court, that the example of the late Duke of Clarence, now William IV., and the promotion of his natural sons to the highest dignities, have had no in- fluence in subtracting from the disgrace of like practices among the nobility, and in authorizing these offences against decency ; these crimes against the state 1 — or, that the same vices do not descend, with accumulating force, from the higher ranks of society to the lowest 1 " The prodigality and dissipation of the court," says the authority above quoted, " have frequently had a very fatal influence both on the fortunes and the morals of an impor- tant branch of the community, by producing a general dis- soluteness of manners among' the nobility. Nor has it stop- ped there : since the expensive habits of the great have communicated to those whose opulence would allow them to imitate their fashionable extravagances, a vitiosity of taste and habits, that has not only led to an open contempt for the sacred duties of religion, but, in too many instances, to a direct violation of the common decencies of civilized life. The licentious manners of the court of Charles II. corrupt- ed the morals of the metropolis to a most alarming extent, and spread such a torrent of impiety and dissoluteness of principles through the country, as to threaten the total ex- tinction of the public ordinances and worship of God. At a more recent period, if we may judge from the ingenious •dialogues of a shrewd and temporizing prelate, the court has 152 THE MONARCHY. exhibited the libertine features of an infidel character. In one of Dr. Hurd's dialogues, where Cowley and Sprat are the speakers, Mr. Cowley observes : ' My situation was such, that I came to have a familiarity with greatness. Yet shall I confess my inmost sentiments of this gilded life to you ? I found it empty, fallacious, and even disgusting. The outside indeed was fair ; but to me, who had an opportunity of looking it through, nothing could be more deformed and hateful. All was ambition, intrigue, and falsehood. Every one intent on his own schemes, frequently wicked, always base and selfish. Great professions of honour, of friendship, and of duty ; but all ending in low views and sordid prac- tices.' — ' Your idea, then, of a court,' says Sprat, ' is that of a den of thieves, only better dressed and more civilized.' ' That,' said he, ' is the idea under which truth obliges me to represent it.' Such were the Bishop of Worcester's views of what may be termed the primum mobile of the empire. And there is too much reason to conclude, that the dissoluteness which characterized the last reign (George IV. 's), helped to promote in no small degree that general de- pravity of morals, which is so much to be deplored, as de- stroying the manly virtues of the English nobility, and con- taminating the national character of the lower orders of the people." William IV., however, since he came to the throne, has not given much occasion for fault-finding. As Duke of Clar- ence he was extremely unpopular ; but as king he has gen- erally a new character. But the court is at the head of the nation ; the court is the pattern of manners ; and the court is, to a great extent, the fountain of morals. Constituted as society in Great Britain is, it cannot be otherwise. It is, however, undoubtedly true, that the nation is better than the court. If it were not, and if there be any foundation for the above picture, drawn by the hand of a right reverend prelate, who ought to have a good conscience, the nation could not exist. The truth is, since liberty in Great Britain has attained such a footing, and religion, science, literature, commerce, and the arts have had such scope, the nation has risen in spite of these bad influences from high quarters. Since the court and the nobility have failed to reform the people, the people, rising from ages of depression, have undertaken to reform the nobility and court ; and it is well known, by this time, that they have done much of this work, and are going on at a hopeful rate. But notwithstanding it does not alter the great truth, that the example and influence of manners and morals in the highest ranks are bad. It is still true, that this effort at reformation is against the tide, and conse- quently difficult and slow. Still the court maintains its supremacy of influence, and ever must, till the constitution AND THE COURT. 153 of society, in other words, till the constitution of the state, shall have been so modified, as to admit of the purification of the fountain. What modification of that grand instrument in form and degree is most expedient, is very difficult to say. Theories are of little value in determining such a question. Neither a republican, nor a monarchist, as such, and inde- pendent of a knowledge of the case, would be a competent judge. Without a violent revolution, Great Britain must, for an indefinite time to come, exist as a monarchy ; and it is no matter what the government is called, if it can be made to undergo such improvements as the condition of society from time to time may require. That, and that alone, ought to be the criterion. The monarchy has been greatly modi- fied ; it has gradually declined in influence and energy, as an antagonist of the popular will; and the same course of change may be carried to any extent, that may be expedient and necessary. In any amendments of the British constitu- tion that may be thought desirable, the greatest difficulty will not be in curtailing the power and privileges of the first estate, that is, of the king ; for there is no perpetuity of will to contend with in that, except by a fiction. That may easily be made to bend. Any thing may be made of it that time and circumstances may require. But the grand diffi- culty will be with the House of Lords. The will of that body is the grand barrier to improvement ; it is perpetual, and perpetually the same ; it will never bend ; it must one day be broken. The House of Lords is the only body that is interested in maintaining the ancient forms of the monarchy; in other words, in maintaining its corruptions ; in keeping up that system of society, which is opposed to the interests of the nation, which is an insuperable bar to improvement, and under which a corrupt court will make a corrupt aristoc- racy, and a corrupt aristocracy will corrupt the nation. " There are but two sorts of men," says Bishop Hurd, in his moral and political dialogues, or the bishop makes one of his colloquists to say — " there are but two sorts of men that should think of living in a court : The one is, of those strong and active spirits that are formed for business, and whose capacity fits them for the discharge of its functions. The other sort are what one may properly enough call, if the phrase were not somewhat uncourtly, the mob of courts — they who have vanity or avarice without ambition, or ambition without talents. These, by assiduity, good luck, and the help of their vices (for they would scorn to claim advancement if it were to be had by any other practices), may in time succeed to the lower parts of a government ; and together make up that showy, servile, and selfish crowd, which we dignify with the name of a court." A sorry G3 154 COST OF THE MONARCHY. picture, indeed ; but since it comes from such authority, it may be worthy of some credit. The sum of the matter, then, is : That the British mon- archy is not only the head of the state, but the head of society ; the constitution gives it this position ; the habits of the community yield this supremacy ; the court, which encircles the monarchy, which is its circumstance and pa- geant, is the pattern of manners and the natural fountain of morals ; the metropolis is the centre and soul of the nation, and the court is the centre and soul of the metrop- olis ; from the court all high powers and influences ema- nate ; on it all eyes are fastened ; and with it all branches of society of controlling influence are allied. Consequently, in such a state of things it must follow, that the monarchy is the chief and most influential element of the great social fabric, of which it is a part, and at the head of which it stands, surmounted by a crown, the symbol of its high dig- nity and social importance. It may, perhaps, be worth while in this place to make a brief statement of the cost of the British monarchy to the nation^ The state provisions for royalty and its appenda- ges in Great Britain are called — The civil list — and are at present divided into five classes: — 1. The privy purse of the king and queen, or their pocket-money ; 2. Salaries of the royal household ; 3. Expenses of ditto ; 4. Special and secret service; and 5. Pensions to those who have been in the service of the royal family. Formerly, under the reigns of George IV. and his father, the civil list was divi- ded into nine classes, four of which, in the present reign, have been shifted upon the public in another form, making the civil list nominally less, though not diminishing the burdens of the community. At present it stands thus : — For their majesties' privy purse - £\ 10,000 Salaries of the household - . . 130,300 Expenses of household - 171,500 Special and secret service - - - 23,200 Pensions 75,000 Total, £510,000 From the accession of George III., in 1760, to the death of George IV., in 1830, comprehending a period of seventy years, the sum total of the civil list, as obtained from tan- gible public documents, is £92,090,807. The provisions and official emoluments of the royal dukes, from their first en- tering into public life down to the year 1815, together with various fees and perquisites which they were accustomed to receive, and annuities to the princesses on the Irish civil list, are not included in this statement, for want of specific EXPENSE OF THE MONARCHY. 155 vouchers. They are supposed to have been sufficient to make up the round sum, in a grand total, of £ 100,000,000, for this period ; or an average annual expenditure of £ 1,428, 571. In Federal currency the entire sum for seventy years would be $480,000,000! and the average annual expenditure $6,857,140! For the same purpose, that is, for the salary of the President, the people of the United States pay for seventy years, $1,750,000, or .£364,583— a small fraction more than one fourth of the above estimate for the British nation for a single year ! For one year the American peo- ple pay for the same object $25,000, or .£5,200 — about the average annual expenditure for furnishing the wardrobe of George IV. ! Adding the expense of the President's house and its furniture, the secret service money allowed to our government, and a few other trifling items, corresponding with the classes of expenditure comprehended in the civil list of Great Britain — the disproportion of these compara- tive estimates would then be in a slight degree diminished — but nothing very considerable. The following are some curious items of the civil list of Great Britain : — Windsor Castle had cost the nation in 1831, for sundry repairs, j£894,500, and the additional estimate for its com- pletion was £190,670, making the sum of £1,085,170, or $5,208,816, for what some one has called a Gothic barbarism. It is, nevertheless, a royal thing. A cottage in the great Park of Windsor cost half a million sterling. The expense of the Pavilion at Brighton is estimated at £1,000,000. The new palace, at Pimlico will have cost about £1, 000,000 — .£70,000 of which have been bestowed on the front enclo- sure and gateway ! The privy purse, or pocket-money of William IV., is annually £60,000, or $288,000 ; that of his queen is £50,000, or $240,000. This is for their own per- sonal use, as the pocket-money of a lad at school, or the pin-money of a lady. If the queen outlives the king, 100 per cent, is to be added to this, with all other needful pro- visions befitting her state as queen dowager. The king, however, is poor compared with some of his nobles. The annual income of the Duke of Sutherland is quoted at £360,000; of Northumberland at £300,000; of the Marquis of Westminster at £280,000; of the Duke of Buccleugh at £250,000. There are some others of the Eng- lish nobility with princely revenues, but the class are rela- tively and rapidly sinking in point of wealth, and common- ers of the empire are rising above them. The king is de- pendant ; his civil list is voted by parliament ; and in this sense he lives on charity. How charitable, then, are the British nation ! The expenses of the crown seals are about £20,000, or 156 EXPENSE OF THE MONARCHY. $96,000 annually, all the duties of which might be done by one man and his clerk, and give them time to play the gen- tleman besides. During the regency of the Prince of Wales, the charge for upholstery for the royal household, only for three quarters of one year, was £46,29 1 ; for linen drapery, .£64,000 ; silversmiths, £40,000 ; wardrobe, £72,000 ;— total for these four items, £222,241, or $1,066,756 ! Burke says, that a plan of retrenchment of expense in the royal house- hold, set on foot by Lord Talbot, was suddenly stopped, be- cause, forsooth, it would endanger the situation of an hon- ourable ( ? ) member, who was turnspit in the kitchen ! The Duke of St. Albans receives an annual salary, conferred by letters patent under the hand of James II., still continued, of £1,372, as grand falconer, or, in more vulgar phrase, as master of the hawks ! The salary of the Earl of Litchfield, as master of the dogs, is £2,000 ! Both dignified appoint- ments for noblemen ! I suppose the turnspit was a noble- man. The average annual bill of George IV. for robes was £5,000, or $24,000 ; his stud of horses, although he scarcely ever rode beyond his pleasure-grounds, amounted to more than 200 ; and his old clothes, after his death, were sold in a heap for £15,000, or $72,000 ! His visit to Ireland cost the nation £52,261 ; ditto to Scotland, £21,439 ; ditto to Hano- ver, £13,206;— total, £86,906, or $417,148 for three jour- neys ! He took with him to Ireland forty-five professional cooks, and not one of them could prepare the first dish he called for, and his steward was obliged to pay an Irish woman for the office ! No lady was ever more nice in ma- king her toilet than George IV. He superintended the making of his coronation robes, and when they were done, he caused them to be put upon one of his best-made attend- ants, and ordered him to walk to and fro before his eyes, examining and adjusting every part till he was satisfied. When George IV. was Prince of W T ales, his debts at the time of his marriage, which Parliament had to cancel, were £642,890, or $3,085,872 ! Of this, £40,000 was his farrier's bill for horse-medicine and shoes. The prince gave Jeffreys an order for the marriage jewels of his wife, which amount- ed to £64,000 ! a comfortable affair for a wife to think upon. The prince's wife, afterward Queen Caroline, was the daugh- ter of the Duke and Dutchess of Brunswick, her mother be- ing the sister of George III., and she, of course, cousin to her husband. The prince had the credit of having married her to be relieved from his embarrassments, as she was rich. This order for the jewels would seem to be in that line. " When the reason of old establishments is gone," says Burke, " it is absurd to preserve nothing but the burden of them. This is superstitiously to embalm the carcass, not worth an ounce of the gums that are used to preserve it. It is to burn precious oils in the tomb ; it is to offer meat THE ROYAL FAMILY. 157 and drink to the dead — not so much an honour to the de- ceased as a disgrace to the survivers. Our palaces are vast inhospitable halls: there the bleak winds — 'there Boreas, and Eurus, and Caurus, and Argestes, loud, 1 howling through the vacant lobbies, and clattering the doors of the deserted guard-rooms, appal the imagination, and conjure up the grim spectres of departed tyrants — the Saxon, the Norman, and the Dane — the stern Edwards and fierce Henries — who stalk from desolation to desolation through the dreary vacuity and melancholy succession of chill and comfortless cham- bers." William IV., King of Great Britain and Ireland, late Duke of Clarence, and third son of George III., was born Au- gust 21st, 1765; married July 11th, 1818, her Serene High- ness Amelia- Adelaide-Louise-Therese-Caroline-Wilhelmi- na, Princess of Saxe-Meinengen (what a name !), eldest daughter of George-Frederick-Charles, reigning Duke of Saxe-Meinengen; and has had two daughters — one died the day of birth, and the other lived a little less than three months. There being no issue living by the king, the Prin- cess Victoria, daughter and only child of the Duke of Kent, her father being dead, is heir presumptive to the British throne. She was born May 24th, 1819, and is now (July, 1835) in her 17th year. Her mother, the Dutchess of Kent, is living, and, in connexion with the appointed state guardi- ans, has charge of her daughter's education. The Dutchess of Kent is a highly accomplished woman, has personal charms, and is popular. She is the daughter of the Duke of Saxe-Cobourg-Saalfield. The terms heir apparent and presumptive to the throne will be obvious, as appropriated — the former to designate a son or daughter of the reigning monarch, if one be living ; and the latter to point out the nearest akin, according to the es- tablished law for the descent of the crown, when the king has no heir of his own body. The brothers of William IV. living are the Duke of Cum- berland, Duke of Sussex, and Duke of Cambridge — the latter viceroy of Hanover. The king's sisters living are the Princesses Augusta, Elizabeth, Mary, Sophia, and Amelia. Elizabeth and Mary are widows, the former of the Prince of Hesse- Hombourg, who died in 1829 ; the latter of the late Duke of Gloucester. The other three princesses are un- married. George III. had fifteen children, of whom nine are living. The princes and princesses of the blood royal are distinguished by the title of Royal Highness. William IV. being in his seventieth year, and his con- stitution somewhat invaded by leading causes of mortality, 14 158 THE ARISTOCRACY. a demise of the crown, as it is technically called, may soon be expected ; in which case the British nation is likely to have a youthful queen. If the Princess Victoria should be taken before her great uncle, the crown will fall on the Duke of Cumberland and his family, who has a son, Prince George of Cumberland, born May 27th, 1819. Next is the Duke of Sussex, whose children cannot succeed, his marriage having been dissolved by parliament, as illegal. Next is the Duke of Cambridge, who has three children, one and the eldest a son — Prince George of Cambridge, born March 26th, 1819. It is expected that the Princess Victoria will marry one of the Georges, her cousins. In case of the failure of heirs legitimate to the British throne, the parliament is competent to make a special settlement of the crown. The house of Brunswick, however, has a large stock, and will probably save the parliament that trouble, if not as long as kings may be wanted, at least for a long time yet to come. THE ARISTOCRACY. The orders of nobility in Great Britain are five, in rank as follows : — Dukes, Marquesses, Earls, Viscounts, and Barons ; to which may be added a sixth, the Archbishops and Bishops, who, as spiritual lords, are entitled to a seat in the House of Peers, and possess for their lives all the faculties and privileges of the peerage. In 1824 there were in England 21 Dukes ; 19 Marquesses ; 110 Earls ; 18 Viscounts; 196 Barons; 2 Archbishops, and 24 Bishops. Total of English peerages, 390. In Scotland at the same time, 8 Dukes ; 3 Marquesses ; 44 Earls ; 6 Viscounts ; and 24 Barons. Total of peerages in Scotland, 85. In Ireland, 1 Duke ; 14 Marquesses ; 73 Earls ; 43 Vis- counts ; and 70 Barons. The Irish Protestant Bishops are lords spiritual, for aught I know by courtesy, and are repre- sented in Parliament by four of their number in rotation. In fact, therefore, 4 of these use all the privileges and enjoy the honours of peers. Total of Irish peerages, 205. The total number of peerages, therefore, in the United Kingdom, in 1834, was 680. There have been a few crea- tions since ; I do not know the number ; say 5. The total will then be 685. But, as a plural number of peerages often vests in one individual — and sometimes two, rarely three — but in no cases of fact more than three — the actual number of peers is only 601. There are 14 peerages belonging to females of their own right — 5 Countesses, 1 Viscountess, and 8 Baronesses. Total number of persons in the peerage, 615. The following are some of the privileges of nobility : — 1. Exemption from arrest for debt. 2. They can be tried THE WEALTH OF DIFFERENT CLASSES. 159 for crime and misdemeanors only by their peers, who give their verdict, not on oath, but on their honour. 3. Exemp- tion from scandal by a law subjecting their defamers to an arbitrary fine and imprisonment. 4. A peer may sit in a court of justice uncovered. Besides many other privileges, secured by ages of legis- lation originating in themselves, screening their property from taxation, and their persons from insult, the customs of society established and controlled by their own influence, defend them and their families at all points, in an undis- puted and unassailable pre-eminence. These privileges are watched and guarded with the most scrupulous consci- entiousness from all invasions by commoners. The aris- tocracy are a world by themselves, so entirely confined to their own society as to be ignorant to a great extent of the character and power of those popular elements, which are gradually undermining their importance and influence. The consequence is, they are constantly surprised by the demon- strations of popular will and the encroachments of popular sway. Born legislators, they know not how to use this function for their own protection in these reforming days. Instead of anticipating the irresistible influence and una- voidable results of popular sway, they yield only as they are compelled, and are consequently menaced with being completely overthrown. The real and comparative wealth of the nobility is gradu- ally declining, as well as their influence, a few overgrown estates excepted. It will appear, however, from the follow- ing table of the different classes of society in England, and their respective annual incomes, that the nobility have yet a substantial revenue in proportion to their numbers in the community. Number of Persons, in- Total DESCRIPTION OF PERSONS. eluding their income of Families and each Domestics. class. Royalty 300 510,000/. Nobility 13,620 5,400,000/. Gentry, including baronets, knights, country gentlemen, and others having' lar^e incomes - - - 402,535 53,022,590/. Clergy.— Eminent clergymen - - - 9,000 1,080,000/. Lesser ditto 87,000 3,500,000/. Dissenting clergy, including itinerant preachers - - - 20,000 500,000/. State and Revenue, including all per- sons employed under govern- ment 114,500 6,830,000/. Pensioners, including those of Green- wich, Chelsea, and Kilmainham Hospitals 92,000 1 050,000/. 160 WEALTH OF DIFFERENT CLASSES. Law. Judges, barristers, attorneys, clerks, &c. 95,000 7,600,000/. Physic. — Physicians, surgeons, apothe- caries, &c. 90,000 5,400,000/. Agriculture. — Freeholders of the better sort 385,000 19,250,000/. Lesser Freeholders - - - 1,050,000 21,000,000/. Farmers 1,540,000 33,600,000/. Trade. — Eminent merchants - - - 35,000 9,100,000/. Shopkeepers, and tradesmen retailing goods - - - - 700,000 28,000 000/. Innkeepers and publicans li- censed to sell ale, beer, and spirituous liquors - - - 437,000 8,750,000/. Working Classes. — Agricultural la- bourers, mechanics, artisans, handicrafts, and all labourers employed in manufactures, mines, and minerals - - - 7,497,531 82,451,547/. Paupers, vagrants, gipsies, rogues, vagabonds, and others support- ed by criminal delinquency - 1,548,500 9,871,000/. Total 14,116,986 • Total 295,916,137/. This table is only for England. The annual revenue of all classes in the United Kingdom, including what is paid by government to the army, navy, and civil functionaries, is stated at £316,000,000, or $1,516,800,000. The item under the head of royalty is the civil list, as settled by parliament on the accession of William IV. Of the £5,400,000, being the gross annual revenue of the nobility of England, £2,825,846, are the proceeds of taxes and lay impropriations of tithes ; the residue is territorial revenue. A large frac- tion of this £5,400,000 is absorbed by a few of the most wealthy families. Many of the nobility are poor. Of the entire peerage, about 600 families, only 18 are engaged in commercial and other business pursuits. While this class lives on privilege, others in the community are rapidly ac- quiring wealth ; and as wealth rises in influence, in the new order of things, the latter are gaining power in a proportion- ate degree. The Baronets of Great Britain are a sort of half-way- between order of society. They are not noble, and yet are raised a degree above the commonalty. This, however, is conferred as the reward of distinction in the army and navy, in the learned professions, in science and the useful arts, in wealth and genius, and sundry other accidental modes, by which men force themselves into notice and favour at court. They are in number, as I suppose, at this time about 700. In 1832 they were 658, being somewhat in ex- ORDER OF PRECEDENCY. 161 cess of the number of peers. There are also various orders of knights. The following list of the order of precedency of men and women, required to be observed at court and on other pub- lic occasions, may serve to gratify the curious, and show how they settle such matters in Great Britain by authority : — A TABLE OF PRECEDENCY OF MEN. The King. Prince of Wales. King's Sons. King's Grandsons King's Brothers. King's Uncles. King's Nephews. Archbishop of Canterbury, Lord Primate of all England. Lord High Chancellor, or Lord Keeper, being a Baron. Archbishop of York, Primate of England. Lord High Treasurer. Lord President of the Privy Council. Lord Privy Seal. Lord Great Chamberlain. Lord High Constable. Earl Marshal. Lord High Admiral. of the Household. Speaker of the House of Com- mons. Treasurer, Comptroller, Vice-chamberlain, Secretary of State, being under the degree of a Baron. Viscounts' eldest Sons. Earls' younger Sons. Barons' eldest Sons. Knights of the Garter. Privy Counsellors. Chancellor of the Exchequer Chancellor of the Dutchy of Lan- caster. Lord Chief Justice of the King's Bench. Master of the Rolls. Vice-chancellor. Lord Chief Justice of the Common Pleas. Steward of his Majesty's Lord Chief Baron of the Exche- Hcusehold. quer. Chamberlain of his Majes- Judges of the King's Bench. Judges of the Common Pleas. Barons of the Exchequer. Bannerets made by the King him- self, in person, under the royal standard, displayed in an army royal, in open war. Viscounts' younger Sons. Barons' younger Sons. Baronets. Bannerets not made by the King himself in person. Knights of the Thistle. Knights Grand Crosses of the Bath. Knights of St. Patrick. Knights Commanders of the Bath. Knights Bachelors. Eldest Sons of the younger Sons of Peers. Eldest Sons of Knights of the Garter. Lord Lord Chamberlain of his Majes- ty's Household. Dukes according to their Patents. Eldest Sons of Dukes of the Blood Royal. Marquesses according to their Patents. Dukes' eldest Sons. Earls according to their Patents. Younger Sons of Dukes of the Blood Royal. Marquesses' eldest Sons. Dukes' younger Sons. Viscounts according to their Pat- ents. Earls' eldest Sons. Marquesses' younger Sons. Bishops of London, Durham, Win- chester, and all other Bishops according to their seniority of Consecration. Barons according to their Patents 14* 162 ORDER OF PRECEDENCY. Bannerets' eldest Sons. Baronets' eldest Sons. Companions of the Bath. Eldest Sons of Knights of the Thistle and Bath. Knights' eldest Sons. Baronets' younger Sons. Esquires of the King's Body. Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber. Esquires of the Knights of the Bath. Esquires by Creation. Esquires by Office. Younger Sons of Knights of the Garter. Younger Sons of Bannerets. Younger Sons of Knights of the Bath. Younger Sons of Knights Bache- lors. Gentlemen. A TABLE OF PRECEDENCY OF WOMEN. The Queen. Princess of Wales. Princesses, Daughters of the King. Princesses and Dutchesses, Wives of the King's Sons. Wives of the King's Brothers. Wives of the King's Uncles. Wives of the eldest Sons of Dukes of the Blood Royal. Daughters of Dukes of the Blood Royal. W r ives of the King's Brothers' or Sisters' Sons. Dutchesses. Marchionesses. W T ives of the eldest Sons of Dukes. Daughters of Dukes. Countesses. Wives of the eldest Sons of Mar- quesses. Daughters of Marquesses. Wives of the younger Sons of Dukes. Viscountesses. Wives of the eldest Sons of Earls. Daughters of Earls. Wives of the younger Sons of Marquesses. Baronesses. Wives of the eldest Sons of Vis- counts. Daughters of Viscounts. Wives of the younger Sons of Earls. Wives of the eldest Sons of Barons. Daughters of Barons. Maids of Honour. Wives of the younger Sons of Viscounts. Sons of Wives of the younger Barons. Baronetesses. Wives of Knights of the Garter. Wives of Bannerets of each kind. Wives of Knights of the Bath. Wives of Knights Bachelors. Wives of the eldest Sons of the younger Sons of Peers. Wives of the eldest Sons of Bar- onets. Daughters of Baronets. Wives of the eldest Sons of Knights of the Garter. Daughters of Knights of the Gar- ter. Wives of the eldest Sons of Ban- nerets. Daughters of Bannerets. Wives of the eldest Sons Knights of the Bath. Daughters of Knights of Bath. Wives of the eldest Sons Knights Bachelors. Daughters of Knights Bachelors. Wives of the younger Sons of Baronets. Daughters of Knights. Wives of the Esquires of King's Body. Wives of the Esquires of Knights of the Bath. Wives of Esquires by Creation. Wives of Esquires by Office. Wives of the younger Sons of Knights of the Garter. Wives of the younger Sons of Bannerets. of the of the the CHAPEL ROYAL. 163 Wives of the younger Sons of Knights of the Bath. Wives of the younger Sons of Knights Bachelors. Wives of Gentlemen. Daughters of Esquires. Daughters of Gentlemen. "We might extend this list to special grants of precedency; but this is enough. So sacred is the order of precedency in society, as held in Great Britain, that it always requires to be settled by au- thority; and when determined, it is maintained with the greatest scrupulousness, each rank asserting and defending its own rights. This spirit descends from the higher ranks to the lower, and pervades the wide community, not except- ing the menials " below stairs," and the common grooms of the stable. CHAPEL ROYAL OF ST. JAMES. I arrived at the palace at half past eleven A. M., half an hour before the service commenced. It was fixed at twelve o'clock, for the purpose, I believe, of having a supply of choristers and musicians from Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's, where service begins at ten o'clock. Certainly it is not to be presumed that the king is obliged to wait and be served last ; but twelve o'clock in such a matter is a more courtly hour. I perceived that many strangers, like myself, were in the passages to the chapel at the same time. The two persons immediately before me in the door were turned back, be- cause they had no tickets of admission. Perceiving by this encounter what was requisite, and not being myself furnished with a ticket, I took my own card, laid a shilling on the face of it, and whispered to the porter — "I am a foreigner." Whether he was influenced more by courtesy than by the silver key, I cannot say, but he took the money, and let me N. B. It is unlawful in England to take money for admis- sion to places of public worship when they are opened for divine service ; so at least it was once decided by a London magistrate. And yet the Roman Catholics in London al- ways exact money of strangers — a shilling, or one-and-six- pence, according to the part of the church that one wishes to go into. The authorities of a place of worship are liable to be fined for such offence, as I have understood, and very properly. Suppose I were to make suit before the Lord Mayor of London, or before the highest magisterial author- 164 SERVICE AT ity of Westminster, and cause a writ to be served on the King of Great Britain to appear and answer for allowing the doorkeepers of his chapel to take money of those who go in to worship there. For aught I can see, the king is actu- ally liable to be thus arraigned ; and it would be a curious fact in history, if it should be done, and he should be fined. It would be still more interesting, if, in paying his fine, he should say — This is as it should be, the king subject to the laws. The Chapel Royal of St. James is very small. Not more than three hundred persons can crowd into it, sitting and standing ; and by far the greater part of this number will be obliged to stand. I was on my feet from the time I left home till I returned — three hours and a half. The chapel and its furniture are very plain. I could but remark the dif- ference between this and the one in the palace of Versailles. The former is a little oldfashioned English box : the latter corresponds in all respects with the magnificence, the gor- geousness, and extravagance of that prince's reign, under whose fiat it came into being, as one of the many equally remarkable features of that splendid monument of despot- ism, which cost the people of France more than £40,000,000, or $192,000,000. I challenged the attention of a friend, an Englishman, to this comparison. " Ay," said he, " you see the difference between liberty and despotism !" The Englishman boasts of his liberty compared with other parts and periods of the world ; and the American looks at the expense of the Brit- ish monarchy, and says, " See what an unnecessary bur- den!" Precisely at twelve o'clock the king and queen appeared in front of the box, or pew, assigned them. What is com- monly called the front gallery of a church or chapel — and where there is no other gallery — is here appropriated to the king and royal family. The central part is occupied by the king and queen, who, when standing, are exposed to the view of all persons in a position to look that way. On their right and left are seated other members of the royal house- hold who happen to be there. In the present instance the Princess Augusta and one of the young princes were in these places. Several persons in waiting were in the re- tired parts of this gallery, and among the rest two dignita- ries of the church, deputy clerks of the closet, whose office on this occasion was to come in before service, and so ar- range the marking-strings of the prayer-books of the king, queen, princesses, and princes, that they might be able to find their places in the lessons of the day, and other parts of the service ; and also to stand behind, to render any information, or give any hints that might be needed in the progress of Divine worship. When I saw these clergymen in full robes, tumbling over and arranging the prayer-books THE CHAPEL ROYAL. 165 before the service had commenced, I concluded that they themselves were to officiate from that place ; not imagining that the king and queen, and other members of the royal family, had need of such assistance, as the finding of their places in the liturgy, or that the said office was of sufficient importance to employ high church dignitaries in their robes. Such, however, seems to have been the fact. I could but think that it would have been a more economical arrange- ment, if those reverend gentlemen had been sent out some- where to preach the Gospel to hungry souls — for they seemed to have nothing to do there but to find places in the prayer- book ! Cannot a king find his own place 1 As the king and queen entered, and were visible to the assembly, all the congregation rose. I could not find fault with this, unless I were to censure the practice in our col- leges and universities, where the general custom, I believe, is to pay this respect to the presiding officer, when he enters the assembly, even on the occasion of Divine worship. I must confess, however, it has always struck me as unsuit- able. It is no more nor less, in either case, than the wor- ship of man, in the place and at the time of Divine worship. I do not mean that the worship in each case is of the same kind ; but it is homage — it is worship. It seems to me, in spite of all reasoning, incompatible with that undivided re- spect which is due to God on occasions of public worship. The service immediately commenced. There was nothing remarkable in any part of it to those who have attended cathedral service. It was for the most part chanted by sep- arate groups of choristers, men and boys, and often in full chorus. There was an anthem after the sermon, as usual at the royal chapel and at cathedrals. " The bidding," as it is called* is a sort of bill, or public notice, read by the preacher after sermon, prescribing, commanding, and order- ing to the congregation present, for whom and for what they are to pray, beginning "Pray ye," &c, being itself of the twofold character of a prayer, and a commendation what to pray for. On the present occasion it appeared to be a neio bill, adapted to the state of public affairs. Inasmuch as it is itself a prayer, apparently so, I was struck with the oc- currence of the following expression : — " Especially for our two famous universities of Oxford and Cambridge." "Famous" in a prayer! "We pray unto thee, O Lord, for owe famous universities." These " biddings" are very specific. You may hear them at Oxford and Cambridge — at Oxford, certainly, and I pre- sume at Cambridge — even at this day, "bidding" the con- gregation to pray for the departed souls of such and such patrons and benefactors of the university, mentioning their names ! ! ! The sermon was delivered by the Rev. Mr. . His 166 SERVICE AT THE CHAPEL ROYAL. introduction, or exordium, was apologetic for himself, as not knowing how to address such an assembly, he being a country clergyman. He did not appear, however, m any wise to be embarrassed. 1 do not think, on the whole, he was much inclined to be affected in that way. 1 think he must have been fresh from the university, and" from the ehymieal laboratory. For. having found occasion to employ the somewhat homely phrase — M to set people a thinking.*' and to repeat it a third or fourth time, lest his hearers should not understand it. or lest they should fail to feel the force of it, he gave it to us in the less vulgar form of — " to strain through the alembic of our own brains." In the prog] 88 of the sermon we a- - d with a great variety of style in an abundance of tropes and figures — some things remark- ably clever, and some remarkably stupid. I shall be par- doned, perhaps, on account of this variety, for suspecting. — as the custom is tolerated, and even sanctioned by high au- thority in England — that the sermon was no; got up at the expense and trouble of this preacher's having been " set a thinking :" that it was not " strained through the alembic of his men brains ;" nor yet, indeed, that it was produced by one other man. but by many ; that it was a somewhat elabo- rate compilation, suited for the debut of a country clergy- man, m the Royal Chapel, who. perhaps, was a candidate for place. During the last prayer, offered by a Right Rev. Bishop at the altar, the king seemed to have become tired of the ser- vice, and leaned forward resting carelessly on his elbows, looking down on the congregation, and appeared as if he were counting them, and making a close inspection of each — one by one ; — and his examination was not arrested, even while the bishop was praying for " our most gracious sove- reign and lord. King William." His majesty still kept counting, or making his observations on tins, that, and the other of the assembly. He looked at me. But I was affected, and could have wept, at the manner of the queen, as the bishop in his prayer came to the clause, u Our most gracious Queen Adelaide." So much are we influenced by appearances. 1 shall never forget it. If I were a painter. I could describe it exactly. If I were to attempt it by the pen. it would be thought sentimental; and I will therefore let it alone. But I love to think of it. It was an agreeable sight. Yet it cannot be appreciated without a consideration of the morale in its public and social relations. To think of a whole nation praying at the same moment for a single individual — "Our most* gracious Queen Adelaide;" and there she is ! you see her ! She rests her elbow on the cushion, her head upon her hand, and seems to be in tears ! She is overwhelmed with gratitude, at the thought of so many united and sincere prayers going up to heaven in her TEMPLE OF BUDDHA. 167 behalf. Her name is at the same moment on a thousand tongues, and the kindest affections of ten thousand hearts, throughout the kingdom, mingle in the orisons, and sweeten the incense ! THE TEMPLE OF BUDDHA. On a time, as I was emerging from Green Park into Pic- cadilly, I saw an attractive human figure turn a corner, and pass off into another direction from that in which I was going. One does not like to be arrested, nor to turn aside at every new or strange thing that presents itself in Lon- don — we are so often made fools of by it. And yet there was something very peculiar in this personage. I could not tell whether it was man or woman, the dress had such a mixture of what might be supposed to belong to either sex. It was rich also. The movements of the individual, who seemed to me at the moment a mysterious being, were graceful and dignified, as he turned his back upon me, show- ing at the instant an interesting profile of a dark, and almost African countenance. He glided away, and in another moment became invisible by the intervention between him- self and me, of the massy walls of those stately mansions of Piccadilly, which look out upon the park. Every indi- vidual, man, woman, child, and, I might say, the very horses stopped, like myself, and turned to gaze at the stranger. Do not let me lose credit for saying horses — because those who drove and rode after them were so curious. It was al- together an unwonted vision, even for London. I had seen, as I supposed, all manner of costumes, from all parts of the world, in that great mart of the nations ; but this was strange among them all. A rich shawl — the richest of the east — occupied the place of the woman's petticoat on the person of this individual, but wrapped so close as apparently to embarrass the motion of the limbs, and constrain the shortest steps, but not the less graceful. A mantle of the richest and finest wool, with its large and manifold volumes, hung over and pendent from the shoulders. A head of thick-set, long, black, and well-oiled hair, was done up, after the man- ner of women, and secured by one of the most expensive and finely-wrought combs. On the top of the head, as a crown, rested a rich woollen cap, set with care on the side of the head, tapering off, and hanging a tassel behind the ear, which fell nearly on the shoulder. I was struck with the apparently conscious and yet careless dignity, the lofty mien and entire self-possession, with which this strange 168 TEMPLE OF BUDDHA. being made his entrance and his exit so suddenly, and so much like an unearthly vision, before me. There was evi- dently too much importance in the personage, whether man or woman, to allow of vulgar approach and vulgar gaze. And no crowd, strange as the apparition was, presumed to follow its footsteps. It was present — it was gone. And myself and many more that saw it, were left wrapped in wonder. I spoke of it afterward, and inquired for expla- nation, but nobody could solve the mystery. Some few days subsequent to this strange apparition, I went, not to worship, but to see the temple of the Indian god Buddha, then exhibiting at Exeter Hall. It was in all respects complete, and a perfect model. Nay, it was not a model, but a very original, once consecrated, and actually used in India (Ceylon) for all the common purposes of reli- gious and divine worship. It had every part and parcel of a Buddhist temple, and by some stealth and sacrilege, I know not how, had been taken down, brought from India, and set up in London for show and money-making. The public au- thorities in London and in India, and also a Wesleyan mis- sionary from India, then in London, certified to its genuine- ness and completeness, which was very satisfactory. We knew that in seeing this we certainly had thus far an exact pattern of Indian idolatry — as much so as if the very taber- nacle of Moses were set up before our eyes, to show us the Israelites' temple of the true God in the wilderness. I have not its exact dimensions, say twenty-five feet by eighteen, and eight feet high, divided into two compartments of equal size ; the farther one being what might be called the sanctum sanctorum, where was exhibited the colossal im- age of the god Buddha, recumbent on his right side, his head resting on a pillow, his right hand lying under his cheek, though not touching it, the left stretched full length, and ly- ing on the body. The image, or god, was eighteen feet long, and the whole form in proportion in all its parts, equally gigantic, and fully exposed, except that it seemed to be laid out in rich and costly vestments, the whole being a carved work from wood, and gorgeously, though somewhat fantastically, painted in divers colours. The form and fea- tures, and every thing, were African — the colour only ex- cepted — with black and woolly hair on the head. As a whole, it was far from being a captivating picture. It was even ugly. The art of carving in the east must be in its infancy. At the head and foot stood two devotees, Bra- mins of distinction, large as life, engaged in the worship of their god. There were several other carved statues in the temple, ugly enough, two or three having four arms each, after the manner of the east. The walls and ceilings were filled and crowded with paintings, to represent the mysteries of the religion after death, and the various and successive THE MYSTERY SOLVED. ] 69 conditions of existence through which the good and the wicked pass, from age to age, and from one cycle of eter- nity to another. They comprehend the study of a man's life, and at the end of it he would get but a little way. The representations were all gross, those of hell extremely so, where the sufferers were plunged into a lake of fire, hewing each other with hatchets, streaming in torrents of blood, themselves of the ugliest and most frightful shapes, gnash- ing their teeth, and exhibiting every sign of extreme agony. On the contrary, the happy did not seem very happy, nor their condition very desirable. Such is the religion of 200,000,000 of the human family. As we were informed in the glossary of this exhibition, Buddha, the god, ceased to exist on earth 450 years before Christ, at the eightieth year of his age. This temple, as a whole, was a fantastic exhi- bition, and interesting principally and only, as we were as- sured, that it was an exact pattern of every other public temple of this deity in India. There it stood : a very tem- ple of the Buddhists, and perfect in all its parts, having been actually consecrated. Along with this was exhibited, on a large table, a toy-like scene of a great and principal religious procession, at the city of Kandy, Island of Ceylon, carrying the sacred relics of Buddha. Also an army of masks, used for amusements at public fetes, &c. The interpreter of this exhibition was no other than that strange personage whom I had seen, as above narrated, passing from Piccadilly into one of the streets of the West End, in the same habit in every particular, except that his mantle was laid aside ; and it was he that gave chief inter- est to the whole concern. He was one of the handsomest men, and of the most perfect symmetry in form, that I ever saw — in colour, a dark bronze. Bishop Heber has said, if I mistake not, that one attribute of the greatest beauty of the human countenance is a bronze colour, to be found nowhere but in India. Since I have seen this man, I say so too. He was perhaps twenty-five years of age ; his form, profile, and features were every thing that one could wish — his manners the perfection of grace and dignity — his mind evi- dently of the highest order, imparting its character to all his deportment ; and while he was there, the temple and all its supposed holy things had little attraction. He is a Chris- tian, and spoke English with great purity. I found that the attention of all the company, like my own, was directed principally to him. I only felt sorry, as he appeared to be a man of extreme modesty and delicacy of feeling, that he was obliged to encounter so many inquiries about his per- sonal history. H 15 170 EXTORTIONS OF EXTORTIONS OF MENIALS. At Surrey Sessions, Kingston, Oct. 15th, 1834, Mr. Jef- fery introduced a motion " for a committee to take into consideration the legality of a custom, prevailing in this country, whereby the crier of the court of quarter and ad- journed sessions demands of persons charged with misde- meanors (being out on bail) certain fees on their acquittal." # * * * * " The chairman observed that the fees were not demand- ed under any order of the court." * * ■ * * " Mr. Jeffery observed that, in the county of Middlesex, the same had been exacted," &c, and, on being considered, "had been declared illegal." * * * * * " Mr. Hawes, M. P., wished to know if the demand for the fees was legal." " Mr. Lawson, the clerk of the peace, said the fees had been demanded between forty and fifty years, and were sanctioned by immemorial usages" (hear, hear). " Mr. Hawes inquired if there were any means of recov- ering the fees if refused." " Mr. Lawson said — certainly." This record is a suitable text for a remark or two, on the countless and gross impositions and exactions practised in Great Britain on strangers and her own citizens, under cover of law. After having been persecuted some two or three hours by an obtrusive and officious personage at the Giant's Causeway in Ireland, when I desired to be alone, that I might enjoy unmolested the perfection and magnifi- cence of God's own work ; and being unable by any hints, or art, or authority, to be quit of my annoying and vexa- tious companion, he had the modesty at the end of the scene to prefer a demand of six shillings, adding, when I seemed a little disposed to question the claim — " we have agreed upon it among ourselves ; it is customary.'''' On entering the pleasure-grounds of Studley Park, Rip- pon, Yorkshire, the visiters are requested by a card sus- pended at the gate (so it was in 1832), not to give the guide more than half a crown, a modest way of saying — " Don't give him less." And the demand in this case is very rea- sonable for the distance travelled before one has made the circuit to Fountain's Abbey and back again. But the pleas- ant feature of it is, that such an expedient should be adopt- ed to secure an adequate compensation for services. In cases where the services are slender and brief, no specifi- cation of fees stares the visiter in the face. All the trav- MENIALS. 171 elling world, I am sure, would vote for the formation of a special code, done in conscience, to determine the fees of porters, waiters, and all manner of servants, throughout the British empire, that they might know them at sight, and be saved the pain of encountering the insolence of menial stations, and the most studied exactions on their generous feelings at every corner. At Northumberland Castle the stranger will be very con- tented to pay his half crown to a principal servant for being shown the home and furnished apartments of a British nobleman, whose annual income is .£300,000. But there is no uniformity. Custom at one place does not determine the law at another. The contrivances of menials to get money from visiters are infinitely diversified, and at every successive place will take the stranger by sur- prise. They are indeed founded on a general principle, viz. : — to deliver over the visiter to as many hands as there are servants in the establishment, if he wishes to see the whole ; each one, at the end of his office, bowing and lift- ing out of the stranger's pocket, under the eye of the ser- vant from whom he parts, and of the one to whom he is delivered, all that his generosity and his sense of depend- ance at the moment, and in the circumstances, may extort from him. At Warwick Castle, having been shown the state rooms, which can easily be passed through in ten or fifteen minutes, I dropped into the hand of the attendant a half crown for myself although in company with other visiters not per- sonally known to me, having understood that this was the consideration expected for seeing all ; but had the mortifi- cation to find that every servant, into whose hands I pass- ed, employed the customary modes of exaction. Oxford, with its university and colleges, is peculiarly attractive. My principal visit there was during the autum- nal dispersion ; and I availed myself only in part of the civilities that were offered to show me the remarkable things. I had the curiosity, which is not one of the least of the place, to reckon up what might very conveniently be expended there, in satisfying all the servants of the univer- sity, colleges, and other lions of the town, into whose hands a visiter would naturally fall, in exploring the various ob- jects worthy of a stranger's attention, and looking into the detail of the economy of that great institution ; and it is within limits to say — that, independent of civilities, he might easily dispose of some four or five guineas, equal to twenty or twenty-five dollars ! There are many places where a half crown is expected ; and no servant, however trifling the office rendered, will return an articulate and hearty " thank you" for less than a shilling. I happened in one case to turn into the jurisdiction of an old woman, and at H2 172 EXTORTIONS OF the first glance of her mysteries, not being particularly at- tracted by them, I turned upon my heel, leaving in her hand a sixpence for the imposition she had practised by ii:> itiag me in. I occupied her attention in all perhaps sixty sec- onds. "Gentlemens gives me a shilling, sir." I gave her the shilling, with a blush over all my feelings, that I had run such a hazard to save a sixpence. One cannot get out of the Tower of London, and see all, at a less expense than half a guinea. Why not order, that the guide who takes up the stranger at the gate should show him the whole, and dismiss him at a fair price, which certainly ought not to exceed half a croivn ? Why should not the authorities of the University of Oxford commission a sufficient number of valets de place, to open every gate and door that is proper to be opened to a visiter, that he may see all he wishes to see, for a guinea or half a guinea, or whatever may be suitable to order, without his being obliged to encounter the annoyances of the present system ? The only place in Great Britain, worthy of a stranger's attention, that is free to all, so far as I know, is the British Museum in London ; and there, for the custody of an um- brella, which can never be dispensed with six months in the year, one must draw out the smallest silver coin he may happen to have, if his habits of improvidence, or unwilling- ness to be encumbered with the bulk and weight thereof, has left him without copper. Indeed, take it all in all, the tax of satisfying the various orders of servants, porters, and guides in England, if a stranger would go wherever it is de- sirable, and see all that he wishes, is enormous ; but the worst of all is the hidden and untraceable expedients adopt- ed to entrap and impose upon the stranger. He sees not his position till it is too late to defend himself, or obtain a rem- edy. In spite of all his experience, by the time he has es- caped from one cheat, he falls into the hands of another. His vexation is sometimes partly relieved by admiring the ingenuity and laughing at the mode by which he has been deceived. Being at Ryde, in the Isle of Wight, in the summer of 1834, I had engaged with some friends to go round the island in one of the steamboats, which statedly make that trip during the visiting season. The steamer lay at anchor a cable's length from the end of the pier, while we were waiting near the time. Small boats were constantly going off with passengers ; and we at last jumped into one of them. It is usual to stow them full, as was the case with ours. When we arrived alongside the vessel, we found ourselves dashing against it by every wave, coming in contact with the paddle, splashed with the water, and threatened being sunk, till we were obliged to push off for comfort and safety ; and there wait for another steamer, which in the meantime MENIALS. 173 had approached the other side, to discharge on board of our vessel the passengers it had brought from the pier. This second steamer was employed by our captain to bring out his company ; but we and many others, innocent creatures, not being aware of these arrangements for our convenience, had fallen into the hands of the rapacious watermen, who demanded of us threepence a head, first for deceiving us, and next for exposing us to be drowned. The ladies were fright- ened, and some got wet. I was once swamped in the sea, on the north shore of Ire- land, in company with a fellow-passenger, as we were being put ashore from a vessel in rough weather, by the filling of the boat, in consequence of its having been dashed against the side of the packet. The people on shore gazed at the scene with much apparent anxiety. When at last we got safe on land, thoroughly drenched, luggage and all, many feet were running, and many hands were offered to our as- sistance. One picked up one thing, another a second, and a third picked up a drowned hat from the sea. We seemed to want nothing of sympathy for our peril, or of help in our need. It turned out, however, that every one who had lifted a finger for our assistance, and apparently every one who had deigned to look on in our distress, demanded to be paid for it. The intense feeling of gratitude to God for our deliverance — for all supposed we must be lost — mingled with the pain of meeting these numerous claims to pecuniary reward for acts of humanity, was a conflict of emotion rarely to be encoun- tered. It seemed even more painful to be in such society, than to be in the sea before we were rescued. In the melee of this swarm of applicants for compensation, one of them contrived to abstract my umbrella. But to return to the motion in the court of Surrey Ses- sions. A man, forsooth, is arraigned for a misdemeanor ; he is tried ; he is acquitted : but the moment he is pro- nounced innocent by his jury, and apparently dismissed from the grasp of the law, turning from the bar to go to his house, and meet the congratulations of his friends, if he has any — if not, so much the worse — he meets the crier of the court : " Pay me that thou owest" — ten shillings and sixpence. "For what"?" — "For not being guilty." — "This is very strange." — " But it is custom. ' We have agreed to it among ourselves.' It has been the practice here between forty and fifty years. It is my prescriptive right." The unfortunate man, it may be, has not a sixpence — not a copper — in the world. He turns to the court for protec- tion. It is true the court have pronounced him innocent; but they have nothing to do with a matter of this kind ; they cannot help him ; and he is thrown into prison until he shall pay the debt ! It actually happened in the sessions of Clerk- enwell, Middlesex, that a prisoner, on being acquitted, 15* 174 EXTORTIONS OF MENIALS. prayed the court that he might be brought in guilty, as he had no money to pay the fees ; expecting, from the nature of the offence of which he had been accused, that if con- demned to suffer its penalty in prison, his chance of getting out would be much better than to go in for the fees ! " Is it law ?" said Mr. Hawes, M. P. Mr. Dawson, the clerk of the peace, said, " It is imme- morial usage." (Hear, hear.) "Hear! hear!" This is genuine English feeling. " Custom is Gospel," no matter how absurd ; no matter how unjust or cruel. I do not mean by this to impeach the character of the community. No. It is real, substantial English virtue that keeps things steady ; so that you may know what to depend upon ; and it operates generally for public good. " Immemorial usage," in any civilized country, if it concerns everybody, and re- lates to practical, every-day interests, is generally right, and may be presumed so. Hence, if an English custom, being called in question before an English court, social or author- itative, be proved "immemorial," — "Hear! hear!" — and it will be hard to get it changed. But if a custom be very limited in its application, as in the present instance, it is not of course to be presumed right. "Can this fee be recovered]" said Mr. Hawes. "Cer- tainly," said Mr. Lawson. It was therefore agreed to ap- point a committee " to take into consideration the legality of the custom," &c. ; and they will no doubt come to the proper decision, as in Middlesex. But the custom is law prescriptive, until annulled by the proper authority. It is forty or fifty years old ; and the principle that makes it valid is the same with the argument of Sir Robert Peel for the inviolability of church property, namely, " that it is even three hundred years" since another church was robbed of the wherewithal to endow the present Established Church of England, if, indeed, it be robbery for the state to touch it now. If we inquire into the reasons of this said fee of ten shil- lings and sixpence, extorted from an innocent man, for the crime of being innocent, in addition to his injury by the loss of time and character in having been arraigned, and thus rendered suspicious — an injury not easily repaired — it will open one of the hidden secrets of corruption in society. It was doubtless founded on the helpless condition of the un- fortunate ! A poor and innocent man has been frightened by the grasp of law, and so far threatened to be ruined. On examination, however, he is acquitted. In the flutter of his excited and wild pulsations, when reason and self- possession have lost their seat, grateful to be rescued on any terms, this cormorant of justice — justice miscalled — this un- feeling wretch, is permitted to add insult to misfortune, and approach this unmanned man with the inexorable demand STONEHENGE. 175 — " Sir, you cannot go hence till you have paid me ten shil- lings and sixpence !" And he must pay it, or be committed to prison ! He is too poor, and has too little influence to make an appeal to society; and for forty or fifty years this practice has prevailed in British courts of justice ! — a practice first introduced to add to the perquisites of an offi- cial menial, and afterward becoming the permanent right of the station ; so that it cannot be taken away without fur- nishing an equivalent. It was foreseen, that ninety-nine times in a hundred, if not nine hundred and ninety-nine in a thousand, the poor man, or his friends, would contrive to pay the demand, however difficult it might be, without re- monstrance. " I have lived too long," said a great and good man, " to wonder at any thing." STONEHENGE. Stonehenge is about eight miles from Salisbury, situated in the heart of Salisbury Plain, and standing isolated in all the grandeur of its mysterious and hitherto unexplained his- tory. It is a truly sublime object — sublime in itself, as fil- ling the mind with wonder, where the stones came from, how they could have been brought there, and placed in their relative positions! The heaviest columns are rated at "sev- enty tons — the whole number being ninety-four, as near as can be ascertained, although the present confusion of the assemblage renders it difficult to count them. It is sup- posed to have been a Druidical temple, where human sacri- fices were offered — a superstition as sublime as it was dia- bolical, as mysterious as cruel ! The rude grandeur of the work demonstrates the rudeness and barbarity of the age. There are no indications that this place of sacrifice was ever enclosed by walls, or covered by a roof. It is en- circled indeed by the traces of a ditch and a corresponding embankment, and the columnar ranges of stones were set up in circular lines, at greater distance from each other than the spaces occupied. About half an acre is enclosed by the circumvallation, and a quarter of an acre occupied by the temple itself. The only junction of the structure, if struc- ture it can be called, appears to have been the resting of the amazing cross and horizontal slabs on the largest columns, about twenty feet high and fifteen asunder, most of which have fallen, some are inclined, and a few onl|f stand erect. Tenons were left on the top of the perpendicular columns, entering grooves of the horizontal pieces laid upon them. It would indeed be easy enough for the mechanical powers of this age to set up an edifice like this ; but the rudeness 176 STONEHENGE. of the work does not naturally suggest the knowledge and application of such powers at the time of its creation. Hence the wonder. It. is said by some, that the same material is not to be found in the island. It is incredible, however, that these immense rocks should have been shipped; and almost equally incredible, that they should have been transported by land any considerable distance ; yet they were never found in this vicinity. Many of them are reduced to nearly right angles, but more exhibit a smooth, or properly plane surface. There is nothing like the skill of masonry be- stowed upon them. They were, perhaps, purposely left in this rude state, as emblematic of the stern and inexorable rites which they were set up to witness. The supposed altar-piece lies in the centre, imbedded in the earth, and directly behind it two of the largest columns once support- ed the heaviest cross-beam — but the columns have inclined and dropped their burden. There are other relics of the kind in the island, but none so stupendous. All the parts of a similar temple have been transferred at great expense from the Island of Jersey, and set up on the estate of a private gentleman at Henley-on- Thames, now the property of Mr. Maitland. I stumbled upon it in rambling over the grounds with a friend, and found it perched 911 a hill some four or five hundred feet above the bed of the Thames. It was brought over by a former governor of the island, Gen. Conway, who then own- ed Park Place, on which it now stands. It is of course a small chapel, compared with Stonchenge on Salisbury Plain — but many of the stones are of several tons weight. They are rude and shapeless. There are numerous marks of ancient military fortifica- tions scattered over Salisbury Plain ; and tumuli of the an- cient dead, such as are to be found in the western regions of our own country, lift up their heads in various quarters, and sometimes in groups. My sensations in visiting Stonehenge were the result of a singular combination of the grateful recollections of Mrs. More's Shepherd and his family, and of the actual scenes before me. " The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain" was con- tinually ringing in my ear, and all his history passing in re- view before me, as I rode over these undulating, naked, and apparently boundless fields, among the tumuli and traces of ancient fortifications, and came at last to gaze upon and admire this wonder-exciting and unaccountable relic of a barbarous age and bloody superstition. What a demonstra- tion of man's susceptibilities of religious affections, of a sense of guilt, of his need of atonement, and of the dreadful errors into which he may be plunged without the guidance of Divine revelation ! BRISTOL RIOTS. 177 TRAGICAL DEATH OF COLONEL BRERETON. I xdon, Jan. 16, 1832. — The Bristol tragedy has presented another sad development. Col. Brereton, the command- ant of the troops stationed at Bristol at the time of the riot, being on trial before a court-martial, under charge of de- fect of duty on that occasion, anticipating the judgment of this tribunal, has suddenly made his appeal to the tribunal of his God, and compelled his prosecutors and judges here to a solemn and awful pause. On Friday morning last, at 3 o'clock, he shot himself through the heart, by his own pistol, in his bedchamber. The announcement of this in- telligence has, if possible, shed a deeper gloom over the public mind, than the outrages and massacres out of which it has grown — and awakened sympathy of a different kind indeed" but not less than that which was divided and wasted over a whole community. It is individual misfortune, after all, which chains our attention, provokes our tears, and mak»s us feel the weakness of those who have suffered, and suffer with them. CoL Brereton's fate is absolutely and in the highest degree tragical. " Truth is strange — stranger than fiction." A weak, irresolute, inefficient magistracy — not made for such a time as the Bristol riots — when the scene was all over, feeling themselves oppressed by the public reprobation Concentrating upon them from all quarters, had found it ne- cessary to defend themselves by sacrificing one of their fel- low-beings. And how could an individual withstand such a host, before such a tribunal, and in such circumstances, con- fronted by witnesses who were at least deeply interested, by a common sympathy, in the condemnation of the accu- sed 1 Admitting the exact verity of every several allegation — (of which there were eleven of formidable show,) yet had the prisoner done otherwise — had he pursued the course directly opposite, it would probably have been a certain and quicker ruin to himself personally, and brought down upon him the rage of those who now coolly sought his destruc- tion, under the name of justice. What could a man in such a situation have done 1 The exigencies of the Bristol riots could not have been anticipated. It is easy enough, indeed, since the scene has become a subject of review, to tell what might have been done to avert the calamity. Who could not do this 1 But in the midst of the confusion and general consternation of that fearful and threatening hour, when the magistrates themselves retired to their chambers and barri- H3 178 TRAGICAL END OF caded their doors for fear of what should come ; when the military could not act decisively without orders from the municipal authorities, themselves undecided and knowing not what to do ; when an exasperated mob of thirty thousand pressed from all quarters upon the little band of seventy or eighty men, this being all the force unde*Col. Brereton's command ; when the vulgar hatred towards the military was known and felt, and the first determined charge was likely to provoke the immense and intoxicated rabble to a general and desperate conflict, to overwhelm and annihilate the troops — what could be done ? As has since been proved at Lyons, there was every probability that the mob in extremi- ties would prove victorious. Who would assume the sole discretion, the whole responsibility of a desperate encounter in such circumstances 1 If the colonel had acted without being authorized from the magistracy, and saved the city, it doubtless would have ruined him personally ; because the magistrates would have been able to show — the present his- tory out of existence — that it was unnecessary for him to assume such responsibility ; and when the authority did come, it came too late. Because Col. Brereton did not work miracles — because he did not save the city, when the ma- gistrates would not let him save it, in spite of themselves — the only atonement which they could render to the world for their delinquencies — was the ruin of this man. Commissions are demanded and issued, the tribunal is created, and the colonel is brought a prisoner to its bar, to answer and defend himself against charges and witnesses got up to defend the magistracy and town of Bristol, and to vindicate their character before the world. His fate is evi- dent at the first glance, to himself as well as to all others. He must fall. He must be cashiered, disgraced, his name covered with infamy, and himself, after thirty-three years of service in the army, in various parts of the world, without reproach, and to the establishment of his credit as a gallant officer, thrown upon the world, with two helpless and de- pendant babes, without any qualifications to enter upon a new course of life. His habits were only those of a soldier, and all his sympathies confined to those circles in society in which a soldier is accustomed to move. ***** No sooner had the smoke of the Bristol burnings passed off, than a dark and menacing cloud came over the colonel's prospects of future life. And every day it grew thicker and darker. His trial came, but no relief. A darker and still more threatening cloud filled the whole sky before him. And in a sad and desperate hour he resolves to cut short the investigation, and throw himself beyond the decisions of an earthly tribunal. It was the anniversary of the death of a beloved wife, three years deceased— or not unlikely supposed by him to be so, although he had erred in his COLONEL BRERETON. 179 reckoning by one day. In the Bible, by which the Jury of Inquest were sworn, was found this record, by the colonel's own hand: — " 14th of January, 1829, 3 o'clock in the morn- ing, my beloved wife Olivia died at my house in Clifton- wood." On the 13th instant, precisely at 3 o'clock a. m., the fatal catastrophe occurred. And it is not unlikely that it had some connexion with the death of his wife, by that romantic, and partly superstitious character, which is apt to characterize men of his profession. Surely he could hardly fail to think of her, when he had her children with him, and was about to leave them unprotected on the world — when himself had resolved to follow her, unbidden of his Maker, into the same eternity, and hoped, perhaps, to meet her there. In the wildness and hurry of his thoughts, he had probably mistaken the date by one day, and supposed he had chosen the anniversary of her departure. He certainly selected the very hour, 3 o'clock in the morning. It is not difficult to imagine the general character of the reasonings in Col. Brereton's mind, which suggested and framed the dreadful purpose. He anticipated his degrada- tion, and he had not the courage to brave the consequences. He knew what this world was, but he had not taken care to think duly of the next. His religion was, peradventure, the honour of his profession, and the comfortable emoluments of that profession its reward. Take away these, and exist- ence to him is no longer valuable — life is intolerable — he resolves, in the phrensy of his disappointment, to put an everlasting extinguisher upon both — or at least to plunge himself into the regions of " that untried being," which will certainly terminate the troubles of the present, and which, not unlikely, from the nature of his education and the habits of his life, wears little but the aspects of romance ; or which, perhaps, in his creed, is stricken for ever from the records of a conscious existence. There are indeed strong plead- ings of nature, the feelings of a father to hold him back ; but these very feelings, in his madness, urge him on. He will not stay to witness the consequences of his own degra- dation upon his offspring. When he returns to his habita- tion in the evening, resolved upon his purpose, he will not visit the nursery, as usual, to see those children. He re- fuses to go and kiss his babes, lest he should still find a charm to bind him to this world. Their innocent prattle and affectionate mien might shake his purpose. They might run into his arms, and say, " Father, what is the matter % Don't be sorry, father." They might rehearse to him their nursery adventures of the day, and demand in return a like rehearsal of what had befallen their father ; and he would be obliged to feel, that whatever else was lost, all was not lost — that if he could not count upon the honours of the world, he might rely upon the affections of his children. 180 FUNERAL OF CLEMENTI. Or he might have found them asleep, and, as he knelt to give them a last embrace, he would not unlikely have seen the image of their mother resting on their faces, and he might seem to hear her voice of rebuke from the invisible world, as conscious of his purpose, saying to him, " I left these babes in charge with thee ; and wilt thou, rashly and uncalled by heaven, desert them, and leave them on the cruel mercies of an unfeeling world 1" But he would not encounter such a trial. " On Thursday night," said the housekeeper, in her testimony before the inquest, " he did not go into the nursery to kiss and bid good-night to his children — a thing which he had never failed to do before." Poor and rash man ! It is likely he had never learned, that religion has a consolation and a healing balm for such a wounded spirit even as his ! He had moved in a circle of this world which could never appreciate either the im- portance or the power of religion in such a day of trial. Blind and deaf to the future — to his after being — he felt only the present. He consulted not his conscience in relation to God — he thought only of his honour in relation to man r and of honour measured by a false estimate in every partic- ular. What a fearful change of being has he made I What a plunge ! We will not — we dare not follow him to that tribunal to which he has made his last appeal. It were a relief to think that madness had unsettled his mind, and diminished the responsibilities of the wild scene of that dreadful night. To flee from man, he ushers himself, un- called, forbidden, into the presence of his God, and leaves his children orphans.* FUNERAL OF CLEMENTI. I stood on the orchestra, by the side of the organ, in Westminster Abbey. Every thing beneath, around, and above, whether we regard the moral or the artificial, was grand — sublime. That ancient and magnificent Gothic edi- fice was my canopy and enclosure — the whole internal of which, including the long ranges of lofty and massive col- umns, through the line of the nave and of the arms of the transept, and back to the altar, and over the altar to the Chapel of Henry VII., wa?3 all within the scope of a coup cToeil. The columns, so lofty and grand, and running in the lines of a sort of endless perspective, seemed to support the arches of heaven. The illusion is the easiest possible. The * Two daughters — one three, and the other six years old. FUNERAL OF CLEMENTI. 181 mind is at once at sea, and swimming in it without effort and in ecstasy. Around, clustering in all directions, and of various forms, on the pavement, on the walls, and some borne aloft on wings of sculptured marble, are the monuments of England's renowned and mighty dead — of her heroes, her statesmen, her nobles, her saints, her poets, her musicians, her literati. It is the sanctuary of religion too — the holy place where man for ages has lifted his thoughts from earth to heaven, and held communion with his God. For ages holy men have worshipped there ; holy men lie in quiet slumber there, awaiting the resurrection of the just. Beneath those pave- ments, under those walls, and without under the soil, on which the building rests, are entombed a vast congregation of the good and the bad, who shall rise together for judg- ment at the last day. Perched on the organ-loft, in the midst of such a scene, thus canopied, thus walled in, surrounded by objects of such grave meditation, and in the midst of a living throng of hu- man beings, assembled for the most solemn and affecting of all services, the burial of the dead — I stood with a friend to see what might be seen, and hear what might be heard. From the choir, the west screen of which was directly under our feet, were drawn two ranges of white-robed choristers, stretching through the length of the nave to the great western door, with an open space between them, press- ed on all sides by the dense and expecting throng. At last, the two folds of the massive door were thrown open, and the funeral train of Clementi entered in solemn procession, preceded by a black and waving forest of plumes " Lofty and slow it moves to meet the tomb, While weighty sorrow nods on every plume." It seemed to say, " give place to the dead, and be still." Immediately the organ answered to the sympathies of the hour, first with its soft and careful expressions, and then with its loud and thundering peal ; and the mingling voices of the choristers below, turning and moving towards the altar, sustained and filled the swelling notes, till every arch seemed vocal with living harmony. Well did it become him, who had devoted the years of his long life to fill these lower spheres with music, to be sung so sweetly to his grave, to his rest, to his heaven — if charity might hope he had gone to heaven. Of that, I know not, ask not. Every note of this service was enough to make death sweet, the grave an enviable doom, and all beyond a bright and hope- ful condition. What is this art of man, which can so melt down the soul and transport it into ecstasy ] And if the an- thems of earth are such, what must those of heaven be 1 And they all marched (the white-robed singers exhibiting 16 182 FUNERAL OP CLEMENTI. a striking contrast to the dark procession in rear), — with a slow and solemn pace, scarcely moving, through the nave into the choir, singing as they came, till the dead was placed before the altar. The choristers in their stations still kept up the anthem — now soft, now loud — now a part, and now in chorus full — at one time, as in distant, angel whispers, and then as if all heaven had burst, upon our ears its joyous welcome of a saint arrived. The predominant and perva- ding characteristic of the music, seemed to be deeply, most pathetically, and indescribably plaintive, as expressive of the troubles of life's troublous scenes, and above all, of the conflict and pains of life's end, as involving the agonies of dissolution and the affliction of survivers ; — and all along, mingled with these sentiments, the sweet and heavenly har- monies seemed to give earnest of a sweet and heavenly rest. Christianity has taught man how to sing his troubles, and in the same voice to sing his triumphs — in the same anthem to deplore his present calamities and anticipate his succeeding and everlasting joys. The entire burial service was performed by the choir, with the exception of a little reading of the Scriptures. When the procession moved to the place of interment in the cloisters on the south side of the Abbey, they still kept up the music as they went, and literally sung the great musician into his grave. Would that thy heaven, dementi, might be as sweet as thy burial anthem ! One of my numerous reflections on this occasion was : that man, who knows his own feelings in joy and grief, give him time and opportunity, will learn how to express them by the admirable works of his own art. The deepest, the most religious, and the most awful passions of his soul are not beyond his reach, nor beyond the power of his repre- sentation. In nature, or in art, he will find a type — some shape, or sound, or some combination of things foreign to himself, that shall show himself, speak to his inmost soul, and challenge all his possible sympathies. And if so much can be effected in the present imperfect state of society, while men are no better — what may not be expected when all men shall be good"? — If the arts of unholy men can so ape and feign goodness — can so frame the beau ideal of moral excellences, and so combine their images, as to claim the fellowship and promote the edification of the best feel- ings — what may not be expected of human art, when its own masters shall be pure as itself? It is doubtful, perhaps, whether the moral power vested in the finer and nobler arts of man, as an auxiliary for the attainment of the most exalted and the holiest of human society, is duly appreciated. The nature of man is always susceptible of the power of music, poetry, painting, and other kindred arts ; — and for this reason, that God, having EXCURSION IN SCOTLAND. 1S3 filled the world and the universe with these qualities, has adapted the nature of man to enjoy them. And there is no place so full of music, so natural to song, or so attractive ill its beautiful forms, as heaven itself. EXCURSION IN SCOTLAND. First impressions on entering Scotland — Scotch national character — ilolyrood House — Charles X. — Duke de Bordeaux — Dutchess de Herri — Queen Mary — Edinburgh — Stirling — Castle Campbeil — Rumbling Bridge and Devil's Mill — Affecting Death of a Brother and Sister — I » rth — Dunsinane Hill and Birnam Wood — Dunkeld — Grampian Hills — The Highlanders — Bagpipes — Inverness — Caledonian Canal — iNep- tune's Staircase — Ben Nevis — Staffa and Fingal's Cave, &c. I remarked on my first entrance into the territories north of the Tweed, that the csnratenance and character of man in that region made impressions upon my mind indicating another race than the English. And the physical features of North Britain are as diverse from those oi' the South, as is the character of the men to be found there — wild, stern, and hoary. A people born and bred among such hills and vales, familiar with such mountains and lakes, challenging the stronger emotions of the soul, and the bolder flights of fancy, ought to be extraordinary. I never looked out upon the faoe of that country, but my mind was quickened — equally by what strikes the eye, and by historical associa- tions. Scotland would be venerable in her naked majesty, in the eye of a seraph spirit, who on wings should make survey of her face, spread out to the heavens, even in des- olate loneliness — if that spirit might be supposed to have any thing of a taste akin to man for the beauties of nature. But she is venerable for the projects which have been conceiv- ed by the mind of man, and for the scenes in which man has enacted a part, She has been the cradle of warrior chieftains, whose exploits in heathen story would have giv- en them rank. among the gods — and even as it is, they are famed as more than mortal. The wild and romantic rhap- sodies of Ossian had their natural occasions and just provo- cations in the physical and moral of the regions where they were conceived. They were not the mere creatures of fancy. Human beings, tenanting such a part of the world, must be bold and aspiring — must be men of high endeav- our, and sometimes of mighty achievements. When war was the fashion, they must have been heroic in arms. When Christianity addressed itself to their hearts, they felt its power. When poetry has moved them, they have sung 184 SCOTCH CHARACTER. wild and sweetly, and being themselves charmed, have charmed the world. When chastened learning and sober science have challenged their attention, they have claimed to lead the rest of mankind — at least they will not be led. They are a people that go by themselves. They have a character of their own, and must have. They respect themselves, and are respected. Look at her warriors of times gone by, but not to be forgotten — look to her poets, her men of science, her metaphysicians, her theologians, and her universities — look to her arts and cities — and say, if Scotland has not a character of her own? She is not stamped by the rest of the world, nor by any part of it, even though, for want of a political importance, the world is not stamped by her. And it is not a little remarkable, it is an illustrious fact — I speak of it as a matter of fact, without deciding the question of its moral influence as good or bad — yet it is a fact, that the genius of a single man has con- secrated those wide regions as modern classic ground, and the history of that country as a classic legend. Italy and Greece have at this moment, if possible, less interest in the eye of travellers for their classic associations than the land which gave birth to Walter Scott. As notable as Scotland has made herself, it is also re- markable that her population should still be quoted at only 2,365,807. The truth is, that her national and political im- portance having been long merged in what is courteously called a union with England, under the title of North Britain, but what is in fact a subjection to the English crown, the still unsubdued spirit and enterprise of her sons have sought and found scope for action and eminence as rivals among the Southrons, and for a well-earned distinction over the wide- spread regions of British empire, on which the sun never sets. They fought for national independence till they could fight no longer ; since which, they have held on the race for pre-eminence over their neighbours of another kind. In in- tellectual greatness, in moral virtue, in commercial tact — in literature and science — in the pulpit, in the forum, in par- liament, and on the bench — in the drudgery of common life, in affairs of state — -at home and abroad — on the sea and on the field — whenever brought into competition with the Eng- lish in any of these pursuits and in all others, they have generally excelled and carried off the palm. Once the Scotchman loved his home — and still he loves it, however far away, in the undying affections that are garnered up in the recollections of what he has left behind — in the physical beauties of his native regions, in the en- dearments of the domestic relations, in the romantic history and poetry of his country, in the religion and patriotism of his ancestors — in all that imagination, and philosophy, and filial piety have made him heir to, In every region of the HOLYROOD HOUSE. 185 globe, and among all shades of national and individual char- acter — he is a Scotchman still and true. But so it is : " an Englishman is never happy till he gets in trouble ; an Irish- man is never in peace till he gets fighting ; and the Scotch- man is never at home till he gets abroad." Does this seem- ing paradox need an explanation ? He who finds the Scotchman everywhere, has it ; the Irish character is too well known to require it; and the characteristic fortitude of the English, which best develops their patience when they have got to a ne plus ultra of difficulty, may answer for them. HOLYROOD HOUSE. " Will you wait and see the Duke de Bordeaux ?" said the porter, as I asked his services to show me the Palace of Holyrood in August, 1832. " How soon will he be out 1" " Immediately. His carriage is waiting, as you see." " How old is the duke !" " Twelve — past." We met, not only within the gates, but in the very court of the palace. The few who happened to be standing there, uncovered, as the young duke approached, supported by two gentlemen, who assisted him into the carriage, and took seats with him, and the carriage drove off. Charles X. was not in. I was told, " If you meet a tall man with a long nose, he is the ex-king of France." I have met several men answering to this description since, but I am not sure that either of them was he. The Dutchess de Berri, mother of the Duke de Bordeaux — alias of Henry V. of France — alias of that little boy, was said to be at that time in London, on her way to the repose of Holyrood, after having endured the fatigues and anxieties of her invasion of France, and of her attempt to dethrone Louis Philip, and place upon the head of her son the crown of the Capets. Poor woman! The French are said to be a fanciful and romantic people, and the Dutchess de Berri is frightfully ugly. They were not charmed. 1 suppose she had been advised by Chateaubriand's letter, in which he says to her, " The Dutchess de Berri will find neither a throne nor a grave in France. She will be made prisoner, condemned, and pardoned. Judge, madam, whether this will be agreeable." And so the Dutchess de Berri was ex- pected every day at Holyrood. She did not, however, make her appearance, as her errors have since developed. By the generous hospitality of the King and Parliament of Great Britain, Holyrood House has been made a refuge for the exiled kings of the French branch of the Bourbons. And there the family were residing in dignified retirement, when I visited the place, expecting (poor things) by that 10* 186 QUEEN MARY. same infatuation which lost them their throne, to return and occupy it again. And even that, peradventure, is possible ; for who can tell what shall come next in France 1 MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. Holyrood House is especially interesting, as having been occupied by the unfortunate Queen Mary, and as the scene of the Rizzio tragedy. The palace lies on the east of Edin- burgh, directly between Calton Hill on the north, and Salis- bury Crag on the south, down in the lowest bosom of the city, just without the meanest and filthiest part of it. It is built on three sides of a square, the west side or line towards the city being a wall and gate. Within this square of course is an open court, the inner fronts and each side at each story being run with spacious and convenient corridors, giving free access from and to every part of the palace within the court, without exposure to the weather. The building has nothing remarkable in its external features, being in all re- spects inferior in the style of its architecture to hundreds of houses in the new town of Edinburgh. At the northeast angle without, are the ruins of the ancient chapel, quite pic- turesque and romantic, the walls only standing. Having seen the little fellow, Master the Duke, drive off from the gate of the palace, I pursued my way to see what might be seen within. Of course, the apartments appro- priated to the use of the ex-king of France and his family were not open to visiters. The gallery of ancient paintings and the apartments of Queen Mary — the very apartments which she occupied, and the very furniture which she used, and the very work of her own fingers, all in statu quo, as she used and left them — (as nearly so as possible, making al- lowance for such changes in arrangement as might be con- venient for the purposes of keeping and of exhibition) — these, as might well be imagined, were the things most at- tractive. And there, suspended on the walls of the picture-gallery, large as life, were the portraits of the Scottish monarchs. There was Robert Bruce in his armour, whose eye, fired with purpose of revenge, seemed to be fixed on the distant camp of the Southrons. And there was Mary, in most unfit society for such a woman — the tender among the rude. Would that her feminine virtues, associated with the charms of her person and the subduing grace of her manners, could be seen apart from her offences. Alas ! while we weep at her fate, too cruel for such delicacy, we weep also at her weaknesses. She was a woman — in the midst of temptation. Royal state rooms of the 19th century must not be thought of when we enter the state rooms of three centuries agone. And yet such comparison is quite necessary to enable us to estimate the difference between the two. It is by this that QUEEN MARY. 187 our amazement swells big as the vanity of the age in which we live. And really — is it possible, that Queen Mary could have been proud of such chairs and of such tables 1 — or con- tented with such a bed and with such furniture 1 It makes one think of the coarse woollen stockings that Queen Elizabeth wore at court, and of her quilted petticoat, the roughness of which would make one shudder to think of, as would the filing of a saw. And the needlework, too, done by the fingers of Queen Mary, would make a fair subject of a downright scolding lecture from a common school-mis- tress, if one of her ragged and untaught girls should bring her such a sample. And the wicker-basket, once used as the depository of the linen of the infant babe, afterward James VI. of Scotland and I. of England, but, that it is a precious relic of such a time and circumstance, might as well be sold for the use of the fishmonger women of Edinburgh. Have ye ever seen a great-great-grandfather's chair, ready to tumble down if ye sit upon it ? — or his desk, as inconveni- ent as the rusty iron buckles of his shoes 1 — Have ye seen a great-great-grandmothers high-post bed, with all its tas- selled, quilted, and various-coloured furniture — the reposing frame of which was not so lofty that persons of high stature must have had a ladder to get upon it, as in these days — but so humble that a dwarf must stoop to find it ? Have ye seen any specimens of antiquated tapestry, the devices of which would make a clown laugh outright, that its figures were all done so badly ? Have ye seen any old garret full of rusty knight's armour, with boots and spurs, any one suit of which might well be supposed to make a horse groan un- der its burden ? Add to all this every kind of goods and chat- tels necessary to a princely mansion, correspondent in quality and shapes with all these — and then allow that I have amused myself here with a small degree of colouring — it must also be allowed, that I have been well provoked to it by the actual exhibition of things, which have furnished oc- casion for this account. And did the royal Mary, Queen of the Scots, live there 1 Were these her conveniences and comforts 1 Was that double chair, not a bad pattern of which may be found in an old lumber-wagon in the back woods of America, made at her order, in which herself and stolen husband were to be crowned 1 Is that the mirror, twelve inches by six, before which she was accustomed to make her toilet] It is true, there is some gold wrought in all this furniture — and not a little waste of uncultivated fancy, in the profusion of homely and rude ornaments by which it was once adorned. But such as it is — and for the reasons that it is as it is, I had rather look upon it than upon all the costly show of the present state apartments of the castle of William IV. at Windsor. I am sure that Queen Mary once tenanted those apartments — that she slept upon 188 EDINBURGH. that bed — that she sat in that chnir— that she worked that piece of embroidery by her own hands — that there she en- tertained her guests, alas ! not always lawful. And there in that little corner, scarce twelve feet square, was she surprised by Darnley and Ruthven, who, with their murderous train, came upon her by a private passage, now open to inspection, and seized upon her favourite, David Rizzio, sitting in her company and at her table : and, in spite of the interposition of her authority, in violation of the sa- credness of her character, against all the tenderness of her womanhood and the peculiar delicacy of her condition, and her beseeching remonstrances, plunged the fatal dagger in his bosom before her eyes, while he hung upon the skirts of her garments for protection ; and then, dragging him into an adjoining apartment, left him weltering in the blood which flowed from the wounds inflicted by their ruthless vengeance ! The stains of the vital current are now visible on the floor. Surely it is no marvel, that her son, born some four months after this tragical event, always shuddered and hid his face at the sight of a drawn sword. Those were rude times in which the unfortunate Mary lived; and that was a rude day which lost her head, that had worn a crown in a sea of troubles— of troubles which in no small part her own imprudence brought upon her. While her fate will for ever claim and receive the sympathy of those who read her story, her faults shall not remain unwept. EDINBURGH. Edinburgh is indebted for not a little of its imposing char- acter to the very rare physical features of its site — to the hills and mountains, near and remote, with which it is sur- rounded — and to that sweet vision, the Frith of Forth, which runs up and hides itself among the hills, and de- scending spreads out its floods wider and wider, till they are lost in the North Sea. There are extraordinary natural and geographical features in this town and all around it, almost without number, any one of which would make a city remarkable. The town itself lies upon three remark- able and lofty ridges, running east and west, and of course must have in its bosom two corresponding, deep, and pre- cipitous ravines — or ravines that once were — but now most usefully and thoroughly appropriated. The stranger, pas- sing from the new town, and crossing a stone bridge to the old, looks down upon his right, expecting to see the bosom of a river, and lo ! instead, a neat, well-provided, and bus- tling market. On the left, instead of shipping, he looks over the tops of a sea of houses, at the farther extremity of which, on the same low ground, and directly under the brow of a perpendicular and lofty crag, lies Holyrood Pal- ace. Advancing over the middle ridge, through the heart EDINBURGH. 189 of the old town, and past the university, in the distance of a quarter of a mile, he comes to another bridge, and look- ing down to see a river and shipping, he sees instead a paved street lined with shops, the stories of which are as far below as they are above him, and all exhibiting the most active bustle of trade — and he exclaims : Is it possi- ble there is a town beneath this town — and another race of beings down yonder ! For what have they to do with those above, and how can they get up ? Back again to the new town (although we have not got half through the old one yet), and there is Calton Hill at the east end of the first street, and but a few rods from the bridge— lifting up its head in mountain pride — on the summit of which is an observatory and camera-obscura — a lofty monument to Nelson, one to Play fair, one to Burns, and one to the folly of the nation — because, being begun, it is likely never to be finished. From this pinnacle, one may peep down into the court and apartments of Holyrood, which lie directly under the feet, survey the city in all its extent and undulations — Leith, with all the villages along the Frith ; look over the waters to the hills and mountains on the north far away — and so to the west and south. Over Holyrood, just without and impending the city, is a moun- tain crag — almost exactly such another thing as East Rock, near New-Haven, Connecticut, but twice as high, and much more bold in the form and knitting of its brow. Very near the crag, and over it directly, is Arthur's Seat, 800 feet high, and very exactly after the pattern of Mount Tom, near Northampton, Massachusetts. On the central ridge, in the middle of the city, the castle, like the mighty elephant of the east standing under his armed tower full of armed men, erects its huge dimensions and lofty battlements, overawing the town and all the region round, itself familiar with the clouds, by reason of the camel-bunch prominence on which it rests, and which lifts it up on high. There too are the Pentland Hills on the south, in all their variegated profile — and the beautiful and regularly inclined plane, supporting the new town, and stretching out to the Frith on the north. Everywhere, in and about Edinburgh, there are command- ing and interesting views, by reason of the irregularities of the face of the country. The City of Edinburgh is built of stone throughout. This material' gives to the city an air of fitness to endure for ever- lasting ages. The new town, as it is called, and as it is in fact, lies on the north of the principal ravine, and is alto- gether admirable for architectural magnificence, for the spaciousness of its streets, and for the extent of its public squares, or gardens, as they are termed. The ground of the new town swells up from the ravine between itself and Castle Ridge for the distance of fifty rods perhaps, and then, 190 EDINBURGH. forming a graceful curve, on which is built a principal street running east and west in a line with the ridge, it declines on an easy and beautiful plain to the north, from any part of which and in any street, except a wall intervene, the wide plain below, the shores and bosom of the Frith two to three miles distant, the country, hills, and mountains far beyond — all come directly under the eye. In every street running north and south, and at every door and window on those streets, some very extended rural and mountainous, min- gled with a water prospect, may bo enjoyed. Indeed, there is scarcely any part of Edinburgh, old town or new, where some peep may not be had at a distant or elevated object, at some commanding eminence, or enchanting prospect. If one is walking in the very bed of its lowest grounds, there is the castle or Calton Hill, or the Crag, or Arthur's Seat, or all together ; there, too, is the piling up of house upon house, upon the sides of which may be counted at least ten stories. There are also public edifices of various sorts — steeples, spires, and monuments in honour of the illustrious dead. The style of building at Edinburgh is generally a pattern of good taste ; one does not wish it to be otherwise. 1 of course speak of those parts where taste has been attempt- ed; and they are not few. There is not a single prin- cipal street in the new town — a section large enough, I should think, for 50,000 inhabitants — which does not aston- ish a stranger in walking through, on account of the unin- terrupted line of superior and imposing forms of architec- ture, which everywhere command his attention. This is a palace ; that is a palace ; every house seems a palace. "Edinburgh is a city of palaces." Steeples and spires in Edinburgh are not frequent, and none of them very remarkable. St. George's is the St. Paul's of Edinburgh. St. Andrew's is a fine steeple. Lord Melville's monument is not less conspicuous, and little less elevated. St. Giles, the cathedral, is not worth mention- ing. St. Stephen's, at the bottom of Frederick-street, is a perfection of architectural beauty, for a thing of such small expense. Churches named after saints in Presbyterian Scotland — and in connexion with the Presbyterian Kirk ! Surely they must have degenerated since the days of John Knox. The Presbyterian is the established religion of Scotland, and the King of Great Britain is a dissenter in his own dominions when he gets north of the Tweed. It is curious to see how intolerance is doomed to encounter intolerance. The Church of Rome excommunicates all the world, and in turn by all the world is excommunicated. The Church of Eng- land unchurches her legitimate daughter, the Episcopal Church of the United States. The Kirk of Scotland does STIRLING. 191 the same to the American Presbyterian Church, although the same reasons cannot exist, except that we have proved recreant in divorcing ourselves from the state. American Episcopalians cannot preach in England, nor can American Presbyterians preach in the Kirk ol" Scotland. England un- churches Scotland, and Scotland England ; and both shut out the United States. And in the United States the same spirit is manifested under various names. O Pudor ! Shame upon us all, and upon all the world. STIRLING. The sail up the Frith of Forth is exceedingly picturesque, and far more advantageous, I should judge, for interesting views, and to obtain a knowledge of the district, than a ride by land. Several beautiful towns and villages show them- selves on the shores, or are displayed in retreat upon the plains and hills. A number of castles and gentlemen's seats are offered successively to the eye as the boat advances. Indeed, there is not a mile in the whole distance from Edin- burgh to Stirling, some 50 miles by water, but the attention is claimed by several conflicting and attractive objects at the same time. And there is not a little of shipping upon the Forth, enlivening the scene, and connected with the different port-towns, as far up as Alloa, — which is seven miles below Stirling by land, and 21 by the serpentine course of the river. Hills and mountains are visible everywhere in Scotland, as a matter of course. In ascending the Forth, the constantly and rapidly changing features of this description, some re- ceding and others rushing on the sight, are no small part of the moving panorama. We passed several ships of war of the largest class, lying at anchor in the river, dismantled, and floating up and down on the bosom of the ebbing and returning tide. The town of Stirling contains about 8,000 inhabitants, and lies almost exactly in the same relation to the Castle, as the old town of Edinburgh to Edinburgh Castle : the south, west, and north of the castles, in either case, make the bold and inaccessible promontories. In both cases also the east makes a gradual descent into the respective towns, and con- stitutes the only possible way of ingress and egress. One is a twin of the other in all respects, and they have both the same appropriation. From Edinburgh Castle, however, you look down upon a great and magnificent city, spread out from under your feet in all directions; and beyond the city, there is the wide and widening bosom of the Frith — plains, hills, and mountains, in every direction, except that of the .North Sea. But from the summit of Stirling's pride, one forgets there is a little town below. There are the actual regions of nature's own creation, beginning at our feet, and spreading out the long, wide, and fruitful valley of the Forth, 192 BANKS OF THE DEVON. to the east and west, improved in the highest perfection by the hand of man ; and every way rising in the distance is some mountain profile, lodged in the clouds — all to chain and enchant the soul, and make it drink in pleasure, as it throws out its affections on the bosom of such a scene. The hills and mountains on the north and south are appa- rently so near, that the spectator, looking out from the castle heights, imagines, in the springtide and buoyancy of his feelings, that he might leap out upon them with the great- est ease. In the west there are mountains so remote as scarcely to be defined, and so high that their heads are often lost in the clouds. But the sweet vales below and the meanderings of the Forth — there is nothing like it ! Did ye ever see the ingenious and active child, smoothing over the face of the sand, and then marking with his finger, or a stick, the most crooked tracery imaginable — more crooked than the serpent, even in his folds, because more various — now running this way, now that, but always in a curvilinear form ? These fantastic tricks of children are not more wild than the windings of the Forth between Stirling and Alloa. And large portions of this strath, or interval ground, when I happened to be there, were checkered into whitened har- vest-fields, in many of which might be seen fifty, and in some a hundred women in one line, sweeping with the sickle a whole farm at a single bout ; and here and there a man fol- lowing behind, and binding the sheaves. BANKS OF THE DEVON. And I said, " John" {John Stewart was the name of the lad, 14 years of age, who led me up the banks of the Devon, from the village of Dollar, to show me the Caldron Linn, the Rumbling Bridge, and the Devil's Mill), "John," said I, " do you know any thing of Burns's Banks of the clear-winding Devon V " O yes — I've got it at home." And when he returned, I said, " John, bring me the Banks of the clear-winding Devon, will you 1" John ran below, and in a moment returned with a book of select Scottish poesy, all smoked and blurred, each cover and the title-page lost, and the corners of every leaf rolled and fumbled, as if it had been used to the hands and fingers of unwashed colliers for an age or two, and putting his finger on the place, said — " Here it is :" — The Banks of Devon. " How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, With green spreading bushes and flowers blooming fair \ But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon, Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew, CALDRON LINN. 193 And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. "0 spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn ! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, And England triumphant display her proud rose — A fairer than either adorns the green valleys Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows." John was a sensible, clever lad, of genuine Scotch honesty, and soon stole a place and an interest in my affections — as the Scotch are wont to do. Like the Indians of our country, when found in their native simplicity, the Scotch have a peculiar manner of speech, so kind and affectionate, that it always makes way to the heart. Its moral power is irre- sistible. I know not how to define it, except in the lan- guage of the schools : that their speech never makes a cadence. When the qualities of their voice will allow, it is soft and mellifluous, the most natural expression of kind feeling ; and whenever they rest, or have done for the time, it is by a singular suspension of voice, the opposite of a ca- dence, seeming to make an appeal to and a challenge of the best affections of those with whom they converse. I know not the philosophy of it. It is a manifest violation of all the rules of the art of elocution — and yet there is nothing equal to its power. They are not aware of it themselves. It is a peculiarity of the people, and a universal character- istic. It is kindness — and it begets kindness. It is an ex- pression, a manner of speech, which leans upon the good feeling of others, and is sure to gain it. I imagine it has been cradled in the nursery, and reigned in the sanctuary of the domestic circle, where the best feelings are always in play — and by the power of habit has become a national characteristic. Of the fact, all foreigners must be witnesses. There is a great secret of morals in it, worthy of being de- veloped. I have long had my eye upon it, and can never forget it. It makes one feel at home with a people who have so much kindness in their every word. At the end of three miles, trudging along in the rain, as it poured down in most generous showers, after passing through the premises of a gentleman's well-improved estate, and at the termination of the wall of his garden, we came abruptly upon an impassable chasm, made by a fall of the Devon, eighty-eight feet — which is called most appropri- ately the Caldron Linn. Linn, in Scotch, means a basin, made by a waterfall in a stream or river — it being worn out, spacious and deep, by the force of a cataract. Such places are ordinarily called JUhing-Utims. The term Caldron I need not explain. The features of Caldron Linn are most extra- I 17 194 CALDRON LINN. ordinary. The river here, when not swollen, is a Small brook— and yet by the boldness of the mountain regions, in which its sources lie, it often presents a magnificent spec- tacle in a copious and sudden flood. Originally at this spot, it would appear to have been a perpendicular cataract, plunging over a bridge of sharp and projecting rocks. But by the wear and tear of many cycles of ages, it has cut out a chasm some thirty to forty yards in length, and in this dis- tance the plunging of the river in its swollen tides, making the entire fall by degrees in the course of the above number of yards, has created the most rare exhibition of the kind. All persons, who have witnessed such falls at low water, have had occasion to observe the formation of capacious and circular vessels in the rock, supposed to be made by the violent action of stones, forced round and round by the water. But here the immense capacity of these formations is truly amazing. There is one twenty-two feet in diameter- as perfect as a work of art. and on one side not less than thirty feet deep to the surface of the water : and how deep the water was I could not tell. Immediately by the side of this is another, one fourth as large, opening into it, but di- vided at top by a rim, nearly worn off at the centre. There is still another, farther up, almost a twin to the largest. In the length of the chasm there are a multitude of formations of this description, more or less regular, and all presenting a smooth surface. The tout ensemble exhibits to the eye, as it were, the skeleton shapes of some huge monster, groaning and dying for ever, but never dead — for still and for ever his hollow moanings and expiring groans send up their voice on high, seeming to challenge the sympathy of every spectator, and of all inanimate creation around. It seems a very thing of life, now trying to live, and now labouring in vain to die. For onward still the mad torrent dashes, and plunges, and foams, and every caldron, through which it passes, boils, as if all the fires of the globe's centre were acting on its lower surface. What is marvellously singular, the last emission of these waters, having passed the successive caldrons, great and small, when it makes a final plunge into the linn below, is through an aperture, as exactly in the form of a lyre as art itself could have made. The dimensions of this figure are about 10 feet by 3. The spectator, looking up from below on this easy emission, as from the mouth of a pitcherf of the moaning and groaning floods from their painful constraint and long retention above, is relieved from the demand that was made on his sympathies when stooping over the awful chasm, and begins to persuade himself, in view of this sym- bol, that he is listening to the music of the spheres. For there is the lyre suspended aloft, and there are not wanting sounds and various notes — the music of the waters. CASTLE CAMPBELL. 195 A mile farther up the beautiful " banks of the clear-winding Devon''' 1 is the Rumbling Bridge, and the everlasting clatter of the Devil's Mill. It was quite natural for a superstitious people to ascribe to such agency a mysterious, time-keeping, and uninterrupted clatter, coming up from a dark, unseen, and inaccessible cavern in the bowels .of the earth. It was no other, however, than the perpetual action of the waters of the Devon on a loose rock, which was made to impinge by regular strokes the face of another rock, far down in one of those inaccessible fissures, worn out by this river in the bosom of those deep and sombre glens. But this mill is now silenced by the recent fall of a rock, weighing not less than a thousand tons, which, in the age that gave name to this place, would probably have been ascribed to the same agency. The Devon, at the place of the Devil's Mill, plunges through deep, narrow, and winding passages, a glimpse of which can be got here and there with great pains and not a little peril. In the distance of a quarter of a mile the river makes a descent perhaps of 150 feet, having in the course of time cut its thread path in the rock so deep, that in some places its precipitous sides are more than a hundred feet high. A few rods below the Devil's Mill a bridge is thrown across, of 22 feet span and 120 feet above the bed of the river, which, from the noise of the waters in the deep and narrow chasm below, has obtained the name of the Rumbling bridge. So exceedingly compressed is the chasm made by the river here, that, in very many places, a man, if he could get access, could bestride the river with ease, standing on the rocks jutting from either side, and see the torrent foaming and dashing between his legs below him. CASTLE CAMPBELL Suffers at first view by reason of its situation at a low point, on the side of the stupendous Ochil range. Itself and all its circumstances look mean, when the eye, looking upon it from below, is obliged to take in such a pile of hills, rising and towering above it into the clouds, and stretching to the right and left in an interminable line. One must rise and be perched like itself on its proud eminence, turning his back on the hills above, and forgetting they are there. He must look down on the vale and the windings of the Devon — over the ridge which lies between the Devon and the Forth, into the vale of the latter, and on Stirling's lofty heights and bristling battlements ; he must look at the ultimate and far off range of hills, which bound his vision on the right and on the south ; he must gaze on Ben Lomond's cloud-piercing peak, and count the clusters of his sons which lie at his feet ; and see all that lies between these remote and exalted things. Then he must see where now he stands, on a little hill en- throned among the hills — a marvellous pyramid of nature. 12 196 CASTLE CAMPBELL. He must look down on the dark and impassable glens which lie under his feet, and hear the waters on his right and left, which he cannot see, " roaring and grumbling, and leaping and tumbling," wondering how he got where he is, and how he shall ever get away. He must survey the entire (and there is little enough of it) of this singular lusus naturce, fearfully precipitous in every approach, except by a little bridge from the mountain side above. And then he will not wonder that the wealthy chieftain of a Scottish clan, in an- cient days, chose to nestle there. There was a natural de- fence from every foe on every side. There he might rest, or riot secure, in the very face of his enemies. They might crowd the vale below, they might swarm upon the hills, and frown and menace with hatchet mailed upon the hip, and quiver full of arrows on the shoulder, and the proud and sullen chieftain might walk at ease upon his tower, and bid the world defiance. The reason why this castle is so small, is, that it is equal to its foundation. Its natural advantages were too obvious not to dispense with wider premises. And there it stands, a rare monument of Scottish antiquities. Its age is not counted. " In 1465 it was the propert)^ of the family of Ar- gyll. And in this gloomy solitude the arch reformer, John Knox, passed some time with the fourth Earl of Argyll, who was the first of the Scottish nobility that publicly renounced the doctrines of the Church of Rome." The chapel in which John Knox officiated, and dispensed the sacraments, rested on the front brow of the prominence, the entrance door of which is now standing. And was there ever rich furniture in these apartments 1 and abundant stores in these strongholds 1 Has beauty ever smiled and flourished here, and the delicate child, growing into womanhood, reposed her affections, void of care, on the bosom of a noble father 1 Have all the scenes of a princely household, and of such life and manners as characterize nobility, been enacted in this nest among the mountain glens I Has the noise of festivity and the gladness of mirth rung in these halls, from age to age, and times without number 1 Have the buddings of young and aspiring affections blos- somed and been matured here, and plots of state devised and resolved on 1 ? Has the germe of youthful love and of war alike been cradled in this mansion ! And have all the trappings and splendours of wealth shone out from this once bright and cheerful, but now dark and desolate abode ? What change do time and human strife work out ! " What, John ! is this a stable ?" said I, as we entered the castle. " Yes, sir." — " And do they house the cattle here ?" —"Yes, sir." " This way," said John, passing the door where the cows were kept, and bending towards another, which seemed to have been used to human tread. CASTLE CAMPDELL. 197 " And do they keep keys here ?" said I. " Does anybody live here V At that moment, following my guide, we entered a dark anteroom, strewed with such household furniture as I could hardly persuade myself belonged to human beings — it was so offensive and shocking to every sense. The most filthy beds, as if that moment deserted by the tenants in a fright, a thing or two with some of the shapes of a chair, two old hats bruised and torn lying on the floor, and rags and filth enough to breed the worst of diseases — all by the side of the stable ! John bolted through, as if at home, called to somebody in the next apartment, and announced a visiter. For myself, I halted, and queried what this could be ! My first impression was : — I have stumbled on the cholera ! And the reason of this confusion, if this can possibly be the habitation of man, must be, that a case of cholera has suddenly come on them, and in the next room I must be prepared to meet with a dead man ! " Come in ! come in !" cried a voice from the inner apart- ment — " I'll give you a book to look at, which will tell you a' about it, and wait on you soon." " But I have not time, good woman, to read that book," said I to a being, whom, on the whole, I took for a woman, and who at this instant came out and offered a big old rusty volume. " Han't you ? Weel, then, I'll show you," — and brushing by, she began to lead the way. I stood for a moment motionless and speechless, staring with no little amazement at this strange apparition, the forms, and dress, and manners of which I will not attempt to describe — there were so many things neither desirable to see nor to be told of. She was evidently the self-complacent mistress of the ceremonies. She passed by the stable, and introduced us to the hayloft, which she said was the great hall. The rest was easily shown, for the building being in ruins, there is not much left. Pointing the way to the top of the tower, she dismissed herself, till I might be satis- fied with my surveys of the wide regions to be seen from that station. This done, and being in haste, lest the coach should drop me behind, I proposed taking leave. " But," said the old woman, " you must gang down there," pointing to the place of the chapel. " There Johnny Knox made the ordinances." " But I am in haste, good woman." " But you meest gang there. That is the anly thing for you to see." Yielding to her resolute officiousness, I went, and saw a wondrous passage, blasted out of the rock, lead- ing down into the dark glen below. All the wonders of Castle Campbell were eclipsed in the wonders excited by the appearance and manners of this old 17* 198 DEATH OF A BROTHER AND SISTER. woman, and the extraordinary character of the furniture and keeping of the lodgments, tenanted by herself and house- hold. I had heard of brutes and men herding together in the same apartments — but I never expected to see it in a baronial castle. Verily, it was a sight not to be coveted. And to think, too, of the change from the ancient state and splendour of this abode, to its present condition ! " What a fall was there !" AFFECTING DEATH OF A BROTHER AND SISTER. " Have you heard of the distressing death of the young gentleman and his sister at , last week ?" said a fellow-passenger in a stagecoach, while we were passing from Stirling to Perth, in the summer of 1832. " Yes, I happened to be at the very inn yesterday, with- out any knowledge of these facts ; and the little which I saw was well calculated to confirm the common rumour." A young English gentleman of rank and fortune, being an invalid, was advised to spend some weeks in the high- lands of Scotland for the benefit of his health. An affec- tionate sister would not let him go alone, but accompanied him from England, and attended him in all his excursions in Scotland with those anxious assiduities, which charac- terize the female character, that has been refined by educa- tion, and trained from earliest years in the bestowment of sisterly affections and offices on the appropriate objects of their regard. He had just taken lodgings in those wild regions of the highlands, which are hired out by their proprietors in the sporting season to English noblemen and gentry, who have wealth and leisure to devote themselves to the invigorating exercises of shooting fowl and pursuing the deer. Of the latter there is not so much game as formerly; but the grouse, or heath-cock, is still in great abundance. This young gentleman was accustomed to take airings in his gig with his sister, whose affectionate duty to him had imposed a corresponding obligation not to neglect her hap- piness. Indeed, they were as devoted to each other, and as happy in each other's society, as brother and sister could be. The sports of the heathy hills were nothing to him, compared with the soothing companionship of one he had so much reason to love. His game he pursued at his doctor's bidding ; his sister he attended from the affection he bore to her. He said to her one morning : — " Come, let us drive to- day to the Rumbling Bridge and the Devil's Mill. It is but twenty miles, or a little more ; and we can return in the evening." Having arrived at the place, he left his horse at the nearest inn, and ordered refreshments against their re- torn from a view of the objects before them. The fatigues WILD SPORTS OF SCOTLAND. 199 of the day, or some other cause, proved too much for the young man ; and, instead of being able to return to his lodg- ings that night, his anxious sister was obliged to send for a physician. The cholera had just invaded Scotland, and spread a universal panic ; and the doctor in his wisdom saw fit, and perhaps thought he had reason, to pronounce this attack a hopeless case of that frightful and inexorable scourge, and retired from the scene. It was a wretched house, kept by a wretched drunken family, without a com- fort in its desolate, inhospitable walls. Panic-stricken by the declaration of the doctor, no human being could be per- suaded to attend on the sufferer, or answer to the calls of -the sister. In a few hours he expired in her arms. It was said and believed, when all was over, that it was not malignant, but common cholera, by which the brother was overtaken ; and that suitable attentions might have saved him. It was also believed, that the sister died of grief, of desolation, of a broken heart ; for both were found sleeping the sleep of death in the same apartment, and hur- ried away, uncoffined, to the same grave ! Can affection, can wealth, can friends save us 1 WILD SPORTS OF SCOTLAND. England, which is proverbially a sporting country, annu- ally pours out on the regions of North Britain its thousands, who, for the most part, take their passage in the steamers from London, for a few of those warm and sultry weeks, which brood over the South, and render existence there comparatively dull and grievous to be borne. The steamers at this season, plying between London and the eastern ports of Scotland, are literally crammed with parties going out on these excursions. And they are such migrating groups of men, boys, and dogs, with such implements of war upon the innocent tribes of fowl and quadrupeds of the north, as are to be seen in no other country. A noble lord — perhaps a minister of the crown — is seen walking the deck of a steam-vessel in his thick shoes and hunting-frock ; all which, with all other appertenances and accoutrements of such an expedition, he walks, eats, and sleeps in ; ex- amines and rubs up his rifle and shot-gun ; pats his dogs and talks to them ; thinks and speaks of nothing but the wild sports of the north; forgets the cares of government, if he is connected with it ; leaves his family out of mind, and gives all other business and pleasure to the winds ; and counts by anticipation the braces of grouse, of rabbits, of hares, and of other game, which shall make every returning coach from the mountains groan beneath its burden. Such is the fitting out, and such are the schemes of the cabinet minister, of the member of parliament, of the judge, of the barrister, of the nobleman and gentleman, of the merchant and trades- 200 WILD SPORTS OF SCOTLAND. man — of all the crowds of sportsmen, who leave London in the south, and go to lodge and bury themselves among the heathery hills, on the bald mountains, and in the romantic glens of the north, till they are as tired of this occupation as they had been of that which they left behind, and which they now hasten back to resume. One of the principal sources of income to the great pro- prietors of the highlands in North Britain, is the farming out of prescribed districts to this, that, and the other party of sportsmen from England for the sporting season — the proprietor being under obligation to maintain keepers of the premises so allotted, that one party shall not intrude on the ground of another. Not unfrequently some unpleasant en- counters take place in consequence of trespasses committed through ignorance of boundaries, or by the lure of game — and the parties threaten to end the dispute by levelling their rifles, or shot-guns, at one another. Large territories are often taken up by a single party, extending from mountain to mountain, and embracing many deep, wild, and in some instances impassable glens. They range over the hills from day to day, with their pack-horses and servants in attend- ance, to carry provisions and pick up the game. The following graphic description of a deer-hunt, as exe- cuted in 1618, although not perhaps applicable to the present state of things in all its minutiae, yet having been done, as a notice of things transacted on these very grounds, it may serve better than any thing I can do, not having been a wit- ness of these sports : — " I thank my good Lord Erskine," says honest John Tay- lor, " forasmuch as hee commanded that I should always be lodged in his lodging — the kitchen being always on the side of a banke, many kettles of pots boyling, and many spits turning and winding with a great variety of cheere — as venison bak'd, sodden, rost and stewed beefe, mutton, goates, kid, hares, fresh salmon, pidgeons, hens, capons, chickens, partridges, moor-coots, heath-cocks, caperkellies, and termagants ; good ale, sack, white and claret, tent and most potent aquivita. All these, and more than these, we had continually in superfluous abundance, caught by falcon- ers, fowlers, fishers, and brought by my lord's (Mar's) ten- ants and purveyors, to victual our camps, which consisted of fourteen or fifteen hundred men and horses. The manner of hunting is this : Five or six hundred men doe rise early in the morning, and they do disperse themselves divers ways ; and for seven, eight, or ten miles compasse, they doe bring, or chase in the deer in many herds (two, three, or four hundred in a herd) to such or such a place, as the no- blemen shall appoint them. Then, when day is come, the lords and gentlemen of their companies doe ride or go to the said places, sometimes wading up to their middles PERTH. 201 through bourns and rivers. And thus, they being come to the place, doe lie down on the ground, till those foresaid scouts, which are called Tincknell, doe bring down the deer. But as the proverb says of a bad cooke, so these Tincknell men doe lick their own fingers. For besides their bowes and arrows, which they carry with them, wee can hear now and then a harquebuse, or a musket goe off, which they doe seldom discharge in vain. Then, after we had stayed three hours or thereabouts, wee might see the deer appear on the hills round about us (their heads making a show like a wood), which, being followed close by the Tincknell, are chased down into the valley where we lay ; and all the val- ley on each side being laid with a hundred couple of strong Irish greyhounds, they are let loose, as occasion serves, upon the herde of deere — so that with dogs, guns, arrowes, dirks, and daggers, in the space of two hours, four score of fat deer were slain, which after are disposed of, some one way and some another, twenty or thirty miles, and more than enough for us to make merry withal at our rendezvous. Being come to our lodgings, there was such baking, boyl- ing, rosting, and stewing, as if Cook Ruffian had been there," &c. PERTH. The coach from Stirling to Perth, by the way of Dollar and Milnathort, passes in full view of Loch Leven, that placid sheet of water, in the midst of which are the island and ruins of the castle where Queen Mary was incarcera- ted, and from which she made her escape with Douglass, May 2d, 1568. Ten miles before reaching Perth, we run down the long and romantic Glen Fargue, into the spacious and incompar- able Strath of Earne — an extensive and rich valley, under the best cultivation, through which the river Earne wends its way, and mingles its floods with the Tay, about four miles below Perth. From Strathearn, or the Strath of Earne — Strath being synonymous with interval grounds on a river — we came over a hill, from the summit of which the extensive valley of the Tay, waving with the harvest and filled with reapers — the reapers being women — opens its spacious bosom, and presents in its centre, on the banks of the river, the beautiful town, or royal borough of Perth, containing 22,000 inhabitants. Perth is the head of navi- gation on the Tay. From the brow of a rocky crag, overhanging the Tay, 400 feet high, and one mile east of Perth, on the opposite side of the river, is one of the richest and finest views that can be imagined — especially at that enchanting season of the year, when every corn (grain) field is white to the har- vest. The whole of Strathearn, over the hill — the conflu- I 3 202 DUNSINANE HILL. DUNKELD. ence of the Earne and Tay below — the meanderings of the latter stream for many miles, and the shipping lying upon its glassy bosom, reflecting all their proper shapes from the mirror on which they rest — the borough of Perth — Scone, once the residence of the Scottish monarchs, Dunsinane Hill of Macbeth memory — and the highlands, bounding the vale of the Tay, and far in the west the Grampian Hills lift- ing up their heads — these all, and all that they comprehend of hill and dale and wide-spread fruitful plains, lie directly under the eye, as one turns round on this high seat of ob- servation. HIGH DUNSINANE HILL Lies a few miles northeast of Perth, and Birnam Forest bears northwest of Dunsinane about twelve miles, and is near Dunkeld. " Be lion-mettled — proud — and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are ; Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be, until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill Shall come against him." " That will never be. Who can impress the forest ? bid the tree Unfix his earth-bound root ? Sweet bodements ! good ! Rebellious head rise never, till the wood Of Birnam rise." Sequel. " As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I look'd towards Birnam, and anon, methought The wood began to move." " And be these juggling fiends no more believed, That palter with us in a double sense — That keep the word of promise to the ear, And break it to our hope." From Birnam's lofty crag I looked down upon the face of Dunsinane Hill. There are only two trees left of the Bir- nam Wood that was, and that is made so notorious : one is a sycamore and the other an oak, both large and stately, standing near the bank of the Tay at the foot of the hill. DUNKELD. Dunkeld is a small village, situate in the entrance to the highlands, on the Tay, by the road from Perth to Inverness, 15 miles distant from the former place. It was the seat of a bishopric, and the ancient cathedral is now standing in ruins — the choir, however, being kept in repair for the Kirk of Scotland. It is a venerable old building, which, together with the compact village, a bridge of fine architecture over the Tay, and the Duke of AtholFs seat and pleasure-grounds, presents a most picturesque scene down in this vale, sur- rounded and overtopped as these objects are by the multi- GRAMPIAN HILLS. 203 form and variegated hills, which lie in heaps on all sides, and bury their summits in the clouds. Generally all hills and mountains in Great Britain are perfectly bald, and make fine pastures for flocks and herds. " On the Grampian hills my father feeds his flocks." And there they are, naked, and covered with flocks. Imme- diately in the vicinity of Dunkeld, however, the glens and the hills to their tops are covered with trees, which have been planted by the Duke of Atholl, whose estate is immense- ly large — running in one direction more than seventy miles. The western border of the Duke of Atholl's estate is the eastern line of Lord Breadalbane's, which extends to the sea on the west, and measures 110 miles in its greatest length — being the largest territory in Great Britain belonging to a single man, though not perhaps the most productive in reve- nue, a great portion of it being waste higlilands, or hills of little use except for game. The present Duke of Atholl has been in a lunatic asylum of London these thirty years or more. The late duke his father had begun in his lifetime one of the most magnificent palaces in the kingdom. It is said, that in the estimate of the cost of this edifice, the single item of raising the walls and putting on the roof, together with the materials, would have been one hundred thousand pounds. The Baronial Hall, in the plan, is 150 feet by 36, larger, and to be finished in a more magnificent style, than St. George's Banqueting Hall at Windsor Castle. The walls are only partly raised, the death of the duke having arrested the work. It is situated on low ground, not. far from the bank of the river. The best place for the palace, and for any imposing build- ing, is a natural terrace of a few acres, south of the village, and about one hundred feet above the river — overlooking the entire grounds below — and which happens to be the free- hold of a private gentleman, who in the spirit of rivalship had erected a house, which was likely to detract attention from any thing the duke could create below with all his wealth. As the duke could not eject this man, nor buy him out, and being in possession of the land up to the brow of the hill in front of this gentleman's mansion and premises, he generously set himself to work and planted forest-trees of the largest growth, which in a few years will entirely shut out from view in all directions his envied and hitherto boast- ing, but now mortified, rival. " All this availeth me nothing, so long as Mordecai the Jew sitteth at the king's gate." But the duke is dead, and will never see the end of his pur- pose in this particular. His plan, however, is fast in the prog- ress of attainment, and every time the doctor walks upon his terrace he sees these trees bristling and rising before him to shut him in and shut him out. This doctor was a surgeon in the British army, and was in the battle of the 8th of January, 1815, before New-Orleans. 204 THE LARCHE. The most common tree upon the duke's estate is a spe- cies of fir, from the Tyrol mountains, beyond the Alps — called the larche. Nothing can exceed the beauty of the forest which it makes. It seems amazing, that these deep and extended glens, and these lofty mountains, from their base to their tops, stretching for many miles in every di- rection, should be covered with heavy, dark, and waving forests, the seeds of which were first sown in the beds of a nursery, like garden vegetables; then transplanted in the same grounds of the nursery, in more remote relations to each other, and carefully kept till they are fit to be removed to the hills ; a second time every plant is taken up by the hand, and set in its forest station. This is the way the for- ests of Scotland are created. There is scarcely any natu- ral growth of timber. The larche is a staple production, sown and raised with horticultural care and pains from the beginning to the end. The history of the larche, which is getting to be much culti- vated in Great Britain, is this : — In 1737, two or three slips of this tree were brought from the Tyrol by the Atholl family in flower-pots, and set in the greenhouse, merely as a green- house plant, no one anticipating that it would endure the rig- ours of the climate. From these plants have sprung these immense forests, of the most profitable timber that can be raised — and they are fast extending over the kingdom by cul- tivation. Two of the original trees, which were brought from the continent in 1737, are now standing, and make a gigan- tic pine, or fir. One of them measures fourteen feet in cir- cumference two feet from the ground — the other nearly the same — and both, I should judge, a hundred feet high. The large nurseries where the different forest-trees are sown in regular beds, and then thinned out by transplanting, are a curiosity — especially to an American, who had never dreamed that forests were to be planted by the hand of man. The finest and most extended view from the mountains in the vicinity of Dunkeld, is from the summit of the re- nowned Birnam. Here the Strath of the Tay, on the plain of which and at its southern extremity lies the town of Perth, spreads out its fair and fruitful bosom, checkered in autumn with the whitened harvest-fields and every variety of agricultural aspect, fifteen miles in length, and nearly the same in breadth, bounded on all sides by beautiful hills of every shape, and rising in the distance into mountains, some of them lofty and magnificent — especially on the right ; — and the Tay lies wending its serpentine course through the heart of the scene. On the east lie the smaller Grampians, heaps upon heaps. On the north and north- west the Grampians rise into loftier and more irregular piles, sublime and awful — and one of them (the Schihallion, A DEVICE. 205 I believe) shoots its sharp point solitary into the clouds. At the foot of Birnam on the east, the Tay, springing out from the hills, steals along the deep glen with its black current, deepened still in its shades by the extended forests of the dark green larche, which hang and wave over its bosom, until it emerges into the Strath. The village of Dunkeld, the bridge, the Cathedral (we must not whisper how small a thing it is), its adjunct ancient ruin, the extend- ed pleasure-grounds of the duke, and the doctor's mansion overtopping the whole — these are all snugly laid in close and harmonious society, down far below from Birnam's heights, and seem to be cradled among the hills. On the Duke of AtholFs estate are thirty-six miles of pri- vate road for a carriage, all under key — and in addition sixty miles of well-made walks — which are being extended every year. These roads and paths, being made for pleasure, are all laid through the most picturesque and romantic scenery — along the river's bank, up the glens, cut in the steep sides of the mountains and over their tops, and along the margin of precipitous cliffs — now merged in forest gloom — now opening on a boundless prospect, or some sweet vale — now bursting on a waterfall, and next along the side of a mur- muring brook. " Take your left yonder, and then your right," said my guide, as we were walking up the rushing and rumbling Braan, a branch of the Tay, — " and I will be before you ;" — and immediately he darted into the thicket on the right and disappeared. What means this, thought I ? This is a dark place, and looks like dark business. However, I had some faith, and obeyed my directions, but not without a little misgiving. In a moment or two the roaring of a waterfall broke upon my ear as I advanced. This surely is a strange freak, thought I again, to leave me thus alone in this dubious re- treat, and with such a token : " I'll be before you." And what reception am I likely to get ? Whatever was his scheme, he doubtless knew how to bring it about. Nor could I disappoint him. I therefore kept on, till the ground vibrated under my feet by the concussions of a hidden cata- ract. I soon came to the right-hand path, and mounting a bank, saw my guide at the door of a rustic temple, which he threw open on my approach, and introduced me to a cir- cular mansion about twelve feet in diameter, neatly finished, and lighted in the top of the dome. " This," said he, " is Ossian's Hall." Then pointing to a painting on the farther side, he began to explain : — " That, as you see, is Ossian, singing to his two greyhounds and the maidens that stand before him." I saw the listeners were alike enraptured, the dogs no less than the maids, and 13 206 Ossian lost in the inspirations of his song. And while I my- self began to sympathize with the group, and stood gazing on the venerable countenance, the heaven-directed eye, and flowing locks of the bard, on a sudden, in the twinkling of an eye, by some invisible machinery, the painting was with- drawn — it was not to be found ! The space occasioned by it opened into a splendid, though small saloon, the farther end of which again opened directly on a cataract, forty feet distant, and of forty feet descent, which came foaming and rushing down the rocks, heightened in its powers by the full light of a blazing sun, and by the rocky bed and sides of the Braan, overhung by the thick-set trees, all stooping and bending to look upon the scene. It was grand and over- powering. My first emotions were those of a shock. The whole vision was thrown upon me so unexpectedly — the painting on which I was gazing had been withdrawn so miraculously, that I had almost fallen back on the floor with surprise. But the recovery into unqualified transport was as quick and irresistible as the emotions immediately pre- ceding. It is an interesting device. The cataract itself, in its own natural forms, is worth seeing. It is made to spring upon you like a lion pouncing upon his prey. It seems actually to jump and leap towards you — and it takes a second long moment to be convinced that you are not lost, overwhelmed, and borne away. What gives additional, and partly a frightful interest to this scene, is a large reflecting mirror laid upon the ceiling above, which unavoidably attracts the gaze ; and there you behold again the entire flood, with all its terrors impending, and it seems impossible to escape it. It is a most imposing spectacle. " Walk in, walk in," said my guide, stepping himself be- fore me into the saloon, as if to convince me it was safe notwithstanding, as he saw me rapt in amazement. I fol- lowed, and behold ! I saw myself thrown full length from the walls on the right and left, presenting my front and rear, and both my sides, with every form and shape I wore, from every point of the compass. I turned, and saw myself turn- ing in a thousand shapes. I looked up, and there saw my- self looking down upon myself, and standing on my feet against the heavens. I moved onward, and which ever way I went, saw myself moving in various directions — in one place slowly, in another quickly, in another quicker still, and in another darting forward at a fearful rate. He that has not philosophy enough to find out this secret, may ask me another time. There is another rumbling bridge, or brig, as they call it here in the highlands, thrown over the Braan, about a mile above the scene just described, where the river — FALLS. — MOUNTAIN SCENERY. 207 " Comes roaring and grumbling, And leaping and tumbling, And hopping and skipping, And foaming and dripping, And struggling and toiling, And bubbling and boiling, And beating and jumping, And bellowing and thumping," and making a fall of 70 feet in a few rods, differing princi- pally from the thing which bears the same name upon the Devon, as being a larger stream, and having one single pinching, or choking-place, directly under the bridge, where the rock from either side inclines to meet, and nearly kisses its neighbour at several points from the bridge downward for 20 yards. In a flood it often fills up the chasm above the throat, and exhibits a marvellous scene as it presses through the crevice from its top to the bottom. FALLS OF BRUAR. M Here foaming down the shelvy rocks, In twisting strength I rin ; There high my boiling torrent smokes, While roaring o'er a linn. Enjoying large each spring and well, As nature gave them me, 1 am, although I say't mysel, Worth going a mile to see." THE GRAMPIAN HILLS. On leaving the improved parts of the Duke of Atholl 1 s territories, we began to find ourselves buried among the bleak and desolate Grampians — for desolate and bleak they are, notwithstanding that romance and song have made them lovely, and consecrated them as the most desirable regions of the earth. All the mountains of Scotland — and Scotland is nearly all mountains — are bald as a man's hand, so far as the growth of timber is concerned, excepting the little patches here and there that have been planted by man. The little vegetation that is to be found of spontaneous growth on the hills, is slender in size and sickly in its hues. The heath (or, as the Scotch call it, hether) is everywhere found, and gives to the face of every hill and mountain a russet, or red brown aspect. On a nearer approach, and where it is thick, it has the exact likeness of fields of red clover in fresh and full blossom — most agreeable and captivating to the eye, but of little worth. One would suppose, in look- ing at these mountains, and passing through them, that they must afford but a poor sustenance even for sheep and goats. But the range is immense, in proportion to the number of flocks. The most productive use of the highlands is — farm- ing them out to sportsmen. But it is not the value of the game — it is the sport that brings the money. Scotland is MB CHARACTER OF THE HIGHLANDERS. rally a poor country, so far as its soil is concerned, ; oasis of the tea THE HIGHLANDERS As the hills are poor, the people who live among them are also poor. Tin rant and degraded — not tea but a little remove from the mos - rbar- ism. I have travelled a hundred miles in one line and a hundred in another, among the hills o\ Scotland, and i when - - I — and that the prin- cipal and most frequent tenement of man. a mere sod wall cut up from the earth by the spade — without floor, without a chimney, without a partition, the tire in the centre, and the smoke, after rolling about this confined and damp den. es - little hole left in the top. and may often - pooling out its columns by th for a 1 entered one of these huts, not more than 30 feet by l.\ :pied one end. and the gs and poult r;- :. with no other partition wall than - : of low rail fence — all apparently contented and happy . children singing, or crying — a little of both — and the It is true, that some of - - i rthan others — but the best oi them may well be supposed cheap enough. They are supported by ribs of unhewn mountain birch, the only tree indigenous to - . il. and when finished are exactly m the form of a new- made ! - s most befitting, the tenants being liter- ally buried alive. One would imagine that the highland race must have rated, when found in such conditio-.-.- - nousands. not to say hundreds of thousands, may be found, plan: - ittered along the lower regions of - mountain glens. The traveller would scarcely discern these huts as he approaches them, even when grouped in small v ill.-, g - - sometimes are, es the smoke which they emit from the hole in the top — so much like molehills are they. With the shepherd race among the Grampians. I do not remember to have seen the smallest agricultural, or even horticultural improvement. What wild St be! and how few their wants! - s appear, with some marks of civilization ; and occasionally, in the vicinity of some il ground upon a river, may be found a vil- f decent - . there the ground is or- dinarily the floor, and other things equal. THE BAGPIPES Yet from these very regions, and from these very huts. pipers will go out into the plains and towns below, strutting ill the ir % s, dangling in their kilts, with their plaid frock. THE BAGPIPES. 209 sashed tightly about the loins, their bonnets bristling with feathers from a pheasant's tail, and walking so lightly that their feet seem scarcely to touch the ground — the peculiar, the inimitable air of those who have been accustomed to bound over the rocks of the mountains — making such music as almost to arrest the current of the river, and bend the trees to listen from the tops of the hills. As I sat at my breakfast one morning at Dunkeld, I heard the music of the bagpipe entering the village, with unusual power and sweet- ness. 1 jumped, as every one would — as no one could help — and ran to the window, and by that time every window and every door in the street was full of heads ; everybody in the street, horses and all, stopped, and others came pour- ing in from adjoining streets. The music passed. There were two pipes. I had often heard the bagpipe before, but never — never with a power to be compared with this in- stance. And who and what were they 1 It was a pleasant Monday morning, and two one-horse carts, loaded with reapers (females of course), with the frills of their white caps flying in the wind, each horse led by the hand of a man, all passing through the village of Dunkeld, on their way to the harvest-field. The pipers were two men, sitting in front of the first cart, as it rolled over the pavements — no great improvement to the music — themselves and their company apparently unconscious of the power they exercised over the villagers. And this is the music which they earry with them to the field of laborious toil, to entertain the vacant hour — this the music with which the shepherd of the Gram- pian Hills enraptures his wife and bairns, when his fleecy tribe are asleep around him for the night — the same with which he entertains the rocks in the daytime, and makes the reposing hour of noon sweet and welcome to his flocks. There is a subduing plaintiveness in the bagpipes, skilfully played, which few hearts can easily resist. That these un- tutored Highlanders should be so apt upon this instrument, proves how accomplished man may be in any one thing to which he devotes all his skill, and how rude in every thing else. There is a world of poetry, and the deepest soul of song, in the best music of the bagpipes. They tell you a story all along, challenging your every sympathy — a story that you cannot help but feel — and yet a story, the deep mysteries of which need interpretation. You would fain ask the wanderer, what strong passions agitate his inmost soul, and while he secures and enchains your interest, he passes by without gratifying your curiosity. You give him your whole heart, but he renders not in return the secret of his charm. He passes from the scene, enveloped in ail the strangeness of his dubious emotions. He has displayed to you the very wildness of Ossian, and all the lofty inde- pendence of Ossiairs heroes, while his light foot seemed 18* 210 WHO WAS OSSIAN ? bounding over the rocks and skipping on the tops of the mountains — and anon he is far away. Certainly there is character — and not a little of character, in the rude people inhabiting such a rugged region of the globe. It is not dif- ficult to believe that they have done such exploits as are ascribed to them in the historical legends of that classic ground. Yet no native of other and kindred climes would covet the place of their abode, or the circumstances of their earthly existence. To them it is home, and a much-loved home, for they know no other. Those naked, yet wild mountains, on the face of which a man, or a sheep, or a goat may be seen from the bottom to the tops even of the highest, are a strange show to him who has been accustomed to see such mountain scenery covered and waving with the thickest and heaviest forests of the wilderness. His inference is, and not unjust, that it is the barrenness of the soil, and the decrepitude of age, that have stripped these magnificent prominences of our earth of their most natural, most glorious robes. As we rolled along the vale of the Spey, with the Gram- pian Hills running into the clouds on all sides, under the most irregular and grotesque forms, I asked the guard of the coach — "These high posts, about twelve feet above the ground, stuck up apparently at certain measured intervals on the side of the road, I suppose are to mark distances, are they not ?*' — " O no, they are to point out the road to the traveller in the snows of winter. The snow often buries them out of sight." At this reply I saw at once the not im- probable verity of the accounts we have sometimes had, of the sudden storms of winter sweeping over these mountains, and burying both the shepherd and his flock before he could bring them home. A single glance of the surrounding sce- nery is enough to convince any one that such disasters must sometimes occur among such hills, in the latitude of 57 de- grees. We passed the residence of Mr. Macpherson, son of the translator of Ossian, and looked upon the grave of his father, in the beautiful valley of Strath-Spey — beautiful rather, as being a contrast to the desolate regions of nearly forty miles, from which we had just emerged. The old gentleman is strongly suspected of having been himself Ossian, and that his translation is the original; at any rate, he collected the fragments of the story from the current traditions in the mouths of the shepherd bards of his day, unless it still be true that he invented it. People may have which they will to be the fact. Take it all in all, the road from Perth to Inverness, across the highlands, opens a new and strange world even to imagi- nation, with all the strangeness of its expectations. Imagi- nation itself is surprised, and for this good reason, that its INVERNESS. CALEDONIAN CANAL. 211 own creations are always false. But in this particular in- stance imagination is outstripped by the changing visions of the reality successively laid before the eye. INVERNESS. Inverness, as will appear from the map, is quite in the north of Scotland, in latitude 57° 30', it being a port-town of no inconsiderable importance before the execution of the Cal- edonian Canal; but since the projection of that enterprise, and the opening of its advantages, it is fast springing into a consequence, the prospective extent of which is perhaps somewhat problematical. It lies at the head of navigation of the principal indenture of the North Sea into the north- east coast of Scotland, terminating in the Moray Frith, at the entrance of the waters of Loch Ness. It is also now at the head of the Caledonian Canal, a stupendous work, which runs through the heart of Scotland, connecting the North Sea with the waters which lie between Great Britain and Ireland, and is walled on either side in its whole line by the highest mountains of this mountainous region of the empire. The population of Inverness is 14,000. It is well built, and makes a decent show. CALEDONIAN CANAL. The Caledonian Canal was first opened for navigation on the 22d of October, 1822, after having occupied twenty years in building. The original estimate of the cost was .£20,000. The actual expenditure was £986,924. The entire length is 58| miles, but the excavated part is only 21^ — the remain- der of the distance being composed of the three lochs, or lakes — Ness, Oich, and Lochy. The summit level is 96£ feet above the level of the Western Ocean. The work would not seem to be very stupendous, except by the depth and breadth of the cuttings, and the very great capacity of the locks, being extended to admit and pass large ships. Steamboats of the largest class may run this canal without difficulty. The locks are 20 feet deep, 172 long, and 40 broad. The canal is 20 feet deep, 52 wide at bottom, and 122 at top, and admits frigates of 32 guns, and merchant- ships of a thousand tons burden. From Neptune's Stair- case, the western extremity, Loch Linnhe is a mere arm of the sea, a natural continuation of the same inland naviga- tion for forty miles to Oban — making- the whole distance from Inverness to the open sea 100 miles, in a straight line from northeast to southwest. It is quite remarkable that this beautiful natural glen should have been laid in such a di- rect line across this island, as if for the very purpose of this communication. It is a mere furrow of nature the whole distance, bounded on either side by hills rising abruptly from 1,500 lo 3,000 feet, and Ben Nevis 4,380 feet. Nothing can exceed the beauty and the grandeur of this passage. 212 FALLS OF FOYERS. From Inverness, after lifting the locks and shooting through the canal eight miles by steam, lined on either side by enchanting lowland scenery, we rushed without im- pediment, or even a gate, into Loch Ness, twenty-four miles long and from one to two in breadth, where the mountains immediately begin their stupendous uninterrupt- ed lines. The soundings of Loch Ness are from 116 to 120 fathoms; and its extreme depth 135. Its subterranean sympathies are evidently very extensive, as it was materi- ally affected by the earthquake at Lisbon in 1775. About fifteen miles up this loch we came to the Falls of Foyers, a small river rushing down the mountain side into the lake, and in the distance of a few rods making a descent of about 500 feet. The greatest single leap of the river is 207 feet. It is well worth seeing. The chasm is far more awful than the fall itself in the ordinary height of water. It is said of a gentleman who, being intoxicated, spurred his horse across a bridge thrown over this fall, in a snowy and slippery night, when he went the next day, and saw by the track of his horse the danger he had escaped, fell sick and died at the very thought of his own rashness. "Among the heathy hills and ragged woods The roaring Foyers pours his mossy floods, Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where through a shapeless breach his stream resounds. As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep recoiling surges foam below, Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, And viewless echo's ear astonished rends : Dim seen through rising mists and ceaseless showers, The hoary cavern wide resounding lowers ; Still through the gap the struggling river toils, And still below the horrid caLdron boils." Opposite the Falls of Foyers, on the west side of the loch, is the beautiful glen of Urquhart, which threw back upon us from the whitened bosom of its harvest-fields the effulgence of a morning sun. No wonder that the people born there love to live there— as they are reported. It is a sweet, enchanting vale. On the bold and jutting shore of the lake stand the ruins of Urquhart Castle, the monu- ment of memorable things. On the line of the canal are the ruins of two other castles, Invergarry and Inverlochy — the former situate on the western shore of Loch Oich, and the latter lying at the foot of Ben Nevis. They are both interesting and remarkable. Besides Fort William, at the head of Loch Linnhe on this route, there is Fort Augustus at the west end of Loch Ness, both in repair, and in the keeping of a garrison. During the whole distance on the canal, we had alter- nate shillings of the sun and showers of rain to diversify the scene. Often, especially on the decline of the sun Neptune's staircase. — ben nevis. 213 towards the western horizon, when it rained in some places, and the sim poured his dazzling light upon other hills and clouds simultaneously, the effect was grand beyond descrip- tion. From the long and deep glens, shaded by the mount- ains on their western margin, and overhung by a fleecy cjoud, reflecting the full blaze of the sun, the very blackness <'i' darkness stared upon us — and there, in retired and awful majesty, the lightnings sprung their dreadful magazines in quick and tremendous succession. A painter, doing justice to the scene, would for ever be disbelieved. NEPTUNE'S STAIRCASE. A thirty-two gun frigate mounting these locks — eight of which make one uninterrupted rise, the other three being a mile below at the mouth of the canal — to make her way through the hills to the North Sea, might well claim to in- scribe upon the place of her ascent the triumphs of Neptune over the land, as ever before he has asserted dominion over the deep. I am quite sure that nothing could be more appro- priately named. It is indeed Neptune's Staircase. And here he is supposed to mount with his trident, shaking from his hoary locks the ocean wave, to walk over land, taking a peep at the hills of Caledonia, at the Falls of Foyers, &c, and then again, with gladness and the voice of triumph, plunging into his own element at the Moray Frith, as delighting more in " the profound eternal base of the ocean anthem," than in the shrill piping of the mountain blast. BEN NEVIS. I could wish, that before I had ascended this mountain 1 had happened to meet with the following advice inscribed in a window of my hotel : — " Stranger, if o'er this pane of glass perchance Thy roving eye should cast a casual glance ; If taste for grandeur and the dread sublime, Prompt thee Ben Nevis' dreadful height to climb ; Here gaze attentive, nor with scorn refuse The friendly rhyming of my humble muse. For thee that muse this rude inscription plann'd, Prompted for thee her humble poet's hand. Heed thou the poet : — he thy steps shall lead Safe o'er yon towering hill's aspiring head. Attentive then to this informing lay, Read how he dictates, as he points the way. Trust not at first a quick adventurous pace, Seven miles its top points gradual from the base ; Up the high rise with panting haste I pass'd, And gain'd the long, laborious steep at last. More prudent thou, when once you pass the deep, With measured pace and slow, ascend the steep. Oft stay thy steps, oft taste the cordial drop, And rest, Oh rest ! long, long upon the top. Inhale the breezes, nor with toilsome haste, Down the rough slope thy precious vigour waste. 214 BEN NEVIS. So shall thy wondering sight at once survey- Vales, lakes, woods, mountains, islands, rocks, and sea ; Huge hills, that heap'd in crowded order stand, Through north and south, through west and eastern land — Vast lumpy groups — while Ben, who often shrouds His lofty summit in a veil of clouds, High o'er the rest displays superior state, In grand pre-eminence supremely great. One side, all awful to the astonish' d eye, Presents a steep three hundred fathoms high. The scene tremendous, shocks the startled sense, In all the pomp of dread magnificence. All these, and more, shalt thou transported see, And own a faithful monitor in me." And had I been thus advised, I should have been more cautious not " To trust at first a quick adventurous pace." I was too ambitious — too confident of my own powers — and for my urgency, had wellnigh been obliged to return with- out reaching the top. At last, however, we came to a bank of snow — in August — which might serve for water with food, and there refreshed and ate our lunch with most voracious appetite. Then took a sweet nap in the face of the sun. Next, rising, we pushed our way, and soon attained the lofti- est summit of Britain's Isle. The day was fine : it could not have been more so ; and the scene there brought under the eye cannot be better described than as above : — " Vales, lakes, woods, mountains, islands, rocks, and sea, Huge hills, that heap'd in crowded order stand, Vast lumpy groups — while Ben, who often shrouds His lofty summit in a veil of clouds, High o'er the rest displays superior state." And although it cannot be said of Ben Nevis as Byron said of Mont Blanc, "Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains ! They crown'd him long ago, On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow. Around his waist are forests braced, The avalanche in his hand ;" Yet is it true, that Ben Nevis is sole monarch of these realms ; that he wears for ever a diadem of snow ; and that he clothes himself with the clouds, whenever any are afloat on which to lay his hands. From the top of Ben Nevis, the whole of Scotland, all the Hebrides, and a vast extent of open sea, are under the eye. One is astonished to find what a world of hills and lochs the said North Britain is ; and their shapes are so broken, so irregular, so fantastic ; some of them as perfect cones, apparently, as could have been laid out by trigonometry. Whether these are volcanic formations, I am not geologist enough to decide. I can only say, that directly fingal's cave. 215 at the foot of Ben Nevis is a conical hill 1,500 feet high, with an apparent sealed crater on the top, the entire margin of which, being some 300 feet in circumference, is composed of stone in various degrees of vitrification — some of it is pure glass. It all has the appearance of having been thoroughly- exposed to the emission of volcanic heats. There are other phenomena of this description in different parts of Scotland, commonly called vitrified forts ; but the reason here implied is by no means satisfactory. In ascending Ben Nevis, at the height of about 1,800 feet, all vegetation disappears, except as an occasional oasis of a few feet square presents itself to the eye. Laborious as is the toil of ascent, the vision realized there in a clear day is a rich reward. But how vexatious to those who, after hav- ing gained the summit, find themselves enveloped in a cloud, as is not unfrequently the case, and then are obliged to de- scend without a glance at the world below. The northern side of nearly all these hills is broken and precipitous. The southern is ordinarily an accessible de- clivity. The whole northern line of Ben Nevis is a perpen- dicular cliff, or crag, of amazing and giddy altitude— in some places a thousand, in some fifteen hundred, and in others two thousand feet, indented all along by means of projecting points. The amusement of tossing stones down these chasms, to hear their fall and boundings in the lower and distant regions, is no small temptation to linger on the awful brow ; especially when one person can stand on a precipice opposite to another, and follow with his eye the stone project- ed by his fellow, until it is lodged in its final resting-place. FINGAL'S CAVE Is a rare beauty, I may say wonder of nature, in the Island of Staffa, on the west of Scotland. "The entrance to this great cave, which is about 117 feet high and 53 wide, resembles a Gothic arch. The stupendous columns which bound the interior sides of the cave are perpendicular, and being fre- quently broken and grouped in a variety of ways, produce a highly pictu- resque effect. The roof, in some places, is formed of rock, and in others of the broken ends of pillars, from the interstices of which have exuded stalactites, producing a variety of beautiful teints, with a fine effect — the whole resembling mosaic-work. As the sea never ebbs entirely out, the only floor of this cave is the beautiful green water, reflecting from its bosom those beautiful green teints, which vary and harmonize with the darkest hues of the rock. The appearance of Fingal's Cave most strongly excites the wonder and admiration of the beholder, and over- powers by the magnificence of the scene. The broken range of columns, forming the exterior causeway, is continued on each side with- in the cave. This irregular pavement is most perfect on the eastern side, and admits of access nearly to the extremity of the cave. The entrance to the cave is a defined object, and gives relief to the view, while the eye seeks repose in the vast recess. feet in. 371 6 250 53 7 20 117 70 39 6 54 18 9 216 FINGAl/s CAVE. IONA. " Length of the cave from the rock without From the pitch of the arch . . . Breadth at the mouth ...... Do. at the farther end ..... Height of the arch at the mouth .... Do. at the farther end Do. of an outside pillar Do. of a pillar at the northwest corner Depth of the water at the mouth .... Do. of the water at the farther end " The average diameter of the basaltic columns is about two feet, but they often extend to four. Their figures are different, and the num- ber of their sides vary from three to nine ; but the prevalent forms are the pentagon and hexagon. " This island is extremely interesting in a geological point of view, and different theorists have endeavoured to account for the phenomenon of basaltes, and other columnar rocks. According to the Huttonian system, they have been protruded from below in a ductile state, having either been fused, or rendered soft by being near to other bodies, such as granite in a state of fusion, and acquired their prismatic forms in the process of cooling. According to the Wernerian theory, they are crys- tallized deposites of matter, held in solution by the chaotic fluid. " It is a singular fact, that this island, though one of the greatest cu- riosities of nature, should have remained until little more than the last half century, unnoticed, and almost unknown." Iona, or Ilcolm kill, is supposed to have been once a reli- gious retreat of the Druids. It was assumed by St. Colum- ba in 565, according to Bede, and made a seat of religious establishments for Christianity. A cathedral built in the lat- ter end of the eleventh century is still in keeping there ; but most of the ancient edifices are in ruins. " Iona was the usual cemetery of the Scottish kings. King Duncan's body was " ' carried to Colm's kill, The sacred storehouse of his ancestors, And guardian of their bones.' " So great was the reputation of Iona, as a receptacle of the renown- ed and royal dead, it is said, that besides many kings of Scotland, four kings of Ireland, eight Norwegian kings, and one king of France, re- pose there. There, it is affirmed, the lords of the Isles were all buried. " Iona was the principal asylum of learning during the dark period of the middle ages. From this sequestered spot a feeble and doubtful light shone upon benighted Europe ; and the vestiges of the edifices to be seen here, connected as they are with the very early periods of Scottish history, impart a venerable character to the present aspects of the island." BEN LOMOND. 217 BEN LOMOND— LOCH LOMOND— LOCH KATRINE— AND THE TROSACHS. We proceeded down the Clyde from Glasgow \-l miles, and there, under the rock and castle of Dunbarton, we to into the channel and sweet rale of Leven, and passing in a coach the birthplace of Dr. Smollot, and many other re- markable things, soon found ourselves in a steamer, whose Home for the season is Loch Lomond. At, the lower end of this lake, its shore and the adjacent country are compara- tively Low, and not a little picturesque, as wefi as highly cul- tivated and tastefully improved. Here are castles and gen - Semen's seats, Are. more than are. convenient to name and desenbe. In a little? time we began to move among the islands, some large and some small, some high and others • low. Soon the mountains in the distance began to approach us, and already Hen Lomond's broad base and towering sum- mit, were before us. In fifteen miles we were shooting over the waves which laved his feet, and looked directly up to heaven to gaze upon his hoary locks, so often bathed in the clouds. We bowed to him, not he to us, although he was evidently moved at our coming, and continually showed us some new form, some changing feature. Ben Lomond is 3,262 feet high, rising immediately, and almost precipitously, from the margin of the lake. Those who can make it convenient stop to ascend it. But it occu- pies a day, and well rewards the toil. As I had been upon Ben Nevis, I did not desire to undertake a second labour of the kind so soon. Ben Lomond seems to be stationed here to introduce the stranger to his own family. For immediately on passing his awful and majestic form, the most rugged and loftiest hills of Scotland line the lake, and wall it in, and shut it up to every thing but heaven. Nothing of the kind could be more im- posing, more wild, more picturesque, with here and there a soft, sweet bed, lying at their feet, and at the mouth of a glen, which opens up the steep ascent, to separate one moun- tain of rocks from another. Imagination has been tasked to irVe names to these shapeless forms, and in some instances it requires no fancy to find the types of things familiar. There is a cobbler, for instance, perched upon one of the lof- tiest summits, for ever bending to his task, and never done. Whether he works at night is not easily proved, as his seat is inaccessible. And he is not without society, for his wife sits directly before him, with her face turned to his face, and there they hold their fellowship from age to age. It appears moreover, that his wife has turned Roman Catholic, and be- come a nun, for she has evidently taken the veil. A more exact likeness of such a character could not be drawn. K 19 . 218 LOCH KATRINE.— THE TROSACHS. We sailed to the head of Loch Lomond, passing Rob Roy's Cave, the lake being nearly forty miles long; and there, after gazing a while upon the hills piled on hills, we turned, and live miles below the termination, myself, with a dozen others, left the boat for Loch Katrine; and some on foot, and some on poneys, we scaled the mountains, and climbed over rocks five miles or more, till we came to the house of the Lady's Lake, or of the lake which made the famed re- treat of " The Lady of the Lake." And I will venture to say, that never did any tartaned troop of the Clanalpine, or any of the Douglas line, or even Roderick Dhu himself, expe- rience a more winged or swifter flight over this ten-mile water bosom than we. Our light and bounding bark was trimly built, a Highlander was at the helm, another at the sails, and two others yet in waiting, and all jabbering Gaelic — the wind was fair and brisk, and though well loaded, we seemed scarcely to touch the tops of the waves : " Like heath-bird, when the hawks pursue, Our barge across Loch Katrine flew." We brushed by the scenes on the right and left, which seemed to retreat as fast as we advanced, until on the wings of an hour, with no little fear of dipping, we came where, " High on the south huge Benvenue Down to the lake his masses threw ; Crags, knolls, and mounds confusedly hurl'd, The fragments of an earlier world" — making what are called" The Trosachs" — that is, the bristled territory ; and where the lake, -" still and deep, Affording scarce such breadth of brim As served the wild duck's brood to swim." And no one who had been here would say, that poetic li- cense had need to steal its privilege, for want of the sweet- est of the sweet, the wildest of the wild, the roughest of the rugged, the most sombre of the dark, the veriest jumbling together of all things, which might well make even crazy Martin, the strangest designer of strange things, more crazy still ; and of what, having seen, should bring him to his sober wits again, and leave him to say, " I have done now — there is nothing more." I too have done, except to say, that we ascended the bold and rocky steep of the little island, mantled with every sort of tree and shrub, native of these regions ; and there, in that deep, and dark, and solemn retreat, we found the rustic grotto, and the relics of ancient armour, and the skins of wild beasts covering the walls and the ceiling, and rustic chairs, and forms, and tables, just as the poet describes; not i that he had seen them r but that, by giving the picture, others^ CALENDAR. — FALLS OF CLYDE. 219 lavebeen able to make them according to his pattern. And is I cannot hope to do so well, I here present the original fraught, every article and every feature of which, with some idditional filling up, is actually exhibited now in this ro- mantic island : — " Here for retreat in dangerous hour Some chief had framed a rustic bower. It was a lodge of ample size, But strange of structure and device, — Of such materials, as around The workman's hand had readiest found. Lopp'd of their boughs, their hoar trunks bared, And by the hatchet rudely squared, To give the walls their destined height, The sturdy oak and ash unite ; While moss, and clay, and leaves combined, To fence each crevice from the wind. The lighter pine-trees, over head, Their slender length for rafters spread ; And wither'd heath, and rushes dry, Supplied a russet canopy. * * * * * And all around, the wall to grace, Hung trophies of the fight and chase : A target there, a bugle here, A battleaxe, a hunting-spear, And broadswords, bows and arrows store, With the tusk'd trophies of the boar. Here grins the wolf, as when he died, And there the wild-cat's brindled hide ; The frontlet of the elk adorns, Or mantles o'er the bison's horns. Pennons and flags, defaced and stain'd, That blackening streaks of blood retain'd, And deerskins, dappled, dun, and white, With otter's fur, and seals unite. In rude and uncouth tapestry all, **• To garnish forth the sylvan hall. ****** So wondrous wild, the scene might seem The scenery of a fairy dream." Having emerged from this singular chaos just as the shades f night came on, we travelled ten miles to Calendar ; in the norning, before breakfast, sixteen miles to Stirling; and iter breakfast, twenty-eight miles to Glasgow. And it is enough, perhaps, to say of what we passed that ay, that it was the very bosom of the scenes in which the outhful imagination of Walter Scott was cradled. NEW LANARK— FALLS OF THE CLYDE. This once, and I shall have done with Scotland. Being bliged to wait at Glasgow a day for a steam-packet to Lon- onderry, I undertook to discharge another duty ; that is, to isit the Falls of the Clyde, which not to see, being there, -rould have been an offence to all taste. K2 220 FALLS OP CLYDE. — NEW LANARK. The vale of the Clyde, for 30 miles above Glasgow, presents one of the finest regions of country I have seen in Great Britain, and under the highest cultivation. Aside from the falls, it is well and satisfactory to have seen it. Besides many highly-improved seats of gentlemen, the road to Lan- ark passes by Lord Douglass' residence and estates, and through the large possessions and by the castle of the Duke of Hamilton. I thought myself in England again, and in its most cultivated parts. The first fall of the Clyde, in ascending, is Stonebyres, two miles this side of the borough of Lanark, and is well described by a comparison with the fall of Genesee river, at Carthage, N.Y. ; it being not a single cataract, but consisting of several leaps in a few rods, in making a descent of 80 feet. The other two falls are Corra Linn and Bonniton Linn ; the for- mer 84 feet, and the latter 30, half a mile asunder, the upper (Bonniton) being 2h miles above Lanark. Corra Linn Fall makes its descent by several leaps — Bonniton by one princi- pally. At a high flood they must be grand and awful ; and at any time are highly interesting, for the small scale of the rivers in Great Britain. Genesee river, breaking from the hills at Mount Morris, between its rocky, high, and precipi- tous bluffs, is not unlike this scene of the Clyde — wanting only the falls. The chasm of the latter, however, at the feet of which the waters leap into the Corra Linn, I think is more worthy to be compared to the chasm which receives Niag- ara's awful cataract, making allowance for the difference in magnitude. The Clyde is a small stream, and Corra Linn a little basin. The ruins of Corra Castle stand on the verge of the lofty precipice formed by the Corra Linn Falls ; and the highly-im- proved estates of Lord Corehouse on the west, and of Lady Mary Ross on the east of the Clyde at this point, lend great enchantment to these wonders of nature. The wild becomes thus intimate with the tame — nature joins fellowship with art ; the latter imparting qualifying grace to the former, while the former loses nothing of its grandeur. The whole re- gion of the Clyde, on either side, in the neighbourhood of Lanark, exhibits bold and majestic features, and contributes to magnify the sportful and resolute plunges of this sinuous current, breaking its passage through the rocks of Bonniton and Corra. The waters of the Clyde are gathered up below the falls, to give life and activity, though I apprehend not excessive wealth, to the manufacturing village of New Lanark, one mile up stream, but down hill from the borough. New Lanark is a pattern of a New-England manufacturing establishment, of equal extent, employing about thirteen hundred persons in spinning cotton. It has been nearly ruined by Robert Owen's experiments. Owen began here and run out. He ROBERT OWEN. — GLASGOW. 221 recommenced in Perthshire, and run out there ; and we know what has been the result of his experiment in Ohio. He is now running his career in London. There are yet a few relics of his customs at New Lanark, among which is the dancing-school. Dancing is one of the classical exercises of the little ragged, dirty, barefooted children every day, as regularly as their ab, ib, ub. In passing through the different school-rooms I was introduced, among the rest, to the exhibi- tions of the dancing-class, and really it was ridiculous enough : two fiddlers, one blind, both sawing, like two tyros, who had never learned a note, on a corn-stalk ; fifty children, as above described, led by the most awkward fellow imaginable, who might have been taken for a beggar in London ; and all com- ing as near to the perfection of the art, as the worst cari- catures ever given of the trainings of our own unpractised militia approach to the perfection of military tactics. Poor Robert Owen, like Fanny Wright, has become a martyr to his benevolence, and done as much good. But we must not persecute him. Positively, considering the promises of Mr. Owen's new theory of society, and regarding the dancing exhibition I saw as growing out of it, the most ingeniously- contrived farce could not possibly have been more ridiculous. I ought perhaps to say a word of Glasgow. After obser- ving that it is an active and thriving commercial and manu- facturing town, nearly equal in population to the city of New- York, there is little to be added which does not belong to an ordinary description of like things. The University is sev- eral centuries old, and very respectable, as is sufficiently known. The heart of the city is well built, and exhibits many interesting and attractive features. The Clyde runs through the city, leaving much the larger portion on the north side. The navigation of the river is constantly being im- proved, by stoning up the banks, in the manner of a canal, and by deepening the channel in the use of the dredge ma- chine. The public spirit and enterprise of Glasgow are pre- eminent. They are a bustling and energetic community, doing with all their might what their hands find to do. 19* 222 NARROW ESCAPE. EXCURSION IN IRELAND. A narrow escape — Dunluce Castle— Giant's Causeway — A Husband's tears — Dublin. The wheels of the steamer in which I had taken passage from Glasgow to Londonderry had not stopped, before I was darting down the river in the Queen Adelaide, retracing forty miles'of the same track I had just made. The wind had been blowing hard ever since 12 o'clock, and the sea had got to be very rough. Instead of landing at Port Rush, however, as another gentleman was to land at Port Stewart, a little further west, and understanding that I could probably accom- plish my object in visiting the Giant's Causeway easier by stopping there, I consented to go ashore with him, not dream- ing of the peril that awaited us. The usual signal being given, a boat appeared off the har- bour to receive us, and came alongside about half a mile from land. Those who know any thing of the contact of a small boat and a ship in a heavy swell, while the ship is lying to, need not be told of the difficulty of passing from one to the other. Every swell dashed her against the side of the ves- sel, and threatened to break or swamp her. We succeeded, however, in getting down by the iron ladder, which was thrown over for the purpose— there being four men to man- age the boat, and we two making six. While receiving our luggage, a heavy swell brought the rim of the boat under the end of the ladder, and dipped and filled it as quick as one could fill a teacup in a tub of water. My companion and myself sprung for the ladder, and both of us caught hold of its lower rungs by our hands. The four men, as was quite natural, attached themselves to our legs, the ves- sel every instant changing its position by the motion of the sea. For the moment, it seemed inevitable that we must all go down together. By a merciful Providence, however, the boat was not entirely filled, and a rope still connected it with the deck of the vessel. The captain and crew of the steamer being prompt, drew upon the rope, and instantly dropped several buckets to the men below, ordering them to bale out the water. The men, seeing the boat did not go down, obeyed the order, and soon changed the aspects of the case. The boat was speedily lightened, and in a few mo- ments principally cleared of water, our luggage in the mean- time afloat, all except my portmanteau — which, most fortu- nately for me, as it contained my most valuable articles, and those most susceptible of injury by wet, was still upon deck. The danger came so suddenly, and was over so quick, that DUNLUCE CASTLE. 223 for myself I hardly had time for a second thought. Why we did not all go down, was as much a wonder as a mercy. If the boat had sunk, as might ordinarily be expected in such a case, the probable result, is too obvious ; and the only reason why it did not is ascribed to the fact, that we were able to relieve it by hanging upon the ladder suspend- ed from the side of the vessel. We finally got safe ashore — ourselves and luggage drenched in the sea. The excitement of such an occurrence, when once the danger is past, I felt to be very useful. To have been brought, in an unexpected moment, to the very verge of the eternal world — that one is obliged to feel that he has been there, and that the merciful hand of God has been stretched out to rescue him from the abyss — stirs up all the suscepti- bilities of the soul, and opens the deep fountains of its feel- ings, as nothing else can do. I hope never to forget, and always to be thankful for, such a preservation. In execution of my plan to see the Causeway that day, and take the mail in the evening for Belfast, I proceeded directly in a car to Colerain, four miles, — whence, having put on dry clothes, and ordered my wet luggage to be dried, it being early in the day, I hastened off in the same convey- ance for the Giant's Causeway, ten miles from Colerain. DUNLUCE CASTLE. " Will you go by Dunluce Castle V said my driver. " No, I am tired of castles." "It is only one mile farther; and everybody thinks it very worth seeing." "Well, let us see it, then." The ruins of Dunluce Castle are situated on a rocky pro- montory, jutting into the sea about three miles west of the Causeway, and elevated perhaps 200 feet above the water. The fortress itself, when in keeping, could be approached only by a drawbridge. The ruins themselves are rather picturesque — but more remarkable on account of the pecu- liar character of the place. The sea almost entirely sur- rounds its base, and comes dashing and foaming in over a rocky bed, as if it would wear away the eternal hills. From the w r est windows of the castle the shore of the sea, stretch- ing for a mile or more, is a precipitous white cliff, exhibit- ing the most fantastic shapes that can be imagined, as formed by the action of the sea. Larger and smaller columns may be seen all along, standing in the water, and supporting the ends of magnificent arches, of the same ma- terial, whose other supports are merged in the cliff'. I saw one arch about a mile distant, exactly after the pattern of the heaviest stone bridge — and others which reminded me ,of the heavy Saxon architecture of Durham Cathedral. I had heard of a cave under this castle, and to my utter 224 giant's causeway. amazement I found a subterranean passage admitting to and from the sea, giving access to the ocean from the castle, entirely independent of the mainland. An army could march through it, to embark or re-embark, with all neces- sary ammunition — with artillery even. And the doubt is— whether it was made by the hand of man or of God. If by the former, the task must have been immense. It passes directly under the centre of the fortress, making a channel for the sea, which at flood tide will float boats half the way in. It has an irregular arched roof, and is generally, after' one has got into it, thirty feet high and twenty feet broad. As I entered alone, not anticipating such a scene, and re- ceived the salutation of the mighty waters, which came rushing, and murmuring, and bellowing into that deep and dark cavern — it was awful. GIANT'S CAUSEWAY. And yet all this was play ; it was like the soft music of the Eolian harp, compared to a like exhibition, to which I was introduced an hour afterward in the vicinity of the Giant's Causeway. The most remarkable cave of all, which can be approached only by water, I was compelled to deny myself the gratification of seeing, on account of the heavy sea which made on the shore. But there was yet one 466 feet long, measured from its mouth to its extremity — and a large part of the way forty feet to the point of the arch, and about thirty feet across — running nearly in a direct line, and sunk so low as to receive high water almost to the further end. This cave is accessible on foot through another one, meeting it nearly at right angles, about 300 yards from its mouth, and being a little higher, so as to exclude the sea. Conducted by my guide through this access — sufficiently dif- ficult and dark — I came to the margin of that awful, never- to-be-forgotten scene. Had the ocean been calm, it would have been a solemn, dismal region. From the point we oc- cupied might be seen 150 feet of the cave on our right, as- cending gradually, and coming to a point; and 300 feet on our left, opening on nothing but a troubled sea. Every few minutes a swell came rolling in, that would fill up the mouth of the cave, leaving us in total darkness, and rushing for- ward with most impetuous fury, as if ten thousand times more mad for its confinement — and it seemed impossible to escape it. The next moment it all lay in fleecy whiteness at our feet, shrinking back in haste and modesty, as if asking pardon for such intrusion. No sooner had this retired than another came, and anon another, and so in perpetual suc- cession. Most of my readers may know how wave follows wave on the shore after a storm. So into this dark subter- ranean cell the agitated ocean from without unceasingly threw the fragments of his lofty heavings, as if in spite for giant's causeway. 225 the obstacles of the high and rock-bound shore, that came in his way. From the position we occupied, although we could see out, yet the somewhat sinuous line of the cave and the irregularity of the arch confined our vision below the horizon, and veiled entirely from the eye the tumult of the sea. Buried 200 feet beneath the surface of the earth, with a massive mountain of rock impending over our heads, and looking out through an aperture of 300 feet in length upon the ocean collecting its forces, heaping up its waves, and rushing in upon us, as if resolved by a single throw to shut us in for ever — was a scene, the sublimity and the aw- ful grandeur of which cannot be easily imagined. The tre- mendous rush of the waters, thrown in by the tossings of the deep without, and the startling bellowing which preceded their thundering passage — the momentary darkness which the approach of every wave produced, by occupying the mouth of the cave — were enough, as I need not say, to awe the spirit of the beholder, and extort from him irresistible exclamations of astonishment and wonder. One of my guides had brought a pistol to be discharged in the cave, as is common, to entertain visiters with the singular and as- tounding effect of its impulses on an atmosphere pent up in the bowels of the earth. I have no doubt that in an ordi- nary time the report would have been remarkable, and even tremendous in its reverberations. But on this particular occasion it was like the mockery of man's inventions in the face of the artillery of the last day, so feeble was the sound in comparison with the tremendous roar of the waters. The pent-up air seemed in agony to be let loose from the dis- tressful constraint under which it laboured, by the narrow limits of the vault above, and the pressure of the sea coming in from without — and the concussion rushed by our ears to find vent through the passage by which we came. I am informed, that the proprietor of this shore once planted a small piece of artillery in this spot, and caused it to be let off in the face of a coming swell of the ocean ; and that the man who served on the occasion was deprived of his hearing by the violence of the concussion. Well for him that these high crags did not bow themselves in their strength for the punishment of such presumption. After this, which I came not to see, and never thought to see, what is the Giant's Causeway] It is something not- withstanding — it is even a wonder — and still more wonder- ful, as it suggests the probability, and produces a very thorough conviction, that it holds "a submarine connexion with Staffa, one hundred miles distant on the western coast of Scotland. Staffa and the Giant's Causeway exhibit in all respects the same geological phenomena — and we cannot resist the conviction, from the relations and aspects of the K3 226 two wonders, that they are parts of one stupendous whole, and that the finny tribes of the sea, as they sport them- selves between Ireland and Scotland, are privileged with a nearer access to that which man must for ever and in vain covet to see : a very honeycomb of rocks, paving the found- ations of the ocean, and showing to the eye of man only little bits of their extreme points and justled ends, but con- cealing their more perfect and substantial forms under the ever-rolling sea. The Giant's Causeway and Fingal's Cave are the same thing — the same, I mean, in material and in geological struc- ture. The caves in the neighbourhood of the Giant's Cause- way are not to be found among the basaltic columns, as at Staffa. In this particular the caves of Staffa are perhaps more interesting. But the Giant's Causeway, as a whole, in connexion with its adjunct circumstances, I should think, might justly be esteemed a greater wonder of the two. The remarkable phenomenon in either case is simply this : That immense masses (regions, they might be called) of basalt have received erect columnar formations, varying in the number of their sides from three to nine — the more prevalent forms being the pentagon and hexagon. The struc- ture of the honeycomb, supposing it to be solid, and its elongated forms erect, is a very fair representation of this crystallized basalt. For, although the substance is opaque, it has yet assumed distinct and proper forms of crystalliza- tion. These packed columns differ from the honeycomb in wanting exact proportions of sides and angles, in the re- lations of those of the same column to each other, and of those of one column to those of its neighbours. But each side of every column, whatever may be its proportion to another, or to all other sides of the same column, makes a corresponding side to a neighbour — so that no space is left in the entire mass, which is not occupied by the columnar formation, any more than in a honeycomb. Yet are there no two adjoining columns of equal sides and equal angles — and probably no two in the vast assemblage corresponding in this particular. It is possible, indeed, that accident has made such an agreement — but I presume it has never been ascertained. Suppose a circle to be run in the remotest angles of each column, I should judge, that their diameters would range from nine inches to eighteen — the average perhaps twelve — or midway between these extremes. In this estimate of their relative and average size I speak par- ticularly of the results of my cursory observations, without instruments, of the principal cluster of about 30,000, whose ends are exposed on the margin of the sea, and which seem to have been abruptly broken off at different elevations, so that one may walk over them, up and down, as by stairs, extending one way 725 feet from the cliff, till they dip in giant's causeway. 227 the sea and are lost — and in breadth about half this extent. The sides and angles are perfectly rectilinear, so far as they are exposed, and by presumption universally. And the con- tact of the whole mass is so intimate, side to side and an- gle to angle, that not the smallest opening is anywhere dis- coverable, not even for the admission of water, and proba- bly not of air. Yet the junction is not hermetical — but so far as chymical union is concerned, it is a perfect disjunc- tion. They may all be taken down in perfect form. And what is remarkable, every column has a joint in every ten or twelve inches, composed of a convex and concave sur- face, perfectly fitted, yet chymically disjunct. The appli- cation of a little force, by a sharpened iron bar, would break them up into blocks with the greatest facility. Multitudes of these fragments, thus disturbed, lie scattered over the surface of this interesting and marvellous structure. No- tices have been set up by the proprietor, cautioning all visiters against committing any more ravages of this kind. As we descend from the main cliff, or high bank, towards the sea on the tops of these columns compacted in a solid mass, yet each demonstrating its distinct forms by its separate head, being broken off at a different elevation each from every other, they become more and more interesting, till they sink into the ocean, and make us covet earnestly to follow them there. The position of these columns is generally supposed to be erect, or perpendicular. But. this is not always the case. Every undisturbed cluster, or bed of them, however, agrees in this : that all of the same mass, if they vary at all, vary equally in their angle of inclination from the erect position — and that is ordinarily slight, though observable to the eye. They are seen all along for miles lodged in the precipitous face of this shore, composing one of its principal features. One stratum is often seen above another with an unorgan- ized stratum of heterogeneous rock intervening. There is one headland, or promontory, presenting an extended range of perpendicular basaltic columns, sixty feet high — another fifty feet — and others all degrees inferior. What is the length of the columns composing the principal, and what is emphatically called, the Causeway, and which appears most perfectly organized, it is impossible to say, as only the up- per extremities are generally visible. Except in one place, they present a precipitous side of thirty feet. While the face of this shore offers to the eye every here and there the most perfect ranges of this columnar basalt, there are also interspersed irregular piles, sufficient to leave the impres- sion of the stupendous ruins of one of nature's palaces. In one place there is a cluster of insulated columns, lifting up their heads, some thirty, some forty feet high, on the point of a promontory, which it is said were taken in the night. 228 giant's causeway. by a part of the Spanish Armada, to be the chimney-tops of Dunluce Castle, and were fiercely battered by their can- non, and not a few of them demolished. I stood upon this promontory, looking down upon these insulated columns — and really they seemed to have as much of the forms of the handiwork of man, as many of the ruins of ancient castles to be found in the British Islands. This whole region seems to be disposed to columnar formations. I saw a distinct and magnificent range in the side of a rocky eminence some two or three miles from the shore. I only record such impressions, as a run and a jump over these remarkable phenomena left behind. And when I say that I had travelled 250 miles by sea, and 50 by land, in two thirds of 48 hours, in perils on the deep, and in perils among beggars, I may perhaps be excused for the slender and superficial information I am able to give of what I saw in the meantime. Whoever purposes to visit the Giant's Causeway, if he wishes to enjoy tranquillity in contemplating the scenes around and before him, and retire under the best impres- sions of what he shall have seen, let him fill his pockets with sixpences and shillings, and be prepared to rain a shower of them on the hordes of beggars that will be sure to flock around him. Or else, being in the same manner furnished in his pocket, let him say to them all, as they come in his way, Now this is the only condition on which I will give you any thing — that you keep entirely away from me until I return. Alas ! what meanness of spirit and baseness of conduct does the beggary of a community beget. In passing in the mailcoach from Colerain to Belfast, I found myself in company with a lady and her maid. There was every thing to interest in her person, mind, and man- ners, with a single exception : I suspected, and was convin- ced, that she was under the excitement of some intoxicating drug. It was a singular coincidence, after having been the subject of these mingled and conflicting emotions of respect and diffidence towards a lady of such interesting qualities and commanding powers, that I should have a seat at church with her and her husband the next day in the same pew ; and that I should have occasion to observe the expressions of anxiety on the countenance of the husband, as he occa- sionally cast an affectionate and benevolent glance towards his wife. His eye began to swim ; and finding that he could not suppress his emotions, he took his hat and left the church. The reader's conjectures in this case are as good as mine ; I only state the facts. DUBLIN. The best picture of Dublin is Cook's royal map, on the margins of which are exhibited the Custom-house, Postoffice, DUBLIN. 229 Castle, Four Courts, Trinity College, St. George's Church, Blue Coat Hospital, Castle Chapel and Tower, Royal Ex- change, exterior and interior of the Metropolitan Chapel, Corn Exchange, Stamp-office, New Theatre Royal, Holmes' Hotel, College of Surgeons, Royal Dublin Society House, King's Inns, Lying-in Hospital and Rotunda, Linen Hall, St. Patrick's Cathedral, Nelson's Pillar, and the Wellington Testimonial — enclosing a draught of the city, embracing a circle whose diameter is two and a half miles. If one has . been somewhat acquainted with large cities, this map of ' Dublin will leave an impression upon the mind more flatter- ing than an actual survey of the city itself, as is often the influence of pictures. Yet Dublin is a great city, and not without many features of magnificence. The bank is its proudest public edifice. The Custom-house is especially attractive, and well exposed in all its parts. Trinity Col- lege is a very extensive pile of buildings, of heavy masonry, sombre features, and for its purposes a proud national mon- ument. The Four Courts is a grand and imposing struc- ture. The Postoffice is not much inferior to the new Post- office of London — the latter built in the reign of George the IV., characteristic of every thing done under his command, not calculated to lighten the burdens of the people. The plan of the metropolitan chapel was for a grand affair, but the poverty of the Catholic church in Ireland affords little promise at present of its being finished. Nelson's Pillar in Sackville-street, in the heart of the city, and the Wellington Testimonial, erected in Phenix Park, were at least expen- sive, and are thought worthy of the names which they com- memorate. Dublin must not be compared either with London or Edinburgh. It must be looked at by itself, and then it will afford materials of much interest and worthy of obser- vation. It is crowded with public edifices, not enumerated above, of various classes, especially of a benevolent and phi- lanthropic character. Its principal and only spacious and grand street is Sackville, in which is the postoffice, itself being the great centre of fashionable resort. Dublin lies low on the river Anna, which divides it in the middle, run- ning from west to east in a channel, which, like the Thames in London, admits shipping nearly to the heart of the town ; but unlike the Thames in one important particular, its banks through the entire city being confined and walled by the best masonry, always clean and wholesome, fit for the most agreeable promenades, and showing all along some of the best parts of the town ; whereas the Thames, in all its length through the metropolis of England, is excessively muddy and offensive at low water, and its bosom above London bridge, that is, above the harbour for shipping, al- ways covered with coal-barges and other unsightly craft, with a world of lumber ; its margins being approached by 20 230 DUBLIN. little else than coal-wagons and such like vehicles of burden, i so that no one is tempted to loiter even upon the bridges to I look upon the river, but naturally turns away his eye, and j hastens across, intent upon his errand, and desirous of find- ing more agreeable things to look at. The Thames is an unseemly vision, and the channel of all the filth of that im- mense metropolis. But the Anna of Dublin is as beautiful as her name, a little channel indeed, but well dressed and comely. And the bridges, thrown across all along from the head of Eden Quay at convenient distances, up to the King's bridge near the park, are generally fine specimens of that kind of architecture. The harbour of Dublin is not good, and is difficult of ac- cess in bad weather. To supply this defect, and to com- memorate the visit of George IV. to Ireland, a new town, called Kingstown, in honour of the royal favour vouchsafed in the decree which gave it being, has been commenced on the south of Dublin harbour, six miles from the city, and is now in a rapid state of advancement. An artificial harbour of immense expense is in building at that place by government, and nearly enclosed — enough to be in use ; and those steam-packets, which have need to ply independent of tides, are accustomed to enter and go out at Kingstown. On the south of Dublin, some three 'or four miles, running east and west, is a beautiful range of hills. Dublin and Ireland seem to be crammed with beggars. Rags, filth, and misery are more conspicuous than any thing else, at least more remarkable, as they are everywhere and at all times to be seen, and cannot fail deeply to impress the feelings of a sensitive mind. Next in rank to the army of beggars, and to keep them in order — and like the beggars to be seen in all places — are the king's troops, which have made Ireland a land of beggars, and which will keep it so while the occasion of their pres- ence, to enforce the collection of tithes, shall be considered a suitable and sufficient warrant. LONDON BEGGARS. I had not been long in London before I passed a man, and a little girl perhaps thirteen years of age, on a cold frosty morning, both standing just within Temple Bar, barefoot, in the veriest tatters of garments, and shivering as if they would fall in pieces with the cold, as well I thought they might. Their exposed, half-naked, shivering frames were the only appeal made to the passengers. They said not a word. The first sight of them was to me truly affecting. It seemed like a case of fresh and some unutterable mis- LONDON BEGGARS. 231 fortune. But I met him again and again in the same place, and always shivering, himself and the little girl, in the same manner. Not long afterward I met him early on a Sunday morning, before the citizens were moving, on his way with the girl, both still dressed in the same manner, and going to take up his position. As the winter had been a very mild one, with seldom a frost, I frequently passed him, when his shivering appeared affected and forced ; and the secret be- ing out, it would rather dispose one to laugh than excite pity. But when the morning happened to be frosty and sharply cold, I could not doubt that whatever money he got was well earned. But he was a professional beggar, and not unlikely a rich man — at least well provided for, if prov- ident. In the neighbourhood of Covent Garden I was accus- tomed for months to meet a plump-looking girl, with ruddy cheeks, about eighteen or twenty years old, who, during all this time, if we were to take her own word for it, had never eaten " a bit of bread, nor a mouthful of any thing." Her importunity excelled any beggar in London. It was next to impossible to get rid of her without giving. I presume she found the benefit of it, and was probably well off. I was also for a long time habitually molested by another mendicant girl of the same age, in the vicinity of the Bank of England. I told her one day, if she ever accosted me again, I would send a policeman after her. She probably marked my face, as she did not trouble me afterward, al- though I frequently passed her. On the south side of Waterloo Bridge is ordinarily to be found a man who has lost both his legs near his body, whose misfortune is sufficiently evident. Few will decline giving to him. He never solicits, except by a look. He dresses decently, is in excellent health, will tell his story when asked, and is said to be very rich. No doubt he is. There was a little fat but ragged girl in the same neigh- bourhood, about ten years old, whose importunity and suc- cess were quite notorious. I was passing her one day in company with two ladies. She sat upon the ground, ma- king figures in the sand with her finger, her back towards us, and singing. I said to my company — " Our little friend here is so miserable, she cannot help singing. I will en- gage, the moment she sees us, as I am in company with ladies, she will follow us till she gets a penny. For they know well that the presence of ladies is a great help to them when pleading with gentlemen." In a moment her impudent face was before me, herself hopping along under my toes, and singing a very different tune from that I had just heard. " Can you not sing that other tune ?" said I. But she stuck to the last one, which was this — " My father is dead, and my mother is sick — and I and the children have 839 LONDON BEGGARS. nothing to eat. Please, sir, give me a penny.*' And, to get rid of her, I did so. On the great high road at Islington, opposite Oanonbury Square, there used to stand an old man (now dead), as regu- lar at his post as the houses in the neighbourhood, always looking down upon the ground, resting by one hand upon a brooim the other open in the manner of asking alms, but never using his tongue — and one foot for ever rising and falling by measured intervals of time. Slipping a penny into his hand one day, 1 said— " My friend, how Orach do you get m a day here f" — -About ten pence, sir— sometimes more." More likely ten shillings. A beggar nearly blind, maimed, or badly deformed, is sure to get money. 1 know not whether any persons have ever put out their" own eyes, or manned themselves, for the prof- its o( begging. I "should think not ; but these calamities are often affected and imitated. There are numbers of these classes, whom any person resident in London will soon get to recognise as old acquaintances. To affect blindness suc- cessfully requires a good deal of practice in the mechanical effort of rolling the eyes into the head. It is always be- trayed to persons who think of it. Such impostors may often be seen poking their way along the sidewalks with a guiding-stick, holding out a hat or hand for alms. They are distinguished by the constant rolling of their eyes. Mischievous boys sometimes aim a blow at them, as a test ; but anticipating" these assaults, they seldom blink. Some of the blind beggars are led by a dog, the little animal being taught to carry a tin basin in his mouth, and to look up im- ploringly on passengers, seeming to say. " Please give my poor blind master a penny." The penny dropped" strikes the ear of the beggar, and the dog turns and offers it to his hand. Artificers (and other workmen out of employ not unfrequently form platoons, parading and marching through the streets, singing boisterously and most discordantly; and so with sailors. A sailor with a miniature ship, and a wearer with a loom, contrive to get money in the streets. I have an old acquaintance in London of years standing, of the class of beggars, who all this while has had his sta- tion in the street with an arm just broken, splintered, and slung up ; his under jaw dislocated, and held up by a clean handkerchief, marked with fresh blood, and tied over the head : is otherwise and variously wounded, all freshly done, of course, from day to day, and from year to year : is blind ; just ready to faint and die; says not a word", for he is too exhausted with pain, and agony, and loss of blood, but swings his head to and fro most piteously. as if when it falls "towards one shoulder the bearer thereof would expire before lie could bring it back again. He succeeds well. There is another, "almost bent double with pains of some LONDON BEGGARS. 233 kind ; is pale and ghastly ; cries so loud and piteously for help along the sidewalk, that his voice penetrates every ear and thrills every heart, in the remotest parts of each house which he passes. I had long supposed it a case of real distress, till I met him one evening in the twilight going home from his day's work, erect and hale, with as firm a step as any other man — the bandages of his face being thrown aside. It happened that I had met him in his begging rounds the morning of that very day. The next time 1 recognised his cry in the street, I took my hat, and overtaking him, said : — " But why don't you stand up and be strong, as I saw you the other night going home P' — " How-ow-ow P' said he, in a long, drawling, heart-pier- cing tone, affecting to try to look up, but without success ; which completely unmanned me; and notwithstanding I had full evidence of his imposture, I let him alone, and went into the house, regretting my experiment. There is another case of a well-dressed, good-looking man, always clean, who has paraded the streets of London for years with a flute, three girls (probably daughters), neatly apparelled with clean white aprons, standing in a line with him, fronting the side of the street, as he plays his flute, which is not very well done. The eldest of these girls by this time, I should think, is eighteen years, and the youngest perhaps twelve — a singular course of education, looking so well as they do. This is of all others a most successful experiment. Every one who is not familiar with the exhibition, concludes at first sight, and without doubt, " this is a case of real distress ; the man and his family have been in a better condition, but are suddenly brought to beggary;" and, instead of giving him a penny, will give a sixpence or a shilling. I presume there are few tradesmen in London, men of prosperous business, who are making money faster than he. The last time I saw him with his daughters, who have grown up since I first knew them, was in the Strand a few days before I left London, when one of the poor girls was crying. I imagin- ed — for who that sees tears does not inquire into the cause ! — that these daughters had begun to feel a little of the pride of womanhood, and to deplore the tyranny of an unnatural father, who, for the love of money, had doomed them to such an existence, and still held them in bondage. The modes of beggary in London are as diversified as the genius and faculties of the inventors. Obvious physi- cal infirmity is of course the most effectual, as none can resist its appeal. Hence deformed children are hired out to beggary, and feeble, helpless, emaciate infants exposed in the streets, and supposed to be kept feeble and emaci- ated for this purpose ! They are probably orphans, fallen into the hands of monsters. One cannot believe that a 20* 234 LONDON BEGGARS. mother could so stifle her nature as to resign her babe to such a doom. Regular schools are kept to instruct children in the arts of begging. It happened one day in the winter, as I was walking through Leadenhall-street towards Cornhill, that I espied just before me, and going the same way, a young man in a drover's frock, hanging with apparent importunity over the shoulder of a gentleman, as if he were begging. Neither his dress, nor his manner, was at all like a common beggar. The former was entire, and the latter unpractised. As I noticed, he proved unsuccessful. The gentleman repulsed him, and, as he fell back, I found him the next instant at my side, trying what impression he could make on me. I was not in the humour at that moment to be moved by an ordinary application of the kind, and was in a hurry. What was still worse for the poor fellow, I had no change less than a sovereign, or one pound gold coin. The fellow was exceedingly earnest, but awkward. He was evidently unused to the vocation. He annoyed me— pushed his face into mine — and nearly trod upon my toes, I told him I had nothing to give, but he did not seem to hear me. I rebuked him — he did not regard it, but still hung upon my shoulder, and persecuted me with his im- portunities. He was hungry, he said — he had had nothing to eat that day, and it was now drawing to night. In short, it seemed impossible to get rid of him. And yet I must, or give him a sovereign. Being somewhat vexed, I turned to push him from me, and in doing so, brushed my umbrella rather rudely over the back of his hand, grazing, and not unlikely breaking the skin, for I observed he looked upon his hand, and then put it to his mouth, as if it were hurt. But still, to my astonishment, he stuck to my side, and per- severed in his importunities. I then rebuked him most sharply — but do not remember at this time what words I employed. I can never forget, however, the manner in which he received it. He dropped from me as if he had been instantaneously struck with absolute and perfect dis- couragement, and in a tone which went through my very heart, said, " You wouldn't say so, master, if you's as hungry as 7." And these words he uttered as he fell back, and I saw him no more. Except that I had been a little vexed by what I had counted as impudence, I should probably have turned im- mediately, and contrived to get some change. And al- though thoughts are quick, and my feelings began to relent, yet before they were thoroughly subdued, we had got too far apart to meet again, except by accident. I had not gone many rods, however, before I became quite anxious, and in the same degree generous. Those last wordis, and the heart-subduing manner and tone of them, kept ringing LONDON BEGGARS. 235 in my ears : " You wouldn't say so, master, if you' s as hungry as I." I stepped into a shop, got my sovereign in change, and turned about in pursuit of the young man, but I could not find him. I went through Leadenhall, and searched the streets and alleys in the vicinity for half an hour, but did not fall upon him. The longer I looked without suc- cess, the more anxious I became. Imagination then came in with all its powers, and magnified the importance of the case a thousand fold. That it was a case of real want — of pinching hunger — I had no reason on the whole to doubt. His dress, his manner, his every thing to the last I had ob- served, convinced me it was so. And these very appear- ances were such as would ordinarily prevent his success in London, until he should become more accomplished in the art of begging. By that time what would become of him ? I began to feel a responsibility. First, I had rebuked him, which now seemed a cruelty. Next, I had hurt his hand — and that, though unintentional, troubled my con- science. And last, I had added to all the rest some sharp- ness of speech to get rid of him. I thought it not improba- ble that he had been trying and trying in vain till he came to me, and receiving such discouragement, he had gone and threw himself down in some secret place to perish; or at least, resolved no more to solicit alms of the unfeeling mer- cies of man. Every turn and every step I made in this pursuit without success, increased my anxiety. Conjec- tures and imaginings came upon me thick and tender, and when at last I was compelled to give up the search, it was, if possible, the most trying moment of all. The being I could not find, was now to me one of the most interesting objects. He who had vexed and put me out of humour a few moments before, by his importunate and annoying soli- citations, was now most earnestly desired by me to satisfy my feelings of compunction and of pity. Most reluctantly, and for the first time in my life, I turned away from a pur- suit so altogether novel. In such circumstances, I was necessarily doomed to a conflict of emotions, the remem- brance of which cannot easily be effaced. The last words of the poor young man, " You wouldn't say so, master, if you's as hungry as I," followed me at every step, and re- proached me at every corner. Other beggars appeared as I went along Cheapside ; and to make atonement I could have begged them, had it been necessary, to accept of my pennies. But I soon found that this generosity could not satisfy the petition I had rejected. Those last words still pursued me, and I could not silence them. I even started, and looked back several times, as if the voice that uttered them had overtaken me. Most glad should I have been if the momentary and fleeting illusion had proved a reality. If it were possible for me ever to feel indifferent towards 236 LONDON BEGGARS. beggars after such a challenge of my sympathies, the im- pressions of that scene might well be fixed within me for ever by another, not unlike it, which occurred a few days after. I had breakfasted at my lodgings in Regent Square, and was walking rapidly in a cold and windy morning to the Library of the Russel Institution. But as it happened, I was altogether unprovided for a beggar. I had not gone far before I was accosted by a man about forty years old, dressed in a style rather unusual for a beggar, and his man- ner equally betrayed him unaccustomed to the business. I told him — I had nothing. But being upon the windward side, he did not hear me, as afterward appeared — but fol- lowed me with his importunities. His perseverance seemed to me unreasonable, and was troublesome. I stopped sud- denly, turned upon him, and said rather sharply : — " Did I not tell you I had nothing'?" — " sir," said he, " I did not hear you — the wind blew so hard" — and instantly drew back, and left me to proceed. As I turned to look him in the face, regarding the manner of his reply, and saw him retire with such evident regret that he had given me any occasion to be displeased — with such an earnest expression, that he' would not willingly have done so ; — and observing such in- dubitable marks of honesty in him withal, such manliness in subdued forms, such indications of a soul where delicacy of feeling might be supposed to have had a permanent abode — such unwillingness to give trouble, and yet such a betray- ing of a sense of pinching want — I am sure his disappoint- ment could not have borne any proportion to my own, The result of my reasonings, however, in this case, as in the former, came too late — except to confirm my good purposes, that I would endeavour always to be prepared for such cases. A CASE IN FRANCE. I can never forget a scene which occurred one cold morning at sunrise, on my way from Calais to Paris, as the diligence stopped to change horses, and I awoke out of sleep by the call of a beggar just at my ear and by the win- dow of the coach. It was an old woman, having all the ap- pearances and every feature of what might well be imagin- ed to be a very hag. There was nothing human but bodily form. Her dress, face, and every thing were frightful. One would have written a certificate that no semblance of human kindness could ever have had place under that garb. It seemed no other than a fiend. She carried in her arms a poor wretched child, about eight years old, with no cover' ing but a tattered rag, shivering with the cold, evidently just drawn out from the straw, and thus cruelly exposed to the chills of a frosty morning. The child was made to lie upon the shoulder, so as to exhibit its face to us ; and horrible to LONDON BEGGARS. 237 behold, both his eyes were put out, one entirely dug from the sockets, and the other destroyed and protruding most frightfully from the head ! The poor thing writhed, cried, and entreated, though with an apparent consciousness of its unavailing efforts, to be taken back out of the cold. One of my companions, accustomed to travel in France, said, to my indescribable horror, that the child's eyes were put out by violence, and expressly to be exhibited for begging ! I thrust my hand in my pocket, and threw out all the copper I had, without thinking that, instead of satisfying the wretch, it would only encourage her ! I had hoped she would take the poor sufferer immediately in. Alas ! I could wish that it was possible for the impression of that scene, and the look of that woman, to be effaced from my mind ! The suggestion that the eyes of that child had been put out for that purpose, and the unavoidable convic- tion, from every look and feature, and from the behaviour of the woman, that she was even capable of enacting such a tragedy, were the blackest libel on human nature that the annals of human depravity have ever recorded ! And the torture of that child must be perpetual to answer the pur- poses of gain ! Could it be the mother ? O no ! Similar cases, though not so shocking at first sight, are very common in London ; and yet I know not whether the secret history of these daily transactions would not develop a character equally revolting. Pale, emaciated, half-expi- ring infants, sometimes one, sometimes two like twins, are exposed in a woman's arms, as she sits by the way, whose silent, imploring eloquence cannot fail to touch the heart of the passenger. In the majority of these cases, it is sup- posed that these monsters are not mothers, but creatures not deserving the name of human, who by some means have got possession of these little martyrs, and keep them half way between life and death to excite compassion and obtain money ! Alas ! that the legislation of a civilized and Chris- tian community should not interpose to prevent such a crime ! a crime of constant occurrence, and well known ! Common murder is innocence compared with it ! and all this in the midst of a city whose public monuments of charity are more numerous, and more imposing, than in any other city on earth. 18* 238 CHURCH OF ENGLAND. THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND. The King, head of the Church — Episcopal prerogative merged in the State — Wealth of the Church of England— Controverted— Difficult to be de- termined — Modes of estimating it — The probable amount — Compared with the revenues of States — Comparative expenses of Christianity in different nations — Revenues of the Roman Catholic Church— Ecclesi- astical statistics and revenues of Spain — Ditto of France — The Eng- lish Church aggrandized by a separation from Rome— Distribution of the revenues of the English Church — Church patronage — Enormous wealth of the English and Irish Bishops — Wealth of the Irish Church — Compared with others— The Church and the Army together— Tithe lit- igations — Lord John Russell's opinion of the Church of Ireland — Tithe slaughter of Rathcormac — The sick widow oppressed — The rector im- posing tithes on a dissenting clergyman's garden — Burden of tithes on the poor — A case of tithe augmentation near London — Sale of church liv- ings by public auction — A remarkable advertisement — The last wish of a dying woman — Injustice to Dissenters — A redeeming feature. I speak of the Church of England simply as an estab- lishment in connexion with the state. As such it is a polit- ical institution. The king is its head. The bishops, who supervise the church, are nominated, or presented, to their sees by the king, are supervised by the king, and are re- quired to do homage to the king in acknowledgment of his supremacy, before they can be installed, or before the act of their " enthronization ;" for the bishops are enthroned. In every cathedral church is a bishop's throne, appropriated to the induction of the king's nominee into the powers and prerogatives of the vacant see. There is, indeed, a nominal and dormant independence of the church, supposed to be vested in the convention of bishops and clergy ; but it is not used. So far from assert- ing independence, this body do not even meet, unless it be for some idle ceremonies in recognition of a new parliament — a somewhat ridiculous pretension. The powers of this body have been absorbed by the crown, or rather, perhaps, conceded to it, as a convenient way of wresting the inde- pendence of the church from the hands of a general Epis- copal College, and lodging its powers in the hands of the archbishops, and such of the bishops as may be agreeable to the primates and the king in the control of church mat- ters — the king being always head. As a matter of fact, therefore, there is no existing Episcopal convention of the Church of England in the use of its appropriate powers. For the privilege of participating in the prerogatives of state legislation and administration, these Episcopal prerogatives have been resigned, or permitted to lie dormant. The wealth of the English Church is at this moment a WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. 239 subject of controversy, and in progress of development. Since the jealousy of the public on this question has been awakened, and an attitude of inquiry assumed in relation to this, as to other abuses, supposed to demand being checked, the interested party have very naturally studied conceal- ment; and having all this wealth and its management in their own hands, the public as yet are obliged to depend mainly on their reports. Dr. Watson, Bishop of Llandaff, and other writers inter- ested in the concealment of facts that should develop the wealth of the English Church, had maintained, that its an- nual revenue, including Wales, did not exceed £l,500,000 r or $7,200,000. It appears, however, by the report of a commission on church revenues, appointed by the king, which was made in June, 1834, that the annual revenues of the established Church of England and Wales had risen from the statement of the Bishop of Llandaflf and others, to the gross sum of £3,784,985, or $18,167,928 ! And this, it maybe observed, is still an ex parte statement ; that is, it is made by a commission, all of whom are interested in concealment, and who would naturally disclose only what is unavoidable. The report, by their own confession, is imperfect ; and it is certain, that the number of heavy items of income to the church of classes of funds the sole use of which is realized by the clergy, and of direct and indirect imposts on the public for the mainte- nance and benefit of the church, is greater than the number imbodied in the report. Nor is it certain by what rule or rules the estimate comprehended in this report is made. We are informed, in one of the items of the report of this commission, that the gross annual revenue of the several Archiepiscopal and Episcopal Sees in England and Wales, is .£180,462. It was stated by the London Times last spring, that the regular annual income of the Archbishop of York is £20,000, independent of the fines imposed on the renewal of leases, which occasionally happen to be equal to £100,000 in a single windfall, as it is called ; and that the Bishop of London's income will soon be £60,000. J. Marshall, in his Analysis, &c, 1835, the latest and best authority, says r that the single Parish of Paddington, in the See of London, was estimated to yield, in 1834, from £12,000 to £15,000, at the disposal of the bishop, for ground-rents of a part of the glebe. If there be any good ground for these statements, it is evident that the income of these two prelates alone can hardly be much short of the sums assigned in this report to all the prelates of England and Wales ; at least y that it will by-and-by be so. The See of Durham is known to be im- mensely rich. I have heard its annual income quoted by credible authority at £30,000. There are rules of estimating the revenue of the English 240 WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. Church by which the public are easily kept in the dark. If, for example, the fines alone were left out of this reckoning, which is probably the fact, inasmuch as they do not belong to the regular annual income, the difference would be im- mense. I know not that the Liber Regalis, which contains the valuation of church property, as it stood nearly three cen- turies ago, has been taken as the rule of determining the revenue in this report ; probably not ; but heretofore it has been universally assumed in such cases ; and for other pur- poses it is still applied. It is but very recently, when a statement was before the public, that the average annual income of 17 livings, in the gift of the late speaker of the House of Commons and four others, is .£11,170, one tenth of which, that is, £1,170, by the statute of Queen Anne, is due for the augmentation of poor benefices of the real tenths ; but that law, under the val- uation of the Liber Regalis, is evaded by the payment of £23 ! That is, the annual income of these 17 benefices, instead of being reported by the incumbents for what it ac- tually is, viz. £1 1,170, is reported according to the valuation of the Liber Regalis, £231, so that the poor benefices, entitled to the annual augmentation of £1,170 from this source, are actually augmented only £23; and the other fraction of £1,147, goes by this rule into the pockets of the fortunate incumbents ! Moreover: There are several sources of wealth and income to the Church of England not comprehended in this report. Having presented the ex parte statements of the royal commission, which exclude so many items, and which are so doubtful as to the rules employed to obtain the result, let us now look at the statements of the Reformers, which are commonly supposed to be near the truth : — From Church tithe, 6,884,800/. Income of bishopricks, 207,115 Estates of the Deans and Chapters, . . . 494,000 Glebes and parsonage-houses, .... 250,000 Perpetual curacies, 75,000 Benefices not parochial, 32,450 Fees for burials, marriages, christenings, &c, . 500,000 Oblations, offerings, and compositions, for the four Great Festivals, 80,000 College and school foundations, .... 682,150 Lectureships in towns and populous places, . . 60,000 Chaplainships and offices in public institutions, . 10,000 New churches and chapels, .... 94,050 Total revenues of the established Clergy 9,459,565/. In Federal money this would be $45,405,912. This sum total is realized — monopolized rather — by 7,694 individuals — prelates, dignitaries, and incumbents — a large part of whom are pluralists, non-residents, and sinecurists. If tins. WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. 241 sum were divided equally among them all, it would average to each £1,228, or $6,182. According to the report of the royal commission of 1834, £424,796 of this £9,459,565 is dispensed by the incumbents for the compensation of 5,282 curates, who supply their places, averaging for each curate £80, or $384 — that is, while they who do the work receive on an average $384 each, they who do not work get an av- erage of $5,798. Of these poor curates 294 receive less than £50 a year — some down as low as £20. It should be understood, that a part of those who get the money, and have the use of it, are at the posts of their duty, although it must be allowed they are tolerably well paid for it. The average annual revenue of the kingdom of Prussia is 189,761,900 francs, or £7,590,432. About £2,000,000 of this is appropriated to the sinking fund debt, leaving a bal- ance of £5,590,432 for the ordinary purposes of government. It will appear, therefore, if we split the difference between the report of the revenues of the Church of England, as made by the royal commission in 1834, and the averments of Reformers, we shall have £6,622,275 for the expenses of the Church of England, which is £1,031,843 in excess of the annual cost of the kingdom of Prussia for all the purposes of government, the public debt excepted ! Setting aside the interest of the national debt of Great Britain (which, by-the-by, is rather a weighty matter), the official estimates for all other purposes of government for 1835 were as follows : — The Army - - £6,497,903 Navy 4,578,009 Ordnance - 1,166,914 Miscellaneous - 2,228,387 Total, £14,471,213- A little more than half in excess of the cost of the church, taking the medium of the two extreme estimates as above. If we add the church rates, somewhat more than half a million, which item has not been noticed, the cost of litiga- tion between the people and the clergy, and the building of new churches out of the appropriation by parliament of £1,500,000 for this purpose, it will raise the sum to nearly or quite half of the expenses of government. The average annual cost of the government of the Uni- ted States during Monroe's administration was less than $10,000,000; during John Quincy Adams's it was a little more than $12,000,000 ; during the first four years of Jack- son's it was over $16,000,000. But the annual expense of the English Church at the above medium rate is $31,786,920, considerably more than double the average annual cost of the United States government for the periods above named. L 2i 212 WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. And yet the ministers of the British crown say it ought not to be retrenched. They are men of liberal views. The following is a curious statement of the decrease of fidelity in the ministry, with the increase of compensa- tion : — " The small diocess of Ely, in 1813, compared with the year 1728. 45 In 1813 On the same 140 livings. Resident Incumbents. Seventeen who reside near and perform the duty. Thirty-five curates, some of whom reside 8, 10, or 12 miles off. The population is 82,176 souls. The service is performed about 185 times every Sunday. And their income is 161,474/. per annum. In 1728. On 140 livings, 70 Resident In- cumbents. Thirty-four who reside near and perform the duty. Thirty-one curates who reside in the parish or near it. The population was 56,944 souls. The duty was performed 261 times every Sunday. And their income 12,719/. per annum. Duty neglected in proportion as it became more important and bet- ter paid. The population increased nearly one half, and the number of times service is performed diminished one third. The revenues increased almost five fold, and the number of resident incumbents de- creased one third." How this applies to the present state of things, and to England generally, I am unable to say. The following comparative estimate of the expense of supporting Christianity in different parts of the world is curious, and may perhaps be instructive. Without pre- tending to vouch for its correctness, I introduce it here, as I found it published by no mean authority in Great Brit- Comparalive Expense of the Church of England and of Christianity in all other Countries of the World. Expendi- Total amount Number of ture on the of Expendi- Name of the Nations. Hearers. clergy per ture in each million of Nation. hearers. France - 32,000,000 £62,000 £2,000,000 United States - 9,600,000 60,000 576,000 Spain - 11,000,000 100,000 1,100,000 Portugal - - - - 3,000,000 100,000 300,000 Hungary, Catholics - 4,000,000 80,000 320,000 Calvinists - 1,050,000 60,000 63,000 Lutherans - 650,000 40,000 26,000 Italy - 19,391,000 40,000 776,000 Austria - 18,918,000 50,000 950,000 Switzerland ... 1,720,000 50,000 87,000 Prussia .... 10,536,000 50,000 527,000 German small States 12,763,000 60,000 765,000 Holland - , - 2,000,000 80,000 160,000 WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. 243 Netherlands -■■■. - 6,000,000 42,000 252,000 Denmark - 1,700,000 70,000 119,000 Sweden - 3,400,000 70,000 238,000 Russia, Greek Church 34,000,000 15,000 510,000 Catholics and Lutherans 8,000,000 50,000 400,000 Christians in Turkey - 6,000,000 30,000 180,000 South America - 15,000,000 30,000 450,000 Christians dispersed elsewhere 3,000,000 50,000 150,000 203,728,000 9,949,000 England and Wales - - 6,500,000 1,455,316 9,459,565 " Hence, it appears, the administration of Church of Englandism to 6,500,000 hearers costs nearly as much as the administration of all other forms of Christianity in all parts of the world to 203,728,000 hearers. " Of the different forms of Christianity the Romish is the most ex- pensive. A Roman Catholic clergyman cannot go through the duties of his ministry well for more than 1,000 persons. The masses, auric- ular confessions, attendance on the sick, and other observances, make his duty more laborious than those of a Protestant clergyman with double the number of hearers : add to which, the cost of wax lights, scenery, and other accompaniments peculiar to Catholic worship. Notwithstanding these extra outgoings, we find that the administra- tion of the Episcopalian Reformed Religion in England to one million of hearers, costs the people fourteen times more than the administra- tion of Popery to the same number of hearers in Spain or Portugal, and more than forty times the administration of Popery in France. "Dissenters, like churchmen, are compelled to contribute to the support of the ministers and churches of the established religion, be- sides having to maintain, by voluntary payments, their own pastors and places of worship. In France all religions are maintained by the state, without distinction ; all persons have access to the universities and public schools : in England, only one religion is maintained by the state ; and all dissenters from the national worship are excluded from the universities and colleges, and from the masterships of grammar- schools, and other public foundations, endowed by our common ances- tors, for the general promotion of piety and learning. " The monstrous excess in the pay of the English clergy appears from comparing their average income with the incomes of the clergy of equal rank in other countries. In France an archbishop has only 1,041/. a year; a bishop 625/.; an archdeacon 166/. ; a canon or pre- bend 100/. ; a rector 48/. ; a curate 31/. In Rome the income of a cardinal, the next in dignity to the pope, is 400^. to 500/. a year ; of a rector of a parish 30/. ; of a curate 17/. : compare these stipends with the enormous incomes of the English clergy ; and, making allowance for ditference in the expense of living in the respective countries, the disparity in the ecclesiastical remuneration appears incredible." It is evident, that the author of the preceding table of comparison leaves entirely out of view the immense estates of the Church of Rome, and the ten thousand devices em- ployed by her ministers in raising money, bringing into his account only the direct imposts of that church, which are a mere and trilling fraction of the sources of her income. L 2 244 WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. In a work at the British Museum, published in 1717, under the title of " A Summary of all the Religious Houses in England and Wales, with their titles and valuations at the time of their dissolution" — the number of such houses of all classes at that time — in the reign of Henry VIII. — is stated at 1,041 ; the aggregate annual valuation of them at the same period was £273,106, reckoning only the rent of the manors and produce of the demesnes, and excluding fines, heriots, renewals, dividends, &c. This sum would be represented in 1717, a little less than 200 years after- ward, as stated by the same authority, by £3,277,282, as a consequence of the decrease in the value of money. As- suming that the decrease has been in the same proportion for the last century, it would now be represented by about £20,000,000, or $96,000,000. The proportion of the land of the country, held by the church at that time, and of which the monks were lords, is stated at fourteen parts in twenty. In 1815 the annual assess- ed value of the real property of England and Wales, as stated in parliamentary records, was £51,874,490. Fourteen twen- tieths of this sum, being the ancient proportion of the church revenue, would be about £34,500,000, or $166,987,168 ! a sum three fourths as large as the present annual revenue of the government of Great Britain, from all its sources and for all its purposes ! It should be borne in mind that the assessed value of property in England is many times (I know not how many) below its real value. Besides this amazing absorption of the public wealth by the regular orders of the priesthood, there were four orders of mendicant monks, who not only lived on the residue of the property of the country, but ab- stracted large sums for their pious purposes. It is stated by the same authority that the Grand Duke of Tuscany — which is a district of Italy 150 miles by 100 — once ascertained and published, that the Church of Rome absorbed seventeen parts in twenty of the revenue of the land within his jurisdiction. These two items may go to show the expense of an established religion to the public two and three centuries ago, as sustained in Roman Catholic countries. It might be more or less in different parts of Europe. If we take the fourteen twentieths as an average, it will be no tri- fling matter to think of in these days, as a condition of so- ciety to which civilized nations have long submitted. Italy, Spain, and Portugal are not much better off even now — ex- cept as the latter, since the expulsion of Don Miguel, has taken some thorough-going measures of relief. In France, under the old regime, in 1789, the annual revenues of the church were 405,000,000 of francs, or £16,200,000, or $77,760,000. Now it is 32,200,000 francs, or £1,288,000, or $6,182,400, and divided among Catholics and Protestants according to their numbers. WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. 245 It is calculated that one fourth of the soil of Spain is still in possession of the church. According to a very moderate estimate, much probably below the mark, it is said that this ecclesiastical portion yields a rent, or at least would yield a rent, of .£5,000,000, or would bring, if sold at 25 years' pur- chase, £125,000,000. This is independent of the value of the buildings, of the live stock, and of the rent of houses in cities, which belong to the beneficiaries of cathedrals, to the higher clergy, or to monasteries, and which may probably amount to £40,000,000 more. In this estimate we speak only of the real property of the monastic orders, and of the high secular clergy with its appertenances, and make no ref- erence to the tithes of the secular clergy, to the income ari- sing from masses and offerings, or to the other more spiritual sources of their income. These would be more than neces- sary to support in affluence the clergy of the most extensive and wealthy countries of Europe, exceeding by four or five times the sum allotted to the French church, which extends its spiritual sceptre over more than double the population of Spain. Though by the very oppressions of the church it- self — though by the enormous sweep of the domainial and ec- clesiastical property, which, according to M. Canga Arguel- les, has grasped one third of the lands of the kingdom, the tithes from the remainder have been calculated at the gross amount of £7,500,000. The sum which the church property of Spain would yield, after providing for the decent maintenance of the clergy, was calculated by the cortes of 1822, when joined to cer- tain royal domains lying useless to the state, to amount to .£92,000,000, or $441,600,000. The present entire annual revenue of the Spanish church is £10,514,000 ; that of the state, as lately reported by Count de Toreno, is about £5,000,000, and liable to a deficit of «£3,000,000 by the plunder practised in the modes of collec- tion, &c. This estimate of the annual revenues of the Spanish church is made, first, from the rents, &c, as ascer- tained from the cadastral bases of the 22 generalities of Cas- tile and Arragon ; and next, from the tithes and casual in- comes, as reported by the minister, Martin de Garay, and other economists. According to the census of 1826, the ecclesiastics of Spain were as follows : — 61 archbishops and bishops; 2,363 canons; 1,869 prebends; 16,481 parish priests; 17,411 su- perior incumbents ; 9,411 inferior incumbents; 3,497 postu- lans; 27 candidates for livings; 11,300 hermits; 61,327 monks; 31,400 nuns; 4.928 curates; 15,015 sacristans; 3,225 servi- tors of churches ; 20,346 lay members, performing divers re- ligious functions; and 7,393 secular ladies; — making a total of 206,002 ; or 160,043 ecclesiastics properly, and 45,979 in- cumbents of other descriptions. The ecclesiastics of 246 WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. France, before the downfall of the Bourbons, were more than 400,000; they are now reduced to 40,000. The present population of Spain is 14,186,000 ; of France, less than 33,000,000. The process of converting the national religion of Great Britain from Popery to Protestantism, which was principally apolitical measure, made it quite convenient for the new and self-appointed head of the church to appropriate to himself and to his dependants large proportions of those im- mense endowments of a church, which was dissolved by his authority. Of course the Church of England has since been less wealthy ; but what she lost in this particular, she gain- ed in dignity and domestic influence. The Church of Eng- land from that time became a Dissenter, under the name of Protestantism. She set up for Independence, and by the help of her princes and heads, with some little exceptions, has maintained it, so far as her relation to the pope is con- cerned. The separation has greatly magnified her impor- tance. Before, she was a distant, provincial department of a church universal and apostolic ; her priests were all sub- servient, and the prince at the head of the British govern- ment was an abject. The new system of Independence raised the priesthood at once to a dignity and importance which they had never enjoyed before. If it could be main- tained, both the king and the church had every reason to be satisfied : the king, not only because he could then be a king, but because he was greatly enriched by the spoils of the church; and the church, now a Dissenter and Inde- pendent, because she could organize a domestic system of hierarchy, more splendid and more magnificent, than any thing she could enjoy as a mere dependant branch of a head, whose glory emanated from the triple crown at Rome. England, the first of nations, rising in respectability and ex- tending her influence, could better satisfy the aspirations of " the Primate of all England," and of his dependant clergy, than could the waning power of the Pope. It was better to sacrifice a moiety of the wealth, and receive in compen- sation the privileges, dignities, and power of an independent condition — independent so far as respected a foreign spirit- ual supremacy. None can doubt that the domestic influence and dignities of the Church of England have been greatly enhanced by a separation from the Church of Rome. The religious houses and the whole system of popery had fallen into great disrespect. The change of system was in all re- spects more agreeable to the parties in England. The clergy might marry ; they might have all reasonable indulgences without tax or penance. The archbishops and bishops could be princes, and have been so ever since. Lambeth Palace, for every thing that flesh could desire, is as good as WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. 247 the Vatican ; the Episcopal sees of England and Ireland are better than the rule of the smaller states of Europe, because they have all the wealth that could be wished, under the shadow and protection of a throne, without a throne's re- sponsibility ; and the numerous rich livings still left are enough to satisfy a love of ease and independence for scores and hundreds of high and influential candidates. It is proper, however, here to observe, that Episcopacy, whether it be an Apostolic institution or not — whatever be its merits in the abstract, as an ecclesiastical polity and government — has no responsibility in the character, opera- tion, and results of the Church of England, as an establish- ment set up by the state. It was the monarchy of England that made it in this particular a political institution ; and it is the monarchy and aristocracy which have used it as such. It is the misfortune of the Episcopacy of Great Britain, and not its fault, that it has been allied to the state. The following is a statement showing the mode in which the revenues of the Church of England, supposed to amount to .£9,459,565, are distributed among the different orders of clergy. It has been furnished by the Reformers :— Class. Episcopal Clergy, Dignita- ries, &c. Parochial Clergy. 2 Archbishops 24 Bishops - 28 Deans - 61 Archdeacons 26 Chancellors 514 Prebendaries and Canons j 330 Precentors, Succentors, Vi- | cars-General, Minor Can- ons, Priest- Vicars, Vicars Choral, and other Mem- bers of Cathedral and Col- ^ legiate churches - ( 2886 Aristocratic Pluralists, \ mostly non-resident, and | holding two, three, four or j more livings, in all 7,037 )» livings, averaging each, f tithes, glebes, church- | fees, &c. 764J. - -J 4305 Incumbents, holding one > living each, and about I one half resident on their | benefices - - -J Total Average in- come of each Total individual. incomes. £26,465 £52,930 10,174 244,185 1,580 44,250 739 45,126 494 12,844 545 280,130 338 111,650 1,863 5,379,430 764 3,289,020 £9,459,565 Of course the poor curates — who for the most part con- 1248 WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. stitute the working clergy, in number 5,282, and supply the places of the aristocratic and other incumbents, who can well afford, and who are disposed to be absent from their livings — are paid the aggregate and annual sum of .£424,996, out of the £9,459,565. The people of England belonging to the established Church have not the power of choosing their own ministers, but with the exception of perhaps 1,000 congregations, they are appointed as follows : — By the King or his proxies, . . . 1,048 Archbishops and Bishops, . . 1,301 Deans and Chapters, . . . 989 University of Oxford, , . . 314 University of Cambridge, . . 283 Collegiate establishments, . . 146 Private individuals, . . . 6,619 10,700 There are 649 other chapels and churches, not parochial, making the total number of livings 11,349. Total number of preferments, including those not appertaining to churches and chapels, is 12,327. These do not include some two or three hundred churches, erected under the church building acts. It may also vary slightly from some other statements that are published, as there are changes occasionally occur- ring. But it cannot differ materially from the present state of things. About 5,000 of the livings of the church of England and Wales are in the gift of the aristocracy, and are of course conferred upon their younger sons and family connexions, whatever may be their character. The aristoc- racy depend upon the church, the army, and the navy, to provide, first, for their younger sons, and sons-in-law ; and next, for collateral connexions, and such as are in favour with them. Church livings are so many pieces of property, not at the disposal of the respective congregations, but to be conferred by those who have the gift of them, on their friends. In this way, two, three, four, or more rich livings are often bestowed on a single individual. For example, the eldest son of the Bishop of Ely has held six preferments at the same time, from his father's hand, worth £4,500, or $21,600 annually. His son-in-law has been presented with three by the bishop, worth £3,700, or $17,760. Another son has held six at the same time by his father's gift— worth £4,000, or $19,200. The total annual income of the family from these sources, including the bishop's, is quoted at £39,742, or $191,721 ; and this appropriated by a father, his two sons, and a son-in-law. The Beresford family, in all its branches, at the head of which is the Archbishop of Armagh, in Ireland, is said to realize annually from ih& WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. 249 church, army, and navy by patronage, principally from the church, £100,000, or $480,000. Warburton, Bishop of Cloyne, a poor man at the beginning, left from his acquisi- tions out of his diocess £120,000, or $576,000, to his chil- dren. It was stated by Sir John Newport in parliament, that three Irish bishops within fifteen years had left to their families £700,000, or $3,360,000* average to each $1,120,000. A former bishop of Cloyne, as I have seen stated, went to Ireland without a shilling, and after eight years died worth more than £300,000, or $1,440,000. The late Earl of Bristol, Bishop of Derry, residing twenty years abroad, without being nice in the choice of his company, and received in the meantime from his diocess revenues to the amount of £240,000, or $1,152,000. More than one third of the incumbents of the Irish Protestant Church are non- residents, some of whom with incomes from £5,000 to £10,000, abstracted from the parishes, are living on the con- tinent with their families. The Archbishop of Cashel has livings in his gift worth £35,000, or $168,000 annually ; those in the gift of the Bish- op of Cloyne are quoted at £50,000, or $240,000, as their annual value ; ditto of the Bishop of Cork, at £30,000, or $144,000; ditto of the Bishop of Femes, at £30,000, or $144,000. One might make many friends comfortable with endowments of this description at his disposal. The following is a summary of ecclesiastical statistics of Ireland, reported to Parliament in 1835, by the Commis- sioners for public Instruction. population, 1834. Roman Catholics, 6,427,712 Members of the Established Church, .... 852,064 Presbyterians, 642,236 Other Protestant Dissenters, 21,808 Total, 7,943,940 PROPORTION PER CENTUM TO THE TOTAL POPULATION. Members of the Established Church, 10,726 Roman Catholics, . 80,913 Presbyterians, f . . . . 886 Other Protestant Dissenters, 275 NUiMBER OF PLACES OP WORSHIP. Established Church.— Churches, 1,338 Other places of Worship, 196 Roman Catholic, 2,105 Presbyterian, 452 Other Protestant Dissenters, 403 Total, 4,494 L3 250 WEALTH OP THE CHURCH. PARISHES OR DISTRICT8 With Provision for the Cure of Souls, .... 2,348 Without Provision for the Cure, of Souls, . . . .57 Total, 2,405 Number of members of the Established Church, in 1834, in Parishes or Districts without Provision for the Cure of Souls, 3,030 NUMBER OF BENEFICES Consisting of single parishes, 907 Being unions of two or more parishes, .... 478 Total, 1,385 To provide a religion for 852,064 souls belonging to the es- tablished Church, Ireland is divided into 2,450 parishes, with only 1,140 churches. Out of 18,000,000 English acres, which comprehends the whole of Ireland, 990,000, more than a twentieth, are the property of the established church, and the remainder subject to tithes and other imposts for the maintenance of that church. The gross annual amount ex- acted from Ireland in all ways for this purpose, as stated in official returns, is £937,456— $4,599,788. But these official reports, being always made by the party interested in con- cealment, are not fully confided in. The other party make the estimate £1,426,687. Split the difference, as in the es- timates for the English Church, and we shall have £1,182,021, or $5,673,700. This capital prize is drawn — in rather un- equal portions, indeed — among four archbishops, eighteen* suffragan bishops, and 1,270 clerical incumbents, a large fraction of whom are non-residents. The popular party, whom their opponents call radicals, taking their own esti- mate as a basis, divide it as follows : — Among the arch- bishops and bishops, on an average of £10,000 each, is £220,000 ; deans and chapters, £250,000 ; the other clergy, £956,587; total, £1,426,587. Assuming the medium of £1,182,021 as a provision for the cure of 852,064 souls, and comparing it with the present economy for the church establishment of France, it stands thus : — For the cure of 33,000,000 of souls, France pays 32,200,000 francs, or £1,288,000, or $6,182,400, a little less than one franc, or about eightpence sterling per head. The result is, that the support of religion for 852,064 souls in Ire- land costs a small fraction less than for 33,000,000 in France ! But this is not all : To maintain this system in Ireland it is necessary to lodge an army there to keep the peace, which these impositions disturb, and to enforce the collec- * The sees of Ireland have lately been consolidated from 22 into 12 ; not, however, to disturb the present incumbents. WEALTH OF THE CHURCH. 251 tion of the various church dues. The expense of the army in Ireland from April 1st, 1833, to March 31st, 1834, was £1,025,621 ; and of the police a little less than £300,000; total, say, £1,300,000. Again : The lawsuits between the people and the clergy, on account of tithes, &c, from 1817 to 1821, were 100,000 cases ! We can only say of this item, from the known ex- pense of law in Great Britain, that it could not be trifling. On an average of £5 to a case, it would be £500,000, or £125,000 a year. Whether this be too much or too little, I know not. Here, then, is a religion for 852,064 souls, which annually costs, directly and indirectly, the gross sum of £2,607,021, or $12,513,700, exacted principally from apopu- lation of 7,090,876, who are in conscience opposed to this reli- gion, by the constant presence of an overwhelming physical force, without which not a penny could be collected; and by the demonstration of which, with the occasional application of powder and ball, the public mind is kept in a perpetual state of most unkindly irritation ! But for the present enlightened state of the public mind, which for the most part can distin- guish between pure Christianity and such a system, it would be a sore scandal, that what is called Christianity should, for the time of its continuance, bar all hope of the civiliza- tion of a race, sufficiently barbarous without these irritating causes. To show that this imputation is sustained by high authority — authority connected by birth and in affection with the Church of England — I would offer the following remarks of the discreet Lord John Russell, in a late address to his constituents of Devonshire, April, 1835 : — 11 With regard to the Church of Ireland, the case is widely different. I refused to assist in making perpetual parochial sinecures where the clergyman and his clerk, week after week and year after year, formed the whole of the congregation. Besides the general injustice and glaring absurdity of this system, it is easily proved that the maintenance of these ecclesiastical sinecures irritates the people of Ireland, weakens the reputation of the British crown abroad, and injures the Protestant religion which it is intended to promote. " Let us add to these evils, that the present system cannot be main- tained except by a large military force, which in case of foreign war must of necessity be greatly augmented. Burdensome to England, sanguinary in Ireland, disturbing the peace of society, and injurious to the religion it professes to serve — no eloquence can recommend, and no talents can long maintain so vicious a policy." On another occasion, Lord John Russell said ; — " In the greater part of the south of Ireland, the clergy enjoy an income from tithe, but are as totally unconnected with the religious instruction of the great mass of the people as any one thing can pos- sibly be from another. In some parishes, containing from 2,000 to 3,000 inhabitants, there is no member of the established church ; ia 252 SLAUGHTER OF RATHCORMAC. others, perhaps one Protestant gentleman, with his wife and one or two of his servants, attends the established church. If that were all, I should only say, it was an anomaly ; but what I feel is, that in order to support the system, it is necessary also to support troops of police and cavalry, and that the maintenance of the system is attended by the shedding of the blood of the king's subjects.'''' Ill December, 1834, the Rev. William Ryder, archdeacon, incumbent of the parish of Gurtroe, near Rathcormac, Cork county, Ireland, having obtained a military force from the new government (Peel's administration), proceeded to dis train for £5 of tithe dues against the widow Ryan. Being himself a magistrate, he headed the troops, and as appeared from the testimony of witnesses afterward examined, when pressed on all sides by the exasperated populace, he gave orders, first, to draw sivords ; next, to load ; and at last, to J%re ! Nine persons were killed, and as many wounded ! The population of the parish is 2,900 Papists, and twenty- nine Protestants, thirteen of the last being members of the archdeacon's family. The tithes of the parish are £ 1,500, or $7,200. Setting aside the thirteen members of the arch- deacon's family, it would appear that more persons were actually shot down by him than there were members of his congregation ; and nine were sent into eternity ! it being- more than half the number of his congregation, which, aside from his own family, amounted only to sixteen. As was very proper, the archdeacon and the other magistrates who assisted him were endicted before a grand jury for wilful murder. They will doubtless be acquitted, as the murder was legalized. The following are brief extracts from an Irish paper, giv- ing an account of the examination before the grand jury : — " ' Widow Ryan,' said Archdeacon Ryder, riding up to her door after having killed her son, ' you would not come to me till I showed you the law was too strong for you.' I then told him I would pay him his tithes to save my children's lives." — Widow Ryan's evidence. " Poor woman ! she did not know, when she promised to pay the tithes, that her son was dead ! ' When I first heard the sogers were coming,' said the twice widowed mother, ' I was knitting a stocking for Dick. May the great God forgive him all his sins, and rest his soul in peace this day !' Dick is the one that was killed. " ' And I went to look at the dead bodies,' says the widow, ' to see, would I know their faces. I turned two of them on their backs, and they were strangers. I then looked down to the end of my barn, and I saw my fine boy looking at me with the whites of his eyes and his mouth open ! I staggered down to him, and I caught his pulse : and he had no pulse. I put my mouth to his mouth, and he had no breath. I then began to shut his eyes and to close his lips, and Dick Willis cried out — Don't stop his breath. O Dick ! says I, he has no breath to stop, and no heart to beat. With that I caught his head, and my daughter caught his feet, and we stretched him in his blood where he SLAUGHTER OF RATHCORMAC. 253 lay ; and though my eyeballs are like two burning coals, I cried no tear since.' Thus the mother of Dick Ryan. " Another widow, Mrs. Collins, had two sons shot dead on this occa- sion, one thirty-two, and the other thirty years of age. When their lifeless, but still bleeding bodies, were brought into her house, she threw herself on them and exclaimed in Irish, ' They are not dead, for they are giving their blood.' But finding them cold and breath- less, the terrible truth could no longer be concealed, and she became delirious, and was in this state of mind torn from the corpses of her sons by her friends, but not till she had actually tasted their blood ! She remained in a state bordering on insanity for some days, and even still forgets that her sons are dead. " On marching down the Middleton road, about half a quarter of a mile from the Widow Ryan's premises, the reverend tithe-owner, Archdeacon Ryder, ordered the troops to halt, and said to his lay- brother, ' that no good would result from the proceeding if they did not return and bring away the corn' — (! !) for which purpose they had their own horses and carts with the party ; but this course was firmly protested against by the third magistrate, and reluctantly given up. " His reverence also said to the Widow Ryan, when she consented to pay her tithes, before she knew of her son's death, ■ Will you do it now!' — ' No,'- said the widow, ' for I have not the money in the house ; but I will pay you some day in the week.' With that he put his hand in his pocket for a Bible to swear her," " A widow sat by her fire alone, With her head upon her knee, And she made a sad and a bitter moan, aying, ' Wo, ah ! wo is me ! " ' The Orangemen came, and the grass grew red ; They came with sword and gun. Their bullets sped, and my son is dead, My son, my only son !' " The widow knelt, and she muttered low, ' On the men of Rathcormac wo ! wo ! wo !' The curse of the widow who shall bear ! God of the childless hear her prayer !" From the Limerick Star : — " The dreadful condition of the parish of St. Mary in this city ia already known to the public. Of this parish the very Rev. Dean Preston is the Protestant rector, and the Rev. Mr. H. Gubbins acts in the capacity of his curate. The collection of tithes is left in Mr. Gubbins's hands. A poor widow, named Eliza Mullins, now living at Newgate Lane, in the parish above named, was lately lying on a sick bed in her room, to which she had been confined by ill health for the last three months. This woman, we understand, had once been in more comfortable circumstances ; but subsequently became so much reduced in means, that on the death of her mother, which took place about two months since, she was unable to procure a coffin for her parent until a subscription was raised for the purpose. On the morn- ing before mentioned she was preparing to rise, and sit a little while before her fire, when a bailiff entered and demanded three shillings as 22 254 PETITION OF THE ARMY. the amount of Mr. Gubbins's poundage (rate on the pound as voted by the parish). The poor woman told him she had not the money ; and that she had never paid more than two shillings poundage to Mr. Gubbins. The bailiff said one shilling was due since the year previous, but this she declared she had already paid to a former collector. However, on his persisting, she offered him one shilling, which she said was all she then had in the house, and promised to give him the remainder on the day following. Her entreaties, however, were with- out effect ; the man left her, and in a short time returned with two other bailiffs, in a state of intoxication. In lieu of Mr. Gubbins's three shillings, they seized one kettle, one washing-tub, one large tray, one umbrella, two old quilts, one gown, one petticoat, and went their way. She rose from her sick bed, dressed herself in her few remaining gar- ments, which Mr. Gubbins's faithful emissaries had left her, and pro- ceeded to the Exchange. Here she deemed herself fortunate in find- ing Mr. Gubbins himself ; to him she made the same representation and the same request, as she had done already to his bailiff; and we regret for his sake, for hers, and for humanity, to add, with the same success. The poor woman then went to her house, and spent the whole of that night lying on the hearthstone by the fireside, for the want of the necessary clothing on her bed. On the following morning she sent for her own clergyman to administer to her the last rites of her religion. We have some satisfaction in adding, that by the charity of a few individuals, who heard of the circumstances, the poor woman's kettle, quilts, &c, were restored, and that Mr. Gubbins got his three shillings, and one shilling costs. What effect the whole transaction may have upon the mind and body of the infirm, unhappy creature, re- mains to be seen. She lies at present, we understand, in a very dan- gerous state." ****** * * * " The following letter has been left at our office : — " To the Editor of the Star and Evening Post. " Sir, — Will you return thanks for me, if you please, to Thomas Devitt, Esq., for the one pound which he sent me, to release my kettle, and old tray, and parasol, and tub, and also my petticoat, and two old quilts, which were pounded in the Cathedral, for minister's money, due to Dean Preston and the Rev. Jno. Gubbins. I also thank Mr. Geary, who collected for me a few shillings, only for which I would die of cold, having been obliged, after a sickness of three months, on Friday night, when my bedclothes and other articles were taken by Hayes and the other two church bailiifs, to lie all night on the hearthstone by the fire to keep myself warm. "Eliza Mullins, widow, of St. Mary's " Parish, head of Newgate Lane. "October 26, 1834" Another extract : — " A representation has been made to the commander-in-chief, from both officers and soldiers of the army in Ireland, expressive of the total repugnance of the army to be employed in the collection of tithes. The odious and cruel nature of the exaction, and the degradation of brave men in being employed in prosecuting the sale of the widow's pig, or the goat upon which infancy subsists, are good reasons. It is condemned by the voice of mankind, and repugnant to military honour. ■ HYPOTHETICAL. 255 u The king's troops, infantry and cavalry, were employed for nrarly two months in enforcing tithes for the Rev. Mr. Whitty, in the parish of Rathvilly." The Church of Ireland surely is bad enough. The pres- ent state of things there is probably a fair development of the tendencies of the system : — Bring a powerful Christian hierarchy into alliance with the state ; make it a part of the political fabric ; withdraw all power relating to church econ- omy from the people, and concentrate it in the hands of a few, who sympathize with the head of the nation — who is also constituted head of the church, and who will, of course, use his influence as such, for political ends. If the church be wealthy, as in Great Britain, let the disposal of its bene- fices, in other words, the nomination of its priesthood, be divided among the chief dignitaries, high corporations, wealthy and powerful individuals, civil and ecclesiastical, who are interested, first, in providing places for their sons and family connexions, and next, in bringing the entire ec- clesiastical economy to bear on their political designs. Let all the treasures* of the church be regarded as the property of the government, and all dues to the church of tithes, or in whatever form, as a demand of government, for govern- ment purposes. And then, by a moral certainty, the church, thus allied to the state, will have a secularized clergy, and it will be no scandal, on the principles of such a church, to support its rights at the point of the bayonet, and by the mouth of the cannon, as in Ireland. It is perfectly con- sistent ; it is the legitimate tendency and natural result of the system. The public may be shocked at the occasional outbreakings of some of these more palpable enormities, such as the recent slaughter of Rathcormac ; the authors of the mischief may be startled for fear of a reaction ou themselves ; but they do not give up the principle ; they do not confess that there is any thing wrong, or even improper, in all this. They say, the state has a right, first, to make these exactions ; and next, to support its authority — that its authority must be respected ; and if anybody, with an un- submissive temper, comes in the way of it, and falls before the bayonet or the cannon, it is his own fault. They have no sympathy and no regret on account of these disasters, except as it injures themselves. And how is it in England] It must be acknowledged, that these affairs are managed more decently there than in Ireland — that there is less outrage ; but the system is the same ; and upon ail dissenters, as well as upon thousands who have not dared to dissent, it operates in numberless forms, directly and indirectly, most oppressively and cruelly. * What right has a Christian church to treasures, except in God and the good affections of mankind ? 256 A FACT. " How do you do, Mr. ?" said the rector of , within fifty miles of London, to a dissenting clergyman, whose chapel, dwelling-house, and garden happened to be in the rector's parish. " You have a fine garden here, sir." " Oh, yes, sir, I am very fond of a garden. Come, walk through, and see it." " Indeed, it is not only very pretty, but I should think it might be profitable," said the rector, as he surveyed the prem- ises in company with his dissenting brother, and while the latter took great pleasure in displaying all, and giving the history of his improvements. " There is about half an acre here, as you see," said the dissenting minister. " Half of it is ornamental, where I take pleasure with my 13 children ; and the other half furnishes vegetables to feed them. You would hardly believe it, but this little patch, under the culture of my own hand, goes a great way towards supplying the table of my numerous family." " Indeed, sir. And how many years has it been so pro- ductive ?" " Some half dozen or more." It was a morning call of the rector, for a purpose best known to himself, as he had never condescended to visit his dissenting brother before. Having seen and been told all appertaining to the beauty and profitableness of the gar- den, from the open and unsuspecting communications of the owner, the rector said — " Good morning," and retired. The next day, or soon afterward, the rector's steward sent in a bill for tithes on the said garden, of «£6, or nearly $29, per year, for six years previous, and the same for the then current year — amounting in all to .£42, or about $200 ; to continue, as I suppose, at £6, or nearly $29, a year, on a quarter of an acre of land ! The rector has a wife, but no children, on a living of some hundreds of pounds a year, which he can augment at pleas- ure by these modes. The dissenting clergyman had a family of thirteen children, and a small congregation, which could afford him only a slender support — by no means ade- quate for the demands of his family. He was astounded at this bill ! For it was positively and unavoidably distressing. " But you did not pay it !" said I, when he narrated to me the facts. " Your ignorance of this country, sir, as manifested by this question, is very excusable. There is no redress for such an imposition — no tribunal for defence, to which a poor man will dare to appeal. The ecclesiastical courts, which have the supervision of all such matters, will always defend the rights of clergymen of the established church. Clergy- men of this establishment, as this instance will show, have great powers, and a wide reach of discretion, in regard to TITHE OPPRESSION. 257 tithes and other church dues. The law supposes them to be good men and reasonable ; and a hundred or a thousand to one of those, who appeal to the law for protection against these extortions, return saddled with the enormous expense of English law. Remedy at law in such cases is absolutely and utterly discouraging ; and few but the wealthy and in- fluential, who can afford to fight for principle and justice, venture upon it. Ordinarily, the oppressions light on those who are not likely to show such resistance." The following is an extract from a letter to Mr. Secretary Stanley, read in the House of Lords by Lord Melbourne in 1831, and may show further how the poor are affected by exactions for an established church : — " The broken and irregular character of tithes, in the rust of its great antiquity, renders the variety and number of claims on the land both harassing and vexatious ; the frequency of calls, and the uncer- tainty of receivers, are so varied and perplexing as to occasion much annoyance to the poor. There are a vast number of instances where one poor man, whose whole tithe*? annually do not amount to more than 1*. 8d. per acre, and yet subject him to have his cow, sheep, pig, or horse, taken and driven to pound six times in the year for tithes, and liable, on each and every driving, to a charge of 2s. 6d. driver's fees, besides expense of impounding, and waste of time from his labour in seeking the person duly authorized to give him a receipt. He is liable to be summoned, moreover, and decreed for vestry cess, once in the year, making annually seven calls on account of the church to his little plot of ground ; besides, his little holding is liable to two calls in the year for grand jury public money, and frequently two calls more for crown and quit rent Thus eleven calls are made upon his small holding in the year, besides his landlord's rent, and for sums trifling in themselves, but perplexing and ruinous in the costs which attend them. Surely such are hardships that ought to be removed." It is true that this happens to be a picture from Ireland. But as it was thought worthy to be read in the House of Lords, and is in substance applicable to both countries, though under different forms, it is a convenient illustration of the general bearings of the laws of tithe, &c. "Tell me of the cottage, Lapgin." 11 God bless you, ma'am, you are cruel fond of hearing of cottages. Sure the history of most of them in this country (Ireland) is alike ; a wedding, and a little to begin with ; a power of children, and precious little to give them ; rack-rent for a bit of land ; turned out, bag and baggage, for rent, or for tithe ; beggary, starvation, sickness, death ; that, ma'am, is a poor Irishman's calendar, since the world was a world, barrin [except] here and there, now and then, when he gets a sight of good fortune by mistake." Cases like the following are such an every-day occurrence in England as to occasion no surprise. It might excite in- dignation, if people were not tired of indulging such feelings. But they know that the reformed Constitution has placed 22* m m Kmmmmm ■nHMMI 258 AUCTION SALES OF CHURCH LIVINGS. the remedy in their hands, and they only wait an opportu- nity to administer it, without a disturbance of the public peace. I quote it from a London paper, which has come to hand and is now lying before me : — " The Birmingham Journal states, that the Rev. J. Ellis, Vicar of Wootton Warren, near Henley-on-Arden, lately obtained a warrant of distress against a parishioner, for the payment of Easter dues to the amount of one shilling, and that a table was seized and sold by auction, out of the proceeds of which nine shillings and twopence was deducted for the original dues and expenses." It would be a curious question to determine the difference between the actual costs of such a church to the public and its nett revenues ; which, after all, is the only fair estimate of its burden to the community. Within ten miles of London is a parish where the in- cumbent has raised his tithes from £300 a year to £ 1,500. I was informed, when I was there, that he is accustomed to meet more men from his parish in the ecclesiastical court, seeking redress of their grievances, than are disposed to appear as his hearers on Sunday — which, indeed, is very credible. " And will they succeed 1 ?" said I. " It is not at all prob- able they will." — "Why, then, do they go there?" — "Be- cause they are vexed, and are able to make the sacrifice. They think it will do good to make it as public as possible." Did the ecclesiastical commission on church revenues report £ 1,500, as the tithe product of this parish? Never, it may be presumed. And the expense of litigation — to what account is that to be put 1 The injury done to society by such disturbances is of course never thought of. It is no scandal in England — at least, it seems not to op- erate as such — that benefices, or livings in the churches, are sold at public auction to the highest bidder, over the heads of incumbents, by which means a wealthy man can at any time make a future provision for his son, and establish him in the world by anticipation ; or a Jew may be the pur- chaser in his way of speculation on stocks, and nominate the preacher of a Christian pulpit. The following, for example, is a notice of some sales of this kind, taken from a London paper of July 13th, 1824: — " The church livings in Essex, sold on the 1st instant by Mr. Rob- ins, of Regent-street, were not the absolute advowsons, but the next presentations contingent on the lives of Mr. and Mrs. W. T. P. L. Wellesley, aged thirty-six and twenty-five years respectively, and were as under : Plac, ZW !?(1 „, ^~L fjSSL »?*■ Wanstead Rectory £653 62 £2,440 Woodford Ditto 1,200 59 4*200 CLERICAL FOX-HUNTERS. 259 Gt. Paindon Rectory £500 63 £1,600 Fifield Ditto 525 59 1,520 Rochford Ditto 700 62 2,000 Filstead Vicarage 400 50 900 Roydou Ditto 200 46 580 The biddings appeared to be governed by the age and health of the incumbents, residence, situation, and other local circumstances, with which the parties interested seemed to be well acquainted." The following is a curious, and, it may be added, instruct- ive advertisement on this point. It is from the London Morning Herald, April 15th, 1830 :— * ** To be sold, the next presentation to a vicarage, in one of the mid- land counties, and in the immediate neighbourhood of one or two of the first packs of fox-hounds in the kingdom. The present annual in- come about £580, subject to curate's salary. The incumbent in 60th year." " In the immediate neighbourhood of one or two of the first packs of fox-hounds in the kingdom." And this is a motive — a charm — a lure, to draw clerical bidders ! Do those who speculate in public stocks, which they offer for sale, understand this business 1 Did they in this case know, that those clergymen who want church livings would generally be attracted by such a lure as the "best pack of fox- hounds ?" If not generally, and if it was not well known, would they run the risk of defeating their own object, as speculators, by putting it in ] In the case of the larger sale of advowsons above quoted, no doubt the previous advertisements held forth all the flat- tering chances and motives, whatever they might be ; and the buyers examined and paid fees to the physicians of the respective incumbents, as to the probability how long they would live, &c. All this is morally certain. " Lord Mountcashel stated, in the House of Lords, that he knew an archdeacon in Ireland who kept one of the best packs of fox-hounds in the country. Another clergyman, not seven miles distant from the former, had also a pack of fox-hounds, with which he regularly hunted ; and he knew of a clergyman who, after his duties in the church had been performed, used to meet his brother huntsmen at the communion- table on Sunday, and arrange with them where the hounds were to start for next day." In the course of one month, I observed the following pub- lic notices in the London journals, in the usual style of re- porting public amusements, or after the manner of a court circular : — First, of a dramatic fete at the Bath Theatre, with dancing through the night, and on the list of names of the persons present were those of twelve clergymen. The next was an animated account of a public ball at Windsor, where the " iced champaign was flying about like water, and con- tributed to the friskiness of the light fantastic toe ;" where 260 INJUSTICE TOWARDS DISSENTERS. " quadrilling, waltzing, and gallopading continued till 3 o'clock, and much fun at a later hour," with the names of eleven clergymen among the rest. Another begins thus : " The Rev. Arthur Mathews gave a grand ball at the Swan Hotel, in the town of Ross, &c, at which the following clergymen were present :" Then follows the list of their names, in number nine — among which were four high digni- taries, one belonging to the king's household. What do these notices prove I " I want you to speak at my grave," said a dying woman in London last spring to her dissenting pastor, but imme- diately recollecting that no dissenting clergyman would be admitted to a church burying-ground for the burial of the dead, she added, lifting her hand, expressive of her regret, " But, no, you cannot." She turned her head, burst into tears, and soon expired. Sometimes the stranger in London and in England may witness, as he passes a churchyard, the remarkable scene of a clergyman standing without the paling in the street or highway, performing funeral obsequies by stealth, and in evasion of the law, over one of his own people, whose friends are assembled around the grave within. It is the dissenting minister, who is not permitted to enter that ground for this purpose, and who, as a Christian pastor, has com- plied with the urgent solicitations of surviving friends of the deceased, to perform this office in these humiliating cir- cumstances. Dissenting clergymen cannot celebrate marriage; they are prohibited performing funeral rites over their own dead in the churchyard, notwithstanding they and their people are taxed for all the expenses of that ground. Dissent- ers must pay the rector a special, and no trifling fee, for a place to lay their dead ; another for the privilege of set- ting up a monument; another to the curate for reading the burial-service ; and how many more I do not know. They are excluded from all the privileges of the universities, ex- cept that by long and hard fighting they have now a uni- versity of their own in London. Besides building and main- taining their own chapels, and supporting their own min- isters, they are forced to do their part towards all the ex- penses of the establishment. There is no respect or deli- cacy shown towards dissenting clergymen, in exempting them from the common burdens of the established church ; but, as in the case I have noticed, they are often visited with special imposts from the very fact that they are dissenting ministers. Even the best of the established clergy, who might be expected to sympathize with their dissenting breth- ren on account of the many disadvantages they labour un- der, have so long enjoyed their high and prescriptive prerog- atives, as apparently not to imagine that there is any obli- AN INDELICATE APPLICATION. 261 gation or propriety in dispensing with them in any matter or degree towards dissenting ministers. " Look here !" said a dissenting clergyman of London to me one morning, as I sat at breakfast with him, having bro- ken the seal of a letter, at that moment brought in by the postman: "read that." It was from the Rev. Mr. , rector of , and son of the Bishop of , soliciting a subscription towards building a relief chapel, in connexion with the parish church ! Where was delicacy of feeling in this case ] Besides all the pecuniary disadvantages which the dissenting minister laboured under in the metropolis, on account of the bearings of the established church upon his interests ; besides paying church rates and all other parish expenses, under the jurisdiction of the rector of , with- out complaint ; and besides making large sacrifices of his in- come towards the liquidation of a heavy debt on his own chapel, he receives a letter from the rector of the parish in which he resides, soliciting a special and extraordinary sub- scription towards the building of a new church in the parish ! This, no doubt, was all very innocent — that is, as much so as a want of reflection, and a proper sense of delicacy, could make it. Mr. probably did not think it his duty to recognise this dissenting clergyman as a brother minister, much less to consider the sacrifices he was doomed to make as a dissenter — but only to call upon him to do his duty as a parishioner. It is a striking illustration of that high ground which clergymen, and other members of the establishment, are accustomed to assume and assert, in relation to dissent- ers, as if ail right were theirs, and nobody else had any right. They offer insult to injury, even when they do not intend it. It is a natural result of the system — overbearing, oppressive, and irritating. London, March 5, 1832. — Yesterday morning (Sabbath) I went to hear one of the clergymen of the establishment. He preached from 1 John, iii., 8, and he came home upon us in such a style, and in so many forms of application, that for myself I was at one time forced to weep. And I am quite sure that I was only one of some hundreds, out of a congregation of more than two thousand, in the same predicament. He who makes us weep in such circum- stances, under the pungency or touching pathos of religious truth, does us good. The soul, thus softened, is cast into a susceptibility, for the time being, of the most felicitous im- pressions ; and if we are not made better permanently, it must be our own fault. I love to weep with a weeping congregation, in the house of God. This social and soul- subduing influence of religion melts down the feelings of a 262 A REDEEMING FEATURE. community into a common crucible. For the moment the people are all one. They sympathize with their pastor, with one another, and with the truth drawn forth, in such glowing colours and melting accents, from the word of God. They are bound together by stronger ties, and feel that " it is good to be there." In all ages, and all the world over, be it known, the great secret of the Christian pulpit's influ- ence and power is to touch the heart; and that minister i of Christ who does this shall never want hearers. The Christian world have more knowledge than feeling. Feel- ing is what they want, and they love to have it. They will follow him who so imbodies and charges the elementary truths of Christianity by his diction and manner, as to rouse up those sympathies within them, which God has ordained to be moved by these considerations. People love to be moved by Divine truth, even though it makes them uncom- fortable for the time being. The very conviction of sin, the purpose of repentance, the desire of being and doing better, have incorporated with them an inward consciousness of moral dignity, mingled with self-debasement — a capability of being something that is worth aspiring after. To be made to feel — " I will repent — I will be better" — is a sublime purpose. And that very sense of sin, which gives vigour to this purpose — that very agony of conscience, which fills the soul with inquietude, lies side by side with a proportion- ate sense of the worth of the soul, of the importance of its being, and of its possible destination in a world of heavenly joy. I say, then, that men do love to feel under the influ- ence of religion — sinners, the worst of sinners, love to feel. And I will not consent to be at the trouble of any other proof, so long as everybody knows that the most faithful and most earnest preachers of the Gospel — if they are earnest enough to make people feel — always have the great- est congregations. The Established Church of England is blessed with a nu- merous class of faithful, pungent preachers ; and their chapels are always crowded. There is another encoura- ging fact : The lectures of the established church, as they are called — that is — extra services on Sabbath afternoon and evening, and certain week-day evenings, are by courtesy, or by the ascendency of popular influence, supplied by the nominations and appointment of the vestries. I speak par- ticularly of London. And it happens, that the most earnest preachers are generally first in request for these supplies, even in those churches where the incumbents are most un- bending, cold, and chilling formalists— where, in the regular services, " Paul supplies a text, and Plato preaches." And when Plato, or some other heathen philosopher preaches, he has his little class — little — a hearer scattered here and there, over a spacious, splendid, and magnificent church. IRRELIGION AND VICE IN LONDON. 263 But when a true disciple of Paul and of Jesus Christ conies into the same pulpit in the afternoon or evening, the people come— the rich and the poor meet together — the high and the low. They come in torrents, till the very thresholds of the doors are planted as thick with the feet of worshippers, as the closest contact of a crowd will allow. Within is to be seen nothing but a sea of heads. And this is the case from SabbSth to Sabbath, and on the week-day evening, the year round. People crowd and run after faithful preaching, as if in all other places (as indeed is too much the fact) there were a famine of the word of life. They are convinced that these men are sincere — that they are in earnest; and they love and feel the truths which they preach. I must bear testimony, that there is a goodly and increasing number of the clergy of the establishment who do preach the Gospel in simplicity, in sincerity, and often with very great plainness of speech. 1 have heard them also rebuke the vices of the establishment, from its own pulpit, in no insignificant terms. They work as if they had some sense of their responsibility — as if resolved to exercise a redeeming influence over a secularized, and, in this sense, corrupt church — " a church dying of her own dignity." " Die of dignity." — " What is the value of that dignity," says the Rev. Baptist W. Noel, in a letter to the Bishop of London on the state of the British metropolis, just published — " what is the value of that dignity, which must be maintain- ed at a cost so enormous as the ruin of multitudes V This gentleman, a clergyman of the establishment in London, says, there are 500,000, at least, in that metropolis, of a pop- ulation of 1,500,000, who never attend a place of public wor- ship, and who live and die unvisited by the redeeming influ- ences of Christianity; — 10,000 of whom on the Sabbath are devoted to gambling ; 30,000 living by theft and fraud ; 23,000 annually picked up drunk in the streets; about 100,000 ha- bitual gin-drinkers ;* and probably 100,000 more, who have ; * " The number of public houses and gin-shops in the metropolis is 4073, besides 1182 beer-shops, and great numbers of coffee-shops, many of which are said to be, at present, worse than the worst public houses, as schools of profligacy. Hence we may judge of the numbers infected. Not long since, the following numbers were observed to enter two principal shops — one in Holborn and the other in Cheapside — in one day : — Men. Women. Children. Total. Holborn shop, . . . 2880 1855 289 5024 Cheapside do., . . . 3146 2186 686 6018 ! " The following numbers were also observed to enter fourteen principal gin-shops, in one week : — Men. Women. Children. Total. 142,453 108,593 18,391 269,437 " As it is improbable that the observers recognised individuals who en- tered more than once, we will suppose that these were the whole number of visits to the shops in that week, and that each person visited once a 264 PREACHING IN THE STREETS'. yielded themselves to systematic and abandoned profligacy. This reverend gentleman has come out in a tone of high and holy remonstrance against that system of episcopal govern- ment in England which prevents the preaching of the Gos- pel to the poor, and seeking out the wretched and the lost to redeem them from their retreats of vice and crime. He proposes and urges that the restraints of episcopal authority, operating in so many forms against the erection and support of new places of worship, which would otherwise be done by voluntary effort, should be removed, as unwarrantable and injurious, and an abuse of power; that leave should be given to preach the Gospel in unconsecrated places — in any building and in the streets — as did Christ and his apostles ; as faithful ministers of Christ have done in all ages ; as did ' Whitefield and Rowland Hill ; as other denominations are now doing with great success ; and he offers himself to the bishop of his diocess, as willing to lay aside this improperly- assumed and unbecoming dignity of the ministers of Chris- tianity, to go forth into the streets — " into the highways and hedges" — to compel the wretched wanderer and the lost to turn their feet from the way to hell to the path of heaven. He proposes this, as the only remedy for the wants of the metropolis — for the wants of the country — for the wants of the world. He remonstrates ill no equivocal terms against so much power lodged in the hands of bishops. It will not be understood that Mr. Noel speaks against episcopacy, but against the abuse of episcopal authority in connexion with the state. Whether demonstrations of this kind, which are beginning to show themselves in the English church, and which con- stitute a hopefully-redeeming feature, will be crushed by au- thority, remains to be decided. Some imagine that the Church of England may be so reformed, as an establishment in connexion with the state, as to answer the design of Christianity. For myself I have only to say — that I am not simply diffident, but I do not believe it. day : then the number of persons visiting those shops would be 269,437 divided by 7, or 38,491. " Thirty-eight thousand four hundred and ninety -one persons — the women and children being nearly equal to the men — habitually attend these four- teen shops : how many, then, must contribute to the support of the other 4059 shops with which the metropolis is disgraced ! Either immense mul- titudes must be infected with this vice, or else those who are infected must be ruinously devoted to its indulgence. It is well known how it grows upon those who yield to it ; and some idea of the degree in which it prevails in London may be formed from the fact, that above 23,000 per- sons are annually taken up by the police for drunkenness alone. The numbers taken up by the police for drunkenness in the years 1831, 1832, and 1833, were as follows : — Males. Females. Total. 1831 19,748 11,605 31,053 1832 20,304 12,332 32,636 1833 18,268 11,612 29,880." OXFORD. 265 OXFORD AND CAMBRIDGE. When first I passed through Oxford in a coach, without stopping except to change horses, I was quite disappointed in the appearance of that famous seat of learning. I had imagined the various edifices constituting the architectural beauties and grandeur of the university to be scattered here and there, insulated in the midst of academic groves, deriving no less charms from these accidents than from the more sub- stantial forms of the edifices themselves ; whereas, in a run through one of the principal streets of the city, the eye meets only a solid mass of masonry, not unlike any other compact town of England, with here and there some more imposing features and walls, which seem to indicate anti- quity, scaled and crumbling by time, and affording hints that these are the buildings of the university. But not "the shade of a shadow" of a grove presents itself. All is naked walls, bristling occasionally with pinnacles, and now and then a tower, a cupola, and a spire, not unworthy of the supposed place, and yet not very remarkable. The scaled and appa- rently crumbling walls of the university buildings and of the churches, owe this appearance (a very ugly feature) to the character of the stone of which they are constructed. In a century or two after they have been quarried and laid up in walls, exposed to the action of the atmosphere, large chips begin to scale off from almost the entire surface ; and in two or three hundred years, the walls become so ragged and so dilapidated as to require to be new faced or rebuilt. Hence the difference in the appearance of the colleges, some of them having been repaired, while others exhibit all the pride of a young antiquity — smoky, ragged, and crum- bling. All the magnificence of the City of Oxford, consisting principally in the university, was founded by Roman Catho- lics. Christ Church College, the largest of all, was founded toy Cardinal Wolsey with a truly splendid project ; but his jfate prevented its entire execution. The great bell weighs 17,000 lbs., the clapper 342 lbs. The dining hall is 115 feet long, 40 broad, and 50 in height, the roof supported after the maimer of Westminster Hall, the walls hung with scores of the finest portraits of the most remarkable characters in English history, and is altogether a most magnificent room. It has the reputation of being the best refectory in the king- dom — a singular praise for a college of literary men. The library of this college is one of the grandest and most im- posing models of architecture, containing a large and the choicest collection of paintings. M 23 266 OXFORD. A college is composed of one or two principal quadran- gles, enclosing open courts ; some have gardens attached, surrounded by high and impassable walls, richly set with trees and shrubbery, and adorned in the highest perfection. They make enchanting promenades. Every college, with its gardens, is as much a prison, when the gates are closed, as a penitentiary. The buildings are not lofty, being ordi- narily limited to two and three stories. Towers and temples are numerous, and the pinnacles innumerable. In some po- sitions of the large quadrangle of All Souls are to be enjoy- ed the finest possible views of the university — of temples, towers, pinnacles, and church steeples, and among them the dome of Radcliff Library. The town and all the world are excluded from the view, and nothing presents itself but these varying and countless features of the perfect and grand of architectural device. The colleges, in number 19, and 5 halls, were founded re- spectively as follows : — University College, in 872, by Alfred the Great ; Baliol in 1263—1268 ; Merton in 1264 ; Exeter, 1314; Oriel, 1326; Queen's, 1340 ; New College, 1386 ; Lin- coln, 1427; All Souls, 1437; Magdalen, 1456; Brazen Nose, 1509; Corpus Christi, 1516; Christ Church, 1525; Trinity, 1554; St. John's, 1557; Jesus, 1571 ; Wadham, 1613 : Pem- broke, 1624; Worcester, 1714; St. Mary Hall, 1239; Magdalen Hall, 1487 ; New Inn Hall, 1360 ; St. Alban Hall, 1230 ; St. Edmund Hall, 1269. These institutions, 24 in number, con- stitute the University of Oxford. The above dates do not all of them indicate the precise periods of the first estab- lishments of these schools, but are the earliest commonly specified in their history. The Radcliff Library is properly a temple on a magnifi- cent scale, and from the promenade around the base of its dome is one of the finest panoramas in the world, compre- hending the entire of Oxford, with all its colleges and every prominent feature under the eye ; and beyond the city a vast and beautiful country in every direction. The Bodleian Library, though large, containing 400,000 volumes and 70,000 manuscripts, is yet more remarkable for its richness and rarities, and is sufficiently notorious for its invaluable stores. Magdalen College is most remarkable for its incompa- rable tower ; for its chapel, as recently renewed in a style of most exquisite perfection ; for a painting of Christ bear- ing his cross ; and for the extent of its gardens and pleasure- grounds, among which is Addison's Walk. To have any tolerable notion of Oxford University, either in its external features, or in its internal economy as a so- ciety of students and of the learned, requires leisure, and opportunity of intimate and close observation. The members on the books of Oxford University for 1835 CAMBRIDGE. 267 are 5,251 ; but considerably less than half of this number are usually resident there. The population of Oxford City is 23,000. The university is quite too renowned to require any notice of its great- ness from me. Eight miles from Oxford, towards Birmingham, are Blen- heim Park and Palace, bestowed upon the Duke of Marl- borough, the Wellington of Queen Anne's reign, for his mili- tary achievements on the continent against the French, — ta- king its name in honour of the battle of Blenheim, on the Danube. The present duke is in disgrace", makes no so- ciety with those of his own rank or with the world, buries himself in his botanical garden, has suffered the park to run to waste, and would have sold the pictures of the palace, if his son and heir had not stepped in his way by an in- junction from chancery. The palace and the vast estate appertaining are a proud monument of royal munificence, bestowed in reward of services done to the country by the great captain of the beginning of the eighteenth century. It was once a royal hunting-park, and the grounds are still exceedingly romantic. The collection of paintings at Blen- heim are among the richest treasures of the kind in England. The library and chapel of this palace are uncommonly inter- esting of their kind. CAMBRIDGE. Joe Walton is the coachman, or driver, as we say in America, of the Star Coach between London and Cambridge, 54 miles, which distance to and fro, making 108 miles, Joe drives every day in the year except the Sabbath. I once saw a notice in the Times, that Joe had completed his last 312 days without failure of having performed his daily jour- ney, making in all for the year, 33,969 miles, having rested on the Sabbath. I myself performed this journey with Joe, that is, I went down to Cambridge one day in the afternoon, and returned in the morning a few days afterward. I know not how many years Joe Walton has performed this task of travelling 108 miles every day except the Sabbath. I was not aware that he was such a proidigous traveller when I happened to be a passenger in his coach. But certainly I never travelled more expeditiously or more pleasantly. He generally runs through 54 miles in five hours ; and from that to five and a half. The country for the most part is level, and the road is fine as possible. We buzz along, not stopping more than two or three minutes to change horses, and sometimes not more than one minute. As I was dining with a friend of mine, of the medical pro- fession, accomplished, I may say, in a very high degree, and with not less of instinctive discernment than professional skill, I mentioned Joe W T alton's extraordinary travelling the M2 268 OLD JOE WALTON. year out and in, and from year to year, never failing to make his daily journey from Cambridge to London and back again, the Sabbath excepted. " It is because he rests upon the Sabbath," said Mr. — " No man or beast could ever perform such service inde- pendent of the rest of that day. And that he can do as long as he can do any thing, and be none the worse for it." " That is worth marking," I said, " especially as coming from you." " Ay, and I suppose you will put it in a book when you get home to America. " ' A chiel's amang us taking notes, And 'faith he'll prent it.' Whatever use, however, you may make of it, it is an un- doubted truth : No man or brute could last in such service without the rest of the Sabbath. The Sabbath for man is an ordinance of nature, as well as of Revelation — or an ordi- nance adapted to nature. We cannot do without it — or that which is tantamount." I did indeed think this worth marking, and therefore I re- cord it. It is an extract from the conversation of a man whose opinion is worthy of great respect. And it is of the more value, first, because he did not say it as a religionist ; and next, because it was not forced from him, but suggested by the story. The case of Joe Walton was before us. It was remarkable. How could he travel 108 miles a day, and continue it from year to year ? He could not, except for the rest of the Sabbath. With this interval of repose, the service, being reasonable, might be performed in perpetuity. Nay, it is not in perpetuity. The rest of the seventh day breaks up the order, and prevents the immature wasting and decay of powers, worked for such a portion of time to the extent of their ability. Joe Walton's task is not to be estimated by a simple con- sideration of his sitting upon the coachman's box, holding the reins, and carrying the whip for ten or eleven hours a day. He has a responsibility, which he feels, and which weighs upon him : the lives of his passengers, amounting in all perhaps, and on an average, to 24 individuals a day : their comfort and pleasure, their luggage and parcels, be- sides verbal messages or errands, in great number and vari- ety, committed to his charge at Cambridge, picked up on the route, stowed away in his brain, to be discharged at Lon- don and replaced by others, not less numerous or various, demanding his attention on his way back, and at the end of his journey. He has to please and to serve all the world, that is, all sorts of people, in all sorts of things. Joe Wal- ton's daily task, therefore, is by no means trifling. And yet he works it out, apparently without fatigue, by resting on the Sabbath. JOHN GILPIN. 269 The road to Cambridge is the route of John Gilpin, when he went farther than he intended : — " To-morrow is our wedding-day, And we will then repair Unto the bell at Edmonton, All in a chaise and pair." The " Bell,''' or sign of the Bell at Edmonton, is an inn. At this day, as we pass the house — I suppose it is the same — we find an addition, or change of the sign, as well as the name, and it is called " The John Gilpin." The sign is historical or descriptive. As to the truth of the history, that matter must rest entirely on the credit of the amiable and conscientious poet. But as you pass you see Gilpin depicted there, as described, all on the wing : — " The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, Away went hat and wig." " The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, Up flew the windows all." " At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony espied," &c. And there is the whole picture to this day: His wife standing in "the balcony" beckoning him to stop; many heads thrust out many windows to see ; the dogs around, and geese fluttering to get out of the way; the donkeys, with their carts and drivers, standing still with amazement ; the turnpike open to give him passage ; and Gilpin himself, with his hat in the wind some rods behind him, his hair go- ing after his wig and scarlet cloak, which are also in the rear ; the bottles dangling high and low, and pounding the ribs of his horse ; while he, with most imploring looks, in spite of all his wishes to stop, and of all the help of the mob he has raised, still goes on, "because his horse would go." I would not vouch for every feature here drawn, whether it be a little more or a little less, than what is now to be seen at the sign of John Gilpin at Edmonton, as I drove by it myself, going and coming, under the auspices of old Joe Walton, at a speed scarcely less than that of Gilpin, think- ing of him all the while, and making many anxious inquiries about him. When one has been at Oxford, there is nothing at Cam- bridge that can attract his attention except King's College Chapel, and that certainly is sufficiently remarkable. There is nothing like it, nor of its kind equal to it, in Great Britain. There may be a thousand other things in the architecture of Europe that would in many respects be more command- ing. But when a thing is perfect, what can we have more 1 When no one can say there is something that ought not to 23* 270 be there, or something wanting, human art seems to have made its highest attainment. The academic shades and fine walks of Cambridge are perhaps more abundant than those of Oxford. Excepting the gardens of the colleges, which are walled in, and are necessarily very contracted, and which are not commonly open to the public, the walks of Oxford are not so tastefully arranged, nor so well kept, nor so chaste and inviting in their aspects, as those of Cambridge. The sluggish and lazy Cam seems to have participated in the lassitude to which the overhanging shades, the close-sheared lawns, and Arcadian walks invite, and to have stayed his current to re- pose in the scene. Certainly he does not go fast enough to dissipate the vapours ; he only raises and holds them sus- pended all around. " When I first saw this river," said Robert Hall, " as I passed over King's College bridge, I could not help exclaiming — Why, the stream is standing still to see people drown themselves ! Shocking place for the spirits, sir. It is the very focus of suicide , The Don is a river, sir ; and so is the Severn a river ; but not even a poet would so designate the Cam, unless by an obvious figure he termed it the sleeping river. I say of my Cambridge friends, when I witness their contentedness in such a country, 'Herein is the faith and patience of the saints.' The place where Bacon, and Barrow, and New- ton studied, and where Jeremy Taylor was born, cannot but be very interesting ; but does it not strike you as very insipid, sir 1 ?" King's College Chapel, however, is a redeeming feature of Cambridge. Externally or internally, this building may be just as large as any one chooses to imagine it. It is of no use to have its dimensions ; indeed, perhaps one had a great deal better be without them ; and then, while survey- ing it from without, he may conceive it of vast magnitude, and enjoy, at least by an illusion, the properties and rela- tions of the parts of such an edifice, on an extended and magnificent scale. Or while he stands, looking down the inward perspective, he may imagine that to be infinite, for such in truth it seems to be, and one may easily be deceived. The length of the chapel is in fact 310 feet; its breadth 78 ; and the height of the wall 90. This is obviously not a great building. It combines simplicity, beauty, and gran- deur, so harmoniously, that one cannot tell which to ad- mire most. It has no tower. The remarkable external features are the frequent buttresses, so strongly built to brace the wall and support the roof ; the four turrets, one at each angle ; and the line of pinnacles, running from end to end and over the roof. Within, the painted windows are remarkable, as exhibiting the whole evangelical and apos- tolic history. The internal perspective, iroxa almost any 271 position, is unrivalled for the perfect unity and satisfaction of the effect. There is no wonder, nor scarcely admiration, unless it be, that the effect of such pure satisfaction could be produced, without mingling the complex emotions ordi- narily excited by architectural designs. But the stone roof of this building is altogether its most remarkable feature. It is said of Sir Christopher Wren, that he used to visit Cambridge once a year merely to look at this piece of work, and that he should have said — " Show me where to place the first stone, and I will build such an- other." The roof is supported by a series of double arches, concentric to the buttresses, one arch passing through the whole, yet all mutually dependant on each other, and each contributing to support that weight of stone, which is laid almost flat from wall to wall. The stones, however, are thin, some say two inches, others from four to six inches thick, thus contributing to the lightness of this immense arch, which is so near to being flat that it can scarcely be .called an arch. It can hardly be supposed that these stones are generally thinner than from four to six inches. In walking over the surface of this roof, the shapes and rela- tions of every stone composing those arches— which, being concentric, together make one arch 310 feet by 78 — can be as easily and as exactly traced as the flagstones of a street pavement. Architects and masons of the present time are confounded at the sight, and confess their ignorance of the rule or rules by which this framework of masonry was set up. It is not exposed to the weather, but is protected by an ordinary roof thrown over the whole, with a sufficient elevation to admit persons to walk erect on the stone roof, sufficient light being thrown in to answer all the purposes of the minutest examination. The interior face of this arch is curiously wrought out of the stone, in Gothic tracery, to correspond with the general design, and for the purpose of effect on the beholder from below. The entire edifice is pronounced to bear the marks of the point of perfection and decline in Gothic architecture. It was begun in the former part of the fifteenth, and finished in the sixteenth century. Cambridge is the second of the two great — " famous" — Universities of England — though not quite willing to concede pre-eminence to its sister on the Isis. Why not say more about Cambridge and Oxford 1 Because I dare not touch so great a theme-— unless I might have leave to write a book. 272 KIRKSTALL ABBEY. RUINS OF ANCIENT ABBEYS. Kirkstall — Bolton — and Fountain's. In approaching Leeds from London, within a distance of two and a half miles, the stranger's eye, if he looks on his left, will be arrested by an apparent heap of ruins, lying in the bosom of a beautiful vale through which himself is pass- ing, on the bank of the river Ayre, all shrouded in a grove of forest elms, showing here and there, as if a spot of naked wall, peeping through the mantling ivy, and seeming to de- clare that something deep and solemn lies beneath. As he lifts his eye, his doubts will all be resolved by the half of a massive tower, peering above the tops of the trees, and ready to crumble and fall with the other half, which had gone before it. And as he rides along, new shapes of this extend- ed mass of ancient ruin are continually forming and rising before him : — now some deep recess opens under a larger or a smaller arch — now a high, imperfect wall, with a win- dow or two opening on the hills or sky beyond — now a range of windows — now the great eastern aspect, looking bold, challenging respect, and seeming, by its shifting forms, to assert vitality, and belie the record of its desolation. Approach this pile, and the stranger's interest increases, as he traces what must have been the abodes of menials, what the magazines of provisions, what the laboratory of the epicure — the numerous cells — the chapter-house, or place of secret and awful conclave — the great court, and chamber succeeding chamber, each partitioned from each by the most massive work of stone — elms, centuries old, planted and growing up in, the midst of these apartments, spreading their arms over the broken walls, and meeting each other in every direction, so as to form a perfect grove — and the ivy running up in every form, covering and burying here and there the parts of this ancient pile, as the swarm of bees covers the limb or the tree on which they first alight, after they have gone forth in pursuit of a new place of habitation. Let the stranger enter the holy place, walk among the weeds between the great outer wall and the long range of clustered columns, under the lofty and groined arches, which still afford a partial shelter — and there he may hear the ear- nest chattering of the magpie, the twitter of the swallow, the plaint of the sparrow, and the petulance of the wren ; there he may look up and see the vigorous, wild shrubbery of the plain and hills, the rose, and many a flower, flourish- ing and blooming in all their freshness, in the windows, in the walls, and even on the highest parts of the tower. KIRKSTALL ABBEY. 273 There he may wander up hill and down hill, in the midst of the sanctuary, where was the altar of God, wetting himself thoroughly from the grass and bushes, as he passes along, brushing off the fresh rain, and bracing himself with care, lest he slide and fall among the fallen ruins. Where are the hands that built these walls, and where the spirits that worshipped here 1 " Methin'ks I hear the sound of time long past Still murmuring o'er me, in the lofty void Of those dark arches— like the lingering voices Of those who long within their graves have slept." Who, in wandering here, would not feel that he has com- munion with the dead 1 " I do love these ancient ruins ; We never tread upon them, but we set Our foot upon some reverend history. And, questionless, here in the open court, Which now lies naked to the injuries Of stormy weather, some men he interr'd, Who loved the church so well, and gave so largely to it, They thought it should have canopied their bones Till doomsday. But all things have their end. Churches and cities, which have diseases, like men, Must have like death that we have." There are stone coffins, making parts of the solid masonry of the chapter of this ancient institution, where the walls are in good preservation ; and these receptacles of the dead have been violated, from mere curiosity, and the bones sto- len, one by one, till not a single relic remains. Kirkstall Abbey was built early in the twelfth century, under the auspices of Henri de Lacy, Baron of Pontefract, and, for aught that appears, was sustained so long as popery nourished in the empire. It is now an interesting and ven- erable ruin. To show how some things, and some of what things have been done at this place, I give a few extracts of letters from abbots of this institution. From a letter under the follow- ing style — " Brother Hugh, called Abbot of Kirkstall, to his beloved in Christ, the convent of the same house, health and blessing in the bond of peace," and written in the 13th century, the following are extracts : — " Because the king was not pleased to interfere with the debt due to Tockles, the Jew, notwithstanding we had many intercessors with him, yet, by the grace of God, obtained through the media- tion of your prayers, and by our own understanding, we, re- flecting, that if this debt remained undischarged, it would be productive of great inconvenience, hit at length upon a rem- edy which is likely to be effected." Then the reverend abbot goes on to specify this device, which perhaps is more to the credit of his cunning than of his virtue. He concludes his wily and careful epistle with M 3 274 BOLTON PRIORY. this injunction: — "It will not be prudent to show these let- ters to any one. But until you have all safe, keep your own counsel secret from out of the bosom of the chapter." Also the abbot writes in the same letter : — " Send me some money, however you come by it — even though it be taken from the sacred oblations. Farewell, my beloved, peace be with you. Amen. " From the Castle Reginald, on the morrew of St. Mar- tin, 1287." The following document is exceedingly curious, not to say that it is wellnigh being the revelation of a secret : — " To all to whom these presents shall come, Brother Robert, Abbot of the Monastery of the blessed Mary, at Kirkstall, health and faith in the following : — " Though by the institutions of our order the admission of women is prohibited, under heavy penalties, within the precincts of Cistercian Abbeys, we nevertheless, being desirous of the salvation of souls, which undoubtedly will be obtained, as well by women as men, who on certain days of the year happen to visit the church of the said Mon- astery of Kirkstall ; and which visits, moreover, are clearly allowed in some indulgences granted by Pope Boniface the Ninth, we hereby tol- erate, pro tempore, on the above-mentioned days, the admission of wo- men to the said church, solely provided notwithstanding, that such fe- males be not introduced into any other apartment within the confines of the said monastery, neither by the abbots nor by any of the monks, un- der the penalties awarded by the aforesaid ordinance, which penalties we by these presents decree, and without remission enforce, as well against the abbot as against the monks of the aforesaid monastery, if they shall be found to transgress what is permitted there. " Given at our Monastery of Fountaines, A. D. 1401." BOLTON PRIORY. "Are you not going to Bolton Priory 1" said my host at Leeds, to whom I shall certainly ever be obliged for much kindness. "Where is it 1 ? — and what is it"?" " It is a thing you ought to see, now you are so near. Suppose we contrive to go to-morrow 1 It is only 23 miles from Leeds, up Wharfdale (Vale of the river Wharf). We can go and return in the same day if your engagements make it necessary." So we took a coach and set off. The first thing worthy of remark was a view from the Otley Cheven, as they call it — one of the most charming landscapes seen from the hill Che- ven, over the village of Otley, two miles from Leeds. Here is the entire bosom of the Vale of the Wharf, stretching out under the eye for many miles in extent, up and down and across — all under a state of high cultivation — variegated by two large estates, remote from each other, and the village of Otley half way between them. A gentleman's estate in ILKLEY WELLS. 275 England differs from the surrounding country that is farmed out, by presenting some several hundred acres, according to its size, under shapes the most irregular and undefined that is possible. Somewhere in the midst of the groves the spectator, if he stands on elevated ground, may see the man- sion, or the tops of it, or some imposing front ; and the spa- cious grounds will be checkered by fields, woods, groves, clumps of trees, single shades, and long marginal ranges of the thick and mingled forest. Scattered here and there the flocks and herds will be seen, grazing in quiet, or rumina- ting on the banks of the streams and under the shades. A view of this kind, in a wide-stretched landscape, is a very great relief, as distinguished from the smaller patches, en- closed by the frequent and well-defined hedges, and most economically farmed by the tenants of the numerous cot- tages, scattered over the face of the plain. Two of these large estates, together with the beautiful village of Otley, lie upon the bosom of the plain, ten miles by five in extent, cul- tivated like a garden, spreading themselves out under the view, and rising in the distance till defined by the elevated, mountainous margins of the moors. There, too, is the Wharf, stealing its serpentine course, occasionally hiding its bosom under the trees, and running where it lists through all the vale below. What added to the enchanting beauties of this scene was, that the swift and loose clouds, hasten- ing on the current of a brisk wind, threw down before us a perpetual and rapidly-changing light and shade. Next came llkley, a watering-place, 16 miles from Leeds, i\\ the same vale, a little, old, and ragged village — but of con- siderable note, on account of the wells, or springs, most rare for their purity and coolness, and for some medicinal qualities. Here were to be found many genteel people, crowding the low and thatched cottages, and submitting to all sorts of romantic inconveniences for their health ! All the donkeys in the valley round about were put in requisition for the invalid ladies and children to ride up to the wells and back again. A donkey is a patient and queer animal, though sometimes vicious — a little larger than a sheep — and a man riding upon him may help him along, and guide him as he would a velocipede, by touching his toes to the ground. In other words, the donkey is the jackass — an animal not taxa- ble, and therefore frequent — the commonest beast of burden in England. A man upon a donkey is always to me a ridic- ulous sight. ; because I cannot help thinking that it is more suitable the man should carry the beast, than that the beast should carry him — the man being so much bigger. There is a remarkable story current at Ukley among the vulgar, concerning two rocks, botli of large dimensions, but one much smaller than the other, jutting from the brow of the hill at a distance above the wells — called the Cow and 276 BOLTON PRIORY. Calf— and looking as much like these animals as do the ce- lestial constellations like those brutes after which they are called. It is gravely affirmed, and the vulgar believe it, that at the dawn of every morning, when this cow and this calf hear the first crowing of the cock, they move in company from their position, come down to the wells, drink, and re- turn. Hence the cow and calf are immortal. As we pass up the Vale of the Wharf, all the scenery, near and remote, gradually becomes more and more pic- turesque. These soft landscapes, at the mellow season of summer, lying among and upon so many hills, larger and smaller, partly wild and partly cultivated, everywhere bounded by the distant and bald mountain profile, and at every successive moment changing features as the passen- ger is rolled along ; the brisk wind bending every grove and tree, and turning up their foliage, making the whole region move in wave succeeding wave ; the gentleman's mansion, the poor man's cottage, the busy making of hay, and all the rest, which cannot be named, are reasonably enough to in- terest and delight those who happen to be in an agreeable mood. Still the scenery becomes more and more bewitching as the traveller advances. He looks back, he looks forward, he looks upon either side, and upon the hills, regretting only that he cannot look all ways all the time. All at once and unexpectedly the carriage stops, and a man presents himself with a string of keys, to be conduc- tor. It is quite unnecessary to ask any questions. We have only to follow him. Besides, to be too curious might dissolve the charm. Ask not — where you are ? — Ask not — if you have got there ] But follow on. Here is an ancient, massive, high, and long-stretching wall, which has stood for centuries, concealing every thing be- yond as you approach it. As you enter, and pass through the broken gateway, do it slowly and most solemnly, taking in the vision beyond gradually. For your whole breathing system will chance to suffer a sudden and painful hiatus — not because you stand between Niagara's cataract and the rock, which it hides from vulgar eyes — not because you meet with the rush of the tempest, or any disturbance of the physical elements around you — but for the very stillness, the perfect Sabbath aspect of the beauteous and majestic scene, which opens gradually on the eye as you advance under this rude and broken hole in the wall. It must not be described. It would be rash and profane to try it. But as you drink it in, and breathe it in, and stop, and gaze, and won- der, and are ready to exclaim — What is this 1 And where are we 1 — a few steps farther introduce you to the majestic, most eloquent, and well-kept ruins of Bolton Priory, on the bank of the Wharf, directly opposite a lofty cliff, down which BOLTON PRIORY. 277 plunges a small, but noisy and foaming cataract, of more than a hundred feet. This ruin is in a state of the best pres- ervation. The walls are nearly all perfect, and every win- dow appears in its original form. It is Gothic of the purest and chastest order — built in 1120 — or rather begun then. The nave is now a church, and in use. An unfinished tow- er, half raised, was put to it in 1520 — which, being open to the weather, wears the marks of decay. But the Priory is a small consideration in this enchanted ground. Here you have just entered the lower margin of a large estate of the Duke of Devonshire, running up the Wharf for several miles, stretching out over the hills, and far away on either side — and all kept as is proper for such wild scenery. Having turned from the Priory, in some half dozen rods we were lost under the cliffs on the shore of the river (brook), and began to penetrate the higher regions of this romantic world. A way is carefully dug, rising and falling over the rocks, and every footstep of the passenger made safe. But nothing else is touched except what is neces- sary for this purpose. By-and-by we rose and passed over a beautiful table of land, where cattle were grazing, and then plunged into the thicket again. Next we came to a hand- some bridge across the Wharf, for the private purposes of the estate. Then leaving a carriage-road upon the lower bank, we followed a dug way for donkeys and foot-passen- gers, cut out of the precipitous sides of the mountain, and occasionally looking down sublimely over the crags into the deep chasm, and on the rushing waters below. At last we came to the Stridd, as it is called — where the river is com- pressed, like the Connecticut at Bellows Falls, and rushes down between the rocks, so straitened, that a man can jump across from one shore to the other. I was about to make the experiment, but stopping to hear the story of a man who fell in and was drowned in consequence of the same attempt, I began to calculate the chances, grew wise, and desisted. We ascended the river about five miles, till r coming to the ruins of an ancient tower, we crossed and came down the other side by a similar path, dug out of the hill-sides, and often presenting most enchanting views of the river above and below, of the sides of the opposite hills, and of moun- tain-tops beyond. At last we came to the " Valley of Deso- lation," and ascended it, rising and rising, overlooking the tops of the trees and the precipitous cliffs of the rock, into the dark waters of a small tributary to the Wharf, which tumbled down its rude channel below. We had now walked, since we left the Priory, not much less than ten miles. My friend being ahead, and myself beginning to tire, he left me out of sight. I sat down, wearied with too much of a good thing ; and writing upon a card, which 1 laid in the path — 24 278 fountain's abbey. Tired and gone back — I turned my face down the valley. The reason of the name of this valley is — that the light- ning strikes here so often as to scath a great many of the trees, and give the forest the aspect of desolation. We returned at night, arriving at Leeds at 12 o'clock, hav- ing passed Kirkstall Abbey under all the witchery of the light of the full moon at that still and solemn hour. The Rev. John Foster, the essayist, as I was informed, spent a whole night among the ruins of Kirkstall — alone by the light of the moon. For myself, I think I should have expected, in such circumstances, to have communion with the spirits of the ancient tenants — the monks and friars — - who lie buried there. FOUNTAIN'S ABBEY. What is it in antiquity which so irresistibly commands our veneration 1 Is it the simple quality and fact of anti- quity ? Is it because the human mind is so constituted as most to respect that which is remote — on the principle that " distance lends enchantment to the view V Or is it the ef- fect of education — the consent of mankind'? Certain it is, that a new and pretty thing, be it ever so perfect a produc- tion of art, has nothing of the charm of the old, be it ever so ugly. The more decayed the ruins of antiquity, the more absolute the dominion of ancient desolations — the more eager is the mind to trace the workings of fellow- minds, which once were busied there, and to study the character and genius of the times in which they flourished. The present is overlooked to gaze at and admire the dis- tant. These ancient structures are often superlatively ugly in their shapes, and always worn into decrepitude by the action of time. Though it must be confessed, that the prin- cipal and grand features of architecture displayed in these specimens are the most perfect beau ideal of the art, so far as modern perception can reach. But, that we moderns, while attempting to hit off the purer features of the ancient Gothic, generally bad enough done at the best, should also incorpo- rate all the ugliness, all the deformities, and all the worn-out looks, the natural and unavoidable product of time — in other words, that we should strive so hard and so unsuccessfully to make a new thing old — is ridiculous enough. I had visited many interesting ruins of architectural anti- quities in England — had walked over parks and pleasure- grounds — through mansions and some extensive domains of the English nobility ; the solemnity of antiquity had become familiar, though by no means irksome ; crumbling ruins were jumbled together in my imagination in such groups, that I could hardly define the shapes I had seen first, mid- dle, and last ; the spirits of the dead, many centuries in their graves, seemed to have been disturbed by my invasion of fountain's abbey. 279 their sanctuaries, and haunted me ; the stupendous piles of ancient architecture, still in preservation, had passed before me ; the mansions of the great seemed remarkable only by comparison one with another ; gilded halls, statuary, paint- ings, state apartments and state furniture, in all their variety of beauty, grandeur, and costliness, had lost the air of nov- elty, though not altogether the charm of interest ; the ex- quisite combinations of nature and art, to make a little spot of earth too good for use, too perfect to be enjoyed, had claimed and received my enrapt attentions ; herds of deer had become as flocks of sheep ; and the waters of Harrow- gate as the waters of Avon or Genesee river (both of which are indeed exactly alike) — when I left Harrowgate, a beau- tiful and salubrious retreat, to call at Fountain's Abbey — not that I had supposed any thing of the kind was yet left to awaken in my bosom other and newer feelings of com- placency and delight in that which is old ; nor that I had imagined that Studley Park remained to throw all other parks I had seen into the shade, and make them in compar- ison to be despised — but because, being in the neighbour- hood, it was suitable to see it. I love to be taken by surprise in matters of this kind. And therefore, generally, I never read a guide-book to be guided. If I have it in my pocket, I am careful not to know too much about it. It is often quite as well to take these things as they are afloat in common story. I had heard of Studley Park, and of Fountain's Abbey. Who has not? But nobody ever told me that they were so worthy of at- tention. I am also exceedingly jealous of walking society, when I visit these Elysian fields and these monuments of the rev- erend dead. I am afraid they will profane the place. In- deed, I never knew it otherwise. And thej-efore, when I can, I choose to go alone. I do not object to a professional guide, who has been disciplined to propriety and duty, and whom I can command either to speak or keep silence, as may suit my feelings. I had almost said, a man must be devout in such a place. He must at least indulge in sentiments which border upon religious awe. He communes with the dead. He consults spirits who have been for generations and for centuries tenants of the invisible world. He asks them what they thought, what they felt, and what were their schemes'? He sees before him the proofs of their aspirations after immortality. He admires their industry, and wonders at their skill. He sees the stamp of their minds graven on the imperishable granite, and angel forms hewn out of the rock, bearing the scroll of the date of their creation. The Babel of their ambition rises high, and holds converse with the fleeting clouds from generation to gener- ation. And to be disturbed by common chatter in the midst 280 fountain's abbey. of such solemn scenes, and such imposing grandeur, is not simply unsentimental, but it is profane — it is shocking. In approaching this ancient ruin, the visiter, leaving the beautiful town of Ripon behind him, and passing the little village of Studley, finds himself plunged into the spacious grounds, laid open to the range of deer, sheep, and cattle — shaded in all directions with the most stately oak, chestnut, beech, and various other forest trees. Having passed the mansion and its gardens, standing upon elevated ground on the right, he descends to the margin of a small lake, fed by a cascade, and open to his eye at the farther extremity ; which is in the line of the boundary that separates the pleasure-grounds from the pastoral fields. It would be mockery to attempt a description of a four miles' walk, af- ter passing the lodge at the head of this lake, every rod of which presents something to arrest the footstep, to amaze, or delight, or enrapture the soul. First we plunge under the deep shade of the fir and other evergreens ; next we walk by the shorn and impenetrable hedge of the thickly-set yew-tree ; next a lofty laurel-bank, sweeping far and rising high, and over its top, peering upon us, the banqueting- house ; now we look through an aperture, shorn out from the thicket, down upon a cluster of green islets, made by ar- tificial divisions and serpentine courses of the stream, and here and there planted upon them select and elegant speci- mens of statuary ; yonder is the temple of filial piety, erect- ed in honour of the Grecian daughter who nourished her father, doomed to starvation, by the milk of her own breast ; and there is the dying gladiator, who, though dying so long, is dying still. As we pass along and wend our path, as- cending and descending, and crossing the stream over a rus- tic bridge — not knowing that we have crossed it — with ever- changing prospect peeping now and then through the shorn avenues — we have an octagon tower and temple of Fame, and various other edifices passing before us — the same things presenting themselves again and again from different posi- tions, under other aspects. Now we find ourselves in a subterranean passage, buried from the light of day, and then opening again on a new world. The tops of the trees, in several places, are shorn in long ranges, to open on our view some distant and beautiful object. By-and-by, coming to a Gothic screen, a door is suddenly opened on the brow of a lofty eminence — and down through the vale, over a lake, a cascade, and meadow lawn, the long looked-for ob- ject, the romantic reality of Fountain's Abbey, in its best and most perfect form, bursts upon the eye. And there it is — and there, in that soft and holy retreat, with its full- drawn sides and lofty tower, planted in nature's garden, overhung and wrapped in forest-hills — let that awful relic of centuries agone rest for ever and aye. EARL GREY. 281 Then, having drunk deeply of the vision from that emi- nence, go and take possession — walk up and down its long aisles, open to the vault of heaven, but walled still to the clouds. Tread upon the tesselated pavement, the very ori- ginal ground of the altar, laved by the drenchings of every shower. Look up to the lofty and majestic tower, still standing in all its parts. Walk round again and again, and look up again, till, if possible, you are satisfied. But that can hardly be. Survey and note the numerous adjacent structures in their various apartments — many of which are found in perfection even now — and all of which at this day cover two acres of ground. And then consider, that these are only so small a fraction of that stupendous pile which originally covered twelve acres ! " Here awful arches made a noonday night, And the dim windows shed a solemn light. Now, o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves, Long-sounding aisles, and intermingling graves, Black melancholy sits — and round her throws A death-like silence, and a dread repose. Her gloomy presence saddens every scene, Shades every flower, and darkens every green ; Deepens the murmur of the falling floods, And sheds a browner horror on the woods." Fountain's Abbey was built in the 12th century, and is reckoned one of the finest and most perfect ruins of the kind in England. FOUR BRITISH STATESMEN. Earl Grey— Lord Brougham— Daniel O'Connell— and Thomas Babbington Macauley. Earl Grey has closed his political career; but English history will support his name, and posterity remember his services with everlasting gratitude. It may be true, that there have lived greater men; certainly there have been more brilliant. In the file of English ministers since the Revolution, he has not perhaps a rival in the highest quali- ties of a statesman. " If there be one," says a British au- thority, "it was probably Lord Somers; but it maybe doubt- ed if he was equal to Lord Grey in eloquence and outward accomplishments. Walpole had great sagacity and busi- ness talent ; but his maxims were gross, and his character wanted elevation as well as virtue. Chatham's arrogance rendered it impossible for any man possessing self-respect to act with him. North was merely a courtier and a man of 24* 282 EARL GREY. expedients. William Pitt was inoculated with his father's arrogance, and like him he was deficient in acquired knowl- edge. Fox, with his wonderful gifts of head and heart, al- ways leaves an impression on the mind of a person ill qual- ified for business ; Liverpool was a poor Sir Plausible ; Cas- tlereagh had not one notable quality, except a ruffianly hardi- hood ; Canning, with superior talents, had a large dash of the charlatan; and Peel's tactical skill and logical dexterity are sullied by craftiness, and his political life is not in harmony with itself. Of Peel, most assuredly it cannot be said, as of Earl Grey, that whatever he utters ' has the dignity of truth and the stamp of honour.'" This is rather a short way of disposing of these eminent men, it must be confessed ; and seems to partake of the spirit of party. Lord Grey was born in 1764, and educated at Cambridge. In 1785 he was returned to Parliament for his native coun- ty, Northumberland. Mr. Pitt was then in the zenith of his power, obtained by the sacrifice of early principles on the altar of ambition and apostacy. Liberal opinions were then a drawback in a young aspirant to a political station. But Mr. Grey honourably attached himself to the principles and party of Mr. Fox. The terrific evils of the French Revolu- tion did not cool his love of liberty, or scare him from his confidence in the cause of freedom. He passed the ordeal of that severe and memorable trial, and was distinguished in the small, but chosen band of patriotic Whigs. He joined Mr. Fox in the powerful advocacy of Parliamentary Reform, and was a member of the notable association of the " Friends of the People." In the spring of 179*2, Mr. Grey was select- ed by this society to introduce a motion in the Commons for a reform in the representation, by public resolutions signed, on the unanimous order of a public meeting, by Mr. Lamb- ton, the father of Lord Durham. On the presentation of the petition and reform scheme of the society, Mr. Grey, on the 6th of May, 1793, moved " for the appointment of a commit- tee to take the petition into consideration, and report such mode and remedy as should appear to them proper." He was ably and eloquently seconded by Mr. Erskine, and after two days' debate the motion was lost by a majority of 241 — forty -one members only supporting it out of 282. What a change of public sentiment on this question in forty years ; or rather what a different House of Commons ! The Reformed House of Commons under Earl Grey's ad- ministration stood thus : Reformers, 464 ; Anti-Reformers, 185; majority, 280! — dividing the doubtful equally. On the 26th of May, 1797, Mr. Grey again moved " for leave to bring in a bill to reform the representation of the people in the House of Commons." On the division there appeared— ays, 93; noes, 258; majority, 165. A manifest increase in favour of Reform. EARL GREY. 283 On April 25th, 1803, he again moved, " that it be an in- struction to the committee to consider his majesty's most gracious message respecting the union of Great Britain and Ireland, to take into their consideration the most effectual means of securing the independence of Parliament.' 1 This motion was rejected on a division of 34 to 176. In 1806 he joined the Coalition administration, as first Lord of the Admiralty, and succeeded, on the death of Mr. Fox, to the Secretaryship of Foreign Affairs. In 1807 he succeeded to the peerage of his father. His political con- sistency and judgment, as a senator, during the administra- tions of the Duke of Portland, Lord Sidmouth, Mr. Percival, Lord Liverpool, Mr. Canning, Lord Goderich, and the Duke of Wellington, have never been questioned by the friends of liberty. Throughout the whole of this memorable period of British history, Lord Grey was the never-failing advo- cate of popular interests. His steady and enlightened sup- port of Catholic emancipation — his known refusal of office without the concession of that critical question — his oppo- sition to the Tory crusades against the liberties of Europe — his protests against, the profligate expenditures of Mr. Pitt and his successors — his opposition to the fraudulent altera- tions in the currency in 1797, and to the subsequent rob- beries of both creditors and debtors — greatly distinguished him among his political contemporaries. So much for the history of that period of Earl Grey's life, which, in the providence of God, constituted the school of his training for that high destiny which he has fulfilled. Those who sympathize with the principles which he so early imbibed, and with the plans of improving society, in its highest and most influential departments, which have employed his powers, and to which he devoted himself through a long life, with such rare consistency, and with a final triumph so signal and complete, can hardly fail to be impressed, if they believe in Providence, that he was raised up for the notable work which he, more than any other in- dividual, was the instrument of accomplishing. Earl Grey has occupied the point of an epoch, not in English history only, but in the history of Europe — of the world; and his hand established it. Having done his work, he has " de- scended, not fallen,"* from the summit of his power, with a dignity that sheds lustre on his name, and will secure for him the respect not only of the present generation, but of all that are to come. It does not now require to be said that the British nation had recently arrived at a crisis in their history, which de- manded no ordinary qualifications and no ordinary powers to guide them, under Providence, safely through. Every- * These were his own words at tho Edinburgh dinner given in honour of him. 284 EARL GREY. body feels it. It was a crisis big with importance, not only to themselves, but to all the nations of Europe. There was a determination for change pervading the social fabric which no power on earth could resist ; and unless the in- struments of safe guidance had been prepared by heaven, there must have been a wreck — certainly a shock, that would have rent society with a violence not soon to be re- paired, and which perhaps would have thrown back im- provement in the science and the art of governing mankind for generations to come. The Aristocracy and Democracy of Great Britain had long been approaching to the point of collision, and in 1830, when William IV. ascended the throne, and called Earl Grey to the head of his government, these two antagonist elements stood marshalled against each other in fearful array. The democracy was mighty and determined ; the aristocracy, accustomed to rule, was determined not to be ruled. De- mocracy had gained a manifest ascendency, and felt its own strength; while its antagonist power discovered that the fight was probably for its own existence. Where was the individual — for great changes in society require a leader — where was the man, in such a crisis, that could check and modify the impetuosity of the one party, and yet retain the confidence of the other, at the same time conducting them both to a safe adjustment of the conflict ? There was man- ifestly but one upon the stage that could do it. For a long life of consistent devotion to the principles and cause of reform, Earl Grey had earned and weJl merited the confidence of the popular party. A member of the aristoc- racy, proud of its dignities, attached to it in principle as well as in affection, resolved to maintain its privileges, and being generally known by those of his rank to be of this opinion and to have this temper, he had all that respect among them which this character, bating his known devo- tion to reform, could inspire. With Earl Grey, Reform did not aim at encroachment on what he regarded as the rights of the aristocracy. By the democracy he was believed to be an honest man ; by the aristocracy he was known to be honest; and he enjoyed the unqualified respect of both par- ties for the sufficiency of his talents to preside over the councils of the nation, and to act with dignity as well as with decision and energy in a great emergency. He was, in fact, the connecting link between these two great and conflicting parts of society ; for the period of his adminis- tration, society was bound and held together by his influ- ence ; and he had the reins of government a sufficient time to guide the nation through one of the most eventful periods of their history. The crisis passed without convulsion, though in May, 1832, they were on the borders of a revo- lution ; and that only because Earl Grey felt obliged to re- EARL GREY. 285 tire, on account of the opposition of the House of Lords to his great measure. The necessity which the sovereign was under, of recommitting the government to his hands, proved he was the only man for the time. The moral beauty of his retrospective history — the chief glory of his career and of his last great achievement — is, that his name is untarnished: his reputation is left clear and splendid as the sun in a cloudless day. His moral qual- ities have all along maintained a symmetry with his intel- lectual powers — or rather, perhaps, the latter have been under control of the former. Both, doubtless, have acted reciprocally on each other, to enlighten, purify, and invig- orate the whole man, and to set him up as the prominent and leading star of the constellation that surrounded him — the sun of the sphere in which he moved, and which was governed and blessed by his influence. He has been loved, as well as respected, even by his political enemies ; and will be so the more, as he recedes from that high place, in which, not personally, but politically, he was obnoxious to them. No party — no man — can bring to his charge a moral delin- quency, or the want of courtesy as an opponent ; however, some may think he has erred in judgment of what the times have demanded. To have been thus honoured by Providence and by society — to have filled such a place — to have been so universally qualified for the exigencies of such an eventful period — to have met them calmly, even with an unruffled temper — to have controlled them with dignity, for the attainment of a result so desirable and grand, for the political regeneration of a community of such unbending character, and of such | vast, complicated, and long-established relations — holding a steady and firm hand on the symptoms of convulsion for the time being, to rebuke and suppress them — and then to de- ■ scend from power in peace, to enjoy the gratitude and receive the blessing of a great nation — is a part of the history of one man that rarely finds a parallel. Whether Earl Grey has had his coadjutors ; whether he could have accomplished this work unaided by other men in the various ranks and relations of life ; whether he could have done it unsupported by the people, whose cause rested on his shoulders ; or without the press, that mighty engine of power ; or without the popular branch of the legislature, which was the mediate and immediate instrument of his power — are not questions to be debated. But yet is it true, that he stood alone in the peculiarities of his relations, and in the supremacy of his influence ; yet is it true, apparently, that no other man in the British nation could have filled his place and done his work. He was raised up by Providence "for this same purpose." It remains to be said, that Earl Grey is, and ever has 286 LORD BROUGHAM. been, not only an honest and determined Reformer, but a Conservative in the better sense of the term ; and more of a Conservative, probably, than they, who have sustained him and been the arm of his strength, are aware. It was best — it was necessary that he should be so ; and he will, doubtless, die a Conservative. He has accomplished the work for which God ordained him ; and that is enough. That, neither he nor any one else can ever undo ; for him- self, he will never desire it. Farther he could not go ; more he could not do ; it would be a miracle. Other, and the re- maining needful degrees of Reform, must be done by other hands. It was his part to furnish them with the instrument. The name of Lord Grey now belongs to history. He may live and have influence for ten years to come ; influ- ence he must have, while his mind retains its vigour; and that influence, it may be expected, he will devote to conserve, in the best sense, the valuable institutions of his country, as well as to perfect that work of Reform in which he has been engaged. It is not unlikely he will try to save some things which he cannot save, and which ought not to be saved. His views of church and state will incline him that way. If, indeed, his feelings have been injured and his heart dis- gusted, as some have surmised, even with an imaginary dis- covery of any unfair doings, relating to himself personally, among his late coadjutors and colleagues, it should not be matter of surprise if he is found taking a stand against what he may deem precipitate measures in the progress of Re- form ; nor ought he to be regarded as forfeiting in any de- gree the everlasting gratitude of his country for the ser- vices he has rendered. Indeed, his whole history and char- acter entitle him still to stand up as a Conservative of many things, which popular demand will undoubtedly press to have dissolved and broken down. It is morally impossi- ble that Earl Grey should be a Reformer to that extent which the democracy of the empire meditates and will claim. Lord Grey has ever been a British aristocrat ; and the Ethi- opian cannot change his skin, nor the leopard his spots. He has filled that place that was important and indispensa- ble ; he has done his work, and purchased to himself the name of one of the greatest benefactors of his country ; and the nation will not be ungrateful to the man who must ever be regarded as the instrument of giving them the Reform Bill. LORD BROUGHAM. The late Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain— Mr. Henry Brougham that was, some five years ago — that sin- gular genius, that exalted man, who, the longer he lives and the more he does, bids fair to be the greater puzzle, as to CANNING AND BROUGHAM. 287 what he will finally come to — was described in comparison Df Mr. Secretary Canning, in 1823, as follows: — "Though they resembled each other in standing foremost and alone n their respective parties, they were in every other respect opposed is the zenith and nadir, or as light and darkness. ; This difference extended even to their personal appearance. Can- ling was airy, open, and prepossessing ; Brougham seemed stern, hard, ovvering, and almost repulsive. The head of Canning had an air of xtreme elegance ; that of Brougham was much the reverse — but still, n whatever way it was viewed, it gave a sure indication of the terrible )Ower of the inhabitant within. Canning's features were handsome, ind his eye, though deeply ensconced under his eyebrows, was full of parkle and gayety. The features of Brougham were harsh in the ex- reme : while his forehead shot up to a great elevation, his chin was ong and square ; his mouth, nose, and eyes seemed huddled together n the centre of his face — the eyes absolutely lost amid folds and cor- ugations ; and while he sat listening, they seemed to retire inward, or o be veiled by a filmy curtain, which not only concealed the appalling ^lare which shot away from them when he was roused, but rendered lis mind and his purpose a sealed book to the keenest scrutiny of man. Manning's passions appeared upon the open champaign of his face, drawn ip in a ready array, and moved to and fro at every turn of his own )ration, and every retort in that of his antagonist ; those of Brougham •emained within, as in a citadel which no artillery could batter, and no inine blow up ; and even when he was putting forth all the power of lis eloquence, when every ear was tingling at what he said, and while -he immediate object of his invective was writhing in helpless and inde- scribable agony, his visage retained its cold and brassy hue, and he tri- jmphed over the passions of other men by seeming to be wholly wiuV )ut passion himself. The whole form of Canning was rounded, and smooth, and graceful ; that of Brougham angular, long, and awkward. When Canning rose to speak, he elevated his countenance, and seemed :o look round for the applause of those about him, as an object dear to lis feelings ; while Brougham stood coiled and concentrated, reckless ff all but the power that was within himself. From Canning there was 3xpected the glitter of wit and the flow of spirit, something showy and slegant ; Brougham stood up as a being whose powers and intentions were all a mystery — whose aim and effect no living man could divine. Jfou bent forward to catch the first sentence of the one, and felt human jature elevated in the specimen before you ; you crouched and shrunk aack from the other, and dreams of ruin and annihilation darted across four mind. The one seemed to dwell among men, to join in their oys, and to live upon their praise : the other appeared a son of the lesert, who had deigned to visit the human race merely to make them remble at his strength. " The style of their eloquence and the structure of their orations vere equally different. Canning chose his words for the sweetness of heir sound, and arranged his periods for the melody of their cadence ; vhile, with Brougham, the more hard and unmoutliable the better, banning arranged his words like one who could play skilfully upon that sweetest of all instruments, the human voice ; Brougham proceeded ike a master of eve-ry power of reasoning and of the understanding, rhe modes and allusions of the one were always quadrabie by the clas- 288 CANNING AND BROUGHAM. sical formula ; those of the other could be squared only by the higher analysis of the mind — and they rose, and ran, and pealed, and swelled on and on, till a single sentence was often a complete oration within itself; but still, so clear was the logic, and so close the connexion, that every member carried the weight of all that went before, and opened the way for all that was to follow after. The style of Canning was like the convex mirror, which scatters every ray of light that falls upon it, and shines and sparkles in whatever position it is viewed ; that of Brougham was like the concave speculum, scattering no indiscriminate radiance, but having its light concentrated into one intense and tremen- dous focus. Canning marched forward in a straight and clear track — every paragraph was perfect in itself, and every coruscation of wit and of genius was brilliant and delightful — it was all felt, and it was all at once'; Brougham twined round and round in a spiral, sweeping the contents of a vast circumference before him, and uniting and pouring them onward to the main point of attack. When he began, one was astonished at the wideness and the obliquity of his course ; nor was it passible to comprehend how he was to dispose of the vast and varied materials which he collected by the way ; but as the curve lessened, and the end appeared, it became obvious that all was to be efficient there. " Such were the rival orators, who sat glancing hostility and defiance at each other during the early part of the session of 1823 : — Brougham, as if wishing to overthrow the secretary by a sweeping accusation of having abandoned all principle for the sake of office ; and the secretary ready to parry the charge and to attack in his turn. An opportunity at length offered ; and it is more worthy of being recorded, as being the last terrible personal attack previous to that change in the measures of the cabinet, which, though it had been begun from the moment that Can- ning, Robinson, and Huskisson came into office, was not at that time perceived, or at least not admitted and appreciated. Upon that occa- sion, the oration of Brougham was at the outset disjointed and ragged, and apparently without aim or application. He careered over the whole annals of the world, and collected every instance in which ge- nius had degraded itself at the footstool of power, or in which principle had been sacrificed for the vanity or lucre of place ; but still there was no allusion to Canning, and no connexion, that ordinary men could dis- cover, with the business before the House. When, however, he had collected every material which suited his purpose — when the mass had become big and black, he bound it about and about with the cords of illustration and of argument ; when its union was secure, he swung it round and round with the strength of a giant and the rapidity of a whirlwind, in order that its impetus and effect might be the more tre- mendous ; and while doing this, he ever and anon glared his eye, and pointed his finger, to make the aim and the direction sure. Canning himself was the first that seemed to be aware where and how terrible was to be the collision ; and he kept writhing his body in agony, and rolling his eyes in fear, as if anxious to find some shelter from the im- pending bolt. The House soon caught the impression, and every man in it was glancing his eye fearfully, first towards the orator, and then towards the secretary. There was — save the voice of Brougham, which growled in that under tone of thunder, which is so fearfully au- dible, and of which no speaker of the day was fully master but him- self — a silence, as if the angel of retribution had been glaring in the LORD BROUGHAM. 289 facc3 of all parties the scroll of their private sins. A pen, which one of the secretaries dropped upon the matting, was heard in the remotest parts of the House ; and the visiting members, who often slept in the side galleries during the debate, started up as though the final trump had been sounding them to give an account of their deeds. The stiff- ness of Brougham's figure had vanished ; his features seemed concen- trated almost to a point ; he glanced towards every part of the House in succession ; and sounding the death knell of the secretary's for- bearance and prudence, with both his clinched hands upon the table, he hurled at him an accusation more dreadful in its gall, and more tor- turing in its effects, than ever has been hurled at mortal man within the same walls. The result was instantaneous — was electric : It was as when the thunder-cloud descends upon some giant peak — one flash, one peal — the sublimity vanished, and all that remained was a small pattering of rain. Canning started to his feet, and was able only to utter the unguarded words — 'It is false !' — to which followed a dull chapter of apologies. From that moment the House became more a scene of real business than of airy display and of angry vituperation." — European Magazine. It is sufficiently evident, that this picture was not drawn with the kindest feeling towards the subject of the principal portrait. I say principal, for there can hardly be a question on which of the two characters the eye and soul of the writer were fastened. Canning is a mere accident in the story — a beautiful and lovely one indeed — and brought in to heighten the contrast ; for " with superior talents he had a large dash of the charlatan." Here he is made as much handsomer than himself, as the portrait of Brougham is more ugly than the original. Canning is set up for effect — as a Hght to make the clouds and darkness thrown round the soul of Brougham visible — as a medium to cause the tempest of passion raging in his adversary to be heard hor- rible. Subtract the dark and terrible workings of evil here ascribed to Brougham, plant their moving springs in the breast of his accuser, and make a trio of himself and the two subjects of his pen ; then allow a little for the skilful combination and glowing mixture from the ingredients of the palette — and the picture will be a very fair one. That it displays some of the most masterly strokes ever drawn by the hand of man, I need not say. The scene that inspired it must have been sublime. The following lines might be mistaken for a version of the same thing : — " All passions of all men ; * * * * All that was hoped, all that was fear'd by man, He toss'd about, as tempest wither'd leaves. * * * * With terror now he froze the cowering blood, And now dissolved the heart in tenderness ; Yet would not tremble — would not weep himself; But back unto his soul retired, alone, N 25 290 LORD BROUGHAM. Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet. * * ' * * Then smiling, look'd upon the wreck he made." But Lord Brougham is not such a man. Even his ene- mies (political) give him credit for kindness of nature. I am not aware that the common public impression of his character accuses him of any vice of heart more than ambi- tion ; and the public are very apt to be right fn their judg- ment of men who are public property. A very high authority in Great Britain, opposed to Lord Brougham politically, and never failing to improve its oppor- tunities to circumscribe his influence, has rendered no un- meaning compliments to his private character. It speaks of " the noble and learned lord's circumstances" (pecuniary) as being " impaired by a too generous confidence and a bound- less liberality ; he has, we believe, amiable dispositions. . . . " Again : "We certainly should not be sorry to see Lord Brougham a member of the Conservative party. His warm-heartedness; his pertinacity in certain fundamental principles, though the principles are wrong ; his candour to political opponents, where temper does not interfere ; his con- tempt of sordid gain ; and his private kindliness of nature, are all good Conservative instincts. We should not regret to see Lord Brougham a member of a Conservative Cabinet. Lord Brougham is a zealot in whatever he undertakes," &c. Beyond dispute, Lord Brougham is a prodigy. He may be, and doubtless is, ambitious. Could a man of such a soul, so capacious, so cultivated, so stored with vast and various learning, so trained to forensic and parliamentary exercises, of such gigantic intellectual stature and restless passion, accustomed to rival conflict with a world of aspiring spirits, himself aspiring, and unchastened by the hallowed influ- ences of religion — be other than ambitious 1 We speak of him as a man, of such powers as he has developed, and placed in the midst of such exciting circumstances. He may, at times, appear inconsistent ; it is possible that in some things he has been so ; no ordinary mind can compre- hend a man that sees, and says, and does so much. He may have seemed occasionally to betray a want of circum- spection, from the multiplicity of cares and responsibilities which, in the high office he has lately filled, devolved upon him, in connexion with all his private relations. He might be forgiven if he should sometimes have forgotten one day what he had done the day before. At any rate, Lord Brougham, by his mere intellectual ex- ploits, has drawn upon him the fixed gaze of his country and of the civilized world. That nation may well be proud, whose nurseries of education, whose literature and science, whose inciting history, whose various social, intellectual, LORD BROUGHAM. 291 and moral influences, bearing upon her sons, have made the late Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain ; whose field for the legitimate use and display of talent has afforded scope for the formation of such a character, and opened the way for the attainment of such a social eminence. For half an age or more now past, Lord Brougham has had no contemporary rival in his own country, for force of intellect and its products. It is possible, indeed, that there may have been some closet dreamer — some scribbler of fancies, collected from the regions of imagination, whose spirit has been as active, because it was vagrant and wild, and could not be tamed. But where is the man, familiar and concerned in the common tactics of life, applying his powers and his hand to the mighty and complicated ma- chinery of human society, forming its shapes and controlling its energies, whose influence can be compared to that which for a few years past has signalized the history of Lord Brougham ! In the intellectual world, Brougham has been a prince of as lofty mien, and equally perspicacious, all pervading, and energetic, as was Bonaparte in arms. His conceptions, his decision, his prompt execution of his purpose, and his certain triumph — have been equal. Ac- customed to victory, he has been no less confident. All his opponents, however noble, however burdened with older and hereditary honours, have approached him with defer- ence, and quailed before his blighting sarcasm, when he has been provoked to deal with them in severity — and have always anticipated defeat in whatever shapes of argument they have had to encounter him. His resources are infinite, and always ready for use ; his apprehension quick as the lightning, and his eloquence like the artillery of the storm. I confess that I was slow in admitting the claims to ex- traordinary greatness commonly awarded to Lord Brough- am. I had seen him so often occupied in little things, and mincing such a variety of dishes, that I did not readily see how all this could consist with great endeavours and great achievements But he who is always doing whatever comes to hand, and doing it well and thoroughly, is building for himself a foundation for mighty effort, when occasion shall demand or afford opportunity. Life, we know, is made up of little things ; here and there only comes a time and place for remarkable deeds ; and he who is prepared by previous exercise, furnished and equipped with all his armour on, when opportunity presents, may strike his blow with uner- ring aim. The industry of Lord Brougham, from his earliest history, has been almost unrivalled. No event, no place to which he has been called, have ever taken him by sur- prise. In his literary efforts, at the Bar, in the House of Commons, at the trial of Queen Caroline, and on the Wool- sack, whether as moderator or as judge, he has been alike N2 292 LORD BROUGHAM. and equally at home. As Speaker of the House of Lords, he presided over their deliberations, if not with lordly, arti- ficial, and affected dignity, yet with ease and unembarrassed. As a judge, he held the bar in perpetual awe, compelled them to despatch, rebuked and straightened their tortuosities, and often saved them the trouble and the court the infliction of a tedious argument, by declaring it unnecessary and an- ticipating the result. I have seen one of those gowned, wigged, and powdered gentlemen, writhe under the reproof of the chancellor for a dishonest management with his client, and compelled to sit down in mortification. I have now lying before me a print, representing his lordship in his chair of judge, leaning forward over his desk, with his spectacles in his right hand, the mace lying before him, and underneath inscribed characteristically : — " i" see, sir, I see — it comes to this .'" And this short sentence is the man in that place. To look at Lord Brougham's face and head — I have seen fifty grandmothers as handsome as he, and equally indicative of greatness. Although I do not profess to be a phrenolo- gist, I am inclined to think the science is in danger of being upset by this ungainly specimen. But however he may look like a grandmother, as equally feminine and equally wrinkled, especially under his wig, all the world know that he has proved himself far more efficient than the ordinary character of that respectable class of the community. Un- der that prodigious nose, long and thin face, and ugly head, lie such treasures of thought, and such elements of reason- ing, as are rarely to be found in man. It must be confessed that Lord Brougham is somewhat wanting in dignity as president of a court or speaker of a legislative assembly. He wears uneasy the gown and wig, as unnecessary appendages. As Lord Chancellor, he used to put on and take off that little oldfashioned three-cornered hat in compliance with ceremony — but in a manner plainly indicating that he thought it might as well be dispensed with. Impetuous in all the movements of his mind, he can- not brook unnecessary delays in court, or in the House of Lords, or in any business in which he bears a part. He will interrupt anybody at any moment, whether in con- versation or in argument before a court, or in a parlia- mentary speech in the House of Lords, if a sudden impulse inclines him to do so ; and he is often so disposed. He is not only undignified in these sudden obtrusions, but rude. He has even attained the extraordinary advantage to him- self of throwing in words, phrases, and extended remarks, consentaneously with an argument or speech, without in- terrupting it, or demanding a pause in the second party, if that party is pleased to go on. In the celerity and line of his movements, in the sudden- LORD BROUGHAM. 293 ness of arrest, and in the sharpness of the angle he turns, he is not unlike a baboon. He sits down as quick as the ani- mal just named, and gets up as quick — hops and assumes another position with a very exact imitation of that imitative being; wherever he is, and whatever he is doing, he claims equally, and equally receives, the attention and admiration of all. " I beg your pardon, sir." — " O no, sir." — " Yes, sir — yes, sir." — u If you please, sir." — " You are wrong there, sir." — " Allow me to correct you, sir," are somewhat the style of his interruptions, and all done with an almost in- conceivable quickness. Lord Brougham, while listening attentively to others, especially in common colloquy, has a manner of twitching up the sides of his face, by a violent muscular spasm, as if an invisible hand, behind and over his head, by an invisible cord inserted in the cheek and grasp- ing its principal muscles, should every now and then sud- denly and mechanically draw up those parts with great force. It is a frequent and painful distortion. Lord Brougham's ordinary voice is sharp, clear, and quite womanish. I should easily believe he had never been a Sheridan in the study of attitudes, &c. And as to his elo- cution, I can believe also that it never received its shape by the dicta of the art under the tuition of a master — but rather by the impulses of his feelings. Like all great minds, he selects the plainest language, but always pure. His customary tones are silvery; but the range of his voice upon the scale of intonation is not- withstanding beyond that of almost any other man. He can " growl in an under tone of thunder," as well as scream in a falsette. His fluency is like an ever-running stream, occa- sionally shooting a rapid with majestic and overwhelming force ; and now and then, upon a great theme, when his pas- sions are stirred within him, he astounds like the tremendous cataract of a mighty river, or like the thunder from the light- ning-cloud. It is not the manner of the man that one is look- ing after or that one admires. It is his thoughts — and the thought which is next to come is that which we feel most interested in. We always expect something remarkable from a mind so remarkable. As striking as are the thoughts he has just poured forth, you see him so intent on something he is about to utter, and knowing by experience that you will not be disappointed, he chains your sympathies, and you bend forward with intensity of desire for what is coming, and are always sorry when he sits down. Lord Brougham appears as if he were constantly addres- sing himself to all around him : — " Onward ! Onward ! It is a bad economy of life to do only one thing, when there is room to do two, and both are worthy of being done." The first time I saw Lord Brougham without his gown and wig was at the London University, on the occasion of the 25* 294 LORD BROUGHAM. distribution of prizes to the students, July 12th, 1834 — Sir James Abercrombie, M. P., in the chair. It was during the momentary and partial dissolution of the ministry, on the retirement of Earl Grey. His lordship had that day received a message from the king at Windsor, 23 miles, by a coach and four, in the brief time of one hour and seven minutes, not very far from 18 miles an hour, if that were possible. This, how- ever, on the authority of the newspapers. That it had some- thing to do with the formation of a government, there could be little doubt. Notwithstanding, however, his lordship found time to afford his presence on the prize-day of the uni- versity, and he entered the academical theatre a short time after the honourable chairman had commenced his opening address. The chairman was interrupted for a moment by the welcome which the company were disposed to bestow on the lord chancellor. Having never seen his lordship before except in his official garb, I did not recognise him till after he had taken his seat, and my eye began to recon- noitre his nose, and observe the spasmodic operations of the muscles of his cheeks, when lo ! the apparition of Henry Brougham sat before me, such as I had often seen in print- shops and drawing-rooms, representing the barrister of six or ten years ago, and not the lord chancellor of 1834. He was in a plain morning dress, with a black cravat, frock coat, and Scotch plaid trousers. On the woolsack or in court, dignified with his wig and robes, he had always reminded me of some of those venerable matrons who can look down on children of the third or fourth generation ; but here there was nothing but Henry Brougham. It is excusable, perhaps, to notice all the appearances of a man who has been so prominent in society. He was evidently affected by his re- ception. As he took the chair on the right of Mr. Abercrom- bie, he supported his head by his left hand, and his left elbow by his right, with his legs crossed. He continued so for the hour, bating those movements which nervous uneasiness creates, exhibiting every now and then his habit of spasmodic convulsions of the face. He cannot sit still. His mind is too active. He could not sit in a chair, to be looked upo?i, without supporting his head by one of his hands. Had he been a principal actor there, it would have been different in its influence on his feelings. But, conscious that every eye was upon him, it was impossible he should not manifest his nervous disposition. As president of the House of Lords, with all the senators of the British nation before him, he was a man, and at home. Before an assembly of women and children, the object of their admiring gaze, he becomes himself a child — he is filled with feminine weakness. Such is human nature. A man, who is the object of universal at- tention, cannot appear in public merely to be seen, and when he is not enacting his own proper part — that part which has LORD BROUGHAM. 295 made him prominent — without strong emotions. Perhaps he felt the more, as at the very moment it was questionable in his own mind, as well as in that of the assembly, wheth- er to-morrow should invest him with the highest dignity in the gift of his sovereign, and install him chief in the realm, his royal master only excepted. At any rate, deep thoughts of state no doubt occupied his mind. Lord Brougham is in the prime of his days, and unless it shall otherwise fall out, as the consequence of his own in- discretions, he is in the youth of his influence. An aristo- crat he cannot be, in the popular sense, without becoming a political apostate, and losing all respect. He has been too long and too thoroughly committed on the popular side. His career, before he attained to the dignities of the peerage, marks out to him the sole condition of an undying fame. If he should halt, or deviate, he is lost for ever. He can never be installed in the affections of the ancient nobility ; he is doomed to depend on the good-will of the people, and on remaining the unflinching and consistent advocate of their rights to the last — an advocate of that precise charac- ter, of those exact dimensions — or rather of the same shapes enlarged, and of the same tone, which characterized his doings as a member of the House of Commons. As such, it would be impossible to limit his sway over the mind of the nation. Lord Brougham's resources are inexhaustible, and his pow- ers amazing. Bating its darker shades, the portrait I have introduced from an unknown hand is nothing overdrawn ; and after that, I would not presume to attempt any thing of the kind for the expression of my own views. Nothing but the substantial realities of character, and the actual demon- stration of them, could have furnished materials and endited the form and terms of such a record. And such powers, naught diminished, but increased in vigour, by twelve years subsequent engagements in the most active duties of public life, with a seat in the Parliament of Great Britain, so long as they are used to command popular respect, may do what they will. There is no antagonist that can stand before them. At the present moment Lord Brougham, by some myste- rious cause, would seem to be in eclipse. May he soon break forth again — not to astonish the world, for that can- not be — but to enlighten it, and to benefit mankind. If we must sing the requiem of such powers at the very moment when they ought to be most productive, it will indeed be a melancholy dirge. 18* 296 DANIEL O'CONNELL. It was a long time after I had been in Great Britain be- fore I began to render to Daniel O'Connell that respect which the importance of his character and influence justly claims. Previously to my visiting that country, I regarded him by common rumour as a bold, unprincipled, and reck- less demagogue, endured, not because he could not be checked or silenced, but rather from his insignificance. I had given him nearly the same rank in the Emerald Isle with orator Hunt in England ; and so fixed and invincible were my feelings of disrespect, that when I first began to hear him speak in the House of Commons, I only heard him as a blustering spouter, and still classed him with " the member for Preston," as Hunt was then called, when referred to in his seat, not indeed as a fool so hardy as Hunt, but as equally promising to attain commanding eminence. That vulgar slang, that scurrility, that blackguardism, that sort of wellnigh cut-throat dialect, which originally shocked and disgusted me, as reported across the Atlantic from Daniel O'Connell's popular harangues in Ireland, constantly rung in my ears in every speech he made on the floor of St. Ste- phens ; not because it was in the speech, but because I could not separate it from the man. So deep and so irradicable are first impressions. I do not think O'Connell is a man of tears, but rather of iron. He is always cool and self-possessed. He likes to deal with hammers and edge-tools — to cut and slash, to beat and maul. He has a little of the spice of a barbarian in him ; but he has been enough in civilized society to know how to do it all in an accomplished way, if he thinks it worth his pains. I wish it to be understood, that while I attach importance to the character of Daniel O'Connell, I do not oifer myself to vouch for his honesty. That is a point I cannot certify to, not because I have any knowledge to the contrary, any other than the public allegations of his political enemies ; but because I know nothing about it, at least nothing that would warrant my sitting in judgment upon him. It ought to be remembered, however, that the common abuse of po- litical opponents is never to be taken as a verdict against a public man's private character. When the temper and character of the Irish, and the necessities to which the man who attempts to lead them is doomed, are properly under- stood, there will be found many apologies for those doings and manners of O'Connell, in his public career, wliich have been adduced by his enemies, as proofs of his want of moral principle. I confess, however, I have never been so well satisfied of the purity of his conscience, as of the greatness DANIEL O'CONNELL. 297 of his powers ; and it is to the latter solely that I profess to direct attention. It has been thought and believed, that a leading politician must throw away his conscience. Some moralists have nicely concluded, that the very idea of policy, as the means of an end, supposes a bad conscience ; for what has an honest man to do with policy ? If this be true, it is a very sad truth ; it proves the world to be in a sad state. To appreciate Daniel O'Connell's character, it must be considered that he is an Irishman to the Ml ; an Irishman born and bred ; and an Irishman thoroughly leavened with the peculiar ingredients of the character. The Irish, as is pretty well known, are a people of their own order. I confess that their proper character is to me a riddle. Their phases are indeed open enough ; but by what strange laws of human conduct they show themselves in such forms, is not so easy to determine. Who, for ex- ample, can divine what strange composition of our nature it is that goes to make the " Irish bulls V At one time it seems to be stupidity, at another wit ; it is doubtless often both ; but I am inclined to think it is more frequently the lat- ter than is commonly supposed. Wit seems to be native with them ; and they are not always aware when they have it or when they show it. Their powers of invention and combination of the most unwonted forms of thought, and modes of pleasantry or abuse, as may serve their purposes — the quickness, pertinence, and edge of their retort, and the apparent inexhaustibleness of their resources, are truly astonishing. Their hatred is the hatred of murder ; their love the kindness and generosity of a better world. Daniel O'Connell is a cultivated and accomplished Irish- man, notwithstanding appearances to the contrary. I mean, that he is such for all the purposes of a political leader. Imbibing Irish feeling from his mother's breast; rocked into it in his cradle ; nourishing it in his youth ; ever min- gling and sympathizing with Irish popular commotions ; bred at the bar, where he naturally acquired, not only the tact, but the necessary confidence, to meet adversaries of close and stern reasonings ; trained throughout the history of his life to do battle with the British government for the emanci- pation of his country, and nowise disinclined to be in the field ; he came into it, not badly schooled for a long and strong pull against that mighty power, with the abuses of which he had undertaken to grapple. I had long judged O'Connell by a fallacious rule — his lan- guage — and I had been accustomed to estimate his heart and measure his powers by his epithets and dialect — not being aware that every thing he said or wrote was written and said for Irishmen ; that every speech he made in popular assemblies or in Parliament, was made to be appreciated N 3 298 DANIEL O'CONNELL. and felt by Irishmen — and by the commonalty of the Irish. This consideration, I do not doubt, is the key to that heat, that scurrillity, that brow-beating and bearding of oppo- nents, and that apparent recklessness, which have so uni- formly characterized his public career. He may or may not have a better heart. It is certain he is not incapable of purifying his language from such defects when it answers his purpose. Few men have more the command of lan- guage in its best forms; few better understand its meaning and its powers ; and no man knows better how to adapt it to his purposes. In his occasional bold and daring onsets — in his various shifts and tacks, he may make mistakes and commit blun- ders ; he has often done it ; and what Irishman would not — or seem to do so 1 But he jumps up from his fall, shakes his garments from the dust of the conflict, and becomes wiser by experience. By his rashness he may sometimes for a moment seem to have come into collision with over- powering assailants, and threatened to fall to rise no more ; but somehow he will dodge his way through the thickest of their ranks, and soon appear again on the field in more equal array. He may have the king and both Houses of Parliament against him to-day; and not unlikely he will bring them all to vote with him to-morrow ; or else force them, out of spite and mere love of opposition to him, to vote against their own interests, as did the House of Lords, in their rejection of the Irish Tithe Commutation Bill, be- cause it came before them as the work of Daniel O'Connell, in consequence of an amendment he had forced into it. A thousand traps have been set for this man ; snares are at. his feet in every step he takes ; but nobody can catch him. His text and maxim for himself and for the Irish is — " Don't violate the law ;" it being understood that he and they are to go as far as they can, in resistance of oppression, within this limit. Mr. O'Connell is so constantly shooting ahead, and get- ting into some new position, that his enemies have not time to dwell upon his past misdeeds ; but they are obliged to follow him up, and watch his latest movements. By this means the public in a measure forget his follies and his faults. They are absorbed in what is now going on, and expecting the result. The swiftness of his career imparts brilliancy and lends attractiveness to his exploits. The hero fairly draws his pursuers from the vantage ground they stood upon; then outstrips them ; and then confounds them. As a debater, Daniel O'Connell is all Irish — except that he can be collected and cool when he will, from mere wa- riness. He is not chaste, nor modest ; that would not do for him. He is an actor, with this difference — that he enacts a part of his own in real life. On the floor of the 299 House of Commons he is, however, more chastened in his manner, because his good sense teaches him to be so. His tricks would not be endured in that place. But set him be- fore a popular assembly, where there is a sympathy between him and his audience, and I know not the man who has greater power. His action, his features, his voice, are all at command to do any thing he pleases ; and he knows well what will strike. He will amuse as much as a monkey ; and so much the more, as he has the use of speech. The compass of his voice in the range of intonation is amazing ; and his power of modulation inimitably effective. Over and above what is conveyed by the common articulated forms of speech which he employs, and by their grammat- ical arrangement and combination, he will suggest a subsid- iary and full oration of ideas by the mere management of his vocal organs. If I might judge by his power over an English popular audience in the City of London, I cannot wonder that he should be the prince of orators among the Irish, where he is perfectly at home. The destiny of this man is yet problematical. There is one grand fact in favour of his rising to power and influence, which nobody, so far as I know, has yet predicted for him, viz., the sympathies of the British nation, as a body, are generally concurrent with the substance of his principles of reform — not, perhaps, in every item, or in all the modes of their development ; but so far as he demands relief for his country from all real and known grievances — and these are neither few nor small. Certain it is — Daniel O'Connell has been gradually and uniformly rising. His late triumph over Parliament, in the amendment which he forced into the Irish Tithe Commutation Bill, was one of the greatest achieve- ments of his life. By his own coup de main, unaided and sole, he confounded the ministry, threw the House of Lords between the horns of a fatal dilemma, whichever they should elect. Everybody — the nation, the government, the king, the world — are beginning to appreciate the power of Daniel O'Connell. By the most discerning it has long been felt. Even the king, at the opening of Parliament in 1834, saw fit to make him a subject of distinct notice in his speech from the throne, and to administer to him no unintelligible admonition. " This is a dark time," said a friend to me very gravely, as I met him in London on the morning of the 8th day of May, 1832. As the heavens were overhung by a London smoke and fog, I thought he alluded to that. " Rather so," said I, " but I hope the sun will be out soon." — " But you are not ignorant that Earl Grey is out !" — " Out ? Resigned 1 do you mean to say?' 1 — " He sent in his resignation to the king yesterday, and with him all the ministers." — "And 300 what will become of you !" — " The Lord only knows." This last reply was not made in the ordinary light and pro- fane way, but with all the gravity of anxious solicitude. And I confess, that the announcement burst upon me, stranger and foreigner as I was, like a voice of thunder. On Saturday of the same week, 12th of May, was the anniversary of the Anti-Slavery Society, at Exeter Hall — a heart-stirring political theme, at such an awful crisis! Even then the sky was overhung with a sombre drapery — although the predictions were generally believed that Earl Grey would be recalled. The Hall was crowded to excess. It was a meeting of Britons, called to sympathize with slaves, themselves at the moment hanging in doubt whether to-morrow's sun would rise upon Britain free or Britain en- slaved. It was impossible on such an occasion to avoid political allusions — and equally impossible for such allusions to be made, without calling forth the most passionate ex- pressions of sympathy or abhorrence. Lord Suffield, a peer of the realm, opened the meeting by a pertinent and eloquent address. In the midst of his speech, Daniel O'Connell entered the Hall. It was a curi- ous experiment. How should a London audience receive an Irish demagogue 1 In ordinary times they would have hissed him. At least, they would have allowed him to come in and take his seat unnoticed. But now was the moment when the cause of freedom was common to all — to the slave of the West Indies, to the Briton, and to the tenant of the Emerald Isle. O'Connell was sufficiently well known as the advocate of freedom for Ireland. And although de- nominated the Agitator, he yet stood in a high place, and was invested with no contemptible influence. Such was the moment, such the occasion, and such the circumstance, all sympathizing in their aspirations after freedom, and al- together holding their very breath in the suspended fear of losing it. It was not a time to say or to feel that Ireland had an interest apart from England. " We stand or fall to- gether," was the universal sentiment. In the midst of Lord Suffield's speech, I heard a feeble effort at clapping on the platform near the door, which did not seem to be called for by any observation of his lord- ship. In a moment it was renewed, with a slight degree of increased earnestness. Lord Suffield paused, and looked round. At that moment the head of O'Connell was to be seen peering above the crowd, like the head of Absalom above the children of Israel, and a great bustle and move- ment were made to give him access to the front of the plat- form. No sooner was he recognised by the assembly, than a universal welcome burst from every part of the Hall, equally deafening to the ear by the shouts of applause, and impressive to the eye by the swinging of arms and hats, MR. MACAULEY. 301 and by the instantaneous rising of the immense assembly from their seats. It is very uncommon for a British popular audience to rise in token of respect for an individual. Had the king himself, in his most popular days, entered such a place, he could not have been received with stronger marks of esteem and veneration. Had the king entered now, im- mediately upon the heels of O'Connell, he would have been hissed and pelted. Lord Suffield, a member of the House of Lords, was obliged to stop and wait, till this agitator of the House of Commons had taken his seat by his side, and received from the people a long-continued and most clam- orous roar of applause. I question whether any other man in the British empire could have entered Exeter Hall at such a moment, in presence of the same assembly, and re- ceived a welcome so marked and so loud. Such is the \ amazing power of circumstances. \ I allude to this fact merely to show, that whenever the British nation shall feel themselves pressed and oppressed fly a bad government of the old type — whenever an awful crisis arrives, like that in May, 1832, their sympathies will '.hrow them at once into the ranks even of such a man as O'Connell, and they will take him in their arms, and carry him on their shoulders in the very City of London. If this man should by-and-by be found high in the government of Great Britain, for the pacification of Ireland, it will not be the strangest thing that has happened in the world. THOMAS BABBINGTON MACAULEY. It was in September, 1831, on the discussion of that Reform Bill which was afterward defeated in the House of Lords, that I first heard Thomas Babbington Macauley. At five o'clock the question came up. The speakers who occupied the floor successively till eight, were dull. But from eight to one in the morning we had an uninterrupted torrent of parliamentary eloquence, rarely equalled in that house or any other. Excitement in a British House of Commons is a contagion. Let one man get on fire, and he sets on fire all about him. Much, to be sure, was expected on the last reading of that bill in that body. But one night had been exhausted and little heat. Three hours of the second had passed away, and all still cool and dull. Spec- tators grew restiff, and members scattered away to lounge, eat, smoke, and talk in the numerous apartments of that huge and ungainly pile of buildings. One would not have thought there were so many of them about. But at eight o'clock, a little man, of small voice, affected utterance, clip- ping his words, and hissing like a serpent, succeeded in gaining the floor. On a great question in its early stages, when one member sits down, a great many jump up simul- taneouslv, claiming to be heard, and I know not by what 26 302 MR. MACAULEY. rule the chairman decides in favour of one of the many. But after a few moments of clamorous calling to order, the question gets settled, and the favoured one goes on to deliver himself of his premeditated impromptus and extem- poraneous elaborations. The little man, as I said, got the floor. "Mr. Macauley — Mr. Macauley" — went quick around among the spectators, in a low but animated voice, evidently showing that he was welcomed. Instantly the house and the side galleries began to fill with members — no one could tell where they came from — but they had evidently been resting in abeyance to the quickest summons. In five minutes the whole house were in attendance and seated. It was indeed a pretty sight. They were literally wedged in — the seats being continuous benches — so that doubtless their persons suffered much compression. The house was still for the first time in the evening, and each fixed his eye upon the little man — Thomas Babbington Macauley. And surely I thought them very simple to be so attracted by such an unpromising beginning — and utterly perverted in taste to be able even to endure such affected, intolerable elocution. The thoughts, however, and their combinations, soon began to indicate a mind above the common level. The vices of elocution I began to overlook, as every sentence he utter- ed struck up new light around the mighty theme. That which had no interest in the mouths of others, I now began to look upon as worthy of some regard. Now a spark, now a gleam, and now a stream of light would blaze away. "Hear I hear V but soon hushed for the desire to hear. And yet, for all the interest of the preparations making for an argument of the masterly collection and disposition of prem- ises, I could not soon be reconciled to the appearances of affectation in his modes of speech, and that intolerable, frightful hissing withal. There was a time when I thought he would go into spasms, and be turned into that reptile whose hissing he played off so exactly, or into some other frightful shape. Fortunately, however, these spasmodic symptoms gradually wore off, as the fire of argument kin- dled up his soul, and the more proper shapes of human speech by equal degrees formed upon his tongue and flowed from his lips. In fifteen minutes he had wrapped himself in the Reform Bill as in a mantle, a^id thrown its brilliant and attractive folds over him in the most graceful and befitting forms, — and himself stood up, thus invested, challenging and receiving universal admiration. I will not dare to quote a single sentence — nor give an example of his reasoning. The Mirror of parliament will doubtless send that speech down to posterity in its own simple and proper form. If the world does not accord to it the praise of one of the most brilliant specimens of parliamentary eloquence, as well as one of the fairest structures of logic, I will consent to be Mil. MACAULEY. 303 called an enthusiast in this instance, and will be slow to give my opinion again. It was a perfect triumph : and all felt it to be such. Never did Bonaparte gain a field of battle in a style more brilliant, or with a suddenness more astounding to his enemies. Even the opposition joined in the roar of applause, meaning it, doubtless, only for the splendid talents of the man. It was impossible not to feel that the bill would pass — must pass ; that even the House of Lords could not — would not dare to arrest it. I did not measure the time. I never thought of it till it was too late. He prob- ably spoke about forty-five minutes. But it did not seem half that. Besides the frequent interruptions by applause, when Mr. Macauley sat down, the house rung for many minutes with peal on peal of approbation, as if they could never be satisfied. And it is remarkable, that while Mr. Macauley was in the midst of his argument, Lord Lynd- liurst, in the House of Peers, though of the opposition, and ignorant of what was going on in the Commons, incidentally paid Mr. Macauley one of the most delicate and generous compliments. The excitement of the Commons was now up for the great question. Mr. Croker (pronounced Croaker), of the opposition, next gained the floor. And a croaker he was to the ministry — most unmelodious, disagreeable, and vexatious. If he did not croak them out of their grand device for saving the nation, it was not for want of abilities of the highest order. Mr. Croker began — as well he might, as he could not help, as was most befitting — in a strain of generous en- comium on the talents of the honourable member who had just sat down. He then passed to the credit of his talents all the effect of his speech on the house — which effect none could deny — most ingeniously attempting to detract all merit from his argument in support of the bill. Who would think, after such a triumph as had just been gained in favour of the bill, that very instrument could be picked into pieces, reduced to shreds, and scattered to the winds, as worthless and contemptible, by a tissue of most ingenious sophistry and designed misrepresentation? — Who would think, that after every feeling and every passion of the soul, by a full conviction of the understanding, had installed that bill firmly in the sanctuary, and on the throne of the people's rights, as too sacred for the approach of any hand to tear it away — it could yet be so invaded and so tortured into deformity, as almost to make one doubt whether it retained a remaining feature of its awarded perfection] Yet Mr. Croker did so mangle, so distort, and so abuse that child of the ministry, as to take it in his hand, hold it up to the people of England, and ask, with fiendly triumph, — Who will have it 1 — Who will adopt it \ — Who will bestow on it his affections i — He did so charge it with vicious blood and alarming portent, as 304 MR. MACAULEY. to say, — Who is not ashamed to be the father of it 1 — Or, when grown to maturity, and installed in the throne of power — who would dare to trust himself to its withering influence 1 Back, then, and take refuge in that house which has so long fed and comforted you, and under that throne which has so long protected you. I pretend not to quote. Two long hours and a half did Mr. Croker profane this handiwork of the ministry, and croak out his ill-omened prophecies of its ill-starred destiny. But there came another after him who in a word could tell where the power of this spoiler lay ; whose wand could restore to the creature, thus abused, its proper life, beauty, and majesty, by a single touch. It was Mr. Stanley, the Secretary of State for Ireland. At one o'clock the bill stood forth again in its own comeliness — a thing not to be despised — the hope of England. And the House adjourned. Mr. Macauley is a man — green of his youth — but ripe, fully ripe, in all the qualities of brilliancy and power, as a debater. Brougham was his schoolmaster and chief patron. The latter seems to have been aware of the promising pow- ers of this youth, and took an interest in the direction of his education. In a letter of Mr. Brougham to Mr. Macauley's father, which by some means has been exposed, and which makes one of the secrets of Lord Brougham's history, by no means discreditable to himself, it appears that Mr. Brougham advised and insisted that forensic and parlia- mentary reputation could be purchased only by a most labo- rious preparation, and at last the recitation of speeches. He confessed that he had attained his own eminence in that way, that he owed his reputation before the public to such efforts. I do not think, indeed, that Lord Brougham is doomed to such severity of toil for the production of his later and frequent public speeches. Although I doubt not his great ones are greatly conned — such, for instance, as his effort on the night of the rejection of the Reform Bill. Its principal parts, its coruscations of wit and irony, its cap- ital arguments, its stirring and tremendous appeals, and not unlikely the genuflexion of the finale, were all contrived and framed, fitted in their places, and resolved upon, before he entered the House. But such a man as he, with such resources ever at his command, of such custom in debate, of such endless volubility of tongue, as much at home and as careless in the House of Lords as any careless boy in his most careless place — such a man may well trust himself to the filling up of a speech of five, or even of seven hours length. But he whose reputation hangs yet doubtful before the public, of whom expectation is on tiptoe, a young favourite, but not yet planted and grown in the affections, like the ma- jestic oak in the earth, must be cautious. He must make MR. MACAULEY. 305 short speeches, and every one he makes must be better than the last. He must not trust himself, even with all his ge- nius, to what is called the spur of the moment. He may be quickened by it — but he must not depend upon it. Such in- dubitably was the premeditated, the resolved course of Thomas Babbington Macauley, under the advice of his grand i tutor, and by the approval of his own good sense. He took up his position, and was seen to stand in it, after all, without being obliged to make a reply. It would not be safe for him to reply. And, fortunately for him, there was no need of it. Mr. Macauley was the star of the House of Commons while he was there ; and when he shall have made his fortune in India, he will probably return to figure again in that place, and to hold some high trust in the government of his coun- try. Take the following specimen as a coup de main of Mr. Macauley, in answer to the objection, that Reform, begotten and urged in public excitement, must be diseased and un- safe : " The arguments of these gentlemen," said Macauley, " be they modified how they may out of all their variations, could be reduced to this plain and simple dilemma : — When the people are noisy, it is unsafe to grant Reform. When they are quiet, it is unnecessary. But the time has at last come when reformers must legislate fast, because bigots would not legislate early, — when reformers are compelled to legislate in excitement, because bigots would not do so at a more auspicious moment. Bigots would not walk with suf- ficient speed, nay, they could not be prevailed upon to move at all ; and now the reformers must run for it. By fair means or by foul, through Parliament or over Parliament, the question of reform must and will be carried." What could be more pithy, more energetic, more tremendously prophetic, than this 1 — And how must a man's soul swell out with greatness, when, standing in such circumstances, and agitating such a momentous theme, he knows, and all who hear him know, that every word he utters of the past is fact ; — and himself knows also, and all know by infallible prescience, that what he predicts of the future is just about to come to pass : — " through Parliament or over Parliament, it must and will be carried." Against the Bill, in the House of Commons, Sir Robert Peal was the most respectable opponent. Mr. Croker and Sir Charles, as usual, made the greatest figure — both clever — but it is difficult, all things considered, to respect them for any thing else than their acknowledged abilities. Cro- ker was strong in his own assumed premises — but always unfair. Sir Charles Wetherell is as eccentric as he is learn- ed — one would hope not vicious by nature^ — exhibiting new phases in argument whenever he shows himself at all — {and it is said he made only sixty-two speeches on the pas- 26* 306 THE WELSH. sage of the Reform Bill through the house), but to the eye, alas ! always the same : He wants a pair of suspenders — his nurse must have died before he learned to dress himself — and his schoolmaster, as one would judge from his man- ners, must have been a clown. " The Methodists," said Sir Charles one day, as he had occasion to allude to them in the case of Lady Hewley's charity — " Wesleyan Methodists, I believe they are called, are distinguished by holding to the doctrine of election" &c. Some one jogged Sir Charles. " yes," he repeated, " the doctrine of election." (Laughter.) He was jogged again. " Yes, yes," added Sir Charles again, " you are right — the doctrine of election." (Great laughter.) Sir Charles was then told audibly that he must reverse his position. " Well, then," said Sir Charles, " have it which way you please. If not elected, they ought to be ; for they are the best people among us." THE WELSH. Welsh Character— Poetry— Preaching— The Martyr dog. The Welsh are a very religious people — more so than the Scotch, or the people of New-England. There is perhaps no other Christian people in the world who manifest so much religious susceptibility, or who can, as a body, be brought so much under its power. They are about a mill- ion of people, spread over a surface of 150 miles by 80, or 5,200,000 acres, parts of which present some of the finest mountain scenery in Great Britain. The Welsh are relics of the ancient Britons, who fled to the country which they now occupy when Britain was invaded by the Saxons. They continued an independent people under their own kings till 1283, when their last prince, Llewellyn, being vanquished and slain, they were united to England under Edward I. The oldest son of the king of England — the first was Edward II. has always been created Prince of Wales, to satisfy the feel- ings of the Welsh of their right in the monarchy, &c, Ed- ward II. having been born among them. The Welsh, for the most part, speak their own language, and cultivate Welsh literature. They are proud of their an- tiquity, and think that in this particular they are one of the most venerable nations in the world. Their attachment to their own language is remarkable ; and I am inclined to the opinion which they profess, that it is capable of being em- ployed with a power over the feelings and passions, with THE WELSH. 307 which the English language bears no comparison. The ef- fects of their poetry and preaching would seem to prove this. Their most cultivated men have a disgust for the English, compared with their own native tongue, notwithstanding they may be as much used to one as the other — more espe- cially if they are poetic in their temperament. Poetry and religion maybe said to have a home in the af- fections of the Welsh, unrivalled elsewhere. The " Eeisteddfod," or Sitting op the Bards. As among some of the ancient nations, poetry is still cul- tivated in Wales as a profession. There are many men of a very high order of intellect and of general culture, who de- vote themselves exclusively to this art. Welsh poetry is especially patronised by the nobility and gentry of the prin- cipality, and by the royal family of England. Annually there is held an " Eeisteddfod" or Sitting of the Bards, a grand literary festival, at which some members of the royal family are always present, with a representation of the lit- erati of England, and the most cultivated men of the prin- cipality. The prizes for the best productions in Welsh po- etry are distributed on the occasion ; and the most excellent of the bards is publicly crowned by the representative of the royal family. Some of the productions are recited by the authors, and received with more or less, and often with great enthusiasm, according to their merits. Sometimes the same piece is read in three or four several languages — as, for example, in Welsh, in English, in Greek, and in Latin — for the purpose of comparing the beauties and power of the different tongues ; and the enthusiasm of the assembly always decides in favour of the Welsh. On these occasions at least, there is nothing like that. The " Cymanfa"— Are great religious assemblies, or convocations, held for sev- eral days continuously in different parts of the principality, in the summer season. On account of the great numbers who assemble, they being from 10,000 to 20,000, they are obliged of necessity to hold their meetings out of doors. They are, I suppose, not unlike the camp-meetings of Amer- ica, being generally larger assemblies. I have heard much said of the power of the Welsh preachers over these assem- blies ; and certainly, from all accounts, it must be very great. All the world has heard of the Welsh Jumpers ; but I do not speak of them ; they are pretty much over and done, as all animal ecstasies of that kind are ordinarily transient. But, notwithstanding, the poetic temperament of the Welsh is yet exceedingly susceptible of being influenced by religion ; the power of their own language, employed upon the most sublime and touching of all themes, overcomes them ; and 308 THE WELSH. their preachers have a dominion over their affections which is irresistible. I am speaking now, of course, of the ordi- nary instrumentality of language, in its power over the mind and heart, when the themes are advantageous for effect ; and we know very well that with Christians who love reli- gion, and with those who have had a Christian education and respect religion, there are no themes, properly handled, which are calculated to have so much dominion over the soul as those of the Evangelical volume. The Welsh are a people by themselves ; they are bound together by the strong national and sympathetic cords of society ; and there is no common bond among them that is so strong as that of religion. With the politics of the empire, happily, they have little to do ; but in religion all are taught. The poison of modern infidelity has hardly found its passage into Wales. The people generally believe in Christianity, and respect it ; and from their easy, poetic, and religious susceptibilities, there is more or less of super- stition among them, as might be expected in their compar- atively rude and uncultivated condition. The common centres of their society are the churches and chapels ; but the Cymanfa, or great religious convoca- tions, are what they make the most of. These seem to have taken the place of " the feasts of the saints" as they used to be called in England, being of Roman Catholic origin, and which are still observed in many parts of England, in hon- our of the particular saints after whom the parish churches are called, as, for example, St. John's; St. Mark's; St. Nicholas's; &c. &c. I remember once in Yorkshire to have observed great crowds of people about the public houses on the Sabbath, apparently amusing themselves as if it were a holyday. On inquiring the cause, I was told it was Saint's Day ; and that it would extend to the third or fourth day of the week — at which time the common people are accustomed to have great mirth. All Episcopal churches in our country, I believe, are called after some of the cal- endar saints, but fortunately this particular custom has not been transferred here ; and it appears to have greatly de- clined in England. I was told by a Welsh minister, who is good authority, that the Cymanfa of Wales have succeeded to these " Saints' Days," or Festivities ; that the people, who had been ac- customed for ages to assemble in each parish on the calen- dar week appointed for the purpose, for social and merry occupations, having generally fallen off from the established church, demanded a substitute ; and that the Cymanfa are really and truly the things that have taken the place of them. The Cymanfa, however, although they are still great social occasions, on which the people in the vicinity of the place of meeting lay themselves out for the display and ex- THE WELSH. 309 ercise of their hospitality towards their friends who come from a distance, are yet strictly and properly religious meetings — having been made such by the influence and zeal of the Welsh ministers. The ministers, I am told, would generally be glad to dispense with them, as they do not think them, on the whole, most advantageous to the inter- ests of religion ; but there is a kind of social intoxication in these large convocations, to which a people, so retired from the more stirring scenes of the world, and rarely assem- bling in great multitudes, are strongly attached. It is cer- tainly to the great credit of the Welsh ministers, and proves that the principality has undergone no inconsiderable reli- gious reformation, that they have been able to redeem these large assemblies of the people from their former corruptions, so far as to make them innocent, and perhaps useful. The preachers have great power over the people on these occasions ; their language is peculiarly favourable for out- of-door effort ; their lungs are stentorian, and capable of bringing back echoes from the sides of the mountains ; the people are animated by the pastoral, or wild, or craggy scenery, with which they are surrounded ; the heavens over their heads are an emblem of the residence of the God whom they worship, and of the final home which they are taught to hope for ; they delight to hear the voice of prayer ascend from the place where they stand to that throne above them, from which nothing but the stars and empyrean blue divides ; and when all the voices of such a vast concourse are united in their religious anthems, the whole creation seems to be praising God. I heard a Welsh minister say, that he has known an assembly of this kind apparently so transported with the effect of their own singing, as to re- peat the last couplet of the last stanza of a hymn for a whole half hour, with increasing, and the most perfectly en- rapt enthusiasm ! This repetition is more apt to occur when the hymn terminates with something like a "hallelujah." This would seem like Handel's hallelujah chorus, a strain of ecstasy, that is reluctantly brought to a close. Im- promptu, extemporaneous feeling is much encouraged and indulged in, in the religious assemblies of the Welsh. I have listened to accounts of the effects of preaching and of devotional exercises on these great occasions, almost in- credible. They seem at least to prove, that there is much and a quick religious feeling among the Welsh ; and we cannot doubt that there is a great deal of genuine religion there — a leaven which, we may hope, will ultimately purify the mass. " If I must give you my opinion," said a Welsh minister to an English clergyman, the latter of whom had challenged his brother from the principality for his opinion about Eng- lish preachers as compared with the Welsh, " although I 310 SPECIMEN OF A WELSH SERMON. had rather be silent in such company, I should think that you in England have no good preaching." — " None !" said the English clergyman. " None at all," added the stranger from Wales. " I know," said the English minister, " that you are famous for jumping in Wales ; but that, I suppose, is not owing so much to the matter of preaching, as to the enthusiasm of the character." — " Indeed," said the stranger, " if you had heard and understood such preaching, you would jump too." — " And do you not think I could make them jump," said the Englishman, " if I were to preach to them 1" — " You make them jump" said the Welshman ; "you make them jump ! A Welshman would set the world on fire while you were lighting a match." — " Pray, give us a specimen," said the Englishman. "What, in English? Your poor meager language would spoil it. It is not capable of ex- pressing the ideas which a Welshman conceives." The Welshman, however, after much persuasion, gave from memory the following English version of a passage from a sermon of the Rev. Christmas Evans : — " When our world fell from its first estate, it became one vast prison. Its walls were adamant, and unscalable ; its gate was brass, and im- pregnable. Within, the people sat in darkness and the shadow of death ; without, inflexible justice guarded the brazen gate, brandishing the flaming sword of eternal law. Mercy, as she winged her flight of love through the worlds of the universe, paused to mark the prison aspect of our once paradisiac world. Her eye affected her heart. Her heart melted and bled, as the shriek of misery and yell of despair rose upon the four winds of heaven. She could not pass by nor pass on. She descended before the gate, and requested admittance. Jus- tice, waving the flaming sword in awful majesty, exclaimed, — 'No one can enter here and live V — and the thunder of his voice outspoke the wailings within. "Mercy expanded her wings to renew her flight among the un- fallen worlds. She reascended into the mid air, but could not pro- ceed, because she could not forget the piercing cries from the prison. She therefore returned to her native throne in the heaven of heavens. It was 'a glorious high throne from everlasting;' and both unshaken and untarnished by the fallen fate of man and angels. But, even there, she could wot forget the scene she had witnessed and wept over. She sat and weighed the claims of all the judicial perfections of Jehovah, and all the principles of eternal law ; but, although they arose upon her view in all their vastness, she could not forget the prison. She redescended with a more rapid and radiant flight, and approached the gate with an aspect of equal solicitude and determination ; but again she was denied admission. She stood still — her emotion was visible. Justice ceased to brandish the sword — there was silence in heaven. "' Is there admission on no terms whatever V she asked. 'Yes,' said Justice ; ' but only on terms which no finite being can fulfil. I demand an atoning death for their eternal life — blood Divine, for their ransom.' — 'And I,' said Mercy at once, ' accept the terms.' It was asked, 'on what security, and when they would be fulfilled V — 'Here,' said Mercy, 'is the bond — my word! my oath! and, four SPECIMEN OF A WELSH SERMON. 311 thousand years from this time, demand its payment on Calvary, — for I will appear in the incarnate form of the Son of God, and be the Lamb slain for the sin of this world !' " The bond was accepted without hesitation, and the gate opened at once. Mercy entered, leaning on the arm of Justice. She spoke kindly to the prisoners, and gave them some hints of her high under- taking on their behalf. All were amazed, and many melted, by this timely and tender interference ; and, to confirm their hopes, Mercy from time to time led the ' captivity' of some ' captive,' that their sal- vation might be the pledge and prelude of eventual triumphs. " Thus the gathering of the ' first fruits' in the field of redemption went on for ages ; and at last, the clock of prophecy struck ' the ful- ness of the time.' Then Mercy became incarnate in the person of the Son of God, who appeared in the form of a servant, publishing his- intention and determination to pay the mighty Bond. And soon the awful day of payment arrived ; — then the whole array of the judicial attributes of Jehovah took their stand on Calvary, with Justice at their head, bearing the Bond of Redemption. Angels and archangels, cher- ubim and seraphim, principalities and powers, left their thrones and mansions of glory, and bent over the battlements of heaven, gazing, in mute amazement and breathless suspense, upon the solemn scene — for now the Mediator appeared ' without the gates of Jerusalem,' crowned with thorns, and followed by the weeping church. Ashe passed along the awful array of the judicial perfections of the Divine character, none of them uttered a word of encouragement — none of them glanced a look of sympathy to him. 'It was the hour and power of darkness.' Above him were all the vials of Divine wrath, and the thunders of the eternal law, ready to burst on his devoted head — around him were all ' the powers of darkness,' on the tiptoe of infernal expectation waiting for his failure. But none of these things moved him from the purpose or the spirit of redemption. He took the Bond from the hand of Jus- tice, and moved on to the cross, ' as a lamb to the slaughter.' He re- signed himself to that altar of ignominy. "Then Justice unsheathed the flaming sword, and marshalling all his terrors, went up to enforce his claims. The rocks rent under his tread — the sun shrunk from the glance of his eye. He lifted his right hand to the eternal throne, and exclaimed in thunder — ' Fires of heav- en ! descend and consume this sacrifice.' The fires of heaven, ani- mated with living spirit by the call, answered — 'We come! — we come ! — and when we have consumed that victim, we will burn the universe !' They burst — blazed — devoured, until the humanity of Emmanuel ' gave up the ghost ;' but the moment they touched his Divinity, they expired. That moment Justice dropped his flaming sword at the foot of the cross ; and the law joined the prophets in witnessing to ' the righteousness which is by faith ;' for all had heard the dying Redeemer exclaim, in triumph, 'It is finished !' "The weeping church heard it ; and, lifting up her head, cried — 'It is finished.' The attending angels caught the shout of victory, and winged their flight to the eternal throne, singing — ' It is finished.' The powers of darkness heard the acclamations of the universe, and hurried away from the scene in all the agony of disappointment and despair — for the bond was paid, and eternal redemption obtained." 312 THE MARTYR DOG. THE WELSH MARTYR DOG— CILIART. At the base of Snowden, the highest mountain of Wales, is a stone standing at this day, called Bedd-Gelert, or the Grave of Ciliart. There, many centuries ago — for the last Welsh king was slain in 1283 — was buried a favourite dog of Llewellyn the Great, of which and his end we have the following pitiful story : — Llewellyn had come to this place, with his wife and fam- ily, to spend the hunting season, of which sport he was pas- sionately fond. He had among his pack a favourite dog of the name Ciliart ; or, as it sounds in English — Gelert. He missed him one day in the chase, and was much vexed to be obliged to return without his usual success, on account of the absence of this dog. His wife had been with him, as it was the custom of the time for females to engage in such exercises. As he dismounted and entered the door of his house, followed by his wife, the first object he met was Ciliart, who came wagging his tail, and expressing all the welcome characteristic of that faithful and affectionate animal. Llewellin would have rebuked him for his absence from duty that day, and for the subtraction he had occa- sioned from their pleasures ; but his mouth, and head, and parts of his body were stained with blood ! " What !" ex- claimed Llewellyn, raising his hand, and at the same moment, his wife leading the way, they both rushed into the nursery ; and, as they saw the floor marked with blood, they hastily snatched the curtain from the cradle, and their infant babe was gone ! ! The mother cast one glance at the savage ani- mal that came following after them, screamed with horror as she pointed her finger to the cause, rolled her eyes wild and madly to heaven, and fell backwards. The father drew his sword, and with one thrust transfixed the monster, which fell at his feet, still wagging his tail, and looking duty and affection, as if in mockery of the deed he was supposed to have done ! He howled out the expression of his own agony, moaning piteously, and expired — his eye, even in death, still fixed upon his master. Llewellyn, in his distraction, upset the cradle, and under- neath it safely lay, sleeping, with a smile on its countenance, the infant babe ! In another part of the room he found the body of a wolf, torn, mangled, and dead ! He turned his eye to Ciliart, and he too was dead ! What would he not have given to restore him to life ! The instinct of the faithful animal had discerned the waylaying and near approach of the wolf, and withdrawn himself from following his master to the chase ; he had watched the movements of his adversary, and found that he had scented human flesh in his master's habitation; his sagacity had contrived to remove the babe, and to deposite it safely beneath its era- THE MARTYR DOG. 313 die, in anticipation of the coming fight ; he had obtained the victory ; and he waited for his master's return, to deliver up his charge, and be caressed for his fidelity. " It is not true," said a gentleman, who was one of the listeners to this story, as it was narrated by a Welshman, — " it is not true," he said, as he leaned his elbow on the table, supporting his head by his hand, which also covered his eyes. " If you subscribe to the doctrine of Leslie's Short Method with the Deist," said the Welshman, " you must also admit this. For there is the stone — the monument — set over the grave of Ciliart to this day ; there is the village, erected on the spot, and bearing the name of the dog's grave — Bedd- Gelert ; and the same story has come down with these mon- uments from generation to generation. The story and the monuments are corroboratives and living demonstrations of the facts." " Well, then," said the gentleman, still leaning on his hand and covering his eyes, " the dog has done suffering — has he not 1 I am glad that he has no protracted and con- scious existence, to remember that he became a martyr to his fidelity— that he died for saving the life of his master's child. But I seem, even now, to see him wagging his tail, moaning, and looking submissive, as he lies weltering in his blood, with his eyes fixed upon his master, in the agonies of death. I wish I could get rid of the idea." I have now lying before me on my table "Jones's Views in Wales," and in No. 2 will be found the village of Bedd- Gelert, with Snowden's lofty peak rising on the left, and merging in the clouds. It is interesting not only as a pro- duction of art, exhibiting a captivating group of the magnif- icent works of God, but it is especially so as a standing verification of the story just narrated. Bedd-Gelert is the Welsh-English of Bedd-Ciliart, the Grave of Ciliart— Bedd being the Welsh for Grave, and Gelert the English form, or enunciation, of Ciliart in Welsh. I used to lodge with a friend who is minutely acquainted with the spot by ocular inspection, and to whom indeed I am indebted for the first narration of the story. He avers it to be of unquestionable authenticity. BURDENS OF THE ENGLISH. The annual sum necessary to be raised by the British gov- ernment, to pay the interest of the national debt, and for other purposes, is, in round numbers, .£43,000,000. For the poor there is raised in England alone, by the parish author- ities T d£7, 000,000. For all the purposes of religion in the Establishment and among Dissenters, in England, Scotland. O 27 314 TAXATION. — STEINBERG. and Ireland, say £10,000,000. Total, £60,000,000, or $288,000,000! For the same purposes the United States raise annually not more, probably, than about $20,000,000, or £4,166,666. The following is rather a lugubrious wail over the taxes imposed in England : — " Taxes on every thing that enters the mouth, covers the back, oris placed under the feet ; — taxes upon every thing that is pleasant to see, hear, feel, taste, or smell ; — taxes upon warmth, light, and locomotion ; — taxes upon every thing on the earth, in the waters under the earth — upon every thing that comes from abroad or is grown at home ; — taxes upon the raw material, and upon every value that is added to it by the ingenuity and industry of man ; — taxes upon the sauce that pampers man's appetite, and on the drug that restores him to health — on the ermine that decorates the judge, and on the rope that hangs the criminal — on the brass nails of the coffin, and on the ribands of the bride — at bed or at board — couchant ou levant — we must pay. The schoolboy whips his taxed top ; the beardless youth manages his taxed horse, by a taxed bridle, on a taxed road ; and the dying Englishman, pouring his medicine, which has paid seven per cent., into a spoon which has paid 30 per cent., throws himself back upon his chints bed, which has paid 22 per cent., and having made his will, the seals of which are also taxed, he expires in the arms of his apothecary, who has paid £100 for the privilege of hastening his death. His whole property is then taxed from 2 to 10 per cent. And besides the expenses of probate, he pays large fees for being buried in the chancel, and his virtues are handed down to posterity on taxed marble. After all which he may be gather- ed to his fathers to be taxed — no more." STEINBERG THE MURDERER AND SUICIDE. While walking in Queen-street, Cheapside,I suddenly be- thought myself — I will turn and propose to my friend, Mr. E , a surgeon, to go with me to witness the scene of carnage which had occurred in Southampton-street, Penton- ville, the night before. I understood that persons belong- ing to the medical and surgical profession would be admit- ted, and concluded I might go in under the wing of my friend. But who could wish to see such a sight 1 My own first thoughts were, that I would never do it, except called by duty ; but my second was — it might be instructive, although revolting and horrible to every feeling that is worthy of re- spect. I called, and in five or ten minutes Mr. E.'s horse and cabriolet were at the door, and we drove off. "This is a remarkable horse," said Mr. E. "Whenever 1 have called once at a house, he will not go past it without inclining to stop. One would think, that in such a city as London, he would forget even a street that he may have passed through once, much more a house among so many, MURDER AND SUICTDE. 315 where I may have called with him weeks or months before. But he is infallibly certain to recognise every place where he has ever been. There is a street we are about to pass, leading to Solley Terrace, the former residence of our friend, Mr. M . It is now eighteen months — is it not ! since Mr. M removed, and I have not been there from that time ; but I will engage, when we come to that street, if I will give the horse the reins, he will turn down, and stop at the very door." "Do you see," said Mr. E., as we approached the street, the horse being left to himself, — " how he begins to prick up his ears, and look that way ? There, he turns, he is in the street, as you see, and would stop at No. 14 Solley Ter- race ; but this is enough." And we turned about to go on our way. The brute is faithful to his instinct — he never violates na- ture. He often appears amiable to us, and we feel for him the affection of attachment. But man, alas ! who can trust him ] — He may turn monster; he may enact the fiend. As we came to Southampton-street, the crowds of the populace were immense. It seemed impossible to get near the house, the way was so thoroughly choked. We gave our horse to the keeping of a boy, tried to obtain a passage to the door, but in vain. What motive could draw and keep the people there ? They could not get in ; they had no hope of it. They could only stand and gape, and talk ; yet there they would be from morning to night, and I suppose, in great numbers, from night to morning. The truth was, they were constantly changing, one taking the place of another. The newspapers had announced to the whole world of the metropolis the dreadful deed ; and thousands, or tens of thousands, were constantly coming and going to see — what] Southampton-street and a crowd. They could see nothing more. But man loves tragical scenes — at least he loves to sympathize with them. He is curious — he wishes to know all about it : he pries into the history of the author of the tragedy, and endeavours to find the motives ; he wishes to know when and how it was done — at what dread hour of the night — by what instrument ? Where did he get it 1 How did he use it ] Did he surprise the innocent victims in their sleep? Had they any warning] Did they resist? What is the appearance of things within? In what position do the dead lie 1 Are they on the bed or on the floor 1 — in their night-clothes, or how \ For they were not yet removed, but all remained exactly in the same condition in which the murderer's hand had left them, — and the coroner's jury were then in session collecting evidence. Not succeeding in our attempts to gain access, my friend went to the jury's room, and obtained an order for admit- tance. Armed with this power, it became the duty of the 02 316 MURDER AND SUICIDE. policemen to clear our way, which they endeavoured to do. After much difficulty, we succeeded in gaining the door, and finally to get in, though at the hazard of rending our gar- ments, and of injuring our persons by the immense physical force of the mass that tried to get in by virtue of our privi- lege. A few succeeded, and pushed in with us. We were conducted first to a rear chamber in the second floor (in London called the first), where the mother — a woman apparently about thirty years of age — lay on the floor, with her head nearly dissevered from her body by some sharp instrument. By the marks of blood on the bed, it was evidently done in that place, and her struggles with death had thrown herself out. At her feet lay the body of an infant, a few months old, with its head also dissevered, so as scarcely to hang on its shoulders. Such was the hor- rible scene of that apartment ! We then ascended to the room directly above — and there lay the ghastly bodies of two little girls, one about twelve years old, on the floor, and the other 4 or 5, in the bed — both murdered in the same manner as the mother and infant below. It was horrible to behold ! We then ascended another flight of stairs, and entered a front chamber, where lay the body of a little boy, about ten years old, with his head also nearly dissevered. He had been sleeping in the same apartment with his two sisters, but had fled from his monster-father while executing his fiendly purpose on his infant daughters. But he was pur- sued — he was overtaken, and in his struggles of self-defence in warding off the knife, lost one of his fingers, which was entirely cut from the hand and lay on the floor, besides ex- hibiting other corresponding marks of violence. We descended to the basement story, and there lay the monster, the author of this scene of death, stretched on his back, with arms extended, and the knife in hand, by which, in the end, he had nearly severed his own head from his body. He was himself in his night-clothes, and so were all the victims. Not a human being remained to breathe in that house! — All — all were butchered — the mother and four children — and the murderer by his own hand! What a scene ! Was he deranged 1 No. The evidence was abundant that it was a cool, deliberate- plan, devised and executed without any alienation of mind. He had become embarrassed — he was an atheist — he had lived a vicious life — had many years before separated from his wife, and lived long enough with this woman, unmar- ried, to have these children, — and, to free himself and all from trouble, believing not in a future being, he had in this manner ushered himself and them into eternity ! And this is the fruit of that faith which says — " There is no God." TWO FAULTS OF THE ENGLISH. 317 TWO FAULTS OF THE ENGLISH. There is one great vice in English society, not indeed pe- culiar to them, but yet strongly marked. It exists under a specious name, and at first sight would seem to be an axiom in morals, or in the social relations. They express it as follows : — " Let every one know and keep his own place." But when interpreted by its exemplifications, it may gener- ally be taken as meaning, in the mouth of him who uses it, something like this : — " Let every one who is below, or un- der me, stay there. Let him not presume to aspire." Thus every class conspires to keep down those who are below them. I have frequently talked very frankly with our English friends on this subject, some of whom have seemed to yield to my reasonings, while others have strongly opposed me. My manner of treating the argument has been something as follows : — " Your theory of society is false ; and on your principles it must for ever remain stationary, or nearly so. You know very well that God has made every thing for progress — that nothing in his creation stands still. Above all, has he con- stituted mind in itself, and society in its relations, for ad- vancement. Mind at rest is mind paralyzed ; it is an abuse of God's work, and it must suffer for it. It is the nature of mind to aspire ; if you interpose obstacles to its ascendency, or circumscribe the scope of its action by vexatious barriers, you disappoint the end of its being. It is creating a prison for a spirit by an unnatural and forced arrangement of circum- stances. Doubtless there are grades of intellectual and moral being ; but to assume that a given grade is ordained for the same mind to stand in for ever, is deciding the ques- tion in debate, and not very reasonable. " And here is the fault of you English — a fault of princi- ple as well as of practice. You do not give a chance for all minds to advance — to rise ; but you study and take great pains to hold them in check ; you rebuke and vex them, if they show a disposition to answer the proper end of their existence, and of human society ; and you say, they are get- ting out of place, and trying to move beyond their sphere. " But the fault is your own ; you are inconsistent. You have lately made a great mistake in attempting to promote general education ; in setting up Sunday and other schools for children of the poor ; in economizing the modes of in- struction ; in multiplying the means of knowledge, and bring- ing them within the reach of all minds. Do you expect, if you give them knowledge, that they will be contented to be 27* 318 TWO FAULTS OF THE ENGLISH. degraded 1 Will you show them what is most desirable, and what man may possibly attain to, and then cross their path to say — No, you shall not have it ; it was not intended for you ? " You must undo what you have been doing ; you must debar the poor and the common people from the sources of knowledge, if you would have them remain where they are. If they are cultivated and informed, they will never be con- tented or easy till the way is open to all for advancement You have indeed done one excellent thing— you have begun to educate the poor ; but you do not seem to be prepared for the consequences. You are vexed at the natural result of the work of your hands — a work undertaken from the best of motives. The difficulty is — your theory of society is not sufficiently enlarged. You have begun well, but you have not looked to the limits of the field upon which you have entered. " If you will allow me to say so — that is doubtless the best state of society where every mind, as it is expanded by culture, and looking abroad on the circumstances by which it is surrounded, and forward on the prospects open before it, sees no insuperable obstacle, placed by unfairness, in the way of its advancement in an honourable career, and to any station that may lawfully be desired. Will mankind ever be contented till such a state of things is brought about 1 I would not, I could not respect them if they would ; it is un- reasonable to expect that they will. " You will pardon me for saying that I think it is a gen- eral fault in England — which may easily be accounted for by the history of society here — for every class to keep its in- feriors in check, in a manner and by means which are not the best treatment of human nature. It is an hereditary vice of this community, and belongs to nearly all, from the high- est ranks to the lowest. Even the lower classes are equally jealous of their rights, in relation to those who are below them. " This is, unfortunately, a method of treatment maintain- ed in principle ; and I humbly think it is in principle wrong. But it will find its own cure in that course which society is now taking, by the instrumentality of your own hands, though it will often be inconvenient and vexatious, and cause many of you to say — Would that we had kept the people ignorant. You ought, however, to be patient under all this, and remember that it is an incidental evil in the way of the greatest good — to the best state of human society. It is one of the sins of fathers visited upon their children ; but a meek and quiet bearing of it will be an atonement." ANOTHER. The English are remarkable for loving the brute creation, especially horses and dogs. And there is something very TWO FAULTS OF THE ENGLISH. 319 kind and amiable in this disposition, which, except as it is carried to excess, ought to be turned to a good account, and make people better members of society. The inference ought to be thus : He that is kind to a brute, will much more be kind to his own species. But the reverse is often true. People must love something that breathes, and that can requite affection — or something that is serviceable, and that ministers to enjoyment. The horse, besides awaken- ing our admiration, and by degrees our affection, for his noble qualities, is serviceable. He carries us with willing- ness and high spirits, and obeys our will. We are cheered and thrown into a sort of ecstasy by his easy and proud movements, whether we ride upon his back, or are drawn in a carriage. We pet him, and he pricks up his ears, smells our hand or our garments, and seems to be happy and grateful for our attentions. We call him by name ; he looks a kind response. We bid him go, and off he springs, obe- dient to the various indications of our will. He never fails, but always serves us, while we feed him well. We teach him many lessons, whether of service or of playfulness, and he never forgets them. He knows and understands us as well as we do him. We talk to him as to a friend ; and he evidently takes his part in the dialogue in his own way. He faithfully serves, and never hurts or opposes us. No wonder that we should become attached to him. But the English have peculiar reasons for loving the horse. He is the proud animal that gives dignity, show, and ease to the public airings and resorts of their town, and that ministers to the pleasures and sports of the country. There is no city in the world that makes such a display of horses, either in respect to the superiority of their breed, or to their number, as London. One can never cease to wonder at this exhibition, for nearly half the year, in the western parts of the metropolis and in the parks. It is a daily pageant, at which the actors themselves, at every renewal of the scene, are filled with admiration. One could not doubt that they suffer a sort of mental intoxication by gazing at the show, as they roll or gallop along in the midst of it, them- selves a part. Nor can they forget that it is the noble horse, reduced to the most perfect discipline, that contributes so essentially to their enjoyment. In the country he is equally the minister of their pleasure and their sports. I speak of fact — not that sport and pleas- ure are most suitable to man, and the most worthy objects of his pursuit, merely for the gratification which they offer- ed. It is the excessive love which the English have for the horse and dog, which I think a fault — a perversion of the affections of the heart, which disappoints the noblest ends of society and of man's existence. For illustration, I have in view three striking facts, which belong to a great class, 320 TWO FAULTS OF THE ENGLISH. not perhaps peculiar to the English, but especially charac- teristic. The cause of this attachment probably lies more in the convenience of the horse and the dog, as means of pleasure and of sport, than in any thing else ; although there is too often another ingredient of a melancholy character, espe- cially in the love that is lavished on the dog. Every car- riage and every parlour has a dog. Or if he be not found in the parlour, he is an indispensable part of domestic so- ciety. The lady, especially if she be unmarried or has no children, scorns not, but prides herself, in leading her pet by a silken string, through all her public promenades. She feels for her dog, not less, perhaps more, than the fond mother feels for her child. She feeds it — if it is sick, she watches with it, even all the night. Not a pain does it feel but she feels. Her dog is her companion — her friend ; and when she dies, she remembers her dog in her last will and testa- ment. As I was walking with a friend in a country town about 40 miles from London, we met a gentleman and lady ac- companied by a beautiful spaniel. " They have no child but that dog," said my friend as we passed them. " I met the gentleman the other day, and asked him how he did 1 ' Mis- erable !' said he, with a doleful countenance. ' What is the matter, pray V — ' My dog is sick. I sat up with him all last night. I did not sleep a wink. I am afraid he will die. I am miserable, sir. 5 " A lady lately deceased, in Wakefield, Yorkshire, left .£30, or $144 a year, for the maintenance of her dog! On the death of Lady (I forget her name), in Scotland, 1816, six of her horses had pensions assigned them of £45 per annum each. Five of them died at the ages of 28, 29, and 31. The sixth died lately, aged 34, the executors having paid for this one alone the sum of £810 ! Suppose the aver- age life of the other five was twelve years after the death of her ladyship, and the cost of the whole, thus pensioned, would be £3,510, or $16,848! If the dog should live 15 years after his mistress, his maintenance will cost £450, or $2,160! These are only facts of a numerous class to illustrate the affection that is bestowed in Great Britain on dogs and horses. At the same time it must be admitted, that kind- ness to the brute creation is a virtue, and ought not to be rebuked ; yet there is something naturally and unavoidably suggested by these facts, that presents a melancholy pic- ture of perverted affection. It proves, first, that many — and I fear very many— -waste their affections on brutes, be- cause they have not virtue enough to love their own species. They must love something, and something which at least they may imagine requites their loye. A dog is always WINDSOR CASTLE. 321 obsequious and affectionate ; there is no ungrateful return from that quarter, no want of patience nor demand for it. There are a thousand objects of human kind needing benevolence ; and in no countries more than in England and Ireland; but they are not amiable — they are viewed with disgust — as unworthy. Who can love rags and filth ; es- pecially how can a delicate lady love such objects ? Alas ! she has no arithmetic in her head, no sentiment in her heart, that makes its calculations properly. She knows not how to lay up treasure in heaven, by causing the poor to rise up and call her blessed — to drop their tears of gratitude at her feet ! She knows not Him who " became poor, that we, through his poverty, might be made rich." She is an idolater of the basest, most disgusting kind. If she were a worshipper of the sun or of the moon, there might at least be some lofty ingredient in her character — but she worships a dog ! WINDSOR CASTLE. Kenilworth — Warwick — York Minster — Salisbury Steeple. The way to Windsor is by the great post-road from Lon- don to Bristol, up the general course of the Thames, pass- ing Hyde Park, through Kensington, Hammersmith, Brent- ford, Hounslow, and some half dozen other considerable villages — making a distance of 22 miles. The country about London is generally level, and seems to be low. Ascending the Thames towards Windsor, a modest hill-outline stretches along on the left, a little distance from the river, the ridge of which runs by Windsor Castle 2i miles south — the whole line of which presents a very agreeable relief to the eye, exhibiting alternate forests and cultivated grounds, lifting itself perhaps 300 feet above the general level of the sur- rounding country. On approaching Windsor, at the distance of five or six miles, the battlements and walls of the castle begin to show themselves, seeming, from their magnitude and extent, to be within a mile or a mile and a half. It is, indeed, a truly royal monument of imposing grandeur. Perched upon a sharp eminence, just large enough for the base of its own everlasting walls, it lifts up its battlements and towers in one vast and irregular pile, presenting its varied aspects proudly and magnificently to every point of approach. All that is lost in looking at the external of the palace of St. James, to one who has conceived of nothing but the august in thinking of the court of that name, is more than restored on approaching Windsor Castle. O 3 322 WINDSOR CASTLE. The west, north, and east phases of the castle present bold, lofty, and inaccessible fronts. On its south are its sev- eral ways of ingress and egress, on an easy inclined plane, opening into the town lying at its base — and one of them, the royal road, opening into the long avenue, lined on either side by two rows of the most ancient and venerable oaks, running from the castle gradually down into a vale, and again rising till at the distance of two and a half miles it strikes the ridge before described, presenting one of the grandest perspectives of the kind, and one of the noblest avenues in the world. At the extremity of this avenue, on the ridge, is perched a colossal equestrian statue of George III., on a pedestal forty feet in elevation, constructed rough- ly in imitation of a natural rock. The extended vale, stretching to the right and left, and lying between the castle and the statue of George III., pre- sents a most captivating landscape, especially as this vast region is cut in twain by the long and majestic line of the grand avenue. But the northern prospect from the castle is a vision of perfect enchantment — the castle itself being skirted to its very base by the interval lands of the Thames. There is the river searching out a winding course, as if re- luctant to quit the scene of which itself is a principal charm. There are the widely-extended and almost boundless inter- vals, some defined 'by regular artificial lines, sprinkled with trees and copses of wood, and filled with herds and flocks ; others undefined by any visible boundaries drawn by the hand of man, presenting all conceivable variety of forest- shade and open field, of flocks and running brooks — of vil- lages, farmhouses, cottages, and the brisk windmill, displayed from different points, and whirling about its whitened canvass until the utmost boundary, rising before the eye, merges in the clouds, or fog, or smoke of an English atmosphere. There, too, is the beautiful town of Eton, resting on the Thames, divided from Windsor only by a bridge — Eton Col- lege — and the college church, an ancient Gothic structure, belittling the town and all the college edifices by its own comparative magnificence. Windsor Castle is divided into two principal wards, upper and lower — the former being appropriated as the domicil of the royal family, constituting the entire quadrangle, as it is called, and made up of almost innumerable apartments, greater and smaller, more or less magnificent; some for use and some for show. The upper ward rests on the high- est grounds, and the space comprehended within the quad- rangle I should judge to be some two or three acres, making a sort of parade-ground for troops, and for the carriages and suites of the king and queen. Between the upper and lower wards stands the Keep, or Round Tower, the most elevated and the grandest feature WINDSOR CASTLE. 323 of the castle, being, I should judge, 100 feet in diameter, and displaying from a smaller tower, resting upon its summit, the royal flag, to indicate when the king is at Windsor. In the lower ward are many interesting objects, among which the most notable are St. George's Chapel, the Mausoleum, and Julius Cesar's Tower, containing a peal of eight fine- toned and heavy bells, constituting the lower extremity. The castle in both wards, especially the upper, has been greatly enlarged, parts of it entirely renovated, and the whole eminently improved, at immense expense, within the last few years — more especially during the reign of George IV. The Round Tower has been lifted some 50 feet above its former height, the summit of which is now more than 400 feet above the Thames, which runs at the base of the castle. The entire range of the present state apartments has been renovated, and to a considerable extent newly- furnished. It would require a volume to describe these numerous state-rooms, their various and princely furniture, and the works of art with which their walls are covered, and their niches and angles studded. Every ceiling also exhibits some grand historical or fabulous device of the painter's art. All the most admirable specimens of the fine arts, ancient and modern, connected with English and gen- eral history, sacred and profane — portraits, often full length, of the different members of the royal families of England, from the earliest days, and of the most distinguished of their nobility — grand historical groups commemorative of great occasions, &c. — together with numerous civic, military, naval, and chivalric memorials — may be seen in one and another of this long line and labyrinth of magnificent apart- ments. Passing by the numerous, attractive, and impressive ex- hibitions of the arts with which St. George's Chapel abounds — such as West's Last Supper, immediately above the altar, and the widely-extended Resurrection scene, thrown upon the vast window, also over the altar, and designed by West — such as the Nativity, and the offerings of the Magi to the Holy Child, on either side of the immense central window of the nave, designed by the same hand — the in- imitable (in these days inimitable) inherent colourings of the last-named great window — and very many other specimens, as well of statuary as of painting — I have only time to no- tice the marble cenotaph to the memory of the Princess Charlotte. The artist who devised this monument, Mr. Wyatt, was doubtless aware that his task was of no ordi- nary character — that unless he could satisfy a nation's tears, and equal the freshest wounds of that calamity most fresh, he had better attempt nothing. For myself, I was taken by surprise when I blundered unexpectedly and alone upon that scene. I had never heard of it. Nor should I have 324 KENILWORTH CASTLE. imagined, but from its indubitable indications, what event it was designed to commemorate. At the first glance, on approaching, I stopped suddenly and involuntarily — and the next succeeding emotion, instantaneous indeed, was a strong and almost irresistible impulse to fall prostrate and weep before the spectacle. Had I fallen as unexpectedly upon a fresh and actual calamity, of which this was the mere picture, it could scarcely, in the first impression, have taken a strong- er hold. There lay evidently on a table a corpse, the breath of life but just departed, inclining nearly on the left face, the frame drawn up and distorted, as an expiring agony may be supposed to have done, the whole covered with a sheet of the purest and finest linen lightly thrown over — the right arm dropping down over the table, exposing only the fingers of the hand, which were as white as the sheet itself. At the two front corners of the table kneeled two female forms, as might be supposed from their slender make, each in posi- tions various from the other, and both with their heads dropping in their hands and weeping, with no other garb but other sheets of the finest and purest linen, thrown lightly over their entire frame. At the ends of the table, and a step in elevation, kneeled two other female forms, in positions still varying from the other two, and each from each, their heads also dropping in their hands, and weeping — both concealed in the same manner under pure white linen — and all the group inclining towards the corpse. Over this table and its burden, as if just breaking forth from a cemetery behind, another female form, fresh, fair, and joy- ous, as the resurrection of the just, unconnected with any apparent object except her drapery, is rising triumphant, with heaven-directed eyes, with every limb and muscle springing and mounting upwards, disregardful of the scene beneath her feet. On either side an angel is mounting with her, but more slow in flight, both gazing upon her, and one of them bearing and clasping in his bosom the infant child. And all this done and expressed from the purest marble. Who, meeting unexpectedly such a spectacle, would not feel it 1 KENILWORTH CASTLE. From Coventry to the borough of Warwick is 10 miles. A little more than half this distance towards Warwick is Kenilworth. The main road and every feature of the coun- try here are truly delightful — enchanting. The ruins of Kenilworth Castle are magnificent, as they are venerable. Independent of that interest with which Scott has invested them, standing in the light of sober history, and in their own naked and majestic forms, they are sufficiently attract- ive to arrest the footsteps and fix the intense gaze of him who, in connexion with their historical suggestions, ap- WARWICK CASTLE. 325 proaches and looks upon them for the first time. Yonder, some half mile or more in the distance, as he rides along the gently undulating country, the heavy, towering, decay- ing, falling, ivy-mantled walls — massive, grand, isolated, silent, and exceedingly imposing — appearing to rest partly on meadows, groves, and hills, and partly on the clouds and sky — burst at once on his view ! Ashe advances and changes his relative position, the features and outlines of the object that absorbs his attention change also. Imagination gives it life, though so long mouldering and dead. It moves be- fore the eye — every moment presents some new, living, and eloquent expression. The birds are floating over it, and lighting on its towers. They have made their nests there, and forget not their young ones. And that was once the home of a high, proud, and puis- sant English lord ! There his haughty queen, the boast of English history, was his guest for seventeen days, with her court ! What splendour — what entertainments, what prodi- gality of wealth — what instruments and means of pleasure— what life and animation — what banquetings, revellings, and mirth within — what sports without — what demonstrations of royalty and princely greatness— have been exhibited there ! What a magnificent and perfect thing of human crea- tion ivas that ! And what is it now ! So fades the glory of this world ! Where is that princely lord 1 W T here is Eliza- beth, whom he entertained 1 Where are they who moved and figured in that extraordinary, protracted, costly, splendid fete \ Was it all pure ! Was it all without sin 1 Desolation has spread its mantle alike over the grounds and over the walls. Silence reigns without and within. History tells us what has been there, and Time has written upon it all — how irresistible is his dominion ! How great the changes of human society ! The change of customs and modes of living ! It is instructive — it is melancholy — it is the poetry of history. WARWICK CASTLE. Lady Chapel, in St. Mary's Church, of Warwick, is the most remarkable thing of the town — the most remarkable of the kind I have seen in England — a curious, superb, little, young, chicken church, lying under the wing of the old one. I should think that Popery, monkery — the virgin genius of Mother Church — had exhausted her own pro-creative ener- gies when that was conceived. It might be supposed the very end — the last little baby of fancy — -and that fancy will never try again. I advise all who go to Warwick to see nothing else, and think of nothing else — unless, perchance, it be the castle. There lieth the king-maker, the renowned Earl of Warwick ; and there lieth the Earl of Leicester. Monks have counted their beads there, and thought, per- 28 326 CITY OP YORE. haps, that the eye of Heaven looked upon them. Certainly no one from this world would have thought to search for them, if he had not been told there was such a place. The beautiful Avon runs under the town, and on its sweet banks is built that far-famed castle — the house and citadel of the Warwicks. To say that it well deserveth its reputa- tion, is perhaps saying enough — especially when one is tired of castles, and is willing that they who own them should enjoy them. This, however, is by no means a common one. It is the most perfect, the most stately, the most picturesque, the most romantic of its kind in the British Isles. Windsor Castle makes a greater pile ; but the king might well resign his own if he could obtain this in barter. The cannon's mouth would laugh at such muniments ; but for the age, for the periods to which they belonged, it must indeed have been a strong hiding-place. He who had once entered its gates, and made them fast behind him, might bid defiance to a pursuing foe ; he might sleep as quietly as if he had not an enemy in the world. It is indeed a wonderful creation of man. The castle rises, an impregnable wall, directly on the bank of the Avon ; and the entire line of state rooms, 330 feet, filled with a countless costliness of furniture, and a richness indescribable, look out on this sweetly-flowing stream, and on the pleasure-grounds and park, which stretch far away to bounds not discoverable. The tops of the ce- dars of Lebanon, brought and planted there, and majestic as in the land of Israel, whose roots fasten in the crevices of the rocks at the base of the castle, are under its win- dows. It is a nest fit for kings, high and inaccessible, with nothing but the beauties and glories of creation to look out upon, and all within peace, and quietness, and princely splendour. The access to the castle, after entering the outer gate, is a long, deep-cut serpentine gallery, spacious enough for a carriage, walled up to heaven by the natural rock out of which it has been blasted, and overhung by the wood. THE CITY OF YORK. " Of hoary York, the early throne of state, Where polish'd Romans sat in high debate ; Where laws and chiefs of venerable rule, The nobler produce of the Latin school, Shone forth — we sing." Such is the pompous pretension of the guide-book to the City of York. In any thing else but a guide-book — whose ministering services are somewhat akin to those of the don- key, and the brains of their authors, with few exceptions, equally worthy of respect — these lines might possibly strike us as being something not altogether un-apropos. York is an ancient city built upon the ruins of an ancient YORK MINSTER. 327 city; and the foundations of its ancient and magnificent cathedral have been set up in the midst of the foundation stones and among the stupendous columns of some other magnificent, but now forgotten, monument of the pride and glory of man. Some recent excavations for the repairs of the minster have exposed the lower sections of the columns of some ancient edifice, standing undisturbed upon their primitive foundations, and in their first architectural rela- tions to each other. Underneath this mighty fabric, the history of which in all its earlier parts can itself with dif- ficulty be traced, you may walk among the ruins of a like and perhaps still greater thing, though distinctly diverse in all its features, and belonging to another cycle of the gen- erations of men, whose history is forgotten. I cannot de- scribe the awe with which I was struck, when, having just received my first impressions on approaching and entering York Cathedral — having compassed the vast building for once, and merely cast a glance upwards now and then as I passed along — having crossed the threshold to its inner and awful spaciousness, and listened for an hour to the solemn chant, the echoing voices of prayer and the word of God, as they lifted, rolled, and multiplied themselves among the many arches above — having seen and learned just enough to know that this great piece of human art could not be known in all its history — it is so old and so infinite — and then to be conducted downward into a subterranean cham- ber, with just light enough thrown in to show us a for- est of columns, standing in their original order and place, as parts of some stupendous structure, whose history is too ancient to have any relation to this other ancient and stu- pendous building, which now lifts up itself in awful grandeur above these ruins ; — no, I can hardly express my sensations at the sight of these subterranean relics, exhibiting such proofs of the art, labour, and expense by which the whole thing, of which they were parts, was created, and of the importance of that generation whose history has principally perished. It seemed as if the builders of this old city, and of this mountain-like cathedral, in the selection of their site, had blundered upon these buried ruins without ever knowing what was under their feet — and that mere accident in this late day had made the discovery. These ruins, thus expo- sed, are directly under the choir of the Minster. York Minster, or Cathedral, has been often described, and is justly celebrated, as one of the most stupendous and wonderful architectural monuments in the British domin- ions. There are many others admirable, but this is awful, and altogether imposing. One cannot see it, cannot go round it, cannot walk within, look up, and survey its won- drous greatness and equally wondrous variety, but he is lost, bewildered in any attempts to conjecture how many cen- 328 YORK MINSTER. turies it must have occupied, how many hands it must have employed, and how much waste of treasure it must have cost, in building. At one time he imagines it is enough to have occupied all men of all generations. And yet he must know it is a small affair among the rest of the works of human art. The external of this edifice has so many features, that one who has but little time for observation cannot pretend to be minute in tracing them. He delights to go round and round, and receive the general impressions of every new glance ; and to catch now and then the more striking and admirable minutiae. He sees the waste of time even on the rock — how the blasting storms of many centuries have blotted out inscriptions, defaced and transformed the stat- uary, converted every image into some other image of mon- strous shape, and furrowed deeply in every direction the hardest materials that have been drawn from the bowels of the earth. This massive, towering, and stupendous pile has not only become hoary with age, but literally hangs in tatters by the waste of its external decorations. For all that is within it is vain to attempt the declaration of one's respect. Here again a brief inspection must be contented with its general impressions. Even though the awful temple be revisited day after day for no inconsider- able period, there is no diminution, but rather increase of interest. The arches and windows of York Minster can never be seen enough not to wish to see them again. The positions for the endless and ever-varying perspect- ive are so numerous, that one can never be satisfied with shifting and seeking some fresh delight. While the solemn chant is reciting, and the peals of the loud organ are rolling through the vaults above, the temptation is great to neglect the purposes of devotion, and to walk through the long aisles, to observe the peculiar and impressive effect of the multi- plication of the echoes of every note and of every word, as it floats, and rises, and tumbles along from one region to another, until succeeding notes and words, like wave fol- lowing wave in the sea, attract the attention, and fill up the scope of sensible observation. It is known that a large part of York Minster was burnt down in February, 1829, by the incendiary torch of a de- luded fanatic, who imagined himself commissioned from Heaven to reform the Church of England. He was instruct- ed, it would seem, to begin at the City of York, and in this very striking and impressive way. It happened that the beginning of his work was the end. For the poor fellow was overtaken, and is now atoning for his temerity in the prison of New Bridewell. This fellow, whose name is Martin, had secreted himself behind a sarcophagus, or some other monument in the ca^ YORK MINSTER. 329 thedral, during the worship of a Sunday afternoon, with instruments and apparatus for striking up a fire. The doors being closed upon him, he went to work at his leisure, se- lected his own hour of the night, and succeeded but too well in firing the Minster. It would seem impossible, at first sight, to burn such a building. That part of the cathe- dral, however, which is called the choir, and which is the common place of worship, is a heavy screen of wood (oak), connected with the seats, desks, orchestra, and organ. Even though this should be burnt down, it might ordinarily be expected that the fire would then stop — inasmuch as it is so isolated from the rest of the building. But it seems it did not stop. By the incendiary's own confession, he col- lected books and cushions, and piled them up in the bishop's throne, or cathedra, as being the more proper place to com- mence his destruction of the kingdom of antichrist. Hav- ing seen the fire in good and certain progress, he broke through one of the north windows of the transept, let him- self down, and escaped- The fire advanced slowly, burning all night, and was not discovered till at a late hour the next morning, when a part of the roof having fallen in, the smoke was seen rising and clouding over the Minster, and the mel- ancholy event was too manifest. The choir, the organ, and nearly the whole of the building east of the transept and within the walls, had become a heap of ruins. The transept and the nave remained uninjured — except that parts of them were badly smoked. The massive columns were extensively dissolved, and large chips and fragments of them tumbled down by the effect of heat, and by the concussions of the falling roof. Some of the most valuable and most interesting of the monuments, erected in honour of the an- cient dead, were broken and crumbled in the common ruin. The lead, which supported the small panes of those vast and painted windows,. executed in such exquisite and inimit- able perfection, melted away, and dissolved irrecoverably the fair and fantastic vision. The altar and the throne (throne of the Archiepiseopal See) were literally burnt to the ground — all that was consumable — and the rest was covered with ashes, and defaced by the fallen ruins. This immense mischief, however, is principally repaired, and the glory of the latter house is likely to be greater than the glory of the former, except that the marks of its antiquity in these portions are necessarily lost, and many of the most beautiful and venerable monuments are buried in irrecover- able ruin. The new organ is said to be the greatest in the world. It was in use in 1832, and by this time is probably finished- I saw pipes setting up there which seemed large enough, when the muttering thunders should roll through them, to shake the foundations of the earth. Taking this building all in all, regarding its history and its 28* 330 SALISBURY CATHEDRAL. architectural beauties and magnificence, looking at its minute as well as its grander features, within and without, by close inspection and in distant prospect, it is altogether a most imposing and most wonderful structure. The farther the spectator recedes on the plain, or rises on the distant hills, the greater it appears. It is 526 feet long, and the cross or transept is 222 feet. The elevation of the central or lantern tower, which was intended as a mere basis of a structure never yet executed, is 200 feet. Its measurement across, being square, is 65 feet. The great east window is 75 feet high and 32 broad. The chapter-house holds a like relation to the main building, as a lobster's claw to his body. The northern aspect, and the two northern towers, are remarkable for the multiplication (almost innumerable) and the perfec- tion of the carved work, and all manner of historical, legen- dary, heathenish, and monstrous imagery, which is thrown upon the surface, set in the niches, run in the tracery, and made to stick out at all points and angles ; — and one of the best things is, that the hand of time has worn off some of the ugliest features of these monstrous shapes — they seem so incongruously adjoined to what was set up for the house of God. It is a noble and an awful front, however. York is entirely surrounded by a wall, which is now being repaired. There is also in the city a famous ancient tower (Clifford's), at this time enclosed by the walls of a new and formidable castle, built for a prison. The ruins of St. Mary's Abbey are the purest of the kind, and make a most advantageous show, from the manner and circumstances under which they are preserved. A range of beautiful elms has grown up on the exterior of these walls, which throw over their pendent branches, so that the slight- est breeze waves them along the wall and across the lancet- arched windows, presenting an ever-moving scene — a con- tinuously dancing image before the eye, of a most peculiar and romantic character. SALISBURY CATHEDRAL Is distinguished for its lofty spire, 410 feet; for the purity and uniformity of its architecture, external and internal ; and for the warped condition of the columns of masonry which support the tower and spire, under the amazing weight that rests upon them. That columns of wood, being fibrous, should bend and spring by a superincumbent pres- sure, would not be strange ; but that masonry should do so, and yet not fall, is certainly remarkable. It is frightful to stand at the feet of these columns, to think of the weight resting upon them, and then look up and observe each of them bending ready to be crushed. The only reason why it is presumed they will remain, is because they have al- ready endured for ages under the same appearances, A» ISLE OF WIGHT. 331 extra fixture has been thrown in for protection, interposing a monstrous blemish in the perspective of the transept. Aside from this, the pure Gothic of the entire edifice con- stitutes one of the rarest beauties of the kind in the British Isles. It Avas built in the thirteenth century — the spire hav- ing been since added, the top of which inclines 22 inches from a perpendicular line, in consequence of the warping of its supports. An old man, between seventy and eighty, has been accustomed to ascend once in a twelvemonth for many years to oil the weather-vane. He gets out at a win- dow a few feet below the top, scrambles like a squirrel by some iron network at the giddy elevation of four hundred feet, perforins his office, and descends with all the self-pos- session of a sailor. ISLE OF WIGHT. In company with a friend from London — to whom I am indebted for much hospitality, and many acts of friendship not to be forgotten, and who was one of my first, most con- stant, and best friends while I was in England — I went, in 1832, to the Isle of Wight, to tread upon that beautiful gem of the ocean. The whole coast of England may be said to be lined with steam-vessels. It is hardly possible to get out of sight of them on any of the waters which begird those isles. The principal ports of the Isle of Wight, Ryde on the east, Cowes on the north, and Yarmouth on the west, are constantly alive with these smoking and dashing en- gines, connecting the island with the nearer and more re- mote ports on the mainland. Portsmouth, Ryde, Cowes, and Southampton, make a circle, which are visited by a constant succession of steamboats almost every hour in the day, carrying and dropping passengers, as they run to and from this inviting retreat. In summer and autumn it is a most animating scene, the island being one of the great re- sorts for health and pleasure. We ran down Southampton Bay in a pretty style, gazing with delight on the shores, villas, gardens, and the mansions of noblemen, as they successively opened upon us and re- ceded in their turn to give place to other interesting objects of the moving panorama ; and then dashed across the sound into the safe, commodious, and beautiful harbour of Cowes, which is near midway the island on the north side, fur- nishing a most secure haven for shipping. The town is a fine object, running up from the shore to the elevated grounds, and losing itself among the rich and waving foliage 332 ISLE OF WIGHT. of the trees. The harbour divides it into nearly equal por- tions, and gradually contracts into the little river of Me- dina, which admits small vessels five miles to Newport, the capital of the island, with a population of 6,000. Between Newport and Covves is a town of barracks, sufficient to accommodate a small army, but vacant of course in these times of peace. Carisbrook Castle, standing on an eminence one mile west of Newport, is an old and interesting ruin ; was the prison-house of Charles I. ; from the lofty walls of which is surveyed one of the most enchanting landscape visions which the eye ever beheld. The Isle of Wight, 20 miles long and 10 broad, with a coast of 60, is a garden of the high- est cultivation, and rolled up into the most irregular and fan- tastic undulations of easy and gentle slopes, presenting the softest and richest views from every quarter. The keep of Carisbrook Castle is one of the most advantageous positions to enjoy them. There is a remarkable well in this castle, 300 feet deep, worked through a solid rock, 90 feet of which is filled with the purest water from the spring which was found at the bottom. Of course the measurement from the top to the surface of the water is 210 feet. The gover- nor's house and the old chapel are kept in tolerable repair, although religious service has ceased in the sanctuary for fifty years, except for the sole purpose of swearing the Mayor of Newport into office. I might add, that the tilting arena in the castle is now used as an archery by the nobility and gentry visiting the island. This ancient custom is get- ting to be the fashionable amusement in England, in which male and female unite for the trial and perfection of their skill. For those who have nothing to do but to kill time, it is perhaps one of the most innocent and healthful exercises. I cannot imagine, however, that the bow and arrow are likely to supersede powder and shot, either for the sports of the chase or the more grave encounters of the field of battle. More likely, perhaps, that steam will supplant both. As yet, Perkins's steam-gun remains daily a thing of exhibi- tion for the curious in the British National Gallery of Prac- tical Science, West Strand, London. I had not imagined, in passing over the delightful vales, and crossing the easy hills of the Isle of Wight, that there remained so sublime and awful a termination of the scene as the lofty and frowning cliffs which bound the southern shore, which say to the bold advances of the mountain-wave — " Hitherto shalt thou come and no farther," and which are the terror of the tempest-tossed mariner, as well as the eternal barrier of the ocean. These are indeed a majestic scene, and show the mighty hand of their Maker. They are fit to look upon the boundless expanse of the mighty waters which lie before them, and come dashing their waves and wasting ISLE OF WIGHT. 333 their energies at the base of this unshaken wall. And yet it is not altogether unshaken. A soft foundation has yielded to the wear of ages, and these stupendous, craggy, and low- ering cliffs have again and again bowed themselves, and spread along this shore the shapeless ruins of their fall, as sublime in their aspects as the lofty walls they have left be- hind them. It happened that my companion and myself walked over one of these slides one evening, which came down in 1799, and brought more than a hundred acres of the beautiful land from above ; and as we laboured along over the crude ruins and shapeless masses, we were ignorant of the event which had occasioned them. Notwithstanding it is more than thirty years since, the apparent freshness of the violence struck us with amazement, and made us abso- lutely fearful lest it should prove that the gaping fissures over which we were compelled to stride, and the abrupt jut- tings of earth and rock which interrupted our march, were the work of that very hour, and the next moment we should feel the chaos heaving and rolling under our feet. We has- tened onward, and ruin faced us still, and thickened in our prospect ! " What is this ! What is this !" we involuntarily and simultaneously exclaimed. Our amazement did not cease till we had returned to our lodgings, and were made acquainted with the secret. For nine miles in uninterrupted succession east, the under cliff, as it is called, is all made by the same cause, but so old as to be beyond the memory of man ; and small farms, roman- tic villas, and the tasteful mansions of the rich, are planted all along these shapeless ruins, housed from the northern blasts by the overhanging cliffs, lifted up midway from the sea towards those upper regions, exposed to the genial influ- ences of the sun when it shines in its mildness, and to the peltings of the ocean storm when it beats upon the shore. At one time there is repose, at another the terrible hovvl- ings of the tempest. Here it may be said — man has built his nest among the rocks, worked the wreck of nature's con- vulsions into beautiful and enchanting disorder, and dressed these deformities in living verdure. The cliffs on the southern shore of the Isle of Wight range from three to six hundred feet in elevation, the high- est parts of them being about seven hundred feet. The oc- cupancy and cultivation of the under cliff, which is gener- ally about half the height of the upper one, and composed of its ruins, constitute a singular beauty, and demonstrate what may be effected by the hand of man, not only for the gratification of his taste, but for profit, as many of these grounds make excellent and productive farms and gardens. They are in souie parts a quarter of a mile wide, and in one place there is the village and parish of St. Lawrence — the church being a great singularity, twenty feet by twelve in 334 RYDE. its area, six feet from the lower edge of the roof, but in all respects perfect, with Gothic windows, painted glass, pul- pit, reading-desk, pews, altar, beli, &c. — every part con- structed on a proportionate scale, and habitually occupied as a place of public worship. The Needles, like the Icebergs, shooting up their sharp points towards heaven, presenting their awful fronts, jutting out their acute angles into the sea, and, like the Icebergs, the dread of the mariner, are at the southwestern extremity of the island. On a second visit to the Isle of Wight, in the summer of 1834, in company with another friend, with whom I had the privilege and happiness to lodge the last fifteen months of my residence in London, whose memory is dearer to me than that of any other man, and a sense of whose virtues will live in my heart while I have being, I made the follow- ing notes at our lodgings in Ryde : — Warren Cottage stands in one of the sweetest places of this charming town. It is situated in the centre of a plane inclined towards the east, the bulk of the town being on a corresponding declivity to the north. At the foot of this plane is a flat lowland of about one hundred acres, called Monk's Meads, a few feet above the tide, redeemed from the sea, or from which the sea is supposed to have retired. They are now making hay in this bottom under my eye — a pretty scene. On the rising ground beyond, about half a mile, I see the white frocks of six mowers, swinging the scythe with a simultaneous stroke. Over the tops of Appley Wood, in the same direction with the mowers, are the full- spread sails of an India ship, leaving the roadstead under easy sail. A little to the left, and almost twenty miles across the water, is Chichester Cathedral. Further still to the left are Portsmouth and Gosport, with the lines of for- tifications on either side of the entrance to the harbour, and a forest of whitewashed stumps (mainmasts) of the ships of war lying in ordinary. The apparently circular line of Eng- land's shore, defined by the reflected rays of the sun from the shingle (pebbles) on the beach, with the dark line of ver- dure above, and an indistinct range of higher ground far be- yond, stretches before my eye some 30 or 40 miles towards Brighton, till it sinks beneath the horizon, or is merged in a smoky atmosphere. Returning to nearer objects, Appley House and wood, immediately on the shore, and within a mile, with their various features, are a grateful scene. Ri- sing still to the right, and crowning the hill, is St. John's Place, the seat of Sir Richard Simeon, M. P., a Jew, as I am informed, and as his name might import. His title, however, as I suppose, comes by Gentile connexions, and by accom- modating his Jewish faith to paganized Christian names. His seat is good enough, either for a Christian or a Jew ; and RYDE. 335 I, for one, am much obliged to him for the pleasure it affords me in looking at it. It is one of the most desirable places in the vicinity of Ryde. Ryde is the beauty of Wight, and one of the pleasantest watering-places and summer resorts of the very many which the coasts of the British islands afford. It is a town of 4,000 residents, having in addition, at the visiting season, from 1,000 to 2,000, principally from London. It lies on an inclined plane, on the north side of the island, towards its eastern extremity, directly opposite Portsmouth, of which, as well as Gosport, and an extended line of the southern shore of the mainland, it commands a perfect view. The famous roadstead, Spithead, is before this town, where we have a constant scene of the coming in and going out of shipping from and to all parts of the world. Even while I am writing this line, an English frigate is coming to anchor before my eyes, having fired a salute as she rounded the eastern point of the island, and is now receiving a return-sa- lute from the flag-ship Victory, in Portsmouth harbour, on the decks of which Nelson ordered his last naval battle, and obtained his last victory ; and from my window I hear her guns, and see the volumes of smoke ascend. It is about five miles distant across the channel, called the Solent Sea, sep- arating the island from the mainland. Ryde differs from most English towns in not being crowd- ed in a heap on narrow streets — is well built — rural in its aspects — the whole constituting a great perfection of con- venience and of taste. There is a pier running out into the Solent Sea one third of a mile, at the extremity of which steamers are hourly arriving and departing, connecting this town with Portsmouth, Southampton, Cowes, Lymington, and other near ports. There is probably no country in the world that supports so many public watering-places, and other points of resort for pleasure and health, as England. The entire circle of the island is lined with places built almost exclusively for this object, furnishing every allurement of convenience and luxury. The inland watering-places are also numerous, and in the appropriate season crowded ; such as Bath, Cheltenham, Tunbridge Wells, Leamington, Har- rowgate, &c. That so many towns and villages can be well supported, and rise from year to year in their importance and magnitude, as mere resorts of pleasure, is a notable proof of the wealth of the nation, and of the high degree of inde- pendence which a large share of the population enjoys. ON A STILL DAY. London, the place of eternal smoke and fog, where the sun and stars are never seen in their glory; where the rumbling of wheels and the tramping of horses never cease by day or night, Sundays or week-days; where the Sabbath 336 BOXING. morning sees the pleasure-seeking world pouring out to the country, and the evening witnesses their return, while all the public promenades and parks teem with countless floods of immortal beings ; London, that great and noisy Babylon, is to me as if it were not. I cannot realize^ its existence; I almost forget that I have ever been there. "* I find myself planted in the midst of a deep and solemn repose — which seems like the repose of the universe. The dark blue sea, that stretches out before me on the east, is at rest; the winds are at rest ; the ships in the roadstead, and every boat that lies on the water, are at rest ; the clouds seem to be at rest ; the road below, and the rising grounds beyond, with a grove, are at rest : the stretched-out line of the coast of England, in the distance, with its towns and villages, its cliffs of chalk, and a cathedral spire, all lie in silent repose ; this little town and its inhabitants seem to be all at rest ; no bustle, no rolling of carriages, no running to and fro. How different — gratefully, sweetly different from the Lon- don world. I did not think it were possible to be trans- planted so suddenly into circumstances so widely at vari- ance in the effects they produce upon the mind — from the great centre of human society, where there is no Sabbath externally, to a remote scene where the Sabbath seems per- petual. ANOTHER DAY. If I had not witnessed a scene to spoil the pleasures of the day, I should have been in excellent mood to record some of the agreeable impressions I had received in a seaside walk towards the eastern extremity of the island, to a little hamlet called Sea View, about three miles from Ryde, re- turning by an inland route of four miles — making a circuit of seven. But just as I had descended the hill, and passed the porter's lodge at St. John's Place, near town, I discov- ered a crowd of rustics occupying the road a few rods be- fore me, apparently in an earnest and somewhat noisy con- ference. There were perhaps a dozen men, old and young. At the moment, as I came up, two of them stood face to face, like fighting-cocks, fending and menacing by signs and words, one of them saying — " I'll out with your eyes ;" and the other stoutly replying — " Do it." They appeared to be about twenty years old. I had scarcely passed when the battle begun. Boxing is a science in England, and men devote them- selves to it professionally. The lower orders of the English have a notable taste for fighting. Except with the parties who give and take the bruises, it is a public sport, as much as horse-racing and fox-hunting. In all the lower ranks of life, whenever a trifling dispute occurs between any two in- dividuals, old or young, down even to boys of ten and six BOXING. 337 years old, a ring is immediately formed, and every possible incitement is employed to set them on. The ring is the jury, and the executive authority, to see that the rules of boxing, &c. are fairly kept between the parties. This pan- elling of a jury is an indirect and singular proof that all this part of the community understand the rules — as is a matter of fact — and they have a great delight in seeing them well kept. I never before came into such intimate contact with a scene of this kind. The crowd filled the road, and the comba- tants were fairly pelting each other as I came upon them. I was surprised to find, that instead of being shocked, these rus- tics were amused ; instead of endeavouring to separate and pacify the antagonists, they considered it their part to order fair play, and to stimulate them to do their best. Grave men were there, who were doubtless husbands and fathers, and who, but for being seen in that place and thus employed, might have been thought fit to act the part of jurors at the king's assizes, and who very likely had performed that duty. And yet they seemed as much interested and animated by this scene as any young fellow that was there. The com- bat was so earnest, and the knocks so rude and violent as I passed, that mere anxiety and sympathy for them, as suffer- ers, involuntarily arrested my steps, and forced me, at the distance of a rod or two, to look round on this novel and strange sight. After a few moments' pounding of each other, they were encouraged by the lookers-on, the jurors, to rest ; and two men stepped forward, each offering his knee to a combatant, and their arms to hold them up. After giving them a little space to breathe, they set them on again, and cheered them. I felt a powerful impulse to interfere ; but a moment's reflection instructed me that I might, as well have put my hand between two fighting bears. The second round — which I believe is the scientific term — the blood streamed from the nostrils of one of them, and he staggered, and fell into the arms of one that caught him, and assisted him to rest upon his knee for a renewal of the conflict. None of them seemed frightened at the sight of blood ; but some one dipped his handkerchief in the rill by the side of the road, and attempted to wash the blood from his face ; but it flowed faster than he could wipe it away. All seemed to er. oy the sport; and made their criticisms upon the man- ner in which it was conducted. In a moment they were set on again, till one was knocked down. He was picked up and held till his face was washed from the blood that covered it, and they were pushed at each other again, and cheered on, when one of them could hardly stand, and he was knock- ed down a second time ; helped up, and knocked down again ; and again ; till by some law, unknown to me, the battle was ended, when both the parties might have been killed by the P 29 338 A RAMBLE. violence inflicted on each other. It was indeed a frightful scene — barbarous — brutal. I have no apology, nor can I ac- count for the fact, that I stopped even a moment to witness it. I was taken by surprise ; I was anxious ; I was afraid they would kill each other ; I tried several times to go ; then turned about under the impression that I ought to interfere. But before I could decide to go, or what to do, the affair was brought to a close. It was obviously an accidental quarrel ; and the spectators seemed to enjoy it very much. 1 should have pronounced them in other circumstances sober Isle-of- Wight men, of the class of common labourers. It was an unexpected, singular, and painful exhibition — a relic of a barbarous age — an anomalous accident in the present state of civilization and refinement — a prodigious incongruity un- der the blazing light and softening influence of Christianity. But I must not forget that which is more agreeable. A large moiety of the pleasant winding shore, from Ryde to Sea View, is built up into a strong stone wall, in front of the several estates which border on the sea, and directly in the line of high tide. These walls are compact pieces of ma- sonry, composed of large blocks of stone, bound together with water cement, as firm and immoveable, apparently, as a native and undisturbed quarry. This artificial line of wall seems to say to the sea, which dashes against its base — " Here shall thy proud waves be stayed." It constitutes a pleasant terrace promenade, and is a great convenience to the medita- tive stroller, if he does not forget where he is, in his poetic absorptions, and walk into the sea. There are several en- chanting estates, mansions, and villas along this shore, among which is St. Clair, belonging to Lord Vernon. But we find pleasure and pain where we least expect it. I set out for a seashore ramble — was in pursuit of gratifica- tion from that specific source. Invoke and pursue pleasure, and it takes wings and cannot be found. The tide was up and covered the beach ; a hot sun beat upon the shore ; I became fatigued in picking my way over the pointed rocks, climbing the bank, and getting down again ; and arrived at Sea View at last with little relish for the promised vision. But before long I plunged into one of the narrow winding roads of the Isle of Wight, to return by an inland route, fenced by an uninterrupted hedge on either side ; shaded here and there by a range, or a grove of elms and various shrubbery, perpetually rising or descending the undulated surface, swollen often to hills, exhibiting their highly-culti- vated sides, marked with the frequent hedge, and studded with farmhouses, barns, clusters of hay-ricks, villas, and more superb mansions ; occasional peeps of the inland sea, specked with sails, and of sections of the mainland, opening and closing as I passed along ; a narrow road, scarcely a rod wide, and ever devious, like the track of a serpent, so MUSICAL FESTIVAL, 339 that one can rarely see twenty rods either way from the point he occupies, except as a break in the lines of hedge by which he is walled, or their accidental depression, will en- able him to steal his more extended prospects ; a declining sun casting the long shadows of the hills over the vales and on the opposite sides of other hills, and making deeply dark the copses of wood in the west, while it reflected a golden light from those in the east; the labourers in the field, cultivating the soil and gathering the crops ; the cattle and sheep in the pastures, rising from the shades to feed again ; the country squire and his family enjoying their evening ride, and bowing to the nobleman's carriage as it passes by ; the humble farmer and his little daughters in their holyday dress, returning from a visit, or going to make one, the youngest leading the obedient family dog by a string, uncon- scious that there is any thing better in the world than that which they enjoy ; all quiet — all happy — all at peace with earth and heaven — as would seem. There was no sense of fatigue in such a walk, though it was four miles long, at the end of a previous three. There is nothing in England, nothing in the world like the Isle of Wight. But at the end of this, I was doomed to see two barbarians pound each other half, if not quite, to death, in the midst of a large circle of other barbarians, cheering them on, and exulting at the sport. THE ROYAL MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT WESTMIN- STER ABBEY, 1834. The immense assembly, full of expectancy, had risen to receive in silence the king and queen, with their retinue, as they entered the Abbey, and occupied the royal box and the adjoining compartments. It was a grand and brilliant sight The fitting up of the Abbey had been so arranged, that from all parts the views and various perspective of the assembly, as well as of the internal of that magnificent edifice, were intensely absorbing. The first burst of music was the union of the full power of 402 voices and 231 instruments, in all 633 performers, in the Coronation Anthem : " Zadok the priest, and Nathan the prophet anointed Solomon king ; and all the people re- joiced and said, God save the king! long live the king! may the king live for ever ! Hallelujah. Amen." The whole assembly listened to this standing. I confess I was not prepared for such a beginning. It was tremen- dous ; it was awful; it was overpowering. My nervous P 2 340 MUSICAL FESTIVAL. system was shaken. There were several passages in the anthem, under the performance of which, being thus taken by surprise, I became exceedingly anxious, lest I should be driven thoroughly out of my senses. It seemed as if the performers themselves had run wild in ecstasy, and that we should all be left crazy in a heap. Sir George Smart's roll of white paper, however, the visible symbol which regulated the whole, continued to wave in his hand, and beat the time, for the confirmation of our faith that he at least was right, and thus restore us to our senses. Verily, I had no conception that the combination of any number whatever of human voices and of musical instru- ments could produce such an effect. The Hallelujah and Amen produced the sensation of fatigue and exhaustion — because of high and intense emotion — and we were all, as I believe, glad to sit down and rest. Immediately came the Introduction of Haydn's Creation, in a solo recitative, by Mr. Bellamy : " In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth ; and the earth was with- out form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep." This Mr. Bellamy took part in the performances at the festival of 1784. He was one of the king's chorister-boys at that time, and his life has been devoted to the profession of music. He is a base singer of high character. In the doing of this part he was evidently embarrassed. His situ- ation was peculiar. He was the first that appeared in a solo before this imposing assembly, on an occasion which here- tofore has occurred but once in an age ; and leading in so im- portant a production as Haydn's Creation. He was not, as they say, " in good voice." There were moral considera- tions which rendered it next to impossible that he should be perfectly self-possessed. He could not leave out of sight the part he took in that very place 50 years before ; it was natural for him to think, " Where shall I be 50 years to come ?" — He faltered ; I was afraid he would stop. The audience sympathized with him, and he, notwithstanding, acquitted himself well. In his subsequent parts he had more nerve, and was firm. To make music descriptive requires great genius, unless the subjects are naturally adapted. It often requires no little of imagination to assist the compositor. For example, in the chorus — " And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters : and God said, Let there be light, and there was light." The chief power of description was here spent upon the last passage — " Let there be light, and there was light." The universal darkness and confusion of chaos be- ing imagined, that music alone should force us to see light spring up on the face of the deep, and render this darkness and confusion visible, is not, to say the least, very natural. MUSICAL FESTIVAL. 341 'Light" is the substantive word, and all the force of Haydn's genius was directed to make the repetitions and combinations of the music so to bear upon this monosylla- ble, as to compel us to feel that there was light — to make it first sparkle, and then blaze from the Creator's fiat. Chaos being first described, and being before the mind, — Light — light — light — breaks upon the ear, in the midst of so many combinations, and with such increasing and overwhelming power, till the wide, unformed creation is all illumined; — nay, not simply illumined, but in a blaze ! Before this light — " Affrighted, fled hell's spirits back in throngs; Down they sink in the deep abyss To endless night." Then the chorus : — " Despairing, cursing rage attends their rapid fall, A new-created world springs up at God's command." The first line of this couplet, it will be seen, ought to present a character of expression entirely different from the second, the chief power of which would rest on the words " despairing" and " cursing." The ideas conveyed in these terms are not difficult to be expressed in music, and were well and powerfully done. The succession and contrast were beautiful and sublime : — " A new-created world springs up at God's command." After a solo by a female voice, sweet and commanding — " The marvellous work beholds amazed The glorious hierarchy of heaven—" one may imagine — or rather, I should say, try in vain to conceive — the effect of the grand chorus of voices and in- struments : — " Again the ethereal vaults resound The praise of God and of the second day." But I must not claim the attention of my readers for a particular account of this amazing performance. I cannot forbear, however, to distinguish two or three other passa- ges ; and while I do it, I feel rebuked with the thought that distinction here is injustice. It seems, however, as if the satisfaction with which I revert to any of these parts, and mention them to others, would be enjoyed by them. The chorus proclaiming the third day — " Awake the harp, the lyre awake, In triumph sing the mighty Lord ; For he the heavens and earth Hath clothed in stately dress," was grand. Mr. Braham (Abraham, a Jew) is the greatest singer in 29* 342 MUSICAL FESTIVAL. Great Britain, perhaps the greatest in the world. After his recitative — " In splendour bright is rising now the sun, And darts his rays ;" &c. and the corresponding passage of Scripture, the chorus again burst upon us with overwhelming power : — " The heavens are telling the glory of God : The wonder of his work, displays the firmament — " alternated some several times by a trio. The solo— " On mighty pens the eagle wings Her lofty way through air sublime," &c. was exceedingly enchanting. The following chorus was awfully grand, and well suited to the completion of the work of Creation : — " Achieved is the glorious work ; Our songs let be the praise of God ; Glory to his name for ever; He sole on high exalted reigns. Hallelujah." A scene in Paradise concludes the Oratorio. Duet — Adam and Eve. " Graceful consort at thy side, Softly fly the golden hours. Every moment brings new rapture Every care is put to rest. Spouse adored, at thy side Purest joys o'erflow the heart. Life and all its powers are thine, My reward thy love shall be. The dew-dropping morn, O how she quickens all ! The coolness of even, how she all restores ! How grateful is of fruits the savour sweet ! How pleasing is of fragrant bloom the smell ! But, without thee, what is to me the morning dew, The breath of even, the savoury fruit, the fragrant bloom ? With thee is every joy enhanced, With thee delight is ever new. With thee is life incessant bliss, Thine, thine it whole shall be." Recit. — Uriel. " O favour'd pair, still happy in your love, Live and be blest ! but first of all, Him, whom to love is to obey, With reverence seek and holy fear." Chorus. " Praise the Lord of earth and sky, Utter songs of adoration, Heav'n and earth and all creation, Sound Jehovah's praise on high. The lord is great, his praise shall last for aye. Amen." handel's Messiah. 343 HANDEL'S MESSIAH. The bill for the fourth and last performance of the Great Musical Festival was headed, " By command of her Majesty. HandeVs Sacred Oratorio, i The Messiah.' " This was the only piece performed on the occasion. It occupied just four hours, from 12 o'clock till 4. The other performances occupied from three and a half to four hours, each commencing at twelve, or as soon after as the king and queen arrived. " The Messiah" was the most attractive, and Drought together the most imposing assembly, although they were all sufficiently remarkable in this particular. The Abbey was completely filled at half past 9 o'clock, the re- served seats excepted, which were numbered, and waited in abeyance to the owners of tickets. The choice of the unre- served seats was so considerable as to occasion a great rush for a preference, and people were willing to wait from two to three hours before the commencement of the performance, and to sit four hours afterward, to gain such an advantage. The orchestra began to fill about half past 10, and at 11 the loud and solemn organ filled the entire Abbey with its various notes and thundering peals, rolling through the lofty arches, for the purpose of drowning the tuning of the instruments — its own notes being the standard. The amazing power of the organ could only be appreciated at this time, as in the performance it was a mere accompaniment. It was capable of drowning the choir itself. As the voice is an instrument which God has made, and is always in tune, it was not raised at this time. Although the artificial instru- ments were all at work during the hour of tuning, scarcely one of them was heard. Even their discords were drowned by an art which the organist had in creating other discords, at the same time that he kept up the notes necessary for the tuning of the other instruments. This discordant and tremendous jargon was itself an interesting exhibition. At times, it seemed as if it would carry away the roof and break down the walls of the vast edifice. From 11 to 12, the reserved seats were all filled, and precisely at noon the king and queen made their entrance, and the overture com- menced. The order of the classification of Scripture in the Messiah is historical, comprehending as nearly as possible the entire work of redemption, from the beginning to the consumma- tion of all things. First, the prophetic announcement ; next, the nativity and character of the Messiah ; thirdly, his suffer- ings ; fourthly, his triumphs and return to heaven ; fifthly, the publication of the gospel ; and lastly, the resurrection of the dead and his state in heaven with the redeemed. I will only notice a few passages. Distinction would be injustice, if it were to be understood that every part was not intensely absorbing. 344 The passage beginning, " O thou that tellest good tidings," &c, ending with "Arise, shine," &c., being a chorus, was transporting. But never — never shall I forget the part, " For unto us a child is born ; unto us a son is given ; and the government shall be upon his shoulder ; and his name shall be called" — Ah, what ? — so wonderful was the transition at this point — so overpowering was the burst of every voice and every instru- ment, with the full power of each and all combined, as they passed from the previous soft and often repeated strains, as if they could never leave them, till at last, when expectation was spent, and the soul made contented to remain rapt in the harmonies by which it was enchained, heaven itself seemed suddenly, in an instant, to have opened its por- tals, pouring its full and inexpressible exclamation down to earth : — " Wonderful /" — " Counsellor !" — " The mighty God!" — " The Everlasting Father !" — " The Prince of Peace!" — And over, and over, and over again, they dwelt upon the peal, as if they had got to their everlasting home — as if nothing could draw them away. Then back they re- turned : — " For unto us a child is born," &c. — that they might fall again, with higher ecstasies, on the more de- lightful theme — "Wonderful!" — and each time they passed the mighty transition, it was no less amazing, but the more so ; the wonder increased. Nothing but that inimitable pastoral symphony which fol- lowed, assisted by every instrument in the band, and yet so soft and soothing that one might easily imagine it was dis- tant and heavenly music, softened by the length of its pas- sage — nothing else could possibly have let us down, without violence, from those sublime ethereal regions into which we had been raised. I had often, a thousand times, thought, that the simple eloquence of this passage, as it presents it- self to the eye on the sacred page, could never be improved. But He that formed the eye made also the ear. He gave us no faculty in vain. He that seemed " all glorious," as his names had been read, is more glorious and more wonderful when his " Wonderful" names are sung. As if his glory had been concealed, the curtain was now withdrawn, and it seemed to burst upon us in all its fulness ! What a preparation for the strain — "There were shep- herds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night. And lo ! the angel of the Lord," &c. lt And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly hosts, praising God, and saying ; GRAND CHORUS. " Glory to God in the highest, and peace on earth, good- will towards men !" In the passage representing the sufferings of Christ, heav- the king's levee. 345 en and the universe seemed wrapped in a deep, portentous gloom ! Then came the triumph, by the principal singers, and semi-chorus : " Lift up your heads, O ye gates," &c, until they came to the last clause : " He is the King of glory ;" which burst upon us in full chorus, in strains so loud and tri- umphant, and so long protracted, as to compel us to share in the victory ! The passage commonly called the " Hallelujah chorus," — " Hallelujah ! for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth. The kingdom of this world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ ; and he shall reign for ever and ever. King of kings, and Lord of lords. Hallelujah !" rose so high above all the rest, that language is utterly inadequate to express the difference. The " King of kings ! and Lord of lords !" was worthy of a better world than this ; and the final " Hallelujah," enough, one would think, to fill the arches of heaven, as if it were sung by the universe in separate worlds, each world a separate choir, and each choir regard- less of every other in their movements, and rivalling all in their efforts to render praise ! When they came to the final passage, " Worthy is the Lamb that was slain, and hath redeemed us to God by his blood — to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing." — " Blessing and honour, and glory and power, be unto him that sitteth upon the throne; and unto the Lamb, for ever and ever, Amen" — the king and queen and all the assembly rose. The effect was electrical and sublime. It seemed most suitable. It would have been profane to remain seated. It was a doxology never to be forgotten. The " Amen" continued long and loud, reiterated in a thousand varying forms, as if by ten thousand voices unwilling to close the song. THE KING'S LEVEE AND THE QUEEN'S DRAW- ING-ROOM. The difference between a levee and drawing-room is, that the former is held by the king, at which he receives dele- gates from public corporations for any purpose they may have in view, whether to profess their respect and attach- ment to his person and government, or to petition for any acts of grace at his hands, or any other lawful object ; to re- ceive the members of his government and the various offi- cers of state in a social manner ; to admit into his immedi- ate presence, and be honoured with the respects of, all for- P3 346 eign ambassadors resident, at his court; to honour distin- guished strangers that may be presented ; to give access into his presence to the various orders of nobility and to distin- guished commoners, to officers of the army and navy, to bishops and clergy, and to such other men of eminence as may be entitled to this privilege, on account of their rank, or public service, or distinction as travellers, men of letters, science, arts, &c. A levee is not a fete, but a social inter- view — a great state pageant — a momentary display of royal magnificence — for the confluence of all that is great, splendid, and gorgeous around the throne of earthly majesty — for the concentration of great men in their best dress and show in an hour of leisure. Nor is the occasion merely social. Privileges are solicited by public corporations, and bestow- ed ; honours and dignities conferred upon individuals ; fa- vours granted ; and such other acts of condescension, grace, and courtesy rendered, as are consonant with the exercise of the best feelings of the various and high relations group- ed on such an occasion. From the levee the queen and all her sex are excluded. It is held about once a week during the session of parliament, like that of our president at the City of Washington, though there is some difference be- tween the two things. The drawing-room is ostensibly held by the queen, and is always the next day after a levee, though not so fre- quent. There is all the difference between a levee and a drawing-room, which the presence of the female sex, with a queen at their head, themselves queenlike in dress and bearing, can impart to such an assemblage, convened in the most magnificent apartments, where hosts of men and women, arrayed in the richest apparel that earth and its treasures can afford, float along in crowds — borne to the place in the equipage of princes, pouring in columns into the palace of a king, where the sword and epaulet, stars and ribands, the ermine and mitre, the sparkling of precious stones and the waving of plumes, mingle together in a sea of splendour, which might admonish one that the gorgeous fabrics and rich gems of the east had combined with the arts of the west to pour into one centre all the magic of their created beauty and effulgence. Both the one and the other are great state occasions, prin- cipally for social purposes ; and yet not social in the sense of a close intimacy; but for that intercourse, where mind acts on mind in agreeable and easy circumstances of the greatest possible display of this world's wealth, and of state splendour — where all the means of this species of excite- ment converge to one focus, fire the mind to purposes of ambition, and stir up the affections to a vague intensity after some imaginary good, supposed to be connected with these distinctions. It is understood to be court effect in the sense 347 of stage or theatrical effect. It is show — as my friend said — " an apparition." And it is something more than an ap- parition. There is magic in it, indeed, but it is the magic of reality. To distinguish it from other social occasions, it is a state machinery for state purposes. In these circum- stances men feel that they are related to each other by high, mysterious, and undefinable ties. And one who had seen it all — and seen it too in its greatest splendour — inscribed upon it, " vanity of vanities — all is vanity." Court etiquette renders to resident ambassadors special honour. They have precedence in all things, not only as guests, and as being entitled to the rites of hospitality, but because it is the interest of one government to pay respect to the representatives of others with whom they have friend- ly relations. To go to court with an ambassador, and to be presented by him, is to go under the greatest advantages ; it is to receive all the honour which royal courtesy pays to a nation in amity. The ambassador (and in the absence of a minister the charge d'affaires acts in that capacity) always has what is called the entre for state occasions, which is a privileged ticket, goes to the palace by a select route, his carriage drives into the ambassadors' court, he is admitted by the portrait-gallery, and joins the diplomatic corps in the ambassadors' anteroom, in company with princes, dukes, noblemen of distinction, and high officers of government. Ambassadors are the first admitted into the royal presence, and it is expected that they will wait around the throne, or near the person of the king or the queen, during the cere- monies of a levee or drawing-room. To be presented by an ambassador, therefore, is to participate in all his rights of precedence— and to enjoy the benefit of that information which he is capable of giving of persons and transactions. Having made all necessary arrangements, and received suitable hints, I repaired to the residence of Mr. Vail, our charge d'affaires at the court of St. James, by whose polite- ness I was presented to the king and queen. At a quarter before 2 o'clock we stepped into his carriage, drove down Bond-street, across Piccadilly, into St. James's-street, where the usual crowd had assembled in the vicinity of the palace ; and we were soon whirled into the ambassadors' court, where carriages were arriving in rapid succession, and let- ting down persons of distinction. Immediately before us was the carriage of Prince Talleyrand. We waited, of course, till he had alighted, which, with him, in the decrep- itude of his age, and the goutiness of one of his feet, is not so easy or expeditious a matter. By the kind assistance, however, of the many hands that were ready to serve him, he was out on the pavement in a reasonable time. Our- selves, more sprightly, were soon at his heels. Out of re- spect to him, and quite to my own gratification, we kept 348 the king's levee. hanging on his rear, and waited for the slowness of his movements up the broad stairway, and around into the por- trait-gallery. Having arrived in the centre of the gallery, the prince stopped and wrote his own name on a blank card at the table of the reporter. We left ours at the same mo- ment, and followed him into the room of George the Third, one of the state apartments, and which, on occasion of a levee and drawing-room, is the anteroom appropriated to foreign ambassadors and ministers, and to those who have the privilege of the entre. I had the best opportunity of observing Prince Talleyrand for two successive days in the same apartment, and often, in the transpositions of the crowd, standing by his side. He is a short, small man; his head emaciate, pale, and housed in a wig; one of his feet always muffled up and dressed for the gout ;* he totters on his staff, is cheerful, and apparently happy. And is this Talleyrand, thought I ? Talleyrand ? The very man 1 I had seen him before, how- ever, but not with the same opportunity of getting an im- pression of the living reality. Those who have seen the caricatures of him in the shops would recognise him any- where. It is remarkable how these caricaturists will hit off the main points of the distinguishing features of the per- sons they take. The state apartments principally occupied on these occa- sions are three : viz., Queen Anne's room, George the Third's room, and the Throne room. The king's closet is of course in use. These four are the grand state-rooms of the palace. Those who have not the entre are required to wait in Queen Anne's room, the first in order on the east, till the more privileged corps have been received into the royal presence. Some of these, not a few, are sprigs of nobility ; a great proportion are epaulet gentlemen, of rank, and probably of merit ; men high on the civil list are there, strangers of re- spectability are there ; clergymen, jurists, men of literature, science, and the arts ; and if we speak of both days, all the men and all the women in that apartment might be taken, in any other place, for princes and princesses. These apartments are in a line, east and west, looking into the gardens of the palace on the south. At right an- gles on the north, nearly in the centre, is the long gallery of portraits — portraits of the royal line — which serves as a passage of ingress and egress on these occasions, and also connects the banqueting-hall and other parts of the palace with the state apartments. Adjoining the throne-room, on the west, is the king's closet. The throne-room is the place of reception ; the adjoining * It has been suggested, that this foot of Talleyrand is cloven, and that he came legitimately by it. If this be a fact, it may furnish the key to his history. the king's levee. 349 apartment, George the Third's room, is occupied by foreign ambassadors, ministers, nobility, and other distinguished personages ; Queen Anne's room principally by commoners and strangers, until the time has come for a general min- gling. It happened that the Duke of Wellington appeared in his robes, as Chancellor of the University of Oxford, accompa- nied by a respectable corps of the academical and chief dig- nitaries, also in their official robes, for the purpose of pre- senting a petition to his majesty, that he would graciously be pleased to put a stop to the impertinences of the dissent- ers, and to resist their unreasonable and arrogant claims. The duke's robe was a new one, with some yards of train, all of black satin, and not a little heavier for the gold that was laid along its borders, from the collar to the end of the train. The train of a robe is a troublesome and inconvenient thing to manage by men or women, and is always in the way of somebody's feet. They have the privilege, how- ever, of carrying it on the arm, except in the presence of majesty. After the company had been half an hour in waiting, the doors of the throne-room were opened, displaying his ma- jesty on the throne, supported by members of his family and high officers of state, and a guard of the honourable corps of gentlemen at arms were marched in, forming two ranks from the foot of the throne to the door, between which the Duke of Wellington entered at the head of his academic corps, all making obeisance as they approached the throne. The petition was read audibly and distinctly by the duke, and his majesty nodded gracious signs of attention. This ceremony being ended, the duke, his academic staff— a new sort of staff for him — and the guard, retired, when the cen- tre door was closed, a side one thrown open, and a call made for the foreign ambassadors and ministers ; where- upon ambassadors and ministers took rank according to seniority of residence at the court, and prepared to pay their respects to the king. The king had taken his station near the door, in front of the first window ; the lord chancellor (Brougham) held the purse, standing motionless, like a statue, a very unsuitable office for him ; his majesty being surrounded and supported by those appointed to wait upon his person on such occasions, the Dukes of Cumberland and Gloucester being among the number. The king takes his station in the throne-room on his feet and uncovered, at a point most convenient to receive his company, in like manner as the President of the United States on the same occasion. He does not give his hand. The salutation of the parties, as they meet, the king being always one, is the best bow they can make — a series of bows, concluding with a conge from the king, differing from 30 350 the king's levee. other bows by a peculiarity more easily recognised than described, which signifies — " You may pass on." His ma- jesty, of course, cannot speak to every one, and in the ma- jority of cases the bow of reception and of conge immedi- ately succeed each other. With most of the foreign am- bassadors and ministers he has a word or two ; but he can- not have time to speak to one in a score of those who ap- proach him on such an occasion. Yet the opportunity of observing the king's form, features, and manner, is excel- lent. I cannot claim the honour of having held a conversation with his majesty. When I was presented, I happened to stand very close to him, within two feet, or eighteen inches. He received my name from Mr. Vail, with such particulars as were proper to be mentioned, then turning to me, made several very low bows, the marked civility of which com- pelled me to attempt some like courtesies in return ; and had we not both stepped back a little to give space for those arcs of circles described by our heads, we certainly should have bumped rather unpleasantly. Immediately on passing the king, I returned to mingle with some sprigs of nobility, strangers, clergymen, and others, who had the privilege of the entre, but did not belong to the diplomatic corps. The doors to the throne-room being open, we could still see what was passing there without difficulty. I took my station in the recess of a window, where I could see the king receive his company, and observe his manner. By this time all that had been admitted with the entre had paid their respects to his majesty, and immediately the door of the other room was opened to admit the commonalty. The levee was uncommonly full. As a consequence, the doors being opened, the column from Queen Anne's room, pouring through the room in which I stood into the presence of majesty, soon occupied the space, dense and impenetra- ble. I was literally hemmed in the recess of a window by this current, passing between me and the opposite side of the room. For a while I was too much interested in the scene to be troubled with the inquiry, How am I to get out % After some fifteen or twenty minutes, the monotony of this state of existence began to be tedious, and I looked round for deliverance, but alas ! not a hope presented itself, unless I should adopt the expedient of jumping out of the window into the queen's gardens, and make a flight that way. I rose on tiptoe, and endeavoured to look through the door on the source of this perpetual flood, and it seemed naught dimin- ished since it began to flow. The great chamber whence they came was still crammed with heads and sparkling with epaulets. I began to be absolutely dismayed: How shall I get out ? The column grew denser and wider still, closely compact as the Giant's Causeway,, as if each body 351 were sealed to its neighbour's. However, thought I, there is nothing like determination and bravery. If I make a bolt to break this column, with a sufficient quantum of physical force, they may think I am in distress, and give a passage. Whereupon I devoted my head and shoulders to the pur- poses of a wedge, saying, " Please let me pass — please let me pass," urging my body with as great a momentum as I could muster and appropriate. The plan succeeded admira- bly well, and I soon made my way through a column of eight or ten deep, most of whom carried a sword. Having got clear into the centre of the room, I met the same column returning on the other side, though, it must be confessed, not in quite so close order. After having been at the palace a little more than an hour, I met Mr. Vail again, and we agreed to retire. As we came at the head of the stairs, I heard vociferated before us — "American Minister!" till the last I heard of it was without in the Ambassadors' Court. The meaning was, as I hardly need say, " The American Minister is ready for his carriage." Or, " Bring his carriage." — " Minister of Wurtemburg !" — " Minister of Wurtemburg !" was also passed along at the same time, who happened to be in our company. Several names rung through the galleries and corridors, passing from throat to throat as we went out. At the levee we had to wait but a moment for our carriage ; but on retiring from the drawing-room there were at least a dozen distinguished personages, with ladies, waiting for their carriages at the door, among whom were Prince Esterhazy, of Austria, Lord Londonderry, the Grecian Minister, Spanish Ambassa- dor, Dutchess de Dino, niece of Talleyrand, &c. &c. ; all of whose names repeatedly rolled down the broad stairway as often as was necessary, and probably a little oftener, from the officious pride of the men in waiting, who were ani- mated in hearing the sound of their own voices pronoun- cing such distinguished names, in the very presence of those who bore them. Successively the carriages drove to the door and carried them off. The dress of the men, both at the levee and drawing- room, is generally professional, except that at the latter all are required to appear in small-clothes and silk stockings. Some of the epaulet-men, however, came to the drawing- room, as I can certify, in boots and spurs — of the latter of which I frequently stood in great fear, on account of their length. Military and naval men also appear in full uniform, wearing a sword, which, with cavalry, is an inconvenient and noisy thing, dragging along the floor. Generally the dress on levee days is the public official costume of the per- sonages, ranks, professions, and stations represented. At the drawing-room there is a substantial correspondence as above, but in parts it is light and airy, and adapted to a pro- 352 the king's levee. miscuous assemblage of ladies and gentlemen. On both occasions, and in all cases, it is rich as the parties can afford, and often ruinous to them. Some of the foreigners at the levee were apparently as much oppressed with the gold, not to say precious stones and jewels, laid on and wrought in their garments, as the ancient knights with the weight of their armour of iron and steel. I was informed that Prince Esterhazy's coat, which I saw on his shoulder at the queen's drawing-room, cost the small sum of £100,000, or $480,000, and that every time he wears it it costs him £200 to j£300 to make good the jewels which are brushed and shaken off in company — not, I suppose, by dishonest contact, but by the accidental justling of a crowd. As to this last part of the story, it does not seem to me very credible that jewels should be so profusely scattered under foot. The other parts of the same dress were proportion- ately rich, and I should imagine cost no trifling sum. From the top of the feather of his cap downward, his whole per- son beamed and sparkled with jewels. The manners of this prince are very peculiar. He is noisy — even boisterous. His voice may be heard above the bustle and tumult of a crowd, and every one's attention, in company ever so numerous, is constantly challenged by his sharp, high-keyed vociferations of " How do you do 1 I am glad to see you," &c, with all the common gossip of such occasions. I could think of nothing but a spoiled child, that had never been schooled into good manners, and who could never think that he was disturbing others by his noise. It is impossible to make our countrymen, who are notori- ous for their love of economy, appreciate the feelings of their ministers at European courts, in regard to the mortifi- cation they must sometimes suffer in not being able to main- tain that equipage and state which corresponds with their station. I trust I need not say that I should be farthest from advocating any attempts to rival the splendour of the first courts of Europe. But there is a medium between extrav- agance and what is deemed necessary to respectability in the circumstances. One object of a government in main- taining ministers at foreign courts is to command respect abroad; and in Europe they have not yet learned to distin- guish between the star and the breast on which it rests, be- tween the riband and the chivalrous spirit it is intended to honour. Where appearances constitute a certificate of merit, it may be well for us republicans not to disregard them altogether, or else to maintain the rigid extreme that shall render us as remarkable for our plainness as the ambassadors of European courts are for the glitter of their livery. Then it might be put to the account of our conscience, as in the dress of the Quakers, and we might be as proud and as much honoured in this as the Quakers are in the queen's drawing-room. 353 that. But if we pretend to conform in any degree, it is well enough, as long as we are able, to appear respectable. Mr. Vail, our present charge d'affaires at London, fills his place much to the credit of his country, and, as I have reason to believe, to the satisfaction of our countrymen who have business with him. I observed that he is quite a favourite at court His being so perfectly at home in the French lan- guage — an indispensable qualification in such an office — makes for him an easy intercourse with the entire diplomatic corps. The most influential men of all nations are always at this court, and it is a thing of no little importance that our minister, or charge, should be open to them through the medium of a common language. Besides Mr. Vail's accomplishments in this particular, his modest and amiable deportment is sure to make a most agreeable impression on that high and influential circle, which knows so well how to appreciate it. He is just such an unpretending, yet accomplished and well-qualified servant of our country, as we most want abroad. THE QUEEN'S DRAWING-ROOM. It is not deemed indispensable that resident ministers of foreign nations should attend every levee and drawing-room, although they are always served with the entre. If they make their appearance occasionally, it is accepted as a suf- ficient and proper respect to the court. They are very apt, however, to be present at the drawing-room, as that oc- curs only about once for three times of a levee. It is a pa- geant, for which there might naturally be a relish as fre- quently as this, with those who like a thing of the kind. The excitement is greater, and the scene far more attractive. Almost any mind would pall over a levee once a week. To have seen it once is to know what it is ; and the motive to appear there regularly must be compounded of some other ingredients than a mere taste for its display. Nothing of this kind, with truly great and noble minds, could seem other than a waste of time, if they were doomed to appear as mere appendages of the exhibition. Even a drawing- room must have some draw-backs from satisfaction by repe- tition. Still, however, it is the ne plus ultra of regal state and splendour — the most brilliant display of society in the palace of a king. At half past one we entered the carriage and drove to Hyde Park corner, where all who have the entre are requi- red to go on drawing-room days, in order to diminish the crowd of carriages in St. James's-street, as well as to ap- proach the palace by a more select route, passing under the magnificent arch of George the Fourth, and down what is called Constitutional Hill, although it might be difficult to perceive that it is really a descent. A splendid carriage came 30* 354 the queen's drawing-room. out of Hyde Park, crossed Piccadilly, and passed under the arch immediately before us ; and the Dutchess of Kent, with two of the royal carriages, attended by an escort of Royal Horse Guards, was immediately behind us. Indeed, the road was lined with a procession of princely equipages. As we approached the palace, the passages were thronged by a dense crowd of spectators, but the ways were kept open by the attendance and activities of the police and household troops. Even the corridors, after we had entered the palace, were studded all along by respectable persons, who deem it a great privilege to be favoured with a ticket that shall admit them to these passages, to gaze at the members of the royal family, at the nobility, and others, after they have alighted from their carriages, and are passing up to the state apart-r ments. When driving through the streets, their heads only are to be seen through the windows of their carriages ; but when upon their feet, they make a different show, especially the females, in the brilliancy of their court-dresses and adornments. Even a momentary aspect of that part of the fleeting pageant which is to be seen between the outer door and the place where they all vanish from these beholders, is deemed covetable by persons in high condition of life, who, for want of rank, can get no nearer. There is a great strife, therefore, even among those who think they are something in the world, to see a dutchess, a marchioness, a countess, a viscountess, a lady, or a right honourable miss, get out of her carriage, and flit away from this brief vision into the region where she is to move and be seen only among her equals and a certain privileged few. The mass are contented with the external glimpses of a court, or are obliged to be so. We left our names at the reporter's table in the Portrait Gallery, according to custom, and arrived in the middle state apartment, or George the Third's room, next to the throne-room, at a quarter before 2 o'clock. There were not many in by this time. Soon after we entered the room, the centre folding-doors at both ends flew open, and the Dutchess of Kent was an- nounced. As by magic, a passage was opened through our apartment, and all turned to pay the dutchess respect. She entered, being ushered in by the men in waiting, followed by the ladies attending upon her, but without the Princess Victoria. It would have been especially agreeable if I had seen this young heiress presumptive to the British throne under such circumstances. The dutchess courtesied and bowed with great grace, both to the right and left, as she passed through the opened and smiling ranks. She is a woman of truly royal bearing : her looks are most interest- ing, even charming ; her manners expressing every winning grace. No wonder that she is popular ; and if her husband the queen's drawing-room. 355 had lived, she would have been the idol-queen of the na- tion. She glided into the throne-room to join the royal party, and to support the queen during the ceremonies ; and the doors closed behind her. The throng in our apartment continued to increase by new arrivals for nearly an hour ; and such also I perceived was the fact in the east room, until the latter became abso- lutely crammed. I hardly need say, that ever}- thing around had now become the most brilliant scene I had ever wit- nessed — as brilliant, indeed, as the great wealth of the Eng- lish nobility, lavished in the richest profusion on the per- sons of the fairest of their women, and of their high and honourable men, could make ; and this in nowise diminish- ed, but increased, by that borrowed splendour which the presence of the representatives of the greatest and richest nations of Europe added to the general effect. It was a dazzling pageant. The East contributed its gems ; Africa its snow-white, lofty, and nodding plumes ; the shops of Europe furnished the wardrobe, and her arts mingled the colours, determined the forms, and fixed the relative posi- tion of all the parts of this moving diorama. The door to the royal presence opened. An instinctive movement seemed to bring all, whose duty it was first to offer their respects to the queen, into their proper places. I cannot speak positively as to the order in every particular ; but the foreign ambassadors and ministers seemed to me to take the lead. A plural number of distinguished females, however, threw down their trains, and preceded us ; among whom was the Dutchess de Dino, niece of Prince Talleyrand, and Madame Tricoupi, the lady of the Grecian minister, who was now for the first time presented. Trains are still in vogue at the English court, much to the annoyance and vexation of the ladies ; — or, to pass things off in good-nature which cannot be avoided — much to their sport. They have often petitioned her present majesty to dispense with them, but she is too patriotic. It is a pat- ronage of the manufactories and trades. The money which they cost comes out of the rich, and goes into the hands of those who need it more. The queen, therefore, still insists on the train. Not a lady can appear at court without it. For this reason, at least, she ought to be popular among silk-mercers and dress-makers. They who have seen a peacock with a full and proud tail, may have a good idea of a lady at court with her train — only the latter is longer in proportion than the former. I will not venture to say how many yards there is in it, for I do not know ; but it is certainly a prodigal use of silk, and of whatever other things it may be composed of. Of course, it will easily be seen, that a train thrown down to drag must be very inconvenient in a crowd. The fact is, they carry 356 it on the arm universally, except in the presence of majesty, and in the actual performance of ceremonies. Immediately as they enter the throne-room, they throw down the train ; and having moved forward enough to stretch its length, they turn the head first over one shoulder, then over the other, to see if it drags well, is right side up, not twisted, &c. Or, if they have a train-bearer, as is rarely the case, except with the most distinguished persons — they may be saved this trouble. Sometimes the ladies help one another. It is really quite an ado — " much ado," — to get it well a- going, and no little subject of anxiety in all its sweeping course. When the exit from the royal presence is made, some gentleman in waiting catches up the train, gives it a twist or two, and then throws it over the owner's arm. There seems to be quite a knack in lifting a lady's train. I should not dare to undertake it, without having first gone through a course of private lessons. I saw it done in a style which might have been worthy of public notice, but for more important matters ; and, for aught I know, it is often made the occasion of a full discussion in private drawing- rooms. It must, however, be admitted, that this custom is en- forced rather too late in the day ; and that the ladies of the English court, so far from having any respect for it, take all manner of pleasant ways of showing their contempt. It is a singular feature, and no less ridiculous — absolutely and thoroughly so. One would hardly suppose it possible that it would be endured. The king stood where he did at the levee, supported by certain lords in waiting on his right, and his brother Cum- berland and cousin Gloucester on his left, with a nephew, Prince George of Cumberland. The queen stood immedi- ately before the throne, a little to the right, supported by the Dutchess of Kent and her attendants on the left, and by her own personal retinue on her right. The king's dress was a scarlet coat and a military uniform ; the queen ap- peared in white satin, with a pearl head-dress, worked into a form not unlike a crown. Our progress after entering the throne-room was exceed- ingly slow. I stood opposite the king, with only space for one person to pass between me and him, for about ten min- utes. The queen was occupied during this while, I believe, with Madame Tricoupi, wife of the Grecian ambassador. In the meantime the Dutchess of Richmond came between me and the king, and talked with him freely. The king spoke very low, and I caught but a few words. " Poor fellow," said the king to the dutchess, " I am told he was very miserable. I was extremely sorry not to see him," &c. They appeared to be speaking of the death of some person, I know not who. THE QUEEN S DRAWING-ROOM. 357 "And are you in town !" said the king, &c, to the dutch- ess. The Dutchess of Richmond is evidently a very supe- rior woman. Her looks and manners are exceedingly inter- esting. Next came Earl Grey and talked with the king, while I stood in the same place. The noble earl has a head that is worth looking at. As I had a fine opportunity for a close observation of the king's countenance for several min- utes, while he was engaged in conversation, his features seemed to me quite of the benevolent character. We at last came in our turn to the queen. She received my name, looking alternately at Mr. Vail and myself, and very graciously asked " How long I had been in England," expressing a wish " that my visit might be agreeable." She courtesied, and we passed along to give place to others. The queen is very thin in the face — more so than I had ima- gined. I had seen her twice before in public — once on the day of her coronation. She is not handsome, but from the associations which her good reputation suggests, her looks are agreeable and interesting. I saw quite an elderly lady on the queen's right hand, whose paint, laid upon her cheeks, reminded me of nothing so impressively as the wife of a Winnebago chief, in the northwest territory of America, whom I had frequently seen in 1830, as she came from making her toilet over the mirror-surface of Fox river, with the aid of an abundance of vermilion. I could positively have taken her for the wife of the Indian chief, the other parts of her dress and the circumstances of the occasion aside. I should think her about 70 years old ! With this singular exception — and really it was very remarkable — all the persons in attendance on her majesty, male and female, appeared in a very becoming manner. The Dutchess of Kent, with her ladies and other attendants, was there. The foreign ambassadors and ministers took their stations around the queen, till all the company had made their obeisance and retired. Having been presented, and seen in that apartment what was permitted to a stranger, I returned to the room whence I came, and loitered about an hour, till a large part of the concourse had begun to move off. In the meantime I wit- nessed a routine not unlike the doings of the day previous, but as much more brilliant, and lively as the presence and manners of ladies might be expected to make it. When all in the apartment to which I was admitted had passed the rounds, and paid their respects to the queen, being assem- bled again in the same room, the door of the east room was opened, as at the levee, and the ticket-people, or common- ers, began to crowd forward in a dense column. Those who have the entre are supposed to be known at court, and require no ticket of admission; whereas those who come the 358 the queen's drawing-room. other way are obliged to leave their cards, and appear bear- ing them in their hands, itself a mark of their inferiority. " Let us stand here," said a great fat lady to her two friends, who stepped with her into the very recess where I was hemmed in the day before. Others of the nobility, la- dies and gentlemen, especially the first, formed ranks to gaze upon the crowd as the door should open. This sort of curiosity seemed to me undignified and censurable. I think, however, that their object was partly to recognise ac- quaintances, and speak with them, as afterward appeared ; which very much effaced the unpleasant impression I at first received, as if the nobility could amuse themselves by making their inferiors a gazing-stock. Notwithstanding this relief, the general appearance of this other class was the want of a home-like feeling, as if they had never been there before. And such doubtless was to a great extent the fact ; and they probably expected never to be there again. They came to see a show, and were themselves made a show. Their betters were arranged in close order, and stood look- ing upon them, as if to inspect and criticise their countenan- ces, their dress, their every thing. As it seemed lawful unto all the rest, I also indulged in the speculation. Occasionally I had the pleasure to witness very cordial and lively greet- ings between the more noble, at least more privileged, and their inferiors. There was an obvious difference between the dress of the nobility and the commoners, especially among the ladies, reckoning the mass of each class : that of the former being apparently fresh from the shops, and fitting well upon them, while that of the latter, in a great majority of instances, might well be supposed to have been in use before. " Borrowed or hired for the occasion," was an ex- planation of the secret of this appearance. The easy bear- ing of self-possession and custom in the place, and the open manners of the nobility, were other features which distin- guished them from that heterogeneous multitude, who came there from all conditions of life, as well as from all parts of the world. Those who are ever in the best society, and whose daily custom in the use of the easiest, as well as the most polished modes of social intercourse, are always at home in like circumstances. The privileges of their nobil- ity make them noble in manners ; and their manners gen- erally distinguish them from other classes. A levee and a drawing-room exhibit this difference very manifestly. There are many commoners, however, of both sexes, who will not suffer in any respect by a comparison with the proudest of the nobility. They have wealth, they have mind, they have culture, which can afford to dispense with the distinctions drawn between themselves and those who are nominally above them. But still there is generally a manifest differ- ence between the highest class in England and those who the queen's drawing-room. 359 ape their manners, and covet to appear in the same places. 1 speak of fact ; the propriety or justice of maintaining those distinctions which make these differences in character and in society, is another question ; and as a republican, nay, as a man, as a Christian, I would protest against it. It is not good. After being at the drawing-room nearly two hours, the scene began to be irksome, and I was glad to meet with Mr. Vail again, and to find him ready to retire. As we passed through the portrait-gallery and down the stairs, the pas- sages were all thronged, and wellnigh choked, if such light things could make an obstacle, as the sylph-like forms and brilliant displays of the women waiting for their carriages, smiling at the scene which themselves created, and making a vast deal of pleasantry and ridicule of the trains which the queen obliged them to carry, and which so much incommo- ded their exit. We waited long and patiently in company with some of the most distinguished personages, male and female, not only of England, but of Europe, before the turn came for the carriage of " the American minister ;" when at last we were whirled away through a dense and gaping crowd in the passage, kept open by the troops and police, into St. James's-street, itself full of equipages waiting to take up their burdens, or, like ourselves, returning to more quiet abodes. There is no city in the world that displays an equipage at all to be compared with London. Paris is nothing in this particular. Scarcely a decent carriage is to be seen in Paris during the ordinary promenades that one makes in the streets. But every day in London exhibits a parade of this kind, demonstrating a wealth that is wide-spread, im- mense, and inexhaustible. More especially does a Levee and Drawing-room Day pour forth a splendour of this de- scription, which, for the number of carriages, the richness of livery, the excellence of horses, and the tout ensemble of the picture, though ordinary for that metropolis, may yet be the admiration of the world. There is nothing like it in any other quarter of the globe, and probably never was. THE END. U7^7 Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide ■ Treatment Date: j^ ^1 1 PreservationTechnologI A WORLD LEADER IN 1 PAPER PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 ■ (724)779-2111